Part 1
# Buddhism & science ### By Dahlke, Paul
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BUDDHISM & SCIENCE
BY PAUL DAHLKE
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY THE BHIKKHU SĪLĀCĀRA
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON 1913
COPYRIGHT
CONTENTS
PAGE Introduction vii
1. What is a World-Theory and is it necessary? 1
2. Faith and a World-Theory 8
3. Science and a World-Theory 13
4. An Introduction to the Thought-World of the Buddha Gotama 23
5. The Doctrine of the Buddha 35
6. Buddhism as a Working Hypothesis 81
7. Buddhism and the Problem of Physics 110
8. Buddhism and the Problem of Physiology 126
9. Buddhism and the Problem of Biology 140
10. Buddhism and the Cosmological Problem 194
11. Buddhism and the Problem of Thought 206
Conclusion 254
INTRODUCTION
The Purpose of the Book
Three kinds of books there are. First, those that give nothing and from which we demand nothing. These constitute the greater portion of the book-world; empty entertainment for the idle. Secondly, those books that give the unfamiliar and are unfamiliar to us--that is, demand only our memory. These are manuals of instruction presenting facts. And thirdly, those books that give themselves and demand ourselves. These are the books that are mental nutriment in the real sense of the words, and impart to the entire process of mental development a stimulus which, like the stimulus imparted to a growing tree, never again can be lost. The present book makes claim to belong to the last category. As something experienced by myself, it is meant to become such an experience to others.
The mental poverty of our time finds its most accurate expression in the prevalent lack of individual experience. We are not impressed where we ought to be impressed, because we allow ourselves to be impressed where in truth there is nothing impressive. We mistake our true interests. The interesting is something in which we have an interest, in which we have a share. But there has been such a derangement of positions that in presence of our true interests we stand stupid spectators, whilst for the interesting in the banal sense, we are ready to go through fire and flood. To the average man of to-day it is far more interesting to read hair-splitting investigations into the question as to whether Christianity is a branch of Buddhism or Buddhism of Christianity, than to think out and live that which both have taught and continue to teach.
All this is inherent in the conditions under which we live at the present time.
Thought is ever confronted by life as by a question--a question that of necessity becomes actual in me, the thinker. For as a candle illuminates a certain portion of space and thereby first calls forth question-raising objects, so does thought itself illuminate these stellar spaces and thereby first calls forth question-raising objects. The _I_ is the natural point of departure of every view of the world, being the objective as well as the subjective point of departure. Now that philosophy, in the endeavour to construct a world-conception out of pure thought alone, has come to ruin on her own nothingness, natural science has constituted itself the emissary of the world-conception idea, and in contradistinction to philosophy has sought to realize it over the head of the _I_, so to speak--an attempt which, despite all its grandeur, is forever doomed to failure, seeing that, as the last to include the _I_ itself in this world-theory, the problem is insoluble. Hence the fact that we no longer possess a philosophy such as the ancients and the schoolmen possessed; and do not yet possess a natural science that can give us any genuine aid.
Every thinker, every seeker--and every thinker is a seeker--is to-day in a state of mental interregnum. And it is the hope of this book that, as masses of atmosphere in labile equilibrium frequently at the slightest impulse break into whirling motion, so also the minds of our time that are in this state of labile equilibrium may prove themselves still more susceptible to stimuli, and respond, if not exactly with a mental typhoon, at least with a gentle zephyr.
* * * * *
Three kinds of men there are. First, the indifferent, comparable to the inert bodies of chemistry. To them applies the saying of Confucius, “Rotten wood cannot be turned.” Secondly, the believers, comparable to those chemical bodies whose affinities are satisfied. In so far as their faith is genuine, to these applies already during their lifetime, the parable of beggar Lazarus in Abraham’s bosom. And thirdly there is the thinking class, destitute of faith, corresponding to chemical bodies in the nascent state. To them applies that word of the Buddha, “Painful is all life.”
Our book has value only for this third, last kind. The indifferent, however highly educated he may be, will never give himself the trouble to think it out; and with the believer it will only provoke contradiction.
A thinker destitute of faith I call him who at the idea of endlessness, which none who thinks at all can escape, reacts with that psychic uneasiness which may be compared with the purely intellectual uneasiness one experiences in presence of the irrational in mathematics, both, as a matter of fact, being also analogues.
The circle of readers of this book is thus circumscribed in advance. But the few for whom it is written, they are the few that count.
* * * * *
Three questions there are that before all else occupy every thinking man, and always have occupied him. The question, “What am I?” The question, “How must I comport myself?” The question, “To what end am I here?” This “what,” this “how,” this “to what end,”--these are the subjects of contention in all mental life. It is not every one who, like Emperor Augustus of old, can withdraw from this scene of things with a _plaudite amici_. There _are_ minds to whom life is more than a play, and all that is transient more than a symbol.
It is the negative task of this book to show that neither faith nor science supply such an answer to these questions as can satisfy the thinking man. It is the positive task of this book to show that a solution of these three questions is furnished in the Buddha-thought, but in a form so strange at first sight, that until now it has achieved no practical importance. Trained one-sidedly to inductive attempts at concepts, we know not how to translate into modern prose these enigmatic formulas of thought. We know not what to make of a Nirvana--the epitome of all blessedness and yet no heaven. We know not what to make of a Karma that from beginninglessness binds existence to existence and yet is no soul. And so the truest of all teachings, uncomprehended by philosophy, unheeded by natural science, is lost to us and to the needs of our time.
The question arises, How comes it that Buddhism has always remained essentially alien to us, a sort of mental curiosity?
To this I give the answer, brief and blunt, It is not understood. That is only too painfully evident from the literature published about it. Here I do not at all refer to those commonplace compilations that simply swarm with misconceptions. It is just the best books on the subject which reveal how far removed it is beyond our powers of apprehension.
I am prepared to have reproach brought against me; first, that in many places I have become polemical, and secondly, that I have not sufficiently studied that tone of affected diffidence such as has become the fashion in our books, just in so far as they deal with the theme of a world-conception.
As to the first point, I can bear witness that nowhere have I indulged in polemics for polemics’ sake. It is with the Buddha-thought as with many a colossal edifice, whereof the greatness only becomes apparent by comparison with ordinary erections. As in the case of the pyramids of Gizeh, the endless background of the desert offers no fitting standard of measurement for their greatness, so the Buddha-thought, when projected upon beginninglessness alone, offers nothing by which its greatness can be measured. One must place by its side other mental structures if one is ever to be able to reveal it in all its stupendous proportions. It is easy to understand that in this case simple comparison must already amount to polemics.
As to the second point, my opinion is this: Either one has something useful to contribute, in which case one does not need to practise this affected diffidence, or else one has nothing useful to contribute, in which case one does not need to write at all. I dare speak thus because I bring _nothing of my own_, but only speak in the place of a Greater. “We do not know, but there is no sound reason for doubting that so-and-so,” and all such phrases, howsoever couched, by means of which an endlessly considerable probability is intended to be smuggled into the ranks of truth, are quite uncalled for in a teaching like that of the Buddha. Whoso knows, “Thus it is,” simply says, “Thus it is.”
I
WHAT IS A WORLD-THEORY AND IS IT NECESSARY?
There is present a something given, an actuality, which we designate by the collective name of “world.” The untutored person and the thinker alike make use of the same expression. This latter is indifferent, acquiring a definite meaning only with reference to a particular explanation--that is, with reference to a view of the world.
The impulse to explain actuality, the need of a world-theory, a world-conception, is deeply embedded in every living being endowed with consciousness.
The moment any being has so far developed as to begin to think, it finds itself involved in a huge system within which it seeks to know its way, striving the while to understand it in its various details.
This system comes before it in a twofold aspect: on the one hand, as “something that is,” _i.e._ things; and on the other hand, as “something that happens,” _i.e._ the play of events among things. A “being” without a “happening” attached, is as little to be found as a “happening” without a “being.” In other words: processes only exist.
Here two questions immediately arise. First, _What is the world?_ And second, _How does the play of events come about?_
Both sides of the world-picture, and therewith both questions, blend into one question--the question as to adequate causes. As well the fact that “something is here,” as the fact that “something happens,” requires adequate causes. _The adequate cause is the thought-necessity given with all mental life._ The entire universe in all its parts and processes, is to the thinking man a species of marionette show. He sees the puppets dance but he does not see the strings, neither does he see that which pulls the strings. The incentive to a view of the world is the craving, so to speak, to get a peep behind the scenes, to spy out Nature’s secrets, and therewith seize upon the meaning and significance of life itself. This latter is the real object of every world-theory.
Now it is quite true, that if I do not perceive the meaning and significance of life I am but little better than the donkey that drags the full sacks to the mill and the empty ones back without knowing why, in the one case as in the other. I owe it to my dignity as a man to seek out the meaning and significance of life. But this is not all.
That I am here is a given fact. Were I not here, had I never been here, not for that would any breach have yawned in the structure of the world. But now that I am here, all turns upon _how I conduct myself during this my existence_. Not the fact _that_ I am here, but _how_ I employ this existence is the all-important thing.
This question as to the “_how_” can only be answered in any natural way through the “_what_.” I must know what I am, and what are the things and beings outside me; I must learn my relations to the external world, I must apprehend the meaning and significance of life before I can possess a genuine canon and standard for my behaviour, for my morality. For all morality, whether it find expression in doing or in leaving undone, issues in acts of selflessness. This, however, requires that motives be brought forward, otherwise such an act is either a perverted form of self-seeking like all asceticism, or it is mere training, bearing, indeed, the outward semblance of morality, in reality, however, having nothing at all to do with it. It is only in virtue of cognition that any act acquires moral value. One can speak of real morality there only where it is a function of cognition. Hence there can be no morality without comprehension, without a world-conception.
This is the first reason why a world-theory is necessary.
But it behoves a being worthy the name of man also to know whether this life is merely a blind adventure, or whether it has aim and goal. The thinking man demands to know what he may expect after this life. He insists upon looking beyond this life. He claims an answer to the question, “Whence? Whither?”
This demand to look out beyond life, this questioning, as to _the aim and goal of life_, is called _religion_. As with the query, “How must I conduct myself?” which permits of being answered in natural fashion then only when I know what I am, so is it with the question, “Whence am I, and whither am I bound?” Only when I know what I am, can this question also find a natural reply. A genuine religion, like a genuine morality, has its roots in cognition. _Both alike must be functions of cognition._
Such are the two reasons why for every thinking being a world-theory is not only a matter of giving honourable satisfaction to his dignity as a man, but also why it is a positive necessity. _In their absence genuine morality and genuine religion alike are impossible._
Now every backward glance into time, _i.e._ universal history, as well as every look round us in space, _i.e._ ethnology, reveals the fact that there never has been, and also that there is not, a people destitute of every trace, every touch of morality and religion. The only question is, Is this natural capacity of mankind for morality and religion a veritable function of cognition?
The essence of all cognition is the individual. Every act of cognition is always something individual, personal, pertaining to me alone. Were all men to cognize alike, the content of this cognition would still be the individual possession of each and every single person. _Cognition separates._
Opposite to it stands another function of human nature--emotion. _Emotion unites._ If things cognizable are the affair of the individual, things emotional have to do with the mass. Every natural capacity of mankind for morality and religion consists altogether of what pertains to the emotions. Here all morality is founded upon an instinctive feeling of correlation which finds expression in the well-known saying:--
What you would not men did to you, See that you do not them unto!
or in the maxim, “So conduct thyself towards others as thou wouldst wish that they should conduct themselves towards thee!”
The unifying quality of emotion is made manifest in every form of compassion, which latter frequently rises to the pitch of an actual vegetative suffering with the afflicted person. Such facts, open to every one’s observation, awaken in all the instinctive feeling of an inner connection of beings, and yield a natural morality that is purely a function of emotion.
It may be asked, “Could such a morality of emotion suffice humanity?”
It would suffice a humanity whose development had only reached so far as the capacity for emotion. So soon, however, as a being passes from the stage of the emotional and enters upon the stage of the cognitive, the morality of emotion no longer suffices, as little so as the reasons one is accustomed to give to children suffice the grown man.
The emotional holds sway as long as an individual is not yet fully conscious of himself, not yet come to pure reflection. So soon as he is fully conscious, there arises also the need to understand ourselves as well as our morality and religion. Then only may I say that I _have_ morality and religion when I have understood them, when both have become functions of my cognition. So long as this is not the case, so long are religion and morality things of emotion, and these are subject to every conceivable variation. Hence the endless diversity of moralities as well as of religions in the stage of the emotional. Here both--to use the language of current speech--are mere matters of taste, lacking in all inner foundation. Hence also comes all that is unintelligible in the manners and customs connected with morality and religion among foreign peoples of ancient and of modern times. This is not the place to go into details. Every historical record, every account of civilization, furnishes abundant examples.
Whether upon our globe a state of affairs has ever prevailed in which morality and religion have been exclusively things of emotion, it is impossible to say. The fact remains that at the point where, in our glance backward over the history of the world, man first emerges, the purity of emotional morality and religion is no longer intact. Historical man, as first presented to us in the states of Egypt and Babylonia, already exhibits a morality and religion which are no longer pure functions of emotion, but have now become functions of reflection.
This necessity for reflection is given with the essential being of all that is real.
As already said, all that is, on the one hand, presents itself as “_something that is_,” _i.e._ a being; and, on the other hand, as “something that happens,” _i.e._ a becoming; that is, as a process. Wherever something happens, an adequate cause must be present. And the world by its simple existence, by reason of its very nature as a process, is the standing incitement to comprehension, to reflection, inasmuch as the mind hankers after an adequate cause for all that occurs. “The apparent changes in organic being all about me,” says Goethe in his _Morphologie_, “took a strong hold of my mind. Imagination and nature seemed to strive with one another which of the two should stride forward with the bolder and firmer step.”
The search after adequate causes is everywhere given as a necessity of thought wherever mental life is found. An adequate cause is required for “that which is,” just as much as for “that which happens”; it is that which both presume. _To possess a world-theory and therewith a world-conception means to comprehend adequate causes._
According to the attitude assumed by mental life toward the question of adequate causes, does it separate off in two main directions: the direction of faith and the direction of science.
II
FAITH AND A WORLD-THEORY
_There is present a something given--the world._
It presents itself as an endlessly vast sum of processes. Where there is a process there is happening. Where something happens, there adequate causes are demanded.
Every attempt to comprehend adequate causes leads backwards in endless series, since each cause comprehended is something which itself in turn demands an adequate cause, and so on backwards without ever a conclusion.
_Faith_ is that particular form of mental life which from this fact draws the inference that for the human mind a real comprehension is impossible, since behind the physical there stands a something transcendent, a force, with reference to which all life-phenomena become that which their name expresses: _phenomena of a “life”_ which faith for the most part designates by the word “_god_.”
This force stationed behind the physical, to which faith traces back all that happens, must be an “adequate cause in itself,” hence something contrary to sense in the fullest meaning of the words. For all that is, without exception, requires an adequate cause. An “adequate cause in itself” would thus be that something which by its simple existence would give the lie to this thought-necessity, inasmuch as itself would be that which would have no adequate cause. When the thought-necessity of an adequate cause is thus satisfied with an “adequate cause in itself,” this just means: it is satisfied _in a fashion contrary to sense_.
The essence of all that is contrary to sense consists in this, that when followed out in thought, it deprives itself of the possibility of existence. A mistake in an arithmetical sum is the most familiar form of what is contrary to sense. It is something that in correct thinking is by itself deprived of all possibility of existence; it is something that makes its appearance only that it may appear no more.
In like case stands faith. Does it essay to think that in which it believes, then must that present itself to it in one or other relation or form--that is, conceptually. A transcendent, however, that presents itself conceptually is transcendent no longer, but, on the contrary, the one completely conceptualized thing there is in the world, inasmuch as its whole existence just consists of the concept of it. Accordingly, when faith ventures to think, it deprives itself of the possibility of existence; when it does not think, it has no existence _as faith_, and therefore no existence at all.
When, as in these days frequently happens, people complain of the ever-increasing decay of faith, the reason mostly given is, that faith does not contain a sufficiency of what is of value to the understanding. The believer must know what, how, and why he believes, and not have his faith based simply upon feeling. But this is somewhat the same as if one should reproach darkness with not containing a sufficiency of light among its ingredients. Is light present, then there can be no darkness; is understanding present, then there can be no faith. _Credo ut intelligam_ is the most vain of all wishes.
_Pantheism_ in its noblest form, that of the Indian _Vedanta_, endeavours to avoid this dilemma by conceiving of its divine in purely negative terms. But the famous “neti, neti”--“not this, not this”--of the Upanishads, is a definition too, and so a limitation.
Through this its essential characteristic, of itself in being thought out, depriving itself of the possibility of existence, faith takes its place--as third in the trio--along with illusion and error.
_Illusion_ is what I call a mistaken view; _error_, what I call a mistaken experience. When I mistake a rope for a snake, a train of ants for a crack in the ground, these are illusions. When I hold infusoria to have their origin in the infusion of hay, or look upon the evening and the morning star as two different orbs, these are errors.