Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran (57 page)

I purified my lips with the sacred fire, to speak of Love, but could find no words.

When Love became known to me, the words lapsed into a faint gasping, and the song in my heart into deep silence.

Oh you who asked me about Love, whom I convinced of its mysteries and wonders, now since Love has wrapped me in its veil, I come to ask you about Love's course and merit.

Who can answer my questions? I ask about that which is in me; I seek to be informed about myself.

Who among you can reveal my inner self to myself and my soul to my soul?

Tell me, for Love's sake, what is that flame which burns in my heart and devours my strength and dissolves my will?

What are those hidden soft and rough hands that grasp my soul; what is that wine mixed of bitter joy and sweet pain that suffuses my heart?

What are those wings that hover over my pillow in the silence of Night, and keep me awake, watching no one knows what?

What is the invisible thing I stare at, the incomprehensible thing that I ponder, the feeling that cannot be sensed?

In my sighs is a grief more beautiful than the echo of laughter and more rapturous than joy.

Why do I surrender myself to an unknown power that slays me and revives me until Dawn rises and fills my chamber with its light?

Phantoms of wakefulness tremble between my seared eyelids, and shadows of dreams hover over my stony bed.

What is that which we call Love? Tell me, what is that secret hidden within the ages yet which permeates all consciousness?

What is this consciousness that is at once origin and result of everything?

What is this vigil that fashions from Life and Death a dream, stranger than Life and deeper than Death?

Tell me, friends, is there one among you who would not awake from the slumber of Life if Love touched his soul with its fingertip?

Which one of you would not leave his father and mother at the call of the virgin whom his heart loves?

Who among you would not sail the distant seas, cross the deserts, and climb the topmost peak to meet the woman whom his soul has chosen?

What youth's heart would not follow to the ends of the world the maiden whose aromatic breath, sweet voice, and magic-soft hands have enraptured his soul?

What being would not burn his heart as incense before a god who listens to his supplications and grants his prayer?

Yesterday I stood at the temple door interrogating the passers-by about the mystery and merit of Love.

And before me passed an old man with an emaciated and melancholy face, who sighed and said:

“Love is a natural weakness bestowed upon us by the first man.”

But a virile youth retorted:

“Love joins our present with the past and the future.”

Then a woman with a tragic face sighed and said:

“Love is a deadly poison injected by black vipers, that crawl from the caves of hell. The poison seems fresh as dew and the thirsty soul eagerly drinks it; but after the first intoxication the drinker sickens and dies a slow death.”

Then a beautiful, rosy-cheeked damsel smilingly said:

“Love is wine served by the brides of Dawn which strengthens strong souls and enables them to ascend to the stars.”

After her a black-robed, bearded man, frowning, said:

“Love is the blind ignorance with which youth begins and ends.”

Another, smiling, declared:

“Love is a divine knowledge that enables men to see as much as the gods.”

Then said a blind man, feeling his way with a cane:

“Love is a blinding mist that keeps the soul from discerning the secret of existence, so that the heart sees only trembling phantoms of desire among the hills, and hears only echoes of cries from voiceless valleys.”

A young man, playing on his viol, sang:

“Love is a magic ray emitted from the burning core of the soul and illuminating the surrounding earth. It enables us to perceive Life as a beautiful dream between one awakening and another.”

And a feeble ancient, dragging his feet like two rags, said, in quavering tones:

“Love is the rest of the body in the quiet of the grave, the tranquility of the soul in the depth of Eternity.”

And a five-year-old child, after him, said laughing:

“Love is my father and mother, and no one knows Love save my father and mother.”

And so, all who passed spoke of Love as the image of their hopes and frustrations, leaving it a mystery as before.

Then I heard a voice within the temple:

“Life is divided into two halves, one frozen, the other aflame; the burning half is Love.”

Thereupon I entered the temple, kneeling, rejoicing, and praying:

“Make me, O Lord, nourishment
     for the blazing flame …
Make me, O God, food for the
     sacred fire … Amen.”

Narcotics and Dissecting Knives

“He is excessive and fanatic to the point of madness. Though he is an idealist, his literary aim is to poison the mind of the youths…. If men and women were to follow Gibran's counsels on marriage, family ties would break, society would perish, and the world would become an inferno peopled by demons and devils.

“His style is seductively beautiful, magnifying the danger of this inveterate enemy of mankind. Our counsel to the inhabitants of this blessed Mountain (Mount Lebanon) is to reject the insidious teachings of this anarchist and heretic and to burn his books, that his doctrines may not lead the innocent astray. We have read
The Broken Wings
and found it to be honeyed poison.”

Such is what people say of me and they are right, for I am indeed a fanatic and I am inclined toward destruction as well as construction. There is hatred in my heart for that which my detractors sanctify, and love for that which they reject. And if I could uproot certain customs, beliefs, and traditions of the people, I would do so without hesitation. When they said my books were poison, they were speaking truth about themselves, for what I say is poison to them. But they falsified when they said I mix honey into it, for I apply the poison full strength and pour it from transparent glass. Those who call me an idealist becalmed in clouds are the very ones who turn away from the transparent glass they call poison, knowing that their stomachs cannot digest it.

This may sound truculent, but is not truculence preferable to seductive pretense?

The people of the Orient demand that the writer be like a bee always making honey. They are gluttonous for honey and prefer it to all other food.

The people of the Orient want their poet to burn himself as incense before their sultans. The Eastern skies have become sickly with incense yet the people of the Orient have not had enough.

They ask the world to learn their history, to study their antiquities, customs and traditions, and acquire their languages. They also expect those who know them not to repeat the words of Baidaba the Philosopher, Ben Rished, Ephraim Al-Syriani, and John of Damascus.

In brief, the people of the Orient seek to make their past a justification and a bed of ease. They shun positive thinking and positive teachings and any knowledge of reality that might sting them and awake them from their slumber.

The Orient is ill, but it has become so inured to its infirmities that it has come to see them as natural and even noble qualities that distinguish them above others. They consider one who lacks such qualities as incomplete and unfit for the divine gift of perfection.

Numerous are the social healers in the Orient, and many are their patients who remain uncured but appear eased of their ills because they are under the effects of social narcotics. But these tranquilizers merely mask the symptoms.

Such narcotics are distilled from many sources but the chief is the Oriental philosophy of submission to Destiny (the act of God). Another source is the cowardice of the social physicians who fear to aggravate pain by administration of drastic medicine.

Here are some samples of these social tranquilizers:

A husband and wife, for substantial reasons, find that hate has replaced love between them. After long mutual torment they separate. Immediately their parents meet and work out some agreement for the reconciliation of the estranged couple. First they ply the wife with falsehoods, then they work on the husband with similar deceits. Neither is convinced, but they are shamed into a pretense of peace. This cannot endure; soon the effects of the social narcotics have worn off, and the miserable pair return for further doses.

Or a group or party revolts against a despotic government and advocates political reforms to free the oppressed from their shackles. They distribute manifestoes and deliver fiery speeches and publish stinging articles. But a month later, we hear that the government has either imprisoned the leader or silenced him by giving him an important position. And nothing more is heard.

Or a sect rebels against its religious leader, accusing him of misdeeds and threatening to adopt another religion, more humane and free of superstition. But shortly we hear that the wise men of the country have reconciled the shepherd and the flock, through the application of social narcotics.

When a weak man complains of oppression by a strong, his neighbor will quieten him, “Hush, the eye of the stubborn seer cannot withstand the blow of the spear.”

When a villager doubts the holiness of the priest, he will be told, “Listen only to his teaching and disregard his shortcomings and misdeeds.”

When a teacher rebukes a student, he will say, “The excuses that a lazy youth invents are often worse than the crime.”

If a daughter refuses to adhere to her mother's customs, the mother will say, “The daughter is not better than the mother; she should follow in her mother's footsteps.”

Should a young man ask a priest to enlighten him about an ancient rite, the preacher will reprove him, “Son, he who does not look at religion with the eyes of Faith, will see nothing save mist and smoke.”

Thus the Orient lies upon its soft bed. The sleeper wakes for an instant when stung by a flea, and then resumes his narcotic slumber.

Whoever tries to awaken him is berated as a rude person who neither sleeps himself nor lets others sleep. Shutting their eyes again, they whisper into the ears of their souls, “He is an infidel poisoning the mind of the youths and undermining the foundation of the ages.”

Many times I have asked my soul, “Am I one of those awakened rebels who reject narcotics?” And my soul answered with cryptic words. But hearing my name and principles reviled, I was assured that I was awake and could count myself among those who do not surrender themselves to pipe dreams, that I belong with the strong-hearted who walk narrow and thorny paths where flowers are also to be found, amidst howling wolves—and singing nightingales.

If awakening were a virtue, modesty would prevent me from claiming it. But it is not a virtue, but a reality that appears suddenly to those who have the strength to rise. To be modest in speaking truth is hypocrisy. Alas that the people of the Orient call it education.

I will not be surprised if the “thinkers” say of me, “He is a man of excess who looks upon life's seamy side and reports nothing but gloom and lamentation.”

To them I declare, “I deplore our Oriental urge to evade the reality of weakness and sorrow.

“I grieve that my beloved country sings, not in joy, but to still the quakings of fear.

“In battling evil, excess is good; for he who is moderate in announcing the truth is presenting half-truth. He conceals the other half out of fear of the people's wrath.

“I loathe the carrion mind; its stench upsets my stomach. I will not serve it with sweets and cordials.

“Yet I will gladly exchange my outcries for cheerful laughter, speak eulogies instead of indictments, replace excess with moderation, provided you show me a just governor, a lawyer of integrity, a religious hierarch who practices what he preaches, a husband who looks upon his wife with the same eyes as he looks upon himself.

“If you prefer me to dance, to blow the trumpet or beat the drum, invite me to a wedding feast and lead me out of the graveyard.”