Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran

by Kahlil Gibran

  Will God ever forgive my sins before He blesses me and places me in the world of Thought, Truth, and Affection, where gabbers do not exist?

  In the Dark Night

  Written in World War I during the famine in Lebanon

  In the dark night we call to one another and cry for help, while the ghost of Death stands in our midst stretching his black wings over us and, with his iron hands, pushes our souls into the abyss.

  In the dark night Death strides on and we follow him frightened and moaning. Not one of us is capable of halting the fateful procession or even nourishing a hope of its end.

  In the dark night Death walks and we walk behind him. And when he looks backward, hundreds of souls fall down on both sides of the road. And he who falls, sleeps and never awakens. And he who keeps his footing marches on fearfully in the dread certainty of falling later and joining those who have yielded to Death and entered the eternal sleep. But Death marches on, gazing at the distant Evening Twilight.

  In the dark night the brother calls his brother, the father his son, and the mother her children; but the pangs and torments of hunger afflict us equally.

  But Death does not hunger or thirst. He devours our souls and bodies, drinks our blood and tears and is never sated.

  During the first part of the night the child calls his mother saying, “I am hungry, mother,” and the mother replies, “Wait a while, my child.”

  In the second part of the night the child repeats, “I am hungry, mother, give me some bread,” and the mother answers him, saying, “I have no bread, my beloved child.”

  In the third part of the night Death arrives and smites both the mother and the child with his wings and they both sleep eternally by the side of the road. And Death marches on, gazing at the distant Evening Twilight.

  In the morn the husband goes to the field in search of nourishment, but he finds naught in it save dust and stones.

  At noontide he returns to his wife and children pale, weak, and empty-handed.

  And at eventide Death arrives and the husband, his wife, and children lie in eternal sleep. And he laughs and marches on toward the distant Evening Twilight.

  In the morn the farmer leaves his hut for the city, carrying in his pocket his mother’s and sisters’ jewelry to exchange for bread. At eventide he returns without bread and without jewels, to find his mother and sisters sunk into eternal sleep, their eyes staring at nothingness. Whereupon he lifts his arms toward heaven and drops like a bird shot by a merciless hunter.

  And Death, seeing the farmer, his mother and sisters beguiled to eternal sleep by the evil angel, laughs again and marches on toward the distant Evening Twilight.

  Oh, you who walk in the light of the day, we call you from the endless dark of the night. Do you hear our cries?

  We have sent to you the spirits of our dead as our apostles. Have you heeded the apostles’ word?

  We have burdened the East Wind with our gasps. Has the Wind reached your distant shores to unload his burden in your hands? Are you aware of our misery? Have you thought of coming to our rescue? Or have you hugged to yourselves your peace and comfort, saying, “What can the sons of the light do for the sons of the dark? Let the dead bury their dead and God’s will be done.”

  Yes, let God’s will be done. But can you not raise yourselves above yourselves so that God may make you instruments of His will and use you for our aid?

  In the dark night we call one another.

  The brother calls his brother, the mother her daughter, the man his wife, and the lover his beloved.

  And when our voices mingle together and reach the heart of heaven, Death pauses and laughs, then mocks us and marches on, gazing at the distant Evening Twilight.

  The Silver-Plated Turd

  SILMAN EFFANDI is a well-dressed man, tall and handsome, thirty-five years of age. He curls his mustaches and wears silk socks and patent-leather shoes. In his soft and delicate hand he carries a gold-headed and bejewelled walking stick. He eats in the most expensive restaurants where the fashionable forgather. In his magnificent carriage, drawn by thoroughbreds, he rides through the upper-class boulevards.

  Silman Effandi’s wealth was not inherited from his father, who (may his soul rest in peace) was a poor man. Neither did Silman Effandi amass wealth by shrewd and persevering business activities. He is lazy and hates to work, regarding any form of labor as degrading.

  Once we heard him say, “My physique and temperament unfit me for work; work is meant for those with sluggish character and brutish body.”

  Then how did Silman attain his riches? By what magic was the dirt in his hands transformed into gold and silver? This is a secret hidden in a silver-plated turd which Azrael, the angel of Death, has revealed to us, and we in turn shall reveal it to you:

  Five years ago Silman Effandi married the lady Faheema, widow of Betros Namaan, famous for his honesty, perseverence, and hard work.

  Faheema was then forty-five years of age, but only sweet sixteen in her thoughts and behavior. She now dyes her hair and by the use of cosmetics deludes herself that she remains young and beautiful. She does not see Silman, her young husband, except after midnight when he vouchsafes her a scornful look and some vulgarities and abuse by way of conversation. This entitles him, he believes, to spend the money which her first husband earned by the sweat of his brow.

  ADEEB EFFANDI is a young man, twenty-seven years of age, blessed with a big nose, small eyes, dirty face and ink-spotted hands with filth-encrusted fingernails. His clothes are frayed and adorned with oil, grease and coffee stains.

  His ugly appearance is not due to Adeeb Effandi’s poverty but to his preoccupation with spiritual and theological ideas. He often quotes Ameen El Jundy’s saying that a scholar cannot be both clean and intelligent.

  In his incessant talk Adeeb Effandi has nothing to say except to deliver judgment on others. On investigation, we found that Adeeb Effandi had spent two years in a school at Beirut studying rhetoric. He wrote poems, essays, and articles, which never saw print. His reasons for failing to achieve publication are the degeneration of the Arabic press and the ignorance of the Arabic reading public.

  Recently Adeeb Effandi has been occupying himself with the study of the old and new philosophy. He admires Socrates and Nietzsche, and relishes the sayings of Saint Augustine as well as Voltaire and Rousseau. At a wedding party we heard him discussing Hamlet; but his talk was a soliloquy, for the others preferred to drink and sing.

  On another occasion, at a funeral, the subjects of his talk were the love poems of Ben Al Farid and the wine-ism of Abi Nawaas. But the mourners ignored him, being oppressed by grief.

  Why, we often wonder, does Adeeb Effandi exist? What use are his rotting books and his parchments falling into dust? Would it not be better for him to buy himself an ass and become a healthy and useful ass-driver?

  This is a secret hidden in the silver-plated turd revealed to us by Baal-Zabul and we in turn shall now reveal it to you:

  Three years ago Adeeb Effandi composed a poem in praise of His Excellency, Bishop Joseph Shamoun. His Excellency placed his hand on the shoulder of Adeeb Effandi, smiled and said, “Bravo, my son, God bless you! I have no doubt about your intelligence; some day you will be among the great men of the East.”

  FAREED BEY DAVIS is a man in his late thirties, tall, with a small head and large mouth, narrow forehead and a bald pate. He walks with a pompous rolling gait, swelling his chest and stretching his long neck like a camel.

  From his loud voice and his haughty manner you might imagine him (provided you had not met him before) the minister of a great empire, absorbed in public affairs.

  But Fareed has nothing to do aside from enumerating and glorifying the deeds of his ancesters. He is fond of citing exploits of famous men, and deeds of heroes such as Napoleon and Antar. He is a collector of weapons of which he has never learned the use.

  One of his sayings is that God created two different classes of people: the leaders and those who serv
e them. Another is that the people are like stubborn asses who do not stir unless you whip them. Another, that the pen was meant for the weak and the sword for the strong.

  What prompts Fareed to boast of his ancestry and behave as he does? This is a secret hidden in the silver-plated turd which Satanael has revealed to us, and we, in turn, reveal to you:

  In the third decade of the nineteenth century when Emeer Basheer, the great Governor of Mount Lebanon, was passing with his retinue through the Lebanese valleys, they approached the village in which Mansour Davis, Fareed’s grandfather lived. It was an exceedingly hot day, and the Emeer dismounted from his horse and ordered his men to rest in the shadow of an oak tree.

  Mansour Davis, discovering the Emeer’s presence, called the neighboring farmers, and the good news spread through the village. Led by Mansour the villagers brought baskets of grapes and figs, and jars of honey, wine and milk for the Emeer. When they reached the oak tree, Mansour kneeled before the Emeer and kissed the hem of his robe. Then he stood up and killed a sheep in the Emeer’s honor, saying, “The sheep is from thy bounty, oh Prince and protector of our lives.” The Emeer, pleased with such hospitality, said to him, “Henceforth you shall be the mayor of this village which I will exempt from taxes for this year.”

  That night, after the Emeer had left, the villagers met at the house of “Sheik” Mansour Davis and vowed loyalty to the newly appointed Sheik. May God have mercy on their souls.

  There are too many secrets contained in the silver-plated turd to enumerate them all. The devils and satans reveal some to us every day and night, which we shall share with you before the angel of death wraps us under his wings and takes us into the Great Beyond.

  Since it is now midnight and our eyes are getting heavy, permit us to surrender ourselves to Slumber and perhaps the beautiful bride of dreams will carry our souls into a world cleaner than this one.

  Martha

  I

  Her father died when she was in the cradle, and she lost her mother before reaching the age of ten. As an orphan, Martha was left in the care of a poor peasant whose servant she became. They lived in an obscure hamlet on a slope of the beautiful mountains of North Lebanon.

  At his death, her father had left his family only his good name and a hut standing amidst willow and walnut trees. It was the death of her mother which truly orphaned her. It left an emptiness in her heart which could not be filled. She became a stranger in her birthplace. Every day she walked barefoot leading a cow to pasture. While the cow grazed she sat under a tree, singing with the birds, weeping with the stream, envying the cow her serenity, and gazing at the flowers over which the butterflies hovered.

  At night she returned home to a simple dinner of bread, olives, and dried fruit. She slept in a bed of straw, with her arms for a pillow; and it was her prayer that her whole life might be uninterrupted slumber. At dawn her master would wake her so that she would get the housework done before she led the cow to pasture. She trembled and did as she was ordered.

  Thus the gloomy and puzzling years passed, and Martha grew like a sapling. In her heart there developed a quiet affection of which she herself was unaware … like fragrance born in the heart of a flower. She followed her fancy as sheep follow a stream to quench their thirst. Her mind was like virgin land where knowledge had sown no seeds and upon which no feet had trod.

  We who live amid the excitements of the city know nothing of the life of the mountain villagers. We are swept into the current of urban existence, until we forget the peaceful rhythms of simple country life, which smiles in the spring, toils in summer, reaps in autumn, rests in winter, imitating nature in all her cycles. We are wealthier than the villagers in silver or gold, but they are richer in spirit. What we sow we reap not; they reap what they sow. We are slaves of gain, and they the children of contentment. Our draught from the cup of life is mixed with bitterness and despair, fear and weariness; but they drink the pure nectar of life’s fulfillment.

  At sixteen, Martha’s soul was like a clear mirror that reflects a beautiful landscape; her heart like a primeval valley that echoes all voices.

  One day in autumn she sat by the spring, gazing at the falling yellow leaves, stripped from the trees by the breeze that moved between the branches as death moves into a man’s soul. She looked at the withering flowers whose hearts were dry and whose seeds sought shelter in earth’s bosom like refugees seeking a new life.

  While thus engrossed, she heard hoofbeats upon the ground. Turning, she observed a horseman approaching. As he reached the spring he dismounted and greeted her with kind words, such as she had not heard from a man before. Then he went on to say, “Young lady, I have lost my way. Will you please direct me to the road to the coast?”

  Looking like a tender branch, there by the spring, she replied, “I regret, sir, that I am unable to direct you, never having been away from home; but if you will ask my master I am sure he can help you.” Her flushed face, as she spoke, made her look more gentle and beautiful. As she started away he stopped her. His expression became soft as he said, “Please do not go.”

  And a strange power in the man’s voice held her immobile. When she stole a glance at his face she found him gazing at her steadily. She could not understand his silent adoration.

  He eyed her lovely bare feet, her graceful arms and smooth neck and shining hair. Lovingly and wonderingly he regarded her sun-warmed cheeks and her chiseled features. She could not utter a single word or move a muscle.

  The cow returned alone to the barn that evening. Martha’s master searched all through the valley but could not find her. His wife wept all that night. She said the next morning, “I saw Martha in my dream last night, and she was between the paws of a wild beast who lured her; the beast was about to kill Martha, but she smiled.”

  II

  In the autumn of 1900, after a vacation in North Lebanon, I returned to Beyrouth. Before re-entering school I spent a week roaming the city with my classmates. We were like birds whose cage-door is unlocked, and who come and go as they please.

  Youth is a beautiful dream, on whose brightness books shed a blinding dust. Will ever the day come when the wise link the joy of knowledge to youth’s dream? Will ever the day come when Nature becomes the teacher of man, humanity his book and life his school? Youth’s joyous purpose cannot be fulfilled until that day comes. Too slow is our march toward spiritual elevation, because we make so little use of youth’s ardor.

  One evening, as I was contemplating the jostling street crowds of Beyrouth, and feeling deafened by the shouts of the street vendors, I noticed a ragged boy of about five carrying some flowers on a tray. In a dispirited voice he asked me, “Will you buy some flowers, sir?” His mouth was half-open, resembling and echoing a deep wound in the soul. His arms were thin and bare, and his frail body was bent over his flower tray like a branch of withering roses.

  In my reply I tried to keep from my voice any intrusive edge of charity.

  I bought some of his flowers but my chief purpose was to converse with him. I felt that his heart was a stage upon which a continuous drama of misery was being enacted.

  At my careful, tactful words he began to feel secure and a smile brightened his face. He was surprised to hear words of kindness, for like all the poor he was accustomed to harshness. I asked his name, which was Fu’ad, and then, “Whose son are you?” He replied, “I am the son of Martha.” “And who is your father?” I inquired. He shook his head, puzzled, as if unaware of the meaning of the word. I continued, “Where is your mother now, “Fu’ad?” He replied, weeping, “She is at home, sick.”

  Suddenly remembrance formed in my mind. Martha, whose unfinished story I had heard from an old villager, was ill nearby. That young woman who yesterday safely roamed the valley and enjoyed the beauty of nature was now suffering the anguish of destitution; that orphan who spent her early life in the haven of Nature was undergoing the tortures that city sophistication inflicts upon the innocent.

  As the boy started
to leave, I took hold of his hand saying, “Take me to your mother. I would like to see her.” He led the way silently, looking back now and then to see if I followed.

  Through narrow, dirty streets with an odor of death in the air, and between houses of ill-fame, raucous with the sounds of sin, I walked behind Fu’ad, admiring the courage in his stride. It took courage to walk in these slums, where violence, crime and plague mocked the glory of this city, called “The Bride of Syria” and “The Pearl of the Sultan’s Crown.”

  As we entered a particularly squalid quarter, the boy pointed to a hovel whose walls appeared to be collapsing. My heartbeats quickened and I followed Fu’ad into a sunless, airless room, unfurnished except for an oil lamp and a hard bed upon which Martha was lying, her face to the wall as if to hide from the oppression of the city. Fu’ad touched her shoulder and said, “Mama.” As she turned painfully, he pointed at me. She moved her weak body under the ragged quilt, and with a despairing voice said, “What brings you here, stranger? What do you want? Did you come here to buy the last remnant of my soul and pollute it with your desire? Go away from here; the streets are full of women who sell themselves. What is left of my broken soul death shall soon buy. Go away from me and my boy.”

  Those few words completed her tragic story. I said, “Fear me not, Martha; I come here not as a devourer, but as a fellow sufferer. I am a Lebanese who lived near your valley by the cedars of Lebanon. Do not be frightened.”

  Realizing then that my words came from a feeling soul, she shook like a thin branch before a strong wind, and placed her hands upon her face, trying to hide away the terrible and beautiful memory whose sweetness was ravaged by bitterness.