Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran (62 page)

Oh, brother, I feel a gnawing hunger in my heart for the approach of the great works of art, and I have a profound longing for the eternal sayings; however, this hunger and longing come out of a great power that exists in the depth of my heart—a power that wishes to announce itself hurriedly but is unable to do so, for the time has not come, and the people who died on the day of their birth are still walking and standing as a barrier in the way of the living.

My health is, as you know, like a violin in the hands of one that does not know how to play it, for it makes him hear harsh melody. My sentiments are like an ocean with their ebb and flow; my soul is like a quail with broken wings. She suffers immensely when she sees the swarms of birds hovering in the sky, for she finds herself unable to do likewise. But like all other birds, she enjoys the silence of Night, the coming of Dawn, the rays of Sun, and the beauty of the valley. I paint and write now and then, and in the midst of my paintings and writings, I am like a small boat sailing between an ocean of an endless depth and a sky of limitless blue—strange dreams, sublime desires, great hopes, broken and mended thoughts; and between all these there is something which the people call Despair, and which I call Inferno.

G
IBRAN

In the month of May, 1903, Ameen Guraieb, editor and owner of
Almuhager,
daily Arabic newspaper published in New York, visited the city of Boston. Among the people who received Ameen was the young Kahlil Gibran who captured the journalist's regard with his kind manner and intelligence.

The following day Gibran invited Guraieb to his home. He showed him his paintings and presented him with an old notebook in which he had set down his thoughts and meditations. When Ameen saw the paintings and read the poems in the notebook he realized he had discovered a genius artist, poet, and philosopher. Thrilled by his discovery, the journalist offered to Gibran a position as columnist on his daily newspaper.

Thus Ameen Guraieb extracted Kahlil Gibran from his retreat in Boston and introduced him to his Arabic readers. “This newspaper is very fortunate,” said Guraieb in one of his editorials, “to be able to present to the Arabic-speaking world the first literary fruit of a young artist whose drawings are admired by the American public. This young man is Kahlil Gibran of Bsharré, the famous city of the braves. We publish this essay without comments under the caption of
Tears and Laughter,
leaving it up to the readers to judge it according to their tastes.” This was the first time that Gibran saw his name in print in a daily Arabic newspaper.

When Gibran wrote
Spirits Rebellious,
the book containing the story of Rose El Hanie which caused Gibran's expulsion from Lebanon and excommunication from the Church, it was his friend Ameen Guraieb who wrote the preface for the book.

As revealed in the following letter, Gibran's appreciation and love for Ameen went very deep. He wishes his friend
bon voyage
—Ameen was preparing for a trip to Lebanon—and confides in his friend traveling plans of his own.

TO AMEEN GURAIEB

Boston,

Feb. 12,1908

Dear Ameen:

Only my sister Miriana knows something about this bit of news which I am going to tell you and which will make you and your neighbors rather happy: I am going to Paris, the capital of fine arts, in the late part of the coming spring, and I shall remain there one whole year. The twelve months which I am going to spend in Paris will play an important part in my every day life, for the time which I will spend in the City of Light will be, with the help of God, the beginning of a new chapter in the story of my life. I shall join a group of great artists in that great city and work under their supervision and gain a lot from their observation and benefit myself from their constructive criticism in the field of fine arts. It matters not whether they benefit me or not, because after my return from Paris to the United States, my drawings will gain more prestige, which makes the blind-rich buy more of them, not because of their artistic beauty, but because of their being painted by an artist who has spent a full year in Paris among the great European painters.

I never dreamed of this voyage before, and the thought of it never did enter into my mind, for the expense of the trip would make it impossible for a man like me to undertake such a venture. But heaven, my dear Ameen, has arranged for this trip, without my being aware of it, and opened before me the way to Paris. I shall spend one whole cycle of my life there at the expense of heaven, the source of plenty.

And now, since you have heard my story you will know that my stay in Boston is neither due to my love for this city, nor to my dislike for New York. My being here is due to the presence of a she-angel who is ushering me towards a splendid future and paving for me the path to intellectual and financial success. But it makes no difference whether I am in Boston or in Paris,
Almuhager
will remain the paradise in which my soul dwells and the stage upon which my heart dances. My trip to Paris will offer me an opportunity to write about things which I cannot find or imagine in this mechanical and commercial country whose skies are replete with clamor and noise. I shall be enlightened by the social studies which I will undertake in the capital of capitals of the world where Rousseau, Lamartine and Hugo lived; and where the people love art as much as the Americans adore the Almighty Dollar.

During your absence I shall continue to contribute to every issue of
Almuhager.
I shall pour upon its pages all the affections, hopes and ideas that my heart, soul and mind contain. I am not looking forward to receiving any compensation. All I want from you is your friendship. But if you feel like adding a material debt to the many moral debts which I owe you, you may tell your editorial staff to get behind my book
Tears and Laughter
and help me reap the harvest of the many nights I have spent on its writing. Tell them to assist me in selling the book to the Arabic readers and to the merchants in New York and other states. As you know, I cannot promote the book without the help of
Almuhager.

Be at ease and do not occupy your mind with anything other than the joy of seeing your family and beholding the beautiful scenery of Lebanon. You have worked hard enough in the last five years and you deserve a little rest. Let not your worrying about the future interfere with your tranquility. No matter what happens,
Almuhager
will ever remain the pride of all Arabic papers. A message from you, a poem from Assad Rustum, and an article from Gibran every week will be sufficient to open the eyes of the Arab world and direct their attention to Twenty-one Washington Street.
*

Your introduction to my book
Spirits Rebellious
made me happy because it was free from personal comment. Monday I sent you an article for
Almuhager
; has it arrived yet? Write me a few lines in answer to this letter. I shall write you more than one letter before you leave for Lebanon. Let nothing dampen your enthusiasm for your trip. We will be unable to meet and shake hands, but we will join each other in thoughts and spirits. Seven thousand miles are but one mile, and one thousand years are but one year in the eyes of the spirit.

Miriana sends you her regards and wishes you success. May God bless you and bring you back safe to me, and may heaven shower upon you blessings, the amount of which will equal the love and respect I have in my heart for you.

G
IBRAN

*
Address of the office and publishing house of
Almuhager.

It is a custom among the people of the Near East to call each other “brother” or “sister.” Close friends and relatives other than those actually so related are often referred to in this manner.

This letter was written to Nakhli, Gibran's first cousin whom he addresses as brother. Gibran and Nakhli were inseparable companions in their early youth. They lived, slept, played, and ate together in their home town, Bsharré, close by the Holy Cedars of Lebanon.

Peter, Gibran's half-brother, a good singer and lute player, entertained Gibran and Nakhli and took good care of them. When Nakhli left Bsharré for Brazil in search of a livelihood, Gibran kept in close touch with him.

In the following letter, Gibran speaks to Nakhli of his struggles and complains of the Arabic-speaking conservative class which was accusing him of heresy because of their feeling that his writings were poisoning the mind of the youth. Gibran later published a story which he called “Kahlil the Heretic.”

TO NAKHLI GIBRAN

Boston,

March 15,1908

Dear Brother Nakhli:

I have just received your letter which filled my soul with joy and sadness at the same time, for it brought back to my memory pictures of those days that passed like dreams, leaving behind phantoms that come with the daylight and go with the darkness. How did those days undo themselves, and where did those nights, in which Peter lived, go? How did those hours, which Peter filled with his sweet songs and handsomeness pass away? Those days, nights and hours have disappeared like open flowers when dawn descends from the gray sky. I know that you remember those days with pain and I have noticed the phantoms of your affections between the lines of your missive, as if they came from Brazil to restore to my heart the echo of the valleys, the mountains and the rivulets surrounding Bsharré.

Life, my dear Nakhli, is like the seasons of the year. The sorrowful Autumn comes after the joyful Summer, and the raging Winter comes behind the sad Autumn, and the beautiful Spring appears after the passing of the awful Winter. Will the Spring of our life ever return so we may be happy again with the trees, smiling with the flowers, running with the brooks, and singing with the birds like we used to do in Bsharré when Peter was still alive? Will the tempest that dispersed us ever reunite us? Will we ever go back to Bsharré and meet by Saint George Church? I do not know, but I feel that life is a sort of debt and payment. It gives us today in order to take from us tomorrow. Then it gives us again and takes from us anew until we get tired of the giving and receiving and surrender to the final sleep.