Parabola Magazine

THE ESSENTIAL RENÉ GUÉNON: Metaphysics, Tradition, Crisis of Modernity
INTRODUCTION BY MARTIN LINGS. WORLD WISDOM & SOPHIA PERENNIS, (WWW.WORLDWISDOM.COM / WWW.SOPHIAPERENNIS.COM), 2009. PP. 328 $24.95

EDITED BY JOHN HERLIHY

"It is truly strange that people ask for proof concerning the possibility of a kind of [transcendent] knowledge instead of searching for it and verifying it for themselves by understanding the work necessary to acquire it."

—René Guénon

"The civilization of the modern West appears in history as a veritable anomaly"—written in 1924, this statement typifies the prophetic eschatology of the French metaphysician René Guénon (1886-1951). At last such a work as this one has come to pass in order to bring together the magisterial and erudite oeuvre of Guénon, the founder, along with Frithjof Schuon (1907-1998), of what has become known as the "Traditionalist" or "Perennialist" school of thought. Other notable luminaries of this school were Ananda Kentish Coomaraswamy (1877-1947) and Titus Burckhardt (1908-1984).

It may surprise readers unfamiliar with Guénon that he was referred to as the "Great Sufi" by a definitive sage of the nineteenth Century, Sri Ramana Mahar­shi. Coomaraswamy, the seminal art historian, pointed out that Guénon was not an "Orientalist" but what in India would be deemed as a "master." Schuon affirmed that Guénon was intrinsically pneumatic or a jña-nic type and stated that "On symbolism Guénon is unbeatable." Seyyed Hossein Nasr (b. 1933) wrote the following regarding Guénon’s first book: "It was like a sudden burst of lightning, an abrupt intrusion into the modern world of a body of knowledge and a perspective utterly alien to the prevalent climate and world view and completely opposed to all that characterizes the modern mentality." The praise for Guénon is not limited to these statements, but is extended by decisive intellects and philosophers of the twentieth century.

Who René Guénon was as a person is a complex question that has puzzled the curious and frustrated the trivial, yet "individualist considerations" pertaining to his person, including biography, meant little or nothing to Guénon. A remarkable point to note is that Guénon did not put forward, or even attempt to create, a "new" or "novel" theory, nor was he interested in the "originality" of his ideas. His role and significance in the modern world was to wholeheartedly illuminate the universal metaphysics of the Primordial Tradition—known as the philosophia perennis or the perennial philosophy—"[T]ruth is one, and it is the same for all who, by whatever way, come to know it." He was to re-establish its primacy for contemporaries who were authentically seeking this uncompromised truth that was—"in conformity with the strictly traditional point of view"—known by many different names. This will appear odd to those living in the present time as novelty, not to mention monetary gain, as he noted with mathematical precision in the work The Reign of Quantity, are central motivating factors to all current activity.

Contrary to the timeless and universal tradition in the present weltanschauung is the endless talk of "change" as if present-day terrestrials have realized the inherent bankruptcy of the times—"disequilibrium cannot be a condition of real happiness." What kind of change is being suggested is not clear, yet change from the present conditions itself is surely beckoned. The "change," if we could so term it, was for Guénon not change in a future orientated "progress" but change for the realignment of the first principles underlying the traditional doctrines of the world’s spiritualities. In this sense, the direction of change was not going forward or even backward but points to what is rooted in the immutable and eternal. Guénon suggested that if those in the current era could perceive the perilous end of "progress," it would unequivocally come to a halt: "If our contemporaries as a whole could see what it is that is guiding them and where they are really going, the modern world would at once cease to exist as such."

Some might question the relevance of such an obscure metaphysician in the context of today’s world and suggest that establishing an "intellectual elite" to counter the perilous crisis of a disintegrating era—"the growing disorder in all domains"—is a utopian ideal, indicating his extreme naïveté or blatant ignorance. Hitherto, the large-scale crisis that Guénon astutely perceived did not only come to light and continue to unfold, but has palpitated into further disarray since he first identified and diagnosed the "intellectual myopia" or "intellectual atrophy" of an age that was well into—the Kali-Yuga or "Dark Age"—"what has no parallel is this gigantic collective hallucination by which a whole section of humanity has come to take the vainest fantasies for incontestable realities."

Along with a vital introduction by Martin Lings (1909-2005), who was a close associate of Guénon for many years while living in Egypt, there is also a key preface by John Herlihy, author of numerous books on traditional spirituality and the modern world. This work consists of four parts: The Modern World, The Metaphysical World, The Hindu World, and The Traditional World. This book also contains two helpful appendices to better acquaint those unfamiliar with Guénon. They include an overview of his life via a "Biography of René Guénon" and also a concise list of both French and English publications: "The Works of René Guénon."

A defining and axial feature of the traditionalist or perennialist critique of the modern and post-modern world is the reduction of the intellect or intellectus with reason or ratio.

Rationalism in all its forms is essentially defined by a belief in the supremacy of reason, proclaimed as a veritable "dog­ma," and implying the denial of everything that is of a supra-individual order, notably of pure intellectual intuition; this carries with it logically the exclusion of all true metaphysical knowledge.

This reductionism has given rise to a whole host of other confusions and misunderstandings such as the inversion of the "Self" with "ego" or "Personality" with "individuality," which is apropos contextualized with what has been termed the "multiple states of being":

[T]he human individual is both much more and much less than is generally supposed in the West: much more, by reason of his possibilities of indefinite extension beyond the corporeal modality, to which, in short, everything belongs that is commonly studied; but he is also much less, since far from constituting a complete self-sufficient being, he is but an outward manifestation, a fleeting appearance assumed by the true being, which in no way affects the essence of the latter in its immutability.

In his monumental essay "Eastern Metaphysics" Guénon demonstrated that the integral metaphysics of the perennial philosophy was neither of the East nor West, but found unanimously at the heart of all sapiential traditions regardless of time or place:

[I]n truth, pure metaphysics being essentially above and beyond all form and all contingency is neither Eastern nor Western but universal. The exterior forms with which it is covered only serve the necessities of exposition, to express whatever is expressible. These forms may be Eastern or Western; but under the appearance of diversity there is always a basis of unity, at least, wherever true metaphysics exists, for the simple reason that truth is one.

With regard to the universal metaphysics Guénon makes it clear that: "Exoterism and esoterism, regarded not as two distinct and more or less opposed doctrines, which would be quite an erroneous view, but as the two aspects of one and the same doctrine." This differs radically from New Age thought, which seeks to abolish transcendence in favor of immanence, and thereby loses any guarantee of truth and objectivity, that is to say the necessary "right-thinking" that is the first item on the noble Eightfold Path of Buddhism. (The opposite error, the abolition of immanence in favor of transcendence, is that of "Deism"; this renders any contact between God and man impossible.) For Guénon, as for the perennial philosophy, it is necessary that one be practicing an orthodox spiritual form and it was in this orientation that both the "outer" and "inner" dimensions of exoterism and esoterism can become available—"the same teaching is not understood in a equal degree by all who receive it…there are therefore those who in a certain sense discern the esoterism, while others, whose intellectual horizon is narrower, are limited to the exoterism."

The Essential René Guénon brings together the broad and illuminating spectrum of Guénon’s corpus in a single volume like no other anthology currently available, which could very well realign the collective nucleus of sapiential wisdom to truly and integrally shift the predominant paradigm. Paradoxically, the more the current dissolution of what appears as the—"eleventh hour"—gains way, the evermore relevant and indispensable Guénon’s work is. It is with our hope that this recent anthology will provide an antidotal remedy to the "intellectual myopia" of the times in order to reaffirm the sophia perennis—"multiple paths all leading to the same end." On a concluding note, although the present crisis is skillfully veiled and exclusively contextualized in economic terms, Guénon would indefatigably confirm that it is rather a prolongation of the very same Kali-Yuga accelerating in its steadfast progression: "it can be said in all truth that the ‘end of a world’ never is and never can be anything but the end of an illusion."

Samuel Bendeck Sotillos has received graduate degrees in Education and in Psychology. He has traveled throughout the world to visit sacred sites, and has had contact with noted spiritual authorities. He currently works as a mental health clinician in northern California.

THE GIFT OF DANGER: Lessons from Aikido
BY MARY STEIN. BLUE SNAKE BOOKS ((NORTHATLANTICBOOKS.COM/BLUESNAKE), 2009. $14.95 PAPER

Evidence from many directions confirms that a necessary step in gaining self-understanding is facing oneself.

The facing of oneself, how is it to be conducted? How much of the process is solitary—just myself—and what parts depend on other people, as mirrors or points of reference?

Of greatest interest are moments when ego somehow dissolves, allowing influences of a higher order to enter us. But ego soon reappears, taking ownership of that which it can rarely if ever experience: the truth. And thus arises, again and again, the need to face oneself with all the interest and objectivity we can muster.

The Gift of Danger makes it clear that we need each other in order to take steps along a journey that begins from quite different, and ever shifting, starting points. Everything keeps changing and nothing quite repeats itself in precisely the same way. Thus we need varieties of experiences in settings that contain some consistent elements, in order to begin to see more, and to practice more, from many different angles.

In the course of practicing aikido for over twenty-five years—from age fifty-four forward—Mary Stein entered into a deepening awareness of factors that exist at the very heart of many conflicts. In the vocabulary of Morihei Ueshiba, the founder of the rather un-martial martial art of aikido, the "opponent" is not the other person whom one confronts on the mat, engaging together in one of aikido's forms. The real opponent is inside, in "the mind of contention," a product, always, of "the fearful, greedy ego."

"True victory," Morihei Ueshiba said, "is self-victory." But in order for this to be possible, engagements with other people, even engagements that are grounded in the dualism of direct conflict, are essential.

The title of this book evokes a question: how can "danger" be a gift? We come to understand that the real danger is not in aikido’s encounters, with an "attacker" and a "defender," whose roles frequently change. The "gift" points inside, to an inner danger that is to be found deep within the external situation. Mary Stein states the matter clearly: "Outward danger is a gift we give each other in aikido every time we strike as true as we can. That’s when it becomes possible to see that another danger, of emotional distraction (anger, fear, irritation, ambition), needs to be seen and taken into account. The outer danger reveals the inner danger."

Could the underlying concepts at work here be more important to humanity at large in its present state, or to anyone who wishes to know and understand more about what, inside, is pulling the strings?

Stein writes, "When I’m sincere I can see how the slightest tension distorts my movements and throws me off course as an attacker or as a defender. The ‘mind of contention’ seems to be where these tensions originate."

And, "Results are never guaranteed; the lesson is never learned for all time."

Subtle discoveries are shared that involve all of the parts of a human being. She writes, "Physical attitudes . . . mirror mental-emotional ones. When I’m fearful or agitated, if I turn toward my body and take a reading, I find tightness and tension in many places—the head, or the shoulders, or the chest, or the pit of the stomach.

"And it works the other way around: the body’s posture subtly influences the emotions and thoughts. If I hunch forward, narrowing my eyes and extending clenched fists, belligerence appears."

The role of seeing, of "watching," is repeatedly emphasized.

"My experiences are often . . . a mix of the lower and the higher, the coarser and the finer. They can be uncomfortable to bear. There is the urge to escape to my more virtuous self and suppress the other, darker side, or, on the other hand, to disappear in judgment, indignation, or revenge. Sometimes the dark and light seem to occupy their separate places. But at other times they’re so close together that it’s scary; I’m on the razor’s edge … again, and it could go either way. Can I trust the watching a little longer?"

If we can stay a bit longer, something quite special may occur.

"It’s not uncommon in aikido, toward the end of a vigorous practice, to forget just for a moment whether one is the giver, nage, or uke, the receiver. For that moment the boundaries drop away and something more unified appears in which we both play inseparable parts."

The Gift of Danger suggests that with years of practice and self-honesty, even as we "cook" from the energy of our lower, reactive aspects, it may be possible to receive illumination from something much higher, within. Through nourishment from the higher level, perhaps even our outlooks about the traps that snare us may be able to alter. For if the nage and the uke can help each other toward moments of unity, and if "the outer danger reveals the inner danger," then perhaps the inner danger may also reveal a still deeper inner possibility, wherein the "two" finally" do become "one." Could our deepest experience of unity even require a certain engagement with whatever it is that we call ego?

James Opie writes, and deals in Oriental rugs, in Portland, Oregon.

THE MEANING OF THE MUSICAL TREE
BY MITZI DEWHITT. BLUE SNAKE BOOKS ((MITZIDEWHITT.COM)), 2010. PP. 234. $19.99 PAPER

"Several years ago, what I have called the Musical Tree suddenly appeared in my mind’s eye, like the goddess Athena sprung forth full-grown."

So writes Mitzi DeWhitt in The Meaning of the Musical Tree, her fourth book dealing with the Tree and its meanings and implications (most recently, Gurdjieff, String Theory, Music). The Tree itself is a modest structure, three pairs of limbs descending along a central axis, with each limb, each pole of the axis, and each intersection of limbs and axis denoted by a particular ratio ("There are four singular ratios along the vertical axis: octave, tone, Pythagorean comma, and diaschisma…."). Yet despite the simple appearance of the Tree, "the information coming from this living symbol," writes DeWhitt, "provided me a seemingly inexhaustible source for the various aspects of reality. There was nothing, it seemed, that was not somehow a part of the Tree."

Accordingly, DeWhitt devotes much of her new book to applying the lessons inherent in the Tree’s design to an astonishingly wide range of matters, from the Anthropic Principle to quantum physics and string theory, to human evolution and civilization, to—the heart of the book—spiritual awakening, particularly as expressed by Gurdjieff and his teachings.

DeWhitt’s arguments are challenging—both because they overturn accepted wisdom ("In defense of the contemporary scientists, those who deem that undertones do not exist, it must be stated that the invisible realm of the twenty-eight dieses is not so simple of comprehension") and because they can be difficult to follow, especially for those not steeped in mathematical or scientific knowledge. This is by no means an easy book, but those willing to work their way through it should find, at the least, edifying connections among aspects and levels of reality that they never suspected.

THE SUBTLE BODY: The Story of Yoga in America
BY STEFANIE SYMAN. ((FARRAR, STRAUS AND GIROUX), 2010. PP. 390. $28.00.

In this engaging history, Syman, a founder of the early Web magazine Feed, narrates how the American understanding of yoga changed from ignorance and fear of a foreign (and heathen) practice to widespread acceptance. Indeed, yoga is now so accepted that yoga postures were performed on the White House lawn several years ago during the annual Easter Egg Roll. Syman begins with Emerson and his reading of the Bhagavad-Gita, which some consider to be the first full-fledged yoga scripture. "Krishna doesn’t just tell Arjuna he must know him; he tells him how to do this, and the method he offers is yoga," writes Syman, who acknowledges that the yoga by which that divine knowledge was to be accomplished was not and is not a single practice. In the Gita, Krishna describes meditation, the yoga of devotion (Bhakti Yoga), and the yoga of selfless action (Karma Yoga), among others. The Gita inspired Emer­son to publish a poem called "Brahma," which incited consternation in his fellow intellectuals. More significantly, Emerson pressed the book on his friend Henry David Thoreau.

Unlike the intellectual Emerson, Thoreau read the Gita and a handful of other Indian books as instruction manuals. To her credit, Syman, who was a literature major at Yale, acknowledges how dangerous it is to limit an artist who was clearly influenced by many streams of thought. Yet in a chapter that stands out as particularly fascinating and persuasive, she shows how Thoreau was practicing yoga as he understood it. At Walden, Thoreau lived an ascetic life, bathing in the cold, deep pond every morning, eating a vegetarian diet, and meditating. In his own words, he sat in the doorway of his cabin some mornings "rapt in revery, amid the pines and hickories and summachs, in undisturbed solitude and stillness."

Syman quotes Thoreau’s own admission to Blake as rich evidence: "Rude and careless as I am, I would fain practice the yoga faithfully," yet supplies rich evidence that the great writer penetrated beyond the dualism of conventional reality. He left Walden knowing that "solitude will not be solitude, nor poverty, poverty, nor weakness, weakness." Yet according to Syman, the aim of Thor­eau’s self-taught, book-bound yogic meditation "was creation, not dissolution." Thoreau practiced his meditation to attune his senses, not to quell them—"because he was an artist and nature was his medium." Sy­man leaves Thoreau with the conjecture that his insistence on maintaining his individuality as a yogi may have had to do with his being a citizen recently liberated from British dominion. Demonstrating "a peculiarly American cussedness," he assimilated yoga rather than allowing himself to be subsumed. Our American way of assimilation is the thread that runs through the rest of the book.

Syman’s way of describing the consequences of our way of assimilating in literary terms is both a blessing and a curse. When it works, it is memorable and intriguing. She describes the consequence of stripping yoga from its religious roots by comparing it to taking "all the sad or troubling passages out of a novel. Imagine The Great Gatsby without Jay Gatsby’s shame-fueled ambition, without Daisy’s ennui, without Nick’s ambivalence and acuity. You’d have the lovely view of Long Island Sound…." In other words, then you (or we, in many gyms and spas) have yoga without its profound motivation, without its ground and true aim.

Big swaths of the book—about the melding of psychedelics and yoga in the era of Leary and Ram Dass, about the wave after wave of swamis and the scandals that rocked them—don’t shed much light. Situations and personalities and the times are sketched in lively terms—"If Bikram was Paul Anka, Jois was Arthur Miller"—that sometimes feel too sketchy. Overall, however, as the book wraps up in 2009, at a crowded memorial service for the great yoga teacher Sri K. Pattabhi Jois at designer Donna Karan’s Urban Zen Center in downtown Manhattan, one has a good idea of what the author aims to convey: That over the course of about a hundred years, thanks to proponents of yoga from Vivekananda to Donna Karan herself, yoga has come to seem "less exotic, less subversive."

Can we know the "subtle body," those mysterious channels of energy that might lead us to knowledge of our own divinity in this assimilated form? The sheer scale and diversity of the movement the author takes on drives her to this paradox, decidedly non-Thoreau: "Yoga is both an indulgence and a penance. It will tone your thighs, and it might crack open your reality."

Tracy Cochran is executive editor of Parabola.