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Clearing the Path by Ñāṇavīra Thera

Clearing the PathClearing the Path (1960-1965) by Ñāṇavīra Thera. Path Press Publications 2010, 621 pages.
How does one review a book that, arguably, is the most influential book in your life?  Well, I’ll start by directing readers to my bio of Ñāṇavīra.  This, better than anything I could say in this review, will prep you for the work itself.  But of course, a few words on that are presently in order…
I don’t actually recall how/when I first encountered Ñāṇavīra’s writings.  So, I can’t say how they struck me at the time.  But I can say that for a while–a good many years, in fact–they basically defined the Buddha’s teaching for me.  What purpose, exactly, did these amazing and unique documents fulfill in my thinking?
First, they directed me to the suttas and away from that which would interpret them for me (think the Commentaries) or pretend to supersede them (the later schools, Mahayana, etc).  And while my range in Buddhism has broadened considerably since then, I still think that if your interest is to know what the historical Buddha said this is a healthy attitude to have.  If it’s just any kind of spiritual thought or practice you’re after, there are a great many out there to satisfy you, but if your intention is to get to know Shakyamuni Buddha, the Pali canon (but not all of it!) is where you’ve got to go.  All others are pretenders and wannabes.
So Ñāṇavīra pointed me to the original texts.  But he also, to my mind, illuminated them like nobody else ever has.  In his writings there is a combination of integrity, clarity, rigor and exactness that is rarely found in spiritual writing, even the best.  The man had a first rate head on his shoulders, a wry wit, and the writerly chops to get it all across in the best style possible.  Not to mention the fact that he wrote from actual meditative attainment (i.e. sotapatti, meaning stream entry) and so knew first hand something of the Buddha’s teaching and how the texts related to that attainment.
Another notable aspect of Ñāṇavīra’s writings is his relating of the Buddhist suttas to twentieth century European philosophy—specifically existentialism and phenomenology.  This is not to say he thought Sartre & Co had somehow discovered the Dhamma on their own, but rather he noted that their perspective on the human situation mirrored the Buddha’s own position to an uncanny degree and so, for many Westerners at least, might offer a door in to the Stream.  I think there is little to argue about in this regard–that is, the case, I’d say, is pretty well proven.  So those who come to the Buddha’s teaching from an existentialist or phenomenological position might find more that is familiar than they would expect.  Ñāṇavīra pointed this out to me, and through this understanding I found myself adopting a different attitude with a consequently greater appreciation for the existentialists.Beyond mere intellectual illumination though there is also Ñāṇavīra’s wrestling with questions of life and death.  He lived, for the better part of a decade, with ill health, chronic discomfort, and the prospect that his solitary enterprise as a Buddhist monk might be go down to defeat on account of intestinal parasites.  As a result, his writings discuss with startling matter-of-factness the possibility of his death by suicide on this account, and what such a death might mean within the context of Buddhadhamma.  As one reads, the omnipresent possibility—indeed, inevitability—of his end weighs in the background, lending a degree of drama.But what about the contents?  What comprises this unique text? Clearing the Path has been described as a “workbook,” and it is certainly is that.  You should know though that it is not a single piece, but consists of one major original work—Notes on Dhamma, written to illuminate certain critical terms  in the suttas–and a slew of letters to correspondents who came to Ñāṇavīra with questions about life, the Dhamma, and the meaning of it all.  One piece, entitled Fundamental Structure, is rather forbidding and opaque–something like a mathematical proof.  Readers are advised to leave it for last and not to get their hopes up too high as for understanding it; I confess I grasped portions, but large swathes escaped me.

Which leads me to my one cautionary note: this book is for advanced Dhamma students only.  People unfamiliar with basic Pali terminology and/or Buddhist thought will be hopelessly lost.  I should also add it is not, primarily, a meditation manual; its principle thrust is the philosophical under girdings of the the historical Buddha’s thought as it is found in the Pali Canon of the Theravada school.  If you’re looking for some other Buddhist school, this will not be your cup of tea.

I leave you with a few snippets–mere appetizers–of writing from the sage of Bundala:

Existential philosophies, then, insist upon asking questions about self and the world, taking care at the same time to insist that they are unanswerable.  Beyond this point of frustration these philosophies cannot go. The Buddha, too, insists that questions about self and the world are unanswerable, either by refusing to answer them or by indicating that no statement about self and the world can be justified.  But—and here is the vital difference—the Buddha can and does go beyond this point: not, to be sure, by answering the unanswerable, but by showing the way leading to the final cessation of all questions about self and the world. Let there be no mistake in the matter: the existential philosophies are not a substitute for the Buddha’s Teaching—for which, indeed, there can be no substitute.  The questions that they persist in asking are the questions of a puthujjana, of a “commoner,” and though they see that they are unanswerable they have no alternative but to go on asking them; for the tacit assumption upon which all these philosophies rest is that the questions are valid. They are faced with an ambiguity that they cannot resolve. The Buddha, on the other hand, sees that the questions are not valid and that to ask them is to make the mistake of assuming that they are.  One who has understood the Buddha’s Teaching no longer asks these questions; he is ariya, “noble,” and no more a puthujjana, and he is beyond the range of the existential philosophies; but he would never have reached the point of listening to the Buddha’s Teaching had he not first been disquieted by existential questions about himself and the world (from the Preface).

At the time I read [Joyce’s Ulysses]—when I was about twenty—I had already suspected (from my reading of Huxley and others) that there is no point in life, but this was still all rather abstract and theoretical. But Ulysses gets down to details, and I found I recognized myself, mutatis mutandis, in the futile occupations that fill the days of Joyce’s characters. And so I came to understand that all our actions, from the most deliberate to the most thoughtless, and without exception, are determined by present pleasure and present pain. Even what we pompously call our “duty” is included in this law—if we do our duty, that is only because we should feel uncomfortable if we neglected it, and we seek to avoid discomfort. Even the wise man, who renounces a present pleasure for the sake of a greater pleasure in the future, obeys this law—he enjoys the present pleasure of knowing (or believing) that he is providing for his future pleasure, whereas the foolish man, preferring the present pleasure to his future pleasure, is perpetually gnawed with apprehension about his future. And when I had understood this, the Buddha’s statement, “Both now and formerly, monks, it is just suffering that I make known and the ceasing of suffering” (M.22:38), came to seem (when eventually I heard it) the most obvious thing in the world—“What else,” I exclaimed, “could the Buddha possibly teach?”  (pp. 404-5).

Suffering (dukkha) is the key to the whole of the Buddha’s Teaching, and any interpretation that leaves suffering out of account (or adds it, perhaps, only as an afterthought) is at once suspect. The point is, that suffering has nothing to do with a tree’s self-identity (or supposed lack of self-identity): what it does have to do with is my “self” as subject (I, ego), which is quite another matter…  As I point out…, “With the question of a thing’s self-identity (which presents no difficulty) the Buddha’s Teaching of anatta has nothing whatsoever to do: anatta is purely concerned with ‘self’ as subject.” But this is very much more difficult to grasp than the misinterpretation based on the notion of flux, so flux inevitably gets the popular vote (like the doctrine of paramattha sacca, of which it is really a part). The misinterpretation is actually of Mahayanist origin; and in one of their texts (Prajñaparamita) it is specifically stated that it is only on account of avijja that things appear to exist, whereas in reality nothing exists. But the fact is that, even when one becomes arahat, a tree continues to have a self-identity; that is to say, it continues to exist as the same tree (though undergoing subordinate changes on more particular levels—falling of leaves, growth of flowers and fruit, etc.) until it dies or is cut down. But for the arahat the tree is no longer “my tree” since all notions of “I” and “mine” have ceased (p. 175).

My Amazon rating: 5 stars

The Life and Times of Ñanavira Thera (the pdf)

This pdf is the complete text of my biography of Ñanavira Thera, available for free distribution.

The Life and Times of Ñanavira Thera


The Middle Length Discourses of the Buddha: A New Translation of the Majjhima Nikaya translated by Bhikkhu Ñanamoli & Bhikkhu Bodhi

The Middle Length Discourses of the Buddha: A New Translation of the Majjhima Nikaya by Bhikkhu Ñanamoli & Bhikkhu Bodhi.  Wisdom Publications 1995, 1412 pages.

Note: I was notified by a reviewer on Amazon that there have been two revisions, quite substantial, since this edition.  The most recent is from 2005 and is apparently much improved.  It is, however (I am finding), difficult to get!  My review below applies only to the original 1995 edition.

For my review of this translation I decided to take a different tack.  Since I am not a Pali scholar I am not qualified to critique Bhikkhu Bodhi’s (or Ven. Ñanamoli’s) translation, so I thought I would turn to someone who is–namely, L.S. Cousins of the University of Manchester writing in The Journal of Buddhist Ethics (Vol. 4, 1997).  For anyone wanting to go further than my summary of his major points, you can find his review here.

Cousins criticizes the title, specifically the word “new,” since most of the translation was done by Ñanamoli in the 1950s, not by Bhikkhu Bodhi in the 1990s.  Indeed, in Cousin’s view, Bodhi’s contribution is fairly cosmetic in the sense of making the text more readable, and of lending more flexibility to certain Pali terms.  In this sense he commends BB by making the text  approachable to modern readers who are not themselves scholars.  This is, however, about the only good thing he has to say of Bhikkhu Bodhi’s work.

Other significant points are:

  • A lack of clarity as to which source text is being used.  BB claims it is the PTS edition, but Cousins doubts this as the text often follows earlier Sinhalese editions that Ñanamoli likely had available.
  • No use of recent scholarship.
  • Many old mistakes are perpetuated, and even some inaccuracies that Ñanamoli had removed are reinstated.
  • Cousins deplores the large scale cutting of repetition, pointing out that when the original–with the full repetitions–is chanted aloud, it has a certain, meditative effect on the mind; this is lost in the edited, written version.  (I have to disagree with Cousins here: since most people in the West will approach the Suttas through the written word, my feeling is translators need to make the originals digestible in that form.)
  • Lastly, he notes BB’s uncritical acceptance of the commentarial tradition, something I have harped on in previous posts.

Now for some words from our sponsor…

As regards the introduction, like Walshe’s for his Digha Nikaya translation (see my review here), Bodhi’s is necessarily fairly basic, but does go further.  For example, his discussion of certain critical terms such as dhamma, sankhara, namarupa, etc, is more informative.  I always read introductions, but not everyone does–my wife, for instance, will not even read a two page author’s preface.  For someone in a rush (though I’m not sure how one would rush through a one thousand plus page book) and who is already well informed on these matters, the introduction is dispensable.  Someone more beginning, though, would do well to read it carefully.

On the Majjhima Nikaya specifically: This is the second of the five nikayas (“collections”) that make up the Sutta Pitaka (“Basket of Discourses”).  In accordance with its title, the 152 suttas (“discourses”) here are not generally as lengthy as those in the Digha Nikaya, though they are often more substantive.  The entire teaching, in some way or another, is touched on here, and some of the most important of the Buddha’s discourses are included in this collection.  It is repetitious, however, even with the generous editing of repetitive passages.  There really is no way around this, though, and readers need to be patient.  Not every discourse is a treasure; some are nearly verbatim reruns of previous ones.  However, a benefit of this (if one is charitable) is that important issues are more likely to sink in deep; that is, you can begin to get a sense for where the real emphases are in the Buddha’s Teaching.

While it is important to be grateful to Bhikkhu Bodhi for his many years of labor on this and other works of translations, I am left scratching my head over why no able team of scholars has ever been put together in the way that Biblical translation teams are.  Why is it always a lone translator trying to capture a literature that is many times more voluminous than the Bible?  Certainly there are other monks, scholars and interested individuals who could add their talents to the project of translating Buddhist scriptures.  It is high time that we stop relying upon the understanding and insight of individuals–always limited, however learned they may be–for our access to these vital documents.

My Amazon rating: 4 stars


Rebel Monk: The Life and Times of Ñanavira Thera (1920-1965) (Part 2)

Continued from Part 1

The Search

Harold settled his affairs in England; most importantly, he took steps to get his by then finished manuscript of Evola’s book to potential publishers.  (It finally saw publication by Luzac in 1951, long after the author was already gone.)  By one account the two men went first to India in November 1948 where they spent three months with the Ramakrishna Mission in Calcutta, a religious order founded by Ramakrishna Parahamsa, India’s most popular nineteenth century saint.  They left the mission dissatisfied, though, and came to Ceylonon an exploratory venture.  (This account is according to Kingsley Heendeniya, a doctor-friend and supporter of Ñanavira, who to this day writes columns on Buddhism in various Sri Lankan publications.  However, I was unable to confirm his version of events.)  They ended up finally at the Island Hermitage in Dodanduwa where, on April 24, 1949, they were ordained as samaneras (novice monks) by the abbot, the famous German monk, Nyanatiloka.  Harold received the ordination name of  Ñanavira and Moore the name Ñanamoli. 

Ven. Ñāṇavīra and Ven. Ñāṇamoli

Ñanamoli possessed a scholarly bent, and would live out the remaining years of his life at the Hermitage, his reputation as one of the most renowned translators of Pali literature cemented by his translation of the massive fifth century Sinhalese commentary, the Visuddhimagga (published as The Path of Purification).  (In a letter dated December 2, 1954, Ñanavira, recalling Dante as the man who had been to Hell and lived to tell the tale, joked that Ñanamoli would “in time… be regarded with… awe as the man who read the Vissudhi Magga and lived to translate it.”[1])  Ñanavira went to study under Palane Siri Vajirañana Maha Nayaka Thera, the abbot at Vajirarama Temple in Colombo (Ceylon’s largest city and capital).  There he received the upasampada, or higher ordination as a fully ordained bhikkhu (monk) the following year.  His aspirations were more contemplative than Ñanamoli’s, and when he returned to the Island Hermitage he devoted as much time as possible to the practice of meditation (anapanasati).

In 1951 he experienced the first of many notably “third world” complications to his new life: he contracted typhoid.  While he eventually recovered, he seems never to have fully regained his health, for not long after he was infected by amoebiasis, a malady that would plague him for the rest of his life. 

Amoebiasis, also known as amoebic dysentery, is a type of gastroenteritis caused by the protozoa Entamoeba histolytica, and is typically spread by water contaminated with feces, or (as seems most likely in Ñanavira’s case) by contaminated hands touching food that is then consumed.  What is actually transmitted from host to host are cysts of the protozoa that, once they invade the small intestine, release active amoebic parasites which then enter the large intestine, causing tiny ulcers.  About ten percent of the world’s population is infected, making it the third most common cause of death by parasitical infection.  However, ninety percent of carriers are, fortunately for them, asymptomatic—that is, they don’t even know they have it.  For those unfortunates in whom the disease manifests itself, symptoms include abdominal pain, diarrhea, blood and mucus in the stool, and distension of the bowel.  In extreme cases the disease can spread to the liver, lungs and brain.

Thanks to this affliction, Ñanavira found that the state of the weather had a direct effect on his bowels and energy level: dry weather energized him, wet weather drained him.  The weather at Island Hermitage is typically rainy and humid, so he was forced to seek some other place of residence.

Even while Ñanavira was away from the Hermitage on scouting expeditions for a new dwelling place, he and Ñanamoli maintained a vigorous correspondence wide-ranging in its subject matter, including twentieth century philosophy, translation of critical Buddhist terminology, logic, even quantum physics.  The point of their efforts was to build a conceptual bridge that would enable them to grasp the meaning of the Buddhist Suttas (discourses of the Buddha), and for this purpose they found the writings of the existentialists (e.g. Jean-Paul Sartre) and phenomenologists (e.g. Edmund Husserl) to be more helpful than anything else they had encountered.

What emerges from this correspondence (the bulk of which is dated between 1954 and 1959) is a picture of Ñanavira as a man intensely wrestling with the views and practices the Buddhist texts presented him with, trying to clarify them in terms he could understand.  At first—“in those innocent days” as he later told it—he looked to the traditional commentaries on the Suttas for clarification, but as he compared what the Suttas said to what the commentaries said about the Suttas, he came more and more to doubt their accuracy.  Thus by 1955 he would write to Ñanamoli that “the Vissudhi Magga (or so I consider) is not the Buddha’s Teaching”[2]—an opinion that in Ceylon (both then and now), was practically heretical, that text being the most comprehensive single commentarial work, and written in Ceylon to boot.  By that time too he had begun to doubt the commentarial “three life” interpretation of one of the most important of Buddhist teachings: paticcasamuppada, or “dependent arising.”  However, as late as February 1959 he was still uncertain as to what extent he agreed—or disagreed—with the commentaries on this point.  These uncertainties, however, would shortly come to an abrupt end.

A letter to Ñanamoli dated February 2, 1955 indicates an initial foray into the hot southern “dry zone” region of the island, an area known as Hambantota.  He remarked to Ñanamoli: “I don’t like this kind of weather, but apparently it likes me…”[3]  The next two years were spent mostly at various caves and hermitages in the area, none of which particularly pleased him.  (He described one as “a nightmare” and “a mockery of the monk’s life.”[4])  Finally, by no later than June of ’57, he settled into a kuti (a small house) at Bundala in Hambantota, an ancient village whose inhabitants were, according to local lore, descended from the washerwomen of a certain king of Sri Lanka who reigned some fifteen hundred years earlier.  The kuti, built by lay supporters, nestled in the Bundala forest reserve (now a national park), a wilderness inhabited by elephants, leopards, boar, monkeys and, of course, plenty of snakes (especially Russell’s vipers, or polonga as they are locally called, and cobras).  It consisted of a single room, eight feet square, and entered by a twelve-foot long corridor built for walking meditation.  A stone bed, a table, a chair and some books furnished the room.  A latrine and earthen water storage structure were built nearby.

Bundala Kuti (Aug. 2006)

Thus it happened that the young man who had grown up wealthy in an English mansion would spend the rest of his life in this little wilderness retreat, supported by lay supporters (dayakas) in Colombo and by the alms offerings (dana) of faithful villagers.  In a later letter to one of his Colombo dayakas, he wrote of his abode: “Compared with the senasana or resting place of bhikkhus in former days, this kuti is a well-appointed and luxurious bungalow, and the conditions of life here easy and soft.  As regards solitude, however, this place seems to accord with the Buddha’s recommendations…that it should be neither too near nor too far from a village, that it should be easily approachable…, and that it should be free from mosquitoes and snakes and other such creatures.  I do not think it would be easy to find a better place for practice of the Buddhadhamma—but for that, alas! it also needs good health.”[5]

Ñanavira’s health at this point was never good even on the best of days, and due to the now chronic affliction of his bowels, he found seated meditation difficult.  Despite apparently undergoing frequent treatments for the disorder (his letters after 1960 detail some of the treatments and discussions with his doctors concerning his condition) recoveries were typically short-lived and often interrupted by poor weather or reinfections.  He therefore took to walking meditation for the development of mindfulness.  In this he made progress—so much so that, on the 27th of June 1959, something extraordinary occurred.  Writing in the language of the scriptures, Pali, and imitating their characteristically repetitive cadence, he described the event that permanently altered him:

At one time the monk Ñánavíra was staying in a forest hut near Bundala village.  It was during that time, as he was walking up and down in the first watch of the night, that the monk Ñánavíra made his mind quite pure of constraining things, and kept thinking and pondering and reflexively observing the Dhamma as he had heard and learnt it.  Then, while the monk Ñánavíra was thus engaged in thinking and pondering and reflexively observing the Dhamma as he had heard and learnt it, the clear and stainless Eye of the Dhamma arose in him: “Whatever has the nature of arising, all that has the nature of ceasing.”

Having been a teaching-follower for a month, he became one attained to right view.  (27.6.59)[6]

 Accompanying this paragraph were several texts, also in Pali, from the Canon itself.  One, from the Sutta Nipata (verse 55), bears repeating:

“I have gone beyond the writhing of views.

With the path gained, I have arrived at assurance.

Knowledge has arisen in me and I am no longer to be guided by another.”

[Knowing this,] let him fare lonely as a rhinoceros horn!

Five days later, he wrote to Ñanamoli: “I have now entered one of my non-letter-writing moods, and so I shall not reply in detail at present to your rather meaty letter.”[7]  Nowhere else in the course of their correspondence (as we have it) had he written anything like this, and Ñanamoli was never to know the reason for it.  The letters from Ñanavira petered out, the last dated January 11, 1960.  As he remarked in a later letter to a supporter, he found continuation of the correspondence “pointless.  There was no longer anything for me to discuss with him, since the former relationship of parity between us regarding the Dhamma had suddenly come to an end.”[8]

The correspondence never resumed.

On March 8, 1960, Ñanamoli, having completed his magnum opus translation of the Visuddhimagga, went on a walking tour with the abbot of Island Hermitage.  In some little back of beyond he passed away from coronary thrombosis.  His body was transported by bullock cart to a hospital, and later to Colombo for the funeral.

Continued in Part 3

1. Letter to Ñanamoli, December 2, 1954 (http://nanavira.blogspot.com/search/label/1954).

2. Letter to Ñanamoli, March 7, 1955 (http://nanavira.blogspot.com/search/label/1955).

3. Letter to Ñanamoli, February 24, 1955 (http://nanavira.blogspot.com/search/label/1955).

4. Letter to Ñanamoli, undated.  Probably March or April of 1954.  (http://nanavira.blogspot.com/search/label/1954).

5. Clearing the Path, p. 287.

6. Ibid, p. 495.  Translation by the original editors of Clearing the Path.  I have slightly modified their sutta verse translation (below) for the sake of clarity.

7. Letter to Ñanamoli, July 2, 1959 (http://nanavira.blogspot.com/search/label/1959).

8. Clearing the Path, p. 386.

Rebel Monk: The Life and Times of Ñanavira Thera (1920-1965) (Part 1)

The following series of posts will consist of the biography I wrote back in 2003-4 of Ñanavira Thera, an English monk who lived the last decade of his life in Sri Lanka.  While long an obscure figure in Buddhist circles–one might almost call him a minor “cult figure”–Ñanavira has been steadily gaining wider recognition, especially through the writings of Stephen Batchelor, who discussed him in Buddhism Without Beliefs.  To the best of my knowledge, my biography is the most complete of him available, or at least the best I’ve seen.  (By all means, if something better comes along, and you hear about it, let me know!)  The volume of Ñanavira’s collected writings, Clearing the Path, published by Path Press, has affected my life and thinking more than any other book, Buddhist or otherwise, and is one of the few Dharma books I can recommend without reservation, though it is admittedly demanding.  People wanting to know more about this brilliant and iconoclastic man can go to the links on my homepage for the Ñanavira Thera Dhamma Page and the Path Press website.        


Who Was the Venerable Ñanavira Thera?

He was born Harold Edward Musson on January 5, 1920 in the Aldershot military barracks near Alton, a small, sleepy English town in the Hampshire downs an hour from London.  His father, Edward Lionel Musson, held the rank of Captain of the First Manchester Regiment stationed at Aldershot’s Salamanca Barracks.  A career officer, Edward Musson later attained the rank of Lieutenant Colonel and probably expected his son and only child to follow in his footsteps.  His wife, nee Laura Emily Mateer, was Harold’s devoted mother.

The family was quite wealthy, with extensive coalmine holdings in Wales.  Much of Harold’s youth was spent at a mansion on the outskirt of Alton, within sight of a Benedictine abbey.  Townspeople describe the boy as solitary and reflective; one remembered Harold saying that he enjoyed walking alone in the London fogs.  The same neighbor recalled Harold’s distaste for a tiger skin displayed in the foyer of the family’s residence, a trophy from one of his father’s hunts in India or Burma.

Between 1927 and 1929 the family was stationed in Burma, in Rangoon, Port Blair, and Maymo, and this experience afforded young Harold his first glimpse of representatives of the way of life he would later adopt: Buddhist monks.  In a conversation with interviewer Robin Maugham (the nephew of novelist Somerset Maugham), Harold (by then the Venerable Ñanavira) indicated that what he saw in Burma as a child deeply affected him: “I suppose that my first recollection of Buddhism was when I joined my father in Burma.  He was commanding a battalion out there.  I’d seen statues of Buddha, and I’d heard people talking about him.  I remember asking someone ‘who was the Buddha?’  And I was told: the Buddha was a man who sat under a tree and was enlightened.  Then and there… I decided: ‘this is what I want to do.’”[1]

Harold received the typical schooling for scions of military families, attending Wellington College and, afterwards, Cambridge.  Before Cambridge, though, he spent six months in Italy in 1938, in Florence and Perugia, to study Italian and, as he wrote later, to “broaden my mind.”[2]  At Cambridge he attended Magdalene College, where, in 1939, he sat for Mathematics and then Modern Languages (1940), in which he earned a “Class One.” 

By this time the introspective boy had become a young man with a taste for music—he enjoyed Mozart, the late Beethoven, Bartok, and Stravinsky—and a love of literature.  He confessed, however, that he was “not a great reader of poetry,”[3] preferring ideas to images, a fact reflected in his natural philosophical bent.  A man of his time, he was most drawn both then and later to those writers and thinkers who best characterized the interwar period, the era that became known as Europe’s “Age of Anxiety,” during which the whole of the Western intellectual tradition was questioned and challenged.  He read, among others, Kafka, Sartre, and Huxley, from whom he learned that, as he later wrote, “there is no point in life”[4]—a common European sentiment of the day.  

But the writer who most drove this lesson home for him was Joyce who, he said, “had a great influence on me.”[5]  He later described Joyce’s landmark novel Ulysses as “grossly obscene” yet “profoundly moral,”[6] the purpose of which was to “hold a mirror up to the average sensual Western man, in which he can recognize his image.”[7]  Speaking of the characters in the book, he said what most affected him was “the ultimate meaninglessness and futility of all their actions and aspirations”[8]—and his recognition of himself in them.

This sense of the purposelessness of life was certainly the driver behind Harold’s eventual career choice, and while there is little evidence beyond the recorded words of the often unreliable Maugham interview, it is possible that even before age twenty the man who later became the monk Ñanavira was considering the contemplative life.  According to Maugham, his interviewee remarked that while at Wellington he had attended lectures on Buddhism given by a chaplain, and when in Italy had read a couple books.  “During my time at Cambridge I slowly began to realise that…I would certainly end my days as a Buddhist monk.”[9] 

Harold Musson c.1941

Whether or not this was Ñanavira’s ipsissima verba can’t be known, but it seemed an unlikely outcome in 1940, for with war raging on the continent Harold enlisted in the Territorial Royal Artillery.  It was probably not entirely by choice—a family acquaintance spoke of him as having “completely resented warfare,” and in a later letter as Ñanavira he said he agreed with Huxley that “there were three kinds [of intelligence]: human, animal, and military.”[10]  Given his family background and the acute need of the times, though, there was probably little else he could have done.  In July 1941 he was commissioned Second Lieutenant in the Intelligence Corps, where he became an interrogator of prisoners.  In 1942 he was promoted to Lieutenant and in 1944 to Temporary Captain.  Between 1943 and 1946 he served overseas with the British Eighth army, primarily in North Africa (in Algiers) and Italy.

He spent most of 1946 in a hospital in Sorrento, Italy for reasons unknown.  During his time there he encountered a book that was to have a decisive influence on him, and which marked his first definite involvement with Buddhism.  The book was La Dottrina del Risveglio [The Doctrine of Awakening] by Julius Evola.  Evola’s case mirrored Harold’s in many ways.  Born into a devout Catholic family in 1898, Evola served in an artillery regiment in the First World War, but after the war found it impossible to resume a normal life, being filled with “feelings of the inconsistency and vanity of the aims that usually engage human activities.”[11]  As a result, he sought solace in art, drugs, and, finally, suicide—from which act he was saved by a passage he encountered in the Pali Suttas, the oldest Buddhist scriptures. 

Harold began translating the book while still in the hospital in order to brush up on his Italian, a project he continued upon his return to England later that year.  He took up residence in London, supported by his share of the family wealth.  (His father had passed away sometime during the war.)  There he lived—by one account—a “Bohemian lifestyle,” smoking forty cigarettes a day and working on his translation of Evola’s book.  In the translator’s forward, Harold noted the book’s most important contributions, specifically that it “recaptured the spirit of Buddhism in its original form” by “its encouragement of a practical application of the doctrine it discusses.”[12]  Harold’s subtitle to the book, “A Study of the Buddhist Ascesis” underlined the critical element of applicability that he saw in Buddhism.  (In a letter dated February 21, 1964, remarking on the book, he wrote “I cannot now recommend [it] to you without considerable reserves.”  [Letter to the Hon. Lionel Samaratunga, Clearing the Path, p. 357.]  What those “reserves” were Ñanavira never specified.)

Perhaps his labor over Evola’s ideas of Buddhist discipline finally drove home for Harold the contradictions and unsatisfactoriness of the life he was leading.  As he later related to Maugham: “I had plenty of time and plenty of money.  And I painted the town red.  I tried to enjoy myself.  I tried to get as much pleasure out of life as I could…  But somehow I found that I wasn’t happy…  I wasn’t really enjoying myself.  I felt that it was all pretty futile…”[13]  And so it was that one evening in 1948 he found himself in a bar, where he met a fellow officer whom he’d known from the war, Osbert Moore.  Moore was fifteen years Harold’s senior, had graduated from Exeter College at Oxford, and served during the war as a staff officer in Italy where the two men had met.  Presently he was working at Bush House as Assistant Head of the BBC Italian section.  Moore too had read some books on Buddhism, including Evola’s, and been affected by them.  Their conversation turned to Buddhism, and, as Harold later recounted, he and Moore gradually “came to the conclusion that the lives we were leading… were utterly pointless.”[14]  By the time the pub closed, the two had decided that together they would abandon the world and go to Ceylon to ordain as Buddhist monks.

Continued in Part 2

1. Robin Maugham, Search for Nirvana (London: W.H. Allen, 1975), p. 189.

2. Clearing the Path, p. 378.

3. Ibid, p. 379.

4. Ibid, p. 408.

5. Ibid, p. 407.

6. Ibid, p. 304 and ibid, p. 292 fn. (d) respectively.

7. Ibid, p. 407.

8. Ibid, p. 407.

9. Robin Maugham, op. cit.

10. Clearing the Path, L. 134.  (Due to a printer’s error, pages 451-466 are absent in my edition of CTP.)

11. Julius Evola, Le Chemin du Cinabre (trans.) (Milan: Arché-Arktos, 1982), p. 12.  Quoted in Stephen Batchelor, “Existence, Enlightenment and Suicide: The Dilemma of Nanavira Thera,” from Tadeusz Skorupski (ed.), The Buddhist Forum, Vol. IV (London: School of Oriental and African Studies, 1996).

12. Julius Evola (trans. by Harold Musson), The Doctrine of Awakening: A Study on the Buddhist Ascesis (London: Luzac, 1951), p. ix. 

13. Robin Maugham, op. cit., p. 189.

14. Ibid, p. 190.

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