# Light and Silence: 5 The mind that seeks truth in the darkness finds itself standing at the threshold of a peculiar paradox. It is as though the very instrument we use to apprehend reality—consciousness itself—becomes obscured in the act of seeking. We are like a eye attempting to see itself, a thought trying to think itself into being. Consider the silence that descends when all words have been exhausted. In that void, something stirs. Not a presence, precisely, but an absence so profound it takes on the quality of presence. The mystics knew this. They spoke of the cloud of unknowing, the soundless speech, the darkness that was brighter than any light. They were not being poetic or obscure; they were describing an actual experience—one that cannot be translated into the vocabulary of the everyday without losing its essential character. The light we ordinarily speak of—the light by which we see, by which we know—this light casts shadows. And in those shadows dwells everything we cannot or will not see. Our certainties are built upon these shadows, our convictions rest in the dark. But there exists another light, one that casts no shadow because it illuminates all things equally. In that light, the distinction between knower and known dissolves. To live consciously is to stand perpetually between these two states: the light that clarifies and divides, and the silence that contains and unites. Most of us remain uneasily in the light, afraid of the dark. But it is in the journey toward silence that we discover what the light could never teach us—that the truest knowledge is not an accumulation of facts but a transformation of being. The question then becomes not "What can I know?" but "What must I become in order to understand?"

In light of these investigations, Glasenapp summarizes the Buddhist path to liberation thus: liberation requires three trainings—śīla (ethical restraint, that is, right conduct), samādhi (concentration, that is, steadying the mind), and paññā (wisdom, that is, insight into the true nature of existence). The substance of this wisdom comprises three truths: all conditioned things are impermanent, all conditioned things are suffering, and all dharmas are selfless. Once these three insights are attained, the practitioner achieves, in this very lifetime, nirvana with substrate remaining—that is, craving and ignorance are extinguished, yet the body persists, and the old fruits of action continue to be experienced. After death comes nirvana without substrate remaining—that is, complete extinction, no conditioned existence whatsoever remains.


Finally, Glasenapp utters the culminating words of his entire analysis: nirvana too is a dharma—and all dharmas are without self. In other words, nirvana too is not a self. This is the cardinal idea of Buddhist philosophy: all dharmas—whether conditioned or unconditioned, whether saṃsāra or nirvana—are void of self. In this single sentence lies the distilled essence of Glasenapp's entire thought.


Vedānta's Neti Neti and the Five Sheaths: In Light of Negating Theology


The deepest epistemological method of Vedānta is neti neti—'not this, not this' (Bṛhadāraṇyaka 2.3.6; 4.5.15). This method must be grasped, for it brings Vedānta closest to Buddhist emptiness—and yet reveals the subtlest distinction between the two.


In the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad, Yājñavalkya is asked: what is Brahman? In his answer, he does not say what Brahman is—rather, he says what Brahman is not: 'not gross, not subtle; not short, not long; not red, not oily; shadowless, without darkness; without air, without space.' Each positive attribute is negated one by one—as if peeling the layers of an onion, stratum upon stratum. Vedānta's claim: even after all layers are peeled away, something remains—that is Brahman. Buddhism's claim would be otherwise: strip away all the layers and you will see there is nothing within—the onion is nothing but layers, there is no 'essence' at all.


This negating method—termed in Western theology apophatic theology or via negativa (the negative way)—has resonated through various spiritual traditions across the world. The Greco-Roman Neoplatonist Plotinus (205-270 CE), in his Enneads, speaks of the ultimate reality, 'The One' (to hen), as transcending all attributes—'beyond being' (epekeina tes ousias). Just as the eye becomes blind when looking directly at the sun—the light so intense that nothing is seen—so too the ultimate unity cannot be grasped by intellect, but only through 'henosis' (union)—that is, losing oneself in that unity—it becomes perceptible. Plotinus, like Vedānta, affirms the existence of a positive ultimate reality—his 'The One' is not, like Buddhist emptiness, a negative 'nothingness,' but rather the source and foundation of all things.


The medieval German Christian mystic Meister Eckhart (1260-1328) went a step further—so far that the Catholic Church condemned certain of his teachings as heretical. Eckhart distinguishes between 'God' (Gott) and 'Godhead' (Gottheit). God is he who creates, sustains, loves—to whom Christians pray. But Godhead is that ineffable emptiness lying beyond God himself—the 'desert' (Wüste)—where there is no name, no attribute, no action. Eckhart has said: 'I pray God to rid me of God.' This utterance—the yearning to transcend even God—bears a striking resemblance to Buddhist emptiness. Yet Eckhart's 'desert' is, ultimately, a positive reality—'what remains even after all negation'—whereas Buddhist emptiness denies even that which remains.


The doctrine of the five sheaths (pañcakośa) described in the Taittirīya Upaniṣad (2.1-5) is a well-structured application of the neti neti method. Five sheaths or coverings—the food-sheath (the body, nourished by food), the life-sheath (vital force, breath), the mind-sheath (mind, thought and emotion), the intellect-sheath (intelligence, discernment, the faculty of decision), and the bliss-sheath (bliss, the peace of deep sleep)—the self is, as it were, wrapped in these five layers.

The seeker declares at every level: ‘This too is not I—I am not this body, I am not this breath, I am not this mind, I am not this intellect, I am not even this bliss’—and passes through all the sheaths to reach the bodiless self, which is no sheath, yet dwells within all sheaths.

This process bears a structurally remarkable resemblance to the Buddhist analysis of the five aggregates—form (the body), sensation (feeling), perception, mental formations (conditioning), and consciousness. Five levels in both; in both, each level tested with the negation ‘This is not I.’ Yet the conclusions are diametrically opposite: the Vedantist says, ‘After transcending the five sheaths, what remains—that is I, that is the Self’; the Buddhist says, ‘After examining the five aggregates, it becomes clear—nothing remains that can be called a Self.’ The same instrument, the same method, opposite results.

The Fire Discourse and the Kaccānagotta Sutta: Deeper Dimensions of Buddhist Spirituality

One of the most powerful teachings in Buddhist spirituality is the Ādittapariyāya Sutta (SN 35.28, the Fire Discourse). The context is dramatic: at Uruvela, near Gaya, before a thousand fire-worshipping monks newly ordained—for whom fire was sacred—the Buddha declared: ‘Monks, all things are burning. What is burning? The eye is burning, form is burning, eye-consciousness is burning—burning with what fire? With the fire of greed, the fire of hatred, the fire of delusion, with the fire of birth, aging, death, sorrow, lamentation, pain, grief, and despair.’ This metaphor of ‘burning with fire’ connects directly to nirvana—the word literally means ‘the extinguishing of fire’—that fire of craving that keeps the wheel of becoming turning. For the fire-worshippers, this struck with particular force: you revere fire as sacred, yet the real fire burns within you—and it is not sacred, it is suffering.

The Kaccānagotta Sutta (SN 12.15) is another teaching of extraordinary philosophical significance—perhaps the most condensed philosophical statement in Buddhism. Kaccānagotta asked the Buddha: ‘What is right view?’ That is, what does it mean to see the truth rightly? The Buddha replied: ‘The world commonly relies on two extremes—existence and non-existence. But he who sees the arising of the world with true wisdom does not entertain the notion of non-existence; he who sees the cessation of the world with true wisdom does not entertain the notion of existence.’

In simpler terms: ordinary people believe either ‘the thing exists’ (eternalism, sassatavāda—towards which Vedantic spirituality leans), or ‘the thing does not exist’ (annihilationism, ucchedavāda—materialist nihilism). The Buddha rejects both: what exists is neither ‘being’ nor ‘non-being’—what exists is ‘arising and ceasing’—a process, not a thing. This middle path is the direct precursor to Nāgārjuna’s Madhyamaka philosophy—Nāgārjuna himself cites this very sutta in the Mūlamadhyamakakārikā—and constitutes the strongest refutation against the charge that Buddhism is nihilism. Buddhism does not say, ‘Nothing exists’—it says, ‘Nothing exists in the way you think it does.’

The Four Noble Truths: The Complete Structure of Buddhist Understanding of Suffering

To fully grasp Buddhism’s notion of liberation, one must view the Four Noble Truths (cattāri ariyasaccāni)—the Buddha’s first discourse, the Dhammacakkappavattana Sutta (SN 56.11, delivered at Sāranāth in the Deer Park to five former wandering companions)—comprehensively, for this is Buddhism’s complete diagnosis and cure. The Buddha compared himself to a physician: What is the disease (suffering)? What is its cause (origin)? Can it be healed (cessation)? What is the medicine (the path)?

The First Noble Truth—Dukkha (suffering, unsatisfactoriness): Birth is suffering, aging is suffering, illness is suffering, death is suffering; the encounter with the unpleasant is suffering, separation from the pleasant is suffering, not obtaining what one desires is suffering. In essence, the five aggregates themselves constitute suffering—that is, grasping these five aggregates as ‘I’ is the root of suffering. The word ‘dukkha’ is easily misunderstood, and with this misunderstanding, all of Buddhism is misread. It is not merely ‘pain’ or ‘torment’—rather, it is a fundamental unsatisfactoriness pervading all conditioned existence. Even in moments of happiness there is dukkha—because that happiness will not endure, and its impermanence is itself suffering.

Suffering inevitably arises from impermanence.

The Second Truth—Samudaya (the origin of suffering): Tanha—craving or desire. Three kinds: kama-tanha (craving for sensory pleasure—wanting to see beauty, hear sweetness, taste delicacies), bhava-tanha (craving for existence—’I want to be, I want to be forever’—eternalism), and vibhava-tanha (craving for non-existence—’I wish not to be, let everything end’—annihilationism). Bhava-tanha holds special significance in Glaezennap’s analysis—for it is this craving that gives birth to the belief in ‘an eternal self, I shall endure forever.’ In the Vedantic view, return to the self is liberation; but in the Buddhist view, the very yearning for that return (bhava-tanha) is the subtlest form of bondage—the finest chain, because people do not recognize it as a chain at all; they mistake it for freedom.

The Third Truth—Nirodha (the cessation of suffering): the complete dispassion, cessation, and abandonment of tanha—this is Nirvana. The Fourth Truth—Magga (the path): the Noble Eightfold Path—right view (seeing reality as it truly is), right intention (intention toward renunciation, non-harm, and compassion), right speech (refraining from falsehood, slander, harsh speech, and idle talk), right action (refraining from killing, stealing, and sexual misconduct), right livelihood (honest means of sustenance), right effort (suppressing unwholesome mental states and cultivating wholesome ones), right mindfulness (sustained, aware observation of body, feeling, mind, and phenomena), and right concentration (profound one-pointedness, the four stages of meditation). These eight aspects are grouped into three trainings: sila (morality—speech, action, livelihood), samadhi (mental discipline—effort, mindfulness, concentration), and panna (wisdom—view, intention). Note well: this path contains neither ‘divine grace’ nor ‘the unveiling of the self’—only the dispelling of one’s own ignorance through one’s own effort. In Vedanta too, purushartha (personal endeavor) is vital, yet ultimately ‘the self knows itself’—a self-disclosure of an inherent reality. In the Buddhist path there is no ‘inherent self’ to know itself—there is only a process, which gradually learns to understand its own nature.