Excerpts from
by Alan W. Watts,
Pantheon Books,
Random House/Vintage,
1951,
pages 9 - 28.
I have always
been fascinated
by the law
of reversed effort.
Sometimes I call it
the "backwards law".
When you try
to stay on the surface
of the water,
you sink;
but when you try
to sink
you float.
When you
hold your breath
you lose it --
which immediately
calls to mind
an ancient
and
much neglected saying,
"Whosoever
would save his
soul
shall lose it."
This book
is an exploration of this law
in relation to man's quest
for psychological security,
and to his efforts to find
spiritual and intellectual
certainty
in religion
and philosophy.
It is written
in the conviction
that no theme
could be more appropriate
in a time when human life
seems to be
so peculiarly insecure
and uncertain.
It maintains that
this insecurity
is the result
of trying to be secure,
and that,
contrariwise,
salvation and sanity
consist in
the most radical recognition
that
we have no way
of saving ourselves.
This begins to sound
like something from
"Alice Through
the Looking Glass",
of which
this book
is a sort of
philosophical equivalent.
For the reader
will frequently find himself
in a topsy-turvy world
in which
the normal order of things
seems to be
completely reversed,
and common sense
turned inside out
and upside down.
Those who have read
some of my former books,
such as
"Behold the Spirit"
and
"The Supreme Identity",
will find things that seem to be
total contradictions
of much that I have said before.
This, however,
is true only in some
minor respects.
For I have discovered
that the essence and crux
of what I was trying to say
in those books
was seldom understood;
the framework
and
the context of my thought
often
hid the meaning.
My intention here
is to approach the same meaning
from entirely different premises,
and
in terms which do not confuse
thought
with the multitude
of irrelevant associations
which time and tradition
have hung upon them.
In those books
I was concerned
to vindicate certain principles
of
religion,
philosophy,
and
metaphysic
by reinterpreting them.
This was, I think,
like putting legs
on a snake --
unnecessary
and confusing,
because
only doubtful truths
need defense.
This book, however,
is in the spirit
of the Chinese sage
Lao-tzu,
that master of the law
of reversed effort,
who declared
that
those who justify
themselves
do not convince,
that
to know truth
one must
get rid of knowledge,
and that
nothing
is more powerful
and
creative
than
emptiness --
from which
men shrink.
Here, then,
my aim is to show --
backwards-fashion --
that those essential
realities of religion
and metaphysic
are
vindicated
in doing without them,
and
manifested
in being destroyed.
It is my happy duty
to acknowledge
that
the preparation of this book
has been made possible
by the generosity
of the Foundation
established by the late
Franklin J. Matchette
of New York,
a man who devoted
much of his life
to
the problems of science
and metaphysic,
being
one of those
somewhat rare
businessmen
who are not
wholly absorbed
in the vicious circle
of
making money
to make money
to make money.
The Matchette Foundation
is therefore dedicated
to
the pursuit
of metaphysical studies,
and needless to say,
it is to me
a sign of insight and imagination
on their part
that they have been willing
to interest themselves
in
so "contrary" an approach
to
metaphysical knowledge.
Alan W. Watts
San Francisco
May 1951
+++
Chapter One
By all outward appearances
our life
is a spark of light
between
one
eternal darkness
and
another.
Nor is the interval
between these two nights
an unclouded day,
for the more we are
able to feel
pleasure,
the more we are vulnerable
to pain --
and,
whether in background
or foreground,
the pain
is always with us.
We have been
accustomed
to make this existence
worthwhile
by the belief
that there is
more than
the outward appearance --
that we live
for a future
beyond this life here.
For
the outward appearance
does not seem
to make sense.
If living is to end in pain,
incompleteness,
and nothingness,
it seems a cruel
and futile experience
for beings
who are born
to reason,
hope,
create,
and love.
Man, as a being of sense,
wants his life to make sense,
and he has found it
hard to believe
that it does so
unless there is more
than what he sees --
unless there is
an eternal order
and
an eternal life
behind the uncertain
and
momentary experience
of life-and-death.
I may not, perhaps,
be forgiven
for introducing sober matters
with a frivolous notion,
but the problem of making sense
out of the seeming chaos
of experience
reminds me
of my childish desire
to send someone
a parcel of water
in the mail.
The recipient unties the string,
releasing the deluge in his lap.
But the game would never work,
since it is irritatingly impossible
to wrap and tie
a pound of water
in a paper package.
There are kinds of paper
which won't disintegrate
when wet,
but the trouble is
to get the water itself
into any manageable shape,
and to tie the string
without bursting the bundle.
The more one studies
attempted solutions
to problems
in politics
and
economics,
in art,
philosophy,
and religion,
the more one
has the impression
of extremely gifted people
wearing out their ingenuity
at the impossible
and futile task
of trying to get
the water of life
into neat
and permanent packages.
There are many reasons
why this
should be
particularly evident
to a person living today.
We know so much
about history,
about all the packages
which have been tied
and which
have duly come apart.
We know so much detail
about the problems of life
that they resist
easy simplification,
and seem
more complex
and shapeless
than ever.
Furthermore,
science and industry
have so increased
both
the tempo
and
the violence
of living
that our packages
seem to come apart
faster and faster every day.
There is, then,
the feeling
that we live in a time
of unusual insecurity.
In the past hundred years
so many
long-established traditions
have broken down --
traditions
of family
and social life,
of government,
of the economic order,
and
of religious belief.
As the years go by,
there seem to be
fewer and fewer
rocks
to which we can hold,
fewer things
which we can regard
as
absolutely right
and
true,
and
fixed for all time.
To some
this is a welcome release
from
the restraints
of moral,
social,
and spiritual dogma.
To others
it is a dangerous
and terrifying
breach
with reason and sanity,
tending
to plunge human life
into hopeless chaos.
To most, perhaps,
the immediate sense
of release
has given
a brief exhilaration,
to be followed
by
the deepest anxiety.
For if all is relative,
if life is a torrent
without form or goal
in whose flood
absolutely nothing
save change itself
can last,
it seems to be
something
in which
there is
"no future"
and thus
no hope.
Human beings
appear to be happy
just so long
as they have a future
to which
they can look forward --
whether it be
a "good time" tomorrow
or
an everlasting life
beyond the grave.
For various reasons,
more and more people
find it hard
to believe
in the latter.
On the other hand,
the former
has the disadvantage
that when this
"good time" arrives,
it is difficult to enjoy it
to the full
without some promise
of more to come.
If happiness
always depends
on
something expected
in the future,
we are chasing
a will-o'-the-wisp
that ever eludes our grasp,
until the future,
and ourselves,
vanish
into the abyss
of death.
As a matter of fact,
our age
is not more insecure
than any other.
Poverty,
disease,
war,
change,
and death
are
nothing new.
In the best of times
"security"
has never been
more than
temporary
and
apparent.
But it has been possible
to make the insecurity
of human life
supportable
by belief
in unchanging things
beyond the reach
of calamity --
in God,
in man's immortal soul,
and
in the government
of the universe
by eternal laws
of right.
Today such convictions
are rare,
even in religious circles.
There is
no level of society,
there must even be
few individuals,
touched
by modern education,
where there is not
some trace
of the leaven
of doubt.
It is simply self-evident
that during
the past century
the authority of science
has taken the place
of the authority
of religion
in
the popular imagination,
and that
skepticism,
at least
in spiritual things,
has become
more general
than
belief.
The decay of belief
has come about
through
the honest doubt,
the careful
and
fearless thinking
of
highly intelligent men
of
science
and
philosophy.
Moved by a zeal
and
reverence for facts,
they have tried
to see,
understand,
and
face life
as it is
without
wishful thinking.
Yet for all that they have done
to improve the conditions of life,
their picture of the universe
seems to leave the individual
without ultimate hope.
The price of their miracles
in this world
has been
the disappearance
of
the world-to-come,
and one is inclined to ask
the old question,
"What shall it profit
a man
if he gain
the whole world
and lose
his soul?"
Logic,
intelligence,
and
reason
are satisfied,
but
the heart
goes hungry.
For
the heart
has learned
to feel
that
we live
for
the future.
Science may,
slowly and uncertainly,
give us a better future
-- for a few years.
And then,
for each of us,
it will end.
It will
all
end.
However long postponed,
everything composed
must decompose.
Despite some opinions
to the contrary,
this is still
the general view
of science.
In literary
and religious circles
it is now
often supposed
that the conflict
between
science and belief
is
a thing of the past.
There are even some
rather wishful scientists
who feel
that
when modern physics
abandoned
a crude
atomistic materialism,
the chief reasons
for this conflict
were removed.
But this
is not at all
the case.
In most of our great
centers of learning,
those who make it
their business
to study
the full implications of science
and its methods
are as far as ever
from
what they understand
as
a religious
point of view.
Nuclear physics
and relativity
have,
it is true,
done away with
the old materialism,
but they now give us
a view of the universe
in which
there is
even less room
for ideas
of
any absolute purpose
or
design.
The modern scientist
is not so naive
as to deny God
because
he cannot be found
with a telescope,
or
the soul
because
it is not revealed
by the scalpel.
He has merely
noted
that the idea
of God
is
logically unnecessary.
He even doubts
that it has
any meaning.
It does not help him
to explain anything
which he cannot explain
in some other,
and simpler, way.
He argues
that
if everything which happens
is said to be
under the providence
and control
of God,
this actually amounts
to
saying nothing.
To say that
everything
is governed
and created
by God
is like saying,
"Everything is up,"
-- which means
nothing at all.
The notion
does not help us
to make
any verifiable
predictions,
and so,
from
the scientific standpoint,
is
of no value
whatsoever.
Scientists
may be right
in this respect.
They
may
be wrong.
It is not
our purpose
here
to argue
this point.
We need only note
that such skepticism
has immense influence,
and
sets
the prevailing mood
of the age.
What science
has said,
in sum, is this:
We do not,
and
in all probability
cannot,
know
whether
God exists.
Nothing that we do know
suggests that he does,
and all the arguments
which claim
to prove his existence
are found to be
without
logical meaning.
There is nothing,
indeed,
to prove
that there is
no God,
but
the
burden of proof
rests
with those
who
propose the idea.
If, the scientists
would say,
you believe in God,
you must do so
on
purely
emotional grounds,
without basis
in
logic
or
fact.
Practically speaking,
this
may amount to
atheism.
Theoretically,
it is
simple agnosticism.
For it is
of the essence
of scientific honesty
that
you do not
pretend to know
what
you do not know,
and
of the essence
of
scientific method
that you
do not employ
hypothesis
which
cannot
be tested.
The immediate
results
of this
honesty
have been
deeply
unsettling
and
depressing.
For man
seems to be
unable to live
without
myth,
without
the belief
that
the routine
and drudgery,
the pain
and fear
of this life
have
some
meaning
and
goal
in the future.
At once new myths
come into being --
political
and
economic myths
with
extravagant promises
of
the best of futures
in
the present world.
These myths
give the individual
a certain sense
of meaning
by making him part
of
a vast social effort,
in which
he loses something
of
his own
emptiness
and
loneliness.
Yet the very violence
of these political religions
betrays
the anxiety
beneath them --
for they
are but
men huddling together
and shouting
to
give themselves courage
in the dark.
Once there is
the suspicion
that a religion
is a myth,
its power
has gone.
It may be necessary
for man
to have a myth,
but he cannot
self-consciously
prescribe one
as he can
mix a pill
for a headache.
A myth
can only "work"
when it is thought
to be truth,
and man cannot
for long
knowingly
and
intentionally
"kid" himself.
Even the best
modern apologists
for religion
seem to overlook
this fact.
For their
most forceful arguments
for
some sort of return
to orthodoxy
are those
which show the social
and moral advantages
of belief in God.
But this
does not prove
that
God
is
a reality.
It proves,
at most,
that believing
in God
is useful.
"If God did not exist,
it would be necessary
to invent him."
Perhaps.
But if the public
has any suspicion
that he does not exist,
the invention is in vain.
It is for this reason
that most of
the current
return to orthodoxy
in some intellectual circles
has
a rather hollow ring.
So much of it
is more a belief
in believing
than a belief in God.
The contrast
between the insecure,
neurotic,
educated "modern"
and
the quiet dignity
and
inner peace
of
the old-fashioned believer,
makes the latter
a man
to be envied.
But it
is a serious misapplication
of psychology
to make the presence
or absence
of neurosis
the touchstone of truth,
and to argue
that if a man's philosophy
makes him neurotic,
it must be wrong.
"Most atheists
and
agnostics
are neurotic,
whereas most
simple Catholics
are happy
and at peace
with themselves.
Therefore
the views
of
the former
are false,
and
of the latter
true."
Even if
the observation
is correct,
the reasoning
based on it
is absurd.
It is
as if
to say,
"You say
there is a fire
in
the basement.
You are
upset
about it.
Because
you are upset,
there is
obviously
no fire."
The agnostic,
the skeptic,
is neurotic,
but
this does not imply
a false philosophy;
it implies
the
discovery of facts
to which
he does not know
how
to
adapt himself.
The intellectual
who tries
to escape
from neurosis
by escaping
from the facts
is
merely acting
on the principle
that
"where ignorance
is bliss,
'tis folly to be wise."
When belief
in the eternal
becomes impossible,
and there is
only the poor substitute
of belief
in believing,
men seek their happiness
in the joys of time.
However much
they may try
to bury it
in the depths
of their minds,
they are well aware
that these joys
are both
uncertain and brief.
This has
two results.
On the one hand,
there is the anxiety
that one
may be
missing something,
so that
the mind
flits nervously
and greedily
from one pleasure
to another,
without finding rest
and
satisfaction in any.
On the other,
the frustration
of having always
to pursue
a future good
in a tomorrow
which never comes,
and in a world
where everything
must disintegrate,
gives men
an attitude
of
"What's the use
anyhow?"
Consequently
our age
is one
of frustration,
anxiety,
agitation,
and addiction
to "dope".
Somehow
we must grab
what we can
while we can,
and drown out
the realization
that the whole thing
is
futile
and
meaningless.
This "dope"
we call
our
high standard of living,
a violent
and complex
stimulation
of the senses,
which makes them
progressively
less sensitive
and thus
in need of
yet more
violent stimulation.
We crave
distraction --
a panorama
of sights,
sounds,
thrills,
and titillations
into which
as much as possible
must be crowded
in
the shortest
possible time.
To keep up
this "standard"
most of us
are willing
to put up with
lives
that consist
largely in doing jobs
that are a bore,
earning the means
to seek relief
from the tedium
by intervals
of hectic
and expensive
pleasure.
These intervals
are supposed to be
the real living,
the real
purpose served
by
the necessary evil
of work.
Or we imagine
that the justification
of such work
is
the
rearing of a family
to go on
doing
the
same kind of thing,
in order
to rear another family ...
and so
ad infinitum.
This is
no caricature.
It is the simple
reality
of millions of lives,
so commonplace
that we need hardly dwell
upon the details,
save
to note the anxiety
and frustration
of those
who put up with it,
not knowing
what else to do.
But
what are
we
to do?
The alternatives
seem to be two.
The first is,
somehow or other,
to discover
a new myth,
or
convincingly resuscitate
an old one.
If science
cannot prove
there is no God,
we can try
to live and act
on the bare chance
that he may exist
after all.
There seems to be
nothing to lose
in such a gamble,
for
if death is the end,
we
shall never know
that we
have lost.
But, obviously,
this will
never amount to
a vital faith,
for it is really
no more
than to say,
"Since
the whole thing
is futile anyhow,
let's pretend
it isn't."
The second
is to try grimly
to face the fact
that life
is
"a tale told
by an idiot,"
and make of it
what we can,
letting science
and technology
serve us
as well as they may
in our journey
from
nothing to nothing.
Yet these
are not
the only solutions.
We may begin
by
granting
all the agnosticism
of
a critical science.
We may admit,
frankly,
that we have
no scientific grounds
for belief
in God,
in
personal immortality,
or in
any absolutes.
We may refrain
altogether
from
trying to believe,
taking life
just as it is,
and no more.
From this
point of departure
there is
yet another
way of life
that requires
neither myth
nor despair.
But
it requires
a complete revolution
in our ordinary,
habitual ways
of thinking
and feeling.
The extraordinary thing
about this revolution
is
that it
reveals the truth
behind
the so-called myths
of
traditional religion
and metaphysic.
It reveals,
not beliefs,
but actual realities
corresponding --
in
an unexpected way --
to the ideas
of God
and
of eternal life.
There are reasons
for supposing
that a revolution
of this kind
was
the original source
of
some of
the main religious ideas,
standing in relation
to them
as reality
to symbol
and
cause
to effect.
The common error
of ordinary
religious practice
is
to mistake the symbol
for the reality,
to look at
the finger pointing the way
and
then to suck it for comfort
rather than
follow it.
Religious ideas
are like words --
of little use,
and often misleading,
unless you know
the concrete realities
to which they refer.
The word "water"
is a useful means
of communication
amongst those
who know water.
The same is true
of the word
and the idea
called "God".
I do not,
at this point,
wish
to seem mysterious
or
to be making claims
to
"secret knowledge."
The reality
which corresponds
to
"God"
and
"eternal life"
is honest,
above-board,
plain,
and open
for all to see.
But the seeing
requires
a correction of mind,
just as
clear vision
sometimes requires
a correction
of the eyes.
The discovery
of this reality
is hindered
rather than helped
by belief,
whether one believes
in God
or
believes
in atheism.
We must here
make
a clear distinction
between
belief
and faith,
because,
in general practice,
belief
has come to mean
a state of mind
which is
almost the opposite
of faith.
Belief,
as I use
the word here,
is
the insistence
that the truth is
what one would
"lief"
or wish
it to be.
The believer
will
open his mind
to the truth
on condition
that it fits in
with his
preconceived ideas
and wishes.
Faith,
on the other hand,
is
an unreserved
opening of the mind
to the truth,
whatever it
may turn out
to be.
Faith
has no
preconceptions;
it is
a plunge
into the unknown.
Belief clings,
but faith lets go.
In this sense
of the word,
faith
is
the essential virtue
of science,
and likewise
of any religion
that is not
self-deception.
Most of us
believe
in order
to feel secure,
in order
to make
our individual lives
seem valuable
and meaningful.
Belief
has thus become
an attempt
to
hang on to life,
to grasp
and keep it
for one's own.
But
you cannot
understand life
and its mysteries
as long
as you try
to grasp it.
Indeed,
you cannot
grasp it,
just as you
cannot walk off
with a river
in a bucket.
If you try
to capture
running water
in a bucket,
it is clear
that you
do not understand it
and that you
will always be
disappointed,
for
in the bucket
the water
does not run.
To "have"
running water
you must
let go of it
and
let it run.
The same
is true
of life
and
of God.
The present phase
of human thought
and history
is especially ripe
for this "letting go."
Our minds
have been prepared for it
by this very collapse
of the beliefs
in which
we have sought security.
From a point of view
strictly,
if strangely,
in accord
with
certain
religious traditions,
this disappearance
of the old rocks
and absolutes
is no calamity,
but rather
a blessing.
It almost compels us
to face reality
with open minds,
and
you can only
know God
through
an open mind
just as
you can
only see the sky
through
a clear window.
You will not
see the sky
if you
have covered
the glass
with blue paint.
But "religious" people
who resist
the scraping of the paint
from the glass,
who regard
the scientific attitude
with
fear and mistrust,
and confuse
faith
with
clinging
to certain ideas,
are curiously ignorant
of laws
of
the spiritual life
which
they might find
in
their own
traditional records.
A careful study
of
comparative religion
and
spiritual philosophy
reveals
that abandonment
of belief,
of
any clinging
to a future life
for one's own,
and
of any attempt
to escape
from finitude
and mortality,
is
a regular
and
normal stage
in the way
of the spirit.
Indeed,
this is actually
such a "first principle"
of the spiritual life
that it
should have been
obvious
from the beginning,
and it seems,
after all,
surprising
that
learned theologians
should adopt
anything
but
a cooperative attitude
towards
the critical philosophy
of science.
Surely
it is old news
that salvation
comes only
through the death
of
the human form
of
God.
But it was not,
perhaps,
so easy to see
that God's human form
is not simply
the historic Christ,
but also
the images,
ideas,
and beliefs
in the Absolute
to which
man clings
in his mind.
Here is the full sense
of the commandment,
"Thou shalt not make
to thyself
any
graven image,
nor the likeness
of anything
that is
in
heaven above;
... thou shalt not
bow down to them,
nor worship them."
To discover
the ultimate Reality
of life --
the Absolute,
the eternal,
God --
you must cease
to try to grasp it
in the forms
of idols.
These idols
are not just
crude images,
such as
the mental picture
of God
as an old gentleman
on a golden throne.
They are our beliefs,
our cherished
preconceptions
of the truth,
which block
the unreserved
opening of mind
and heart
to reality.
The legitimate use
of images
is to
express the truth,
not
to possess it.
This
was
always recognized
in
the great
Oriental traditions
such as
Buddhism,
Vedanta,
and Taoism.
The principle
has not been
unknown
to Christians,
for
it was implicit
in
the whole story
and teachings
of Christ.
His life
was
from the beginning
a complete acceptance
and embracing
of insecurity.
"The foxes have holes,
and the birds of the air
have nests,
but the Son of Man
hath not
where to lay his head."
The principle
is yet more
to the point
if Christ
is regarded
as divine
in
the most orthodox sense --
as the unique
and special incarnation
of God.
For the basic theme
of the Christ-story
is that
this "express image"
of God
becomes
the source of life
in the very act
of
being destroyed.
To the disciples
who tried
to cling
to his divinity
in the form
of his human
individuality
he explained,
"Unless
a grain of corn
fall into the ground
and die,
it remains alone.
But if it dies,
it brings forth
much fruit."
In the same vein
he warned them,
"It is expedient for you
that I go away,
for if I go
not away
the Paraclete
(the Holy Spirit)
cannot
come unto you."
These words
are more than ever
applicable
to Christians,
and speak exactly
to
the whole condition
of our times.
For we have
never actually
understood
the revolutionary sense
beneath them --
the incredible truth
that
what religion calls
the vision of God
is found
in giving up
any belief
in
the idea
of God.
By the same law
of reversed effort,
we discover
the "infinite"
and
the "absolute,"
not
by straining
to escape
from the finite
and relative world,
but
by
the most complete
acceptance
of its limitations.
Paradox
as it may seem,
we likewise find life
meaningful
only
when
we have seen
that it is
without purpose,
and
know
the "mystery
of the universe"
only
when
we are convinced
that we
know nothing
about it
at all.
The ordinary
agnostic,
relativist,
or materialist
fails
to reach this point
because
he does not follow
his line of thought
consistently
to its end --
an end
which
would be
the surprise of his life.
All too soon
he abandons
faith,
openness
to reality,
and lets his mind
harden
into doctrine.
The discovery
of the mystery,
the wonder
beyond all wonders,
needs no
belief,
for we can
only believe
in what
we have already
known,
preconceived,
and
imagined.
But this
is
beyond
any imagination.
We have
but
to open
the eyes of the mind
wide enough,
and
"the truth
will out."
+++
by Alan W. Watts,
Pantheon Books,
Random House/Vintage,
1951,
pages 9 - 28.
Preface
I have always
been fascinated
by the law
of reversed effort.
Sometimes I call it
the "backwards law".
When you try
to stay on the surface
of the water,
you sink;
but when you try
to sink
you float.
When you
hold your breath
you lose it --
which immediately
calls to mind
an ancient
and
much neglected saying,
"Whosoever
would save his
soul
shall lose it."
This book
is an exploration of this law
in relation to man's quest
for psychological security,
and to his efforts to find
spiritual and intellectual
certainty
in religion
and philosophy.
It is written
in the conviction
that no theme
could be more appropriate
in a time when human life
seems to be
so peculiarly insecure
and uncertain.
It maintains that
this insecurity
is the result
of trying to be secure,
and that,
contrariwise,
salvation and sanity
consist in
the most radical recognition
that
we have no way
of saving ourselves.
This begins to sound
like something from
"Alice Through
the Looking Glass",
of which
this book
is a sort of
philosophical equivalent.
For the reader
will frequently find himself
in a topsy-turvy world
in which
the normal order of things
seems to be
completely reversed,
and common sense
turned inside out
and upside down.
Those who have read
some of my former books,
such as
"Behold the Spirit"
and
"The Supreme Identity",
will find things that seem to be
total contradictions
of much that I have said before.
This, however,
is true only in some
minor respects.
For I have discovered
that the essence and crux
of what I was trying to say
in those books
was seldom understood;
the framework
and
the context of my thought
often
hid the meaning.
My intention here
is to approach the same meaning
from entirely different premises,
and
in terms which do not confuse
thought
with the multitude
of irrelevant associations
which time and tradition
have hung upon them.
In those books
I was concerned
to vindicate certain principles
of
religion,
philosophy,
and
metaphysic
by reinterpreting them.
This was, I think,
like putting legs
on a snake --
unnecessary
and confusing,
because
only doubtful truths
need defense.
This book, however,
is in the spirit
of the Chinese sage
Lao-tzu,
that master of the law
of reversed effort,
who declared
that
those who justify
themselves
do not convince,
that
to know truth
one must
get rid of knowledge,
and that
nothing
is more powerful
and
creative
than
emptiness --
from which
men shrink.
Here, then,
my aim is to show --
backwards-fashion --
that those essential
realities of religion
and metaphysic
are
vindicated
in doing without them,
and
manifested
in being destroyed.
It is my happy duty
to acknowledge
that
the preparation of this book
has been made possible
by the generosity
of the Foundation
established by the late
Franklin J. Matchette
of New York,
a man who devoted
much of his life
to
the problems of science
and metaphysic,
being
one of those
somewhat rare
businessmen
who are not
wholly absorbed
in the vicious circle
of
making money
to make money
to make money.
The Matchette Foundation
is therefore dedicated
to
the pursuit
of metaphysical studies,
and needless to say,
it is to me
a sign of insight and imagination
on their part
that they have been willing
to interest themselves
in
so "contrary" an approach
to
metaphysical knowledge.
Alan W. Watts
San Francisco
May 1951
+++
Chapter One
The Age of Anxiety
By all outward appearances
our life
is a spark of light
between
one
eternal darkness
and
another.
Nor is the interval
between these two nights
an unclouded day,
for the more we are
able to feel
pleasure,
the more we are vulnerable
to pain --
and,
whether in background
or foreground,
the pain
is always with us.
We have been
accustomed
to make this existence
worthwhile
by the belief
that there is
more than
the outward appearance --
that we live
for a future
beyond this life here.
For
the outward appearance
does not seem
to make sense.
If living is to end in pain,
incompleteness,
and nothingness,
it seems a cruel
and futile experience
for beings
who are born
to reason,
hope,
create,
and love.
Man, as a being of sense,
wants his life to make sense,
and he has found it
hard to believe
that it does so
unless there is more
than what he sees --
unless there is
an eternal order
and
an eternal life
behind the uncertain
and
momentary experience
of life-and-death.
I may not, perhaps,
be forgiven
for introducing sober matters
with a frivolous notion,
but the problem of making sense
out of the seeming chaos
of experience
reminds me
of my childish desire
to send someone
a parcel of water
in the mail.
The recipient unties the string,
releasing the deluge in his lap.
But the game would never work,
since it is irritatingly impossible
to wrap and tie
a pound of water
in a paper package.
There are kinds of paper
which won't disintegrate
when wet,
but the trouble is
to get the water itself
into any manageable shape,
and to tie the string
without bursting the bundle.
The more one studies
attempted solutions
to problems
in politics
and
economics,
in art,
philosophy,
and religion,
the more one
has the impression
of extremely gifted people
wearing out their ingenuity
at the impossible
and futile task
of trying to get
the water of life
into neat
and permanent packages.
There are many reasons
why this
should be
particularly evident
to a person living today.
We know so much
about history,
about all the packages
which have been tied
and which
have duly come apart.
We know so much detail
about the problems of life
that they resist
easy simplification,
and seem
more complex
and shapeless
than ever.
Furthermore,
science and industry
have so increased
both
the tempo
and
the violence
of living
that our packages
seem to come apart
faster and faster every day.
There is, then,
the feeling
that we live in a time
of unusual insecurity.
In the past hundred years
so many
long-established traditions
have broken down --
traditions
of family
and social life,
of government,
of the economic order,
and
of religious belief.
As the years go by,
there seem to be
fewer and fewer
rocks
to which we can hold,
fewer things
which we can regard
as
absolutely right
and
true,
and
fixed for all time.
To some
this is a welcome release
from
the restraints
of moral,
social,
and spiritual dogma.
To others
it is a dangerous
and terrifying
breach
with reason and sanity,
tending
to plunge human life
into hopeless chaos.
To most, perhaps,
the immediate sense
of release
has given
a brief exhilaration,
to be followed
by
the deepest anxiety.
For if all is relative,
if life is a torrent
without form or goal
in whose flood
absolutely nothing
save change itself
can last,
it seems to be
something
in which
there is
"no future"
and thus
no hope.
Human beings
appear to be happy
just so long
as they have a future
to which
they can look forward --
whether it be
a "good time" tomorrow
or
an everlasting life
beyond the grave.
For various reasons,
more and more people
find it hard
to believe
in the latter.
On the other hand,
the former
has the disadvantage
that when this
"good time" arrives,
it is difficult to enjoy it
to the full
without some promise
of more to come.
If happiness
always depends
on
something expected
in the future,
we are chasing
a will-o'-the-wisp
that ever eludes our grasp,
until the future,
and ourselves,
vanish
into the abyss
of death.
As a matter of fact,
our age
is not more insecure
than any other.
Poverty,
disease,
war,
change,
and death
are
nothing new.
In the best of times
"security"
has never been
more than
temporary
and
apparent.
But it has been possible
to make the insecurity
of human life
supportable
by belief
in unchanging things
beyond the reach
of calamity --
in God,
in man's immortal soul,
and
in the government
of the universe
by eternal laws
of right.
Today such convictions
are rare,
even in religious circles.
There is
no level of society,
there must even be
few individuals,
touched
by modern education,
where there is not
some trace
of the leaven
of doubt.
It is simply self-evident
that during
the past century
the authority of science
has taken the place
of the authority
of religion
in
the popular imagination,
and that
skepticism,
at least
in spiritual things,
has become
more general
than
belief.
The decay of belief
has come about
through
the honest doubt,
the careful
and
fearless thinking
of
highly intelligent men
of
science
and
philosophy.
Moved by a zeal
and
reverence for facts,
they have tried
to see,
understand,
and
face life
as it is
without
wishful thinking.
Yet for all that they have done
to improve the conditions of life,
their picture of the universe
seems to leave the individual
without ultimate hope.
The price of their miracles
in this world
has been
the disappearance
of
the world-to-come,
and one is inclined to ask
the old question,
"What shall it profit
a man
if he gain
the whole world
and lose
his soul?"
Logic,
intelligence,
and
reason
are satisfied,
but
the heart
goes hungry.
For
the heart
has learned
to feel
that
we live
for
the future.
Science may,
slowly and uncertainly,
give us a better future
-- for a few years.
And then,
for each of us,
it will end.
It will
all
end.
However long postponed,
everything composed
must decompose.
Despite some opinions
to the contrary,
this is still
the general view
of science.
In literary
and religious circles
it is now
often supposed
that the conflict
between
science and belief
is
a thing of the past.
There are even some
rather wishful scientists
who feel
that
when modern physics
abandoned
a crude
atomistic materialism,
the chief reasons
for this conflict
were removed.
But this
is not at all
the case.
In most of our great
centers of learning,
those who make it
their business
to study
the full implications of science
and its methods
are as far as ever
from
what they understand
as
a religious
point of view.
Nuclear physics
and relativity
have,
it is true,
done away with
the old materialism,
but they now give us
a view of the universe
in which
there is
even less room
for ideas
of
any absolute purpose
or
design.
The modern scientist
is not so naive
as to deny God
because
he cannot be found
with a telescope,
or
the soul
because
it is not revealed
by the scalpel.
He has merely
noted
that the idea
of God
is
logically unnecessary.
He even doubts
that it has
any meaning.
It does not help him
to explain anything
which he cannot explain
in some other,
and simpler, way.
He argues
that
if everything which happens
is said to be
under the providence
and control
of God,
this actually amounts
to
saying nothing.
To say that
everything
is governed
and created
by God
is like saying,
"Everything is up,"
-- which means
nothing at all.
The notion
does not help us
to make
any verifiable
predictions,
and so,
from
the scientific standpoint,
is
of no value
whatsoever.
Scientists
may be right
in this respect.
They
may
be wrong.
It is not
our purpose
here
to argue
this point.
We need only note
that such skepticism
has immense influence,
and
sets
the prevailing mood
of the age.
What science
has said,
in sum, is this:
We do not,
and
in all probability
cannot,
know
whether
God exists.
Nothing that we do know
suggests that he does,
and all the arguments
which claim
to prove his existence
are found to be
without
logical meaning.
There is nothing,
indeed,
to prove
that there is
no God,
but
the
burden of proof
rests
with those
who
propose the idea.
If, the scientists
would say,
you believe in God,
you must do so
on
purely
emotional grounds,
without basis
in
logic
or
fact.
Practically speaking,
this
may amount to
atheism.
Theoretically,
it is
simple agnosticism.
For it is
of the essence
of scientific honesty
that
you do not
pretend to know
what
you do not know,
and
of the essence
of
scientific method
that you
do not employ
hypothesis
which
cannot
be tested.
The immediate
results
of this
honesty
have been
deeply
unsettling
and
depressing.
For man
seems to be
unable to live
without
myth,
without
the belief
that
the routine
and drudgery,
the pain
and fear
of this life
have
some
meaning
and
goal
in the future.
At once new myths
come into being --
political
and
economic myths
with
extravagant promises
of
the best of futures
in
the present world.
These myths
give the individual
a certain sense
of meaning
by making him part
of
a vast social effort,
in which
he loses something
of
his own
emptiness
and
loneliness.
Yet the very violence
of these political religions
betrays
the anxiety
beneath them --
for they
are but
men huddling together
and shouting
to
give themselves courage
in the dark.
Once there is
the suspicion
that a religion
is a myth,
its power
has gone.
It may be necessary
for man
to have a myth,
but he cannot
self-consciously
prescribe one
as he can
mix a pill
for a headache.
A myth
can only "work"
when it is thought
to be truth,
and man cannot
for long
knowingly
and
intentionally
"kid" himself.
Even the best
modern apologists
for religion
seem to overlook
this fact.
For their
most forceful arguments
for
some sort of return
to orthodoxy
are those
which show the social
and moral advantages
of belief in God.
But this
does not prove
that
God
is
a reality.
It proves,
at most,
that believing
in God
is useful.
"If God did not exist,
it would be necessary
to invent him."
Perhaps.
But if the public
has any suspicion
that he does not exist,
the invention is in vain.
It is for this reason
that most of
the current
return to orthodoxy
in some intellectual circles
has
a rather hollow ring.
So much of it
is more a belief
in believing
than a belief in God.
The contrast
between the insecure,
neurotic,
educated "modern"
and
the quiet dignity
and
inner peace
of
the old-fashioned believer,
makes the latter
a man
to be envied.
But it
is a serious misapplication
of psychology
to make the presence
or absence
of neurosis
the touchstone of truth,
and to argue
that if a man's philosophy
makes him neurotic,
it must be wrong.
"Most atheists
and
agnostics
are neurotic,
whereas most
simple Catholics
are happy
and at peace
with themselves.
Therefore
the views
of
the former
are false,
and
of the latter
true."
Even if
the observation
is correct,
the reasoning
based on it
is absurd.
It is
as if
to say,
"You say
there is a fire
in
the basement.
You are
upset
about it.
Because
you are upset,
there is
obviously
no fire."
The agnostic,
the skeptic,
is neurotic,
but
this does not imply
a false philosophy;
it implies
the
discovery of facts
to which
he does not know
how
to
adapt himself.
The intellectual
who tries
to escape
from neurosis
by escaping
from the facts
is
merely acting
on the principle
that
"where ignorance
is bliss,
'tis folly to be wise."
When belief
in the eternal
becomes impossible,
and there is
only the poor substitute
of belief
in believing,
men seek their happiness
in the joys of time.
However much
they may try
to bury it
in the depths
of their minds,
they are well aware
that these joys
are both
uncertain and brief.
This has
two results.
On the one hand,
there is the anxiety
that one
may be
missing something,
so that
the mind
flits nervously
and greedily
from one pleasure
to another,
without finding rest
and
satisfaction in any.
On the other,
the frustration
of having always
to pursue
a future good
in a tomorrow
which never comes,
and in a world
where everything
must disintegrate,
gives men
an attitude
of
"What's the use
anyhow?"
Consequently
our age
is one
of frustration,
anxiety,
agitation,
and addiction
to "dope".
Somehow
we must grab
what we can
while we can,
and drown out
the realization
that the whole thing
is
futile
and
meaningless.
This "dope"
we call
our
high standard of living,
a violent
and complex
stimulation
of the senses,
which makes them
progressively
less sensitive
and thus
in need of
yet more
violent stimulation.
We crave
distraction --
a panorama
of sights,
sounds,
thrills,
and titillations
into which
as much as possible
must be crowded
in
the shortest
possible time.
To keep up
this "standard"
most of us
are willing
to put up with
lives
that consist
largely in doing jobs
that are a bore,
earning the means
to seek relief
from the tedium
by intervals
of hectic
and expensive
pleasure.
These intervals
are supposed to be
the real living,
the real
purpose served
by
the necessary evil
of work.
Or we imagine
that the justification
of such work
is
the
rearing of a family
to go on
doing
the
same kind of thing,
in order
to rear another family ...
and so
ad infinitum.
This is
no caricature.
It is the simple
reality
of millions of lives,
so commonplace
that we need hardly dwell
upon the details,
save
to note the anxiety
and frustration
of those
who put up with it,
not knowing
what else to do.
But
what are
we
to do?
The alternatives
seem to be two.
The first is,
somehow or other,
to discover
a new myth,
or
convincingly resuscitate
an old one.
If science
cannot prove
there is no God,
we can try
to live and act
on the bare chance
that he may exist
after all.
There seems to be
nothing to lose
in such a gamble,
for
if death is the end,
we
shall never know
that we
have lost.
But, obviously,
this will
never amount to
a vital faith,
for it is really
no more
than to say,
"Since
the whole thing
is futile anyhow,
let's pretend
it isn't."
The second
is to try grimly
to face the fact
that life
is
"a tale told
by an idiot,"
and make of it
what we can,
letting science
and technology
serve us
as well as they may
in our journey
from
nothing to nothing.
Yet these
are not
the only solutions.
We may begin
by
granting
all the agnosticism
of
a critical science.
We may admit,
frankly,
that we have
no scientific grounds
for belief
in God,
in
personal immortality,
or in
any absolutes.
We may refrain
altogether
from
trying to believe,
taking life
just as it is,
and no more.
From this
point of departure
there is
yet another
way of life
that requires
neither myth
nor despair.
But
it requires
a complete revolution
in our ordinary,
habitual ways
of thinking
and feeling.
The extraordinary thing
about this revolution
is
that it
reveals the truth
behind
the so-called myths
of
traditional religion
and metaphysic.
It reveals,
not beliefs,
but actual realities
corresponding --
in
an unexpected way --
to the ideas
of God
and
of eternal life.
There are reasons
for supposing
that a revolution
of this kind
was
the original source
of
some of
the main religious ideas,
standing in relation
to them
as reality
to symbol
and
cause
to effect.
The common error
of ordinary
religious practice
is
to mistake the symbol
for the reality,
to look at
the finger pointing the way
and
then to suck it for comfort
rather than
follow it.
Religious ideas
are like words --
of little use,
and often misleading,
unless you know
the concrete realities
to which they refer.
The word "water"
is a useful means
of communication
amongst those
who know water.
The same is true
of the word
and the idea
called "God".
I do not,
at this point,
wish
to seem mysterious
or
to be making claims
to
"secret knowledge."
The reality
which corresponds
to
"God"
and
"eternal life"
is honest,
above-board,
plain,
and open
for all to see.
But the seeing
requires
a correction of mind,
just as
clear vision
sometimes requires
a correction
of the eyes.
The discovery
of this reality
is hindered
rather than helped
by belief,
whether one believes
in God
or
believes
in atheism.
We must here
make
a clear distinction
between
belief
and faith,
because,
in general practice,
belief
has come to mean
a state of mind
which is
almost the opposite
of faith.
Belief,
as I use
the word here,
is
the insistence
that the truth is
what one would
"lief"
or wish
it to be.
The believer
will
open his mind
to the truth
on condition
that it fits in
with his
preconceived ideas
and wishes.
Faith,
on the other hand,
is
an unreserved
opening of the mind
to the truth,
whatever it
may turn out
to be.
Faith
has no
preconceptions;
it is
a plunge
into the unknown.
Belief clings,
but faith lets go.
In this sense
of the word,
faith
is
the essential virtue
of science,
and likewise
of any religion
that is not
self-deception.
Most of us
believe
in order
to feel secure,
in order
to make
our individual lives
seem valuable
and meaningful.
Belief
has thus become
an attempt
to
hang on to life,
to grasp
and keep it
for one's own.
But
you cannot
understand life
and its mysteries
as long
as you try
to grasp it.
Indeed,
you cannot
grasp it,
just as you
cannot walk off
with a river
in a bucket.
If you try
to capture
running water
in a bucket,
it is clear
that you
do not understand it
and that you
will always be
disappointed,
for
in the bucket
the water
does not run.
To "have"
running water
you must
let go of it
and
let it run.
The same
is true
of life
and
of God.
The present phase
of human thought
and history
is especially ripe
for this "letting go."
Our minds
have been prepared for it
by this very collapse
of the beliefs
in which
we have sought security.
From a point of view
strictly,
if strangely,
in accord
with
certain
religious traditions,
this disappearance
of the old rocks
and absolutes
is no calamity,
but rather
a blessing.
It almost compels us
to face reality
with open minds,
and
you can only
know God
through
an open mind
just as
you can
only see the sky
through
a clear window.
You will not
see the sky
if you
have covered
the glass
with blue paint.
But "religious" people
who resist
the scraping of the paint
from the glass,
who regard
the scientific attitude
with
fear and mistrust,
and confuse
faith
with
clinging
to certain ideas,
are curiously ignorant
of laws
of
the spiritual life
which
they might find
in
their own
traditional records.
A careful study
of
comparative religion
and
spiritual philosophy
reveals
that abandonment
of belief,
of
any clinging
to a future life
for one's own,
and
of any attempt
to escape
from finitude
and mortality,
is
a regular
and
normal stage
in the way
of the spirit.
Indeed,
this is actually
such a "first principle"
of the spiritual life
that it
should have been
obvious
from the beginning,
and it seems,
after all,
surprising
that
learned theologians
should adopt
anything
but
a cooperative attitude
towards
the critical philosophy
of science.
Surely
it is old news
that salvation
comes only
through the death
of
the human form
of
God.
But it was not,
perhaps,
so easy to see
that God's human form
is not simply
the historic Christ,
but also
the images,
ideas,
and beliefs
in the Absolute
to which
man clings
in his mind.
Here is the full sense
of the commandment,
"Thou shalt not make
to thyself
any
graven image,
nor the likeness
of anything
that is
in
heaven above;
... thou shalt not
bow down to them,
nor worship them."
To discover
the ultimate Reality
of life --
the Absolute,
the eternal,
God --
you must cease
to try to grasp it
in the forms
of idols.
These idols
are not just
crude images,
such as
the mental picture
of God
as an old gentleman
on a golden throne.
They are our beliefs,
our cherished
preconceptions
of the truth,
which block
the unreserved
opening of mind
and heart
to reality.
The legitimate use
of images
is to
express the truth,
not
to possess it.
This
was
always recognized
in
the great
Oriental traditions
such as
Buddhism,
Vedanta,
and Taoism.
The principle
has not been
unknown
to Christians,
for
it was implicit
in
the whole story
and teachings
of Christ.
His life
was
from the beginning
a complete acceptance
and embracing
of insecurity.
"The foxes have holes,
and the birds of the air
have nests,
but the Son of Man
hath not
where to lay his head."
The principle
is yet more
to the point
if Christ
is regarded
as divine
in
the most orthodox sense --
as the unique
and special incarnation
of God.
For the basic theme
of the Christ-story
is that
this "express image"
of God
becomes
the source of life
in the very act
of
being destroyed.
To the disciples
who tried
to cling
to his divinity
in the form
of his human
individuality
he explained,
"Unless
a grain of corn
fall into the ground
and die,
it remains alone.
But if it dies,
it brings forth
much fruit."
In the same vein
he warned them,
"It is expedient for you
that I go away,
for if I go
not away
the Paraclete
(the Holy Spirit)
cannot
come unto you."
These words
are more than ever
applicable
to Christians,
and speak exactly
to
the whole condition
of our times.
For we have
never actually
understood
the revolutionary sense
beneath them --
the incredible truth
that
what religion calls
the vision of God
is found
in giving up
any belief
in
the idea
of God.
By the same law
of reversed effort,
we discover
the "infinite"
and
the "absolute,"
not
by straining
to escape
from the finite
and relative world,
but
by
the most complete
acceptance
of its limitations.
Paradox
as it may seem,
we likewise find life
meaningful
only
when
we have seen
that it is
without purpose,
and
know
the "mystery
of the universe"
only
when
we are convinced
that we
know nothing
about it
at all.
The ordinary
agnostic,
relativist,
or materialist
fails
to reach this point
because
he does not follow
his line of thought
consistently
to its end --
an end
which
would be
the surprise of his life.
All too soon
he abandons
faith,
openness
to reality,
and lets his mind
harden
into doctrine.
The discovery
of the mystery,
the wonder
beyond all wonders,
needs no
belief,
for we can
only believe
in what
we have already
known,
preconceived,
and
imagined.
But this
is
beyond
any imagination.
We have
but
to open
the eyes of the mind
wide enough,
and
"the truth
will out."
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