I’ve reached the same age my dad was when he came to the United States not knowing much English, but determined to study what he loves in college. He bought some of his first books in English,
Misery by Stephen King, and
The Little Prince, at a small mall bookstore that is long gone now. Growing up, I didn’t know the significance behind the small edition we had lying around at home, which is featured in the bottom left of the image, it survived every life change with him, unlike
Misery. It is a little worn and water damaged, but he plucks it from my shelf and jokes that it doesn’t belong among my books, that it’s his. He has a fondness in his eyes when he picks it up.
I tried to read it when I was a young teenager, but it confused me. I was between the age of a clueless child who accepts anything told in stories without quibbling, and being an adult who can analyze and discern personal meaning from a piece of art. I left it to gather dust for another couple years. But some time last summer, my dad saw me holding it at the thrift store during one of our usual trips, and once again with that fondness, told me to buy it despite knowing we had a copy at home, a change from his usual thrifty attitude. I accepted the challenge with a smile and have since then read it around three times. I write quotes from it on my shoes, I set my phone wallpaper to an image of the prince standing atop a planet with a lost look in his gaze towards all he has explored, I display my copies on my shelf prominently. I discuss it at length with my dad at the dinner table, ignoring the indifferent glances from the rest of my family as we discuss what the purpose of the book is, the accuracy of the depictions of humans, and most recently, what color is the rose? Like much of the ideas in the book, it is up for interpretation. Many of the editions with color were colored by the publishers. My dad says red. I say I don't know.
My writing is peppered with constant references to
The Little Prince and I think of him constantly, of the people in my life who have tamed me, of a rose with useless thorns, of matters of consequence, of tears, of jobs that are beautiful, and therefore truly useful. I can't help but think that this weird little book feels like the antithesis of what my dad presents himself as, the forever pragmatic model who knows everything there is to know about anything. But when I think a little harder, he’s just as stubborn as the little prince and was he not also exploring the universe, meeting all kinds of men? And staying in the United States post-grad was never the plan, but everything changed when he met my forgetful, impractical mom, who is as beautiful and unique in all the universe as the prince's rose. I can only imagine my dad reading about a little prince with hair like wheat in a still unfamiliar language, who says things like “it is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye” and “what makes the desert beautiful is that somewhere it hides a well…”
I will carry my own copies of The Little Prince with me throughout my life, and maybe one day I’ll tell my own kids about a little prince and fox
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