He said that the nagual Elías had the sobriety that only dreamers acquired after inconceivable battles with themselves. He used his sobriety to plunge himself into the task of answering don Juan’s questions.
“The nagual Elías explained that my difficulty in understanding the spirit was the same as his own,” don Juan continued. “He thought there were two different issues. One, the need to understand indirectly what the spirit is, and the other, to understand the spirit directly.
“You’re having problems with the first. Once you understand what the spirit is, the second issue will be resolved automatically, and vice versa. If the spirit speaks to you, using its silent words, you will certainly know immediately what the spirit is.”
He said that the nagual Elías believed that the difficulty was our reluctance to accept the idea that knowledge could exist without words to explain it.
“But I have no difficulty accepting that,” I said.
“Accenting this proposition is not as easy as saying you accept it,” don Juan said. “The nagual Elías used to tell me that the whole of humanity has moved away from the abstract, although at one time we must have been close to it. It must have been our sustaining force. And then something happened and pulled us away from the abstract. Now we can’t get back to it. He used to say that it takes years for an apprentice to be able to go back to the abstract, that is, to know that knowledge and language can exist independent of each other.”
Don Juan repeated that the crux of our difficulty in going back to the abstract was our refusal to accept that we could know without words or even without thoughts.
I was going to argue that he was talking nonsense when I got the strong feeling I was missing something and that his point was of crucial importance to me. He was really trying to tell me something, something I either could not grasp or which could not be told completely.
“Knowledge and language are separate,” he repeated softly.
And I was just about to say, “I know it,” as if indeed I knew it, when I caught myself.
“I told you there is no way to talk about the spirit,” he continued, “because the spirit can only be experienced. Sorcerers try to explain this condition when they say that the spirit is nothing you can see or feel. But it’s there looming over us always. Sometimes it comes to some of us. Most of the time it seems indifferent.”
I kept quiet. And he continued to explain. He said that the spirit in many ways was a sort of wild animal. It kept its distance from us until a moment when something enticed it forward. It was then that the spirit manifested itself.
I raised the point that if the spirit wasn’t an entity, or a presence, and had no essence, how could anyone notice it?
“Your problem,” he said, “is that you consider only your own idea of what’s abstract. For instance, the inner essence of man, or the fundamental principle, are abstracts for you. Or perhaps something a bit less vague, such as character, volition, courage, dignity, honor. The spirit, of course, can be described in terms of all of these. And that’s what’s so confusing —that it’s all these and none of them.”
He added that what I considered abstractions were either the opposites of all the practicalities I could think of or things I had decided did not have concrete existence.
“Whereas for a sorcerer an abstract is something with no parallel in the human condition,” he said.
“But they’re the same thing,” I shouted. “Don’t you see that we’re both talking about the same thing?”
“We are not,” he insisted. “For a sorcerer, the spirit is an abstract simply because he knows it without words or even thoughts. It’s an abstract because he can’t conceive what the spirit is. Yet without the slightest chance or desire to understand it, a sorcerer handles the spirit. He recognizes it, beckons it, entices it, becomes familiar with it, and expresses it with his acts.” I shook my head in despair. I could not see the difference.
“The root of your misconception is that I have used the term ‘abstract’ to describe the spirit,” he said. “For you, abstracts are words which describe states of intuition. An example is the word ‘spirit,’ which doesn’t describe reason or pragmatic experience, and which, of course, is of no use to you other than to tickle your fancy.”
I was furious with don Juan. I called him obstinate and he laughed at me. He suggested that if I would think about the proposition that knowledge might be independent of language, without bothering to understand it, perhaps I could see the light.
“Consider this,” he said. “It was not the act of meeting me that mattered to you. The day I met you, you met the abstract. But since you couldn’t talk about it, you didn’t notice it. Sorcerers meet the abstract without thinking about it or seeing it or touching it or feeling its presence.”
I remained quiet because I did not enjoy arguing with him. At times I considered him to be quite willfully abstruse. But don Juan seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.
THE LAST SEDUCTION OF THE NAGUAL JULIAN
It was as cool and quiet in the patio of don Juan’s house as in the cloister of a convent. There were a number of large fruit trees planted extremely close together, which seemed to regulate the temperature and absorb all noises. When I first came to his house, I had made critical remarks about the illogical way the fruit trees had been planted. I would have given them more space. His answer was that those trees were not his property, they were free and independent warrior trees that had joined his party of warriors, and that my comments—which applied to regular trees—were not relevant.
His reply sounded metaphorical to me. What I didn’t know then was that don Juan meant everything he said literally.
Don Juan and I were sitting in cane armchairs facing e fruit trees now. The trees were all bearing fruit. I commented that it was not only a beautiful sight but an extremely intriguing one, for it was not the fruit season.
“There is an interesting story about it,” he admit-:d. “As you know, these trees are warriors of my arty. They are bearing now because all the members f my party have been talking and expressing feelings bout our definitive journey, here in front of them, aid the trees know now that when we embark on our definitive journey, they will accompany us.”
I looked at him, astonished.
“I can’t leave them behind,” he explained. “They re warriors too. They have thrown their lot in with he nagual’s party. And they know how I feel about hem. The assemblage point of trees is located very low in their enormous luminous shell, and that permits hem to know our feelings, for instance, the feelings we are having now as we discuss my definitive journey.”
I remained quiet, for I did not want to dwell on the subject. Don Juan spoke and dispelled my mood.
“The second abstract core of the sorcery stories is called the Knock of the Spirit,” he said. “The first core, the Manifestations of the Spirit, is the edifice that intent builds and places before a sorcerer, then invites him to enter. It is the edifice of intent seen by a sorcerer. The Knock of the Spirit is the same edifice seen by the beginner who is invited—or rather forced—to enter.
“This second abstract core could be a story in itself. The story says that after the spirit had manifested itself to that man we have talked about and had gotten no response. the spirit laid a trap for the man. It was a final subterfuge, not because the man was special, but because the incomprehensible chain of events of the spirit made that man available at the very moment that the spirit knocked on the door.
“It goes without saying that whatever the spirit revealed to that man made no sense to him. In fact, it went against everything the man knew, everything he was. The man, of course, refused on the spot, and in no uncertain terms, to have anything to do with the spirit. He wasn’t going to fall for such preposterous nonsense. He knew better. The result was a total stalemate.
“I can say that this is an idiotic story,” he continued. “I can say that what I’ve given you is the pacifier for those who are uncomfortable with the silence of the abstract.”
He peered at me for a moment and then smiled.
“You like words,” he said accusingly. “The mere idea of silent knowledge scares you. But stories, no matter how stupid, delight you and make you feel secure.”