From time to time I shall publish my blog in English - my native language - and this is one of these occasions. My apologies for those of you who will not be able to completely understand it, but I know that a large number of you will have no problem at all.
Analysis-Paralysis (Jiddu Krishnamurti)
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So let it be when I grow old,
Or let me die.
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
(William Wordsworth)
Fancy starting with two quotations. Other people’s thoughts. Can’t you be original? But when someone else has so beautifully put into words what you have long ago discovered to be your deepest thoughts there is no point in trying to better them. I have long realized that it is better to be an observer in this world rather than a participant. Of course one is immediately accused of opting out, taking the easy path, but I hold that being an observer is not only better for oneself, but for the world as a whole. When one looks at the mess the ‘participants’ have made of this world it would seem obvious that the fewer participants there are the better. Which means the more observers there are the better. The Taoist principle of ‘doing nothing’. The ‘participants’ in forestry cut down the trees and destroy the forest, while the ‘observers’ walk through the forest and enjoy the trees and the life they sustain. To quote Henry David Thoreau, another great influence on the development of my ‘observer’s’ role:
If a man walk in the woods for love of them half of each day, he is in danger of being regarded as a loafer; but if he spends his whole day as a speculator, shearing off those woods and making earth bald before her time, he is esteemed an industrious and enterprising citizen. As if a town had no interest in its forests but to cut them down!
(H. D. Thoreau : Walden : Life without principle)
Progress and a strong economy have become the religion of the twenty-first century and to sustain this religion obviously requires participants. But those participants who work in the realms of ecology and conservation hold that if we continue as we are going now, we shall destroy the world. So is the final aim of progress to cut off the branch we are sitting on? Let the participants answer that question.
Why do I start with Wordsworth’s poem, ‘The Rainbow’? The key words of the poem are of course: ‘The Child is father of the Man’. The child does not analyze the world he lives in, he observes it. When he sees a rainbow he delights in the beauty of the multi-coloured arc that has suddenly appeared in the sky and doesn’t think about why it has suddenly appeared, about the sun shining through the rain, about refracted light and so on. I wish I could remember the first time I saw a rainbow! Why can’t I remember the:
...time when meadow, grove and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparell’d in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
(William Wordsworth : Intimations of immortality...)
Why is it that when anyone is asked what the first thing is that they remember, it is very rare for anyone to remember anything before they were three and sometimes it is even later? It occurs to me that it has something to do with the fact that as soon as a child becomes a conscious being he is an observer – he is watching and imbibing the world around him. He is not analyzing it, he is not trying to change anything, he is observing what IS and accepting it as the only reality. ‘The Child is father of the Man’. Throughout one’s life, the only reality is what IS, but we are not satisfied with what is and so we are continually trying to change it into what we think is better for us. But what IS remains, however deeply we bury our heads in the sand. The pressure on man to analyze, to participate in the progress of the society we have created have made him:
Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.
My first memory is of the time I was in hospital having my tonsils out, when I was three-and-a-half. It was in Salisbury Infirmary in 1944, during the Second World War. Hospital rules were very strict and because of the risk of infection, no visitors were allowed, not even parents. It was the first time I had been separated from my mother and I have a vivid picture in my mind of my mother waving to me through the small window in the ward door. A very traumatic experience and I have found, when asking people to recall their first memory, it is invariably a traumatic experience. But, from what my parents told me, I had a number of traumatic experiences before that. When I was two I was feeding our bull (my father was a farmer), throwing down handfuls of hay in front of it’s mouth. I got closer and closer and suddenly the bull raised its head and its horn caught in the strap of my dungarees and I was lifted up above the bull’s head. To a two-year-old this must have been the equivalent of being suddenly swept away by a tsunami – but I have no recollection of this. Neither did I subsequently have any fear of bulls, or of any other animal for that matter. If I had been older, perhaps things might have been different. I would perhaps have reflected on what could have happened – as it was I seem to have accepted it quite simply as one of the things that happen in life. Of course it goes without saying that my father was there and immediately ‘rescued’ me, so I was not in any actual danger, although the concept of ‘danger’ is certainly not foremost in the mind of a two-year-old, and if it is present at all, it has probably been planted there by a parent. For good reason of course!
This brings to mind something that happened to me more than fifty years later, when, having re-learnt to be an observer and to accept things as they ARE, I was walking through Belgrade in February on a mild afternoon after a fairly long period of snow and ice. The streets and pavements had long been clear of frozen snow, but on the rooftops the condensed snow had turned to ice and was still going through the melting process. I was walking past the National Museum, when suddenly I heard a loud crash just behind me and slivers of what looked like broken glass slid past me along the pavement. I glanced round and discovered that a huge lump of frozen snow – probably weighing at least 20 kilos, had dislodged itself from the roof of the museum and plunged to the pavement a few metres behind me – or on the spot where I had been a second or so before.
I remember feeling no fear at all – I think the only thought that passed through my head was ‘Coo, that was lucky’ and I continued on my way. Of course later I ‘analyzed’ the situation and realized that if it had hit me, my brains would have been scattered across the pavement and I would have been no more – but the important thing was that at the time I accepted it as something that WAS – in the same way that I had accepted being lifted up by a bull at the age of two.
When did I start being an ‘observer’? Or rather, when did I start realizing the importance of ‘observing’? The big change started around 1980 in the British Council Reading room – the very old one - near the Beograd department store in Knez Mihailo Street. I was looking for something for a TV programme from the history section, and started to read the introduction to one the books I took down. It said very simply that one of the problems of modern man was that he was so obsessed with progress and creating new things that he had no longer time to enjoy what mankind has created over the previous thousands of years. In a second I realized the truth of this - it hit me between the eyes and I could think of nothing else.
There was no more research that afternoon. I went home to reflect on this discovery. There was little I could do to drastically change my life – I had a family to keep and a job that I could do well and that paid quite sufficiently. But mentally I was already changed. I was approaching 40 – and for me this turned out to be a ‘change of life’ – a fairly drastic psychological but more philosophical change which developed over the following ten years.
To start with I realized that since I had left school I had hardly read a single book – some Agatha Christie, the occasional Thomas Hardy – some poetry, perhaps, but very little else. I’d neglected most of the classics – all the foreign ones. I’d never read Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Thomas Mann... I immediately decided correct this and set myself the task of reading a book a week! And when I set myself a task – it is all or nothing – and in this case it was all. In two years I topped 100 books – unfortunately I no longer have the list I made – it would make a very useful appendix to this piece – but I do know that I reached the hundred mark – and the books included, of course, War and Peace, Ana Karenina, Resurrection, The Brothers Karamazov, Crime and Punishment, The Magic Mountain – which remains my favourite novel – and then most of Thomas Mann, eventually all Thomas Hardy, a bit of Dickens...
There were also philosophical books – a lot of Bertrand Russell – some history books. Later I took to Sartre and existentialism. I had rejected Christianity as being the – or my – religion – but after a while I felt empty – I felt there must be something else – something greater than just me, although for a long while I clung to existentialism, while dabbling in the eastern religions. I soon realized that in essence there was not a great difference in the philosophy of the great religions – although, as Fromm’s To Have or to Be ’ excellently points out, the fundamental difference is in just that – Western man is preoccupied with ‘having’ whereas the traditional eastern way of life is concerned with being – and ‘observing’! However, another difference was in the practices of the organized groups and churches which grew up around them.
I soon realized that faith was a very individual thing and that to belong to a church which had rules and encouraged strict behaviour was in fact opting out. As Tolstoy wrote somewhere – one’s religion is one’s relationship with the universe. My God and my relationship with him and the universe was entirely my affair – not a priest’s. Of course, the word ‘God’ itself presents a problem. Having been strictly brought up in the Christian – Anglican – church and from a very early age assuming that God was as real as the Sun and the Moon, my picture of God was of a benevolent old man who both looked after us, judged us, made rules for us, and saw everything one did and, most important of all, although he forgave us our sins, was the one who would decide whether we went to heaven or hell when we died. All these beliefs had of course disappeared from my conception of God – but the name remained. In a philosophy group I attended in London in 1983/4, the word used was ‘the creative principle’ which is OK, but rather clumsy.
So my ‘change of life’ involved both starting to reflect on and enjoy what the human race has passed down to us over the centuries and to start to ‘observe’ and to question the very existence of God without rejecting ‘the creative principle’ altogether. The latter took great strides later on in the 80s – I shall now return to the former. As well as reading intensively, which naturally both consciously and subconsciously influenced both the way I thought and my overall philosophy of life, I took a greater interest in art, always visiting galleries at every opportunity – but without searching first for the ‘great masters’ the pictures one ‘ought to see’. Of course it gave me a great thrill to see pictures I had only previously seen as reproductions in books, but many of the pictures that particularly struck me were supposedly ‘minor’ or relatively ‘unknown’, even ‘unimportant’. I usually bought a catalogue or booklet which contained reproductions of the paintings I had seen, but this sometimes proved a mistake.
A cutting example of ‘analysis-paralysis’ was the booklet I bought in Venice after visiting the ‘Scuola Dalmata’ of St. George and St. Tryphone to see the 9 Carpaccio paintings which have hung there since he painted them between 1502 and 1507. The first picture one sees, on the left as one enters is St George killing the dragon, painted in 1507. Yes, it is one of Carpaccio’s greatest works –it is beautiful, full of wonderful details that one can study for hours.
I stood transfixed before it for so long that it was then difficult to really appreciate fully the remaining 8 pictures – though I returned to do that several times later – on every trip to Venice, to be precise. On these occasions I was unable to experience my original thrill on seeing the St. George painting, because in the meantime I had read the booklet:
An ideal triangle drawn from the dragon’s back legs, passes to the knight’s head and ends with the head of the charging horse. Every object obeys to a ‘tireless proportion of forms’ as Longhi says ‘within an unimaginably dazzling space’. The triple shadow of the dragon on the ground, the far-off perspective of palm trees on the same level as its head, the mystical remoteness of the vessels on the far away sea, the carefully observed details of the oriental town on the left and every detail of the foreground in which he loves to isolate his shapes in a skilful play of light, should all be carefully studied.
(Guido Perocco “ Guide to the ‘Scuola Dalmata...”)
“Should all be carefully studied” – Why? The next time I looked at the picture, all I could see were triangles. Guido Perocco – or rather my foolishness in reading the guide book in the first place - had totally ruined my natural ‘observer’s’ enjoyment of the painting. I had been encouraged to become an ‘analyst’. On my first visit to the ‘Scuola’, having spent an hour or so with the paintings, I went upstairs where there were some more paintings, which are described in the guide book as ‘mostly votive painting of little value’. Being in need of a little rest I found somewhere to sit, and very soon my eyes wandered up to the ceiling which consisted of a mosaic of wooden shapes with an octagonal central picture surrounded by four oval ones.
But it was the mosaic of painted wooden shapes that struck me and eventually overwhelmed me. How long had it taken to make this ceiling? Months? Years? However long it took it was made at a time when beauty, excellence and perfection were the criteria. Time stood still. Money was not the deciding factor. Today a ceiling is slapped on in a matter of minutes – it is a functional division between the room it tops and the room above it. A coat of paint and the odd light fitting and it serves its purpose. Who looks at ceilings nowadays? But this ceiling in the ‘Scuola’ was to be looked at, to be observed, until one got a crick in the neck. It was a typical example of what former generations have left us to enjoy – if we can find the time. Not only something of great beauty, but a whole philosophy. ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,’ as Keats puts it.
Of course, one can find so many examples of architecture and interior design from the past which are examples of this love of beauty – the Gothic cathedrals being but one of them – and museums are full of artifacts and furniture that demonstrate that time was not money but that beauty was truth. A later visit to the National Museum in Budapest, which traces Hungary’s history, from before its formation until the present, painting a fascinating picture of the past centuries, brought home to me the rather drastic changes that took place during the 20th century, when functionality really started to take over.
Politics is a field where analysis is definitely paralysis. ‘Man is a political animal’, said Aristotle. True, but only if ‘politics’ is truly ‘the art or science of government’, something that should concern and involve everyone who cherishes democracy. But unfortunately pure politics has been superseded by ‘party politics’ and politicians are on the whole more concerned about buttering up the voters before the next election than about what is best in the long term for the ‘polis’, the nation state. And the voters are not much better – they tend to vote with their pocket rather than with their brain. The Oxford Dictionary of Etymology gives as an archaic definition of the word ‘politician’: ‘schemer’, ‘intriguer’ – and that is how many people see politicians today. In my adopted country, Serbia, this is definitely how the majority of voters see their politicians.
The last time I voted in an election in the UK was in 1983 – I voted for the Green Party in the European Parliamentary Election. Since then I have preferred to observe British elections rather than take part in them. I genuinely believe that today in so-called Western democracy it makes very little real difference which party is in power. In Britain all the parties now aim at attracting the ‘centre’ – and, whichever party wins the election, what they actually do will not differ appreciably from what either of the other two main parties would have done if they had won. This, of course is the point of view of an ‘observer’ of politics.
Not many devotees of the Conservative, Labour or Liberal-Democrat parties would agree with me. Since becoming a Serbian citizen I have used my newly obtained right to vote, even though my heart has told me not to. Even before I became a voter, I was every bit as affected by the political turmoils of the nineties as homebred Serbs, but whereas the majority of the population allowed themselves to be dragged further and further down into the depths of despair, I was able to observe what was happening and not get psychologically involved, and while on a practical level I had to accept the shortages and the rampant inflation, I didn’t allow it to affect me psychologically. The flowers still grew in spring, the nightingale still arrived in April and sang its heavenly song and music still remained the food of love. Love of life...
In the British parliament the Opposition parties are paid to oppose the policies proposed by the elected government. The main opposition party even has the grandiose title ‘Her Majesty’s Opposition’. The idea is to provide a safety valve, to prevent a governing party with a large majority from steamrollering their policies through without other points of view being at least forcefully expressed. But if politicians truly have the welfare of the ‘polis’ at heart, why can’t they all sit down together and try to discover what is best for the country they have been elected to serve? Surely there are plenty of intelligent men and women among them - surely if they all pooled their intelligence, their ideas, they could come up with something that would last longer than the four or five years before the next election? That is something inconceivable in Serbia where there are goodness knows how many political parties.
Man’s mania for analysis has resulted in increasing fragmentation; we like to put things in cubby holes as that way they become easier to manage. But the world is one – it is made up of many different things but they are all intertwined and together make up the indivisible whole. Fragmentation starts at school, where we are obliged to learn different subjects. Each teacher has specialized in a particular subject – History, Geography, Languages, Art, Science, Mathematics – but these are all part of the whole, they are all intertwined – they are all part of history, they are all concerned with geography – the history of a language or of art involves us with all the subjects we learn at school. Science is the study of everything around us – although our knowledge of it is relative and continually changing. The one exception to my thesis is perhaps mathematics, which is an artificial subject invented by man and used to assist him in his fragmentation.
‘Progress’ requires increased specialization – in order to increase our ‘knowledge’, scholars must spend their lives studying narrower and narrower subjects – perhaps one day someone will spend his life studying the left tusk of the African elephant or the effect on human fingers of sending SMS messages. Perhaps the most important decision I made in my life was to reject the possibility of going to Cambridge to study History because I wanted to work in the theatre – or rather try to find a way of getting some sort of job in the theatre, because when I left school in the provinces I had no idea how I was going to realize my ‘romantic’ desire.
But thanks to my strong desire – my ‘passion’ – I found a way and my subsequent move to television and where I eventually started directing children’s programmes ensured that the last thing I was going to do was specialize. I worked largely on magazine-type programmes and wrote and directed an incredible variety of films – in which other job does one get the opportunity to jump by parachute from an aeroplane, dive in a submarine, land by helicopter on an aircraft carrier, descend 1000 metres towards the centre of the earth down a coal mine..?
When the spirit moved me I directed a drama series, my love of music guided me towards a series the aim of which was to help children appreciate all kinds of music, my ‘bird-watching’ and ‘conservationist’ period led to an ‘ecology’ series for children. I have had periods when I specialized, but these periods were limited, and always seem to lead naturally to something new.
Now, at the age of seventy, I am still observing, looking for – and finding – something new, ever-grateful for having discovered at a very early age the truth of Krishnamurti’s adage – that analysis brings paralysis.