On imagination, meditation, and bringing-into-being

In this fascinating interview, Tanya Luhrmann addresses the tremendous importance of imagination in religious traditions such as American evangelism. The idea that religion is “belief”, the affirmation of the truth-value of some proposition, is a particularly Western, Protestant, understanding of religion, and is profoundly different from the religious experiences of people from, say, the dharmic traditions. (Or for that matter, from the experiences of Orthodox Christians.) Luhrmann says about kataphatic prayer:

It makes what is imagined in the mind more real. In kataphatic prayer you are saying that certain of your mental images are significant, and you are making these images more sensorially rich, you are allowing yourself to imagine them more vividly. The demand of religion is to teach you that the world as you know it is not the world as it is—and to teach you the capacity to see the world as it is, as something good. So you’ve got to make what is imagined real, and you’ve got to make it good.

The obvious response of the outsider to something like this is to describe it as clearly false, or “merely” imagined. And in a certain sense, the outsider is right: it is the believer who has imagined a particular religious experience into being, for which there is most likely no objective correlate. But Luhrmann argues that this attitude misses the heart of the experience as the insider experiences it: as something real, indeed as something more than real—because they create a new reality for the insider. It makes the insider more likely to feel loved, and thus to become more loving. Luhrmann thinks that something like this may even help reverse the erosion of social ties that people complain about today.

A number of Luhrmann's ideas squarely fit in with late medieval South Indian Hindu thought as is described in More than Real: A History of the Imagination in South India by David D. Shulman.

Shulman focuses on the importance given in medieval South India to the force of imagination: to the fact that human being are at their core imaginative creatures, who shape reality by imagining it together. 

• Sometimes this imagination is internal to the person: Shulman tells the story of an impoverished devotee of Śiva who constructs in his mind a temple so beautiful that Śiva prefers to dwell there instead of in the vast granite temple that a king has built for him (said to be the Kailāsanātha temple of Kanchipuram). 
• At other times, this imagination is intersubjective: Shulman describes in great detail a performance from the Kūḍiyāṭṭam dance-drama tradition of Kerala, in which a solitary skilled dancer transforms an empty, prop-less stage into a story-universe through the combination of his gestures and through the shared imaginations of the entire audience. 

Worship is imagined in the same way—by imagining our iṣṭa-devatās in our minds and by that very act bringing them into being. The word used for bringing-into-being is bhāvanā, a word borrowed from Mīmāṃsā ritual hermeneutics that refers to the power of a sacrifice to bring into being its fruit.[*]

Shulman points out that the philosophical and theological systems in which these systems developed in South India were staunch defenders of ontological realism, but of course not of physicalist, materialist reductionism. (Paradoxically, it was Advaita Vedānta that was fairly skeptical of the positive power of imagination.) He writes, comparing 16th-century India and Europe:

In Europe, the ancient dichotomy of mind and matter hardened into a fully desubjectified theory, or evolving set of theories, about the status of objects within an external, natural world. In India, the dichotomy is itself questionable, and the metaphysics of inner and outer took another course. Broadly speaking, in one conceptual system the imagination became increasingly associated with pathology, while in the other it tended to be understood as therapeutic. (p. 278)

Suspension of disbelief is the wrong way to think about what's going on here (at least in the Indian context; it may well hold for Luhrmann's evangelicals). We don’t lie to ourselves about something being there when it isn’t; we construct it with our mental acts—and by doing so, we make it real.

And towards the end of the book, Shulman also touches very briefly upon Ibn ‘Arabī, in whose vast work khayāl, “imagination”, is profoundly related to the structure of the universe and to the relationship between man and God.


[*] This explains the use of words like bhāvayāmi in much devotional Carnatic music. The singer-devotee is trying to actualize the deity in the minds of all those present at the performance. 

And the winner of the mostest ugliestest word goes to …

… “winningest”!

Seriously, who on Earth (or in America, to be precise, since to my knowledge nobody outside the US actually uses this linguistic abomination) thought that this word makes any sense? Did its coiner pause to reflect, even for a moment, about whether the structure of the word hung together in any coherent way? Or whether the meaning the word was intended to have (a) needed a single word to express it, and (b) was in fact expressed in some sensible way by this word?

And now, the New York Times, of all places, uses it. Admittedly, it’s only its Magazine section, but why oh why would someone use this horrid, cumbersome word at all?

If there was an annual competition for “hideousest word of the year”, “winningest” would be the winningest word.

Looking back in space and time

The 17th-century Syrian poet Fatḥ Allāh Ibn al-Naḥḥās (فتح الله ابن النحاس) was regarded as one of the two best poets of his time. Although this particular period of Arabic literature has been ignored and disregarded as an age of decadence, prolixity, and baroque ornamentation (the so-called ‘aṣr al-inḥiṭāṭ, عصر الانحطاط), it is becoming increasingly clear that this is a case of people selectively rewriting history by privileging certain parts and certain elements over others. 

I’m not taking a definite stance here because I don’t know enough about both sides, but after having read Ibn al-Naḥḥās’s beautiful qaṣīdah “He saw blame pouring in from all sides, and it scared him” (ِرأی اللومَ من كلِّ الجهات فَراعَهُ), I think we do ourselves a great injustice by writing off a giant period of time as entirely lacking in poetic merit. This one line, where Ibn al-Naḥḥās talks about how he is forced to leave Aleppo after a scandal involving him and his (male) beloved, is just gorgeous:

فَرُحْتُ وَسَيْري خَطْوَةٌ وَالْتِفاتَةُ ❊ إلى فائتٍ مِنْهُ أُرَجِّي ارْتِجاعَهُ

So I left; and every for’ard step was a glance backward

Looking for a lost past, whose return was the thing I craved.

I’ve committed the cardinal sin of trying to emulate the rhythm of the ṭawīl meter in English, which I fear has straitjacketed my translation. But perhaps this may give you some sense of how cleverly, and poignantly, Ibn al-Naḥḥās is able to play with the ideas of looking backward in space—towards a city he loves, in which dwells the young man he loves, who has chosen not to come bid him farewell; and in time—towards a past when they were together, when all was well. And, perhaps most interestingly, with the idea that looking vainly backward in space for his missing beloved is also looking vainly forward in time for a lovers’ reunion that will never be. 

Appayya Dīkṣita on figurative language

(This post is a draft, and I will likely edit my translations below, multiple times.)

In his Vṛttivārttika (“An Explication of Linguistic Operations”), Appayya Dīkṣita briefly outlines his theory of semantics, focusing on the processes by which words give rise to different meanings. As befits a good ālaṅkārika, literary theorist, in the post-Ānandavardhana universe, he accepts three such operations: 

• abhidhā, “denotation”,
• lakṣaṇā, “figuration” or something similar, and 
• vyañjanā, “suggestion”. 

This work of his, though, only defines abhidhā and lakṣaṇā. Does that mean the Vṛttivārttika is incomplete? Or is it the case that Appayya wanted to focus only on these two, postponing discussion of the often-problematic vyañjanā? Things are unclear, but what we do know is that in his other works (see the many articles by Yigal Bronner on Appayya) Appayya wants to reduce the role taken up by dhvani in poetics, and it is possible that this also means he wants to give abhidhā and lakṣaṇā more importance than post-Mammaṭa alaṅkāraśāstra permits.

Now, Appayya Dīkṣita argues that there are seven subtypes of lakṣaṇā. (This is one more than Mukulabhaṭṭa defines in his Abhidhāvṛttimātṛkā. One reason Mukulabhaṭṭa was so expansive was because he entirely denied the existence of a separate linguistic operation called vyañjanā, trying instead to bring it entirely under the domain of lakṣaṇā. I wonder what this says about Appayya’s intentions?) He offers examples for each of them, and some day I will try to list them all out systematically. For now, though, I restrict myself to his last two subtypes of lakṣaṇā, both of which he exemplifies using the single verse offered below.

ā pādam ā cikura-bhāram aśeṣam aṅgam 
ānanda-bṛnda-lasitaṃ sudṛśām asīmam |
antar mama sphuratu santatam antarātmann
ambhoja-locana tava śrita-hasti-śailam ||

śuddha-sâropa-lakṣaṇā yathā ‘ā pādam’ iti | atra bhagavad-aṅgeṣv ānanda-kāritvena ānanda-padasya sāropa-lakṣaṇā | ānanda-karaṇe itara-vailakṣaṇya-dyotanaṃ phalam |  ānanda-kāriṇi viṣaya-nigaraṇena “ānando ’yam” iti prayoge sâdhyavasāya-lakṣaṇā | ānandâvyabhicāra-dyotanaṃ phalam  ||

From feet up to thick, curly locks,
May Your entire body
        shimmering endlessly with clusters of pure bliss
        for those with blessed sight,
shine resplendent eternally within me,

O Indweller of my soul,
Lotus-eyed Lord 
         who lives atop Elephant Hill!

Śuddhā sâropā lakṣaṇā is exemplified in the verse that begins with the words ā pādam. Here, the word ānanda (“bliss”) refers to the Lord’s limbs through sâropā lakṣaṇā, because of their being causers of bliss. The result is the illumination of the impossibility of any other thing being an instrument of bliss.

The word ānanda refers to a causer of bliss through sâdhyavasāya-lakṣaṇā via the usage “it is bliss”, because in that case the topic at hand (i.e., the causer of bliss) gets wholly subsumed by the description (i.e., bliss). The result of this is the illumination of the total non-deviation of bliss from the causer of bliss.


What Appayya Dīkṣita does not mention is the source of his example verse. It turns out to be the 105th, and last, verse of the Śrī Varadarāja Stava, his long, highly poetically ornate praise-poem dedicated to Lord Varadarāja, the form of Viṣṇu manifested in the temple icon at Elephant Hill in the city of Kanchipuram, Appayya Dīkṣita’s hometown.

Appayya Dīkṣita on pratīpam (“upstream”)

Continuing our series on arthâlaṅkāras from Appayya Dīkṣita’s Kuvalayānanda, let’s look at the figure called pratīpam. It’s usually called “reversal” or “contradiction” or, perhaps most accurately, “inversion”, but I’ve chosen the etymologically accurate “upstream” instead. “Against the flow”, “against the grain” would all fit in with what the name means. But why is it used here?

[pratīpam]

[1]
pratīpam upamānasyôpameyatva-prakalpanam |
tval-locana-samaṃ padmaṃ tvad-vaktra-sadṛśo vidhuḥ ||

[2]
anyôpameya-lābhena varṇyasyânādaraś ca tat |
alaṃ garveṇa te vaktra kāntyā candro bhavādṛśaḥ ||

[3]
varṇyôpameya-lābhena tathânyasyâpy anādaraḥ |
kaḥ kraurya-darpas te mṛtyo tvat-tulyāḥ santi hi striyaḥ ||

[4]
varṇyenânyasyôpamāyā aniṣpatti-vacaś ca tat |
mithyā-vādo hi mugdhâkṣi tvan-mukhâbhaṃ kilâmbujam ||

[5]
pratīpam upamānasya kaimarthyam api manyate |
dṛṣṭaṃ ced vadanaṃ tanvyāḥ kiṃ padmena kim indunā ||

The figure called pratīpa has five different, but related, definitions:
[1] When the yardstick of comparison is imagined to be the thing being described. Thus: “the lotus is like your eye; the moon like your face.” Here the natural order of things (i.e., the thing being described is compared to the yardstick) is inverted.

[2] When the thing being described is treated with contempt because of another (i.e., the yardstick) being obtained. Thus: “Enough of your arrogance, o Face; the moon is your rival in terms of beauty.”

[3] When the other (i.e., the yardstick) is treated with contempt because of the thing being described. Thus: “What’s is your cruelty, Death? Women are your rivals.”

[4] When the impossibility of the other being a yardstick is established by the thing being described. Thus: “O girl with lovely eyes, it’s totally false that the lotus is like your face.” (This essentially comes down to negating an assertion of the type [1].)

[5] When the pointlessness of any yardstick is indicated. Thus: “when the slender girl’s face is seen, who cares about the lotus? who cares about the moon?”

“The most beautiful verse in Sanskrit”

Kim Stanley Robinson’s The Years of Rice and Salt, towards its end, cites a verse from Kālidāsa’s Abhijñānaśākuntalam, accompanied by the Merton & Moussaief translation. The original Sanskrit reads:

ramyāṇi vīkṣya madhurāṃś ca niśamya śabdān

paryutsuko bhavati yat sukhito ’pi jantuḥ |

tac cetasā smarati nūnam abodha-pūrvam

bhāva-sthirāṇi jananântara-sauhṛdāni ||

In the words of Merton & Moussaief:

Even the man who is happy glimpses something

Or a thread of sound touches him

And his heart overflows with a longing

he does not recognize

Then it must be that he is remembering

a place out of reach people he loved

In a life before this their pattern

Still there in him waiting

I would translate it slightly differently:

    Seeing something beautiful,

    Hearing something sweet,

He begins to yearn for something—

although he was happy before this.

Surely he remembers something,

if only subconsciously:

        Loves from lost lives

        Indelibly imprinted in Being

We may call it nostalgia; the Germans, Sehnsucht; the Portuguese, saudade; the Persians, دلتنگی; Proust, a remembrance of things past that draws you into une recherche du temps perdu.  Kālidāsa sees in this form of recognition (which, not-so-incidentally, is fundamental to the plotline of the Śākuntalam) something deeply and fundamentally part of being human. Our old loves are never really lost; if they were true loves, sauhṛdāni, minglings of hearts, then they transform who we are for eternity. (And for Kālidāsa, it really is eternity!) They are fixed points within the flux of Being—within human beings, and within Being itself, shot through with human experiences.

What Kālidāsa does not say in this one verse is what we should do with this insight. We may choose to cling on to these points of stability, and to thus anchor ourselves in the past. Or we may choose to cast ourselves into the flow of being, while nonetheless retaining our knowledge of these fixed points, using them like stars to help us navigate uncharted waters.

Appayya Dīkṣita on śleṣa (“paronomasia”)

We continue with our examination of select arthâlaṅkāras from the Kuvalayānanda of Appayya Dīkṣita. This time, we look at one of the greatest features of Sanskrit: śleṣa.

[XXVI. śleṣa]

nānârtha-saṃśrayaḥ śleṣo varṇyâvarṇyôbhayâspadaḥ |

[XXVI.1. varṇyâspada-śleṣa]
sarvadomādhavaḥ pāyāt sa yogaṃgām adīdharat ||
[XXVI.2. avarṇyâspada-śleṣa]
añjena tvan-mukhaṃ tulyaṃ hariṇāhitasaktinā |
[XXVI.3. ubhayâspada-śleṣa]
uccarad-bhūri-kīlālaḥ śuśubhe vāhinī-patiḥ ||

Appayya Dīkṣita on atiśayokti (“hyperbole”)

Continuing the Kuvalayānanda series: atiśayôkti , usually translated as “hyperbole”.

[XIII. atiśayôkti]

[XIII.1.a rūpakâtiśayôkti]
rūpakâtiśayôktiḥ syān nigīryâdhyavasānataḥ |
paśya nīlôtpala-dvandvān niḥsaranti śitāḥ śarāḥ ||

[XIII.1.b sâpahnuvā rūpakâtiśayôkti]
yady apahnuti-garbhatvaṃ saîva sâpahnavā matā |
tvat-sūktiṣu sudhā rājan bhrāntāḥ paśyanti tāṃ vidhau ||

[XIII.2. bhedakâtiśayôkti]
bhedakâtiśayôktis tu tasyaîvânyatva-varṇanam |
anyad evâsya gāmbhīryam anyad dhairyaṃ mahī-pateḥ ||

[XIII.3. sambandhâtiśayôkti]
sambandhâtiśayôktiḥ syād ayoge yoga-kalpanam |
saudhâgrāṇi purasyâsya spṛśanti vidhu-maṇḍalam ||

[XIII.4. asambandhâtiśayôkti]
yoge ’py ayogo ’sambandhâtiśayôktir itîryate |
tvayi dātari rājêndra svar-drumān nâdriyāmahe ||

[XIII.5. akramâtiśayôkti]
akramâtiśayôktiḥ syāt sahatve hetu-kāryayoḥ |
āliṅganti samaṃ deva jyāṃ śarāś ca parāś ca te ||

[XIII.6. capalâtiśayôkti]
capalâtiśayôktis tu kārye hetu-prasaktije |
yāsyāmîty udite tanvyā valayo ’bhavad ūrmikā ||

[XIII.7. atyantâtiśayôkti]
atyantâtiśayôktis tat-paurvâparya-vyatikrame |
agre māno gataḥ paścād anunītā priyeṇa sā ||

Appayya Dīkṣita on utprekṣā (“poetic fancy”)

More Kuvalayānanda here. (Earlier figures of speech: apahnuti and rūpaka.)

[XII. utprekṣā]

sambhāvanā syād utprekṣā vastu-hetu-phalâtmanā |
uktânuktâspadâdyâtra siddhâsiddhâspade pare ||

[XII.1. vastûtprekṣa / svarūpôtprekṣā]

[XII.1.a. uktâspadā vastûtprekṣā]
dhūma-stomaṃ tamaḥ śaṅke kokī-viraha-śuṣmaṇām |

[XII.1.b. anuktâspadā vastûtprekṣā]
limpatîva tamo’ṅgāni varṣatîvâñjanaṃ nabhaḥ ||

[XII.2. hetûtprekṣā]

[XII.2.a. siddhâspadā hetûtprekṣā]
raktau tavâṅghrī mṛdulau bhuvi vikṣepaṇād dhruvam |

[XII.2.b. asiddhâspadā hetûtprekṣā]
tvan-mukhâbhêcchayā nūnaṃ padmair vairāyate śaśī ||

[XII.3. phalôtprekṣā]

[XII.3.a. siddhâspadā phalôtprekṣā]
madhyaḥ kiṃ kucayor dhṛtyai baddhaḥ kanaka-dāmabhiḥ |

[XII.3.b. asiddhâspadā phalôtprekṣā]
prāyo ’ñjaṃ tvat-padenaîkyaṃ prāptuṃ toye tapasyati ||

Kultur und Kampf

This BBC article by philosopher John Gray begins with an autosummary: “Culture thrives on conflict and antagonism, not social harmony.” It then quotes the character Harry Lime from The Third Man:

In Italy, for 30 years under the Borgias, they had warfare, terror, murder and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, they had 500 years of democracy and peace—and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.”

Provocative, but clearly false, as Gray himself admits. It wasn’t the violence of the Borgias that produced great art, but their patronage. (To what extent their patronage of the arts was a consequence of their murderous regime is harder to analyze.) There have been reigns of violence that have produced no art of great consequence—think of Mafia-dominated lands, or of the devastation of Khorasan by the Mongol armies. It’s clear that the link between great cultural products and violence is not as obvious as Lime (or Gray) claims.

But that’s not the most interesting part of this article—after all, Gray himself chooses to back off from Lime’s rhetoric after using it as a hook to draw people in. Rather, what is interesting is Gray’s conclusion: “Culture thrives on contestation and antagonism, not some dreary fantasy of social harmony.”

However, this “conclusion” is not warranted by Gray’s arguments. What looks like a careful argument is in fact a reinforcement of an old myth. Gray’s vision of culture as the cream bubbling atop a writhing, churning, chaotic conflict parallels the stereotypical picture of a lonely artist whose whole œuvre is a cri de cœur that pierces society’s carefully constructed façade. Both of these ideas are Romantic myths. And like all powerful myths they possess a kernel of truth and have deep roots extending into Greek culture: the Promethean myth of a man stealing primordial technology from the gods, and the notion of the agon, the contest in which two men struggled with each other, physically and mentally, for victory. The Greek conception of debate as agonistic and the Greek idea of (technological?) progress as something achieved by an act of violence have survived down to this day in myths such as the one Gray sketches out here. (I realized I’m treating the Greeks superficially here, and know that Greek culture was more complex than this.)

The reason I call this a myth is because Indic and Chinese civilizations (at least what little I know of the latter) take very different approaches to the question of whether culture emerges from conflict or harmony. Again, the point is not that culture can or cannot arise out of conflict—it is clear that it does sometimes, and it doesn’t on other occasions—but rather that “civilizations” have different attitudes towards the relationship between culture and conflict, and hold different myths dear to themselves that influence their perceptions of the world.

The Chinese case is rather interesting. The Hundred Schools of Thought flowered during the Warring States period when the political scene was a bloody mess, and it may in fact be possible to argue that at least some intellectual developments were in direct response to the chaos. Nevertheless, it is my limited understanding that Chinese philosophers have not normally followed a confrontational model of debate. Furthermore, the Tang and Song courts witnessed the flowering of Chinese art, literature, and philosophy (well, at least of the Neo-Confucian persuasion), and these were largely in response to sustained courtly patronage of these pursuits. But regardless of what the political scene was like, the story told is one of harmony, both within the individual and at the social level.

The Indic case also differs from the Western one. While Indic philosophy does parallel the Greek in largely following an agonistic model, the worldviews of the literati typically sought out harmony and resolution. The rasa theorists saw artistic appreciation as evoking stable emotional states in an appropriately receptive audience, and at least some theorists (Abhinavagupta? I’m rusty on this) thought that the different rasas were all underpinned by the śānta-rasa, a state of calm or repose. Again, I’m not claiming that the conflict model is invalid here, only that the ultimate emphasis of the Indic system is rather different. 

The same is also true of those works of Indic authors that may have had political messages that we may not be receptive to today (such as Kālidāsa’s Raghuvaṃśa), where too an ultimately harmonious relationship between ruler and universe, between text and context, is envisioned and enacted. To the extent that generalizations can be valid, it can be generally stated that Indic authors largely saw themselves as working in harmony with their tradition, and saw the purpose of their works not as critiques of their societies but rather as representations of it that would harmonize it with the vision of the ideal society that Indic intellectuals held. (At some point in the future, I shall try to stretch this point into a discussion of Bollywood.)

Ultimately, the point is not that Gray is right or wrong: it is that he remains within the bounds of a particular myth that is not universally accepted or acceptable. Other civilizations have looked at similar events and processes and drawn very different lessons from them, which have shaped their attitudes towards the world and their cultural products in very different ways. Vive la différence!

Kṛṣṇa and the “field of vision”

cetaś cañcalatāṃ tyaja priya-sakhi vrīḍe na māṃ pīḍaya
bhrātar muñca dṛśau nimeṣa bhagavan kāma kṣaṇaṃ kṣamyatām |
barhaṃ mūrdhani karṇayoḥ kuvalayaṃ vaṃśaṃ dadhānaḥ kare
so ’yaṃ locana-gocaro bhavati me dāmodaraḥ sundaraḥ ||

Heart, stop fluttering;
Dear friend, stop torturing me!
Brother, let me see, just for a moment;
Cupid, spare me, just for a second:

        A peacock’s feather in His hair,
        water-lilies in His ears,
        bamboo flute in His hands—

He’s all I can see,
        Dāmodara the handsome.

This gorgeous verse, from the Rasamañjarī of Bhānudatta, has also been translated by Sheldon Pollock, although I cannot find my copy of the book right now.  What I love most about this verse—and what I find impossible to translate—is the compound locana-gocara. 

In terms of pure sound: its two halves are almost exactly identical prosodically, differing only in the third and sixth syllables (and that too only because the sixth must bear the added weight of the -sU case ending). Furthermore, the repetition of the -oca- sounds makes it delightfully delicate to recite. (Think “cellar door”.)

And in terms of meaning too, the two halves of the word work beautifully. The first, locana, can mean either the seeing organ, “eye”, or the sense itself, “eyesight”. It is also connected with such meanings as “illumination” and “lighting up”. The second, gocara, is even more fascinating. Etymologically, it is in fact a compound, go-cara, literally meaning “cow-pasture”. Through some considerable semantic drift, it comes to mean “field”, first literally and then metaphorically, encompassing such meanings as “scope”, “range”, sometimes even “topic”. A smart translation for locana-gocara would therefore be something like “range of vision” (taking into account the associations of “range” with cattle rearing).

But in the particular context of this verse, I really wanted something simpler. Kṛṣṇa isn’t just in the nāyikā’s range of vision, He becomes it. He is the pasture in which the cows that are her eyes roam, coming to rest at a few particularly succulent grazing spots—His peacock-feather, His ornaments, His flute. He is, simply put, all she can see.

Should conservatives conserve the environment?

The title of this post is obviously a leading question—conserving the environment is a good thing ceteris paribus, although there can (and should) be reasonable debates on where to draw the line. For a variety of reasons, the words “conservative” and “liberal” mean things in the US today that they have historically almost never meant—signifying membership of one tribe or the other. Call them Team C and Team L, if you will. It is thus entirely possible for a self-identified American “conservative” to call for the shutting down of the Environmental Protection Agency and for increased oil prospecting in national parks. Although there may be good reasons for these two positions, neither of them seem to be in resonance with the attitudes of old-school conservatives like Sir Edmund Burke. Indeed, there seems to be a near-total alignment of the American environmental movement with Team L, which makes it almost impossible for a supporter of Team C to express any conservationist attitudes at all.

This is why I found the article “A Righter Shade of Green” by Roger Scruton interesting. Some of it is sanctimonious, much of it is written from within the tribalist mindset, but some of its arguments are worth pondering over.

Political solutions represent agreements among the living, but our real problems are transgenerational. At present, we are externalizing our costs not to people who can complain but to unborn people who can’t. Democratic politics, Burke and Chesterton pointed out, has an inbuilt tendency to disenfranchise the unborn and the dead. 

So what is to stop us from externalizing our costs onto future generations? Within our own families, we recoil from doing such a thing. I don’t want to dump the costs of my life on my son, even though I shall be dead when he feels them. Nor would I wish my grandchildren to pay the price of my selfishness. 

It is here that I think we Anglophone conservatives can show our relevance. The common law of England developed, through the branch known as equity, a concept that has no real equivalent in Napoleonic or Roman legal systems: the concept of the trust. Trusteeship is a form of property in which the legal owner has only duties, and all rights are transferred to, and “held in trust for,” the beneficiary … This form of ownership, and the moral idea contained in it, ought to be regarded as defining the conservative approach. We don’t solve environmental problems by abandoning our attachment to private property or free enterprise, but we can make sure that these notions are shaped by the spirit of trusteeship.

Scruton makes the point that, since modern societies are “societies of strangers”, erosion of trust and of social capital in general makes it very hard for people to adopt attitudes other than self-oriented individualism. The cultivation of an attitude (and of the institution) of trust offers the sort of motivation that human beings are naturally responsive to.

Scruton’s perspective seems close to Wendell Berry’s, at least insofar as both see the structure of our society as the fundamental problem, and think that the pre-moderns got it right to the extent that their communities were structured around trust and a natural sense of belonging. Thought-provoking though Scruton’s piece is, it is unclear to me how he envisions society re-cultivating the attitude of trust. But что делать?

Appayya Dīkṣita on apahnuti (“denial”)

More kārikās from the Kuvalayānanda of Appayya Dīkṣita, this time on the arthâlaṅkāra known as apahnuti, which translates to “denial”. As before, my translation is loose and aims only to capture the sense, the artha, of the verses.

[apahnuti]

[1. śuddhâpahnuti ]
śuddhâpahnutir anyasyâropârtho dharma-nihnavaḥ |
nâyaṃ sudhâṃśuḥ kiṃ tarhi vyoma-gaṅgā-saroruham ||


[2. hetv-apahnuti]
sa eva yukti-pūrvaś ced ucyate hetv-apahnutiḥ |
nêndus tīvro na niśy arkaḥ sindhor aurvo ’yam utthitaḥ ||


[3. paryastâpahnuti]
anyatra tasyâropârthaḥ paryastâpahnutiś ca saḥ |
nâyaṃ sudhâṃśuḥ kiṃ tarhi sudhâṃśuḥ preyasī-mukham ||


[4. bhrāntâpahnuti]
bhrāntâpahnutir anyasya śaṅkāyāṃ bhrānti-vāraṇe |
tāpaṃ karoti sôtkampaṃ jvaraḥ kiṃ na sakhi smaraḥ ||


[5. chekâpahnuti]
chekâpahnutir anyasya śaṅkātas tathya-nihnave |
prajalpan mat-pade lagnaḥ kāntaḥ kiṃ na hi nūpuraḥ ||


[6. kaitavâpahnuti]
kaitavâpahnutir vyaktau vyājâdair nihnutaiḥ padaiḥ |
niryānti smara-nārācāḥ kāntā-dṛk-pāta-kāitavāt ||

Appayya Dīkṣita on rūpaka (“metaphor”)

Among the works of the great 16th century savant Appayya Dīkṣita is the Kuvalayānanda (“Joy of the Water-lily”), which became the standard introductory textbook on figures of speech throughout India, particularly in the South. The Kuvalayānanda focuses entirely on arthâlaṅkāras, “ornaments of meaning”. My non-existent knowledge of Western rhetoric prevents me from translating the term precisely, but I suspect it may correspond to trope.

Prof. Yigal Bronner has a series of articles on Appayya Dīkṣita’s prodigious œuvre in literary theory, of which “Back to the Future: Appayya Diksita's Kuvalayananda and the Rewriting of Sanskrit Poetics” describes the structure of the Kuvalayānanda. Specifically, the text is organized in three layers: (1) kārikās, around 170 easily memorizable verses in the anuṣṭubh meter that define and exemplify exactly 100 alaṅkāras; (2) examples of these alaṅkāras drawn from kāvya; and (3) an auto-commentary of sorts, in which Appayya Dīkṣita explains his motivation for defining the alaṅkāra in that fashion and sets it into its context of over a millennium of alaṅkāra-śāstra. I shall draw solely from layer (1), the kārikās, here.

For now, I want to focus on just one trope, rūpaka, usually translated “metaphor”. Its definition takes up one verse; examples of its subtypes each take up half a verse. I’m not going to translate the definition literally, because the compactness of Sanskrit technical writing does not render well in English. In what follows, [the stuff inside brackets] isn’t part of the Kuvalayānanda itself.

[rūpakam]

viṣayayy-abheda-tādrūpya-rañjanaṃ viṣayasya yat |
rūpakaṃ tat tridhâdhikya-nyūnatvânubhayôktibhiḥ ||

"In Defense of Naïve Reading"

http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/10/10/in-defense-of-naive-reading/

Literature and the arts have a dimension unique in the academy, not shared by the objects studied, or “researched” by our scientific brethren. They invite or invoke, at a kind of “first level,” an aesthetic experience that is by its nature resistant to restatement in more formalized, theoretical or generalizing language. This response can certainly be enriched by knowledge of context and history, but the objects express a first-person or subjective view of human concerns that is falsified if wholly transposed to a more “sideways on” or third person view. Indeed that is in a way the whole point of having the “arts.”

Likewise—and this is a much more controversial thesis—such works also can directly deliver a kind of practical knowledge and self-understanding not available from a third person or more general formulation of such knowledge. There is no reason to think that such knowledge … is any less knowledge because it cannot be so formalized or even taught as such. Call this a plea for a place for “naïve” reading, teaching and writing—an appreciation and discussion not mediated by a theoretical research question recognizable as such by the modern academy.

The “restatement of the aesthetic experience in formalized, theoretical or generalizing language” is precisely what Sanskrit literary theorists like Abhinavagupta and his rasa folk do. The nature of the aesthetic experience generated in the sensitive connoisseur (sahṛdaya) by a drama or literary piece is theorized at great length in these works and in scores of modern secondary literature on the topic.

What interests me, though, is the author’s second claim, that literature “can directly deliver a kind of practical knowledge and self-understanding”. Sheldon Pollock argues in his epic article “Sanskrit Literary Culture from the Inside Out” that the Sanskrit literary understanding tends not to attribute such epistemological powers to kāvya in general. Now, Sanskrit theorists do claim that kāvya can potentially teach us how to act. As Viśvanātha Kavirāja states in his Sāhitya-darpaṇa: rāmâdivat pravartitavyam na tu rāvaṇâdivat—“one must conduct oneself like Rāma and his like, and not like Rāvaṇa and his like”—and kāvya is of course a major source of such information.

The birth of poetry in Sanskrit

While translating the first verse of the Rāghavayādavīyam of Veṅkaṭādhvarin, I came across a word that I simply could not decipher on my own: mārāmorāḥ (मारामोराः in Devanāgarī). I had to look up the English commentary of Dr. Saroja Ramanujam to figure it out. She resegmented it as mā-ārāma-urāḥ, and glossed it as a bahuvrīhi (an “exocentric” compound functioning as an adjective) that means “one whose chest is a pleasure garden for Mā”. (There is no way I would have figured that out on my own!) 

But what, or who, is Mā? Dr. Ramanujam simply noted that it was a name for Lakṣmī, but I wanted to find out more and dug deeper. Now, digging too deep is fraught with difficulties. (Just ask the dear departed dwarves of Dwarrowdelf, who delved too deep, disturbing a denizen of the dark depths that then dealt the deathblow to their delightful dominion.) But in this case, what I found was pure mithril.

Prof. Ajay Rao has written a fascinating paper called “Theologising the Inaugural Verse: Śleṣa Reading in Rāmāyaṇa Commentary” for the Journal of Hindu Studies. The underlying argument of the paper (which Prof. Rao elaborates in his dissertation) is that the Rāmāyaṇa was not always perceived as a fully religious text, and that at least early in its history it was seen as a work of literature (kāvya) and not a received tradition (smṛti). Indeed, the Rāmāyaṇa is seen not just as any literary work, but as the first literary work (ādi-kāvya), and its composer, the poet-sage Vālmīki, is regarded as the First Poet (ādi-kavi). Prof. Rao further argues that the “theologization” of the Rāmāyaṇa was accomplished by a series of Śrīvaiṣṇava commentators who interpreted key episodes in the narrative as illustrative of the theological ideas underpinning their philosophical theology. Foremost among these commentators was the sixteenth-century Govindarāja, upon whose Rāmāyaṇa-bhūṣaṇa commentary Prof. Rao relies.

On crafting poems

A chance conversation on an email thread reminded me of some lines about poetry by W.B. Yeats:

We sat together at one summer’s end,

That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,

And you and I, and talked of poetry.

I said, “A line will take us hours maybe; 

Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought,

Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.

Better go down upon your marrow-bones

And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones

Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;

For to articulate sweet sounds together

Is to work harder than all these, and yet

Be thought an idler by the noisy set

Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen

The martyrs call the world.”

These lines on the difficulty of crafting poetry—not just rhyming, rhythmic utterances but real poetry—reminded me in turn of two Sanskrit verses on the same topic. The Sanskrit literary tradition is acutely self-aware of its linguistic nature (one of the words for literature or literariness / литературность, is vāṅ-maya, literally “speech-stuff”), as befits an intellectual and cultural universe that has perhaps paid more systematic attention to the Word and the World than any other from its very inception. The two verses, and my attempts at translating them, follow:

Religion and narrative

This post on The Daily Dish, on religion as theater, has got me thinking: All the talk these days of faith versus reason, of religion versus science, seem to me to be misplaced. A lot of this stems from what I think is a misplaced emphasis on religion as “blind faith”. Perhaps we would do better to think of religion as “shared stories” (or better yet, “shared experiences”), for every religious community has a particular narrative about the human condition.

To the “non-believers”, the “outsiders”, it is the “story” that matters—whether the content is “true” or “false”, “historical” or “mythological”, “revealed” or “constructed”. Hence arguments about whether Genesis can literally be true or whether Rāma actually had a bridge built to Laṅkā.

To the “believers”, the “faithful”, the “insiders”, it is the “shared” part that matters—the fact that these stories resonate not just with one person but with an entire community; the fact that this resonance has held true for this community over time (even if, and possible especially if, it has resonated with different concerns at different times); and the fact that these stories will continue to be shared with the community to come, if the current generation does its job right. In fact, I think that this “shared” aspect is so important that the “stories” themselves gradually change over time, emphasizing certain things and downplaying others—but always in a way that allows them to be shared and accepted by the majority of the community.

To the “Truthseeker”, both aspects matter equally—if it is false, then it is not worth pursuing; if it cannot be shared, in at least some dilute form, then it cannot be a goal towards which one can guide others, around which a community can be built.

Indulge me, por favor

I don’t normally soar away in flights of fantasy; I enjoy feeling grass underneath my feet and sand between my toes far too much. But just this once, I request you, gentle reader, to forgive my rhapsodizing. If it doesn’t make sense, well, it wasn’t necessarily meant to!


So here goes: Each of us is a link in an infinite chain of being that spans space and time. Each of these links is, of course, comprised of smaller links, ad infinitum; each of this links, of course, participates in a greater link, ad infinitum. Do I exaggerate when I speak of twin infinities? Maybe, and maybe not.


What I’m really trying to say is that everything is doubly emergent.


Now materialist reductionism is the idea that things can be understood entirely by parsing them into their constituent material parts. It is a remarkably powerful, persuasive idea, and the basis of much modern theoretical and practical advancement, but according to at least some thinkers, it cannot explain the phenomenon of emergence. For them, an anthill is more than the sum of its parts; similarly, each of us human beings is more than the sum of our parts. There is something about our complexity that is irreducible to the parts that constitute us. (Note that emergence does not automatically reject materialism; it does, however, reject reductionism.)


But at the same time, we ourselves are also parts of a bigger, emergent reality—society, we call it. We take it for granted and thus forget how much of who we are (of our emergent selves!) is both affected and effected by this layer of abstraction that lies atop organized collections of interacting human beings. 


We are different from computers because our operating systems are able to rewire the physical hardware on which they run.


And paradoxically, the more “concrete” and “elementary” our constituents get, the more conceptual and abstract they become! We smash atoms into electrons and protons and neutrons, only to find that these “elementary” particles are probability distributions; we take them apart even further, and are ultimately left with vibrating 26-dimensional strings. And yet somehow causality travels up this chain in powerful, largely well-understood ways!


We have become accustomed to thinking of causality purely in instrumental terms. In that sense, it is of course true that it is the parts that alter the whole. But we forget that the word “cause” used to have a much wider sense. What we think of as the “cause” these days is only the Aristotelian “effective cause”. We have forgotten that other “causes” exist and have real effects. The “formal cause”, for instance, can be seen as the way in which higher layers of abstraction limit and direct lower layers. Again, this does not necessitate a belief in a Platonic realm of Forms. When a carpenter builds a chair, it is obviously true that his tools operating on the wood are the “effective causes” of what is produced. But is it not true that a “formal cause”—an understanding of what it means to be a chair, which is necessarily influenced by his social position—also has a part to play in this? We no longer think of this as causality, but as a result we are unable to fully grasp what’s going on here. Causality goes both upwards and downwards (and maybe sidewards as well!) over the web of existence.


Levels of description matter. “Romeo loved Juliet” is as true as “a certain well-structured collection of organic compounds produced certain levels of serotonin and oxytocin in the presence of a similarly well-structured collection of organic compounds”, but they don’t mean the same thing. Even if you ignore the fact that Romeo and Juliet are literary figures! Levels of description matter, and although the same truth can be expressed at different levels, it is significant in different ways at those levels. This is very similar to Karl Popper’s “Three Worlds”, but I think “Three” is too much and too little: too much, because there is only one world; too little, because that one world exists and interacts at many, many different levels. This is not the same as saying there are “Two Truths”; there aren’t, and there cannot be. But the same truth can be expressed at different levels.


Some who face this tower of concrete-yet-abstract layers dismiss it all as illusion or as emptiness. I think the exact opposite is the case. This is reality: a unified whole, an infinitely diverse, infinitely layered, fractal, organic tower that grows, breathes, becomes self-conscious, tries to comprehend all of itself, and shrinks.

Poetry according to A.E. Housman

In The Name and Nature of Poetry, the great Housman writes of his response to poetry:

“Poetry indeed seems to me more physical than intellectual. A year or two ago, in common with others, I received from America a request that I would define poetry. I replied that I could no more define poetry than a terrier can define a rat, but that I thought we both recognised the object by the symptoms which it provokes in us. One of these symptoms was described in connexion with another object by Eliphaz the Temanite: ‘A spirit passed before my face: the hair of my flesh stood up’. Experience has taught me, when I am shaving of a morning, to keep watch over my thoughts, because, if a line of poetry strays into my memory, my skin bristles so that the razor ceases to act. This particular symptom is accompanied by a shiver down the spine; there is another which consists in a constriction of the throat and a precipitation of water to the eyes; and there is a third which I can only describe by borrowing a phrase from one of Keats’s last letters, where he says, speaking of Fanny Brawne, ‘everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear’. The seat of this sensation is the pit of the stomach.”

What a line: ‘everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear’! 

And how beautifully Housman describes the involuntary physical reactions that Sanskrit theorists have called the sāttvika-bhāvas: stambha (stupefaction), sveda (perspiration), romāñca (horripilation), svara-bhaṅga (voice-cracking), vepathu (trembling), vaivarṇya (pallor), aśru (tears), and pralaya (loss of consciousness).