Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran (70 page)

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.

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

G
IBRAN

*
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

G
IBRAN

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

G
IBRAN

*
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.