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Tuesday Lobsang Rampa - The Cave of the Ancients

Tuesday Lobsang Rampa - The Cave of the Ancients

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Published by Jaydev Joshi

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Published by: Jaydev Joshi on Jun 23, 2012
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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This is a book about the Occult, and about the powers of Man. It is a simple book in that there are no “foreign words,”no Sanskrit, nothing of dead languages. The average personwants to KNOW things, does not want to guess at wordswhich the average Author does not understand either! If anAuthor knows his job he can write in English without havingto disguise lack of knowledge by use of a foreign language.Too many people get caught up in mumbo jumbo. Thelaws of Life are simple indeed; there is no need at all to dressthem up with mystic cults or pseudo religions. Nor is thereneed for anyone to claim “divine revelations.” ANYONEcan have the same “revelations” if they work for it.No one religion holds the Keys of Heaven, nor will one beforever damned because he enters a church with his hat oninstead of his shoes off. In Tibet lamasery entrances bear theinscription “A thousand monks, a thousand religions.”Believe what you will, if it embraces “do as you would be doneby” you will GET by when the final Call comes.Some say that Inner Knowledge can only be obtained by joining this cult or that cult, and paying a substantialsubscription too. The Laws of Life say, ‘Seek, and you shallfind.’This book is the fruit of a long life, training culled from thegreater Lamaseries of Tibet and from powers which weregained by a very close adherence to the Laws. This is know-ledge taught by the Ancients of old, and is written in thePyramids of Egypt, in the High Temples of the Andes, andthe greatest repository of Occult knowledge in the world,the Highlands of Tibet.
The evening was warm, deliciously, unusually warm for thetime of the year. Gently rising on the windless air, the sweetscent of incense gave tranquillity to our mood. Far away thesun was setting in a blaze of glory behind the high peaks of the Himalayas, tinting the snow-clad mountain tops a bloodred as if in warning of the blood Which would drench Tibetin the days to come.Lengthening shadows crept slowly towards the City of Lhasa from the twin peaks of the Potala and our ownChakpori. Below us, to the right, a belated caravan of traders from India wended their way to the Pargo Kaling,or Western Gate. The last of the devout pilgrims hurriedwith unseemly haste on their circuit of the Lingkor Road,as if afraid of being overtaken by the velvet darkness of the fast approaching night.The Kyi Chu, or Happy River, ran merrily along on itsendless journey to the sea, throwing up blight flashes of light as tribute to the dying day. The City of Lhasa wasagleam with the golden glow of butter lamps. From thenearby Potala a trumpet sounded at the end of the day itsnotes rolling and echoing across the Valley, reboundingfrom rock surfaces, and returning to us with altered timbre.I gazed at the familiar scene, gazed across at the Potala,hundreds of windows atwinkle as monks of all degree wentabout their business at the close of the day. At the top of the immense building, by the Golden Tombs, a solitaryfigure, lonely and remote, stood watching. As the last raysof the sun sank below the mountain ranges, a trumpetsounded again, and the sound of deep chanting rose fromthe Temple below. Swiftly the last vestiges of light faded;swiftly the stars in the sky became a blaze of jewels set in9

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