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s had not skipped a beat； not a bolt in her had loosened。 This was the marvel that was to save our lives the next night by refusing to be ground to powder on meeting the upsurging earth。
Friends had turned up。 Every long flight starts in the same atmosphere； and nobody who has experienced it once would ever have it otherwise： the wind； the drizzle at daybreak； the engines purring quietly as they are warmed up； this instrument of conquest gleaming in her fresh coat of 〃dope'' … all of it goes straight to the heart。
Already one has a foretaste of the treasures about to be garnered on the way … the green and brown and yellow lands promised by the maps； the rosary of resounding names that make up the pilot's beads ； the hours to be picked up one by one on the eastward flight into the sun。
There is a particular flavor about the tiny cabin in which； still only half awake； you stow away your thermos flasks and odd parts and over…night bag； in the fuel tanks heavy with power； and best of all； forward； in the magical instruments set like jewels in their panel and glimmering like a constellation in the dark of night。 The mineral glow of the artificial horizon； these stethoscopes designed to take the heartbeat of the heavens； are things a pilot loves。 The cabin of a plane is a world unto itself； and to the pilot it is home。
I took off； and though the load of fuel was heavy； I got easily away。 I avoided Paris with a jerk and up the Seine； at Melun； I found myself flying very low between showers of rain。 I was heading for the valley of the Loire。 Nevers lay below me； and then Lyon。 Over the Rhone I was shaken up a bit。 Mt。 Ventoux was capped in snow。 There lies Marignane and here es Marseille。
The towns slipped past as in a dream。 I was going so far … or thought I was going so far … that these wretched little distances were covered before I was aware of it。 The minutes were flying。 So much the better。 There are times when； after a quarter…hour of flight； you look at your watch and find that five minutes have gone by； other days when the hands turn a quarter of an hour in the wink of an eye。 This was a day when time was flying。 A good omen。 I started out to sea。
Very odd； that little stream of vapor rising from the fuel gauge on my port wing！ It might almost be a plume of smoke。
〃Prevot！〃
My mechanic leaned towards me。
〃Look！ Isn't that gas？ Seems to me it's leaking pretty fast。〃
He had a look and shook his head。
〃Better check our consumption；〃 I said。
I wasn't turning back yet。 My course was still get for Tunis。 I looked round and could see Prevot at the gauge on the second fuel tank aft。 He came forward and said：
〃You've used up about fifty gallons。〃
Nearly twenty had leaked away in the wind！ That was serious。 I put back to Marignane where I drank a cup of coffee while the time lost hurt like an open wound。 Flyers in the Air France service wanted to know whether I was bound for Saigon or Madagascar and wished me luck。 The tank was patched up and refilled； and I took off once more with a full load； again without mishap despite a bit of rough going over the soggy field。 Title： Wind； Sand； and Stars
Author： Antoine de Saint…Exupery
Translator： Lewis Galantiere
Publisher： Harcourt Brace Javanovich； New York； 1967
Date first posted： February 2000
Date most recently updated： January 2006
XML markup by Wesman 02/23/2000。
Wind Sand and Stars
Antoine de Saint…Exupery
9
Barcelona and Madrid （1936）
0NCE again I had found myself in the presence of a truth and had failed to recognize it。 Consider what had happened to me： I had thought myself lost； had touched the very bottom of despair； and then； when the spirit of renunciation had filled me； I had known peace。 I know now what I was not conscious of at the time…that in such an hour a man feels that he has finally found himself and has bee his own friend。 An essential inner need has been satisfied； and against that satisfaction； that self…fulfilment； no external power can prevail。 Bonnafous； I imagine； he who spent his life racing before the wind； was acquainted with this serenity of spirit。 Guillaumet； too； in his snows。 Never shall I forget that； lying buried to the chin in sand； strangled slowly to death by thirst； my heart was infinitely warm beneath the desert stars。
What can men do to make known to themselves this sense of deliverance？ Everything about mankind is paradox。 He who strives and conquers grows soft。 The magnanimous man grown rich bees mean。 The creative artist for whom everything is made easy nods。 Every doctrine swears that it can breed men； but none can tell us in advance what sort of men it will breed。 Men are not cattle to be fattened for market。 In the scales of life an indigent Newton weighs more than a parcel of prosperous nonentities。 All of us have had the experience of a sudden joy that came when nothing in the world had forewarned us of its ing…a joy so thrilling that if it was born of misery we remembered even the misery with tenderness。 All of us； on seeing old friends … I again； have remembered with happiness the trials we lived through with those friends。 Of what can we be certain except this…that we are fertilized by mysterious circumstances？ Where is man's truth to be found 1
Truth is not that which can be demonstrated by the aid of logic。 If orange…trees are hardy and rich in fruit in this bit of soil and not that； then this bit of soil is what is truth for orange…trees。 If a particular religion； or culture； or scale of values； if one form of activity rather than another； brings self…fulfilment to a man； releases the prince asleep within him unknown to himself； then that scale of values； that culture； that form of activity； constitute his truth。 Logic； you say？ Let logic wangle its own explanation of life。
Because it is man and not flying that concerns me most； I shall close this book with the story of man's gropings towards self…fulfilment as I witnessed them in the early months of the civil war in Spain； One year after crashing in the desert I made a tour of the Catalan front in order to learn what happens to man when the scaffolding of his traditions suddenly collapses。 To Madrid I went for an answer to another question： How does it happen that men are sometimes willing to die？
I
Flying west from Lyon； I veered left in the direction of the Pyrenees and Spain。 Below me floated fleecy white clouds； summer clouds； clouds made for amateur flyers in which great gaps opened like skylights。 Through one of these windows I could see Perpignan lying at the bottom of a well of light。
I was flying solo； and as I looked down on Perpignan I was day…dreaming。 I had spent six months there once while serving as test pilot at a near…by airdrome。 When the day's work was done I would drive into this town where every day was as peaceful as Sunday。 I would sit in a wicker chair within sound of the cafe band； sip a glass of port； and look idly on at the provincial life of the place； reflecting that it was as innocent as a review of lead soldiers。 These pretty girls； these carefree strollers； this pure sky。 。 。 。
But here came the Pyrenees。 The last happy town was left behind。
Below me lay Figueras； and Spain。 This was where men killed one another。 What was most astonishing here was not the sight of conflagration； ruin； and signs of man's distress…it was the absence of all these。 Figueras seemed no different from Perpignan。 I leaned out and stared hard。
There were no scars on that heap of white gravel； that church gleaming in the sun； which I knew had been burnt。 I could not distinguish its irreparable wounds。 Gone was the pale smoke that had carried off its gilding； had melted in the blue of the sky its altar screens； its prayer books； its sacerdotal treasures。 Not a line of the church was altered。 This town； seated at the heart of its fan…shaped roads like a spider at the centre of its silken trap； looked very much like the other。
Like other towns； this one was nourished by the fruits of the plain that rose along the white highways to meet it。 All that I could discern was the slow gnawing wh