Essays in Zen Buddhism: First Series

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.

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:

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.

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.

A sufficient variety of the versesf114 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.”

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]

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 fixationf118[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 Gantof119 (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.