Gibreel saw a man behind his closed eyes: not Faiz, but another poet, well past his heyday, a decrepit sort of fellow. -- Yes, that was his name: Baal. What was he doing here? What did he have to say for himself? -- Because he was certainly trying to say something; his speech, thick and slurry, made understanding difficult . . . _Any new idea, Mahound, is asked two questions. The first is asked when it's weak: WHA T KIND OF AN IDEA ARE YOU? Are you the kind that compromises, does deals, accommodates itself to society, aims to find a niche, to survive; or are you the cussed, bloody-minded, ramrod-backed type of damnfool notion that would rather break than sway with the breeze? -- The kind that will almost certainly, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, be smashed to bits; but, the hundredth time, will change the world.
"What's the second question?" Gibreel asked aloud.
Answer the first one first.