Kabanata Kabanata 4 · THE PROBLEM OF SELF

. THE PROBLEM OF SELF

THE PROBLEM OF SELF

At one pole of my being I am one with stocks and stones. There I

have to acknowledge the rule of universal law. That is where the

foundation of my existence lies, deep down below. Its strength

lies in its being held firm in the clasp of comprehensive world,

and in the fullness of its community with all things.

But at the other pole of my being I am separate from all. There

I have broken through the cordon of equality and stand alone as

an individual. I am absolutely unique, I am I, I am

incomparable. The whole weight of the universe cannot crush out

this individuality of mine. I maintain it in spite of the

tremendous gravitation of all things. It is small in appearance

but great in reality. For it holds its own against the forces

that would rob it of its distinction and make it one with the

dust.

This is the superstructure of the self which rises from the

indeterminate depth and darkness of its foundation into the open,

proud of its isolation, proud of having given shape to a single

individual idea of the architect's which has no duplicate in the

whole universe. If this individuality be demolished, then though

no material be lost, not an atom destroyed, the creative joy

which was crystallised therein is gone. We are absolutely

bankrupt if we are deprived of this specialty, this

individuality, which is the only thing we can call our own; and

which, if lost, is also a loss to the whole world. It is most

valuable because it is not universal. And therefore only through

it can we gain the universe more truly than if we were lying

within its breast unconscious of our distinctiveness. The

universal is ever seeking its consummation in the unique. And

the desire we have to keep our uniqueness intact is really the

desire of the universe acting in us. It is our joy of the

infinite in us that gives us our joy in ourselves.

That this separateness of self is considered by man as his most

precious possession is proved by the sufferings he undergoes and

the sins he commits for its sake. But the consciousness of

separation has come from the eating of the fruit of knowledge.

It has led man to shame and crime and death; yet it is dearer to

him than any paradise where the self lies, securely slumbering in

perfect innocence in the womb of mother nature.

It is a constant striving and suffering for us to maintain the

separateness of this self of ours. And in fact it is this

suffering which measures its value. One side of the value is

sacrifice, which represents how much the cost has been. The

other side of it is the attainment, which represents how much has

been gained. If the self meant nothing to us but pain and

sacrifice, it could have no value for us, and on no account would

we willingly undergo such sacrifice. In such case there could be

no doubt at all that the highest object of humanity would be the

annihilation of self.

But if there is a corresponding gain, if it does not end in a

void but in a fullness, then it is clear that its negative

qualities, its very sufferings and sacrifices, make it all the

more precious. That it is so has been proved by those who have

realised the positive significance of self, and have accepted its

responsibilities with eagerness and undergone sacrifices without

flinching.

With the foregoing introduction it will be easy for me to answer

the question once asked by one of my audience as to whether the

annihilation of self has not been held by India as the supreme

goal of humanity?

In the first place we must keep in mind the fact that man is

never literal in the expression of his ideas, except in matters

most trivial. Very often man's words are not a language at all,

but merely a vocal gesture of the dumb. They may indicate, but

do not express his thoughts. The more vital his thoughts the

more have his words to be explained by the context of his life.

Those who seek to know his meaning by the aid of the dictionary

only technically reach the house, for they are stopped by the

outside wall and find no entrance to the hall. This is the

reason why the teachings of our greatest prophets give rise to

endless disputations when we try to understand them by following

their words and not be realising them in our own lives. The men

who are cursed with the gift of the literal mind are the

unfortunate ones who are always busy with their nets and neglect

the fishing.

It is not only in Buddhism and the Indian religions, but in

Christianity too, that the ideal of selflessness is preached with

all fervour. In the last the symbol of death has been used for

expressing the idea of man's deliverance from the life which is

not true. This is the same as Nirvnāna, the symbol of the

extinction of the lamp.

In the typical thought of India it is held that the true

deliverance of man is the deliverance from _avidyā_, from

ignorance. It is not in destroying anything that is positive and

real, for that cannot be possible, but that which is negative,

which obstructs our vision of truth. When this obstruction,

which is ignorance, is removed, then only is the eyelid drawn up

which is no loss to the eye.

It is our ignorance which makes us think that our self, as self,

is real, that it has its complete meaning in itself. When we

take that wrong view of self then we try to live in such a manner

as to make self the ultimate object of our life. Then we are

doomed to disappointment like the man who tries to reach his

destination by firmly clutching the dust of the road. Our self

has no means of holding us, for its own nature is to pass on; and

by clinging to this thread of self which is passing through the

loom of life we cannot make it serve the purpose of the cloth

into which it is being woven. When a man, with elaborate care,

arranges for an enjoyment of the self, he lights a fire but has

no dough to make his bread with; the fire flares up and consumes

itself to extinction, like an unnatural beast that eats its own

progeny and dies.

In an unknown language the words are tyrannically prominent.

They stop us but say nothing. To be rescued from this fetter of

words we must rid ourselves of the _avidyā_, our ignorance, and

then our mind will find its freedom in the inner idea. But it

would be foolish to say that our ignorance of the language can

be dispelled only by the destruction of the words. No, when the

perfect knowledge comes, every word remains in its place, only

they do not bind us to themselves, but let us pass through them

and lead us to the idea which is emancipation.

Thus it is only _avidyā_ which makes the self our fetter by

making us think that it is an end in itself, and by preventing

our seeing that it contains the idea that transcends its limits.

That is why the wise man comes and says, "Set yourselves free

from the _avidyā_; know your true soul and be saved from the

grasp of the self which imprisons you."

We gain our freedom when we attain our truest nature. The man

who is an artist finds his artistic freedom when he finds his

ideal of art. Then is he freed from laborious attempts at

imitation, from the goadings of popular approbation. It is the

function of religion not to destroy our nature but to fulfil it.

The Sanskrit word _dharma_ which is usually translated into

English as religion has a deeper meaning in our language.

_Dharma_ is the innermost nature, the essence, the implicit

truth, of all things. _Dharma_ is the ultimate purpose that

is working in our self. When any wrong is done we say that

_dharma_ is violated, meaning that the lie has been given to

our true nature.

But this _dharma_, which is the truth in us, is not apparent,

because it is inherent. So much so, that it has been held that

sinfulness is the nature of man, and only by the special grace

of God can a particular person be saved. This is like saying

that the nature of the seed is to remain enfolded within its

shell, and it is only by some special miracle that it can be

grown into a tree. But do we not know that the _appearance_ of

the seed contradicts its true nature? When you submit it to

chemical analysis you may find in it carbon and proteid and a

good many other things, but not the idea of a branching tree.

Only when the tree begins to take shape do you come to see its

_dharma_, and then you can affirm without doubt that the seed

which has been wasted and allowed to rot in the ground has been

thwarted in its _dharma_, in the fulfilment of its true nature.

In the history of humanity we have known the living seed in us

to sprout. We have seen the great purpose in us taking shape

in the lives of our greatest men, and have felt certain that

though there are numerous individual lives that seem ineffectual,

still it is not their _dharma_ to remain barren; but it is for

them to burst their cover and transform themselves into a

vigorous spiritual shoot, growing up into the air and light, and

branching out in all directions.

The freedom of the seed is in the attainment of its

_dharma_, its nature and destiny of becoming a tree; it is the

non-accomplishment which is its prison. The sacrifice by which

a thing attains its fulfilment is not a sacrifice which ends in

death; it is the casting-off of bonds which wins freedom.

When we know the highest ideal of freedom which a man has, we

know his _dharma_, the essence of his nature, the real meaning of

his self. At first sight it seems that man counts that as

freedom by which he gets unbounded opportunities of self

gratification and self-aggrandisement. But surely this is not

borne out by history. Our revelatory men have always been those

who have lived the life of self-sacrifice. The higher nature in

man always seeks for something which transcends itself and yet is

its deepest truth; which claims all its sacrifice, yet makes this

sacrifice its own recompense. This is man's _dharma_, man's

religion, and man's self is the vessel which is to carry this

sacrifice to the altar.

We can look at our self in its two different aspects. The self

which displays itself, and the self which transcends itself and

thereby reveals its own meaning. To display itself it tries to

be big, to stand upon the pedestal of its accumulations, and to

retain everything to itself. To reveal itself it gives up

everything it has; thus becoming perfect like a flower that has

blossomed out from the bud, pouring from its chalice of beauty

all its sweetness.

The lamp contains its oil, which it holds securely in its close

grasp and guards from the least loss. Thus is it separate from

all other objects around it and is miserly. But when lighted it

finds its meaning at once; its relation with all things far and

near is established, and it freely sacrifices its fund of oil to

feed the flame.

Such a lamp is our self. So long as it hoards its possessions it

keeps itself dark, its conduct contradicts its true purpose.

When it finds illumination it forgets itself in a moment, holds

the light high, and serves it with everything it has; for therein

is its revelation. This revelation is the freedom which Buddha

preached. He asked the lamp to give up its oil. But purposeless

giving up is a still darker poverty which he never could have

meant. The lamp must give up its oil to the light and thus set

free the purpose it has in its hoarding. This is emancipation.

The path Buddha pointed out was not merely the practice of

self-abnegation, but the widening of love. And therein lies the true

meaning of Buddha's preaching.

When we find that the state of _Nirvāna_ preached by Buddha is

through love, then we know for certain that _Nirvāna_ is the

highest culmination of love. For love is an end unto itself.

Everything else raises the question "Why?" in our mind, and we

require a reason for it. But when we say, "I love," then there

is no room for the "why"; it is the final answer in itself.

Doubtless, even selfishness impels one to give away. But the

selfish man does it on compulsion. That is like plucking fruit

when it is unripe; you have to tear it from the tree and bruise

the branch. But when a man loves, giving becomes a matter of joy

to him, like the tree's surrender of the ripe fruit. All our

belongings assume a weight by the ceaseless gravitation of our

selfish desires; we cannot easily cast them away from us. They

seem to belong to our very nature, to stick to us as a second

skin, and we bleed as we detach them. But when we are possessed

by love, its force acts in the opposite direction. The things

that closely adhered to us lose their adhesion and weight, and we

find that they are not of us. Far from being a loss to give them

away, we find in that the fulfilment of our being.

Thus we find in perfect love the freedom of our self. That only

which is done for love is done freely, however much pain it may

cause. Therefore working for love is freedom in action. This is

the meaning of the teaching of disinterested work in the _Gīta_.

The _Gīta_ says action we must have, for only in action do we

manifest our nature. But this manifestation is not perfect so

long as our action is not free. In fact, our nature is obscured

by work done by the compulsion of want or fear. The mother

reveals herself in the service of her children, so our true

freedom is not the freedom _from_ action but freedom _in_ action,

which can only be attained in the work of love.

God's manifestation is in his work of creation and it is said in

the Upanishad, _Knowledge, power, and action are of his nature_

[Footnote: "Svābhāvikī jnāna bala kriyācha."]; they are not

imposed upon him from outside. Therefore his work is his

freedom, and in his creation he realises himself. The same thing

is said elsewhere in other words: _From joy does spring all this

creation, by joy is it maintained, towards joy does it progress,

and into joy does it enter_. [Footnote: Ānandādhyēva khalvimāni

bhūtāni jāyantē, ānandēna jātāni jīvanti,

ānandamprayantyabhisamviçanti.] It means that God's creation has

not its source in any necessity; it comes from his fullness of

joy; it is his love that creates, therefore in creation is his

own revealment.

The artist who has a joy in the fullness of his artistic idea

objectifies it and thus gains it more fully by holding it afar.

It is joy which detaches ourselves from us, and then gives it

form in creations of love in order to make it more perfectly our

own. Hence there must be this separation, not a separation of

repulsion but a separation of love. Repulsion has only the one

element, the element of severance. But love has two, the element

of severance, which is only an appearance, and the element of

union which is the ultimate truth. Just as when the father

tosses his child up from his arms it has the appearance of

rejection but its truth is quite the reverse.

So we must know that the meaning of our self is not to be found

in its separateness from God and others, but in the ceaseless

realisation of _yoga_, of union; not on the side of the canvas

where it is blank, but on the side where the picture is being

painted.

This is the reason why the separateness of our self has been

described by our philosophers as _māyā_, as an illusion, because

it has no intrinsic reality of its own. It looks perilous; it

raises its isolation to a giddy height and casts a black shadow

upon the fair face of existence; from the outside it has an

aspect of a sudden disruption, rebellious and destructive; it is

proud, domineering and wayward; it is ready to rob the world of

all its wealth to gratify its craving of a moment; to pluck with

a reckless, cruel hand all the plumes from the divine bird of

beauty to deck its ugliness for a day; indeed man's legend has it

that it bears the black mark of disobedience stamped on its

forehead for ever; but still all this _māyā_, envelopment of

_avidyā_; it is the mist, it is not the sun; it is the black

smoke that presages the fire of love.

Imagine some savage who, in his ignorance, thinks that it is the

paper of the banknote that has the magic, by virtue of which the

possessor of it gets all he wants. He piles up the papers, hides

them, handles them in all sorts of absurd ways, and then at last,

wearied by his efforts, comes to the sad conclusion that they are

absolutely worthless, only fit to be thrown into the fire. But

the wise man knows that the paper of the banknote is all _māyā_,

and until it is given up to the bank it is futile. It is only

_avidyā_, our ignorance, that makes us believe that the

separateness of our self like the paper of the banknote is

precious in itself, and by acting on this belief our self is

rendered valueless. It is only when the _avidyā_ is removed that

this very self comes to us with a wealth which is priceless. For

_He manifests Himself in forms which His joy assumes_. [Footnote:

Ānandarūpamamritam yadvibhāti.] These forms are separate from

Him, and the value that these forms have is only what his joy has

imparted to them. When we transfer back these forms into that

original joy, which is love, then we cash them in the bank and we

find their truth.

When pure necessity drives man to his work it takes an accidental

and contingent character, it becomes a mere makeshift

arrangement; it is deserted and left in ruins when necessity

changes its course. But when his work is the outcome of joy, the

forms that it takes have the elements of immortality. The

immortal in man imparts to it its own quality of permanence.

Our self, as a form of God's joy, is deathless. For his joy is

_amritham_, eternal. This it is in us which makes us sceptical of

death, even when the fact of death cannot be doubted. In

reconcilement of this contradiction in us we come to the truth that

in the dualism of death and life there is a harmony. We know that

the life of a soul, which is finite in its expression and infinite

in its principle, must go through the portals of death in its

journey to realise the infinite. It is death which is monistic, it

has no life in it. But life is dualistic; it has an appearance as

well as truth; and death is that appearance, that _māyā_, which is

an inseparable companion to life. Our self to live must go through

a continual change and growth of form, which may be termed a

continual death and a continual life going on at the same time. It

is really courting death when we refuse to accept death; when we

wish to give the form of the self some fixed changelessness; when

the self feels no impulse which urges it to grow out of itself;

when it treats its limits as final and acts accordingly. Then comes

our teacher's call to die to this death; not a call to annihilation

but to eternal life. It is the extinction of the lamp in the

morning light; not the abolition of the sun. It is really asking us

consciously to give effect to the innermost wish that we have in the

depths of our nature.

We have a dual set of desires in our being, which it should be

our endeavour to bring into a harmony. In the region of our

physical nature we have one set of which we are conscious always.

We wish to enjoy our food and drink, we hanker after bodily

pleasure and comfort. These desires are self-centered; they are

solely concerned with their respective impulses. The wishes of

our palate often run counter to what our stomach can allow.

But we have another set, which is the desire of our physical

system as a whole, of which we are usually unconscious. It is

the wish for health. This is always doing its work, mending and

repairing, making new adjustments in cases of accident, and

skilfully restoring the balance wherever disturbed. It has no

concern with the fulfilment of our immediate bodily desires, but

it goes beyond the present time. It is the principle of our

physical wholeness, it links our life with its past and its

future and maintains the unity of its parts. He who is wise

knows it, and makes his other physical wishes harmonise with it.

We have a greater body which is the social body. Society is an

organism, of which we as parts have our individual wishes. We

want our own pleasure and license. We want to pay less and gain

more than anybody else. This causes scramblings and fights. But

there is that other wish in us which does its work in the depths

of the social being. It is the wish for the welfare of the

society. It transcends the limits of the present and the

personal. It is on the side of the infinite.

He who is wise tries to harmonise the wishes that seek for

self-gratification with the wish for the social good, and only thus

can he realise his higher self.

In its finite aspect the self is conscious of its separateness,

and there it is ruthless in its attempt to have more distinction

than all others. But in its infinite aspect its wish is to gain

that harmony which leads to its perfection and not its mere

aggrandisement.

The emancipation of our physical nature is in attaining health,

of our social being in attaining goodness, and of our self in

attaining love. This last is what Buddha describes as

extinction--the extinction of selfishness--which is the function

of love, and which does not lead to darkness but to illumination.

This is the attainment of _bodhi_, or the true awakening; it is

the revealing in us of the infinite joy by the light of love.

The passage of our self is through its selfhood, which is

independent, to its attainment of soul, which is harmonious.

This harmony can never be reached through compulsion. So our

will, in the history of its growth, must come through

independence and rebellion to the ultimate completion. We must

have the possibility of the negative form of freedom, which is

licence, before we can attain the positive freedom, which is

love.

This negative freedom, the freedom of self-will, can turn its

back upon its highest realisation, but it cannot cut itself away

from it altogether, for then it will lose its own meaning. Our

self-will has freedom up to a certain extent; it can know what it

is to break away from the path, but it cannot continue in that

direction indefinitely. For we are finite on our negative side.

We must come to an end in our evil doing, in our career of

discord. For evil is not infinite, and discord cannot be an end

in itself. Our will has freedom in order that it may find out

that its true course is towards goodness and love. For goodness

and love are infinite, and only in the infinite is the perfect

realisation of freedom possible. So our will can be free not

towards the limitations of our self, not where it is _māyā_ and

negation, but towards the unlimited, where is truth and love.

Our freedom cannot go against its own principle of freedom and

yet be free; it cannot commit suicide and yet live. We cannot

say that we should have infinite freedom to fetter ourselves, for

the fettering ends the freedom.

So in the freedom of our will, we have the same dualism of

appearance and truth--our self-will is only the appearance of

freedom and love is the truth. When we try to make this

appearance independent of truth, then our attempt brings misery

and proves its own futility in the end. Everything has this

dualism of _māyā_ and _satyam_, appearance and truth. Words are

_māyā_ where they are merely sounds and finite, they are _satyam_

where they are ideas and infinite. Our self is _māyā_ where it

is merely individual and finite, where it considers its

separateness as absolute; it is _satyam_ where it recognises its

essence in the universal and infinite, in the supreme self, in

_paramātman_. This is what Christ means when he says, "Before

Abraham was I am." This is the eternal _I am_ that speaks

through the _I am_ that is in me. The individual _I am_ attains

its perfect end when it realises its freedom of harmony in the

infinite _I am_. Then is it _mukti_, its deliverance from the

thraldom of _māyā_, of appearance, which springs from _avidyā_,

from ignorance; its emancipation in _çāntam çivam advaitam_, in

the perfect repose in truth, in the perfect activity in goodness,

and in the perfect union in love.

Not only in our self but also in nature is there this

separateness from God, which has been described as _māyā_ by our

philosophers, because the separateness does not exist by itself,

it does not limit God's infinity from outside. It is his own

will that has imposed limits to itself, just as the chess-player

restricts his will with regard to the moving of the chessmen.

The player willingly enters into definite relations with each

particular piece and realises the joy of his power by these very

restrictions. It is not that he cannot move the chessmen just as

he pleases, but if he does so then there can be no play. If God

assumes his rôle of omnipotence, then his creation is at an end

and his power loses all its meaning. For power to be a power must

act within limits. God's water must be water, his earth can never

be other than earth. The law that has made them water and earth

is his own law by which he has separated the play from the player,

for therein the joy of the player consists.

As by the limits of law nature is separated from God, so it is

the limits of its egoism which separates the self from him. He

has willingly set limits to his will, and has given us mastery

over the little world of our own. It is like a father's settling

upon his son some allowance within the limit of which he is free

to do what he likes. Though it remains a portion of the father's

own property, yet he frees it from the operation of his own will.

The reason of it is that the will, which is love's will and

therefore free, can have its joy only in a union with another

free will. The tyrant who must have slaves looks upon them as

instruments of his purpose. It is the consciousness of his own

necessity which makes him crush the will out of them, to make his

self-interest absolutely secure. This self-interest cannot brook

the least freedom in others, because it is not itself free. The

tyrant is really dependent on his slaves, and therefore he tries

to make them completely useful by making them subservient to his

own will. But a lover must have two wills for the realisation of

his love, because the consummation of love is in harmony, the

harmony between freedom and freedom. So God's love from which

our self has taken form has made it separate from God; and it is

God's love which again establishes a reconciliation and unites

God with our self through the separation. That is why our self

has to go through endless renewals. For in its career of

separateness it cannot go on for ever. Separateness is the

finitude where it finds its barriers to come back again and again

to its infinite source. Our self has ceaselessly to cast off its

age, repeatedly shed its limits in oblivion and death, in order

to realise its immortal youth. Its personality must merge in the

universal time after time, in fact pass through it every moment,

ever to refresh its individual life. It must follow the eternal

rhythm and touch the fundamental unity at every step, and thus

maintain its separation balanced in beauty and strength.

The play of life and death we see everywhere--this transmutation

of the old into the new. The day comes to us every morning,

naked and white, fresh as a flower. But we know it is old. It

is age itself. It is that very ancient day which took up the

newborn earth in its arms, covered it with its white mantle of

light, and sent it forth on its pilgrimage among the stars.

Yet its feet are untired and its eyes undimmed. It carries the

golden amulet of ageless eternity, at whose touch all wrinkles

vanish from the forehead of creation. In the very core of the

world's heart stands immortal youth. Death and decay cast over

its face momentary shadows and pass on; they leave no marks of

their steps--and truth remains fresh and young.

This old, old day of our earth is born again and again every

morning. It comes back to the original refrain of its music. If

its march were the march of an infinite straight line, if it had

not the awful pause of its plunge in the abysmal darkness and its

repeated rebirth in the life of the endless beginning, then it

would gradually soil and bury truth with its dust and spread

ceaseless aching over the earth under its heavy tread. Then

every moment would leave its load of weariness behind, and

decrepitude would reign supreme on its throne of eternal dirt.

But every morning the day is reborn among the newly-blossomed

flowers with the same message retold and the same assurance

renewed that death eternally dies, that the waves of turmoil are

on the surface, and that the sea of tranquillity is fathomless.

The curtain of night is drawn aside and truth emerges without a

speck of dust on its garment, without a furrow of age on its

lineaments.

We see that he who is before everything else is the same to-day.

Every note of the song of creation comes fresh from his voice.

The universe is not a mere echo, reverberating from sky to sky,

like a homeless wanderer--the echo of an old song sung once for

all in the dim beginning of things and then left orphaned. Every

moment it comes from the heart of the master, it is breathed in

his breath.

And that is the reason why it overspreads the sky like a thought

taking shape in a poem, and never has to break into pieces with

the burden of its own accumulating weight. Hence the surprise of

endless variations, the advent of the unaccountable, the

ceaseless procession of individuals, each of whom is without a

parallel in creation. As at the first so to the last, the

beginning never ends--the world is ever old and ever new.

It is for our self to know that it must be born anew every moment

of its life. It must break through all illusions that encase it

in their crust to make it appear old, burdening it with death.

For life is immortal youthfulness, and it hates age that tries to

clog its movements--age that belongs not to life in truth, but

follows it as the shadow follows the lamp.

Our life, like a river, strikes its banks not to find itself

closed in by them, but to realise anew every moment that it has

its unending opening towards the sea. It is a poem that strikes

its metre at every step not to be silenced by its rigid

regulations, but to give expression every moment to the inner

freedom of its harmony.

The boundary walls of our individuality thrust us back within our

limits, on the one hand, and thus lead us, on the other, to the

unlimited. Only when we try to make these limits infinite are we

launched into an impossible contradiction and court miserable

failure.

This is the cause which leads to the great revolutions in human

history. Whenever the part, spurning the whole, tries to run a

separate course of its own, the great pull of the all gives it a

violent wrench, stops it suddenly, and brings it to the dust.

Whenever the individual tries to dam the ever-flowing current of

the world-force and imprison it within the area of his particular

use, it brings on disaster. However powerful a king may be, he

cannot raise his standard or rebellion against the infinite

source of strength, which is unity, and yet remain powerful.

It has been said, _By unrighteousness men prosper, gain what they

desire, and triumph over their enemies, but at the end they are

cut off at the root and suffer extinction._ [Footnote:

Adharmēnaidhatē tāvat tatō bahdrāņi paçyati tatah sapatnān jayati

samūlastu vinaçyati.] Our roots must go deep down into the

universal if we would attain the greatness of personality.

It is the end of our self to seek that union. It must bend its

head low in love and meekness and take its stand where great and

small all meet. It has to gain by its loss and rise by its

surrender. His games would be a horror to the child if he could

not come back to his mother, and our pride of personality will be

a curse to us if we cannot give it up in love. We must know that

it is only the revelation of the Infinite which is endlessly new

and eternally beautiful in us, and which gives the only meaning

to our self.