The Magic Monastery

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Preface

IN PREVIOUS COLLECTIONS, like The Dermis Probe and Thinkers of the East, I have assembled tales illustrating the instructional methods employed by the Middle Eastern sages during the last thousand years, culled from both oral and written sources. The Magic Monastery, however, differs from its predecessors in one important respect.

This presentation of largely unpublished work contains not only traditional tales, but also pieces in the traditional format which I have composed myself when I have been unable to find an extant example to introduce at the point where Sufic comprehensiveness demands one. The book therefore consists of a representative cross-section of Sufi teaching which constitutes a harmonised whole, rather than a selection of typical extracts.

The number of orientalists and other scholars who have accorded generous recognition of earlier collections on technical and academic grounds requires grateful acknowledgment. No less important is the encouragement which people in the literary world have given, largely by directing attention to the intrinsic power of the materials in this tradition.

In addition, however, to the historical and aesthetic elements, I have myself always been concerned with the functional aspects of the action literature of the Sufis. It is, therefore, particularly gratifying to be able to record that this part of the work has recently been receiving increased attention and understanding. The Magic Monastery aims at contributing as much towards this last objective as towards the enjoyment of the general reader.

Idries Shah

The Magic Monastery

A CERTAIN QUIET dervish used often to attend the weekly meals given by a cultivated and generous man. This circle was known as ‘The Assembly of the Cultured’.

The dervish never took part in the conversation, but simply arrived, smilingly shook hands with all present, seated himself in a corner, and ate the food provided.

When the meeting was over, he would stand up, say a word of farewell and thanks, and go his way. Nobody knew anything about him, though when he first appeared there were rumours that he was a saint.

For a long time the other guests thought that he must indeed be a man of sanctity and knowledge, and they looked forward to the time when he might impart some of his wisdom to them. Some of them even boasted of his attendance at their meetings to their friends, hinting at the special distinction which they felt at his presence.

Gradually, however, because they could feel no relationship with this man developing, the guests began to suspect that he was an imitator, perhaps a fraud. Several of them felt uncomfortable in his presence. He seemed to do nothing to harmonise himself with the atmosphere, and did not even contribute a proverb to the enlightened conversation which they had come to prize as a necessary part of their very lives. A few, on the other hand, became unaware that he was there at all, since he drew no attention to himself.

One day the dervish spoke. He said:

‘I invite all of you to visit my monastery, tomorrow night. You shall eat with me.’

This unexpected invitation caused a change in the opinions of the whole assembly. Some thought that the dervish, who was very poorly dressed, must be mad, and surely could provide them with nothing. Others considered his past behaviour to have been a test. At last, they said to themselves, he would reward them for their patience in bearing with such dreary company. Still others said to one another:

‘Beware, for he may well be trying to lure us into his power.’

Curiosity led them all, including their host, to accept the hospitality.

The following evening the dervish led them from the house to a hidden monastery of such size and magnificence that they were dazed.

The building was full of disciples carrying out every kind of exercise and task. The guests passed through contemplation-halls filled with distinguished-looking sages who rose in respect and bowed at the dervish’s approach.

The feast which they were given surpassed all powers of description.

The visitors were overwhelmed. All begged him to enrol them as disciples forthwith.

But the dervish would only say, to all their entreaties:

‘Wait until the morning.’

Morning came and the guests, instead of waking in the luxurious silken beds to which they had been conducted the night before, clad in gorgeous robes, found themselves lying stiff and stark, dispersed on the ground within the stony confines of a huge and ugly ruin, on a barren mountainside. There was no sign of the dervish, of the beautiful arabesques, the libraries, the fountains, the carpets.

‘The infamous wretch has tricked us with the deceits of sorcery!’ shouted the guests. They alternately condoled with and congratulated one another for their sufferings and for having at last seen through the villain, whose enchantments obviously wore off before he could achieve his evil purpose, whatever that might be. Many of them attributed their escape to their own purity of mind.

But what they did not know was that, by the same means which he had used to conjure up the experience of the monastery, the dervish had made them believe that they were abandoned in a ruin. They were, in fact, in neither place.

He now approached the company, as if from nowhere, and said:

‘We shall return to the monastery.’

He waved his hands, and all found themselves back in the palatial halls.

Now they repented, for they immediately convinced themselves that the ruins had been the test, and that this monastery was the true reality. Some muttered:

‘It is as well that he did not hear our criticisms. Even if he only teaches us this strange art, it will have been worthwhile.’

But the dervish waved his hands again, and they found themselves at the table of the communal meal, which they had, in fact, never left.

The dervish was sitting in his customary corner, eating his spiced rice as usual, saying nothing at all.

And then, watching him uneasily, all heard his voice speak as if within their own breasts, though his lips did not move. He said:

‘While your greed makes it impossible for you to tell self-deceit from reality, there is nothing real which a dervish can show you – only deceit. Those whose food is self-deceit and imagination can be fed only with deception and imagination.’

Everyone present on that occasion continued to frequent the table of the generous man. But the dervish never spoke to them again.

And after some time the members of the Assembly of the Cultured realised that his corner was now always empty.

Cat Think

ONCE UPON A time there was a kitten.

Someone took him to see a tiger, fifty times his own size.

The kitten said:

‘Anyone who appears so large can have little real value. If he had anything in him, he wouldn’t have to be so big.’

The Self-Congratulating Fruit

IT IS RELATED in the family of the Jan Fishanis that a certain Emir, attended by a substantial retinue, journeyed from Arabia to see the great Khan. When he arrived, he was treated with honour and given costly presents. Many of the court of Jan Fishan expected that after such a journey the prince would ask innumerable questions, or else remain mute and try to absorb wisdom through companionship with the great Khan.

But the Khan said, just before the Emir was ceremonially announced, ‘Watch this interchange, for it is only rarely that one experiences such a thing.’

The Emir entered and said:

‘Confirm me in my Emirate, for I am not of the Family of the Hashimites, and it is from your ancestors that all nobility receives its rank.’

Jan Fishan said:

‘Do you wish ceremony and courtesy and the verification of rank, or do you seek an answer to a question?’

‘Would that I could have both, but if only one is to be given, I desire an answer to my question,’ said the Emir.

‘Since you have asked, with absence of greed, for only one, I shall give you both,’ said Jan Fishan Khan, ‘and I shall confirm or deny your title in the answer to your philosophical question.’

The Emir asked:

‘This is my question. Why do so many Sufis make light of the great deeds, the heroism, the patience and high-mindedness which is the heritage and the glory of the Arab?’

Jan Fishan said:

‘And here is the answer, which will not only explain our position but will also show you your own true position as a nobleman among the Arabs.

‘We discount, and we even deride at times, the qualities upon which so many men pride themselves because those very qualities should be the minimum, not the maximum, attainable by man. If a man is a hero, or a patient one, or devout, or hospitable, or has any of the other qualities – this is the point from which he starts. Is he a beast, that he should be proud if he learns to conduct himself well in relation to others? Is he a fruit, that people should remember his name and always seek others of the same type? No, he is someone who should be ashamed that he has not always been worthy, and should be grateful that he is capable of great things.’

After this the nobleman abandoned the title of Emir, saying, ‘Emir is the word we use for the kind of man who is at the bottom, so why should I need it to describe me? What we call an ordinary man, with few qualities, is not even to be counted in the Journey until he rises to what we call Highness (elevated).’

One of his companions said:

‘What! Will you cast aside the glory of your family for something which you could have read in a book?’

The Emir said:

‘I could have read it in a book, and it would have been no less true. Perhaps I have, indeed, read it in a book at some time, but I did not heed it. And, if I have in fact at some time read it,