Gibran Khalil Gibran

One of the best-selling books of the 20th century is a volume of prose poems on religion, death, love, work, and other subjects bound up with human existence. Entitled 'The Prophet', it was written by Khalil Gibran, an essayist, novelist, and mystic poet whose writings in both Arabic and English have influenced many readers.
Gibran was born at Bsharri, Lebanon, on Jan 6, 1883 After primary schooling in Beirut, he was taken by his parents to Boston in 1895. He returned to Lebanon in 1898 to continue his education. Back in Boston in 1903, he
published his first essays in the Arab immigrant newspaper The Emigrant. At this time he met Mary Haskell, who was to be his sponsor. She provided him with financial support for the rest of his life. In 1912 he settled in New York City, where he devoted himself to writing essays and short stories in Arabic and English. His writings were highly romantic in outlook, dealing primarily with themes of love, nature, and a longing for his homeland. They are all reflective of his deeply religious and mystical outlook. Apart from 'The Prophet', published in 1923, his books in English include 'The Madman' (1918), 'The Forerunner' (1920), 'Sand and Foam' (1926), and 'Jesus, the Son of Man' (1928). Gibran died in New York City on April 10, 1931.


1883
Gubran Kahlil Gubran was born to a Maronite family, in Bsharri, a town at the foot
of Mount Fam al-MIzab, near the Cedar grove in North Lebanon. He was the first
born to his mother from her second marriage, her having previously been a widow
with only one son, Butros.

1885
Birth of his sister Marianna.

1887
Birth of his second sister, Sultana. 1888 Entered a one-class village school where
he learnt the rudiments of Arabic, Syriac, and Arithmetic.

1894
Emigrated with his two sisters and half-brother to Boston, U.S.A. settling in
Chinatown. The father, Khalil Gubran, a tax collector and drunkard stayed behind.

1895
Butros opened a small shop, the family's only source of income, while Gubran
joined a local school where his name was anglicized to Kahlil Gibran.

1897
Showed particular promise in his classes of drawing and painting. Was introduced
to the esoteric Bostonian artist- photographer Fred Holland Day, who was
experimenting with photography as art and in whose studies Gibran was
photographed in various postures, some in the nude. Was sent back to Lebanon,
where he joined al-Hikma high school in Beirut. The program of study laid special
stress on Arabic and French language and literature.

1901
Returned to Boston.

1902
Came back to the Lebanon as an interpreter to an American family touring Europe
and the eastern Mediterranean countries. Hurried back to Boston upon hearing of
the death of his youngest sister, Sultana of tuberculosis.

1903
Struck by two losses: the death of his half-brother Butros from tuberculosis and
that of his mother from cancer.

1904
Held in spring a picture exhibition at Fred Holland Day's Studio.

1905
Published in New York, al-Musiqa (Music), a pamphlet in which he eulogizes
music, in particular Arabic music with its various intonations.

1906
Published in New York 'Ara'is al-Muruj (Nymphs of the Valley), a collection of
three short stories, expressive of his anti-feudal and anti-clerical convictions.

1908
Published in New York, al-Arwah al-Mutamclrrida (Spirits Rebellious), a collection
of four short stories much in the spirit of 'Ara is al-Muruj. Left for Paris to study art
through the generosity of Mary Haskell .

1910
Met in Paris Ameen Rihani who was on his way to New York. The two visited
London together for a few weeks to orient themselves with the art life in the city;
they then departed, Gibran to Paris and Rihani to America. Returned to Boston
after having spent in Paris two years and four months.

1911
Started to spend long intervals in New York City, sometimes staying with the
Rihanis, trying to get introduced to the art and life of the big city and to draw
distinguished personalities for income. He completed the illustrations and cover
picture for Rihani's Book of Khalid. Rented for $20 in New York a small studio at
51 West 10th Street in a building said to be the first in America to be built
exclusively for the use of painters and sculptors.

1912
Became a resident of New York City. Published in New York, al-Ajniha
al-Mutakassira - Broken Wings), a novelette, dedicated to Mary Haskell. His
father died in Lebanon.

1913
Moved to a larger studio, Room 40, in the same building, double the size of the
first, with more windows and light.

1914
Published in New York Dam a wa Ibtisaima (a Tear and a Smile), a collection of
poetic prose pieces verging on the aphoristic . Held an exhibition at the Montross
Galleries on December 14.

1916
Met for the first time, in the offices of al-Funun. Mikhail Naimy, his life long friend
and biographer, who had newly arrived that Autumn from the State of Washington,
to join the young Arabic literary movement in New York.

1918
Published in New York, The Madman, his first work in English, a collection of
parables.

1919
Published in New York, Twenty Drawings, a selected collection of his drawings
with an introduction by Alice Raphael. Published in New York, al-Mawakib (The
Processions), a long Arabic poem in the form of a dialogue between two voices,
one that of a spiritually liberated man and the other of a man in bondage.

1920
Published in Cairo, al-'AuasiJ (The Tempests), a collection of poetico-fictional
pieces and essays characterized by revolt against man the self-enslaved in the
name of man the self- emancipated. Published in New York his second English
work The Forerunner, another collection of parables and sayings. Founded with
other Syrian co-writers and poets in New York a literary society al-Rabita
al-Qalamiyya (The Pen So-ciety), consisting of Gubran as president, Naimy as
secretary, W. Katsiflis as treasurer, and N. 'Arlda, 1. Abu Madl, A.h. Haddad, R.
Ayyub, and N. Haddad as members.

1923
Published in Cairo, al-Bada'i' waal-Tara'if (The New and the Marvellous) a number
of narratives and essays in the style of al-'AuasiJ; collected and named by a
publisher in Egypt with the blessing of Gibran. Published in New York his
chef-d'ceuvre The Prophet. Began to show real signs of ill-health.

1926
Published in New York, Sand and Foam, a collection of parables and aphorisms.

1928
Published in New York, Jesus, The Son of Man, an attempt at portraying Jesus
through a synthesis of different views on Him offered by a number of His
contemporaries, making Him in essence almost a duplicate of Almustapha.

1931
Published in New York, The Earth Gods, a long prose poem consisting of a
dialogue between three Earth-Gods on the destiny of man. Died on April 10, at St.
Vincent Hospital, New York. In the autopsy he is said to have suffered of
"Cirrhosis of the liver with incipient tuberculosis in one of the lungs." His body.
after sometime in Boston, was returned to Lebanon and laid in the chapel of Mar
Sarkis, an old monastery carved in a rock near Bsharrl. Gibran has two works
that were published in New York posthumously: The Wanderer, a collection of
parables published in 1932 and The Garden of The Prophet in 1933.


This latter work, started by Gibran, was continued and concluded after his death
by another pen and should not, therefore, be taken seriously. Al-Majmu'a
al-Kamila li Mu'allafat Gubran Khalil Gubran (The Complete Arabic Works of Kahlil Gibran), organized and introduced by Mikhail Naimy appeared in Beirut, 1961.

His works been translated from the Arabic and published posthumously

1947

Tears and Laughter (Dam'a wa Ibtisama), translated by A.R. Ferris, New York. l948 Nymphs of the Valley ('Ara'isal-Muruj), translated by H.M. Nahmad,
New York. Spirits Rebellious (al-Arwah al-Mutamarrida), translated by
H.M. Nahmad, New York.


1950

A Tear and a Smile (Dam'a wa Ibtisama), translated by H.M.
Nahmad, New York.


1958

The Processions (al-Mawakib), translated by George Khairal-lah, New York.


1959

The Broken Wings (al-Ajniha al-Mutakassira) translated by A.R. Ferris New York

Sand and Foam
"part 1"
by Gibran Khalil Gibran


.
I am forever walking upon these shores,
Betwixt the sand and the foam,
The high tide will erase my foot-prints,
And the wind will blow away the foam.
But the sea and the shore will remain
Forever.



Once I filled my hand with mist.
Then I opened it and lo, the mist was a worm.
And I closed and opened my hand again, and behold there was a bird.
And again I closed and opened my hand, and in its hollow stood a man with a sad face, turned
upward.
And again I closed my hand, and when I opened it there was naught but mist.
But I heard a song of exceeding sweetness.



It was but yesterday I thought myself a fragment quivering without rhythm in the sphere of
life.
Now I know that I am the sphere, and all life in rhythmic fragments moves within me.



They say to me in their awakening, "You and the world you live in are but a grain of sand
upon the infinite shore of an infinite sea."
And in my dream I say to them, "I am the infinite sea, and all worlds are but grains of sand
upon my shore."



Only once have I been made mute. It was when a man asked me, "Who are you?"



The first thought of God was an angel.
The first word of God was a man.



We were fluttering, wandering, longing creatures a thousand thousand years before the sea
and the wind in the forest gave us words. Now how can we express the ancient of days in us
with only the sounds of our yesterdays?



The Sphinx spoke only once, and the Sphinx said, "A grain of sand is a desert, and a desert is
a grain of sand; and now let us all be silent again." I heard the Sphinx, but I did not
understand.



Transfer interrupted!

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Long did I lie in the dust of Egypt, silent and unaware of the seasons.
Then the sun gave me birth, and I rose and walked upon the banks of the Nile,
Singing with the days and dreaming with the nights.
And now the sun threads upon me with a thousand feet that I may lie again in the dust of
Egypt.
But behold a marvel and a riddle!
The very sun that gathered me cannot scatter me.
Still erect am I, and sure of foot do I walk upon the banks of the Nile.



Remembrance is a form of meeting.



Forgetfulness is a form of freedom.



We measure time according to the movement of countless suns; and they measure time by
little machines in their little pockets.

Now tell me, how could we ever meet at the same place and the same time?



Space is not space between the earth and the sun to one who looks down from the windows of
the Milky Way.



Humanity is a river of light running from the ex-eternity to eternity.



Do not the spirits who dwell in the ether envy man his pain?



On my way to the Holy City I met another pilgrim and I asked him, "Is this indeed the way to
the Holy City?"
And he said, "Follow me, and you will reach the Holy City in a day and a night."
And I followed him. And we walked many days and many nights, yet we did not reach the Holy
City.
And what was to my surprise he became angry with me because he had misled me.



Make me, oh God, the prey of the lion, ere You make the rabbit my prey.



One may not reach the dawn save by the path of the night.



My house says to me, "Do not leave me, for here dwells your past."
And the road says to me, "Come and follow me, for I am your future."
And I say to both my house and the road, "I have no past, nor have I a future. If I stay here,
there is a going in my staying; and if I go there is a staying in my going. Only love and death
will change all things."



How can I lose faith in the justice of life, when the dreams of those who sleep upon feathers
are not more beautiful than the dreams of those who sleep upon the earth?



Strange, the desire for certain pleasures is a part of my pain.



Seven times have I despised my soul:
The first time when I saw her being meek that she might attain height.
The second time when I saw her limping before the crippled.
The third time when she was given to choose between the hard and the easy, and she chose
the easy.
The fourth time when she committed a wrong, and comforted herself that others also commit
wrong.
The fifth time when she forbore for weakness, and attributed her patience to strength.
The sixth time when she despised the ugliness of a face, and knew not that it was one of her
own masks.
And the seventh time when she sang a song of praise, and deemed it a virtue.

Sand and Foam
"part 2"
by Gibran Khalil Gibran


.
I AM IGNORANT of absolute truth. But I am humble before my ignorance and therein lies my
honor and my reward.



There is a space between man's imagination and man's attainment that may only be traversed
by his longing.



Paradise is there, behind that door, in the next room; but I have lost the key. Perhaps I have
only mislaid it.



You are blind and I am deaf and dumb, so let us touch hands and understand.



The significance of man is not in what he attains, but rather in what he longs to attain.



Some of us are like ink and some like paper.
And if it were not for the blackness of some of us, some of us would be dumb;
And if it were not for the whiteness of some of us, some of us would be blind.



Give me an ear and I will give you a voice.



Our mind is a sponge; our heart is a stream.
Is it not strange that most of us choose sucking rather than running?



When you long for blessings that you may not name, and when you grieve knowing not the
cause, then indeed you are
growing with all things that grow, and rising toward your greater self.



When one is drunk with a vision, he deems his faint expression of it the very wine.



You drink wine that you may be intoxicated; and I drink that it may sober me from that other
wine.



When my cup is empty I resign myself to its emptiness; but when it is half full I resent its
half-fulness.



The reality of the other person is not in what he reveals to you, but in what he cannot reveal to
you.
Therefore, if you would understand him, listen not to what he says but rather to what he does
not say.



Half of what I say is meaningless; but I say it so that the other half may reach you.



A sense of humour is a sense of proportion.



My loneliness was born when men praised my talkative faults and blamed my silent virtues.



When Life does not find a singer to sing her heart she produces a philosopher to speak her
mind.



A truth is to be known always, to be uttered sometimes.



The real in us is silent; the acquired is talkative.



The voice of life in me cannot reach the ear of life in you; but let us talk that we may not feel
lonely.



When two women talk they say nothing; when one woman speaks she reveals all of life.



Frogs may bellow louder than bulls, but they cannot drag the plough in the field not turn the
wheel of the winepress, and of their skins you cannot make shoes.



Only the dumb envy the talkative.



If winter should say, "Spring is in my heart," who would believe winter?



Every seed is a longing.



Should you really open your eyes and see, you would behold your image in all images.
And should you open your ears and listen, you would hear your own voice in all voices.



It takes two of us to discover truth: one to utter it and one to understand it.



Though the wave of words is forever upon us, yet our depth is forever silent.



Many a doctrine is like a window pane. We see truth through it but it divides us from truth.



Now let us play hide and seek. Should you hide in my heart it would not be difficult to find
you. But should you hide behind your own shell, then it would be useless for anyone to seek
you.



A woman may veil her face with a smile.



How noble is the sad heart who would sing a joyous song with joyous hearts.



He who would understand a woman, or dissect genius, or solve the mystery of silence is the
very man who would wake from a beautiful dream to sit at a breakfast table.


I would walk with all those who walk. I would not stand still to watch the procession passing
by.



You owe more than gold to him who serves you. Give him of your heart or serve him.



Nay, we have not lived in vain. Have they not built towers of our bones?



Let us not be particular and sectional. The poet's mind and the scorpion's tail rise in glory from
the same earth.



Every dragon gives birth to a St. George who slays it.



Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky. We fell them down and turn them into
paper that we may record our
emptiness.



Should you care to write (and only the saints know why you should) you must needs have
knowledge and art and music -- the knowledge of the music of words, the art of being artless,
and the magic of loving your readers.



They dip their pens in our hearts and think they are inspired.



Should a tree write its autobiography it would not be unlike the history of a race.



If I were to choose between the power of writing a poem and the ecstasy of a poem unwritten,
I would choose the ecstasy. It is better poetry. But you and all my neighbors agree that I
always choose badly.



Poetry is not an opinion expressed. It is a song that rises from a bleeding wound or a smiling
mouth.



Words are timeless. You should utter them or write them with a knowledge of their
timelessness