Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran

by Kahlil Gibran

  GIBRAN

  Abdul-Masseh, owner and editor of As-Sayeh, had called on Gibran to make a special design for the annual special issue which came out in the form of a magazine rather than a paper and contained articles, poems, stories and pictures of the members of Arrabitah and other Arab writers.

  TO MIKHAIL NAIMY

  Boston, 1925

  Dear Meesha:

  Peace be unto your soul. As per your request, I have just mailed you the design for the cover of the special issue of As-Sayeh. The requests of princes are the princes of requests! I beg you to urge Abdul-Masseeh to keep the design for me after the engraver is finished with it.

  I have been wondering if you have found solitude and peace in the hermitage! I was afraid that you might find it cold; and I should have told you of the electric apparatus which can warm one of its corners. Of course, warm hearts do not need outside heat.

  I shall return to New York in a week, more or less, and we shall have long talks of things beneath the earth and above the clouds. May God keep you, Meesha, a beloved brother to

  GIBRAN

  P.S. I shall return to New York in ten days, inshallah, and we shall have a long discussion and set the drawings for Rasheed’s book and share many beautiful dreams.

  Edmond Wehby translated “The Crucified” from the Arabic to French and published it in La Syrie, a daily French newspaper in Beirut. A copy of the translation was sent by the translator to the author accompanied by a nice letter to which Gibran wrote the following answer:

  TO EDMOND WEHBY

  New York,

  March 12, 1925

  Dear Brother:

  Peace be unto you. I was very happy to receive your very kind letter. It revealed to me the abundance of your learning and the beauty of your spirit and your zeal for the arts and artists. I wish I were worthy of the praises and honor which you have accorded me in your missive, and I hope that I will be able to live up to the beautiful things you have said about me.

  I have read with admiration your French translation of “The Crucified”—however, I was sorry to learn about the spiritual condition of Syrian and Lebanese youth today and their tendency towards learning foreign languages and neglecting their own tongue, which prompted your zeal to translate a piece especially written for that young generation in the language of their forefathers.

  But your enthusiasm for Arrabitah and the deeds of its workers shows eagerness in your heart and willingness in your spirit for renovation, growth and enlightenment. Now in behalf of my brethren and fellow-workers of Arrabitah I offer to you thanks and gratitude.

  Please accept my sincerest respect accompanied with my best wishes, and may Allah protect you and keep you.

  GIBRAN

  P.S. Please remember me to my great literary brother Felix Farris and give him my salaam.

  TO MAY ZIADEH

  1925

  Dear May:

  … What shall I say to you about my vicissitudes? A year ago I was living in peace and tranquility, but today my tranquility has turned into clamor, and my peace into strife. The people devour my days and my nights and submerge my life in their conflicts and desires. Many a time I have fled from this awful city* to a remote place to be away from the people and from the shadow of myself. The Americans are a mighty people who never give up or get tired or sleep or dream. If these people hate someone, they will kill him by negligence, and if they like or love a person, they will shower him with affection. He who wishes to live in New York must be a sharp sword in a sheath of honey. The sword is to repel those who are desirous of killing time, and the honey is to satisfy their hunger.

  The day will come when I will be leaving for the Orient. My longing for my country almost melts my heart. Had it not been for this cage which I have woven with my own hands, I would have caught the first boat sailing towards the Orient. But what man is capable of leaving an edifice on whose construction he has spent all his life, even though that edifice is his own prison? It is difficult to get rid of it in one day …

  … So you want me to smile and forgive. I have been smiling a lot since this morning, and I am now all smiles deep down in my heart. I smile as if I were born to smile…. But forgiveness is a horrible word which makes me stand in fear and shame. The noble soul that humbles herself to that extent is closer to the angels than to human beings…. I alone am to blame, and I have done wrong in my silence and despair. For this reason I ask you to forget what I have done and to forgive me.

  GIBRAN

  * New York.

  TO MAY ZIADEH

  In the year 1926

  Dear May:

  … You say that I am an artist and a poet. I am neither an artist, May, nor a poet. I have spent my days writing and painting, but I am not in accord with my days and my nights. I am a cloud, May—a cloud that mingles with objects, but never becomes united with them. I am a cloud, and in the cloud is my solitude, my loneliness, my hunger, and my thirst. But my calamity is that the cloud, which is my reality, longs to hear someone say, “You are not alone in this world but we are two together, and I know who you are.”

  … Tell me, May, is there any other person over there capable of and willing to say to me, “I am another cloud; O, cloud, let us spread ourselves over the mountains and in the valleys: let us walk between and above the trees, let us cover the high rocks, let us penetrate the heart of the human race, let us roam the unknown and the fortified distant places.” Tell me, May, is there anyone who is capable of and willing to say at least one of these words?

  GIBRAN

  TO MAY ZIADEH

  1928

  Dear May:

  I am indebted for all that I call “I” to women, ever since I was an infant. Women opened the windows of my eyes and the doors of my spirit. Had it not been for the woman-mother, the woman-sister, and the woman-friend, I would have been sleeping among those who seek the tranquility of the world with their snoring.

  … I have found pleasure in being ill. This pleasure differs with its effect from any other pleasure. I have found a sort of tranquility that makes me love illness. The sick man is safe from people’s strife, demands, dates and appointments, excess of talking, and ringing of telephones … I have found another kind of enjoyment through illness which is more important and unmeasurable. I have found that I am closer to abstract things in my sickness than in health. When I lay my head upon the pillow and close my eyes and lose myself to the world, I find myself flying like a bird over serene valleys and forests, wrapped in a gentle veil. I see myself close to those whom my heart has loved, calling and talking to them, but without anger and with the same feelings they feel and the same thoughts they think. They lay their hands now and then upon my forehead to bless me.

  … I wish I were sick in Egypt or in my country so I might be close to the ones I love.* Do you know, May, that every morning and every evening I find myself in a home in Cairo with you sitting before me reading the last article I wrote or the one you wrote which has not yet been published.

  … Do you realize, May, that whenever I think of the Departure which the people call Death, I find pleasure in such thinking and great longing for such departure. But then I return to myself and remember that there is one word I must say before I depart. I become perplexed between my disability and my obligation and I give up hope. No, I have not said my word yet, and nothing but smoke has come out from this light. This is what makes me feel that cessation of work is more bitter than gall. I say this to you, May, and I don’t say it to anyone else: If I don’t depart before I spell and pronounce my word, I will return to say the word which is now hanging like a cloud in the sky of my heart.

  … Does this sound strange to you? The strangest things are the closest to the real truth. In the will of man there is a power of longing which turns the mist in ourselves into sun.

  GIBRAN

  * At the writing of this letter May was living in Cairo, Egypt.

  This letter was written in the year 1928 when Gibran’s book, Jesus the Son
of Man, was published by Alfred A. Knopf. In this book Gibran speaks of Jesus in behalf of seventy-nine persons who saw him. The last man who speaks of Jesus in the book is a man from Lebanon who lives in the twentieth century.

  As we notice in the following letter, Gibran wrote this book while he was ill.

  TO MIKHAIL NAIMY

  Boston, 1928

  Dear Meesha:

  Peace be unto your soul. How nice of you and typical of your big heart to inquire about my health. I was inflicted with a disease called summer rheumatism which departed from me with the departure of the summer and its heat.

  I have learned that you returned to New Babylon* three weeks ago. Tell us, O Spring of Youth, what kind of treasures have you brought back with you as a result of your bodily and spiritual absence? I shall return to New York in a week, and I shall search your pockets to find out what you have brought with you.

  The book of Jesus has taken all my summer, with me ill one day and well another. And I might as well tell you that my heart is still in it in spite of the fact that it has already been published and has flown away from this cage.

  GIBRAN

  * New York.

  The Garden of the Prophet, which Gibran speaks of in this letter, was published by Alfred A. Knopf in the year 1933, two years after Gibran’s death. Gibran did not live to complete it. The book was later finished by Barbara Young, the author of This Man from Lebanon, a study of Kahlil Gibran.

  TO MIKHAIL NAIMY

  Boston,

  March, 1929

  Dear Meesha:

  How sweet and how tender of you to ask about my health. I am at present in an “acceptable” state, Meesha. The pains of rheumatism are gone, and the swelling has turned to something opposite. But the ailment has settled in a place deeper than muscles and bones. I have always wondered if I was in a state of health or illness.

  It is a plight, Meesha, to be always between health and illness. It is one of the seasons of my life; and in your life and my life there are winter and spring, and you and I cannot know truly which one is preferable to the other. When we meet again I shall tell you what happened to me, and then you shall know why I once cried out to you, saying, “You have your Lebanon, and I have mine.”

  There is nothing like lemon among all the fruits, and I take lemon every day…. I leave the rest to God!

  I have told you in a previous letter that the doctors warned me against working. Yet there is nothing I can do but work, at least with my mind, or at least for spite … What do you think of a book composed of four stories on the lives of Michelangelo, Shakespeare, Spinoza and Beethoven? What would you say if I showed their achievements to be the unavoidable outcome of pain, ambition, “expatriation” and hope moving in the human heart? What is your opinion of a book of this kind?

  So much for that. But as to the writing of The Garden of the Prophet, it is definitely decided, but I find it wise to get away from the publishers at present.

  My salaams to our beloved brethren. May God keep you a brother to

  GIBRAN

  TO MIKHAIL NAIMY

  Telegram dated

  March 26, 1929

  Dear Meesha:

  I was deeply touched by your telegram. I am better. The return of health will be slow. That is worse than illness. All will be well with me gradually. My love to you and to all our comrades.

  GIBRAN

  TO MIKHAIL NAIMY

  Boston,

  May 22, 1929

  Brother Meesha:

  I feel better today than when I left New York. How great is my need for relaxation far away from the clamorous society and its problems. I shall rest and be away, but I would remain close to you and to my brethren in spirit and love. Do not forget me; keep in touch with me.

  A thousand salaams to you, and Abdul-Masseeh, and to Rasheed and William and Nasseeb and to each one connected with us in Arrabitah.*

  May heaven protect you and bless you, brother.

  GIBRAN

  * Arrabitah means “bond” in Arabic, and since this is a literary society, the meaning here is “pen bond.”

  TO MAY ZIADEH

  1930

  Dear May:

  … I have many things to discuss with you concerning the transparent element and other elements. But I must remain silent and say nothing about them until the cloud is dispersed and the doors of the ages are opened, whereupon the Angel of God will say to me: “Speak, for the days of silence are gone; walk, for you have tarried too long in the shadow of bewilderment.” I wonder when will the doors open so that the cloud may be dispersed!

  … We have already reached the summit, and the plains and the valleys and the forests have appeared before us. Let us rest, May, and talk a while. We cannot remain here long, for I see a higher peak from a distance, and we must reach it before sunset. We have already crossed the mountain road in confusion, and I confess to you that I was in a hurry and not always wise. But isn’t there something in life which the hands of wisdom cannot reach? Isn’t there something which petrifies wisdom? Waiting is the hoofs of time, May, and I am always awaiting that which is unknown to me. It seems sometimes that I am expecting something to happen which has not happened yet. I am like those infirms who used to sit by the lake waiting for the coming of the angel to stir the water for them. Now the angel has already stirred the water, but who is going to drop me in it? I shall walk in that awful and bewitched place with resolution in my eyes and my feet.

  GIBRAN

  TO MAY ZIADEH

  1930

  Dear May:

  … My health at present is worse than it was at the beginning of the summer. The long months which I spent between the sea and the country have prolonged the distance between my body and my spirit. But this strange heart that used to quiver more than one hundred times a minute is now slowing down and is beginning to go back to normal after having ruined my health and affected my well-being. Rest will benefit me in a way, but the doctor’s medicines are to my ailment as the oil to the lamp. I am in no need for the doctors and their remedies, nor for rest and silence. I am in dire need for one who will relieve me by lightening my burden. I am in need of a spiritual remedy—for a helpful hand to alleviate my congested spirit. I am in need of a strong wind that will fell my fruits and my leaves.

  … I am, May, a small volcano whose opening has been closed. If I were able today to write something great and beautiful, I would be completely cured. If I could cry out, I would gain back my health. You may say to me, “Why don’t you write in order to be cured; and why don’t you cry out in order to gain back your health?” And my answer is: I don’t know. I am unable to shout, and this is my very ailment; it’s a spiritual ailment whose symptoms have appeared in the body … You may ask again, “Then what are you doing for this ailment, and what will be the outcome, and how long are you going to remain in this plight?” And I say to you that I shall be cured, and I shall sing my song and rest later, and I shall cry out with a loud voice that will emanate from the depth of my silence. Please, for God’s sake, don’t tell me, “You have sung a lot, and what you have already sung was beautiful.” Don’t mention to me my past deeds, for the remembrance of them makes me suffer, and their triviality turns my blood into a burning fire, and their dryness generates thirst in my heart, and their weakness keeps me up and down one thousand and one times a day. Why did I write all those articles and stories? I was born to live and to write a book—only one small book—I was born to live and suffer and to say one living and winged word, and I cannot remain silent until Life utters that word through my lips. I was unable to do this because I was a prattler. It’s a shame, and I am filled with regret because I remained a chatterbox until my jabbering weakened my strength. And when I became able to utter the first letter of my word, I found myself down on my back with a stone in my mouth … However, my word is still in my heart, and it is a living and a winged word which I must utter in order to remove with its harmony the sins which my jabbering has created.

 
The torch must come forth.

  GIBRAN

  When Felix Farris, a prominent Lebanese writer, heard about his beloved Gibran’s illness, he felt so bad that he forgot about his own illness, and wrote to Gibran the letter which follows. Gibran’s answer is next included.

  FROM FELIX FARRIS

  1930

  … Gibran, my seeing you ill was more painful to me than my own illness. Come let us go to the native land of the body and enliven it there. When the tempest of pain strikes a person, the body longs for its earth and the soul for its substance.

  Come, my brother, let us discard what is broken, and fly away with the unbroken to the place where silence lives. There is a longing in my heart for you like the longing for the place in which I left my heart. There in Beirut, at the harbor, my eyes shall focus upon the heart of the Holy Cedars, the paradise of my country. With you by me, Gibran, my soul would look at its eternal Cedars as if it were on the shore of the true Universe. Let us triumph and remedy our ailments. This civilization which has tired you after many years, has exausted me many months ago. Come, let us withdraw and exploit our suffering under the shade of the Cedars and the pine trees, for there we shall be closer to the earth and nearer to heaven…. My eyes are anxious to see the dust of the earth and all that is within it of importance in the hidden world.

  Believe me, Gibran, I have not seen a blooming flower, nor have I smelled an aromatic scent, nor heard the singing of a nightingale, nor felt the passing of a frolicsome breeze since the last time my eyes saw the Orient, your home and mine.

  Come, let us awaken the dormant pains—come and let the pure skies of your country hear your beautiful songs, and let your brush and pen draw from the original what you are drawing now from the prints of memory.