The Madman
Kahlil Gibran
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How I Became a Madman
God
My Friend
The Scarecrow
The Sleep-Walkers
The Wise Dog
The Two Hermits
On Giving and Taking
The Seven Selves
War
The Fox
The Wise King
Ambition
The New Pleasure
The Other Language
The Pomegranate
The Two Cages
The Three Ants
The Grave-Digger
On the Steps of the Temple
The Blessed City
The Good God and the Evil God
"Defeat"
Night and the Madman
Faces
The Greater Sea
The Astronomer
The Great Longing
Said a Blade of Grass
The Eye
The Two Learned Men
When My Sorrow Was Born
And When My Joy Was Born
"The Perfect World"
The Fox
You ask me how I became a madman. It happened thus: One
day, long before many gods were born, I woke
from a deep sleep and found all my masks were stolen --
the seven masks I have fashioned and worn in
seven lives, -- I ran maskless through the crowded
streets shouting, "Thieves, thieves, the cursˇd thieves."
Men and women laughed at me and some ran to their
houses in fear of me.
And when I reached the market place, a youth standing
on a house-top cried, "He is a madman." I looked
up to behold him; the sun kissed my own naked face for
the first time. For the first time the sun kissed my
own naked face and my soul was inflamed with love for the
sun, and I wanted my masks no more. And as if
in a trance I cried, "Blessed, blessed are the thieves
who stole my masks."
Thus I became a madman.
And I have found both freedom and safety in my
madness; the freedom of loneliness and the safety from
being understood, for those who understand us enslave
something in us.
But let me not be too proud of my safety. Even a Thief
in a jail is safe from another thief.
In the ancient days, when the first quiver of speech came
to my lips, I ascended the holy mountain and
spoke unto God, saying, "Master, I am thy slave. Thy
hidden will is my law and I shall obey thee for ever
more."
But God made no answer, and like a mighty tempest
passed away.
And after a thousand years I ascended the holy
mountain and again spoke unto God, saying, "Creator, I
am thy creation. Out of clay hast thou fashioned me and
to thee I owe mine all."
And God made no answer, but like a thousand swift
wings passed away.
And after a thousand years I climbed the holy mountain
and spoke unto God again, saying, "Father, I am
thy son. In pity and love thou hast given me birth, and
through love and worship I shall inherit thy kingdom."
And God made no answer, and like the mist that veils
the distant hills he passed away.
And after a thousand years I climbed the sacred
mountain and again spoke unto God, saying, "My God,
my aim and my fulfilment; I am thy yesterday and thou art
my tomorrow. I am thy root in the earth and thou
art my flower in the sky, and together we grow before the
face of the sun."
Then God leaned over me, and in my ears whispered
words of sweetness, and even as the sea that
enfoldeth a brook that runneth down to her, he enfolded
me.
And when I descended to the valleys and the plains,
God was there also.
My friend, I am not what I seem. Seeming is but a garment
I wear -- a care-woven garment that protects me
from thy questionings and thee from my negligence.
The "I" in me, my friend, dwells in the house of
silence, and therein it shall remain for ever more,
unperceived, unapproachable.
I would not have thee believe in what I say nor trust
in what I do -- for my words are naught but thy own
thoughts in sound and my deeds thy own hopes in action.
When thou sayest, "The wind bloweth eastward," I say,
"Aye, it doth blow eastward"; for I would not have
thee know that my mind doth not dwell upon the wind but
upon the sea.
Thou canst not understand my seafaring thoughts, nor
would I have thee understand. I would be at sea
alone.
When it is day with thee, my friend, it is night with
me; yet even then I speak of the noontide that dances
upon the hills and of the purple shadow that steals its
way across the valley; for thou canst not hear the
songs of my darkness nor see my wings beating against the
stars -- and I fain would not have thee hear or
see. I would be with night alone.
When thou ascendest to thy Heaven I descend to my Hell
-- even then thou callest to me across the
unbridgeable gulf, "My companion, my comrade," and I call
back to thee, "My comrade, my companion" -- for
I would not have thee see my Hell. The flame would burn
thy eyesight and the smoke would crowd thy
nostrils. And I love my Hell too well to have thee visit
it. I would be in Hell alone.
Thou lovest Truth and Beauty and Righteousness; and I
for thy sake say it is well and seemly to love
these things. But in my heart I laugh at thy love. Yet I
would not have thee see my laughter. I would laugh
alone.
My friend, thou art good and cautious and wise; nay,
thou art perfect -- and I, too, speak with thee wisely
and cautiously. And yet I am mad. But I mask my madness.
I would be mad alone.
My friend, thou art not my friend, but how shall I
make thee understand? My path is not thy path, yet
together we walk, hand in hand.
Once I said to a scarecrow, "You must be tired of
standing in this lonely field,"
And he said, "The joy of scaring is a deep and lasting
one, and I never tire of it."
Said I, after a minute of thought, "It is true; for I
too have known that joy."
Said he, "Only those who are stuffed with straw can
know it."
Then I left him, not knowing whether he had
complimented or belittled me.
A year passed, during which the scarecrow turned
philosopher.
And when I passed by him again I saw two crows
building a nest under his hat.
In the town where I was born lived a woman and her
daughter, who walked in their sleep.
One night, while silence enfolded the world, the woman
and her daughter, walking, yet asleep, met in their
mist-veiled garden.
And the mother spoke, and she said: "At last, at last,
my enemy! You by whom my youth was destroyed --
who have built up your life upon the ruins of mine! Would
I could kill you!"
And the daughter spoke, and she said: "O hateful
woman, selfish and old! Who stand between my freer
self and me! Who would have my life an echo of your own
faded life! Would you were dead!"
At that moment a cock crew, and both women awoke. The
mother said gently, "Is that you, darling?" And
the daughter answered gently, "Yes, dear."
One day there passed by a company of cats a wise dog.
And as he came near and saw that they were very intent
and heeded him not, he stopped.
Then there arose in the midst of the company a large,
grave cat and looked upon them and said,
"Brethren, pray ye; and when ye have prayed again and yet
again, nothing doubting, verily then it shall rain
mice."
And when the dog heard this he laughed in his heart
and turned from them saying, "O blind and foolish
cats, has it not been written and have I not known and my
fathers before me, that that which raineth for
prayer and faith and supplication is not mice but bones."
Upon a lonely mountain, there lived two hermits who
worshipped God and loved one another.
Now these two hermits had one earthen bowl, and this
was their only possession.
One day an evil spirit entered into the heart of the
older hermit and he came to the younger and said, "It is
long that we have lived together. The time has come for
us to part. Let us divide our possessions."
Then the younger hermit was saddened and he said, "It
grieves me, Brother, that thou shouldst leave me.
But if thou must needs go, so be it," and he brought the
earthen bowl and gave it to him saying, "We cannot
divide it, Brother, let it be thine."
Then the older hermit said, "Charity I will not
accept. I will take nothing but mine own. It must be divided."
And the younger one said, "If the bowl be broken, of
what use would it be to thee or to me? If it be thy
pleasure let us rather cast a lot."
But the older hermit said again, "I will have but
justice and mine own, and I will not trust justice and mine
own to vain chance. The bowl must be divided."
Then the younger hermit could reason no further and he
said, "If it be indeed thy will, and if even so thou
wouldst have it let us now break the bowl."
But the face of the older hermit grew exceeding dark,
and he cried, "O thou cursed coward, thou wouldst
not fight."
Once there lived a man who had a valleyful of needles.
And one day the mother of Jesus came to him and
said: "Friend, my son's garment is torn and I must needs
mend it before he goeth to the temple. Wouldst
thou not give me a needle?"
And he gave her not a needle, but he gave her a
learned discourse on Giving and Taking to carry to her
son before he should go to the temple.
In the silent hour of the night, as I lay half asleep, my
seven selves sat together and thus conversed in
whispers:
First Self: Here, in this madman, I have dwelt all
these years, with naught to do but renew his pain by day
and recreate his sorrow by night. I can bear my fate no
longer, and now I must rebel.
Second Self: Yours is a better lot than mine, brother,
for it is given me to be this madman's joyous self. I
laugh his laughter and sing his happy hours, and with
thrice winged feet I dance his brighter thoughts. It is I
that would rebel against my weary existence.
Third Self: And what of me, the love-ridden self, the
flaming brand of wild passion and fantastic desires? It
is I the love-sick self who would rebel against this
madman.
Fourth Self: I, amongst you all, am the most
miserable, for naught was given me but the odious hatred and
destructive loathing. It is I, the tempest-like self, the
one born in the black caves of Hell, who would protest
against serving this madman.
Fifth Self: Nay, it is I, the thinking self, the
fanciful self, the self of hunger and thirst, the one doomed to
wander without rest in search of unknown things and
things not yet created; it is I, not you, who would rebel.
Sixth Self: And I, the working self, the pitiful
labourer, who, with patient hands, and longing eyes, fashion
the days into images and give the formless elements new
and eternal forms -- it is I, the solitary one, who
would rebel against this restless madman.
Seventh Self: How strange that you all would rebel
against this man, because each and every one of you
has a preordained fate to fulfil. Ah! could I but be like
one of you, a self with a determined lot! But I have
none, I am the do-nothing self, the one who sits in the
dumb, empty nowhere and nowhen, when you are
busy re-creating life. Is it you or I, neighbours, who
should rebel?
When the seventh self thus spake the other six selves
looked with pity upon him but said nothing more;
and as the night grew deeper one after the other went to
sleep enfolded with a new and happy submission.
But the seventh self remained watching and gazing at
nothingness, which is behind all things.
One night a feast was held in the palace, and there came
a man and prostrated himself before the prince,
and all the feasters looked upon him; and they saw that
one of his eyes was out and that the empty socket
bled. And the prince inquired of him, "What has befallen
you?" And the man replied, "O prince, I am by
profession a thief, and this night, because there was no
moon, I went to rob the money-changer's shop, and
as I climbed in through the window I made a mistake and
entered the weaver's shop, and in the dark I ran
into the weaver's loom and my eye was plucked out. And
now, O prince, I ask for justice upon the weaver."
Then the prince sent for the weaver and he came, and
it was decreed that one of his eyes should be
plucked out.
"O prince," said the weaver, "the decree is just. It
is right that one of my eyes be taken. And yet, alas!
both are necessary to me in order that I may see the two
sides of the cloth that I weave. But I have a
neighbor, a cobbler, who has also two eyes, and in his
trade both eyes are not necessary."
Then the prince sent for the cobbler. And he came. And
they took out one of the cobbler's two eyes.
And justice was satisfied.
A fox looked at his shadow at sunrise and said, "I will have a camel for lunch today." And all morning he
went about looking for camels. But at noon he saw his shadow again -- and he said, "A mouse will do."
Once there ruled in the distant city of Wirani a king who
was both mighty and wise. And he was feared for
his might and loved for his wisdom.
Now, in the heart of that city was a well, whose water
was cool and crystalline, from which all the
inhabitants drank, even the king and his courtiers; for
there was no other well.
One night when all were asleep, a witch entered the
city, and poured seven drops of strange liquid into the
well, and said, "From this hour he who drinks this water
shall become mad."
Next morning all the inhabitants, save the king and
his lord chamberlain, drank from the well and became
mad, even as the witch had foretold.
And during that day the people in the narrow streets
and in the market places did naught but whisper to
one another, "The king is mad. Our king and his lord
chamberlain have lost their reason. Surely we cannot be
ruled by a mad king. We must dethrone him."
That evening the king ordered a golden goblet to be
filled from the well. And when it was brought to him he
drank deeply, and gave it to his lord chamberlain to
drink.
And there was great rejoicing in that distant city of
Wirani, because its king and its lord chamberlain had
regained their reason.
Three men met at a tavern table. One was a weaver,
another a carpenter and the third a ploughman.
Said the weaver, "I sold a fine linen shroud today for
two pieces of gold. Let us have all the wine we
want."
"And I," said the carpenter, "I sold my best coffin.
We will have a great roast with the wine."
"I only dug a grave," said the ploughman, "but my
patron paid me double. Let us have honey cakes too."
And all that evening the tavern was busy, for they
called often for wine and meat and cakes. And they
were merry.
And the host rubbed his hands and smiled at his wife;
for his guests were spending freely.
When they left the moon was high, and they walked
along the road singing and shouting together.
The host and his wife stood in the tavern door and
looked after them.
"Ah!" said the wife, "these gentlemen! So freehanded
and so gay! If only they could bring us such luck
every day! Then our son need not be a taven-keeper and
work so hard. We could educate him, and he could
become a priest."
Last night I invented a new pleasure, and as I was giving
it the first trial an angel and a devil came rushing
toward my house. They met at my door and fought with each
other over my newly created pleasure; the one
crying, "It is a sin!" -- the other, "It is a virtue!"
Three days after I was born, as I lay in my silken
cradle, gazing with astonished dismay on the new world
round about me, my mother spoke to the wet-nurse, saying,
"How is my child?"
And the wet-nurse answered, "He does well, madame, I
have fed him three times; and never before have I
seen a babe so young yet so gay."
And I was indignant; and I cried, "It is not true,
mother; for my bed is hard, and the milk I have sucked is
bitter to my mouth, and the odour of the breast is foul
in my nostrils, and I am most miserable."
But my mother did not understand, nor did the nurse;
for the language I spoke was that of the world from
which I came.
And on the twenty-first day of my life, as I was being
christened, the priest said to my mother, "You
should indeed be happy, madame, that your son was born a
christian."
And I was surprised, -- and I said to the priest,
"Then your mother in Heaven should be unhappy, for you
were not born a christian."
But the priest too did not understand my language.
And after seven moons, one day a soothsayer looked at
me, and he said to my mother, "Your son will be
a statesman and a great leader of men."
But I cried out, -- "That is a false prophecy; for I
shall be a musician, and naught but a musician shall I
be."
But even at that age my language was not understood --
and great was my astonishment.
And after three and thirty years, during which my
mother, and the nurse, and the priest have all died, (the
shadow of God be upon their spirits) the soothsayer still
lives. And yesterday I met him near the gate of the
temple; and while we were talking together he said, "I
have always known you would become a great
musician. Even in your infancy I prophesied and foretold
your future."
And I believed him -- for now I too have forgotten the
language of that other world.
Once when I was living in the heart of a pomegranate, I
heard a seed saying, "Someday I shall become a
tree, and the wind will sing in my branches, and the sun
will dance on my leaves, and I shall be strong and
beautiful through all the seasons."
Then another seed spoke and said, "When I was as young
as you, I too held such views; but now that I
can weigh and measure things, I see that my hopes were
vain."
And a third seed spoke also, "I see in us nothing that
promises so great a future."
And a fourth said, "But what a mockery our life would
be, without a greater future!"
Said a fifth, "Why dispute what we shall be, when we
know not even what we are."
But a sixth replied, "Whatever we are, that we shall
continue to be."
And a seventh said, "I have such a clear idea how
everything will be, but I cannot put it into words."
Then an eighth spoke -- and a ninth -- and a tenth --
and then many -- until all were speaking, and I could
distinguish nothing for the many voices.
And so I moved that very day into the heart of a
quince, where the seeds are few and almost silent.
In my father's garden there are two cages. In one is a
lion, which my father's slaves brought from the desert
of Ninavah; in the other is a songless sparrow.
Every day at dawn the sparrow calls to the lion, "Good
morrow to thee, brother prisoner."
Three ants met on the nose of a man who was lying asleep
in the sun. And after they had saluted one
another, each according to the custom of his tribe, they
stood there conversing.
The first and said, "These hills and plains are the
most barren I have known. I have searched all day for a
grain of some sort, and there is none to be found."
Said the second ant, "I too have found nothing, though
I have visited every nook and glade. This is, I
believe, what my people call the soft, moving land where
nothing grows."
Then the third ant raised his head and said, "My
friends, we are standing now on the nose of the Supreme
Ant, the mighty and infinite Ant, whose body is so great
that we cannot see it, whose shadow is so vast that
we cannot trace it, whose voice is so loud that we cannot
hear it; and He is omnipresent."
When the third ant spoke thus the other ants looked at
each other and laughed.
At that moment the man moved and in his sleep raised
his hand and scratched his nose, and the three
ants were crushed.
Once, as I was burying one of my dead selves, the
grave-digger came by and said to me, "Of all those who
come here to bury, you alone I like."
Said I, "You please me exceedingly, but why do you
like me?"
"Because," said he, "They come weeping and go weeping
-- you only come laughing and go laughing."
Yestereve, on the marble steps of the Temple, I saw a
woman sitting between two men. One side of her face
was pale, the other was blushing.
In my youth I was told that in a certain city every one
lived according to the Scriptures.
And I said, "I will seek that city and the blessedness
thereof." And it was far. And I made great provision
for my journey. And after forty-days I beheld the city
and on the forty-first day I entered into it.
And lo! the whole company of the inhabitants had each
but a single eye and but one hand. And I was
astonished and said to myself, "Shall they of this so
holy city have but one eye and one hand?"
Then I saw that they too were astonished, for they
were marvelling greatly at my two hands and my two
eyes. And as they were speaking together I inquired of
them saying, "Is this indeed the Blessed City, where
each man lives according to the Scriptures?" And they
said, "Yes, this is that city."
"And what," said I, "hath befallen you, and where are
your right eyes and your right hands?"
And all the people were moved. And they said, "Come
thou and see."
And they took me to the temple in the midst of the
city. And in the temple I saw a heap of hands and
eyes. All withered. Then said I, "Alas! what conqueror
hath committed this cruelty upon you?"
And there went a murmur amongst them. And one of their
elders stood forth and said, "This doing is of
ourselves. God hath made us conquerors over the evil that
was in us."
And he led me to a high altar, and all the people
followed. And he showed me above the altar an
inscription graven, and I read:
"If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out and cast
it from thee; for it is profitable for thee that one of thy
members should perish, and not that thy whole body should
be cast into hell. And if thy right hand offend
thee, cut if off and cast it from thee; for it is
profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and
not that thy whole body should be cast into hell."
Then I understood. And I turned about to all the
people and cried, "Hath no man or woman among you two
eyes or two hands?"
And they answered me saying, "No, not one. There is
none whole save such as are yet too young to read
the Scripture and to understand its commandment."
And when we had come out of the temple, I straightway
left that Blessed City; for I was not too young,
and I could read the scripture.
The Good God and the Evil God met on the mountain top.
The Good God said, "Good day to you, brother."
The Evil God made no answer.
And the Good God said, "You are in a bad humour today."
"Yes," said the Evil God, "for of late I have been
often mistaken for you, called by your name, and treated
as if I were you, and it ill-pleases me."
And the Good God said, "But I too have been mistaken
for you and called by your name."
The Evil God walked away cursing the stupidity of man.
Defeat, my Defeat, my solitude and my aloofness;
You are dearer to me than a thousand triumphs,
And sweeter to my heart than all worldglory.
Defeat, my Defeat, my self-knowledge and my defiance,
Through you I know that I am yet young and swift of foot
And not to be trapped by withering laurels.
And in you I have found aloneness
And the joy of being shunned and scorned.
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 levelled 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 bold companion,
You shall hear my songs and my cries and my silences,
And none but you shall speak to me of the beating of
wings,
And urging of seas,
And of mountains that burn in the night,
And you alone shall climb my steep and rocky soul.
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.
"I am like thee, O, Night, dark and naked; I walk on the
flaming path which is above my day-dreams, and
whenever my foot touches earth a giant oaktree comes
forth."
"Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman, for thou
still lookest backward to see how large a
foot-print thou leavest on the sand."
"I am like thee, O, Night, silent and deep; and in the
heart of my loneliness lies a Goddess in child-bed; and
in him who is being born Heaven touches Hell."
"Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman, for thou
shudderest yet before pain, and the song
of the abyss terrifies thee."
"I am like thee, O, Night, wild and terrible; for my ears
are crowded with cries of conquered nations and sighs
for forgotten lands."
"Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman, for thou
still takest thy little-self for a comrade,
and with thy monster-self thou canst not be friend."
"I am like thee, O, Night, cruel and awful; for my bosom
is lit by burning ships at sea, and my lips are wet
with blood of slain warriors."
"Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman; for the
desire for a sister-spirit is yet upon thee,
and thou hast not become a law unto thyself."
"I am like thee, O, Night, joyous and glad; for he who
dwells in my shadow is now drunk with virgin wine, and
she who follows me is sinning mirthfully."
"Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman, for thy soul
is wrapped in the veil of seven folds
and thou holdest not thy heart in thine hand."
"I am like thee, O, Night, patient and passionate; for in
my breast a thousand dead lovers are buried in
shrouds of withered kisses."
"Yea, Madman, art thou like me? Art thou like me?
And canst thou ride the tempest as a
steed, and grasp the lightning as a sword?"
"Like thee, O, Night, like thee, mighty and high, and my
throne is built upon heaps of fallen Gods; and before
me too pass the days to kiss the hem of my garment but
never to gaze at my face."
"Art thou like me, child of my darkest heart? And
dost thou think my untamed thoughts
and speak my vast language?"
"Yea, we are twin brothers, O, Night; for thou revealest
space and I reveal my soul."
I have seen a face with a thousand countenances, and a
face that was but a single countenance as if held
in a mould.
I have seen a face whose sheen I could look through to
the ugliness beneath, and a face whose sheen I
had to lift to see how beautiful it was.
I have seen an old face much lined with nothing, and a
smooth face in which all things were graven.
I know faces, because I look through the fabric my own
eye weaves, and behold the reality beneath.
My soul and I went down to the great sea to bathe. And
when we reached the shore, we went about looking
for a hidden and lonely place.
But as we walked, we saw a man sitting on a grey rock
taking pinches of salt from a bag and throwing
them into the sea.
"This is the pessimist," said my soul, "Let us leave
this place. We cannot bathe here."
We walked on until we reached an inlet. There we saw,
standing on a white rock, a man holding a
bejewelled box, from which he took sugar and threw it
into the sea.
"And this is the optimist," said my soul, "And he too
must not see our naked bodies."
Further on we walked. And on a beach we saw a man
picking up dead fish and tenderly putting them back
into the water.
"And we cannot bathe before him," said my soul. "He is
the humane philanthropist."
And we passed on.
Then we came where we saw a man tracing his shadow on
the sand. Great waves came and erased it. But
he went on tracing it again and again.
"He is the mystic," said my soul, "Let us leave him."
And we walked on, till in a quiet cove we saw a man
scooping up the foam and putting it into an alabaster
bowl.
"He is the idealist," said my soul, "Surely he must
not see our nudity."
And on we walked. Suddenly we heard a voice crying,
"This is the sea. This is the deep sea. This is the
vast and mighty sea." And when we reached the voice it
was a man whose back was turned to the sea, and
at his ear he held a shell, listening to its murmur.
And my soul said, "Let us pass on. He is the realist,
who turns his back on the whole he cannot grasp,
and busies himself with a fragment."
So we passed on. And in a weedy place among the rocks
was a man with his head buried in the sand. And
I said to my soul, "We can bathe here, for he cannot see
us."
"Nay," said my soul, "For he is the most deadly of
them all. He is the puritan."
Then a great sadness came over the face of my soul,
and into her voice.
"Let us go hence," she said, "For there is no lonely,
hidden place where we can bathe. I would not have
this wind lift my golden hair, or bare my white bosom in
this air, or let the light disclose my sacred
nakedness."
Then we left that sea to seek the Greater Sea.
In the shadow of the temple my friend and I saw a blind
man sitting alone. And my friend said, "Behold the
wisest man of our land."
Then I left my friend and approached the blind man and
greeted him. And we conversed.
After a while I said, "Forgive my question, but since
when hast thou been blind?"
"From my birth," he answered.
Said I, "And what path of wisdom followest thou?"
Said he, "I am an astronomer."
Then he placed his hand upon his breast, saying, "I
watch all these suns and moons and stars."
Here I sit between my brother the mountain and my sister
the sea.
We three are one in loneliness, and the love that
binds us together is deep and strong and strange. Nay,
it is deeper than my sister's depth and stronger than my
brother's strength, and stranger than the
strangeness of my madness.
Aeons upon aeons have passed since the first grey dawn
made us visible to one another; and though we
have seen the birth and the fulness and the death of many
worlds, we are still eager and young.
We are young and eager and yet we are mateless and
unvisited, and though we lie in unbroken half
embrace, we are uncomforted. And what comfort is there
for controlled desire and unspent passion? Whence
shall come the flaming god to warm my sister's bed? And
what she-torrent shall quench my brother's fire?
And who is the woman that shall command my heart?
In the stillness of the night my sister murmurs in her
sleep the fire-god's unknown name, and my brother
calls afar upon the cool and distant goddess. But upon
whom I call in my sleep I know not.
. . . . . .
Here I sit between my brother the mountain and my
sister the sea. We three are one in loneliness, and the
love that binds us together is deep and strong and
strange.
Said a blade of grass to an autumn leaf, "You make such a
noise falling! You scatter all my winter dreams."
Said the leaf indignant, "Low-born and low-dwelling!
Songless, peevish thing! You live not in the upper air
and you cannot tell the sound of singing."
Then the autumn leaf lay down upon the earth and
slept. And when spring came she waked again -- and
she was a blade of grass.
And when it was autumn and her winter sleep was upon
her, and above her through all the air the leaves
were falling, she muttered to herself, "O these autumn
leaves! They make such a noise! They scatter all my
winter dreams."
Said the Eye one day, "I see beyond these valleys a
mountain veiled with blue mist. Is it not beautiful?"
The Ear listened, and after listening intently awhile,
said, "But where is any mountain? I do not hear it."
Then the Hand spoke and said, "I am trying in vain to
feel it or touch it, and I can find no mountain."
And the Nose said, "There is no mountain, I cannot
smell it."
Then the Eye turned the other way, and they all began
to talk together about the Eye's strange delusion.
And they said, "Something must be the matter with the
Eye."
Once there lived in the ancient city of Afkar two learned
men who hated and belittled each other's learning.
For one of them denied the existence of the gods and the
other was a believer.
One day the two met in the market-place, and amidst
their followers they began to dispute and to argue
about the existence or the non-existence of the gods. And
after hours of contention they parted.
That evening the unbeliever went to the temple and
prostrated himself before the altar and prayed the
gods to forgive his wayward past.
And the same hour the other learned man, he who had
upheld the gods, burned his sacred books. For he
had become an unbeliever.
When my sorrow was born I nursed it with care, and
watched over it with loving tenderness.
And my Sorrow grew like all living things, strong and
beautiful and full of wondrous delights.
And we loved one another, my Sorrow and I, and we
loved the world about us; for Sorrow had a kindly
heart and mine was kindly with Sorrow.
And when we conversed, my Sorrow and I, our days were
winged and our nights were girdled with dreams;
for Sorrow had an eloquent tongue, and mine was eloquent
with Sorrow.
And when we sang together, my Sorrow and I, our
neighbors sat at their windows and listenend; for our
songs were deep as the sea and our melodies were full of
strange memories.
And when we walked together, my Sorrow and I, people
gazed at us with gentle eyes and whispered in
words of exceeding sweetness. And there were those who
looked with envy upon us, for Sorrow was a noble
thing and I was proud with Sorrow.
But my Sorrow died, like all living things, and alone
I am left to muse and ponder.
And now when I speak my words fall heavily upon my
ears.
And when I sing my songs my neighbours come not to
listen.
And when I walk the streets no one looks at me.
Only in my sleep I hear voices saying in pity, "See,
there lies the man whose Sorrow is dead."
And when my joy was born I held it in my arms and stood
on the house-top shouting, "Come ye, my
neighbours, come and see, for Joy this day is born unto
me. Come and behold this gladsome thing that
laugheth in the sun."
But none of my neighbours came to look upon my Joy,
and great was my astonishment.
And every day for seven moons I proclaimed my Joy from
the house-top -- and yet no one heeded me.
And my Joy and I were alone, unsought and unvisited.
Then my Joy grew pale and weary because no other heart
but mine held its loveliness and no other lips
kissed its lips.
Then my Joy died of isolation.
And now I only remember my dead Joy in remembering my
dead Sorrow. But memory is an autumn leaf
that murmurs in the wind and then is heard no more.
God of lost souls, thou who art lost amongst the gods,
hear me:
Gentle Destiny that watchest over us, mad, wandering
spirits, hear me:
I dwell in the midst of a perfect race, I the most
imperfect.
I, a human chaos, a nebula of confused elements, I
move amongst finished worlds -- peoples of complete
laws and pure order, whose thoughts are assorted, whose
dreams are arranged, and whose visions are
enrolled and registered.
Their virtues, O God, are measured, their sins are
weighed, and even the countless things that pass in
the dim twilight of neither sin nor virtue are recorded
and catalogued.
Here days and nights are divided into seasons of
conduct and governed by rules of blameless accuracy.
To eat, to drink, to sleep, to cover one's nudity, and
then to be weary in due time.
To work, to play, to sing, to dance, and then to lie
still when the clock strikes the hour.
To think thus, to feel thus much, and then to cease
thinking and feeling when a certain star rises above
yonder horizon.
To rob a neighbour with a smile, to bestow gifts with
a graceful wave of the hand, to praise prudently, to
blame cautiously, to destroy a soul with a word, to burn
a body with a breath, and then to wash the hands
when the day's work is done.
To love according to an established order, to
entertain one's best self in a pre-conceived manner, to
worship the gods becomingly, to intrigue the devils
artfully -- and then to forget all as though memory were
dead.
To fancy with a motive, to contemplate with
consideration, to be happy sweetly, to suffer nobly -- and then
to empty the cup so that tomorrow may fill it again.
All these things, O God, are conceived with
forethought, born with determination, nursed with exactness,
governed by rules, directed by reason, and then slain and
buried after a prescribed method. And even their
silent graves that lie within the human soul are marked
and numbered.
It is a perfect world, a world of consummate
excellence, a world of supreme wonders, the ripest fruit in
God's garden, the master-thought of the universe.
But why should I be here, O God, I a green seed of
unfulfilled passion, a mad tempest that seeketh
neither east nor west, a bewildered fragment from a burnt
planet?
Why am I here, O God of lost souls, thou who art lost
amongst the gods?
A fox looked at his shadow at sunrise and said, "I will
have a camel for lunch today." And all morning he
went about looking for camels. But at noon he saw his
shadow again -- and he said, "A mouse will do."