Krishnamurti In Carmel PDF version
by Rom Landau
From "God is My Adventure" published in 1936 (Ivor and Nicholson)

I

I had revisited the Continent where my search had begun; I had seen Keyserling again, and I had learned what had become of Steiner’s grandiose visions of a truer world. But I anticipated no change in any of the teachers I had been in touch with more keenly than the one that had taken place in Krishnamurti. I wrote to Eerde in Holland, asking him when and where I could visit him. I waited for an answer for more than three months, and when it eventually arrived I learned that he was just leaving New Zealand after a lecture tour in Australasia, that he was on his way to California, and that he would not be back in Europe for another eighteen months. A journey to California meant a great sacrifice of time and money. Nevertheless I decided to go all the way to the Pacific Coast to learn how Krishnamurti had changed since the days when I stayed with him at his Dutch chateau, and especially since the dissolution of his organization. Krishnamurti’s Californian home was at the Ojai valley, not far from Hollywood.

   When I decided to visit Krishnamurti in California, I hoped to get incidentally a glimpse of the spiritual atmosphere in the country in which he now lived. I had seen enough of America to know that Romain Rolland’s description of what was most striking in American life still held good: ‘… the existence side by side of the hope and fear of the future, the highest and most sinister forces; an immense thirst for truth, and an immense thirst for the false; absolute disinterestedness and an unclean worship of gold; childlike sincerity and the charlatanism of the fair.’ A desire for spiritual knowledge lived side by side with the most blatant materialism.

   When I arrived in the United States in the autumn of 1934 I soon noticed that the disappointment and the growing mistrust of purely material salvation, resulting from the economic disasters of the last few years, had created in many people a hunger for things of the spirit. There was a distinct awakening of the spirit not unlike that which took place in Germany in the immediate post-war years. This was not surprising. Few forms of experience are more conducive to spiritual understanding than suffering. The failure of most of the deities – politics, finance, industry – to satisfy their worshippers was bound to attract attention more and more to the power of the spirit – the only power that had been left unexplored.

   It was, then, not without significance that Krishnamurti was to be found in the American scene. He was not the first teacher from India to exercise a spiritual influence over American thought through personal contact. Almost half a century before him young Vivekananda, the great Indian teacher and disciple of Ramakrishna, had visited the United States; had impressed the Parliament of Religions in Chicago in 1893 more than any philosopher, theologian, or churchman, and had influenced William James, the great American philosopher. The peculiar form of spiritual truth, as it is perceived by the East, was no longer unknown to the American public. After the teachings of Ramakrishna and Vivekananda, the message of Krishnamurti was transplanted to American soil at one of the most critical and thus spiritually most propitious times in the evolution of American civilization.

II

    As my time was limited, I decided to travel from New York to California by aeroplane. I had never flown before, and though the speed of over two hundred miles an hour meant little to me, I was strangely moved when seventeen hours after we had left the icy atmosphere of New York we landed three thousand miles farther west, at Hollywood’s airport, Glendale, bathed in a brilliant sun and encircled by mountains with snowy peaks.

   No one awaited me – a depressing arrival. When I telephoned I was told that Krishnamurti was not at Ojai but at Carmel, where he had been staying for the last few weeks. But I was assured by the voice at the other end that I would like Carmel, which was not very far from San Francisco, much better than Ojai.

   After I had got over my first disappointment, I was glad to be going to Carmel. I remembered Carmel from a previous visit to California, and I anticipated that it would offer more possibilities of quite and concentration with its proximity to Hollywood.

   I left Hollywood in the evening in pouring rain. I had to leave the train at Monterey, and I telephoned from the station to Krishnamurti to inform him of my arrival. Half an hour later a car pulled up in front of the station and Krishnamurti jumped out.

III

    I had not seen him for a number of years. There was still the graceful slenderness of appearance, but the face had no longer its former boyish smoothness. Seven years ago he had radiated nothing so strongly as beauty and, though already older, he had looked a youth in his early twenties. Now the cheeks seemed hollower, and under the eyes there were deep shadows. Silver threads ran through the thick black hair, and the lines of the face betrayed, perhaps, some hidden worry or conflict – or was this merely the evidence of increased maturity?

    We drove out to Carmel, which was several miles away. It had stopped raining, and the countryside was emerging from its drabness. In the morning sun the plains were green and golden and the hills and mountains purple and violet.

    Since all the rooms were occupied in the little hotel in which Krishnamurti was staying, he took me to a larger one nearby. My hotel was situated in the very midst of huge pines, on a hill overlooking the sea. Except for the dining room and the lounge, the hotel consisted of a number of small huts, scattered in the woods. This was a particularly attractive way of living. You had your own hut with its little front porch, and your own grounds. Pines, shrubs and innumerable plants grew between the various huts, situated on different levels. The effect was pleasing and picturesque, and you could work or relax in your room without being disturbed by any of the other hotel guests.

    After I had taken a look around my new home and expressed my delight with it, Krishnamurti said: ‘I don’t quite know what you want from me, or whether I’ll be able to satisfy you. How do you propose to proceed?

    ‘Let us just be together as much as possible, if you can bear it’, I answered. ‘We will talk, and things will probably develop automatically. I came here to pick your brains and to ask you many indiscreet questions’, I added, not quite as a joke.

    Krishnamurti promised to visit me that afternoon, when we would go for a long walk and have our first conversation; in the evening we would dine together, and I would meet the people whom among he lived.

    We were both very fond of walking, but heavy clouds gathered during the afternoon, and when Krishnamurti came to fetch me, it rained so hard that we had to remain indoors. Between the trunks of pines outside my window you could overlook the sea covered with the white combs of hurrying waves. I was slightly nervous at the thought of our first conversation. The lack of common daily experiences tends to make such a conversation artificial.

    In several books and in many articles attacks had been launched against Krishnamurti, and as far as I was aware he had not answered them. There was, for example, the question of his attitude with regard to the claims of a second Christ made on his behalf; again there was the question of his finances and of his private life. I considered that our conversation could serve no useful purpose while there remained a doubt in my mind as to Krishnamurti’s absolute honesty of purpose.

    I said, without looking him straight in the face: ‘I am afraid my first question will seem tactless to you. But I have not come all this way to enjoy a polite conversation with you or to plunge into abstract philosophical discussions. I came to find out the truth. I want to be able to tell my readers that I believed what you have told me, and therefore the first thing I ask of you is absolute frankness and honesty. Otherwise I shall feel that my whole journey out here will have been in vain. I may perhaps formulate my request by quoting the relevant passage from a biography of Mrs. Besant by Theodore Besterman. This is what the author has to say about you: “Mr. Krishnamurti is now in a position in which he is able to do much good; the message he is bringing to the world is one which is badly needed; if he can succeed in inducing a large and influential number of people to adopt these views and to act on them, the benefit conferred on the world would be incalculable. But Mr. Krishnamurti must realize that, as an advocate of truth in the largest sense, he must himself act the Truth. He has been very frank, but he must be franker still. Up to 1929 Mr. Krishnamurti’s life was entangled in a complex network of far-reaching claims. Mr. Krishnamurti must tell us the truth about these things, however painful it will necessarily be to discuss his past friends in public.”’

    Krishnamurti took my hand with an almost passionate gesture, and said: ‘Now listen. No apologies are necessary. You can ask me anything you want, the most tactless, the most intimate questions. There is no privacy in my life, and everyone may hear any detail that may interest him. Let us put our whole relationship on that basis, and it will save us a lot of unnecessary trouble. Ask anything you want – go ahead.’

    I decided to begin with a point, the best formulation of which I found in the same book by Mr. Besterman. It dealt with Krishnamurti’s authorship of a short mystical book, which he was supposed to have written as a little boy, but under the guidance of the ‘master’ preparing him for an ‘initiation’. I went on: ‘This is what Besterman says about one of your earliest “crimes”: “… he must tell us the truth about the authorship of such books as At the feet of the master, which appear under his name… I must say in the plainest terms that so long as Mr. Krishnamurti does not speak to us frankly about these years before 1929 he will never obtain the ear of intelligent and educated people…”

    Krishnamurti became pensive for a second and said: ‘People have asked me that question before. Some of them were satisfied with my answer, others weren’t. For anyone who does not know me well it may be difficult at first to accept my answer. I am bound to say a few words about myself before I can answer your question. You must have noticed that I have got an extremely bad memory for what one may call physical realities. When you arrived this morning I could not remember whether we had met two, three or ten years ago. Neither can I remember where and how we met. People used to call me a dreamer and they accused me, quite rightly, of being desperately vague. I was hopeless at school in India. Teachers or friends would talk to me, I would listen to them, and yet I wouldn’t have the faintest notion of what they were talking about. I don’t recollect whether I used to think about anything in particular at such moments, and if so, what about. I must have been dreaming, since facts failed to impress themselves upon my memory. I remember vaguely having written something when I was a boy educated by Bishop Leadbeater, but I haven’t the slightest recollection whether I wrote a whole book or only a few pages. I don’t know what Leadbeater did with the pages I wrote, whether he corrected them or not, whether they were kept or destroyed. I don’t know whether I wrote of my own accord or whether I was influenced by some power outside myself. I wish I knew. I don’t claim to be a writer, but it seems to me that no-one can ever tell whether a writer is directed by a power outside or just by his own brain and his own emotions. I would very much like to know the hidden subtleties of that complex process which is called writing. I, too, would like to know the facts about the writing of the book At the feet of the master. I can still see myself sitting at a table and writing something that did not come at all easily to me. It must be some twenty-five years ago.’

    ‘How old are you now?’

    ‘I can’t tell. In India age matters less than in the West, and records of age are not kept. According to my passport I was born in 1897. But I can’t vouch for the accuracy of this.’

    The atmosphere seemed by now intimate enough for what I considered the most difficult question to put to him. I personally attached little importance to it, but I knew that people interested in Krishnamurti were always discussing it. ‘Many people are sceptical’, I said, ‘with regard to you because you have never denied the claims made on your behalf. You have never got up and said clearly: “All this talk about my being the World Teacher is bunkum, I deny the truth of it.”’

‘I never either denied or affirmed that I was Christ or anybody else’, Krishnamurti replied. ‘Such attributions are utterly meaningless to me.’

    ‘But not to the people who come to listen to you’, I interrupted.

    ‘Had I said yes, they would have wanted me to perform miracles, walk on water or awaken the dead. Had I said no, I am not Christ, they would have taken this as an authoritative statement and acted accordingly. I am, however, against all authority in spiritual matters, against all standards created by one person for the sake of others. I could not possibly say either yes or no. You will probably understand this better after you have been with me for a few days, and after we have had several talks. Today I can only say that I consider my own person of no special importance, Christ or no Christ. What matters is whether what I say can help people or not. Any confirmation or denial on my part would only evoke corresponding expectations on the part of the people. When I visit India people ask me: “Why do you wear European clothes and eat every day? You cannot be a true teacher. If you were one, you would be fasting and walking about in a loincloth.” My answer to this can only be that everyone teaches what it is his particular duty to teach and that everyone has to lead his own life. It does not follow that because Gandhi wears only a loincloth and Christ walked on water, I must do likewise. The labels for my personality are irrelevant. But there was another reason as well for never denying clearly the claims made on my behalf. It was regard for Dr. Besant. Had I said that I was not the World Teacher, people would have cried, “Mrs. Besant is a liar!” My categorical denial would have harmed and hurt her. By saying nothing I did spare her without harming anyone else.’

    ‘Why did you go on lecturing even after renouncing your organization?’

    Krishnamurti seemed surprised. ‘I never thought of that’, he said after a short pause; ‘I went on lecturing out of habit, I suppose. I was made to do it since boyhood; it became a sort of tradition with me, and I just went on doing it. I suppose I was never quite conscious in those days of what I was doing. It is only in the last few years that I have become fully aware of all my daily actions and that I no longer act as though walking in a dream.’

    ‘I believe you, Krishnaji, but do you think my readers will?’

    >‘I can help neither you nor them if they won’t. I am not hiding anything from you, I am telling you the whole truth. I presume that people with a strongly developed sense of facts and a good memory must find me exasperating. But I cannot help that.’

    I had never spoken to Krishnamurti since he had given up his huge organization, and I was anxious to know more about that momentous decision. Then we should be able to turn to more important matters.

    ‘When did you decide to give up that organization which had been built up for you, and to renounce all your earthly possessions? And why did you really do it?’ I asked. ‘Was it in 1929 that you spoke about it for the first time?’

    ‘No, a year or two before. But I did not feel clearly about it till 1929. I talked to Rajagopal about it; we had long discussions, and eventually I spoke to Mrs. Besant about my decision. She only said: “For me you are the Teacher, no matter what you decide to do. I cannot understand your decision, but I shall have to respect it.” For a certain time she appeared to be rather shaken, but she was a splendid woman and at last she seemed to agree with what I was doing. I gave up my organization because I came to realize beyond all doubt that anything of that sort must be hindering if you want to find truth. Churches, dogmas, ceremonies are nothing but stumbling blocks on the road to truth.’

    ‘But you go on lecturing even today, don’t you?’

    ‘Indeed I do. I feel more than ever that I can help people. Of course I cannot give them happiness or truth. No-one can. But I can help them to discern a way of approaching truth. Last year I went to Australia and at times I had to speak to ten thousand people. In a few months’ time I shall probably go on a lecture tour to most of the South American countries.’

I had intended to question Krishnamurti about his financial situation and the moment seemed particularly appropriate. ‘Do you make much money during these tours?’

‘None at all,’ Krishnamurti answered, ‘though they pay for my expenses.’

There are so many stories regarding your financial situation,’ I said, ‘that it would make it easier for me if you could enlighten me about it. Some people accuse you of having accepted large fortunes left to you by a number of very rich people in England and America – it is said, in short, that you are practically a millionaire.’

Krishnamurti laughed. ‘Do you know what I possess? A couple of suits, a few books, a few personal belongings – and no money. There are a few kind friends who help to keep me alive. They ask me to stay with them; they pay my modest expenses when I travel. Take Carmel for example: I stay at my hotel as the guest of an old friend who has got a house in the neighbourhood and who knows that I love working here. If I had money I should give it away as I did once before. My needs are so small that what I receive is ample. If no-one gave me anything I should just work for my living.’

‘I am glad we have cleared up that point’, I said; ‘from now on I need no longer feel like counsel for the prosecution, and we can spend time on things that really matter.’

‘Then let’s start straight away and go have some dinner’, Krishnamurti exclaimed, getting up. ‘We dine early here, not like you in England. I generally go to bed soon after nine, and get up in the morning before six.’

It was quite dark outside, and we drove slowly to Krishnamurti’s hotel. The road took us higher and higher over cliffs and through pine woods, while from deep below came the thunder of waves breaking against the rocks. The road was narrow and steep, and there were many sharp corners. On one side there seemed to be a deep precipice. ‘I don’t drive very much these days’, Krishnamurti said as his hand lay rather vaguely on the steering wheel; and he added with a chuckle: ‘I hope you insured your life before you left England?’

IV

The weather was glorious next morning, and I went to fetch Krishnamurti for a walk. We had not gone very far when we reached a clearing in the huge pine trees up on the hills, with an endless view over the picturesque coastline. We decided that it would be easier to talk sitting down. Krishnamurti sat down in Eastern fashion with crossed legs on the heather-covered ground. I had already worked out a plan which would enable us to talk every day about certain definite subjects, hoping that this would help us not to lose ourselves and that it would introduce a certain structure into our talks.

‘What is your message today?’ I began.

Krishnamurti’s answer came in a very definite tone: ‘I have no message. If I had one, most people would accept it blindly and try to live up to it, merely because of the authority which they try to force upon me.’

‘But what do you tell people when they come and ask you to help them?’

‘Most people come and ask me whether they can learn through experience.’

‘And your answer is?’

‘That they cannot.’

‘No?’

‘Of course not. You cannot learn spiritual truth through experience. Don’t you see? Let us assume that you had a deep sorrow and you learned how to fight against it. This experience will induce you to apply the same method of overcoming grief during your next sorrow.’

‘That does not seem wrong to me.’

‘But it is wrong. Instead of doing something vital, you try to adapt a dead method to life. Your former experience has become a prescription, a medicine. But life is too complicated, too subtle for that. It never repeats itself; no two sorrows in your life are alike. Each new sorrow or joy must be dealt within that particular fashion that the uniqueness of the experience requires.’

‘How can that be done?’

‘By eliminating the memory of former experiences; by destroying all recollection of our actions and reactions.’

‘What remains after we have destroyed them all?’

‘An inner preparedness that brings you nearer truth. You never ought to act according to old habits but in the way life wants you to act – spontaneously, on the spur of the moment.’

‘Does this apply to everything in life?’

‘It does. You must try to eliminate from your life all old habits and systems of behaviour, because no two moments in life are exactly similar.’

‘But all this is only negative, and I don’t find anything positive at all in your scheme of things.’

Krishnamurti smiled and moved nearer me: ‘You don’t need to search for the positive; don’t force it. It is always there, though hidden behind a huge heap of old experiences. Eliminate all of them, and truth – or what you call the positive – will be there. It comes up automatically, you cannot help it.’

‘I pondered over his words for a while, then I said: ‘You have just used the word “truth”. What is truth, according to you?’

‘Call it truth, liberation, or even God. It is all the same. Truth is for me the release of the mind from all burdens of memory.’ This definition was new to me, but before I could say a word Krishnamurti went on: ‘Truth is awareness, constant awareness of life within and without you. Do you follow?’ His voice became almost insistent.

‘I do, but please explain to me what you mean by “awareness”’, I replied.

Krishnamurti came even closer to me, and his voice became even more persuasive. ‘What matters is that we should live completely at every moment of our lives. That is the only real liberation. Truth is nothing abstract, it is neither philosophy, occultism nor mysticism. It is everyday life, it is perceiving the meaning and wisdom of life around us. The only life worth dealing with is our present life and every one of its moments. But to understand it we must liberate our mind from all memories, and allow it to appreciate spontaneously the present moment.’

‘I take it that by spontaneous appreciation you mean an appreciation dictated solely by the circumstances of that very moment?’

‘Exactly – there can be no other spontaneity of life; and that is precisely what I call real awareness. Do you understand?’

‘I do, but I doubt whether such awareness can really be expressed in words… I think it can only be understood if we actually experience it ourselves. No description can possibly do it justice.’

Krishnamurti did not answer immediately. He was lying on the ground, facing the sky. ‘It is so’, he said slowly; ‘but what is one to do?’

‘What indeed, Krishnaji? I wondered what you really meant when you told me yesterday that you tried to help people by talking to them. Can anyone who has not himself gone through that state of awareness of which you speak comprehend what it means? Those who possess it do not need to hear about it.’

Krishnamurti paused again, and I could hear that he was affected by the turn our conversation had taken. He said after a while: ‘And yet this is the only ay one can help people. I think that one clarifies people’s minds by discussing these things with them. Eventually they will perceive truth for themselves.’

I knew that Krishnamurti disliked all questions that seemed to arise out of mere curiosity or to depend upon abstract speculation, but I nevertheless asked him: ‘Don’t you think that the limits of time and space must cease to exist once we establish within ourselves a constant awareness of life?’

‘Of course they must. The past is only a result of memories. It is dead stuff. Once we cease to carry about with us this ballast there will be no time limits with regard to the past. The same is true in a slightly different way with regard to the future. But all this talk about seeing into the future or the past is only a result of purely intellectual curiosity. At every lecture I give half a dozen people always ask me about their future and past incarnations. As though it mattered what they were or what they will be. All that is real is the present. Whether we can look into the to-morrow or across continents is meaningless from a spiritual point of view.’

‘Don’t you think that conscious perception through time and space can be very valuable? Don’t you think that the results obtained by Rudolf Steiner’s occult perceptions are really helpful to humanity?’

‘I have never studied Steiner, and I wish you would tell me more about him. All I know about Steiner comes from Dr. Besant’s occasional remarks. I think she had great admiration for his unusual gifts, and was sorry that their relationship had to be broken, but I never studied him properly. As for occult perceptions, for me they are not particularly spiritual: they are merely a certain method of investigation. That’s all. They might be spiritual at times, but they are not always or necessarily so.’

‘You have never read any of Steiner’s books?’

‘No, nor have I ever read any of the other philosophers…’

‘But Steiner was not a philosopher’, I interrupted.

‘Yes, I know. I only meant writers of a philosophical or similar kind. I cannot read them. I am sorry, but I just can’t. Living and reacting to life is what I am interested in. All theory is abhorrent to me.’

Although noon was at hand and it was growing very hot, Krishnamurti suggested a walk towards the sea. ‘Are you writing anything at present?’ I asked him when we reached the road going down to the sea.

‘Yes, I am preparing a book. But it is nothing consecutive – just a book of thoughts.’

‘What about your poetry?’

‘I feel poetry, but somehow I cannot write it at present.’

‘What books do you read? I remember that at one time you used to read a great deal, and that you liked choosing your friends especially from among artists and writers.’

‘What books does one read?’ Krishnamurti answered, slightly embarrassed.

Questions about his personal habits always seemed to make him uncomfortable. I noticed this repeatedly during my visit at Carmel. Though he derived every detail of his teaching from personal experiences, and preferred talking about it in a personal way, it seemed to me that he withdrew himself, as it were, whenever I put questions that were not connected directly with his mission in life or that dealt with such matters as his personal tastes and habits. Discussion for the satisfaction of intellectual curiosity seemed to cause him discomfort. This was not any result, I believe, of what is usually called natural modesty. It was rather as though he tried to remain perpetually on a plane of inner awareness, and felt uneasy whenever he had to switch over to a plane of intellectual discussion. But he loved ordinary conversation about topical subjects, politics, music, the theatre or travel. It was only when the outside world was brought into direct intellectual relationship with his personality that he shrank away from such interrogation.

‘I am not a specialist of any kind’, said Krishnamurti, in answer to my original question. ‘I read everything that seems interesting – Huxley, Lawrence, Joyce, Andre Gide…’

‘Did you really mean what you said when you told me that you never read any philosophy?’

‘Goodness me, yes! What should I read philosophy for?’

‘Perhaps to learn from it.’

‘Do you seriously think that you can learn from books? You can accumulate knowledge, you can learn facts and technicalities, but you cannot learn truth, happiness, or any of the other things that really matter. You can read for your entertainment, for thousands of other reasons, but not to learn essential things. You can only learn from living and acknowledging the life that is your very own. But not from the lives of others.’

‘Does that mean that in your opinion nothing can ever be learned from books, from the experience of others?’

’I shall refrain from saying definitely yes, though I feel inclined to do so. The knowledge of others only builds up barriers within ourselves, barriers that stand in the way of an impulsive reaction to life. Of course it is easier to go through life learning from the experience of others, leaning on Aristotle, on Kant, on Bergson or on Freud; but that is not living your life, facing reality. It is merely evading reality by hiding behind a screen created by someone else.’

‘Do many, among thousands who come to listen to you, ask you questions about religious matters?’

‘Most of them do. There are three questions that crop up over and over again, and no meeting is complete without the, whether I speak in India, in Australia, in Europe or in California. I deduce from their popularity that they must deal with the three most urgent spiritual problems of modern man. They are questions about the values of experience, of prayer and of religion in general.’

Krishnamurti had already given me his opinions of experience and religion, so I only asked: ‘What is your attitude towards prayer?’

‘Prayer in which you ask God for something is in my opinion utterly wrong.’

‘Even if you ask God for help to achieve the awareness you were talking about?’

‘Even then. How can anything be spiritual – and prayer, I take it, is supposed to be something spiritual – that asks for a reward? This is not spirituality but economics, or whatever else you like to call it. In spiritual truth things just are; but there can be no requests, promises or rewards. Things happen in life because they simply have to happen. A reward can never be anything else but fixed, stationary, if you understand what I mean. Spiritual life, true life, must be always moving – fluctuating, alive.’

‘But cannot prayer be just a bridge along which we move towards inner awareness?’

‘It can, but that is not what people generally understand by prayer. What you now mean is simply a state of real living, of inner expectation. This identifies us with truth. Do you see the difference?’

‘I do, and I therefore presume that you deny all “crystallized” forms invented by man for the attainment of truth, such as meditation, yoga or other methods of mental exercise.’

‘Yes, it is so. How can you expect to achieve something which is constantly fluctuating through a method that, in your own words, is crystallized – or in my words, dead? People often come to me and ask about the value of meditation. All I can tell them is that I see no reason why they should meditate on one particular subject, instead of meditating on everything that enters their life, because it seems to me that deliberate concentration on one particular thought, eliminating all others, must create an inner conflict. I consider it wiser to meditate on whatever happens to enter your mind: whether it be about what you will do this afternoon or as to which suit you will put on. Such thoughts are as important – if attended to with your full inner awareness – as any philosophy. It is not the subject of your thought that matters so much as the quality of your thinking. Try to complete a thought instead of banishing it, and your mind will become a wonderful creative instrument instead of being a battlefield of competing thoughts. Your meditation will then develop into a constant alertness of mind. This is what I understand by meditation.’

I remembered Keyserling’s answer to my question on meditation, and was struck by the similarity of the views held by these two so different men. ‘Keyserling’, I said, ‘quite recently told me something of much the same sort. He said that for him meditation was nothing else but facing reality as it came along.’

‘I agree with him in that respect. You can only find truth only by your own constant awareness of life. You must not try to live up to somebody else’s standards, because inevitably those of two different men can never be really identical.’

‘Does this mean that you believe in the absolute equality of men?’

‘Of course I do, though not in the way Communism understands it. Because I preach equality of races, religions and castes, Communists think that I preach Communism. American communists often come to visit me at Ojai and say: “We believe you because you preach the things that we do. But why don’t you join our party?” They don’t understand that I am not only unable to join their party, or any other party, but that I cannot possibly agree with their methods. You can achieve equality among men only by greater knowledge, by deeper understanding, by better education, by making people grasp what life means. How can you do this if the leaders themselves don’t know, if they themselves behave like automatons and preach their particular gospels not from an inner awareness if life and its necessities – which means according to real truth – but by repeating over and over again certain formulae invented by others. You cannot achieve equality by taking their possessions away from people. What you must take away from them is their instinct of possessiveness. This does not apply only to land and money, a factory or a sable coat. It also applies to a book, to a flower, to your wife, your lover or your child. I don’t mean to say that you must not have or enjoy any of these things. Of course you must! But you must enjoy them for the sake of the joy they transmit, and not for the feeling of pleasure that their possession gives you. This fundamental attitude has to be changed before anything else can be done. Nothing can be altered by taking things from the rich and giving them to the poor, thus developing their feeling of greed and possessiveness.’

V

‘Life in England had taught me to assume that sex was of much smaller importance than I had to believe it to be in the days when I lived on the Continent. I had learned to treat sex in the way one treats poorer relations or in the way Victorian society treated women’s legs: pretending that they do not exist and never mentioning them. Such an attitude may provide a temporary solution, and it is probably of practical value in all the more conventional circumstances of life, but it does not solve the essential problem. It brings no happiness, nor does it release any of those forces that sex, properly and honestly expressed, ought to create. Hypocrisy, or rather make-believe in matters of sex, may be laudable in the face of certain necessarily superficial aspects of the life of a community; but hypocrisy can never be more than merely a means of escape – it shirks the facing of reality. Hypocrisy pushes sex behind hundreds of screens, each one of which can hide it for only a short while, without doing anything to solve the essential underlying problem. Among the few people who find sexual satisfaction in perfect love the sex problem does not exist – but such people are few. The majority are not capable of regulating their sex impulses in a satisfactory way. Listen to the cases in the police courts of any country; ask your medical friends to tell you the whole truth about themselves, speak seriously to educationalists – and you will find out this sad reality for yourself.’

I asked Krishnamurti whether he thought it wrong for people with a very strong sexual impulse to give way to it. ‘Nothing is wrong if it is the result of something that is really within you’, was his answer. ‘Follow your urge, if it is not created by artificial stimuli but is burning within you – and there will be no sex problem in your life. A problem only exists arises when something within us that is real is opposed by intellectual considerations.’

‘But surely it is not only intellectual considerations that cause many people to believe the satisfaction of a strong sex urge to be wrong, even if it is too strong to be suppressed.’

‘Suppression can never solve a problem. Nor can self-discipline do it. That is only substituting one problem for another.’

‘But how do you expect millions of people, who have become slaves of sex, to solve the friction between their urge and that judicial sense which tries to prevent them from giving way? In England you will find fewer people openly ruled by sex, but consider America; consider most of the countries of the continent of Europe; consider many of the Eastern nations – for them their sex needs are a grave problem.’

‘I noticed an expression of slight impatience on Krishnamurti’s face. ‘For me this problem does not exist’, he said; ‘after all, sex is an expression of love, isn’t it? I personally derive as much joy from touching the hand of a person I am fond of as another might get from sexual intercourse.’

‘But what about the ordinary person who has not attained to your state of maturity, or whatever it should be called?’

‘To begin with, people ought to see sex in its proper proportions. It is not sex as a vital inner urge that dominates most people nowadays so much as the images and thoughts of sex. Our whole modern life is propitious to them. Look around you. You can hardly open a newspaper, travel by the underground or walk along a street without coming across advertisements and posters that appeal to your sex instincts in order to sing the praises of a pair of stockings, a new toothpaste or a particular brand of cigarette. I cannot imagine that so many semi-naked girls have ever before walked through the pages of newspapers and magazines. In every shop, cinema and café the lift attendants, waitresses and shopgirls are made up to look like harlots so that they may appeal to your sex instincts. They themselves are not aware of this, but their short skirts, their exposed legs, their painted faces, their girlish coiffures, the constant physical appeal which they are made to exercise the over the customer do nothing but stimulate your sex instincts. Oh, it is beastly, simply beastly! Sex has been degraded to become the servant of unimaginative salesmanship. Someone will start a new magazine and, instead of racking his brains for an interesting and alluring title-page, all he does is to publish a coloured picture of a girl with half-opened lips, suggestively hiding her breasts and looking altogether like a whore. You are being constantly attacked, and you no longer know whether it is your own sex urge or the sex vibration produced artificially by life around you. This degrading, emphatic appeal to our sex instinct is one of the most beastly signs of our civilization. Take it away, and most of the so-called sex urge is gone.’

‘I am not a moralist’, Krishnamurti added after a pause; ‘I have nothing against sex, and I am against sex suppression, sex hypocrisy and even what is called sexual self-discipline, which is only a specific form of hypocrisy. But I don’t want to sex to be cheapened, to be introduced into all those forms of life where it does not belong.’

‘Nevertheless, Krishnaji, your world without its beastly sex appeal will found only in Utopia. We are dealing with the world as it actually is, and as it will probably be in days to come, long after you and I are gone.’

‘That may be so, but it does not concern me. I am not a doctor; I cannot prescribe half-remedies; I deal simply with fundamental spiritual truth. If you are in search of remedies and half-methods you must go to a psychologist. I can only repeat that if you readjust yourself in such a way as to allow love to become an omnipresent feeling in which sex will be an expression of genuine affection, all the wretched sex problems will cease to exist.’

He looked up for a few seconds and then gave a deep sigh. ‘Oh, if you people could only see that these problems don’t exist in reality, and that it is only yourselves who create them, and that it is yourselves who must solve them! I cannot do it for you – nobody can if he is genuine and faithful to truth. I can only deal with spiritual truth and not with spiritual quackery.’ His voice seemed full of disillusion and he stopped and lay back on the ground.

I began to understand what Christ must have meant when He spoke of His love without distinction for every human being, and of all men being brothers. Indeed, the omnipresent feeling of love (in which sex would become meaningless without being eliminated) seemed the only form of love worthy of a conscious and mature human being. Nevertheless I wondered whether Krishnamurti himself had reached that stage of life-awareness in which personal love had given place to universal love, in which every human being would be approached with equal affection.

‘Don’t you love some people more than others?’ I asked. ‘After all, even a person like yourself is bound to have emotional preferences.’

Krishnamurti’s voice was very quiet when he began to speak again. ‘I must first say something before I can give you a satisfactory reply to your question. Otherwise you may not be able to accept it in the spirit in which it is offered. I want you to know that these talks are quite as important to me as they can possibly be to you. I don’t speak to you merely to satisfy the curiosity of an author who happens to be writing about me, or to help you personally. I talk mainly to clarify a number of things for myself. This I consider one of the great values of conversation. You must not think therefore that I ever say anything unless I believe it with my whole heart. I am not trying to impress, to convince or teach you. Even if you were my oldest friend or my brother I should speak in just the same way. I am saying all this because I want you to accept my words as simple statements of opinion and not as attempts to convert or persuade. You asked me just now about personal love, and my answer is that I no longer know it. Personal love does not exist for me. Love is for me a constant inner state. It does not matter to me whether I am now with you, with my brother or with an utter stranger – I have the same feeling of affection for all and each of you. People sometimes think that I am superficial and cold, that my love is negative and not strong enough to be directed to one person only. But it is not indifference, it is merely a feeling of love that is constantly within me and that I simply cannot help giving to everyone I come into touch with.’ He paused for a second as though wondering whether I believed him, and then said: ‘People were shocked by my recent behavior after Mrs. Besant’s death. I did not cry, I did not seem distressed but was serene; I went on with my ordinary life, and people said that I was devoid of all human feeling. How could I explain to them that, as my love went to everyone, it could not be affected by the departure of one individual, even if this was Mrs. Besant. Grief can no longer take possession of you when love has become the basis of your entire being.’

‘There must be people in your life who mean nothing to you or whom you even dislike?’

Krishnamurti smiled: ‘There aren’t any people I dislike. Don’t you see that it is not I who directs my love towards on person, strengthening it here, weakening it there? Love is simply there like the colour of my skin, the sound of my voice, no matter what I do. And therefore it is bound to be there even when I am surrounded by people I don’t know or people whom I “should” not care fore. Sometimes I am forced to be in a crowd of noisy people that I don’t know; it may be some meeting or a lecture or perhaps a waiting room in a station, where the atmosphere is full of noise, smoke, the smell of tobacco and all the other things that affect me physically. Even then my feeling of love for everyone is as strong as it is under this sky and on this lovely spot. People think that I am conceited or a hypocrite when I tell them that grief and sorrow and even death do not affect me. It is not conceit. Love that makes me like that is so natural to me that I am always surprised that people can question it. And I feel this unity not only with human beings. I feel it with trees, with the sea, with the whole world around me. Physical differentiations no longer exist. I am not speaking of the mental images of a poet; I am speaking of reality.’

When Krishnamurti stopped his eyes were shining, and there was in him that specific quality of beauty which easily appears sentimental or artificial when described in words, and yet is so convincing when met with in real life. It did not seem magnetism that radiated from him but rather an inner illumination that is hard to define, and that manifests itself as sheer beauty. I now experienced the feeling we sometimes have when confronted by strong impressions of Nature. Reaching the top of a mountain, or the soft breezes of early spring, with the promise of daffodils and leafy woods can produce occasionally such states of unsophisticated contentment.

VI

Krishnamurti had told me a lot during the few hours on the hill, and I felt on our walk home that I must first digest it all, and that it would be wiser to remain by myself for the rest of the day.

I read during the afternoon the pamphlets that Krishnamurti had given me, and that contained his recent lectures at Ojai and in Australia. Though I recognized in these many of his fundamental beliefs, I was struck again by the words in which he expressed to an Australian audience that it is essential to eliminate the I, the ego, in order to see truth. ‘Happiness, or truth or God cannot be found as the outcome of the ego. The ego is to me nothing but the result of the environment.’ I wondered whether the people at large could grasp this idea. Weren’t they always taught that they have to develop their ego, their personality, before they can hope to achieve anything important in life? Would it not be wiser if Krishnamurti proceeded step by step, teaching that inner awareness can be found only gradually and after long and slow preparation?

That was my first question when we settled down next morning under the pines overlooking the ocean. ‘Mrs. Besant once said to me,’ Krishnamurti answered, “I am nothing but a nurse who helps people who are unable to move by themselves and who are in need of crutches. This I consider to be my duty. You, Krishnaji, appeal to people who do not need crutches, who can walk on their own feet. Go on talking to them, but please let me speak to those who need crutches. Don’t tell them that all crutches are wrong, because some people cannot live without them. Please, do not tell them to refuse to follow anyone on whom they can lean.”’

‘What was your answer?’ I interrupted. ‘I think Mrs. Besant’s request was very fair.’

‘I said to her: “I cannot possibly do what you are asking me. I consider that any definite method or advice is a crutch, and thus a barrier to truth. I simply must go on denying all crutches – even yours.” Do not blame me for having been cruel to a woman of eighty, to whom I seem to have meant a great deal and whom I always loved and admired.’

‘I see your point, Krishnaji; nevertheless I question its wisdom’, I said. ‘The majority of people are neither independent nor conscious of themselves – that’s why they need help. Your attitude might be considered cruel. Your duty is, I take it, to help people and to help as many as you can. Doesn’t that mean that you have to consider the overwhelming majority of people?’

‘I cannot possibly make distinctions between a majority and a minority; for it is wrong to assume that there is one truth for the masses and another for the elect. All people are spiritually equal.’

‘But even Jesus Christ had to differentiate. He first gave His message to a small minority before it could become public property.’

‘Is it really so? He gave it to anyone who was willing to accept it. Whether He spoke directly to twelve or to twelve thousand people does not alter this. He spoke of universal things that affected everyone in the world, no matter what their racial, religious, intellectual or social standing. He never appealed to a minority only.’

‘But wouldn’t you consider it wiser to prepare people slowly for a truth that requires such a thorough inner adjustment? Only a few people are ripe for the necessary inner revolution.’

‘These few matter. Those who genuinely search for truth, who study it from every angle, who test it and open themselves to it, will find it easy to live in constant inner awareness. Preparing people for it would mean compromising. And a compromise is a bargain between truth and untruth. How can you expect me to preach untruth – no matter in what form – after having found truth? I am not a quack. I am only concerned with spiritual truth.’

‘So what should the people do who cannot walk through life without crutches?’

‘Let them go on using them – but I shall have nothing to do with them. People who need a sanatorium must not come to me.’ Krishnamurti came nearer to me and took my hand, as he would sometimes do when in despair at my inability to see his point; and then he said: ‘You must understand that I can only talk to people who are willing to revolutionize themselves in order to find truth. You cannot find truth by living on an emotional diet or by using an elaborate system of mental exercises.’

I began to see that no compromise was possible and that Krishnamurti could only offer truth with all its revolutionary consequences or else no truth at all. In spite of all this I said: ‘I think you are right; but yet I ask myself, How can truth, as conceived by you, be communicated to the masses?’

The same expression of sadness came into Krishnamurti’s face that I had noticed before when I questioned him on that point. He began to speak slowly, as though talking to himself: ‘I, too, often ask myself, How? When I speak in India more than ten thousand people will come to a meeting to listen to me. Thousands come to listen to me in America – thousands in Europe – thousands in Australia. I know that most of them come simply out of curiosity or for fun, and only a few because they are trying to find something which they haven’t found elsewhere. How many of them return home happier or richer?… And yet I know that I must go on doing it. One can help people only by talking to them, by discussing truth with them.’ He stopped for a moment and then turned towards me: ‘As you know, I abhor the whole idea of discipleship and all the futility of a so-called spiritual organization; yet at times I wonder whether I shouldn’t prepare a few helpers who might be able to enlighten those people who won’t listen to me because of my former notoriety as “the messiah”. They might just listen to my “pupils” who have no past to live down. I must confess that it makes me sad that I cannot help as many people as I should like to.’

We got up, and Krishnamurti insisted upon accompanying me halfway towards my hotel. The sea was stretched at the bottom of the steep road, on one side of which was a private garden full of red , blue and yellow flowers and minosa trees covered with thick clusters of golden blossoms. Beyond the garden hills rose swiftly towards the sky. Though the sun was shining, a faint haze lingered over the sea. November was approaching, but the light, the heat and the vegetation suggested July. When we reached the bottom of the road we separated, and I walked on by myself along the coast, Krishnamurti turning back up the hill. I looked round after a minute and saw him walking very slowly; his head was hanging down and his shoulders drooping – his shoulders looked narrower than ever before. I felt like running back and saying something to him – but I did not do it.

VII

What effect had Krishnamurti’s message on those who had had no proper preparation for it or no chance of daily conversation with him? I wondered whether they found it very hard to grasp, and whether they felt it beyond their powers. Now the moment had arrived to learn something about the reactions of other people.

Carmel seemed particularly propitious for such a task. There were at Carmel not only those average Americans who would react to Krishnamurti’s message in the usual, that is to say, emotional rather than critical way, but also people with pronounced capacities for the understanding and criticism of it. Carmel was not what might be called a ‘colony’. It was not the Capri of English novelists and Russian religious ‘maniacs’; it was not the defenceless Positano upon which descended soon after the war hordes of German and American painters; it was not the Swiss Ascona in which Germanic dreamers were following many and varied gods; it was not even one of those fishing villages along the Mediterranean coast which, discovered by a fashionable Anglo-American dramatist or novelist, are turned overnight into a centre of international frivolity. Carmel was one of those faintly baroque survivals, scattered here and there under the pines and cedars along the coast, of California’s Spanish past. An antique church stood outside the miniature town with its main street called Ocean Avenue, its big drugstore in which everything could be bought from hot sandwiches to detective novels and chewing gum; there were shops in one-storey houses, faintly reminiscent of colonial architecture. There was even an art gallery, run by a few ladies and dedicated fearlessly both to music and pictorial art. Once a month the big white room of the art gallery would be transformed into a concert hall, with a miniature stage and many rows of little chairs. Musicians from all over the world, in need of a short rest during their American tour, would stop in Carmel for a couple of days on their journey between San Francisco and Los Angeles, and would give a recital in the white exhibition room with its modern pictures and its host of eager listeners. The residential houses were in smaller side streets, and lay in the midst of little gardens, adorned by hibiscus and fuchsias of unusual size. The woods and plains around Carmel had so far escaped suburbanization. One or two houses were built on some romantic promontory, overhanging the sea and commanding a limitless view of sky and coastline.

Though Carmel had become the home of many creative personalities, its life had not been deadened by an intellectual or artistic unity of purpose. Yet the presence of Krishnamurti seemed to be producing an as yet little visible common link, affecting the complexion of the community. Nevertheless his presence seemed to have focused the attention of the inhabitants of Carmel and of the neighbouring Dal Monte, Monterey and Pebble Beach. I was assured that even in the shops in Ocean Avenue people talked much less of Mr. Roosevelt or of the latest Hollywood scandals than of Krishnamurti.

Many of the inhabitants have approached Krishnamurti directly – some no doubt a curiosity awakened by the man’s former notoriety, a few out of religious need, and the greatest number perhaps because they were personally attracted by him. This class seemed by far the largest, and it represented most of the social and intellectual figures in the life of Carmel.

VIII

Among these people I met Robinson Jeffers, one of America’s greatest living poets. Although he was not interested in ‘spiritual movements’ or religious teachers, so that the name of Krishnamurti had meant nothing to him before they met, Robinson Jeffers was so attracted by Krishnamurti’s personality that the two men soon became friends. I was anxious to talk to Jeffers about Krishnamurti, and I gladly accepted an invitation to visit him and his charming wife.

They lived right on the coast in a house built by the poet’s own hands from the cobblestones that lay about the beach. He had brought them thence stone by stone until he had built the house – an unaided labour of five or six years. He spent another two years in erecting a medieval-looking tower in the garden, constructed also from stones found on the beach. This tower had a steep and spiral flight of steps, and on its top you entered a tiny and unexpected room, with paneled walls, a comfortable bench and a superb view, looking across the beach towards the sea. The sound of the waves, the dark outlines of the rocks – from the grey stones of which the tower and house had been built – the wind and the salty freshness of the atmosphere made you think of Cornwall.

I spent an afternoon in the small tower room, talking to my host about Krishnamurti. A log fire was burning in the small fireplace, and California seemed very far away. Robinson Jeffers was reserved and shy, and his persistent silence almost suggested an inner fear that a spoken word might destroy images maturing in his poet’s brain. He was wearing khaki breaches and leggings, and but for his dreamy eyes, and the great tenderness in the expression of his mouth, he might have been an English farmer. Both his wife and his friends had warned that I should have to do most of the talking, but once or twice I succeeded in making him speak. ‘For me’, he said in a slow and hesitant manner, ‘there is nothing wrong in Krishnamurti’s message – nothing that I must contradict.’

‘Do you think his message will ever become popular?’

‘Not at present. Most people won’t find it intelligible enough.’

‘What struck you most when you met him for the first time?’

‘His personality. Mrs. Jeffers often makes the remark that light seems to enter the room when Krishnamurti comes in, and I agree with her, for he himself is the most convincing illustration of his honest message. To me it does not matter whether he speaks well or not. I can feel his influence even without words. The other day we went together for a walk in the hills. We walked for almost ten miles and as I am a poor speaker we hardly talked at all – yet I felt happier after our walk. It is his very personality that seems to diffuse the truth and happiness of which he is always talking.’ Robinson Jeffers lit his pipe, which had gone out, and then again sat watching the flames in the grate.

‘Do you think Krishnamurti’s message is so matured as to have found its final formulation?’

‘It may be final, but I wonder whether it has quite matured yet. It will be mature when its words are intelligible to everyone. At present there is a certain thinness in them. Don’t you think so?’

‘I quite agree. I confess that at times I simply don’t know how to write about him. Whatever I put on paper sounds unconvincing and makes Krishnamurti appear the very antithesis of what he really is: it makes him look conceited, a prig or a complacent fellow. In writing, his arguments are irritating and his logic unconvincing. And yet they sound so true when he uses them in conversation. It is almost impossible to describe him, for so much depends upon his personality, and so little upon what he says.’

‘Yes, it is almost impossible to describe certain personalities.’

‘I think this may be mainly because Krishnamurti’s intellectual faculties have not developed quite as completely as the spiritual side of the man. After all, intellectually he is still a youth. Most of his life has been spent in the theosophical nursery. Most of his ideas were stifled in those days. Many teachers impress us by their knowledge; Krishnamurti does it by his very person, which he gives to his listeners and which inspires them, and not by his particular brand of wisdom.’

‘I suppose it is so’, replied Jeffers in his slow, quiet way. ‘Others will have to find a clear and convincing language to express his message. After all, it would not be the first time that the followers of a teacher have had to build the bridge across which a new message can reach the masses.’

I met several people in Carmel and also in other parts of America who expressed similar opinions. Some of the inhabitants of Carmel told me that they were unable to grasp Krishnamurti’s message or that they failed to see its practical value – but all of them confessed that he gave them a feeling of happiness and calm that they had never known before.

On Sunday afternoons anyone who wished could come to the hotel at which Krishnamurti stayed, and there join in a general discussion in the big lounge. I was more amused than impressed by these discussions, in which purely personal questions were asked, often irrelevant, or prompted merely by intellectual curiosity. I told Krishnamurti what I thought, but in his opinion he could help people to find truth in themselves if he and they evolved the answers together. Perhaps twenty, perhaps two hundred people would attend these Sunday discussions which created a nucleus for Krishnamurti’s message in California.

It was always Krishnamurti’s personality that most of all impressed people. They felt that here was a man who lived his teaching even more convincingly than he preached it. I was told that when Krishnamurti entered America he was granted a limited time of residence there. It was suggested to him, however, that, if he cared to state in his passport that he was a teacher, he would be allowed more favourable conditions. Friends urged him to describe himself, for the sake of his own convenience, as a teacher; but Krishnamurti refused to do so. An official acknowledgement of his status as a teacher would have produced many of those misleading implications which he had cast overboard when he dissolved all his organizations. Krishnamurti’s decision may seem pedantic, but it was the only possible step which could accord with his personal attitude towards truth.

IX

At the end of a week, spent almost constantly in Krishnamurti’s company, I felt that I could formulate my own opinions about his teaching. What were the main points of his message? Truth can only be the result of an inner illumination, and this can only be enjoyed by one who fully recognizes the many-sidedness of life. We find truth through permanent inner awareness of our thoughts, feelings and actions. Only such an awareness can free us automatically of from our shortcomings, or can solve our problems without our striving to force the solution of them. Life becomes a reality through a loving self-identification with every one of its moments, and not through our habitual and mechanical pursuits. No sacrifices of an ascetic or similar kind are necessary, for our former limitations are eliminated automatically by full living.

It was not difficult to see that Krishnamurti’s message was more or less the same as that of Christ, of Buddha or indeed any genuine religious teacher. All he demanded from people was that they should live a life of inner awareness. This, possible only through love and thought, opens to us the doors of truth. In such a life none of our self-created shortcomings – envy, jealousy, hatred and possessiveness – can exist,

The problem of how far Krishnamurti’s language could be understood seemed to be of paramount importance, and I decided to talk to him once again about it. It was one of my last days in Carmel, and I was walking with Krishnamurti. ‘I have been talking to all sorts of people who have met you,’ I said, ‘and I have tried to discover whether your teaching is as convincing to them as it is to me. Many consider it most difficult, and it makes me sad that they should find it so hard to understand what seems to me the simplest truth. I wonder why God should have made it so complicated?’ I sighed, but Krishnamurti only smiled: ‘It is not God, but ourselves. It seems complicated because of our power of free choice.’

‘Free choice?’ I interrupted in surprise.

‘Indeed, it is only our free choice which creates conflicts in our lives; and conflicts are responsible for deterioration. By free choice we begin to build up handicaps and complications which we are forced to drive out one by one if we are to make our way towards truth.’

‘Then we should despair, according to you, just because we have been given the faculty of free choice? Would it be better if we were as the animals, which simply follow their dark fate and do not know what free will means?’

‘Not at all. Only the unintelligent mind exercises choice in life. When I talk of intelligence I mean it in its widest sense, I mean that deep inner intelligence of mind, emotion and will. A truly intelligent man can have no choice, because his mind can only be aware of what is true and can thus only choose the path of truth. An intelligent mind acts and reacts naturally and to its fullest capacity. It identifies itself spontaneously with the right thing. It simply cannot have any choice. Only the unintelligent mind has free will.’

This was rather an unexpected account of free will. ‘I have never come across this conception before,’ I said; ‘but it sounds convincing.’

‘It can be nothing else; it simply is like that.’

I had noticed on various occasions before that he never seemed conscious of the novelty of some of his pronouncements or of the unexpected result of a conversation. He never discussed for the sake of discussion or for my sake but in order to clarify for both of us the problem under discussion. The reason why he had to expose himself to the accusation of evasiveness became clear to me. Only truth found through collaboration joined with personal effort can have any meaning at all.

Suddenly Krishnamurti stopped: ‘Many things became clearer for me since we started our daily conversations. I meant to tell you the other day that after one of our first talks I had a particularly vivid experience of inner awareness of life. I was walking home along the beach when I became so deeply aware of the beauty of the sky, the sea and the trees around me that it was almost a sensation of physical joy. All separation between me and the things around me ceased to exist, and I walked home conscious of that wonderful unity. When I got home and joined the others at dinner, it almost seemed as though I had to push my inner state behind a screen and step out of it; but, though I was sitting among people and talking of all sorts of things, that inner awareness of a unity with everything never left me for a second.’

‘How did you come to that state of unity with everything?’

‘People have asked me about it before, and I always feel that they expect to hear the dramatic account of some sudden miracle through which I suddenly became one with the universe. My inner awareness was always there; though it took me time to feel it more and more clearly; and equally it took time to find words that would at all describe it. It was not a sudden flash, but a slow yet constant clarification of something that was always there. It did not grow, as people often think. Nothing can grow in us that is of spiritual importance. It has to be there in all its fullness, and the only thing that happens is that we become more and more aware of it. It is our intellectual reaction and nothing else that needs time to become more articulate, more definite.’

X

I was leaving Carmel next day, and when we reached our favourite spot under the pines on the hill I knew that this would be our last talk together. Farewells often bring words to my lips that I might feel shy of using in less exceptional circumstances. But Krishnamurti’s presence summoned up my emotional faculties without making me feel a fool. ‘Krishnaji,’ I said as I took his hands between my own, ‘my visit is coming to an end. I am very grateful to you for these wonderful days. Nevertheless I must talk to you once more about something which we have discussed many times.’

‘What is it? Don’t feel shy – go ahead.’

‘I appreciate your point of view that your mission is not to act as a doctor and that you cannot prescribe spiritual pills for people. But once again: How do you expect to help others? I know you want them to live their lives in such fullness as to become truthful, and so truthfully as to be able to give up possessiveness, jealousy and greed. But such an inner revolution requires a strength possessed only by few. You have achieved it, and you are standing on a mountain top on which you can live in a state of unity with the world that amounts to constant ecstasy. But you forget that we all, millions and millions of us, live in the vast plains at the foot of the mountain. Few could endure a life of continuous ecstasy. It would burn them up; it would destroy them to live in that permanent awareness which is essential. I can see it as a goal; I can see that it is the only life worth living; but I don’t see that we are mature enough for it.’

Krishnamurti came quite near me – as he had often done before – looked deep into my eyes and said in his melodious voice: ‘You are right. They live in the plains, and I live, as you call it, on the mountain top; but I hope that ever more and more human beings will be able to endure the clear air of the mountain top. A man infinitely greater than any of us had to go His own way that led to Golgotha; no matter whether His disciples could follow Him or not; no matter whether His message would be accepted immediately or had to wait for centuries. How can you expect me to be concerned with what should be done or how it should be done? If you have once lived on a mountain top, you cannot return to the plains. You can only try to make other people feel the purity of the air and enjoy the infinite prospect, and become one with the beauty of life there.’

This time there was no sadness in Krishnamurti’s voice, and in his eyes there was a light that was love, compassion, sympathy, and that had often moved me. Not the faintest sign of hopelessness was in him when we rose to walk slowly up the hill to the house in which he lived. The sun was setting, and ribbons of green and pink clouds were stretched across the full length of the sky. Night comes quickly in these regions, and in a few minutes the light would be gone.

XI

We shook hands and I descended towards the beach as I had done every day since my arrival at Carmel. It seemed quite natural on this last day of my visit that the whole of Krishnamurti’s life should unfold itself before me. Is there another life in modern times comparable with his? There have been many masters and teachers, yogis and lamas whom their followers worshipped. But none of them had been torn out of an ordinary existence to be anointed as the coming World Teacher. None of them had been accepted by the East and the West, by the oldest and the youngest continent, by Christians, Hindus, Jews and Moslems, by believers and agnostics. Neither Ramakrishna nor Vivekananda had been brought up and educated for their future messiahship; neither Gandhi nor Mrs. Baker Eddy, neither Steiner nor Mme. Blavatsky had known such a strange destiny. Neither in the records of Western mystics nor in the books of Eastern yogis and saints do we find the story of a ‘saint’ who after twenty-five years of preparation for a divine destiny decides to become an ordinary human being, who renounces not only his worldly goods but all his religious claims.

It was quite dark and the first stars were beginning to appear. The attention was not distracted by the lights and colours and shapes of the day. The mysterious pattern of Krishnamurti’s remarkable fate was becoming clearer, and I began to understand what he had meant when he said that till a few years ago life had been a dream to him and that he had scarcely been conscious of the external existence around him. Were not those the years of preparation? Were they not the years in which the man Krishnamurti was trying to find himself, to replace that former self through whom Mrs. Besant and Charles Leadbeater, theosophy and a strange credulity, acted for over twenty years?

Indeed, was not Krishnamurti’s a supreme story? The teacher who renounces his throne at the moment of his awakening, at the moment when the god in him has to make way for the man, at the moment when the man can begin to find God within himself? Have not even the years in which his spirit lingered in dreams been full of a truth that as yet is too mysterious to be comprehended by us?