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I found the text of The Little Prince online, the version translated by Katherine Woods(aka the one that wasn't butchered). It made me happy. You ought to read it.

( This chapter is my favorite. )

"A poet doesn't invent his poetry--he finds it," he said, to no one in particular. "The place," he added slowly, "where Alph the sacred river ran--was found out, not invented."

He looked out the window from where he sat. He seemed to look as far out of the room as he could. "I can't stand any kind of inventiveness," he said.