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A Seeker's Journey Through Extraordinary Lives
In the bustling literary landscape of the early 20th century, one book stands apart with quiet authority - "Meetings with Remarkable Men" by G.I. Gurdjieff. This spiritual autobiography, beloved by figures from Peter Brook to Keith Jarrett, chronicles the author's search for hidden knowledge across Central Asia, Egypt, and the Caucasus. Unlike typical memoirs, Gurdjieff's narrative isn't merely about personal adventure, but serves as a vehicle for transmitting profound esoteric teachings. Through encounters with extraordinary individuals, Gurdjieff illustrates how authentic spiritual development occurs not through books or theories, but through direct experience and contact with those who embody higher consciousness. Published posthumously in 1963, the book became a cornerstone of the "Fourth Way" spiritual movement and inspired a generation of seekers disillusioned with both religious dogma and scientific materialism. Its enduring appeal lies in its unique blend of adventure narrative, philosophical inquiry, and practical wisdom about human transformation.
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The Foundation of Character: Lessons from Father and Dean
My father, known as the ashokh "Adash," was my first encounter with a remarkable individual. Though an amateur poet and storyteller rather than a professional, his reputation spread throughout Transcaucasia and Asia Minor. Ashokhs were local bards who composed, recited, and sang poems, legends, and folk tales, possessing phenomenal memory and mental agility that would astonish modern minds. These men, increasingly rare even in my youth, could recite countless narratives from memory and improvise complex rhymes with astounding speed.
My father would often recite legends or sing dialogues between different characters, sometimes requiring multiple evenings to complete a single story. On evenings before holidays, he would tell us children stories about ancient peoples, wonderful men, God, nature, mysterious miracles, and tales from the "Thousand and One Nights." One particular evening, his recitation of the Babylonian legend of Gilgamesh sparked a heated discussion with Dean Borsh about its connection to the Biblical flood narrative. This legend, I would later discover, had been preserved almost unchanged for millennia through oral tradition.
Despite coming from a Greek family that had once been wealthy cattle owners before losing everything to disease, my father maintained his poetic soul and created an atmosphere of love even during difficult times. He held a simple, clear view on life's purpose: to create inner freedom and prepare for a happy old age. This required following four commandments from childhood to eighteen: love one's parents; remain chaste; be outwardly courteous while inwardly free; and love work for work's sake, not for gain.
My father possessed certain "persistent pursuits" regarding my education that produced beneficial results throughout my life. During my childhood, he deliberately created situations to eliminate impulses like fastidiousness, repulsion, squeamishness, fear, and timidity. Though I resisted, he never yielded, punishing me without mercy when necessary. I later thanked him deeply for this training, which enabled me to overcome countless obstacles during my travels.
What most distinguished my father was "an instinctive aversion to deriving personal advantage from the naivete and bad luck of others." Despite encountering human calamities and "jackal-like" manifestations of people, he never lost heart, remaining inwardly free and always himself.
Dean Borsh, the highest spiritual authority in the Kars region, became "a factor for the secondary stratum of my present individuality." As a choir boy at the cathedral, I caught his attention, perhaps for my voice or because he liked mischievous rascals. When I contracted trachoma, the dean personally came to our home with military eye specialists, beginning a friendship with my father. They would sit for hours discussing religious and historical subjects, particularly Assyrian history.
At seventy, Father Borsh was tall, thin, with a fine-looking face, delicate health but strong spirit. Despite his substantial allowance and rights to special quarters, he occupied only one room in the cathedral guard's house. After fulfilling his obligations, he devoted his time to science, especially astronomy and chemistry, and composed sacred canticles that became well-known throughout Russia.
The dean suggested taking me out of the municipal school system to be taught at home, offering to teach some subjects himself and arrange other teachers. He worked intensively with me, often inviting me to stay after lessons for tea, gradually treating me as an equal. I soon grew comfortable with him, sometimes forgetting myself and beginning to argue-which pleased rather than offended him.
Father Borsh held remarkably original views about human development. He believed that until adulthood, a person is not responsible for any acts-responsibility lies with those preparing them for life. He lamented that contemporary society neglected the importance of sex in education, arguing that adults often lack the corresponding type of opposite sex necessary for completing their incomplete nature.
Years after his death, I returned to honor him at his lonely, forgotten grave at Kars Military Cathedral. I affirm that though I don't know if I've justified his dreams, I have never once broken the commandments he gave me.
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The Quest for Hidden Knowledge: Spiritual Seekers and Ancient Mysteries
My quest for understanding supernatural phenomena led me to Bogachevsky, a young deacon at Kars Military Cathedral who became my teacher at Dean Borsh's request. Despite my youth, we developed a friendly relationship, and I often stayed after lessons to listen to his conversations with visitors about abstract questions. During one evening discussion about spiritualism and table-turning, we conducted an experiment that deeply affected me, as I was still grieving my favorite sister's recent death and pondering questions about life beyond the grave.
Bogachevsky taught me that two moralities exist: objective morality, established over thousands of years and connected to conscience through God's commandments, and subjective morality, invented by humans and varying across cultures and times. "Conscience is everywhere the same," he insisted, urging me to follow Christ's teaching: "Do not do to others what you would not wish them to do to you."
Years later, I would learn that Bogachevsky had joined the Essene Brotherhood near the Dead Sea-a brotherhood reportedly founded twelve centuries before Christ, where Jesus received his first initiation. Now known as Father Evlissi, he has become one of the first to truly live as Christ wished.
My search for answers continued with Sarkis Pogossian, an Armenian born in Turkey who was finishing his studies at the Theological Seminary of Echmiadzin when we met. During this period, I witnessed several inexplicable phenomena that left me bewildered: a paralytic man miraculously cured at a holy tomb, a sudden downpour following prayers during a terrible drought, and a Tartar woman with galloping consumption who recovered completely after drinking milk boiled with rose-hips as instructed by the Virgin Mary in a dream.
These undeniable facts, witnessed with my own eyes, pointed to something supernatural that couldn't be reconciled with my extensive knowledge of the exact sciences. This contradiction gave me no peace, as the proofs on both sides were equally convincing.
Pogossian and I concluded that certain knowledge once possessed by humanity was now forgotten. Losing hope of finding guidance in contemporary science or literature, we turned to ancient Armenian texts. While excavating underground passages in Ani, the ancient Armenian capital, we discovered parchments mentioning the Sarmoung Brotherhood-a famous esoteric school founded in Babylon around 2500 B.C., known to possess great knowledge and keys to secret mysteries.
Through careful research, we established that the Brotherhood must now be somewhere between Urmia and Kurdistan. We decided to travel to the region and find the Sarmoung school at any cost, joining an Armenian Committee mission and crossing dangerous territory, often in disguise to avoid persecution.
Our plans were derailed when Pogossian was bitten by a phalanga, a dangerous tarantula-like insect. While recovering with an Armenian priest, we discovered a parchment map of "pre-sand Egypt" that I secretly copied. With this treasure sewn into my clothing, my previous interests evaporated, replaced by an unrestrained eagerness to reach the places where this knowledge could appease my gnawing desire for understanding.
Pogossian possessed a highly original feature-he was always occupied, always working at something. When lacking definite work, he would swing his arms rhythmically, mark time with his feet, or manipulate his fingers. He explained that he worked not from natural inclination but from common sense, convinced that no conscious work is ever wasted. Despite spending his youth in seemingly useless wanderings rather than money-making, he became one of the richest men on earth through his conscious, conscientious labor.
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Intellectual Pursuits and Linguistic Mastery: The Power of Directed Thought
After Pogossian, Abram Yelov was the next remarkable person who served as a "vivifying factor" in forming my individuality. I met him after returning to Tiflis from Echmiadzin, where I had buried myself in ancient literature. Tiflis offered rare books in many languages, especially Armenian, Georgian and Arabic.
I frequently visited the Soldiers' Bazaar where booksellers kept shops and small traders spread their wares on the ground. Among these was a young Aisor called Abrashka Yelov-an artful dodger but irreplaceable friend. This walking catalogue knew countless book titles in almost all languages, authors' names, and publication details. Initially I bought books from him, later exchanging or returning those I'd read, and he helped find whatever I needed. We became friends, often meeting in Alexander Gardens or Moushtaid to discuss philosophical themes.
Our friendship strengthened through a business venture selling plaster-of-Paris wares. I learned the Italian manufacturer's secrets and began producing similar items, adding comic heads as penholders and popular money-boxes called "The Invalid in Bed." The business thrived before I sold it to two Jews for a good price.
Yelov was short, thick-set and dark, with eyes burning like live coals, very hairy with shaggy eyebrows and beard growing almost from his nose. Born near Van in Turkey, his family had moved to Russia years before we met. Though sent to gymnasium in Tiflis, he was expelled for mischief and later turned out by his father, becoming the "black sheep" of his family.
Besides being remarkable for his knowledge of books and authors, Yelov became a phenomenon in languages, making even me feel like a novice despite speaking eighteen languages myself. He mastered European languages so perfectly that they seemed native to him. Once, disguised as a British officer, he distracted British troops with his flawless English stories while they smuggled an Afghan holy relic across the Amu Darya river.
Yelov held an original view about mental work, believing that since thoughts work constantly day and night, they should be directed toward something useful rather than wasted on fantasies. He considered language study an ideal occupation that required little more energy than digesting a meal, prevented idle thoughts, and could prove practical.
Prince Yuri Lubovedsky, a Russian nobleman much older than myself, became my closest friend and elder comrade for nearly forty years. As a young guards officer, he had married a beautiful woman who died giving birth to their first child. Seeking solace, he first turned to spiritualism hoping to communicate with his wife's soul, then became increasingly absorbed in occult sciences and the search for life's meaning.
I first met Prince Lubovedsky at the Egyptian pyramids while working as a tourist guide. The prince encountered Professor Skridlov (my employer) and engaged him in a philosophical debate about archaeology versus spiritual truth. Days later, the prince found me studying a special map of pre-sand Egypt, becoming agitated upon recognizing it as the same map he had tried to purchase from an Armenian priest. Learning how I had secretly copied it, we discovered our common interests, beginning a thirty-five-year friendship and correspondence that included many journeys together through India, Tibet and Central Asia.
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Transformation Through Suffering: Redemption Stories and Inner Work
The prince rescued Vitvitskaia from white slave traffickers and took a personal interest in her rehabilitation, believing her nature was unspoiled despite her circumstances. Though initially skeptical toward her, I later witnessed her transformation into "such as might serve as an ideal for every woman." Particularly drawn to music, she studied piano and music theory extensively, seeking to understand music's essence and psychological effects.
After reading "The World of Vibrations," she gained insights about sound vibrations affecting human vibrations and conducted experiments with the prince's sister. She refined her approach by considering atmospheric pressure, room dimensions, and listeners' racial backgrounds, achieving some success in evoking specific emotions through music. However, she remained puzzled by how certain melodies could affect diverse people identically-a question that once troubled her so deeply she bit her finger severely, nearly severing it.
Another remarkable transformation occurred with Soloviev, a young Russian exile I met in New Bukhara. After helping him in a fight against four men, I invited him to stay with me. During Easter celebrations, when Soloviev refused vodka and exclaimed "Help me, O Lord, in memory of this night, to be able never again to drink this poison," he revealed his life story: Born to a merchant family in Samara, with an alcoholic father, Soloviev's troubles began when he stole from his mother to court girls. Later, infatuated with a circus performer, he began drinking heavily, and eventually became destitute.
Following military service and illness, Soloviev met a Polish counterfeiter who taught him to forge three-rouble notes. Though briefly working at his father's mill after returning home, he soon resumed his vagabond life and ended up in Bukhara awaiting his criminal partner while drinking away his money and working for the railway.
Moved by Soloviev's story, I used hypnotic suggestion to help him overcome his drinking habit. Soloviev quit his railway job, moved in with me, and helped make and sell artificial flowers. Soon after, the dervish Bogga-Eddin returned to Bukhara and told me about an extraordinary old man from the Sarmoung brotherhood whose monastery was "somewhere in the heart of Asia."
After taking a solemn oath of secrecy, we journeyed blindfolded with Kara-Kirghiz guides, our eyes covered by bashliks except during overnight stops and meals. Only twice were we permitted to uncover our eyes-once to cross a terrifying swinging bridge over what might be the Pyandzh or Zeravshan river.
After twelve days of blindfolded travel, we reached a small valley surrounded by high mountains with snow-capped peaks. We approached what appeared to be a fortress encircled by a high wall, where a venerable old man greeted us amiably in Turkoman. For three days, we explored our surroundings, finding the compound enclosed by a high wall with two gates. An awesome quiet reigned, broken only by a distant waterfall.
On the third day, we received a note addressed to "Aga Georgi"-written in Russian by Prince Lubovedsky. Overjoyed, I ran to find my dear friend, who was bedridden with blood poisoning. The Prince recounted a transformative encounter with a mysterious Hindu who knew his childhood nickname "Gogo"-something only his mother and nurse had called him sixty years earlier. This stranger confronted him about his lifelong failure to align his mind's desires with his heart's desires, offering to help if he would "consciously die" to his former life and follow him.
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Wisdom from the East: Sacred Teachings and Hidden Monasteries
Dr. Ekim Bey, now respected as a great magician and wizard with the title of Great Turkish Pasha, lives in a small place in Egypt. Though he has means to live anywhere in comfort, he chose this solitary spot to avoid the importunities of idle people and their curiosity-a property unworthy of man that has become inherent in most contemporaries.
I first met Ekim Bey when he was a young student at a military school in Germany, visiting his father in Constantinople for summer. After I recovered a valuable amber chaplet set with diamonds and garnets that had been dropped into the sea, I was invited to the home of Pasha N, Ekim's father. When I collapsed from skin damage caused by prolonged exposure to sea-water, I was placed under the care of Ekim Bey. During my recovery, we conversed about various topics, gradually turning to philosophical discussions. By the time I recovered, we had become friends.
Four years later, Ekim Bey joined me and my friends Pogossian, Yelov, and childhood friend Karpenko in Suram. We spent the entire summer there, making frequent short excursions to meet people untouched by contemporary civilization. Living with us young men "thoroughly stuffed with all kinds of Don Quixotic aspirations" and participating in our discussions, Ekim Bey was drawn into our "psychopathy" and eager to join our expedition across Persia to the Persian Gulf.
Shortly after leaving Tabriz, we heard about a Persian dervish who supposedly performed extraordinary miracles. When we met him, our conversation began cautiously, with him receiving us rather coldly at first. When he noticed my careful mastication of food according to Hatha Yoga principles, he questioned this practice. The dervish then delivered a profound critique, explaining that by chewing too thoroughly, I was reducing my stomach's work, which would lead to muscle atrophy in old age.
When I inquired about artificial breathing practices, he explained these were a thousand times more harmful than improper chewing. "Breathing is also a process of feeding, but on another sort of food," he said, describing how air components must combine in exact proportions within the body. "Without the knowledge of the fundamental laws of breathing in all particulars," he warned, "the practice of artificial breathing must inevitably lead, very slowly but none the less surely, to self-destruction."
Ekim Bey had an ardent interest in hypnotism, particularly in phenomena collectively called the "power of human thought." His experiments revealed a fundamental property inherent in every ordinary person: whenever someone thinks about something concrete outside themselves, their muscles instantly strain in the direction of their thoughts. Ekim Bey used this knowledge to perform remarkable feats like "mind reading" and to earn money when we were stranded without funds in Tashkent.
My friendship with Piotr Karpenko began when we were boys in Kars. Our relationship was transformed through a bizarre duel at an artillery range, where we both lay hidden between guns and targets, with whichever was hit by a random shell being the one fated to die. During this ordeal, I experienced an existential transformation-my thoughts and feelings intensified to extraordinary levels, and I felt a "whole sensation of myself" emerge for the first time, along with the crushing realization that my thoughtlessness had placed me in mortal danger.
When I found Karpenko wounded but alive after the ordeal, my hatred instantly transformed into pity. When he regained consciousness and smiled at me, something profound shifted within me, replacing rivalry with brotherly affection. Years later, Karpenko became fascinated by my experiments on the influence of sound vibrations on different types of beings, and eventually joined our group, "the Seekers of Truth," on various expeditions.
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Sacred Encounters: Extraordinary Healers and Hidden Brotherhoods
During one expedition with Karpenko and other members of the Seekers of Truth, we became lost in the bewildering maze of narrow gorges between the Hindu Kush and Himalayan ranges. After several days of wandering cautiously to avoid bands of brigands, we reached a small stream and decided to follow its course. When the banks became too steep, we moved into the streambed itself, but rising waters from numerous tributaries soon made this impossible.
We decided to slaughter our goats to make bourdiouks (inflatable skins) for a raft. While searching for suitable hardwood, we encountered a local man sitting on the ground-an ez-ezounavouran, a man working for his soul's salvation, or what Europeans would mistakenly call a "fakir."
After observing all proper conventions, I casually mentioned our need for wood. Our guide introduced us to his teacher, a venerable ez-ezounavouran living in a cave. This remarkable old man suggested Cornelian cherry would serve our purpose better than what we sought, directing us to a nearby dell where it grew abundantly.
Suddenly, a huge grey bear emerged from the bushes carrying something in its mouth. The old man called out, and the bear laid its offering-djungari, a local substitute for wheat-at his feet before lumbering away. We were utterly stupefied, trembling with fear despite his reassurances that the bear was merely his friend.
Seeing Vitvitskaia's goiter-like throat affliction, he performed massage while whispering certain words, causing her swelling to completely disappear within forty minutes. He also provided remedies for Skridlov's kidney trouble and Yelov's trachoma-both treatments proving remarkably effective.
During our meal together, we learned the old man had formerly served as chief of artillery for the Emir of Afghanistan's grandfather. After being wounded in a rebellion at age sixty, he returned to his native Khorasan. Rather than resuming his military career, he dedicated his remaining years to spiritual salvation-first with Persian dervishes, briefly as a Baptist, then in a monastery near Kabul. Having gained the understanding he sought, he settled in this isolated spot with a few followers, awaiting death at his advanced age of ninety-eight.
Professor Skridlov, an archaeologist many years my senior, was another essence-friend who disappeared during Russia's great agitation of minds. We first met when he hired me as his guide near Cairo, then reconnected in ancient Thebes. Despite our age difference, we became intimate friends during our three weeks living in a tomb, discussing abstract themes between excavation work.
After Prince Yuri left for Russia, Skridlov and I journeyed together up the Nile to its source, through Abyssinia, then through Syria to the ruins of Babylon. We reunited two years later in Orenburg for a Siberian expedition with the Seekers of Truth. Thereafter, we frequently met for journeys through remote regions of Asia and Africa.
During one journey, we decided to enter Kafiristan, a region entirely inaccessible to Europeans. We believed this forbidden land held answers to many psychological and archaeological questions that fascinated us both. Our plan crystallized through an unexpected encounter with an old Turkoman nomad who revealed that despite the region's inhabitants' distrust of outsiders, they universally respected religious devotees.
This chance remark sparked our strategy: we would disguise ourselves not as ordinary travelers but as holy men. After careful deliberation, we decided Professor Skridlov would assume the identity of a venerable Persian dervish while I would pose as a Seid-a direct descendant of Mohammed. To prepare for these roles required both time and seclusion. The ruins of Old Merv provided the perfect sanctuary where we could let our hair grow, learn sacred Persian chants and religious verses, and master the appearance and knowledge necessary for our spiritual masquerade.
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The Material Question: Resourcefulness and Financial Independence
On April 8, 1924, at the opening of the New York branch of the Institute for the Harmonious Development of Man, a dinner was held in my honor at a Russian restaurant. Afterward, the gathering continued at Mrs. R's apartment, where I answered questions through interpreters until breakfast the next day. During a brief pause while eating watermelon, Dr. B, a sanatorium proprietor known for practicality, asked about the financial means supporting my Institute and its annual budget.
I began by noting that many people had wondered about my finances, with comical legends circulating that I received money from occult centers in India, black magic organizations, a Georgian prince, alchemical processes, or even the Bolsheviks. When first planning my Institute, I had carefully considered the material aspect. Recognizing I would face obstacles implementing my psychological ideas, I determined to become financially independent, as experience had shown wealthy people rarely supported such work sufficiently.
Before establishing my Institute, I had been involved in various commercial and financial undertakings and was considered an astute businessman. I attributed this ability to my early upbringing, which I considered ideal education. My father had exerted the strongest intentional influence on my education, telling extraordinary tales about a skilled carpenter named Mustapha who could make anything, including a flying armchair. These stories fostered in me the urge to make new things and approach tasks in special ways.
My first teacher complemented this approach by having me practice various manual crafts, but would make me abandon each craft as soon as I became proficient, forcing me to develop the ability to overcome difficulties in new work. This created in me a tendency to frequently change occupations, ultimately giving me theoretical and practical abilities in various manual and commercial fields.
Unlike most people who make money their life's aim, I only earned money when necessary for my existence or to support my true goals. Coming from a poor family, I often had to earn "despicable and maleficent money" for unavoidable needs, but the process never took much time due to my resourcefulness and common sense.
To illustrate my capabilities, I related how I opened an "original workshop" on a wager with Mme Vitvitskaia. I created an ambitious plan, drafting an advertisement for a "Universal Travelling Workshop" that claimed to repair virtually anything-from sewing machines and musical instruments to toys and antiques. The workshop immediately attracted a steady stream of customers, many bringing items that weren't actually broken but simply misunderstood by their owners, allowing me to profit from their ignorance.
After my workshop venture, several years passed during which I engaged in numerous money-making enterprises while preparing for my fundamental life's aim. I carried out varied businesses: government contracts for railways and roads; stores, restaurants and cinemas which I sold once established; rural enterprises and cattle driving; oil-wells and fisheries. My preferred business was trading in carpets and antiques, which required no fixed location and proved highly profitable.
With this capital, I believed I could focus entirely on my Institute's creation, free from financial concerns. My fundamental aim was to create conditions where people would be continuously reminded of their existence's purpose through unavoidable friction between conscience and automatic nature. In Moscow and later St. Petersburg, I arranged lectures that attracted intellectuals and scientists, gradually building interest in my ideas. I purchased an estate, ordered equipment from European countries, and began arranging for my own newspaper.
As the World War and subsequent civil war disrupted my plans, I relocated to the Caucasus and later organized an "archaeological expedition" that would simultaneously bring my people to safety. We crossed between Bolshevik and White Army lines five times while traversing populated areas. Despite the epidemic of fanaticism and hatred surrounding us, we moved as if under supernatural protection. Both sides regarded us as neutral, which we truly were. Though "requisitionary" pillaging was rampant, nothing was taken from us, not even our two valuable casks of alcohol.
After reaching Tiflis completely without funds, I quickly organized a carpet business operation, selecting qualified assistants from my followers and relatives, teaching them specific roles. By the third week, this enterprise generated substantial income-enough not just for living expenses but with considerable surplus. When the Bolsheviks advanced into Georgia, I decided to liquidate everything in Tiflis, break all ties with Russia, and establish my Institute abroad.
I sold everything for almost nothing, provided for those remaining behind, and departed for Constantinople with thirty followers. After a year there, we moved to Germany and eventually to France, where I established the Chateau du Prieure near Fontainebleau. Despite numerous financial challenges and a serious accident that derailed my plans, I maintained my commitment to creating conditions for genuine human development-a task that requires both spiritual insight and material resourcefulness.
