Khalil Gibran - Les philosophes de l'âme et les mystères de la vie intérieure #3

[Music] Where does

this voice come from, this voice we just

heard? First question, which

already carries a mystery within it, because I don't

know if you've encountered it, but when we

read The Prophet, we don't know where he

comes from, what country, if the country he

comes from even exists.

Written by a Lebanese poet,

Khalil Gibran, at the crossroads of East and

West,

between heaven and

earth, this prophet probably comes

from a land that isn't geographical, from a

time outside of time, a time of

consciousness. But his words are very eloquent, very evocative,

and very

inspiring. Moreover, he speaks in

all languages ​​and on all

continents, since he has been translated into

40 languages. Millions of copies have been

sold. I don't even know the name,

since I have many

different sources, and millions—I can

guarantee you that. In French alone, there have been

15

different translations. So where does this voice come from, the voice that speaks to

us? Where does the voice of the

Prophet come from, and who speaks to Gibran says

about this

book, The Prophet: "It's a work

I've been thinking about for 1000 years. It was only at

the end of the school year that I

wrote one of the chapters." He also says: "It is

for me a second birth and

my first baptism. It is the only

thought that makes me worthy to stand before the

sun. Prophet, he brought me into the

world before I could conceive him. He

molded me before I thought of

giving him form. He commanded me to advance, moved

behind him, for 7000 leagues before

he stopped to dictate his choices

and preferences to me.

My whole being is in The

Prophet." It's a book that was published in

September

1923, so exactly 100

years ago, written by Khalil Gibran, this philosopher

of the soul. Yes, he certainly is, I

can guarantee it. For the past two weeks, I've been engaging

more deeply with Khalil

Gibran and... He embodies a love of

wisdom that will lead his reader

to this inner place of contact with

a living truth: wisdom itself. He

inspires us to turn towards

the life of our soul; this is truly what he

evokes and inspires us. This is what

I experienced through this journey.

I hope this significant encounter will be so

for you this evening as well.

For this conference, I will

begin by talking about his life and

his work, which, as you will see, are quite

intertwined. Then we will explore its

philosophical scope: what does it

offer us today, its

message for our world? Let's begin.

The life and

work of Gibran. He had a

rather short life, 48 years, the length of his time

on earth, from

1883 to 1900. He was born on January 6,

1883, in Lebanon, in the small village of

Bechar. He came from a

Maronite Christian family, which is a

Catholic religion, essentially an

Eastern Christian in Lebanon. His

maternal grandfather was a priest, his father a

tax collector, and religion and

spirituality were very present in

his upbringing, particularly on

his mother's side more than on his father's,

who was more focused on money.

Nature was also very present, as he

grew up in the mountains of

Lebanon. So, we can imagine him running through the

beautiful mountains of Lebanon with his

half-brother and two sisters. I'm

not going to tell you the whole story of

Khalil Gibran's life; it was

quite an eventful and romantic life.

This book is really very good; I

recommend it. It's the

complete works of Khalil Gibran, and it starts

with a brief biography. It includes

all his works, and as I was saying to

someone, you open it to a page and you

see an extremely inspiring sentence.

So, I recommend it. I have no stake in it,

so I can tell you the

whole story of Khalil Gibran's life.

I'm going to invite you to

explore it further, of course, but I'm going to

highlight the main characteristics that

define the author and his

work. First, the importance of art—

I didn't note that—but not

the importance of art and the direction it would give

him in his

life. From a very young age, he

showed an interest and great talent

for drawing. In fact, at

home, he drew on the walls

with chalk and charcoal. His

mother didn't scold him but, on the contrary,

encouraged him. Seeing her

son's talent, she gave him

a book on Leonardo da

Vinci, a discovery that greatly

impacted him. He said on the subject, "I have

never looked at a work by Leonardo

da Vinci without feeling deep within

myself the power of its charm, nor without

being aware that a part of

his soul penetrated mine." He

also said that when he first saw

a work by Leonardo da Vinci, it had

the effect on him of a

compass needle on a

lost ship. In the mist he finds his bearings, and

Khalil Gibran had a

rather trying youth. When he was 8,

his father was imprisoned for

embezzlement—he was a

tax collector. At 12, his

family emigrated, so his mother took the children

to the United States where they

joined the Lebanese community

and lived in considerable

poverty.

Later, he lost his sister and then his brother to

tuberculosis, but all of this did not

prevent him from revealing his

art. He made helpful acquaintances,

patrons, and influential figures—

people he would call guardian angels.

He was taken in quite

quickly by a

charitable organization that noticed his

drawing talents. He was supported by his

teachers and connected

with the artistic community of the

time. He was sent, thanks to one

of his guardian angels named

Marie Askel, who would return and remain a constant

presence throughout his life. They had a

close friendship,

perhaps even more; it was a somewhat

ambiguous relationship. But who followed him for a long time, uh,

she's going to send him to France to complete

his education and training in

painting. So, very talented,

hardworking, and needing to

express himself, he's always either

drawing or

writing. He's also going to be very

supported by his mother, both

on the artistic side, as I've already

mentioned, but also on the

spiritual dimension. So, his mother was

Christian, and at a certain point, when

her son starts frequenting the

Boston art scene, he realizes

that it's an environment

that can be a bit, uh, well, influential, let's

say, and not

necessarily good influences. In any

case, she's a little worried about her young

son and she sends him back to

Lebanon to complete his education. There, he'll

go to a college called the

College of Wisdom in Beirut, where

he'll be trained to

deepen his knowledge of

literary Arabic and also the

Bible. He'll also encounter

Sufism and Islam. It's there that

the eclecticism of his knowledge of

religions truly emerges. It's all taking shape, uh,

so he's going to, yeah, the College of

Wisdom, it's surprising, it's incredible,

he's going through the

storms of life, but his course is

clear, the compass is working pretty well,

we don't really know what he

encountered with the works of Leonardo da

Vinci, in any case, he's going to

express in one of the letters he

writes to Marie Askel that it

awakened in him an attraction to

the unknown, I think it's an unknown

that we could also call

mystery, a second major trait that I

wanted to share with you, oh, here you have

the phrases, fan of, this is where you can

read the phrase, the quote from Khalil

Gira, number 6, say it loud so we can hear it

on camera: In autumn

I gathered all my sorrows and

buried them in my garden, when April

blooms again and the earth and

spring celebrate their union, my

garden was covered with splendid and exceptional flowers,

and the paragraph, the second trait that

I noted is knowing how to make the

flowers of evil It was Modelire who said

that expression; it's from a work by

Baudler. But it's truly what

Khalil Gibran managed to do through all

the dramas and sorrows he went through in

his life. He wasn't defeated,

but it was

always a source of strength for him to

express the power and

subtlety of his soul, and also his

fighting spirit. He was a rebel, I'll say more about that

later,

but he was a fighter. And in

fact, these sufferings, let's say,

awakened his sensitivity, but

rather a yearning for

beauty. On several occasions, sorrows and

dramas found

expression in his works, in a

very subtle, precise, and

delicate way. A few examples: one of his

first novels is called

Broken Wings. By the way, I'll tell you

where that title comes from. He was talking

with his mother, and she said to him, "If

I hadn't given birth to you, you would

still be a..." "Angel," he says, "but I

'm still an angel." And his mother

replies, "But I can't see your wings." "That's

normal, they're broken." And

from this conversation came the title

of his novel, *Broken Wings*,

which recounts the story of a love

imprisoned by traditions and the

ecclesiastical power that was quite

strong and confining at the time.

Some say it

evokes a first, unrequited love he had

experienced, but others

also say it's a way of expressing

his rebellious nature

against the archaic

religious traditions of the time, which

particularly shackled women in the

East, and also against the feudalism of the

clergy of that era, which was

interested in possessions and

prevented the free expression of each person's

soul. Ultimately, it's

against this that he reveals himself, rebels,

and reveals himself, but he always does so

with great restraint, with

elegance, and with artistic language. An

example of this ability to

find beauty in adversity is his

attitude upon the death of his

beloved mother. She died of cancer in

June 1903, so he was only 20 years old. He

said something very beautiful when

he found himself facing his

deceased mother: "Her facial features were

becoming increasingly refined, and her

large eyes increasingly wide. She

had regained all her

natural colors. In my life, I have never seen anything so

divine as this expression of glory

that

adorned her." It is beautiful, indeed, to be able to

say such a thing in the face of the death of someone so

dear and so close. He was

able to unite the planes of being affected,

but without this affection hindering

the connection in the end. And there is something else he

said regarding his mother.

Some of her belongings

had remained in Lebanon. He wrote to his

cousin about these things

left in Lebanon, saying, "As for the

clothes you found in

my late mother's trunk, although they are of little

value and contain

nothing..." Precious, I would like from the bottom of my

heart to have the largest part of it. I

sanctify my mother's memory and

respect the

relics. His mother's elevation in

death, in his works in general, he

will write about death, the love of life,

freedom, happiness, humanity. He will

magnify all the elements of life;

everything becomes marvelous in his wonder-

filled gaze. The death of his father in 1909

will also greatly upset him. He

had a

difficult relationship with his father, who was quite, let's say,

violent—a violent man—and

who didn't understand much about

spirituality and art, but he was still

his father. And so it

marked him, and it was at

that moment that he resumed

working on the manuscript, which was

called at the time "So That the Universe May Be

Good." This manuscript, which will in

fact change its name, will

become "The Prophet." He

worked on it for many

years, for more than 10 years. 10-12

years old, and

uh, I might tell you again later,

but if I forget, I'll tell you right now: it was

his mother who advised him not to

write it too quickly. She

really advised him to let it mature, to let it grow,

and I think she gave

good

advice. So for him, suffering and

difficulties are a point of support for

seeking inner peace and inspiration.

He says the soul is a delicate flower

exposed to the winds of destiny, and yes,

but it is a delicate flower

nonetheless, which blooms in spring after

joys, which, after sorrows, fall

in

autumn. So art, Les Fleurs du Mal, the

third element, a committed man, committed

to his time as well as to

his work, right? So he is an

artist truly embodied in his

time. He is very committed to his country, which he

loves enormously. Uh, he says, "If

Lebanon hadn't been my country, I would have

chosen it as my country." So even if he did

n't ultimately live there for a while, he did

live in He died in the United States,

but after his death, he returned to

Lebanon. He dedicated himself to his country, expressing himself through

articles and opinion pieces

to encourage the Lebanese to

free themselves from the grip of the

Ottoman Empire, which was very powerful at the time,

and to prevent European intervention and

promote

Lebanese independence. He

even wrote a book about this, "The

Nymphs of the Valleys"—I mentioned "

Broken Wings" earlier—

which

advocates for reforms. He was also very

concerned about the condition of women, particularly the

plight of

Eastern women under religious constraints. He was

truly committed to the liberation of his country. His

commitment continued during

World War I to support Lebanon.

He joined an

association in Lebanon during the war, facing

famine and

epidemics. It was a very

difficult time, and he worked tirelessly

to recover resources. The

entire Lebanese

and Syrian exile community raised funds to be able to

send food, and with this

committee, he sent a ship loaded with

supplies to the country. He also wrote and campaigned

to encourage the Lebanese

to fight alongside the Allies to

liberate the region during the First

World War. So he

was very active in the

service of culture, and

Arab culture in particular, and how I would say, the

renewal of

Arab culture. In 1920, with a group of

Lebanese and Syrian writers from New York, they

founded the League of the Pen—a

beautiful name, isn't it? It was an

association, a movement whose aim was to

publish the works of Arab authors, to

make these works known, and also

to encourage the translation into Arabic

of all world literature, in fact,

to promote cultural exchange. He

was very much in favor of this, of the exchange

between different worlds, between

different cultures, and with regard to

Arab literature, what he wanted to

promote was not to be confined by rigid

structures. Formal, but truly

able to unleash

creativity and foster

creation,

he really resumed writing after the

First World War. He resumed

writing more sustainedly; he had

stopped somewhat during the

war because he was very busy with

his community and

activist work. And it was then that he threw himself wholeheartedly back into

writing The Prophet, the

future prophet, which would be, let's say,

his true fulfillment,

since I told you earlier that he described

The Prophet as his second

birth. So, from then on,

this prophet, which was being demanded with great

clamor by his

publisher, he tackled it at the same time as

his health began to deteriorate

seriously.

He was, in fact, an alcoholic

and he smoked a lot, but that never

stopped him, since he

always prioritized the soul over the

body. It never prevented him from creating.

So, I think there was a lot of anxiety and so on,

but that didn't stop him. It did

n't stop him from continuing to move

forward. In 1923, he was 40 years old, and in the

spring of 1923, he handed the manuscript of The

Prophet to his publisher, which was then

published at the end of September

1923. His guardian angel, Mary Askel, will

say of The Prophet—yes,

here she says—that

this book, which has just been published, will be among

the treasures of English literature.

It reveals to us the darkest and

weakest corners of our selves; it

unveils the earth and the heaven within us.

Generations will never tire

of reading it, one after

another; they will find in it what

they willingly desire. It's

good. She had a small

premonition, but she had still followed the

creation of The

Prophet closely for at least 10 years.

Khalil Givrand said, "This little book

occupied my whole life. I wanted to be

absolutely sure that every word was

truly the best I had to

offer." After that, he began yet another

work, which came about somewhat like a... A

sudden intuition, it's

very surprising,

uh, that's it. It's

called Jesus, Son of Man,

and Barbara Jung, who was his personal secretary at the time,

explains how

the book came about. It was November 12,

1926, and

she

says, "That evening, he saw the beginning of

Jesus, Son of

Man. While pacing the room, he

spoke slowly, weighing each word

in English, but it wasn't his

usual voice or manner. In

fact, he was explaining the story

of James, the son of Zebedee, a disciple

of Jesus. That's how he composed the

first chapter of his book. In reality,

he wasn't just composing it; he was

living it. He was telling the story as if he

truly were James, quoting

the words of his Lord. So there's

also a strong aspect of intuition in

this artist. He would

write this work in 18 words, which would be published on

October 12,

1928. Then, his health

deteriorated further; he was diagnosed with an

enlarged liver." He doesn't want to have the

operation because he wants to

let fate take its course, and

so he prepares for his departure. He reads to

his sister, who remains a sister to him. He leaves

the income from his books to his native village

and the

artistic objects from his studio to Marie Asquel. He will

write two more books, "The Gods of the Earth"

and "The Ranks," and he dies on April 10,

1931. He receives numerous tributes

in the United States. His body is

repatriated to Lebanon in August 1931, and it is

very beautiful where his remains are laid to rest: in

a cave carved into the rock,

in the monastery of Bechare, the town, the

village where he was born, and in a forest,

the forest called the Forest of the

Cedars of

God. So this artist, an artist who

gives everything, always connected to the essential, to

his inner self, and at the same time to

his time, to his country even when far away, and also

to spirituality,

with a clear direction beyond

suffering and

adversity. Thus, the

philosophical scope of his work... His

message for today, which we have

subtitled this conference "

The Mysteries of the Inner Life,"

because I think it illustrates

these mysteries and the experience of these

mysteries well, is that

I would like to begin by drawing on a

philosophical teaching that some of you may be

familiar with.

The Greek conception of man

as three worlds is that man is

composed of three worlds: a

physical world with the body, a spiritual world, the

mind, the realm of ideas, and an

intermediate world that links the

body and the mind, the mind and

matter—the world of

the soul. The mysteries of the inner life,

which we discuss in relation to Bran, will be

experienced at the level of his soul and

this ability to connect what he

perceives, his intuitions, and his

search for wisdom. You will

see that it is truly a love of

wisdom, and this is what he embodies in

his works. So, I won't talk much about these paintings tonight, but we'll have the workshop next week to discover things with Fannie. They are also an expression of his intuitions, what he perceives, and what he experiences. Therefore, the mysteries of his inner life encompass both what he

thinks and what he feels,

since these are the functions of

the soul. He knows that either she can

rise to the highest ideas

or she can be held back by

attachment to the body, and as I just

explained to you, in his

relationship to his health, he truly had—as I'll say

a little later—a rather

impressive capacity for detachment. So,

in discovering Khalis Gibran, I found that he had an

artist's stance towards life, a style

and an artist's posture,

since he always

prioritized the expression of his soul,

the life of his soul, and the expression of

his soul. So when I speak of an artist, it's

really in the primary,

traditional sense of the term, that is to say,

one who is at the service of

beauty, beauty being a

visible expression of truth and

wisdom. Therefore, the

artist, from this point of view, does not

express himself to serve his

personality or to exhibit his

particularity, but to transcend his

particularity in service to the universe. What he

expresses awakens in us this

desire, this attraction, this intuition

of

the universal, through a tree that will We

know that he transcends borders; the

Prophet is an

extraordinary example of this. So, in fact, with his

artistic language, he communicates

across the boundaries of space—we

know that it goes everywhere—but also across time.

And I remembered at that point in

my presentation, uh, his connection, which he

expressed to us, with Leonardo da Vincy. He

finds himself connected to Leonardo da Vincy;

he said,

uh, with an awareness that a part of

his soul penetrates mine. So, we are

truly talking about a soul-to-soul connection. He doesn't

live in the same

cultural environment as Leonardo da

Vincy at all; he's not at the same time either,

but there's a connection that happens through this

link with the expression of

beauty that resonates through

him. It transcends words, all of

that. And it's a bit the same with his work,

Gibran. When we read it

today, his most accomplished work, uh,

it speaks to us, and we couldn't

say when it was written. There are

people who were familiar with

Gibran's work. And when I told them

I was giving a lecture, they asked me, "

But what era is he from, actually?

Who is Gibran?" Because he could be

from many eras, a bit like

that voice we were talking about earlier,

which comes from a timeless place.

And his work is the fruit of

his soul, of the inner man, not

the outer man. Really, the

maturation we were talking about earlier

in relation to the Prophet, which

expresses a rather impressive inner strength and

resource,

a relationship—well, let's

say an artist's stance toward

life—also in relation

to his health, which I was

telling you about. He had poor health,

but he never paid too much attention to it,

and it didn't distract him

from his task, from his mission. The last

words he spoke to his

personal secretary, who rushed to his bedside

when she learned he had

fallen

unconscious, were, "All is well,"

and always this sense of

peace he expressed regarding his

health. He said, "

Yeah, through

illness I discovered another joy, one

that is more important and

immeasurable. I discovered that I

am closer to abstract things

in my illness than in health, which

detaches itself from the body and rises to

the spirit. When I lay my head on

the pillow, close my eyes, and

detach myself from the world, I feel myself flying

like a bird above forests and

serene valleys, enveloped in a soft

veil. I see myself very close to those my

heart has loved, visiting them and

speaking to them, but without anger, with the

same feelings and

thoughts as them. From time to time, he places his

hands on my forehead to

bless me. So he understands that in his relationship to

suffering, to health, and rather, in this

case, to illness, he

prioritizes the life of the soul, the

inner life—a very active life, in fact,

compared to the life of his body. And,

moreover, all his art is an

expression of his

artistic stance in his relationship

to his work, since, as I told you earlier,

he speaks of a second

birth, which the prophet... It's

a second birth, so he becomes one

with his work. It's as if he gave birth to himself,

like

Socrates' Mayotism, with this masterpiece, the crowning achievement

of his work. And it made me

think of Marc Orel's "Thoughts for Myself,"

which are the fruits of his

maturation, day after day, night after

night, in his tent, reflecting and

reformulating for himself the

teachings he had been given. In the

same way, what I

understand from "The Prophet" is the fruit

of the encounter between teachings

and inner life, the inner experience

of Khalil

Gibran. Here's another short excerpt because

he speaks so well that I simply must

share it with

you. Well, the thousand years—I told you about that—

he had thought of

writing it for 1000 years. And he also says, "

The Prophet is the greatest Paris of

my life, the greatest Paris of my life."

All these 36 years passed to bring it into the

world, so he

certainly started thinking about it at age 4.

Since he came out at 20 when he

was 40, so there you have it, it's the

fruit of an inner connection that he has with, well,

he calls it

God, but it's not the God of a

religion because he wasn't for the

Catholic religion of the time, which he

rejected, or any other religion for that

matter, but rather for him it was

the journey towards unity, towards

the primordial unity in

which he finds himself, he finds himself a lot.

So there you have it, the artist's relationship

to life, for me it's really

in this idea of ​​turning towards his inner life so that it can

radiate in his works, in what he

expresses in the manifestation, so that it makes him

visible, in fact.

And well, we see that it still speaks 100

years

later. What message to take away for

today? I've taken away

two. First,

the transcendence of duality and

the search for unity. We can say the

search for

unity, Gibran. In fact, that's why

we can really To be interested in it as a

school of philosophy, he

truly has a philosophical attitude, that is to

say, someone who wants to learn and

journey towards wisdom without

dogmatism. He says, "I don't know

absolute truth, but I am humble before my

ignorance, and that is where my

honor and my reward lie." I am humble

before my

ignorance. This makes me think of Socrates: "

All I know is that I know

nothing, but at least I know that. I am

humble before my ignorance, and that is

where my honor and my

reward lie." So, from the

moment he knows that he doesn't know and that he has

humility, he can set out on the

path, and he journeys in search of

unity. This runs throughout his work and also

his life path. It is very much

linked to his own mysticism, and

you will see that he has a

natural connection to something universal, something

essential, something that transcends divisions

and ultimately

unites religions, but by going beyond them

to grasp the essence, the heart of

their

message. His quest for unity is evident

in several areas of

his life. He read both East and

West; he was a nobody in the East and

lived in the West, all the while constantly

speaking about Lebanon and serving his

country. He connected them culturally through

language and lifestyles. He lived

in France, he lived in the United States,

he lived in Lebanon, and

apparently, he was at ease everywhere. I wo

n't go into his life story;

you'll have to read it. But he seemed

very

sociable. He knew how to juggle

languages, especially Arabic and English. He

wrote in both

languages, choosing

which language to write each work in. For

example, he chose English for "The Prophet"

because it's a more

refined language, and he wanted to get to the heart of the matter.

Arabic was too complex to achieve

that simplicity, and he

really wanted to convey the essence. As for English, well,

I haven't read it in

English, but it seems that's what it's for.

Those who are English speakers, who read

English, well, it's worth it because there's

a real search for words, a

search for rhythm, which is very, very

expressive. And this quest for unity, he was able to do it

also because he had a well-

rounded education, an open,

not restrictive, education. I think we can

thank his mother for that, and an approach that brings him closer to

eclecticism. The

philosophy of eclecticism, you know, is about

seeking the best in each

philosophy, in each culture, in each

civilization. So in his life, he seeks

unity. He also seeks unity by

provoking the encounter between spirit

and matter. So he is both

capable of connecting to very

subtle, very elevated realities and of expressing them in a

very concrete, comprehensible, tangible way.

He also knew how to do that, even if,

I don't know, we might have an

image of the artist as disembodied and all that,

not embodied in his

life, but he was

always able to earn a living, to provide for

his needs, and also to At a certain point, to

honor his family commitments, he—

notably during his

brother's illness—kept his brother's shop open and managed

to pay off the

debts his brother had incurred

during his illness, thus

allowing both his brother and

his mother to pass away peacefully. So,

you see, even in

practical matters, he had this sense

of reality. He was a very

good person. And finally, and not least, his

search for unity in

religion—his art transcends

religious boundaries,

always seeking the universal message contained

within each religion. So,

we philosophers can make the connection with

timeless wisdom. For him,

religion is a natural belief in

humankind; it's not something

institutionalized. Religion is about

connecting to something greater

and something natural, something we

find in certain philosophers and

anthropologists. He says something

very beautiful about his approach to

religion.

912

9, I'm coming,

well, here it is.

Maybe not, I'm on the

wrong page. Ah, there it is,

he says, "Your doctrine," which

addresses an imaginary character. "Your

doctrine," he says, "Mosaicism," which means

Judaism, Mosaicism, Brahmanism,

Buddhism, Christianity, Islam. "

My doctrine says there is only one

abstract and absolute religion whose

manifestations are

multiple. A single abstract

and absolute religion whose manifestations are

multiple." In this, he

also aligns himself with certain currents, notably

that of Theosophy, the

Theosophical Society, with which we know he was,

uh, in contact with some representatives

when he was, uh, in the United States.

And he also says, ah, it's a

very beautiful passage: "You are my brother and I love you.

I love you prostrate in your

mosque, kneeling in your temple, and in

prayer in your church. You and I are

the sons of one and the same religion,

that of the spirit. Those who direct the

branches of this religion are

fingers attached to the hand of the

divinity, indicating the perfection of

the soul. It is in tears and He has

a book called "Tear and

Smile," so in short, he describes the

timeless wisdom that guides him.

And undoubtedly, it's

this ability to connect to the

root of being, beyond all

religious divisions, which is also the

fruit of inner growth.

This ability to connect to the root

of being is what makes this message resonate with

all generations, all

cultures, all countries, but without ever

being sentimental. Read "The Prophet," you'll

see it's not

sentimental for today. So what does

it offer us today? I

think it's a message of unity,

an antidote to all the

one-dimensional thinking, dogmatism, fanaticism, and

all the things ending in "-ism" that confine us

to something closed.

Rather, it unites us, connects us to something, to

a possibility of reconciling

opposites, of harmonizing. And so it's

truly a message of peace, something

that emanates from reading his

work. It brings inner peace.

Equanimity, in fact, is the equality

of soul, the second element,

which is the third, the second. It is expressed in an

artistic language, that's for sure, which

is evocative and which will awaken

something rather than destroy a truth. We

said earlier that he was humble

in relation to the truth; he didn't claim to

possess it. And it made me think of a

phrase by

George Angel Livraga, the founder of New Acropolis, who said, "

The value of words does not reside in what they

contain but in what they

liberate."

And for me, this is truly

a phrase that perfectly evokes the

evocative side of Khalil Gibran's writing,

which truly uses the language

of

the soul. The soul has its own language. He

teaches directly, as Leonardo

da Vinci did with him,

through the contact of his works.

Ultimately, he teaches from heart to heart, from

soul to soul. We had a glimpse of that earlier.

With the part you

recited about

friendship,

and to arrive at reality from a

philosophical point of view, we have two possible types of

language

which, in fact, should complement each other rather than exclude each other.

One approach could be

described as Prophetic, you know, the

one who stole fire from the

gods and gave it to humankind—

the fire of intelligence, which is very

useful for discernment, for escaping

ignorance and barbarity. But if

we make it a power at the service of

the ego, it can lead us into

utilitarianism, into technology for technology's sake, into

the omnipotence

of science, and consequently into separation from the

laws of nature. In fact, this

separation cuts humanity off from nature, which

can be a

tendency in our

societies. We are moving towards, we have moved towards,

precisely a desire to

free ourselves from the constraints of

nature and thus to cut ourselves off from it.

The other approach is the

Orphic approach, Orpheus. Who is this? This is the

founding figure of an

archaic religion who spoke, you

know, who communicated with nature through

intuition, communicated with animals,

and nature

responded to him. This actually expresses

intuitive ability and

reminiscence. We live in a world

rather steeped in the

Prometian dimension, the explanatory side, wanting to

demonstrate everything, to explain everything,

and unfortunately, this can

cut us off from the mystery of seeking to

connect with

the unknown. I found a quote from an

anatomist you've

certainly heard of—

it's hard to say—an

18th-century French anatomist

named Georges

Cuvier, who said: "The observer listens to

nature, experiments with it, subjects it to

interrogation, and forces it to reveal itself."

I found it quite explicit in showing

the difference between the two languages: either

we listen to nature, which means we become attentive,

we create a space within

ourselves to receive, or

we project our mind. Is

one better than the other? In any case,

it's good to have both, I

think. So, in the Prometian excess of

our current society, what

Gibran brings us is precisely an

inner space of connection to move towards

understanding and the reality of

things. Moreover, he really wanted to

have this evocative power when he

wrote The Prophet. He said he

wrote a lot to his correspondents

and to Mary, to whom he wrote while he was

writing The Prophet. He said, "Yes,

the reader must have their say." That's quite something.

When we read a book,

the reader must have their say.

He challenges the reader; he

conveys parables that are somewhat

mysterious but that evoke for us

the imagination, which sparks

the imagination, leaving it to the reader to make them their own. To use

a term

employed by ancient philosophers, he

veils the truth so that we

journey towards

it. And he says, "It's very

beautiful; I truly prefer the truth that

is hidden to that which is revealed." which is

apparent and yeah,

evocative power, and for those who have read The

Prophet, I don't know if you

remember the city where the Prophet is,

it's called Orphalaise, Orphalaise,

Orfit, well, that's one of the

explanations, which also expresses

this idea of ​​a language that awakens

the soul so that the soul can journey. Another

explanation is that it's linked to the

English term "orphan,"

which would testify to the fact

that humanity, and especially in the West,

New York, where he lived, is

orphaned from the connection to nature, from the connection to

God, from the

inner connection. The earth is separated from heaven.

In The Prophet, he opens up many

questions, and moreover, at the

beginning of the work, he addresses the reader

before starting the first

chapter, saying, "People of Orphalaise,

what could I speak to you about except what is

stirring in your souls right now?" So, who are you? Right now,

the place from which

we will listen and

exchange through this

work. That's it for La

Porge and I think we can

compare Khalil Gibran's approach

to the

philosophical voice. For me, it's

very clear that it's not just an

explanatory voice, but also a voice of revelation, of

intuition, of depth of inner life,

of investigation, of purifying oneself from

ignorance, as he

indicated, from illusion, in order to

contact

the essential, let's

say, to move towards wisdom. You

know, the philosopher loves

wisdom, and Khalil Gibran made us

love this wisdom. He made us

love it through the opening of the heart, which is

linked to the opening of

the mind. In fact, he invites us to

broaden our consciousness, to move beyond

egocentrism, beyond a particular vision.

His entire work, through

reconnecting with this inner link,

awakens and reawakens

this. And what I want to say

in conclusion is that we are not

necessarily mystics, artists, or

visionaries, but each of us, in our daily lives,

can be a philosopher, and we have

this possibility. The idea of ​​following a

path of depth, a path

of elevation and wonder, which in itself is

the wonder of seeing the beautiful and the

marvelous in everything, is

a

philosophical path. So, do our

hectic lives foster this? I leave it to each of us to

answer. Let's be

inspired by Khalil

Gibran, but his approach, for me, is very close to

what we experience

in our

practical philosophy workshops. To

remember, in a way, the Prophet, he is in it, he

will undertake a journey of reminiscence.

It's called remembrance,

remember in English, so really

reminiscence, or finding one's limbs,

I don't know, finding one's unity, it's a bit of

both. Perhaps we need

reminiscence to find our

unity and our purpose, and

thus build the future with the memory of our

soul through the link with this

remembrance. That's it

for this sharing on the

inner encounter with Khalil Gibran, which for

me was an encounter that occupied some time

these last few

days, but to the great joy of

my soul