Thirst for Existence, Thirst for Annihilation

In the second of the four noble truths, the Buddha lists three types of craving, or thirst (the literal translation of taṇhā). He teaches that these are the cause of “suffering,” a somewhat technical term for the mental pain we impose on ourselves, adding to any pain that already exists. First is kāmataṇhā, thirst for sensual pleasure. That is, sensuality. This is pretty straightforward; it basically means avoiding difficult feelings (which include simple boredom) by throwing oneself into pleasurable experiences and getting stuck on them. The next two are harder to understand: bhavataṇhā and vibhavataṇhā. These can be translated as “thirst for existence” and “thirst for nonexistence,” or “thirst for being” and “thirst for not being.” What could that possibly mean?

First, bhavataṇhā. Bhava derives from the verb bhavati, which is one of two existential verbs in Pali (the language we have that is closest to what the Buddha would have spoken). The other is atthi. These aren’t exactly interchangeable. Bhavati often connotes a process, and it can be used for something coming into being as well as for something already existing, whereas atthi is simply for existential clauses, and it can usually be translated as “there is.” So bhavataṇhā is not only the thirst for being something, but also a thirst for becoming something.

Wanting to be something is a fundamental, instinctive part of our psyche. We want to have some identity to understand ourselves and our place in the world. We want to stake out some territory in our inner and outer worlds and say, “I am this, this is me, this is mine.” When we engage in an activity, we are being the doer. “I am a writer. I am the cook making a tofu scramble breakfast that is almost vegan except I can’t cut out cheese because I am a cheese-lover.”

This can be helpful. In productivity culture (something of a special interest of mine), it is generally recognized that by identifying in a certain way, that is, thinking of yourself as a person who does a certain thing, that makes you more likely to do the thing that’s part of your identity. If someone thinks, “I am a writer,” they are more likely to enact that belief by writing. Ajahn Ṭhānissaro teaches that actively creating a self (“selfing,” as it can be called by those who want to use it as a verb in order to highlight that selfing is a thing you do more than you be) is a strategy that can be used for the Buddhist path: One can deliberately identify as a Buddhist, and therefore as a person who does certain ethical and meditative practices.

But at the root, this craving, this thirst, leads to the clinging that is suffering. By staking out some territory and saying, “I am this, this is me, this is mine,” that territory has to be maintained and defended. If the identity is threatened, if you react to some life event in a way incongruous with that identity, the mind will find justifications for that reaction—or even worse, suffer some kind of crisis of identity. If someone insults us, or degrades us, we take it personally and suffer. (To be clear, proposing that one free oneself from feeling injured by insult or degradation is not advocating being a doormat, nor staying in an abusive situation.) We will even identify with our beliefs and views, e.g., I am a liberal, I am a conservative, I am a scientist, I am a Buddhist, I am a Christian, I am an anarchist. But if someone identifying with such a belief system comes across some arguments or evidence challenging those beliefs, they might take it personally and might react with hostility. Sure, many beliefs are based in fact, but one still need not suffer over such challenges. The problem isn’t so much the content of the belief; it’s the holding of the belief, an identifying as one who believes it.1

Another major consequence is low self-esteem or self-hatred, a common malady with which I previously have been ill. That is probably worth another entire  blog post, though. But having self-hatred can’t be done without a self to hate in the first place.

Then there’s the other side: vibhavataṇhā. Vi- indicates a separation from, or a division. It is related to the English prefix dis- (by way of Latin), both deriving from the Proto-Indo-European *dwis, “two.” Instead of wanting to be something, this is wanting to not be something. To look at someone, or some identity, or some way of being, and say, “No, I do not want to be that.” A great deal of effort can go into building an identity around not being a particular thing. I see this a lot today among political identities. I see this especially on the far right that is powerful in the US now, although it happens across the spectrum. Much of the far right is motivated more by “owning the libs,” of not being a liberal or leftist (which they cannot distinguish), than having carefully considered positions, to the extent that they will support policies that will harm themselves, if they will also harm the people they hate. Indeed, I recently saw a tweet from someone who may be losing health care due to the Orwellian-named “Big Beautiful Bill” passing, lamenting their vote, openly saying they voted Trump because they wanted to “piss off liberals,” not because they liked his policies. I see this in liberals, too, who also may not think through positions and instead just try not to be conservatives. An anarchist might be so motivated by not being an authoritarian leftist that they do not consider whether Marx or Lenin had anything of value to say. Similarly, an authoritarian leftist might be so committed to being against anarchists that they would never entertain any of their ideas, from Kropotkin to Graeber.

I think part of the motivation here is that we also see the possibility in ourselves to be the other, the thing we see as bad, and we want to shut out that possibility, rather than look at it. Humanity is full of potential for the very best and the very worst, and to pretend that the worst is inhuman is to ignore the possibility that any of us could have done those terrible things if we had experienced the wrong conditions (which may include being born without the ability to have empathy, such as a sociopath).

Just like there can be helpful uses of bhava, of identity, there can be helpful uses of vibhava, of not being something. If a person recognizes ways they harm themselves or others out of habit, and if they tie that to their identity, they may be motivated toward self-improvement. They may be motivated to no longer be the person that does those things.

And just like there are negative consequences of bhava, there are for vibhava. Constantly wanting to not be a thing is just as driving, and creates just as much suffering, as wanting to be a thing. It’s basically still wanting to be something, just another thing.

But this goes deeper. Bhavataṇhā isn’t just the drive to be something. It’s the drive to be anything at all. It’s the drive to exist, and to keep existing. Vibhavataṇhā, on the other hand, isn’t just the drive to not be a particular thing, but a drive to not be anything at all. It is a drive to cease existing entirely, and it can even take the form of suicidality.

This is where the Buddha departs from the rest of the world’s systems of thought and practice (that I’m aware of…if there’s one that says the same thing that I don’t know about, please share it with me in the comments!). It’s not that we need to find the right way to be. It’s that we need to stop wanting to be altogether. The very idea of continuing to exist is the problem. As soon as there is existence, there is duality. There is nonexistence. There is here versus there, now versus then, me versus not me. And this is the fundamental misunderstanding that masks the true nature of interdependent reality, inevitably leading to suffering. Why do we have to exist? Why do we want to exist? Would it be possible to continue life without trying to exist, without continuing to be and renew that being?

The buddhas and arahants have accomplished this. They no longer have any desire to exist at all. They no longer identify with anything. Indeed, they have no notion of existing or not existing. And they don’t suddenly blip out of reality. Without the idea of some self, some existence, things continue to happen. Arahants and buddhas still eat, drink, urinate, and defecate. They still show kindness and love. Removing a self from the process does not stop the natural unfolding of life according to its causes and conditions. But it does remove suffering over it.

“Hey, wait, Cattasallā,” you ask, “how is this not the same as vibhavataṇhā?” Because wanting to not exist is different from not wanting to exist. In the latter case, there’s a lack of thirst, and thus a lack of suffering. It is not raging against existence and wishing things were different. In fact, not wanting to exist would come paired with not wanting to not exist, too.

Then, there’s the most subtle point: Wanting to not exist implies there is some existence in the first place that needs to be ended. But there isn’t. The idea of a self, of an existence, separate from the ceaseless flow of experience is just an idea. It’s born of misunderstanding that tries to dismember reality by carving out a division that can never be real. The arahant or buddha did not fully realize non-self by annihilating their self. They realized there was no self to annihilate in the first place. The Buddha charted a course between committing to existence and nonexistence, between being and nonbeing, and this is one of the most important dimensions of the “middle way” that he taught. Neither of those binaries exist in the true, unconditioned reality.

So, these complementary thirsts are sources of suffering. Whether it’s wanting to be something in particular, wanting to not be something in particular, wanting to exist at all, or wanting to not exist at all, these thirsts still push us to cling to the world that we continue to wander through.

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