Rampa Lobsang - Feeding the Flame, ZNAM I WIEM, SZTUKA WOJENNA, Księgozbiór Wielkiej Pradżni
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As Dr. Lobsang Rampa lay, desperately ill, in a Canadian
hospital, he looked up with pleasure to see his old friend and
mentor, the Lama Mingyar Dondup, standing by his bedside.
But it was with some dismay that he listened to the message
that the Golden Figure had brought.
Lobsang Rampa’s work on this plane was not, as he thought,
completed; he had to write another book, his eleventh, for there
was still more of the mystic truth to be revealed to the world.
Here then is that eleventh book.
Feeding the Flame
is mainly
concerned with answering some of the any questions which
Dr. Rampa’s readers have put to him over the years. It covers
such subjects as Life after Death, Suicide, Meditation and Quija
Boards, and includes many invaluable observations on the modern
world. Dr. Rampa’s many admirers will be delighted that, despite
the pain and suffering of his illness, he has been spared to write
this fascinating and inspiring book.
FEEDING THE FLAME
It saves a lot of letters if I tell you why
I have a certain title; it is said, ‘It is
better to light a candle than to curse
the darkness.’
In my first ten books I have tried to
light a candle, or possibly two. In this,
the eleventh book, I am trying to Feed
the Flame.
RACE OF TAN
Copper is this man,
A man of daytime white,
Yellow is that man,
And one of dark night. . .
The four main colours,
All known as Man,
Tomorrow's unity will come
Forming the Race of Tan.
Poem by W. A. de Munnik of
Edmonton, Alberta.
CHAPTER ONE
The more you know the more
you have to learn.
The letter was short, sharp, and very much to the point.
‘Sir,’ it said, ‘why do you waste so much paper in your books ;
who likes to read these pretty-pretty descriptions of Tibet?
Tell us instead how to win the Irish Sweepstake’. The second
one followed the theme very well. ‘Dear Dr. Rampa’ wrote
this brash young person, ‘Why do you waste so much time
writing about the NEXT life? Why not tell us how to make
money in this one? I want to know how to make money now.
I want to know how to make girls do what I want now.
Never mind the next life, I'm still trying to live this one.’
The Old Man put down the letter and sat back shaking
his head sadly. ‘I can write only in my own way,’ he said, ‘I
am writing TRUTH, not fiction, so . . .’
Fog lay heavy on the river. Trailing tendrils swirled and
billowed, redolent of sewage and garlic it swept yellow
feelers like a living creature seeking entry to any habitation.
From the invisible water came the urgent hoot of a tug,
followed by furious yells in the French-Canadian patois.
Overhead a dark red sun struggled to pierce the odorous
gloom. The Old Man sitting in his wheelchair peered dis-
gustedly around at the clammy building. Water dripped
mournfully from some moldering concrete wall. A vagrant
breeze added a new dimension to the world of smells con-
jured up by the fog - decaying fish-heads. ‘Pah!’ muttered
the Old Man, ‘What a crummy dump!’ With that profound
thought, he propelled his chair back into the apartment and
hastily closed the door.
9
The letter thumped through the letter-box. The Old Man
opened it and snorted. ‘No water tonight,’ he said, ‘no heat
either.’ Then, as an after-thought, ‘and it says that for some
hours there will be no electricity because some pipe or some-
thing has burst.’
‘Write another book’ said the People on the Other Side of
Life. So the Old Man and Family Old Man went off in
search of quiet. Quiet? Blaring radios, rumbling hi-fi's, and
yowling children shrieking through the place. Quiet?
Gaping sight-seers peering in through windows, banging on
doors, demanding answers to stupid questions.
A dump where quiet is not, a pad where nothing is done
without immense effort. A pipe leaks, one reports it. Much
later a plumber arrives to see it himself. He reports it to his
superior, the Building Superintendent. HE comes to see it
before reporting it to ‘the Office’. ‘The Office’ reports it to his
Superior. He gets on the telephone, a conference is held.
Much later a decision is reached. Back it comes from ‘Mon-
treal Office’ to the Superior who tells the Building Super-
intendent who tells the plumber who tells the tenant that
‘Next week, if we have time, we will do it’
‘A crummy dump’ is how one person described it. The
Old Man had no such delicate way of describing the place.
Actions speak louder than words; long before his tenancy
expired the Old Man and Family left, before they died in
such squalid surroundings. With joy they returned to the
City of Saint John and there, because of the strains and
stresses in Montreal, the Old Man's condition rapidly wor-
sened until, very late at night, there was an urgent call for an
ambulance, hospital . . .
The gentle snow came sliding down like thoughts falling
from the heavens. A light dusting of white gave the illusion
of frosting on a Christmas cake. Outside, the stained glass
window of the cathedral gleamed through the darkness and
shed vivid greens and reds and yellows on the falling snow.
Faintly came the sounds of the organ and the sonorous chant
of human voices. Louder, from right beneath the window,
10
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