maya

In a hindu myth, a student asks to his master about the meaning of maya; the master says
- Ufff
and asks the student to go to a village nearby to get a glass of water for him; there the guy goes and knocks the door of the first house he finds, he's really in a hurry to know about the maya thing. A beautiful girl opens it and takes him in, she's captivating, her smile and her humble eyes not daring to look up. The family was about to have lunch and the father invites the student to sit down and eat with them; afterwards there's lots of work to do, the young guy cannot refuse and makes a big effort to help them. He stays for dinner, and then he's so tired...

A few days after the father proposes his daughter to marry him (that's usually the way it works in India) and he's already so enchanted and pleased by her that he immediately accepts. The marriage is fast, simple and full of bliss, and for the following years the guy keeps on working very hard in the farm, has three children, takes care of them and the rest of the family, and he feels happier than ever in his life.

In the month of the tenth birthday of his oldest son the monsoon starts, it's early for the rains, which are terrible, the river overflows and there's a terrible flood in which he looses everything: his wife and children die; the house, the animals, crops and all his possessions are swept away. He feels a deep grief and aimlessly he walks into the forest; sitting under a tree he finds his old master and he hardly recognizes him,
- where have you been? I only asked you to fetch some water for me -asks the master
and laughs (somewhat bitterly) and explains the student that over these years he has just experienced what maya is.


Sometimes, when I've talked with some Indians friends about Descartes' method of doubt (not that I mention this so often, but I've always enjoyed this view of the world being run by dwarfs that had constructed my room and everything in it to deceive me, since nothing really exists, and they would quickly build up my kitchen before I notice it wasn't there if I decided to go and get a glass of water, etc) in response my Indian colleagues would relate it to the image to maya. When I have finally read a hindu myth on the subject, instead of philosophical it sounds to me like one of those parables of a fussy and changeable god. And it's silly but I cannot help feeling a bit disillusioned.

what?

C. S. Lewis, a writer and british gentleman, pointed out that a number of the questions we figure out are just nonsense, however we don't notice since we don't know enough; these questions would sound like "how many hours there is in a mile?"

I find the idea very suggestive; maybe half of the questions we ask are nonsense, contradictory in terms? It is well-known that a very clever question usually denotes you reckon half of the answer already. It's not only that "intellectual honesty" is an oxymoron (as in the previous post): "intelligent question" is another.

OK, I'm taking it out of context since Lewis' book is actually a sort of journal he called "a grief observed", which he wrote after his wife's death, while he was seriously in pain, suffering. He blames god for the loss, building up a rational framework to face the anguish, blames the absence, the nonsense, the nature.

Thus, he uses the fundamental questions to escape from his agony, realizing at the same time that most metaphysical questions may sound like "how many hours there is in a mile"; later, I guess, after some months, or years, he recovers, reads again the journal, finds it interesting and hands it out to the editor.


If a fundamental question were so fundamental (e.g. about the meaning of life), once I asked it to myself there would be nothing more important in my mind; I should devote myself to finding the answer. Since it is never the case, nothing seems to be so crucial until the moment, a reasonable alternative is that the question was, indeed, something not too different to how many hours there is in a mile.

oxymorons and dreams

There's a very nice novel by Alessandro Baricco, called "City", in which it is shown that intellectual honesty is an oxymoron. I remember I was reading it many years ago on a bus on my way to the office, and I felt it was something important, even if when I arrived I had to look up the word oxymoron in the dictionary.

The "essay on intellectual honesty" is proposed by one of the characters of the novel. He's a High School teacher. After 15 years of thinking about it, he finally writes it down on a flyer of a sex shop, while he's in the peep-show. It goes in six arguments more or less as follows:
- People have ideas
- People express those ideas. That's the beginning of the problem. Since it is very complex thoughts, when it's time to put them in words it is difficult to explain them clearly
- While expressing their ideas, people end up getting distance with them. The simplification of explanations of the mental process which brought to the conclusion, during the arguing, defending their truth, little by little makes that the real origin of the idea gets lost
- While defending the ideas, and in particular if it is in public, the arguments became weapons
- While using ideas as weapons, the relation with the original thought is completely lost
- Intellectual honesty is an oxymoron

When I read it, I found it funny, witty and indisputable. My colleagues at the office, however, just laughed lightly and did not seem to agree.


Anyway, recently I've realised I don't have a dream. I mean: there's something I would like so much, which implies becoming something different to what I am today (yes, at my age). But if you ask me to describe how exactly will I be when I achieve that new state, I cannot tell you a word - that's why I say I don't have the dream. What is it? I don't believe I can make it? I don't really want to make it? Should I build up my dream, that's all? The answers to those questions are only important for me, but it is amazing how much I've been talking about my no-dream.


Baricco's character goes on saying: "in another life we will be honest; we will be silent". Auurrrg!!

dogs are all clowns

I've just seen one, I was walking back home, the dog was big, black and strong and had a ball or something in its snout, head and neck looking up, moving the tail, challenging its master. They all enjoy playing so much, all the time, and jump and behave like clowns. I really love dogs.

(Well, not so much, probably, since I dont have one at home.)

At my parents' there was always one or two dogs when I was a child. It was painful when they got lost for ever or died, however I was growing up and after I had to miss a few animals I realised there was always another one to come which was essentially the same, and I found at least a sort of comfort on that idea.

Some people have criticised me a lot when I dared to explain, told me I'm a monster and I dont really like dogs at all. One friend suggested with irony I should maybe apply the same concept to people.


Completely unrelated, a question follows: if our life expectancy was let's say five thousand years, would be behave differently? Yes, for sure, but in which way? Difficult one, ah. I'd like to think we would get wiser (after one thousand years or so?) And I guess a lot more people closed to us would die. I mean, nowadays in the west you hardly see people dying, besides unfortunate accidents, serious illness, and your parents, who necessarily will die sooner than you; death is not in our day-by-day worries.

Then, imagine the situation: my life expectancy is five thousand years and I fall in love with somebody five hundred years younger (not so much). I die a natural death and she has five hundred years ahead without me, and she's still ok, she's only four thousand five hundred years old. What is she expected to do? After a ten years mourning, surely she'll find a better clown.