   Ibn-e ‘Arabi and Kierkegaard (A Study in Method and Reasoning)1 M has always been one and will remain one forever; therefore, there is no difference between the East and the West. Science has eliminated distances, making all mankind a single com- munity; therefore, it is meaningless to reflect upon the difference between the East and the West. These two notions have become so popular among us these days that even those who want to keep the spirit of the East alive are, in effect, ab- solutely convinced of their truth. Indeed they maintain this as well as that but make no effort to understand either. If they would just let the two clash, one might at least get some pleasure from the wrangle. As far as such utterances go, even Shaikh Sa‘dµ has said something to the effect that “Banµ ≥dam a‘¤≥’-e yak dµgar-and”2 (humans are body parts of one an- other). But what he really meant was that all human beings partake of one spirit. However, the two above quoted statements would better translate as: all humans have two hands and two feet, and everyone experiences the same hunger, therefore humanity is one. The West has bequeathed this notion of human fraternity to us. In- asmuch as humanity is one, we need not feel embarrassed by this fact; in- stead we should be grateful to the West for teaching us such a nice thing. 1“Ibn-e ‘Arabµ aur Kirkegår,” from the author’s collection Vaqt kµ R≥gnµ (La- hore: Qausain, ), –. The subtitle and footnotes have been added by the translator. 2This is the first line of a three-verse composition which occurs in the tenth story of the opening chapter, “The Character of Kings,” in Sa‘dµ’s Gulist≥n, for which see Gulist≥n-e Sa‘dµ, ed. Ghul≥m ƒusain Y∑s∑fµ (Tehran: Shirkat-e Sih≥mµ, Intish≥r≥t-e Khuv≥rizmµ, ).   • T A  U S Us m≥lik kå ky∑(cid:3) na puk≥r®(cid:3) Jisn® pil≥’µ(cid:3) d∑d^ kµ d^≥r®(cid:3) Why not call the Lord Who fed us jets of milk!3 Since the West knows such good things, maybe we should learn some other things from it as well. We’re concerned with literature, let’s inquire from a writer then. If we set Pound, Joyce, and Lawrence aside for the time being, the one book that has profoundly influenced the most quali- tatively significant portion of Western literature in the twentieth century is beyond a doubt André Gide’s Earthly Nourishment.4 This book, which has been seminal in the intellectual upbringing of easily three or four gen- erations of Western writers, begins with the suggestion that they should abandon their country, their views, the books they’re perusing, and, in the event they lack the courage to abandon any of these, then at the very least they must go out of their room.5 The West always instructs in good things, so let’s follow this Western imam and see what unfolds. We have been cooped up inside the Western room rather too long, let’s step out and stroll around a bit inside the Eastern parlor. This, in the parlance of the Western imams, would be considered an investigation of a “new real- ity,” and, hence, an enterprise meriting reward. It appears, though, that some bogeyman is lurking inside the Eastern parlor, for the second we so much as peeked in, our Western imam him- self backed out in panic. Around , René Guénon (i.e., Shaikh ‘Abdu’l- 3From the poem “H≥m≥rµ G≥’®” (Our Cow) by Ism≥‘µl M®raª^µ. Although [Mu√ammad] Ism≥‘µl M®raª^µ (–) wrote ghazals in both Persian and Urdu, he is actually famous as a children’s poet. 4It may well have, but, interestingly enough, Gide himself has this to say about it, “The book’s complete lack of success shows how far it was at variance with the taste of the day. Not a single critic mentioned it. In the course of ten years barely five hundred copies were sold” (–). For publication details of this work, see Muhammad Umar Memon, “‘Askarµ’s ‘Ibn-e ¥rabµ and Kierkegaard’ (Translator’s Note)”elsewhere in this issue. 5“And when you have read me, throw this book away—and go out. May it then give you the desire to go out—to go out from wherever you may be, from your town, from your family, from your room, from your thoughts.” (The Fruits of the Earth. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, ), . M H A •  V≥√id Ya√y≥)6 had presented the basic concepts of the East in their orig- inal form to the West and had also analyzed the Western civilization in light of those concepts. Gide had read René Guénon’s works in . He wrote in his journals that had he read those works in his youth, only God knows what direction his life would have taken. Now, though, he was an old man and nothing could be done about the matter. Just as his body had stiffened so that it could not assume different yoga postures, so had his spirit, which couldn’t, therefore, accept the ancient wisdom. Rather, he would even go so far as to say that what Europe did was all right, even if it led to its own destruction. It simply couldn’t now turn away from its path. And so he would stick by his error.7 At about this time Gide had also confessed to some of his devotees that if René Guénon were right, this would destroy all his life’s work; upon which a devotee had retorted, “Not just your work alone, even the mightiest—say, Montaigne—won’t escape that fate.” After a long anxious pause during which he remained absolutely speechless, Gide finally remarked, “I have not the slightest objection to everything René Guénon has written. It simply cannot be refuted. But the game has ended. I’m much too old.” And even after this admission, the same senseless repetition of the same tune: The West is in error, still the West is the best. In the following I’ll summarize what Gide had produced in his de- fense of the West on those two occasions. . The East wants the individual to lose himself in some Absolute Being. The West, on the other hand, desires the individual to re- tain his individuality, even enhance it noticeably. The very thought that he might lose his own individuality gave him the creeps. . Gide is not interested in this Absolute Being that couldn’t even be defined. “I enjoy defining things the most,” he said—in other words, his ability to exercise analytical reason. (In the same state- 6René Guénon (–) had a traditional Catholic upbringing and stud- ied philosophy and mathematics. Later, in Paris, he became a Muslim under the influence of the French painter Gustav Ageli. He left for Egypt in , where he remained until his death. His books cover a wide variety of subjects from meta- physics and symbolism to critiques of the modern world and traditional sciences. Orient and Occident and Crisis of the Modern World are two of his most widely read books. 7For the original, see Appendix.  • T A  U S ment Gide claimed for himself the status of Bacon and Descartes. What I personally enjoy the most is to recall that the source of most of Gide’s reflections is none other than Nietzsche and that Gide rattled sabers with Julien Benda,8 who was, in fact, the greatest follower of Descartes in literature, practically every day of the week.) . This Absolute Being is something entirely abstract. Over this inef- fable Unity Gide rather preferred multiplicity, life, the world, and mortal men (in other words, all those things that have to do with “emotion” and “sensibility”). For the sake of Unity, Gide is un- willing to sacrifice multiplicity. Now let’s condense these further: . Multiplicity instead of Unity; . Limited individuality of man instead of Absolute Being; and . Analytical reason, emotion, and sensibility—i.e., psyche and body—instead of spirit. This analysis is absolutely flawless as far as it applies to Western civi- lization. However, by placing two objects, one opposite the other, Gide apparently believes that while the East holds firm to one, the West holds to the other. Now where the East is concerned, it is not a matter of “con- tradiction” or “opposition.” It is the belief which Muslims call “Unity” (va√dat) and Hindus “non-duality” that runs through every fiber in the body of all Eastern civilizations. Ibn-e ‘Arabµ has elucidated with utmost clarity that neither the declaration of pure “incomparability” (tanzµh9) nor of pure “similarity/sameness” (tashbµh) suffices. True Reality amounts to “declaring incomparability in similarity”10 and the other way round (tanzµh fµ al-tashbµh aur tashbµh fµ al-tanzµh). Shankaracharya also holds the 8Benda (–) was a French essayist known for his polemical writings against contemporary intellectuals for their indifference to the values of reason, intellectualism, and classicism in which he himself passionately believed. The relationship between Gide and Julien Benda may not have been quite as warm and cordial as ‘Askarµ seems to imply, but neither was it entirely devoid of respect and admiration (see, Gide, Journals, vol. , pp. , , , , , , –, and ). 9I.e., according to Chittick’s definition, “incomparability of God with all created reality” (The Self-Disclosure of God: Principles of Ibn al-‘Arabµ’s Cosmology. Albany, NY: SUNY Press, ), xxi-ff. 10I.e., grasping or viewing Reality both as different/other/transcendent and similar/same/immanent at the same time. M H A •  same view, and also René Guénon who has stressed it repeatedly in his books. But Gide, in spite of reading those books, kept insisting that he would stick by his error. He never did know why, precisely, the East was right, and why, precisely, the West was wrong. René Guénon had already foretold as much. Although he was writing all this, he said, it was unlikely that his books would ever be truly grasped by the West. What other con- sequence could be envisaged by throwing in one’s lot with Bacon and Descartes! One couldn’t even tell whether Zuleika was a woman or a man (Zulaikh≥ zan b∑d y≥ mard). However, in the West those who do not consciously follow Des- cartes, or those who are opposed to the trends set in motion by him and Bacon, or those who affirm “spirituality” or “religion”—do they come at all nearer the East? Is the “spirituality” of the East and the West one and the same thing? (Here, the West stands for post-sixteenth-century Europe.) In reflecting on this issue we shall not privilege the East over the West or vice versa. Following in the tracks of Gide (“I enjoy defining things the most”) we shall adopt a similar frame of mind, indeed, we shall abide by the method elucidated by Bacon. Just as a botanist compares and contrasts by setting two plants next to one another, we shall do the same because such is the preferred method of our Western imams. We have selected two books for our comparative study: Ibn-e ‘Arabµ’s FuΩ∑Ω al-ƒikam11 from the East, not the whole book though, just three chapters12 that deal with the Prophets Ibr≥hµm (Abraham), Is√≥q (Isaac), and Ism≥‘µl (Ishmael); and from the West Soren Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling.13 Ibn-e ‘Arabµ because he is the Shaikh-e Akbar (Master Su- preme) of Muslims, and Kierkegaard because he is the Im≥m-e A‘ am (Supreme Leader) of Western philosophy and theology today. The selec- tion of Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling is determined also by the fact that it has served as the foundation of the structure for the thought of most contemporary Western philosophers and scholastic theologians. All philosophers, whether theist or atheist, use the story of Prophet Ibr≥hµm 11For publication details of this work, see Memon, “‘Askarµ’s ‘Ibn-e ¥rabµ and Kierkegaard.’” 12Chapters five, six, and seven. 13For publication details of this work, see Memon, “‘Askarµ’s ‘Ibn-e ¥rabµ and Kierkegaard.’”  • T A  U S (i.e., as explicated by Kierkegaard) as a symbol. In fact Mircea Eliade,14 an expert in comparative religion, even goes so far as to distinguish this story as the very soul of the Jewish and Christian religions, and indeed as their central symbol; however, behind his thinking is not the story itself but rather its exegetical gloss by Kierkegaard. No better book could be found, therefore, for understanding the finest thought and philosophy of West- ern civilization. On the other hand, Shaikh-e Akbar, too, has elucidated the inner significance and meaning of the story in question. So it is hoped that a comparative study of the two books will reveal the essence of East and of West in ways that are not possible through any other method. The moment one so much as picks up the two books, the conflict be- tween East and West rears up its head. If one only read the three chapters in question in FuΩ∑Ω al-ƒikam, it is likely that one may not understand them at all, or end up drawing absolutely the wrong kind of conclusions. These chapters are part of a comprehensive thought, a thought grounded in the Qur’≥n and ƒadµ¡. Here, it is well neigh impossible to understand the parts without a knowledge of the whole. This is the reason why Shaikh Shih≥bu’d-Dµn Suhravardµ15 used to instruct his disciples (murµd), “Beware, don’t ever meet Ibn-e ‘Arabµ or you will turn into an atheist (zindµq).” So Ibn-e ‘Arabµ’s explication of the deeper meaning of ƒa¤rat Ibr≥hµm’s story is no momentary and vagrant thought, rather it is the es- sence of a lifetime’s reflection on the mysteries or symbolic meanings (rum∑z) of the Qur’≥n. This is confirmed and corroborated—not contra- 14Mircea Eliade (–) was a Romanian by birth but spent much of his later life in the United States where he was professor of History of Religions at the University of Chicago. He has written many books and novels. 15Also known as Suhravardµ al-Maqt∑l (–). He was one of the leading figures of the “illuminative” school of Islamic philosophy and author of some fifty works, among them the most well known ƒikmat al-Ishr≥q (The Wisdom of Illumination) in which he attempted to reconcile philosophy and TaΩavvuf. ‘As- karµ seems to imply that al-Suhravardµ’s admonition was based on his personal experience. There is no evidence to support that he and Ibn al-‘Arabµ had ever met, for when the latter arrived in Baghdad in , the former had been dead for thirteen years. However, a brief “silent” meeting is mentioned between Ibn al-‘Arabµ and the famous theologian, philosopher, and mutaΩavvif Ab∑ ƒafΩ ‘Umar Suhravardµ (–) (the chief organizer of the futuvva (“chivalry”) brother- hoods, a kind of spiritual guild, and the author of a manual for spiritual teachers called ‘Av≥rif al-Ma‘≥rif) in Baghdad in , but he reportedly described Ibn al- ‘Arabµ as “an ocean of divine truths” (cf. Austin, Bezels, ). M H A •  dicted—by a perusal of his other books. Conversely, if one so much as stepped outside this one particular book of Kierkegaard, one would run into enormous difficulty. This is because Kierkegaard later abandoned some of his earlier views, or altered them, or assumed total silence in re- gard to them. In short, this book of Kierkegaard represents only a phase in his reflective life and may not conform at all to other phases. This sort of thing, namely, that one may outgrow one’s old views and adopt new ones, is viewed by the West as a sign of sincerity and loftiness, and is called intellectual growth. In the East, however, such a person is looked upon with suspicion. This is so because “truth” is not viewed in the West as having an independent existence, and that which has no independent existence, the East would simply not call it “truth.” Before reading Fear and Trembling one must further bear in mind that it was written during a harrowing emotional crisis, and largely in an effort to bring it under control. Kierkegaard felt that God didn’t want him to marry the woman he loved so he broke off their engagement, and yet kept hoping silently in his heart for her return.16 He perceived a re- flection of his own struggle in the story of ƒa¤rat Ibr≥hµm. Whatever the book’s value may be as philosophy, the fact remains that Kierkegaard’s novel interpretation of the narrative was the product of his own emo- tional crisis. The thoughts he ascribed to ƒa¤rat Ibr≥hµm were the creation of his own confusion and perplexity indeed some sentences in the book more or less fly straight out of his journals. In other words, he attempts to understand ƒa¤rat Ibr≥hµm by recourse to his own personality. Of course I’m not implying that it’s just for that reason alone that his views become invalid or false. All I’m trying to do here is merely “define” things in the Gidean manner. At the other end of the spectrum, however, whatever Ibn-e ‘Arabµ has written has nothing whatever to do with emotional conflicts or confu- sions. They are entirely non-individual and impersonal things—even though just for the heck of it a French Professor Sahib, Henri Corbin, has dug up a Beatrice even for Ibn-e ‘Arabµ.17 Assuming it were true, it hardly 16This woman was Regine Olsen. 17She was Ni ≥m, daughter of Ab∑ Shuj≥‘ ◊≥hir b. Rustam of Mecca. It is said that Ibn-e ‘Arabµ, much inspired by her exceptional beauty and intelligence, composed an entire volume of mystical poetry Tarjum≥n al-Ashv≥q (Interpreter of Desires). “One suspects,” writes Austin, “that the relationship between Ibn al- ‘Arabµ and this young woman had something of the quality of that between  • T A  U S bears on the subject matter of his books. A book like FuΩ∑Ω al-ƒikam can only be composed after one has risen far above the sphere of the psyche and its myriad conundrums. Kierkegaard constructs theories to unravel the tangled skeins of his own emotional problems. On the other hand, Ibn-e ‘Arabµ has already arrived at the stage of √aqq al-yaqµn (the √aqq of certainty). Then again, contrary to what Corbin thinks, the matter has nothing to do with “creative imagination.” Ibn-e ‘Arabµ is writing by means of an ability which the East identifies as “intellect” (‘aql) and René Guénon, for the convenience of the West, has described as “intellectual intuition/vision” (‘aqlµ vijd≥n). A second thing to bear in mind is that if there is any testimony to substantiate Kierkegaard’s claims at all, it is he himself. On the other hand, Ibn-e ‘Arabµ, notwithstanding his tremendous spiritual rank, simply couldn’t dare to write even a word that didn’t accord with the Qur’≥n and ƒadµ¡. Even though he is credited with some five hundred works, his wont was to leave a book in the city he had written it in and move on. He practiced such exemplary care regarding his beliefs that he unreservedly advises the readers of his book al-Fut∑√≥t al-Makkµya18 (Meccan Open- ings) to make those beliefs manifest to others. The “trust” (am≥nat) of Shaikh-e Akbar is nothing other than that All≥h is One and Mu√ammad is His messenger. Let’s now open both books together. René Guénon says that since Eastern views deal with a Reality which is entirely ineffable, their basic method of expressing it is of necessity symbolic. By the same token, be- cause Western philosophies are the product of analytical reason, they simply cannot be expressed in symbolic language. You will therefore ob- serve that the division of chapters in the FuΩ∑Ω al-ƒikam as well as the book’s narrative style are highly symbolic and rich in allusion, and its Dante and Beatrice, and it serves to illustrate a strong appreciation of the femi- nine in him, at least in its spiritual aspect” (Bezels, ). I’m sure that ‘Askarµ would have bristled at this remark, however well intentioned. For an account of Ibn al- ‘Arabµ’s meeting with Ni ≥m, see Stephen Hirtenstein, The Unlimited Mercifier (Oxford: Anqa Publishing, ), –. 18Cairo, . Reprint. Beirut: D≥r ¿≥dir, n.d. For translated passages from this work, see Chittick, Self-Disclosure of God. Al-Fut∑√≥t al-Makkµya, considered the author’s magnum opus, was begun in Mecca in  and completed in its first version of twenty manuscript volumes in . A second version in thirty- seven volumes was completed in . M H A •  manner is so highly concentrated that if one were to accept Pound’s defi- nition of poetry as writing that packs maximum meaning into a mini- mum of words, this book would easily qualify as poetry, although it is neither poetry nor purely creative prose. Kierkegaard has of course tried to make the narrative of ƒa¤rat Ibr≥- hµm into a symbol, but in fact three separate styles are observed in his book. One is the cut-and-dried analytical style of philosophical discourse, the other is suited to analysis of emotions and states of the psyche. The East considers it reprehensible to describe such lofty persons as prophets as merely actors in a d≥st≥n (romance; story); however, Kierkegaard, as he reflects upon the significance of ƒa¤rat Ibr≥hµm, slips time and time again into the domain of the novel. The most interesting aspect of the narrative to him, by his own admission, is the opportunity it provides him to spec- ulate on the thoughts of ƒa¤rat Ibr≥hµm as he led his son to be sacrificed. On the other hand, Ibn-e ‘Arabµ wouldn’t even reflect for a moment about the world of the psyche (nafs). From his perspective, the incredibly more interesting thing was to reflect on the significance of ƒa¤rat Ibr≥hµm himself. Kierkegaard considered the novel to be the most suitable expres- sive medium for philosophy. But the sphere of the novel does not extend at all beyond the body and psyche. As such, this expressive mode can never be truly symbolic, at least not in the sense in which the East under- stands symbolic. The third style in Fear and Trembling is blandly oratorical and ser- monesque. Here Kierkegaard’s effort is to stretch and expand rather than to achieve concentration in the expression of emotion, betraying at times a febrile effort to stir some emotion within himself, and to affect the emo- tions of his reader. The question of affecting anyone doesn’t even arise for Ibn-e ‘Arabµ. He is, rather, engrossed in how to translate his knowledge as precisely and accurately into words as he possibly can, a knowledge alto- gether different in its nature at that. Such knowledge cannot be charac- terized as either purely informational, or as knowledge that can be derived through the labor of discursive reason, rather it is the kind of knowledge in which the knower and the object of knowledge fuse together. Ibn-e ‘Arabµ, therefore, is not a poet in that sense, and certainly not in the spe- cial sense Kierkegaard has given it. Yet Kierkegaard couldn’t see a rank greater than a poet’s for himself. A poet, to him, was he who, though un- able to become a hero in his own right, could nonetheless understand the achievements of a hero and sing of those achievements. The faculties such a man could marshal are simply these: sensibility, emotion, discursive reason, and imagination. Opposite to this, a cognition such as Ibn al-  • T A  U S ‘Arabi’s is possible through pure intellect alone, and is true spirituality. According to René Guénon, this metaphysical knowledge is neither some- thing “mental” nor “human,” but something entirely above and beyond them. Perhaps we won’t accept this view, but one thing we must always keep before us throughout this comparative study is that this is precisely the operative belief which is at the back of FuΩ∑Ω al-ƒikam and is entirely absent from Kierkegaard’s conception. ƒa¤rat Ibr≥hµm is the focal point of Kierkegaard’s thought in Fear and Trembling, but simply as an ordinary human. No doubt he did perform an outstanding feat, but his psyche is hardly different from that of a common man’s; in other words, Kierkegaard lays greater emphasis on Ha¤rat Ibr≥hµm’s humanity and ascribes all manner of emotional reactions to him. Ibn-e ‘Arabµ, on the other hand, doesn’t even think about Ha¤rat Ibr≥hµm’s human aspect. Instead, what is important for him is his status as a prophet. His aim, preeminently, is to somehow discover the secret of his prophecy. As Kierkegaard would have it, just about any human can achieve Ha¤rat Ibr≥hµm’s station, provided he has the aspiration (himmat) to do so, though Kierkegaard finds it lacking in himself. Conversely, in Ibn-e ‘Arabµ’s opinion, yes, an ordinary man can adopt ƒa¤rat Ibr≥hµm’s method, given the strength he can perhaps even reach his status as a valµ (friend [of God]; saint), but never his station as a nabµ (prophet). All right, let’s accept for a moment that ƒa¤rat Ibr≥hµm was just like any ordinary human, still Kierkegaard’s concept of man is also very lim- ited. At least this is precisely what he says in this book, viz., the constitu- ent elements of man are two: body and mind (or nafs [psyche] in our terminology). However, according to Ibn-e ‘Arabµ, the most fundamental (aΩl al-uΩ∑l) thing in man is the spirit (r∑√)—the mainstay of both body and psyche. It is because of this difference that Kierkegaard becomes bogged down in the world of the psyche, and cannot go beyond it, while Ibn-e ‘Arabµ, as he pondered the significance of the spirit, didn’t consider the states of the psyche worth even a moment’s attention. Now let’s have a look at the problems Kierkegaard extracted from the story of ƒa¤rat Ibr≥hµm. His main interest lies in the mental states of ƒa¤rat Ibr≥hµm, and the issues he has pulled out, they too, in fact, flow directly out of those states. He believes that unless a man grapples with those issues he will always fall short of achieving greatness. Well then, let’s first make an inventory of those issues. . God commanded ƒa¤rat Ibr≥hµm to sacrifice his son. This com- mand goes against human emotions and ethics. As such he must