Gibran Stories Omnibus

among those who were born dead and who exist
like frozen corpses; but the sensitive boy who feels much and knows
little is the most unfortunate creature under the sun, because he is
torn by two forces. the first force elevates him and shows him the
beauty of existence through a cloud of dreams; the second ties him down
to the earth and fills his eyes with dust and overpowers him with fears
and darkness.
      Solitude has soft, silky hands, but with strong fingers it grasps
the heart and makes it ache with sorrow. Solitude is the ally of sorrow
as well as a companion of spiritual exaltation.
      The boy's soul undergoing the buffeting of sorrow is like a white
lily just unfolding. It trembles before the breeze and opens its heart
to day break and folds its leaves back when the shadow of night comes.
If that boy does not have diversion or friends or companions in his
games his life will be like a narrow prison in which he sees nothing
but spider webs and hears nothing but the crawling of insects.
      That sorrow which obsessed me during my youth was not caused by lack
of amusement, because I could have had it; neither from lack of
friends, because I could have found them. That sorrow was caused by an
inward ailment which made me love solitude. It killed in me the
inclination for games and amusement. It removed from my shoulders the
wings of youth and made me like a pong of water between mountains which
reflects in its calm surface the shadows of ghosts and the colours of
clouds and trees, but cannot find an outlet by which to pass singing to
the sea.
      Thus was my life before I attained the age of eighteen. That year is
like a mountain peak in my life, for it awakened knowledge in me and
made me understand the vicissitudes of mankind. In that year I was
reborn and unless a person is born again his life will remain like a
blank sheet in the book of existence. In that year, I saw the angels of
heaven looking at me through the eyes of a beautiful woman. I also saw
the devils of hell raging in the heart of an evil man. He who does not
see the angels and devils in the beauty and malice of life will be far
removed from knowledge, and his spirit will be empty of affection.
     
     

THE HAND OF DESTINY
         
      In the spring of the that wonderful year, I was in Beirut. The
gardens were full of Nisan flowers and the earth was carpeted with
green grass, and like a secret of earth revealed to Heaven. The orange
trees and apple trees, looking like houris or brides sent by nature to
inspire poets and excite the imagination, were wearing white garments
of perfumed blossoms.
      Spring is beautiful everywhere, but it is most beautiful in Lebanon.
It is a spirit that roams round the earth but hovers over Lebanon,
conversing with kings and prophets, singing with the rives the songs of
Solomon, and repeating with the Holy Cedars of Lebanon the memory of
ancient glory. Beirut, free from the mud of winter and the dust of
summer, is like a bride in the spring, or like a mermaid sitting by the
side of a brook drying her smooth skin in the rays of the sun.
      One day, in the month of Nisan, I went to visit a friend whose home
was at some distance from the glamorous city. As we were conversing, a
dignified man of about sixty-five entered the house. As I rose to greet
him, my friend introduced him to me as Farris Effandi Karamy and then
gave him my name with flattering words. The old man looked at me a
moment, touching his forehead with the ends of his fingers as if he
were trying to regain his memory. Then he smilingly approached me
saying, “ You are the son of a very dear friend of mine, and I am happy
to see that friend in your person.”
      Much affected by his words, I was attracted to him like a bird whose
instinct leads him to his nest before the coming of the tempest. As we
sat down, he told us about his friendship with my father, recalling the
time which they spent together. An old man likes to return in memory to
the days of his youth like a stranger who longs to go back to his own
country. He delights to tell stories of the past like a poet who takes
pleasure in reciting his best poem. He lives spiritually in the past
because the present passes swiftly, and the future seems to him an
approach to the oblivion of the grave. An hour full of old memories
passed like the shadows of the trees over the