What does Krishnamurti invite us to do?

One can’t listen to Krishnamurti without looking at the role that thought plays in one’s life

Krishnamurti is like someone revealing an endless vista of human consciousness, as though some kind of natural unfolding of awareness, of infinite learning, is what it means to be truly alive. But instead of being lured away from reality, from what is, by an enticing mirage of that, he invites me to see and understand where I am here and now. And that will mean not covering up, not copping out from what is experienced in everyday, ordinary life (not perhaps so easy, if as psychiatrist Anthony Clare once said, most of us are in denial of our inner world).

Usually, after some dispute or when lonely or worried, for example, we seek escapes — the company of others, one’s mobile, TV, the Web, or looking for a new partner. Instead Krishnamurti suggests staying with such states, holding them, dwelling in them, observing them in the way already mentioned, without condemning or justifying. So one now has a different option with such ‘negative’ states: to explore them and see what that does.

In a way this is like an all-embracing version of what psychologists recommend us to do with grief. We need to make room for disturbed energy to well up and dissolve, and for what caused it to reveal its roots and story. Without this venting, the disturbed energy will remain intact and repressed, able to flare up again in the future. And what gives extra interest and vitality to such self-monitoring is the sense of exploring human consciousness, rather than something that is exclusively personal.

One can’t listen to Krishnamurti without looking at the role that thought plays in one’s life. What is misapplied, useless thought? And what is its rightful role? Also, a frequent proposal of his is to ask oneself, very seriously, a fundamental question and not answer it, but ‘plant it like a seed in the mind.’

This is how some of the great scientific discoveries have been made, so why not do this to one’s own psyche? Perhaps the most crucial questions are: Am I aware of my self-image and the life-determining effects it has? Are self-images and the images made of others inevitably stunting, blinkered perceptions? Why have them at all, if one sees that they are? And what is intelligence? Is it, for example, understanding what love is? And does putting and exploring such questions in my life wake me up?

It is possible to see what Krishnamurti is asking us to do as very simple: to make wider and deeper use of natural faculties of the mind. But he sees this not merely as a matter of useful enhancement, but as an urgent and deep need, something that life demands. Neglect of these faculties causes us confusion, distress and conflict. And before they can flourish one needs to be aware of and understand the reasons for this neglect. Does this all sound heavy going? Well, unravelling knots in one’s psyche through observation does, at least sometimes, have something of the fun of solving an equation or a tough riddle. Another question for checking whether something helpful happens is: are at least some of my problems no longer problems?

But is this kind of inquiry only for a dedicated few? Here is Krishnamurti’s answer: ‘…let us not make this into an elitist understanding. Any person who pays attention, who wants to hear, who is passionate, not just casual about it, and who really says, "I must find the source of life" will listen. He will listen—not to me — he will just listen. It’s in the air.’

David Skitt was educated at Cambridge. From 1955 to 1985 he worked as a translation revisereditor for the OECD and the European Space Agency in Paris. He is a trustee of the Krishnamurti Foundation at Brockwood Park, Hampshire.
Steve Garry
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The footie is back. Three weeks in and what have we learned so far?

Barcleys, boots and big names... the Prem is back.

Another season, another reason for making whoopee cushions and giving them to Spurs fans to cheer them up during the long winter afternoons ahead. What have we learned so far?

Big names are vital. Just ask the manager of the Man United shop. The arrival of Schneiderlin and Schweinsteiger has done wonders for the sale of repro tops and they’ve run out of letters. Benedict Cumberbatch, please join Carlisle United. They’re desperate for some extra income.

Beards are still in. The whole Prem is bristling with them, the skinniest, weediest player convinced he’s Andrea Pirlo. Even my young friend and neighbour Ed Miliband has grown a beard, according to his holiday snaps. Sign him.

Boots Not always had my best specs on, but here and abroad I detect a new form of bootee creeping in – slightly higher on the ankle, not heavy-plated as in the old days but very light, probably made from the bums of newborn babies.

Barclays Still driving me mad. Now it’s screaming from the perimeter boards that it’s “Championing the true Spirit of the Game”. What the hell does that mean? Thank God this is its last season as proud sponsor of the Prem.

Pitches Some groundsmen have clearly been on the weeds. How else can you explain the Stoke pitch suddenly having concentric circles, while Southampton and Portsmouth have acquired tartan stripes? Go easy on the mowers, chaps. Footballers find it hard enough to pass in straight lines.

Strips Have you seen the Everton third kit top? Like a cheap market-stall T-shirt, but the colour, my dears, the colour is gorgeous – it’s Thames green. Yes, the very same we painted our front door back in the Seventies. The whole street copied, then le toot middle classes everywhere.

Scott Spedding Which international team do you think he plays for? I switched on the telly to find it was rugby, heard his name and thought, goodo, must be Scotland, come on, Scotland. Turned out to be the England-France game. Hmm, must be a member of that famous Cumbrian family, the Speddings from Mirehouse, where Tennyson imagined King Arthur’s Excalibur coming out the lake. Blow me, Scott Spedding turns out to be a Frenchman. Though he only acquired French citizenship last year, having been born and bred in South Africa. What’s in a name, eh?

Footballers are just so last season. Wayne Rooney and Harry Kane can’t score. The really good ones won’t come here – all we get is the crocks, the elderly, the bench-warmers, yet still we look to them to be our saviour. Oh my God, let’s hope we sign Falcao, he’s a genius, will make all the difference, so prayed all the Man United fans. Hold on: Chelsea fans. I’ve forgotten now where he went. They seek him here, they seek him there, is he alive or on the stairs, who feckin’ cares?

John Stones of Everton – brilliant season so far, now he is a genius, the solution to all of Chelsea’s problems, the heir to John Terry, captain of England for decades. Once he gets out of short trousers and learns to tie his own laces . . .

Managers are the real interest. So refreshing to have three young British managers in the Prem – Alex Neil at Norwich (34), Eddie Howe at Bournemouth (37) and that old hand at Swansea, Garry Monk, (36). Young Master Howe looks like a ball boy. Or a tea boy.

Mourinho is, of course, the main attraction. He has given us the best start to any of his seasons on this planet. Can you ever take your eyes off him? That handsome hooded look, that sarcastic sneer, the imperious hand in the air – and in his hair – all those languages, he’s so clearly brilliant, and yet, like many clever people, often lacking in common sense. How could he come down so heavily on Eva Carneiro, his Chelsea doctor? Just because you’re losing? Yes, José has been the best fun so far – plus Chelsea’s poor start. God, please don’t let him fall out with Abramovich. José, we need you.

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 27 August 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Isis and the new barbarism