I have always heard about May Ziada and her friends who had a crush on her, and their letter they sent to her, but this is actually my first time to read one (received by mail).
I loved it.
My Dear Miss May,
You have been on my mind ever since I last wrote to you. I have spent long hours thinking of you, talking to you, trying to discover your secrets, to unravel your mysteries. Even so, it is still surprising to me that I should have felt the presence of your ethereal Self in my study, watching the moves I make, conversing and arguing with me, voicing your opinions on what I do.
You will naturally be surprised to hear me talk like this; I myself find it strange that I should feel this urge and this need to write to you. I wish it were possible for me to understand the hidden secret behind this need, this urgent need….
I implore you to write to me, my friend. And I implore you to write in that free, detached, winged spirit that soars far above the ways of mankind. You and I know a great deal about mankind, about the things that bring people together, and about the facts that drive them apart……
May God keep you, May, and may he protect you always….for me.
Your True Friend,
Jubran Khalil Jubran
And here are parts from another letter:
“How sweet are your letters, May, and how delightful. They are like a river of nectar that flows down from a mountain-top and sings its way down into the valley of my dreams. Indeed, they are like Orpheus’ lute, which attracts things far away and advances things near, and by means of its enchanted echos turns stones into glowing torches and boughs into restless wings. The day when just one of your letters arrives is equal to the peak of a mountain for me – so what am I to say of a day when three letters all come at once? That is indeed a day on which I forsake the well-trodden paths of time to roam the streets of “Iram, City of Lofty Pillars.”…
As for your statement, “How happy are you, you who find happiness in your art” – this made me ponder for a long time. No, May, I am neither happy nor content. In me, there is something that can never be content, but does not resemble covetousness; something that can never know happiness but does not resemble misery. In my depths there is a continual throb and an incessant pain, and I desire to change neither – a man in such a plight cannot know happiness or recognise contentment, but he does not complain because in complaining is a certain comfort and transcendence.
Are you happy and content with your great talents? Tell me, May. I can almost hear you whisper: “No, I am neither nor.” Contentment is satisfaction, and satisfaction is limited whereas you are not limited. As for happiness, it comes when one is drunk with the wine of life; but he whose cup is seven thousand leagues deep and seven thousand leagues wide can never know happiness unless life in its entirety be poured into his cup. Is not your own cup, May, one of a thousand-and-one leagues?