ALAN WATTS WAY OF ZEN PDF
The Library of Congress cataloged the first Vintage Books edition as follows: Watts, Alan, – The way of Zen = [Zendō] / Alan W. Watts — 1st ed. p. cm. Free Eastern Spirituality PDF Books Way of Zen: by Alan Watts (). The Way of Zen guides the reader through the histories of Buddhism and Taoism. The Way of Zen [Alan W. Watts] on myavr.info *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. In his definitive introduction to Zen Buddhism, Alan Watts explains the.
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the way of zen by alan watts (pdf book). Excerpted from the Preface of The Way of Zen. During the past twenty years there has been an extraordinary growth of. rigel's () The Method of Zen, and served as editorial advisor to The Psyche- delic Review students and scholars, called The Alan Watts Mountain Center, is now under construction myavr.info Ellwood. The Way of Zen begins as a succinct guide through the histories of Buddhism and Taoism leading up to the development of Zen Buddhism, which drew deeply .
Written by Swami Swatmarama, in approximately the s. Emphasizes Yoga postures, energetic breathing exercises, and the chakra system.
the way of zen by alan watts (pdf book)
The first known written description of the chakra system is in the Sat-Cakra-Nirupana Description of the Six Chakras , written by Purnananda-Swami in In , Sir John Woodroffe translated this text in his book The Serpent Power under the alias Arthur Avalon , which became the basis for the chakra system popularized in contemporary Western Yoga.
Translation of the Shiva Sutras by Jaideva Singh It describes Self-realization as an experience of being unified with God consciousness, as it exists in the form of the Universe. Shiva Sutras PDF. Way of Zen: The Way of Zen guides the reader through the histories of Buddhism and Taoism, which provide the foundation for the development of Zen Buddhism.
It paints a broad but insightful picture of Zen. Watts's narrative is a thorough scholarly presentation. The Way of Zen is an excellent introductory book on Zen. Way of Zen PDF. It and I were one. Not the neuter sense of the mere object, but something still more alive and far wider than the personal, and for which we use this simplest of words because we have no word for it. It is especially difficult to find the right means of expression for the experience in the cultural context of Christianity.
For while this enlightenment comes just as much to Christians as to anyone else, the Christian mystic has always been in danger of conflict with the defenders of orthodoxy. Christian dogmatics insist firmly upon the radical difference between God and his created universe, as between God and the human soul. Even then, hell will remain forever as the state of permanent imprisonment and torment for the forces of evil.
Even in the description which Bucke gives of his own experience there is a significant use of the future tense: All at once, without warning of any kind, I found myself wrapped in a flame-colored cloud. For an instant I thought of fire, an immense conflagration somewhere close by in the great city; the next, I knew that the fire was within myself.
Directly afterward there came upon me a sense of exultation, of immense joyousness accompanied or immediately followed by an intellectual illumination impossible to describe.
Among other things, I did not merely come to believe, but I saw that the universe is not composed of dead matter, but is, on the contrary, a living Presence; I became conscious in myself of eternal life. It was not a conviction that I would have eternal life, but a consciousness that I possessed eternal life then; I saw that all men are immortal; that the cosmic order is such that without any peradventure all things work together for the good of each and all; that the foundation principle of the world, of all the worlds, is what we call love, and that the happiness of each and all is in the long run absolutely certain.
The vision lasted a few seconds and was gone; but the memory of it and the sense of the reality of what it taught has remained during the quarter of a century which has since elapsed. Such experiences imply, then, that our normal perception and valuation of the world is a subjective but collective nightmare. They suggest that our ordinary sense of practical reality—of the world as seen on Monday morning—is a construct of socialized conditioning and repression, a system of selective inattention whereby we are taught to screen out aspects and relations within nature which do not accord with the rules of the game of civilized life.
Yet the vision almost invariably includes the realization that this very restriction of consciousness is also part of the eternal fitness of things. For in some way the vision seems to come about through accepting the rightness of the fact that one does not have it, through being willing to be as imperfect as one is—perfectly imperfect. Now it is easy to see how this way of seeing things might be acceptable in cultures without the sense of hope and history, how, indeed, it might be the only basis for a philosophy that would make life tolerable.
But, even though it may be exploited for this purpose, the experience itself is in no sense a philosophy designed to justify or to desensitize oneself to the inequalities of life.
Like falling in love, it has a minimal connection with any particular cultural background or economic position. It descends upon the rich and the poor, the moral and the immoral, the happy and the miserable without distinction.
It carries with it overwhelming conviction that the world is in every respect a miracle of glory, and though this might logically exclude the necessity to share the vision with others and awaken them from their nightmare the usual reaction is a sense, not of duty, but of sheer delight in communicating the experience by word or deed.
One has the extraordinarily odd sensation of seeing people in their mean or malicious pursuits looking, at the same time, like gods—as if they were supremely happy without knowing it. I discovered it all of a sudden. Yet there could perhaps be a point of view from which the natural wonder of the organism simply outshines the degrading performances of its superficial consciousness.
In a somewhat similar way this strange opening of vision does not permit attention to remain focused narrowly upon the details of evil; they become subordinate to the all-pervading intelligence and beauty of the total design. Furthermore, so far from being the smug rationalization of a Mr.
Pangloss , the experience has a tendency to arise in situations of total extremity or despair, when the individual finds himself without any alternative but to surrender himself entirely. Something of this kind came to me in a dream when I was about eight years old. I was sick at the time and almost delirious with fever, and in the dream I found myself attached face-downward and spread-eagled to an immense ball of steel which was spinning about the earth.
I knew in this dream with complete certainty that I was doomed to be spun in this sickening and terrifying whirl forever and ever, and the conviction was so intense that there was nothing for it but to give up—for this was hell itself and nothing lay before me but a literal everlastingness of pain. But in the moment when I surrendered, the ball seemed to strike against a mountain and disintegrate, and the next thing I knew was that I was sitting on a stretch of warm sand with nothing left of the ball except crumpled fragments of sheet-metal scattered around me.
That other experience came much later, twice with intensity, and other times with what might be called more of a glow than a brilliant flash.
Shortly after I had first begun to study Indian and Chinese philosophy, I was sitting one night by the fire, trying to make out what was the right attitude of mind for meditation as it is practiced in Hindu and Buddhist disciplines.
It seemed to me that several attitudes were possible, but as they appeared mutually exclusive and contradictory I was trying to fit them into one—all to no purpose. Finally, in sheer disgust, I decided to reject them all and to have no special attitude of mind whatsoever. In the force of throwing them away it seemed that I threw myself away as well, for quite suddenly the weight of my own body disappeared. I felt that I owned nothing, not even a self, and that nothing owned me.
At the same time, the present seemed to become a kind of moving stillness, an eternal stream from which neither I nor anything could deviate. I saw that everything, just as it is now, is IT—is the whole point of there being life and a universe. Each thing, each event, each experience in its inescapable nowness and in all its own particular individuality was precisely what it should be, and so much so that it acquired a divine authority and originality.
It struck me with the fullest clarity that none of this depended on my seeing it to be so; that was the way things were, whether I understood it or not, and if I did not understand, that was IT too.
Furthermore, I felt that I now understood what Christianity might mean by the love of God—namely, that despite the commonsensical imperfection of things, they were nonetheless loved by God just as they are, and that this loving of them was at the same time the godding of them. This time the vivid sensation of lightness and clarity lasted a full week.
These experiences, reinforced by others that have followed, have been the enlivening force of all my work in writing and in philosophy since that time, though I have come to realize that how I feel, whether the actual sensation of freedom and clarity is present or not, is not the point—for, again, to feel heavy or restricted is also IT.
But with this point of departure a philosopher is faced with a strange problem of communication, especially to the degree that his philosophy seems to have some affinity with religion. People appear to be under the fixed impression that one speaks or writes of these things in order to improve them or do them some good, assuming, too, that the speaker has himself been improved and is able to speak with authority.
In other words, the philosopher is forced into the role of preacher, and is in turn expected to practice what he preaches. All these criteria might be valid if the philosopher were preaching freedom from being human, or if he were trying to make himself and others radically better.
In the span of one lifetime it is, of course, possible for almost every human being to improve himself—within limits set by energy, time, temperament, and the level from which he begins. Obviously, then, there is a proper place for preachers and other technical advisers in the disciplines of human betterment. But the limits within which such improvements may be made are small in comparison with the vast aspects of our nature and our circumstances which remain the same, and which will be very difficult to improve even were it desirable to do so.
I am saying, therefore, that while there is a place for bettering oneself and others, solving problems and coping with situations is by no means the only or even the chief business of life. Nor is it the principal work of philosophy. Human purposes are pursued within an immense circling universe which does not seem to me to have purpose, in our sense, at all. Nature is much more playful than purposeful, and the probability that it has no special goals for the future need not strike one as a defect.
On the contrary, the processes of nature as we see them both in the surrounding world and in the involuntary aspects of our own organisms are much more like art than like business, politics, or religion. They are especially like the arts of music and dancing, which unfold themselves without aiming at future destinations. No one imagines that a symphony is supposed to improve in quality as it goes along, or that the whole object of playing it is to reach the finale.
The point of music is discovered in every moment of playing and listening to it. It is the same, I feel, with the greater part of our lives, and if we are unduly absorbed in improving them we may forget altogether to live them.
The musician whose chief concern is to make every performance better than the last may so fail to participate and delight in his own music that he will impress his audience only with the anxious rigor of his technique.
Thus it is by no means the main work of a philosopher to be classed with the moralists and reformers. There is such a thing as philosophy, the love of wisdom, in the spirit of the artist. Such philosophy will not preach or advocate practices leading to improvement.
As I understand it, the work of the philosopher as artist is to reveal and celebrate the eternal and purposeless background of human life. Out of simple exuberance or wonder he wants to tell others of the point of view from which the world is unimaginably good as it is, with people just as they are.
No matter how difficult it may be to express this point of view without sounding smug or appearing to be a wishful dreamer, some hint of it may be suggested if the philosopher has had the good fortune to have experienced it himself. This may sound like a purpose, like a desire to improve, to those who insist upon seeing all human activity in terms of goal-seeking The trouble is that our Western common sense is firmly Aristotelian, and we therefore believe that the will never acts except for some good or pleasure.
But upon analysis this turns out to say no more than we do what we do, for if we always do what pleases us—even in committing suicide—there is no means of showing what pleases us apart from what we do. In using such logic I am only throwing a stone back to the glass house from which it came, for I am well aware that expressions of mystical experience will not stand the test of logic.
But, unlike the Aristotelian, the mystic does not claim to be logical. His sphere of experience is the unspeakable.
Yet this need mean no more than that it is the sphere of physical nature, of all that is not simply conceptions, numbers, or words. The speech expressing such an experience is more like an exclamation. For there is a kind of speech that may be able to convey something without actually being able to say it.
What, then, are we talking about? He was trying to show that we are talking about the unspeakable world of the physical universe, the world that is other than words. Words represent it, but if we want to know it directly we must do so by immediate sensory contact. What we call things, facts, or events are after all no more than convenient units of perception, recognizable pegs for names, selected from the infinite multitude of lines and surfaces, colors and textures, spaces and densities which surround us.
There is no more a fixed and final way of dividing these variations into things than of grouping the stars in constellations. From this example, however, it is certainly clear that we can point out the unspeakable world, and even convey the idea of its existence, without being able to say exactly what it is.
We do not know what it is. We know only that it is. For if it becomes clear that our use of the lines and surfaces of nature to divide the world into units is only a matter of convenience, then all that I have called myself is actually inseparable from everything.
This is exactly what one experiences in these extraordinary moments. It is not that the outlines and shapes which we call things and use to delineate things disappear into some sort of luminous void. It simply becomes obvious that though they may be used as divisions they do not really divide. However much I may be impressed by the difference between a star and the dark space around it, I must not forget that I can see the two only in relation to each other, and that this relation is inseparable.
Outside that state of consciousness it has no meaning, so much so that it would be difficult even to believe in it as a revelation without the actual experience. Somehow this includes even the holocaust of the biological world, where every creature lives by feeding on others. Our usual picture of this world is reverse so that every victim is seen as offering itself in sacrifice. If we are to ask whether this vision is true, we may first answer that there are no such things as truths by themselves: a truth is always in relation to a point of view.
Fire is hot in relation to skin. The structure of the world appears as it does in relation to our organs of sense and our brains.
Therefore certain alterations in the human organism may turn it into the sort of percipient for which the world is as it is seen in this vision. But, in the same way, other alterations will give us the truth of the world as it appears to the schizophrenic, or to the mind in black depression.
Its basis is simply that no energy system can be completely self-controlling without ceasing to move. Control is restraint upon movement, and because complete control would be complete restraint, control must always be subordinate to motion if there is to be motion at all.
On the other hand, movement and the release of restraint are the equivalent of faith, of committing oneself to the uncontrolled and unknown.
The point is simply that, if there is to be any life and movement at all, the attitude of faith must be basic—the final and fundamental attitude—and the attitude of doubt secondary and subordinate. This is another way of saying that toward the vast and all-encompassing background of human life, with which the philosopher as artist is concerned, there must be total affirmation and acceptance.
Otherwise there is no basis at all for caution and control with respect to details in the foreground. But it is all too easy to become so absorbed in these details that all sense of proportion is lost, and for man to make himself mad by trying to bring everything under his control. We become insane, unsound, and without foundation when we lose consciousness of and faith in the uncontrolled and ungraspable background world which is ultimately what we ourselves are.
And there is a very slight distinction, if any, between complete, conscious faith and love. Though these creatures live much shorter lives than men, proportionately it takes them only a fraction of the time required for the civilized human being to learn the essential arts of life.
For them the mere fact of existence seems to guarantee the skills for survival, and one might almost say that its techniques are built into their bodies.
But for human beings, survival in the context of a civilized community demands the mastery of an art of thinking, learning, and choosing which takes up about a quarter of the average span of life. Furthermore, it seems that living in a civilized society calls for a way of thinking and acting entirely different from the ways of animals, insects, and plants.
Ordinarily this is called, rather vaguely, the way of intelligence as over against the way of instinct. The difference is roughly that action by instinct is spontaneous, whereas action by intelligence involves a difficult process of analysis, prediction, and decision. Both forms of action are astonishingly skillful, though thus far it seems that the way of intelligence is the better guarantor of survival—at least in so far as its application in technology has increased our average life expectancy by some twenty years.
But the gains of action by intelligence are bought at a price which at times seems so heavy that we might ask whether they are worth it. For the price of intelligence as we now know it is chronic anxiety, anxiety which appears to increase—oddly enough—to the very degree that human life is subjected to intelligent organization.
The type of intelligence that we have cultivated brings anxiety for at least three principal reasons. The first is that intelligent thinking works by dividing the world of experience into separate facts and events, simple enough for conscious attention to focus upon them one at a time.
But there are innumerable ways of dividing and selecting for attention the facts and events, the data, required for any prediction or decision, and thus when the moment comes for a choice there is always the rankling doubt that important data may have been overlooked. There is therefore no complete assurance that an important decision is right. Thus the ever-frustrated effort to gain complete assurance by reviewing the data becomes the special anxiety which we call a sense of responsibility.
The second is that the sense of responsibility goes hand in hand with a heightened sense of being an independent individual—a source of action which cannot depend upon simple instinct or spontaneity for doing the appropriate thing.
The intelligent man therefore feels independent of or cut off from the rest of nature, and in trying, ever frustratedly, to figure nature out with sufficient accuracy he acquires a feeling of fear and hostility toward everything outside his own will and its full control.
The third is that conscious attention reviews facts and events in series, even though they may be happening all together at once.
The Way of Zen Quotes
Thinking about them in series and making predictions and decisions about the future course of the series gives the intelligent man a vivid awareness of time. It appears to him as a basic life process which he must work against.
He knows that he must calculate rapidly to forestall it, though reviewing nature analytically, piece by piece, is not conductive to speed. Furthermore, knowledge of the future brings about emotional reactions to future events before they happen, and thus anxiety because, for example, one may get sick or will eventually die.
And apparently this does not trouble the creatures who act by instinct. Now action by intelligence is in a special and high degree characteristic of Western civilization, though other civilizations have developed it highly enough to experience the same problem of chronic anxiety. But Western civilization has acquired by far the greatest measure of skill in controlling the course of events by organized intelligence.
Yet this appears to have intensified rather than abated our anxiety. For to the extent that we have analyzed the natural world and the human world more thoroughly, to that extent it appears to us to be more complicated.
The scope of our detailed information about the world is so vast that every individual, every responsible source of action, finds it too great to master—without depending upon the collaboration of others who are, however, beyond his control.
Collaboration requires faith, but faith is an instinctual attitude; speaking quite strictly, it is not intelligent to trust what you have not analyzed. It looks, then, as if there is conflict, contradiction, and thus anxiety in the very nature of intelligence. As an efficient though slow and laborious means of conscious control, it builds up a body of information too complex to be grasped by its own method of reviewing events and facts one after another in series.
Machines or other people must be trusted to assist: but how much must one know, how many facts must one review, before deciding to accept a collaborator? Intelligence, which is in some sense systemic doubt, cannot proceed very far without also having to embrace its polar opposite—instinctual faith. So long as intelligence and faith seem mutually exclusive this is an impossible contradiction, for to the degree that intelligence is systematic doubt it cannot trust itself.
This is why lack of self-confidence is the peculiar neurosis of civilized man, and why he elaborates ever more complex arrangements for legal safeguarding, foolproofing, and checking, double-checking, and triple-checking every decisive action. All of which leads to the kind of bureaucratic stalemate with which we are so familiar I recall a recent incident in a department of the University of California where it was impossible to spend twenty-five dollars on a supply typist without filling out a complex form with twelve carbons, four of which were illegible.
Not only the anxiety but also the sheer stalemate and paralysis which often attend strictly intelligent and noninstinctual action are the more important causes of anti-intellectual movements in our society. It is through impatience and exasperation with such snarls that democracies vote themselves into dictatorships. It is in protest against the laborious unmanageability of vast technical knowledge in literature, painting, and music that writers and artists go berserk and break every rule in the name of sheer instinctual exuberance.
It is in revolt against the insufferable heaps of unproductive paperwork that small businesses sell out to big corporations, and independent professional men take routine salaried jobs without responsibility. It is also in despair of being able to understand or make any productive contribution to the highly organized chaos of our politico-economic system that large numbers of people simply abandon political and social commitments.
They just let society be taken over by a pattern of organization which is as self-proliferative as a weed, and whose ends and values are neither human nor instinctual but mechanical. And we should note that a self-contradictory system of action breeds forms of revolt which are contradictory among themselves.
To some extent it is certainly a manifestation of this anti-intellectualism that there has recently been a marked increase of Western interest in the philosophies and religions of Asia. Unlike Christianity—for reasons which we shall explain—these are ways of life which seem, above all, to offer release from conflict and anxiety.
Their goal is a state of inner feeling in which oppositions have become mutually co-operative instead of mutually exclusive, in which there is no longer any conflict between the individual man and nature, or between intelligence and instinct.
It is, however, quite difficult for us to understand this point of view, for the very reason that we habitually regard opposites as mutually exclusive, like God and the Devil. Because of this, our idea of unity and our way of solving conflicts is simply to eliminate one of the two parties. In other words, we have difficulty in seeing the relativity or mutual interdependence of contraries. For this reason our revolts against the excesses of intelligence are always in danger of selling out to instinct.
At the same time, it is perhaps an understandable reaction to the conflict in which Western man has been placed by both Christianity and scientific rationalism. Christianity, even as it is understood by quite thoughtful Christians, is certainly no remedy for anxiety.
Yet to be certain that one is saved is the sin of presumption and to be certain that one is damned is the sin of despair. Likewise God as the rational principle of the universe stands on the side of intelligence rather than instinct, and particularly on the side of a humble or self-doubting intelligence—since man has been perverted by original sin in all his faculties, both animal and rational. This is certainly a heroic and energetically fact-facing discipline.
But the more sensitively and wakefully it is pursued, the more one comes to a paralysis of the will. And in this perplexity it still matters absolutely that one choose the good. There are two obvious escapes from this dilemma. But here we find ourselves in another dilemma, for the religion of simple obedience soon totters toward empty formalism and moral legalism with no heart in it, the very Pharisaism against which Christ railed. The other escape is into a romanticism of the instincts, a glorification of mere impulse ignoring the equally natural gift of will and reason.
Yet, unlike most forms of Christianity, they do envisage, not an escape, but a resolution of the conflict within this present life. For they do indeed teach that good and evil, pleasure and pain, life and death are mutually interdependent, and that there is a Tao, a way of nature or a balance of nature, from which we can never actually deviate—however wrongly we may act from a limited point of view. Yet their grasp of the mutuality of opposites is infinitely more thorough than that of our romanticist with his exclusive valuation of precipitate and uncalculated action.
The difficult and subtle point which the romanticist misses and which, on the other extreme, the strict intellectual rationalist cannot understand at all, is that if all action and existence is in accord with the undeviating Tao or way of nature, no special means or methods are required to bring this accord into being.
The romanticist advertises his ignorance of the Tao in the very act of trying to be spontaneous, and of preferring the so-called natural and instinctual to the artificial and intelligent. To overcome the conflict between intelligence and instinct it is first necessary to understand, or at least imagine, a point of view, or perhaps a state of mind, which is experiential rather than intellectual—a kind of sensation rather than a set of ideas. When put into words, this sensation is always paradoxical, but in experience it is not paradoxical at all.
Everyone who has felt it has always felt at the same time that it is totally simple and clear. However, I think the same is true of all our sensations. There seems to be no paradox in describing our more ordinary sensations because everyone has had them, and the listener always knows what you mean. When the earth collides with a meteor, we can say either that the meteor ran into the earth or that the earth ran into the meteor. Whichever we say depends upon an arbitrary frame of reference, and so both statements are true, even though apparently contradictory.
In the same way it is only apparently contradictory to describe a sensation in which it seems that whatever I do freely and intelligently is at the same time completely determined, and vice versa. It seems that absolutely everything both inside and outside me is happening by itself, yet at the same time that I myself am doing all of it, that my separate individuality is simply a function, something being done by everything which is not me, yet at the same time everything which is not me is a function of my separate individuality.
Ordinarily we can see the truth of these seemingly paradoxical feelings if we take them separately, if we look at one without looking simultaneously at the other.
This is why, for example, the arguments for free will and determinism are equally cogent though seemingly contradictory. The same goes for almost all the great debates of Western philosophy—the realists against the nominalists, the idealists against the materialists, and so on.
We get into conflicts and debates about these problems because our language and our way of thinking are somewhat clumsy in their grasp of relationship. In other words, because it is much easier for us to see opposites as mutually exclusive than as mutually interdependent. The sensation I am trying to describe is the experience of things and events in relationship, as distinct from the partial experience of things and events in separation.
There seem to be relatively few people, even int eh civilizations of Asia, for whom relationship is an actual sensation, over and above a mere idea. The anxiety which comes about through the conflict of intelligence with instinct, of man as the conscious will with nature both in and around him, does not seem to me to have any solution unless we can actually feel relationship, unless it is a matter of clear sensation that as determined beings we are free, and that as free beings we are determined.
For if we can feel this way, it will not appear that the use of will and intelligence is a conflict with our natural environment and endowment. It is surely obvious that how you do things depends crucially upon how you feel. If you feel inwardly isolated from the natural world, your dealings with it will tend to be hostile and aggressive. It is not so much a matter of what you do as of how you do it, not so much the content as the style of action adopted.
It is easy enough to see this in leading or persuading other people, for one and the same communication may have quite opposite results according to the style or feeling with which it is given. Yet this is equally true in dealing with inanimate nature and with our own inner nature—with our instincts and appetites. They will yield to intelligence much more agreeably to the extent that we feel ourselves to be one with them, or, to put it another way, to be in relationship to them, to have the unity of mutual interdependence.
Furthermore, the sensation of relationship simply wipes out those special anxieties of the intelligence which come about as a result of the exaggerated feeling of individual responsibility of choice and of working against time. Why, then, do we not feel relationship? Why is the mutual interdependence between ourselves and the external world not the most obvious and dominant fact of consciousness?
Why do we not see that the world we try to control, our whole inner and outer natural environment, is precisely that which gives us the power to control anything?
It is because we look at things separately instead of simultaneously. When we are busy trying to control or change our circumstances, we ignore and are unconscious of the dependence of our consciousness and energy upon the outer world.
When, on the other hand, we are oppressed by circumstances and feel controlled by the outer world, we forget that our very own consciousness is bringing that world into being. For, as I said, the sun is light because there are eyes to see it—noises because there are ears to hear them, hard facts because there is soft skin to feel them. They were given to me by my father and mother, or perhaps by God.
Who am I if not this consciousness which I have just disclaimed? Surely it is obvious that there is no sort of little man inside us who has or who owns this consciousness on trust.
This is a figment of speech taken too seriously. It is the total abandonment of proprietorship on the external world of nature and the internal world of the human organism. It comes about from the insight that there is no proprietor, no inner controller. This becomes evident as soon as the consciousness which has felt itself to be the inner controller starts to examine itself, and finds out that it does not give itself the power of control.
When it thus becomes clear that I own nothing, not even what I have called myself, it is as if, to use St. When I can no more identify myself with that little man inside, there is nothing left to identify with—except everything! And thus in using intelligence what has hitherto been the course of nature, one has the realization that this is a new bend in the course and that the whole flood of the stream is behind it.
All that I have been describing is a subjective feeling. It gives no specific direction as to what is or is not a proper use of intelligence in varying the course of nature—which must always be a matter of opinion and of trial and error. What it does give is what I feel to be a correct apprehension of the continuum, of the context, in which we are working, and this seems to me to be prior to, basic to, the problem of what exactly is to be done.Let your ind alone; let it think whatever it likes.
The New Alchemy Preface Although written at different times during the past four years, the essays here gathered together have a common point of focus—the spiritual or mystical experience and its relation to ordinary material life. As will soon be obvious, a way of liberation can have no positive definition. In other words, because it is much easier for us to see opposites as mutually exclusive than as mutually interdependent.
One insight of Feynman was that this can be done via the so Lagrangian formulation of classical physics. The Book: It is easy enough to see this in leading or persuading other people, for one and the same communication may have quite opposite results according to the style or feeling with which it is given.
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