wind sand and stars st.antoine de saint-exupery-第8部分

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　bold　and　generous　horizons。　To　be　a　man　is；　precisely；　to　be　responsible。　It　is　to　feel　shame　at　the　sight　of　what　seems　to　be　unmerited　misery。　It　is　to　take　pride　in　a　victory　won　by　one's　rades。　It　is　to　feel；　when　setting　one's　stone；　that　one　is　contributing　to　the　building　of　the　world。　
　　There　is　a　tendency　to　class　such　men　with。　toreadors　and　gamblers。　People　extol　their　contempt　for　death。　But　I　would　not　give　a　fig　for　anybody's　contempt　for　death。　If　its　roots　are　not　sunk　deep　in　an　acceptance　of　responsibility；　this　contempt　for　death　is　the　sign　either　of　an　impoverished　soul　or　of　youthful　extravagance。　
　　I　once　knew　a　young　suicide。　I　cannot　remember　what　disappointment　in　love　it　was　which　induced　him　to　send　a　bullet　carefully　into　his　heart。　I　have　no　notion　what　literary　temptation　he　had　succumbed　to　when　he　drew　on　a　pair　of　white　gloves　before　the　shot。　But　I　remember　having　felt；　on　learning　of　this　sorry　show；　an　impression　not　of　nobility　but　of　lack　of　dignity。　So！　Behind　that　attractive　face；　beneath　that　skull　which　should　have　been　a　treasure　chest；　there　had　been　nothing；　nothing　at　all。　Unless　it　was　the　vision　of　some　silly　little　girl　indistinguishable　from　the　rest。　
　　And　when　I　heard　of　this　meagre　destiny；　I　remembered　the　death　of　a　man。　He　was　a　gardener；　and　he　was　speaking　on　his　deathbed：　〃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？〃　
　　That　man　was　leaving　behind　him　a　fallow　field；　a　fallow　planet。　He　was　bound　by　ties　of　love　to　all　cultivable　land　and　to　all　the　trees　of　the　earth。　There　was　a　generous　man；　a　prodigal　man；　a　nobleman！　There　was　a　man　who；　battling　against　death　in　the　name　of　his　Creation；　could　like　Guillaumet　be　called　a　man　of　courage！。　
　　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　t