But certainly, for us who understand life, figures are a matter of indifference. I
should have liked to begin this story in the fashion of the fairy-tales. I should have
like to say: "Once upon a time there was a little prince who lived on a planet that was
scarcely any bigger than himself, and who had need of a sheep..."
　　To those who understand life, that would have given a much greater air of truth to my
story.
　　For I do not want any one to read my book carelessly. I have suffered too much grief
in setting down these memories. Six years have already passed since my friend went away
from me, with his sheep. If I try to describe him here, it is to make sure that I shall
not forget him. To forget a friend is sad. Not every one has had a friend. And if I forget
him, I may become like the grown-ups who are no longer interested in anything but
figures...
　　It is for that purpose, again, that I have bought a box of paints and some pencils. It
is hard to take up drawing again at my age, when I have never made any pictures except
those of the boa constrictor from the outside and the boa constrictor from the inside,
since I was six. I shall certainly try to make my portraits as true to life as possible.
But I am not at all sure of success. One drawing goes along all right, and another has no
resemblance to its subject. I make some errors, too, in the littl e prince‘s height: in
one place he is too tall and in another too short. And I feel some doubts about the color
of his costume. So I fumble along as best I can, now good, now bad, and I hope generally
fair-to-middling.
　　In certain more important details I shall make mistakes, also. But that is something
that will not be my fault. My friend never explained anything to me. He thought, perhaps,
that I was like himself. But I, alas, do not know how to see sheep through t he walls of
boxes. Perhaps I am a little like the grown-ups. I have had to grow old.