Religion and The Rebel

RELIGION

and the

REBEL

RELIGION

and the

REBEL

________   .    ________

by

Colin Wilson

Aristeia Press

Religion and the Rebel by Colin Wilson

Also available as an electronic book

First published in Great Britain by Victor Gollancz, 1957

Published by Ashgrove Press Limited, 1984

First Aristeia Press edition 2017

London, UK

www.Aristeia-Press.com

© Colin Wilson 1957,1984,2017

© Joy Wilson Colin Wilson Estate 2017

Introduction © 2017 by Gary Lachman

Editor’s Notes © 2017 by Samantha Devin

The right of Colin Wilson to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by the Joy Wilson Colin Wilson Estate in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. The sue of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without prior written consent of the publisher, constitutes an infringement of the copyright law.

For

NEGLEY AND DAN FARSON

Colin Wilson, novelist, critic, historian and philosopher, was born in Leicester in 1931. His novels and non-fiction books share a common interest in consciousness and the meaning and purpose of existence. His philosophy, which he called New Existentialism, is built on an optimistic approach to Old Existentialism. His first book, The Outsider, was internationally acclaimed and became an instant bestseller. Wilson’s work has been translated into more than thirty languages. He died in Cornwall in 2013.

CONTENTS

EDITOR’S NOTE

A HISTORICAL INTRODUCTION

________   .    ________

A RETROSPECTIVE INTRODUCTION

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION

PART ONE

THE ANATOMY OF IMAGINATION

THE OUTSIDER AND HISTORY

PART TWO

THE MAKING OF A RELIGION

JACOB BOEHME

NICHOLAS FERRAR

BLAISE PASCAL

EMANUEL SWEDENBORG

WILLIAM LAW

JOHN HENRY NEWMAN

SØREN KIERKEGAARD

BERNARD SHAW

WITTGENSTEIN AND WHITEHEAD

EDITOR’S NOTE

The purpose of religion, writes Colin Wilson in Religion and the Rebel , is to expand our consciousness and transform us into visionaries. This powerful statement captures the genuine and pragmatic value that Colin Wilson confers on religion and reminds us of its unique power to grant insight and make us recipients of the holy. We have forgotten that true religion should be a means of getting in touch with our divine self and that being religious signifies experiencing the mystery that pervades the universe. This scholarly and insightful volume is not a work about religion in its traditional sense. It is a bold and optimistic casebook which, more than fifty years after its first publication, remains ahead of its time.

Wilson’s concept of religion will appeal to those who have outgrown traditional religious systems and ventured on their own into the exploration of their souls. Anybody sincerely interested in attaining a sense of life and its possibilities will benefit from this book, because it makes us confront those questions that, as human beings, we will always have to face. And it does so from an optimistic perspective, free of the despair and defeatism that characterizes the philosophy and literature of the twentieth century. Wilson believes in man’s own potential to attain powerful states of consciousness, epiphanies and revelations. For this alone, he differs from his contemporaries.

Like any true Outsider, Colin Wilson is impossible to classify. His philosophy, which he called New Existentialism, is an antidote to the meaninglessness and nihilism hovering over us. Wilson places the responsibility of creating meaning into our own hands and teaches us that discipline and knowledge are the key for reaching our goals.

Religion and the Rebel, the volume that came after The Outsider – which brought Wilson worldwide renown in the mid-50s of the last century – is, according to Wilson himself, a more insightful and comprehensive book than the first. Here Wilson gives us a penetrating analysis of those philosophers, scientists, poets and writers for whom religion became the answer to their search for meaning. For Wilson, religion means facing and engaging with the big questions, those we cannot ignore: How can I live my life more fully, how I can become the master of my destiny, how can I attain states of super-consciousness….?

The intellectual depth with which Wilson expresses his insights is on a par with Nietzsche, as are his boldness and his passion. Wilson offers us a response to futility and disillusionment. He spurs us to use our greatest weapon: willpower. He reminds us that we are responsible for our lives and the intensity with which we experience its most essential dimensions.

Religion and the Rebel is a casebook for Outsiders, for rebels, for those unafraid of venturing within their inner self. Nothing is more important than taking charge of our own destiny and connecting with the mysterious source of power that governs the universe. This work presents us with the tools that some of the greatest men of Western culture have used to face their need for transcendence. Religion and the Rebel is a scholarly and audacious book that will follow us on the fascinating journey of our lives.

Samantha Devin

Editor and Co-founder, Aristeia Press.

Author, Bilis Negra, Arcadia and Heroica.

Playwright, The Silence, The Great Pretender, MEN, Topophilia

A Historical Introduction

By

Gary Lachman

Religion for the Rebels

Religion and the Rebel should have ended Colin Wilson’s career. That is, if you agreed with the critics. By the time it came out in the autumn of 1957, Wilson’s standing among both highbrow literary reviewers and the mainstream press had reached rock bottom. The praise that had launched his first book, The Outsider , a year before and made it a bestseller and Wilson a kind of celebrity had dissipated. Worse, it had soured into outright scorn. Critics who not too long ago made the young Leicester lad famous were now tripping over themselves to set the record straight. The Outsider was a flash in the pan, a fluke, and it was only Wilson’s youth – he was all of twenty-four when it appeared – and his association with the noisy literary brats known as the Angry Young Men, that had obscured what this, his second book, made perfectly clear. Wilson was a sham, a fake, a charlatan. He had pulled the wool over the public’s eyes and got away with it for a time, but now the truth was out – as was The Outsider , and anything associated with it.

To read the reviews of Wilson’s first book and then to turn to those of his second is a somewhat dizzying experience. Perhaps this is nowhere more the case than with Philip Toynbee, a prestigious critical name in the 1950s, although not so well known today. About The Outsider Toynbee had written that it was an exhaustive and luminously intelligent study of a representative theme of our time…a real contribution to our understanding of our deepest predicament, and he compared Wilson favourably to Jean Paul Sartre, then probably the most famous writer in the world. It was praise like this, and similar plaudits coming from other big names – Cyril Connolly, Edith Sitwell, J.B. Priestley, not to mention Time magazine – that made Wilson’s existential study of angst, alienation, and extreme mental states, a bestseller and required summer reading for 1956.

A year and half later Toynbee had changed his mind. Religion and the Rebel, Wilson’s follow up to The Outsider, was, for Toynbee, a deplorable piece of work, a vulgarising rubbish bin and deeply depressing. Toynbee’s recantation set the tone for most of the reviews that followed. For Raymond Mortimer, Wilson was little better than a half-baked Nietzsche. The philosopher A. J. Ayer, no doubt happy to see Wilson, who despised Ayer’s logical positivism, get his comeuppance, said Wilson’s megalomania was distressing. Wolf Mankowitz summed up the general attitude in his assessment of Wilson as a midget Leicester Zarathustra.

It was reviews like these and others that prompted Wilson’s publisher Victor Gollancz to suggest he stop writing for a while and find congenial work, something T.S. Eliot echoed. There were a few reviews of a more positive note, but not enough to stem the anti-Wilson tide. Wilson himself felt the blows, as any young writer suddenly walloped by the critics would. But he would not stop writing. As Nietzsche, one his Outsiders, had said, whatever doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. The razors had come out but he was still standing. And as his subsequent career and prolific output suggests, the assassination attempt had made him stronger.

Why had the critics turned on Wilson? Mostly because, as mentioned, he had become linked to a group of writers known as the Angry Young Men, who were sort of the punk rockers of the buttoned down ‘50s, a less exotic and more socially conscious version of America’s Beat Generation. Wilson had little in common with them but his protestations were ignored and from May 1956 to the release of Religion and the Rebel, these angry youngsters were all over the tabloids. Wilson had come to fame around the same time as Elvis Presley and James Dean, and with his tousled hair, polo neck sweater, corduroy jeans, and National Health glasses – something of a fashion item these days – he looked the part of a young genius. That Wilson, somewhat naïve, had no qualms about agreeing with this, soon got on the public’s nerve, notwithstanding the fact that he had the brilliance to back it up. The English are notoriously diffident and it is considered extremely bad form to mouth a word about one’s own abilities. Wilson in all honesty saw no reason to follow this rule and after a time his candid self-assessment began to grate. The I am a genius tag, misunderstood, misapplied, and generally mistaken, stuck to him for the rest of his life.

The fact that Wilson came from a working class background and had not been to university also did not help. How could he write about philosophy and literature and with such confidence – as the New York Times said, he walked into literature as a man walks into his own house – without a degree? It simply wasn’t done. But Wilson had done it, and they wouldn’t forgive him. Perhaps Philip Toynbee’s radical about-face regarding Wilson’s talent was motivated by a fear that he – a highly regarded critic – was suspected of being taken in by this arriviste? Perhaps the fact that one of the thinkers Wilson draws into the Outsider fold in Religion and the Rebel was Toynbee’s father, the historian Arnold Toynbee, had something to do with it? How dare that polo-necked upstart include my father in his bogus rogue’s gallery? Toynbee later did another turnaround, praising Wilson’s comeback book, The Occult, in 1971, saying that it displayed the full array of his amiable virtues. That Toynbee famously panned Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings suggests that he was not always spot on with his assessments. Soon after Toynbee dismissed Tolkien’s epic, it became an international bestseller, which reminds one of the record executive who in 1962 said the Beatles wouldn’t make it.

Religion and the Rebel then did not end Wilson’s career. In fact, in some ways we can say that it moved him into its second phase. If Wilson was not an angry young man, in Religion and the Rebel he is certainly not happy with quite a few things and he lets the reader know. In a conversation with him many years ago he told me that Religion and the Rebel allowed him to write a great deal of adolescent angst out of his system. It is, I have to say, probably his most angry book, even including his account of his early days, The Angry Years. Over a decade Wilson had disciplined himself to be a writer, and had endured much flak from those whose confidence in him was less than his own. He then had a brief taste of success and celebrity and allowed himself the thought that maybe more people were interested in the kinds of ideas that obsessed him – about freedom and intensity of consciousness – than he had believed. Then came the rude awakening and the realization that he was as outside as ever, even more. Some of the determination and urgency that helped him survive the critical bludgeoning to come is evident in the book that sparked it.

The Outsider, for Wilson, was the heroic figure of our time, but he was, it seemed, a hero in a vacuum. My vision of civilization, he wrote, was a vision of cheapness and futility, the degrading of all intellectual standards. Western civilization, he felt, was going down the tubes, something that in different ways, Arnold Toynbee and Oswald Spengler – another Outsider historian – both argued, and Wilson saw his Outsiders appearing like pimples on a dying civilization. Wilson’s exasperation with the celebration of mediocrity characteristic of the time – and, I might say, our own – led to some strong stuff. The Outsider was the man who, for any reason at all, felt himself lonely in the crowd of the second rate. He could be a maniac carrying a knife in a black bag, taking pride in appearing harmless and normal to other people, as the character Austin Nunne in Wilson’s first novel Ritual in the Dark does. Or he could be a saint or a visionary, caring for nothing but one moment in which he seemed to understand the world, and see into the heart of nature and of God.

Wilson went on to write much about maniacs carrying knives in black bags, as his books Encyclopaedia of Murder, Order of Assassins, and A Criminal History of Mankind make clear. But the essence of Religion and the Rebel has more to do with seeing into the heart of nature and of God than with such violent concerns. Wilson ended The Outsider with the thought that his heroic figure’s journey through the modern wasteland may end with him becoming a saint. If Religion and the Rebel is not about achieving sainthood, it is certainly, as its title suggests, about investigating a religious answer to the Outsider’s challenge.

That challenge is how to extend the range of consciousness, so that he or she is not blunted by the lack of spiritual tension in a materially prosperous civilization. At one point Wilson had considered entering a monastery in order to do this. The abstention from sex that this required prevented him from doing so –sex, for Wilson, was one of the ways we can extend our range of consciousness – but Wilson found much to guide in him what he had read in books by and about western mysticism. Individuals like the sixteenth century Silesian mystic Jacob Boehme seemed to have experienced the kind of intensity of consciousness that the Outsider seeks. The eighteenth century priest William Law seemed to be obsessed with the same contempt for the spiritually lukewarm as Wilson was. Blaise Pascal, mathematician and theologian, endured the anxiety of existence in the silence of endless space by crying tears of joy at the fire that came from the God of Abraham, and not that of the philosophers and scholars. In different ways these and others added one more part to the Outsider puzzle.

If Wilson could not accept an outright religious answer, he still accepted the essence of religion. This he saw as fundamentally the decision to take life seriously, to strive with all our resources to grasp its meaning and direction and not, as the existentialists in his day did and the postmodernists in ours do, to regard it as meaningless. The mystics he had read, as well as the poets and philosophers – like Rimbaud and Whitehead - had grasped this meaning in flashes. This was the reason we needed to extend the range of our consciousness, from reaching only a few notes on the piano to covering the entire keyboard. The aim was not union with God or ecstasy, but to achieve states of consciousness in which we can perceive this meaning long enough to be able to come back to earth with it still in our grasp. And although at the close of Religion and the Rebel, Wilson says that the Outsider must become a visionary, it is not so much visions that he seeks but a stronger grip on reality, the reality of the values that drive him and can transform him from being a pimple on the face of a dying civilization, to possibly its future.

The way ahead for Wilson after Religion and the Rebel led through the rest of the books of his ‘Outsider cycle’, in which he begins the long investigation into the mechanics of consciousness that occupied him for more than half a century. The ones that followed, The Age of Defeat, The Strength to Dream, and the others are not as passionate works as this one. But they carry on with increasing clarity and certainty, the insights he burned with here.

London June 2017

Gary Lachman is the author of many books on consciousness, culture, and the western esoteric tradition, including The Secret Teachers of the Western World, The Quest for Hermes Trismegistus, and, most recently, Beyond the Robot: The Life and Work of Colin Wilson. He writes for several journals in the UK, US, and Europe and his work has been translated into several languages. A founding member of the pop group Blondie, in 2006 he was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. He lives in London and can be reached at garylachman.co.uk.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Iwish particularly to thank the Public Trustee and the Society of Authors for extracts from the plays and prefaces of George Bernard Shaw; Harcourt, Brace and Company, Inc., for extracts from T. S. Eliot’s Collected Poems; Dodd, Mead & Company for extracts from The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke (copyright © 1915 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.), reprinted by permission of Dodd, Mead & Company; The Macmillan Company for extracts from the Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats; the Hogarth Press and W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., for extracts from J. B. Leishman’s translation of Sonnets to Orpheus by R. M. Rilke; W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., for extracts from Rilke’s Duino Elegies, translated by J. B. Leishman and Stephen Spender; Rupert Hart-Davis, Ltd., for extracts from The Drunken Boat, poems by Rimbaud translated by Brian Hill; the Oxford University Press, Inc., for extracts from A Study of History by Arnold J. Toynbee; Methuen and Company, Ltd., for extracts from A Serious Call to a Devout and Holy Life by William Law; New Directions for extracts from The Crack-up by F. Scott Fitzgerald (copyright 1945 by New Directions), reprinted by permission of New Directions; Nonesuch Press for extracts from William Blake’s Poetry and Prose; and Penguin Books, Ltd., for extracts from Anthony Hartley’s translation of Le Coeur Vole by J. A. Rimbaud in The Penguin Book of French Verse: III.

I am most grateful to Professor George Catlin, Mr . Hugh Heck- stall Smith, and Dom Wilfred Upham for generous help.

C.W.

A RETROSPECTIVE

INTRODUCTION[1]

IT IS STRANGE to re-read a book after more than a quarter of a century. When Religion and the Rebel came out in 1957, it was hatcheted by the critics, and sank without a trace. As a result, I could never bear to re-read it. Doing so after twenty-seven years has been, on the whole, a rather pleasant surprise.

My first book, The Outsider, had appeared in 1956, and I was catapulted into an instant and rather unstable celebrity. Both in England and America, it stayed on the bestseller lists for week after week, and was quickly translated into a dozen or so languages. But the reasons for its success had very little to do with the book itself. One was that it appeared in the same week as John Osborne’s Look Back in Anger, and the critics hailed us as England’s new literary generation — the generation whose appearance everyone had impatiently anticipated since the end of the war. Added to this was the fact that I was 24 at the time of publication, and had never attended a university; popular journalists were impressed by the praise of ‘intellectual’ critics — like Cyril Connolly and Philip Toynbee — and I was compared to D. H. Lawrence, Byron and even, God help me, Plato. The publicity — associated with the label ‘Angry Young Man’ — irritated the respectable critics, who seized the first opportunity to retract their praise of myself, Osborne and various other young writers who had been tarred with the same brush. Time ran a gleeful full-page account of the slaughter of Religion and the Rebel with a headline ‘Scrambled Egghead.’

When Robin Campbell of Ashgrove Press told me he wanted to reprint the book, I opened it for the first time since 1957, and started to read in the spirit of a bather dipping his toe into icy water. Within a page or two, the misgivings had vanished, and I was fascinated by this insight into the workings of my mind at 25. There was another bonus — for the first time I understood the miscalculation that had left me wide open to the barbs of the critics. I talk about ‘the Outsider’ as if he is a precisely definable type of human being, like an Eskimo or a cannibal. The truth is, of course, that most people contain an element of ‘outsiderism’ — a sense of alienation from society — and many people I discuss as Outsiders — Scott Fitzgerald, William Law, Bernard Shaw — could just as easily be labelled Insiders. For me now, this constant use of the term Outsider gives the book an element of oversimplification.

But in spite of that, there is nothing in the book that I now feel inclined to retract. Looking back on that self of almost thirty years ago, it seems to me that he was stating a real problem, and that his analysis was relevant and acute. I continued this analysis in another four books of the ‘Outsider cycle’ — The Age of Defeat[2], The Strength to Dream, Origins of the Sexual Impulse and Beyond the Outsider, while a postscript, The New Existentialism, forms a convenient summary of the basic ideas of the series. The debacle of Religion and the Rebel at least taught me to stop throwing around the word ‘Outsider’.

What I notice, the moment I begin reading, is that I then had a far more narrow and intense view of the problem than I have nowadays, and that this gives the book a sense of passionate involvement that is lacking in the later volumes of the series. I have only one minor reservation. On Page 1, I state that what the Outsider is in rebellion against is the ‘Lack of spiritual tension in a materially prosperous civilisation’. And throughout the book I am inclined to lay most of the blame at the door of prosperity and materialism, and to equate these with the ‘decline of the west’. ‘Outsiders appear like pimples on a dying civilisation’. Yet I also knew perfectly well that religious rebels like Pascal, Law, Kierkegaard and Newman were not simply ‘virtuous men’ who, like Noah, refused to be seduced into sin. They were contemplatives by temperament; they felt, like Socrates, that the unexamined life is not worth living. And the people they disapproved of were usually people who just happened to have been born with a different temperament. This now leads me to feel that my attack on the ‘sick civilisation’ was a little too violent.

How, then, do I now see the problem? As a matter of individual discipline. I have recently written an enormous Criminal History of Mankind, and it confirms my feeling that the ‘Outsider’ is probably better off nowadays than at any time in history. He may loathe western civilisation, but at least he can survive on National Assistance, and spend his days, if he is so inclined, reading Nietzsche and Kierkegaard and writing denunciations of materialism. But such negative exercises do not seem to me particularly useful. The real problem is to learn those mental disciplines that can raise us momentarily into states of ‘mystical’ perception — the insight that Chesterton called ‘absurd good news.’ In this book, I quote with approval the remark of Shaw’s Captain Shotover that the materialists — like Boss Mangan — strangle out souls, and that when we have the courage of our convictions, we shall kill them. I now feel that this is overstating the case. The Mangans might once have forced the ‘Outsiders’ to work sixteen hours a day for starvation wages, and so ‘prevented them from having the aspirations’, but those days are fortunately long past. For most modern ‘Outsiders’ — and I still know a great number of them — the real problem is to find the disciplines that will lead to self-transformation.

Two or three years after writing this book I became acquainted with the psychologist Abraham Maslow, and with his recognition that ‘peak experiences’ — the moments of ‘absurd good news’ — seem to happen frequently to people who are healthy and optimistic. The peak experience is a sudden glimpse of objective awareness, and it always takes the same form: a sudden recognition of how lucky we are. It confirmed what I had stated in my first two books: that one of the main enemies of the Outsider is self-pity, a tendency to look for somebody else to blame for his problems. Most of us spend our lives stuck in what I have called ‘the swamp of subjectivity.’ Crisis tends to jerk us out of the swamp, (as I discovered when I contemplated suicide — as described on this volume.) It makes us aware that if we lack ‘spiritual tension’, the cause lies within ourselves, not in the ‘botched civilisation’.

Maslow’s concept of the peak experience was a milestone on my own road to the solution of the ‘Outsider problem’, and my discovery of the philosopher Husserl was even more important. They made me realise that a central part of the answer is to deliberately keep ourselves at a high level of motivation and purpose. It is recorded that when Samuel Beckett was a young man, he spent most of the day in bed because he could see no reason to get up. That is a fairly reliable formula for slipping into moods of ‘life failure’ in which you become convinced that all effort is futile. Our reaction to crisis shows us that the mind contains a kind of ‘muscle’, a ‘contractile faculty’, which tenses when we experience the sense of ‘power, meaning and purpose’. This ‘muscle’ can be deliberately strengthened by concentration exercises. Graham Greene experienced the sense of absurd good news when he played Russian roulette with a revolver, and there was just a click as the hammer descended on an empty chamber. It jerked him into ‘objectivity’. I have always found that if I try to imagine such an incident with enough force, I cause a contraction of that inner muscle, and an instant ‘peak experience’. (I have spoken of this more fully in a recent small book, Access to Inner Worlds.)

An equally important insight came from a remarkable physician named Howard Miller (whose work I have described in a book called Frankenstein’s Castle.) As a result of experiments with hypnosis, Miller came to the conclusion that what might be called the ‘controlling principle’ in man — the controller of intensity of consciousness — lies in the ordinary conscious mind, and not (as D. H. Lawrence thought) in the solar plexus or the instincts. This insight is closely connected to the recognition that has come about through the science of ‘split brain physiology’, that we have two people living in our heads, in the left and right cerebral hemispheres, and the person you call ’you’ is the ‘conscious self’ living in the left brain. The right-brain self is a stranger, and is also the source of so-called ‘psychic powers’ and of the peak experience. Yet it is the left-brain ego, the conscious self, which is the controller of awareness. Why, then, can we not induce the peak experience at will? Because through some absurd misunderstanding, due to its narrowness, this ‘controlling ego’ does not realise it is in control. It believes itself to be passive and helpless, so it is inclined to lie in bed all day praying for peak experiences. In The Outsider, I quote Hemingway’s story Soldier’s Home, in which the soldier home from the war recalls those moments when, during crisis, ‘you did the one thing, the only thing’ and it always came out right. And this is because in moments of crisis, the controlling ego is galvanised into sudden wakefulness and suddenly remembers that it is in control, and can have peak experiences whenever it likes. Over the years, I have come to recognise that the real solution to the ‘Outsider problem’ is to induce that basic insight again and again until it finally takes root, and we grasp that we already possess the power. This is why the mystics felt that there is an element of absurdity in the visionary experience, a sudden realisation that made them want to kick themselves and shout ‘Of course!’ The solution lies in the recognition that the left-brain is the gatherer of power.

‘Visionary consciousness’ and the sense of ‘absurd good news’ is the starting point of Religion and the Rebel. And that is why when I re-read it, I was not upset by its crudities. It is true that I would like to rewrite it, removing 90% of its references to ‘the Outsider’. And there are many pages that I would now like to re-cast: (for example, it seems to me that the facts about Wittgenstein’s homosexuality that have emerged since I wrote the book explain a great deal about the self-hatred that resulted in the perverse ‘reductionism’ of his later work.) I also find that its romanticism is hard to take — its conviction that the Outsider is a lonely beacon of integrity in a sea of cheapness and futility: but that is surely inevitable when a man of fifty-two reads a book by a man exactly half his age. Still, on the whole, I find the speculations of that earlier self exciting, and his analysis of the problem basically accurate. It seems to me that he was correct in believing that mankind would develop a new religious consciousness. What he could not have foreseen was that it would happen so easily and naturally. By the mid-1960s, the works of Hermann Hesse — which were almost unknown in the English-speaking countries when I discussed them in The Outsider— had become best sellers again. A new generation plunged with enthusiasm into the disciplines of Buddhism, Hinduism, yoga, transcendental meditation and even ritual magic. No doubt many of these movements— like the psychedelic revolution — were mere fads, but there can be no doubt that the impulse behind them was a dissatisfaction with the quality of ‘everyday consciousness’, and the feeling that it ought to be possible to change it.

This, I suspect, will be regarded by historians of the future as the second great revolution of the 20th century, and one whose consequences may be far more important for man’s future evolution than the one that took place in Russia in 1917.

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION

The outsider was an incomplete book. It was intended to document and order a subject which, for personal reasons, I find particularly absorbing: the subject of mental strain and near-insanity.

Over many years, the obsessional figure whom I have called the Outsider became for me the heroic figure of our time. My vision of our civilisation was a vision of cheapness and futility, the degrading of all intellectual standards. In contrast to this, the Outsider seemed to be the man who, for any reason at all, felt himself lonely in the crowd of the second-rate. As I conceived him, he could be a maniac carrying a knife in a black bag, taking pride in appearing harmless and normal to other people; he could be a saint or a visionary, caring for nothing but one moment in which he seemed to understand the world, and see into the heart of nature and of God.

The more I considered the Outsider, the more I felt him to be a symptom of our time and age. Essentially, he seemed to be a rebel; and what he was in rebellion against was the lack of spiritual tension in a materially prosperous civilisation. The first nine books of Saint Augustine’s Confessions are an Outsider document, and Saint Augustine lived in a disintegrating Roman society. It did not seem a bold step to conclude that the Outsider is a symptom of a civilisation’s decline; Outsiders appear like pimples on a dying civilisation. An individual tends to be what his environment makes him. If a civilisation is spiritually sick, the individual suffers from the same sickness. If he is healthy enough to put up a fight, he becomes an Outsider.

The study of the spiritually sick individual belongs to psychology, but to consider him in relation to a sick civilisation is to enter the realm of history. That is why this book must attempt to pursue two courses at once, probing deeper into the Outsider himself, while at the same time moving towards the historical problem of the decline of civilisations. One way leads inward, towards mysticism; the other outward, towards politics. Unfortunately, I have almost no turn for practical politics, so the emphasis in this book is on religion and philosophy. Where the road disappears into the thickets of political theory, I leave it, and hope that someone less averse to politics than I am will press on where I have shirked the problem.

Various critics have objected — with some justification — that the term ‘Outsider’ is loose; that a word which can be applied to Boehme as well as Nijinsky, to Fox and Gurdjieff as well as Lawrence, Van Gogh and Sartre, is almost meaningless. But my use of the term ‘Outsider’ is deliberately vague. The ultimate question that, for me, lies behind the Outsider is: How can man extend his range of consciousness? I believe that human beings experience a range of mental states which is as narrow as the middle three notes of a piano keyboard. I believe that the possible range of mental states is as wide as the whole piano keyboard, and that man’s sole aim and business is to extend his range from the usual three or four notes to the whole keyboard. The men I dealt with in The Outsider had one thing in common: an instinctive knowledge that their range could be extended, and a nagging dissatisfaction with the range of their everyday experience.

This, I must admit, is the urge that underlies all my thinking and writing. I state it here so that there shall be no doubt in any reader’s mind about the central preoccupation of my book.

The publication of The Outsider brought me some interesting insights. It received more attention than I or my publisher had expected, and, quite suddenly, I became involved in all kinds of activities. For many months after it was published, I had almost no time alone, caught up as I was in a round of interviews by reporters, lectures, broadcasts, reading and answering letters, invitations to dinner, and so on. The result was exactly what I had been afraid of: I found myself losing the preoccupations that had led me to write The Outsider. Strangers who claimed to be Outsiders wrote me long letters explaining their symptoms and asking for advice, until I began to suspect parody. In this whirl, I discovered that I ceased to be aware of the states of consciousness that lie beyond my ordinary two or three notes. In my own terminology, I had started to become an Insider.

I record this because it is of central importance to the theme of this book. Most men I know live like this as a matter of course: working, travelling, eating and drinking and talking. The range of everyday activity in a modern civilisation builds a wall around the ordinary state of consciousness and makes it almost impossible to see beyond it. The conditions under which we live do this to us. It is what happens in a civilisation that always makes a noise like a dynamo, and gives no leisure for peace and contemplation. Men begin to lose that intuition of ‘unknown modes of being,’ that sense of purpose, that makes them more than highly efficient pigs. This is the horror the Outsider revolts against.

Some years ago, in Winchester Cathedral, I came across a pamphlet by Mr. T. S. Eliot; it was an address which Mr. Eliot had delivered in the Cathedral, and it had the unpromising title: ‘On the Use of Cathedrals in England.’ For three quarters of the pamphlet, Mr. Eliot talks like a studious country parson about the relation of the cathedral to the parish churches. And then, towards the end, he speaks of the position of the dean and chapter, and his pamphlet suddenly becomes an impassioned plea for leisure in a modern civilisation. He attacks the view that the dean and chapter should be general runabouts, preaching sermons all over the parish, and emphasises that good theological thinking requires quiet and contemplation. He adduces his own example to strengthen his point: he has always worked as a publisher to give himself the necessary leisure for writing, and any permanent value which his work may possess (he modestly claims) is due to the fact that he wrote only what he wanted to write, under no compulsion to please anyone but himself.

I remember being excited by this at the time. T. E. Lawrence had made the same point in The Seven Pillars: ‘… of these two poles, leisure and subsistence, we should shun subsistence… and cling close to leisure… Some men there might be, uncreative, whose leisure is barren; but the activity of these would have been material only… Mankind has been no gainer by its drudges.’

For my own part, I found that I preferred working as a navvy or washing dishes to life in an office; for although I had no more than the normal reluctance to face hard work, I had a very real fear of that deadening of the nerves and sensibilities that comes of boredom and submitting to one’s own self-contempt. I was sticking down envelopes with a damp brush one afternoon, when a young man who seemed to enjoy being a civil servant commented: ‘Soul-destroying, isn’t it?’ A commonplace phrase, but I had never heard it before, and I repeated it like a revelation. Not soul-destroying, but life-destroying; the stagnating life-force gives off smells like standing water, and the whole being is poisoned. Desmond — that was his name — always looked well groomed and efficient, and I never saw him lose his temper. My own predisposition to boredom and irritable wretchedness inclined me to divide the world into two classes: people who disliked themselves, and people who didn’t. And the former disliked the latter even more than they disliked themselves.

Such experiences were the