GyaniNani's Reading Room

Category: Why the Prophet?

  • The Prophet Dialogues — Conversation series #002

    Giving, Listening and the Courage to Step Back

    The Coming of the Ship — continued

    Deepali Bhattacharya | Dr. Indu Prakash Singh | Tathagat Dwij | Lynne

    Four people. Many perspectives. One chapter that took us far beyond the text.

    Our second conversation around Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet began where our first one had left us — with The Coming of the Ship. But very quickly, the conversation moved beyond Gibran.

    We found ourselves talking about life and death, the ego, money, giving, listening, participation, facilitation and empathy. And somewhere along the way, a question began to emerge:

    When we say we want to help another person, how much of that help is really about them — and how much is about us?

    We often enter spaces believing that we have something to give:

    knowledge,

    experience,

    resources,

    solutions.

    But what happens when we enter without first listening?

    Perhaps service begins not with what we have come to give, but with what we are prepared to hear.

    Giving — and the self that gives. Giving is usually understood as an act of generosity. Yet our conversation made us look at it a little differently.

    There can also be an ego hidden inside giving.

    We may decide what another person needs.

    We may arrive with solutions before understanding the question.

    We may even measure our contribution by what we have done rather than by what the other person has experienced.

    This becomes particularly important in development work. For those of us who work with communities, the distinction between doing for and doing with is not merely about language. It changes the relationship itself.

    Who defines the problem?

    Who decides what change should look like?

    And whose knowledge counts?

    Listening as participation

    The conversation then moved towards listening.

    Listening sounds passive, but perhaps it is one of the most active things we can do. To listen deeply requires us to temporarily suspend our own certainty. It means allowing another person’s experience to exist without immediately interpreting it through our own framework.

    This is also where participation becomes meaningful.

    Participation cannot simply mean inviting people into a process whose questions, boundaries and outcomes have already been decided elsewhere.

    Sometimes participation requires those of us who usually speak, design, teach or facilitate to step back.

    Not disappear.

    Not abandon our knowledge.

    But create enough space for another kind of knowledge to enter.

    Different voices,

    a shared journey

    Perhaps this is why reading The Prophet together feels so different from reading it alone.

    Each person enters the same words carrying a different life. A sentence that speaks about spirituality to one person may open a psychological question for another. A philosophical idea may suddenly become a question about society, development practice, relationships, money or everyday life.

    There is no attempt to arrive at one interpretation.

    The differences are the conversation.

    And perhaps that is what we are slowly discovering through The Prophet Dialogues.

    We are not trying to explain Gibran.

    We are allowing Gibran to become a doorway — into our experiences, our disagreements, our questions and occasionally into the uncomfortable assumptions we carry without noticing them.

    There are still no final answers.

    Only another layer of questions.

    And another reason to return.

    The Prophet Dialogues

    Reading slowly. Questioning deeply. Returning differently.

    Deepali Bhattacharya | Dr. Indu Prakash Singh | Tathagat Dwij | Lynne

    Yours GyaniNani.in

  • The Prophet Dialogues- series #001

    The Prophet Dialogues
    Conversation One | The Coming of the Ship

    There were only three of us in our first Prophet Dialogue — Dr. Indu Prakash Singh, Deepali Bhattacharya and Tathagat Dwij.

    We began with The Coming of the Ship, the opening chapter of Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet. But very soon, we were moving in and out of Gibran — into Kabir and Tennyson, Kafka and Dostoevsky, psychology and philosophy, science and spirituality, and, inevitably, our own lives.
    Maybe that is how The Prophet is meant to be read.
    Not explained. Not analysed line by line. But allowed to take us somewhere.
    We return to books as different people
    There was something deeply personal about beginning these dialogues.
    Nearly thirty years ago, Indu ji introduced Deepali to The Prophet. She has returned to it many times since. Now, after all these years, the two were sitting together again with the same book open before them — this time with Tathagat bringing another generation and another way of seeing to the conversation.
    Indu ji said something that stayed with us. He may have introduced The Prophet to many people over the years, but Deepali had carried it forward and had now brought them back together around it.
    The book was the same.
    We were not.
    And that is probably why an old book can suddenly become new again.
    What do we leave behind when we leave?
    Almustafa has waited twelve years for the ship that will finally take him home. When he sees it, he is filled with joy.
    And sorrow.
    That contradiction drew us in.
    Indu ji stopped at Gibran’s image of Almustafa leaving “fragments of the spirit” in the streets of Orphalese.
    Can we ever really leave a place where we have lived deeply? Or a relationship? Or even a particular time in our lives?
    We move on, but some part of us remains.
    And some part of what we leave behind travels with us.
    Almustafa wants to go home. His sadness does not make that desire less real. It simply tells us that departure and attachment can exist together.
    Leaving does not mean we have stopped loving.
    What happens when it becomes quiet?
    Then came Gibran’s “seeker of silences.”
    Tathagat stopped there.
    He looked at silence through psychology. When the outside noise disappears — sounds, images, conversations, distractions — the mind begins to encounter itself. Thoughts start churning. Sometimes something emerges from that silence: an insight, an understanding, even an epiphany.
    But he added a caution.
    Just because a thought feels profound does not make it true.
    We can become intoxicated by our own thinking. We can build explanations about ourselves and the world and then start treating those explanations as reality.
    That is where the seeker has to be careful.
    The conversation moved naturally from here to Kafka’s Letter to His Father, Dostoevsky and existential thought — to the uncomfortable inner territories of fear, guilt, freedom, relationships, alienation and self-deception.
    And suddenly The Prophet did not feel like a “spiritual book” at all.
    It felt like a poetic way of entering some of the hardest emotional questions of being human.
    The lantern is mine. The flame is not.
    Indu ji kept returning to Almustafa’s humility.
    After all his years of contemplation, Almustafa still does not say: I possess wisdom.
    Instead, Gibran gives us the image of the lantern.
    The lantern may be mine. The flame is not.
    That changes the meaning of knowledge.
    We may carry it. We may give it a form. But can we really claim to be its source?
    Then came another image — the harp and the flute.
    And from Gibran, the conversation travelled to Kabir.
    Deepali remembered the imagery of Kabir’s Nirgun tradition, where the human body itself becomes a dwelling, a fort, containing within it different centres of life and consciousness — awake in some places, sleeping in others. The body is not simply a physical shell. It is through this body that we experience life and seek a connection with something beyond ourselves.
    That made Gibran’s flute feel strangely familiar.
    A flute has a body. It has openings. It has form.
    But there is no music until breath passes through it.
    So what are we?
    The music?
    The flute?
    The breath?
    We did not try to settle the question.
    That was the beauty of it.
    How can a drop be boundless?
    Then Indu ji stopped us at one extraordinary phrase:
    “A boundless drop to a boundless ocean.”
    The ocean being boundless is easy enough to imagine.
    But the drop?
    How can a drop be boundless?
    Indu ji brought in the idea of purna — the whole, the complete. If the drop comes from the whole, can it ever be entirely separate from it?
    Deepali responded from science.
    Think of a single cell in the human body.
    Compared with the whole body, it is almost unimaginably small. Yet a nucleated cell carries genetic information associated with the whole organism. It is only one cell; it is certainly not the entire human being. And yet something of the blueprint of the whole is held within that tiny unit.
    That offered another way of thinking about Gibran’s drop.
    A drop does not become the ocean merely because it came from it. And yet the nature of the ocean is present in that drop.
    Maybe our smallness and our connection to something larger are not contradictions after all.
    We are the drop.
    We are part of the ocean.
    And something of the ocean is within us.
    Science and spirituality were not being used to prove each other. They simply gave us two different languages with which to wonder about the same thing.
    And then Indu ji picked up an old schoolbook…
    One of the loveliest moments of the conversation came almost casually.
    Indu ji reached for an old Class IX book — a 1975 edition — and read Tennyson to us.
    There was something wonderful about it.
    A poem sitting inside a schoolbook for more than fifty years suddenly entered a conversation in 2026 about Gibran.
    And around the same table were Kabir, Tennyson, Kafka and Dostoevsky.
    Not because we had planned an impressive list of writers to discuss.
    One thought simply led to another.
    That is what good conversations do.
    “You have given us dreams to dream”
    This was one of the lines that held Deepali.
    What an extraordinary thing to say to another human being:
    You gave us dreams to dream.
    Sometimes a person enters our life and does not give us anything tangible.
    They simply make possibility visible again.
    Their energy, ideas, questions or way of looking at life awaken something that had become quiet inside us.
    Maybe this is what mentors do too.
    They do not hand us our dreams.
    They help us discover that we can still dream.
    “Disclose us to ourselves”
    Towards the end, we came to the line that stayed with all three of us in different ways.
    The people of Orphalese do not simply ask Almustafa to tell them what he knows.
    They ask him to “disclose us to ourselves.”
    Tathagat brought us back to psychology.
    To see ourselves requires honesty. Not the version of ourselves we present to other people, but the stories we tell ourselves when nobody else is listening.
    We can deceive other people.
    The more dangerous deception begins when we start deceiving ourselves.
    And suddenly this line connected with so much of what we had already discussed.
    The seeker of silence.
    The lantern and its flame.
    The flute and the breath.
    The drop and the ocean.
    Maybe the Prophet is not there to fill people with his wisdom.
    Maybe he is there to help them recognise something that is already within them.
    And that may also explain why three people could sit with the same chapter and find three different doors opening.
    One came through philosophy and spirituality.
    One through lived experience, Kabir and science.
    One through psychology and existential thought.
    None cancelled the other.
    They made the room larger.
    That, more than anything, was our first Prophet Dialogue.
    We began with one chapter.
    We ended up talking about leaving and belonging, silence and thought, knowledge and humility, the body and the divine, the individual and the infinite, teachers, dreams and the difficult business of knowing ourselves.
    There were no conclusions as we have just arrived at the port waiting to jump in.
    In fact, there is no need to conclude too for our conversation has begun.

    The Prophet Dialogues
    Three readers. Different ways of seeing. One conversation that continues.



  • The Prophet Dialogues- Conversation 2

    Dialogue II — When Love Finds You

    A note on how this section is split. Gibran gives us three chapters here — Love, Marriage, Children — and they belong to one arc: love arrives, love asks for space, love releases. Two conversations carry it better than one. Dialogue II stays with love itself. Dialogue III takes the sea and the arrow together, because marriage and parenting are the same lesson learned twice.

    A note on TD.

    TD is a young psychologist. He has the vocabulary — attachment, vulnerability, individuation, regulation. That vocabulary is a gift and a hazard, and the dialogues should use both. He is not GyaniNani’s student. He is her companion, and roughly half the wisdom in these two conversations is his.

    Love possesses not nor would it be possessed.”

    GyaniNani and TD

    TD: Nani, I want to confess something before we start.

    GyaniNani: Confess.

    TD: I have read this chapter many times. I can quote parts of it. And I am not sure I understand it.

    When Gibran says love threshes you, sifts you, grinds you to whiteness — I understand every word. I do not understand the experience.

    GyaniNani: Then you have understood the chapter better than most people who quote it.

    TD: That is a kind way to let me off.

    GyaniNani: It is not kindness. Some things cannot be understood by reading. They have to be lived.

    TD: That is what struck me. When he writes about being wounded by love, about standing naked before it — he is describing something that happens in the body.

    The chest tightens. The stomach drops. The hands do not stay still.

    You feel somehow smaller.

    No dictionary explains that.

    GyaniNani: Language can describe an experience. Only life decodes it.

    Perhaps that is why people return to this book at different ages. The words do not change.

    The reader changes.

    TD: There is a name for what I just described, you know. In my training we call it interoception — the sense we have of our own insides. The body registers meaning before the mind can put it into a sentence.

    GyaniNani: And does the name help?

    TD: Usually, yes.

    GyaniNani: I ask because I have watched people receive a name for what they were feeling and go quiet in a way that worried me. As though the naming had settled it. As though a word had been placed over the thing like a lid.

    TD: That happens. I have done it myself.

    But I want to argue with you a little.

    GyaniNani: Please.

    TD: Some people come to me with no words at all. Only a body that will not sleep and a chest that will not loosen. For them a name is not a lid. It is the first handhold. It is the moment they stop believing they are broken and start believing they are describing something real.

    GyaniNani: (hmmm)

    I had not thought of it that way.

    I have spent thirty years worrying that we explain feelings too quickly. I have not spent enough time with the person who cannot name a single one.

    TD: I think both are true, Nani. A name given too early closes a door. A name given at the right time opens one.

    GyaniNani: Then perhaps the question is never whether to name it, but whether we are still curious after we have.

    A question, halfway through.

    Where in your body does love live? Not what it means to you. Where you feel it. One line.

    TD: Can I tell you what this made me think about?

    Parents.

    Parents keep saying, “One day you will understand.”

    As children we dismiss it. It sounds like another lecture in a long line of lectures.

    Then one day you fall in love.

    And those same words arrive with all their weight.

    GyaniNani: (smiles) Many parents are quietly waiting for that day.

    Not because they want their children to suffer.

    Because love makes us softer, and they are waiting for the softness.

    TD: Softer how?

    GyaniNani: Have you noticed it in your friends? Someone who argued with every suggestion suddenly understands what it is to worry for another person.

    To wait for a message.

    To lose sleep.

    To forgive without keeping the account open.

    To put someone else’s happiness beside their own and not resent it.

    That is usually when children begin to hear the language their parents had been speaking all along.

    TD: So a child understands a parent’s love only after loving someone themselves. Until then it is a beautiful sentence in a language they have not learned.

    GyaniNani: Yes. And you have just said in two sentences what I have been trying to say to parents for years.

    TD: Which raises something else I keep circling.

    Gibran wrote this in 1923. No attachment theory. No emotional regulation. None of the vocabulary I use every day.

    And he is describing all of it.

    GyaniNani: Be careful how you put that.

    TD: How so?

    GyaniNani: I nearly wrote once that psychology was “not yet evolved” in his time. It was the wrong sentence. There were serious people doing serious work in those years, and it diminishes them.

    What is truer is that psychology had not yet become part of ordinary speech. Today we say attachment, vulnerability, individuation over breakfast. Gibran had no such shelf to reach for. He had images.

    TD: So science gave us the concepts.

    GyaniNani: And poetry gave us the pictures. Neither replaces the other. Science measures. Poetry usually notices first.

    TD: Then let me ask the thing that has bothered me most about this chapter.

    Why is every single image of love in it painful?

    Pruning. Threshing. Sifting. Grinding. Kneading. Fire.

    That is a description of what happens to wheat, Nani. It is violent.

    GyaniNani: Because transformation is rarely comfortable.

    Notice that he does not stop at the fire. The wheat becomes bread. But nothing in that sequence lets the grain stay a grain.

    TD: In my field we would call the whole passage a description of vulnerability.

    GyaniNani: And Gibran simply called it love.

    (silence)

    TD: There is a line I underlined and then could not stop returning to.

    “Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.”

    Growth and pruning in one breath. Same hand.

    GyaniNani: That is the sentence that holds the chapter together, and almost nobody quotes it.

    We have made a culture that wants the growth without the pruning. We want to be expanded and never cut back.

    TD: And Gibran gives you the choice.

    GyaniNani: He does. And this is the part that frightens me.

    He says: if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure, then cover yourself and leave 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.”

    TD: A seasonless world.

    GyaniNani: A safe one. Nothing dies in it because nothing grows in it.

    I wrote one thing in my margin here, in pencil, years ago.

    Fear is the enemy of love.

    TD: That is what he is saying, isn’t it. Not hatred. Not indifference.

    Fear.

    GyaniNani: Fear is what makes us reach for the safe version. And the safe version is not a smaller love. It is a different world altogether — one where you never laugh with your whole laughter again.

    TD: Nani, I have to push back on something else you wrote.

    GyaniNani: Good.

    TD: Somewhere in your notes you wrote, Love is stillness.

    I disagreed immediately. This entire chapter is motion. The sword among the pinions. The north wind laying waste to the garden. The threshing-floor. Nothing about it is still.

    GyaniNani: You are right about the chapter.

    TD: Then why stillness?

    GyaniNani: Because I was not describing what love does. I was describing what love is.

    Think about what actually makes love noisy.

    Fear makes it agitated. Possession makes it anxious. Ego makes it loud. Comparison makes it restless.

    Take those four out.

    TD: (after a moment)

    And what is left is quiet.

    GyaniNani: Love itself has never been the noise. The noise is everything we attach to it.

    TD: So the threshing is real, but it is love acting on us. The stillness is love as it is in itself.

    GyaniNani: That is better than how I put it. Use yours.

    TD: Then perhaps love is not asking us to become better people.

    It is asking us to become available.

    GyaniNani: Available to be changed.

    TD: Yes.

    GyaniNani: (after a long pause)

    Which may be why he ends where he does.

    “Love possesses not nor would it be possessed. For love is sufficient unto love.”

    The moment we try to own it, we stop letting it change us.

    And a love that cannot change us has become a possession.

    TD: We began with me admitting I did not understand this chapter.

    GyaniNani: And we are ending with me admitting the same. I have read it for thirty years. It still gets ahead of me.

    Reflection

    Some things language can point to but never hand over.

    Love does not arrive as information. It arrives as weather — in the chest, in the stomach, in the hands.

    Every image Gibran uses for it is an image of something being broken open in order to become food.

    The alternative he offers is not a lesser love. It is a seasonless world.

    And the enemy is not hatred. It is fear.

    The question I am leaving with you:

    Where are you living in the seasonless world?

    One place in your life where you have chosen the safe version of love — over the one that would have cost you something. One sentence. No explanation needed.

    Last week I asked what you were calling a garment that was actually a skin.

    📖 From my copy

    A photograph of page 10 — the underlining, and in the margin, in pencil:

    “Fear is the enemy of love.”

    Until next Friday…

    Dialogue III — Two Shores, One Sea Everyone quotes one line from the chapter on marriage. I want to talk about a different one. And then, at last, about children.

  • The Prophet Dialogues-Conversation-I

    The Day of Departure

    “Disclose us to ourselves.”

    GyaniNani and TD

    A note on TD: TD is the one who asks. Younger, unhurried, unwilling to accept a beautiful sentence until it has been tested. Every Nani needs one. TD is also, on most days, the reader.

    TD: Everyone quotes The Prophet for its chapter on children. Why are we beginning somewhere else?

    GyaniNani: Because before Almustafa speaks about children, or love, or freedom, he must first learn to leave.

    TD: Leave what?

    GyaniNani: Everything he has been. Every journey begins with a departure. Every new beginning asks us to set down something we have loved with our whole heart.

    TD: We don’t talk about it that way.

    GyaniNani: No. We celebrate beginnings. We rarely honour the courage of endings.

    TD: One line stayed with me.

    “I cannot withdraw from them without a burden and an ache.”

    Why those words? He is the wise one. Shouldn’t wisdom hurt less?

    GyaniNani: I used to think so. I thought detachment was the goal — that if I loved correctly, leaving would be light.

    I no longer think that.

    The ache is not a failure of wisdom. The ache is the receipt. It is proof that something was real.

    TD: Then what does wisdom change?

    GyaniNani: Not the pain. Only what we do with it. Then he says something more:

    “It is not a garment I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands.”

    A garment can be changed.

    A skin has grown into us. It is our identity, our history, sometimes our whole sense of ourselves.

    Life’s deepest transformations are never superficial. They ask us to become someone new.

    TD: That reminds me of childbirth.

    Pregnancy ends. Motherhood begins.

    The ending and the beginning happen in the same moment.

    GyaniNani: And Gibran has a line for exactly that:

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

    Perhaps birth is our first lesson in letting go — for the mother and for the child both.

    Nine months of protecting a child by holding the child within.

    Then one day love asks for the opposite.

    To let go.

    Perhaps every stage of a child’s growth is another small birth.

    The first day at school.

    The first journey alone.

    The first job.

    Marriage.

    Every milestone asks the parent to loosen the grip without loosening the love.

    A question, before we go further.

    What was the last thing you let go of that you are still, quietly, holding? Say it in one line.

    TD: Nani, I want to push back.

    GyaniNani: Please.

    TD: “Loosen the grip without loosening the love” — that is a lovely sentence. But some people let go because they are tired. Some let go and call it wisdom when it was really giving up. How do you tell the difference?

    GyaniNani: You are right, and I do not have a clean answer.

    The only difference I have found is direction. Letting go leaves you facing the other person, still wanting their good. Giving up turns you away.

    But I have not always known which one I was doing at the time. Sometimes I only knew years later.

    TD: So you can get it wrong.

    GyaniNani: Often. That is why this is a conversation and not a lesson.

    TD: Then he asks,

    “Shall the day of parting be the day of gathering?”

    How can parting become gathering?

    GyaniNani: Think of a teacher on her last day.

    People do not come only to say goodbye. They come carrying memories. Gratitude. Stories she had forgotten she was part of.

    Perhaps departures are the days when we finally see the harvest of seeds we sowed without noticing.

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

    TD: Then this one.

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

    Why call himself a harp? Or a flute?

    GyaniNani: Sit with what a flute actually is.

    A flute is a hollow thing.

    It makes music not because it is full, but because it is empty — and because it has been pierced. Every hole in it was made deliberately. Without the wounds, there is no music.

    TD: That is uncomfortable.

    GyaniNani: It is meant to be. This is the most spiritual line in the chapter and it is disguised as a modest question.

    Because it asks two things at once. Can you be emptied? And can you let the breath be someone else’s?

    The flute does not create the music. It permits the music.

    And in the moment of playing, the player and the instrument are not two. Creator and creation become one.

    TD: And that applies where?

    GyaniNani: Everywhere love is real.

    Parents to their children.

    Teachers to their students.

    Friends.

    We are not owners of life. We are lent it, and asked to keep it warm.

    The gardener does not create the seed. Yet the gardener’s love helps it become a tree.

    TD: Gibran asks that too —

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

    GyaniNani: And notice he asks it. He does not declare it.

    He is not certain he has anything to give. On the day everyone gathers to call him wise, he is quietly asking whether he ever was.

    That is the difference between a teacher and a guru.

    TD: There is one line I keep returning to.

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

    GyaniNani: That line undoes me a little.

    Because the elders are speaking. And they are telling the young man that he was their light.

    We assume the direction of wisdom. Old to young. Nani to grandchild.

    Gibran reverses it in a single sentence.

    TD: You are supposed to be the Nani here.

    GyaniNani: I know. And most of what I understand, I understood late, and usually because someone younger asked me a question I could not answer.

    Your noontide has fallen on my twilight more than once.

    TD: And the second half of the line?

    GyaniNani: Notice what they do not say.

    They do not say, “You gave us dreams.”

    They say, “You gave us dreams to dream.”

    No one can dream on our behalf. But someone can wake the part of us that is able to dream at all.

    Perhaps the greatest gift we offer another person is not direction.

    It is possibility.

    TD: And then, before asking about love, or children, or work, the people ask him something extraordinary.

    “Disclose us to ourselves.”

    Why that, first?

    GyaniNani: Because they are not asking for answers. They are asking to be seen — and then handed back to themselves.

    That is the whole book, in three words.

    And it is what I hope these eleven conversations become. Not explanations of Gibran.

    Quiet rooms in which we each recognise something we already knew.

    Reflection

    Every departure is an ending and a beginning wearing the same clothes.

    Every birth begins with a letting go.

    Every parent learns, usually the hard way, that love is not possession.

    Every flute is made of holes.

    And every real teacher is a little unsure whether they had anything to give.

    Gibran does not resolve this. He leaves Almustafa standing at the harbour, asking questions.

    So I will not resolve it either.

    The question I am leaving with you:

    What are you calling a garment — that is actually a skin?

    Something you have told yourself you could set down easily. A role. A grief. A version of yourself. A person.

    Answer in one sentence in the comments. Not a paragraph. One sentence is harder, and truer.

    I read every one.

    Until next Friday…

    Conversation II — They Come Through You… Not From You

    Bring the question that has been sitting in you since you first read the chapter on children. That one is going to need all of us.

  • Why The Prophet?

    11 Conversations on parenting, love and letting go

    Inspired by The Prophet by Kahlil Jibran

    A personal Journey

    From a carefree, naive wanderer

    To a lifelong seeker of questions.

    Not because life became easier, but one small book quietly changed the way I looked at the world.

    Walk with us..

    The first conversation begins this friday…

    Welcome to The Prophet Dialogues