So, you must remember the aspect of a rōshi to this young monk: he's a formidable fellow; usually an older man who has about him something that is difficult to put your finger on. There's a certain fierceness coupled with a kind of tremendous directness, a sense of somebody who sees right through you. And so he really poses to this young fellow, What do you want? Why did you come here?
But he said, I came to be instructed in Zen.
And the teacher says, Well, we don't teach anything here. There isn't anything in Zen to study.
Well, the student knows—or thinks he knows—that this ‘not anything,’ which is studied in Zen, is the real thing; that's—of course, as a Buddhist, he knows—that what isn't anything is the universe, the great void, the śūnyatā. And so he isn't phased by that.
He says, Well, nevertheless, you do have people who are working here and meditating under your instruction, and I'd like to join them.
Well, maybe. But strictly on probation.
And then, of course, all the details are taken and he pays a ridiculously small fee—in modern Japan, at any rate—to be able to stay in the monastery. It's very, very inexpensive.
Now the teacher comes back and says, Now, you want to study Zen. Why?
Well, because I'm oppressed by the rounds of birth and death—in other words, by the vicious circles of life in which I find myself—by suffering, by pain, and so on, and I want to be emancipated.
The teacher says, Who is it that wants to be emancipated?
That's a stopper.
There was a good old story about one of these preliminary interviews. The master asks, first of all, very casual questions. Where is your hometown? What's your name? What did your father do?And where did you go to college? Why is my hand so much like the Buddha's hand? And suddenly, you know, in mid-stream of an ordinary conversation—clunk!—the student is blocked. And so there is devised the kōan—in Chinese: gōng'àn—and this means, literally, the word ‘kōan’ means a ‘case,’ in exactly the same sense as we talk about a case in law which functions as a precedent for future cases. ‘Kōan’ should be translated ‘case.’ The kōans are based on stories, mondō, of the conversations between the old masters and their students.
But you can make a kōan immediately by such a question, Why is my hand so much like the Buddha's hand? Or, Who are you that asked this question? If the student tries to verbalize on that and say, Well, I am so-and-so, he asks, Who knows that you are so-and-so? How do you know that you know? Who knows that you know? Find out! In other words, the basic kōan is always Who are you? Who is it that wants to escape from birth and death? And I won't take words for an answer. I want to see you! And all you're showing me at the moment is your mask.
But he said, I came to be instructed in Zen.
And the teacher says, Well, we don't teach anything here. There isn't anything in Zen to study.
Well, the student knows—or thinks he knows—that this ‘not anything,’ which is studied in Zen, is the real thing; that's—of course, as a Buddhist, he knows—that what isn't anything is the universe, the great void, the śūnyatā. And so he isn't phased by that.
He says, Well, nevertheless, you do have people who are working here and meditating under your instruction, and I'd like to join them.
Well, maybe. But strictly on probation.
And then, of course, all the details are taken and he pays a ridiculously small fee—in modern Japan, at any rate—to be able to stay in the monastery. It's very, very inexpensive.
Now the teacher comes back and says, Now, you want to study Zen. Why?
Well, because I'm oppressed by the rounds of birth and death—in other words, by the vicious circles of life in which I find myself—by suffering, by pain, and so on, and I want to be emancipated.
The teacher says, Who is it that wants to be emancipated?
That's a stopper.
There was a good old story about one of these preliminary interviews. The master asks, first of all, very casual questions. Where is your hometown? What's your name? What did your father do?And where did you go to college? Why is my hand so much like the Buddha's hand? And suddenly, you know, in mid-stream of an ordinary conversation—clunk!—the student is blocked. And so there is devised the kōan—in Chinese: gōng'àn—and this means, literally, the word ‘kōan’ means a ‘case,’ in exactly the same sense as we talk about a case in law which functions as a precedent for future cases. ‘Kōan’ should be translated ‘case.’ The kōans are based on stories, mondō, of the conversations between the old masters and their students.
But you can make a kōan immediately by such a question, Why is my hand so much like the Buddha's hand? Or, Who are you that asked this question? If the student tries to verbalize on that and say, Well, I am so-and-so, he asks, Who knows that you are so-and-so? How do you know that you know? Who knows that you know? Find out! In other words, the basic kōan is always Who are you? Who is it that wants to escape from birth and death? And I won't take words for an answer. I want to see you! And all you're showing me at the moment is your mask.
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