the Toynbee/Ikeda Dialogue
lotu...@cyberis.net
Manchester Guardian
Sat. May 19, 1984
The Value of a Grandfather Figure
By: Ms. Polly Toynbee
On the long flight to Japan, I read for the first time my grandfather's
posthumously, published book, "Choose Life -- A Dialogue," a discussion
between himself and a Japanese Buddhist leader called Daisaku Ikeda. My
grandfather, the historian Arnold Toynbee was 85 when the dialogue was
recorded, a short time before his final incapacitating stroke. It is probably
the book among his works most kindly left forgotten -- being a long
discursive ramble between the two men over topics from sex education to
pollution and war.
A few months earlier, I had received a telephone call out of the blue from Mr
Ikeda's London representative: Mr Ikeda was inviting my husband and myself to
Japan, in memory of, and in gratitude to, my grandfather. We were puzzled at
this -- eight years after his death. But perhaps it was some inexplicably
Japanese sense of obligation and family beyond Western understanding. Try as
we might, we could elicit no further explanation -- though by the end of our
trip some much clearer motives were to emerge. As it turned out, we were to
see a rather diferent side of Japan from the view usually afforded Western
visitors.
We arrived at Tokyo airport, and at least 10 people were there to greet us,
with a huge bouquet each for myself and for Milly, my astounded
twelve-year-old daughter. A long solemn message of welcome from Mr Ikeda was
read out, and we were driven away in a vast black limousine with electric
darkened windows and Mr Ikeda's emblem emblazoned on the carpet in gold
thread. Walkie-talkies between the vehicles of the motorcade to the hotel
relayed further messages from our mysterious host. The scale of operation was
soon made clear.
Two representatives from the English branch of Mr Ikeda's movement had
accompanied us all the way from London and were scarcely to leave our side,
together with a phalanx of interpreters, drivers and aides of all kinds. Mr
Ikeda wishes you to feel entirely at home," and "Mr Ikeda wishes you to make
every use of the hotel's services and 36 restaurants" came the messages at
regular intervals, as we gazed down out of our fourteenth floor window on to
the hotel garden -- full of waterfalls, bridges and carp squeezed, like
everything in Tokyo between intersecting flyovers.
Several days passed before we were to meet our mysterious host, time in which
we learned more about Mr Ikeda and his Soka Gakkai movement. One thing above
all others was made clear: this was an organisation of immense wealth, power
and political influence. One book on the sect declares that "no understanding
of postwar Japan is complete without some knowledge of this religio-political
movement." Its influence strikes deep into every aspect of Japanese life.
Among its many publications is a newspaper with a circulation of over 4
million. It has the third largest political party in the country. It has
membership of 10 million, still growing. It has a university with 7,000
students, schools an art gallery -- and more.
Mr Ikeda is the third leader of the movement since it started in the
thirties. But it is under him that the thing has taken off and become so
powerful. He is the relatively uneducated son of a laver seller from Omori,
who succeeded to the leadership at the age of 36, when he was head of the
Young Men's Division of the Soka Gakkai. It is mainly a lower middle class
movement, gathering up those uprooted from old communities, and binding them
very tightly to its strong cell-structure.
Night and day, surrounded by his aides, we heard his name mentioned in tones
of reverential awe. The head of the British section (an English retired
businessman, told us that Ikeda was "A man who has made the revolution in
himself." Others testified to the greatness of his writing, his mind, his
poetry, his spirit, even his photography. (Later we caught a glimpse of his
photographic methods when we watched as an aide handed him a loaded camera.
He held it out at arm's length and clicked it randomly without bothering to
look in the viewfinder.) He takes photographs with his mind, not with his
eye," murmured an aide on enquiry.
The evening came when we were at last to meet him. The great black limousine
pulled into the palatial headquarters. The doorway was flood-lit with camera
lights, and there stood Mr and Mrs. Ikeda, surrounded by bowing aides and
followers. Dazed and dazzled by this unexpected reception committee, we were
lead up to him to shake the small, plump hand. There he stood a short, round
man with slicked down hair, wearing a sharp Western suit. Camera bulbs
flashed, movie cameras closed in, and we were carried away with the throng,
past corridors of bowing girls dressed in white to an enormous room.
Vast white armchairs were arrayed in a huge square and we were ushered to a
throne-like set of three chairs at the head of the room, one for each of us
and one for Mr Ikeda. He speaks no English, so behind us sat his beautiful
young interpreter who accompanies him around the world. She sat at a
microphone, so all our words could be heard clearly echoing round the room by
all the aides and followers, who had taken to their rows of armchairs in
strict order of precedence.
We sat there awed, appalled, intimidated, while royal courtesies flowed. "I
want you to feel absolutely at home this evening," said Mr. Ikeda as we felt
about as far from home as it is possible to be. "Just enjoy yourselves on
this very informal occasion," he said. What would a formal meeting have been
like? We talked of the weather in London and Japan, the city, the sights --
desperate small talk, conducted in public for half an hour, balancing
champagne glass and smoked salmon plate, while the aides round the room
nodded solemnly. Our host's style of conversation was imperious and alarming
-- he led and others followed. Any unexpected or unconventional remark was
greeted with a stern fixed look in the eye, incomprehension, and a warning
frostiness.
As we took it in turn to sally forth in this game of verbal royal tennis, we
each had time to study the man. Worldly he seemed, down to the tip of his
hand-made shoes, earthy almost, without a whiff of even artificial
spirituality. Asked to hazard a guess at his occupation, few would have
selected him as a religious figure. I have met many powerful men -- prime
ministers, leaders of all kinds -- but I have never in my life met anyone who
exuded such an aura of
Manchester Guardian
Sat. May 19, 1984
The Value of a Grandfather Figure
By: Ms. Polly Toynbee
On the long flight to Japan, I read for the first time my grandfather's
posthumously, published book, "Choose Life -- A Dialogue," a discussion
between himself and a Japanese Buddhist leader called Daisaku Ikeda. My
grandfather, the historian Arnold Toynbee was 85 when the dialogue was
recorded, a short time before his final incapacitating stroke. It is probably
the book among his works most kindly left forgotten -- being a long
discursive ramble between the two men over topics from sex education to
pollution and war.
A few months earlier, I had received a telephone call out of the blue from Mr
Ikeda's London representative: Mr Ikeda was inviting my husband and myself to
Japan, in memory of, and in gratitude to, my grandfather. We were puzzled at
this -- eight years after his death. But perhaps it was some inexplicably
Japanese sense of obligation and family beyond Western understanding. Try as
we might, we could elicit no further explanation -- though by the end of our
trip some much clearer motives were to emerge. As it turned out, we were to
see a rather diferent side of Japan from the view usually afforded Western
visitors.
We arrived at Tokyo airport, and at least 10 people were there to greet us,
with a huge bouquet each for myself and for Milly, my astounded
twelve-year-old daughter. A long solemn message of welcome from Mr Ikeda was
read out, and we were driven away in a vast black limousine with electric
darkened windows and Mr Ikeda's emblem emblazoned on the carpet in gold
thread. Walkie-talkies between the vehicles of the motorcade to the hotel
relayed further messages from our mysterious host. The scale of operation was
soon made clear.
Two representatives from the English branch of Mr Ikeda's movement had
accompanied us all the way from London and were scarcely to leave our side,
together with a phalanx of interpreters, drivers and aides of all kinds. Mr
Ikeda wishes you to feel entirely at home," and "Mr Ikeda wishes you to make
every use of the hotel's services and 36 restaurants" came the messages at
regular intervals, as we gazed down out of our fourteenth floor window on to
the hotel garden -- full of waterfalls, bridges and carp squeezed, like
everything in Tokyo between intersecting flyovers.
Several days passed before we were to meet our mysterious host, time in which
we learned more about Mr Ikeda and his Soka Gakkai movement. One thing above
all others was made clear: this was an organisation of immense wealth, power
and political influence. One book on the sect declares that "no understanding
of postwar Japan is complete without some knowledge of this religio-political
movement." Its influence strikes deep into every aspect of Japanese life.
Among its many publications is a newspaper with a circulation of over 4
million. It has the third largest political party in the country. It has
membership of 10 million, still growing. It has a university with 7,000
students, schools an art gallery -- and more.
Mr Ikeda is the third leader of the movement since it started in the
thirties. But it is under him that the thing has taken off and become so
powerful. He is the relatively uneducated son of a laver seller from Omori,
who succeeded to the leadership at the age of 36, when he was head of the
Young Men's Division of the Soka Gakkai. It is mainly a lower middle class
movement, gathering up those uprooted from old communities, and binding them
very tightly to its strong cell-structure.
Night and day, surrounded by his aides, we heard his name mentioned in tones
of reverential awe. The head of the British section (an English retired
businessman, told us that Ikeda was "A man who has made the revolution in
himself." Others testified to the greatness of his writing, his mind, his
poetry, his spirit, even his photography. (Later we caught a glimpse of his
photographic methods when we watched as an aide handed him a loaded camera.
He held it out at arm's length and clicked it randomly without bothering to
look in the viewfinder.) He takes photographs with his mind, not with his
eye," murmured an aide on enquiry.
The evening came when we were at last to meet him. The great black limousine
pulled into the palatial headquarters. The doorway was flood-lit with camera
lights, and there stood Mr and Mrs. Ikeda, surrounded by bowing aides and
followers. Dazed and dazzled by this unexpected reception committee, we were
lead up to him to shake the small, plump hand. There he stood a short, round
man with slicked down hair, wearing a sharp Western suit. Camera bulbs
flashed, movie cameras closed in, and we were carried away with the throng,
past corridors of bowing girls dressed in white to an enormous room.
Vast white armchairs were arrayed in a huge square and we were ushered to a
throne-like set of three chairs at the head of the room, one for each of us
and one for Mr Ikeda. He speaks no English, so behind us sat his beautiful
young interpreter who accompanies him around the world. She sat at a
microphone, so all our words could be heard clearly echoing round the room by
all the aides and followers, who had taken to their rows of armchairs in
strict order of precedence.
We sat there awed, appalled, intimidated, while royal courtesies flowed. "I
want you to feel absolutely at home this evening," said Mr. Ikeda as we felt
about as far from home as it is possible to be. "Just enjoy yourselves on
this very informal occasion," he said. What would a formal meeting have been
like? We talked of the weather in London and Japan, the city, the sights --
desperate small talk, conducted in public for half an hour, balancing
champagne glass and smoked salmon plate, while the aides round the room
nodded solemnly. Our host's style of conversation was imperious and alarming
-- he led and others followed. Any unexpected or unconventional remark was
greeted with a stern fixed look in the eye, incomprehension, and a warning
frostiness.
As we took it in turn to sally forth in this game of verbal royal tennis, we
each had time to study the man. Worldly he seemed, down to the tip of his
hand-made shoes, earthy almost, without a whiff of even artificial
spirituality. Asked to hazard a guess at his occupation, few would have
selected him as a religious figure. I have met many powerful men -- prime
ministers, leaders of all kinds -- but I have never in my life met anyone who
exuded such an aura of absolute power as Mr Ikeda. He seems like a man who
for many years has had his every whim gratified, his every order obeyed, a
man protected from contradiction or conflict. I am not easily frightened, but
something in him struck a chill down the spine.
Dinner was an ordeal. We were ushered into the traditional Japanese dining
room, where we sat at cushions on tatami mats at low tables, around our host.
The cook crouched in the middle of the table, serving tempura from a vat of
boiling oil. "No serious talk tonight. Only pleasure," Mr Ikeda ordained. Our
hearts sank. That meant more excruciating small talk.
He turned eventually to reminiscences of my grandfather and their meeting in
London. I could hardly imagine the incongruity of this small stout ball of
power clanking up the creaky lift to my grandfather's dark and sparse flat. I
wondered what meals he had been served -- a slice of spam and a lettuce leaf
being a typical meal there. "He was a very, very great man." Ikeda said,
leaning towards me, and staring me in the eye. "The greatest scholar in the
world!" I pondered on some irreverent family stories, but hastily tucked them
away.
"It is my mission in life to see that his work is read by everyone. You will
support me in this?" I could hardly say no. "You promise? I have your
promise?" I felt uneasy at what exactly was expected of me. Then he suddenly
mentioned the fact that there are in existence some more parts to the
Toynbee/Ikeda Dialogue, as yet unpublished, which he would like to be able to
publish soon. A part of our reason for this journey fell neatly into place.
Later I was to find out more.
There was one sticky moment in the course of the meal. He asked us what we
thought my grandfather's last word of warning to him had been as they parted.
We racked our brains until, in desperation, my husband ill-advisedly
answered, "Greed." An icy look passed across Mr Ikeda's ample features. He
looked as if he might summon a squad of husky samurai to haul us away. I
hastened to explain that Peter meant the greed of mankind, of course, as
referred to frequently in the Dialogues -- man's grasping selfishness and so
on. He looked not entirely mollified and the moment passed.
After dinner we returned to the room of the great armchairs, and lavish
present-giving followed -- a giant doll and a calculator for Milly, pearls, a
record album of the Toynbee/Ikeda Dialogue, a personally signed copy of the
Toynbee/Ikeda book. At last the nerve-racking evening was over, our cheeks
cracked from smiling, our minds drained of all ingenuity in small talk and
pleasantry. We were swept away with the throng, back past the bowing girls in
white and the movie cameras--and away off in the limousine.
Next day our photographs appeared on the front page of Ikeda's multi-million
circulation daily, the Seikyo Press, with a record of our dinner table
conversation. No-one told us it was on the record--but it didn't matter,
since it was the words, mainly of Mr Ikeda, that went reported, and little of
us beyond our presence as his audience.
We departed for a brief trip to Kyoto and Hiroshima, only to be greeted again
by more bouquets, banquets, black limousines and local Soka Gakkai groups.
Hiroshima is an uncomfortable place -- the shrine of Japan's post-war peace
mission. "What do you think of Hiroshima? Have you a few words to say about
Hiroshima?" we were asked continually. The exhibits shock and stun, but words
fail. After the first blast of horror, something else creeps in. Here is a
national shrine to Peace and Never Again, telling the story of the sunny day
the bomb dropped out of a blue sky, telling the story of what the world did
to Japan. But there is not a word, not a thought, not a hint of anything
Japan might have done. Hiroshima was one of the main military bases from
which went out the marauding forces to Burma, Singapore, China, Korea --
countries who still find it hard to link Japan and peace in the same breath.
But Hiroshima is the shrine of Japan's innocence.
One night we were shown a film of Ikeda's triumphal tour round America, at
massed rallies in stadiums from Dallas to San Diego. Formation teams of
majorettes and baton twirlers spelled the words SOKA and PEACE in great waves
of thousands of human bodies and Ikeda, spot-lit and mobbed by screaming
fans, delivered his usual speeches on peace -- always peace. It is one of the
Soka Gakkai's themes, peace in men's hearts, peace across the nations, the
brotherhood of mankind and so on. The effect was somewhat spoiled when the
stadium hushed reverently as a message from President Ronald Reagan him. He
seems like a man who for many years has had his every whim gratified, his
every order obeyed, a man protected from contradiction or conflict. I am not
easily frightened, but something in him struck a chill down the spine.
Dinner was an ordeal. We were ushered into the traditional Japanese dining
room, where we sat at cushions on tatami mats at low tables, around our host.
The cook crouched in the middle of the table, serving tempura from a vat of
boiling oil. "No serious talk tonight. Only pleasure," Mr Ikeda ordained. Our
hearts sank. That meant more excruciating small talk.
He turned eventually to reminiscences of my grandfather and their meeting in
London. I could hardly imagine the incongruity of this small stout ball of
power clanking up the creaky lift to my grandfather's dark and sparse flat. I
wondered what meals he had been served -- a slice of spam and a lettuce leaf
being a typical meal there. "He was a very, very great man." Ikeda said,
leaning towards me, and staring me in the eye. "The greatest scholar in the
world!" I pondered on some irreverent family stories, but hastily tucked them
away.
"It is my mission in life to see that his work is read by everyone. You will
support me in this?" I could hardly say no. "You promise? I have your
promise?" I felt uneasy at what exactly was expected of me. Then he suddenly
mentioned the fact that there are in existence some more parts to the
Toynbee/Ikeda Dialogue, as yet unpublished, which he would like to be able to
publish soon. A part of our reason for this journey fell neatly into place.
Later I was to find out more.
There was one sticky moment in the course of the meal. He asked us what we
thought my grandfather's last word of warning to him had been as they parted.
We racked our brains until, in desperation, my husband ill-advisedly
answered, "Greed." An icy look passed across Mr Ikeda's ample features. He
looked as if he might summon a squad of husky samurai to haul us away. I
hastened to explain that Peter meant the greed of mankind, of course, as
referred to frequently in the Dialogues -- man's grasping selfishness and so
on. He looked not entirely mollified and the moment passed.
After dinner we returned to the room of the great armchairs, and lavish
present-giving followed -- a giant doll and a calculator for Milly, pearls, a
record album of the Toynbee/Ikeda Dialogue, a personally signed copy of the
Toynbee/Ikeda book. At last the nerve-racking evening was over, our cheeks
cracked from smiling, our minds drained of all ingenuity in small talk and
pleasantry. We were swept away with the throng, back past the bowing girls in
white and the movie cameras--and away off in the limousine.
Next day our photographs appeared on the front page of Ikeda's multi-million
circulation daily, the Seikyo Press, with a record of our dinner table
conversation. No-one told us it was on the record--but it didn't matter,
since it was the words, mainly of Mr Ikeda, that went reported, and little of
us beyond our presence as his audience.
We departed for a brief trip to Kyoto and Hiroshima, only to be greeted again
by more bouquets, banquets, black limousines and local Soka Gakkai groups.
Hiroshima is an uncomfortable place -- the shrine of Japan's post-war peace
mission. "What do you think of Hiroshima? Have you a few words to say about
Hiroshima?" we were asked continually. The exhibits shock and stun, but words
fail. After the first blast of horror, something else creeps in. Here is a
national shrine to Peace and Never Again, telling the story of the sunny day
the bomb dropped out of a blue sky, telling the story of what the world did
to Japan. But there is not a word, not a thought, not a hint of anything
Japan might have done. Hiroshima was one of the main military bases from
which went out the marauding forces to Burma, Singapore, China, Korea --
countries who still find it hard to link Japan and peace in the same breath.
But Hiroshima is the shrine of Japan's innocence.
One night we were shown a film of Ikeda's triumphal tour round America, at
massed rallies in stadiums from Dallas to San Diego. Formation teams of
majorettes and baton twirlers spelled the words SOKA and PEACE in great waves
of thousands of human bodies and Ikeda, spot-lit and mobbed by screaming
fans, delivered his usual speeches on peace -- always peace. It is one of the
Soka Gakkai's themes, peace in men's hearts, peace across the nations, the
brotherhood of mankind and so on. The effect was somewhat spoiled when the
stadium hushed reverently as a message from President Ronald Reagan himself
was read out -- sending a sincere message of goodwill, peace and greeting to
the Soka Gakkai and Mr. Ikeda. The stadium burst out in delirious applause.
The Soka Gakkai takes its peace mission round the world, often accompanied by
an exhibition of horrific photographs from Hiroshima, which is used as a
powerful recruiting aid. What were they doing, we asked, preaching peace and
accepting messages of support from Reagan in the same breath? "We do not
think there is anything incompatible in voting for President Reagan and being
a member of the Soka Gakkai." Ikeda's usually silent male secretary said. The
English Soka Gakkai head hastened to add, "We believe every man can change,
and when President Reagan sent us that message, it showed that he too is
capable of change in his heart."
It was then, at yet another banquet in Hiroshima that we lost our temper. We
told them what we felt about the Soka Gakkai and Mr Ikeda's style of
leadership. Our hosts were horrified and tried to smooth it all over and
pretend the words had never been uttered.
We asked for a proper, serious interview with Ikeda, but later we doubted if
anyone had dared relay our comments or our request. The last time we saw him,
not a flicker crossed his face to suggest that he had heard of our outburst,
or our request. It was at Soka Gakkai's founder's day, with the same kind of
mass rally of 6000 majorettes we had seen on the film, to the theme tunes of
"Dallas" and "The Sound of Music." After the finale Ikeda took a lap of
honour round the stadium, while carefully rehearsed groups of girls shrieking
with adulation, pealed away towards him.
We didn't see him again but we reckoned his final gift showed that no-one had
recounted our outburst to him. He sent us yet another silk-bound tome, in
which there was no text, but only 296 huge full-page photographs of himself
and his family -- a book of colossal narcissism.
What had the whole trip been for? By the time we left, it all became clear.
We had been taken to be interveiwed by newspapers and television -- Peter
about international affairs, I about my grandfather. Each interview in which
we appeared bound Ikeda and Arnold Toynbee closer together in the public eye.
Ikeda was making a firm bid to become the chief official Toynbee friend and
spokesman.
I had no idea of the extent of my grandfather's fame and importance in Japan.
He was awarded the Order of the Rising Sun, and his work is compulsory
reading in all universities. As the prophet of the rise of the East and the
decline of the West, he has long been a hero in Japan. There is a Toynbee
Society, run by distinguished academics, some of whom knew my grandfather
well for many years, and they print a quarterly journal.
My grandfather never met Ikeda on his visits to Japan. His old Japanese
friends were clearly less than delighted with lkeda's grandiose appropriation
of his memories, on the basis of a handful of rather vague interviews in
extreme old age.
Soka Gakkai is the most powerful of Japan's "New Religions" which have sprung
up since the war, collecting together an uprooted urban people lacking an
identity in a society that puts a high premium on belonging to groups. Soka
Gakkai means Value-Creating Society, and is based on the teachings of a
thirteenth century monk, Nichiren Shonin, a militant nationalist who promised
worldly rewards to his followers. It is rigidly hierarchical, with no
democratic elements, and absolute power in Ikeda's hands. It imposes few
religious or moral duties, beyond chanting twice a day, but it expects a high
degree of obedient social participation in its organisation.
When Ikeda founded the movement's political party, Komeito, there began to be
some alarm as to how he would use this power. This alarm has lead the party
to officially separate itself from Soka Gakkai, though all its leaders remain
Gakkai members. The Komeito (Clean Government) Party is the third largest
party in the mysterious and labyrinthine shifting factions of Japanese
politics.
It is called a centre party, but such labels mean little in a country where a
huge consensus agreed broadly on defence and foreign relations, and approves
the absence of a welfare state. With the same party in power for 25 years, it
is the factions that count, and Komeito, Clean Government or not, has often
helped Tanaka faction candidates, in exchange for Tanaka having helped them
over a scandal.
To call Soka Gakkai and its Komeito party "fascist" is to misunderstand
Japanese politics. Certainly the movement is run on rigid anti-democratic
lines, demanding absolute obedience. It is partly nationalistic, but also
highly Americanised in taste and culture.
But it is a supporter of the Peace Constitution and it is not in favour of
Japan rearming. Politically, like most of the other parties, it is mostly in
favour of being in power. Soka Gakkai has non-governmental organisation
status at the United Nations, a fact used much by Ikeda, as it establishes
them as a world-wide "peace movement" and helps to give Ikeda access to heads
of states around the globe. At Soka Gakkai's founders' day, we found
representatives of many foreign embassies, and the French Ambassador was the
guest of honour. People who seek influence in Japan cannot afford to ignore
Ikeda, and indeed his own books sport hundreds of pictures of himself meeting
people like Edward Kennedy, John Galbraith, and Presidents from every
continent.
As we were leaving, Ikeda's secretary took us aside and asked if we could
help with the publication of a second batch of Ikeda/Toynbee Dialogues left
over from the first book. There were, it appeared, problems with executors
and rights. Also it was hinted that in Ikeda's forthcoming tour of Britain in
June 1985, we might be of some assistance. Exactly what was unspecified, but
the marker was put down.
Back in England, I telephoned a few people round the world who had been
visited by Ikeda. There was a certain amount of discomfort at being asked,
and an admission by several that they felt they had been drawn into endorsing
him. A silken web is easily woven, a photograph taken, a brief polite
conversation published as if it were some important encounter.
I talked to the Oxford University Press, my grandfather's publishers. They
said they had firmly turned down the Toynbee/Ikeda Dialogues, which were
being heavily promoted by Ikeda after my grandfather's death. It would have
been better if they had stuck to that decision. But Ikeda succeeded in
getting it published in New York and the OUP felt obliged to follow suit. In
the file lies a later letter referring to the possibility of a second batch
of dialogues being published.
A reply from OUP tells inquirers that the manuscript can now only be obtained
with the permission of the literary executors. The papers are stored,
unsorted, in the Bodleian library in Oxford. It emerged that even while we
were in Japan, Ikeda's representatives had been making discreet calls to
England about the Toynbee papers. That, in the end, I suspect, was the
purpose of our trip -- but from the present firm attitude of the OUP, it is
highly unlikely that further Toynbee/Ikeda material will appear.
I like to think that if my grandfather had not been so old or if he had met
Ikeda in his own bizarre surroundings, he would not have lent himself to this
process of endorsement. He was a frail man at the time, and by nature
trusting. If our trip to Japan was intended to bind him yet more tightly to
Ikeda, I hope the effect will have been the reverse.
-----== Posted via Deja News, The Leader in Internet Discussion ==-----
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Danto UK
lotu...@cyberis.net wrote:
>Manchester Guardian
>Sat. May 19, 1984
The newspaper is actually called "The Guardian". With the Times, the
Telegraph and the Independant, it is one of Britain's biggest
broadsheets. I dare say that they publish an edition in Manchester...
I actually met Ms. Toynbee last year - charming woman. I told her how
the Gakkai were saying that she didn't understand her "Grandfather's
relationship with Sensei" - she laughed and said that that was totally
incredable. She, then explained to another woman who was listening,
how Soka Gakkai had taken advantage of her senile grandfather.
I said that the Gakkai were saying that he was not senile, Polly wrote
this off immediately - "He was senile - they took advantage of an old
man - they used his good name"
Paul
danto
JulianLZB87
ipcress7 # hotmail . com (Danto UK) wrote in message
<892727936.24813.0...@news.demon.co.uk>...
>lotu...@cyberis.net wrote:
>
>
>
>
>>Manchester Guardian
>
>>Sat. May 19, 1984
>
>The newspaper is actually called "The Guardian". With the Times, the
>Telegraph and the Independant, it is one of Britain's biggest
>broadsheets. I dare say that they publish an edition in Manchester...
>
>I actually met Ms. Toynbee last year - charming woman. I told her how
>the Gakkai were saying that she didn't understand her "Grandfather's
>relationship with Sensei" - she laughed and said that that was totally
>incredable. She, then explained to another woman who was listening,
>how Soka Gakkai had taken advantage of her senile grandfather.
>I said that the Gakkai were saying that he was not senile, Polly wrote
>this off immediately - "He was senile - they took advantage of an old
>man - they used his good name"
>
>Paul
>danto
>
Amazing. Those 2 paragraphs took 31K on my disk
Paul... what a plonker.
Danto UK
"JulianLZB87" <julia...@clara.net> wrote:
>ipcress7 # hotmail . com (Danto UK) wrote in message
><892727936.24813.0...@news.demon.co.uk>...
>>lotu...@cyberis.net wrote:
>>
>>
>>
>>
>>>Manchester Guardian
>>
>>>Sat. May 19, 1984
>>
>>The newspaper is actually called "The Guardian". With the Times, the
>>Telegraph and the Independant, it is one of Britain's biggest
>>broadsheets. I dare say that they publish an edition in Manchester...
>>
>>I actually met Ms. Toynbee last year - charming woman. I told her how
>>the Gakkai were saying that she didn't understand her "Grandfather's
>>relationship with Sensei" - she laughed and said that that was totally
>>incredable. She, then explained to another woman who was listening,
>>how Soka Gakkai had taken advantage of her senile grandfather.
>>I said that the Gakkai were saying that he was not senile, Polly wrote
>>this off immediately - "He was senile - they took advantage of an old
>>man - they used his good name"
>>
>>Paul
>>danto
>>
>Amazing. Those 2 paragraphs took 31K on my disk
>Paul... what a plonker.
Thank you Julian,
Your storage details are your own problem - as is your irrational
abuse. In 1996 you called me a wife beater - so I guess plonker is a
step up.
Was I not couteous to you when we met outside Camden boozer last year?
Didn't I refrain from saying that you looked like Michael Hutchence
(more so now !)
so why strange storage and plonker statement ?
p
d
JulianLZB87
ipcress7 # hotmail . com (Danto UK) wrote in message
<892795212.7564.1...@news.demon.co.uk>...
>"JulianLZB87" <julia...@clara.net> wrote:
>
>
>>ipcress7 # hotmail . com (Danto UK) wrote in message
>><892727936.24813.0...@news.demon.co.uk>...
>>>lotu...@cyberis.net wrote:
>>>
>>>
>>>
>>>
>>>>Manchester Guardian
>>>
>>>>Sat. May 19, 1984
>>>
>>>The newspaper is actually called "The Guardian". With the Times, the
>>>Telegraph and the Independant, it is one of Britain's biggest
>>>broadsheets. I dare say that they publish an edition in Manchester...
>>>
>>>I actually met Ms. Toynbee last year - charming woman. I told her how
>>>the Gakkai were saying that she didn't understand her "Grandfather's
>>>relationship with Sensei" - she laughed and said that that was totally
>>>incredable. She, then explained to another woman who was listening,
>>>how Soka Gakkai had taken advantage of her senile grandfather.
>>>I said that the Gakkai were saying that he was not senile, Polly wrote
>>>this off immediately - "He was senile - they took advantage of an old
>>>man - they used his good name"
>>>
>>>Paul
>>>danto
>>>
>
>
>>Amazing. Those 2 paragraphs took 31K on my disk
>
>>Paul... what a plonker.
>
>Thank you Julian,
>
>Your storage details are your own problem - as is your irrational
>abuse. In 1996 you called me a wife beater - so I guess plonker is a
>step up.
>
>Was I not couteous to you when we met outside Camden boozer last year?
>
>Didn't I refrain from saying that you looked like Michael Hutchence
>(more so now !)
Hang on a sec...
>
>so why strange storage and plonker statement ?
Just the usual acres of reposted text. I find it tawdry.
MOMO
ipcress7 wrote:
>"JulianLZB87" < wrote:
>>Amazing. Those 2 paragraphs took 31K on my disk
>>Paul... what a plonker.
:Thank you Julian,
:Your storage details are your own problem - as is your irrational
:abuse. In 1996 you called me a wife beater - so I guess plonker is a
:step up.
:Was I not couteous to you when we met outside Camden boozer last year?
:Didn't I refrain from saying that you looked like Michael Hutchence
:(more so now !)
:so why strange storage and plonker statement ?
:p
:d
Hi, Paul,
Who's Michael Hutchence? Hope to see you in a few months. :)
Take care,
Momo
Danto UK
"JulianLZB87" <julia...@clara.net> wrote:
>ipcress7 # hotmail . com (Danto UK) wrote in message
><892795212.7564.1...@news.demon.co.uk>...
>>"JulianLZB87" <julia...@clara.net> wrote:
>>
>>
>>>ipcress7 # hotmail . com (Danto UK) wrote in message
>>><892727936.24813.0...@news.demon.co.uk>...
>>>>lotu...@cyberis.net wrote:
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>>Manchester Guardian
>>>>
>>>>>Sat. May 19, 1984
>>>>
>>>>The newspaper is actually called "The Guardian". With the Times, the
>>>>Telegraph and the Independant, it is one of Britain's biggest
>>>>broadsheets. I dare say that they publish an edition in Manchester...
>>>>
>>>>I actually met Ms. Toynbee last year - charming woman. I told her how
>>>>the Gakkai were saying that she didn't understand her "Grandfather's
>>>>relationship with Sensei" - she laughed and said that that was totally
>>>>incredable. She, then explained to another woman who was listening,
>>>>how Soka Gakkai had taken advantage of her senile grandfather.
>>>>I said that the Gakkai were saying that he was not senile, Polly wrote
>>>>this off immediately - "He was senile - they took advantage of an old
>>>>man - they used his good name"
>>>>
>>>>Paul
>>>>danto
>>>>
>>
>>
>>>Amazing. Those 2 paragraphs took 31K on my disk
>>
>>>Paul... what a plonker.
>>
>>Thank you Julian,
>>
>>Your storage details are your own problem - as is your irrational
>>abuse. In 1996 you called me a wife beater - so I guess plonker is a
>>step up.
>>
>>Was I not couteous to you when we met outside Camden boozer last year?
>>
>>Didn't I refrain from saying that you looked like Michael Hutchence
>>(more so now !)
>Hang on a sec...
>>
>>so why strange storage and plonker statement ?
>Just the usual acres of reposted text. I find it tawdry.
This is the first time I posted that particular text - I wouldn't call
it acres - perhaps 2 paragrpahs is a bit much compare to your usual 4
word flippant sentance, but by arbn standards I am usually quite
succinct.
So, once again - please justify or withdraw !
luv 'n' hugz
Paul
(ex-Cricklewood)
Danto UK
"MOMO" <RAY-...@prodigy.net> wrote:
>ipcress7 wrote:
>>"JulianLZB87" < wrote:
>>>Amazing. Those 2 paragraphs took 31K on my disk
>>>Paul... what a plonker.
>:Thank you Julian,
>:Your storage details are your own problem - as is your irrational
>:abuse. In 1996 you called me a wife beater - so I guess plonker is a
>:step up.
>:Was I not couteous to you when we met outside Camden boozer last year?
>:Didn't I refrain from saying that you looked like Michael Hutchence
>:(more so now !)
>:so why strange storage and plonker statement ?
>:p
>:d
>Hi, Paul,
>Who's Michael Hutchence? Hope to see you in a few months. :)
>Take care,
>Momo
He was the leather-clad, permed-of-hair singer of INXS. He is now
deceased. Julian bore a passing similarity, when I met him a while
back, outside a pub in a once-fashionable part of North London.
Hope to see you in Japan in August and in LA for Oeshiki.
p
d
JulianLZB87
ipcress7 # hotmail . com (Danto UK) wrote in message
<892894259.21485.0...@news.demon.co.uk>...
>"JulianLZB87" <julia...@clara.net> wrote:
>
>
>>ipcress7 # hotmail . com (Danto UK) wrote in message
>><892795212.7564.1...@news.demon.co.uk>...
>>>"JulianLZB87" <julia...@clara.net> wrote:
>>>
>>>
>>>>ipcress7 # hotmail . com (Danto UK) wrote in message
>>>><892727936.24813.0...@news.demon.co.uk>...
>>>>>lotu...@cyberis.net wrote:
>>>>>
>>>>>
>>>>>
>>>>>
>>>>>>Manchester Guardian
>>>>>
>>>>>>Sat. May 19, 1984
>>>>>
>>>>>The newspaper is actually called "The Guardian". With the Times, the
>>>>>Telegraph and the Independant, it is one of Britain's biggest
>>>>>broadsheets. I dare say that they publish an edition in Manchester...
>>>>>
>>>>>I actually met Ms. Toynbee last year - charming woman. I told her how
>>>>>the Gakkai were saying that she didn't understand her "Grandfather's
>>>>>relationship with Sensei" - she laughed and said that that was totally
>>>>>incredable. She, then explained to another woman who was listening,
>>>>>how Soka Gakkai had taken advantage of her senile grandfather.
>>>>>I said that the Gakkai were saying that he was not senile, Polly wrote
>>>>>this off immediately - "He was senile - they took advantage of an old
>>>>>man - they used his good name"
>>>>>
>>>>>Paul
>>>>>danto
>>>>>
>>>
>>>
>>>>Amazing. Those 2 paragraphs took 31K on my disk
>>>
>>>>Paul... what a plonker.
>>>
>>>Thank you Julian,
>>>
>>>Your storage details are your own problem - as is your irrational
>>>abuse. In 1996 you called me a wife beater - so I guess plonker is a
>>>step up.
>>>
>>>Was I not couteous to you when we met outside Camden boozer last year?
>>>
>>>Didn't I refrain from saying that you looked like Michael Hutchence
>>>(more so now !)
>
>>Hang on a sec...
>
>>>
>>>so why strange storage and plonker statement ?
>
>>Just the usual acres of reposted text. I find it tawdry.
>
>This is the first time I posted that particular text - I wouldn't call
>it acres - perhaps 2 paragrpahs is a bit much compare to your usual 4
>word flippant sentance, but by arbn standards I am usually quite
>succinct.
>
>So, once again - please justify or withdraw !
OK. Here is what you posted to arbn....
Ps. Try counting the paras again.
PPs I've copied the whole thing to your email as well as you obiously like
to
see modem lights flashing.
From: ipcress7 # hotmail . com (Danto UK) <ipcress7 # hotmail . com (Danto
UK)>
JulianLZB87
ipcress7 # hotmail . com (Danto UK) wrote in message
<892894435.21485.1...@news.demon.co.uk>...
>"MOMO" <RAY-...@prodigy.net> wrote:
>
>
>>ipcress7 wrote:
>>>"JulianLZB87" < wrote:
>
>>>>Amazing. Those 2 paragraphs took 31K on my disk
>>>>Paul... what a plonker.
>
>>:Thank you Julian,
>
>>:Your storage details are your own problem - as is your irrational
>>:abuse. In 1996 you called me a wife beater - so I guess plonker is a
>>:step up.
>
>>:Was I not couteous to you when we met outside Camden boozer last year?
>>:Didn't I refrain from saying that you looked like Michael Hutchence
>>:(more so now !)
>>:so why strange storage and plonker statement ?
>
>>:p
>>:d
>
>
>>Hi, Paul,
>
>>Who's Michael Hutchence? Hope to see you in a few months. :)
>
>>Take care,
>>Momo
>
>He was the leather-clad, permed-of-hair singer of INXS. He is now
>deceased. Julian bore a passing similarity, when I met him a while
>back, outside a pub in a once-fashionable part of North London.
Ah I remember you... Paul Yates isn't it?