[NOTE: It's July 2024 as I write this little preface. This sat around untouched for most of my hiatus this year, so rather than go back and try to cook up thoughts inorganically about books I don't remember much of, I'm publishing this "as is", meaning some of these may come across a little fragmentary or just rough in general. To prevent this in the future, I might move to a more frequent book-review schedule, possibly a quarterly basis.]
Another year gone by of reading entirely too much for my own good. As I've done the last two years, I have put together a literary year in review, just quickly running through all the books I finished in 2023. Since that's books finished, that does mean the first few were started in 2022, and what I'm reading now will be counted for the 2024 roundup.
Metaphysics of War — Julius Evola
This is an anthology of essays by Evola regarding the transcendent possibilities in warfare, both ancient and modern. I read this digitally back in 2021, and this year I reread it via audiobook. Since my last reading, I have personally become more of an orthodox Theravādin, so I have left the possibility of war out of my own spiritual path. That being said, spiritual progress in general comes from transformative hardship, which certainly includes war, so non-aggressive types such as myself may still find some value in these sorts of writings. Additionally, the military attitude described by Evola is no less applicable to that of a peaceful monastic or even a practicing layman:
He who is really a soldier is so by nature, and therefore because he wants to be so; in the missions and tasks which are given to him, consequently, he recognises himself, so to speak. Likewise, the one who conceives his existence as being that of a soldier in an army will be very far from considering the world as a vale of tears from which to flee, or as a circus of irrational events at which to throw himself blindly, or as a realm for which carpe diem constitutes the supreme wisdom. Though he is not unaware of the tragic and negative side of so many things, his way of reacting to them will be quite different from that of all other men. His feeling that this world is not his Fatherland, and that it does not represent his proper condition, so to speak—his feeling that, basically, he 'comes from afar'—will remain a fundamental element which will not give rise to mystical escapism and spiritual weakness, but rather will enable him to minimise, to relativise, to refer to higher concepts of measure and limit, all that can seem important and definitive to others, starting with death itself, and will confer on him calm force and breadth of vision. (Ch. VI; emphasis mine)
This is not so far removed from, for example, the Aggañña Sutta (DN 27), which reveals that the humans of Earth are really descended from the ābhassara-brahmās (lit. gods of streaming radiance). This allows one to see parts of the Noble Path such as the jhānas and the brahmāvihāras as, to paraphrase Ajahn Puṇṇadhammo, "memories of an older form of consciousness". Regarding the view of death in battle, I would be remiss to leave out a somewhat well-known verse from the Suttanipāta (3.2):
I gird myself in muñja grass;
wretched would life be to me.
It's better that I die in battle
than live on defeated.
Esa muñjaṁ parihare,
dhiratthu mama jīvitaṁ;
saṅgāme me mataṁ seyyo,
yañce jīve parājito.
This attitude is essential to Buddhism in all its forms, even those that arose in Japan, whose samurai, sōhei, shinobi, etc. all transposed this spirit into physical warfare. Among the samurai of the Pure Land sect (Jōdō-shinshū), there was even a popular pair of four-character slogans: 厭離穢土、欣求浄土—disdain this impure world, strive for the Pure Land. This is easily compared to the Nordic aspiration for Valhalla, the Hellenic striving for Elysium, etc. discussed by Evola. So, even though I respect the precepts to abstain from killing, I found this work congenial and inspiring, even with inclusions from Semitic-influenced warriors (that is, Christian and Muslim combatants in the crusades).
Letters from a Stoic — Seneca
This is a collection of letters written from Seneca the Younger to his student Lucilius. I own the Penguin edition, which seemingly does not contain the full suite of Seneca's letters. Nonetheless, there is a readily perceptible attitude that stays the same throughout, so while I will seek out a more complete collection, I don't believe reading it would severely alter my thoughts here.
Fittingly, Seneca actually gets quoted a fair few times in the previous work. His general ethic agrees with that of the "warrior spirit", but this text is perhaps more valuable to me (and to a fair few others) in that Seneca uses each letter to touch on some aspect of everyday peacetime living: health, finance, etc. Unfortunately, this tendency in stoic writings (here one may especially include Marcus Aurelius' Meditations) has attracted a bourgeois crowd with a mind for putting philosophy to worldly uses, rather than vice versa as the actual stoics did. Yet when one actually reads Seneca, we find a measured attitude against worldly success and a strident emphasis on philosophical cultivation.
There is one point where Buddhist orthodoxy seriously disagrees with Stoicism, and that's in regards to the afterlife. The stoics seem to have had an unfortunately annihilationist view of death, that it's basically just permanent oblivion. They use this view to temper one's attitude, on the one hand against worldly suffering—nothing is ever so bad that you can't just kill yourself—and on the other against fear of death—how bad can oblivion be? While these may superficially act as skillful means of overcoming worries and fears, this view of death is Wrong View, and for my own part, I believe it is better to believe what is true instead of what is expedient.
The Sacred Science of Ancient Japan — Avery Morrow
I found this book by searching Evola's name on the Inner Traditions catalogue; the author claims to use Evola's method to analyze some Japanese "parahistorical" documents. While that does come across enticing to someone like me, I must confess that the documents analyzed were not terribly interesting to me, because they came across as overtly human inventions, when a big part of Tradition is in aspiring for the more-than-human. While I agree with Morrow's adoption of Evola's anti-empirical attitude, Morrow takes this to the extreme of accepting any and all writings as having some historical-spiritual value. I would normally share some more precise examples, but I must admit that, at time of writing, it's been a few months since I finished and sold off the book, and I can't be bothered to dig up a pirated copy to give quotations. For a brief example off the top of my head, there is one document claiming connections with the Abrahamic tradition, including some business about Jesus living in Japan for part of his life.
Introduction to Zen Training — Ōmori Sōgen
This is a fairly comprehensive overview of Zen (history, metaphysics, practice, etc.) from what seems to be a rather prominent Rinzai rōshi. What I found was the same experience I have with a lot of Zen (Chán, Thiên, etc.), which is a mixed bag of solid gems and patent nonsense. This I believe is the result of precisely where Zen stands in relation to archaic Buddhism (and, for the most part, Theravāda). It is an off-shoot of Mahāyāna, which regardless of sect contains some core teachings that flatly contradict the words of the actual Buddha. However, it is also in large part a reaction against prevailing currents in Mahāyāna, which ironically leads it to seem a little more like archaic Buddhism: it is against speculation and dialectic, and it is rigorously minimalist in doctrine and practice.
One point where I would say Rinzai particularly diverges from the Buddha's actual teaching is what seems like a Confucian bias to me; to quote Sōgen himself, "if we remain quiet with our eyes closed like stagnant water, we will never be useful to society". This statement is immensely ironic when we consider that the word Zen itself comes from Sanskrit dhyāna (Pāli jhāna), the advanced states of meditation wherein the mind is made progressively quieter and more blissful, resulting in the meditator sitting still for potentially long periods of time, hardly "useful to society". My problem with this attitude is its subversive orientation. In the original teachings, to renounce the world, go forth as a monk, and strive for liberation was considered the highest good, and that anything else was ennobled only by more closely resembling that ideal. So in this regard, the Japanese proliferation of Zen into the lay arts of combat, the arts, labor, etc. was a positive good. The problem lies in flipping the script, insisting that ennobled lay life is the highest good and ascetic renunciation is the subject of derision. It also feeds into further decline when it encounters the vitalist-activist currents of the West.
Another problem I have with Sōgen is his droning on about the "True Self". I've noticed, from speaking with some Mahāyānists online, that there's a bizarre current in Mahāyāna that discards the original teaching of anattā in favor of the Upaniṣadic neti neti, basically arguing that there is a self but that it lies outside the five aggregates. I've seen some try to take this line by playing verbal tricks with anattā: something about it means not-self, but not no-self, as if this makes any difference in the Buddha's categorical statement sabbe dhammā anattā. But as for Sōgen's True Self, it seems to have developed spontaneously in the long history of Chán/Zen being transmitted outside the scriptures. He gives the following descriptions for us:
When we learn that this lump of red flesh, this five-foot bag of dung, is really infinite and eternal, unlimited by anything, we are liberated from our limited viewpoints. What we call the source of human personality—the True Self—is said to be this kind of eternal existence, yet it does not exist outside the living body.
"To die the Great Death" is to root out ideas and beliefs we commonly accept, such as having a "self," and to negate the small self or the ego. "To be reborn to the True Self" is to affirm the Whole and our true selves without ego. ... Therefore, in Zen one awakens to one's True Self and takes firm hold of it. To give life to one's True Self sufficiently in all the affairs of daily life and to practice living as a human being while purifying the entire world is perhaps the most complete way of saying it.
Passages like these two give me the impression that "Self" is not being used as an absolute category, but instead as a poetic way of conveying the freedom attained through zazen; it's "autonomy", even if neither the αὐτός nor the νόμος are absolute, "ultimately real" categories. You could say that it's the personality ("self") of an arahant, who is able to act without disturbing the world (kiriya as opposed to kamma), as opposed to the personality of a puthujjana, blindly enslaved to taṇhā and unable to act freely, that is, without producing kamma. If my understanding is correct, then I would only object that all this talk of "self" and "taking hold" are futile exercises in spinning Wrong View as Right View.
Those are my two main issues with Sōgen's work. The remainder of the work is decent instruction on the actual practice of meditation (seated, walking, and working, or samu), but it doesn't provide any outstanding instruction that can't be found elsewhere, not to mention it's buried under the two issues hashed out above, so I cannot really recommend this book.
Fellowship of the Ring — J. R. R. Tolkien
I listened to this on audiobook this year, so I wish to begin with a brief complaint about Amazon's Audible service. When I bought this back in about 2018, the cover included was the above, with a classy crimson border. Now, the cover has been replaced with an uninspiring and uninformative photograph, with the cherry on top that is a gratuitous ad for Amazon's new show placed in the corner. (As for that show, I admit I haven't seen it and have no interest in it, but I did enjoy this comparison video showcasing its flaws.)
As for the book itself, I had tried a few different times to dive into the modern classic that is the Lord of the Rings, once in high school on paperback and another time in college on this same audiobook, but both times I failed to keep up a regular reading schedule. I was able to finally finish this, starting in 2022, with a semi-regular schedule of listenings while driving. The narrator was really quite excellent, almost like he was born to perform Tolkien, but at times his slow, low-pitched delivery put me in a drowse, so for safety purposes (something you rarely think about when reading a print book!) I had to take more than a few mid-chapter breaks.
I must confess that while I have a few things to say about this book, at present I believe Ajahn Puṇṇadhammo has already said them much better than I could. Perhaps when I finish the other two volumes I'll have some more thoughts of my own.
Zen in the Art of Archery — Eugen Herrigel
I found this recommended by a few American Zen websites, and I have seen it cited in Evola and Suzuki. It is the record of a German man's training in a peculiar mode of archery while staying in Japan during the early 20th century. The idea behind the Zen arts of Japan is cultivation of a mundane skill (not just archery but martial arts, painting, flower arrangement, etc.) such that mastery develops in oneself both detachment and wisdom.
At some point in his training, Herrigel attempted to find a shortcut in mastering the form by implementing some finger movement from his prior experience with rifles; the instructor noticed this and sorely dismissed Herrigel as a student, only accepting him back after extensive pleading by a mutual friend. Later on, Herrigel's teacher invited him over at night to demonstrate that he could fire three arrows in a row at the same exact spot in pitch darkness (such that each successive arrow broke through the previous one). What we have here is not just a clash of East and West, but of modern and ancient. We all know how the modern world gains ever more leisure with the continuous development of automation, but few if any of us put that leisure to genuinely good work, using it instead to put our feet up and satisfy newer whims every day. Life thus becomes something to merely get over with, as Herrigel attempts to simplify the technique of archery to get it done faster. His teacher, however, is from interwar Japan, where ancient ways had not yet died out. Rather than giving into the virus of speed and efficiency, he maintains the old way of living thoughtfully and seriously, and a master of any art should indeed be thoughtful and serious. It's in this way that spiritual progress becomes possible even for those not prepared to go forth as monks.
Evola makes an interesting point in referring to this book, theorizing that the guilds and orders of the ancient and medieval West were in a similar vein as the Zen arts of contemporary Japan. Ordinary activities are transformed into rites by which the divine may benefit the society at large, almost similar to the theory of a bodhisattva who works to benefit the world. I can accept this much; what I cannot accept is the polemical line that this is superior to pure spiritual practice in monasticism, the mysteries, etc. Fortunately Herrigel does not do this, in fact I don't believe he mentions the words bodhisattva or hīnayāna anywhere in the book.
A Buddhist Philosophy of Religion — Ñāṇajīvako Bhikkhu
This might be the rarest book I've ever read. Just to give you an idea of that, I had to provide the reference image above by myself, because the only one I could find online was, to be frank, quite ugly. There also appears to be little information online about both the book and the author, which is a shame, because I was interested in picking up some of his other works (there's one called Schopenhauer and Buddhism, for example), and he's also quite an intelligent writer, worthy of the same recognition as say Bhikkhu Ñāṇamoli or Bhikkhu Bodhi.
This is one of those books that outlines Buddhism in a sort of progressive manner, that is by starting with the central problem then working through the practice and metaphysics from there. It begins in a sort of comparative light by bringing up Christianity, Hinduism, and Jainism, the latter of which I found most interesting—Ñāṇajīvako has probably demonstrated the greatest familiarity with Jainism of all the Buddhists I've read, and at the very least he's the only one I've encountered who actually quotes Jain scripture. From there he spends a lot of time comparing Buddhism with more recent philosophers, in particular Edmund Husserl and George Santayana, two names I hear a lot of but I rarely hear much about. Further discussions also go in-depth comparing the stages of Buddhist training with, for example, the ascent through the Hindu chakras. My problem is that there's no real overarching thesis and it's not terribly beginner-friendly, so while it is very interesting to read, I didn't come away with much other than some mild interest in the aforementioned authors. Part of the problem was also how long it took me to get through the book; the dense prose, written with the author's good but non-native command of English (he is apparently Serbian), makes it a bit trying at times to read smoothly. This probably inhibited my reading; I'm sure if I came back to it another time, I could move a little faster and come away with a stronger sense of Ñāṇajīvako's underlying intention.
The Method of No-Method — Sheng Yen Fashi
I've mentioned a couple of times now, in previous posts, that I attend a Taiwanese monastery somewhat regularly for half-day retreats. Sometimes they offer full-day retreats, usually centered around a particular method; this past summer, they offered a two-day retreat centered on a method known as Silent Illumination (默照) or Just Sitting (只管打坐). As the title of the book and the latter name might clue you in, this is an extremely simple technique—so simple, in fact, that is rather hard. Most other meditation methods use some object by which to effect samatha and/or vipassanā, but here, the middle-man is cut out and one simply abides in those states by sheer willpower.
Since the book is mostly just instructional, I'll just relate my experience with the method. At the outset of the retreat, the nun gave her talk about the method and gave us a short break before moving into the actual period of meditation. She had a bit of a roundabout way of speaking (she is rather young, for a nun) so I don't remember feeling terribly confident when she finished her talk. I ended up taking long with the break, so when I heard the bell, I hurried back to the main hall while everyone else was already seated. As I folded my legs, my mind was in a flurry and I thought "Alright, what's the deal now? Just sitting? Okay, just sit..." From there, I actually had some of my best meditation in a long time. My mind felt wonderfully clear and expansive. Whatever sounds and sensations came were like mere ripples on a great crystalline lake. It was such a sublime and blissful state that what few thoughts arose in me were completely uninteresting, and passed on as soon as they came. My experience with the method hasn't always been as great since then, but in general I think I perform well with it compared to more popular methods like ānapānasāti and such.
The Tibetan Book of the Dead — Karma Lingpa
Properly known as the Bardo Thödöl, this is a comprehensive series of teachings regarding preparation and training for the post-mortem states according to Vajrāyāna Buddhism. Before dealing with the actual book, I'm aware that Theravāda orthodoxy opposes the doctrine of the intermediate stage (antarabhāva, or bardo in Tibetan) between death and rebirth, positing instead the idea that the moment a being dies they re-arise at the conception of their next life. That being said, the Buddha never rules it out in any of the pāli suttas, and in at least one case he even tacitly accepts an intermediate state. This seems to be a position that was only cooked up later in the development of abhidhamma, and on a few points including this one, I believe the Theravāda position (see the Kathavatthu) is bizarrely intransigent.
Having addressed that, I was surprised to find that this book was short on doctrine and long on instructions. With all of the recitations, prayers, exercises, and rituals, it almost struck me more like a Western grimoire than anything else. (One chapter involves an elaborate ritual where, among other things, you put on an animal's skin and imitate its cry during a certain time of day, then discern from your shadow's shape how much of your life you have left.) It also seems like you really need to be immersed in Tibetan Buddhism proper to really get the value from this, since there are very many invocations and references to the myriad deities and bodhisattvas in that pantheon. While I appreciate the general spirit (e.g. verses of encouragement to the dead practitioner) and still have some interest in post-mortem states, I feel that I was not familiar enough with Vajrāyāna to really get anything out of it. Despite its notoriety, it seems to be an advanced text that I may have to come back to another time.
The Bodhisattva Path — Thích Nhất Hạnh
I put out a Tweet earlier this year along the lines "I've never felt more inclined to burn a book before" (in regards a theosophical quote from D. T. Suzuki in Essays in Zen Buddhism). Well, to be honest, I had a similar feeling with nearly every page of this book, which is Hạnh's commentary on the Ugrapariprccha Sūtra and the Vimalakīrtinirdeśa Sūtra, two key Mahāyāna texts on the practice of a lay bodhisattva. I admit that I'm already easily incensed by the chest-thumping found in older and more hard-line Mahāyāna thinking, but I thought that a modernist like Hạnh would have softened that up a little. Instead, he takes an almost hyper-partisan position, saying that, yes, these sūtras were written after the time of the Buddha, they are obviously intended as composed stage-plays rather than recorded discourses, and all of their propagandistic elements (dissing the Lesser Vehicle, mocking the Buddha's disciples, setting up a new cast of characters, etc.) were essential for the burgeoning Mahāyāna school to establish itself and displace the Hīnayāna schools. That last one blew me away every time it came up, because not only is it admitting the Mahāyāna texts are inventions (something I would expect faithful Mahāyānists to reject), it's essentially casting the entire Mahāyāna as a historical villain trying to stamp out the original schools of Buddhism. I would think if Hạnh had any sense in him, he would at least try to defend these sūtras as actual teachings of the Buddha, or perhaps even interpret some concordance with the Buddha's original teachings, but he really sticks to his guns and insists that they were deliberately fabricated to bash Hīnayāna and prop up the Mahāyāna.
I hate to sound like a thin-skinned partisan myself, but in hindsight it feels like Hạnh took every opportunity to remind the reader of the preceding points, almost overshadowing whatever actual value the two sūtras might have had for me. That all being said, there were two points that I liked, both of which I believe I tweeted at some point. First, with regards to "recreational" reading:
The truth is that if we do not have much time, we should dedicate the time we have to studying the sutras. However, when we have an innate capacity for learning and a practice that is wide and deep, then any kind of reading material can help us develop our enlightened mind. Whenever I read a book, however badly it is written, however uninspiring is the material, or watch a film however bad it is, I can still see that my understanding of Right Dharma is present. It is because while I am reading the book or watching the film, I do not lose myself in it. As I read or watch I am always looking deeply, and so I am able to understand the mind of the author. (p. 101)
I wrote this quote down a long time ago so I don't remember what part of the sūtra he's commenting on. Nonetheless I think this is valuable for those of us who choose to remain lay followers and continue to enjoy secular art, literature, film, etc. I wrote in a previous post about how I got saṃvega from the plot of a video game, but beyond that I have also been able to enjoy other art through a detached dharmic lens.
Second, with regard to worldly cultivation:
A bodhisattva should known how to make life beautiful. If you say: "The practice of Buddhism does not need beauty, the Buddhist center does not need a flower garden, the floors do not need to be swept; in my practice I can eat in a way that is not beautiful, sleep in a way that is not beautiful; this life is just a temporary affair while there is another kind of life that will last forever and that is what I need," that is fetter. An authentic bodhisattva knows that part of the practice is making the practice center a place that has an ambience of purity and beauty. The bodhisattva will plant flowers and take care of the plants, making the people who come to practice happy. Such is a bodhisattva who adorns a Pure Land and is liberated. (p. 152)
This may explain the stark contrast between Theravāda and Mahāyāna aesthetics. The artistry of China, Korea, Japan, and even Tibet enjoys much greater appeal over that of Sri Lanka, Burma, and Thailand. The Sinosphere (well, moreso just China proper) did have a developed aesthetic before the arrival of Buddhism, but there's no doubt that the attitude Hạnh voices here greatly strengthened what was there. Perhaps that was the key; Theravāda itself has a markedly Doric mood that could have inspired as great art as produced by ancient Greece, not to mention the very many heaven-realms provide similar artistic fodder as the Mahāyāna's Pure Lands. Yet, the culture of Sri Lanka and Southeast Asia simply didn't have the same artistic sense as Tibet and the Sinosphere, so they didn't develop that attitude so well on the artistic plane (not until very recently, anyway). Then again, this is still in line with the general Mahāyāna tendency of lessening spiritual tension; this passage justifies beautification as a concession to the lay attendees, to "make them happy" so they show up and practice. Dharma is made to serve beauty rather than the other way around, as for example the application of Zen to painting and flower-arrangement.
Revolt Against the Modern World — Julius Evola
This was my first time re-reading this book; I discussed a little bit of my first reading in this post. In brief, the first time I read it was out of interest in Evola's politics, coming from the perspective of a half-libertarian (influenced by Rothbard, Hoppe, etc.) and half-neoreactionary (Moldbug, Kuehnelt-Leddihn, etc.). Now that I have largely left politics behind, I came back to this book with a more refined eye for the spiritual content. While I will adamantly insist that I am not "Evolian" (I do not believe that Evola expounded an original philosophy), re-reading this work has given me a fresh dose of the Traditionalist worldview that informs how I assess mythology, history, and religious doctrine. The fundamental orientation is towards the luminous realm of Being, Heaven (hence Evola's repeated use of the term uranian), over and against the dark currents of Becoming, Earth, "Life", etc. common to such disparate doctrines as that of Judaism, Christianity, Marx, and Nietzsche. To me, so long as one can find this orientation in a given cycle of myths or teachings, any further disagreements are only quibbling, rendered all the more foolish by the ineffability of Ultimate Reality. This is why I feel I can still read, enjoy, and find value in Hellenic, Hindu, Daoist, Mahāyāna, and yes even some European Christian works without compromising on my own dedication to Theravāda.
In that regard, I would consider the eighth chapter, "The Two Paths in the Afterlife", the most essential in the whole work. The whole book is a masterful analysis of ancient myths and customs across civilizations, as well as the trends by which they diffused and changed, but this chapter I think most directly relates to how the reader himself should think and practice. Evola takes from the Upaniṣads the dichotomy of pitṛ-yāna (path of the ancestors) and deva-yāna (path of the gods), and elaborates on it with considerations from Hellenic, Egyptian, Buddhist, and other teachings. This reflects the essentially transcendent orientation mentioned above, especially concerning the immediate problem of one's own destiny.
Meditations on the Peaks — Julius Evola
This is a collection of essays Evola submitted to a few different magazines on the subject of mountain-climbing and ice-climbing. I initially bought it expecting a more general treatise, but it's really quite miscellaneous, even for Evola. A number of them are just him recounting this or that specific journey, which was kind of interesting. Apart from Frank Gelli's book about him, this is the only place where you can get a glimpse of the man's personality, though in this case it's only in sparing details that he reveals (telling jokes with other climbers, recommending certain lodges, etc.). There are a few metaphysical musings, but in general it doesn't get any more elaborate than identifying the heights and danger of a mountain with the metaphorical heights and danger of spiritual practice. In general it's a nice light read, but there's not much else to say about it.
Prose Edda — Snorri Sturluson
Most of my exposure to Norse mythology was in high school, through two main avenues: one being nerdy acquaintances who ranted and raved about how cool the stories were, and the other being those same friends dragging me to see the relevant Marvel movies. Both forms of exposure only ever aroused disgust in me, almost the same feeling one gets towards the now-popular image of the "soyjak". My view softened over time through college and beyond, and I eventually bought both Eddas with the aim of reading them out of a general desire to be "cultured". A few years after buying them and letting them collect dust, Evola's writings gave me some better appreciation for the Nordic Cycle, so I decided to finally read them, starting with the Prose Edda.
I had a bit of whiplash from the opening of the book, which first repeated the account of creation in the book of Genesis, and then briefly glossed over the Trojan War and claimed that Odin was a Trojan refugee who moved far north and founded the Norse race as we know it today. Apparently, Sturluson was an Icelandic chieftain who compiled existing myths in order to position Norse civilization favorably alongside the Homeric epics and Bible of Western Europe. This casts some doubt on the rest of the book, but as I am but an amateur reader and not a scholar, I cannot speak to any perversion of the remaining myths recounted by Sturluson.
I have one comment to make on the mythic content, specifically on the origin story. The beginning of the Gylfaginning explains the two orders of beings appear. One descends from Ymir, the first of the giants (jötunn), who lies sleeping in the primordial void (ginnungagap), doing nothing but sweat (generating more giants) and suckle from a giant cow, Auðumbla. The other order descends from Búri, the first of the gods (Æsir), who originates as Auðumbla licks away a salty block of ice, thereby thawing Búri out. These two beings are the only ones with no genetic heritage, so they represent the two orders of beings that intermix and produce the gods, men, dwarves, animals, etc. in the remainder of the myths (Auðumbla seemingly has no origin nor descendants). So we have the big sweaty suckler Ymir, and the primordial ice-borne god Búri, essentially the Earth and Heaven of Norse mythology. Just like in Greek mythology, the creatures born solely of Earth are typically evil: in addition to the giants born from his sweat, Ymir's flesh also spontaneously gave rise to the dwarves (dvergar, sometimes called "dark elves") the way maggots spawn in a corpse. Whereas those in Búri's lineage, even with some giant admixture, are the heroic gods like Odin and Thor. While this distinction already exists as the uranic-chthonic dichotomy of Hellenic polytheism, I find the imagery of Ymir and Búri more illustrative compared to Uranus and Gaea.
As a tangent, I have one more thought to offer. I find it interesting that, to our knowledge, neither Búri nor Uranus had any cult of worship, and they both play almost no role in their respective mythos beyond their immediate introduction. Similar patterns may be observed in other mythologies (e.g. Izanagi and Izanami of the Japanese Kōjiki) where the "first gods" seem like ancillary details. I have a Buddhist theory about this, drawing on the cosmogony outlined in the Aggañña Sutta. In the beginning of each cakkavaḷa (world-system), the earth is just a dark mass of water. Eventually, a nutritious foam (rasapaṭhavī) manifests on the surface of the sea, which entices the ābhassara brahmā deities to descend from their heaven-realm and have a taste. From there they settle and gradually devolve into coarser and coarser beings until we arrive at modern humanity. This follows a similar pattern to other mythologies, but the key thing is that the "first gods" are those whose consciousness are in second jhāna. For this reason the ābhassara and higher brahmā gods generally play no part in the suttas, because their consciousness is too subtle to be drawn into the drama of the lower realms. My pet theory is that the first gods of all mythologies belong to this class of super-exalted subtle deities: Uranus, Búri, Izanagi, etc. are all ābhassara brahmā gods, and their offspring are successively less exalted devas who nonetheless are more suited to play more involved roles in the rest of their respective cycles.
Monkey — Arthur Waley
This was a heavily abridged and modified version of the classic Journey to the West by Wú Chéng'ēn. I was mainly implored to read this by a few ethnically Chinese friends, since they describe it as a mainstay of Chinese pop culture. I was aware of a full translation, but as I didn't see the need to read four full volumes of something I was only passingly interested in, I opted for this version instead.
To be honest, I didn't particularly care for this, in fact I really had to kick myself through most chapters. The tone is whimsical but not enough to be genuinely amusing (being a millennial however, my sense of humor is quite bizarre), and the religious content is shallow, not enough to be genuinely evocative or even allegorical.
Analects — Confucius
Since embarking on my religious journey, I've generally regarded Confucian philosophy as ancillary to my interests. My understanding was that Confucius' interest was in restoring ancient social order while China was in chaos. As for me, I do live in a civilization that is also similarly disordered, but while I agree that something Confucius' ethics would do the West an awful lot of good, I have said before that I have no interest in fantasizing about powers I don't wield. Additionally, my primary interest is to transcend this world, not to stick around and try in vain to optimize it. So I have passed on Confucianism for the longest time, thinking it had nothing to offer me.
However, my mind was changed when I read two books: the Bansenshūkai (published as The Book of Ninja, which I read part of before dropping) and the Hagakure (which I am still getting through at time of writing). Both works, particularly the latter, quoted Confucius a fair bit when it came to addressing ethical problems in daily life. While a number of these instances concerned a samurai's administrative duties, there were still plenty that felt relevant to the dealings of a layman. So I decided to dust off an old leatherbound anthology of ancient Chinese classics (including Art of War and Daodejing) and finally give Confucius a look.
I was pleasantly surprised to find a series of pithy and wise aphorisms not dissimilar to the Stoics (though this comes with the caveat that the Analects was compiled by Confucius' students; the man himself has no extant writings). My initial prejudice was still partly correct, as there is a general this-worldly spirit to the work. However, as with the Stoics, I get the impression that Confucius was a realist and mostly provided guidance to perfect oneself, rather than to try in vain to perfect the world. I saved all my favorite quotes as I went, and I will share a few of them here:
The Master said, "In the book of Poetry are three hundred pieces, but the design of them all may be embraced in one sentence: 'Having no depraved thoughts'." (II.2)
The Master said, "With coarse rice to eat, with water to drink, and my bended arm for a pillow—I have still joy in the midst of these things. Riches and honors acquired by unrighteousness are to me as a floating cloud." (VII.15)
The Master said, "Heaven produced the virtue that is in me. General Huan-tui—what can he do to me?" (VII.22)
Sima Nü asked about the superior man. The Master said, "The superior man has neither anxiety nor fear."
"Being without anxiety or fear!" said Nü—"does this constitute what we call the superior man?"
The Master said, "When internal examination discovers nothing wrong, what is there to be anxious about, what is there to fear?" (XII.4)
The Master said, "What the superior man seeks, is in himself. What the mean man seeks, is in others." (XV.20)
My only regret is that this translation (James Legge's) is quite outdated, and it shows signs of European-ization: most egregious was one quote where Legge rendered the character 周 as "Catholic", which is the old Greek word for "universal" which I'm sure even at that time had more of a Christian connotation than was appropriate.
Buddhist Philosophy: a Historical Analysis — David Kalupahana
As for the first half, as I said, Kalupahana is concise and yet comprehensive, yet he often rules out otherwise common interpretations about nibbāna, the nature of an arahant, etc. in favor of modern-secular readings. I could accept this if he simply gave no interpretation and just said "this is just what the Buddha taught", because that would help to contextualize the second half of the book, which is all about the later elaborations after the death of the Buddha. The problem is that Kalupahana pushes a definitely Western-modernist reading of most points in the EBTs. For example, he insists that the Buddha was a radical empiricist, which is not just an inappropriate categorization outside of Western philosophy, but also flatly incorrect. The Buddha affirmed most of the cosmological beliefs of his time, including the flat Earth (cakkavaḷa), the existence of mythical beings (gods, dragons, giants, etc.), the possibility of psychic powers, and the reality of heaven- and hell-realms—none of which could be affirmed by an empirical view of reality. To square this, Kalupahana makes the outrageous claim that the Buddha simply adopted these cosmological views in bad faith and spun them to make people behave morally. As well, Kalupahana sticks to the interpretation that nibbāna is nothing more or less than "the end of dukkha", ruling out any idea of it as ultimate reality, salvation, etc. Remember that the Buddha, both before and after enlightenment, engaged with Vedic brahmins, jains, and other seekers who shared fairly similar ideas and goals; it's ludicrous to overwrite that context to say the Buddha was an empiricist hero against religious dogma, like he was just a homeless David Hume.
That all being said, I did enjoy the second half, particularly as regarded the Mahāyāna innovations, because it matches my own instincts when I read the Mahāyānists. Here is his take on the bodhisattva ideal, as outlined in the Vajracchedikā Sūtra:
Thus, while on the one hand the bodhisattva should be one who is possessed of understanding or wisdom and therefore not led by belief in the real existence of souls or persons, on the other hand he should not have any kind of interest or motivation, whether good or bad, when practicing virtues such as generosity. In other words, he should be one who has completely destroyed ignorance (avidyā) and grasping (upādāna). Then only could he lead a life of true selfless service. Then only could he do his duty for duty's sake. And this, of course, is the same position achieved by the arahant. It is certainly the noblest ideal to which one can aspire. But it should not be forgotten that a person who has eliminated ignorance and craving has also put an end to rebirth. After his death he is not able to continue in this saṃsāra or recurring cycle of existences in order to help others. He attains nirvana. Hence, the purpose of following the bodhisattva-ideal, that is, to help others during a number of lives, seems to be completely defeated. (p. 125)
This is precisely what I've thought about the bodhisattva path for as long as I've known about it. I can't imagine he's the first person to put this argument down on paper, but he's the first one I've found. Unfortunately, his argument takes another weird interpretive turn in the following page. Basically, the reason why the bodhisattva ideal was fabricated was to satisfy the aspirations of lay-followers who didn't want to be ordained, and that since, per above, the bodhisattva comes full circle and winds up fulfilling the arahant path, this fabrication was just an expedient means for the laity. While I am willing to agree that a lot of Mahāyāna developments are concessions to lesser spiritual tension, I really have a hard time believing that all the literature bashing the śrāvakas and arahants was secretly to bring them in all along.
That all being said, I still enjoyed reading this book, and I believe that it can still be a valuable gestalt of Buddhist doctrinal history, provided the reader keeps some healthy skepticism towards Kalupahana's modernist lens (admittedly, you could probably do a lot worse these days).
The Perennial Philosophy — Aldous Huxley
As I have grown distant from perennialism, I might not have wanted to re-read this book after my initial reading back in 2021, were it not for the following. I have a close friend with whom I often talk about religion and philosophy, and as I often refer to Evola in these discussions, he's developed some interest in reading Evola. I lent him Ride the Tiger, though he didn't seem to find much use in it. I remembered that I regarded Huxley as a more approachable equivalent to Evola, so this year I propositioned my friend to form an informal book club in which to read The Perennial Philosophy together, so that we may get more out of it (he read Ride the Tiger in a few sporadic bursts, without talking much about it). Now that we have finished it, I've come away all the more critical of perennialism, and my friend has developed similar feelings, though he still wants to give Evola a proper shot.
My main problem with Huxley is that he has to do a lot of cherry-picking and spinning to fit everyone into the mold of sophia perennis—everyone, that is, that he doesn't have an intransigent prejudice against (e.g. ancient polytheism). It's been pointed out by others that most perennialists take one religion as the main point of departure, and then re-interpret all the other religions to match. Huxley seems to take Christianity as his main mold, because his main point seems to be devotion and self-naughting before the Divine Ground—something that does not apply to Buddhist nirvāṇa nor to the Chinese dao, and only to some schools of Hinduism's brahmān. And yet, Huxley doesn't even take Christianity all the way, as he barely if ever cites the Bible itself. He instead picks out quotes not just from later Christian mystics, but from even people who don't seem like they were terribly advanced contemplatives, including Quaker reformers as well as just plain literary figures like William Shakespeare and Jonathan Swift. With that and his style of just listing quotes and journaling about them (he doesn't even cite page or line numbers), I suspect that he just has a particular vibe that he likes and just scavenges through scripture, literature, drama—whatever he can find, like someone filling out a Pinterest page with sundry images and links. This is in stark contrast to Guénon, Evola, and even Spengler, who follow much more organized, morphological approaches in their works. But then, those three were in some sense actual philosophers, in that they loved wisdom, whereas Huxley was a drug-addicted novelist dipping his toes in the water just because he liked the vibe.
Furthermore, as hinted at above, Huxley has a decided and unreasonable prejudice against the two beliefs that I adhere to: Theravāda ("Hīnayāna") Buddhism and pagan polytheism. As for the former, I have to give credit in that he at least cites a couple of pāli suttas in addition to the mountain of Mahāyāna quotations. Nonetheless, he criticizes Early Buddhism for focusing too much on "depth" and failing to realize "fullness" the way Mahāyāna does. This is a perfectly nebulous criticism, as neither of those terms are defined even indirectly, not to mention it bolsters my suspicion that Huxley has no concrete beliefs or goals, just a general vibe that he likes. As for pagan polytheism, his problem seems to be against the worldly do ut des attitude, that is to say the propitiation of gods and goddesses for the sake of securing things like victory, peace, social order, etc. I'm still hashing my own polytheism out (perhaps a subject for its own post) and I realize I myself am not so interested in worldly affairs, but let's remember that the polytheist view is the oldest and most primordial. It was the natural view of life that this world is populated by much more than beasts and men, and that the presence of higher beings was immensely beneficial both spiritually and materially. Given that he resorts to some utilitarian analyses of his selected religions anyway, I think Huxley was just being stubborn here.
Pagan Imperialism — Julius Evola
After kicking myself through Huxley's wishy-washy journaling, I figured it would be good to have a little palate-cleanser, so I finished the year with a pamphlet that is oddly hard to come by. I was only able to acquire this from an obscure print-on-demand publisher called Tradition Publishing Company, who I must praise for making this and some other obscure works more widely available, even going so far as to make the digital copies free. I have a few minor complaints, the biggest of which is that the typesetting is in dire need of some editing; this book was littered with spelling mistakes and misplaced spaces (e.g. "a son a battlefield" instead of "as on a battlefield"). It's also not stated who translated this book, nor who provided the introductory notes in the appendix; I understand that Evola is a controversial figure, so I can't blame anyone for remaining anonymous, but even just a pseudonym would be helpful.
As for the actual book, I would consider this work a neat little gestalt of Evola's Revolt, with the primary points being the problems with contemporary (1928, revised 1933) European civilization, the root of these problems being Christianity as a vector for the Semitic worldview, and an assessment of the friends (Italy and Germany) and enemies (USA and USSR) of Tradition. As Evola wrote this when he was much younger, he has a greater proclivity for bold, almost lyrical declarations here than in his later works, which can make provide for some very inspiring lines on top of his usual incisive judgment. That being said, one detects a little bit of naïve optimism in this work, especially as we present readers have the benefit of hindsight: not only did the Axis powers abandon him (Mussolini sided with the Vatican, the Third Reich revoked his passport, etc.) and his theories (both movements remained staunchly modern and populistic), they didn't even uphold their own visions for Europe against the Allied Powers. This may explain why in his later works, Evola has a much more reserved attitude towards political engagement, even espousing apoliteia in Ride the Tiger. I haven't read Path of Cinnabar yet, but I remember hearing that he didn't devote much space in that to Pagan Imperialism and that he regarded it, again, as a youthful and naïve work.
An interesting note to finish on is that he basically plagiarizes the Vitakkasaṇṭhāna Sutta (MN 20) in one of his stronger passages, indicating that he was an admirer of Early Buddhism even so early on in his career. The original sutta says:
Just as a man walking fast might consider: ‘Why am I walking fast? What if I walk slowly?’ and he would walk slowly; then he might consider: ‘Why am I walking slowly? What if I stand?’ and he would stand; then he might consider: ‘Why am I standing? What if I sit?’ and he would sit; then he might consider: ‘Why am I sitting? What if I lie down?’ and he would lie down. By doing so he would substitute for each grosser posture one that was subtler. So too, when a bhikkhu gives attention to stilling the formation of unwholesome thoughts, his mind becomes steadied internally, quieted, brought to singleness [ekodi hoti], and concentrated [samādhiyati].
Evola, meanwhile, borrows this same simile in speaking of a hypothetical recovery from feverish modernity:
It is necessary to regain consciousness: as the one who, realizing that he is running, gasping for breath in the scorching heat, would say to himself: "So? What if I walked more slowly?"—and, walking more slowly: "So? What if I stopped walking?"—and, ceasing to walk: "So? What if I lie down on the ground here, in the shade?"—and, lying on the ground, he would feel an infinite rest and recall with amazement his race, his old haste; likewise, the soul of the Moderns, which does not know rest, silence, nor a breathing space, must be gradually appeased. It is necessary to bring men back to themselves and to force them to find in themselves their purpose and their value. They should learn again to feel alone, without help and without law, until they awaken to the act of absolute command and of absolute obedience. So that, looking coldly around, they realize that there is nowhere to go, that there is nothing to ask for, nothing to hope for, nothing to fear. They should breathe again, released from the weight, and acknowledge the misery and the weakness of both love and hate. They should stand up as simple, pure, and yet no longer human things. (pp. 80-81)
As I've said before, I have also grown into apoliteia, but if I were to advocate any kind of political programme, this would certainly be a good starting point. And if I may conclude with one more beautifully anti-humanist exhortation:
You must assert yourself over the need to "communicate" and to "understand each other", over the ignominy of the pathos of fraternity, over the sensual delight of loving and feeling loved, of feeling equal and close—assert yourself over that subtle force of corruption which dissolves and weakens the sense of aristocracy. (p. 83)
