One Thousand and One Nights

Also known as the Arabian Nights when it was translated by Antoine Gallad in 1704.

It is one of the oldest Arabic manuscripts to have been found, from Syria around the 9th century.
Its central plot details how Queen Shirazad had managed to save her life from the Sasanian
king, King Shahryar by telling him cliffhanger stories for every night for a thousand and one
nights.
This story is comprised of a collection of multiple short and long stories of which sometimes
contain stories within themselves. According to the legend of the book, Shirazad told 1001
stories to the king. Under the translation of the book by Richard Burton, there are 10 volumes
with about 10 stories each (and sub-stories within them) with an additional 6 supplementary
volumes from other fragments of this literary piece.

Theme

The theme for the central story in which Shirazad saves herself through story telling stems from
the King's insecurity from his original wife's infidelity. That "women are the same" and that he
must marry only virgins. The theme also empowers women in the aspect that Queen Shirazad is
clever, witty, and smart enough to spare herself and win her admiration from the King.
There are multiple stories in this story in itself whose themes vary from self-fulfilling prophecies,
foreshadowing, divine intervention, crime, and sex.

Setting

The contemporary setting of this compilation, in the 9th century of Syria, would be the time in
which Islam was the main religion of the Middle Eastern world.
The Sassanid Empire (of which the King is ruler of) however predates when this compilation
was believed to have been written by about 200 years.

Characters

Shahrayar
In "The Frame Story," he rules over the kingdom of India and begins the practice of marrying
wives and killing them the next morning until Scheherazade begins to tell him stories every
night. Brother to Shahzaman.
Shahzaman
In "The Frame Story," he rules over the kingdom of Samarkand and reveals to his brother
Shahrayar that his wife is cheating on him.
Scheherazade
Scheherazade is the primary storyteller of The Arabian Nights, according to "The Frame Story."
The daughter of Shahrayar's vizier, she marries the king and tells him stories every night to
keep him from killing her or any more of his wives. She is renowned for both her talent and
beauty.
Dinarzad
In "The Frame Story," she is Scheherazade's younger sister who asks for the stories that then
keep Scheherazade alive. 

Point Of View
The main story is told from a third person omniscient point of view detailing the King's exposition
and the plight of Shirazad and her father the Vizier.
The stories told by Shirazad are told from her, third-person limited perspective.

Conflict

The main conflict for this story is Man vs Man. Shirazad must attempt to save her life each night
until she ran out of stories to tell at the thousandth and first night. Prior, the King had sworn to
marry a virgin and execute a virgin each day due to the infidelity of his wife.

Plot

The main plot follows that after King Shahryar returns from war, he discovers that his wife has
been unfaithful to him and has her executed. Upon the misconception that all women are the
same, he goes on to lay with a virgin every day and have them executed the next day before
they could dishonour him.

Exposition

After returning from war, Sassanid King Shahryar is disappointed to find out that his original wife
and his brother's wife had been unfaithful to them as they had been away for too long.

Rising action

Upon the realisation of the infidelity, he has her killed. The king becomes insecure, bitter, and
grievous and sees that all women in the kingdom are the same. The King begins to marry
virgins in succession and then have them executed the following day.
Here enters the Vizier of the King, who selects the virgins.

Conflict

The Vizier soon comes  at a dead end when there are no more virgins in the kingdom. No more
virgins that are of noble blood. Except his own daugthers.
Initially, the Vizier did not agree that his two daughters be offered to the King. But Shirazad
volunteers.

Climax

Shirazad volunteers to be the King's next offering. In a conspiracy with her sister, she asks the
King to bid farewell to her sister Dunyazad for the last time and her sister asks her to tell her a
story. The King lies awake listening to the story and is in awe until Shirazad stops midway as it
is dawn. With the story unfinished, the King spares her. This begins the one thousand and one
nights in which Shirazad tells her stories.

Falling Action
The thousand and one nights come to a head when the King asks Shirazad to tell another story
and she now tells him that she no longer has any more stories to tell.
Over time while Shahryar had spent all of those nights with her, he had slowly fallen in love.

Resolution
Realising his love for Shirazad, the King spares her life. The one thousand and one nights were
enough to change the twisted king's heart. At the end, he makes her his Queen.

An Elegy for A Woman Of No Importance

Nazik Al-Malaika
She died, but no lips shook, no cheeks turned white
No doors heard her death tale told and retold,
No blinds were raised for small eyes to behold
the casket as it disappeared from sight.
Only a beggar in the street, consumed
by hunger, heard the echo of her life -
the safe forgetfulness of tombs,
the melancholy of the moon.

The night gave way to morning thoughtlessly,

and light brought with it sound – boys throwing stones,
A hungry, mewling cat, all skin and bones,
the vendors fighting, clashing bitterly,
some people fasting, others wanting more,
polluted water gurgling, and a breeze
playing, alone, upon the door,
having almost forgotten her.

Palestinian Like Me (narrative essay)

Yoram Binur

In 1984, I began work as a reporter for the local weekly newspaper in Jerusalem, Kol Ha’li (“The
voice of the city”). I took the Arab beat, covering not only East Jerusalem but also most of the
West Bank and occasionally the Gaza Strip as well. My close daily interaction with Arabs from
the occupied territories considerably improved my command of spoken Arabic as well as my
knowledge of Arab manners and gestures. 
I first became aware of the degree to which I had absorbed Palestinian culture when I traveled
to Nablus with Danny Rubinstein, a seasoned reporter from the newspaper Davar, to interview a
relative of Abu Nidal. The notorious Palestinian terrorist leader. During our conversation, I
learned that the interviewee thought I was Rubinstein;s Arab guide, On other occasions, too,
Arabs from the occupied territories mistook me for a compatriot. 
This misapprehension, together with the fact that news items on the West Bank tended to be
rather dull and routine at the time, led me to suggest to my editor a different approach to my
reporting. My idea was to offer a fresh perspective on Israeli Jews’ relationship with the
Palestinians in a variety of settings and recording my feelings, as well as the reactions of people
toward me.
After I’d established an identity and made my preparations, I discussed my plan with Feisal Al
Husseini, one of the most important Arab leaders in the occupied territories (who had recently
spent nine months under administrative detention). Husseini explained the risk I was running: if
the Arabs I contacted suspected me of being an undercover agent working for the Shin Beth
(the Israeli secret service, now know as Shabak), my life would be in danger. Husseini gave me
a letter in which he asked that I be given all possible assistance so that I might carry out my
journalistic mission without hindrance. In view of his uncontested leadership among the people
of the occupied territories, the letter would serve as a sort of insurance policy. It could save my
life in a tight spot - provided I had time enough to whip it out.
And so, over a period of six months, I lived more or less continuously as an Arab, generally
seeking to involve myself in situations that were typical for the average Palenstinian living under
Israeli military rule. I stayed in cities and in refugee camps. I worked in restaurants and
garages.  I lodged with Arab laborers. I even, in my guise as an Arab, had a relationship with a
Jewish Israeli woman and volunteered on a kibbutz.
Posing as a Palestinian Arab enabled me to see the conflict in different prespective and to
experience it with greater intensity. To state that Arabs are discriminated against in the Jewish
state of Israel is hardly an earthshaking revelation. But posing as a Palestinian, I was able to
understand, for the first time, what it means for a man to feel afraid and insecure inside his own
home when a military patrol passes outside his window. I had heard Palestinians tell of such
things many times, and I had always regarded it as an exaggerated example used to embellish
their arguments against the occupation. But when I was myself gripped by that paralyzing fear,
when I felt it in my guys, I grasped the dimension of their lives in a way that I never really could
have as an Israeli journalist, however, understanding I might be of the Palestinian situation. It
wasn’t a question of discovering new facts, but of discovering what it meant to feel the facts. 
Among my first jobs, was a stint as a restaurant worker at Hatuki (“The Parrot”), a small Tel Aviv
pub. A family atmosphere prevailed there but, needless to say, I wasn’t really a part of the
family. I was a servant. Everyone ordered me around: “I see our Arab is a little idle, so let’s take
out the glasses and wash them over again.” Once, when Osnat, a young waitress, had some
friends visiting, I overheard one of them ask about “her” Arab worker? I also clearly heard her
answer: “This Arab, I swear- with just a little improvement he could be a Jew.”
One night at Hatuki,all the feelings of frustration and humiliation that I was to experience as an
Arab worker were brought home. The owner’s sister, Michal, and her boyfriend came in the
kitchen around two in the morning, when most of the customers had already gone. I was in the
kitchen washing dishes. Laughing excitedly, the pushed their way into the kitchen - which had
hardly enough room for one person to move around in - and squeezed themselves into a small
corner between me and the refrigerator and proceeded to kiss each other passionately. 
Suddenly, a sort of trembling came over me. I realized that they had not meant to put on a peep
show for my enjoyment. The two of them were not the least bit concerned about what I saw or
felt, even when they began practically screwing under my nose. For them I simply didn’t exist. I
was invisible, nonentity! It is difficult to describe the extreme humiliation I felt. Looking back, I
think it was the most degrading moment of my entire posing adventure.
Istuck with my awful job at Hatuki more out of inertia than by virtue of any strength of will. In the
meantime, I moved in with a group of Arabs residents of the Israeli town of Um El Fahem. Since
they were citizens of Israel, they were not living in the city illegally, and that flat was rented for
them by the restaurant at which they all worked.
On my first night there, I dined with my roommates. They had brought a bag from their
restaurant containing some pita bread and various salads. When we ran out of pita and were
still hungry, Abu Kasem, the eldest of the group, took a few shekels out of his pocket and turned
to the youngest, “Hussein,” he requested, “go to the bakery and get some more pita,” Hussein
checked his shirt pocket to confirm that his ID card was in place and asked Kasem whether
there were any police detectives about, Kasem assured him that the coast was clear, and
Hussein left. 
It was around seven in the evening, an hour when innocent pedestrians aren’t ordinarily
arrested in the streets, and I professed astonishment at their caution. “What? You have an
Israeli ID, don’t you?”
“What do you know?” replied Kasem,. “In the West Bank, you call us Jews,’ but for the cops
here we’re 100 percent Arabs, and it’s bad news when they get their hands on us.
“Our land has all been appropriated by the Jews,’ he continued, “so there’s nothing to cultivate.
There aren’t any factories, and there are no other jobs, so we depend completely on the Jews
for work.”
Hussein - who had by then returned with the pita - joined in, pointing out that Arabs from the
occupied territories are not the only ones who suffer. “At the restaurant they were looking for
someone educated to sit by the cash register. I brought in my cousin, who is studying
computers at Tel Aviv University. When they saw he was an Arab, they said they didn’t need
anyone anymore, and a few days later they brought in a Jewish guy who had hardly finished
elementary school.”
The television set was on and the news broadcast had begun. A report of a terrorist attack on a
Jewish synagogue in Istanbul was accompanied by harrowing images of the victims being taken
away for burial. Just then, Hussein took a phone call. After a few seconds, he pounded violently
on the table in front of him. “What do you want from me? What do you suppose I think about
it?!” he shouted, and slammed down the receiver. A few minutes later he calmed down
sufficiently to tell us what the argument had been about. “That was my Jewish girlfriend. She
saw the news and called to ask me what I thought about the [Palestinian] organizations’
attacking a synagogue in Istanbul and killing the Jewish worshippers. I’m fed up with having to
justify myself every time something like that happens. They demand constantly that you prove
you aren’t a terrorist and want you to apologize for everything that happens in the world.”
That was the sort of bitterness I would be exposed to throughout my project. Another such
incident occurred at the small home of Abd Al Karim Lubad, with whom I stayed for a couple of
weeks while visiting Jebaliya, one of the largest refugee camps, in the area that was occupied
by Israel in 1967. Several of my host’s friends had stopped by; one of them was telling us about
his experience working among the Jews:
“Once I was picking fruit on some farm near Ashkelon. We worked like donkeys from morning to
evening and slept in a stinking, run - down shed in the orchard. After a week, payday came
around, and that night the boss brought in some thighs armed with guns who beat us and
chased us yelling, ‘You’re all terrorists!’ We had to get out of there, and a whole week of hard
work went to hell. We didn’t get a shekel.”
Lubad, my host, erupted, “Those Zionists are getting money from America all the time. Like a
flock of sheep, they just stand with mouth open and ask for more. And they’re always talking
about what Hitler did them in Europe. I don’t believe that Hitler killed the Jews, they just killed
each other.”
His wicked assertion made my blood boil. The young Palestinians whose company I found
myself were intellectuals who knew - or should have known - the truth about the Holocaust. But
because so much of them pent - up anger and frustration had resulted from their growing up in a
refugee camp, it would have been hard for me to protest against the hatred they felt toward
anything that even faintly smacked Zionism.
In October 1986, I ventured to a large wright-wing Israeli demonstration in support of “Jewish
Underground” members who had been imprisoned for terrorist acts - bombings, shooting,
murder, and more - against Palestinians living on the West Bank. The demonstration took place
in the square opposite the main synagogue in Jerusalem, less than a mile away from the Arab
section of the city. Most of the men were bearded and wore knitted skullcaps, a style that
Israelis instantly identify with a form of religious nationalism tinged with a messianic streak.
Some of the men were also armed. Many of the demonstrators were waving small replicas of
the Israeli flag.
  The event was as how of strength for Israel’s radical right wing, and my presence there,
in my Arab outfit, was an extreme provocation. I pushed “beloved sons who were not guilt of any
wrongdoing.” The prevailing sentiment was that to spray a college campus with bullets and to
freely fling hand grenades at students did not constitute a criminal offense so long as the victims
were Arabs. Nor was it considered a crime to plant bombs in the cars of public servants, or to
demolish buses loaded with peaceful civilians, if those being blown to pieces were Arabs.
Suddenly a hand grabbed hold of my arm and viciously yanked me backward. Turning, I found
myself confronting a very red, bearded face that was contorted with hatred.  The face rapidly
fired questions at me, “Who are you? What are you doing here? Where are you from?” “This is a
public place and it is my right to be here,” I protested feebly. 
Under the circumstances, I could hardly have chosen a less effective argument. Some members
of the crowd seemed convinced that this time they had a bona fide terrorist on their hands.
Curses, kicks, and blows rained down on me. Curious newcomers, inquiring what it was all
about, received this illuminating explanation: “There’s an Arab here!” A voice in the mob cried
out, “Get out of here! You have nothing to do with us!” I undoubtedly would have complied with
this helpful suggestion if only I could have freed myself from the tight grip in which I was being
held. And so the hysterical shouting went on: “We’ve caught an Arab, call the police! Quick!”
A paath opened up in the crowd as people moved aside to let a policeman through, Without
wasting words, he led me away. As we left, we were joined by two of my captor’s colleagues,
young border policemen like himself. Together we crossed the street and headed toward a very
dark and narrow alley. These cops have  a devilish knack for finding - conveniently close to the
commotion - the kind of dark and isolated corner that perfectly suits their purposes.
“Stand up straight!” I was ordered, and a direct punch in the stomach immediately followed. It
was powerful enough to make me double in pain - in violation of the instruction I’d just been
given. A second policeman countered the effect of the blow by shoving a crooked finger under
my chin, like a hook, and abruptly pulling me back to an upright position. They announced their
next decision: “All right! Now we’ll take out everything he’s got in his stinking pockets.” All they
found was a keffiyeh (the traditional Arab headdress), a bunch of keys, and a wallet. 
They returned the keys and wallet to me, but one of them wound the red keffiyeh )the color
favored by many Palestinian leftists) tightly around his hand, as if underscoring the point that I
wasn’t going to get it back soon. “Now take you your ID.”
I was released with another blow, this time to the back of my neck. I hastily drew my Israeli ID
from my wallet and fearfully handed it over. I knew that his humiliating experience could
continue for hours. The policeman examining my document whistled in surprise. “We’ve caught
a big fish here! He’s got a false ID. I’m taking him over to the patrol car, and you” - he turned to
his subordinates - keep coles watch from behind  so he doesn’t escape.”
The two policemen obediently positioned themselves behind me while the one in charge
escorted me, steering me by the arm. “Come one, you bastard. We’re taking you to our superior
now; then you're going for a ride to detention, and on the way we’ll take care of you in such a
way that you’ll never forget it as long as you live.”
The blows that were urging me to move along ceased to abruptly the moment we reached the
brightly lit street. I was taken to a border police jeep that was parked across from the
demonstration. A giant of an officer well over six feet tall, accepted my ID and keffiyeh with as
much satisfaction as if he;s just been presented with a firearm from a captured terrorist. THen
he instructed me to wait a short distance from the jeep while he spoke into his walkie-talkie. He
reported that an extremely suspicious ID had been found on the person of an Arab who was just
apprehended at the demonstration, where he had been loitering with no apparent purpose. 
Soon, the walkie-talkie baked back instructions concerning my ID: It seemed that the police
computer had a file on me. The officer wasn’t able to hid his frustration as he gave me the
welcome news, “I’m giving you three minutes to get out of here, and don’t you dare enter the
area of the demonstration or you’ll be arrested.”
This time I had no intention of compromising. “I have a right to be at the demonstration,” I
insisted.
“All right,” the officer conceded, “but without that red keffiyeh, I’m arresting you on the spot.” Of
course, there was no legal basis for this demand, either. His job, as a policeman, was to protect
me even if I went in there with a dozen keffiyehs, but I had no strength for further arguments.
I returned to the demonstration, which was about to end. The flags were raised up high and the
crowd began to sing “Hatikva”; they must have felt that invoking the Israeli national anthem was
an appropriate gesture in support of Jewish terrorists. They stood motionless as they sang but I
couldn't remain still and moved restlessly about. Even though I was an Israeli Jew, their kittva
(“hope”) was certainly not mine. 
Before one can speak of the intifada, as the Palestinians call the current uprising, one must first
understand how the Palestinians have coped with life under the Israeli occupation up to this
point. They key concept in this respect is sumud, which means “sticking with it”, “staying put,”
“holding fast” to one’s objectives and to the land - in a word, survival. Sumud is an attitude, a
philosophy, and a way of life. It maintains that one must carry on in a normal and undisturbed
fashion, as much as possible. COmpared with organized civil disobedience, or passive
resistance as preached by Gandhi, sumud is a more basic form of resistance growing out of the
idea that merely to exist, to survive, and to remain in one’s land is an act of defiance - especially
when deportation is one thing Palestinians fear most.
Although sumud is essentially passive by nature, it has a more active aspect, consisting of
gestures that underscore the difference between surviving under difficult conditions and
accepting them. During the course of my project, I was several times presented with examples
of this active sumud. On one occasion, I met a Palestinian youth whom I shall call Abed, who
told me about this version of sumud. “Despite the cat that I am a university graduate,” he said, “I
can’t find work in my profession, so I earn my living as a construction worker.” “Where do you
work?” I asked.
“In Beit El, up there.” He pointed at the hill that overlooked the refugee camp. On the hillside,
one could see scattered houses with the European-style, slanted roofs that are characteristic of
the Jewish settlements in the West Bank. “That means you not only work for Jewish, but you
work for the worst of them, for the settlers, “ Isaid, in an admonishing tone of voice.
Abed exchanged glances with his friends - as if to ask them whether to include me in their little
secret - and replied, “True, we work for the settlers. The money we earn allows us to live here,
to be samidin (practitioner of sumud), but that isn't’ all. For us, in this camp, sumud isn’t just
bringing home money and buying sacks of rice and a few bags of sugar. When I work at the
settlement I take advantage of every opportunity to fight them.”
“What can you do as a simple laborer?”
“Quite a bit. First of all, after I lay tiles in the bathroom or kitchen of an Israeli settler, when the
tiles are ll in place and the cement has already dried, I take a hammer and break a few. When
we finish installing sewage pipes, and the Jewish subcontractor has checked to see that
everything is all right, then I stuff a sackful of cement into the pipe. AS soon as water runs
through that pipe the cement gets hard as a rock, and the sewage system becomes blocked.”
Two older men who were sitting at a table near ours joined in the conversation. Abu ADnan and
Abu Ibrahim represented a generation of Palestinians that is haunted by the stinging defeat of
1948, at which time the Arabs either fled - leaving behind their villages and land - or were
forcibly deported. But the younger generation, which is more active in resisting the occupation,
owes its nationalistic education and inspiration to these elders. The elders are the ones who
nurtured and sustained the Palestinian’s identification with the villages of their origin. WHen
asked where they are from, even youngsters who have never known an existence other than in
the miserable shanties of a refugee camp can proudly name the place of their family’s origin -
which is often a village that ceased to exist long before they were born.
The intifada, which means “the shaking” (in the sense of shaking oneself free or awake), began
with demonstration in the Jabaliya refugee camp on December 8, 1987, spread quickly to other
camps, and continues to this day. There have been hundreds of deaths and casualties, mostly
among the Palestinians.
The intifada, in my opinion, can be understood as the anguished crime of a minority trying to call
attention to the discrimination that is being practiced againts it, as much as a demand for
national liberation. But Israel officials prefer to speak of “violent disturbances of order,” or just
plain riots.
About three weeks after the intifada broke out, I visited the Shati refugee camp near Gaza. Shati
is a miserable place to live even in ordinary times; now the chaos was unprecedented. The
sewer had run over, flooding the entire streets. Large garbage cans were being used as road
barriers and the sand in the alleys was covered with a black layer of burned rubber the residue
of all the tires that had blazed there over the past three months. Children, rulers of the intifada,
could be found at all points along the perimeter of the camp, armed with improvised slingshots
and creating an atmosphere of apocalypse and anarchy.
We went over to the Shifa hospital, which was located near the camp. There we visited, among
others, Muhriz Hamuda Al Nimnin, a young victim of the recent violence. His brother, who was
at his bedside, said, “If they had done it to me it would at least have made some sense,
because I throw rocks and Molotov cocktails. But Muhriz is a sick person who never participated
in a demonstration.” He then told us as much of the story as he knew.
People in the camp had seen Muhriz being arrested by the soldiers who manned a lookout post.
Eighteen days after his arrest, he was found unconscious in front of the entrance to the Shifa
hospital. In addition to the usual injuries inflicted by the Israeli troops - broken arms and legs -
Muhriz had been hit on the head. He was now a vegetable, incapable of speaking unable to tell
what had happened. The palms of his hands and his fingers were badly burned, as though he
had been forced to grasp a red-hot metal object.
I asked Muhriz’s brother if he was sure that it was the soldiers who had inflicted these injuries.
He replied that there were witnesses who had seen Muhriz being been by soldiers when he was
arrested, “but not in such a way.” The brother spread out the contents of a sack that had been
found next to Muhriz at the gate of the hospital. In it were the clothes that the victim had
apparently worn throughout the period of his absence.
To my dismay, I discovered a damning piece of evidence among the fou;-smelling rags: a strip
of flannel cloth of the kind used in the army for wiping weapons clean of grime and oil. The rag
was tied in the shape of a loop the size of a man’s head. Since soldiers commonly use these
strips of cloth for blindfolding suspects, the chances seemed good that the criminal act of
sadism committed against Muhriz had indeed been carried out by members of the Israeli
Defense Forces.
For twenty years the Palestininas have lived among us. During the day we have been
employers who profited by their labor and exploited them for all they are worth; in the afternoon
we have been the police; in the evening we have been the soldiers at the roadblock on the way
home; and at night we have been security forces who entered their homes and arrested them.
The young Palestinians work in Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, and other Israeli cities. They identify with
the values of Israel society at least as much as they do with their traditional backgrounds. They
get a whiff of the democratic privileges that Israeli citizens enjoy, but cannot share in them. The
young man who spends his work week among a people living under democratic rule returns to
his home, which is only an hour away but which has (in effect, if not officially) been under curfew
for twenty years. Any Arab who walks in the streets at a late hour can expect to be detained and
questioned about his actions, even during periods of relative calm. He sees and recognizes the
value of freedom but is accorded the kind of treatment that characterizes the most backward
dictatorial regimes. How can he be anything but frustrated?
In the end, the impressions I was left with formed a depressing picture of fear and mistrust on
both sides. The Palestinians, employed as a cheap labor force, are excluded from Israeli
society, whereas Israeli Jews are satisfied to rule without the least curiosity about how other
side live. My conclusion is that a continuation of Israeli’s military presence in the West Bank and
Gaza Strip threatens to change Israel into a place that many people, including myself, will find
unlivable. I am tired of witnessing the disastrous results of the occupations every day. And I am
frightened that many more people, on both sides, may be doomed to suffer bloodshed and
destruction.

On Giving
by Khalil Gibran

Then said a rich man, Speak to us of Giving.

And he answered:
You give but little when you give of your possessions.
It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.
For what are your possessions but things you keep and guard for fear you may need them
tomorrow?
And tomorrow, what shall tomorrow bring to the overprudent dog burying bones in the trackless
sand as he follows the pilgrims to the holy city?
And what is fear of need by need itself?
Is not dread of thirst when your well is full, the thirst that is unquenchable?
There are those who give little of the much which they have—and they give it for recognition
and their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome.
 And there are those who have little and give it all.
These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is never empty.
There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward.
And there are those who give with pain, and that pain is their baptism.
And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with
mindfulness of virtue;

They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.
Through the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes. He smiles upon
the earth.
It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give unasked, through understanding;
And to the open-handed the search for one who shall receive is joy greater than giving.
And is there aught you would withhold?
All you have shall some day be given;
Therefore give now, that the season of giving may be yours and not your inheritors’.

You often say, “I would give, but only to the deserving.”

The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture.
They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish.
Surely he who is worthy to receive his days and his nights, is worthy of all else from you.
And he who has deserved to drink from the ocean of life deserves to fill his cup from your little
stream.
And what desert greater shall there be, than that which lies in the courage and the confidence,
nay the charity, or receiving?
And who are you that men should rend their bosom and unveil their pride, that you may see
their worth naked and their pride unabashed?
See first that you yourself deserve to be a giver, and an instrument of giving.
For in truth it is life that gives unto life—while you, who deem yourself a giver, are but a witness.
And you receivers—and you are all receivers—assume no weight of gratitude, lest you lay a
yoke upon yourself and upon him who gives.
Rather rise together with the giver on his gifts as on wings;
For to be overmindful of your debt, is to doubt his generosity who has the freehearted earth for
mother, and God for father