This podcast is offered by San Francisco's Zen Center on the web at sfcc.org. Our public programs are made possible by donations from people like you. I can't tell you all how moved I am to be here today from 50-odd years after first coming to Zen Center. And even at 83 years old, well, 82 and more than a half, I still feel like the new kid on the block, remembering the impression and the mentoring and the modeling that my first Dharma friends at Zen Center had and the effect they had on me. I see Vicki Austin here, Tim Rebin Rusa, Steve Weintraub and Linda Cutts, Paul Haller, Dan Welch and Deborah Madison, These were people that actually changed my life in extraordinary ways.

[01:04]

I'll try to touch on that a little bit, but if I appear a little nervous, that's why, because I feel like I'm performing before an audience of all my teachers and the people who spun me around and put me on a good path. So, Whether we live monastically or whether we live a secular life, there are all sorts of Buddhists. Some shave their heads, some don't. Some marry, some don't. Some meditate, some don't. But all of us follow the precepts. And the precepts are the guides to modeling our life after the Buddhas. And each... venue, monastery or daily life, has its own sets of challenges and its own difficulties. Suzuki Roshi once said, if you live outside the monastery, you have to be very patient.

[02:10]

And reading the newspapers and watching the news, we can see why. I have a particular interest that's colored my entire life. I'm going to try to explain it. And some people have taken exception to my preoccupation with politics and social justice as an appropriate theater for Buddhist consideration and action. It's messy, it's difficult, it's hard to do without creating the problems you're trying to solve. I'm going to try and make the argument today, among other things, as to why it's important. And I'm going to rely on the authority of my very first teacher, Gary Snyder, American poet and Buddhist. So politics is the study of the relationship between people. And you could say that Buddhism is the same thing, only it includes all beings, the planet itself.

[03:13]

They're not separate components of a life. And the question is, how do we relieve the possible suffering of people who are suffering under social systems and economic conditions that make it very difficult for them to have the privilege of venues like this, places to sit and study sanghas and communities? Do we abandon them for our own enlightenment and our own pursuits? The Buddha himself was extremely radical. He brought women into his practice. He brought Dalits, untouchables, into his practice. He recognized no difference in status and class. And even more importantly, he begged every day. Every single day he begged for his food. And many of the lectures begin with saying the Buddha came in, he washed his feet, dried off, sat down, and then began to teach.

[04:14]

And so that's a model that even though I certainly don't live that purely. It's a model that I keep before me. So I'd like to tell you, first of all, how I became involved in politics. I was born in 1941, just a few months before Pearl Harbor. And after the war, there were global events going on that I knew nothing about, but they certainly affected my family. And in the 1950s, by the time I was... 10 or 11 years old, maybe 12, the McCarthy period was in full swing. And anyone who was or ever wanted to be or ever thought about being a socialist or a communist was being persecuted, seriously persecuted. My family had a friend named Abe Pomerantz, who was one of the... one of the prosecutors of the industrialists at the Nuremberg trial.

[05:20]

And he told a story at my dinner table one night about how Harry Truman, who was then president, called him into his office and said, you need to go easy on the German industrialists, because after the war, we're going to be in an ideological competition with Russia, fighting for world's resources and the hearts and minds of other people. We're going to need these German businessmen and scientists. So in my family, my mother's family, there were communists and there were socialists. To me, they were old Jews telling jokes and dropping food in their laps and saying, give me a shmier of mush, come on. They were not spies. They were not traitors. They had probably left communism many years before when Stalin revealed what a murderous person he was. They were labor organizers. They were school teachers. My mother's cousin was the first man fired from the New York City school system for being a communist.

[06:21]

And 28 years later, he sued them and won 28 years back pay. Small family victory. Anyway, as a young kid, I was enraged. I was enraged hearing my family lied about, hearing them called traitors and spies and all sorts of hideous stuff. And even though they were no longer in the Communist Party or no longer socialists, They were being called before committees and forced to either testify on their friends and give the names of people who had been comrades with them, or they were fired from their jobs. And if they gave the names of those people, those people would be fired from their jobs. And I was so incensed that it was many, many, many years, I'd say decades, before I could salute the American flag. That's a child's anger. Anyway, My anger at this injustice and the world that was creating this led me to the beats, the beatniks, the first adults who were kind of critiquing the seamless modernist future that was being sold to the public after World War II.

[07:33]

And these were adults, artists, poets, thinkers, who gave me a framework for my anger, gave me a books to read, gave me ideas, gave me analysis. And one of the things that they all had in common was they were all interested in Zen. And among those interested in Zen, there was one who appeared to be first among equals, and that was Gary Snyder. And 14 or 15, I got very interested in him. He had spent nine years in a Japanese monastery. He had been the assistant to the the Roshi. He had come back. He'd married a Japanese wife. He read and spoke Chinese and Japanese. And I thought, wow, here's a guy that really knows something. So after college, I moved to California. And as luck would have it, I came out here to be a poet, to go to San Francisco State Creative Writing Department.

[08:35]

And pretty soon, my community was all poets. And one of those was a guy named Lou Welch, who was a very close friend of Gary Snyder's, and introduced me to Snyder. And I was overjoyed. I was living then on a little dirt commune, hard scrabble, all bunch of poor people, a five-gallon hot water heater, no electricity. And Gary drives up in this brand-new Volkswagen camper. And I'm thinking, how bougie man, look at that. Anyway, so... He opened up the little side door, and I went in and immediately began to describe exactly how radical, enlightened, and politically pure I was. And he just kept looking at me. And pretty soon he took out some crackers and some peanut butter and started giving me peanut butter and crackers. And I was starting to be uneasy because the guy left no footprint. He was just there, and I could kind of see a question behind his eyes,

[09:40]

who is this guy? What's going on here? And when he left, that look was a turning moment for me. I mean, I could see my own foolishness. I could see how empty everything sounded. And I thought, I've got to know this guy better. And so luckily, I spent a good part of my youth on a farm growing up handy. I started going up and visiting Gary up in the Sierras and making myself useful. The first time I got there, I was stunned by his physical plant. Everything was kind of perfect, not fancy, completely adequate to a life. He had built a 900 square foot house with a team of people that he had trained to do log architecture. It was kind of a cross between a Japanese farmhouse and an Indian longhouse. with a fire pit in the middle of the floor, beautiful beams and a tile roof from Japan.

[10:44]

And everybody who came over had to pump 100 strokes on a pump to send water up to a holding tank, and that would be the water that you would use. And when I looked around, as time went on, I began to see the relationships he had between his community, his family, his children, his work as a poet, his work as a scholar, his work as a thinker. And at some point, I thought, this was the most evenly developed person I'd ever met. I'm very unevenly developed. There's a few things I do pretty well, and the rest of it, you know, my wife is taking food off my clothes. Gary Snyder had the same level of attention on every single thing he did, made no fuss about it, but it made a great impression on me. So we just developed a relationship. So then in 1974, by that time, the counterculture had crashed.

[11:48]

We didn't own the land. Children were growing up. They had to be close to schools. We couldn't live in the backwoods. By 1974, I was back in California. And in 1975, in 1974, I met a woman at Zen Center. that I fell in love with and finally married. And she was a very integrated part of the community. She was Baker Roshi's private chef for a series of monthly gatherings with cultural figures. She ran the guest list in the office. She ran the Alaya clothing store, which used to sell zabutans and fat pants and zafus and things like that. And under her tutelage, I began sitting zazen. That was a wake-up. I'd spent 10 years in the counterculture living by whim, pursuing ecstasy, using far too many drugs, including heroin, as a kind of way to slow my mind down.

[12:52]

And when I first got to Zen Center, I didn't understand it at all. People were quiet. They were solemn. I didn't hear any crazy laughter. They didn't seem liberated. I didn't know what to do with this. I just didn't. I missed the ecstasies and the impulsive freedom of supposed free life. To make things work worse, I shook violently during Zazen. I mean, I shook for 28 years. And I was sitting between monks that were sitting like oil paintings. And here was the Jew with the animal name was having seizures on the pillow. And it was just effort, trying to get my breath back and do it. But to my own credit, I hung in. So in the next year, Gary won the Pulitzer Prize, and the governor asked him to organize an arts council for the state, a state agency made up of working artists, and he picked me.

[13:54]

I had been an actor on the San Francisco Mime Troupe, I was a writer and a poet, and he introduced me to this world of politics. Now, the CAC was... quite an exciting venture for a guy from the counter culture, because it was running the state. We were given the mandate to design a state agency, make it any way we wanted. And there were seven working artists, and there was one businessman you'll hear about named Connie Hodge, who was a conservative clothier from Fresno, who was the president of the Symphony Orchestra League. And we were redesigning California. We were breaking it up into bioregions, and we were creating relationships where instead of giving money directly to artists, which would have enraged conservatives, we hired artists to be creative problem solvers to work with state agencies. We had 14 interagency agreements, and dancers were working with senior citizens to help them limber up.

[14:57]

Filmmakers were working with high school students to make films on teenage pregnancy. It was a very high and heady time. One of the problems was me, because I came in with a really big chip on my shoulder. My theater, the San Francisco Mime Troupe, had been arrested for performing in the parks without a permit, because we thought the parks were ours. We were on the cover of the Chamber of Commerce magazine because we were of colorful theater, imitating old 17th century Commedia dell'arte shows, Punch and Judy for adults, low bodices, masks, and talking about contemporary issues, rewriting these plays. And we never got a nickel from the hotel tax. So you can imagine, when I was suddenly in charge of the budget of the California Arts Council, I was going to have my revenge, and I announced immediately that I was not interested in the Empire Arts, which I defined as opera, symphony, ballet, and theater, but because you can't grow roses without mulch, we were going to support the community arts, because that was the broadest base from which people went up.

[16:19]

wasn't very strategic of me, because it immediately alarmed every professional arts agency, all their employees, all their audiences, and all their boards of directors who were the richest and most powerful people in the state. Anyway, I came out fighting, and in 1976, the next year, much to their horror, I was elected chairman. And we were fighting, and all of this stuff was over a million-dollar budget. And this man I mentioned earlier, now 76, so I'd been at Zen Center two years, but it hadn't yet sunk in quite. This man I mentioned earlier, Carney Hodge, came to me and he said, listen, you're the governor's guy. Why are we wasting all this energy fighting over a million dollars? Go ask him for 20 million. Oh, okay. So Gary Snyder and I went in to see the governor and we said... if you'll put $20 million in your budget, we won't ask you to lift a finger.

[17:24]

If we can't win it, we don't deserve it. And he said, okay. So he put it in the budget. And that was the first time I realized that there was a big problem because I had alienated all of the people I was going to need to win and support this budget. So this is where meditating came in handy. And one of the first things I saw, the first time I meditated on it, was I had to apologize. I had to really eat crow. So the council sat together, and we laid out a budget for $20 million, and we showed each section of the state how they would benefit. Let's say the symphony, instead of receiving a $2,000 grant, could receive $200,000. The schools could receive X amount. And my job was to get all of these different mules into harness so that they would all pull together for a common effort. So I had to apologize, as I said, and I began a nine-month campaign trying to model what I imagined a Buddhist might be, which was keeping my mouth shut, listening...

[18:41]

speaking politely, apologizing for my intemperance and my misunderstanding of the political realities of things. And I had divided the state so drastically that the governor called me in one day and he said, in a democracy, all votes rise or all votes sink. You can't play favorites. And as soon as he said that, kind of mystical, but... Every lecture I had heard at Zen Center coalesced. Suddenly everything made sense. That just as every person in the state had the right to see their culture represented with taxpayer dollars, every being had a right for enlightenment. You couldn't play favorites. That's the insight of Mahayana Buddhism, the most popular form in America and Europe. So... Carney came to me one day and I would go and visit these conservative legislators.

[19:47]

And luckily I grew up on a farm because many of them were rural. And we'd talk about dogs and hunting and farming and what you had to do long enough for them to see that I wasn't an ideologue, that I could actually carry on a conversation and I was doing what I believed. And at the end of the day, these people saved the Arts Council even more than our own people. allies. And the first year, our budget went up from one to five million, went up from five to seven. And in the fourth year of my chairmanship, the legislature passed a law that I couldn't do it anymore. But I was still a member for another four years. And we had 11 million dollars. We had 14 interagency agreements. And the arts were really on the map as a creative problem-solving tool. But I went to Carney and I said, you know, I think I've made peace. He said, yeah, things are going really well. I said, you know, people are still, there's some barrier I can't cross.

[20:52]

And he looked at me and he smiled and he looked me up and down and I knew what he was looking at. He was looking at my work boots and my blue jeans and my blue jean shirt because I was a man of the people. And I dressed like a worker. And that was my fixation. I was going to show these guys in the suits and ties. And Carney very softly said, you know, the people who have come to Sacramento and won election here take it really seriously. It's a big deal to them. And they're trying to serve. And they're trying to dress to demonstrate their respect for what it is that they do. And you're the guy that says you don't care about clothes, but your refusal to honor the way they dress is kind of like a standing insult. So you can't be too upset that people are not taking you into the cockles of their heart. That was a turning word for me.

[21:54]

That was an opening. And I went out, I got a haircut, I got a suit jacket and slacks, and at the next meeting that I came to, my friend Connie looked at me and went, OK. And everything changed like that. People just said, oh, OK, the guy's here to play. Let's go. So my report card, the final report card was at my last finance committee hearing. It was before three rock ribbed conservatives from the Central Valley. It was like the Mount Rushmore of old white men who kept everything locked up. And I'm sitting there and we had had, you know, combat and arguments and this and that and the other thing. And just before the meeting started, they all reached under the table and they put on hippie headbands. And I almost burst into tears because it was like saying, good work.

[22:57]

We got you. We see you. And so it gave me full confidence in the Buddhist practice that I had been doing, that force wasn't going to do it, anger was not going to do it, self-righteousness was not going to do it, kindness was going to do it, listening to other people was going to do it, cloaking my right speech was going to do it, right intention was going to do it. And that was my kind of graduate school in testing out the lessons I was learning at Zen Center out in the real world. So what had I learned? Well, try to anticipate what people might think. Listen patiently. Try to have an intention without necessarily having an agenda. We intend to save all beings. The strategy for doing that may differ from person to person. You've all heard the term upaya, which means skillful means. Well, skillful means is not being Peter Coyote in 1975.

[24:01]

But by 1978, I had polished off some of the rough edges. And so, at that time, I guess I had understood the implications of dependent origination. And in a world where everything is a manifestation of the kind of pregnant energy which is always... transforming itself into forms. Everything has equal standing. Everything is made by the universe. It's not done according to the way I like it and don't like it. I may not like that I'm made of the same stuff as Donald Trump, but it's true. There's no such thing as good guys and bad guys. We each of us have the full spectrum of humanity within us. And if we don't know that, we're quite dangerous. If we think we're the good guys, it means we've taken our shadow sides and put them on other people we've declared enemies. And the good guys wind up dropping bombs on hotels in Iraq in the middle of the night, killing men, women, and children, because our leader doesn't like their leader.

[25:09]

So I had to give up the self-righteousness and the idea that I was inhabiting some pure place to stand outside of the mess and mix of the world. The universe is half positive and half negative, and so was I. So, scrapping petty judgments, relaxed people, enhanced communication, that enhanced relationships. The biggest thing is I had developed faith through experience, which is exactly what the Buddha had promised. It's not the faith in miracles. It's not the faith where you force yourself to believe in something. But it's like sitting zazen. You sit zazen, you go, what's going on in my mind? Twelve gerbils in a weasel cage. And over time, sitting zazen changes you. And you can say, oh my God, something happened. And then you have faith. It's not silly faith. It's faith based on your own understanding and your own experience. So that began to happen to me.

[26:11]

And every time these changes happened, and every time I felt them and perceived them, it took me back to Zen practice, which I had never, never stopped. So at a certain point, 1979, my family was growing. I had no money. My father had died below broke. I had been being paid $600 a month as a community artist to work in third world schools in San Francisco. And the thought occurred to me that maybe I'd try the movies. I was 39 years old. I didn't really know how that would work. I was not a genius actor, but I was good. And this seemed like the only way that I would ever get the money to buy a house or send my kids to good school. So I started thinking about it. I had a lucky feeling, but I was paralyzed by moral conflicts. During the counterculture, I was one of the founders of a group called The Diggers. And the diggers fed hundreds of people a day, and we had free stores, and we had free medical clinics, and we didn't use money, and we didn't identify ourselves, feeling that if you weren't getting rich or famous, you were probably authentic.

[27:21]

That was a pretty deep part of my core. So what was I going to do? They don't use money. Zen students live frugally and simply. They didn't feed their egos. They didn't compete. They didn't speak badly. And I was going into Hollywood, which is like, you know, Babylon. It's ego, it's wealth, it's fame, it's pursuit of riches. I thought of Gary Snyder and how simply and modestly he lived. But nobody was going to pay me to do that. So I had to think, how was I going to do this? what was Hollywood going to be? I also knew that I was not a genius, I was not Daniel Day-Lewis, or I was not Meryl Streep, that there were much younger kids in me who were better looking and more talented. What was I going to do? I was going to meditate on it. So I meditated on it. It was simple to get a local agent and get them to represent me.

[28:25]

I used the arts council as my credentials. And they sent me to L.A. to meet casting agents and introduce myself. But when I thought about what making a movie would be, I realized I would have no power over the content. I was a political guy, you know. You don't make a movie about bad people. You don't celebrate fascists and the cruel and the this and the that. I couldn't control that. And yet I couldn't work if I had to wait and only do movies that I accepted. I'd starve to death. So meditation, I understood one day I could only control how I made the movie. It's like when you learn that the only thing on earth you can control is your intention. Everything is changing. But as Zen people, what do we do? We try to fix our intention. on compassion, on saving all beings with the force of habit, so that we don't have to have lots of rules.

[29:26]

So that when situations come up, we'll instinctively follow that intention. So I made an intention. I couldn't control the movie, but I could control how I made it. So I made some decisions, which were actually like vows. I vowed to treat everyone equally. regardless of their social status. I vowed to be fully prepared. I vowed to be on time. I vowed to know my stuff. I vowed not to be involved in any petty competitions. I vowed to serve the film as best as I could. Okay, and the next step is how do you get hired? Well, getting hired is an exercise in right effort. And that's what I did. There's another precept. I went down, my local agent set up 15, 16 meetings with casting agents. I made a little card for each one, wrote down everything we talked about, wrote them a handwritten thank you note.

[30:33]

If I mentioned a book or a poem or a newspaper article, I sent it. And then I vowed that every six weeks I would contact them again with an update. I asked them to recommend agents because I knew no agent would hire me But if I got a job, I could call an agent and say, will you vest pocket me? Will you negotiate this film for me? You don't have to sign me as a customer. Just take the commission. And no one would turn away free 10%. So I did that for eight months. I vowed to do it for five years. And after eight months, an agent called me and said, you're underrepresented. And they were my agents who took me from, you know, little dumb one-liners to starring in... E.T., American movies, European movies. The one other thing that I had to do was, how was I going to overcome my handicaps, my limitations of being 39, of not being the best looking, not being the most talented?

[31:35]

And again, one day in Zazen, it popped into my head, I had to already be a star. I had to go to Hollywood as a star. So I thought about it and I looked at all the available movie stars and I picked Paul Newman as a guy who was moderately talented, but self-effacing, dedicated, worked hard, everyone seemed to like him. And I analyzed him like I'd analyze a character. What's Paul Newman do when he goes into a room? He doesn't have to be charming. He doesn't have to be hail fellow well met. He's already made it. What he's probably interested in is what are these guys like? What are these people up to? Are they worth my time? And that was an ounce of gold. Because every other actor, myself included beforehand, you go in, you want to be friendly, you want to be charming, you want to make them laugh. No one's going to give you a movie for that. They're gambling their careers in millions of dollars.

[32:36]

They're not so easy to seduce. But once I went into the room and I was studying them, They felt it, and it made me stand out and be different from everyone else. And I would say, what's your take on this film? You gave me the script, but you haven't talked to me about it. Or if we had to audition, I'd say, okay, you haven't talked to me, I'll give you my intuitive take on the character, but then you give me notes, and I'll do it again. Because I knew nobody could resist giving me notes, being a director. So I got two readings. Anyway, long story short, long story short, I started making films. I've made 160 films. One of the curious things is on almost every film, somebody on the set asked me, hey, do you have some kind of religion or something? And I'd say, why are you asking? They'd say, I don't know. You show up on time. You're nice to everybody.

[33:37]

You know your lines. You don't compete with the other actors. And I thought, wow, intention is visible. It gave me further confidence. So I stayed in the movies. Eventually, when my kids were out of graduate school, I dropped it to be what I'd always wanted to be, was a writer. That's where I live. And I stayed at my Zen practice. And in 2012, I was ordained as a priest. In 2015, I received transmission and I took a vow to be quiet for five years. And I broke that vow or I ended that vow in 2020 when the pandemic started and people started to ask me to teach. So I don't want to keep going too long, but once we accept that the self, the I, as we call it, is not an organ, is not an armature in a sculpture, is actually nothing but awareness.

[34:41]

It's a gift of unimaginable wealth and purity, because it means we have no formal internal boundaries. It means that if there's something about ourselves, a habit, or something that we don't like, we can change it. It may take diligence, it may take therapy, it may take understanding, but there's nothing fixed in there. And believe me, it's much easier for an empty bamboo tube to let criticism come in and go out than it is for a self that needs defending and justifying and making excuses for. The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune go right down a bamboo tube. So if your mind's like mine, which is kind of like five gerbils in a weasel cage, cycling through the precepts that everybody decision you have to make is a tall order. But along the way, someone I met at Zen Center named Tia Strozer, who went on to found the Brooklyn Zen Center, taught me a great cliff note that I'm going to share with you today to make up for all the political stuff and all the biography.

[35:53]

It's an acronym she uses called RAIN. And in RAIN, the R stands for recognize. Something comes up. I'm frightened. I'm anxious. I feel envious. I feel mean. I feel giddy. Just recognize it. That's the first step. Recognize it. The second step, the A, is to accept it. Okay, this is what I'm actually feeling. This is the truth of reality at this moment. The I stands for investigate. Go into it. What's the trigger? What's prompted this? Have I ever felt this before? Where in my body is it? And while you're doing this, you're letting it have its fullness. And the N is no need to make it a self event. It's a non-self event. It's a mind-body experience. And if you sit with it and stay with it, it'll pass away.

[36:57]

And if it's a karmic stash that's been in your ligaments or your muscles somewhere, by going through that little acronym and just waiting it out, save you a lot of trouble. Because remember, it's the running away from stuff that's uncomfortable, that's difficult. Buddha gave us the recipe to live a noble and dignified life. Well, drinking, taking drugs, shopping too much, waking up in the wrong bed, none of those things are dignified or noble. So once we know that we can contain what arises with us, and remember, containment is the literal name of the third noble truth, Neroda. And what Neroda is, is a clay wall that peasants in Nepal built around a fire pit that stopped the cinders from flying into the crops or the villages and decimating the village or the fields.

[38:00]

And so, for Buddha, those flames were passions. And the containment was meditation. The containment was our sitting, and until we develop the confidence that we can bear whatever arises in us, we can do that. We make a commitment to sit still, not to run away. Getting down to the end here, folks. So I want to close with one extensive quote from Gary Snyder, a piece that I first read in 1961 that changed my life. I didn't know anything about Buddhism there, but this guy expressed a kind of political, spiritual vision. And so I think of it like a sutra. And so I want to close by reading this quote because I'm not the artist he is, and I can't think of a way to say it.

[39:01]

say it better. So he first starts with a kind of critique of the Buddhist practice that we do. And he says, Buddhism offers a grand vision of universal salvation. But when we assess its actual achievement, it has remained largely confined to practical systems of meditation and monastic practice situations. toward the end of liberating a few dedicated individuals from psychological language and cultural conditioning. Of the millions studying Buddhism, not so many appear dedicated to saving all beings. When we consider the millions practicing next to the population of the earth and our effect on its problems, I think we have to admit that we need to become much more efficient. if we intend to remain alive on a viable planet. It's 1961. The mercy of the West has been social revolutions.

[40:04]

The mercy of the East has been individual insight into the basic self-void. We need both. They're both contained in the traditional three aspects of the Dharma path. Wisdom, which is prajna, meditation, dhyana, and knowledge. Sila. And morality. Sila. Wisdom is intuitive knowledge of the mind of love and clarity that lies beneath one's ego-driven anxieties and aggression. Meditation is going into the mind over and over again to see for yourself until it becomes the mind you live in. Through personal example and responsible action, morality is bringing it back out in the way you live. through personal example and responsible action, ultimately toward the true community, or sangha, of all beings. Wisdom without compassion never feels pain and offers the intellect free reign.

[41:09]

Compassion tempers our intellect, which is like cold steel and can be pitiless. Compassion directs it what to cut and what to bind. and nurture. And here's Gary's final challenge, which is my own, but I'm still trying to live up to. Those who have benefited from white privilege and educations that taught us to analyze and study history and social and political forms, why wouldn't it be an adjunct of our work to disseminate that information and to critique those forms that increase suffering? Thank you very much.

[42:20]

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