I think you told me that you had found the Bertrand Russell unreadable.[1] This is quite as it should be. You asked me some time ago to suggest books for reading; but since I am rather out of touch with the world of books as it is today, and also don't know what is available in Ceylon, I have not been able to give you many positive indications. But at least I can give you a negative indication -- don't read Russell, not for his philosophy anyway. Russell's influence (in the English-speaking world, that is to say) is very great, and it is almost wholly pernicious. He accepts 'scientific common sense' as the basis for his thought, and this is precisely the thing I am at pains to combat in the Notes.[a] Russell's philosophy is rather like the gaudy cover to his book -- patchy and specious. The best things about him are his repeated admissions of failure, often just at the point where he seems about to recant his former views and make a real advance. But his roots are too firmly embedded in 'scientific common sense'.

Consider his argument. On p. 13 he says

Physics assures us that the occurrences which we call 'perceiving objects' are at the end of a long causal chain which starts from the objects, and are not likely to resemble the objects except, at best, in certain very abstract ways.

We all start from 'naive realism', i.e., the doctrine that things are what they seem. We think that grass is green, that stones are hard, and that snow is cold. But physics assures us that the greenness of grass, the hardness of stones, and the coldness of snow, are not the greenness, hardness, and coldness that we know in our own experience, but something very different. ...Naive realism leads to physics, and physics, if true, shows that naive realism is false. Therefore naive realism, if true, is false; therefore it is false.... These considerations induce doubt....

On p. 303 he tells us 'I do not, it is true, regard things as the object of inquiry, since I hold them to be a metaphysical delusion.' A metaphysical delusion? Nonsense! Things are given in immediate experience, and as soon as we enter upon reflexion we are directly aware that 'There are things'. (As for not regarding them as the object of inquiry, you have only to look at the opening of the note on FS to see that there can be two opinions about that.) 'The net result' claims Russell 'is to substitute articulate hesitation for inarticulate certainty.' If he had claimed to replace articulate certainty by inarticulate hesitation, I should feel more inclined to agree with him.

Crome Yellow,[c] on the other hand, like all Huxley's early books, and also his later books when he is not being mystical or trying to reconstruct the world, is instructive in its destructiveness (even if I have long ago learned the lessons). Perhaps destructiveness (or at least this kind of destructiveness) is more necessary for the West than the East, since the West thinks more than the East -- it is more literate, anyway, whereas the East practises more than the West -- and consequently has a greater accumulation of wrong views (I am speaking of Ethics). In my own case, certainly, a great deal of rubbish had to be cleared away before I could begin to approach the Buddha's Teaching, and here I have much to thank Huxley for. But Huxley's later works have become more and more mystical and constructive, and then he writes nonsense. (It is astonishing the way good European writers and artists run to seed when they settle in America.) Practically everything, for example, that is said by Mr. Propter in After Many A Summer is misleading in one way or another (he speaks of the Pali texts, but he preaches Maháyána.) The Fifth Earl is much more instructive.

But in After Many A Summer, at least, Huxley does not speak in praise of sensuality (i.e. sex[d]); whereas in his most recent books it seems that the achievement of a satisfactory sexual relationship is exalted, along with chemical mysticism, as among the highest aims to be striven for. This idea, of course, is not so uncommon: there seems to be a widespread view, not in Ceylon only, that if a man does not become a monk -- Buddhist or other -- it is his duty to marry. This is quite mistaken. The Buddha's Teaching is perfectly definite -- a satisfactory sexual relationship within the limits of the third precept (which, however, allows rather more latitude than is commonly supposed), though allowable for an upásaka, comes a bad third. If you can't be a bhikkhu, be a brahmacárí upásaka; if you can't manage that, then keep the third precept (preferably limiting yourself to your wife or wives). The Buddha condemns the notion N'atthi kámesu doso -- There's no harm in sensuality -- (A. III,111: i,266; Ud. VI,8: 71) -- as a wrong view that swells the charnel grounds, i.e. leads one to repeated births and deaths. To get out of samsára, first this view must be given up, and then sensuality itself must be given up -- an easy or difficult matter according to circumstances, but usually difficult.

Joyce's Ulysses is a destructive book, and so too is Gibbon's History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Gibbon is a very entertaining writer, and I can recommend the Decline and Fall as profitable reading if ever you are feeling complacent about the wisdom and virtues of the human race. He is incapable of writing a dull page, whether he is discussing circumcision amongst the Ethiopians or the Pandects of Justinian. (I am, personally, very fond of Gibbon's account of a particularly unsavoury character called George of Cappadocia -- better known as St. George of England. George of Cappadocia started his career as a successful army contractor, and eventually rose by extremely questionable methods to the episcopal throne of Egypt, where he spent his time liquidating his enemies. The celebrated 'dragon' slain by St. George was none other than St. Athanasias, his rival to the bishopric of Alexandria and a man of considerable importance in both ecclesiastical and secular history. The English pretend that nothing is known of the life of their patron saint, which I cannot but regard as wishful thinking.)

And the footnotes! 'The inhabitants of Oxyrhincus, who worshipped a small fish in a magnificent temple.' Here you have the full weight of Gibbon's contempt for 'superstition' in all its forms, and expressed with the utmost economy of words. 'Grotius [a Dutch theologian[2]], who has so accurately defined the limits of omnipotence....' Poor Grotius! No, don't miss the footnotes, whatever you do. And doesn't he infuriate the Christians!

Since the book contains about three thousand pages and covers fourteen centuries (100-1500 A.D. -- the Roman Empire had an incredibly long death-agony), you would not be able to read it in a week-end: a good occasion might be if ever you are confined to bed for a month or so. One must read Gibbon slowly in order to relish the full flavour of his irony and his perfectly balanced sentences;[e] and a small atlas is useful for reference. I have read the entire work three times since being in Ceylon (in the earlier days of my amoebiasis), and I am quite ready to start again.

The communicators in the Willett scripts were the people who, while living, founded the Society for Psychical Research.[f] This, no doubt, is the reason for their interest in experiment, rather than that scientific investigations are a normal part of existence as a discarnate spirit. Henry Sidgwick was the first President and Myers and William James (the American psychologist, brother of Henry James) were Presidents in 1900 and 1894-5 respectively. Gurney was an early member. An account of the founding of the Society is given in G. N. M. Tyrell's The Personality of Man. The Society is still active.

The Ven. Thera mentioned the communications he had received from his brother, one of which seemed to be referring to myself -- so no doubt I am 'under observation', as presumably we all are. About spirits in the East, one of the reasons for their being here may be that given in the Ratana Sutta, second verse (Sn. 223), where it is said that human beings bring them offerings (balim) day and night. The Buddha, in certain Sutta passages, encourages laymen to make offerings to those spirits who are capable of receiving them. This, I think, is more than just the offering of merits. (I never advise anyone not to make material offerings to spirits, but to be quite clear in their mind what they are doing. Gifts given to anyone, human or not, bring merit, but do not lead to nibbána. And spirits certainly do, upon occasion, give protection. I am not in agreement with the modern sceptical tendency.)

The reason for my (qualified) approval of self as 'me as I know myself' was rather to mark disapproval of Myers's notion of self as the 'subliminal', which ex hypothesi is beyond the range of what they rather unfortunately call 'conscious knowledge' -- by which they mean reflexive awareness. I do not by any means wish to give the impression that Balfour has resolved the problem of 'self' -- being a puthujjana he does not know what he is talking about when he speaks of 'self' --; but if I were asked 'What is the normal meaning of the word attá in the Suttas?' I would reply 'It means "me as I know myself in the act of reflection"', though I would go on to say that this is not in the very least an answer to the question 'What is "self"?' (See ATTÁ, first paragraph.)

Yes, I have read one or two descriptions of death (autobiographical, of course), and they are much in agreement with your account of Stead's death. Did you, by any chance, read this account in a book called Four from the Dead? It contains communications from four people who had died -- one was Stead, and one was the medium's own husband (a doctor who had committed suicide by swallowing poison while walking along the road). I forget how the other three died, but I remember that the doctor said that after taking poison (cyanide, I believe -- very quick) he suddenly found himself standing and looking down at his own dead body on the ground. As you quite rightly point out, the new surroundings may be warmer than what one has been accustomed to -- that is, if one has not taken the precaution of becoming sotápanna.




[L. 68]   3 November 1963

About Kafka's Trial, as I remarked on an earlier occasion, it seems to me that the crime with which K. is charged is that of existing, and that this is why the charge is never made explicit. Everybody exists, and it would be ridiculous to charge one man with this crime and not the next man as well. But not everybody feels guilty of existing; and even those who do are not always clear about what it is precisely that they feel guilty of, since they see that the rest of mankind, who also exist, go through life in a state of blissful innocence. The criminal charge of existing cannot be brought home to those who are satisfied of their innocence (since judicial censure is worse than futile unless the accused recognizes his guilt), and also it cannot be brought home to those who recognize their guilt but who are not satisfied that it is of existing that they are guilty (since judicial censure fails of its intended effect if the accused, though aware of guilt, believes that the charge against him has been wrongly framed). To secure a conviction, then, the charge must be one simply of guilt; and so, in fact, it is in The Trial.

'"Yes", said the Law-Court Attendant, "these are the accused men, all of them are accused of guilt." "Indeed!" said K. "Then they're colleagues of mine."' (pp. 73-4) And this charge of guilt, clearly enough, can only be brought against those who are guilty of guilt, and not against those who do not feel the guilt of existing. But who is it that feels the guilt of existing? Only he who, in an act of reflexion, begins to be aware of his existence and to see that it is inherently unjustifiable. He understands (obscurely, no doubt, at first) that, when he is challenged to give an account of himself, he is unable to do so. But who is it that challenges him to give an account of himself? In The Trial it is the mysterious and partly corrupt hierarchical Court; in reality it is he himself in his act of reflexion (which also is hierarchically ordered). The Trial, then, represents the criminal case that a man brings against himself when he asks himself 'Why do I exist?' But the common run of people do not ask themselves this question; they are quite content in their simple way to take things for granted and not to distress themselves with unanswerable questions -- questions, indeed, that they are scarcely capable of asking. K.'s landlady, a simple woman, discussing K.'s arrest with him, says

'You are under arrest, certainly, but not as a thief is under arrest. If one's arrested as a thief, that's a bad business, but as for this arrest -- It gives me the feeling of something very learned, forgive me if what I say is stupid, it gives me the feeling of something abstract which I don't understand, but which I don't need to understand either.' (p. 27)

'In definite acquittal the documents relating to the case are completely annulled, they simply vanish from sight, not only the charge but also the records of the case and even the acquittal are destroyed, everything is destroyed.' (pp. 175-6)

The best one can do to ward off the inexorable verdict -- 'Guilty, with no extenuating circumstances' -- is to seek either 'ostensible acquittal' (p. 176), wherein awareness of one's essential guilt is temporarily subdued by makeshift arguments but flares up from time to time in crises of acute despair, or else 'indefinite postponement' (pp. 177-8), wherein one adopts an attitude of bad faith towards oneself, that is to say one regards one's guilt (of which one is perpetually aware) as being 'without significance', thereby refusing to accept responsibility for it.

K., however, is not disposed to try either of these devices, and seems, rather, to want to bring matters to a head. He dismisses his advocate as useless -- perhaps the advocate in The Trial represents the world's professional philosophers --, and sets about organizing his own defence. For this purpose he recruits, in particular, women helpers, perhaps regarding them as the gateway to the Divine (if I remember rightly, this is one of Denis's earlier views -- in Crome Yellow -- that makes life so complicated for him). This view is clearly mystical, and is denounced in The Trial. '"You cast about too much for outside help," said the priest disapprovingly, "especially from women. Don't you see that it isn't the right kind of help?"' (p. 233)

In The Castle, on the other hand, K. uses women to get him entrance into the kingdom of heaven, and perhaps with some effect; but in The Castle guilt is evidence of the existence of God, and the guiltier one is the better chance one has of getting the favour of the Castle (thus Amalia indignantly rejects the immoral proposals of one of the gentlemen from the Castle and is promptly cut off from the Divine Grace, whereupon her sister Olga prostitutes herself with the meanest Castle servants in the hope of winning it back).

In The Trial the task is to come to terms with oneself without relying on other people; and although we may sympathize with K. and the other accused in their efforts to acquit themselves before the Court, actually the Court is in the right and K. and the others in the wrong. There are three kinds of people in The Trial: (i) the innocent (i.e. ignorant) mass of humanity, unable to reflect and thus become aware of their guilt, (ii) the (self-)accused, who are guilty and obscurely aware of the fact but who refuse to admit it to themselves and who will go to any lengths to delay the inevitable verdict (the grovelling Herr Block of Chapter VIII, for example, has no less than six advocates, and has succeeded in protracting his case for five years), and (iii) the (self-)condemned man, who, like K. in the final chapter, faces up to the desolating truth and accepts the consequences.

'The only thing for me to go on doing is to keep my intelligence calm and discriminating to the end. I always wanted to snatch at the world with twenty hands, and not for a very laudable motive either. That was wrong, and am I to show now that not even a whole year's struggling with my case has taught me anything? Am I to leave this world as a man who shies away from all conclusions?' (p. 247)

I am glad to hear that all the copies for the listed addresses have gone off. We can now sit back and wait to see what effect the book has. (I read in the papers[1] that there was an earth tremor felt in Ceylon during the past day or two, but perhaps we are not entitled to assume that we have been responsible for it.) If I have one reader only who benefits from it I shall be satisfied. Some may find some of the things in the Notes rather unpalatable -- but then they were not written to pander to people's tastes.

What I said in my last letter about K.'s reason for recruiting, in particular, women to help his case -- namely, that he perhaps regarded them as the 'Gateway to the Divine' -- is excessive. It is true enough of The Castle, where K. is seeking God's grace; but in The Trial K. is simply attempting to justify his own existence, and his relations with women do not go beyond this. Here is an illuminating passage from Sartre:

Whereas before being loved we were uneasy about that unjustified, unjustifiable protuberance which was our existence, whereas we felt ourselves "de trop," we now feel that our existence is taken up and willed even in its tiniest details by an absolute freedom [i.e. that of the one who loves us][a] which at the same time our existence conditions [since it is our existence that fascinates our lover][a] and which we ourselves will with our freedom. This is the basis for the joy of love when there is joy: we feel that our existence is justified. (B&N, p. 371)

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Footnotes:

[67.a] In this connexion, though you may find the note on Fundamental Structure as unreadable as Russell, there will, perhaps, be those more professionally philosophical than yourself who do manage to read Russell but yet are dissatisfied with him and all that his thinking implies. Possibly they may find that the note on FS offers something quite, quite different, and certainly more satisfying aesthetically. (I rather flatter myself that the note on FS says a great deal in a few elegant pages. Not everybody will agree; but at least I do not think that anybody can accuse me of verbosity.) [Back to text]

[67.b] Russell allows, elsewhere, that physics can never be more than probably true, which means to say that there is no logical reason why it should not sometimes be false. But 'scientific common sense' is an act of faith that in fact physics is always true, and experimental evidence to the contrary is not enough to shake this faith. [Back to text]

[67.c] The house described in the book really exists: it is Beckley (Park), near Oxford. The late Ven. Ñánamoli Thera used to know the people who live there, and was an occasional visitor. (I met them once in London, and found them very much less interesting than Huxley's characters. We played bridge.) [Back to text]

[67.d] Of course, listening to Beethoven also is sensuality, but when you have said 'sex' you have said all. A man who can give up sex can give up Beethoven. [Back to text]

[67.e] Gibbon tells us that, apart from the first three chapters, which he wrote out three times before he was satisfied with the style, he wrote out the book once only, and it was printed direct from this first draft. Even in writing this letter to you I have had to make two drafts, and this fair copy contains erasures and corrections. [Back to text]

[67.f] I have just discovered, by chance, that both the Pali Text Society and the Society for Psychical Research were founded in 1882. Those enterprising Victorians! [Back to text]

[68.a] Note the ambiguity, the ambivalence, of this word innocence, so close to ignorance, just as guilt and knowledge are sometimes almost synonymous. Adam and Eve, after eating the apple, knew that they were naked, and they were ashamed.[1] [Back to text]

[69.a] My brackets. [Back to text]















Editorial notes:

[67.1] Russell: The book being discussed is An Inquiry Into Meaning and Truth. [Back to text]

[67.2] Grotius is also credited with founding international law. According to Gibbon's account it was George of Cappodocia who was slain (in 361 A.D.), whereas Athanasius died of old age in 373. [Back to text]

[68.1] innocence: In an early letter (29 June 1958) to the Ven. Ñánamoli the author remarked: 'Avijjá is a primary structure of being, and it approximates to innocence, not to bad faith, which is a reflexive structure, far less fundamental. Is it not odd that, existentially, avijjá would be translated alternatively by "guilt" -- Kafka, Kierkegaard -- and "innocence" -- Camus, Sartre? Innocence and guilt, both are nescience.' [Back to text]

[69.1] the papers: This letter as well as the previous one were written from the Island Hermitage, where a daily newspaper would have been available. [Back to text]