APPENDIX¹

1

'Oh, this one rare occurrence,

For which would I not be glad to give ten thousand pieces of gold!

A hat is on my head, a bundle around my loins;

And on my staff the refreshing breeze and the full moon I carry!'

According to the Second Part of the Transmission of the Lamp,² this was given out by the monk Hui-yuan who came to a realization when he accidentally stumbled while walking in the courtyard. The same is, however, quoted in another place as uttered by Chêng-wu Hsiung-yung.

2

Hui-t'ang Tsu-hsin³ (1025-1100) studied Zen under Hui-nan of Huang-po for several years, but without success. One day he was going over the history of Zen, in which he read this:

A monk came to To-fu and asked, 'How is the bamboo grove of To-fu?'

'One or two of the bamboos are slanting.' 'I do not understand.' 'Three or four of them are crooked.' This 'Mondo' opened Tsu-hsin's eyes. He came up to the master Hui-nan, and when he was about to make bows after spreading out his tso-chü, the master smiled and said, 'You have now entered into my room.' Tsu-hsin was very pleased and said, 'If the truth of Zen is such as I have now, why do you make us take up the old stories¹ and exhaust our efforts by striving how to get at their meaning?' Said the master, 'If I did not thus make you strive in every possible way to get at the meaning and make you finally come to a state of non-striving or effortlessness when you see with your own eye and nod to yourself, I am sure you would lose all chance to discover yourself.'

3

'The murmuring mountain stream is the Buddha's broad, long tongue;The mountain itself in its ever-varying hues—is this not his Pure Body?Eighty-four thousand gāthās were recited during the night,But how may I some day hold them up before others?'

This comes from the pen of Su Tung-po the poet.² He was one of the greatest literary stars illuminating the cultural world of Sung. When he was in Ching-nan, he heard of a Zen master called Hao residing at Yü-ch'üan who was noted for his trenchant repartee. Tung-po was also great in this. Wishing to silence the Zen master, one day the poet called on him in disguise. The master asked, 'What is your name?' 'My name is Ch'êng (scale). It scales all the masters of the world.' Hao burst out in a 'Kwatz!' and said, 'How much does it weigh?' The conceited poet made no answer; he had to take his hat off to his superior.

4

When I-hai¹ came to Ch'i of Yün-chü, Ch'i asked, 'What is it that thus comes to me?' This opened Hai's mind to a state of satori, and the result was this verse:

'"What's that?" comes from Yün-chü;
Asked thus, one is stupefied:
Even when you nod right away saying, "That's it,"
You cannot yet help being buried alive.'

5

For twenty years I've pilgrimaged
All the way from east to west:
And now, finding myself at Ch'i-hsien,
Not a step have I ever put forward.'

This comes from Chih-jou,² of Ch'i-hsien monastery at Lu-shan, who had a satori under Yüan-t'ung.

6

When Yang-shan was studying Zen under Pai-chang he had such a flowing tongue that to Pai-chang's one word he had ten words to answer. Chang said, 'After me, there will be somebody else who will take care of you.' Yang later went to Wei-shan. Wei asked, 'I am told that while you were under Pai-chang you had ten words to his one; is that so?' Yang said, 'Yes, that is what they say.' Wei asked, 'What do you have to state about the ultimate truth of Buddhism?' Yang was about to open his mouth when the master shouted 'Kwatz!' The question was repeated three times; the mouth vainly opened three times, and the 'Kwatz!' was uttered three times. Yang finally broke down; drooping his head and with tears in his eyes, he said, 'My late master prophesied that I should do better with someone else, and today I have this very one.'

Determining to experience the truth of Zen in himself, he spent three years of intense spiritual discipline. One day Wei-shan saw him sitting under a tree. Approaching, he touched him on the back with the staff he carried. Yang-shan turned round, and Wei said, 'O Chi [which was Yang's name], can you say a word now, or not?' Yang replied, 'No, not a word, nor would I borrow one from others.' Wei said, 'O Chi, you understand.'¹

7

To understand the story of Tao-yüan which is told below, the knowledge of Pai-chang and his old fox is needed. Hence the following:

Whenever Pai-chang had his sermon on Zen, there was an old man in the audience listening to him. One day the old man did not depart with the rest of the congregation. Pai-chang then asked him who he was. Answered the old man: 'At the time of the Buddha Kāśyapa I used to live in this mountain. One day a monk asked if a Yogin who went through great spiritual training should be subject to the law of causation, and I told him, "No, he is not subject to it."² On account of this, I have fallen into the animal path of existence and have been a fox ever since the time of the Buddha Kāśyapa. My wish is that you will kindly give me a statement which will save me from transmigration.'

Pai-chang said, 'Then you ask.'

The old man asked, 'Is a Yogin who went through great spiritual training subject to the law of causation, or not?' Pai-chang replied, 'He does not obscure the law.'¹ He had scarcely finished when the old man came to an insight as to the working of the law of causation. When leaving Pai-chang, he said: 'I am now freed from the animal path of existence. I used to live at the back of this mountain, and you will be good enough to cremate my body after the funeral rite accorded to a monk.'

Pai-chang made his secretary issue the proclamation that after the midday meal a funeral ceremony for a dead monk would take place and that all the Brotherhood was expected to attend it. The Brotherhood did not know what the proclamation meant, because they knew of no death among them. Pai-chang, however, at the head of the whole party went around to the other side of the mountain, and from a rock-cave he picked out a dead fox. The remains were cremated and, as requested by the strange old man, buried according to the proper rite given to a monk.

This question of pu lao yin kuo or pu meiyin kuo is a great one not only for Buddhists of all schools but for philosophers and religiously minded people. In other words, it is the question of freedom of the will, it is the question of divine grace, it is the question of transcending karma, it is the question of logic and spirit, of science and religion, of nature and super-nature, of moral discipline and faith. Indeed, it is the most fundamental of all religious questions. If pu lao yin kuo, this jeopardizes the whole plan of the universe; for it is yin-kuo, the law of causation, that binds existence together, and without the reality of moral responsibility the very basis of society is pulled down.

What then is the difference between pu-lao (not falling) and pu-mei (not obscuring)? 'Not to fall' is a moral deed, and 'not to obscure' is an intellectual attitude. The former makes one stand altogether outside the realm of causation, which is this world of particulars and where we have our being. This is a contradiction—to be in it and yet to be out of it. In the case of pu-mei, 'not to obscure', what happens is the shifting of our mental attitude towards a world above cause and effect. And because of this shifting the whole outlook of life assumes a new tone which may be called spiritual pu lao yin kuo.

With this introductory note the following will be intelligible.

Tao-yüan,¹ who was studying Zen under Hui-nan (1002-1069), one day heard two monks engaged in discussion regarding the koan of Pai-chang and the fox. The one said, 'Even when you say pu met yin kuo, this won't make you free from the fox form of existence.' The other immediately responded, 'That is pu mei yin kuo, and who had ever fallen into the fox form of existence?' Listening to this, Tao-yüan's inquiring spirit was aroused in an unusual manner, and, without realizing how, he found himself walking up to the mountain; and when he was about to cross the stream, his mind suddenly opened to the truth contained in the koan. As he was later telling the incident to Hui-nan, tears streaked down his cheeks. Nan ordered him to have a rest in his attendant's chair. From a sound sleep he abruptly awoke and uttered this:

'Cause and effect—not falling? not obscuring?

Whether monk or layman, there is nothing for him to shun.

Here's the man whose sovereign will is peerless,

Him no bag can hold, no wrappage hide;

Swinging his staff right and left as he will,

Straight into a troop of golden-haired lions jumps he, the master fox.'

8

I-huai of T'ien-i,² who flourished in the latter half of the eleventh century, was the son of a fisherman. Some years after he joined the Brotherhood, he came to Ming-chiao to study more of Zen.

Chiao asked, 'What is your name?' 'My name is I-huai.'

'Why don't you have it changed into Huai-i?'

'It was so given to me at the time.'

'Who got the name for you?'

'It is already ten years since I was ordained.'

'How many pairs of sandals did you wear out in your pilgrimage?'

'O master, pray do not crack a joke.'

Chiao asked now: 'I have committed a countless number of errors, so have you. And what say you to this?'

Huai made no reply.

Thereupon Chiao gave him a slap, saying, 'O this idle talker, get out of here!'

When I-huai saw the master another time, the latter said, 'Affirmation obtains not, nor does negation, nor does affirmation-negation; what do you say?'

Huai hesitated, whereupon the master ejected him with a blow. This was repeated four times.

Huai was now made to look after the water supply of the monastery. While he was carrying water, the pole suddenly broke, and the incident gave him the chance to become conscious of the truth hitherto hidden to him. The poem he composed to express the feeling he then had runs as follows:

'One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—Yes,

many thousand feet high is the mountain peak, and lo,

some one stands there on one leg;

He has carried away the gem from the dragon's jaws,

And Vimalakirti's¹ secrets he holds in one word.'

Chiao the master, striking his desk confirmed this view.

9

The monk Ling-t'ao¹ was a disciple of Lê-t'an Huai-têng. When the master asked him what was the idea of the Patriarch, who, coming from the West, is said to have transmitted one single mind-seal, which, pointing directly to the human nature, makes one attain Buddhahood, Ling-t'ao confessed ignorance.

T'an said, 'What were you before you became a monk?'

'I used to be a cowherd.'

'How do you look after the cattle?'

'I go out with them early in the morning and come home when it grows dark.'

'Splendid is your ignorance,' remarked the master.

This remark at once brought Ling-t'ao's mind to a state of satori which was expressed thus:

'Throwing up the tether I am a homeless monk,

The head is shaved, so is the face, and the body wrapped in the chia-sha (kāśaya):

If some one asks, What is the Patriarch's idea of coming from the West?

Carrying the staff crosswise I sing out, La-li-la!'

10

When Yün-fêng Wên-yüeh² came to T'ai-yü Shou-chih for study, he heard the master discoursing to this effect: 'O monks, you are gathered here and consuming so many vegetables each day. But if you call them a mere bunch of vegetables, you go to hell as straight as an arrow flies' ; and without further remark, the master left the pulpit. Wên-yüeh was astonished, not knowing what all this meant. In the evening he went up to the master's room, and the master asked, 'What is it that you are seeking?' Yüeh said, 'I am after the truth of the mind.' But the master was not so ready to teach him, for he said: 'Before the wheel of the Dharma (truth) is set moving, the wheel of the staff of life must move. You are yet young and strong; why not go around and beg food for the Brotherhood? My time is all taken up in bearing hunger, and how can I talk of Zen for your sake?' Yiieh meekly obeyed the order and spent his time seeing that the larder of the Brotherhood was properly supplied.

Before long, however, T'ai-yü moved to T'sui-yen and Wên-yüeh followed him. When he asked the master to instruct him in Zen, the master said: 'Buddhism does not mind being covered with too many blisters. For this cold and snowy winter, get a good supply of charcoal for the Brotherhood.' Yüeh obeyed and carried out the master's order faithfully. When he came back, the master again asked him to take up an office in the monastery as there was a vacancy and none was available to fill it. Yiieh did not like this, for he was always ordered about doing things which he thought were not in direct connection with Zen teaching itself; he was sorry to see the master so cross-grained towards him.

While he was working in the back part of the building, perhaps with his mind filled with all sorts of feelings and generally in an intensely strained state of consciousness, the hoops of the wooden cask upon which he was sitting unexpectedly gave way, and he fell from it. This incident was the opportunity to shed an abundance of light into the dark chamber of his hitherto tightly closed mind, and he at once perceived the secret way in which his master's mind had been functioning all the time. He hastily put on his upper robe and came up to see Shou-chih the master. The master greeted him smilingly and said, 'O Wei-na,¹ so pleased to see you realize it!' Twice Yiieh reverentially bowed and went off without a comment.

11

Yü of Tu-ling,¹ a disciple of Yang-chi (died 1049), used to feed Zen monks on pilgrimage, who passed by his temple. One day he entertained a monk from Yang-chi and asked what his master's teaching of Zen was. The monk said: 'My master would usually ask his pupils the following: A monk once came to Fa-têng and asked, "How should one advance a step when he comes to the end of a pole one hundred feet long?" Fa-têng said, "Oh!"'

When Yü was told of this, it made him think a great deal. The allusion here is to a stanza by Chang-sha Ching-ch'ên,² which runs thus:

'A man immovable at the end of a pole one hundred feet long- He has indeed entered upon the path, but not quite a genuine one is he: Let him yet move forward at the end of a pole one hundred feet long, For then the entire universe extending in the ten quarters is his own body.'

The man is already at the end of a pole, and how can he take further steps ahead? But a saltus here is needed to experience the truth of Zen.

One day being invited out, Yü rode on a lame donkey, and when he was crossing over a bridge the donkey got one of its legs caught in a hole, and this at once overthrew the rider on the ground. He loudly exclaimed 'Oh!', and evidently the exclamation waked up his hidden consciousness to a state of satori. The verse gives vent to his experience:

'I have one jewel shining bright,

Long buried it was underneath worldly worries;

This morning the dusty veil is off, and restored its lustre,

Illumining the blue mountains in endless undulations.'³

12

The one bright gem discovered by Yü of Tu-ling helped to illumine the mind of Shou-tuan of Pai-yün.¹ Yang-chi who was also his master one day asked him who ordained him as a Zen monk. Tuan answered, 'Yü of Tu-ling.' Whereupon Chi said: 'I understand that Yü had a fall from a lame donkey, which led him to satori. Do you know by heart the verse he then composed?' Tuan proceeded to recite the whole verse beginning with 'I have one jewel shining bright....'

When he finished the whole verse, Yang-chi gave a hearty laugh and quickly left his seat.

Shou-tuan was astonished, and no sleep had he that night. With the first blush of the day he appeared before the master and inquired of him what was the meaning of his laugh. It happened to be the end of the year. So asked the master, 'Did you see yesterday those devil-chasers going about in the streets?'

'Yes, master,' Tuan replied.

'Compared with them you are somewhat at a disadvantage, are you not?'

This remark was another case of astonishment on the part of Shou-tuan, who asked: 'What does that mean, master? Pray tell me.'

Chi said, 'They love to be laughed at whereas you are afraid of being laughed at.'

Tuan got his satori.

13

Tsu-yin Chü-nê² of Shu district, who flourished in the middle part of the eleventh century, was a great scholar versed in the Pundarīka and other schools of Buddhist philosophy, and even elderly scholars were willing to study under him. Evidently he did not know anything of Zen. One day he had a caller who was acquainted with the doings of Zen in the South. He said that the entire Buddhist world of China was then taken up by the teaching of Bodhidharma, and that Ma-tsu, one of his ablest descendants, who appeared to fulfil the prophecy of Prajñātala, had exercised great influence over the Buddhist scholars of the country, so that even men of learning and understanding who were renowned throughout the province of Shu, such as Liang and Chien, either gave up their own pupils or burned their library of the commentaries, in order to master the teaching of Zen.

Chu-nê was very much impressed with the report of his Zen friend. Advised strongly by him to go out into the world and see the state of affairs by himself, Chü-nê left his native province and wandered about some years in Ching and Ch'u but without seeing any result. He then moved further west and stayed in Hsiang-chou for ten years under Yung of Tung-shan. One day he was reading a treatise on the Avatamsaka and was deeply impressed by the following passage, which opened finally his mind to the truth of Zen:

'Mount Sumeru towers in the great ocean attaining the altitude of 84,000 yojanas, and its summit is not to be scaled by means of hands and legs. This illustrates that the mountain of 84,000 human woes is rising from the great ocean of passions. When beings attain the state of consciousness in which they cherish no thoughts [of relativity] and from which all strivings vanish, even when confronting this world of multiplicities, their passions will naturally be drained off. All the worldly woes now turn into the mountain of all-knowledge and the passions into the ocean of all-knowledge. On the contrary, when the mind is filled with thoughts and reflections of relativity, there are attachments. Then the greater grow worldly woes and the deeper the passions, and a man is barred from reaching the summit of knowledge which makes up the essence of Buddhahood.'

Chü-ne then observed: 'According to Shih-kuang, "Not a cue to get hold of," and according to Ma-tsu, "Ignorance since the beginningless past has melted away today." These are indeed no lies!'

14

Ch'ing-yüan Fo-yen of Lung-mên¹ who died in 1120 was first a student of the Vinaya; later, reading the Pundarika he came across the passage, 'This Dharma is something that goes beyond the realm of thought and discrimination.' This impressed him, so he came to his teacher and asked what was this Dharma transcending intelligence. The teacher failed to enlighten him, who then saw that mere learning and scholarship could not solve the ultimate problem of this existence subject to birth and death.

Fo-yen now travelled south in order to see Fa-yen of Tai-p'ing. While begging through the county of Lu, he stumbled and fell on the ground. While suffering pain, he overheard two men railing at each other, when a third one who interceded remarked, 'So I see the passions still cherished by both of you.' He then had a kind of satori.

But to whatever questions he asked of Fa-yen, the answer was, 'I cannot surpass you; the thing is to understand all by yourself.' Sometimes Yen said, 'I do not understand myself, and I cannot surpass you.' This kind of remark incited Ch'ing-yiian's desire all the more to know Zen. He decided to get the matter settled by his senior monk Yüan-li, but Li pulled him by the ear and going around the fire-place kept on saying, 'The best thing is to understand all by yourself.' Ch'ing-yiian insisted: 'If there is really such a thing as Zen, why not uncover the secret for me? Otherwise, I shall say it is all a trick.' Li, however, told him: 'Some day you will come to realize all that has been going on today between you and me.'

When Fa-yen moved away from Tai-p'ing, Ch'ing-yiian left him, and spent the summer at Ching-shan, where he got very well acquainted with Ling-yüan. Ch'ing-yüan now asked his advice, saying, 'Lately, I have come to know of a master in the city whose sayings seem to suit my intelligence much better.' But Ling-yuan persuaded him to go to Fa-yen who was the best of the Zen masters of the day, adding that those whose words he seemed to understand best were merely teachers of philosophy and not real Zen masters.

Ch'ing-yuan followed his friend's advice, and came back to his former master. One cold night he was sitting alone and tried to clear away the ashes in the fire-place to see if there were any piece of live charcoal left. One tiny piece as large as a pea happened to be discovered way down in the ashes. He then reflected that the truth of Zen would also reveal itself as one dug down to the rock-bed of consciousness. He took up the history of Zen known as the Transmission of the Lamp from his desk, and his eye fell upon the story of the P'o-tsao-to ('broken range'),¹ which unexpectedly opened his mind to a state of satori. The following is the stanza he then composed extempore:

'The birds are too-tooing in the woods,

With the garment covered up I sit alone all night.

A tiny piece of live charcoal deeply buried in the ashes tells the secret of life:

The cooking range is broken to pieces when the spirit knows where to return.

Revealed everywhere shines the truth, but men see it not, confused is the mind;

Simple though the melody is, who can appreciate it?

Thinking of it, long will its memory abide with me;

Wide open is the gate, but how lonely the scene!'

The story of the P'o-tsao-to alluded to in the text is as follows: The P'o-tsao-to is the name given by Hui-an to one of his disciples at Sung-yueh. It literally means, 'a broken range fallen to pieces', which illustrates an incident in the life of a nameless Zen master, whereby he became notorious. There was a shrine in one of the Sung-yüeh villages where a lonely range was kept. This was the object of worship for the country people far and near, who here roasted alive many victims for sacrifice.

The nameless one one day appeared in the shrine accompanied by his attendants. He struck the range three times with his staff, and said: 'Tut! O you an old range, are you not a mere composite of brick and clay? Whence your holiness? Whence your spirituality? And yet you demand so many victims roasted alive for sacrifice!' So saying, the master struck the range for another three times. The range then tipped by itself, and falling on the ground broke in pieces.

After a while there suddenly appeared a man in blue dress with a high headgear, and approaching the master bowed reverentially to him. The master asked who he was, and he answered: 'I am the spirit of the range enshrined here. I have been here for a long time owing to my previous karma. But listening to your sermon on the doctrine of no-birth, I am now released from the bondage and born in the heavens. To offer my special thanks to you I have come.' Said the master: 'No-birth is the original nature of your being. No sermonizing of mine was needed.' The heavenly being bowed again and vanished.

Later on the attendant-monks and others asked the master: 'We have been with you for ever so long, but we have never been permitted to listen to your personal discourses on the Dharma. What effective teaching did the range-spirit get from you which enabled him to be born immediately in the heavens?'

The master said, 'What I told him was simply that he was a composite of brick and clay; I had no further teaching specially meant for him.'

The attendant-monks and others stood quietly without saying a word.

The master remarked, 'Do you understand?'

The chief secretary of the monastery said, 'No, we do not.'

The master continued, 'The original nature of all beings —why do you not understand it?'

The monks all made bows to the master, whereupon exclaimed the master: 'It's fallen, it's fallen! It's broken to pieces, it's broken to pieces !'¹

15

Wen-chun of Lê-t'an (1061-1115)² devoted himself while young to the mastery of Buddhist philosophy but later abandoned it, saying that he did not care very much for it. He then began to study Zen, and going south stayed with Chên-ju of Wei-shan for many years. However, he made no progress. He came to Chen-ching of Chiu-fêng, who was another great Zen master of the time.

Ching asked, 'Where is your native town?'

'Hsing-yüan Fu.'

'Where do you come from now?'

'Tai-yang.'

'Where did you pass your summer?'

'At Wei-shan.'

Ching now produced his hand, saying, 'How is it that my hand so resembles the Buddha's?'

Chun was dumbfounded and unable to make any answer.

Ching scolded: 'So far you have been fluent enough in answering all my questions naturally and in a most splendid manner. As soon as the subject turned to the Buddha's hand, you halt. Where is the trouble?'

Chun confessed ignorance.

Ching said, 'Everything lies open in full revelation right before you; and whom would you get to teach you?'

For ten years Chun stayed with his master Chen-ching and went about wherever he moved. Ching was a silent teacher and gave out no special instruction to anybody although his pupils grew considerably in number. When a monk entered his room for advice he would close his eyes and sit up on his knees and say nothing. If he saw somebody coming to him, he would rise, go out into the garden, and join the gardeners in hoeing. This was his usual way of dealing with his disciples. Wen-chun used to say to his friend Kung: 'Has the master no intention whatever to teach his followers in the Dharma? It is hard to know him.'

One day Wen-chun removed the dam with a stick, and while washing his clothes his mind suddenly woke to a state of satori. He ran to the master and reported to him all that happened to him. But the master coldly blamed him, saying, 'Why have you to be so unmannerly in this?'

16

K'ê-ch'in Fo-kuo¹ who died in A.D. 1135 was born in a Confucian family. While young, he was a great devourer of the classics. One day he went to a Buddhist monastery where he happened to read Buddhist books, and felt as if he were recalling his old memories. 'I must have been a monk in my previous life,' he thought.

Later he was ordained as a Buddhist priest, and devoted himself diligently to the mastery of Buddhist philosophy. He fell ill and when almost at the point of death he reflected: 'The right way to the attainment of Nirvana as taught by the Buddhas is not to be found in words and mere ratiocination. I have been seeking it in sounds and forms and no doubt I deserve death.' When he recovered, he quitted his old method, and came to a Zen master called Chên-chüeh Shêng. Shêng's instruction consisted in making his own arm bleed by sticking a knife into it and remarking that each drop of the blood came from T'sao-ch'i. T'sao-ch'i is where Hui-nêng, the sixth patriarch of Chinese Zen, founded his school, and the remark meant that Zen demanded one's life for its mastery.

Thus inspired, Fo-kuo visited many Zen masters. They were all very well impressed with his attainment, and some even thought that it was he who would establish a new original school in the teaching of Rinzai (Lin-chi). Finally, Kuo came to Fa-yen of Wu-tsu monastery, who, however, refused to confirm Kuo's view of Zen. Kuo thought Fay-en was deliberately contradicting him. Giving vent to his dissatisfaction in some disrespectful terms, Kuo was about to leave Fa-yen, who simply said, 'Wait until you become seriously ill one day when you will have to remember me.'

While at Chin-shan, Fo-kuo contracted a fever from which he suffered terribly. He tried to cope with it with all his Zen experiences heretofore attained, but to no purpose whatever. He then remembered Fa-yen's prophetic admonition. As soon as he felt better, therefore, he went back to the Wu-tsu monastery. Fa-yen was pleased to have his repentant pupil back. Before long Yen had a visitor whose official business being over was to go back to the capital. Being asked by him as to the teaching of Zen, Fa-yen said: 'Do you know a romantic poem whose last two lines somewhat reminds us of Zen? The lines run:

For the maid she calls—why so often, when there's no special work to do? Only this—perchance her voice is overheard by her lover.'

When this was recited, the young officer said, 'Yes, yes, master.' But he was told not to take it too easily.

Fo-kuo heard of this interview when he came back from outside, and asked: 'I am told you recited the romantic poem for the young visitor while I was away. Did he understand?'

Fa-yen replied, 'He recognizes the voice.'

Fo-kuo said, 'As long as the line says, "The thing is to have the lover overhear her voice", and if the officer heard this voice, what is wrong with him?'

Without directly answering the question, the master abruptly said: 'What is the Patriarch's idea of coming from the West? The cypress-tree in the court-yard. How is this?' This at once opened Fo-kuo's eye to the truth of Zen. He rushed out of the room when he happened to see a cock on the railing give a cry, fluttering its wings. He said, 'Is this not the voice?' The verse he then composed was:¹

'The golden duck behind the brocade screens has ceased sending out its odorous smoke; Amidst flute playing and singing, he retired, thoroughly in liquor and supported by others: The happy event in the life of a romantic youth, It is his sweetheart alone that is allowed to know.'

To this Fa-yen the master added: 'The great affair of life that has caused the Buddhas and patriarchs to appear among us is not meant for small characters and inferior vessels. I am glad that I have been a help to your delight.'

17

Hui-ch'in Fo-chien² of Tai-ping studied Zen for many years under different masters and thought he was fully accomplished in it. But Fa-yen of Wu-tsu Shan refused to sanction his view, which offended him greatly. He left the master, as did his friend Fo-kuo. But the latter returned to Wu-tsu and attained full realization under him. Fo-chien also came back after a while, but his real intention was to go somewhere else. Fo-kuo, however, advised him to stay with the master, saying, 'We have been separated from each other more than a month, but what do you think of me now since I saw you last?' 'This is what puzzles me,' was his reply.

The signification of this conversation is that Fo-kuo, as was already recorded under him, had his satori soon after he came back to his former master. This fact, occurring during the month's separation from his friend, had caused such a change in Kuo's spiritual life that Ghien wondered what was the cause and meaning of this transformation.

Fo-chien decided to stay at Wu-tsu Shan with his old master Fa-yen and his good friend Fo-kuo. One day Fa-yen referred to the 'mondō' between Chao-chou and a monk:

'The monk asked, "What is your way of teaching?"

'Chao-chou said, "I am deaf; speak louder, please."

'The monk repeated the question.

'Then Chao-chou said, "You ask me about my way of teaching, and I have already found out yours."'

This 'mondō' served to open Fo-chien's mind to satori. He now asked the master, 'Pray point out for me what is the ultimate truth of Zen.' The master answered, 'A world of multiplicities is all stamped with the One.' Chien bowed and retired.

Later when Fo-kuo and Fo-chien were talking on Zen, mention was made of Tung-szŭ's asking Yang-shan about the bright gem from the sea of Chen.¹ When the talk turned to 'no reasoning to advance', Fo-kuo demanded, 'When it is said that the gem is already in hand, why this statement again that there are no words for reply, nor is there any reasoning to advance?' Fo-chien did not know what reply to make. On the following day, however, he said, 'Tung-szŭ wanted the gem and nothing else, but what Yang-shan produced was just an old wicker work.' Fo-kuo confirmed the view, but told him to go and see the master personally.

One day when Fo-chien came to the master's room and was at the point of addressing him, the master rebuked him terribly. Poor Chien had to retire in a most awkward manner. Back in his own quarters, he shut himself up in the room while his heart was in rebellion against the master.

Fo-kuo found this out quietly, and came to his friend's room and knocked at the door. Chien called out, 'Who is it?' Finding that it was his dear friend Kuo, he told Kuo to come in. Kuo innocently asked: 'Did you see the master? How was the interview?' Chien now reproached him saying: 'It was according to your advice that I have stayed here, and what is the outcome of the trick? I have been terribly rebuked by that old master of ours.' Kuo burst out into a hearty laugh and said, 'Do you remember what you told me the other day?' 'What do you mean?' retorted the discontented Chien. Kuo then added, 'Did you say that while Tung-szu wanted the gem and nothing else, what Yang-shan produced was just an old wicker work?'

When his own statement was repeated now by his friend, Chien at once saw the point. Thereupon both Kuo and Chien called on the master, who, seeing them approach, abruptly remarked, 'O Brother Ch'ien, this time you surely have it!'

18

Fo-têng Shou-hsün (1079-1134)¹ began to study Zen under Kuang-chien Ying. He came later to Tai-p'ing, where Fo-chien resided, but was at a loss how to take hold of Zen. He put a seal on his bedding and made this vow: 'If I do not attain the experience of Zen in this life, this will never be spread to rest my body in.' He sat in meditation during the day, but the night was passed standing up. He applied himself to the mastery of Zen most assiduously as if he had lost his parents. Seven weeks thus elapsed, when Fo-chien gave a sermon saying, 'A world of multiplicities is all stamped with the One.' This opened the eye of Shou-hsün. Fo-chien said, 'What a pity that the lustrous gem has been carried away by this lunatic!'

He then said to Hsün: 'According to Ling-yiin, "Since I once saw the peach bloom, I have never again cherished a doubt." What is this when no doubts are ever cherished by anybody?'

Hsün answered, 'Don't say that Ling-yün never cherishes a doubt; it is in fact impossible for any doubt to be cherished anywhere even now.'

Chien said: 'Hsüan-sha criticized Ling-yün, saying, "You are all right as far as you go, but you have not yet really penetrated." Now tell me where is this unpenetrated spot.'

Hsün replied, 'Most deeply I appreciate your grandmotherly kindness.'

Chien gave his approval to this remark. Thereupon, Hsiin produced the following stanza:

'All day he has been looking at the sky yet without lifting his head, Seeing the peach in full bloom he has for the first time raised his eyebrows: Mind you, however, there's still a world-enveloping net; Only when the last barrier-gate is broken through, there is complete rest.'

Yüan-wu Fo-kuo who heard of this had some misgiving about Shou-hsün's attainment. He thought he would give it a test and see for himself how genuine Hsün was. He called him in and had a walk with him in the mountain. When they came to a deep pool, Kuo rudely pushed his companion into the water. No sooner he did this than he asked:

'How about Niu-t'ou before he saw the Fourth Patriarch?'¹

'Deep is the pool, many are the fish.'

'How afterwards?'

'The high tree invites a breeze.'

'How when he is seen and not seen?'

'The legs stretched are the legs bent.'

The test fully satisfied Fo-kuo, who was by the way Shou-hsün's uncle in faith.

Footnotes

1 This section contains some of the 'Tōki-no-ge' (see First Series of Zen Essays, p. 248) uttered by the Zen masters, and the circumstances that led them to a state of satori, in the hope that they will help students of the psychology of religion to have a glimpse into the mind of the Zen Yogin, which is being matured for the final experience. When these are studied in connection with the technique of the koan exercise, much light will be shed on the nature of Zen Buddhism.

2 Hsü chuan têng lu, afterwards abbreviated Hsü-chuan, consisting of thirty-six volumes, contains records of the Zen masters between the latter part of the tenth and the fourteenth centuries. The work is the continuation of the Chuan têng lu. The account of Hui-yüan is found in Vol. XX, and that of Hsiung-yung in Vol. XIV. Vol.=Fas.

3 Hsü-chuan, XV.

1 Hua-t'ou is, in short, a Zen interview recorded of the masters. When it is used for training the Zen Yogins, it is a koan.

2 Hsü-chuan, XX,

1 Hsü-chuan, XI.

2 Hsü-chuan, XIII.

1 Quoted by Shih-wu Ch'ing-hung (12712-1352) in his Sayings.

1 Pu lao yin kuo, literally, 'not to fall into cause and effect'.

1 Pu meiyin kuo, literally, 'not to obscure cause and effect'.

1 Hsü-chuan, XVI.

2 Hsü-chuan, VI.

1 Hsü-chuan, V.

1 Hsü'chuan, V.

2 Hsü-chuan, IX.

1 Karmādāna in Sanskrit. An office in the Zen monastery, corresponding sometimes to that of master of ceremony, and sometimes to that of general manager or overseer.

1 Hsü-chuan, XIII.

2 Transmission of the Lamp, X.

3 Quoted also in my Essays, Series I, p. 250.

1 Hsü-chuan, XIII.

2 Hsü-chuan, XIII.

1 Hsü-chuan, XXV.

1 For the story, see below.

1 Transmission of the Lamp, IV.

2 Hsü-chuan, XXII.

1 Hsü-chuan, XXV. He is best known as the author of the Pi-yen-lu. His honorary title is 'Yüan-wu Ch'an-shih' (Zen master of Perfect Enlightenment).

1 This was already cited in the First Series, p. 249.

2 Hsü-chuan, XXV.

1 The story of the gem is this: Yang-shan came to Hui of Tung-szŭ (A.D. 742-823) for a Zen interview. Hui asked, 'Where is your native place?'

'1 come from Kuang-nan.'

'I am told that there is a bright-shining gem in the sea of Chen, of Kuang-nan; is this right?'

'Yes, that's right.'

'What is the shape of the gem?'

'While the moon is shining, it is revealed.'

'Did you bring it along?'

'Yes, I did.'

'Why do you not get it out for your old master?'

'I saw Wei-shan yesterday, and he also wanted to see the gem; but there were no words in which to frame my reply, nor was there any reasoning I could advance.'

1 Hsü-chuan, XXIX.

1 For the interview of Niu-t'ou and Tao-hsin (the fourth patriarch of Zen in China), see my Essays, First Series, pp. 201-202. This interview has frequently been made a subject of Zen 'mondō'.