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Title: Essays in Zen Buddhism : First series
Author: Suzuki, Daisetz Teitaro
Language: English
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ESSAYS IN ZEN BUDDHISM

DAISETZ TEITARO SUZUKI

_Professor of Zen Buddhism at Otani Buddhist College, Kyoto_

(FIRST SERIES)

[Illustration]

LONDON

LUZAC AND COMPANY

46 Great Russell Street

Published for The Eastern Buddhist Society, Kyoto, Japan

1927

ALL RIGHTS OF REPRINTING AND TRANSLATION RESERVED BY THE AUTHOR

_Made in Great Britain and printed at The Vincent Works, Oxford_

PREFACE

The most fruitful growth of Buddhism in the Far East has resulted in
the development of Zen and Shin. Zen attained its maturity in China and
Shin in Japan. The vigour and vitality which Buddhism still has after
more than two thousand years of history, will be realised when one
comes in contact with these two branches of Buddhism. The one appeals
to the inmost religious consciousness of mankind, while the other
touches the intellectual and practical aspects of the Oriental mind,
which is more intuitive than discursive, more mystical than logical.
If Zen is the ultra “self-power” wing of Buddhism, Shin represents the
other extreme wing known as the “other-power,” and these two extremes
are synthesised in the enlightened Buddha-consciousness.

Since the publication of my short note on Zen Buddhism in the _Journal
of the Pali Text Society_, 1907, nothing of importance has been
published in English on the subject except Professor Kwaiten Nukariya’s
_Religion of the Samurai_, 1913. In fact, even in Japanese or Chinese,
this branch of Buddhism has received very slight attention from modern
writers of Buddhism. This is due to the peculiar difficulties which
accompany the study of it. The “Goroku”[f1][1] (sayings) is the only
literary form in which Zen expresses itself; and to understand it
requires some special practical training in Zen, for mere knowledge
of the Chinese, classical and historical, is far from being enough;
even with the masterly understanding of the philosophy of general
Buddhism, Zen is found quite hard to fathom. Some of such scholars
sometimes try to explain the truth and development of Zen, but they
sadly fail to do justice to the subject.

On the other hand, the Zen masters so called are unable to present
their understanding in the light of modern thought. Their most
intellectually-productive years are spent in the Meditation Hall,
and when they successively graduate from it, they are looked up to
as adepts thoroughly versed in the kō-ans.[2] So far so good; but,
unfortunately from the scholarly point of view, they remain contented
with this, and do not show any lively intellectual interest in the
psychology and philosophy of Zen. Thus Zen is left to lie quietly
sealed up in the “Sayings” of the masters and in the technical study of
the kō-ans; it is thus incapacitated to walk out of the seclusion of
the cloisters.

Of course, great mistake it would be if one should ever take the notion
even for a moment that Zen could be mastered from its philosophical
presentation or its psychological description; but this ought not to
mean that Zen is not to be intelligently approached or to be made
somewhat accessible by our ordinary means of reasoning. I need not
mention that my attempts in the following pages are anything but
adequate for the rational treatment of the subject. But as a tentative
experiment to present Zen from our common-sense point of view and as a
direct lineage of Buddhist faith as first proclaimed or rather realised
by the Buddha, I hope I have worked towards removing some of the
difficulties usually besetting us in the mastery of Zen thought. How
far I have succeeded or how utterly I have failed,—this is naturally
for the reader to judge.

The book is a collection of the Essays originally published in _The
Eastern Buddhist_ except one on the “History of Zen Buddhism” which
was written specially for this volume; but all of them have been
thoroughly revised and in some parts entirely re-written and
new chapters added. The book will be followed by a second series of
Essays before long, in which some more of the important points in the
constitution of Zen will be treated.

The publication of these Essays in bookform is principally due to the
most liberal encouragement, both material and moral, of Mr Yakichi
Ataka, of Osaka, who is an old friend of the author’s and who has not
forgotten the pledge half-seriously and half-dreamily made in our
youthful days. The author also owes a great deal to his wife in the
preparation and revision of the MS, without which the book would have
shown many more imperfections than it does now in various ways.

Lastly, in sending this humble work, not written in the author’s native
tongue, out to the world, he cannot help thinking of his late teacher
in Zen, Soyen Shaku, of Engakuji, Kamakura, with regret that his life
had not been spared for several years yet, not only for the sake of
Japanese Buddhism but for many of his lamenting friends. This is the
seventh autumn for the maple-trees to scatter their crimson leaves over
his grave at Matsu-ga-oka. Might his spirit not for once be awakened
from deep meditation and criticise the book now before the reader!

Daisetz Teitaro Suzuki

_Kyoto, October,_ 1926

CONTENTS

PAGE
Preface v

ESSAY I
Introduction 1

ESSAY II
Zen as the Chinese Interpretation of the Doctrine of Enlightenment 26

ESSAY III
Enlightenment and Ignorance 105

ESSAY IV
History of Zen Buddhism in China, from Bodhi-dharma to the Sixth
Patriarch (Hui-nêng) 149

ESSAY V
Satori 213

ESSAY VI
Practical Methods of Zen Instruction 251

ESSAY VII
The Meditation Hall and the Ideals of Zen Life 299

ESSAY VIII
The Ten Cow-Herding Pictures 347

APPENDIX
Chinese Notes 367

Index 413

INTRODUCTION

INTRODUCTION[f2]

Zen in its essence is the art of seeing into the nature of one’s own
being, and it points the way from bondage to freedom. By making us
drink right from the fountain of life, it liberates us from all the
yokes under which we finite beings are usually suffering in this world.
We can say that Zen liberates all the energies properly and naturally
stored in each of us, which are in ordinary circumstances cramped and
distorted so that they find no adequate channel for activity. This body
of ours is something like an electric battery in which a mysterious
power latently lies. When this power is not properly brought into
operation, it either grows mouldy and withers away or is warped and
expresses itself abnormally. It is the object of Zen, therefore, to
save us from going crazy or being crippled. This is what I mean by
freedom, giving free play to all the creative and benevolent impulses
inherently lying in our hearts. Generally, we are blind to this fact,
that we are in possession of all the necessary faculties that will
make us happy and loving towards one another. All the struggles that
we see around us come from this ignorance. Zen, therefore, wants us to
open a “third eye,” as Buddhists call it, to the hitherto undreamed-of
region shut away from us through our own ignorance. When the cloud of
ignorance disappears, the infinity of the heavens is manifested where
we see for the first time into the nature of our own being. We now
know the signification of life, we know that it is not blind striving,
nor is it a mere display of brutal forces, but that while we know not
definitely what the ultimate purport of life is, there is something in
it that makes us feel infinitely blessed in the living of it and
remain quite contented with it in all its evolution, without raising
questions or entertaining pessimistic doubts.

When we are full of vitality and not yet awakened to the knowledge
of life, we cannot comprehend the seriousness of all the conflicts
involved in it which are apparently for the moment in a state of
quiescence. But sooner or later the time will come when we have to
face life squarely and solve its most perplexing and most pressing
riddles. Says Confucius, “At fifteen my mind was directed to study, and
at thirty I knew where to stand.” This is one of the wisest sayings of
the Chinese sage. Psychologists will all agree to this statement of
his; for, generally speaking, fifteen is about the age youth begins to
look around seriously and inquire into the meaning of life. All the
spiritual powers until now securely hidden in the subconscious part
of the mind break out almost simultaneously. And when this breaking
out is too precipitous and violent, the mind may lose its balance more
or less permanently; in fact, so many cases of nervous prostration
reported during adolescence are chiefly due to this loss of the mental
equilibrium. In most cases the effect is not very grave and the crisis
may pass without leaving deep marks. But in some characters, either
through their inherent tendencies or on account of the influence of
environment upon their plastic constitution, the spiritual awakening
stirs them up to the very depths of their personality. This is the
time you will be asked to choose between the “Everlasting No” and the
“Everlasting Yea.” This choosing is what Confucius means by “study,” it
is not studying the classics, but deeply delving into the mysteries of
life.

Normally, the outcome of the struggle is the “Everlasting Yea,” or “Let
thy will be done”; for life is after all a form of affirmation however
negatively it might be conceived by the pessimists. But we cannot deny
the fact that there are many things in this world which will turn our
too sensitive minds towards the other direction and make us exclaim
with Andreyev in “The Life of Man”: “I curse everything that you have
given. I curse the day on which I was born. I curse the day on which I
shall die. I curse the whole of my life. I fling everything back at
your cruel face, senseless Fate! Be accursed, be forever accursed! With
my curses I conquer you. What else can you do to me?... With my last
thought I will shout into your asinine ears: Be accursed, be accursed!”
This is a terrible indictment of life, it is a complete negation of
life, it is a most dismal picture of the destiny of man on earth.
“Leaving no trace” is quite true, for we know nothing of our future
except that we all pass away including the very earth from which we
have come. There are certainly things justifying pessimism.

Life, as most of us live it, is suffering. There is no denying the
fact. As long as life is a form of struggle, it cannot be anything but
pain. Does not a struggle mean the impact of two conflicting forces,
each trying to get the upperhand of the other? If the battle is lost,
the outcome is death, and death is the fearsomest thing in the world.
Even when death is conquered, one is left alone, and the loneliness
is sometimes more unbearable than the struggle itself. One may not
be conscious of all this, and may go on indulging in those momentary
pleasures that are afforded by the senses. But this being unconscious
does not in the least alter the facts of life. However insistently the
blind may deny the existence of the sun, they cannot annihilate it.
The tropical heat will mercilessly scorch them, and if they do not
take proper care, they will all be wiped away from the surface of the
earth. The Buddha was perfectly right when he propounded his “Fourfold
Noble Truth” the first of which is that life is pain. Did not everyone
of us come to this world screaming and in a way protesting? To come
out into cold and prohibitive surroundings after a soft, warm motherly
womb was surely a painful incident to say the least. Growth is always
attended with pain. Teething is more or less a painful process. Puberty
is usually accompanied with a mental as well as a physical disturbance.
The growth of the organism called society is also marked with painful
cataclysms, and we are at present witnessing one of its birth-throes.
We may calmly reason and say that this is all inevitable, that inasmuch
as every reconstruction means the destruction of the old regime,
we cannot help going through a painful operation. But this cold
intellectual analysis does not alleviate whatever harrowing feelings
we have to undergo. The pain heartlessly inflicted on our nerves is
ineradicable. Life is, after all arguing, a painful struggle.

This however is providential. For the more you suffer the deeper grows
your character, and with the deepening of your character you read the
more penetratingly into the secrets of life. All great artists, all
great religious leaders, and all great social reformers have come out
of the intensest struggles which they fought bravely, quite frequently
in tears and with bleeding hearts. Unless you eat your bread in sorrow,
you cannot taste of real life. Mencius is right when he says that when
Heaven wants to perfect a great man it tries him in every possible way
until he comes out triumphantly from all his painful experiences. To
me Oscar Wilde seems always posing or striving for an effect; he may
be a great artist, but there is something in him that turns me away
from him. Yet he exclaims in his _De Profundis_: “During the last few
months I have, after terrible difficulties and struggles, been able to
comprehend some of the lessons hidden in the heart of pain. Clergymen
and people who use phrases without wisdom sometimes talk of suffering
as a mystery. It is really a revelation. One discerns things one never
discerned before. One approaches the whole of history from a different
standpoint.” You will observe here what sanctifying effects his prison
life produced on his character. If he had had to go through a similar
trial in the beginning of his career, he might have been able to
produce far greater works than those we have of him at present.

We are too ego-centred. The ego-shell in which we live is the hardest
thing to outgrow. We seem to carry it all the time from childhood up
to the time we finally pass away. We are, however, given many chances
to break through this shell, and the first and greatest of them is
when we reach adolescence. This is the first time the ego really comes
to recognise the “other.” I mean the awakening of sexual love. An ego,
entire and undivided, now begins to feel a sort of split in itself.
Love hitherto dormant deep in his heart lifts its head and causes
a great commotion in it. For the love now stirred demands at once
the assertion of the ego and its annihilation. Love makes the ego
lose itself in the object it loves, and yet at the same time it wants
to have the object as its own. This is a contradiction, and a great
tragedy of life. This elemental feeling must be one of the divine
agencies whereby man is urged to advance in his upward walk. God
gives tragedies to perfect man. The greatest bulk of literature ever
produced in this world is but the harping on the same string of love,
and we never seem to grow weary of it. But this is not the topic we
are concerned with here. What I want to emphasise in this connection
is this, that through the awakening of love we get a glimpse into the
infinity of things, and that this glimpse urges youth to Romanticism
or to Rationalism according to his temperament and environment and
education.

When the ego-shell is broken and the “other” is taken into its own
body, we can say that the ego has denied itself or that the ego has
taken its first steps towards the infinite. Religiously, here ensues
an intense struggle between the finite and the infinite, between the
intellect and a higher power, or, more plainly, between the flesh and
the spirit. This is the problem of problems that has driven many a
youth into the hands of Satan. When a grown-up man looks back to these
youthful days, he cannot but feel a sort of shudder going through
his entire frame. The struggle to be fought in sincerity may go on
up to the age of thirty when Confucius states that he knew where to
stand. The religious consciousness is now fully awakened, and all the
possible ways of escaping from the struggle or bringing it to an end
are most earnestly sought in every direction. Books are read, lectures
are attended, sermons are greedily taken in, and various religious
exercises or disciplines are tried. And naturally Zen too comes to be
inquired into.

How does Zen solve the problem of problems?

In the first place, Zen proposes its solution by directly appealing
to facts of personal experience and not to book-knowledge. The nature
of one’s own being where apparently rages the struggle between the
finite and the infinite is to be grasped by a higher faculty than the
intellect. For Zen says it is the latter that first made us raise
the question which it could not answer by itself, and that therefore
it is to be put aside to make room for something higher and more
enlightening. For the intellect has a peculiarly disquieting quality
in it. Though it raises questions enough to disturb the serenity of
the mind, it is too frequently unable to give satisfactory answers
to them. It upsets the blissful peace of ignorance and yet it does
not restore the former state of things by offering something else.
Because it points out ignorance, it is often considered illuminating,
whereas the fact is that it disturbs, not necessarily always bringing
light on its path. It is not final, it waits for something higher than
itself for the solution of all the questions it will raise regardless
of consequences. If it were able to bring a new order into the
disturbance and settle it once for all, there would have been no need
for philosophy after it had been first systematised by a great thinker,
by an Aristotle, or by a Hegel. But the history of thought proves that
each new structure raised by a man of extraordinary intellect is sure
to be pulled down by the succeeding ones. This constant pulling down
and building up is all right as far as philosophy itself is concerned;
for the inherent nature of the intellect, as I take it, demands it and
we cannot put a stop to the progress of philosophical inquiries any
more than to our breathing. But when it comes to the question of life
itself we cannot wait for the ultimate solution to be offered by the
intellect even if it could do so. We cannot suspend even for a moment
our life-activity for philosophy to unravel its mysteries. Let the
mysteries remain as they are, but live we must. The hungry cannot wait
until a complete analysis of food is obtained and the nourishing value
of each element is determined. For the dead the scientific knowledge
of food will be of no use whatever. Zen therefore does not rely on the
intellect for the solution of its deepest problems.

By personal experience it is meant to get at the fact at first hand
and not through any intermediary whatever this may be. Its favorite
analogy is: to point at the moon a finger is needed, but woe to
those who take the finger for the moon; a basket is welcome to carry
our fish home, but when the fish are safely on the table why should
we eternally bother ourselves with the basket? Here stands the fact,
and let us grasp it with the naked hands lest it should slip away—this
is what Zen proposes to do. As nature abhors a vacuum, Zen abhors
anything coming between the fact and ourselves. According to Zen, there
is no struggle in the fact itself such as between the finite and the
infinite, between the flesh and the spirit. These are idle distinctions
fictitiously designed by the intellect for its own interest. Those who
take them too seriously or those who try to read them into the very
fact of life are those who take the finger for the moon. When we are
hungry we eat; when we are sleepy we lay ourselves down; and where
does the infinite or the finite come in here? Are not we complete in
ourselves and each in himself? Life as it is lived suffices. It is only
when the disquieting intellect steps in and tries to murder it that
we stop to live and imagine ourselves to be short of or in something.
Let the intellect alone, it has its usefulness in its proper sphere,
but let it not interfere with the flowing of the life-stream. If you
are at all tempted to look into it, do so while letting it flow. The
fact of flowing must under no circumstances be arrested or meddled
with; for the moment your hands are dipped into it, its transparency is
disturbed, it ceases to reflect your image which you have had from the
very beginning and will continue to have to the end of time.

Almost corresponding to the “Four Maxims” of the Nichiren Sect, Zen has
its own four statements:

“A special transmission outside the Scriptures;
No dependence upon words and letters;
Direct pointing to the soul of man;
Seeing into one’s nature and the attainment of Buddhahood.”[f3][1.1]

This sums up all that is claimed by Zen as religion. Of course we
must not forget that there is a historical background to this bold
pronunciamento. At the time of the introduction of Zen into China,
most of the Buddhists were addicted to the discussion of highly
metaphysical questions, or satisfied with the merely observing of
the ethical precepts laid down by the Buddha or with the leading
of a lethargic life entirely absorbed in the contemplation of the
evanescence of things worldly. They all missed apprehending the great
fact of life itself which flows altogether outside of these vain
exercises of the intellect or of the imagination. Bodhi-Dharma and
his successors recognised this pitiful state of affairs. Hence their
proclamation of “The Four Great Statements” of Zen as above cited. In
a word they mean that Zen has its own way of pointing to the nature of
one’s own being and that when this is done, one attains to Buddhahood
in which all the contradictions and disturbances caused by the
intellect are entirely harmonised in a unity of higher order.

For this reason Zen never explains but indicates, it does not
appeal to circumlocution, nor does it generalise. It always deals
with facts, concrete and tangible. Logically considered, Zen may be
full of contradictions and repetitions. But as it stands above all
things, it goes serenely on its own way. As a Zen master aptly puts
it, “carrying his home-made cane on the shoulder, he goes right on
among the mountains one rising above another.” It does not challenge
logic, it simply walks its path of facts, leaving all the rest to
their own fates. It is only when logic neglecting its proper functions
tries to step into the track of Zen that it loudly proclaims its
principles and forcibly drives out the intruder. Zen is not an enemy
of anything. There is no reason why it should antagonise the intellect
which may sometimes be utilised for the cause of Zen itself. To show
some examples of Zen’s direct dealing with the fundamental facts of
existence, the following are selected:

Rinzai[f4][1.2] (Lin-chi) once delivered a sermon, saying “Over a mass
of reddish flesh there sits a true man who has no title; he is all the
time coming in and out from your sense-organs. If you have not yet
testified to the fact, Look! Look!” A monk came forward and asked,
“Who is this true man of no title?” Rinzai came right down from his
straw-chair and taking hold of the monk exclaimed, “Speak! Speak!” The
monk remained irresolute not knowing what to say, whereupon the master
letting him go remarked, “What worthless stuff is this true man of no
title!” Rinzai then went straight back to his room.[1.3]

Rinzai was noted for his “rough” and direct treatment of his disciples.
He never liked those roundabout dealings which generally characterised
the methods of a lukewarm master. He must have got this directness
from his own teacher Obaku (Huang-nieh),[1.4] by whom he was struck
three times by asking what the fundamental principle of Buddhism was.
It goes without saying that Zen has nothing to do with mere striking
or roughly shaking the questioner. If you take this as constituting
the essentials of Zen, you would commit the same gross error as one
who took the finger for the moon. As in everything else, but most
particularly in Zen, all its outward manifestations or demonstrations
must never be regarded as final. They just indicate the way where to
look for the facts. Therefore these indicators are important, we cannot
do well without them. But once caught in them which are like entangling
meshes we are doomed; for Zen can never be comprehended. Some may
think Zen is always trying to catch you in the net of logic or by the
snare of words. If you once slip your steps, you are bound for eternal
damnation, you will never get to freedom for which your hearts are so
burning. Therefore, Rinzai grasps with his naked hands what is directly
presented to us all. If a third eye of ours is opened undimmed, we
shall know in a most unmistakable manner where Rinzai is driving us.
We have first of all to get into the very spirit of the master and
interview the inner man right there. No amount of wordy explanations
will ever lead us into the nature of our own selves. The more you
explain, the further it runs away from you. It is like trying to get
hold of your own shadow. You run after it and it runs with you at the
identical rate of speed. When you realise it, you read deep into the
spirit of Rinzai or Obaku, and their real kind-heartedness will begin
to be appreciated.

Ummon[f5][1.5] (Yün-mên), was another great master of Zen at the
end of the T‘ang dynasty. He had to lose one of his legs in order to
get an insight into the life-principle from which the whole universe
takes rise, including his own humble existence. He had to visit his
teacher Bokuju (Mu-chou)[1.6] who was a senior disciple of Rinzai
under Obaku, three times before he was admitted to see him. The master
asked, “Who are you?” “I am Bun-yen (Wên-yen),” answered the monk.
(Bun-yen was his name, while Ummon was the name of the monastery where
he was settled later). When the truth-seeking monk was allowed to go
inside the gate, the master took hold of him by the chest and demanded,
“Speak! Speak!” Ummon hesitated, whereupon the master pushed him out of
the gate, saying, “Oh, you good-for-nothing fellow!”[f6][1.7] While the
gate was hastily shut, one of Ummon’s legs was caught and broken. The
intense pain resulting from this apparently awakened the poor fellow to
the greatest fact of life. He was no more a solicitous, pity-begging
monk, the realisation now gained paid more than enough for the loss of
his leg. He was not however a solitary instance in this respect, there
were many such in the history of Zen who were willing to sacrifice a
part of the body for the truth. Says Confucius: “If a man understands
the Tao in the morning, it is well with him even when he dies in the
evening.” Some would feel indeed that truth is of more value than mere
living, mere vegetative or animal living. But in the world, alas,
there are so many living corpses wallowing in the mud of ignorance and
sensuality.

This is where Zen is most difficult to understand. Why this sarcastic
vituperation? Why this seeming heartlessness? What fault had Ummon
to deserve the loss of his leg? He was a poor truth-seeking monk,
earnestly anxious to get enlightenment from the master. Was it really
necessary for the latter from his way of understanding Zen to shut him
out three times, and when the gate was half opened to close it again
so violently, so inhumanly? Was this the truth of Buddhism Ummon was
so eager to get? But the outcome of all this singularly was what
was desired by both of them. As to the master, he was satisfied to
see the disciple attain an insight into the secrets of his being; and
as regards the disciple he was most grateful for all that was done to
him. Evidently, Zen is the most irrational, inconceivable thing in
the world. And this is why I said before that Zen was not subject to
logical analysis or to intellectual treatment. It must be directly and
personally experienced by each of us in his inner spirit. Just as two
stainless mirrors reflect each other, the fact and our own spirits must
stand facing each other with no intervening agents. When this is done,
we are able to seize upon the living, pulsating fact itself.

Freedom is an empty word until then. The first object was to escape
the bondage in which all finite beings find themselves, but if we do
not cut asunder the very chain of ignorance with which we are bound
hands and feet, where shall we look for deliverance? And this chain of
ignorance is wrought of nothing else but the intellect and sensuous
infatuation, which cling tightly to every thought we may have, to every
feeling we may entertain. They are hard to get rid of, they are like
wet clothes as is aptly expressed by the Zen masters. “We are born
free and equal.” Whatever this may mean socially or politically, Zen
maintains that it is absolutely true in the spiritual domain, and that
all the fetters and manacles we seem to be carrying about ourselves
are put on later through ignorance of the true condition of existence.
All the treatments, sometimes literary and sometimes physical,
which are most liberally and kindheartedly given by the masters to
inquiring souls, are intended to get them back to the original state
of freedom. And this is never really realised until we once personally
experience it through our own efforts, independent of any ideational
representation. The ultimate standpoint of Zen, therefore, is that
we have been led astray through ignorance to find a split in our own
being, that there was from the very beginning no need for a struggle
between the finite and the infinite, that the peace we are seeking so
eagerly after has been there all the time. Sotoba (Su Tung-p‘o),[1.8]
the noted Chinese poet and statesman, expresses the idea in the
following verse:

“Misty rain on Mount Lu,
And waves surging in Chê-chiang;
When you have not yet been there,
Many a regret surely you have;
But once there and homeward you wend,
And how matter-of-fact things look!
Misty rain on Mount Lu,
And waves surging in Chê-chiang.”[9]

This is what is also asserted by Seigen Ishin (Ch‘ing-yüan Wei-hsin),
according to whom, “Before a man studies Zen, to him mountains are
mountains and waters are waters; after he gets an insight into the
truth of Zen through the instruction of a good master, mountains to him
are not mountains and waters are not waters; but after this when he
really attains to the abode of rest, mountains are once more mountains
and waters are waters.”[1.10]

Bokuju (Mu-chou) who lived in the latter half of the ninth century, was
once asked, “We have to dress and eat every day, and how can we escape
from all that?” The master replied, “We dress, we eat.” “I do not
understand you,” said the questioner. “If you don’t understand put your
dress on and eat your food.”[1.11]

Zen always deals in concrete facts and does not indulge in
generalisation. And I do not wish to add unnecessary legs to the
painted snake, but if I try to waste my philosophical comments on
Bokuju, I may say this. We are all finite, we cannot live out of time
and space; inasmuch as we are earth-created, there is no way to grasp
the infinite, how can we deliver ourselves from the limitations of
existence? This is perhaps the idea put in the first question of the
monk, to which the master replies: Salvation must be sought in the
finite itself, there is nothing infinite apart from finite things; if
you seek something transcendental, that will cut you off from this
world of relativity, which is the same thing as the annihilation of
yourself. You do not want salvation at the cost of your own existence.
If so, drink and eat, and find your way of freedom in this drinking
and eating. This was too much for the questioner, who, therefore,
confessed himself as not understanding the meaning of the master.
Therefore, the latter continued: Whether you understand or not, just
the same go on living in the finite, with the finite; for you die if
you stop eating and keeping yourself warm on account of your aspiration
for the infinite. No matter how you struggle, Nirvana is to be sought
in the midst of Samsara (birth-and-death). Whether an enlightened Zen
master or an ignoramus of the first degree, neither can escape the
so-called laws of nature. When the stomach is empty, both are hungry;
when it snows, both have to put on an extra flannel. I do not however
mean that they are both material existences, but they are what they
are, regardless of their conditions of spiritual development. As the
Buddhist scriptures have it, the darkness of the cave itself turns into
enlightenment when a torch of spiritual insight burns. It is not that
a thing called darkness is first taken out and another thing known by
the name of enlightenment is carried in later, but that enlightenment
and darkness are substantially one and the same thing from the very
beginning, the change from the one to the other has taken place only
inwardly or subjectively. Therefore, the finite is the infinite,
and _vice versa_. These are not two separate things, though we are
compelled to conceive them so, intellectually. This is the idea,
logically interpreted, perhaps contained in Bokuju’s answer given
to the monk. The mistake consists in our splitting into two what is
really and absolutely one. Is not life one as we live it, which we cut
to pieces by recklessly applying the murderous knife of intellectual
surgery?

On being requested by the monks to deliver a sermon, Hyakujo Nehan
(Pai-chang Nieh-p‘an)[1.12] told them to work on the farm, after which
he would give them a talk on the great subject of Buddhism. They did as
they were told, and came to the master for a sermon, when the latter,
without saying a word, merely extended his open arms towards the monks.
Perhaps there is after all nothing mysterious in Zen. Everything is
open to your full view. If you eat your food and keep yourself cleanly
dressed and work on the farm to raise your rice or vegetables, you are
doing all that is required of you on this earth, and the infinite
is realised in you. How realised? When Bokuju was asked what Zen was,
he recited a Sanskrit phrase from a Sutra, “Mahāprajñāpāramitā!”
(in Japanese, _Makahannyaharamii_!). The inquirer acknowledged his
inability to understand the purport of the strange phrase, and the
master put a comment on it, saying,

“My robe is all worn out after so many years’ usage.
And parts of it in shreds loosely hanging have been blown away to
the clouds.”[1.13]

Is the infinite after all such a poverty-stricken mendicant?

Whatever this is, there is one thing in this connection which we can
never afford to lose sight of, that is, the peace or poverty (for
peace is only possible in poverty) is obtained after a fierce battle
fought with the entire strength of your personality. A contentment
gleaned from idleness or from a _laissez-faire_ attitude of mind is a
thing most to be abhorred. There is no Zen in this, but sloth and mere
vegetation. The battle must rage in its full vigour and masculinity.
Without it, whatever peace that obtains is a simulacrum, and it has no
deep foundation, the first storm it may encounter will crush it to the
ground. Zen is quite emphatic in this. Certainly, the moral virility to
be found in Zen, apart from its mystic flight, comes from the fighting
of the battle of life courageously and undauntedly.

From the ethical point of view, therefore, Zen may be considered a
discipline aiming at the reconstruction of character. Our ordinary life
only touches the fringe of personality, it does not cause a commotion
in the deepest parts of the soul. Even when the religious consciousness
is awakened, most of us lightly pass over it so as to leave no marks
of a bitter fighting on the soul. We are thus made to live on the
superficiality of things. We may be clever, bright, and all that, but
what we produce lacks depth, sincerity, and does not appeal to the
inmost feelings. Some are utterly unable to create anything except
makeshifts or imitations betraying their shallowness of character and
want of spiritual experience. While Zen is primarily religious, it
also moulds our moral character. It may be better to say that a deep
spiritual experience is bound to effect a change in the moral structure
of one’s personality.

How is this so?

The truth of Zen is such that when we want to comprehend it
penetratingly we have to go through with a great struggle, sometimes
very long and exacting constant vigilance. To be disciplined in Zen
is no easy task. A Zen master once remarked that the life of a monk
can be attained only by a man of great moral strength, and that even
a minister of the state cannot expect to become a successful monk.
(Let us remark here that in China to be a minister of the state was
considered to be the greatest achievement a man could ever hope for
in this world.) Not that a monkish life requires the austere practice
of asceticism, but that it implies the elevation of one’s spiritual
powers to their highest notch. All the utterances or activities of the
great Zen masters have come from this elevation. They are not intended
to be enigmatic or driving us to confusion. They are the overflowing
of a soul filled with deep experiences. Therefore, unless we are
ourselves elevated to the same height as the masters, we cannot gain
the same commanding views of life. Says Ruskin: “And be sure also, if
the author is worth anything, that you will not get at his meaning all
at once,—nay, that at his whole meaning you will not for a long time
arrive in any wise. Not that he does not say what he means, and in
strong words too; but he cannot say it all and what is more strange,
will not, but in a hidden way and in parable, in order that he may be
sure you want it. I cannot see quite the reason of this, nor analyse
that cruel reticence in the breasts of wise men which makes them always
hide their deeper thought. They do not give it you by way of help, but
of reward, and will make themselves sure that you deserve it before
they allow you to reach it.” And this key to the royal treasury of
wisdom is given us only after patient and painful moral struggle.

The mind is ordinarily chock-full with all kinds of intellectual
nonsense and passional rubbish. They are of course useful in their
own ways in our daily life. There is no denying that. But it is
chiefly because of these accumulations that we are made miserable
and groan under the feeling of bondage. Each time we want to make a
movement, they fetter us, they choke us, and cast a heavy veil
over our spiritual horizon. We feel as if we are constantly living
under restraint. We long for naturalness and freedom, yet we do not
seem to attain them. The Zen masters know this, for they have gone
through with the same experiences once. They want to have us get rid
of all these wearisome burdens which we really do not have to carry
in order to live a life of truth and enlightenment. Thus they utter a
few words and demonstrate with action that, when rightly comprehended,
will deliver us from the oppression and tyranny of these intellectual
accumulations. But the comprehension does not come to us so easily.
Being so long accustomed to the oppression, the mental inertia becomes
hard to remove. In fact it has gone down deep into the roots of our
own being, and the whole structure of personality is to be overturned.
The process of reconstruction is stained with tears and blood. But the
height the great masters have climbed cannot otherwise be reached; the
truth of Zen can never be attained unless it is attacked with the full
force of personality. The passage is strewn with thistles and brambles,
and the climb is slippery in the extreme. It is no pastime but the most
serious task in life, no idlers will ever dare attempt it. It is indeed
a moral anvil on which your character is hammered and hammered. To the
question, “What is Zen?” a master gave this answer, “Boiling oil over
a blazing fire.”[1.14] This scorching experience we have to go through
with before Zen smiles on us and says, “Here is your home.”

One of these utterances by the Zen masters that will stir a revolution
in our minds is this: Hōkoji (P‘ang-yün), formerly a Confucian, asked
Baso (Ma-tsu, –788), “What kind of man is he who does not keep company
with any thing?” Replied the master, “I will tell you when you have
swallowed up in one draught all the waters in the West River.”[1.15]
What an irrelevant reply to the most serious question one can ever
raise in the history of thought! It sounds almost sacrilegious when
we know how many souls there are who go down under the weight of this
question. But Baso’s earnestness leaves no room for doubt as is quite
well known to all the students of Zen. In fact, the rise of Zen
after the sixth patriarch, Hui-nêng, was due to the brilliant career of
Baso under whom there arose more than eighty fully-qualified masters,
and Hōkoji who was one of the foremost lay disciples of Zen, earned
a well-deserved reputation as the Vimalakīrti of Chinese Buddhism. A
talk between two such veteran Zen masters could not be an idle sport.
However easy and even careless it may appear, there is hidden in it a
most precious gem in the literature of Zen. We do not know how many
students of Zen were made to sweat and cry in tears because of the
inscrutability of this statement of Baso’s.

To give another instance: a monk asked the master Shin of Chōsa
(Chang-sha Ching-ch‘ên), “Where has Nansen (Nan-ch‘üan) gone after
his death?” Replied the master, “When Sekito (Shih-tou) was still in
the order of young novitiates, he saw the sixth patriarch.” “I am not
asking about the young novitiate. What I wish to know is, where is
Nansen gone after his death?” “As to that,” said the master, “it makes
one think.”[1.16]

The immortality of the soul is another big question. The history of
religion is built upon this one question, one may almost say. Everybody
wants to know about life after death. Where do we go when we pass away
from this earth? Is there really another life? or is the end of this
the end of all? While there may be many who do not worry themselves
as to the ultimate significance of the solitary, “companionless” One,
there are none perhaps who have not once at least in their lives
asked themselves concerning their destiny after death. Whether Sekito
when young saw the sixth patriarch or not, does not seem to have any
inherent connection with the departure of Nansen. The latter was
the teacher of Chōsa, and naturally the monk asked him whither the
teacher finally passed. Chōsa’s answer is no answer, judged by the
ordinary rules of logic. Hence the second question, but still a sort
of equivocation from the lips of the master. What does this “making
one think” explain? From this it is apparent that Zen is one thing
and logic another. When we fail to make this distinction and expect
of Zen to give us something logically consistent and intellectually
illuminating, we altogether misinterpret the signification of Zen.
Did I not state in the beginning that Zen deals with facts and not with
generalisations? And this is the very point where Zen goes straight
down to the foundations of personality. The intellect ordinarily does
not lead us there, for we do not live in the intellect, but in the
will. Brother Lawrence speaks the truth when he says (“The Practice
of the Presence of God”), “That we ought to make a great difference
between the acts of the understanding and those of the will: that the
first were comparatively of little value, and the others, all.”

Zen literature is all brimful of such statements, which seem to have
been uttered so casually, so innocently, but those who actually know
what Zen is will testify to the fact that all these utterances dropped
so naturally from the lips of the masters are like deadly poisons,
that when they are once taken in they cause such a violent pain as
to make one’s intestines wriggle nine times and more, as the Chinese
would express it. But it is only after such pain and turbulence that
all the internal impurities are purged and one is born with quite a
new outlook on life. It is strange that Zen grows intelligible when
these mental struggles are gone through. But the fact is that Zen is
an experience actual and personal, and not a knowledge to be gained
by analysis or comparison. “Do not talk poetry except to a poet; only
the sick know how to sympathise with the sick.” This explains the
whole situation. Our minds are to be so matured as to be in tune with
those of the masters. Let this be accomplished, and when one string
is struck, the other will inevitably respond. Harmonious notes always
result from the sympathetic resonance of two or more chords. And what
Zen does for us is to prepare our minds to be yielding and appreciative
recipients of old masters. In other words, psychologically Zen releases
whatever energies we may have in store, of which we are not conscious
in ordinary circumstances.

Some say that Zen is self-suggestion. But this does not explain
anything. When the word “Yamato-damashi” is mentioned, it seems to
awaken in most Japanese a fervent patriotic passion. The children are
taught to respect the flag of the rising sun, and when the soldiers
come in front of the regimental colours they involuntarily salute. When
a boy is reproached for not acting like a little samurai and disgracing
the name of his ancestor, he at once musters his courage and will
resist temptations. All these ideas are energy-releasing ideas for
the Japanese, and this release, according to some psychologists, is
self-suggestion. Social conventions and imitative instincts may also
be regarded as self-suggestions. So is moral discipline. An example is
given to the students to follow or imitate it. The idea gradually takes
root in them through suggestion, and they finally come to act as if it
were their own. Self-suggestion is a barren theory, it does not explain
anything. When they say that Zen is self-suggestion, do we get any
clearer idea of Zen? Some think it scientific to call certain phenomena
by a term newly come into fashion, and rest satisfied with it as if
they disposed of them in an illuminating way. The study of Zen must be
taken up by the profounder psychologists.

Some think that there is still an unknown region in our consciousness
which has not yet been thoroughly and systematically explored. It
is sometimes called the Unconscious or the Subconscious. This is a
territory filled with dark images, and naturally most scientists are
afraid of treading upon it. But this must not be taken as denying the
fact of its existence. Just as our ordinary field of consciousness
is filled with all possible kinds of images, beneficial and harmful,
systematic and confusing, clear and obscure, forcefully assertive and
weakly fading; so is the Subconscious a storehouse of every form of
occultism or mysticism, understanding by the term all that is known as
latent or abnormal or psychic or spiritualistic. The power to see into
the nature of one’s own being may lie also hidden there, and what Zen
awakens in our consciousness may be that. At any rate the masters speak
figuratively of the opening of a third eye. “Satori” is the popular
name given to this opening or awakening.

How is this to be effected?

By meditating on those utterances or actions that are directly poured
out from the inner region undimmed by the intellect or the
imagination, and that are calculated successfully to exterminate all
the turmoils arising from ignorance and confusion.[f7]

It may be interesting to readers in this connection to get acquainted
with some of the methods[f8] used by the masters in order to open the
spiritual eye of the disciple. It is natural that they frequently make
use of the various religious insignia which they carry when going
out to the Hall of the Dharma. Such are generally the “hossu,”[f9]
“shippe,”[f10] “nyoi,”[f11] or “shujyo” (or a staff).[1.17] The
last-mentioned seems to have been the most favourite instrument used in
the demonstration of the truth of Zen. Let me cite some examples of its
use.

According to Yê-ryo (Hui-lêng), of Chōkei (Chang-ch‘ing),[1.18] “when
one knows what that staff is, one’s life study of Zen comes to an end.”
This reminds us of Tennyson’s flower in the crannied wall. For when we
understand the reason of the staff, we know “what God and man is,” that
is to say, we get an insight into the nature of our own being, and this
insight finally puts a stop to all the doubts and hankerings that have
upset our mental tranquillity. The significance of the staff in Zen can
thus readily be comprehended.

Yê-sei (Hui-ch‘ing), of Basho (Pa-chiao), probably of the tenth
century, once made the following declaration: “When you have a staff,
I will give you one; when you have none, I will take it away from
you.”[1.19] This is one of the most characteristic statements of
Zen, but later Bokitsu (Mu-chi), of Daiyi (Ta-wei), was bold enough
to challenge this by saying what directly contradicts it, viz., “As
to myself, I differ from him. When you have a staff, I will take it
away from you; and when you have none, I will give you one. This
is my statement. Can you make use of the staff? or can you not? If
you can, Tokusan (Tê-shan) will be your vanguard and Rinzai (Lin-chi)
your rearguard. But if you cannot, let it be restored to its original
master.”[1.20]

A monk approached Bokuju and said, “What is the statement surpassing
[the wisdom of] all Buddhas and Patriarchs?” The master instantly
held forth his staff before the congregation, and said, “I call this
a staff, and what do you call it?” The monk who asked the question
uttered not a word. The master holding it out again, said, “A statement
surpassing [the wisdom of] all Buddhas and Patriarchs,—was that not
your question, O monk?”[1.21]

To those who carelessly go over such remarks as Bokuju’s may regard
them as quite nonsensical. Whether the stick is called a staff or
not, it does not seem to matter very much as far as the divine wisdom
surpassing the limits of our knowledge is concerned. But the one made
by Ummon, another great master of Zen, is perhaps more accessible. He
also once lifted his staff before a congregation and remarked: “In the
scriptures we read that the ignorant take this for a real thing, the
Hinayanists resolve it into a nonentity, the Pratyekabuddhas regard it
as a hallucination, while the Bodhisattvas admit its apparent reality,
which is, however, essentially empty.” “But,” continued the master,
“monks, you simply call it a staff when you see one. Walk or sit as you
will, but do not stand irresolute.”[1.22]

The same old insignificant staff and yet more mystical statements
from Ummon. One day his announcement was: “My staff has turned into
a dragon, and it has swallowed up the whole universe; where would
the great earth with its mountains and rivers be?”[1.23] On another
occasion, Ummon, quoting an ancient Buddhist philosopher who said
that “Knock at the emptiness of space and you hear a voice; strike a
piece of wood and there is no sound,” Ummon took out his staff, and
striking space, he cried, “Oh, how it hurts!” Then tapping at the
board, he asked, “Any noise?” A monk responded, “Yes, there is a
noise.”[f12][1.24] Thereupon exclaimed the master, “O you ignoramus!”

If I go on like this, there will be no end. So I stop, but expect
some of you asking me the following questions: “Have these utterances
anything to do with one’s seeing into the nature of one’s being? Is
there any relationship possible between those apparently nonsensical
talks about the staff and the all-important problem of the reality of
life?”

In answer I append these two passages, one from Jimyo (Tz‘u-ming)[1.26]
and the other from Yengo (Yüan-wu): In one of his sermons, Jimyo said:
“As soon as one particle of dust is raised, the great earth manifests
itself there in its entirety. In one lion are revealed millions of
lions, and in millions of lions is revealed one lion. Thousands and
thousands of them there are indeed, but know ye just one, one only.” So
saying he lifted up his staff, and continued, “Here is my own staff,
and where is that one lion?” Bursting out into a “Kwats” (_hê_), he set
the staff down, and left the pulpit.

In the _Hekigan_ (Pi-yen-lu),[f13] Yengo expresses the same idea in his
introductory remark to the “one finger Zen” of Gutei (_Chūh-chih i chih
t‘ou ch‘an_)[f14]:[1.27]

“One particle of dust is raised and the great earth lies therein;
one flower blooms and the universe rises with it. But where should
our eye be fixed when the dust is not yet stirred and the flower has
not yet bloomed? Therefore, it is said that, like cutting a bundle
of thread, one cut cuts all asunder; again, like dyeing a bundle of
thread, one dyeing dyes all in the same colour. Now yourself get out of
all the entangling relations and rip them up to pieces, but do not lose
track of your inner treasure; for it is through this that the high and
the low universally responding and the advanced and the backward making
no distinction, each manifests itself in full perfection.”

* * * * *

The foregoing sketch of Zen I hope will give the reader a general,
though necessarily vague, idea of Zen as it is and has been taught in
the Far East for more than one thousand years. In what follows I will
try first to seek the origin of Zen in the spiritual enlightenment
itself of the Buddha; for Zen has been frequently criticised for
deviating too far from what is popularly understood to be the teaching
of the Buddha as it is recorded especially in the Āgamas or Nikāyas.
While Zen, as it is, is no doubt the native product of the Chinese
mind, the line of its development must be traced back to the personal
experience of the Indian founder himself. Unless this is understood in
connection with the psychological characteristics of the people, the
growth of Zen among the Chinese Buddhists would be unintelligible. Zen
is after all one of the Mahayana schools of Buddhism shorn of its
Indian garb. Next I have tried to write a history of Zen in China after
Bodhi-Dharma, who is the real author of the school. Zen was quietly
matured and transmitted by the five successive patriarchs so-called
after the passing of the first propagator from India. When Hui-nêng,
the sixth patriarch, began to teach the gospel of Zen Buddhism, it
was no more Indian but thoroughly Chinese, and what we call Zen now
in the form as we have it, dates from him. The course thus definitely
given shape by the sixth patriarch to the development of Zen in China
gained its strength not only in volume but in content by the masterful
handling of it by the spiritual descendants of Hui-nêng. The first
section of the Chinese history of Zen therefore naturally closes with
him. As the central fact of Zen lies in the attainment of “satori” or
the opening of a spiritual eye, I have next dwelt upon the subject.
The treatment is somewhat popular, for the main idea is to present
the fact that there is such a thing as an intuitional understanding
of the truth of Zen, which is “satori,” and also to illustrate the
uniqueness of “satori” as experienced by Zen devotees. When we
understand the significance of “satori” in Zen, we may logically wish
to know something about the methods whereby the masters contrive to
bring about such a revolutionary experience, more or less noetic, in
the minds of the students. Some of the practical Zen methods resorted
to by the masters are classified under a certain number of headings,
but in this classification I have not attempted to be thoroughly
exhaustive here. The Meditation Hall is an institution quite peculiar
to Zen Buddhism, and those who want to know something about Zen and
its educational system cannot afford to ignore the subject. This
unique organ of Zen Buddhism however has never been described before.
The reader I hope will find here a subject interesting enough for his
thorough investigation. While Zen claims to be the “ultra-abrupt” wing
of Buddhism, it has a well-marked gradation in its progress towards the
ultimate goal. Hence the concluding chapter on “The Ten Cow-herding
Pictures.”

There are many more topics with which one ought to be acquainted in
the study of Zen Buddhism, and some of them, considered by the author
the more important, will be treated in the second series of the Essays.

ZEN AS CHINESE INTERPRETATION OF THE DOCTRINE OF ENLIGHTENMENT

_Foreword_

Before I proceed to the discussion of the main idea of this essay,
which is to consider Zen the Chinese way of applying the doctrine of
Enlightenment in our practical life, I wish to make some preliminary
remarks concerning the attitude of some Zen critics and thereby to
define the position of Zen in the general body of Buddhism. According
to them, Zen Buddhism is not Buddhism, it is something foreign to the
spirit of Buddhism, and that it is one of those aberrations which we
often see growing up in the history of any religion. Zen is thus,
they think, an abnormality prevailing among the people whose thought
and feeling flow along a channel different from the main current of
Buddhist thought. Whether this allegation is true or not, will be
decided, on the one hand, when we understand what is really the essence
or genuine spirit of Buddhism, and, on the other, when we know the
exact status of Zen doctrine in regard to the ruling ideas of Buddhism
as they are accepted in the Far East. It may also be desirable to know
something about the development of religious experience in general.
When we are not prepared thoroughly to understand these questions
in the light of the history and philosophy of religion, we may come
dogmatically to assert that Zen is not Buddhism just because it looks
so different on its surface from what some people with a certain set
of preconceived notions consider Buddhism to be. The statement of my
position as regards these points will therefore pave the way to the
development of the principal thesis.

Superficially, indeed, there is something in Zen so bizarre and
even irrational, as to frighten the pious literary followers of the
so-called primitive Buddhism and to make them declare that Zen is
not Buddhism but a Chinese anomaly of it. What, for instance, would
they really make out of such statements as follows: In the _Sayings of
Nan-ch‘üan_[2.l] we read that, when Ts‘ui, governor of Ch‘i District,
asked the fifth patriarch of the Zen sect, that is, Hung-jên, how it
was that while he had five hundred followers, Hui-nêng, in preference
to all others, was singled out to be given the orthodox robe of
transmission as the sixth patriarch, replied the fifth patriarch:
“Four hundred and ninety-nine out of my disciples understand well what
Buddhism is, except one Hui-nêng. He is a man not to be measured by an
ordinary standard. Hence the robe of faith was handed over to him.”
On this comments Nan-ch‘üan: “In the age of Void there are no words
whatever; as soon as the Buddha appears on earth, words come into
existence, hence our clinging to signs.... And thus as we now so firmly
take hold of words, we limit ourselves in various ways, while in the
Great Way there are absolutely no such things as ignorance or holiness.
Everything that has a name thereby limits itself. Therefore, the old
master of Chiang-hsi declared that ‘it is neither mind, nor Buddha, nor
a thing.’ It was in this way that he wished to guide his followers,
while these days they vainly endeavour to experience the Great Way by
hypostatising such an entity as mind. If the Way could be mastered in
this manner, it would be well for them to wait until the appearance
of Maitreya Buddha [which is said to be at the end of the world] and
then to awaken the enlightenment-thought. How could such ones ever
hope for spiritual freedom? Under the fifth patriarch, all of his five
hundred disciples, except one Hui-nêng, understood Buddhism well. The
lay-disciple, Nêng, was quite unique in this respect, for _he did not
at all understand Buddhism_.[f15] He understood the Way only and no
other thing.”

These are not very extraordinary statements in Zen, but to most of
the Zen critics they must spell abomination. Buddhism is flatly denied,
and its knowledge is regarded not to be indispensable to the mastery of
Zen, the Great Way, which on the contrary is more or less identified
with the negation of Buddhism. How is this? In the following pages an
attempt is made to answer this question.

_The Life and Spirit of Buddhism_

To make this point clear and to justify the claim for Zen that it
transmits the essence of Buddhism and not its formulated articles of
faith as are recorded in letters, it is necessary to strip the spirit
of Buddhism off all its outer casings and appendages, which, hindering
the working of its original life-force, are apt to make us take the
unessential for the essential. We know that the acorn is so different
from the oak, but as long as there is a continuation of growth, their
identity is a logical conclusion. To see really into the nature of the
acorn is to trace an uninterrupted development through its various
historical stages. When the seed remains a seed and means nothing more,
there is no life in it, it is a finished piece of work and except
as an object of historical curiosity, it has no value whatever in
our religious experience. In like manner, to determine the nature of
Buddhism we must go along its whole line of development and see what
are the healthiest and most vital germs in it which have brought it to
the present state of maturity. When this is done, we shall see in what
manner Zen is to be recognised as one of the various phases of Buddhism
and in fact as the most essential factor in it.

To comprehend fully, therefore, the constitution of any existent
religion that has a long history, it is advisable to separate its
founder from his teaching, as a most powerful determinant in the
development of the latter. By this I mean, in the first place, that
the founder so called had in the beginning no idea of being the
founder of any religious system which would later grow up in his name;
in the second that to his disciples, while he was yet alive, his
personality was not regarded as independent of his teaching, at least
as far as they were conscious of the fact; in the third that what was
unconsciously working in their minds as regards the nature of their
master’s personality came out in the foreground after his passing with
all the possible intensity that had been latently gaining strength
within them, and lastly that the personality of the founder grew up in
his disciples’ minds so powerful as to make itself the very nucleus
of his teaching, that is to say, the latter was made to serve as
explanation of the meaning of the former.

It is a great mistake to think that any existent religious system was
handed down to posterity by its founder as the fully matured product of
his mind, and, therefore, that what the followers had to do with their
religious founder and his teaching was to embrace both the founder and
his teaching as sacred heritage—a treasure not to be profaned by the
content of their individual spiritual experience. For this view fails
to take into consideration what our spiritual life is and petrifies
religion to its very core. This static conservatism, however, is always
opposed by a progressive party which looks at a religious system from a
dynamic point of view. And these two forces which are seen conflicting
against each other in every field of human activity, weave out the
history of religion as in other cases. In fact, history is the record
of these struggles everywhere. But the very fact that there are such
struggles in religion shows that they are here to some purpose and
that religion is a living force; for they gradually bring to light the
hidden implications of the original faith and enrich it in a manner
undreamed of in the beginning. This takes place not only with regard to
the personality of the founder but with regard to his teaching, and the
result is an astounding complexity or rather confusion which sometimes
prevents us from properly seeing into the constitution of a living
religious system.

While the founder was still walking among his followers and
disciples, the latter did not distinguish between the person of their
leader and his teaching; for the teaching was realised in the person
and the person was livingly explained in the teaching. To embrace the
teaching was to follow his steps, that is, to believe in him. His
presence among them was enough to inspire them and convince them of the
truth of his teaching. They might not have comprehended it thoroughly,
but his authoritative way of presenting it left in their hearts no
shadow of doubt as to its truth and eternal value. So long as he lived
among them and spoke to them, his teaching and his person appealed to
them as an individual unity. Even when they retired into a solitary
place and meditated on the truth of his teaching, which they did as a
form of spiritual discipline, the image of his person was always before
their mental eyes.

But things went differently when his stately and inspiring personality
was no more seen in the flesh. His teaching was still there, his
followers could recite it perfectly from memory, but its personal
connection with the author was lost, the living chain which solidly
united him and his doctrine as one was for ever broken. When they
reflected on the truth of the doctrine, they could not help thinking
of their teacher as a soul far deeper and nobler than themselves.
The similarities that were, either consciously or unconsciously,
recognised as existing in various forms between leader and disciple
gradually vanished, and as they vanished, the other side, that is,
that which made him so distinctly different from his followers came
to assert itself all the more emphatically and irresistibly. The
result was the conviction that he must have come from quite a unique
spiritual source. The process of deification thus constantly went
on until, some centuries after the death of the Master, he became a
direct manifestation of the Supreme Being himself, in fact, he was
the Highest One in the flesh, in him there was a divine humanity in
perfect realisation. He was Son of God or the Buddha and the Redeemer
of the world. He will then be considered by himself independently of
his teaching; he will occupy the centre of interest in the eyes of
his followers. The teaching is of course important, but mainly
as having come from the mouth of such an exalted spirit, and not
necessarily as containing the truth of love or Enlightenment. Indeed,
the teaching is to be interpreted in the light of the teacher’s divine
personality. The latter now predominates over the whole system, he is
the centre whence radiate the rays of Enlightenment, salvation is only
possible in believing in him as saviour.[f16]

Around this personality or this divine nature there will now grow
various systems of philosophy essentially based on his own teaching,
but more or less modified according to the spiritual experiences of the
disciples. This would perhaps never have taken place if the personality
of the founder were not such as to stir up the deep religious feelings
in the hearts of his followers; which is to say, what most attracted
the latter to the teaching was not primarily the teaching itself but
that which gave life to it, and without which it would never have been
what it was. We are not always convinced of the truth of a statement
because it is so logically advanced, but mainly because there is an
inspiring life-impulse running through it. We are first struck with it
and later try to verify its truth. The understanding is needed, but
this alone will never move us to risk the fate of our souls.

One of the greatest religious souls in Japan once confessed,[f17] “I
do not care whether I go to hell or elsewhere, but because my old
master taught me to invoke the name of the Buddha, I practise the
teaching.” This was not a blind acceptance of the master, in whom there
was something deeply appealing to one’s soul, and the disciple embraced
this something with his whole being. Mere logic never moves us; there
must be something transcending the intellect. When Paul insisted that
“if Christ be not raised, your faith is vain; ye are yet in your
sins,” he was not appealing to our logical idea of things, but to our
spiritual yearnings. It did not matter whether things existed as facts
of chronological history or not, the vital concern of ours was the
fulfilment of our inmost inspirations; even so-called objective facts
could be so moulded as to yield the best result to the requirements of
our spiritual life. The personality of the founder of any religious
system that has survived through centuries of growth must have had all
the qualities that fully meet such spiritual requirements. As soon as
the person and his teaching are separated after his own passing in the
religious consciousness of his followers, if he was sufficiently great,
he will at once occupy the centre of their spiritual interest and all
his teachings will be made to explain this fact in various ways.

To state it more concretely, how much Christianity, for instance,
as we have it to-day is the teaching of Christ himself? and how
much of it is the contribution of Paul, John, Peter, Augustine, and
even Aristotle? The magnificent structure of Christian dogmatics is
the work of Christian faith as has been experienced successively by
its leaders, it is not the work of one person, even of Christ. For
dogmatics is not necessarily always concerned with historical facts
which are rather secondary in importance compared with the religious
truth of Christianity: the latter is what ought to be rather than what
is or what was. It aims at the establishment of what is universally
valid, which is not to be jeopardised by the fact or non-fact of
historical elements, as is maintained by some of the modern exponents
of Christian dogmatics. Whether Christ really claimed to be the Messiah
or not is a great historical discussion still unsettled among Christian
theologians. Some say that it does not make any difference as far
as Christian faith is concerned whether or not Christ claimed to be
the Messiah. In spite of all such theological difficulties, Christ
is the centre of Christianity. The Christian edifice is built around
the person of Jesus. Buddhists may accept some of his teachings and
sympathise with the content of his religious experience, but so long as
they do not cherish any faith in Jesus as “Christ” or Lord, they are
not Christians.

Christianity is therefore constituted not only with the teaching
of Jesus himself but with all the dogmatical and speculative
interpretations concerning the personality of Jesus and his doctrine
that have accumulated ever since the death of the founder. In other
words, Christ did not found the religious system known by his name,
but he was made its founder by his followers. If he were still among
them, it is highly improbable that he would sanction all the theories,
beliefs, and practices, which are now imposed upon self-styled
Christians. If he were asked whether their learned dogmatics were his
religion, he might not know how to answer. He would in all likelihood
profess complete ignorance of all the philosophical subtleties of
Christian theology of the present day. But from the modern Christians’
point of view they will most definitely assure us that their religion
is to be referred to “a unitary starting point and to an original
basic character,” which is Jesus as Christ and that whatever manifold
constructions and transformations that were experienced in the body
of their religion did not interfere with their specific Christ-faith.
They are Christians just as much as the brethren of their primitive
community were; for there is an historical continuation of the
same faith all along its growth and development which is its inner
necessity. To regard the form of culture of a particular time as
something sacred and to be transmitted for ever as such is to suppress
our spiritual yearnings after eternal validity. This I believe is the
position taken up by progressive modern Christians.

How about progressive modern Buddhists then in regard to their attitude
towards Buddhist faith constituting the essence of Buddhism? How is
the Buddha conceived by his disciples? What is the nature and value of
Buddhahood? When Buddhism is defined merely as the teaching of the
Buddha, does it explain the life of Buddhism as it moves on through the
course of history? Is not the life of Buddhism the unfolding of the
inner spiritual life of the Buddha himself rather than his exposition
of it, which is recorded as the Dharma in Buddhist literature? Is there
not something in the wordy teaching of the Buddha, which gives life
to it and which lieth underneath all the arguments and controversies
characterising the history of Buddhism throughout Asia? This life is
what progressive Buddhists endeavour to lay hands on.

It is therefore not quite in accordance with the life and teaching of
the Buddha to regard Buddhism merely as a system of religious doctrines
and practices established by the Buddha himself; for it is more than
that, and comprises as its most important constituent elements, all
the experiences and speculations of the Buddha’s followers especially
concerning the personality of their master and his relations to his
own doctrine. Buddhism did not come out of the Buddha’s mind fully
armed, as did Minerva from Jupiter. The theory of a perfect Buddhism
from the beginning is the static view of it, and cuts it short from
its continuous and never-ceasing growth. Our religious experience
transcends the limitations of time, and its ever-expanding content
requires a more vital form which will grow without doing violence to
itself. Inasmuch as Buddhism is a living religion and not an historical
mummy stuffed with dead and functionless materials, it must be able to
absorb and assimilate all that is helpful to its growth. This is the
most natural thing for any organism endowed with life. And this life
may be traceable under divergent forms and constructions.

According to scholars of Pali Buddhism and of the Āgama literature, all
that the Buddha taught, as far as his systematic teaching went, seems
to be summed up by the Fourfold Noble Truth, the Twelvefold Chain of
Causation, the Eightfold Path of Righteous Living, and the doctrine of
Non-ego (_Anātman_) and Nirvana. If this was the case, what we call
primitive Buddhism was quite a simple affair when its doctrinal aspect
alone is considered. There was nothing very promising in these
doctrines that would eventually build up a magnificent structure to be
known as Buddhism comprising both the Hinayana and the Mahayana. When
we wish to understand Buddhism thoroughly, we must dive deep into its
bottom where lies its living spirit. Those that are satisfied with
a superficial view of its dogmatical aspect are apt to let go the
spirit which will truly explain the inner life of Buddhism. To some of
the Buddha’s immediate disciples the deeper things in his teachings
failed to appeal, or they were not conscious of the real spiritual
forces which moved them towards their Master. We must look underneath
if we want to come in contact with the ever-growing life-impetus of
Buddhism. However great the Buddha was, he could not convert a jackal
into a lion, nor could a jackal comprehend the Buddha above his beastly
nature. As the later Buddhists state, a Buddha alone understands
another Buddha; when our subjective life is not raised to the same
level as the Buddha’s, many things that go to make up his inner life
escape us; we cannot live in any other world than our own.[f18]
Therefore, if the primitive Buddhists read so much in the life of their
Master as is recorded in their writings, and no more, this does
not prove that everything belonging to the Buddha has thereby been
exhausted. There were probably other Buddhists who penetrated deeper
into his life, as their own inner consciousness had a richer content.
The history of religion thus becomes the history of our own spiritual
unfolding. Buddhism must be conceived biologically, so to speak, and
not mechanically. When we take this attitude, even the doctrine of the
Fourfold Noble Truth becomes pregnant with yet deeper truths.

The Buddha was not a metaphysician and naturally avoided discussing
such subjects as were strictly theoretical and had no practical bearing
on the attainment of Nirvana. He might have had his own views on those
philosophical problems that at the time engaged Indian minds. But like
other religious leaders his chief interest was in the practical result
of speculation and not in speculation as such. He was too busy in
trying to get rid of the poisonous arrow that had pierced the flesh,
he had no desire to inquire into the history, object, and constitution
of the arrow; for life was too short for that. He thus took the world
as it was, that is, he interpreted it as it appeared to his religious
insight and according to his own valuation. He did not intend to go any
further. He called his way of looking at the world and life “Dharma,”
a very comprehensive and flexible term, though it was not a term first
used by the Buddha; for it had been in vogue some time prior to him
mainly in the sense of ritual and law, but the Buddha gave it a
deeper spiritual signification.

That the Buddha was practical and not metaphysical, may be seen from
the criticism which was hurled at him by his opponents: “As Gautama is
always found alone sitting in an empty room, he has lost his wisdom....
Even Sariputra who is the wisest and best disciple of his is like a
babe, so stupid and without eloquence.”[f19] Here however lies the seed
of a future development. If the Buddha had been given up to theorising
his teaching never could be expected to grow. Speculation may be deep
and subtle, but if it has no spiritual life in it, its possibilities
are soon exhausted. The Dharma was ever maturing, because it was
mysteriously creative.

The Buddha evidently had quite a pragmatic conception of the intellect
and left many philosophical problems unsolved as unnecessary for the
attainment of the final goal of life. This was quite natural with
him. Whilst he was still alive among his disciples, he was the living
illustration of all that was implied in his doctrine. The Dharma was
manifest in him in all its vital aspects, and there was no need to
indulge in idle speculation as to the ultimate meaning of such concepts
as Dharma, Nirvana, Atman (ego), Karma, Bodhi (enlightenment), etc.
The Buddha’s personality was the key to the solution of all these. The
disciples were not fully aware of the significance of this fact. When
they thought they understood the Dharma, they did not know that this
understanding was really taking refuge in the Buddha. His presence
somehow had a pacifying and satisfying effect on whatever spiritual
anguish they had; they felt as if they were securely embraced in the
arms of a loving, consoling mother; to them the Buddha was really
such.[f20] Therefore, they had no need to press the Buddha very
hard to enlighten them on many of the philosophical problems that they
might have grown conscious of. They were easily reconciled in this
respect to the Buddha’s unwillingness to take them into the heart of
metaphysics. But at the same time this left much room for the later
Buddhists to develop their own theories not only as to the teaching of
the Buddha but mainly as to its relation to his personality.

* * * * *

The Buddha’s entrance into Nirvana meant to his disciples the loss
of the World-Light,[f21] through which they had such an illuminating
view of things. The Dharma was there and in it they tried to see the
Buddha as they were instructed by him, but it had no enlivening effect
on them as before; the moral precepts consisting of many rules were
regularly observed in the Brotherhood, but the authoritativeness of
these regulations was missed somehow. They retired into a quietude and
meditated on the teaching of the Master, but the meditation was not
quite so life-giving and satisfying because they were ever assailed by
doubts, and, as a natural consequence, their intellectual activities
were resumed. Everything was now to be explained to the full extent
of the reasoning faculty. The metaphysician began to assert himself
against the simple-hearted devotion of the disciple. What has been
accepted as an authoritative injunction from the mouth of the Buddha,
was now to be examined as a subject of philosophical discussion. Two
factions were ready to divide the field with each other, and radicalism
was opposed to conservatism, and between the two wings there were
arranged schools of various tendencies. The Sthaviras were pitted
against the Mahāsaṁghikas, with twenty or more different schools
representing various grades of diversity.[f22]

We cannot, however, exclude from the body of Buddhism all the divergent
views on the Buddha and his teaching as something foreign and not
belonging to the constituent elements of Buddhism. For these views are
exactly what support the frame of Buddhism, and without them the frame
itself will be a non-entity altogether. The error with most critics of
any existent religion with a long history of development is to conceive
it as a completed system which is to be accepted as such, while the
fact is that anything organic and spiritual—and we consider religion
such—has no geometrical outline which can be traced on paper by ruler
and compass. It refuses to be objectively defined, for this will be
setting a limit to the growth of its spirit. Thus to know what Buddhism
is will be to get into the life of Buddhism and to understand it from
the inside as it unfolds itself objectively in history. Therefore, the
definition of Buddhism must be that of the life-force which carries
forward a spiritual movement called Buddhism. All these doctrines,
controversies, constructions, and interpretations that were offered
after the Buddha’s death as regards his person, life, and teaching were
what essentially constituted the life of Indian Buddhism, and without
these there could be no spiritual activity to be known as Buddhism.

In a word what constituted the life and spirit of Buddhism is nothing
else than the inner life and spirit of the Buddha himself; Buddhism is
the structure erected around the inmost consciousness of its founder.
The style and material of the outer structure may vary as history
moves forward, but the inner meaning of Buddhahood which supports the
whole edifice remains the same and ever living. While on earth, the
Buddha tried to make it intelligible in accordance with the capacities
of his immediate followers, that is to say, the latter did their best
to comprehend the deeper significance of the various discourses
of their master, in which he pointed the way to final deliverance. As
we are told, the Buddha discoursed “with one voice,”[f23] but this
was interpreted and understood by his devotees in as manifold manners
as possible. This was inevitable, for we have each his own inner
experience which is to be explained in terms of his own creation,
naturally varying in depth and breadth. In most cases these so-called
individual inner experiences, however, may not be so deep and forceful
as to demand absolutely original phraseology, but may remain satisfied
with new interpretations of the old terms—once brought into use by an
ancient original spiritual leader. And this is the way every great
historical religion grows enriched in its contents or ideas. In some
cases this enrichment may mean the overgrowth of superstructures ending
in a complete burial of the original spirit. This is where critical
judgment is needed, but otherwise we must not forget to recognise the
living principle still in activity. In the case of Buddhism we must not
neglect to read the inner life of the Buddha himself asserting itself
in the history of a religious system designated after his name. The
claim of the Zen followers that they are transmitting the essence of
Buddhism is based on their belief that Zen takes hold of the enlivening
spirit of the Buddha, stripped of all its historical and doctrinal
garments.

_Some vital problems of Buddhism_

To the earlier Buddhists the problem did not present itself in this
light; that is to say, they did not realise that the centre of all
their dogmatics and controversies was to ascertain the real inner life
of the Buddha, which constituted their active faith in the Buddha and
his teaching. Without exactly knowing why, they first entertained,
after the passing of the Buddha, a strong desire to speculate on
the nature of his personality. They had no power to check the
constant and insistent cry of this desire brimming over in their
inmost hearts. What constituted Buddhahood? What was the essence of
Buddhahood? Questions like these assailed them one after another, and
among those there were the following which stood out more prominently
as they were more vitally interesting. They were those concerned with
the Enlightenment of the Buddha, his entrance into Nirvana, his former
life as a Bodhisattva (that is, as one capable of Enlightenment), and
his teaching as viewed from their way of understanding the Buddha.
Thus his teaching ceased to be considered independently of its author,
the truth of the teaching was so organically connected with the
Buddha’s personality, the Dharma was to be believed because it was the
very embodiment of Buddhahood, and not necessarily because it was so
logically consistent or philosophically tenable. The Buddha was the key
to the truth of Buddhism.

When attention thus centres in the person of the Buddha as the
author of the Dharma, the question of his inner experience known as
Enlightenment becomes the most vital one. Without this experience
the Buddha could not be called a Buddha; in fact, the term “Buddha,”
the Enlightened One, was his own making. If a man understands what
enlightenment is or really experiences it in himself, he knows the
whole secret of the Buddha’s superhuman nature and with it the riddle
of life and the world. The essence of Buddhism must then lie in the
Doctrine of Perfect Enlightenment. In the enlightened mind of the
Buddha there were many things which he did not and could not divulge
to his disciples. When he refused to answer metaphysical questions, it
was not because the minds of the questioners were not developed enough
to comprehend the full implications of them. If however the Buddhists
really desired to know their master, and his teaching, they had to
study the secrets of Enlightenment. As they had no living master now
they had to solve the problems by themselves if they could, and they
were never tired of exhausting their intellectual ingenuity on them.
Various theories were then advanced, and Buddhism grew richer in
content, it came to reflect something eternally valid besides mere
personal teaching of an individual. It ceased to be a thing merely
historical, but a system ever living, growing, and energy-imparting.
Various Mahayana Sutras and Shastras were produced to develop various
aspects of the content of Enlightenment as realised by the Buddha. Some
of them were speculative, others mystical, and still others ethical and
practical. In the idea of Enlightenment was thus focussed all Buddhist
thought.

Nirvana as the ideal of Buddhist life next engaged the serious
attention of Buddhist philosophers. Was it an annihilation of
existence, or that of passions or desires, or the dispelling of
ignorance, or a state of egolessness? Did the Buddha really enter
into a state of utter extinction leaving all sentient beings to their
own fate? Did the love he showed to his followers vanish with his
passing? Would he not come back among them in order to guide them, to
enlighten them, to listen to their spiritual anguish? The value of such
a grand personality as the Buddha could not perish with his physical
existence, it ought to remain with us for ever as a thing of eternal
validity. How could this notion be reconciled with the annihilation
theory of Nirvana so prevalent among the personal disciples of the
Buddha? When history conflicts with our idea of value, can it not be
interpreted to the satisfaction of our religious yearnings? What is
the objective authority of “facts” if not supported by an inwardly
grounded authority? Varieties of interpretation are then set forth in
the Mahayana texts as to the implications of Nirvana and other cognate
conceptions to be found in the “original” teaching of the Buddha.[f24]

What is the relationship between Enlightenment and Nirvana? How did
Buddhists come to realise Arhatship? What convinced them of their
attainment? Is the Enlightenment of an Arhat the same as that of
the Buddha? To answer these questions and many others in close
connection with them was the task imposed upon various schools of
Hinayana and Mahayana Buddhism. While they quarrelled much, they never
forgot that they were all Buddhists and whatever interpretations they
gave to these problems they were faithful to their Buddhist experience.
They were firmly attached to the founder of their religion and only
wished to get thoroughly intimate with the faith and teaching as were
first promulgated by the Buddha. Some of them were naturally more
conservative and wished to submit to the orthodox and traditional way
of understanding the Dharma; but there were others as in every field of
human life, whose inner experience meant more to them, and to harmonise
this with the traditional authority they resorted to metaphysics to
its fullest extent. Their efforts, there is no doubt, were honest
and sincere, and when they thought they solved the difficulties or
contradictions they were satisfied inwardly as well as intellectually.
In fact they had no other means of egress from the spiritual impasse in
which they found themselves through the natural and inevitable growth
of their inmost life. This was the way Buddhism had to develop if it
ever had in it any life to grow.

While Enlightenment and Nirvana were closely related to the conception
of Buddhahood itself, there was another idea of great importance to
the development of Buddhism, which however had no direct connection
apparently, though not in its ultimate signification, with the
personality of the Buddha. This idea naturally proved to be most
fruitful in the history of Buddhist dogmatics along with the
doctrines of Enlightenment and Nirvana. I mean by this the doctrine
of non-Atman which denies the existence of an ego-substance in our
psychic life. When the notion of Atman was ruling Indian minds, it
was a bold announcement on the part of the Buddha to regard it as the
source of ignorance and transmigration. The theory of Origination
(_pratītya-samutpāda_) which seems to make up the foundation of the
Buddha’s teaching is thus finally resolved into the finding of a
mischievous “designer” who works behind all our spiritual restlessness.
Whatever interpretation was given to the doctrine of non-Atman in
the early days of Buddhism, the idea came to be extended over to things
inanimate as well. Not only there was no ego-substance behind our
mental life, but there was no ego in the physical world, which meant
that we could not separate in reality acting from actor, force from
mass, or life from its manifestations. As far as thinking goes, we can
establish these two pairs of conception as limiting each other, but
in the actuality of things they must all be one, as we cannot impose
our logical way of thinking upon reality in its concreteness. When we
transfer this separation from thought into reality, we encounter many
difficulties not only intellectual but moral and spiritual, from which
we suffer unspeakable anguish later. This was felt by the Buddha, and
he called this mixing up Ignorance (_avidyā_). The Mahayana doctrine of
Śūnyatā was a natural conclusion. But I need not make any remark here
to the effect that the Śūnyatā theory is not nihilism or acosmism, but
that it has its positive background which sustains it and gives life to
it.

It was in the natural order of thought now for Buddhists to endeavour
to find a philosophical explanation of Enlightenment and Nirvana in
the theory of non-Atman or Śūnyatā, and this to the best of their
intellectual power and in the light of their spiritual experience.
They finally found out that Enlightenment was not a thing exclusively
belonging to the Buddha, but that each one of us could attain it if he
got rid of ignorance by abandoning the dualistic conception of life and
of the world; they further concluded that Nirvana was not vanishing
into a state of absolute non-existence which was an impossibility
as long as we had to reckon with the actual facts of life, and that
Nirvana in its ultimate signification was an affirmation—an affirmation
beyond opposites of all kinds. This metaphysical understanding of the
fundamental problem of Buddhism marks the features of the Mahayana
philosophy. As to its practical side where the theory of Śūnyatā and
the doctrine of Enlightenment are harmoniously united and realised in
life, or where the Buddhists aim to enter into the inner consciousness
of the Buddha as was revealed to him under the Bodhi tree, we will
refer to it in the following section.

* * * * *

Almost all Buddhist scholars in Japan agree that all these
characteristic ideas of the Mahayana are systematically traceable
in Hinayana literature; and that all the reconstructions and
transformations which the Mahayanists are supposed to have put on
the original form of Buddhism are really nothing but an unbroken
continuation of one original Buddhist spirit and life, and further
that even the so-called primitive Buddhism as is expounded in the
Pali canons and in the Agama texts of the Chinese Tripitaka, is also
the result of an elaboration on the part of the earlier followers of
the Buddha. If the Mahayana is not Buddhism proper, neither is the
Hinayana, for the historical reason that neither of them represents
the teaching of the Buddha as it was preached by the Master himself.
Unless one limits the use of the term Buddhism very narrowly and only
to a certain form of it, no one can very well refuse to include both
Mahayana and Hinayana in the same denomination. And, in my opinion,
it is proper, considering the organic relation between system and
experience and the fact that the spirit of the Buddha himself is
present in all these constructions, it is proper that the term Buddhism
should be used in a broad, comprehensive, and inward sense.

This is not the place to enter into the details of organic relationship
existing between the Hinayana and the Mahayana; for the object of this
essay is to delineate the course of development as traversed by Zen
Buddhism before it has reached the present form. Having outlined my
position with regard to the definition of Buddhism and the Mahayana in
general as a manifestation of Buddhist life and thought, or rather of
the inner experience of the Buddha himself, the next step will be to
see where lies the source of Zen and how it is one of the legitimate
successors and transmitters of the Buddha’s spirit.

_Zen and Enlightenment_

The origin of Zen, as is the case with all other forms of
Buddhism, is to be sought in Supreme Perfect Enlightenment
(_anuttara-samyak-saṁbodhi_) attained by the Buddha while he was sitting
under the Bodhi-tree, near the city of Gaya. If this Enlightenment
is of no value and signification to the development of Buddhism, Zen
then has nothing to do with Buddhism, it was altogether another thing
created by the genius of Bodhi-Dharma who visited China early in the
sixth century. But if Enlightenment is the _raison d’être_ of Buddhism,
that is to say, if Buddhism is an edifice erected on the solid basis
of Enlightenment, realised by the Buddha and making up his being, Zen
is the central pillar which supports the entire structure, it composes
the direct line of continuation drawn out from the content of the
Buddha’s illumined mind. Traditionally Zen is considered to have been
transmitted by the Buddha to his foremost disciple, Mahākāśyapa, when
the Buddha held out a bunch of flowers to his congregation, the meaning
of which was at once grasped by Mahākāśyapa who quietly smiled at him.
The historicity of this incident is justly criticised, but knowing the
value of Enlightenment we cannot ascribe the authority of Zen just
to such an episode as this. Zen was in fact handed over not only to
Mahākāśyapa but to all beings who will follow the steps of the Buddha,
the Enlightened One.

Like a true Indian the Buddha’s idea of ascetic meditation was to
attain Vimoksha (or simply Moksha, deliverance) from the bondage of
birth and death. There were several ways open to him to reach the
goal. According to the Brahman philosophers of those days, the great
fruit of deliverance could be matured by embracing religious truth, or
by practising asceticism or chastity, or by learning, or by freeing
oneself from passions. Each in its way was an excellent means, and if
they were practised severally or all together, they might result in
emancipation of some kind. But the philosophers talked about methods
and did not give one any trustworthy information concerning their
actual spiritual experience, and what the Buddha wished was this
self-realisation, a personal experience, an actual insight into truth,
and not mere discoursing about methods, or playing with concepts.[f25]
He detested all philosophical reasonings which he called _dṛishti_ or
_darśana_, for they would lead him nowhere, bring him no practical
result in his spiritual life. He was never satisfied until he
inwardly realised the Bodhi as the truth immediately presented to his
transcendental consciousness and whose absolute nature was so inner,
so self-convincing that he had no doubt whatever in regard to its
universal validity. The content of this Enlightenment was explained
by the Buddha as the Dharma which was to be directly perceived
(_sandiṭṭhika_), beyond limits of time (_akalika_), to be personally
experienced (_ehipassika_), altogether persuasive (_opanayika_), and
to be understood each for himself by the wise (_paccattaṁ veditabbo
viññuhi_). This meant that the Dharma was to be intuited and not to
be analytically reached by concepts. The reason why the Buddha so
frequently refused to answer metaphysical problems was partly due to
his conviction that the ultimate truth was to be realised in oneself
through one’s own efforts;[f26] for all that could be gained through
discursive understanding was the surface of things and not things
themselves, conceptual knowledge never gave full satisfaction to one’s
religious yearning. The attainment of the Bodhi could not be the
accumulation of dialectical subtleties. And this is the position taken
up by Zen Buddhism as regards what it considers a final reality. Zen in
this respect faithfully follows the injunction of the Master.

That the Buddha had an insight of higher order into the nature of
things than that which could be obtained through ordinary logical
reasoning is evidenced everywhere even in the so-called Hinayana
literature. To cite just one instance from the _Brahmajāla Sutta_ in
which the Buddha deals with all the heretical schools that were in
existence in his days, he invariably makes reference after refuting
them to the Tathagata’s deeper understanding which goes beyond their
speculations “wriggling like an eel.” What they discuss just for the
sake of discussion and to show the keenness of their analytical faculty
about the soul, future life, eternity, and other important spiritual
subjects, is not productive of any actual benefits for our inner
welfare. The Buddha knew well where these reasonings would finally lead
to and how trivial and unwholesome they were after all. So we read in
the _Brahmajāla Sutta_: “Of these, Brethren, the Tathagata knows that
these speculations thus arrived at, thus insisted on, will have such
and such a result, such and such an effect on the future condition of
those who trust in them. That does he know, and he knows also other
things far beyond (far better than those speculations): and having that
knowledge he is not puffed up, and thus untarnished he has in his own
heart realised the way of escape from them, has understood, as they
really are, the rising up and passing away of sensations, their sweet
taste, their danger, how they cannot be relied on; and not grasping
after any [of those things men are eager for], he, the Tathagata, is
quite set free.”[f27]

While the ideal of Arhatship was no doubt the entering into Nirvana
that leaves nothing behind (_anupādhiśesha_), whatever this may mean,
it did not ignore the significance of Enlightenment, no, it could not
do so very well without endangering its own reason of existence. For
Nirvana was nothing else in its essence than Enlightenment, the content
was identical in either case. Enlightenment was Nirvana reached while
yet in the flesh, and no Nirvana was ever possible without obtaining
Enlightenment. The latter may have a more intellectual note in it
than the former, which is a psychological state realised through
Enlightenment. Bodhi is spoken of in the so-called primitive
Buddhism just as much as Nirvana. So long as passions (_kleśa_) were
not subdued, and the mind still remained enshrouded in ignorance, no
Buddhists could ever dream of obtaining a Moksha (deliverance) which
is Nirvana, and this deliverance from Ignorance and passions was the
work of Enlightenment. Generally Nirvana is understood in its negative
aspect as the total extinction of everything, body and soul, but in the
actuality of life no such negativist conception could ever prevail,
and the Buddha never meant Nirvana to be so interpreted. If there
were nothing affirmative in Nirvana, the Mahayanists could never have
evolved the positive conception of it later. Though the immediate
disciples of the Buddha were not conscious of this, there was always
the thought of Enlightenment implied in it. Enlightenment attained by
the Buddha after a week’s meditation under the Bodhi-tree could not be
of no consequence to his Arhat-disciples, however negatively the latter
tended to apply this principle to the attainment of their life-object.

The true significance of Enlightenment was effectively brought out
by the Mahayanists not only in its intellectual implications but in
its moral and religious bearings. The result was the conception of
Bodhisattvaship in contradistinction to Arhatship, the ideal of their
rival school. The Arhat and the Bodhisattva are essentially the same.
But the Mahayanists, perceiving a deeper sense in Enlightenment as
the most important constituent element in the attainment of the final
goal of Buddhism, which is spiritual freedom (_ceto-vimutti_), as
the Nikāyas have it, did not wish to have it operated in themselves
only, but wanted to see it realised in every being sentient and even
non-sentient. Not only this was their subjective yearning, but there
was an objective basis on which the yearning could be justified
and realised. It was the presence in every individual of a faculty
designated by the Mahayanists as Prajñā.[f28] This was the
principle that made Enlightenment possible in us as well as in the
Buddha. Without Prajñā there could be no Enlightenment, which was
the highest spiritual power in our possession. The intellect or what
is ordinarily known by Buddhist scholars as Vijñāna, was relative in
its activity, and could not comprehend the ultimate truth which was
Enlightenment. And it was due to this ultimate truth that we could
lift ourselves above the dualism of matter and spirit, of ignorance
and wisdom, of passion and non-attachment. Enlightenment consisted in
personally realising the truth, ultimate and absolute and capable of
affirmation. Thus we are all Bodhisattvas now, beings of Enlightenment,
if not in actuality, then potentially. Bodhi-sattvas are also
Prajñā-sattvas, as we are universally endowed with Prajñā, which,
when fully and truly operating, will realise in us Enlightenment, and
intellectually (in its highest sense) lift us above appearances, which
is a state designated by Nikaya Buddhists as “emancipation of mind or
reason” (_paññā-vimutti_ or _sammad-aññā vimutti_).

If by virtue of Enlightenment Gautama was transformed into the
Buddha, and then if all beings are endowed with Prajñā and capable of
Enlightenment, that is, if they are thus Bodhisattvas, the logical
conclusion will be that Bodhisattvas are all Buddhas, or destined to
be Buddhas as soon as sufficient conditions obtain. Hence the Mahayana
doctrine that all beings, sentient or non-sentient, are endowed with
the Buddha-nature, and that our minds are the Buddha-mind and our
bodies are the Buddha-body. The Buddha before his Enlightenment was an
ordinary mortal, and we, ordinary mortals, will be Buddhas the moment
our mental eyes[f29] open in Enlightenment. In this do we not see
plainly the most natural and most logical course of things leading up
to the main teaching of Zen as it later developed in China and Japan?

How extensively and intensively the concept of Enlightenment
influenced the development of Mahayana Buddhism may be seen in the
composition of the _Saddharmapuṇḍarīka_, which is really one of the
profoundest Mahayana protests against the Hinayana conception of the
Buddha’s Enlightenment. According to the latter, the Buddha attained it
at Gayā while meditating under the Bodhi-tree, for they regarded the
Buddha as a mortal being like themselves, subject to historical and
psychological conditions. But the Mahayanists could not be satisfied
with such a realistic common-sense interpretation of the personality of
the Buddha, they saw something in it which went deep into their hearts
and wanted to come in immediate touch with it. What they sought was
finally given, and they found that the idea of the Buddha’s being a
common soul was a delusion, that the Tathagata arrived in his Supreme
Perfect Enlightenment “many hundred thousand myriads of kotis of æons
ago,” and that all those historical “facts” in his life which are
recorded in the Agama or Nikaya literature are his “skilful devices”
(_upāya-kauśalya_) to lead creatures to full ripeness and go in the
Buddha Way.[f30] In other words, this means that Enlightenment is the
absolute reason of the universe and the essence of Buddhahood, and
therefore that to obtain Enlightenment is to realise in one’s inner
consciousness the ultimate truth of the world which for ever is. While
the _Puṇḍarīka_ emphasises the Buddha-aspect of Enlightenment, Zen
directs its attention mainly to the Enlightenment-aspect of Buddhahood.
When this latter aspect is considered intellectually, we have the
philosophy of Buddhist dogmatics, which is studied by scholars of the
Tendai (_t‘ien-tai_), Kegon (_avataṁsaka_), Hosso, (_dharmalaksha_),
and other schools. Zen approaches it from the practical side of life,
that is, to work out Enlightenment in life itself.

Seeing that the idea of Enlightenment played such an important rôle in
the development of Mahayana Buddhism, what is the content of it? Can we
describe it in an intelligible manner so that our analytical intellect
could grasp it and make it an object of thought? The Fourfold Noble
Truth was not the content of Enlightenment, nor was the Twelvefold
Chain of Causation, nor the Eightfold Righteous Path. The truth flashed
through the Buddha’s consciousness was not such a thought capable of
discursive unfolding. When he exclaimed:

“Through birth and rebirth’s endless round,
Seeking in vain, I hastened on,
To find who framed this edifice,
What misery!—birth incessantly!

“O builder! I’ve discovered thee!
This fabric thou shall ne’er rebuild!
The rafters all are broken now,
And pointed roof demolished lies!
This mind has demolition reached,
And seen the last of all desire!”[f31]

he must have grasped something much deeper than mere dialectics.
There must have been something most fundamental and ultimate which
at once set all his doubts at rest, not only intellectual doubts but
spiritual anguish. Indeed, forty-nine years of his active life after
Enlightenment were commentaries on it, and yet they did not exhaust its
content; nor did all the later speculations of Nāgārjuna, Aśvaghosha,
and Vasubandhu, and Asanga explain it away. In the _Laṅkāvatāra_
therefore the author makes the Buddha confess that since his
Enlightenment, till his passing into Nirvana he uttered not a word.[f32]

Therefore, again with all his memory and learning, Ānanda could not
sound the bottom of the Buddha’s wisdom, while the latter was still
alive. According to tradition, Ānanda’s attainment to Arhatship
took place at the time of the First Convocation in which he was not
allowed to take part in spite of his twenty-five years’ attendance
upon the Buddha. Grieving over the fact, he spent the whole night
perambulating in an open square, and when he was about to lay himself
down on a couch all exhausted, he all of a sudden came to realise the
truth of Buddhism, which with all his knowledge and understanding had
escaped him all those years.

What does this mean? Arhatship is evidently not a matter of
scholarship; it is something realised in the twinkling of an eye after
a long arduous application to the matter. The preparatory course may
occupy a long stretch of time, but the crisis breaks out at a point
instantaneously, and one is an Arhat, or a Bodhisattva, or even a
Buddha. The content of Enlightenment must be quite simple in nature
and yet tremendous in effect. That is to say, intellectually, it
must transcend all the complications involved in an epistemological
exposition of it; and psychologically, it must be the reconstruction
of one’s entire personality. Such a fundamental fact naturally evades
description, and can be grasped only by an act of intuition and through
personal experience. It is really the Dharma in its highest sense.
If by “the stirring of one thought” Ignorance came into our life,
the awakening of another thought must put a stop to Ignorance and
bring about Enlightenment.[f33] And in this there is no thought to
be an object of logical consciousness or empirical reasoning; for in
Enlightenment thinker and thinking and thought are merged in the one
act of seeing into the very being of Self. No further explanation of
the Dharma is possible, hence an appeal to _via negativa_. And this has
reached its climax in the Śūnyatā philosophy of Nāgārjuna, which is
based upon the teaching of the Prajñāpāramitā literature of Buddhism.

So we see that Enlightenment is not the outcome of an intellectual
process in which one idea follows another in sequence finally to
terminate in conclusion or judgment. There is neither process nor
judgment in Enlightenment, it is something more fundamental, something
which makes a judgment possible, and without which no form of
judgment can take place. In judgment there are a subject and a
predicate; in Enlightenment subject is predicate, and predicate is
subject; they are here merged as one, but not as one of which something
can be stated, but as one from which arises judgment. We cannot go
beyond this absolute oneness; all the intellectual operations stop
here; when they endeavour to go further, they draw a circle in which
they for ever repeat themselves. This is the wall against which all
philosophies have beaten in vain. This is an intellectual _terra
incognita_, in which prevails the principle, “Credo quia absurdum est.”
This region of darkness, however, gives up its secrets when attacked by
the will, by the force of one’s entire personality. Enlightenment is
the illuminating of this dark region, when the whole thing is seen at
one glance, and all intellectual inquiries find here their rationale.
Hitherto one may have been intellectually convinced of the truth of a
certain proposition, but somehow it has not yet entered into his life,
the truth still lacks ultimate confirmation, and he cannot help feeling
a vague sense of indeterminateness and uneasiness. Enlightenment now
comes upon him in a mysterious way without any previous announcement,
and all is settled with him, he is an Arhat or even a Buddha. The
dragon has got its eyes dotted, and it is no more a lifeless image
painted on a canvas, but winds and rains are its willing servants now.

It is quite evident that Enlightenment is not the consciousness of
logical perspicuity or analytical completeness, it is something more
than an intellectual sense of conclusiveness, there is something in it
which engages the entire field of consciousness not only by throwing
light on the whole series of links welded for the purpose of solving
the problems of life, but by giving a feeling of finality to all the
spiritual anguish that has ever been so disquieting to one’s soul.
The logical links however accurately adjusted and perfectly wrought
together, fail by themselves to be pacifying to the soul in the most
thoroughgoing manner. We require something more fundamental or more
immediate for the purpose, and I maintain that the mere reviewing of
the Fourfold Noble Truth or the Twelvefold Chain of Origination does
not result in the attainment of the Anuttara-samyak-sambodhi. The
Buddha must have experienced something that went far deeper into his
inmost consciousness than the mere intellectual grasping of empirical
truths. He must have gone beyond the sphere of analytical reasoning.
He must have come in touch with that which makes our intellectual
operations possible, in fact that which conditions the very existence
of our conscious life.

When Śāriputra saw Aśvajit, he noticed how composed the latter was,
with all his organs of sense well controlled and how clear and bright
the colour of his skin was. Śāriputra could not help asking him who was
his teacher and what doctrine he taught. To this Aśvajit replied: “The
great Śākyamuni, the Blessed One, is my teacher and his doctrine in
substance is this:

“The Buddha hath the cause told
Of all things springing from a cause;
And also how things cease to be—
’Tis this the Mighty Monk proclaims.”

It is said that on hearing this exposition of the Dharma, there arose
in the mind of Śāriputra a clear and distinct perception of the Dharma
that whatever is subject to origination is subject also to cessation.
Śāriputra then attained to the deathless, sorrowless state, lost sight
of and neglected for many myriads of kalpas.

The point to which I wish to call attention here is this: Is there
anything intellectually remarkable and extraordinary and altogether
original in this stanza that has so miraculously awakened Śāriputra
from his habitually cherished way of thinking? As far as the Buddha’s
Dharma (Doctrine) was concerned, there was not much of anything in
these four lines. It is said that they are the substance of the Dharma;
if so, the Dharma may be said to be rather devoid of substance, and how
could Śāriputra ever find here a truth concrete and efficient enough to
turn him away from the old rut? The stanza which is noted for having
achieved the conversion of not only Śāriputra but Maudgalyāyana, has
really nothing characteristic of Buddhistic thought, strong enough to
produce such a great result. The reason for this, therefore, must
be sought somewhere else, that is, not in the formal truth contained
in the stanza, but in the subjective condition of the one to whose
ears it chanced to fall and in whom it awakened a vision of another
world. It was in the mind of Śāriputra itself that opened up to a clear
and distinct understanding of the Dharma; in other words, the Dharma
was revealed in him as something growing out of himself and not as an
external truth poured into him. In a sense the Dharma had been in his
mind all the time but he was not aware of its presence there until
Aśvajit’s stanza was uttered. He was not a mere passive recipient into
which something not native to his Self was poured. The hearing of the
stanza gave him an opportunity to experience the supreme moment. If
Śāriputra’s understanding was intellectual and discursive, his dialogue
with Ānanda later on could not take place in the way it did. In the
Saṁyutta-Nikāya, iii., 235f, we read:

Ānanda saw Śāriputra coming afar off, and he said to him; “Serene and
pure and radiant is your face. Brother Śāriputra! In what mood has
Śāriputra been to-day?”

“I have been alone in Dhyana, and to me came never the thought: _I_ am
attaining it! _I_ have got it! _I_ have emerged from it!”

Here we notice the distinction between an intellectual and a spiritual
understanding which is Enlightenment. When Śāriputra referred to the
cause of his being so serene, pure and radiant, he did not explain
it logically but just stated the fact as he subjectively interpreted
it himself. Whether this interpretation of his own was correct or
not takes the psychologist to decide. What I wish to see here is
that Śāriputra’s understanding of the doctrine of “origination and
cessation” was not the outcome of his intellectual analysis but an
intuitive comprehension of his own inner life-process. Between the
Buddha’s Enlightenment which is sung in the Hymn of Victory and
Śāriputra’s insight into the Dharma as the doctrine of causation,
there is a close connection in the way their minds worked. In the
one Enlightenment came first and then its expression; in the other
a definite statement was addressed first and then came an insight;
the process is reversed here. But the inadequacy of relation
between antecedent and consequence remains the same. The one does not
sufficiently explain the other, when the logical and intellectual
understanding alone is taken into consideration. The explanation must
be sought not in the objective truth contained in the doctrine of
causation, but in the state of consciousness itself of the enlightened
subject. Otherwise, how do we account for the establishment of
such a firm faith in self-realisation or self-deliverance as this?
“He has destroyed all evil passions (_āsava_); he has attained to
heart-emancipation (_ceto-vimutti_) and intellect-emancipation
(_pannā-vimutti_), here in this visible world he has by himself
understood, realised, and mastered the Dharma, he has dived deep into
it, has passed beyond doubt, has put away perplexity, has gained full
confidence, he has lived the life, has done what was to be done, has
destroyed the fetter of rebirth, he has comprehended the Dharma as it
is truly in itself.”[f34]

This is why the _Laṅkāvatāra-Sūtra_ tries so hard to tell us that
language is altogether inadequate as the means of expressing and
communicating the inner state of Enlightenment. While without language
we may fare worse at least in our practical life, we must guard
ourselves most deliberately against our trusting it too much beyond its
legitimate office. The Sutra gives the main reason for this, which is
that language is the product of causal dependence, subject to change,
unsteady, mutually conditioned, and based on false judgment as to the
true nature of consciousness. For this reason language cannot reveal
to us the ultimate signification of things (_paramārtha_). The noted
analogy of finger and moon is most appropriate to illustrate the
relation between language and sense, symbol and reality.

If the Buddha’s Enlightenment really contained so much in it that he
himself could not sufficiently demonstrate or illustrate it with his
“long thin tongue” (_prabhūtatanujihva_) through his long peaceful life
given to meditation and discoursing, how could those less than he ever
hope to grasp it and attain spiritual emancipation? This is the
position taken up by Zen: To comprehend the truth of Enlightenment,
therefore, we must exercise some other mental power than intellection,
if we are at all in possession of such. Discoursing fails to reach the
goal and yet we have an unsatiated aspiration after the unattainable.
Are we then meant to live and die thus tormented for ever? If so,
this is the most lamentable situation in which we find ourselves
on earth. Buddhists have applied themselves most earnestly to the
solution of the problem and have finally come to see that we have after
all within ourselves what we need. This is the power of intuition
possessed by spirit and able to comprehend spiritual truth which will
show us all the secrets of life making up the content of the Buddha’s
Enlightenment. It is not an ordinary intellectual process of reasoning,
but a power that will grasp something most fundamental in an instant
and in the directest way. Prajñā is the name given to this power by the
Buddhists, as I said, and what Zen Buddhism aims at in its relation to
the doctrine of Enlightenment is to awaken Prajñā by the exercise of
meditation.

We read in the _Saddharma-puṇḍarīka_: “O Śāriputra, the true Law
understood by the Tathagata cannot be reasoned, is beyond the pale of
reasoning. Why? For the Tathagata appears in the world to carry out one
great object, which is to make all beings accept, see, enter into, and
comprehend the knowledge and insight gained by the Tathagata, and also
to make them enter upon the path of knowledge and insight attained by
the Tathagata.... Those who learn it from the Tathagata also reach his
Supreme Perfect Enlightenment.”[f35] If such was the one great object
of the Buddha’s appearance on earth, how do we get into the path of
insight and realise Supreme Perfect Enlightenment? And if this Dharma
of Enlightenment is beyond the limits of the understanding, no amount
of philosophising will ever bring us nearer the goal. How do we then
learn it from the Tathagata? Decidedly not from his mouth, nor from the
records of his sermons, nor from the ascetic practise, but from our own
inner consciousness through the exercise of dhyana. And this is the
doctrine of Zen.

_Enlightenment and Spiritual Freedom_

When the doctrine of Enlightenment makes its appeal to the inner
experience of the Buddhist and its content is to be grasped immediately
without any conceptual medium, the sole authority in his spiritual
life will have to be found within himself; traditionalism or
institutionalism will naturally lose all its binding force. According
to him, then, propositions will be true, that is, living, because
they are in accordance with his spiritual insight; and his actions
will permit no external standard of judgment; as long as they are
the inevitable overflow of his inner life, they are good, even holy.
The direct issue of this interpretation of Enlightenment will be the
upholding of absolute spiritual freedom in every way, which will
further lead to the unlimited expansion of his mental outlook going
beyond the narrow bounds of monastic and scholastic Buddhism. This was
not however, from the Mahayanistic point of view, against the spirit of
the Buddha.

The constitution of the Brotherhood will now have to change. In the
beginning of Buddhism, it was a congregation of homeless monks who
subjected themselves to a certain set of ascetic rules of life. In this
Buddhism was an exclusive possession of the _élite_, and the general
public or Upāsaka group who accepted the Threefold Refuge Formula
was a sort of appendage to the regular or professional Brotherhood.
When Buddhism was still in its first stage of development, even
nuns (_bhikshuṇī_) were not allowed to come into the community; the
Buddha received them only after great reluctance, prophesying that
Buddhism would now live only half of its normal life. We can readily
see from this fact that the teaching of the Buddha and the doctrine
of Enlightenment were meant to be practised and realised only among
limited classes of people. While the Buddha regarded the various
elements of his congregation with perfect impartiality, cherishing no
prejudices as to their social, racial, and other distinctions, the
full benefit of his teaching could not extend beyond the monastic
boundaries. If there was nothing in it that could benefit mankind in
general, this exclusiveness was naturally to be expected. But the
doctrine of Enlightenment was something that could not be kept thus
imprisoned, it had many things in it that would overflow all the
limitations set to it. When the conception of Bodhisattvahood came to
be emphatically asserted, a monastic and self-excluding community could
no longer hold its ground, a religion of monks and nuns had to become
a religion of laymen and laywomen. An ascetic discipline leading to
the Anūpādhiśesha-Nirvāṇa had to give way to a system of teaching that
would make any one attain Enlightenment and demonstrate Nirvana in his
daily life. In all the Mahayana Sutras, this general tendency in the
unfoldment of Buddhism is vehemently asserted, showing how intense was
the struggle between conservatism and progressivism.

* * * * *

This spirit of freedom which is the power impelling Buddhism to
break through its monastic shell and bringing forward the idea of
Enlightenment ever vigorously before the masses, is the life-impulse of
the universe,—this unhampered activity of spirit, and everything that
interferes with it is destined to be defeated. The history of Buddhism
is thus also a history of freedom in one’s spiritual, intellectual,
and moral life. The moral aristocracy and disciplinary formalism of
primitive Buddhism could not bind our spirit for a very long period
of time. As the doctrine of Enlightenment grew to be more and more
inwardly interpreted, the spirit rose above the formalism of Buddhist
discipline. It was of no absolute necessity for one to leave his home
life and follow the footsteps of the wandering monks in order to reach
the supreme fruit of Enlightenment. Inward purity, and not external
piety, was the thing needed for the Buddhist life. The Upāsakas were
in this respect as good as the Bhikshus. The fact is most eloquently
illustrated in the _Vimalakīrti-Sūtra_. The chief character here is
Vimalakīrti, a lay philosopher, outside the pale of the Brotherhood.
None of the Buddha’s disciples were his matches in the depth, breadth,
and subtleties of thought, and when the Buddha told them to visit
his sickroom, they all excused themselves for some reason or other,
except Mañjuśrī, who is Prajñā incarnate in Mahayana Buddhism.

That the lay-devotees thus asserted themselves even at the expense
of the Arhats, may also be gleaned from other sources than the
_Vimalakīrti_, but especially from such Sutras as the _Śrīmālā_,
_Gaṇḍhavyūha_, _Vajrasamādhi_, _Candrottara-dārikā_, etc. What is the
most noteworthy in this connection is that woman plays an important
rôle on various occasions. Not only is she endowed with philosophising
talents, but she stands on equal footing with man. Among the
fifty-three philosophers or leaders of thought visited by Sudhana in
his religious pilgrimage, he interviewed many women in various walks of
life, and some of whom were even courtesans. They all wisely discoursed
with the insatiable seeker of truth. What a different state of affairs
this was when compared with the reluctant admission of women into the
Sangha in the early days of Buddhism! Later Buddhism may have lost
something in austerity, aloofness, and even saintliness, which appeal
strongly to our religious imagination, but it has gained in democracy,
picturesqueness, and largely in humanity.

* * * * *

The free spirit which wanders out beyond the monastic walls of the
Brotherhood now follows its natural consequence and endeavours to
transcend the disciplinary rules and the ascetic formalism of the
Hinayanists. The moral rules that were given by the Buddha to his
followers as they were called for by the contingencies of life, were
concerned more or less with externalism. When the Buddha remained
with them as the living spirit of the Brotherhood, these rules were
the direct expressions of the subjective life; but with the Buddha’s
departure, they grew rigid and failed to reach the inner spirit of
their author, and the followers of Enlightenment revolted against
them, upholding “the spirit that giveth life.” They advocated perfect
freedom of spirit, even after the fashion of antinomians. If the spirit
were pure, no acts of the body could spoil it; it could wander about
anywhere it liked with absolute immunity. It would even go down to
hell, if it were necessary or expedient for them to do so, for the
sake of the salvation of the depraved. It would indefinitely postpone
the entering into Nirvana if there were still souls to save and minds
to enlighten. According to “the letter that killeth” no Buddhists were
allowed to enter a liquor shop, or to be familiar with inmates of the
houses barred from respectability, in short, even for a moment to be
thinking of violating any of the moral precepts. But to the Mahayanists
all kinds of “expediency” or “devices” were granted if they were fully
enlightened and had their spirits thoroughly purified. They were living
in a realm beyond good and evil, and as long as they were there, no
acts of theirs could be classified and judged according to the ordinary
measure of ethics; they were neither moral nor immoral. These relative
terms had no application in a kingdom governed by free spirits which
soared above the relative world of differences and oppositions. This
was most slippery ground for the Mahayanists. When they were really
enlightened and fathomed the depths of spirituality, every deed of
theirs was a creative act of God, but in this extreme form of idealism,
objectivity had no room, and consequently who could ever distinguish
libertinism from spiritualism? In spite of this pitfall the Mahayanists
were in the right in consistently following up all the implications
of the doctrine of Enlightenment. Their parting company with the
Hinayanists was inevitable.

* * * * *

The doctrine of Enlightenment leads to the inwardness of one’s
spiritual experience, which cannot be analysed intellectually without
somehow involving logical contradictions. It thus seeks to break
through every intelligent barrier that may be set against it, it longs
for emancipation in every form, not only in the understanding but in
life itself. The unscrupulous followers of Enlightenment are thus
liable to degenerate into votaries of libertinism. If the Mahayanists
remained here and did not see further into the real nature of Prajñā,
they would have certainly followed the fates of the Friends of Free
Spirit, but they knew how Enlightenment realises its true signification
in love for all beings and how freedom of spirit has its own principle
to follow though nothing external is imposed upon it. For freedom
does not mean lawlessness, which is the destruction and annihilation
of itself, but creating out of its inner life-force all that is good
and beautiful. This creating is called by the Mahayanists “skilful
device” (_upāya-kauśalya_), in which Enlightenment is harmoniously
wedded to love. Enlightenment when intellectually conceived is not
dynamical and stops at illumining the path which love will tread. But
Prajñā is more than merely intellectual, it produces Karuṇā (love or
pity), and with her co-operation it achieves the great end of life,
the salvation of all beings from Ignorance and passions and misery.
It now knows no end in devising all kinds of means to carry out its
own teleological functions. The _Saddharma-Puṇḍarīka_ regards the
Buddha’s appearance on earth and his life in history as the “skilful
devices” of world-salvation on the part of the Supreme Being of Eternal
Enlightenment. This creation, however, ceases to be a creation in its
perfect sense when the creator grows conscious of its teleological
implications[f36]; for here then is a split in his consciousness which
will check the spontaneous flowing-out of spirit, and then freedom will
be lost at its source. Such devices as have grown conscious of their
purposes are no more “skilful devices,” and according to the Buddhists
they do not reflect the perfect state of Enlightenment.

Thus the doctrine of Enlightenment is to be supplemented by the
doctrine of Device (_upāya_), or the latter may be said to evolve by
itself from the first when it is conceived dynamically and not as
merely a contemplative state of consciousness. The earlier Buddhists
showed the tendency to consider Enlightenment essentially reflective or
a state of tranquillity. They made it something lifeless and altogether
uncreative. This however did not bring out all that was contained in
Enlightenment. The affective or will element which moved the Buddha
to come out of his Sāgaramudrā-Samādhi,—a samadhi in which the whole
universe was reflected in his consciousness as the moon stamps her
image upon the ocean,—has now developed into the doctrine of Device.
For the will is more fundamental than the intellect and makes up the
ultimate principle of life. Without the “devising” and self-regulating
will, life will be the mad display of a mere blind force. The
wantonness of “a free spirit” is thus now regulated to operate in the
great work of universal salvation. Its creative activity will devise
all possible means for the sake of love for all beings animate as well
as inanimate. Dhyana is one of those devices which will keep our minds
in balance and well under the control of the will. Zen is the outcome
of the dhyana discipline applied to the attainment of Enlightenment.

_Zen and Dhyana_

The term “Zen” (_ch‘an_ in Chinese), is an abbreviated form of _Zenna_
or _Ch‘anna_,[2.2] which is the Chinese rendering of “dhyāna,” or
“jhāna,” and from this fact alone it is evident that Zen has a great
deal to do with this practice which has been carried on from the early
days of the Buddha, indeed from the beginning of Indian culture. Dhyana
is usually rendered in English meditation, and, generally speaking,
the idea is to meditate on a truth, religious or philosophical, so
that it may be thoroughly comprehended and deeply engraved into the
inner consciousness. This is practised in a quiet place away from
the noise and confusion of the world. Allusion to this abounds in
Indian literature; and “to sit alone in a quiet place and to devote
oneself to meditation exclusively” is the phrase one meets
everywhere in the Āgamas.

The following conversation between Sandhana, a Buddhist, and
Nigrodha, an ascetic, which is recorded in the _Udumbarika Sīhanāda
Suttanta_,[f37] will throw much light on the habit of the Buddha. Says
Sandhana, “But the Exalted One haunts the lonely and remote recesses of
the forest, where noise, where sound there hardly is, where the breezes
from the pastures blow, yet which are hidden from the eyes of men,
suitable for self-communing.” To this, the ascetic wanderer answers:
“Look you now, householder, know you with whom the Samana Gotama talks?
with whom he holds conversation? By intercourse with whom does he
attain the lucidity in wisdom? The Samana Gotama’s insight is ruined by
his habit of seclusion. He is not at home in conducting an assembly. He
is not ready in conversation. So he keeps apart from others in solitary
places. Even as a one-eyed cow that, walking in a circle, follows only
the outskirts, so is the Samana Gotama.”

Again we read in the _Sāmañña-phala Sutta_[f38]: “Then, the master of
this so excellent body of moral precepts, gifted with this so excellent
self-restraint as to the senses, endowed with this so excellent
mindfulness and self-possession, filled with this so excellent content,
he chooses some lonely spot to rest at on his way—in the woods, at the
foot of a tree, on a hill side, in a mountain glen, in a rocky cave, in
a charnel place, or on a heap of straw in the open field. And returning
thither after his round for alms he seats himself, when his meal is
done, cross-legged, keeping his body erect, and his intelligence alert,
intent.”

Further, in the days of the Buddha, miracle-working and sophistical
discussions seem to have been the chief business of the ascetics,
wanderers, and Brahman metaphysicians. The Buddha was thus frequently
urged to join in the debates on philosophical questions and also
to perform wonders in order to make people embrace his teaching.
Nigrodha’s comment on the Buddha conclusively shows that the Buddha was
a great disapprover of empty reasoning, devoting himself to things
practical and productive of results, as well as that he was always
earnestly engaged in meditation away from the world. When Chien-ku,
son of a wealthy merchant in Nalanda, asked the Buddha to give his
command to his disciples and make them perform for the benefit of his
townspeople, the Buddha flatly refused, saying, “My disciples are
instructed to sit in solitude quietly and to be earnestly meditating on
the Path. If they had something meritorious, let them conceal it, but
if they had faults, let them confess.”[f39]

An appeal to the analytical understanding is never sufficient to
thoroughly comprehend the inwardness of a truth, especially when it is
a religious one, nor is mere compulsion by an external force adequate
for bringing about a spiritual transformation in us. We must experience
in our innermost consciousness all that is implied in a doctrine, when
we are able not only to understand it but to put it in practice. There
will then be no discrepancy between knowledge and life. The Buddha
knew this very well, and he endeavoured to produce knowledge out of
meditation, this is, to make wisdom grow from personal, spiritual
experience. The Buddhist way to deliverance, therefore, consisted
in threefold discipline: moral rules (_śīla_), tranquillisation
(_samādhi_), and wisdom (_prajñā_). By Śīla one’s conduct is regulated
externally, by Samādhi quietude is attained, and by Prajñā real
understanding takes place. Hence the importance of meditation in
Buddhism.

That this threefold discipline was one of the most characteristic
features of Buddhism since its earliest days is well attested by
the fact that the following formula, which is culled from the
_Mahāparinibbāna-Sutta_, is repeatedly referred to in the Sutra as
if it were a subject most frequently discussed by the Buddha for
the edification of his followers: “Such and such is upright conduct
(_śīla_); such and such is earnest contemplation (_samādhi_); such
and such is intelligence (_prajñā_). Great becomes the fruit, great the
advantage of intellect when it is set round with earnest contemplation.
The mind set round with intelligence is set quite free from the
intoxications (_āśrava_), that is to say, from the intoxication of
sensuality (_kāma_), from the intoxication of becoming (_bhāva_), from
the intoxication of delusion (_dṛishti_), from the intoxication of
ignorance (_avidyā_)[f40].”

Samadhi and dhyana are to a great extent synonymous and
interchangeable, but strictly samadhi is a psychological state
realised by the exercise of dhyana. The latter is the process and
the former is the goal. The Buddhist scriptures make reference to so
many samadhis, and before delivering a sermon the Buddha generally
enters into a samadhi,[f41] but never I think into a dhyana. The
latter is practised or exercised. But frequently in China dhyana and
samadhi are combined to make one word, _ch‘an-ting_;[2.3] meaning a
state of quietude attained by the exercise of meditation or dhyana.
There are some other terms analogous to these two which are met with
in Buddhist literature as well as in other Indian religious systems.
They are _Saṁpatti_ (coming together), Samāhita (collecting the
thoughts), Śamatha (tranquillisation), _Cittaikāgratā_ (concentration),
_Dṛishta-dharma-sukha-vihāra_ (abiding in the bliss of the Law
perceived), _Dhāraṇi_ or _Dhāraṇa_ (abstraction), etc. They are all
connected with the central idea of dhyana, which is to tranquillise
the turbulence of self-assertive passions and to bring about a state
of absolute identity in which the truth is realised in its inwardness,
that is, a state of Enlightenment. The analytical tendency of
philosophers is also evident in this when they distinguish four or
eight kinds of dhyana.[f42]

The first dhyana is an exercise in which the mind is made to
concentrate on one single subject until all the coarse affective
elements are vanished from consciousness except the serene feelings
of joy and peace. But the intellect is still active, judgment and
reflection operate upon the object of contemplation. When these
intellectual operations too are quieted and the mind is simply
concentrated on one point, it is said that we have attained the second
dhyana, but the feelings of joy and peace are still here. In the third
stage of dhyana, perfect serenity obtains as the concentration grows
deeper, but the subtlest mental activities are not vanished and at the
same time a joyous feeling remains. When the fourth and last stage
is reached, even this feeling of self-enjoyment disappears, and what
prevails in consciousness now is perfect serenity of contemplation. All
the intellectual and the emotional factors liable to disturb spiritual
tranquillity are successively controlled, and mind in absolute
composure remains absorbed in contemplation. In this there takes
place a fully-adjusted equilibrium between Samatha and Vipasayana,
that is, between tranquillisation or cessation and contemplation. In
all Buddhist discipline this harmony is always sought after. For when
the mind tips either way, it grows either too heavy (_styānam_) or
too light (_auddhatyam_), either too torpid in mental activity or too
given up to contemplation. The spiritual exercise ought to steer ahead
without being hampered by either tendency, they ought to strike the
middle path.

There are further four stages of dhyana called “Arūpa-vimoksha”
which are practised by those who have passed beyond the last stage
of dhyana. The first is to contemplate the infinity of space, not
disturbed by the manifoldness of matter; the second is on the infinity
of consciousness as against the first; the third is meant to go still
further beyond the distinction of space and thought; and the fourth is
to eliminate even this consciousness of non-distinction, to be thus
altogether free from any trace of analytical intellection. Besides
these eight Samāpatti (“coming together”) exercises, technically so
called, the Buddha sometimes refers to still another form of meditation
which is considered to be distinctly Buddhist. This is more or less
definitely contrasted to the foregoing by not being so exclusively
intellectual but partly affective, as it aims at putting a full stop
to the operation of Samjñā (thought) and Vedita (sensation), that
is, of the essential elements of consciousness. It is almost a state
of death, total extinction, except that one in this dhyana has life,
warmth, and the sense-organs in perfect condition. But in point of fact
it is difficult to distinguish this Nirodha-vimoksha (deliverance by
cessation) from the last stage of the Aruppa (or Arūpa) meditation, in
both of which consciousness ceases to function even in its simplest and
most fundamental acts.

Whatever this was, it is evident that the Buddha like the other
Indian leaders of thought endeavoured to make his disciples realise
in themselves the content of Enlightenment by means of dhyana, or
concentration. They were thus made to gradually progress from a
comparatively simple exercise up to the highest stage of concentration
in which the dualism of the One and the Many vanished even to the
extent of a total cessation of mentation. Apart from these general
spiritual exercises, the Buddha at various times told his followers
to meditate on such objects[f43] as would make them masters of their
disturbing passions and intellectual entanglements.

We can now see how Zen developed out of this system of spiritual
exercises. Zen adopted the external form of dhyana as the most
practical method to realise the end it had in view, but as to its
content Zen had its own way of interpreting the spirit of the Buddha.
The dhyana practised by primitive Buddhists was not in full accord
with the object of Buddhism, which is no other than the attaining of
Enlightenment and demonstrating it in one’s everyday life. To do away
with consciousness so that nothing will disturb spiritual serenity was
too negative a state of mind to be sought after by those who at all
aspired to develop the positive content of the Buddha’s own enlightened
mind. Tranquillisation was not the real end of dhyana, nor was the
being absorbed in a samadhi the object of Buddhist life. Enlightenment
was to be found in life itself, in its fuller and freer expressions,
and not in its cessation. What was it that made the Buddha pass all
his life in religious peregrination? What was it that moved him to
sacrifice his own well-being, in fact his whole life, for the sake
of his fellow-creatures? If dhyana had no positive object except in
pacifying passions and enjoying absorption in the unconscious, why
did the Buddha leave his seat under the Bodhi-tree and come out into
the world? If Enlightenment was merely a negative state of cessation,
the Buddha could not find any impulse in him that would urge him to
exertion in behalf of others. Critics sometimes forget this fact
when they try to understand Buddhism simply as a system of teaching
as recorded in the Agamas and in Pali Buddhist literature. As I said
before, Buddhism is also a system built by his disciples upon the
personality of the Buddha himself, in which the spirit of the Master
is more definitely affirmed. And this is what Zen has in its own
way been attempting to do—to develop the idea of Enlightenment more
deeply, positively, and comprehensively by the practice of dhyana and
in conformity with the spirit of general Buddhism, in which life,
purged of its blind impulses and sanctified by an insight into its real
values, will be asserted.

_Zen and, the Laṅkāvatāra_

Of the many Sutras that were introduced into China since the first
century A.D., the one in which the principles of Zen are more expressly
and directly expounded than any others, at least those that were in
existence at the time of Bodhi-Dharma, is the _Laṅkāvatāra Sūtra_.
Zen, as its followers justly claim, does not base its authority on
any written documents, but directly appeals to the enlightened mind
of the Buddha. It refuses to do anything with externalism in all
its variegated modes; even the Sutras or all those literary remains
ordinarily regarded as sacred and coming directly from the mouth of the
Buddha are looked down upon, as we have already seen, as not touching
the inward facts of Zen. Hence its reference to the mystic dialogue
between the Enlightened One and Mahākāśyapa on a bouquet of flowers.
But Bodhi-Dharma, the founder of Zen in China, handed the _Laṅkāvatāra_
over to his first Chinese disciple Hui-k‘ê as the only literature in
existence at the time in China, in which the principles of Zen are
taught. When Zen unconditionally emphasises one’s immediate experience
as the final fact on which it is established it may well ignore all
the scriptural sources as altogether unessential to its truth; and on
this principle its followers have quite neglected the study of the
_Laṅkāvatāra_. But to justify the position of Zen for those who have
not yet grasped it and yet who are desirous of learning something
about it, an external authority may be quoted and conceptual arguments
resorted to in perfect harmony with its truth. This was why Dharma
selected this Sutra out of the many that had been in existence in China
in his day. We must approach the _Laṅkāvatāra_ with this frame of mind.

There are three Chinese translations of the Sutra still in existence.
There was a fourth one, but it was lost. The first in four volumes
was produced during the Lu-Sung dynasty (A.D. 443) by Guṇabhadra, the
second in ten volumes comes from the pen of Bodhiruci, of the Yüan-Wei
dynasty (A.D. 513), and the third in seven volumes is by Śikshānanda,
of the T‘ang dynasty (A.D. 700).[2.4] The last-mentioned is the easiest
to understand and the first the most difficult, and it was this,
the most difficult one, that was delivered by Dharma to his disciple
Hui-K‘ê as containing the “essence of mind”. In form and in content
this translation reflects the earliest text of the Sutra, and on it are
written all the commentaries we have at present in Japan.

The special features of this Sutra, which distinguish it from the other
Mahayana writings, are, to give the most noteworthy ones: first, that
the subject-matter is not systematically developed as in most other
Sutras, but the whole book is a series of notes of various lengths;
secondly, that the Sutra is devoid of all supernatural phenomena,
but filled with deep philosophical and religious ideas concerning
the central teaching of the Sutra, which are very difficult to
comprehend, due to tersity of expression and to the abstruse nature
of the subject-matter; thirdly, that it is in the form of dialogues
exclusively between the Buddha and the Bodhisattva Mahāmati while in
the other Mahayana Sutras the principal figures are generally more than
one besides the Buddha himself who addresses them in turn; and lastly,
that it contains no Dharanis or Mantrams—those mystical signs and
formulas supposed to have a miraculous power. These singularities are
enough to make the _Laṅkāvatāra_ occupy a unique position in the whole
lore of the Mahayana school.

In this characterisation of the _Laṅkāvatāra Sūtra_, I am referring to
the first Chinese text of Guṇabhadra. The two later ones have three
new chapters in addition: one of which forming the first chapter is
a sort of introduction to the whole Sutra, giving the main idea of
what is discussed in the body of the text itself; the remaining two
are attached to the end. Of these, the one is a short collection of
Dharanis, and the other which is the conclusion is known as the Gāthā
chapter written throughout in verse and summarises the contents of
the whole Sutra. It has, however, no paragraph making up the “regular
ending” in which the whole congregation unites in the praise of the
Buddha and in its assurance of observing his instructions. There is no
doubt that these three new chapters are of later growth.

The main thesis of the _Laṅkāvatāra Sūtra_ is the content
of Enlightenment, that is, the Buddha’s own inner experience
(_pratyātmagati_) concerning the great religious truth of Mahayana
Buddhism. Most of the readers of the Sutra have singularly failed to
see this, and contend that it principally explains the Five Dharmas,
the Three Characteristics of Reality (svabhāva), the Eight Kinds of
Consciousness (_vijñāna_), and the Two Forms of Non-Ego (_nairātmya_).
It is true that the Sutra reflects the psychological school of Buddhism
advocated by Asaṅga and Vasubandhu, when for instance it refers to the
Ālayavijñāna as the storage of all karmic seeds; but such and other
references in fact do not constitute the central thought of the Sutra,
they are merely made use of in explaining the “noble understanding
of the Buddha’s inner experience” (_pratyātmāryajñāna_). Therefore
when Mahāmati finishes praising the Buddha’s virtues before the whole
assembly at the summit of Mount Laṅkā, the Buddha is quite definite in
his declaration of the main theme of his discourse in this Sutra. Let
us however first quote the song of the Bodhisattva Mahāmati since it
sums up in a concise and definite manner all the essentials of Mahayana
Buddhism and since at the same time it illustrates my statement
concerning the union of Enlightenment and Love.

The hymn runs as follows:

“When thou reviewest the world with thy wisdom and compassion, it is to
thee like the ethereal flower, and of which we cannot say whether it
is created or vanishing, as the categories of being and non-being are
inapplicable to it.

“When thou reviewest all things with thy wisdom and compassion, they
are like visions, they are beyond the reach of mind and consciousness,
as the categories of being and non-being are inapplicable to them.

“When thou reviewest the world with thy wisdom and compassion, it is
eternally like a dream, of which we cannot say whether it is permanent
or it is subject to destruction, as the categories of being and
non-being are inapplicable to it.

“The Dharmakāya whose self-nature is a vision and a dream, what is
there to praise? Real existence is where rises no thought of nature and
no-nature.

“He whose appearance is beyond the senses and sense-objects and is not
to be seen by them or in them—how could praise or blame be predicated
of him, O Muni?

“With thy wisdom and compassion, which really defy all qualifications,
thou comprehendest the ego-less nature of things and persons and art
eternally clean of the evil passions and of the hindrance of knowledge.

“Thou dost not vanish in Nirvana, nor does Nirvana abide in thee; for
it transcends the dualism of the enlightened and enlightenment as well
as the alternatives of being and non-being.

“Those who see the Muni so serene and beyond birth, are detached from
cravings and remain stainless in this life and after.”

After this says the Buddha: “O you, sons of the Jina, question me
anything you feel like asking. I am going to tell you about the
state of my inner attainment (_pratyātmagatigocaram_).” This is
conclusive, nothing is left to discussion concerning the theme of the
_Laṅkāvatāra_. The five Dharmas, the three Characteristics, etc.,
are referred to only in the course of the Buddha’s exposition of the
principal matter.

The two later translations, which, as aforementioned, contain some
extra chapters, are divided regularly in the one into ten and in the
other into eighteen chapters, while the earliest one of Gunabhadra
has just one chapter title for the whole book, “The Gist of all
the Buddhawords.” The first extra chapter which is not found in
Gunabhadra’s text is remarkable in this that it gives the outlines
of the whole Sutra in the form of a dialogue between the Buddha and
Rāvana, Lord of the Yakshas, in the Isle of Laṅkā. When the Buddha,
coming out of the Nāga’s palace, views the castle of Laṅkā, he smiles
and remarks that this was the place where all the Buddhas of the
past preached regarding the excellent understanding of Enlightenment
realised in their inner consciousness, which is beyond the analysis of
logic and is not the state of mind attainable by the Tīrthya, Śrāvaka,
or Pratyekabuddha. The Buddha then adds that for this reason the
same Dharma will be propounded for Rāvana, Lord of the Yakshas. In
response to this, the latter, making all kinds of costly offerings
to the Buddha, sings in the praise of his insight and virtues: “O
Lord, instruct me in thy system of doctrine which is based on the
self-nature of mind, instruct me in the doctrine of non-ego, free from
prejudices and defilements, the doctrine that is revealed in thy inmost
consciousness.”

In the conclusion of this chapter, the Buddha reaffirms his doctrine
of inner realisation which is Enlightenment: “It is like seeing one’s
own image in a mirror or in water, it is like seeing one’s own shadow
in moonlight or lamplight, again it is like hearing one’s voice echoed
in the valley: as a man clings to his own false assumptions, he
erroneously discriminates between truth and falsehood, and on account
of this false discrimination he fails to go beyond the dualism of
opposites, indeed he cherishes falsity and cannot attain tranquillity.
By tranquillity is meant singleness of purpose (or oneness of things),
and by singleness of purpose is meant the entrance into the most
excellent samadhi, whereby is produced the state of noble understanding
of self-realisation, which is the receptacle of Tathagatahood
(_tathāgatagarbha_).”

From these quotations we can easily see why Bodhi-Dharma recommended
this Sutra for the special perusal of his Zen disciples. But in
order to impress the reader further with the great importance of
the _Laṅkāvatāra Sūtra_ in the historical study of Zen in India
and China, I quote a few more passages showing how the teaching of
self-realisation is developed in the Sutra.

According to the author, the anuttara-samyak-sambodhi attained by the
Muni of the Śākyas, whereby he became the Buddha, is realisable by
transcending the ideas of being and non-being (_nāsy-asti-vikalpa_).
This being the fundamental error—this cherishing of dualism—must
be got rid of as the first necessary step to reach the state of
self-realisation. The error comes from not perceiving the truth
that all things are empty (_śūnya_), uncreated (_anutpāda_),
non-dualistic (_advaya_), and have no immutably individualistic
characters (_niḥsvabhāvalakshaṇa_). By the emptiness of things
is meant principally that their existence being so thoroughly
mutually conditioning, nowhere obtains the false notion of
distinctive individuality, and that when analysis is carried to
its logical consequence there exists nothing that will separate
one object from another in a final way; therefore says the Sutra,
“Sva-para-ubhaya-abhāvāt” (there exists neither one nor another
nor both). Secondly, things are uncreated, because they are not
self-created, nor are they created by an outside agency. Thirdly, as
their existence is reciprocally conditioning, a dualistic conception
of the world is not the ultimate one, and thus it is a mistake, due
to this wrong discrimination (_vikalpa_), to seek Nirvana outside of
Samsara (birth-and-death) and Samsara outside of Nirvana. Fourthly,
this principle of mutuality means the denial of individuality as
absolute reality, for there is nothing in existence that will
absolutely maintain its individuality standing above all conditions of
relativity or mutual becoming—in fact, being is becoming. For these
reasons, we can realise the truth of Enlightenment only by transcending
the first condition of intellection, which is, according to the
_Laṅkāvatāra_, Parikalpa, or Vikalpa (discrimination). The warning
against this Vikalpa which is the analysing tendency of mind, or, we
may say, the fundamentally dualistic disposition of consciousness is
the constant refrain of the Sutra, while on the other hand it never
forgets to emphasise the importance of self-realisation which is
attained by overcoming this fundamental tendency.

By thus transcending the intellectual condition, Paramārthasatya
is realised, which is the ultimate truth, and which subjectively
constitutes Pratyātmajñāna; it is also the eternally abiding law of
the universe (_paurāṇasthitidharmatā_). This inwardly realised truth
has many names as it is viewed in various relations in which it stands
to human activities, moral, spiritual, intellectual, practical, and
psychological. “Bodhi” is enlightenment and used most generally, in
Mahayana as well as in Hinayana literature, to designate the mind in
which Ignorance is completely wiped out; Tathatā (thatness) or Bhūtatā
(reality) is metaphysical. Nirvana is conceived as a spiritual state
in which all passional turmoil is quieted; Tathāgatagarbha is more
psychological than ontological; Citta is used as belonging to the
series of mental terms such as Manas, Manovijñāna, and other Vijñānas,
and is not always synonymous with Bodhi or Pratyātmajñāna unless it
is qualified with adjectives of purity; Śūnyatā is a negative term
and distinctively epistemological, and Buddhist scholars, especially
of the Prajñāpāramitā school, have been quite fond of this term, and
we see that the _Laṅkāvatāra_ too has indulged in the use of it. It
goes without saying however that these synonyms are helpful only as
sign-posts indicating the way to the content of self-realisation.

Besides these, we have two or three most frequently repeated phrases
to characterise the central idea of the Mahayana text. In fact, when
the meaning of these phrases is grasped together with psychological
discourse on the Citta and Vijñāna, the whole philosophy of Zen
as it is expounded in the Sutra grows transparent, and also with
it the general tendency of Mahayana thought. The phrases are:
“_Vāg-vikalpa-ahita_” or “_vāg-akshara-prativikalpanaṁ vinihata_” or
“_śāśvata-uccheda-sad-asad-dṛishṭi-vivarjita_.” With these the reader
is most frequently greeted in the Sutra. The first and the second
phrases mean that the inner content of the noble understanding is
beyond the reach of words and analytical reasoning, and the third
phrase says that the ultimate truth is not to be found in eternalism,
or nihilism, or realism, or non-realism. The Sutra sometimes goes so
far as this: “O Mahāmati, it is because the Sutras are preached to all
beings in accordance with their modes of thinking, and do not hit the
mark as far as the true sense is concerned; words cannot re-instate
the truth as it is. It is like mirage, deceived by which the animals
make an erroneous judgment as to presence of water where there is
really none; even so, all the doctrines in the Sutras are intended to
satisfy the imagination of the masses, they do not reveal the truth
which is the object of the noble understanding. Therefore O Mahāmati,
conform yourself to the sense, and do not be engrossed in words and
doctrines.”[f44]

The purport of these adjectives and phrases is that no conceptual
interpretation is possible of Enlightenment or self-realisation and
that the realisation must issue from one’s own inner consciousness,
independent of scriptural teaching or of another’s help. For all
that is needed to lead one to the attainment of Pratyātmāryajñāna is
within oneself, only that it is in a state of confusion owing to wrong
judgments (_vikalpa_) cherished and infused (_vāsanā_) in the mind
since beginningless time. It requires a direct, personal confirmation
or transmission from the Buddhas, but even these latter are unable to
awaken us to the exalted state of Enlightenment unless we ourselves
concentrate our spiritual efforts in the work of self-emancipation.
Therefore, meditation (_dhyāna_) is recommended in the Sutra as the
means of attaining to the truth of the inmost consciousness.

The idea of dhyana as explained in the _Laṅkāvatāra_, however, is
different from what we generally know in Hinayana literature,[f45]
that is, from those kinds of dhyana mentioned in the previous part
of this essay. The Sutra distinguishes four dhyanas: the first is
practised by the unlearned (_bālopacārika_), such as the Śrāvakas,
Pratyeka-buddhas, and devotees of the Yoga. They have been instructed
in the doctrine of nonātman, and regarding the world as impermanent,
impure, and pain-producing, they persistently follow these thoughts
until they realise the samadhi of thought-extinction. The second
dhyana is designated “statement-reviewing” (_artha-pravicaya_) by
which is meant an intellectual examination of statements or
propositions, Buddhist or non-Buddhist, such as “Each object has its
individual marks,” “There is no personal Atman,” “Things are created
by an external agency,” or “things are mutually determined”; and after
the examination of these themes the practiser of this dhyana turns
his thought on the non-atman-ness of things (_dharma-nairātmya_) and
on the characteristic features of the various stages (_bhūmi_) of
Bodhisattvaship, and finally in accordance with the sense involved
therein he goes on with his contemplative examination. The third dhyana
is called “Attaching oneself to Thatness” (_tathatālambana_) whereby
one realises that to discriminate the two forms of non-atman-ness
is still due to an analytical speculation and that when things are
truthfully (_yathābhūtam_) perceived, no such analysis is possible,
for then there obtains absolute oneness only. The fourth and last is
“Tathāgata-dhyāna.” In this one enters into the stage of Buddhahood
where he enjoys a threefold beatitude belonging to the noble
understanding of self-realisation and performs wonderful deeds for the
sake of all sentient beings. In these dhyanas we observe a gradual
perfection of Buddhist life culminating in the utmost spiritual freedom
of Buddhahood, which is above all intellectual conditions and beyond
the reach of relative consciousness. Those wonderful, unthinkable
(_acintya_) deeds issuing from spiritual freedom are technically called
“deeds performed with no sense of utility” (_anābhogacaryā_), or the
“deeds of no purpose” as referred to elsewhere, and mean the perfection
of Buddhist life.

The _Laṅkāvatāra_ was thus handed over by Bodhi-Dharma to his first
disciple Hui-k‘ê as the most illuminating document on the doctrine of
Zen. But the development of Zen in China naturally did not follow the
line as was indicated in the Sutra, that is, after the Indian fashion;
the soil where the dhyana of the _Laṅkāvatāra_ was transplanted did
not favour its growth in the same manner as it did in the original
climate. Zen was inspired with the life and spirit of the dhyana of the
Tathagata, but it created its own mode of manifestation. Indeed this
was where it showed its wonderful power of vitality and adaptation.

_The Doctrine of Enlightenment as Zen in China_

To understand how the doctrine of Enlightenment or self-realisation
came to be translated in China as Zen Buddhism, we must first see where
the Chinese mind varies from the Indian generally. When this is done,
Zen will appear as a most natural product of the Chinese soil where
Buddhism has been successfully transplanted in spite of many adverse
conditions. Roughly, then, the Chinese are above all a most practical
people while the Indians are visionary and highly speculative. We
cannot perhaps judge the Chinese as unimaginative and lacking in the
dramatic sense, but when they are compared with the inhabitants of the
Buddha’s native land, they look so grey, so sombre. The geographical
features of each country are singularly reflected in the people. The
tropical luxuriance of imagination so strikingly contrasts with the
wintery dreariness of common practicalness. The Indians are subtle
in analysis and dazzling in poetic flight; the Chinese are children
of earthly life, they plod, they never soar away in the air. Their
daily life consists in tilling the soil, gathering dry leaves, drawing
water, buying and selling, being filial, and observing social duties,
and developing the most elaborate system of etiquette. Being practical
means in a sense being historical, observing the progress of time
and recording its traces as they are left behind. The Chinese can
very well boast of their being great recorders,—such a contrast to
the Indian lack of sense of time. Not satisfied with books printed
on paper and with ink, the Chinese would engrave their deeds deep in
stone, and have developed a special art of stone-cutting. This habit
of recording events has developed their literature, and they are
quite literary and not at all warlike, they love a peaceful life of
culture. Their weakness is that they are willing to sacrifice facts for
literary effects, for they are not very exact and scientific. Love of
fine rhetoric and beautiful expressions has frequently drowned their
practical sense, but here is also their art. Well restrained even in
this, their soberness never reaches that form of fantasy which we
encounter in most of the Mahayana texts.

The Chinese are in many ways great, their architecture is great
indeed, their literary achievements deserve the world’s thanks; but
logic is not one of their strong points; nor are their philosophy and
imagination. When Buddhism with all its characteristically Indian
dialectics and imageries was first introduced into China, it must
have staggered the Chinese mind. Look at its gods with many heads and
arms—something that has never entered into their heads, in fact into
no other nation’s than the Indian’s. Think of the wealth of symbolism
with which every being in Buddhist literature seems to be endowed.
The mathematical conception of infinities, the Bodhisattva’s plan
of world-salvation, the wonderful stage-setting before the Buddha
begins his sermons, not only in their general outlines but in their
details—bold, yet accurate, soaring in flight, yet sure of every
step—these and many other features must have been things of wonderment
to the practical and earth-plodding people of China.

* * * * *

One quotation from a Mahayana Sutra will convince readers of the
difference between Indian and Chinese minds, in regard to their
imaginative powers. In the _Saddharma-puṇḍarīka_ the Buddha wishes
to impress his disciples as to the length of time passed since his
attainment of Supreme Enlightenment; he does not merely state that it
is a mistake to think that his Enlightenment took place some countable
number of years ago under the Bodhi-tree near the town of Gayā; nor
does he say in a general way that it happened ages ago, which is very
likely the way with the Chinese, but he describes in a most analytical
way in how remote an age it was that he came to Enlightenment.

“But, young men of good family, the truth is that many hundred thousand
myriads of kotis of æons ago I have arrived at Supreme, Perfect
Enlightenment. By way of example, young men of good family, let there
be the atoms of earth of fifty hundred thousand myriads of kotis of
worlds; let there exist some man who takes one of these atoms of dust
and then goes in an eastern direction fifty hundred thousand myriads
of kotis of worlds further on, there to deposit that atom of dust;
let the man in this manner carry away from all those worlds the
whole mass of earth, and in the same manner, and by the same act as
supposed, deposit all those atoms in an eastern direction. Now would
you think, young men of good family, that any one should be able to
weigh, imagine, count, or determine the number of these worlds? The
Lord having thus spoken, the Bodhisattva Mahāsattva Maitreya and the
entire host of Bodhisattvas replied: They are incalculable, O Lord,
those worlds, countless, beyond the range of thought. Not even all the
Śrāvakas and Pratyeka-buddhas, O Lord, with their Ārya-knowledge, will
be able to imagine, count, or determine them. For us also, O Lord, who
are Bodhisattvas standing on the place from whence there is no turning
back, this point lies beyond the sphere of our comprehension; so
innumerable, O Lord, are those worlds.

“This said, the Buddha spoke to those Bodhisattvas Mahāsattvas as
follows: I announce to you, young men of good family, I declare to you:
However numerous be those worlds where that man deposits those atoms of
dust and where he does not, there are not, young men of good family, in
all those hundred thousands of myriads of kotis of worlds so many dust
atoms as there are hundred thousands of myriads of kotis of æons since
I have arrived at Supreme, Perfect Enlightenment.”[f46]

Such a conception of number and such a method of description would
never have entered the Chinese mind. They are, of course, capable of
conceiving long duration, and great achievements, in which they are not
behind any nation; but to express their idea of vastness in the manner
of the Indian philosophers would be beyond their understanding.

* * * * *

When things are not within the reach of conceptual description and
yet when they are to be communicated to others, the ways open to most
people will be either to remain silent, or to declare them simply
to be beyond words, or to resort to negation saying, “not this,”
“not that,” or if one were a philosopher, to write a book explaining
how logically impossible it was to discourse on such subjects;
but the Indians found quite a novel way of illustrating philosophical
truths that cannot be appealed to analytical reasoning. They resorted
to miracles or supernatural phenomena for their illustration. Thus
they made the Buddha a great magician; not only the Buddha but almost
all the chief characters appearing in the Mahayana scriptures became
magicians. And in my view this is one of the most charming features
of the Mahayana texts—this description of supernatural phenomena in
connection with the teaching of abstruse doctrine. Some may think it
altogether childish and injuring the dignity of the Buddha as teacher
of solemn religious truths. But this is a superficial interpretation
of the matter. The Indian idealists knew far better; they had a more
penetrating imagination which was always effectively employed by them
whenever the intellect was put to a task beyond its power. We must
understand that the motive of the Mahayanists who made the Buddha
perform all these magical feats was to illustrate through imageries
what in the very nature of things could not be done in an ordinary
method open to human intellect. When the intellect failed to analyse
the essence of Buddhahood, their rich imagination came in to help them
out by visualising it. When we try to explain Enlightenment logically,
we always find ourselves involved in contradictions. But when an appeal
is made to our symbolical imagination—especially if one is liberally
endowed with this faculty—the matter is more readily comprehended.
At least this seems to have been the Indian way of conceiving the
signification of supernaturalism.

When Vimalakīrti was asked by Śāriputra how such a small room as his
with just one seat for himself could accommodate all the hosts of
Bodhisattvas and Arhats and Devas numbering many thousands, who were
coming there with Mañjuśrī to visit the sick philosopher, replied
Vimalakīrti, “Are you here to seek chairs or the Dharma?... One who
seeks the Dharma finds it in seeking it in nothing.” Then learning from
Mañjuśrī where to obtain seats, he asks a Buddha called Sumerudīparāja
to supply him with 32,000 lion-seats, majestically decorated and as
high as 84,000 yojanas. When they were brought in, his room,
formerly large enough for one seat, now miraculously accommodated all
the retinue of Mañjuśrī, each one of whom was comfortably seated in a
celestial chair, and yet the whole town of Vaiśāli and the rest of the
world did not appear on this account crammed to overflowing. Śāriputra
was surprised beyond measure to witness this supernatural event, but
Vimalakīrti explained that for those who understand the doctrine of
spiritual emancipation, even the Mount of Sumeru could be sealed up in
a seed of mustard, and the waves of the four great oceans could be made
to flow into one pore of the skin (_romakūpa_), without even giving any
sense of inconvenience to any of the fishes, crocodiles, tortoises, and
other living beings in them; the spiritual kingdom was not bound in
space and time.

To quote another instance from the first chapter of the
_Laṅkāvatārasūtra_, which does not appear in the oldest Chinese
translation. When King Rāvaṇa was requesting the Buddha through the
Bodhisattva Mahāmati to disclose the content of his inner experience,
the king unexpectedly noticed his mountain-residence turned into
numberless mountains of precious stones and most ornately decorated
with celestial grandeur, and on each of these mountains he saw the
Buddha manifested. And before each Buddha there stood King Rāvaṇa
himself with all his assemblage as well as all the countries in the ten
quarters of the world, and in each of those countries there appeared
the Tathagata, before whom again there were King Rāvaṇa, his families,
his palaces, his gardens, all decorated exactly in the same style as
his own. There was also the Bodhisattva Mahāmati in each of these
innumerable assemblies asking the Buddha to declare the content of his
inner spiritual experience; and when the Buddha finished his discourse
on the subject with hundreds of thousands of exquisite voices, the
whole scene suddenly vanished, and the Buddha with all his Bodhisattvas
and his followers were no more; then King Rāvaṇa found himself all
alone in his old palace. He now reflected: “Who was he that asked
the question? Who was he that listened? What were those objects that
appeared before me? Was it a dream? or a magical phenomenon?” He
again reflected: “Things are all like this, they are all creations
of one’s own mind. When mind discriminates, there is manifoldness of
things; but when it does not, it looks into the true state of things.”
When he thus reflected, he heard voices in the air and in his own
palace, saying: “Well you have reflected, O King! You should conduct
yourself according to this view.”

The Mahayana literature is not the only recorder of the miraculous
power of the Buddha, which transcends all the relative conditions of
space and time as well as of human activities mental and physical. The
Pali scriptures are by no means behind the Mahayana in this respect.
Not to speak of the Buddha’s threefold knowledge which consists in the
knowledge of the past, the future, and of his own emancipation, he can
also practise what is known as the three wonders which are the mystic
wonder, the wonder of education, and the wonder of manifestation. But
when we carefully examine the miracles described in the Nikayas, we
see that they have no other objects in view than the magnification and
deification of the personality of the Buddha. The recorders of these
miracles must have thought that they could thus make their master
greater and far above ordinary mortals in the estimate of their rivals.
From our modern point of view it was quite childish for them to imagine
that any unusual deeds performed by their master would attract, as
we read in the _Kevaddha Sutta_, people’s attention to Buddhism and
recognise its superior value on that very account; but in those ancient
days in India, the masses, nay even learned scholars, thought a great
deal of supernaturalism, and naturally the Buddhists made the best
possible use of this belief. But when we come to the Mahayana Sutras
we at once perceive that the miracles described here on a much grander
scale have nothing to do with supernaturalism as such or with any
ulterior motives such as propagandism or self-aggrandisement, but that
they are essentially and intimately connected with the doctrine itself
which is expounded in the texts. For instance, in the _Prajñā-pāramitā
Sūtra_ every part of the body of the Buddha simultaneously emits
innumerable rays illuminating at once the furthest ends of the
worlds, whereas in the _Avataṁsaka Sūtra_ the different parts of
his body shoot out beams of light on different occasions. In the
_Saddharma-puṇḍarīka Sūtra_, a ray of light issues from within the
circle of hair between the eyebrows of the Buddha which illuminates
over eighteen hundred thousand Buddha-countries in the eastern quarter,
revealing every being in them, even the inhabitants of the deepest
hell called Avici. It is evident that the Mahayana writers of these
Sutras had in their minds something much different from the Hinayana
compilers of the Nikayas in their narratives of the miraculous power
of the Buddha. What that something was I have here pointed out in
a most general way. A systematic study in detail of the Mahayana
supernaturalism will no doubt be an interesting one.

At all events, the above references will suffice I believe to establish
my thesis that the reason for the introduction of supernaturalism into
the Mahayana literature of Buddhism was to demonstrate the intellectual
impossibility of comprehending spiritual facts. While philosophy
exhausted its resources logically to explain them, Vimalakīrti like
Bāhva, a Vedic mystic, remained silent; not satisfied with this, the
Indian Mahayana writers further introduced supernaturalistic symbolism,
but it remained with the Chinese Zen Buddhists to invent their own
methods to cope, according to their own needs and insight, with the
difficulties of communicating one’s highest and deepest spiritual
experience known as Enlightenment in Buddhism.

* * * * *

The Chinese have no aptitude like the Indians to hide themselves in the
clouds of mystery and supernaturalism. Chwang-tzŭ and Lieh-tzŭ were
the nearest to the Indian type of mind in ancient China, but their
mysticism does not begin to approach that of the Indian Mahayanists in
grandeur, in elaborateness, and in the height of soaring imagination.
Chwang-tzŭ did his best when he rode up in the air on the back of the
Tai-p‘êng whose wings soared like overhanging clouds; and Lieh-tzŭ
when he could command winds and clouds as his charioteers. The later
Taoists dreamed of ascending to the heavens after so many years
of ascetic discipline and by taking an elixir of life concocted from
various rare herbs. Thus in China we have so many Taoist hermits
living in the mountains far away from human habitations. No Chinese
saints or philosophers are however recorded in history who have been
capable of equalling Vimalakīrti or Mañjuśrī or even any of the Arhats.
The Confucian verdict that superior man never talks about miracles,
wonders, and supernaturalism, is the true expression of Chinese
psychology. The Chinese are thoroughly practical. They must have their
own way of interpreting the doctrine of Enlightenment as applied to
their daily life, and they could not help creating Zen as an expression
of their inmost spiritual experience.

If the imagery of supernaturalism did not appeal to sober Chinese
character, how did the Chinese followers of Enlightenment contrive
to express themselves? Did they adopt the intellectual method of the
Śūnyatā philosophy? No, this too was not after their taste, nor was it
quite within the reach of their mental calibre. The _Prajñā-Pāramitā_
was an Indian creation and not the Chinese. They could have produced
a Chwang-tzŭ or those Taoist dreamers of the Six Dynasties, but not a
Nāgārjuna or a Śankāra. The Chinese genius was to demonstrate itself
in some other way. When they began inwardly to assimilate Buddhism as
the doctrine of Enlightenment, the only course that opened to their
concrete practical minds was to produce Zen. When we come to Zen after
seeing all the wonderful miracles displayed by the Indian Mahayana
writers, and after the highly abstracted speculations of the Mādhyamika
thinkers, what a change of scenery do we have here? No rays are
issuing from the Buddha’s forehead, no retinues of Bodhisattvas reveal
themselves before you, there is indeed nothing that would particularly
strike your senses as odd or extraordinary, or as beyond intelligence,
beyond the ken of logical reasoning. The people you associate with are
all ordinary mortals like yourselves, no abstract ideas, no dialectical
subtleties confront you. Mountains tower high towards the sky, rivers
all pour into the ocean. Plants sprout in the spring and flowers bloom
in red. When the moon shines serenely, poets grow mildly drunk and
sing a song of eternal peace. How prosaic, how ordinary, we may say!
but here was the Chinese soul, and Buddhism came to grow in it.

When a monk asks who is the Buddha, the master points at his image in
the Buddha Hall; no explanations are given, no arguments are suggested.
When the mind is the subject of discourse, asks a monk, “What is mind,
anyway?” “Mind,” says the master.[2.5] “I do not understand, Sir.”
“Neither do I,” quickly comes from the master. On another occasion, a
monk is worried over the question of immortality. “How can I escape
the bondage of birth and death?”[2.5] Answers the master, “Where
are you?” The Zen adepts as a rule never waste time in responding
to questions, nor are they at all argumentative. Their answers are
always curt and final, which follow the questions with the rapidity
of lightning. Some one asked,[2.6] “What is the fundamental teaching
of the Buddha?” Said the master, “There is enough breeze in this
fan to keep me cool.” What a most matter-of-fact answer this! That
inevitable formula of Buddhism, the Fourfold Noble Truth, apparently
has no place in the scheme of Zen teaching, nor has that persistently
enigmatic statement in the _Prajñā-Pāramitā_, “taccittam yaccittam
acittam,” threatens us here. Ummon (Yün-mên)[2.7] once appeared in
the pulpit and said, “In this school of Zen no words are needed; what
then is the ultimate essence of Zen teaching?” Thus himself proposing
the question, he extended both his arms, and without further remarks
came down from the pulpit. This was the way the Chinese Buddhists
interpreted the doctrine of Enlightenment, this was the way they
expounded the _Pratyātmajñanagocara_ of the _Laṅkāvatāra_. And for the
Chinese Buddhists this was the only way, if the inner experience of the
Buddha were to be demonstrated, not intellectually or analytically,
nor in supernatural manners, but directly in our practical life. For
life, as far as it is lived _in concreto_, is above concepts as well as
images. To understand it we have to dive into it and to come in touch
with it personally; to pick up or cut out a piece of it for inspection
murders it; when you think you have got into the essence of it,
it is no more, for it has ceased to live but lies immobile and all
dried up. For this reason, Chinese minds, ever since the coming of
Bodhi-Dharma, worked on the problem how best to present the doctrine
of Enlightenment in their native garment cut to suit their modes of
feeling and thinking, and it was not until after Hui-nêng (Yeno) that
they satisfactorily solved the problem and the great task of building
up a school to be known thenceforward as Zen was accomplished.

That Zen was the thing Chinese minds wanted to have when they
thoroughly comprehended the teaching of Buddhism is proved by the two
incontestable historical facts: first, after the establishment of Zen,
it was this teaching that ruled China while all the other schools of
Buddhism, except the Pure Land sect, failed to survive; and secondly,
before Buddhism was translated into Zen it never came into an intimate
relation with the native thought of China, by which I mean Confucianism.

* * * * *

Let us see first how Zen came to rule the spiritual life of China.
The inner sense of Enlightenment was not understood in China, except
intellectually, in the earlier days of Buddhism. This was natural,
seeing that it was in this respect that the Chinese mind was excelled
by the Indian. As I said before, the boldness and subtlety of Mahayana
philosophy must have fairly stunned the Chinese, who had, before the
introduction of Buddhism, practically no system of thought worthy of
the name, except moral science. In this latter they were conscious of
their own strength; even such devout Buddhists as I-ching (Gijō) and
Hs‘üan-chuang (Genjō) acknowledged it, with all their ardour for the
Yogācāra psychology and the Avatamsaka metaphysics; they thought that
their country, as far as moral culture was concerned, was ahead of the
land of their faith or at least had nothing to learn from the latter.
As the Mahayana Sutras and Shastras were translated in rapid succession
by able, learned, devout scholars, both native and Indian, the Chinese
mind was led to explore a region where they had not ventured very far
before. In the early Chinese biographical histories of Buddhism, we
notice commentators, expounders, and philosophers far outnumbering
translators and adepts in dhyana so called. The Buddhist scholars
were at first quite busily engaged in assimilating intellectually the
various doctrines propounded in Mahayana literature. Not only were
these doctrines deep and complicated but they were also contradicting
one another, at least on the surface. If the scholars were to enter
into the depths of Buddhist thought, they had to dispose of these
entanglements somehow. But if they were sufficiently critical, they
could do that with comparative ease, which was however something we
could never expect of those earlier Buddhists; for even in these modern
days critical Buddhist scholars will in some quarters be regarded as
not quite devout and orthodox. They all had not a shadow of doubt as
to the genuineness of the Mahayanist texts as faithfully and literally
recording the very words of the Buddha, and therefore they had to plan
out some systems of reconciliation between diverse doctrines taught in
the Scriptures. This meant to find out what was the primary object of
the Buddha’s appearance in the world ignorant, corrupted, and given up
to the karma of eternal transmigration. Such efforts on the part of
Buddhist philosophers developed what is to be distinctly designated as
Chinese Buddhism.

While this intellectual assimilation was going on on the one hand,
the practical side of Buddhism was also assiduously studied. Some
were followers of the Vinaya texts, and others devoted themselves
to the mastery of dhyana. But what was here known as dhyana was not
the dhyana of Zen Buddhism, it was a meditation, concentrating one’s
thought on some ideas such as impermanence, egolessness of things,
chain of causation, or the attributes of the Buddha, Even Bodhi-Dharma,
the founder of Zen Buddhism, was regarded by historians as belonging
to this class of dhyana-adepts, his peculiar merits as teacher of an
entirely novel school of Buddhism were not fully appreciated. This was
inevitable, the people of China were not yet quite ready to accept
the new form; for they had only inadequately grasped the doctrine of
Enlightenment in all its bearings.

The importance of Enlightenment in its practical aspects, however,
was not altogether overlooked in the maze of doctrinal intricacies.
Chi-i (Chigi, 522–597), one of the founders of the T‘ien Tai school
and the greatest Buddhist philosopher in China, was fully awake to the
significance of dhyana as the means of attaining Enlightenment. With
all his analytical powers, his speculation had room enough for the
practice of dhyana. His work on “Tranquillisation and Contemplation”
is explicit on this point. His idea was to carry out intellectual and
spiritual exercises in perfect harmony, and not partially to emphasise
either one of the two, Samādhi or Prajñā, at the expense of the other.
Unfortunately, his followers grew more and more one-sided until they
neglected the dhyana practice for the sake of intellection. Hence their
antagonistic attitude later towards advocates of Zen Buddhism, for
which however the latter were to a certain extent to be responsible,
too.

It was due to Bodhi-Dharma (died 528)[f47] that Zen came to be the
Buddhism of China. It was he that started this movement which proved
so fruitful among a people given up to the practical affairs of life.
When he declared his message, it was still tinged with Indian colours,
he could not be entirely independent of the traditional Buddhist
metaphysics of the times. His allusion to the _Vajrasamādhi_ and the
_Laṅkāvatāra_ was natural, but the seeds of Zen were sown by his hands.
It now remained with his native disciples to see to it that these seeds
grew up in harmony with the soil and climate. It took about two hundred
years for the Zen seeds to bear fruit, rich and vigorous in life, and
fully naturalised while retaining intact the essence of what makes up
Buddhism.

Hui-nêng (637–713) who was the sixth patriarch after Bodhi-Dharma, was
the real Chinese founder of Zen; for it was through him and his direct
followers that Zen could cast off the garment borrowed from India and
began to put on one cut and sewn by the native hands. The spirit of
Zen was of course the same as the one that came to China transmitted
without interruption from the Buddha, but the form of expression was
thoroughly Chinese, for it was their own creation. The rise of Zen
after this, was phenomenal. The latent energy that had been stored up
during the time of naturalisation suddenly broke out in active work,
and Zen had almost a triumphal march through the whole land of Cathay.
During the T‘ang dynasty (618–906) when Chinese culture reached its
consummation, great Zen masters succeeded one after another in building
up monasteries and educating monks as well as lay-disciples who were
learned not only in the Confucian classics but in the Mahayana lore of
Buddhism. The emperors too were not behind them in paying respects to
these Zen seers, who were invited to come to the court in order to give
sermons to these august personages. When for political reasons Buddhism
was persecuted, which caused the loss of many valuable documents, works
of art, and the decline of some schools, Zen was always the first to
recover itself and to renew its activities with redoubled energy and
enthusiasm. Throughout the Five Dynasties, in the first half of the
tenth century, when China was torn up into minor kingdoms again, and
general political situations seemed to be unfavourable to the thriving
of religious sentiments, Zen prospered as before and the masters kept
up their monastic centers undisturbed.

With the rise of the Sung dynasty (960–1279) Zen reached the height
of its development and influence, while the other sects of Buddhism
showed signs of rapid decline. When history opens on the pages of the
Yüan (1280–1367) and the Ming (1368–1661) dynasty, Buddhism is found
identified with Zen. The Kegon (Avataṁsaka), Tendai (T‘ien-tai), Sanron
(San-lun), Kusha (Abhidharma-kośa), Hosso (Yogācāra) and Shingon
(Mantra), if they were not completely wiped out through persecution,
suffered tremendously from the lack of fresh blood. Perhaps they were
to die out anyway on account of their not having been completely
assimilated by Chinese thought and feeling; there was too much of an
Indian element which prevented them from being fully acclimatised. In
any event Zen as the essence of the Buddha’s mind continued to flourish
so that any Chinese minds at all inclined towards Buddhism came to
study Zen and neglected the rest of the Buddhist schools still in
existence though at the last stage of their productive activity. The
only form of Buddhism that retains its vitality to a certain extent
even to this day, is Zen, more or less modified to accommodate the Pure
Land tendency, that had been growing soon after the introduction of
Buddhism into China.

There was reason for this state of things in the religious history
of China, and it was this that Zen dispensed with the images and
concepts and modes of thinking that were imported from India along
with Buddhist thought; and out of its own consciousness Zen created
an original literature best adapted to the exposition of the truth of
Enlightenment. This literature was unique in many senses, but it was
in perfect accordance with the Chinese mental _modus operandi_ and
naturally powerfully moved them to the core. Bodhi-Dharma taught his
disciples to look directly into the essence of the teaching of the
Buddha discarding the outward manners of presentation, he told them not
to follow the conceptual and analytical interpretation of the doctrine
of Enlightenment. Literary adherents of the Sutras objected to this and
did all they could to prevent the growth of the teaching of Dharma.
But it grew on in spite of oppositions. The disciples mastered the art
of grasping the central fact of Buddhism. When this was accomplished,
they proceeded to demonstrate it according to their own methods, using
their own terminology, regardless of the traditional or rather imported
way of expression. They did not entirely abandon the old manner of
speaking; for they refer to Buddha, Tathagata, Nirvana, Bodhi, Trikāya,
Karma, transmigration, emancipation, and many other ideas making up
the body of Buddhism; but they make no mention of the Twelvefold Chain
of Origination, the Fourfold Noble Truth, or the Eightfold Righteous
Path. When we read Zen literature without being told of its relation
to Buddhism, we may almost fail to recognise in it such things as are
generally regarded as specifically Buddhist. When Yakusan (Yüeh-shan,
751–834) saw a monk, he asked,[2.8] “Where do you come from?” “I come
from south of the Lake.” “Is the Lake over-flowing with water?” “No,
sir, it is not yet overflowing.” “Strange,” said the master,
“after so much rain why does it not overflow?” To this last query, the
monk failed to give a satisfactory answer, whereupon Ungan (Yün-yen),
one of Yakusan’s disciples, said, “Overflowing, indeed!” while Dosan
(Tung-shan), another of his disciples, exclaimed, “In what kalpa did
it ever fail to overflow?” In these dialogues do we detect any trace
of Buddhism? Do they not look as if they were talking about an affair
of most ordinary occurrence? But, according to the masters, their
talks are brimful of Zen, and Zen literature is indeed abound in such
apparent trivialities. In fact, as far as its phraseology and manner of
demonstration are concerned, Zen looks as if it had nothing to do with
Buddhism, and some critics are almost justified in designating Zen as a
Chinese anomaly of Buddhism as was referred to at the beginning of this
Essay.

In the history of Chinese literature, Zen writings known as _Yü-lu_
(Goroku) form a class by themselves, and it is due to them that the
Chinese colloquialism of the T‘ang and the early Sung dynasty has
been preserved. Men of letters in China despised to write except
in classical style, deliberately choosing such words, phrases,
and expressions as enhanced the grace of the composition. All the
literature we have of those early days of Chinese culture therefore
is the model of such a cultivated style. The Zen masters were not
necessarily despisers of classicism, they took to fine literature as
much as their contemporaries, they were well-educated and learned too;
but they found colloquialism a better and more powerful medium for the
utterance of their inner experiences. This is generally the case with
spiritual reformers, who want to express themselves through the medium
most intimate to their feelings and best suited for their original
ways of viewing things. They avoid wherever possible such nomenclature
as has been in use and filled with old associations which are apt to
lack in living purposes and therefore in vivifying effects. Living
experiences ought to be told in a living language and not in worn-out
images and concepts. The Zen masters therefore did what they could
not help doing and made free use of the living words and phrases of
the day. Does this not prove that in China Buddhism through Zen
ceased to be a foreign importation and was transformed into an original
creation of the native mind? And just because Zen could turn itself
into a native product, it survived all the other schools of Buddhism.
In other words, Zen was the only form in which the Chinese mind could
accommodate, appreciate, and assimilate the Buddhist doctrine of
Enlightenment.

* * * * *

I hope I have shown how Buddhism, that is, the doctrine of
Enlightenment had to be transformed into Zen in China, and through
this transformation Zen survived the other schools of Buddhism. Let
us now take up the second point, as referred to before, in which we
will see how Zen came to create the Sung philosophy. When I say that
Buddhism did not really affect Chinese thought until it was converted
into Zen through which the creative genius of China began to formulate
its philosophy along a much deeper and more idealistic line of thought
than that of the Ante-Ch‘in period, there will be many who will object
to this view. It is true that Buddhism began to make its influence felt
among Chinese thinkers even during the Latter Han dynasty as we see,
for instance, in Mou-tzŭ’s “Essay on Reason and Error” written between
190–220 A.D. After this there were many writers who discussed the
Buddhist doctrines of Karma and Causation and Immortality; for these
were some of the ideas introduced from India through Buddhism. It was
with the Taoists, however, the Buddhists had much heated controversy
from the sixth century on. The way Buddhism exerted its influence
over Taoism was not only in the form of controversy but in actually
moulding their thought and literature. There were so many points of
contact between Taoism and Buddhism: and naturally the first object
against which Buddhism worked, as it grew in importance and power not
only as a religious system but as philosophy and the possessor of an
inexhaustible wealth of knowledge, was Taoism; while it was admitted
that Buddhism in its turn borrowed many things from Taoism in order to
make itself more easily acceptable to the native minds. On the whole,
Taoism owes more to Buddhism as far as its organisation, rituals,
literature and philosophy are concerned. Taoism systematised after the
Buddhist model all the popular superstitions native to China and built
up a religious medley in which the Indian elements are found more or
less incongruously blended with Laotzuanism and the popular desire for
immortality, worldly welfare, and what they call “purity.”

But Taoism as it is believed popularly is so full of superstitions that
it is not in vital contact with the main current of orthodox Chinese
thought which is represented, maintained, and cherished by the literati
including the government officials. To a greater extent Taoism is the
popular and superstitious Chinese rendering of Buddhism, but there
will be many critics, the present writer for one, who rather hesitate
to consider the essence of Buddhism sufficiently transcribed in terms
of the Taoists. Unless the Confucians were not moved to assimilate
Buddhist thought in their system, so naturally that they attempted to
reconstruct the whole frame of Confucian ideas, not merely for the
sake of reconciliation, but for the sake of deepening, enriching, and
resuscitating it, we cannot say that Buddhism entered into the life of
Chinese thought and became the real possession of the Chinese mind. But
this was done during the Sung dynasty when the Confucian philosophers
took in Buddhist ideas into their teaching and reconstructed the whole
system on a new basis, which, however, was considered by them to be
the necessary course of growth for Confucianism. Whatever this was,
there is no doubt that the Sung philosophy was enriched and deepened
by absorbing Buddhist views. In this, all the historians of Chinese
intellectual development agree.

There is a question, however, one may ask concerning this general
reconstruction of Confucianism on the idealistic Buddhist scheme.
If Zen did not grow up in China as the native interpretation of the
Doctrine of Enlightenment and prepared the way for the rise of such
great Confucian writers as Chou Tun-I (1017–1073),[2.9] the Ch‘eng
brothers, Ch‘eng Hao (1032–1085) and Ch‘eng I (1035–1107), and Chu
Hsi (1130–1200), would there have been a Sung revival of the orthodox
Chinese teaching? To my view, without Zen the Sung dynasty would
not have seen the phenomenal uprising of what the Chinese historians
call the “Science of Reason.” As we already said, Zen was the only
form in which Buddhism could enter into the Chinese mind. This being
the case, whatever they later produced in the realm of thought, could
not but be tinged with Zen. See how the psychological school of
Yogācāra was received by the native thinkers. It was first advocated,
propounded, and commented by Hsüan-chuang and his great disciples, but
this profound study of the human mind was too analytical even for the
best minds of China, and did not thrive very long after Hsüan-chuang.
Then how did the Prajñā-Pāramitā philosophy fare? It was brought into
China in the first century soon after the introduction of Buddhism
itself and later most ably supported and interpreted by Kumārajīva
and his Chinese pupils. It had a better prospect than the Yogācāra,
because its Chinese counterpart was found in the teaching of Lao-tzŭ
and his followers. Those two groups of philosophers, Buddhist and
Laotzŭan, may be classed as belonging to the same type of thought;
but even in this case the Chinese did not show any great disposition
to embrace this Śūnyatā system. Why was this? The reason was obvious,
seeing that in spite of a certain agreement between the two schools
on a very broad basis, the Śūnyatā mode of thinking was altogether
too metaphysical, too high-flown, or, from the Chinese point of view,
too much _in nubibus_, and the practical tendency of the native minds
naturally failed to grow on it; even in the disciples of Lao-tzŭ and
Chwang-tzŭ there was the taint or virtue of utilitarianism which is
deeply ingrained in all the Chinese modes of feeling.

Besides the Mādhyamika school of Nāgārjuna and the Yogācāra school of
Asanga both of which developed in the country of the Buddha itself,
there were Chih-I’s Tendai philosophy and Hsien-shou’s (643–712)
Avataṁsaka system of Buddhism. These latter were in a sense the
creations of the native Buddhist thinkers, and if they were at all
assimilable by their compatriots, they would not have been neglected,
and their study, instead of being confined within a narrow circle of
Buddhist specialists, would have overflowed into the Confucian as
well as the Taoist boundaries. That they did not do so proves the fact
that they were still foreign and a kind of translation, not literary
indeed, but more or less conceptional. Therefore, there was no other
way left for Buddhism but to be transformed into Zen before it could
be thoroughly acclimatised and grow as a native plant. When this was
achieved because it was in the inherent nature of Buddhism that this
achievement was to take place, Zen became the flesh and bones of
Chinese thought and inspired the Confucians of the Sung dynasty to
reconstruct the foundation of their philosophy on the idealistic plans
of Buddhism.

* * * * *

We may conclude now that Zen, in spite of the uncouthness and
extraordinariness of its outward features, belongs to the general
system of Buddhism. And by Buddhism we mean not only the teaching of
the Buddha himself as recorded in the earliest Āgamas, but the later
speculations, philosophical and religious, concerning the person and
life of the Buddha. His personal greatness was such as occasionally
made his disciples advance theories somewhat contrary to the advice
supposed to have been given by their Master. This was inevitable.
The world with all its contents, individually as well as as a whole,
is subject to our subjective interpretation, not a capricious
interpretation indeed, but growing out of our inner necessity, our
religious yearnings. Even the Buddha as an object of one’s religious
experience could not escape this, his personality was so constituted
as to awaken in us every feeling and thought that goes under the name
of Buddhism now. The most significant and fruitful ideas that were
provoked by him were concerned with his Enlightenment and Nirvana.
These two facts stood out most prominently in his long peaceful life of
seventy-nine years, and all the theories and beliefs that are bound up
with the Buddha are attempts to understand these facts in terms of our
own religious experience. Thus Buddhism has grown to have a much wider
meaning than is understood by most scholars.

The Buddha’s Enlightenment and Nirvana were two separate ideas in
his life as it unfolded in history so many centuries ago, but from the
religious point of view they are to be regarded as one idea. That is to
say, to understand the content and the value of Enlightenment is the
same as realising the signification of Nirvana. Taking a stand on this,
the Mahayanists developed two currents of thought: the one was to rely
on our intellectual efforts to the furthest extent they could reach,
and the other, pursuing the practical method adopted by the Buddha
himself, indeed by all Indian truth-seekers, endeavoured to find in the
practice of dhyana something directly leading to Enlightenment. It goes
without saying that in both of these efforts the original impulse lies
in the inmost religious consciousness of pious Buddhists.

The Mahayana texts compiled during a few centuries after the Buddha
testify to the view here presented. Of these, the one expressly
composed to propagate the teaching of the Zen school is the
_Laṅkāvatāra_, in which the content of Enlightenment is, as far as
words admit, presented from a psychological, philosophical, and a
practical point of view. When this was introduced into China and
thoroughly assimilated according to the Chinese methods of thinking
and feeling, the main thesis of the Sutra came to be demonstrated in
such a way as is now considered characteristically Zen. The truth has
many avenues of approach through which it makes itself known to the
human mind. But the choice it makes depends on certain limitations
under which it works. The superabundance of Indian imagination issued
in supernaturalism and wonderful symbolism, and the Chinese sense
of practicalness and its love for the solid everyday facts of life
resulted in Zen Buddhism. We may now be able to understand, though only
tentatively by most readers at present, the following definitions of
Zen offered by its masters:

When Jōshu was asked what Zen was, he answered, “It is cloudy to-day
and I won’t answer.”[2.10]

To the same question, Ummon’s reply was: “That’s it.” On another
occasion the master was not at all affirmative, for he said, “Not a
word to be predicated.”[2.11]

These being some of the definitions given to Zen by the masters,
in what relationship did they conceive of Zen as standing to the
doctrine of Enlightenment taught in the Sutras? Did they conceive
it after the manner of the _Laṅkāvatāra_ or after that of the
_Prajñā-pāramitā_? No, Zen had to have its own way, the Chinese mind
refused blindly to follow the Indian models. If this is still to be
contested, read the following:

A monk asked Kan (Chien), who lived in Haryo (Pa-ling), “Is there
any difference between the teaching of the Patriarch and that of the
Sutras, or not?” Said the master, “When the cold weather comes, the
fowl flies up in the trees while the wild duck goes down into water.”
Hō-yen (Fa-yen) of Gosozan (Wu-tsu-shan) commented on this, saying,
“The great teacher of Pa-ling has expressed only a half of the truth. I
would not have it so. Mine is: When water is scooped in hands, the moon
is reflected in them; when the flowers are handled, the scent soaks
into the robe.”[2.12]

ENLIGHTENMENT AND IGNORANCE

Strange though it may seem, the fact is that Buddhist scholars are
engrossed too much in the study of what they regard as the Buddha’s
teaching and his disciples’ exposition of the Dharma, so called, while
they neglect altogether the study of the Buddha’s spiritual experience
itself. According to my view, however, the first thing we have to
do in the elucidation of Buddhist thought is to inquire into the
nature of this personal experience of the Buddha, which is recorded
to have presented itself to his inmost consciousness at the time of
Enlightenment (_sambodhi_). What the Buddha taught his disciples was
the conscious outcome of his intellectual elaboration to make them see
and realise what he himself had seen and realised. This intellectual
outcome, however philosophically presented, does not necessarily
enter into the inner essence of Enlightenment experienced by the
Buddha. When we want, therefore, to grasp the spirit of Buddhism,
which essentially develops from the content of Enlightenment, we have
to get acquainted with the signification of the experience of the
founder,—experience by virtue of which he is indeed the Buddha and the
founder of the religious system which goes under his name. Let us see
what record we have of this experience, and what were its antecedents
and consequences.[f48]

There is a Sutra in the Dīgha-Nikāya known as the _Mahāpadāna
Suttanta_, in which the Buddha is represented as enlightening his
disciples concerning the six Buddhas anterior to him. The facts
relating to their lives as Bodhisattvas and Buddhas are almost
identical in each case except some incidental details; for the Buddhas
are all supposed to have had one and the same career. When therefore
Gautama, the Buddha of the present Kalpa, talks about his predecessors
in this wise, including the story of Enlightenment, he is simply
recapitulating his own earthly life, and everything he states here as
having occurred to his predecessors, except such matters as parentage,
social rank, birthplace, length of life, etc., must be regarded as also
having happened to himself. This is especially true with his spiritual
experience known as Enlightenment.[f49]

When the Bodhisattva, as the Buddha is so designated prior to his
attainment of Buddhahood, was meditating in seclusion, the following
consideration came upon him: “Verily this world has fallen upon trouble
(_kiccha_), one is born, and grows old, and dies, and falls from one
state, and springs up in another. And from this suffering, moreover,
no one knows of any way of escape, even from decay and death. O when
shall a way of escape from this suffering be made known, from decay
and death?” Thus thinking, the Bodhisattva reasoned out that decay and
death arose from birth, birth from becoming, becoming from grasping,
grasping from craving, until he came to the mutual conditioning of
name-and-form (_namarūpa_) and cognition (_viññāna_).[f50] Then he
reasoned back and forth from the coming-to-be of this entire body
of evil to its final ceasing-to-be,—and at this thought there arose
to the Bodhisattva an insight (_cakkhu_)[f51] into things not heard
of before, and knowledge arose, and reason arose, wisdom arose, light
arose. (_Bodhisattassa pubbe ananussutesu dhammesu cakkhuṁ udapādi,
ñāṇaṁ udapādi, paññā udapādi, vijjā udapādi, āloka udapādi._)”

He then exclaimed: “I have penetrated this Dharma, deep, hard to
perceive, hard to understand, calm, sublime, no mere dialectic, subtle,
intelligible only to the wise. (_Dhammo gambhīro duddaso duranubodho
santo panito atakkāvacaro nipuṇo pandito vedanīyo._) But this is a race
devoting itself to the things to which it clings, devoted thereto,
delighting therein. And for a race devoting itself to the things to
which it clings, devoted thereto, delighting therein, this were a
matter hard to perceive, to wit, that this is conditioned by that,
and all that happens is by way of cause. This too were a matter hard
to discern:—the tranquillisation of all the activities of life, the
renunciation of all substrata of rebirth, the destruction of craving,
the death of passion, quietude of heart, Nirvana.”

The Buddha then uttered the following verse in which he expressed his
reluctance to preach the Dharma to the world at large—the Dharma which
was realised in him by ñāṇa,—which he saw visibly, face to face,
without any traditional instruction:

“This that through many toils I’ve won—
Enough! why should I make it known?
By folk with lust and hate consumed
Not this the Truth[f52] that can be grasped!
Against the stream of common thought.
Deep, subtle, difficult, delicate.
Unseen ’twill be by passion’s slaves
Cloaked in the murk of Ignorance.”[f53]

According to this report transmitted by the compilers of the Nikayas,
which is also confirmed by the other literature we have of the
Buddha’s Enlightenment, what flashed through his mind must have been
an experience most unusual and not taking place in our everyday
consciousness, even in the consciousness of a wise, learned, and
thoughtful man. Thus, he naturally wished to pass away into Nirvana
without attempting to propagate the Dharma, but this idea was abandoned
when Great Brahma spoke to the Buddha in verse thus:

“As on a crag, on crest of mountain standing,
A man might watch the people far below,
E’en so do thou, O Widsom fair, ascending,
O Seer of all, the terraced heights of Truth,
Look down, from grief released, upon the nations
Sunken in grief, oppressed with birth and age.
Arise, thou Hero! Conqueror in the battle!
Thou freed from debt! Lord of the pilgrim band!
Walk the world o’er, and sublime and blessed Teacher!
Teach us the Truth; there are who’ll understand.”

There is no doubt that it was this spiritual experience that converted
the Bodhisattva into the Buddha, the Perfectly Wise, the Bhagavat, the
Arhat, the King of the Dharma, the Tathagata, the All-knowing One, and
the Conqueror. In this, all the records we have, Hinayana and Mahayana,
agree.

Here then arises the most significant question in the history of
Buddhism. What was it in this experience that made the Buddha conquer
Ignorance (_avijjā_, _avidyā_) and freed him from the Defilements
(_āsava_, _āśrava_)? What was the insight or vision he had into things,
which had never before been presented to his mind? Was it his doctrine
of universal suffering due to Thirst (_taṇhā_, _tṛishṇā_) and Grasping
(_upādāna_)? Was it his causation theory by which he traced the source
of pain and suffering to Ignorance?

It is quite evident that his intellectual activity was not the
efficient cause of Enlightenment. “Not to be grasped by mere logic”
(_atakkāvacara_) is the phrase we constantly encounter in Buddhist
literature, Pali and Sanskrit. The satisfaction the Buddha experienced
in this case was altogether too deep, too penetrating, and too
far-reaching in result to be a matter of mere logic. The intellectual
solution of a problem is satisfying enough as far as the blockage has
been removed, but it is not sufficiently fundamental to enter into the
depths of our soul-life. All scholars are not saints and all saints are
by no means scholarly. The Buddha’s intellectual survey of the Law of
Origination (_paṭicca-samuppāda_), however perfect and thoroughgoing,
could not make him so completely sure of his conquest over Ignorance,
Pain, Birth, and Defilements. Tracing things to their origin or
subjecting them to a scheme of concatenation is one thing, but to
subdue them, to bring them to subjection in the actuality of life, is
quite another thing. In the one, the intellect alone is active, but
in the other there is the operation of the will,—and the will is the
man. The Buddha was not the mere discoverer of the Twelvefold Chain of
Causation, he took hold of the chain itself in his hands and broke it
into pieces so that it would never again bind him to slavery.

His insight reached the bottom of his being and saw it really as it
was, and the seeing was like the seeing of your own hand with your
own eyes—there was no reflection, no inference, no judgment, no
comparison, no moving either backward or forward step by step, the
thing was seen and that was the end of it, there was nothing to talk
about, nothing to argue, or to explain. The seeing was something
complete in itself—it did not lead on to anything inside or outside,
within or beyond. And it was this completeness, this finality that was
so entirely satisfying to the Buddha, who now knew that the chain was
found broken and that he was a liberated man. The Buddha’s experience
of Enlightenment therefore could not be understood by referring it to
the intellect which tantalises but fails to fulfill and satisfy.

The Buddha’s psychological experience of life as pain and suffering
was intensely real and moved him to the very depths of his being, and
in consequence the emotional reaction he experienced at the time of
Enlightenment was in proportion to this intensity of feeling. All the
more evident therefore it is that he could not rest satisfied with
an intellectual glancing or surveying of the facts of life. In order
to bring a perfect state of tranquillity over the waves of turmoil
surging in his heart, he had to have recourse to something more deeply
and vitally concerned with his inmost being. For all we can say of it,
the intellect is after all a spectator, and when it does some work it
is as a hireling for better or for worse. Alone it cannot bring about
the state of mind designated as enlightenment. The feeling of perfect
freedom, the feeling that “ahaṁ hi arahā loke, ahaṁ satthā anuttaro,”
could not issue from the consciousness of an intellectual superiority
alone. There must have been in the mind of the Buddha a consciousness
far more fundamental which could only accompany one’s deepest spiritual
experience.

* * * * *

To account for this spiritual experience the Buddhist writers exhaust
their knowledge of words relating to the understanding, logical or
otherwise. “Knowledge” (_vijjā_), “understanding” (_pajānanā_),
“reason” (_ñāṇa_), “wisdom” (_paññā_), “penetration” (_abhisameta_),
“realisation” (_abhisambuddha_), “perception” (_sañjānanaṁ_), and
“insight” (_dassana_),[f54] are some of the terms they use. In truth
as long as we confine ourselves to intellection, however deep,
subtle, sublime, and enlightening, we fail to see into the gist of the
matter. This is the reason why even the so-called primitive Buddhists
who are by some considered positivists, rationalists, and agnostics,
were obliged to assume some faculty dealing with things far above
relative knowledge, things that do not appeal to our empirical ego.

The Mahayana account of Enlightenment as is found in the
_Lalita-vistara_ (Chapter on “Abhisambodhana”) is more explicit as to
the kind of mental activity or wisdom which converted the Bodhisattva
into the Buddha. For it was through “_ekacittekshaṇa-samyukta-prajñā_”
that supreme perfect knowledge was realised (_abhisambodha_) by the
Buddha. What is this Prajñā? It is the understanding of a higher
order than that which is habitually exercised in acquiring relative
knowledge. It is a faculty both intellectual and spiritual, through
the operation of which the soul is enabled to break the fetters
of intellection. The latter is always dualistic inasmuch as it is
cognisant of subject and object, but in the Prajñā which is exercised
“in unison with one-thought-viewing” there is no separation between
knower and known, these are all viewed (_ikshaṇa_) in one thought
(_ekacitta_), and enlightenment is the outcome of this. By thus
specifying the operation of Prajñā, the Mahayanists have achieved an
advance in making clearer the nature of sambodhi: for when the mind
reverses its usual course of working and instead of dividing itself
externally, goes back to its original inner abode of oneness, it begins
to realise the state of “one-thought-viewing” where Ignorance ceases to
scheme and the Defilements do not obtain.

Enlightenment we can thus see is an absolute state of mind in which no
“discrimination” (_parikalpana_ or _vikalpa_), so called, takes place,
and it requires a great mental effort to realise this state of viewing
all things “in one thought.” In fact our logical as well as practical
consciousness is too given up to analysis and ideation; that is to say,
we cut up realities into elements in order to understand them; but when
they are put together to make the original whole, its elements stand
out too conspicuously defined, and we do not view the whole “in
one thought.” And as it is only when “one thought” is reached that we
have enlightenment, an effort is to be made to go beyond our relative
empirical consciousness, which attaches itself to the multitudinosity
and not to the unity of things. The most important fact that lies
behind the experience of Enlightenment therefore is that the Buddha
made the most strenuous attempt to solve the problem of Ignorance and
his utmost will-power was brought forth to bear upon a successful issue
of the struggle.

We read in the _Katha-Upanishad_: “As rain water that has fallen on
a mountain ridge runs down on all sides, thus does he who sees a
difference between qualities run after them on all sides. As pure water
poured into pure water remains the same, thus, O Gautama, is the self
of a thinker who knows.” This pouring pure water into pure water is,
as we have it here, the “viewing all qualities in one thought” which
finally cuts off the hopelessly entangling logical mesh by merging all
differences and likenesses into the absolute oneness of the knower
(_jñānin_) and the known (_jñeya_). This, however, in our practical
dualistic life, is a reversion, a twisting, and a re-adjustment.

Eckhart, the great German mystic, is singularly one with the
“one-thought-viewing” of things as done by Buddhists when he expresses
his view thus: “Das Auge darin ich Gott sehe, ist dasselbe Auge, darin
Gott mich sieht. Mein Auge und Gottes Auge ist ein Auge und ein Gesicht
und ein Erkennen und eine Liebe.”[f55] The idea of reversion is more
clearly expressed in Jacob Boehme’s simile of the “umgewandtes Auge”
with which God is recognised.

Enlightenment therefore must involve the will as well as the intellect.
It is an act of intuition born of the will. The will wants to know
itself as it is in itself, _yathābhūtam dassana_, free from all its
cognitive conditions. The Buddha attained this end when a new insight
came upon him at the end of his ever-circulatory reasoning from decay
and death to Ignorance and from Ignorance to decay and death, through
the twelve links of the Paṭicca-samuppāda. The Buddha had to go over
the same ground again and again, because he was in an intellectual
_impasse_ through which he could not move further on. He did not repeat
the process, as is originally imagined, for his own philosophical
edification. The fact was that he did not know how to escape this
endless rotation of ideas; at this end there was birth, there was decay
and death, and at the other end there was Ignorance. The objective
facts could not be denied, they boldly and uncomfortably confronted
him, while Ignorance balked the progress of his cognitive faculty
moving farther onward or rather inward. He was hemmed in on both sides,
he did not know how to find his way out, he went first this way and
then that way, forever with the same result—the utter inutility of all
his mental labour. But he had an indomitable will; he wanted, with the
utmost efforts of his will, to get into the very truth of the matter;
he knocked and knocked until the doors of Ignorance gave way: and they
burst open to a new vista never before presented to his intellectual
vision. Thus he was able to exclaim to Upaka, the naked ascetic, whom
he happened to meet on his way to Benares after Enlightenment:

“All-conqueror I, knower of all.
From every soil and stain released,
Renouncing all, from craving ceased,
Self-taught; whom should I Master call?

That which I know I learned of none,
My fellow is not on the earth.
Of human or of heavenly birth
To equal me there is not one.

I truly have attained release,
The world’s unequalled teacher I,
Alone, enlightened perfectly,
I dwell in everlasting peace.”[f56]

When we speak of enlightenment or illumination we are apt to
think of its epistemological aspect and to forget the presence of
a tremendous will-power behind it—the power in fact making up the
entire being of an individual. Especially as in Buddhism the intellect
stands forth prominently, perhaps more than it ought to, in the
realisation of the ideal Buddhist life, scholars are tempted to ignore
the significance of the will as the essentially determinate factor in
the solution of the ultimate problem. Their attention has thus been
directed too much towards the doctrine of the Paṭicca-samuppāda or the
Ariya-sacca, which they considered constituted the final teaching of
Buddhism. But in this they have been sadly at fault, nor have they been
right in taking Buddhism for a sort of ethical culture, declaring that
it is no more than a system of moral precepts (_śīla_), without a soul,
without a God, and consequently without a promise of immortality. But
the true Buddhist ideas of Ignorance, Causation, and Moral Conduct had
a far deeper foundation in the soul-life of man. Ignorance was not a
cognitive ignorance, but meant the darkness of spiritual outlook. If
Ignorance were no more than cognitive, the clearing-up of it did not
and could not result in enlightenment, in freedom from the Fetters
and Defilements, or Intoxicants as some Pali scholars have them. The
Buddha’s insight penetrated the depths of his being as the will, and
he knew what this was, yathābhūtam, or in its tathābhāva (thatness or
suchness), he rose above himself as a Buddha supreme and peerless. The
expression, “Anuttara-samyak-sambodhi,” was thus used to designate this
pre-eminently spiritual knowledge realised by him.

Ignorance which is the antithesis of Enlightenment, therefore, acquires
a much deeper sense here than that which has hitherto been ascribed
to it. Ignorance is not merely not knowing or not being acquainted
with a theory, system or law; it is not directly grasping the ultimate
facts of life as expressive of the will. In Ignorance knowing is
separated from acting, and the knower from that which is to be known;
in Ignorance the world is asserted as distinct from the self, that is,
there are always two elements standing in opposition. This is, however,
the fundamental condition of cognition, which means that as soon
as cognition takes place there is Ignorance clinging to its every act.
When we think we know something, there is something we do not know.
The unknown is always behind the known, and we fail to get at this
unknown knower, who is indeed the inevitable and necessary companion to
every act of cognition. We want however to know this unknown knower,
we cannot let this go unknown, ungrasped without actually seeing what
it is, that is, Ignorance is to be enlightened. This involves a great
contradiction, at least epistemologically. But until we transcend this
condition, there is no peace of mind, life grows unbearable. In his
search for the “builder” (_gahākara_), the Buddha was always accosted
by Ignorance, an unknown knower behind knowing. He could not for a long
time lay his hands on this one in a black mask until he transcended
the dualism of knower and known. This transcending was not an act of
cognition, it was self-realisation, it was a spiritual awakening and
outside the ken of logical reasoning, and therefore not accompanied
by Ignorance. The knowledge the knower has of himself, in himself,
that is, as he is to himself, is unattainable by any proceedings of
the intellect which is not permitted to transcend its own conditions.
Ignorance is brought to subjection only by going beyond its own
principle. This is an act of the will. Ignorance in itself is no evil,
nor is it the source of evil, but when we are ignorant of Ignorance,
of what it means in our life, then there takes place an unending
concatenation of evils. Taṇhā (craving) regarded as the root of evil
can be overcome only when Ignorance is understood in its deeper and
proper signification.

Therefore, it betrays an utter ignorance on the part of Buddhist
scholars when they relegate Ignorance to the past in trying
to explain the rationale of the Twelvefold Chain of Causation
(_paṭicca-samuppāda_)[f57] from the temporal point of view.
According to them, the first two factors (_angāni_) of the
Paṭicca-samuppāda belong to the past while the following eight belong
to the present and the last two to the future. Ignorance from which
starts the series of the Nidānas has no time-limits, for it is not
of time, but of the will, as is enlightenment. When time-conception
enters, enlightenment which is negatively the dispelling of Ignorance
loses all its character of finality, and we begin to look around
for something going beyond it. The Fetters would ever be tightening
around us, and the Defilements would be our eternal condition. No
gods would sing of the Awakened One as “a lotus unsoiled by the dust
of passion, sprung from the lake of knowledge; a sun that destroys
the darkness of delusion; a moon that takes away the scorching heat
of the inherent sins of existence.”[f58] If Enlightenment made the
whole universe tremble in six different ways as is recorded in the
Sutras, Ignorance over which it finally prevailed must have as much
power, though diametrically opposed to it in value and virtue, as
Enlightenment. To take Ignorance for an intellectual term and then
to interpret it in terms of time-relation, altogether destroys its
fundamental character as the first in the series of the Twelve Nidānas.
The extraordinary power wielded by the Buddha over his contemporaries
as well as posterity was not entirely due to his wonderful analytical
acumen though we have to admit this in him; it was essentially due
to his spiritual greatness and profound personality, which came from
his will-power penetrating down into the very basis of creation.
The vanquishing of Ignorance was an exhibition of this power which
therefore was invincible and against which Mara with all his hosts
was utterly powerless either to overwhelm or to entice. The failure
to see into the true meaning of Ignorance in the system of the
Paṭicca-samuppāda or in the Ariya-sacca will end unavoidably in
misconstruing the essential nature of Enlightenment and consequently of
Buddhism.

In the beginning which is really no beginning and which has no
spiritual meaning except in our finite life, the will wants to know
itself, and consciousness is awakened, and with the awakening of
consciousness the will is split into two. The one will, whole and
complete in itself, is now at once actor and observer. Conflict is
inevitable; for the actor now wants to be free from the limitations
under which he has been obliged to put himself in his desire for
consciousness. He has in one sense been enabled to see, but at the same
time there is something which he as observer cannot see. In the trail
of knowledge, Ignorance follows with the inevitability of fate, the
one accompanies the other as shadow accompanies object, no separation
can be effected between the two companions. But the will as actor is
bent on going back to his own original abode where there was yet no
dualism, and therefore peace prevailed. This longing for the home,
however, cannot be satisfied without a long hard trying experience.
For the thing, once divided into two, cannot be restored to its former
unity until some struggle is gone through with. And the restoration is
more than a mere going back, the original content is enriched by the
division, struggle, and re-settlement.

When first the division takes place in the will, consciousness is so
enamoured of its novelty and its apparent efficiency in solving the
practical problems of life that it forgets its own mission which is to
enlighten the will. Instead of turning its illuminating rays within
itself, that is, towards the will from which it has its principle of
existence, consciousness is kept busy with the objective world of
realities and ideas; and when it tries to look into itself, there is
a world of absolute unity where the object of which it wishes to know
is the subject itself. The sword cannot cut itself. The darkness of
Ignorance cannot be dispelled because it is its own self. At this point
the will has to make a heroic effort to enlighten itself, to redeem
itself, without destroying the once-awakened consciousness or rather
by working out the principle lying at the basis of consciousness. This
was accomplished as we see in the case of the Buddha, and he became
more than mere Gautama, he was the Awakened One and the Exalted
and supremely Enlightened. In willing there is really something more
than mere willing, there is thinking and seeing. By this seeing, the
will sees itself and is thereby made free and its own master. This is
knowing in the most fundamental sense of the term and herein consists
the Buddhist redemption.

* * * * *

Ignorance prevails as long as the will remains cheated by its own
offspring or its own image, consciousness, in which the knower always
stands distinguished from the known. The cheating, however, cannot
last, the will wishes to be enlightened, to be free, to be by itself.
Ignorance always presupposes the existence of something outside and
unknown. This unknown outsider is generally termed ego or soul, which
is in reality the will itself in the state of Ignorance. Therefore,
when the Buddha experienced Enlightenment, he at once realised that
there was no Atman, no soul-entity as an unknown and unknowable
quantity. Enlightenment dispelled Ignorance and with it all the bogies
conjured up from the dark cave of ego disappeared. Ignorance in its
general use is opposed to knowledge, but from the Buddhist point of
view in which it stands contrasted to Enlightenment, it means the ego
(_ātman_), which is so emphatically denied by the Buddha. This is not
to be wondered at, seeing that the Buddha’s teaching centred in the
doctrine of Enlightenment, the dispelling of Ignorance.

Those who only see the doctrine of non-atman in Buddhism and fail
to inquire into the meaning of Enlightenment are incapable of
appreciating the full significance of the Buddha’s message to the
world. If he simply denied the existence of an ego-entity from the
psychological point of view after reducing it into its component
factors, scientifically he may be called great as his analytical
faculties stood far above those of his contemporaries in this respect;
but his influence as a spiritual leader would not have reached so far
and endured so long. His theory of non-atman was not only established
by a modern scientific method, but essentially was the outcome of his
inner experience. When Ignorance is understood in the deeper sense, its
dispelling unavoidably results in the negation of an ego-entity
as the basis of all our life-activities. Enlightenment is a positive
conception, and for ordinary minds it is quite hard to comprehend it in
its true bearings. But when we know what it means in the general system
of Buddhism, and concentrate our efforts in the realisation of it,
all the rest will take care of themselves, such as the notion of Ego,
attachment to it, Ignorance, Fetters, Defilements, etc. Moral Conduct,
Contemplation, and Higher Understanding—all these are meant to bring
about the desired end of Buddhism, that is, Enlightenment. The Buddha’s
constant reiteration of the theory of causation, telling his disciples
how when this is cause that is effect and how when cause disappears,
effect also disappears, is not primarily to get them acquainted with a
kind of formal logic, but to let them see how Enlightenment is causally
related to all human happiness and spiritual freedom and tranquillity.

As long as Ignorance is understood as logical inability to know, its
disappearance can never bring out the spiritual freedom to which
even the earliest known literature of Buddhism makes so frequent
and so emphatic allusions. See how the Arhat’s declaration of
spiritual independence reads in the Nikayas: “There arose in me
insight, the emancipation of my heart became unshakeable, this is
my last birth, there is now no rebirth for me.”[f59] This is quite
a strong statement showing how intensely and convincingly one has
seized the central facts of life. The passage is indeed one of the
characterisations of Arhatship, and when a fuller delineation of it
is made, we have something like the following: “To him, thus knowing,
thus seeing,[f60] the heart is set free from the defilement of lust,
is set free from the defilement of becoming, is set free from
the defilement of Ignorance. In him, thus set free, there arises the
knowledge of his emancipation, and he knows that rebirth has been
destroyed, that the Higher Life has been fulfilled, that what had
to be done has been accomplished, and after this present life there
will be no beyond.”[f61] In essence the Arhat is the Buddha and even
the Tathagata, and in the beginning of the history of Buddhism the
distinction between these terms did not seem quite sharply marked. Thus
to a great extent they may be qualified in the same terms.

* * * * *

When the Buddha was talking with his disciples concerning various
speculations prevalent in his days, he made the following remarks about
the knowledge of things in command by the Tathagata:

“That does he know, and he knows also other things far beyond, far
better than those speculations; and having that knowledge he is not
puffed up; and thus untarnished he has, in his own heart, realised the
way of escape from them, has understood, as really they are, the rising
up and passing away of sensations, their sweet taste, their danger,
how they cannot be relied on, and not grasping after any of those
things men are eager for, he the Tathagata is quite set free. These
are those other things, profound, difficult to realise, and hard to
understand, tranquillising, sweet, not to be grasped by logic, subtle,
comprehensible only by the wise, which the Tathagata, having himself
realised and seen face to face, hath set forth; and it is concerning
these that they who would rightly praise the Tathagata in accordance
with the truth, should speak.”[f62]

These virtues for which the Tathagata was to be praised were manifestly
not derived from speculation and analytical reasoning. His intellectual
sight was just as keen and far-reaching as any of his contemporaries,
but he was endowed with a higher faculty, will-power, which was
exercised to its fullest capacity in order to bring about all
these virtues which belonged to the entire being of Tathagatahood. And
naturally there was no need for him to face these metaphysical problems
that agitated the philosophers of his days; they were solved in him,
when he attained his spiritual freedom and serenity, in their entirety,
in their synthetic aspect, and not partially or fragmentarily—which
should be the case if they were presented to the Buddha’s cognition as
philosophical problems. In this light is to be read the _Mahāli Sutta_.
Some scholars wonder why two entirely disconnected ideas are treated
together in one body of the Sutra, which however shows scholarly
ignorance in regard to matters spiritual, as they fail to notice the
true import of Enlightenment in the system of Buddhist faith. To
understand this, we need imaginative intuition directly penetrating
the centre of life, and not always do mere literary and philological
talents succeed in unravelling its secrets.

The _Mahāli Sutta_ is a Pali Sutra in the Dīgha-Nikāya, in which Mahāli
asks the Buddha as to the object of the religious life practised by his
disciples, and the following is the gist of his answer: The Buddhists
do not practise self-concentration in order to acquire any miraculous
power such as hearing heavenly sounds or seeing heavenly sights.[f63]
There are things higher and sweeter than that, one of which is the
complete destruction of the Three Bonds (delusion of self, doubt, and
trust in the efficacy of good works and ceremonies) and the attainment
of such a state of mind as to lead to the insight of the higher things
in one’s spiritual life. When this insight is gained the heart grows
serene, is released from the taint of Ignorance, and there arises
the knowledge of emancipation. Such questions as are asked by you, O
Mahāli, regarding the identity of body and soul, are idle ones; for
when you attain to the supreme insight and see things as they really
are in themselves, that is, emancipated from the Bonds, Taints, and
Deadly Flows, those questions that are bothering you at the moment will
completely lose their value and no more be asked in the way you do.
Hence no need of my answering your questions.

This dialogue between the Buddha and Mahāli well illustrates the
relation between Enlightenment and the problem of the soul. There
is no need of wondering why the Buddha did not definitely solve the
ever-recurring question instead of ignoring it in the manner as he did
and talking about something apparently in no connection with the point
at issue. This is one of the instances by which we must try to see into
the meaning of Ignorance.

III

One of the reasons, however, why the Buddha left some metaphysical
questions unanswered or indeterminate (_avyākata_) was due to the
fact that Buddhism is a practical system of spiritual discipline and
not a metaphysical discourse. The Buddha naturally had his theory of
cognition, but this was secondary inasmuch as the chief aim of Buddhist
life was to attain Enlightenment from which spiritual freedom ensues.
Enlightenment vanquishes Ignorance lying at the root of birth-and-death
and laying fetters of every description, intellectual as well as
affective. And this vanquishing of Ignorance cannot be achieved except
by the exercise of one’s will-power; all the other attempts, especially
merely intellectual, are utterly futile. Hence the Buddha’s conclusion:
“These questions[f64] are not calculated to profit, they are not
concerned with the Dharma, they do not redound to the elements of
right conduct, nor to detachment, nor to purification from lusts, nor
to quietude, nor to tranquillisation of heart, nor to real knowledge,
nor to the insight of the higher stages of the Path, nor to Nirvana.
Therefore is it that I express no opinion upon them.” What the Buddha
on the other hand expounded was: “What pain is, what the origin of pain
is, what the cessation of pain is, and the method by which one may
reach the cessation of pain.” For these are all practical matters to be
not only fully understood and realised but actively mastered by any one
who really desires to accomplish the great deed of emancipation.

That the Buddha was very much against mere knowledge and most
emphatically insisted on actually seeing and personally experiencing
the Dharma, face to face, is in evidence everywhere in the Nikāyas as
well as in the Mahayana texts. This has been indeed the strongest point
in the teaching of Buddhism. When a Brahman philosopher was referring
to his knowledge of the Three Vedas and a union with that which he has
not seen, the Buddha ridiculed him in one of his strong phrases: “So
you say that the Brahmans are not able to point the way to union with
that which they have seen, and you further say that neither any one
of them, nor of their pupils, nor of their predecessors even to the
seventh generation, has ever seen Brahma. And you further say that even
the Rishis of old, whose words they hold in such deep respect, did not
pretend to know, or to have seen where, or whence, or whither Brahma
is. Yet these Brahmans versed in the Three Vedas say, forsooth, that
they can point out the way to union with that which they know not,
neither have seen.... They are like a string of blind men clinging
one to the other, neither can the foremost see, nor can the middle
one see, nor can the hindmost see. The talk of those Brahmans versed in
the Three Vedas is but blind talk: the first sees not, the middle one
sees not, nor can the last see.”

Enlightenment or the dispelling of Ignorance which is the ideal of
the Buddhist life, we can see now most clearly, is not an act of the
intellect, but the transforming or re-modelling of one’s whole being
through the exercise of the most fundamental faculty innate in every
one of us. Mere understanding has something foreign in it and does
not seem to come so intimately into life. If Enlightenment had really
such a tremendous effect on our spiritual outlook as we read in the
Sutras, it could not be the outcome of just getting acquainted with
the doctrine of Causation. Enlightenment is the work of Paññā which is
born of the will which wants to see itself and to be in itself. Hence
the Buddha’s emphasis on the importance of personal experience; hence
his insistence on meditation in solitude as the means of leading to the
experience. Meditation, through which the will endeavours to transcend
the condition it has put on itself in the awakening of consciousness,
is therefore by no means the simple act of cogitating on the theory of
Origination or Causation, which forever moves in a circle starting from
Ignorance and ending in Ignorance. This is the one thing that is most
needed in Buddhism. All the other metaphysical problems involve us in a
tangled skein, in a matted mass of thread.

* * * * *

Ignorance is thus not to be got rid of by metaphysical means but by
the struggle of the will. When this is done, we are also freed from
the notion of an ego-entity which is the product or rather the basis
of Ignorance, on which it depends and thrives. The ego is the dark
spot where the rays of the intellect fail to penetrate, it is the last
hiding lair of Ignorance, where the latter serenely keeps itself from
the light. When this lair is laid bare and turned inside out, Ignorance
vanishes like frost in the sun. In fact, these two are one and the
same thing, Ignorance and the idea of ego. We are apt to think that
when Ignorance is driven out and the ego loses its hold on us, we
have nothing to lean against and are left to the fate of a dead leaf
blown away hither and thither as the wind listeth. But this is not so;
for Enlightenment is not a negative idea meaning simply the absence
of Ignorance. Indeed, Ignorance is the negation of Enlightenment and
not the reverse. Enlightenment is affirmation in the truest sense of
the word, and therefore it was stated by the Buddha that he who sees
the Dharma sees the Buddha and he who sees the Buddha sees the Dharma,
and again that he who wants to see the Buddha ought not to seek him
in form, nor in voice, etc. When Ignorance ruled supreme, the ego was
conceived to be a positive idea, and its denial was nihilistic. It
was quite natural for Ignorance to uphold the ego where it found its
original home. But with the realisation of Enlightenment, the whole
affair changes its aspect, and the order instituted by Ignorance is
reversed from top to bottom. What was negative is now positive, and
what was positive now negative. Buddhist scholars ought not to forget
this revaluation of ideas that comes along with Enlightenment. Since
Buddhism asserts Enlightenment to be the ultimate fact of Buddhist
life, there is in it nothing negativistic, nothing pessimistic.

As philosophy tends to emphasise unduly the importance of abstract
ideas and logical inferences and forgets to keep itself constantly
in touch with the actual world of experience, the Buddha, as I have
repeatedly stated, flatly refused to subscribe to theorisation (_takka_
or _vitakka_) at the expense of practical discipline. Enlightenment was
the fruit of such discipline, and the dispelling of Ignorance could not
be effected by any other means. If the Buddha could be said to have had
any system of thought governing the whole trend of his teaching, it
was what we may call radical empiricism. By this I mean that he took
life and the world as they were and did not try to read them according
to his own interpretation. Theorists may say this is impossible, for
we put our subjectivity into every act of perception and what we
call an objective world is really a reconstruction of our innate ideas.
Epistemologically this may be so, but spiritually a state of perfect
freedom is obtained only when all our egoistic thoughts are not read
into life and the world is accepted as it is as a mirror reflects a
flower as flower and the moon as moon. When therefore I say Buddhism
is radical empiricism, this is not to be understood epistemologically
but spiritually. This is really the meaning of “yathābhūtam” or
“yathātatham”—the term quite frequently used in the Buddhist canon and
in fact forming a most important refrain of Buddhist thought.

In the _Sāmañña-phala Sutta_, in the Dīgha-Nikāya, we are told in an
ascending scale what the ultimate fruits of Buddhist life are, and the
scale terminates in the “yathābhūtam” acceptance of the world:

“With his heart thus serene, made pure, translucent, cultured, devoid
of evil, supple, ready to act, firm, and imperturbable, he directs
and bends down to the knowledge of the destruction of the Defilements
(_āsavā_). He knows as it really is: ‘This is pain.’ He knows as it
really is: ‘This is the origin of pain.’ He knows as it really is:
‘This is the cessation of pain.’ He knows as it really is: ‘This is
the path that leads to the cessation of pain.’ He knows as they really
are: ‘These are the Defilements.’ He knows as it really is: ‘This is
the origin of the Defilements.’ He knows as it really is: ‘This is the
cessation of the Defilements.’ He knows as it really is: ‘This is the
path that leads to the cessation of the Defilements.’ To him, thus
knowing, thus seeing, the heart is set free from the Defilement of
Lusts (_kāma_), is set free from the Defilement of Existence (_bhāva_),
is set free from the Defilement of Ignorance (_avijjā_). In him, thus
set free, there arises the knowledge of his emancipation, and he knows:
‘Rebirth has been destroyed. The higher life has been fulfilled. What
had to be done has been accomplished. After this present life there
will be no beyond!’”

How shall we understand this? As in the case of the Twelve Nidanas,
the Fourfold Noble Truth will surely fail to yield up its deepest
signification when we approach it intellectually. For it is
no more than a restatement of the dogma of dependent origination,
however different in form, the same principle is asserted both in the
Paṭicca-samuppāda and in the Ariya-sacca. The latter points out the
practical method of escape from the fetters of karma while the former
draws out in view the plans of its _modus operandi_. As concepts, both
formulas remain just what they are, that is, effectless and inefficient
to produce a spiritual revolution. The Buddha’s idea of formulating the
Fourfold Truth was to see it practically applied to the realisation of
an ideal. The elaborate mental discipline which is explained in the
previous parts of the _Sāmañña-phala_ is but preparatory to this final
catastrophe. Without a serene, pure, and firm heart, the truth can
never be grasped as it really is. A keen, penetrating intellect may
know of the truth and discourse about it, but as to its realisation in
life a disciplined mind is required.

The passages above quoted are intelligible only when they are seen
in the light of spiritual life. Buddhism may be logical, but if we
fail to perceive anything further than that we sorely distort it. The
logicality of Buddhist teaching is just one aspect of it and not a very
important one. We may even regard this logicalness as incidental to
Buddhism, and those who are entranced by it, remain quite ignorant of
the true import of Buddhism. “He knows as it really is,” ti yathābhūtaṁ
pajānāti,—we must come to this; for Yathābhūta-ñāṇa-dassana is the
insight that destroys the Defilements (_āsavānaṁ khaya-ñāna_) and
produces the consciousness of spiritual emancipation (_cetovimutti_).
Without this N̄aṇa or N̄aṇa-dassana (insight or intuition), no
detachment, no freedom would be possible to a Buddhist, nor would
he ever be assured of his ultimate deliverance from the bondage
of existence as well as of the attainment of the higher life
(_brahmacarya_). The “knowing thus, seeing thus,” does not mean an
intellectual comprehension of facts or truths which fall outside the
pale of one’s own experience, but it is the perception of events
that have actually taken place within oneself. Even an intellectual
comprehension will be impossible when there is no experience that
goes to support its validity. For those who have no spiritual
training along the line of the Hindu dhyana exercises, the mental
state culminating in the yathābhūtam contemplation of the world will
be a very difficult subject to be in sympathy with. But in this light
only the Buddha’s discourse on the fruits of the Sāmañña life is to be
understood.

The Defilements (_āsavā_), or Oozings (_lou_)[3.2] as the Chinese
translators have them, are three, sometimes four, in number. They are
the Defilements of Desire (_kāma_), Existence (_bhāva_), Ignorance
(_avijjā_), and Intellection (_diṭṭhi_). What kind of insight is it
that destroys all these Defilements? And what is it that will be
left in us after such a destruction? The answers may be anticipated
to be thoroughly nihilistic, because nothing but absolute void will
be seemingly the result of such destruction. Especially when we read
a verse like the following (_Sutta-nipāta_, vv. 949 and 1099), we
may reasonably be tempted to regard the teaching of the Buddha as
absolutely negativistic:

“What is before thee, lay it aside;
Let there be nothing behind thee;
If thou wilt not grasp after what is in the middle,
Thou wilt wander calm.”[f65]

But the fact is, from the spiritual point of view, that it is only
after the destruction of the Defilements and a release from every form
of attachment that one’s inmost being gets purified and sees itself
as it really is, not indeed as an ego standing in contrast to the
not-ego, but as something transcending opposites and yet synthesising
them in itself. What is destroyed is the dualism of things and not
their oneness. And the release means going back to one’s original
abode. The insight therefore is to see unity in multiplicity and to
understand the opposition of the two ideas as not conditioning each
other but as both issuing from a higher principle; and this is where
perfect freedom abides. When the mind is trained enough, it sees that
neither negation (_niratta_) nor affirmation (_atta_) applies to
reality but that the truth lies in knowing things as they are or rather
as they become. A mind really sincere and thoroughly purified
is the necessary preliminary to the understanding of reality in its
suchness. As the result we have “ti yathābhūtaṁ pajānāti,” and this
came later to be formulated by the Mahayanists into the doctrine of
Thatness or Suchness (_bhūtatathatā_). The trained mind that has gone
through the four dhyana exercises as prescribed in the Nikāyas further
develops into what is known among the Mahayanists as the Ādarśa-jñānam
(mirror-insight), which corresponds to the Bhūta-ñāṇa in the Anguttara
Nikāya. The last simile in the Buddha’s discourse on the fruits of the
Sāmañña life, which sums up the spiritual attainment of the Buddhists,
becomes now quite intelligible. It runs thus:

“Just, O king, as if in a mountain fastness there were a pool of water,
clear, translucent, and serene; and a man, standing on the bank and
with eyes to see, should perceive the oysters and the shells, the
gravel and the pebbles and the shoals of fish, as they move about or
lie within it: he would know: This pool is clear, transparent, and
serene, and there within it are the oysters and the shells, and the
sand and gravel, and the shoals of fish are moving about or lying
still.”

The radical empiricism of the “Yathābhūtam” teaching of the Buddha
is here graphically presented, which reminds us of the Buddha in the
_Itivuttaka_, v. 109, describing himself as the spectator standing on
the shore (_cakkhumā puriso tīre ṭhito_). To understand this simile
intellectually will be sheer nonsense. The writer describes his mental
attitude from a higher plane of thought which has been realised by him
after a long training. Sambodhi or Enlightenment is the Buddhist term
given to this realisation. The destruction of the four Defilements is
the negative phase of the experience which is the insight to which
the Buddha’s serene and translucent mind was directed and bent down.
When the destructive activity alone is considered, Enlightenment is
annihilating and negativistic, but when the insight opens to the
suchness of truth, it is most emphatically affirmative. This is where
lies that “matchless island possessing nothing and grasping after
nothing, called Nirvana, the destruction of decay and death.”
(_Sutta-nipāta_, v. 1094). Remember that what is here destroyed is
decay and death and not life; for it is through Enlightenment that life
is for the first time restored to its native freedom and creativeness.

The simile of mirror (_ādarśa_) may however suggest that the Buddhist
attitude towards the world is merely passive and lacking in energising
inspirations. This however betrays the ignorance on the part of the
critic of the Buddha’s own life which was so unselfishly devoted for
forty-nine long and peaceful years to the promotion of the general
spiritual welfare of his people; not only this, but the critic has
also forgotten to notice the extraordinary missionary enterprises
of the Buddha’s disciples as well as their intellectual activities
which developed into the Mahayanist school of Buddhism. Whatever this
be, the charge of passivity against Buddhist _weltanschauung_ is
wrong even when it is considered apart from the historical facts of
Buddhism. Passivity we notice in Enlightenment is merely apparent. As
a general statement, a thing absolutely passive is unthinkable, unless
it is a state of absolute nothingness without any kind of content
in it. As long as Enlightenment is the outcome of a most strenuous
spiritual effort, it is a positive state of mind in which lies hidden
an inexhaustible reservoir of possibilities; it is a unity in which a
world of multitudinosity is lodged. “Noisy go the small waters, silent
goes the vast ocean.”[f66] In the vast ocean of Enlightenment there is
the silence of unity. The Avataṁsaka philosophers too compare it to the
immense expanse of an ocean, calm and translucent, which reflects all
the shining bodies of heaven, but where at the same time possibilities
of roaring and all-devouring waves lie innocently embosomed.

So asks the Buddha in the _Mahāli Sutta_: “When a monk knows thus
and sees thus, would that make him ready to take up the question:
Is the soul the same as the body, or is the soul one thing and the
body another?” It is thus evident that the Buddha’s teaching always
centered in the practical realisation of Enlightenment as “āsavem
khata-ñāṇa,” insight that destroys the Defilements and releases one
from every attachment (_upādāna_). He did not shun the discussion of
the metaphysical problems merely because they were metaphysical, but
because they were not conducive to the attainment of the ultimate
end of Buddhist life which is the purification of spirit and not the
display of epistemological subtlety. Ignorance was to be dispelled
in our inner experience, and not by intellectually understanding
the principle of dependent origination whether expressed as the
Paṭicca-samuppāda or as the Ariya-sacca.

Further, that Enlightenment consists in seeing into things
“yathābhūtam” or “yathātatham,” free from doubt, not disturbed by
intellection or theorisation, may be gleaned from the last gāthā in the
_Itivuttaka_, where the Buddha is praised for his various virtues. I
quote the first three stanzas:

“Having insight into all the world,
In all the world as it really is,
He is detached from all the world,
And without compare in all the world.

All surpassing in everything, steadfast.
Freed from all ties,
The highest repose belongs to him,
Who has attained Nirvana, with no fear from any side.

This Enlightened One, with Defilements destroyed,
Undisturbed, and free from doubt,
Has attained destruction of all karma,
And is released in the destruction of the substratum.”

Viewing things “yathābhūtam” is, so to speak, the intellectual or
noetic aspect of Enlightenment though not in the sense of discursive
understanding; there is another aspect of Enlightenment which will be
the subject of consideration here. I mean its relation to samadhi or
dhyana. This is preliminary, as I said before, to the realisation, but
it also shows that the realisation thus attained is something more
than merely seeing into truth. If Enlightenment were just this seeing
or having insight, it would not be so spiritually enlightening as
to bring about a complete riddance of evil passions and the sense
of perfect freedom. Intuitions could not go so penetratingly into
the source of life and set all doubts at rest and sever all bonds of
attachment, unless one’s consciousness were thoroughly prepared to take
in the All in its wholeness as well as its suchness. Our senses and
ordinary consciousness are only too apt to be disturbed and to turn
away from the realisation of truth. Mental discipline thus becomes
indispensable.

We must remember that the Buddha had this discipline under his two
Samkhya teachers and that even after his Enlightenment he made it a
rule for his disciples to train themselves in the dhyana exercises. He
himself retired into solitude whenever he had opportunities for it.
This was not of course merely indulging in contemplation or in making
the world reflect in the mirror of consciousness. It was a kind of
spiritual training even for himself and even after Enlightenment. In
this respect the Buddha was simply following the practise of all other
Indian sages and philosophers. This however was not all with him, he
saw some deeper meaning in the discipline which was to awaken the
highest spiritual sense for comprehending the Dharma. Indeed, without
this ultimate awakening, dhyana however exalting, was of no import to
the perfection of Buddhist life. So we have in the _Dhammapada_, v.
372: “Without knowledge (_paññā_, _prajñā_) there is no meditation
(_jhāna_, _dhyāna_), without meditation there is no knowledge: he
who has knowledge and meditation is near unto Nirvana.” This mutual
dependence of jhāna and paññā is what distinguished Buddhism from
the rest of the Indian teachings at the time. Jhāna or dhyāna must
issue in paññā, must develop into seeing the world as it really is
(_yathābhūtaṁ_); for there is no Buddhism in meditation merely as
such. And this was the reason why the Buddha got dissatisfied with
the teaching of his teachers; it, to use his own words, did “not lead
to perfect insight, to supreme awakening, to Nirvana” (_na abhiññāya
na sambhodāya na nibbānāya saṁvattati_). To be abiding in the
serenity of nothingness was enjoyable enough, but it was falling into
a deep slumber, and the Buddha had no desire to sleep away his earthly
life in a daydream. There must be a seeing into the life and soul of
things. To him paññā or prajñā was the most essential part of his
doctrine, and it had to grow out of dhyana, and the dhyana that did
not terminate in paññā was not at all Buddhistic. The boat was to be
emptied indeed, but staying in an “empty house” (_suññāgāraṁ_) and
doing nothing is blankness and annihilation; an eye must open and see
the truth fully and clearly, the truth (_paramaṁ ariyasaccaṁ_) that
liberates life from its many bondages and encumbrances. (Majjhima
Nikāya, 140.) Sings the _Dhammapada_ again (v. 373):

“A monk who has entered his empty house, and whose mind is tranquil,
Feels a more than human delight when he sees the truth clearly.”

* * * * *

As thus the aim of the dhyana exercises is to prepare the mind for the
realisation of the paramasacca which destroys and liberates, and as the
truth is realisable only by the awakening of the parama-paññā which is
the knowledge (_ñāṇa_) that puts an end to all misery (_sabbadukkha_),
the Buddha never fails to duly impress the importance of paññā on the
minds of his disciples, for instance, in his general disciplinary
scheme given to them under the three headings: śīla (morality), jhāna
(meditation), and paññā (intuitive knowledge). Whatever supersensual
pleasures one may experience in the jhāna exercises, the Buddha
considered them to be far short of the ultimate goal of Buddhist
life, every one of such pleasures had to be abandoned as it would
entangle the mind and interrupt its ascending course to the awakening
of paññā. It was through this awakening alone that the consciousness
of emancipation or going back to one’s original spiritual abode could
be attained. And by emancipation the Buddha meant to be free from
all forms of attachment, both sensual (_rūpaṁ_) and intellectual
(_viññānaṁ_). So says he in the Majjhima Nikāya, 138: Let not thy
mind be disturbed by external objects, nor let it go astray among thy
own ideas. Be free from attachments, and fear not. This is the way to
overcome the sufferings of birth and death.

As long as there is the slightest trace of attachment anywhere,
outwardly or inwardly, there remains the substratum of selfhood,
and this is sure to create a new force of karma and involve us in
the eternal cycle of birth-and-death. This attachment is a form of
obsession or illusion or imagination. Nine of such self-conceited
illusions are mentioned in the Nikāyas, all of which come out of the
wrong speculations of selfhood and naturally lead to attachment in one
way or another. They are the ideas that “I am,” “I am that,” “I shall
be,” “I shall not be,” “I shall have form,” “I shall be without form,”
“I shall have thought,” “I shall be without thought,” “I shall neither
have thought nor be without thought.”[f67] We have to get rid of all
these _maññitams_, arrogant, self-asserting conceptions, in order to
reach the final goal of Buddhist life. For when they are eliminated, we
cease to worry, to harbour hatred, to be belabouring, and to be seized
with fears,—which is tranquillisation (_santi_), and Nirvana, and the
seeing into the reality and truth of things. When paññā is awakened in
us, morality is abandoned, meditation left behind, and there remains
only an enlightened state of consciousness in which spirit moveth as it
listeth.

The well-known simile of the raft (_kullūpamaṁ_)[f68] which may seem
somewhat unintelligible to some of the Buddhist critics who are
used to an altogether different “intellectual landscape,” is a good
illustration of the Buddhist teaching of non-attachment. The teaching,
“Kullūpamaṁ vo bhikkhave ājānantehi dhammā pi vo pahātabbā, pageva
adhammā,” (Like unto a raft all dharmas indeed must be abandoned, much
more un-dharmas!), is really the most fundamental keynote running
through the whole course of the history of Buddhist dogmatics. The
philosophy of Prajñāpāramitā which is considered by some quite
deviating from the spirit of primitive Buddhism is in no way behind in
upholding this doctrine of non-attachment, for instance, as we
see in the _Vajracchedikā Sūtra_. In fact, the theory of Śūnyatā as
expounded in all the Prajñā-sūtras is no more than philosophising on
the doctrine of non-attachment.[f69] The _Vajracchedikā_ has:

“Tasmad iyaṁ thathāgatena sandhāya vāg bhāshi kolopamaṁ dharmaparyāyam
ājānadbhir dharmā eva tā prahātavyāḥ prāgeva adharmā.”

The simile itself runs as follows (Majjhima Nikāya, 22):

“In the simile of a raft do I teach my doctrine to you, O monks, which
is designed for escape, not for retention. Listen attentively and
remember well what I am going to say. Suppose that a man coming upon
a long journey finds in his way a great broad water, the hither side
beset with fears and dangers, but the further side secure and free from
fears, and no boat wherewith to cross the flood nor any bridge leading
from this to the other shore. And suppose this man to say to himself:
Verily this is a great and wide water, and the hither side is full of
fears and dangers, but the further side secure and free from fears; and
there is neither boat nor bridge to take me from this to that further
shore. How if I gather some reeds and twigs and leaves and bind them
together into a raft; and then, supported on that raft, and labouring
with hands and feet, cross in safety to that other shore! Accordingly,
O monks, suppose this man to gather together reeds and twigs and leaves
and branches and bind them all together into a raft, and launching
forth upon it and labouring with hands and feet, attain in safety the
other shore. And now, the flood crossed, the further shore attained,
suppose the man should say: Very serviceable indeed has this my raft
been to me. Supported by this raft and working with hands and feet, I
am safely crossed to this other shore; how now if I lift the raft up
on my head or lay it upon my shoulder, and so proceed whithersoever
I wish! What think ye, O monks? So doing, would this man be acting
rightly as regards his raft?

“Nay, verily, O Lord!

“And what then ought this man to do if he would act rightly as
regards the raft? Thus, O monks, ought the man to consider: Truly this
raft has been serviceable to me! Supported by this raft and exerting
hands and feet, I am crossed in safety to this further shore. How now
if I lay this raft up on the bank or leave it to sink in the water and
so proceed upon my journey? So doing, O monks, the man would be acting
rightly as regards his raft.

“In like manner also do I teach my doctrine to you in the simile of
a raft, which is meant, O monks, for escape and not for retention.
Understanding the simile of the raft, O monks, you must leave dharmas
behind, how much more un-dharmas!”[f70]

The teaching of the Buddha may now be summed up as follows: Seeing
things thus or “yathābhūtam” is the same as the attainment of perfect
spiritual freedom; or we may say that when we are detached from evil
passions based upon the wrong idea of selfhood and when the heart
grows conscious of its own emancipation, we are then for the first
time fully awakened to the truth as it really is. These two events,
seeing and being freed, are mutually dependent, so intimately that
the one without the other is unthinkable, is impossible; in fact
they are two aspects of one identical experience, separated only in
our limited cognition. Paññā without jhāna is no paññā, and jhāna
without paññā is no jhāna. Enlightenment is the term designating the
identification-experience of paññā and jhāna, of seeing “yathābhūtam”
and abandoning the dharma-raft of every denomination. In this light
should the following be understood:

“Therefore, O monks, whatever of matter (or body, _rūpaṁ_) there is,
whether of the past, of the future, or of the present time, whether
internal or external, whether coarse or fine, mean or exalted, far
or near, all matter (or body) is to be regarded as it really is, in
the light of perfect knowledge (_sammāpaññā_), thus: ‘This is not of
me,’ ‘This am I not,’ ‘This is not my Self.’ So with the rest of the
five aggregates (_khaṇḍa_): _vedanā_ (sensations), _saññā_ (concepts),
_sankhāra_ (formative principle), and _viññānaṁ_ (consciousness). One
who thus seeing the world turns away from the world is truly freed from
evil passions and has the consciousness of freedom. Such is called one
who has the obstacles removed, trenches filled, one who has destroyed,
is free, one whose fight is over, who has laid down his burden, and is
detached.”[f71]

In short, he has every quality of the Enlightened, in whom the will and
the intellect are harmoniously blended.

Ignorance is departure from home and Enlightenment is returning. While
wandering we lead a life full of pain and suffering and the world
wherein we find ourselves is not a very desirable habitat. This is
however put a stop to by Enlightenment as thus we are enabled once
more to get settled at home where reign freedom and peace. The will
negates itself in its attempt to get an insight into its own life, and
dualism follows. Consciousness cannot transcend its own principle.
The will struggles and grows despondent over its work. “Why?”—the
intellect asks, but it is the question no human intellect can
ever hope to solve; for it is a mystery deeply inherent in the will.
Why did the Heavenly Father have to send his only child to redeem the
creation which was his own handiwork and yet went further astray from
its home? Why had Christ to be so dejected over the destiny of the
erring children of God? This is an eternal mystery, and no relative
understanding is made to grapple with these questions. But the very
fact that such questions are raised and constantly threaten one’s
spiritual peace shows that they are not idle metaphysical problems to
be solved by professional philosophers, but that they are addressed
directly to one’s inmost soul, which must struggle and make effort to
subdue them by a higher and deeper power native to itself—far higher
and deeper than mere dialectic of cognition.

The story of the prodigal son[f72] is such a favourite theme both for
Buddhists and Christians, and in this do we not discover something
eternally true, though tragic and unfathomable, which lies so deep in
every human heart? Whatever this may be, the will finally succeeds in
recognising itself, in getting back to its original abode. The sense of
peace one finds in Enlightenment is indeed that of a wanderer getting
safely home. The wandering seems to have altogether been unnecessary
from the logical point of view. What is the use of losing oneself if
one has to find oneself again? What boots it after all—this going
over from one to ten and from ten to one? Mathematically, all this
is nonsensical. But the spiritual mystery is that returning is not
merely counting backwards so many figures that were counted before in
a reverse way. There is an immense difference here between physics and
psychology. After returning one is no longer the same person as before.
The will, back from his excursion through time-consciousness, is God
himself.

In the _Vajrasamādhi Sūtra_,[3.4] Bodhisattva Apratisthita[3.5] asks
the Buddha why the father was so unkind as not to recall his wandering
son before fifty years expired, to which the Buddha answers,
“Fifty years is not to be understood as indicating time-relation here;
it means the awakening of a thought.” As I would interpret, this means
the awakening of consciousness—a split in the will, which now, besides
being actor, is knower. The knower, however, gradually grows to be the
spectator and critic, and even aspires to be the director and ruler.
With this arises the tragedy of life, which the Buddha makes the basis
of the Fourfold Noble Truth. That pain (_duḥkha_) is life itself as it
is lived by most of us, is the plain, undisguised statement of facts.
This all comes from Ignorance, from our consciousness not being fully
enlightened as to its nature, mission, and function in relation to the
will. Consciousness must first be reduced to the will when it begins
to work out its “original vows” (_pūrvapraṇidhāna_) in obedience to
its true master. “The awakening of a thought” marks the beginning of
Ignorance and is its condition. When this is vanquished, “a thought” is
reduced to the will, which is Enlightenment. Enlightenment is therefore
returning.

In this respect Christianity is more symbolic than Buddhism. The
story of Creation, the Fall from the Garden of Eden, God’s sending
Christ to compensate for the ancestral sins, his Crucifixion, and
Resurrection—they are all symbolic. To be more explicit, Creation
is the awakening of consciousness, or the “awakening of a thought”;
the Fall is consciousness going astray from the original path; God’s
idea of sending his own son among us is the desire of the will to
see itself through its own offspring, consciousness; Crucifixion is
transcending the dualism of acting and knowing, which comes from the
awakening of the intellect; and finally Resurrection means the will’s
triumph over the intellect, in other words, the will seeing itself
in and through consciousness. After Resurrection the will is no more
blind striving, nor is the intellect mere observing the dancer dance.
In real Buddhist life these two are not separated, seeing and acting,
they are synthesised in one whole spiritual life, and this synthesis
is called by Buddhists Enlightenment, the dispelling of Ignorance, the
loosening of the Fetters, the wiping-off of the Defilements, etc.
Buddhism is thus free from the historical symbolism of Christianity;
transcending the category of time. Buddhism attempts to achieve
salvation in one act of the will; for returning effaces all the traces
of time.

* * * * *

The Buddha himself gave utterance to the feeling of return when his
eye first opened to the Dharma unheard of before at the realisation
of Enlightenment. He said: “I am like a wanderer who, after going
astray in a desolate wilderness, finally discovers an old highway,
an old track beaten by his predecessors, and who finds, as he goes
along the road, the villages, palaces, gardens, woods, lotus-ponds,
walls, and many other things where his predecessors used to have
their dwellings.”[f73] Superficially, this feeling of returning to an
old familiar abode seems to contradict the statement made concerning
“an insight to things never before presented to one’s mind”; but the
contradiction is logical and not spiritual. As long as the Buddha was
going over the Chain of Origination from the epistemological point
of view, that is, as long as he attempted to get back to his
native will through the channel of empirical consciousness, he could
not accomplish his end. It was only when he broke through the wall
of Ignorance by the sheer force of his will that he could tread the
ancient path. The path was altogether unrecognisable by his intelligent
eye which was one of the best of the kind; even the Buddha could not
ignore the law governing its usage; the Chain was not to be cut asunder
by merely reckoning its links of cause and effect backward and forward.
Knowledge, that is, Ignorance drove Adam from the Garden of Eden to the
world of pain and patience (_sahaloka_), but it was not knowledge that
would reconcile him to his Father, it was the Will dispelling Ignorance
and ushering Enlightenment.

The sense of return or that of recognising old acquaintances one
experiences at the time of Enlightenment is a familiar fact to students
of Zen Buddhism. To cite one instance, Chih-I (530–597)[3.6] who is
generally known by his honorary title as Chih-chê Tai-shih,[3.7]
was the founder of the T‘ien-tai school of Buddhist philosophy in
China. He was also trained in meditation by his teacher Hui-szŭ
(513–577)[3.8] and though not belonging to the orthodox lineage of
the Zen masters, he is reckoned as one. When he came to the master,
he was set to exercise himself in a Samadhi known as “Fa-hua San-mei”
(_saddharma-puṇḍarkīa-samādhi_).[3.9] While exercising himself in
it, he came across a certain passage in the Sutra, and his mind was
opened, and he at once realised the statement referred to by his
master, which was this—that he with the master personally attended the
Buddha’s congregation at the Vulture Peak where the Buddha discoursed
on the Sutra. Then said the master, “If not for you no one could see
the truth: and if not for me no one could testify it.” It is often
remarked by Zen masters that the holy congregation at the Vulture
Peak is still in session. This however ought not to be confounded
with the remembering of the past which is one of the miraculous
gifts of the Buddhist saints. It has nothing to do with such memory,
for in Enlightenment there are more things than are implied in mere
time-relations. Even when the _Prajñāpāramitā-sūtras_ expressly refer
to one’s previous presence at the discourse on the subject,
this is not a form of mere recollection; the understanding is not a
psychological phenomenon, the prajñā goes much penetratingly into the
depths of one’s personality. The sense of return to something familiar,
to the one thoroughly acquainted with, really means the will getting
settled once more in its old abode, after many a venturesome wandering,
with an immense treasure of experience now and full of wisdom that will
light up its unending career.

VII

It may not be altogether out of place here to make a few remarks
concerning the popular view which identifies the philosophy of
Schopenhauer with Buddhism. According to this view, the Buddha is
supposed to have taught the negation of the will to live, which was
insisted upon by the German pessimist, but nothing is further from the
correct understanding of Buddhism than this negativism. The Buddha does
not consider the will blind, irrational, and therefore to be denied;
what he really denies is the notion of ego-entity due to Ignorance,
from which notion come craving, attachment to things impermanent,
and the giving way to the egotistic impulses. The object the Buddha
always has in view and never forgets to set forth whenever he thinks
opportune, is the Enlightenment of the will and not its negation. His
teaching is based upon affirmative propositions. The reason why he does
not countenance life as it is lived by most of us is because it is the
product of Ignorance and egoism, which never fail to throw us into the
abyss of pain and misery. The Buddha pointed the way to escape this by
Enlightenment and not by annihilation.

The will as it is in itself is pure act, and no taint of egotism is
there; this is awakened only when the intellect through its own error
grows blind as to the true working of the will and falsely recognises
here the principle of individuation. The Buddha thus wants an illumined
will and not the negation of it. When the will is illumined, and
thereby when the intellect is properly directed to follow its
original course, we are liberated from the fetters which are put upon
us by wrong understanding, and purified of all the defilements which
ooze from the will not being correctly interpreted. Enlightenment and
emancipation are the two central ideas of Buddhism.

The argument Aśvaghosha puts into the mouth of the Buddha against
Arada (or Ālāra Kālāma), the Samkhya philosopher, is illuminating in
this respect. When Arada told the Buddha to liberate the soul from
the body as when the bird flies from the cage or the reed’s stalk is
loosened from its sheath, which will result in the abandonment of
egoism, the Buddha reasons in the following way: “As long as the soul
continues there is no abandonment of egoism. The soul does not become
free from qualities as long as it is not released from number and the
rest; therefore, as long as there is no freedom from qualities, there
is no liberation declared for it. There is no real separation of the
qualities and their subject; for fire cannot be conceived apart from
its form and heat. Before the body there will be nothing embodied,
so before the qualities there will be no subject; how, if it was
originally free, could the soul ever become bound? The body-knower
(the soul) which is unembodied, must be either knowing or unknowing;
if it is knowing, there must be some object to be known, and if there
is this object, it is not liberated. Or if the soul be declared to be
unknowing, then what use to you is this imagined soul? Even without
such a soul, the existence of the absence of knowledge is notorious as,
for instance, in a log of wood or a wall. And since each successive
abandonment is held to be still accompanied by qualities, I maintain
that the absolute attainment of our end can only be found in the
abandonment of everything.”[f74]

As long as the dualistic conception is maintained in regard to the
liberation of the soul, there will be no real freedom as is truly
declared by the Buddha. “The abandonment of everything” means the
transcending of the dualism of soul and body, of subject and object,
of that which knows and that which is known, of “it is” and “it is
not,” of soul and soul-lessness; and this transcending is not attained
by merely negating the soul or the will, but by throwing light
upon its nature, by realising it as it is in itself. This is the act
of the will. An intellectual contemplation which is advocated by the
Samkhya philosophers does not lead one to spiritual freedom, but to
the realm of passivity which is their “realm of nothingness.” Buddhism
teaches freedom and not annihilation, it advocates spiritual discipline
and not mental torpor or emptiness. There must be a certain turning
away in one’s ordinary course of life, there must be a certain opening
up of a new vista in one’s spiritual outlook if one wants to be the
true follower of the Buddha. His aversion to asceticism and nihilism as
well as to hedonism becomes intelligible when seen in this light.

* * * * *

The Majjhima-Nikāya’s account of the Buddha’s interview with the
Samkhya thinkers somewhat differs from the Mahayana poet’s, but in
a way gives a better support to my argument as regards the Buddha’s
Enlightenment. The reason why he was not satisfied with the teaching
and discipline of Ālāra Kālāma and Uddaka is stated to be this: “This
doctrine does not lead to turning away, to dispassion, to cessation,
to quietude, to perfect penetration, to supreme awakening, to Nirvana,
but only to attainment to the Realm of Nothingness.” What did then
the Buddha understand by Nirvana which literally means annihilation
or cessation, but which is grouped here with such terms as awakening,
turning away (that is, revaluation), and penetration, and contrasted
to nothingness? There is no doubt, as far as we can judge from these
qualifications, that Nirvana is a positive conception pointing to
a certain determinable experience. When he came up to the bank of
the Nairañjanā and took his seat of soft grass on a shady, peaceful
spot, he made up his mind not to leave the place until he realised in
himself what he had been after ever since his wandering away from home.
According to the _Lalita-vistara_, he at that moment made this vow
(_praṇidhāna_):

“Let my body be dried up on this seat,
Let my skin and bones and flesh be destroyed:
So long as Bodhi is not attained, so hard to attain for many a kalpa,
My body and thought will not be removed from this seat.”[f75]

Thus resolved, the Buddha finally came to realise Supreme
Enlightenment for which he had belaboured for ever so many lives. How
does this vary from his former attainments under Uddaka and Ālāra
Kālāma? Let him express himself:

“Then, disciples, myself subject to birth, but perceiving the
wretchedness of things subject to birth and seeking after the
incomparable security of Nirvana which is birthless, to that
incomparable security I attained, even to Nirvana which is birthless.

“Myself subject to growth and decay, but perceiving the wretchedness of
things subject to growth and decay and seeking after the incomparable
security of Nirvana which is free from growth and decay, to that
incomparable security I attained, even to Nirvana which is free from
growth and decay.

“Myself subject to disease, but perceiving the wretchedness of things
subject to disease and seeking after the incomparable security of
Nirvana which is free from disease, to that incomparable security I
attained, even to Nirvana which is free from disease.

“Myself subject to death, but perceiving the wretchedness of things
subject to death and seeking after the incomparable security of Nirvana
which is deathless, to that incomparable security I attained, even to
Nirvana which is deathless.

“Myself subject to sorrow, but perceiving the wretchedness of things
subject to sorrow and seeking after the incomparable security of
Nirvana which is sorrowless, to that incomparable security I attained,
even to Nirvana which is sorrowless.

“Myself subject to stain, but perceiving the wretchedness of things
subject to stain and seeking the incomparable security of Nirvana which
is stainless, to that incomparable security I attained, even to Nirvana
which is stainless.

“Then I saw and knew: ‘Assured am I of deliverance; this is my final
birth; never more shall I return to this life!’”[f76]

When Nirvana is qualified as birthless, deathless, stainless,
sorrowless, and free from growth and decay and disease, it looks
negativistic enough. But if there were nothing affirmed even in these
negations, the Buddha could not rest in “the incomparable security”
(_anuttaraṁ yogakkhemaṁ_) of Nirvana and been assured of final
emancipation. What thus the Buddha denied, we can see, was Ignorance as
to the true cause of birth and death, and this Ignorance was dispelled
by the supreme effort of the will and not by mere dialectic reasoning
and contemplation. The will was asserted and the intellect was awakened
to its true significance. All the desires, feelings, thoughts, and
strivings thus illuminated cease to be egotistic and are no more the
cause of defilements and fetters and many other hindrances, of which
so many are referred to in all Buddhist literature, Mahayana and
Hinayana. In this sense the Buddha is the Jina, Conqueror, not an empty
conqueror over nothingness, but the conqueror of confusion, darkness,
and Ignorance.

HISTORY OF ZEN BUDDHISM FROM BODHI-DHARMA TO HUI-NENG (YENO)
(520 A.D.–713 A.D.)

My intention here is not to make a thoroughly critical and scientific
study of the history of Zen Buddhism; for this presupposes some
knowledge of the development of Buddhism in China, and there are, as
far as my knowledge extends, no text-books on the subject, which are
accessible to readers of this book. The main object of the present
Essay will therefore be to acquaint them first with the traditional
history of Zen as it is told by its followers both in Japan and China.
Its critical investigation will follow when readers are in a degree
prepared for the task.

The traditional origin of Zen in India before its introduction into
China, which is recorded in Zen literature, is so mixed with legends
that no reliable facts can be gathered from it. In the days when there
was yet no critical study of anything and when things, especially
relating to religion, were believed in a wholesale manner, we could
not expect anything else. It may now be too late to try to unravel the
mysteries enveloping the origin of Zen in India except in a general
and logical way from the historical facts already known concerning the
development of Mahayana Buddhism. In fact, Zen Buddhism, as was already
discussed, is the product of the Chinese mind, or rather the Chinese
elaboration of the Doctrine of Enlightenment. Therefore, when we want
to narrate the history of Zen, it may be better in some respects not
to go to India, but to stay in China and study the psychology and
philosophy of her people and the surrounding conditions that made it
possible for Zen to achieve a successful growth in the land of the
celestials, always remembering that it is a practical interpretation of
the Doctrine of Enlightenment.

Some scholars may however object to this kind of treatment of the
subject, on the ground that if Zen is at all a form of Buddhism or
even the essence of it as is claimed by its followers, it cannot be
separated from the general history of Buddhism in India. This is quite
true, but as far as facts are concerned, Zen as such did not exist in
India, that is, in the form as we have it to-day; and therefore when
we try to go beyond China to trace its origin and development, the
only way open to us will be the one I have followed in my previous
Essays collected here. That is to say, we must consider Zen the Chinese
interpretation of the Doctrine of Enlightenment, which is expounded in
all Buddhist literature, most intensively in the Mahayana and more or
less provisionarily in the Hinayana. As time went on, this doctrine
steadily grew to occupy the minds of the Buddha’s followers and to
control the course of development of Buddhist thought generally; for
was it not through Enlightenment that Gautama became the Buddha, the
Enlightened One? and is it not the object of Buddhism to follow the
footsteps of its founder in the attainment of final emancipation? But
the Chinese adherents of Bodhism[f77] or the upholders of Enlightenment
did not wish to swallow Indian Buddhism undigested. The practical
imagination of the Chinese people came thus to create Zen, and
developed it to the best of their abilities to suit their own religious
requirements.

When we compare Zen as a finished product to the Doctrine of
Enlightenment as the latter began to unfold itself in primitive
Buddhism, we find a wide and seemingly impassable gap between the
two. This was however naturally to be expected. Let us consider the
following facts. In the beginning, the Buddha was somewhat timid to
disclose the entire secrets of the reason of Buddhahood, thinking that
his disciples were not quite capable of following every step he had
taken himself. The feeling he first had after Enlightenment governed
him almost throughout the entire course of his earthly life. It was
this, that the Perfect Supreme Enlightenment attained by him was too
exalted an object for sentient beings to strive after, and that
even when it were disclosed to them they would not fully comprehend
it but might defile it to their own demerit. Did he not even think of
passing into Nirvana right after Enlightenment? His whole life, in
spite of the advice of the Brahmadeva, seems to have been controlled
by this feeling—the reluctance to reveal the entirety of his inmost
self-realisation (_pratyātmajñāna_, according to the terminology of
the _Laṅkāvatāra_). In point of fact, the Buddha himself might have
communicated what he realised to all his disciples unreservedly, but
the impression we get from the Agama or Nikaya literature is that
he was actually reluctant to do so. At least this was the way the
earlier writers of the canonical books attempted to represent their
master whatever their motives might be. This being the case, the idea
of Enlightenment was not brought forward so fully and conspicuously
in Hinayana literature as at once to command our attention. But as I
pointed out, this idea lies only superficially buried among the other
and less important ideas, and can easily be made manifest by logically
and psychologically following up the course of events related in the
canonical writings concerning the Enlightenment of the Buddha.

The earlier writers conceived the Fourfold Noble Truth or the
Twelvefold Chain of Causation, or the Eightfold Path of Righteousness
to be the central teaching of Buddhism, which also included on the
psychological side the theory of non-ego (_anātman_). But when we
reflect, both philosophically and from the Zen point of view, on the
life of the Buddha and on the ultimate principle of Buddhahood, we
cannot help thinking of his Enlightenment as the most significant and
most essential and most fruitful part of Buddhism. Therefore, what
the Buddha really wished to impart to his disciples must be said to
have been the Doctrine of Enlightenment in spite of the Hinayanistic
interpretation or understanding of what is known as primitive Buddhism.
But as long as Buddhism flourished in India, this its central idea
remained what it was, that is, such as is developed in most of the
Mahayana Sutras. It was only after Bodhi-Dharma who brought it to China
that the idea took root there and grew up to what we designate
now specifically as the Zen school of Buddhism. The history of Zen,
therefore, properly speaking or in its narrower sense, may best be
regarded as beginning in China. The Indian soil was too metaphysical,
too rich in romantic imagination for Zen to grow as such in its pure
form.

While the attainment of Buddhahood or Arhatship was the ultimate goal
of his teaching, the Buddha was practical and always close to the
facts of life and insisted in his ordinary sermons on a life regulated
by moral rules. Nor had he any desire to disclose intellectually or
metaphysically the content of Enlightenment which must be experienced
but cannot be explained. He never neglected to emphasise the
significance of self-realisation, for Nirvana or Enlightenment was to
be attained personally through one’s own efforts in one’s own inner
consciousness. The Fourfold Noble Truth or the Twelvefold Chain of
Causation or the Theory of Non-ego was an intellectual guide to the
realisation of the Buddhist life. Such teaching could not have any
practical meaning except as finally leading to Enlightenment. The
Buddha never thought that his followers would come to lay the entire
stress of his teaching on these intellectual structures which could not
stand by themselves without being supported by an inner spirit. The
Eightfold Path of Righteousness was an ethical guide to Enlightenment,
and as such it was regarded by the Buddha. Those who have no higher
insight into his teaching than reading a moral signification in it,
take it for a kind of ethical culture and no more. They think that
Buddhism is a positivism as philosophy and its Brotherhood (_saṁgha_)
a body of moral ascetics. They praise the Buddha as the originator of
a scientific religious system free from spiritualistic superstitions
which so frequently and abundantly grow around religion. But we know
better because these comments are not in full accord with the teaching
of the Buddha, for they only reflect one side of it and fail to take
an inner and comprehensive view of the whole field. If these critics
took up the practise of dhyana as constituting the essence of Buddhism
along with the above considerations, they may be said to have come
nearer to the goal; but even this dhyana is a form of spiritual
exercise which will prepare the way to the final realisation of
Nirvana. Dhyana in itself does not distinguish Buddhism from the other
philosophico-religious systems which existed in India in the day of
the Buddha. Therefore, to understand Zen as expressing the Doctrine of
Enlightenment which is the reason of Buddhism, we must wait for the
rise of the Mahayana movements. And when this was introduced into China
by Bodhi-Dharma, it grew up to what we now know by the name of Zen
Buddhism.

The legendary story of the origin of Zen in India runs as follows:
Śākyamuni was once engaged at the Mount of the Holy Vulture in
preaching to a congregation of his disciples. He did not resort to any
lengthy verbal discourse to explain his point, but simply lifted a
bouquet of flowers before the assemblage, which was presented to him
by one of his lay-disciples. Not a word came out of his mouth. Nobody
understood the meaning of this except the old venerable Mahākāśyapa,
who quietly smiled at the Master, as if he fully comprehended the
purport of this silent but eloquent teaching on the part of the
Enlightened One. The latter perceiving this opened his golden-tongued
mouth and proclaimed solemnly: “I have the most precious treasure,
spiritual and transcendental, which this moment I hand over to you, O
venerable Mahākāśyapa!”[4.1]

Orthodox Zen followers generally blindly take this incident to be the
origin of their doctrine, in which, according to them, is disclosed the
inmost mind of the Buddha as well as the secret of the religion. As Zen
claims to be the inmost essence of Buddhism and to have been directly
transmitted by the Buddha to his greatest disciple, Mahākāśyapa,
its followers naturally look for the particular occasion when this
transmission took place between the master and the disciple. We know
in a general way that Mahākāśyapa succeeded the Buddha as the leader
of the Faith, but as to his special transmission of Zen, we have no
historical records in the Indian Buddhist writings at present
in our possession. This fact is however specially mentioned for the
first time as far as we know in a Chinese Zen history called _The
Records of the Spread of the Lamp_,[4.2] compiled by Li Tsun-hsü, in
1029, and also in _The Accounts of the Orthodox Transmission of the
Dharma_ compiled by Ch‘i-sung in 1064,[4.3] where this incident is
only referred to as not quite an authentic one historically. In _The
Records of the Transmission of the Lamp_,[4.4] written in 1004, which
is the earliest Zen history now extant, the author does not record
any particular event in the life of the Buddha regarding the Zen
transmission. As all the earlier histories of Zen are lost, we have at
present no means to ascertain how early the Zen tradition started in
China. Probably it began to be talked about among the Zen followers
when their religion had been well established in China late in the
eighth century.

In those days there must have been some necessity to invent such
a legend for the authorisation of Zen Buddhism; for as Zen grew
in strength the other schools of Buddhism already in existence
grew jealous of its popular influence and attacked it as having no
authorised records of its direct transmission from the founder of
Buddhism, which was claimed by the devotees of Zen. This was the case
especially when the latter made so light of the doctrinal teaching
discussed in the Sutras and Śastras, as they thought that the ultimate
authority of Zen issued out of their own direct personal experience.
In this latter they were quite insistent; but they were not, nor
could they be, so critical and independent as to ignore altogether
the authority of historical Buddhism, and they wanted somehow to find
the record that the Buddha handed Zen over to Mahākāśyapa and from
Mahākāśyapa on to the twenty-eighth patriarch, Bodhi-Dharma, who became
the first patriarch of Zen in China. A line of twenty-eight Indian
patriarchs thus came to be established by Zen historians, while,
according to other schools, there were only twenty-three or twenty-four
patriarchs after the founder. When the historians had the need for
the special transmission of Zen from the Buddha to Mahākāśyapa, they
felt it necessary to fill up the gap between the twenty-third or
twenty-fourth patriarch and Bodhi-Dharma himself, who according
to them was the twenty-eighth. From the modern critical point of view,
it did not matter very much whether Zen originated with Bodhi-Dharma
in China or with the Buddha in India, inasmuch as Zen is true and has
an enduring value. And again from the historian’s point of view which
tries scientifically to ascertain the source of development resulting
in Zen Buddhism, it is only important to find a logical connection
between the Mahayana Doctrine of Enlightenment in India and its
practical application by the Chinese to the actualities of life; and
as to any special line of transmission in India before Bodhi-Dharma
as was established by the Zen devotees, it is not a matter of much
concern nor of great importance. But as soon as Zen is formulated
into an independent system, not only with its characteristic features
but with its historically ascertainable facts, it will be necessary
for the historians to trace its line of transmission complete and
not interrupted; for in Zen, as we shall see later, it is of the
utmost importance for its followers to be duly certified or approved
(_abbhanumodana_) by the master as to the genuineness or orthodox
character of their realisation. Therefore, as long as Zen is the
product of the Chinese soil from the Indian seed of Enlightenment as I
take it, no special line of transmission need be established in India
unless it is in a general logical manner such as was attempted in my
previous Essays.

The twenty-eight patriarchs of Zen regarded by its followers as the
orthodox line of transmission are as follows:

1. Śākyamuni. 12. Aśvaghosha.
2. Mahākāśyapa. 13. Bhikshu Kapimala.
3. Ānanda. 14. Nāgārjuna.
4. Śaṇavāsa. 15. Kāṇadeva.
5. Upagupta. 16. Ārya Rāhulata.
6. Dhṛitaka. 17. Saṁghanandi.
7. Micchaka. 18. Saṁghayaśas.
8. Buddhanandi. 19. Kumārata.
9. Buddhamitra. 20. Jayata.
10. Bhikshu Parśva. 21. Vasubandhu.
11. Puṇyayaśas. 22. Manura.
23. Haklenayaśas. 26. Puṇyamitra.
24. Bhikshu Siṁha. 27. Prajñātara.
25. Vāśasita. 28. Bodhi-Dharma.

To be consistent with the view that Zen was a “special transmission
from the Buddha outside of his doctrinal teaching,” Zen historians
have extended this transmission even beyond Śākyamuni; for, according
to tradition prevalent already among primitive Buddhists, there were
at least six Buddhas prior to the Buddha of the present kalpa who was
the Muni of the Śākyas; and these several Buddhas had each to leave
a gāthā of “Dharma transmission” which is systematically preserved
in Zen history. Now if the six Buddhas of the past had their gāthās,
why not those patriarchs between Śākyamuni and Bodhi-Dharma, all
inclusively? Or, if any one of them had at all any kind of gāthā, why
not the rest of them too? So, they have all bequeathed their gāthās of
transmission regularly prefaced with the words: “I now hand over to you
the eye-treasure of the Great Law, which you will guard and ever be
mindful of.” No doubt they are fictitious productions of the historical
imagination which was so highly exercised by the early writers of Zen
history, evidently inspired by an extraordinary zeal for their orthodox
faith.

The translators of these patriarchal verses are, according
to the author of the _Records of the Right Transmission_,
Chih-chiang-liang-lou,[4.5] of the First Wei dynasty, and
Na-lien-ya-shê,[4.6] of the Eastern Wei; the former came from Middle
India and the latter from Kabul. Their book known as the _Account
of Succession in the Law_[4.7] disappeared after the repeated
persecutions carried out by the reigning dynasties, but the stories of
these patriarchs were quoted at least in the two books, the _Pao-lin
Ch‘uan_[4.8] and the _Shêng-chou Chi_,[4.9] both compiled prior to the
_Transmission of the Lamp_, in which they are referred to. But they
too were lost some time after Kaisu (Ch‘i-sung) in the Sung dynasty.
Therefore at present the _Transmission of the Lamp_ is the earliest
history of Zen where the twenty-eight patriarchs and their verses of
law-transmission are recorded in detail.

To quote as samples two of the six Buddhas’ gāthās, the first
Buddha Vipaśyi declares:

“This body from within the Formless is born,
It is like through magic that all forms and images appear:
Phantom beings with mentality and consciousness have no reality from
the very beginning;
Both evil and happiness are void, have no abodes.”[4.10]

The gāthā of the sixth Buddha, Kāśyapa, who just preceded the Muni of
the Śākyas, runs thus:

“Pure and immaculate is the nature of all sentient beings;
From the very beginning there is no birth, no death;
This body, this mind—a phantom creation it is;
And in phantom transformation there are neither sins nor
merits.[4.11]

When the Buddha belonging to the present age ordered Mahākāśyapa to
be the orthodox transmitter of the Good Law, he uttered the following
verse:

“The Dharma is ultimately a dharma which is no-dharma;
A dharma which is no-dharma is also a dharma:
As I now hand this no-dharma over to thee,
What we call the Dharma, the Dharma—where after all is the
Dharma?”[f78][4.12]

The sixth patriarch Dhṛtaka has:

“Penetrate into the ultimate truth of mind,
And we have neither things nor no-things;
Enlightened and not-enlightened—they are the same;
Neither mind nor thing there is.”[4.13]

The twenty-second patriarch, Manura, gave his view thus:

“The mind moveth with the ten thousand things:
Even when moving, it is serene.
Perceive its essence as it moveth on,
And neither joy nor sorrow there is.”[4.14]

In these gāthās we notice the teaching generally characteristic of
Mahayana Buddhism as it prevailed in India. As I said before, as far
as the doctrinal side of Buddhism was concerned, Zen had nothing
particularly to offer as its own; for its _raison d’être_ consists
in its being a spiritual experience and not in its being a special
system of philosophy or of certain dogmas conceptually synthesised. We
have Zen only when the Mahayana Buddhist speculation is reduced
to the actual things of life and becomes the direct expression of
one’s inner life. And this did not come to pass until Buddhism was
transplanted into China and made there to grow nourished by a people
whose practical turn of mentality refused to swallow the Indian
tradition undigested. The form of thought as adopted in the so-called
patriarchal verses did not appeal to the Chinese mind. When they got
into the thought itself, they wished to express it in their own way,
they wished to live the thought as was natural to them, and not to
hoard it as something imported from abroad and not inherently belonging
to their psychology.

When Bodhi-Dharma gave his full sanction to his disciples, he is
supposed to have composed the following gāthā:

“The original reason of my coming to this country
Was to transmit the Law in order to save the confused:
One flower with five petals is unfolded,
And the bearing of fruit will by itself come.”[4.15]

By this “bearing of fruit” did Dharma prophesy the full development of
Zen later in China? The “five petals” are supposed to mean the five
Zen Fathers in China after Dharma when Zen came to be recognised as a
branch of Buddhism with a message of its own. Whether this gāthā was
really a prophetic one by Dharma himself, or whether it was composed
by some Zen historian after the sixth patriarch Hui-nêng (Yeno), we
have no means to decide. The one thing is certain historically that
Dharma’s teaching began to be naturalised in China about two hundred
years after him and assimilated by her people in a manner best suited
to their mental idiosyncracies. Zen in the form we have it to-day could
not mature anywhere outside China. India was too metaphysical, or
too given up to mystic imagination. It was the home for the Yuishiki
(Yogācāra), the Shingon (Mantra school), the Kegon (Avataṁsaka), or
the Sanron (Śūnyatā or Mādhyamika). As for Zen, it needed a mind which
had already been deeply steeped in the Laotzŭan ideas and feelings and
yet could not detach itself from the details of daily life. Aloofness,
romanticism, a certain practical temperament, and yet an even, steady,
well-balanced character—these were needed to develop Zen to its
present form. That is to say, if Mahayana Buddhism as was expounded by
Nāgārjuna and Aśvaghosha, and in the _Vimalakīrti_, _Prajñāpāramitā_,
and other Sutras, especially in the _Laṅkāvatāra_, were not worked
upon by Chinese genius, Zen as such could not at all have come into
existence.

It may not altogether be out of place here to show by concrete examples
how much the Indian method diverges from the typically Chinese one
in demonstrating the truth of Zen Buddhism. As I have repeatedly
illustrated, Buddhism, whether primitive or developed, is a religion
of freedom and emancipation, and the ultimate aim of its discipline
is to release the spirit from its possible bondage so that it can act
freely in accordance with its own principles. This is what is meant by
non-attachment (_apratishṭita-cittam_). The idea is negative inasmuch
as it is concerned with untying the knots of the intellect and passion,
but the feeling implied is positive, and the final object is attained
only when the spirit is restored to its original activity. The spirit
knows its own way, and what we can do is to rid it of all the obstacles
our ignorance has piled before it. “Throw them down,” is therefore the
recurring note in the Buddhist teaching. The Indian Buddhist way of
impressing the idea is this: A Brahman named Black-nails came to the
Buddha and offered him two huge flowering trees which he carried each
in one of his hands through his magical power. The Buddha called out,
and when the Brahman responded the Buddha said, “Throw them down!”
The Brahman let down the flowering tree in his left hand before the
Buddha. The latter called out again to let them go, whereupon
Black-nails dropped the other flowering tree in the right hand. The
Buddha still kept up his command. Said the Brahman, “I have nothing now
to let go. What do you want me to do?” “I never told you to abandon
your flowering plants,” said the Buddha, “what I want you to do is to
abandon your six objects of sense, your six organs of sense, and your
six consciousnesses. When these are all at once abandoned and there
remains nothing further to be abandoned, it is then that you are
released from the bondage of birth-and-death.”

In contrast to this plain though somewhat round-about talk of the
Buddha, the following case of Jōshu (Chao-chou)[f79][4.16] is direct
and concise and disposes of the matter in a most unequivocal manner.
A monk came and asked the master,[4.17] “How is it when a man brings
nothing with him?” “Throw it away!” was Jōshu’s immediate response.
“What shall he throw down when he is not burdened at all?” “If so,
carry it along!” The Zen masters delight in paradoxes, and Jōshu’s
remark here is a typical one.

The problem of emancipation is important, but the still more important
one is, “Who or what is the Buddha?” When this is mastered, Buddhism
has rendered its full service. What did the Indian philosophers think
of the Buddha? There was an old lady who lived at the time of the
Buddha. She was born at the same time as the Buddha himself and lived
in the eastern part of the city. She had a singular aversion against
the Buddha and never wished to see him. Whenever he passed by she would
run away. But whichever way she turned she would encounter him, east or
west. She covered her face with her hands, and lo! she saw the Buddha
between her fingers. This is beautiful and illuminating. What follows
is the Zen way of treating the subject: A monk came to Ch‘i-an who was
one of the disciples of Ma-tsu,[4.18] and asked: “What is the original
body of Vairochana?” Said the master, “Would you mind passing that
water-pitcher over to me?” The monk handed it to the master as asked.
Then the master requested him to put it back where he got it. The monk
did so. But not getting any answer as he thought to his first question,
he asked again, “What is the original body of Vairochana Buddha?” The
master expressed his regret, saying, “Long it is since the departure of
the old Buddha!” These two instances will suffice to illustrate where
the Chinese Zen mind deviates from the Indian.

The history of Zen dates with the coming of Bodhi-Dharma
(Bodai-Daruma)[4.19] from the west, 520 A.D. He came to China with a
special message which is summed up in the following lines:

“A special transmission outside the scriptures;
No dependence upon words and letters;
Direct pointing at the soul of man;
Seeing into one’s nature and the attainment of Buddhahood.”

These four lines as describing the principles of Zen teaching as
distinguished from other schools of Buddhism already in existence
in China were formulated later and not by Dharma himself. We cannot
exactly tell who was the real author, as we have no definite
information on this subject. One historian, Tsung-chien,[4.20] who
compiled from the T‘ien-tai point of view a Buddhist history entitled
_The Rightful Lineage of the Śākya Doctrine_ in 1237, ascribes it
to Nansen Fu-gwan[4.21]; probably the formula originated in those
days when Baso (Ma-tsu), Hyakjo (Pai-chang), Obaku (Huang-po), Sekito
(Shih-tou) and Yakusan (Yüeh-shan)[4.22] were flourishing in the “West
of the River” and in the “South of the Lake.” Since then they have been
regarded as characteristically Zen, and it was Dharma that breathed
this spirit into the minds of the Chinese Buddhists. The latter had
more or less been given up, on the one hand, to philosophising, and, on
the other hand, to practising contemplation. They were not acquainted
with the direct method of Zen which was to see straightway into the
truth of Enlightenment and attain Buddhahood without going through so
many stages of preparation prescribed by the scholars.

* * * * *

Our knowledge of the life of Bodhi-Dharma comes from two sources, the
one which the earliest record we have of him is by Tao-hsüan[4.23]
in his _Biographies of the High Priests_ which was compiled early in
the T‘ang dynasty, A.D. 645. The author was the founder of a Vinaya
sect in China and a learned scholar, who however was living before the
movement of the new school to be known as Zen came into maturity
under Hui-nêng, the sixth patriarch, who was nine years old when
Tao-hsüan wrote his _Biographies_. The other source is the _Records of
the Transmission of the Lamp_, A.D. 1004, compiled by Tao-yüan[4.24]
early in the Sung dynasty. This was written by a Zen monk after Zen had
received full recognition as a special branch of Buddhism, and contains
sayings and doings of its masters. The author often refers to some
earlier Zen histories as his authorities which are however lost now
being known by the titles only.

It is quite natural that these two accounts of the life of Bodhi-Dharma
should vary at several points. The first was written when Zen was
not yet fully established as a school, and the second by one of the
Zen masters. In the first, Dharma, the founder of Zen, is treated as
one of the many other Buddhist priests eminent in various fields as
translators, commentators, scholars, Vinaya-followers, masters of
meditation, possessors of miraculous virtues, etc., and Dharma could
not naturally occupy in such a history any very prominent position
distinguishing himself from the other “high priests.” He is described
merely as one of those “masters of meditation” whose conception of
dhyana did not differ from the old traditional one as was practised by
the Hinayana followers. Tao-hsüan did not understand the message of
Dharma in its full signification, though he could read in it something
not quite of the so-called “practice of meditation.” And therefore
it is sometimes argued by scholars that there is not much of Zen in
Tao-hsüan’s account of Dharma worthy of its first Chinese promulgator
and that therefore Dharma could not be so regarded as is claimed by the
followers of the Zen school of Buddhism. But this is not doing justice
to Zen, nor to Tao-hsüan who never thought of writing a Zen history
before Zen came to be known as such. Tao-hsüan could not be a prophetic
historian. While the biographical history of Tao-yüan contains much
that is to be discredited as regards the life of Bodhi-Dharma,
especially as regards that part of his life before he came to China,
we have reason to believe that the greater part of Tao-yüan’s account
of Dharma’s doings after his arrival in China is historical. In
this latter respect, Tao-hsüan must be taken as complementing Tao-yüan.
It is not quite in accord with the spirit of fair critical judgment to
be partial to one authority at the expense of the other without duly
weighing all the historically known circumstances that contributed to
the making of these histories.

According to Tao-hsüan, Bodhi-Dharma left many writings or sayings
which were apparently still in circulation at the time of the author
of the _Biographies of the High Priests_, but the only authentic
writing of the Zen founder’s at present in our possession is a very
short one which is preserved in Tao-hsüan’s _Biographies_ as well
as in Tao-yüan’s Records. There are some other essays ascribed to
Dharma,[f80] but most of which, though deeply imbibing the spirit
of Zen, are spurious except one which I am inclined to think to be
genuinely his. It is entitled “On the Pacification of the Soul.”[4.26]
Together with the first one which is generally known under the title,
“Meditation on Four Acts,”[4.27] we have just two pieces of writings
handed down as Dharma’s. Though I do not think that “The Meditation
on Four Acts” could be the best possible specimen of writing to be
bequeathed by the founder of Zen, which will admit us straightway into
the very essence of Zen, I will give here an English translation of it
as the most reliable essay of Bodhi-Dharma, the first patriarch of Zen
in China.

There are two versions as I said before of this writing, the one in the
_Biographies_ and the other in the _Records_, and they do not quite
agree with each other in some points. The main drift is the same, but
in detail they vary. The question now is, which is the more original
one? Chronologically, the _Biographies_ were compiled earlier than
the _Records_, but the latter presupposes some earlier writings which
were utilised for its compilation. We have no means to ascertain the
reliability of the documents thus made use of, and then the authority
of the _Biographies_ is not absolute. Therefore, the only profitable
method of judging the respective merit of the two versions is to
compare them from the literary point of view and see what light such
comparison will shed on the nature of each. The result I have reached
is that the author of the _Biographies_ used the one preserved in the
_Records_, which is more faithful to the original if there were any
such besides this very version. The reason for this conclusion is that
Dharma’s writing appears much improved after the editing of Tao-hsüan,
the author of the _Biographies_; for he had to edit it for his own
purposes. Thus edited,[f81][4.28] Dharma’s writing is now in a better
style, that is, more concise, more to the point, and more refined. For
this reason the following translation[4.29] is made from Tao-yüan’s
_Records_ in which the author had every reason to reproduce the
original as it stood.

“[Bodhi-Dharma], the Teacher of the Law, was the third son of a great
Brahman king in South India, of the Western Lands. He was a man
of wonderful intelligence, bright and far-reaching; he thoroughly
understood everything that he ever learned. As his ambition was to
master the doctrine of the Mahayana, he abandoned the white dress of a
layman and put on the black robe of monkhood, wishing to cultivate the
seeds of holiness. He practised contemplation and tranquillisation, he
knew well what was the true significance of worldly affairs. Inside and
outside, he was transpicuous; his virtues were more than a model to
the world. He was grieved very much over the decline of the orthodox
teaching of the Buddha in the remoter parts of the earth. He finally
made up his mind to cross over land and sea and come to China and
preach his doctrine in the kingdom of Wei. Those that were spiritually
inclined gathered about him full of devotion, while those that could
not rise above their own one-sided views talked about him slanderingly.

“At the time there were only two monks called Tao-yih and Hui-k‘ê,
who while yet young had a strong will and desire to learn higher
things. Thinking it a great opportunity of their lives to have such a
teacher of the Law in their own land, they put themselves under his
instruction for several years. Most reverently they followed
him, asked questions to be enlightened, and observed his directions
well. The Teacher of the Law was moved by their spirit of sincerity
and disciplined them in the true path, telling them, ‘This is the
way to obtain peace of mind,’ and ‘This is the way to behave in the
world,’ ‘This is the way to live harmoniously with your surroundings,’
and ‘This is the upāya (means).’ These being the Mahayana ways to
keep the mind tranquil, one has to be on guard against their wrongful
applications. By this mental pacification _Pi-kuan_[f82] is meant;
by this behaviour, the Four Acts; by this harmony with things, the
protection from slander and ill-disposition; and by this Upāya,
detachment.

“Thus I[f83] have briefly stated the story of what follows.

“There are many ways to enter the Path, but briefly speaking they
are of two sorts only. The one is ‘Entrance by Reason’ and the other
‘Entrance by Conduct.’ By ‘Entrance by Reason’ we mean the realisation
of the spirit of Buddhism by the aid of the scriptural teaching. We
then come to have a deep faith in the True Nature which is one and the
same in all sentient beings. The reason why it does not manifest itself
is due to the overwrapping of external objects and false thoughts. When
one, abandoning the false and embracing the true, and in simpleness
of thought abides in _Pi-kuan_ 壁觀, one finds that there is neither
selfhood nor otherness, that the masses and the worthies are of one
essence, and firmly holds on to this belief and never moves away
therefrom. He will not then be guided by any literary instructions,
for he is in silent communion with the principle itself, free from
conceptual discrimination, for he is serene and not-acting. This
is called ‘Entrance by Reason.’

“By ‘Entrance by Conduct’ is meant the Four Acts in which all other
acts are included. What are the four? 1. How to requite hatred; 2. To
be obedient to karma; 3. Not to seek after anything; and 4. To be in
accord with the Dharma.

“1. What is meant by ‘How to requite hatred’? Those who discipline
themselves in the Path should think thus when they have to struggle
with adverse conditions: During the innumerable past ages I have
wandered through multiplicity of existences, all the while giving
myself to unimportant details of life at the expense of essentials, and
thus creating infinite occasions for hate, ill-will, and wrong-doing.
While no violations have been committed in this life, the fruits of
evil deeds in the past are to be gathered now. Neither gods nor men
can foretell what is coming upon me. I will submit myself willingly
and patiently to all the ills that befall me, and I will never bemoan
or complain. In the Sutra it is said not to worry over ills that may
happen to you. Why? Because through intelligence one can survey [the
whole chain of causation]. When this thought arises, one is in concord
with the principle because he makes the best use of hatred and turns it
into the service in his advance towards the Path. This is called the
‘way to requite hatred.’

“2. By ‘being obedient to karma’ is meant this: There is no self
(_ātman_) in whatever beings that are produced by the interplay of
karmaic conditions; pain and pleasure we suffer are also the results of
our previous action. If I am rewarded with fortune, honour, etc., this
is the outcome of my past deeds which by reason of causation affect
my present life. When the force of karma is exhausted, the result I
am enjoying now will disappear; what is then the use of being joyful
over it? Gain or loss, let us accept karma as it brings us the one or
the other, the spirit itself knows neither increase nor decrease. The
wind of gladness does not move it as it is silently in harmony with the
Path. Therefore this is called ‘being obedient to karma.’

“3. By ‘not seeking after anything’ is meant this: Men of the
world, in eternal confusion, are attached everywhere to one thing or
another, which is called seeking. The wise however understand the
truth and are not like the vulgar. Their minds abide serenely in the
uncreated while the body turns about in accordance with the laws of
causation. All things are empty and there is nothing desirable and
to be sought after. Wherever there is the merit of brightness there
follows the demerit of darkness. This triple world where one stays
too long is like a house on fire; all that has a body suffers, and
who would ever know what is rest? Because the wise are thoroughly
acquainted with this truth, they get never attached to anything that
becomes, their thoughts are quieted, they never seek. Says the Sutra:
Wherever there is seeking, there you have sufferings; when seeking
ceases, you are blessed. Thus we know that not to seek is verily
the way to the truth. Therefore I preach to you not ‘to seek after
anything.’

“4. By ‘being in accord with the Dharma’ is meant that the reason in
its essence is pure which we call the Dharma, and that this reason is
the principle of emptiness in all that is manifested, as it is above
defilements and attachments, and as there is no Self or Other in it.
Says the Sutra: In the Dharma there are no sentient beings, because
it is free from the stains of being; in the Dharma there is no Self
because it is free from the stain of selfhood. When the wise understand
this truth and believe in it, their conduct will be ‘in accordance with
the Dharma.’

“As the Dharma in essence has no desire to possess, the wise are ever
ready to practise charity with their body, life, property, and they
never begrudge, they never know what an ill grace means. As they have
a perfect understanding of the threefold nature of emptiness, they are
above partiality and attachment. Only because of their will to cleanse
all beings of their stains, they come among them as of them, but they
are not attached to the form. This is known as the inner aspect of
their life. They however know also how to benefit others, and again how
to glorify the path of enlightenment. As with the virtue of charity,
so with the other five virtues [in the Prajñāpāramitā]. That the
wise practise the six virtues of perfection is to get rid of confused
thoughts, and yet they are not conscious of their doings. This is
called ‘being in accord with the Dharma.’”

* * * * *

The doctrine of the Two Entrances is evidently taken from the
_Vajrasamādhi-sūtra_[f84]; and that of the Four Acts is an
amplification of the second form of Entrance as is expounded in the
Sutra. A comparison with the passage[4.29a] from it will make this
point clear at once:

“Said the Buddha: The two entrances are ‘Entrance by Reason’ and
‘Entrance by Conduct.’ ‘Entrance by Reason’ means to have a deep faith
in that all sentient beings are identical in essence with the true
nature which is neither unity nor multiplicity; only it is beclouded
by external objects. The nature in itself neither departs nor comes.
When a man in singleness of thought abides in _chüeh-kuan_ 覺觀, he will
clearly see into the Buddha-nature, of which we cannot say whether
it exists or exists not, and in which there is neither selfhood nor
otherness. He will also find that the nature is the same both in
the masses and in the worthies. He thus firmly holds the ground of
the diamond-heart and never moves away therefrom; he is serene and
not-doing, and free from conceptual discrimination. This is called
‘Entrance by Reason.’

“‘Entrance by Conduct’ means not to be unsteady and reclining in mind
and not to be in its shadows changing like a stream. Wherever you
are, let your thought be serene and not to be seeking after anything.
Let it be like unto the great earth unmoved even in a raging storm.
Giving up all thoughts of egoism in your heart, save all beings and
let them cross over to the other shore. There are no births, no signs,
no clinging, no abandoning; in the mind of a Bodhisattva, there is no
going-out, no coming-in. When this mind which neither goes out nor
comes in enters into that which is never entered into, it is called
entering. This is the way the Bodhisattva enters into the Dharma. The
Dharma is not empty in form, and the Dharma of non-emptiness
is not to be put aside as non-entity. Why? The Dharma that is not
non-entity is filled with virtues. It is neither mind nor shadows, it
is pure in its suchness.”

In comparing these two texts the reader will be impressed with the
most important and most striking change Bodhi-Dharma made in his
quotation, which is the substituting of _pi-kuan_ for _chüeh-kuan_.
_Pi_ ordinarily means “wall” or “precipice,” and is often found in
combination with _li_, “standing,” in such phrases as _pi li wan jên_
壁立萬仞, to describe an unscalable wall, or figuratively to represent
the attitude, for instance, of Acala-Vidyārāja standing straight up.
What was the reason of Dharma’s changing _chüeh_, “to awaken,” or “to
be enlightened” into a word which apparently has no organic relation
to the following _kuan_, “to perceive,” or “to contemplate”? The
novel combination is a very important one, for it alters the sense of
the whole context in which it occurs. Tao-hsüan, the author of the
_Biographies_, refers to Dharma’s _tai ch‘êng pi kuan_, Mahayanistic
wall-contemplation, in his commentary notes to Zen, as the most
meritorious work Dharma achieved in China.[f85] For this reason he is
often spoken of as the _pi-kuan_ Brahman, that is, wall-contemplating
Brahman, and in Japan the monks belonging to the Soto school of Zen
are supposed to follow the example of the founder of their religion
when they keep up the practice of sitting facing the wall while
meditating. But this is evidently a superficial interpretation of the
phrase _pi-kuan_; for how could mere wall-gazing start a revolutionary
movement in the Buddhist world as is implied in Tao-hsüan’s life of
Dharma?[f86] How could such an innocent practise provoke a terrible
opposition among scholars of those days? To my view, _pi-kuan_ has
a far deeper meaning, and must be understood in the light of the
following passage in the _Records_, which is quoted from a work
known as the _Pieh Chi_[4.30] meaning some special document of prior
existence:

“The master first stayed in the Shōrinji (Shao-lin-szŭ) monastery for
nine years, and when he taught the second patriarch, it was only in the
following way: ‘Externally keep yourself away from all relationships,
and, internally, have no pantings (or hankerings, 喘 _ch‘uan_) in your
heart;[f87] when your mind is like unto a straight-standing wall you
may enter into the Path.’ Hui-k‘ê tried variously to explain [or to
discourse on] the reason of mind, but failed to realise the truth
itself. The master simply said, ‘No! No!’ and never proposed to explain
to his disciple what was the mind-essence in its thought-less state,
[that is, in its pure being]. [Later] said Hui-k‘ê, ‘I know now how
to keep myself away from all relationships.’ ‘You make it a total
annihilation, do you not?’ queried the master. ‘No, master,’ replied
Hui-k‘ê, ‘I do not make it a total annihilation.’ ‘How do you testify
your statement?’ ‘For I know it always in a most intelligible manner,
but to express it in words—that is impossible.’ Thereupon, said the
master, ‘That is the mind-essence itself transmitted by all the
Buddhas. Harbour no doubts about it.’”

In fact, this passage sums up the special message contained in
Dharma’s teaching, and in it we may get an adequate answer as to the
exact meaning of _pi-kuan_. The term must have been a novel one in
his day, and the originality of his views really lay in the creative
sense of the one word “_pi_” It was so concrete, so graphic, and
there was nothing abstract and conceptual about it. Hence Tao-hsüan’s
special reference to Dharma’s teaching as the _Tai-chêng pi-kuan_.
(Mahayanistic wall-contemplation). While there was nothing
specifically Zen in his doctrine of “Two Entrances and Four Acts,” the
teaching of _Pi-kuan_, wall-contemplation, was what made Bodhi-Dharma
the first patriarch of Zen Buddhism in China.

The author of the _Rightful Transmission of the Śākya Doctrine_
interprets _pi-kwan_ as meaning the state of mind where “no external
dusts get in.”[4.31] This may be all right, but we are not told
where he finds the authority for this way of understanding. Had
he in mind Dharma’s remark to Hui-k‘ê as recorded in the document
known as _Pieh-chi_? In any event the underlying meaning of the
“wall-contemplation” must be found in the subjective condition of a Zen
master, which is highly concentrated and rigidly exclusive of all ideas
and sensuous images. To understand the phrase, “_pi-kwan_” as simply
meaning “wall-gazing” will be sheer absurdity. If the specific message
of Dharma as the founder of Zen in China is to be sought anywhere in
the writings of his, which are still in existence, it must be in this
“Mahayanistic wall-contemplation.”

Besides this writing which is the only one left by Dharma in
our possession at present, we have the _Laṅkāvatāra-sūtra_,
_Vajrasamādhi-sūtra_, and _Vajracchedikā-sūtra_, through which we can
also have a glimpse into the central teaching of Bodhi-Dharma. Zen,
unlike other schools of Buddhism, has no particular Sutras to be called
the “foundation canon” on which its followers would base the principal
tenets of their school; but Dharma recommended the _Laṅkāvatāra_ to
his first disciple Hui-k‘ê (Yeka), as containing the teaching most
intimately related to Zen, and after him this scriptural writing came
to be studied chiefly by Zen scholars.[f88] As to the importance of
the _Vajrasamādhi_ as expounding the philosophy of Zen, we can easily
understand it from Dharma’s own reference to the Sutra in his writing
as was already pointed out. With regard to the _Vajracchedikā-sūtra_,
most people think of it as having nothing to do with Zen prior to the
fifth patriarch, Hung-jên (Gunin); for it was he who for the first
time introduced it among his own disciples, while Dharma himself
made no allusion whatever to this, one of the most popular
Buddhist texts in China. But according to Hui-nêng’s Preface to the
_Vajracchedikā_, which is still preserved, “ever since the coming-west
of Dharma he wanted to propagate the meaning of this Sutra and lead
people to understand the Reason and to see into the Nature.” If this
were actually the case, Dharma, to say the least, must have had some
knowledge of this Sutra from the very beginning of his career in China,
and the connection in a way between this and Zen must have been more
fundamental than that between the _Laṅkāvatāra_ and Zen. The prevalent
notion then that the _Vajracchedikā_ came only in vogue after Hung-jên
and Hui-nêng must be revised. Whatever this may be, the _Laṅkāvatāra_
is too difficult a material for popular consumption, and it was natural
that this Sutra came to be gradually superseded by the _Vajracchedikā_
as Zen gained more and more in power and influence. As one of the
Sutras belonging to the Prajñāpāramitā class of Buddhist literature,
the teaching of the _Vajracchedikā_ was comparatively simple and had
something much akin to the Laotzŭan ideas of emptiness and non-doing.
It was not hard for the average Chinese to follow its philosophy of
Śūnyatā, in fact this agreed well with a certain aspect of Chinese
thought.[f89]

However, with Zen followers all literature was like a finger pointing
at the moon, and there was not much in itself that will actually lead
one to the seeing of one’s own inner nature; for this seeing was a
realisation which must be attained by one’s own personal efforts apart
from the mere understanding of letters. All Buddhist Sutras including
the _Laṅkāvatāra_, _Vajrasamādhi_, and _Vajracchedikā_ could not
be of much help to the real earnest seekers of the truth, so long as
his idea is to grasp the naked facts with his own ungloved hands. This
was possible only when his own inner consciousness opened by itself,
from within, through his whole-souled efforts. Literature is helpful
only when it indicates the way, it is not the thing itself.

The earlier part of Bodhi-Dharma’s life while in India as is narrated
in the _Records_ may be discredited as containing a large dose of
fiction, but the latter part of it cannot so easily be disposed of.
This is where it supplements the story in Tao-hsüan’s _Biographies_,
which was written by a good historian but by one who did not know
anything about the future development of Zen. According to the
_Records_ then, the first great personage Dharma had an interview with
when he came to China was the king of Liang, the greatest Buddhist
patron of the time. And the interview took place in the following
manner:

The Emperor Wu of Liang asked Dharma:

“Ever since the beginning of my reign I have built so many temples,
copied so many sacred books, and supported so many monks; what do you
think my merit might be?”

“No merit whatever, sire!” Dharma bluntly replied.

“Why?” demanded the Emperor astonished.

“All these are inferior deeds,” thus began Dharma’s significant reply,
“which would cause their author to be born in the heavens or on this
earth again. They still show the traces of worldliness, they are like
shadows following objects. Though they appear actually existing, they
are no more than mere non-entities. As to a true meritorious deed, it
is full of pure wisdom and is perfect and mysterious, and its real
nature is beyond the grasp of human intelligence. Such as this is not
to be sought after by any worldly achievement.”

The Emperor Wu thereupon asked Bodhi-Dharma again,[4.32] “What is the
first principle of the holy doctrine?”

“Vast emptiness, and there is nothing in it to be called holy, sire!”
answered Dharma.

“Who is then that is now confronting me?”

“I know not, sire!”

The answer was simple enough, and clear enough too, but the pious
and learned Buddhist Emperor failed to grasp the spirit pervading the
whole attitude of Dharma.

Seeing that there was no further help to be given to the Emperor,
Dharma left his dominion and retired into a monastery in the state of
Wei, where he sat quietly practising the “wall-contemplation,” it is
said, for nine long years, until he came to be known as the _Pi-kuan_
Brahman.[f90]

One day a monk Shên-kuang[4.33] visited him and most earnestly
implored him to be enlightened in the truth of Zen, but Dharma paid
no attention. Shên-kuang was not to be disappointed, for he knew that
all the great spiritual leaders of the past had gone through with many
a heart-rending trial in order to attain the final object of their
aspiration. One evening he stood in the midst of the snow waiting for
Dharma to notice him when at last the fast-falling snow buried him
almost as deep as his knees.

Finally, the master turned back and said, “What do you wish me to
do for you?” Said Kuang, “I am come to receive your invaluable
instructions; pray open your gate of mercy, and extend your hand of
salvation to this poor suffering mortal.” “The incomparable doctrine of
Buddhism,” replied Dharma, “can be comprehended only after a long hard
discipline and by enduring what is most difficult to endure, and by
practising what is most difficult to practise. Men of inferior virtue
and wisdom are not allowed to understand anything about it. All the
labours of such ones will come to naught.”

Kuang at last cut off his left arm with the sword[f91] he was carrying,
and presented it before the teacher as a token of his sincerity in
the desire to be instructed in the doctrine of all the Buddhas. Said
Dharma, “This is not to be sought through another.”

“My soul is not yet pacified. Pray, master, pacify it.”

“Bring your soul here, and I will have it pacified.”

Kuang hesitated for a moment but finally said, “I have sought it
these many years and am still unable to get hold of it!”

“There! it is pacified once for all.” This was Dharma’s sentence.[f92]

Dharma then told him to change his name into Hui-k‘ê.

Nine years passed,[4.34] and Dharma wished to return to his native
country. He called in all his disciples before him, and said, “The time
is come for me to depart, and I want to see what your attainments are.”

“According to my view,” said Tao-fu, “the truth is above both
affirmation and negation, for this is the way it moveth.”

Dharma said, “You have got my skin.”

Next came in the nun, Tsung-ch‘ih, and said, “As I understand it, it is
like Ānanda’s viewing the Buddha-land of Akshobhya: it is seen once and
never again.”

Dharma said, “You have got my flesh.”

Tao-yü was another disciple who presented his view, saying, “Empty are
the four elements and non-existent the five skandhas. According to my
view, there is not a thing to be grasped as real.”

Dharma said, “You have got my bone.”

Finally, Hui-k‘ê, that is, Shên-kuang, reverently bowing to the master,
kept standing in his seat and said nothing.

Dharma then announced, “You have my marrow.”[f93]

Mystery envelops the end of Bodhi-Dharma’s life in China, we do not
know how, when, and where he passed away from this earth. Some say
that he was poisoned by his rivals, others say that he went back to
India crossing the desert, and still others report that he came over
to Japan. In one thing they all agree which is this: he was quite old,
being, according to Tao-hsüan, over one hundred and fifty years at his
death.

III

After Bodhi-Dharma, Hui-k‘ê (486–593)[4.35] was the chief exponent
of Zen Buddhism. He was already a learned scholar before he came to
his teacher for instruction, not only in the Chinese classics but in
Buddhist lore. No amount of learning however satisfied him; indeed he
seems to have had a sort of enlightenment in his way, which he wanted
to be testified to by Dharma. After he left the master, he did not
at once begin his preaching hiding himself among the lower strata of
society. He evidently shunned being looked up to as a high priest of
great wisdom and understanding. However, he did not neglect quietly
preaching the Law whenever he had an occasion. He was simply quiet
and unassuming, refusing to show himself off. But one day when he was
discoursing about the Law before a temple gate, there was another
sermon going on inside the temple by a resident priest, learned and
honoured. The audience however left the reverend lecturer inside and
gathered around the street-monk probably clad in rags and with no
outward signs of ecclesiastical dignity. The high priest got angry
over the situation. He accused the beggar-monk to the authorities as
promulgating a false doctrine, whereupon Hui-k‘ê was arrested and put
to death. He did not specially plead innocent but composedly submitted,
saying that he had according to the law of karma an old debt to pay up.
This took place in A.D. 593, and he was one hundred and seven years old
when he was killed.

According to Tao-hsüan, Hui-k‘ê’s eloquence flew directly from his
heart, not encrusted with learning or scholarly discourse. While he was
preaching in an important city on the meaning of Zen, those who
could not rise above “the letter that killeth” took his teaching for
heresy, as the words of a devil devoid of sense. Especially among them
a master of meditation called Tao-hüan[4.36] who had about one thousand
followers about him, at once assumed an offensive attitude towards
Hui-k‘ê. He sent one of his disciples to the Zen exponent, perhaps
to find out what kind of man he really was. As soon as the disciple
learned what was the teaching of the so-called heretic, he was so
deeply impressed by this man that he was converted into a Zen advocate.
Tao-hüan despatched another of his followers to call the first one
back, but he followed the example of the predecessor. Several other
messengers were sent one after another, but the result was altogether
discouraging. Later when Tao-hüan happened to meet his first messenger,
he asked; “How was it that I had to send for you so many times? Did I
not open your eye after taking pains so much on my part?” The former
disciple however mystically answered; “My eye has been right from the
first, and it was through you that it came to squint.” This stirred the
master’s ire, and it was through his machination, writes Tao-hsüan,
that Hui-k‘ê had to suffer official persecution.

This story taken from Tao-hsüan’s _Biographies_ varies from that in
the Tao-yüan’s _Records_, but they both agree in making Hui-k‘ê a
martyr at the hands of his enemy. There is no doubt that in the Zen
teaching of Bodhi-Dharma and his first Chinese disciple, Hui-k‘ê, there
was something that was unintelligible to most of the Buddhists of the
time who had been trained either in the abstract metaphysics or in the
tranquillising exercises, or in the mere morality, of Buddhism. The
exponents of Zen then must have emphasised the truth to be awakened
in one’s inner consciousness, even at the expense of the canonical
teaching as is variously elucidated in the Sutras and Śastras, many of
which in translations had already been in circulation. This must have
excited the conservatists and literalists.

Like Bodhi-Dharma, Hui-k‘ê did not leave any literary writing though we
know from their biographies that both had their sermons collected
and in the case of Hui-k‘ê “classified,”[f94][4.37] whatever this may
mean. The following extracts preserved however may throw light on the
teaching of Hui-k‘ê. A lay-disciple called Hsiang wrote a letter to
Hui-k‘ê:[4.38] “Shadow follows a body and echo rises from a sound. He
who in pursuit of the shadow tires out the body, does not know that
the body produces the shadow; and he who attempts to stop an echo by
raising his voice, does not understand that the voice is the cause of
the echo. [In a similar way] he who seeks Nirvana by cutting desires
and passions is to be likened to one who seeks a shadow apart from
its original body; and he who aspires to Buddhahood thinking it to
be independent of the nature of sentient beings is to be likened to
one who tries to listen to an echo by deadening its original sound.
Therefore, the ignorant and the enlightened are walking in one
passageway; the vulgar and the wise are not to be differentiated from
each other. Where there are no names, we create names, and because of
these names judgments are formed. Where there is no theorising, we
theorise, and because of this theorising, disputes arise. They are all
phantom creations and not realities, and who knows who is right and
who is wrong? They are all empty, no substantialities have they, and
who knows what is and what is not? So we realise that our gain is not
real gain and our loss not real loss. This is my view and may I be
enlightened if I am at fault?”

To this Hui-k‘ê answered: “You have truly comprehended the Dharma as it
is; the deepest truth lies in the principle of identity. It is due to
one’s ignorance that the mani-jewel is taken for a piece of brick, but
lo! when one is suddenly awakened to self-enlightenment, it is realised
that one is in possession of the real jewel. The ignorant and the
enlightened are of one essence, they are not really to be separated.
We should know that all things are such as they are. Those who
entertain a dualistic view of the world are to be pitied, and I write
this letter for them. When we know that between this body and the
Buddha there is nothing to separate one from the other, what is the use
of seeking after Nirvana [as something external to ourselves]?”

* * * * *

Next to Hui-k‘ê came Sêng-ts‘an (died 606),[4.39] who succeeded as
the third patriarch. The interview between master and disciple took
place in this manner: A layman of forty troubled with _fêng-yang_[f95]
according to the _Records_, came to Hui-k‘ê and asked;

“I am suffering from _fêng-yang_; pray cleanse me of my sins.”

“Bring your sins here,” said Hui-k‘ê, “and I will cleanse you of them.”

The lay-disciple was silent for a while but finally said, “As I seek my
sins, I find them unattainable.”

“I have then finished cleansing you altogether. You should thenceforth
take refuge in the Buddha, Dharma, and Saṁgha (Brotherhood), and abide
therein.”

“As I stand before you, O master,” asked Sêng-ts‘an, “I know that you
belong to the Brotherhood, but pray tell me what are the Buddha and the
Dharma.”

Replied the master, “Mind is the Buddha, Mind is the Dharma; and the
Buddha and the Dharma are not two. The same is to be said of the
Brotherhood (_saṁgha_).”

This satisfied the disciple who now said, “To-day for the first time
I realise that sins are neither within nor without nor in the middle;
just as Mind is, so is the Buddha, so is the Dharma; they are not
two.”[f96]

He was then ordained by Hui-k‘ê as a Buddhist monk, and after this
he fled from the world altogether, and nothing much of his life
is known. This was partly due to the persecution of Buddhism carried
on by the Emperor of the Chou dynasty. It was in the twelfth year of
K‘ai-huan, of the Sui dynasty (A.D. 592), that he found a disciple
worthy to be his successor. His name was Tao-hsin.[4.40] He asked the
master,

“Pray show me the way to deliverance.”

“Who has ever put you in bondage?”

“Nobody.”

“If so,” said the Master, “why should you ask for deliverance?”

This put the young novice on the way to final enlightenment, which he
attained after many years’ study under the master. When Sêng-ts‘an
thought that the time was ripe to consecrate him as his successor in
the faith, he handed him as the token of the rightful transmission
of the Law the robe which had come down from Bodhi-Dharma, the first
patriarch of Zen in China. He died in A.D. 606. While much of his life
is obscure, his thought is gleaned from a metrical composition known as
_Hsin-hsin-ming_, or “Inscribed on the Believing Mind,” which is one of
the most valuable contributions by the masters to the interpretation of
Zen teaching. Here follows a somewhat liberal translation of the poem:

Inscribed on the Believing Mind.[f97][4.41]

The Perfect Way knows no difficulties
Except that it refuses to make preference:
Only when freed from hate and love,
It reveals itself fully and without disguise.
A tenth of an inch’s difference,
And heaven and earth are set apart:
If you want to see it manifest,
Take no thought either for or against it.

To set up what you like against what you dislike—
This is the disease of the mind:
When the deep meaning [of the Way] is not understood
Peace of mind is disturbed and nothing is gained.

[The Way is] perfect like unto vast space,
With nothing wanting, nothing superfluous:
It is indeed due to making choice
That its suchness is lost sight of.

Pursue not the outer entanglements,
Dwell not in the inner void;
When the mind rests serene in the oneness of things,
The dualism vanishes by itself.

And when oneness is not thoroughly understood,
In two ways loss is sustained—
The denial of reality may lead to its absolute negation,
While the upholding of the void may result in contradicting itself.
Wordiness and intellection—
The more with them the further astray we go;
Away therefore with wordiness and intellection,
And there is no place where we cannot pass freely.[f98]

When we return to the root, we gain the meaning;
When we pursue the external objects, we lose the reason.
The moment we are enlightened within,
We go beyond the voidness of a world confronting us.

Transformations going on in an empty world which confronts us,
Appear real all because of Ignorance:
Try not to seek after the true,
Only cease to cherish opinions.

Tarry not with dualism,
Carefully avoid pursuing it;
As soon as you have right and wrong,
Confusion ensues, the mind is lost.

The two exist because of the one,
But hold not even to this one;
When the one mind is not disturbed,
The ten thousand things offer no offence.

When no offence is offered by them, they are as if not existing;
When the mind is not disturbed, it is as if there is no mind.
The subject is quieted as the object ceases,
The object ceases as the subject is quieted.

The object is an object for the subject,
The subject is a subject for an object:
Know that the relativity of the two
Rests ultimately on the oneness of the void.

In the oneness of the void the two are one,
And each of the two contains in itself all the ten thousand things:
When no discrimination is made between this and that.
How can a one-sided and prejudiced view arise?

The Great Way is calm and large-minded,
Nothing is easy, nothing is hard:
Small views are irresolute,
The more in haste the tardier they go.

Clinging never keeps itself within bounds,
It is sure to go in the wrong way:
Let go loose, and things are as they may be,
While the essence neither departs nor abides.

Obey the nature of things, and you are in concord with the Way,
Calm and easy and free from annoyance;
But when your thoughts are tied, you turn away from the truth,
They grow heavier and duller and are not at all sound.

When they are not sound, the soul is troubled;
What is the use of being partial and one-sided then?
If you want to walk the course of the One Vehicle,
Be not prejudiced against the six sense-objects.

When you are not prejudiced against the six sense-objects,
You in turn identify yourself with Enlightenment;
The wise are non-active,
While the ignorant bind themselves up;
While in the Dharma itself there is no individuation,
They ignorantly attach themselves to particular objects.
It is their own minds that create illusions—
Is it not the greatest of self-contradictions?

Ignorance begets the dualism of rest and unrest,
The enlightened have no likes and dislikes:
All forms of dualism
Are ignorantly contrived by the mind itself.
They are like unto visions and flowers in the air:
Why should we trouble ourselves to take hold of them?
Gain and loss, right and wrong—
Away with them once for all!

If an eye never falls asleep,
All dreams will by themselves cease:
If the mind retains its oneness,
The ten thousand things are of one suchness.
When the deep mystery of one suchness is fathomed,
All of a sudden we forget the external entanglements:
When the ten thousand things are viewed in their oneness,
We return to the origin and remain what we are.

Forget the wherefore of things,
And we attain to a state beyond analogy:
Movement stopped is no movement,
And rest set in motion is no rest.
When dualism does no more obtain,
Even oneness itself remains not as such.

The ultimate end of things where they cannot go any further,
Is not bound by rules and measures:
The mind in harmony [with the Way] is the principle of identity
In which we find all doings in a quiescent state;
Irresolutions are completely done away with,
And the right faith is restored to its native straightness;
Nothing is retained now,
Nothing is to be memorised,
All is void, lucid, and self-illuminating,
There is no stain, no exertion, no wasting of energy—
This is where thinking never attains,
This is where the imagination fails to measure.

In the higher realm of True Suchness
There is neither “other” nor “self”:
When a direct identification is asked for,
We can only say, “Not two.”[f99]

In being not two all is the same,
All that is is comprehended in it:
The wise in the ten quarters,
They all enter into this absolute faith.

This absolute faith is beyond quickening [time] and
extension [space].
One instant is ten thousand years;
No matter how things are conditioned whether with “to be” or
“not to be,”
It is manifest everywhere before you.

The infinitely small is as large as large can be,
When external conditions are forgotten;
The infinitely large is as small as small can be,
When objective limits are put out of sight.

What is is the same with what is not,
What is not is the same with what is:
Where this state of things fails to obtain,
Be sure not to tarry.

One in all,
All in one—
If only this is realised,
No more worry about your not being perfect!

The believing mind is not divided,
And undivided is the believing mind—
This is where words fail,
For it is not of the past, future, or present.

Under Tao-hsin (580–651), the fourth patriarch, Zen was divided into
two branches. The one known as Godzuzen (Niu-t‘ou Chan),[4.42] did not
live long after the passing of its founder, Fa-jung,[4.43] who lived at
Mount Niu-t‘ou, and is considered not belonging to the orthodox line
of Zen. The other branch was headed by Hung-jên[4.44] who is regarded
by historians as the fifth patriarch, and it is his school that has
survived. He came to the master when he was still a mere boy, and what
pleased his master at their interview was the way he answered. When
Tao-hsin asked[4.45] what was his family name 姓 (_hsing_), he said,

“I have a nature 性 (_hsing_), and it is not an ordinary one.”

“What is that?”

“It is the Buddha-nature (_fo-hsing_).”

“Then you have no name?”

“No, master,” said the boy, “for it is empty in its nature.” Here is
a play of words; the character denoting “family name” and that for
“nature” are both pronounced _hsing_. When Tao-hsin was referring to
the “family name” the young follower took it for “nature” purposely,
whereby to express his view by a figure of speech.

Tao-hsin’s interview with Fa-jung, the founder of the Niu-t‘ou school
of Zen, was significant, showing where their views differed and how the
one came to be converted into the orthodox understanding of Zen. It was
during the Chên-kuan era of the T‘ang dynasty that Tao-hsin, learning
of the presence of an extraordinary saintly man in Niu-t’ou mountains,
decided to see who he could be. When Tao-hsin came to a Buddhist temple
in the mountains, he inquired after the man and was informed of a
lonely anchorite who would never rise from his seat nor salute people
even when they were approaching him. When Tao-hsin proceeded further
into the mountains, he saw him as he was told sitting quietly and
paying no attention to the presence of a stranger. He then asked the
hermit what he was doing here. “I am contemplating on Mind,” was the
reply. Tao-hsin then demanded, “What is he that is contemplating? What
is Mind that is contemplated?” Fa-jung was not prepared to answer such
questions. Thinking that the visitor was a man of deep understanding,
he rose from the seat and saluting him asked who he was. When he found
that the visitor was no other personage than Tao-hsin himself whose
reputation he was not ignorant of, he thanked him for the visit. They
were now about to enter a little hut near by where they might talk
about religion, when Tao-hsin saw some wild animals such as tigers and
wolves wandering about the place, and he threw up his hands as if he
were greatly frightened. Fa-jung remarked, “I see this is still with
you.” The fourth patriarch responded at once, “What do you see yet?”
No answer came from the hermit. After a while the patriarch traced the
character “Buddha” (_fo_) on the stone on which Fa-jung was in the
habit of sitting in meditation. Seeing it, the latter looked as if
shocked. Said the patriarch “I see this is still with you.” But Fa-jung
failed to see the meaning of this remark and earnestly implored to be
instructed in the ultimate teaching of Buddhism. This was done, and
Fa-jung became the founder of the Niu-t‘ou school of Zen Buddhism.

Tao-hsin died at the age of seventy-two, A.D. 651.

Hung-jên, 605–675, the fifth patriarch, came from the same province as
his predecessor, Ch‘i Chou, now in the district of Fu-pei. His temple
was situated in Wang-mei Shan (Yellow Plum Mountain), where he preached
and gave lessons in Zen to his five hundred pupils. He is claimed by
some to have been the first Zen master who attempted to interpret the
message of Zen according to the doctrine of the _Vajracchedikā-sūtra_.
Though I cannot quite agree with this view for the reason already
referred to elsewhere, we can consider the fifth patriarch the
beginning of a turning in the history of Zen, which opened up to a full
view under the sixth patriarch, Hui-nêng. Until now, the Zen followers
had kept quiet, though working steadily, without arresting public
attention; the masters had retired either into the mountains or in the
hurly-burly of the world where nobody could tell anything about their
doings. But the time had at last come for a full proclamation of Zen,
and Hung-jên was the first who appeared in the field preparing the way
for his successor, Hui-nêng.

* * * * *

Besides this orthodox line of patriarchs, there were some sporadic
expositors of Zen throughout the sixth and the seventh century. Several
of them are mentioned, but there must have been many more such who were
either altogether forgotten or not at all known to the world. The two
best known are Pao-chih (died 514)[4.46] and Fu-hsi (died 569)[4.47];
and their lives are recorded in the _Records_ as “adepts in Zen but
not appearing in the world though well-known at the time.” This is a
strange phrasing, and it is hard to know definitely what “not appearing
in the world” means. Usually it applies to one who does not occupy
any recognised position in an officially registered monastery. But of
those that are classed under this heading, there is one at least to
whom the designation does not properly apply; for Chi-i was a great
high priest occupying an influential ecclesiastical post in the Sui
dynasty. Whatever this was, those recorded here did not belong to the
orthodox Zen school. The Tendai (T‘ien-tai) followers object to see two
of their Fathers Hui-szŭ and Chi-i mentioned as “adepts in Zen but not
appearing in the world though well-known at the time.” They think that
these two are great names in the history of their school and ought not
to be so indifferently referred to in the records of the Zen masters.
But from the Zen point of view this classification is justifiable for
the reason that the Tendai, except its metaphysics, is another current
of Zen started independently of the line of Bodhi-Dharma, and if this
were allowed to take a more practical course of development, it should
surely have resulted in Zen as we have it now. But its metaphysical
side came to be emphasised at the expense of the practical, and for
this reason the Tendai philosophers were ever at war with the Zen,
especially with the ultra-left wing which was inflexible in denouncing
an appeal to ratiocination and literary discoursing and Sutra-learning.
In my view the Tendai is a variation of Zen and its first promulgators
may justly be classed as Zen masters though not of the pedigree to
which belong Shih-t‘ou, Yüeh-shan, Ma-tsu, Lin-chi, etc.

While there were thus in the sixth and the seventh century some other
lines of Zen about to develop, the one started by Bodhi-Dharma was
uninterruptedly carried on by Hui-k‘ê, Shêng-t‘san, Tao-hsin, and
Hung-jên, who proved to be the most fruitful and successful. The
differentiation of two schools under the fifth patriarch, by Hui-nêng
and Shên-hsiu, helped the further progress of pure Zen by eliminating
unessential or rather undigested elements. That the school of Hui-nêng
survived the other proves that his Zen was in perfect accord with
Chinese psychology and modes of thinking. The Indian elements that had
been found attached to the Zen of Bodhi-Dharma and his successors down
to Hui-nêng, were something grafted and not native to Chinese genius.
And therefore when Zen came to be fully established under Hui-nêng and
his followers, it had nothing further to obstruct its free development
until it became almost the only ruling power in the Chinese world of
Buddhism. We must carefully watch how Hui-nêng came to be Hung-jên’s
successor and where he differed from his rival school under Shên-hsiu.

Hui-nêng (637–713)[4.48] came from Hsin-chou in the southern parts
of China. His father died when he was yet young. He supported his
mother by selling wood in town. When one day he came out of a house
where he sold some fuel, he heard a man reciting a Buddhist Sutra. The
words deeply touched his heart. Finding what Sutra it was and where
it was possible to get it, a longing came over him to study it with
the master. The Sutra was the _Diamond Sutra_ (_Vajracchedikā-sūtra_)
and the master was the fifth patriarch residing at Yellow Plum in
Chin-chou. Hui-nêng somehow managed to get money enough for the support
of his aged mother while he was gone.

It took him about a month to reach Yellow Plum where he at once
proceeded to see Hung-jên at the head of five hundred monks (sometimes
said to be seven or even ten hundred). At the first interview asked the
patriarch,

“Where do you come from? and what do you want here?”

“I am a farmer from Hsin-chou and wish to become a Buddha.”

“So you are a southerner,” said the patriarch, “but the southerners
have no Buddha-nature; how could you expect to attain Buddhahood?”

This however did not discourage the bold seeker after the truth, for he
at once responded: “There may be southerners and northerners, but as
far as Buddha-nature goes, how could you make such a distinction in it?”

This pleased the master very much. Hui-nêng was given an office as
rice-pounder for the Brotherhood. More than eight months, it is said,
he was employed in this menial labour, when the fifth patriarch wished
to select his spiritual successor among his many disciples. One day
he made an announcement that any one who could prove his thorough
comprehension of the religion would be given the patriarchal mantle and
proclaimed as his legitimate heir. Shên-hsiu (died 706)[4.49] who was
the most learned of all the disciples and thoroughly versed in the lore
of his religion, and who was therefore considered by his brethren in
the faith to be in possession of an unqualified right to the honour,
composed a stanza expressing his view, and posted it on the outside
wall of the meditation hall, which read:

“This body is the Bodhi-tree,
The soul is like a mirror bright;
Take heed to keep it always clean,
And let not dust collect on it.”[4.50]

All those who read these lines were greatly impressed, and secretly
cherished the idea that the author of this gatha would surely be
awarded the prize. But when they awoke the next morning, they were
surprised to see another written alongside of it, which ran as follows:

“The Bodhi is not like the tree,
The mirror bright is nowhere shining;
As there is nothing from the first,
Where can the dust itself collect?”[4.51]

The writer of these lines was an insignificant layman in the service
of the monastery, who spent most of his time in pounding rice and
splitting wood for the Brotherhood. He had such an unassuming air that
nobody ever thought much of him, and therefore the entire community was
now set astir to see this challenge made upon its recognised authority.
But the fifth patriarch saw in this unpretentious monk a future leader
of mankind, and decided to transfer to him the robe of his office. He
had, however, some misgivings concerning the matter; for the majority
of his disciples were not enlightened enough to see anything of deep
religious intuition in the lines by the rice-pounder, Hui-nêng: and
if he were publicly awarded the honour they might do him harm. So the
fifth patriarch gave a secret sign to Hui-nêng to come to his room at
midnight, when the rest of the Brotherhood was fast asleep. Then he
gave him the robe as insignia of his authority and in acknowledgment of
his unsurpassed spiritual attainment and with the assurance that the
future of their faith would be brighter than ever. The patriarch then
advised him that it would be wise for him to hide his own light under
a bushel until the proper time arrived for his public appearance
and active propaganda, and also that the robe which was handed down
from Bodhi-Dharma as the sign of faith should no more be given up to
Hui-nêng’s successors, because Zen was now fully recognised by the
outside world in general and there was no more necessity to symbolise
the faith by the transference of the robe. That night Hui-nêng left the
monastery.

This narrative is taken from the literature left by the followers
of the sixth patriarch and is naturally partial in his favour. If
we had another record left by Shên-hsiu and his school, the account
here reproduced may materially differ. In fact, we have at least one
document telling Shên-hsiu’s relation to Hung-jên. It is the memorial
inscription on his grave-stone written by Chang-shuo,[4.52] one of his
lay-disciples. In this inscription Shên-hsiu is referred to as the one
to whom the Dharma has been transmitted from his master, Hung-jên.
Judging from this, the patriarchal authority of Hui-nêng was not an
undisputed one at the time, or the orthodox order of succession was
not settled until some time later when the school of Hui-nêng had been
well established in authority over all the other schools of Zen that
might have been existing then. Unfortunately, this memorial inscription
does not give any further information concerning Hui-nêng’s relation to
Hung-jên, but even from the above narrative we can gather certain facts
of importance which will shed light on the history of Zen.

First, what necessity was there to make Hui-nêng an unlearned rustic
in contrast with the erudition and wide information ascribed to
Shên-hsiu? Or was Hui-nêng really such an ignoramus as could not read
any thing written? But the _Fa-pao-t‘an-ching_,[4.53] a collection
of his sermons, contains passages quoted from such Sutras as the
_Nirvāna_, _Vajracchedikā_, _Laṅkāvatāra_, _Saddharma-puṇḍarika_,
_Vimalakīrti_, _Amitābha_, and _Bodhisattva-śīla-sutra_. Does this not
evince the fact that the author was not altogether unacquainted with
Mahayana literature? Probably he was not a learned scholar as compared
with Shên-hsiu, but in the narratives of his life we can trace some
systematic effort to make him more unlettered than he actually was.
What, let me ask, do we read in this attempt at the hand of the
editors? In my opinion, this emphasising of the contrast between the
two most eminent disciples of the fifth patriarch was at the same time
the emphasising of the real character of Zen as independent of learning
and intellectuality. If Zen is, as its followers claim, a “special
transmission outside the scriptural teaching,” the understanding of
it must be possible even for the unlettered and unphilosophising. The
greatness of Hui-nêng as Zen master is all the more enhanced. This was
in all likelihood the reason why the sixth patriarch was unreasonably
and sometimes even dramatically made unlettered.

Secondly, why was not the patriarchal robe transferred beyond Hui-nêng?
If Hung-jên advised him to keep it with him, what does the advice
really imply? That the life of the possessor of the robe would be
threatened, points to the fact that there was a dispute among the
disciples of Hung-jên. Did they regard the robe as the symbol of
patriarchal authority? But what advantages, material or spiritual,
accrued from the ownership of it? Did the teaching of Bodhi-Dharma
come now to be believed as the genuine transmission of the Buddha?
And for that reason did the robe really cease to signify anything
relative to the truth of Zen? If so, when Bodhi-Dharma first declared
his special mission as teacher of Zen, was he looked upon as a heretic
and persecuted accordingly? The legend that he was poisoned by his
rival teachers from India seems to corroborate this. At all events,
the question of the robe is deeply connected with the status of Zen
teaching among the various schools of Buddhism at the time, and also
with its firmer hold on the popular minds than ever before.

Thirdly, the secrecy observed in all the transactions between Hung-jên
and Hui-nêng concerning the transmission of the Dharma naturally
arrests our attention. To raise the rice-pounder who is not even an
ordained monk to the rank of a patriarch, though only in name, to
succeed a great master who stands at the head of several hundred
disciples, seems to be a real cause for envy and jealousy and even for
hatred. But if one were really enlightened enough to take charge of the
important position of spiritual leadership, could not a combined
effort of master and pupil withstand all the opposition? Perhaps, even
enlightenment could not stand against human passions so irrational and
elemental. I cannot however help imagining an attempt on the part of
the biographers of Hui-nêng at the dramatisation of the whole scene.
I am very likely mistaken, and there might have been some historical
conditions of which we are now ignorant due to the lack of documents.

Three days after the flight of Hui-nêng from the Yellow-plum mountains,
the news of what had happened in secret became noised abroad throughout
the monastery, and a party of indignant monks headed by one named
Ming, pursued the fugitive, Hui-nêng, who, in accordance with his
master’s instructions, was silently leaving the Brotherhood. When he
was overtaken by the pursuers while crossing a mountain-pass far from
the monastery, he laid down his robe on a rock near by, and said to the
monk, Ming: “This robe symbolises our patriarchal faith and is not to
be carried away by force. Take this along with thee, however, if thou
so desirest.”

Ming tried to lift it but it was as heavy as a mountain. He halted,
hesitated, and trembled with awe. At last, he said, “I come here to
obtain the faith and not the robe. O my brother monk, pray dispel my
ignorance.”

Said the sixth patriarch, “If thou comest for the faith, stop all thy
hankerings. Think not of good, think not of evil, but see what at this
moment thy own original face doth look like, which thou hadst even
prior to thy own birth.”[4.54]

Being thus demanded, Ming at once perceived the fundamental truth
of things, which hitherto he had sought in things without. He now
understood everything, as if he had taken a cupful of cold water
and tasted it to his own satisfaction. Out of the immensity of his
feeling, he was literally bathed in tears and perspirations, and most
reverently approaching the patriarch he saluted him and asked; “Besides
this hidden sense as is embodied in these significant words, is there
anything which is secret?”

The patriarch answered, “In what I have shown to thee there is
nothing hidden. If thou reflectest within thyself and recognisest thy
own face, which was before the world, secrecy is in thyself.”

Whatever historical circumstances surrounded Hui-nêng in those remote
days, it is certain that in this statement, “to see one’s own face
even before one was born,” we find the first proclamation of the new
message which was destined to unroll a long history of Zen and to make
Hui-nêng really worthy of the patriarchal robe. We can see here what
a new outlook Hui-nêng has succeeded in opening to the traditional
Indian Zen. In him we do not recognise anything of Buddhism as far
as phraseology goes, which means that he opened up his own way of
presenting the truth of Zen after his original and creative experience.
Prior to him, the Zen experience had some borrowings, either in wording
or in method, to express itself. To say, “You are the Buddha,” or
“You and the Buddha are one,” or “The Buddha is living in you,” is
too stale, too flat, because too abstract and too conceptual. They
contain deep truth but are not concrete nor vivifying enough to rouse
our dormant souls from insensibility. They are filled up too much with
abstractions and learned phraseology. Hui-nêng’s simple-mindedness not
spoiled by learning and philosophising could grasp the truth at first
hand. Hence his unusual freshness in the way he handled the problem. We
may come to this again later.

Hung-jên died, A.D. 675, four years[f100] after the Dharma was
transmitted to Hui-nêng. He was seventy-four years old. But Hui-nêng
never started his mission work until some years later, for in
accordance with the advice of his master he lived a secluded life in
the mountains. One day he thought that it was time for him to go out
in the world. He was now thirty-nine years old, and it was in the
first year of I-fêng (A.D. 676) during the T‘ang dynasty. He came to
Fa-hsing temple in the province of Kuang, where a learned priest,
Yin-tsung, was discoursing on the _Nirvāna Sūtra_. He saw some monks
arguing on the flattering pennant; one of them said, “The pennant is
an inanimate object and it is the wind that makes it flap.” Against
this it was remarked by another monk that “Both wind and pennant are
inanimate things, and the flapping is an impossibility.” A third one
protested, “The flapping is due to a certain combination of cause and
condition”; while a fourth one proposed a theory, saying, “After all
there is no flapping pennant, but it is the wind that is moving by
itself.” The discussion grew quite animated when Hui-nêng interrupted
with the remark, “It is neither wind nor pennant but your own mind
that flaps.” This at once put a stop to the heated argument. The
priest-scholar, Yin-tsung, was greatly struck by the statement of
Hui-nêng, so conclusive and authoritative. Finding out very soon who
this Hui-nêng was, Yin-tsung asked him to enlighten him on the teaching
of the master of Yellow Plum Mountain. The gist of Hui-nêng’s reply was
as follows:

“My master had no special instruction to give, he simply insisted upon
the need of our seeing into our own Nature through our own efforts, he
had nothing to do with meditation, or with deliverance. For whatever
that could be named leads to dualism, and Buddhism is not dualistic.
To take hold of this non-duality of truth is the aim of Zen. The
Buddha-Nature of which we are all in possession, and the seeing into
which constitutes Zen, is indivisible into such oppositions as good and
evil, eternal and temporal, material and spiritual. To see dualism in
life is due to confusion of thought; the wise, the enlightened see into
the reality of things unhampered by erroneous ideas.”

This was the beginning of Hui-nêng’s career as Zen master. His
influence seems to have been immediate and far-reaching. He had
many disciples numbering thousands. He did not however go around
preaching and proselyting. His activities were confined in his own
province in the south, and the Pao-lin monastery at Ts‘ao-ch‘i was
his headquarters. When the Emperor Kao-tsung learned that Hui-nêng
succeeded Hung-jên as one of Dharma’s spiritual descendants in the
faith of Zen, he sent him one of his court officials with an imperial
message, but Hui-nêng refused to come up to the capital, preferring his
stay in the mountains. The messenger however wished to be instructed
in the doctrine of Zen that he might convey it to his august master at
Court. Said Hui-nêng in the main as follows:

“It is a mistake to think that sitting quietly in contemplation is
essential to deliverance. The truth of Zen opens by itself from within
and it has nothing to do with the practise of dhyana. For we read in
the _Vajracchedikā_ that those who try to see the Tathagata in one
of his special attitudes, as sitting or lying, do not understand his
spirit, and that the Tathagata is designated as Tathagata because he
comes from nowhere and departs nowhere, and for that reason he is the
Tathagata. His appearance has no whence, and his disappearance no
whither, and this is Zen. In Zen therefore there is nothing to gain,
nothing to understand; what shall we then do with sitting cross-legged
and practising dhyana? Some may think that understanding is needed to
enlighten the darkness of ignorance, but the truth of Zen is absolute
in which there is no dualism, no conditionality. To speak of ignorance
and enlightenment, or of Bodhi and Kleśa (wisdom and passions), as
if they were two separate objects which cannot be merged in one, is
not Mahayanistic. In the Mahayana every possible form of dualism
is condemned as not expressing the ultimate truth. Everything is a
manifestation of the Buddha-Nature which is not defiled in passions,
nor purified in enlightenment. It is above all categories. If you want
to see what is the nature of your being, free your mind from thought of
relativity and you will see by yourself how serene it is and yet how
full of life it is.”

* * * * *

While Hui-nêng was working for the cause of Zen in the south,
Shên-hsiu representing another school was active in the north. Before
he was converted into Buddhism, he was a learned Confucian and thus
destined from the start to cut a different figure, compared with his
brother-disciple, Hui-nêng. The Emperor Wu of the T‘ang dynasty was
one of the devoted followers of Shên-hsiu, and naturally around
him were gathered a large number of courtiers and government officers.
When the Emperor Chung-tsung came to the throne, A.D. 685, he was all
the more treated with reverence, and it was Chang-shuo, one of the
state ministers, who inscribed a biographical sketch and eulogy on the
memorial stone erected over his grave when he died. One of his sermons
recorded reads:

“The teaching of all the Buddhas
In one’s own Mind originally exists:
To seek the Mind without one’s Self,
Is like running away from the father.”

He died in A.D. 706, seven years prior to Hui-nêng. His school known
as the Northern in contrast to Hui-nêng’s Southern School prospered
in the north far better than the latter did in the south. But
when Ma-tsu (died 788) and Shih-t‘ou (700–790) began their active
propaganda in the south and finally established the foundations of
Zen teaching, Shên-hsiu’s school failed to find able successors and
finally disappeared altogether so that all the records we have of
their movements come from the rival school. It thus came to pass that
Hui-nêng, and not Shên-hsiu was recognised as the sixth patriarch of
Zen Buddhism in China.

The difference between the Southern and the Northern school of Zen
is one inherent in human mind; if we call the one intellectual or
intuitional, the other would be regarded as pragmatical. The reason
why the Southern school is known as “abrupt” or “instant” (_yugapad_)
against the “gradual” (_kramavṛittya_) school of the North is because
it upholds that the coming of enlightenment is instantaneous and
does not allow any gradation, as there are no stages of progress in
it; whereas the Northern school emphasises the process of arriving
at enlightenment which is naturally gradual, requiring much time and
concentration. Hui-nêng was a great advocate of absolute idealism,
while Shên-hsiu was a realist and refused to ignore a world of
particulars where Time rules over all our doings. An idealist does not
necessarily ignore the objective aspect of reality, but his eyes are
always fixed at one point which stands by itself, and his surveyings
are done from this absolute point. The doctrine of abruptness
is thus the result of looking at the multitudinousness of things in
absolute unity. All true mystics are followers of the “abrupt” school.
The flight from the alone to the alone is not and cannot be a gradual
process. The teaching of Shên-hsiu is to be heeded as the practical
advice to those who are actually engaged in the study of Zen, but it
fails to describe the character of experience known as “the seeing
into one’s own Nature,” which was the special message of Hui-nêng
as distinguished from those of the other Buddhist schools. That the
school of Shên-hsiu could not survive as a branch of Zen was natural
enough, for Zen could not be anything else but an instantaneous act of
intuition. As it opens up all of a sudden a world hitherto undreamed
of, it is an abrupt and discrete leaping from one plane of thought to
another. Hsiu missed the ultimate object of Zen when he emphasised
the process to reach the end. As a practical adviser he was therefore
excellent and full of merit.

The ideas of instantaneity and gradation in the realisation of the
truth of Zen originally comes from the _Laṅkāvatāra_ (Nanjo’s edition,
p. 55), where this distinction is made in regard to cleansing one’s
mind of its stream of ideas and images. According to the Sutra,
this cleansing is in one sense gradual but in another abrupt or
instantaneous. When it is regarded as like the ripening of a fruit,
the modelling of a vessel, the growing of a plant, or the mastering
of an art, which takes place gradually and in time, it is an act of
gradual process: but when it is comparable to a mirror reflecting
objects, or to the Ālaya reproducing all mental images, the cleansing
of mind takes place instantaneously. Thus the Sutra recognises the two
types of minds: with some the cleansing to a state of enlightenment
can be obtained gradually after a long practice of meditation, perhaps
through many a successive life; but to others it may come all of a
sudden, even without previously conscious efforts. The division of
the two schools as regards the abrupt realisation of enlightenment is
based not only on the statements in the Sutra but ultimately on facts
of psychology. The point at issue however was not a question of
time; whether enlightenment took place as an act of one moment or not,
ceased to concern them; for the difference now developed into that of
their general philosophical attitude and outlook towards the fact of
enlightenment itself. The question of physical time has thus turned
into that of psychology in its more profound aspect.

When process is emphasised, the end is forgotten, and process itself
comes to be identified with end. When a disciple of Shên-hsiu came
to Hui-nêng to be instructed in Zen, he asked what was the teaching
of Shên-hsiu, and the disciple informed him thus: “My master usually
teaches us to stop the working of our minds and to sit quietly in
meditation for a long time at a stretch, without lying down.” To this
Hui-nêng responded: “To stop the working of mind and to sit quietly in
meditation is a disease and not Zen, and there is no profit whatever to
be gained from a long sitting.” Then he gave him the following gāthā:

“While living, one sits up and lies not,
When dead, one lies and sits not;
A set of ill-smelling skeleton!
What is the use of toiling and moiling?”[4.55]

This shows exactly where Hui-nêng stands in relation to his rival
Shên-hsiu who is so taken up with the practical details of the process
of Zen. Those two gāthās inscribed on the monastery wall at Yellow-plum
Mountain while they were yet under the tutorship of Hung-jên, are
eloquent enough to bring out the characteristic features of the two
schools.[f101]

When Hui-nêng further asked the monk from the north as to the teaching
of his teacher in regard to morality (_śīla_), meditation (_dhyāna_),
and wisdom (_prajñā_), the monk said, “According to my master Hsiu,
morality consists in not doing anything that is bad; wisdom in
reverently practising all that is good; and meditation in purifying
the heart.” Replied Hui-nêng: “My view is quite different. All
my teaching issues from the conception of Self-Nature, and those who
assert the existence of anything outside it betray their ignorance of
its nature. Morality, Meditation, and Wisdom—all these are forms of
Self-Nature. When there is nothing wrong in it, we have morality; when
it is free from ignorance, it is wisdom; and when it is not disturbed,
it is meditation. Have a thorough understanding once for all as to
the being of Self-Nature, and you know that nothing dualistic obtains
in it; for here you have nothing to be particularly distinguished as
enlightenment, or ignorance, or deliverance, or knowledge, and yet
from this nothingness there issues a world of particulars as objects
of thought. For him who has once had an insight into his own Nature,
no special posture as a form of meditation is to be recommended;
everything and anything is good to him, sitting, or lying, or standing.
He enjoys perfect freedom of spirit, he moves along as he feels, and
yet he does nothing wrong, he is always acting in accord with his
Self-Nature, his work is play. This is what I call ‘the seeing into
one’s own Nature’; and this seeing is instantaneous as much as the
working is, for there is no graduating process from one stage to
another.”

Some of the sermons of the sixth patriarch are preserved in the
book known as the _Platform Sutra on the Treasure of the Law_
(_Fa-pao-t‘an-ching_). The title, “sutra” has generally been given to
writings ascribed to the Buddha or those somehow personally connected
with him, and that a collection of the sermons of Hui-nêng has been
so honoured shows what a significant position he occupies in the
history of Chinese Buddhism. “The Platform Sutra” has a reference
to the famous ordination platform erected by Gunabhadra, the first
translator of the _Laṅkāvatāra_, of the Liu-sung dynasty, A.D. 420–479.
At the time of the erection as well as later, it was prophesied by
Chih-yüeh (according to another authority by Paramārtha), during
the Liang dynasty that some years later a Bodhisattva in the flesh
would be ordained on this platform and deliver sermons on the Buddha’s
“spiritual seal.” Thus the “Platform Sutra” means the orthodox teaching
of the Zen given from this platform.

The sermons here preserved are mere fragments of those delivered during
the thirty-seven years of Hui-nêng’s active missionary life. Even of
these fragments how much is to be regarded as genuine and authoritative
is a question we cannot at present give any definite answer, as the
book seems to have suffered the vicissitudes of fates, partly showing
the fact that the Zen message of the sixth patriarch was extraordinary
in many respects so as to arouse antagonism and misunderstanding
among Buddhists. When this antagonism later reached its climax, it is
reported that the book was burned up as against the genuine teaching of
Buddhism. Except a few sentences and passages, however, which can at
once be rejected as spurious, we may take the _Platform Sutra_ on the
whole as expressing the spirit and teaching of the sixth patriarch of
Zen.

The principal ideas of Hui-nêng, which make him the real Chinese
founder of Zen Buddhism may be summed up as follows:

1. We can say that Zen has come to its own consciousness by Hui-nêng.
While Bodhi-Dharma brought it from India and successfully transplanted
it in China, it did not fully realise its special message at the time.
More than two centuries were needed before it grew aware of itself and
knew how to express itself in the way native to the Chinese mind; the
Indian mode in which its original teaching had been expressed as was
the case with Bodhi-Dharma and his immediate disciples had to give way
as it were to become truly Chinese. As soon as this transformation
or transplantation was accomplished in the hands of Hui-nêng, his
disciples proceeded at once to work out all its implications. The
result was what we have as the Zen school of Buddhism. How did then
Hui-nêng understand Zen?

According to him, Zen was the “seeing into one’s own Nature.” This
is the most significant phrase ever coined in the development of Zen
Buddhism. Around this Zen is now crystallised, and we know where
to direct our efforts and how to represent it in our consciousness.
After this, the progress of Zen Buddhism was rapid. It is true that
this phrase occurs in the life of Bodhi-Dharma in the _Records of the
Transmission of the Lamp_, but it is in the part of his life on which
we cannot put much reliance. Even when the phrase was actually used
by Dharma, it was not necessarily considered by him the essence of
Zen as distinguishing itself from other schools of Buddhism. Hui-nêng
however was fully aware of its signification, and impressed the idea
unequivocally upon the minds of his audience. When he made his first
declaration of Zen for the benefit of Yin-tsung, the statement was
quite unmistakable, “We talk of seeing into our own Nature, and not of
practising dhyana or obtaining liberation.”[4.56] Here we have the gist
of Zen, and all his later sermons are amplifications of this idea.

By “Nature” he understood Buddha-Nature, or more particularly from
the intellectual point of view, Prajñā. He says that this Prajñā is
possessed by every one of us, but owing to the confusion of thought
we fail to realise it in ourselves. Therefore we must be instructed
and properly guided by an adept in Zen Buddhism, when we shall open
a spiritual eye and by ourselves see into the Nature. This Nature
knows no multiplicity, it is absolute oneness, being the same in the
ignorant as well as in the wise. The difference comes from confusion
and ignorance. People talk so much, think so much, of Prajñā, but fail
altogether to realise it in their own minds. It is like talking about
food all day, however much we may talk we forever remain hungry. You
may explain the philosophy of Śūnyatā for ten thousand years, but so
long as you have not yet seen into your Nature, it is absolutely of
no avail. There are again some people who regard Zen as consisting in
sitting quietly with an empty mind devoid of thoughts and feelings.
Such know not what Prajñā is, what Mind is. It fills the universe and
never rests from work. It is free, creative, and at the same time it
knows itself. It knows all in one and one in all. This mysterious
working of Prajñā issues from your own Nature. Do not depend upon
letters but let your own Prajñā illumine within yourself.

2. The inevitable result of it was the “abrupt” teaching of the
Northern school. The seeing is an instant act as far as the mental
eye takes in the whole truth at one glance—the truth which transcends
dualism in all form; it is abrupt as far as it knows no gradations, no
continuous unfolding. Read the following passage from the _Platform
Sutra_, in which the essentials of the abrupt doctrine are given:

“When the abrupt doctrine is understood, there is no need of
disciplining oneself in things external. Only let a man always have a
right view within his own mind, no desires, no external objects will
ever defile him. This is the seeing into his Nature. O my friends,
have no fixed abode inside or outside,[f102] and your conduct will be
perfectly free and unfettered. Take away your attachment, and your walk
will know no obstructions whatever.... The ignorant will grow wise if
they abruptly get an understanding and open their hearts to the truth.
O my friends, even the Buddhas will be like us common mortals when
they have no enlightenment, and even we mortals will be Buddhas when
we are enlightened. Therefore we know that all things are in our own
minds. Why do we not then instantly see into our own minds and find
there the truth of Suchness? In the _Sutra on the Moral Conduct of the
Bodhisattva_ we read that we are all pure in our Self-nature, and that
when we know our own minds we see into this Nature and all attain to
Buddhahood. Says the _Vimalakīrti Sūtra_, ‘An instant opening leads
us into the Original Mind.’ O my good friends, while under my master
Jên, I realised the truth the moment I heard him speak and had an
instant [i.e. abrupt] glimpse into the true essence of Suchness. This
is the reason why I now endeavour by means of this doctrine to lead
truth-seekers to an instant [i.e. abrupt] realisation of Bodhi. When
you by yourselves look into your minds, you perceive at once what the
Original Nature is....

“Those who know by themselves do not look for anything external. If
they adhere to the view that liberation comes through external aid,
through the office of a good wise friend, they are entirely at fault.
Why? There is a knower in your own mind and it is this that makes you
realise the truth by yourselves. When confusion reigns in you and false
views are entertained, no amount of teaching by others, good wise
friends of yours, will be of use for your salvation. When on the other
hand your genuine Prajñā shines forth, all your confused thoughts will
vanish in an instant. Knowing thus what your Self-Nature is, you reach
Buddhahood by this single understanding, one knowledge.”

3. When the seeing into Self-Nature is emphasised and intuitive
understanding is upheld against learning and philosophising,
we know that as one of its logical conclusions the old view of
meditation begins to be looked down as merely a discipline in mental
tranquillisation. And this was exactly the case with the sixth
patriarch. Since the beginning of Buddhism there have been two currents
of thought concerning the meaning of meditation: the one was, like
Arāda and Udraka who were the two teachers of the Buddha, to take it
for suspending all psychic activities or for wiping consciousness
clean of all its modes; and the other was to regard meditation simply
as the most efficacious means for coming in touch with the ultimate
reality. This fundamental difference of views with regard to meditation
was a cause of the unpopularity at first of Bodhi-Dharma among the
Chinese Buddhists, scholars and dhyana-masters of the time. It was
also a factor of divergence between the Niu-t‘ou school of Zen and
the orthodox teaching of the fourth patriarch, as well as between
the Northern and the Southern school of Zen Buddhism after the fifth
patriarch. Hui-nêng, the sixth patriarch, came out as a strong
advocate of intuitionalism and refused to interpret the meaning of
dhyana statically, as it were. For the Mind according to him at the
highest stage of meditation was not a mere being, mere abstraction
devoid of content and work. He wanted to grasp something which lay
at the foundation of all his activities mental and physical, and
this something could not be a mere geometrical point, it must be the
source of energy and knowledge. Hui-nêng did not forget that the will
was after all the ultimate reality and that enlightenment was to be
understood as more than intellection, more than quietly contemplating
the truth. The Mind or Self-Nature was to be apprehended in the midst
of its working or functioning. The object of dhyana was thus not to
stop the working of Self-Nature but to make us plunge right into its
stream and seize it in the very act. His intuitionalism was dynamic. In
the following dialogues both Hui-nêng and his disciples are still using
the older terminology but the import of this parley is illustrative of
the point I want to specify.

Hsüan-chiao first studied T‘ien-tai philosophy and later while reading
the _Vimalakīrti_ he discovered his Self-Nature. Being advised to
see the sixth patriarch in order to have his experience certified or
testified, he came to Tsao-ch‘i. He walked around the master three
times and erecting his staff straight stood before him. Said the
master, “Monks are supposed to observe three hundred rules of conduct
and eighty thousand minor ones; whence comest thou, so full of pride?”

“Birth-and-death is a matter of grave concern, and time waits for
nobody!” said the T‘ien-tai philosopher.

“Why dost thou not grasp that which is birthless and see into that
which is timeless?” the master demanded.

“Birthless is that which grasps, and timeless is that which sees into.”

“That is so, that is so,” agreed the master.

When this was over, Hsüan-chiao came to Hui-nêng again in the full
attire of the Buddhist monk, and reverently bowing to the master wished
to take leave of him.

Said the master, “Why departest thou so soon?”

“There is from the very beginning no such thing as movement, and then
why talkest thou of being soon?”

“Who knows that there is no movement?” retorted the master.

“There,” exclaimed Hsüan-chiao, “thou makest a judgment thyself!”

“Thou truly comprehendest the intent of that which is birthless.”

“How could the birthless ever have an intent?” Hsüan-chiao asked.

“If there were no intent, who could ever judge?”

“Judgments are made with no intent whatever.” This was the conclusion
of Chiao.

The master then expressed his deep appreciation of Hsüan-chiao’s view
on the subject, saying, “Well thou hast said!”[4.57]

Chih-huang was an adept in meditation which he studied under the
fifth patriarch. After twenty years’ discipline he thought he well
understood the purport of meditation or samadhi. Hsüan-ts‘ê, learning
his attainment, visited him and said, “What are you doing there?” “I
am entering into a samadhi.” “You speak of entering, but how do you
enter into samadhi—with a thought-ful mind or with a thought-less
mind? If you say with a thought-less mind, all non-sentient beings
such as plants or bricks could attain samadhi. If you say with a
thought-ful mind, all sentient beings could attain it.” “When I enter
into samadhi,” said Chih-huang, “I am not conscious of either being
thoughtful or being thoughtless.” “If you are conscious of neither,
you are right in samadhi all the while; why do you then talk at all
of entering into it or coming out of it? If however there is really
entering or coming out, it is not Great Samadhi.” Chih-huang did not
know how to answer. After a while he asked who was Hsüan-ts‘ê’s teacher
and what was his understanding of samadhi. Said Hsüan-ts‘ê,[4.58]
“Hui-nêng is my teacher, and according to him, [the ultimate truth]
lies mystically serene and perfectly quiet; substance and function
are not to be separated, they are of one Suchness. The five skandhas
are empty in their nature, and the six sense-objects have no
reality. [The truth knows of] neither entering nor going out, neither
being tranquil nor disturbed. Dhyana in essence has no fixed abode.
Without attaching yourself to an abode, be serene in dhyana. Dhyana
in essence is birthless; without attaching yourself to the thought of
birth [-and-death] think in dhyana. Have your mind like unto space and
yet have no thought of space.” Thus learning of the sixth patriarch’s
view on samadhi or dhyana, Chih-huang came to the master himself and
asked to be further enlightened. Said the patriarch, “What Hsüan-ts‘ê
told you is true. Have your mind like unto space and yet entertain in
it no thought of emptiness. Then the truth will have its full activity
unimpeded. Every movement of yours will come out of an innocent heart
and the ignorant and the wise will have an equal treatment in your
hands. Subject and object will lose their distinction, and essence and
appearance will be of one suchness. [When a world of absolute oneness
is thus realised,] you have attained to eternal samadhi.”

To make the position of the sixth patriarch on the subject of
meditation still clearer and more definite, let me quote another
incident from his _Platform Sutra_. A monk once made reference to a
gāthā composed by Wo-luan which read as follows [4.59]:

“I, Wo-luan, know a device
Whereby to blot out all my thoughts:
The objective world no more stirs the mind,
And daily matures my Enlightenment!”

Hearing this, the sixth patriarch remarked: “That is no enlightenment
but leads one into a state of bondage. Listen to my gāthā:

“I, Hui-nêng, know no device,
My thoughts are not suppressed:
The objective world ever stirs the mind,
And what is the use of maturing Enlightenment?”

These will be sufficient to show that Hui-nêng, the sixth patriarch,
was on the one hand no quietist, nor nihilist advocating the doctrine
of absolute emptiness, while on the other hand he was no idealist
either, in the sense of denying an objective world. His dhyana was full
of action, yet above a world of particulars, so long as it was not
carried away by it and in it.

4. Hui-nêng’s method of demonstrating the truth of Zen was purely
Chinese and not Indian. He did not resort to abstract terminology
nor to romantic mysticism. The method was direct, plain, concrete,
and highly practical. When the monk Ming came to him and asked for
instruction, he said, “Show me your original face before you were
born.” Is not the statement quite to the point? No philosophic
discourse, no elaborate reasoning, no mystic imagery, but a direct
unequivocal dictum. In this the sixth patriarch cut the first turf and
his disciples quickly and efficiently followed in his steps. Notice how
brilliantly Lin-chi made use of this method in his sermon on a “true
man of no title.” (See the “Introduction.”)

To give another instance. When Hui-nêng saw Huai-jang, of Nan-yüeh, he
said, “Whence comest thou?” which was followed by “What is it that so
cometh?”[4.60] It took for Huai-jang eight long years to answer the
question satisfactorily. Afterwards this way of questioning became
almost an established form of greeting with Zen masters. Nan-yüan asked
a newly arrived monk, “Whence comest thou?” “I am from Han-shang.”
Said the master, “You are at fault as much as I am.”[4.61] Hsiang-yên
asked San-shêng, “Whence comest thou?” “From Lin-chi.” “Bringest thou
his sword?” San-shêng took up his seat-cloth (_tso-chu_) and struck
Hsiang-yên across his mouth and went away.[4.62] The Venerable Ch‘en
asked a monk, “Whence comest thou?” “From Yang-shan.” “Thou art a
liar!” was the verdict of the master.[4.63] Another time he asked
another monk, “Whence comest thou?” “From West of the River, sir.” “How
many sandals hast thou worn out?” This monk had evidently a gentler
treatment.

This difference of method between the Indian and the Chinese often
raised the question as to the difference, if there be, between the
“Tathagata Dhyana” and the “Patriarchal Dhyana.” For instance, when
Hsiang-yên showed his song of poverty to Yang-shan, the latter said,
“You understand the Tathagata Dhyana but not yet the Patriarchal
Dhyana.” When asked about the difference, Mu-chou replied, “The
green mountains are green mountains, and the white clouds are white
clouds.”[4.64]

VII

Hui-nêng died at the age of seventy-six in A.D. 712, while the T‘ang
dynasty was enjoying its halcyon days and Chinese culture reached
the highest point in its history. A little over one hundred years
after the passing of the sixth patriarch, Liu Tsung-yüan, one of
the most brilliant literati in the history of Chinese literature,
wrote a memorial inscription on his tomb-stone when he was honoured
by the Emperor Hsien-tsung with the posthumous title, Great Mirror
(_tai-chien_),and in this we read[4.65]: “In a sixth transmission after
Dharma there was Tai-chien. He was first engaged in menial labour and
servile work. Just a few words from the master were enough and he at
once understood the deepest meaning conveyed in them. The master was
greatly impressed and finally conferred on him an insignia of faith.
After that he hid himself in the southern district, nobody heard of
him again for sixteen years when he thought the time was ripe for him
to come out of the seclusion. He was settled at Ts‘ao-ch‘i and began
to teach. The number of disciples is said once to have reached several
thousands. According to his doctrine, non-doing is reality, emptiness
is the truth, and the ultimate meaning of things is vast and immovable.
He taught that human nature in its beginning as well as in the end is
thoroughly good and does not require any artificial weeding-out, for
it has its root in that which is serene. The Emperor Chung-tsung heard
of him and sent his courtier twice asking him to appear at Court but
failed to get him out. So the Emperor had his words instead which he
took for his spiritual guidance. The teaching [of the sixth patriarch]
in detail is generally accessible to-day; all those who talk at all
about Zen find their source of information in Ts‘ao-ch‘i.”[f103]

After Hui-nêng Zen was split up into several schools, two of which
have survived even down to this day, in China as well as in Japan. The
one represented by Hsing-szŭ, of Ch‘ing-yüan, (died 740), continues now
as the Soto (Ts‘ao-tung) school of Zen, and the other coming down the
line of Huai-jang, of Nan-yüeh (677–744),[4.66] is now represented by
the Rinzai (Lin-chi) school. Though much modified in various aspects,
the principle and spirit of Zen Buddhism is still alive as it was in
the days of the sixth patriarch, and as one of the great spiritual
heritages of the East it is still wielding its unique influence
especially among the cultured people in Japan.

ON SATORI—THE REVELATION OF A NEW TRUTH IN ZEN BUDDHISM

The essence of Zen Buddhism consists in acquiring a new viewpoint of
looking at life and things generally. By this I mean that if we want
to get into the inmost life of Zen, we must forego all our ordinary
habits of thinking which control our everyday life, we must try to see
if there is any other way of judging things, or rather if our ordinary
way is always sufficient to give us the ultimate satisfaction of our
spiritual needs. If we feel dissatisfied somehow with this life, if
there is something in our ordinary way of living that deprives us
of freedom in its most sanctified sense, we must endeavour to find
a way somewhere which gives us a sense of finality and contentment.
Zen proposes to do this for us and assures us of the acquirement of a
new point of view in which life assumes a fresher, deeper, and more
satisfying aspect. This acquirement, however, is really and naturally
the greatest mental cataclysm one can go through with in life. It is
no easy task, it is a kind of fiery baptism, and one has to go through
the storm, the earthquake, the overthrowing of the mountains, and the
breaking in pieces of the rocks.

This acquiring of a new point of view in our dealings with life and
the world is popularly called by Japanese Zen students “satori”[5.1]
(_wu_ in Chinese). It is really another name for Enlightenment
(_anuttara-samyak-saṁbodhi_), which is the word used by the Buddha and
his Indian followers ever since his realisation under the Bodhi-tree
by the River Nairañjanā. There are several other phrases in Chinese
designating this spiritual experience, each of which has a special
connotation, showing tentatively how this phenomenon is interpreted. At
all events, there is no Zen without satori, which is indeed the Alpha
and Omega of Zen Buddhism. Zen devoid of satori is like a sun
without its light and heat. Zen may lose all its literature, all its
monasteries, and all its paraphernalia; but as long as there is satori
in it, it will survive to eternity. I want to emphasise this most
fundamental fact concerning the very life of Zen; for there are some
even among the students of Zen themselves who are blind to this central
fact and are apt to think when Zen has been explained away logically
or psychologically or as one of the Buddhist philosophies which can be
summed up by using highly technical and conceptual Buddhist phrases,
Zen is exhausted and there remains nothing in it that makes it what it
is. But my contention is, the life of Zen begins with the opening of
satori (_kai wu_ in Chinese).[5.2]

Satori may be defined as an intuitive looking into the nature of
things in contradistinction to the analytical or logical understanding
of it. Practically, it means the unfolding of a new world hitherto
unperceived in the confusion of a dualistically-trained mind. Or we may
say that with satori our entire surroundings are viewed from quite an
unexpected angle of perception. Whatever this is, the world for those
who have gained a satori is no more the old world as it used to be;
even with all its flowing streams and burning fires, it is never the
same one again. Logically stated, all its opposites and contradictions
are united and harmonised into a consistent organic whole. This is a
mystery and a miracle, but according to the Zen masters such is being
performed every day. Satori can thus be had only through our once
personally experiencing it.

Its semblance or analogy in a more or less feeble and fragmentary
way is gained when a difficult mathematical problem is solved, or
when a great discovery is made, or when a sudden means of escape is
realised in the midst of most desperate complications, in short,
when one exclaims, “Eureka! eureka!” But this refers only to the
intellectual aspect of satori, which is therefore necessarily partial
and incomplete and does not touch the very foundations of life
considered one indivisible whole. Satori as the Zen experience must
be concerned with the entirety of life. For what Zen proposes
to do is the revolution, and the revaluation as well, of oneself as
a spiritual unity. The solving of a mathematical problem ends with
the solution, it does not affect one’s whole life. So with all other
particular questions, practical or scientific, they do not enter
the basic life-tone of the individual concerned. But the opening of
satori is the re-making of life itself. When it is genuine—for there
are many simulacra of it—its effects on one’s moral and spiritual
life are revolutionary, and they are so enhancing, purifying, as well
as exacting. When a master was asked what constituted Buddhahood,
he answered, “The bottom of a pale is broken through.” From this we
can see what a complete revolution is produced by this spiritual
experience. The birth of a new man is really cataclysmic.

In the psychology of religion this spiritual enhancement of one’s
whole life is called “conversion.” But as the term is generally used
by Christian converts, it cannot be applied in its strict sense to
the Buddhist experience, especially to that of the Zen followers;
the term has too affective or emotional a shade to take the place of
satori, which is above all noetic. The general tendency of Buddhism
is as we know more intellectual than emotional, and its doctrine of
Enlightenment distinguishes it sharply from the Christian view of
salvation; Zen as one of the Mahayana schools naturally shares a
large amount of what we may call transcendental intellectualism which
does not issue in logical dualism. When poetically or figuratively
expressed, satori is “the opening of the mind-flower,”[5.3] or
“the removing of the bar,”[5.4] or “the brightening up of the
mind-works.”[5.5] All these tend to mean the clearing up of a passage
which has been somehow blocked, preventing the free, unobstructed
operation of a machine or a full display of the inner works. With the
removal of the obstruction, a new vista opens before one, boundless in
expanse and reaching the end of time. As life thus feels quite free
in its activity, which was not the case before the awakening, it now
enjoys itself to the fullest extent of its possibilities, to attain
which is the object of Zen discipline. This is often taken to be
equivalent to “vacuity of interest and poverty of purpose.” But
according to the Zen masters the doctrine of non-achievement concerns
itself with the subjective attitude of mind which goes beyond the
limitations of thought. It does not deny ethical ideals, nor does it
transcend them; it is simply an inner state of consciousness without
reference to its objective consequences.

The coming of Bodhi-Dharma (Bodai-daruma in Japanese, P‘u-ti Ta-mo in
Chinese) to China early in the sixth century was simply to introduce
this satori element into the body of Buddhism whose advocates were
then so engrossed in subtleties of philosophical discussion or in the
mere literary observance of rituals and disciplinary rules. By the
“absolute transmission of the spiritual seal”[5.6] which was claimed by
the first patriarch, is meant the opening of satori, obtaining an eye
to see into the spirit of the Buddhist teaching. The sixth patriarch,
Yeno (Hui-nêng), was distinguished because of his upholding the satori
aspect of dhyana against the mere mental tranquillisation of the
Northern School of Zen under the leadership of Jinshu (Shên-hsiu). Baso
(Ma-tsu), Obaku (Huan-po), Rinzai (Lin-chi), and all the other stars
illuminating the early days of Zen in the T‘ang dynasty were advocates
of satori. Their life-activities were unceasingly directed towards the
advancement of this; and as one can readily recognise, they so differed
from those merely absorbed in contemplation or the practising of dhyana
so called. They were strongly against quietism, declaring its adherents
to be purblind and living in the cave of darkness. Before we go on,
it is advisable, therefore, to have this point clearly understood so
that we leave no doubt as to the ultimate purport of Zen, which is by
no means wasting one’s life away in a trance-inducing practise, but
consists in seeing into the life of one’s being or opening an eye of
satori.

There is in Japan a book going under the title of _Six Essays by
Shoshitsu_ (that is, by Bodhi-Dharma, the first patriarch of Zen); the
book contains no doubt some of the sayings of Dharma, but most of the
essays are not his; they were probably composed during the T‘ang
dynasty when Zen Buddhism began to make its influence more generally
felt among the Chinese Buddhists. The spirit however pervading the
book is in perfect accord with the principle of Zen. One of the essays
entitled “Kechimyakuron,” or “Treatise on the Lineage of Faith,”[5.7]
discusses the question of _Chien-hsing_[f104] 見性 or satori, which,
according to the author constitutes the essence of Zen Buddhism. The
following passages are extracts.

“If you wish to seek the Buddha, you ought to see into your own Nature
(_hsing_); for this Nature is the Buddha himself. If you have not
seen into your own Nature, what is the use of thinking of the Buddha,
reciting the Sutras, observing a fast, or keeping the precepts? By
thinking of the Buddha, your cause [i.e., meritorious deed] may bear
fruit; by reciting the Sutras your intelligence may grow brighter; by
keeping the precepts you may be born in the heavens; by practising
charity you may be rewarded abundantly; but as to seeking the
Buddha, you are far away from him. If your Self is not yet clearly
comprehended, you ought to see a wise teacher and get a thorough
understanding as to the root of birth-and-death. One who has not seen
into one’s own Nature, is not to be called a wise teacher.

“When this [seeing into one’s own Nature] is not attained, one cannot
escape from the transmigration of birth-and-death, however well one may
be versed in the study of the sacred scriptures in twelve divisions. No
time will ever come to one to get out of the sufferings of the triple
world. Anciently there was a Bhikshu Zensho (Shan-hsing[f105]) who
was capable of reciting all the twelve divisions of scriptures, yet he
could not save himself from transmigration, because he had no insight
into his own Nature. If this was the case even with Zensho, how about
those moderners who being able to discourse only on a few Sutras and
Śastras regard themselves as exponents of Buddhism? They are truly
simple-minded ones. When Mind is not understood, it is absolutely of no
avail to recite and discourse on idle literature. If you want to seek
the Buddha, you ought to see into your own Nature, which is the Buddha
himself. The Buddha is a free man—a man who neither works nor achieves.
If, instead of seeing into your own Nature, you turn away and seek the
Buddha in external things, you will never get at him.

“The Buddha is your own Mind, make no mistake to bow [to external
objects]. ‘Buddha’ is a Western word, and in this country it means
‘enlightened nature’; and by ‘enlightened’ is meant ‘spiritually
enlightened.’ It is one’s own spiritual Nature in enlightenment that
responds to the external world, comes in contact with objects, raises
the eyebrows, winks the eyelids, and moves the hands and legs. This
Nature is the Mind, and the Mind is the Buddha, and the Buddha is
the Way, and the Way is Zen. This simple word, Zen, is beyond the
comprehension both of the wise and the ignorant. To see directly into
one’s original Nature, this is Zen. Even if you are well learned in
hundreds of the Sutras and Śastras, you still remain an ignoramus in
Buddhism when you have not yet seen into your original Nature. Buddhism
is not there [in mere learning]. The highest truth is unfathomably
deep, is not an object of talk or discussion, and even the canonical
texts have no way to bring it within our reach. Let us once see into
our own original Nature and we have the truth even when we are quite
illiterate, not knowing a word....

“Those who have not seen into their own Nature, may read the
Sutras, think of the Buddha, study long, work hard, practise religion
throughout the six periods of the day, sit for a long time and never
lie down for sleep, and may be wide in learning and well-informed in
all things; and they may believe that all this is Buddhism. All the
Buddhas in successive ages only talk of seeing into one’s Nature. All
things are impermanent; until you get an insight into your Nature, do
not say, ‘I have perfect knowledge.’ Such is really committing a very
grave crime. Ānanda, one of the ten great disciples of the Buddha,
was known for his wide information, but did not have any insight into
Buddhahood, because he was so bent on gaining information only....”

* * * * *

The sixth patriarch, Hui-nêng (Yeno), insists on this in a most
unmistakable way when he answers the question: “As to your commission
from the fifth patriarch of Huang-mei, how do you direct and instruct
others in it?” The answer was: “No direction, no instruction there is;
we speak only of seeing into one’s Nature and not of practising dhyana
and seeking deliverance thereby.” Elsewhere they are designated as the
“confused” and “not worth consulting with,” they that are empty-minded
and sit quietly having no thoughts whatever; whereas “even ignorant
ones, if they all of a sudden realise the truth and open their mental
eyes, are after all wise men and may attain even to Buddhahood.” Again
when the patriarch was told of the method of instruction adopted by the
masters of the Northern School of Zen, which consisted in stopping all
mental activities, quietly absorbed in contemplation, and in sitting
cross-legged for the longest while at a stretch, he declared such
practises to be abnormal and not at all to the point, being far from
the truth of Zen, and added this stanza which was quoted elsewhere:

“While living one sits up and lies not,
When dead, one lies and sits not;
A set of ill-smelling skeleton!
What is the use of toiling and moiling so?”

When at Demboin, Baso used to sit cross-legged all day and
meditating. His master, Nangaku Yejo (Nan-yüeh Huai-jang, 677–744), saw
him and asked,[5.8]

“What seekest thou here thus sitting cross-legged?”

“My desire is to become a Buddha.”

Thereupon, the master took up a piece of brick and began to polish it
hard on the stone nearby.

“What workest thou on so, my master?” asked Baso.

“I am trying to turn this into a mirror.”

“No amount of polishing will make a mirror of the brick, sir.”

“If so, no amount of sitting cross-legged as thou doest will make of
thee a Buddha,” said the master

“What shall I have to do then?”

“It is like driving a cart; when it moveth not, wilt thou whip the cart
or the ox?”

Baso made no answer.

The master continued: “Wilt thou practice this sitting cross-legged in
order to attain dhyana or to attain Buddhahood? If it is dhyana, dhyana
does not consist in sitting or lying; if it is Buddhahood, the Buddha
has no fixed forms. As he has no abiding place anywhere, no one can
take hold of him, nor can he be let go. If thou seekest Buddhahood by
thus sitting cross-legged, thou murderest him. So long as thou freest
thyself not from sitting so,[f106] thou never comest to the truth.”

These are all plain statements, and no doubts are left as to the
ultimate end of Zen, which is not sinking oneself into a state of
torpidity by sitting quietly after the fashion of a Hindu saint and
trying to exclude all the mental ripplings that seem to come up
from nowhere and after a while pass away—where nobody knows. These
preliminary remarks will help the reader carefully to consider the
following “Questions and Answers”[5.9] (known as _Mondo_ in Japanese);
for they will illustrate my thesis that Zen aims at the opening
of satori, or at acquiring a new point of view as regards life and the
universe. The Zen masters, as we see below, are always found trying
to avail themselves of every apparently trivial incident of life
in order to make the disciples’ minds flow into a channel hitherto
altogether unperceived. It is like picking a hidden lock, the flood of
new experiences gushes forth from the opening. It is again like the
clock’s striking the hours; when the appointed time comes it clicks,
and the whole percussion of sounds is released. The mind seems to
have something of this mechanism; when a certain moment is reached, a
hitherto closed screen is lifted, an entirely new vista opens up, and
the tone of one’s whole life thereafter changes. This mental clicking
or opening is called satori by the Zen masters and is insisted upon as
the main object of their discipline.

In this connection the reader will find the following words of Meister
Eckhart quite illuminative: “Upon this matter a heathen sage hath a
fine saying in speech with another sage: ‘I become aware of something
in me which flashes upon my reason. I perceive of it that it is
something, but what it is I cannot perceive. Only meseems that, could I
conceive it, I should comprehend all truth.’”[f107]

III

The records quoted below do not always give the whole history of the
mental development leading up to a satori, that is, from the first
moment when the disciple came to the master until the last moment of
realisation, with all the intermittent psychological vicissitudes
which he had to go through. The examples are just to show that the
whole Zen discipline gains meaning when there takes place this turning
of the mental hinge to a wider and deeper world. For when this wider
and deeper world opens, everyday life, even the most trivial thing of
it, grows loaded with the truths of Zen. On the one hand, therefore,
satori is a most prosaic and matter-of-fact thing, but on the other
hand when it is not understood it is something of a mystery. But
after all is not life itself filled with wonders, mysteries, and
unfathomabilities, far beyond our discursive understanding?

A monk asked Jōshu (Chao-chou Tsung-shên, 778–897) to be instructed
in Zen. Said the master, “Have you had your breakfast or not?” “Yes,
master, I have,” answered the monk. “If so, have your dishes washed,”
was an immediate response, which, it is said, at once opened the monk’s
mind to the truth of Zen.

This is enough to show what a commonplace thing satori is; but to
see what an important rôle this most trivial incident of life plays
in Zen, it will be necessary to add some remarks which were made by
the masters, and through these the reader may have a glimpse into
the content of satori. Ummon (Yün-mên, Wên-yen, died 949) who lived
a little later than Jōshu commented on him; “Was there any special
instruction in the remark of Jōshu, or not? If there was, what was it?
If there was not, what satori was it that the monk attained?” Later,
Umpo Monyetsu (Yün-fêng Wen-yüeh, 997–1062) made a retort, saying, “The
great master Ummon does not know what is what, hence this comment of
his. It was altogether unnecessary, it was like painting legs to the
snake and growing a beard to the eunuch. My view differs from his: that
monk who seems to have attained a satori goes to hell as straight as an
arrow!”[5.10]

Now, what does this all mean—Jōshu’s remark about washing the dishes,
the monk’s attainment of satori, Ummon’s alternatives, and Monyetsu’s
assurance? Are they speaking against each other? Is this much ado about
nothing? This is where Zen is difficult to grasp and at the same time
difficult to explain. Let me add a few more queries. How did Jōshu make
the monk’s eye open by such a prosaic remark? Did the remark have any
hidden meaning, however, which happened to coincide with the mental
tone of the monk? How was the monk so mentally prepared for the final
stroke of the master whose service was just pressing the button as it
were? Nothing of satori is so far gleaned from washing the dishes;
we have to look somewhere else for the truth of Zen. At any rate,
we could not say that Jōshu had nothing to do with the monk’s
realisation. Hence Ummon’s remark which is somewhat enigmatic, yet to
the point. As to Monyetsu’s comment, it is what is technically known
as _Nenro_,[5.11] “handling and playing,” or “playful criticism.” He
appears to be making a disparaging remark about Ummon, but in truth he
is joining hands with his predecessors.

Tokusan (Teh-shan Hsüan-chien, 779–865)[5.12] was a great scholar of
the _Diamond Sutra_ (_Vajracchedikā_). Learning that there was such a
thing as Zen ignoring all the written scriptures and directly laying
hand on one’s soul, he came to Ryutan (Lung-t‘an) to be instructed in
the doctrine. One day Tokusan was sitting outside trying to see into
the mystery of Zen. Ryutan said, “Why don’t you come in?” Replied
Tokusan, “It is pitch dark.” A candle was lighted and handed over
to Tokusan. When the latter was at the point of taking it, Ryutan
suddenly blew the light out, whereupon the mind of Tokusan was
opened.[f108][5.13]

Hyakujo (Pai-chang Huai-hai, 724–814)[5.14] one day went out attending
his master Baso (Ma-tsu). A flock of wild geese was seen flying and
Baso asked

“What are they?”

“They are wild geese, sir.”

“Whither are they flying?”

“They have flown away, sir.”

Baso abruptly taking hold of Hyakujo’s nose gave it a twist. Overcome
with pain, Hyakujo cried aloud, “Oh! Oh!”

“You say they have flown away,” Baso said, “but all the same they have
been here from the very beginning.”

This made Hyakujo’s back wet with cold perspiration. He had satori.

Is there any connection in any possible way between the washing of
the dishes and the blowing out of a candle and the twisting of
the nose? We must say with Ummon: If there is none, how could they
all come to the realisation of the truth of Zen? If there is, what
inner relationship is there? What is this satori? What a new point
of viewing things is this? So long as our observation is limited to
those conditions which preceded the opening of a disciple’s eye we
cannot perhaps fully comprehend where lies the ultimate issue. They are
matters of everyday occurrence, and if Zen lies objectively among them,
every one of us is a master before we are told of it. This is partly
true inasmuch as there is nothing artificially constructed in Zen, but
if the nose is to be really twisted or the candle blown out in order
to take the scale off the eye, our attention must be directed inwardly
to the working of our minds, and it will be there where we are to take
hold of the hidden relation existing between the flying geese and the
washed dishes and the blown out candle and any other happenings that
weave out infinitely variegated patterns of human life.

Under Daiye (Tai-hui, 1089–1163),[5.15] the great Zen teacher of the
Sung dynasty, there was a monk named Dōken (Tao-ch‘ien) who had spent
many years in the study of Zen, but who had not yet delved into its
secrets if there were any. He was discouraged when he was sent on
an errand to a distant city. A trip requiring half a year to finish
would surely be a hindrance rather than a help to his study. Sogen
(Tsung-yüan), one of his fellow-monks, took pity on him and said, “I
will accompany you on this trip and do all that I can for you. There
is no reason why you cannot go on with your meditation even while
travelling.” They started together. One evening Dōken despairingly
implored his friend to assist him in the solution of the mystery of
life. The friend said, “I am willing to help you in every way, but
there are five things in which I cannot be of any help to you. These
you must look after yourself.” Dōken expressed the desire to know what
they were. “For instance,” said the friend, “when you are hungry or
thirsty, my eating of food or drinking does not fill your stomach. You
must drink and eat yourself. When you want to respond to the calls
of nature, you must take care of them yourself, for I cannot be
of any use to you. And then it will be nobody else but yourself that
will carry this corpse of yours [i.e., the body] along this highway.”
This remark at once opened the mind of the truth-seeking monk, who,
so transported with his discovery, did not know how to express his
joy. Gen now told him that his work was done and that his further
companionship would have no meaning after this.[5.16] So they parted
company and Dōken was left alone to continue the trip. After the
half-year Dōken came back to his own monastery. Daiye, his teacher,
happened to meet him on his way down the mountain, and made the
following remark, “This time he knows it all.” What was it, one may
remark, that flashed through Dōken’s mind when his friend gave him a
most matter-of-fact advice?

Kyōgen (Hsian-yen) was a disciple of Hyakujo. After the master’s death
he went to Yisan (Wei-shan, 771–853) who was a senior disciple of
Hyakujo. Yisan asked him,[5.17] “I am told that you have been under my
late master Hyakujo, and also that you have remarkable intelligence;
but the understanding of Zen through this medium necessarily ends in
intellectual and analytical comprehension, which is not of much use.
Yet you may have had an insight into the truth of Zen. Let me have your
view as to the reason of birth and death, that is, as to your own being
before your parents gave birth to you.”

Thus asked, Kyōgen did not know how to reply. He retired into his own
room and assiduously made research among his notes which he had taken
of the sermons given by his late master. He failed to come across a
suitable passage he might present as his own view. He returned to
Yisan and implored him to teach in the faith of Zen. But Yisan said,
“I really have nothing to impart to you, and if I tried to do so, you
may have occasion to make me an object of ridicule later on. Besides,
whatever I can instruct you is my own and will never be yours.” Kyōgen
was disappointed and considered his senior disciple unkind. Finally he
came to the decision to burn up all his notes and memorandums which
were of no help to his spiritual welfare, and, retiring altogether from
the world, to spend the rest of his life in solitude and simplicity
in accordance with the Buddhist rules. He reasoned, “What is the
use of studying Buddhism, so difficult to comprehend and too subtle to
receive instructions from another? I shall be a plain homeless monk,
troubled with no desire to master things too deep for thought.” He left
Yisan and built a hut near the tomb of Chu (Hui-chung), the National
Master, at Nan-yang. One day he was weeding and sweeping the ground,
and when a piece of rock brushed away struck a bamboo, the sound
produced by the percussion unexpectedly elevated his mind to a state
of satori. The question proposed by Yisan became transparent; his joy
was boundless, he felt as if meeting again his lost parent. Besides
he came to realise the kindness of his abandoned senior brother monk
who refused him instruction. For he now knew that this would not have
happened to him if Yisan had been unkind enough to explain things for
him.

Below is the verse he composed soon after his achievement from which we
may get an idea of his satori.

“One stroke has made me forget all my previous knowledge,
No artificial discipline is at all needed;
In every movement I uphold the ancient way,
And never fall into the rut of mere quietism;
Wherever I walk no traces are left,
And my senses are not fettered by rules of conduct;
Everywhere those who have attained to the truth,
All declare this to be of the highest order.”

There is something, we must admit, in Zen that defies explanation, and
to which no master however ingenious can lead his disciples through
intellectual analysis. Kyōgen or Tokusan had enough knowledge of the
canonical teachings or of the master’s expository discourses; but
when the real thing was demanded of them, they significantly failed
to produce it either to their inner satisfaction or for the master’s
approval. The satori is not a thing after all to be gained through
the understanding. But once the key is within one’s grasp, everything
seems to be laid bare before him; the entire world assumes then a
different aspect. By those who know, this inner change is recognised.
The Dōken before he started on his mission and the Dōken after
the realisation were apparently the same person; but as soon as Daiye
saw him, he knew what had taken place in him even when he uttered not
a word. Baso twisted Hyakujo’s nose, and the latter turned into such
a wild soul as to have the audacity to roll up the matting before his
master’s discourse had hardly begun (see below). The experience they
have gone through with within themselves is not a very elaborate,
complicated, and intellectually demonstrable thing; for none of them
ever try to expound it by a series of learned discourses, they do
just this thing or that, or utter a single phrase unintelligible to
outsiders, and the whole affair proves most satisfactory both to the
master and to the disciple. The satori cannot be a phantasm, empty and
contentless, and lacking in real value, while it must be the simplest
possible experience perhaps because it is the very foundation of all
experiences.

As to the opening of satori, all that Zen can do is to indicate the
way and leave the rest all to one’s own experience; that is to say,
following up the indication and arriving at the goal—this is to be
done by oneself and without another’s help. With all that the master
can do, he is helpless to make the disciple take hold of the thing,
unless the latter is inwardly fully prepared for it. Just as we cannot
make a horse drink against his will, the taking hold of the ultimate
reality is to be done by oneself, just as the flower blooms out of its
inner necessity, the looking into one’s own nature must be the outcome
of one’s own inner overflowing. This is where Zen is so personal and
subjective, in the sense of being inner and creative. In the Āgama
or Nikāya literature we encounter so frequently with such phrases as
“Atta-dīpā viharatha attā saraṇā anañña-saraṇā,” or “sayaṁ abhiññā,”
or “Diṭṭha-dhammo patta-dhammo vidita-dhammo pariyogāḷha-dhammo
aparappaccayo satthu sāsane”; they show that Enlightenment is the
awakening, within oneself and not depending on others, of an inner
sense in one’s consciousness, enabling one to create a world of eternal
harmony and beauty—the home of Nirvana.

I said that Zen does not give us any intellectual assistance, nor
does it waste time in arguing the point with us, but it merely
suggests or indicates, not because it wants to be indefinite, but
because that is really the only thing it can do for us. If it could,
it would do anything to help us come to an understanding. In fact
Zen is exhausting every possible means to do that, as we can see in
all the great masters’ attitudes towards their disciples.[f109] When
they are actually knocking them down, their kindheartedness is never
to be doubted. They are just waiting for the time when their pupils’
minds get all ripened for the final moment. When this is come, the
opportunity of opening an eye to the truth of Zen lies everywhere. One
can pick it up in the hearing of an inarticulate sound, or listening
to an unintelligible remark, or in the observation of a flower
blooming, or in the encountering of any trivial everyday incident such
as stumbling, rolling up a screen, using a fan, etc. These are all
sufficient conditions that will awaken one’s inner sense. Evidently a
most insignificant happening, and yet its effect on the mind infinitely
surpasses all that one could expect of it. A light touch of an ignited
wire, and an explosion shaking the very foundations of the earth. In
fact, all the causes of satori are in the mind. That is why when the
clock clicks, all that has been lying there bursts up like a volcanic
eruption or flashes out like a bolt of lightning,[f110] Zen calls this
“returning to one’s own home”; for its followers will declare: “You
have now found yourself; from the very beginning nothing has been kept
away from you. It was yourself that closed the eye to the fact. In Zen
there is nothing to explain, nothing to teach, that will add to your
knowledge. Unless it grows out of yourself, no knowledge is really of
value to you, a borrowed plumage never grows.”

Kozankoku (Huang San-ku),[5.18] a Confucian poet and statesman, came to
Kwaido (Hui-t‘ang, 1024–1100) to be initiated into Zen. Said the Zen
master, “There is a passage in the text you are so thoroughly familiar
with, which fitly describes the teaching of Zen. Did not Confucius
declare, ‘Do you think I am holding back something from you, O my
disciples? Indeed I have held nothing back from you.’” Sankoku tried
to answer, but Kwaido immediately made him keep silence by saying,
“No, no!” The Confucian disciple felt troubled in mind, and did not
know how to express himself. Some time later they were having a walk
in the mountains. The wild laurel was in full bloom and the air was
redolent. Asked the Zen master, “Do you smell it?” When the Confucian
answered affirmatively, Kwaido said, “There, I have kept nothing
back from you!” This suggestion from the teacher at once led to the
opening of Kozankoku’s mind. Is it not evident now that satori is not
a thing to be imposed upon another, but that it is self-growing from
within? Though nothing is kept away from us, it is through a satori
that we become cognisant of the fact, being convinced that we are all
sufficient unto ourselves. All that therefore Zen contrives is to
assert that there is such a thing as self-revelation, or the opening of
satori.

As satori strikes at the primary fact of existence, its attainment
marks a turning point in one’s life. The attainment, however, must be
thorough-going and clear-cut in order to produce a satisfactory result.
To deserve the name “satori” the mental revolution must be so complete
as to make one really and sincerely feel that there took place a fiery
baptism of the spirit. The intensity of this feeling is proportional to
the amount of effort the opener of satori has put into the achievement.
For there is a gradation in satori as to its intensity, as in all our
mental activity. The possessor of a lukewarm satori may suffer no such
spiritual revolution as Rinzai, or Bukko (Fo-kuang) whose case is
quoted below. Zen is a matter of character and not of the intellect,
which means that Zen grows out of the will as the first principle of
life. A brilliant intellect may fail to unravel all the mysteries of
Zen, but a strong soul will drink deep of the inexhaustible fountain.
I do not know if the intellect is superficial and touches only
the fringe of one’s personality, but the fact is that the will is the
man himself, and Zen appeals to it. When one becomes penetratingly
conscious of the working of this agency, there is the opening of satori
and the understanding of Zen. As they say, the snake has now grown into
the dragon; or more graphically, a common cur—a most miserable creature
wagging its tail for food and sympathy, and kicked about by the street
boys so mercilessly—has now turned into a golden-haired lion whose roar
frightens to death all the feeble-minded.

Therefore, when Rinzai was meekly submitting to the “thirty blows” of
Obaku, he was a pitiable sight; as soon as he attained satori, he was
quite a different personage and his first exclamation was, “There is
not much after all in the Buddhism of Obaku.”[5.19] And when he saw the
reproachful Obaku again, he returned his favour by giving him a slap on
the face. “What an arrogance, what an impudence!” Obaku exclaimed; but
there was reason in Rinzai’s rudeness, and the old master could not but
be pleased with this treatment from his former tearful Rinzai.

When Tokusan gained an insight into the truth of Zen, he immediately
took up all his commentaries on the _Diamond Sutra_, once so valued and
considered indispensable that he had to carry them wherever he went; he
now set fire to them, reducing all the manuscripts into nothingness.
He exclaimed: “However deep your knowledge of abstruse philosophy, it
is like a piece of hair placed in the vastness of space; and however
important your experience in things worldly, it is like a drop of water
thrown into an unfathomable abyss.”[5.20]

On the day following the incident of the flying geese,[5.21] to which
reference was made elsewhere, Baso appeared in the preaching hall and
was about to speak before a congregation, when Hyakujo came forward
and began to roll up the matting.[f111] Baso without protesting came
down from his seat and returned to his own room. He then called Hyakujo
and asked him why he rolled up the matting before he uttered a
word.

“Yesterday you twisted my nose,” replied Hyakujo, “and it was quite
painful.”

“Where,” said Baso, “was your thought wandering then?”

“It is not painful any more to-day, master.” How differently he
behaves now! When his nose was pinched, he was quite an ignoramus in
the secrets of Zen. He is now a golden-haired lion, he is master of
himself, and acts so freely as if he owned the world, pushing away even
his own master far into the background.

There is no doubt that satori goes deep into the very root of
individuality. The change achieved thereby is quite remarkable, as we
see in the examples above cited.

Some masters have left in the form of verse known as “Ge” (_gāthā_)
what they perceived or felt at the time when their mental eye was
opened. The verse has the special name of “Tōki-no-ge”[f112][5.22]
and from the following translations the reader may draw his own
conclusions as to the nature and content of a satori so highly prized
by the Zen followers. But there is one thing to which I like to call
his attention, which is that the contents of these gāthās are so
varied and dissimilar as far as their literary and intelligible sense
is concerned that one may be at a loss how to make a comparison of
these divers exclamations. Being sometimes merely descriptive verses
of the feelings of the author at the moment of satori, analysis is
impossible unless the critic himself has once experienced them in his
own inner life. Nevertheless these verses will be of interest to the
psychological students of Buddhist mysticism even as merely emotional
utterances of the supreme moment.

The following is by Chōkei (Chang-ching, died 932) whose eye was opened
when he was rolling up the screen:

“How deluded I was! How deluded, indeed!
Lift up the screen, and come see the world!
‘What religion believest thou?’ you ask.
I raise my hossu[f113] and hit your mouth.”[5.23]

Hōyen (Fa-yen) of Gosozan (wu-tso-shan), who died in 1104, succeeded
Shutan (Shou-tuan), of Haku-un (Pai-yün), and was the teacher of Yengo
(Yüan-wu), composed the following when his mental eye was first opened:

“A patch of farm land quietly lies by the hill,
Crossing my hands over the chest I ask the old farmer kindly:
‘How often have you sold it and bought it back by yourself?’
I like the pines and bamboos that invite a refreshing breeze.”[5.24]

Yengo (Yüan-wu, 1063–1135) was one of the greatest teachers in the Sung
dynasty and the author of a Zen textbook known as the _Hekiganshu_. His
verse stands in such contrast to that of his teacher, Hōyen, and the
reader will find it hard to unearth anything of Zen from the following
romanticism:

“The golden duck no more issues odorous smoke behind the brocade
screens,
Amidst flute-playing and singing, he retreats, thoroughly in liquor
and supported by others:
A happy event in the life of a romantic youth,
It is his sweetheart alone that is allowed to know.”[5.25]

Yenju, of Yōmeiji (Yung-ming Yen-shou, 904–975), who belonged to
the Hōgen School of Zen Buddhism, was the author of a book called
“Shukyōroku” (_Record of Truth-Mirror_) in one hundred fasciculi, and
flourished in the early Sung. His realisation took place when he heard
a bundle of fuel dropping on the ground.

“Something dropped! It is no other thing;
Right and left, there is nothing earthy:
Rivers and mountains and the great earth,—
In them all revealed is the Body of the Dharmarāja.”[5.26]

The first of the following two verses is by Yōdainen (Yang Tai-nien,
973–1020), a statesman of the Sung dynasty,”[5.27] and the second by
Iku, of Toryō (Tu-ling Yü),[5.28] who was a disciple of Yōgi
(Yang-ch‘i, 1024—1072), the founder of the Yōgi Branch of the Rinzai
School.

“An octagonal millstone rushes through the air;
A golden-coloured lion has turned into a cur:
If you want to hide yourself in the North Star,
Turn round and fold your hands behind the South Star.”

“I have one jewel shining bright,
Long buried it was underneath worldly worries;
This morning the dusty veil is off, and restored is its lustre,
Illumining rivers and mountains and ten thousand things.”

A sufficient variety of the verses[f114] has been given here to show
how they vary from one another and how it is impossible to suggest any
intelligible explanation of the content of satori by merely comparing
them or by analysing them. Some of them are easily understood, I
suppose, as expressive of the feeling of a new revelation; but as to
what that revelation itself is, it will require a certain amount of
personal knowledge to be able to describe it more intelligently. In
any event all these masters testify to the fact that there is such a
thing in Zen as satori through which one is admitted into a new world
of value. The old way of viewing things is abandoned and the world
acquires a new signification. Some of them would declare that they were
“deluded” or that their “previous knowledge” was thrown into oblivion,
while others would confess they were hitherto unaware of a new beauty
which exists in the “refreshing breeze” and in the “shining jewel.”

VII

When our consideration is limited to the objective side of satori as
illustrated so far, it does not appear to be a very extraordinary
thing—this opening an eye to the truth of Zen. The master makes some
remarks, and if they happen to be opportune enough, the disciple will
come at once to a realisation and see into a mystery hitherto undreamed
of. It seems all to depend upon what kind of mood or what state of
mental preparedness one is in at the moment. Zen is after all a
haphazard affair, one may be tempted to think. But when we know that
it took Nangaku (Nan-yüeh) eight long years to answer the question,
“Who is he that thus cometh towards me?” we shall realise the fact that
there was in him a great deal of mental anguish and tribulation which
he had to go through with before he could come to the final solution
and declare, “Even when one asserts that it is a somewhat, one misses
it altogether.”[5.29] We must try to look into the psychological aspect
of satori, where is revealed the inner mechanism of opening the door
to the eternal secrets of the human soul. This is done best by quoting
some of the masters themselves whose introspective statements are on
record.

Kōhō (Kao-fêng, 1238–1285)[5.30] was one of the great masters in
the latter part of the Sung dynasty. When his master first let him
attend to the “Jōshu’s Mu,”[f115][5.31] he exerted himself hard on the
problem. One day his master, Setsugan (Hsüeh-yen), suddenly asked him,
“Who is it that carries for you this lifeless corpse of yours?”[5.32]
The poor fellow did not know what to make of the question; for the
master was merciless and it was usually followed by a hard knocking
down. Later in the midst of his sleep one night he recalled the fact
that once when he was under another master he was told to find out
the ultimate signification of the statement, “All things return to
one”[f116][5.33]; and this kept him up the rest of that night and
through the several days and nights that succeeded. While in this state
of an extreme mental tension, he found himself one day looking at
Goso Hoyen’s verse on his own portrait, which partly read,[5.34]

“One hundred years—thirty-six thousand morns,
This same old fellow moveth on for ever!”

This at once made him dissolve his eternal doubt as to “Who’s carrying
around this lifeless body of yours?” He was baptised and became an
altogether new man.

He leaves us in his “Goroku,” (_Sayings Recorded_) an account of those
days of the mental strain in the following narrative: “In olden days
when I was at Sōkei (Shuang-ching), and before one month was over after
my return to the Meditation Hall there, one night while deep in sleep I
suddenly found myself fixing my attention on the question: ‘All things
return to the One, but where does this One return?’ My attention was
so rigidly fixed on this that I neglected sleeping, forgot to eat,
and did not distinguish east from west, nor morning from night. While
spreading the napkin, producing the bowls, or attending to my natural
wants, whether I moved or rested, whether I talked or kept silent, my
whole existence was wrapt up with the question, ‘Where does this one
return?’ No other thoughts ever disturbed my consciousness; no, even
if I wanted to stir up the least bit of thought irrelevant to the
central one, I could not do so. It was like being screwed up or glued;
however much I tried to shake myself off, it refused to move. Though
I was in the midst of a crowd or congregation I felt as if I were all
by myself. From morning till evening, from evening till morning, so
transparent, so tranquil, so majestically above all things were my
feelings! Absolutely pure and not a particle of dust! My one thought
covered eternity; so calm was the outside world, so oblivious of the
existence of other people I was. Like an idiot, like an imbecile,
six days and nights thus elapsed when I entered the Shrine with the
rest, reciting the Sutras, and happened to raise my head and looked
at the verse by Goso. This made me all of a sudden awake from the
spell, and the meaning of ‘Who carries this lifeless corpse of yours?’
burst upon me,—the question once given by my old master. I felt as
if this boundless space itself were broken up into pieces, and the
great earth were altogether levelled away. I forgot myself, I
forgot the world, it was like one mirror reflecting another. I tried
several kō-an in my mind and found them so transparently clear! I was
no more deceived as to the wonderful working of Prajñā (transcendental
wisdom).” When Kōho saw his old master later,[5.35] the latter lost no
time in asking him, “Who is it that carries this lifeless corpse of
yours?” Kōho burst out a “Kwats!” Thereupon the master took up a stick
ready to give him a blow, but the disciple held it back saying, “You
cannot give me a blow to-day.” “Why can’t I?” was the master’s demand.
Instead of replying to him, however, Kōho left the room briskly. The
following day the master asked him. “All things return to the One, and
where does the One return to?” “The dog is lapping the boiling water
in the cauldron.” “Where did you get this nonsense?” reprimanded the
master. “You had better ask yourself,” promptly came the response. The
master rested well satisfied.

* * * * *

Hakuin (1683–1768)[f117][5.36] is another of those masters who have
put down their first Zen experience in writing, and we read in his
book entitled _Orategama_[5.37] the following account: “When I was
twenty-four years old, I stayed at the Yegan Monastery, of Echigo.
[“Joshu’s Mu” being my theme at the time] I assiduously applied myself
to it. I did not sleep days and nights, forgot both eating and lying
down, when quite abruptly a great mental fixation[f118][5.38] (_tai-i_)
took place. I felt as if freezing in an ice-field extending thousands
of miles, and within myself there was a sense of utmost transparency.
There was no going forward, no slipping backward; I was like an idiot,
like an imbecile, and there was nothing but ‘Jōshu’s Mu.’ Though I
attended the lectures by the master, they sounded like a discussion
going on somewhere in a distant hall, many yards away. Sometimes my
sensation was that of one flying in the air. Several days passed
in this state, when one evening a temple-bell struck which upset the
whole thing. It was like smashing an ice-basin, or pulling down a
house made of jade. When I suddenly awoke again, I found that I myself
was Ganto[f119] (Yen-t‘ou) the old master, and that all through the
shifting changes of time not a bit [of my personality] was lost.
Whatever doubts and indecisions I had before were completely dissolved
like a piece of thawing ice. I called out loudly, ‘How wondrous! how
wondrous!; There is no birth-and-death from which one has to escape,
nor is there any supreme knowledge (_Bodhi_) after which one has to
strive. All the complications[f120] past and present, numbering one
thousand seven hundred are not worth the trouble of even describing
them.’”

* * * * *

The case of Bukko (Fo-kuang) the National Teacher[f121] was more
extraordinary than that of Hakuin, and fortunately in this case, too,
we have his own recording of it in detail. “When I was fourteen,”
writes Bukko, “I went up to Kinzan. When seventeen I made up my mind
to study Buddhism and began to unravel the mysteries of ‘Jōshu’s
Mu.’ I expected to finish the matter within one year, but I did not
come to any understanding of it after all. Another year passed without
much avail, and three more years, also finding myself with no progress.
In the fifth or sixth year, while no special change came over me, the
‘Mu’ became so inseparably attached to me that I could not get away
from it even while asleep. This whole universe seemed to be nothing
but the ‘Mu’ itself. In the meantime I was told by an old monk to set
it aside for a while and see how things would go with me. According to
this advice, I dropped the matter altogether and sat quietly. But owing
to the fact that the ‘Mu’ had been with me so long, I could in no way
shake it off however much I tried. When I was sitting, I forgot that I
was sitting; nor was I conscious of my own body. Nothing but a sense
of utter blankness prevailed. Half a year thus passed. Like a bird
escaped from its cage, my mind, my consciousness moved about [without
restraint] sometimes eastward, sometimes westward, sometimes northward
or southward. Sitting[f122] through two days in succession, or through
one day and night I did not feel any fatigue.

“At the time there were about nine hundred monks residing in the
monastery, among whom there were many devoted students of Zen. One day
while sitting, I felt as if my mind and my body were separated from
each other and lost the chance of getting back together. All the monks
about me thought that I was quite dead, but an old monk among them said
that I was frozen to a state of immovability while absorbed in deep
meditation, and that if I were covered up with warm clothings, I should
by myself come to my senses. This proved true, for I finally awoke from
it; and when I asked the monks near my seat how long I had been in that
condition, they told me it was one day and night.

“After this, I still kept up my practice of sitting. I could now sleep
a little. When I closed my eyes, a broad expanse of emptiness presented
itself before them, which then assumed the form of a farmyard. Through
this piece of land I walked and walked until I got thoroughly
familiar with the ground. But as soon as my eyes were opened, the
vision altogether disappeared. One night sitting far into the night I
kept my eyes open and was aware of my sitting up in my seat. All of a
sudden the sound of striking the board in front of the head-monk’s room
reached my ear, which at once revealed me the ‘original man’ in full.
There was then no more of that vision which appeared at the closing of
my eyes. Hastily I came down from the seat and ran out into the moonlit
night and went up to the garden house called Ganki, where looking up
to the sky I laughed loudly, ‘Oh, how great is the Dharmakāya! Oh, how
great and immense for evermore!’

“Thence my joy knew no bounds. I could not quietly sit in the
Meditation Hall; I went about with no special purpose in the mountains
walking this way and that. I thought of the sun and the moon traversing
in a day through a space 4,000,000,000 miles wide. ‘My present abode
is in China,’ I reflected then, ‘And they say the district of Yang is
the centre of the earth. If so, this place must be 2,000,000,000 miles
away from where the sun rises; and how is it that as soon as it comes
up, its rays lose no time in striking my face?’ I reflected again,
‘The rays of my own eye must travel just as instantaneously as those
of the sun as it reaches the latter; my eyes, my mind, are they not
the Dharmakāya itself?’ Thinking thus, I felt all the bounds snapped
and broken to pieces that had been tying me for so many ages. How many
numberless years had I been sitting in the hole of ants! To-day even
in every pore of my skin there lie all the Buddha-lands in the ten
quarters! I thought within myself, ‘Even if I have no greater satori, I
am now all sufficient unto myself.’”

Here is the stanza[5.41] composed by Bukko at the great moment of
satori, describing his inner feelings:

“With one stroke I have completely smashed the cave of the ghosts;
Behold, there rushes out the iron face of the monster Nata!
Both my ears are as deaf and my tongue is tied;
If thou touchest it idly, the fiery star shoots out!”[f123]

VIII

These cases will be sufficient to show what mental process one has to
go through with before the opening of satori takes place. Of course
these are prominent examples and highly accentuated, and every satori
is not preceded by such an extraordinary degree of concentration. But
an experience more or less like these must be the necessary antecedent
to all satori, especially to that which is to be gone through with
at the outset of the study. The mirror of mind or the field of
consciousness then seems to be so thoroughly swept clean as not to
leave a particle of dust on it. When thus all mentation is temporarily
suspended, even the consciousness of an effort to keep an idea focussed
at the centre of attention is gone, that is, when, as the Zen followers
say, the mind is so completely possessed or identified with its object
of thought that even the consciousness of identity is lost as when one
mirror reflects another, the subject feels as if living in a crystal
palace, all transparent, refreshing, buoyant, and royal. But the end
has not yet been reached, this being merely the preliminary condition
leading to the consummation called satori. If the mind remains in this
state of fixation, there will be no occasion for its being awakened
to the truth of Zen. The state of “Great Doubt” (_tai-gi_), as it is
technically known, is the antecedent. It must be broken up and exploded
into the next stage, which is looking into one’s nature or the opening
of satori.

The explosion, as it is nothing else, generally takes place when this
finely balanced equilibrium tilts for one reason or another. A stone is
thrown into a sheet of water in perfect stillness, and the disturbance
at once spreads all over the surface. It is somewhat like this.
A sound knocks at the gate of consciousness so tightly closed, and it
at once reverberates through the entire being of the individual. He is
awakened in the most vivid sense of the word. He comes out baptised in
the fire of creation. He has seen the work of God in his very workshop.
The occasion may not necessarily be the hearing of a temple bell, it
may be reading a stanza, or seeing something moving, or the sense of
touch irritated, when a most highly accentuated state of concentration
bursts out into a satori.

The concentration, however, may not be kept up to such an almost
abnormal degree as in the case of Bukko. It may last just a second or
two, and if it is the right kind of concentration and rightly handled
by the master, the inevitable opening of the mind will follow. When
the monk Jō (Ting) asked Rinzai,[5.42] “What is the ultimate principle
of Buddhism?” the master came right down from his seat, took hold of
the monk, slapped him with his hand, and pushed him away from him. The
monk stood stupefied. A bystander suggested, “Why don’t you make a
bow?” Obeying the order, Jō was about to bow when he abruptly awoke to
the truth of Zen. In this case Jo’s self-absorption or concentration
did not seemingly last very long, the bowing was the turning point,
it broke up the spell and restored him to sense, not to an ordinary
sense of awareness, but to the inward consciousness of his own being.
Generally we have no records of the inner working prior to a satori,
and may pass lightly over the event as a merely happy incident or some
intellectual trick having no deeper background. When we read such
records, we have to supply from our own experience, whatever this is,
all the necessary antecedent conditions for breaking up into a satori.

So far the phenomenon called satori in Zen Buddhism has been treated
as constituting the essence of Zen, as the turning point in one’s life
which opens the mind to a wider and deeper world, as something to be
gleaned even from a most trivial incident of everyday life; and
then it was explained how satori is to come out of one’s inner life,
and not by any outside help except as merely indicating the way to it.
Next I proceeded to describe what a change satori brings in one’s idea
of things, that is, how it all upsets the former valuation of things
generally, making one stand now entirely on a different footing. For
illustrations, some verses were quoted which were composed by the
masters at the moment of their attainment of satori. They are mostly
descriptive of the feelings they experienced,, such as those by Bukko
and Yōdainen and Yengo and others are typical of this class, as they
have almost no intellectual elements in them. If one tries to pick up
something from these verses by a mere analytical process, one will
be greatly disappointed. The psychological side of satori which is
minutely narrated by Hakuin and others will be of great interest to
those who are desirous of making a psychological inquiry into Zen. Of
course these narratives alone will not do, for there are many other
things one has to consider in order to study it thoroughly, among
which I may mention the general Buddhist attitude towards life and the
world and the historical atmosphere in which the students of Zen find
themselves.

I wish to close this Essay by making a few general remarks in the way
of recapitulation on the Buddhist experience known as satori.

1. People often imagine that the discipline of Zen is to induce a state
of self-suggestion through meditation. This is not quite right. As we
can see from the various instances above cited, satori does not consist
in producing a certain premeditated condition by intensely thinking
of it. It is the growing conscious of a new power in the mind, which
enables it to judge things from a new point of view. Even since the
unfoldment of consciousness we have been led to respond to the inner
and outer conditions in a certain conceptual and analytical manner. The
discipline of Zen consists in upsetting this artificially constructed
framework once for all and in re-modelling it on an entirely new
basis. The older frame is called “Ignorance” (_avidyā_) and the new
one “Enlightenment” (_saṁbodhi_). It is evident therefore that
meditating on a metaphysical or symbolical statement which is a product
of our relative consciousness plays no part in Zen, as I have touched
on this in the Introduction.

2. Without the attainment of satori no one can enter into the mystery
of Zen. It is the sudden flashing of a new truth hitherto altogether
undreamed of. It is a sort of mental catastrophe taking place all at
once after so much piling of matters intellectual and demonstrative.
The piling has reached its limit and the whole edifice has now come
to the ground when behold a new heaven is opened to your full survey.
Water freezes suddenly when it reaches a certain point, the liquid
has turned into a solidity, and it no more flows. Satori comes upon
you unawares when you feel you have exhausted your whole being.
Religiously this is a new birth, and, morally, the revaluation of one’s
relationship to the world. The latter now appears to be dressed in a
different garment which covers up all the ugliness of dualism, which
is called in Buddhist phraseology delusion (_māyā_) born of reasoning
(_tarka_) and error (_vikalpa_).

3. Satori is the raison d’être of Zen, and without which Zen is no
Zen. Therefore every contrivance (_upāya_) disciplinary or doctrinal
is directed toward the attainment of satori. Zen masters could
not remain patient for satori to come by itself, that is, to come
sporadically and at its own pleasure. They earnestly seek out some
way to make people deliberately or systematically realise the truth
of Zen. Their manifestly enigmatical presentations of it were mostly
to create a state of mind in their disciples, which would pave the
way to the enlightenment of Zen. All the intellectual demonstrations
and exhortatory persuasions so far carried out by most religious
and philosophical leaders failed to produce the desired effect. The
disciples were led further and further astray. Especially when Buddhism
was introduced into China with all its Indian equipments, with its
highly metaphysical abstractions, and in a most complicated system of
moral discipline, the Chinese were at a loss how to grasp the central
point of the doctrine of Buddhism. Daruma, Yeno, Baso, and other
masters noticed the fact. The natural outcome was the proclamation
of Zen, satori was placed above Sutra-reading and scholarly discussion
of the Śastras, and it came to be identified with Zen. Zen therefore
without satori is like pepper without its pungency. But at the same
time we must not forget that there is such a thing as too much satori,
which is indeed to be detested.

4. This emphasising in Zen of satori above everything else makes the
fact quite significant that Zen is not a system of dhyana as practised
in India and by other schools of Buddhism than the Zen. By dhyana
is understood popularly a kind of meditation or contemplation, that
is, the fixing of thought, especially in Mahayana Buddhism, on the
doctrine of emptiness (_śūnyatā_). When the mind is so trained as to
be able to realise the state of perfect void in which there is not
a trace of consciousness left, even the sense of being unconscious
having departed, in other words, when all forms of mental activity are
swept clean from the field of consciousness which is now like a sky
devoid of every speck of cloud, a mere broad expanse of blue, dhyana
is said to have reached its perfection. This may be called ecstasy or
trance, but it is not Zen. In Zen there must be a satori; there must
be a general mental upheaval which destroys the old accumulations of
intellectuality and lays down a foundation for a new faith; there must
be the awakening of a new sense which will review the old things from
an angle of perception entirely and most refreshingly new. In dhyana
there are none of these things, for it is merely a quieting exercise of
the mind. As such it has doubtless its own merits, but Zen ought not to
be identified with such dhyanas. The Buddha therefore got dissatisfied
with his two Sankhya teachers, in whose teaching the meditations were
so many stages of self-abstraction or thought-annihilation.

5. Satori is not seeing God as he is, as may be contended by some
Christian mystics. Zen has from the very beginning made clear its
principal thesis, which is to see into the work of creation and not
interview the creator himself. The latter may be found then busy
moulding his universe, but Zen can go along with its own work even when
he is not found there. It is not depending on his support. When it
grasps the reason of living a life, it is satisfied. Hōyen, of Gosozan,
used to produce his own hand and asked his disciples why it is called
a hand. When one knows the reason, there is satori and one has Zen.
Whereas, with the God of mysticism there is the grasping of a definite
object, and when you have God, what is not God is excluded. This is
self-limiting. Zen wants absolute freedom, even from God. “No abiding
place” means that; “Cleanse your mouth even when you utter the word
‘Buddha’” amounts to the same thing. It is not that Zen wants to be
morbidly unholy and godless, but that it knows the incompleteness of a
name. Therefore, when Yakusan (Yüeh-shan) was asked to give a lecture,
he did not say a word, but instead came down from the pulpit and went
off to his own room. Hyakujo (Pai-chang) merely walked forward a few
steps, stood still, and opened his arms—which was his exposition of the
great principle of Buddhism.[5.43]

6. Satori is the most intimate individual experience and therefore
cannot be expressed in words or described in any manner. All that
one can do in the way of communicating the experience to others is
to suggest or indicate, and this only tentatively. The one who has
had it understands readily enough when such indications are given,
but when we try to have a glimpse of it through the indices given we
utterly fail. We are then like the man who says that he loves the most
beautiful woman in the world and yet who knows nothing of her pedigree
or social position, of her personal name or family name, knows nothing
of her individuality physical as well as moral. We are again like the
man who puts up a staircase in a place where four crossroads meet, to
mount up thereby into the upper story of a mansion, and yet who knows
not just where that mansion is, in the East or West, in the North or
South. The Buddha was quite to the point when he thus derided all
those philosophers and vain talkers of his day, who merely dealt in
abstractions, empty hearsays, and fruitless indications. Zen therefore
wants us to build the staircase right at the front of the very palace
into whose upper story we are to mount up. When we can say, “This
is the very personality, this is the very house,” we have the satori
interviewed face to face and realised by oneself. (_Diṭṭhe va dhamme
sayaṁ abhiññā sacchikatvā_.)

7. Satori is not a morbid state of mind, a fit subject for abnormal
psychology. If anything, it is a perfectly normal state of mind. When
I speak of a mental upheaval, one may be led to consider Zen something
to be shunned by ordinary people. This is a mistaken view of Zen,
unfortunately often held by prejudiced critics. As Nansen (Nan-ch‘üan)
declared, it is your “everyday thought.” When later a monk asked a
master[f124] what was meant by “everyday thought,” he said,

“Drinking tea, eating rice,
I pass my time as it comes;
Looking down at the stream, looking up at the mountains,
How serene and relaxed I feel indeed!”

It all depends upon the adjustment of the hinge whether the door
opens in or out. Even in the twinkling of an eye, the whole affair is
changed, and you have Zen, and you are as perfect and normal as ever.
More than that, you have in the meantime acquired something altogether
new. All your mental activities are now working to a different key,
which is more satisfying, more peaceful, and fuller of joy than
anything you ever had. The tone of your life is altered. There is
something rejuvenating in it. The spring flowers look prettier, and
the mountain stream runs cooler and more transparent. The subjective
revolution that brings out this state of things cannot be called
abnormal. When life becomes more enjoyable and its expanse is as broad
as the universe itself, there must be something in satori quite healthy
and worth one’s striving after its attainment.

8. We are supposedly living in the same world, but who can tell the
thing we popularly call a stone lying before this window is the same
thing to all of us? According to the way we look at it, to some
the stone ceases to be a stone, while to others it forever remains
a worthless specimen of geological product. And this initial
divergence of views calls forth an endless series of divergencies later
in our moral and spiritual lives. Just a little twisting as it were in
our modes of thinking and yet what a world of difference will grow up
eventually between one another! So with Zen, satori is this twisting
or rather screwing, not in the wrong way, but in a deeper and fuller
sense, and the result is the revelation of a world of entirely new
values.

Again, you and I sip a cup of tea. The act is apparently alike, but
who can tell what a wide gap there is subjectively between you and me?
In your drinking there may be no Zen while mine is brimful of it. The
reason is, the one moves in the logical circle and the other is out of
it; that is to say, in one case rigid rules of intellection so called
are asserting themselves, and the actor even when acting is unable to
unfetter himself from these intellectual bonds; while in the other case
the subject has struck a new path and is not at all conscious of the
duality of his act, in him life is not split into object and subject
or into acting and acted. The drinking at the moment to him means the
whole fact, the whole world. Zen lives and is therefore free, whereas
our “ordinary” life is in bondage; satori is the first step to freedom.

9. Satori is Enlightenment (_saṁbodhi_). As long as Buddhism is the
doctrine of Enlightenment as we all know from its earliest literature
as well as from its later one, and as long as Zen asserts satori
to be its culmination, satori must be said to represent the very
spirit of the Buddhist teaching. When it announces itself to be the
transmission of the Buddha-citta (_fo-hsin_) not dependent upon the
logical and discursive exposition in the canonical writings, either
Hinayana or Mahayana, it is by no means exaggerating its fundamental
characteristic as distinguished from the other schools of Buddhism
that have grown up in Japan and China. Whatever this may be, there is
no doubt that Zen is one of the most precious and in many respects the
most remarkable spiritual possessions bequeathed to Eastern people.
Even when it is considered the Buddhist form of speculative mysticism
not unknown to the West in the philosophy of Plotinus, Eckhart, and
their followers, its complete literature alone since the sixth
patriarch, Yeno (Hui-nêng, 637–713), so well preserved, is worth the
serious study of scholars and truth-seekers. And then the whole body
of the kō-ans systematically grading the progress of the spiritual
awakening is the wonderful treasure in the hands of the Zen monks in
Japan at present.

PRACTICAL METHODS OF ZEN INSTRUCTION

“What is Zen?” This is one of the most difficult questions to answer,
I mean, to the satisfaction of the inquirer; for Zen refuses even
tentatively to be defined or described in any manner. The best way to
understand it will be of course to study and practise it at least some
years in the Meditation Hall. Therefore, even after the reader has
carefully gone over this Essay, he will still be at sea as to the real
signification of Zen. It is, in fact, in the very nature of Zen that
it evades all definition and explanation, that is to say, Zen cannot
be converted into ideas, it can never be described in logical terms.
For this reason, the Zen masters declare that it is “independent of
letter,” being “a special transmission outside the orthodox teachings.”
But the purpose of this Essay is not just to demonstrate that Zen
is an unintelligible thing and that there is no use of attempting
to discourse about it. My object, on the contrary, will be to make
it clear to the fullest extent of my ability, however imperfect and
inadequate that may be. And there are several ways to do this. Zen
may be treated psychologically, ontologically, or epistemologically,
or historically as I did in the first part of this book to a certain
extent. These are all extremely interesting each in its way, but they
are a great undertaking requiring years of preparation. What here
I propose to do, therefore, will be a practical exposition of the
subject-matter by giving some aspects of the _modus operandi_ of Zen
instruction as carried out by the masters for the enlightenment of the
pupils. The perusal of these accounts will help us to get into the
spirit of Zen to the limits of its intelligibility.

As I conceive it, Zen is the ultimate fact of all philosophy and
religion. Every intellectual effort must culminate in it or
rather must start from it, if it is to bear any practical fruits.
Every religious faith must spring from it if it has to prove at all
efficiently and livingly workable in our active life. Therefore, Zen
is not necessarily the fountain of Buddhist thought and life alone;
it is very much alive also in Christianity, Mahommedanism, in Taoism,
and even in positivistic Confucianism. What makes all these religions
and philosophies vital and inspiring, keeping up their usefulness and
efficiency, is due to the presence in them of what I may designate as
the Zen element. Mere scholasticism or mere sacerdotalism will never
create a living faith. Religion requires something inwardly propelling,
energising, and capable of doing work. The intellect is useful in
its place, but when it tries to cover the whole field of religion it
dries up the source of life. Feeling or mere faith is so blind and
will grasp anything that may come across and hold to it as the final
reality. Fanaticism is vital enough as far as its explosiveness is
concerned, but this is not a true religion, and its practical sequence
is the destruction of the whole system, not to speak of the fate of
its own being. Zen is what makes the religious feeling run through its
legitimate channel and what gives life to the intellect.

Zen does this by giving one a new point of view of looking at things,
a new way of appreciating the truth and beauty of life and the
world, by discovering a new source of energy in the inmost recesses
of consciousness, and by bestowing on one a feeling of completeness
and sufficiency. That is to say, Zen works miracles by overhauling
the whole system of one’s inner life and opening up a world hitherto
entirely undreamt of. This may be called a resurrection. And Zen tends
to emphasise the speculative element, though confessedly it opposes
this, more than anything else in the whole process of the spiritual
revolution, and in this respect Zen is truly Buddhistic. Or it may be
better to say that Zen makes use of the phraseology belonging to the
sciences of speculative philosophy. Evidently, the feeling element
is not so prominently visible in Zen as in the Pure Land sects where
“bakti” (faith) is all in all; Zen on the other hand emphasises the
faculty of seeing (_darśana_) or knowing (_vidyā_) though not in
the sense of reasoning out, but in that of intuitively grasping.

According to the philosophy of Zen, we are too much of a slave to the
conventional way of thinking, which is dualistic through and through.
No “interpenetration” is allowed, there takes place no fusing of
opposites in our everyday logic. What belongs to God is not of this
world, and what is of this world is incompatible with the divine. Black
is not white, and white is not black. Tiger is tiger, and cat is cat,
and they will never be one. Water flows, a mountain towers. This is the
way things or ideas go in this universe of the senses and syllogisms.
Zen, however, upsets this scheme of thought and substitutes a new one
in which there exists no logic, no dualistic arrangement of ideas.
We believe in dualism chiefly because of our traditional training.
Whether ideas really correspond to facts is another matter requiring a
special investigation. Ordinarily, we do not inquire into the matter,
we just accept what is instilled into our minds; for to accept is more
convenient and practical, and life is to a certain extent, though
not in reality, made thereby easier. We are in nature conservatists,
not because we are lazy, but because we like repose and peace, even
superficially. But the time comes when traditional logic holds no more
true, for we begin to feel contradictions and splits and consequently
spiritual anguish. We lose trustful repose which we experienced when
we blindly followed the traditional ways of thinking. Eckhart says
that we are all seeking repose whether consciously or not, just as the
stone cannot cease moving until it touches the earth. Evidently, the
repose we seemed to enjoy before we were awakened to the contradictions
involved in our logic, was not the real one, the stone has kept moving
down towards the ground. Where then is the ground of non-dualism on
which the soul can be really and truthfully tranquil and blessed? To
quote Eckhart again, “Simple people conceive that we are to see God
as if He stood on that side and we on this. It is not so; God and I
are one in the act of my perceiving Him.” In this absolute oneness of
things Zen establishes the foundations of its philosophy.

The idea of absolute oneness is not the exclusive possession of
Zen, there are other religions and philosophies that preach the same
doctrine. If Zen, like other monisms or theisms, merely laid down this
principle and did not have anything specifically to be known as Zen, it
would have long ceased to exist as such. But there is in Zen something
unique which makes up its life and justifies its claim to be the most
precious heritage of Eastern culture. The following “mondo” or dialogue
(literally, questioning and answering)[6.1] will give us a glimpse into
the ways of Zen. A monk asked Jōshu (Chao-chou), one of the greatest
masters in China,[6.2] “What is the one ultimate word of truth?”
Instead of giving him any specific answer, he made a simple response
saying, “Yes.” The monk who naturally failed to see any sense in this
kind of response asked for a second time, and to this the master roared
back, “I am not deaf!”[f125] See how irrelevantly (shall I say?) the
all-important problem of absolute oneness or of the ultimate reason
is treated here! But this is characteristic of Zen, this is where Zen
transcends logic and overrides the tyranny and misrepresentation of
ideas. As I said before, Zen mistrusts the intellect, does not rely
upon traditional and dualistic methods of reasoning, and handles
problems after its own original manners.

To cite another instance before going further into the subject proper.
The same old Jōshu was asked another time, “One light divides itself
into hundreds of thousands of lights; may I ask where this one light
originates?”[f126][6.5] This question like the last mentioned is
one of the deepest and most baffling problems of philosophy. But the
old master did not waste much time in answering the question, nor did
he resort to any wordy discussion. He simply threw off one of his shoes
without a remark. What did he mean by it? To understand all this, it is
necessary that we should acquire a “third eye” as they say, and learn
to look at things from a new point of view.

How is this new way of looking at things demonstrated by the Zen
masters? Their methods are naturally very uncommon, unconventional,
illogical, and consequently incomprehensible to the uninitiated.
The object of the present essay will be to describe those methods
classified under the following general headings: I. Verbal Method, and
II. Direct Method. The first method may be further divided into: 1.
Paradox; 2. Going Beyond Opposites; 3. Contradiction; 4. Affirmation;
5. Repetition; and 6. Exclamation. The Direct Method, so called, means
a display of physical force, and may be subdivided into several groups
such as gesture, striking, performance of a definite set of acts,
directing others to move about, etc. But as I do not mean to offer here
any scientific and thoroughgoing classification of the Zen masters’
ways of dealing with their pupils in order to initiate them into the
mysteries of Zen, I will not attempt to be exhaustive in this article.
Later I will write fully about the Direct Method. If I make the reader
acquire here a kind of understanding as to the general tendencies and
peculiarities of Zen Buddhism, I regard my task as a success.

It is well-known that all mystics are fond of paradoxes to expound
their views. For instance, a Christian mystic may say: “God is real,
yet he is nothing, infinite emptiness; he is at once all-being and
no-being. The divine kingdom is real and objective; and at the same
time it is within myself—I myself am heaven and hell.” Eckhart’s
“divine darkness” or “immovable mover” is another example. I believe
we can casually pick up any such statements in mystic literature, and
compile a book of mystic irrationalities. Zen is no exception in this
respect, but in its way of thus expressing the truth there is something
we may designate characteristically Zen. It principally consists in
the concreteness and vividness of expression. It generally refuses to
lend an ear to abstractions. A few examples will be given. According to
Fudaishi (Fu-ta-shih)[6.8];

“Empty-handed I go and yet the spade is in my hands;
I walk on foot, and yet on the back of an ox I am riding:
When I pass over the bridge,
Lo, the water floweth not, but the bridge doth flow.”

This sounds altogether out of reason, but in fact Zen abounds with such
graphic irrationalities. “The flower is not red, nor is the willow
green”—is one of the best known utterances of Zen, and is regarded
as the same as its affirmative: “The flower is red and the willow
is green.” To put it in logical formula, it will run like this: “A
is at once A and not-A.” If so, I am I and yet you are I. An Indian
philosopher asserts that _Tat twam asi_, Thou art it. If so, heaven is
hell and God is Devil. To pious orthodox Christians, what a shocking
doctrine this Zen is! When Mr Chang drinks Mr Li grows tipsy. The
silent thundering Vimalakīrti confessed that he was sick because all
his fellow-beings were sick. All wise and loving souls must be said
to be the embodiments of the Great Paradox of the universe. But I am
digressing. What I wanted to say was that Zen is more daringly concerte
in its paradoxes than other mystical teachings. The latter are more
or less confined to general statements concerning life or God or the
world, but Zen carries its paradoxical assertions into every
detail of our daily life. It has no hesitation in flatly denying all
our most familiar facts of experience, “I am writing here and yet I
have not written a word. You are perhaps reading this now and yet there
is not a person in the world who reads. I am utterly blind and deaf,
but every colour is recognised and every sound discerned.” The Zen
masters will go on like this indefinitely. Basho (Pa-chiao), a Korean
monk of the ninth century, once delivered a famous sermon which ran
thus: “If you have a staff (_shujo_, or _chu-chang_ in Chinese), I will
give you one; if you have not, I will take it away from you.”[6.9]

When Jōshu, the great Zen master of whom mention was repeatedly made,
was asked what he would give when a poverty-stricken fellow should
come to him, he replied, “What is wanting in him?”[f127][6.10] When he
was asked on another occasion, “When a man comes to you with nothing,
what would you say to him?” his immediate response was, “Cast it
away!”[6.11] We may ask him, When a man has nothing, what will he cast?
When a man is poor, can he be said to be sufficient unto himself? Is
he not in need of everything? Whatever deep meaning there may be in
these answers of Jōshu, the paradoxes are quite puzzling and baffle our
logically trained intellect. “Carry away the farmer’s oxen, and make
off with the hungry man’s food,” is a favourite phrase with the Zen
masters who think we can thus best cultivate our spiritual farm and
fill up the soul hungry for the substance of things.

It is related that Ōkubo Shibun, famous for painting bamboo,
was requested to execute a kakemono representing a bamboo forest.
Consenting, he painted with all his known skill a picture in which the
entire bamboo grove was in red. The patron upon its receipt marvelled
at the extraordinary skill with which the painting had been executed,
and, repairing to the artist’s residence, he said: “Master, I have come
to thank you for the picture; but, excuse me, you have painted the
bamboo red.” “Well,” cried the master, “in what colour would you desire
it?” “In black, of course,” replied the patron. “And who,” answered
the artist, “ever saw a black-leaved bamboo?” When one is so used to a
certain way of looking at things, one finds it so full of difficulties
to veer round and start on a new line of procedure. The true colour of
the bamboo is perhaps neither red nor black nor green nor any other
colour known to us. Perhaps it is red, perhaps it is black just as
well. Who knows? The imagined paradoxes may be after all really not
paradoxes.

III

The next form in which Zen expresses itself is the denial of opposites,
somehow corresponding to the mystic “via negativa.” The point is not to
be “caught” as the masters would say in any of the four propositions
(_catushkotika_): 1. “It is A”; 2. “It is not A”; 3. “It is both A and
not-A”; and 4. “It is neither A nor not-A.” When we make a negation or
an assertion, we are sure to get into one of these logical formulas
according to the Indian method of reasoning. As long as the intellect
is to move along the ordinary dualistic groove, this is unavoidable. It
is in the nature of our logic that any statement we can make is to be
so expressed. But Zen thinks that the truth can be reached when it is
neither asserted nor negated. This is indeed the dilemma of life, but
the Zen masters are ever insistent on escaping the dilemma. Let us see
if they escape free.

According to Ummon,[6.12] “In Zen there is absolute freedom; sometimes
it negates and at other times it affirms; it does either way at
pleasure.” A monk asked, “How does it negate?” “With the passing
of winter there cometh spring.” “What happens when spring cometh?”
“Carrying a staff across the shoulders, let one ramble about in the
fields, east or west, north or south, and beat the old stumps to one’s
heart’s content.” This was one way to be free as shown by one of the
greatest masters in China. Another way follows.

The masters generally go about with a kind of short stick known as
shippé (_chu-pi_), or at least they did so in old China. It does not
matter whether it is a shippé or not, anything in fact will answer our
purpose. Shuzan, a noted Zen master of the tenth century, held out
his stick and said to a group of his disciples:[6.13] “Call it not a
shippé; if you do, you assert. Nor do you deny its being a shippé;
if you do, you negate. Apart from affirmation and negation, speak,
speak!” The idea is to get our heads free from dualistic tangles and
philosophic subtleties. A monk came out of the rank, took the shippé
away from the master’s hand, and threw it down on the floor. Is this
the answer? Is this the way to respond to the master’s request “to
speak”? Is this the way to transcend the four propositions—the logical
conditions of thinking? In short, is this the way to be free? Nothing
is stereotyped in Zen, and somebody else may solve the difficulty in
quite a different manner. This is where Zen is original and creative.

Ummon expressed the same idea with his staff, which he held up,
saying,[6.14] “What is this? If you say it is a staff, you go right
to hell; but if it is not a staff, what is it?” Hima’s (Pi-mo) way
somewhat deviated from this. He used to carry a forked stick and
whenever a monk came up to him and made a bow, he applied the stick on
the neck of the monk, and said,[6.15] “What devil taught you to be a
homeless monk? What devil taught you to go round? Whether you can say
something, or whether you cannot say anything, all the same you are
to die under my fork: speak, speak, be quick!” Tokusan (Tê-shan) was
another master who flourished a stick to the same effect; for he used
to say[6.16]: “No matter what you say, or what you say not, just the
same thirty blows for you?”

When the ownership of a kitten was disputed between two parties
of monks, the Master Nansen (Nan-ch‘üan P‘u-yüan, 749–835) came out,
took hold of the animal, and said to them,[6.17] “If you can say a
word, this will be saved: if not, it will be slain.” By “a word” of
course he meant one that transcended both affirmation and negation, as
when Jōshu was asked for “One word of the ultimate truth.” No one made
a response, whereupon the master slew the poor creature. Nansen looks
like a hard-hearted Buddhist, but his point is: To say it is, involves
us in a dilemma; to say it is not, puts us in the same predicament. To
attain to the truth, this dualism must be avoided. How do you avoid it?
It may not only be the loss of the life of a kitten, but the loss of
your own life and soul, if you fail to ride over this _impasse_. Hence
Nansen’s drastic procedure. Later, in the evening Jōshu who was one of
his disciples came back, when the master told him of the incident of
the day. Jōshu at once took off one of his straw sandals and putting
it over his head began to depart. Upon this, said the master, “What a
pity you were not to-day with us, for you could have saved the kitten.”
This strange behaviour, however, was Jōshu’s way of affirming the truth
transcending the dualism of “to be” (_sat_) and “not to be” (_asat_).

While Kyōzan (Yang-shan, 804–890) was residing at Tōhei (Tung-ping)
of Shao-chou, his master Isan (Wei-shan, 771–853),—both of whom were
noted Zen masters of the T‘ang dynasty—sent him a mirror accompanied
with a letter.[6.18] Kyōzan held forth the mirror before a congregation
of monks and said, “O monks, Isan has sent here a mirror. Is this
Isan’s mirror or mine own? If you say it is Isan’s, how is it that the
mirror is in my hands? If you say it is mine own, has it not come from
Isan? If you make a proper statement, it will be retained here. If you
cannot, it will be smashed in pieces.” He said this for three times but
nobody even made an attempt to answer. The mirror was then smashed.
This was somewhat like the case of Nansen’s kitten. In both cases the
monks failed to save the innocent victim or the precious treasure,
simply because their minds were not yet free from intellectualism and
were unable to break through the entanglements purposely set up
by Nansen in one case and by Kyōzan in the other. The Zen method of
training its followers thus appears so altogether out of reason and
unnecessarily inhuman. But the master’s eyes are always upon the truth
absolute and yet attainable in this world of particulars. If this can
be gained, what does it matter whether a thing known as precious be
broken and an animal be sacrificed? Is not the recovering of the soul
more important than the loss of a kingdom?

Kyōgen (Hsiang-yen),[6.19] a disciple of Isan (Wei-shan), with whom we
got acquainted just now, said in one of his sermons: “It is like a man
over a precipice one thousand feet high, he is hanging himself there
with a branch of a tree between his teeth, the feet are far off the
ground, and his hands are not taking hold of anything. Suppose another
man coming to him to propose a question, ‘What is the meaning of the
first patriarch coming over here from the west?’ If this man should
open the mouth to answer, he is sure to fall and lose his life; but if
he would make no answer, he must be said to ignore the inquirer. At
this critical moment what should he do?” This is putting the negation
of opposites in a most graphically illustrative manner. The man over
the precipice is caught in a dilemma of life and death, and there can
be no logical quibblings. The cat may be sacrificed at the altar of
Zen, the mirror may be smashed on the ground, but how about one’s own
life? The Buddha in one of his former lives is said to have thrown
himself down into the maw of a man-devouring monster, in order to get
the whole stanza of the truth. Zen being practical wants us to make the
same noble determination to give up our dualistic life for the sake of
enlightenment and eternal peace. For it says that its gate will open
when this determination is reached.

The logical dualism of “to be” (_asti_) and “not to be” (_nasti_)
is frequently expressed by Zen masters by such terms of contrast as
are used in our daily parlance: “taking life” and “giving life,”
“capturing” and “releasing,” “giving” and “taking away,” “coming in
contact” and “turning away from,”[6.20] etc. Ummon once held up his
staff and declared: “The whole world, heaven and earth, altogether
owes its life and death to this staff.” A monk came out and asked,
“How is it killed?” “Writhing in agony!” “How is it restored to
life?” “You had better be a chéf.” “When it is neither put to death
nor living, what would you say?” Ummon rose from his seat and said,
“Mo-hê-pan-jê-po-lo-mi-ta!” (_Mahā-prajñā-pāramitā_).[6.21] This was
Ummon’s synthesis—“the one word” of the ultimate truth, in which
thesis and antithesis are concretely unified, and to which the four
propositions are inapplicable (_rahita_).

We now come to the third class I have styled, “Contradiction,” by which
I mean the Zen master’s negation, implicitly or expressly, of what he
himself has stated or what has been stated by another. To one and the
same question his answer is sometimes “No,” sometimes “Yes.” Or to a
well-known and fully-established fact he gives an unqualified denial.
From an ordinary point of view he is altogether unreliable, yet he
seems to think that the truth of Zen requires such contradictions and
denials; for Zen has a standard of its own, which, to our common-sense
minds, consists just in negating everything we properly hold true and
real. In spite of these apparent confusions, the philosophy of Zen is
guided by a thorough-going principle which, when once grasped, its
topsy-turviness becomes the plainest truth.

A monk asked the sixth patriarch of the Zen sect in China, who
flourished late in the seventh and early in the eighth century, “Who
has attained to the secrets of Wobai (Huang-mei)?” Wobai is the name of
the mountain where the fifth patriarch, Hung-jên used to reside, and,
it was a well-known fact that Hui-nêng, the sixth patriarch, studied
Zen under him and succeeded in the orthodox line of transmission. The
question was therefore really not a plain regular one, seeking an
information about facts. It had quite an ulterior object. The reply
of the sixth patriarch was, “One who understands Buddhism has
attained to the secrets of Wobai.”

“Have you then attained them?”

“No, I have not.”

“How is it,” asked the monk, “that you have not?”

The answer was, “I do not understand Buddhism.”[f128][6.22]

Did he not really understand Buddhism? Or is it that not to understand
is to understand? This is also the philosophy of the _Kena-Upanishad_.

The self-contradiction of the sixth patriarch is somewhat mild and
indirect when compared with that of Dōgo (Tao-wu). He succeeded to
Yakusan (Yüeh-shan Wei-yen, 751–834), but when he was asked by Gohō
(Wu-fêng) whether he knew the old master of Yakusan, he flatly denied
it, saying,[6.23] “No, I do not.” Gohō was however persistent, “Why do
you not know him?” “I do not, I do not,” was the emphatic statement
of Dōgo. The latter thus singularly enough refused to give any reason
except simply and forcibly denying the fact which was apparent to our
common-sense knowledge.

Another emphatic and unequivocal contradiction by Tesshikaku
(T‘ieh-tsui Chiao) is better known to students of Zen than the case
just cited.[6.24] He was a disciple of Jōshu (Chao-chou). When he
visited Hōgen (Fa-yen Wên-i, died 958), another great Zen master, the
latter asked him, what was the last place he came from. Tesshikaku
replied that he came from Jōshu. Said Hōgen,

“I understand that a cypress tree once became the subject of his talk;
was that really so?”

Tesshikaku was positive in his denial, saying, “He had no such talk.”

Hōgen protested, “All the monks coming from Jōshu lately speak of his
reference to a cypress tree in answer to a monk’s question, ‘What was
the real object of the coming east of Bodhi-dharma?’ How do you say
that Jōshu made no such reference to a cypress tree?”

Whereupon Tesshikaku roared, “My late master never made such a
talk; no slighting allusion to him, if you please!”

Hōgen greatly admired this attitude on the part of the disciple of the
famous Jōshu, and said, “Truly, you are a lion’s child!”

In Zen literature, Dharma’s coming from the west, that is, from India,
is quite frequently made the subject of the discourse. When a question
is asked as to the real object of his coming over to China, it refers
to the ultimate principle of Buddhism, and has nothing to do with his
personal motive which made him cross the ocean, landing him at some
point along the southern coast of China. The historical fact is not
the issue here. And to this all-important question numerous answers
are given, but so varied and so unexpectedly odd, yet according to Zen
masters all expressive of the truth of their teaching.

This contradiction, negation, or paradoxical statement is the
inevitable result of the Zen way of looking at life. The whole emphasis
of its discipline is placed on the intuitive grasping of the inner
truth deeply hidden in our consciousness. And this truth thus revealed
or awakened within oneself defies intellectual manipulation, or at
least cannot be imparted to others through any of dialectical formulas.
It must come out of oneself, grow within oneself, and become one with
one’s own being. What others, that is, ideas or images can do, is
to indicate the way where lies the truth. This is what Zen masters
do. And the indicators given by them are naturally unconventionally
free and refreshingly original. As their eyes are always fixed on the
ultimate truth itself, anything and everything they can command is
utilised to accomplish the end, regardless of its logical conditions
and consequences. This indifference to logic is sometimes asserted
purposely, just to let us know that the truth of Zen is independent of
the intellect. Hence the statement in the _Prañā-pāramitā Sūtra_, that
“Not to have any Dharma to discourse about—this is discoursing about
the Dharma.” (_Dharmadeśanā dharmadeśaneti subhūte nāsti sa kaścid
dharmo yo dharmadeśanā nāmotpalabhyate_.)

Haikyu (P‘ei Hsiu), a state minister of the T‘ang dynasty, was
a devoted follower of Zen under Ōbaku. One day[6.25] he showed him a
manuscript in which his understanding of Zen was stated. The master
took it, and setting it down beside him, made no movement to read
it, but remained silent for some little while. He then said, “Do you
understand?” “Not quite,” answered the minister. “If you have an
understanding here,” said the master, “there is something of Zen. But
if it is committed to paper and ink, nowhere is our religion to be
found.” Something analogous to this we have already noticed in Hakuin’s
interview with Shōju Rōnin. Being a living fact, Zen is only where
living facts are handled. Appeal to the intellect is real and living as
long as it issues directly from life. Otherwise, no amount of literary
accomplishment or of intellectual analysis avails in the study of Zen.

So far Zen appears to be nothing but a philosophy of negation and
contradiction, whereas in fact it has its affirmative side, and in this
consists the uniqueness of Zen. In most forms of mysticism, speculative
or emotional, their assertions are general and abstract, and there is
not much in them that will specifically distinguish them from some of
the philosophical dictums. Sings Blake for instance:

“To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.”

Again listen to the exquisite feelings expressed in the lines of Wither:

“By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough’s rustling;
By a daisy, whose leaves spread
Shut when Titan goes to bed;
Or a shady bush or tree—
She could more infuse in me
Than all nature’s beauties can
In some other wiser man.”

It is not very difficult to understand these poetic and mystical
feelings as expressed by the highly sensitive souls, though we may
not all realise exactly as they felt. Even when Eckhart declares that
“the eye with which I see God is the same with which God sees me,” or
when Plotinus refers to “that which mind, when it turns back, thinks
before it thinks itself,” we do not find it altogether beyond our
understanding to get at their meaning as far as the ideas are concerned
which they try to convey in these mystical utterances. But when we
come to statements by the Zen masters, we are entirely at sea how to
take them. Their affirmations are as irrelevant, so inappropriate,
so irrational, and so nonsensical—at least superficially, that those
who have not gained the Zen way of looking at things can hardly
make, as we say, heads or tails of them. The truth is that even
with full-fledged mystics they are unable to be quite free from the
taint of intellection, and leave as a rule “traces” by which their
holy abode could be reached. Plotinus’ “flight from alone to alone”
is a great mystical utterance proving how deeply he delved into the
inner sanctuary of our consciousness. But there is still something
speculative or metaphysical about it, and when it is put side by side
with the Zen utterances to be cited below, it has, as the masters
would say, a mystic flavour on the surface. So long as the masters are
indulging in negations, denials, contradictions, or paradoxes, the
stain of speculation is not quite washed off of them. Naturally, Zen is
not opposed to speculation as it is also one of the functions of the
mind. But Zen has travelled along a different path altogether unique,
I think, in the history of mysticism, whether Eastern or Western,
Christian or Buddhist. A few examples will suffice to illustrate my
point.

A monk asked Jōshu,[6.26] “I read in the Sutra that all things return
to the One, but where does this One return to?” Answered the master,
“When I was in the province of Tsing I had a robe made which weighed
seven _chin_.” When Kōrin (Hsiang-lin Yüan)[6.27] was asked what was
the signification of Bodhi-Dharma’s coming from the West, his reply
was, “After a long sitting one feels fatigued.” What is the
logical relation between the question and the answer? Does it refer
to Dharma’s nine years’ sitting against the wall as the tradition has
it? If so, was his propaganda much ado for nothing except his feeling
fatigued? When Kwazan (Hê-shan)[6.28] was asked what the Buddha
was, he said, “I know how to play the drum, rub-a-dub, rub-a-dub!”
(_chieh ta ku_). When Baso Dōichi was sick,[6.29] one of his disciples
came and inquired about his condition, “How do you feel to-day?”
“Nichimen-butsu, Gwachimen-butsu!” was the reply which literally means
“sun-faced Buddha, moon-faced Buddha!” A monk asked Jōshu,[6.30]
“When the body crumbles all to pieces and returns to the dust, there
eternally abides one thing. Of this I have been told, but where does
this one thing abide?” The master replied, “It is windy again this
morning.” When Shuzan (Shou-shan) was asked what was the principal
teaching of Buddhism, he quoted a verse[6.31]:

“By the castle of the king of Ch‘u,
Eastward flows the stream of Ju.”

“Who is the teacher of all the Buddhas?”[6.32] was the question put
to Bokuju (Mu-chou), who in reply merely hummed a tune, “Ting-ting,
tung-tung, ku-ti, ku-tung!” To the question what Zen was, the same
master gave the following answer, “Namu-sambo!” (_namoratnatrayāya_).
The monk however confessed that he could not understand it,
whereupon the master exclaimed, “O you miserable frog, whence is
this evil karma of yours?” On another occasion, the same question
called out a different answer, which was, “Makahannyaharamii!”
(_mahāprajñāpāramitā_). When the monk failed to comprehend the ultimate
meaning of the phrase, the master went on:

“My robe is all worn out after so many years’ usage,
And parts of it in shreds loosely hanging, have been blown away to
the clouds!”

To quote another case from Bokuju, he was once asked by a monk, “What
is the doctrine that goes beyond the Buddhas and Fathers?” The master
immediately holding up his staff said to the congregation, “I call
this a staff, and what would you call it?” No answer was forthcoming,
whereupon the master again holding forth the staff asked the monk,
“Did you not ask me about the doctrine that goes beyond the Buddhas and
Fathers?”

When Nan-yin Yê-gu (Nan-yüan Hui-yung)[6.33] was once asked what the
Buddha was, he said, “What is not the Buddha?” Another time his answer
was, “I never knew him.” There was still another occasion when he said,
“Wait until there is one, for then I will tell you.” So far Nan-yin
does not seem to be so very incomprehensible, but what follows will
challenge our keenest intellectual analysis. When the inquiring monk
replied to the master’s third statement, saying, “If so, there is no
Buddha in you,” the master promptly asserted, “You are right there.”
This evoked a further question, “Where am I right, sir?” “This is the
thirtieth day of the month,” replied the master.

Ki-su Chi-jo (Kuei-tsung Chih-ch‘ang) was one of the able disciples
of Baso (Ma-tsu).[6.34] When he was weeding in the garden, a Buddhist
scholar versed in the philosophy of Buddhism came to see the master.
A snake happened to pass by them, and the master at once killed it
with a spade. The philosopher-monk remarked, “How long I have heard of
the name of Kisu, and how reverently I have thought of it! But what
do I see now but a rude-mannered monk?” “O my scholar-monk,” said the
master, “you had better go back to the Hall and have a cup of tea over
there.” Kisu’s retort as it stands here is quite unintelligible as far
as our common-sense knowledge of worldly affairs goes; but according to
another informant Kisu is reported, when he was reproached by the monk,
to have said this, “Who is the rude-mannered one, you or I?” Then said
the monk, “What is rude-mannered?” The master held up the spade. “What
is refined? “He now assumed the attitude as if to kill the snake. “If
so,” said the monk, “you are behaving according to the law.” “Enough
with my lawful or unlawful behaviour,” demanded the master, “when did
you see my killing the snake anyway?” The monk made no answer.[6.34a]

Perhaps this is sufficient to show how freely Zen deals with those
abstruse philosophical problems which have been taxing all human
ingenuity ever since the dawn of intelligence. Let me conclude
this part with a sample sermon delivered by Goso Hōyen (Wu-tsu Fa-yen);
for a Zen master occasionally, no, quite frequently, comes down to the
dualistic level of understanding and tries to deliver a speech for the
edification of his pupils. But being a Zen sermon we naturally expect
something unusual in it. Goso was one of the ablest Zen masters of the
twelfth century. He was the teacher of Yengo (Yüan-wu) famous as the
author of the _Hekiganshu_. One of his sermons runs thus[6.35]:

“Yesterday I came across one topic which I thought I might communicate
to you, my pupils, to-day. But an old man such as I am is apt to
forget, and the topic has gone off altogether from my mind. I cannot
just recall it.” So saying, Goso remained quiet for some little time,
but at last he exclaimed, “I forget, I forget, I cannot remember!”
He resumed however, “I know there is a mantram in one of the Sutras
known as _The King of Good Memory_. Those who are forgetful may recite
it, and the thing forgotten will come again. Well, I must try.” He
then recited the mantram, “Om o-lo-lok-kei svāha!” Clapping his hands
and laughing heartily he said, “I remember, I remember; this it was:
When you seek the Buddha, you cannot see him: when you look for the
patriarch, you cannot see him. The muskmelon is sweet even to the
stems, the bitter gourd is bitter even to the roots.”

He then came down from the pulpit without further remark.

In one of his sermons, Eckhart referring to the mutual relationship
between God and man, says: “It is as if one stood before a high
mountain and cried, ‘Art thou there?’ The echo comes back, ‘Art thou
there?’ If one cries, ‘Come out!’ the echo answers, ‘Come out!’”
Something like this is to be observed in the Zen masters’ answers
now classified under “Repetition.” It may be found hard for the
uninitiated to penetrate into the inner meaning of those parrot-like
repetitions which sometimes sound like mimicry on the part of the
master. In this case indeed the words themselves are mere sounds,
and the inner sense is to be read in the echoing itself if anywhere.
The understanding however must come out of one’s own inner life and
what the echoing does is to give this chance of self-awakening to the
earnest seekers of truth. When the mind is so timed as to be all ready
to break into a certain note, the master turns the key and it sings out
its own melody, not learned from anybody else but discovered within
itself. And this turning the key in the form of repetition in this case
is what interests us in the following quotations.

Chōsui (Ch‘ang-shui Tzu-hsüan)[6.36] once asked Yekaku (Hui-chiao),
of Mount Rōya (Lang-yeh), who lived in the first half of the eleventh
century, “How is it that the Originally Pure has all of a sudden come
to produce mountains and rivers and the great earth?” The question is
taken from the _Śūrangama-sūtra_ in which Purna asks of the Buddha how
the Absolute came to evolve this phenomenal world. For this is a great
philosophical problem that has perplexed the greatest minds of all
ages. So far all the interpretations making up the history of thought
have proved unsatisfactory in one way or another. Chōsui also being
a student of philosophy in a way has now come to his teacher to be
enlightened on the subject. But the teacher’s answer was no answer as
we understand it, for he merely repeated the question, “How is it that
the Originally Pure has all of a sudden come to produce mountains and
rivers and the great earth?” Translated into English, this dialogue
loses much of its zest. Let me write it down in Japanese-Chinese:
Chōsui asked, “_Shō-jō hon-nen un-ga kos-sho sen-ga dai-ji_,” and the
master echoed, “_Shō-jō hon-nen un-ga kos-sho sen-ga dai-ji_.”

This was not, however, enough. Later, in the thirteenth century another
great Zen master, Kido (Hsü-t‘ang), commented on this in a still more
mystifying manner.[6.37] His sermon one day ran in this wise: “When
Chōsui asked Yekaku, ‘_Shō-jō hon-nen un-ga kos-sho sen-ga dai-ji_,’
the question was echoed back to the questioner himself, and it is said
that the spiritual eye of the disciple was then opened. I now want
to ask you how this could have happened. Were not the question
and the answer exactly the same? What reason did Chōsui find in this?
Let me comment on it.” Whereupon he struck his chair with the hossu,
and said, “_Shō-jō hon-nen un-ga kos-sho sen-ga dai-ji_.” His comment
complicates the matter instead of simplifying it.

This has ever been a great question of philosophy—this question of
unity and multiplicity, of mind and matter, of thought and reality.
Zen, being neither idealism nor realism, proposes its own way of
solution as is illustrated in the case of the Originally Pure. The
following one solves the problem also in its own way. A monk asked
Chōsa Keishin,[6.38] “How do we, transforming (_chuan_) mountains and
rivers and the earth, reduce them into the Self?” Replied the master,
“How do we, transforming the Self, produce mountains and rivers and the
earth?” The monk confessed ignorance, whereupon said the master:

“In this city south of the Lake, people are thriving well,—
Cheap rice and plentiful fuel and prospering neighbourhood.”

Tōsu Daido (T‘ou-tzu Tai-t‘ung),[6.39] of the T‘ang dynasty, who died
in the year 914, answered “The Buddha,” when he was questioned, “What
is the Buddha?” He said “Tao” when the question was, “What is Tao?” He
answered “the Dharma” to the question, “What is the Dharma?”

When Jōshu asked Kwanchu (Tai-tz‘u Huan-chung)[6.40] of the ninth
century, “What is the being [or substance] of Prajñā?” Kwanchu
without giving any answer simply echoed the question, “What is the
being of Prajñā?” And this brought out a hearty laugh on the part of
Jōshu. Prajñā may be translated supreme intelligence, and Mañjuśrī is
regarded by the Mahayanists as the embodiment of Prajñā. But in this
case Mañjuśrī has nothing to do with it. The question is concerned
with the substantial conception of Prajñā, which, being a form of
mental activity, requires something to abide in. According to Buddhist
philosophy, there are three fundamental conceptions to explain the
problem of existence: Substance or Being (_bhāva_), Appearance or
Aspect (_lakshaṇa_), and Function or Activity (_kṛitya_). Or, to
use the terms of the _Mādhyamika_, the three conceptions are actor,
act, and acting. Prajñā being an intellectual acting, there must be
an agent or substance back of it. Hence the question: What is the
being or body of Prajñā? Now, the answer or echo given out by Kwanchu
does not explain anything, we are at a loss as far as its conceptual
signification goes. The Zen masters do not give us any literary clue
to get around what we see on the surface. When we try to understand
it intellectually, it slips away from us. It must be approached
therefore from another plane of unconsciousness. Unless we move on to
the same plane where the masters stand, or unless we abandon so-called
common-sense way of reasoning, there is no possible bridge which will
carry us over the chasm dividing our intellection from their apparently
psittacine repetitions.

In this case, as in other cases, the idea of the masters is to show the
way where the truth of Zen is to be experienced, but not in and through
the language which they use and which we all use, as the means of
communicating ideas. Language, in case they resort to words, serves as
an expression of feelings or moods or inner states, but not of ideas,
and therefore it becomes entirely incomprehensible when we search its
meaning in the words of the masters as embodying ideas. Of course,
words are not to be altogether disregarded inasmuch as they correspond
to the feelings or experiences. To know this is more important in the
understanding of Zen. Language is then with the Zen masters a kind
of exclamation or ejaculation as directly coming out of their inner
spiritual experience. No meaning is to be sought in the expression
itself, but within ourselves, in our own minds, which are awakened to
the same experience. Therefore, when we understand the language of the
Zen masters, it is the understanding of ourselves and not the sense
of the language which reflects ideas and not the experienced feelings
themselves. Thus it is impossible to make those understand Zen who have
not had any Zen experience yet, just as it is impossible for the people
to realise the sweetness of honey who have never tasted it before. With
such people, “sweet” honey will ever remain as an idea altogether
devoid of sense, that is, the word has no life with them.

Goso Hōyen first studied the Yogācāra school of Buddhist philosophy
and came across the following passage: “When the Bodhisattva enters
on the path of knowledge, he finds that the discriminating intellect
is identified with Reason, and that the objective world is fused with
Intelligence, and there is no distinction to be made between the
knowing and the known.” The anti-Yogācārians refuted this statement,
saying that if the knowing is not distinguished from the known, how
is knowledge at all possible? The Yogācārians could not answer this
criticism, when Hsüan-chang who was at the time in India interposed and
saved his brethren in faith from the quandary. His answer was: “It is
like drinking water, one knows by oneself whether it is cold or not.”
When Goso read this, he questioned himself, “What is this that makes
one know thus by oneself?” This was the way he started on his Zen tour,
for his Yogācāra friends being philosophers could not enlighten him,
and he finally came to a Zen master for instruction.

Before we proceed to the next subject, let me cite another case of
echoing. Hōgen Mon-yeki (Fa-yen Wen-i), the founder of the Hōgen branch
of Zen Buddhism, flourished early in the tenth century. He asked one
of his disciples, “What do you understand by this: ‘Let the difference
be even a tenth of an inch, and it will grow as wide as heaven and
earth’?” The disciple said, “Let the difference be even a tenth of an
inch, and it will grow as wide as heaven and earth.” Hōgen however told
him that such an answer will never do. Said the disciple, “I cannot do
otherwise; how do you understand?” The master at once replied, “Let
the difference be even a tenth of an inch, and it will grow as wide as
heaven and earth.”[f129][6.41]

Hōgen was a great master of repetitions, and there is another
interesting instance. After trying to understand the ultimate truth of
Zen under fifty-four masters,[6.42] Tokusho (Tê-shao, 907–971)
finally came to Hōgen; but tired of making special efforts to master
Zen, he simply fell in with the rest of the monks there. One day when
the master ascended the platform, a monk asked, “What is one drop of
water dripping from the source of So[f130] (Ts‘ao)?” Said the master,
“That is one drop of water dripping from the source of So.” The monk
failed to make anything out of the repetition and stood as if lost;
while Tokusho who happened to be by him had for the first time his
spiritual eye opened to the inner meaning of Zen, and all the doubts
he had been cherishing secretly down in his heart were thoroughly
dissolved. He was altogether another man after that.

Such cases as this conclusively show that Zen is not to be sought in
ideas or words, but at the same time they also show that without ideas
or words Zen cannot convey itself to others. To grasp the exquisite
meaning of Zen as expressing itself in words and yet not in them, is
a great art which is to be attained only after so many vain attempts.
Tokusho who after such an experience finally came to realise the
mystery of Zen, did his best later to give vent to his view which he
had gained under Hōgen. It was while he was residing at the Monastery
of Prajñā that he had the following “mondo” and sermon.[6.43] When
Tokusho came out into the Hall, a monk asked him, “I understand this
was an ancient wise man’s saying: When a man sees Prajñā he is tied to
it; when he sees it not he is also tied to it. Now I wish to know how
it is that a man seeing Prajñā could be tied to it.” Said the master,
“You tell me what it is that is seen by Prajñā.” Asked the monk, “When
a man sees not Prajñā, how could he be tied to it?” “You tell me,”
said the master, “if there is anything that is not seen by Prajñā.”
The master then went on: “Prajñā seen is no Prajñā, nor is Prajñā
unseen Prajñā: how could one apply the predicate, seen or unseen, to
Prajñā? Therefore it is said of old that when one thing is missing
the Dharmakāya is not complete; when one thing is superfluous the
Dharmakāya is not complete: and again that when there is one thing
to be asserted the Dharmakāya is not complete; when there is nothing to
be asserted the Dharmakāya is not complete. This is indeed the essence
of Prajñā.”

The “repetition” seen in this light may grow to be intelligible to a
certain degree.

VII

As was explained in the preceding section, the principle underlying the
various methods of instruction used by the Zen masters is to awaken
a certain sense in the pupil’s own consciousness, by means of which
he intuitively grasps the truth of Zen. Therefore, the masters always
appeal to what we may designate “direct action” and are loathe to waste
any lengthy discourse on the subject. Their dialogues are always pithy
and apparently not controlled by rules of logic. The “repetitive”
method as in other cases conclusively demonstrates that the so-called
answering is not to explain but to point the way where Zen is to be
intuited. To conceive the truth as something external which is to be
perceived by a perceiving subject, is dualistic and appeals to the
intellect for its understanding, but according to Zen we are living
right in the truth, by the truth, from which we cannot be separated.
Says Gensha (Hsüan-sha),[6.44] “We are here as if immersed in water
head and shoulders underneath the great ocean, and yet how piteously we
are extending our hands for water!” Therefore, when he was asked by a
monk,[6.44] “What is my self?” he at once replied, “What would you do
with a self?” When this is intellectually analysed, he means that when
we begin to talk about self we immediately and inevitably establish
the dualism of self and not-self, thus falling into the errors of
intellectualism. We are in the water—this is the fact, and let us
remain so, Zen would say, for when we begin to beg for water we put
ourselves in an external relation to it and what has hitherto been our
own will be taken away from us.

The following case may be interpreted in the same light: A monk came
to Gensha and said,[6.44] “I understand you to say this that
the whole universe is one transpicuous crystal; how do I get at the
sense of it?” Said the master, “The whole universe is one transpicuous
crystal, and what is the use of understanding it?” The day following
the master himself asked the monk, “The whole universe is one
transpicuous crystal, and how do you understand it?” The monk replied,
“The whole universe is one transpicuous crystal, and what is the use
of understanding it?” “I know,” said the master, “that you are living
in the cave of demons.” While this looks another case of “Repetition,”
there is something different in it, something more of intellection, so
to speak.

Whatever this is, Zen never appeals to our reasoning faculty, but
points directly at the very object one wants to have. While Gensha on
a certain occasion was treating an army officer called Wei to tea, the
latter asked, “What does it mean when they say that in spite of our
having it everyday we do not know it?” Gensha without answering the
question took up a piece of cake and offered it to him. After eating
the cake, the officer asked the master again, who then remarked, “Only
we do not know it even when we are using it everyday.”[6.44] This is
evidently an object lesson. Another time a monk came to him and wanted
to know how to enter upon the path of truth. Gensha asked, “Do you hear
the murmuring of the stream?” “Yes, I do,” said the monk. “There is a
way to enter,” was the master’s instruction.[6.44] Gensha’s method was
thus to make the seeker of the truth directly realise within himself
what it was, and not to make him merely the possessor of a second-hand
knowledge. “Ein begriffener Gott ist kein Gott,” declares Terstegen.

It is thus no wonder that the Zen masters frequently make an
exclamatory utterance[f131] in response to questions, instead of giving
an intelligible answer. When words are used if at all intelligible we
may feel that we can somehow find a clue to get at the meaning, but
when an inarticulate utterance is given, we are quite at a loss how
to deal with it, unless we are fortified with some previous knowledge
such as I have at some length attempted to give to my readers.

Of all the Zen masters who used to give exclamatory utterance, the
most noted ones are Ummon and Rinzai, the former for his “Kwan!” and
the latter for his “Kwats!” At the end of one summer sojourn Suigan
(Ts‘ui-yen) made the following remark[6.45]: “Since the beginning of
this summer sojourn I have talked much; see if my eyebrows are still
there.” This refers to the tradition that when a man makes false
statements concerning the Dharma of Buddhism he will lose all his hair
in the face. As Suigan gave many sermons during the summer for the
edification of his pupils, while no amount of talk can ever explain
what the truth is, his eye-brows and beard might perhaps by this time
have altogether disappeared. This, as far as its literary meaning is
concerned, is the idea of his remark whatever Zen may be concealed
underneath. Hofuku (Pao-fu), one of the masters, said, “One who turns
into a highwayman has a treacherous heart.” Chōkei (Ch‘ang-ch‘ing),
another master, remarked, “How thickly they are growing!” Ummon,
one of the greatest masters towards the end of the T‘ang dynasty,
exclaimed, “Kwan!” _Kwan_ 關 literally means the gate on a frontier
pass where travellers and their baggage are inspected. In this case,
however, the term does not mean anything of the sort, it is simply
“Kwan!” an exclamatory utterance which does not allow any analytical
or intellectual interpretation. Seccho, the original compiler of the
_Hekigan_, comments on this, “He is like one who, besides losing his
money, is incriminated,” while Hakuin has this to say, “Even an angry
fist does not strike a smiling face.” Something like this is the only
comment we can make on such an utterance as Ummon’s. When we try
anything approaching a conceptual interpretation on the subject we
shall be “ten thousand miles away beyond the clouds,” as the Chinese
would say.

While Rinzai is regarded as the author of “Kwats!” 喝 (_hê_), we have
an earlier record of it; for Baso, successor to Nangaku (Nan-yüeh),
and an epoch-maker in the history of Zen, uttered “Kwats!” to his
disciple, Hyakjo (Pai-chang), when the latter came up to the
master for a second time to be instructed in Zen. This “Kwats!” is said
to have deafened Hyakujo’s ear for the following three days. But it was
principally due to Rinzai that this particular cry was most effectively
and systematically made use of and later came to be one of the special
features of the Rinzai Zen in distinction to the other schools. In
fact the cry came to be so abused by his followers that he had to make
the following remark[6.46]: “You are all so given up to learning my cry
(_hê_), but I want to ask you this: Suppose one man comes out from the
eastern hall and another from the western hall, and suppose both give
out the ‘Kwats!’ simultaneously; and yet I say to you that subject and
predicate are clearly discernible in this. But how will you discern
them? If you are unable to discern them, you are forbidden hereafter to
imitate my cry.”

Rinzai distinguishes four kinds of “Kwats!”[6.47] The first according
to him, is like the sacred sword of Vajrarāja; the second is like the
golden-haired lion squatting on the ground; the third is like the
sounding rod or the grass used as a decoy; and the fourth is the one
that does not at all function as a “Kwats!”

Rinzai once asked his disciple, Rakuho (Lê-p‘u),[6.48] “One man has
been using a stick and another resorting to the “Kwats!” which of them
do you think is the more intimate to the truth? Answered the disciple,
“Neither of them!” “What is the most intimate then?” Rakuho cried out,
“Kwats!” Whereupon Rinzai struck him. This swinging of a stick was the
most favourite method of Tokusan and stands generally contrasted to the
crying utterance of Rinzai; but here the stick is used by Rinzai and
the latter’s speciality is taken up in a most telling manner by his
disciple, Rakuho.

* * * * *

Besides these “skilful contrivances” (_upāya-kauśalya_) so far
enumerated under seven headings, there are a few more “contrivances”
though I am not going to be very exhaustive here on the subject.

One of them is “silence.” Vimalakīrti was silent when Mañjuśrī asked
him as to the doctrine of non-duality, and his silence was later
commented upon by a master as “deafening like thunder.” A monk asked
Basho Yesei (Pa-chiao Hui-ch‘ing)[6.49] to show him the “original face”
without the aid of any intermediary conception, and the master keeping
his seat remained silent. When Shifuku (Tzŭ-fu)[6.50] was asked as to
a word befitting the understanding of the inquirer, he did not utter a
word, he simply kept silent. Bunki (Wên-hsi) of Koshu (Hang-chou)[6.51]
was a disciple of Kyōzan (Yang-shan); he was asked by a monk, “What
is the self?” but he remained silent. As the monk did not know what
to make of it, he asked again, to which the master replied, “When
the sky is clouded, the moon cannot shine out.” A monk asked Sozan
(Ts‘ao-shan),[6.52] “How is the silence inexpressible to be revealed?”
“I do not reveal it here.” “Where would you reveal it?” “At midnight
last night,” said the master, “I lost three pennies by my bed.”

Sometimes the masters sit quiet “for some little while” 良久 (_liang
chiu_) either in response to a question or when in the pulpit. This
_liang-chiu_ does not always merely indicate the passage of time, as we
can see in the following cases: A monk came to Shuzan (Shou-shan) and
asked,[6.53] “Please play me a tune on a stringless harp.” The master
was quiet for some little while, and said, “Do you hear it?” “No, I
do not hear it.” “Why,” said the master, “did you not ask louder?” A
monk asked Hofuku (Pao-fu),[6.54] “I am told that when one wants to
know the path of the uncreate, one should know the source of it. What
is the source, sir?” Hofuku was silent for a while, and then asked his
attendant, “What did the monk ask me now?” When that monk repeated the
question, the master ejected him out, exclaiming, “I am not deaf!”

* * * * *

Next, we may mention the method of counter-questioning,
wherein questions are not answered by plain statements but by
counter-questionings. In Zen, generally speaking, a question is not
a question in its ordinary sense, that is, it is not simply asked
for information, and therefore it is natural that what ordinarily
corresponds to an answer is not an answer at all. Some Zen authority
enumerates eighteen different kinds of questions, against which
we may distinguish eighteen corresponding answers. Thus a
counter-question itself is in its way an illuminating answer. A monk
requested Jimyo (Tzŭ-ming) to “set forth the idea of Dharma’s coming
from the west,” and the master said, “When did you come?”[6.55] When
Rasan Dokan (Lo-shan Tao-hsien) was asked, “Who is the master of the
triple world?” he said, “Do you understand how to eat rice?”[6.56]
Tenryu (T‘ien-lung), the teacher of Gutei, was hailed by a monk who
asked him,[6.57] “How are we released from the triple world?” He
retorted, “Where are you this very moment?” A monk asked Jōshu, “What
would you say when a man is without an inch of cloth on him?” “What did
you say he has not on him?” “An inch of cloth on him, sir.” “Very fine
this, not to have an inch of cloth!” responded the master.[6.58]

When we go on like this, there may be no end to this way of treating
the various “contrivances” devised by the Zen masters for the benefits
of their truth-thirsty pupils. Let me conclude this section by
quoting two more cases in which a kind of reasoning in a circle is
employed, but from another point of view we may detect here a trace
of absolute monism in which all differences are effaced. Whether the
Zen masters agree with this view, however, remains to be seen; for
while the absolute identity of _meum et tuum_ is asserted, facts
of individualisation are not ignored either. A monk asked Daizui
(Tai-sui),[6.59] “What is my [pupil’s] Self?” “That is my [master’s]
Self,” answered the master. “How is it that my Self is your Self?”
The ultimate dictum was, “That is your Self.” To understand this in
a logical fashion, put “ignorant,” or “confused” or “human” in place
of “my [pupil’s] Self,” and in place of “your [master’s] Self” put
“enlightened,” or “Buddha’s,’ or “divine,” and we may have a glimpse
into what was going on in the mind of Daizui. But without his last
remark, “That is your Self,” the whole affair may resolve into a form
of pantheistic philosophy. In the case of Sansho Yenen (San-shêng
Hui-jan) and Kyozan Yejaku (Yang-shan Hui-chi), the thought of Daizui
is more concretely presented. Yejaku asked Yenen,[6.60] “What is your
name?” and Yenen replied, “My name is Yejaku.” Yejaku protested,
“Yejaku is my name.” Thereupon said Yenen, “My name is Yenen,” which
brought out a hearty laugh from Yejaku. These dialogues remind one of
the famous Hindu saying, “Tat tvam asi!” but the difference between
this and “My name is Yejaku” is that between Vedanta philosophy and
Zen Buddhism, or that between Indian idealism and Chinese realism or
practicalness. The latter does not generalise, nor does it speculate
on a higher plane which has no hold on life as we live it. According
to the philosophy of the Kegon (Avatamsaka) school of Buddhism, there
is a spiritual world where one particular object holds within itself
all other particular objects merged, instead of all particular objects
being absorbed in the Great All. Thus in this world it so happens
that when you lift a bunch of flowers or point at a piece of brick,
the whole world in its multitudinosity is seen reflected here. If so,
the Zen masters may be said to be moving also in this mystic realm
which reveals its secrets at the moment of supreme enlightenment
(_anuttara-samyak-saṁbodhi_).

VIII

We now come to the most characteristic feature of Zen Buddhism, by
which it is distinguished not only from all the other Buddhist schools,
but from all forms of mysticism that are ever known to us. So far the
truth of Zen has been expressed through words, articulate or otherwise,
however enigmatic they may superficially appear; but now the masters
appeal to a more direct method instead of verbal medium. In fact, the
truth of Zen is the truth of life, and life means to live, to move, to
act, not merely to reflect. Is it not the most natural thing for Zen,
therefore, that its development should be towards acting or rather
living its truth instead of demonstrating or illustrating it in words,
that is to say, with ideas? In the actual living of life there is no
logic, for life is superior to logic. We imagine logic influences life,
but in reality man is not a rational creature so much as we make him
out, of course he reasons, but he does not act according to the result
of his reasoning pure and simple. There is something stronger
than ratiocination. We may call it impulse, or instinct, or, more
comprehensively, will. Where this will acts there is Zen, but if I am
asked whether Zen is a philosophy of will I rather hesitate to give
an affirmative answer. Zen is to be explained, if at all explained it
should be, rather dynamically than statically. When I raise the hand
thus, there is Zen. But when I assert that I have raised the hand, Zen
is no more there. Nor is there any Zen when I assume the existence
of somewhat that may be named will or anything else. Not that the
assertion or assumption is wrong, but that the thing known as Zen is
three thousand miles away as they say. An assertion is Zen only when
it is in itself an act and does not refer to anything that is asserted
in it. In the finger pointed at the moon there is no Zen, but when the
pointing finger itself is considered, altogether independent of any
external references, there is Zen.

Life delineates itself on the canvas called time; and time never
repeats, once gone, forever gone; and so is an act, once done, it is
never undone. Life is a _sumiye_-painting, which must be executed
once and for all time and without hesitation, without intellection,
and no corrections are permissible or possible. Life is not like an
oil-painting which can be rubbed out and done over time and again until
the artist is satisfied. With a _sumiye_-painting, any brush stroke
painted over a second time results in a smudge; the life has left it.
All corrections show when the ink dries. So is life. We can never
retract what we have once committed to deeds, nay, what has once passed
through consciousness can never be rubbed out. Zen therefore ought to
be caught while the thing is going on, neither before nor after. It is
an act of one instant. When Dharma was leaving China, as the legend has
it, he asked his disciples what was their understanding of Zen, and one
of them who happened to be a nun, replied, “It is like Ānanda’s looking
into the kingdom of Akshobhya Buddha, it is seen once and has never
been repeated.” This fleeting, unrepeatable, and ungraspable character
of life is delineated graphically by Zen masters who have compared it
to lightning or spark produced by the percussion of stones: 閃電光,
擊石火 (_shan tien kuang, chi shih huo_) is the phrase.[6.61]

The idea of direct method appealed to by the masters is to get hold
of this fleeting life as it flees and not after it has flown. While
it is fleeing, there is no time to recall memory or to build ideas.
No reasoning avails here. Language may be used, but this has been
associated too long with ideation, and has lost directness or being by
itself. As soon as words are used, they express meaning, reasoning;
they represent something not belonging to themselves; they have no
direct connection with life, except being a faint echo or image of
something that is no longer here. This is the reason why the masters
often avoid such expressions or statements as are intelligible in any
logical way. Their aim is to have the pupil’s attention concentrated
in the thing itself which he wishes to grasp and not in anything
that is in the remotest possible connection liable to disturb him.
Therefore when we attempt to find meaning in dharanis or exclamations
or a nonsensical string of sounds taken as such, we are far away from
the truth of Zen. We must penetrate into the mind itself as the spring
of life, from which all these words are produced. The swinging of
a stick, the crying of a “Kwats!” or the kicking of a ball must be
understood in this sense, that is, as the directest demonstration of
life, no, even as life itself. The direct method is thus not always the
violent assertion of life-force, but a gentle movement of the body,
the responding to a call, the listening to a murmuring stream, or to a
singing bird, or any of our most ordinary everyday assertions of life.

Reiun (Ling-yün)[6.62] was asked, “How were things _before_ the
appearance of the Buddha in the world?” He raised his hossu. “How were
things _after_ the appearance of the Buddha?” He again raised the
hossu. This raising of the hossu was quite a favourite method with
many masters to demonstrate the truth of Zen. As I stated elsewhere,
the hossu and the staff were the religious insignias of the master,
and it was natural that they would be in much display when the monks
approached with questions. One day Ōbaku Kiun (Huang-po Hsi-yün)[6.63]
ascended the pulpit, and as soon as monks were gathered, the
master took up his staff and drove them all out. When they were about
all out, he called them, and they turned their heads back. The master
said, “The moon looks like a bow, less rain and more wind.” The staff
was thus wielded effectively by the masters, but who would ever have
thought of a cane being made an instrument of illustrating the most
profound truth of religion?

Jōshu was the readiest master for pithy retorts and his “Sayings”
(_Goroku_) is filled with them, but he was also an adept at the
direct method. When he was in his pulpit one day, a monk came out of
the rank and made bows to him. Without waiting, however, for further
movements on the part of the monk, Jōshu folded his hands and a parting
salutation was given. Hyakujo Isei’s (Pai-chang Wei-chêng)[6.64] way
was somewhat different. He said to the monks, “You open the farm for me
and I will talk to you about the great principle [of Zen].” When the
monks finished attending to the farm and came back to the master to
discourse on the great principle, he merely extended his open arms and
said nothing.

A monk came to Yenkwan An,[6.65] the National Teacher, and wanted to
know what was the original body of Vairochana Buddha. The Teacher told
him to pass the pitcher, which he did. The Teacher then said, “Put it
back where you got it.” The monk faithfully obeyed, but not being told
what was the original body of the Buddha, he proposed the question once
more, “Who is the Buddha?” Answered the master, “Long gone is he!” In
this case the direct method was practised more by the monk himself
under the direction of the master, but unfortunately the pupil’s
spiritual condition was not ripe enough to grasp the meaning of his own
“direct method,” and alas, let go “the old Buddha!” Something similar
to this case may be found in the following one:

Sekiso (Shih-shuang)[6.66] asked Yenchi (Yüan-chih),[6.67] who was a
disciple of Yakusan (Yüeh-shan), “If some one after your death asked
me about the ultimate fact, what should I say to him?” The master
gave no answer, but instead called up the boy-attendant who at once
responded. He said, “Fill up the pitcher,” and remained quiet for
some little while. He now asked Sekiso, “What did you ask me before?”
Sekiso re-stated the question, whereupon the master rose from his seat
and left the room.

As some Zen masters remarked, Zen is our “ordinary mindedness,” that
is to say, there is in Zen nothing supernatural or unusual or highly
speculative that transcends our everyday life. When you feel sleepy,
you retire; when you are hungry, you eat, just as much as the fowls
of the air and the lilies of the field, taking “no thought for your
life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body,
what ye shall put on.” This is the spirit of Zen. Hence no specially
didactic or dialectical instruction in the study of Zen except such as
is given below by Dōgo.

Ryutan Sōshin (Lung-t‘an Sui-hsin)[6.68] was a disciple of Tenno Dōgo
(Tao-wu). He served the master as one of his personal attendants. He
was with him for some time when one day he said to the master: “Since
I came to you, I have not at all been instructed in the study of
mind.” Replied the master, “Ever since you came to me, I have always
been pointing to you how to study mind.” “In what way, sir?” “When
you brought me a cup of tea, did I not accept it? When you served me
with food, did I not partake of it? When you made bows to me, did I
not return them? When did I ever neglect in giving you instructions?”
Ryutan kept his head hanging for some time, when the master told him,
“If you want to see, see directly into it; but when you try to think
about it, it is altogether missed.”

Dōgo Yenchi (Tao-wu Yüan-chih) and Ungan Donjo (Yün-yen Tan-shêng) were
standing by the master Yakusan (Yüeh-shan) as attendants, when Yakusan
remarked,[6.69] “Where our intellect cannot reach, I verily tell you to
avoid talking about it; when you do, horns will grow on you. O Yenchi,
what will you say to this?” Yenchi thereupon rose from his place and
left the room. Ungan asked the master, “How is it, sir, that Brother
Chi does not answer you?” “My back aches to-day,” said Yakusan, “You
better go to Yenchi himself, for he understands.” Ungan came to
his brother monk and inquired thus, “O Brother Senior, why did you not
answer our master now?” “You better go back to the master himself and
ask,” was all that poor Ungan could get out of his senior brother.

There was another favourite movement often practised by Zen masters,
which was to call out to the questioner or somebody else. One case
of this has already been given somewhere else in another connection.
The following are the typical and classical ones. Chu, the National
Teacher, called out to his attendant monk three times, to which the
latter responded regularly. Said the Teacher, “I thought I was not
fair to you, but it was you that were not fair to me.”[f132][6.70]
This calling and responding took place also three times between Mayoku
(Ma-ku) and Ryosui (Liang-sui), which at last made the latter exclaim:
“O this stupid fellow!”[6.71]

This trick of calling out and responding was frequently practised as
is seen in the following cases: A high government dignitary called
upon Ungo Doyo (Yün-chü Tao-ying) and asked[6.72]: “I am told that the
World-honoured One had a secret phrase and Mahākāśyapa did not keep it
hidden; what was the secret phrase?” The master called out, “O honoured
officer!” and the officer responded. “Do you understand?” demanded the
master. “No, Reverend Sir!” was his natural answer. “If you do not
understand, there is the secret phrase: if you understand, there is
Mahākāśyapa in full revelation.”

Haikyu (P‘ai-hsiu)[6.73] was a local governor in Shinan (Hsin-an)
before he was appointed a state-minister. He once visited a Buddhist
monastery in his district. While going around in the premises of
the monastery, he came across a fine fresco painting and asked the
accompanying priests whose portrait this was. “He was one of the
high priests,” they answered. The governor now turned towards them
and questioned, “Here is his portrait, but where is the high priest
himself?” They all did not know how to answer him. He then further
asked if there were any Zen monks about here. They replied, “We have
recently a new comer in this monastery, he does some menial work for
us and looks very much like a Zen monk.” He was then brought in the
presence of the governor who at once spoke to him, “I have one question
in which I wish to be enlightened, but the gentlemen here grudge the
answer. May I ask you to give me a word for them?” “I humbly wish you
to ask,” politely requested the monk. The officer repeated the first
question, whereupon the monk loudly and clearly called out, “O Haikyu!”
Haikyu responded at once, “Here, sir!” “Where is the high priest now?”
cross-questioned the monk. This opened the governor’s eye to the sense
of the monk’s counter-question, in which he could now read the solution
of his first query.

The case between Yisan (Wei-shan) and Kyōzan (Yang-shan) was more
intellectual and to that extent more intelligible than this mere
calling and responding. Kyōzan was the chief disciple of Yisan, and
one of the peculiar features of this school was to demonstrate the
truth of Zen concordantly both by the master and disciple. They once
went out picking tea-leaves. The master said to Kyōzan,[6.74] “Picking
tea-leaves all day, I hear only your voice and do not see your body;
manifest your original body and let me see it.” Kyōzan shook the
tea-plant. Said Yisan, “You have only got its function, you have not
got the substance.” Kyōzan said, “Master, how with you then?” The
master was quiet for a while whereupon the disciple said, “O master,
you have got only the substance, you have not got the function.”
“You will be spared of my twenty blows,” concluded the master. In
Buddhist ontology three conceptions are distinguished, as was
referred to previously; substance or body, appearance, and function or
activity. “Body” or _bhāva_ corresponds to the idea of mass or being,
“appearance” (_lakshaṇa_) to that of form, and “function” (_kṛitya_)
to that of force. Every reality is regarded by Buddhist philosophers
as analysable into these three notions. Sometimes, however, the second
conception, “appearance” is absorbed in that of “being,” or “body.”
Without functioning no objects exist, but functioning cannot take place
without something functioning. The two ideas, according to Buddhist
philosophers, are thus inseparable for our understanding of the
universe. But Yisan and Kyōzan were not metaphysicians and would not
argue on the subject. The one shook the tree and the other stood still.
We cannot say that there is Zen in this standing and shaking as we
may interpret them philosophically, but we may glean something of Zen
in their remarks on “body” and “function” together with their direct
method.

So far the direct method has not been of any violent character as to
involve a bodily injury or nervous shock, but the masters had no qualms
if they thought necessary to shake the pupils roughly. Rinzai for one
was noted for the directness and incisiveness of his dealings; the
point of his sword cut through the heart of the opponent. The monk Jō
(Ting)[6.75] was one of his disciples, and when he asked the master
what the fundamental principle of Buddhism was, Rinzai came down from
his straw chair, and taking hold of the monk slapped him with the palm
of his hand, and let him go. Jō stood still without knowing what to
make of the whole procedure when a by-standing monk blamed him for not
bowing to the master. While doing so, Jō all of a sudden awoke to the
truth of Zen. Later, when he was passing over a bridge, he happened to
meet a party of three Buddhist scholars, one of whom asked Jō, “The
river of Zen is deep, and its bottom must be sounded. What does this
mean?” Jō, disciple of Rinzai, at once seized the questioner and was
at the point of throwing him over the bridge, when his two friends
interceded and asked Jō’s merciful treatment of the offender. Jō
released the scholar, saying, “If not for the intercession of his
friends I would at once let him sound the bottom of the river himself.”
With these people Zen was no joke, no mere play of ideas, it was on the
contrary a most serious thing on which they would stake their lives.

Rinzai was a disciple of Ōbaku (Huang-po), but while under the master
he did not get any special instruction on Zen; for whenever he asked
him as to the fundamental truth of Buddhism, he was struck by Ōbaku.
But it was these blows that opened Rinzai’s eye to the ultimate truth
of Zen and made him exclaim, “After all there is not much in the
Buddhism of Ōbaku!”[6.76] In China and in Korea what little of Zen is
left mostly belongs to the school of Rinzai. In Japan alone the Soto
branch is flourishing as much as the Rinzai. The rigour and vitality
of Zen Buddhism that is still present in the Rinzai school of Japan
comes from the three blows of Ōbaku so mercifully dealt out to his poor
disciple. There is in fact more truth in a blow or a kick than in the
verbosity of logical discourse. At any rate the Zen masters were in
dead earnest whenever the demonstration of Zen was demanded. See the
following instance.

When Tō-Impo (Têng Yin-fêng)[6.77] was pushing a cart, he happened to
see his master Baso stretching his legs a little too far out in the
roadway. He said, “Will you please draw your legs in?” Replied the
master, “A thing once stretched out will never be contracted.” “If
so,” said Tō, “a thing once pushed will never be retracted.” His cart
went right over the master’s legs which were thus hurt. Later Baso
went up to the Preaching Hall where he carried an axe and said to the
monks gathered, “Let the one who wounded the old master’s legs awhile
ago come out of the congregation.” Tō came forth and stretched his
neck ready to receive the axe, but the master instead of chopping the
disciple’s head off, quietly set the axe down.

Tō-Impo was ready to give up his life to re-assert the truth of
his deed, through which the master got hurt. Mimicry or simulation
was rampant everywhere, and therefore Baso wanted to ascertain the
genuineness of Tō’s understanding of Zen. When the thing is at stake,
the masters do not hesitate to sacrifice anything. In the case
of Nansen, a kitten was done away with: Kyōzan broke a mirror into
pieces; a woman follower of Zen burned up a whole house; and another
woman threw her baby into a river. This latter was an extreme case,
and perhaps the only one of the kind ever recorded in the history of
Zen. As to minor cases such as mentioned above, they are plentiful and
considered almost matters of course with Zen masters.

While I have not attempted to be very exhaustive in describing all
the different methods of demonstration or rather realisation of the
truth of Zen resorted to by the masters of various schools, the
statements so far made in regard to them, may suffice to give us at
least a glimpse into some of the peculiar features of Zen Buddhism.
Whatever explanations may be given by critics or scholars to the
philosophy of Zen, we must first of all acquire a new point of view
of looking at things, which is altogether beyond our ordinary sphere
of consciousness. Rather, this new viewpoint is gained when we reach
the ultimate limits of our understanding, within which we think we are
always bound and unable to break through. Most people stop at these
limits and are easily persuaded that they cannot go any further. But
there are some whose mental vision is able to penetrate this veil of
contrasts and contradictions. They gain it abruptly. They beat the wall
in utter despair, and lo, it unexpectedly gives way and there opens an
entirely new world. Things hitherto regarded as prosaic and ordinary
and even binding are now arranged in quite a novel scheme. The old
world of the senses has vanished, and something entirely new has come
to take its place. We seem to be in the same objective surroundings,
but subjectively we are rejuvenated, we are born again.

Wu Tao-tzŭ or Godoshi was one of the greatest painters of China, and
lived in the reign of the Emperor Hsüan-tsung, of the T‘ang dynasty.
His last painting, according to legend, was a landscape commissioned
by the Emperor for one of the walls of his palace. The artist
concealed the complete work with a curtain till the Emperor’s arrival,
then drawing it aside exposed his vast picture. The Emperor gazed
with admiration on a marvellous scene: forests, and great mountains,
and clouds in immense distances of sky, and men upon the hills, and
birds in flight. “Look,” said the painter, “in the cave at the foot of
this mountain dwells a spirit.” He clapped his hands; the door at the
cave’s entrance flew open. “The interior is beautiful beyond words,” he
continued, “permit me to show the way.” So saying he passed within; the
gate closed after him; and before the astonished Emperor could speak or
move, all had faded to white wall before his eyes, with not a trace of
the artist’s brush remaining. Wu Tao-tzŭ was seen no more.

The artist has disappeared, and the whole scene has been wiped out;
but from this nothingness there arises a new spiritual world, abiding
in which the Zen masters perform all kinds of antics, assert all kinds
of absurdities, and yet they are in perfect accord with the nature
of things in which a world moves on stripped of all its falsehoods,
conventions, simulations, and intellectual obliquities. Unless one
gets into this world of realities, the truth of Zen will be eternally
a sealed book. This is what I mean by acquiring a new point of view
independent of logic and discursive understanding.

Emerson expresses the same view in his own characteristic manner:
“Foremost among these activities (that is, mathematical combination,
great power of abstraction, the transmutings of the imagination, even
versatility, and concentration), are the somersaults, spells, and
resurrections, wrought by the imagination. When this wakes, a man
seems to multiply ten times or a thousand times his force. It opens
the delicious sense of indeterminate size, and inspires an audacious
mental habit. We are as elastic as the gas of gunpowder, and a sentence
in a book, or a word dropped in conversation, sets free our fancy, and
instantly our heads are bathed with galaxies, and our feet tread the
floor of the pit. And this benefit is real, because we are entitled
to these enlargements, and, once having passed the bounds, shall
never again be quite the miserable pedants we were.”

Here is a good illustration of the difference between a “miserable
pedant” and one who has “passed the bounds.” There was a monk called
Gensoku (Hsüan-tsê)[6.78] who was one of the chief officials of the
monastery under the Zen master Hōgen (Fa-yen), of the early tenth
century. He never came to the master to make inquiries about Zen; so
the master one day asked him why he did not come. The chief official
answered: “When I was under Seiho (Ch‘ing-fêng) I got an idea as to
the truth of Zen.” “What is your understanding then?” demanded the
master. “When I asked my master, who was the Buddha, he said, Ping-ting
T‘ung-tsŭ comes for fire.” “It is a fine answer,” said Hōgen, “but
probably you misunderstand it. Let me see how you take the meaning
of it.” “Well,” explained the official, “Ping-ting is the god of
fire; when he himself comes for fire, it is like myself, who, being
a Buddha from the very beginning, wants to know who the Buddha is.
No questioning is then needed as I am already the Buddha himself.”
“There!” exclaimed the master, “Just as I thought! You are completely
off.” Soku, the chief official, got highly offended because his view
was not countenanced and left the monastery. Hōgen said, “If he comes
back he may be saved; if not, he is lost.” Soku after going some
distance reflected that a master of five hundred monks as Hōgen was
would not chide him without cause, and returned to the old master and
expressed his desire to be instructed in Zen. Hōgen said, “You ask me
and I will answer.” “Who is the Buddha?”—the question came from the
lips of the now penitent monk. “Ping-ting T‘ung-tzŭ comes for fire.”
This made his eyes open to the truth of Zen quite different from what
he formerly understood of it. He was now no more a second-hand “pedant”
but a living creative soul. I need not repeat that Zen refuses to be
explained but that it is to be lived. Without this, all talk is nothing
but an idea, woefully inane and miserably unsatisfactory.

Below is another story illustrating the peculiarity of Zen
understanding as distinguished from our ordinary intellectual
understandings which are based on ideas and representations. The
same phrase is repeated here as in the preceding case, and as far as
its literal meaning goes, we have no reason to suppose its producing
different effects on the mind of the recipient. But as I said elsewhere
Zen is the opening of one’s own inner consciousness occasioned by
some external incidental happening which may be of purely physical
nature but may invoke some mental operation. This opening is therefore
something, we as outsiders not belonging to the inner life of the
individual concerned, have no means to judge beforehand, we know only
when it is opened; but the masters seem to know when this opening
is going to take place and how it is to be brought about from their
own experience. Students of the psychology of Zen will here find an
interesting problem to investigate.

Suigan Kashin (Ts‘ui-yen K‘ê-chên)[6.79] was a disciple of Zimyo
(Tz‘u-ming), 986–1040, who was one of the greatest Sung masters and
under whom the Rinzai school of Zen was divided into two branches,
Woryu (Huang-lung) and Yogi (Yang-ch‘i).[6.80] Kashin was quite proud
of being one of the disciples of the master, he was not yet really a
master himself, but he thought he was. When he had a talk with another
of Zimyo’s disciples, he was found out and laughed at. When they were
having a walk together one day, they discussed Zen. His friend picked
up a piece of a broken tile and putting it on a flat rock, said, “If
you can say a word at this juncture, I will grant your really being
Zimyo’s disciple.” Kashin wavered, looked this way and that, trying to
make some answer. His friend was impatient, who broke out, “Hesitating
and wavering, you have not yet penetrated through illusion, you have
never yet even dreamt as to what the true insight of Zen is.” Kashin
was thoroughly ashamed of himself. He at once returned to the master
who severely reproached him, saying that he came before the termination
of the summer session, which was against the regulations. Full of
tears, he explained how he was taken to task by his fellow-monk and
that it was the reason why he was here even against the monastery
rules. The master abruptly asked him: “What is the fundamental
principle of Buddhism?” Replied Kashin,

“No clouds are gathering over the mountain peaks,
And how serenely the moon is reflected on the waves!”

The master’s eyes flashed with indignation, and he thundered, “Shame on
you! To have such a view for an old seasoned man like you! How can you
expect to be delivered from birth-and-death?” Kashin earnestly implored
to be instructed. Said the master, “You ask me.” Thereupon he repeated
the master’s first question, “What is the fundamental principle of
Buddhism?” The master roared,

“No clouds are gathering over the mountain peaks,
And how serenely the moon is reflected on the waves!”

This opened Kashin’s eye, and another man was he after that.

* * * * *

Let me conclude with a sermon from Goso (Wu-tsu), of whom mention has
already been made:

If people ask me what Zen is like, I will say that it is like learning
the art of burglary. The son of a burglar saw his father growing older
and thought, “If he is unable to carry out his profession, who will
be the bread-winner of this family, except myself? I must learn the
trade.” He intimated the idea to his father, who approved of it. One
night the father took the son to a big house, broke through the fence,
entered the house, and opening one of the large chests, told the son
to go in and pick out the clothings. As soon as he got into it, the
lid was dropped and the lock securely applied. The father now came out
to the courtyard, and loudly knocking at the door woke up the whole
family, whereas he himself quietly slipped away from the former hole
in the fence. The residents got excited and lighted candles, but found
that the burglars had already gone. The son who remained all the time
in the chest securely confined thought of his cruel father. He was
greatly mortified, when a fine idea flashed upon him. He made a noise
which sounded like the gnawing of a rat. The family told the maid to
take a candle and examine the chest. When the lid was unlocked, out
came the prisoner, who blew out the light, pushed away the maid, and
fled. The people ran after him. Noticing a well by the road, he
picked up a large stone and threw it into the water. The pursuers all
gathered around the well trying to find the burglar drowning himself
in the dark hole. In the meantime he was safely back in his father’s
house. He blamed him very much for his narrow escape. Said the father,
“Be not offended, my son. Just tell me how you got off.” When the son
told him all about his adventures, the father remarked, “There you are,
you have learned the art!”

THE MEDITATION HALL, AND THE IDEALS OF THE MONKISH DISCIPLINE

To get a glimpse into the practical and disciplinary side of Zen, we
have to study the institution known as the Meditation Hall. It is
an educational system quite peculiar to the Zen sect. Most of the
main monasteries belonging to this sect are provided with Meditation
Halls, and in the life of the Zen monk more than anywhere else we are
reminded of that of the Buddhist Brotherhood (_Saṁgha_) in India. This
system was founded by the Chinese Zen Master, Hyakujo (Pai-chang,
720–814), more than one thousand years ago. Until his time the monks
used to live in monasteries belonging to the Vinaya sect, which were
governed by a spirit not quite in accordance with the principles of
Zen. As the latter grew more and more flourishing and its followers
kept on increasing in number and in influence, there was need for
its own institution, exclusively devoted to the promotion of its
objects. According to Hyakujo, the Zen monasteries were to be neither
Hinayanistic nor Mahayanistic, but they were to unite the disciplinary
methods of both schools in a new and original manner, best suited
to the realisation of the Zen ideals, as they were conceived by the
masters of the earlier days.

The original book compiled by Hyakujo giving detailed regulations of
the Zen monastery was lost. The one we have now was compiled during the
Yüan dynasty from the actual life in the monastery at the time, which
was then supposed to be a faithful continuation of the old institution
though naturally with some modifications and transformations due to
historical exigencies. This book was compiled under the auspices of the
reigning Emperor Shuu, and is known as “The Imperial Edition of the
Regulations in the Zen Monastery.”[7.1] In Japan the Zen monasteries
have never been established on such a grand scale as in China, and
as the result all the regulations as detailed in the Imperial Edition
were not practised. But their spirit and all that was applicable to
Japanese life and conditions were adopted. The ideals of Zen life were
never lost sight of anywhere. And before I proceed further I wish to
speak briefly of one of such ideals set before the eyes of all Zen
students, for it is really the most important and noteworthy feature in
the monastery life of Zen.

It is indeed this that distinguishes Zen from the other Buddhist
schools originated in China, and is to be considered most
characteristically Zen and at the same time animating its long history.
By this I mean the notion of work or service. Hyakujo left a famous
saying which was the guiding principle of his life and is pre-eminently
the spirit of the Meditation Hall. It is this: “No work, no eating.”
When he was thought by his devoted disciples too old to work in the
garden, which was his daily occupation besides lecturing and educating
the monks in Zen, they hid all his garden implements, as he would not
listen to their repeated oral remonstrances. He then refused to eat,
saying, “No work, no eating.” At all the Meditation Halls work is thus
considered a vital element in the life of a monk. It is altogether a
practical one and chiefly consists in manual labour, such as sweeping,
cleaning, cooking, fuel-gathering, tilling the farm, or going about
begging in the villages far and near. No work is considered beneath
their dignity, and a perfect feeling of brotherhood and democracy
prevails among them. How hard, or how mean from the ordinary point of
view a work may be, they will not shun it. They believe in the sanctity
of manual labour. They keep themselves busy in every way they can;
they are no idlers as some of the so-called monks or mendicants are,
physically at least, as in India for instance.

We can see in this sanctification of work the practical attitude of
the Chinese mind well reflected. When I said that Zen was the Chinese
interpretation of the doctrine of Enlightenment, the Zen conception of
work did not essentially or theoretically enter into my conclusion.
But from the practical point of view work is such an integral part of
the Zen life now that the one cannot be conceived as independent
of the other. In India the monks are mendicants; when they meditate
they retire into a quiet corner from worldly cares; and inasmuch as
they are supported economically by their secular devotees, they do not
propose to work in any menial employment such as Chinese and Japanese
Zen monks are used to. What saved Zen Buddhism from deteriorating into
quietism or mere intellectual gymnastics, which was more or less the
fate befalling other schools of Buddhism, was surely due to the gospel
of work. Apart from its psychological value, it proved an efficient
agency in preserving the health and sanity of Zen Buddhism throughout
its long history of growth.

Whatever may be this historical importance of work, Hyakujo must
have had a profound knowledge of human psychology when he made work
the ruling spirit of the monastery life. His idea of “No work, no
eating”[f133][7.2] did not necessarily originate from an economic or
ethical valuation of life. His sole motive was not that nobody deserved
his daily bread if he did not earn it with the sweat of his face.
True, there is a virtue in not eating the bread of idleness, and there
have been so many Buddhists since the early days of Buddhism, who
thought it a most disgraceful thing to be living on others’ earnings
and savings, Hyakujo’s object, while it might have been unconsciously
conceived, was more psychological in spite of his open declaration, “No
work, no eating.” It was to save his monks from a mental inactivity
or an unbalanced development of mind which too often results from
the meditative habit of the monkish life. When the muscles are not
exercised for the execution of spiritual truths, or when the mind and
body is not put to practical test, the severance generally issues
in inimical results. As the philosophy of Zen is to transcend the
dualistic conception of flesh and spirit, its practical application
will naturally be, dualistically speaking, to make the nerves and
muscles the most ready and absolutely obedient servants of the mind,
and not to make us say that the spirit is truly ready but the
flesh is weak. Whatever religious truths of this latter statement,
psychologically it comes from the lack of a ready channel between mind
and muscles. Unless the hands are habitually trained to do the work of
the brain, the blood ceases to circulate evenly all over the body, it
grows congested somewhere, especially in the brain. The result will
be not only an unsound condition of the body in general but a state
of mental torpidity or drowsiness, in which ideas are presented as if
they were wafting clouds. One is wide awake and yet the mind is filled
with the wildest dreams and visions which are not at all related to
realities of life. Fantasies are fatal to Zen, and those who practise
Zen considering it a form of meditation are too apt to be visited upon
by this insidious enemy. Hyakujo’s insistence upon manual work has
saved Zen from falling into the pitfalls of antinomianism as well as a
hallucinatory mode of mind.

Apart from these psychological considerations, there is a moral reason
which ought not to escape attention in our estimate of Hyakujo’s wisdom
in instituting work as a vital part of Zen life. For the soundness of
ideas must be tested finally by their practical application. When they
fail in this, that is, when they cannot be carried out in everyday life
producing lasting harmony and satisfaction and giving real beneficence
to all concerned,—to oneself as well as to others, no ideas can be
said to be sound and practical. While physical force is no standard to
judge the value of ideas, the latter, however logically consistent,
have no reality when they are not joined to life. Especially in Zen
abstract ideas that do not convince one in practical living are of
no value whatever. Conviction must be gained through experience and
not through abstraction, which means that conviction has no really
solid basis except when it can be tested in our acting efficient life.
Moral assertion or “bearing witness” ought to be over and above an
intellectual judgment, that is to say, the truth must be the product
of ones’ living experiences. An idle reverie is not their business,
the Zen followers will insist. They, of course, sit quiet and practise
“zazen”[f134][7.3]; for they want to reflect on whatever lessons
they have gained while working. But as they are against chewing the
cud all the time, they put in action whatever reflections they have
made during hours of quiet-sitting and test their validity in the vital
field of practicality. It is my strong conviction that if Zen did not
put faith in acting its ideas, the institution would have long before
this sunk into a mere somniferous and trance-inducing system, so that
all the treasure thoughtfully hoarded by the masters in China and Japan
would have been cast away as heaps of rotten stuff.

Perhaps unwittingly supported by these reasons, the value of work
or service has been regarded by all Zen followers as one of their
religious ideals. No doubt the idea was greatly enforced by the
characteristic industry and practicalness of the Chinese people by
whom Zen was mainly elaborated. The fact is that if there is any one
thing that is most emphatically insisted upon by the Zen masters as
the practical expression of their faith, it is serving others, doing
work for others, not ostentatiously indeed but secretly, without making
others know of it. Says Eckhart, “What a man takes in by contemplation
he must pour out in love.” Zen would say, “pour it out in work,”
meaning by work the active and concrete realisation of love. Tauler
made spinning and shoe-making and other homely duties gifts of the Holy
Ghost; Brother Lawrence made cooking sacramental; George Herbert wrote:

“Who sweeps a room as to thy laws
Makes that and the action fine.”

These are all expressive of the spirit of Zen, as far as its practical
side is concerned. Mystics are thus all practical men, they are far
from being visionaries whose souls are too absorbed in things unearthly
or of the other-world to be concerned with their daily life. The common
notion that mystics are dreamers and star-gazers ought to be
corrected, as it has no foundation in facts. Indeed, psychologically,
there is a most intimate and profound relationship between a practical
turn of mind and a certain type of mysticism; the relationship is not
merely conceptual or metaphysical. If mysticism is true, its truth must
be a practical one verifying itself in every act of ours, and, most
decidedly, not a logical one, to be true only in our dialectics. Sings
a Zen poet known as Hō-kōji:[f135][7.4]

“How wondrously supernatural,
And how miraculous, this!
I draw water, and I carry fuel!”[7.5]

The Meditation Hall[7.6] (Zendo in Japanese and Ch‘an T‘ang in
Chinese), as it is built in Japan, is generally a rectangular building
of various size according to the number of monks to be accommodated.
One at Engakuji,[f136] Kamakura, was about 36 feet by 65 feet. The
floors about eight feet wide and three feet high are raised along
the longer sides of the building, and an empty space is left in the
middle throughout the entire length of the Hall. This space is used for
practising an exercise known as “kinhin”[7.7] (_ching-hsing_) which
means literally “sutra-walking.” The space allotted to each monk on
the _tatami_ floor does not exceed one mat, three by six feet, where
he sits, meditates, and sleeps at night. The bedding for each is
never more than one large wadded quilt, summer or winter. He has no
regular pillow except that which is temporarily made up by himself out
of his own private possessions. These latter, however, are next
to nothing: for they are _kesa_ (_kashāya_ in Sanskrit) and _koromo_
(priestly robe), a few books, a razor, and a set of bowls, all of which
are put up in a box about three by ten by three and a half inches
large. In travelling this box is carried in front supported with a
sash about the neck. The entire property thus moves with the owner.
“One dress and one bowl, under a tree and on a stone,”[7.8] was the
graphical description of the monkish life in India. Compared with this,
the modern Zen monk must be said to be abundantly supplied. Still his
wants are reduced to a minimum and no one can fail to lead a simple,
perhaps the simplest, life if he models his after that of the Zen monk.

The desire to possess is considered by Buddhism to be one of the worst
passions mortals are apt to be obsessed with. What in fact causes so
much misery in the world is due to a strong impulse of acquisitiveness.
As power is desired, the strong always tyrannise over the weak: as
wealth is coveted, the rich and poor are always crossing their swords
of bitter enmity. International wars rage, social unrest ever goes on,
unless the impulse to have and hold is completely uprooted. Cannot a
society be reorganised upon an entirely different basis from what we
have been used to see from the beginning of history? Cannot we ever
hope to stop the amassing of wealth and the wielding of power merely
from the desire for individual or national aggrandisement? Despairing
of the utter irrationality of human affairs, the Buddhist monks have
gone to the other extreme and cut themselves off even from reasonable
and perfectly innocent enjoyments of life. However, the Zen ideal of
putting up the monk’s belongings in a tiny box a little larger than a
foot square and three inches high, is their mute protest, though so far
ineffective, against the present order of society.

* * * * *

In this connection it will be of interest to read the admonition left
by Daito the National Teacher (1282–1337),[7.9] to his disciples.
He was the founder of Daitokuji, Kyoto, in 1326, and is said to
have spent about one-third of his life which was not a very long
one, among the lowest layers of society under the Gojo bridge,
begging his food, doing all kinds of menial work, and despised by the
so-called respectable people of the world. He did not care for the
magnificence of a prosperous and highly-honoured temple life led by
most Buddhist priests of those days, nor did he think much of those
pious and sanctimonious deeds that only testify to the superficiality
of their religious life. He was for the plainest living and the highest
thinking. The admonition reads:

“O you, monks, who are here in this mountain monastery, remember that
you are gathered for the sake of the religion and not for the sake of
clothes and food. As long as we have shoulders [that is, the body],
we have to wear clothes, and as long as we have a mouth, we have to
eat; but be ever mindful, throughout the twelve hours of the day, to
apply yourselves to the study of the Unthinkable. Time passes like
an arrow, never let your minds be disturbed by worldly cares. Ever,
ever be on the look-out. After my wandering away, some of you may have
fine temples in prosperous conditions, towers and halls and holy books
all decorated in gold and silver, and devotees may noisily crowd into
the grounds; some may pass hours in reading the Sutras and reciting
dharanis, and sitting long in contemplation, may not give themselves
up to sleep; they may, eating once a day and observing the fastdays,
and, throughout the six periods of the day, practise all the religious
deeds. Even when they are thus devoted to the cause, if their thoughts
are not really dwelling on the mysterious and intransmissible Way of
the Buddhas and Fathers, they may yet come to ignore the law of moral
causation, ending in a complete downfall of the true religion. Such all
belong to the family of evil spirits; however long my departure from
the world may be, they are not to be called my descendants. Let however
there be just one individual, who may be living in the wilderness in a
hut thatched with one bundle of straw and passing his days by eating
the roots of wild vegetables cooked in a pot with broken legs; but if
he single-mindedly applies himself to the study of his own [spiritual]
affairs, he is the very one who has a daily interview with me and knows
to be grateful for his life. Who should ever despise such a one? O
monks, be diligent, be diligent.”[f137]

In India, the Buddhist monks never eat in the afternoon. They properly
eat only once a day as their breakfast is no breakfast in the sense
that an English or American breakfast is. So, the Zen monks too are not
supposed to have any meal in the evening. But the climatic necessity
in China and Japan could not be ignored, and they have an evening meal
after a fashion; but to ease their conscience it is called “medicinal
food” (_yüeh-shih_).[7.10] The breakfast which is taken very early in
the morning while it is still dark, consists of rice gruel and pickled
vegetables (_tsukemono_).

The principal meal at 10 a.m. is rice (or rice mixed with barley),
vegetable soup, and pickles. In the afternoon, at four, they have only
what is left of the dinner—no special cooking is done. Unless they are
invited out or given an extra treatment at the house of some generous
patrons, their meals are such as above described, year in year out.
Poverty and simplicity is their motto.

One ought not, however, to consider asceticism the ideal life of Zen.
As far as the ultimate signification of Zen is concerned, it is neither
asceticism nor any other ethical system. If it appears to advocate
either the doctrine of suppression or that of detachment, the supposed
fact is merely on the surface; for Zen as a school of Buddhism more
or less inherits the odium of a Hindu discipline. The central idea,
however, of the monkish life is not to waste, but to make the best
possible use of things as they are given us, which is also the spirit
of Buddhism in general. In truth, the intellect, imagination, and all
other mental faculties as well as the physical objects surrounding
us, our own bodies not excepted, are given us for the unfolding and
enhancing of the highest powers possessed by us as spiritual entities
and not merely for the gratification of our individual whims or
desires, which are sure to conflict with and injure the interests and
rights asserted by others. These are some of the inner ideas
underlying the simplicity and poverty of the monkish life.

III

As there is something to be regarded as peculiarly Zen in the table
manners of the monks, some description of them will be given here.

At meal times a gong is struck, and the monks come out of the
Meditation Hall in procession carrying their own bowls to the
dining room. The low tables are laid there all bare. They sit when
the leader rings the bell. The bowls are set,—which by the way are
made of wood or paper and well lacquered. A set consists of four or
five dishes, one inside the other. As they are arranging the dishes
and the waiting monks go around to serve the soup and rice, the
_Prajñā-pāramitā-hṛidaya-sūtra_[f138] is recited followed by the “Five
Meditations” on eating, which are: “First, of what worth am I? Whence
is this offering? Secondly, accepting this offering, I must reflect on
the deficiency of my virtue. Thirdly, to guard over my own heart, to
keep myself away from faults such as covetousness, etc.,—this is the
essential thing. Fourthly, this food is taken as good medicine in order
to keep the body in a healthy condition. Fifthly, to ensure spiritual
attainment this food is accepted.” After these “Meditations,” they
continue to think about the essence of Buddhism: “The first mouthful is
to cut off all evils; the second mouthful is to practise every good;
the third mouthful is to save all sentient beings so that everybody
will finally attain to Buddhahood.”

They are now ready to take up their chop-sticks, but before they
actually partake of the sumptuous dinner, the demons or spirits
living somewhere in the triple world are remembered; and each monk
taking out about seven grains from his own bowl, offers them to those
unseen, saying, “O you, demons and other spiritual beings, I now offer
this to you, and may this food fill up the ten quarters of the world
and all the demons and other spiritual beings be fed therewith.”

While eating quietude prevails. The dishes are handled noiselessly, no
word is uttered, no conversation goes on. Eating is a serious affair
with them. When a second bowl of rice is wanted, the monk folds his
hands before him. The monk-waiter notices it, comes round with the
rice-receptacle called _ohachi_, and sits before the hungry one.
The latter takes up his bowl and lightly passes his hand around the
bottom before it is handed to the waiter. He means by this to take off
whatever dirt that may have attached itself to the bowl and that is
likely to soil the hand of the serving monk. While the bowl is filled,
the eater keeps his hands folded. If he does not want so much, he
gently rubs the hands against each other, which means “Enough, thank
you.”

Nothing is to be left when the meal is finished. The monks eat up all
that is served them, “gathering up of the fragments that remain.” This
is their religion. After a fourth helping of rice, the meal generally
comes to an end. The leader claps the wooden blocks and the serving
monks bring hot water. Each diner fills the largest bowl with it,
and in it all the smaller dishes are neatly washed, and wiped with a
piece of cloth which each monk carries. Now a wooden pail goes around
to receive the slops.[f139] Each monk gathers up his dishes and wraps
them up once more, saying, “I have now finished eating, and my physical
body is well nourished: I feel as if my will-power would shake the ten
quarters of the world and dominate over the past, present, and future:
turning both the cause and the effect over to the general welfare of
all beings, may we all unfailingly gain in powers miraculous!”
The tables are now empty as before except those rice grains offered to
the spiritual beings at the beginning of the meal. The wooden blocks
are clapped, thanks are given, and the monks leave the room in orderly
procession as they came in.

Their industry is proverbial. When the day is not set for study at
home, they are generally seen, soon after breakfast, about half past
five in summer and about half past six in winter, out in the monastery
grounds, or in the neighbouring villages for begging, or tilling the
farm attached to the Zendo. They keep the monastery, inside as well as
outside, in perfect order. When we sometimes say, “This is like a Zen
monastery,” it means that the place is kept in the neatest possible
order. When begging they go miles away. Commonly, attached to a Zendo
there are some patrons whose houses the monks regularly visit and get a
supply of rice or vegetables. We often see them along the country road
pulling a cart loaded with pumpkins or potatoes. They work as hard as
ordinary labourers. They sometimes go to the woods to gather kindlings
or fuel. They know something of agriculture too. As they have to
support themselves in these ways, they are at once farmers, labourers,
and skilled workmen. For they often build their own Meditation Hall
under the direction of an architect.

These monks are a self-governing body. They have their own cooks,
proctors, managers, sextons, masters of ceremony, etc. In the days of
Hyakujo there seem to have been ten such offices, though the details
are not now known due to the loss of his Regulations. While the master
or teacher of a Zendo is its soul, he is not directly concerned with
its government. This is left to the senior members of the community,
whose character has been tested through many years of discipline. When
the principles of Zen are discussed, one may marvel at their deep
and subtle metaphysics, if there is any, and imagine what a serious,
pale-faced, head-drooping, and world-forgetting group of thinkers these
monks are. But in their actual life they are after all common
mortals engaged in menial work, but they are cheerful, cracking jokes,
willing to help one another, and despising no work which is usually
considered low and not worthy of an educated hand. The spirit of
Hyakujo is ever manifest among them.

It was not only the monks that worked but the master himself shared
their labour. This was according to Hyakujo to co-operate in and
equalise the work among all concerned without distinction of
rank.[7.11] Therefore, the master together with his disciples tilled
the farm, planted trees, weeded the garden, picked tea-leaves, and
was engaged in all other kinds of manual work. Making use of such
opportunities he gave them practical lessons in the study of Zen, and
the disciples too did not fail to appreciate his instructions.

When Jōshu was sweeping the courtyard, a monk asked him, “How does a
speck of dust come into this holy ground?” To this Jōshu answered,
“Here comes another!” On another occasion, when the master was found
again sweeping the ground, Liu, minister of state, paid a visit to
the temple, and said to the master-gardener, “How is it that a great
wise man like you has to sweep off the dust?” “It comes from the
outside,”[f140][7.12] replied Jōshu.

When Nansen was working out-doors with his monks,[7.13] Jōshu who was
told to watch over a fire suddenly cried out, “Fire! Fire!” The alarm
made all the monks rush back to the dormitory hall. Seeing this, Jōshu
closed the gate and declared, “If you could say a word, the doors would
be opened.” The monks did not know what to say. Nansen, the master,
however, threw the key into the hall through a window. Thereupon, Jōshu
flung open the gate.

While working on the farm a monk happened to cut an earth-worm in
twain with his spade whereupon he asked the master Chōsa (Chang-sha
Ch‘ên), “The earth-worm is[7.14] cut in twain and both parts are
still wriggling: in which of them is the Buddha-nature present?”
The master said, “Have no illusion!” But the monk insisted, “I
cannot help this wriggling, sir.” “Don’t you see that fire and
air elements have not yet been dispersed?” When Shiko (Tzŭ-hu) and
Shōkō (Shêng-kuang)[7.15] were out gardening, a similar thing happened,
and Shōkō asked the master concerning the real life of the earthworm.
Without answering him, the master took up the rake, first struck the
one end of the worm, then the other, and finally the space between the
two. He then threw down the rake and went away.

One day Ōbaku was weeding with a hoe, and seeing Rinzai without one
asked, “How is it that you do not carry any hoe?” Answered Rinzai,
“Somebody has carried it away, sir.” Thereupon, Ōbaku told him to come
forward as he wanted to discuss the matter with him. Rinzai stepped
forward. Said Ōbaku, lifting his hoe, “Only this, but all the world’s
unable to hold it up.” Rinzai took the hoe away from the master, and
lifted it up, saying, “How is it that it is now in my own hands?” Ōbaku
remarked, “Here is a man doing a great piece of work to-day!” He then
returned to his own room.[7.16]

Another day, observing Rinzai resting on a hoe, Ōbaku said to him, “Are
you tired?” Rinzai replied, “I have not even lifted my hoe, and how
should I be tired?” Ōbaku then struck him, who, however, snatching the
stick away from the master, pushed him down. Ōbaku called out to the
Yino (_karmadāna_) to help him up from the ground. The Yino responded
to the call and helped up the master, saying, “Why do you permit this
crazy fellow’s rudeness?” As soon as the master was again on his feet,
he struck the Yino. Rinzai then began to dig the earth and made this
announcement, “In other places they cremate, but here you will all be
buried alive.”[7.17]

The story of Isan and Kyōzan while they were out picking tea leaves
has already been told in one of the preceding Essays. Zen history
indeed abounds with such incidents as here referred to, showing how
the masters try to discipline their pupils on every possible occasion.
The events of daily life manifestly trivial on the surface, thus
handled by the masters, grow full of signification. At any rate all
these “mondoes” most eloquently illustrate the whole trend of the
monastery life in olden days, where the spirit of work and service
was so thoroughly and harmoniously blended with the high thinking on
matters deeply spiritual.

The monks thus develop their faculties all round. They receive no
literary, that is, formal education which is gained mostly from books
and abstract instruction. But their discipline and knowledge are
practical and efficient; for the basic principle of the Zendo life is
“learning by doing.” They despise the so-called soft education which
is like those predigested foods meant for the convalescent. When a
lioness gives birth to her children, it is proverbially believed that
after three days she will push them down over a deep precipice and see
if they can climb up to her. Those that fail to come out of this trial
are not taken care of any more. Whether this is true or not, something
like that is aimed at by the Zen master who will treat the monks with
every manner of seeming unkindness. The monks have not enough clothes
to put on, not enough food to indulge in, not enough time to sleep,
and, to cap these, they have plenty of work to do, menial as well as
spiritual. The outer needs and the inward aspirations, if they work on
harmoniously and ideally, will finally end in producing fine characters
well-trained in Zen as well as in the real things of life. This unique
system of education which is still going on at every Zendo is not so
well known among the laity even in this country. And then the merciless
tides of modern commercialism leave no corner uninvaded, and before
long the solitary island of Zen may be found buried, as everything
else, under the waves of sordid materialism. The monks themselves
are beginning not to understand the great spirit of the successive
masters. Though there are some things in the monastic education which
may be improved, its highly religious and reverential feeling must be
preserved if Zen is at all to live for many years yet to come.

Theoretically, the philosophy of Zen transcends the whole range of
discursive understanding and is not bound by rules of antithesis. But
this is very slippery ground, and there are many who fail to walk
erect. When they stumble, the result is sometimes disastrous. Like some
of the Medieval mystics, the Zen students may turn into libertines,
losing all control over themselves. History is a witness to this,
and psychology can readily explain the process of such degeneration.
Therefore, says a Zen master, “Let one’s ideal rise as high as the
crown of Vairochana, (the highest divinity), while his life may be so
full of humility as to make him prostrate before a baby’s feet.”[7.18]
Which is to say, “if any man desire to be first the same shall be
last of all, and servant of all.” Therefore, the monastery life is
minutely regulated and all the details are enforced in strict obedience
to the spirit already referred to. Humility, poverty, and inner
sanctification—these ideals of Zen are what saves Zen from sinking
into the level of the Medieval antinomians. Thus we can see how the
Zendo discipline plays a great part in the teachings of Zen and their
practical application to our daily life.

When Tanka[7.19] (Tan-hsia T‘ien-jan, 738–824) of the T‘ang dynasty
stopped at Yerinji of the Capital, it was so severely cold that he
finally took one of the Buddha-images enshrined there and made a fire
with it in order to warm himself. The keeper of the shrine seeing this
was greatly exercised.

“How dare you burn up my wooden Buddha?”

Said Tanka who looked as if searching for something with his stick in
the ashes, “I am gathering the holy śaīras[f141] in the burnt ashes.”

“How,” said the keeper, “could you get śaīras by burning a wooden
Buddha?”

“If there are no śaīras to be found in it, may I have the remaining two
Buddhas for my fire?” retorted Tanka.

The shrine-keeper later lost his eye-brows for remonstrating against
the apparent impiety of Tanka, while the Buddha’s wrath never was
visited upon the latter.

Though one may doubt its historical occurrence, this is a notable
story, and all the Zen masters agree as to the higher spiritual
attainment of the Buddha-desecrating Tanka. When later a monk
asked a master[7.20] about Tanka’s idea of burning a Buddha’s statue,
said the master,

“When cold, we sit around the hearth with burning fire.”

“Was he then at fault or not?”

“When hot, we go to the bamboo grove by the stream,” this was the
answer.

I cannot help quoting another comment on the story as this is one of
the most significant subjects in the study of Zen. When Suibi Mugaku
(Ts‘uiwei Wu-hsiao)[7.21], a disciple of Tanka, was making offerings
to the Arhats, probably carved in wood, a monk came up and asked,
“Tanka burned a wooden Buddha and how is it that you make offerings to
the Arhats?” The master said, “Even when it was burned, it could not
be burned up; and as to my making offerings, just leave me alone as
I please.” “When these offerings are made to the Arhats, would they
come to receive them, or not?” “Do you eat everyday, or not?” the
master demanded. As the monk remained silent, the master declared,
“Intelligent ones are hard to be met with!”

Whatever the merit of Tanka from the purely Zen-point of view, there
is no doubt that such deeds as his are to be regarded as highly
sacrilegious and to be avoided by all pious Buddhists. Those who have
not yet gained a thorough understanding of Zen may go all lengths to
commit every manner of crime and excess, even in the name of Zen. For
this reason, the regulations of the monastery are very rigid that pride
of heart may depart and the cup of humility be drunk to the dregs.

When Shukō (Chu-hung)[7.22] of the Ming dynasty was writing a book
on the ten laudable deeds of a monk, one of those high-spirited,
self-assertive fellows came to him, saying, “What is the use of writing
such a book when in Zen there is not even an atom of thing to be called
laudable or not?” The writer answered, “The five aggregates (_skandha_)
are entangling, and the four elements (_mahābhūta_) grow rampant, and
how can you say there are no evils?” The monk still insisted, “The
four elements are ultimately all empty and the five aggregates have no
reality whatever.” Shukō, giving him a slap on his face, said,
“So many are mere learned ones; you are not the real thing yet; give
me another answer.” But the monk made no answer and went off filled
with angry feelings. “There,” said the master smilingly, “why don’t you
wipe the dirt off your own face?” In the study of Zen, the power of
an all-illuminating insight must go hand in hand with a deep sense of
humility and meekness of heart.

Let me cite, as one instance of teaching humility, the experience
which a new monk-applicant is first made to go through when he
first approaches the Meditation Hall. The applicant may come duly
equipped with certificates of his qualifications and with his monkish
paraphernalia consisting of such articles are already mentioned, but
the Zendo authorities will not admit him at once into their company.
Generally, some formal excuse will be found: they may tell him that
their establishment is not rich enough to take in another monk, or
that the Hall is already too full. If the applicant quietly retires
with this, there will be no place for him anywhere, not only in that
particular Zendo which was his first choice, but in any other Zendo
throughout the land. For he will meet a similar refusal everywhere. If
he wants to study Zen at all, he ought not to be discouraged by any
such excuse as that.

The persistent applicant will now seat himself at the entrance porch,
and, putting his head down on the box which he carries in front of him,
calmly, wait there. Sometimes a strong morning or evening sun shines
right over the recumbent monk on the porch, but he keeps on in this
attitude without stirring. When the dinner hour comes, he asks to be
admitted in and fed. This is granted, for no Buddhist monasteries will
refuse food and lodging to a travelling monk. After eating, however,
the novice goes out again on the porch and continues his petition
for admittance. No attention will be paid to him until the evening
when he asks for lodging. This being granted as before, he takes off
his travelling sandals, washes his feet, and is ushered into a room
reserved for such purposes. But most frequently he finds no bedding
there, for a Zen monk is supposed to pass his night in deep meditation.
He sits upright all night evidently absorbed in the contemplation
of a “kō-an.”[f142][7.23] In the following morning he goes out as on
the previous day to the entrance hall and resumes the same posture as
before expressive of an urgent desire to be admitted. This may go on
three or five or sometimes even seven days. The patience and humility
of the new applicant are tried thus hard until finally he will be taken
in by the authorities, who, apparently moved by his earnestness and
perseverance, will try somehow to accommodate him.

This procedure is growing somewhat a formal affair, but in olden days
when things were not yet settled into a mere routine, the applicant
monk had quite a hard time, for he would actually be driven out of the
monastery by force. We read in the biographies of the old masters of
still harder treatments which were mercilessly dealt out to them.

The Meditation Hall is regulated with militaristic severity and
precision to cultivate such virtues as humility, obedience, simplicity,
and earnestness in the monkish hearts that are ever prone to follow
indiscriminately the extraordinary examples of the old masters, or
that are liable to put in practice in a crude and undigested manner
the high doctrines of a Śūnyatā philosophy such as is expounded in the
Prajñā-pāramitā class of Mahayana literature. A partial glimpse of such
life we have already gained in the description of the table manners as
above.

There is a period in the monastic life, exclusively set apart
for mental discipline, and not interrupted by any manual labour
except such as is absolutely needed. It is known as great “Sesshin”
(_Chê-hsin_)[f143][7.24] and lasts a week, taking place once a
month during the season called the “Summer Sojourn” and the “Winter
Sojourn.” The summer sojourn begins in April and ends in August, while
the winter one begins in October and ends in February. “Sesshin” means
“collecting or concentrating the mind.” While this period is lasting,
the monks are confined at the Zendo, get up earlier than usual, and
sit further into the night. There is a kind of lecture every day
during the period. Text books are used, the most popular of which are
_The Hekiganshu_ and _Rinzairoku_,[7.25] the two being considered the
most fundamental books of the Rinzai School. _The Rinzairoku_ is a
collection of sermons and sayings of the founder of the Rinzai Zen
sect. _The Hekiganshu_, as has been noted elsewhere, is a collection
of one hundred Zen “cases” or “themes” with critical annotations
and poetical comments. It goes without saying that there are many
other books used for the occasion. To an ordinary reader, such books
generally are a sort of _obscurum per obscurius_. After listening to a
series of lectures, he is left in the lurch as ever. Not necessarily
that they are too abstruse, but that the reader is still wanting in
insight into the truth of Zen.

The lecture is a solemn affair. Its beginning is announced by a bell,
which stops ringing as soon as the master appears in the hall where
what is known as “Teisho”[f144][7.26] takes place. While the master is
offering incense to the Buddha and to his departed master, the monks
recite a short dharani-sūtra called _Daihiju_,[f145] which means “the
dharani of great compassion.” Being a Chinese transliteration of the
Sanskrit original, mere recitation of the Sutra does not give any
intelligent sense. Probably the sense is not essential in this case,
the assurance is sufficient that it contains something auspicious and
conducive to spiritual welfare. What is more significant is the way in
which it is recited. Its monotone punctuated with a wooden time-keeper
known as “mokugyo,” (Wooden Fish), prepares the mind of the audience
for the coming event. After the Dharani which is recited three times
the monks read in chorus generally the exhortatory sermon left by the
founder of the monastery. In some places nowadays Hakuin’s “Song of
Zazen” is often chanted. The following are translations of Hakuin and
of Musō Kokushi,[f146] whose last exhortatory sermon is one of the most
popular.

Muso Kokushi’s Exhortatory Sermon[7.27]

I have three kinds of disciples: those who, vigorously shaking off
all entangling circumstances, and with singleness of thought apply
themselves to the study of their own [spiritual] affairs are of the
first class. Those who are not so single-minded in the study, but
scattering their attention are fond of book-learning, are of the
second. Those who, covering their own spiritual brightness, are only
occupied with the dribblings of the Buddhas and Fathers are called the
lowest. As to those minds that are intoxicated by secular literature
and engaged in establishing themselves as men of letters are simply
laymen with shaven heads, they do not belong even to the lowest.
As regards those who think only of indulging in food and sleep and
give themselves up to indolence,—could such be called members of the
Black Robe? They are truly, as were designated by an old master,
clothes-racks and rice-bags. Inasmuch as they are not monks, they ought
not to be permitted to call themselves my disciples and enter the
monastery and sub-temples as well, even a temporary sojourn is to be
prohibited, not to speak of their application as student-monks. When
an old man like myself speaks thus, you may think he is lacking
in all-embracing love, but the main thing is to let them know of their
own faults, and, reforming themselves, to become growing plants in the
patriarchal gardens.

Hakuin’s Song of Meditation[7.28]

All sentient beings are from the very beginning the Buddhas:
It is like ice and water;
Apart from water no ice can exist,
Outside sentient beings, where do we seek the Buddhas?
Not knowing how near the Truth is,
People seek it far away,—what a pity!
They are like him who, in the midst of water,
Cries in thirst so imploringly;
They are like the son of a rich man
Who wandered away among the poor.
The reason why we transmigrate through the six worlds,
Is because we are lost in the darkness of ignorance;
Going astray further and further in the darkness,
When are we able to get away from birth-and-death?

As regards the Meditation practised in the Mahayana,
We have no words to praise it fully,
The Virtues of Perfection such as charity and morality,
And the invocation of the Buddha’s name, confession, and ascetic
discipline,
And many other good deeds of merit,—
All these issue from the practise of Meditation.
Even those who have attained it even for one sitting,
Will see all their evil karma wiped clean;
Nowhere they will find the evil paths,
But the Pure Land will be near at hand.
With a reverential heart, let them to this Truth
Listen even for once.
And let them praise it, and gladly embrace it,
And they will surely be blessed most infinitely.

For such as, reflecting within themselves,
Testify to the Truth of Self-nature,
To the Truth that Self-nature is no-nature,
They have really gone beyond the ken of sophistry.
For them opens the gate of the oneness of cause and effect,
And straight runs the path of non-duality and non-trinity.
Abiding with the Not-particular in particulars,
Whether going or returning, they remain for ever unmoved;
Taking hold of the Not-thought in thoughts,
In every act of theirs they hear the voice of Truth.
How boundless the sky of Samadhi unfettered!
How transparent the perfect moon-light of the Fourfold Wisdom!
At that moment what do they lack?
As the Truth eternally calm reveals itself to them,
This very earth is the Lotus Land of Purity,
And this body is the body of the Buddha.

The lecture lasts about an hour. It is quite different from an ordinary
lecture on a religious subject. Nothing is explained, no arguments are
set forward, no apologetics, no reasonings. The master is supposed
simply to reproduce in words what is treated in the textbook before
him. When the lecture ends, the Four Great Vows are repeated three
times, and the monks retire to their quarters. The Vows are:

“How innumerable sentient beings are, I vow to save them all;
How inexhaustible our evil passions are, I vow to exterminate them;
How immeasurable the holy doctrines are, I vow to study them;
How inaccessible the path of Buddhas is, I vow to attain it.”

VII.

During the “sesshin,” they have besides lectures what is known as
“sanzen.”[f147][7.29] To do “sanzen” is to go to the master
and present one’s views on a kō-an for his critical examination.
In those days when a special “sesshin” is not going on, “sanzen”
will probably take place twice a day, but during the period of
thought-collection—which is the meaning of “sesshin”—the monk has
to see the master four or five times a day. This seeing the master
does not take place openly,[f148] the monk is required to come up
individually to the master’s room, where the interview goes on in a
most formal and solemn manner. When the monk is about to cross the
threshold of the master’s room, he makes three bows prostrating himself
on the floor. He now enters the room keeping his hands folded, palm
to palm, before the chest, and when he comes near the master, he sits
down and makes another bow. Once in the room, all worldly convention
is disregarded. If absolutely necessary from the Zen point of view,
blows may be exchanged. To make manifest the truth of Zen with all
sincerity of heart is the sole consideration here, and everything else
receives only a subordinate attention. Hence this elaborate formalism.
The presentation over, the monk retires in the same way as before. One
“sanzen” for over thirty monks will occupy more than one hour and a
half, and this is the time of the utmost tension for the master, too.
To have this four or five times a day must be a kind of ordeal for the
master himself, if he is not of robust health.

An absolute confidence is placed in the master as far as his
understanding of Zen goes. But if the monk has sufficient reason to
doubt the master’s ability, he may settle it personally with him at
the time of sanzen. This presentation of views, therefore, is no idle
play for either of the parties concerned. It is indeed a most serious
affair, and because it is so the discipline of Zen has a great moral
value outside its philosophy. How serious this is, may be guessed from
the famous interview between the venerable Shōju[7.30] and Hakuin,
father of modern Zen in Japan.

One summer evening when Hakuin presented his view to the old
master who was cooling himself on the veranda, the master said, “Stuff
and nonsense.” Hakuin echoed this loudly and rather satirically, “Stuff
and nonsense!” Thereupon the master seized him, boxed him several
times, and finally pushed him off the veranda. It was soon after the
rainy weather, and poor Hakuin rolled in the mud and water. Having
recovered himself after a while, he came up and reverentially bowed
to the teacher, who then remarked again, “O you, denizen of the dark
cavern!”

Another day Hakuin thought that the master did not know how deep
his knowledge of Zen was and decided to have a settlement with him
anyhow. As soon as the time came, Hakuin entered the master’s room and
exhausted all his ingenuity in contest with him, making his mind up
not to give way an inch of ground this time. The master was furious,
and finally taking hold of Hakuin gave him several slaps and let him
go over the porch again. He fell several feet at the foot of the
stone-wall, where he remained for a while almost senseless. The master
looked down and heartily laughed at the poor fellow. This brought
Hakuin back to consciousness. He came up again all in perspiration. The
master, however, did not release him yet and stigmatised him as ever
with “O you, denizen of the dark cavern!”

Hakuin grew desperate and thought of leaving the old master altogether.
When one day he was going about begging in the village, a certain
accident[f149] made him all of a sudden open his mental eye to the
truth of Zen, hitherto completely shut off from him. His joy knew no
bounds and he came back in a most exalted state of mind. Before he
crossed the front gate, the master recognised him and beckoned to him,
saying, “What a good news have you brought home to-day? Come right in,
quick, quick!” Hakuin then told him all about what he went through
with that day. The master tenderly stroked him on the back and said,
“You have it now, you have it now.” After this, Hakuin was never called
names.

Such was the training the father of modern Japanese Zen had to go
through. How terrible the old Shōju was when he pushed Hakuin down
the stone-wall! But how motherly when the disciple after so much of
ill-treatment finally came out triumphantly! There is nothing lukewarm
in Zen. If it is lukewarm, it is not Zen. It expects one to penetrate
into the very depths of truth, and the truth can never be grasped until
one comes back to one’s native nakedness shorn of all trumperies,
intellectual or otherwise. Each slap dealt by Shōju stripped Hakuin
of his insincerities. We are all living under so many casings which
really have nothing to do with our inmost self. To reach the latter,
therefore, and to gain the real knowledge of ourselves, the Zen masters
resort to methods seemingly inhuman. In this case however there must
be absolute faith in the truth of Zen and in the master’s perfect
understanding of it. The lack of this faith will also mean the same in
one’s own spiritual possibilities. So exclaims Rinzai: “O you, men of
little faith! How can you ever expect to fathom the depths of the ocean
of Zen?”

VIII

In the life of the Zendo there is no fixed period of graduation as in a
school education. With some, graduation may not take place even after
his twenty years’ boarding there. But with ordinary abilities and a
large amount of perseverance and indefatigability, one is able to probe
into every intricacy of the teachings of Zen within a space of ten
years.

To practise the principle of Zen, however, in every moment of life,
that is, to grow fully saturated in the spirit of Zen is another
question. One life may be too short for it, for it is said that even
Śākyamuni and Maitreya themselves are yet in the midst of self-training.

To be a perfectly qualified master, a mere understanding of the truth
of Zen is not sufficient. One must go through a period which
is known as “the long maturing of the sacred womb.”[7.31] The term
must have originally come from Taoism; and in Zen nowadays it means,
broadly speaking, living a life harmonious with the understanding.
Under the direction of a master, a monk may finally attain to a
thorough knowledge of all the mysteries of Zen; but this is more or
less intellectual, though in the highest possible sense. The monk’s
life, in and out, must grow in perfect unison with this attainment.
To do this a further training is necessary, for what he has gained
at Zendo is after all the pointing of the direction where his utmost
efforts have to be put forth. But it is not at all imperative now to
remain in the Zendo. On the contrary, his intellectual attainments
must be further put on trial by coming into actual contact with the
world. There are no prescribed rules for this “maturing.” Each one
acts on his own discretion in the accidental circumstances in which
he may find himself. He may retire into the mountains and live a
solitary hermit, or he may come out into the “market” and be an active
participant in all the affairs of the world. The sixth patriarch is
said to have been living among the mountaineers for fifteen years
after he left the fifth patriarch. He was quite unknown in the world
until he came out to a lecture by Inshu (Yin-tsung).[7.32] Chu, the
National Teacher of Nan-yang, spent forty years in Nanyang and did not
show himself out in the capital. But his holy life became known far
and near, and at the urgent request of the Emperor he finally left his
hut. Isan (Wei-shan) spent several years in the wilderness, living on
nuts and befriending monkeys and deer. However, he was found out and
big monasteries were built about his anchorage, he became master of
1,500 monks. Kwanzan,[7.33] the founder of Myōshinji, Kyoto, retired
in Mino province, and worked as day-labourer for the villagers. Nobody
recognised him until one day an accident brought out his identity and
the court insisted on his founding a monastery in the capital.[f150]
Hakuin became the keeper of a deserted temple in Suruga which was his
sole heritage in the world. We can picture to ourselves the scene of
its dilapidations when we read this: “There were no roofs and the
stars shone through at night. Nor was there any floor. It was necessary
to have a rain-hat and to put on a pair of high _getas_ when anything
was going on while raining in the main part of the temple. All the
property attached to it was in the hands of the creditors, and the
priestly belongings were mortgaged to the merchants.”—This was the
beginning of Hakuin’s career.

There are many other notable ones, the history of Zen abounds with such
instances. The idea however is not to practise asceticism, it is the
“maturing,” as they have properly designated, of one’s moral character.
Many serpents and adders are waiting at the porch, and if one fails to
trample them down effectively, they raise the heads again and the whole
edifice of moral culture built up in vision may collapse even in one
day. Antinomianism is also the pitfall for Zen followers, against which
a constant vigil is needed. Hence this “maturing.”

In some respects, no doubt, this kind of education prevailing at
the Zendo is behind the times. But its guiding principles such as
simplification of life, not wasting a moment idly, self-independence,
and what they call “secret virtue,” are sound for all ages.
Especially, this latter is one of the most characteristic features
of Zen discipline. “Secret virtue” means practising goodness without
any thought of recognition, neither by others nor by oneself. The
Christians may call this the doing of “Thy Will.” A child is drowned,
and I get into the water, and it is saved. What was to be done was
done. Nothing more is thought of it. I walk away and never turn back.
A cloud passes, and the sky is as blue and as broad as ever. Zen calls
it a “deed without merit,” and compares it to a man’s work who tries to
fill up a well with snow.

This is the psychological aspect of “secret virtue.” When it is
religiously considered, it is to regard and use the world reverentially
and gratefully, feeling as if one were carrying on one’s shoulders all
the sins of the world. An old woman asked Jōshu,[7.34] “I belong to
the sex that is hindered in five ways from attaining Buddhahood;
and how can I ever be delivered from them?” Answered the master, “O
let all other people be born in heaven and let me, this humble self,
alone continue suffering in this ocean of pain!” This is the spirit
of the true Zen student. There is another story illustrating the same
spirit of longsuffering. The district of Jōshu where this Zen master’s
monastery was situated and where he got his popular title, was noted
for a fine stone-bridge. A monk one day came up to the master and
asked,[7.35] “We hear so much of the splendid stone-bridge of Jōshu,
but I see here nothing but a miserable old rustic log-bridge.” Jōshu
retorted, “You just see the rustic log-bridge, and fail to see the
stone-bridge of Jōshu.” “What is the stone-bridge then?” “Horses go
over it, asses go over it,” was Jōshu’s reply. This seems to be but
a trivial talk about a bridge, but considered from the inner way of
looking at such cases, there is a great deal of truth touching the
centre of one’s spiritual life. We may inquire what kind of bridge is
represented here. Was Jōshu speaking only of a stone-bridge in his
monastery premises, which was strong enough for all kinds of passengers
over it? Let each one of us reflect within himself and see if he is in
possession of one bridge over which pass not only horses and asses,
men and women, carts heavy and light, but the whole world with its
insanities and morbidities, and which is not only thus passed over
but quite frequently trampled down and even cursed,—a bridge which
suffers all these treatments, good as well as despised, patiently and
uncomplainingly. Was Jōshu referring to this kind of bridge? In any
event we can read something of the sort in the cases above cited.

But this Zen spirit of self-suffering ought not to be understood in
the Christian sense that a man must spend all his time in prayer and
mortification for the absolution of sin. For a Zen monk has no desire
to be absolved from sin, this is too selfish an idea, and Zen is free
from egotism. The Zen monk wishes to save the world from the misery
of sin, and as to his own sin he lets it take care of itself, as he
knows it is not a thing inherent in his nature. For this reason it is
possible for him to be one of those who are described as “they
that weep as though they wept not; and they that rejoice as though they
rejoiced not; and they that buy as though they possessed not; and they
that use this world as not abusing it.”

Says Christ, “When thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy
right hand doeth; that thine alms may be in secret.” This is a “secret
virtue” of Buddhism. But when he goes on to say that “thy Father who
seeth in secret shall recompense thee,” there we see a deep cleavage
between Buddhism and Christianity. As long as there is any thought of
anybody, whether he be God or Devil, knowing of your doings, Zen would
say “You are not yet one of us.” Deeds that are accompanied by such
thought are not “meritless deeds,” but full of tracks and shadows. If
a Spirit is tracing you, he will in no time get hold of you and make
you account for what you have done. The perfect garment shows no seams,
inside and outside; it is one complete piece and nobody can tell where
the work began and how it was woven. In Zen, therefore, there ought not
to be left any trace of consciousness after the doing of alms, much
less the thought of recompensation even by God. The Zen ideal is to be
“the wind that bloweth where it listeth, and the sound of which we hear
but cannot tell whence it cometh and whither it goeth.”

Lieh-tzŭ, the Chinese philosopher, describes this frame of mind in a
figurative manner as follows: “I allowed my mind without restraint
to think of whatever it pleased and my mouth to talk about whatever
it pleased; I then forgot whether the ‘this and not-this’ was mine
or other’s, whether the gain and loss was mine or other’s; nor did I
know whether Lao-shang-shin was my teacher, and whether Pa-kao was my
friend. In and out, I was thoroughly transformed; and then it was that
the eye became like the ear, and the ear like the nose, and the nose
like the mouth; and there was nothing that was not identified. The mind
was concentrated, and the form dissolved, and the bones and flesh all
thawed away: I did not know where my form was supported, where my feet
were treading; I just moved along with the wind, east and west, like a
leaf of a tree detached from the stem, I was not conscious whether
I was riding on the wind or the wind riding on me.”[f151]

As I stated before, Zen followers do not approve of Christians, even
Christian mystics being too conscious of God who is the creator and
supporter of all life and all being. Their attitude towards the
Buddha and Zen is that of Lieh-tzŭ riding on the wind; a complete
identification of the self with the object of thought is what is
aimed at by the disciples of Jōshu, Ummon, and other leaders of Zen.
This is the reason why they are all loath to hear the word Buddha
or Zen mentioned in their discourse, not because indeed they are
anti-Buddhist, but because they have so thoroughly assimilated Buddhism
in their being. Listen to the gentle remonstrance given by Hōyen, of
Gosozan, to his disciple Yengo:

Goso said,[7.36] “You are all right, but you have a trivial fault.”
Yengo asked two or three times what that fault was. Said the master
at last, “You have altogether too much of Zen.” “Why,” protested the
disciple, “if one is studying Zen at all, don’t you think it the most
natural thing for one to be talking of it? Why do you dislike it?”
Replied Goso, “When it is like an ordinary everyday conversation, it
is somewhat better.” A monk happened to be there with them, who asked,
“Why do you specially hate talking about Zen?” “Because it turns one’s
stomach,” was the master’s verdict.

Rinzai’s way of expressing himself in regard to this point is
quite violent and revolutionary. And if we were not acquainted with
the methods of Zen teachings, such passages as are quoted below would
surely make our teeth chatter and our hair stand on end. The reader may
think the author simply horrible, but we all know well how earnestly he
feels about the falsehoods of the world and how unflinchingly he pushes
himself forward through its confusion worse confounded. His hands may
be compared to Jehovah’s in trying to destroy the idols and causing
the images to cease. Read the following, for instance, in which Rinzai
endeavours to strip one’s spirit off its last raiment of falsehood.

“O you, followers of Truth, if you wish to obtain an orthodox
understanding [of Zen], do not be deceived by others. Inwardly or
outwardly, if you encounter any obstacles, lay them low right away. If
you encounter the Buddha slay him; if you encounter the Patriarch, slay
him; if you encounter the Arhat or the parent or the relative, slay
them all without hesitation: for this is the only way to deliverance.
Do not get yourselves entangled with any object, but stand above, pass
on, and be free. As I see those so-called followers of Truth all over
the country, there are none who come to me free and independent of
objects. In dealing with them, I strike them down any way they come. If
they rely on the strength of their arms, I cut them right off; if they
rely on their eloquence, I make them shut themselves up; if they rely
on the sharpness of their eyes, I will hit them blind. There are indeed
so far none who have presented themselves before me all alone, all
free, all unique. They are invariably found caught by the idle tricks
of the old masters. I have really nothing to give to you, all that I
can do is to cure you of the diseases and deliver you from bondage.

“O you, followers of Truth, show yourselves here independent of all
objects, I want to weigh the matter with you. For the last five or
ten years I have waited in vain for such, and there are no such yet.
They are all ghostly existences, ignominious gnomes haunting the woods
or bamboo-groves, they are elfish spirits of the wilderness. They
are madly biting into all heaps of filth. O you, mole-eyed, why are
you wasting all the pious donations of the devout! Do you think
you deserve the name of a monk, when you are still entertaining such a
mistaken idea [of Zen]? I tell you, no Buddhas, no holy teachings, no
discipling, no testifying! What do you seek in a neighbour’s house? O
you, mole-eyed! You are putting another head over your own! What do you
lack in yourselves? O you, followers of Truth, what you are making use
of at this very moment, is none other than what makes a Patriarch or a
Buddha. But you do not believe me, and seek it outwardly. Do not commit
yourselves to an error. There are no realities outside, nor is there
anything inside you may lay your hands on. You stick to the literal
meaning of what I speak to you, but how far better it is to have all
your hankerings stopped and be doing nothing whatever!” etc., etc.

This was the way Rinzai wanted to wipe out all trace of
God-consciousness in the mind of a truth-seeker. How he wields
Thor-like his thunder-bolt of harangue!

The state of mind in which all traces of conceptual consciousness are
wiped out is called by the Christian mystics poverty, and Tauler’s
definition is: “Absolute poverty is thine when thou canst not remember
whether anybody has ever owed thee or been indebted to thee for
anything; just as all things will be forgotten by thee in the last
journey of death.”

The Zen masters are more poetic and positive in their expression of
the feeling of poverty, they do not make a direct reference to things
worldly. Sings Mumon (Wu-mên)[7.37]:

“Hundreds of spring flowers; the autumnal moon;
A refreshing summer breeze; winter snow:
Free thy mind of all idle thoughts,
And for thee how enjoyable every season is!”

Or according to Shuan (Shou-an)[7.38]:

“At Nantai I sit quietly with an incense burning,
One day of rapture, all things are forgotten,
Not that mind is stopped and thoughts are put away,
But that there is really nothing to disturb my serenity.”

This is not to convey the idea that he is idly sitting and doing
nothing particularly; or that he has nothing else to do but to enjoy
the cherry-blossoms fragrant in the morning sun, or the lonely moon
white and silvery: he may be in the midst of work, teaching pupils,
reading the Sutras, sweeping and farming as all the masters have done,
and yet his own mind is filled with transcendental happiness and
quietude. He is living in God as Christians may say. All hankerings of
the heart have departed, there are no idle thoughts clogging the flow
of life-activity, and thus he is empty and poverty-stricken. As he is
poverty-stricken, he knows how to enjoy the “spring flowers’’ and the
“autumnal moon.” When worldly riches are amassed in his heart, there
is no room left there for such celestial enjoyments. The Zen masters
are wont of speaking positively about their contentment and unworldly
riches. Instead of saying that they are empty-handed, they talk of the
natural sufficiency of things about them. Yogi (Yang-ch‘i), however,
refers to his deserted habitation where he found himself to be residing
as keeper. One day he ascended the lecturing chair in the Hall and
began to recite his own verse[7.39]:

“My dwelling is now here at Yogi; the walls and roof, how
weather-beaten!
The whole floor is covered white with snow crystal,
Shivering down the neck, I am filled with thoughts.”

After a pause he added the fourth line:

“How I recall the ancient masters whose habitat was no better than the
shade of a tree!”

Kyōgen (Hsiang-yen)[7.40] is more direct apparently in his allusion to
poverty:

“My last year’s poverty was not poverty enough,
My poverty this year is poverty indeed;
In my poverty last year there was room for a gimlet’s point,
But this year even the gimlet is gone.”

Later, a master called Koboku Gen (K‘u-mu Yüan)[7.41] commented on this
song of poverty by Kyōgen in the following verse:

“‘Neither a gimlet’s point nor the room for it,’ some sing; but this
is not yet real poverty:
As long as one is conscious of having nothing, there still remains
the guardian of poverty.
I am lately poverty-stricken in all conscience,
For from the very beginning I do not see even the one that is poor.”

Ummon was not poverty-stricken, but lean and emaciated; for when a
monk asked him what were the special features of his school, the
master answered, “My skin is dry and my bones are sticking out.”
Corpulence and opulence have never been associated with spirituality,
at least in the East. As a matter of fact, they are not inconsistent
ideas; but the amassing of wealth under our economic conditions has
always resulted in producing characters that do not go very well with
our ideals of saintliness. Perhaps our too emphatic protest against
materialism has done this. Thus not to have anything, even wisdom and
virtue, has been made the object of Buddhist life, though this does not
mean that it despises them. In despising there is in a large measure
something impure, not thoroughly purgated; as true Bodhisattvas are
even above purity and virtuousness, how much more so they would be
above such petty weaknesses of human being! When the Buddhists are thus
cleansed of all these, they will truly be poverty-stricken and thin and
transparent.

The aim of Zen discipline is to attain to the state of “non-attainment”
(_cittaṁ nopalabhyate_) as is technically expressed. All knowledge
is an acquisition and accumulation, whereas Zen proposes to deprive
one of all one’s possessions. The spirit is to make one poor and
humble—thoroughly cleansed of inner impurities. Learning, on the
contrary, makes one rich and arrogant. Because learning is earning,
the more learned, the richer, and therefore “in much wisdom is much
grief; and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.” It is
after all “vanity and a striving after wind.” Zen will heartily
endorse this too. Says Laotzŭ, “Scholars gain everyday while the
Taoists lose everyday.”[f152] The consummation of this kind of
loss is “non-attainment,” which is poverty. Poverty in another word
is emptiness, śūnyatā. When the spirit is all purged of its filth
accumulated from time immemorial, it stands naked, with no raiments,
with no trappings. It is now empty, free, genuine assuming its native
authority. And there is a joy in this, not that kind of joy which is
liable to be upset by its counterpart, grief, but an absolute joy
which is “the gift of God,” which makes a man “enjoy good in all his
labour,” and from which nothing can be taken, to which nothing can be
put, but which shall stay for ever. Non-attainment, therefore, in Zen
is positive conception, and not merely privative. The Buddhist modes of
thinking are sometimes different from those of the West, and Christian
readers are often taken aback at the idea of emptiness and at the too
unconditioned assertion of idealism. Singularly, however, all the
mystics, Buddhist or no, agree in their idea of poverty being the end
of their spiritual development.

In Christianity, we seem to be too conscious of God, though we say that
in Him we live and move and have our being. Zen wants to have even this
last trace of God-consciousness, if possible, obliterated. That is why
Zen followers advise us not to linger even where the Buddha is and to
pass quickly away where he is not. All the training of the monk in the
Zendo, in theory as well as in practice, is based in the notion of
“meritless deed.” Poetically, this idea is expressed as follows:

“The bamboo shadows are sweeping the stairs,
But no dust is stirred:
The moonlight penetrates deep in the bottom of the pool,
But no trace is left in the water.”

When this is expressed in the more Indian and technical terms of the
_Laṅkāvatāra-sūtra_, it is as follows:

“Habit-energy is not separated from mind, nor is it together with mind;
though enveloped in habit-energy, mind has no marks of difference.

“Habit-energy which is like a soiled garment produced by manovijñāna,
keeps mind from shining forth, though mind itself is a robe of the
utmost purity.

“I state that the ālaya is like empty space, which is neither
existent nor non-existent; for the ālaya has nothing to do with being
or no-being.

“Through the transformation of manovijñāna, mind is cleansed of
foulness, it is enlightened as it now thoroughly understands all
things:—this I preach.”[f153]

XII

The monastery life is not all working and sitting quiet meditating on
the “_kō-an_.” There is something of intellectual life, in the form of
lecturing as has already been referred to. Anciently, however, there
was no regular “_sesshin_,” and all the lecturing or giving sermons
to the congregation was carried on the feast days, memorial days, or
on other auspicious occasions such as receiving visitors, honourably
discharging the officials, or completing given pieces of work. Every
available opportunity was thus used intellectually to enlighten earnest
seekers of the truth. These discourses, sermons, exhortations, and
short pithy remarks so characteristic of Zen are recorded in its
literature, the bulk of which indeed consists of nothing but these.
While claiming to be above letters, Zen is filled with them, almost
overfilled. Before giving some of such sermons, let me digress and say
a few words about the Chinese language as the vehicle of Zen philosophy.

To my mind, the Chinese language is pre-eminently adapted for Zen,
it is probably the best medium of expression for Zen as long as its
literary side alone is thought of. Being monosyllabic the language is
terse and vigorous, and a single word is made to convey so much meaning
in it. While vagueness of sense is perhaps an unavoidable shortcoming
accompanying those advantages, Zen knows how to avail itself of it, and
the very vagueness of the language becomes a most powerful weapon
in the hand of the master. He is far from wanting to be obscure and
misleading, but a well-chosen monosyllable grows when it falls from his
lips into a most pregnant word loaded with the whole system of Zen.
Ummon is regarded as the foremost adept in this direction. To show the
extreme laconism of his sayings, the following[7.42] are quoted:

When he was asked what was the sword of Ummon, he replied, “Hung!”

“What is the one straight passage to Ummon?” “Most intimate!”

“Which one of the Trikāya [Three Bodies of Buddha] is it that will
sermonise?” “To the point!”

“I understand this is said by all the old masters, that when you know
[the truth], all the karma-hindrances are empty from the beginning;
but if you do not, you have to pay all the debts back. I wonder if
the second patriarch knew this or not.” Replied the master, “Most
certainly!”

“What is the eye of the true Dharma?” “Everywhere!”

“When one commits patricide, or matricide, one goes to the Buddha to
confess the sin; when however one murders a Buddha or Patriarch, where
should one go for confession?” “Exposed!”

“What is the Tao [path, way, or truth]?” “Walk on!”

“How is it that without the parent’s consent one cannot be ordained?”
“How shallow!” “I cannot understand.” “How deep!”

“What kind of phrase is it that does not cast any shadow?” “Revealed!”

“How do you have an eye in a question[f154]?” “Blind.”

Just one monosyllable, and the difficulties are disposed of. The
Zen master has generally nothing to do with circumlocution; if any
one is a direct and plain speaker, he is the directest in hitting
the point and the plainest in expressing his thoughts without any
encumbering appendages. To these purposes, the Chinese language is
eminently suited. Brevity and forcefulness are its specific qualities,
for each single syllable is a word and sometimes even makes a complete
sentence. A string of a few nouns with no verbs or with no connectives
is often sufficient to express a complex thought. Chinese literature is
naturally full of trenchant epigrams and pregnant aphorisms. The words
are unwieldy and disconnected: when they are put together, they are
like so many pieces of rock with nothing cementing them to one another.
They do not present themselves as organic. Each link in the chain has
a separate independent existence. But as each syllable is pronounced,
the whole effect is irresistible. Chinese is a mystic language par
excellence.

As terseness and directness is the life of Zen, its literature is
full of idiomatic and colloquial expressions. The Chinese as you
all know, being such partisans to classic formalism, scholars and
philosophers did not know how to express themselves but in elegant
and highly polished style. And consequently all that is left to us
in ancient Chinese literature is this classicism, nothing of popular
and colloquial lore had come down to posterity. Whatever we have of
the latter from the T‘ang and the Sung dynasty is to be sought in the
writings of the Zen masters. It is an irony of fate that those who so
despised the use of letters as conveyor of truth and directly appealed
to the understanding of an intuitive faculty became the bearers and
transmitters of ancient popular idioms and expressions which were
thrown away by the classical writers as unworthy and vulgar from the
main body of literature. The reason however is plain. The Buddha
preached in the vernacular language of the people; so did Christ. The
Greek or Sanskrit (or even Pali) texts are all later elaboration when
the faith began to grow stale, and scholasticism had the chance to
assert itself. Then the living religion turned into an intellectual
system and had to be translated into a highly but artificially
polished and therefore more or less stilted formalism. This has been
what Zen most emphatically opposed from the very beginning, and the
consequence was naturally that the language it chose was that which
most appealed to the people in general, that is, to their hearts open
for a new living light. The Zen masters, whenever they could, avoided
the technical nomenclature of Buddhist philosophy, not only did they
discuss such subjects as appealed to a plain man, but they made use of
his everyday language which was the vehicle appreciated by the masses
and at the same time most expressive of the central ideas of Zen. Thus
Zen literature became a unique repository of ancient wisdom. In Japan,
too, when Hakuin modernised Zen, he utilised profusely slangy phrases,
colloquialisms, and even popular songs. This neological tendency of
Zen is inevitable, seeing that it is creative and refuses to express
itself in the worn-out lifeless language of scholars and stylists. As
the result even learned students of Chinese literature these days are
unable to understand the Zen writings, and their spiritual meanings
as well. Thus has Zen literature come to constitute a unique class of
literary work in China, standing all by itself outside the main bulk of
classical literature.

As I said elsewhere, Zen became truly the product of the Chinese mind
by thus creating a unique influence in the history of Chinese culture.
As long as Indian influence predominated, Zen could not be free from
the speculative abstraction of Buddhist philosophy, which meant that
Zen was not Zen in its specialised sense. Some scholars think that
there is no Zen in the so-called primitive Buddhism and that the
Buddha was not at all the author of Zen. But we must all remember
that such critics are entirely ignoring the fact that religion when
transplanted adapts itself to the genius of the people among whom it is
introduced, and that unless it does so it gradually dies out, proving
that there was no life-giving soul in that religion. Zen has claimed
from the beginning of its history in China that it is transmitting the
spirit and not the letter of the Buddha, by which we understand that
Zen, independent of traditional Buddhist philosophy including
its terminology and modes of thinking, wove out its own garment from
within just as the silkworm weaves its own cocoon. Therefore, the outer
garment of Zen is original, befitting itself wonderfully well, and
there are no patchings on it, nor any seams either: Zen is truly the
traditional celestial robe.

XIII

Before closing I must not forget to give some of the sermons by the
masters which are recorded chiefly in _The Record of the Transmission
of the Lamp_, as well as in the “Sayings.”

Jōshu says[7.43]: “This thing is like holding up a transparent crystal
in your hand. When a stranger comes, it reflects him as such; when a
native Chinese comes, it reflects him as such. I pick up a blade of
grass and make it work as a golden-bodied one[f155] sixteen feet high.
I again take hold of a golden-bodied one sixteen feet high and make him
act as a blade of grass. The Buddha is what constitutes human desires
and human desires are no other than Buddhahood.” A monk asked,[f167]

“For whom are the Buddha’s desires roused?”

“His desires are roused for all sentient beings.”

“How does he get rid of them then?”

“What is the use of getting rid of them?” answered the master.

On another occasion he said: “Kāśyapa handed [the Law] over to Ānanda,
and can you tell me to whom Bodhi-Dharma handed it over?”

A monk interposed: “How is it that we read about the second patriarch’s
getting its marrow from Dharma?”[f157]

“Don’t disparage the second patriarch,” Jōshu continued: “Dharma claims
that the one who was outside got the skin and the inside one got the
bone; but can you tell me what the inmost one gets?”

A monk said, “But don’t we all know that there was one who got the
marrow?”

Retorted the master: “He has just got the skin. Here in my place I do
not allow even to talk of the marrow.”

“What is the marrow then?”

“If you ask me thus, even the skin you have not traced.”

“How grand then you are!” said the monk. “Is this not your absolute
position, sir?”

“Do you know there is one who will not accept you?”

“If you say so, there must be one who will take another position.”

“Who is such another?” demanded the master.

“Who is not such another?” retorted the monk.

“I will let you talk all you like.”

The sermons are generally of this nature, short, and to outsiders
unintelligible or almost nonsensical. But, according to Zen, all these
remarks are the plainest and most straightforward exposition of the
truth. When the formal logical modes of thinking are not resorted to,
and yet the master is asked to express himself what he understands in
his inmost heart, there are no other ways but to speak in a manner so
enigmatic and so symbolic as to stagger the uninitiated. However, the
masters themselves are right in earnest, and if you attach even the
remotest notion of reproach to their remarks, thirty blows will be
instantly on your head.

The next are from Ummon.[7.44]

Ummon ascended the platform and said: “O you, venerable monks! Don’t
get confused in thought. Heaven is heaven, earth is earth, mountains
are mountains, water is water, monks are monks, laymen are laymen.” He
paused for a while and continued, “Bring me out here that hill of Ansan
and let me see!”

Another time he said, “Bodhisattva Vasudeva turned without any reason
into a staff.” So saying he drew a line on the ground with his own
staff, and resumed, “All the Buddhas as numberless as sands are here
talking all kinds of nonsense.” He then left the Hall.

One day when he came out in the Hall as usual to give a sermon, a monk
walked out of the congregation, and made bows to him, saying, “I
beg you to answer.” Ummon called out aloud, “O monks!” The monks all
turned towards the master, who then came down from the seat.

Another day when he was silent in his seat for a while, a monk came out
and made bows to him; said the master, “Why so late!” The monk made
a response, whereupon the master remarked, “O you, good-for-nothing
simpleton!”

Sometimes his sermon would be quite disparaging to the founder of his
own faith; for he said, “Iśvara, great lord of heaven, and the old
Śākyamuni are in the middle of the courtyard, discoursing on Buddhism;
are they not noisy?”

At another time he said:

“All the talk so far I have had—what is it all about any way? To-day
again not being able to help myself I am here to talk to you once more.
In this wide universe is there anything that comes up against you, or
puts you in bondage? If there is ever a thing as small as the point of
a pin lying in your way or obstructing your passage, get it out for
me! What is it that you call a Buddha or a Patriarch? What are they
that are known as mountains, rivers, the earth, sun, moon, or stars?
What are they that you call the four elements and the five aggregates?
I speak thus, but it is no more than the talk of an old woman from a
remote village. If I suddenly happen to meet a monk thoroughly trained
in this matter, he will, on learning what I have been talking to you,
carry me off the feet and throw me down the steps. And for this would
he be blamed? Whatever this may be, for what reason is it so? Don’t be
carried away by my talk and try to make nonsensical remarks. Unless
you are the fellow who was really gone through with the whole thing,
you will never do. When you are caught unawares by such an old man as
myself, you will at once lose your way and break your legs. And for
that, am I to be at all blamed? This being so, is there any one among
you who wants to know a thing or two about the doctrine of our school?
Come out and let me answer you. After this you may get a turning and be
free to go out in the world, east or west.”

A monk came out and was at the point of asking a question when the
master hit his mouth with the staff, and descended from the seat.

One day when Ummon was coming up to the Lecture Hall he heard the bell,
whereupon he said, “In such a wide, wide world, why do we put our
monkish robes on when the bell goes like this?”

Another time he simply said, “Don’t you try to add frost over snow;
take good care of yourselves, good-bye”; and went out.

“Lo, and behold; the Buddha Hall has run into the monk’s quarters.”
Later his own remark was, “They are beating the drum at Lafu (Lo-fu),
and a dance is going on at Shōjū (Shao-chou).”

Ummon seated himself in a chair before the congregation, there was a
pause for a while, and he remarked: “Raining so long, and not a day has
the sun shone.”

Another time, “Lo, and behold! No life’s left!” So saying, he acted as
if he were falling. Then he asked, “Do you understand? If not, ask this
staff to enlighten you.”

As soon as Yōgi (Yang-ch‘ih),[7.45] a great master of the eleventh
century under the Sung dynasty, got seated in his chair, he laughed
loudly, “Ha, Ha, Ha!” and said, “What is this? Go back to your
dormitory hall and each have a cup of tea.”

One day Yōgi ascended the seat, and the monks were all assembled. The
master, before uttering a word, threw his staff away and came right
down jumping from the chair. The monks were about to disperse, when
he called out, “O monks!” The latter turned back, whereupon said the
master, “Take my staff in, O monks!” This said, the master went off.

Yakusan (Yüeh-shan, 751–834)[7.46] gave no sermons for some little time
and the chief secretary came up to him asking for one. The master said,
“Beat the drum then.” As soon as the congregation was ready to listen
to him, he went back to his own room. The secretary followed him and
said, “You gave consent to give them a sermon, and how is it that you
uttered not a word?” Said the master, “The Sutras are explained by the
Sutra specialists, and the Śastras by the Śastra specialists; why
then do you wonder at me? [Am I not a Zen master?].”

One day Goso (Fa-yen)[7.47] entered the Hall and seated himself in the
chair. He looked one way over the shoulder and then the other. Finally
he held out his staff high in his hand and said, “Only one foot long!”
And without a further comment he descended.

* * * * *

The foregoing selections from Ummon and Jōshu and others will be
sufficient to acquaint the reader with what kind of sermons have been
carried on in the monastery for the intellectual or super-intellectual
consumption of the monks. They are generally short. The masters
do not waste much time in explaining Zen, not only because it is
beyond the ken of human discursive understanding, but because such
explanations are not productive of any practical and lasting benefits
for the spiritual edification of the monks. The masters’ remarks are
therefore necessarily laconic; sometimes they do not even attempt to
make any wordy discussion or statement, but just raising the staff,
or shaking the hossu, or uttering a cry, or reciting a verse, is all
that the congregation gets from the master. Some, however, seem to
have their own favourite way of demonstrating the truth of Zen; for
instance, Rinzai is famous for his “Kwatsu” (_hê_ in Chinese), Tokusan
for his flourishing staff, Gutei for his lifting up a finger, Hima
for a bifurcate stick, Kwasan for beating a drum, and so on.[f158] It
is wonderful to observe what a variety of methods have sprung up, so
extraordinary, so ingenious, and so original, and all in order to make
the monks realise the same truth, whose infinite aspects as manifested
in the world may be comprehended by various individuals, each according
to his own capacity and opportunity.

Taking it all in all, Zen is emphatically a matter of personal
experience; if anything can be called radically empirical, it is
Zen. No amount of reading, no amount of teaching, and no amount of
contemplation will even make one a Zen master. Life itself must be
grasped in the midst of its flow, to stop it for examination and
analysis is to kill it leaving its cold corpse to be embraced.
Therefore, everything in the Meditation Hall and every detail of its
disciplinary curriculum is so arranged as to bring this idea into the
most efficient prominence. The unique position maintained by the Zen
sect among other Mahayana schools in Japan and China throughout the
history of Buddhism in the Far East is no doubt due to the institution
known as the Meditation Hall or Zendo.

THE TEN COW-HERDING PICTURES

The attainment of Buddhahood or the realisation of Enlightenment is
what is aimed at by all pious Buddhists, though not necessarily during
this one earthly life; and Zen, as one of the Mahayana schools, also
teaches that all our efforts must be directed towards this supreme
end. While most of the other schools distinguish so many steps of
spiritual development and insist on one’s going through all the grades
successively in order to reach the consummation of the Buddhist
discipline; Zen ignores all these, and boldly declares that when one
sees into the inmost nature of one’s own being, one instantly becomes
a Buddha, and that there is no necessity of climbing up each rung of
perfection through eternal cycles of transmigration. This has been one
of the most characteristic tenets of Zen ever since the coming-east of
Bodhi-Dharma in the sixth century. “See into thy own nature and be a
Buddha,” has thus grown the watchword of the Sect. And this “seeing”
was not the outcome of much learning or speculation, nor was it due to
the grace of the supreme Buddha conferred upon his ascetic followers;
but it grew out of the special training of the mind prescribed by the
Zen masters. This being so, Zen could not very well recognise any form
of gradation in the attainment of Buddhahood. The “seeing into one’s
nature” was an instant act. There could not be any process in it which
would permit scales or steps of development.

But in point of fact where the time-element rules supreme, this was
not necessarily the case. As long as our relative minds are made to
comprehend one thing after another by degrees and in succession and
not all at once and simultaneously, it is impossible not to speak of
some kind of progress. Even Zen as something possible of demonstration
in one way or another must be subjected to the limitations of time.
That is to say, there are after all grades of development in its
study; and some must be said to have more deeply, more penetratingly
realised the truth of Zen. In itself the truth may transcend all form
of limitation, but when it is to be realised in the human mind, its
psychological laws are to be observed. The “seeing into thy nature”
must admit degrees of clearness. Transcendentally, we are all Buddhas
just as we are, ignorant and sinful if you like; but when we come
down to this practical life, pure idealism has to give way to a more
particular and palpable form of activity. This side of Zen is known as
its “constructive” aspect, in contradistinction to its “all-sweeping”
aspect. And here Zen fully recognises degrees of spiritual development
among its followers, as the truth reveals itself gradually in their
minds until the “seeing into one’s nature” is perfected.

Technically speaking, Zen belongs to the group of Buddhist doctrines
known as “discrete” or “discontinuous” or “abrupt” (_tun_ in Chinese)
in opposition to “continuous” or “gradual” (_chien_)[f159]; and
naturally the opening of the mind, according to Zen, comes upon
one as a matter of discrete or sudden happening and not as the
result of a gradual, continuous development whose every step can be
traced and analysed. The coming of satori is not like the rising
of the sun gradually bringing things to light, but it is like the
freezing of water which takes place abruptly. There is no middle or
twilight condition before the mind is opened to the truth, in which
there prevails a sort of neutral zone, or a state of intellectual
indifference. As we have already observed in several instances of
satori, the transition from ignorance to enlightenment is so abrupt,
the common cur, as it were, suddenly turns into a golden-haired lion.
Zen is an ultra-discrete wing of Buddhism. But this holds true only
when the truth of Zen itself is considered, apart from its relation
to the human mind in which it is disclosed. Inasmuch as the truth is
true only when it is considered in the light it gives to the mind and
cannot be thought of at all independent of the latter, we may speak of
its gradual and progressive realisation in us. The psychological laws
exist here as elsewhere. Therefore, when Bodhi-Dharma was ready
to leave China, he said that Dōfuku got the skin, the nun Sōji got
the flesh, and Dōiku the bone, while Yeka had the marrow (or essence)
of Zen.[f160][8.1] Nangaku who succeeded the sixth patriarch had six
accomplished disciples, but their attainments differed in depth. He
compared them with various parts of the body, and said, “You all have
testified to my body, but each has grasped a part of it. The one who
has my eye-brows is the master of manners; the second who has my eyes,
knows how to look around; the third who has my ears, understands how
to listen to reasoning; the fourth who has my nose is well versed in
the act of breathing; the fifth who has my tongue, is a great arguer;
and finally the one who has my mind knows the past and the present.”
This gradation was impossible if “seeing into one’s nature” alone
was considered; for the seeing is one indivisible act, allowing no
stages of transition. It is however no contradiction of the principle
of satori, as we have repeatedly asserted, to say that in fact there
is a progressive realisation in the seeing, leading one deeper and
deeper into the truth of Zen, finally culminating in one’s complete
identification with it.

* * * * *

Lieh-tzŭ, the Chinese philosopher of Taoism, describes in the following
passage certain marked stages of development in the practice of Tao:

“The teacher of Lieh-tzŭ was Lao-shang-shih, and his friend
Pai-kao-tzŭ. When Lieh-tzŭ was well advanced in the teachings of these
two philosophers, he came home riding on the wind. Yin-shêng heard of
this, and came to Lieh-tzŭ to be instructed. Yin-shêng neglected his
own household for several months. He never lost opportunities to ask
the master to instruct him in the arts [of riding on the wind]; he
asked ten times, and was refused each time. Yin-shêng grew impatient
and wanted to depart. Lieh-tzŭ did not urge him to stay. For several
months Yin-shêng kept himself away from the master, but did not feel
any easier in his mind. He came over to Lieh-tzŭ again. Asked the
master, ‘Why this constant coming back and forth?’ Yin-shêng
replied, ‘The other day, I, Chang Tai, wished to be instructed by you,
but you refused to teach me, which I did not naturally like. I feel,
however, no grudge against you now, hence my presence here again.’

“‘I thought the other time,’ said the master, ‘you understood it all.
But seeing now what a commonplace mortal you are, I will tell you what
I have learned under the master. Sit down and listen! It was three
years after I went to my master Lao-shang and my friend Pai-kao that my
mind began to cease thinking of right and wrong, and my tongue talking
of gain and loss, whereby he favoured me with just a glance. At the end
of five years, my mind again began to think of right and wrong, and my
tongue to talk about gain and loss. Then for the first time the master
relaxed his expression and gave me a smile. At the end of seven years
I just let my mind think of whatever it pleased and there was no more
question of right and wrong, I just let my tongue talk of whatever it
pleased, and there was no more question of gain and loss. Then for the
first time the master beckoned me to sit beside him. At the end of nine
years, just letting my mind think of whatever it pleased and letting
my tongue talk of whatever it pleased, I was not conscious whether I
or anybody else was in the right or wrong, whether I or anybody else
gained or lost; nor was I aware of the old master’s being my teacher
or the young Pai-kao’s being my friend. Both inwardly and outwardly I
was advanced. It was then that the eye was like the ear, and the ear
like the nose, and the nose like the mouth; for they were all one and
the same. The mind was in rapture, the form dissolved, and the bones
and flesh all thawed away; and I did not know how the frame supported
itself and what the feet were treading upon. I gave myself away to the
wind, eastward or westward, like leaves of a tree or like a dry chaff.
Was the wind riding on me? or was I riding on the wind? I did not know
either way.

“‘Your stay with the master has not covered much space of time, and you
are already feeling grudge against him. The air will not hold even a
fragment of your body, nor will the earth support one member of yours.
How then could you ever think of treading on empty space and
riding the wind?’

“Yin-shêng was much ashamed and kept quiet for some time, not uttering
even a word.”

* * * * *

The Christian and Mahommetan mystics also mark the stages of spiritual
development. Some Sufis describe the “seven valleys”[f161] to traverse
in order to reach the court of Simburgh where the mystic “birds” find
themselves gloriously effaced and yet fully reflected in the Awful
Presence of themselves. The “seven valleys” are: 1. the Valley of
Search; 2. the Valley of Love, which has no limits; 3. the Valley of
Knowledge; 4. the Valley of Independence; 5. the Valley of Unity,
pure and simple; 6. the Valley of Amazement, and 7. the Valley of
Poverty and Annihilation, beyond which there is no advance. According
to St. Teresa, there are four degrees of mystic life: Meditation,
Quiet, a numberless intermediate degree, and the Orison of Unity;
while Hugo of St. Victor has also his own four degrees: Meditation,
Soliloquy, Consideration, and Rapture. There are other Christian
mystics having their own three or four steps of “ardent love” or of
“contemplation.”[f162]

* * * * *

Professor R. A. Nicholson gives in his _Studies in Islamic Mysticism_
a translation of Ibnu ’I-Fárid’s “The Poem of the Mystic’s Progress”
(_Tá’iyya_), parts of which at least are such exact counterparts of
Buddhist mysticism as to make us think that the Persian poet is simply
echoing the Zen sentiment. Whenever we come across such a piece of
mystic literature, we cannot help being struck with the inmost harmony
of thought and feeling resonant in the depths of human soul, regardless
of its outward accidental differences. The verses 326 and 327 of the
_Tá’iyya_ read:

“From ‘I am She’ I mounted to where is no ‘to’, and I perfumed
[phenomenal] existence by my returning:

“And [I returned] from ‘I am I’ for the sake of an esoteric wisdom
and external laws which were instituted that I might call [the people
to God].”

The passage as it stands here is not very intelligible, but read the
translator’s comments which throw so much light on the way the Persian
thought flows:

“Three stages of Oneness (_ittihád_) are distinguished here: 1. ‘I
am She,’ _i.e._, union (_jam‘_) without real separation (_tafriqa_),
although the appearance of separation is maintained. This was the stage
in which al-Halláj said Ana ’I-Haqq ‘I am God.’ 2. ‘I am I,’ _i.e._,
pure union without any trace of separation (individuality). This stage
is technically known as the ‘intoxication of union’ (_sukru ’I-jam‘_).
3. The ‘sobriety of union’ (_saḥwu ’I-jam‘_), _i.e._, the stage in
which the mystic returns from the pure oneness of the second stage to
plurality in oneness and to separation in union and to the Law in the
Truth, so that while continuing to be united with God he serves Him as
a slave serves his lord and manifests the Divine Life in its perfection
to mankind.

“‘Where is no “to” _i.e._, the stage of ‘I am I,’ beyond which no
advance is possible except by means of retrogression. In this stage the
mystic is entirely absorbed in the undifferentiated oneness of God.
Only after he has ‘returned,’ _i.e._, entered upon the third stage
(plurality in oneness) can he communicate to his fellows some perfume
(hint) of the experience through which he has passed. ‘An esoteric
wisdom,’ _i.e._, the Divine providence manifested by means of the
religious law. By returning to consciousness, the ‘united’ mystic is
enabled to fulfil the law and to act as a spiritual director.”

When this is compared with the progress of the Zen mystic as is
pictorially illustrated and poetically commented in the following
pages, we feel that the comments were written expressly for Zen
Buddhism.

* * * * *

During the Sung dynasty a Zen teacher called Seikyo[8.2] illustrated
stages of spiritual progress by a gradual purification or whitening
of the cow until she herself disappears. But the pictures, six in
number, are lost now.[f163] Those that are still in existence,
illustrating the end of Zen discipline in a more thorough and
consistent manner, come from the ingenious brush of Kakuan,[8.3] a
monk belonging to the Rinzai school. His are in fact a revision and
perfection of those of his predecessor. The pictures are ten in number,
and each has a short introduction in prose followed by a commentary
verse, both of which are translated below. There were some other
masters who composed stanzas on the same subjects using the rhymes
of the first commentator, and some of them are found in the popular
edition of “The Ten Cow-herding Pictures.”

The cow has been worshipped by the Indians from very early periods of
their history. The allusions are found in various connections in the
Buddhist scriptures. In a Hinayana Sutra entitled “On the Herding of
Cattle,”[f164] eleven ways of properly attending them are described.
In a similar manner a monk ought to observe eleven things properly in
order to become a good Buddhist; and if he fails to do so, just like
the cow-herd who neglects his duties, he will be condemned. The eleven
ways of properly attending cattle are: 1. To know the colours; 2. To
know the signs; 3. Brushing; 4. Dressing the wounds; 5. Making smoke;
6. Walking the right path; 7. Tenderly feeling for them; 8. Fording the
streams; 9. Pasturing; 10. Milking; 11. Selecting. Some of the items
cited here are not quite intelligible.

In the _Saddharma-puṇḍarīka Sūtra_, Chapter III., “A Parable,” the
Buddha gives the famous parable of three carts: bullock-carts,
goat-carts, and deer-carts, which a man promises to give to his
children if they come out of a house on fire. The finest of the carts
is the one drawn by bullocks or cows (_goratha_), which represents
the vehicle for the Bodhisattvas, the greatest and most magnificent
of all vehicles, leading them directly to the attainment of supreme
enlightenment. The cart is described thus in the Sutra: “Made of seven
precious substances, provided with benches, hung with a multitude of
small bells, lofty, adorned with rare and wonderful jewels, embellished
with jewel wreaths, decorated with garlands of flowers, carpeted with
cotton mattresses and woollen coverlets, covered with white cloth and
silk, having on both sides rosy cushions, yoked with white, very fair
and fleet bullocks, led by a multitude of men.”

Thus reference came to be made quite frequently in Zen literature to
the “white cow on the open-air square of the village,” or to the cow in
general. For instance, Tai-an of Fu-chou asked Pai-chang,[8.4] “I wish
to know about the Buddha, what is he?” Answered Pai-chang, “It is like
seeking for an ox while you are yourself on it.” “What shall I do after
I know?” “It is like going home riding on it.” “How do I look after
it all the time in order to be in accordance with [the Dharma]?” The
master then told him, “You should behave like a cowherd, who, carrying
a staff, sees to it that his cattle won’t wander away into somebody
else’s rice-fields.”

The “Ten Cow-herding Pictures” showing the upward steps of spiritual
training, is doubtless another such instance, more elaborate and
systematised than the one just cited.

THE TEN STAGES OF SPIRITUAL COW-HERDING[f165]

[Illustration: Drawing of a person on rural path]
_face p. 357_

_Looking for the Cow._ She has never gone astray, and what is the use
of searching for her? We are not on intimate terms with her because
we have contrived against our inmost nature. She is lost, for we have
ourselves been led out of the way through the deluding senses. The home
is growing farther away, and byways and crossways are ever confusing.
Desire for gain and fear of loss burn like fire; ideas of right and
wrong shoot up like a phalanx.

Alone in the wilderness, lost in the jungle, he is searching,
searching!
The swelling waters, far-away mountains, and unending path;
Exhausted and in despair, he knows not where to go,
He only hears the evening cicadas singing in the maplewoods.

[Illustration: Drawing of a person on rural path searching]
_face p. 358_

_Seeing the Traces of the Cow._ By the aid of the Sutras and by
inquiring into the doctrines, he has come to understand something, he
has found the traces. He now knows that things, however multitudinous,
are of one substance, and that the objective world is a reflection of
the self. Yet, he is unable to distinguish what is good from what is
not, his mind is still confused as to truth and falsehood. As he has
not yet entered the gate, he is provisionally said to have noticed the
traces.

By the water, under the trees, scattered are the traces of the lost:
Fragrant woods are growing thick—did he find the way?
However remote, over the hills, and far away, the cow may wander,
Her nose reaches the heavens and none can conceal it.

III

[Illustration: Drawing of a person on rural path catching a glimpse
of a cow]
_face p. 359_

_Seeing the Cow._ He finds the way through the sound, he sees into
the origin of things, and all his senses are in harmonious order. In
all his activities, it is manifestly present. It is like the salt
in water and the glue in colour. [It is there though not separably
distinguishable.] When the eye is properly directed, he will find that
it is no other thing than himself.

Yonder perching on a branch a nightingale sings cheerfully;
The sun is warm, the soothing breeze blows through the willows green
on the bank;
The cow is there all by herself, nowhere is there room to hide
herself;
The splendid head decorated with stately horns, what painter can
reproduce her?

[Illustration: Drawing of a person roping a cow]
_face p. 360_

_Catching the Cow._ After getting lost long in the wilderness, he
has at last found the cow and laid hand on her. But owing to the
overwhelming pressure of the objective world, the cow is found hard to
keep under control. She constantly longs for sweet grasses. The wild
nature is still unruly, and altogether refuses to be broken in. If he
wishes to have her completely in subjection, he ought to use the whip
freely.

With the energy of his whole soul, he has at last taken hold of the
cow:
But how wild her will, ungovernable her power!
At times she struts up a plateau,
When lo! she is lost in a misty unpenetrable mountain-pass.

[Illustration: Drawing of a person leading a cow with a rope]
_face p. 361_

_Herding the Cow._ When a thought moves, another follows, and then
another—there is thus awakened an endless train of thoughts. Through
enlightenment all this turns into truth; but falsehood asserts itself
when confusion prevails. Things oppress us not because of an objective
world, but because of a self-deceiving mind. Do not get the nose-string
loose, hold it tight, and allow yourself no indulgence.

Never let yourself be separated from the whip and the tether,
Lest she should wander away into a world of defilement:
When she is properly tended, she will grow pure and docile,
Even without chain, nothing binding, she will by herself follow you.

[Illustration: Drawing of a person riding a cow]
_face p. 362_

_Coming Home on the Cow’s Back._ The struggle is over; gain and loss,
he is no more concerned with. He hums a rustic tune of the woodman, he
sings simple songs of the village-boy. Saddling himself on the cow’s
back, his eyes are fixed at things not of the earth, earthy. Even if
he is called to, he will not turn his head; however enticed he will no
more be kept back.

Riding the cow he leisurely wends his way home:
Enveloped in the evening mist, how tunefully the flute vanishes away!
Singing a ditty, beating time, his heart is filled with a joy
indescribable!
That he is now one of those who know, need it be told?

VII

[Illustration: Drawing of a person sitting outside a thatched-roofed
house]
_face p. 363_

_The Cow Forgotten, Leaving the Man Alone._ Things are one and the
cow is symbolic. When you know that what you need is not the snare or
set-net but the hare or fish, it is like gold separated from the dross,
it is like the moon rising out of the clouds. The one ray of light
serene and penetrating shines even before days of creation.

Riding on the cow he is at last back in his home,
Where lo! there is no more the cow, and how serenely he sits all
alone!
Though the red sun is high up in the sky, he seems to be still quietly
asleep,
Under a straw-thatched roof are his whip and rope idly lying beside
him.

VIII

[Illustration: Drawing with just a white background]
_face p. 364_

_The Cow and the Man Both Gone out of Sight._ All confusion is set
aside, and serenity alone prevails; even the idea of holiness does not
obtain. He does not linger about where the Buddha is, and as to where
there is no Buddha he speedily passes on. When there exists no form
of dualism, even a thousand-eyed one fails to detect a loophole. A
holiness before which birds offer flowers is but a farce.[f166]

All is empty, the whip, the rope, the man, and the cow:
Who has ever surveyed the vastness of heaven?
Over the furnace burning ablaze, not a flake of snow can fall:
When this state of things obtains, manifest is the spirit of the
ancient master.

[Illustration: Drawing of a shore line]
_face p. 365_

_Returning to the Origin, Back to the Source._ From the very beginning,
pure and immaculate, he has never been affected by defilement. He
calmly watches the growth and decay of things with form, while himself
abiding in the immovable serenity of non-assertion. When he does not
identify himself with magic-like transformations, what has he to do
with artificialities of self-discipline? The water flows blue, the
mountain towers green. Sitting alone, he observes things undergoing
changes.

To return to the Origin, to be back at the Source—already a false step
this!
Far better it is to stay home, blind and deaf, straightway and without
much ado,
Sitting within the hut he takes no cognisance of things outside,
Behold the water flowing on—whither nobody knows; and those flowers
red and fresh—for whom are they?

[Illustration: Drawing of a monk carrying a sack and basket passing by
a fisherman]
_face p. 366_

_Entering the City with Bliss-bestowing Hands._ His humble cottage
door is closed, and the wisest know him not. No glimpses of his inner
life are to be caught; for he goes on his own way without following
the steps of the ancient sages. Carrying a gourd he goes out into the
market, leaning against a stick he comes home. He is found in company
with wine-bibbers and butchers, he and they are all converted into
Buddhas.

Bare-chested and bare-footed, he comes out into the market-place;
Daubed with mud and ashes, how broadly he smiles!
There is no need for the miraculous power of the gods,
For he touches, and lo! the dead trees come into full bloom.

CHINESE NOTES

(Note: Here are given all the principal Chinese characters and
quotations in order to facilitate the identification of the original
terms and passages found in the text where they are given in their
Japanese pronunciation or in the mandarin dialect generally according
to the Wade system. The sources of the Chinese quotations are also
given for the benefit of those readers who wish to study the subject
further in the original.)

PREFACE

1. 語錄.

2. 公案.

INTRODUCTION

1.1. 教外別傳. 不立文字. 直指人心. 見性成佛.

1.2. 臨濟義玄 (died, 867).

1.3. 上堂云. 赤肉團上. 有一無位眞人. 常從汝等面門出入. 未證據者. 看. 看.
時有僧出問. 如何是無位眞人. 師下禪牀把住云. 道. 道. 其僧擬議. 師托開云.
無位眞人. 是什麽乾屎橛. 便歸方丈. (臨濟錄.)

1.4. 黄蘗希運 (died, 850).

1.5. 雲門文偃 (died, 949).

1.6. 睦州陳尊宿.

1.7. 秦時𨍏轢鑽.

1.8. 蘇東坡.

1.9. 廬山煙雨浙江潮. 不到千般恨未消. 到得歸來無別事. 廬山煙雨浙江潮.

1.10. 青原惟信. 嗣法於黃龍晦堂心. 上堂曰. 老僧三十年前未參禪時. 見山是山. 見水是水.
及至後來親見知識. 有箇入處. 見山不是山. 見水不是水. 而今得箇體歇處. 依前見山秪是山.
見水秪是水. 大衆這三般見解. 是同是別. 有緇素得出. 許汝親見老僧. (續傳燈錄卷二十二.)

1.11. 問. 終日著衣喫飯. 如何免得著衣喫飯. 師云. 著衣喫飯. 進云. 不會. 師云.
不會即著衣喫飯. (睦州錄.)

1.12. 百丈山涅槃和尙 (百丈懷海法嗣). 一日謂衆曰. 汝等與我開田了. 我與汝說大義.
衆開田了. 歸請師說大義. 師乃展兩手. (傳燈錄卷九.)

1.13. 問. 如何是禪. 師云. 摩訶般若波羅蜜. 進云. 不會. 師云. 抖擻多年穿破衲. 襤毿一半
逐雲飛. (睦州錄.)

1.14. 問. 如何是禪. 師曰. 猛火著油煎. (睦州錄.)

1.15. 居士龐蘊問馬祖云. 不與萬法爲侶者. 是什麽人. 祖云. 待汝一口吸盡西江水. 即向汝道.
(傳燈錄卷八.)

1.16. 長沙景岑 (南泉普願嗣.) 因僧問. 南泉遷化向什麽處去. 師云. 石頭作沙彌時. 參見六祖.
僧云. 不問石頭見六祖. 南泉遷化. 向什麽處去. 師云. 教伊尋思去. (傳燈錄卷十.)

1.17. 拂子. 竹箆. 如意. 拄杖.

1.18. 長慶慧稜 (853–932) 拈拄杖示衆云. 識得這箇一生參學事畢. (葛藤集.)

1.19. 芭蕉慧清 (仰山慧寂法孫). 上堂. 拈拄杖示衆曰. 儞有拄杖子. 我與儞拄杖子. 儞無拄杖子.
我奪儞拄杖子. 靠拄杖下座. (五燈會元卷九.)

1.20. 大潙慕喆云. 大潙即不然. 儞有拄杖子. 我奪却儞拄杖子. 儞無拄杖子. 我與儞拄杖子.
大潙旣如是. 諸人還用得也未. 若人用得. 德山先鋒. 臨濟後令. 若也用不得. 且還本主. (禪林類聚
第十六.)

1.21. 睦州因僧問. 如何是超佛越祖之談. 師驀拈拄杖. 示衆云. 我喚作拄杖. 儞喚作什麽.
僧無語. 師再將拄杖示衆云. 超佛越祖之談. 是儞問麽. 僧無語. (睦州錄.)

1.22. 雲問一日拈起拄杖. 擧教云. 凡未實微謂之有. 二乘析謂之無. 緣覺謂之幻有. 菩薩當軆即空.
乃云. 衲僧見拄杖. 但喚作拄杖. 行但行. 坐但坐. 總不得動著. (雲門錄.)

1.23. 雲門或拈拄杖示衆云. 拄杖子化爲龍. 呑却乾坤了也. 山河大地甚處得來. (雲門錄.)

1.24. 雲門因擧生法師云. 敲空作響. 擊木無聲. 師以拄杖空中敲云. 阿耶耶. 又敲板頭云. 作聲麽.
僧云作聲. 師云. 這俗漢. 又敲板頭云. 喚什麽作聲. (雲門錄.)

1.25. 保福從展. 見一僧乃以杖子打露柱. 又打其僧頭. 僧作痛聲. 師曰. 那箇爲什麽不痛. 僧無對.
(傳燈錄卷十九.)

1.26. 楚圓慈明上堂云. 一塵纔擧. 大地全收. 一毛頭獅子. 百億毛頭現. 百億毛頭現. 一毛頭現.
千頭萬頭. 但識取一頭. 乃豎起拄杖子云. 者箇是南源拄杖子. 那箇是一頭. 喝一喝. 卓拄杖一下.
下座. (慈明錄.)

1.27. 碧巖集第十九則. 俱胝一指頭禪. 圜悟曰. 一塵擧大地收. 一花開世界起. 只如塵未舉花未開時.
如何着眼. 所以道. 如斬一綟絲. 一斬一切斬. 如染一綟絲. 一染一切染. 只如今便將葛藤截斷.
運出自己家珍. 高低普應. 前後無差. 各自現成.

ZEN AS THE CHINESE INTERPRETATION OF THE DOCTRINE OF ENLIGHTENMENT.

2.1. 池州崔使君. 問五祖大師云. 徒衆五百. 何以能大師獨受衣傳信. 餘人爲什麽不得. 五祖云.
四百九十九人盡會佛法. 唯有能大師. 是過量人. 所以傳衣信……南泉云. 空劫之時. 無一切名字.
佛纔出世來. 便有名字. 所以取相……只爲今時今時執著文字. 限量不等. 大道一切實無凡聖.
若有名字皆屬限量. 所以江西老宿云. 不是心. 不是佛. 不是物. 且教後人與麽行履. 今時盡擬將
心體會大道. 道若與麽學. 至彌勒佛出世. 還須發心始得. 有什麽自由分. 只如五祖會下四百九十九人.
盡會佛法. 惟有盧行者一人. 不會佛法. 只會道. 不會別事……(南泉錄.) 南泉普願 (748–834).
南嶽下三世. 嗣馬祖.

2.2. 禪那. 漢譯云. 定. 思惟修. 靜慮.

2.3. 禪定.

2.4. (I) 楞伽阿跋多羅寶經. 四卷. 劉宋. 元嘉二十年. 求那跋陀羅譯. (II) 入楞伽經.
十卷. 元魏延昌二年. 菩提流支譯. (III) 大乘入楞伽經. 七卷. 大唐. 嗣聖二十一年. 實叉難提譯.

2.5. 雲門因僧問. 如何是心. 師云. 心. 進云不會. 師云不會. (雲門錄.)

2.6. 汾陽因僧問. 如何是祖師西來意. 師曰. 青絹扇子足風凉. (禪林類聚第四.)

2.7. 雲門示衆云. 叢林言話旣不要. 什麽生是宗門自己. 代. 但展兩手. (雲門錄.)

2.8. 藥山問僧. 什麽處來. 僧云湖南來. 山云洞庭湖水滿也未. 僧云未滿. 山云. 許多時雨水.
爲什麽未滿. 雲巖云. 湛湛地. 洞山云. 什麽劫中曾欠少. 雲門云. 祗在這裡.

2.9. 周敦頤. 程顥. 程頤. 朱熹.

2.10. 趙州僧問. 如何是禪. 師云. 今日天陰. 不答話. (趙州錄.)

2.11. 雲門僧問. 如何是禪. 師云是. 僧問. 如何是禪. 師云拈劫一字得麽. (雲門錄.)

2.12. 上堂. 擧. 僧問巴陵鑒和尙. 祖意教意. 是同是別. 鑒云. 雞寒上樹. 鴨寒下水. 師云.
大小大巴陵只道得一半. 白雲即不然. 掬水月在手. 弄花香滿衣. (五祖錄.)

ENLIGHTENMENT AND IGNORANCE

3.1. 煩惱已悉斷. 諸漏皆空竭. 更不復受生. 是名盡苦際. (方廣大莊嚴經.)

3.2. 漏.

3.3. 法.

3.4. 金剛三昧經.

3.5. 無住菩薩.

3.6. 智顗.

3.7. 智者大師.

3.8. 慧思.

3.9. 法華三昧.

HISTORY OF ZEN BUDDHISM FROM BODHI-DHARMA TO HUI-NENG (YENO)

4.1. 我有正法眼藏. 涅槃妙心. 實相無相. 微妙法門. 付囑摩訶迦葉.

4.2. 李遵勗著. 廣燈錄.

4.3. 契嵩著. 傳法正宗記.

4.4. 景德傳燈錄.

4.5. 支彊梁樓.

4.6. 那連耶合.

4.7. 續法記.

4.8. 寶林傳.

4.9. 聖冑集.

4.10. 身從無相中受生. 猶如幻出諸形像. 幻人心識本來無. 罪福皆空無所住.

4.11. 一切衆生性清淨. 從本無生無可滅. 即此身心是幻生. 幻化之中無罪福.

4.12. 法本法無法. 無法法亦法. 今付無法時. 法法何曾法.

4.13. 通達本心法. 無法無非法. 悟了同未悟. 無心亦無法.

4.14. 心隨萬境轉. 轉處實能幽. 隨流認得性. 無喜也無憂.

4.15. 我本來茲土. 傳法救迷情. 一華開五葉. 結果自然成.

4.16. 趙州從諗禪師 (778–897).

4.17. 嚴陽尊者問趙州. 一物不將來時如何. 州云. 放下著. 者云. 已是一物不將來. 放下這甚麽.
州云. 恁麽則擔取去. (葛藤集.)

4.18. 齊安禪師嗣馬祖. 因僧問. 如何是本身盧舍那佛. 師云. 與我將那箇銅缾來. 僧即取淨缾來.
師云却送本處安置. 其僧送缾本處了. 却來再徵前語. 師云. 古佛也過去久矣. (傳燈錄卷七.)

4.19. 菩提達摩 (Bodhi-Dharma).

4.20. 宗鑑著. 釋門正統.

4.21. 南泉普願 (748–834).

4.22. 馬祖道一 (–788). 百丈懷海 (720–814). 黄蘗希運 (–850). 石頭希遷 (700–790).
藥山惟儼 (751–834).

4.23. 道宣著. 續高僧傳.

4.24. 道原著. 景德傳燈錄.

4.25. 少室六門集.

4.26. 安心論.

4.27. 四行觀.

4.28. 菩提達摩. 南天竺婆羅門種. 神慧踈朗. 聞皆曉悟. 志存大乘. 冥心虛寂. 通微徹數.
定學高之. 悲此邊隅. 以法相導. 初達宋境南越. 末又北度至魏. 隨其所止. 誨以禪教. 于時合國.
盛弘講授. 乍聞定法. 多生譏謗. 有道育. 慧可. 此二沙門. 年雖在後. 而銳志高遠. 初逢法將.
知道有歸. 尋親事之. 經四五載. 給供諮接. 感其精誠. 誨以眞法. 如是安心. 謂壁觀也. 如是發行.
謂四法也. 如是順物. 教護譏嫌. 如是方便. 教令不著. 然則入道多途要唯二種. 謂理行也. 藉教悟宗.
深信含生. 同一眞性. 客塵障故. 令捨偽歸眞. 凝住壁觀. 無自無他. 凡聖等一. 堅住不移.
不隨他教. 與道冥符. 寂然無爲. 名理入也. 行入四行. 萬行同攝. 初報怨行者. 修道苦至.
當念往劫. 捨本逐末. 多起愛憎. 今雖無犯. 是我宿作. 甘心受之. 都無怨對. 經云. 逢苦不憂.
識達故也. 此心生時. 與道無違. 體怨進道故也. 二隨緣行者. 衆生無我. 苦樂隨緣. 縱得榮譽等事.
宿因所構. 今方得之. 緣盡還無. 何喜之有. 得失隨緣. 心無增减. 違順風靜. 冥順於法也.
三名無所求行. 世人長迷. 處處貪著. 名之爲求. 道士悟眞. 理與俗反. 安心無爲. 形隨運轉.
三界皆苦. 誰而得安. 經曰有求皆苦. 無求乃樂也. 四名稱法行. 即性淨之理也. 摩以此法.
開化魏土. 識眞之士. 從奉歸悟. 錄其言語. 卷流於世. 自言年一百五十餘歲. 遊化爲務. 不測於終.
(續高僧傳.)

4.29. 菩提達摩畧辨大乘入道四行. 曇琳序曰. 法師者. 四域南天竺國. 是大婆羅門國王. 第三之子也.
神慧踈朗. 聞皆曉悟. 志存摩訶衍道. 故捨素從緇. 紹隆聖種. 冥心虛寂. 通鑑世事. 內外俱明.
德超世表. 悲誨邊隅. 正教陵替. 遂能遠涉山海. 遊化漢魏. 忘心之士. 莫不歸信. 存見之流.
乃生譏謗. 于時唯有道育. 慧可. 此二沙門. 年雖後生. 俊志高遠. 幸逢法師. 事之數載. 虔恭諮啓.
善蒙師意. 法師感其精誠誨以眞道. 令如是安心如是發行. 如是順物. 如是方便. 此是大乘安心之法.
令無錯謬. 如是安心者. 壁觀. 如是發行者. 四行. 如是順物者. 防護譏嫌. 如是方便者. 遣其不著.
此畧序所云爾.

夫入道多途. 要而言之. 不出二種. 一是理入. 二是行入. 理入者. 謂藉教悟宗. 深信含生. 同一眞性.
但爲客塵妄想所覆. 不能顯了. 若也捨妄歸眞. 凝住壁觀. 無自無他. 凡聖等一. 堅住不移.
更不隨於文教. 此即與理冥符. 無有分別. 寂然無爲. 名之理入. 行入者. 謂四行. 其餘諸行.
悉入此中. 何等四邪. 一. 報冤行. 二. 隨緣行. 三. 無所求行. 四. 稱法之行. 云何報冤行.
謂修道行人. 若受苦時. 當自念言. 我從往昔. 無數劫中. 棄本從末. 流浪諸有. 多起冤憎. 違害無限.
今雖無犯. 是我宿殃. 惡業果熟. 非天非人. 所能見與. 甘心忍受. 都無冤訴. 經云. 逢苦不憂.
何以故. 識達故. 此心生時. 與理相應. 體冤進道. 故說言報冤行. 二. 隨緣行者. 衆生無我.
並緣業所轉. 苦樂齊受. 皆從緣生. 若得勝報榮譽等事. 是我過去宿因所感. 今方得之. 緣盡還無.
何喜之有. 得失從緣. 心無增减. 喜風不動. 冥順於道. 是故說言隨緣行也. 三. 無所求行者.
世人長迷. 處々貪著. 名之爲求. 智者悟眞. 理將俗反. 安心無爲. 形隨運轉. 萬有斯空. 無所願樂.
功德黑暗. 常相隨逐. 三界久居. 猶如火宅. 有身皆苦. 誰得而安. 了達此處. 故捨諸有. 息想無求.
經云. 有求皆苦. 無求乃樂. 判知無求. 眞爲道行. 故言無所求行也. 四. 稱法行. 性淨之理. 目之爲法.
此理衆相斯空. 無染無著. 無此無彼. 經云. 法無衆生. 離衆生垢故. 法無有我. 離我垢故. 智者.
若能信解此理. 應當稱法而行. 法軆無慳. 於身命財. 行檀捨施. 心無恡惜. 達解三空. 不倚不著.
但爲去垢. 稱化衆生. 而不取相. 此爲自行. 復能利他. 亦能莊嚴. 菩提之道. 檀施旣爾. 餘五亦然.
爲除妄想. 修行六度. 而無所行. 是爲稱法行. (傳燈錄.)

4.29a. 佛言. 二入者一謂理入. 二謂行入. 理入者深信無生異眞性. 不一不共. 但以客塵之所翳障.
不去不來. 凝住覺觀. 諦觀佛性. 不有不無. 無己無他. 凡聖不二. 金剛心地. 堅住不移. 寂靜無爲.
無有分別. 是名理入. 行入者心不傾倚. 影無流易. 於所有處. 靜念無求. 風鼓不動. 猶如大地.
捐離心我. 救度衆生. 無生無相. 不取不捨. 菩薩心無出入. 無出入心. 入不入故. 故名爲入.
菩薩如是入法. 法相不空. 不空之法. 法不虛棄. 何以故. 不無之法. 具足功德. 非心非影.
法爾清淨. (金剛三昧經入實際品第五.)

4.30. 別記云. 師初居少林寺九年. 爲二組說法. 秪教曰. 外息諸緣. 内心无喘. 心如牆壁.
可以入道. 慧可種種說心性理. 道未契. 師秪遮其非. 不爲說無念心體. 慧可曰. 我已息諸緣. 師曰.
莫不成斷滅去否. 可曰. 不成斷滅. 師曰何以驗之云不斷滅. 可曰. 了了常知故. 言之不可及.
師曰. 此是諸佛所傳心體更勿疑也. (傳燈錄卷三.)

4.31. 客塵不入.

4.32. 帝問如何是聖諦第一義. 師曰廓然無聖. 帝曰對朕著誰. 師曰不識. (傳燈錄卷三.)

4.33. 神光.

4.34. 迄九年已欲西返天竺. 乃命門人曰. 時將至矣汝等蓋各言所得乎. 時門人道副對曰. 如我所見.
不執文字. 不離文字. 而爲道用. 師曰. 汝得吾皮. 尼總持曰. 我今所解. 如慶喜見阿閦佛國.
一見曾不再見. 師曰. 汝得吾肉. 道育曰. 四大本空. 五陰非有. 而我見處. 無一法可得. 師曰.
汝得吾骨. 最後慧可. 禮拜後. 依位而立. 師曰. 汝得吾髓. (傳燈錄卷三.)

4.35. 慧可 (486–593).

4.36. 道桓.

4.37. 其發言入理. 末加鉛墨. 時或纘之. 乃成部
類.

4.38. 向居士. 影由形起. 響逐聲來. 弄影勞形. 不知形之是影. 揚聲止響. 不識聲是響根.
除煩惱而求涅槃者. 喻去形而覔影. 離衆生而求佛. 喻默聲而尋響. 故迷悟一途. 愚智非別. 無名作名.
因其名則是非生矣. 無理作理. 因其理則諍論起矣. 幻化非眞. 誰是誰非. 虛妄無實. 何空何有.
將知得無所得. 失無所失. 未及造談. 聊伸此意. 想爲答之.

說此眞法皆如實. 與眞幽理竟不殊. 本迷摩尼謂瓦礫. 豁然自覺是眞珠. 無明智慧等無異. 當知萬法即皆如.
愍此二見之徒輩. 伸詞措筆作斯書. 觀身與佛不差別. 何須更覔彼無餘. (續高僧傳第十六.)

4.39. 僧璨問慧可曰. 弟子身纏風恙. 請和尙懺罪可曰將罪來. 與汝懺. 璨良久曰.
覓罪不可得. 可曰我與汝懺罪竟. 宜依佛法僧住. 曰今見和尙. 已知是僧. 未審何名佛法. 可曰.
是心是佛. 是心是法. 法佛無二. 僧寶亦然. 曰今日始知罪性不在內. 不在外. 不在中間. 如其心然.
佛法無二也. (傳燈錄卷三.)

4.40. 沙彌道信. 年始十四. 來禮師曰. 願和尙慈悲. 乞與解脫法門. 師曰誰縛汝. 曰無人縛.
師曰何更求解脫乎. 信於言下大悟. (傳燈錄卷三.)

4.41. 信心銘.

至道無難. 唯嫌揀擇. 但莫憎愛. 洞然明白. 毫釐有差. 天地懸隔. 欲得現前.
莫存順逆. 違順相爭. 是爲心病. 不識玄旨. 徒勞念靜. 圓同大虚. 無欠無餘. 良由取捨. 所以不如.
莫逐有縁. 勿住空忍. 一種平懷. 泯然自盡. 止動歸止. 止更彌動. 若滯兩邊. 寧知一種. 一種不通.
兩處失功. 遣有沒有. 從空背空. 多言多慮. 轉不相應. 絶言絶慮. 無處不通. 歸根得旨. 隨照失宗.
須臾返照. 勝卻前空. 前空轉變. 皆由妄見. 不用求眞. 惟須息見. 二見不住. 愼勿追尋. 纔有是非.
紛然失心. 二由一有. 一亦莫守. 一心不生. 萬法無咎. 無咎無法. 不生不心. 能隨境滅. 境逐能沉.
境由能境. 能由境能. 欲知兩段. 元是一空. 一空同兩. 齊含萬象. 不見精麤. 寧有偏黨. 執之失度.
必入邪路. 放之自然. 體無去住. 大道軆寬. 小見狐疑. 無易無難. 轉急轉遲. 任性合道. 逍遙絶惱.
繫念乖眞. 昏沈不好. 不好勞神. 何用踈親. 欲取一乘. 勿惡六塵. 六塵不惡. 還同正覺. 夢幻虚華.
何勞把捉. 智者無爲. 愚人自縛. 法無二法. 妄自愛著. 將心用心. 豈非大錯. 迷生寂亂. 悟無好惡.
一切二邊. 良由斟酌. 得失是非. 一時放郤. 眼若不睡. 諸夢自除. 心若不異. 萬法一如. 一如軆玄.
兀爾忘縁. 萬法齊觀. 歸復自然. 泯其所以. 不可方比. 止動無動. 動止無止. 兩旣不成. 一何有爾.
究竟窮極. 不存軏則. 虚明自照. 何勞心力. 非思量處. 情識難測. 狐疑凈盡. 正信調直. 契心平等.
所作俱息. 一切不留. 無可記憶. 眞如法界. 無他無自. 要急相應. 惟言不二. 不二皆同. 無不包容.
十方智者. 皆入此宗. 宗非促延. 一念萬年. 無在不在. 十方目前. 極小同大. 極大同小. 忘絶境界.
不見邊表. 有即是無. 無即是有. 若不如是. 必不須守. 一即一切. 一切即一. 但能如是. 何慮不畢.
信心不二. 不二信心. 言語道斷. 非去來今.

4.42. 牛頭禪.

4.43. 法融 (594–657).

4.44. 弘忍 (601–675).

4.45. 道信問曰. 子何姓. 答曰性即有. 不是常性. 師曰. 是何姓. 答曰. 是佛性. 師曰.
汝無姓耶. 答曰. 性空故. (傳燈錄卷三.)

4.46. 保誌 or 寶誌 (418–514).

4.47. 傅翕 or 傅大士 (497–569).

4.48. 慧能 (637–713).

4.49. 神秀 (died, 706).

4.50. 身是菩提樹. 心如明鏡臺. 時時勤拂拭. 莫使惹塵埃.

4.51. 菩提本無樹. 心鏡亦非臺. 本來無一物. 何處惹塵埃. (六祖壇經.)

4.52. 唐中書令張說撰神秀禪師碑銘.

4.53. 法寳壇經.

4.54. 不思善不思惡. 正與麽是. 那箇是明上座. 父母未生以前. 本來面目.

4.55. 生來坐不臥. 死去臥不坐. 一具臭骨頭. 何爲立功課.

4.56. 惟論見性. 不論禪定解脫.

4.57. 玄覺來參. 遶師三匝. 振錫而立. 師曰. 夫沙門者. 具三千威儀. 八萬細行. 大德自何方而來生大我慢.
覺曰生死事大無常迅速. 師曰. 何不軆取無生. 了無速乎. 曰軆即無生. 了本無速. 師曰如是. 如是.

玄覺告辭. 師曰返太速乎. 曰本自非動. 豈有速耶. 師曰誰知非動. 曰仁者自生分別. 師曰汝甚得無生之意.
曰無生豈有意耶. 師曰無意誰當分別. 曰分別亦非意. 師曰善哉. (六祖壇經.)

4.58. 我師所說. 妙湛圓寂. 體用如如. 五陰本空. 六塵非有. 不出不入. 不定不亂.
禪性無住. 離住禪寂. 禪性無生. 離生禪想. 心如虛空. 亦無虛空之量.

師云誠如所言. 汝但心如虛空. 不著空見. 應用無礙. 動靜無心. 凡聖情忘. 能所俱泯. 性相如如.
無不空時也. (六祖壇經.)

4.59. 臥輪有伎倆. 能斷百思想. 對境心不起. 菩提日月長.

慧能沒伎倆. 不斷百思想. 對境心數起. 菩提作麽長. (六祖壇經.)

4.60. 南嶽懷讓參六祖. 祖問什麽處來. 曰嵩山來. 師曰什麽物恁麽來. (傳燈錄卷五.)

4.61. 汝州南院和尙問新到僧. 近離什麽處. 曰漢上. 師曰汝也罪過. 我也罪過. (傳燈錄卷十二.)

4.62. 三聖到香嚴. 嚴問什麽處來. 聖曰臨濟來. 嚴曰將得臨濟劒來麽. 聖以坐具驀口打而去.
(傳燈錄卷十二.)

4.63. 陳尊宿問僧. 近離什麽處. 曰仰山. 師曰五戒也不持.

師又問僧. 近處什麽處. 曰江西. 師曰蹋破多少草鞋. (傳燈錄卷十二.)

4.64. 陳尊宿因僧問. 教意祖意是同是別. 師云青山自青山. 白雲自白雲. (傳燈錄卷十二.)

4.65. 柳宗元撰大鑑禪師賜諡碑曰……六傳至大鑑. 大鑑始以能勞苦服役. 一聽其言. 言希以究.
師用感動遂受信具遁隱南海上. 人無聞知. 又十六年度其可行. 乃居曹溪爲人師. 會學者來甞數千人.
其道以無爲爲有. 以空洞爲實. 以廣大不蕩爲歸. 其教人始以性善終以性善. 不假耘鋤本其靜矣.
中宗聞名使幸臣再徴不能致. 取其言以爲心術. 其說具在. 今布天下. 凡言禪者皆本曹溪.
(佛祖歷代通載第二十卷.)

4.66. 青原行思 (–740). 南嶽懷讓 (677–744).

ON SATORI

5.1. 悟.

5.2. 開悟.

5.3. 心華開發.

5.4. 撥轉關捩子.

5.5. 心機發煥.

5.6. 心印單傳.

5.7. 少室六門集血脈論.

5.8. 馬祖居南嶽傳法院. 獨處一庵. 唯習坐禪. 凡有來訪者都不顧. 師往彼亦不顧. 師觀其神宇有異.
遂憶六祖讖. 乃多方而誘導之. 一日將甎於庵前磨. 馬祖亦不顧. 時旣久. 乃問曰. 作什麽. 師云.
磨作鏡. 馬祖云. 磨甎豈得成鏡. 師云磨甎旣不成鏡. 坐禪豈能成佛祖. 乃離座云. 如何即是. 師云.
譬人駕車. 車若不行. 打牛即是. 打車即是. 又云. 汝學坐禪. 爲學坐佛. 若學坐禪. 禪非坐臥.
若學坐佛. 佛非定相. 於無住法不應取捨. 汝若坐佛. 即是殺佛. 若執坐相. 非達其理. 馬祖聞斯示誨.
豁然開悟. (古尊宿語錄.)

5.9. 問答.

5.10. 擧僧問趙州. 學人乍入叢林. 乞師指示. 趙州云爾喫粥也未. 僧云喫粥了也. 州云洗鉢盂去.
其僧大悟. 後雲門拈云. 且道有指示. 無指示. 若道有指示. 向伊道什麽. 若道無指示. 其僧因什麽悟去.
文悅云. 雲門不識好惡. 恁麽説話. 大似爲蛇畵足. 與黃門栽鬚. 翠巖文悅则不然. 這僧與麽悟去.
入地獄箭射. (古尊宿語錄四十一.)

5.11. 拈弄.

5.12. 德山宣鑑 (779–865).

5.13. 德山. 一夕於室外默坐. 龍潭問. 何不歸來. 山對曰黑. 潭乃點燭與山. 山擬接. 龍便吹滅.
山乃禮拜. (傳燈錄卷十五.)

5.14. 馬大師與百丈懷海行次. 見野鴨子飛過. 大師云. 是什麽. 丈云野鴨子. 大師云. 什麽處去也.
丈云飛過去也. 大師遂扭百丈鼻頭. 丈作忍痛聲大師云. 何曾飛去. (碧巖集.)

5.15. 大慧宗果 (1089–1163).

5.16.道謙在路泣語元曰. 我一生參禪業. 無得力處今又奔波. 如何得相應去. 元告之曰.
儞但將諸方參得底悟得底. 圓悟妙喜爲儞說得底. 都不要理會. 途可替事. 我盡替儞. 只有五件事.
替儞不得. 儞須自家支當. 謙曰五件者何事. 願問其要. 元曰著衣喫飯. 屙屎放尿. 駝箇死屍路上行.
謙於言下領旨. 不覺手舞足踏. 元曰. 儞此囘方可通書宜前進. 吾先歸矣. (續傳燈錄卷三十二卷.)

5.17. 潙山問. 我聞汝在百丈先師處. 問一答十. 問十答百. 此是汝聦明靈利. 意解識想. 生死根本.
父母未生時. 試道一句看. 師被一問. 直得茫然. 歸寮將平日看過底文字. 從頭要尋一句酬對. 竟不能得.
乃自歎曰. 畵餅不可充飢. 屢乞潙山說破. 山曰. 我若說似汝. 汝已後罵我去. 我說底是我底. 終不干汝事.
師遂平昔所看文字燒却曰. 此生不學佛法也. 且作箇長行粥飯僧. 免役心神. 乃泣辭潙山. 直過南陽.
覩忠國師遺蹟遂憩止焉. 一日芟除草木. 偶拋瓦礫. 擊竹作聲. 忽然省悟. 遽歸沐浴焚香. 遙拜潙山.
贊曰. 和尙大慈恩逾父母. 當時若爲我說破. 何有今日之事. 乃有頌. 一擊忘所知. 更不假修治. 動容揚古路.
不墮悄然機. 聲色外威儀. 諸方達道者. 咸言上上機. (五燈會元卷九.)

5.18. 山谷居士黃庭堅. 字魯直. 徃依晦堂. 乞指徑捷處. 堂曰. 祗如仲尼道. 二三子以我爲隱乎.
吾無隱乎爾者. 太史居常如何理論. 公擬對. 堂曰不是不是. 公迷悶不已. 一日侍堂山行次時巖桂盛放.
堂曰. 聞木犀華香麽. 公曰聞. 無隱于爾公釋然. (五燈會元卷十七.)

5.19. 黄蘗佛法無多子.

5.20. 窮諸玄辯若一毫置於太虛. 竭世樞機. 似一滴投於巨壑.

5.21. 馬祖次日陞堂. 衆纔集. 百丈出. 卷却拜蓆. 馬祖便下座. 歸方丈. 次問百丈. 我適來上堂.
未曾說法. 儞爲什麽便卷却蓆. 丈雲. 昨日被和尙扭得鼻孔痛. 祖雲. 儞昨日向甚處留心. 丈云.
今日鼻頭又不痛也. (碧巖集.)

5.22. 投機偈.

5.23. 長慶稜禪師參雪峯. 忽一日捲簾. 豁然大悟. 述偈云. 也大差. 也大差. 起簾來見天下.
有人問我解何宗. 拈起拂子驀口打. (禪林類聚第十五卷.)

5.24. 五組法演投機偈云. 山前一片閑田地. 叉手叮嚀問祖翁. 幾度賣來還自買. 爲憐松竹引清風.
(五燈會元卷十九.)

5.25. 圜悟克勤偈云. 金鴨香消錦繡幃. 笙歌叢裡醉扶歸. 少年一段風流事. 袛許佳人獨自知.
(五燈會元卷十九.)

5.26. 永明延壽禪師. 聞墮薪有聲. 豁然契悟. 乃云. 撲落非他物. 縱橫不是塵. 山河並大地.
全露法王身. (葛藤集.)

5.27. 楊億居士字大年. 偈月八角磨盤空裏走. 金毛獅子變作狗. 擬欲將身北斗藏. 應須合掌南辰後.
(五燈會元卷十二.)

5.28. 衡州荼陵郁山主有頌曰. 我有神 (明) 珠一顆. 久被塵勞羈鎻(埋沒). 今朝塵盡光生.
照見(破)青山萬朶. (續傳燈錄第十三.)

李遵勗投機偈曰. 學道須是鐵漢. 著手心頭便判. 直趣無上菩堤. 一切是非莫管. (五燈會元卷十二.)

張九成聞蛙鳴. 豁然有省 作頌云. 春天月下一聲蛙. 撞破乾坤共一家. 正與麽時誰會得. 嶺頭脚痛有玄沙.
(禪林類聚卷一.)

大燈國師偈曰. 一囘透過雲關了. 南北東西活路通. 夕處朝遊沒賓主. 脚頭脚尾起清風. (延寶傳燈錄卷二十.)

夢想國師偈曰. 多年堀地覔青天. 添得重重礙膺物. 一夜暗中颺碌甎. 等閑擊碎虛空骨. (延寶傳燈錄卷十九.)

太原孚上坐投機偈曰. 憶昔當年未悟時. 一聲胡角一聲悲. 如今枕上無閑夢. 大小梅花一任吹. (釋宗演著.
碧巖錄講話. 第四十七則.)

蒙山異禪師曰. 沒興路頭窮. 踏飜波是水. 超群老趙州. 面目只如此. (禪關策進.)

5.29. 說似一物即不中.

5.30. 高峰原妙 (1238–1285).

5.31. 趙州因僧問. 狗子還有佛性也無. 師云無. 又問一切還皆有. 因甚狗子却無. 師云有.

5.32. 阿誰與儞拖箇死屍到遮裏.

5.33. 僧問趙州. 萬法歸一. 一歸何處. 州云. 我在青州. 作一頜布衫. 重七斤.

5.34. 五祖法演禪師 (西曆千百四年寂) 自讚曰. 百年三萬六千朝. 返覆元來是遮漢.

5.35. 解夏至南明. 欽一見便問. 阿誰與儞拖箇死屍到遮裡. 師便喝. 欽拈棒. 師把住云. 今日打某甲不得.
欽曰. 甚麽打不得. 師拂袖便出. 翌日欽問. 萬法歸一. 一歸何處. 師云. 狗䑛熱油鐺. 欽日儞那裏學遮虛頭來.
師云. 正要和尙疑著. 欽休去. (高峯錄.)

5.36. 白隱慧鶴 (1683–1768).

5.37. 遠羅天釜.

5.38. 大疑現前.

5.39. 巖頭全豁禪師. 常謂衆曰. 老漢去時. 大吼一聲了去. 唐光啓之後. 中原盜起. 衆皆避地. 師端居晏如也.
一日賊大至. 責以無供饋. 遂仆刄焉. 師神色自若. 大叫一聲而終. 聲聞數十里. (傳燈錄卷十六.)

5.40. 佛光國師字子元. 南宋德祐乙亥秋. 值變難. 退過溫之雁峰. 次年重兵壓境. 舉衆逃匿. 師獨兀坐堂中.
兵以刄加頭. 師怡然述頌曰. 乾坤無地卓孤笻. 且喜人空法亦空. 珍重大元三尺劍. 電光影裡斬春風.
復爲說法. 衆生悚聞. 悔謝作禮而去. (佛光錄卷九.)

5.41. 一槌打破精靈窟. 突出那吒鐵面皮. 兩耳如聾口如啞. 等閑觸着火星飛.

5.42. 有定上座到參. 問如何是佛法大意. 師下繩床擒住與一掌便托開. 定佇立. 傍僧日. 定上座何不禮拜.
定方禮拜. 忽然大悟. (臨濟錄.)

5.43. 趙州示衆云. 佛之一字. 吾不喜聞. (趙州錄.)

曇頴達觀禪師. 僧問. 和尙還曾念佛也無. 師曰不曾念佛. 曰爲甚麽不念佛. 師曰. 怕汚人口. (續傳燈錄卷四.)

藥山惟儼. 一日院主請上堂. 大衆才集. 師良久. 便歸方丈閉門. (傳燈錄卷十四.)

百丈涅槃一日謂衆曰. 汝與我開田. 我爲汝說大義. 衆開田了. 請師說大義. 師乃展開兩手. (傳燈錄第九.)

達觀禪師上堂. 衆集定. 首座出禮拜. 師曰. 好好問着. 座低頭問話次. 師曰. 今日不答話. 便歸方丈.
(續傳燈錄卷四.)

5.44. (趙州從諗和尙問南泉曰. 如何是道. 泉曰平常心是道.)

報慈院文欽因僧問. 如何是平常心合道. 欽曰. 喫茶飯隨時過. 看水看山實暢情. (五燈會元卷八.)

僧問長沙景岑. 如何是平常心. 師云. 要眠即眠. 要坐即坐. 僧云. 學人不會. 師云. 熱即取凉. 塞即向火.
(傳燈錄第十.)

PRACTICAL METHODS OF ZEN INSTRUCTION

6.1. 問答 (or 機緣).

6.2. 趙州因僧問. 如何是一句. 師應諾. 僧再問. 師云不患聾. (趙州錄).

6.3. 趙州僧問. 如何是第一句. 師咳嗽. 云莫便是否. 師云. 老僧咳嗽也不得.

僧問如何是一句. 師云道什麽.

僧問如何是一句. 師云是兩句. (趙州錄.)

6.4. 首山省念 (926–993). 因僧問. 一句了然超百億. 如何是一句. 師云到處舉似人. 僧日. 畢竟事如何.
師曰. 但知恁麽道. (傳燈錄卷十三.)

6.5. 趙州因僧問. 一燈燃百千燈. 一燈未審從什麽處發. 師便趯出一隻履. (趙州錄.)

6.6. 利山禪師僧問. 衆色歸空. 空歸何所. 師云. 舌頭不出口. 云爲甚麽如此. 師云内外一如故. 徑山杲云.
若是徑山即不然. 芍藥花開菩薩面. 椶櫚葉散夜叉頭. (禪林類聚卷七.)

6.7. 谿山和尙僧問. 緣散歸空. 空歸何處. 谿云某甲. 僧應諾. 谿曰空在何處. 曰却請和尙道.
谿曰波斯喫胡椒. (傳燈錄卷八.)

6.8. 傅大士 (傅翕 497–569) 空手把鋤頭. 步行騎水牛. 人從橋上過. 橋流水不流.

6.9. 芭蕉和尙示衆云. 儞有拄杖子. 我與儞拄杖子. 儞無拄杖子. 我奪儞拄杖子. 無門曰. 扶過斷橋水.
伴歸無月村. 若喚作拄杖. 入地獄如箭. (無門關.)

6.10. 趙州僧問. 貧子來將什麽物與他. 師云不欠少. 又云守貧. (趙州錄.)

南院慧顒僧問. 久在貧中如何得濟. 師云滿掬摩尼親自捧. (南院錄.)

曹山和尙僧問云. 清稅孤貧. 乞師賑濟. 山云稅闍梨. 稅應諾. 山曰. 青原白家酒三盏. 喫了猶道未沾唇.
(無門關.)

6.11. 嚴陽尊者問趙州. 一物不將來時如何. 州云. 放下著. 者云. 已是一物不將來放下這什麽. 州云.
恁麽則擔取去. (葛藤集.)

6.12. 雲門有時云. 宗門七縱八横. 殺活臨時. 僧便問如何是殺. 師云冬去春來. 僧云冬去春來時如何.
師云橫擔拄杖. 東西南北. 一任打野榸.

6.13. 汝州首山省念禪師. 因指竹箆示衆云. 汝等諸人. 若喚作竹箆即觸. 喚不作竹箆即背. 汝諸人且喚作什麽.
時葉縣省和尚在會下. 乃近前掣得折作兩截. 拋向陛下. 却云是什麽. 師云瞎. 大慧禪師拈云. 速道速道. （葛藤集.）

6.14. 雲門拈拄杖云. 者箇是什麽. 若道是拄杖入地獄. 不是拄杖是什麽. (雲門錄.)

6.15. 五台山秘魔巖. 常持一本叉. 每見僧來禮拜. 即叉却頸云. 那箇魔魅敎汝出家. 那箇魔魅敎汝行脚.
道得也叉下死. 道不得也叉下死. 速道. (傳燈錄卷十.)

6.16. 德山示衆曰. 道得也三十棒. 道不得也三十棒. (五燈會元卷七.)

6.17. 南泉因東西兩堂各争猫兒. 師遇之白衆曰. 道得即救取猫兒. 道不得即斬却也. 衆無對. 師便斬之.
趙州自外歸. 師擧前語示之. 趙州乃脫履安頭上而出. 師曰. 汝適來若在. 即救得猫兒也. (傳燈錄卷八.)

6.18. 仰山寂禪師住東平. 時潙山附書並鏡一面至. 師陞坐. 授書乃提起鏡. 示衆曰. 大衆. 潙山將鏡來.
而今且道. 是潙山鏡. 東平鏡. 若道是東平鏡. 又是潙山寄來. 若道是潙山鏡. 又在東平這裡. 道得卽存取.
道不得即打破去也. 如是三擧. 衆皆無對. 師乃撲破. (葛藤集.)

6.19. 香嚴一日謂曰. 如人在千尺懸崖. 口銜樹枝. 脚無所蹋. 手無所攀. 忽有人問. 如何是西來意.
若開口答即喪身失命. 若不答又違他所問. 當恁麽時作麽生. (傳燈錄卷十一.)

6.20. 殺活. 擒縱. 與奪. 觸背.

6.21. 雲門有時云. 乾坤大地. 殺活總在這裏. 僧便問如何是殺. 師云七顚八倒. 僧云. 如何是活.
師云要作飯頭. 僧云不殺不活時如何. 師便起云. 摩訶般若波羅蜜. (雲門錄.)

6.22. 一僧問師云. 黃梅意旨甚麽人得. 師云會佛法人得. 僧云和尙還得否. 師云我不會佛法. (六祖壇經.)

6.23. 道吾圓智禪師到五峰. 五峰問. 還識藥山老宿否. 師曰. 不識. 峯曰. 爲甚麽不識. 師曰. 不識.
不識. (傳燈錄卷十四.)

6.24. 楊州光孝院慧覺禪師到崇壽. 法眼問. 近離甚處. 師曰趙州. 眼曰承問趙州有庭前栢樹子話. 是否.
師曰無. 眼曰往來皆謂. 僧問如何是祖師西來意. 州曰庭前栢樹子. 上座何得言無. 師曰先師實無此語.
和尙莫謗先師好. 眼曰眞獅子兒能獅子吼. (五燈會元卷四. 葛藤集.)

6.25. 裴相國一日請師至郡. 以所解一編示師. 師接置於座. 畧不披閱. 良久曰. 會麽. 裴曰.
未測師曰若便恁麽會得. 猶較些子. 若也形於紙墨. 何有吾宗. (古尊宿語錄第二.)

6.26. 趙州僧問. 經曰萬法歸一. 一歸何處. 州云老僧在青州. 作得一頜布衫. 重七斤. (趙州錄.)

6.27. 香林遠禪師. 僧問如何是祖師西來意. 師云. 坐久成勞. (碧巖集.)

6.28. 禾山僧問如何是眞過. 山云解打鼓. 又問如何是眞諦. 山云解打鼓. 又問即心即佛即不問.
如何是非心非佛. 山云解打鼓. (碧巖集.)

6.29. 馬大師不安院主問. 和尚近日尊候如何. 大師曰. 日面佛. 月面佛. (碧巖集.)

6.30. 趙州僧問. 百骸俱潰散. 一物鎭長靈時如何. 師曰今朝又風起. (趙州錄.)

6.31. 首山省念僧問. 如何是佛法大意. 山云. 楚王城畔汝水東流. (首山錄.)

6.32. 睦州僧問. 如何是諸佛師. 州云. 釘釘東東骨低骨董.

僧問如何是襌. 師云南無三寶. 進云不會. 師云. 咄這蝦䗫. 得與麽惡業.

又有僧問如何是禪. 師云摩訶般若波羅蜜. 進云. 不會. 師云抖擻多年穿破衲. 襤毿一半逐雲飛.

僧問如何是超佛越祖之談. 師驀拈拄杖示衆云. 我喚作拄杖. 儞喚作什麽. 僧無語. 師再將拄杖. 示之云.
超佛越祖之談. 是儞問麽. 僧無語. (睦州錄.)

6.33. 南院慧顒僧問. 如何是佛. 師云如何是佛. 又云我不會知. 又云彼有即儞道. 僧云與麽則和尙無佛也.
師云正當好處. 僧如何是好處. 師云今日是三十日. (南院錄.)

6.34. 歸宗智常剗草次有講僧來參. 忽有一蛇過. 師以鋤斷之. 僧云久嚮歸宗元來是麁行沙門. 師云座主歸茶堂内.
喫茶去.

6.34a. 師云是儞麁是我麁. 主云如何是麤. 師竪起鋤頭. 主云如何是細. 師作斬蛇勢. 主云與麽則依而行之.
師云依而行之即且置. 儞什麽處見我斬蛇. 主無語. (傳燈錄卷七.)

6.35. 五祖法演上堂云. 昨日有一則因緣. 擬擧似大衆. 却爲老僧忘事都大. 一時思量不出. 乃沈吟多時云.
忘却也忘却也. 復云教中有一道眞言. 號聰明王. 有人念者. 忘即記得. 遂云. 唵阿盧勒繼娑婆訶. 乃拍手大笑云.
記得也記得也. 覔佛不見佛. 討祖不見祖. 甜瓜徹蒂甜苦瓠連根苦. 下座. (五祖錄.)

6.36. 長水子璿問琅瑯覺和尙. 如何是清淨本然. 云何忽生山河大地. 覺勵聲云. 清淨本然云何忽生山河大地.
(葛藤集.)

6.37. 虛堂智愚拈云. 敢問諸人. 問處一般. 答亦不別. 長水因甚悟去. 徑山更與諸人解註一徧. 擊拂子.
清淨本然云何忽生山河大地. (虚堂錄.)

6.38. 長沙景岑因僧問. 如何轉得山河國土歸自己去. 師云如何轉得自己成山河國土. 僧云不會.
師云湖南城下好養民. 米賤柴多足四隣. (傳燈錄第十.)

6.39. 投子大同因僧問. 如何是佛. 云佛. 問如何是道. 云道. 問如何是法中法. 云法中法. (投子錄.)

6.40. 趙州行脚時. 問大慈. 般若以何爲軆. 慈云. 般若以何爲軆. 師僧呵呵大笑而出. （趙州錄.）

6.41. 師問修山主. 毫釐有差天地懸隔. 兄作麽生會. 修曰毫釐有差天地懸隔. 師曰. 恁麽會又爭得.
修曰和尙如何. 師曰毫釐有差天地懸隔. (傳燈錄第二十四.)

6.42. 天台山德韶國師. 歷參五十四員善知識. 皆法緣未契. 最後至臨川. 謁法眼. 眼一見深器之.
師以徧涉叢林. 亦倦於參問. 但隨衆而巳. 一日法眼上堂僧問. 如何是曹源一滴水. 眼曰是曹源一滴水.
僧惘然而退. 師於坐側豁然開悟. 平生凝滯. 渙若氷釋. (五燈會元卷十.)

6.43. 德韶僧問. 承古有言. 若人見般若. 即被般若轉. 若人不見般若. 亦被般若轉. 旣見般若.
爲甚麽亦被轉. 師曰儞道般若見處. 曰不見般若. 爲甚麽亦被轉. 師曰儞道般若甚麽處不見. 乃曰見.
若般若. 不名般若. 不見般若. 亦不名般若. 且作麽生說見不見. 所以古人道若欠一法. 不成法身. 若剩一法.
不成法身. 此是般若之眞宗也. (五燈會元卷十.)

6.44. 玄沙師備云. 汝諸人如似在大海裏坐. 沒頭水浸却了. 更展手向人乞水喫. 還會麽.

僧問如何是學人自己. 師曰用自己作麽.

僧問承和尙有言. 盡十方世界. 是一顆明珠. 學人如何得會. 師曰. 盡十方世界. 是一顆明珠. 用會作麽.
師來日却問其僧. 盡十方世界是一顆明珠. 汝作麽生會. 對曰盡十方世界是一顆明珠. 用會作應. 師曰.
汝向山鬼窟裡作活計.

師一日與韋監軍喫果子. 韋問. 如何是日用而不知. 師拈起果子曰. 喫. 韋喫果子了. 再問之. 師曰.
只者是. 日用而不知.

問學人乍入叢林. 乞師指箇入路. 師曰. 還聞偃溪水聲否. 曰聞. 師曰是汝入處. (傳燈錄十八.)

6.45. 翠巖夏末示衆云. 一夏以來爲兄弟說話. 看翠巖眉毛在麽. 保福云作賊人心虛. 長慶云生也.
雲門云關. (雪寶頌. 失錢遭罪. 白隱下語云. 瞋拳不打笑面.) (碧巖集及槐安國語.)

6.46. 師應機多用喝. 會下參徒亦學師喝. 師曰汝等總學我喝. 我今問汝. 有一人從東堂出. 一人從西堂出.
兩人齊喝一聲. 這裡分得賓主麽. 汝且作麽生分. 若分不得. 已後不得學老僧喝. (臨濟錄.)

6.47. 有時一喝如金剛寶王劍. 有時一喝如踞地金毛獅子. 有時一喝如探竿影草. 有時一喝不作一喝用.
(臨濟錄.)

6.48. 師問洛浦云. 從上來一人行棒. 一人行喝. 阿那箇親. 洛浦云. 總不親. 師曰親處作麽生.
洛浦便喝. 師便打. (臨濟錄.)

6.49. 芭蕉山慧清僧問. 請師直指本來面目. 師默然正坐. (傳燈錄卷十二.)

6.50. 資福如寶僧問. 如何是應機之句. 師默然.

6.51. 杭州文喜禪師因僧問. 如何是自己. 師默然. 僧罔措. 再問. 師曰. 青天蒙昧不向月邊飛 (?).
(傳燈錄卷十二.)

6.52. 曹山本寂因僧問. 無言如何顯. 師曰莫向遮裡顯. 曰向什麽處顯. 師曰. 昨夜三更. 牀頭失却三女錢.
(傳燈錄卷十七.)

6.53. 首山省念僧問. 無弦琴請師音韻. 師良久曰. 還聞麽. 僧曰不聞. 師曰何不高聲問著. (傳燈錄十三.)

6.54. 保福從展僧問. 欲達無生路. 應須識本源. 如何是本源. 師良久. 却問侍者適來僧問什麽. 其僧再擧.
師乃喝曰. 我不患聾. (傳燈錄十九.)

6.55. 楚圓慈明僧問. 祖師西來請師擧唱. 師云. 汝從甚處來. (慈明錄.)

6.56. 羅山道閑. 僧問三界誰爲主. 師曰. 還解喫飯麽. (傳燈錄十七.)

6.57. 天龍和尙僧問. 如何得出三界去. 師云汝即今在什麽處. (傳燈錄十.)

6.58. 趙州僧問. 不掛寸絲時如何. 師云. 不掛什麽. 學云. 不掛寸絲. 師云. 大好不掛寸絲.
(趙州錄.)

6.59. 大隋法眞僧問. 如何是學人自己. 師曰. 是我自己. 僧云爲什麽却是和尚自己. 師云是汝自己.
(傳燈錄第十一.)

6.60. 仰山慧寂問三聖慧然. 汝名什麽. 聖云慧寂. 仰山云. 慧寂是我. 聖云. 我名慧然. 仰山呵呵大笑.
(碧巖集第六十八則.)

6.61. 閃電光. 擊石火.

6.62. 靈雲志勤. 僧問. 佛未出世時如何. 師竪起拂子. 云出世後如何. 師亦竪起拂子. (禪林類聚第十六卷.)

6.63. 黃蘗希運禪師. 月似彎弓少雨多風. (黃蘗錄.)

6.64. 百丈惟政一汝與我開田了. 我爲汝說大義. (禪林類聚第十九卷.)

6.65. 鹽官齊安國師. 古佛也過去久矣. (禪林類聚第十六卷.)

6.66. 石霜慶諸 (806–888). (傳燈錄第十五.)

6.67. 道吾圓智 (768–835). (傳燈錄第十四.)

6.68. 龍潭崇信嗣天皇道悟. (傳燈錄第十四.)

6.69. 道吾圓智與雲巖侍立次. 藥山曰. 智不到處. 切忌道著. 道著即頭角生. 智頭陀作麽生. 圓智便出去.
雲巖問藥山曰. 智師兄爲什麽不祗對和尙. 藥山日我今日背痛. 是他却會. 汝去問取. 雲巖即來問圓智曰.
師兄適來爲什麽不祗對和尙. 圓智曰. 汝却去問取和尙. (傳燈錄第十四.)

6.70. 南陽忠國師. 一日三喚侍者. 侍者三應諾. 師云將謂吾辜負汝. 却是汝辜負吾.

玄沙. 雲居錫 (嗣法眼). 玄覺徵. 法眼. 趙州. (傳燈錄第五.)

6.71. 良遂初參麻谷 (馬祖嗣). 谷召曰. 良遂. 遂應諾. 如是三召三應. 谷曰遮鈍根阿師. 良遂方省悟.
乃曰. 和尙莫謾良遂. 若不來禮拜和尙. 幾空過一生. 谷可之. (傳燈錄第九.)

6.72. 雲居道膺 (died 901). 因荆南節度使問曰. 世尊有密語. 迦葉不覆藏. 如何是世尊密語.
師召曰. 尙書. 其人應諾. 師曰. 會應. 曰不會. 師曰汝若不會世尊密語. 汝若會迦葉不覆藏. (傳燈錄第十七.)

6.73. 斐休. 眞儀可見. 高僧何在. (傳燈錄第十二.)

6.74. 普請摘茶. 潙山謂仰山曰. 終日摘茶. 只聞子聲不見子形. 請現本形相見. 仰山撼茶樹. 師云子只得其用.
不得其軆. 仰山云. 未審和尙如何. 師良久. 仰山云. 和尙只得其軆. 不得其用. 師云放子二十棒. (傳燈錄第九卷.)

6.75. 定上座. (五燈會元第十一卷.)

6.76. 元來黃蘗佛法無多子. (臨濟錄.)

6.77. 鄧隱峰一日推土車次. 馬大士展脚在路上座. 峯云請師收足. 大師云. 已展不收. 峯云已進不退.
乃推車輾過. 大師脚損. 歸法堂執斧子云. 適來碾損老僧脚底出來. 峯便出於大師前引頸. 大師乃置斧.
(傳燈錄第八.)

6.78. 金陵報恩院玄則——丙丁童子來求火. (傳燈錄第二十五.)

6.79. 翠巖可眞嗣潭州石霜楚圓慈明——無雲生嶺上. 有月落波心. (續傳燈錄卷七.)

6.80. 黃龍慧南 (1001–1069). 楊岐方會 (d. 1049).

THE MEDITATION HALL AND THE IDEALS OF THE MONKISH DISCIPLINE

7.1. 敕修百丈清規.

7.2. 一日不作一日不食.

7.3. 坐禪.

7.4. 龐居士.

7.5. 神通並妙用. 運水及搬柴. (傳燈錄第八卷.)

7.6. 禪堂.

7.7. 經行.

7.8. 一衣一鉢. 樹下石上.

7.9. 大燈國師. 遺誡曰. 汝等諸人來此山中. 爲道聚頭. 莫爲衣食. 有肩無不着. 有口無不食.
只須十二時中向無理會處. 究來究去. 光陰如箭. 謹莫雜用心. 看取. 看取. 老僧行脚後. 或寺門繁興.
佛閣經卷. 鏤金銀. 多衆閙熱. 或誦經諷呪. 長坐不臥. 一食卯齋. 六時行道. 直饒雖恁麽去.
不以佛祖不傳妙道掛在胸間. 忽撥無因果. 眞風墜地. 皆是邪魔種族也. 老僧去世久矣. 不許稱兒孫.
或儻有一人綿絕野外一把茅底. 折脚鐺內. 煮野菜根. 喫過日. 專一究明已事底. 與老僧日日相見報恩底人也.
誰敢輕忽. 勉㫋勉㫋.

7.10. 藥石.

7.11. 行普請法. 上下均力也.

7.12. 又一點也. ——外來. (趙州錄.)

7.13. 趙州在南泉. 作爐頭. 大衆普請. 擇菜. 師在堂内叫. 救火. 救火. 大衆一時到僧堂前. 師乃關却僧堂門.
大衆無對. 南泉乃拋鏁匙從窓內入堂中. 師便開門. (趙州錄.)

7.14. 長沙景岑. 嗣法於南泉普願. (傳燈錄第十.)

7.15. 子湖利蹤 (799–880). 勝光. (禪林類聚卷二十.)

7.16. 一日普請次. 師 (臨濟) 在後行. 黃蘗囘頭見師空手. 問钁頭在什麽處. 師云. 有一人將去了也.
黃蘗云近前來. 共汝商量箇事. 師便近前. 黃蘗豎起钁頭云. 秪這箇天下人拈掇不起. 師就手掣得豎起云爲什麽都在某甲手裏.
黃蘗云. 今日大有人普請. 便歸堂. (臨濟錄.)

7.17. 師 (臨濟) 普請鋤地次. 見黃蘗來. 拄钁而立. 黃蘗云這漢困那. 師云钁也未擧. 困道什麽.
黃蘗便打. 師接住棒. 一送送倒. 黃蘗喚維那. 維那扶起我. 維那近前扶云. 和尙爭容得這風顚漢無禮.
黃蘗纔起便打維那. 師钁地云. 諸方火葬. 我這裡一時活埋. (臨濟錄.)

7.18. 意蹈毘盧頂𩕳. 行拜三尺童子.

7.19. 丹霞天然嗣石頭希遷. (禪林類聚第二.)

7.20. 天竺山儀禪師——寒卽圍爐向猛火. ——熱即竹林溪畔坐. (禪林類聚第二.)

7.21. 翠微無學嗣丹霞天然. 師因供養羅漢. 有僧問曰. 丹霞燒木佛. 和尙爲什麽供養羅漢. 師曰燒也不燒著.
供養亦一任供養. 又問供養羅漢. 羅漢還來也無. 師曰. 汝每日還喫麽. 僧無語. 師曰. 少有靈利底.
(傅燈錄第十四.)

7.22. 雲栖祩宏 (1535–1615). (緇門崇行錄.)

7.23. 公案.

7.24. 攝 (or 接) 心.

7.25. 碧巖集. 臨濟錄.

7.26. 提唱.

7.27. 夢想國師. 遺誡曰. 我有三等弟子. 所謂猛烈放下諸緣. 專一究明己事. 是爲上等. 修行不純.
駁雜好學. 謂之中等. 自昧己靈光輝. 只嗜佛祖涎唾. 此名下等. 如其醉心於外書. 立業於文筆者. 此是剃頭俗人也.
不足以作下等. 矧乎飽食安眠放逸過時者. 謂之緇流耶. 古人喚作衣架飯嚢. 旣是非僧. 不許稱我弟子出入寺中及塔頭.
暫時出入尙以不容. 何况來求掛塔乎. 老僧作如是說. 莫言欠博愛之慈. 只要他知非改過. 堪爲祖門之種草耳.

7.28. 白隠禪師坐禪和讃.

衆生本来佛なり. 水と氷の如くにて.
水を離れて氷なく. 衆生の外に佛なし.
衆生近きを知らずして. 遠く求むるはかなさよ.
譬えば水の中に居て. 渇を叫ぶが如くなり.
長者の家の子となりて. 貧里に迷ふに異ならず.
六執輪廻の因緣は. 己が愚痴の闇路なり.
闇路にやみぢを踏そへて. いつか生死を離るべき.
それ摩訶衍の禪定は. 讃歎するに餘りあり.
布施や持戒の諸波羅密. 念佛懺悔修行等.
其品多き諸善行. 皆此中に帰するなり.
一坐の功をなす人も. 積みし無量の罪ほろぶ.
悪趣何処にありぬべき. 浄土即ち遠からず.
かたじけなくも此法を. 一たび耳にふるるとき.
讃歎随喜する人は. 福を獲ること限りなし.
況んや自ら廻向して. 直に自性を證すれば.
自性即ち無性にて. 旣に戯論を離れたり.
因果一如の門ひらけ. 無二無三の道なほし.
無相の相を相として. 行くも帰るも餘所ならず.
無念の念を念として. 謠ふも舞ふも法の聲.
三昧無礙の空ひろく. 四智圓明の月冴えん.
此時何をか求むべき. 寂滅現前する故に.
當処即ち蓮華國. 此身即ち佛なり.

7.29. 參禪.

7.30. 正受老人 (1642–1721). (正受老人崇行錄.)

7.31. 聖胎長養.

7.32. 印宗.

7.33. 關山慧玄 (616–700). 妙心寺開祖.

7.34. 趙州因有婆子問. 婆是五障之身. 如何免得. 師云. 願一切人生天. 願婆婆永沈苦海. (趙州錄.)

7.35. 問久嚮趙州石橋. 到來只見掠彴子. 師 (趙州) 云. 闍黎只見掠彴子. 不見趙州石橋. 云如何是石橋.
師云度驢度馬. (趙州錄.)

7.36. 師 (五祖法演) 謂圓悟云. 儞也儘好. 只是有些病. 悟再三請問. 不知某有什麽病. 師云. 只是禪忒多.
悟云. 本爲參禪. 因甚麽却嫌人說禪. 師云. 只似尋常說語時. 多少好. 時有僧便問. 因甚麽嫌人說禪.
師云惡情悰. (五祖錄.)

7.37. 無門慧開 (of the first half of the thirteenth century, Sung). 春有百花秋有月.
夏有凉風冬有雪. 若無閑事挂心頭. 便是人間好時節. (無門關.)

7.38. 南臺守安嗣羅漢桂琛. (867–928.) 南臺靜坐一鑪香. 亘日凝然萬事忘. 不是息心除忘想.
都緣無事可思量. (傳燈錄第二十四.)

7.39. 楊岐乍住屋壁踈. 滿床皆布雪眞珠. 縮却項暗嗟吁. 良久云. 翻憶古人樹下居. (楊岐錄.)

7.40. 去年貧未是貧. 今年貧始是貧. 去年無卓錐之地. 今年錐也無. (禪林類聚第八.)

7.41. 枯木元云. 無地無錐未是貧. 知無尙有守無身. 儂家近日貧來甚. 不見當初貧底人. (禪林類聚第八.)

7.42. 揭. 親. 要. 普. 露. 去. 淺. 深. 現. 瞽. (雲門錄.)

7.43. 師上堂云. 此事如明珠在掌. 胡來胡現. 漢來漢現. 老僧把一枝草作丈六全身用. 把丈六全身作一枝草用.
佛即是煩惱. 煩惱即是佛. 問佛與誰人爲煩惱. 師云. 與一切人爲煩惱. 云如何免得. 師云. 得免作麽.

師示衆云. 迦葉傳與阿難. 且道達磨傳與什麽人. 問. 如二祖得髓. 又作應生. 師云. 莫謗二祖. 師又云.
達磨也有語. 在外者得皮. 在裏者得骨. 且道更在裏者. 得什麽. 問. 如何是得髓底道理. 師云. 但識取皮.
老僧者裏髓也不立. 云. 如何是髓. 師云. 與麽皮也摸未着. 問與麽堂堂. 豈不是和尙正位. 師云.
還知有不肯者麽. 學云. 與麽即別有位. 師云. 誰是別者. 學云. 誰是不別者. 師云. 一任叫. (趙州錄.)

7.44. 雲門上堂云. 諸和尙子莫妄想. 天是天. 地是地. 山是山. 水是水. 僧是僧. 俗是俗. 良久云.
與我拈案山來看.

上堂云. 天親菩薩無端變作一條榔𣗖拄杖. 乃劃地一下云. 塵沙諸佛盡在這裏說葛藤去. 便下座.

上堂. 有僧出禮拜云. 請師答話. 師召大衆. 大衆擧頭. 師便下座.

上堂. 良久. 有僧出禮拜. 師云. 太遲生. 僧應諾. 師云. 這漆桶.

上堂云. 天帝釋與釋迦老子. 在中庭裏相爭佛法. 甚閙. 便下座.

上堂. 云. 從上來且是箇什麽事. 如今抑不得巳. 且向汝諸人道. 盡大地有什麽物與汝爲對爲緣.
若有針鋒與汝爲隔爲礙. 與我拈將來. 喚什麽作佛作祖. 喚什麽作山河大地日月星辰. 將什麽爲四大五蘊.
我與麽道. 喚作三家村裏老婆說話. 忽然遇著本色行脚漢. 聞與麽道. 把脚拽向階下. 有什麽罪過. 雖然如此.
據箇什麽道理便與麽. 莫趑口快向這裏亂道. 須是箇漢始得. 忽然被老漢脚跟下尋著. 勿去處打脚折.
有什麽罪過. 旣與麽. 如今還有問宗乘中話麽. 待老漢答一轉了. 東行西行. 有僧擬問次. 師以拄杖劈口打.
便下座.

上堂因鐘鳴. 乃云. 世界與麽廣濶. 爲什麽鐘聲裡披七條.

上堂云. 不可雪上加霜去也. 珍重. 便下座.

示衆云. 看. 看. 佛殿入僧堂裏去也. 代云. 羅浮打鼓. 韶州舞.

上堂. 大衆集. 師良久云. 久雨不晴.

示衆云. 看. 看. 殺了也. 便作倒勢. 云. 會麽. 若不會. 且向拄杖頭上會取. (雲門錄.)

7.45. 上堂. 呵呵呵. 是什麽. 僧堂裹喫茶去. 下座.

上堂. 聚集. 師以拄杖擲下來. 隨後跳下. 衆擬散. 師乃召大衆. 衆囘首. 師乃云. 爲老僧收取拄杖.
便歸方丈. (楊岐錄.)

7.46. 藥山一日院主請師上堂. 大衆方集. 師良久. 便歸方丈. 閉門. 院主逐後曰. 和尙許某甲上堂.
爲什麽却歸方丈. 師曰. 院主. 經有經師. 論有論師. 律有律師. 又爭怪得老僧. (傳燈錄卷十四.)

7.47. 上堂顧視禪床左右. 遂拈拄杖在手中云. 只長一尺. 下座. (五祖錄.)

THE TEN COW-HERDING PICTURES

8.1. 南嶽懷讓 (677–744). 嗣六祖慧能. (古尊宿錄卷八.)

8.2. 清居.

8.3. 廓庵.

8.4. 福州大安 (died 883). 會問百丈云. 學人欲識佛. 如何是佛. 丈云大似騎牛覔牛. 師 (大安)
云. 識後如何. 丈云如人騎牛至家. 師云. 未審始終如何保任即得相應去. 丈云譬如牧牛之士執杖親之.
勿令犯人苗稼. (禪林類聚卷二十.)

尋牛圖頌.

尋牛序一.

從來不失. 何用追尋. 由背覺以成踈. 在向塵而遂失. 家山漸遠. 岐路俄差. 得失熾然. 是非鋒起.

頌曰.

茫茫撥艸去追尋. 水闊山遙路更深.
力盡神疲無處覔. 但聞楓樹晚蟬吟.

見跡序二.

依經解義. 閱敎知踨. 明衆器爲一金. 軆萬物爲自己. 正邪不辨. 眞僞笑分. 未入斯門. 權爲見跡.

頌曰.

水邊林下跡偏多. 芳艸離披見也麽.
縱見深山更深處. 遼天鼻孔怎藏他.

見牛序三.

從聲得入. 見處逢源. 六根門著著無差. 動用中頭頭顯露. 水中鹽味. 色裏膠青. 貶上眉毛. 非是他物.

頌曰.

鶯黃枝上一聲聲. 日暖風和岸柳青.
只此更無囘避處. 森森頭角描難成.

得牛序四.

久埋郊外. 今日逢渠. 由境勝以難追. 戀芳叢而不已. 頑心尙勇. 野性猶存. 欲得純和. 必加鞭韃.

頌曰.

竭盡精神獲得渠. 心強力壯卒難除.
有時纔到高原上. 又入煙雲深所居.

牧牛序五.

前思纔起. 後念相隨. 由覺故以成眞. 在迷故以爲妄. 不由境有. 唯自心生. 鼻索牢牽. 不容擬議.

頌曰.

鞭索時時不離身. 恐伊縱步入埃塵.
相將牧得純和也. 羈鎖無拘自逐人.

騎牛歸家序六.

干戈已罷. 得失還空. 唱樵子之村歌. 吹兒童之野曲. 身横牛上. 目視雲霄. 呼喚不囘. 撈籠不住.

頌曰.

騎牛迤邐欲還家. 羌笛聲聲送晚霞.
一拍一歌無限意. 知意何必鼓唇牙.

忘牛存人序七.

法無二法. 牛且爲宗. 喩蹄兔之異名. 顯筌魚之差別. 如金出鑛. 似月離雲. 一道寒光. 威音劫外.

頌曰.

騎牛已得到家山. 牛也空兮人也閑.
紅日三竿猶作夢. 鞭繩空頓艸堂閒.

人牛俱忘序八.

凡情脫落. 聖意皆空. 有佛處不用遨遊. 無佛處急須走過. 兩頭不著. 千眼難窺. 百鳥銜華. 一場懡㦬.

頌曰.

鞭索人牛盡屬空. 碧天遼闊信難通.
紅爐焰上爭容雪. 到此方能合祖宗.

返本還源序九.

本來清淨. 不受一塵. 觀有相之榮枯. 處無爲之凝寂. 不同幻化. 豈假修治. 水綠山青. 坐觀成敗.

頌曰.

返本還源已費功. 爭如直下若盲聾.
庵中不見庵前物. 水自茫茫花自紅.

入廛垂手序十.

柴門獨掩. 千聖不知. 埋自己之風光. 負前賢之途轍. 提瓢入市. 策杖還家. 酒肆魚行. 化令成佛.

頌曰.

露胸跣足入廛來. 抹土塗灰笑滿顋.
不用神仙眞祕訣. 直教枯木放花開.

FOOTNOTES

[f1] As it was not expedient to set up Chinese type in England, special
Chinese notes at the end of the book have been prepared in Japan, in
which are found all the Chinese characters considered by the author
useful for scholars’ reference. The superior figures throughout the
present work point to the Chinese notes in the Appendix.

[f2] One of the popular lectures prepared by the author for students of
Buddhism, 1911. It was first published in _The Eastern Buddhist_, under
the title, “Zen Buddhism as Purifier and Liberator of Life.” Since it
treats of Zen in its general aspect, I have decided to make it serve as
Introduction to this book.

[f3] See also the Essay entitled “History of Zen Buddhism,” p. 151 ff.

[f4] The founder of the Rinzai School of Zen Buddhism, died 867.

[f5] The founder of the Ummon School of Zen Buddhism, died 996.

[f6] Literally, an old clumsy gimlet of the Ch‘in dynasty.

[f7] Zen has its own way of practising meditations so called, for
the Zen methods are to be distinguished from what is popularly or
Hinayanistically understood by the term. Zen has nothing to do with
mere quietism or losing oneself in trance. I may have an occasion to
speak more about the subject elsewhere.

[f8] See also the Essay entitled, “Practical Methods of Zen
Instruction.”

[f9] Originally a mosquito driver in India.

[f10] A bamboo stick a few feet long.

[f11] Also a stick or baton fancifully shaped and made of all kinds of
material. It means literally “as one wishes or thinks,” (_cinta_, in
Sanskrit).

[f12] This reminds one of the remarks made by the master Ten (Chan),
of Hofuku (Pao-fu), who, seeing a monk approach, took up his staff and
struck a pillar, and then the monk. When the monk naturally cried with
pain, said the master, “How is it that this does not get hurt?” (See
Chinese Notes, [1.25].)

[f13] _Hekiganshu_ is a collection of one hundred “cases” with Seccho’s
(Hsüeh-tou) poetical comments and Yengo’s partly explanatory and partly
critical annotations. The book was brought to Japan during the Kamakura
era, and ever since it is one of the most important text-books of Zen,
especially for the followers of the Rinzai school.

[f14] Gutei was a disciple of Tenryu (T‘ien-lung), probably towards
the end of the T‘ang dynasty. While he was first residing in a small
temple, he had a visit from a travelling nun, who came right into the
temple without removing her headgear. Carrying her staff with her,
she went three times around the meditation chair in which Gutei was
sitting. Then she said to him, “Say a word of Zen, and I shall take off
my hat.” She repeated this three times, but Gutei did not know what to
say. When the nun was about to depart, Gutei suggested, “It is growing
late, and why not stay here over night?” Jissai (Shih-chi), which was
the name of the nun, said, “If you say a word of Zen, I shall stay.” As
he was still unable to say a word, she left.

This was a terrible blow on poor Gutei, who pitifully sighed: “While I
have the form of a man, I seem not to have any manly stamina!” He then
resolved to study and master Zen. When he was about to start on his Zen
“wanderings” he had a vision of the mountain god who told him not to go
away from his temple, for a Bodhisattva in flesh would be coming here
before long and enlighten him in the truth of Zen. Surely enough a Zen
master called Tenryu (T‘ien-lung) appeared the following day. Gutei
told the master all about the humiliating experience of the previous
day and his firm resolution to attain the secrets of Zen. Tenryu just
lifted one of his fingers and said nothing. This however was enough to
open Gutei’s mind at once to the ultimate meaning of Zen, and it is
said that ever since Gutei did or said nothing but just holding up a
finger to all the questions that might be asked of him concerning Zen.

There was a boy in his temple, who seeing the master’s trick imitated
him when the boy himself was asked about what kind of preaching his
master generally practised. When the boy told the master about it
showing his lifted little finger, the master cut it right off with a
knife. The boy ran away screaming in pain when Gutei called him back.
The boy turned back, the master lifted his own finger, and the boy
instantly realised the meaning of the “one finger Zen” of Tenryu as
well as Gutei.

[f15] Compare this with the statement made by the sixth patriarch
himself when he was asked how it was that he came to succeed the fifth
patriarch “Because I do not understand Buddhism.” Let me also cite a
passage from the _Kena-Upanishad_, in which the readers may find a
singular coincidence between the Brahman seer and those Zen masters,
not only in thought but in the way it is expressed:

“It is conceived of by him by whom it is not conceived of;
He by whom It is conceived of, knows It not.
It is not understood by those who understand It;
It is understood by those who understand It not.”

Lao-tzŭ, founder of Taoist mysticism, breathes the same spirit when he
says: “He who knows it speaks not, he who speaks knows not.”

[f16] The conception of Dharmakāya apart from the physical body
(_rūpakāya_) of the Buddha was logically inevitable, as we read in
the _Ekottara-Āgama_, XLIV., “The Life of the Śākyamuni-Buddha is
extremely long, the reason is that while his physical body enters
into Nirvana, his Law-body exists.” But the Dharmakāya could not
be made to function directly upon suffering souls, as it was too
abstract and transcendental; they wanted something more concrete and
tangible towards which they could feel personally intimate. Hence the
conception of another Buddha-body, that is, Sambhogakāya-Buddha or
Vipākaja-Buddha, completing the dogma of the Triple Body (_Trikāya_).

[f17] The absolute faith Shinran had in the teaching of Hōnen as is
evidenced in this quotation proves that the Shin sect is the result
of Shinran’s inner experience and not the reasoned product of his
philosophy. His experience came first, and to explain it to himself
as well as to communicate it to others, he resorted to various Sutras
for verification. _The Teaching, Practice, Faith, and Attainment_ was
thus written by him giving an intellectual and scriptural foundation
to the Shin-shu faith. In religion as in other affairs of human life,
belief precedes reasoning. It is important not to forget this fact when
tracing the development of ideas.

[f18] This was very well understood by the Buddha himself when he
first attained Enlightenment; he knew that what he realised in his
enlightened state of mind could not be imparted to others, and that
if it were imparted they could not understand it. This was the reason
why he in the beginning of his religious career expressed the desire
to enter into Nirvana without trying to revolve the Wheel of the
Dharma. We read in one of the Sutras belonging to the Agama class
of Buddhist literature, which is entitled _Sutra on the Cause and
Effect in the Past and Present_ (fas. II.): “My original vows are
fulfilled, the Dharma [or Truth] I have attained is too deep for the
understanding. A Buddha alone is able to understand what is in the mind
of another Buddha. In this age of the Five Taints (_pañca-kashāyā_),
all beings are enveloped in greed, anger, folly, falsehood, arrogance,
and flattery; they have few blessings and are stupid and have no
understanding to comprehend the Dharma I have attained. Even if I make
the Dharma-Wheel revolve, they would surely be confused and incapable
of accepting it. They may on the contrary indulge in defamation, and,
thereby falling into the evil paths, suffer all kinds of pain. It is
best for me to remain quiet and enter into Nirvana.” In the _Sutra
on the Story of the Discipline_, which is considered an earlier
translation of the preceding text and was rendered into Chinese by an
Indian Buddhist scholar, Ta-li and a Tibetan, Mang-siang, in A.D. 197,
no reference is yet made to the Buddha’s resolution to keep silent
about his Enlightenment, only that what he attained was all-knowledge
which was beyond the understanding and could not be explained, as its
height was unscalable and its depth unfathomable, containing the whole
universe in it and yet penetrating into the unpenetrable”.... Cf. the
_Mahāpadāna Suttanta_ (Dīgha Nikāya, XIV), and the _Ariyapariyesana
Suttam_ (Majjhima, XXVI).

[f19] Cf. Saṁyukta Āgama (Chinese), Fas. XXXII.

[f20] That the personality of the Buddha was an object of admiration
and worship as much as, or perhaps more than, his extraordinary
intellectual attributes, is gleaned throughout the Agama literature.
To quote one or two instances: “When Subha-Mānava Todeyyaputta saw
the Blessed One sitting in the woods, the Brahman was struck with the
beautiful serenity of his personality which most radiantly shone like
the moon among the stars; his features were perfect, glowing like a
golden mountain; his dignity was majestic with all his senses under
perfect control, so tranquil and free from all beclouding passions,
and so absolutely calm with his mind subdued and quietly disciplined.”
(The Middle Āgama, fas. XXXVIII.) This admiration of his personality
later developed into the deification of his being, and all the evils
moral and physical were supposed to be warded off if one thought of him
or his virtues. “When those beings who practised evil deeds with their
bodies, mouths, or minds, think of the merits of the Tathagata at the
moment of their deaths, they would be kept away from the three evil
paths and born in the heavens; even the vilest would be born in the
heavens.” (The Ekottara Āgama, fas. XXXII.) “Wherever Śramaṇa Gautama
appears, no evil spirits or demons can approach him; therefore let us
invite him here and all those evil gods [who have been harrassing us]
would by themselves take to their heels.” (_Loc. cit._) It was quite
natural for the Buddhists that they later made the Buddha the first
object of Recollection (_smṛti_), which, they thought, would keep their
minds from wandering away and help them realise the final aim of the
Buddhist life. These statements plainly demonstrate that while on the
one hand the teaching of the Buddha was accepted by his followers as
the Dharma beautiful in the beginning, beautiful in the middle, and
beautiful in the end, his person was on the other hand regarded as
filled with miraculous powers and divine virtues, so that his mere
presence was enough to create a most auspicious atmosphere not only
spiritually but materially.

[f21] When the Buddha entered Nirvana, the monks cried, “Too soon has
the Tathagata passed away, too soon has the World-honoured One passed
away, too soon has the Great Law died out; all beings are forever
left to misery; for the Eye of the World is gone.” Their lamentation
was beyond description, they lay on the ground like great trees with
roots, stems, and branches all torn and broken to pieces, they rolled
and wriggled like a slain snake. Such excessive expressions of grief
were quite natural for those Buddhists whose hearts were directed
towards the personality of their master more than towards his sane and
rationalistic teachings, Cf. the Pali _Parinibbāna-suttanta_.

[f22] For a more or less detailed account of the various Buddhist
schools that came up within a few centuries after the Buddha, see
Vasumitra’s _Samayabhedo-paracana-cakra_. Professor Suisai Funahashi
recently published an excellent commentary on this book.

[f23] Cf. _The Sukhāvatī-vyūha_ (edited by Max Müller and B. Nanjio),
p. 7, where we have: “Buddhasvaro anantaghoshah,” that is, the Buddha’s
voice is of infinite sounds. See also the _Saddharma-puṇḍarīka_ (p.
128) where we read: “Svareṇa caikena vadāmi dharmam,” I preach the law
with one voice. The parable of the water of one taste (_ekarasaṁ vāri_)
variously producing herbs, shrubs, and others, is very well known among
the Mahayanists.

[f24] Here we find the justification of a “mystic” interpretation
of the sacred books of any religion. The Swedenborgian doctrine of
Correspondence thus grows illuminating. The philosophy of Shingon
mysticism somewhat reflects the idea of correspondence, though
naturally it is based on a different set of philosophical ideas.
Varieties of interpretation are always possible in anything not only
because of the presence of the subjective element in every judgment,
but because of infinite complications of objective relationship.

[f25] Cf. such Sutras as the _Tevijja_, _Mahāli_, _Brahmajāla_, etc.
in the Dīgha Nikāya. See also the _Sutta Nipāta_, especially the
Atthakavagga, which is one of the earliest Buddhist texts in our
possession at present. There we read about “Ajjhattasanti” (inward
peace) which cannot be attained by philosophy, nor by tradition, nor by
good deeds.

[f26] That the Buddha never neglected to impress his disciples with
the idea that the ultimate truth was to be realised by and in oneself,
is evidenced throughout the Agamas. Everywhere we encounter with such
phrases as “without depending upon another, he believed, or thought,
or dissolved his doubts, or attained self-confidence in the Law.” From
this self-determination followed the consciousness that one had all
one’s evil leakages (_āsrava_) stopped or drained off, culminating in
the realisation of Arhatship—which is the goal of Buddhist life.

[f27] _The Dialogue of the Buddha_, Sacred Books of the Buddhists, Vol.
II., p. 29.

[f28] In fact, the term, _prajñā_ or in _paiñña_ Pali, is not an
exclusive possession of the Mahayanists, for it is also fully used
by their rival disciples of the Buddha. The latter however failed to
lay any special emphasis on the idea of enlightenment and its supreme
significance in the body of Buddhism, and as the consequence Prajñā was
comparatively neglected by the Hinayanists. Mahayanism on the other
hand may be designated as the religion of Prajñā _par excellence_. It
is even deified and most reverently worshipped.

[f29] This is no other than “the opening of the pure eye of the Dharma”
(_virajaṁ vītamalaṁ dhamma-cakkhum udapādi_), frequently referred to in
the Agamas when one attains to Arhatship.

[f30] Read, for instance, chap. XV., entitled “Duration of Life of the
Tathagata.”

[f31] _Dhammanadam_, 153, 154.

[f32] Ata etasmāt kāraṇan mahāmate mayedam uktaṁ: yāṁ ca rātriṁ
tathāgato ’bhisambuddho yāṁ ca rātriṁ parinirvāsyati atrāntara ekam
api aksharaṁ tathāgatena na udāhṛitaṁ na udāharishyati.—_Laṅkāvatāra_,
Chap. III., p. 144. See also Chapter VII., p. 240. (For this reason,
O Mahāmati, I say unto you: During the time that elapsed between the
night of the Tathagata’s Enlightenment and the night of his entrance
into Nirvana, not one word, not one statement was given out by him.)

[f33] According to Aśvaghosha’s _Awakening of Faith_, Ignorance means
the sudden awakening of a thought (_citta_) in consciousness. This
may be variously interpreted, but as long as Ignorance is conceived,
not as a process requiring a certain duration of time, but an event
instantaneously taking place, its disappearance which is enlightenment
must also be an instantaneous happening.

[f34] This is the usual formula given as the qualification of an Arhat,
to be met with throughout the Nikāyas.

[f35] Chapter II., “On Skilfullness.”

[f36] In this connection it may not be amiss to say a word
about what is known in Buddhism as the “act of no-effort or
no-purpose” (_anābhogacaryā_) or “the original vows of no-purpose”
(_anābhogapraṇidhāna_). This corresponds, if I judge rightly, to the
Christian idea of not letting the right hand know what the left hand
is doing. When spirit attains to the reality of enlightenment and
as a result is thoroughly purified of all defilements, intellectual
and affective, it grows so perfect that whatever it does is pure,
unselfish, and conducive to the welfare of the world. So long as
we are conscious of the efforts we make in trying to overcome our
selfish impulses and passions, there is a taint of constraint and
artificiality, which interferes with spiritual innocence and freedom,
and love which is the native virtue of an enlightened spirit cannot
work out all that is implied in it and meant to be exercised for the
preservation of itself. The “original vows” are the content of love and
begin to be operative, anabhoga (un-purposely), only when enlightenment
is really creative. This is where religious life differs from mere
morality, this is where the mere enunciation of the Law of Origination
(_pratītya-samutpāda_) does not constitute Buddhist life, and this
is where Zen Buddhism maintains its reason of existence against the
alleged positivism of the Hinayana and against the alleged nihilism of
the Prajñā-pāramitā school.

[f37] _Dialogues of the Buddha_, Part III., p. 35.

[f38] _Dialogues of the Buddha_, Part I., p. 82.

[f39] The Pali text that will correspond to this Chinese Sutra in the
Dīrgha-Āgama is the _Kevaddha Sutta_, but the passage quoted here is
missing. See also the _Lohicca_ (_Lou-chê_) and _Sāmañña-phala_ in the
Chinese Āgamas, in which the Buddha tells how essential the life of a
recluse is to the realisation of enlightenment and the destruction of
the evil passions. Constant application, earnest concentration, and
vigilant watchfulness—without these no Buddhists are ever expected to
attain the end of their lives.

[f40] The rendering is by Rhys Davids who states in the footnote: “The
word I have here rendered ‘earnest contemplation’ is Samadhi, which
occupies in the Five Nikayas very much the same position as faith
does in the New Testament; and this section shows that the relative
importance of Samādhi, Paññā, and Śīla played a part in early Buddhism
just as the distinction between faith, reason, and works did afterwards
in Western theology. It would be difficult to find a passage in which
the Buddhist view of the relation of these _conflicting_ ideas is
stated with greater beauty of thought, or equal succinctness of form.”
But why conflicting?

[f41] One hundred and eight samadhis are enumerated in the
_Mahāvyutpatti_. Elsewhere we read of “innumerable samadhis.”
Indians have been great adepts in this exercise, and many wonderful
spiritualistic achievements are often reported.

[f42] This series of dhyanas has also been adopted by Buddhists,
especially by Hinayanists. No doubt the Mahayana conception of dhyana
is derived or rather has developed from them, and how much it differs
from the Hinayana dhyanas will be seen later as we go on. The detailed
description of these dhyanas is given in the Agamas; see for instance
the _Sāmañña-phala Sutta_ in which the fruits of the life of a recluse
are discussed. These mental exercises were not strictly Buddhistic,
they were taught and practised more or less by all Indian philosophers
and mendicants. The Buddha, however, was not satisfied with them,
because they would not bring out the result he was so anxious to have,
that is, they were not conducive to enlightenment. This was the reason
why he left his two old teachers, Arada and Udraka, under whom he first
began his homeless life.

[f43] For example, the ten subjects for meditation are: Buddha, Dharma,
Sangha, Morality, Charity, Heaven, Serenity, Breathing, Impermanence,
and Death. The five subjects of tranquillisation are: Impurity,
Compassion, Breathing, Origination, and Buddha. The four subjects of
recollection are: Impurity of the Body, Evils of the Senses, Constant
Change of Thought, and Transitoriness of Existence.

[f44] _Laṅkāvatāra_, Nanjo Edition, p, 77.

[f45] There is however a Sutra in the Saṁyukta Āgama, fas. XXXIII.,
p. 93b (Anguttara-Nikāya, XI., 10), dealing with true dhyana
(_ājānīya-jhāna_) which is to be distinguished from untrained dhyana
(_khaḷuṅka-jhāna_). The latter is compared to an ill-disciplined horse
(_khaḷuṅka_) kept in the stable that thinks nothing of his duties but
only of the fodder he is to enjoy. In a similar way dhyana can never
be practised successfully by those who undertake the exercise merely
for the satisfaction of their selfish objects; for such will never come
to understand the truth as it is. If emancipation and true knowledge
are desired, anger, sleepiness, worrying, and doubt ought to be got
rid of, and then the dhyana can be attained that does not depend upon
any of the elements, or space, or consciousness, or nothingness, or
unthinkability—the dhyana that is not dependent upon this world or that
world or the heavenly bodies, or upon hearing or seeing or recollecting
or recognising—the dhyana that is not dependent upon the ideas of
attachment or seeking—the dhyana that is not in conformity with
knowledge or contemplation. This “true dhyana” then as is described in
this Sutra in the Nikayas, is more of the Mahayana than of the Hinayana
so called.

[f46] Kern’s translation,” Sacred Books of the East,” Vol. XXI., pp.
299–300.

[f47] For this and the following, see the Essay entitled, “History of
Zen Buddhism from Bodhi-Dharma to Hui-nêng,” p. 151 ff.

[f48] The story of Enlightenment is told in the Dīgha-Nikāya, XIV., and
also in the Introduction to the Jātaka Tales, in the Mahāvastu, and the
Majjhima-Nikāya, XXVI. and XXXVI., and again in the Samyutta-Nikāya,
XII. In detail they vary more or less, but not materially. The Chinese
translation of the _Sutra on the Cause and Effect in the Past and
Present_, which seems to be a later version than the Pali _Mahāpadāna_,
gives a somewhat different story, but as far as my point of argument is
concerned, the main issue remains practically the same. Aśvaghosha’s
_Buddhacarita_ is highly poetical. The _Lalita-vistara_ belongs to the
Mahayana. In this Essay I have tried to take my material chiefly from
_The Dialogues of the Buddha_, translated by Rhys Davids, _The Kindred
Sayings_, translated by Mrs. Rhys Davids, Majjhima-Nikāya, translated
by Sīlacāra, and the same by Neumann, the Chinese Āgamas and others.

[f49] The idea that there were some more Buddhas in the past seems
to have originated very early in the history of Buddhism as we may
notice here, and its further development, combined with the idea of the
Jātaka, finally culminated in the conception of a Bodhisattva, which is
one of the characteristic features of Mahayana Buddhism.

The six Buddhas of the past later increased into twenty-three or
twenty-four in the _Buddha-vamsa_ and _Prajñā-pāramitā_ and even into
forty-two in the _Lalita-vistara_. This idea of having predecessors
or forerunners seems to have been general among ancient peoples. In
China, Confucius claimed to have transmitted his doctrine from Yao and
Shun, and Laotzŭ from the Emperor Huang. In India, Jainism which has,
not only in the teaching but in the personality of the founder, many
similarities to Buddhism, mentions twenty-three predecessors, naturally
more or less corresponding so closely to those of Buddhism.

[f50] It is highly doubtful that the Buddha had a very distinct
and definite scheme for the theory of Causation or Dependence or
Origination, as the Paṭicca-samuppāda is variously translated. In
the present Sutra, he does not go beyond Viññāna (consciousness or
cognition), while in its accepted form now the Chain starts with
Ignorance (_avijjā_). We have however no reason to consider this
tenfold Chain of Causation the earliest and most authoritative of
the doctrine of Paṭicca-samuppāda. In many respects the Sutra itself
shows evidence of a later compilation. The point I wish to discuss
here mainly concerns itself with the Buddha’s intellectual efforts to
explain the realities of life by the theory of causation. That the
Buddha regarded Ignorance as the principle of birth-and-death and
therefore of misery in this world, is a well-established fact in the
history of Buddhism.

[f51] Cakkhu literally means an eye. It is often found in combination
with such terms as paññā (wisdom or reason), buddha, or samanta
(all-round), when it means a faculty beyond ordinary relative
understanding. As was elsewhere noticed, it is significant that
in Buddhism, both Mahayana and Hinayana, seeing (_passato_) is so
emphasised, and especially in this case the mention of an “eye” which
sees directly into things never before presented to one’s mind is
quite noteworthy. It is this cakkhu or paññā-cakkhu in fact that,
transcending the conditionality of the Fourfold Noble Truth or the
Chain of Origination, penetrates (_sacchikato_) into the very ground of
consciousness, from which springs the opposition of subject and object.

[f52] Here as well as in the next verse, “the truth” stands for Dharma.

[f53] We have, besides this, another verse supposed to have been
uttered by the Buddha at the moment of Supreme Enlightenment; it is
known as the Hymn of Victory. It was quoted in my previous Essay on Zen
Buddhism and the Doctrine of Enlightenment. The Hymn is unknown in the
Mahayana literature. The _Lalita-vistara_ has only this:

“Chinna vartmopasanta rajāḥ sushkā āsravā na punaḥ sravānti;
Chinne vartmani vartata duḥkhasyaisho ’nta ucyate.”[3.1]

[f54] _The Mahāvyutpatti_, CXLII., gives a list of thirteen terms
denoting the act of comprehending with more or less definite shades
of meaning: buddhi, mati, gati, mataṁ, dṛishtaṁ, abhisamitāvī,
samyagavabodha, supratividdha, abhilakshita, gatiṁgata, avabodha,
pratyabhijñā, and menire.

[f55] Franz Pfeiffer, p. 312, Martensen, p. 29.

[f56] Translated by Bhikkhu Sīlācāra. The original Pali runs as follows:

Sabbābhibhū sabbavidū ’ham asmi,
Sabbesu dhammesu anūpalitto,
Sabbaṁjaho tanhakkhaye vimutto,
Sayaṁ abhiññāya kam uddiseyyaṁ.
Na me ācariyo atthi, sadiso me na vijjati,
Sadevakasmiṁ lokasmiṁ na ’tthi me paṭipuggalo.
Ahaṁ hi arahā loke, ahaṁ satthā anuttaro,
Eko ’mhi sammasambuddho, sītibhūto ’smi nibbuto.
Dīgha-Nikāya, XXVI.

[f57] Ordinarily, the Chain runs as follows: 1. Ignorance (_avijjā_,
_avidyā_), 2. Disposition (_sankhāra_, _saṁskāra_), 3. Consciousness
(_viññāna_, _vijñāna_), 4. Name and Form (_nāmarūpa_), 5. Six
Sense-organs (_saḷāyatana_, _saḍāyatana_), 6. Touch (_phassa_,
_sparśa_), 7. Feeling (_vedana_), 8. Desire (_taṇhā_, _tṛshṇā_), 9.
Clinging (_upādāna_), 10. Becoming (_bhāva_), 11. Birth (_jāti_), and
12. Old Age and Death (_jarāmaranaṁ_).

[f58] _The Buddhacarita_, Book XIV.

[f59] Nānañ ca pana me dassanaṁ udapādi akuppā me ceto-vimutti ayaṁ
antimā jāti natthi dāni punabbhavo.

[f60] “Thus knowing, thus seeing,” (_evam jānato evam passato_) is
one of the set phrases we encounter throughout Buddhist literature,
Hinayana and Mahayana. Whether or not its compilers were aware of the
distinction between knowing and seeing in the sense we make now in the
theory of knowledge, the coupling is of great signification. They must
have been conscious of the inefficiency and insufficiency of the word
“to know” in the description of the kind of knowledge one has at the
moment of enlightenment. “To see” or “to see face to face” signifies
the immediateness and utmost perspicuity and certainty of such
knowledge. As was mentioned elsewhere, Buddhism is rich in terminology
of this order of cognition.

[f61] Tassa evam jānato evam passato kāmāsavāpi cittaṁ vimuccati
bhavāsavāpi cittaṁ vimuccati avijjāsavāpi cittaṁ vimuccati, vimuttasmiṁ
vimuttamit ñāṇaṁ hoti. Khina jāti vusitaṁ brahmacariyaṁ kataṁ karanīyam
nāparaṁ itthattāyāti pajānāti.

[f62] _The Brahmajāla Sutta_, p. 43. Translation by Rhys Davids.

[f63] The idea of performing miracles systematically through the power
acquired by self-concentration seems to have been greatly in vogue in
India even from the earliest days of her civilisation, and the Buddha
was frequently approached by his followers to exhibit his powers to
work wonders. In fact, his biographers later turned him into a regular
miracle-performer, at least as far as we may judge by the ordinary
standard of logic and science. But from the Prajñā-pāramitā point of
view, according to which “because what was preached by the Tathagata
as the possession of qualities, that was preached as no-possession of
qualities by the Tathagata, and therefore it is called the possession
of qualities,” (yaishā bhagavan lakshaṇasampat tathāgatena bhāshitā
alakshaṇasampad eshā tathāgatena bhāshita; tenocyate lakshaṇasampad
iti), the idea of performing wonders acquires quite a new signification
spiritually. In the _Kevaddha Sutta_, three wonders are mentioned as
having been understood and realised by the Buddha: the mystic wonder,
the wonder of education, and the wonder of manifestation. The possessor
of the mystic wonder can work the following logical and physical
impossibilities: “From being one he becomes multiform, from being
multiform he becomes one: from being visible he becomes invisible: he
passes without hindrance to the further side of a wall or a battlement
or a mountain, as if through air: he penetrates up and down through
solid ground as if through water: he walks on water without dividing
it, as if on solid ground: he travels cross-legged through the sky
like the birds on wing: he touches and feels with the hand even the
moon and sun, beings of mystic power and potency they be: he reaches
even in the body up to the heaven of Brahma.” Shall we understand this
literally and intellectually? Cannot we interpret it in the spirit of
the Prajñā-pāramitā idealism? Why? Taccittam yacittam acittam. (Thought
is called thought because it is no-thought.)

[f64] The questions are: Is the world eternal? Is the world not
eternal? Is the world finite? Is the world infinite? _Potthapāda-Sutta_.

[f65] Cf. _Dhammapada_, v. 385. “He for whom there is neither this nor
that side, nor both, him, the fearless and unshackled, I call indeed a
Brahman.”

[f66] _Sutta-nipāta_, v, 720. Sanantā yanti kussobbhā, tunḥī yāti
mahodadhi.

[f67] The Majjhima-Nikāya, 140, _Dhātuvibhangasuttam_. Asmīti bhikkhu
maññitam etaṁ; Ayam aham asmīti maññitam etaṁ; Bhavissan ti maññitam
etaṁ; Na bhavissan ti maññitam etaṁ; Rūpī bhavissan ti maññitam etaṁ;
Arūpī bhavissan ti maññitam etaṁ; Saññī bhavissan ti maññitam etaṁ;
Asaññi bhavissan ti maññitam etaṁ; Nevasaññi-nasaññi bhavissan ti
maññitam etaṁ.

[f68] Majjhima Nikāya, 22.

[f69] Cf. _Sutta-Nipāta_, v. 21. “By me is made a well-constructed
raft, so said Bhagavat, I have passed over to Nirvana, I have reached
the further bank, having overcome the torrent of passions; there is no
further use for a raft: therefore, if thou like, rain, O sky!”

[f70] I left here “dharmas” untranslated. For this untranslatable term,
some have “righteousness,” some “morality,” and some “qualities.”
This is as is well known a difficult term to translate. The Chinese
translators have rendered it by _fa_,[3.3] everywhere, regardless of
the context. In the present case, “dharma” may mean “good conduct,
“prescribed rules of morality,” or even “any religious teaching
considered productive of good results.” In the _Laṅkāvatāra-sūtra_,
Chapter 1, reference is also made to the transcending of both “adharma”
and “dharma,” saying: “Dharmā eva prahātavyāḥ prāgevādharmāḥ.” And
it is explained that this distinction comes from falsely asserting
(_vikalpagrahaṇam_) the dualism of what is and what is not, while the
one is the self-reflection of the other. You look into the mirror and
finding an image thereon you take it for a reality, while the image is
yourself and nobody else. The one who views the world thus, has the
rightful view of it, ya evam pasyati sa samyakpasyati. Indeed, when
he takes hold of _ekāgra_ (one-pointedness or oneness of things), he
realises the state of mind in which his inner wisdom reveals itself
(_svapratyātmāryajñānagocara_) and which is called the Tathāgatagarbha.
In this illustration “dharma” and “adharma” are synonyms of
being (_sat_) and non-being (_asat_) or affirmation (_asti_) and
negation (_nāsti_). Therefore, the abandoning of dharma and adharma
(_dharmādharmayoḥ prahāṇaṁ_) means the getting rid of dualism in all
its complexities and implications. Philosophically, this abandoning
is to get identified with the Absolute, and morally to go beyond good
and evil, right and wrong. Also compare _Sutta-Nipāta_, verse 886,
where dualism is considered to be the outcome of false philosophical
reasoning “Takkañ ca diṭṭhisu pakappayitvā, saccaṁ musā ti dvayadhammam
āhu.”

[f71] Abridged from the Majjhima Nikāya, 22, p. 139. Cf. also the
Samyutta Nikāya, XII., 70. p. 125.

[f72] For the Buddhist version of the story, see the
_Saddharma-puṇḍarīka Sūtra_ chapter 4, and the _Vajrasamādhi Sūtra_,
chapter 4 (Chinese translation).

[f73] Samyutta XII., 65, Nagara; cf. also one of the _Prajñā-pāramitā
sūtras_ which is known as one preached by Mañjuśrī (Nanjo Catalogue,
No. 21). In the Sutra we find that the Buddha, after mentioning the
simile of a gem-digger, makes reference to a man who feels overwhelmed
with delight when people talk pleasantly about the old towns and
villages once visited by himself. The same sort of a delightful feeling
is expressed by one who will listen to the discourse on Prajñāpāramitā
and understand it; for he was in his past lives present at the assembly
which was gathered about the Buddha delivering sermons on the same
subject. That the understanding of the doctrine of Prajñāpāramitā is a
form of memory is highly illuminating when considered in relation to
the theory of Enlightenment as advanced here.

That the ushering of Enlightenment is accompanied with the feeling of
return or remembrance is also unmistakably noted by the writer of the
_Kena-Upanishad_ (VI., 50):

“Now in respect to the Atman:
It is as though something forces its way into consciousness
And consciousness suddenly remembers—
Such a state of mind illustrates the awakening of knowledge of the
Atman.”

Sonadanda the Brahman had the following to say when he grasped the
meaning of the Buddha’s discourse on the characteristics of the true
Brahman (Rhys David’s translation): “Most excellent, oh Gotama, most
excellent! Just as if a man were to set up that which has been thrown
down, or were to reveal that which has been hidden away, or were to
point out the right road to him who has gone astray, or were to bring a
light into the darkness so that those who had eyes could see external
forms—just even so has the truth been made known to me, in many a
figure, by the venerable Gotama.”

[f74] _Buddhacarita_, translated by E. B. Cowell, pp. 131–132.

[f75] Lefmann’s edition, p. 289.

[f76] _Ariyapapariyesana-sutta_, Majjhima-Nikāya, XXVI., p. 167.

[f77] Used to designate the school which upholds the doctrine of
enlightenment (_sambodhi_).

[f78] This translation is not at all satisfactory.

[f79] Jōshu (778—897) was one of the early masters of Zen in the T‘ang
dynasty when it began to flourish with its vigorous freshness. He
attained to a high age of one hundred and twenty. His sermons were
always short and to the point, and his answers are noted for their
being so natural and yet so slippery, so hard to catch.

[f80] _Six Essays by Bodhi-Dharma_[4.25] is the book in which the
so-called writings of Bodhi-Dharma are collected. See also the Essay
“On Satori” which follows.

[f81] For Tao-hsüan‘s edition in the original Chinese, see Note 4.28 in
the Appendix.

[f82] This is the most significant phrase in Dharma’s writing. I have
left it untranslated, for later this will be explained fully.

[f83] The author of this story or prefatory note is T‘an-lin (Donrin),
who, according to Dr. Tokiwa, of the Tokyo Imperial University, was a
learned scholar partaking in the translation of several Sanskrit works.
He is also mentioned in connection with Yeka (Hui-k‘ê) in the biography
of the latter by Tao-hsüan. If Donrin were more of a scholar as we can
see by this identification than a genuine Zen master, it was quite
natural for him to write down this “Meditation on Four Acts,” which
mainly appeals as it stands to the scholarly interpretation of Zen.
While the doctrine of _Pi-kwan_ is emphatically Zen, there is much in
the “Meditation” that lends itself to the philosophising of Zen.

[f84] Translated into Chinese during the Northern Liang dynasty which
lasted A.D. 397–439. The translator’s name is lost.

[f85] 大乘壁觀功業最高

[f86] We read in Tao-hsüan’s _Biographies_ that wherever Bodhi-Dharma
stayed he taught people in his Zen doctrine, but as the whole country
at the time was deeply plunged into scholastic discussions, there was a
great deal of slanderous talk against meditation when they learned of
Bodhi-Dharma’s message.

[f87] Is it possible that this passage has some reference to the
_Vajrasamādhi_ where Bodhisattva Mahābala speaks of a “flaccid mind”
and a “strong mind”? The former which is possessed by most common
people “pants” (or gasps or hankers) very much, and prevents them from
successfully attaining to the Tathāgata-dhyāna, while the “strong
mind” is characteristic of one who can enter upon the realm of reality
(_bhūtakoṭi_). As long as there are “pantings” (or gaspings) in the
mind, it is not free, it is not liberated, and cannot identify itself
with the suchness of reason. The mind must be “strong” or firm and
steady, self-possessed and concentrating, before it is ready for the
realisation of Tathāgata-dhyāna—a dhyana going far beyond the reach of
the so-called four dhyānas and eight samādhis.

[f88] This subject was treated in another place, though rather
sketchily, and will be further elaborated later in an independent essay.

[f89] In this connection I wish to make some remarks against certain
scholars who consider the philosophy of Śūnyatā to be really the
foundation of Zen. Such scholars fail utterly to grasp the true
purport of Zen which is first of all an experience and not at all
a philosophy or dogma. Zen can never be built upon any set of
metaphysical or psychological views; the latter may be advanced after
the Zen experience has taken place, but never before. The philosophy
of the Prajñāpāramitā can never precede Zen, but must always follow
it. Buddhist scholars like those at the time of Dharma are too apt
to identify teaching and life, theory and experience, description
and fact. When this confusion is allowed to grow, Zen Buddhism will
cease to yield an intelligent and satisfactory interpretation. Without
the fact of Enlightenment under the Bodhi-tree near the Nairañjanā,
no Nāgārjunas could ever hope to write a single book on the Prajñā
philosophy.

[f90] As I stated before, there is a confusion between Dharma’s
_mien-pi_ habit of sitting and his doctrine of the _pi-kuan_
meditation. The confusion dates quite early, and even at the time
of the author of the _Records_ the original meaning of _pi-kuan_,
wall-contemplation, must have been lost.

[f91] Sometimes this man is said to be a civilian and sometimes a
soldier embracing Confucianism.

[f92] As one can readily see, this story is more or less fictitious. I
mean Kuang’s standing in the snow and cutting-off of his arm in order
to demonstrate his earnestness and sincerity. Some think that the snow
story and that of self-mutilation do not belong to that of Kuang, but
borrowed from some other sources, as Tao-hsüan makes no reference to
them in his book. The loss of the arm was due to a party of robbers
who attacked Kuang after his interview with Dharma. We have no way to
verify these stories either way. The whole setting however is highly
dramatic, and there must have been once in the history of Zen some
necessity to interweave imagination largely with facts, whatever they
may be.

[f93] According to Hsieh-sung, the author of the _Right Transmission of
the Law_, Bodhi-Dharma has here followed Nāgārjuna in the anatomy of
Zen-understanding. For Nāgārjuna says in his famous commentary on the
_Prajñāpāramitā-sūtra_, “Moral conduct is the skin, meditation is the
flesh, the higher understanding is the bone, and the mind subtle and
good is the marrow.” “This subtle mind,” says Hsieh-sung, is what is
secretly transmitted from the Buddha to his successors in the faith.
He then refers to Chih-I of the Sui dynasty who regards this mind as
the abode of all the Buddhas and as the middle way in which there
is neither unity nor multiplicity and which can never be adequately
expressed in words.

[f94] According to this, there must have been a special volume of
sermons and letters by Hui-k‘ê, which were compiled evidently by
his disciples and admirers before they were put down in writing and
thoroughly revised by the author himself. In the case of Bodhi-Dharma
too, according to Tao-hsüan, his sayings were apparently in circulation
in the day of Tao-hsüan, that is, early in the T‘ang dynasty.

[f95] Understood by some to be leprosy.

[f96] In the _Vimalakīrti_, Chapter III., “The Disciples,” we have the
following: “Do not worry about the sins you have committed, O monks,”
said Vimalakīrti, “Why? Because sins are in their essence neither
within nor without nor in the middle. As the Buddha taught us, all
things are defiled when Mind is defiled; all things are pure when Mind
is pure: and Mind is neither within nor without nor in the middle. As
is Mind, so are sins and defilements, so are all things—they never
transcend the suchness of truth.”

[f97] _Hsin_, is one of those Chinese words which defy translation.
When the Indian scholars were trying to translate the Buddhist Sanskrit
works into Chinese, they discovered that there were five classes of
Sanskrit terms which could not be satisfactorily rendered into Chinese.
We thus find in the Chinese Tripitaka such words as _prajñā_, _bodhi_,
_buddha_, _nirvāṇa_, _dhyāna_, _bodhisattva_, etc., almost always
untranslated; and they now appear in their original form among the
technical Buddhist terminology. If we could leave _hsin_ with all its
nuance of meaning in this translation, it would save us from the many
difficulties that face us in its English rendering. For _hsin_ means
mind, heart, soul, spirit—each singly as well as all inclusively. In
the present composition by the third patriarch of Zen, it has sometimes
an intellectual connotation but at other times it can properly be
done by “heart.” But as the predominant note of Zen Buddhism is more
intellectual than anything else, though not in the sense of being
logical or philosophical, I decided here to translate _hsin_ by “mind”
rather than by “heart.”

[f98] This means: When the absolute oneness of things is not properly
understood, negation as well as affirmation will tend to be one-sided
view of reality. When Buddhists deny the reality of an objective
world, they do not mean that they believe in the unconditioned
emptiness of things; they know that there is something real which
cannot be done away with. When they uphold the doctrine of void this
does not mean that all is nothing but an empty hollow, which leads
to a self-contradiction. The philosophy of Zen avoids the error of
one-sidedness involved in realism as well as in idealism.

[f99] I.e., Tat tvam asi.

[f100] There is however a variation from five years to fifteen years
according to different authorities.

[f101] These accounts, whether truly historical or not, concerning the
controversy between the two leaders of Zen early in the T‘ang dynasty
prove how heated was the rivalry between the North and the South. The
_Sermons of the Sixth Patriarch_ (_Fa-pao-tan-ching_) itself appears
as if written with the sole object of refuting the opponents of the
“abrupt” school.

[f102] This is a constant refrain in the teaching of the
_Prajñāpāramitā Sūtras_—to awaken one’s thought where there is no abode
whatever (na kvacit pratishṭitaṁ cittaṁ utpādayitavyam). When Jōshu
called on Ungo, the latter asked, “O you, old wanderer! how is it that
you do not seek an abiding place for yourself?” “Where is my abiding
place?” “There is an old temple ruin at the foot of this mountain.”
“That is a fitting place for your old self,” responded Jōshu. Later,
he came to Shūyūsan, who asked him the same question, saying, “O you,
old wanderer! why don’t you get settled?” “Where is the place for me to
get settled?” “Why, this old wanderer doesn’t know even where to get
settled for himself.” Said Jōshu, “I have been engaged these thirty
years in training horses, and to-day I have been kicked around by a
donkey!”

[f103] This is the name of the place where Hui-nêng had his Zen
headquarters.

[f104] _Hsing_ means nature, character, essence, soul, or what is
innate to one. “Seeing into one’s Nature” is one of the set phrases
used by the Zen masters, and in fact the avowed object of all Zen
discipline. Satori is its more popular expression. When one gets
into the inwardness of things, there is satori. This latter however
being a broad term, can be used to designate any kind of a thorough
understanding, and it is only in Zen that it has a restricted meaning.
In this article I have used the term as the most essential thing in
the study of Zen; for “seeing into one’s Nature” suggests the idea
that Zen has something concrete and substantial which requires being
seen into by us. This is misleading, though satori too I admit is a
vague and naturally ambiguous word. For ordinary purposes, not too
strictly philosophical, satori will answer, and whenever _chien-hsing_
is referred to, it means this, the opening of the mental eye. As to the
sixth patriarch’s view on “seeing into one’s Nature,” see above under
“History of Zen Buddhism.”

[f105] According to the _Mahāparinirvāna-sūtra_, translated into
Chinese by Dharmaraksha, A.D. 423, Vol. XXXIII., he was one of the
three sons of the Buddha while he was still a Bodhisattva. He was most
learned in all Buddhist lore, but his views tended to be nihilistic and
he finally fell into hell.

[f106] That is, from the idea that this sitting cross-legged leads to
Buddhahood. From the earliest periods of Zen in China, the quietist
tendency has been running along the whole history with the intellectual
tendency which emphasises the satori element. Even to-day these
currents are represented to a certain extent by the Soto on the one
hand and the Rinzai on the other, while each has its characteristic
features of excellence. My own standpoint is that of the intuitionalist
and not that of the quietist; for the essence of Zen lies in the
attainment of satori.

[f107] W. Lehmann, _Meister Eckhart_. Göttingen, 1917, p. 243. Quoted
by Prof. Rudolf Otto in his _The Idea of the Holy_, p. 201.

[f108] In Claud Field’s _Mystics and Saints of Islam_ (p. 25), we read
under Hasan Basri, “Another time I saw a child coming toward me holding
a lighted torch in his hand, ‘Where have you brought the light from?’ I
asked him. He immediately blew it out, and said to me, ‘O Hasan, tell
me where it is gone, and I will tell you whence I fetched.’” Of course
the parallel here is only apparent, for Tokusan got his enlightenment
from quite a different source than the mere blowing out of the candle.
Still the parallel in itself is interesting enough to be quoted here.

[f109] See the Essay entitled “Practical Methods of Zen Instruction.”

[f110] The lightning simile in the _Kena-Upanished_ (IV. 30), as is
supposed by some scholars, is not to depict the feeling of inexpressive
awe as regards the nature of Brahman, but it illustrates the bursting
out of enlightenment upon consciousness. “A—a—ah” is most significant
here.

[f111] This is spread before the Buddha and on it the master performs
his bowing ceremony, and its rolling up naturally means the end of a
sermon.

[f112] _Tou chi chia_, meaning “the verse of mutual understanding”
which takes place when the master’s mind and the disciple’s are merged
in each other’s.

[f113] It was originally a mosquito driver, but now it is a symbol of
religious authority. It has a short handle, a little over a foot long
and a longer tuft of hair, usually a horse’s tail or a yak’s.

[f114] In the Chinese Notes I have added six more such verses which may
further help the reader to gain an insight into the content of satori.

[f115] This is one of the most noted kō-an and generally given to the
uninitiated as an eye-opener. When Jōshu was asked by a monk whether
there was Buddha-Nature in the dog, the master answered “Mu!” (_wu_ in
Chinese), which literally means “no.” But as it is nowadays understood
by the followers of Rinzai, it does not mean anything negative as
the term may suggest to us ordinarily, it refers to something most
assuredly positive, and the novice is told to find it out by himself,
not depending upon others (_aparapaccaya_), as no explanation will be
given nor is any possible. This kō-an is popularly known as “Jōshu’s Mu
or Muji.” A kō-an is a theme or statement or question given to the Zen
student for solution, which will lead him to a spiritual insight. The
subject will be fully treated in the Second Series of the Essays in Zen
Buddhism.

[f116] Another kō-an for beginners. A monk once asked Jōshu, “All
things return to the One, but where does the One return?” to which the
master answered, “When I was in the province of Seiju (Ts‘ing-chou), I
had a monkish garment made which weighed seven kin (_chin_).

[f117] He is the founder of the modern Japanese Rinzai school of Zen.
All the masters belonging to this school at present in Japan trace back
their line of transmission to Hakuin.

[f118] Literally, “a great doubt”, but it does not mean that, as the
term “doubt” is not understood here in its ordinary sense. It means a
state of concentration brought to the highest pitch.

[f119] Ganto (Yen-t‘ou, 828—887) was one of the great Zen teachers in
the T‘ang dynasty. But he was murdered by an outlaw when his death-cry
is said to have reached many miles around. When Hakuin first studied
Zen, this tragic incident in the life of an eminent Zen master who is
supposed to be above all human ailments, troubled him very much, and
he wondered if Zen were really the gospel of salvation. Hence this
allusion to Ganto. Notice also here that what Hakuin discovered was a
living person and not an abstract reason or anything conceptual. Zen
leads us ultimately to somewhat living, working, and this is known as
“seeing into one’s own Nature” (_chien-hsing_). The Chinese Notes,
[5.39].

[f120] Kō-ans (_kung-an_) are sometimes called “complications,”
(_kê-t‘êng_) literally meaning “vines and wistarias” which are
entwining and entangling; for according to the masters there ought not
to be any such thing as a kō-an in the very nature of Zen, it was an
unnecessary invention making things more entangled and complicated than
ever before. The truth of Zen has no need for kō-ans. It is supposed
that there are one thousand seven hundred kō-ans which will test the
genuineness of satori.

[f121] Tsu-yüan (1226–1286) came to Japan when the Hōjō family was in
power at Kamakura. He established the Engakuji monastery which is one
of the chief Zen monasteries in Japan. While still in China his temple
was invaded by soldiers of the Yüan dynasty, who threatened to kill
him, but Bukko was immovable and quietly uttered the following verse:

“Throughout heaven and earth there is not a piece of ground where a
single stick could be inserted;
I am glad that all things are void, myself and the world:
Honoured be the sword, three feet long, wielded by the great Yüan
swordsmen;
For it is like cutting a spring breeze amidst the flashes of
lightning.”

See Chinese Notes, [5.40].

[f122] That is, sitting cross-legged in meditation.

[f123] This lively utterance remind one of a lightning simile in the
_Kena-Upanishad_ (IV. 30):

“This is the way It [that is, Brahman] is to be illustrated:
When lightnings have been loosened,—
a—a—ah!
When that has made the eyes to be closed,—
a—a—ah!
So far concerning Deity [devata].”

Lightning flash is a favourite analogue with the Zen masters too; the
unexpected onrush of satori into the ordinary field of consciousness
has something of the nature of lightning. It comes so suddenly and when
it comes the world is at once illumined and revealed in its entirety
and in its harmonious oneness; but when it vanishes everything falls
back into its old darkness and confusion.

[f124] Pao-tz‘u Wên-ch‘in, a disciple of Pao-fu Ts‘ung-chan, who died
928 A.D.

[f125] Another time when Jōshu was asked about the “first word,” he
coughed. The monk remarked, “Is this not it?” “Why, an old man is not
even allowed to cough!”—this came quickly from the old master. Jōshu
had still another occasion to express his view on the one word. A monk
asked, “What is the one word?” Demanded the master, “What do you say?”
“What is the one word?”—the question was repeated when Jōshu gave his
verdict, “You make it two.” (Ch. N., [3].)

Shuzan (Shu-shan) was once asked, “An old master says, ‘There is one
word which when understood wipes out the sins of innumerable kalpas:’
what is this one word?” Shuzan answered, “Right under your nose!” “What
is the ultimate meaning of it?” “This is all I can say”:—this was the
conclusion of the master. (Ch. N., [4].)

[f126] There are many mondoes purporting to the same subject. The
best known one by Jōshu is quoted elsewhere; of others we mention the
following. A monk asked Risan (Li-shan), “All things are reduced to
emptiness, but where is emptiness reduced?” Risan answered, “The tongue
is too short to explain it to you.” “Why is it too short?” “Within and
without, it is of one suchness,” said the master. (Ch. N., [6].)

A monk asked Keisan (Ch‘i-shan), “When relations are dissolved, all
is reduced to emptiness; but where is emptiness reduced?” The master
called out to the monk, and the monk responded, “Yes,” whereupon the
master called his attention, saying, “Where is emptiness?” Said the
monk, “Pray, you tell me.” Keisan replied, “It is like the Persian
tasting pepper.” While the one light is an etiological question as long
as its origin is the point at issue, the questions here referred to are
teleological because the ultimate reduction of emptiness is the subject
for solution. But as Zen transcends time and history, it recognises
only one beginningless and endless course of becoming. When we know the
origin of the one light, we also know where emptiness ends. (Ch. N.,
[7].)

[f127] Another time a monk was told, “Hold on to your poverty!” Nan-yin
Yegu’s (Nan-yüan Hui-yü) answer to his poverty-stricken monk was more
consoling, “You hold a handful of jewels yourself.” The subject of
poverty is the all-important one in our religious experience—poverty
not only in the material but also in the spiritual sense. Asceticism
must have as its ground-principle a far deeper sense than to be merely
curving human desires and passions, there must be in it something
positive and highly religious. “To be poor in spirit,” whatever meaning
it may have in Christianity, is rich in signification for Buddhists,
especially for Zen followers. A monk, Sei-jei (Ch‘ing-shi), came to
Sozan (Ts‘ao-shan), a great master of the Sōtō school in China, and
said, “I am a poor lonely monk: pray have pity on me.” “O monk, come on
forward!” Whereupon the monk approached the master, who then exclaimed,
“After enjoying three cupfuls of fine _chiu_ (liquor) brewed at
Ch‘ing-yüan, do you still protest that your lips are not at all wet?”
As to another aspect of poverty, cf. Hsiang-yen’s poem of poverty.

[f128] An analogous story is told of Sekito Kisen (Shih-t‘ou
Hsi-ch‘ien) who is grandson in faith of the sixth patriarch. The story
is quoted elsewhere.

[f129] When this is literally translated, it grows too long and loses
much of its original force. The Chinese runs thus: _hao li yu ch‘a
t‘ien ti hsüan chüeh_. It may better be rendered, “An inch’s difference
and heaven and earth are set apart.”

[f130] That is, Ts‘ao-ch‘i, where the sixth patriarch of Zen used to
reside. It is the birthplace of Chinese Zen Buddhism.

[f131] Does this not remind us of an old mystic who defined God as an
unutterable sigh?

[f132] A monk asked Hsüan-sha, “What is the idea of the National
Teacher’s calling out to his attendant?” Said Hsüan-sha, “The attendant
knows well.” Yün-chü Hsi commented on this: “Does the attendant really
know, or does he not? If we say he does, why does the National Teacher
say, ‘It is you that are not fair to me’? But if the attendant knows
not, how about Hsüan-sha’s assertion? What would be our judgment of the
case?”

Hsüan-chiao Chêng said to a monk, “What is the point the attendant
understands?” Replied the monk, “If he did not understand, he would
never have responded.” Hsüan-chiao said, “You seem to understand some.”

A monk asked Fa-yen, “What is the idea of the National Teacher’s
calling out to his attendant?” Fa-yen said, “You go away now, and come
back some other time.” Remarked Yün-chü, “When Fa-yen says this, does
he really know what the National Teacher’s idea is? or does he not?”

A monk approached Chao-chou with the same question, to which he
replied, “It is like writing characters in the dark: while the
characters are not properly formed, their outlines are plainly
traceable.”

[f133] Literally, “A day [of] no work [is] a day [of] no eating.” cf.
II. Thessalonians, III., 10: “If any would not work, neither should he
eat.” It is noteworthy that St. Francis of Assisi made this the first
rule of his Brotherhood.

[f134] _Tso ch‘an_ is one of those compound Buddhist terms made of
Sanskrit and Chinese. _Tso_ is Chinese meaning “to sit,” while _ch‘an_
stands for _dhyāna_ or _jhāna_. The full transliteration of the term is
_ch‘anna_, but for brevity’s sake the first character alone has been
in use. The combination of _tso-ch‘an_ comes from the fact that dhyana
is always practised by sitting cross-legged. This posture has been
considered by the Indians the best way of sitting for a long while in
meditation. In it, according to some Japanese physicians, the centre of
gravitation rests firmly in the lower regions of the body, and when the
head is relieved of an unusual congestion of blood, the whole system
will work in perfect order and the mind be put in suitable mood to take
in the truth of Zen.

[f135] He was the noted Confucian disciple of Baso (Ma-tsu), and his
wife and daughter were also devoted Zen followers. When he thought the
time had come for him to pass away, he told his daughter to watch the
course of the sun and let him know when it was midday. The daughter
hurriedly came back and told the father that the sun had already passed
the meridian and was about to be eclipsed. Hō came out, and while he
was watching the said eclipse, she went in, took her father’s own seat,
and passed away in meditation. When the father saw his daughter already
in Nirvana, he said, “What a quick-witted girl she is!” Hō himself
passed away some days later.

[f136] This historical temple was unfortunately destroyed by the
earthquake of 1923, with many other buildings.

[f137] In those monasteries which are connected in some way with the
author of this admonition, it is read or rather chanted before a
lecture or _Teisho_ begins.

[f138] I must not forget to mention that after the reading of the
_Hṛidaya Sūtra_ the following names of the Buddhas and others are
invoked: 1. Vairocana-Buddha in his immaculate Body of the Law, 2.
Vairocana-Buddha in his perfect Body of Bliss, 3. Śākyamuni-Buddha
in his infinite manifestations as Body of Transformation, 4.
Maitreya-Buddha who is to come in some future time, 5. All the
Buddhas past, present, and future in the ten quarters of the world,
6. The great holy Bodhisattva Mañjuśrī, 7. The great morally-perfect
Bodhisattva Samantabhadra, 8. The great compassionate Bodhisattva
Avalokiteśvara, 9. All the venerable Bodhisattva-mahāsattvas, and 10.
Mahāprajñāpāramitā.

[f139] When the slop-basin goes around, spiritual beings are again
remembered: “This water in which my bowls were washed tastes like
nectar from heaven. I now offer this to the numerous spirits of the
world: may they all be filled and satisfied! Om ma-ku-ra-sai (in
Pekingese, _mo-hsiu-lo-hsi_) svāha!”

[f140] This question of dust reminds one of Berkeley’s remark: “We have
just raised a dust and then complain we cannot see.”

[f141] _Shê-li_, is some indestructible substance, generally in
pebble-form, found in the body of a saint when it is cremated.

[f142] _Kung-an_ is a question or theme given to the student for
solution. It literally means “public document,” and, according to a
Zen scholar, it is so called because it serves as such in testing the
genuineness of enlightenment a student claims to have attained. The
term has been in use since the early days of Zen Buddhism in the T‘ang
dynasty. The so-called “cases” or “dialogues” (_mondo_) are generally
used as kō-ans. A special chapter devoted to the subject will be found
in the second series of The Essays.

[f143] I cannot tell how early this “Sesshin” originated in the history
of the Zendo. It is not in Hyakujo’s Regulations, and did not start in
China but in Japan probably after Hakuin. The Sojourn period generally
being a “stay at home” season, the monks do not travel, but practise
“Sesshin” and devote themselves to the study of Zen; but in the week
specially set up as such, the study is pursued with the utmost vigour.

[f144] That is, _ti-ch‘ang_. _Tei_ means “to carry in hand,” “to show
forth,” or “manifest,” and _sho_ “to recite.” Thus by a Teisho the
old master is revived before the congregation and his discourses are
more or less vividly presented to view. It is not merely explaining or
commenting on the text.

[f145] Dharaṇī is a Sanskrit term which comes from the root _dhṛi_,
meaning “to hold.” In Buddhist phraseology, it is a collection,
sometimes short, sometimes long, of exclamatory sentences which are
not translated into other languages. It is not therefore at all
intelligible when it is read by the monks as it is done in the Chinese
and Japanese monasteries. But it is supposed to “hold” in it in some
mysterious way something that is most meritorious and has the power to
keep evil ones away. Later, dharanis and mantrams have grown confused
with one another.

[f146] The founder of Tenryuji, Kyoto. He is known as “Teacher of Seven
Emperors.” 1274–1361.

[f147] _San-ch‘an_ literally means “to attend or study Zen.” As it is
popularly used now in Japan, it has, besides its general meaning, the
special one as is referred to in the text.

[f148] Formerly, this was an open affair, and all the mondos
(askings and answerings) took place before the whole congregation,
as is stated in the Regulations of Hyakujo. But, later, undesirable
results followed, such as mere formalism, imitations, and other empty
nonsenses. In modern Zen, therefore, all sanzen is private, except on
formal occasions.

[f149] While thus going around, he came to a house where an old woman
refused to give him any rice; he however kept on standing in front of
it, looking as if nothing were said to him. His mind was so intensely
concentrated on the subject which concerned him most at the time. The
woman got angry, because she thought he was altogether ignoring her
and trying to have his own way. She struck him with a big broom with
which she was sweeping and told him to depart right at once. The heavy
broom smashed his large monkish hat and knocked him down on the ground.
He was lying there for a while, and when he came to sense again,
everything became to him clear and transparent.

[f150] As to the life of his teacher, Daito, reference was made to it
elsewhere.

[f151] The wind is probably one of the best imageries to get us into
the idea of non-attachment or Śūnyatā philosophy. The New Testament
has at least one allusion to it when it says, “The wind bloweth as it
listeth,” and here we see the Chinese mystics making use of the wind
to depict his inner consciousness of absolute identity, which is also
the Buddhist notion of the void. Now compare the following passage
from Echkart: Darum ruft die Braue auch weiter: “Weiche von mir, mein
Geliebter, weiche von mir”: “Alles, was irgend der Darstellung fähig
ist, das halte ich nicht für Gott. Und so fliehe ich vor Gott, Gottes
wegen!”—‘Ei, wo ist dann der Seele Bleiben?’—“Auf den Fittichen der
Winde!” (Büttner, _Meister Eckeharts Schriften und Predigten_, Erster
Band, p. 189.) “So flieche ich vor Gott, Gottes wegen,” reminds us of a
Zen master who said, “I hate even to hear the name of the Buddha.” From
the Zen point of view, “Gottes wegen,” may better be left out.

[f152] The full passage is: “He who seeks learnedness gets daily
enriched. He who seeks the Tao is daily made poor. He is made poorer
and poorer until he arrives at non-action (_wu wei_). With non-action,
there is nothing that he cannot achieve.” (Chap. 48.)

[f153]

Na vāsanair bhidyate cit na cittaṁ vāsanaiḥ saha,
Abbinnalakshaṇaṁ cittaṁ vāsanaiḥ pariveshtitarṁ.
Malavad vāsanā yasya manovijñāna-sambhavā,
Pata-śuklopamaṁ cittaṁ vāsanair na virājate.
Yathā na bhāvo nābhāvo gaganaṁ kathyate mayā,
Ālayaṁ hi tathā kāya bhāvābhāva-vivarjitaṁ.
Manovijñāna vyāvṛittaṁ cittaṁ kālusbya varjitam,
Sarvadharmāvabodhena cittaṁ buddhaṁ vadāmyaham.

_The Laṅkāvatāra_, p. 296.

[f154] Not an ordinary question asking enlightenment, but one that
has a point in it showing some understanding on the part of the
inquirer. All those questions already quoted must not be taken in
their superficial or literary sense. They are generally metaphors. For
instance, when one asks about a phrase having no shadow, he does not
mean any ordinary ensemble of words known grammatically as such, but
an absolute proposition whose verity is so beyond a shadow of doubt
that every rational being will at once recognise as true on hearing it.
Again, when reference is made to murdering a parent or a Buddha, it
has really nothing to do with such horrible crimes, but as we have in
Rinzai’s sermon elsewhere, the murdering is transcending the relativity
of a phenomenal world. Ultimately, therefore, this question amounts to
the same thing as asking “Where is the one to be reduced, when the many
are reduced to the one?”

[f155] This means Buddha who is supposed by Buddhists to have been the
owner of a golden-coloured body, sixteen feet in height.

[f156] Generally after a sermon the monks come out and ask various
questions bearing on the subject of the sermon, though frequently
indifferent ones are asked too.

[f157] See the article on the “History of Zen Buddhism,” p. 149 et seq.

[f158] For detail see “Practical Methods of Zen Instruction.”

[f159] Cf. also “History of Zen Buddhism” where reference is made to
the Northern and Southern school of Zen under the fifth patriarch in
China.

[f160] See for detail p. 177, “History of Zen.”

[f161] According to Fariduddin Attar, A.D. 1119–1229, of Khorassan,
Persia, Cf. Claud Field’s _Mystics and Saints of Islam_, p. 123 et seq.

[f162] Underhill—_Mysticism_, p. 369.

[f163] After this book went to the press, I have come across an old
edition of the spiritual cow-herding pictures, which end with an empty
circle corresponding to the eighth of the present series. Is this the
work of Seikyo as referred to in Kakuan’s Preface? The cow is shown to
be whitening here gradually with the progress of discipline. I may have
an occasion later to reproduce this edition.

[f164] See also a Sutra in the Anguttara Āgama bearing the same
title, which is evidently another translation of the same text. Also
compare “The Herdsman, I.,” in _The First Fifty Discourses of Gotama
the Buddha_; Vol. II., by Bhikkhu Sīlācāra. Leipzig, 1913. This a
partial translation of the Majjhima Nikāya of the Pali Tripitaka.
The eleven items as enumerated in the Chinese version are just a
little differently given. Essentially of course, they are the same
in both texts. A Buddhist dictionary called _Daizo Hossu_ gives
reference on the subject to the great Mahayana work of Nāgārjuna,
the _Māhāprājñāpāramitā-Śāstra_, but so far I have not been able to
identify the passage.

[f165] The ten pictures reproduced here were specially prepared for the
author by Reverend Seisetsu Seki, Abbot of Tenryuji, Kyoto, which is
one of the principal historical Zen monasteries in Japan. The original
Chinese verses with their introductory notes are found in the Appendix.

[f166] It will be interesting to note what a mystic philosopher would
say about this: “A man shall become truly poor and as free from his
creature will as he was when he was born. And I say to you, by the
eternal truth, that as long as ye desire to fulfil the will of God, and
have any desire after eternity and God; so long are ye not truly poor.
He alone hath true spiritual poverty who wills nothing, knows nothing,
desires nothing.”—(From Eckhart as quoted by Inge in _Light, Life, and
Love_.)

INDEX

“Abrupt” school, 350.

{Account of Succession in the Law}, 158.

{Accounts of the Orthodox Transmission of the Dharma}, by Ch‘i-Sung,
156.

Ādarśa-Jñāna (mirror-insight), 131f.

{Amitābha Sūtra}, (Chinese), 193, see also {Sukhāvatīvyūha}.

Anābhogacaryā (act of no-purpose), 66fn., 82.

Ānanda, 55, 59, and Akshobhya, 284.

Anuttara-samyak-sambodhi (supreme, perfect enlightenment), 58, 78;
see also Enlightenment.

Arada (or Ālāra Kālāma), 71fn., 145.

Arhat, qualified, 60.

Arhatship, 51, 56, 121.

{Ariyapariyesana-suttam}, 38fn.

Asanga, 55.

Āśrava (leakage), 50fn.

Aśvaghosha, 55, 56fn., 145, 161.

Aśvajit, 58.

{Avataṁsaka Sūtra} (Chinese), 89.

{Awakening of Faith, the}, by Aśvaghosha, 56.

Bāhva, 89.

Basho (Pa-chiao), on “shujō,” 259, silent, 281.

Baso (Ma-tsu), 16, 30, 163, 190, 199, 218, 221f.; in his sick bed, 269;
his “Kwats!” 279f.; and Tō-Impo, 291.

Berkeley, on dust, 313fn.

Bhūtatā, 79.

Bhūtatathatā, 131.

{Biographies of the High Priests}, by Tao-hsüan, 163.

Black-nails, the Brahman, 161.

Blake, 267.

Bliss-bestowing, 366.

Bodhi, 79ff.; see also Enlightenment.

Bodhi-Dharma (Daruma, Tamo), 8, 24, 74, 82, 93, 94, 96, 156, 218; the
gāthā by, 160; his life, 163ff.; Six Essays by, 165fn.; his life by
Donrin, 167; and the emperor of Liang, 175; in Wei, 176; and his
disciples, 177; and Nāgārjuna, 177fn.; his last days, 178;
his coming from West, 266; and a nun, 284; and his four disciples,
351.

Bodhiruci, a translator of the {Laṅkāvatāra}, 74.

Bodhisattvahood, 63; contrasted with Arhatship, 52.

{Bodhisattva-sīla Sūtra}, (Chinese,) 193, 205.

Bodhism, 152.

Boehme, Jacob, 114.

Bokitsu (Mu-chi), on staff, 20.

Bokuju (Mu-chou), on staff, 21; treatment of Ummon, 10; on dressing and
eating, 12f.; on teacher of Buddhas, 269; on Zen, 269; on doctrine
going beyond Buddhas, 269f.

{Brahmajāla}, 50fn., 51.

Buddha, his deification, 33; no metaphysician, 39; motherly, 40;
deified, 40fn.; as the world-light, 41; the reason of his appearance,
61; his secluded habit, 68; as a magician, 86; his personality, 101;
his personal experience, 107; his predecessors, 108; his reluctance to
preach, 109; his proclamation to Upaka 115; and metaphysics, 124ff.;
as empiricist, 127; his gāthā of law-transmission, 159; and an old
lady, 162; as mind, 220.

{Buddhacarita}, by Aśvaghosha, 145.

Buddhas, the six, 158; invoked at meal, 310fn.

Buddhism, and its founder, 31ff.; and its Pali scholars, 37; as a life,
37; as the teaching of the Buddha, 37; and its divisions, 42; as a
living system of Buddhist experience, 42, 44; its vital problems,
43ff.; its essence, 44; to be comprehensively and inwardly
conceived, 48; Buddhism, growing beyond monasticism, 62ff.; and women,
64; Chinese, characterised, 93; persecuted in China, 95; its influence
on Taoism, 98; acting on Confucian ideas, 99; defined, 101.

Builder (or designer, gahākara), 117; see also Ego.

Bukkō (Fo-kuang), or Tsu-yüan, 239f.; his tōki-no-gé, 241fn.

Bunki (Wen-hsi), silent, 281.

{Candrottara-dārikā Sūtra}, (Chinese) 64.

Carlyle, Thomas, 2.

Catushkotika, four logical propositions, 260.

{Cause and Effect in the Past and Present, Sutra on the}, 36fn.

Causation, the twelvefold chain of, 37, 55, 57, 108, 117, 126, 153,
154; see also under Origination.

Cetovimutti, 60.

Chao-chou, see Jōshū.

Ch‘êng-hao, Confucian philosopher, 99.

Ch‘êng-i, Confucian philosopher, 99.

Chien-ku, 69.

Chih-chiang-liang-lou, a Buddhist translator, 158.

Chih-I (Chigi), a Buddhist philosopher, 94, 100, 143, 190.

Chih-yüeh (Chiyaku), a Buddhist from India, 202.

Chih-huang (Chiko), disciple of Hui-nêng, 208f.

Chinese language, as vehicle of Zen, 337f.

Chinese mind, compared with the Indian, 83ff.; practical, 90.

Chō-kei (Ch‘ang-ching), his tōki-no-gé, 233f.; on Suigan’s eyebrows,
279.

Chosa (Ch‘ang-sha), on Nansen’s death, 17; on earthworm, 313; on the
self, 273.

Chōyetsu (Ch‘ang-shuo), a Chinese officer, 193.

Chōsui (Ch‘ang-shui), on the evolution of the absolute, 272.

Chou-tun-i, a Chinese philosopher, 99.

Christ, in the light of Zen, 330.

Christian mystics, 353.

Christianity, and its founder, 35ff.; symbolic, 141.

Chu (Chung), the national teacher, 327; calling to his attendant, 288.

Chuang-tzŭ, 89, 100.

Chu-hsi, a Chinese philosopher, 99.

Citta, 80.

Confucius, 2, 5, 10.

Contradictions, in Zen, 264ff.

Counter-questioning, in Zen, 281ff.

Cow, revered by the Indians, 355; on the herding of, 355; gone out of
sight, 364; forgotten, 363; on the back of, 362; herding the, 361;
seeing the traces of the, 358; seeing the, 359; catching the, 360;
looking for the, 357.

Daizui (Tai-sui), on self, 282.

Daruma (or Tamo), see Bodhi-Dharma.

Democracy, in the monastery, 313.

Designer (or builder, gahākara), 117.

{Dhammapāda}, 55, 134, 135.

Dharanī, 320fn.

Dharma, the, 58; and Buddhist life, 37; the comprehensive, 39; manifest
in the Buddha, 40; defined, 50; the eye of, 53.

Dharmakāya, 34fn., 76.

Dhṛitaka, a Zen patriarch, 159.

Dhyāna (jhāna), and Prajñā, 34ff.; and Zen, 67ff.; against
antinomianism, 67; different kinds of, 71ff.; four kinds of, in the
{Laṅkāvatāra}, 81; the true, defined in the Samyukta-āgama, 81fn.;
distinguished from Zen, 93; as a spiritual exercise, 154f.; the
Tathāgata, 210; the patriarchal, 210; see also under Zen.

Direct action, in Zen, 277ff.

Direct method, in Zen, 283ff.

{Discipline, Sutra on the Story of}, Chinese, 38.

Discipline (śiksha), the threefold, 69, 135.

Dōfuku (Tao-fu), disciple of Bodhi-Dharma, 177.

Dōgo (Tao-wu), Yenchi, disciple of Yakusan, knows not his master, 265;
with Yakusan, 287.

Dōgo, Tenno, instructing Ryūtan, 287.

Dōiku (Tao-yu), disciple of Bodhi-Dharma, 166, 177.

Dōsan (Tung-shan), 97.

Dōshin (Tao-hsin), 182, 187; and Hōyu (Fa-jung), 188f.

Duḥkha (pain), 141.

{Eastern Buddhist}, the, vi, 1fn.

Eating, in the monastery, 310ff.

Eckhart, cited, 114, 223, 255, 258, 268, 271, 305, 331fn., 364.

Ego, 4; -centric, 4; -substance, not existent, 46, 47.

Ekacitta (one thought), 113.

Ekottara-āgama, 34fn., 40fn.

Emerson, on imagination, 293.

Emptiness (śūnatā), 178ff.; as poverty, 336.

Engakuji, in Kamakura, 306.

Enlightenment, and darkness, 13; essence of Buddhism, 44; and Nirvana,
45; attainable by us, 47; its relation to Zen, 49ff.; as the Dharma,
50; as Nirvana, 51; not intellectual, 56, 111; as final truth, 57; in
the {Laṅkāvatāra}, 60; not discursive understanding, 61; and spiritual
freedom, 62ff.; fuller expression of life, 73; not conceptual, 81; in
the {Saddharma-puṇḍarīka}, 84; as a significant fact in the Buddha’s
life, 101; and intellection, 107; and ignorance, 107ff.; and the will,
119; as affirmation, 127; not nihilistic, 130; not a passive
reflection, 132; and samādhi (or dhyāna), 133ff.; a returning, 138ff.;
and the intellect, 139ff.; synthetical, 141; not negative, 144; as
essential fact of Buddhism, 152ff.; as satori, 215; graded, 349ff.

Everlasting No, 2.

Everlasting Yea, 2.

Eye (insight), 109.

Exclamation, in Zen, 278ff.

{Fa-pao-tan-ching}, by Hui-nêng, 201fn., 202f.

Finger, pointing at the moon, 7.

{First Fifty Discourses of the Buddha}, tr. by Sīlācāra, 355fn.

Freedom, spiritual, 121.

Fu-hsi (Fukyō, or Fudaishi), 189, 258.

{Gaṇḍavyūha Sūtra}, Chinese, 64.

Gantō (Yen-tou), 239f.

Gāthās of transmission, 159.

Genkaku (Hsüan-chiao), 207.

Genkaku cho (Hsüan-chiao Chêng); on Chu the national teacher, 288fn.

Gensaku (Hsüan-t‘sê), 208f.

Gensha (Hsüan-sha), in water, 277; on self, 277; on transparent
crystal, 277f.; on the murmuring of a stream, 278; and a piece of
cake, 278; on Chu the national teacher, 288fn.

Gensoku (Hsüan-t‘sê), and the god of fire, 294.

Godaishi (Wu-tao-tzŭ), and the emperor Hsüan-tsung, 292f.

God-consciousness, in Zen, 336.

Goroku (Yü-lu), sayings, III., IV.; Chinese colloquialism in, 97.

Gozusan (Niu-tou-shan), 187.

“Gradual” school, in Zen, 350.

Gunabhadra, a translator of the {Laṅkāvatāra}, 74, 202.

Gunin (Hung-jên), the fifth patriarch, 30, 196, 173, 187, 189, 191.

Gutei (Chuh-chih), one finger Zen, 22fn.

Gwarin, (Wo-luan) a disciple of the sixth Patriarch, 209.

Haikyū (P‘ei Hsiu), and Ōbaku, 266f., 289.

Hakuin; 238ff., 267, 327; on Ummon’s “Kwan!” 279; Song of Zasen, 322f.;
and his teacher Shōju, 324f.

{Hekiganshu}, an important book on Zen, 22fn., 320.

Herbert, George, cited, 305.

Hima (Pi-mo), with his forked stick, 261.

Hinayanism, as ascetic formalism, 64.

Hofuku (Pao-fu), 22fn.; on Suigan’s eyebrows, 279; his “for a while,”
281.

Hōgen (Fa-yen), on an inch’s difference, 275; on one drop of water,
275f.; on Chu the national teacher, 288f.; with Gensoku, 294.

Hokkezammai (fa-hua san-mei), 143.

Hōkoji (P‘ang Yun), on the companionless man, 16; Chinese Vimalakīrti,
17; on drawing water, 306, 306fn.

Hōji Bunkin (Pao-tz‘ŭ Wen-ch‘in), on everyday thought, 248.

Hōnen Shōnin, 34fn.

Hōshi (Pao-chih), 189.

Hossu, 20.

Hōyen (Fa-yen), of Gosozan, on Haryo Kan, 103; his tōki-no-gé, 234; on
his own portrait, 237; his sermon, 271; and the yogācāra, 275; sermon
on burglary, 296f.; on too much Zen, 331; sermon on staff, 345.

Hsiang-yen, see Kyōgen.

Hsien-chou (Genju), a great Buddhist philosopher, 100.

Hsing-szŭ, see Seigen Gyōshi.

Hsüan-chuang (Genjō Sanzo), 92, 100.

Huang-nieh, see Ōbaku.

Hui-chung, see Chu the national teacher.

Hui-k‘ê, see Yeka.

Hui-nêng, see Yeno.

Hui-szŭ (Yeshi), a Chinese Buddhist teacher, 143.

Humility, taught in the monastery, 318.

Hyakujo (Pai-chang), 163; and wild geese, 225. rolling up the matting,
232; deafened by Baso’s “Kwats!” 280; as founder of Zen monastery,
301; on cow-herding, 356.

Hyakujo, Nehan, 13, 247, 286.

{Hyakujo Shingi}, regulations of the Zen monastery, 301.

Ibnu ’I-Farid, a Persian mystic, 353.

I-ching (Gijō), a Chinese pilgrim and translator, 92.

Ignorance, avidyā, 1, 47; how conquered, 111; not cognitive, 116ff.;
and ego, 120, 126.

Iku, or Toryō (Tu-ling Yu), his tōki-no-gé, 234f.

Immortality, 17.

Indian imagination, and the Mahayana texts, 84.

Inshu (Yin-tsung), converted by Yeno, 197.

Insight, its synonyms in Sanskrit, 112ff.; see also eye (cakkhu).

Intellect, disturbing, 6.

Isan (Wei-shan), picking tea-leaves, 289, 314; in the remote mountains,
327.

Ishin Seigen (Wei-hsin Ch‘in-yüan), his view of Zen, 12.

{Islamic Mysticism}, by R. D. Nicholson, 353f.

{Itivuttaka}, 131, 133.

Jimyo (Tzŭ-ming), on dust, 22; his counter-questioning, 282; and Suigan
Kashin, 295f.

Jinshu (Shên-hsiu), 191, 193, 201, 218.

Jō-jōza (Ting the monk), and Rinzai, 243; with Buddhist scholars, 290f.

Jōshu (Chao-chou), on Zen, 102; “Throw it down!” 162; no abiding place,
205fn.; on washing dishes, 224; “Mu”, 236, 240; one ultimate word,
256, 256fn.; on poverty, 259; on Nansen’s cat, 262; on his new robe,
268; one thing abiding, 269; on Prajñā, 273; his counter-questioning,
282; his direct method, 286; on Chu the national teacher, 288fn.; on
dust, 313; crying “fire!” 313; and an old woman, 328f.; his stone
bridge, 329; on a crystal, 341; on Bodhi-Dharma, 341.

Kaisu (Ch‘i-sung), a Chinese historian, 158.

Kakuan (K‘uo-an), on ten cow-herding pictures, 355.

Kan of Haryo (Pa-Ling Chien), 103.

Karma, 86.

{Katha-Upanishad}, 114.

“Kechimyak-ron,” one of the Six Essays by Bodhi-Dharma, quoted, 219ff.

Kegon (Avataṁsaka), 54, 160.

Keisan (Chi-shan), 257fn.

{Kena-Upanishad}, 30fn., 143fn.

Kensho, seeing into one’s nature, 349.

{Kevaddha Sutta}, 69fn., 88.

Kido (Hsü-t‘ang), on the evolution of the absolute, 272f.

Kisu (Kuei-tsung), weeding, 270.

Kō-an, IV., 239f., 250; its meaning explained, 319fn.

Koboku Gen (K‘u-mu Yüan), on poverty, 334f.

Kōhō (Kao-fêng), his Zen experience, 236ff.

Kōrin (Hsiang-lin), tired with sitting, 268.

Kōzankoku (Huang-shan-ku), and Kwaido, 230.

Kumārajīva, 100.

Kwanzan, 327.

Kwasan (Hê-shan), his drum, 269.

“Kwatsu!” ({hê}), 22; four forms of, 280.

Kyōgen (Hsiang-yen), 210; his satori, 227f.; a man up in a tree, 263;
on poverty, 334.

Kyōzan (Yang-shan), on Isan’s mirror, 262; and Sansho, 282; picking
tea-leaves, 314.

Kwanchu (Huan-chung), on Prajñā, 273.

{Lalita-vistara}, 146.

{Laṅkāvatāra Sūtra}, 60, 82, 94, 102, 103, 161, 173ff., 193, 202,
336f.; not one word uttered, 55; three Chinese translations of, 74;
its special features discussed, 75; a hymn cited from, 76; its main
thesis, 76; passages often repeated in, 80; quotation from the first
chapter of, 87ff.; on abrupt understanding, 200.

Lao-tzŭ, 30fn., 100, 335.

Lawrence, Brother, 18, 305.

“Learning by doing,” in the monastery, 315.

Liang-chiu (“for a little while”), 281.

Lieh-tzŭ, 89, 330, 351ff.

Life, as affirmation, 2; suffering, 3; assertion of, 285.

Lightning simile, 230f., 241, 284.

Lin-chi, see Rinzai.

{Lohicca}, 69fn.

Mādhyamika, the, 90, 100, 160.

Mahākāśyapa, or Kāśyapa, 49, 74, 155, 159.

{Mahāli-sutta}, 50fn., 123, 132.

{Mahāpadāna-suttanta}, 38fn., 108.

{Mahāparinibbāna}, 69.

{Mahāparinirvāna Sūtra}, Chinese, 220fn.

Mahāsaṅghikas, 42.

Mahayana, traceable in Hinayana, 48.

Mahayanism, and libertinism, 64.

{Mahāyutpatti}, 70fn.

Maitreya, 85.

Majjhima-nikāya, 146, 147.

Manas, 80.

Mañjuśrī, 64, 86, 90; as Prajñā, 273.

Maññitams, (self-assertion), 136.

Manovijñāna, 80.

Manura, the twenty-second patriarch of Zen, 159.

Ma-tsu, see Baso.

Maturing, of Zen life, 327f.

Maudgalyāyana, 58.

Mayoku (Ma-ku), and Ryōsui, 288.

Meaningless affirmation, in Zen, 267ff.

Meditation, 81; in Zen, 19, 20fn., 206ff.; five objects of, 72fn.; ten
objects of, 72fn.; meditations on food, three, 310; five, 310.

Meditation Hall, IV., 24, 301ff.

Mencius, 4.

Meritlessness, 330; meritless deeds, 336.

Miracles, Buddhist view of, 123fn.

Moksha, 52; see also Vimoksha.

Monastery life, described, 309f.; practical, 305.

Mondō (questions and answers), 222, 256.

Monks, as labourers, 312.

Moon, and a finger, 6.

Mu-chou, see Bokujū.

Mumon (Wu-men), on poverty, 33.

Musō Kokushi, 321; his exhortation, 321.

Myō-jōza (Ming the Monk), 195.

{Mystics and Saints of Islam}, by Claud Field, 225fn.

Na-lien-ya-shê, a Buddhist translator from India, 158.

Nan-ch‘üan, see Nansen.

Nangaku (Nan-yüeh), 210, 212, 222, 236; and his disciples, 351.

Nansen (Nan-ch‘üan), 17, 30, 163, 292; everyday thought, 248; and his
cat, 262.

Nāgārjuna, 55, 56, 100, 161, 355fn.

Nanyin (Nan-yüan,) 210.

Nan-yüeh, see Nangaku.

Negation, in Zen, 260ff.

Nenro, commentary remark peculiar to Zen, 225.

Nigrodha, 68.

Nirvana, 37, 45, 101; in samsara, 13; not annihilation, 47; in
enlightenment, 51; the anupādiśesha, 51, 63; conditioned by samsara,
79; in Sutta Nipata, 131f.; described as security, 147.

{Nirvāṇa Sūtra}, Chinese, 193, 197, see also {Mahāparinirvāna}.

Noble Truth, the Fourfold, 37, 39, 54, 55, 57, 96, 113, 116, 128f. 141,
154.

“No work, no eating,” 302f.

Non-achievement, 218.

Non-attachment, 161, 335f.

Non-ego, 37, 153, 154.

Nyoi, 20.

Ōbaku (Huang-po), 9, 163, 218; with his staff, 285f.; with Haikyū, 289;
and Rinzai, 291; with a hoe, 314.

Ōkubo Shibun, and his bamboo picture, 259f.

“One thought” (ekacitta), 56, 113.

One voice (ekaśvara), 43fn.

{Orategama}, a collection of letters by Hakuin, 238.

Original face, the, 195, 210.

Origination, theory or chain of (pratītya-samutpāda), 46, 66fn., 96,
142f.; see also Causation.

Pai-chang, see Hyakujo.

{Pali Text Society, Journal of}, 111.

Paññā, 109; and enlightenment, 126; its Pali synonyms, 112ff.; See also
Prajñā.

Paññā-vimutti, 60.

{Pao-lin-ch‘uan}, a lost Zen history, 158.

Paradox, in Zen, 258ff.

Paramārtha, or paramārthasatya, 79, 202.

Pāramitās, virtues of perfection, 170.

Parikalpana (or vikalpa), 113.

{Parinibbāna-suttanta}, 41fn.; see also {Mahāparinibbāna-suttanta}.

Paticca-samuppāda, 114, 116, 129; see also Origination and Causation.

Patriarchs, the twenty-eight, 157.

{Pieh-chi}, a Zen document, 172.

Pi-kwan, wall-gazing, 167, 171ff.

{Platform Sutra}, by Hui-nêng, 209; see also {Fa-pao-tan-ching}.

Plotinus, 268.

Poverty, in Zen, 333ff.

Prajñā, 52ff., 61, 65, 66, 94, 113, 134ff., 273, 275; see also Paññā,
and under Dhyāna and Enlightenment.

{Prajñā-pāramitā Sūtra}, 88, 90, 91, 100, 103, 142fn., 161, 205fn.,
266; the philosophy of, 136f.; its school, 80.

Pratyātmajñāna, or -gocara, 76ff., 81, 91, 153.

Prodigal son, the, in the Buddhist texts, 140ff.

Raft, the simile of, 136ff.

Rakuho (Le-p‘u), his “Kwats!” 280.

Rasan (Lo-shan), his counter-questioning, 282.

Rāvana, 77, 87.

{Records of the Right Transmission}, a Zen history by Ch‘i-sung, 158.

{Records of the Spread of the Lamp}, a Zen history by Li Tsun-hsü, 156.

{Records of the Transmission of the Lamp}, a Zen history by Tao-yüan,
156, 158, 164, 166, 204.

Refuge formula, the threefold, 62.

Reiun (Ling-yün), on the appearance of the Buddha, 285.

{Religion of the Samurai}, by Kwaiten Nukariya, v.

Repetition, in Zen, 271ff.

Returning, 139; to the origin, 365.

Rhys Davids, 70fn.

Righteousness, the eightfold path of, 37, 55. 96, 153, 154.

{Rightful Lineage of the Sākya Doctrine}, a history of Chinese
Buddhism, 163.

Rinzai (lin-chi), 190, 210, 281; on a man of no title, 8f.; on staff,
21; the school of, 212; on Ōbaku’s Buddhism, 232; and Ōbaku, 291; his
“Kwats!” 279f.; his “rough” method, 290; with a hoe, 314; sermon on
Zen life, 331f.

{Rinzairoku}, Sayings of Rinzai, 320.

Risan (li-shan), 256fn.

Ruskin, 15.

Ryōsui (Liang-sui), answering Mayoku, 288.

Ryüttan (Lung-t‘an), receiving instructions from Dōgo, 287.

{Saddharma-puṇḍarīka Sūtra}, 43fn., 54, 61, 66, 84, 89, 193. 355f.

Sai-an (Chi-an), and Vairocana Buddha, 162.

Samādhi, 94, 208f.; distinguished from dyhāna, 70; its synonyms,
70.

{Sāmaññā-phala Sutta}, 68, 69fn., 71fn., 128, 131.

Saṁsāra, 79.

Samyutta-nikāya, 59, 142fn.

Sandhana, a follower of the Buddha, 68.

Sangha, 68.

Sansho (San-shêng) 210; and Kyōzan, 282.

Sanzen, 323f.

Śāriputra, 61, 86; his spiritual attainment, 58; in the {Puṇḍarika},
61.

Satori, (awakening), 19, 24, 215ff.; as intuitive understanding, 216;
and conversion, 217; as ken-shō (chien-hsing), 219; not discursive,
228; and mental effort, 231; and self-suggestion, 244; absolutely
needed in Zen, 244f.; not meditation, 246; and seeing God, 246;
intimate experience, 247; not abnormal, 248; and freedom, 249; as
enlightenment, 249.

Schopenhauer, 144.

Secchō (Hsüeh-tou), compiler of {Hekigan}, 22fn.; on Ummon’s “Kwan!”
279.

Secret Virtue, 328ff.

Seigen Gyōshi (Ch‘ing-yüan Hsing-szŭ), the source of the Soto, 212.

Seizei (Ch‘ing-shi), 259fn.

Seki, Seisetsu, 357fn.

Sekisō (Shih-shuang), on the ultimate fact, 286.

Sekitō (Shih-t‘ou), 17, 163, 190, 199, 264.

Self-suffering, in Zen, 329.

Sêng-t‘san, see Sōsan.

Sesshin period, 319ff.

Shari (śārīra), 316.

Shên-hsui, see Jinshu.

{Sheng-chou-chi}, a lost Zen history, 158.

Shifuku (Tzu-fu), silent, 281.

Shih-t‘ou, see Sekitō.

Shiko (Tzŭ-hu), on earthworm, 314.

Shin sect, as “other-power,” v.

Shingon, 160; and Swedenborg, 45fn.

Shinko (Shên-kuang), 176f.; see also Yeka.

Shinran, 34fn.

Shippé, 20.

Shōkō (Shêng-kuang), on earthworm, 314.

Shuan (Shou-an), on poverty, 333.

Shujyō, 20.

Shukō (Chu-hung), on anger, 317f.

Shuzan (Shu-shan), 256fn.; on shippé, 261; on Buddhism, 269; his “for a
while,” 281.

Śikshānanda, a translator of the {Laṅkāvatāra}, 74.

Silence, in Zen, 280f.; Vimalakīrti’s 280; and Zen masters, 281.

Six Essays by Bodhi-Dharma, 218; see also under Bodhi-Dharma.

Sixth Patriarch, see Yeno.

Sōji (Tsung-chih), 177.

Sonadanda, the Brahman, 142fn.

Sorrow, sanctifying, 4.

Sōsan (Sêng-t‘san), 181ff.; his writing, 182ff.

Sōtō school, the, 212.

Sotōba (Su Tung-p‘o), on Mount Lu, 11f.

Shaku, Soyen, vii.

Sozan (Ts‘ao-shan), silence revealed by, 281.

Spirits, fed at meal, 311.

{Śrīmālā Sūtra}, Chinese, 64.

St. Francis, on work, 303f.

Sthaviras, 41.

Sudhana, 64.

Suffering, 3, 4.

Sufis, 353.

Suibi (Ts‘ui-wei), Mugaku, on Tanka, 317.

Suibi (Ts‘ui-yen), on his eyebrows, 279.

Suigan Kashin, and Jimyō, 295f.

{Sukhāvativyūha Sūtra}, 43fn.

Sumeru, Mount, 87.

Sumiye-painting, and Zen, 284.

Śūnyatā, emptiness, 47, 56, 80, 100.

Supernaturalism, Indian, 86; miracles, wonders, etc., 88, 90.

{Śūraṅgama Sūtra}, Chinese, 272.

{Sutta Nipata}, 50fn., 130, 132.

Swedenborg, 45fn.

Tai-an, on cow-herding, 356.

Taigi (tai-i), fixation, 238f.

Tanka (Tan-hsia), burning a Buddha’s image, 316f.

“Tat twam asi,” 258.

Tathagata, his knowledge, 122.

Tathāgata-dhyāna, 82.

Tathāgata-garbha, 78, 80.

Tathatā, 79.

Tao-hsüan, a Buddhist historian, 163ff.

Tao-shin, see Sōsan.

Tao-wu, see Dōgo.

Tao-yüan, a Zen historian, 164ff.

Tauler, 305, 333.

Teisho, Zen lecture, 320.

Ten Cow-herding Pictures, 349ff.

Tendai, 54; and Zen, 190.

Tennyson, 20.

Tenryu (T‘ien-lung), “one finger” Zen, 22fn.; his counter-questioning,
282.

Tenryūji, in Kyoto, 321, 357fn.

Terstegen, 278.

Tê-shan, see Tokusan.

Tesshikaku (T‘ieh-tsui Chiao), knows not his master, 265.

{Tevijja}, 50fn.

Three conceptions of being, 290.

Tōki-no-gé, 233; by Chōkei, 223f.; by Hōyen Goso, 234; by Yengo, 234;
by Yenju, 234; by Yōdainen, 235; by Iku of Toryō, 235; by Bukkō,
241fn.

Tō-Impo (Têng-yin-fêng), crushing Baso’s legs, 291.

Tokusan (Tê-shan), on staff, 21; and the {Diamond Sutra}, 225,
232; and his stick. 261, 280.

Tokushō (Tê-shao), one drop of water, 276; on Prajñā, 276.

Tōsu (T‘ou-tzŭ), on the Buddha, etc., 273.

Trikāya, 34fn.

Tsung-chien (Sōkan), a Buddhist historian, 163.

Tung-shan, see Dozan.

Tzŭ-ming, see Jimyo.

Udraka, 71fn.

{Udumbarika-sīhanāda Suttanta}, 68.

Ummon (Yün-men), on a good-for-nothing fellow, 10; on staff, 21; 261,
263f.; defines Zen, 102; sermons, 344; on Jōshu’s washing dishes, 224;
on poverty, 335; on Zen, 260; his “Kwan!” 279; his laconism, 338.

Umpō (Yün-fêng), on Ummon’s comment on Jōshu, 224.

Ungan (Yün-yen), “Overflowing!” 97; with Yakusan, 287.

Ungo (Yün-chü), Dōyō, and an officer, 288.

Ungo, Shaku, on Chu the national teacher, 288fn.

Upāya (expediency, or device), 65, 66f.

{Vajracchedikā Sūtra}, 137, 173ff., 189, 191, 198.

{Vajrasamādhi Sūtra}, Chinese, 64, 94, 170, 173; the prodigal son in,
140.

Vasubandhu, 55.

Vasumitra, 42fn.

Via negativa, 56.

Victory, the hymn of, 55, 59.

Vikalpa, 79, 81.

Vimalakīrti, 86, 89, 90, 258, 280f.

{Vimalakīrti Sūtra}, Chinese, 63, 64, 161, 181fn., 193, 205f., 207.

Vimoksha (or Moksha), 49.

Vimutti, 52, 53; see also Vimoksha and Moksha.

Vipaśyi, 159.

Wei-shan, see Isan.

Wilde, Oscar, quoted, 4.

Wind, the simile of, 331.

Wither, 267.

Yakusan (Yüeh-shan), 96, 163, 190, 247; with his disciples, 287; giving
no sermon, 344.

Yang-shan, see Kyōzan.

Yathābhūtaṁ, 114, 116, 128, 133f.; intuitional, 129f.; empirical, 131.

Yegu (Hui-yü), 259fn., 270.

Yeka (Hui-k‘ê), 74, 82, 166, 173, 177; his life, 178ff.

Yenchi (Yüan-chih), with Sekiso, 286f.

Yengo (Yüan-wu), 22; on dust and flower, 23; his tōki-no-gé, 234.

Yenkwan (Yen-kuan), on Vairocana Buddha, 286.

Yenō (Hui-nêng), the sixth patriarch, 17, 24, 30, 92, 94, 160, 189,
190ff., 218, 250, 327; and the {Vajracchedikā}, 174; on the flapping
pennant, 197; on seeing into one’s nature, 197; talk with the imperial
messenger, 198; long sitting, 201; on self-nature, 202; his view of
Zen in the {Platform Sutra}, 203ff.; on prajñā, 204f.; on abrupt
teaching, 205; as dynamic intuitionalist, 207; on samādhi and dhyāna,
208f.; his method of instruction, 210; his death, 211; on quiet
sitting, 221; on his understanding of Buddhism, 30, 263.

Yervō Chōkei, on staff, 20.

Yesei Bashō, on staff, 20.

Yeshi (Hui-szŭ), a Tendai philosopher, 190.

Yōdainen, his tōki-no-gé, 235.

Yogācāra, 100, 160.

Yōgi (Yang-ch‘i), on poverty, 334.

Yüeh-shan, see Yakusan.

Yün-men, see Ummon.

Zazen, 304.

Zen: (1) in its relation to Buddhism 29; and the doctrine of
enlightenment, 29ff., 83ff.; as the essence of Buddhism, 43; is the
enlightenment-mind of the Buddha, 49ff.; and the theory of Śunyatā,
174fn.; and the {Laṅkāvatāra}, 74ff.: (2) in its relation to the
Chinese mind, 95; as Chinese product, 154; how it ruled in China,
92ff.; and the Sung philosophy, 98ff.; and the Tendai, 190; and other
Buddhist sects in China, 95; in the T‘ang dynasty, 95; in the Sung,
95; in the Yuan and the Ming, 95; legendary history of, 155: (3)
as a discipline, 14; and asceticism, 15, 309; its monastery training,
326f.; and poverty, 259fn.; and the boiling oil, 16; deadly poison,
18: (4) in its relation to the intellect, 6; as “self-power,” 111; as
a liberating agent, 1; teaches freedom, 11; as the solution of
life-problems, 5; no generalisation, 12; never explains, 8f.;
irrational, 11; paradoxical, 258ff.; the culmination of intellectual
efforts, 254; as an unutterable sigh, 278fn.: (5) psychologically
viewed, self-suggestion, 18; subconsciousness, 19; the sense of
returning, 143; leaving no traces, 3: (6) specific features of, summed
in four lines, 7, 163; its methods of teaching, 24, 253ff.; methods
classified, 257; its gradation, 24; (see also the Ten Cow-herding
Pictures); its derivation, 67; and dhyāna, 67ff.; and meditation, 67;
practical, 54; different from tranquillisation, 73; not quiet sitting,
222; seeing into one’s own nature, 203, 204; acquiring a new
viewpoint, 215ff.; nothing secret in, 13; and the sumiye-painting,
284; defined, 102; Southern and Northern schools, 199; the instant and
the gradual, 199; its monastery system psychologically and morally
considered, 303ff.: (7) its language, 274; and colloquialism, 340.

Transcriber’s Notes

Italics are enclosed in _underscores_.

Though breaks, presented as extra space between paragraphs in the
original printed text, is presented here as a line of 5 spaced
asterisks.

Footnotes, originally at the bottoms of the pages on which they were
referenced, have been collected, sequentially renumbered, prefixed with
the letter ‘f’, wrapped by square brackets, and moved to the end of the
main text, just before the Index.

References to the Chinese text have been prefixed with the essay number
followed by a period, and wrapped by square brackets.

Missing punctuation has been added.

Illustrations are indicated by [Illustration: description]. Ornamental
illustration do not include a description.

In some cases a Chinese variant character is used in place of the
printed character in the book. This occurs when a proper Unicode
glyph is not found.

Variations in the use of diacritics in names has been largely
unchanged. An exception is made for very common names (see below).

Hyphenation has not been standardised.

Note that Chinese [5.44] does not have anchor in the text or an obvious
place where one could be placed.

Note that Chinese [5.16] does not have anchor in the printed text. One
has been added to an appropriate place in etext.

Note on pg 405 關山慧玄 Kanzan Egen should be (1277–1360) not
(616–700).

Some spelling and other errors have been corrected and listed below:

pg 19 “so is the Subsconcious” changed to “so is the Subconscious”

pg 60 “causal dependance” changed to “causal dependence”

pg 74 Added Chinese text reference [2.4] to appropriate place in
text.

pg 86 “learning from Manūjuśrī” changed to “learning from Mañjuśrī”

pg 100 “practival tendency” changed to “practical tendency”

pg 118 “his spiritual greatmess” changed to “his spiritual greatness”

pg 151 “in-investigation will” changed to “investigation will”

pg 163 “Tien-tai point of view” changed to “T‘ien-tai point of view”

pg 181 “entertain a dualitic” changed to “entertain a dualistic”

pg 191 “partiarchal mantle” changed to “patriarchal mantle”

pg 198 “prefering his stay” changed to “preferring his stay”

pg 216 “have gained a saroti” is changed to “have gained a satori is”

pg 217 “are many similacra” changed to “are many simulacra”

pg 233 “varied and dissimiliar” changed to “varied and dissimilar”

pg 236 “corpse of yours?”[5.23]” changed to “corpse of yours?”[5.32]”

pg 263 “whom we got acquained” changed to “whom we got acquainted”

pg 304 “giving real beneficience” changed to “giving real beneficence”

pg 318 “made to the Ahrats” changed to “made to the Arhats”

pg 331 “have so thoroughy” changed to “have so thoroughly”

pg 356 “carpetted with” changed to “carpeted with”

pg 416 “Past and Present, Sutra on the, 36fn.” changed to
“Past and Present, Sutra on the, 38fn.”

pg 417 “{Eastern Buddhist}, the, 1fn.” changed to
“{Eastern Buddhist}, the, vi, 1fn.”

pg 418 “Kena-Upanishad, 30fn., 143fn.” changed to
“Kena-Upanishad, 30fn., 142fn.”

pg 418 “Persain mystic” changed to “Persian mystic”

pg 418 “Mahāyutpatti, 70fn.” changed to “Mahāvyutpatti, 70fn.”

pg 420 “Kwaiten Nukariya, 111.” changed to “Kwaiten Nukariya, v.”

pg 420 “{Pali Text Society, Journal of}, 111.” changed to
“{Pali Text Society, Journal of}, v.”

pg 421 “Seki, Seisetsu, 357.” changed to “Seki, Seisetsu, 357fn.”

pg 421 “Shin sect, as “other-power,” 111.” changed to
“Shin sect, as “other-power,” v.”

pg 421 “Shaku, Soyen, v.” changed to “Shaku, Soyen, vii.”

pg 422 “Tung-shan, see Dozan.” changed to “Tung-shan, see Dosan.”

pg 423 “as “self-power,” 111;” changed to “as “self-power,” v;”

Footnote 48 “Sīlacāra” changed to “Sīlācāra”

Footnote 56 “Sīlācara” changed to “Sīlācāra”

Footnote 73 “Mañjusrī” changed to “Mañjuśrī”

Index “Sīlacara” changed to “Sīlācāra”

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Essays in Zen Buddhism : First series" ***

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