Meetings with Remarkable Men

G. I. Gurdjieff

• Publisher: Rare Treasure Editions
• Year: 2021
• ISBN:
  9781774644072
• Topic: Philosophy
• Subtopic: Philosopher Biographies

These are the memoirs of the great mystic and teacher who inspired a generation of disciples and followers before, during and briefing after the Second World War. In Meetings With Remarkable Men Gurdjieff introduces us to some of the companions he encountered in his travels to the most remote regions of Central Asia. With colorful episodes from his adventures, he brings to life the story of his own relentless search for a real and universal knowledge.

Meetings with Remarkable Men

by G. I. Gurdjieff

FOREWORD

GURDJIEFF HAD DEVOTED most of his life to teaching a system of knowledge to his pupils when, shortly before his death, he decided to publish the first of the three books in which he had expressed his ideas, All and Everything, or Beelzebub’s Tales to his Grandson. In his own words, the aim of Beelzebub’s Tales was ‘to destroy mercilessly the beliefs and views rooted for centuries in the mind and feelings of man’ by arousing in the mind of the reader a stream of unfamiliar thoughts.

Ten years after his death, his pupils decided to make known the whole body of his ideas, until then accessible only to themselves.

A second volume, which represents what Gurdjieff called the second series of his writings, was first published in France in 196o, and it is this book which is now published in English under the title Meetings with Remarkable Men. As Gurdjieff said, his task in this series was to furnish ‘the material required to create the feeling of a new world’—a feeling which throws a different light on one’s own life.

At the same time this book is written in the form of autobiography and contains the only available information about his early life and the sources of his knowledge.

Gurdjieff begins by describing the circumstances of his childhood, particularly the influence of his father, one of the last survivors of an ancient culture handed down by oral tradition. Coming as a boy under the tutelage of the dean of the Cathedral of Kars, he was given both a religious training and a modern scientific education by men who understood how to cultivate in him a taste for essential values.

As he grew up, his urge to understand the meaning of human life became so strong that he attracted a group of ‘remarkable men’ -among whom were engineers, doctors, archaeologists and so on. In search of a knowledge which they were certain had existed in the past but of which almost all traces seemed to have disappeared, he set out with them to explore many countries in the Middle East and Central Asia.

With his companions, after many great and unexpected difficulties, he succeeded in finding a very few individuals and isolated communities, each time acquiring fragments of this knowledge—until the moment when the doors of a certain school opened for him, where he came to understand how to bring together all the principles of an esoteric teaching. This school he calls simply the Universal Brotherhood, without telling more.

From then on he proceeded to ‘live’ these principles, putting them to the test by the strictest inner disciplines till the end of his life.

Gurdjieff spoke also of a third series of his writings called Life Is Real Only When I Am. His aim in this series was ‘to assist the arising in a man’s thought and feeling of a true representation of the real world, instead of the illusory world he now perceives’.

The third book, now being prepared for publication, will consist chiefly of talks and lectures which Gurdjieff gave to his pupils. Here he shows the way towards direct work on oneself, points out the pitfalls, and provides means for a better understanding of the inner conditions which are indispensable in the self-development of man.

TRANSLATORS’ NOTE

THE WORK OF GURDJIEFF has many aspects. But through whatever form he expresses himself, his voice is heard as a call.

He calls because he suffers from the inner chaos in which we live.

He calls to us to open our eyes.

He asks us why we are here, what we wish for, what forces we obey. He asks us, above all, if we understand what we are.

He wants us to bring everything back into question.

And because he insists and his insistence compels us to answer, a relationship is created between him and ourselves which is an integral part of his work.

For nearly forty years this call rang with such force that people came to him from all over the world.

But to meet him was always a test. In his presence every attitude seemed artificial. Whether too deferential, or on the contrary pretentious, from the first moment it was shattered; and nothing remained but a human creature stripped of his mask and revealed for an instant as he truly was.

This was a merciless experience—and for some impossible to bear.

These people could not forgive him for having seen through them and as soon as they were out of his sight, went to great lengths to justify themselves. This was the origin of the most fantastic legends.

Gurdjieff himself was amused by these stories. He even went so far as to provoke them, at times, if only to be rid of curiosity-seekers, incapable of understanding the meaning of his search.

As for those who knew how to approach him and for whom this meeting was a turning-point in their lives, any attempt to describe their experience seemed ridiculous. This explains why direct accounts are so rare.

The influence he exerted—and still exerts—cannot, however, be separated from Gurdjieff the man. So it is legitimate to want to know about his life, at least in its main outlines.

For this reason his pupils have felt it right to publish this book, originally intended to be read aloud to a limited circle of pupils and guests. Here Gurdjieff speaks of the least-known period of his life: his childhood, his youth and the first stages of his search.

But if Gurdjieff speaks of himself, he does so to serve his lifelong purpose. It is apparent that this is not an autobiography in the strict sense of the word. For him the past is not worth recounting except in so far as it can serve as an example. In these tales of adventure what he suggests are not models for outward imitation, but a completely new way of facing life, which touches us directly and gives us a foretaste of another order of reality.

For Gurdjieff was not, and could not be, only a writer. His task was a different one.

Gurdjieff was a master.

This idea of master, so familiar in the East, is hardly accepted at all in the West. It calls to mind nothing definite; its content is extremely vague, even suspect.

According to traditional conceptions, the function of a master is not limited to the teaching of doctrines, but implies an actual incarnation of knowledge, thanks to which he can awaken other men, and help them in their search simply by his presence.

He is there to create conditions for an experience through which knowledge can be lived as fully as possible.

This is the real key to the life of Gurdjieff.

From the time of his return to the West, he worked unceasingly to gather round him a group of people ready to share with him a life wholly turned towards the development of consciousness. He unfolded his ideas to them, sustained and gave life to their search, and brought them to the conviction that, to be complete, their experience must include at one and the same time all the aspects of a human being. And this is the very idea of the “harmonious development of man” on which he based that Institute which for many years he strove to set on its feet.

Working towards this goal, Gurdjieff had to fight a relentless battle through all the difficulties caused not only by war, revolution, and exile, but also by the indifference of some and the hostility of others.

To give the reader some idea of this struggle, and of his tireless ingenuity in carrying it on, there has been added a chapter not originally intended for this book. It is an account he gave one evening in reply to a question—seemingly very indiscreet—about the financial resources of the Institute.

This astonishing narrative, which appears under the title “The Material Question”, may contribute to a better understanding of how a master’s life and all his actions are subordinated to the accomplishment of his mission.

I

INTRODUCTION

EXACTLY A MONTH HAS ELAPSED since I finished the first series of my writings—just that period of the flow of time which I intended to devote exclusively to resting the parts of my common presence subordinate to my pure reason. As I wrote in the last chapter of the first series,2 I had given myself my word that during the whole of this time I would do no writing whatsoever, but would only, for the well-being of the most deserving of these subordinate parts, slowly and gently drink down all the bottles of old calvados now at my disposal by the will of fate in the wine-cellar of the Prieuré, and specially provided the century before last by people who understood the true sense of life.

Today I have decided, and now I wish—without forcing myself at all, but on the contrary with great pleasure—to set to work at my writing again, of course with the help of all the corresponding forces and also, this time, with the help of the law-conformable cosmic results flowing in from all sides upon my person from the good wishes of the readers of the first series.

I now propose to give a form understandable for everyone to everything I have written down for the second series, in the hope that these ideas may serve as preparatory constructive material for setting up in the consciousness of creatures similar to myself a new world—a world in my opinion real, or at least one that can be perceived as real by all degrees of human thinking without the slightest impulse of doubt, instead of the illusory world which contemporary people picture to themselves.

And indeed, the mind of contemporary man, of whatever level of intellectuality, is only able to take cognizance of the world by means of data which, whenever accidentally or intentionally activated, arouse in him all sorts of fantastic impulses. And these impulses, by constantly affecting the tempo of all the associations flowing in him, gradually disharmonize the whole of his functioning, with such sorrowful results that it is impossible for any man, if he is able to isolate himself even a little from the influences of the established abnormal conditions of our ordinary life and is willing to think about it seriously, not to be terrified—as, for example, by the shortening of our life with each decade.

First of all, for the ‘swing of thought’, that is, for establishing a corresponding rhythm for my thinking and also for yours, I wish to follow somewhat the example of the Great Beelzebub and imitate the form of thinking of one highly respected by him and by me, and perhaps already, brave reader of my writings, by you, if of course you have had the daring to read through to the end all of the first series. That is to say, I wish to introduce at the very beginning of this writing of mine what our dear-to-all Mullah Nassr Eddin3 would call a ‘subtly philosophical question’.

I wish to do this at the very beginning because I intend to use freely, both here and in my later expositions, the wisdom of this sage, who is now recognized almost everywhere and upon whom, it is rumoured, the title of ‘The One and Only’ is soon to be officially conferred by the proper person.

And this subtly philosophical question may already be sensed in that sort of perplexity which is bound to arise in the consciousness of every reader of even the very first paragraph of this chapter, if he compares the many data on which his firm convictions about medical matters are based with the fact that I, the author of Beelzebub’s Tales to His Grandson, after the accident which nearly cost me my life, with the functioning of my organism not yet fully re-established owing to the incessant active effort to set down my thoughts for transmission to others as exactly as possible, carried out my rest quite satisfactorily during this time chiefly by the use of immoderate quantities of alcohol, in the form of the above-mentioned old calvados and of its various full-strength virile cousins.

As a matter of fact, to give a completely true and exhaustive reply to this subtly philosophical question thus propounded impromptu, one must first reach a just verdict on my personal guilt in failing to fulfil exactly the obligation I had taken upon myself —to drink down all the remaining bottles of the said old calvados.

The point is that during this time appointed for my rest, despite all my automatic desire, I could not limit myself to the fifteen remaining bottles of old calvados which I mentioned in the last chapter of the first series, but had to combine the sublime contents of these bottles with the contents of two hundred other bottles—enchanting even to look upon—of the no less sublime liquid called old armagnac, so that this totality of cosmic substances might suffice for me personally, as well as for the whole tribe of those who have become in recent years my inevitable assistants, chiefly in these ‘sacred ceremonies’ of mine.

Before pronouncing this verdict on my personal guilt, one must finally take into account that from the very first day I changed my custom of drinking armagnac from what are called liqueur glasses and began drinking it from what are called tumblers. And I began to do so instinctively, it seems to me—obviously so that, in the present case also, justice might triumph.

I do not know about you, brave reader, but the rhythm of my thinking is now established, and I can begin again, without forcing myself, to wiseacre in full blast.

In this second series I intend, among other things, to introduce and elucidate seven sayings which have come down to our day from very ancient times by means of inscriptions on various monuments, which I happened to come across and deciphered during my travels—sayings in which our remote ancestors formulated certain aspects of objective truth, clearly perceptible even to contemporary human reason. I shall therefore begin with just that one saying which, besides serving as a good starting-point for the expositions which follow, will be a link with the last chapter of the first series.

This ancient saying, chosen by me for the beginning of the second series of my writings, is formulated thus:Only he will deserve the name of man and can count upon anything prepared for him from Above, who has already acquired corresponding data for being able to preserve intact both the wolf and the sheep confided to his care.

A ‘psycho-associative philological analysis’ of this saying of our ancestors which was made by certain learned men of our times—of course not from among those breeding on the continent of Europe—clearly showed that the word ‘wolf’ symbolizes the whole of the fundamental and reflex functioning of the human organism and the word ‘sheep’ the whole of the functioning of a man’s feeling. As for the functioning of a man’s thinking, this is represented in the saying by the man himself, a man who, in the process of his responsible life, owing to his conscious labours and voluntary sufferings, has acquired in his common presence corresponding data for always being able to create conditions for a possible existence together of these two heterogeneous and mutually alien lives. Only such a man can count upon and become worthy to possess that which, as affirmed in this saying, is prepared from Above and is, in general, foreordained for man.

It is interesting to note that among the many proverbs and ingenious solutions of tricky problems habitually used by various Asiatic tribes, there is one—in which a wolf and, instead of a sheep, a goat also play their part—that corresponds very well, in my opinion, to the gist of the ancient saying I have quoted.

The question posed by this tricky problem is to find out how a man who has in his possession a wolf, a goat and, in the present case, a cabbage, can transfer them across a river from one bank to the other, if one takes into consideration, on the one hand, that his boat can carry only the load of himself and one of the three objects at a time, and on the other hand, that without his direct observation and influence the wolf can always destroy the goat, and the goat the cabbage.

And the correct answer to this popular riddle clearly shows that a man can achieve this not solely by means of the ingenuity which every normal man should have, but that in addition he must not be lazy nor spare his strength, but must cross the river an extra time for the attainment of his aim.

Returning to the meaning of the ancient saying chosen by me, and keeping in mind the gist of the correct solution of this popular riddle, then, if one thinks about it without any of the preconceptions always arising from the results of the idle thoughts usual to contemporary man, it is impossible not to admit with one’s mind and agree with one’s feelings that anyone calling himself a man must never be lazy, but, constantly devising all sorts of compromises, must struggle with his self-avowed weaknesses in order to attain the aim he has set himself: to preserve intact these two independent animals confided to the care of his reason, and which are, by their very essence, opposite to each other.

Having yesterday finished this, as I called it, ‘wiseacring for the swing of thought’, this morning I took with me the manuscript of a synopsis I had written in the first two years of my activities as a writer, which I intended to use as material for the beginning of this second series, and went into the park to sit down and work in the shade of the historic avenue of trees. After reading the first two or three pages, forgetting everything around me, I became deeply thoughtful, pondering on how to continue further; and I sat there without writing a single word until very late in the evening.

I was so wrapped up in these reflections that I did not once notice that the youngest of my nieces, the one whose task it is to see that the Arabian coffee which I usually take, particularly when doing any intensely active physical or mental work, does not become quite cold in the cup, changed it, as I afterwards learned, twenty-three times.

In order that you may understand the seriousness of this engrossed thoughtfulness of mine, and picture to yourself, if only approximately, the difficulty of my situation, I must tell you that after I had read these pages and remembered by association the entire contents of the manuscript I had intended to make use of as an introduction, it became quite clear to me that all this over which I had, as is said, ‘panted’ during so many sleepless nights, would now, after the changes and additions I had made in the final editing of the first series, be of no use at all.

When I understood this I experienced, for about half an hour, the state which Mullah Nassr Eddin defines by the words ‘to feel oneself plunged in galoshes up to the eyebrows’; and I was ready at first to resign myself, and came to the decision to rewrite this entire chapter from beginning to end. But afterwards, continuing to recall automatically all sorts of sentences from my manuscript, I remembered, among other things, the place where, in order to explain why I took an attitude of merciless criticism towards contemporary literature, I had introduced the words of a certain intelligent, elderly Persian which I had heard in my early youth, and which, in my opinion, could not have better described the characteristics of contemporary civilization. I considered it impossible to deprive the reader either of what had been said on this subject or of all the other thoughts, so to say, artfully imbedded in this passage, thoughts which, for anyone able to decipher them, can be exceedingly valuable material for a correct understanding of what I intend to elucidate in the last two series in a form accessible to a...