From: plp1@Ra.MsState.Edu (pat parker)
Subject: Re: Diff. betweeREAD/NEWn Eastern and Western thought
Organization: Mississippi State University
Date: Thu, 30 Jul 1992 03:00:58 GMT

z_hilbornrs@ccsvax.sfasu.edu writes:

>What's the difference between Western and Eastern thought?

[an example is given, contrasting  west & east]

>The difference between Western and Occidental thought is that Occidentals 
>recognize mastery and Westerners have to have everything proven.

the following was posted here a few months ago.  it is also a contrast between
western and eastern thought.



        			A Soft Answer
	
        -------------------------------------------------------------------
        Note: This article was edited from a publication by Terry Dobson, a
        student of Aikido for many years. It originally appeared in the
        Graduate Review, March/April 1981.
        -------------------------------------------------------------------

        The train clanked and rattled through the suburbs of Tokyo on a
        drowsy spring afternoon. Our car was comparatively empty - a few
        housewives with their kids in tow, some old folks going shopping. I
        gazed absently at the drab houses and dusty hedgerows.

        At one station the doors opened and suddenly the afternoon quiet was
        shattered by a man bellowing violent, incomprehensible curses. The
        man staggered into the car. He wore laborer's clothing, and he was
        big, drunk and dirty. Screaming, he swung at a woman holding a baby.
        The blow sent her spinning into the laps of an elderly couple. It
        was a miracle that the baby was unharmed.

        Terrified, the couple jumped up and scrambled toward the other end
        of the car. The laborer aimed a kick at the retreating back of the
        old woman but missed as she scuttled to safety. This so enraged the
        drunk that he grabbed the metal pole in the center of the car and
        tried to wrench it out of its stanchion. I could see that one of his
        hands was cut and bleeding. The train lurched ahead, the passengers
        frozen with fear. I stood up.

        I was young then, some twenty years ago, and in pretty good shape. I
        had been putting in a solid eight hours of training every day for
        the past three years. Trouble was, my martial skill was untested in
        actual combat.

        My teacher had taught me that whoever has the mind to fight has
        broken their connection with the universe. If you try to dominate
        people, you are already defeated. We study how to resolve conflict,
        not how to start it.

        I listened to these words. I tried hard. I felt both tough and holy.
        I my heart, however, I wanted an absolutely legitimate opportunity
        whereby I might save the innocent by destroying the guilty.

        This is it! I said to myself as I got to my feet. People are in
        danger.  If I don't do something fast, somebody will probably get
        hurt.

        Seeing me stand up the drunk recognized a chance to focus his rage.
        "Aha!" he roared. "A foreigner! You need a lesson in Japanese
        manners!"

        I held on lightly to the commuter strap overhead and gave him a slow
        look of disgust and dismissal.

        "All right!" he hollered. "You're gonna get a lesson." He gathered
        himself for a rush at me.

        A split second before he could move, somebody shouted, "Hey!" It was
        earsplitting. I remember the strangely joyous, lilting quality of it
        - as though you and a friend had been searching diligently for
        something and had suddenly stumbled upon it. "Hey!"

        I wheeled to my left; the drunk spun to his right. We both stared
        down at a little old Japanese. He must have have been well into his
        seventies, this tiny gentleman, sitting there immaculate in his
        kimono.  He took no notice of me, but beamed delightedly at the
        laborer, as though he had a most important, most welcome secret to
        share.

        "C'mere," the old man said in an easy vernacular, beckoning to the
        drunk. "C'mere and talk with me." He waved his hand lightly.

        The big man followed as on a string. He planted his feet
        belligerently in front of the old gentleman and roared above the
        clacking wheels.  "Why should I talk to you?" The drunk now had his
        back to me. If his elbow moved so much as a millimeter, I'd drop him
        in his socks.

        The old man continued to beam at the laborer. "What'cha been
        drinkin'?"  he asked, his eyes sparkling with interest. "I've been
        drinking sake," the laborer bellowed back, "and its none of your
        business!" Flecks of spittle spattered the old man.

        "Oh, that's wonderful," the old man said, "absolutely wonderful! You
        see I love sake too. Every night me and my wife (she's 76 you know),
        we warm up a little bottle of sake and take it out into the garden,
        and we sit on an old wooden bench. We watch the sun go down and we
        look to see how our persimmon tree is doing. My great-grandfather
        planted that tree, and we worry about whether it will recover from
        those ice storms we had last winter. Our tree has done better than
        expected though, especially when you consider the poor quality of
        the soil. It is gratifying to watch when we take our sake and go out
        to enjoy the evening - even when it rains!" He looked up at the
        laborer, eyes twinkling.

        As he struggled to follow the old man's conversation, the drunk's
        face began to soften. His fists slowly unclenched. "Yeah," he said.
        "I love persimmons too... " His voice trailed off.

        "Yes," said the old man smiling, "and I'm sure you have a wonderful
        wife."

        "No," replied the laborer. "My wife died." Very gently, swaying with
        the motion of the train, the big man began to sob. "I don't got no
        wife, I don't got no home, I don't got no job. I'm so ashamed of
        myself." Tears rolled down his cheeks; A spasm of despair rippled
        through his body.

        Now it was my turn. Standing there in my well-scrubbed youthful
        innocence, my make-this-world-safe-for-democracy righteousness, I
        suddenly felt dirtier than he was.

        Then the train arrived at my stop. As the doors opened, I heard the
        old man cluck sympathetically. "My, my," he said' "that is a
        difficult predicament, indeed. Sit down here and tell me about it."

        I turned my head for one last look. The laborer was sprawled on the
        seat, his head in the old man's lap. The old man was softly stroking
        the filthy, matted hair.

        As the train pulled away, I sat down on the bench. What I had wanted
        to do with muscle had been accomplished with kind words. I would
        have to practice the martial art with an entirely different spirit.
        It would be a long time before I could speak about the resolution of
        conflict.




________________________________________________________________________
pat parker
mississippi state university
plp1@ra.msstate.edu
________________________________________________________________________
"They're not leeches, they're scientologists!"
Organization: Comp & Comm - Telecommunications, Carnegie Mellon, Pittsburgh, PA