8. The Growth of the Koan System, and its Signification

No doubt, in these long years of Zen history there was a genuine growth of Zen consciousness among Zen followers, but at the same time, as in everything else, there was a tendency which made for the evaporation of Zen experience into conceptualism. If things were allowed to go on much further in that direction, the genuine experience might entirely die away, and all the literature consisting chiefly of the sayings of the Zen masters would become either unintelligible or a matter of philosophical discussion.

This degeneration, this departure from life and experience, is a phenomenon everywhere observable in the history of religion. There is always in the beginning a creative genius, and a system grows out of his experiences. People of lesser capacity are gathered about him; he endeavours to make them go through the same experiences as his own; he succeeds in some cases, but failures generally exceed successes. Because most of us are not original and creative enough, we are satisfied with following the steps of a leader who appears to us to be so great and so far above. The system thus gradually becomes ossified, and unless there follows a period of revival, the original experiences rapidly die away. In the Chinese history of Zen, this period of decline, we can say, came with the invention of the koan exercise, although it is quite true that this invention was something inevitable in the history of Zen consciousness.

What the koan proposes to do is to develop artificially or systematically in the consciousness of the Zen followers what the early masters produced in themselves spontaneously. It also aspires to develop this Zen experience in a greater number of minds than the master could otherwise hope for. Thus the koan tended to the popularization of Zen and at the same time became the means of conserving the Zen experience in its genuineness. Aristocratic Zen was now turned into a democratic, systematized and, to a certain extent, mechanized Zen. No doubt it meant to that extent a deterioration; but without this innovation Zen might have died out a long time before. To my mind it was the technique of the koan exercise that saved Zen as a unique heritage of Far-Eastern culture.

In order to understand a little better the circumstances which necessitated the rise of koan, let me quote one or two of the masters who lived in the eleventh century. From them we can see that there were at least two tendencies that were at work undermining Zen. They were the doctrine and practice of absolute quietude, and secondly, the habit of intellection that was everywhere impressed upon Zen from the outside. Absolute quietism, which the masters were never tired of combating, was regarded from the outset of Zen history as the essence of Zen teaching; but this tendency, being the inevitable accompaniment of Zen practice, readily and frequently reasserted itself.

As to the intellectual understanding of Zen, the outsiders as well as some Zen advocates are constantly practising it against the experience of Zen. There is no doubt that herein lurks the most deadly enemy of Zen. If they are not effectually put down they are sure to raise their heads again and again, especially when Zen shows any symptoms of decline. Chên-ching K'ê-wên¹ says in one of his sermons: 'As far as Zen is concerned, experience is all in all. Anything not based upon experience is outside Zen. The study of Zen, therefore, must grow out of life itself; and satori must be thoroughly penetrating. If anything is left unexhausted there is an opening to the world of devils.

'Did not an ancient master say that numberless corpses are lying on the smooth, level ground, and also that they are really genuine ones who have passed through thickets of briars and brambles? Nowadays most people are led to imagine that Zen reaches its ultimate end when all the functions of body and mind are suspended, and concentration takes place in one single moment of the present in which a state of eternity-in-one-moment prevails—a state of absolute cessation, a state like an incense-burner in an old roadside shrine, a state of cold aloofness.

'It is most unfortunate that they are unable to realize that this state of concentration, however desirable it may be, when one becomes attached to it hinders the attainment of a true inner perception and the manifestation of the light which is beyond the senses.'

Tai-hui says in a letter to Chên-ju Tao-jên, who was one of his monk disciples: 'There are two forms of error now prevailing among followers of Zen, laymen as well as monks. The one thinks that there are wonderful things hidden in words and phrases, and those who hold this view try to learn many words and phrases. The second goes to the other extreme, forgetting that words are the pointing finger, showing one where to locate the moon. Blindly following the instruction given in the sūtras, where words are said to hinder the right understanding of the truth of Zen and Buddhism, they reject all verbal teachings and simply sit with eyes closed, letting down the eyebrows as if they were completely dead. They call this quiet-sitting, inner contemplation, and silent reflection. Not content with their own solitary practices, they try to induce others also to adopt and practise this wrong view of Zen. To such ignorant and simple-minded followers they would say, "One day of quiet-sitting means one day of progressive striving."

'What a pity! They are not at all aware of the fact that they are planning for a ghostly life. Only when these two erroneous views are done away with is there a chance for real advancement in the mastery of Zen. For we read in the sūtra that while one should not get attached to the artificialities and unrealities which are expressed by all beings through their words and language, neither should one adopt the other view which rejects all words indiscriminately, forgetting that the truth is conveyed in them when they are properly understood, and further, that words and their meanings are neither different nor not different, but are mutually related so that the one without the other is unintelligible....'

There are many other passages expressing similar views in the sayings and discourses of the Zen masters of Tai-hui's day besides those given by him, and from them we can conclude that if Zen were left to its own course, it would surely have degenerated either into the practice of quiet-sitting and silent contemplation, or into the mere memorizing of the many Zen sayings and dialogues. To save the situation and to plan for a further healthy development of Zen, the Zen masters could do nothing better than introduce the innovation of the koan exercises.

What is a koan?

A koan, according to one authority, means 'a public document setting up a standard of judgment', whereby one's Zen understanding is tested as to its correctness. A koan is generally some statement made by an old Zen master, or some answer of his given to a questioner. The following are some that are commonly given to the uninitiated:

1. A monk asked Tung-shan, 'Who is the Buddha?' 'Three chin of flax.'

2. Yün-mên was once asked, 'When not a thought is stirring in one's mind, is there any error here?' 'As much as Mount Sumeru.'

3. Chao-chou answered, 'Wu!' (mu in Japanese) to a monk's question, 'Is there Buddha-nature in a dog?' Wu literally means 'not' or 'none', but when this is ordinarily given as a koan, it has no reference to its literal signification; it is 'Wu' pure and simple.

4. When Ming the monk overtook the fugitive Hui-nêng, he wanted Hui-nêng to give up the secret of Zen. Hui-nêng replied, 'What are your original features which you have even prior to your birth?'

5. A monk asked Chao-chou, 'What is the meaning of the First Patriarch's visit to China?' 'The cypress tree in the front courtyard.'

6. When Chao-chou came to study Zen under Nan-ch'üan, he asked, 'What is the Tao (or the Way)?' Nan-ch'üan replied, 'Your everyday mind, that is the Tao.'

7. A monk asked, 'All things are said to be reducible to the One, but where is the One to be reduced?' Chao-chou answered, 'When I was in the district of Ch'ing I had a robe made that weighed seven chin.'

8. When P'ang the old Zen adept first came to Ma-tsu in order to master Zen, he asked, 'Who is he who has no companion among the ten thousand things of the world?' Ma-tsu replied, 'When you swallow up in one draught all the water in the Hsi Ch'iang, I will tell you.'

When such problems are given to the uninitiated for solution, what is the object of the master? The idea is to unfold the Zen psychology in the mind of the uninitiated, and to reproduce the state of consciousness, of which these statements are the expression. That is to say, when the koans are understood the master's state of mind is understood, which is satori and without which Zen is a sealed book.

In the beginning of Zen history a question was brought up by the pupil to the notice of the master, who thereby gauged the mental state of the questioner and knew what necessary help to give him. The. help thus given was sometimes enough to awaken him to realization, but more frequently than not puzzled and perplexed him beyond description, and the result was an ever-increasing mental strain or 'searching and contriving' on the part of the pupil, of which we have already spoken in the foregoing pages. In actual cases, however, the master would have to wait for a long while for the pupil's first question, if it were coming at all. To ask the first question means more than half the way to its own solution, for it is the outcome of a most intense mental effort for the questioner to bring his mind to a crisis. The question indicates that the crisis is reached and the mind is ready to leave it behind. An experienced master often knows how to lead the pupil to a crisis and to make him successfully pass it. This was really the case before the koan exercise came in vogue, as was already illustrated by the examples of Lin-chi, Nan-yiieh, and others.

As time went on there grew up many 'questions and answers' (mondō in Japanese) which were exchanged between masters and pupils. And with the growth of Zen literature it was perfectly natural now for Zen followers to begin to attempt an intellectual solution or interpretation of it. The 'questions and answers' ceased to be experiences and intuitions of Zen consciousness, and became subjects of logical inquiry. This was disastrous, yet inevitable. Therefore the Zen master who wished for the normal development of Zen consciousness and the vigorous growth of Zen tradition would not fail to recognize rightly the actual state of things, and to devise such a method as to achieve finally the attainment of the Zen truth.

The method that would suggest itself in the circumstances was to select some of the statements made by the old masters and to use them as pointers. A pointer would then function in two directions: (i) To check the working of the intellect, or rather to let the intellect see by itself how far it can go, and also that there is a realm into which it as such can never enter; (2) To effect the maturity of Zen consciousness which eventually breaks out into a state of satori.

When the koan works in the first direction there takes place what has been called 'searching and contriving'. Instead of the intellect, which taken by itself forms only a part of our being, the entire personality, mind and body, is thrown out into the solution of the koan. When this extraordinary state of spiritual tension, guided by an experienced master, is made to mature, the koan works itself out into what has been designated as the Zen experience. An intuition of the truth of Zen is now attained, for the wall against which the Yogin has been beating hitherto to no purpose breaks down, and an entirely new vista opens before him. Without the koan the Zen consciousness loses its pointer, and there will never be a state of satori. A psychological impasse is the necessary antecedent of satori. Formerly, that is, before the days of the koan exercise, the antecedent pointer was created in the consciousness of the Yogin by his own intense spirituality. But when Zen became systematized owing to the accumulation of Zen literature in the shape of 'questions and answers' the indispensability of the koan had come to be universally recognized by he masters.

The worst enemy of Zen experience, at least in the beginning, is the intellect, which consists and insists in discriminating subject from object. The discriminating intellect, therefore, must be cut short if Zen consciousness is to unfold itself, and the koan is constructed eminently to serve this end.

On examination we at once notice that there is no room in the koan to insert an intellectual interpretation. The knife is not sharp enough to cut the koan open and see what are its contents. For a koan is not a logical proposition but the expression of a certain mental state resulting from the Zen discipline. For instance, what logical connection can there be between the Buddha and 'three chin of flax'? or between the Buddha-nature and 'Wu'? or between the secret message of Bodhidharma and 'a cypress tree'? In a noted Zen textbook known as Hekiganshu (Pi-yen-chi in Chinese)¹ Yüan-wu gives the following notes concerning the 'three chin of flax', showing how the koan was interpreted by those pseudo-Zen followers who failed to grasp Zen:

'There are some people these days who do not truly understand this koan; this is because there is no crack in it to insert their intellectual teeth. By this I mean that it is altogether too plain and tasteless. Various answers have been given by different masters to the question, "What is the Buddha?" One said, "He sits in the Buddha Hall." Another said, "The one endowed with the thirty-two marks of excellence." Still another, "A bamboo-root whip." None, however, can excel T'ung-shan's "three chin of flax" as regards its irrationality, which cuts off all passage of speculation. Some comment that T'ung-shan was weighing flax at the moment, hence the answer. Others say that it was a trick of equivocation on the part of T'ung-shan; and still others think that as the questioner was not conscious of the fact that he was himself the Buddha, T'ung-shan answered him in this indirect way.

'Such [commentators] are all like corpses, for they are utterly unable to comprehend the living truth. There are still others, however, who take the "three chin of flax" as the Buddha [thus giving it a pantheistic interpretation]. What wild and fantastic remarks they make! As long as they are beguiled by words, they can never expect to penetrate into the heart of T'ung-shan, even if they live to the time of Maitreya Buddha. Why? Because words are merely a vehicle on which the truth is carried. Not comprehending the meaning of the old master, they endeavour to find it in his words only, but they will find therein nothing to lay their hands on. The truth itself is beyond all description, as is affirmed by an ancient sage, but it is by words that the truth is manifested.

'Let us, then, forget the words when we gain the truth itself. This is done only when we have an insight through experience into that which is indicated by words. The "three chin of flax" is like the royal thoroughfare to the capital; when you are once on it every step you take is in the right direction. When Yün-mên was once asked what was the teaching that went beyond the Buddhas and the patriarchs, he said "Dumpling". Yün-mên and T'ung-shan are walking the same road hand in hand. When you are thoroughly cleansed of all the impurities of discrimination, without further ado the truth will be understood. Later the monk who wanted to know what the Buddha was went to Chih-men and asked him what T'ung-shan meant by "three chin of flax". Said Chih-men, "A mass of flowers, a mass of brocade." He added, "Do you understand?" The monk replied, "No." "Bamboos in the South, trees in the North," was the conclusion of Mên.'

Technically speaking, the koan given to the uninitiated is intended 'to destroy the root of life', 'to make the calculating mind die', 'to root out the entire mind that has been at work since eternity', etc. This may sound murderous, but the ultimate intent is to go beyond the limits of intellection, and these limits can be crossed over only by exhausting oneself once for all, by using up all the psychic powers at one's command. Logic then turns into psychology, intellection into conation and intuition. What could not be solved on the plane of empirical consciousness is now transferred to the deeper recesses of the mind. So, says a Zen master, 'Unless at one time perspiration has streamed down your back, you cannot see the boat sailing before the wind.' 'Unless once you have been thoroughly drenched in a perspiration you cannot expect to see the revelation of a palace of pearls on a blade of grass.'

The koan refuses to be solved under any easier conditions. But once solved the koan is compared to a piece of brick used to knock at a gate; when the gate is opened the brick is thrown away. The koan is useful as long as the mental doors are closed, but when they are opened it may be forgotten. What one sees after the opening will be something quite unexpected, something that has never before entered even into one's imagination. But when the koan is re-examined from this newly acquired point of view, how marvellously suggestive, how fittingly constructed, although there is nothing artificial here!

Footnotes

1 1024-1102.

1 This is one of the most favourite vademecums of Zen Buddhists. For further explanation see below.