He stared at me, thunderstruck.
Matters of consequence!
He looked at me there, with my hammer in my hand, my fingers black with engine-grease, bending down over an object which seemed to him extremely ugly.
You talk just like the grown-ups!
That made me a little ashamed.
But he went on, relentlessly: "You mix everything up together...You confuse everything."
He was really very angry.
He tossed his golden curls in the breeze.
I know a planet where there is a certain red-faced gentleman.
He has never smelled a flower.
He has never looked at a star.
He has never loved any one.
He has never done anything in his life but add up figures.
And all day he says over and over, just like you: "I am busy with matters of consequence!"
And that makes him swell up with pride.
But he is not a man– he is a mushroom!"
The little prince was now white with rage.
The flowers have been growing thorns for millions of years.
For millions of years the sheep have been eating them just the same.
And is it not a matter of consequence to try to understand why the flowers go to so much trouble to grow thorns which are never of any use to them?
Is the warfare between the sheep and the flowers not important?
Is this not of more consequence than a fat red-faced gentleman's sums?
And if I know–I, myself–one flower which is unique in the world, which grows nowhere but on my planet,
but which one little sheep can destroy in a single bite some morning, without even noticing what he is doing–Oh! You think that is not important!