风沙星辰 风沙星辰 9.1分


2018-05-08 看过

试图写全英文,因为第一次看完了全英文版的《人类与大地》,但有些地方 还是 不行。还有些地方没有发现有。

“ What torments me is not this poverty to which after all a man can accustom himself as


试图写全英文,因为第一次看完了全英文版的《人类与大地》,但有些地方 还是 不行。还有些地方没有发现有。

“ What torments me is not this poverty to which after all a man can accustom himself as easily as to sloth. Generations of Orientals live in filth and love it. What torments me is not the humps nor hollows nor the ugliness. It is the sight, a little bit in all these men, of Mozart murdered.

Only the Spirit, if it breathe upon the clay, can create Man.”

——Wind, Sand and Stars, by Antoine de St. Exupery

I know that many people have read the book little prince, and also learned about its author Antoine de Saint-Exupery. So when I want to introduce this book to others, I usually get start with that words:

Hey! Have you heard about Wind, Sand and Stars? No? that doesn’t matter, cause you must heard about its author’s another book which is quiet famous. The little prince. And If you could read this book, you will understand the whole book of the little prince.

Every time I open this book, I cannot stop myself from seeking the thoughts and details which I am obsessed with. I can image all the plot of the little prince by read and connect all the details that I found. That makes me enjoy so much. And finally, I find out that the reason why the little prince is so different from the children’s books and Fables is that it originally was the concentrated thoughts written to all the adults by a adult. It’s hortation wrapped in a piece of candy paper.

——beyond the clouds, author found a fantasy world which was glory compering with the normal world.

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.

——Why three threes can occupy a whole plant?

He did not talk about provinces, or peoples, or livestock. Instead of telling me about Guadix, he spoke of three orange-trees on the edge of the town: "Beware of those trees. Better mark them on the map." And those three orange-trees seemed to me thenceforth higher than the Sierra Nevada.

——In the little prince’s travel, there had been a geographer who seemed care about geography very much, however, he never cared about how the real world are. Where came from this character?

The details that we drew up from oblivion, from their inconceivable remoteness, no geographer had been concerned to explore. Because it washed the banks of great cities, the Ebro River was of interest to mapmakers. But what had they to do with that brook running secretly through the water-weeds to the west of Motril, that brook nourishing a mere score or two of flowers-

——Why the little prince have to get back to his plant at the end? That could be refer to the author’s feelings when he was flying:

And with that we knew ourselves to be lost in interplanetary space among a thousand inaccessible planets, we who sought only the one veritable planet, our own, that planet on which alone we should find our familiar countryside, the houses of our friends, our treasures.

——Where comes the fragment of crying little prince and the gap felt by the protagonist:

Punta Arenas! I lean against a fountain. Old women come up to draw water: of their drama I shall know nothing but these gestures of farm servants. A child, his head against a wall, weeps in silence: there will remain of him in my memory only a beautiful child forever inconsolable. I am a stranger. I know nothing. I do not enter into their empires.

——If a man fall in love:

And that heart which was a wild garden was given to him who loved only trim lawns. And the imbecile carried away the princess into slavery.





If the read of the little prince moved me a lot, then the read of the Wind, Sand and Stars makes the movement turn to a heavy stone in my heart.

We often say the changing of the ages makes it’s difficult for us to learn our age. At least I agree with that. I do not know about any ages, but I know the thing that everyone should know about, that’s what feelings we have when we exist or live is definitely true.

As a ploit, the author can see many views while ordinary people can not. No matter look down from planet or the sahala, or operate planet to against dangers. In the era of his time, those impression might bring him the revelations which like oracles.

Flying makes him fairly different from others. His views, his thoughts, his ideas. All the things are more general, he worried about all the human beings. And that could explain his heavy and complex sense of something like pity for all the people.

In this busy and plenitude world. He was a freak.在这个忙碌而充实的世界上,他们同样怪异得格格不入。这种怪异,与其说源于作者飞行员的经历,倒不如说是源于童年时期的那幅吃掉大象的蛇的图画,而且从那时起,就埋下了飞行员的种子,埋下了作家的种子,童年的好奇心与困惑一起锁进他的心里。所以他能感受到那些“夭折了的莫扎特”,而他的痛苦,不是来自对于他人处境的悲悯,是来自于对于天真的失去的惋惜。



——Some sentences which impulse me a lot:

"You'll be bothered from time to time by storms, fog, snow. When you are, think of those who went through it before you, and say to yourself, 'What they could do, I can do.' "

"I swear that what I went through, no animal would have gone through."


You, like a termite, built your peace by blocking up with cement every chink and cranny through which the light might pierce.

You rolled yourself up into a ball in your genteel security, in routine, in the stifling conventions of provincial life, raising a modest rampart against the winds and the tides and the stars.

You have chosen not to be perturbed by great problems, having trouble enough to forget your own fate as man.

You are not the dweller upon an errant planet and do not ask yourself questions to which there are no answers.

You are a petty bourgeois of Toulouse. Nobody grasped you by the shoulder while there was still time. Now the clay of which you were shaped has dried and hardened, and naught in you will ever awaken the sleeping musician, the poet, the astronomer that possibly inhabited you in the beginning.

Pioneering thus, Mermoz had cleared the desert, the mountains, the night, and the sea. He had been forced down more than once in desert, in mountain, in night, and in sea. And each time that he got safely home, it was but to start out again.

If I summon up those memories that have left with me an enduring savor, if I draw up the balance sheet of the hours in my life that have truly counted, surely I find only those that no wealth could have procured me. True riches cannot be bought. One cannot buy the friendship of a Mermoz, of a companion to whom one is bound forever by ordeals suffered in common. There is no buying the night flight with its hundred thousand stars, its serenity, its few hours of sovereignty. It is not money that can procure for us that new vision of the world won through hardship - those trees, flowers, women, those treasures made fresh by the dew and color of life which the dawn restores to us, this concert of little things that sustain us and constitute our compensation.

To grasp the meaning of the world of today we use a language created to express the world of yesterday. The life of the past seems to us nearer our true natures, but only for the reason that it is nearer our language.

"You know . . . the God of the French . . . He is more generous to the French than the God of the Moors is to the Moors."

This man before me is not weighed down with chains. How little need he has of them! How faithful he is! How submissively he forswears the deposed king within him! Truly, the man is a mere contented slave.

He was free, but too infinitely free, not striding upon the earth but floating above it. He felt the lack in him of that weight of human relations that trammels a man's progress; tears, farewells, reproaches, joys - all those things that a man caresses or rips apart each time he sketches a gesture; those thousand ties that bind him to others and lend density to his being. But already Bark was in ballast of a thousand hopes.

——finally,what linger in my heart is the words of a gardener before his death:

"You know, I used to sweat sometimes when I was digging. My rheumatism would pull at my leg, and I would damn myself for a slave. And now, do you know, I'd like to spade and spade. It's beautiful work. A man is free when he is using a spade. And besides, who is going to prune my trees when I am gone-"

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