Vedic Influences on Greek Philosophy and Christianity

The history of philosophy and spirituality in the ancient world is often seen as a series of isolated discoveries. Greek rationalism is presented as emerging independently of other traditions, and early Christianity is seen as developing solely within Jewish and Hellenistic contexts. Yet the history of trade and cultural exchange suggests a more interconnected reality, in which the philosophical and mystical traditions of the Vedas and Upanishads might have indirectly influenced both Greek philosophy and early Christian thought.

By the first millennium BCE, long-distance trade created networks that connected India, Persia, Mesopotamia and the Mediterranean. Merchants, scholars and mystics travelled these routes, carrying not only goods but also ideas. Greece had well-established links with the Persian Empire, which extended to India’s borders, creating opportunities for the intellectual exchange of ideas. Similarly, Jewish communities across Babylon, Persia and the eastern Mediterranean could have discovered these ideas, which might have subsequently influenced early Christian thought.

Greek philosophy is often represented as the sole product of rational inquiry. Yet evidence suggests it was developed in dialogue with mystical and Eastern influences. Pythagoras, for example, posited the transmigration of souls and the harmony of numbers, concepts similar to Vedic and Upanishadic thought. Pyrrho travelled to India with Alexander the Great’s army. His notion of scepticism, advocating “suspension of judgement” as the path to freedom from disturbance, is likely influenced by the non-attachment, meditative and ascetic practices he found there. Plato also developed ideas with parallels in Indian philosophy: belief in an immortal soul, the purification of a pre-existing soul through successive lives and the distinction between a transient material world and an ultimate eternal reality, evocative of the Vedic concept of Brahman.

These thinkers often used reasoning to systematise insights they had intuited directly. Modern scholarship has emphasised the rational dimension of Greek philosophy, understating its mystical aspects, yet the parallels with Indian metaphysics suggest at least an indirect connection.

The possibility of Indian influence on early Christianity is more speculative, but it remains plausible. Indian merchants were active along routes reaching Persia, Mesopotamia and the eastern Mediterranean, and Jewish communities along these routes, could have been familiar with Indian ideas. Groups such as the Essenes or Therapeutae, who practiced asceticism, ethical discipline and mystical contemplation, might have been receptive to new spiritual insights. Early Christian teachings reflect ideas that resemble Indian philosophical concepts: moral causality similar to karma, universal love and compassion comparable to dharma and ahimsa and spiritual rebirth through baptism and the pursuit of unity with the divine, echoing concepts of Brahman.

While direct evidence linking Indian thought to early Christianity is lacking, the cosmopolitan environment of the Hellenistic Near East makes indirect influence plausible. Ideas could have travelled as symbolic or philosophical concepts, entering Jewish mystical thought and eventually having a bearing on nascent Christian teachings.

Therefore, it reasonable to consider that Indian philosophical and mystical ideas might have influenced both Greek philosophy and early Christian thought.

My Brief Experience with the Hare Krishna Movement

For a few months in 1993, I attended meetings of the Hare Krishna movement (formally known as ISKCON: International Society for Krishna Consciousness), founded by A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada. The movement worships Krishna, whom devotees regard as the sole incarnation of Brahman, the ultimate reality or God. I eventually stopped attending because I found the daily practices too demanding.

Hare Krishna devotees focus on “bhakti”, or devotional service, to Krishna. Daily practices include:

Chanting the Hare Krishna mantra using prayer beads.

Participating in temple worship.

Reading scriptures such as the Bhagavad Gita and Srimad Bhagavatam.

Dietary and lifestyle rules are also strict. Devotees are vegetarians and avoid vegetables grown underground, like onions, garlic and sometimes potatoes. They abstain from alcohol, sexual activity outside of marriage, watching TV, going to the cinema or theatre and listening to music not related to Krishna. I found the restriction on music particularly disturbing, as listening to music is one of my greatest joys.

I was even advised to set up a small altar in my flat, with the following items on it:

Deity images or small statues of Krishna.

Incense, lamps, flowers and food offerings.

This altar would be a place for prayer, chanting and offering food to Krishna. I was told to treat the images and statues as if they were incarnations of Krishna himself, and to maintain the altar with care and respect.

While I personally found these practices difficult to follow, they reflect a deeply held conviction among devotees that Krishna is a living, eternal, personal deity. Without this belief, such practices could not be sincerely maintained.

From a historical standpoint, however, Krishna’s development raises questions about the claim that he has always been a personal, eternal God. Early Vedic texts, such as the Ṛg Veda (c. 1500–900 BCE), mention deities like Indra, Agni and Varuna, but references to “kṛṣṇa” appear only as an adjective meaning “black” or “dark”, not as a divine figure. The early Upanishads (c. 900–500 BCE) focus on philosophical concepts such as Brahman and Atman, without mentioning Krishna as a historical or personal entity.

It is only in the Mahabharata (c. 400 BCE–400 CE) that Krishna takes on significance in the form of a narrative character, depicted as the charioteer and guide to Arjuna, and divine teacher of the [Bhagavad Gita]. Later, the Bhagavata Purana (c. 300–1000 CE) elaborates on his life and miracles, forming the theological and devotional framework of Gaudiya Vaishnavism, the religion formulated to worship him.

This chronological development suggests that Krishna was not a central figure in early Vedic religion. If he were as significant as later devotees claim, one might expect references to him to be found alongside the principal Vedic deities.

Gaudiya Vaishnava devotees address this textual absence by claiming that Krishna is implicitly present in the Vedas, hidden in symbolic or esoteric passages. This mirrors arguments used in other religions, such as claims that Christ is foreshadowed throughout the Old Testament.

From a critical perspective, this is a form of retroactive interpretation, in which later beliefs are projected onto earlier texts to validate a claim. The reasoning is circular: because Krishna is eternal and supreme, early texts must reflect him, even if they do not explicitly do so.

For literalistic devotees, Krishna is an eternal, historical, personal God. Historical evidence, however, indicates that the figure of Krishna, as fully formed and central, emerges only in later texts. This does not diminish the devotion or spiritual value of practices such as chanting, offering food or maintaining an altar. But it highlights that devotional authority does not rely on the earliest Vedic scriptures.

'Why COVID Conspiracy Movements Refused to Retreat When Reality Moved On' by Robert Miller—guest blogger and former COVID sceptic

When COVID-19 restrictions faded and societies reopened, one might have expected the most dramatic pandemic-era conspiracy narratives to fade with them. Instead, many of the loudest sceptics held fast to their original convictions or pushed them into even more expansive territory. The moment that should have disproved the theories became, paradoxically, further evidence of them. This phenomenon wasn’t an accident. It reflects how broad, emotionally charged conspiratorial systems behave when the world fails to conform to their predictions.

At the height of the pandemic, the most sweeping sceptical claims rested on a single core idea: that COVID-19 was being used as a pretext to impose lasting global control through lockdowns, mandates, digital IDs, surveillance and possibly forced vaccination. If that were true, the end of restrictions should have shattered the entire framework.

But human belief isn’t governed by simple logic. When someone invests deeply in a narrative that casts them as a rare truth-seer resisting mass deception, the belief becomes part of their identity. A retreat from it would feel like self-betrayal. So when the world fails to match the prophecy, the mind adapts the prophecy rather than discarding it.

This pattern is familiar. Failed doomsday predictions have been “reinterpreted” for decades, from religious movements to political cults. In each case, the believers experience not collapse but reinforcement.

For many sceptics, the key prediction was that lockdowns and restrictions were the opening act of a new global regime. When restrictions ended, this should have invalidated the idea. Instead, the frame shifted:

1. If governments had kept lockdowns indefinitely, it would have proven the theory.

2. When governments lifted lockdowns, this also “proved” the theory—because the alleged plan had supposedly been exposed and thwarted.

This is the hallmark of an unfalsifiable worldview. Every possible outcome fits the narrative. No new evidence is allowed to contradict its basic structure.

The narrative raises an unavoidable contradiction. If a clandestine, globally coordinated power could orchestrate unified policies across dozens of nations, manipulate data, silence dissent and enforce unprecedented compliance, why would it suddenly abandon its scheme because the public complained? The stated power of the plot and its alleged fragility cannot both be true. The incoherence doesn’t weaken belief; it simply goes unnoticed. Conspiracy systems aren’t designed to be consistent. They are designed to be explanatory, reassuring and self-protecting.

Acknowledging that the supposed plan never existed would require several difficult admissions:

1. That governments acted chaotically, not malevolently.

2. That experts may have been flawed but not conspiratorial.

3. That the believer’s own certainty was misplaced.

These steps invite cognitive dissonance. They threaten status within the sceptic community. They collapse a sense of special insight that can feel profoundly meaningful. So a third option is chosen: the plan was real, but ordinary people exposed and defeated it. This offers a gratifying narrative of resistance and triumph, without requiring any revision of the core belief.

Once established, these systems become self-sealing. Evidence against the theory is folded into the theory. Failed predictions trigger reinterpretation, not reevaluation. Every contradiction becomes either an oversight by the conspirators or a victory by the enlightened few.

This mechanism explains why COVID-era conspiracy thinking hasn’t diminished with reopening, vaccination programmes winding down or emergency measures disappearing. The movement no longer depends on the external events it originally latched onto. It depends on the psychological architecture built around them.

The endurance of these narratives shows that they were never really about epidemiology, public health or even governmental power. They were about certainty during crisis, identity during confusion and belonging during isolation. Once formed, the worldview outlived the moment that gave birth to it.

The pandemic ended; the conspiracies didn’t. They simply adapted to survive.

The Block Universe Time Travel Model

I always think about the past, yearning to go back in time to my youth, when the world seemed a better place and life was full of endless possibilities. Sometimes I imagine waking up one morning back there, and finding that my life now was just a sad dream. Maybe, though, some day, we will be able to travel back to a better past.

Recently, I came across a theory of time that offers an interesting way to think about the past, present and future. It’s a model that, at least conceptually, opens the door to the idea of time travel.

It’s called the “block universe” or “eternalist” model, and it presents a simple and plausible framework for understanding time, free will, causality and even some mystical experiences.

One way to visualise it is to think of time as a roll of celluloid film. Each frame represents a moment in life. Your consciousness is like the projector’s lens, as each frame moves through it one by one. The passage of time, then, is not really “time” itself, it’s the experience of the projector “perceiving” each frame. In the classic formulation of this theory, the past and the present are the parts of the film that already exist on the reel, while the future is not yet “developed” in the same way. But for the purposes of this discussion (and to include the idea of future frames) I will extend the analogy beyond the strict boundaries of the traditional model.

In this framework, time travel is conceptually straightforward. Different versions of yourself (at least the past and present ones) coexist independently. Interactions between them wouldn’t create temporal paradoxes, because nothing in the past is overwritten. Your younger self in 1981, for instance, exists separately from who you are today, and each retains its own continuity of experience. The so-called “grandfather paradox” dissolves, as all moments are already present, waiting on the reel for the projector to experience.

This model also provides a new way to think about free will. Our choices seem real and important because consciousness experiences events sequentially. Like the projector lens, we perceive decisions happening moment by moment. In that sense, free will might be more about the way perception unfolds than about altering a fixed reality. The narrative of making choices is part of how we move from frame to frame, even if those frames are already “fixed”

Causality, too, harmonises into this view. The philosopher David Hume posited that we can’t prove causation; we can only infer it from repeated observation. The block universe model suggests that what we call cause and effect might simply be the pattern of frames. Events appear connected because we experience them in sequence, not because there is an active force pushing one into the next.

Some experiences that are unexplained (premonitions, déjà vu or fleeting intuitions) also make sense in this framework. Perhaps they are moments where consciousness briefly overlaps neighbouring frames, producing a sense of familiarity or foresight.

Even ideas like karma can be encompassed in the block universe model, offering a new perspective. Many Eastern philosophies describe life as a web of cause and effect. Here, that web can be imagined as a set of patterns already inscribed on the film. Rather than cosmic reward or punishment, life simply unfolds along tracks woven into the reel. The sense of influencing one’s destiny might simply be part of the lens through which consciousness experiences the frames.

The beauty of the block universe model is its versatility. Physics, philosophy and mysticism can be seen as different ways of perceiving the same underlying structure. Time doesn’t flow; causality is a habit of thought; free will is experienced sequentially; and karma is the path already laid out.

In essence, the block-universe view treats time as a single, complete structure, and what we experience as past, present and future comes from the particular viewpoint of consciousness moving through it. Time is not literally “flowing”; it only seems that way from our position inside the sequence. 

I can’t say whether this theory is true (or whether it can ever be proved), but thinking about time in this way helps make sense of many things that at present can’t be explained. 

Reflections on a Lost Cinema

Before I studied poetry, I spent two years studying film; not at a prestigious film school, but at a small college in Liverpool, called South Mersey College. Those were the best two years of my life.

At the college, we watched classic Hollywood films by directors like Howard Hawks, John Ford, Orson Welles, Alfred Hitchcock and William Wyler, alongside European avant-garde films by Jean-Luc Godard, François Truffaut, Sergei Eisenstein and Andrei Tarkovsky. We studied American Direct Cinema through the films of Richard Leacock, D. A. Pennebaker and Albert and David Maysles. And also the experimental filmmaking pioneered by Len Lye and Stan Brakhage, as well as the underground cinema of Andy Warhol and Kenneth Anger. After each screening, we analysed the films’ themes, visual style, editing and historical context.

We also studied movements such as German Expressionism, Film Noir, Italian Neorealism, the French New Wave, Soviet Montage, Constructivist cinema, Surrealism, British Social Realism and New Hollywood. Our reading list included Rudolf Arnheim’s Film as Art, Sergei Eisenstein’s Film Form and The Film Sense and André Bazin’s What Is Cinema?

I was fascinated by the vibrant use of colour in 1940s and ’50s films. Bright, saturated hues made every frame look like a living painting. Music was equally as important to me, producing maybe eighty percent of a film’s emotional impact. At that time, one of my musical muses was Aaron Copland. I had only recently discovered his works, such as Fanfare for the Common Man and the score he composed for the film The Red Pony. Both pieces were life-affirming, and they became a personal soundtrack to my daydreams of the sorts of films I wanted to make. In my mind, I created film sequences, rising and falling with the flow of the music.

Had I known then how cinema would evolve, I might have been less optimistic. The digital revolution has changed everything. Traditional film stock (16 mm, 35 mm, 70 mm) has largely disappeared. Cameras have become lighter, and handheld naturalism dominates the look of films, with available light replacing carefully designed chiaroscuro lighting schemes. And long takes have largely replaced montage. Digital detail is sharper, but it lacks the depth and texture of film. The deliberate use of light, shadow and colour (the visual poetry that once defined films) has given way to bland, uniform imagery. Music, too, has shifted towards ambient textures rather than emotional scores.

Maybe this will change, and film will return as a tactile, expressive medium once digital technology matures. But for now, many contemporary films have no magic. Yet when I hear a Copland score, I can still glimpse the wonder that first drew me to film.

Old 'Carrier of the Seed' ebook review

I Just found this very old review of my 'Carrier of the Seed' ebook. I never knew it existed.

Quote from it:

"Those skeptical about the e-book format would do well to peruse it; it is proof positive that e-books are, in fact, both real and legitimate. This is a single long poem; 63 pages long, and its formal characteristics are unique: it features a single column composed of spare, terse lines, going straight down the page. This gives the poem a sleek, lean look, as is customary with Side. Reading the poem is like riding on a high-velocity train; it doesn't get sluggish, and there are no breaks in the continuity of the sustained, brisk rhythm. There is an obvious connection with some aspects of Language Poetry; the primary difference between, say, Barrett Watten's Progress and Carrier is that Carrier does actually tell a story, albeit elliptically. This is a story of love lost: memory associations, forms of consciousness which accrue to it."

https://adamfieled.blogspot.com/2007/12/jeffrey-side-carrier-of-seed.html

‘Death, Taxes and Poetry, or, Poetry is My Disability’ by Joritz-Nakagawa—guest blogger

Unable to bear it any longer, I start splintering . . .

I write this in big letters, my eyesight is fading . . .

When my father in law died I wrote a poem the second line of which was "No one will notice Milton's light has dimmed" and which ended ". . . and none of this is actually visible from the lighthouse."

This poem was published under the title The Lighthouse, in New American Writing, a print journal I am very fond of, although I read mostly online now, and also appears with no title in my 2013 poetry collection titled FLUX.

Of course I was referring to John Milton's famous sonnet ‘When I Consider How My Light is Spent’ also known as ‘On His Blindness’ and ‘Sonnet XIX,’ a poem I taught several times in an undergrad course in comparative poetry here in Japan.

After that, my mother in law died, my sister in law died (in October 2025), and my husband has been diagnosed with terminal cancer. My own parents have died, two siblings died of cancer when they are the age I am now, friends died, friends of friends and relatives of friends died, etc. et al.

I survived advanced cancer but it was a kind of devil's bargain: you can live, or you can choose palliative chemo, but your body and new life will be (almost?) unrecognizable in many important ways. But not in this way: poetry is still my disability.

I have written somewhat extensively about death as well as my multiple chronic illnesses and other disabilities and those of others.

When at one of my lowest points, before my third surgery for cancer, I was so frightened of death and further disability that I read Emily Dickinson's poems aloud to myself every night from my bed. Any poem of hers that mentioned psychic pain would do. And there is a great many of such poems by Dickinson, so there was much to choose from! I didn't even have to repeat myself, as I often do!

I am not saying however that disability is bad or necessarily frightening. I don't think that at all, and I was already disabled anyhow before I got cancer. I just became much more so—more disabled I mean. I was afraid of suffering, which is not the same thing as disability, or death, and the unknown, and perhaps a feeling of my own powerlessness in this situation. Please let's not confuse these!

I was net surfing recently and found somebody much younger than myself referring to a group of young persons who are "dark" (their word, not mine!) and inevitably drawn to Plath! I was very surprised to hear this remark! First, I was pleasantly surprised to learn that young people know who Plath is! Although always interested in Plath due to her thematic range, theatricality, power, mastery of verse and stylistic achievements, I didn't really feel the depth of that kind of darkness that appears in some of her late poems until later in life when due to extensive bereavement I felt I was living in it. Or as a Christian friend said to me recently, maybe this life on earth is hell, and heaven is what we get when we die?

But we (= I) also know, if only from opera, that love makes a heaven out of life if only temporarily; love is fragile and can turn to hate or disinterest or disappointment, etc. with relative ease. Can it bounce back with relative ease?

The happiest elegy (actually a so-called "self-elegy" which is why it is more cheerful!) I know is Christina Rossetti's ‘Remember,’ another poem I have taught to undergrads; the saddest is ‘Ending with a Line From Lear’ by Marvin Bell, which I have not. At times of intense suffering (e.g. physical pain, or, bereavement or depression) I have often repeated to myself his line: "I will never be better again" oftentimes followed by the final line, the repetition of the word "never." I was wrong about that, but it helped me to say it, anyway. There's also song lyrics by the band Everclear which begin "I hate waking up, it means I have to die again tonight…" another set of words I have repeated in my head upon waking up during my worst moments in life. As well as the beginning and ending of William Carlos Williams' poem ‘The Widow's Lament in Springtime;’ interestingly, the lyrics to Everclear's ‘Fire Maple Song’ contains a line similar to one in Williams' poem. These poems and songs soothe me somehow during difficult times, although they do much more than that.

Yet life changes, we change, things change.

But poetry is still my disability.

As a person with fibromyalgia, one of the Plath lines I most identify with, from her incredible poem ‘Tulips’ published when I was two years old, is: "The tulips are too red in the first place they hurt me."

I was raised by Plath. No, I don't mean I was raised on Plath or knew her personally. I mean Plath's generation was my mother's generation and they both raised me, if not revived me. A fiction writer friend who also likes poetry once said: "All women can relate to Plath." She meant all women of our generation. Because we were raised by Plath.

When I say "blue bladder" I don't mean the color blue. I mean my bladder is sad. Because it was removed from my body seven years ago.

When I say "There are baroque places inside me" I am quoting someone else.

Poetry is my disability.

NOTES:

“There are baroque places inside me” comes from the poem ‘The Believable Weather of His Baroque Face on a Wall’ by Raymond Farr in the journal Upstairs at Duroc, ed. Barbara Beck, issue 17, 2020, Paris.

A monograph by the author about Plath and other female poets under the title Dying Swans is available online via Argotist Ebooks.