A kind of Buddhism in Japan called Shin Buddhism, and the peculiarly, you might say, wonderful examples of this particular way of life are called Myokonin, which means marvelous fine people. The story goes that one of these Myokonin was traveling one night, and the only place he found for lodging was a temple, and he went inside, and it was a rather bare, draughty place until he got up around the altar, and there he found the various cushions on which the priests sit, and he made himself a comfortable bed out of them and slept right in front of the altar. And in the morning, the temple priest came in and saw this raggedy-looking beggar sleeping in the holy sanctuary, and he said, My, what effrontery, what irreverence, what sacrilege!

[01:08]

You, a common bum, coming in here and sleeping in front of the altar! And the Myokonin looked up and said, Why, he said, you must be a stranger here. You can't be one of the family. And I remember another story, this time it's a Catholic story. There was a church in Italy, and an Italian mama had taken her kids in there, she wanted to pray, and while she was praying, the kids were tearing up and down the aisles, having a wonderful time, and there was a New England spinster visiting and seeing the sights with a guidebook in her hand. And she saw these children making an irreverent noise, and she touched the Italian mother on the shoulder while she was praying, and said, Excuse me, but can't you take care of those children of yours? They're making very unnecessary disturbance. And the woman said, But it's their father's house, can't they play here?

[02:10]

I wonder why it is that we, especially we of the Anglo-Saxon subculture, have to be so terribly gloomy about religion, and deny all humor to it. I remember when I was a boy in school, it was one of those British public schools, one of the very great sins that one could commit was to smile or laugh at a church service. One had to keep on the straightest of straight faces. Even though everybody knew we made all sorts of terrible jokes about the reverend clergy and the things that went on, nevertheless, while we were there, while we were in the presence of the public, there must be no laughter at all for fear of the most dire punishments. I don't think it's in bad taste to be jocular about divine matters, about holy things.

[03:20]

Indeed, one of the most vigorous spokesmen of traditional Christianity, G.K. Chesterton, used to say that very often when he wrote the word cosmic in an article, the printer would print comic. And he said, This is after all not so unintelligent, for there is a greater connection between cosmic and comic than the mere similarity of the words. He said on another occasion, It is one thing to be astonished at a gorgon or a griffin, a creature who doesn't exist, but it is much more profound to be astonished at a hippopotamus, a creature who does exist and looks as if he doesn't. And he had this sense, in other words, that the good Lord had the most tremendous sense of humor. Perhaps you may know that poem that he wrote, where he's describing some sort of strange

[04:23]

wonderful fish, where he says, Dark the sea was, but I saw him, one great head with goggle eyes, like a diabolic cherub flying in those fallen skies. I have seen a fool, half-fashioned, borrow from the heavens a tongue so to curse them more at leisure. But I trod him not as dung, for I saw that finny goblin hidden in the abyss untrod. And I knew there can be laughter on the secret face of God. Blow the trumpets, crown the sages, bring the age by reason fed. He that sitteth in the heavens, he shall laugh, the prophet said. Of course, actually, the quotation that he takes from the prophet at the end is a little bit out of context, because if I remember it correctly, and I'm only speaking from memory, he that sitteth in the heavens shall laugh the heathen to scorn.

[05:23]

And that's not real humor. As Chesterton intended the idea of real humor. Because I think real humor, or the profoundest order of humor, is to be able to laugh at oneself. Humor is the awareness, isn't it, that you yourself, inwardly, are very incongruous with what you appear to be outwardly. Another remark that Chesterton made is that it is always funny to see somebody fall down, especially a dignified person fall down. It's always funny to see, for example, a man running after his hat when it's been blown away by the wind. And he says this is funny because it's reminiscent of the fall of man. That the pretentious and pompous person, going along the street, you know, how these

[06:28]

people can move as if they were a procession all by themselves, suddenly comes to grief. And the humanity and fallibility and finitude of the creature suddenly intrudes. The same sort of amusement, of course, occurs when a dignified person breaks wind in public. And that's why we see humor in such a famous limerick. As I sat next to the Duchess at tea, with everyone there for to see, her rumblings of dominoes were simply phenomenal and everyone thought it was me. The contrast, the incongruity between the dignified person of the Duchess and the rumblings of dominoes, and so on a much profounder level, it seems to me that it's always a mark of the highest sort of wisdom that we find among human beings, for a person to be aware of

[07:35]

what I've sometimes called his own irreducible element of rascality. And therefore he's never able, as it were, to lay down the law to other people without something in the way of a little twinkle in his eye. A great deal of humor, so called, is simply malicious, where we make fun of other people at their expense, and we point out their incongruities. And this humor lacks insight, because it doesn't see that you yourself have the same kind of contradiction. You notice very often the peculiarly subtle form of humor with Jewish people. I remember in particular Rabbi Finkelstein of the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York, who has a marvelously subtle sense of what you might call self-irony.

[08:41]

And the whole of his charm as a man consists, he doesn't overdo it, but it's just the flavor of this slight humor about himself, his realization of his own finitude, without being guiltily ashamed of it. And I think this is the important thing. After all, so much of the work of every psychotherapist is to get people to acknowledge and admit the disowned aspects of themselves. After all, if you're brought up, not only to behave correctly outwardly, but to imagine that you can behave correctly inwardly, in other words, to imagine that you can be without wayward, evil, or even just wandering thoughts and ideas and emotions, and that you must

[09:43]

keep your whole mind swept clean of these funny oddities, and then you struggle and struggle all your life long to disown and be afraid of these purely spontaneous and strange creatures that arise in yourself like goblins from the abyss untrod, then of course you're sick and you have to go to a psychiatrist. And his main task, of course, is to get you to acknowledge and accept and be responsible for these unwelcome and alien aspects of oneself. In other words, what the psychotherapists teach us, more than anything, is that it is plainly and downright absurd to be guilty, to feel guilty, because one is simply human and has this kind of wayward spontaneity of one's inner life.

[10:46]

And thus, you might say, it is a sign of an integrated, psychically whole person that he has humor with respect to this side of himself, that he always is aware that he never is what he's supposed to present himself as in public. And it seems to me that this is an absolutely necessary gift in anybody who holds the sort of responsible office where he has the life and death of other human beings in his hands. Whether he's a president of a great concern, a university or a corporation, or whether he's a judge or whether he's a psychiatrist or a physician, he has to have this understanding about himself. And it's very nice to be able to get up in a public place and bombinate and lay down the law in a solemn way as to how everybody else ought to behave.

[11:49]

You always notice that people who do this are really in the long run completely ineffectual and make asses of themselves. Whereas the more persuasive type of human being has, along with whatever he may say, a twinkle in his eye because he has the sense of his own limitations. And he knows very well, he's conscious of the fact, in other words, that his inward being and his outward role are complementary, a coincidentia oppositorum, a coincidence of opposites, rather than simply the same thing on both sides. That's what, for example, makes a man like Rabelais so great. He was quite a devout and proper sort of clergyman in his ordinary life, and yet he wrote these fantastic tales about Gargantua and Panticruel, whereas on the other hand you will find all

[12:52]

sorts of people whose writings and lives were overweeningly holy and were actually rascals, and they never really acknowledged it, were always torn between it with a certain guilt. And so I would say that humor, the recognition of a certain incongruity in things, is one of the very highest qualifications of a holy man, holy in the real sense of being whole. And now the question arises, you see, if this quality of humor is a characteristic of the highest kind of human beings that we know, why not... couldn't it be a characteristic of God? Now, please, you'll understand, if I talk about God in this way, this isn't saying that I think that factually, scientifically, or metaphysically, there is such a thing as a

[13:58]

personal God. This is a sort of aside here, to make the point clear. I do feel that there is perhaps an order of the world that might in some ways correspond to, rather than being equivalent to, the notion of God. But in talking about God in a more personal way, one is using, what is to my mind, a mythological way of speaking. And if you use it as such, you can say, in this mythological or poetic manner of talking, things that are important. Myths can sometimes express philosophical ideas that more exact language can never get across. Mythological language is infinitely suggestive. And therefore, if one talks about God and the devil, and uses these, the personal God

[15:05]

and the personal devil, speaking in a mythological way, it's often very suggestive philosophically. And that's the kind of spirit in which I'm talking about. So the question arises, why couldn't, wouldn't the idea of God be extraordinarily defective and extraordinarily unpoetic, without the gift of humor? Not the kind of humor which is laughing at others, but that of laughing at himself, with a capital H. It's so strange that people who believe in God very often expect the children of God to behave much better than God himself. When you consider the kind of conduct that is expected of a saint in most religions, in most theistic religions, it's infinitely superior conduct to that which is expected of God. God is allowed to judge and damn people in all directions if they displease his divine

[16:10]

will. And the saint is always characterized as an infinitely forgiving person. The saint may have humor, but very rarely does it seem that God does. What would the humor of God be? And this, I think, would take us to a very profound matter, that if humor is the recognition of a certain incongruity in things, what would be the incongruity that is cosmic, that is absolutely fundamental? Well, first of all, it does seem, doesn't it, that one of the things that is fundamental in all life is the polarity of what we call opposites. Namely, for example, that you can't have life without death.

[17:14]

You can't have something without its being limited, both in space and in time. The higher you go, the further you can fall. That the more you succeed, the more you need to succeed. The more you have, the more anxiety you have to keep what you have, and so on. There's a certain, isn't there, a kind of contradiction, that every yes seems to imply no, and naturally this is at the root of anxiety. When we realize that to be, to be alive, means that we are going to die, that to be implies not to be, to become implies not to become, there's something fundamentally frustrating about that, as if life were saying to us, heads I win, tails you lose, or I've

[18:19]

got a game you can't beat. And I say that arouses anxiety in us, because it gives us the feeling that we have to choose between two things, neither of which is quite the choice that we want to make. If we choose life, we get death, and so on. Now quite a long time ago, in one of these talks, I used an illustration of anxiety which I got from Gregory Bateson, and that was the electric bell. An electric bell is a mechanical anxiety, because it vibrates, it wobbles, it trembles, and it's, you know how it works, it's an electromagnet, and alongside the electromagnet

[19:21]

lies a strip of metal on a spring, with a ball on the end, and that's called an armature. And when the current is switched on, the magnet attracts the armature, but the armature moves and is also a switch, and it disconnects the current, so that it's immediately the magnet pulls it, the magnet releases it and it springs back, but that switches the current on again, and so the armature vibrates back and forth and rings the bell. So in other words, this mechanical anxiety is that every yes means no. To switch on implies to switch off, to switch off implies to switch on. This is like life implying death, and good implying evil, and so on. And so it trembles, and this is the motion of anxiety. A kind of oscillating trembling is also the motion of sobbing, of weeping. But the wobbling, the trembling remains, shall we say negative, something like anxiety, something

[20:32]

like weeping, just so long as we are trying to beat the game. So long, for example, as we are trying to have life without death, to have pleasure without pain, and to have virtue without the element of irreducible rascality. When however this is seen through, when we see that this coincidence of opposites is the very nature of life, the nature of the vibration changes, and instead of being anxiety it becomes laughter. And laughter is a release in, perhaps you know, the remark that one of the old Zen masters made when a person has struggled through the whole discipline of Buddhism and finally sees the point. He says, nothing is left to you at this moment but to have a good laugh, because you see

[21:34]

again the incongruity, you were striving and struggling for something that you had all along. I mean, don't we laugh at ourselves when we're looking everywhere for our spectacles and discover that we're wearing them, or digging through all the drawers and closets for one's necktie which is already on. This is a matter for laughter. It's the incongruity between the state of affairs as they are, and the state of affairs as one imagines them to be. So one might say there is this incongruity, this rocking ambivalence at the very root of the world, and thus to introduce this perception into religion doesn't seem to me to be in any way an irreverence or to demean religion.

[22:35]

It might be an irreverence if it were done maliciously, if it were done to laugh at it, but this kind of humor seems to me to be laughing with it. I mean, the story I told in which the prayers of the sort of beatnik character were answered instantly whereas those of the devout believer were not, and when the devout believer protested and God said to him, man you bug me, I don't think this is at all laughing at things divine but laughing with them. I mean just suppose you were God and you had to listen day in and day out to the way people

[23:38]

spoke to you imagining that you are that kind of fellow that they do imagine you are. Imagining that you could only be approached with fear and trembling and with the most strange gestures of piety and standoffishness, I beg to suggest that even omnipotence and omniscience would find it exceedingly tiresome and would want to introduce a certain light touch into the proceedings. It's so strange that a great deal of the religious attitudes of East and West alike are based on court ceremonials of ancient kings, you know, where everybody had to lie prostrate on the floor and mustn't look in the eyes of majesty and had to speak especially polite

[24:41]

language and make all sorts of bows and curtsies and retire from the room backwards. Why did they have to do that? Why did they arrange it that way? The answer is simply that those ancient tyrants were terrified of rebellion and did everything possible to keep people in order and obedient. It was because they were weak, not strong, that they had to have this sanctimonious kind of flattery. So if God, for those who believe in God, is really God, if God is strong and not weak, that kind of mummery is hardly necessary. You've been listening to the late Alan Watts with a talk entitled Humor and Religion. It's number 320 in the MEA audio cassette catalog.

[25:42]

If you'd like a copy of Humor and Religion, we'll give you the address in a minute to send to. The price is $8, and the address is MEA Box 303, Sausalito, California, zip code 94965. Also keep in mind that there is a sampler tape which features Alan Watts describing the highlights of his more popular talks, and also has an extended excerpt from Alan's final seminar, Play and Survival, and that was a seminar that was a favorite with Alan. The address again, MEA Box 303, Sausalito, California, 94965. Thank you. Blessings, people.

[26:48]

Our second Alan Watts talk this morning also comes from the early 60s. It's called The Sense of Nonsense. It's very commonly said that the root of most human unhappiness is the sense that one's life has no meaning. This is, I suppose, most frequently said in circles interested in psychotherapy, because the feeling of meaninglessness is often equated with the existence of neurosis. And so many activities into which one is encouraged to enter, philosophies one is encouraged to believe, and religions one is encouraged to join, are commended on the basis of the fact that they give life a meaning. And I think it's very fascinating to think of what this idea itself means, or what it

[27:51]

is intended when it's said that life has to have a purpose. I remember so well as a child listening to sermons in church, in which the preacher would constantly refer to God's purpose for you and for me. And I could never make out what it was. Because when questioned about this, the reverend gentleman seemed to be evasive. What is the purpose of God for the world? We used to sing a hymn, too. God is working his purpose out as year succeeds to year. And the nearest clue one got to it was in the sort of refrain of the hymn. Nearer and nearer draws the time, the time that shall surely be, when the earth shall be filled with the glory of God as the waters cover the sea. And, of course, that raises the question, what is the glory of God? Well, now, it's pretty obvious, I think, that when we talk about life having or not

[28:55]

having a meaning, we're not using quite the ordinary sense of the word meaning as the attribute of a sign. We're not saying, are we, that we expect this natural universe to behave as if it were a collection of words signifying something other than themselves. It isn't a point of view which would reduce our lives in the world merely to the status of signs. And it's obviously in some different sense than that, that Goethe wrote his famous lines at the end of Faust, forgive my pronunciation of German, all that is mortal or all that is perishable is but a symbol. And so, a symbol of what?

[29:56]

What do we want to feel? What would satisfy us as being the meaning behind this world? It's so often, you know, that we don't follow our ideas and our desires through. Most of the things that we want very fervently are things that we've only half glimpsed. Our ideals are very often suggestions, hints, and we don't know really exactly what we mean when we think about it. But there is this obscure sense in which we feel that life ought to have significance and be a symbol in at least that sense, if not just so arid a symbol as a mere sign. Or it also may mean that life is meaningful. An individual feels that his life amounts to something when he belongs

[31:01]

and fits in with the execution of some group enterprise. He feels he belongs in a plan. And this too seems to give people a sense of great satisfaction. But we have to pursue that question further too. Why is it that a plan, why is it that fellowship with other people gives the sense of meaning? Does it come down perhaps to another sense of meaning, that life is felt to be meaningful when one is fully satisfying one's biological urges, including the sense of hunger, the sense of love, the sense of self-expression in activity, and so on. But then again we have to push that inquiry further. What do our biological urges really point towards?

[32:06]

Are they just, however, things always projected towards a future? Is biology and its processes nothing but going on towards going on towards going on? Or there's a fourth and more theological sense of the meaning of life. In all theistic religions at any rate, the meaning of life is God himself. In other words, all this world means a person. It means a heart, it means an intelligence, and the relationship of love between God and man is the meaning of the world. The sight of God is the glory of God, and so on. But again here there's something to be further pursued. What is it that we want in love with a person, and even a person in the sense of the Lord God?

[33:11]

What is the content of it? What is it that we are really yearning after? Well now, if we go back to the first point, taking Goethe's words that all that is transitory is but a symbol, and that we want to feel that all things have significance, it does seem to me that there's a sense in which we often use the word significance, where the word seems to be chosen quite naturally, and yet at the same time it's not quite the right word. We say, for example, often of music, that we feel it to be significant, when just at the same time we don't mean that it expresses some particular kind of concretely realizable emotion, and certainly it's not imitating the noises of nature. The program music, you know, would simply imitate something else,

[34:14]

and it deliberately sets out to express sadness or joy or whatever, is not the kind of thing I mean. So often when one listens to the beautiful arabesque character of the Baroque composers, Bach or Vivaldi, it is felt to be significant, not because it means something other than itself, but because it is so satisfying as it is, and we use then this word significance. So often in those moments when our impetuous seeking for fulfillment cools down, and we give ourselves a little space to watch things as if they were worth watching, ordinary things, and in those moments when our inner turmoil has really quietened, we find significance in things that we wouldn't expect to find significant at all.

[35:20]

I mean, this is after all the art of those photographers who have such genius in turning the camera towards such things as peeling paint on an old door, or mud and sand and stones on a dirt road, and showing us there that if we look at it in a certain way, those things are significant. But we can't say significant of what so much as significant of themselves, or perhaps significance then is the quality of a state of mind in which we notice that we're overlooking the significance of the world by our constant quest for it later. All this language is, of course, quite naturally vague and imprecise, because I think the wrong word is used, and yet not entirely the wrong word because, as I said, it comes so naturally to us.

[36:23]

It was Clive Bell, the great aesthetician, who wanted to say that all the characteristic of art, especially the characteristic of aesthetic success in painting, was the creation of significant form. Again, a very vague, imprecise expression. But it certainly is an attribute, not only of those moments in which we are tranquil inside, but also of moments of deep spiritual experience, of what would be called moksha, or release in Hinduism, or satori in Zen, that in those moments the significance of the world seems to be the world, seems to be what is going on now. And we don't look any further. The scheme of things seems to justify itself at every moment of its unfoldment. I pointed out that this was particularly a characteristic of music.

[37:29]

It's also a characteristic of dancing. And in the sensation of belonging with one's fellow man, in the carrying out of some significant pattern of life, which I mentioned as a second sense of the world being meaningful, again, the character of this feeling is, again, something that is fulfilled in itself. To dance is not to be going anywhere. When we dance in the ballroom, we don't have a destination, we're just going around the room. And it's in doing this, it's in executing the pattern, in singing the music with other people, that even though this doesn't point to anything outside itself,

[38:30]

we again get the sense of meaning. And this is also obviously the case so often in the satisfaction of the biological urges. Does one live to eat or eat to live? I'm not at all sure about this. I'm sure I very often live to eat, because sitting around a table with people, I don't like eating alone, and enjoying food is absolutely delightful. And we're not thinking when we do this, at least certainly I'm not, that we have to eat because it's good for us. And we've got to throw something down the hatch, as Henry Miller said, and swallow a dozen vitamins, just because our system needs nourishment. I remember quite recently there was an article in the Consumer Reports about bread, and there had been some correspondence and protest

[39:33]

saying that the bread one bought, white bread one buys in the stores, is perfectly inedible and lacking in nutrition, and that it was much better to eat peasant-type breads, rough, pumpernickel, and things of that kind. And the experts replied that our white bread is perfectly full of good nutrients, and there's nothing really the matter with it at all. Well, I felt like saying, it doesn't matter perhaps of the bread being deficient in the essential vitamins. Bread isn't medicine, it's food. And one's complaint against it is that it's bad cookery. It tastes of nothing. And we do tend, don't we, to look upon food so often for what it will do for us, rather than the delight of eating it. But if the satisfaction of biological urges is to mean anything, surely the point of these urges is not the fatuous one of mere survival.

[40:34]

Of, we might say, the point of the individual is simply that he contributes to the welfare of the race. And the point of the race is that it reproduces itself to reproduce itself to reproduce itself and keep going. And that isn't really a point at all. That's just fatuous. Surely the race keeps going because going is great, because it's fun. And if it isn't, and never will be, then there's no point, obviously, in going. I mean, looking at it from the most hedonistic standpoint. But then when we come to the question, what is fun? What is the joy of it? Again, we come down to something that can't very well be explained in the ordinary language of meaning, of leading to something else. And this, I think, becomes preeminently true if we think of it in theological language, that the meaning of life is God.

[41:38]

In any of the theistic religions, what is God doing? What is the meaning of God? Why does he create the universe? What is the content of the love of God for his creation? Well, there's the frank answer of the Hindus that the Godhead manifests the world because of lila, which is the Sanskrit word for play. And this is likewise said in the Hebrew scriptures or the Christian Old Testament, in the book of Proverbs, where there is a marvelous speech by the divine wisdom, Sophia, which, in describing the function of the divine wisdom in the creation of the world, the world, in other words, is a manifestation of the wisdom of God, wisdom uses the phrase that in producing men and animals

[42:42]

and all the creatures of the earth, wisdom is playing. And it was the delight of wisdom to play before the presence of God. And when it is likewise said in the scriptures that the Lord God created the world for his pleasure, this again means, in a sense, for play. And certainly this seems to be what the angels in heaven are doing according to the traditional symbolic descriptions of heaven. They are ringed around the presence of the Almighty, calling out, Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia, through all eternity. Well, Alleluia may have meant something originally, but as it's used now, it doesn't mean anything except, well, in our own slang, whoopee. It's an exclamation of nonsensical delight.

[43:47]

And it was Dante in the Paradiso who described the song of the angels as the laughter of the universe. And this sense of nonsense as the theme of the divine activity comes out also very strongly in the book of Job. I always think that the book of Job is the most profound book in the whole Bible, Old Testament and New Testament, because here is the problem of the righteous man who has suffered, and all his friends try to rationalize it and say, well, you must have suffered because you really had a secret sin after all and deserve the punishment of God, or because, rationalize it somehow. And when they've had their say, the Lord God appears on the scene and says, who is this that darkeneth counsel

[44:51]

with words without knowledge? And then proceeds to ask Job and his friends a series of absolutely unanswerable conundrums, pointing out all the apparent irrationality and nonsense of his creation. Why, for example, he said, do I send rain upon the desert where no man is? Most commentators on the book of Job end with the remark that, well, this poses the problem of suffering and the problem of evil, but doesn't really answer it. And yet in the end himself, Job seems to be satisfied. He somehow surrenders to the apparent unreasonableness of the Lord God. And this is not, I think, because Job is beaten down and that he's unduly impressed with the royal, monarchical and paternalistic authority of the deity and doesn't dare to answer back. He realizes that somehow

[45:54]

these very questions are the answer. I think of all the commentators on the book of Job. The person who came closest to this point was old G.K. Chesterton. He once made the glorious remark that it is one thing to look with amazement at a gorgon or a griffin, a creature who doesn't exist, but quite another thing to look at a hippopotamus, a creature who does exist and looks as if he doesn't. In other words, that all this strange world with its weird forms, like hippopotami, and when you look at them from a certain point of view, stones and trees and water and clouds and stars, when you look at them from a certain point of view and don't take them for granted, they are as weird as any hippopotamus

[46:54]

or any imagination of fabulous beasts of gorgons and griffins and things like that. They are just plain improbable. And it is in this sense, I think, that they are the Alleluia, as it were, the nonsense song. Why do we love nonsense? Why do we love Lewis Carroll with his Twas Brillig and the Slithy Toves, Didger and Gimble in the Wave, All Mimsy with the Borrowgroves and the Mumraths outgrabe? Why is it that all those old English songs are full of Fawlty Riddle Ido and Hey Nonny Nonny and all those babbling choruses? Why is it that when we get hep with jazz, we just go boo-dee-boo-dee-boo-dee-boo and so on and enjoy ourselves swinging? It is this participation

[47:59]

in the essential glorious nonsense that is at the heart of the world, that isn't going anywhere, that is a dance, but it seems that only in moments of unusual insight and illumination that we get the point of this and find that thus the true meaning of life is no meaning, that its purpose is no purpose and that its sense is nonsense. But still we want to use about it the word significant. Significant nonsense? Yes, nonsense that is not just chaos, that is not just blathering balderdash, but that has in it rhythm, fascinating complexity, a kind of artistry.

[49:03]

It is in this kind of meaninglessness that we get the profoundest meaning. You've been listening to the Late Alan Watts with a talk entitled The Sense of Nonsense. If you'd like to have a copy of this, you can send $10 to MEA Box 303, Sausalito, 94965. Again, a reminder that we have a sampler cassette, which features Alan Watts describing the highlights of...

[49:41]

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