Masterpieces of Pharaonic art in ancient Egypt. The columns of the great hall.. built for the glory of Amun.

"villa," "Ramatan," on Pyramid Street.

No.. our man of letters can see.. I tasted the ripeness of his optimism and loved his love for Lebanon and for the air of Lebanon. Taha Hussein is a mother-word that does not grow old.. As for Egypt's woman of letters, Mrs. Amina al-Said, her office at Dar al-Hilal commands the pick of her hours. The activity of this writer is astonishing.. her pen has a share in more than one newspaper and magazine, but she gives the most of what she has to her own magazine, "Hawwa," the most widely circulated of Egyptian magazines.

And our lady has dozens of friends in Lebanon whom she recalls with eagerness one by one; most of them she came to know during her many visits to Lebanon.

As for the Egyptian woman in general, I have not much to say of her, for I knew her for days, not years.. I saw her everywhere, holding the reins of every kind of work and activity. She is pleas-ant, "lovable," and earnest; she is devoted to tomorrow and its message. She no longer sways on swings of flowing brocade.. Yes, the Lebanese woman surpasses her in elegance and grace, and I do not know whether to thank God for that or not.. that is not my department!

There remains the talk of Cairo's nights! In those nights lies the loveliest consolation for the heat of the day, when it strikes and shackles.. Cairo's nights are breeze and gaiety and light... I shall not speak of the Auberge, nor of the Fontana, the Mena House, and the Omar Khayyam, nor of the lofty Opera hall, for they are all of ever-renewed splendor. What I loved was the evening spent in the "Hussein Quarter" on one of the nights of Ramadan. The "Hussein Quarter" is a symphony of the East, nestled between the folds of a safflower-dyed shawl..

In the "Hussein Quarter" there are cafés squatting on every level space. In them hands interlace as the cups of fragrant green tea go round.. and hasten, too,

to applaud everything.. their own rejoicing selves.. the unlettered learned orator as he sifts present and past with the sifting of a bold, clever man..

In the "Hussein Quarter" I heard a hunchback not of Notre-Dame calling, "Who wants literature from me?" — and under his arms a heap of aged literature in thin yellow pages..

And in the Hussein Quarter I chased after the seller of prayer-beads, to fill my pocket with green, yellow, and red beads to which my wrist inclines and over which my neck bends, while he, in his homespun simplicity, sells them to keep the fingertips company in the hour of meditation on the outspread nights of Ramadan.

The "Hussein Quarter" is a shawl from the past.. colors upon colors. A joyous simplicity.. that does not deceive!

And after all, talk of Egypt is like the tales of Scheherazade.

But he who visits Egypt is no longer an Ibn Battuta... she is a near neighbor, and beloved.

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