2. The Significance of Satori in Zen

Satori is thus the whole of Zen. Zen starts with it and ends with it. When there is no satori, there is no Zen. 'Satori is the measure of Zen', as is announced by a master. Satori is not a state of mere quietude, it is not tranquillization, it is an inner experience which has a noetic quality; there must be a certain awakening from the relative field of consciousness, a certain turning-away from the ordinary form of experience which characterizes our everyday life. The technical Mahāyanā term for it is parāvritti,¹ 'turning-back' or 'turning-over' at the basis of consciousness. By this the entirety of one' s mental construction goes through a complete change. It is wonderful that a satori insight is capable of causing such a reconstruction in one's spiritual outlook. But the annals of Zen testify to this. The awakening of Prajñāpāramitā, which is another name for satori, therefore, is the sine qua non of Zen.

There are some masters, however, who say that satori is something artificially set up; Zen has really nothing to do with such an excrescent growth as would injure its natural wholesomeness; just to sit quietly—that is enough, the Buddha is here in this doing-nothing-ness; those who make so much fuss about satori are not real followers of Bodhidharma. Such anti-satori masters would further declare that the ultimate truth of Zen consists in holding on to the Unconscious; that if anything marked with conscious strivings comes in, this surely mars the fuller expression of the Unconscious itself; and therefore that the ultimate truth must not be interfered or trifled with; this is the position taken up by some Zen advocates against the upholders of satori. As they oppose satori, they are inevitably also against the koan exercise.

Early in the twelfth century this anti-satori and anti-koan movement in China grew quite strong among Zen followers of the time, and the following is a letter written by Tai-hui¹ to his disciple Lii Chi-i,² warning him against those who deny the noetic experience of satori or self-realization:

'Lately there is an evil tendency growing up among certain followers of Zen who regard disease as cure. As they never had a satori in their lives, they consider it as a sort of superstructure, a means of enticement, as something altogether secondary in Zen, which belongs to its periphery and not to its centre. As such teachers have never experienced a satori, they refuse to believe in those who have actually gone through the experience. What they aim at is to realize mere emptiness where there is no life, no noetic quality whatever—that is, a blank nothingness which is regarded by them as something which is eternally beyond the limitations of time.

'In order to reach this state of utter blankness and unfathomability, they consume so many bowls of rice each day and spend their time sitting quietly and stolidly. They think this is what is meant by the attainment of absolute peace.... What a pity that they are altogether ignorant of the occasion when there is a sudden outburst [of intuitive knowledge in our minds]!'

The authoritative facts upon which the Zen quietists based their belief are mentioned to be as follows:¹

'When Śākyamuni was in Magadha he shut himself up in a room and remained silent for three weeks. Is this not an example given by the Buddha in the practice of silence? When thirty-two Bodhisattvas at Vaiśālī discoursed with Vimalakīrti on the teaching of non-duality, the latter finally kept silence and did not utter a word, which elicited an unqualified admiration from Mañjuśrī. Is this not an example given by a great Bodhisattva of the practice of silence? When Subhūti sat in the rock-cave he said not a word, nor was any talk given out by him on Prajñāpāramitā. Is this not an example of silence shown by a great Śrāvaka? Seeing Subhūti thus quietly sitting in the cave, Śakrendra showered heavenly flowers over him and uttered not a word. Is this not an example of silence given by an ordinary mortal? When Bodhidharma came over to this country he sat for nine years at Shao-lin forgetful of all wordy preachings. Is this not an example of silence shown by a patriarch? Whenever Lu-tsu saw a monk coming he turned towards the wall and sat quietly. Is this not an example of silence shown by a Zen master?

'In the face of all these historic examples, how can one pronounce the practice of silent sitting as illegitimate and irrelevant in the study of Zen?'

This is the argument set forward by the advocates of Zen quietism at the time of Tai-hui in China, that is, in the twelfth century. But Tai-hui declares that mere quiet sitting avails nothing, for it leads nowhere, as no turning-up takes place in one's mind, whereby one comes out into a world of particulars with an outlook different from the one hitherto entertained. Those quietists whose mental horizon does not rise above the level of the so-called absolute silence of unfathomability, grope in the cave of eternal darkness. They fail to open the eye of wisdom. This is where they need the guiding hand of a genuine Zen master.

Tai-hui then proceeds to give cases of satori realized under a wise instructor, pointing out how necessary it is to interview an enlightened one and to turn over once for all the whole silence-mechanism, which is inimical to the growth of the Zen mind. This up-turning of the whole system is here called by Tai-hui after the terminology of a sūtra: 'Entering into the stream and losing one's abode,' where the dualism of motion and rest forever ceases to obtain. He gives four examples:

i. When Shui-lao was trimming the wistaria, he asked his master, Ma-tsu, 'What is the idea of the Patriarch's coming over here from the West?' Ma-tsu replied, 'Come up nearer and I will tell you.' As soon as Shui-lao approached, the master gave him a kick, knocking him right down. This fall, however, all at once opened his mind to a state of satori, for he rose up with a hearty laugh, as if an event, most unexpected and most desired for, had taken place. Asked the master, 'What is the meaning of all this?' Lao exclaimed, 'Innumerable, indeed, are the truths taught by the Buddhas, all of which, even down to their very sources, I now perceive at the tip of one single hair.'

Tai-hui then comments: Lao, who had thus come to self-realization, is no more attached to the silence of Samādhi, and as he is no more attached to it he is at once above assertion and negation, and above the dualism of rest and motion. He no more relies on things outside himself but carrying out the treasure from inside his own mind exclaims, 'I have seen into the source of all truth.' The master recognizes it and does not make further remarks. When Shui-lao was later asked about his Zen understanding, he simply announced, 'Since the kick so heartily given by the master, I have not been able to stop laughing.'

2. Yün-mên asked Tung-shan: 'Whence do you come?' 'From Chia-tu.' 'Where did you pass the summer session?' 'At Pao-tzu, in Hu-nan.' 'When did you come here?' 'August the twenty-fifth.' Yün-mên concluded, 'I release you from thirty blows [though you rightly deserve them].'

On Tung-shan's interview with Mên, Tai-hui comments:

How simple-hearted Tung-shan was! He answered the master straightforwardly, and so it was natural for him to reflect, 'What fault did I commit for which I was to be given thirty blows when I replied as truthfully as I could?' The day following he appeared again before the master and asked, 'Yesterday you were pleased to release me from thirty blows, but I fail to realize my own fault.' Said Yün-mên, 'O you rice-bag, this is the way you wander from the west of the River to the south of the Lake!' This remark all of a sudden opened Tung-shan's eye, and yet he had nothing to communicate, nothing to reason about. He simply bowed, and said: 'After this I shall build my little hut where there is no human habitation; not a grain of rice will be kept in my pantry, not a stalk of vegetable will be growing on my farm; and yet I will abundantly treat all the visitors to my hermitage from all parts of the world; and I will even draw off all the nails and screws [that are holding them to a stake]; I will make them part with their greasy hats and ill-smelling clothes, so that they are thoroughly cleansed of dirt and become worthy monks.' Yün-mên smiled and said, 'What a large mouth you have for a body no larger than a coconut!'

3. Yen, the national teacher of Ku-shan, when he was still a student monk, studied for many years under Hsüeh-fêng. One day, seeing that his student was ready for a mental revolution, the master took hold of him and demanded roughly, 'What is this?' Yen was roused as if from a deep slumber and at once comprehended what it all meant. He simply lifted his arms and swung them to and fro. Feng said, 'What does that mean?' 'No meaning whatever, sir,' came quickly from the disciple.

4. One day Kuan-ch'i saw Lin-chi. The latter came down from his straw chair, and without saying a word seized the monk, whereupon Kuan-ch'i said, 'I know, I know.'

After enumerating these four cases Tai-hui concludes that there is after all something in Zen which can neither be imparted to others nor learned from others, and that the trouble with most people is that they are thoroughly dead and do not want to be resuscitated. Tai-hui now talks of his own experience in the following way:

I had been studying Zen for seventeen years, and during that period here and there I had fragmentary satori. I understood a little in the school of Yün-mên, and also a little in the school of Ts'ao-tung, the only trouble being that I had nowhere that decided satori in which I would find myself absolutely cut off from all time and space relations. Later I came to the capital, and staying at the T'ien-ning monastery I listened one day to my teacher's discourse on Yün-mên. He said: 'A monk came to Yün-mên and asked, "Where do all the Buddhas come from?" Yün-mên answered, "The Eastern Mountain walks on water." But I, T'ien-ning, differ from Yün-mên. "Where do all the Buddhas come from?" "A breeze laden with fragrance comes from the south, and the spacious hall begins to be refreshingly cool!"' When my master said this, I felt suddenly as if I were severed from all time and space relations. It was like cutting a skein of tangled thread with one stroke of a sharp knife. I was at the time in a perspiration all over the body.

While I ceased to feel any disturbance in my mind, I found myself to be remaining in a state of sheer serenity. When one day I saw the master in his room, he told me this: 'It is not at all easy for anybody to reach your state of mind; the only regrettable thing is that there is enough death in it but no life whatever. Not to doubt words—this is the great trouble with you. You know this well:

'"When thy hands are off the precipice,
Conviction comes upon thee all by itself;
Let resurrection follow death,
And none can now deceive thee."

'Believe me there is really such a thing as is stated here.' The master continued: 'According to my present state of mind, I am perfectly satisfied with myself and the world. All is well with me, and there is nothing of which I have to seek further understanding.'

The master then, putting me in the general dormitory, allowed me to see him three or four times a day like the lay-students of Zen. He just let me hold this, 'To be and not to be—it is like a wistaria leaning on a tree.' Whenever I wanted to speak, he at once shut me up, saying, 'Not so.' This continued for a half year, but I kept on. One day while I together with his lay-disciples was taking supper in the Fang-chang, I found myself so absorbed in the koan that I forgot to use my chopsticks to finish the supper.

The old master said, 'This fellow has only succeeded in mastering Huang-yang wood Zen, which keeps on shrinking all the time.' I then told him by a simile in what position I was. 'My position is that of a dog which stands by a fat-boiling pot: he cannot lick it however badly he wants to, nor can he go away from it though he may wish to quit.' The master said: 'That's just the case with you. [The koan] is really a vajra cage and a seat of thorns to you.'

Another day when I saw the master, I said, 'When you were with Wu-tsu, you asked him about the same koan, and what was his reply?' The master refused to give me his reply. But I insisted: 'When you asked him about it, you were not alone, you were with an assembly. It won't hurt you to tell me about it now.'

The master said: 'I asked him at the time, "To be and not to be—it is like a wistaria leaning on a tree. What is the meaning of it?" Wu-tsu replied, "You cannot paint it, you cannot sketch it, however much you try." I further said, "What if the tree suddenly breaks down and the wistaria dies?" Wu said, "You are following the words!"'

As soon as I heard my master say this, I understood the whole thing, and said to him, 'O master, I understand.' Hearing me say that, the master remarked, 'Probably you do not.' I asked him to try me, whereupon he gave me some more koans. And every one of them was successfully answered by me. I felt that at last I was at peace with myself, for there was nothing now that obstructed my way.

Footnotes

1 Studies in the Lahkāvatāra Sūtra, p. 184 et passim.

1 Daiye in Japanese, 1089-1163. He was one of the most outstanding characters Zen Buddhism ever produced in the Chinese soil. He most strongly opposed the teaching and practice of quietism, and was never tired of upholding the importance of satori-awakening in the study of Zen, which he felt to be nothing if not for satori.

2 The Kōkyō Shoin Edition, T'êng, VIII, f. 89a.

1 Daiye's discourse delivered at the request of Chien Ghi-i.