the writer can express all the subjects of thought, and a market in which works of authorship and artistic craftsmanship do not go unsold.

The proofs are abundant of the extent of our readiness

for sacrifice, in defense of our absolute freedom of thought. It is enough to point to the exhaustion the press, for example, has suffered under the writ of administrative suspension, and to the steadfastness of our great journalist-writers in the face of the harsh sentences that have fallen upon them under the writ of the new press law, whether before the press court or before the military tribunal, for the proof of what we say to stand. Nor do we think that the authors among our writers hold back, out of fear or dread or awe, from proclaiming what they hold to be the truth.

There remains the other condition for the flowering of letters: the creation of the material possibilities that will allow the man of letters and the artist to devote himself to letters and to art. It must be intimated in this connection that the creation of these possibilities benefits at one and the same time the people of art and letters, and our cultural standing. Every book, every artistic work sold outside Lebanon, is a mantle of light whose radiance is reflected back upon us. Then too, writers and artists — once their livelihood is assured — apply themselves to themselves, to their society, and to humanity, with patience and with depth, so that they perceive the causes that lie behind the husks and behind appearances; and their expression of the impulses of souls, of their feelings and their thought, grows more truthful and more comprehensive.

The sound opinion — if our surmise is correct — is that the government should undertake to establish a great house for printing and publishing, publication here to include the promotion of all the works of the mind.

The project may cost much money and great pains. But the life of our minds and the satisfaction of our noble ambitions are worthier of care than the cutting of a road — worthier of care, that is, than our feet and the tires of our automobiles.

The Death of the Roses
Salah Labaki
When the rose dies, nothing is effaced
but the radiance, the color, the luster,
and the fragrance lives on: whenever
the east wind passes by, it breathes perfume.
The rose does not perish utterly, though
it die and its leafy stem be bent;
but I come to an end, and there ends with me an armful
of wishes and of the freshest dream,
and a desire that surged within my ribs
closes its eyes when mine are closed.
There perishes with me all that was of me; not even
the wearying pain is spared.
But my beloved — he is that fragrance,
like the blue phantom of desire.
You
You are a fragrance of the flowers; you are not of the clay of mankind.
You are of a flood of light upon a wave of daybreak.
Yes, you are one alone, singular in way and in chord.
You are a color: fancy never wove one sweeter or more winning.
Your dwelling among us is an exile that fate has driven here.
And if one day you return to your bright era of old,
the earth will fall back upon sorrow, longings, and remembrance,
having won from you no more than the trace a shadow leaves.
Your dwelling among us is an exile that fate has driven here.
Salah Labaki
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