Next, we may mention the method of counter-questioning, wherein questions are not answered by plain statements but by counter-questionings. In Zen, generally speaking, a question is not a question in its ordinary sense, that is, it is not simply asked for information, and therefore it is natural that what ordinarily corresponds to an answer is not an answer at all. Some Zen authority enumerates eighteen different kinds of questions, against which we may distinguish eighteen corresponding answers. Thus a counter-question itself is in its way an illuminating answer. A monk requested Jimyo (Tzŭ-ming) to “set forth the idea of Dharma’s coming from the west,” and the master said, “When did you come?”[6.55] When Rasan Dokan (Lo-shan Tao-hsien) was asked, “Who is the master of the triple world?” he said, “Do you understand how to eat rice?”[6.56] Tenryu (T‘ien-lung), the teacher of Gutei, was hailed by a monk who asked him,[6.57] “How are we released from the triple world?” He retorted, “Where are you this very moment?” A monk asked Jōshu, “What would you say when a man is without an inch of cloth on him?” “What did you say he has not on him?” “An inch of cloth on him, sir.” “Very fine this, not to have an inch of cloth!” responded the master.[6.58]
When we go on like this, there may be no end to this way of treating the various “contrivances” devised by the Zen masters for the benefits of their truth-thirsty pupils. Let me conclude this section by quoting two more cases in which a kind of reasoning in a circle is employed, but from another point of view we may detect here a trace of absolute monism in which all differences are effaced. Whether the Zen masters agree with this view, however, remains to be seen; for while the absolute identity of meum et tuum is asserted, facts of individualisation are not ignored either. A monk asked Daizui (Tai-sui),[6.59] “What is my [pupil’s] Self?” “That is my [master’s] Self,” answered the master. “How is it that my Self is your Self?” The ultimate dictum was, “That is your Self.” To understand this in a logical fashion, put “ignorant,” or “confused” or “human” in place of “my [pupil’s] Self,” and in place of “your [master’s] Self” put “enlightened,” or “Buddha’s,’ or “divine,” and we may have a glimpse into what was going on in the mind of Daizui. But without his last remark, “That is your Self,” the whole affair may resolve into a form of pantheistic philosophy. In the case of Sansho Yenen (San-shêng Hui-jan) and Kyozan Yejaku (Yang-shan Hui-chi), the thought of Daizui is more concretely presented. Yejaku asked Yenen,[6.60] “What is your name?” and Yenen replied, “My name is Yejaku.” Yejaku protested, “Yejaku is my name.” Thereupon said Yenen, “My name is Yenen,” which brought out a hearty laugh from Yejaku. These dialogues remind one of the famous Hindu saying, “Tat tvam asi!” but the difference between this and “My name is Yejaku” is that between Vedanta philosophy and Zen Buddhism, or that between Indian idealism and Chinese realism or practicalness. The latter does not generalise, nor does it speculate on a higher plane which has no hold on life as we live it. According to the philosophy of the Kegon (Avatamsaka) school of Buddhism, there is a spiritual world where one particular object holds within itself all other particular objects merged, instead of all particular objects being absorbed in the Great All. Thus in this world it so happens that when you lift a bunch of flowers or point at a piece of brick, the whole world in its multitudinosity is seen reflected here. If so, the Zen masters may be said to be moving also in this mystic realm which reveals its secrets at the moment of supreme enlightenment (anuttara-samyak-saṁbodhi).
VIII
We now come to the most characteristic feature of Zen Buddhism, by which it is distinguished not only from all the other Buddhist schools, but from all forms of mysticism that are ever known to us. So far the truth of Zen has been expressed through words, articulate or otherwise, however enigmatic they may superficially appear; but now the masters appeal to a more direct method instead of verbal medium. In fact, the truth of Zen is the truth of life, and life means to live, to move, to act, not merely to reflect. Is it not the most natural thing for Zen, therefore, that its development should be towards acting or rather living its truth instead of demonstrating or illustrating it in words, that is to say, with ideas? In the actual living of life there is no logic, for life is superior to logic. We imagine logic influences life, but in reality man is not a rational creature so much as we make him out, of course he reasons, but he does not act according to the result of his reasoning pure and simple. There is something stronger than ratiocination. We may call it impulse, or instinct, or, more comprehensively, will. Where this will acts there is Zen, but if I am asked whether Zen is a philosophy of will I rather hesitate to give an affirmative answer. Zen is to be explained, if at all explained it should be, rather dynamically than statically. When I raise the hand thus, there is Zen. But when I assert that I have raised the hand, Zen is no more there. Nor is there any Zen when I assume the existence of somewhat that may be named will or anything else. Not that the assertion or assumption is wrong, but that the thing known as Zen is three thousand miles away as they say. An assertion is Zen only when it is in itself an act and does not refer to anything that is asserted in it. In the finger pointed at the moon there is no Zen, but when the pointing finger itself is considered, altogether independent of any external references, there is Zen.
Life delineates itself on the canvas called time; and time never repeats, once gone, forever gone; and so is an act, once done, it is never undone. Life is a sumiye-painting, which must be executed once and for all time and without hesitation, without intellection, and no corrections are permissible or possible. Life is not like an oil-painting which can be rubbed out and done over time and again until the artist is satisfied. With a sumiye-painting, any brush stroke painted over a second time results in a smudge; the life has left it. All corrections show when the ink dries. So is life. We can never retract what we have once committed to deeds, nay, what has once passed through consciousness can never be rubbed out. Zen therefore ought to be caught while the thing is going on, neither before nor after. It is an act of one instant. When Dharma was leaving China, as the legend has it, he asked his disciples what was their understanding of Zen, and one of them who happened to be a nun, replied, “It is like Ānanda’s looking into the kingdom of Akshobhya Buddha, it is seen once and has never been repeated.” This fleeting, unrepeatable, and ungraspable character of life is delineated graphically by Zen masters who have compared it to lightning or spark produced by the percussion of stones: 閃電光, 擊石火 (shan tien kuang, chi shih huo) is the phrase.[6.61]
The idea of direct method appealed to by the masters is to get hold of this fleeting life as it flees and not after it has flown. While it is fleeing, there is no time to recall memory or to build ideas. No reasoning avails here. Language may be used, but this has been associated too long with ideation, and has lost directness or being by itself. As soon as words are used, they express meaning, reasoning; they represent something not belonging to themselves; they have no direct connection with life, except being a faint echo or image of something that is no longer here. This is the reason why the masters often avoid such expressions or statements as are intelligible in any logical way. Their aim is to have the pupil’s attention concentrated in the thing itself which he wishes to grasp and not in anything that is in the remotest possible connection liable to disturb him. Therefore when we attempt to find meaning in dharanis or exclamations or a nonsensical string of sounds taken as such, we are far away from the truth of Zen. We must penetrate into the mind itself as the spring of life, from which all these words are produced. The swinging of a stick, the crying of a “Kwats!” or the kicking of a ball must be understood in this sense, that is, as the directest demonstration of life, no, even as life itself. The direct method is thus not always the violent assertion of life-force, but a gentle movement of the body, the responding to a call, the listening to a murmuring stream, or to a singing bird, or any of our most ordinary everyday assertions of life.
Reiun (Ling-yün)[6.62] was asked, “How were things before the appearance of the Buddha in the world?” He raised his hossu. “How were things after the appearance of the Buddha?” He again raised the hossu. This raising of the hossu was quite a favourite method with many masters to demonstrate the truth of Zen. As I stated elsewhere, the hossu and the staff were the religious insignias of the master, and it was natural that they would be in much display when the monks approached with questions. One day Ōbaku Kiun (Huang-po Hsi-yün)[6.63] ascended the pulpit, and as soon as monks were gathered, the master took up his staff and drove them all out. When they were about all out, he called them, and they turned their heads back. The master said, “The moon looks like a bow, less rain and more wind.” The staff was thus wielded effectively by the masters, but who would ever have thought of a cane being made an instrument of illustrating the most profound truth of religion?
Jōshu was the readiest master for pithy retorts and his “Sayings” (Goroku) is filled with them, but he was also an adept at the direct method. When he was in his pulpit one day, a monk came out of the rank and made bows to him. Without waiting, however, for further movements on the part of the monk, Jōshu folded his hands and a parting salutation was given. Hyakujo Isei’s (Pai-chang Wei-chêng)[6.64] way was somewhat different. He said to the monks, “You open the farm for me and I will talk to you about the great principle [of Zen].” When the monks finished attending to the farm and came back to the master to discourse on the great principle, he merely extended his open arms and said nothing.
A monk came to Yenkwan An,[6.65] the National Teacher, and wanted to know what was the original body of Vairochana Buddha. The Teacher told him to pass the pitcher, which he did. The Teacher then said, “Put it back where you got it.” The monk faithfully obeyed, but not being told what was the original body of the Buddha, he proposed the question once more, “Who is the Buddha?” Answered the master, “Long gone is he!” In this case the direct method was practised more by the monk himself under the direction of the master, but unfortunately the pupil’s spiritual condition was not ripe enough to grasp the meaning of his own “direct method,” and alas, let go “the old Buddha!” Something similar to this case may be found in the following one: