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tand 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 the