I think he has been misunderstood in the West. He is certainly not a bubblehead, in fact his writings in Arabic are in a very sophisticated style. It is strange to teach English literature and ignore a literary phenomenon. Gibran was a painter as well as a writer by training and was schooled in the symbolist tradition in Paris in He mixed with the intellectual elite of his time, including figures such as WB Yeats, Carl Jung and August Rodin, all of whom he met and painted.
Symbolists such as Rodin and the English poet and artist William Blake, who was a big influence on Gibran, favoured romance over realism and it was a movement that was already passe in the s as modernists such as TS Eliot and Ezra Pound were gaining popularity. He painted more than pictures, watercolours and drawings but because most of his paintings were shipped back to Lebanon after his death, they have been overlooked in the West.
He is now a major figure in English literature. So the fact that a writer is not taken seriously by the critics is no indication of the value of the work".
In Lebanon, where he was born, he is still celebrated as a literary hero. His style, which broke away from the classical school, pioneered a new Romantic movement in Arabic literature of poetic prose.
In the Arab world, Gibran is regarded as a rebel, both in a literary and political sense. He emigrated to the US at 12 but returned to study in Lebanon three years later where he witnessed injustices suffered by peasants at the hands of their Ottoman rulers.
And she was a seeress. And he looked upon her with exceeding tenderness, for it was she who had first sought and believed in him when he had been but a day in their city.
Prophet of God, in quest of the uttermost, long have you searched the distances for your ship. Deep is your longing for the land of your memories and the dwelling place of your greater desires; and our love would not bind you nor our needs hold you. And we will give it unto our children, and they unto their children, and it shall not perish. In your aloneness you have watched with our days, and in your wakefulness you have listened to the weeping and the laughter of our sleep.
Now therefore disclose us to ourselves, and tell us all that has been shown you of that which is between birth and death. People of Orphalese, of what can I 15 speak save of that which is even now moving within your souls?
And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said:. For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning. Even as he ascends to your height and 16 caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,. Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.
And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course. To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips. Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far. For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable. For what are your possessions but things you keep and guard for fear you may need them tomorrow? And tomorrow, what shall tomorrow bring to the overprudent dog burying bones in the trackless sand as he follows the pilgrims to the holy city?
There are those who give little of the 24 much which they have—and they give it for recognition and their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome. These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is never empty.
And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue;. Through the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth. It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give unasked, through understanding;. And to the open-handed the search for 25 one who shall receive is joy greater than giving.
Surely he who is worthy to receive his days and his nights, is worthy of all else from you. And he who has deserved to drink from the ocean of life deserves to fill his cup from your little stream. And what desert greater shall there be, than that which lies in the courage and the confidence, nay the charity, of receiving?
And who are you that men should rend 26 their bosom and unveil their pride, that you may see their worth naked and their pride unabashed?
For in truth it is life that gives unto life—while you, who deem yourself a giver, are but a witness. And you receivers—and you are all receivers—assume no weight of gratitude, lest you lay a yoke upon yourself and upon him who gives. For to be overmindful of your debt, is ito doubt his generosity who has the freehearted earth for mother, and God for father.
Would that you could live on the fragrance of the earth, and like an air plant be sustained by the light. And let your board stand an altar on which the pure and the innocent of forest and plain are sacrificed for that which is purer and still more innocent in man. Your blood and my blood is naught but the sap that feeds the tree of heaven. And your fragrance shall be my breath, And together we shall rejoice through all the seasons.
And in the autumn, when you gather the grapes of your vineyards for the winepress, say in your heart,. And in winter, when you draw the wine, 29 let there be in your heart a song for each cup;. And let there be in the song a remembrance for the autumn days, and for the vineyard, and for the winepress. When you work you are a flute through whose heart the whispering of the hours turns to music.
Which of you would be a reed, dumb and silent, when all else sings together in unison? But if you in your pain call birth an affliction and the support of the flesh a curse written upon your brow, then I answer that naught but the sweat of your brow shall wash away that which is written. You have been told also that life is darkness, and in your weariness you echo what was said by the weary.
And when you work with love you bind 32 yourself to yourself, and to one another, and to God. It is to weave the cloth with threads drawn from your heart, even as if your beloved were to wear that cloth. It is to build a house with affection, even as if your beloved were to dwell in that house. It is to sow seeds with tenderness and reap the harvest with joy, even as if your beloved were to eat the fruit.
But I say, not in sleep but in the overwakefulness of noontide, that the wind speaks not more sweetly to the giant oaks than to the least of all the blades of grass;. And he alone is great who turns the voice of the wind into a song made sweeter by his own loving. And if you cannot work with love but only with distaste, it is better that you should leave your work and sit at the gate of the temple and take alms of those who work with joy.
And if you grudge the crushing of the grapes, your grudge distils a poison in the wine. And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears. And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy. When you are sorrowful look again in 36 your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall. Build of your imaginings a bower in the wilderness ere you build a house within the city walls. For even as you have home-comings in your twilight, so has the wanderer in you, the ever distant and alone.
It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night; and it is not dreamless. Does not your house dream? Would that I could gather your houses into my hand, and like a sower scatter them in forest and meadow. Would the valleys were your streets, and the green paths your alleys, that you 38 might seek one another through vineyards, and come with the fragrance of the earth in your garments.
In their fear your forefathers gathered you too near together. And that fear shall endure a little longer. A little longer shall your city walls separate your hearths from your fields.
And tell me, people of Orphalese, what have you in these houses? And what is it you guard with fastened doors? Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain?
Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that 39 enters the house a guest, and then becomes a host, and then a master? Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires.
It lulls you to sleep only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh. It makes mock of your sound senses, and lays them in thistledown like fragile vessels. Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral. But you, children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not be trapped nor tamed. It shall not be a glistening film that 40 covers a wound, but an eyelid that guards the eye.
You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through doors, nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling, nor fear to breathe lest walls should crack and fall down. And though of magnificence and splendour, your house shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longing. For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky, whose door is the morning mist, and whose windows are the songs and the silences of night.
And though you seek in garments the freedom of privacy you may find in them a harness and a chain. Would that you could meet the sun and the wind with more of your skin and less of your raiment,. And when his work was done he laughed in the forest. And when the unclean shall be no more, what were modesty but a fetter and a fouling of the mind? And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair. To you the earth yields her fruit, and you shall not want if you but know how to fill your hands.
It is in exchanging the gifts of the earth that you shall find abundance and be satisfied. Yet unless the exchange be in love and kindly justice, it will but lead some to greed and others to hunger. When in the market place you toilers of the sea and fields and vineyards meet the weavers and the potters and the gatherers of spices,—. Invoke then the master spirit of the earth, to come into your midst and sanctify the scales and the reckoning that weighs value against value.
And if there come the singers and the dancers and the flute players,—buy of their gifts also. For they too are gatherers of fruit and frankincense, and that which they bring, though fashioned of dreams, is raiment and food for your soul. And before you leave the market place, see that no one has gone his way with empty hands.
For the master spirit of the earth shall not sleep peacefully upon the wind till the needs of the least of you are satisfied. That you, alone and unguarded, commit a wrong unto others and therefore unto yourself.
And for that wrong committed must you knock and wait a while unheeded at the gate of the blessed. It knows not the ways of the mole nor seeks it the holes of the serpent. But a shapeless pigmy that walks asleep in the mist searching for its own awakening. For it is he and not your god-self nor the pigmy in the mist, that knows crime and the punishment of crime. Oftentimes have I heard you speak of one who commits a wrong as though he were not one of you, but a stranger unto you and an intruder upon your world.
But I say that even as the holy and the righteous cannot rise beyond the highest which is in each one of you,. So the wicked and the weak cannot fall lower than the lowest which is in you also.
And as a single leaf turns not yellow but with the silent knowledge of the whole tree, 47 So the wrong-doer cannot do wrong without the hidden will of you all. And when one of you falls down he falls for those behind him, a caution against the stumbling stone. New York was where the action was. Clearly, he had another purpose as well: to get away from Haskell. He also needed to unload Marianna. If he was to become a major artist, how was he going to explain that he lived with this illiterate woman who followed him around the house with a dust rag?
And so, in , throwing off the two women who had supported him through his early period, Gibran moved to New York, and to his middle period. Haskell paid the rent, of course. After a few years in New York, during which he published two more books in Arabic, Gibran made a serious decision: he was going to begin writing in English. When they were apart, he sent her his manuscripts, and she sent back corrections.
When they were together—she visited him often sleeping elsewhere —he dictated his work to her. She probably made substantial changes in his later work as well. Proud of this responsible role in his life, she gave up hoping for more.
In , with no objections from Gibran, she married a rich relative. Until he died, she edited all his English-language books. At the opening of the book, we are told that Almustafa, a holy man, has been living in exile, in a city called Orphalese, for twelve years.
A ship is now coming to take him back to the island of his birth. Saddened by his departure, people gather around and ask him for his final words of wisdom—on love, on work, on joy and sorrow, and so forth. He obliges, and his lucubrations on these matters occupy most of the book.
Who, these days, would say otherwise? If you look closely, though, you will see that much of the time he is saying something specific; namely, that everything is everything else. Freedom is slavery; waking is dreaming; belief is doubt; joy is pain; death is life.
Such paradoxes, which Gibran had used for years to keep Haskell out of his bed, now became his favorite literary device. They appeal not only by their seeming correction of conventional wisdom but also by their hypnotic power, their negation of rational processes. Also, the book sounds religious, which it is, in a way.
Gibran was familiar with Buddhist and Muslim holy books, and above all with the Bible, in both its Arabic and King James translations. Those paradoxes of his come partly from the Sermon on the Mount.
Nor is the spirit of the sixties gone from our world. Reportedly, the book is popular in prisons. And, since the text is in small, detachable sections, you can make it even shorter, by just dipping into it here and there, as some people do with the Bible. My guess is that plenty of its fans have not read it from cover to cover. That, no doubt, is because it lacks the something-for-everyone quality of its predecessor. Also, it is not a book of advice or consolation.
It is a novel of sorts, a collection of seventy-nine statements by people remembering Christ. Some of the speakers are known to us—Pontius Pilate, Mary Magdalene—but others are inventions: a Lebanese sheepherder, a Greek apothecary. They all speak as if they were being interviewed. Though Gibran thought of himself as an admirer of all religions, he had an obsession with Jesus.
He told Haskell that Jesus came to him in dreams. Thy will be done with us, even as in space. Much of the book transcends such follies, however. Also, however much he imagined himself as Jesus, in this book alone he drops the oracular tone that is so oppressive in the rest of his work. A number of the speakers have complaints about Jesus. I loved him and I shall love him forevermore.
If love were in the flesh I would burn it out with hot irons and be at peace. But it is in the soul, unreachable. And now I would speak no more. Go question another woman more honored than the mother of Judas.
Go to the mother of Jesus. While the literary journals paid some attention to Gibran early on, they eventually dropped him. This is no surprise. His leading traits—idealism, vagueness, sentimentality—were exactly what the young writers of the twenties were running away from.
He seldom turns up in literary memoirs of the period. But, if the artists of the time were throwing off idealism and sentiment, ordinary people were not. They wanted to hear about their souls, and Sinclair Lewis was not obliging them.
After its publication, Gibran received bags of fan mail.
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