Ardor by Roberto Calasso Read Free Book Online Page B

of the moon. The brahmin is the mind of the sacrifice.” So release could also be attained by way of the brahmin, thanks to a sudden change of level in the argument, which coincided with the reference to the mind. And it might seem disturbing that something as changeable as the mind (compared for this reason with the moon) could provide a “point of support”—and thus release from mutability itself, from which the gradual disappearance of everything follows. It was another conundrum. But here again, A ś vala, a meticulous officiant, did not wish to linger any further. He was more anxious to find out whether Y ā jñavalkya was able to give a clear description of the sampads , the “equivalences” that punctuate every stage of the sacrifice. And Y ā jñavalkya, once again, gave immediate and satisfactory answers. His knowledge was not only metaphysical but also technical.
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    Any mention of the “mind,” manas , always means taking a step up (or down—it’s just the same). The mind is never on the same level as everything else. It can be present everywhere or nowhere. In any case, nothing will change in the description and operation of whatever happens. With the same scant persuasiveness, everything can be regarded as inconceivable without the mind, or conceivable only if there is no mind. The prime characteristic of the mind is that of not allowing any expressible certainty as to either its presence or its absence.
    This was perfectly in line with the role of the brahmin officiant. It was possible to describe the proper performance of a sacrifice ignoring the presence of the brahmin officiant. But it could also be described as the operation of successive states of mind in the brahmin himself, of the algorithm taking place within him. And Y ā jñavalkya therefore said that the brahmin officiant “is the mind of the sacrifice.”
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    Vedic sacrifice wasn’t just a ceremony during which a prescribed sequence of gestures was carried out, but a speculative tournament where life was put at risk. The brahmodya (the disputation on brahman ), an integral part of the rite, could always end up with the head of one of the disputants bursting out. And it could happen for two reasons: either because the disputant couldn’t answer a question or because he had asked one question too many. An unsatisfactory answer, one question too many: these were the two cases that brought the risk of death. “If you do not explain this to me, your head will burst out” is Y ā jñavalkya’s threatening response to Śā kalya’s insinuations. And it certainly wasn’t a momentary excess: it was part of the rite, it was implicit in the rite. If those contemplating brahman do not risk their head, it means they are not speaking of brahman. On that occasion, when Śā kalya could not answer, his head flew into pieces. Y ā jñavalkya even threatened G ā rg ī , the woman theologian, this time because G ā rg ī was in danger of asking too much when she had put the question “With what weft are the worlds of brahman woven?” G ā rg ī then kept silent and survived.
    Was the prohibition on putting certain questions an attempt to protect a particular sphere of knowledge, without being under any obligation to explain it? If that were so, it would have been no more than a trite priestly strategy of a kind that all future Voltaires would have readily mocked. But that wasn’t the case. As can be seen in another clash between G ā rg ī and Y ā jñavalkya.
    G ā rg ī , in addition to being a theologian, was also a weaver. She felt that metaphysics should be perceivable in her art as in everything else. This was why she preferred to put questions connected with her trade: it was what she knew best. So, on two occasions, she asked Y ā jñavalkya for explanations about the “weft” used to weave a certain thing. Since she had once been spurned for her question—and threatened with a horrible death—one