You wonder how it is that learned men catch on to the significance of a book. I would suggest that it is not so much the 'learned' (if by that the academic university scholar is meant) as the 'intellectual' man who sees the significance of a book.

Two things seem to be necessary. First, a certain maturity of outlook on life, wherein the questions raised by life are clearly present (i.e. the man is looking, either for an answer to these questions, or, preferably, for a further clarification of the questions themselves). This man will read books not so much 'for the story' (though he may do that by way of relaxation) as for the fresh light that they may throw on his problems. In other words, he will be looking for the significance; and it is likely that he will find it if it is there. Secondly, a community of cultural background with the author of the book is necessary. In these days of widespread dissemination of books, any cultured European can be assumed to have the same general cultural background as any other cultured European. (The most intelligent of Chinamen, brought up solely on the Chinese Classics, would have difficulty in making anything of Kafka.)

It is worth noting that the East (by which I mean India and surrounding countries -- the Far East is already West again) is not naturally intellectual. Practically all present-day intellectualism in Ceylon (for example) is imported (by way of books). In Europe, intellectualism takes precedence over tradition; in the East, it is the reverse. In Dhamma terms, the European has an excess of paññá over saddhá, and he tends to reject what he cannot understand, even if it is true; the Oriental has an excess of saddhá over paññá, which leads him to accept anything ancient, even if it is false. In Ceylon, therefore, an increase of intellectualism (again, I do not mean scholarship) will do no harm. A more intelligent approach to the mass of Pali books, to separate the right from the wrong, is essential if the Sásana is to become alive again. (In this connexion, the Notes attempt to provide an intellectual basis for the understanding of the Suttas, without abandoning saddhá. It was, and is, my attitude towards the Suttas that, if I find anything in them that is against my own view, they are right, and I am wrong.[1] I have no reason to regret having adopted this attitude. Regarding the Commentaries, on the other hand, the boot is on the other leg -- if this does not sound too incongruous.)




[L. 61]   20 August 1963

This morning I finished reading through the carbon copy of the Notes and gave the final touches to the stencils. There is no doubt that the book has benefitted from my having had to type it out again. I have been able to make additions (one long one) and check the entire text for possible inconsistencies. I am particularly pleased that I have not found it necessary to erase anything: I am satisfied that the book does in fact say what I have to say (indeed, I am almost sorry that someone else did not write the book so that I should have the pleasure of reading it for the first time: this is not vanity but an expression of satisfaction that I find myself in agreement with myself). And now you have what you wanted -- all the Notes under one cover. I suggest that the outer cover should be jet black, which gives a very elegant appearance.

I am glad to hear that you are making something of the Kafka. It is really quite in order to interpret him as you feel inclined: there is probably no one single interpretation that is absolutely right to the exclusion of all others.

Camus loses much in translation, but he is still very readable. 'The Renegade' is a warning against trying to demonstrate by personal example that God is Good. The trouble is that it is just as possible to demonstrate by personal example that God is Evil. If God is almighty (and he would not be God if he were not almighty), and Evil exists (which it does), then God is responsible for it. God cannot be both almighty and good. This is perfectly well understood by Kafka, who knows that God is capable of making indecent proposals to virtuous young women: '...is it so monstrous that Sortini, who's so retiring, ...should condescend for once to write in his beautiful official hand a letter, however abominable?' (The Castle, p. 185) What a deliciously explosive sentence!

But what is a virtuous person, who trusts in God, to do when he gets a command from God to commit evil? Followers of the Buddha are spared these frightful decisions, but others are not. Arjuna had some compunctions about joining battle with his kith and kin, but Krishna, or God, in the person of his charioteer, told him to go ahead.[1] And in Christian Europe these dilemmas are the order of the day. European thought cannot be understood until it is realized that every European is asking himself, consciously or unconsciously, whether God exists. Everything hinges on the answer to this question; for the problem of good and evil, and of personal survival of death ('the immortality of the soul'), are one with the problem of God's existence. It is this fact that makes the Buddha's Teaching incomprehensible to the European -- 'How' he asks 'can there be Ethics and Survival of Death if there is no omnipotent God?' The European will passionately affirm God or passionately deny God, but he cannot ignore God. Sir Francis Younghusband, commenting on the fact that there is hardly any reference to an omnipotent God (Issaranimmána, 'Creator God') in the Suttas, attributes the omission to the supposed fact that the Buddha had far too much reverence for God ever to presume to speak of him.[2] What other explanation could there be? The idea of a moral but Godless universe is quite foreign to European thought.




[L. 62]   25 August 1963

You ask whether the cover should be glossy or dull. The answer is that it should be a dull matt black. A glossy cover has a meretricious look and leads the reader to expect that the book will be glossy all the way through, like the American magazines. When he opens the book and finds only dull cyclostyled philosophy instead of glossy blondes he is likely to be disappointed. Besides, a glossy black reminds one of the shiny seat of too-long-worn black serge trousers, an unsightly affliction, common enough in Europe, but in Ceylon confined, I suppose, to the members of the legal profession. The cover should be about as stiff as a playing card.

'The Adulterous Woman' repeats one of Camus's favourite themes: marriage with inanimate Nature, the sea, the sky, the earth. This theme is found in his earliest published essays, which, in fact, are called Noces (nuptials). But here, too, the title (Exile and the Kingdom) is significant. (You will have noticed this theme in the last of the stories, 'The Growing Stone'. D'Arrast, the Frenchman of noble ancestry, is an exile from modern bourgeois France where he has no place, and seeks citizenship in the sweaty kingdom of Iguape.) Camus's conception of man (shared by other existential writers) is that of an exile in search of the kingdom from which he has been expelled (like Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden). But this kingdom does not exist and has never existed (for God does not exist). Man, therefore, ever hopeful, spends his time in a hopeless quest for peace of mind and security from angoisse or anxiety. (A. E. Housman speaks of man as 'alone and afraid in a world he never made'.[1]) Nostalgia, then, is man's natural condition.

So I take this theme of union with Nature as a symbolical attempt at a solution of this insoluble situation. The adulterous woman herself says that 'She wanted to be liberated even if Marcel, even if the others, never were!' (p. 26). Union with Nature ('...the unchanging sky, where life stopped, where no one would ever age or die any more.' [p. 27]) offers itself as a possible solution, even though Camus is aware that it is not a solution ('She knew that this kingdom had been eternally promised her and yet that it would never be hers...' [p. 23]). But I have no doubt that his image had a great deal more significance for Camus, with his strong feeling for landscape, than I have suggested here: indeed, it seems likely that he actually had in his youth some emotional experience, some 'spiritual revelation', on these lines, and that this made a lasting impression on him. But he is too intelligent to be deceived.

His theme in Le Mythe de Sisyphe (quite his best book) is that there is no solution. Man's invincible nostalgia for clarity and reason is opposed by an irrational, unreasonable, world; and from the conjunction of these two the Absurd is born. The Absurd, of course, is simply another name for the essential ambiguity of man's situation in the world; and this ambiguity, this hopeless situation, is lucidly portrayed by Camus in the extract I have made in NIBBÁNA. But in view of the fact that there is no solution (I am not speaking of the Buddhadhamma, of course) what is one to do? 'Face the situation' says Camus 'and do not try to deceive yourself by inventing God -- even an evil God'. You will see at once why Camus is interested in Kafka.

In The Castle, K. is engaged in the hopeless task of getting himself recognized as Land Surveyor by the Authorities in the Castle -- that is, by God. K. is a stranger in the village (an exile), and he is seeking permission to live permanently in the village (which is, of course, the kingdom -- of heaven, if you like). But so long as he is engaged in this hopeless task, he has hope; and Camus maintains (quite rightly, of course) that he is in contradiction with himself. If the situation is hopeless, one has no business to have hope. Camus points out that Amalia, the girl who indignantly rejected God's immoral proposal (the deceitful promise of eternal bliss in heaven, if you like to take it that way -- but God, since he made man in his own image, is presumably capable of being immoral in as many ways as man), is the only character in The Castle who is entirely without hope (she has made herself eternally unworthy of God's grace by refusing to lose her honour -- her intellectual integrity, if you like -- for his sake); and that it is she that K. opposes with the greatest vehemence.

Camus accuses Kafka of deifying The Absurd (which, naturally, produces an Absurd God -- but still God, for all that [or rather, because of that; for if God is comprehensible one can no longer believe in him, one understands him and that is an end of the matter]). The Trial, however, commends itself to Camus as a completely successful portrayal of The Absurd (with which, perhaps, to judge from your recent letters, you might agree). In The Trial, K. is not concerned with hope (he is not seeking anything): he lets his hopeful uncle (who is seeking to preserve the family honour) do the talking with the advocate while he himself goes off to amuse himself with the advocate's girls. In The Castle, on the other hand, K. makes love to the barmaid precisely because she is the mistress of one of the Castle officials and offers the hope of a channel of communication with the Castle. It is the Castle that K. wants, not the girl. In The Trial, K. is simply defending himself against the importunities of an irrational and capricious God, whereas in The Castle he is seeking them. In The Trial K. is defending himself against the charge of existing by disclaiming responsibility (but this is not enough to acquit him): in The Castle, K. is trying to convince the Authorities that he is justified in existing (but the Authorities are hard to convince). In the first, K. denies God; in the second, he affirms God. But in both, K. exists; and his existence is Absurd.

I have just been sent a book from England that might interest you. It is Lord Balfour's A Study of the Psychological Aspects of Mrs Willett's Mediumship, and of the Statement of the Communicators Concerning Process. I do not think that you have any doubts about rebirth, but this book seems to me to be quite exceptionally good evidence for it; and the various philosophical problems discussed (between the living and the dead) are themselves of no little interest. There is, in particular, a disagreement between Balfour (living) and Gurney (dead) about the possibility of there being a split within one and the same person. This disagreement can only be resolved when the distinction between the notion of a person (sakkáya, attá) and that of an individual (puggala) becomes clear. (This distinction, as you will remember, is discussed in the Notes.) Balfour denies that a person, a self, can be split without ipso facto becoming two persons, two selves (i.e. two quite different people): Gurney affirms it. Balfour is wrong for the right reason: Gurney is right for the wrong reason.[2]

If you can find no way of getting the Notes duplicated, why not try the Ministry of Cultural Affairs, who might be sympathetic (provided they do not actually read them)? I must, however, confess to a rooted dislike -- perhaps you share it? -- of seeking the help of Official (particularly Government) Bodies. Whenever anyone addresses me in his official capacity, I am at once filled with a desire to attack the Official Body he represents. I have every sympathy with the Irishman who, on being fined five shillings for Contempt of Court, asked the Magistrate to make it ten shillings; 'Five shillings' he explained 'do not adequately express the Contempt I have for this Court'. I am quite unable to identify myself with any organized body or cause (even if it is a body of opposition or a lost cause). I am a born blackleg. I thoroughly approve of E. M. Forster's declaration, 'If I had to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friend, I hope I should have the guts to betray my country'. For me, there is no doubt that the very small word in the centre of the blank canvas at the end of 'The Artist at Work' is solitaire, not solidaire.




[L. 63]   2 September 1963

I think it is extremely clever of you to have made such satisfactory arrangements for the cyclostyling of the Notes. Saturday the 7th September sounds an auspicious date, and your presence in person will no doubt ensure that the circumstances are entirely favourable. I am sorry that I too cannot be there to see the birth of the book.




[L. 64]   7 September 1963

Feelings of fear and helplessness at times of sickness or danger are very unpleasant, but they can also be very instructive. At such times one may get an almost pure view of bhavatanhá, craving for existence. The fear is not fear of anything in particular (though there may also be that), but rather of ceasing to exist, and the helplessness is an absolute helplessness in the face of impending annihilation. I think that it is very probable that these feelings will put in an appearance at any time that one thinks one is going to die (whether one actually dies or not), and it is perhaps half the battle to be prepared for this sort of thing. Once one knows that such feelings are to be expected one can take the appropriate action quickly when they actually occur, instead of dying in a state of bewilderment and terror.

What is the appropriate action? The answer is, Mindfulness. One cannot prevent these feelings (except by becoming arahat), but one can look them in the face instead of fleeing in panic. Let them come, and try to watch them: once they know themselves to be observed they tend to wither and fade away, and can only reassert themselves when you become heedless and off your guard. But continued mindfulness is not easy, and that is why it is best to try and practise it as much as possible while one is still living. Experiences such as yours are valuable reminders of what one has to expect and of the necessity for rehearsing one's death before one is faced with it.

The passage from the Satipatthána Sutta that you quote gives an example of the existentialist (i.e. reflexive or phenomenological) attitude, but I hesitate before saying how far it is an explicit reference to it. The trouble is that it is not a particularly easy passage to translate. The usual translation, which is different in important respects from the one you have sent me, runs something like this:

'There is the body', thus mindfulness is established in him, to the extent necessary for knowledge and (adequate) mindfulness. And he dwells unattached and clings to nothing in the world.[a] -- M. 10: i,57-8

The whole question of relying on translations of the Suttas is a troublesome one. Some people may disagree with what I have to say about it at the beginning of the Preface to the Notes, and will consider that I am too severe; nevertheless, I stick to it -- I am prepared to argue the point, me Lud. If there have to be translations let them at least be literal and let translators not add things of their own in the attempt to make things easier for the reader -- it doesn't. But sometimes one is misled by the modern editor of texts themselves, when he too definitely fixes the punctuation or fails to give alternative readings. (There is a neat example of this, which you will find in a footnote towards the end of A NOTE ON PATICCASAMUPPÁDA. It is a matter of deciding whether cetam should be c'etam, 'and this', or ce tam, 'if that'. If you choose the first you put a full stop in one place: if you choose the second you must put the full stop in another place. Although it makes no difference to the general meaning of the passage, the second alternative makes the passage read much more smoothly. But the editor has chosen c'etam and has placed his full stop accordingly. If he had left cetam and omitted the full stop altogether he would not have wasted so much of my time.) I sometimes feel that the original texts should be given without any punctuation at all, leaving it to the reader to decide. ('I said that the honourable member was a liar it is true and I am sorry for it.')




[L. 65]   12 September 1963

I am glad that the cyclostyling has been completed. I assume that the result is at least legible (though of course one cannot expect much more than that from cyclostyling). It is good that you have taken the trouble to compare the finished product with the carbon copy and to arrange for the re-doing of what was necessary: attention to such details is essential if the reader is not to have the impression that the book is simply being thrown at him; and a carefully prepared book is itself an invitation to be read.




[L. 66]   21 September 1963

The Ven. Thera's trepidations about the hostile criticism that we may encounter are probably well founded (even with judicious distribution). Naturally, I have always taken this into account, and I should not have decided on having the Notes made public had I been at all unsure of my position. I am quite prepared to meet verbal attacks -- indeed, they might be positively welcome as a distraction from my bodily woes. And if some misguided zealot were to go so far (an unlikely event, I fear) as to decide that my existence is no longer desirable, he would save me a lot of trouble. In any case, since I am not seeking to be a popular figure, the prospect of becoming an unpopular one does not worry me in the least.

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Footnotes:

[64.a] The 'extent necessary' means the extent necessary to attain arahattá. There is no further necessity for the practice of mindfulness after one has attained this. [Back to text]















Editorial notes:

[60.1] 'I am wrong': Cf. M. 70: i,480: 'Monks, a faithful disciple, having scrutinized the Teacher's advice, proceeds in accordance with this: "The Auspicious One is the teacher, I am the disciple. The Auspicious One knows. I do not know."' [Back to text]

[61.1] Arjuna, Krishna: See Bhagavad-Gita, the best-known of Hindu texts. [Back to text]

[61.2] Younghusband: 'He was silent on the Nature of God not from any inadequacy of appreciation, but from excess of reverence.' (from Younghusband's introduction to Woodward's Some Sayings of the Buddha) [Back to text]

[62.1] Housman:

And how am I to face the odds Of man's bedevilments and God's? I, a stranger and afraid In a world I never made.      -- Last Poems, XII

 [Back to text]

[62.2] Balfour; Gurney: On page 269 of the book the Ven. Ñánavíra noted, in the margin: All the muddle of this chapter comes of the puthujjana's failure to distinguish personality from individuality. Personality as 'self' is indivisible. Individuality is as divisible as you please; that is, within the individual. The word individual does not exclude internal divisions; it simply means that you cannot treat these internal divisions as a collection of individuals. 'Individual' is opposed to 'class'.)
And on page 308 there is the marginal note: From a puthujjana's point of view, Balfour's objections are valid -- 'self' cannot be divided into separate 'selves'.... This paradox cannot be resolved in the sphere of the puthujjana. If Gurney is right, that is only because he has, in fact, failed to appreciate Balfour's dilemma.... [Back to text]