What made The Prophet so fantastically successful? At the opening of the book, we are told that Almustafa, a holy man, has been living in exile, in a city called Orphalese, for twelve years. (When The Prophet was published, Gibran had been living in New York, in “exile” from Lebanon, for twelve years).
A ship is now coming to take him back
to the island of his birth. Saddened by his departure, people gather around and
ask him for his final words of wisdom—on love, on work, on joy and sorrow, and
so forth. He obliges, and his lucubrations on these matters occupy most of the
book.
Almustafa’s advice is not bad: love
involves suffering; children should be given their independence. Who, these
days, would say otherwise? More than the soundness of its advice, however, the
mere fact that The Prophet was an advice book—or, more precisely,
“inspirational literature”—probably ensured a substantial readership at the
start. Gibran’s closest counterpart today is the Brazilian sage Paulo Coelho,
and his books have sold nearly a hundred million copies.
Then there is the pleasing ambiguity
of Almustafa’s counsels. In the manner of horoscopes, the statements are so
widely applicable (“your creativity,” “your family problems”) that almost
anyone could think that they were addressed to him. At times, Almustafa’s
vagueness is such that you can’t figure out what he means. If you look closely,
though, you will see that much of the time he is saying something
specific—namely, that everything is everything else.
Freedom is slavery; waking is
dreaming; belief is doubt; joy is pain; death is life. So, whatever you’re
doing, you needn’t worry, because you’re also doing the opposite. Such
paradoxes, which Gibran had used for years to keep Haskell out of his bed, now
became his favorite literary device. They appeal not only by their seeming
correction of conventional wisdom but also by their hypnotic power, their
negation of rational processes.
If the artists of the time were
throwing off idealism and sentiment, ordinary people were not.
Also, the book sounds religious,
which it is, in a way. Gibran was familiar with Buddhist and Muslim holy books,
and above all with the Bible, in both its Arabic and its King James
translations. (Those paradoxes of his come partly from the Sermon on the Mount.)
In The Prophet he Osterized all these into a warm, smooth, interconfessional
soup that was perfect for twentieth-century readers, many of whom longed for
the comforts of religion but did not wish to pledge allegiance to any church,
let alone to any deity who might have left a record of how he wanted them to
behave.
It is no surprise that when those two
trends—antiauthoritarianism and a nostalgia for sanctity—came together and
produced the 1960s, The Prophet’s sales climaxed. Nor is the spirit of the
1960s gone from our world. It survives in the New Age movement—of which Gibran
was a midwife—and that market may be what Everyman’s had in mind when it
decided to issue the new collection.
Furthermore, The Prophet is
comforting. Gibran told Haskell that the whole meaning of the book was “You are
far far greater than you know—and All is well.” To people in doubt or in
trouble, that is good news. (Reportedly, the book is popular in prisons.)
Finally, The Prophet is short—ninety-six pages in its original edition, with
margins you could drive a truck through—a selling point not to be dismissed.
And, since the text is in small, detachable sections, you can make it even
shorter, by just dipping into it here and there, as some people do with the
Bible. My guess is that plenty of its fans have not read it from cover to
cover.
There is a better book by Gibran,
Jesus, the Son of Man, which was published five years after The Prophet. This
is his second-most-popular work, but way second. That, no doubt, is because it
lacks the something-for-everyone quality of its predecessor. Jesus is about
Jesus. Also, it is not a book of advice or consolation. It is a novel of sorts,
a collection of seventy-nine statements by people remembering Christ. Some of
the speakers are known to us—Pontius Pilate, Mary Magdalene—but others are
inventions: a Lebanese shepherd, a Greek apothecary. They all speak as if they
were being interviewed.
Though Gibran thought of himself as
an admirer of all religions, he had an obsession with Jesus. He told Haskell
that Jesus came to him in dreams. The two of them ate watercress together, and
Jesus told him special things—for example, parables that didn’t make it into
the Gospels. On occasion, Gibran clearly saw himself as Jesus, and presumably
it was this that inspired his unwise decision, in Jesus, the Son of Man, to
rewrite long sections of the Bible, for example, the Lord’s Prayer: “Our Father
in earth and heaven, sacred is Thy name. Thy will be done with us, even as in
space.”
Much of the book transcends such
follies, however. Gibran at one time had hoped to be a playwright, and Jesus
shows a gift for characterization and “voice”—an insistence, for the moment, on
one speaker’s point of view—that saves the book from his habitual gassiness.
Also, however much he imagined himself as Jesus, in this book alone he drops
the oracular tone that is so oppressive in the rest of his work.
A number of the speakers have
complaints about Jesus. Judas is allowed to justify his crime: “I thought He
had chosen me a captain of His chariots, and a chief man of His warriors.”
Judas’s disgraced mother is given a dignified and moving speech: “I beg you to
question me no further about my son. I loved him and I shall love him
forevermore. If love were in the flesh I would burn it out with hot irons and
be at peace. But it is in the soul, unreachable. And now I would speak no more.
Go question another woman more honored than the mother of Judas. Go to the
mother of Jesus.” Hard words.
In contrast to The Prophet, which
received few and tepid reviews, Jesus, the Son of Man was praised by critics,
but these were mostly newspaper critics. While the literary journals paid some
attention to Gibran early on, they eventually dropped him. This is no surprise.
His leading traits—idealism, vagueness, sentimentality—were exactly what the
young writers of the twenties were running away from. Consequently, he did not
make the scene with Manhattan’s better class of artists. He seldom turns up in
literary memoirs of the period. Edmund Wilson, in his journal of the twenties,
says that “Gibran the Persian” was at a dinner party that a friend of his
attended. That’s the only mention he gets.
But, if the artists of the time were
throwing off idealism and sentiment, ordinary people were not. They wanted to
hear about their souls, and Sinclair Lewis was not obliging them. Hence the
popularity of The Prophet with the general public. After its publication,
Gibran received bags of fan mail. He was also besieged by visitors, mostly
female. Interestingly, in view of his hunger for fame, he did not enjoy these
attentions. He took to spending months of the year in Boston, with Marianna,
and though he was now making money, he didn’t change his way of living, or even
his apartment. He remained in his one-room studio to the end of his life.
Apparently, its monastic simplicity pleased him. He called it the Hermitage and
lit it with candles.
As his reclusiveness increased, his
productivity decreased. After Jesus, the Son of Man, he was more or less played
out. He produced two more books in English, but they were tired little things,
and the reviewers said so. When Gibran was in Paris, he met Rodin, and he later
claimed that the famous old sculptor had called him “the William Blake of the
twentieth century.” This tribute was probably of Gibran’s manufacture, not
Rodin’s, but people at Knopf liked it, and so it was bannered on Gibran’s
publicity flyers. (Rodin couldn’t protest; he was dead.) After The Prophet, the
critics, already annoyed by that book’s popularity, threw the phrase back in
Gibran’s face. “Blake?” they asked.
Gibran’s basic problem might have
been a feeling of hypocrisy, in that his life so contradicted his pose as a
holy man.
By his forties, Gibran was a sick
man. He had long complained of a periodic illness, which he called the flu. Now
he decided that the malady was not in his body but in his soul. There was a
great book inside him, greater than The Prophet, but he couldn’t get it out. He
had another difficulty: alcoholism, a situation that might have developed soon
after The Prophet was published, or while he was writing it.
Robin Waterfield thinks that Gibran’s
basic problem might have been a feeling of hypocrisy, in that his life so
contradicted his pose as a holy man. In his last years, he stayed closed up in
his apartment, occasionally receiving a worthy visitor but mostly drinking
arak, a Syrian liquor that Marianna sent to him, apparently by the gallon.
By the spring of 1931, he was
bedridden, and one morning the woman who brought him his breakfast decided that
his condition was dangerous. Gibran was taken to St. Vincent’s Hospital, where
he died later that day. The cause of death was recorded as “cirrhosis of the
liver with incipient tuberculosis.” Waterfield reports that Gibran’s admirers
have greatly stressed the tuberculosis over the cirrhosis. “Nothing incipient
kills people,” he objects. His speculation seems to be that Gibran drank
himself to death out of a sense of fraudulence and failure.
A black comedy ensued. After mobbed
memorial services in New York and Boston, Marianna took the body to Lebanon for
burial, as Gibran had wished. In Beirut, the casket was opened, and the
minister of education pinned a medal on Gibran’s chest. Then began the
eighty-mile trek to Bsharri, with an honor guard of three hundred. The road was
lined with townspeople, Jean and Kahlil Gibran report in their biography:
“Young men in native dress brandished swords and dancing women scattered
perfume and flowers before the hearse.”
Gibran’s will dictated that Marianna
be given his money; Haskell his manuscripts and paintings; and the town of
Bsharri all future American royalties on the books published during his
lifetime. This last provision produced so many difficulties that it was cited
in an American textbook on copyright law. Who, among the people in Bsharri, was
going to decide how this money would be distributed? Gibran had said that it
was to be spent on good causes.
To evaluate them, an administrative
committee, with members from each of the town’s seven leading families, was set
up, but this created further problems. “Families split apart in the clamor to
win a committee position,” Time reported. “Age-old feuds gained new fury, and
at least two deaths resulted.” Meanwhile, the funds were disappearing. The
situation became such a scandal that in 1967 Knopf started withholding the
royalties, which at that point amounted to $300,000 a year.
Marianna eventually sued Bsharri to
win control of the copyrights; the judgment went to the Bsharrians, though, in
the process, their legacy was substantially reduced, because the fee that their
Lebanese American lawyer had negotiated with them was an astonishing 25 percent
of future royalties. The Bsharrians then sued the lawyer, and they lost.
In the end, the Lebanese government
intervened and, reportedly, put Gibran’s estate to rights. His coffin rests in
a deconsecrated monastery—Mar Sarkis, in Bsharri—that he chose for that
purpose. Robin Waterfield has visited it. He says that he found a crack in the
cover of the casket and that, when he looked into the crack, he saw straight
through to the back—in other words, that the body had disappeared. This seems a
fitting, if sad, conclusion. As Gibran’s mother said, “Hush. He’s not here.”
By Joan Acocella
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