Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran (74 page)

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.

G
IBRAN

*
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

G
IBRAN

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.

G
IBRAN

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.

G
IBRAN

*
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.

G
IBRAN

TO MAY ZIADEH