Preface
Incompetent to expound Indian philosophy, I shall illustrate some few things that have to be said from my own daily thoughts and contemporary poetry. Shree Purohit Swami has asked me to introduce what is twice as much his as mine, for he knows Sanskrit and English, I but English. Before, after and during his nine years' pilgrimage round India he has sung in Sanskrit every morning the Awadhoota Geeta, attributed to Dattatreya, an ancient Sage to whom he pays particular devotion, and two Upanishads, the Sadguru, his own composition, and the Mändookya; and perhaps at night to entertain or edify his hosts, songs of his own composition, those in Marathi or Hindi among the unlearned, those in Sanskrit among the learned. Sanskrit has been a familiar speech, not changing from place to place, but always on his tongue. For some forty years my friend George Russell (A.E.) has quoted me passages from some Upanishad, and for those forty years I have said to myself someday I will find out if he knows what he is talking about. Between us existed from the beginning the antagonism that unites dear friends. More than once I asked him the name of some translator and even bought the book, but the most eminent scholars left me incredulous. Could latinised words, hyphenated words; could polyglot phrases, sedentary distortions of unnatural English: 'However many Gods in Thee, All-Knower, adversely slay desires of a person' - could muddles, muddied by 'Lo! Verily' and 'Forsooth', represent what grass farmers sang thousands of years ago, what their descendants sing today? So when I met Shree Purohit Swami I proposed that we should go to India and make a translation that would read as though the original had been written in common English: 'To write well, said Aristotle, 'express yourself like the common people, but think like a wise man', a favourite quotation of Lady Gregory's - 1 quote her diary from memory. Then, muddied muddle of distortion that froze belief. Can we believe or disbelieve until we have put when lack of health and money made India impossible we chose Majorca to escape telephones and foul weather, and there the work was done, not, as I had planned, in ease and leisure, but in the interstices left me by a long illness. Yet I am satisfied; I have escaped that polyglot, hyphenated, latinised, muddied muddle of distortion that froze belief. Can we believe or disbelieve until we have put our thought into a language wherein we are accustomed to express love and hate and all the shades between? When belief comes we stand up, walk up and down, laugh or swing an arm; a mathematician gets drunk; finding that which is the prerogative of men of action. I have not worked to confound George Russell, though often saddened by the thought that I could not he died some months ago but to confound something in myself. He expressed in his ceaseless vague preoccupation with the East a need and curiosity of our time. Psychical research, which must someday deeply concern religious philosophy, for its evidences surround the pilgrim and the devotee though they never take the centre of the stage, has already proved the existence of faculties that would, combined into one man, make of that man a miracle-working Yogi. More and more too does it seem to approach a main thought of the Upanishads. Continental investigators, who reject the spiritism of Lodge and Crookes, but accept their phenomena, postulate an individual self possessed of such power and knowledge that they seem at every moment about to identify it with that Self without limitation and sorrow, containing and contained by all, and to seek there not only the living but the dead. But our need and curiosity have no one source. Between 1922 and 1925 English literature, wherever most intense, cast off its preoccupation with social problems and began to create myths like those of antiquity, and to ask the most profound questions. I recall poems by T. S. Eliot, "Those Barren Leaves by Aldous Huxley, where there is a Buddhistic hatred of life, or a hatred Schopenhauer did not so much find in as deduced from a Latin translation of a Persian translation of the Upanishads: certain poems 'The Seven Days of the Sun', 'Matrix", The Mutations of the Phoenix', by W.J. Turner, by Dorothy Wellesley, by Herbert Read, which have displayed in myths, not as might some writer of my youth for the sake of romantic suggestion but urged by the most recent thought, the world emerging from the human mind. A still younger generation has brought a more minute psychological curiosity, suggesting an eye where a goldsmith's magnifying glass is screwed, to like preoccupations. In their pursuit of meaning, Day Lewis, MacNeice, Auden, Laura Riding have thrown off too much, as I think, the old metaphors, the sensuous tradition of the poets:
About The Book
The Ten Principal Upanishads-which include the Isha, Kena, Katha, Prashna, Mundaka, Mandookya, Taittreya, Aitareya, Chhandogya, and Brihadaranyaka-are a collection of ancient Indian texts. They are considered some of the most important sources of philosophical and spiritual concepts in Hinduism, particularly regarding the relationship between the individual self (Atman) and the ultimate reality (Brahman).
About The Author
This collaborative translation by Shree Purohit Swami (1882-1941), who possesses deep familiarity with Hindu scriptures and spiritual traditions, and William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), a renowned writer in modern English literature, presents a unique perspective for approaching these ancient verses. The translation aimed to make these sacred texts accessible and understandable for English-speaking readers.
Vedas (1185)
Upanishads (498)
Puranas (629)
Ramayana (742)
Mahabharata (360)
Dharmasastras (166)
Goddess (500)
Bhakti (243)
Saints (1507)
Gods (1291)
Shiva (372)
Journal (184)
Fiction (60)
Vedanta (361)
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