I expect that the medicines will provide relief, at least for the time being. The misery of existence is that things are only temporary. If only we could, say, take a single dose of a drug that would ensure us an unlimited and unfailing supply of libido (with, of course, appropriate means of gratifying it) for all eternity, we should be happy. (The Muslims, I believe, are told that in Paradise a single embrace lasts for a thousand years. This is clearly an improvement on our terrestrial arrangements, but it is not the answer. A thousand years, eventually, come to an end. And then what?) Or again, if by a single dose of some other drug we could be absolutely cured of libido for all eternity (which is, in fact, nibbána or extinction), then too we should be happy. But no. We have libido when we cannot satisfy it (when, of course, we should be better off without it[a]), and when we want it it fails.[b] Then comes death, painfully, and the comedy begins again.

I am sure that you are already well aware that the problems confronting me at the present time arise from my past amoebiasis and not from this more recent complaint of satyriasis (which has only aggravated the situation). The ravages of amoebiasis play havoc with the practice of mental concentration, and if I cannot practise mental concentration I have no further use for this life. The idea of suicide first occurred to me nearly two years ago, and since then I have watched it becoming more definite and more frequent. Against this background it was more or less inevitable that my present complaint, when it appeared, should offer itself as a suitable occasion and excuse for putting the idea of suicide into practice. Although I wrote to you in my last letter that I was oscillating between the extremes of disrobing and suicide, there is no doubt at all (barring accidents) which I should choose. For me at least, the more intelligent of these two courses of action is suicide; a return to lay life would be pure weakness, and in any case I should be miserable. (How should I get my living? I should have to marry a rich and no doubt hideous widow in order to keep going. Quite unthinkable. Or perhaps I should take up with some lady of easy virtue who would earn enough to support us both. But I believe that this sort of arrangement is not considered very respectable.)

But how is one to kill oneself? Early last month I did in fact attempt it, but failed through a miscalculation. I had read that two elderly ladies in England had succeeded in asphyxiating themselves, and I thought to myself that what two old ladies can do I can do. Rash assumption! These old ladies are much tougher than our masculine pride is willing to admit, and I have to give them full credit for accomplishing a very difficult feat. I found it quite impossible, when the lack of oxygen began to make itself felt, to resist the impulse to get fresh air. One lives and learns (a particularly suitable motto for the unsuccessful suicide, don't you think?). Perhaps it needs practice to reach the critical point -- one more breath each day, until finally one is able to arrive at unconsciousness. In any case, I do not feel tempted to try this again.

What about the knife? In theory this seems quick and simple, provided one slices in the right place and does not try sawing through the windpipe. But in practice it is extremely difficult to cut one's throat in cold blood (even if there is hot blood to follow). It needs desperation, or at least a strong sense of urgency (or a course of reserpine perhaps?) to screw one up to the necessary pitch. The thought of living even one more day has to be intolerable. I tried this about ten days ago, but even if I had not been interrupted by a heavy thunderstorm, which flooded the place and brought me back to ground level, it is very doubtful whether I should have gone through with it. My attitude is far too reflexive, and the necessary sense of urgency and despair is lacking.[c]

Poison? Expert knowledge is wanted here; otherwise one may easily make things very unpleasant for oneself without producing the desired effect. Hysterical women drink oxalic acid to revenge themselves on their callous lovers by the spectacle of their agony, but this is obviously not my cup of tea. Besides, how is a bhikkhu to obtain a suitable poison? Eyebrows may be raised if he asks a dáyaka for, say, a small bottle of iodine, twenty soda-mint tablets, and a quarter-ounce of potassium cyanide. And certain types of poison are unsuitable. It is best to die mindful and aware, and overdoses of opiates, hypnotics, or anaesthetics are therefore to be avoided.

Hanging seems to be unnecessarily painful unless done skilfully; and this district has no suitable precipices for throwing oneself over. A surprising number of bhikkhus seem to possess pistols these days, but I am not one of them, so shooting is out. I can swim, so drowning is difficult. To be decapitated by a train I should need to go to Matara; and pouring kerosene oil over one's clothes and setting oneself alight, though certainly spectacular (especially at night), must be a frightful experience (but I believe it is sometimes done).[2]

There remains a form of suicide that one hears surprisingly little about -- starvation. Why is this? Is it not perhaps because, as Albert Camus remarks,[3] one rarely commits suicide as a result of reflexion? Most suicides mature unawares in the innermost recesses of a man's being, until one day the crisis is precipitated by some trivial occurrence and the man ends his life with a sudden gesture. He may shoot or plunge, but he will hardly think of starving to death.

Those, on the other hand, whose decision to kill themselves is not emotional but deliberate, those that is to say who wish to kill themselves (or at least give that impression) for some particular reason, nearly always favour starvation. Here you find, for example, the hunger-striker who aims at political or other ends, the 'faster unto death' who is protesting against some injury, real or imagined, personal or public. But these people are usually not called 'suicides', partly, perhaps, because they rarely go the whole way, but principally, I fancy, because the term 'suicide' has emotional overtones associated with the act of killing oneself for no better reason than that one has had enough of this life.

Such a gesture threatens to undermine the precarious security of Society, which is based on the convention that 'life is worth living'. Suicide puts in question this unquestionable axiom, and Society inevitably regards it with fear and suspicion as an act of treachery.[d] If the victim should fail in his attempt, Society takes its revenge upon his temerity by putting him in prison (where, presumably, he is expected to learn that, actually, life really is worth living). Those, on the other hand, who can show good reason for ending their lives (the man, for example, with a political grievance) do not by their act put this convention in question, and they are therefore regarded as safe and perfectly respectable. Thus they escape the opprobrious name. Starvation and suicide, then, are rarely associated with each other.

From my point of view, however, I see that they might well be associated. I shall not stop here to discuss suicide in the light of the Dhamma, except to remark that though it is never encouraged it is not the heinous offense it is sometimes popularly thought to be, and that the consequences of the act will vary according to circumstances -- for the puthujjana they can be disastrous, but for the arahat (the Venerable Channa Thera -- S. XXXV,87: iv,55-60 -- for example) they are nil. I want, rather, to consider the evident advantages that starvation can offer to someone who decides upon suicide as a result of reflexion.

(i) One's action is less likely to be misconstrued as the effect of a sudden mental aberration. Though this may be a matter of unimportance for oneself, it may not be so for other people. In certain cases it can be of importance to understand why a person chose to kill himself.

(ii) One has ample time (a fortnight? a month? or longer?) in which to reconsider one's decision and reverse it if necessary.

(iii) I have heard it said that in starvation the first thing to disappear is the sexual urge. If true, this has obvious advantages for me in my present condition, since a death accompanied by sensual desire is most unfortunate.

(iv) Since the principal obstacle, in my case, to mental concentration is the discomfort and malaise resulting from the ingestion of food, it seems possible that mental concentration might actually benefit from starvation.

(v) One has the opportunity for contemplating the approach of death at one's leisure, and for ridding oneself of any remaining worries or concerns connected with this life.

(vi) One can watch the progressive emaciation of one's body. This is asubhasaññá, wherein the body appears as an object of disgust.

(vii) One can directly observe the dependence of the body on food. This is idappaccayatá, which leads to aniccasaññá or perception of impermanence.

(viii) It is said that in starvation the mind becomes progressively clearer (though more dissociated) as the body gets weaker.

(ix) Starvation seems to offer a good chance for a conscious and lucid death, which is most desirable.

(x) The discomforts of starvation, though no doubt unpleasant, are apparently quite endurable (that is, if one can judge from the astonishingly large number of people who undertake voluntary fasts for trivial reasons). I imagine it is more uncomfortable to starve slowly on inadequate food than to do without food altogether. Without food one might even forget about it, but not with regular small reminders of its existence.

(xi) I imagine that, as deaths go, death by starvation is not excessively painful. Presumably the body gets progressively more feeble, but no one particular organ tends to give out before the others. I am not well informed on this matter, and should welcome enlightenment.

The great disadvantage of suicide by starvation is that it is not the sort of thing (unless one knows of a solitary cave with a good water supply) that one can do on the sly. Questions are bound to be asked. Public opinion will have to be flouted. Perhaps the best course is to announce one's intention beforehand and be prepared to put up with visits from kindly people, perhaps more well meaning than well informed, who come to save one from one's own rash folly. If they get too importunate one can always indulge the malicious pleasure of asking them if they are coming to the funeral.

And do I actually propose to do this? Nietzsche once said, 'The thought of suicide gets one through many a bad night.'[4] This is quite true; but one cannot think suicide in this way unless one regards it as a course of action that one might actually adopt. And when I consider my present situation I am forced to admit that I do intend to adopt it (though I cannot say when): my present horizon is bounded by this idea. Even if the sexual trouble settles (which it does not seem to be in any hurry about), there remains the digestive disorder (which, of course, won't improve). It is this latter complaint that raises the problem; the other only makes it more pressing.

I think I once told you that I had always been extraordinarily fortunate in my life with the things that had happened to me. Perhaps you might think that I now need to revise this view. But that is not so. Although, certainly, this recent complaint has no redeeming feature, and may perhaps push me to my death, it is actually an affair of relatively minor importance and inspires me more with disgust than with despair. And whether my life ends now or later is also, ultimately, a matter of indifference to me.

P.S. There is no need at all to answer this letter (unless you wish). Its purpose is already achieved. Writing of suicide has got me through several bad days.




[L. 21]   4 January 1963

I am really most grateful to you for your sympathetic letter. Certainly, I should not have written as I did had I thought that you were one of those unintelligent people whose well-meant advice is more likely to drive one to suicide than to save one from it. Doctors, of course, cannot afford to be shocked professionally at the strange antics of their patients, but they can sometimes be remarkably bigoted in private. I know, however, that you yourself have your own difficulties to contend with, and are not likely to be in a hurry to sit in judgement on other people; and it is for this reason that I did not write to you solely in your capacity as a doctor. I am also grateful to you for not at once attributing my 'morbid fancies' -- some of which, after all, were added as literary embellishment -- to a convenient abstract clinical entity.

It is curious, is it not, that whereas, since Freud, the most extravagant fancies in the realm of love are considered to be perfectly normal (a person without them is regarded as a case for treatment), in the realm of death (the other great pole of human life) any strange fancies are still classed as 'morbid'. The Suttas reverse the situation: sensual thoughts are the thoughts of a sick man (sick with ignorance and craving), and the way to health is through thoughts of foulness and the diseases of the body, and of its death and decomposition. And not in an abstract scientific fashion either -- one sees or imagines a rotting corpse, for example, and then pictures one's very own body in such a state.

Our contemporaries are more squeamish. A few years ago a practising Harley Street psychiatrist, who was dabbling in Buddhism, came to see me. I opened the conversation by saying 'At some time in his life, every intelligent man questions himself about the purpose of his existence.' Immediately, and with the most manifest disapproval, the psychiatrist replied 'Anybody who thinks such thoughts is mentally diseased.' Thus with a single gesture, he swept half-a-dozen major philosophers (some of whom have held chairs in universities -- which guarantees their respectability if not their philosophy) into the lunatic asylum -- the criminal lunatic asylum, to judge from his tone. I have never seen a man in such a funk. But this is a digression.

No, I have not discussed the matter with anyone else. As far as Dhamma goes, I am quite well aware of the situation: I know that to kill oneself is an act of weakness, but also that, for me, it is better than disrobing; and I know what I risk and what I do not risk by such an act. I do not know of anyone who can add anything to this. As regards discussing it with a friend, not only do I have nobody by whom I can possibly make myself understood (and misunderstanding, in a case like this, has the effect of isolating one still more completely[a]) but, precisely, I do not feel the need to make myself understood (I am one of those people who think of other people as 'they', not as 'we'[1]).

If, in fact, I now appear to be trying to make myself understood, that is to be seen as a measure of self-defence rather than as an appeal for help (I do not speak, of course, of the medical aspect, where help is always welcome). To be more explicit: it is possible that you may understand this; and if so you may be able to translate it into terms that would be acceptable to other people who would certainly not understand me directly. (It is precisely the attempt to understand directly that creates the misunderstanding: you will have noticed that my last letter was not really a direct communication to you at all, but rather a discussion of my situation with myself, which I wrote down and posted to you. No wonder you found it difficult to reply!) You will see, then, that far from feeling the need to discuss the matter with somebody else (in a direct manner, in any case) I am actually seeking to put a buffer (in this case, your good self) between myself and other people, so that if it should come to the point I may in some measure be spared the exhausting task of explaining the unexplainable. (Naturally, I am not doing this as a matter of deliberate policy; but now that you have raised the question I see that it is so.) There are times when the idea of ceasing to take food from tomorrow onwards seems to be the most natural thing in the world (if food upsets one, why go on taking it?), and it is the thought that if I do I shall inevitably be asked to explain myself that makes me pause.

What, now, of the future? My present attitude is quite unchanged since my last letter, and I continue to live from day to day by force of habit, with Nietzsche's brinkmanship formula to help over the rough patches. How long this will go on I have no idea. I have long since abandoned all hope of an improvement in my amoebic condition; which means that I do not despair when it does not improve. But it also seems that I no longer have any very pressing reason for living. This makes the question of my death a matter of comparative indifference, and the prospect does not cause me great concern. I do not feel that discussion with other people will alter this.

But absence of a reason for living is not necessarily a reason for dying (though the visiting psychiatrist was assuming the contrary, hence his panic at the suggestion that the purpose of life might be questionable). Absence of a reason for living simply makes the decision to die easier. The reason for ending one's life is the discomfort and difficulty of one's situation, and this is why any medical help that can be given is welcome. It is perhaps possible that my secondary complaint might improve in the course of time, and the situation would then become easier. Well and good if it does. On the other hand, I might get re-infected with amoebiasis; and this possibility raises a question. If this should happen, would it be possible to treat the infection without again provoking the erotic stimulation? Can you answer this question for me? If the answer is negative, it at once becomes evident that I cannot afford to get the infection again; for I should have to choose between erotic stimulation and untreated amoebiasis, either of which would almost certainly upset the apple cart. And the question of avoiding re-infection raises further problems.

I am glad you have managed to find time to visit the Hermitage for a few days. You will be able to get instructions on how to develop maranasati or mindfulness of death (unscientifically, of course).

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Footnotes:

[20.a] But na kho pan'etam iccháya pattabbam -- that is not obtained simply by wishing.[1] <D. 22: ii,307; M. 141: iii,250> [Back to text]

[20.b] I never had it like this when I was a layman, when I could gladly have used it; and now, when I do have it, I have come to see that it is a treacherous and lethal possession, and that I use it at my peril. [Back to text]

[20.c] During those attempts a disagreeable feeling in the belly (more exactly, the accentuation of my normal discomfort) made itself felt, no doubt due to the nervous strain. Also, on one occasion, slight incontinence of urine, which I remember having had once before: at school, whilst waiting my turn to go on the stage and sing. School is hell. [Back to text]

[20.d] It is customary, in England at least, for Coroners' courts to give the verdict 'Suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed'. This insult automatically puts the victim in the wrong and reassures Society that all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds. Have you ever noticed that Socialist governments have a particular horror of the individual's suicide? It is a direct criticism of their basic tenets. [Back to text]

[21.a] It is extraordinarily depressing to be accredited with all sorts of motives -- resentment, remorse, grief ('a secret sorrow'), despair, and so on -- that are totally absent. [Back to text]















Editorial notes:

[20.1] simply by wishing: See L. 131. [Back to text]

[20.2] setting oneself alight: This letter was written a half-year before the self-immolations of the Vietnamese monks. See L. 53. [Had he chosen to disrobe the Ven. Ñánavíra would have had neither to marry a rich widow nor to take up with a 'woman of easy virtue': his family was quite well-to-do. The school referred to in footnote c would have been either St Edmund's School, Hindhead, or Wellington College. At Cambridge he attended Magdalene College. [Back to text]

[20.3] Camus: Myth, pp. 4f. [Back to text]

[20.4] Nietzsche: 'The thought of suicide is a powerful comfort: it helps one through many a dreadful night.' Beyond Good and Evil, p. 91. [Back to text]

[21.1] others as 'they': Among various loose papers found after the Ven. Ñánavíra's death was a copy of a quotation from Schopenhauer's The Wisdom of Life:

It is only the highest intellectual power, what we may call genius, that attains to this degree of intensity, making all time and existence its theme, and striving to express its peculiar conception of the world, whether it contemplates life as the subject of poetry or of philosophy. Hence undisturbed occupation with himself, his own thoughts and works, is a matter of urgent necessity to such a man; solitude is welcome, leisure is the highest good, and everything else is unnecessary, nay, even burdensome.
     This is the only type of man of whom it can be said that his centre of gravity is entirely in himself; which explains why it is that people of this sort -- and they are very rare --, no matter how excellent their character may be, do not show that warm and unlimited interest in friends, family, and the community in general, of which others are so often capable; for if they have only themselves they are not inconsolable for the loss of everything else. This gives an isolation to their character, which is all the more effective since other people never really quite satisfy them, as being, on the whole, of a different nature: more, since this difference is constantly forcing itself upon their notice, they get accustomed to move about amongst mankind as alien beings, and in thinking of humanity in general, they say they instead of we.
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