The same hollyhocks grow there next to the upside down skeleton columns among shell holes. They are the wildest and plainest flowers. Those rising towards the blue so as to deny the disaster. There would I believe it to be the emblem of that country where the taste for living still remains and rises from its ashes under the fire rains of misfortune. Here, the walls are covered with wild pansies growing up in clumps in their holes.
Nature is prodigal.
In the Garden of Eden, I lunch on a mosaic of coloured dishes, on the banks of the brook, under the shade of bougainvilleas and jacarandas, shaded by green blinds, I eat fresh almonds and lupin seeds, chew thyme leaves, drink unroasted white coffee, smoke the nargileh with Henri, relish in blackberries, grapefruits, black cherries and raw mutton liver. In Beyrouth, the Avenue de Paris ends on a square now invaded on Sundays by rollerbladers. A 40 year old man with rings and bracelets drives along the avenue his Mercedes 500 with his right hand, nonchalantly telling his beads through the door. In the open sea, the sea is round and blue, with white light breezes and quiet boulevards crossing it far away in the distance. At 4 a.m., the cocks and the muezzin fight over who will greet the day.