‘THE PERENNIAL PHILOSOPHY’ revisited | Gurdjieff's teaching: for scholars and practitioners

‘THE PERENNIAL PHILOSOPHY’ revisited | Gurdjieff's teaching: for scholars and practitioners

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‘THE PERENNIAL PHILOSOPHY’ revisited

JOHN ROBERT COLOMBO reopens his old copy

of Aldous Huxley’s important study

I have always had a soft spot in my heart for a book that I bought by mail from Samuel Weiser Inc., the well-known, used-book dealer, then located in New York City. I made the purchase on 18 July 1957. I know the date of the original purchase because in a firm hand I had inscribed the date on the back end-page of the coveted volume. I read the book shortly after buying it, as its fame had preceded my purchase of this title, and since then its spine has graced many a bookshelf in the houses in which I have since lived and worked.

The edition that I have of “The Perennial Philosophy” is cloth-bound (printers used real cloth in those days) and its distinctive colour (russet) has yet to fade. The edition measures 5.25″ by 8.25″ and there are eight preliminary pages followed by the text of 360 pages. In design the pages are unpretentious and hence attractive to behold, and because they are set in largish type they are quite easy to read. The pages are sewn rather than glued and the paper is cream-coloured and hence it shows no evidence of its age; there is not a mottle in sight. The edition in question is the first edition, or close to it, published by Huxley’s regular London-based publishing house, Chatto & Windus, in 1946. I wish I had the dust jacket but it was not supplied by Samuel Weiser.

The pages may not show their years, but in a great many ways the text of the book is quite dated, almost alarmingly so. Now, Aldous Huxley is an interesting writer who is best (and worst) described as an intellectual, a highbrow, or, to use the terminology that he employs, a “cerebrotonic.” As he explains in these pages, “Cerebrotonics hate to slam doors or raise their voices, and suffer acutely from the unrestrained bellowing and trampling of the somatotonic …. The emotional gush of the viscerotonic strikes them as offensively shallow and even insincere.”

With this vocabulary he is employing the psychology of human types elaborated by the American psychologist William Sheldon, a scheme long out of fashion yet dear to the hearts of students of consciousness studies everywhere. Nothing dates quite as quickly as psychological terminology. Psychical and spiritual terminology like “intellectual centre,” “emotional centre, “moving centre,” etc., seems to age hardly at all!

Huxley died at the age of sixty-nine in 1963, the same day that John F. Kennedy was assassinated. There is about the life and death of the English author and intellectual the sense of the dashing of high hopes, analogous to the early death of the American president. Huxley advanced from being a nihilist in his youth to a psychedelicist in his age. Where would the next twenty or thirty years have taken him? Perhaps to the altar of the nearest Episcopal church. The question is unanswerable.

The jury is still out about which genre is the best for Huxley: Was he finer as a literary artist (remember Point Counterpoint and Brave New World, the novels that ensured his reputation) or was he finer as a literary essayist (required reading in the 1950s was The Doors of Perception and Heaven and Hell, short memoirs that did so much to mark the coming of age of the psychedelic revolution of the late Fifties and early Sixties)? It matters little, but accompanying his migration from England to California was his move the ironic to the mythic levels of discourse, almost as a matter of course.

Everyone interested in consciousness studies has heard of his study called The Perennial Philosophy. It bears such a prescient and memorable title. His use of the title has preempted its use by any other author, neuropsychologist, Traditionalist, or enthusiast for the New Age. The book so nobly named did much to romanticize the notion of “perennialism” and to cast into the shade such long-established timid Christian notions of “ecumenicism” (Protestants dialoguing with Catholics, etc.) or “inter-faith” meetings (Christians encountering non-Christians, etc.). Who would cared about the beliefs of Baptists when one could care about the practices of Tibetans?

Huxley did his best to popularize serious speculation about the nature of man and the constitution of the universe, largely prompted by such speculations found in Vedanta. He was marked by his mid-life study of texts basic to Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam, and Christian mysticism. He knew about shamanism and perhaps about sorcery, alchemy, witchcraft, or wicca, but these aspects of his inquiries went unnoticed in his text. The New Age had yet to dawn.

What precisely is what he calls “the perennial philosophy”? Huxley answers this broad question in an even broader way on the first page of the Introduction to his book. His answer is surprisingly wordy, though his exposition is characteristically well organized. Here goes:

“Philosophia Perennis – the phrase was coined by Leibniz; but the thing – the metaphysic that recognizes a divine Reality substantial to the world of things and lives and minds; the psychology that finds in the soul something similar to, or even identical with, divine Reality; the ethic that places man’s final end in the knowledge of the immanent and transcendent Ground of all being – the thing is immemorial and universal.

“Rudiments of the Perennial Philosophy may be found among the traditionary lore of primitive peoples in every region of the world, and in its fully developed forms it has a place in every one of the higher religions. A version of this Highest Common Factor in all preceding and subsequent theologies was first committed to writing more than twenty-five centuries ago, and since that time the inexhaustible theme has been treated again and again, from the standpoint of every religious tradition and in all the principal languages of Asia and Europe.”

I like the idea of “this Highest Common Factor” because it begs a corresponding discussion on “a Lowest Common Multiple.” Huxley avoids this but then states, neatly, “Knowledge is a function of being.” I could quote more (and will, later), but the sentences that bring his Introduction to a conclusion are worth quoting here and now: “If one is not oneself a sage or saint, the best thing one can do, in the field of metaphysics, is to study the works of those who were, and who, because they had modified their merely human mode of being, were capable of a more than merely human kind and amount of knowledge.”

I first read these words some forty years ago when I was wowed and won by them. Rereading them now I have second thoughts. The book’s chapters are organized by theme, advancing from Chapter 1, “That Art Thou,” to Chapter 27, “Contemplation, Action and Social Utility.” 

I was not really surprised to find that the book’s contents are quite dated, but I was really surprised to find its arguments and rhetoric quite limited in appeal. The book is hortatory in style and substance, less of a psychological probing and more a hectoring that I had remembered it to be.

The book’s six-page, double-column index is extensive but unscholarly, and there was no need for him to index the word “consciousness” or its cognate terms “unconscious” and “subconscious” because these subjects are given no special treatment. There is no reference to Sigmund Freud; the single reference to Carl Jung draws attention to the psychologist’s use (his coinage, really) of the terms “introvert” and “extravert.” The contribution of Mircea Eliade, the multilingual scholar of shamanism, goes unmentioned. G.I. Gurdjieff and P.D. Ouspensky (whose lectures Huxley attended at Colet Gardens in London) go unremarked.

As well, there is no reference to R.M. Bucke’s monumental, turn-of-the-century tome titled “Cosmic Consciousness,” and details about consciousness-raising or altering drugs and psychedelia in general are all in Huxley’s future. Yet the psychologist William James had much to say about chemically inducted altered states, and also about the field of psychical research in general, to which James donated twenty years of his professional life, speculating on the characteristics of the various levels of consciousness. All these go unappreciated except for one passing reference to James, as if to acknowledge his absence.

“The Perennial Philosophy” is essentially an anthology of short passages taken from traditional Eastern texts and the writings of Western mystics, organized by subject and topic, with short connecting commentaries. No specific sources are given. Paging through the index gives the reader (or non-reader) an idea of who and what Huxley has taken seriously. Here are the entries in the index that warrant two lines of page references or more:

Aquinas, Augustine, St. Bernard, Bhagavad-Gita, Buddha, Jean Pierre Camus, St. Catherine, Christ, Chuang Tzu, “Cloud of Unknowing,” Contemplation, Deliverance, Desire, Eckhart (five lines, the most quoted person), Eternity, Fénelon, François de Sales, Godhead, Humility, Idolatry, St. John of the Cross, Knowledge, Lankavatara Sutra, William Law (another four lines), Logos, Love, Mahayana, Mind, Mortification, Nirvana, Perennial Philosophy (six lines, a total of 40 entries in all), Prayer, Rumi, Ruysbroeck, Self, Shankara, Soul, Spirit, “Theologia Germanica,” Truth, Upanishads (six different ones are quoted), Will, Words.

Painfully absent from these pages are Huxley’s mordant wit and insights into human nature. It is as if his quicksilverish intelligence has been put on hold or has found itself in a deep freeze of his own making. When it comes to selecting short and sometimes long quotations, he is no compiler like John Bartlett of quotation fame, but he does find time to make a few deft personal observations.

Here is a suggestion from Chapter 3, “Personality, Sanctity, Divine Incarnation”: 

“But surely people would think twice about making or accepting this affirmation if, instead of ‘personality,’ the word employed had been its Teutonic synonym, ‘selfness.’ For ‘selfness,’ though it means precisely the same, carries none of the high-class overtones that go with ‘personality.’ On the contrary, its primary meaning comes to us embedded, as it were, in discords, like the note of a cracked bell.”

Chapter 7, “Truth,” offers the following gem: 

“Beauty in art or nature is a matter of relationships between things not in themselves intrinsically beautiful. There is nothing beautiful, for example, about the vocables ‘time,’ or ‘syllable.’ But when they are used in such a phrase as ‘to the last syllable of recorded time,’ the relationship between the sound of the component words, between our ideas of the things for which they stand, and between the overtones of association with which each word and the phrase as a whole are charged, is apprehended, by a direct and immediate intuition, as being beautiful.”

Chapter 12, “Time and Eternity,”gives the following caveat about the relative absence of Eastern literature in Western translation: 

“This display of what, in the twentieth century, is an entirely voluntary and deliberate ignorance is not only absurd and discreditable; it is also socially dangerous. Like any other form of imperialism, theological imperialism is a menace to permanent world peace. The reign of violence will never come to an end until, first, most human beings accept the same, true philosophy of life; until, second, this Perennial Philosophy is recognized as the highest factor common to all the world religions; until, third, the adherents of every religion renounce the idolatrous time-philosophies, with which, in their own particular faith, the Perennial Philosophy of eternity has been overlaid; until, fourth, there is a world-wide rejection of all the political pseudo-religions, which place man’s supreme good in future time and therefore justify and commend the commission of every sort of present iniquity as a means to that end. If these conditions are not fulfilled, no amount of political planning, no economic blue-prints however ingeniously drawn, can prevent the recrudescence of war and revolution.”

That passage was written during the Battle of Britain, so it is perhaps understandable that the essayist has become the preacher, the novelist the moralist. The text of his sermonizing seems to be that knowing about the perennial philosophy will, ipso facto, without further ado, without any other effort on anyone’s behalf, transform man’s bellicose nature into something finer and better!

As a reader of “The Perennial Philosophy,” and now its re-reader, I must admit to experiencing a sense of exhilaration the first time round – and to experiencing a sense of anticlimax and even dismay the second time round.

 Today the book seems too arch and so idiosyncratic! As well, I could not help but note the author’s lack of generosity and his unwillingness to express any sense of indebtedness to his predecessors. He fails to note two earlier, landmark publications in his chosen field: William James’s “The Varieties of Religious Experience” (1902) and Evelyn Underhill’s “Mysticism” (1911).

Yet these influential works were written decades before the appearance of Huxley’s book; indeed, they have aged far less obviously that has Huxley’s. As well, Underhill refers to James in her book, if only to argue with his thesis, but Huxley’s ignores both of them and their arguments to develop his own semi-thesis. In point of fact, the bibliography has an entry for “Mysticism” (with a reprint year of 1924, instead of 1911, the original year of publication).

In passing, it is interesting to note that the same bibliography draws attention to the publication of three books that were written by René Guénon, though no editorial use is made of even one of these – or of the writings of the leading Traditionalists: A.K. Coomaraswamy, Frithjof Schuon, Titus Burckhardt. To this cabal should be added Whitall Perry, whose tome A Treasury of Traditional Wisdom (1971, 1986, 2000) is rightfully regarded as the principal anthology in this field.

To the extent that he was a follower of any mainstream religion, Huxley was a student of the Hindu system of thought known as Vedanta, which was making its American beachhead in Los Angeles, California, close to Huxley’s residence in Malibu. The text offers four references to Vedanta, the last one being the following observation: 

“The shortest _mantram_ is OM – a spoken symbol that concentrates within itself the whole Vedanta philosophy. To this and other _mantrams_ Hindus attribute a kind of magical power. The repetition of them is a sacramental act, conferring grace _ex opere operato_.”

In summary, Huxley’s book made an immediate impact upon publication and reverberates to this day, but upon examination the concept of the book is more convincing than is the accomplishment; at the same time, the parts are more intriguing than the whole. If it is a landmark study of anything at all, it takes its place in the eclectic division of the syncretistic field variously known as “religious knowledge,” “religious studies,” “comparative religion,” “Near Eastern studies,” “history of religion” – euphemisms abound! – in drawing the attention of English-speaking readers to the rich mother-lode of philosophical, psychological, and metaphysical thought that is to be found in translations of traditional Eastern texts and in the writings of Christian mystics of the past.

One of the meanings of the word “perennial” is “enduring,” and enduring is what this book is. “The Perennial Philosophy” endures in memory. A week or so ago, I took it down from the place it had graced on my bookshelf and dusted it off; later today I will return it to its rightful place. After all, it occupies a special space in my memory … as well as in the memories of its great many readers over the last six decades.

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John Robert Colombo is nationally known for his compilations of Canadiana. These include such studies as “Mysterious Canada” and “UFOs over Canada.” He received the Harbourfront Literary Award and holds honourary D.Litt. from York University, Toronto. He is an Associate of the Northrop Frye Centre, Victoria College, University of Toronto. Check his website < www .colombo – plus . ca > .

Alduous Huxley's Truth Beyond Tradition - Tricycle: The Buddhist Review

Alduous Huxley's Truth Beyond Tradition - Tricycle: The Buddhist Review

Alduous Huxley’s Truth Beyond Tradition

Author Aldous Huxley played an early and instrumental role in popularizing buddhism in the west. but what was his view of buddhism? and what does it offer buddhists today? Dana Sawyer reports.

By Dana SawyerFALL 2003

Aldous Huxley is remembered today as an important novelist of the twentieth century, author of the now-classic Brave New World. But of his nearly fifty books, most were in fact works of nonfiction, and in these he addressed many of the ills of modern society: rampant population growth, environmental degradation, and socioeconomic inequalities, among other concerns. In his search for answers, Huxley drew deeply from Buddhist sources—and, like his close friend Alan Watts, became an early advocate of Buddhism in the West. But what about Buddhism appealed to Huxley? And how does his assessment of the tradition compare with that of Western Buddhists today?

Aldous Huxley, circa 1950. © Bettman/Corbis

Aldous Huxley, circa 1950. © Bettman/Corbis

While Huxley certainly endorsed many aspects of Buddhism, his work nonetheless issues an interesting challenge (and potential threat) to what might be called “traditional Buddhism,” the formal schools of Asian Buddhism. Central to Huxley’s challenge is his assertion that no religious tradition exercises a monopoly on truth; indeed, that ultimate truth can be found only through a search free of dogma and the rigid demands of orthodoxy. One can be a Buddhist, in other words, but equally and at the same time a Muslim, a Hindu, a Christian. What is perhaps most interesting about Huxley’s challenge is that its echo can be heard today in the dharma halls of Western Buddhist centers.

Aldous Huxley was born in 1894, in Surrey, England, to a family of famous intellectuals. This was shortly after the construction of the Eiffel Tower (then the tallest structure in the world), in a period that literary scholar and critic Joseph Wood Krutch once called the “Age of Confidence,” a reference to the popular assumption that science and technology would soon create a secular paradise on earth. By the time Huxley graduated from Oxford in 1919, however, much of that confidence had waned. The First World War had already shown that technology could be used as easily for destruction as for creation. But even more devastating was the corrosive effect of science on the traditional Judeo-Christian foundations of meaning and values. This, of course, was liberating in many ways—and Huxley himself was happy to be free of values he believed were built upon superstition and feudal entitlement. But the disciplines of science showed no prospects for creating a new foundation for meaning and values, and this worried Huxley deeply.

Positivism, the philosophical position founded by Auguste Comte and based on scientific materialism, suggested that there is no meaning in life because an absolute meaning can neither be found nor proven. Comte suggested that all values are culturally conditioned and therefore relative, rendering the universe itself a moral vacuum. While many intellectuals accepted this viewpoint, Huxley wondered if the scientific community’s inability to quantify truth—or at least a “meaningful” truth—might not rather indicate a limitation of the scientific method. What if truth—like love and beauty—does exist but cannot be quantified? What if it passes through the grasp of the scientific method as the sea passes through the nets of a fisherman? Positivists, from Comte to the present, have assumed that the problems they cannot solve necessarily have no answers, but Huxley believed they were just looking in the wrong places and using the wrong approach. In Ends and Means (1937), he wrote, “Promoting their epistemological ineptitude to the rank of a criterion of truth, dogmatic scientists have often branded everything beyond the pale of their limited competence as unreal and even impossible.”

Huxley argued that if we limit our grounds for meaning and values only to what science can quantify, we create a reductionism that herds us directly toward materialism—since material things can be quantified. This reduces the foundation of meaning to physical comfort and pleasure alone. And Huxley found this proposition “vulgar,” to use his term, because it negates the possibility of a deeper truth and purpose. “Comfort is a means, not an end. The modern world seems to regard it as an end in itself, an absolute good. One day, perhaps, the earth will have been turned into one vast feather-bed, with man’s body dozing on top of it and his mind underneath, like Desdemona, smothered.” In Brave New World (1932), Huxley presented a cautionary tale of what life could become if culture were reduced to such materialistic foundations: In his vision of the future, sexual promiscuity is raised to a virtue, close emotional relationships are forbidden, and “soma,” a drug of pleasure and escape, replaces both intimacy and spirituality.

In later works, Huxley sought to define a reasonable and humanistic foundation for meaning and values. His mature conclusions are found in The Perennial Philosophy (1945), in which he outlines his theory of a “natural” religion behind and at the root of all the world’s religions. In the text, Huxley quotes from saints and scholars of many traditions who represent the “perennial philosophy,” but his viewpoint sounds most similar to that of certain schools of Buddhism and Hinduism—and almost nothing like those of Christianity or Islam.

Huxley was drawn to the idea of a spirituality based on the growth of consciousness, on direct apprehension of the sacred rather than faith in its existence. As a consequence, when he speaks of Islam he quotes only the Sufis, and when he speaks of Christianity he cites only the mystics. He was drawn to the ideal—central to Buddhism but generally antithetical to the Western philosophical tradition—of ultimate truth as experiential knowledge rather than a collection of concepts or facts. Huxley also agreed with Buddhists that a meaningful life transcends exclusive concern for material comfort and pleasure—and that serenity and insight come only when we look beyond these things. “The condition of an expanding and technologically progressive system is universal craving,” Huxley criticizes. But, he adds, “desirelessness is the condition of deliverance and illumination.” Huxley borrowed from Buddhism, but was he a Buddhist—and if so, of what kind, and to what extent?

Historian and philosopher Gerald Heard, who knew Huxley well and was himself deeply familiar with mysticism, once speculated that Huxley’s viewpoint was closest to that of Theravada Buddhism, and that The Perennial Philosophy articulates a Theravada perspective. It is certainly easy to appreciate Heard’s claim. Theravadins believe that the Buddha was only a man, not a god or a godlike being, and that he is valuable to us primarily as a role model: The Buddha was a person and he became enlightened; therefore, all persons are capable of becoming enlightened. Theravadins, in general, do not believe that we can grow spiritually except by our own efforts. No lord will bend down to lift us up, nor will any supernatural devil or demon torment us; it is only we who bring, and have brought, disaster and torment to the earth.

Huxley liked the worldliness of the Theravada viewpoint and the weight it places on personal initiative. He did not agree, however, with what he perceived as an overemphasis on monasticism, because he thought it unnecessary for reaching enlightenment. He also saw in Theravada Buddhism a tendency to be dogmatic with regard to meditation practices, which he felt didn’t need to be so structured. He preferred the Mahayanist cultivation of compassion and social responsibility to the Theravada goal of arhatship, or “solitary realization.” As he makes clear in Doors of Perception (1956) and in other later works, he agreed with the Mahayanists that one must become a bodhisattva, a being whose wisdom expresses itself in compassion and whose avowed goal is to forward the enlightenment of all beings. Huxley believed that mysticism could transcend its general tendencies toward quietism and isolationism, and result in social harmony. In fact, he saw this as an ethical imperative, once writing, “The Kingdom of God is within us, but at the same time it is our business to contribute to the founding of the Kingdom of God upon earth.”

Yet Huxley did not embrace Mahayana Buddhism in its entirety. He rejected what he saw as its overreliance on prayer. Central to Mahayana orthodoxy is the belief in the trikaya, the “three bodies” of the Buddha, which include the sambhogakaya, the body that manifests as celestial buddhas and bodhisattvas from whom we may solicit help for mundane concerns as well as spiritual realization. In many sects of Mahayana, such as the Pure Land schools, worship of beings like Amitabha Buddha becomes the central practice, and faith in a power outside of oneself is considered essential to personal transformation. Huxley was a firm believer in using one’s own will to advance the quality of one’s life, and he tended to denigrate prayer in general. In Huxley’s novel Eyeless in Gaza, Dr. Miller, a mouthpiece for Huxley’s philosophy, observes,

 

Aldous Huxley, 1946. © Bettman/Corbis

Aldous Huxley, 1946. © Bettman/Corbis

I’ve never really liked it, you know. Not what’s ordinarily meant by prayer at any rate. All that asking for special favours and guidances and forgivenesses—I’ve always found that it tends to make one egotistical, preoccupied with one’s own ridiculous, self-important little personality. When you pray in the ordinary way, you’re merely rubbing yourself into yourself. You return to your own vomit, if you see what I mean. Whereas what we’re all looking for is some way of getting beyond our own vomit.

Huxley also was not comfortable with the idea of supreme beings and gods, and only grudgingly allowed theism a measure of credibility (often referring to the Judeo-Christian God as the “Gaseous Vertebrate”). In Eyeless in Gaza, he also writes:

Which gives a man more power to realize goodness—belief in a personal or an impersonal God? Answer: It depends. Some minds work one way, some another. Mine, as it happens, finds no need, indeed, finds it impossible to think of the world in terms of personality.

Huxley believed that to elevate the sacred to a status above oneself was simultaneously to lower one’s appraisal of one’s own true dignity. After all, every person, in essence, is the sacred. Each person is a buddha, if they will only wake up to this fact. In Huxley’s view, one should aspire to the enlightenment and compassion of Amitabha but get up off one’s knees to better demonstrate that compassion in the world.

In terms of the Mahayana teachings, Huxley’s mysticism is closest in many ways to Ch’an Buddhism, which developed in China during the sixth and seventh centuries, and later became known as Zen in Japan. Ch’an adepts like Lin-chi avoided devotionalism, focusing instead on self-effort to reach enlightened awareness. Ch’an Buddhists believed in the necessity of centering one’s spirituality in this world. If, as the Heart Sutra tells us, “form is emptiness and emptiness is form,” then the sacred is everywhere, and this world must not be separated from it. Enlightenment and samsara (the worldly realm of rebirth) are ultimately one and the same reality in Mahayana Buddhism (not so clearly the case in Theravada), and in Zen we find this viewpoint embraced to the fullest. For Zen Buddhists, the Pure Land of Amitabha is the very world we inhabit here in the present, and only the fetters of ignorance prevent us from recognizing this truth. Huxley greatly appreciated this Zen emphasis on the accessibility of enlightenment, as evidenced in his writings in The Perennial Philosophy, and in his last novel, Island (1962).

A characteristic of Huxley’s mysticism is that it is very “this-worldly.” For Huxley, mysticism’s rewards are enjoyed in the realm of everyday experience, and for many readers this is a primary attraction to his work. He attempted to balance the transcendent and the mundane. As Huston Smith, an important authority on world religions, once remarked, “Huxley’s regard for mysticism was well known by dint of being so nearly notorious. What some overlooked was his equal interest in the workaday world. . . . To those who, greedy for transcendence, deprecated the mundane, he counseled that ‘we must make the best of both worlds.’ To their opposites, the positivists, his word was ‘Alright, one world at a time; but not half a world.’”

This was the kind of Buddhism that Huxley advocated—and he certainly helped clarify the growing American dharma of his time—but, again, was he a Buddhist? In the final analysis, no. Huxley took from Buddhism a set of teachings that he believed clearly articulated the nature of truth, and a set of practices that can be applied to the project of realization. He saw Buddhism as a means rather than as an end; he embraced it functionally rather than dogmatically, agreeing with Alan Watts, who wrote in his autobiography, “I think of religion as something to be used—like a set of tools—rather than followed.” To call himself a Buddhist, Huxley would have enshrined a means as an end in itself—which was his specific definition of idolatry. Buddhism, for Huxley, offers but one description of the primordial truths underlying all religion. It contains explanations that Huxley considered on target (“the best of the Mahayana sutras contain an authentic formulation of the Perennial Philosophy”); but Buddhism remained for him only one explanation of a truth that other traditions have also correctly identified—and which is ultimately beyond all words, even those of the Buddhist sutras. To summarize, Huxley was in many ways a Buddhist—but not only a Buddhist.

If he could have viewed the emerging Buddhist dharma in the West today, Huxley would have applauded its general tendency to be ecumenical, to look beyond any one tradition and borrow from many. He would find it healthy that many American Buddhists borrow not only across the various Buddhist dharmas but also take yoga classes, study Hindu scriptures, and keep a copy of Rumi by their bedsides. He would appreciate Joseph Goldstein’s influential new book, One Dharma, for coaching the American sangha to be inclusive—and for pointing out that direct experience must be the proof of the pudding that determines the efficacy of all teachings. Goldstein sounds very much like Huxley when he reminds his readers that “freedom is the vital issue, not our ideas about it.”

But if Goldstein believes this, why doesn’t he drop the other shoe? Why stop, as he does, at the claim of one Buddhist dharma? Why not say “One Dharma” and really mean it? And here is the seed of Huxley’s (and perhaps Goldstein’s) challenge to the future of Buddhism in the West—and certainly to traditional Asian Buddhism. Specifically, Huxley would find nothing in Goldstein’s thesis preventing an aspirant from drawing inspiration from beyond the Buddhist teachings. For Huxley it would be arbitrary to draw only on Buddhist sources simply because they were labeled “Buddhism.” Certainly, Patanjali’s Yoga philosophy, from the Hindu tradition, is closer in teachings and methods to Theravada Buddhism than Theravada Buddhism is to Tibetan Buddhism. And Yogachara Buddhism is closer in content to Advaita Vedanta, a prominent school of Hindu philosophy, than it is to the Buddhism of Shinran—or to the Pure Land schools in general. Why not borrow from outside of Buddhism if meaning is found there?

Ultimately, Huxley would argue that we must accept that truth is beyond words and beyond “isms.” He would ask us to consider our ultimate purpose: Do we most want to preserve traditional Buddhism, or do we want to reach enlightenment? We may find that the latter challenges the former, and we may need, as the Zen maxim advocates, to “kill the Buddha” we meet on the road, in order to become buddhas ourselves.

This approach offers an opportunity—one embraced by many Western Buddhists today—to borrow across religious traditions. But it also brings danger, and Goldstein is clear on this when he asks, “Is the path of One Dharma a melting-pot approach that is simply making a thin soup? Or is a synthesis of traditions occurring that is vitalizing and strengthening our understanding?” Within Buddhism today there are defenders of both positions. Like his friends Krishnamurti and Alan Watts, Huxley believed it is possible to take from diverse teachings without necessarily making a thin soup. Goldstein calls the path of One Dharma a “razor’s edge” that must be walked with caution. Huxley, broadening the scope of “One Dharma” even further, would agree—and then he would advise us to take the walk, for though it presents the danger of falling into thin soup on one side, it avoids the danger of dogmatism on the other.

Does this mean that Huxley would advocate eradicating a separate Buddhist dharma? That people should embrace the wider, more ecumenical religion of the perennial philosophy? No. Huxley didn’t believe that the perennial philosophy is a religion—if we mean by that either a new dogma or a new path. He saw it rather as a philosophical disposition and a subtext of all religions. He advocated the perennial philosophy because he believed that by acknowledging a common subtext to all religions, we are better equipped to understand the difference between the path and the goal in our own practice, and to understand that our personal spiritual path ultimately leads us beyond paths. He challenges us to be skeptical of what we think we know for sure. He advises us to accept the same hard task that Goldstein recommends: to measure the value of teachings as they facilitate our direct awakening.

From one perspective, Huxley is advocating a new direction in world Buddhism based on the scientific principle of the “working hypothesis.” He asks us to hold our paths provisionally, to be willing to alter them for something more effective. From another perspective, his philosophy is arguably a return to the original Buddhist viewpoint. Huxley believed the Buddha himself embraced a provisional path, that on the issue of dogma he maintained “the attitude of a strict operationalist” and would “speak only of the spiritual experience, not the metaphysical entity. . . .” But whether new or old, Huxley’s position challenges the dogma of sectarian Buddhism, and it remains to be seen which path—and which view of the path—we in the West will take.

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Dana Sawyer is a professor of religion and philosophy at the Maine College of Art and the author of Aldous Huxley: A Biography.

The perennial philosophy by Aldous Huxley - YouTube

The perennial philosophy by Aldous Huxley - YouTube


The perennial philosophy by Aldous Huxley
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This is a chapter-wise summary of the book 'The Perennial Philosophy' by Aldous Huxley. Perennial Philosophy is a term coined by Leibniz meaning eternal DIVINE REALITY. That there is something in the soul(or the soul itself) similar to, or even identical with, divine reality. And this reality is immemorial and universal. The perennial philosophy is primarily concerned with the one, divine Reality, substantial to the manifold world of things and lives and minds. *upcoming chapters will be added into this playlist*


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That Art Thou | the perennial philosophy - chapter 1 | Aldous Huxley


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The Nature Of The Ground | the perennial philosophy - chapter 2 | Aldous Huxley

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Personal, Sanctity, Divine Incarnation | the perennial philosophy - chapter 3 | Aldous Huxley

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God in the world | the perennial philosophy - chapter 4 | Aldous Huxley

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Charity | the perennial philosophy - chapter 5 | Aldous Huxley

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Mortification and Non-Attachment | the perennial philosophy - chapter 6 | Aldous Huxley

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Truth | the perennial philosophy - chapter 7 | Aldous Huxley

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Religion and Temperament | the perennial philosophy - chapter 8 | Aldous Huxley

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Self knowledge | the perennial philosophy - chapter 9 | Aldous Huxley

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Grace and Free Will | the perennial philosophy - chapter 10 | Aldous Huxley

Truth | the perennial philosophy - chapter 7 | Aldous Huxley

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이병철 -도덕경 62 道者萬物之奧를 읽다, 사람을 어찌 버릴 수 있으랴.

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-도덕경 62 道者萬物之奧를 읽다/
사람을 어찌 버릴 수 있으랴.
매달 한번 씩 숲마루재에 모여 책읽기를 핑게삼아 수다를 즐기는 모임에서 지난 해부터 읽어온 노자의 도덕경과 케이티의 도덕경 해설판?인 '천가지 이름의 기쁨'을 올해도 이어 읽는다. 한번 모임 때마다 5장씩을 내리 읽지만 한달에 한번이니 진도가 더디다.
매번 겉핥기식으로 읽을 수밖에 없는 아쉬움이 크다. 그래도 여러 말씀 가운데 한 두 말씀이라도 가슴에 담을 수 있다면 언제가는 그것이 씨앗이 되어 싹틀 때가 있지 않겠는가 하는 기대로 읽고 있다.
이번 모임에서 함께 읽을 분량은 61장에서 65장인데. 케이티의 4가지 질문 연습도 함께 하기로 했으니 시간이 짧아 본문은 대충 뛰어넘는 형태로 진행해야 한다.
내가 도덕경 읽기에 참고하는 책이 무위당의 "노자이야기'다. 스승과 사형이 대담 형태로 나눈 이야기를 사형이 풀어쓴 책인데, 지금 참고삼아 보고 있는 이 책도 스승과 사형이 내게 보내준 그 책이다.
이 책을 읽고 있으면 치악산 자락의 봉산동 그 작은 집에서 두 분이 앉아 묻고 답하며 서로의 생각을 나누는 모습이 절로 그려진다. 그 모습이 새삼 그립다.
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오늘 62장, '도는 만물의 아랫목'이라는 대목을 읽는데, 선생님의 음성이 유난히 더 생생히 들려와 가슴이 아릿해진다.
선생님이 타계하신지도 어느새 27년, 이제 관옥사형도 일흔 아흔에 접어들었구나.
아침에 눈을 뜰 때마다 미소를 짓고 만트라를 외우곤 하지만 갈수록 어지러운 세상을 바라보면 가슴이 절로 무거워짐을 어찌할 수가 없다.
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<스승과 사형이 나눈 대화 한 부분을 여기에도 나눈다.>
-착하지 못한 사람이라고 해서 어찌 그를 버릴 수 있겠느냐, 이런말이지. 왜냐하면 그도 역시 속에 道를 모시고 있는 사람이거든. 사람을 버린다는 건 곧 그 속에 모셔져 있는 道를 비린다는 것인데, 그게 道를 모시고 있는 사람으로서 어찌 가능한 일이겠느냐, 이런말이야.
-옳습니다. 그래서 성인(聖人)은 무기인(無棄人)이라고 했지요.
-그래. 아무리 못된 사람이라 해도 말이지 그를 버릴 수는 없는 거라.
-그런데 우리는 어떻습니까? 너무나도 쉽게 아무개는 착한 사람, 아무개는 못된 놈 하고 판단하지요. 그러고는 자기 판단에 따라서 누구는 잡고 누구는 버리고 그러지요.
-모두 미망(人) 속에서 헤매고 있는 거지.
-그러면 안 된다. 생각하면서도 어떤 사람은 반갑고 어떤 사람은 싫고, 그런 저의 감정을 제 힘으로 어떻게 할 수가 없어요.
-아직 깨달음의 완성에 이르지 못했으니 어쩌겠는가? 나는 아직 멀었구나 하면서 넘어졌다가 다시 일어나 비틀거리면서 가는 거지.
내가 좋은 친구들을 시내에서 만나 술 한잔 하고는 道가 어떻고 德이 어떻고 한참 저도 모르는 주접을 떨잖겠나? 그러고 나서 말이지 원주천 뚝방을 걸어 달빛 그림자 밟으며 집으로 돌아올 적에 말이야, 아이구, 내가 이거 오늘도 또 빈 달구지마냥 괜히 시끄러웠구나 하는 생각에 얼마나 참담한지 그 심정을 자네는 모를 걸세. 그렇지만 어쩌나? 울음은 속으로 혼자서 울고 다음날이면 또 친구들 만나러 나가는 거라.
-저도 비슷한 심정일 때가 있습니다. 어쩌다가 목사(牧師)로 되고 보니 말을 많이 하게 되는데 말을 많이 한 날 모임이 끝나고 혼자 남으면 그렇게 허전할 수가 없지요. 무슨 말이 이렇게 많아야 한단 말인가? 무슨 글을 또 이렇게 많이 써야 하는가? 울고 싶을 때가 많아요. 그러면서도 이게 다 내가 져야 할 업보(業報)거니 생각하며 살아가는 거지요.
-비틀거리는 건 좋지만 곁길로 빠지거나 뒤를 돌아보는 건 안돼! 이 길로 들어섰으니 가는 데까지 곧장 가는 거야.
-알겠습니다.
-문자공부(文字工夫)만 가지고는 안 되네!
-예.
-몸과 마음을 항복시켜야 해.
道를 모셨으니 몸과 마음을 그분께 항복 시켜야 한다구.
-예.
-사람이고 물건이고 함부로 버리는 건 道를 모신 자의 할 짓이 아닌 거라. 모든 사람, 모든 물건을 받들어 모셔야 한다는 얘길세.
-알겠습니다. 애써 보겠습니다.

선생께서 사형에게 하신 그 당부의 말씀이 오늘따라 내게 더욱 아프게 다가온다.
아직 갈 길이 먼 것인가.

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Benedetto Croce - Wikipedia

Benedetto Croce - Wikipedia

Aesthetics[edit]

Croce's work Breviario di estetica (The Essence of Aesthetics) appears in the form of four lessons (quattro lezioni) in aesthetics that he was asked to write and deliver at the inauguration of Rice University in 1912. He declined an invitation to attend the event, but he wrote the lessons and submitted them for translation so that they could be read in his absence.

In this brief, but dense, work, Croce sets forth his theory of art. He believed that art is more important than science or metaphysics since only art edifies us. He claimed that all we know can be reduced to imaginative knowledge. 

Art springs from the latter, making it at its heart, pure imagery. 

All thought is based in part on this, and it precedes all other thought. 

The task of an artist is then to invent the perfect image that they can produce for their viewer since this is what beauty fundamentally is – the formation of inward, mental images in their ideal state. Our intuition is the basis for forming these concepts within us.

Croce was the first to develop a position later known as aesthetic expressivism,^[23] the idea that art expresses emotions, not ideas.^[24] (R. G. Collingwood later developed a similar thesis.)^[23]

Croce's theory was later debated by such contemporary Italian philosophers as Umberto Eco, who locates the aesthetic within a semiotic construction.^[25]