LOVE AND WORK
by
LAURA HUXLEY
( 01962 )
The following is a report of a psychedelic session with Aldous. It is the only one of which I have a tape recording, not of the entire session but of the major portion.
A few months after Aldous's death, when I found this tape, I was deeply moved by it. I had forgotten it, and now, after his death, these words were more than ever meaningful if, at times, equivocal. And how nice it was to swing from "life after death" to "soup here and now," from the Sermon on the Mount to running noses! And again I realized the constant consideration and encouragement Aldous gave to my current project, even on that extraordinary day.
I first thought of publishing his recorded words as they are, without comment. But when the tape was transcribed on paper I began to see that they would not be as clear to a reader as they were to me, a participant in the dialogue. There is a world of difference between reading a conversation and hearing it. In reading, two important
elements are missing: the voice, so significant particularly in Aldous's case, for he had such a variety of inflections, of color and moods and rhythm; and the pauses, always important but more so in this kind of dialogue. I could have edited this conversation, but I prefer to leave it as it is on the tape. Aldous's phrases are not as well rounded and clear as in his writings and lectures— but he was not giving a lecture; he was speaking to me. I feel that the content and the authenticity of his words outweigh the consideration of literary elegance.
Another reason for commenting on this taped conversation is that Aldous is referring to subjects unfamiliar to many people. The experiencing of the Clear Light of the Void, of the Bardo or after-death state, of the fighting hero of the Bhagavad-Gita— these are not everyday topics; yet they are of the greatest importance for us all. In this conversation Aldous refers to two books: The Bhagavad-Gita and the Tibetan Book of the Dead. I had not read these books at the time, but Aldous had told me a great deal about them. To anyone who has read them, what Aldous says is intellectually clear. But while familiarity with these books throws a light on our dialogue, Aldous's conversation —the atmosphere, the aura of it— is in no way a discussion of them. The extraordinary part of this conversation is the feeling that Aldous is experiencing that which he has known for a long time. But, as he wrote in "Knowledge and Understanding," there is a world of difference: ''Understanding is primarily direct awareness of raw materials." On the other hand, knowledge is acquired and "can be passed on and shared by means of words and other symbols. Understanding is an immediate experience and can only be talked about (very inadequately), never shared." Knowledge is "public." Understanding is "private." In _Island_ the children are given an illustration of this difference in the lower fifth grade, at about the age of ten.
'Words are public; they belong to all the speakers of a given language; they are listed in dictionaries. And now let's look at the things that happen out there.' He pointed through the open window. Gaudy against a white cloud, half a dozen parrots came sailing into view, passed behind a tree and were gone. . .what happens out there is public— or at least fairly public,' he qualified. 'And what happens when someone speaks or writes words— that's also public. But the things that go on inside ... are private. Private.' He laid a hand on his chest. 'Private,' He rubbed his forehead. 'Private.'
The words Aldous spoke in this psychedelic experience can be looked up in the dictionary; they are public. The understanding of his experience is a private matter for each of us.
This session was different from others in many ways. Usually, when we had a psychedelic session, the evening before and the day of the session were kept absolutely and rigorously empty. This time we went out to dinner the night preceding the session. I further notice from my calendar that on the day of the session, January 22, 1962— a Monday—there were three other entries: a house guest arriving at the airport, the maid's birthday, and a tentative visit to a family whose three members were all mentally ill, but at large.
It was because the day was not to be entirely free that we changed from LSD to psilocybin. Unlike LSD, which lingers on for many hours even after the high point is passed, psilocybin usually shuts off completely. In fact, this session lasted only from 10:40 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. Considering that Aldous had taken such a small dose, we wondered, later, that it had such a marked effect.
That morning after breakfast we went to my studio apartment, where we would not be disturbed. The studio is practically empty of furniture. The floor is covered by a shaggy white rug— it looks like white grass and is soft and pleasant to sit on. As usual, but especially for a psychedelic session, there were fresh flowers and fruits. Here and there, punctuating the white emptiness, there were fresh bamboo, shells, art books, records, and a few branches of golden acacia that had just burst into bloom in our half-burned garden. In the nook off the living room there were unpainted bookshelves, a large piece of unpainted wood which serves as a desk, a tape recorder, and two small armchairs.
At 10:40 a.m., Aldous took four mg of psilocybin. There is a period of half an hour to about two hours between the ingestion of psilocybin and the beginning of its effect. Usually during this period we talked or looked at pictures; more often we listened to music— or did nothing at all. One never knows in which direction these experiences may move. Sometimes the "doors of perception" are cleansed suddenly with a jolt; sometimes the cleansing comes gradually with ever increasing discoveries. These discoveries may be psychological insights, or may be made through any of the senses— it is usually from the eyes that the scales first flake off.
In the psychedelic session the role of a companion is to be there, fully attentive, and with no preconceived opinion of what might happen. A companion must be, at the same time, completely there and completely out of the way. Sometimes one feels that one should be there in the most intense and alert passivity one can master— but, paradoxically, be there invisibly. However, this was never the case with Aldous. Sessions with him had always been easy, and I knew he wanted me there, visible and tangible.
A companion to the psychedelic experience should not have a preconceived idea— but to have no opinion is very hard to achieve. As it happens, that morning I found myself thinking that this session would be very light, since the dosage was so small, and that it would be similar to the others I had with Aldous— that it would modulate from beauty and the intense presence of life to love on all levels, the human as well as the mystical.
Surprisingly Aldous asked me to stop the music. It was Bach, probably the Musical Offering or a cantata.
I turned off the record player, and as I was wondering whether Aldous would want to hear something else, he got up from the floor where he was sitting and began pacing the corridor joining the living room to the bedroom. This also had never happened before. Aldous, like most people in a psychedelic experience, would move very little, generally staying in the same place most of the day.
I paced with him a few times, trying to feel what he was feeling. He looked preoccupied, and there was a feeling of agitation in him, and— again most unusual— he was muttering something in a low, unclear voice. I could not at first make out what he was saying. Then I understood the words "Confusion— terrible confusion." I paced the floor with him again— there was an unusual agitation in his movements, in his expression, in the half phrases he was saying. After a while, to my question, "Where is this confusion?" he said it was in life after death; I think he mentioned the word limbo. He was contacting, or being, or feeling, a bodiless world in which there was a terrifying
confusion.
In psychedelic sessions there are often long periods, sometimes hours, when not a single word is uttered. Music, or sometimes silence, is the least inadequate way to express the unspeakable, the best way not to name the unnamable. But I knew those ecstatic moments, for they were reflected in Aldous's face— and even in those moments Aldous would say a word or two. But this was a different situation. Aldous was not having an ecstatic experience— he was going through something very intense, of great importance, but not pleasant. He did not seem to be willing or able to put it into words. This state lasted perhaps half an hour. Then quite suddenly he said, "It is all right now— it is all right." His face changed; he sat in the armchair near the tape recorder; that other world had suddenly dissolved. He looked well and I could feel he was now ready to speak about his experience. His mind was at a high pitch of activity.
ALDOUS'S FIRST WORDS ON TAPE:
You see, this is— I was thinking of one of your titles— this is one of the ways of trying to make ice cubes out of running water, isn't it? To fix something and try to keep it— of course, it is always wrong.
I thought he meant it was wrong to fix his impression on tape.
LAURA: Well, let's stop the recorder.
ALDOUS (immediately and with emphasis): No, no— I don't mean that.
I mean the pure light is the greatest ice cube of all, the ultimate ice cube.
Aldous was referring to one of my "Recipes for Living and Loving," which had required a lot of rewriting. The title of the recipe is: "Don't Try to Make Ice Cubes Out of a Flowing River." - Its concept is that our organisms are continuously changing in a continuously changing world; that the essence of life is its fluidity, its ability to change, to flow and to take a new course; that the trouble is that sometimes,
usually unconsciously and unwillingly, we freeze a piece of this flowing life into an "ice cube." In the recipe, examples are given illustrating how harmful this can be; then there are directions on how to unfreeze these "ice cubes" that imprison our life and energy. Briefly, "ice cube" refers to the enduring, chilling effect of an unexpressed overemotional experience of grief, anger, or fear in their varied and numerous manifestations. Aldous had helped me with the recipe, and the phrase "ice cubes in a flowing river" was a current phrase with us.
ALDOUS: The pure light. This is the greatest ice cube of all— it's the ultimate ice cube.
The Pure Light. The Clear Light of the Void. The experience of Godliness. Mystical experience. The peak experience. . . . How many names, throughout the centuries and in all different cultures, have been given to that state for which the most sophisticated of word virtuosos say there are no words! I remember Aldous's saying that Saint Augustine, who wrote volumes of treatises basic to Catholic theology, toward the end of his life had the experience of Pure Light— and never wrote a word again. In Island Aldous describes that experience as "knowledgeless understanding, luminous bliss."
LAURA: You thought you were going to have that [the Pure Light] today?
ALDOUS: Well now, I can if I want to! But I mean it is very good to realize that it is just the— so to say— the mirror image of this other thing. It is just this total distraction— I mean, if you can immobilize the total distraction long enough, then it becomes the pure, one-pointed distraction— pure light.
LAURA: If you can immobilize it? What do you mean?
ALDOUS: You can immobilize it, but it isn't the real thing— you can remain for eternity in this thing at the exclusion of love and work.
LAURA: But that thing should be love and work.
ALDOUS (with emphasis): Exactly! I mean this is why it is wrong. As I was saying, this illustrates that you mustn't make ice cubes out of a Flowing River. You may succeed in making ice cubes . . . this is the greatest ice cube in the world. But you can probably go on for— oh, you can't go on forever— but for enormous eons— for what appears [this word is greatly emphasized] to be eternity, being in light.
In his later years Aldous put more and more emphasis on the danger of being addicted to meditation only, to knowledge only, to wisdom only— without love. Just now he had experienced the temptation to an addiction of an even higher order: the addiction of being in the light and staying there. "Now, I can if I want to," he had said. Staying in this ecstatic consciousness and cutting oneself off from participation and commitment to the rest of the world— this is perfectly expressed today, in powerful slang, in the phrase "dropping out."
ALDOUS (continuing): It completely denies the facts: it is morally wrong; and finally, of course, absolutely catastrophic.
"Absolutely catastrophic." Those two words are said with the most earnest and profound conviction. The voice is not raised, but each letter is as if sculptured on a shining block of Carrara marble —and remains sculptured on the soul of anyone who hears it. It is a definitive statement: one cannot isolate oneself from one's fellows and environment, for there is no private salvation; one might "get stuck" even in the Pure Light instead of infusing it in "Love and Work," which is the direct solution for everyone's life, right here and now.
Love and Work— if I should put in a nutshell the essence of Aldous's life, I could not find a more precise way of saying it.
After the words "absolutely catastrophic," the tape runs for a while in silence. And then there is a complete change of mood. A tender, enveloping smile is in Aldous's voice, my smile. It comes through the voice, creating an atmosphere of love and amused surprise, but, above all, of tenderness.
ALDOUS: I don't know how you got all these things, darling. (Laughter.) What came into this hard, hard skull of yours— how do all these extraordinary ideas come in?
He was always so pleased when I invented something, and he was now going back to the ice-cube recipe.
LAURA: At least the one of the ice cubes I remember very well. I was giving LSD to and I had this feeling ... I just practically was seeing a torrent of water— you know, a river— and he was trying to make such logic out of it— so that he would show that all those people lied, you see. . . .
ALDOUS : (interrupting with hearty laughter): Of course they lie!
LAURA: And I had the impression that he was rationalizing water, or even trying to freeze a piece of this flowing river and make ice cubes of it. . . .
ALDOUS : (still laughing, and touching my head) : But you have so many ideas. Obviously, this terribly hard skull has a hole in it somewhere.
(A great deal of chuckling and laughter.)
LAURA: I hope so.
ALDOUS (after a silence): It is certainly very remarkable.
Having "a. hole in one's skull" has different meaning for different people. Aldous meant here that these ideas must have flowed into my head, not out of it. Especially after his psychedelic experiences, Aldous often mentioned the Bergson theory— that our brain and nervous system are not the source of our ideas, but rather a reducing valve through which Mind-at-Large trickles only the kind of information that is necessary for us to survive on this planet. A temporary widening of that valve, or "a hole in the head," permits a fragment of Mind-at-Large to flow in— that is what we usually call inspiration. In The Doors of Perception, where Aldous reports his first psychedelic experience, he speaks at length of this theory of Bergson's and says that it should be seriously considered.
There is a silence on the tape and then the dialogue continues in a thoughtful, serious mood.
LAURA: I don't remember if I told you, or I dreamed I told you— did I tell you of the phrase running in my mind these days, "I am a thousand people"?
ALDOUS: No, you didn't tell me.
LAURA: But that also doesn't make anything easy.
ALDOUS: No, obviously. And when there is no anchorage anywhere—when, to come back to after death, I mean, there will be no anchorage. . . .
LAURA: Oh, yes. I see.
Aldous was thinking about, and putting in words, the experience he had had a while before, when he was walking up and down the corridor. He had experienced the bodiless state of After-Death, where there is a survival of consciousness, but not of the body as we know it.
ALDOUS: So, when there will be a thousand people rushing in different directions— I mean, anyhow . . . (then in a yery low aside) your hair smells the same as acacias . . . your head is very solid (touching my head) because the point is: when there isn't anything like this. . . .
This— a. tangible body, something to see, to hear, to smell, to touch- in contrast to that other state of being, which he had experienced before, where there were feelings and thoughts, but no perceptions, senses, or solid forms as we are used to them.
LAURA: When there is nothing to hold on. . . .
ALDOUS: There are a thousand different people going in a thousand different directions: and this is what you have a hint of now. And this, of course, is what is so terrible, but I think that I know— (And after a pause, with deep conviction) but I know that there will always be— and I mean this is the extraordinary experience— at least there is somebody there who knows there are a thousand other people going in different directions— that there is a fundamental sanity of the world, which is always there in spite of the thousand people going in a thousand different directions. And while we are in space and time, surrounded by gravity, we are controlled to a considerable extent. (I wish I could convey the depth of Aldous' s voice here, the feeling of wonder.) But to have an insight into what it is when there isn't any control except this fundamental knowledge— I mean this is where the Bardo is right.
Aldous is referring to the Tibetan Book of the Dead, or the After Death Experience on the Bardo Plane. I had first heard of this book from Aldous a few days after Maria's death. In answer to a note from me he had asked me for lunch and a walk. He knew innumerable country lanes right in the middle of Los Angeles and not far from his home, so after lunch we went walking in Laurel Canyon. I had many questions in my mind about Maria and he answered them without my asking, telling me all that had happened after our summer meeting in Rome.
He said that for the last few hours of her life he had spoken to her, encouraging her to go forward, as in the Bardo. "What is that?" I asked. He told me then about the Bardo— or the intermediate plane following bodily death, as described in the Tibetan Book of the Dead, explaining that in these ancient teachings the dying person is encouraged to go on— to go further— not to be preoccupied or encumbered with this present body, or with relatives or friends or unfinished business, but to go into a wider state of consciousness.
He went on to say that the Tibetan Book of the Dead is as much a manual of the Art of Living as it is of the Art of Dying. The survivors are advised to think of the loved one and of his need and destiny in his new state of consciousness rather than to be completely and egocentrically involved in their own grief. "Go on. Go forward"— to both consciousnesses, the one who is still using the body and the one whose body is being discarded— that is sound and compassionate advice. "Go on. Go forward."
How many of us are walking around, not wholly alive because part of us did not go forward but died with Mother or Father or some other beloved person— even, at times, a pet? The terrifying, incomprehensible fact of death is difficult enough to accept and assimilate even with the most illumined teaching, even with the warmest, most tangible encouragement— let alone when there is no help in understanding, in accepting, in speaking about death. How can one even begin to understand death when it is hardly a permissible subject in good society? Sex is now an acceptable topic of conversation; death is still swept under the carpet, still locked in the dungeon, as the insane were, not too long ago.
That first walk after Maria's death remained impressed on me. I had vaguely heard of this wise, noble way of dealing with death, as an esoteric doctrine. Now Aldous, stricken and pale, yet fully alive, was telling me how he had applied this knowledge; how he had encouraged Maria to go on without worry or regrets. As he spoke during that walk I compared my own acquaintance with death: the lugubrious services, tragically chanting of sin, hellfire, and eternal damnation; the piteous begging for mercy from a distant deity, alternately irate and forgiving; while we, the survivors, enmeshed in grief and completely centered in it, hardly gave thought to the dead person except in relation to our anguish. It is distressing to think that the concern and money lavished on cadavers in America would be enough to feed millions of children, enough to divert lives of delinquency and despair into lives of human dignity and happiness.
Aldous continued to tell me, during that first walk after Maria's death, how he had carried her over as far as he could. He was as crushed as any human being who has lost a beloved companion of a lifetime; and yet, at the time of her death, he had been able to divert his own attention from the pain of losing her and focus both her mind and his on that most important fact— on that fundamental sanity of which he speaks in every psychedelic experience— and throughout this one.
The tape continues.
ALDOUS: The Bardo is right. You see, you have to be aware of this thing, and hang onto it for dear life- otherwise you are just completely in a whirlwind.
LAURA: Yes. But how many people do know this?
ALDOUS (with great emphasis): Exactly! But this is why they say we really ought to start preparing for this. (Aldous was speaking about preparation for death.) And I must say I think it is terribly important that through this knowledge that we get through these mushrooms or whatever it is,^ you understand a little bit of what it is all about. I think the most extraordinary experience is to know that there is all this insanity which is just the multiplication . . . the caricature of the normal insanity that goes on. But that there is a fundamental sanity which you can remain one with and be aware of. This, of course, is the whole doctrine of the Bardo— helping people to be aware of the fundamental sanity which is there in spite of all the terrifying things— and also not really terrifying, but sometimes ecstatic, wonderful things. You mustn't go to heaven, as they continually say.
Again and again! No dropping out from Love and Work, even from an unsatisfactory society, into the personal isolated security of Pure Light with or without psychedelics. "As they continuously say"— Aldous is referring to the Mahayana Buddhists, for whom the Bodhisattva is the highest form of man: such a man does not wallow in private salvation but lives and participates in the world's activities out of compassion for those who have not yet achieved enlightenment.
I wanted to know more about not going to heaven.
LAURA: You mustn't go to heaven?
ALDOUS: You mustn't go to heaven. It is just as dangerous. It is temporary— and somehow you want to hold on to the ultimate truth of things.
LAURA: THe ultimate truth of things?
ALDOUS: Well, I mean . . . the total light of the world, I suppose, which is in the here and now we experience. It's of course the mind-body. But when you are released from the body there has to be some experimental equivalent of the body, something has to be held on to ... I don't know.
LAURA: What does one hold to then?
ALDOUS: All you can say is one holds to this fundamental sanity, which as I say is guaranteed, as long as one is in the body, by the fact of space and time and gravity, and three dimensions and all the rest of it. Somehow, when you get rid of those anchors—
In the Tibetan Book of the Dead, we are often warned of this
danger of going to a phantasmagoric, illusionary hell or heaven. The guide (or guru) explains that in this bodiless state all our thoughts and feelings seem to take concrete form. Thoughts are things. The dead person sees these things and, unless helped, he gets trapped in them. So he is continuously told that these apparitions are only hallucinations— are only a projection of his consciousness— and that he. must go forward without becoming involved in them, without repulsion or attraction; that he must realize that they arc only distractions which he himself has created. Continuously repeated is the admonition: "Oh, Nobly Born! Let not thy mind be distracted." Similarly, the first and last word in Island is ''Attention." It is the first word the distracted, wounded traveler from the Western man who would not take yes for an answer— hears on that Island, sung by the mynah bird; a charming way the novelist synthesizes in a single word an ancient vital message to all: Attention.
ALDOUS (continuing): But there is an equivalent of some kind which has to be caught hold of. Otherwise, the world about you is thin and becomes— what is the word— Pretds, the world of the restless ghosts. One goes to hell and then in desperation one has to rush back and get another body.
LAURA: To hold on again?
ALDOUS: To hold on again. Well, this is obviously the best thing, if one hasn't got the ultimate best. But clearly they all have said that there is something which is the equivalent— again in this extraordinary doctrine of Christianity, the resurrection of the body, and ultimately immortality will have something like the body attached to it. I don't know what it means, but obviously one can't attach any ordinary meaning to it. But one sees exactly what they are after— some idea that somehow we have to get an equivalent on a higher level of this anchorage which space and time and gravitation give us. And which can be achieved. One has, as I say, in this strange experience, one has the sense that there is this fundamental sanity in spite of all the distraction and preposterous nonsense which is going on— and which is irrelevant to oneself— which has nothing to do, in a strange way, although it may seem very, very important. {Silence, them)
It is very important, if one can, while it is happening, if one can see the outer-appearance of it. It is obviously important to look after one's affairs in a sensible way and see their importance, in a silly way, but if one can, through all this, see this other level of importance, in the light of which a lot of activities will have to be cut down. There will seem to be absolutely no point in undertaking them— although a great many have to be undertaken, but they will be undertaken in a new kind of way— with a kind of detachment, and yet with a doing things to one's limit. This is again one of the paradoxes: to work to the limit to succeed in what you are doing, and at the same time to be detached from it— if you don't succeed, well, that's too bad— if you do succeed—tant mieux— you don't have to gloat over it. This is the whole story of the Bhagavad-Gita : somehow to do everything with passion but with detachment.
LAURA: Passion and detachment. . . .
Passion and detachment. Years ago, before I had ever heard of these philosophies, with what passion I had longed for detachment! That was the ideal I had set for m3'self as a musician; to play with all I had, to burn with passion, yet maintain a crystalline purity and detachment in technical and stylistical perfection. And in these recent years of psychological work and exploration, I had seen, in my everyday life and work, in me and outside of me, all kinds and degrees of passion only or of detachment only— but how rarely the fusion of the two!
In the Bhagavad-Gita the hero Arjuna is a great warrior, and Krishna, or Incarnation of the Supreme Spirit, is his guide. Arjuna is told that he must fight with all his strength and valor— and yet must be detached from the fight.
If we look inside and around, we can see many ways in which this battle is carried on, three of which are the most conspicuous. One is the way of the fighter, who, being inwardly discontented, resentful, and punitive, is chemically and psychologically compelled to fight. He has to be contrary; he must give and take no for an answer even if— sometimes especially ii—yes is to his advantage. He is fighting an outer enemy who often is only a reflected shadow of the inner one; even when the outer enemy is conquered, the inner one is only temporarily appeased. Then there is another kind of fighter: the man who is easily discouraged, who remains passive, rather than risk the possibility of defeat; overcautious and suspicious, he deceives himself rather than face problems and decisions. There is still another kind of fighter, the one of which Krishna speaks. We encounter this type also— but how rarely! He is one that fights only after an ethical evaluation of the issue and of his own original motives. Regardless of victory or defeat, an inner peace is there. This warrior, liberated from subconscious demons, clear-minded and controlled, may appear on the outside relentless, determined, even furious; inwardly, he is invulnerably harmonious. In the Gita these three types of men are so described:
The doer without desire.
Who does not boast of his deed.
Who is ardent, enduring,
Untouched by triumph,
In failure untroubled:
He is a man of sattwa [the energy of inspiration].
The doer with desire,
Hot for the prize of vainglory,
Brutal, greedy and foul
In triumph too quick to rejoice.
In failure despairing:
He is a man of rajas [the energy of action].
The indifferent doer
Whose heart is not in his deed,
Stupid and stubborn,
A cheat, and malicious,
The idle lover of delay,
Easily dejected:
He is a man of tamas [the energy of inertia]
Aldous was speaking of the man who fights with the energy of inspiration (sattwa).
ALDOUS: One can see what it is— he is not involved even though he is involved up to the limit. What part of him is not involved? But it's no good trying to make an analysis because, as usual, it is a paradox and a mystery.
LAURA: But even if . . .
ALDOUS: One begins to understand it, that that is the main problem.
There were many pauses in this conversation. Most of the words were formulated slowly, in an effort to clarify realities to which most of us are unaccustomed. Aldous had been speaking quietly and thoughtfully. In spite of the poor recording, which is often blurred by noises of cars and static, one can feel that the atmosphere is impregnated with thought and discoveries. Now there is a pause, then a few noises— we are taking Kleenex out of a box. Then:
ALDOUS: My nose is running. (Now the mood and the voice change completely, become light, and there is amused laughter in Aldous's voice.) A very good reminder that the greatest philosophy is connected inextricably with running noses. One of the things they should have talked about in the Gospel. Obviously he was on a mountain— the Sermon of the Mount— it must have been very breezy and cold up there. Probably his nose did run.
There is no iconoclastic intention in the voice— only a chuckling and a reaffirmation of Aldous's conviction that everything is connected with everything else and that we should not forget it; no matter on what high plane of spirituality we dwell we are still bound by the laws of nature. I am sure also that Aldous realized at that moment that he had been speaking gravely for quite a while— it was natural for him, thank heaven, to lighten gravity with charm and humor.
LAURA (after a silence): But it is very difficult. How does one prepare for death? All of this seems, as you say, to make it very. . . .
ALDOUS: I think that the only way one can prepare for death . . . you realize that, well, after all, all your psychotherapy is in a sense a preparation for death inasmuch as }0u die to these memories which are allowed to haunt you as though they were in the present: "Let the dead bury their dead." Obviously, the completely healthy way to live is "sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."
Aldous often quoted these words, which were Christ's way of saying, "Live here and now." He suggested I put this quotation in my recipe, "Lay the Ghost," which deals with the problem of haunting emotional memories that interfere with our present. He felt that Christ's saying to the man who wanted to bury his father, "Follow me, and let the dead bury him," was about as strong a way as there was to say, "Live here and now." One should not worry about the past or the future, since each day has enough problems. Tliat principle he also lived— either he could do something here and now about a problem or he would not permit it to interfere with here and now.
ALDOUS: You accept this without being obsessed by what is in the past —you die to it. Preparation for ultimate death is to be aware that your highest and most intense form of life is accompanied by, and conditional upon, a series of small deaths all the time. We have to be dying to these obsessive memories. I mean, again the paradox is to be able to remember with extreme clarity, but not to be haunted.
Aldous is speaking here of the difference between the two memories, the informational memory and the emotional memory. The informational memory is essential to us, to carry on our daily life. The emotional memory has a more subtle, powerful, and, at times, all-pervading quality; especially when unconscious, it can haunt us with ghosts of
our emotional past, robbing us of the energy and attention we need here and now.
LAURA: But even without the memories there is this composite figure that we are— the composition of so many characters— and if they don't have something to meet on, a common ground, which is the body, where do they meet?
ALDOUS: Well, they have to meet, I suppose, in some— what is called quote "the Spirit," as we meet normally on this unconscious-subconscious level. And then they also meet on the superconscious level, which, of course, completely contains the unconscious. (Pause.) And this would be certainly the teaching of the Bardos— these thousand figures— they can either meet in the wrong way which is by ... to the point of distraction through the ice cube or they can meet through the recognition of the ultimate in the spirit, on that level.
This is a repetition of what Aldous said in the beginning: either there is a meeting in that terrifying confusion of thoughts and emotions whirling around without the safety of a common ground which is the body; or there is meeting in awareness of that fundamental sanity-of-the-world which he felt so strongly.
ALDOUS : And this is why they all say you have to work rather hard, and try and realize this fact— and one of the ways of realizing it is— after all, in that little "Zen Flesh, Zen Bones"''— the preparation is through these exercises in consciousness. This sort of leads on to the third layer of consciousness.
LAURA: But then in between the two extremes there is so much leeway. . . .
ALDOUS: There are too many ways of going wrong. I mean, the best-intentioned people go wrong. (Long silence.) I will look at this Rembrandt—
On the tape, one hears confused noises. Aldous was looking at art books— Rembrandt was to him the greatest of all painters. My voice is heard, from the other room, speaking on the phone to Paula, Ginny's daughter, then eleven years old, who was not in school that day. Then we again hear Aldous's voice. Since the fire we had been living with Ginny and her two children, and this close association made the problem of education very concrete to Aldous. He was seeing every day the difficulty of educating two children in a large city like Los Angeles. The problem had so many facets; he brought up one in this conversation.
ALDOUS: If she wants us, darling, we can go back there. Is she alone? She probably doesn't want to be alone. Maybe we should go. (Silence.) She said she wanted to write a story so I gave her a pen. (Another silence.) When I think of the admirable thing which was in my little boys' school.
LAURA: Yes? A routine?
ALDOUS: Well, I mean we had this carpenter's shop. We could always spend our spare time there when we wanted to, and this was compulsory two or three hours a week. There was this carpenter who was the school handy man, but he was a trained carpenter. We went through all the exercises which the apprentice had to learn— almost up to the master work. This is what "masterpiece" means: the apprentice learns all the things, and finally he produces his final examination as Ph.D.
LAURA: Really?
ALDOUS: In the case of a carpenter there would be all the different kinds of mortices, dovetail, and so on— various things joined together.
LAURA: Which is very difficult.
ALDOUS: Very difficult. You see, all the surfaces would be absolutely planed— you will have learned to plane absolutely even.
LAURA: Did you do that?
ALDOUS: Yes. Yes, we went right through the different kinds of mortices, dovetail, and so on— just as a medieval apprentice would have done.
LAURA: Well, but ....
ALDOUS: Then when we had done all this sort of exercise, then we were allowed to do what we wanted— to make a sledge or a box or a bookcase—and we did it— but always up to the very highest standards. I mean, there was absolutely no nonsense of these things being nailed together; these things were always done dovetailed.
LAURA: But here they don't do that— even professional carpenters.
ALDOUS: Good cabinet work is still done in this way, but of course nowadays it isn't really— I mean, it's quite different.
LAURA: But in this school they don't do anything: they just stay there all afternoon just running around.
ALDOUS : Well, one of the problems is wages. I mean, there was this ex- cellent man who did all the odd jobs around the school, but who was an old-time artisan who got through all this himself. But he was a very shrewd man: it was a pleasure to be with him. And he could talk; and he had delightful phrases— like when he sharpened a tool he said, "Now it is sharp enough to cut off a dead mouse's whiskers without its waking up." But all that is gone now. But what shouldn't have gone is the perfectly sensible thing of providing boys with something to do.
LAURA: Shall I make us soup? Would you like some soup?
ALDOUS : Yes, that would be nice.