The little prince never gave up on a question once he had asked it. I was irritated with my bolt, so I said the first thing that entered my head:

'Thorns are of no use whatsoever; they are simply a flower's way of being  spiteful!'

'Oh!'

There was a silence; then he retorted ,with a kind of bitterness:

'I don't believe you! Flowers are weak, they are naive. They reassure them¬selves as best they can. They think they are being frightening, with their thorns.'

I made no answer. At that moment I was saying to myself: 'If this bolt resists any longer, I am going to knock it out with the hammer.'The little prince interrupted my thoughts once more:

'But as for you, you think that the flowers . . .'

'Not at all! Not at all! I think nothing! I told you the first thing that entered my head. As for me, I happen to have serious matters to attend to!'

He stared at me in amazement.

'Serious matters!'

He looked at me, hammer in hand, fingers black with grease, bent over some machine that seemed to him merely ugly.

'You are talking like a grown-up!'

This made me feel a little ashamed. But he continued, relentlessly:

'You are confusing everything . . . you are mixing up everything!'

He was truly very angry. He was shaking his golden locks in the breeze.

'I know a planet where a certain purple-faced gentle¬man lives. He has never inhaled the scent of a flower. He has never looked at a star. He has never loved anyone. He has never done anything except add up figures. And all day long, just like you, he repeats to himself: “I am a serious person! I am a serious person!” And this makes him swell up with pride. But he is not a man — he's a mushroom!'

'A what?'

'A mushroom!'

The little prince was now quite pale with anger.

'For millions of years flowers have been growing thorns. For millions of years sheep have been eating flowers none the less. And is it not a serious matter, to try and understand why flowers go to such trouble producing thorns that will never be of any use to them? Is it not important, the war between sheep and flowers? Is it not more serious and more important than the calculations of a fat red-faced gentle¬man? And if I personally know a flower which is unique in the world, which exists nowhere except on my planet, but which one little sheep can destroy in a single bite, just like that, one morning, without even noticing what he's doing — well, I suppose that, too, is of no importance!'

He flushed, then continued:

'If someone loves a flower, of which there is only one example among all the millions and millions of stars, that is enough to make him happy when he looks up at the night sky. He says to himself: “Somewhere out there is my flower.” But if a sheep eats the flower, it's as though all the stars have suddenly gone out! But I suppose that, too, is of no importance!'

He could not say any more. His words were choked by sobbing. Night had fallen. I had let my tools drop to the ground. I no longer cared a fig for my hammer, or my bolt, or about thirst or about dying. On one star, one planet, this planet, the Earth, there was a little prince in need of consoling! I took him in my arms. I cradled him. I told him: 'The flower you love is not in danger... I'll draw you a muzzle for your sheep... I'll draw you a shield to put round your flower... I'll...' I did not really know what to say. I felt like a blundering idiot. I did not know how to reach him, where to catch up with him. It is such a secret place, the land of tears.