The Little Book of Life's Wisdom
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That night I saw Lebanon dreamlike with the
eyes of a poet.
Thus the appearance of things changes
according to the emotions.
We see magic and beauty in them, while the
magic and beauty are really in ourselves.
L I S T E N I N G T O N AT U R E ’ S L I F E
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2
Beauty and the
Song of Life
Our life force increases as we bring
more beauty into our lives, in whatever
form we appreciate it. Life then moves
us from within to create beauty and
share it with others.
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LIFE’S PURPOSE
We live only to discover beauty.
All else is a form of waiting.
K A H L I L G I B R A N ’ S L I T T L E B O O K O F L I F E
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SINGING
If you sing of beauty
though alone in the heart of the desert
you will have an audience.
A great singer is he who sings our silences.
They say the nightingale
pierces his bosom with a thorn
when it sings its love song.
So do we all.
How else should we sing?
Genius is but a robin’s song
at the beginning of a slow spring.
B E AU T Y A N D T H E S O N G O F L I F E
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A madman is not less a musician
than you or myself,
only the instrument on which he plays
is a little out of tune.
When you sing,
the hungry hear you
with their stomachs.
K A H L I L G I B R A N ’ S L I T T L E B O O K O F L I F E
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SECRETS OF THE BEAUTY OF LIFE
The voice of Khalil the Heretic:
Vain are the beliefs and teachings that make
humanity miserable, and false is the goodness
that leads it into sorrow and despair. For it is
humanity’s purpose to be happy on this earth
and lead the way to felicity and preach its gospel
wherever it goes.
Those who do not see the kingdom of heaven
in this life will never see it in the coming life.
We came not into this life by exile, but we
came as innocent creatures of God, to learn how
to worship the holy and eternal spirit and seek
the hidden secrets within ourselves from the
beauty of life.
This is the truth that I have learned from the
teachings of the Nazarene.
This is the light that came from within me
and showed me the dark corners of the convent
that threatened my life.
B E AU T Y A N D T H E S O N G O F L I F E
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This is the deep secret that the beautiful
valleys and fields revealed to me when I was
hungry, sitting lonely and weeping under the
shadow of the trees.
This is the religion as the convent should
impart it, as God wished it, as Jesus taught it.
K A H L I L G I B R A N ’ S L I T T L E B O O K O F L I F E
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THE POET
He is a link between this
and the coming world.
He is a pure spring from which
all thirsty souls may drink.
He is a tree watered by the river of beauty,
bearing fruit that the hungry heart craves.
He is a nightingale
soothing the depressed spirit
with his beautiful melodies.
He is a white cloud
appearing over the horizon,
ascending and growing
until it fills the face of the sky.
Then it falls on the flowers
in the field of Life,
opening their petals to admit the light.
B E AU T Y A N D T H E S O N G O F L I F E
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He is an angel,
sent by the goddess
to preach the deity’s gospel.
He is a brilliant lamp,
unconquered by darkness
and inextinguishable by the wind.
It is filled with oil by Ishtar of Love,
and lighted by Apollon of Music.
He is a solitary figure,
robed in simplicity and kindness.
He sits upon the lap of Nature
to draw his inspiration
and stays up in the silence of the night,
awaiting the descending of the spirit.
He is a sower who sows
the seeds of his heart
in the prairies of affection,
and humanity reaps the harvest
for her nourishment.
K A H L I L G I B R A N ’ S L I T T L E B O O K O F L I F E
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This is the poet,
whom the people ignore in this life,
and who is recognized only when
he bids the earthly world farewell
and returns to his arbor in heaven.
This is the poet,
who asks naught of humanity
but a smile.
This is the poet,
whose spirit ascends
and fills the firmament
with beautiful sayings,
yet the people deny themselves
his radiance.
Until when shall the people remain asleep?
Until when shall they continue to glorify those
who attain greatness by moments of advantage?
How long shall they ignore those
who enable them to see the beauty of their
spirit,
symbol of peace and love?
B E AU T Y A N D T H E S O N G O F L I F E
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Until when shall human beings
honor the dead and forget the living
who spend their lives encircled in misery
and who consume themselves
like burning candles to illuminate the way
for the ignorant and lead them
into the path of light?
Poet, you are the life of this life,
and you have triumphed over the ages
despite their severity.
Poet, you will one day rule the hearts,
and therefore your kingdom has no ending.
Poet, examine your crown of thorns.
You will find concealed in it
a budding wreath of laurel.
K A H L I L G I B R A N ’ S L I T T L E B O O K O F L I F E
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ART AND LIFE
Four poets were sitting around a bowl of punch
that stood on a table.
Said the
first poet, “Methinks I see with
my third eye the fragrance of this wine hovering
in space like a cloud of birds in an enchanted
forest.”
The second poet raised his head and said,
“With my inner ear I can hear those mist birds
singing. And the melody holds my heart, as the
white rose imprisons the bee within her petals.”
The third poet closed his eyes and stretched
his arm upwards, and said, “I touch them with
my hand. I feel their wings, like the breath of a
sleeping fairy, brushing against my fingers.”
Then the fourth poet rose and lifted up the
bowl, and he said, “Alas, friends! I am too dull of
sight and of hearing and of touch. I cannot see
the fragrance of this wine, nor hear its song, nor
feel the beating of its wings. I perceive but the
wine itself. Now therefore must I drink it, that
it may sharpen my senses and raise me to your
blissful heights.”
B E AU T Y A N D T H E S O N G O F L I F E
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And putting the bowl to his lips, he drank
the punch to the very last drop.
The three poets, with their mouths open,
looked at him aghast, and there was a thirsty yet
un-lyrical hatred in their eyes.
K A H L I L G I B R A N ’ S L I T T L E B O O K O F L I F E
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PLEASURE IS A FREEDOM SONG
Pleasure is a freedom song,
but it is not freedom.
It is the blossoming of your desires,
but it is not their fruit.
It is a depth calling unto a height,
but it is not the deep nor the high.
It is the caged taking wing,
but it is not space encompassed.
Aye, in very truth,
pleasure is a freedom song.
And I fain would have you sing it
with fullness of heart.
Yet I would not have you
lose your hearts
in the singing.
B E AU T Y A N D T H E S O N G O F L I F E
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SINGING
Go you upon your way with singing,
but let each song be brief,
for only the songs that die young upon your lips
shall live in human hearts.
Tell a lovely truth in little words,
but never an ugly truth in any words.
Tell the maiden whose hair shines in the sun
that she is the daughter of the morning.
But if you shall behold the sightless,
say not to him that he is one with night.
K A H L I L G I B R A N ’ S L I T T L E B O O K O F L I F E
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BEFORE THE THRONE OF BEAUTY
One heavy day I ran away from the grim face of
society and the dizzying clamor of the city and
directed my weary step to the spacious alley. I
pursued the beckoning course of the rivulet and
the musical sounds of the birds until I reached
a lonely spot where the flowing branches of
the trees prevented the sun from touching
the earth.
I stood there, and it was entertaining to my
soul—my thirsty soul who had seen naught but
the mirage of life instead of its sweetness.
I was engrossed deeply in thought, and my
spirits were sailing the firmament when a houri,
wearing a sprig of grapevine that covered part of
her naked body and a wreath of poppies about
her golden hair, suddenly appeared to me.
As she realized my astonishment, she greeted
me saying, “Fear me not. I am the Nymph of the
Jungle.”
“How can beauty like yours be committed
to live in this place? Please tell me who you are,
and whence you come?” I asked.
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She sat gracefully on the green grass and
responded, “I am the symbol of Nature! I am the
ever-virgin your forefathers worshipped, and to
my honor they erected shrines and temples at
Baalbek and Jubayl.”
And I dared say, “But those temples and
shrines were laid waste and the bones of my
adoring ancestors became a part of the earth.
Nothing was left to commemorate their goddess
save a pitiful few and forgotten pages in the
book of history.”
She replied, “Some goddesses live in the lives
of their worshippers and die in their deaths,
while some live an eternal and infinite life. My
life is sustained by the world of Beauty that you
will see wherever you rest your eyes, and this
Beauty is Nature itself. It is the beginning of the
shepherd’s joy among the hills, and a villager’s
happiness in the fields, and the pleasure of the
awe-filled tribes between the mountains and
the plains. This Beauty promotes the wise into
the throne of Truth.”
Then I said, “Beauty is a terrible power!”
K A H L I L G I B R A N ’ S L I T T L E B O O K O F L I F E
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And she retorted, “Human beings fear all
things, even yourselves. You fear heaven, the
source of spiritual peace. You fear Nature, the
haven of rest and tranquility. You fear the God
of goodness and accuse him of anger, while he
is full of love and mercy.”
After a deep silence, mingled with sweet
dreams, I asked, “Speak to me of that beauty that
the people interpret and define, each accord-
ing to their own conception. I have seen her
honored and worshipped in different ways and
manners.”
She answered, “Beauty is that which attracts
your soul, and that which loves to give and not to
receive. When you meet Beauty, you feel that the
hands deep within your inner self are stretched
forth to bring her into the domain of your heart.
It is a magnificence combined of sorrow and joy.
It is the unseen that you see, and the vague that
you understand, and the mute that you hear—it
is the Holy of Holies that begins in yourself and
ends vastly beyond your earthly imagination.”
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Then the Nymph of the Jungle approached
me and laid her scented hands upon my eyes.
And as she withdrew, I found myself alone in the
valley. When I returned to the city, whose turbu-
lence no longer vexed me, I repeated her words:
“Beauty is that which attracts your soul, and
that which loves to give and not to receive.”
K A H L I L G I B R A N ’ S L I T T L E B O O K O F L I F E
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THE FLUTE
Give me the ney2 and sing
the secret song of being,
a song whose echo lasts even
till existence vanishes.
Have you, like me,
chosen the wilderness,
a house without limitations?
Have you followed the stream
and climbed the rocks,
bathing yourself in their fragrance,
drying yourself in their light?
Have you drunk the dawn
from goblets full of divine air?
Have you, like me,
sat down at dusk,
2. A Persian flute made of a hollow piece of reed or bamboo,
made famous in Middle Eastern poetry by a reference in the
opening lines of the Mathnawi, a poetic epic of the 12th-
century Sufi Jelaluddin Rumi. There Rumi compares the reed
plucked from the reedbed to make a flute to the soul cut off
from and longing for Reality that is its home.
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amid the glowing languor
of vines laden with grapes?
Have you lain down on the grass at night
and used the sky as your coverlet,
opening your heart to the future,
forgetful of the past?
Give me the ney and sing,
a song in tune with hearts.
The sounds of the ney will linger
beyond ailments and remedies.
Give me the ney and sing,
for human beings
are no more than
sketches traced in water.
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BEAUTY
And a poet said, “Speak to us of beauty.”
And Al Mustafa answered:
Where shall you seek beauty and how shall
you find her unless she herself be your way and
your guide?
And how shall you speak of her except she
be the weaver of your speech?
The aggrieved and the injured say, “Beauty is
kind and gentle. Like a young mother half-shy of
her own glory she walks among us.”
And the passionate say, “Nay, beauty is a thing
of might and dread. Like the tempest she shakes
the earth beneath us and the sky above us.”
The tired and the weary say, “Beauty is of
soft whisperings. She speaks in our spirit. Her
voice yields to our silences like a faint light that
quivers in fear of the shadow.”