No myth has played upon man's imagination — ever since the Lord set man and woman face to face — like the myth of Qays and Layla, Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde — the myth of immortal love, which stamps upon the lover's heart the image of a beloved, so that the moment his eye falls upon her he knows her — for he recognizes his own self in her — and she becomes his possession in time, and beyond time.

In vain do the powers of death conspire against love, for love is stronger than death and than life.

In vain does earth rebel against heaven; in vain do men put asunder what the Lord has joined together: the two lovers will live as a single self in two forms — if not here, then there; there where souls join as kin in a divine anthem whose horizon is the infinite and whose time is eternity.

And why not? Is not love the image of heaven upon earth, and beauty the earth's dream of heaven? Or is there any power that can fill with happiness the void of this heart — the boundless heart of man — save love?

Such is the myth of love, since ever there were myths...

In the poet's imagination, woman is a god to be worshipped and a devil to be feared. A butterfly whose color is woven of ether, whose movements are the fluttering of angels' wings. Daughter of dreams, seen and unseen — beauty embodied as an image, and love poured out as a breath of fragrance.

But beware of touching her, for among her roses there are thorns; in her taste, colocynth and poison; in her lissome body a serpent lying in wait for you. Did not the serpent speak with her tongue? Did she not league with Satan to drive Adam out of Paradise?

The eternal feminine — the riddle of woman! Is she a redeeming god, or temptation's own agent revealed in human flesh?!

Enchantment — and all that enchants, kills...

You may fear it and fall prostrate before it, and then vanish into its depths, and the curtain falls upon the drama of your existence...

Such is the myth of imagination — like imagination itself...

In reason, all existing things balance one another like numbers. Woman is a number: just as (1 = 1), so must woman equal man.

And why not?! Has she not become, in the twentieth century, a worker in the factory and an orator in the assembly, mistress of the pen and leader of

the crowds — iron yielding to her as the platform yields to her, playing upon ideas as she plays upon feelings?

Does she not now walk on a footing of equality with man?

And why not?! Is she not a living being, speaking and rational? This is the view of reason, not the view of imagination; a logic, and not the logic of the emotions. And how is reason to be argued with? And in whose name? In the name of ignorance? Is not civilization reason's own creation? Would you then stand in the ranks of the reactionaries?

Such is the myth of reason, master of myths...

Woman is the meaning of beauty, the anthem of love, and the enchantment — or the secret — of life, as you please. Woman is devil and god — beneath man or above him — light and strong... In the lexicon there is no end of contradictions and synonyms, and everyone picks out from among them whatever flatters his vanity.

But all of them halt at the borders of truth, weaving about its edges fancies that adorn it or disfigure it, without ever penetrating to its core.

And reason is responsible for this disfigurement; for when it analyzes life and isolates its parts one from another, it leaves the field open for imagination to put them together as it will — and so the myths are made...

Woman is not a dream, nor a fancy, nor a myth, nor that portion of humanity with curtailed rights, as they say today. And rights are not man's gift to man, to be withheld or bestowed according to his pleasure. No — rights are the gift of the Lord; of them is woven the very fabric of the human being.

And if the Lord singled out man for reason, He gave woman what is loftier than reason: He gave her life.

"And she was called Eve, because she was the mother of all living" — so says the Book. And woman is the firstborn daughter of life, and the first form in which it revealed itself.

Reason and life are two opposites that complete each other.

He analyzes and scatters; she composes and gathers.

He organizes, and she creates — creates her very self into living beings.

Life is weak — a single movement can strike it down — and yet it is a continual victory over extinction. It needs a strong arm to tend it and protect it — and yet that arm is nothing but one of its own plantings.

In vain does imagination tempt man, so that he sets himself up as a king distributing rights and duties. In vain does man's selfishness rise up, so that he monopolizes the powers of the world: money, prestige, armies, and learning. For vanity and greed and pride, and all the powers of the earth, crumble before the silence of life.

Life is generosity, not self-seeking — a beating