The Madman by Kahlil Gibran (mobile ebook reader TXT) 📖

>And I answered them all, and said:

 

“Remember only that I smiled. I do not atone—nor sacrifice—nor

wish for glory; and I have nothing to forgive. I thirsted—and I

besought you to give me my blood to drink. For what is there can

quench a madman’s thirst but his own blood? I was dumb—and I

asked wounds of you for mouths. I was imprisoned in your days and

nights—and I sought a door into larger days and nights.

 

And now I go—as others already crucified have gone. And think not

we are weary of crucifixion. For we must be crucified by larger

and yet larger men, between greater earths and greater heavens.”

 

The Astronomer

 

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 has 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.”

 

The Great Longing

 

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

fullness 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

 

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 noise! They

scatter all my winter dreams.”

 

The Eye

 

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.”

 

The Two Learned Men

 

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 marketplace, 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

 

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 listened; 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

 

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 a while in the wind and

then is heard no more.

 

“The Perfect World”

 

God of lost souls, thou who are 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 night 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 sound 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 preconceived 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?

 

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE MADMAN ***

 

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