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.
V
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.