~
P
REFACE TO THE 1999 EDITION ~
I
T WAS SOMETIME
during the winter retreat of 1989 at Amaravati Monastery, in
the Chiltern Hills of Hertfordshire, England, that I first met up with Kāmanīta.
Ajahn Sumedho, the abbot, was away in Thailand and had invited me, as
one of the senior monks, to use his room during his three‐month absence – to
keep it clean and looked after, and also because the amenities there were
considerably more salubrious than chez moi.
Ajahn Sumedho seems to attract as many books to himself as I do, so,
being in his place, I found myself surrounded by a fresh supply of fascinating
literature to pick through. Of the many books in his collection, a large proportion
were in Thai – a language that I can hold a simple conversation in but which I
had never learned to read. Thus in scanning his shelves I passed over the Thai
section numerous times without really looking: even at the few volumes that had
English script on the spines – these often only bearing Anglicised titles and no
more than a scattered word or two in English on the inside. Eventually I picked
out a particular, plastic‐wrapped volume, mostly out of curiosity in the elegant
quasi‐Devanagari English script on the cover. At first glance it had looked like a
book of chants but then it struck me that, if that were the case, it had a very
strange picture on the jacket – a male and a female devatā, floating in the sky.
“Maybe it’s a book of Paritta chants, protective verses and magic spells...” I
pondered. So I opened it and, to my surprise, found pages of English script as
well as Thai; very curious... I started to read, soon realising: “Well, well, well –
it’s a Buddhist novel. And written by some obscure Danish scholar.” It was ‘The
Pilgrim Kāmanīta’ – who by now, some ten years later, feels like an old, old
friend.
As I started to read, familiar passages leapt off the page: well known
characters and utterances, famous and favourite incidents from the Buddhist
scriptures, had all been woven together and rearranged, spun into a cloth of
beautiful hue and texture. I dived in and dissolved myself into the story –
picking it up during every spare moment of the days and nights that followed –
convincing myself meanwhile that meditative absorption into an object can be
very rewarding when one does so mindfully...
By the time the last page was reached, and the book finally put down,
there was a profound glow left in my heart and the conviction that – “This is not
only a great yarn, it’s got most of the essential Buddhist teachings threaded
through it too – this shouldn’t just be a curio of Byronic English and Buddhist
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history, this should be out there for the world to see, at least for those who are
interested.”
Once the retreat was over I started to edit the text of an evening and to
give readings from it at the community’s daily morning meetings. After a few
weeks I had had to go off and lead a retreat in Ireland and had left the reading to
be carried on by Ajahn Attapemo. I had introduced him to the story and he was
similarly enamoured of it, however he had run into problems preparing the text,
replete as it was with complex hyperbolic language and syntax, tortuous classical
sentence structures and quaintly redundant idioms. The non‐English speakers of
the community were getting lost – and also some had been getting bad dreams
after the ‘Vājashravas episode’ – the readings were thus abandoned and the book
shelved.
But not in my mind, nor in Ajahn Attapemo’s.
With Buddhism taking root and beginning to flower in the West we
realised that something more than meditation practice is needed: amongst a
multitude of other essential elements we need to develop both the aspects of
education and culture – so where are the good Buddhist novels and plays? What
good book or piece of music can you give to a teenager to let them taste the
flavour of the Dhamma? There’s not much so far.
The new Dharma School in Brighton, England, has a lot of energy behind
it now, as do the various annual family summer camps and the Young People’s
retreats held at Insight Meditation Society in Massachusetts, Spirit Rock Center
in California and at Amaravati. Ajahn Attapemo and I had both had a fair
amount of involvement with some of these enterprises over the years, so the two
of us came to the decision, sometime around the summer of ’95, that, if we
wanted there to be good influences available for the people, we shouldn’t just sit
around complaining and waiting for someone else to produce but we should do
something about it ourselves. And in the flush of the moment he said: “If you can
edit ‘Kāmanīta’ and put it into readable English, I will get it printed, somehow.”
“OK,” I replied, “it’s a deal.”
So what you now hold in your hands is the product of that conversation.
Before you dive into the story, however, and for those who like hints and
explanations (and who can bear to read boring prefaces) it might be helpful to
give a little more background on some issues related to this book.
Firstly, the author: Karl Gjellerup (1857‐1919) was a Danish writer who
spent most of his life either in Copenhagen or in Dresden, Germany. He was not
a Buddhist scholar in particular but wrote mostly on spiritual matters – novels,
poetry and plays, and also critical essays. He was originally trained as a
Christian theologian, but between the mid‐1890’s and 1913, having been heavily
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