Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran (68 page)

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

G
IBBAN

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.

G
IBRAN

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 quivering 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?”

G
IBRAN

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

G
IBRAN

TO MIKHAIL NAIMY