ANICCA - impermanence in Dhamma (philosophical considerations)

That the puthujjana does not see aniccatā is evident from the fact that the formula, 'Whatever has the nature of arising, all that has the nature of ceasing', which is clearly enough the definition of aniccatā, is used only in connection with the sotāpanna's attainment: Tassa...vītamalam dhammacakkhum udapādi. Yam kiñci samudayadhammam, sabbam tam nirodhadhamman ti.[1] Aniccatā is seen with the sotāpanna's dhammacakkhu, or eye of the dhamma.
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Aniccatā or 'impermanence', in the Buddha's Teaching, is sometimes taken as a 'doctrine of universal flux', or continuous change of condition. This is a disastrous over-simplification—see PATICCASAMUPPĀDA [c].

In the Khandha Samyutta (iv,6 <S.iii,38>) it is said of rūpa, vedanā, saññā, sankhārā, and viññāna: uppādo paññāyati; vayo paññāyati; thitassa aññathattam paññāyati. ('Arising (appearance) is manifest; disappearance is manifest; change while standing is manifest. (Cf. Anguttara III,v,7, at the head of FUNDAMENTAL STRUCTURE.)')[a] These three sankhatassa sankhatalakkhanāni (Anguttara III,v,7 <A.i,152>), or characteristics whereby what is determined (i.e. a sankhata dhamma) may be known as such (i.e. as sankhata), concisely indicate the fundamental structure in virtue of which things are things—in virtue of which, that is to say, things are distinct, one from another. It is also in virtue of this structure that all experience, including the arahat's, is intentional (see CETANĀ) or teleological (i.e. that things are significant, that they point to other, possible, things—e.g. a hammer is a thing for hammering, and what it is for hammering is nails; or, more subtly, a particular shade of a particular colour is just that shade by pointing to all the other distinct shades that it might be, while yet remaining the same colour, but actually is not [cf. Spinoza's dictum 'Omnis determinatio est negatio']).[b] The arahat's experience, as stated above, is teleological, as is the puthujjana's; but with the arahat things no longer have the particular significance of being 'mine'. This special significance, dependent upon avijjā, is not of the same kind as a thing's simple intentional or teleological significances, but is, as it were, a parasite upon them. Detailed consideration of this structure and its implications seems to lead to the solution of a great many philosophical problems, but these are no more than indirectly relevant to the understanding of the Buddha's Teaching.[c] Some people, however, may find that a description of this structure provides a useful instrument for thinking with. (See FUNDAMENTAL STRUCTURE.)

For a discussion of sabbe sankhārā aniccā see DHAMMA.

 
Footnotes:
 
[a] Cf. 'La "chose" existe d'un seul jet, comme "forme" [Gestalt], c'est-à-dire comme un tout qui n'est affecté par aucune des variations superficielles et parasitaires que nous pouvons y voir. Chaque ceci se dévoile avec une loi d'être qui détermine son seuil, c'est-à-dire le niveau de changement où il cessera d'être ce qu'il est pour n'être plus, simplement.'—J.-P. Sartre, op. cit., pp. 256-7. ('The "thing" exists all at once, as a "configuration", that is to say as a whole that is unaffected by any of the superficial and parasitic variations that we may see there. Each this is revealed with a law of being that determines its threshold, that is to say the level of change where it will cease to be what it is, in order, simply, to be no more.' [The occurrence of the word parasitic both here and in (c) below is coincidental: two different things are referred to. Should we not, in any case, prefer the single word subordinate to superficial and parasitic?])

The third characteristic, thitassa aññathattam, occurs as 'Invariance under Transformation' (or similar expressions, e.g. 'Unity in Diversity' or 'Identity in Difference') in idealist logic (Bradley) and in relativity and quantum theories. The branch of mathematics that deals with it is the theory of groups.

This third characteristic answers the question What? —i.e. 'Is this the same thing that was, or is it another?' (see ATTĀ)—: it does not, as the argument Na ca so na ca añño in the Milindapañha mistakenly implies, answer the question Who? If the answer were quite as simple as that, it would not take a Buddha to discover it—a Bradley would almost do. In other words, the question of impermanence is not simply that of establishing these three characteristics. See NA CA SO for a discussion of the illegitimacy of the question Who? (It is perhaps being over-charitable to the Milinda to associate its argument with the three sankhatalakkhanāni: the Milinda is probably thinking in terms of flux or continuous change. Bradley, while accepting the principle of identity on the ideal level, does not reject a real continuous change: we may possibly not be wrong in attributing some such view to the Milinda in its interpretation of the Dhamma. See PATICCASAMUPPĀDA [c].)

[b] McTaggart, in The Nature of Existence (Cambridge 1921-7, §§149-54), remarks that philosophers have usually taken the expressions 'organic unity' and 'inner teleology' as synonymous (the aspect of unity becoming the end in the terminology of the latter conception), and that they distinguish 'inner teleology' from 'external teleology', which is what we normally call volition. Without discussing McTaggart's views, we may note that the distinction between 'inner' and 'external' teleology is simply the distinction between immediate and reflexive intention. Every situation is an organic unity, whether it is a cube or bankruptcy we are faced with.

[c] Some description of the complex parasitic structure of appropriatedness, of being mastered or in subjection ('mine'—see PHASSA), seems not impossible; but it is evidently of much less practical consequence to make such a description—supposing, that is to say, that it could actually be done—than to see how it might be made. For if one sees this (it would appear to be a matter of describing the peculiar weightage—see CETANĀ—of the special unitary intention 'mine', superposed on all other weightage, immediate or reflexive), then one already has seen that appropriatedness is in fact a parasite.
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The notion of flux can be expressed thus: A = B, B = C, A ≠ C, where A, B, and C, are consecutive (Poincaré’s definition of continuity). This contradiction can only be concealed by verbal legerdemain. (The origin of this misleading notion, as of so many others in the traditional interpretation, seems to be the Milindapañha, which, to judge by its simile of the flame, intends its formula na ca so na ca añño to be understood as describing continuous change.) The misunderstanding arises from failure to see that change at any given level of generality must be discontinuous and absolute, and that there must be different levels of generality.
When these are taken together, any desired approximation to ‘continuous change’ can be obtained without contradiction. But change, as marking ‘the passage of time’, is no more than change of aspect or orientation: change of substance is not necessary, nor is movement. (See Anicca [a], Citta [a], & Fundamental Structure.) Kierkegaard (op. cit., p. 277) points out that Heraclitus, who summed up his doctrine of universal flux in the celebrated dictum that one cannot pass through the same river twice, had a disciple who remarked that one cannot pass through the same river even once. If everything is changing, there is no change at all.

The assumption of a single absolute time, conceived as a uniform continuity (or flux) of instants, leads at once to a very common misconception of the Dhamma:

A. Even if I now perceive things as self-identically persisting in time, my present perception is only one out of a flux or continuous succession of perceptions, and there is no guarantee that I continue to perceive the same self-identities for two successive instants. All I am therefore entitled to say is that there appear to be self-identities persisting in time; but whether it is so or not in reality I am quite unable to discover.

B. The Buddha’s teachings of impermanence and not-self answer this question in the negative: In reality no things exist, and if they appear to do so that is because of my ignorance of these teachings (which is avijjā).

But we may remark: (i) That A is the result of taking presumptively the rational view of time, and using it to question the validity of direct reflexive experience. But the rational view of time is itself derived, ultimately, from direct reflexive experience—how can we know about time at all, if not from experience?—, and it is quite illegitimate to use it to dig away its own foundations. The fault is in the act of rationalization, in the attempt to see time from a point outside it; and the result—a continuous succession of isolated instants each of no duration and without past or future (from a timeless point of view they are all present)—is a monster. The distinction in A (as everywhere else) between ‘appearance’and ‘reality’ is wholly spurious. (ii) That since our knowledge of time comes only from perception of change, the nature of change must be determined before we can know the structure of time. We have, therefore, no antecedent reason—if we do not actually encounter the thing itself— for entertaining the self-contradictory idea (see Poincaré above) of continuous change. (iii) That, whether or not we do actually perceive continuous change, we certainly perceive discontinuous changes (so much is admitted by A), and there is thus a prima-facie case at least in favour of the latter. (iv) That the experiments of the Gestalt psychologists indicate that, in fact, we perceive only discontinuous changes, not continuous change (cf. Sartre, op. cit., p. 190). (v) That if, nevertheless, we say that we do at times and in the normal way have intuitive experience, distinct and unambiguous, of continuous change, and if we also say that continuous change, in accordance with B, is what is meant by the teaching of impermanence, then it will follow that at such times we must enjoy a direct view of ‘reality’ and be free from avijjā. Why, then, should we need a Buddha to tell us these things? But if we reject the first premiss we shall have no longer any grounds for having to assert a uniformly continuous time, and if we reject the second we shall have no longer any grounds for wishing to assert it. (On the question of self-identity, see Attā.) Our undeniable experience of movement and similar things (e.g. the fading of lights) will no doubt be adduced as evidence of continuous change—indeed, it will be said that they are continuous change. That movement is evidence of what it is, is quite certain; but it is not so certain that it is evidence of continuous change. We may understand movement as, at each level of generality, a succession of contiguous fixed finite trajectories (to borrow Sartre’s expression), and each such trajectory, at the next lower level, as a relatively faster succession of lesser trajectories, and so on indefi-nitely . But, as discussed in Fundamental Structure [h], our ability to per-ceive distinctions is limited, and this hierarchy of trajectories is anomalously apprehended as a series of discrete continuities of displacement—which is, precisely, what we are accustomed to call movement. In other words, it is only where our power of discrimination leaves off that we start talking about ‘continuous change’. (Consideration of the mechanism of the cinematograph—see the foregoing reference—is enough to show that continuous change cannot safely be inferred from the experience of movement;
but it must not be supposed that the structure of movement can be reduced simply to the structure of the cinematograph film. See also Fundamental Structure [m].)
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Now the Pali texts say that the Buddha taught anicca/dukkha/anattā, and the average Theravādin, monk or layman, seems to take for granted that aniccatā, or impermanence, means that things are perpetually changing, that they do not remain the same for two consecutive moments. Failing to make the necessary distinctions (see PATICCASAMUPPĀDA [c]), they understand this as implying perpetual flux of everything all the time. This, of course, destroys the principle of self-identity, 'A is A'; for unless something endures unchanged for at least a certain interval of time you cannot even make the assertion 'this is A' since the word 'is' has lost its meaning. Bypassing dukkha as something we all know about, they arrive at anattā as meaning 'without self-identity'. (This is Mr. Wettimuny's theme,[2] following Dahlke. I do not think he is aware that he is putting himself among the Mahāyānists.) Granted the premise that anicca means 'in continuous flux', this conclusion is impeccable. Unfortunately, in doing away with the principle of self-identity, you do away with things—including change, which is also a thing. This means that for the puthujjana, who does not see aniccatā, things exist, and for the arahat, who has seen aniccatā, things do not exist. Thus the Mahāyānist contention is proved.

The difficulty arises when we deal with the sekha, who is in between the two; are we to say for him that 'things partly exist and partly do not exist', or that for him 'some things exist and some do not' (in which case we seem to have Eddington and the quantum theory)? The former, no doubt, would be preferable, but what is one to make of a partly non-existent thing? And in any case we have the curious state of affairs that there is change (or impermanence) only so long as it is not seen; for in the very instant that it is seen it vanishes. (This is certainly true of avijjā—see A NOTE ON PATICCASAMUPPĀDA §24—but the vanishing of avijjā, as I understand it, leaves impermanence intact and does not interfere with the three Laws of Thought.) I still don't think the Notes are Mr. Blofeld's cup of tea, but I shall be interested to see whether he is able to absorb them into Mahāyāna—if one has a mystical outlook, based on the principle that A is not A, there is nothing that cannot be reconciled with anything else.
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Regarding states of mind, which you differentiate (quite rightly) from physical objects in that they do not come within the sphere of science (though I cannot agree that they are 'not objects': they are mental objects),—you seem to think, and again you are right, that the notion of flux or continuous change does not apply to them. I have a slight impression that one reason why you do not apply the notion of flux to mental states is, precisely, that they are not in the sphere of science; and this, in its turn, suggests to me that you do apply the notion of flux to physical objects because they are in the sphere of science—in other words, out of 'superstitious regard for the prestige of contemporary science.
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Now for flux. I see that you make a certain distinction between physical objects and mental states: let us therefore consider first physical objects. You say 'The idea of continuous change or that everything is continuously changing seems to me to be correct. But the difficulty arises when the idea is extended and it is stated that this object is not the same object. The chair that is in front of me being of matter is undergoing change. In that sense it will not be the same chair. But in another sense but much more real is the idea that the chair is there and till it breaks down it will be so. This is still valid in spite of the changes that are taking place which may or may not be perceptible so long as the chair could be used as a chair'.

The distinction that you make here between 'the idea of continuous change' and 'the idea that the chair is there' is of the greatest importance, since it marks the distinction between the scientific view and the existential (or phenomenological) view. The question arises, Are these two views compatible, or if not, which is correct?

In spite of the fact that you say 'The idea of continuous change is a matter of observation and it accords with the scientific view that matter is subject to continuous change', I wish to suggest that the idea of continuous change is not a matter of observation (I shall discuss this later), but is purely and simply a theoretical consequence of the scientific claim to achieve complete objectivity. (Science aims at completely eliminating the observer—or individual point of view—from its results, thereby attaining complete generality. As soon as the observer is reinstated, as in quantum theory, change once again becomes discontinuous. The existential view, on the other hand, is that for an existing individual the world necessarily presents itself in one perspective or another. No individual can possibly see the world as science claims to see it, from all points of view at once. See Preface (f).)

[The scholar or scientist, with his objective method, cannot even ask such questions, since on principle he knows and wishes to know nothing of self, and nothing, therefore, of its inseparable correlative, the world. (The world, we must understand, is determined as such only with reference to self; for it is essentially ‘what belongs to self’, being that in which self is sit-uated and implicated. My world, as Heidegger notes, is the world of my pre-occupations and concerns, that is to say an organized perspective of things all significant to me and signifying me. The collection of independent public facts produced by the scientific method is inherently incapable of constitut-ing a world, since it altogether lacks any unifying personal determinant— which, indeed, it is the business of science to eliminate. Things, not facts, pace Wittgenstein, make up my world.) ]

You say 'The chair that is in front of me being of matter is undergoing change'. This sounds as if you are deducing continuous change from the fact that the chair is of matter, and I suggest that what you are doing is to apply an abstract notion that you have learnt about theoretically to your concrete experience (i.e. to the 'much more real idea that the chair is there'). The fact that you speak of 'changes that are taking place which...may not be perceptible' also gives the impression that you are making theoretical assumptions about the nature of change—how do you know anything about changes that you cannot perceive? (Here is Sartre speaking about material objects that are there in front of him:

Of course someone will object that I merely fail to see changes.... But this is to introduce very inappropriately a scientific point of view. Such a point of view, which nothing justifies, is contradicted by our very perception.... [B&N, p. 205])

You say 'the difficulty arises when... it is stated that the object is not the same object'. Quite true; but you yourself show the way out of the difficulty when you say 'When it is said that the infant is not the same as the grown up man... it is correct. When it is said that it is the same infant who has grown up it is also correct...'. When an infant grows up into a man, we perceive that the infant has changed, and we express this by saying that the infant both is and is not the same as the man (we are taking the infant and the man only as physical objects, not as 'selves', which is a different question). Clearly, then, in order for us to be able to say 'this has changed' two things are necessary: (i) sameness, and (ii) not-sameness, or difference. Unless there is something that remains the same, we cannot say 'this'; and unless there is something that is different, we cannot say 'changed'.
Take your mango tree. Ten years ago it was a small plant, now it is a big fruit-bearing tree, and in virtue of this difference you say it has changed; but both the small plant and the big tree are mango, and both are in the same place (the small mango plant has not grown up into a jak tree, nor is it now in another part of your garden), and in virtue of this sameness you say that it is not another tree. Or consider a leaf that changes colour—first it is green, then when it dies it becomes brown, but it is still the same leaf. What remains the same is the shape, and what is different is the colour, and so we say 'this leaf has changed'. This is quite simple owing to the fact that vision is a double sense, giving us perceptions both of shape and of colour, and it often happens that one remains constant while the other varies.

But let us take a more difficult case, and consider a change of colour alone. Suppose I have some blue curtains, and after a time I notice that 'the blue has faded'—how are we to understand this? Obviously, if I look at the curtains one day and find that they are crimson I shall not say 'the blue has faded' for the good reason that crimson is not blue at all—it is a different colour altogether. So I shall say simply 'the curtains have changed their colour' (just like the leaf). But if I say 'the blue has faded' I am saying that the curtains are still blue, but a slightly different blue, a lighter blue. What remains the same here is the general determination 'blue', and what is different is the particular shade of blue.

Take another case. I am looking at a spoon on the table in front of me. First I fix my attention on the bowl of the spoon and see the handle less distinctly out at one side; then I fix my attention on the handle and see the bowl less distinctly out at the other side. The spoon, as a whole, remains unchanged—in both cases it is exactly the same spoon. What is different is the particular aspect of the spoon within the general experience called 'seeing a spoon'. (Cf. CETANĀ.) Two points arise here.

1. Leaving aside the cases where one sensible quality varies while another remains constant (the leaf, for example) and considering only the more fundamental cases where the change takes place within one and the same sensible quality or characteristic, we notice that it is always the more general feature that remains invariable while the subordinate or more particular feature varies. This suggests that there may be a certain structure of change that must be taken into account whenever we consider the question of change; and if this is so, it will mean that the statement 'everything is changing' needs strict qualification. (In the last part of the Notes I have tried to give a formal account of this fundamental structure within which change takes place, but I expect that you have perhaps not been able to make very much of it. No matter.)

2. If it is possible, in any given change, to make a clear-cut distinction between those features that do not vary and those that do, it will follow that the distinction between sameness and difference is absolute: in other words, that we cannot say 'approximately the same' or 'approximately different'. (So long as we use the word 'approximate' at all that will be an indication that we have failed to make the distinction properly clear-cut, since 'approximately the same' means 'the same but with a difference' and 'approximately different'—i.e. 'somewhat different' or 'rather different'—means 'different but partly the same'.) If this is so, it will follow that all change takes place discontinuously; for if 'same' means 'absolutely the same' and 'different' means 'absolutely different', there can be no intermediate category between sameness and difference.

Perhaps you will object that it is ridiculous to speak of one's curtains 'fading discontinuously', and from the commonsense point of view I would agree with you. But the fact remains that we do not 'see our curtains fading'; what happens is that one day we 'notice' that the curtains 'have faded'; and this is a sudden perception. No doubt, after a few more weeks, we shall notice that the curtains have faded still more, and we shall infer that all this time the curtains have been gradually fading 'without our noticing it'. 'But' you may say 'do we not sometimes actually see things in process of changing—as when, for example, the lights are quickly lowered at the cinema and fade in five or ten seconds?' We do: but observe that, in the first place, the change is from 'steady light' to 'fading light' and then from 'fading light' to 'darkness'. In other words, 'fading light' is perceived as a thing distinct from both 'steady light' and 'darkness', and the change from one to another of these things is discontinuous. In the second place, there are reasons for supposing that what we actually perceive when we see a 'fading light'—which has the same essential structure as a 'flying arrow'—cannot be properly described as 'continuous change'.

A. The 'Gestalt' school of psychology has specialized in experimental investigation of perception of change, and has reported that every change that we perceive takes place suddenly and absolutely. (See the passage from Sartre translated in ANICCA [a].) Whenever a perceived change is described as 'taking place continuously' it is to be presumed either that the necessary analysis of a complex experience is beyond the power of the perceiver, or else that, unwittingly, rationalization has taken place. (That we do, in fact, have experience of movement and other such changes is, of course, not to be denied; but these experiences are notoriously difficult to describe, and the problem of motion has puzzled philosophers from time immemorial.)

B. It can be shown by argument that the notion of continuous change is self-contradictory (in other words, that it contains a short circuit somewhere). There are two ways of doing this.

(i) The first is to show that all experiences that we might be tempted to describe as 'continuous change' (motion of material objects, fading [or brightening] of lights and colours, decay of matter, and so on) can be adequately and completely described in terms of discontinuous changes at different levels of generality. I am satisfied that the dialectic outlined in FUNDAMENTAL STRUCTURE is capable of doing this (which is one reason why I have included it in the Notes), but unless you have understood this note I cannot hope to make myself intelligible to you here. I have summed up this argument against the idea of flux in PATICCASAMUPPĀDA: 'The contradiction [involved in the definition of flux or continuous change] arises from failure to see that change at any given level of generality must be discontinuous and absolute, and that there must be different levels of generality. When these are taken together, any desired approximation to "continuous change" can be obtained without contradiction'. (The starting-point of any discussion of motion must always be Zeno's Eleatic arrow. Some account of this celebrated paradox is given by Bertrand Russell—M&L, pp. 79-83—but the problem is not so easily solved as Russell likes to think.)[a]

(ii) The second way of dealing with the notion of flux is to discuss it directly, and to show that it cannot be defined without encountering a self-contradiction. This, in fact, is what I have tried to do in the briefest possible way in PATICCASAMUPPĀDA [c], with the definition borrowed from Poincaré: A = B, B = C, A ≠ C. Let us, however, consider the notion of flux in more detail. The word itself means a flowing, and the idea it conveys is that of smooth transition, that is, continuous change. This is evidently opposed to discontinuous change, but without implying no-change or fixity.

My dictionary defines it as 'a continuous succession of changes', which we can use as a starting point. A succession of changes clearly means one change after another, and a continuous succession of changes will mean that there is no interval of time between these changes. But how much time does a single change take? Either it takes some time, in which case we are obliged to say that each individual change is a continuous change, and therefore itself a flux; or it takes no time and is instantaneous, in which case we have to conclude that a flux is itself instantaneous, since the individual changes take no time, and there is no time between the changes. The second alternative at once raises the objection that you cannot have a succession of changes—one change after another—if no time is involved. The first alternative—that every individual change is a flux—makes the definition circular: 'a flux is a continuous succession of fluxes', and we still do not know what a flux is.

Perhaps, then, we are wrong in thinking that 'a continuous succession of changes' is the same as 'continuous change'. If these two are not the same, and 'continuous change' is the truth, then we must deny the existence of separate individual changes: there will be change, but not changes or a change. In other words we must renounce all attempt at defining flux in terms of individual changes, and must seek, rather, to take a sample of flux, of continuous change, and describe it. Here, then, is a flux—continuous change. Let us take a slice of this flux and divide it into three consecutive sections, calling them A, B, and C (note that we cannot take three consecutive instants in the flux without falling into contradiction, since instants, which are of no time, cannot be consecutive, i.e. both contiguous and successive—if two instants are contiguous both are of no time and have no time between them, and there is still no time and therefore no succession; if they are successive both are of no time and have some time between them, therefore they are not contiguous).

We have to ignore for the moment the fact that each of these three sections itself consists of continuous change, and we regard each section as a whole, without inquiring what is going on inside. We are expressly forbidden to introduce the idea of an individual change, and so we must say that 'A is the same as B' (A = B) and that 'B is the same as C' (B = C); for if we postulate that A and B (or B and C) are both contiguous and different we thereby automatically define a discrete individual change—there is 'a change' at the junction of A and B, where A changes to B. So far so good. But a flux is, in fact, change; and so we must introduce the idea of difference into our description. Let us therefore say that 'A is different from C' (A ≠ C). Since A and C are not contiguous we have not defined any discontinuous change between them, and all is well—between A and C there is change but not a change. So our description—A = B, B = C, A ≠ C—does, in fact, agree with the notion of flux as continuous change. And we can take each individual section (A, B, and C) in turn and divide it into three lesser sections (a, b, and c) and describe it in the same way (a = b, b = c, a ≠ c). In this way our description can be seen to apply to any sample of the flux that we like to take. But, alas! our description contains a self-contradiction: B = C (or C = B) and A ≠ C; therefore A ≠ B; but also A = B; therefore both A = B and A ≠ B; and this outrages the Law of Contradiction, 'A is not both B and not-B'.

Regarding states of mind, which you differentiate (quite rightly) from physical objects in that they do not come within the sphere of science (though I cannot agree that they are 'not objects': they are mental objects),—you seem to think, and again you are right, that the notion of flux or continuous change does not apply to them. I have a slight impression that one reason why you do not apply the notion of flux to mental states is, precisely, that they are not in the sphere of science; and this, in its turn, suggests to me that you do apply the notion of flux to physical objects because they are in the sphere of science—in other words, out of 'superstitious regard for the prestige of contemporary science' (see Preface to Notes). It is quite possible that I am doing you an injustice here, but this is a matter that you must decide for yourself—in any case, I am only recording the impression that I get from your letter.[b] But though I say that you are right in thinking that the notion of flux cannot be applied to states of mind, you will have gathered from what has gone before that I maintain that the notion of flux also cannot be applied to physical objects. Once the notion of flux is ruled out entirely, it becomes clear that the structure of change of mental states (or mental objects) has much more in common with that of physical objects than might appear at first sight. (You say that mental states such as pleasure and grief 'appear, vanish, and reappear'—but is this not true also of physical objects? Do we not have familiar sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and bodily contacts?) It is necessary to remember that the three characteristics (Notes, ANICCA), namely arising, disappearance, and change while persisting, apply to all experience, whether of physical objects or of states of mind. (The last characteristic, thitassa aññathattam, I understand as expressing the combination of absolute sameness and absolute difference that I suggested earlier in this letter was the essential structure of all change.)

As I understand your last paragraph, I gather that you consider that all mental states cease when one becomes arahat. This is not so (except in the particular sense of 'cease' of A NOTE ON PATICCASAMUPPĀDA §22 & VIÑÑĀNA). There are still mental states for the arahat so long as he continues to live, but these states are now wholly free of lust, hate, and delusion. In other words, there is still consciousness for the arahat until his body breaks up in death. See also PHASSA [b].

Perhaps you will be wondering why it is that I am so anxious to destroy the notion of flux—or at least to eliminate it from the context of the Dhamma (I have nothing to say against its use in the context of science, nor have I anything to say against science itself in its proper place; but its proper place is not the Dhamma: scientific thinking and Dhamma thinking belong to two quite different orders, as I hope to have made plain in the Preface to the Notes). The reason is to be found in your letter itself. You say 'The word flux means continuous change. If this idea is applied to everything it would be correct to say that what I see now, e.g. a tree, is not the same as I continue to watch it as it is subject to continuous change' and also 'I have heard as an extension of the same idea, Buddhist monks saying, pointing to an object, that the object is not there'. This doctrine is a complete misunderstanding and is wholly misleading. And, as you quite rightly point out, it is based on the notion of universal flux. In order, therefore, to undermine this false doctrine, it is necessary to point out that the notion of flux, at least as applied to experience, is a self-contradiction.

But why, if it is false, is this doctrine taught? The answer is, because it provides a conveniently simple interpretation of the Suttas, easily learned and easily preached. The Buddha has said that 'What is impermanent, that is suffering; what is suffering, that is not-self'. This is understood (or rather, misunderstood) in the following way.

Impermanence is taken to mean continuous change (flux), and (as you have said) if this notion is correct, the idea of a thing's continuing self-identity cannot be maintained—what appears to be the self-same tree persisting in time is not really the same since it is continuously changing. In consequence of this, the idea of self is an illusion; and it only persists on account of our avijjā, or ignorance of the truth of universal flux. If we remove this ignorance, we shall see that what we formerly took to be a lasting (or existing) selfsame tree ('A = A', the Principle of Self-identity) really has no abiding self at all—it does not really exist. And this explains why 'what is impermanent, that is not-self'. And what is wrong with this? What is wrong with it is—as perhaps you have noticed—that it does not explain why what is impermanent is suffering, and what is suffering is not self.

Suffering (dukkha) is the key to the whole of the Buddha's Teaching,[c] and any interpretation that leaves suffering out of account (or adds it, perhaps, only as an afterthought) is at once suspect. The point is, that suffering has nothing to do with a tree's self-identity (or supposed lack of self-identity): what it does have to do with is my 'self' as subject (I, ego), which is quite another matter (see PARAMATTHA SACCA §6). As I point out (ATTĀ), 'With the question of a thing's self-identity (which presents no difficulty) the Buddha's Teaching of anattā has nothing whatsoever to do: anattā is purely concerned with "self" as subject'. But this is very much more difficult to grasp than the misinterpretation based on the notion of flux, so flux inevitably gets the popular vote (like the doctrine of paramattha sacca, of which it is really a part). The misinterpretation is actually of Mahāyānist origin; and in one of their texts (Prajñāpāramitā) it is specifically stated that it is only on account of avijjā that things appear to exist, whereas in reality nothing exists. But the fact is that, even when one becomes arahat, a tree continues to have a self-identity; that is to say, it continues to exist as the same tree (though undergoing subordinate changes on more particular levels—falling of leaves, growth of flowers and fruit, etc.) until it dies or is cut down. But for the arahat the tree is no longer 'my tree' since all notions of 'I' and 'mine' have ceased.

I don't know whether all this discussion will make my criticism of the notion of flux any clearer to you, but it may at least make you aware that there are serious objections to the introducing of this notion from scientific contexts into Dhamma contexts. If this letter raises any fresh difficulties, please let me know.

P.S. If you do not want to keep this letter when you have finished with it, I would suggest that, rather than destroy it, you might give it to Mr. Samaratunga to put in his file.

Footnotes:

[6.a] The solution described by Russell solves the problem by leaving it out. The problem is: What is time?

[6.b] It is perhaps worth noting in passing that the current 'orthodox' interpretation regards mental states as no less of a flux than physical objects. Here is an example: 'The stream of self-awareness that the uninstructed conceive to be a soul is made up of point-moments of consciousness, each of which has no more than a momentary duration.' This is pure speculation, with no relation at all to actual experience.

[6.c] 'Both formerly, monks, and now, it is just suffering that I make known and the cessation of suffering.' <M. 22: i,140>

*

Thank you for your letter. May I say that I again appreciate the fact that you have stated your questions in a clear and coherent way that makes the (rather difficult) task of answering them convincingly really quite a pleasure. And a well-put question sometimes almost answers itself.

You ask for Sutta references of passages where the Buddha has 'explained in specific terms the structure of change'. Beyond the two uppāda/vaya/thitassa aññathattam references (both given in ANICCA), I do not know of any at all. Perhaps this will astonish you; but the fact that the Buddha does not seem to have discussed the structure of change beyond this is, I think, not hard to understand. The point is this: provided a person does not have any preconceived ideas about the structure of change, an understanding of this structure is not necessary for the attainment of nibbāna.

An intelligent person observes that there is such a thing as change, that the things in his world do change from time to time; and the Buddha informs him that nothing that exists is exempt from change, that all existing things do come to an end sooner or later. And when that person considers this fact and applies it in the proper way (with yoniso manasikāra) to his own existence, it is enough (given certain other conditions) to lead him to enlightenment.

In general, it seems that the Buddha did not encourage philosophical or metaphysical investigation of matters that do not lead to nibbāna, for the good reason that a man might spend a lifetime in fruitless investigation and discussion of such matters, and die still unsatisfied, whereas he might quite quickly attain the goal by attending to the right things. (You may profitably read the Cúlamālunkya Sutta—M. 63: i,431—on this question.[1]) And it must be admitted that the whole question of the structure of change is one of the most difficult in philosophy.

Why then (you might ask) have I raised the question, when the Buddha did not? The reason is this: that today we do not approach the Dhamma without preconceived notions about change. In the prevailing scientific atmosphere we are all taught at school, particularly in the study of mathematics and science, that change is a continuous flux (we do not necessarily learn it explicitly, but it is implicit in these studies); and so, when we leave school, we know already that change is a flux, without even looking to see if it is so. And the consequence of this is that erroneous interpretations of the Dhamma (as I have already pointed out to you) have become firmly established.

Now, even supposing that my own speculations on the structure of change are somewhere near the mark (which, of course, remains an open question), I quite see that other people whose talents lie in other directions, might well scratch their heads over FUNDAMENTAL STRUCTURE for years without making anything of it at all; and it is for this reason that I have given warnings that it is only for those who find it useful. Nevertheless, I have decided to include it, as well as some other philosophical discussion of change, in order at least to show that there is an alternative to the idea of flux. Once somebody is prepared to abandon the idea of flux as an article of faith that he has learnt (almost) on his mother's knee, he may come to see that these current interpretations of the Dhamma must not be accepted without question. And once he does this, then it is probably not necessary for him to inquire any further into the structure of change.[a]

Let us now consider the principle that 'when change takes place within one and the same sensible quality or characteristic it is always the more general feature that remains invariable while the subordinate or more particular feature varies'. A little consideration, I think, will show you that this is really a tautology, and cannot therefore be denied. What I mean to say is this. If I am asked what I understand by the words 'particular' and 'general', I shall reply that what is general embraces two (or more) particulars, in such a way that each particular thing is an example or instance of the more general thing. (A number of leaves from different kinds of trees will each be a particular shade of green, and therefore all different one from another; but each and every one of these leaves is an instance of green in general.) And from this definition of 'particular' and 'general' it follows that any two particulars can be interchanged without affecting the general. (I can pick one leaf, and say 'this is green', and then I can throw it away and pick another leaf from a different tree, and say 'this, too, is green'. There is a change in the particular green that is in my hand, and unchange of sameness in the general green.) And it also follows that the converse is not true: there cannot be change of the general leaving any particular unchanged. (If the general colour of all the leaves changes from green to brown, every single leaf will be an instance or example of brown, and I shall be unable to find any leaf that is any shade of green at all.)

It should be clear that the principle enunciated above is implied in the very meaning of the words 'particular' and 'general'. But the question now is, Are we in fact entitled to make this distinction between 'particular' and 'general'? Do we in fact perceive a general green as well as a particular green? This is really a matter for each person to decide for himself, and instead of arguing the point I shall suggest a method of approach to individual cases.

Assuming that we are entitled to make this distinction, we see that in order to discover the general it is only necessary to put two particulars together, and what they have in common will be the general. This, I think, is clear. But also we can put it in a different way: we can say that whenever two particulars are found together, they ipso facto reveal the general. This means that whenever we perceive a togetherness of particulars, we do so because we perceive what they have in common (though it may be difficult to say precisely what it is). Whenever we see two (or more) different things that nevertheless seem to belong to each other, we are at once entitled to turn the situation the other way round and say that we see one and the same more general thing presenting two different aspects.[b]

If you have grasped this idea, you will see that it can be applied to perception of change. In perception of change, we have first A, and then B; but we must also have the 'belonging-togetherness' of A and B, otherwise we fail to connect A's disappearance and B's appearance and do not say that 'A has changed into B' or that 'A has become B'.

If I see a jug on the table, and then I go out of the room and come back a short while later and see a glass on the table instead of the jug, I do not say 'the jug has become the glass' because I do not perceive them as belonging together. But if (by some miracle) the jug vanishes while I am actually looking at it and is immediately replaced by a glass, I shall rub my eyes and say 'How extraordinary! The jug seems to have become a glass'; and I say this because the disappearance of the jug and the appearance of the glass are perceived as connected (owing to contiguity in space and time).

Consider, now, the block of ice that melts and is immediately replaced by a pool of water. As you say, if we know beforehand that it is the nature of ice to melt and be replaced by water, there is no difficulty in seeing that a general feature has not changed; so we must suppose that we have never seen ice before, and also (by a stretch of the imagination) that we have never seen water before, either. So, then, a block of ice is brought in and placed on the floor in front of us; it melts, and there is a pool of water in its place. As in the case of the jug and the glass, we connect the first thing (the disappearance of the ice) with the second thing (the appearance of the pool of water) because they are spatially and temporally contiguous, and we say 'How remarkable—the thing called "ice" has changed into the thing called "water"!'. But what, here, are the particulars, and what the general?

The particulars are (i) the perceived spatio-temporal existence of the ice, and (ii) the perceived spatio-temporal existence of the water, and these are different (a) spatially, because the ice and the water do not have the same shape (the ice stands up, the water lies flat) and (b) temporally, because the ice is followed by the water. The general is the perceived spatio-temporal existence of the whole ice/water transformation, and this is one and the same (a) spatially, because both ice and water were in the same part of the room, and (b) temporally, because both were in the same part of the afternoon.

But suppose the disappearance of the ice in front of us was immediately followed by the appearance of a pool of water in the next room; or that it was followed, not immediately, but two days later by a pool of water in front of us. Here, first the spatial, and secondly the temporal, contiguity is missing, and we fail to perceive 'togetherness' and so we do not say that the ice has changed into the water. If the ice and the water are in different rooms or on different days, then both the general and the particular have varied and we do not perceive the change of ice into water.

This, of course, is not the only way that we perceive the change of the block of ice into the pool of water; but it is perhaps the most fundamental. There is also the question of the substance. Even without previous acquaintance with ice or water, we may perceive that though the particular reflections and transparencies are different before and after, yet the general characteristic of 'transparency' has remained invariant, and we are inclined to say that it is the 'same stuff' in two different forms. But, in English, there is no single word to cover both ice and water (unless we say H2O), and it might seem that we do not perceive both as different aspects of one more general thing. But, as explained above, with the cow and horse, this is a mistake. (In Sinhalese, for example, although we can speak of wandura and rilawa, we cannot—as far as my slight knowledge goes—refer to both by one single word, as we can in English with the word 'monkey'.[2] But this does not mean that the perceptions of an Englishman and a Sinhala are different.)

The case of the butterfly is much more complex. In the first place, we have not two, but four particulars: egg/caterpillar/chrysalis/butterfly. And the change from the egg to the butterfly may be a matter of months, not of a few minutes like the ice to water. We may, of course, actually observe any one of these three transformations (egg/caterpillar, caterpillar/chrysalis, chrysalis/butterfly), and then, as in the case of the ice/water, we sensually (visually) perceive the 'togetherness' as well as the difference, and we speak of 'seeing a change'.[c] But we never actually see (at least on one occasion) all the three changes from egg to butterfly; and what actually happens is that, from different observations of these various changes at different times, we build up an imaginary picture of the whole affair, by means of which we can, if we wish, perceive in imagination all the three changes in the course of a few seconds. And it is to this imaginary experience that we refer when we speak of the 'change from egg to butterfly'. But this imaginary experience follows the same principles as the real experience, and we can only speak of the (imaginary) change, egg/caterpillar/chrysalis/butterfly, if we perceive (in imagination) the 'togetherness' of these four particulars. As to the name of this togetherness, we meet with the same difficulty as before—there is no single word. The best we can do (after some thought) is 'a living insect of the lepidoptera family'.

And when we come to the case of the man (the infant who grows up), the situation is impossibly complex. We have first to separate the man as he sees himself (that is, principally, his store of memories) from the man as he is seen by others (his body, his behaviour, his habits, his gestures, his temperament, his wife, his family, his occupation, his social position, his nationality, his health, his wealth, his police record, and so on). Then we take any one of these aspects we please, and consider, in the way I have indicated above, how Citizen Perera is perceived (or perceives himself) as a 'togetherness' of different particulars. His bank manager (if he is so fortunate as to have one) will perceive him as 'a bank account by the name of Perera', and this bank account will be a 'togetherness' of varying particular balances at six-monthly intervals. His mother will perceive him quite differently—as a body that has issued from hers and has gradually grown up, a 'togetherness' (which she might describe as 'flesh of my flesh'), of such successive particulars as pregnancy, birth, suckling, weaning, nursing in sickness, having a son at school, in a government office as a clerk, having a married son, having a son to support her in her old age, to give her a good funeral, and so on. His wife will perceive him as...well, there are many different ways in which wives perceive their husbands—and some wives have much the same sort of view as the bank manager. But no doubt you will be able to fill in details.

As to states of mind, the principle certainly applies in the same way. Whenever we speak of a 'change of mind' (which we often do), we do so because we perceive (by introspection or reflexion) a 'togetherness' of different particulars. When I say 'I changed my mind about going to Colombo', that means that I perceived a 'togetherness', describable as 'possibility of a journey to Colombo', that presented itself successively in two different particular aspects, 'about to go to Colombo' and 'not about to go to Colombo'. With change of moods, description is more difficult; but we sometimes find we have certain definite sets of emotions governed by a more general state of mind. When we are in love, for example, we experience sudden changes from exaltation to depression, from joy to misery, which we do not have at other times. (Consider the state of mind of a lover waiting for his loved one, who is five minutes late.) And the 'togetherness' of these different emotions is the more general thing that we call 'being in love'.

I think, perhaps, that this will be enough for you to be getting on with. It is hardly possible to do more than give an indication, and then to let people try and see the thing for themselves. But in all cases where an 'objective scientific point of view' is adopted, there will necessarily be complete failure to understand the principle that we are discussing; and for this reason I would suggest that you read Russell (if you must read him) with a certain amount of circumspection—Russell's logic is not the same as Bradley's logic.

On the question of flux (or continuous change), I should like to suggest a certain reflection. If one were asked what the immediate evidence was for the existence of flux, the answer would almost certainly be, It is our experience of motion, the fact that we perceive movement. But, now, when we go to the cinema we sit in front of a screen, and we spend two or three hours 'perceiving moving pictures'—we are perfectly satisfied that we do perceive movement at the cinema, and the only difference from the live theatre is the flatness of the screen and the black-and-white colouring. We are just as much excited or emotionally disturbed by a cinema show as we are by a theatre performance. But when we pause to consider the mechanism of the cinema, we come to understand that (looking at the matter from a slightly different point of view) all we really perceive is a succession of perfectly still pictures (Russell mentions this, but we are not here concerned with the conclusions he draws). And this being so, we are obliged to admit that perception of movement need not be evidence of flux: we cannot safely infer 'continuous change' from 'perception of movement'. I say this, not to prove that there is not 'continuous change', but to introduce a doubt into the unquestioning belief that there is 'continuous change'. If I can introduce a doubt, that may be enough. (I do not, however, want to suggest that the structure of change or movement is simply that of the cinema film.) These remarks are rather concentrated philosophy, and you may not make very much of them at present, but they might be of use a little later on.

Footnotes:

[8.a] These ideas of 'Identity in Difference' and 'Invariance under Transformation' are not really new. F. H. Bradley wrote his Logic, which I am just finishing, in 1883, and he got the idea from earlier writers. But it went out of fashion with the logical positivists—Russell & Co. who, I must warn you, are most misleading, particularly Russell himself --, and has more recently started to return to favour in quantum theory. Here is a sentence from P. A. M. Dirac's Principles of Quantum Mechanics (1930): 'The important things in the world appear as the invariants...of...transformations' (p. vii). And, of course, as soon as you say 'invariant', you rule out 'flux'. 

[8.b] If we see a cow and a horse and a tree, we at once perceive—without thinking about it at all, and without any previous knowledge—that the cow and the horse 'belong together' and that the cow (or the horse) and the tree do not. Turning this round, we say that the cow and the horse are different aspects of one single more general thing, namely 'four-legged bestiality', and that the tree is not. It might be objected that 'four-legged bestiality' is merely an abstract idea that we do not 'perceive' at all; but this is not so. We at once perceive the 'togetherness' of the cow and the horse, and it is merely in order to give it a name and express it in words that we have to start thinking: the thing is perceived directly, but it may quite well happen that the thing does not have a familiar name. 

[8.c] Note here—a further complication!—that, in a sense, we do actually perceive the past (and the future) as well as the present; and this is explained in FUNDAMENTAL STRUCTURE §II/10. But you had better, for the time being at least, simply think that we 'perceive the past with our memory'. 

Editorial notes:

[8.1] The Cúlamālunkya Sutta is posited on the following event: A monk named Mālunkyāputta demands of the Buddha the answers to a series of speculative questions. The Buddha replies that he does not teach such matters, and offers the simile of a man grievously wounded who, rather than submit to medical treatment, demands to know, instead, the history of the dart that wounded him, its manufacture, the materials it is made of, and so on. That man, the Buddha says, would die of his wounds before his questions were answered. So too, the Buddha warns Mālunkyāputta, a person will die still bound up with suffering unless he ceases his quest for answers to speculative questions and devotes himself instead to ridding himself of attachment, the condition for suffering. 'Therefore, Mālunkyāputta, bear in mind that which has not been explicated by me as not explicated; and bear in mind that which has been explicated by me as explicated. And what, Mālunkyāputta, has not been explicated by me? I have not explicated whether the world is eternal or non-eternal; whether the world is finite or infinite; whether the self and the body are one; whether the self and the body are separate; whether the Tathāgata [i.e., the Buddha] exists or does not exist after death; whether the Tathāgata both exists and does not exist after death; nor have I explicated whether the Tathāgata neither exists nor does not exist after death. And why, Mālunkyāputta, have I not explicated these? Because, Mālunkyāputta, these are not useful, are not part of the divine life, do not lead to disenchantment, to dispassion, to ceasing, to calm, to direct knowledge, to awakening, to extinction; that is why they are not explicated by me. And what, Mālunkyāputta, is explicated by me? This is suffering...' 

[8.2] monkey: A wandura (wanduroo) is a black-faced silver-furred langur that sits about three feet high, feeds on leaves and fruit, and is very shy. A rilawa is a smaller pink-faced auburn-haired macaque that will eat anything it can find or steal. The latter is both more amusing and more troublesome than the quiet wandura. 

See also The question of self-identity of things