The Holy Mountain

  • W. B. Yeats


‘I know nothing but the novels of Balzac, and the Aphorisms of Patanjali. I once knew other things, but I am an old man with a poor memory.’ There must be some reason why I wanted to write that lying sentence, for it has been in my head for weeks. Is it that whenever I have been tempted to go to Japan, China, or India for my philosophy, Balzac has brought me back, reminded me of my preoccupation with national, social, personal problems, convinced me that I cannot escape from our Comédie humaine? We philosophise that we may reduce our minds to a single energy, and thereby save our souls and feed our bodies. We prove what we must and assume the rest upon hearsay. No two civilisations prove or assume the same things, but behind both hides the unchanging experience of simple men and women. When I read the travels of Purohit Swāmi, or of his Master, Bhagwān Shri Hamsa, I am among familiar things.


Mental Image Full Moon Unconscious Mind Supreme Splendour Moonless Night 
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© Mrs W. B. Yeats 1961

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  • W. B. Yeats

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