For it is our chosen description of that which creates and animates life that separates us from others when our descriptions differ.

For thousands of years countless good and wise people have sought a description, yet after such exhaustive research we still cannot agree upon a description. The most reasonable conclusion is that that which creates and animates life cannot be described.

At a point in the heart of the desert, the Poet stopped singing and began to mull over his entire life. For a time, he compared himself to a cat dropped from above, say, by an eagle or some other bird, to find itself bound to plow a way out of this sand-swept tableland. How would it manage to? His such musings brought him to wonder what could be the difference between amir and subject, lover and beloved, good and evil. He knew, as always, that such questions were only too big for him. But he believed he had answers, convincing ones, to most of the most important questions. He knew why he lived, what he ought to do and what not to do.
“I am a man,” he would always say, “created to worship God. I ought to do good and avoid evil.”
As simple as that. He hated anyone who sought for offending details. For him, things were all too clear and simple. A man needs food, warmth, shelter and peace. All the question that would trigger bombastic talk lies in the way or ways to get that. A man does not need to be a philosopher or a great thinker or poet, or whatever, to be happy. A humble shepherd could be happy, if he had enough food, enough shelter, a good wife and a heart devoted to God. An emperor, with all he would have, could not really be happy if there was no place for God in his heart… (Chapter Four)

*****

“This woman is Christian, you know,” said Assem suddenly. “She’s from Bulgaria. Her Arabic is shaky. But I think you can understand each other. I liked her, and I chose her for you.” The Poet kept quiet, and listened. Assem paused and then went on, “Sawsan will be your wife.”
“You said my wife –although a Christian?”
“And what’s wrong about it? It all depends on you!”
“Well, sir,” the Poet replied with a blush, “I can’t find words to thank you, sir.”
“It’s I who should thank you, Salman!”
The Poet turned and listened in amazement. Assem went on speaking, almost to himself:
“Yes. It’s I who should be most grateful to you. I’ve failed with my own son. I’ve failed on all counts. I’d dreamt of a son completely different from the one you’ve seen. And I’ve had to atone for that. I’ve had to bring up men like those I’d dreamt of.” He sighed deeply, paused, and resumed, “Several of my attempts have gone awry. But I’ve, nevertheless, won a few. I hope you’re one of those few I’ve won.”
“I think I’ve done what I ought to have done. I hope that others will make their own contributions toward the fulfillment of my cherished dream. But truly I count on you personally. From now on, never lean on anybody for advice. Think and think and think and then decide and you’ll be a true man. Marry and beget children and teach them if you can.”
“I shall!” the Poet replied in a tremulous voice, trying to hold back his tears. “I promise.”
“Then, now…you are free.”
“Oh, thank you, sir! Thank you very, very much!”
“No! I don’t mean that you’re no longer my servant, my slave,” Assem said. The Poet stared and his heart throbbed. Assem went on, “You are! You’re still my servant. When I said ‘free’, I meant that you’d feel the real, the true freedom within yourself. Do you think my son is free? I’ll say not. He’s not free. He’s the slave of money, of prestige, of abundance. He’s the humble slave of the affluent society. He’s the tame slave of his wives’ wishes and whims. He’s in sum the slave of Satan. A truly free man is a slave of God. And that’s what I wish you to be like: a slave of God and a king of yourself.” (Chpter Twenty-Five)

Either way, over the years I’ve come to believe that personal religion is sacred.