Talking of suicide, it is perhaps
noteworthy that both of Dostoievsky's characters kill themselves:
Stavrogin out of indifference and self disgust; Kirilov, after years
of planning the gesture, in order to demonstrate to mankind that
there is no God and that men are free to do as they please. My
suicide will be less didactic
It is customary, in England at least,
for Coroners' courts to give the verdict 'Suicide while the balance
of his mind was disturbed'. This insult automatically puts the victim
in the wrong and reassures Society that all is for the best in the
best of all possible worlds. Have you ever noticed that Socialist
governments have a particular horror of the individual's suicide? It
is a direct criticism of their basic tenets.
*
But absence of a reason for living is not necessarily a reason for dying (though the visiting psychiatrist was assuming the contrary, hence his panic at the suggestion that the purpose of life might be questionable). Absence of a reason for living simply makes the decision to die easier. The reason for ending one's life is the discomfort and difficulty of one's situation, and this is why any medical help that can be given is welcome.
*
But how is one to kill oneself? Early last month I
did in fact attempt it, but failed through a miscalculation. I had
read that two elderly ladies in England had succeeded in asphyxiating
themselves, and I thought to myself that what two old ladies can do I
can do. Rash assumption! These old ladies are much tougher than our
masculine pride is willing to admit, and I have to give them full
credit for accomplishing a very difficult feat. I found it quite
impossible, when the lack of oxygen began to make itself felt, to
resist the impulse to get fresh air. One lives and learns (a
particularly suitable motto for the unsuccessful suicide, don't you
think?). Perhaps it needs practice to reach the critical point —one
more breath each day, until finally one is able to arrive at
unconsciousness. In any case, I do not feel tempted to try this
again.
What about the knife? In theory
this seems quick and simple, provided one slices in the right place
and does not try sawing through the windpipe. But in practice it is
extremely difficult to cut one's throat in cold blood (even if there
is hot blood to follow). It needs desperation, or at least a strong
sense of urgency (or a course of reserpine perhaps?) to screw one up
to the necessary pitch. The thought of living even one more day has
to be intolerable. I tried this about ten days ago, but even if I had
not been interrupted by a heavy thunderstorm, which flooded the place
and brought me back to ground level, it is very doubtful whether I
should have gone through with it. My attitude is far too reflexive,
and the necessary sense of urgency and despair is lacking.[c]
Poison? Expert knowledge is
wanted here; otherwise one may easily make things very unpleasant for
oneself without producing the desired effect. Hysterical women drink
oxalic acid to revenge themselves on their callous lovers by the
spectacle of their agony, but this is obviously not my cup of tea.
Besides, how is a bhikkhu to obtain a suitable poison?
Eyebrows may be raised if he asks a dāyaka for, say, a
small bottle of iodine, twenty soda-mint tablets, and a quarter-ounce
of potassium cyanide. And certain types of poison are unsuitable. It
is best to die mindful and aware, and overdoses of opiates,
hypnotics, or anaesthetics are therefore to be avoided.
Hanging seems to be
unnecessarily painful unless done skilfully; and this district has no
suitable precipices for throwing oneself over. A surprising number of
bhikkhus seem to possess pistols these days, but I am not
one of them, so shooting is out. I can swim, so drowning is
difficult. To be decapitated by a train I should need to go to
Matara; and pouring kerosene oil over one's clothes and setting
oneself alight, though certainly spectacular (especially at night),
must be a frightful experience (but I believe it is sometimes
done).
There remains a form of suicide
that one hears surprisingly little about—starvation. Why is this?
Is it not perhaps because, as Albert Camus remarks,
one rarely commits suicide as a result of reflexion? Most suicides
mature unawares in the innermost recesses of a man's being, until one
day the crisis is precipitated by some trivial occurrence and the man
ends his life with a sudden gesture. He may shoot or plunge, but he
will hardly think of starving to death.
Those, on the other hand, whose
decision to kill themselves is not emotional but deliberate, those
that is to say who wish to kill themselves (or at least give that
impression) for some particular reason, nearly always favour
starvation. Here you find, for example, the hunger-striker who aims
at political or other ends, the 'faster unto death' who is protesting
against some injury, real or imagined, personal or public. But these
people are usually not called 'suicides', partly, perhaps, because
they rarely go the whole way, but principally, I fancy, because the
term 'suicide' has emotional overtones associated with the act of
killing oneself for no better reason than that one has had enough of
this life.
Such a gesture threatens to
undermine the precarious security of Society, which is based on the
convention that 'life is worth living'. Suicide puts in question this
unquestionable axiom, and Society inevitably regards it with fear and
suspicion as an act of treachery.
If the victim should fail in his attempt, Society takes its revenge
upon his temerity by putting him in prison (where, presumably, he is
expected to learn that, actually, life really is worth living).
Those, on the other hand, who can show good reason for ending their
lives (the man, for example, with a political grievance) do not by
their act put this convention in question, and they are therefore
regarded as safe and perfectly respectable. Thus they escape the
opprobrious name. Starvation and suicide, then, are rarely associated
with each other.
From my point of view, however,
I see that they might well be associated. I shall not stop here to
discuss suicide in the light of the Dhamma, except to remark that
though it is never encouraged it is not the heinous offense it is
sometimes popularly thought to be, and that the consequences of the
act will vary according to circumstances—for the puthujjana
they can be disastrous, but for the arahat (the Venerable
Channa Thera—S. XXXV,87: iv,55-60—for example) they are nil.
I want, rather, to consider the evident advantages that starvation
can offer to someone who decides upon suicide as a result of
reflexion.
(i) One's action is less likely
to be misconstrued as the effect of a sudden mental aberration.
Though this may be a matter of unimportance for oneself, it may not
be so for other people. In certain cases it can be of importance to
understand why a person chose to kill himself.
(ii) One has ample time (a
fortnight? a month? or longer?) in which to reconsider one's decision
and reverse it if necessary.
(iii) I have heard it said that
in starvation the first thing to disappear is the sexual urge. If
true, this has obvious advantages for me in my present condition,
since a death accompanied by sensual desire is most unfortunate.
(iv) Since the principal
obstacle, in my case, to mental concentration is the discomfort and
malaise resulting from the ingestion of food, it seems possible that
mental concentration might actually benefit from starvation.
(v) One has the opportunity for
contemplating the approach of death at one's leisure, and for ridding
oneself of any remaining worries or concerns connected with this
life.
(vi) One can watch the
progressive emaciation of one's body. This is asubhasaññā,
wherein the body appears as an object of disgust.
(vii) One can directly observe
the dependence of the body on food. This is idappaccayatā,
which leads to aniccasaññā or perception of impermanence.
(viii) It is said that in
starvation the mind becomes progressively clearer (though more
dissociated) as the body gets weaker.
(ix) Starvation seems to offer
a good chance for a conscious and lucid death, which is most
desirable.
(x) The discomforts of
starvation, though no doubt unpleasant, are apparently quite
endurable (that is, if one can judge from the astonishingly large
number of people who undertake voluntary fasts for trivial reasons).
I imagine it is more uncomfortable to starve slowly on inadequate
food than to do without food altogether. Without food one might even
forget about it, but not with regular small reminders of its
existence.
(xi) I imagine that, as deaths
go, death by starvation is not excessively painful. Presumably the
body gets progressively more feeble, but no one particular organ
tends to give out before the others. I am not well informed on this
matter, and should welcome enlightenment.
The great disadvantage of
suicide by starvation is that it is not the sort of thing (unless one
knows of a solitary cave with a good water supply) that one can do on
the sly. Questions are bound to be asked. Public opinion will have to
be flouted. Perhaps the best course is to announce one's intention
beforehand and be prepared to put up with visits from kindly people,
perhaps more well meaning than well informed, who come to save one
from one's own rash folly. If they get too importunate one can always
indulge the malicious pleasure of asking them if they are coming to
the funeral.
And do I actually propose to do
this? Nietzsche once said, 'The thought of suicide gets one through
many a bad night.'
This is quite true; but one cannot think suicide in this way unless
one regards it as a course of action that one might actually adopt.
And when I consider my present situation I am forced to admit that I
do intend to adopt it (though I cannot say when): my present horizon
is bounded by this idea. Even if the sexual trouble settles (which it
does not seem to be in any hurry about), there remains the digestive
disorder (which, of course, won't improve). It is this latter
complaint that raises the problem; the other only makes it more
pressing.
I think I once told you that I
had always been extraordinarily fortunate in my life with the things
that had happened to me. Perhaps you might think that I now need to
revise this view. But that is not so. Although, certainly, this
recent complaint has no redeeming feature, and may perhaps push me to
my death, it is actually an affair of relatively minor importance and
inspires me more with disgust than with despair. And whether my life
ends now or later is also, ultimately, a matter of indifference to
me.
P.S. There is no need at all to
answer this letter (unless you wish). Its purpose is already
achieved. Writing of suicide has got me through several bad days.
**
If anyone is going to commit suicide—not that I
advocate it for anyone—it is a great mistake to do it when one is
feeling at one's most suicidal. The business should be carefully
planned so that one is in the best possible frame of mind—calm,
unmoved, serene—when one does it. Otherwise one may end up
anywhere. The present time, therefore, would seem to be the best for
me to kill myself, if that is my intention. All the melancholy
farewell letters are written (they have to be amended and brought up
to date from time to time, as the weeks pass and my throat is still
uncut);[1]
the note for the coroner
is prepared (carefully refraining from any witty remarks that might
spoil the solemn moment at the inquest when the note is read aloud);
and the mind is peaceful and concentrated.
**
Regarding the question of a bhikkhu's
suicide, the view that it is better for him to disrobe rather than
kill himself when he finds he can make no further progress is—if
you will forgive me for saying so—a layman's view. There was at
least one bhikkhu in the Buddha's day—the Ven. Channa
Thera—who (in spite of what the Commentary says) killed himself as
an arahat owing to incurable sickness; and there are many
other examples in the Suttas of bhikkhus who—as
ariyapuggalas—took their own life (and some became arahat
in doing so—Ven. Godhika Thera, Ven. Vakkali Thera, for
example).[2]
One (who became arahat), the Ven. Sappadāsa Thera, could
not get rid of lustful thoughts for twenty-five years, and took his
razor to cut his throat, saying
sattham vā āharissāmi, ko attho jīvitena mekatham hi sikkham paccakkham kālam kubbetha mādiso (Thag. 407)
I shall use the knife—what use is this life to me?
How can one such as I meet his death having put aside the training (i.e. disrobed)?
And the Buddha himself
warns (in the Mahāsuññata Sutta—M. 122: iii,109-18) that
one who becomes a layman after following a teacher may fall into the
hells when he dies. There is no doubt at all that, whatever public
opinion may think, a bhikkhu is probably worse advised to
disrobe than to end his life—that is, of course, if he is genuinely
practising the Buddha's Teaching. It is hard for laymen (and even,
these days, for the majority of bhikkhus, I fear) to
understand that when a bhikkhu devotes his entire life to
one single aim, there may come a time when he can no longer turn
back—lay life has become incomprehensible to him. If he cannot
reach his goal there is only one thing for him to do—to die
(perhaps you are not aware that the Buddha has said that 'death' for
a bhikkhu means a return to lay life—Opamma Samy. 11:
ii,271).
There is in my present situation
(since the nervous disorder that I have had for the past year
consists of an abnormal, persistent, sometimes fairly acute, erotic
stimulation) a particularly strong temptation to return to the state
of a layman; and I have not the slightest intention of giving in to
it. This erotic stimulation can be overcome by successful samatha
practice (mental concentration), but my chronic amoebiasis makes this
particularly difficult for me. So for me it is simply a question of
how long I can stand the strain. (I do not think you would think the
better of me for disrobing under these conditions.)
I must thank you most sincerely
for the offers of material help—visits to specialists, change of
environment, and so on—and these we can discuss later. But here
again there are complexities. For example, I am best able to deal
with the situation described above in a dry climate and living alone
(and I have found no better place than Bundala); so a change of
environment will almost certainly be a change for the worse. And Dr.
de Silva has already consulted specialists on my behalf, and the
drugs prescribed are of some help. I may say that, though I am
usually uncomfortable, I am certainly not in any kind of pain, and I
am not in the least worried about my situation—worry I leave to
other people (my doctor, I think, was worried to begin with, but he
seems to be getting over it quite nicely; and now perhaps you are
worried).
Because Bundala suits me better
than anywhere else I am not anxious to leave here even for a few
days. If, however, you are going ahead with the Notes and
they reach the proof stage, it may be advisable for me to come for
two or three days to see the printer personally. In the meantime,
since I have a certain interest in seeing that the printing is
properly done, it is perhaps unlikely that I shall attempt to abolish
myself. But please do not be too disappointed if you find that I meet
your constructive suggestions for improving matters with evasive
answers—after all, neither this letter nor that of the 28th is,
properly speaking, an appeal for help (though I am nonetheless
appreciative of the offers of help so readily made).
*
Do not think that I regard suicide as
praiseworthy—that there can easily be an element of weakness in it,
I am the first to admit (though the Stoics regarded it as a
courageous act)—, but I certainly regard it as preferable to a
number of other possibilities. (I would a hundred times rather have
it said of the Notes that the author killed himself as a
bhikkhu than that he disrobed; for bhikkhus have
become arahats in the act of suicide, but it is not recorded
that anyone became arahat in the act of disrobing.)
By all means let the devas
prevent it—let them bring about some improvement in my health, some
easing of the situation, and all may be well; or let them send sudden
death, an elephant, a polonga (there are plenty here), or
simply a heart attack, and again the horrid deed of suicide is
averted. But in the meantime the situation remains.
*
No, I had not heard about the Vietnamese monk who set
himself alight. One can admire unreservedly the fortitude of such
people, who allow themselves to be burned to death while maintaining
a perfect calm. At once one thinks 'Should I be able to do the
same?'. If it should happen to me accidentally now, the answer would
certainly be no. I should certainly allow myself a grimace and a
groan or two (to say the very least). But the comparison is not
really just. This monk was evidently already fired internally with
enthusiasm or resentment, and from there it may be no very great step
to fire oneself externally with petrol and flames. But I feel neither
enthusiasm nor resentment at the present time, and rarely even at
other times. Besides, the monk evidently had a large and appreciative
audience, and this must help a lot. Before an interested and, I
think, slightly hostile crowd, one might put up quite a good
performance. But these acts of heroism are not uncommon in the
world's history. In the editor's notes to my Kierkegaard I find the
following:
Mucius Scaevola is said to have thrust his right hand into the fire and let it burn up before the Etruscan king, Porfinnas, without altering the expression on his face. (CUP, p. 568)
But perhaps the most celebrated of these auto-incendiaries is Kalanos. You will remember, no doubt, that Kalanos (the Greek version of the Sanskrit Kalyāna) was an Indian ascetic—though not a Buddhist—who accompanied Alexander's army on its withdrawal from India. At a certain moment he announced that his time had come to die, and arranged for a funeral pyre to be constructed. He mounted the pyre, had it set alight, and, sitting cross-legged, remained motionless until his body was consumed by the flames.
What an occasion! With the entire Greek army, and probably Alexander the Great himself, watching him; with each one of those hardened and undefeated veterans, themselves no stranger to pain and mutilations, wondering if he himself would be capable of such cold-blooded endurance: with the eyes of posterity upon him (his peculiar fame has come down for more than twenty centuries); and with the honour of Indian asceticism at stake (and Indian asceticism is India);—how could he fail? For a moment one could almost wish to have been Kalanos. And yet, from the point of view of Dhamma, all this is foolishness—a childish escapade. The Christian 'Witness for the Faith' is the martyr, singing hymns in the midst of the flames; the Buddhist 'Witness for the Faith' is the ariya, peaceably giving instruction in the Dhamma and leading others to his own attainment.
Mucius Scaevola is said to have thrust his right hand into the fire and let it burn up before the Etruscan king, Porfinnas, without altering the expression on his face. (CUP, p. 568)
But perhaps the most celebrated of these auto-incendiaries is Kalanos. You will remember, no doubt, that Kalanos (the Greek version of the Sanskrit Kalyāna) was an Indian ascetic—though not a Buddhist—who accompanied Alexander's army on its withdrawal from India. At a certain moment he announced that his time had come to die, and arranged for a funeral pyre to be constructed. He mounted the pyre, had it set alight, and, sitting cross-legged, remained motionless until his body was consumed by the flames.
What an occasion! With the entire Greek army, and probably Alexander the Great himself, watching him; with each one of those hardened and undefeated veterans, themselves no stranger to pain and mutilations, wondering if he himself would be capable of such cold-blooded endurance: with the eyes of posterity upon him (his peculiar fame has come down for more than twenty centuries); and with the honour of Indian asceticism at stake (and Indian asceticism is India);—how could he fail? For a moment one could almost wish to have been Kalanos. And yet, from the point of view of Dhamma, all this is foolishness—a childish escapade. The Christian 'Witness for the Faith' is the martyr, singing hymns in the midst of the flames; the Buddhist 'Witness for the Faith' is the ariya, peaceably giving instruction in the Dhamma and leading others to his own attainment.
A man may take his own life for many reasons, and it is impossible to make a general statement; but whenever suicide is a gesture—done, that is, to impress or influence or embarrass others—it is always, so it seems to me, a sign of immaturity and muddled thinking. However much we may admire the fortitude of this Vietnamese monk, the wisdom of his action remains very much in doubt. I do not know the details of the provocation offered by the Catholic Head of State, but the monk appears to have killed himself 'fighting for the cause of Buddhism'. Certainly this action is infinitely more honourable than the setting fire to churches and the crowning of statues that seem to be the favoured methods of giving battle in this country; but it does not follow that it is any the less misguided.
