As you probably know, I have been suffering, for many years, from the effects of chronic amoebiasis. But what perhaps you do not know is that last June I developed a complication of a nervous nature. This nervous disorder is particularly disagreeable for a bhikkhu, and involves the practice of a restraint that is not required of laymen. These disorders not only make my life uncomfortable, but also (which is of far greater consequence) leave me with little hope of making any further progress in the Buddhasásana in this life. This being the situation, I decided upon suicide; and I did in fact, several months ago, make an attempt (which failed only because the method chosen was inadequate). My doctor is fully informed both of my bodily disorders and of my intentions, and he has done and continues to do what he can to ease the situation. However, my condition does not improve, and I am still of the same mind.

As regards Vinaya and Dhamma I am well aware of the situation and do not need to seek the advice of others. Suicide, though a fault, is not (contrary to a widespread opinion) a grave offence in Vinaya (it is a dukkata);[1] and as regards Dhamma I know better than anyone else how I am placed. Taking all these matters into consideration I do not find, at least as far as my own personal situation is concerned, any very strong reason (though I regret the dukkata) to restrain me from taking my life (naturally, I am speaking only of my own case -- for others there may be, and most probably are, very grave objections of one kind or another to suicide). My condition and my state of mind vary from time to time; and whereas on some days I may think weeks or possibly even months ahead, on others it is painful and distasteful to me to think even a few days ahead.

There remains, of course, the practical difficulty of actually killing oneself (having already tried once, I am aware that it is not very easy), but with sufficient determination it should not prove altogether impossible.

All this is purely for your information, and no action on your part is called for (except that I would ask you to treat the matter as confidential). But the reason that I am telling you this is that, as I gather from your letters, you seem to be of the opinion that I have managed to gain some understanding of the Buddha's Teaching, and that you wish to profit by it. Since this appears to be your view, I feel that I should warn you that time may be short. Although no fixed term to my life is decided upon, the situation remains precarious, and I cannot give any assurance that I shall not end my life without further warning. If, then, you have questions to ask, or any matters to discuss, I would advise you not to delay. Do not hesitate, thinking perhaps that you may be disturbing me. If I should find there is disturbance, nothing obliges me to reply to your letters, and I can easily ask you to stop writing.

I am quite well aware, of course, that in philosophical matters one's questions do not all arise at once, but that very often the settling of one question gives rise to another, and when that is settled still further questions may arise; and also, one's ideas take time to mature. But this cannot be helped -- questions that have not yet arisen cannot, obviously, be asked. All that I wish to say is that when you do have questions that seem important it might be well not to postpone asking them.

Now that I have said so much, it is possible that you may appreciate something of the perverse complexities of the situation in which I find myself. Not the least of the peculiarities of my situation is the fact that, for one reason or another, there is nobody that I know of who is in a position to give me advice. This means that I have to rely entirely on my own judgement in whatever decisions I may take -- whether it is a question, for example, of determining what I (or others) stand to lose by my killing myself, or a question, for another example, of the advisability of writing this letter to you.

In this last connection, something more should perhaps be said. On the one hand, I do not know you very well, and there is always a risk of misunderstanding in being too open with comparative strangers. On the other hand, it is absolutely necessary in the present circumstances that I find someone with more than average intelligence and saddhá with whom to entrust certain matters -- specifically, the Notes on Dhamma. I do not know of anyone in Ceylon who, simply upon reading them, would see whether or not the Notes are correct (I am not speaking so much of the note on fundamental structure); nevertheless it seems to me that you are one of the possibly very few who might suspect that they are in fact correct (whether or not they are adequate is quite another matter). Since, then, I do not think that I should quickly find a more suitable (or more interested) person than yourself, I feel that it is advisable not to keep you in ignorance of the fact that I shall very possibly take my own life.

With reference to my last letter, there are one or two points that perhaps need further clarification. I think that I said that whenever I am faced with a real chair I am also presented simultaneously with various images, implicit or explicit, of myself or others sitting on such things as I now see. The explicit images, I said, are what we call 'memories', and I now wish to add that the implicit images are more or less what we call 'instincts'. Thus, if I am tired and I see a chair, I may not have a specific memory of sitting on one on previous occasions, but I shall simply have an instinct to go and sit on it. This, though it is conscious (in the sense referred to in the letter on satisampajañña) does not reach the level of awareness -- I am conscious of my instincts but usually (unless I perform a deliberate act of reflexion, which is a practice to be encouraged) not aware of them (they are on the level of immediacy).

Possibly the word 'image' may not be clear to you. An image need not be visual -- it might be verbal (as when some set of words, a formula for example, runs through our mind), or tactile (we can imagine the experience of stroking a cat without actually visualizing a cat), or gustatory (we can imagine the taste of castor oil, perhaps even to the point of actual nausea) and so on. A thought or an idea is an image (or a succession of them), and you can often use one of these words in place of 'image' if you prefer (though 'image' is really more satisfactory, since there are immediate images ['instincts', for example] that do not reach the reflexive status of thoughts or ideas).

In my opinion it is a matter of considerable importance to see the universal presence of the negative. It is not a very easy thing to do (since it requires one to break with habitual ways of thinking), but once it is done one has quite a different way of looking at things generally -- at the world -- to the slovenly positivistic view that most people normally have, and that modern scientific methods of education do so much to encourage. Without seeing the negative it is impossible to understand what is meant by 'The essence of man is to be in a situation' (see Preface and also Blackham, passim). And yet, even when this negative view has been achieved, there is still a start to be made on the Buddha's Teaching.




[L. 46]   2 May 1963

In the list of queries that you sent me about a month ago, there occurs the following passage: '...I try to get my existence by identifying myself with being a waiter. I fear to separate, or fear that I would get lost. The waiter gives me an identity, a position. So it helps me to exist. "No one wants to be an individual human being" through fear that he "would vanish tracelessly."'

I was puzzled by this passage, since I took the second part ('No one wants...') as a continuation of the first part, which is obviously dealing with Sartre's waiter (and which I hope to have explained -- perhaps not adequately -- in my long reply to you). But I did not recall that Sartre has said anywhere that nobody wants to be an individual human being through fear of vanishing tracelessly.

I now find, however, that it is a quotation from Kierkegaard.[1] What Kierkegaard is saying is that the spirit of the age (the Nineteenth Century) is such that men have become too cowardly to look facts in the face and to accept the burden and responsibility of living as individual human beings. (Like a judge who disowns all responsibility for passing sentence on a prisoner, saying that it is the Judiciary, not he, that is responsible.[2]) People (says Kierkegaard) are now afraid that if they let go of the collective or universal safeguards by which they are assured of an identity (membership of a professional association, of a political party, of the world-historical-process, etc.) they would altogether cease to exist. (Things, apparently, were bad enough in K.'s day, but the Twentieth Century is a thousand times worse. The most glaring example in modern times is the Communist Party; and in Communist countries if you do not have a Party Membership Card you are counted as nothing.)

This passage, then, about the fear of vanishing tracelessly, has no connexion with Sartre's waiter. A man can be a waiter and also an individual human being: what he can not be is a member of the Communist Party (or in K.'s day, a Hegelian philosopher -- and it is well known how much Marx borrowed from Hegel) while still remaining an individual human being. In the first case there is no contradiction; in the second case there is a contradiction (a communist -- like the judge who regards himself purely as an anonymous member of the Judiciary -- is inauthentic [in Heidegger's terms] or in bad faith [in Sartre's terms]). The fact that Sartre himself became a member of the C.P. for a certain time is one of the minor comedies of the last few years.




[L. 47]   4 May 1963

Thank you for your three letters of 1st., 1st., and 2nd., respectively. There does not seem to be anything in the first two calling for immediate comment (unless my letter of 28 April ranks as one of Huxley's 'marsupials of the mind' or one of the Ven. Ñánamoli Thera's 'midnight horrors'). So I shall reply only to your last kindly and distressed letter (hoping that the initial shock has worn off and that you have recovered some of your normal composure).

What I told you in my letter of the 28th about my ill health and suicidal intentions was 'for information only'. If it were not for the fact that you are at present engaged in having the Notes printed I should have kept quiet. In other words, I thought I ought to give you the opportunity of changing your mind (if you wished to do so) before you were committed in an enterprise that you might later regret -- that is, in the event of my suicide. I wish to emphasize this fact, and to assure you that the risk still remains unchanged.

About all the various points that you raise, you will perhaps excuse me for not replying in detail. During the past year, naturally enough, I have had time to consider the situation from many angles, and the points that you have brought to my attention have not escaped me. But my situation is considerably more complex (and also more simple) than I think you are aware of, and there are certain aspects of it that I am not in a position to discuss with you.[1] This means that if we do attempt to discuss the situation (apart from such things as the purely medical aspect) with one another, we are almost certain to be at cross purposes, and it is for this reason that I do not wish to say more than I have said above, and would ask you to consider this as being the only point at issue.

Regarding the question of a bhikkhu's suicide, the view that it is better for him to disrobe rather than kill himself when he finds he can make no further progress is -- if you will forgive me for saying so -- a layman's view. There was at least one bhikkhu in the Buddha's day -- the Ven. Channa Thera -- who (in spite of what the Commentary says) killed himself as an arahat owing to incurable sickness; and there are many other examples in the Suttas of bhikkhus who -- as ariyapuggalas -- took their own life (and some became arahat in doing so -- Ven. Godhika Thera, Ven. Vakkali Thera, for example).[2] One (who became arahat), the Ven. Sappadása Thera, could not get rid of lustful thoughts for twenty-five years, and took his razor to cut his throat, saying

sattham vá áharissámi, ko attho jívitena me
katham hi sikkham paccakkham kálam kubbetha mádiso  (Thag. 407)

I shall use the knife -- what use is this life to me?
How can one such as I meet his death having put aside the training (i.e. disrobed)?

There is in my present situation (since the nervous disorder that I have had for the past year consists of an abnormal, persistent, sometimes fairly acute, erotic stimulation) a particularly strong temptation to return to the state of a layman; and I have not the slightest intention of giving in to it. This erotic stimulation can be overcome by successful samatha practice (mental concentration), but my chronic amoebiasis makes this particularly difficult for me. So for me it is simply a question of how long I can stand the strain. (I do not think you would think the better of me for disrobing under these conditions.)

I must thank you most sincerely for the offers of material help -- visits to specialists, change of environment, and so on -- and these we can discuss later. But here again there are complexities. For example, I am best able to deal with the situation described above in a dry climate and living alone (and I have found no better place than Bundala); so a change of environment will almost certainly be a change for the worse. And Dr. de Silva has already consulted specialists on my behalf, and the drugs prescribed are of some help. I may say that, though I am usually uncomfortable, I am certainly not in any kind of pain, and I am not in the least worried about my situation -- worry I leave to other people (my doctor, I think, was worried to begin with, but he seems to be getting over it quite nicely; and now perhaps you are worried).

Because Bundala suits me better than anywhere else I am not anxious to leave here even for a few days. If, however, you are going ahead with the Notes and they reach the proof stage, it may be advisable for me to come for two or three days to see the printer personally. In the meantime, since I have a certain interest in seeing that the printing is properly done, it is perhaps unlikely that I shall attempt to abolish myself. But please do not be too disappointed if you find that I meet your constructive suggestions for improving matters with evasive answers -- after all, neither this letter nor that of the 28th is, properly speaking, an appeal for help (though I am nonetheless appreciative of the offers of help so readily made).




[L. 48]   15 May 1963

About Huxley's strange creatures of the mind, and the late Ven. Ñánamoli Thera's monsters and hostile systems. Though few such experiences have come my way, I have no doubt at all that these curious (and perhaps terrifying) things are to be met with in certain mental circumstances. That weird and fantastic creatures do actually exist, though normally invisible to us, we may gather from the reports (in the Suttas, for example; see the Lakkhana Samy.: S. ii,254-62) of people who have practised meditation and developed the dibbacakkhu or 'divine eye'. (I am occasionally asked by visitors whether in my meditations I have 'had any experiences' -- quite an improper question to put to a bhikkhu -- and by this they usually mean 'have I seen any devá or other unusual objects?' Fortunately I am able to assure them that I have not seen any at all, not a single one.)

But all these various creatures, whether they exist in their own right -- i.e. are independently conscious -- or not (and this distinction is not always easy to make simply by looking at them), are of interest only to the lover of variety, to the collector of strange objects. To suppose, as Huxley does (and it is this fidelity of his to the scientific method that condemns him never to be more than a second-rate thinker), that by collecting and examining the various objects of the mind one can learn something essential about the nature of mind is much the same as supposing that one can learn something about the structure of the telescope by making a list of the great variety of objects one can see through it. The phenomenological method (of existential thinkers) is not in the least concerned with the peculiarities (however peculiar they may be) of the individual specimen; what it is concerned with is the universal nature of experience as such.

Thus, if a phenomenologist sees a duck-billed platypus, he does not exclaim with rapture 'What a strange creature! What a magnificent addition to the sum of human knowledge (and also to my collection of stuffed curiosities)!'; he says, instead, 'This is an example of a living being', thus putting the platypus with all its duck-billed peculiarities 'in brackets' and considering only the universal characteristics of his experience of the platypus. But a dog would have done just as well; for a dog, too, is 'an example of a living being'; and besides, there is no need to go all the way to Australia to see one. The phenomenologist does not seek variety, he seeks repetition -- repetition, that is to say, of experience (what it is experience of does not interest him in the least), so that he may eventually come to understand the nature of experience (for experience and existence are one and the same). And this is just as true of imaginary (mental) experience as of real experience. The Ven. Sáriputta Thera, for all his proficiency in the practice of jhána, had not developed the dibbacakkhu (Thag. 996). And even so he was the leading disciple of the Buddha, and the foremost in paññá, or understanding. After the Buddha himself there was nobody who understood the Dhamma as well as he -- and yet, on his own admission, he was unable to see 'even a goblin' (Udána IV,4: Ud. 40). Evidently, then, the seeing of strange creatures, in normal or abnormal states of mind, does not advance one in wisdom.

When one is dead one is at the mercy of one's publishers (a strong argument for staying alive!), and I do not know how many of the late Ven. Ñánamoli Thera's essays (in the BPS booklet[1]) he would have wanted to appear in print. Naturally, I was aware of many of his views, since we used to exchange lengthy letters; but that was at a time when my own views were still unsettled. On reading these essays now, I see much that is quite unacceptable -- but alas! he is no longer here for me to dispute the matter with. He was, in my opinion (and perhaps also his own), a better poet than prose writer; nevertheless he manages to infuse a certain sympathetic personal (and somewhat ambiguous) atmosphere into many of his passages.[2] I would suggest a certain caution in reading these essays with too great a thirst for philosophical enlightenment -- you might find yourself led into one of the blind alleys of thought from which the author himself is unable to show the way out (the last essay in particular is dangerous ground -- so also pp. 27-30) --, though from other aspects, perhaps, you may well derive enjoyment.

Next section

Back to Clearing the Path - Contents

Back to Ñánavíra Thera Dhamma Page

Editorial notes:

[45.1] dukkata: In the Vinaya, or monastic Code, offences are grouped according to seriousness, the most serious being párájika, involving expulsion from the Order (cf. L. 56) and sanghádisesa, involving confession and temporary suspension of certain privileges. Dukkata (lit. 'wrongly done') is the least offence except for dubbaca ('wrongly said'). [Back to text]

[46.1] Kierkegaard: CUP, p. 317, quoted in 6ET, p. 13. [Back to text]

[46.2] Judge: The point seems to have interested the Ven. Ñánavíra greatly. He had already made lengthy remarks on the subject to Dr. de Silva (see editorial notes, L. 9, vii, h) and he makes the point again at L. 53, footnote e. [Back to text]

[47.1] not in a position: Again, the reference is to the author's attainment of sotápatti (L. 1), for it is an offence requiring confession to announce such an attainment to another who is not himself a bhikkhu (if, that is, the claim is true: if it is made knowing it to be false the offence is that of párájika -- see note for L. 45). [Back to text]

[47.2] suicide: Ven. Channa Thera: M. 144: iii,263-66 and Saláyatana Samy. 87: iv,55-60; Ven. Godhika Thera: Mára Samy. 23: i,121-22; Ven. Vakkali Thera: Khandha Samy. 87: iii,119-24. [Back to text]

[48.1] BPS booklet: 'Pathways of Buddhist Thought' (Wheel 52/53) [Back to text]

[48.2] ambiguous: In their correspondence, lasting from 1954 to 1960, the Ven. Ñánamoli repeatedly returned to the theme of the ambiguity of experience. [Back to text]