The Assassins
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Karl Loren, Speaker For Life, Philosopher, Observer and Author |
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The Orient's first substantial impact upon America
occurred in a rather indirect manner, in 1492. Or the actual
date might be placed two centuries earlier: it could well be
argued that America owes its discovery to the Great Khan
Kublai, lord of the Tartars, for the hospitality he showed
Marco Polo in the thirteenth century. Columbus of course
discovered the new continent while searching for the
fabulous Cathay about which Marco Polo had written—and there
is some irony in the fact that Polo's book contains one of
the earliest accounts of the psychedelic experience.
Passing through Persia, the Venetian merchant learned
the history of the Old Man of the Mountain, who lived in a
castle which concealed a magnificent hidden valley. The Old
Man invited youths to the castle, drugged them with hashish,
and had them carried into the Valley of Delights, where they
were wined and dined and entertained by dainty damsels.
After four or five days the youths were carried back into
the castle and told they had been in the Moslem Paradise.
The Old Man could send them there any time he wanted, he
said, if they would carry out his wishes—which usually meant
killing somebody. This band of happy cutthroats became known
as "hashshashins," from which we have derived the word
assassin.
The barbarian invasions and the fall of Rome had cut the
old Silk Road into Hither Asia, and later the Crusades
served to divert Europe's attention still further from the
Orient. There had been virtually no contact whatever between
East and West when Marco Polo arrived in Tartary with his
father and uncle, and indeed the Polos were the first
Westerners Kublai Khan had ever seen. The promise of a
restored relationship was shattered when the Chinese
overthrew the Tartars and slammed the door on foreigners;
then the Turks spread across Central Asia, effectively
padlocking the door—and just incidentally forcing Columbus
to seek a sea route to Cathay. The English penetrated India
by the late seventeenth century, following the Portuguese;
but China kept all foreign devils out until the middle of
the last century, and Japan was a terra incognita
until Admiral Matthew Perry sailed into Tokyo Bay in 1853.
It is understandable, then, that America was a long time
making its own discovery of the East. The young country's
first real introduction to Asian philosophy was provided by
the New England Transcendentalists, whose writings were
often a bewildering blend of Unitarianism and Orientalism,
of Yankee self-reliance and Hindu self-abnegation. The
influence of Romantic idealism and German philosophy also
was evident. Thus readers of The Dial in 1841 found
themselves asking, with Frederic Henry Hedge:
Hath this world, without me wrought,
Other substance than my thought?
Lives it by my sense alone,
Or by essence of its own?
Margaret Fuller wrote of Man as a whole: "As this whole
has one soul and one body, any injury or obstruction to a
part, or to the meanest member, affects the whole. Man can
never be perfectly happy or virtuous till all men are so."
Thoreau wrote of his inspiration:
I hear beyond the range of sound,
I see beyond the range of sight,
New earths and skies and seas around,
And in my day the sun doth pale his light....
It speaks with such authority,
With so serene and lofty tone,
That idle Time runs gadding by,
And leaves me with Eternity alone....
Such fragrance round my couch it makes,
More rich than are Arabian drugs,
That my soul scents its life and wakes
The body up beneath its perfumed rugs.
As the last stanza suggests, Thoreau undoubtedly would
have no part of LSD were he alive today. In Walden he
observed, "I prefer the natural sky to an opium-eater's
heaven." The point is, however, that Thoreau could turn
himself on, needing only that natural sky for a psychedelic,
and he was wholly preoccupied with the modes of inmost
being. There was no object in going around the world to
count the cats in Zanzibar, he said. "Be rather the Mungo
Park, the Lewis and Clark and Frobisher, of your own streams
and oceans.... Nay, be a Columbus to whole new continents
and worlds within you, opening new channels, not of trade,
but of thought. Every man is the lord of a realm beside
which the earthly empire of the Czar is but a petty state, a
hummock left by the ice.... it is easier to sail many
thousand miles through cold and storm and cannibals, in a
government ship, with five hundred men and boys to assist
one, than it is to explore the private sea, the Atlantic and
Pacific Ocean of one's being alone."
As for the dualism of good and evil: "I love to see that
Nature is so rife with life that myriads can be afforded to
be sacrificed and suffered to prey on one another.... The
impression made on a wise man is that of universal
innocence. Poison is not poisonous after all, nor are any
wounds fatal." As for the verbal mind: "I know not the first
letter of the alphabet. I have always been regretting that I
was not as wise as the day I was born." As for the rational
sense of time: "Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I
drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and
detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but
eternity remains. I would drink deeper; fish in the sky,
whose bottom is pebbly with stars." And as for the comforts
of formal religion: "I believe that men are generally still
a little afraid of the dark, though the witches are all
hung, and Christianity and candles have been introduced."
One passage in Walden strikes a particularly
responsive chord for psychedelic cultists. Indeed, William
James singled out the same passage as exemplifying those
moments we all have "when the universal life seems to wrap
us round with friendliness" and those hours "when the
goodness and beauty of existence enfold us like a dry warm
climate, or chime through us as if our inner ears were
subtly ringing with the world's security." The oft-quoted
passage:
I have never felt lonesome, or in the least oppressed by a sense of solitude, but once, and that was a few weeks after I came to the woods, when, for an hour, I doubted if the near neighborhood of man was not essential to a serene and happy life. To be alone was something unpleasant. But I was at the same time conscious of a light insanity in my mood, and seemed to foresee my recovery. In the midst of a gentle rain while these thoughts prevailed, I was suddenly sensible of such sweet and beneficent society in Nature, in the very pattering of the drops, and in every sound and sight around my house, an infinite and unaccountable friendliness all at once like an atmosphere sustaining me, as made the fancied advantages of human neighborhood insignificant, and I have never thought of them since. Every little pine needle expanded and swelled with sympathy and befriended me. I was distinctly made aware of the presence of something kindred to me, even in scenes which we are accustomed to call wild and dreary, and also that the nearest of blood to me and humanest was not a person nor a villager, that I thought no place could ever be strange to me again.... "How vast and profound is the influence of the subtile powers of Heaven and of Earth! We seek to perceive them, and we do not see them; we seek to hear them, and we do not hear them; identified with the substance of things, they cannot be separated from them." . . . I only know myself as a human entity; the scene, so to speak, of thoughts and affections; and am sensible of a certain doubleness by which I can stand as remote from myself as from another. However intense my experience, I am conscious of the presence and criticism of a part of me, which, as it were, is not a part of me, but spectator, sharing no experience, but taking note of it, and that is no more I than it is you. When the play, it may be the tragedy, of life is over, the spectator goes his way. It was a kind of fiction, a work of the imagination only, so far as he was concerned.
One wonders whether Huxley's antagonist R. C. Zaehner
would dismiss that as natural mysticism or as monistic
mysticism, or possibly as both. Theistic it is not.
Emerson probably did more than anybody else in his time
to translate Eastern ideas, as he understood them, into the
American idiom. He informed his readers about a school of
thought, across the sea, which held that "what we call
Nature, the external world, has no real existence—is only
phenomenal. Youth, age, property, conditions, events,
persons—self, even— are successive maias (deceptions)
through which Vishnu mocks and instructs the soul." He added
his opinion: "I think Hindoo books the best gymnastics for
the mind, as showing treatment. All European libraries might
almost be read without the swing of this gigantic arm being
suspected. But these Orientals deal with worlds and pebbles
freely." Emerson's poetry is freighted with Eastern imagery,
and his "Brahma," for example, is almost a literal rendering
of a passage from the Katha Upanishad:
If the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.
For Yankee monists, Transcendentalism had this to offer:
I am the owner of the sphere,
Of the seven stars and the solar year,
Of Caesar's hand and Plato's brain,
Of Lord Christ's heart and Shakespeare's strain.
As with Blake, Walt Whitman's poetry as a whole seems to
reflect the viewpoint of Eastern mysticism. In his later
years Whitman gives the impression of somehow being in a
permanent state of satori, and James indeed suggested
that Whitman probably had "a chronic mystical perception."
Rather tempting bait for speculation is offered by the fact
that Whitman for so many years was little more than a
journalistic hack. What was the source, then, of the
inspiration which gave us Leaves of Grass? Following
Wasson, it might be asserted that the Good Gray Poet at some
period in his life was introduced to hashish or peyote or
some other psychedelic, perhaps on that trip he made to New
Orleans. The idea is farfetched, and we shall not pursue it;
the fact remains that, spontaneously or otherwise, Whitman
suddenly began to write poetry which echoes and re-echoes
with Oriental and psychedelic intuitions:
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
Maybe it wasn't hashish; maybe it was Hegel. According
to an 1882 entry in Specimen Days, the most profound
theme to occupy the mind of man is the relation between the
Me and the Not Me of the universe. And while Kant and
Schelling perhaps had supplied us with partial answers, "G.
F. Hegel's fuller statement of the matter probably remains
the last best word that has been said upon it . . .
illuminating the thought of the universe, and satisfying the
mystery thereof to the human mind, with a more consoling
scientific assurance than any yet." Long before that entry
was made, however, Whitman had written in his journal of
1847: "I cannot understand the mystery, but I am always
conscious of myself as two—-as my soul and I." He was not
contained between his hat and boots, he later wrote. There
also was "the unseen soul of me." There also was the square
deific, the One. There also was:
Santa Spirita, breather, life,
Beyond the light, lighter than light . . .
Ethereal, pervading all, (for without me what were all? what were God?)
Essence of forms, life of the real identities, permanent, positive,
(namely the unseen.)
Life of the great round world, the sun and stars, and of man,
I, the general soul . . .
And just in case anybody should have missed his meaning:
What do you suppose creation is?
What do you suppose will satisfy the soul, except to walk free
and own no superior?
What do you suppose I would intimate to you in a hundred ways,
but that man or woman is as good as God?
And that there is no God any more divine than Yourself?
And that that is what the oldest and newest myths finally mean?
For the general soul, read Brahman or pure Being; for
Yourself, read Atman. Clearly, if Wordsworth speaks for the
mescal drinkers, Whitman deserves consideration as the poet
laureate of LSD. He also hinted at an esoteric doctrine of
reincarnation, especially in "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry," and,
like Thoreau and the three monkeys, he heard, saw, and spoke
no evil. As we shall see, the innocent denial of evil in the
universe is the basis for one of the principal charges that
would later be lodged against Whitman, just as it is lodged
now against the psychedelic drug movement.
America was given another injection of Eastern
metaphysics in 1875, when the Theosophical Society was
founded in New York City by Helena Petrovna Blavatsky and
Henry Steele Olcott. Madame Blavatsky, a Russian, said that
she had studied under an Eastern master in Tibet, and the
Theosophists were effective in promoting many Hindu and
Buddhist concepts including reincarnation, the monistic
brotherhood of man, and the direct, mystical knowledge of a
Universal Self. At the turn of the century, James's classic
study of religious experience had a profound and lasting
influence on theology and psychology; it opened the eyes of
scholars and laymen to whole new realms of consciousness,
probing deeply into the mystical awareness of East and West
alike. On a lesser scale, R. M. Bucke helped to lay the
groundwork for future developments by popularizing the
concept of "cosmic consciousness." Bucke, a Canadian
psychiatrist and a contemporary of James, wrote in 1901:
The prime characteristic of cosmic consciousness is a consciousness of the cosmos, that is, of the life and order of the universe. Along with the consciousness of the cosmos there occurs an intellectual enlightenment which alone would place the individual on a new plane of existence— would make him almost a member of a new species. To this is added a state of moral exaltation, an indescribable feeling of elevation, elation, and joyousness, and a quickening of the moral sense, which is fully as striking, and more important than is the enhanced intellectual power. With these come what may be called a sense of immortality, a consciousness of eternal life, not a conviction that he shall have this, but the consciousness that he has it already.
Bucke might easily have been describing the deep-seated
conviction of a psychedelic cultist—and in fact some of the
cultists have begun now to speak of themselves as a new
species: as the forerunners of an emerging race of psychic
mutants who will transcend the world to attain the nirvana
of pure Being. Even at the time Bucke wrote, experimentation
was beginning with various psychedelic agents then
available. As mentioned, James himself was exploring the
implications of nitrous oxide intoxication. Havelock Ellis
had been dabbling with mescaline. And during the latter part
of the nineteenth century, American Indian tribes had begun
to use peyote as a sacrament in their religious ceremonies,
leading finally to the establishment of the psychedelic
Native American Church, which now has an estimated
quarter-million members.
The new century saw a proliferation of cults, sects, and
societies whose teachings often were a combination of mumbo
jumbo and Eastern philosophy (for example, the I AM
movement). Some of the issues at stake were translated to
the secular and political level; the conflict between monism
and pluralism reappeared in the antagonism between
democratic individualism and the anthill conformity of
fascism and communism: even the Rotary Club orator
fulminating against creeping socialism and the Washington
octopus was in a very real sense addressing himself to one
of the most basic problems of metaphysics and East-West
theology: the Many versus the One. As far as the laying of a
groundwork is concerned, significance must also be attached
to the new respectability which parapsychology gained as a
result of the studies inaugurated at Duke University in 1930
by J. B. Rhine. The painstaking research devoted to such
phenomena as extra-sensory perception and psychokinesis
would lend its scientific aura to the astonishing statements
which would later be made by the prophets of the drug
movement, making those statements sound not quite so
astonishing to an empirically minded generation. Indeed, it
is possible that the Duke research has a direct bearing on
the validity of psychedelic experience. As the
ultra-cautious Rhine explained in 1947:
The research in parapsychology even now touches other great issues of religion. If the mind of man is nonphysical, it is possible to formulate a hypothetical picture of a nonphysical system or world made up of all such minds existing in some sort of relationship to each other. This leads to speculative views of a kind of psychical oversoul, or reservoir, or continuum, or universe, having its own system of laws and properties and potentialities. One can conceive of this great total pattern as having a transcendent uniqueness over and above the nature of its parts that some might call its divinity.
Eastern themes were everywhere. Even the schoolgirl was
not immune as she turned the treasured pages of Kahlil
Gibran's The Prophet. "Fare you well, people of
Orphalese," said that chosen and beloved one, Almustafa. "A
little while, and my longing shall gather dust and foam for
another body. A little while, a moment of rest upon the
wind, and another woman shall bear me."
The floodgates were opened by the outcome of the Second
World War, of course, and one does well to remember that Zen
was "camp" long before LSD. Buddhist study groups sprang up.
American pupils and housewives could be found writing haiku
poetry in grade-school classrooms and on the backs of
grocery shopping lists. Bookstore racks gave prominent
display to paperback editions of the Upanishads, the
Bhagavad-Gita, the Tao Te Ching.
These developments perhaps were inevitable;
nevertheless, it seems fair to say that the Eastern influx
could not have attained its present magnitude had it not
been for the conscious and dedicated efforts of five men:
Carl Jung, Daisetz T. Suzuki, Alan W. Watts, W. Y.
Evans-Wentz, and Aldous Huxley. Jung's concept of the
collective unconscious has Oriental connotations, and Jung
in addition had an abiding interest in Eastern metaphysics:
he lent the authority of his name to works on Zen and
related subjects, writing forewords and commentaries which
expressed his enthusiasm, and he once affirmed that the
Tibetan Book of the Dead had been a "constant companion"
to which he owed "not only many stimulating ideas and
discoveries, but also many fundamental insights." Suzuki, a
Japanese scholar who died only recently in Tokyo, wrote
literally scores of books in which he sought to interpret
Zen for Western readers, and he also lectured widely in
American universities. Watts complemented Suzuki by
examining Zen through Western eyes; a gifted interpreter and
popularizer of complex ideas, he has made Eastern wisdom
comprehensible to a vast audience through books, lectures,
and television classes. Evans-Wentz introduced the West to
the Tibetan Book of the Dead, a remarkable book which
deserves our attention if only for the fact that it has
since been adopted as the bible of the drug movement.
"It is a book which is sealed with the seven seals of
silence," we are told in a foreword by Lama Anagarika
Govinda. "But the time has come to break the seals of
silence . . ." And why? Because "the human race has come
to the juncture where it must decide whether to be content
with the subjugation of the material world, or to strive
after the conquest of the spiritual world." The origins of
the book go back at least a thousand years. In the original
Tibetan the work is known as the Bardo Thödol, which
means "Liberation by Hearing on the After-Death Plane," and
the exoteric purpose of the book was emancipation from the
reincarnational wheel of death and rebirth. The book was
read over the bodies of the recently deceased by those Sages
of the Snowy Ranges, the Buddhist lamas of Tibet, and the
idea was to talk a dead person out of seeking reincarnation
in a new body. A dead man was believed to wander in the
Bardo or After-Death Plane for forty-nine days (a symbolic
number based on seven times seven), and during this
period—in fact at the moment of death—he would encounter the
Clear Light of the Void. If he had the understanding which
comes with good karma, he would surrender his sense of
individuality and would merge with that Void, thus ending
the matter then and there. But the Void is terrible to
behold if you lack understanding, and many reincarnations
are normally required before one earns one's karmic passport
to nirvana. And so it was that most dead men would turn in
terror from the Clear Light. They would wander in the Bardo,
their senses assaulted by visions both frightful and
beatific—by the Wrathful Deities and the Peaceful
Deities—and finally they would enter the womb to be born
again. In hopes of preventing this, the lamas would
therefore read aloud from the sacred book, a sort of
Fielding's guide to the Bardo region, and the dead men would
thus receive detailed instructions for every stage of their
journey. They would be told that their fear of the Clear
Light resulted from their false sense of self, whose
existence the Clear Light quite correctly appeared to
threaten. They would be told that the visions they saw,
apart from the Void, were nothing more than sangsara—projections
of their own minds, which were still caught in the Net of
Illusion. And finally they would be told that the womb was
simply a doorway back to the world of appearances.
That was the exoteric teaching; but when Evans-Wentz
first presented the book to the West, in 1927, the
suggestion was made that it included or concealed an
esoteric interpretation. Jung, for example, contributed a
psychological commentary in which he asserted that "it is an
undeniable fact that the whole book is created out of the
archetypal contents of the unconscious." More to the point,
Lama Govinda stated in his foreword that the book "was
originally conceived to serve as a guide not only for the
dying and the dead, but for the living as well." And that in
any case is what it has since become, whatever the original
intention might have been. More than a quarter-century after
its initial publication, the Evans-Wentz edition came to
prominence again in 1954, when Huxley made much of it in his
very influential book, The Doors of Perception. In
that book Huxley wrote of his first experience with
mescaline, which he took in his home in California in the
spring of 1953. Huxley reported that at one point he felt
himself on the verge of panic, terrified by the prospect of
ego disintegration, and he compared his dread with that of
the Tibetan dead man who could not face the Clear Light,
preferring rebirth and "the comforting darkness of
selfhood." Thus the Tibetan Book of the Dead was
inexorably linked to the psychedelic experience, and ten
years later, in 1964, there appeared a volume titled The
Psychedelic Experience: A Manual Based on the Tibetan Book
of the Dead. The authors were LSD enthusiasts Timothy
Leary, Ralph Metzner, and Richard Alpert, and they boldly
offered their own interpretation of the ancient book: it had
to do not with the death and rebirth of the body but
rather with the death and rebirth of the ego in
mystical states of mind. It was indeed a book for the
living. More than that, it provided, in symbolic imagery, a
precise account of the psychedelic experience. Absorption in
the Clear Light is nothing more than a good trip, in which
the psychedelic subject feels himself united again with the
Ground of his Being. It is the apprehension of pure Being,
beyond the sangsaric deceptions of language and rational
perception. And those Peaceful and Wrathful Deities
represent the hallucinatory period which occurs when one
fails to achieve the central experience. A bad trip results
inevitably when the subject refuses to face the Clear
Light—violently resists the disintegration of his ego—and
rather than seek rebirth in another body, he pleads for a
shot of Thorazine which will return him to his own body in
the phenomenal world of ego and rational symbolism.
Huxley's book has a certain historical significance;
what we refer to today as the drug movement may be said to
date from that book, although, as we have attempted to show,
a substantial base for the movement had been in preparation
long before 1954. In any case, the drug movement appeared to
dovetail very neatly with what might be called the Eastern
movement, and it might well be asked if this occurred
naturally or under duress; that is, did the two really fit
together, or were they made to fit? The latter possibility
has been suggested by R. E. L. Masters and Jean Houston, who
cite as evidence the phenomenon they refer to as "galloping
agape." They assert that the supposed capacity of the
psychedelics to promote feelings of brotherly love was
rarely detected during early research in the 1950's: it
became manifest only with the appearance of love-oriented
drug literature. By the same token, Huxley and other drug
enthusiasts are accused of leading their readers down the
lotus path. Masters and Houston criticize the emergence of a
"quasi-Eastern mystique," of a "wholesale leap to the East"
and a "nebulous chaos seen as Eastern 'truth.' " These
developments are all the more regrettable since the
psychedelic drugs "may genuinely give some inkling of the
complexity of Eastern consciousness."
Masters and Houston conclude: "To at least some extent
the responsibility for this seduction of the innocent must
lie with such authors as Huxley, Alan Watts, and others who
in their various writings imposed upon the psychedelic
experience essentially Eastern ideas and terminology which a
great many persons then assumed to be the sole and accurate
way of approaching and interpreting such experience."
The charge is serious, if it holds up in court. Does it?
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