The Wisdom of the Sands
25 hrs. 48 min.
Language
Russian
Author
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
Author
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
Narrator
Evgeny Ternovsky
Narrator
Evgeny Ternovsky
Description
“The Citadel” is Exupéry’s most distinctive, and perhaps most brilliant, work. A book in which the facets of this writer’s talent come alive in a new way. A book where the themes of cause and military prose, memoir and literary legends, reflections on the meaning of life and the spiritual searching of a great Frenchman are strangely intertwined.
…Because far too often I’ve seen pity that’s mistaken—yet we were placed over people. We don’t have the right to waste ourselves on what can be disregarded. We must look deeper into the human heart. I refuse compassion for wounds displayed for show—they touch women’s hearts—and I refuse compassion to the dying and the dead. And I know why.
There were times in my youth when, seeing the pus-filled sores of beggars, I pitied them. I hired healers for them, bought salves and ointments. Caravans brought me golden balm from distant islands.
But then I saw that the beggars pick at their own wounds, soak them in manure sludge—like a gardener fertilizing the earth, asking it for a crimson flower—and I understood: the stench and foul odor are the beggars’ treasure. The beggars were proud of their sores, showing off their takings to one another, and the one who received more than the rest rose in his own eyes, feeling like a high priest among the most beautiful idols. Only out of vanity the beggars would come to my healer, anticipating how he would be amazed by the abundance of their stinking sores. To defend their place in the sun, they shook their ulcerated stumps; taking care of themselves they considered honors, compresses they treated like worship. But once they recovered, they felt unnecessary—having a disease no longer present that their bodies gave them—useless. And no matter what they did, they hurried to bring their sores back. And so, again seeping with pus, smug and worthless, they lined up with basins along the caravan roads, robbing travelers in the name of their foul god.
Contents:
The Citadel
The Little Prince as a fortress of the spirit — PhD. in Philology. Boris Gubman
…Because far too often I’ve seen pity that’s mistaken—yet we were placed over people. We don’t have the right to waste ourselves on what can be disregarded. We must look deeper into the human heart. I refuse compassion for wounds displayed for show—they touch women’s hearts—and I refuse compassion to the dying and the dead. And I know why.
There were times in my youth when, seeing the pus-filled sores of beggars, I pitied them. I hired healers for them, bought salves and ointments. Caravans brought me golden balm from distant islands.
But then I saw that the beggars pick at their own wounds, soak them in manure sludge—like a gardener fertilizing the earth, asking it for a crimson flower—and I understood: the stench and foul odor are the beggars’ treasure. The beggars were proud of their sores, showing off their takings to one another, and the one who received more than the rest rose in his own eyes, feeling like a high priest among the most beautiful idols. Only out of vanity the beggars would come to my healer, anticipating how he would be amazed by the abundance of their stinking sores. To defend their place in the sun, they shook their ulcerated stumps; taking care of themselves they considered honors, compresses they treated like worship. But once they recovered, they felt unnecessary—having a disease no longer present that their bodies gave them—useless. And no matter what they did, they hurried to bring their sores back. And so, again seeping with pus, smug and worthless, they lined up with basins along the caravan roads, robbing travelers in the name of their foul god.
Contents:
The Citadel
The Little Prince as a fortress of the spirit — PhD. in Philology. Boris Gubman
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