His exile and excommunication did not accomplish the purpose for which they were obviously intended. His attacks grew stronger, and he brought to the interested attention of the entire civilized world the dishonest, inequitable, and sordid conditions existing in his homeland. He simply stated, upon learning of the ceremonial burning of his writings, that it was proof of the urgent need for a second edition. Years later his exile was remanded, and the church embraced him without conciliation on his part. A mourner who witnessed the Gibran funeral procession in 1931 states that the ecclesiastical pageantry of the event was beyond description. Hundreds of priests and religious leaders, representing every denomination under Eastern and Western skies, were in solemn attendance. Included were Maronites, Catholics, Shiites, Jews, Protestants, Mohammedans, Greek Orthodox, Sunnites, Druzes, and others. And to render complete Gibran’s restoration to the fold of religion, he was buried in the grotto of the Monastery of Mar Sarkis, his childhood church.
Recent world developments have heightened interest in Arabic literature to a surprising degree, and English-speaking peoples today are making deep, exploratory studies of these venerable writings, as yet unspoiled by Western influence.
The Arabs, despite centuries of internal political turbulence and external interference, have retained and improved their strong esthetic and imaginative spirit. While the Western world has been looking at life and seeking practical solutions to its problems through science, the various peoples of Arabic heritage have preferred to indulge primarily in poetic, meditative, and philosophical thinking. Under a cultural climate determined by the indigenous doctrines of Mohammed and those following him, the Arab writers have captured intact the spirit of their people, portraying the filial piety of the home, and the blind fidelity of all to their rulers, right or wrong. Never having suffered under religious bias (as contrasted with the Catholic and the Jew), nor adhered to scientific theories, Arabic writers have felt a freedom of expression of which the Western literati may well be envious. They set their own unconventional pattern, and no amount of outside pressure or criticism has been able to divert them from it.
In the present pursuit of higher learning in Arabic writings, no author of the East offers greater reward than does Kahlil Gibran, for he stands alone on the summit of all that is fascinating, terrible and beautiful in Sufi literature.
MARTIN L. WOLF
New York City, 1951.
* See also Madame Rose Hanie (Book Five).
* See also Khalil the Heretic (Book Six), John the Madman (Book Two), and The Cry of the Graves (Book Seven).
* Hitherto unpublished in any English-language collection of Gibran’s writings.
* See Contemplations in Sadness (Book Six).
* Now the leading literary figure of the East, Mr. Naimy is author of Kahlil Gibran: A Biography, the only authoritative biography of Gibran extant (Philosophical Library, publishers, 1950).
* Al-Hadith is a compendium of the sayings of the prophet Mohammed, as distinguished from Al-Koran, believed to be the direct word of God.
CONTENTS
Preface
BOOK ONE
A Poet’s Voice
Song of the Rain
The Tempest
The Life of Love
The City of the Dead
Song of Fortune
Satan
BOOK TWO
The Creation
Slavery
John the Madman
We and You
The House of Fortune
Two Infants
The Day of My Birth
BOOK THREE
The Criminal
Have Mercy on Me, My Soul!
The Widow and Her Son
Eventide of the Feast
Song of the Wave
Iram, City of Lofty Pillars
The Crucified
BOOK FOUR
My Countrymen
Behind the Garment
Peace
Song of the Soul
Laughter and Tears
Ashes of the Ages and Eternal Fire
Between Night and Morn
Honeyed Poison
BOOK FIVE
Madame Rose Hanie
Leave Me, My Blamer
Vision
Song of the Flower
Society
Song of Man
BOOK SIX
Khalil the Heretic
The Poet
Youth and Beauty
Song of Love
Contemplations in Sadness
BOOK SEVEN
The Cry of the Graves
A Lover’s Call
The Palace and the Hut
The Lonely Poet
Secrets of the Heart
Dead Are My People
The Bride’s Bed
BOOK EIGHT
The Procession
The Mermaids
The Ambitious Violet
The Enchanting Houri
The Grave Digger
The Beauty of Death
BOOK NINE
Yesterday and Today
Before the Throne of Beauty
Two Wishes
The Playground of Life
Joy and Sorrow
A Poet’s Death Is His Life
A POET’S VOICE
PART ONE
THE POWER of charity sows deep in my heart, and I reap and gather the wheat in bundles and give them to the hungry.
My soul gives life to the grapevine and I press its bunches and give the juice to the thirsty
Heaven fills my lamp with oil and I place it at my window to direct the stranger through the dark.
I do all these things because I live in them; and if destiny should tie my hands and prevent me from so doing, then death would be my only desire. For I am a poet, and if I cannot give, I shall refuse to receive.
Humanity rages like a tempest, but I sigh in silence for I know the storm must pass away while a sigh goes to God.
Human kinds cling to earthly things, but I seek ever to embrace the torch of love so it will purify me by its fire and sear inhumanity from my heart.
Substantial things deaden a man without suffering; love awakens him with enlivening pains.
Humans are divided into different clans and tribes, and belong to countries and towns. But I find myself a stranger to all communities and belong to no settlement. The universe is my country and the human family is my tribe.
Men are weak, and it is sad that they divide amongst themselves. The world is narrow and it is unwise to cleave it into kingdoms, empires, and provinces.
Human kinds unite themselves only to destroy the temples of soul, and they join hands to build edifices for earthly bodies. I stand alone listening to the voice of hope in my deep self saying, “As love enlivens a man’s heart with pain, so ignorance teaches him the way to knowledge.” Pain and ignorance lead to great joy and knowledge because the Supreme Being has created nothing vain under the sun.
PART TWO
I have a yearning for my beautiful country, and I love its people because of their misery. But if my people rose, stimulated by plunder and motivated by what they call “patriotic spirit” to murder, and invaded my neighbour’s country, then upon the committing of any human atrocity I would hate my people and my country.
I sing the praise of my birthplace and long to see the home of my childhood; but if the people in that home refused to shelter and feed the needy way-farer, I would convert my praise into anger and my longing into forgetfulness. My inner voice would say, “The house that does not comfort the needy is worthy of naught but destruction.”
I love my native village with some of my love for my country; and I love my country with part of my love for the earth, all of which is my country; and I love the earth with all of myself because it is the haven of humanity, the manifest spirit of God.
Humanity is the spirit of the Supreme Being on earth, and that humanity is standing amidst ruins, hiding its nakedness behind tattered rags, shedding tears
upon hollow cheeks, and calling for its children with pitiful voice. But the children are busy singing their clan’s anthem; they are busy sharpening the swords and cannot hear the cry of their mothers.
Humanity appeals to its people but they listen not. Were one to listen, and console a mother by wiping her tears, others would say, “He is weak, affected by sentiment.”
Humanity is the spirit of the Supreme Being on earth, and that Supreme Being preaches love and good-will. But the people ridicule such teachings. The Nazarene Jesus listened, and crucifixion was his lot; Socrates heard the voice and followed it, and he too fell victim in body. The followers of The Nazarene and Socrates are the followers of Deity, and since people will not kill them, they deride them, saying, “Ridicule is more bitter than killing.”
Jerusalem could rot kill The Nazarene, nor Athens Socrates; they are living yet and shall live eternally. Ridicule cannot triumph over the followers of Deity. They live and grow forever.
PART THREE
Thou art my brother because you are a human, and we both are sons of one Holy Spirit; we are equal and made of the same earth.
You are here as my companion along the path of life, and my aid in understanding the meaning of hidden Truth. You are a human, and, that fact sufficing, I love you as a brother. You may speak of me as you choose, for Tomorrow shall take you away and will use your talk as evidence for his judgment, and you shall receive justice.
You may deprive me of whatever I possess, for my greed instigated the amassing of wealth and you are entitled to my lot if it will satisfy you.
You may do unto me whatever you wish, but you shall not be able to touch my Truth.
You may shed my blood and burn my body, but you cannot kill or hurt my spirit.
You may tie my hands with chains and my feet with shackles, and put me in the dark prison, but you shall not enslave my thinking, for it is free, like the breeze in the spacious sky.
You are my brother and I love you. I love you worshipping in your church, kneeling in your temple, and praying in your mosque. You and I and all are children of one religion, for the varied paths of religion are but the fingers of the loving hand of the Supreme Being, extended to all, offering completeness of spirit to all, anxious to receive all.
I love you for your Truth, derived from your knowledge; that Truth which I cannot see because of my ignorance. But I respect it as a divine thing, for it is the deed of the spirit. Your Truth shall meet my Truth in the coming world and blend together like the fragrance of flowers and become one whole and eternal Truth, perpetuating and living in the eternity of Love and Beauty.
I love you because you are weak before the strong oppressor, and poor before the greedy rich. For these reasons I shed tears and comfort you; and from behind my tears I see you embraced in the arms of Justice, smiling and forgiving your persecutors. You are my brother and I love you.
PART FOUR
You are my brother, but why are you quarreling with me? Why do you invade my country and try to subjugate me for the sake of pleasing those who are seeking glory and authority?
Why do you leave your wife and children and follow Death to the distant land for the sake of those who buy glory with your blood, and high honour with your mother’s tears?
Is it an honour for a man to kill his brother man? If you deem it an honour, let it be an act of worship, and erect a temple to Cain who slew his brother Abel.
Is self-preservation the first law of Nature? Why, then, does Greed urge you to self-sacrifice in order only to achieve his aim in hurting your brothers? Beware, my brother, of the leader who says, “Love of existence obliges us to deprive the people of their rights!” I say unto you but this: protecting others’ rights is the noblest and most beautiful human act; if my existence requires that I kill others, then death is more honourable to me, and if I cannot find someone to kill me for the protection of my honour, I will not hesitate to take my life by my own hands for the sake of Eternity before Eternity comes.
Selfishness, my brother, is the cause of blind superiority, and superiority creates clanship, and clanship creates authority which leads to discord and subjugation.
The soul believes in the power of knowledge and justice over dark ignorance; it denies the authority that supplies the swords to defend and strengthen ignorance and oppression—that authority which destroyed Babylon and shook the foundation of Jerusalem and left Rome in ruins. It is that which made people call criminals great men; made writers respect their names; made historians relate the stories of their inhumanity in manner of praise.
The only authority I obey is the knowledge of guarding and acquiescing in the Natural Law of Justice.
What justice does authority display when it kills the killer? When it imprisons the robber? When it descends on a neighbouring country and slays its people? What does justice think of the authority under which a killer punishes the one who kills, and a thief sentences the one who steals?
You are my brother, and I love you; and Love is justice with its full intensity and dignity. If justice did not support my love for you, regardless of your tribe and community, I would be a deceiver concealing the ugliness of selfishness behind the outer garment of pure love.
CONCLUSION
My soul is my friend who consoles me in misery and distress of life. He who does not befriend his soul is an enemy of humanity, and he who does not find human guidance within himself will perish desperately. Life emerges from within, and derives not from environs.
I came to say a word and I shall say it now. But if death prevents its uttering, it will be said by Tomorrow, for Tomorrow never leaves a secret in the book of Eternity.
I came to live in the glory of Love and the light of Beauty, which are the reflections of God. I am here living, and the people are unable to exile me from the domain of life for they know I will live in death. If they pluck my eyes I will hearken to the murmurs of Love and the songs of Beauty.
If they close my ears I will enjoy the touch of the breeze mixed with the incense of Love and the fragrance of Beauty.
If they place me in vacuum, I will live together with my soul, the child of Love and Beauty.
I came here to be for all and with all, and what I do today in my solitude will be echoed by Tomorrow to the people.
What I say now with one heart will be said tomorrow by many hearts.
SONG OF THE RAIN
I AM dotted silver threads dropped from heaven
By the gods. Nature then takes me, to adorn
Her fields and valleys.
I am beautiful pearls, plucked from the
Crown of Ishtar by the daughter of Dawn
To embellish the gardens.
When I cry the hills laugh;
When I humble myself the flowers rejoice;
When I bow, all things are elated.
The field and the cloud are lovers
And between them I am a messenger of mercy.
I quench the thirst of the one;
I cure the ailment of the other.
The voice of thunder declares my arrival;
The rainbow announces my departure.
I am like earthly life, which begins at
The feet of the mad elements and ends
Under the upraised wings of death.
I emerge from the heart of the sea and
Soar with the breeze. When I see a field in
Need, I descend and embrace the flowers and
The trees in a million little ways.
I touch gently at the windows with my
Soft fingers, and my announcement is a
Welcome song. All can hear, but only
The sensitive can understand.
The heat in the air gives birth to me,
But in turn I kill it,
As woman overcomes man with
The strength she takes from him.
I am the sigh of the sea;
The laughter of the field;
The tears of heaven.
So with
love—
Sighs from the deep sea of affection;
Laughter from the colourful field of the spirit;
Tears from the endless heaven of memories.
THE TEMPEST
PART ONE
YUSIF EL FAKHRI was thirty years of age when he withdrew himself from society and departed to live in an isolated hermitage in the vicinity of Kedeesha Valley in North Lebanon. The people of the nearby villages heard various tales concerning Yusif; some related that his was a wealthy and noble family, and that he loved a woman who betrayed him and caused him to lead a solitary life, while others said that he was a poet who deserted the clamourous city and retired to that place in order to record his thoughts and compose his inspiration; and many were sure that he was a mystic who was contented with the spiritual world, although most people insisted that he was a madman.
As for myself, I could not draw any conclusion regarding the man, for I knew that there must be a deep secret within his heart whose revelation I would not trust to mere speculation. I had long hoped for the opportunity to meet this strange man. I had endeavoured in devious ways to win his friendship in order to study his reality and learn his story by inquiring as to his purpose in life, but my efforts were in vain. When I met him for the first time, he was walking by the forest of the Holy Cedars of Lebanon, and I greeted him with the finest choice of words, but he returned my greeting by merely shaking his head and striding off.
On another occasion I found him standing in the midst of a small vineyard by a monastery, and again I approached and greeted him, saying, “It is said by the villagers that this monastery was built by a Syriac group in the Fourteenth Century; do you know anything of its history?” He replied coldly, “I do not know who built this monastery, nor do I care to know.” And he turned his back to me and added, “Why do you not ask your grandparents, who are older than I, and who know more of the history of these valleys than I do?” Realizing at once my utter failure, I left him.
The Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran Page 2