You said that, in your view, the incident of the burning of the letters was the act of an unstable mind. To this I replied that nothing is done in the world, either good or bad, without passion; and I said that 'mental stability', too often, is simply lack of passion. As it happens, I was reading yesterday one of Huxley's earlier books of essays (Proper Studies, 1927) and I came across a passage that discusses this very point. Perhaps it will make my own statement clearer. Here it is:

The man who will lightly sacrifice a long-formed mental habit is exceptional. The vast majority of human beings dislike and even actually dread all notions with which they are not familiar. Trotter, in his admirable Instincts of the Herd in Peace and War, has called them the 'stable-minded,' and has set over against them a minority of 'unstable-minded people,' fond of innovation for its own sake.... The tendency of the stable-minded man... will always be to find that 'whatever is, is right.' Less subject to the habits of thought formed in youth, the unstable-minded naturally take pleasure in all that is new and revolutionary. It is to the unstable-minded that we owe progress in all its forms, as well as all forms of destructive revolution. The stable-minded, by their reluctance to accept change, give to the social structure its durable solidity. There are many more stable- than unstable-minded people in the world (if the proportions were changed we should live in a chaos); and at all but very exceptional moments they possess power and wealth more than proportionate to their numbers. Hence it comes about that at their first appearance innovators have generally been persecuted and always derided as fools and madmen. A heretic, according to the admirable definition of Bossuet, is one who 'emits a singular opinion' -- that is to say, an opinion of his own, as opposed to one that has been sanctified by general acceptance. That he is a scoundrel goes without saying. He is also an imbecile -- a 'dog' and a 'devil,' in the words of St. Paul, who utters 'profane and vain babblings.' No heretic (and the orthodoxy from which he departs need not necessarily be a religious orthodoxy; it may be philosophic, ethical, artistic, economic), no emitter of singular opinions, is ever reasonable in the eyes of the stable-minded majority. For the reasonable is the familiar, is that which the stable-minded are in the habit of thinking at the moment when the heretic utters his singular opinion. To use the intelligence in any other than the habitual way is not to use the intelligence; it is to be irrational, to rave like a madman. (pp. 71-2)

But in a Buddhist country, naturally, to be a Buddhist is to be 'stable-minded', since one is, as it were, 'born a Buddhist'. And 'born-Buddhists' find it difficult to understand the unstable-minded European Buddhist, who treats the Buddha's Teaching as a wonderful new discovery and then proposes, seriously, to practise it.[a] The stable-minded traditional Buddhist cannot make out what the unstable-minded European Buddhist is making such a fuss about.[b]

I am not, naturally, speaking in praise of odd behaviour for its own sake (the Buddha always took into account the prejudices and superstitions of the mass of laymen, and legislated as far as possible to avoid scandal), but I do say that it is wrong to regard odd behaviour as bad simply because it is odd. I myself am in a very ambiguous situation: here, in Buddhist Ceylon, I find that I am regarded as a most respectable person -- complete strangers show me deference, and uncover their head as they pass --; but my relatives in England, and no doubt most of my former friends too, think that I am a freak and a case for the psychiatrist, and if they were to take off their hat when they saw me that could only be to humour my madness. Actually, however respectable and stable-minded I may appear (if we choose to ignore a deplorable tendency to suicide), I do not feel in the least respectable (I don't care tuppence for the durable solidity of the social structure) and I certainly count myself amongst the 'unstable-minded' (which does not mean, of course, that I am mentally fickle). But although the passage from Huxley is quite good, I really mean something rather more subtle than the mere expression of unorthodox opinions.




[L. 102]   31 August 1964

As to that Sutta you mention (A. IV,159: ii,144-7): a bhikkhuní sends for the Ven. Ánanda Thera, being infatuated with him and hoping perhaps for sexual intercourse. The Ven. Ánanda understands the situation and gives her a suitable Dhamma-talk. He tells her (i) that this body is a product of food and that, depending on food, food is to be given up (a bhikkhu's body is made of food, but he must go on taking food to keep alive and practise the Dhamma if he wishes to give up food in the future by not being reborn); (ii) that this body is a product of craving and that, depending on craving, craving is to be given up (a bhikkhu, having been born on account of craving in his previous life, hears that so-and-so has become an arahat and, craving that for himself, sets to work to get it; and in course of time he succeeds, his success being, precisely, the giving up of all craving); (iii) the same with mána or conceit (the bhikkhu, hearing that so-and-so has become an arahat, thinks 'I'm as good as he is, and if he can do it, so can I', and sets to work; and in due course, prompted by conceit, he puts an end to conceit); (iv) that this body is a product of copulation, and that the Buddha has said that (for monks) copulation is absolutely not to be practised. In (ii), the bhikkhu craves for arahatship since he thinks in terms of 'I' or 'self' ('When shall I attain that?'), and all such thoughts contain bhavatanhá, though of course here there is no sensual craving (kámatanhá). But anyone who thinks 'When shall I become an arahat?' is ipso facto failing to understand what it means to be an arahat (since being an arahat means not thinking in terms of 'I'). So, on account of his craving for arahatship, he sets out to get it. But, since he does not understand what arahatship is, he does not know what it is that he is seeking; and when, in due course, he does come to know what it is he is seeking, he has ipso facto found it (or at least the first installment of it). It is by making use of bhavatanhá that he gives up bhavatanhá (and a fortiori all other kinds of tanhá). I think that Sister Vajirá, in her last letter but one, says that she had not known what it was that she had been fighting against, but that she now saw that the solution had been staring her in the face all the time without her being able to see it. This describes the situation very well. It is because of bhavatanhá that, with the Buddha's help, we make an attempt to recognize bhavatanhá and succeed in doing so, thereby bringing bhavatanhá to an end.

I fully agree with you that the curtain came down on the drama too suddenly. I was hoping for a further letter but was disappointed. And when she was packed off there was no further chance of meeting her and filling in the gaps. But if in fact she really did cease to be a puthujjana (and I see no reason to doubt it), then we are perhaps fortunate in having as much as we do have in the way of a written record of an actual attainment of the magga (and probably also of the phala) as it took place. An account written afterwards from memory would not have the dramatic force of these letters which are so striking.




[L. 103]   29 September 1964

I quite realized that you used the words 'unstable mind' only in connexion with a certain incident (and in any case under a misapprehension), and my reason for pursuing the matter was simply that I happened to come across the passage in Huxley -- certainly not in any criticism of your use of the words.

You are quite right to doubt the value of the 'stable-mindedness' of the irresponsible politicians (though I sometimes wonder whether politicians can really be regarded as having a mind at all), and it has to be emphasized (as I think Huxley does) that unstable-mindedness is just as likely to do evil as it is to do good. Obviously it will depend on one's situation as well as on one's character whether it is a good thing or a bad thing to be unstable-minded. If you are a follower of the Buddha and unstable-mindedness leads you to become a Christian or a Muslim, then it is clearly better to be stable-minded; but if it leads you to abandon the home life and become a bhikkhu, then your unstable-mindedness is good. Here, as almost everywhere else, it is necessary to discriminate.

The episode of the Ven. Ánanda Thera and the love charms is not in the Suttas, but I think I recall reading it myself somewhere in the Commentaries.[1] But we do find in the Suttas several instances of the Ven. Ánanda Thera's championing (though that word is too strong) the cause of women (it was on his initiative -- as you will remember -- that the Buddha was persuaded to allow women to become bhikkhunís[2]). It was perhaps this tendency to speak up on behalf of women that led commentators and later writers (including some Europeans) to describe the Ven. Ánanda Thera as a rather simple and weak-minded person (Prof. Rhys Davids uses the word 'childlike'), which in point of fact he most certainly was not. But he came in for some criticism at the First Council, even though he was then arahat. (This is to be found in the Vinaya Cúlavagga towards the end.[3])

Generally speaking, it is the first business of anyone who gets ordained to learn Pali and find out what the Dhamma is all about, and not to rely on faulty European translations; but perhaps Ven. S.[4] will be spending his time better practising samatha (which can be done without a knowledge of Pali) than doing nothing. On the other hand he should really still be living with his teacher and getting instruction from him. But his teacher seems to be otherwise occupied. Anyway I do not propose to become his teacher, though I am prepared to help him if he asks for help.




[L. 104]   3 November 1964

Many thanks for the press cuttings. The offer of the Nobel Prize to Sartre is not really very surprising, nor is his refusal of it. He has been a considerable influence in European intellectual circles (outside Britain) for almost twenty years, and his books have been widely read. He is probably now fairly affluent, and can afford to do without the prize-money, and he still gets the credit (whether he likes it or not) of having been offered the prize -- and additional credit for having refused it! None the less, his reasons for refusing the award are sound and set a good example for others.

The height of absurdity in the matter of official distinctions is the award of titles to distinguished bhikkhus by the Burmese Government -- quite oblivious of the fact that if a bhikkhu accepts an official distinction he shows himself ipso facto to be a bad bhikkhu. And perhaps the topmost pinnacle of this height of absurdity is the 'official recognition' by the said Government, not many years ago, of the claim of a certain bhikkhu (which, for all I know, may have been justified) to be arahat. (The Catholic Church, of course, has to do this sort of thing. Since there is no attainment -- samápatti -- in Christianity, nobody can claim to be a saint. The Church -- the Vatican, that is -- simply waits until the likely candidates have been safely dead for a number of years and then pronounces officially that they were saints when they were living. Since the Church is infallible -- if you are a believer --, all this is quite in order. But if you do not happen to be a believer it is all a huge joke.)

Babbler's statement that Sartre is 'the founder and leader of existentialism' is very inaccurate -- existentialism, as a distinct philosophy, is universally agreed to have started with Kierkegaard (1813-1855), and there have been other existentialist philosophers -- notably Heidegger -- before Sartre. But what Babbler calls 'the fundamental tenet', though not recognized as such by existentialists, is more or less correct (and you will have noted that, so stated, it is not repugnant to the Buddha's Teaching -- we can agree that 'man is what he makes of himself').

November, with its rains, is rather a bad month for me, and my thoughts tend to darken like the skies. Since, as you will understand, I no longer have any compelling reason to go on living -- and what a relief it is too! -- I have to look around, in difficult periods, for makeshift reasons for carrying on; and my principal resort is preoccupation with the Notes. I correct them, add to them, polish them, re-type them, and then consider various ways and means of having them published -- and all this is not so much because I am really concerned about them (though I will not pretend that I am totally disinterested) as because it is a way of getting through my day.




[L. 105]   23 November 1964

I have just run through Mr. G.'s comments on the Notes, and it seems at first glance that the principal objection he is raising is against my interpretation of paticcasamuppáda as not describing a process in time. As a matter of fact, you are already familiar with this objection, since in an earlier letter you told me of someone who maintained that the three-life interpretation was compatible with the views expressed in the Notes. At the same time you remarked that Sister Vajirá had earlier preferred a 'temporal' interpretation of the p.s. but had later changed her mind. I replied, first, that I did not see that my interpretation was compatible with the three-life interpretation (and certainly Mr. G. does not find it so!), and secondly, that Sister Vajirá's change of view took place when (as it seems) she ceased to be a puthujjana.[a] If I can work up the energy to reply to him, it will be more concerned with discussion of different general points of view than with answering the particular points he raises (which largely depend on the difference in our points of view).

He remarks in his letter, 'Another big fault is the Ven. Author...nearly always tries to discover his ideas in the Canon instead of deducing from the passages what they teach.' This criticism is unavoidable. From his point of view it will seem justified. The thing is, that I have a source of information (my own experience) that he does not know about; and when I say that a certain thing is so, without giving Sutta backing (though I always try to give supporting references where I can), he will naturally get the impression that I am imposing arbitrary views (much the same sort of thing happened with Mrs. Quittner when she described the Notes as 'arrogant'). Unless the Notes are read with the idea that the author may have something to say that the reader does not already know about, they will remain incomprehensible. (In the Suttas, the Buddha says that one listening to the Dhamma who is randhagavesí, 'looking for faults',[1] will not be able to grasp it. Note, again, Sister Vajirá's change of attitude in the course of her letters, and her eventual admission that she had formerly been 'conceited'.)

I enclose a press cutting about Sartre.[2] The view that he is expounding here ('A writer has to take sides...') finds no justification at all in his philosophy. If, therefore, he holds this view, he does so simply because he finds it emotionally satisfactory. This view, of course, is quite familiar to us -- it is the Socialist argument we sometimes hear, that since one cannot practise the Dhamma if one is starving, therefore food comes first; and therefore food is more important than the Dhamma; and therefore it is more important to produce food than it is to behave well; and therefore any kind of violence or deceit is justified if it helps to increase food production.

As Sartre puts it, it seems plausible -- it is better to feed the poor than to entertain the rich. But when we look at it more closely we see that certain difficulties arise. To begin with, it assumes (as all socialists, Sartre included, do assume) that this life is the only one, that we did not exist before we were born, and shall not exist after we die. On this assumption it is fairly easy to divide mankind into two groups: the rich oppressors, and the poor oppressed, and the choice which to support seems easy. But if this is not the only life, how can we be sure that a man who is now poor and oppressed is not suffering the unpleasant effects of having been a rich oppressor in his past life? And, if we take the principle to its logical conclusion, should we not choose to be on the side of the 'oppressed' inhabitants of the hells, suffering retribution for their evil ways, and to condemn the fortunate ones in the heavens, a privileged class enjoying the reward of virtue, as the 'idle rich'? And then this view ignores the fact that our destiny at death depends on how we behave in this life. If bad behaviour in this life leads to poverty and hunger in the next, can we be sure that bread is more important than books? What use is it providing the hungry with bread if you don't tell them the difference between right and wrong? Is metaphysics so unimportant if it leads men -- rich and poor, no matter -- to adopt right view and to behave accordingly?

Of course, the very fact that Sartre's philosophy does not have anything to say about the hungry and oppressed is a blemish on his philosophy; and it might be argued that Sartre is therefore better occupied standing up for the hungry and oppressed than in propagating his metaphysical views; but that still does not justify the principle. And, in the last analysis, the Buddha's Teaching is for a privileged class -- those who are fortunate enough to have the intelligence to grasp it (the Dhamma is paccattam veditabbo viññúhi (M. 38: i,265) -- 'to be known by the wise, each for himself'), and they are most certainly not the majority! But Sartre's attitude is symptomatic of a general inadequacy in modern European thought -- the growing view that the majority must be right, that truth is to be decided by appeal to the ballot-box. (I read somewhere that, in one of the Western Communist countries, it was decided by a show of hands that angels do not exist.)




[L. 106]   30 November 1964

After some hesitation I have decided to reply to Mr. G.'s letter. But since it is evident that he is more concerned to maintain his own position (in a sense, the Notes seem to have drawn blood, touching him at several weak points) than to understand the Notes, it seems important that I should keep a certain distance and not come to blows with him; and so I have addressed my reply[1] to you -- all my remarks are addressed to the Court.

It is obvious that he has a good knowledge of the Suttas (of which he is perhaps rather proud), and a very poor understanding of the Dhamma. A reply, therefore, that is going to be of any benefit to him (and not simply make the situation worse) needs rather careful wording: it is necessary to convey to him that he is very far from understanding the Dhamma, without actually telling him so in so many words. Whether or not my reply (which avoids his tactical sallies by the strategical manoeuvre of suggesting a profound difference in point of view -- which is true -- making any discussion of details futile at the present stage) achieves this aim, I really can't say -- how does it strike you? Have I said anything that will merely irritate him without shaking his complacency?

The myth that was growing up about me here -- that my presence was the cause of the good rains that have been enjoyed since I came here -- is now being rudely shattered. There has been a shortage of rain in this district, and what little there has been has very carefully (almost by design) avoided Bundala. Perhaps the drought has come in order to demonstrate to the villagers that post hoc ergo propter hoc is a fallacy -- or does this supposition itself fall into the same fallacy?

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Footnotes:

[101.a] It often happens, of course, that he has got it upside-down and inside-out; but at least he has enthusiasm (at any rate to begin with). [Back to text]

[101.b] And so it is not in the least astonishing that Sister Vajirá's supporters are scandalized when she 'goes off her head' for a fortnight with joy (which is my view of what happened). [Back to text]

[105.a] This actually is not irrelevant here, since Mr. G. is one of the group of Buddhists to which Sister Vajirá formerly belonged, and there is much in common between his present views and Sister Vajirá's former views: both, presumably, derive from the same source. [Back to text]















Editorial notes:

[103.1] love charms: The story is not found even in the Commentaries: it occurs first, apparently, in the Sanskrit Divyávadána, of the Sarvástivádin school. A partial version is also found in the Súrangama Sútra, in Chinese only. [Back to text]

[103.2] bhikkhunís: Vin. ii,253: A. VII,51: iv,274-79. [Back to text]

[103.3] towards the end: Kh. XI: Vin. ii,289. [Back to text]

[103.4] Ven. S.: The reference is to a newly-ordained Western monk who had just settled into a kuti about one-half mile from the Ven. Ñánavíra and who remained there for several years before disrobing and returning home. To informally give help is one thing; to become a teacher is (in terms of Vinaya) a formal undertaking of responsibility. It is this responsibility that the Ven. Ñánavíra declines. [Back to text]

[105.1] looking for faults: See editorial note 3 to L. 3. [Back to text]

[105.2] a press cutting: It is from the London Sunday Times of 24 May 1964:

BREAD BEFORE BOOKS
     JEAN-PAUL SARTRE who, at 58, has just published the first volume of his autobiography has been explaining what he means by the confession in the book, 'I no longer know what to do with my life.'
    For most of the period during which he became famous he has, he says, been in a state of 'neurosis' and 'folly.' This was bound up with the idea that, as a writer, he was engaged in a 'sacred' activity and only in the last decade has he awoken from this. Now he is finding the cerebral imaginative world of the literary man receding before the grimness of the real world.
     'I've suddenly discovered that the exploitation of men by men and undernourishment relegate luxuries like metaphysical ills to the background. Hunger is a real evil. I've been getting through a long apprenticeship to reality. I've seen children die of hunger.
     'What does literature mean to a hungry world? Literature like morality needs to be universal. A writer has to take sides with the majority, with the hungry -- otherwise he is just serving a privileged class. Do you think you could read Robbe-Grillet in an underdeveloped country?' [Back to text]