The prince came from a very small planet. It was hardly any bigger than a house. It had three little volcanoes. Two of them still worked. He used them to warm his breakfast. The third one had gone out, but he cleaned it too, because you never know.

His planet was so small that when he wanted to see a sunset, all he had to do was move his chair a few steps.

One day, he told me, I watched the sunset forty-four times.

And a little later, very quietly, he said: You know, when one is so sad, one loves sunsets.

Grown-ups love numbers. When you tell them about a new friend, they never ask the things that matter. They never ask what his voice is like, or which games he likes best, or if he collects butterflies. They ask: How old is he? How much does his father earn? Only then do they think they know him.

So if I tell them the prince lived on Asteroid B-612, they will say: Ah, yes, now we see. But if I tell them he liked to move his chair to watch the sun go down — they will shrug. Grown-ups are like that. You must not hold it against them. Children must be very patient with grown-ups.

You know — one loves the sunset, when one is so sad.