Myths to Live By

by Joseph Campbell

  One learns from this tale what Jesus meant when admonishing us to give up father and mother, son and daughter, yea, and our own lives, in following him; when asked for our coat, to give our cloak also, and when struck, to turn the other cheek. In the pious Buddhist fable everything turned out for the best, of couse, since the Brahmins were actually gods testing the king; and the children, wife, and all had been taken safely to the palace of the grandparents—much as in the Bible story of Abraham, where the sacrifice of Isaac was stayed by the hand of the god, who was just testing. The question remains in both legends equally, nevertheless, as to where virtue ends and vice begins in such pious adventures. How far, for example, will the absolute pacifist go in defending absolutely no one and nothing but his own so-spiritual purity? The question is not irrelevant to our own times.

  But now, moving still farther eastward, to China and Japan, we come to another cluster of mythologies of peace, particularly of Lao-tse and Confucius. Many would term the founding thought of these mythologies romantic; for it is simply that there is through all of nature an all-suffusing spiritual harmony: an orderly interaction through all life and lives, through all history and historical institutions, of those two principles or powers, active and passive, light and dark, hot and cold, heavenly and earthly, known as yang and yin. The force of the principle of yang predominates in youth; that of yin, later and increasingly in old age. Yang is dominant in summer, in the south, and at noon; yin in winter, in the north, and at night. The way of their alternations through all things is the Way of all things, the Tao . And by putting oneself in accord with the Tao—one’s time, one’s world, oneself—one accomplishes the ends of life and is at peace in the sense of being in harmony with all things.

  The best known, most richly inspired statement of this Taoist philosophy is to be found in a little work of eighty-one stanzas known as the Tao Teh Ching , or “Book of the Virtue of the Tao,” which is attributed to a legendary, long-bearded sage called Lao-tse, “the old boy.”

  When a magistrate follows the Tao [we read in this wisdom book] he has no need to resort to force of arms to strengthen the Empire, because his business methods alone will show good returns. Briars and thorns grow rank where an army camps. But harvests are the sequence of a great war. The good ruler will be resolute, and then stop, he dare not take by force. One should be resolute, but not boastful; resolute, but not haughty; resolute, but not arrogant; resolute, but yielding when it cannot be avoided; resolute, but he must not resort to violence. With a resort to force, things flourish for a time, but then decay. This is not like the Tao, and that which is not Tao-like will soon cease.

  And again:

  Even successful arms, among all implements, are unblessed. All men come to detest them. Therefore the one who follows the Tao does not rely on them. Arms are, of all tools, unblessed. They are not the implements of a wise man. Only as a last resort does he employ them.

  Peace and quietude are esteemed by the wise man, and even when victorious he does not rejoice, because rejoicing over a victory is the same as rejoicing over the killing of men. If he rejoices over the killing of men, do you think he will ever really master the Empire?33

  However, as the world well knows, the long, long history of China has been distinguished largely by the reigns of merciless despots alternating with chaotic centuries of war; and, at least from the Period of the Warring States (453–221 B.C.) onward, the maneuvers of large professional armies have had considerably more influence on the course of Chinese politics than anything like Lao-tse’s type of “Virtue of the Tao.” It is, in fact, from that greatly turbulent period that there have come down to our time two completely hard-headed, thoroughly Machiavellian works on the arts of gaining and maintaining power: the first, the so-called Book of the Lord Shang, and, second, Sun Tzu’s The Art of War. Let me quote briefly, first, from Sun Tzu:

  War is a matter of vital importance to the State; the province of life or death; the road to survival or ruin. It is mandatory that it be thoroughly studied. Therefore, appraise it in terms of the five fundamental factors and make comparisons of the seven elements later named. So you may assess its essentials.

  The first of these factors is moral influence (tao) ; the second, weather; the third, terrain; the fourth, command; and the fifth, doctrine. By moral influence (tao) I mean that which causes people to be in harmony with their leaders, so that they will accompany them in life and unto death without fear of mortal peril. By weather I mean the interaction of natural forces; the effects of winter’s cold and summer’s heat and the conduct of military operations in accordance with the seasons. By terrain I mean distances, whether the ground is traversed with ease or difficulty, whether it is open or constricted, and the chances of life or death. By command I mean the general’s qualities of wisdom, sincerity, humanity, courage, and strictness. By doctrine I mean organization, control, assignment of appropriate ranks to officers, regulation of supply routes, and the provision of principal items used by the army. There is no general who has not heard of these five matters. Those who master them win; those who do not are defeated.34

  And from The Book of the Lord Shang:

  The country depends on agriculture and war for its peace, and likewise the ruler, for his honor... If, in a country, there are the following ten things: poetry and history, rites and music, virtue and the cultivation thereof, benevolence and integrity, sophistry and intelligence, then the ruler has no one whom he can employ for defense and warfare... But if a country banishes these ten things, enemies will not dare to approach, and even if they should, they would be driven back... A country that loves strength makes assaults with what is difficult and thus it will be successful. A country that loves sophistry makes assaults with what is easy and thus it will be in danger... When a country is in peril and the ruler in anxiety, it is of no avail to the settling of this danger, for professional talkers to form battalions. The reason why a country is in danger and its ruler in anxiety lies in some strong enemy or in another big state.

  Farming, trade and office are the three permanent functions in a state, and these three functions give rise to six parasitic functions, which are called: care for old age, living on others, beauty, love, ambition, and virtuous conduct. If these six parasites find an attachment, there will be dismemberment...

  A country where the virtuous govern the wicked will suffer from disorder, so that it will be dismembered; but a country where the wicked govern the virtuous will be orderly, so that it will become strong...

  If penalties are made heavy and rewards light, the ruler loves his people and they will die for him; but if rewards are made heavy and penalties light, the ruler does not love his people, nor will they die for him.

  And finally:

  If things are done that the enemy would be ashamed to do, there is an advantage.35

  In India too there has been a long history of thinking of this kind that has actually shaped and inspired the practical arts of governance and war. Students today of the Bhagavad Gītā tend to forget that what they are reading as a religious tract is part of one of the great war epics of all time, the Indian “Book of the Great War of the Sons of Bharata,” Mahābharata, of which the following are a few characteristic selections from another section of the work, Book XII (the Gītā is from Book VI):

  A king who knows his own strength and commanding a large army should cheerfully and courageously, without announcing his destination, give the order to march against one shorn of allies and friends, or already at war with another and hence inattentive; or against one weaker than himself: having first arranged for the protection of his own city...

  A king should not forever live under a more powerful king. Even though weak, he should try to unseat the stronger and, resolved upon this, continue to rule his own. He should assail the stronger with weapons, fire, and the administration of poisons. He should also create dissension among the other’s ministers and servants...

  The king depends on his treasury and army. His arm
y, again, depends on his treasury. His army is the source of all his religious merits. His religious merits, again, are the support of his people. The treasury can never be replenished without oppressing others. How then can the army be maintained without oppression? The king, consequently, in times of difficulty, commits no sin in oppressing his subjects for the filling of his treasury... By wealth both worlds—this and the other—can be acquired, as also truth and religious merit. A person who has no wealth is more dead than alive...

  One should bear one’s enemy on one’s shoulder as long as the times are unfavorable. When the opportunity comes, however, one should smash him, like an earthen jar on a stone...

  A king seeking prosperity should not hesitate to kill his son, brother, father, or friend, if any one or more of these should stand in his way...

  Without cutting the very vitals of others, without performing many cruel deeds, without killing living creatures, as fishermen kill fish, one cannot win prosperity...

  There are no special orders of creatures called enemies or friends. Persons become friends or enemies according to the trend of circumstance...

  Every work should be done completely... By killing its inhabitants, by destroying its roads, and by burning and pulling down its houses, a king should devastate his enemy’s realm.

  And finally:

  Might is above right; right proceeds from might; right has its support in might, as living beings in the soil. As smoke the wind, so right must follow might. Right in itself has no authority; it leans on might as the creeper on the tree.36

  Fig. 9.6 — Kṛṣṇa Reveals His True Form

  Indeed, the Bhagavad Gītā itself, as a chapter of this warrior epic, is in aim and content a lecture of encouragement to a young prince afflicted with a qualm of conscience before giving the signal of battle, to free his mind from all sense of grief and guilt in killing. “For that which is born, death is certain,” he is told; “and for that which is dead, birth is certain. You should not grieve over the unavoidable... The Supreme Self, which dwells in all bodies, can never be slain.” “Weapons cut it not; fire burns it not; water wets it not; the wind does not wither it. Eternal, universal, unchanging, immovable, the Self is the same forever... Dwelling in all bodies, the Self can never be slain. Therefore you should not grieve for any creature.”37

  And that, in sum, is the ultimate ground, in Oriental thinking, of all peace. In the field of action—which is to say, in life—there is no peace, and there can never be. The formula, then, for the attainment of peace is to act, as one must, but without attachment. “Being established in yoga,” the young warrior prince Arjuna of the Gītā is taught, “perform your actions, casting off attachment and remaining even-minded, both in success and in failure. This evenness is what is called yoga. And far inferior is mere action to action performed with this evenness of mind. Seek refuge in this evenness. Wretched are all who work for results. Endued with evenness of mind, one casts off in this very life both good deeds and evil deeds. Strive, therefore, for yoga. Yoga is skill in action.”

  Abandoning both all fear of, and all desire for, the fruits of action, one is to perform without attachment the work that has to be done; and that work is the work of one’s duty, whatever it may be, the duty of princes being to fight and to slay. “To a prince,” we read, “nothing is better than a righteous war. Happy indeed is the prince to whom such a war comes unsought, offering itself, throwing open heaven’s gate.”38

  Thus, paradoxically, in this context the mythology of peace and the mythology of war are the same. And not only in Hinduism, but also in Buddhism—the Buddhism of the Mahāyāna—this paradox is fundamental. For after all, since the wisdom of the yonder shore is beyond all pairs-of-opposites, it must necessarily transcend and include the opposition of war-and-peace. As stated in a Mahāyāna Buddhist aphorism, “This very world, with all its imperfection, is the Golden Lotus World of perfection.” And if one cannot see it this way or bear to see it this way, the fault is not with the world.

  Nor can the universe be justly regarded as evil. Nature is not evil but the “action body” of Buddha-consciousness. Strife, consequently, is not evil, and neither opponent in a battle is any more evil, or better, than the other.

  Accordingly, the compassionate participation of the Bodhisattva in the world process is absolutely without guilt. Also, it is absolutely impersonal. And in the same sense the Mahāyāna Buddhist ideal for us all, of “joyous participation” in the “action body of Buddha-consciousness,” is absolutely impersonal, selfless, and guiltless. I have been told that after the Battle of Port Arthur in the Russo-Japanese War of 1904, the names not only of the men but also of the horses that had given their lives in that action were inscribed on a plaque — in memoriam—as Bodhisattvas.

  To summarize, then: There has been from earliest times the idea that war (of one kind or another) is not only inevitable and good but also the normal and most exhilarating mode of social action of civilized mankind, the waging of war being the normal delight, as well as duty, of kings. A monarch neither engaged in nor preparing to be engaged in war would be, according to this way of thinking, a fool: a “paper tiger.”

  But, on the other hand, in the annals of world history accounts are to be found also of a diametrically opposite point of view to this, where the aim is to become quit of war and strife altogether in a state of perpetual peace. However, the usual corollary of this aspiration is that, since strife and pain are intrinsic to temporal existence, life itself, as we know it, is to be negated. Examples of this negativism are seen most strikingly in India, in Jainism and early (Hīnayāna) Buddhism, but have appeared also in the West, as in certain early Christian movements, and in twelfth-century France among the Albigenses.

  Reviewing the mythologies of war, we have found in both the Torah and Koran a belief that God, the creator and sole governor of the universe, was absolutely and always on the side of a certain chosen community, and that its wars, consequently, were Holy Wars, waged in the name and interest of God’s will. A not very different notion inspired the “Flowery Wars” of the Aztecs for the capture of sacrifices to keep the sun in motion. In the Iliad, on the other hand, the sympathies of the Olympians are on both sides of the combat, the Trojan War itself being interpreted not in cosmic but in earthly, human terms: it was a war for the recovery of a stolen wife. And the noble ideal of the human warrior-hero was there expressed in the character and words not of a Greek, but of a Trojan hero, Hector. I see here an evident contrast to the spirit of the two Semitic war mythologies, and an affinity, on the other hand, to the Indian Mahābhārata. The forthright resolution of Hector, going into combat in fulfillment of his clear duty to his family and city, and the “self-control” (the yoga) required of Arjuna in the Gītā, in fulfillment of the duties of his caste, are of essentially the same order. Moreover, in the Indian as in the Greek epic, there is equal honor and respect bestowed on the combatants of both sides.

  But now, and finally, we have discovered also in our survey a third point of view in relation to the ideals and aims of war and peace, neither affirming nor denying war as life, and life as war, but aspiring to a time when wars should cease. In the Persian Zoroastrian eschatological myth, which appears to have been the first in which such a prospect was seriously envisioned, the day of the great transformation was to be in the nature of a cosmic crisis, when the laws of nature would cease to operate and an eviternity of no time, no change, no life as we know life then come into being. Ironically, there would be wars enough during the centuries of struggle just antecedent to this general transfiguration. Within the Persian Empire itself, however, there was to flourish and increase, meanwhile, a prefigurative reign of relative peace—enforced by imperial spies, informants, and police; and with the expansion of this peaceful empire, the bounds of the reign of temporal peace also would expand—until...

  But we have heard the likes of all this more recently and close at hand. The idea, as we have seen, became assimilated to the Biblical imag
e of Israel; and in the period of the Dead Sea Scrolls passed on into apocalyptic Christianity. It is the idea essentially of the dar al-Islam and dar al-harb of the Arabs. And we have it again in the peace of Moscow—spies, informers, police crackdowns, and all.

  As far as I know, there is, in addition to these, only one more thought about war and peace to be found among the great traditions, and that is the one first announced by the eminent seventeenth-century Dutch legal philosopher Grotius, in 1625, in his epochal treatise on The Rights of War and Peace. Here, for the first time in the history of mankind, the proposal is offered of a law of nations based on ethical, not jungle principles. In India the governing law of international relations has for centuries been known as the matsya-nyāya, “law of the fish,” which is, to wit, that the big ones eat the little ones and the little ones have to be smart. War is the natural duty of princes, and periods of peace are merely interludes, like periods of rest between boxing rounds. Whereas war in Grotius’s view is a breach of the proper civilized norm, which is peace; and its aim should be to produce peace, a peace not enforced by might of arms, but of rational mutual interest. This, in turn, was the ideal that Woodrow Wilson represented when he spoke, at the end of the First World War, of “peace without victory.”