Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran (52 page)

And what of those gabbers who are like ringing bells calling the people to worship but who never enter the church.

There are still more tribes and clans of gabbers, but they are too many to enumerate. Of these the strangest, in my opinion, is a sleeping denomination whose members trouble the universe with their snoring and awaken themselves, from time to time, to say, “How erudite we are!”

Having expressed my abhorrence of Mister Gabber and his comrades, I find myself like the doctor who cannot heal himself, or like a convict preaching to his cellmates. I have satirized Mister Gabber and his gabbing friends—with my own gabbing. I have fled from gabbers but I am one of them.

Will God ever forgive my sins before He blesses me and places me in the world of Thought, Truth, and Affection, where gabbers do not exist?

In the Dark Night

Written in World War I during the famine in Lebanon

In the dark night we call to one another and cry for help, while the ghost of Death stands in our midst stretching his black wings over us and, with his iron hands, pushes our souls into the abyss.

In the dark night Death strides on and we follow him frightened and moaning. Not one of us is capable of halting the fateful procession or even nourishing a hope of its end.

In the dark night Death walks and we walk behind him. And when he looks backward, hundreds of souls fall down on both sides of the road. And he who falls, sleeps and never awakens. And he who keeps his footing marches on fearfully in the dread certainty of falling later and joining those who have yielded to Death and entered the eternal sleep. But Death marches on, gazing at the distant Evening Twilight.

In the dark night the brother calls his brother, the father his son, and the mother her children; but the pangs and torments of hunger afflict us equally.

But Death does not hunger or thirst. He devours our souls and bodies, drinks our blood and tears and is never sated.

During the first part of the night the child calls his mother saying, “I am hungry, mother,” and the mother replies, “Wait a while, my child.”

In the second part of the night the child repeats, “I am hungry, mother, give me some bread,” and the mother answers him, saying, “I have no bread, my beloved child.”

In the third part of the night Death arrives and smites both the mother and the child with his wings and they both sleep eternally by the side of the road. And Death marches on, gazing at the distant Evening Twilight.

In the morn the husband goes to the field in search of nourishment, but he finds naught in it save dust and stones.

At noontide he returns to his wife and children pale, weak, and empty-handed.

And at eventide Death arrives and the husband, his wife, and children lie in eternal sleep. And he laughs and marches on toward the distant Evening Twilight.

In the morn the farmer leaves his hut for the city, carrying in his pocket his mother's and sisters' jewelry to exchange for bread. At eventide he returns without bread and without jewels, to find his mother and sisters sunk into eternal sleep, their eyes staring at nothingness. Whereupon he lifts his arms toward heaven and drops like a bird shot by a merciless hunter.

And Death, seeing the farmer, his mother and sisters beguiled to eternal sleep by the evil angel, laughs again and marches on toward the distant Evening Twilight.

Oh, you who walk in the light of the day, we call you from the endless dark of the night. Do you hear our cries?

We have sent to you the spirits of our dead as our apostles. Have you heeded the apostles' word?

We have burdened the East Wind with our gasps. Has the Wind reached your distant shores to unload his burden in your hands? Are you aware of our misery? Have you thought of coming to our rescue? Or have you hugged to yourselves your peace and comfort, saying, “What can the sons of the light do for the sons of the dark? Let the dead bury their dead and God's will be done.”

Yes, let God's will be done. But can you not raise yourselves above yourselves so that God may make you instruments of His will and use you for our aid?

In the dark night we call one another.

The brother calls his brother, the mother her daughter, the man his wife, and the lover his beloved.

And when our voices mingle together and reach the heart of heaven, Death pauses and laughs, then mocks us and marches on, gazing at the distant Evening Twilight.

The Silver-Plated Turd

S
ILMAN EFFANDI
is a well-dressed man, tall and handsome, thirty-five years of age. He curls his mustaches and wears silk socks and patent-leather shoes. In his soft and delicate hand he carries a gold-headed and bejewelled walking stick. He eats in the most expensive restaurants where the fashionable forgather. In his magnificent carriage, drawn by thoroughbreds, he rides through the upper-class boulevards.

Silman Effandi's wealth was not inherited from his father, who (may his soul rest in peace) was a poor man. Neither did Silman Effandi amass wealth by shrewd and persevering business activities. He is lazy and hates to work, regarding any form of labor as degrading.

Once we heard him say, “My physique and temperament unfit me for work; work is meant for those with sluggish character and brutish body.”

Then how did Silman attain his riches? By what magic was the dirt in his hands transformed into gold and silver? This is a secret hidden in a silver-plated turd which Azrael, the angel of Death, has revealed to us, and we in turn shall reveal it to you:

Five years ago Silman Effandi married the lady Faheema, widow of Betros Namaan, famous for his honesty, perseverence, and hard work.

Faheema was then forty-five years of age, but only sweet sixteen in her thoughts and behavior. She now dyes her hair and by the use of cosmetics deludes herself that she remains young and beautiful. She does not see Silman, her young husband, except after midnight when he vouchsafes her a scornful look and some vulgarities and abuse by way of conversation. This entitles him, he believes, to spend the money which her first husband earned by the sweat of his brow.

A
DEEB
E
FFANDI
is a young man, twenty-seven years of age, blessed with a big nose, small eyes, dirty face and ink-spotted hands with filth-encrusted fingernails. His clothes are frayed and adorned with oil, grease and coffee stains.

His ugly appearance is not due to Adeeb Effandi's poverty but to his preoccupation with spiritual and theological ideas. He often quotes Ameen El Jundy's saying that a scholar cannot be both clean and intelligent.

In his incessant talk Adeeb Effandi has nothing to say except to deliver judgment on others. On investigation, we found that Adeeb Effandi had spent two years in a school at Beirut studying rhetoric. He wrote poems, essays, and articles, which never saw print. His reasons for failing to achieve publication are the degeneration of the Arabic press and the ignorance of the Arabic reading public.

Recently Adeeb Effandi has been occupying himself with the study of the old and new philosophy. He admires Socrates and Nietzsche, and relishes the sayings of Saint Augustine as well as Voltaire and Rousseau. At a wedding party we heard him discussing Hamlet; but his talk was a soliloquy, for the others preferred to drink and sing.

On another occasion, at a funeral, the subjects of his talk were the love poems of Ben Al Farid and the wine-ism of Abi Nawaas. But the mourners ignored him, being oppressed by grief.

Why, we often wonder, does Adeeb Effandi exist? What use are his rotting books and his parchments falling into dust? Would it not be better for him to buy himself an ass and become a healthy and useful ass-driver?

This is a secret hidden in the silver-plated turd revealed to us by Baal-Zabul and we in turn shall now reveal it to you:

Three years ago Adeeb Effandi composed a poem in praise of His Excellency, Bishop Joseph Shamoun. His Excellency placed his hand on the shoulder of Adeeb Effandi, smiled and said, “Bravo, my son, God bless you! I have no doubt about your intelligence; some day you will be among the great men of the East.”

F
AREED
B
EY
D
AVIS
is a man in his late thirties, tall, with a small head and large mouth, narrow forehead and a bald pate. He walks with a pompous rolling gait, swelling his chest and stretching his long neck like a camel.

From his loud voice and his haughty manner you might imagine him (provided you had not met him before) the minister of a great empire, absorbed in public affairs.

But Fareed has nothing to do aside from enumerating and glorifying the deeds of his ancesters. He is fond of citing exploits of famous men, and deeds of heroes such as Napoleon and Antar. He is a collector of weapons of which he has never learned the use.

One of his sayings is that God created two different classes of people: the leaders and those who serve them. Another is that the people are like stubborn asses who do not stir unless you whip them. Another, that the pen was meant for the weak and the sword for the strong.

What prompts Fareed to boast of his ancestry and behave as he does? This is a secret hidden in the silver-plated turd which Satanael has revealed to us, and we, in turn, reveal to you:

In the third decade of the nineteenth century when Emeer Basheer, the great Governor of Mount Lebanon, was passing with his retinue through the Lebanese valleys, they approached the village in which Mansour Davis, Fareed's grandfather lived. It was an exceedingly hot day, and the Emeer dismounted from his horse and ordered his men to rest in the shadow of an oak tree.

Mansour Davis, discovering the Emeer's presence, called the neighboring farmers, and the good news spread through the village. Led by Mansour the villagers brought baskets of grapes and figs, and jars of honey, wine and milk for the Emeer. When they reached the oak tree, Mansour kneeled before the Emeer and kissed the hem of his robe. Then he stood up and killed a sheep in the Emeer's honor, saying, “The sheep is from thy bounty, oh Prince and protector of our lives.” The Emeer, pleased with such hospitality, said to him, “Henceforth you shall be the mayor of this village which I will exempt from taxes for this year.”