It becomes clearer and clearer the more you read their writings and listen to their words, that those with the greatest ardor for materialistic reductionism, who reject even a possibility of metaphysical experience do so in large part because they themselves have made attempts on the path and failed to achieve what they themselves read or heard about from others. They might have hoped for a “mystical” experience themselves, and failed to achieve what they imagined. Often it is their initial naïveté that made them jaded and disappointed in the end. Unable to bear the bitterness of failure, they came to the conclusion that if THEY could not produce the experience or understanding they desired — NO ONE could, and that the whole thing is a scam. Christopher Hitchens visiting an ashram is an example of this; the case of Stephen Batchelor seems to be another. As much as one would like to avoid “psychologising” their opponents, it’s a consistent observable phenomenon that deserves some scrutiny.
The above is quite clear to a keen observer, but what is mentioned less often is: it might be that mistranslation is one of the conditions that frustrates potential scholars/practitioners. In fact, it is usually people with keen intellect who come away with a distaste for the topic if it was presented in an unscrupulous and wayward manner. A profound and valid argument, when read and obfuscated by an awkward, distorted, unclear translation, might itself result in frustration, particularly among the more intelligent ones. The more simple-minded crowd, focused more on “vibes” than facts, internal logic, feasibility of the system structure etc., might gloss over seemingly incomprehensible sentences adorned with high sounding terms, but for a real scholar or potential scholar it will only elicit frustration. They might (as many do) come to the conclusion that it’s the topic and thus the tradition itself that doesn’t make any sense, without scrutinising the rendering of the text itself. And once such a “decision” is made, once conclusions are formed, it is mostly the intellectually able ones who have a harder time letting go of it, since they trust their powers of reasoning more than the rest. These people then are easy prey to hollow skepticism for the sake of skepticism, refuting anything that seems even remotely to undermine their preconceived notions about reality.
The skepticism itself should not be discouraged or stigmatised; it’s in fact a sign of a healthy mind. Rather, it should be taken to its very limits; finally, skepticism itself should not go unquestioned.
For the tradition: the rigour therefore must be internal, the scrutiny should be directed inwards, and the highest standards should be upheld, or at least this should be the aspiration. Qualifications, experience and validation from the community of accredited scholars should be a must, or we risk what was outlined above — happening on a greater and greater scale.
Sadly, a lot of the “Western” dharma books, both originals and translations of “traditional” texts, are imperfect. The imperfect understanding carries over from the source materials (written by Indian and Tibetan scholars, masters, often centuries ago) inadequately rendered into the contemporary books, often written by Western authors.
Tibetan teachers, who possess more authority by virtue of their rank, recognition as an emanation, and hierarchy within the tradition, might write their books in English, using terms that were imperfect but became commonly accepted in the community for lack of initial scrutiny.
A badly translated Shastra or a Sutra might not only turn a potential student off; it can produce an avowed “enemy” of the doctrine. They might not have been hostile to it had the doctrine been presented to them in an accurate manner. But a lot of detractors are battling with misconceptions, the very misconceptions the regular crowd who goes by “vibes” gladly and unquestioningly accepts. (Westerners pride themselves on their perceived absence of “blind faith” — they smirk when it’s mentioned, I see their faces — they think it’s a Tibetan thing. Going off of vibes and high sounding terms like “Clear Light”, “Dzogchen” etc without realising the underlying mechanism IS the definition of blind faith. And I’m not even 100% against blind faith, for many it’s the best they’ll ever get. Anyway, the primary reason I started learning Tibetan is that it was endlessly irritating to go through this unanalysed “esoteric nonsense”).
This then compounds, and misconceptions get more and more prominent, and what’s worse, more commonly accepted.
This is particularly alarming with the growing predominance of machine learning, trained on a vast corpus of material, most of it inverted, often internally contradictory, making the output ever more vague, producing hallucinations and inaccuracies, which are then taken as gospel by believers in the new miracle of AI.
The vision outlined above might seem grim, but is by no means a discouragement to the efforts of new and aspiring translators and interpreters. With the technological advancements, resources for research, cross-analysis, and communication with genuine scholars also become more widely available and easy to use. There’s never been a better time for a serious scholar to do deep research, with so many more sources readily available than ever. The real obstacle to sustaining, building, maintaining, and expanding the stable and enduring, living tradition of scholarship that can be a foundation for practice is the ever-present intention of personal advancement that in many guises takes precedence over other, more noble goals. It takes many forms, but at its core it is the impulse to broadcast one’s own competence and knowledge, without being asked (something that goes against the very ethos of Buddhist teachings).
How it manifests needs hardly a mention; one encounters its expressions everywhere — from scientific papers to lectures, YouTube videos, articles, books. Scholars pursuing accreditation and renown often disguise their motives as “preservation of a vanishing tradition.” Many want to be first to publicise some doctrines, practices (even murals) “hidden until now.”
Others wish to synthesise the “essence” of a tradition, and having contextualised it for “modern” recipients, present the system as their own, rising above both the traditional teachers and their audience. They see themselves as masters of “both worlds,” scoffing at both their masters and students. It seems like the instructions on how to receive the dharma — (to be like a student who sees the Guru as a musk-deer, themselves as a hunter, the Dharma as priced musk, and their studying as hunting; rather, a guru should be seen as a physician, the student as a patient, dharma as remedy, and the practice as therapy) — is ever so topical, not outdated after all.
A message to the teachers is: beware of the tweed-jacket wearing musk hunters with PhDs.
Regarding translation, as a first layer, I propose a simple acid test; let’s call it “WDTFM.” Read a sentence or a phrase to an uninitiated, regular person and ask them, “What does that f*&^%#g mean?” with an expression of incredulity. If they can repeat the sentence, rephrasing it, the translation works. The second test is longer: whether the teaching in the long term still works as medicine.
Finally: if the writer himself, wasn’t guilty of all the above mentioned offences, personally and repeatedly, this would never have been written in the first place.
