Author: George Ivanovich Gurdjieff
Publisher: Library of Alexandria
Published:
Total Pages: 1527
ISBN-13: 146550589X
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AMONG ALL the convictions formed in my “common presence” during my responsible, peculiarly composed life, there is one unshakable conviction that people—whatever the degree of development of their understanding and whatever the form taken by the factors present in their individuality for engendering all kinds of ideals—always and everywhere on the Earth feel the imperative need, on beginning anything new, to pronounce aloud, or if not aloud at least mentally, that particular invocation understandable to even the most ignorant person, which has been formulated in different ways in different epochs, and in our day is expressed in the following words “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost Amen.” That is why I now also, in setting forth on this venture quite new for me, namely authorship, begin by pronouncing this invocation, and pronounce it not only aloud but even very distinctly and, as the ancient Toulousites used to say, with a “fully manifested intonation”—of course only to the extent permitted by data already formed in my whole presence and thoroughly rooted in it for such a manifestation, data, by the way, which are generally formed in man’s nature during his preparatory years, and which later, during his responsible life, determine the character and vivifyingness of such an intonation. Having begun thus, I can now be quite at ease and should even, according to contemporary notions of “religious morality,” be completely assured that from now on everything in this new venture of mine will proceed, as is said, “like a pianola.” In any case, this is the way I have begun, and how the rest will go I can only say, as the blind man put it, “we shall see.” First and foremost, I shall place my hand, moreover the right one, which— although at the moment it is slightly injured due to an accident that recently befell me—is nevertheless really my own, and has never once failed me in all my life, on my heart, of course also my own—but on the constancy or inconstancy of this part of my whole I see no need to expatiate here—and frankly confess that I myself have not the slightest wish to write, but am constrained to do so by circumstances quite independent of me, though whether these circumstances arose accidentally or were created intentionally by extraneous forces I do not yet know I only know that these circumstances bid me write not just some trifle for reading oneself to sleep, but thick and weighty tomes.
