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Wind； Sand and Stars by Antoine de Saint…Exupery
Chapter 2 … The MenTitle： 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
3
The Tool
And now； having spoken of the men born of the pilot's craft； I shall say something about the tool with which they work…the air…plane。 Have you looked at a modern airplane？ Have you followed from year to year the evolution of its lines？ Have you ever thought； not only about the airplane but about whatever man builds； that all of man's industrial efforts； all his putations and calculations； all the nights spent over working draughts and blueprints； invariably culminate in the production of a thing whose sole and guiding principle is the ultimate principle of simplicity？
It is as if there were a natural law which ordained that to achieve this end； to refine the curve of a piece of furniture； or a ship's keel； or the fuselage of an airplane； until gradually it partakes of the elementary purity of the curve of 'a human breast or shoulder； there must be the experimentation of several generations of craftsmen。 In anything at all； perfection is finally attained not when there is no longer anything to add； but when there is no longer anything to take away； when a body has been stripped down to its nakedness。
It results from this that perfection of invention touches hands with absence of invention； as if that line which the human eye will follow with effortless delight were a line that had not been invented but simply discovered； had in the beginning been hidden by nature and in the end been found by the engineer。 There is an ancient myth about the image asleep in the block of marble until it is carefully disengaged by the sculptor。 The sculptor must himself feel that he is not so much inventing or shaping the curve of breast or shoulder as delivering the image from its prison。
In this spirit do engineers； physicists concerned with thermodynamics； and the swarm of preoccupied draughtsmen tackle their work。 In appearance； but only in appearance； they seem to be polishing surfaces and refining away angles； easing this joint or stabilizing that wing； rendering these parts invisible； so that in the end there is no longer a wing hooked to a framework but a form flawless in its perfection； pletely disengaged from its matrix； a sort of spontaneous whole； its parts mysteriously fused together and resembling in their unity a poem。
Meanwhile； startling as it is that all visible evidence of invention should have been refined out of this instrument and that there should be delivered to us an object as natural as a pebble polished by the waves； it is equally wonderful that he who uses this instrument should be able to forget that it is a machine。
There was a time when a flyer sat at the center of a plicated works。 Flight set us factory problems。 The indicators that oscillated on the instrument panel warned us of a thousand dangers。 But in the machine of today we forget that motors are whirring： the motor； finally； has e to fulfil its function； which is to whirr as a heart beats…and we give no thought to the beating of our heart。 Thus； precisely because it is perfect the machine dissembles its own existence instead of forcing itself upon our notice。
And thus； also； the realities of nature resume their pride of place。 It is not with metal that the pilot is in contact； Contrary to the vulgar illusion； it is thanks to the metal； and by virtue of it； that the pilot rediscovers nature。 As I have already said； the machine does not isolate man from the great problems of nature but plunges him more deeply into them。
Numerous； nevertheless； are the moralists who have attacked the machine as the source of all the ills we bear； who； creating a fictitious dichotomy； have denounced the mechanical civilization as the enemy of the spiritual civilization。
If what they think were really so； then indeed we should have to despair of man； for it would be futile to struggle against this new advancing chaos。 The machine is certainly as irresistible in its advance as those virgin forests that encroach upon equatorial domains。 A congeries of motives prevents us from blowing up our spinning mills and reviving the distaff。 Gandhi had a try at this sort of revolution： he was as simple…minded as a child trying to empty the sea on to the sand with the aid of a tea…cup。
It is hard for me to understand the language of these pseudo…dreamers。 What is it makes them think that the ploughshare torn from the bowels of the earth by perforating machines； forged； tempered； and sharpened in the roar of modern industry； is nearer to man than any other tool of steel？ By what sign do they recognize the inhumanity of the machine？
Have they ever really asked themselves this question？ The central struggle of men has ever been to understand one another； to join together for the mon weal。 And it is this very thing that the machine helps them to do！ It begins by annihilating time and space。
To me； in France； a friend speaks from America。 The energy that brings me his voice is born of dammed…up waters a thousand miles from where he sits。 The energy I burn up in listening to him is dispensed in the same instant by a lake formed in the River Yser which； four thousand miles from him and five hundred from me； melts like snow in the action of the turbines。 Transport of the mails； transport of the human voice； transport of flickering pictures … in this century as in others our highest acplishments still have the single aim of bringing men together。 Do our dreamers hold that the invention of writing； of printing； of the sailing ship； degraded the human spirit？
It seems to me that those who plain of man's progress confuse ends with means。 True； that man who struggles in the unique hope of material gain will harvest nothing worth while。 But how can anyone conceive that the machine is an end？ It is a tool。 As much a tool as is the plough。 The microscope is a tool。 What disservice do we do the life of the spirit when we analyze the universe through a tool created by the science of optics； or seek to bring together those who love one another and are parted in space？
〃Agreed！〃 my dreamers will say； 〃but explain to us why it is that a decline in human values has acpanied the rise of the machine？〃 Oh； I miss the village with its crafts and its folksongs as much as they do！ The town fed by Hollywood seems to me； too； impoverished despite its electric street lamps。 I quite agree that men lose their creative instincts when they are fed thus without raising a hand。 And I can see that it is tempting to accuse industry of this evil。
But we lack perspective for the judgment of transformations that go so deep。 What are the hundred years of the history of the machine pared with the two' hundred thousand years of the history of man？ It was only yesterday that we began to pitch our camp in this country of laboratories and power stations； that we took possession of this new； this still unfinished； house we live in。 Everything round us is new and different … our concerns； our working habits； our relations with one another。 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
4
The Elements
When Joseph Conrad described a typhoon he said very little about towering waves； or darkness； or the whistling of the wind in the shrouds。 He knew better。 Instead； he took his reader down into the hold of the vessel； packed with emigrant coolies； where the rolling and the pitching of the ship had ripped up and scattered their bags and bundles； burst open their boxes； and flung their humble belongings into a crazy heap。 Family treasures painfully collected in a lifetime of poverty； pitiful mementoes so alike that nobody but their owners could have told them apart； had lost their identity and lapsed into chaos； into anonymity； into an amorphous magma。 It was this human drama that Conrad described when he painted a typhoon。
Every airline pilot has flown through tornadoes； has returned out of them to the fold … to the little restaurant in Toulouse where we sat in peace under the watchful eye of the waitress … and there； recognizing his powerlessness to convey what he has been through； has given up the idea of describing hell。 His descriptions； his gestures； his big words would have made the rest of us smile as if we were listening to a little boy bragging。 And necessarily so。 The cyclone of which I am about to speak was； physically； much the most brutal and overwhelming experience I ever underwent； and yet beyond a certain point I do not know how to convey its violence except by piling one adjective on another； so that in the end I should convey no impression at all … unless perhaps that of an embarrassing taste for exaggeration。
It took me some time to grasp the fundamental reason for this powerlessness； which is simply that I should be trying to describe a catastrophe that never took place。 The reason why writers fail when they attempt to evoke horror is that horror is something invented after the fact； when one is re…creating the experience over again in the memory。 Horror does not manifest itself in the world of reality。 And so； in beginning my story of a revolt of the elements which I myself lived through I have no feeling that I shall write something which you will find dramatic。
I had taken off from the field at Trelew and was flying down to odoro…Rivadavia； in the Patagonian Argentine。 Here the crust of the earth is as dented as an old boiler。 The high…pressure regions over the Pacific send the winds past a gap in the Andes into a corridor fifty miles wide through which they rush to the Atlantic in a strangled and accelerated buffeting that scrapes the surface of everything in their path。 The sole vegetation visible in this barren landscape is a plantation of oil derricks looking like the after…effects of a forest fire。 Towering over the round hills on which the winds have left a residue of stony gravel； there rises a chain of prow…shaped； saw…toothed； razor…edged mountains stripped by the elements down to the bare rock。
For three months of the year the speed of these winds at ground level is up to a hundred miles an hour。 We who flew the route knew that once we had crossed the marshes of Trelew and had reached the threshold of the zone they swept； we should recognize the winds from afar by a grey…blue tint in the atmosphere at the sight of which we would tighten our belts and shoulder…straps in preparation for what was ing。 From then on we had an hour of stiff fighting and of stumbling again and again into invisible ditches of air。 This was manual labor； and our muscles felt it pretty much as if we had been carrying a longshoreman's load。 But it lasted only an hour。 Our machines stood up under it。 We had no fear of wings suddenly dropping off。 Visibility was generally good； and not a problem。 This section of the line was a stint； yes； it was certainly not a drama。
But on this particular day I did not like the color of the sky。
The sky was blue。 Pure blue。 Too pure。 A hard blue sky that shone over the scraped and barren world while the fleshless vertebrae of the mountain chain flashed in the sunlight。 Not a cloud。 The blue sky glittered like a new…honed knife。 I felt in advance the vague distaste that acpanies the prospect of physical exertion。 The purity of the sky upset me。 Give me a good black storm in which the enemy is plainly visible。 I can measure its extent and prepare myself for its attack。 I can get my hands on my adversary。 But when you are flying very high in clear weather the shock of a blue storm is as disturbing as if something collapsed that had been holding up your ship in the air。 It is the only time when a pilot feels that there is a gulf beneath his ship。
Another thing bothered me。 I could see on a level with the mountain peaks not a haze； not a mist； not a sandy fog； but a sort of ash…colored streamer in the sky。 I did not like the look of that scarf of filings scraped off the surface of the earth and borne out to sea by the wind。 I tightened my leather harness as far as it would go and I steered the ship with one hand while with the other I hung on to the longeron that ran along…side my seat。 I was still flying in remarkably calm air。
Very soon came a slight tremor。 As every pilot knows； there are secret little quiverings that fore…tell your real storm。 No rolling； no pitching。 No swing to speak of。 The flight continues horizontal and rectilinear。 But you have felt a warning drum on the wings of your plane； little intermittent rappings scarcely audible and infinitely brief； little cracklings from time to time as if there were traces of gunpowder in the air。
And then eve