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tone。 A body hunched over in unfortable sleep； imprisoned in working clothes； all humps and hollows。 The man looked like a lump of clay； like one of those sluggish and shapeless derelicts that crumple into sleep in our public markets。
And I thought： The problem does not reside in this poverty； in this filth； in this ugliness。 But this same man and this same woman met one day。 This man must have smiled at this woman。 He may； after his work was done； have brought her flowers。 Timid and awkward； perhaps he trembled lest she disdain him。 And this woman； out of natural coquetry； this woman sure of her charms； perhaps took pleasure in teasing him。 And this man； this man who is now no more than a machine for swinging a pick or a sledge…hammer； must have felt in his heart a delicious anguish。 The mystery is that they should have bee these lumps of clay。 Into what terrible mould were they forced？ What was it that marked them like this as if they had been put through a monstrous stamping machine？ A deer； a gazelle； any animal grown old； preserves its grace。 What is it that corrupts this wonderful clay of which man is kneaded？
I went on through these people whose slumber was as sinister as a den of evil。 A vague noise floated in the air made up of raucous snores； obscure moanings； and the scraping of clogs as their wearers； broken on one side； sought fort on the other。 And always the muted acpaniment of those pebbles rolled over and over by the waves。
I sat down face to face with one couple。 Between the man and the woman a child had hollowed himself out a place and fallen asleep。 He turned in his slumber； and in the dim lamplight I saw his face。 What an adorable face！ A golden fruit had been born of these two peasants。 Forth from this sluggish scum had sprung this miracle of delight and grace。
I bent over the smooth brow； over those mildly pouting lips； and I said to myself： This is a musician's face。 This is the child Mozart。 This is a life full of beautiful promise。 Little princes in legends are not different from this。 Protected； sheltered； cultivated； what could not this child bee？
When by mutation a new rose is born in a garden； all the gardeners rejoice。 They isolate the rose； tend it； foster it。 But there is no gardener for men。 This little Mozart will be shaped like the rest by the mon stamping machine。 This little Mozart will love shoddy music in the stench of night dives。 This little Mozart is condemned
I went back to my sleeping car。 I said to myself： Their fate causes these people no suffering。 It is not an impulse to charity that has upset me like this。 I am not weeping over an eternally open wound。 Those who carry the wound do not feel it。 It is the human race and not the individual that is wounded here； is outraged here。 I do not believe in pity。 What torments me tonight is the gardener's point of view。 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 Saint…Exupery
Chapter 10 … Conclusion