Eighteen. On Having No Head: Zen and the Rediscovery of the Obvious by Douglas E. Harding (and the next book in the David Bowie Book Club is revealed)

1961, The Shollond Trust, 116 pages. Written in English, read in English.

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I mentioned earlier in this publication that in the realm of Philosophy, I had only dipped my toe in the water and had not fully plunged into the proverbial pool, even after reading two philosophy books (and probably others will follow down the line). In this case, I am not even sure of the substance I’m trying to dip my toe in — it is certainly not water.

Zen Buddhism has this weird aura, that distinguishes it, at least in my eyes, from other forms of Buddhism or any of the other eastern religions. It mostly has to do with the culture, which is more accessible to us westerners, and less with the philosophy itself. So — miniature sand and stone gardens that you can rake on your work desk when you’re bored; and water fountains around slowly carved rocks inside your living room; and phrases and anecdotes which don’t really have a meaning. Those are the things that pop into my mind when I think about Zen. But obviously there’s more to it, and this book tries to give you a glimpse into the world of that philosophy by offering a simple, almost laughably obvious, observation, which is: You have no head.

No, really, think about it for a second. You are reading this article through a single, somewhat rectangular window that is placed somewhere, although you do know that you have two eyes, both of which are roughly round, so it makes more sense there will be two round holes, rather than a larger rectangle. You can see your hands either holding the device you’re reading this on, or resting in your lap, or whatever. You can see your legs. Where’s your head? Can you see it? Only if you look in the mirror. But are you sure that what you’re seeing when you look at the mirror is your head? This is the kind of observations, a ripple in the pool of your reality which reverberates perpetually, that Zen appears to be based on.

The author, Douglas E. Harding, has come upon that simple observation while on the Himalayas, and he has been pondering that every since, eventually summarizing his findings in this book — really more of a pamphlet, that is indicated in the blurb at the back of the book has become a spiritual classic since its initial publication in the beginning of the sixties.

The rest of the book, after establishing the fact that you really don’t know where your head is and therefore you are observing the world through your headlessness, becomes more and more murky, and less and less relate-able, to me at least. I will need a few more books about Zen, probably containing “… for dummies” in the title, to walk me through the basic concepts before I feel comfortable understanding the loftier ideas presented in this book. Maybe a bridge that starts with an explanation of how that miniature Zen garden fits into everything, and perhaps I will be able to work my way from there.

Those with a keen eye on the details of this publication will notice that this was in fact the October, not the September, book in the David Bowie Book Club that we are running here.

The truth is I am struggling with Orlando Figes’ A People’s Tragedy, which is September’s choice. It is a tome, heavy in size and in ideas, which takes a while to process, and I find myself only able to go through about 20 pages that I can really remember and understand the underlying concepts of every day. So it will take a while until you read about it here, and in the meantime the October book — this one — has arrived in the mail, so I’ve read it at the same time.

November’s book will be The Sailor Who Fell from Grace With the Sea by Yukio Mishima.