talking with the Bull-like businessman, who is busy counting his assets, the stars, which he figures belong to him, since no one else ever had the common sense to claim them. The scenario follows:
BUSINESSMAN: Five hundred and one million, six hundred twenty-two thousand, seven hundred thirty-one… I am concerned with matters of consequence.
LITTLE PRINCE: …you own the stars?
LITTLE PRINCE: And what do you do with them?
BUSINESSMAN: I administer them. I count and recount them. It is difficult, but I am a man who is naturally interested in matters of consequence…
LITTLE PRINCE: But you cannot pluck the stars from the heavens.
BUSINESSMAN: No, but I can put them in the bank.
LITTLE PRINCE: Whatever does that mean?
BUSINESSMAN: That means I write the number of my stars on a little paper. And then I put this paper in a drawer, and lock it with a key.
LITTLE PRINCE: And that is all?
BUSINESSMAN: It is enough.
LITTLE PRINCE: (sighs) It is entertaining… but it is not a matter of any great consequence.
On matters of consequence, the typical Piscean has ideas very different from the average Taurean. For, like the Little Prince, the Fish, too, is from a far-off planet, where there exists the most beautiful rose in all creation, which he has seen, and loved with his whole being, remembers with tenderness, misses painfully… and to which he longs to return. (Or to whom he longs to return. The male or female Fish who wistfully longs for such a reunion isn't certain of the pronoun. Is it a person? Or merely a concept… a dream?)
Piscean Cleve Baxter, who sneakily, in Neptune fashion, swims and glides silently, almost unobtrusively, in and out of the pages of this book, so that you never know in which chapter he's going to pop up and wiggle his fins - is certainly typical of his Sun Sign's instinctive disdain for material matters. In 1970, a major New York publisher wanted to place Cleve under contract to write a book about his world-famous work with plants, eggs, spermatozoa, yogurt, and all manner of cellular life, which is proving the genesis of Oneness - that all life forces are interconnected, and inseparable. Suddenly, an editor at the publishing house had an innovative idea of his own. He asked a professional astrologer to calculate and interpret Backster's horoscope, hoping it would reveal the extent of his reliability and potential as an author, thereby reducing the publisher's risk.
The editor then visited Cleve in his research laboratory to bring him the awful truth. Silently and sadly, he handed the Fish the neatly typed astrological analysis to read. Among other things, it stated that Backster must 'always be associated with an organization around him, for he can't bear the entire responsibility on his own shoulders' - and that 'his business sense is absolutely nil.'
"I'm sorry to be the bearer of such bad news," the editor commiserated, "but I felt you should know the worst." Cleve's elfin ears wiggled in pure pleasure, and his visitor was shocked to hear him say, "That's amazingly true! It fits my character perfectly. I've always suspected astrology is an accurate science, and now I'm even more convinced. May I keep a copy of that analysis please?" The poor editor was nonplussed. It was obvious that Cleve's delight was genuine. A few years later, when Backster was considerably overdue in turning in even the first chapter of the proposed book about his work, the publishing hose wrote him a stern letter, which Cleve promptly answered. "Remember," Fish Backster wrote cheerfully, "you people were the ones who had my character analyzed in the beginning, not me. I never claimed I enjoyed responsibility or had any business sense."