THE CATALYST

The technical definition of a catalyst is "a substance that increases the rate of a chemical reaction without itself undergoing any permanent chemical change."  An example of a biological catalyst is the enzyme, lipase, which breaks down fat so it can be absorbed by the small intestine.  Without lipase and many other enzymes (all enzymes are catalysts) life--at least as we know it--would not be possible.  The figurative definition of a catalyst is a person who precipitates an event, especially someone without a vested interest in the result.  Extending this meaning of the word, I would define a "moral catalyst" as a person who indeed has a vested interest in an event he or she is bringing about; what separates the moral catalyst from the business-as-usual variety is that the former is motivated by a will to profit humanity, while the latter is motivated by a will to profit themselves.

Pope Francis, who had a major role in ending the misguided United States embargo of Cuba and in reestablishing full diplomatic relations after fifty-three years of relentless hostility, is perhaps the most outstanding contemporary example of  this phenomenon.  The troubled capitalism of the United States and the moribund communism of Cuba certainly were ready to react together and produce a positive result; without the "moral catalystism" of the pope, however. there was a good chance that that long overdue inevitable reaction would have occurred later, perhaps much later.

Regarding the role played by the pontiff in bringing about this major change in policy, a senior official was quoted as saying, "You cannot overestimate the importance of this pope."

Barack Obama had been exploring the possibility of reestablishing diplomatic ties between the two countries for months.  He visited the Vatican some months back and discussed the matter with the papal Secretary of State, Cardinal Parolin, an expert diplomat who is familiar with Latin American politics.

X and Y were coming together.  Just what did Pope Catalyst do?

In the summer of 2014, the pope wrote to Raúl Castro and Barack Obama, offering his help to "initiate a new phase" in the relationship between Cuba and the United States.  Meetings were held at both the Vatican and Canada, two countries that have had good relations with Cuba.  A major impasse involved the exchange of political prisoners.  The Vatican played a crucial role in resolving this and other issues.

Without catalyst P, X would have remained on the far left and Y would have remained on the far right.  Now, to the delight of humanitarians everywhere, both sides came together, reacted together and precipitated together a very positive result.

I have always been critical of the Catholic Church for being on many occasions more interested in protecting the institution rather than standing up for what the institution stands for.  The most egregious example of this in recent times is the horrible scandal of many bishops who kept silent after they found out about the sexual predators in their midst.  They were more interested in protecting the Church rather than in protecting the innocent members of the Church.  Another example is the pact with Hitler, negotiated by the Nazis and  Cardinal Pacelli, who later became Pope Pius X11;  the terms of this agreement required German Catholics to stop all opposition to Hitler, in return for the promise that Church property would not be confiscated.  (This, the first pact any political group made with Hitler, and, coming from the Vatican, helped legitimize Hitler's savage regime.)

Pope Francis's  behavior was in stark contrast.  He was primarily interested in doing good rather than in covering up for others in order to appear good.  Sure there was self-interest involved, but self-interest of a very noble kind.  He wanted to increase the diplomatic reputation of the Vatican--in order to better be able to do more good in the future.

What a change in tone from his predecessors!  The Catholic Church, led by very conservative bishops appointed by previous popes, had been in moral decline.  One got the impression that the unholy trinity of being anti-gay, anti-contraception and anti-abortion was replacing, well, the Holy Trinity, or at least the trinity of faith, hope and charity.

I doubt that he will make all changes that decency demands. Organized religions are by nature conservative; it will take a long time for the Church to realize that its opposition to, say, gay marriage is a violation of the law of all religions and of all legitimate forms of humanism, namely the commandment, interpreted as arising from without or within, to love one's neighbor as oneself.

"Who am I to judge?" said Pope Francis.  The pope has decided to walk two moons in another's moccasins rather mooning about in Benedict's crimson shoes.  Christ's vicar consistently imitating Christ--we haven't seen that since the brief reign of Pope John XXlll.  It is a good sign for the future.

Will a moral catalyst at the head of the Church be able to reverse the dour Catholicism of the bishops? The mitred Rubios and Cruzes in his midst will do their best to make progress difficult--but whoever said that walking in the footsteps of a sage would be easy?  At least we can say this: a moral catalyst like the pope--and there are many others--is, thank God! among us, precipitating actions for the benefit of all.

BUDDHA AND THE NIGHTINGALES

"Tell me a story, Dad!"  Every child likes a good bedtime story, especially those that involve familiar characters in new situations.  A whole host of Disney favorites undoubtedly make gentle, nightly rounds from bedroom to bedroom over the entire world.  Most parents prefer to read stories to their children; others make up stories on the spot.  The latter tradition I call Aesopian stand-up, except for the fact that the performer is sitting down while the audience consists of a single, tucked-in child.  In these stories, the foxes, crows and bears have no idea where they're going until the very end, when they are rewarded, if they are lucky, with a priceless gift, the smile of a half-asleep child.  This is the type of bedtime story I grew up with; this is the type of bedtime story I have passed on.  

Many, many years ago on many a night, my father would tell me a tale about Michael Monkey. Spoken in a voice that grew softer as I became sleepier, his invented adventures of a mischievous saurian child are among the best memories I have of him.

Many years ago on many a night, I would tell my son a tale about Buddha and his mischievous cousin, Devadatta. The culture and content had shifted a bit from my father's day, but the intent remained the same: to entertain a child and ease him into sleep.

Those nights are gone forever.  But a part of them resides in me, an old man with a grownup son. Last night the part became whole again; last night I told a group of children and adults one more story of Buddha and Devadatta.  This time I slept and they listened--with rapt attention--this was, after all, a dream.

When I awoke the next morning, I had forgotten some details, yet I was able to recall most of the story.  Perhaps you would like to hear it?  Children and children at heart gather round, as I tell you the story of Buddha and the Nightingales.

BUDDHA AND THE NIGHTINGALES

Even before there was music in India--and music is an art that has had a special place in that land for many centuries--there were, as one might suspect, sages.  One of the greatest of all the sages that India has ever produced was Gautama Siddharta, called The Buddha, The Enlightened One.  After Buddha had become a sage, he traveled the length and breadth of India, revealing the source of true happiness to all who would listen.  Many did listen; he soon had many disciples.  One of them, his cousin, Ananda, had a pleasant disposition ever before Buddha taught him The Way.  Some, however, loved themselves too much to love Buddha; they were jealous of his talents and of his fame.  One of these was his cousin, Devadatta.

Devadatta grew up with Buddha.  He was smart, but Buddha was smarter.  He could run fast, but Buddha could run faster.  Devadatta was popular, but Buddha was really popular.  Vain and intensely jealous, he convinced himself that if he didn't come out first in everything, he came out last in everything.  Humiliated by Buddha's achievements, he decided to get his cousin out of the way for good.

Devadatta actually had one great ability that Buddha did not have--the ability to appreciate music. It affected him deeply.  In those days, the only musicians were birds.  He was especially moved by the song of the nightingale.  When a nightingale sang, Devadatta would stop whatever he was doing; he would then sit down and remain perfectly still while the bird sang.  Those who saw him in this state thought he was meditating, and, in a way, he was.  They marveled at the expression of bliss on his face. Whenever the nightingale stopped singing, however, he reverted to his former self, full of greed, hate and delusion.  The villagers still respected him as one on the way to enlightenment, even though they acknowledged that he had a very long way to go.

Poor Devadatta!  No one knew about music in those days; he couldn't share his ecstasy with anyone.  If beautiful sounds can't make me famous, Devadatta thought to himself, what good are they?  The nightingales made things worse.  He became even more jealous.  If he saw his cousin again, he vowed, he would kill him. "Better than that," he thought, "I will devise a plan to get rid of Mr. Smartyrobes once and for all."

He decided to make Niligiri, the gentle elephant, trample Buddha.  How could he do that?  Niligiri was very kind, and had been patiently transporting cartloads of teak to neighboring villages for years. Devadatta, however, had gained magical powers from practicing tapas, a very difficult form of meditation.  He concocted a potion which, even in small portions, would drive anyone mad who drank it.  Even elephants.  Unnoticed, Devadatta hid a small vial of this poison in Niligiri's hay.  In no time, Niligiri became the wildest elephant of all and began stomping everything in sight.  Devadatta, also by magic, was able to control the trumpeting ton of pure terror.  An iron ring with spikes facing inward was conjured up for each leg. The spikes pressed against his flesh, making walking extremely painful.  Even if his rage briefly overcame his discomfort, he could no longer charge at anything, since his legs were tightly bound together.  The poor elephant could only take tiny, painful steps.  Devadatta had the villagers lead Niligiri on an agonizing journey into the forest, where, next to the forest path, they chained him to a pipal  tree.  How the chains rattled as he tried to break free!  They hoped  that Niligiri would eventually get over his madness.  As if by magic--and it was by magic--the elephant remained still while Devadatta removed the iron rings, after which the elephant became more furious than ever. The villagers then gathered leaves, grasses and fruit--which, fearing for their lives if they got too close, were pushed toward Niligiri with freshly cut bamboo shoots.  Devadatta assured them that their beloved elephant would one day be kind again.

The forest path was halfway between the village of Tomi and the village of Nagaswara, where Devadatta lived.  The evil cousin knew Buddha would eventually pass by.

And one day he did.  As the Compassionate One approached, Niligiri became incensed and tried to break free.  Devadatta, with the help of a magic knife, cut the chain that bound him.  Niligiri charged furiously.  But once he got close enough to see Buddha's face, he stopped dead in his tracks and knelt before the Blessed One.  After a period of silent communication, Buddha led Niligiri back to Nagaswara.  The villagers, mostly simple folk, were more impressed by this "miracle" than they were by the sage's miraculous words. They, too, had a long way to go.

Devadatta was furious.  "I will kill you yet, noble Cousin," he said to himself. He recalled that he had recently come across a booby trap which villagers had set in order to capture a man-eating tiger.  Maybe one could capture a sage, he thought, why not?  He smiled a very unenlightened smile.

Meanwhile, the Great Sage was having difficulties with the people of the two villages.  The inhabitants of Nagaswara understood the Fire Sermon, but couldn't understand the Four Noble Truths.  In contrast, the villagers of Tomi understood the Four Noble Truths, but had little appreciation for the Fire Sermon.  Devaddatta knew that Buddha would be traveling between the two villages, instructing  them patiently until both aspects of his teaching were understood by all.  His cousin smiled a very unenlightened smile once again.  Although Buddha was certainly no booby, a booby trap just might work, he thought.  Devadatta vowed to try his evil best.

He got his friend Kaaka the Crow to help him.  The evil cousin chose another site along the path to trap Buddha.  At the edge of the dirt road, he dug a hole, ten feet deep and four feet wide.  He covered the top of it with netting and twigs, which he then covered over with grass.  The camouflage was perfect.   You couldn't tell where the border of the hole was, unless, perhaps, you were Meise the Ant.  (It wouldn't matter to her, of course, since she weighed less than a leaf of coriander--If she ever scurried onto the trap on her way back to the colony, nothing at all would happen.)  Behind the trap was a little sapling.  Kaaka was to sit on one of its twigs, and, when Buddha passed, the crow would hold up his wing as if it were broken.  He would then caw and caw in mock pain.  Devadatta knew that Buddha would rush to his aid--it was well known that the sage loved animals--and fall into the pit.  Devadatta would then cover it up with soil and his friend whom he thought was his foe would be silenced forever.  Devadatta hid behind a nearby rock.

He had to wait a long time.  After two days,  during which Kaaka had been dreaming of beans and Devaatta  had been dreaming of rice and beans, Buddha finally approached from the village of Tomi.  The two evildoers awoke and put their plan into action.  Kaaka held up one wing and cawed piteously while Devadatta waited behind the rock next to a  small pile of forest soil with which he planned to bury his cousin alive.

The Great Mind approached--and paid them no mind!  He was lost in meditation.  He kept repeating the Sutra of Loving Kindness over and over to himself, in order to be able to remain perfectly poised when somebody in Nagaswara asked a   dumb question like, "How come there are only four Noble Truths and not five or six?"

"May they be happy and peaceful," Buddha chanted and walked on.  A few seconds after  he had passed, Devattata ran from behind the rock and shouted the Blessed One's name.  This plan had to work!  He would take him by the hand if he had to, lead him to the crow, and laugh out loud as Buddha disappeared into the Earth.  Alas, in his haste, Buddha's nemesis forgot where the rooted grass ended and the uprooted grass began.  A loud "AH YO" echoed in the valley as Devadatta fell into the trap of his own making with a loud thud.

Buddha was lost in meditation, yes, but not that lost.  He had heard the piercing cry of distress, and ran back to help.  Terrified--for no reason, of course--Kaaka flew away.  At the edge of the pit, Buddha looked down and saw a familiar birthmark on top of a bald head; he recognized Devadatta instantly.  He surmised what his cousin had been up to.

"Dear Cousin," he began, "Do you remember my parable about the man wounded by an arrow?"  No answer.  Buddha continued, "It makes no sense to fuss about who shot the arrow while the wounded man suffers.  The first and most important thing to do is get the arrow out and heal the wound.  Remember that, Devadatta?" Still no answer.  "This is a similar situation.  I am not going to fuss about how you got into this mess, but I'm going to get you out."

Buddha called for his good friend, Pamba the Cobra, who, hidden in the grass, had slithered close by to observe what was going on.  While Buddha held on to the top of the snake's body, he let the rest of it slide down into the hole.  Devadatta grabbed the snake, and, using it as a rope, climbed out.  The poor man stood there, caked with dirt, looking down at the ground in silence.  He had behaved like a very bad boy and expected a severe rebuke.  Instead, Buddha smiled and said, "Work out your own salvation with diligence," and walked away.

When Buddha was out of sight, Devadatta clenched his fists while looking down at Kumbuli the Caterpillar, who was about to climb the pipal tree to eat a feast of crinkled leaves for dinner.  "One more time," the evil cousin shouted as he stomped on poor Kumbuli; "I swear to Rakshasa, King of the Demons--Next time I'll get you!" He lumbered away in the opposite direction from the one Buddha had taken.

After two weeks of sermons, talks and exhortations, all the inhabitants of Nagaswara finally understood why there were only four noble truths, and not five or six.  Buddha was delighted.  "Now, I can leave Nagaswara with satisfaction.  Once everyone in Tomi--some of whose minds are as dry as kindling wood--understands the Fire Sermon, I can continue my journey to other Indian villages."  The next morning he left Nagaswara and began the five mile walk to Tomi.

Approximately one mile away from Tomi, instead of being flanked alternately by forest and rice paddies, the path narrowed as it passed between two mountains.  On the north side, there was a ridge that looked over the path below.  It was here that Devadatta lay in wait for the Buddha, ready to push a boulder over the ridge to crush the Blessed One as he passed below.  "This time I will kill him!" the evil cousin said to himself.  And he almost did.

As Buddha approached, Devadatta began pushing the boulder toward the edge of the ridge.  At the same time, Nim the Nightingale was flying above them both, approaching Buddha from the direction of Nagaswara. She saw what was about to happen and gave out a peep--she had to save him!  She didn't have time to swoop down and warn him; she had to think fast.  (Even if she did have time, Buddha, as she well knew, had difficulty understanding the nightingale dialect.)  In less time than it takes a ripe mango to fall from a tree, however, she figured out what she had to do.  She remembered that Devadatta was the only human to be deeply affected by her song.  Sometimes she had amused herself by singing over his head; on these occasions, Devadatta would stop whatever he was doing and listen with rapt attention.   While she sang, he would look as serene as a statue of an enlightened one, and be just as unable to move.

Nim flew down as fast as she could and perched on the boulder.  She knew she had to sing better than she ever had sung before, and she did.  Devadatta stopped pushing the boulder and Buddha, unaware of the threat over his head, passed by unscathed.  You would think that Nim would stop singing, but she didn't.  After a few minutes of bliss, Devadatta, facing the direction of Tomi, sat down slowly and assumed the lotus position.  His eyelids were half shut; his gaze looked slightly downwards.  His lips, gently closed, formed a quiet smile of great subtlety.  If anyone saw it--and the townsfolk of both villages soon did--he or she would assume that another person besides the Buddha had already entered the peace of Nirvana during his lifetime.

Nim,  however, wasn't taken in  by Devadatta's blissful appearance.  She had heard of his evil deeds from other birds who had witnessed his previous attempts at murder as they few overhead.  Nim knew that if she stopped, the evil cousin of the Great One would plot against his life again.  Next time he might succeed; she wanted to  make sure that Devadatta wouldn't be able to try to harm Buddha ever again.

"How will I do it?  I can't go on singing forever," Nim thought to herself as she sang.  Soon she was trilling with delight.  She had an idea.  Signaling with her left wing, Nim summoned one of her sisters who had been flying nearby.  It was Nuri, who had almost as beautiful a voice as Nim's.  "Sing!" said Nim, between two phrases of her song.  Nuri didn't miss a beat; nor did Devadatta, who remained perfectly still.  "Be sure you don't stop singing till I get back.  Not even for ten seconds!" Nim told Nuri.  Nuri nodded her auburn head in agreement as Nim flew off.

She landed on top of a tamarind tree, where all the nightingales of the district met periodically to discuss important matters, such us how to teach remedial trilling to song-challenged  nestlings.  She opened her beak wide; the piercing sound of the Meeting Call came from the depths of her throat.  Soon all the local nightingales were perched on branches of the tamarind tree--minus, of course, Nuri, who was keeping Devadatta from causing trouble with her song.

Nim quickly explained the problem.  Then she discussed the remedy.  "We are a group of 100 birds.  If each of us takes turns singing for an hour, we can go on singing for four days.  A shift of one hour every four days is not a great burden--we should be willing to sing forever if that were the only way to protect our enlightened friend."

Ranji, who always chirped with an aristocratic Benares Nightingale accent, protested.  "Madam, there are one hundred of us and only  ninety-six hours in a four day period.  What about the extra four nightingales?" stressing the dental sound of the t even though he had no teeth.

"They'll be the back-up," Nim replied.   "I'll do the schedule.  If any of you has to fly away for a while, switch with someone else and make up for the session when you get back.  Remember, you must never stop singing until you are relieved of your duty by a fellow bird.  If you ever stop, it may cost the life of one who is doing so much for the lives of everyone, humans and nightingales alike. Do you understand?"

They all understood and were pleased that they could help.  Nim devised the schedule, then flew back to Nuri and Devadatta along with her sister Romi, whose turn it was to sing.  The plan worked perfectly.

How did the birds make sure that Devadatta wouldn't starve?  That was easy.  They put berries and little bugs--they were pleased to sacrifice themselves for such a noble cause--into his mouth.  They made sure that no human saw them whenever they fed Devadatta.  He always swallowed what the birds called Bugs 'n' Berries without a hint of awareness of what he was doing; his absorption was indeed very deep.

The path between Tomi and Nagaswara was well traveled--cows, goats, bullocks and, especially,  people, used the path every day.  The animals couldn't care less, but the humans were awestruck at the sight of Devadatta.  Whenever anyone called out his name, he didn't move a muscle and kept looking down. They were very impressed by his enigmatic smile.  He soon became known as The Sage on the Ridge.

Beginning shortly after he was seen on the ridge for the first time, members of both towns met there every morning and evening to perform puja and prostrate themselves before Devadatta.  They were delighted to see and hear a nightingale sing the whole time they were present.  Even birds perform puja in his honor!  What a great sage he must be!

Before each puja began, the townsfolk laid an offering of bananas, mangoes and coconuts on a silver platter at Devatta's feet.   The nightingales were delighted that they no longer had to kill bugs to keep him alive--I suppose the bugs were happy about that, too.  Whenever the devotees returned, they noticed that the fruit was gone.  When humans passed by the ridge they would put their palms together in obeisance to the Sage of the Nightingales, as he was now called, before walking on.  None of them had ever seen him touch a piece of  food.

A miracle!  A miracle!  They began to worship him as a god.

This went on for many years.  One day, a distant relative of Nim  flew in from Madras with terrible news.  Buddha had entered Paranirvana; he would never be seen on Earth again.  Even Devadatta couldn't harm him now.

Although the nightingales were basically a fairly enlightened bunch of birds, they still had their mischievous side.  They decided to stop singing during a puja.  It was any bird's guess what Devadatta would do.  They couldn't wait to see what would happen.

The next morning, while many birds hid in the foliage at the back of the ridge, Chanchi, the great granddaughter of Nuri, began her song, as the devotees prostrated themselves before Devadatta.  Then, after about fifteen minutes, the music stopped.   The bird has never stopped singing before.  This is an omen.  Something very strange is about to happen...And something strange did happen.  As the devotees lifted their heads and gazed at Devadatta, they were dumbstruck, they were terrified.  Their god was about to speak!  His arms were raised and his eyes were wide open.  The serene smile was gone.  They sat motionless with fear.

No one ever found out what Devadatta wanted to say.  Maybe it was something like, "What am I doing here?" or perhaps "What are you doing here?"  We'll never know.  For Devadata could no longer say anything...he could only SING!  The nightingales were even more amazed, for they never heard music like this.  It was much more beautiful than any avian song.  How can one explain the inexplicable?  I will try.  During the many years of the nightingales' song, Devatta's superficial nature disappeared, as his deeper nature took over. He, too, had a great soul--for everyone has a great soul, even Devadatta, although admittedly he was only very rarely aware of its existence. The music which had sunk deeply into his inner nature rose from it transformed into something more profound than anything a bird could ever produce.

The nightingales loved the music from the outset, but, try as they may, they couldn't imitate it.  Since they didn't want the music to stop, they decided to keep up their schedule of song, so that Devadatta would remain transfixed.  During the morning and evening pujas, however, they would stop singing and listen to their new Master sing the first human songs ever sung.

The townsfolk, who never had heard anything like it before, were slow in their appreciation.  At first it  sounded like nonsense to them, more or less like a table sporting an extensive array of luscious curries would sound--as it collapsed.  But these sounds had come from the mouth of a god--it would be blasphemy to assert that they were listening to mere noise.  With time, they began to realize what a great gift had been given to them.  After a puja, they soon were trying their best to imitate what they had heard.  They hummed, they sang; they gradually became aware of a profound world of sound. Soon men and women were singing as they labored and after their labor was done.  Children were sung to, and children sang back.

The inhabitants of Nagaswara and Tomi couldn't keep the music to themselves.  Nor did they want to, for music, such as it is, is something one just has to share.  Travelers became tuneful missionaries, preaching the dogma-less dharma of music without an unsung word.  In no time, the entire subcontinent of India was singing, to the delight of almost everyone.  (Some had tin ears then, as some have tin ears now.)

With time, instruments, such as the flute, the sitar and the mridingam, were invented.  In the music that Devatta had introduced to humanity, which became known as carnatic music, the human voice, however, always remained primary. (This is not surpising, since, as human nightingales, singers are best able to sound the depths  inside and outside themselves.)  As music spread beyond India's borders, each area of the world developed styles uniquely their own.  (Think of it--without Buddha and Devadatta there would never have been a Beethoven, a Thyagaraja, a Mozart or a Sting!)

Music became as essential as speaking.  Soon the whole word was singing!  Devadatta and the nightingales--this is how music began.  And as long as there are people, it will never end.

                                                    *****

The day after I had told this story to the children and adults in my dream, I spent most of my time either listening to music or making it.  That night, I once again recalled those days, now gone forever, when I told my son tales of Buddha and Devadatta.  Sometimes, after he had fallen asleep, I would put on a record--we only had records in those days--which would fill the room with soft music to assure that my son would have pleasant dreams.  On one occasion, I played the beautiful Bhaja Govindam as sung by M.S.  Subbulakshmi, who was known in her day as The Nightingale of India.  A sudden thought came to me: those days might be gone forever, but the record still exists.  I went through the many recordings I had stored in a closet, and soon found the one sought.  I took my dusty turntable out of the basement and attached it to my Bose radio.  I listened to The Nightingale once again; tears came to my eyes.

I don't know why, but when it was over I recalled the teaching of a foolish philosopher, whom, when I was both young and foolish myself, I had much admired.  He asserted that human beings had gone completely astray and that there was no longer, if there ever had been, any good left in them.  "The mind of every human is nothing more than a factory of idols!" he proclaimed.  Even the best of us would be completely lost without an external god to guide them on the right path and to punish them when they inevitably strayed.  (Nonsense! Anyone who has listened to the words of the Buddha or to carnatic music knows that the source of great goodness lies within.)  "Beauty that is Truth and Truth that is Beauty--Can creatures as flawed as a human beings ever create something as divine as these?" the false prophet asked rhetorically.  Inside me, Buddha and Devadatta nodded emphatically.  We had our answer.  I listened and smiled.

Soon I Will Be Done

My wife, Nirmala, was asleep beside me.  I was still reading.  I had put down one book and took up another, one somewhat less heavy (subject-wise) in the hope I could read myself to sleep.  It worked.  After reading the first chapter of Per Pettersen's award-winning novel, Out Stealing Horses, I put out the light. The blurb of the book had informed me that I was about to read a story of an old man who isolates himself in a cabin in a remote part of Norway, and reminisces about his long life.  The old man, it turns out, is sixty-seven.  Younger than me, I thought; it's later than you think...

The dream I had that night was very vivid.  I was walking up a mountain path; the countryside was beautiful.  Each side of the path was flanked by tall oaks and stately maples.  Their leaves were in various shades of yellow, red, and gold; although it was autumn, the weather was still very gentle.  I was alone.  As I walked up the path, I noticed a lovely woman ahead of me, standing uphill  next to a huge oak, the trunk of which had been bent and gnarled by many years of difficult weather.  As I approached her, she said  these exact words: "You think you're still young,  but you already have one foot in the grave."  She smiled and concluded with, "Don't be afraid!"

I looked down and watched a tree sloth inch across the road.  If you ever saw a tree sloth  moving on the ground, you know how very difficult it is for one to get from A to B.  They have to extend one of their very long arms, then use the muscles of that arm to drag their body along.  It's a very slow process; it looks ridiculous.   Absurd, I suppose, as an old man moving six feet a minute with the aid of a walker.

After the sloth had passed, I looked up; the woman had gone.  I suspected that the apparition was none other than Nature Herself. Leaves began to fall; I didn't feel the wind, but it was driving autumn leaves along the path.  It was now dusk.  I felt very peaceful, albeit somewhat sad.  Winter was coming, no doubt about that.

I think Nature "spoke" to me telepathically; the dream was silent until the very end, when, from somewhere and everywhere, music quietly filled my being.  It seemed as if the very trees were singing--a very chromatic arrangement of a spiritual, as beautiful as it was sad.  Paradoxically, though, I felt happy---or, at least, serene.  Something was assuring me that the really good times were about to begin. I only heard the first few notes, before everything disappeared.

The next morning I was able to recall  the one or two measures I had heard in the dream--(perhaps there had been more, I don't really know.)   I spent much of the next day finishing the arrangement which my dream had begun.  I didn''t want to forget it, so I had my son record it.  You're invited to listen. (Wish I were a better pianist; hope something still comes across.)

Soon I Will Be Done

Rezension: "Die Letzte Welt" von Christoph Ransmayr

Deutscher Literaturkreis Online

Die Letzte Welt
Ein Roman von Christoph Ransmayr
Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag
Frankfurt am Main
16. Auflage: Mai 2012

"Die letzte Welt" hat mir wohl besser gefallen als alle anderen Romane der Neuzeit, die ich gelesen habe--und ich habe viele gelesen.  Er befriedigt auf verschiedenen Ebenen: das Thema, des Autors Sprachfertigkeit, und die tiefe Bedeuting, die hinter den Worten steckt.  


Das Thema

Wenn man sich bis zum Ende treu bleibt, und gar nicht scheucht, den Mächtigen die Wahrheit zu sagen, wird man nach vielem Leiden das Wichtigste entdecken und verwirklichen.  Das Thema ist, mit anderenWorten, Tranzendenz--Erst nach der Kreuzigung kommt die Auferstehung.  Symbolisch gemeint, kommt ein neues Leben nicht selten vor, und  Geschichten, in denen jemand trotz sehr vielen Schwierigkeiten am Ende triumphiert, sind Menschen von allen Kulturen verständlich.  Dieser Roman ist ein sehr
hintergründiges Beispiel dieser Weltanschaung.

In "Die Letzte Welt"  finden wir eine Mischung von historischen und mythologischen Figuren.  Obwohl die Handlung  sich in der antiken Welt abspielt, kommen viele Anakronismen kommen vor--wie, zum Biespiel, die Mikrofonen, die Ovid ungeben, während er seine fatale Rede hält.  Die Anakronismen sind vermutlich
da zu zeigen, dass die Probleme jener Zeit den unsrigen ähnlich sind.  Cotta, ein Freund von Ovid, sucht Spuren des verschwundenen Autors in Tomi, einer barbarischen Stadt am
Schwarzen Meer, wohin ihn der Kaiser Augustus verbannt hat.  Cotta  möchte herausfinden, ob ein Manuskript von "Die Metamorphosen," Ovids Hauptwerk, existiert; das Original ging in Flammen auf.  Cotta kann Ovid nicht finden, aber etwas  Wunderliches geschieht--die Barbaren von Tomi  nehmen Namen und Merkmale von Figuren in "Die Metamorphosen" an.  Am Ende hat Cotta eine Epiphanie und findet, anstatt der dürren Landschaft von Tomi, Olymp unter seinen Füssen.

Die Sprachfertigkeit

Die Bildhaftigkeit, der Rythmus  und die Sprachmelodie von Christoph Ransmayrs Prosa sind ersten Ranges.  Als Beispiel zitieren wir den ersten Satz:

Ein Orkan, das war ein Vogleschwarm hoch oben in der Nacht, ein weisser Schwarm, der rauschend näherkam und plözlich nur noch die Krone einer ungeheruen Welle war, die auf das Schiff zusprang.  Ein Orken, das war das Schreien und das Weinen im Dunkel unter Deck und der saure Getank des Erbrochenen.  Das war ein Hund, der in den Sturzseen toll wurde und einem Matrosen die Sehnen zerriss.  Über die Wunde schloss sich die Gischt. Ein Orkan, das war die Reise nach Tomi. 

                                                                                            S. 7-8

So viele treffenden und schönen Metaphern kommen im Roman vor!  Ein Beispiel: "...die Taubstumme wusste nichts vom Lärm ihres Hauses, hörte die Tonleitern des Verfalls ebsowenig wie Cottas Schläge ans Tor"(S. 168.)  "Tonleitern des Vefalls"  --der Wind spielt wie ein Teufelskind  auf die Eisenläden wie auf
Tasten--das gefällt dem Musiker in mir.


Der Inhalt, Eine Interpretation

Aber es ist der Inhalt, der uns am meisten fesselt.  Der Roman betont die Verwandlungen, die Metamorphosen, die die Zeit unabänderlich mit sich bringt. "Keinem bleibt seine Gestalt" liest Cotta auf einem verfallenen Fähnchen, Worte von Ovid, als Cotta die Ruine der Villa besucht, wo Ovid als Verbannter wohnte.  Die ersten Verwandlungen sind grausam. Ovid, unmittelbar vor seiner Verbanning, hielt eine Rede zur Öffnung eines grossen Stadions in Rom. Er war nur einer von vielen Rednern, obwohl er unter den Bewohnern Roms sehr populär war.

Eigentlich wollten die Bürokraten und die politischen Handlager, feststellen, ob er ihre Macht bedrohte, und ihn aus dem Weg schaffen, wenn das der Fall sein sollte.  Wie erwartet, priessen alle anderen Redner den Kaiser mit vielen blumigen Sätzen, als ob er ein Gott wäre.  Die einzige Ausnahme ist ein Mann, der sich in allen Umständen treu bleibt.  Ovid beginnt seine Rede  mit "Bürger von Rom."

Er erzählt von einer Pest, die eine Insel verwüstete, eine Pest, die kein Mensch überstand.  Die Leichnamen liegen überall.  Sie verfaulen auf den Strassen.  Dann steigen Amerisen von einer Eiche hinab und bedecken die Toten.  Dann werden alle wiederbelebt--als Ameisenmenschen.  So symbolisiert Ovid seine gefährliche Behauptung, dass der totale Staat die Seele und die Körper der Bürger abtötet.

Als der Roman 1988 erschien, bekam er kein Druckerlaubnis in Rumänien, damals noch eine Diktatur, weil man Ovids Rede auf die rumänischen Verhältnisse in Bezug nehmen könnte.  Der Autor beobachtete, "Ich habe damals eine fast kindliche Genugtuung empfand, dass ein Betroffener, der Zensor, eine Passage der
Letzten Welt durchaus richtig verstanden hat."

Der Kaiser hört nichts; er schnarcht.  Aber seine Ratgeber passen gut auf.  Ovid ist sofort auf ein Nestchen am schwarzen Meer lebenslänglich verbannt.  In der barbarischen Stadt Tomi verbreitet Echo, eine Figur aus "Die Metamorphosen," die jetzt eine "wirkliche" Frau ist, Ovids Geschichten überall.  Die Barbaren werden durch Ovids Einbildungskraft ziviliziert: sie nehmen die Merkmale und Namen der Charaktere an--sie verwandeln sich in lebendige Literatur.  Alle Geschichten werden zu Ende erzählt, bis zum Ende erlebt.  Ein anderer Name für Ovids Haputwerk ist "das Buch der Steine."  Alle werden zu Stein mit drei Ausnahmen: Ovid,
Cotta und Arachne.  Warum nur diese drei?

Arachne ist eine echte Künstlerin, eine Weberin.  Sie ist taubstumm, also in sich gekehrt und kann sich nur durch Kunst mit den Leuten der Umwelt verständigen.  Ihre Webbilder rufen "eine heimliche Sehnsucht nach einer fremden Welt"  hervor.  Als sie ihre Fensterläden aufstösst, hört man "das ohrentäubende Gezeter der Möwen."  Auf ihren Webbildern sind die Vögel, die in den Himmel steigen,  so bildhaft geschildert, dass man meint, dass sie aus dem Teppich in den Himmel von Tomi fliegen werden.  Diese
Teppichvögeln und die Möwen sind Symbole der Tranzendenz; sie sind "die Zeichen der Befreiung aus aller Schwere."  Der wahre, bis zum Ende beharrende Künstler steigt gleichsam mit in die Wolken; die Vögeln  kommen wieder, sie haben nämlich eine wichtige Rolle am Ende. Arachne entkommt also dem Steinschicksal.

Cotta hat hier eine  wichtige Einsicht: "Er fragte sich, ob die Metamorphosen nicht von allen Anfang an gedacht waren als eine grosse von den Steinen bis zu den Wolken aufsteigende Geschichte  der Natur." Der Künstler spinnt aus seinem Innern eine Bildwelt, die die Natur wiederspiegelt und verklärt--ein altesThema.

Der Fall Arachne ist ein Beispiel eines Aufstiegs; für ein Beispiel eines Absturzes--und im Roman sind viele--ist der Fall von Bautis, dem Fallsüchtiger.  Er hat keine rege Innenwelt wie Arachne; er ist nicht klug, ist vereinsamt und unglücklich.  Ein Schiff, das eben im Hafen gelandet hat, bringt viele Waren für die Einwohner der Stadt. Eine von denen ist ein sogenanntes Episkop, das in  den Besitz von Bautis den Fallsüchtigen kommt.  Das "Wunderwerk" vergrössert selbst "die wertlosen Dinge" des Lebens und zeigt sie schimmernd auf die Wand.  Die imponierten Einwohner wähnen dass die Abbilder heilen können: Man sucht Wundern und ein scheinbarer Wunder geschieht.  Bautis ist übernacht populär geworden  und "lallt" vor Begeisterung.  Aber die Wunder erscheinen sehr selten.  Die Einwohner kommen nicht mehr; Bautis ist vereinsamter, verstörter und unglücklicher denn je.  Er stirbt in seinem Eckchen wie ein Hund und wird zu Stein.

Arachne und Bautis sind Gegenpolen.  Die Weberin hat ein festes Ich; sie ist in sich gegangen und hat viele Wunder geschaffen.  Bautis hat ein schwaches  Ich; der Hoffnungsloser hoft noch auf Wunder von aussen. Damit vergleicht der Autor die breite Innenstrasse des Künsters, die zum Glück führen kann, mit der 
Sackgasse religöses Wunschdendenkens.   Hier sehen wir auch ein gutes Beispiel des grossen Könnens des Autors, der uns viele wichtige Sachen des Lebens zeigt und sogar lehrt, ohne je didaktisch zu werden, weil alles so bildhaft und schön erzählt ist.

Wie ich schon angedeutet habe, ist dieser Autor virtuös.  Ein Haupthema ist dass, obwohl man einen Genie misachten kann und viele Schwierigkeiten auf seinen Pfad werfen kann, kann er, wenn er noch weitergeht, seine eigene Welt schaffen--und auch deren Einwohner.  Es ist Ovids Einbildungskraft, die eine Namenslose in die grosse Künstlerin Arachne verwandelt.  Der amerikanisher Kritiker Harold Bloom schrieb Ähnliches über Shakespeare, nämlich, Shakespeare hat Hamlet geschaffen, und Hamlet hat uns 
gewissermassen geschaffen, wenigstens neu gebildet.  Vor Hamlet käme kein Beispiel eines so starken erweiteten Bewusstsein, weder in der Literatur noch im Leben, vor; seine Worte haben seitdem unser Bewusstsein erweitert und erneut.  Wir sind Hamlets geworden, wie die Weberin in eine Figur aus "Die
Metamorphosen" verwandelt worden  ist.  Man denkt auch an die neue Physik, nach welcher der Beobachter eine grosse Rolle spielt, und sogar eine Welle in ein Teilchen verwandeln kann.  Noch treffender ist die hinduistische Philosophie, die behauptet, dass das Bewusstsein primär ist; es schafft die ganze Welt und nicht umgekehrt.  So viele wichtigen Ideen liegen zwischen den schönen Zeilen dieses Romans!

Nicht nur der Inhalt, sondern auch der Stil ist originell.  Im Roman erscheint ein Stilelement, das, so weit ich weiss, zum erstenmal in der Literatur vorkommt.  Das braucht einige Worte zur Erklärung.  Wir kennen zwei Typen von Beobachtern in Romanen; erstens, der sogenannte allwissender-Betrachter--wie bei Kafka--der alles sachlich beschreibt.  Zweitens kommt die sogenannte "erlebte Rede" in dem der Beobachter, ohne Zitatszeichen, in den Kopf von einer Person gerät.  Zum Beispiel, wenn die Person optimistisch ist,  könnte der erlebte-Rede-Beobachter so etwas schreiben: "der Tag war blau und die Vögel, hoch in der Luft, schienen als ob sie mit ihren Körpern wunderschöne Sätze aus Licht mit Satzzeichen versehen wollten."  Und wenn die Gestalt pessimistisch ist, vielleicht schreibt der "erlebte Rede" Beobachter Folgendes: "Der Weg war steinig und schmutzig.  Überall waren Würmer, die sich unter einer barmherziglosen Sonne in den Tod wandten."  In "Die Letzte Welt" kommt etwas ganz Neues vor, was ich "erlebte Erde" nenne.  Als Cotta in Tomi ankam, war die Küste flach.  Als "das Buch der Steine" zu Ende kommt, und die meisten Einwohner zu Stein geworden sind,  ragen Steine auch in der Landschaft auf.  Auf der letzten Seite lesen wir: "Aus Rom verbannt, aus dem Reich der Notwendigkeit und der Vernunft, hatte der Dichter die Metamorphosen am Scharzen Meer zu Ende erzählt, hatte eine flache Steilküste, an der er Heimweh litt und fror, zu seiner Küste gemacht und zu seinen Gestalten jene Barbaren, die ihn bedrängten..."  Also hätte man dieses Stilelement ebensogut "erlebte Personen" nennen können.

Als die Landschaft und die zu Stein gewordenen Personen zeigen, dass die Geschichten zu Ende gekommen sind,  erscheint der Berg Olymp, Symbol der Tranzendenz.  Ovid ist sich selbst treu geblieben und trotz der Jammerjahren  kommt er aus der Zeit in die Ewigkeit.  Genie hat gesiegt!  Die göttlichen Vögel fliegen von den Teppichen von Arachne in die Luft. Ovid ist zu einem "unverwundbaren Kiesel" und auch zu einem Kormoran, der "strich über die Schaumkrönen der Brandung oder hockte als trimphierendes Pupermoos auf dem letzten, verschwunden Mauerrest einer Stadt."  Ovid schuf eine Natur, und jetzt is er 
die Natur.

Cotta triumphiert auch; er findet was er so lange suchte.  Er steigt auf den Berg, weil er ahnt ,dass er noch zwei Silben zu entdecken hat.  Er spricht sie laut, und beantwortet das Echo mit hier! Er hört seinen eigenen Namen.  Der Name "Cotta" ist nicht erwähnt;  man ahnt, dass er Ovids Name hinausruft, der jetzt ebensogut sein Name sein könnte, weil auch seine Geschichte zu Ende gekommen ist.  Oder vielleicht hat er "Atmen' gerufen, und "Brahman" kommt als Echo zurück.  Eine Kombination von Christentum (Auferstehung) und Hinduismus (Eins mit dem All werden), die sehr befriedigend ist.

Ein Tausend-und-Eine-Nacht Reichtum von interessanten Figuren hinter denen sich eine sehr raffinierte Ideenwelt allmählich zum Vordergrund kommt--"Die Letzte Welt" ist ein sehr schöner lesens- und nachdenkenswerter Roman, dem einen festen Platz in der Weltliteratur zukommt.

Anmerkungen


Mein besonderer Dank gilt Mary Upman vom Deutschen 

Literaturkreis in Baltimore.  Sie hat diese Rezension vorsichtig korrigiert und 

verbessert  

Vielen Dank, Mary!

Weitere Artikel auf deutsch von Thomas Dorsett (Googeln 

Sie den Titel und dem Namen, Thomas Dorsett)

1. Jakob der Lügner von Jurek Becker

2. Die Weisheit und das Alter von Thomas Dorsett

3. Die Herrlichkeit des Lebens von Michael Kampfmüller

4. Ruhm von Daniel Kaufmann

5. Liebste Fenschel! von Peter Härtling


Die Mitglieder vom deutschen Literaturkreis online machen eine Pause bis 

den 11. Januar, 2015, wann wir "Schubert" von Peter Härtling besprechen 

werden.  Wir laden sie ein, den Roman mitzulesen; meine Resenzion wird am 

Ende Januar erscheinen.

                                                                       TD

THE TORAH, THE TALMUD AND THE CONSTITUTION

l. The Declaration of Independence and The Constitution

Many years ago, I wrote an essay, now lost, entitled, "The Folly of Our Times." In the article I presented the proposition that every age has at least one moral blind spot.  Subsequent generations, having learned to see what a previous one didn't, are amazed--How on earth did they accept that?  An example I gave was that of Thomas Jefferson, a great founding father of our country.  He was the principal author of the Declaration of Independence, including the phrase, "all men are created equal."  The third president of the United States was certainly one of the best politicians this country has ever had.  And yet...Jefferson owned slaves.  How was he able to accept something so heinous?  Truth is, he wasn't heinous.  It was the folly of his times.

Jefferson, wittingly or unwittingly, undermined this folly with his own words, with which he began the Declaration of Independence:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.  That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed.  

It took a long period of slow moral progress for people to see what their predecessors hadn't.  They interpreted what Jefferson wrote; they asserted that the text implied fuller equality than Jefferson had imagined.  Thus, the deeper meaning of the text must contravene inequalities which were among the follies of previous epochs.  The term "men" is now extended to include men and women of all races.  Although a folly of our time still persists that believes it is correct to uphold the centuries-long abrogation of gay rights, the equality clause is increasingly interpreted to deem this assertion to be immoral.   Judicial progress demands increasing inclusion.  

All men are created equal!  This "immortal declaration" trumps mortal ones based on follies of previous ages.  It was an axiom for all the framers of the Constitution--Jefferson was among them--and is perhaps even more so for lawmakers today.  

It is obvious that legal documents from the past must be interpreted according to the wisdom of the present, so that anachronistic follies can be cast aside.  The spirit of the law must supersede the letter of the law.  Of course, there are persons who deny this spirit and demand that judges simply carry out laws exactly as they were written.  These literalists rage against so-called "activist judges" whom they believe subvert justice by judgments that have passed through the alembics of an "activist" conscience.  In my opinion, an "activist judge" is one who makes a decision with which one disagrees.  Judges must interpret.

Laws must also be  respected.  New interpretations must not go against the law; they should, however, reflect not only what a law says but also what it implies.  (If a majority is convinced that a law is no longer tenable, it must be modified, or even eliminated, and replaced by a law closer to the highest standards of justice.) As one might expect, Jefferson said it best.  The following is on panel four of the Jefferson Memorial in Washington, DC: 

"I am not an advocate for frequent changes in laws and constitutions, but laws and institutions must go hand in hand with the progress of the human mind.  As that becomes developed, more enlightened, as new discoveries are made, new truths discovered and manners and opinions change, with the change of circumstances, institutions must advance also to keep pace with the times.  We might as well require a man to wear still the coat which fitted him when a boy as civilized society to remain ever under the regimen of their barbarous ancestors."

ll. The Torah and the Talmud

The same reasoning applies to the interpretation of the Bible.
(Please feel free to replace "Torah" with "Bible" or "Scripture" if you wish, and "Talmud" with "Commentary."  Although I will be referring largely to Jewish sources, what I have to say is universal. )  Before we proceed, I would like to lay my cards on the table.

I do not know of any indication for a god that exists beyond human consciousness.  Subsequently, I assert  that there isn't  a shred of objective evidence that supports belief in intervention in human affairs by an external, divine source. To some this means I'm an atheist, but I don't consider myself that--I am actually religious. I believe that there exists something transcendent within that may be called God or  Nirvana or the Inner Light.  I think that this inner light is more real than the will-o'-the wisp of a superficial self lost in a swamp of its own making.

It is obvious, therefore, that I don't interpret any scripture literally.  However, I do think many things can be learned from scriptures; if read correctly, they can be guides for the perplexed.  (I also believe that many things can be learned from Shakespeare, Goethe, etc.)  For this reason, I am incensed when atheists trash the bible and other scriptures as if they were mere compendiums of barbarity from the past, as incensed as I would be if a critic should claim that a play by some schlepp from Vassar is superior to Hamlet.  (Richard Dawkins, Bill Maher, etc. you're wrong on this one, as I will soon make clear.)

Defending the bible, I feel like a lawyer from the Civil Liberties Union trying to free someone who admittedly has caused a lot of trouble, yet has a good heart.  This is especially true of the Torah, which was written by humans so long ago; many behaviors that seemed right then seem wrong now--sometimes very wrong. I will name just a few,  injunctions that people who think the bible is a farrago of cruelty and nonsense, love to quote--This list is by no means exclusive! 

Ten Quotes from the Torah That No Longer Apply

(All quotes are from "The Jewish Bible, Tanakh, The Holy Scriptures, The Jewish Publication Society, Philadelphia--Please recall that the Torah is composed of the first five books of the bible. and form the heart of the Christian Old Testament.)

1.  Deuteronomy 17: If there is found among you...a man or woman who has affronted the Lord and transgressed His covenant--turning to the worship of other gods and bowing down to them, to the sun or the moon or any of the heavenly host, something I never commanded..you shall take the man or the woman..out to the public place, and you shall stone them, man or woman, to death.

2, Exodus 22: 17 You shall not tolerate a sorceress.  (That is, you should not let a sorceress live.)

3. Leviticus 20:13--If a man lies with a male as one lies with a woman, the two of them have done an abhorrent thing; they shall be put to death.

4. Leviticus 20:12--If a man lies with his daughter-in-law, both of them shall be put to death.

5. Leviticus 20:27--A man or a woman who has a ghost or a familiar spirit shall be put to death. (This law refers to fortune tellers and mediums.) 

6. Leviticus 20:9--If anyone insults his father or mother, he shall be put to death.

7. Leviticus 20:10--If man commits adultery with another man's wife, the adulterer and the adulteress shall be put to death.

8.Leviticus 34:13--Take the blasphemer outside the camp, ..and let the entire community stone him.

9. Deuteronomy 22-(If a woman is found not to be a virgin on her wedding night) the men of her town shall stone her to death.  

10. Exodus 32:14--Whoever does work on the Sabbath shall be put to death.

Every civilized twenty-first century person would consider all of these injunctions to be barbaric.  But are detractors justified in their opinion that the bible is basically inhumane, an atavistic nightmare  from which we all must wake?  I will present three arguments against this view.

1. Scriptures were written a long time ago by human beings, and thus never completely transcend the mores of the historical context in which they were written.  It is not surprising that they contain difficult passages, like the ones quoted above.  Injustices and harsh punishments were ubiquitous in the ancient world.  These cultures took slavery, for instance, for granted.  The list of injustices I quoted remind  one of the intolerance of many aspects of Sharia law, codified about a thousand years later.  The ancient code of Hindu law, written by Manu perhaps as long ago as the fifth century B.C.E. turns Jefferson's "immortal declaration" on its head--for the ancient Hindus, all men were decidedly not created equal.  An example: if a Brahman abused a member of a lower caste, he was to be punished very lightly; if a lower caste abused a Brahman, however, he was to be killed.  Torture and mutilation of criminals, widely practiced in most ancient cultures, were not advocated by the Torah.

I repeat, no scripture completely transcends the world in which  it was written.  They are replete with unacknowledged follies of their times.  However, if an entire scripture didn't at least partially transcend its time and indicate a path for further development, it can no longer serve as a guide and is best discarded.  Is this the case for the Torah?  We have come to the second point of my argument.

2. "I have a home in Glory Land that outshines the sun"--such are the lovely words of a spiritual.  Well, I know a verse from the Torah that outshines all others.  Leviticus 19:17, arguably the most important religious advice in any scripture: "Love your fellow as yourself." (It is often translated as, "Love your neighbor as yourself.")  This command is as holy as it is secular; it applies to peoples of all faith as well as to atheists and agnostics.  It is very psychologically astute: if you don't love yourself, you're not going to love your neighbor.  It implies that both loves are to be learned and practiced simultaneously.  It is the basis of all moral life.

The importance of this statement is obvious and needs no elaboration. I will therefore go to the third point of my argument, which answers the question, "The Torah might have a diamond, but what about all the coal?"

3. One of my favorite quotes from the Talmud is, 'What is the Torah?  It is the interpretation of the Torah." In other words, each generation must interpret and not blindly follow tradition.  Recall what I wrote about the follies of past ages--as people become more morally astute, they must discard that which previous generations believed to be right, when one's conscience is certain that it is wrong.  What is the criterion by which one judges?  Leviticus 19:17, of course!   I will give an example.  A rabbi told me that over 85% of his congregation supports gay marriage.  Why?  Because opposition to it is in opposition to the Great Commandment. This would undoubtedly have surprised the Ancient Hebrews, but morality has progressed since then--thank G-d!
We have come to a deeper understanding of Leviticus 19:17.  Simone Weil has been of help here:  she wrote that the commandment implies that we are to love our neighbor's desire.  In other words, to be worthy of love, neighbors don't have to look like us, or even act like us as long as their desire is in agreement with Leviticus 19:17.  (This is obviously true regarding gay marriage: homosexuals are as capable of love as are heterosexuals.)

In addition to this big diamond, there are many little diamonds in the Torah. It succeeds on many levels--as history, as literature, as a repository of great insights. Sure, there are difficult passages.  It makes as much sense to reject the Torah, however, as it is to reject a person for a few peccadilloes committed in his youth.

Is there room for interpretation?  Always.  But let our conscience be our guide: Anything that our deepest sense of justice believes cannot pass through the alembics of Leviticus 19:17 can never be purified or be considered as such--it's that simple, it's that complex.

Summary

All laws of the United States must be in accord with "all men are created equal"--interpreted in the broadest, most inclusive sense.  But laws are the basis of how behavior is to be judged; they do not demand that we do our best.  A bad politician and a good lawyer are both created equal; this does not imply, of course, that their actions are morally equivalent. It is Leviticus 19:17 that reveals what we should  do and how to do it; it is therefore primary.  Compared to the Great Commandment, "all men are created equal" is but a corollary, albeit a very beautiful one.  Both are essential.

Everyone agrees that the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution are great documents.  My advice to those who think the Bible is something less: take the coal out of your eyes and see.

A Literary Near-Death-Like Experience: The Final Scenes of Goethe's Faust Part 2

During a recent course I gave on Goethe's Faust, I was impressed by many things in Goethe's masterwork, not the least of which is the remarkable and strange ending to the second half of the tragedy, which has been exercising the pens of critics since it appeared in 1832, the year of the author's death.  For some, it's a completely unexpected and gratuitous ending, much like a deus-ex-machina ending of a play by Seneca or Plautus. For others, Faust gets exactly what he deserves, salvation.  I would like to add my own interpretation, which is somewhat between the two.  First, a little background  information.

Faust is perhaps the most ambiguous of all literary masterworks.  Criticism of Dante's Inferno might range from A to D; criticism of Shakespeare's Hamlet might range a little farther into the alphabet than that.  In other words, critics basically agree; there is not a school of thought, for instance, that considers Hamlet to be a rogue, while another group of scholars considers Hamlet to be a saint. But criticism of Faust entails the entire alphabet--Some critics might have an A view, as it were, while others have a completely opposite Z view.  This is true of no other major work of literature with which I am familiar.

The ending of part two of the tragedy is especially problematic.  I offer in this essay a new angle from which to view the ending, one that goes beyond, as it were, the entire alphabet!  Before we turn to the ending, however, I would like to summarize briefly part one and part two, emphasizing the aspects that make the ending incongruous for some, inevitable for others.

FAUST

Goethe, born in 1749, published the final version of Faust Part 1 in 1808.  There is an earlier version called the Urfaust in which most of the elements of the drama first appeared; it dates from the 1770s when Goethe was in his twenties.  Faust Part Two, as mentioned previously, was published in 1832; Goethe had been working on it for decades, and was still perfecting and adding to it in his eighties.

The story of Faust is well known, so I will be brief.  Faust, the most prominent scholar of his age, is dissatisfied.  He is after Truth, not truths.  He understands that "we are not able to know," which drives him to despair.  Revelation, which guided mankind in the past, is of no use in the post-Kantian pseudo-medieval modern world which Faust inhabits. ("I hear the Gospel, but I lack belief.")  He makes a pact with the devil; if Mephistopheles can enable Faust to experience eternity, even for a moment, the scholar is willing to forfeit his soul. Since trying to find Truth through knowledge has proven to be futile, the devil suggests that the inexperienced Faust might find what he is looking for in the world of sensuality.  Faust's youth is restored; a love potion fills him with desire.  He seduces a young, beautiful innocent girl, Gretchen, who is his social inferior.  As she relates in an immortal poem, Gretchen at the Spinning Wheel, her peace has been destroyed.  Faust gives her a sleeping potion; she is instructed to slip it into her mother's drink, so he can seduce Gretchen at home while the older woman sleeps. She never wakes up.  Gretchen becomes pregnant; Faust abandons her.    Her brother curses her for the shame she has caused and dies in a duel with Faust, who is aided by the devil.  Having gone mad with grief, the poor girl drowns her newborn daughter; she is condemned to death for this crime.  Faust, spirited to the prison by Mephistopheles, attempts to save her, but it is too late.

The Faust of Part One is a rogue.  In his striving for Truth, he is completely amoral. ("I have neither scruples nor (self) doubts, and do not fear hell or the devil."  A classic example of a noble end supposedly  justifying ignoble means. The Faust of Part Two continues his ceaseless striving, but with a major difference: in the first part, Faust is responsible for the deaths of four members of one family; in part two Faust seeks and obtains enormous political power and affects--and destroys--many lives.  With the devil's help, he mercilessly decimates the army of one who has declared himself emperor, since the current one is an unjust fop.  Prior to the devil's intervention, the alternative and presumably more just emperor's side was winning.  As a reward for his savage victory, Faust requests and receives from the emperor a coastal area; his life work now is to reclaim huge stretches of land from the sea.  (Perhaps a symbol of his working against nature rather than with it.)  The land reclamation proceeds with the devil's help--it would have been impossible without it.  Faust dies, an old man, before his life work is completed.

THE A AND THE Z OF IT

As mentioned previously, the interpretation of Goethe's work has been quite problematic.  The "A" interpretation asserts that Faust, after committing many misdeeds, sincerely repents and is justified for being  proud of his land-reclamation project which will, in his opinion at least, provide a major benefit to mankind. The "Z' view is that Faust remains a miscreant to the very end.  If the latter case is true, his salvation at the end is gratuitous and completely undeserved.  Let us now briefly discuss the arguments of each side.
The so-called "perfectiblists" assert that Faust attains the height of moral existence, after a life of misdeeds, before his death.  This has been the standard view, and, until relatively recently, had remained largely unchallenged. Alleged proof of this transformation occurs in several sections  at the end of the text. Faust is furious that a loving, elderly couple, Philemon and Baucis,  still live on the coastal area which he has received from the emperor. (Baucis asserts that Faust's project was morally very suspect.  She asserts, correctly that he used slave labor and utilized  "black magic" to  assist him in the construction, which took place mostly at night.) Faust, bent on owning everything on the land he is working on, decides to forcibly evict the couple.  His henchmen, along with Mephistopheles--possibly accomplishing Faust's secret desire--terrorize the couple who die on the spot.  Their property catches fire and burns down. Faust curses their action and washes his hands of it--he insists that he merely demanded their eviction, not their demise.  This has been interpreted by some as genuine repentance.  Later on, immediately before Care (that is, Anxiety, in the form of a woman) blinds the 100 years old Faust, he admits the following (in my rough translation): "I have only desired and accomplished, storming powerfully through my life; previously I was big and tough; now I proceed cautiously with wisdom." In his last monologue, Faust asserts the importance of his legacy and is convinced that "the traces of his life on earth will last forever."

The "Z" critics--and I cast my lot in with them--find no evidence of a great moral awakening; Faust remains immoral--or amoral--to the very end.  He repents about what happened to the elderly couple--but these are merely words and are not followed with any change in behavior.  His assertion that he "only desired and accomplished" does not result in any moral transformation either. His assertion that he now "proceeds cautiously and with wisdom" is more due to the fact that he is 100 years old, rather than due to a moral epiphany.  In his final monologue he is as grandiose and self-centered as ever.  Faust for the "Z" critics is a man  who uses any means whatever to reach his ends. He shows not the slightest concern for his enslaved workers.  He has caused considerable pain and suffering in the first part and a good deal more in the second part.  He is, in this view, a megalomaniac and a scoundrel.  The final two scenes, in which heavenly hosts declare him saved and then transport him to heaven, appear to this group of critics as to be either a parody or an unconvincing deus ex machina ending--albeit without the appearance of a god.  I would like now to present my interpretation, in which Faust remains an unredeemed rogue throughout both parts of the play--and yet, at the end, is worthy of redemption.

FAUST'S TRANSFIGURATION AS A NEAR-DEATH-LIKE EXPERIENCE

Immediately before his final monologue, the blind Faust leaves his palace, pleased by the sounds of workers.  He believes he is hearing sounds of construction on his land-reclamation project: "How the sound of spades delights me/ This is the mass of people indentured to me/ who reconcile earth with earth/ who give no borders to the waves/ and give strict limits to the sea." (lines 15139-15143.) Once again, Faust is deluded--the sounds he hears are from demons digging his grave.  Faust subsequently dies and is placed in the freshly dug grave.  "The terrible jaws of hell" open on stage left.  Mephistopheles is ready to claim Faust's soul according to the terms of the wager. Then something miraculous happens. This "something" as we shall see, has many of the characteristics of a near-death experience.

In the stage directions, Goethe writes that a "Glory above from the right" appears.  This has been translated by David Luke (Oxford University Press) as "A flash of glory from above right."  We are now experiencing the brilliance of the divine light becoming manifest in the world; such epiphanies had often been depicted in medieval art as a vision of a saint, which takes the form of a brilliant apparition above him, as we can see in a rather typical painting of that era by Hans Baldung Grien, (1511).

The heavenly hosts bear glad tidings for Faust's immortal part: "Come in serene flight, ye divine emissaries, animate dust and forgive sins--Reveal friendly hints to all natures, all ye hosts floating above," (lines 11676-11684). The message of the angels is clear: they proclaim that in the divine realm all individuals are completely forgiven, no matter what they have done on earth.  Thus, Faust deserves redemption as much as anyone else. A chorus of angels then strews roses from above, symbols of divine, unconditional love.

Already two major characteristics of a near-death experience have become manifest: a flash of divine light from above and the revelation that all--in this case Faust assumes the role of an Everyman--deserve and receive unconditional love from on high.

Near-death experiences, visions of an afterlife by those in a coma or determined to be clinically dead for a period of time, are remarkably consistent.  This article does not claim, nor does it absolutely deny, that these experiences transcend the psychological; it does, however, assert that NDEs show a remarkable consistency and reflect deep  insights into the human condition. As archetypes of our collective unconscious, their contents illustrate innate, profound patterns of thought and belief.  It is therefore not completely surprising that Goethe, who had a a deep understanding of human nature, ended his great drama with great final truths. (That these truths are expressed in ways consistent with NDEs is, however, quite remarkable.) It is quite possible--even likely-- that Goethe believed that what happened to the fictive Faust after his fictive death could happen to real, flesh and blood people after death. (It has been documented that Goethe thought that death is not final.)

Pim van Lommel, a Dutch cardiologist, has done much research regarding NDEs.  Examples of his research have appeared in many prestigious journals, including The Lancet.  He is the author of the well-received "Consciousness Beyond Life; the Science of the Near-Death Experience", which I have reviewed. To his surprise, he discovered that about 20% of 62 of his patients who suffered clinical death had an NDE.  All of the patients had cardiac arrests and had come under his care for this reason.  We will use his book, and especially Moody's list of typical Near-Death Experiences, on which van Lommel elaborates, as a reference as we discuss Faust's final moments. (Moody, the author of the 1975 Life After Life is a seminal figure in the field of NDEs.)

I have found five aspects of a NDE that apply to Faust.  We have already briefly mentioned two; I will now proceed to discuss these two in more detail along with the three other aspects.

1. "The Perception of a Brilliant Light or a Being of Light"

We have already seen that a flash of light appears after Faust's death radiating from a whole host of beings of light.  Although they initially appear above the stage on the right, they and their light soon permeate the whole stage.

2. Unconditional Love

On page 284 of his book, van Lommel writes, "During a NDE, the encounter with 'the light' is felt to be the most intense and most essential part of the experience.  This encounter is always accompanied by an overwhelming sense of unconditional love and acceptance.  At this point NDErs feel completely enveloped by the enlightening and all-encompassing consciousness."

We have already mentioned corroboration of this factor in the play's final two scenes.  The roses strewn by the celestial beings represent unconditional love; the angels declare that forgiveness of sins applies to "Allen Naturen" that is, to everybody. The angels (lines 11800-11805) leave no doubt that love and forgiveness are always finally victorious: "Loving flames, reveal clarity/So that Truth can heal/Those who condemn themselves/So that they cheerfully/Leave evil behind/In order to blessedly join/ Universal unity."  What could be clearer?  Faust had "condemned himself" throughout his entire life by thinking only about himself and by acting extremely selfishly throughout.  (Faust here represents all humanity; every religion has its version of "we have all gone astray.") It is important to note that the angels proclaim as a general rule that truth will heal those who condemn themselves by committing evil.

Critics, even those in the so-called "A" group who assert that Faust has genuinely repented, have always found Faust's redemption to be problematic.  As one might expect, the "Z" critics, who assert that Faust remains a scoundrel to the very end, find the ending offensive and completely unjustified. It makes no sense to them.  It turns conventional (that is, earthly) morality on its head.  But that's precisely the point.  Let us turn to an assertion of Zen Buddhism for clarification here.  Zen philosophy asserts that deep down we are all enlightened. No exceptions. There is, as it were, an indestructible diamond inside everyone.  Our ignorant and evil deeds cover up the diamond with mud.  In some individuals, the layer of mud is very thick, in others, less so.  Enlightenment--represented by the universal truths manifested by the divine beings after Faust's death--washes the mud  away, no matter how thick it had become.  The diamond is then visible, although  it may still need further cleansing, as we shall see in Faust's case.  The manifestation of this diamond--which some can achieve in life--is redemption.  In this interpretation, one's true self, the diamond, is always there, no matter how concealed.  Uncovering this eternal diamond is inevitable; mud, the superficial layer, is not immortal and is eventually washed away--after death, or sometimes, (rarely) before.  In this interpretation, therefore, Faust's redemption isn't problematic at all. That he possessed an internal diamond in no way justifies the thick layers of mud Faust accumulated in his lifetime.

One might object here that in a NDE the person is conscious--albeit with a higher consciousness--throughout.  At the end of the tragedy, Faust is really dead; there is no indication that he is conscious of his redemption.  Or is there? We will now assert, with evidence presented by the next three points, that Faust might indeed aware of what is going on.

3.  The Out Of Body Experience

A bodiless consciousness, often observing the inert body of the observer, is a hallmark of NDEs. "During an out-of-body experience," Dr, van Lommel writes, "people have verifiable perceptions from a position outside and above the lifeless body" (page 19).  How does this apply to Faust?

In my interpretation, Faust has left his inert body; his consciousness has now left the stage to become, as it were, part of the audience.  From his new vantage point, Faust is observing everything.  We will give further evidence to support this view a little later.

A critic, J.M van der Lamm, an ardent member of  the "Z" group, finds Faust's redemption to be completely unacceptable. He asserts that "Faust has nothing to say or do in the last scene.  He has neither power nor authority, but rests in the arms of attending angels.  They carry him, or that which remains of him and is immortal,...providing the motion of which he himself is now incapable.  The great man of action is now the man of inaction," (Seeking Meaning for Goethe's Faust, Continuum International Publishing Group, London, 2007, page 151). What is gratuitous for him is inevitable for me: the mud has been washed away.  I would refer Mr. van der Lamm to the quote of Goethe on the the very first page of his book: Wir sind Originale weil wir nichts wissen--that is, "We are individuals because we know nothing."  When the truth is revealed, the mud disappears and the diamond is manifest.  He is not now "a man of inaction"--he has become  part of a universal consciousness on its way home. "The great man of (destructive) action" is now, thankfully, dead.  The diamond, the essential nature of everyone and in everyone, shines on.

In a famous painting of Hieronymous Bosch, (1450-1516), "Visions of the Afterlife" several aspects of a NDE experience are depicted, such as the light, the ascent, the tunnel.  (Van Lommel found that the "tunnel experience" was present in only 21% of his cases, however.)

4. "Encounters with Spiritual Beings And/Or With the Deceased"

Whenever a NDEer  encounters someone known to him or her, that person, often a relative, is no longer among the living.  Despite all the varied aspects of a NDE, there are no exceptions to this fact.  I find this to be astounding.  If we were dealing with usual dreams here, one would expect that an NDEer,  entering, say, the tunnel, would see at least occasionally see close family members on the earthly side, begging him not to depart.  This is never the case.  There are no good-byes at the beginning of the tunnel.

In the final scene of Faust, there is no one among the living who witnesses Faust's apotheosis.  Even Mephistopheles, who defined himself in the first part as "a part of that power"--has disappeared, since the deepest reality does not include his, at best, partial, subjective, truths.  The only encounter Faust with someone known to him on earth is with "una poenitentium, formerly known as Gretchen" who rejoices as Faust's returns to her. Gretchen asserts: "Surrounded by the noble chorus of spiritual beings/The new arrival is scarcely conscious of fresh life..See how he is leaving behind the bonds of earth of the old shell.. .Give me permission to instruct him;/ The new day is blinding him still." This request is granted by the Mater Gloriosa, the Virgin in her Glory, as opposed to the statue of the "Mater Dolorosa" of the first act, depicted as mourning the crucifixion of her Son.

As stated before, the diamond is now apparent, but still has traces of mud on its surface and in need of further cleansing.  Gretchen will restore it to its original brilliance by teaching Faust something that was so very lacking in his earthly existence, love.

5. Universal and Culturally Bound Aspects

As mentioned earlier, unconditional love is experienced in virtually all NDEs.  This is also astounding.  One would expect that Westerners, whose religions assert that the good will be rewarded and the bad be punished in the afterlife, would not always encounter absolute acceptance in their NDEs.  There is almost never any aspect of judgement in a NDE.  The myth of Christ welcoming those on His right to heaven and condemning those on the left to hell proves to be just that, a myth; it dies with the body of the NDEer.  It is truly noteworthy that an important aspect of the teaching of the three Abrahamic religions, namely, some form of judgement, is completely absent in the dying minds of NDErs who practiced one of these religions during life.

Other aspects of NDEs are not universal.  NDErs often interpret the beings they encounter according to the religious symbolism they had been familiar with in life.  Christians often see Jesus; Jews, Hindus, etc. don't. This for me provides evidence that Faust is having a NDE-like experience.  Many of the spiritual beings he encounters have their origin in Christian, specifically Catholic, mythology.  This is the faith in which Faust grew up. (I imagine that by the time Faust is perfected, the cultural myths will have abated, leaving nothing but everything, the diamond of universal consciousness.)

In Part 1 of Faust, Faust contemplates suicide because he despairs of ever reaching universal knowledge.  It is Easter morning and he hears the joyous sounds of Christians celebrating the Resurrection.  Even though he does not believe that the Resurrection ever occurred, he is swept away with joy.  It reminds him of the delights Easter provided in his childhood.  The celebrations invade his being and turns him away from suicide.  "Earth has me again", he asserts. Although the Church can never have him again, its symbolism remains deep inside him. This is, I think, why Catholic mythological figures appear at the end.  It is his NDE; it contains universal truths as seen and imagined according to the cultural tradition in which Faust was raised. The faces might be different, but what's behind them is the same.  I think Goethe, a lapsed Protestant who asserted that he was decidedly not Christian, uses these symbols because they would be familiar to Faust as he reaches the first stage of his transfiguration.  This is consistent with my statement that Faust is now part of the audience, experiencing the afterlife in terms he would understand.

What the angels, having carried "Faust's immortal part" into the higher realm, proclaim in lines 11936-11937 is one of the most famous and most important revelations of the drama: "We are able to redeem those/Who never cease to strive." This is undoubtedly what Faust, now in the audience, as it were, would want to hear.  (It is also undoubtedly what the ever-active Goethe would want to hear as a revelation from on high.)  But the angels that Goethe imagines do not leave it at that; they delve deeper into the essence of things.  The lines are ambiguous; they are a "this side/that side" welcome.  Faust needs to hear something he can relate to, the "this side" aspect for one whom "the new day still blinds."  But it subtly leads Faust beyond, the "that side" aspect of the lines.  The German word for redeem, "erlösen," also means to release, in this case, release from chains.  That type of striving is now over!  In addition, the angels do not proclaim that only the strivers are redeemed; that they can redeem the active does not imply that they can't redeem contemplatives.  As stated previously, they are perfectly capable of redeeming everyone.  (A less driven person might well hear the angels proclaim, "We can redeem (release from all chains) those who were satisfied with what they had."

All earthly striving is now to be transcended and replaced by something deeper which really isn't striving at all.  This view is proclaimed by the Mystical Choir, in the famous last lines of the play, which sums everything up for Faust and for us all: "Everything that is not permanent/Is merely a symbol;/ What cannot be reached/Is reached here;/What can't be described/Is accomplished here/ The eternal-feminine/ pulls us on."  The "eternal-feminine", of which Gretchen was a good example, is the power of love.  Notice that Goethe has this power pull us.  This is reminiscent of NDEers who feel them selves being drawn rapidly into a realm of light.  It is a passive process.  Faust sees his immortal part being taken rather than striving towards ultimate reality. At this point, one no longer has the choice of rambling through space, as it were; the individual satellite has come sufficiently close to be captured by the gravity of the transcendent realm--it will and must land there without any further action of its own. It is a dis-covering, an uncovering of the diamond inside.  Faust is finally learning his lesson, the lesson.  Love, not egotistical striving, is what ushers in eternity. There are many aspects of the drama that apply to humanity as a whole, and this is the most important of all of them.  I think Goethe would agree with me that this is something, better sooner than later, that we will and must learn, too.

Summary

The last two scenes of Faust Part 2 reveal several typical aspects of a NDE, something, to my knowledge, that has never been asserted before.  Whatever a NDE is, it certainly illustrates what a dying mind universally deems to be of the utmost importance.  Although NDE-like experiences have occurred throughout all times and cultures--albeit not with the frequency of today, due to increased awareness of these encounters--there is no evidence that Goethe had any knowledge of this phenomenon.  It is more likely that Goethe, who had profound knowledge of the deepest truths of the human condition, revealed these universal truths at a time for Faust when all earthly vanities are cast away, namely, after death. This after-death revelation is the essence of virtually all NDEs. This is why Goethe's deepest insights have so many characteristics of those who have had transcendent experiences after clinical death; this is why understanding NDEs helps us see Faust's salvation in a new light.  Whether he was aware of it or not, Goethe thus depicted a NDE-like experience in the last two scenes of his great play, perhaps the most beautiful and profound example of such in all literature.

Goethe Essays by Thomas Dorsett

(All are accessible on the internet by googling the title in question along with thomasdorsett, or by accessing my blog, thomasdorsett.blogspot.com)

1. Goethe's Prometheus
2. Wanderers Nachtlied ll
3. Who Never Ate His Bread in Tears
4. Goethe's Wanderers Nachtlied und ein Einfacheres
5. A Fictional NDE-like Experience from Goethe's Faust Part 2
6. An Analysis of Two Schubert/Goethe Lieder