Hugh
Shearman
The Theosophist 1957
IN the literature of Theosophy there is a great variety of personal or individual approach.
The authors of Theosophical books are often vividly different from each other; but, broadly
speaking, they all have seen and written about the same things. There is, of course, a wide
fringe of derivative books, giving summaries of what other people have taught; but, in the
more impressive works, there is always some touch at least of direct experience in the
writer.
Those
who come to this literature often want to know who is right and who is
wrong about this or that matter. They want to know which writer is a good
authority. They want a measure of “higher criticism” to distinguish the true from the false or at least from the less
true. They want to know whether H.P.Blavatsky or A.P.Sinnett was right in instances where
their accounts of things seems to disagree. They want to know how far Annie Besant and
C.W. Leadbeater really knew what they were talking about and whether George Arundale
really had the visions that he sought to record. They want to ask themselves:”Do
I agree with Annie Besant or with such-and-such another writer?”
At
its particular level, this is eminently reasonable and proper. The reasonable
individual wants to know where he stands. And yet there is another approach
to Theosophical literature which does not directly involve these considerations.
If one may be personal, I should say that something of this other approach
became available to me through reading that literature as a child. Nobody
asked me to read it, for I was not acquainted with any member of the Theosophical
Society, nor had I any such person in my family. Theosophical studies were
a voluntary amusement which circumstances—or, as some
would say, karma—made available through the fact that I lived
in two houses each of which had a little collection of Theosophical books.
And from the age of eleven I pursued these studies eagerly.
A
child does not read critically, particularly when he reads for enjoyment.
He can, of course, notice an inconsistency, a mechanical error or a flaw
in the plot of a story; and some little boys are very sharp in observing
such things. But, in a broader sense, a child’s
reading is not critical, and it involves a certain innocent acceptance of all
that he finds in print.
That
was how I read—uncritically and innocently, drawn on solely by the fascinating
interest of what I found in those books. I became, of course, a glib young specialist
in rounds and races, and, printed in an old school magazine, I have found a
little treatise which I wrote at the age of thirteen on the subject of the fourth
dimension of space. Probably the most intellectually profound work which I read
and reread was Mrs. Besant’s Introduction to Yoga. I was also familiar
with The Voice of the Silence and Light on the Path by the time
I was sixteen. I also read many talks by Krishnamurti. I did not acquire
The Secret Doctrine till I was nineteen.
Such
juvenile studies were not, of course, sufficient. The grown-up intellect
has to assert itself. In due course the honour schools of two universities
did their worst upon me, and I reread all those books with a very altered
attitude of mind. Yet that early experience of innocent juvenile study
of Theosophical literature left a kind of understanding which is ineffaceable.
It had opened certain “doors
of the mind” which are perhaps not so easily opened if one’s studies
until after the development of a critical and sophisticated intellect.
For
those who study with an innocent eye, the impact of a book is total. Critical
intellect knows a book only at its own level; and much of the worth of
any book is often at some level other than that of the critical intellect.
Its message is for the whole of one’s nature and
not for the relatively narrow band of responses which constitute the critical
and analytical mind.
It has been said of education that real education is what you carry with you after you have
forgotten everything you ever learned. That is to say, there is in true education a moral and
spiritual impact and influence which has little or nothing to do with the intellectual contents
of the curriculum of studies. So it was with my own early Theosophical education.
Approached with an absence of critical self-consciousness, it more readily yielded qualities
of the kind with which the critical intellect is not directly concerned. The golden glow that
lingers from a childhood experience is not merely illusory; and, whatever may
subsequently be made of it, it is of itself utterly unsentimental.
Moreover, there is much to be gained at times from study which is taken in large slices,
without critical attention to details. I galloped through many Theosophical books, much as
one reads a novel to see what happened next. The total impression of a long book may
be blurred if it is rapidly run through with the zeal of a voracious young reader; but it can
nevertheless include something that will be lost if it is read slowly and carefully, with
pauses for the critical assimilation of each paragraph. In later life I have certainly found
that it is often helpful to read a whole book through from beginning to end, even where it
is impossible to carry all the details. And in Lodge study groups there can sometimes be
a place for the reading of long passages fairly quickly in order to get general proportions
and a total view before details are discussed.
The
subjects and lessons on a general educational curriculum, too, are significant
not merely for their informative value, but because they provide a medium
through which a living relationship is established between teacher and
taught, a relationship which can be much more influential and creative
than any formal contents of the curriculum. Books, like school lessons,
are also a medium through which a relationship is established and developed.
I was in no doubt as a child that those whose Theosophical writings I read
had a measure of wisdom and greatness which I did not find in the writers
of most other books. Albeit childishly, I saw or felt those Theosophical
authors whole, and my view of them was not limited to what may be discerned
by a reader’s critical faculty.
A
posthumous critical chipping at the characters and achievements of those
great people—which is not always unheard of in these latter days—is
quite understandable to me. I can understand the arguments advanced in
the case for the prosecution as it is set forth; but I have also recognized
something which makes that chipping seem incomplete and rather pointless.
It can be answered in various ways at its own controversial level, but
the real answers to it cannot be given at that level.
In
reading a book on a serious subject it is important to feel one’s
way towards a recognition of how deep inside the writer was the source
of its inspiration. Many fluent and well devised works spring only form
a source that is quite close to the surface. And on the other hand, some
of those which have a source far deeper inside are not necessarily well
devised in a technical sense; yet they carry from their profounder source a
certain quality for those who have eyes to see.
In our best work, moreover, something greater than ourselves surely enters in. Indeed, at
a certain level of achievement, the better the work the less is it we personally who perform
it. That kind of depth in a work is not to be recognized by mere analysis of its intellectual
or informative contents. And if I were to explain how and why I seem to experience that
quality of deeper authority in certain books , I do not think that I could readily give an
answer.
This
is admittedly dangerous territory, for anybody may justify a delusive personal
enthusiasm by assertions such as this. Anybody may evade the responsibility
of common sense by claiming the privilege of using his “intuition”.
And yet there is an authentic
intuition, often prompting to conclusions quite opposed to personal interest. If we are to
seek it, we must venture upon that dangerous territory, with innocence as our only
protection.
Reading
Theosophical books with the eye of childhood has also a further advantage
which arises from the child’s acceptance of authority. One strong
reason for challenging the authority and truth of certain works is the
fact that if we accept them as sound and true we find ourselves placed
in a position of great inferiority. Nobody finds it easy to accept and
agree to standards to which he himself is not conforming, standards so
high that he is bound to feel small and incomplete by the measure of them.
Yet it is standards of that nature which are offered by many Theosophical
works; and only a certain impersonal humility makes it possible to accept
such works without making self-protective gesticulations of dissociation,
disengagement or revolt. But to the child it is quite easy and natural
to take that attitude of acceptance. The normal adult, however, will accept
facts of teachings of any kind usually only as far as he can accept the
implications which they hold for himself and for his private structure
of values; and there are even more powerful psychological motives for incredulity
in connection with certain subjects than there are for credulity. Sometimes,
as a substitute for incredulity, it is possible to philosophize a subject
away from oneself into some remote and speculative sphere; but where this is
not possible, as in the case of certain of the more simple Theosophical
books, people sometimes become indignantly incredulous and say that the
author is a rascal.
Thus, while a mere mechanical acceptance of authority is dangerous, there are many
fields in which truth is accessible only when we abandon forms of scepticism which are
merely subtle self-protective devices by which we may save ourselves from unflattering
comparisons, embarrassing responsibilities or agonizing reappraisals.
To sum up, a truly grown-up attitude towards Theosophical literature cannot be taken with
the critical intellect alone or even predominantly. The innocent eye, the eye of that self
within us which is larger than the critical intellect, must also participate in our studies. We
have to bring to our studies a certain impersonal openness, a capacity to recognize and
salute in any work or in any person the things that are greater than those more personal
and fallible qualities which the mind is bound to note. Nor must we imagine that the
intrinsic value of any work lies in its capacity to answer some personal problem of our own.
Often deeper truths can be understood only to the extent to which we leave behind us that
plane of habit upon which personal problems arise.
The
power to act and understand from a true perspective is sometimes called reverence.
In it there is no inhibition of intelligence; but there is an unflinching full-range
recognition of the greatness and triviality of things. In the Theosophical Society
we have had in the past and have still the privilege of association with people
who are not only worthy of reverence but who cannot be truly understood in any
other way.