There are books we outgrow. And then there are books that grow with us. The Little Prince has always been, for me, a kind of compass – one that pointed inward, rather than north. It was one of my favorite books as a child, the one I returned to obsessively, first in French, then in English, later in other languages I was learning, as if by changing the language I could uncover some deeper, truer layer of meaning. This weekend, I read it again, this time in Italian, and something shifted.