What’s a Hindu? It lays eggs…

I never write much about Hinduism (it being one of the few religions with whose tenets I am not particularly conversant), but I’ve recently come to find it rather appealing. Specifically, I’ve been intrigued to discover the Cārvāka sect of Hinduism, a subset of that very pantheistic religion which wholeheartedly espouses empirical atheism. It seems ironic for the religion with an apparent glut of gods to have had adherents who believe in no gods at all, but Cārvāka, although heterodox, is generally considered to be part of the Hindu philosophy.

The other fascinating thing about Cārvāka is its antiquity – Cārvāka writings attest to the philosophy’s existence as early as 600BCE. It would seem that organised atheism has been around for a lot longer than might previously have been supposed. We have only fragments of the oldest Cārvāka text, the Bārhaspatya-sūtras, and most of what is known about the group has been gleaned from its critics (of which, unsurprisingly, there were many), but a clear picture of Cārvāka’s tenets can nonetheless be built up from what survives.

Cārvākas were primarily empirical in their approach to knowledge, arguing that what could not be observed could not be known, and even what could be observed was subject to scepticism. This is best expressed in the Tattvopaplavasimha, a work from the 9th century CE, in which the author Jayarāśi Bhaṭṭa examines the three Hindu pramana (sources of knowledge), and finds them all to be faulty. The first, inference, relies on subjective reasoning; the second, testimony, fails to establish the reliability of witnesses; and the third, perception, cannot establish that the observer has not been deceived or hoodwinked in some way. As a result, he concludes, we should remain sceptical of all things – including Cārvāka philosophy itself, which Bhaṭṭa adopts simply because it provides a more pragmatic guide to life than the alternatives.

There is a certain wry humour in some of the Cārvāka texts. They can be quite cutting in their criticism of organised Vedic religion:

“If a beast slain in the Jyothishtoma rite will itself go to heaven,
why then does not the sacrificer forthwith offer his own father?”

“Hence it is only as a means of livelihood that Brahmans have established here
all these ceremonies for the dead — there is no other fruit anywhere.”

“The three authors of the Vedas were buffoons, knaves, and demons.
All the well-known formulae of the pandits, jarphari, turphari, etc.
and all the obscene rites for the queen commanded in Aswamedha,
these were invented by buffoons, and so all the various kinds of presents to the priests.”

As far as life guidance went, Cārvāka’s advice was, “Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die!” Since there was no life after death (“after death, no intelligence remains”), it behoved humanity to make the most of the brief lives they had:

“While life remains, let a man live happily,
let him feed on butter though he runs in debt;
When once the body becomes ashes,
how can it ever return again?”

“While life is yours, live joyously;
None can escape Death’s searching eye:
When once this frame of ours they burn,
How shall it e’er again return?”

It is unclear if there was ever actually an individual known by the name Cārvāka, or indeed if the sect had a founder at all. In the Sarva-darsana-sangraha (the Hindu Compendium of Speculations, from which the above quotes are taken), Madhavacharya bemoans the popularity of the heretical atheists:

“…but how can we attribute to the Divine Being the giving of supreme felicity, when such a notion has been utterly abolished by Charvaka, the crest-gem of the atheistic school, the follower of the doctrine of Brihaspati?”

which suggests that the school was founded by Brihaspati, a Vedic deity of knowledge associated with the planet Jupiter. Whilst this may make sense to the devout Madhavacharya, it seems unlikely that the Cārvākas themselves would have shared his view – no evidence for Brihaspati, y’see.

Sadly Cārvāka is no longer around, having been overrun by the juggernaut of Hindu orthodoxy some 1500 years ago. It gives one hope, though, to note that even in this most polytheistic of faiths, rationality was able to once gain a foothold. Perhaps the same thing might one day happen again…

Way of the Warrior

Any history of swordsmanship in Japan would be glaringly incomplete without at least devoting a few paragraphs to the life of Miyamoto Musashi, the unbeatable and somewhat eccentric ronin who authored the famous Book of Five Rings. A legend in his own lifetime, Musashi developed an unorthodox style of fighting using two swords in conjunction, and using this Niten-Ichi Ryu (Two Heavens Become One Style), he fought and won over 60 duels, an unparalleled record. Many stories have been told of his life, and separating the truth of the man from the tales which grew up around him is no mean feat, but there are a few things we can say with some certainty. It’s clear, for example, that his most legendary encounter, with the famous and flamboyant master swordsman Sasaki Kojiro, happened pretty much as the legend tells it. Having arranged to fight Sasaki on the small island of Ganryujima, Musashi turned up scandalously late, dressed in dirty travelling clothes and armed, not with a razor-sharp katana like his opponent, but with a broken oar which he had roughly carved into the shape of a sword. Sasaki Kojiro, incensed at this show of disrespect, lost his usual composure and moments later his life, dying on the beach at Ganryujima with his head staved in by Musashi’s oar. This event is often cited as an example of Musashi’s unorthodox yet effective tactics, breaking the concentration and self-control of his rivals to gain a psychological advantage.

He had put a similar strategy into effect some eight years earlier, when he challenged and defeated first the headmaster of the prestigious Yoshioka school of fencing, and then the headmaster’s brother in quick succession. In both instances, Musashi made sure to arrive late to the duel, unnerving his opponent and putting them off-guard. However, when the remaining members of the school arranged a rematch against the nominal inheritor of the Yoshioka style (the headmaster’s twelve-year-old son), Musashi anticipated that they were laying a trap for him, and set out much earlier to arrive at the battleground first. It was whilst he was on his way to this encounter (which, incidentally, he also won, in spite of the large force of archers, swordsmen and musketeers which were lying in ambush) that an interesting incident took place.

En route to his assignation, Musashi passed a wayside shrine dedicated to the Shinto god of War, Hachiman. There are some 30,000 shrines to this deified emperor dotted around the Japanese islands, ranging from the enormous central temple at Usa to tiny roadside kamiza no more than a few feet high. It was common for warriors to offer prayers and offerings to Hachiman prior to a battle, to encourage the god’s assistance in their military endeavours, and Musashi would have been no exception. However, as he approached the little shrine to offer his prayers, it is said that he was hit by a revelation. In an instant, he saw that a fighter’s fate was held in his own hands, that victory and defeat were decided not by the gods but by the warrior’s skill and focus. At that moment, he came up with as good a statement of agnosticism as any philosopher has managed before or since:

“Respect the gods and buddhas – but do not expect their help.”

It is clear from his other writings that Musashi was, if not a follower of any particular religion, at least convinced of the existence of the Shinto and Buddhist deities, so we can’t really claim him wholeheartedly for the atheist camp. Nonetheless, we know he had little time for religious practice:

“There are many ways: Confucianism, Buddhism, the ways of elegance, rice-planting, or dance; these things are not to be found in the Way of the Warrior.”

It seems likely that Musashi, like many Japanese at the time, viewed religion as the remit of monks or priests, and not as something with much relevance to his daily life. Ironically, this most daring of swordsmen, who faced death on a regular basis, appears to have given little or no thought to what lay beyond his inevitable demise (at the hands of old age and possible bowel cancer – he remained undefeated until the last). He left behind a legacy of world-famous paintings, masterpieces of calligraphy and a unique sword-fighting style – all examples of what the human spirit can achieve without a jot of divine assistance.

First among atheists

So much of our modern system of thought is derived from the work of Ancient Greece that it’s hard to come up with a concept which those clever Greeks hadn’t already posited. Heliocentrism? Aristarchus of Samos predated Copernicus by about 1800 years. Atomic theory? Leucippus and Democritus had the idea 500 years before Christ. Longitudinal measurement? Eratosthenes had such navigational theories figured out more than two millennia ago, and managed to work out the circumference of the globe at the same time. Hipparchus was the first cosmologist, Theophrastus the first taxonomist, Galen (a Roman, but of Greek origin) the first brain surgeon. They seem to have gotten there first in almost every field.

What about atheism, though? As everyone knows, the Ancient Greeks were certainly not short of gods. Zeus and his Mount Olympus posse were surely right there at the forefront of every Greek’s life, so atheism must have been a more recent development, right? Well… no. The so-called “first atheist” hailed, as you might imagine, from the Greece of classical antiquity. His name was Diagoras, he lived on the island of Melos, near Crete, during the fifth century BCE, and he was the first person in recorded history to have openly espoused a strong and emphatic form of atheism.

Aside from his views on religion, little is known of Diagoras’ life and works. He was purported to be a pupil of Democritus (the aforementioned Atom-Man of antiquity), may have been a passable poet, and could well have been the lover of a certain statesman called Nicodoras. Beyond that, all we can safely say is that he was born in Melos, spent part of his life in Athens and eventually fled to Corinth to escape a lawsuit (for, unsurprisingly, the crime of impiety). He was certainly scathingly sceptical; among the most famous anecdotes about Diagoras is the story of how a friend tried to convert him to religion by showing him a shrine in which were placed portraits of all those whom the gods had saved from drowning. Cynically, Diagoras noted the absence of a shrine with pictures of those who had actually been drowned at sea. He seemed to have a thing about storms at sea; on one occasion when the ship he was travelling on got caught in a squall, the crew bemoaned the fact that they had taken this godless man on board. Diagoras wryly pointed out that the other ships in the storm must therefore have also been transporting atheists, otherwise they should have escaped the wrath of Poseidon.

It was during this time that the principles of naturalism were first being expounded by philosophers, and whilst the scientific method would be long in coming, the pre-Socratics were already finding natural reasons for previously mysterious phenomena. Diagoras belonged firmly to the Naturalist School, and posited scientific explanations for observed events without invoking the powers of the gods. The Naturalist movement gained considerable weight in Greece and later in Rome, and had it not been for the onset of established Christianity, we might have seen atheism becoming a dominant worldview far sooner than it actually did, as more and more epistemological gaps were filled by science rather than the supernatural. However, denying the influence of the gods was not the offence which led to our hero’s eventual downfall.

Diagoras main crime against the Athenian state was his interference in the Eleusinian Mysteries. These cultic rituals were an important part of Greek religious life, invoking the goddesses Demeter and Persephone to ensure agricultural prosperity. Little has been passed down to us as to their nature, because a principal feature of the Mysteries was their secrecy. Participants had to be specially initiated into the cult, and once they had experienced the rites of Eleusis, were forbidden to speak of what they had seen, on pain of death. Diagoras clearly thought this all very silly, and made numerous direct attacks on the practice, discouraging people from becoming initiates and publishing what he knew of the secret practices of the cultists. It was this which led to the Athenian decree against him, although his political affiliations may have had as much to do with the pogrom as anything else. Diagoras was a Dorian and hence rather unpopular with the Ionian majority in Athens at the time (this political/racial divide would eventually escalate to become a contributing factor to the Peloponnesian Wars), so it’s likely that his political enemies would have used the accusation of impiety to get him out of their hair. Whatever the motivation behind it, the ruling forced Diagoras to flee from Athens for good. A search was raised throughout the empire, but he managed to evade the clutches of the authorities long enough to make it to Corinth, where he passed the remainder of his days.

An atheist with a battleaxe

Time for a new Right To Think series, I believe. Inspired by my recent post about Xun Zi, I’m going to aim to put together a series of posts about Atheists In History. Oddly enough, we’ll be kicking off with a fictional character, or at least a mythological one. Hands up who loves Vikings! Well, you’ll enjoy the story of Hrafnkell…

Hrafnkell’s Saga is an old Icelandic tale dating back to around the 13th century. It tells the story of the eponymous warrior chieftain, a fearsome fighter who terrorised the valleys around his home, and made a habit of never paying weregild (“compensation”, I suppose, is the best translation) for his victims. In spite (or possibly because) of being a bit of an arsehole, Hrafknkell is a deeply religious man, and dedicates his victory spoils to the Norse god Freyr, the pig-riding, giant-screwing Lord of Fertility. Hrafnkell erects lavish temples to Freyr, performs sacrifices and generally brown-noses the god, to the extent of divinely dedicating his favourite horse, Freyfaxi. It is this which proves to be his tragic error, since when the shepherd Einarr borrows the steed, the terms of Hrafnkell’s dedication require that the hapless herdsman be put to the sword. This Hrafnkell dutifully does, but, feeling some remorse (since it was his orders which led to Einarr’s appropriation of Freyfaxi), he offers to take care of Einarr’s elderly father, Thojorn, for the rest of his days.

Thojorn, however, wants the money, and since Hrafnkell never pays out for those he murders, it looks like some legal muscle is required. The aggrieved father gets his nephew Samr to take the case. Samr is no great legal mind, but with the assistance of wandering lawyer (like a wandering minstrel, but much, much less entertaining) named Thorkell, he successfully prosecutes the case. (The fact that Thorkell’s big brother Thorgeirr is a seriously bigwig chieftain may have helped the verdict along…) Under Icelandic law, Samr now has the right to kill Hrafnkell and take his lands – not a big problem for our hero, since Samr is no Conan the Barbarian, and besides, Hrafnkell has Freyr on his side. However, with Thorgeirr’s help, Samr is able to capture the miscreant chief and offers him a choice: death or servitude. Being none to keen to meet his god just yet, Hrafnkell goes with the career in the service industry.

With Samr now in charge of Hrafnkell’s home, the boisterous ex-chieftain trots off to a neighbouring valley and begins to carve out a life as a vassal farmer. Being borne to rule, as it were, he quickly becomes a noted leader, and rises back to a position of power. All seems rosy. However, Thorkell and Thorgeirr, unhappy with Samr’s mercy, push the horse Freyfaxi off a cliff and burn down Hrafnkell’s temple to Freyr. At this point, Hrafnkell experiences an epiphany. Looking back on how his service to Freyr has worked out, he states:

“I think it is folly to believe in gods”

With that, we see a drastic change in the character of Hrafnkell. He ceases his sacrifices and worship of Freyr, but, more importantly, he becomes a much more amenable ruler. He extends his protection to some visiting Norwegians, he treats his vassals with kindness and understanding, and he rapidly gains a reputation as a fair and kind chieftain. Now popular and powerful again, he rides out to avenge himself on Samr, who is now larging it up in Hrafnkell’s old gaff. Waking in the night, Samr is surprised to find himself surrounded by Hrafnkell’s men, and figures his goose is cooked. The new, humanist Hrafnkell offers Samr mercy, though, granting him the same chance to live as Samr once granted him.

The roles are reversed, but Samr no longer has Thorkell and Thorgeirr on his side (they refuse to go up against Hrafnkell again). As a result, he can never hope to overthrow Hrafnkell a second time, and lives out his days in servitude. Hrafnkell survives to a ripe old age, a venerable atheist Viking lord, and dies peacefully amidst his loyal retainers.

A celebratory horn of mead, anyone?

The First (atheist) Emperor

Being a ruler during the Warring States Period in ancient China was a demanding role. As the emissary between one’s people and the powers of Heaven, the king was obliged to perform all sorts of rituals in order to assure prosperity and peace for his state. There were sacrifices to ensure a good harvest, prayers to cause the sun to rise, sacred dances to counter flooding, bells to be rung, vestments to be worn, ancestral sprits to placate – in short, your average Warring States ruler had a pretty full dance card. It’s a wonder they found time to do any ruling, much less propagate various military campaigns against the neighbours. The powers of Heaven had to be kept onside if they were to have any hope of success.

The era between 476 and 221 BCE was a period of great civil unrest, with the country divided into eight separately governed and mutually antagonistic provinces, but this turbulent scenario was to give rise to some of the greatest philosophical thought in China’s history. Because so many different rulers were around, political thinkers were able to travel from state to state, advising the various kings, dukes and princes, and getting their ideas put into practice. Confucius was easily the most famous of these, and his theories and philosophies have been passed down to us both in his own writing and in that of his students. One student whose ideas were to have a great influence on the future of China was the thinker known as Xun Zi.

Xun Zi wrote on a variety of topics, but for today I’m primarily interested in his Discussion On Heaven, a short treatise in which he addresses the aforementioned necessity of regal ritual. Xun Zi was pretty much an atheist, and so considered it very unlikely that all the pomp and ceremony which occupied the battling princes was actually achieving anything. As he put it:

“Heaven does not prevail because you are the sage Yao or disappear because you are the tyrant Jie.”

In Xun Zi’s eyes, the duty of a ruler was to establish an orderly society. Prosperity and military success would come about as a result of this order, not from praying and dancing. Such acts were futile.

“Why does it rain after a prayer for rain? I say, for no reason. It is the same as raining when you had not prayed.”

Order and disorder were not divinely decreed, but were the result of good or bad leadership here on Earth:

“Are order and disorder the product of Heaven? I say, the sun and the moon, the stars and the constellations are the same as they were in the time of Yu and Jie. Yu brought order, Jie created disorder, so order and disorder do not come from Heaven.”

Xun Zi considered rituals to be important to society, but only in that they provided a means for instituting moral principles in the populance. He viewed the sacrifices and sacred rites as a social construct, designed to improve humanity rather than placate ancestral spirits or heavenly deities.

“Gentlemen consider them [the rites] to be art of the way of man; common people think they have something to to do with ghosts”

Xun Zi met with moderate success in his lifetime. He was popular in the state of Qi, and later, after the death of his patron there, held office in the country of Chu. It was his one visit to the state of Qin which had the greatest repercussions, however. The Bright King of Qin saw little merit in Xun Zi’s arguments, and did not offer him a position, and when Xun Zi left, he was embittered and concerned at Qin’s increasing might. He told his student, Li Si, of the danger arising in the western provinces, and advised him to steer well clear of the dangerous country of Qin. Being somewhat mercenary, however, Li Si waited until Qin’s star was truly on the rise and then sought a post with the Bright King’s great-grandson. He quickly rose to become Prime Minister, and his Legalistic philosophy, derived almost wholesale from Xun Zi’s, was to become the driving force behind Qin’s expansion. By the end of the Warring States Period, Li Si had established his lord as the First Emperor of China – on the back of a pragmatic philosophy that favoured practical action over superstition and prayer.