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144 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1383
”I hope, iwis, to rede so som day
That I shal mete som thyng for to fare
The bet, and thus to rede I nyl nat spare.”
”For al be that I knowe nat Love in dede,
Ne wot how that he quiteth folk here hyre,
Yit happeth me ful ofte in bokes reede
Of his myrakles and his crewel yre.”
They fail to see these congresses of and romantic love for what they are—the parliaments of birds one finds in Hindu literature. But no one, on the boulevards of Oran, discusses the problem of Being, or worries about the way of perfection. There is only the fluttering of wings, the flaunting of outspreads tails, flirtations between victorious graces, all the rapture of a careless song that fades with the coming of night.
(Translated by Ellen Conroy Kennedy)