Those of you who know me on a
daily basis won't be surprised to hear this, but of late I've been drawn to
Buddhism. It's a long story, and
something for another blog entry, but not this one. This is about what the Buddhists call
"Right Speech", which they hold to be he best, wisest, and most
productive way to talk to one another. What I'm doing is a rambling riff on the principles of right speech, as they apply to writing and, I guess, how I try to speak to other people. This passage comes from the Cunda Kammaraputta Sutta translated from the Pali byThanissaro Bhikkhu; the
numbering is my own.
And how is one made
pure in four ways by verbal action? 1. There
is the case where a certain person, abandoning false speech, abstains from
false speech. When he has been called to a town meeting, a group meeting, a
gathering of his relatives, his guild, or of the royalty, if he is asked as a
witness, 'Come & tell, good man, what you know': If he doesn't know, he
says, 'I don't know.' If he does know, he says, 'I know.' If he hasn't seen, he
says, 'I haven't seen.' If he has seen, he says, 'I have seen.' Thus he doesn't
consciously tell a lie for his own sake, for the sake of another, or for the
sake of any reward. Abandoning false speech, he abstains from false speech. He
speaks the truth, holds to the truth, is firm, reliable, no deceiver of the
world. 2. Abandoning divisive speech
he abstains from divisive speech. What he has heard here he does not tell there
to break those people apart from these people here. What he has heard there he
does not tell here to break these people apart from those people there. Thus
reconciling those who have broken apart or cementing those who are united, he
loves concord, delights in concord, enjoys concord, speaks things that create
concord. 3. Abandoning abusive
speech, he abstains from abusive speech. He speaks words that are soothing to
the ear, that are affectionate, that go to the heart, that are polite,
appealing & pleasing to people at large. 4. Abandoning idle chatter, he abstains from idle chatter. He
speaks in season, speaks what is factual, what is in accordance with the goal,
the Dhamma, & the Vinaya. He speaks words worth treasuring, seasonable,
reasonable, circumscribed, connected with the goal. This is how one is made
pure in four ways by verbal action.
In a nutshell, then, a way of talking to each
other. I've seen this formulated into
questions you might ask yourself before speaking. You might have another version, another way
of addressing how you talk to those around you, but what follows is my version,
what I'm getting from this teaching, filtered through some of the things I'm
learning as a novelist. These are
questions that I forget to ask myself sometimes, both in my work and in my
daily dealings with all of you. So I'm
renewing the promise: I'm going to ask myself these things in the coming days. I'm going to break the promise, and I'm going
to promise them again because long experience as a writer and as a human being
tells me that the things below add up to a kind of "right speech", a
way for us to use language in books, in discussion, and in all kinds of
conversations. So, before I speak—either
aloud or on paper—I'll be asking myself…
- How do you know this thing you're about to say? Lots of
treatments of Right Speech present this as "Are you sure?" Lots of people I know, however, are always sure, whether they admit it
or not, or whether it ends up that they are actually right. I'm not much of a postmodernist,
but I'm enough of one to know that surety is a pretty high bar to jump
(postmodernists are sure of nothing except that everything is uncertain—of
that, they're absolutely sure). So I'll put surety to the test by thinking
about the source of my information, "citing my sources". Do I speak from personal
experience? From anecdote? From an explanation of the subject by
one of you? Out of something I've
read? Seen on television? None of these sources—not even FOX
News—are always wrong, but when you look at the list, you'll probably come
to the same conclusion I have: that none are always right. Neither am I. Nor you. Does that mean you should not voice an
opinion? I don't think so. What's helpful to me in my version of
the question is that it asks me to think about where I learned this, and
to proceed with the knowledge that I just might be mistaken. Those who know me can vouch for my own
failings in being humble in this, but it's something I work on as a
novelist as well: there's always a danger to a story if the writer tends
to preach, to proclaim, to rant. I
find myself more tempted to do so as I get older, because I've lived a
long time without seeing certain things get fixed, and sometimes it gets
frustrating to know that they are not gonna
get fixed, that they are unfixable given the human condition. But as a novelist, you always consider motive, how the character comes to
his behavior and what makes him do the things he does. If you hijack the plot and
characterization to suit your personal agenda, you're setting up one of
the ways that a book can go bad.
- Does what you're saying create concord? This
is the question at which a lot of my community fails, since most of my
friends are pretty individualistic, not doctrinaire with their
philosophies, theologies, politics.
We tend to characterize the other
guy as doctrinaire, of course, but not ourselves—we call it as we see
it. The longer I live as a
novelist, the more I understand this question through my own work. Characters who are doctrinaire become
pretty much uninteresting as primary actors in a piece of fiction: they
can be great foils or cameos or walk-ons, all of which help define the
main characters, the ones you are interested in, the ones who change,
question and contradict themselves, and otherwise comprise a good subtle
story. But for all that
individualism, they're part of a larger story—events that move toward meaning and a kind of
resolution. Which I think is what
I'm looking for in living, even if I don't find it a lot (or even most) of
the time. It's what most people are
looking for, at least in my experience.
And our conversation should reflect that. The idea is to find common ground so
discussion can begin: the sutta talks about reconciling those who
have broken apart or cementing those who are united, and I think if we
are going to live together, that should be in our sights.
- Is it kind? Of the four questions, this one
is probably the least obviously connected to my life as a writer. Start by saying I follow a number of the
Buddhist framings of abstaining from
abusive speech. Language is my
medium: I use it to make up people and events, and I should honor it by
dedicating myself to its precise and evocative use. That means a number of things: that I
should attend to grammar and usage, so that each sentence is intentional;
that I should understand the characters who emerge from my words and honor
their motives; that I should honor the writing rather than writing for
honor. Kindness, in its most
interpersonal form (because ultimately kindness has to do with how we
treat others), leads me to questions of professionalism: Writers can be exasperating, ego-ridden
people, and I have been among the worst offenders. But it's an ego-based calling to begin
with. We tend to forget that people don't have
to read our work, that their generosity in doing so is, in some ways, a
call to our gratitude and kindness. It can be humbling to remember that. And
those who hold egos in check are usually the most kind and (to me) among
the most admirable. As I write
this, I think of my friends Marian Allen, Stephen Zimmer, and most of all
Margaret Weis, who is (next to my wife, Rhonda) the best person I
know. One other thing about abusive
speech: Being kind doesn't mean you have to agree, just that you should
strive for civility. Lanny Davis, a
former advisor to President Clinton, has written on how to re-introduce
politeness into American conversation, especially when we are disagreeing:
he says to start with the facts, to put them on the table, and then discuss. Now, sometimes discord in this country (perhaps
worldwide, but certainly in this country) often has reaches the point that
we can't even agree on some of the facts.
But trying to establish them has a tendency to cool down the
conversation. And folks, please consider the possibility
that name-calling is not discussion? I don't tend to cut off conversations unless you're calling people names. Finally, yes, sometimes there is kindness in correction, but see #1 above
before you start correcting?
- Is it necessary? The
sutta speaks to idle chatter. I
suppose that's gossip and superficiality.
But necessity also suggests that there's a right time to say
things. As a novelist you have to learn when to introduce detail,
situation. It's pacing, timing, the
soul of good narrative, and something I wrestle with all the time, often
unsuccessfully. But I still attend
to it, still think about when it's right to bring something up. This also is useful to think about when
we are in conversation: someone I knew quite well, rest her soul, would
say hurtful things, then justify having done so with "I had to say it". Well, she really didn't have to.
Sometimes I've found it best to be quiet, when people are neither listening
nor ready to listen. If I had
offered my opinion, it might have been a kind of "vanity press"—unleashing
words into a conversation that are not shaped and chosen and polished to
be heard.
A lot of things went down in
this blog: writing and Buddha and everyday conversation. All of which centers on acts of
attention. I'm not great at tuning in, but my
work and temperament and life in general improve when I attend to right speech.
