| RAJGOPAL NIDAMBOOR
When Kahlil Gibran published his magnum
opus, The Prophet, over eighty years ago, he wouldn't
have, perforce, realised the true, perennial import of his
work: a structure with a timeless appeal. Of a roseate contribution
to literature that has in it just about every ingredient a
book of substance, albeit abstract, would need to inspire, or synthesise.
You got the point,
though it's quite another thing that a few Kahlil Gibran critics,
and others, don't really agree with the invocation of Gibran's
genius. And, they have good reasons to believe in their analysis.
Gibran, for all practical purposes, was too human -- with all
his warts and moles.
The Prophet, however, appeals to
everyone, whatever one's religious belief; it's everyone's
Bible. It's full of good moral values and great teachings
-- not necessarily settled opinion, just pure wisdom. In the
narrative, the prophet, Almustafa -- Arabic, for the
Chosen as well as the Beloved -- is set to return by ship to
the isle of his birth after an exile of twelve years in the
city of Orphalese…
Not just a tale inspired by nature,
a longing for the Unity of Being, and mystic extraction, which Gibran himself championed, The Prophet is the most
widely read work of all time -- an ageless volume that speaks
of love and marriage, joy and sorrow, reason and passion,
beauty and death. In the process, it brings harmony and peace
for anyone seeking solace and wisdom in a world that has gone
wacky -- even if some of its most vociferous critics wouldn't
like its design one bit.
The book's delectable prose may appear
to be actually instructive, no less, thanks to a growing sense
of responsibility against the oppressive political and/or
social order of Gibran's native land -- including Turkish colonialism,
or its "empiric" underpinnings, feudalism, the corrupt
clergy, or the near-to-the-ground status of women.
This was
only to be expected. Because, Gibran loved freedom: of autonomy
of action, and expression. The idea extended to his avowed
espousal of peasants' welfare, juxtaposed by his role of a
social reformer, and a patriot with intensity… Also,
as a member of The Golden Links, a society of young Syrian
men for improvement of life, Gibran, who had a fervent passion
for home rule, contributed zealously to Arabic newspapers
in the US -- most notably, al-Mohajer [The Emigrant].
However, what was most pronounced in his mental compass was
a love-hate relationship for his homeland. It was a paradox
of sorts. He always longed for the land of birth, Lebanon,
and also criticised its society. He equated his society to
"decayed teeth… rotten, black and dirty… that
fester and stink" -- for which people got gold fillings
instead of pulling them from the base. He also related to
the fact that a nation with putrescent teeth was damned to
have a diseased stomach. In another essay, he was clinically
acerbic of Arabic society -- which he determined was ailing
and drowsy.
What makes Gibran's writing in The
Prophet so special is its fundamental, lifting element
-- a beauty derived out of a thought-provoking, spiritual range
for life. Of a range that is not related to any single literary
tradition -- but, one that wraps not only the intangible, fresh,
aesthetic, and political elements, but also a convention of
both joy and pathos. A disavowal, so to speak? Not really,
because Gibran's assemblage of contemplation of thought, and
its high level of hopefulness, matched by a great strut of
thoughtfulness, hold both elevated divergence and an amplification
of a full range of emotions.
The writing in the book maybe deliberately
old-fashioned, even familiar, and lavish with [in]exact metaphysical
twists. Of sentimentality, which describes internal consciousness,
rather than external events. Yet, Gibran -- pronounced Jabran
or Jourban -- cannot be absorbed, nay assimilated, with just
one reading, because of his broad canvas, hidden layers and
sounds -- characteristics which surprise us the most with every
new reading. Add to that Gibran's elevated and consequential
poems, including verses, which have more than a component
of prose -- aphorisms, parables, tales, and homilies -- and,
you have a radiant grove of a thought process that shapes
a classic model of his art.
The Prophet has an inventive track.
Also, its appeal has been universal. Its every piece has in
it a sense of instant accessibility. What comes out truly
and neatly, in them, with a sense of magical likeness, is
Gibran's exquisite artistry: of a writer with a passion for
philosophical orientations in his literary excursions. It's
also a reflection of his mindset: his love of the Lebanese
countryside, its valleys, mountains, famous cedars, not to
speak of turmoil, or "division" of religious tendencies
etc., common to that part of the world. It also speaks of his understanding,
beliefs, and espousal of the Christian faith -- albeit his
views are quite unorthodox vis-à-vis traditional thought
of his time.
Gibran was hugely talented. It's astonishing
that he, in his teens, even edited a literary/philosophical
magazine called The Truth: an "incursion"
that did not come in-between his pursuit of education and
excellence. But, there were other things he was destined to
do.
And, so, after a few years in Lebanon, Gibran went to
Paris: to study art. Come 1903, he was able to rejoin his
family, who had migrated years before, in Boston. It was only
then that he published his first literary essays and met Mary
Haskell, who was to be his benefactor all his life. Besides,
it's was only after Gibran shifted his base to New York, in
1912, and devoted himself to writing literary essays and short
stories, and painting, that his writings began to expand with
such themes as love, bereavement, nature, and a yearning for
his homeland. They were, as was his wont, expressive of his
own sense of romanticism, or deeply religious, and mystic
nature.
Gibran absorbed, and developed, most of
his thoughts from women, especially his talented mother, who
was as much artistically inclined. But, what takes the cake
is his monumental love affair with a young Lebanese fan of
his, May Ziadeh, who he never met. Not only that. Gibran,
like most creative geniuses, was as much a "victim"
of disappointments of the heart. At an early age, for instance,
he fell desperately in love with a young woman whose father,
under social contrition, married her to someone else. Gibran
was forlorn, disconsolate, rueful, and wounded. It's a story
he so meaningfully portrayed in his brilliant novella, Broken
Wings: a book that also opened his eyes to the indomitable
connotation of love in the world.
Not that the church did not teach Gibran
the supreme importance of love: that God is Love. It did.
So, love became an experiential fact of life for him -- not
just an abstraction or standard parable. Love lives in Gibran's
works fully in the love of a human being for his/her soul
mate, although critics find there's more to it, especially
in his personal life, and his many affairs, than what meets
the eye. As a matter of fact, Gibran often returns to the
topic in his stories, underlying the power and significance
of love, combined with his potent belief in reincarnation.
In one classical story, for example, he tells us of love surviving
for centuries until the time it could meet its realisation.
Tragedies marked Gibran's life. He was,
therefore, acutely conscious of the fragility of life -- "here
today, gone tomorrow" sort of an existence. Which, perforce,
offers us an almost Buddhist concept of suffering pervading
most of Gibran's works: a distress that also encircles love,
but with a distinct probability -- the possibility of self-realisation.
It's one reason why Gibran advocated the cause of true love,
and liberty, the cause of the poor, and the tyranny of conquest,
the rich etc., throughout his life -- a postulate that wasn't
liked one fraction by the church, and his native Lebanese
government.
It's obvious that many of Gibran's works
are a reflection of a definitive thought process. Most importantly,
they mirror his masterly and velvety feel for words. What
stands out most, in them, is his majestic ingenuity for their
explicit usage in both Arabic and the English language -- a
grand blueprint that is more than just perfect. His genius,
to use his own principal component, "[was] but a robin's
song at the beginning of a slow spring."
A bravura wordsmith, who hums in our silences,
Gibran was a truly great "pulsation:" a voice like
no other. His supremely gifted visage celebrates not only
an outstanding understanding of the cosmos, but also looks
at the world as one, complete whole.
In other words, Gibran's
wordy, and worldly, vibrations will continue to embrace every
reader's soul -- the very hem of the garment of God Himself
-- for today and tomorrow.
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