Note: Not positive of the diary’s authorship, as two translation sources found not enough to determine. Putting aside for now, ’though references to writing and pen make me think it’s probably from May’s diary. I’ve also added a last writing newfound to me today. (10/23/21)
May Ziadeh to Kahlil Gibran
Mai wrote to Jabran a letter of gentle admonition:
When I was sitting to write, I used to forget who you are and where you are, and I often forget that there is a man to talk to as you, so I often talk to you as I speak to myself, sometimes as if you were a companion to me in school, but he is floating on that morale, an emotion of respect. Privacy, there is no habit like that between a girl and a girl…Is it the distance, lack of personal dating, and steam between us that used to wear the truth of that correspondence—a dress of nostalgia? It may be but your position in my mind and appreciation was the source of this confidence that appeared since its inception, as if it was innate; it did not wait for time to strengthen it nor experience to prove it. The message preceded the anthem, so it sized itself against some words, fearing what might be. I’ve been dragging a mechanism, and it’s been six or seven weeks without writing because I’ve been saying to myself: We should stand here…But we didn’t stand, we took a step but jumped.
-I send this message after 8 years of intellectual friendship.
-Tomorrow, God willing, we will publish another part of the message.
—Mi (Mai or May)
May to Gibran:
Gibran! I’ve written all these pages to clarify the word love, that those who don’t show the appearance of love, uncover love deep down as a terrible dynamic force, and they may disrupt those who share their emotions, because they hadn’t measured the pressure of emotions that hadn’t exploded.
They prefer to mislead their hearts from the deposits from their hearts, and to distract their hearts from what has nothing to do with emotion. They prefer any alienation, any misery…and is there any misery and alienation other than the uniting of the heart on the sufficiency of scarce drops?
What is the meaning of this I write? I don’t know what I mean by it! But I know that you are my ′′beloved” and I fear love. I say this knowing very little love is clear. Drought, drought, and nothing in love is better than not enough.
How can I be able to give you this? And how did I put all this on you? I don’t know, Praise be to God I write it on paper and do not say it, because if you were present in the body, you would have escaped in shame after this, and I would have disappeared for a long time, so I will not let you see me until you have forgotten this. Even writing I blame myself for it sometimes, because I have all this freedom…I trust in you, I have believed from the beginning everything you’ve said…
I remember the Ancient Eastern people saying: It is better for a girl not to read or write. St. Thomas is shown here and not only what is shown here is an effect of inheritance, but something beyond inheritance. What is it? You tell me what it is. Tell me whether you are astray or guided, I trust you.. And whether you are wrong or not, my heart walks for you, and the best thing to do is to stay around you, guard you and affectionate you.
(Not positive of this diary’s authorship but leaving source that looks like May wrote it as that is my current ‘guess’)
…The sun has gone beyond the horizon, and through the wondrous clouds, shapes and colors have rated one bright star, the flower, the goddess of love, see it inhabited like our earth by humans who love and long for that? Maybe he found a girl who is like me, has one gibran, sweet, far away, is the relative. You write to him now and the twilight fills space, and you know that darkness leaves twilight, that light follows darkness, and that night will leave the day, and the day will follow the night many times before you see the one you love. Through all the bad of the night, throw the pen aside to take refuge from the beast in one name: (Gibran)
Says Mai, of Gibran after his death:
Gibran…His charm and his smoked magic, he wanted me close to him while he was in a part of me but I refused to be just a number in his women’s garden…If fate had led me towards Gibran’s arms, I would have grinded him with my jealousy, and we’d quickly parted, miserably, sad, and with indelible grudges. Yes, I am a lady of incendiary destiny; a man who grew up in freedom and died in it can’t realize my fires, no matter how humble I am, my support, my friend, and my brother who was not born by my mother, my other lover, and his death destroyed me.