Preface to Long Discourses

I grew up in Perth, Western Australia. It's a city that is often described as "nice", a somewhat backhanded compliment. The weather is bright and sunny, it's safe and prosperous, life is good. But it's not a place where anything particularly happens. Certainly not anything meaningful or interesting to anyone outside of Perth.

As a musician, I would sing songs about New York, about Paris, about Memphis or Singapore or even Darlinghurst. I didn't know those places, but I knew that they were meaningful places, places deserving of a song. My own life, by contrast, seemed entirely on the surface. The bright sun and clear skies of Perth had no poetry, it banished all the shadows, everything was just so bland. There was nothing to sing about.

You're sensing a plot twist coming up, and you're right. In those days---the early 80s---the Perth indie music scene produced its finest band, the Triffids. The singer Dave McComb wrote about things that had happened to me: "he swam out to the edge of the reef, there were cuts along his skin." I knew what that was like, not because someone had told me, but because I'd done it myself. Suddenly I was living in a world of meaning. I realized that my place, and therefore my life, was just as real and just as meaningful as anything else. The bleaching light of Perth was its meaning, the lack of shadows was its shadow.

When I came to Buddhism, it all seemed so exotic, so distant. I was made to chant in this strange language "Pali", which I'd never even heard of. It took me a while to even realize that Pali was an actual language, not just a mystical invocation. The monks I met were strange and incomprehensible: who would choose such a life? It had a depth that made my own paltry life pale in comparison.

As I began to study Buddhism in depth, grappling with deep matters, I discovered a range of other scholars and practitioners to learn from. There were the meditation masters of the Thai forest tradition in which I had ordained---Ajahn Chah, Ajahn Mun, Ajahn Thate, Ajahn Lee Dhammadharo. I grew to find sustenance also in the great scholar-monks of the modern Theravada---Venerables Ñāṇatiloka, Ñāṇapoṇika, Ñāṇamoḷī, Guṇaratana, Bodhi, Narada, Kaṭukurunde Ñāṇananda, Buddhadasa, and many others. I struggled to learn the broader history and nature of the Buddhist schools and traditions from scholars such as I.B. Horner, T.W. Rhys Davids, A.K. Warder and Étienne Lamotte. The knowledge and understanding of all these people seemed so lofty, so confident and capable. I devoured everything I could get my hands on.

It never really occurred to me that I might have something to add. I could hardly even manage to master the basics. The masters of the Buddhist tradition appeared as peerless savants, holders of an ancient and impenetrable wisdom.

If you're sensing another plot twist, you're right again. Around 1994 I was still a young resident at Wat Nanachat in north-east Thailand when we received a guest, an elderly English gentleman who introduced himself as Maurice Walshe. Of course, I knew that name very well: he had translated the Dīgha Nikāya. I was so excited to meet one of my heroes. He was a charming and witty man, and it was an honor for me to meet him and spend some time together. I am always grateful to him because he made me realize that the Buddhist tradition was created and formed by ordinary people. He had studied Pali but did not regard himself as an accomplished scholar. He undertook the translation at the behest of Venerable Ānandamaitreya---another figure of legend for me. Maurice was very humble about his abilities and his achievement. And it was no false modesty; while his translation was eminently readable, it was not especially accurate. But he did it. And in doing so, helped the Dhamma take one more step forward.

It was after meeting Rod Bucknell and John Kelly, the co-founders of SuttaCentral, in 2004, that I started making my own contributions to the Dhamma through SuttaCentral. Modest as they were, I realized that my talents and skills could help others, as I had been helped. It took a long while, much learning and many trials, but eventually I dared imagine that maybe I could make my contribution to the corpus of Pali translations. It would surely be imperfect and inadequate, but perhaps I had something to give.

Those of us who have enjoyed the sweet taste of the Dhamma owe a debt of gratitude to all those who have made it possible; to all the teachers, the supporters, the donors, the monks and nuns and layfolk, the scholars, the meditators, the builders and cooks and plumbers and weavers, the artists and storytellers, the repairers of leaky roofs and the kindlers of lamps. There is not a single one who can hold the whole tradition. But I believe that there is not a single one who has nothing to offer.

Allow me to indulge in a further recollection of my days in the indie music scene. One song that has stuck with me is Song of the Siren, written by Tim Buckley, but known from the version by This Mortal Coil. In three short verses it tells the story of the protagonist lost on "shipless oceans", who was drawn in and given shelter by one they came to love. Just as they thought they were safe, the beloved seemed to turn away, leaving them "broken lovelorn on your rocks". Despairing and confused, they considered ending it all. Until at last, they realized: now it was their turn. They could not live forever relying on the other to offer shelter and protection. When they were lost, they had been saved, and now they called to the other, "swim to me, let me enfold you".

As a person of faith, I believe that the Buddha was a perfected human being. The Buddhist tradition, on the other hand, is made up of people who are usually notably imperfect. Sometimes we feel inspiration and uplift, other times disappointment or disillusionment. I reached a point of frustration when I knew that, for all the efforts of many people, we were still not able to make all the Suttas available in translation for free. It seemed wrong, and I didn't know what to do. It was then that I realized that it was my turn to offer shelter.