Between Night and Morn
Between Night and Morn
Kahlil Gibran
Philosophical Library
Editor’s Preface
The very heart of the mystic East emerges in this volume, and from the outset one feels the tremendous mood, the electrifying boldness, the terrible magnetism of the immortal Gibran.
This ancient wisdom, set forth in the form of a simple yet profound philosophy of life, applies dynamically and with amazing timeliness to present human problems. But for all of his preoccupation with momentous subjects, Gibran is far from the modern school of poetry, and his style inclines to Victorian lyricism when not catapulting toward Dante or Goethe. It is at the same time powerful and tender; frightening and delightful; joyous and funereal; simple and tremendous. However, diametric opposites in substance apparently presented no difficulty in style to this master of simple, effective communication of subtle thought. Gibran’s style is incomparable in both poetry and prose, and his prose carries a lyric beauty rich in magnificent simplicity—the simplicity which Gibran continually sought as the identifying characteristic of true beauty in any form.
Yet, in employing the soft phraseology of the Psalms, he nevertheless releases an unrestrained vituperation when execrating the usurpation of human rights by tyrannical church and state officials. It was of little surprise—or importance—to Gibran’s multitude of followers that he was exiled from his country and excommunicated from his church in consequence of his fearless, knife-edged attacks. Indicative of his literary artistry, the flowing beauty of his lyrics does not palliate the strength of his indictments, nor does his bitterness invade the exquisite delicacy of his lacy poetry which has an appeal comparable to that of rich music.
Contents
Editor’s Preface
The Tempest
Slavery
Satan
The Mermaids
We and You
The Poet
Ashes of the Ages and Eternal Fire
Between Night and Morn
The Tempest
The Tempest
PART I
YUSIF EL FAKHRI was thirty years of age when he withdrew himself from society and departed to live in an isolated hermitage in the vicinity of Kedeesha Valley in North Lebanon. The people of the nearby villages heard various tales concerning Yusif; some related that his was a wealthy and noble family, and that he loved a woman who betrayed him and caused him to lead a solitary life, while others said that he was a poet who deserted the clamourous city and retired to that place in order to record his thoughts and compose his inspiration; and many were sure that he was a mystic who was contented with the spiritual world, although most people insisted that he was a madman.
As for myself, I could not draw any conclusion regarding the man, for I knew that there must be a deep secret within his heart whose revelation I would not trust to mere speculation. I had long hoped for the opportunity to meet this strange man. I had endeavoured in devious ways to win his friendship in order to study his reality and learn his story by inquiring as to his purpose in life, but my efforts were in vain. When I met him for the first time, he was walking by the forest of the Holy Cedars of Lebanon, and I greeted him with the finest choice of words, but he returned my greeting by merely shaking his head and striding off.
On another occasion I found him standing in the midst of a small vineyard by a monastery, and again I approached and greeted him, saying, “It is said by the villagers that this monastery was built by a Syriac group in the Fourteenth Century; do you know anything of its history?” He replied coldly, “I do not know who built this monastery, nor do I care to know.” And he turned his back to me and added, “Why do you not ask your grandparents, who are older than I, and who know more of the history of these valleys than I do?” Realizing at once my utter failure, I left him.
Thus did two years pass, and the bizarre life of this strange man preyed on my mind and disturbed my dreams.
PART II
One day in Autumn, as I was roaming the hills and knolls adjacent to the hermitage of Yusif El Fakhri, I was suddenly caught in a strong wind and torrent rain, and the tempest cast me here and there like a boat whose rudder has been broken and whose masts have been torn by a gale in a rough sea. I directed my steps with difficulty toward Yusif’s place, saying to myself, “This is an opportunity I have long sought, and the tempest will be my excuse for entering, while my wet clothes will serve as good reason for lingering.”
I was in a miserable plight when I reached the hermitage, and as I knocked on the door, the man whom I had been longing to see opened it. He was holding in one hand a dying bird whose head had been injured and whose wings had been broken. I greeted him saying, “I beg your forgiveness for this annoying intrusion. The raging tempest trapped me while I was afar from home.” He frowned, saying, “There are many caves in this wilderness in which you might have taken refuge.” However, he did not close the door, and the beat of my heart quickened in anticipation, for the realization of my great wish was close at hand. He commenced to touch the bird’s head gently and with the utmost care and interest, exhibiting a quality important to my heart. I was surprised over the two opponent characteristics I found in that man—mercy and cruelty at the same time. We became aware of the strained silence. He resented my presence, I desired to remain.
It seemed as if he felt my thought, for he looked up and said, “The tempest is clean, and declines to eat soured meat. Why do you seek to escape from it?” And with a touch of humour, I responded, “The tempest may not desire salted or soured things, but she is inclined to chill and tender all things, and undoubtedly she would enjoy consuming me if she grasped me again.” His expression was severe when he retorted, “The tempest would have bestowed upon you a great honour, of which you are not worthy, if she had swallowed you.” I agreed, “Yes, Sir, I fled the tempest so I might not be awarded an honour which I do not merit.” He turned his face from me in an effort to choke his smile, and then motioned toward a wooden bench by the fireplace and invited me to rest and dry my raiment. I could scarcely control my elation.
I thanked him and sat down while he seated himself opposite, on a bench carved of rock. He commenced to dip his finger tips into an earthenware jar containing a kind of oil, applying it softly to the bird’s head and wings. Without looking up he said, “The strong winds have caused this bird to fall upon the rocks between Life and Death.” I replied, rendering comparison, “And the strong winds have sent me, adrift, to your door, in time to prevent having my head injured and my wings broken.”
He looked at me seriously and said, “It is my wish that man would show the bird’s instinct, and it is my wish that the tempest would break the people’s wings. For man inclines toward fear and cowardice, and as he feels the awakening of the tempest he crawls into the crevices and the caves of the earth and hides himself.”
My purpose was to extract the story of his self-imposed exile, and I provoked, “Yes, the birds possess an honour and courage that man does not possess.… Man lives in the shadow of laws and customs which he made and fashioned for himself, but the birds live according to the same free Eternal Law which causes the earth to pursue its mighty path about the sun.” His eyes and face brightened, as if he had found in me an understanding disciple, and he exclaimed, “Well done! If you place belief in your own words you should leave civilization and its corrupt laws and traditions, and live like the birds in a place empty of all things except the magnificent law of heaven and earth.
“Believing is a fine thing, but placing those beliefs into execution is a test of strength. Many are those who talk like the roar of the sea, but their lives are shallow and stagnant, like the rotting marshes. Many are those who lift their heads above the mountain tops, but their spirits remain dormant in the obscurity of the caverns.” He rose trembling from his seat and placed the bird upon a folded cloth by the window.
He placed a bundle of dry sticks upon the fire, saying, “Remove your sandals and warm your feet, for dampness is dangerous to man’s health. Dry well your garments, and be comfortable.”
Yusif’s continued hospitality kept my hopes high. I approached near to the fire, and the steam sifted from my wet robe. While he stood at the door gazing at the grey skies, my mind searched and scurried for the opening wedge into his background. I asked, innocently, “Has it been long since you came to this place?”
Without looking at me, he answered quietly, “I came to this place when the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.
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