As has been observed through later of his books, already published and widely read, this early brilliance was largely sustained throughout his tear-enriched life.
Principal among the additions to this new and enlarged edition is the strangely gripping story, The Bride’s Bed, actually an eye-witness account of the incident related. Its theme is not new to the multitude of readers and students of Gibran, for the vicious inequality of man and woman had long been the object of his angriest 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 strong was his condemnation of the tradition of pre-arranged 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 being 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, and 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.
While it may appear, then, that we have in Kahlil Gibran a man who vacillates from the delicate to the strong, from the delightful to the frightening, from the lacy sweetness to the bitter condemnation, this chilling, magnetic mental roving is essentially the heart of his greatness, for his Psalm-like, exquisite poetry, catapulting swiftly to the unleashed vituperation of a Dante or Voltaire is the style that millions of readers in dozens of languages acknowledge as the most fascinating in all literary history. Any endeavor to categorize these writings, or to establish a source of influence, can result only in utter despair, for they are as strange and unorthodox as they are beautiful. As experts at the University of Oklahoma phrased it, Gibran could write timeless truths in a way that makes the reader feel he is taking a walk in a quiet wood, or bathing in a cool stream; it soothes the spirit. But he could also write with a scorch like fire.
These diametric opposites in the substance of his words presented no apparent difficulty to this master of simple, effective conveyance of thought, for, indicative of literary artistry, the flowing beauty of his lyrics does not palliate the strength of his indictments; nor does his execrating bitterness invade the gorgeous quality of his poetry, which has an appeal comparable to that of rich music.
His warnings are neither crusades nor preachments, yet every thought is conveyed completely, clearly, dynamically. He muses over the beautiful, not the ugly, and all of his criticisms are imbued with a gentle melancholy, subordinated finally to his magnificent descriptive powers, abounding with fine, metaphorical terseness.
Recent world developments have heightened interest in Arabic literature to a surprising degree, and English-speaking peoples today are making deep, exploratory studies of these venerable writings, as yet unspoiled by Western influence.
The Arabs, despite centuries of internal political turbulence and external interference, have retained and improved their strong aesthetic and imaginative spirit. While the Western world has been looking at life and seeking practical solutions to its problems through religion and science, the various peoples comprising Arabia have preferred to indulge primarily in poetic and philosophical thinking. Under a cultural climate determined by the indigenous doctrines of Mohammed and those following him, the Arab writers have captured intact the spirit of their people, portraying the filial piety of the home, and the blind fidelity of all to their rulers, right or wrong. Never having suffered under religious bias nor adhered to scientific theories, Arabic writers have felt a freedom of expression of which the Western literati may well be envious. They set their own unconventional pattern, and no amount of outside pressure or criticism has been able to divert them from it. In the present pursuit of greater learning in Arabic writings, no author of the East offers greater reward than does Kahlil Gibran, for he stands alone on the summit of all that is fine in Sufi literature.
Reference has been made to Gibran’s youth at the time of these writings, and this factor cannot be regarded lightly, for it renders all the more remarkable his ripe and mature grasp on a subject that has baffled and intrigued philosophers and thinkers from the beginning—the destiny of man, and the tremendous why of his being. Likewise, his unquestioned mastery of the art of symbolism and simile, sparkling in profusion throughout Tears and Laughter, is a tribute to his astounding stature in literary accomplishment, for this is an achievement that few, at any age, have been able to attain. His sympathetic approach to the prospect of death is also a creature of the mind belonging to the aged, but a knowledge of Gibran’s love for tears, as set forth in his foreword to this book, as well as his deep, sincere affection for fellow sufferers, offer philosophically pleasant contemplations of death. Many instances of real knowledge of maturity and stability in marriage, despite his years, come forth in the stories and poems that comprise this volume. In The Life of Love, a poem likening the four seasons of the year to the comparable periods of married life, the aging couple exchanges reminiscences in winter time, the husband affectionately sighing:
Feed the lamp with oil and let it not dim, and
Place it by you, so I can read with tears what
Your life with me has written upon your face.
Bring Autumn’s wine. Let us drink and sing the
Song of remembrance to Spring’s carefree sowing,
And Summer’s watchful tending, and Autumn’s
Reward in harvest.
Come close to me, oh beloved of my soul; the
Fire is cooling and fleeing under the ashes.
Embrace me, for I feel loneliness; the lamp is
Dim, and the wine which we pressed is closing
Our eyes. Let us look upon each other before
They are shut.
Surprisingly, the mysticism that characterizes much of Gibran’s writing is found not in his poetry, where it would be granted a great latitude of expression through the very nature of poetic freedom, but in his prose stories exclusively. This feature of his works is not a deterrent to reader interest, for his depth establishes itself at a level of complete lucidity to all who endeavor to find it, and his frequent voyages into the field of mysticism supplement with spiritual argument the precepts of his earthly discourses. His blending of oriental and occidental philosophy is occasionally disconcerting to the Western mind. One invariably has the feeling that the emotions expressed so plainly were too large for words, and were wrenched from him reluctantly through his soul’s compulsion. One cannot fail to recognize in him the strong expression of a passionate urge to improve the lot of suffering, exploited humanity, an impulse that fired his mind and heart from childhood. It is a message, moreover, that emanates from painful, soul-searing knowledge of man’s inhumanity to man, drawn from a poignant memory of what his eyes had seen and his ears had heard in his close observance of the perpetual human tragedy.
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