Historical The Prophet

[deficiT]

The Prophet is a 1923 book of 16 short fables or parables written by an American fellow from Lebanon, named Kahlil Gilbran.

While it's not really associated with any one religion or spiritual school, I find it to be some of the most beautiful writing ever, which contains immense spiritual value, and it's one of my favorite literary work.

Wasn't sure if there was any thread about it, but I wanted to post some of excerpts of it.

This is,

ON GIVING
THEN said a rich man, Speak to us of Giving.
And he answered:
You give but little when you give of your possessions.
It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.
For what are your possessions but things you keep and guard for fear you
may need them to morrow?
And to–morrow, what shall to–morrow bring to the over–prudent dog
burying bones in the trackless sand as he follows the pilgrims to the holy
city?
And what is fear of need but need itself?
Is not dread of thirst when your well is full, the thirst that is
unquenchable?
THERE are those who give little of the much which they have—and they
give it for recognition and their hidden desire makes their gifts
unwholesome.
And there are those who have little and give it all.
These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is
never empty.
There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward.
And there are those who give with pain, and that pain is their baptism.
And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they
seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue;
They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.
Through the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their
eyes He smiles upon the earth.

IT is well to give when asked, but it is better to give unasked, through
understanding;
And to the open–handed the search for one who shall receive is joy
greater than giving.
And is there aught you would withhold?
All you have shall some day be given;
Therefore give now, that the season of giving may be yours and not your
inheritors'.
YOU often say, "I would give, but only to the deserving."
The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture.
They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish.
Surely he who is worthy to receive his days and his nights is worthy of all
else from you.
And he who has deserved to drink from the ocean of life deserves to fill
his cup from your little stream.
And what desert greater shall there be, than that which lies in the
courage and the confidence, nay the charity, of receiving?
And who are you that men should rend their bosom and unveil their
pride, that you may see their worth naked and their pride unabashed?
See first that you yourself deserve to be a giver, and an instrument of
giving.
For in truth it is life that gives unto life–while you, who deem yourself a
giver, are but a witness.
AND you receivers—and you are all receivers—assume no weight of
gratitude, lest you lay a yoke upon yourself and upon him who gives.
Rather rise together with the giver on his gifts as on wings;
For to be overmindful of your debt is to doubt his generosity who has the
free–hearted earth for mother, and God for father.

 

[Cheshire_Kat]

I read the entire book back around 1971 or so.

An excellent read from cover to cover.

 

[deficiT]

I reckon it'd be good to start at the beginning just to set the stage, here is the first chapter:

THE COMING OF THE SHIP
ALMUSTAFA, the chosen and the beloved, who was a dawn unto his own
day, had waited twelve years in the city of Orphalese for his ship that was
to return and bear him back to the isle of his birth.
And in the twelfth year, on the seventh day of Ielool, the month of
reaping, he climbed the hill without the city walls and looked seaward;
and he beheld his ship coming with the mist.
Then the gates of his heart were flung open, and his joy flew far over the
sea. And he closed his eyes and prayed in the silences of his soul.
BUT as he descended the hill, a sadness came upon him, and he thought
in his heart:
How shall I go in peace and without sorrow? Nay, not without a wound
in the spirit shall I leave this city.
Long were the days of pain I have spent within its walls, and long were
the nights of aloneness; and who can depart from his pain and his
aloneness without regret?
Too many fragments of the spirit have I scattered in these streets, and
too many are the children of my longing that walk naked among these
hills, and I cannot withdraw from them without a burden and an ache.
It is
not a garment I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own
hands.
Nor is it a thought I leave behind me, but a heart made sweet with
hunger and with thirst.
YET I cannot tarry longer.
The sea that calls all things unto her calls me, and I must embark.
For to stay, though the hours burn in the night, is to freeze and
crystallize and be bound in a mould.
Fain would I take with me all that is here. But how shall I?

A voice cannot carry the tongue and the lips that gave it wings. Alone
must it seek the ether.
And alone and without his nest shall the eagle fly across the sun.

NOW when he reached the foot of the hill, he turned again towards the
sea, and he saw his ship approaching the harbour, and upon her prow
the mariners, the men of his own land.
AND his soul cried out to them, and he said:
Sons of my ancient mother, you riders of the tides,
How often have you sailed in my dreams. And now you come in my
awakening, which is my deeper dream.
Ready am I to go, and my eagerness with sails full set awaits the wind.
Only another breath will I breathe in this still air, only another loving
look cast backward,
And then I shall stand among you, a seafarer among seafarers.
And you, vast sea, sleeping mother,
Who alone are peace and freedom to the river and the stream,
Only another winding will this stream make, only another murmur in
this glade,
And then I shall come to you, a boundless drop to a boundless ocean.
AND as he walked he saw from afar men and women leaving their fields
and their vineyards and hastening towards the city gates.

And he heard their voices calling his name, and shouting from field to
field telling one another of the coming of his ship.
AND he said to himself:
Shall the day of parting be the day of gathering?
And shall it be said that my eve was in truth my dawn?
And what shall I give unto him who has left his slough in midfurrow, or
to him who has stopped the wheel of his winepress?

Shall my heart become a tree heavy–laden with fruit that I may gather
and give unto them?
And shall my desires flow like a fountain that I may fill their cups?
Am I a harp that the hand of the mighty may touch me, or a flute that his
breath may pass through me?
A seeker of silences am I, and what treasure have I found in silences that
I may dispense with confidence?
If this is my day of harvest, in what fields have I sowed the seed, and in
what unremembered seasons?
If this indeed be the hour in which I lift up my lantern, it is not my flame
that shall burn therein.
Empty and dark shall I raise my lantern, And the guardian of the night
shall fill it with oil and he shall light it also.
THESE things he said in words. But much in his heart remained unsaid.
For he himself could not speak his deeper secret.
AND when he entered into the city all the people came to meet him, and
they were crying out to him as with one voice.
And the elders of the city stood forth and said:

Go not yet away from us.
A noontide have you been in our twilight, and your youth has given us
dreams to dream.
No stranger are you among us, nor a guest, but our son and our dearly
beloved.
Suffer not yet our eyes to hunger for your face.
AND the priests and the priestesses said unto him:
Let not the waves of the sea separate us now, and the years you have
spent in our midst become a memory.
You have walked among us a spirit, and your shadow has been a light
upon our faces.

Much have we loved you. But speechless was our love, and with veils has
it been veiled.
Yet now it cries aloud unto you, and would stand revealed before you.
And ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of
separation.
AND others came also and entreated him. But he answered them not. He
only bent his head; and those who stood near saw his tears falling upon
his breast.
And he and the people proceeded towards the great square before the
temple.
AND there came out of the sanctuary a woman whose name was Almitra.
And she was a seeress.
And he looked upon her with exceeding tenderness, for it was she who
had first sought and believed in him when he had been but a day in their
city.
And she hailed him, saying:
Prophet of God, in quest of the uttermost, long have you searched the
distances for your ship.
And now your ship has come, and you must needs go.
Deep is your longing for the land of your memories and the dwelling–
place of your greater desires; and our love would not bind you nor our
needs hold you.
Yet this we ask ere you leave us, that you speak to us and give us of your
truth.
And we will give it unto our children, and they unto their children, and it
shall not perish.
In your aloneness you have watched with our days, and in your
wakefulness you have listened to the weeping and the laughter of our
sleep.

Now therefore disclose us to ourselves, and tell us all that has been
shown you of that which is between birth and death.
AND he answered:
People of Orphalese, of what can I speak save of that which is even now
moving within your souls?

 

[kris66]

I just happened to come across this thread and it reminded me of a quote that had been handed out by my Psychology instructor for a Death and Dying class I took in college. I had to go dig it up after I saw this thread.

"Is not the cup that holds wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit the very wood that was hallowed with knives? . .

Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that it's heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain . . ."

Kahil Gilbran
The Prophet