Hills Like White Elephants by Ernest Hemingway

Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961) was born in Oak Park, Illinois. He became a “cub reporter” after high school. Just like E. E. Cummings, he served as an ambulance driver in France during World War I and lived in Paris after the War. He was not only a writer and a news correspondent, but also a hunter and fisherman. He wrote The Sun also Rises in 1926, A Farewell to Arms in 1929, and For Whom the Bell Tolls in 1940. He won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1954. He eventually lost the ability to write because of mental illness thus he committed suicide by shooting himself using his favorite hunting rifle in 1961.

“Hills Like White Elephants” was published in August 1927, originally in the magazine transition and then in Hemingway's short story anthology Men Without Women. The story illustrates Hemingway's emphasis on dialogue rather than on plot. The setting of the story is a train station in the Ebro River Valley in Spain. While it is not explicitly stated, the “operation” referred to here is an abortion.

Image from a student-made film on YouTube from Lost Sheep Productions.

Hills Like White Elephants

The hills across the valley of the Ebrol were long and white. On this side there was no shade and no trees and the station was between two lines of rails in the sun. Close against the side of the station there was the warm shadow of the building and a curtain, made of strings of bamboo beads, hung across the open door into the bar, to keep out flies. The American and the girl with him sat at a table in the shade, outside the building. It was very hot and the express from Barcelona would come in forty minutes. It stopped at this junction for two minutes and went on to Madrid.

"What should we drink?" the girl asked. She had taken off her hat and put it on the table.

"It's pretty hot," the man said. "Let's drink beer."

"Dos cervezas," the man said into the curtain.

"Big ones?" a woman asked from the doorway.

"Yes. Two big ones."

The woman brought two glasses of beer and two felt pads. She put the felt pads and the beer glasses on the table and looked at the man and the girl. The girl was looking off at the line of hills. They were white in the sun and the country was brown and dry.

"They look like white elephants," she said.

"I've never seen one," the man drank his beer. "No, you wouldn't have."

"I might have," the man said. 'just because you say I wouldn't have doesn't prove anything."

The girl looked at the bead curtain. "They've painted something on it," she said." What does it say?"

"Anis del Toro. It's a drink."

"Could we try it?"

The man called "Listen" through the curtain. The woman came out from the bar.

"Four reales."

"We want two Anis del Toro."

"With water? "

"Do you want it with water?"

"I don't know," the girl said. "Is it good with water?"

"It's all right."

"You want them with water?" asked the woman.

"Yes, with water."

"It tastes like licorice," the girl said and put the glass down.

"That's the way with everything."

"Yes," said the girl. "Everything tastes of licorice. Especially all the things you've waited so long for, like absinthe."

"Oh, cut it out."

"You started it," the girl said. "I was being amused. I was having a fine time."

"Well, let's try and have a fine time."

"All right. I was trying. I said the mountains looked like white elephants. Wasn't that bright?"

"That was bright."

"I wanted to try this new drink. That's all we do, isn't it--look at things and try new drinks?"

"I guess so."

The girl looked across at the hills.

"They're lovely hills," she said. "They don't really look like white elephants. I just meant the coloring of their skin through the trees."

"Should we have another drink?"

"All right."

The warm wind blew the bead curtain against the table.

"The beer's nice and cool," the man said.

"It's lovely," the girl said.

"It's really an awfully simple operation, Jig," the man said. "It's not really an operation at all."

The girl looked at the ground the table legs rested on.

"I know you wouldn't mind it, Jig. It's really not anything. It's just to let the air in."

The girl did not say anything.

"I'll go with you and I'll stay with you all the time. They just let the air in and then it's all perfectly

natural."

"Then what will we do afterward?"

"We'll be fine afterward. Just like we were before."

"What makes you think so?"

"That's the only thing that bothers us. It's the only thing that's made us unhappy."

The girl looked at the bead curtain, put her hand out and took hold of two of the strings of beads.

"And you think then we'll be all right and be happy."

"I know we will. You don't have to be afraid. I've known lots of people that have done it."

"So have I," said the girl. "And afterward they were all so happy."

"Well," the man said, "if you don't want to you don't have to. I wouldn't have you do it if you didn't want to. But I know it's perfectly simple."

"And you really want to?"

"I think it's the best thing to do. But I don't want you to do it if you don't really want to."

"And if I do it you'll be happy and things will be like they were and you'll love me?"

"I love you now. You know I love you."

"I know. But if I do it, then it will be nice again if I say things are like white elephants, and you'll like it?"

"I'll love it. I love it now but I just can't think about it. You know how I get when I worry."

"If I do it you won't ever worry?"

"I won't worry about that because it's perfectly simple."

"Then I'll do it. Because I don't care about me."

"What do you mean?" "I don't care about me."

"Well, I care about you."

"Oh, yes. But I don't care about me. And I'll do it and then everything will be fine."

"I don't want you to do it if you feel that way."

The girl stood up and walked to the end of the station. Across, on the other side, were fields of grain and trees along the banks of the Ebro. Far away, beyond the river, were mountains. The shadow of a cloud moved across the field of grain and she saw the river through the trees.

"And we could have all this," she said. "And we could have everything and every day we make it more impossible."

"What did you say?"

"I said we could have everything."

"We can have everything."

"No, we can't."

"We can have the whole world."

"No, we can't." "We can go everywhere."

"No, we can't. It isn't ours any more."

"It's ours."

"No, it isn't. And once they take it away, you never get it back."

"But they haven't taken it away."

"We'll wait and see."

"Come on back in the shade," he said. "You mustn't feel that way."

"I don't feel any way," the girl said. "I just know things."

"I don't want you to do anything that you don't want to do "

"Nor that isn't good for me," she said. "I know. Could we have another beer?"

"All right. But you've got to realize "

"I realize," the girl said. "Can't we maybe stop talking?"

They sat down at the table and the girl looked across at the hills on the dry side of the valley and the man looked at her and at the table.

"You've got to realize," he said, "that I don't want you to do it if you don't want to. I'm perfectly willing to go through with it if it means anything to you."

"Doesn't it mean anything to you? We could get along."

"Of course it does. But I don't want anybody but you. I don't want any one else. And I know it's perfectly simple."

"Yes, you know it's perfectly simple." "It's all right for you to say that, but I do know it."

"Would you do something for me now?'

"I'd do anything for you.'

"Would you please please please please please please please Stop talking."

He did not say anything but looked at the bags against the wall of the station. There were labels on them from all the hotels where they had spent nights.

"But I don't want you to," he said, "I don't care anything about it."

"I'll scream," the girl said.

The woman came out through the curtains with two glasses of beer and put them down on the damp felt pads.

"The train comes in five minutes," she said.

"What did she say?" asked the girl.

"That the train is coming in five minutes."

The girl smiled brightly at the woman, to thank her.

"I'd better take the bags over to the other side of the station," the man said. She smiled at him.

"All right. Then come back and we'll finish the beer."

He picked up the two heavy bags and carried them around the station to the other tracks. He looked up the tracks but could not see the train. Coming back, he walked through the barroom, where people waiting for the train were drinking. He drank an Anis at the bar and looked at the people. They were all waiting reasonably for the train. He went out through the bead curtain. She was sitting at the table and smiled at him.

"Do you feel better?" he asked.

"I feel fine," she said. "There's nothing wrong with me. I feel fine."

The Poetry of E. E. Cummings

 
E. E. Cummings (1894-1962) (sometimes styled as “e. e. cummings”) was born Edward Estlin Cummings in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He attended Harvard University, earning his Bachelor of Arts in 1915 and Master of Arts in 1916. He served as a volunteer ambulance driver in France during World War I, imprisoned for three months in a detention camp in France, then served in the US Army from 1918-1919. He then studied art and painting in Paris from 1920 to 1924. “The Enormous Room”, a memoir of his imprisonment was published in 1922 and brought him instant acclaim. His poetry is characterized by unusual punctuation, line division, and capitalization.

His poem “Somewhere I Have Never Traveled” was interspersed in the song “The First Time I Loved Forever” by Lisa Angelle and was used as the theme song of the 1987 television series “Beauty and the Beast”, a modern-day retelling of the classic fairy tale.

“Somewhere I Have Never Traveled”

somewhere i have never traveled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands 

 “If Everything Happens That Can't Be Done”

if everything happens that can't be done
(and anything's righter
than books
could plan)
the stupidest teacher will almost guess
(with a run
skip
around we go yes)
there's nothing as something as one

one hasn't a why or because or although
(and buds know better
than books
don't grow)
one's anything old being everything new
(with a what
which
around we come who)
one's everyanything so

so world is a leaf so a tree is a bough
(and birds sing sweeter
than books
tell how)
so here is away and so your is a my
(with a down
up
around again fly)
forever was never till now

now i love you and you love me
(and books are shuter
than books
can be)
and deep in the high that does nothing but fall
(with a shout
each
around we go all)
there's somebody calling who's we

we're anything brighter than even the sun
(we're everything greater
than books
might mean)
we're everyanything more than believe
(with a spin
leap
alive we're alive)
we're wonderful one times one

"Nobody Loses All the Time”

i had an uncle named
Sol who was a born failure and
nearly everybody said he should have gone
into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could
sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which
may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle

Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable
of all to use a highfalootin phrase
luxuries that is or to
wit farming and be
it needlessly
added

my Uncle Sol’s farm
failed because the chickens
ate the vegetables so
my Uncle Sol had a
chicken farm till the
skunks ate the chickens when

my Uncle Sol
had a skunk farm but
the skunks caught cold and
died and so
my Uncle Sol imitated the
skunks in a subtle manner

or by drowning himself in the watertank
but somebody who’d given my Uncle Sol a Victor
Victrola and records while he lived presented to
him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a
scruptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with
tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and
i remember we all cried like the Missouri
when my Uncle Sol’s coffin lurched because
somebody pressed a button
(and down went
my Uncle
Sol

and started a worm farm)

The Poetry of Robert Frost

Robert Frost (1874-1963) was born in San Francisco, California but by the age of ten moved to New England, on the US east coast. He briefly attended Dartmouth College and became a teacher. He then attended Harvard University for two years but did not finish his degree. For several years he supported his family by farming a farm that his grandfather bought him. He read and wrote but received little recognition, Discouraged, he moved his family to England where he published his first volumes of poetry. After three years he returned to America, now a recognized poet. He won two Pulitzer Prizes and gained widespread popularity. He read one of his poems during the inauguration of John F. Kennedy. He is considered the “unofficial poet laureate” of American for his “folksy manner and seemingly artless, accessible poems”. (Abcarian & Klotz, Literature: Reading and Writing the Human Experience, 7^th shorter edition, 2000)

Image from ConcordPastor.Blogspot.com

 

“After the Apple-Picking”

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree

Toward heaven still,

And there's a barrel that I didn't fill

Beside it, and there may be two or three

Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.

But I am done with apple-picking now.

Essence of winter sleep is on the night,

The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.

I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight

I got from looking through a pane of glass

I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough

And held against the world of hoary grass.

It melted, and I let it fall and break.

But I was well

Upon my way to sleep before it fell,

And I could tell

What form my dreaming was about to take.

Magnified apples appear and disappear,

Stem end and blossom end,

And every fleck of russet showing clear.

My instep arch not only keeps the ache,

It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.

I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.

And I keep hearing from the cellar bin

The rumbling sound

Of load on load of apples coming in.

For I have had too much

Of apple-picking: I am overtired

Of the great harvest I myself desired.

There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,

Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.

For all

That struck the earth,

No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,

Went surely to the cider-apple heap

As of no worth.

One can see what will trouble

This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.

Were he not gone,

The woodchuck could say whether it's like his

Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,

Or just some human sleep.

Image from GalleryHip.Com.

 

“Nothing Gold Can Stay”

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay.

Image from ViewFromTheThirdEye.Blogspot.com

“Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening”

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Image from AOSLeading.com

“The Road Not Taken”

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

The Poetry of Emily Dickinson

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (December 10, 1830 – May 15, 1886) was an American poet. Born in Amherst, Massachusetts, to a successful family with strong community ties, she lived a mostly introverted and reclusive life. After she studied at the Amherst Academy for seven years in her youth, she spent a short time at Mount Holyoke Female Seminary before returning to her family's house in Amherst. Considered an eccentric by the locals, she became known for her penchant for white clothing and her reluctance to greet guests or, later in life, even leave her room. Most of her friendships were therefore carried out by correspondence.

While Dickinson was a prolific private poet, fewer than a dozen of her nearly 1800 poems were published during her lifetime. The work that was published during her lifetime was usually altered significantly by the publishers to fit the conventional poetic rules of the time. Dickinson's poems are unique for the era in which she wrote; they contain short lines, typically lack titles, and often use slant rhyme as well as unconventional capitalization and punctuation. Many of her poems deal with themes of death and immortality, two recurring topics in letters to her friends.

Although most of her acquaintances were probably aware of Dickinson's writing, it was not until after her death in 1886—when Lavinia, Dickinson's younger sister, discovered her cache of poems—that the breadth of Dickinson's work became apparent. Her first collection of poetry was published in 1890 by personal acquaintances Thomas Wentworth Higginson and Mabel Loomis Todd, both of whom heavily edited the content. A complete and mostly unaltered collection of her poetry became available for the first time in 1955 when scholar Thomas H. Johnson published The Poems of Emily Dickinson. Despite some unfavorable reviews and some skepticism during the late 19th and early 20th century about Dickinson's literary prowess, Dickinson is now almost universally considered to be one of the most important American poets. (Wikipedia)

Image from swc2.hccs.cc.tx.us

"I felt a Funeral, in my Brain"

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,

And Mourners to and fro

Kept treading – treading – till it seemed

That Sense was breaking through –

And when they all were seated,

A Service, like a Drum –

Kept beating – beating – till I thought

My Mind was going numb –

And then I heard them lift a Box

And creak across my Soul

With those same Boots of Lead, again,

Then Space – began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,

And Being, but an Ear,

And I, and Silence, some strange Race

Wrecked, solitary, here –

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,

And I dropped down, and down –

And hit a World, at every plunge,

And Finished knowing – then –

Image from CBS19.TV

"After great pain, a formal feeling comes"

After great pain, a formal feeling comes –

The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs –

The stiff Heart questions ‘was it He, that bore,’

And ‘Yesterday, or Centuries before’?

The Feet, mechanical, go round –

A Wooden way

Of Ground, or Air, or Ought –

Regardless grown,

A Quartz contentment, like a stone –

This is the Hour of Lead –

Remembered, if outlived,

As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –

First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –

Image from AdeleKenny.Blogspot.Com

"I heard a Fly buzz"

I heard a Fly buzz – when I died –

The Stillness in the Room

Was like the Stillness in the Air –

Between the Heaves of Storm –

The Eyes around – had wrung them dry –

And Breaths were gathering firm

For that last Onset – when the King

Be witnessed – in the Room –

I willed my Keepsakes – Signed away

What portions of me be

Assignable – and then it was

There interposed a Fly –

With Blue – uncertain stumbling Buzz –

Between the light – and me –

And then the Windows failed – and then

I could not see to see –

Syllabus - American Literature

 COURSE SYLLABUS

Second Semester, School Year 2014-2015

Course Code/Course Title : SURVEY OF AMERICAN LITERATURE

Pre-requisite                       : World Literature

Pre-requisite to                   : Literary Criticism

Type of Course                   : English Major

Course Credit                     : 3 units

Course Description :

A survey of representative works from various genres of early to contemporary American authors.

The PCU vision/mission and CASTE values are integrated in the course.

General Objectives:

 

At the end of the course, the students are expected to:

1. summarize and outline the plot of the various pieces of  American literature

2. interpret literary pieces by investigating its historical background, subject matter, author’s biography;

3. identify and discuss the human situation depicted in the various piece of literature;

4. react to literature in various ways;

5. reflect on the theme of the various pieces of literature; 

6. express appreciation of the informative and entertaining value of American literature; and

7. integrate the PCU and CASTE values

 COURSE OUTLINE

Week 1
I.    Introduction to the Course
      A. Getting to know the instructor, the students, and the course
      B. Distribution of course syllabus
      C. Introduction to American Literature

Week 2
II. Poetry
     A. Edgar Allan Poe: “The Raven” and “Annabel Lee”

Week 3
     B. Emily Dickinson: “I Felt a Funeral, in My Brain”, “After Great Pain, a Formal Feeling Comes”, and “I heard a Fly buzz—when I died.”

Week 4-5
     C. Robert Frost: “After Apple-Picking”, Nothing Gold Can  Stay” & “Stopping by woods on a Snowy Evening”,

Week 6 - PRELIMINARY EXAMINATION

Weeks 7
     D. e. e. cummings: “Somewhere I Have Never Traveled” “if everything happens that can't be done” and “nobody loses all the time”

Week 8
III. Short Stories
      A. Edgar Allan Poe: “The Cask of Amontillado”

Week 9
      B. Ernest Hemingway: “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place” and “Hills Like White Elephants”

Week 10
      C. William Faulkner: “A Rose for Emily”

IV. Essays
       A. George Orwell: “Shooting an Elephant”

Week 11
       B. Martin Luther King, Jr.: “I Have a Dream”
       C. Mitch Albom: “The Fourth Tuesday: We Talk about Death” from Tuesdays with Morrie

Week 12 - MIDTERM EXAMINATION

Week 13
IV. Political pieces
      A. The Declaration of Independence by Thomas Jefferson

Week 14
      B. “Declaration of Sentiments and Resolutions” by Elizabeth Cady Stanton

Week 15
      C. Inaugural Address and The Gettysburg Address by Abraham Lincoln

Week 16
      D. First Inaugural Address and “The Day of Infamy” speech by Franklin D. Roosevelt

Week 17
      E. Inaugural Address of John F. Kennedy & of William Jefferson Clinton

Week 18 - FINAL EXAMINATION

Textbook/References:

Abcarian R. & M. Klotz. (2000). Literature: Reading and writing the human experience (7th shorter ed.) Boston & New York: Bedford/St. Martin’s.

Tomeldan, Y. V. (general ed.), et al. (1986). Prism: An introduction to world literature. Mandaluyong City: National Bookstore.

Guerrero, G. T. (2013). Instructional minutes.URL:  http://instructionalminutes.blogspot.com Label: “American     Literature”

"The Prophet" by Kahlil Gibran (Excerpts)

 "The Prophet" is a book written by Lebanese author Kahlil Gibran (January 6, 1883 – April 10, 1931), published by Alfred A. Knopf in 1923. It is composed 26 essays on the human situation, with topics ranging from love, marriage, buying and selling, beauty, religion, and death. It tells the story of Almustafa the prophet, who is about to board a ship after his twelve-year ministry in the foreign city of Orphalese. He is stopped by a group of people, led by a woman named Almitra, who asked him his final words on various topics.

Gibran was born to a Maronite Catholic family. He is said to be the third most well-read authors in the world, after William Shakespeare and Laozi (Lao Tzu).

Excerpts from “The Prophet” by Kahlil Gibran

The Coming of the Ship

Almustafa, the chosen and the beloved, who was a dawn unto his own day, had waited twelve years in the city of Orphalese for his ship that was to return and bear him back to the isle of his birth.

And in the twelfth year, on the seventh day of Ielool, the month of reaping, he climbed the hill without the city walls and looked seaward; and he beheld the ship coming with the mist.

Then the gates of his heart were flung open, and his joy flew far over the sea. And he closed his eyes and prayed in the silences of his soul.

But he descended the hill, a sadness came upon him, and he thought in his heart:

How shall I go in peace and without sorrow? Nay, not without a wound in the spirit shall I leave this city.

Long were the days of pain I have spent within its walls, and long were the nights of aloneness; and who can depart from his pain and his aloneness without regret?

Too many fragments of the spirit have I scattered in these streets, and too many are the children of my longing that walk naked among these hills, and I cannot withdraw from them without a burden and an ache.

It is not a garment I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands. Nor is it a thought I leave behind me, but a heart made sweet with hunger and with thirst.

Yet I cannot tarry longer. The sea that calls all things unto her calls me, and I must embark. For to stay, though the hours burn in the night, is to freeze and crystallize and be bound in a mould.

Fain would I take with me all that is here. But how shall I?

A voice cannot carry the tongue and the lips that give it wings. Alone must it seek the ether.

And alone and without his nest shall the eagle fly across the sun.

Now when he reached the foot of the hill, he turned again towards the sea, and he saw his ship approaching the harbour, and upon her prow the mariners, the men of his own land.

And his soul cried out to them, and he said:

Sons of my ancient mother, you riders of the tides,

How often have you sailed in my dreams. And now you come in my awakening, which is my deeper dream.

Ready am I to go, and my eagerness with sails full set awaits the wind.

Only another breath will I breathe in this still air, only another loving look cast backward,

Then I shall stand among you, a seafarer among seafarers.

And you, vast sea, sleepless mother, Who alone are peace and freedom to the river and the stream,

Only another winding will this stream make, only another murmur in this glade, And then shall I come to you, a boundless drop to a boundless ocean.

And as he walked he saw from afar men and women leaving their fields and their vineyards and hastening towards the city gates.

And he heard their voices calling his name, and shouting from the field to field telling one another of the coming of the ship.

And he said to himself:

Shall the day of parting be the day of gathering?

And shall it be said that my eve was in truth my dawn?

And what shall I give unto him who has left his plough in midfurrow, or to him who has stopped the wheel of his winepress?

Shall my heart become a tree heavy-laden with fruit that I may gather and give unto them?

And shall my desires flow like a fountain that I may fill their cups?

Am I a harp that the hand of the mighty may touch me, or a flute that his breath may pass through me?

A seeker of silences am I, and what treasure have I found in silences that I may dispense with confidence?

If this is my day of harvest, in what fields have I sowed the seed, and in what unrembered seasons?

If this indeed be the our in which I lift up my lantern, it is not my flame that shall burn therein.

Empty and dark shall I raise my lantern,

And the guardian of the night shall fill it with oil and he shall light it also.

These things he said in words. But much in his heart remained unsaid. For he himself could not speak his deeper secret.

And when he entered into the city all the people came to meet him, and they were crying out to him as with one voice.

And the elders of the city stood forth and said:

Go not yet away from us.

A noontide have you been in our twilight, and your youth has given us dreams to dream.

No stranger are you among us, nor a guest, but our son and our dearly beloved. Suffer not yet our eyes to hunger for your face.

And the priests and the priestesses said unto him:

Let not the waves of the sea separate us now, and the years you have spent in our midst become a memory.

You have walked among us a spirit, and your shadow has been a light upon our faces.

Much have we loved you. But speechless was our love, and with veils has it been veiled. Yet now it cries aloud unto you, and would stand revealed before you.

And ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.

And others came also and entreated him.

But he answered them not. He only bent his head; and those who stood near saw his tears falling upon his breast.

And he and the people proceeded towards the great square before the temple. And there came out of the sanctuary a woman whose name was Almitra. And she was a seeress.

And he looked upon her with exceeding tenderness, for it was she who had first sought and believed in him when he had been but a day in their city.

And she hailed him, saying: Prophet of God, in quest for the uttermost, long have you searched the distances for your ship.

And now your ship has come, and you must needs go.

Deep is your longing for the land of your memories and the dwelling place of your greater desires; and our love would not bind you nor our needs hold you.

Yet this we ask ere you leave us, that you speak to us and give us of your truth. And we will give it unto our children, and they unto their children, and it shall not perish.

In your aloneness you have watched with our days, and in your wakefulness you have listened to the weeping and the laughter of our sleep.

Now therefore disclose us to ourselves, and tell us all that has been shown you of that which is between birth and death.

And he answered,

People of Orphalese, of what can I speak save of that which is even now moving your souls?

On Love

Then said Almitra, "Speak to us of Love."

And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said:

When love beckons to you follow him,

Though his ways are hard and steep.

And when his wings enfold you yield to him,

Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you. And when he speaks to you believe in him,

Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.

Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,

So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth. Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.

He threshes you to make you naked.

He sifts you to free you from your husks.

He grinds you to whiteness.

He kneads you until you are pliant;

And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.

But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,

Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor,

Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.

Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.

Love possesses not nor would it be possessed; For love is sufficient unto love. When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather, I am in the heart of God."

And think not you can direct the course of love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself.

But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:

To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.

To know the pain of too much tenderness.

To be wounded by your own understanding of love;

And to bleed willingly and joyfully.

To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;

To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;

To return home at eventide with gratitude;

And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.

On Marriage

Then Almitra spoke again and said, "And what of Marriage, master?"

And he answered saying:

You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.

You shall be together when white wings of death scatter your days.

Aye, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.

But let there be spaces in your togetherness,

And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

Love one another but make not a bond of love:

Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.

Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.

Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.

Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,

Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.

For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.

And stand together, yet not too near together:

For the pillars of the temple stand apart,

And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.

On Children

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children." And he said:

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 are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Everybody has His Burden--Indonesian folktale

A mango tree. (Image via Panoramio.Com)

Everybody has His Burden

“Everybody has his burden but the heaviest burden is for the small and low”.

Once there was a mango tree. It had many large branches which gave generous shade and bore many luscious fruits. Everybody who saw the fine yield of fruit admired the tree and wished they owned a tree like it.

One day, a complaining voice was heard right under the bottom of the tree.

“Poor me. What a burden I have to bear. I’ve got to carry such a load; the heavy trunk, all the huge branches, all the leaves and fruit. So heavy is my load that I’m buried alive in the soil. Never I am able to see the nice work of nature above earth. Never can I breathe fresh air or see the moon or the sun.

"On contrary, people hurt me when they sometimes pull me out to plant me somewhere else. Oh, I can’t describe how I suffer all the time. Only God knows my sufferings. What a nice life the trunk has”.

When the trunk heard this sullen outburst, he answered:

“My dear brother, don’t talk like that. Do you really think I have a nice life? You don’t know how I have to bear the weight of those great branches and all that load of fruit on me. I’m always frightened when there is a hard whirlwind shaking my body. The whirlwind turns and twist my body so badly. You don’t know how it hurts. I am fortunate if I don’t break into two. If I do, then everything is finished.”

“One thing I hate. Day after day, people who bring firewood to the market lean their heavy bundles of wood to me. Torture my flesh when they strike their axes on my body. I bleed them for hours. Besides this, even the people lean on me at the same time. No need to tell you what my suffering is all that weight to support. Do you think they are thankful to me? Not at all. Then only notice the leaves above their heads who gave them shade. Of what use are those leaves? They only have a nice life, dancing whenever there is the slightest breeze.”

The grumbling of the trunk was heard by the leaves. They fretted to hear these words of envy about themselves. So they said grumpily:

“How sad we are to hear you both talking like that. How ungrateful you both you are. Isn’t it we who protect you from the burning rays of the sun? And what about the raining season? We always do our best to protect you from the harsh squalls that drench you. We protect you from the strong whirlwind with will uproot you. How much we suffer during these severe winds. We creak and rattle from their hand whippings and lacking. We are smacked down on earth and flung here and there and everywhere. Those of us who will still have the strength to hold onto a branch to avoid falling are solely scratched. Those of us who are scattered on the earth are collected by the people. For a moment, we are glad to be together again but the happiness does not last long. We realized this togetherness is until we are put to death by fire and turned into ash. How can you say that we have a nice life! It’s the fruit who have a nice life, hanging and swinging all day. It is the fruit that counts for everybody.”

The fruits were saddened to hear this talk. They said in a sulky voice:

“My dear brothers and sisters, how sad we are to hear your words. It is far from the truth of what we actually feel and what we have to face every time. We are the most to be pitied.”

"We always live in fear. We have to keep up our good name all the time, to be famous throughout the world. If we are not sweet and delicious and pretty, people won’t buy us. They will cut us all off and you will become firewood.

“Besides that, how about the children who had stones at us when we are doing our best to take care ourselves and ripen into beauties that people will want to buy? And even when we are ripe we have to suffer when we are eaten by people. We are not complaining, After all, people like to grow us because we are delicious. And that means they respect us. The best of us seeds selected and replanted. We have pride seeing our descendants: seeds of our seeds.”

“Stop! Stop talking!” The root said harshly again. “No need to talk anymore. All of you depend on me. If I don’t exist all of you will not be there. If I’m sick then there will no trunk, no leaves, no fruit. I have to work hard to all of you, looking for the food you all need. Have for no thought of me who has to do so much for all of us? Do you think only of your own feelings?"

So it must be among people too, say the Bataks. Think what other feel before you take a step. The true balance of democracy is when the leaves, fruit, trunks and roots are all taken into the picture.