Befriending the Dalai Lama

Today marks the centenary of the birth of Thomas Merton, a monk, a mystic and a prolific writer on religious and spiritual issues. Indeed, he is considered by some to be one of the most important and influential American writers on Catholicism in the 20th century. He also published books of poetry, and he documented his own life in journals and through autobiographies such as The Seven Storey Mountain.

Merton was born in Prades, France, on 31 January 1915, though his father came from New Zealand and his mother from the US, the two having met at art school in Paris. After the family moved to the US, Thomas’s mother bore a second son, but then she died when Thomas was only six. Thereafter, he was moved around a lot during his childhood (the US, France and the UK), and was often separated from his father. He did some travelling in his late teens before entering Clare College, Cambridge, but left after only one year. He then moved to the US, to study at Columbia University, where he converted to Roman Catholicism. In 1941, he entered the Abbey of Gethsemani, Kentucky, a community of Trappists monks, and remained part of the community for the rest of his life.

Abbot Frederic Dunne encouraged the young Frater Louis, as he was known in the monastery, to translate works from the Cistercian tradition and to write historical biographies to make the order better known. He also urged him to write his autobiography, published in 1948 as The Seven Storey Mountain. This became a best-seller and remains a classic of the genre.

In the 1960s, Merton became increasingly political and a strong supporter of the civil rights movement. His writings on the subject triggered frequent criticism, especially from other Catholics. He also became interested in Zen Buddhism, and in promoting East-West dialogue. This led to him being praised by the Dalai Lama, and then to meeting him on a tour to Asia in 1968. Tragically, Merton died during that journey - as a result of an accidental electrocution. Further information can be found from Wikipedia, the Abbey of Gethsemani, The Thomas Merton Center, or New Directions.

Merton kept a diary for much of his life, especially after entering the Abbey of Gethsemani. However, he did not publish a first selection of diary entries until 1953, when Harcourt, Brace and Co. brought out The Sign of Jonas. The diary extracts were written between 1946 and 1952, and the book’s purpose was to introduce readers to the daily life of a monk. A further selection from Merton’s diary - pre-Gethsemani and before he was a Catholic or a monk - followed in 1959, published by Dell Publishing, entitled The Secular Journal of Thomas Merton. No further diaries were published in his lifetime (although Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander in 1966 was composed from notebook jottings), and it would not be until the 1990s that all his diaries were put into a print, in a seven volume series. This started with Run to the Mountain - The Journals of Thomas Merton, Volume One 1939-1941, and concluded with The Other Side of the Mountain, The Journals of Thomas Merton, Volume Seven 1967-1968. Both books can be previewed at Amazon (one and seven).

However, the very last diary Merton kept, during his fatal trip to Asia, was published by New Directions, as a stand alone volume, much earlier, in 1973 - The Asian Journal of Thomas Merton. And, in 1988, New Directions also brought out Thomas Merton in Alaska, which included a selection of his journals from a trip he made to Alaska on his way to Asia.

The Asian Journal of Thomas Merton was edited by Naomi Burton, Brother Patrick Hart and James Laughlin, from three separate notebooks kept by Merton. Much of the book can be read online at Googlebooks. In his ‘Editor’s Notes’, Laughlin explains how Merton kept a ‘public’ journal which he intended for publication, a ‘private’ journal, largely duplicating the first but with occasional intimate notes and spiritual self-analyses, and a small ‘pocket notebook’ in which he jotted quick and immediate notes. According to instructions left behind by Merton, only the first - the public journal - was to be published, and no one other than his authorised biographer was to have access to the private journal.

The editors also explain how editing Merton’s diary was a complicated business, since he wrote quickly, guessing at spelling, using other languages, and missing out many verbs and connecting words. Taking as their guide the journals published in his own lifetime, however, they polished and edited the text into sentences: ‘Readers will judge for themselves our degree of success or failure in this effort to identify and produce a known style by comparison with such earlier journals as The Sign of Jonas or Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander.’ The book concludes with a generous spread of appendices - lectures and letters to friends - and a long glossary, a detailed bibliography and an index.

24 September 1968
‘At the far end of a long blue arm of water, full of islands. The bush pilot flies low over the post office thinking it to be the Catholic Church - to alert the priest we are arriving.

The old town of Valdez, wrecked by earthquake, tidal wave. Still some buildings leaning into shallow salt water. Others, with windows smashed by a local drunkard. I think I have lost the roll of film I took in Valdez & the mountains (from the place).

Most impressive mountains I have seen in Alaska: Drum & Wrangell & the third great massive one whose name I forget, rising out of the vast birchy plain of Copper Valley. They are sacred & majestic mountains, ominous, enormous, noble, stirring. You want to attend to them. I could not keep my eyes off them. Beauty & terror of the Chugach. Dangerous valleys. Points. Saws. Snowy nails.’

19 October 1968
‘The situation of the tourist becomes ludicrous and impossible in a place like Calcutta. How does one take pictures of these streets with the faces, the eyes, of such people, and the cows roaming among them on the sidewalks and buzzards by the score circling over the main streets in the “best” section? Yet the people are beautiful. But the routine of the beggars is heart-rending. The little girl who suddenly appeared at the window of my taxi, the utterly lovely smile with which she stretched out her hand, and then the extinguishing of the light when she drew it back empty. I had no Indian money yet. She fell away from the taxi as if she were sinking in water and drowning, and I wanted to die. I couldn’t get her out of my mind. Yet when you give money to one, a dozen half kill themselves running after your cab. This morning one little kid hung on to the door and ran whining beside the cab in traffic while the driver turned around and made gestures as if to beat him away. [. . .] Calcutta is shocking because it is all of a sudden a totally different kind of madness, the reverse of that other madness, the mad rationality of affluence and overpopulation. America seems to make sense, and is hung up in its madness, now really exploding. Calcutta has the lucidity of despair, of absolute confusion, of vitality helpless to cope with itself. Yet undefeatable, expanding without and beyond reason but with nowhere to go. [. . .]

A sign in Calcutta: “Are you worried? Refresh yourself with cigars.” ’

24 October 1968
‘A visit to the Narendrapur-Ramakrishna Mission Ashram. College, agricultural school, poultry farm, school for the blind, and orphanage. Ponds, palms, a water tower in a curious style, a monastic building, and guesthouse. Small tomato and cucumber sandwiches, flowers, tea. We drove around in a a dark green Scout. Villages. Three big, blue buffaloes lying in a patch of purple, eating the flowers. Communists arguing under a shelter. Bengali inscriptions on every wall; they have an extraordinary visual quality. Large and small cows. Goats, calves, millions of children.

The Temple of Understanding Conference has been well organised considering the problems which developed. It could not be held in Darjeeling, as planned, because of the floods. Instead it has been put on at the Birla Academy in South Calcutta. It is more than half finished now. I spoke yesterday morning, but did not actually follow my prepared text. There were good papers by two rabbis, one from New York and one from Jerusalem, and by Dr. Wei Tat, on the I Ching. Also by Sufis, Jains and others.’

8 November 1968, Dharamsala
‘My third interview with the Dalai Lama was in some ways the best. He asked a lot of questions about Western monastic life, particularly the vows, the rule of silence, the ascetic way, etc. But what concerned him most was: 1) Did the “vows” have any connection with a spiritual transmission or initiation? 2) Having made vows, did the monks continue to progress along a spiritual way, toward and eventual illumination, and what were the degrees of that progress? And supposing a monk died without having attained to perfect illumination? What ascetic methods were used to help purify the mind of passions? He was interested in the “mystical life,” rather than in external observance. [. . .]

I asked him about the question of Marxism and monasticism, which is to be the topic of my Bangkok lecture. He said that from a certain point of view it was impossible for monks and Communists to get along, but that perhaps it should not be entirely impossible if Marxism meant only the establishment of an equitable economic and social structure. Also there was perhaps some truth in Marx’s critique of religion in view of the fact that religious leaders had so consistently been hand in glove with secular power. Still, on the other hand, militant atheism did in fact strive to suppress all forms of religion, good or bad.

Finally, we got into a rather technical discussion of mind, whether as consciousness, prajna and dhyana, and the relation of prajna to sunyata. [. . .]

It was a very warm and cordial discussion and at the end I felt we had become very good friends and were somehow quite close to one another.’

1 December 1968, Kandy
‘It is hardly like any December or Advent I have ever known! A clear, hot sky. Flowering trees. A day coming. I woke at the sound of many crows fighting in the air. Then the booming drum at the Temple of Buddha’s Tooth. Now, the traffic of buses and a cool breeze sways the curtains. The jungle is very near, it comes right to the top of the city and is visible a bare hundred yards from this window. Yet I am on a very noisy corner as far as traffic is concerned!’

The Diary Junction

Lodge’s diary playback

David Lodge - happy 80th birthday! A British author of modern-day classics such as Small World and Nice Work, and their TV adaptations, Lodge is also well known for his literary criticism and for books on the subject of writing itself. I have no idea whether or not he keeps a personal diary, but, inspired by Simon Gray’s diaries, he did keep a journal while involved with the production of his first stage play, and this was published in one of his books on the writing process.

Lodge was born in southeast London on 28 January 1935. His father was a musician, playing with a cinema orchestra. During the war, he and his mother were evacuated to Surrey and Cornwall. Lodge was schooled at St Joseph’s Academy, Blackheath, and, in 1952, he entered University College, London. After a two-year stint in the Royal Armored Corps, and two years teaching for the British Council, he was appointed a lecturer at the University of Birmingham. In 1959, he married Mary Frances Jacob, whom he had met while at University College, and they had three children.

Lodge published his first novels - The Picturegoers and Ginger You’re Barmy - in the early 1960s, and his first volume of academic criticism, Language of Fiction, in 1966. He spent some time, with his family, in the US, thanks to a Harkness scholarship (like J. G. Farrell - see Catch some of my life below), but, from 1967, and for two decades, he continued an academic career at Birmingham university (from the mid-1970s he was Professor of English Literature). During this time, he continued to publish novels, roughly one every five years, including Changing Places in 1975 and Small World in 1984. He retired from academia in 1987, to become a full-time writer. Nice Work appeared a year later, with a television adaptation soon after.

Since 1987, Lodge has published half a dozen more novels and a similar number of books about writing, as well as three stage plays. Presumably to coincide with his 80th birthday, he has brought out an autobiography, Quite a Good Time To Be Born: a Memoir, 1935-75 (Harvill Secker, 2015). Further biographical information can be found at Wikipedia or The Cadbury Research Library website. There are also plenty of online reviews of the new autobiography, for example, at The Telegraph (‘less wit than his novels’), The Guardian (‘a sociologist’s paradise’) or The Independent (‘lacks [. . .] fireworks’).

There’s no obvious signs that Lodge has ever kept a personal diary. However, apparently inspired by Simon Gray’s diaries (see Smoking, heroin and opium), he has tried out the form once, while producing his first play, The Writing Game. Subsequently, he included extracts in one of his books The Practice of Writing, (Martin Secker & Warburg, 1996; reprinted by Vintage Books, 2011).

The Practice of Writing (which can be previewed online at Googlebooks) is a collection of occasional prose pieces about literary fiction, drama and television adaptation - mostly written after 1987. The last piece in the book, dated to February 1996, is entitled Playback: Extracts from a Writer’s Diary, and concerns the play Lodge wrote in 1985, originally called The Pressure Cooker but which became The Writing Game. In Playback, Lodge starts with a brief summary of the plot, and then recounts the somewhat tortuous route by which the play came to be produced, for the first time, by the Birmingham Repertory Theatre in 1990.

The diary starts on 21 March 1990, and finds Lodge bemoaning the fact that, although rehearsals are due to start in two or three weeks, not a single part has been cast. I am told, he writes, that this is by no means unusual in provincial theatre, ‘but I find it rather nerve-racking’.

The first diary entry continues thus: ‘I have decided to keep an occasional diary as the play is cast and goes into rehearsal. Since time is limited, I will dictate the narrative into a tape recorder, have it transcribed, and polish it later on the word processor. This project, I must acknowledge, was suggested by Simon Gray’s highly entertaining and instructive books about the trials and tribulations of mounting productions of his play, The Common Pursuit, in England and America, entitled An Unnatural Pursuit and How’s That for Telling ‘Em, Fat Lady? respectively. Although I cannot hope to emulate the wonderfully comic paranoia of Gray’s authorial persona, I shall try to be as candid as he seems to have been. If this narrative proves to have a more than private interest and value, it will be as the history of a play’s gestation, development and performance, seen from the point of view of an author to whom the whole process is largely unfamiliar.’

The entries continue until 26 June 1990, some of them are quite long, running to four or five pages. Here’s a few cut-down extracts.

17 April 1990
’Today we met for the first read-through, arranged for 2 p.m. to allow the actors time to travel up from London this morning. We assembled in the Boardroom at the top of the Repertory Theatre, with most of the heads of the various departments present. First, the General Manager, Bill Hughes, welcomed the cast, introduced the various people present, and gave out practical information to do with pay, Green Room facilities, concessions, etc. Then all departed except for the cast, John [Adams], myself, designer Robin Butlin and the ASM, Philippa Smith. John then gave a little chat designed to make the cast feel relaxed and at home, sketching out how he proposed to proceed, and indicating what the schedule of rehearsals was likely to be. The actors sat on each side of the Boardroom table. John sat at one end near them. I sat with Roger Butlin at the other end. This, although not pre-arranged, proved a rather useful seating plan, since John and I were able to look directly along the table and silently indicate whether we were happy or unhappy with something in the actors’ delivery, though we did not actually begin to exploit this mode of communication until later on in the day. [. . .]

We broke for tea and the actors went down to the Green Room. John came over to me and said: “Sometimes with a read-through you think immediately, well, we’ve got the right cast and they’ve got hold of the play and all we need to do really is to refine and polish this reading; and with other read-throughs you think, Hmmm.” And, he said, this is one where you think, Hmmm. In other words, there is quite a bit of work to be done. Both Roger and I agreed with this assessment.’

23 April 1990
‘This week I have agreed to stay away from rehearsals, as the actors will be mainly concerned with trying to learn their lines. I called the Rep this morning to arrange for a taxi to collect the rewrites that I’d done over the weekend, and Wiff told me that Timothy West has agreed to do the voice of Henry. That’s good news.’

10 May 1990
‘I’ve been so busy over the last few days that I haven’t had time to record any notes until now. On Monday, the British May Day holiday, I flew to Frankfurt to appear with Malcolm Bradbury in a kind of festival of contemporary British writing organised by the British Council. We have done this double act so often that we are in danger of becoming the Peter Cook and Dudley Moore of modern English letters. It was a long and tiring day and evening - an almost continuous sequence of interviews, meetings and socialising. [. . .] The next morning, after a leisurely breakfast and a short stroll around Frankfurt with Malcolm, I flew back to Birmingham, arriving at 1 p.m. I drove home, changed and went out immediately to the rehearsal rooms for the run-through. This went quite well and Lou [Hirsch] got through all his major speeches except one without a fluff. He and Sue [Penhaligon] still however tend to make small, but to me troubling, verbal errors.’

Giddy and joyful

Ermest Chausson, a little known French romantic composer, was born 160 years ago today. He died relatively young, after a bicycle accident, leaving behind but 40 or so significant compositions. Although he kept a diary, it has never been published in English, nor are there any English biographies of the composer. Nevertheless, a few extracts of the diary in English - showing the extent of his purposefulness - can be found on classical music websites.

Chausson was born in Paris on 20 January 1855, the son of a rich building contractor. He studied law, and was appointed a barrister for the Court of Appeals, though he soon found himself drawn to the artistic world. He dabbled in writing and drawing before deciding more seriously on music. He was taught by Jules Massenet at the Paris Conservatoire, and by César Franck who became a close friend.

In 1982, Chausson travelled with another composer, Vincent d’Indy to Bayreuth where they attended the premiere of Richard Wagner’s Parsifal. The following year, he married Jeanne Escudier, and went with her to Bayreuth again. The couple would have five children.

Biographers identify Chausson’s early work as being influenced by Massenet, after which it became more dramatic, technically influenced by Wagner’s music. ‘In general,’ Wikipedia’s biography says, ‘Chausson’s compositional idiom bridges the gap between the ripe Romanticism of Massenet and Franck and the more introverted Impressionism of Debussy.’

Chausson attracted a wide circle of writers, musicians and artists to his Paris home, and he also gathered an important collection of paintings. In 1886, he was appointed secretary of the Société Nationale de Musique, a post he held until his death (due to a bicycle accident) in 1899. He was buried in Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, and his funeral was attended by many leading figures of the arts. He left behind only 39 Opus-numbered pieces of work. Further information is available from Wikipedia, Encyclopaedia Britannica and Hyperion Records.

As far as I can tell, there are no published English-language biographies of Chausson, but French biographies refer to his diaries  - parts of which were published in Écrits inédits: journaux intimes, roman de jeunesse, correspondance (Editions du Rocher, 1999) - and some extracts have been translated and used on English-language websites. Naxos, for example, which sells a recording of Chausson’s Concert for Violin, Piano and String Quartet (Op 21), offers a description of it on its website, in which can be found this: ‘Inevitably, biographers focus on a passage Chausson jotted into his diary at the age of twenty: “I have the premonition that my life will be short. I’m far from complaining about it, but I should not want to die before having done something”.’

Further on, in the same text, Naxos says: ‘As his letters make clear, Chausson was exasperated at how slowly he finished [Op 21]; but its première in Brussels, on 26 February 1892, was one of the most decisive triumphs of his career. [. . .] Chausson remarked in his diary: “I must believe that my music is made for Belgians above all, for never have I enjoyed such a success. . . I feel giddy and joyful, such as I have not managed to feel for a long time . . . It seems to me that I shall work with greater confidence in future”.’

The Hyperion website also focuses its text about Chausson on the same diary entry, but with more analysis (and a different translation): ‘ “Never have I had such a success! I can’t get over it. Everyone seems to love the Concert. Very well played, with wonderful moments, and so artistically executed! I feel light and joyful, something I haven’t been for a long time. It’s done me good and has given me courage. I believe I’ll work with more confidence in the future.” This is Chausson’s entry in his diary (as yet unpublished) for 26 February 1892. Each phrase is telling; the reception which the audience in Brussels had given his opus 21 had made him “feel light and joyful” and had given him “courage” to continue with his work. As we all know, a sense of well-being can be very uplifting. Reading this diary, one can sense his enthusiasm and his desire to create. But this real triumph, which his modesty prevented him from broadcasting, was his first. Although he was already thirty-seven, with a sizeable catalogue of works to his name, he was practically unknown. Why?’

One answer to this question, the Hyperion article goes on to suggest, is that Chausson was not a product of the Conservatoire: ‘But there is undoubtedly another much more subtle reason why his compositions were so little-known: although not as well-off as has often been presumed, he was reasonably comfortable and thus shielded from financial insecurity. In fact his diary and letters, whether from friends or business acquaintances, reveal that he was constantly being asked to help out discreetly various impecunious colleagues, or (and one can quite see why!) to become Treasurer of the renowned National Society of Music. Add to these his abhorrence of being taken for an amateur, with his lofty artistic and spiritual aims - “I understand only that work, constant effort in all things, is always directed towards the same goal” (letter to Paul Poujaud in the summer of 1888) - and, in an earlier diary, his entry for 20 February 1892: “To attain self-belief is a life’s work.” Given all this, one can understand exactly how triumphant he felt when, for once, a new composition received unanimous praise. The audience had been captivated by the exceptional quality of the writing and the strength of the ideas, the work’s remarkable construction and development, and its instantly memorable tunes.’