按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
over an alembic。 Lucas had e with me； and we stared together at the curving lines marking the new…sprung winds。 With their tiny flying arrows； they put me in mind of curving tendrils studded with thorns。 All the atmospheric depressions of the world were charted on this enormous map； ochre…colored； like the earth of Asia。
〃Here is a storm that we'll not hear from before Monday；〃 Monsieur Viaud pointed out。
Over Russia and the Scandinavian peninsula the swirling lines took the form of a coiled demon。 Out in Iraq； in the neighborhood of Basra； an imp was whirling。
〃That fellow worries me a little；〃 said Monsieur Viaud。
〃Sand…storm； is it？〃
I was not being idly curious。 Day would not yet be breaking when I reached Basra and I was fearful of flying at night in one of those desert storms that turn the sky into a yellow furnace and wipe out hills； towns； and river…banks； drowning earth and sky in one great conflagration。 It would be bad enough to fly in daylight through a chaos in which the very elements themselves were indistinguishable。
〃Sand…storm？ No； not exactly。〃
〃So much the better；〃 I said to myself； and I looked round the room。 I liked this laboratory atmosphere。 Viaud； I felt； was a man escaped from the world。 When he came in here and hung up his hat and coat on the peg； he hung up with them all the confusion in which the rest of mankind lived。 Family cares； thoughts of ine； concerns of the heart … all that vanished on the threshold of this room as at the door of a hermit's cell； or an astronomer's tower； or a radio operator's shack。 Here was one of those men who are able to lock themselves up in the secrecy of their retreat and hold discourse with the universe。
Gently； for he was reflecting； Monsieur Viaud rubbed the palms of his hands together。
〃No； not a sand…storm。 See here。〃
His finger traveled over the map and pointed out why。
At four in the morning Lucas shook me into consciousness。
〃Wake up！〃
And before I could so much as rub my eyes he was saying； 〃Look here； at this report。 Look at the moon。 You won't see much of her tonight。 She's new； not very bright； and she'll set at ten o'clock； And here's something else for you： sun…rise in Greenwich Meridian Time and in local time as well。 And here： here are your maps； with your course all marked out。 And here …〃
〃… is your bag packed for Saigon；〃 my wife broke in。
A razor and a change of shirt。 He who would travel happily must travel light。
We got into a car and motored out to Le Bourget while Fate spying in ambush put the finishing touches to her plans。 Those favorable winds that were to wheel in the heavens； that moon that was to sink at ten o'clock； were so many strategic positions at which Fate was assembling her forces。 。
It was cold at the airport； and dark。 The Simoon was wheeled out of her hangar。 I walked round my ship； stroking her wings with the back of my hand in a caress that I believe was love。 Eight thousand miles I had flown in her； and her engines 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 happe