and beauty all the pure buds unfold.

•

You, my pretty doll, do not deserve my love. I rock you, and you do not stir; I speak to you, and I hear no answer. You open your eyes while you are sunk in your deep sleep, and you lift your hands to heaven, yet no flicker of supplication shows upon your brow. Sit here—you are mute, deaf, dry... Will you reproach me, after all this, if I tire of you and my soul grows weary of you?... I feel that these minutes that pass beside you die and crumble away, printing no image in my memory, leaving no trace in my life.

There is in my soul an emptiness that widens every day; I see you in one of its corners, a pale, slight shadow, almost fading away and leaving me bewildered—I want to know, and I do not know how to ask...

And what is it that I wish to know?... I do not know!... Your whiteness is dull, the red of your cheeks is cold, the wideness of your eyes is dumb; and your hands—there they are, rising and falling together, their fingertips touching nothing, stirring no feeling.

I prefer to you something else—I do not know it, but I am searching for it. Let it be beautiful, that I may love it, or hideous, that I may hate it; but that it should be a poor wretched thing for me to pity—from that I turn away my face and my heart...

•

These eyes plunge into my depths; they lift the veil from the hidden places of my soul... I feel them searching, probing, insistent, even though I do not see them. There is no secret in my breast that I conceal, no talisman that I hide; but I love being by myself, I love solitude and long musing, and sometimes, I love to weep for no reason.

I used to run, fall to the ground, then get up laughing

and not care; now I have come to fear that people will see my fingers stained with ink, or my clothes soiled with dust. And if I am clean and tidy, I fear the eyes falling upon me.

I grow flustered if anyone looks at me, and my feet stumble, so that I almost fall. Would that I were in some far-off corner, looking out over the world, seeing everyone while no one sees me, hearing everything while no one senses my presence. I used to laugh at my mother's anger and her shouting, and here I am, melted by a harsh glance, brought to tears by an innocent remark. ...And what is the meaning of that mocking smile on my mother's lips?... Am I not allowed to examine my face in the mirror?...

•

My mother woke me early today, and I set about helping her put the house in order. I began the work absent-minded, my thoughts wandering, and a glass fell from my hand. I heard my mother scolding me: —Take care, Suad; leave off the heedlessness of children, for you are a bride today.

I, a bride?... I am beginning to understand... I am beginning to grasp the meaning of those deep, insistent looks the young men pursue me with, as I make my way to school... They are delicious and disturbing, joyous and frightening, sweet and bitter... There is in them something that sends a shudder through my limbs, and something that pours contentment over my heart...

And what is this long, stifling night?... I lie down in it and find no rest, for its darkness is heavy and its stillness dreadful...

My mother says that Marwan, our neighbor's son, is a reckless young man, though I see no proof of his recklessness... Does my mother not see the radiance of his brow, and that soft shadow his eyelid casts over his liquid eye?...