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Antoine de St。 Exupery
Contents
1。 The Craft
2。 The Men
3。 The Tool
4。 The Elements
5。 The Plane and the Planet
6。 Oasis
7。 Men of the Desert
8。 Prisoner of the Sand
9。 Barcelona and Madrid （1936）
10。 Conclusion
*Translated from the French by Louis Galientiere
A Harvest/HBJ Book
Harcourt Brace Jovanovick
New York and LondonTitle： 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
1
The Craft
In 1926 I was enrolled as student airline pilot by the Latecoere pany； the predecessors of Aeropostale （now Air France） in the operation of the line between Toulouse； in southwestern France； and Dakar； in French West Africa I was learning the craft； undergoing an apprenticeship served by all young pilots before they were allowed to carry the mails。 We took ships up on trial spins； made meek little hops between Toulouse and Perpignan； and had dreary lessons in meteorology in a freezing hangar。 We lived in fear of the mountains of Spain； over which we had yet to fly； and in awe of our elders。
These veterans were to be seen in the field restaurant … gruff； not particularly approachable； and inclined somewhat to condescension when giving us the benefit of their experience。 When one of them landed； rain…soaked and behind schedule； from Alicante or Casablanca； and one of us asked humble questions about his flight； the very curtness of his replies on these tempestuous days was matter enough out of which to build a fabulous world filled with snares and pitfalls； with cliffs suddenly looming out of fog and whirling air…currents of a strength to uproot cedars。 Black dragons guarded the mouths of the valleys and clusters of lightning crowned the crests … for our elders were always at some pains to feed our reverence。 But from time to time one or another of them； eternally to be revered； would fail to e back。
I remember； once； a homeing of Bury； he who was later to die in a spur of the Pyrenees。 He came into the restaurant； sat down at the mon table； and went stolidly at his food； shoulders still bowed by the fatigue of his recent trial。 It was at the end of one of those foul days when from end to end of the line the skies are filled with dirty weather； when the mountains seem to a pilot to be wallowing in slime like exploded cannon on the decks of an antique man…o'…war。
I stared at Bury； swallowed my saliva； and ventured after a bit to ask if he had had a hard flight。 Bury； bent over his plate in frowning absorption； could not hear me。 In those days we flew open ships and thrust our heads out round the windshield； in bad weather； to take our bearings： the wind that whistled in our ears was a long time clearing out of our heads。 Finally Bury looked up； seemed to understand me； to think back to what I was referring to； and suddenly he gave a bright laugh。 This brief burst of laughter； from a man who laughed little； startled me。 For a moment his weary being was bright with it。 But he spoke no word； lowered his head； and went on chewing in silence。 And in that dismal restaurant； surrounded by the simple government clerks who sat there repairing the wear and tear of their humble daily tasks； my broad…shouldered messmate seemed to me strangely noble ； beneath his rough hide I could discern the angel who had vanquished the dragon。
The night came when it was my turn to be called to the field manager's room。
He said： 〃You leave tomorrow。〃
I stood motionless； waiting for him to dismiss me。 After a moment of silence he added：
〃I take it you know the regulations？〃
In those days the motor was not what it is today。 It would drop out； for example； without warning and with a great rattle like the crash of crockery。 And one would simply throw in one's hand： there was no hope of refuge on the rocky crust of Spain。 〃Here；〃 we used to say； 〃when your motor goes； your ship goes； too。〃
An airplane； of course； can be replaced。 Still； the important thing was to avoid a collision with the range； and blind flying through a sea of clouds in the mountain zones was subject to the severest penalties。 A pilot in trouble who buried himself in the white cotton…wool of the clouds might all unseeing run straight into a peak。 This was why； that night； the deliberate voice repeated insistently its warning：
〃Navigating by the pass in a sea of clouds over Spain is all very well； it is very dashing； b u t …〃
And I was struck by the graphic image：
〃But you want to remember that below the sea of clouds lies eternity。〃
And suddenly that tranquil cloud…world； that world so harmless and simple that one sees below on rising out of the clouds； took on in my eyes a new quality。 That peaceful world became a pitfall。 I imagined the immense white pitfall spread beneath me。 Below it reigned not what one might think…not the agitation of men； not the living tumult and bustle of cities； but a silence even more absolute than in the clouds； a peace even more final。 This viscous whiteness became in my mind the frontier between the real and the unreal； between the known and the unknowable。 Already I was beginning to realize that a spectacle has no meaning except it be seen through the glass of a culture； a civilization； a craft。 Mountaineers too know the sea of clouds； yet it does not seem to them the fabulous curtain it is to me。
When I left that room I was filled with a childish pride。 Now it was my turn to take on at dawn the responsibility of a cargo of passengers and the African mails。 But at the same time I felt very meek。 I felt myself ill…prepared for this responsibility。 Spain was poor in emergency fields； we had no radio； a