J KRISHNAMURTI JOURNAL 1973-1975

4
Foreword
IN SEPTEMBER 1973 Krishnamurti suddenly started keeping a journal. For
nearly six weeks he made daily entries in a notebook. For the first month of
that period he was staying at Brockwood Park, Hampshire, and for the rest of
the  time  in  Rome.  He  resumed  the  journal  eighteen  months  later  while  in
California.
Nearly every entry starts with a description of some natural scene which he
knows intimately, yet in only three instances do these descriptions refer to the
place in which he was actually staying. Thus, the first page of the first entry
describes the grove in the park at Brockwood, but by the second page he is
evidently in Switzerland in imagination. It is not until he is staying in California
in 1975 that he again gives a description of his actual surroundings. For the
rest, he is recalling places he has lived in, with a clarity that shows how vivid is
his memory for natural scenery, arising from the acuteness of his observation.
This  journal  also  reveals  to  what  an  extent  his  teaching  is  inspired  by  his
closeness to nature.
Throughout, Krishnamurti refers to himself in the third person as «he», and
incidentally he tells us something about himself which he has not done before.    5
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
– Brockwood 1973 –
Brockwood Park 1st Entry
14th September 1973
The other day, coming back from a good walk among the fields and trees,
we passed through  the  grove  [Many  rare  trees,  including  redwoods,  grow  in
the grove at Brockwood.] near the big white house. Coming over the stile into
the  grove  one  felt  immediately  a  great  sense  of  peace  and  stillness.  Not  a
thing  was  moving.  It  seemed  sacrilegious  to  walk  through  it,  to  tread  the
ground; it was profane to talk, even to breathe. The great redwood trees were
absolutely still; the American Indians call them the silent ones and now they
were really silent. Even the dog didn’t chase the rabbits. You stood still hardly
daring to breathe; you felt you were an intruder, for you had been chatting and
laughing, and to enter this grove not knowing what lay there was a surprise
and a shock, the shock of an unexpected benediction. The heart was beating
less  fast,  speechless  with  the  wonder  of  it.  It  was  the  centre  of  this  whole
place.  Every  time  you  enter  it  now,  there’s  that  beauty,  that  stillness,  that
strange  stillness.  Come  when  you  will  and  it  will  be  there,  full,  rich  and
unnameable.
Any  form  of  conscious  meditation  is  not  the  real  thing;  it  can  never  be.
Deliberate attempt to meditate is not meditation. It must happen; it cannot be
invited. Meditation is not the play of the mind nor of desire and pleasure. All
attempt  to  meditate  is  the  very  denial  of  it.  Only  be  aware  of  what  you  are
thinking  and  doing  and  nothing  else.  The  seeing,  the  hearing,  is  the  doing,
without  reward  and  punishment.  The  skill  in  doing  lies  in  the  skill  of  seeing,
hearing. Every form of meditation leads inevitably to deception, to illusion, for
desire blinds. It was a lovely evening and the soft light of spring covered the
earth.    6
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
Brockwood Park 2nd Entry
15th September 1973
It is good to be alone. To be far away from the world and yet walk its streets
is  to  be  alone.  To  be  alone  walking  up  the  path  beside  the  rushing,  noisy
mountain stream full of spring water and melting snows is to be aware of that
solitary tree, alone in its beauty. The loneliness of a man in the street is the
pain of life; he’s never alone, far away, untouched and vulnerable. To be full of
knowledge  breeds  endless  misery.  The  demand  for  expression,  with  its
frustrations and pains, is that man who walks the streets; he is never alone.
Sorrow is the movement of that loneliness.
That  mountain  stream  was  full  and  high  with  the  melting  snows  and  the
rains of early spring. You could hear big boulders being pushed around by the
force of on-rushing waters. A tall pine of fifty years or more crashed into the
water;  the  road  was  being  washed  away.  The  stream  was  muddy,  slate
coloured. The fields above it were full of wild flowers. The air was pure and
there was enchantment. On the high hills there was still snow, and the glaciers
and the great peaks still held the recent snows; they will still be white all the
summer long.
It  was  a  marvellous  morning  and  you  could  have  walked  on  endlessly,
never feeling the steep hills. There was a perfume in the air, clear and strong.
There was no one on that path, coming down or going up. You were alone with
those dark pines and the rushing waters. The sky was that astonishing blue
that only the mountains have. You looked at it through leaves and the straight
pines. There was no one to talk to and there was no chattering of the mind. A
magpie, white and black, flew by, disappearing into the woods. The path led
away from the noisy stream and the silence was absolute. It wasn’t the silence
after the noise; it wasn’t the silence that comes with the setting of the sun, nor
that silence when the mind dies down. It wasn’t the silence of museums and
churches but something totally unrelated to time    7
— Page 1O —
and space. It wasn’t the silence that mind makes for itself. The sun was hot
and the shadows were pleasant.
He  only  discovered  recently  that  there  was  not  a  single  thought  during
these long walks, in the crowded streets or on the solitary paths. Ever since he
was a boy it had been like that, no thought entered his mind. He was watching
and  listening  and  nothing  else.  Thought  with  its  associations  never  arose.
There  was  no  image-making.  One  day  he  was  suddenly  aware  how
extraordinary it was; he attempted often to think but no thought would come.
On these walks, with people or without them, any movement of thought was
absent. This is to be alone.
Over  the  snow  peaks  clouds  were  forming,  heavy  and  dark;  probably  it
would rain later on but now the shadows were very sharp with the sun bright
and  clear.  There  was  still  that  pleasant  smell  in  the  air  and  the  rains  would
bring a different smell. It was a long way down to the chalet.    8
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
Brockwood Park 3rd Entry
16th September 1973
At that time of the morning the streets of the small village were empty but
beyond  them  the  country  was  full  with  trees,  meadows  and  whispering
breezes.  The  one  main  street  was  lighted  and  everything  else  was  in
darkness. The sun would come up in about three hours. It was a clear starlit
morning. The snow peaks and the glaciers were still in darkness and almost
everyone was sleeping. The narrow mountain roads had so many curves that
one couldn’t go very fast; the car was new and being run in. It was a beautiful
car, powerful with good lines. In that morning air the motor ran most efficiently.
On  the  auto-route  it  was  a  thing  of  beauty  and  as  it  climbed  it  took  every
corner, steady as a rock. The dawn was there, the shape of the trees and the
long line of hills and the vineyards; it was going to be a lovely morning; it was
cool and pleasant among the hills. The sun was up and there was dew on the
leaves and meadows.
He always liked machinery; he dismantled the motor of a car and when it
ran it was as good as new. When you are driving, meditation seems to come
so naturally. You are aware of the countryside, the houses, the farmers in the
field, the make of the passing car and the blue sky through the leaves. You are
not even aware that meditation is going on, this meditation that began ages
ago and would go on endlessly. Time isn’t a factor in meditation, nor the word
which is the meditator. There’s no meditator in meditation. If there is, it is not
meditation.  The  meditator  is  the  word,  thought  and  time,  and  so  subject  to
change, to the coming and going. It’s not a flower that blooms and dies. Time
is movement. You are sitting on the bank of a river, watching the waters, the
current  and  the  things  floating  by.  When  you  are  in  the  water,  there’s  no
watcher. Beauty is not in the mere expression, it’s in the abandonment of the
word and expression, the canvas and the book.    9
How  peaceful  the  hills,  the  meadows  and  these  trees  are:  the  whole
country  is  bathed  in  the  light  of  a  passing  morning.  Two  men  were  arguing
loudly  with  many  gestures,  red  in  the  face.  The  road  runs  through  a  long
avenue of trees and the tenderness of the morning is fading.
The sea stretched before you and the smell of eucalyptus was in the air. He
was  a  short  man,  lean  and  hard  of  muscle:  he  had  come  from  a  far  away
country, darkened by the sun. After a few words of greeting, he launched into
criticism. How easy it is to criticize without knowing what actually are the facts.
He said: «You may be free  and  live  really  all  that you are talking about, but
physically you are in a prison, padded by your friends. You don’t know what is
happening around you. People have assumed authority, though you yourself
are not authoritarian.»
I am not sure you are right in this matter. To run a school or any other thing
there  must  be  a  certain  responsibility  and  it  can  and  does  exist  without  the
authoritarian  implication.  Authority  is  wholly  detrimental  to  co-operation,  to
talking things over together. This is what is being done in all the work that we
are  engaged  in.  This  is  an  actual  fact.  If  one  may  point  out,  no  one  comes
between me and another.
«What you are saying is of the utmost importance. All that you write and say
should be printed and circulated by a small group of people who are serious
and dedicated. The world is exploding and it is passing you by.»
I am afraid again you are not fully aware of what is happening. At one time
a small group took the responsibility of circulating what has been said. Now,
too, a small group has undertaken the same responsibility. Again, if one may
point out, you are not aware of what is going on.
He  made  various  criticisms  but  they  were  based  on  assumptions  and
passing opinions. Without defending, one pointed out what was actually taking
place. But –
How strange human beings are.    10
The  hills  were  receding  and  the  noise  of  daily  life  was  around  one,  the
coming and the going, sorrow and pleasure. A single tree on a hillock was the
beauty of the land. And deep down in the valley was a stream and beside it
ran a railroad. You must leave the world to see the beauty of that stream.    11
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
Brockwood Park 4th Entry
17th September 1973
That  evening,  walking  through  the  wood  there  was  a  feeling  of  menace.
The sun was just setting and the palm trees were solitary against the golden
western sky. The monkeys were in the banyan tree, getting ready for the night.
Hardly anyone used that path and rarely you met another human being. There
were many deer, shy and disappearing into the thick growth. Yet the menace
was there, heavy and pervading: it was all around you, you looked over your
shoulder.  There  were  no  dangerous  animals;  they  had  moved  away  from
there; it was too close to the spreading town. One was glad to leave and walk
back through the lighted streets. But the next evening the monkeys were still
there and so were the deer and the sun was just behind the tallest trees; the
menace was gone. On the contrary, the trees, the bushes and the small plants
welcomed  you.  You  were  among  your  friends,  you  felt  completely  safe  and
most welcome. The woods accepted you and every evening it was a pleasure
to walk there.
Forests are different. There’s physical danger there, not only from snakes
but  from  tigers  that  were  known  to  be  there.  As  one  walked  there  one
afternoon  there  was  suddenly  an  abnormal  silence;  the  birds  stopped
chattering,  the  monkeys  were  absolutely  still  and  everything  seemed  to  be
holding its breath. One stood still. And as suddenly, everything came to life;
the monkeys were playing and teasing each other, birds began their evening
chatter and one was aware the danger had passed.
In  the  woods  and  groves  where  man  kills  rabbits,  pheasants,  squirrels,
there’s quite a different atmosphere. You are entering into a world where man
has  been,  with  his  gun  and  peculiar  violence.  Then  the  woods  lose  their
tenderness,  their  welcome,  and  here  some  beauty  has  been  lost  and  that
happy whisper has gone.    12
You  have  only  one  head  and  look  after  it  for  it’s  a  marvellous  thing.  No
machinery,  no  electronic  computers  can  compare  with  it.  It’s  so  vast,  so
complex,  so  utterly  capable,  subtle  and  productive.  It’s  the  storehouse  of
experience, knowledge, memory. All thought springs from it. What it has put
together is quite incredible: the mischief, the confusion, the sorrows, the wars,
the  corruptions,  the  illusions,  the  ideals,  the  pain  and  misery,  the  great
cathedrals, the lovely mosques and the sacred temples. It is fantastic what it
has done and what it can do. But one thing it apparently cannot do: change
completely  its  behaviour  in  its  relationship  to  another  head,  to  another  man.
Neither  punishment  nor  reward  seem  to  change  its  behaviour;  knowledge
doesn’t seem to transform its conduct. The me and the you remain. It never
realizes that the me is the you, that the observer is the observed. Its love is its
degeneration; its pleasure is its agony; the gods of its ideals are its destroyers.
Its freedom is its own prison; it is educated to live in this prison, only making it
more comfortable, more pleasurable. You have only one head, care for it, don’t
destroy it. It’s so easy to poison it.
He always had this strange lack of distance between himself and the trees,
rivers and mountains. It wasn’t cultivated: you can’t cultivate a thing like that.
There was never a wall between him and another. What they did to him, what
they  said  to  him  never  seemed  to  wound  him,  nor  flattery  to  touch  him.
Somehow he was altogether untouched. He was not withdrawn, aloof, but like
the waters of a river. He had so few thoughts; no thoughts at all when he was
alone. His brain was active when talking or writing but otherwise it was quiet
and active without movement. Movement is time and activity is not.
This strange activity, without direction, seems to go on, sleeping or waking.
He wakes up often with that activity of meditation; something of this nature is
going on most of the time. He never rejected it or invited it. The other night he
woke up, wide awake. He was aware that something like a ball of fire, light,
was being put into his head, into the very centre of it. He watched it objectively
for a considerable time, as though it were happening to someone else. It was   13
not  an  illusion,  something  conjured  up  by  the  mind.  Dawn  was  coming  and
through the opening of the curtains he could see the trees.    14
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
Brockwood Park 5th Entry
18th September 1973
It is still one of the most beautiful valleys. It is entirely surrounded by hills,
filled with orange groves. Many years ago there were very few houses among
the  trees  and  orchards  but  now  there  are  many  more;  the  roads  are  wider,
more traffic, more noise, especially at the west end of the valley. But the hills
and high peaks remain the same, untouched by man. There are many trails
leading to the high mountains and one walked endlessly along them. One met
bears, rattle snakes, deer and once a bob cat (a lynx). The bob cat was there
ahead, down the narrow trail, purring and rubbing himself against rocks and
the short trunks of trees. The breeze was coming up the canyon and so one
could get quite close to him. He was really enjoying himself, delighted with his
world. His short tail was up, his pointed ears straight forward, his russet hair
bright  and  clean,  totally  unaware  that  someone  was  just  behind  him  about
twenty feet away. We went down the trail for about a mile, neither of us making
the least sound. It was really a beautiful animal, spritely and graceful. There
was  a  narrow  stream  ahead  of  us  and  wishing  not  to  frighten  him  when  we
came  to  it,  one  whispered  a  gentle  greeting.  He  never  looked  round,  that
would have been a waste of time, but streaked off, completely disappearing in
a few seconds. We had been friends, though, for a considerable time.
The valley is filled with the smell of orange blossom, almost overpowering,
especially in the early mornings and evening. It was in the room, in the valley
and in every corner of the earth and the god of flowers blessed the valley. It
would be really hot in the summer and that had its own peculiarity. Many years
ago, when one went there, there was a marvellous atmosphere; it is still there
to a lesser degree. Human beings are spoiling it as they seem to spoil most
things. It will be as before. A flower may wither and die but it will come back
with its loveliness.    15
Have  you  ever  wondered  why  human  beings  go  wrong,  become  corrupt,
indecent  in  their  behaviour  aggressive,  violent  and  cunning?  It’s  no  good
blaming  the  environment,  the  culture  or  the  parents.  We  want  to  put  the
responsibility  for  this  degeneration  on  others  or  on  some  happening.
Explanations and causes are an easy way out. The  ancient  Hindus  called  it
Karma, what you sowed you reaped. The psychologists put the problem in the
lap of the parents. What the so-called religious people say is based on their
dogma and belief. But the question is still there.
Then  there  are  others,  born  generous,  kind,  responsible.  They  are  not
changed by the environment or any pressure. They remain the same in spite
of all the clamour. Why?
Any  explanation  is  of  little  significance.  All  explanations  are  escapes,
avoiding the reality of what is. This is the only thing that matters. The what is
can be totally transformed with the energy that is wasted in explanations and
in searching out the causes. Love is not in time nor in analysis, in regrets and
recriminations.  It  is  there  when  desire  for  money,  position  and  the  cunning
deceit of the self are not.    16
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
Brockwood Park 6th Entry
19th September 1973
The monsoon had set in. The sea was almost black under the dark heavy
clouds  and  the  wind  was  tearing  at  the  trees.  It  would  rain  for  a  few  days,
torrential rains, and it would stop for a day or so, to begin again. Frogs were
croaking in every pond and the pleasant smell the rains brought filled the air.
The earth was clean again and in a few days it became astonishingly green.
Things grew almost under your eyes; the sun would come and all the things of
the earth would be sparkling. Early in the morning there would be chanting and
the small squirrels were all over the place. There were flowers everywhere, the
wild ones and the cultivated, the jasmine, the rose and the marigold.
One day on the road that leads to the sea, walking under the palms and the
heavy  rain  trees,  looking  at  a  thousand  things,  a  group  of  children  were
singing.  They  seemed  so  happy,  innocent  and  utterly  unaware  of  the  world.
One  of  them  recognised  us,  came  smiling  and  we  walked  hand  in  hand  for
some  time.  Neither  of  us  said  a  word  and  as  we  came  near  her  house  she
saluted and disappeared inside. The world and the family are going to destroy
her and she will have children too, cry over them and in the cunning ways of
the world they will be destroyed. But that evening she was happy and eager to
share it by holding a hand.
When the rains had gone, returning on the same road one evening when
the  western  sky  was  golden,  one  passed  a  young  man carrying  a  fire  in  an
earthenware pot. He was bare except for his clean loin cloth and behind him
two  men  were  carrying  a  dead  body.  All  were  Brahmins,  freshly  washed,
clean, holding themselves upright. The young man carrying the fire must have
been the son of the dead man: they were all walking quite fast. The body was
going to be cremated on some secluded sands. It was all so simple, unlike the
elaborate hearse, loaded with flowers, followed by a long line of polished cars
or mourners walking behind the coffin: the dark blackness of it all. Or you saw   17
a dead body, decently covered, being carried at the back of a bicycle to the
sacred river to be burnt.
Death  is  everywhere  and  we  never  seem  to  live  with  it.  It  is  a  dark,
frightening thing to be avoided, never to be talked of. Keep it away from the
closed door. But it is always there. The beauty of love is death and one knows
neither. Death is pain and love is pleasure and the two can never meet; they
must be kept apart and the division is the pain and agony. This has been from
the beginning of time, the division and the endless conflict. There will always
be  death  for  those  who  do  not  see  that  the  observer  is  the  observed,  the
experiencer is the experienced. It is like a vast river in which man is caught,
with all his worldly goods, his vanities, pains and knowledge. Unless he leaves
all the things he has accumulated in the river and swims ashore, death will be
always at his door, waiting and watching. When he leaves the river there is no
shore, the bank is the word, the observer. He has left everything, the river and
the bank. For the river is time and the banks are the thoughts of time: the river
is  the  movement  of  time  and  thought  is  of  it.  When  the  observer  leaves
everything  which  he  is,  then  the  observer  is  not.  This  is  not  death.  It  is  the
timeless.  You  cannot  know  it,  for  what  is  known  is  of  time;  you  cannot
experience  it:  recognition  is  made  up  of  time.  Freedom  from  the  known  is
freedom from time. Immortality is not the word, the book, the image, you have
put  together.  The  soul,  the  «me»,  the  atman  is  the  child  of  thought  which  is
time. When time is not then death is not. Love is.
The western sky had lost its colour and just over the horizon was the new
moon, young, shy and tender. On the road everything seemed to be passing,
marriage,  death,  the  laughter  of  children  and  someone  sobbing.  Near  the
moon was a single star.    18
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
Brockwood Park 7th Entry
20th September 1973
The river was particularly beautiful this morning; the sun was just coming
over the trees and the village hidden among them. The air was very still and
there was not a ripple on the water. It would get quite warm during the day but
now  it  was  rather  cool  and  a  solitary  monkey  was  sitting  in  the  sun.  It  was
always there by itself, big and heavy. During the day it disappeared and turned
up early in the morning on the top of the tamarind tree: when it got warm the
tree  seemed  to  swallow  it.  The  golden  green  flycatchers  were  sitting  on  the
parapet  with  the  doves,  and  the  vultures  were  still  on  the  top  branches  of
another tamarind. There was immense quietness and one sat on a bench, lost
to the world.
Coming back from the airport on a shaded road with the parrots, green and
red, screeching around the trees, one saw across the road what appeared to
be a large bundle. As the car came near, the bundle turned out to be a man
lying across the road, almost naked. The car stopped and we got out. His body
was large and his head very small; he was staring through the leaves at the
astonishingly blue sky. We looked up too to see what he was staring at and
the  sky  from  the  road  was  really  blue  and  the  leaves  were  really  green.  He
was malformed and they said he was one of the village idiots. He never moved
and the car had to be driven round him very carefully. The camels with their
load and the shouting children passed him without paying the least attention. A
dog passed, making a wide circle. The parrots were busy with their noise. The
dry fields, the villagers, the trees, the yellow flowers were occupied with their
own existence. That part of the world was underdeveloped and there was no
one or organization to look after such people. There were open gutters, filth
and crowding humanity and the sacred river went on its way. The sadness of
life was everywhere and in the blue sky, high in the air, were the heavy-winged
vultures, circling without moving their wings, circling by the hour, waiting and
watching. What is sanity and insanity? Who is sane and who is insane? Are   19
the politicians sane? The priests, are they insane? Those who are committed
to  ideologies,  are  they  sane?  We  are  controlled,  shaped,  pushed  around  by
them, and are we sane?
What is sanity? To be whole, non-fragmented in action, in life, in every kind
of relationship that is the very essence of sanity. Sanity means to be whole,
healthy  and  holy.  To  be  insane,  neurotic,  psychotic,  unbalanced,
schizophrenic, whatever name you might give to it, is to be fragmented, broken
up in action and in the movement of relationship which is existence. To breed
antagonism  and  division,  which  is  the  trade  of  the  politicians  who  represent
you, is to cultivate and sustain insanity, whether they are dictators or those in
power in the name of peace or some form of ideology. And the priest: look at
the world of priesthood. He stands between you and what he and you consider
truth, saviour, god, heaven, hell. He is the interpreter, the representative; he
holds the keys to heaven; he has conditioned man through belief, dogma and
ritual; he is the real propagandist. He has conditioned you because you want
comfort,  security,  and  you  dread  tomorrow.  The  artists,  the  intellectuals,  the
scientists, admired and flattered so much are they sane? Or do they live in two
different  worlds  –  the  world  of  ideas  and  imagination  with  its  compulsive
expression, wholly separate from their daily life of sorrow and pleasure?
The world about you is fragmented and so are you and its expression is
conflict, confusion and misery: you are the world and the world is you. Sanity is
to live a life of action without conflict. Action and idea are contradictory. Seeing
is the doing and not ideation first and action according to the conclusion. This
breeds  conflict.  The  analyser  himself  is  the  analysed.  When  the  analyser
separates himself as something different from the analysed, he begets conflict,
and conflict is the area of the unbalanced. The observer is the observed and
therein lies sanity, the whole, and with the holy is love.    20
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
Brockwood Park 8th Entry
21st September 1973
It is good to wake up without a single thought, with its problems. Then the
mind is rested; it has brought about order within itself and that is why sleep is
so important. Either it brings about order in its relationship and action during
the  waking  hours,  which  gives  to  the  mind  complete  rest  during  sleep,  or
during sleep it will attempt to arrange its affairs to its own satisfaction. During
the day there will again be disorder caused by so many factors, and during the
hours  of  sleep  the  mind  will  try  to  extricate  itself  from  this  confusion.  Mind,
brain, can only function efficiently, objectively, where there is order. Conflict in
any form is disorder. Consider what the mind goes through every day of its life:
the  attempt  at  order  in  sleep  and  disorder  during  waking  hours.  This  is  the
conflict of life, day in, day out. The brain can only function in security, not in
contradiction and confusion. So it tries to find it in some neurotic formula but
the conflict becomes worse. Order is the transformation of all this mess. When
the observer is the observed there is complete order.
In the little lane that goes by the house, shaded and quiet, a little girl was
sobbing her heart out, as only children can do. She must have been five or six,
small  for  her  age.  She  was  sitting  on  the  ground,  tears  pouring  down  her
cheeks. He sat down with her and asked what had happened but she couldn’t
talk, sobbing took all her breath. She must have been struck or her favourite
toy  broken  or  something  which  she  wanted  denied  by  a  harsh  word.  The
mother came out, shook the child and carried her in. She barely looked at him
for  they  were  strangers.  A  few  days  later,  walking  along  the  same  lane,  the
child came out of her house, full of smiles, and walked with him a little way.
The mother must have given her permission to go with a stranger. He walked
often in that shaded lane and the girl with her brother and sister would come
out and greet him. Will they ever forget their hurts and their sorrows or will they
gradually build for themselves escapes and resistances? To keep these hurts
seems to be the nature of human beings and from this their actions become   21
twisted. Can the human mind never be hurt or wounded? Not to be hurt is to
be  innocent.  If  you  are  not  hurt  you  will  naturally  not  hurt  another.  Is  this
possible? The culture in which we live does deeply wound the mind and heart.
The noise and the pollution, the aggression and competition, the violence and
the education all these and more contribute to the agony. Yet we have to live
in this world of brutality and resistance: we are the world and the world is us.
What is the thing that is hurt? The image that each one has built about himself,
that is what is hurt. Strangely these images, all over the world are the same,
with some modifications. The essence of the image you have is the same as of
the man a thousand miles away. So you are that man or woman. Your hurts
are the hurts of thousands: you are the other.
Is  it  possible  never  to  be  hurt?  Where  there  is  wound  there  is  no  love.
Where  there  is  hurt,  then  love  is  mere  pleasure.  When  you  discover  for
yourself  the  beauty  of  never  being  hurt,  then  only  do  all  the  past  hurts
disappear. In the full present the past has lost its burden.
He has never been hurt though many things happened to him, flattery and
insult, threat and security. It is not that he was insensitive, unaware: he had no
image of himself, no conclusion, no ideology. Image is resistance and when
that  is  not,  there  is  vulnerability  but  no  hurt.  You  may  not  seek  to  be
vulnerable, highly sensitive, for that which is sought and found is another form
of the same image. Understand this whole movement, not merely verbally, but
have  an  insight  into  it.  Be  aware  of  the  whole  structure  of  it  without  any
reservation. Seeing the truth of it is the ending of the image builder. The pond
was overflowing and there were a thousand reflections on it. It became dark
and the heavens were open.    22
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
Brockwood Park 9th Entry
22nd september 1973
A woman was singing next door: she had a marvellous voice and the few
who  were  listening  to  her  were  entranced.  The  sun  was  setting  among  the
mango  trees  and  palms,  rich  golden  and  green.  She  was  singing  some
devotional songs and the voice was getting richer and mellower. Listening is
an art. When you listen to classical western music or to this woman, sitting on
the floor, you are either being romantic or there are remembrances of things
past or thought with its associations swiftly changing your moods, or there are
intimations of the future. Or you listen without any movement of thought. You
listen out of complete quietness, out of total silence.
Listening  to  one’s  thought  or  to  the  blackbird  on  a  branch  or  to  what  is
being  said,  without  the  response  of  thought,  brings  about  a  wholly  different
significance from that which the movement of thought brings. This is the art of
listening, listening with total attention: there is no centre which listens.
The silence of the mountains has a depth which the valleys have not. Each
has  its  own  silence;  the  silence  among  clouds  and  among  trees  is  vastly
different; the silence between two thoughts is timeless; the silence of pleasure
and of fear are tangible. The artificial silence which thought can manufacture is
death; the silence between noises is the absence of noise but it is not silence,
as  the  absence  of  war  is  not peace. The dark silence  of  a  cathedral,  of  the
temple,  is  of  age  and  beauty,  especially  constructed  by  man;  there  is  the
silence  of  the  past  and  of  the  future,  the  silence  of  the  museum  and  the
cemetery. But all this is not silence.
The  man  had  been  sitting  there  on  the  bank  of  the  beautiful  river,
motionless;  he  was  there  for  over  an  hour.  He  would  come  there  every
morning,  freshly  bathed,  he  would  chant  in  Sanskrit  for  some  time  and
presently he would be lost in his thoughts; he didn’t seem to mind the sun, at
least the morning sun. One day he came and began to talk about meditation.   23
He did not belong to any school of meditation, he considered them useless,
without any real significance. He was alone, unmarried and had put away the
ways of the world long ago. He had controlled his desires, shaped his thoughts
and lived a solitary life. He was not bitter, vain or indifferent; he had forgotten
all these some years ago. Meditation and reality were his life. As he talked and
groped  for  the  right  word,  the  sun  was  setting  and  deep  silence  descended
upon us. He stopped talking. After a while, when the stars were very close to
the earth, he said: «That is the silence I have been looking for everywhere, in
the books, among the teachers and in myself. I have found many things but
not this. It came unsought, uninvited. Have I wasted my life in things that did
not matter? You have no idea what I have been through, the fastings, the self-
denials and the practices. I saw their futility long ago but never came upon this
silence. What shall I do to remain in it, to maintain it, to hold it in my heart? I
suppose you would say do nothing, as one cannot invite it. But shall I go on
wandering over this country, with this repetition, this control? Sitting here I am
conscious of this sacred silence; through it I look at the stars, those trees, the
river. Though I see and feel all this, I am not really there. As you said the other
day, the observer is the observed. I see what it means now. The benediction I
sought is not to be found in the seeking. It is time for me to go.»
The river became dark and the stars were reflected on its waters near the
banks.  Gradually  the  noises of the day were coming  to  an  end  and  the  soft
noises of the night began. You watched the stars and the dark earth and the
world was far away. Beauty, which is love, seemed to descend on the earth
and the things of it.    24
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
BROCKWOOD PARK 10TH ENTRY
23rd September 1973
He was standing by himself on the low bank of the  river;  it  was  not  very
wide and he could see some people on the other bank. If the talk was loud he
could almost hear them. In the rainy season the river met the open waters of
the  sea.  It  had  been  raining  for  days  and  the  river  had  broken  through  the
sands  to  the  waiting  sea.  With  the  heavy  rains  it  was  clean  again  and  one
could swim in it safely. The river was wide enough to hold a long narrow island
green with bushes, a few short trees and a small palm. When the water was
not too deep cattle would wade across to graze on it. It was a pleasant and
friendly river and it was particularly so on that morning.
He  was  standing  there  with  no  one  around,  alone,  unattached  and  far
away. He was about fourteen or less. They had found his brother and himself
quite recently and all the fuss and sudden importance given to him was around
him.  [Krishnamurti  is  writing  here  about  his  own  boyhood  at  Adyar,  near
Madras.] He was the centre of respect and devotion and in the years to come
he would be the head of organizations and great properties. All that and the
dissolution  of  them  still  lay  ahead.  Standing  there  alone,  lost  and  strangely
aloof,  was  his  first  and  lasting  remembrance  of  those  days  and  events.  He
doesn’t  remember  his  childhood,  the  schools  and  the  caning.  He  was  told
years  later  by  the  very  teacher  who  hurt  him  that  he  used  to  cane  him
practically every day; he would cry and be put out on the verandah until the
school  closed  and  the  teacher  would  come  out  and  ask  him  to  go  home,
otherwise he would still be on the verandah, lost. He was caned, this man said
because  he  couldn’t  study  or  remember  anything  he  had  read  or  been  told.
Later the teacher couldn’t believe that boy was the man who had given the talk
he had heard. He was greatly surprised and unnecessarily respectful. All those
years  passed  without  leaving  scars,  memories,  on  his  mind;  his  friendships,
his affections, even those years with those who had ill-treated him somehow
none of these events, friendly or brutal, have left marks on him. In recent years   25
a writer asked if he could recall all those rather strange events, how he and his
brother were discovered and the other happenings, and when he replied that
he could not remember them and could only repeat what others had told him,
the man openly, with a sneer, stated that he was putting it on and pretending.
He  never  consciously  blocked  any  happening,  pleasant  or  unpleasant,
entering into his mind. They came, leaving no mark and passed away.
Consciousness  is  its  content:  the  content  makes  up  consciousness.  The
two are indivisible. There is no you and another, only the content which makes
up consciousness as the «me» and the not «me». The contents vary according
to  the  culture,  the  racial  accumulations,  the  techniques  and  capacities
acquired.  These  are  broken  up  as  the  artist,  the  scientist  and  so  on.
Idiosyncrasies are the response of the conditioning and the conditioning is the
common factor of man. This conditioning is the content, consciousness. This
again  is  broken  up  as  the  conscious  and  the  hidden.  The  hidden  becomes
important because we have never looked at it as a whole. This fragmentation
takes place when the observer is not the observed, when the experiencer is
seen  as  different  from  the  experience.  The  hidden  is  as  the  open;  the
observation the hearing of the open is the seeing of the hidden. Seeing is not
analysing. In analysing there is the analyser and the analysed, a fragmentation
which  leads  to  inaction,  a  paralysis.  In  seeing,  the  observer  is  not,  and  so
action is immediate; there is no interval between the idea and action. The idea,
the  conclusion,  is  the  observer  the  seer  separate  from  the  thing  seen.
Identification is an act of thought and thought is fragmentation.
The island, the river and the sea are still there, the palms and the buildings.
The  sun  was  coming  out  of  masses  of  clouds,  serried  and  soaring  to  the
heavens. In only a loin cloth the fishermen were throwing their nets to catch
some  measly  little  fishes.  Unwilling  poverty  is  a  degradation.  Late  in  the
evening  it  was  pleasant  among  the  mangoes  and  scented  flowers.  How
beautiful is the earth.    26
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
BROCKWOOD PARK 11TH ENTRY
24th September 1973
A  new  consciousness  and  a  totally  new  morality  are  necessary  to  bring
about  a  radical  change  in  the  present  culture  and  social  structure.  This  is
obvious, yet the left and the right and the revolutionary seem to disregard it.
Any dogma, any formula, any ideology, is part of the old consciousness; they
are the fabrications of thought whose activity is fragmentation the left, the right,
the centre. This activity will inevitably lead to bloodshed of the right or of the
left  or  to  totalitarianism.  This  is  what  is  going  on  around  us.  One  sees  the
necessity of social, economic and moral change but the response is from the
old consciousness thought being the principle actor. The mess, the confusion
and  the  misery  that  human  beings  have  got  into  within  the  area  of  the  old
consciousness,  and  without  changing  that  profoundly,  every  human  activity,
political, economic and religious, will only bring us to the destruction of each
other and the earth. This is so obvious to the sane.
One has to be a light to oneself; this light is the law. There is no other law.
All the other laws are made by thought and so fragmentary and contradictory.
To  be  a  light  to  oneself  is  not  to  follow  the  light  of  another,  however
reasonable, logic, historical, and however convincing. You cannot be a light to
yourself if you are in the dark shadows of authority, of dogma, of conclusion.
Morality is not put together by thought; it is not the outcome of environmental
pressure,  it  is  not  of  yesterday,  of  tradition.  Morality  is  the  child  of  love  and
love is not desire and pleasure. Sexual or sensory enjoyment is not love.
High in the mountains there were hardly any birds, there were some crows,
there were deer and an occasional bear. The huge redwoods, the silent ones,
were everywhere, dwarfing all the other trees. It was a magnificent country and
utterly  peaceful,  for  no  hunting  was  allowed.  Every  animal,every  tree  and
flower was protected. Sitting under one of those massive redwoods, one was
aware of the history of man and the beauty of earth. A fat red squirrel passed   27
by  most  elegantly,  stopping  a  few  feet  away,  watching  and  wondering  what
you were doing there. The earth was dry, though there was a stream nearby.
Not a leaf stirred and the beauty of silence was among the trees. Going slowly
along the narrow path, round the bend was a bear with four cubs as large as
big cats. They rushed off to climb up trees and the mother faced one without a
movement, without a sound. About fifty feet separated us; she was enormous,
brown,  and  prepared.  One  immediately  turned  one’s  back  on  her  and  left.
Each understood that there was no fear and  no  intention  to  hurt,  but  all  the
same  one  was  glad  to  be  among  the  protecting  trees,  squirrels  and  the
scolding jays.
Freedom  is  to  be  a  light  to  oneself;  then  it  is  not  an  abstraction,  a  thing
conjured by thought. Actual freedom is freedom from dependency, attachment,
from the craving for experience. Freedom from the very structure of thought is
to be a light to oneself. In this light all action takes place and thus it is never
contradictory. Contradiction exists only when that law, light, is separate from
action, when the actor is separate from action. The ideal, the principle, is the
barren movement of thought and cannot co-exist with this light; one denies the
other.  This  light,  this  law,  is  separate  from  you;  where  the  observer  is,  this
light, this love, is not. The structure of the observer is put together by thought,
which  is  never  new,  never  free.  There  is  no  «how»,  no  system,  no  practice.
There is only the seeing which is the doing. You have to see, not through the
eyes of another. This light, this law, is neither yours nor that of another. There
is only light. This is love.    28
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
BROCKWOOD PARK 12TH ENTRY
25th September 1973
He  was  looking  out  of  the  window  on  to  the  green  rolling  hills  and  dark
woods with the morning sun on them. It was a pleasant and lovely morning,
there were magnificent clouds beyond the woods, white with billowing shapes.
No wonder the ancients said the gods had their abode among them and the
mountains. All around there were these enormous clouds against a blue and
dazzling sky. He had not a single thought and was only looking at the beauty
of the world. He must have been at that window for some time and something
took  place,  unexpected,  uninvited.  You  cannot  invite  or  desire  such  things,
unknowingly  or  consciously.  Everything  seemed  to  withdraw  and  be  giving
space only to that, the unnameable. You won’t find it in any temple, mosque or
church or on any printed page. You will find it nowhere and whatever you find,
it is not that.
With so many others in that vast structure near the Golden Horn (Istanbul)
he  was  sitting  next  to  a  beggar  with  torn  rags,  head  lowered,  uttering  some
prayer. A man began to sing in Arabic. He had a marvellous voice, the entire
dome and great edifice was filled with it, it seemed to shake the building. It had
a strange effect on all those who were there; they listened to the words and to
the voice with great respect and were at the same time enchanted. He was a
stranger amongst them; they looked at him and then forgot him. The vast hall
was filled and presently there was a silence; they went through their ritual and
one  by  one  and  then  they  left.  Only  the  beggar  and  he  remained;  then  the
beggar too left. The great dome was silent and the edifice became empty, the
noise of life was far away.
If  you  ever  walk  by  yourself  high  in  the  mountains  among  the  pines  and
rocks,  leaving  everything  in  the  valley  far  below  you,  when  there  is  not  a
whisper among the trees and every thought has withered away, then it may
come to you, the otherness. If you hold it, it will never come again; what you   29
hold is the memory of it dead and gone. What you hold is not the real; your
heart and mind are too small, they can hold only the things of thought and that
is barren. Go further away from the valley, far away, leaving everything down
there. You can come back and pick them up if you want to but they will have
lost their weight. You will never be the same again.
After  a  long  climb  of  several  hours,  beyond  the  tree  line,  he  was  there
among  rocks  and  the  silence  mountains  have;  there  were  a  few  misshaped
pines.  There  was  no  wind  and  everything  was  utterly  still.  Walking  back,
moving from rock to rock, he suddenly heard a rattler and jumped. A few feet
away was the snake, fat and almost black. With the rattle in the middle of the
coils, it was ready to strike. The triangled head with its forked tongue flickering
in  and  out,  its  dark  sharp  eyes  watching,  it  was  ready  to  strike  if  he  moved
nearer. During all that half hour or more it never blinked, it stared at you, it had
no eyelids. Uncoiling slowly, keeping its head and tail towards him, it began to
move away in a U-shape and when he made a move to get nearer it coiled up
instantly ready to strike. We played this game for a little while; it was getting
tired and he left it to go its own way. It was a really frightening thing, fat and
deadly.
You must be alone with the trees, meadows and streams. You are never
alone  if  you  carry  the  things  of  thought,  its  images  and  problems.  The  mind
must not be filled with the rocks and clouds of the earth. It must be empty as
the newly-made vessel. Then you would see something totally, something that
has never been. You can’t see this if you are there; you must die to see it.You
may think you are the important thing in the world but you are not.You may
have everything that thought has put together but they are all old, used and
begin to crumble.
In the valley it was surprisingly cool and near the huts the squirrels were
waiting for their nuts. They had been fed every day in the cabin on the table.
They  were  very  friendly  and  if  you  weren’t  there  on  time  they  began  their
scolding and the bluejays waited noisily outside.    30
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
BROCKWOOD PARK 13TH ENTRY
27th September 1973
It  was  a  temple  in  ruins,  with  its  roofless  long  corridors,  gates  headless
statues  and  deserted  courtyards.  It  had  become  a  sanctuary  for  birds  and
monkeys, parrots and doves. Some of the headless statues were still massive
in their beauty; they had a still dignity. The whole place was surprisingly clean
and one could sit on the ground to watch the monkeys and chattering birds.
Once  very  long  ago,  the  temple  must  have  been  a  flourishing  place  with
thousands  of  worshippers,  with  garlands,  incense  and  prayer.  Their
atmosphere  was  still  there,  their  hopes,  fears  and  their  reverence.  The  holy
sanctuary  was  gone  long  ago.  Now  the  monkeys  disappeared  as  it  was
growing  hot  but  the  parrots  and  doves  had  their  nests  in  the  holes  and
crevices  of  the  high  walls.  This  old  ruined  temple  was  too  far  away  for  the
villagers to further destroy it. Had they come they would have desecrated the
emptiness.
Religion  has  become  superstition  and  image-worship,  belief  and  ritual.  It
has lost the beauty of truth; incense has taken the place of reality. Instead of
direct  perception  there  is  in  its  place  the  image  carved  by  the  hand  or  the
mind. The only concern of religion is the total transformation of man. And all
the circus that goes on around it is nonsense. That’s why the truth is not to be
found in any temple, church or mosque, however beautiful they are. Beauty of
truth and the beauty of stone are two different I things. One opens the door to
the  immeasurable  and  the  other  to,  the  imprisonment  of  man;  the  one  to
freedom  and  the  other  to  the  bondage  of  thought.  Romanticism  and
sentimentality  deny  the  very  nature  of  religion,  nor  is  it  a  plaything  of  the
intellect.  Knowledge  in  the  area  of  action  is  necessary  to  function  efficiently
and objectively, but knowledge is not the means of the transformation of man;
knowledge is the structure of thought and thought is the dull repetition of the
known, however modified and enlarged. There is no freedom through the ways
of thought, the known. The long snake lay very still along the dry ridge of the   31
rice  fields,  lusciously  green  and  bright  in  the  morning  sun.  Probably  it  was
resting  or  waiting  for  some  careless  frog.  Frogs  were  being  shipped  then  to
Europe to be eaten as a delicacy. The snake was long and yellowish; and very
still; it was almost the colour of the dry earth, hard to see but the light of day
was in its dark eyes. The only thing that was moving, in and out, was its black
tongue.  It  could  not  have  been  aware  of  the  watcher  who  was  somewhat
behind  its  head.  Death  was  everywhere  that  morning.  You  could  you  could
hear it in the village; the great sobs as the body, wrapped in a cloth was being
carried out; a kite was streaking down on a bird; some animal was being killed;
you  heard  its  agonizing  cries.  So  it  went  on  day  after  day:  death  is  always
everywhere, as sorrow is.
The  beauty  of  truth  and  its  subtleties  are  not  in  belief  and  dogma,  they
never are where man can find them for there is no path to its beauty; it is not a
fixed point, a haven of shelter. It has its own tenderness whose love is not to
be measured nor can you hold it, experience it. It has no market value to be
used and put aside.It is there when the mind and heart are empty of the things
of thought. The monk or the poor man are not near it, nor the rich; neither the
intellectual nor the gifted can touch it. The one who says he knows has never
come near it. Be far away from the world and yet live it.
The parrots were screeching and fluttering around the Tamarind tree that
morning; they begin early their restless activity, with their coming and going.
They were bright streaks of green with strong, red, curved beaks. They never
seemed  to  fly  straight  but  always  zig-zagging,  shrieking  as  they  flew.
occasionally they would come to sit on the parapet of the verandah; then you
could watch them, but not for long; they would be off again with their crazy and
noisy flight. Their only enemy seemed to be man. He puts them in a cage.    32
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
BROCKWOOD PARK 14TH ENTRY
28th September 1973
The big black dog had just killed a goat; it had been punished severely and
tied up and it was now whining and barking. The house had a high wall around
it but somehow the goat had wandered in and the dog had chased and killed it.
The owner of the house made amends with words and silver. It was a large
house with trees around it and the lawn was never completely green however
much  it  was  watered.  The  sun  was  cruelly  strong  and  all  the  flowers  and
bushes had to be watered twice a day; the soil was poor and the heat of the
day  almost  withered  the  greenery.  But  the  trees  had  grown  large  and  gave
comforting shadows and you could sit there in the early morning when the sun
was well behind the trees. It was a good place if you wanted to sit quietly and
lose yourself in meditation, but not if you wanted to daydream or lose yourself
in  some  satisfying  illusion.  It  was  too  severe  there  in  those  shadows,  too
demanding,  for  the  whole  place  was  given  over  to  that  kind  of  quiet
contemplation. You could indulge in your friendly fantasies but you would soon
find out that the place did not invite the images of thought.
He was sitting with a cloth over his head, weeping; his wife had just died.
He  did  not  want  to  show  his  tears  to  his  children;  they  too  were  crying,  not
quite  understanding  what  had  happened.  The  mother  of  many  children  had
been  unwell  and  lately  very  sick;  the  father  sat  at  her  bedside.  He  never
seemed  to  go  out,  and  one  day,  after  some  ceremonies,  the  mother  was
carried out. The house had strangely become empty, without the perfume that
the  mother  had  given  to  it,  and  it  was  never  the  same  again  for  there  was
sorrow in the house now. The father knew it; the children had lost someone
forever but as yet they did not know the meaning of sorrow.
It is always there, you cannot just forget it, you cannot cover it up through
some form of entertainment, religious or otherwise. You may run away from it
but it will be there to meet you again. You may lose yourself in some worship,   33
prayer  or  in  some  comforting  belief  but  it  will  appear  again,  unbidden.  The
flowering  of  sorrow  is  bitterness,  cynicism  or  some  neurotic  behaviour.  You
may be aggressive, violent and nasty in your conduct but sorrow is where you
are. You may have power, position and the pleasures of money but it will be
there in your heart, waiting and preparing. Do what you will you cannot escape
from  it.  The  love  that  you  have  ends  in  sorrow;  sorrow  is  time,  sorrow  is
thought.
The tree is cut down and you shed a tear; an animal is killed for your taste;
the earth is being destroyed for your pleasure; you are being educated to kill,
to  destroy,  man  against  man.  The  new  technology  and  machines  are  taking
over  the  toil  of  man  but  you  may  not  end  sorrow  through  the  things  that
thought has put together. Love is not pleasure.
She came desperate in her sorrow; she talked, pouring out all the things
she had been through, death, the inanities of her children, their politics, their
divorces, their frustrations, bitterness and the utter futility of all life that had no
meaning.  She  was  not  young  any  more;  in  her  youth  she  had  just  enjoyed
herself, had a passing interest in politics, a degree in economics and more or
less the kind of life that almost everyone leads. Her husband had died recently
and all sorrow seemed to descend upon her. She became quiet as we talked.
Any  movement  of  thought  is  the  deepening  of  sorrow.  Thought  with  its
memories, with its images of pleasure and pain, with its loneliness and tears,
with its self-pity and remorse, is the ground of sorrow. Listen to what is being
said. Just listen not to the echoes of the past, to the overcoming of sorrow or
how to escape from its torture but listen with your heart, with your whole being
to what is now being said. Your dependence and attachment have prepared
the soil for your sorrow. Your neglect of the study of yourself and the beauty it
brings, have given nourishment to your sorrow; all your self-centred activities
have led you to this sorrow. lust listen to what is being said: stay with it, don’t
wander off. Any movement of thought is the strengthening of sorrow. Thought
is not love. Love has no sorrow.    34
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
BROCKWOOD PARK 15TH ENTRY
29th September 1973
The rains were nearly over and the horizon was flowing with billowing white
and golden clouds; they were soaring up to the blue and green heavens. All
the leaves of every bush were washed clean and they were sparkling in the
early  morning  sun.  It  was  a  morning  of  delight,  the  earth  was  rejoicing  and
there seemed to be benediction in the air. High up in that room you saw the
blue sea, the river running into it, the palms and the mangoes. You held your
breath at the wonder of the earth and the immense shape of the clouds. It was
early,  quiet  and  the  noise  of  the  day  had  not  yet  begun;  across  the  bridge
there was hardly any traffic, only a long line of bullock carts, laden with hay.
Years later buses would come with their pollution and bustle. It was a lovely
morning, full of song and bliss.
The two brothers were driven in a car to a village nearby to see their father
whom they had not seen for nearly fifteen years or more. They had to walk a
little distance on an ill-kept road. They came to a tank, a storage of water; all
its  sides  had  stone  steps  leading  down  to  the  clear  water.  At  one  end  of  it
there was a small temple with a small square tower, quite narrow at the top;
there were many images of stone all round it. On the verandah of the temple,
overlooking the big pond, were some people, absolutely still, like those images
on  the  tower,  lost  in  meditation.  Beyond  the  water,  just  behind  some  other
houses,  was  the  house  where  the  father  lived.  He  came  out  as  the  two
brothers  approached  and  they  greeted  him  by  prostrating  fully,  touching  his
feet. They were shy and waited for him to speak, as was the custom. Before
he  said  anything  he  went  inside  to  wash  his  feet,  as  the  boys  had  touched
them.  He  was  a  very  orthodox  Brahmanah,  no  one  could  touch  him  except
another Brahmanah, and his two sons had been polluted by mixing with others
who were not of his class and had eaten food cooked by non-Brahmanahs. So
he washed his feet and sat down on the ground, not too close to his polluted
sons. They talked for some time and the hour when food is eaten approached.   35
He  sent  them  away  for  he  could  not  eat  with  them;  they  were  no  longer
Brahmanahs. He must have had affection for them, for after all they were his
sons whom he had not seen for so many years. If their mother were alive she
might have given them food but she would certainly not have eaten with her
sons. They must have had a deep affection for their children but orthodoxy and
tradition  forbade  any  physical  contact  with  them.  Tradition  is  very  strong,
stronger than love.
The tradition of war is stronger than love; the tradition of killing for food and
killing  the  so-called  enemy  denies  human  tenderness  and  affection;  the
tradition  of  long  hours  of  labour  breeds  efficient  cruelty;  the  tradition  of
marriage  soon  becomes  a  bondage;  the  traditions  of  the  rich  and  the  poor
keep  them  apart;  each  profession  has  its  own  tradition,  its  own  elite  which
breeds envy and enmity. The traditional ceremonies and rituals in the places of
worship,  the  world  over,  have  separated  man  from  man  and  the  words  and
gestures  have  no  meaning  at  all.  A  thousand  yesterdays,  however  rich  and
beautiful, deny love.
You cross over a rickety bridge to the other side of a narrow, muddy stream
which  joins  the  big  wide  river;  you  come  to  a  small  village  of  mud  and  sun-
dried bricks. There are quantities of children, screaming and playing; the older
people are in the fields or fishing, or working in the nearby town. In a small
dark room an opening in the wall is the window; no flies would come into this
darkness. It was cool in there. In that small space was a weaver with a large
loom; he could not read but was educated in his own way, polite and wholly
absorbed in his labours. He turned out exquisite cloth of gold and silver with
beautiful  patterns.  In  whatever  colour  of  cloth  or  silk  he  could  weave  into
traditional patterns, the finest and the best. He was born to that tradition; he
was small, gentle and eager to show his marvellous talent. You watched him,
as he produced from silken threads the finest of cloths, with wonder and love
in your heart. There was the woven piece of great beauty, born of tradition.    36
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
BROCKWOOD PARK 16TH ENTRY
30th September 1973
It was a long yellowish snake crossing the road under a banyan tree. He
had been for a long walk and was coming back when he saw the snake. He
followed it, quite closely, up a mound; it peered into every hole; it was totally
unaware of him, though he was almost on top of it. It was quite fat; there was a
large bulge in the middle of its length. The villagers on their way home had
stopped talking and watched; one of them told him that it was a cobra and that
he had better be careful. The cobra disappeared into a hole and he resumed
his walk. Intent on seeing the cobra again at the same spot, he returned the
next day. There was no snake there but the villagers had put a shallow pot of
milk, some marigolds and a large stone with some ashes on it and some other
flowers. That place had become sacred and every day there would be fresh
flowers; the villagers all around knew that that place had become sacred. He
returned several months later to that place; there was fresh milk, fresh flowers
and the stone was newly decorated. And the banyan was a little older.
The temple overlooked the blue Mediterranean; it was in ruins and only the
marble columns remained. In a war it was destroyed but it was still a sacred
sanctuary. One evening, with the golden sun on the marble, you felt the holy
atmosphere; you were alone, with no visitors about and their endless chatter.
The columns were becoming pure gold and the sea far below was intensely
blue. A statue of the goddess was there, preserved and locked up; you could
only see her at certain hours and she was losing the beauty of sacredness.
The blue sea remained.
It was a nice cottage in the country with a lawn that had been rolled, mown
and  weeded  for  many  a  year.  The  whole  place  was  well  looked  after,
prosperous and joyful; behind the house was a small vegetable garden; it was
a  lovely  place  with  a  gentle  stream  running  beside,  making  hardly  a  sound.
The door opened and it was held back by a statue of the Buddha, kicked into   37
place. The owner was totally unaware of what he was doing; to him it was a
door-stop. You wondered if he would do the same with a statue he revered, for
he was a Christian. You deny the sacred things of another but you keep your
own; the beliefs of another are superstitions but your own are reasonable and
real. What is sacred?
He  had  picked  it  up,  he  said,  on a beach; it was a  piece of sea-washed
wood in the shape of a human head. It was made of hard wood, shaped by the
waters of the sea, cleansed by many seasons. He had brought it home and put
it on the mantelpiece; he looked at it from time to time and admired what he
had done. One day, he put some flowers round it and then it happened every
day;  he  felt  uncomfortable  if  there  were  not  fresh  flowers  every  day  and
gradually  that  piece  of  shaped  wood  became  very  important  in  his  life.  He
would  allow  no  one  to  touch  it  except  himself;  they  might  desecrate  it;  he
washed his hands before he touched it. It had become holy, sacred, and he
alone was the high priest of it; he represented it; it told him of things he could
never  know  by  himself.  His  life  was  filled  with  it  and  he  was,  he  said,
unspeakably happy.
What is sacred? Not the things made by the mind or hand or by the sea.
The symbol is never the real; the word grass is not the grass of the field; the
word god is not god. The word never contains the whole, however cunning the
description. The word sacred has no meaning by itself; it becomes sacred only
in its relationship to something, illusory or real. What is real is not the words of
the mind; reality, truth, cannot be touched by thought. Where the perceiver is,
truth is not. The thinker and his thought must come to an end for truth to be.
Then that which is, is sacred that ancient marble with the golden sun on it, that
snake and the villager. Where there’s no love there is nothing sacred. Love is
whole and in it there’s no fragmentation.    38
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
BROCKWOOD PARK 17TH ENTRY
2nd October 1973
Consciousness  is  its  content;  the  content  is  consciousness.  All  action  is
fragmentary  when  the  content  of  consciousness  is  broken  up.  This  activity
breeds conflict, misery and confusion; then sorrow is inevitable.
From the air at that height you could see the green fields, each separate
from  the  other  in  shape,  size  and  colour.  A  stream  came  down  to  meet  the
sea;  far  beyond  it  were  the  mountains,  heavy  with  snow.  All  over  the  earth
there  were  large,  spreading  towns,  villages;  on  the  hills  there  were  castles,
churches and houses, and beyond them were the vast deserts, brown, golden
and white. Then there was the blue sea again and more land with thick forests.
The whole earth was rich and beautiful.
He  walked  there,  hoping  to  meet  a  tiger,  and  he  did.  The  villagers  had
come to tell his host that a tiger had killed a young cow the previous night and
would come back that night to the kill. Would they like to see it? A platform on
a tree would be built and from there one could see the big killer and also they
would tie a goat to the tree to make sure that the tiger would come. He said he
wouldn’t like to see a goat killed for his pleasure. So the matter was dropped.
But late that afternoon, as the sun was behind a rolling hill, his host wished to
go for a drive, hoping that they might by chance see the tiger that had killed
the cow. They drove for some miles into the forest; it became quite dark and
with  the  headlights  on  they  turned  back.  They  had  given  up  every  hope  of
seeing the tiger as they drove back. But just as they turned a corner, there it
was, sitting on its haunches in the middle of the road, huge, striped, its eyes
bright in the headlamps. The car stopped and it came towards them growling
and the growls shook the car; it was surprisingly large and its long tail with its
black  tip  was  moving  slowly  from  side  to  side.  It  was  annoyed.  The  window
was open and as it passed growling, he put out his hand to stroke this great
energy of the forest, but his host hurriedly snatched his arm back, explaining   39
later that it would have torn his arm away. It was a magnificent animal, full of
majesty and power.
Down  there  on  that  earth,  there  were  tyrants  denying  freedom  to  man,
ideologists  shaping  the  mind  of  man,  priests  with  their  centuries  of  tradition
and  belief  enslaving  man;  the  politicians  with  their  endless  promises  were
bringing corruption and division. Down there man is caught in endless conflict
and sorrow and in the bright lights of pleasure. It is all so utterly meaningless
the  pain,  the  labour  and  the  words  of  philosophers.  Death  and  unhappiness
and toil, man against man.
This complex variety, modified changes in the pattern of pleasure and pain,
are  the  content  of  man’s  consciousness,  shaped  and  conditioned  by  the
culture  in  which  it  has  been  nurtured,  with  its  religious  and  economic
pressures.  Freedom  is  not  within  the  boundaries  of  such  a  consciousness;
what is accepted as freedom is in reality a prison made somewhat livable in
through  the  growth  of  technology.  In  this  prison  there  are  wars,  made  more
destructive by science and profit. Freedom doesn’t lie in the change of prisons,
nor  in  any  change  of  gurus,  with  their  absurd  authority.  Authority  does  not
bring the sanity of order. On the contrary it breeds disorder and out of this soil
grows authority. Freedom is not in fragments. A non-fragmented mind, a mind
that is whole is in freedom. It does not know it is free; what is known is within
the area of time, the past through the present to the future. All movement is
time and time is not a factor of freedom. Freedom of choice denies freedom;
choice exists only where there is confusion. Clarity of perception, insight, is the
freedom from the pain of choice. Total order is the light of freedom. This order
is not the child of thought for all activity of thought is to cultivate fragmentation.
Love  is  not  a  fragment  of  thought,  of  pleasure.  The  perception  of  this  is
intelligence. Love and intelligence are inseparable and from this flows action
which does not breed pain. Order is its ground.    40
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
BROCKWOOD PARK 18TH ENTRY
3rd October 1973
It  was  quite  cold  at  the  airport  so  early  in  the  morning;  the  sun  was  just
coming  up.  Everyone  was  wrapped  up  and  the  poor  porters  were  shivering;
there was the usual noise of an airport, the roars of the jets, the loud chatter,
the farewells and the take-off. The plane was crowded with tourists, business
men  and  others  going  to  the  holy  city,  with  its  filth  and  teeming  people.
Presently the vast range of the Himalayas became pink in the morning sun; we
were  flying  south-east  and  for  hundreds  of  miles  these  immense  peaks
seemed to be hanging in the air with beauty and majesty. The passenger in
the next seat was immersed in a newspaper; there was a woman across the
aisle who was concentrating on her rosary; the tourists were talking loudly and
taking photographs of each other and of the distant mountains; everyone was
busy with their things and had no time to observe the marvel of the earth and
its meandering sacred river nor the subtle beauty of those great peaks which
were becoming rose-coloured.
There was a man further down the aisle to whom considerable respect was
being  paid;  he  was  not  young,  seemed  to  have  the  face  of  a  scholar,  was
quick  in  movement  and  cleanly  dressed.  One  wondered  if  he  ever  saw  the
actual  glory  of  those  mountains.  Presently  he  got  up  and  came  towards  the
passenger in the next seat; he asked if he might change places with him. He
sat down, introducing himself, and asked if he might have a talk with us. He
spoke  English  rather  hesitantly,  choosing  his  words  carefully  for  he  was  not
too familiar with this language; he had a clear, soft voice and was pleasant in
his manners. He began by saying he was most fortunate to be travelling on the
same plane and to have this conversation. «Of course I have heard of you from
my  youth  and  only  the  other  day  I  heard  your  last  talk,  meditation  and  the
observer. I am a scholar, a pundit, practising my own kind of meditation and
discipline.» The mountains were receding further east and below us the river
was making wide and friendly patterns.    41
«You said the observer is the observed, the meditator is the meditation and
there’s meditation only when the observer is not. I would like to be informed
about this. For me meditation has been the control of thought, fixing the mind
on the absolute.»
The controller is the controlled, is it not? The thinker is his thoughts; without
words,  images,  thoughts,  is  there  a  thinker?  The  experiencer  is  the
experience;  without  experience  there’s  no  experiencer.  The  controller  of
thought  is  made  up  of  thought;  he’s  one  of  the  fragments  of  thought,  call  it
what you will; the outside agency however sublime is still a product of thought;
the activity of thought is always outward and brings about fragmentation.
«Can life ever be lived without control? It’s the essence of discipline.»
When the controller is the controlled, seen as an absolute fact as truth, then
there comes about a totally different kind of energy which transforms what is.
The controller can never change what is; he can control it, suppress it, modify
it or run away from it but can never go beyond and above it. Life can and must
be  lived  without  control.  A  controlled  life  is  never  sane;  it  breeds  endless
conflict, misery and confusion.
«This is a totally new concept.»
If it may be pointed out, it is not an abstraction, a formula. There’s only what
is. Sorrow is not an abstraction; one can draw a conclusion from it, a concept,
a verbal structure but it is not what is, sorrow. Ideologies have no reality; there
is only what is. This can never be transformed when the observer separates
himself from the observed.
«Is this your direct experience?»
It  would  be  utterly  vain  and  stupid  if  it  were  merely  verbal  structures  of
thought; to talk of such things would be hypocrisy.
«I would have liked to find out from you what is meditation but now there’s
no time as we are about to land.»    42
There were garlands on arrival and the winter sky was intensely blue.    43
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
BROCKWOOD PARK 19TH ENTRY
4th October 1973
As a young boy, he used to sit by himself under a large tree near a pond in
which lotuses grew; they were pink and had a strong smell. From the shade of
that spacious tree, he would watch the thin green snakes and the chameleons,
the frogs and the watersnakes. His brother, with others, would come to take
him  home.  [Krishnamurti  is  describing  his  own  childhood.]  It  was  a  pleasant
place under the tree, with the river and the pond. There seemed to be so much
space, and in this the tree made its own space. Everything needs space. All
those birds on telegraph wires, sitting so equally spaced on a quiet evening,
make the space for the heavens.
The two brothers would sit with many others in the room with pictures; there
would  be  a  chant  in  Sanskrit  and  then  complete  silence;  it  was  the  evening
meditation. The younger brother would go to sleep and roll over and wake up
only when the others got up to leave. The room was not too large and within its
walls were the pictures, the images of the sacred. Within the narrow confines
of a temple or church, man gives form to the vast movement of space. It is like
this everywhere; in the mosque it is held in the graceful lines of words. Love
needs great space.
To  that  pond  would  come  snakes  and  occasionally  people;  it  had  stone
steps leading down to the water where grew the lotus. The space that thought
creates is measurable and so is limited; cultures and religions are its product.
But the mind is filled with thought and is made up of thought; its consciousness
is the structure of thought, having little space within it. But  this  space  is  the
movement of time, from here to there, from its centre towards its outer lines of
consciousness, narrow or expanding. The space which the centre makes for
itself is its own prison. Its relationships are from this narrow space but there
must be space to live; that of the mind denies living. Living within the narrow
confines  of  the  centre  is  strife,  pain  and  sorrow  and  that  is  not  living.  The   44
space, the distance between you and the tree, is the word, knowledge which is
time. Time is the observer who makes the distance between himself and the
trees,  between  himself  and  what  is.  Without  the  observer,  distance  ceases.
Identification  with  the  trees,  with  another  or  with  a  formula,  is  the  action  of
thought  in  its  desire  for  protection,  security.  Distance  is  from  one  point  to
another and to reach that point time is necessary; distance only exists where
there  is  direction,  inward  or  outward.  The  observer  makes  a  separation,  a
distance between himself and what is; from this grows conflict and sorrow. The
transformation  of  what  is  takes  place  only  when  there  is  no  separation,  no
time, between the seer and the seen. Love has no distance.
The brother died and there was no movement in any direction away from
sorrow. This non-movement is the ending of time. It was among the hills and
green shadows that the river began and with a roar it entered the sea and the
endless  horizons.  Man  lives  in  boxes  with  drawers,  acres  of  them  and  they
have  no  space;  they  are  violent,  brutal,  aggressive  and  mischievous;  they
separate and destroy each other. The river is the earth and the earth is the
river; each cannot exist without the other.
There are no ends to words but communication is verbal and non-verbal.
The hearing of the word is one thing and the hearing of no word is another; the
one  is  irrelevant,  superficial,leading  to  inaction;  the  other  is  non-fragmentary
action,  the  flowering  of  goodness.  Words  have  given  beautiful  walls  but  no
space. Remembrance, imagination, are the pain of pleasure, and love is not
pleasure.
The  long,  thin,  green  snake  was  there  that  morning;  it  was  delicate  and
almost  among  the  green  leaves;  it  would  be  there,  motionless,  waiting  and
watching.  The  large  head  of  the  chameleon  was  showing;  it  lay  along  a
branch; it changed its colours quite often.    45
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
BROCKWOOD PARK 20TH ENTRY
6th October 1973
There is a single tree in a green field that occupies a whole acre; it is old
and  highly  respected  by  all  the  other  trees  on  the  hill.  In  its  solitude  it
dominates  the  noisy  stream,  the  hills  and  the  cottage  across  the  wooden
bridge. You admire it as you pass it by but on your return you look at it in a
more leisurely way; its trunk is very large, deeply embedded in the earth, solid
and  indestructible;  Its  branches  are  long,  dark  and  curving;  it  has  rich
shadows. In the evening it is withdrawn into itself, unapproachable, but during
the daylight hours it is open and welcoming. It is whole, untouched by an axe
or  saw.  On  a  sunny  day  you  sat  under  it,  you  felt  its  venerable  age,  and
because you were alone-with it you were aware of the depth and the beauty of
life.
The  old  villager  wearily  passed  you  by,  as  you  were  sitting  on  a  bridge
looking at the sunset; he was almost blind, limping, carrying a bundle in one
hand and in the other a stick. It was one of those evenings when the colours of
the sunset were on every rock, tree and bush; the grass and the fields seemed
to have their own inner light. The sun had set behind a rounded hill and amidst
these extravagant colours there was the birth of the evening star The villager
stopped  in  front  of  you,  looked  at  those  startling  colours  and  at  you.  You
looked at each other and without a word he trudged on. In that communication
there was affection, tenderness and respect, not the silly respect but that of
religious men. At that moment all time and thought had come to an end. You
and he were utterly religious, uncorrupted by belief, image, by word or poverty.
You  often  passed  each  other  on  that  road  among  the  stony  hills  and  each
time, as you looked at one another, there was the joy of total insight.
He was coming, with his wife, from the temple across the way. They were
both silent, deeply stirred by the chants and the worship. You happened to be
walking  behind  them  and  you  caught  the  feeling  of  their  reverence,  the   46
strength of their determination to lead a religious life. But it would soon pass
away as they were drawn into their responsibility to their children, who came
rushing towards them. He had some kind of profession, was probably capable,
for  he  had  a  large  house.  The  weight  of  existence  would  drown  him  and
although he would go to the temple often, the battle would go on.
The  word  is  not  the  thing;  the  image,  the  symbol  is  not  the  real  Reality,
truth, is not a word. To put it into words wipes it away and illusion takes its
place. The intellect may reject the whole structure of ideology, belief and all
the trappings and power that go with them, but reason can justify any belief,
any ideation. Reason is the order of thought and thought is the response of the
outer.  Because  it  is  the  outer,  thought  puts  together  the  inner.  No  man  can
ever live only with the outer, and the inner becomes a necessity. This division
is the ground on which the battle of «me» and «not me» takes place. The outer
is  the  god  of  religions  and  ideologies;  the  inner  tries  to  conform  to  those
images and conflict ensues.
There is neither the outer nor the inner but only the whole. The experiencer
is the experienced. Fragmentation is insanity. This wholeness is not merely a
word; it is when the division as the outer and inner utterly ceases. The thinker
is the thought.
Suddenly,  as  you  were  walking  along,  without  a  single  thought  but  only
observing  without  the  observer,  you  became  aware  of  a  sacredness  that
thought has never been able to conceive. You stop, you observe the trees, the
birds and the passer-by; it is not an illusion or something with which the mind
deludes itself. It is there in your eyes, in your whole being. The colour of the
butterfly is the butterfly.
The colours which the sun had left were fading, and before dark the shy
new moon showed itself before it disappeared behind the hill.    47
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
BROCKWOOD PARK 21ST ENTRY
7th October 1973
It was one of those mountain rains that lasts three or four days, bringing
with it cooler weather. The earth was sodden and heavy and all the mountain
paths were slippery; small streams were running down the steep slopes and
labour  in  the  terraced  fields  had  stopped.  The  trees  and  the  tea  plantations
were weary of the dampness; there had been no sun for over a week and it
was getting quite chilly. The mountains lay to the north, with their snow and
gigantic peaks. The flags around the temples were heavy with rain; they had
lost their delight, their gay colours fluttering in the breeze. There was thunder
and lightning and the sound was carried from valley to valley; a thick fog hid
the sharp flashes of light.
The  next  morning  there  was  the  clear  blue,  tender  sky,  and  the  great
peaks, still and timeless, were alight with the early morning sun. A deep valley
ran down between the village and the high mountains; it was filled with dark
blue  fog.  Straight  ahead,  towering  in  the  clear  sky  was  the  second  highest
peak of the Himalayas. You could almost touch it but it was many miles away;
you forgot the distance for it was there, in all its majesty so utterly pure and
measureless.  By  late  morning  it  was  gone,  hidden  in  the  darkening  clouds
from the valley. Only in the early morning it showed itself and disappeared a
few  hours  later.  No  wonder  the  ancients  looked  to  their  gods  in  these
mountains,  in  thunder  and  in  the  clouds.  The  divinity  of  their  life  was  in  the
benediction that lay hidden in these unapproachable snows.
His disciples came to invite you to visit their guru; you politely refused but
they  came  often,  hoping  that  you  would  change  your  mind  or  accept  their
invitation, becoming weary of their insistence. So it was decided that their guru
would come with a few of his chosen disciples.
It was a noisy little street; the children played cricket there; they had a bat
and the stumps were a few odd bricks. With shouts and laughter they played   48
cheerfully as long as they could, only stopping for a passing car as the driver
respected  their  play.  They  would  play  day  after  day  and  that  morning  they
were particularly noisy when the guru came, carrying a small, polished stick.
Several of us were sitting on a thin mattress on the floor when he entered
the room and we got up and offered him the mattress. He sat cross-legged,
putting  his  cane  in  front  of  him;  that  thin  mattress  seemed  to  give  him  a
position of authority. He had found truth, experienced it and so he, who knew,
was opening the door for us. What he said was law to him and to others; you
were merely a seeker, whereas he had found. You might be lost in your search
and he would help you along the way, but you must obey. Quietly you replied
that all the seeking and the finding had no meaning unless the mind was free
from its conditioning; that freedom is the first and last step, and obedience to
any authority in matters of the mind is to be caught in illusion and action that
breeds  sorrow.  He  looked  at  you  with  pity,  concern,  and  with  a  flair  of
annoyance, as though you were slightly demented. Then said, «The greatest
and final experience has been given to me and no seeker can refuse that.»
If reality or truth is to be experienced, then it is only a projection of your own
mind. What is experienced is not truth but a creation of your own mind.
His  disciples  were  getting  fidgety.  Followers  destroy  their  teachers  and
themselves. He got up and left, followed by his disciples. The children were
still playing in the street, somebody was bowled out, followed by wild clapping
and cheers.
There  is  no  path  to  truth,  historically  or  religiously.  It  is  not  to  be
experienced or found through dialectics; it is not to be seen in shifting opinions
and beliefs. You will come upon it when the mind is free of all the things it has
put together. That majestic peak is also the miracle of life.    49
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
BROCKWOOD PARK 22ND ENTRY
8th October 1973
The monkeys were all over the place that quiet morning; on the verandah,
on  the  roof  and  in  the  mango  tree  –  a  whole  troop  of  them;  they  were  the
brownish red-faced variety. The little ones were chasing each other among the
trees, not too far from their mothers, and the big male was sitting by himself,
keeping an eye over the whole troop; there must have been about twenty of
them.  They  were  rather  destructive,  and  as  the  sun  rose  higher  they  slowly
disappeared into the deeper wood, away from human habitation; the male was
the first to leave and the others followed quietly. Then the parrots and crows
came  back  with  their  usual  clatter  announcing  their  presence.  There  was  a
crow that would call or whatever it does, in a raucous voice, usually about the
same time, and keep it up endlessly till it was chased away. Day after day it
would repeat this performance; its caw penetrated deeply into the room and
somehow  all  other  noises  seemed  to  have  come  to  an  end.  These  crows
prevent  violent  quarrels  amongst  themselves,  are  quick,  very  watchful  and
efficient in their survival. The monkeys don’t seem to like them. It was going to
be a nice day.
He was a thin, wiry man, with a well-shaped head and eyes that had known
laughter. We were sitting on a bench overlooking the river in the shade of a
tamarind  tree,  the  home  of  many  parrots  and  a  pair  of  small  screech-owls
which were sunning themselves in the early morning sun.
He said: «I have spent many years in meditation, controlling my thoughts,
fasting and having one meal a day. I used to be a social worker but I gave it up
long  ago  as  I  found  that  such  work  did  not  solve  the  deep  human  problem.
There are many others who are carrying on with such work but it is no longer
for  me.  It  has  become  important  for  me  to  understand  the  full  meaning  and
depth  of  meditation.  Every  school  of  meditation  advocates  some  form  of
control; I have practised different systems but somehow there seems to be no   50
end to it.» Control implies division, the controller and the thing to be controlled;
this division, as all division, brings about conflict and distortion in action and
behaviour.  This  fragmentation  is  the  work  of  thought,  one  fragment  trying  to
control the other parts, call this one fragment the controller or whatever name
you will. This division is artificial and mischievous. Actually, the controller is the
controlled. Thought in its very nature is fragmentary and this causes confusion
and  sorrow.  Thought  has  divided  the  world  into  nationalities,  ideologies  and
into religious sects, the big ones and the little ones. Thought is the response of
memories  experience  and  knowledge,  stored  up  in  the  brain;  it  can  only
function efficiently, sanely, when it has security, order. To survive physically it
must protect itself from all dangers; the necessity of outward survival is easy to
understand but the psychological survival is quite another matter, the survival
of the image that thought has put together. Thought has divided existence as
the outer and the inner and from this separation conflict and control arise. For
the  survival  of  the  inner,  belief  ideology,  gods,  nationalities,  conclusions
become essential and this also brings about untold wars, violence and sorrow.
The desire for the survival of the inner, with its many images, is a disease, is
disharmony.  Thought  is  disharmony.  All  its  images,  ideologies,  its  truths  are
self-contradictory and destructive. Thought has brought about, apart from its
technological  achievements,  both  outwardly  and  inwardly,  chaos  and
pleasures that soon become agonies. To read all this in your daily life, to hear
and see the movement of thought is the transformation that meditation brings
about. This transformation is not the «me» becoming the greater «me» but the
transformation of the content of consciousness; consciousness is its content.
The consciousness of the world is your consciousness; you are the world and
the world is you. Meditation is the complete transformation of thought and its
activities. Harmony is not the fruit of thought; it comes with the perception of
the whole.
The  morning  breeze  had  gone  and  not  a  leaf  was  stirring;  the  river  had
become utterly still and  the  noises  on  the  other bank came across the wide
waters. Even the parrots were quiet.    51
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
BROCKWOOD PARK 23RD ENTRY
9th October 1973
You  went  by  a  narrow-gauge  train  that  stopped  at  almost  every  station
where vendors of hot coffee and tea, blankets and fruit, sweets and toys, were
shouting their wares. Sleep was almost impossible and in the morning all the
passengers got into a boat that crossed the shallow waters of the sea to the
island.  There  a  train  was  waiting  to  take  you  to  the  capital,  through  green
country of jungles and palms, tea plantations and villages. It was a pleasant
and happy land. By the sea it was hot and humid but in the hills where the tea
plantations were it was cool and in the air there was the smell of ancient days,
uncrowded and simple. But in the city, as in all cities, there was noise, dirt, the
squalor of poverty and the vulgarity of money; in the harbour there were ships
from all over the world.
The house was in a secluded part and there was a constant flow of people
who came to greet him with garlands and fruit. One day, a man asked if he
would like to see a baby elephant and naturally we went to see it. It was about
two weeks old and the big mother was nervous and very protective, we were
told. The car took us out of town, past the squalor and dirt to a river with brown
water, with a village on its bank; tall and heavy trees surrounded it. The big
dark mother and the baby were there. He stayed there for several hours till the
mother  got  used  to  him;  he  had  to  be  introduced,  was  allowed  to  touch  her
long trunk and to feed her some fruit and sugar cane. The sensitive end of the
trunk was asking for more, and apples and bananas went into her wide mouth.
The  newly-born  baby  was  standing,  waving  her  tiny  trunk,  between  her
mother’s legs. She was a small replica of her big mother. At last the mother
allowed him to touch her baby; its skin was not too rough and its trunk was
constantly on the move, much more alive than the rest of it. The mother was
watching all the time and her keeper had to reassure her from time to time. It
was a playful baby.    52
The woman came into the small room deeply distressed. Her son was killed
in  the  war:  «I  loved  him  very  much  and  he  was  my  only  child;  he  was  well-
educated and had the promise of great goodness and talent. He was killed and
why  should  it  happen  to  him  and  to  me?  There  was  real  affection,  love
between us. It was such a cruel thing to happen.» She was sobbing and there
seemed  to  be  no  end  to  her  tears.  She  took  his  hand  and  presently  she
became quiet enough to listen.
We  spend  so  much  money  on  educating  our  children;  we  give  them  so
much care; we become deeply attached to them; they fill our lonely lives; in
them we find our fulfilment, our sense of continuity. Why are we educated? To
become technological machines? To spend our days in labour and die in some
accident or with some painful disease? This is the life our culture, our religion,
has  brought  us.  Every  wife  or  mother  is  crying  all  over  the  world;  war  or
disease has claimed the son or the husband. Is love attachment? Is it tears
and the agony of loss? Is it loneliness and sorrow? Is it self-pity and the pain of
separation? If you loved your son, you would see to it that no son was ever
killed in a war. There have been thousands of wars, and mothers and wives
have never totally denied the ways that lead to war. You will cry in agony and
support, unwillingly, the systems that breed war. Love knows no violence.
The man explained why he was separating from his wife. «We married quite
young and after a few years things began to go wrong in every way, sexually,
mentally,  and  we  seemed  so  utterly  unsuited  to  each  other.  We  loved  each
other, though, at the beginning and gradually it is turning into hate; separation
has become necessary and the lawyers are seeing to it.»
Is love pleasure and the insistence of desire? Is love physical sensation? Is
attraction  and  its  fulfilment  love?  Is  it  a  commodity  of  thought?  A  thing  put
together by an accident of circumstances? Is it of companionship, kindliness
and friendship? If any of these take precedence then it is not love. Love is as
final as death.    53
There is a path that goes into the high mountains through woods, meadows
and open spaces. And there is a bench before the climb begins and on it an
old couple sit, looking down on the sunlit valley; they come there very often.
They  sit  without  a  word,  silently  watching  the  beauty  of  the  earth.  They  are
waiting for death to come. And the path goes on into the snows.    54
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
BROCKWOOD PARK 24TH ENTRY
10th October 1973
The rains had come and gone and the huge boulders were glistening in the
morning sun. There was water in the dry riverbeds and the land was rejoicing
once  again;  the  earth  was  redder  and  every  bush  and  blade  of  grass  was
greener  and  the  deep-rooted  trees  were  putting  out  new  leaves.  The  cattle
were  getting  fatter  and  the  villagers  less  thin.  These  hills  are  as  old  as  the
earth  and  the  huge  boulders  appear  to  have  been  carefully  balanced  there.
There is a hill towards the east that has the shape of a great platform on which
a  square  temple  has  been  constructed.  The  village  children  walked  several
miles to learn to read and write; here was one small child, all by herself, with
shining  face,  going  to  a  school  in  the  next  village,  a  book  in  one  hand  and
some food in the other. She stopped as we went by, shy and inquisitive; if she
stayed longer she would be late for her school. The rice fields were startlingly
green. It was a long, peaceful morning.
Two crows were squabbling in the air, cawing and tearing at each other;
there  was  not  enough  foothold  in  the  air,  so  they  came  down  to  the  earth,
struggling with each other. On the ground feathers began to fly and the fight
began  to  be  serious.  Suddenly  about  a  dozen  other  crows  descended  upon
them and put an end to their fight. After a lot of cawing and scolding they all
disappeared into the trees.
Violence is everywhere, among the highly educated and the most primitive,
among  the  intellectuals  and  the  sentimentalists.  Neither  education  nor
organized religions have been able to tame man; on the contrary, they have
been responsible for wars, tortures, concentration camps and for the slaughter
of  animals  on  land  and  sea.  The  more  he  progresses  the  more  cruel  man
seems  to  become.  Politics  have  become  gangsterism,  one  group  against
another;  nationalism  has  led  to  war;  there  are  economic  wars;  there  are
personal  hatreds  and  violence.  Man  doesn’t  seem  to  learn  from  experience   55
and  knowledge,  and  violence  in  every  form  goes  on.  What  place  has
knowledge in the transformation of man and his society?
The  energy  that  has  gone  into  the  accumulation  of  knowledge  has  not
changed man; it has not put an end to violence. The energy that has gone into
a thousand explanations of why he’s so aggressive, brutal, insensitive, has not
put an end to his cruelty The energy which has been spent in analysis of the
causes of his insane destruction, his pleasure in violence, sadism, the bullying
activity, has in no way made man considerate and gentle. In spite of all the
words and books, threats and punishments, man continues his violence.
Violence  is  not  only  in  the  killing,  in  the  bomb,  in  revolutionary  change
through bloodshed; it is deeper and more subtle. Conformity and imitation are
the  indications  of  violence;  imposition  and  the  accepting  of  authority  are  an
indication  of  violence;  ambition  and  competition  are  an  expression  of  this
aggression  and  cruelty,  and  comparison  breeds  envy  with  its  animosity  and
hatred. Where there’s conflict, inner or outer, there is the ground for violence.
Division in all its forms brings about conflict and pain.
You know all this; you have read about the actions of violence, you have
seen it in yourself and around you and you have heard it, and yet violence has
not come to an end. Why? The explanations and the causes of such behaviour
have no real significance. If you are indulging in them, you are wasting your
energy  which  you  need  to  transcend  violence.  You  need  all  your  energy  to
meet and go beyond the energy that is being wasted in violence. Controlling
violence is another form of violence, for the controller is the controlled. In total
attention,  the  summation  of  all  energy,  violence  in  all  its  forms  comes  to  an
end. Attention is not a word, an abstract formula of thought, but an act in daily
life. Action is not an ideology, but if action is the outcome of it then it leads to
violence.
After the rains, the river goes around every boulder, every town and village
and  however  much  it  is  polluted,  it  cleanses  itself  and  runs  through  valleys,
gorges and meadows.    56  57
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
BROCKWOOD PARK 25TH ENTRY
12th October 1973
Again  a  well-known  guru  came  to  see  him.  We  were  sitting  in  a  lovely
walled  garden;  the  lawn  was  green  and  well  kept,  there  were  roses,  sweet
peas, bright yellow marigolds and other flowers of the oriental north. The wall
and the trees kept out the noise of the few cars that went by; the air carried the
perfume of many flowers. In the evening, a family of jackals would come out
from their hiding place under a tree; they had scratched out a large hole where
the mother had her three cubs. They were a healthy looking lot and soon after
sunset  the  mother  would  come  out  with  them,  keeping  close  to  the  trees.
Garbage was behind the house and they would look for it later. There was also
a family of mongooses; every evening the mother with her pink nose and her
long fat tail would come out from her hiding place followed by her two kits, one
behind the other, keeping close to the wall. They too came to the back of the
kitchen where sometimes things were left for them. They kept the garden free
of snakes. They and the jackals seemed  never to have crossed each other,
but if they did they left each other alone.
The guru had announced a few days before that he wished to pay a call.
He arrived and his disciples came streaming in afterwards, one by one. They
would  touch  his  feet  as  a  mark  of  great  respect.  They  wanted  to  touch  the
other  man’s  feet  too  but  he  would  not  have  it;  he  told  them  that  it  was
degrading but tradition and hope of heaven were too strong in them. The guru
would not enter the house as he had taken a vow never to enter a house of
married  people.  The  sky  was  intensely  blue  that  morning  and  the  shadows
were long.
«You deny being a guru but you are a guru of gurus. I have observed you
from your youth and what you say is the truth which few will understand. For
the many we are necessary, otherwise they would be lost; our authority saves
the foolish. We are the interpreters. We have had our experiences; we know.   58
Tradition  is  a  rampart  and  only  the  very  few  can  stand  alone  and  see  the
naked reality. You are among the blessed but we must walk with the crowd,
sing their songs, respect the holy names and sprinkle holy water, which does
not mean that we are entirely hypocrites. They need help and we are there to
give it. What, if one may be allowed to ask, is the experience of that absolute
reality?»
The disciples were still coming and going, uninterested in the conversation
and indifferent to their surroundings, to the beauty of the flower and the tree. A
few of them were sitting on the grass listening, hoping not to be too disturbed.
A cultured man is discontented with his culture.
Reality  is  not  to  be  experienced.  There’s  no  path  to  it  and  no  word  can
indicate  it;  it  is  not  to  be  sought  after  and  to  be  found  The  finding,  after
seeking,  is  the  corruption  of  the  mind.  The  very  word  truth  is  not  truth;  the
description is not the described.
«The ancients have told of their experiences, their bliss in meditation, their
super consciousness, their holy reality. If one may be allowed to ask, must one
set aside all this and their exalted example?»
Any authority on meditation is the very denial of it. All the knowledge, the
concepts, the examples have no place in meditation. The complete elimination
of  the  meditator,  the  experiencer,  the  thinker,  is  the  very  essence  of
meditation.  This  freedom  is  the  daily  act  of  meditation.  The  observer  is  the
past,  his  ground  is  time,  his  thoughts,  images,  shadows,  are  time-binding.
Knowledge is time, and freedom from the known is the flowering of meditation.
There is no system and so there is no direction to truth. or to the beauty of
meditation. To follow another, his example, his word, is to banish truth. Only in
the mirror of relationship do you see the face of what is. The seer is the seen.
Without the order which virtue brings, meditation and the endless assertions of
others have no meaning whatsoever; they are totally irrelevant. Truth has no
tradition, it cannot be handed down.    59
In the sun the smell of sweet peas was very strong.    60
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
BROCKWOOD PARK 26TH ENTRY
13th October 1973
We were flying at thirty-seven thousand feet smoothly and the plane was
full. We had passed the sea and were approaching land; far below us was the
sea and the land; the passengers never seemed to stop talking or drinking or
flipping  over  the  pages  of  a  magazine;  then  there  was  a  film.  They  were  a
noisy group to be entertained and fed; they slept, snored and held hands. The
land  was  soon  covered  over  by  masses  of  clouds  from  horizon  to  horizon,
space and depth and the noise of chatter. Between the earth and the plane
were endless white clouds and above was the blue gentle sky. In the corner
seat by a window you were widely awake watching the changing shape of the
clouds and the white light upon them.
Has  consciousness  any  depth  or  only  a  surface  fluttering?  Thought  can
imagine  its  depth,  can  assert  that  it  has  depth  or  only  consider  the  surface
ripples. Has thought itself any depth at all. Consciousness is made up of its
content; its content is its entire frontier. Thought is the activity of the outer and
in certain languages thought means the outside. The importance that is given
to  the  hidden  layers  of  consciousness  is  still  on  the  surface,  without  any
depths.  Thought  can  give  to  itself  a  centre,  as  the  ego,  the  «me»,  and  that
centre has no depth at all; words, however cunningly and subtly put together,
are  not  profound.  The  «me»  is  a  fabrication  of  thought  in  word  and  in
identification; the «me», seeking depth in action, in existence, has no meaning
at all; all its attempts to establish depth in relationship end in the multiplications
of  its  own  images  whose  shadows  it  considers  are  deep.  The  activities  of
thought have no depth; its pleasures, its fears, its sorrow are on the surface.
The very word surface indicates that there is something below, a great volume
of water or very shallow. A shallow or a deep mind are the words of thought
and thought in itself is superficial. The volume behind thought is experience,
knowledge, memory, things that are gone, only to be recalled, to be or not to
be acted upon. Far below us, down on the earth, a wide river was rolling along,   61
with  wide  curves  amid  scattered  farms,  and  on  the  winding  roads  were
crawling ants. The mountains were covered with snow  and  the  valleys  were
green with deep shadows. The sun was directly ahead and went down into the
sea as the plane landed in the fumes and noise of an expanding city.
Is there depth to life, to existence at all? Is all relationship shallow? Can
thought  ever  discover  it?  Thought  is  the  only  instrument  that  man  has
cultivated  and  sharpened,  and  when  that’s  denied  as  a  means  to  the
understanding  of  depth  in  life,  then  the  mind  seeks  other  means.  To  lead  a
shallow life soon becomes wearying, boring, meaningless and from this arises
the  constant  pursuit  of  pleasure,  fears,  conflict  and  violence.  To  see  the
fragments that thought has brought about and their activity, as a whole, is the
ending of thought. Perception of the whole is only possible when the observer,
who  is  one  of  the  fragments  of  thought,  is  not  active.  Then  action  is
relationship and never leads to conflict and sorrow.
Only silence has depth, as love. Silence is not the movement of thought nor
is love. Then only the words, deep and shallow, lose their meaning. There is
no  measurement  to  love  nor  to  silence.  What’s  measurable  is  thought  and
time;  thought  is  time.  Measure  is  necessary  but  when  thought  carries  it  into
action  and  relationship,  then  mischief  and  disorder  begin.  Order  is  not
measurable, only disorder is. The sea and the house were quiet, and the hills
behind them, with the wild flowers of Spring, were silent.    62
– Rome 1973 –
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
ROME 27TH ENTRY
17th October 1973
It  had  been  a  hot,  dry  summer  with  occasional  showers;  the  lawns  were
turning brown but the tall trees, with their heavy foliage, were happy and the
flowers were blooming. The land had not seen such a summer for years and
the  farmers  were  pleased.  In  the  cities  it  was  dreadful,  the  polluted  air,  the
heat and the crowded street; the chestnuts were already turning slightly brown
and the parks were full of people with children shouting and running all over
the place. In the country it was very beautiful; there is always peace in the land
and  the  small  narrow  river  with  swans  and  ducks  brought  enchantment.
Romanticism and sentimentality were safely locked up in cities, and here deep
in  the  country,  with  trees,  meadows  and  streams,  there  was  beauty  and
delight.  There’s  a  road  that  goes  through  the  woods,  and  dappled  shadows
and every leaf holds that beauty, every dying leaf and blade of grass. Beauty
is not a word, an emotional response; it is not soft, to be twisted and moulded
by thought. When beauty is there, every movement and action in every form of
relationship is whole, sane and holy. When that beauty, love, doesn’t exist, the
world goes mad.
On  the  small  screen  the  preacher,  with  carefully  cultivated  gesture  and
word, was saying that he knew his saviour, the only saviour, was living; if he
was not living, there would be no hope for the world. The aggressive thrust of
his arm drove away any doubt, any enquiry, for he knew and you must stand
up  for  what  he  knew,  for  his  knowledge  is  your  knowledge,  your  conviction.
The  calculated  movement  of  his  arms  and  the  driven  word  were  substance
and  encouragement  to  his  audience,  which  was  there  with  its  mouth  open,
both  young  and  old,  spellbound  and  worshipping  the  image  of  their  mind.  A
war had just begun and    63
*Krishnamurti was now in Rome until October 29. neither the preacher nor
his large audience cared, for wars must go on and besides it is part of their
culture.
On  that  screen,  a  little  later,  there  was  shown  what  the  scientists  were
doing, their marvellous inventions, their extraordinary space control, the world
of  tomorrow,  the  new  complex  machines;  the  explanations  of  how  cells  are
formed, the experiments that are being made on animals, on worms and flies.
The study of the behaviour of animals was carefully and amusingly explained.
With this study the professors could better understand human behaviour. The
remains of an ancient culture were explained; the excavations, the vases, the
carefully preserved mosaics and the crumbling walls; the wonderful world of
the past, its temples, its glories. Many, many volumes have been written about
the riches, the paintings, the cruelties and the greatness of the past, their kings
and their slaves.
A little later there was shown the actual war that was raging in the desert
and  among  the  green  hills,  the  enormous  tanks  and  the  low-flying  jets,  the
noise and the calculated slaughter; and the politicians talking about peace but
encouraging  war  in  every  land.  The  crying  women  were  shown  and  the
desperately  wounded,  the  children  waving  flags  and  the  priests  intoning
blessings.
The  tears  of  mankind  have  not  washed  away  man’s  desire  to  kill.  No
religion  has  stopped  war;  all  of  them,  on  the  contrary,  have  encouraged  it,
blessed the weapons of war; they have divided the people. Governments are
isolated  and  cherish  their  insularity.  The  scientists  are  supported  by
governments. The preacher is lost in his words and images.
You will cry, but educate your children to kill and be killed. You accept it as
the  way  of  life;  your  commitment  is  to your  own  security;  it  is  your  god  and
your sorrow. You care for your children so carefully, so generously, but then
you are so enthusiastically willing for them to be killed. They showed on the
screen baby seals, with enormous eyes, being killed.    64
The function of culture is to transform man totally.
Across  the  river  mandarin  ducks  were  splashing  and  chasing  each  other
and the shadows of the trees were on the water.    65
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
ROME 28TH ENTRY
18th October 1973
There  is  in  Sanskrit  a  long  prayer  to  peace.  It  was  written  many,  many
centuries  ago  by  someone  to  whom  peace  was  an  absolute  necessity,  and
perhaps his daily life had its roots in that. It was written before the creeping
poison of nationalism, the immorality of the power of money and the insistence
on worldliness that industrialism has brought about. The prayer is to enduring
peace: May there be peace among the gods, in heaven and among the stars;
may there be peace on earth, among men and four-footed animals; may we
not  hurt  each  other;  may  we  be  generous  to  each  other;  may  we  have  that
intelligence  which  will  guide  our  life  and  action;  may  there  be  peace  in  our
prayer, on our lips and in our hearts.
There  is  no  mention  of  individuality  in  this  peace;  that  came  much  later.
There  is  only  ourselves  our  peace,  our  intelligence  our  knowledge,  our
enlightenment. The sound of Sanskrit chants seems to have a strange effect.
In  a  temple,  about  fifty  priests  were  chanting  in  Sanskrit  and  the  very  walls
seemed to be vibrating.
There is a path that goes through the green, shining field, through a sunlit
wood  and  beyond.  Hardly  anyone  comes  to  these  woods,  full  of  light  and
shadows. It is very peaceful there, quiet and isolated. There are squirrels and
an occasional deer, shyly watchful and dashing away; the squirrels watch you
from a branch and sometimes scold you. These woods have the perfume of
summer  and  the  smell  of  damp  earth.  There  are  enormous  trees,  old  and
moss-laden;  they  welcome  you  and  you  feel  the  warmth  of  their  welcome.
Each time you sit there and look up through the branches and leaves at the
wonderful  blue  sky,  that  peace  and  welcome  are  waiting  for  you.  You  went
with others through the woods but there was aloofness and silence; the people
were  chattering,  indifferent  and  unaware  of  the  dignity  and  grandeur  of  the
trees;  they  had  no  relationship  with  them  and  so  in  all  probability,  no   66
relationship with each other. The relationship between the trees and you was
complete  and  immediate;  they  and  you  were  friends  and  thus  you  were  the
friend of every tree, bush and flower on earth. You were not there to destroy
and there was peace between them and you.
Peace is not an interval between the ending and beginning of conflict, of
pain and of sorrow. No government can bring peace; its peace is of corruption
and  decay;  the  orderly  rule  of  a  people  breeds  degeneration  for  it  is  not
concerned with all the people of the earth. Tyrannies can never hold peace for
they  destroy  freedom:  peace  and  freedom  go  together.  To  kill  another  for
peace is the idiocy of ideologies. You cannot buy peace; it is not the invention
of an intellect; it is not to be purchased through prayer, through bargaining. It is
not in any holy building, in any book, in any person. No one can lead you to it,
no guru, no priest, no symbol.
In meditation it is. Meditation itself is the movement of peace.
It is not an end to be found; it is not put together by thought or word. The
action of meditation is intelligence. Meditation is none of those things you have
been  taught  or  experienced.  The  putting  away  of  what  you  have  learnt  or
experienced  is  meditation.  The  freedom  from  the  experiencer  is  meditation.
When there is no peace in relationship, there is no peace in meditation; it is an
escape  into  illusion  and  fanciful  dreams.  It  cannot  be  demonstrated  or
described.  You  are  no  judge  of  peace.  You  will  be  aware of  it,  if  it  is  there,
through the activities of your daily life, the order, the virtue of your life.
Heavy  clouds  and  mists  were  there  that  morning;  it  was  going  to  rain.  It
would take several days to see the blue sky again. But as you came into the
wood, there was no diminishing of that peace and welcome. There was utter
stillness  and  incomprehensible  peace.  The  squirrels  were  hiding  and  the
grasshoppers  in  the  meadows  were  silent  and  beyond  the  hills  and  valleys
was the restless sea.    67
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
ROME 29TH ENTRY
19th October 1973
The wood was asleep; the path through it was dark and winding. There was
not a thing stirring; the long twilight was just disappearing and the silence of
the night was covering the earth. the small gurgling stream, so insistent during
the  day,  was  conceding  to  the  quietness  of  the  coming  night.  Through  the
small  opening  among  the  leaves  were  the  stars,  brilliant  and  very  close.
Darkness of the night is as necessary as the light of day. The welcoming trees
were  withdrawn  into  themselves  and  distant;  they  were  all  around  but  they
were aloof and unapproachable; they were asleep, not to be disturbed. In this
quiet darkness, there was growth and flowering, gathering strength to meet the
vibrant day; night and day were essential; both gave life, energy, to all living
things. Only man dissipates it.
Sleep is very important, a sleep without too many dreams, without tossing
about too much. In sleep many things happen both in the physical organism
and in the brain (the mind is the brain; they are one, a unitary movement. To
this  whole  structure  sleep  is  absolutely  essential.  In  sleep  order,  adjustment
and  deeper  perceptions  take  place;  the  quieter  the  brain  the  deeper  the
insight. The brain needs security and order to function harmoniously, without
any  friction.  Night  provides  it  and  during  quiet  sleep  there  are  movements,
states, which thought can never reach. Dreams are disturbance; they distort
total perception. In sleep the mind rejuvenates itself.
But you might say dreams are necessary; if one doesn’t dream one might
go  mad;  they  are  helpful,  revealing.  There  are  superficial  dreams,  without
much  meaning;  there  are  dreams  that  are  significant  and  there  is  also  a
dreamless state. Dreams are the expression in different forms and symbols of
our daily life. If there is no harmony, no order in our daily life of relationship,
then dreams are a continuance of that disorder. The brain during sleep tries to
bring about order out of this confusing contradiction. In this constant struggle   68
between  order  and  disorder  the  brain  is  worn  out.  But  it  must  have  security
and  order  to  function  at  all,  and  so  beliefs,  ideologies  and  other  neurotic
concepts become necessary. Turning night into day is one of those neurotic
habits;  the  inanities  that  go  on  in  the  modern  world  after  nightfall  are  an
escape from the daytime of routine and boredom.
The  total  awareness  of  disorder  in  relationship  both  private  and  public,
personal  and  distant,  an  awareness  of  what  is  without  any  choice  during
conscious hours during the day, brings order out of disorder. Then the brain
has  no  need  to  seek  order  during  sleep.  Then  dreams  are  only  superficial,
without  meaning.  Order  in  the  whole  of  consciousness,  not  merely  at  the
conscious  level,  takes  place  when  division  between  the  observer  and  the
observed ceases completely. What is, is transcended when the observer who
is the past, who is time, comes to an end. The active present the what is, is not
in the bondage of time as the observer is.
Only when the mind the brain and the organism during sleep has this total
order, is there an awareness of that wordless state, that timeless movement.
This  is  not  some  fanciful  dream,  an  abstraction  of  escape.  It  is  the  very
summation of meditation. That is, the brain is active, waking or sleeping, but
the constant conflict between order and disorder wears down the brain. Order
is the highest form of virtue, sensitivity, intelligence. When there is this great
beauty of order, harmony, the brain is not endlessly active; certain parts of it
have to carry the burden of memory but that is a very small part; the rest of the
brain  is  free  from  the  noise  of  experience.  That  freedom  is  the  order,  the
harmony,  of  silence.  This  freedom  and  the  noise  of  memory  move  together,
intelligence  is  the  action  of  this  movement.  Meditation  is  freedom  from  the
known and yet operating in  the  field  of  the  known.  There is no «me’` as the
operator. In sleep or awake this meditation goes on.
The path came slowly out of the woods and from horizon to horizon the sky
was filled with stars. In the fields not a thing moved.    69
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
ROME 30TH ENTRY
20th October 1973
It  is  the  oldest  living  thing  on  the  earth.  It  is  gigantic  in  proportion,  in  its
height and vast trunk. Among other redwood trees, which were also very old,
this one was towering over them all; other trees had been touched by fire but
this one had no marks on it. It had lived through all the ugly things of history,
through all the wars of the world, through all the mischief and sorrow of man,
through fire and lightning, through all the storms of time, untouched, majestic
and utterly alone, with immense dignity. There had been fires but the bark of
these redwood trees were able to resist them and survive. The noisy tourists
had not come yet and you could be alone with this great silent one; it soared
up to the heavens as you sat under it, vast and timeless. Its very years gave it
the dignity of silence and the aloofness of great age. It was as silent as your
mind  was,  as  still  as  your  heart,  and  living  without  the  burden  of  time.  You
were aware of compassion that time had never touched and of innocency that
had never known hurt and sorrow. You sat there and time passed you by and
it would never come back. There was immortality, for death had never been.
Nothing existed except that immense tree, the clouds and the earth. You went
to  that  tree  and  sat  down  with  it  and  every  day  for  many  days  it  was  a
benediction  of  which  you  were  only  aware  when  you  wandered  away.  You
could never come back to it asking for more; there was never the more, the
more  was  in  the  valley  far  below.  Because  it  was  not  a  man-made  shrine,
there was unfathomable sacredness which would never again leave you, for it
was not yours.
In  the  early  morning  when  the  sun  had  not  yet  touched  the  tops  of  the
trees, the deer and the bear were there; we watched each other, wide-eyed
and wondering; the earth was common to us and fear was absent. The blue
jays  and  the  red  squirrels  would  come  soon;  the  squirrel  was  tame  and
friendly. You had nuts in your pocket and it took them out of your hand; when   70
the squirrel had had enough the two jays would hop down from the branches
and the scolding would stop. And the day began.
Sensuality  in  the  world  of  pleasure  has  become  very  important.  Taste
dictates  and  soon  the  habit  of  pleasure  takes  hold;  though  it  may  harm  the
whole organism, pleasure dominates. Pleasure of the senses, of cunning and
subtle thought, of words and of the images of mind and hand is the culture of
education, the pleasure of violence and the pleasure of sex. Man is moulded to
the shape of pleasure, and all existence, religious or otherwise, is the pursuit
of  it.  The  wild  exaggerations  of  pleasure  are  the  outcome  of  moral  and
intellectual conformity. When the mind is not free and aware, then sensuality
becomes a factor of corruption which is what is going on in the modern world.
Pleasure of money and sex dominate. When man has become a secondhand
human  being,  the  expression  of  sensuality  is  his  freedom.  Then  love  is
pleasure and desire. Organized entertainment, religious or commercial, makes
for social and personal immorality; you cease to be responsible. Responding
wholly to any challenge is to be responsible, totally committed. This cannot be
when the very essence of thought is fragmentary and the pursuit of pleasure,
in  all  its  obvious  and  subtle  forms,  is  the  principal  movement  of  existence.
Pleasure  is  not  joy;  joy  and  pleasure  are  entirely  different  things;  the  one  is
uninvited and the other cultivated, nurtured; the one comes when the «me» is
not and the other is time-binding; where the one is the other is not. Pleasure,
fear  and  violence  run  together;  they  are  inseparable  companions.  Learning
from observation is action, the doing is the seeing.
In  the  evening  when  the  darkness  was  approaching,  the  jays  and  the
squirrels had gone to bed. The evening star was just visible and the noises of
the  day  and  memory  had  come  to  an  end.  These  giant  sequoias  were
motionless. They will go on beyond time. Only man dies and the sorrow of it.    71
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
ROME 31ST ENTRY
21st October 1973
It was a moonless night and the Southern Cross was clear over the palm
trees. The sun wouldn’t be up for many hours yet; in that quiet darkness all the
stars were very close to the earth and they were sparklingly bright; they were a
penetrating blue and the river was giving birth to them. The Southern Cross
was by itself without any other stars around it. There was no breeze and the
earth seemed to stand still, weary of man’s activity. It was going to be a lovely
morning after the heavy rains and there wasn’t a cloud on the horizon. Orion
had  already  set  and  the  morning  star  was  on  the  far  horizon.  In  the  grove,
frogs were croaking in the nearby pond; they would become silent for a while
and wake up and begin again. The smell of jasmine was strong in the air and
in  the  distance  there  was  chanting.  But  at  that  hour  there  was  a  breathless
silence and its tender beauty was on the land. Meditation is the movement of
that silence.
In  the  walled  garden  the  noise  of  the  day  began.  The  young  baby  was
being washed; it was oiled with great care, every part of it; special oil for the
head  and  another  for  the  body;  each  had  its  own  fragrance  and  both  were
slightly heated. The small child loved it; it was softly cooing to itself and its fat
little  body  was  bright  with  oil.  Then  it  was  cleaned  with  a  special  scented
powder. The child never cried, there seemed to be so much love and care. It
was dried and tenderly wrapped in a clean white cloth, fed and put to bed to
fall  asleep  immediately.  It  would  grow  up  to  be  educated,  trained  to  work,
accepting the traditions, the new or old beliefs, to have children, to bear sorrow
and the laughter of pain.
The mother came one day and asked, «What is love? Is it care, is it trust, is
it  responsibility,  is  it  pleasure  between  man  and  woman?  Is  it  the  pain  of
attachment and loneliness?»    72
You are bringing up your child with such care, with tireless energy, giving
your life and time. You feel, perhaps unknowingly, responsible. You love it. But
the  narrowing  effect  of  education  will  begin,  will  make  it  conform  with
punishment  and  reward  to  fit  into  the  social  structure.  Education  is  the
accepted means for the conditioning of the mind. What are we educated for –
for endless work and to die? You have given tender care, affection, and does
your responsibility cease when education begins? Is it love that will send him
to war, to be killed after all that care and generosity? Your responsibility never
ceases, which doesn’t mean interference. Freedom is total responsibility, not
only for your children but for all children on the earth Is love attachment and its
pain? Attachment breeds pain, jealousy, hatred. Attachment grows out of one’s
own  shallowness,  insufficiency,  loneliness.  Attachment  gives  a  sense  of
belonging,  identification  with  something,  gives  a  sense  of  reality,  of  being.
When that is threatened there is fear, anger, envy. Is all this love? Is pain and
sorrow  love?  Is  sensory  pleasure  love?  Most  fairly  intelligent  human  beings
know verbally all this and it is not too complicated. But they do not let all this
go;  they  turn  these  facts  into  ideas  and  then  struggle  with  the  abstract
concepts.  They  prefer  to  live  with  abstractions  rather  than  with  reality,  with
what is.
In  the  denial  of  what  love  is  not,  love  is.  Don’t  be  afraid  of  the  word
negation. Negate all that is not love, then what is, is compassion. What you
are  matters  enormously  for  you  are  the  world  and  the  world  is  you.  This  is
compassion.
Slowly the dawn was coming; in the eastern horizon there was a faint light,
it  was  spreading  and  the  Southern  Cross  began  to  fade.  The  trees  took  on
their shape, the frogs became silent, the morning star was lost in the greater
light  and  a  new  day  began.  The  flight  of  crows  and  the  voices  of  man  had
begun but the blessings of that early morning were still there.    73
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
ROME 32ND ENTRY
22nd October 1973
In a small boat on the quiet slow current of the river all the horizon from
north to south, east to west was visible; there wasn’t a tree or house that broke
the horizon; there was not a cloud floating by. The banks were flat, stretching
on both sides far into the land and they held the wide river. There were other
small fishing boats, the fishermen huddled at one end with their nets out; these
men were immensely patient. The sky and the earth met and there was vast
space. In this measureless space the earth and all things had their existence,
even this small boat carried along by the strong current. Around the bend of
the river the horizons extended as far as the eye could see, measureless and
infinite. Space became inexhaustible. There must be this space for beauty and
compassion. Everything must have space, the living and the dead, the rock on
the hill and the bird on the wing. When there is no space there is death. The
fishermen  were  singing  and  the  sound  of  their  song  came  down  the  river.
Sound needs space. The sound of a word needs space; the word makes its
own  space,  rightly  pronounced.  The  river  and  the  faraway  tree  can  only
survive  when  they  have  space;  without  space  all  things  wither.  The  river
disappeared into the horizon and the fishermen were going ashore. The deep
darkness of the night was coming, the earth was resting from a weary day and
the stars were on the waters. The vast space was narrowed down into a small
house of many walls. Even the large, palatial houses have walls shutting out
that immense space, making it their own.
A  painting  must  have  space  within  it  even  though  it’s  put  in  a  frame;  a
statue can only exist in space; music creates the space it needs; the sound of
a word not only makes space: it needs it to be heard. Thought can imagine the
extension  between  two  points,  the  distance  and  the  measure;  the  interval
between  two  thoughts  is  the  space  that  thought  makes.  The  continuous
extension  of  time,  movement  and  the  interval  between  two  movements  of
thought  need  space.  Consciousness  is  within  the  movement  of  time  and   74
thought. Thought and time are measurable between two points, between the
centre and the periphery. Consciousness, wide or narrow, exists where there
is a centre, the «me» and the «not me».
All  things  need  space.  If  rats  are  enclosed  in  a  restricted  space,  they
destroy each other; the small birds sitting on a telegraph wire, of an evening,
have the needed space between each other. Human beings living in crowded
cities are becoming violent. Where there is no space, outwardly and inwardly,
every form of mischief and degeneration is inevitable. The conditioning of the
mind through so-called education, religion, tradition, culture, gives little space
to the flowering of the mind and heart The belief, the experience according to
that belief, the opinion, the concepts, the word is the «me», the ego, the centre
which  creates  the  limited  space  within  whose  border  is  consciousness.  The
«me»  has  its  being  and  its  activity  within  the  small  space  it  has  created  for
itself. All its problems and sorrows, its hopes and despairs are within its own
frontiers,  and  there  is  no  space  The  known  occupies  all  its  consciousness.
Consciousness is the known. Within this frontier there is no solution to all the
problems  human  beings  have  put  together.  And  yet  they  won’t  let  go;  they
cling to the known or invent the unknown, hoping it will solve their problems.
The  space  which  the  «me»  has  built  for  itself  is  its  sorrow  and  the  pain  of
pleasure.  The  gods  don’t  give  you  space,  for  theirs  is  yours.  This  vast,
measureless  space  lies  outside  the  measure  of  thought,  and  thought  is  the
known. Meditation is the emptying of consciousness of its content, the known,
the «me».
Slowly the oars took the boat up the sleeping river and the light of a house
gave  it  the  direction.  It  had  been  a  long  evening  and  the  sunset  was  gold,
green and orange and it made a golden path on the water.    75
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
ROME 33RD ENTRY
24th October 1973
Way down in the valley were the dull lights of a small village; it was dark
and the path was stony and rough. The waving lines of the hills against the
starlit  sky  were  deeply  embedded  in  darkness  and  a  coyote  was  howling
somewhere  nearby.  The  path  had  lost  its  familiarity  and  a  small  scented
breeze was coming up the valley. To be alone in that solitude was to hear the
voice of intense silence and its great beauty. Some animal was making a noise
among the bushes, frightened or attracting attention. It was quite dark by now
and  the  world  of  that  valley  became  deep  in  its  silence.  The  night  air  had
special smells, a blend of all the bushes that grow on the dry hills, that strong
smell of bushes that know the hot sun. The rains had stopped many months
ago; it wouldn’t rain again for a very long time and the path was dry, dusty and
rough.  The  great  silence  with  its  vast  space  held  the  night  and  every
movement  of  thought  became  still.  The  mind  itself  was  the  immeasurable
space and in that deep quietness there was not a thing that thought had built.
To  be  absolutely  nothing  is  to  be  beyond  measure.  The  path  went  down  a
steep  incline  and  a small  stream  was  saying  many  things,  delighted  with  its
own voice. It crossed the path several times and the two were playing a game
together. The stars were very close and some were looking down from the hill
tops.  Still  the  lights  of  the  village  were  a  long  way  off  and  the  stars  were
disappearing over the high hills. Be alone, without word and thought, but only
watching  and  listening.  The  great  silence  showed  that  without  it,  existence
loses its profound meaning and beauty.
To be a light to oneself denies all experience. The one who is experiencing
as the experiencer needs experience to exist and, however deep or superficial,
the  need  for  it  becomes  greater.  Experience  is  knowledge,  tradition;  the
experiencer divides himself to discern between the enjoyable and the painful,
the comforting and the disturbing. The believer experiences according to his
belief, according to his conditioning. These experiences are from the known,   76
for recognition is essential, without it there’s no experience. Every experience
leaves a mark unless there’s an ending to it as it arises. Every response to a
challenge  is  an  experience  but  when  the  response  is  from  the  known,
challenge loses its newness and vitality; then there’s conflict, disturbance and
neurotic  activity.  The  very  nature  of  challenge  is  to  question,  to  disturb,  to
awaken,  to  understand.  But  when  that  challenge  is  translated  into  the  past,
then  the  present  is  avoided  The  conviction  of  experience  is  the  negation  of
enquiry. Intelligence is the freedom to enquire, to investigate the «me» and the
«not  me»,  the  outer  and  the  inner.  Belief,  ideologies  and  authority  prevent
insight which comes only with freedom. The desire for experience of any kind
must be superficial or sensory, comforting or pleasurable, for desire, however
intense, is the forerunner of thought and thought is the outer. Thought may put
together the inner but it is still the outer. Thought will never find the new for it is
old, it is never free. Freedom lies beyond thought. All the activity of thought is
not love.
To be a light to oneself is the light of all others. To be a light to oneself is for
the mind to be free from challenge and response, for the mind then is totally
awake, wholly attentive. This attention has no centre, the one who is attentive,
and  so  no  border.  As  long  as  there’s  a  centre,  the  «me»,  there  must  be
challenge  and  response,  adequate  or  inadequate,  pleasurable  or  sorrowful.
The centre can never be a light to itself; its light is the artificial light of thought
and it has many shadows. Compassion is not the shadow of thought but it is
light, neither yours nor another’s.
The path gradually entered the valley and the stream went by the village to
join the sea. But the hills remained changeless and the hoot of an owl was the
reply to another. And there was space for silence.    77
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
ROME 34TH ENTRY
25th October 1973
Sitting  on  a  rock  in  an  orange  orchard  the  valley  spread  out  and
disappeared  into  the  fold  of  mountains.  It  was  early  in  the  morning  and  the
shadows  were  long,  soft  and  open.  The  quails  were  calling  with  their  sharp
demand and the mourning dove was cooing, with soft, gentle lilt, a sad song
so early in the morning. The mocking-bird was making swooping curves in the
air,  turning  somersaults,  delighted  with  the  world.  A  big  tarantula,  hairy  and
dark, slowly came out from under the rock, stopped, felt the morning air and
unhurriedly  went  its  way.  The  orange  trees  were  in  long  straight  lines,  acre
upon acre, with their bright fruit and fresh blossom flower and fruit on the same
tree at the same time. The smell of these blossoms was quietly pervasive and
with the heat of the sun the smell would get deeper, more insistent. The sky
was very blue and soft and all the hills and mountains were still dreaming.
It was a lovely morning, cool and fresh, with that strange beauty which man
had not yet destroyed. The lizards came out and sought a warm spot in the
sun;  they  stretched  out  to  get  their  bellies  warm  and  their  long  tails  turned
sideways. It was a happy morning and the soft light covered the land and the
endless beauty of life. Meditation is the essence of this beauty, expressed or
silent. Expressed, it takes form, substance; silent it’s not to be put into word,
form or colour. From silence, expression or action have beauty, are whole, and
all  struggle,  conflict  cease.  The  lizards  were  moving  into  the  shade  and  the
humming-birds and the bees were among the blossoms.
Without  passion  there’s  no  creation.  Total  abandonment  brings  this
unending  passion.  Abandonment  with  a  motive  is  one  thing,  and  without  a
purpose, without calculation, it is another. What which has an end, a direction,
is  short  lived,  becomes  mischievous  and  commercial,  vulgar.  The  other,  not
driven by any cause, intention or gain, has no beginning and no ending. This
abandonment is the emptying of the mind of the «me», the self. This «me» can   78
lose itself in some activity, in some comforting belief or fanciful dream but such
loss  is  the  continuing  of  the  self  in  another  form,  identifying  with  another
ideology and action. The abandonment of the self is not an act of will, for the
will  is  the  self.  Any  movement  of  the  self,  horizontally  or  vertically,  in  any
direction,  is  still  within  the  field  of  time  and  sorrow.  Thought  may  give  itself
over to something, sane or insane, reasonable or idiotic, but being in its very
structure and nature fragmentary, its very enthusiasm, excitement, soon turn
into pleasure and fear. In this area the abandonment of the self is illusory, with
little meaning. The awareness of all this is the awakening to the activities of
the  self;  in  this  attention  there  is  no  centre,  the  self.  The  urge  to  express
oneself for identification is the outcome of confusion and the meaninglessness
of  existence.  To  seek  a  meaning  is  the  beginning  of  fragmentation;  thought
can  and  does  give  a  thousand  meanings  to  life,  each  one  inventing  its  own
meanings  which  are  merely  opinions  and  convictions  and  there’s  no  end  to
them.  The  very  living  is  the  whole  meaning  but  when  life  is  a  conflict,  a
struggle, a battlefield of ambition, competition and the worship of success, the
search for power and position, then life has no meaning. What is the need of
expression? Does creation lie in the thing produced? The thing produced by
hand or by the mind, however beautiful or utilitarian is that what one is after?
Does this self-abandoned passion need expression? When there is a need, a
compulsion, is it the passion of creation? As long as there is division between
creator  and  the  created,  beauty,  love,  come  to  an  end.  You  may  produce  a
most excellent thing in colour or in stone, but if your daily life contradicts that
supreme  excellence  the  total  abandonment  of  the  self  that  which  you  have
produced  is  for  admiration  and  vulgarity.  The  very  living  is  the  colour,  the
beauty and its expression. One needs no other.
The shadows were losing their distance and the quails were quiet. There
was only the rock, the trees with their blossom and fruit, the lovely hills and the
abundant earth.    79
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
ROME 35TH ENTRY
29th October 1973
In  the  valley  of  orange  orchards,  this one was very well  looked  after  row
upon row of young trees, strong and sparkling in the sun. The soil was good,
well-watered, manured and cared for. It was a beautiful morning with a clear
blue sky, warm and the air was softly pleasant. The quails in the bushes were
fussing about, with their sharp calls; a sparrow-hawk was hovering in the air,
motionless, and soon it came down to sit on a branch in the next orange tree
and  went  to  sleep.  It  was  so  close  that  the  sharp  claws,  the  marvellous
speckled  feathers  and  the  sharp  beak  were  clearly  visible;  it  was  within  the
reach  of  an  arm.  It  had  been  earlier  in  the  morning  along  the  avenue  of
mimosa and the small birds were crying out their alarm. Under the bushes two
King snakes, with their dark brown rings along the length of their bodies, were
curling  around  each  other,  and  as  they  passed  close  by  they  were  utterly
unaware  of  a  human  presence.  They  had  been  on  a  shelf  in  the  shed,
stretched out, their dark, bright eyes watching and waiting for the mice. They
stared  without  blinking  for  they  had  no  eyelids.  They  must  have  been  there
during the night and now they were among the bushes. It was their ground and
they were seen often, and on picking up one of them, it coiled around the arm
and  felt  cold  to  the  touch.  All  those  living  things  seemed  to  have  their  own
order, their own discipline and their own play and gaiety.
Materialism,  that  nothing  exists  but  matter,  is  the  prevailing  and  the
persistent  activity  of  human  beings  who are affluent and those who are not.
There’s  a  whole  block  of  the  world  which  is  dedicated  to  materialism;  the
structure of its society is based upon this formula, with all its consequences.
The other blocks are also materialistic but some kind of idealistic principles are
accepted when it’s convenient and discarded under the name of rationality and
necessity.  In  changing  the  environment,  violently  or  slowly,  revolution  or
evolution, the behaviour of man is changed according to the culture in which
he lives. It is an age-old conflict between those who believe man is matter and   80
those who pursue the spirit. This division has brought such misery, confusion,
illusion to man.
Thought is material and its activity, outer or inner, is materialistic. Thought
is  measurable  and  so  it  is  time.  Within  this  area,  consciousness  is  matter.
Consciousness  is  its  content;  the  content  is  consciousness;  they  are
inseparable. The content is the many things which thought has put together:
the  past  modifying  the  present  which  is  the  future  which  is  time.  Time  is
movement  within  the  area  which  is  consciousness,  expanded  or  contracted.
Thought  is  memory,  experience  and  knowledge,  and  this  memory,  with  its
images and its shadows, is the self, the’`me» and the «not me», the «we» and
«they». The essence of division is the self with all its attributes and qualities.
Materialism only gives strength and growth to the self. The self may and does
identify itself with the State, with an ideology, with activities of the «non-me»,
religious or secular, but it is still the self. Its beliefs are self-created, as are its
pleasures and fears. Thought by its very nature and structure is fragmentary,
and conflict and war are between the various fragments, the nationalities, the
races and ideologies. A materialistic humanity will destroy itself unless the self
is  wholly  abandoned.  The  abandonment  of  the  self  is  always  of  primary
importance. And only from this revolution a new society can be put together.
The abandonment of the self is love, compassion: passion for all things the
starving, the suffering, the homeless and for the materialist and the believer.
Love is not sentimentality, romanticism; it is as strong and final as death.
Slowly the fog from the sea came over the western hills like huge waves; it
folded itself over the hills and down into the valley and it would presently reach
up here; it would become cooler with the coming darkness of the night. There
would be no stars and there would be complete silence. It is a factual silence
and not the silence which thought has cultivated, in which there is no space.    81
– Malibu 1975 –
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
MALIBU 36TH ENTRY
1st April 1975
Even so early in the morning the sun was hot and burning. There wasn’t a
breeze  and  not  a  leaf  was  stirring.  In  the  ancient  temple  it  was  cool  and
pleasant; the bare feet were aware of the solid slabs of rocks, their shapes and
their unevenness. Many thousands of people must have walked on them for a
thousand years. It was dark there after the glare of the morning sun and in the
corridors  there  seemed  to  be  few  people  that  morning  and  in  the  narrow
passage it was still darker. This passage led to a wide corridor which led to the
inner  shrine.  There  was  a  strong  smell  of  flowers  and  the  incense  of  many
centuries. And a hundred Brahmanas, freshly bathed, in newly washed white
loin  cloths,  were  chanting.  Sanskrit  is  a  powerful  language,  resonant  with
depth.  The  ancient  walls  were  vibrating,  almost  shaking  to  the  sound  of  a
hundred voices. The dignity of the sound was incredible and the sacredness of
the moment was beyond the words. It was not the words that awakened this
immensity  but  the  depth  of  the  sound  of  many  thousand  years  held  within
these  walls  and  in  the  immeasurable  space  beyond  them.  It  was  not  the
meaning  of  those  words,  nor  the  clarity  of  their  pronunciation,  nor  the  dark
beauty  of  the  temple  but  the  quality  of  sound  that  broke  walls  and  the
limitations of the human mind. The song of a bird, the distant flute, the breeze
among  the  leaves,  all  these  break  down  the  walls  that  human  beings  have
created for themselves.
In the great cathedrals and lovely mosques, the chants and the intoning of
their sacred books it is the sound that opens the heart, to tears and beauty.
Without  space  there’s  no  beauty;  without  space  you  have  only  walls  and
measurements;  without  space  there’s  no  depth;  without  space  there’s  only
poverty,  inner  and  outer.  You  have  so  little  space  in  your  mind;  it’s  so
crammed  full  of  words,  remembrances,  knowledge,  experiences  and
problems.  There’s  hardly  any  space  left,  only  the  everlasting  chatter  of   82
thought. And so your museums are filled and every shelf with books. Then you
fill  the  places  of  entertainment,  religious  or  otherwise.  Or  you  build  a  wall
around yourself, a narrow space of mischief and pain. Without space, inner or
outer, you become violent and ugly.
Everything needs space to live, to play and to chant. That which is sacred
cannot love without space. You have no space when you hold, when there is
sorrow,  when  you  become  the  centre  of  the  universe.  The  space  that  you
occupy is the space that thought has built around you and that is misery and
confusion. The space that thought measures is the division between you and
me, we and they. This division is endless pain. There’s that solitary tree in a
wide, green, open field.    83
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
MALIBU 37TH ENTRY
2nd April 1975
It was not a land of trees, meadows, streams and flowers and mirth. It was
a sunburnt land of sand and barren hills, without a single tree or bush; a land
of desolation, an endless scorched earth mile upon mile; there wasn’t even a
bird and not even oil with its derricks and flames of burning oil. Consciousness
could not hold the desolation and every hill was a barren shadow. For many
hours  we  flew  over  this  vast  emptiness  and  at  last  there  were  snow  peaks,
forest and streams, villages and spreading towns.
You may have a great deal of knowledge and be vastly poor. The poorer
you  are  the  greater  the  demand  for  knowledge.  You  expand  your
consciousness  with  great  varieties  of  knowledge,  accumulating  experiences
and remembrances and yet may be vastly poor. The skilful use of knowledge
may bring you wealth and give you eminence and power but there may still be
poverty. This poverty breeds callousness; you play while the house is burning.
This  poverty  merely  strengthens  the  intellect  or  gives  to  the  emotions  the
weakness of sentiment. It’s this poverty that brings about imbalance, the outer
and inner. There’s no knowledge of the inner, only of the outer. The knowledge
of the outer informs us erroneously that there must be knowledge of the inner.
Self-knowing is brief and shallow; the mind is soon beyond it, like crossing a
river.  You  make  a  lot  of  noise  in  going  across  the  river  and  to  mistake  the
noise  as  knowledge  of  the  self  is  to  expand  poverty.  This  expansion  of
consciousness is the activity of poverty. Religions, culture, knowledge, can in
no way enrich this poverty.
The  skill  of  intelligence  is  to  put  knowledge  in  its  right  place.  Without
knowledge it’s not possible to live in this technological and almost mechanical
civilization  but  it  will  not  transform  the  human  being  and  his  society.
Knowledge is not the excellence of intelligence; intelligence can and does use
knowledge  and  thus  transforms  man  and  his  society.  Intelligence  is  not  the   84
mere  cultivation  of  the  intellect  and  its  integrity.  It  comes  out  of  the
understanding of the whole consciousness of man, yourself and not a part, a
separate  segment,  of  yourself.  The  study  and  the  understanding  of  the
movement of your own mind and heart give birth to this intelligence. You are
the  content  of  your  consciousness;  in  knowing  yourself  you  will  know  the
universe. This knowing is beyond the word for the word is not the thing. The
freedom from the known, every minute, is the essence of intelligence. It’s this
intelligence that is in operation in the universe if you leave it alone. You are
destroying  this  sacredness  of  order  through  the  ignorance  of  yourself.  This
ignorance  is  not  banished  by  the  studies  others  have  made  about  you  or
themselves.  You  yourself  have  to  study  the  content  of  your  own
consciousness.  The  studies  the  others  have made of themselves, and so of
you, are the descriptions but not the described. The word is not the thing.
Only in relationship can you know yourself, not in abstraction and certainly
not in isolation. Even in a monastery you are related to the society which has
made  the  monastery  as  an  escape,  or  closed  the  doors  to  freedom.  The
movement  of  behaviour  is  the  sure  guide  to  yourself;  it’s  the  mirror  of  your
consciousness; this mirror will reveal its content, the images, the attachments,
the fears, the loneliness, the joy and the sorrow. Poverty lies in running away
from  this,  either  in  its  sublimations.  or  in  its  identities.  Negating  without
resistance  this  content  of  consciousness  is  the  beauty  and  compassion  of
intelligence.    85
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
MALIBU 38TH ENTRY
3rd April 1975
How extraordinarily beautiful is the great curve of a wide river. You must
see it from a certain height, not too far up or too close as it meanders lazily
through the green fields. The river was wide, full of water, blue and clear. We
were not flying at a great altitude and we could just see the strong current in
the  middle  of  the  river  with  its  tiny  waves;  we  followed  it,  past  towns  and
villages to the sea. Each curve had its own beauty, its own strength, its own
movement. And far away were the great snowcovered peaks, pink in the early
morning  light;  they  covered  the  eastern  horizon.  The  wide  river  and  those
great  mountains  seemed  to  hold,  for  that  hour,  eternity  –  this  overwhelming
sense  of  timeless  space.  Though  the  plane  was  rushing  south-east,  in  that
space there was no direction, no movement, only that which is. For a whole
hour  there  was  nothing  else,  not  even  the  noise  of  the  jets.  Only  when  the
Captain announced that we would soon be landing did that full hour come to
an end. There was no memory of that hour, no record of the content of that
hour and so thought had no hold on it. When it came to an end there were no
remains, the slate was clean again. So thought had no means to cultivate that
hour and so it got ready to leave the plane.
What thought thinks about is made into a reality but it’s not the truth. Beauty
can never be the expression of thought. A bird is not made by thought and so
it’s  beautiful.  Love  is  not  shaped  by  thought  and  when  it  is  it  becomes
something  quite  different.  The  worship  of  the  intellect  and  its  integrity  is  a
reality made by thought. But it is not compassion. Thought cannot manufacture
compassion;  it  can  make  it  into  a  reality,  a  necessity,  but  it  will  not  be
compassion.  Thought  by  its  very  nature  is  fragmentary  and  so  it  lives  in  a
fragmented  world  of  division  and  conflict.  So  knowledge  is  fragmentary  and
however  much  it  is  piled  up,  layer  after  layer,  it  will  still  remain  fragmented,
broken up. Thought can put together a thing called integration and that too will
be  a  fragment.  The  very  word  science  means  knowledge,  and  man  hopes   86
through science he will be transformed into a sane and happy human being.
And so man is pursuing eagerly knowledge of all the things of the earth and of
himself.  Knowledge  is  not  compassion  and  without  compassion  knowledge
breeds mischief and untold misery and chaos. Knowledge cannot make man
love; it can create war and the instruments of destruction but cannot bring love
to the heart or peace to the mind. To perceive all this is to act, not an action
based on memory or patterns.
Love is not memory, a remembrance of pleasures.    87
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
MALIBU 39TH ENTRY
4th April 1975
By  chance  it  happened  that  one  lived  for  some  months  in  a  small
dilapidated house, high in the mountains, far from other houses. There were
lots of trees and as it was spring there was perfume in the air. The solitude
was  of  the  mountains  and  the  beauty  of  the  red  earth.  The  towering  peaks
were covered with snow and some of the trees were in bloom. One lived alone
amidst this splendour. The forest was nearby, with deer, an occasional bear
and  those  big  monkeys  with  black  faces  and  long  tails,  and  of  course  there
were serpents too. In deep solitude in strange ways one was related to them
all.  One  could  not  hurt  a  thing,  even  that  white  daisy  on  the  path.  In  that
relationship the space between you and them didn’t exist; it was not contrived;
it was not an intellectual or an emotional conviction that brought this about but
simply  it  was  so.  A  group  of  those  large  monkeys  would  come  around,
especially in the evening; a few were on the ground but most of them would be
sitting  in  the  trees  quietly  watching.  Surprisingly  they  were  still;  occasionally
there would be a scratch or two and we would watch each other. They would
come every evening now, neither too close nor too high among the trees, and
we would be silently aware of each other. We had become quite good friends
but they didn’t want to encroach upon one’s solitude. Walking one afternoon in
the forest one came suddenly upon them in an open space. There must have
been well over thirty of them, young and old, sitting among the trees round the
open  space,  absolutely  silent  and  still.  One  could  have  touched  them;  there
was no fear in them and sitting on the ground we watched each other till the
sun went behind the peaks.
If  you  lose  touch  with  nature  you  lose  touch  with  humanity.  If  there’s  no
relationship  with  nature  then  you  become  a  killer;  then  you  kill  baby  seals,
whales, dolphins and man either for gain, for `sport’, for food or for knowledge.
Then nature is frightened of you, withdrawing its beauty. You may take long
walks in the woods or camp in lovely places but you are a killer and so lose   88
their friendship. You probably are not related to anything, to your wife or your
husband;  you  are  much  too  busy,  gaining  and  losing,  with  your  own  private
thoughts,  pleasures  and  pains.  You  live  in  your  own  dark  isolation  and  the
escape from it is further darkness. Your interest is in a short survival, mindless,
easygoing or violent. And thousands die of hunger or are butchered because
of your irresponsibility. You leave the ordering of the world to the lying corrupt
politician,  to  the  intellectuals,  to  the  experts.  Because  you  have  no  integrity,
you  build  a  society  that’s  immoral,  dishonest,  a  society  based  on  utter
selfishness.  And  then  you  escape  from  all  this  for  which  you  alone  are
responsible, to the beaches, to the woods or carry a gun for `sport’.
You may know all this but knowledge does not bring about transformation
in  you.  When  you  have  this  sense  of  the  whole,  you  will  be  related  to  the
universe.    89
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
MALIBU 40TH ENTRY
6th April 1975
It  is  not  that  extraordinary  blue  of  the  Mediterranean;  the  Pacific  has  an
ethereal blue, especially when there is a gentle breeze from the west as you
drive  north  along  the  coast  road.  It  is  so  tender,  dazzling,  clear  and  full  of
mirth.  Occasionally  you  would  see  whales  blowing  on  their  way  north  and
rarely their enormous head as they threw themselves out of the water. There
was a whole pod of them, blowing; they must be very powerful animals. That
day the sea was a lake, still and utterly quiet, without a single wave; there was
not  that  clear  dancing  blue.  The  sea  was  asleep  and  you  watched  it  with
wonder.  The  house  overlooked  the  sea.  [This  is  the  house  where  he  was
staying at Malibu.] It is a beautiful house, with a quiet garden, a green lawn
and  flowers.  It’s  a  spacious  house  with  the  light  of  the  Californian  sun.  And
rabbits  loved  it  too;  they  would  come  early  in  the  morning  and  late  in  the
evening; they would eat up flowers and the newly planted pansies, marigolds
and the small flowering plants. You couldn’t keep them out though there was a
wire netting alI around, and to kill them would be a crime. But a cat and a barn
owl brought order to the garden; the black cat wandered about the garden; the
owl perched itself during the day among the thick eucalyptus; you could see it,
motionless,  eyes  closed,  round  and  big.  The  rabbits  disappeared  and  the
garden flourished and the blue Pacific flowed effortlessly.
It  is  only  man  that  brings  disorder  to  the  universe.  He’s  ruthless  and
extremely violent. Wherever he is he brings misery and confusion in himself
and  in  the  world  about  him.  He  lays  waste  and  destroys  and  he  has  no
compassion.  In  himself  there  is  no  order  and  so  what  he  touches  becomes
soiled and chaotic. His politics have become a refined gangsterism of power,
deceit,  personal  or  national,  group  against  group.  His  economy  is  restricted
and so not universal. His society is immoral, in freedom and under tyranny. He
is  not  religious  though  he  believes,  worships  and  goes  through  endless,
meaningless rituals. Why has he become like this cruel, irresponsible and so   90
utterly self-centred? Why? There are a hundred explanations and those who
explain, subtly with words that are born out of knowledge of many books and
experiments  on  animals,  are  caught  in  the  net  of  human  sorrow,  ambition,
pride  and  agony.  The  description  is  not  the  described,  the  word  is  not  the
thing.  Is  it  because  he  is  looking  for  outward  causes,  the  environment
conditioning  man,  hoping  the  outer  change  transforms  the  inner  man?  Is  it
because  he’s  so  attached  to  his  senses,  dominated  by  their  immediate
demands? Is it because he lives so entirely in the movement of thought and
knowledge? Or is it because he’s so romantic, sentimental, that he becomes
ruthless  with  his  ideals,  make-beliefs  and  pretensions?  Is  it  because  he  is
always led, a follower, or becomes a leader, a guru?
This  division  as  the  outer  and  inner  is  the  beginning  of  his  conflict  and
misery; he is caught in this contradiction, in this ageless tradition. Caught in
this meaningless division, he is lost and becomes a slave to others. The outer
and  the  inner  are  imagination  and  the  invention  of  thought;  as  thought  is
fragmentary,  it  makes  for  disorder  and  conflict  which  is  division.  Thought
cannot  bring  about  order,  an  effortless  flow  of  virtue.  Virtue  is  not  the
continuous repetition of memory, practice. Thought-knowledge is time-binding.
Thought by its very nature and structure cannot grasp the whole flow of life, as
a  total  movement.  Thought-knowledge  cannot  have  an  insight  into  this
wholeness; it cannot be aware of this choicelessly as long as it remains as the
perceiver,  the  outsider  looking  in.  Thought-knowledge  has  no  place  in
perception.  The  thinker  is  the  thought;  the  perceiver  is  the  perceived.  Only
then is there an effortless movement in our daily life.    91
– Ojai 1975 –
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
OJAI 41ST ENTRY
8th April 1975
In this part of the world it doesn’t rain much, about fifteen to twenty inches a
year, and these rains are most welcome for it doesn’t rain for the rest of the
year. There is snow then on the mountains and during summer and autumn
they  are  bare,  sunburnt,  rocky  and  forbidding;  only  in  the  spring  are  they
mellow and welcoming. There used to be bear, deer, bob cat, quail and any
number  of  rattlers.  But  now  they  are  disappearing;  the  dreaded  man  is
encroaching. It had rained for some time now and the valley was green, the
orange trees bore fruit and flower. It is a beautiful valley, quiet away from the
village, and you heard the mourning dove. The air was slowly being filled with
the scent of orange blossoms and in a few days it would be overpowering, with
the  warm  sun  and  windless  days.  It  was  a  valley  wholly  surrounded  by  hills
and  mountains;  beyond  the  hills  was  the  sea  and  beyond  the  mountains
desert. In the summer it would be unbearably hot but there was always beauty
here, far from the maddening crowd and their cities. And at night there would
be extraordinary silence, rich and penetrating. The cultivated meditation is a
sacrilege to beauty, and every leaf and branch spoke of the joy of beauty and
the tall dark cypress was silent with it; the gnarled old pepper tree flowed with
it.
You cannot, may not, invite joy; if you do it becomes pleasure. Pleasure is
the movement of thought and thought may not, can in no way, cultivate joy,
and if it pursues that which has been joyous, then it’s only a remembrance, a
dead  thing.  Beauty  is  never  time-binding;  it  is  wholly  free  of  time  and  so  of
culture. It is there when the self is not. The self is put together by time, by the
movement of thought, by the known, by the word. In the abandonment of the
self, in that total attention, that essence of beauty is there. The letting go of the
self is not the calculated action of desire-will. Will is directive and so resistant,
divisive, and so breeds conflict. The dissolution of the self is not the evolution   92
of the knowledge of the self; time as a factor does not enter into it at all. There
is  no  way  or  means  to  end  it.  The  total  inward  non-action  is  the  positive
attention of beauty.
You have cultivated a vast network of interrelated activities in which you are
caught, and your mind, being conditioned by it, operates inwardly in the same
manner. Achievement then becomes the most important thing and the fury of
that drive is still the skeleton of the self. That is why you follow your guru, your
saviour, your beliefs and ideals; faith takes the place of insight, of awareness.
There’s no need for prayer, for rituals, when the self is not. You fill the empty
spaces  of  the  skeleton  with  knowledge,  with  images,  with  meaningless
activities and so keep it seemingly alive.
In  the  quiet  stillness  of  the  mind  that which is everlasting beauty comes,
uninvited, unsought, without the noise of recognition.    93
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
OJAI 42ND ENTRY
10th April 1975
In the silence of deep might and in the quiet still morning when the sun is
touching the hills, there is a great mystery. It is there in all living things. If you
sit  quietly  under  a  tree,  you  would  feel  the  ancient  earth  with  its
incomprehensible mystery. On a still night when the stars are clear and close,
you would be aware of expanding space and the mysterious order of all things,
of the immeasurable and of nothing, of the movement of the dark hills and the
hoot of an owl. In that utter silence of the mind this mystery expands without
time  and  space.  There’s  mystery  in  those  ancient  temples  built  with  infinite
care,  with  attention  which  is  love.  The  slender  mosques  and  the  great
cathedrals lose this shadowy mystery for there is bigotry, dogma and military
pomp.  The  myth  that  is  concealed  in  the  deep  layers  of  the  mind  is  not
mysterious, it is romantic, traditional and conditioned. In the secret recesses of
the  mind,  truth  has  been  pushed  aside  by  symbols,  words,  images;  in  them
there is no mystery, they are the churnings of thought. In knowledge and its
action there is wonder, appreciation and delight. But mystery is quite another
thing. It is not an experience, to be recognised, stored up and remembered.
Experience is the death of that incommunicable mystery; to communicate you
need a word, a gesture, a look, but to be in communion with that, the mind, the
whole  of  you,  must  be  at  the  same  level,  at  the  same  time,  with  the  same
intensity as that which is called mysterious. This is love. With this the whole
mystery of the universe is open.
This morning there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, the sun was in the valley and
all things were rejoicing, except man. He looked at this wondrous earth and
went on with his labour, his sorrow and passing pleasures. He had no time to
see;  he  was  too  occupied  with  his  problems,  with  his  agonies,  with  his
violence. He doesn’t see the tree and so he cannot see his own travail. When
he’s forced to look, he tears to pieces what he sees, which he calls analysis,
runs away from it or doesn’t want to see. In the art of seeing lies the miracle of   94
transformation, the transformation of what is». The «what should be» never is.
There’s vast mystery in the act of seeing. This needs care, attention, which is
love.    95
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
OJAI 43RD ENTRY
14th April 1975
A very large serpent was crossing a wide cart road just ahead of you, fat,
heavy, moving lazily; it was coming from a largish pond a little way off. It was
almost black and the light of the evening seen falling on it gave to its skin a
high  polish.  It  moved  in  a  leisurely  way  with  lordly  dignity  of  power.  It  was
unaware  of  you  as  you  stood  quietly  watching;  you  were  quite  close  to  it;  it
must  have  measured  well  over  five  feet  and  it  was  bulging  with  what  it  had
eaten. It went over a mound and you walked towards it, looking down upon it a
few  inches  away,  its  forked  black  tongue  darting  in  and  out;  it  was  moving
towards a large hole. You could have touched it for it had a strange attractive
beauty. A villager was passing by and called out to leave it alone because it
was a cobra. The next day the villagers had put there on the mound a saucer
of milk and some hibiscus flowers. On that same road further along there was
a  bush,  high  and  almost  leafless,  that  had  thorns  almost  two  inches  long,
sharp, greyish, and no animal would dare to touch its succulent leaves. It was
protecting itself and woe to anyone that touched it. There were deer there in
those  woods,  shy  but  very  curious;  they  would  allow  themselves  to  be
approached  but  not  too  close  and  if  you  did  they  would  dart  away  and
disappear  among  the  undergrowth.  There  was  one  that  would  let  you  come
quite close, if you were alone, bright-eyed with its large ears forward. They all
had  white  spots  on  a  russet-brown  skin;  they  were  shy,  gentle  and  ever-
watchful and it was pleasant to be among them. There was a completely white
one, which must have been a freak.
The good is not the opposite of the evil. It has never been touched by that
which is evil, though it is surrounded by it. Evil cannot hurt the good but the
good  may  appear  to  do  harm  and  so  evil  gets  more  cunning,  more
mischievous.  It  can  be  cultivated,  sharpened,  expansively  violent;  it  is  born
within the movement of time, nurtured and skilfully used. But goodness is not
of time; it can in no way be cultivated or nurtured by thought; its action is not   96
visible;  it  has  no  cause  and  so  no  effect.  Evil  cannot  become  good  for  that
which is good is not the product of thought; it lies beyond thought, like beauty.
The thing that thought produces, thought can undo but it is not the good; as it
is  not  of  time,  the  good  has  no  abiding  place.  Where  the  good  is,  there  is
order,  not  the  order  of  authority,  punishment  and  reward;  this  order  is
essential,  for  otherwise  society  destroys  itself  and  man  becomes  evil,
murderous, corrupt and degenerate. For man is society; they are inseparable.
The  law  of  the  good  is  everlasting,  unchanging  and  timeless.  Stability  is  its
nature and so it is utterly secure. There is no other security.    97
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
OJAI 44TH ENTRY
17th April 1975
Space is order. Space is time, length, width and volume. This morning the
sea and the heavens are immense; the horizon where those yellow flowered
hills meet the distant sea is the order of earth and heaven; it is cosmic. That
cypress, tall, dark, alone, has the order of beauty and the distant house on that
wooded hill follows the movement of the mountains that tower over the low-
lying  hills;  the  green  field  with  a  single  cow  is  beyond  time.  And  the  man
coming up the hill is held within the narrow space of his problems.
There is a space of nothingness whose volume is not bound by time, the
measure of thought. This space the mind cannot enter; it can only observe. In
this  observation  there  is  no  experiencer.  This  observer  has  no  history,  no
association,  no  myth,  and  so  the  observer  is  that  which  is.  Knowledge  is
extensive but it has no space, for by its very weight and volume it perverts and
smothers  that  space.  There  is  no  knowledge  of  the  self,  higher  or  lower;
there’s only a verbal structure of the self, a skeleton, covered over by thought.
Thought cannot penetrate its own structure; what it has put together thought
cannot deny and when it does deny, it is the refusal of further gain. When the
time of the self is not, the space that has no measure is.
This measure is the movement of reward and punishment, gain or loss, the
activity of comparison and conformity, of respectability and the denial of it. This
movement  is  time,  the  future  with  its  hope  and  the  attachment  which  is  the
past. This complete network is the very structure of the self and its union with
the supreme being or the ultimate principle is still within its own field. All this is
the activity of thought. Thought can in no way penetrate that space of no time,
do what it will. The very method, the curriculum, the practice that thought has
invented are not the keys that will open the door, for there is no door, no key.
Thought  can  only  be  aware  of  its  own  endless  activity,  its  own  capacity  to
corrupt, its own deceits and illusions. It is the observer and the observed. Its   98
gods  are  its  own  projections  and  the  worship  of  them  is  the  worship  of
yourself. What lies beyond thought, beyond the known, may not be imagined
or made a myth of or made a secret for the few. It is there for you to see.    99
– Malibu 1975 –
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
MALIBU 45TH ENTRY
23rd April 1975
The  wide  river  was  still  as  a  millpond.  There  wasn’t  a  ripple  and  the
morning  breeze  hadn’t  awakened  yet  for  it  was  early.  The  stars  were  in  the
water, clear and sparkling and the morning star was the brightest. The trees
across the river were dark and the village amongst them still slept. There was
not a leaf stirring and those small screech owls were rattling away on the old
tamarind  tree;  it  was  their  home  and  when  the  sun  was  on  those  branches
they would be warming themselves. The noisy green parrots were quiet too.
All things, even the insects and the cicadas, were waiting, breathless for the
sun,  in  adoration.  The  river  was  motionless  and  the  usual  small  boats  with
their dark lamps were absent. Gradually over the dark mysterious trees there
began the early light of dawn. Every living thing was still in the mystery of that
moment of meditation. Your own mind was timeless, without measure; there
was no yardstick to measure how long that moment lasted. Only there was a
stirring and an awakening, the parrots and the owls, the crows and the mynah,
the dogs and a voice across the river. And suddenly the sun was just over the
trees,  golden  and  hidden  by  the  leaves.  Now  the  great  river  was  awake,
moving; time, length, width and volume were flowing and all life began which
never ended.
How lovely it was that morning, the purity of light and the golden path the
sun  made  on  those  living  waters.  You  were  the  world,  the  cosmos,  the
deathless  beauty  and  the  joy  of  compassion.  Only  you  weren’t  there;  if  you
were all this would not be. You bring in the beginning and the ending, to begin
again in an endless chain.
In  becoming  there  is  uncertainty  and  instability.  In  nothingness  there  is
absolute  stability  and  so  clarity.  That  which  is  wholly  stable  never  dies;
corruption is in becoming. The world is bent on becoming, achieving, gaining   100
and so there is fear of losing and dying. The mind must go through that small
hole  which  it  has  put  together,  the  self,  to  come  upon  this  vast  nothingness
whose stability thought cannot measure. Thought desires to capture it, use it,
cultivate  it  and  put  it  on  the  market.  It  must  be  made  acceptable  and  so
respectable, to be worshipped. Thought cannot put it into any category and so
it must be a delusion and a snare; or it must be for the few, for the select. And
so thought goes about its own mischievous ways, frightened, cruel, vain and
never  stable,  though  its  conceit  asserts  there  is  stability  in  its  actions,  in  its
exploration,  in  knowledge  it  has  accumulated.  The  dream  becomes  a  reality
which it has nurtured. What thought has made real is not truth. Nothingness is
not a reality but it is the truth. The small hole, the self, is the reality of thought,
that  skeleton  on  which  it  has  built  all  its  existence  the  reality  of  its
fragmentation, the pain, the sorrow and its love. The reality of its gods or its
one god is the careful structure of thought, its prayer, its rituals, its romantic
worship. In reality there is no stability or pure clarity.
The  knowledge  of  the  self  is  time,  length,  width  and  volume;  it  can  be
accumulated,  used  as  a  ladder  to  become,  to  improve,  to  achieve.  This
knowledge will in no way free the mind of the burden of its own reality. You are
the burden; the truth of it lies in the seeing of it and that freedom is not the
reality of thought. The seeing is the doing. The doing comes from the stability,
the clarity, of nothingness.    101
KRISHNAMURTI’S JOURNAL
MALIBU 46TH ENTRY
24th April 1975
Every  living  thing  has  its  own  sensitivity,  its  own  way  of  life,  its  own
consciousness, but man assumes that his own is far superior and thereby he
loses his love, his dignity and becomes insensitive, callous and destructive. In
the valley of orange trees, with their fruit and spring blossom, it was a lovely
clear morning. The mountains to the north had a sprinkling of snow on them;
they  were  bare,  hard  and  aloof,  but  against  the  tender  blue  sky  of  early
morning  they  were  very  close,  you  could  almost  touch  them.  They  had  that
immense sense of age and indestructible majesty and that beauty that comes
with  timeless  grandeur.  It  was  a  very  still  morning  and  the  smell  of  orange
blossom filled the air, the wonder and the beauty of light. The light of this part
of  the  world  has  a  special  quality,  penetrating,  alive  and  filling  the  eyes;  it
seemed  to  enter  into  your  whole  consciousness,  sweeping  away  any  dark
corners.  There  was  great  joy  in  that  and  every  leaf  and  blade  of  grass  was
rejoicing  in  it.  And  the  blue  jay  was  hopping  from  branch  to  branch  and  not
screeching its head off for a change. It was a lovely morning of light and great
depth.
Time has bred consciousness with its content. It is the culture of time. Its
content makes up consciousness; without it, consciousness, as we know it, is
not.  Then  there  is  nothing.  We  move  the  little  pieces  in  this  consciousness
from  one  area  to  another  according  to  the  pressure  of  reason  and
circumstance  but  in  the  same  field  of  pain,  sorrow  and  knowledge.  This
movement  is  time,  the  thought  and  the  measure.  It  is  a  senseless  game  of
hide and seek with yourself, the shadow and substance of thought, the past
and the future of thought. Thought cannot hold this moment, for this moment is
not  of  time.  This  moment  is  the  ending  of  time;  time  has  stopped  at  that
moment,  there  is  no  movement  at  that  moment  and  so  it  is  not  related  to
another  moment.  It  has  no  cause  and  so  no  beginning  and  no  end.
Consciousness cannot contain it. In that moment of nothingness everything is.

Meditation is the emptying of consciousness of its content.

Σχολιάστε

Εισάγετε τα παρακάτω στοιχεία ή επιλέξτε ένα εικονίδιο για να συνδεθείτε:

Λογότυπο WordPress.com

Σχολιάζετε χρησιμοποιώντας τον λογαριασμό WordPress.com. Αποσύνδεση / Αλλαγή )

Φωτογραφία Twitter

Σχολιάζετε χρησιμοποιώντας τον λογαριασμό Twitter. Αποσύνδεση / Αλλαγή )

Φωτογραφία Facebook

Σχολιάζετε χρησιμοποιώντας τον λογαριασμό Facebook. Αποσύνδεση / Αλλαγή )

Φωτογραφία Google+

Σχολιάζετε χρησιμοποιώντας τον λογαριασμό Google+. Αποσύνδεση / Αλλαγή )

Σύνδεση με %s