The World as Just So, Part 14: Answering the Kōan

And so, as time goes on, everyday the student goes to the teacher for what is called sanzen. ‘Sanzen’ means ‘studying Zen.’ And he has to present a satisfactory answer to the kōan. Now, sanzen is the moment in the monastery when no holds are barred, although there's a very formal approach to it. The monk has to stop outside the master's quarters and make this mokugyo. He does that three times. And at a signal from the master, which is ringing a bell in reply, he goes in and sits down in front of the master, and bows right down to the floor, and then sits up, and he repeats the kōan that he's been given. And he's supposed to answer it.

Now, the master, if he's not satisfied with the answer, may simply ring his bell, which means: interview over, nothing doing. Or, if he's still not satisfied, he may try to do something to hint the student as to which way to go, or puzzle him further; some sort of comment. But what happens is this—do you see what kind of a situation has been set up here?—the student is really being asked to be absolutely genuine. If I said to you, Now, don't be self-conscious. I want you to be perfectly sincere. And, as a matter of fact, I'm a mindreader, and I know whether you're being sincere or not. I can see right down to that last little wiggly guzzle in the back of your mind. And if you think I can, you see, I'm putting you in a double bind. I'm commanding you to be genuine. How can you possibly do that on command? Especially when the person you're confronted with is a father figure, an authority figure. And in Japan, the sensei—the teacher—is even a more authoritative figure than one's father, which is saying a lot. But you are being asked, in the presence of this tiger, to be completely spontaneous.

Or—it isn't put in that way, you see, though. I mean, I'm describing this from the standpoint of a psychologist observing what's going on here. No, the thing you've got to do is you've got to hear the sound of one hand. And as your answers become more and more rejected, you get more and more desperate. And there is built up the state that is called the ‘great doubt.’ The students do everything, you know? They read all the old Zen stories, and they come in with pieces of rock and wood, and they try and hit the teacher, they do everything—and nothing, nothing will do.

I remember I had a friend studying in Kyōto, and on the way to the master's quarters you pass through a lovely garden with a pool. And he saw a bullfrog in the garden. And he grabbed this bullfrog—they're very tame in Japan—put it in his sleeve in his kimono, and when he got in to give an answer to his kōan he produced the bullfrog. And the master shook his head and said, Nu-uh. Too intellectual. Of course, he meant not so much what we mean by ‘intellectual,’ but ‘too contrived,’ ‘too pre-meditated.’ You know, you're just copying other people's Zen antics, and that's something you just can't get away with.

Well, there does come a critical point of total desperation. And when the student reaches that point the teacher really starts encouraging him. He says, Now, come on. You're getting warm. But you must be ready to die for this. You must—students have even been put into the position that if they don't get it in so many days, they're going to commit suicide. And they have to stimulate this intense period—a thing called sesshin. Don't confuse the word ‘sesshin’ with the English ‘session.’ ‘Sesshin’ means ‘studying’ or ‘observation of the shin’—the heart, the mind. The heart-mind.

And this time they only sleep four hours a night. And they meditate solidly all through the day. They go for the sanzen interview twice a day—every one of them—and it's a tremendous workout, and will last about five days. Five or six days. And in that period the pressure is really on. Everybody is worked into a pitch of, kind of, psychic fury; they have to get this thing answered.

There's a man in Japan today who has a five-day Zen system, and he practically guarantees that you have satori in his five days. I just got a book about it, written by a British—I haven't had a chance to read it yet.

Well, I had a—someone I knew of—who was over, studying Zen on a fulbright grant, and the grant was winding up and he still hadn't got the sound of one hand. He said to the master, Look, my grant's running out and I can't stay here, and I've just got to get this thing. So, just a day before he left, he suddenly realized that there was nothing to realize. And that was it. You know, here he had spent his whole life thinking that there's something deficient in me. See? There's something wrong. Something I ought to find out to get this problem of life cleaned up.

Well, you know what you do. Rinzai, the old Chinese master, said, Zen teaching is like using an empty fist to deceive a child. Or like trying to stop a child crying by giving it a yellow leaf. See, the child wants gold, and so you give it an autumn leaf and say, Here, darling. There's some gold. Be alright. Or, with your closed fist you say, What have I got here? The child comes and tries to see and pull your fingers open. Then you hide it behind your back, and under your leg, and behind the chair; child gets absolutely fascinated. The longer you keep this up, the more the child is sure there is some real goodie inside the hand, and then at the end—psh—nothing. And that's Zen.