He arrived in New York City on the last day of , with the intention of convincing the U. Then 43, soon to be promoted to the rank of commandant major , he was far older than most men in operational units. Although eight years over the age limit for such pilots, he had petitioned endlessly for an exemption which had finally been approved by General Dwight Eisenhower. After wrecking a P through engine failure on his second mission, he was grounded for eight months, but was then later reinstated to flight duty on the personal intervention of General Ira Eaker , Deputy Commander of the U. Army Air Forces.

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Shelves: antoine-de-saint-exup-ry I would have them be like the branch of the olive tree. That one which bides its time. And that he who questions is seeking, primarily, the abyss. I would have them be like the branch of the olive tree. And then begins the anguish of not-being. Far better for him were it to achieve his truth in the homely smell of blazing vine shoots, or of the sheep he has to shear. Truth strikes deep, like a well. A gaze that wanders loses sight of God. The beginning charmed me, because it was eloquent and because I disagreed with what it was saying.

It was like Nietzsche, Plato, and Machiavelli decided to collaborate on a book: bizarre, but fascinating. Then it grew offensive. Really I have seldom seen such unapologetic fetishization of rape, such blatant disdain disguised of course as compassion for the Common Man whatever that means. It grew pompous: "I walked at night through my city and saw all the poor bastards living their miserable lives, and the heavens opened and revealed to me how good it was that these peons had me to think for them and arrange their lives and teach them how to be Men.

Then, finally, it just stopped saying anything. Attempts at arguments or anecdotes kept devolving into nonsensical strings of sound bytes that I would have thought "deep" at, like, the age of twelve. And of what worth are convictions that bring not suffering? Worse, these little quotables kept contradicting one another. First, "evil is it when that which has been made is once more in the making.

Because there is no context. The whole thing seriously reminds me of a political campaign. My Romantic Poetry professor in college continually lamented the revisions Wordsworth made to the Prelude in his complacent old age, mourning the loss of difficulty, of pith, of doubt.

Having worshipped Le Petit Prince for years and then read this, I understand his frustration.


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