Why I Hate The Little Prince
A rant about the classic novel by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry/A very outdated book review
Olivia Potruch (she/her)
It is a well-known fact about me, Via Esme Potruch, that I hate The Little Prince. Seriously. That book traumatized me.
Now, I’m sure everyone has read The Little Prince for class, or been read it by well-meaning, crunchy parents, or absorbed it by some other popular cultural means. I’m here to tell you that it’s terrible.
The Little Prince, published in 1943, is a whimsical tale of a young boy from Asteroid B612, who comes to earth and meets all sorts of creatures. He traverses the globe and space, encountering snakes and flowers and a fox who becomes his guide. He learns of life from an innocent point of view, giving everyone the benefit of the doubt. He also meets 6 bumbling, idiotic, incompetent adult men who display the worst of humans. Honestly, I think that The Little Prince is a smear campaign against adults!
Every being our Little Prince meets tells us that adults are horrible, that they cannot understand the world as it truly is, for they are blinded by boredom and formality. It tells us that adults are less worthy of the world, and yet they have it anyway. The king we meet shows the hollowness of power. The vain man shows us the foolishness of trying to be the best. The drunkard…exemplifies alcoholism? (Lovely tidbit for a children’s book!) The lamplighter lives in monotony and rote tasks. The businessman shows us greed and the geographer's unimaginitiveness. What a beautiful picture of adulthood to give children!
As a kid, I was absolutely terrified of growing up. I was a playful, imaginative child. I loved my dolls, had personalities for all of them, and could create entire worlds from a tiny seed of a thought. Everything was magical. I have lost that. I romanticize, but I don’t have much of an imagination. I think in facts and reality. The Little Prince made me hate this version of myself.
Reading about how truly terrible adults are, how they (we?) have no worth in the reality of the world, that we cannot understand beauty, absolutely terrified me. It’s a silly book, but it seemed to confirm my fears. I’m an adult who doesn’t understand, or I’m going to be. I have grown into a ‘dull, imagination-less creature, literal and attached to only the truth I see with my eyes, to quote another analysis.
I know that is not all I am, but it certainly is some of it. I love excitement and whimsy, but I also get excited over new watches and Senate records. I know a lot of people like me, who love the world but don’t love it like we did as children. This isn’t a bad thing, and I have decided to refuse to let myself think so. I hate The Little Prince because it made me ashamed of who I am. It makes us ashamed to change or to take pleasure in something it disagrees with. We cannot always be that boy on a planet scarcely bigger than himself, living life with whimsy and imagination. We will grow older, and who is this French children's book to say that's wrong?
