Crowded by Beauty: The Life and Zen of Poet Philip Whalen

Crowded by Beauty

The publisher gratefully acknowledges the generous support of the Humanities Endowment Fund of the University of California Press Foundation.

The publisher also gratefully acknowledges the support of the Leslie Scalapino Memorial Fund for Poetry, which was established by generous contributions to the University of California Press Foundation by Thomas J. White and the Leslie Scalapino–O Books Fund.

Crowded by Beauty

THE LIFE AND ZEN OF POET PHILIP WHALEN

David Schneider

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA PRESS

University of California Press, one of the most distinguished university presses in the United States, enriches lives around the world by advancing scholarship in the humanities, social sciences, and natural sciences. Its activities are supported by the UC Press Foundation and by philanthropic contributions from individuals and institutions. For more information, visit www.ucpress.edu.

University of California Press

Oakland, California

© 2015 by The Regents of the University of California

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Schneider, David, 1951 – author.

        Crowded by beauty: the life and Zen of poet Philip Whalen / David Schneider.

            pages    cm

        Life and Zen of poet Philip Whalen

        Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-0-520-24746-8 (cloth : alk. paper)

ISBN 978-0-520-96099-2 (ebook)

    1. Whalen, Philip.    2. Beat generation.    3. Poets, American—20th century.    4. Zen Buddhists.    I. Title    II. Title: Life and Zen of poet Philip Whalen.

PS3545.H117Z86 2015

    813’.54—dc23

2015008822

Manufactured in the United States of America

24    23    22    21    20    19    18    17    16    15

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In keeping with a commitment to support environmentally responsible and sustainable printing practices, UC Press has printed this book on Natures Natural, a fiber that contains 30% post-consumer waste and meets the minimum requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48–1992 (R 1997) (Permanence of Paper).

This book is for Kit and Lily.

CONTENTS

List of Illustrations

Preface

Brief Chronology

1 • Reflection in Friends

2 • Banjo Eyes: Whalen and Ginsberg

3 • Buddha Red Ears: Whalen and Kerouac

4 • Kalyanamitra: Whalen and Snyder

5 • Your Heart Is Fine: Whalen and Kyger

6 • Hail Thee Who Play: Whalen and McClure

7 • Early: 1923–1943

8 • Forced Association: Army Life, 1943–1946

9 • Reed’s Fine College: 1946–1951

10 • Solvitur Ambulando: 1959–1971

11 • Japan, Bolinas, Japan, Bolinas: 1965–1971

12 • New Years: Whalen and Baker, Zen Center

13 • An Order to Love: Ordination

14 • Rope of Sand: Santa Fe and Dharma Transmission

15 • RSVP: Hartford Street, Decline and Death

Acknowledgments

Notes

Primary Sources

Index

ILLUSTRATIONS

1. Whalen at Naropa University with David Rome, Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche, William Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg, and Anne Waldman, 1975–76

2. Whalen with Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs, 1976

3. Whalen and others at Naropa Institute, 1975–76

4. Buddha Red Ears

5. Whalen and Jack Kerouac, 1956

6. Whalen and Gary Snyder in Japan, 1966

7. Joanne Kyger, 1959

8. Whalen and Michael McClure, 1980

9. Phyllis Arminta Bush Whalen with her children, 1928–29

10. Glenn Henry Whalen with Philip, 1928–29

11. Whalen in army uniform, 1944–45

12. Lloyd Reynolds, 1969

13. Whalen with Lloyd Reynolds, 1963

14. Whalen with Gary Snyder and Lew Welch, 1964

15. Whalen practicing calligraphy, 1965

16. Whalen on Mount Tamalpais, 1968

17. Whalen with Richard Baker, 1975

18. Whalen in Santa Fe, ca. 1985

19. Whalen with Issan Dorsey, ca. 1982

20. Whalen performing an ordination, ca. 1993

PREFACE

This book came about because I’d written another, earlier book about Philip Whalen—a journal of life with him at Zen Center, modeled roughly on Boswell’s chronicles of Samuel Johnson. Through recording as accurately as I could Philip’s conversations and describing the places these occurred, I hoped to . . . actually I had no real goals beyond the pleasure and practice of writing. I just wanted to be writing something, and here was Philip, an accomplished author, an eccentric, whose presence—large body, distinctive voice, and peculiar, learned insights—had provoked many in his company to write about him. At least two other young men, both more-or-less practicing Buddhists, had, at different times, kept exactly the same kind of journal I did. The title of this biography comes from a remark Philip made to one of those writers—Steve Silberman—in a hardware store. Steve wrote it down in his journal. None of us knew about the other’s work until years later. We’d all clearly felt, during the time of our writing, that something unusual and valuable was happening in front of our eyes. Philip Whalen was happening.

Shortly before Philip’s death in 2002—twenty years after I’d written my journal—I typed it up. Who knows how these things work, but I’d been roused from distraction and laziness to this concentrated labor by a powerful dream visit from Philip. In the dream, he wondered if we might not lose all those texts we worked on. At the time, he lay in a hospice in San Francisco, nine thousand kilometers from Cologne, where I was working. Typing for those weeks, I may have been unconsciously trying to hold him with old stories.

A respectful time after his death, I sent the journal, titled Side Effect, to a few likely publishers. They all kindly assured me that they’d enjoyed reading it very much, but that in today’s market, well, Philip wasn’t famous enough, and neither was I, and how could they sell it? Even five years earlier they could have, but these days. . . . Shortly after this, though, University of California Press, in the person of my wonderful editor, Reed Malcolm, got in touch about doing the biography.

In the twelve years we practiced Buddhism together in Zen Center’s three locations—as well as in the eighteen years after that, when we stayed in touch and continued practicing, sometimes in different traditions, sometimes from different countries—Philip taught constantly. He taught official courses in literature, he taught courses in Buddhist theory and history, he taught a select few what he could about poetry. But this is not what I mean by he taught. The group of young people, mostly men, who gathered around Philip wherever he was definitely felt they were learning something from him, even if they were not actively studying. It was and remains a puzzle to name that topic: it wasn’t literature exactly; it wasn’t recent or ancient history; it wasn’t how to be a Zen student or a friend, or how to relate to celebrities; it wasn’t how to look at paintings, how to listen to music, how to cook and enjoy food; it wasn’t how to speak, how to read, or how to open the mind. But it wasn’t separate from those things, either. They were all very much included.

The thought of Philip’s biography scared me; I’d written one and knew how much work they were. That biography was of a remarkable and kind person—Issan Dorsey—but a person largely unknown to the public, apart from certain local sectors of the gay community. Philip, though not famous, was certainly well known among poets internationally, and among those who cared about the Beat writers. (As one of his circle unkindly put it to him, You’re a name, not a face.) Philip had also left a wide paper trail. Whereas Issan read very little and wrote even less, Philip read and wrote constantly. He kept a journal, and he often wrote several beautiful letters per day. Many of these were squirreled away in the special collections of libraries scattered around North America. They were there because a number of Philip’s friends were famous writers. The letters these friends had written back were mostly at the University of California Berkeley’s Bancroft Library. I was happily anchored in Germany by a two-year-old daughter and a demanding job. Undecided and uneasy, I consulted a Tibetan lama skilled in divination. Word came back that it would be good to undertake the biography. The prophecy also said it could take a long time, and that that would be fine.

The Philip I knew was of course a poet, but that was not his most important aspect. A number of his publications appeared between 1972 and 2002. He would sign these if you asked; you could recognize in the poems people and places belonging to Zen Center. But no matter how strange or beautiful the lines were, they made faint impression compared with the living person handing you back a newly decorated book or broadside.

What relationship does anyone’s biography have to do with what they wrote? Philip abruptly posed this question to a class he was teaching in late July 1980, at Naropa University. He observed, The person of the poet is often extremely difficult and unpleasant. . . . I can distinctly remember Kenneth Rexroth saying, ‘Writers are terrible people. You don’t want them in your house!’ He says this to a roomful of writers he was accustomed to seeing on Friday evenings.

Because Philip and the class had been studying Hart Crane’s work that afternoon, he allowed that Brom Weber’s biography of Crane, though a cranky book, related the facts of the life well enough and might be useful in getting at the poems. The earlier Horton biography had necessarily left out a lot—Crane’s mother was still alive—and the John Unterecker biography, at nearly eight hundred pages, could tell you practically what Crane had been doing on any given day, but it does not help much. You don’t read Crane any better, I don’t think. Philip was even less encouraging about the two-volume biography of William Faulkner, by Professor What’s-His-Name, as it completely left out an important and obvious love affair—and he savaged one of the Hemingway biographies (discussing two others in the process) for extrapolating and romanticizing what Hemingway thought—even, for example, as he put the barrel of a shotgun in his mouth to kill himself. A contemporary two-volume Emily Dickinson biography received Philip’s praise for its appendices and scholarly apparatuses, but he complained about the number of salacious details—the most incredible tittle-tattle—of nineteenth-century Amherst. He was relating these with evident pleasure to the class when he suddenly interrupted himself to exclaim: "It does not explain how Emily Dickinson was simply a genius who wrote beautiful poetry!"

Prodded then by the class in an all-too-familiar direction, Philip talked about the several Kerouac biographies that had appeared (and the one that had been suppressed) even then, pre–Memory Babe. Philip noted when interviewers had been deceptive with him, had gotten facts wrong, or been mean-spirited. He regretted things he’d said, and in one case, even that he’d been involved. "I never should have talked to that person!" Philip’s digression on the limits and failings of writers’ biographies ran an energetic twenty-five minutes and would discourage anyone trying to write his life—were it not for the fact that he’d obviously gone hungrily through the books, with close attention. That’s all any writer can fairly ask of readers.

Against these sobering reflections, I must confess that I also cannot explain how Philip was simply a genius who wrote beautiful poetry. I pass along at least some of what he said of his methods and writing habits—he was very generous with this information. I must also say that I have not written a literary biography; I do not attempt much literary criticism, apart from brief praise. Philip’s poetry appears, but in support of, or in explanation of, his life, not the other way around.

This book does not proceed chronologically—at least not until midway through—so I have included an abbreviated chronology, excerpted from one Philip himself wrote to accompany Off the Wall.¹ Its dates have been extended to cover the last twenty-five years of his life.

A note on punctuation and abbreviation: Philip Whalen wrote his journal and most of his correspondence long hand, with pencil, broad-nib fountain pen, or even ball-point pen, on unlined paper. He composed poetry and prose, at least initially, with these same materials. He used many of the abbreviations and other markings typical of calligraphers.

In transcribing his hand-writing, I attempted to preserve these: thus if he wrote an ampersand for and I copied the ampersand. The same with &c for etcetera, the same with curly brackets in places one might expect parentheses. His usages were inconsistent, but definite. Trusting the reader would not be confused, I tried to reproduce Whalen’s choices. Some of these survived the thoroughly beneficial edits this manuscript received.

BRIEF CHRONOLOGY

A number of posthumous publications of Whalen’s work have appeared, most notably, The Collected Poems of Philip Whalen, edited by Michael Rothenberg (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2007). An invaluable resource, a monumental work, this volume presents the poems in chronological order of composition; it gives as well the original groupings at the time of first publication, in an appendix. The poems are indexed both by title and by first line. Though Philip began one preface, I don’t believe poets ought to write prefaces to their own work, he did. These are also collected and reprinted in an appendix running twenty pages. The book contains a very complete bibliography of Whalen’s printed works, including broadsides.

Another posthumous book, a Festschrift, valuable for the photographs laboriously collected as well as the assembled tributes, is Continuous Flame: A Tribute to Philip Whalen, edited by Michael Rothenberg and Suzi Winson (New York: Fish Drum, 2005).

ONE

Reflection in Friends

Philip Whalen generally impressed the people who knew him, either through his writing or personally. His literary voice, consonant to a high degree with his person, was large, restless, learned, demanding, fearless, humorous, singular. Not very many people, however, knew him. He preferred a mostly quiet life, with brief eruptions of wild social activity. He appeared to possess little outward ambition. He was extremely sensitive—to weather, art, literature, other people—to influences of all kinds, yet he knew clearly his own way forward, a way that required solitude. On top of a kind, curious nature, his early upbringing left him fundamentally shy—again, with explosions of theatrical complaint, usually accurate and often hilarious, at least in retrospect.

From a humble background in a remote, beautiful corner of the country, he went on to exert a strong influence on American poetry of the second half of the twentieth century. He did this through his own writing, and through the force of his personality and its influence on his students and more famous friends.

In a similar way, his faithful, observant presence, as much as his erudition, helped establish Zen Buddhism in the West. To look at him you might not think it possible: a large man, a fat man, older, scholarly, practicing a style of Buddhism renowned for its strict exertion (bordering on asceticism) and an athletic, quasi-military approach to the spiritual path. Yet there he was every morning—evenings too, in the monastery—day after day, year after year for three decades, until he could not physically drag himself to the zendo any longer.

He stood by his teacher Richard Baker Roshi through the stormy Zen Center scandals of 1983–84, though this was neither popular nor easy. It required him to pull up stakes at the age of sixty-two and move 1,100 miles to the Southwest, to an unformed and unpromising situation, and to live in close quarters with a skeleton crew of similar refugees in a place he found beautiful but trying, not least because of its distance from the charms of the Pacific Ocean.

Four years later, newly minted as a teacher in his own right, he uprooted himself again and headed off to . . . he knew not where. He had the blessings of the lineage but nowhere to live and no source of income, so he wandered in the old-style Zen way: no clear direction forward and no possibility of staying still. He passed the last active period of his life as abbot of the Hartford Street Zen Center, a small, lively temple in San Francisco’s Castro district, where, upon ascending the Mountain Seat, he calmed the fears and soothed the ruffled feathers of that sangha, disturbed as they were by worry that the temple would drift away from its initial and primary function as a practice place for local gay and lesbian practitioners. Approaching seventy, beyond or above the issue of gay versus straight and clearly at ease living in the Castro, Philip guided the temple back toward Zen’s more central concerns.

Whatever Philip Whalen’s accomplishments, when it came out in ordinary conversation that I was writing his biography, the response was very often a blank look and an uncomfortable silence. To furnish identification, I might say, poet, then Zen master, and finally one of the Beat poets. This inevitably led to a list of three of the most famous: Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, and Gary Snyder. For those who don’t know Philip Whalen, it seemed initially necessary to name these names, though they constitute a very incomplete list both of Beat poets and of Whalen’s friends. Here follows an apology—in the older sense of that word—for parlaying the fame of those three writers, as well as for not using others. I begin with sketches of Whalen’s friendships with Ginsberg, Kerouac, and Snyder. Two more chapters follow—briefer portraits of relations with close friends who, though not perhaps as famous as the initial three, have, through brilliant writing and venerable longevity, come evermore into public view and deserved honor—Joanne Kyger and Michael McClure.

•   •   •

Teaching a class at Naropa University in June 1982, Allen Ginsberg said that in the mid-1950s he, Jack Kerouac, Gary Snyder, and Philip Whalen all lived together in a cottage in Berkeley. Whether this is strictly true,¹ it impressed itself on Ginsberg’s mind: he’d told about it six years earlier, also in a Naropa class, linking it then to a study of R.H. Blythe’s four-volume set of haiku translations. Ginsberg stressed to his class how fundamental those texts had been for the young poets—a bible, an encyclopedia, a primer in direct perception and use of concrete details, as well as in the mind that was still enough to catch these and the hand that was confident enough to set them down on paper. Barely more than a few minutes after he finished telling the class all this, a student roused himself to ask for the name of the books again. In a somewhat exasperated response, Ginsberg went through the whole thing a second time. How many have heard of these books, put your hands up. How many have NOT heard of them? OK B-L-Y-T-H-E . . . This time he told how the volumes were divided one per season, how the texts were bilingual, how they were arranged on the page, how the covers looked, and he included the publishing information. He extemporized a rather passionate advertisement for Blythe, linking him to the previous eighty years of American poetry, from the Imagists down to the Beats. Ginsberg then recounted how he and his shackmates had treasured the books, shared them, pored over them, incorporated them into a kind of internal mutual vocabulary, eventually writing haikus of their own. This was when we were all living in this cottage together, Kerouac, Snyder and me, we . . . This time through, Ginsberg left Whalen off the list.

Perhaps he thought Whalen not famous enough to dent the students’ minds; perhaps it was just verbal compaction, spoken in urgency. Whatever the case, Whalen had dropped from sight, mirroring to a certain extent what happened to his public persona in the twenty-seven years since the seminal Six Gallery reading. That event could fairly be seen as a starting point in the poets’ careers. It was, for Ginsberg, Whalen, Snyder, and McClure, their first public reading. Kerouac’s On the Road was still a couple of years from publication.

In the decades that followed, Kerouac, Ginsberg, and Snyder all got internationally famous and enjoyed or suffered fame’s effects. Whalen did not; fame never came his way. Despite a number of conflicted efforts to set himself before the public’s eye, his relationship to it remained relatively barren. By way of introduction, though, one can place him in the middle of a famous crowd, and this was initially group fame. The whole gang got famously entwined, and they brought a sizable entourage to their tangled relations, such that it seemed from outside as though a school was born entire: the Beats, the West Coast Beats. While Philip was central to the events that pushed the school into the public’s attention, he did not catch much of that attention personally.

Part of what made the Beats remarkable was their association with Buddhism. Certainly this was so with Kerouac, Snyder, and Whalen, and soon after also with Ginsberg. Their fame attracted attention, and later also people, to Buddhism. Beyond studying and to varying extents practicing Buddhism, they all told one another about it. And having opened the innermost door of spirituality to one another, they were completely intimate, with little they did not share. These friends passed books and manuscripts back and forth, they typed and retyped one another’s work and promoted it tirelessly to publishers and editors. They cared for one another in times of sickness or difficulty, and they lent money back and forth, though this flowed almost exclusively toward Whalen rather than from him—almost exclusively because whenever Whalen did have money, he was happy to lend it, and his friends were not shy in applying for it. In crisis, literary or otherwise, they rallied around and gave staunch defense, but they were neither blind to one another’s shortcomings nor uncritical: they were real friends.

(It is told that the San Francisco Beats also passed lovers back and forth. It does appear that one or two passed-along girlfriends came Whalen’s way, according to poet Joanne Kyger, who explained that it was under this Beat brotherhood kind of ‘My girlfriend is your girlfriend’ sort of thing. Kyger began paying attention to that scene in the late 1950s, and she pointed out that "it didn’t really work very well, though. It turns out that there were all these little territories involved."² In the famed orgies at Ginsberg’s Berkeley cottage midfifties—the ones promoted by Ginsberg and Snyder, and chronicled by Kerouac—Whalen was, as Kerouac was, a shy participant, if either involved himself at all. Ginsberg let it be known that when such an event was nearly over, Philip would need encouragement to join.)

Whalen was proud of his friendships but lamented being thought of as only a friend of the great. He was labeled, possibly burdened, with the moniker poet’s poet, and he allowed this role to come to him through half-hearted efforts at promoting his own work, while at the same time exhibiting a manifest energy and devotion for his friends and their works. Whalen started no family of his own, had no long-term lover or companion, and was not deeply involved with blood kin, apart from a solicitous correspondence with his sister, Velna. Whalen’s friends, however, meant a great deal to him. Famously cranky, he was a loyal, loving friend who cultivated a range of comrades, of which Kerouac, Snyder, and Ginsberg are only prominent examples. Whalen counted these three among his best friends, and they all in turn loved him and admired him. Philip was someone they wanted to talk to, write to, read, dine with, stay with, hike or hang out with.

These four friends wrote long, detailed, often hilarious letters to one another. The time and energy Whalen gave to writing his friends certainly rivals what he allotted to the composition of poetry and prose, or to keeping a journal. His letters tell of the daily man: the one who suffers or enjoys weather, who has or hasn’t money, who must look for a new place to live, who packs to travel or hike, who reports and sometimes gossips about mutual acquaintances, who is reading and thinking about five or six books simultaneously, who is or isn’t writing anything interesting, who passes along intelligence of blossoms and landscapes, who has fits of nerves. His letters tell the things he wanted to tell the people he loved.

For these poets, Whalen often played the role of mentor, teacher, elder—and he thought of himself that way. Not that [Dr.] Johnson was right, Whalen wrote in 1959, "nor that I’m trying to inherit his mantle as a lit-erary dictator, but only the title Doctor, i.e., teacher—who is constantly studying."³

Looking back from a remove of five decades, Gary Snyder wrote, He [Whalen] first showed me the difference between talking about literature and doing it, and pointed the way into Asian philosophy and art.⁴

Phil taught me Stein, Allen Ginsberg told his Naropa class, and I’m hoping he’s going to teach you Stein.⁵

Jack Kerouac may have been too certain of his own literary ideas to take recommendations—maybe too competitive as well—but he did have something to learn from Whalen. As he wrote to him in 1956, You have always done everything possible to make me feel good; you are a pillar of strength, and why? Because you never get mad, people can shit all over you and you never get mad. If that isn’t being a pillar of strength, the Buddha is a load of the same.

McClure also saw that Philip’s character was the real lesson, not his erudition, which he found nonetheless admirable. Whalen’s extraordinary ability to open himself to people and ideas and sense experience, and to stay open, particularly impressed McClure. We were all in awe of him.⁶

In a 1958 letter to Ginsberg, Philip wrote, Everything he [Kerouac] has told me is true, about himself, about myself . . . fantastic. Everything is unbelievable, strange . . . that the 4 of us [Kerouac, Snyder, Ginsberg, Whalen] should have met when we did, that we are inextricably involved together & so completely separated. I can go back to the parinirvana happy, no more question now, I’ve done what I came here to do, all you other bodhisattvas have helped me . . . you the Bodhisattva Ever-weeping, Jack the Bodhisattva Manjushri (the Writing Bodhisattva), Gary the Lightningbolt Diamondsplitter.⁷ Whalen continues the list with increasing fancy and naughty accuracy, including a Nose-Punching Bodhisattva, two Beer-Pouring Bodhisattvas, a Bodhisattva of Gaga, one of Boredom, countless Bodhisattvas of Indifference, Wrath, and Slobism, not forgetting wrathful Protector Bodhisattvas, Musical Bodhisattvas, and thirty-four Bodhisattvas of Sex. Having surveyed his personal pantheon, Whalen goes one Buddhist step farther. I’ve loved it; I turn it loose. to enjoy itself. wild horse rolling in the grass, all four feet curled in the air, spine a curling snake against the dirt (curling joy snake) mane & tail spilled over humped over clumps of grass: PHILIP (phil-hippos, ‘horse-lover’).

He’s one of the patriarchs, so to speak, of Western Zen, observed Philip’s Zen teacher, Richard Baker Roshi. My own feeling is that there are more lineages in the West that lead us to practice than there are in Asia: lineages in philosophy, psychology, poetry, painting—all these coming right towards Buddhism. But they’re broken lineages, because they don’t know what the next step is. Then there are also historical moments . . . there are lots of factors. But for me, one of the most important lineages in the West—which Europe doesn’t have—is the Beats. Somehow, Allen and Gary and Jack Kerouac and Philip.

Baker then distinguished Philip’s role from those of his more famous friends: "These other Beats influenced a lot of people. They had people who wanted to be like them, to imitate them. Philip didn’t have people who wanted to be like him or to imitate him. Rather, Philip gave the people he hung out with the feeling . . . he made them experience themselves. You experienced Philip, but you also experienced yourself, through being with Philip." Baker went on to compare Whalen with priest, philosopher, and social critic Ivan Illich:

I don’t think Philip had the same feeling for mentorship Ivan Illich did, helping people write their PhD theses and so forth, but he did have that same sense of how to just be with people. For Illich, it was The world is the people I’m in actual contact with. That’s the only world I want, and I want to be fully present with them. Philip had that—"Just be with people; that’s what the world should be"—and it made him, indirectly and directly, a good teacher. While other people, other Beats, may have been good examples, Philip was a good teacher. To me, Philip was a kind of patriarch of a Western lineage that brought many people closer to Buddhism.⁸

METHODS

Facing the biographer of an articulate, highly trained Buddhist monk are problems beyond those of describing a purely secular life. Behind the dates and doings, relatives and education, institutions, assignations, accomplishments, teachers, friends, lovers, detractors, decline, and death that every biographer must tell lurks the Buddhist conviction—shared in this case by the biographer—that none of this can be pinned down; that it is all, to use the overworked, underexplained technical term, empty.

This seat is empty. There is no one sitting here, is how Philip Whalen put it from the High Seat, having just assumed the abbacy of the Hartford Street Zen Center. Please take care of yourself, he continued. And ended.

There is no denial of existence implied by Buddhist emptiness; that would be a logical fault as grievous as flat-out accepting existence, and would also fly in the face of experience. But how things exist interests the Buddhist, who must summon a language of impermanence to talk about it. He or she needs a language of transience, of split-second causal conjunction and interconnection, because the Buddhist sees everything pulling on everything else, thereby changing it, ceaselessly and in accord with the laws of karma.

Whalen often saw his life in these terms and described it so. When he said, There is no one sitting here, it was not an admission of ignorance. He’d looked. The question of identity fairly obsessed him—he wrestled with it in public for decades, long before becoming a Buddhist. He knew there was no one home, but very definite things kept happening to him. Hunger, for one.

One way to handle this paradox inherent to Buddhist biography is to write, as Tibetans have regularly done, more than one history of the same person. In the namthar (spiritual biographies) from Tibet, it is not uncommon to read the same story told on three levels: outer, inner, and secret. These levels move from observable facts of daily life to progressively more sublime visions, realizations, and teachings, many invisible to the fleshly eye of readers. These texts can mostly be classified as hagiography, and as such are beyond the goals of this work. While this book does indeed aim to inspire, it will not attempt to do so through idealizing its subject; and although Philip Whalen did many strange, even inexplicable things in his life, no real suspension of disbelief will be asked of the reader—only a certain looseness or spaciousness, a flexibility of mind: no more than is asked of anyone reading poetry.

Another tool—another three-part division—Buddhists use to get at a person is to section them into body, speech, and mind. These correspond roughly, though inexactly, to outer, inner, and secret. Body clearly means the body, but it extends as well to anything connected to form: the literal stuff of a person’s life. Speech comprises all acts of communication, including how someone talks, which language, how loud, their gestures, manner of dress, attention to grooming, and how they move. Mind concerns itself with a person’s education, faith, prejudices, perspectives, and conceptual habits, or the absence of these.

This scheme allows a picture to be made at any point in a person’s life, without slipping into the fallacy of saying, "This is who they actually are." Who they are emerges, almost magically, from the collection of bits. It may shimmer for a quick minute and then devolve back to pieces. Buddhists say this is how we all exist, the assembly and disassembly taking place constantly, many times per second.

Every tool mentioned here will be brought to bear on Philip Whalen, in hopes of resuscitating him. If he does manage to rise from the page, it will be no more true or false than the apparition who walked around for eighty years. That one gave delight, wisdom, beauty, and spiritual guidance to the world. The hope is that this shadow of him might offer a taste of the same.

TWO

Banjo Eyes

WHALEN AND GINSBERG

Allen Ginsberg and Philip Whalen met only days before participating together in what has become one of the most storied poetry readings of all time, the Six Gallery reading in San Francisco, on 7 October 1955. Ginsberg had first seen Whalen’s work a month earlier, at Gary Snyder’s little shack in Berkeley. Allen had dropped by to introduce himself and to involve Gary in the reading. During the visit, Snyder shared some of Whalen’s poetry with Allen, who found it, and thus Whalen, also worthy of inclusion in the reading.

On Friday afternoon, 23 September,¹ Snyder and Whalen rode in from Berkeley on the F train. (In 1955 the lower deck of the San Francisco Bay Bridge was still dedicated to train traffic.) Disembarking at the Key Terminal, they met Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac, who had ridden in from Berkeley shortly before. Whalen and Snyder were old friends from Reed College; Ginsberg and Kerouac were old friends from Columbia University. But Whalen knew neither of the East Coasters, just as Kerouac knew neither of the Northwesterners. Snyder and Ginsberg had only just met. Kerouac had come up from Mexico, while Whalen had descended, both in latitude and altitude, from his summer forest lookout work on Sourdough Mountain in Washington State. Whalen recalled, "We got off, and there standing on the corner of Mission and First streets were Allen and Jack, like Tweedledum and Tweedledee with their arms