Actually, as far as the eye can see, the Sahara offers nothing but uniform sand, or rather, for scarcity of dunes, a stony strand. There, one perpetually bathes in the conditions for sheer boredom. And yet the invisible divinities build up a net of directions, slopes and signs, a secret and living frame. No more uniformity. Everything takes up a definite position. Even one silence is unlike another silence.
There is a silence of peace, when the tribes are reconciled, when the evening once more brings its coolness, and its seems as if one had furled the sails and taken up moorings in a quiet harbour.
There is the silence of noon, when the sun suspends all thought and movement. There is a false silence when the north wind has dropped, and the appearance of insects, drawn away like pollen from the inner oasis, announces the eastern storm, carrier of sand. There is the silence of intrigue, when one knows that a distant tribe is brooding. There is the silence of mystery, when the Arabs join up in their intricate cabals. There is a tense silence when the messenger is slow to return. A sharp silence when, at night, you hold your breath to listen. A melancholic silence when you remember those you love.
Everything is polarised. Each star shows a real direction. They are all the Magi's stars. The all serve their own God. This one marks a distant well, difficult to reach. And the distance to that well weighs like a rampart. That one denotes the direction of a dried-up well. And the star itself looks dry. And the space between the star and the dried well does not lessen. The other star is the sign-post to the unknown oasis which nomads have praised in songs, but which dissent forbids you. And the sand between you and the oasis is a lawn in a fairy tale. That other one shows the direction of a white city of the South, which seems as delicious as a fruit to munch. Another points to the sea. Lastly this desert is magnetised from afar by two unreal poles: a childhood home, remaining alive in the memory. A friend we know nothing about except that he exists.
(Antoine de Saint-Exupéry - Letter to a Hostage)
