Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran

by Kahlil Gibran

  I have asked Nasseeb through Abdul-Masseh to look for Barren and Memoirs of a Pitted Face, and he promised to do so, inshallah.

  I was glad to hear that your absence will not be prolonged. Perhaps I should not be glad. Come back to us, Meesha, when you want, and you shall find us as you want us to be.

  May God watch over you and keep you for your brother

  GIBRAN

  TO MIKHAIL NAIMY

  Boston,

  May 24, 1920

  Dear Mikhail:

  May God shower your good soul and big heart with peace. Arrabitah shall hold its official meeting tomorrow (Wednesday) evening. Unfortunately I shall be far away from you. Had it not been for a lecture I am going to give Thursday night, I would return to New York for the sake of Arrabitah’s love. If you consider the lecture a legal excuse, I will be grateful for your generosity and consideration; otherwise you will find me willing to pay the fine of five dollars with pleasure.

  This city was called in the past the city of science and art, but today it is the city of traditions. The souls of its inhabitants are petrified; even their thoughts are old and worn-out. The strange thing about this city, Mikhail, is that the petrified is always proud and boastful, and the worn-out and old holds its chin high. Many a time I have sat and conversed with Harvard professors in whose presence I felt as if I were talking to a sheik from Al-Azhar.*

  On several occasions I have talked with Bostonian ladies and heard them say things which I used to hear from the ignorant and simple old ladies in Syria. Life is all the same, Mikhail; it declares itself in the villages of Lebanon as in Boston, New York, and San Francisco.

  Remember me with best wishes to my brethren and fellow workers in Arrabitah. May God keep you as a dear brother to

  GIBRAN

  * According to historians, Al-Azhar is the oldest university in the world whose sheiks (professors) stick to old traditions.

  In many places throughout his writings Gibran refers to his studio in New York as “the hermitage.” In this letter he speaks of his meeting there with Nasseeb. Arida and Abdul-Masseh.

  TO MIKHAIL NAIMY

  New York, 1920

  My Dear Meesha:

  Good morning to you, oh wondering soul between the intent of the earth and the claim of heaven. I heard your voice calling the people’s attention to “your goods” in the markets and squares. I heard you shouting softly, “We sell denims, we sell muslins,” and I loved the soothing tone of your voice, Meesha, and I know that the angels hear you and record your calls in the Eternal Book. I was happy to hear about your great success. However, I fear this success! I am afraid it is going to lead you into the heart of the business world. He who reaches that heart will find it very difficult to return to our world!

  I shall meet with Nasseeb and Abdul-Masseeh at the hermitage tonight and we shall discuss the Anthology. Wish you were with us.

  I am in these days a man with a thousand and one things to do. I am like a sick bee in a garden of flowers. The nectar is ample and the sun is beautiful upon the flowers.

  Pray for me and receive God’s blessing, and remain a dear brother to

  GIBRAN

  TO MIKHAIL NAIMY

  New York, 1920

  Dear Meesha:

  We have already missed you, though you have barely said goodby. What would happen to us if you stayed away three weeks?

  The Anthology: What of it? It is a chain whose rings are made of postponement and hesitation. Every time I mention it to Nasseeb or Abdul-Masseeh, the first will say to me, “Tomorrow,” and the second will respond “You are right.” But in spite of all these delays, the Anthology will appear at the end of the year, Inshallah.

  Write to me when you have nothing better to do. If your new poem has already been completed, send me a copy of it. You have not given me a copy of your poem “Oh, Cup-Bearer.” May God forgive you. Be as you wish and remain a dear brother to your brother

  GIBBAN

  TO MAY ZIADEH

  Nov. 1, 1920

  Dear May:

  The soul, May, does not see anything in life save that which is in the soul itself. It does not believe except in its own private event, and when it experiences something, the outcome becomes a part of it. I experienced something last year that I intended to keep a secret, but I did not do so. In fact, I revealed it to a friend of mine to whom I was accustomed to reveal my secrets because I felt that I was in dire need of talking to someone. But do you know what she told me? She said to me without thinking, “This is a musical song.” Suppose someone had told a mother holding her babe in her arms that she was carrying a wooden statue, what would be the answer, and how would that mother feel about it?

  Many months had passed and the words (“a musical song”) were still ringing in my ears, but my friend was not satisfied with what she had told me, but kept on watching me and reprimanding me for every word I uttered, hiding everything away from me and piercing my hand with a nail every time I attempted to touch her. Consequently I became desperate, but despair, May, is an ebb for every flow in the heart; it’s a mute affection. For this reason I have been sitting before you recently and gazing at your face without uttering a word or without having a chance to write you, for I said in my heart, “I have no chance.”

  Yet in every winter’s heart there is a quivering spring, and behind the veil of each night there is a smiling dawn. Now my despair has turned into hope.

  GIBRAN

  May asked Gibran once how he wrote and how he ate and how he spent his everyday life, etc. She also inquired about his home and office and everything he did. Gibran answered some of her questions in the letter which follows.

  TO MAY ZIADEH

  1920

  … How sweet are your questions, and how happy I am to answer them, May. Today is a day of smoking; since this morning I have already burned one million cigarettes. Smoking to me is a pleasure and not a habit. Sometimes I go for one week without smoking one single cigarette. I said that I burned one million cigarettes. It is all your fault and you are to blame. If I were by myself in this valley, I would never return …

  As to the suit I am wearing today, it is customary to wear two suits at the same time; one suit woven by the weaver and made by the tailor and another one made out of flesh, blood, and bones. But today I am wearing one long and wide garment spotted with ink of different colors. This garment does not differ much from the ones worn by the dervishes save that it is cleaner. When I go back to the Orient I shall not wear anything but old-fashioned Oriental clothes.

  … As regards my office, it is still without ceiling and without walls, but the seas of sands and the seas of ether are still like they were yesterday, deep with many waves and no shores. But the boat in which I sail these seas has no masts. Do you think you can provide masts for my boat?

  The book Towards God is still in the mist factory, and its best drawing is in The Forerunner of which I sent you a copy two weeks ago.

  After answering some of her questions he began to describe himself to her symbolically.

  What shall I tell you about a man whom God has arrested between two women, one of whom turns his dream into awakeness, and the other his awakeness into dream? What shall I say of a man whom God has placed between two lamps? Is he melancholy or is he happy? Is he a stranger in this world? I do not know. But I would like to ask you if you wish for this man to remain a stranger whose language no one in the universe speaks. I do not know. But I ask you if you would like to talk to this man in the tongue he speaks, which you can understand better than anyone else. In this world there are many who do not understand the language of my soul. And in this world there are also many who do not understand the language of your soul. I am, May, one of those upon whom life bestowed many friends and well-wishers. But tell me: is there any one among those sincere friends to whom we can say, “Please carry our cross for us only one day”? Is there any person who knows that there is one song behind our songs that cannot be sung by voices or uttered by quive
ring strings? Is there anyone who sees joy in our sorrow and sorrow in our joy?

  … Do you recall, May, your telling me about a journalist in Buenos Aires who wrote and asked for what every newspaperman asks for—your picture? I have thought of this newspaperman’s request many times, and each time I said to myself, “I am not a journalist; therefore I shall not ask for what the newspaperman asks for. No I am not a journalist. If I were the owner or editor of a magazine or newspaper, I would frankly and simply and without abashment ask her for her picture. No, I am not a journalist; what shall I do?”

  GIBRAN

  As-Sayeh was the name of an Arabic newspaper owned and edited by Abdul-Masseeh who was a member of Arrabitah, the literary circle. In that year Abdul-Masseeh was preparing a special issue of As-Sayeh and he called on Gibran and all the members of Arrabitah to contribute, which they did.

  In that same year Gibran must have written an article under the caption of “The Lost One” and sent it to his friend Emil Zaidan to have it published in his magazine, Al-Hilal, in Egypt. The translator of these letters has not yet succeeded in finding the article which Gibran speaks of in this letter. Gibran also refers to Salloum Mokarzel. He was at that time the owner of a publishing house in New York where he published his English magazine, The Syrian World.

  TO MIKHAIL NAIMY

  Boston,

  Jan. 1, 1921

  Dear Meesha:

  Good morning, and a happy New Year. May the Lord burden your vines with bunches of grapes, and fill your bins with wheat, and replenish your jars with oil, honey, and wine; and may Providence place your hand upon the heart of Life in order to feel the pulse of Life’s heart.

  This is my first letter to you in the New Year. Were I in New York, I would ask you to spend the evening with me in the peaceful hermitage. But how far am I from New York, and how far is the hermitage from me!

  How are you, and what are you writing or composing, and what are you thinking? Is the special issue of As-Sayeh about to come out, or is it still waiting for those machines which run fast when we wish them to slow down, and slow down when we wish them to run fast? The West is a machine and everything in it is at the mercy of the machine. Yes, Meesha, even your poem, “Do the Brambles Know,” is at the mercy of Salloum Mokarzel’s wheels. I was indisposed last week, and for this reason I did not write anything new. But I have reviewed my article, “The Lost One,” smoothed it out, and mailed it to Al-Hilal.

  Remember me, Meesha, with love and affection to our comrades, and may God protect you as a dear brother to

  GIBRAN

  TO MIKHAIL NAIMY

  Boston, 1921

  Brother Meesha:

  After I read the last number of the Arrabitah’s magazine and reviewed the previous issues, I was convinced that there is a deep abyss between us and them. We cannot go to them nor can they come to us. No matter what we endeavor to do, Mikhail, we cannot free them from the slavery of superficial literary words. Spiritual freedom comes from within and not from without. You know more about this truth than any man.

  Do not endeavor to awaken those whose hearts God has put to sleep for some hidden wisdom. Do whatever you wish for them, and send them whatever you like, but do not forget that you shall place a veil of doubt and suspicion upon the face of our Arrabitah. If we have any power, this power exists in our unity and aloneness. If we must cooperate and work with other people, let our cooperation be with our equals who say what we say.

  … So you are on the brink of madness. This is a good bit of news, majestic in its fearfulness, fearful in its majesty and beauty. I say that madness is the first step towards unselfishness. Be mad, Meesha. Be mad and tell us what is behind the veil of “sanity.” The purpose of life is to bring us closer to those secrets, and madness is the only means. Be mad, and remain a mad brother to your mad brother

  GIBRAN

  TO MIKHAIL NAIMY

  Boston, 1921

  Dear Meesha:

  Here is a gentle missive from Emil Zaidan. Read it thoroughly and take care of it to the best of your knowledge as you have always done. The heat is killing in this city and its environs. How is it in New York, and what are you doing?

  In my heart, Meesha, there are shadows and images that sway, walk, and expand like mist, but I am unable to give them the form of words. Peradventure it would be better for me to keep silent until this heart returns to what it used to be a year ago. Possibly silence is better for me, but, alas! How difficult and how bitter is silence in the heart of one who has become accustomed to talking and singing.

  A thousand salaams to you and to our dear brothers. May you remain a dear brother to

  GIBRAN

  In this letter Gibran speaks of Al-Barq (The Lightning), which was one of the leading Arabic newspapers in Beirut. Beshara El-Koury, the editor and owner of Al-Barq, was a great admirer of Gibran, and he devoted many columns in his paper to him. Gibran also threatens his friend Naimy, saying that if he (Naimy) did not mail him the snapshots which they had taken at Cahoonzie he would file two suits against him: one in the court of friendship and the other in the court of El-Jazzar, a Turkish ruler known for his despotism during his reign in Syria.

  TO MIKHAIL NAIMY

  Boston, 1921

  Dear Mikhail:

  Peace be unto you. Enclosing herewith a letter addressed to the counsellor of Arrabitah from Beshara El-Khoury editor of Al-Barq. As you notice, it is a brief and gentle missive, and it demonstrates at the same time a sort of pain in the soul of its author—and pain is a good sign.

  What happened to the snapshots we took at Cahoonzie? You are hereby notified that I want a copy of each. If I do not obtain my rights, I shall file two suits against you—one with the court of friendship, the other with the court of Ahmad Pasha El-Jazzar.

  Remember me, Meesha, to our brethren and comrades, and may God keep you dear to your brother

  GIBRAN

  William Catzeflis has already been identified as one of Gibran’s intimates and an essayist of recognized accomplishments in the field of Arabic thought and literature. He also was one of the members of Arrabitah.

  The farewell party which Gibran refers to in this letter was given in Catzeflis’ honor on the occasion of the latter’s departure to Lebanon on a pleasure trip. He also refers to a special Arabic dish prepared by Nasseeb Arida consisting of meat, vegetables and spices.

  TO MIKHAIL NAIMY

  Boston, 1921

  Dear Meesha:

  A thousand salaams to your heart that neither beats, nor pities, nor palpitates, nor glitters. It seems that you are ridiculing me for that which has turned my hair white and my poetry black; and you blame me for my briefness in writing and my silence about myself; and you proceed gradually to scold me, entering through the door of blasphemy. Allah be my rescue!

  As to myself, I do not see any fault in you. You are perfect with your black hair covering your temples and the top of your head, and with the abundance of your poetry and prose. It seems as if you were born just as you wished to be born when you were in the state of embryo, and that you attained your wish while in the cradle. From God we came and to God we return!

  I regret to be absent while Nasseeb’s meddeh (spread) is being prepared. But what can I do if the meddeh cannot be spread from one city to another? It is a shame that some people can be filled with delicious things while others are hungry even for the grace of God, unable to obtain even a mouthful of it.

  I am glad that Nasseeb insisted on your writing the preface to the Anthology of Arrabitah. Undoubtedly you have written or shall write that which shall be “a necklace about the neck of the Anthology and a bracelet about its wrist.” May you remain, oh brother of the Arabs, a gem in the crown of literature, and a glittering star in its sky.

  My health is better than it was last week. But I must keep away from working, from thinking, and even from feeling for a period of three months in order to regain my full health. As you know, Meesha, to quit working is harder than to work; and he who i
s accustomed to work finds rest the severest punishment.

  I have done my duty towards William Catzeflis and those who wish to honor him by giving him a farewell party. I sent a telegram to William and another one to Anton Semman in response to their invitation to attend the reception in New York.

  May God keep you and your brethren and mine, and may you remain a dear brother to

  GIBRAN

  TO MIKHAIL NAIMY

  Boston, 1921

  My Dear Meesha:

  Good morning and good evening to you, and may God fill your days with songs and your nights with dreams. I am enclosing herewith a good letter and a check, which is still better, from an adherent member of Arrabitah. Will you answer the first in your good taste and perfect literary style, and accept the second as a burned incense and oil offering. Hoping that you do so, inshallah.

  You say in your letter that you have told George* to send me the Spanish magazine and newspaper, but George has not sent them yet. May God forgive George, and may He mend George’s memory with the threads of my patience and self-control. It seems to me, brother, that George has thrown the Republic of Chile [name of a magazine] into the waste-basket.

  The cold in Boston is terrible. Everything is frozen, even the thoughts of the people are frozen. But in spite of the cold and the severe wind I am enjoying good health. My voice (or yell) is like the thunder of a volcano! And the tramping of my feet upon the ground is like a falling meteor that makes a big hollow in the ground. As to my stomach, it is like a mill whose lower stone is a file and whose upper one is a rattler! Hoping that your yell, your tramping, and your stomach are just as you like them to be whenever and wherever you want.