Letter to a Hostage

by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

“You can’t target me when I’m so clearly not trying to hide! When I am so vulnerable...!”

With reckless confidence, Portugal was discussing art. Would anyone dare to crush her, while she was venerating the arts? She had unveiled all her glories. Would anyone dare to crush her, amid her wonders? She flaunted her great men. With no army and no cannons, she had pitted all her stone sentries against the invaders’ ironware: her poets, her explorers, her conquistadors. Lacking army or cannons, Portugal’s entire past blocked the way. Would anyone dare to crush her, as she brandished the legacy of her glorious history?

And beneath her smile, I saw that Lisbon was sadder than my own gloomy towns.

They played at happiness in Lisbon, so that God would want to believe in it too.

They had invited one another to these ‘spectators’ dinners, where they had nothing to say to each other.

They clustered around a grim croupier and endeavoured to feel hope, despair, fear, envy, and elation. Like people who are alive.

It still all felt so close, so fresh and alive, like the memories of a love affair are, to begin with. You bundle up the sweet letters. You add a few memories. You tie it all up so painstakingly. And at first the relic develops a melancholic appeal. Then a blonde with blue eyes passes by, and the relic dies. So too the friend, the job, the home town and the memories of home. All fade when they no longer serve any purpose.

There is no material difference between being absent in the next room or on the other side of the planet. A friend who, to all appearances, is far away can feel closer than someone physically nearby.

It was not money they lacked, but solidity. They were no longer associated with a particular house, a friend or a job. They acted out the role, but it was no longer real. No-one needed them, no-one was planning to ask for their help. It is actually a wonderful thing to receive a telegram which jostles you awake, gets you up in the middle of the night, and nudges you out to the train station: “Hurry! I need your help!” We soon discover which friends will come to our aid. It takes much longer to win friends who will ask for your help.

So if on my sad liner I considered there were still fruitful pathways open to me, if the planet I inhabited was still alive, it was thanks to some missing friends I’d left behind in the French night, friends who were starting to be essential to me.

The inadequacy of my words will obscure my truth.

It is a remarkable thing, a man’s age! It summarises his whole life. A man’s maturity evolves at a slow pace. It develops despite so many obstacles overcome, so many serious illnesses healed, so many sorrows eased, so much misery surmounted, and despite so many dangers, the majority of which are unseen. It develops by means of so many desires, so many dreams, so many regrets, so many oversights and so much love. A man’s age represents a wonderful cargo of experiences and memories. Despite the snares, the bumps and the ruts, you continue to advance forward, juddering along as best you can like an old but reliable cart. And now, thanks to a tenacious convergence of happy circumstances, you have arrived at this point.

We unite through a smile beyond language, caste or politics. We worship at the same church; you with your customs and I with mine.

This, my friend, is doubtless why I need your friendship so much. I thirst for a companion who, despite any conflicts of reasoning, respects my pilgrimage to this fire. Sometimes I need to sample a foretaste of the promised warmth, and to rest a little, carefree, at the destination where we will be united.