The original article is not provided, so I will create a new one for you:

**"A Walk in the Park"**

I took a walk in the park on a sunny day. The flowers were blooming beautifully, their colors a riot of joy. The gentle breeze caressed my face, as if whispering secrets of nature. The birds were chirping merrily, their songs filling the air with life and vitality.

I strolled along the path, breathing in the fresh air and enjoying the peaceful atmosphere. The grass was soft under my feet, like a green carpet. I stopped by a small pond and watched the fish swim gracefully. The water was clear and sparkled in the sunlight.

As I continued my walk, I came across a bench. I sat down and closed my eyes, letting the sounds and smells of the park wash over me. It was a moment of pure bliss, a time to forget about the hustle and bustle of the outside world and just be in the present moment. I felt a sense of calm and contentment, as if all my worries had vanished.

When I opened my eyes, I knew that this walk in the park had been a wonderful escape. It had rejuvenated my spirit and filled me with a newfound appreciation for the beauty of nature. I got up and continued my journey, looking forward to the next time I could return to this peaceful haven.

When you encounter a rhymed story by an English writer about an Egyptian city, it must catch your attention. And when you encounter that the title of the first part of the rhymed story is named after a person, your focus should increase. And when you encounter that the name of that person refers to a woman, you must read it carefully. The first part of the rhymed story. A strange story with a clear human depth: A woman. Blonde. From Cairo (Justine) Everything revolves around her like the original woman in that she is the center of events in this universe. A foreigner talks about the foreign community in one of the greatest cities in the world (Alexandria). The city has charmed and colored them with its complex colors. In my opinion, in this part, the writer did not focus on the city and its impact as much as he focused on the people themselves. A very good human plot. (From events, ideas, and beliefs. From love, hatred, respect, and contempt). From a tender, light love of passion and lust for the opposite sex to the point of perversion. I was very surprised that the writer focused on the idea itself and did not touch on the events accompanying it. He talked about sex (for example), but he did not touch on the way it is practiced by the heroes. The translation is very professional. And it conveyed the information very easily. A very direct beginning for the rhymed story.

Living on this desolate promontory, each night seized from the clutches of darkness by Arcturus, far removed from the lime-laden dust of those sweltering summer afternoons, I have finally come to the realization that none of us should be fairly judged based on what occurred in the past. It is the city that should bear the brunt of judgment, yet we, its offspring, are the ones who must pay the price.

In the profound stillness of these winter evenings, there is but one clock: the sea. Its indistinct momentum in my mind serves as the fugue upon which this writing is composed. The empty cadences of seawater lapping at its own wounds, sulking along the mouths of the delta, boiling upon those forsaken beaches – empty, perpetually empty beneath the gulls: white scribbles on the grey, devoured by clouds. If there are ever sails here, they perish before the land casts its shadow upon them. Wreckage washes up on the pediments of islands, the last crust, eroded by the elements, stuck in the blue maw of the water… gone!

How is it that you are so deeply a part of us and yet… you are not?

We are the children of our landscape; it dictates our behavior and even our thoughts to the extent that we are responsive to it. I can conceive of no better means of identification.

[...] I have always been so robust. Has this precluded me from being truly loved?

I now perceive that she was not truly a woman but rather the embodiment of Woman, admitting no ties within the society we inhabited.

It is only as the train commences its movement, and as the figure at the window, dark against the darkness, releases my hand, that I sense Melissa is truly departing; I feel everything that is inexorably denied – [...] I stand as if marooned on an iceberg.

I walk here with those coveted intimations of a past that none can share with me; yet which time itself cannot strip me of.

How much of him can I claim to know? I realize that each person can only lay claim to one aspect of our character as part of their knowledge. To everyone, we present a different face of the prism.

Something had been gradually building up within him all this time, grain by grain, until its weight became unbearable. He was cognizant of a profound internal change in his nature that had finally shaken off the long paralysis of impotent love that had hitherto governed his actions. The idea of some sudden, concise action, some determining factor for good or evil, presented itself to him as an intoxicating novelty. He felt (or so I divined it) like a gambler on the verge of staking the meager remnants of a lost fortune on one desperate throw.

How minuscule can a world become?

Does not everything hinge upon our interpretation of the silence that surrounds us? So that…

I absolutely adored this book.

At the start, I had to adjust to the flourish of the language used. However, once I began reading, I felt as if I was sucked into it with an amazing force by the beauty of the words.

The setting is extremely romantic. It is Egypt in the 1930s, and the central character, despite being a teacher by profession, is part of a social circle of wealthy and creative individuals whose lives are intertwined. They seem to have all the time in the world to spend with each other, contemplating life, love, and creativity. The backdrop of literary circles and bohemian relationships is truly mesmerising and is written so beautifully that it is quite breathtaking.

I now cannot wait to read the next part of the Quartet soon. It is lovely to wallow in the story (as seen in the quote below), but it is also quite enjoyably exhausting as it is such a descriptive and lush read.

'In autumn the female bays turn to uneasy phosphorus and after the long chafing days of dust one feels the first palpitations of the autumn, like the wings of a butterfly fluttering to unwrap themselves. Mareotis turns lemon-mauve and its muddy flanks are starred by sheets of radiant anemones, growing through the quickened plaster-mud of the shore.'

Wonderful stuff indeed.

It is complicated to review a reading that appeals to the interior of a person, expectations, frustrations, and sensuality with such a chosen language. It seems that with such a pragmatic analysis as this, we are subtracting value from the work. It is a whole journey for the senses.

That Alexandria of excesses and contradictions, imbued by a mob of religions, languages, races, nationalities, cultures, and a pioneer in the thousand ways of living sexuality. It achieves this not by being overly explicit, always whispering. Durrell manages to transport you masterfully to a territory that, if you didn't know its existence, you would think it is an imaginary zone of the author, of those mythical territories that Faulkner or Onetti created for their novels.

How does he manage to take us to that territory? With the language he uses and with the ability that Durrell has for the reader to abstract in the moment of reading and ascend to that unknown and attractive north of Egypt.

"Living on this naked promontory, torn every night from the darkness by Arturo, far from the chalk-laden dust of those summer afternoons, I finally see that none of us should be judged by what happened in the past. It is the city that should be judged although we, its children, must pay the price."

The language is extremely important. No wonder the main production of Durrell is poetic, his language is poetry in prose. Here I must say that few manage to catch me with such a brilliant language (Marsé and few others).

Durrell knew the colonial environment well. His father was a diplomat in different places, including Alexandria. That characteristic and very own life of the colonies. Quickly you remember readings of Kipling, Conrad, or those tireless travelers like Melville himself, and that climate that they give to their novels so characteristic of British overseas.

The sensitivity and enjoyment when reading this book contrast with the final moment when the protagonist leaves Alexandria and inevitably compares that departure with the stay in the city and the feeling that life is not lived 100% if it is not in Alexandria, as if life in other places is an anesthetized life or without full enjoyment.

As it closes this first part of the Alexandria Quartet, I thought it was very good, more pragmatic than the general development of the book: it leaves each character perfectly closed or implies their future. In the next books of the series, we will see their development. To be continued.

In the cosmopolitan milieu of Alexandria, Egypt, during the 1930s and 1940s, under British dominion, an unnamed Irishman, later disclosed as Darley in subsequent novels, deeply ruminates on his tumultuous love affair with Justine, an enigmatic Jewish woman. Justine is married to Nessim, a prosperous Egyptian Copt. The novel meticulously delves into the intricacies of their relationships against the vibrant backdrop of a city teeming with cultural and religious diversity.

Darley's passionate and clandestine liaison with Justine is fraught with tension and secrecy. They navigate the perils of their illicit love while竭力 concealing it from Nessim, who is both Darley's confidant and Justine's spouse, as well as Melissa, his paramour. The affair has a profound impact on all involved, triggering a series of dramatic events. These include confrontations, a hunting expedition with fatal consequences, and Justine's eventual departure from Alexandria. Their attraction is vividly depicted during secret meetings, like an intimate moment on a secluded beach where they engage in deep conversations under the moonlit sky. Amidst this, the narrator's interactions with the eccentric Scobie and his pet mongoose offer moments of comic relief. The discovery of Justine's past through the fictional novel Moeurs adds layers of intrigue and complexity to her character.

Durrell portrays Alexandria's exotic and often sordid atmosphere in rich and poetic prose. I am absolutely enamored with the dreamy language and how Durrell describes the Mediterranean basin under British control. He also beautifully captures the endeavors of early Zionism that Justine undertakes in Eretz Israel. It makes the story not only a tale of love and passion but also a vivid exploration of a unique time and place.

Two couples: Justine and Nessim, Melissa and Balthazar. And then there is the narrator. The male narrator, who is a friend to Nessim and an acquaintance to Balthazar, had affairs with both Justine and Melissa. Melissa fell in love with Nessim and informed him that his wife, Justine, was no longer faithful to him. Justine was raped and then disappeared. Her rapist was later found dead. Towards the end of the story, Clea, a lesbian writer, wrote to the narrator stating that Justine had re-appeared in the hospital where Clea was working. The narrator, despite still being in love with Justine, chose not to answer the letter, closing the story with the thought, "Does not everything depend on our interpretation of the silence around us?"

This is the first book (published in 1957) of the Indian-born British writer, Lawrence Durrell, one of the most renowned modern writers. He uses the beautiful city of Alexandria, Egypt as the backdrop. Mr. Durrell masterfully employs the cosmopolitan city as a landscape to explore human desires. The story contains some French and Arabic terms and phrases, which makes understanding a bit challenging. Mr. Durrell, through his narrator, recalls the whole story not in chronological order but based on what he deems more important, similar to how the human brain functions. Thus, it is up to the readers to piece together the puzzle. This, for me, makes the novel interesting, although it slows down the reading pace.
I am eagerly looking forward to reading the next three books of this classic tetralogy. According to Wikipedia, the storyline will remain the same but will be told from three other perspectives. The narrator's name will also be disclosed. This promises to be an engaging read.

Roman begins in an interesting way with an unnamed narrator who lives on an island and lives with a child known as the child of his former lover Melissa who has passed away. As the pages progress, the images of all the characters gradually come to life. Most of the characters seem to be in depression, have suffered disappointments with the world, and are educated types struggling with questions about God. After a while, the whole story begins to be told through Justine.

Melissa, Justine, and her loyal husband Nessim, as well as characters like Balthazar and Clea, make up a magical cast of characters in the book. There are also intertwined subplots. Any one of these could have taken over an entire novel on its own, but Durrell doesn't allow that. If it were another author, they might have expanded the plot to create a series from each character.

Durrell, while telling the sounds, images, and emotions of a city in a magical style, also presents to us the voices of the hearts of the people living within the city in a poetic style.

Now, it's time for the second book in the series. I hope to read the whole series one after another before the year ends.

Lawrence Durrell's first novel in this tetralogy has already got me completely under its spell. It's not so much what it tells (which is also important) but, above all, how it tells it. This man could create art even when writing a shopping list. He takes something as simple and yet as complex as the story of a love triangle (or perhaps rather two intersecting love triangles) and is able to convey the despair, the passion, the highest and the lowest of the human condition, all within the incomparable framework of the city of Alexandria (that Alexandria of the 1930s - 1940s, although Durrell plays very well with the time factor, and it's only at the end of the story that he confirms to you that, indeed, that is the era in which the events take place), which is the protagonist, the detonator and the conditioning factor of all the human drama that unfolds within it. This in itself might seem not very original, but what I found absolutely breathtaking, besides its narrative style, of a beauty, poetry and lyricism that are overwhelming, is the way Durrell manages time and space in this novel. All of this is told, moreover, from the perspective of a narrator who is fully immersed in the drama that will be shown to the reader, and whose name we don't know. This subjectivity in the narration makes you wonder to what extent his story is reliable, and if the characters, so perfectly drawn, so worked on, so complex, are really as he describes them to us, or if, once again, we know the Justine, Melissa, Nassim (and so many others) who emerge from the author's eyes and feelings. In short, a masterpiece that requires calm and a lot of concentration when reading it (I had to start reading again when I was 50 pages in, because I had the feeling that I wasn't getting it right, but the second time I was conquered, and once immersed in the author's style, I let myself be carried away), but whose effort is more than worth it.

P.S. (Who would have thought that that Larry from his brother Gerald's Corfu trilogy was, in fact, an absolute genius, hehe)

**Title: A Mixed Review of 'Justine' by Lawrence Durrell**

NB: There are spoilers in my review but, really, the book hasn't much in the way of plot anyway. It's all character study. I normally don't write such long reviews but I've had a lot of thoughts on my love/loathe reaction to this one, and it helps me to write about it, for my own clarification and future reference. I completely understand if others do not care to read through my rambles, and apologise ahead of time for any suffering I cause.

If I were rating Justine only on the quality of the writing, I would give it six stars for the eloquence of Durrell's descriptive prose: writing so beautiful at times that one can forget, almost, the emptiness at its heart.

Fitzgerald and Hemingway vs. Durrell
I read Fitzgerald's Tender Is The Night just before this book, and was comparing Fitzgerald's style to Hemingway's. Fitzgerald is stylistically better (or more to my taste nowadays), but Hemingway was wise to focus on what characters do and say, describe the scenery, and avoid psychoanalytic speculation. Fitzgerald was bold in casting blame on Nicole's father for sexual molestation, a rare stance at that time. Hemingway scrupulously avoided picking apart people's hearts and minds, presenting characters whole. Durrell, on the other hand, leaves nothing to the imagination while second-guessing his characters, and this is where he is at his worst. He tries to represent his characters as Jungian archetypes but often oversimplifies or overcomplicates them, losing their mystery and potency. I found Durrell's characters quite ordinary, despite his claims otherwise. They are mostly shallow, self-absorbed, and cynical dilettantes. The pondering on psychology and spirituality through their mouths was cringe-worthy. Nessim was the only one who captured my attention, seeming to be a man of substance and integrity.

Justine
Justine represents glamour and the feminine mystique to every man in her life, but she did not come across as enigmatic to me. She is as direct and honest as Melissa in her own way. She will betray you because that is her nature. She offers sex to her lovers in exchange for knowledge, life lessons, money, and connections, hoping to use these to find her missing child. There is nothing mysterious about her except that Durrell gives her many contrived motivations. Justine is far more interesting when she acts than when she speaks. Her actions are consistent and coherent, but Durrell's attempts to explain her feelings and behavior often ring false. She offers the same deal to all of her lovers: you can have her body but not her soul. In the end, she escapes her grasping lovers and becomes a less-glamorous version of herself, but at least she is free.

More on Hemingway and Durrell
Another way in which Hemingway was wise is that he avoided serving up cheap and easy philosophies and pretending to a coherent worldview. He was not given to banal aphorisms. Balthazar and Justine and her lovers, with their empty cliches and world-weary voices, reminded me of undergrad conversations. Balthazar, as the guru to the "mysteries" of the transcendental life, comes across as a joke. His aphorisms are hollow and his speculations on his friends' feelings and behaviors are empty. I once had a friend who became an alcoholic and thought he was profound the more he drank. These men in Justine are similar. The more they drink and philosophize, the less attractive they become. This book, in many ways, is like an exquisite perfume on a corpse. It offended my sensibilities on many levels, yet I am still impressed by its lyrical qualities and Durrell's allowing Justine's escape. I believe that deep emotions are better felt silently and spirituality is better lived out quietly. I rate Justine three stars because of its beautiful descriptive eloquence but its philosophical, psychological, and spiritual nonsense. I have begun the second book in the quartet, Balthazar, and am enjoying it more so far, but I am wary of what will come later.

I simply couldn't get through this.

Right from the start, I found it to be extremely boring. It seemed as if the author was trying too hard to be something they weren't, coming across as pretentious.

The content failed to engage me in any way. There was no spark, no element that made me want to keep reading.

It was like wading through a pool of stagnant water.

I had high hopes initially, but those hopes were quickly dashed.

This was a disappointment, to say the least.

I would not recommend this to anyone looking for an interesting and engaging read.

It just didn't have what it takes to capture the reader's attention and hold it.

Maybe with some major revisions and a more genuine approach, it could have potential. But as it stands now, it's a pass for me.

A Recent Story...

Farewell to the City of Self-Discovery/Memory-Making

10 - 30/6/2003

I only noticed now that ten years have passed since my third and most beloved encounter with the city. My first encounter was a quick one during a school trip organized by the Muslim Brotherhood group that I belonged to at that time. During that trip, we only visited a few landmarks, namely the Jewelry Museum, the Citadel, and the International Garden. My second encounter with the city was six years before the third one. It was a random plan with friends from high school. It was their first visit to the city. We took the train in the morning and first went to the Citadel. We walked along the Corniche until the Raml Station where we ate grapes and figs. We took the train back at night and were stopped by a soldier with a dog who made everyone who was sleeping get out of the station. I was in a bad mood, so I walked angrily to the Corniche alone without my friends who were worried about me all night and left my name at the station inquiries to be announced on the microphone. We returned the next day tired and disappointed from a trip that left us only with memories. The first thing that attracted me in the city was the gradual ascent to Saffiyah Zaghloul Street at night until the Misr Station.. This street was the beginning of my love for the city.

On the eleventh of June 2003, I wrote the date on a five-pound note. The remaining twenty-five pounds were used to buy a ticket for an internal train from Sidi Gaber Station "Abu Qir Line" to Gabrial, specifically 54 Ibn Mounis Street, which branches off from Mustafa Kamel Street. I had finished the academic year and contacted my friend who had preceded me to the city and was working at the beginning of his settlement there in "Abdel Karim's Café" behind Sidi Gaber Station, serving drinks and shisha to customers and sleeping in the café's attic. After earning some money, he rented a room in Gabrial area and made a wooden sign that said "Mobile Minute for 75 Piastres" as mobile phones were still new in Egypt at that time. I was looking for a job and offered to come and work with him. On several previous occasions, at different time intervals, I had repeatedly tried to leave the house that I shared with my family, where there was no kind of trust or love or any simple kind of empathy and affection, only long days of quarrels that never ended and words that ended up hitting my face or body or daily torture that never ended over trivial things. My friend's offer was a way out of the suffering that I had started and that I still endure to some extent over time. I considered my journey as a permanent escape with no return after that, an escape from the past and its psychological burdens to a world that I would welcome even if it was full of pain, as if it was an attempt to fill the gaps of time by changing places. I was full of despair, hoping for a change that would completely change me from one extreme to another. But I didn't know what change I would gain from being in another place. All I knew was that the place imposes on oneself a form according to its nature, and with the transfer, the image of my perception of the world changes from one view to another.

I took the next train from Damietta to Alexandria directly, passing by "Bilqas" the city where I lived - at four thirty in the morning with a ticket worth two pounds and twenty piastres, carrying a magical and historical vision of the city from my readings of the works of Idwar al-Kharrat and Ibrahim Abdel Meguid, carrying my bag with a few clothes and household tools and many books that were the reason for my physical fatigue that I suffered during the journey and on the return.

I arrived at the accommodation in Gabrial. It was a five-story building. We initially lived in a room on the ground floor and then moved to a room on the third floor. The whole building was rented to artisans, workers, and expatriates from the city. The rent for each of us was ninety pounds per month. We paid forty pounds in advance and would pay the rest later. My friend would turn on the small radio all the time to the music program. We would listen to symphonic music and foreign songs and imagine that we had moved to a European city. Every morning, we would wake up to the sound of the cleaners and the hissing of the gas pipes and the girls in the neighboring houses. We would exchange meaningless glances and go out to buy fava beans and tomatoes from Mustafa Kamel Street at a restaurant opposite the "Basha" stores for electrical tools. Then we would go and sit at the "Saberin" coffee shop to drink a cup of coffee or tea with milk. Then we would take an internal train to Sidi Gaber where we would hold the phone booth at Mohammed al-Malah's newsstand in front of the Superjet Station. Sometimes we would stay together or divide the working hours between us. We were not alone in the square as there was someone else who had a phone booth for mobile calls per minute. There was "al-Noubi" who had a stand for keys and sold "Minatil" pills and rechargeable pills and Mohammed al-Malala and others. There were always arguments and movements between us over the place. I would stand all day in the sun until one day my skin burned like when I went to the sea. With the heat, we "escaped" to the walls of the Sumouha Club and then one day at Zahran Mol. Then we went to the Corniche on the beach of Glim. The places were constantly driving us away, either because of the congestion in the workplace or because of the police patrols or because of the lack of customers.

Before my arrival, my friend was taking a French language course at the French Cultural Center on Nabi Daniel Street, but he stopped going to it, although he didn't stop going to the center. He didn't know anything about the city except the places where he worked. With the meager work, we spent our days wandering around the city and staying outside until morning. Every Wednesday, we would go to the Cinema Club at the French Cultural Center at seven in the evening. It was like a refuge for its elderly members or those who were newly learning French. I would sit next to the bookshop with little money and buy some books that I mostly wouldn't read as they were in French, which I was determined to learn at that time. So I bought a play by Horace Cornielle, a selection of Victor Hugo's poetry, a historical novel by Pierre Loti, and a few other books for a few piastres. At this time of the year, the cultural centers were celebrating the Music Festival, which allowed me to visit the cultural centers continuously. I watched a musical performance by one of the underground bands in the city, and we followed the Greek Film Week for two Greek directors who were born in Egypt and made their careers abroad. In the library, there were books about the directors and their films and words about the composer of the musical scores for most of the old Egyptian films "Andrea Rider". The cultural attaché of the Greek Embassy would come and talk to us about the dancer Kitty with whom he had a dialogue in Greece. We also attended an opera performance at the Creativity Center. It was my first visit to the Jewish Center on Boursaid Street where an incident happened that I still remember with a smile. I entered the center from one of its doors and didn't know that there was a church inside until I felt that something was wrong. At that time, a religious funeral was being held for a young man named Ramy Ramses who had passed away at the age of 32. He used to teach children in the church and write poetry. They distributed a booklet with his poetry in Arabic and French and a plastic cup with a candle. I didn't know what its function was at that time, and I needed to leave because this wasn't what I had come for. But at that time, I was shy and hesitant, and any action of leaving I considered as an insult to the event and the people. So I forced myself with difficulty and entered the Max Cinema to watch the movie Victor Victoria and another day the movie My Fair Lady.

In the following days, I would wake up in the morning, walk along the sea, and take the tram secretly. I would look at the old buildings with no destination in mind. I would stay until the end of the line and then repeat the cycle again. At night, we would go to "Bacchus", ask the coffee shop owner or the Frenchman if they could find us a job in a coffee shop, a bakery, or in construction or anything. But it always ended in failure. So we would roam between the tram cars, leave the accommodation, and walk along a side street to the "Shots" tram station, passing by the Janaklis until the Raml Station to take the "project" to any place.. One morning, I woke up early, feeling depressed about my situation. I became a poet with a closed heart, fearing the loss of my presence in the city due to the meager money slipping through our hands. I left Gabrial and walked to Sidi Gaber. From Sidi Gaber, I walked along Boursaid Street, looking at the places and people, passing by many places that I didn't know existed, such as the Seventh-day Adventist Church in Cleopatra Square, the small and large Sporting Clubs.. Many places and their details. I would stand and look at the signs with wonder. Then when I reached Saad Square at the Raml Station, I entered the "Dilis" restaurant, café, and bar to ask about a job. They told me to come back at the beginning of the next month. The city pronounced my name.. I walked to the International Garden and then returned to the accommodation with a heavy heart and a black hole in my soul and an extreme ability to escape. I had only a few pounds and no money left now. We bought a kilo of black honey, and in the accommodation, we had a bag of salt, a bottle of oil, and bread that we would buy. It was all our food for five days, sometimes changing it with a piece of fatty cake made with cornmeal.. We would eat it like one would eat fish or meat. In the first days, we would support each other. But with the lack of money, our relationships started to wither, and we became less caring for each other. Sometimes we would rely on our neighbors in the accommodation for food and tea. The English teacher who was appointed in Alexandria in 1992 and was from Baraka al-Sabaa and was looking for a bride and would soon return to his village. We thought at the beginning of our acquaintance with him that he suffered from a mental illness, so we would avoid talking to him. On one occasion, we got to know "Atef Abdel Malk Youssef" who was working at Shaker Efon for cosmetic products. When he came in the evening to have a drink at the café where we used to sit in front of the Glim beach, he offered us to work with him, and we went with him once, which didn't happen again.. When we went to the Passport Office, we only got a green soap in the shape of a lizard.. Soap!!

Despite its hardships, those days were like a dream that I had never lived before or lived in another life. But it didn't take me out of my Hamlet-like, Don Quixote-like, passive identity. Instead, it was embedded in this identity until I couldn't break free from it. It deepened my sense of isolation and indifference to anything.. The aimless journey, wherever it was going, relieved me of the attachment and made me less needy. It was just a thought that didn't reach the stage of becoming an action, from which events that never happened were born. The suffering also, with its intertwined meanings, lost its meaning. And the values that society imposes to create other values that cannot be measured by a specific logic, if there is any logic at all... Life loses its logic, life is devoid of logic.. Can you define what logic is?!