And these are often presented in the captivating literary form of the parable, peculiarly a heritage of the ancient Aramaic tradition.

His sentiments herein give new force to his other great works, for all possess the power and effectiveness of his one enormous theme. They stress the generally understood, yet completely ignored fact that but few things in life have real importance. Again and again this Lebanese savant reminds us that if human relationships are wrong, no other factors of life can really matter. For what power, or wealth, or prestige can compensate for the silent agony of the heart’s bereavement? In what fashion can existence on earth be fulfilled when love departs or friendship withers? The bonds of a common brotherhood without demarcation, no less than personal and family ties, must be strengthened if, individually and collectively, we are to meet competently the challenge of progress—or even of survival itself.

Gibran drives these teachings forcefully to the heart, and they persist in agitating the heart to complete accord. Like Beethoven’s deathless music, of which the composer said, “From the heart it has sprung, and to the heart it shall penetrate,” these writings, through their own rich sincerity, reach the deepest recesses of our emotional and spiritual awareness.

Among the outstanding pieces in this volume is the strangely gripping story The Bride’s Bed (Book Seven), actually an eye-witness account of the incident related. Its theme is not new to the great number of readers and students of Gibran, for the vicious inequality of man and woman had long been the object of his strongest literary attacks.* One of the world’s most fervent and outspoken champions of the cause of human rights, Gibran had waged a long and bitter struggle to strengthen the recognition of youth’s freedom of action in love, and to abolish from the social structure of the Middle East some of the ancient marriage customs prevailing. Particularly intense was his condemnation of the tradition of prearranged marriages of children by their parents, in complete disregard of the wishes and reactions of those so betrothed. It is a matter of common knowledge that these transactions often took place when the children concerned were scarcely old enough to walk, much less realize the enormous significance of the steps then planned irrevocably for them.

The ill-fated Lyla in this story, with courageous, anguished heroism, broke in unrestrained fury from this custom, bringing upon herself—fully anticipated—consequences so tragic, so far-reaching as to establish beyond question the widespread, deep-rooted nature of this practice in all of its personal, social, political, and ironically enough, even religious ramifications. Examine, for instance, the words of the priest addressed to the throng gathered about the lifeless bodies of the bride and the man she had really loved:

Cursed are the hands that touch these blood-spattered carcasses that are soaked with sin. And cursed are the eyes that shed tears of sorrow upon these two evil souls. Let the corpse of the son of Sodom and that of the daughter of Gomorrah remain lying in this diseased spot until the beasts devour their flesh and the wind scatters their bones. Go back to your homes and flee from the pollution of these sinners! Disperse now, before the flames of hell sting you, and he who remains here shall be cursed and excommunicated from the church and shall never again enter the temple and join the Christians in offering prayers to God!

It is a story of truth, of bravery, of all humanity’s interest, going to the very core of individual liberty. It is recognized conclusively by authorities the world over that Gibran, through the knife-edged attacks of this story and others,* was largely responsible for many of the social, political and religious reforms finally undertaken by the rulers of the East.

Gibran’s doctrine is of kindness, of brotherhood, and of charity and he requires but few words to transmit great thoughts. On charity he discloses:

I sing the praise of my home and long to see again my birthplace but if it refused shelter and food to the needy wayfarer, I would, in my inner voice, convert my praise into anger, and my longing into forgetfulness.

And again:

Remember, my brother, that the coin which you drop into the withered hand stretching toward you is the only golden chain that binds your rich heart to the loving heart of God.

On brotherhood:

Love is stronger than death, and death is stronger than life; it is sad that men divide amongst themselves.

He adds:

Humanity is the spirit of the Supreme Being on earth, and humanity is standing amidst unseen ruins, hiding its nakedness behind tattered rags, shedding tears upon hollow cheeks, calling for its children in pitiful voice. But the children are busy singing the anthem; they are busy sharpening the swords and cannot hear the cries of their mothers.

Small wonder that the present world gives heed to Gibran in its acute difficulty! His thoughts are ageless, and the real, the essential Gibran will live on and grow through the centuries.

On a level with Gibran’s desire to bring to the world his strong but simple philosophy of life and death, was his burning ambition to revolutionize and give impetus to the previously neglected and unrecognized Arabic contribution to world literature. With his close friend and associate, Mikhail Naimy, he was instrumental in maintaining the journalistic endeavor known as Al-Funoon (The Arts), conceived and launched by Nasseeb Ariba. However, the years embracing World War I saw both its inception and demise, despite all efforts of its few supporters to see it through. Somewhat earlier, Gibran had enthusiastically created a literary enterprise which he had called The Seven Arts, essentially an organ of poetry. Although it, too, was but a short-lived proposition, it nevertheless served as the instrument which carried Gibran’s name to various art organizations, among them the important Poetry Society which invited him to read some of his works to its membership body at a special gathering. He emerged from the meeting with uncontrolled bitterness and resentment, for the literati had received him and his carefully prepared work with nothing short of unconcealed mockery.

He neither despaired nor relented, nor acknowledged defeat. On the contrary, he resorted to his pen—his closest friend in moments of travail—and composed his now famous prose-poem Defeat,* in which he converted his failure into a sword with which to avenge his assailants:

Defeat, my Defeat, my shining sword and shield,

In your eyes I have read

That to be enthroned is to be enslaved,

And to be understood is to be leveled down,

And to be grasped is but to reach one’s fulness

And like a ripe fruit to fall and be consumed.

Defeat, my Defeat, my deathless courage,

You and I shall laugh together with the storm,

And together we shall dig graves

For all that die in us,

And we shall stand in the sun with a will,

And we shall be dangerous.

This incident may have provoked (at least in part) the unorthodox writings that followed. In this broad segment of his literary creations he worships the poor, the meek, the downtrodden; he brings down heavens of wrath and invective upon exploiters, unsympathetic rulers, and grasping officials—political, ecclesiastical, and others. He adores simplicity; he deplores the complications growing alongside the “advances” of our civilization. He finds freshness and freedom in the field; * he discovers only stifling nothingness in the city streets. He gives his words and thoughts of beauty to the fellahin, to the ignorant, to the sad; he casts his unleashed vituperation upon those employing improper use of power and position.

The painful death-by-starvation of both The Seven Arts and Al-Funoon, and the threadbare struggle of the one remaining Arab voice in America, As-Sayeh (The Traveler), left burning all the stronger the desire—the desperate need—to establish an Arab-American publication which would close the abysmal gap between East and West through the great medium of literature.

On April 20, 1920, a serious group of ten writers of Arabic descent met at Gibran’s studio in New York, and remained in almost endless session fostering the birth of what was to become Arrabitah (The Pen Bond). This weary but enthusiastic nucleus included Kahlil Gibran, Nasseeb Ariba, Rasheed Ayoub, William Catzelflis, Mikhail Naimy,* Abdul-Masseeh Haddad, Nadra Haddad, and Elias Atallah. Its purposes, according to the manuscript of the secretary’s notes made that night, were: (1) to publish the works of its own members and those of other Arab writers considered worthy, and to encourage the translation of masterpieces of world literature; (2) to foster new talent by offering prizes for the best in poetry and prose. (It might be added parenthetically that the only available “prize” was probably a subscription to the publication.)

As his preliminary contribution, Gibran painted an attractive emblem for Arrabitah (Arabic, Ar-Rabitatul Qalamyiat) representing a circle having an open book at its center. Across the pages appeared the quotation How wonderful the treasures beneath God’s throne which only poets’ tongues can unlock!—taken from the Hadith.*

The preamble to the by-laws stated, in part:

… Not everything parading as literature is literature; nor is every rimester a poet. The literature we esteem as worthy is that only which draws its nourishment from Life’s soil and light and air.… And the man of letters is he who is endowed with more than the average mortal’s share of sensitiveness and taste, and the power of estimation and penetration together with the talent of expressing clearly and loftily whatever imprints Life’s constant waves leave upon his soul.…

This new movement, aimed at transporting our literature from stagnation to life, from imitation to creation, is worthy of all encouragement; if left fallow, decay and disintegration will take hold.…

Gibran gave untiringly to Arrabitah from his two only resources … time and effort.