Rampa Lobsang - Beyond the Tenth, ZNAM I WIEM, SZTUKA WOJENNA, Księgozbiór Wielkiej Pradżni
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THE TITLE
To save a lot of later questions, let
me say now that Man is one tenth
conscious, the other nine tenths deal
with the sub-conscious and all that
which comes under the heading
‘Racial Memories’ and the Occult.
This book is about
YOU
,
not just
about one tenth of you, but also that
which goes
Beyond the Tenth.
A SPECIAL LETTER
Dear Reader,
For over a decade you have been writing to me from
all over the world, even from the other side of the Iron
Curtain, writing to me some thirty or forty letters a
day, letters which I have conscientiously answered.
But quite a number of you have written to say that an
Author of books such as mine belongs to the Reader,
saying that an Author such as I cannot end with nine
books but must go on writing until reasonable ques-
tions are answered.
To that I replied by writing to several representa-
tive people with this question; ‘Well, what DO you
want in the tenth book? Tell me, tell me what you
want, tell me what I've missed in other books, and I
will write that tenth book.’
So as a result of the letters I have received in answer
to my questions, I have written this book which you
are about to read.
Some of you, no doubt, will say that it is repetition
here and there. I can only reply that it is the unani-
mous request of my ‘Panel of Readers’ or it would
not be in this book, and if you think it is repetitious in
places, well, it might serve to refresh your memory.
One question I am asked in particular is, ‘Oh, Dr.
Rampa, visit me in the astral, cure me of this, cure me
of that, tell me who is going to win the Irish Sweep-
stake, come along to our Group Meeting in the astral.’
But these readers forget that there are only 24 hours
in each day; they also forget the difference in time
zones, etc., etc. Even more important, they forget that
although I, in the astral, can see them clearly when I
want to, yet they may not always be able to see me,
although an astonishing number of people have
written to me confirming exactly astral visits, tele-
pathic contacts, etc.
Well, it's not intended that this shall be a long letter,
so let us get on with the book itself, shall we?
T. LOBSANG RAMPA
CHAPTER ONE
THE soft summer night sighed gently, and whispered
quietly to the nodding willows fringing the Serpent
Temple. Faint ripples undulated across the placid
lake as some early-rising fish sought the surface in
search of unwary insects. Above the hard, high moun-
tain peaks, with the everlasting spume of snow flying
banner-wise from it, a solitary star shone with glitter-
ing brilliance in the luminescent sky.
In the granaries faint squeaks and rustles betrayed
the presence of hungry mice foraging in the barley
barrels. Stealthy footsteps and two glaring eyes as
Watchman Cat appeared on the scene brought a
scuffle of scurrying mice and then utter silence.
Watchman Cat sniffed around suspiciously, then,
satisfied, jumped to a low window and sat looking out
at the fast-approaching dawn.
Flickering butter-lamps hissed and spat and mo-
mentarily flared brighter as night-duty acolytes re-
plenished their supplies. From some inner temple
came a subdued murmur and the tiny tinkle of differ-
ent silver bells. Out upon a high roof a solitary figure
stood to greet the coming dawn, hands already clasped
about the neck of the Morning Call trumpet.
Shadowy, indistinct figures appeared at some back
entrance and gathered to march down the mountain
trail towards a small tributary of the Happy River
from whence came the water supply for the needs of
the Potala. Aged men, husky men, and mere wisps of
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boys, members of the Serving Class, marched in age-
old procession down the mountain-side carrying hard
leather pails to dip in the river and then laboriously
manhandle up to the kitchens and storage tanks.
The downward trip was easy, a half-awake throng
still bemusedly thinking of the joys of sleep. By the
little well, so constantly filled by the tributary, they
stood awhile chatting, exchanging gossip gleaned
from the kitchens the day before. Lounging, killing
time, postponing the inevitable and hard climb up
the mountain-side.
Overhead night had already given way to the
approaching day. The purple curtain of night had
fled to the West before the advancing dawn, the sky
no longer showed the brilliant, hard pinpoints of
light which were the stars in their courses, but instead
was luminous with the rays of the approaching sun
striking through tile lower levels and lighting up the
undersides of the slight alto-stratus clouds which
scurried above. The mountain peaks were now tinged
with gold, a white gold which threw rainbows from
the blowing snow at the peak heads, and which made
each mountain top appear as if it were a living foun-
tain of iridescent colour.
Swiftly the light advanced and the Valley of Lhasa,
hitherto in the purple shadows of the night, lit up
great flashing gleams shone from the golden roofs of
the Potala and reflected also from the Jo Kang
Cathedral in Lhasa City. At the foot of the Potala
near the colored carvings a little group of early risers
gazed up in awe at the scintillating lights above them
thinking that it must be a reflection of the spirit of
the Inmost One.
At the foot of our mountain path, however, the
serving monks, quite immune to the glories of nature,
stood chatting, killing time before taking up their
burdens and proceeding uphill. The old monk, Big
Ears, stood upon a flat rock and gazed out across the
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