Sage of the message

If I'm a scholar, I'm an amateur,'' says Stephen Mitchell, the soft-spoken translator of Rainer Maria Rilke and the book of Job and Gilgamesh, the Bhagavad Gita and his favourite, the Tao Te Ching — as he says, “that marvel of lucidity and grace, the classic manual on the art of living''.

The Tao is Mitchell's deep well, his Ganges. His 1988 translation has sold more than half a million copies.

He lives in Ojai, in a rambling, pristine house nestled in the hills a couple of hours northwest of Los Angeles, surrounded by gardens, pools and fountains. He is so in love with his wife and occasional co-author, Byron Katie, that references to her are inextricably woven into every aspect of his world.

The original Tao Te Ching was written by Laotzu in the 6th century BC. Legend has it that the 80-year-old, frustrated by his fellow man's inability to follow the path of natural goodness and harmony, left China for Tibet.

At the border, a guard asked him to write down his teachings. This became the Tao Te Ching.

Mitchell's new book, The Second Book of the Tao, consists of adaptations from the work of two ancient Chinese scholars: Chuang-tzu, a Laotzu disciple, and Tzu-ssu, Confucius's grandson. Mitchell chose 64 chapters, each including a text and commentary.

In his commentaries, Mitchell sets out to emulate the irreverent tone of Chuang-tzu: “If Laotzu is a smile,'' he writes, “Chuang-tzu is a belly-laugh. He's the clown of the Absolute, the apotheosis of incredulity, Coyote among the bodhisattvas.''

Mitchell has been criticised for his irreverent adaptations and translations, for his New Age style and his way of turning sacred texts into spiritual manuals for everyday living.

His home is luxurious, warm and spacious. In the empty, white studio, a table with a thin laptop faces a window; outside, there is a path and a tree that resembles a Zen sculpture. An altar near the doorway holds a photo of his wife.

“Whether it's the 4th century BC or 21st-century America,'' Mitchell says in his backyard facing the mountains, “people suffer and find a way into freedom. There's no difference between then and now.

"Humans have a basic capacity for freedom. When I was 20, I didn't have a clue. When I was 30, I was in the difficult process of getting a clue.

"When I was 40, I had a clue and was clearing out the debris. Fifty, ditto. At 60, all the debris is cleared, thanks in large part to my wife.''

In many ways, Mitchell's path began when his first girlfriend, Vicky, broke up with him. The pain was, he says, “the seed of everything that I've become''.

Mitchell found solace in the book of Job, an affirmation that there was a solution to human suffering.

Six years after the break-up, Mitchell bumped into a friend who mentioned he had met a Zen master with strange eyes. Mitchell found the man in a funky neighbourhood in San Francisco.

The eyes were compelling and Mitchell spent many years in intensive Zen practice; days spent meditating 12 to 14 hours, solitary retreats that lasted 100 days.

“For most of us,'' he explains, “there are pops of insight that are life-transforming, followed by years spent cleaning up the karmic residue.''

Vicky introduced Mitchell to the work of Rilke. Eighteen years later, he sent her a copy of his translation, The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke.

She wrote back, and the two spent four days together as friends. “I found I loved her in a better, clearer way than when we were together as young people,'' he says.

Unlike writers of self-help books, Mitchell hardly thinks about his readers. “Readers are not a part of my world,'' he declares. “I write the books I want to read. Often I have to write them myself.''

For Mitchell, great writing must be transparent. Opaqueness, in his view, is a kind of arrogance.

When Mitchell's longtime agent and friend Michael Katz introduced him to Katie in 2000, it was the eyes again that drew him in.

“I saw a heart that was absolutely transparent,'' he says. “I thought I was a pretty mature Zen student but after meeting her I realised I had a lot more serious work to do.''

The two collaborated on a book, Loving What Is: Four Questions That Can Change Your Life, and then on A Thousand Names for Joy: Living in Harmony With the Way Things Are, which he considers his “third book of the Tao''.

As he explains: “This is the book you wish every parent could give their children — to show them that life doesn't have to be difficult. It can be so effortless. ... Western therapy doesn't work; I've never heard of it leading people to a place where life is problem-free.''