Guys, The Little Prince has his 70th birthday today. Or at least the 70th anniversary of the publication of his book.
It inspired me to yank my two copies from the shelf to gaze upon them fondly. (Someone did some rearranging of the shelves a while back*, so I had to actually think about where each copy was located. I guessed right [what a genius shelving system!] but it took a bit of thought first.)
So, yeah: I’ve got a copy in English and another in Spanish. The original French is well beyond me, I’m sad to say. (Actually, that’s kind of OK. I’d rather know Spanish.)
And this whole thing just causes me to do some sighing-of-happiness-yet-sadness, thinking of this book and its author.
One of the happiest reading experiences of my adult life was when I read Saint-Exupery: A Biography by Stacy Schiff. That woman can biographize with the best of them, I’m telling you.
And then there was the news of the discovery of Saint-Ex’s P-38, which took place 61 years and 1 day after the publication of The Little Prince. (Cripe, people: he was only 44 when he died.) Makes me sad. Yet glad that he was found after all those years. But still: sad.
It’s just a frenzy of bittersweetness, this book. It’s just the way it is.
* Yeah, that was me.