“People Ruin Beautiful Things”: On Gibran, Secrecy, and the Sacred Art of Keeping Quiet

“Travel and tell no one, Live a true love story and tell no one, Live happily and tell no one – People ruin beautiful things.”

They say Kahlil Gibran wrote that, and perhaps he did. Then again, the internet says many things: that Einstein married Marilyn Monroe, that Churchill coined every popular meme, and that cats can play the piano. Still, whether or not the above words were penned by Gibran’s actual hand – or merely his ghost – makes little difference to me. The quote feels like him. And in this trivial world of oversharing, that’s good enough.

Let’s start with the man himself. Gibran Khalil Gibran was born in 1883 in Bsharri, a mountainous village in Ottoman-controlled Lebanon, and later emigrated with his mother and siblings to Boston’s South End. A painter, poet, and philosopher, he moved fluidly between Arabic and English, East and West, mysticism and modernity. His most famous work, The Prophet (1923), has the sort of quiet grandeur that makes one want to sit cross-legged on a sunlit rock and listen to the wind for answers. It has sold over 10 million copies and has been translated into over 100 languages – making it the go-to text for spiritual seekers, stoned undergraduates, and at least one yoga instructor who once whispered Gibran’s verses at my spine during downward dog. Uninvited.

Gibran wrote as if he was dictating from the summit of Mount Sinai, but with better cheekbones. There’s something oracular about him, yet deeply human, too – like a cross between Isaiah and Leonard Cohen. His voice moves between exaltation and resignation, always advocating for the inward life. “Half of what I say is meaningless,” he once admitted, “but I say it so that the other half may reach you.” A marvellous excuse I plan to adopt at all future dinner parties.

Which brings me to this particular quote. Whether Gibran said it or not, I felt it the first time I read it. Like a slap with a silken glove. “Travel and tell no one…” Imagine that! In an age where every pilgrimage – from Machu Picchu to Morrison’s car park – is photographed, filtered, and festooned with hashtags, the idea of keeping something lovely to oneself feels not just quaint, but radical.

This is, after all, the age of curated revelation. Instagram stories give us “candid” photos that take half an hour and three apps to manufacture. Love is publicly performed with the desperation of a reality show finale. Babies get Facebook pages before they get teeth. And don’t even get me started on engagement announcements. If I see one more couple clasping hands over a ring while staring off into the blurred middle distance like they’ve just heard God humming through a cappuccino machine, I shall gouge my eyes out with the nearest novelty spoon.

But Gibran – or this anonymous prophet in his likeness – suggests another way. A quieter one. One where beauty is not displayed but guarded. Where joy is not reported but inhabited. Where love is not declared to the masses, but whispered in the kitchen over tea and toast. That’s real intimacy. Not performative, but private. Not filtered, but faithful.

It’s a philosophy not unlike the one offered in the Gospel of Matthew: “When thou prayest, enter into thy closet…” (6:6). The sacred should be cloaked, not clapped at. And the same goes for happiness. There is a kind of profanity in turning a love story into a highlight reel, a pilgrimage into a photo op, or a moment of peace into a ‘relatable’ meme. Gibran understood that the moment we try to show something sacred, we risk destroying it.

There’s also something deeply psychological in the notion. Anyone who’s ever shared good news too quickly knows this. The moment you tell someone about your raise, your trip, your new romance – watch how their eyes twitch. The most insidious emotion isn’t hatred or anger. It’s envy. People don’t always mean to ruin beautiful things. But insecurity is a hungry dog. And it barks loudest when it smells joy on someone else’s coat.

I’ve learned this the hard way. There are certain people I love, whose company I crave, whose opinion I respect – who simply cannot bear my happiness. They’ll smile, but the air curdles. A passive-aggressive comment here, a withering “must be nice” there. And just like that, the moment is spoiled. The cake is frosted with contempt. The wine sours.

The ancients had a word for this: the evil eye. The belief that too much admiration – or too much exposure – could bring ruin. Even today, many cultures have charms to deflect it. Blue glass amulets. Spit. Salt. In my case: silence.

So yes, I travel and tell no one. I live quietly and love deeply, and if joy visits me, I shut the door and draw the blinds. It’s not secrecy. It’s stewardship. I tend to beauty like a fire in a draughty room. Too much air, and it’s out. But left alone, it glows.

Of course, this isn’t always possible. Sometimes joy spills out. Sometimes you want to show someone your garden, your dog, your dazzling beloved. And that’s okay. But let it be the right someone. The one who smiles with their whole face, not just their mouth. The one who doesn’t need a photo to prove it happened.

In the end, Gibran (or his internet impersonator) gives us a simple but subversive truth: not all beauty is meant to be shared. Some of it – perhaps the best of it – is meant to be lived, quietly, joyfully, and without applause.

So travel. Fall in love. Be happy.

And tell no one.