By Bhikkhu Nanamoli
Gathered posthumous papers of the English monk-scholar Ñaṇamoli, who counts as one of many most appropriate translators of Pali Buddhist texts into English. in addition to being a proficient translator Ñaṇamoli used to be additionally a talented philosopher, thinker, and poet. along with a few longer essays, lots of the notes are just one paragraph lengthy and have been written within the Fifties as a Buddhist monk. The notes and essays care for profound themes akin to ontology, metaphysics, nuclear physics, good judgment, yet there's additionally humour, irony, sarcasm and lightweight poetry. 4 essays have been prior released in a Wheel book referred to as Pathways of Buddhist proposal. The notes have been gathered, edited and brought via Nyanaponika Thera.
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Extra resources for A Thinker's Note Book: Posthumous Papers of a Buddhist Monk
Alex held his body stiffly, which seemed both familiar and distant. The last time I saw him was fuzzy in my mind. ” he asked. ” I waited a moment. ” He looked at me with surprise. My strange giddiness of the previous weeks had evaporated. I was coherent and I was depressed. It was like I had just woken up. I couldn’t believe that an entire month had passed. It shocked me that my body was so delicate, that an event so violent could have come so close. I was surprised to find that I wasn’t immortal, that the mobility of youth was permeable, that it was no longer mine.
I wasn’t yet used to my crutches and they dug into the soft flesh under my arms like wire. I had just barely emerged from the fog of head injury. The weeks since the accident crowded into my memory, fuzzy and incomplete. I had lain on the bed in my mother’s living room day after day with limp legs and gyrating spirals of pain. Sometimes my mother and sometimes my father sat by my side, regularly in each other’s company for the first time since they had divorced seven years before. While they were at work, friends came.
Okay,” Mbula said. She smiled, humoring me. I walked to the grocery store alone, a few miles each way. I could feel the sun on my shoulders as I trudged through the sand, past young kids playing soccer and teenagers hanging out on the steps of a house near town. They called to me as I passed. I smiled. At the store I bought a sack of apples—soft and slightly mealy—and a package of butter. I walked home with the bag under my arm and then dumped the contents on the counter. Later, with Mbula’s help, I began to bake.