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.