Foreword

Radiance, spotless and effulgent,
Night-dispelling Sun of Wisdom!
—Lotus Sutra

This is in part the story of a quest, of gradual progress towards the heart of an enigma. Confronted some forty years ago by the charming figure of Kuan Yin, known to many as the Chinese Goddess of Love, I came to wonder whether it was wholly symbolic or whether Kuan Yin could, in some sense, be said to be. The adventure started one night when, by the uncertain light of votive candles, I had made my way alone through the shadows to the back of a temple hall. The fitful gleams playing amidst the darkness conjured up an atmosphere of mystery. As I stood gazing up at a tall bronze statue of Kuan Yin, a door seemed to open in my mind and the goddess, so I could have sworn, deigned to address me! Imagination? That may well seem to have been so, but who under such romantic circumstances could resist the hope that she had really spoken? Thenceforth I was her devoted follower, which does not mean, however, that I quite believed in her. Drawn by a fascination having nothing to do with belief or its converse, I delved ever more deeply beyond the guise she wears for simple folk and presently came to have some dim apprehension of her significance as a celestial Bodhisattva, a kind of beingless being representing one of the most exalted concepts of Mahayana Buddhism. Perceiving her to be much more than a graceful myth expressing the yearning of the poor and lonely for compassion, I had all the more reason for loving her; yet this new vision of her as the embodiment of divine love was somewhat marred by the miraculous powers attributed to her in the sutras. The passages describing them seemed at first to detract from rather than enhance her sublimity, for they struck me as too fanciful and more becoming to a folk goddess than a celestial Bodhisattva. This, of course, was just a personal view.

Years later, with an insight stemming from the teaching of my Chinese and Tibetan masters, I came to understand what I still think is her true significance—or part of it. She is real—oh, not as Artemis and Aphrodite were real in the eyes of their worshippers, but in a sense more secret and profound. However, in trying to make this point, I have not sought to convert others to my way of thinking. I shall be happy if they come to love her, even if she remains for them just a beautiful idea. To give colour and life to my portrait of her, I have related many Chinese and Tibetan tales which reveal her at what may rightly or wrongly be called the lower and middle levels of understanding, besides setting down some of her mantras and appropriate excerpts from sutras and manuals of contemplative meditation. Also I have had much to say of Kuan Yin's three progenitors—Avalokitesvara (Chenresig) and Tara, two deities warmly cherished by Tibetans, and the Chinese Princess Miao Shan, for Kuan Yin is mysteriously all of these together!

Perhaps the portrait will find favour not only with some who are interested in Buddhism and Chinese and Tibetan yogic practice, but also with those who have come upon temples and shrines to Kuan Yin while sojourning in Asian countries, and with the many lovers of Chinese art who have fallen captive to her charms both as a benign mother goddess and as a sweetly smiling maiden deity. I should have liked to say more of her from the viewpoint of Chinese and Japanese art, but research facilities in Bangkok are limited. As it is, the pith of what I have written is mystical rather than aesthetic; I hope it may encourage those who, without necessarily subscribing to an established faith, have glimpsed the effulgence of what Lao-tzu called the Nameless—that which once inspired certain Greeks to erect a wayside altar to 'The Unknown God' and led Wordsworth to perceive a supernatural radiance suffusing the world around him. The Nameless is as it is and quite beyond the realm of conceptual thought; yet there are times when one needs to hint at it symbolically. To my mind, Kuan Yin's gentle form is a worthier symbol than the figure of a tortured being hanging from a cross or of an awesome father god. Trivial and inaccurate as all such symbols are in comparison with the reality they clothe, they have their importance and should be chosen with care. If we are to preserve our sanity amidst the mind-shattering horrors of the modern world, it is well to have an intimation of serenely abiding beauty underlying the grim façade visible to our senses. Could we but choose our own symbol of that beauty (and why indeed should we not?), it would be hard to find a form lovelier than Kuan Yin's; or, if the Chinese conception of the goddess seems just a trifle too sedate, we could opt for her Tibetan counterpart and twin, the compassionate and slyly playful Tara!