Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran

by Kahlil Gibran

  Give my regards to our brethren mingled with my love, my prayers, and longing. May God keep you dear to your brother

  GIBRAN

  * A clerk in the office of A8-Sayeh.

  When the doctors ordered Gibran in 1921 to leave New York for Boston to stay with his sister Miriana and rest at home for a while, he carried with him on his way to Boston the English manuscript of The Prophet which he intended to publish that same year. When he arrived in Boston he was so sick that he had to postpone the publication of The Prophet until 1923. In the year 1918 he had published his first work in English, The Madman, and in 1920 The Forerunner. In this letter Gibran speaks of these two books and also of Ad-Deewan, which must have been an Arabic magazine or newspaper.

  TO MIKHAIL NAIMY

  Boston, 1921

  Brother Meesha:

  Ever since I arrived in this city I have been going from one specialist to another, and from one exhaustive examination to a more exhaustive one. It all happened because this heart of mine has lost its meter and its rhyme. And you know, Mikhail, the meter of this heart never did conform to the meters and rhymes of other hearts. But since the accidental must follow the constant as the shadow follows the substance, it was definitely decided that this lump within my chest should be in unison with that trembling mist in the firmament—that mist which is myself—called “I.”

  Never mind, Meesha, whatever is destined shall be. But I feel that I shall not leave the slope of this mountain before daybreak. And dawn shall throw a veil of light and gleam on everything.

  When I left New York I put nothing in my valise except the manuscript of The Prophet and some raiments. But my old copy-books are still in the corners of that silent room. What shall I do to please you and to please the Damascus Arrabitah? The doctors have ordered me to leave all mental work. Should I be inspired within the next two weeks, I shall take my pen and jot down the inspiration; otherwise my excuse should be accepted.

  I do not know when I may return to New York. The doctors say I should not return until my health returns to me. They say I must go to the country and surrender myself to simple living free from every thought and purpose and dispute. In other words, they want me to be converted into a trifling plant. For that reason I see fit that you send the picture of Arrabitah to Damascus without me in it. Or you may send the old picture after you stain my face with ink. If it is necessary, however, that Arrabitah in New York should appear in full before the Damascus Arrabitah, how would you like for Nasseeb, or Abdul-Masseeh or you (if that were possible) to translate a piece from The Madman or The Forerunner? This may seem to be a silly suggestion. But what can I do, Mikhail, when I am in such a plight? He who is unable to sew for himself a new garment must go back and mend the old one. Do you know, brother, that this ailment has caused me to postpone indefinitely the publication of The Prophet? I shall read with interest your article in Ad-Deewan. I know it is going to be just and beautiful like everything else you have written.

  Remember me to my brother workers of Arrabitah. Tell them that my love for them in the fog of night is not any less than in the plain light of the day. May God protect you and watch over you and keep you a dear brother to

  GIBRAN

  Gibran had always expressed his desire for and love of death. Although he wished at all times to attain such a goal, he was extremely affected when a dear friend of his or someone that he knew passed away. Saba, who was an intimate of Gibran and a dear friend of Naimy, was taken away by death while Gibran was in Boston suffering the pangs of a severe ailment. As soon as he heard of the death of his good friend Saba he wrote to Naimy expressing his sentiments toward his departed friend.

  He also tells his friend Naimy of his dream of a hermitage, a small garden, and a spring of water on the edge of one of the Lebanese valleys. He loathed this false civilization and wished to be left alone in a solitary place like Yousif El-Fakhri, one of the characters of a story that he wrote under the name of “The Tempest.” Yousif at thirty years of age withdrew himself from society and departed to live in an isolated hermitage in the vicinity of Kadeesha Valley in North Lebanon.

  TO MIKHAIL NAIMY

  Boston, 1922

  Dear Meesha:

  Saba’s death affected me immensely. I know that he has reached his goal, and that he has now fortified himself against things we complain of. I also know that he has attained what I wish at all times to attain. I know all that, yet it is strange that this knowledge cannot lighten my burden of sorrow. What could be the meaning of this sorrow? Saba had hopes he wanted to fulfill. His lot of hopes and dreams was equal to the lot of each one of us. Is there something in his departure, before his hopes blossomed and his dreams became fruitful, that creates this deep sorrow in our hearts? Is not my sorrow over him truly my grief over a dream I had in my youth when that youth passed away before my dream came true? Are not sorrow and regret at bereavement really forms of human selfishness?

  I must not go back to New York, Meesha. The doctor has ordered me to stay away from cities. For this reason I rented a small cottage near the sea and I shall move to it with my sister in two days. I shall remain there until this heart returns to its order, or else becomes a part of the Higher Order. However, I hope to see you before summer is over. I know not how, where, or when, but things can be arranged somehow.

  Your thoughts on “repudiating” the world are exactly like mine.* For a long time I have been dreaming of a hermitage, a small garden, and a spring of water. Do you recall Yousif El-Fakhri? Do you recall his obscure thoughts and his glowing awakening? Do you remember his opinion on civilization and the civilized? I say, Meesha, that the future shall place us in a hermitage on the edge of one of the Lebanese valleys. This false civilization has tightened the strings of our spirits to the breaking point. We must leave before they break. But we must remain patient until the day of departure. We must be tolerant, Meesha.

  Remember me to our brethren and tell them that I love them and long to see them, and live in thought with them.

  May God protect you, Meesha, and watch over you, and keep you a dear brother to your brother

  GIBRAN

  * Naimy was living at this time in a hermitage on the edge of one of the Lebanese valleys.

  Nasseeb has already been identified as a member of Arrabitah—poet, editor and owner of Al-Akhlak, (the Character) which was a monthly Arabic magazine published in New York.

  TO MIKHAIL NAIMY

  New York,

  1922

  Dear Meesha:

  Good evening to you. I now bring you the glad tidings that our Nasseeb is remaining with us, in us, and of us indefinitely, and his voyage to Argentina has now become ancient history.

  Arrabitah did not meet the last Wednesday of this month for two reasons: The first is that you are away, and second is the non-existence of anything that calls for a meeting. I believe that the first reason is sufficient, and is the creator of the second one.

  I was glad to hear that you are coming back Thursday. You have stayed too long away from us, Meesha. In your absence our circle turns into something nebulous, misty, without form or shape.

  I was not pleased with your saying, “May Izrael take Mikhail.”* In my opinion Mikhail is stronger than Izrael. The first has authority over the second, but the second has no power over the first. There are secrets in names deeper than we imagine; and their symbols are more obvious and more important than that which we think of. Mikhail has been since the beginning more powerful and more exacting than Izrael.

  Till we meet again, brother. May God keep you dear to

  GIBRAN

  * May the angel of death take Mikhail.

  A glimpse at the following letter will reveal that Gibran was to give two readings from his books: the first from The Madman and The Forerunner, and the second from The Prophet. Since this letter was written in 1922 and The Prophet was not published until 1923, it is obvious that the second reading was from the unpublished manuscript of The Prophet.

  T
he reader will also realize that the money which the Syrians and the Lebanese in Brazil had spent on the gift (the translator does not know what kind) which they sent to the President of the United States was a waste of money. In Gibran’s opinion, the money should have been sent to Arrabitah for the revival of Al-Funoon, the short-lived Arabic magazine which Gibran founded.

  TO MIKHAIL NAIMY

  Boston, 1922

  Dear Meesha:

  Do not say that the climate of Boston so agreed with me that I surrendered myself to relaxation and forgot New York and my comrades and my work and duties in New York. God knows that never in my life did I spend a month more full of difficulties, disasters, problems, and sorrows than the last month. I have asked myself many times if my “djinnee” or my “follower” or my “double” has turned into a devil who opposes me and shuts doors in my face and places obstacles in my way. Since my arrival in this crooked city I have been living in a hell of worldly enigmas. Had it not been for my sister, I would have left everything and returned to my hermitage, dusting the dirt of the world off my feet.

  When I received your telegram this morning I felt as if I were awakened from a terrible dream. I remembered the joyful hours we spent together talking about things spiritual and artistic. I forgot that I was in a battle and that my troops were in a critical situation. Then I remembered my past troubles and the coming ones and recalled that I was obliged to remain here to fulfill my promise and carry out my engagements. I am committed, Mikhail, to giving two readings from my books this coming week—the first from The Madman and The Forerunner, and the second one from The Prophet, before a “respectable” audience who likes this kind of thinking and this style of expression. But the things that have kept me in this city, and that will oblige me to remain here ten more days, have nothing to do with what I have written or read, or shall write or read. They have to do with dull and wearisome things, filling the heart with thorns and gall and grasping the soul with an iron hand as rough as a steel file.

  I have not forgotten that next Wednesday is the date set for Arrabitah’s meeting, but what shall I do when “the eye is far of view and the hand is short of reach?” I hope that you will meet and decide what is useful, and that you will remember me with a kind word, for I am these days in dire need of good wishes from friends, and prayers from the devout. I am in need of a sweet glance from a sincere eye.

  The gift from our brethren in Brazil will reach the White House, and the President of the United States will thank them for their generosity and kind intentions. All that shall be arranged in a beautiful manner. But a wave from the sea of oblivion shall submerge the matter from beginning to end. Meanwhile, Al-Funoon magazine is still asleep and Arrabitah is poor, and our brethren in Brazil and the United States neither remember the first, nor feel the presence of the second. How strange people are, Meesha, and what strangers we both are among them!

  GIBRAN

  Emil Zaidan was editor of Al-Hilal, an outstanding Arabic magazine published in Egypt, to which Gibran contributed many articles.

  TO EMIL ZAIDAN

  In the late

  part of 1922

  My Brother Emil,

  … I have intended to visit Egypt and Lebanon this year, but the indisposition which kept me away from work for twelve months has set me back two years and caused me to postpone those literary and technical treatises which I once talked to you about. I must now remain in this country until my English book The Prophet comes out. At the same time I will be finishing some paintings that I promised to complete.

  I am already longing for the Orient in spite of what some friends write to me, which sometimes makes me feel discouraged and causes me to prefer expatriation and living among strangers to the exile of living among relatives. Nevertheless, I shall return to my “old home” to see with my own eyes what has become of it.

  Remain a dear brother to

  GIBRAN

  In introducing Mikhail Naimy, the translator referred to The Cribble, a series of critical essays, called Algourbal in Arabic.

  Naimy and Nasseeb had written a poem together and promised to send it to Gibran. At the same time they must have asked Rasheed and Gibran to write something for publication. Rasheed, however, kept postponing, which made Gibran feel empty-handed also.

  TO MIKHAIL NAIMY

  Boston,

  August 11, 1923

  Dear Brother Meesha:

  Good morning to you. I was glad to learn that your book The Cribble is out. But I do not mind telling you that I did not like for it to come at this time of the year, although I know that the value of the book, which is unique of its kind, has nothing to do with the season or decade. Never mind, whatever is published is published.

  I have spent many long hours with Archmandrite Beshir reviewing the translation of The Madman and The Forerunner. In spite of my rebellion, I was pleased with the man’s enthusiasm and determination. When we finished reviewing and correcting he said to me, “I shall submit the translations of the two books to Mikhail Naimy and Nasseeb Arida and ask them to be unmerciful in their criticism.” I liked his tact and I knew that he was truly seeking enlightenment.

  I have not done anything worth mentioning since I left New York other than writing down some headings and renovating some old ideas. It seems to me, Meesha, that the orderly life in my sister’s home pulls me away from creative writing. It is strange that chaotic living is the best sharpener for my imagination.

  I shall be happy to receive your and Nasseeb’s new poem, but I shall stand ashamed and empty-handed before both of you. I may not be the only one if Rasheed keeps on postponing. If he keeps this up, I do not know how he is going to have his book of poems published.

  Give my salaam and love to our comrades and tell them that life without them is miserable. May God bless you, Meesha, and keep you a dear brother to your brother

  GIBRAN

  TO MIKHAIL NAIMY

  Boston, 1923

  Beloved Brother Meesha:

  Forgive my long silence and help me obtain forgiveness from your brethren and mine. Early this summer the doctor told me to abstain from all kinds of writing, and I submitted to him after a great struggle between me and my will and the will of my sister and some friends. The result turned out to be good, for I am now closer to being in normal health than at any time during the last two years. My being away from the city, living a simple, quiet, and orderly life near the sea and the woods, has stilled the palpitations of my heart and altered my trembling hand to one that writes these lines.

  I shall return to New York in two or three weeks and present myself to my brethren. If they take me into their midst, I shall know how affectionate they are. A beggar should not be demanding, and a criminal should make no conditions.

  This is the first letter I have written to you for three months!

  A thousand salaams to all, and may God protect you and keep you for your brother

  GIBRAN

  TO MIKHAIL NAIMY

  Boston, 1923

  I congratulate you and offer my felicitations upon The Cribble. Undoubtedly it is the first living breeze of that divine tempest which shall weed out all the dead wood in our literary forests. I have read the book thoroughly, from Aleph to Yey,* and I was reassured of a truth that I had long believed and which I once expressed to you. It is this: had you not been a poet and writer, you would not have reached your goal of critic, and you would not have succeeded in lifting the curtain to reveal the truth about poetry, poets, writing and writers. I say, Meesha, that had you not undertaken the task of poetry in your own heart, you could not have discovered the poetic experiences of others. And had you not taken a long walk in the garden of poetry, you would not have rebelled against those who walk only the dark and narrow paths of meters and rhymes. Sainte-Beuve, Ruskin and Walter Pater were artists before and after they criticised the artistic works of others and each one of them criticised through the help of the light of his own inner feelings, and not through the help of acquired taste.
The spiritual light that comes from within is the source of everything beautiful and noble. This light turns criticism into a fine and magnificent art. Without this light, criticism is compulsive and boring and lacking the positive note of decisive persuasion.

  Yes, Meesha, you are a poet and a thinker before everything else, and your unique power of criticism is the outcome of your keen poetic thinking and feeling. Don’t give the example of the “egg”*—I shall never accept it—for it smacks of empty controversy rather than demonstrable logic.

  GIBRAN

  * Aleph to Yey means A to Z.

  * Gibran refers here to the old Arabic inquiry as to which came first—the egg or the hen.

  In 1924, the Syrians apparently raised funds and built an orphanage, which Gibran calls “the noblest Syrian institution in the United States.” He had planned to attend the dedication of the orphanage, but when the time came, he was ill in Boston with a stomach ailment.

  TO MIKHAIL NAIMY

  Boston,

  Sept. 7, 1924

  Dear Mikhail:

  I have been locked in my room for several days and I have just left the bed to write you this letter. You know that I was indisposed when I left New York, and I have been fighting the poisoning in my stomach ever since. Had it not been for this, I would not have hesitated to go to the orphanage on the day of its dedication.

  You realize, Meesha, that no matter how important and pressing my work is, it cannot keep me from absenting myself two or three days, especially when I am to take part in the dedication of the noblest Syrian institution in the United States. I beg you to offer my excuse to the Archbishop and to explain to him the real reason for my failure to come.