I am reading The Little Prince by Saint Exupery—in the original French. Yes, I realize that sentence
sounds a bit pretentious. But cut me a freakin’ break. I have been trying to
learn French for at least a decade. And so far the best I can do is have a very
basic conversation about what I ate for dinner last night and the fact that I
have a job. Very few actual details about my job. I cannot discuss political
opinions or my hopes and dreams. I can’t be funny. (It’s debatable if I can do
that in English…but oh well). I can have a conversation in French, but not a
personality.
I love The Little Prince. The imagery is so strange and seminal and deeply meaningful. It’s like
somebody came along and wrote down every detail of that incredible, memorable,
weird dream you tried to hang onto when you woke up, but couldn’t—all you could
remember was that there was a tiny asteroid-planet and some tiny volcanoes and
a man with a biplane in a desert with a drawing of a sheep. And you had to get
somewhere up in the sky, somewhere fast, and it was deeply important, but you
can’t remember why. Reading The Little Prince is like living in your subconscious brain for a
little while.
I wish I could talk more about the poetry of the French
language vs. the experience of reading it in English, but sadly, my French
isn’t good enough. I read with the book in one hand and a French-English
dictionary in the other. Stay tuned for that post as my French improves.
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