I observed a different accountant sitting before me. In the course of my resistance to the destruction of my dream, I had apparently turned upon him in a way that was completely novel, neither scorning him nor using him, but speaking to him as a member of the human race.
“I’ve never done this before,” he admitted, wiping his eyes. “But your attitude in the face of certain failure just broke me up. And here I am ... owning two houses, a piece of a hotel, and some stocks and bonds ... more money than you’ll probably ever see. Yet I realize how very little I have ... on the other side of the ledger.”
I was astounded that he was not angry, found a copy of The Little Prince to give him, and as he left called, “You’ve forgotten your spoon and the medicine.” He hesitated a moment, but did not turn back.
My accountant never again told me I was bankrupt. Several months passed before I next saw him, but since I continued to ignore the “figure” side of the business, his absence did not disturb me. Then one bright and lovely morning he came in wearing a fresh, newly pressed suit and ... no vest!
“How marvelous!” I said.
“No vest, ever again,” he assured me.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Well, you remember when I left? I still didn’t believe you, but I read The Little Prince that evening. I used to think that facts and the gathering of facts were the only basis for living. But I realize now it is a much harder job. It is easier to be hypochondriac ... or a slave to the logic of the marketplace ... or anything but one’s self.”
Does experience teach? Is it possible that a human being may be altered or set free through the written word? Are books important? Is it important to be a bookseller? Even though you are going broke? I had been turning like a worm in an apple for so long that it seemed a little more turning could scarcely hurt me.
One night I was awakened by the insistent ringing of the telephone.