Letter 9

From the book "Letters to a young friend"

Through this estate runs a stream. It is not quiet water running peacefully to the big river, but a noisy cheerful stream. All this country around here is hilly, the stream has many a fall and at one place there are three falls of different depths. The higher one makes the noise, the loudest, the other two are not valuable but are on a minor key. All these three falls are spaced differently, and so there is a continuous movement of sound. You have to listen to hear the music. It’s an orchestra playing among the orchards, in the open skies, but the music is there. You have to search it out, you have to listen, you have to be with the flowing waters to hear its music. You must be the whole to hear it-the skies, the earth, the soaring trees, the green fields and the running waters, then only you hear it. But all this is too much trouble, you buy a ticket and sit in a hall, surrounded by people, and the orchestra plays or someone sings. They do all the work for you; someone composes the song, the music, another plays or sings, and you pay to listen. Everything in life, except for a few things, in second-, third-, or fourth-hand-the Gods, poems, politics, music. So our life is empty. Being empty we try to fill it-with music, with Gods, with love, with forms of escape, and the very feeling is the emptying. But beauty is not to be bought. So few want beauty and goodness, and man is satisfied with second-hand things. To throw it all off is the real and only revolution, and then only is there creativeness of reality.

It’s strange how man insists on continuity in all things; in relationships, in tradition, in religion, in art. There’s no breaking off and a beginning and a beginning new again. If man had no book, no leader, no one to copy, no one to follow, to example, if he was completely alone, stripes of all his knowledge, he would have to start from the very beginning. Of course this complete stripping of himself must be wholly and fully spontaneous and voluntary, otherwise he would go mad, force himself into some kind of neurosis. As only a few seem to be capable of this complete aloneness, the world carries on with tradition-in its art, its music, its politics, its Gods-which everlastingly breed misery. This is what is happening in the world at the present time. There is nothing new, there is only opposition and counteropposition-in religion the old formula of fear and dogma continues; in the arts there is the endeavor to find something new. But the mind is not new, it is the same old mind, ridden with tradition, fear, knowledge, and experience, endeavoring to search the new. It is the mind itself, wholly, for the new to be. This is the real revolution.

The wind is blowing from the south, dark clouds and rain, everything in putting forth, reaching out and renewing itself.

“ The flowering of love is meditation. „
© 2013 Krishnamurti Library of Athens, all rights reserved.