Many years ago, I fell in love with a book that I borrowed from the Uni library. However, for some reason, I have never given another thoughts about holding on to it. After I had done the very last page, I returned it straight away.
I suppose it was such a stupid period of reading time of me. I read so many things that all the names and ideas just became a blur and gradually faded away with the time. So for many years, I couldn’t identify the name and author of that particular book, though occasionally I thought about it and tried to go back to search for it. There was simply no luck.
Life goes on, it doesn’t seem that anybody would not live his life without a particular book, doesn’t it? I forgot and I was not persistent.
But there must be a doom. The book came back itself. Today I was flipping through the pages among the other books from the Monday bookman, that’s how I call him (he is actually a representative of Lifetime Distributor). Even though I had only read the Chinese version before, the words were so familiar and more I read, faster my heart was racing.
“Oh my God, could it be it? The one I was looking for, for 20 years of time? The friend I made but never had caught her name and didn’t know where she has gone for so long?”
Kahlil Gibran’s THE PROPHET -纪伯伦之「先知」
I was almost in ecstasy.
All the pieces that I used to love so much were all here. Reading them 20 years later, my heart was still bouncing hard. The love for the book did not lessen a bit, I found myself having a lot of new understanding.
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
“You talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts;
And when you can no longer dwell in the solitude of your heart you live in your lips, and sound is a diversion and a pastime.
And in much of your talking, thinking is half murdered.
For thought is a bird of space, that in a cage of words may indeed unfold its wings but cannot fly.
What a powerful book!