tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31044676.post-80316003411533494252008-05-02T12:41:00.000-07:002008-05-24T20:30:59.515-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_-kEEUAxUnRs/SBtwLD7M4KI/AAAAAAAAABc/nvUkVUjdZwE/s1600-h/The_Little_Prince.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_-kEEUAxUnRs/SBtwLD7M4KI/AAAAAAAAABc/nvUkVUjdZwE/s320/The_Little_Prince.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195869930436485282" /></a><br />I first read <i>The Little Prince</i> at 7, and when I was through I wept with such unbridled, full-throated abandon that my mother speaks of the incident to this day. When I reread it last week in preparation for tonight's opening of the Rachel Portman <a href="http://sfopera.com/opera.asp?o=261">opera</a>, the book turned out to be twee, smug and sentimental. Who knew?<br /><br />Not until last night did it occur to me that the problem lay not in the text, but in the reader. Just as Saint-Exupéry had predicted, I've lost the ability to appreciate his little fable. I've become that most benighted of beings, a <i>grownup</i>. How sad.<br /><br />On the other hand, I can drink scotch now. On balance, I think I got the better end of that bargain.Joshua Kosmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15075632616533206889noreply@blogger.com