Quotes from The book of Mirdad, chapter 2
When you say «I», say forthwith in your heart:
«God be my refuge from the woes of I and be my guide unto the bliss of I.»
For in that word «I», albeit so very slight, is locked the soul of every other word.
Unlock it once, and fragrant is your mouth, and sweet the tongue therein;
each word of it shall drip with Life’s delights.
Let it remain locked up, and foul is the mouth, and bitter is the tongue;
from every word of it shall ooze the pus of Death.
For I is the creative Word.
And save you grasp thereof the magic power and save you be master of that power, you are too apt to groan when you would sing, or be at war when you would be at peace; or cringe in goals dark when you would soar in light.
Your I is but your consciousness of being, silent and incorporeal, made vocal and corporeal.
It is the inaudible in you made audible and the invisible made visible;
so that, seeing, you may see the un-seeable;
and hearing, you may hear the un-hearable.
For eye- and ear- bound yet are you.
And save you see with eyes, and save you hear with ears, you see and hear nothing at all.
By merely thinking «I», you cause a sea of thoughts to heave within your heads. That sea is the creation of your I, which is at once the thinker and the thought.
If you have thoughts that sting, or stab, or claw, know that the I in you alone endowed them with sting and tusk and claw.
Mirdad would have you know as well, that which can endow can also disendow.
By merely feeling «I», you tap a well of feelings in your hearts.
That well is the creation of your I, which is at once the feeler and the felt.
If there be briars in your hearts, know that the I in you alone has rooted them there-in.
Mirdad would have you know as well, that which can so readily root in, the same can as readily root out.
By merely saying «I», you bring to life a mighty host of words; each word a symbol of a thing; each thing a symbol of a world; each world a part component of a universe.
That universe is the creation of your I, which is at once the maker and the made.
If there be some hobgoblins in your universe, know that the I in you alone has brought them into being.
Mirdad would have you know as well, that which can create can also uncreate.
As the creator, so is the creation. Can anyone over-create himself?
Or can anyone under-create himself?
Himself alone – no more, no less – does the creator procreate.
A fountainhead is I, whence flow all things and whither they return.
As is the fountainhead, so also is the flow.
A magic wand is I.
Yet can the wand give birth to naught save what is the magician.
As is the magician, so are the products of his wand.
Therefore: as is your consciousness, so is your I. As is your I, so is your world.
If it be clear and definite of meaning, your word is clear and definite of meaning. And then your words should never be a maze;
nor should your deeds be ever nests of pain.
If it be hazy and uncertain, your word is hazy and uncertain;
then your words are but entanglements and your deeds are hatcheries of pain.
If it be constant and enduring, your word is constant and enduring; then you are mightier than time and much more spacious than space.
If it be passing and inconstant, your world is passing and inconstant;
then you are like a wisp of smoke, breathed upon lightly by the sun.
If it be one, your world is one; and then you are at everlasting peace with all the hosts of heaven and the tenants of the earth.
If it be many, your world is many; then you are at an unending war with your very self and every creature in God’s imcompassable domain.
I is the center of your life, whence radiate the things that make the total of the world, and where-unto they converge.
If it be steady, your world is steady; then no powers from above, and no powers from below can make you sway right or left.
If it be shifting, your world is shifting; then you are a helpless leaf, caught in an angry whirl of wind.
And look! Your world is steady, to be sure — but only in unsteadiness.
And certain is your world — but only in uncertainty.
And constant is your world — but only in inconstancy.
And single is your world — but only in unsingleness.
Yours is a world of cradles turning into tombs, and tombs becoming cradles; of days devouring nights and nights regurgitating days; of peace declaring war and war suing for peace; of smiles afloat on tears and tears aglow with smiles.
Yours is a world in constant travail, with death as the midwife.
Yours is a world of sieves and cribbles, with no two sieves and cribbles alike.
And you are ever at pains sifting the unsiftable and cribbling the uncribblable.
Yours is a world set against itself, because the I in you is so divided.
Yours is a world of barriers and fences, because the I in you is one of barriers and fences.
Some things it would fence out as alien to itself. Some things it would fence in as kindred to itself.
Yet that outside the fence is ever breaking in. And that within the fence is ever breaking out.
For they, being offspring of the same mother – your I – would not be set apart.
And you, rather than joy in their happy union, begird yourselves anew for the fruitless labour of separating the inseparable.
Rather than bind the cleavage in the I, you whittle away your life, hoping to make thereof a wedge to drive between what you believe to be your I and what you imagine other than your I.
Therefore men’s words are dipped in poison.
Therefore their days are so drunken with sorrow.
Therefore their nights are so tortured with pain.
Mirdad would bind the cleavage in your I, so that you may live at peace with yourselves – with all men – with the entire universe .
Mirdad would draw the poison from your I, so that you may taste the sweetness of Understanding.
Mirdad would teach you how to weigh your I, so as to know the joy of perfect balance.