‘The Little Prince,’ the Philippines, and the pursuit beyond the facade

I WAS 7 when I first met him. A fleck of dust besmeared his face; his curly, golden hair and scarlet ribbon bow tie caught in the wind from a corner of his planet scarcely bigger than himself; his pale green coat’s motif suggested it was of foreign origin—from another universe even; his vision was cast into the unknown as he stood beside a tiny, active volcano spewing smoke and fumes. He was frozen in time. Alone. On a book’s front cover. Garbage was all over.

Written by French aviator Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, born on June 29, 1900, the thin book titled “The Little Prince” tells of a pilot forced to land in the Sahara, who encounters a mysterious young boy claiming to be an extraterrestrial prince.

I stared at the book’s cover and paused at its strangeness. Then, I swiped the dust covering the little prince’s face with a piece of cloth. His eyes, nose, and lips were minute dots plotted on a peculiar canvas. In a blink, a sensation ran through my veins like a river flowing tranquilly. It was as if he invited me in for an adventure—a black hole that came with a cathartic magnificence for an absence that had been lurking inside.

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During his stay on the seventh planet, Earth, with the aviator, his loyalty to the lone rose on his planet had remained. His hope of coming back and correcting his wrong floated through the flow of the story, so pure and innocent—acts associated with bravery and wisdom.

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The little prince made me realize that there’s beauty, romance, and dignity in self-discovery. He taught me that the best things in life cannot come from the senseless acquisition of material things but from the silent appreciation of the unseen—mysterious gifts which reveal themselves with a fleck of dust from an untouched region in our hearts.

I didn’t expect to see him again years later after I lost a copy of the book. I visited a bookstore closest to my workplace to inquire about the availability of a George Saunders book titled “Tenth of December.” But there he was, at a shelf near the entrance. He was much bigger. His golden, curly hair was more radiant, and the color of his coat was finer. It was a metamorphosis in its absolute form. Perhaps the book publisher had decided to tweak some of the character’s aesthetics to appeal to the new generation.

As I was about to leave the bookstore, the cashier asked me, “Sir, how about this one?” as she waved a copy of “The Little Prince” I had placed near her station. Then, strangely, I found myself giving an answer I’ll never forget. “I’ll keep him this time.”

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May the little prince in us be awakened. As a nation, we must strengthen our grip on memory, our understanding of history, and our sensitivity to characters who profess intent to serve us beyond the facade of fame, riches, and painstakingly crafted speeches. Ultimately—what is essential is invisible to the eyes.

Benre J. Zenarosa

[email protected]

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