Beyond Good and Evil?
A Buddhist Critique of Nietzsche
by David R. Loy

Asian Philosophy, Volume 6 March 1996, pp. 37-55

ABSTRACT: In what ways was Nietzsche right, from a Buddhist perspective, and where did he go wrong? Nietzsche understood how the distinction we make between this world and a higher spiritual realm serves our need for security, and he saw the bad faith in religious values motivated by this need. He did not perceive how his alternative, more aristocratic values, also reflects the same anxiety. Nietzsche realized how the search for truth is motivated by a sublimated desire for symbolic security; philosophy's attempt to create the world reflects the tyrannical will-to-power, becoming the most "spiritualized" version of the need to impose our will. Insofar as truth is our intellectual effort to grasp being symbolically, however, Nietzsche overlooks a different reversal of perspective which could convert the "bad infinite" of heroic will into the good infinite of disseminating play. What he considered the crown of his system -- eternal recurrence -- is actually its denouement. Having seen through the delusion of Being, Nietzsche still sought a Being within Becoming. Nietzsche is able to affirm the value of this moment only by making it recur eternally. Rather than the way to vanquish nihilism, will-to-power turns out to be pure nihilism, for nihilism is not the debacle of all meaning but our dread of that debacle and what we do to avoid it.




Buddhism already has -- and this distinguishes it profoundly from Christianity -- the self-deception of moral concepts behind it -- it stands, in my language, beyond good and evil. (The Anti-Christ)[1]

Although Nietzsche viewed Buddhism as superior to Christianity, and went so far as to call eternal recurrence "the European form of Buddhism", he considered both religions nihilistic. Buddhism, which fights ressentiment, was a convenient whip for Christianity born out of ressentiment. Inasmuch as Buddhism attempts to view the world as it is, without the distortions of metaphysics, Nietzsche believed that it offers no moral interpretation of the suffering that necessarily attends the human condition: no one is responsible for that suffering. Yet this did not amount to a recommendation, for Buddhism is nonetheless a religion for the end and fatigue of a civilization, the consolation of weary spirits longing for a dreamless sleep.[2] Sakyamuni Buddha was not an Ubermensch.

Such a conclusion is not surprising for someone who learned his Buddhism largely through Schopenhauer. But we have learned much more about Buddhism since Nietzsche's day, enough to consider a Buddhist response: in what ways was Nietzsche right, from a Buddhist perspective, and where might he have gone wrong?

The answer is complex, of course, and there is much that Buddhists can learn from Nietzsche, the first postmodernist and still the most important one. In order to reach that answer, however, it will first be necessary to gain some understanding of anatman,

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the "no self" doctrine central to Buddhism and to the still-widespread misunderstanding of Buddhism as nihilistic. Of the various ways for us to approach anatman, one of the most insightful is through modern psychology. Buddhism anticipated its reluctant conclusions: guilt and anxiety are not adventitious but intrinsic to the ego. That is because our dissatisfaction with life derives from a repression even more immediate than death-terror: the suspicion that "I" am not real. For Buddhism, the sense-of-self is not some self-existing consciousness but a mental construction which experiences its own groundlessness as a lack. On this account, our most problematic dualism is not so much life fearing death as a fragile sense-of-self dreading its own no-thing- ness. By accepting and yielding to that groundlessness, however, I can discover that I have always been grounded, not as a self-present being but as one manifestation of a web of relationships which encompasses everything.

What does this understanding of self-as-lack imply about ethics, truth, and the meaning of life for us? That is the question which motivates this paper, for to raise these issues in the Western tradition is to find ourselves in a dialogue with Nietzsche, whose own texts resonate with many of the same insights: for example, his critiques of the subject ("The 'subject' is not something given, it is something added and invented and projected behind what there is." WP 481) and substance ("The properties of a thing are effects on other 'things'... there is no 'thing-in-itself.'" WP 557). From this critique, Nietzsche also drew some conclusions quite similar to those of Buddhism: in particular, that morality, knowledge and meaning are not discovered but constructed -- internalized games we learn from each other and play with ourselves. Perhaps the history of his own psyche reveals how momentous these discoveries were; and inevitably his insights were somewhat distorted.

Nietzsche understood how the distinction we make between this world and a higher spiritual realm serves our need for security, and he saw the bad faith in religious values motivated by this need. He did not understand how his alternative, more aristocratic values, also reflects the same anxiety. Nietzsche ends up celebrating an impossible ideal, the heroic-ego which overcomes its sense of lack, because he does not see that a heroic ego is our fantasy project for overcoming lack.

Nietzsche realized how the search for truth is motivated by a sublimated desire for symbolic security; his solution largely reverses our usual dualism by elevating ignorance and "untruth" into conditions of life. Philosophy's attempt to create the world reflects the tyrannical will- to-power, becoming the most "spiritualized" version of the need to impose our will. Insofar as truth is our intellectual effort to grasp being symbolically, however, those who no longer need to ground themselves can play the truth-versus-error game with lighter feet. Nietzsche overlooks a different reversal of perspective which could convert the bad-infinite of the heroic will-as-truth into the good infinite of truth-as-play.

What he considered the crown of his system--eternal recurrence -- is actually its denouement. Having seen through the delusion of Being, Nietzsche could not let it go completely, for he still sought a Being within Becoming. "To impose upon becoming the character of being -- this is the supr eme will to power" (WP 617). Having exposed the bad faith of believing in eternity, Nietzsche is nonetheless able to affirm the value of this moment only by making it recur eternally. In place of the neurotic's attempt to rediscover the past in the future he tries to rediscover the present in the future, yet the eternal recurrence of the now can add something only if the now in itself lacks something.

Rather than the way to vanquish nihilism, Nietzsche's will-to-power turns out to be

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pure nihilism, for nihilism is not the debacle of all meaning but our dread of that debacle and what we do to avoid it. This includes compulsively seizing on certain meanings as a bulwark against that form of lack. If so, the only solution to the dread of meaninglessness is meaninglessness itself: only by accepting meaninglessness, by letting it devour the meanings that we use to defend ourselves against our no-thing-ness, can we realize a meaning-free-ness open to the possibilities that arise in our world.

In sum, when the lack-driven bad infinite transforms into a lacking-nothing good infinite, the dualisms of good-versus-evil, truth-versus-error, and meaningfulness-versus- meaninglessness are realized to be games. Do I play them or do they play me? As long as we do not understand what is motivating us, we play with the seriousness of a life-versus-death struggle, for that is what the games symbolize for a self preoccupied with its lack. We are trapped in games which cannot be escaped yet cannot be won, since playing well does not resolve one's sense-of-lack. When there is no need to get anything from the game or gain cloture on it, we can play with the seriousness of a child absorbed in its game.[3]

The Lack of Self

Existential psychologists such as Ernest Becker believe that our primary repression is not sexual wishes, as Freud thought, but the awareness that we are going to die.4 This is closer to Buddhism, yet the anatman doctrine implies a subtle although significant distinction between fear of death and dread of the void: our worst problem is not death, a fear which still keeps the feared thing at a distance by projecting it into the future, but the more immediate and terrifying (and quite valid) suspicion each of us has that "I" am not real right now.

Sakyamunimuni Buddha did not use psychoanalytic terms, yet in trying to understand the Buddhist denial of self we can benefit from the concept of repression and the return of the repressed in symbolic form. If something (a mental wish, according to Freud) makes me uncomfortable, I can ignore or "forget" it. This allows me to concentrate on something else, but what is not consciously admitted into awareness tends to irrupt in obsessive ways--as symptoms--that affect conscious ness with precisely those qualities it strives to exclude. What does this imply about anatman?

Buddhism analyzes the sense-of-self into sets of impersonal mental and physical phenomena, whose interaction creates the illusion of self-consciousness--i.e., that consciousness characterizes a self distinct from the world it is conscious of. The death-repression emphasized by existential psychology transforms Freud's Oedipal complex into what Norman Brown calls an Oedipal project: the attempt to become father of oneself, i.e., one's own origin. The child wants to conquer death by becoming the creator and sustainer of its own life.5 Buddhism shifts the emphasis: the Oedipal project is better understood as the attempt of the developing sense-of-self to attain autonomy, like Descartes' supposedly self-sufficient consciousness. It is the quest to deny one's groundlessness by becoming one's own ground: the ground (socially conditioned and maintained yet nonetheless illusory) we know as being an independent, individual subject.

If so, the Oedipal project derives from our intuition that self-consciousness is not something "self-existing" but a mental construct. As with Nietzsche, consciousness is more like the surface of the sea: dependent on unknown depths that it cannot grasp because it is a manifestation of them. The problem arises when this conditioned consciousness wants to ground itself--i.e., to make itself real. If the sense-of-self is a

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construct, it can real-ize itself only by objectifying itself in some way in the world. The ego-self is this never-ending project to objectify oneself, something consciousness can no more do than a hand can grasp itself or an eye see itself.

The consequence of this perpetual failure is that the sense-of- self has, as its inescapable shadow, a sense-of-lack, which it always tries to escape. In deconstructive terms, the ineluctable trace of nothingness in our non-self-present being is a feeling of lack. The return of the repressed in the distorted form of a symptom shows us how to link this basic yet hopeless project with the symbolic ways we try to make ourselves real in the world. We experience this deep sense of lack as the feeling that "there is something wrong with me," but of course that feeling manifests, and we respond to it, in many different ways. In its "purer" forms lack appears as an anxiety that gnaws on one's very core. For that reason such anxiety is eager to objectify into fear of something, because then we have ways to defend ourselves against feared things.

The problem with objectifications, however, is that no object can ever satisfy if it's not really an object we want. When we do not understand what is actually motivating us -- because what we think we want is only a symptom of something else (our desire to become real, according to my interpretation of Buddhism) -- we end up compulsive. Then the neurotic's anguish and despair are less the result of symptoms than their source; those symptoms are necessary to shield him from the tragedies that "normal" people are better at repressing: death, meaninglessness, groundlessness.

The ultimate problem is not guilt but the incapacity to live. The illusion of guilt is necessary for an animal that cannot enjoy life, in order to organize a life of nonenjoyment."[6]

Buddhism agrees yet shifts our focus from the terror of future annihilation to the anguish of a groundlessness experienced here and now. A Buddhist interpretation of self-as-lack accepts much of the psychotherapeutic understanding while offering a way to resolve our unhappiness. Buddhism traces human suffering back to desire and ignorance, and ultimately to our lack of self. Deconstructing the sense-of-self into interacting mental and physical processes leads to Nietzschean conclusions: the supposedly simple self is an economy of forces.[7] The Buddhist solution to its lack is simple although not easy. If it is no-thing-ness I am afraid of (i.e., the repressed intuition that, rather than being autonomous and self-existent, the "I" is a construct), the best way to resolve that fear is to face up to what has been denied: that is, to accept my no-thing-ness by becoming no-thing. The 12th century Japanese Zen master Dogen summarizes this process:

To study the buddha way is to study the self. To study the self is to forget the self. To forget the self is to be actualized by [or: perceive oneself as] myriad things. When actualized by myriad things, your body and mind as well as the bodies and minds of others drop away. No trace of realization remains, and this no-trace continues endlessly.[8]

Forgetting" ourselves is how we lose our sense of separation and realize that we are manifestations of the world, not subjects confronting it as an other. Meditation is learning how to become nothing by learning to forget one's self, which happens when I become absorbed into my meditation-exercise. If the sense-of-self is consciousness reflecting back upon itself in order to grasp itself, such meditation practice is an exercise in de-reflection. Consciousness unlearns trying to grasp itself, objectify itself, real-ize itself. Enlightenment occurs in Buddhism when that usually-automatized reflexivity ceases, which is experienced as a letting-go and falling into a void.

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Men are afraid to forget their minds, fearing to fall through the Void with nothing to stay their fall. They do not know that the Void is not really void, but the realm of the real Dharma." (Huang-po)[9]

When I no longer strive to make myself real through things, I find myself "actualized" by them, says Dogen.

This process implies that what we fear as nothingness is not really nothingness, for that is the perspective of a sense-of-self anxious about losing its grip on itself. According to Buddhism, letting- go of myself and merging with that no-thing-ness leads to something else: when consciousness stops trying to catch its own tail, I become no-thing, and discover that I am everything--or, more precisely, that I can be anything. The problem of desire is solved when, without the craving-for-being that compels me to take hold of something and try to settle down in it, I am free to experience my nonduality with it. Grasping at something merely reinforces a delusive sense of separation between that-which-is-grasped and that-which-grasps-at-it. The only way I can become a phenomenon is to realize I am it, according to Buddhism. A mind that real-izes this is ab-solute in the original sense of the term: unconditioned. Meditative techniques decondition the mind from its tendency to circle in safe, familiar ruts, thus enabling its freedom to become anything. The most-quoted line from the best-known of all Mahayana scriptures, the Diamond Sutra, encapsulates all this in one phrase: "Let your mind come forth without fixing it anywhere."[10]

When anatman is understood this way, as a self-as-lack shadowing our illusory sense-of-self, Nietzsche and Buddhism have a lot to talk about.

Qualifying for Being

"There are no moral phenomena at all, only a moral interpretation of phenomena."[11] That brings the ethical issue back from the other "true" world to this one, as we inquire into the genealogy of our moral interpretations. Why do we make the interpretations that we do? As we become more conscious of our motivations, what other interpretations become possible?

Nietzsche distinguishes two basic types of morality. Master morality does not hesitate to affirm the exercise of power, whereas slave morality is based upon rejecting master morality as evil and valuing the opposite of that evil. Behind the piety of conventional Christian morals, Nietzsche detected the fear and ressentiment of the weak who use ethical codes to control the strong. When this fear is projected onto the universe, it becomes a God who tells us to love each other even as he loves us, who will take care of us if we do and punish us if we do not. We may cower before such a God, yet this scheme seems to afford us some grip on our ultimate fate -- and, as Nietzsche emphasizes, a pretty good grip on our fellow man. We know who we are, what we can do and where that is likely to get us. But this also destroys the innocence of our existence.

That no one is any longer made accountable, that the kind of being manifested cannot be traced back to a causa prima, that the world is a unity neither as sensorium nor as "spirit,"--this alone is the great liberation--thus alone is the innocence of becoming restored... The concept "God" has hitherto been the greatest objection to existence... We deny God; in denying God, we deny accountability: only by doing that do we redeem the world. (TI 54)

We would be accountable to God because he would want to accomplish something through us. Nietzsche calls our bluff. We say we want to be free, yet we also want

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somebody, somewhere, to be taking care of us. There seems to be a correspondence between monotheism (a consciousness unifying and controlling the external world) and the ego-self (a consciousness unifying and controlling the internal). Then the issue is not only accountability but ego-integrity: without a God to keep us straight, who is strong enough to determine one's own direction? If God expires all is permitted, and the century since Nietzsche's proclamation has certainly fulfilled his predictions of nihilism.

Perhaps a period of chaos is unavoidable.

One interpretation has collapsed; but because it was considered the interpretation it now seems as if there were no meaning at all in existence, as if everything were in vain" (WP 55).

As with the adolescent forging an independent identity, some disorientation is inevitable before humankind matures enough to forego its projected parent and determine this-worldly criteria for moral interpretations. This would also explain the difficulty with Nietzsche's own solution, which understands the problem yet cannot quite escape it. Nietzsche saw that the dualism of good versus evil is an internalized game we learn to play with ourselves. "In every ascetic morality man worships a part of himself as God and for that he needs to diabolize the other part" (BGE 227). Since Christianity is the victory of pity over aristocratic values, his alternative is, in part, revaluing those aristocratic virtues. "The great epochs of our life are the occasions when we gain the courage to rebaptize our evil qualities as our best qualities" (BGE 116). This includes embracing the fact that "life itself is essentially appropriation, injury, overpowering of the strange and weaker, suppression, severity, imposition of one's own forms, incorporation and, at the least and mildest, exploitation" (BGE 259).[12] However, this famous passage is easily misunderstood. Nietzsche idealizes the aristocrat, and especially the overman, insofar as they are masters of their own "inward chaos", self-overcome men: "You shall become master of yourself, master also over your virtues. Formerly they were your masters; but they must be only your instruments beside other instruments."[13] Yet from a Buddhist perspective the concept of self-mastery contains a problematic ambiguity: who is master of whom? If the ego-self is that which vainly tries to grasp itself, the project of self-mastery is not only questionable but impossible. That for the sake of which it is worthwhile to live on earth: does that happen when I master myself or when I let go of myself?

For Buddhism these questions reduce to how our sense-of-lack may be overcome, and for Nietzsche that involves our embodiment of will-to-power. Retracing the genealogy of this, his master concept if he has one, will help us relate his will-to-power to the Buddhist sense-of-lack.

The will-to-power cannot be separated from its sublimation (or "spiritualization"), for Nietzsche discovered them together. He was one of the first classicists to realize that the original Olympic games were a sublimated form of war. Nietzsche contended that Greek civilization was noble and sublime precisely because it had been so cruel and bloodthirsty; the "golden age" was created by bringing this original ferocity under control. "The thought seems to be: where there is 'the sublime' there must have been that which was made sublime -- sublimated -- after having been for a long time not sublime."[14] Having detected this phenomenon in ancient Greece, Nietzsche began to notice sublimated "base" impulses in many kinds of activity; for example, Wagner's ferocious will sublimated into the Bayreuth festival. This makes Nietzsche the first, as far as I know, to undertake a systematic study of repression.

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Nietzsche sees the sublimity of Greek culture as the sublimation of its original ferocity, yet here perhaps the genealogist of morals does not trace his genealogy back far enough. What makes man so ferocious? Can even the will to power, irreducible for Nietzsche, be deconstructed? What, after all, does power mean to us?

All power is in essence power to deny mortality. Either that or it is not real power at all, not ultimate power, not the power that mankind is really obsessed with. Power means power to increase oneself, to change one's natural situation from one of smallness, helplessness, finitude, to one of bigness, control, durability, importance. (Becker)[15]

We feel we are masters over life and death when we hold the fate of others in our hands, adds Becker; and we feel we are real when the reality of others is in our hands, adds Buddhism. From that perspective, however, desire for power is little different from the slave morality Nietzsche criticizes. Both become symptoms of our lack, equally frustrating inasmuch as we are motivated by something that cannot be satisfied in the way we try to satisfy it. No wonder Nietzsche's will-to-power can never rest, that it needs to expand its horizons, and that for most of us morality has been a matter of collecting religious brownie points. In both cases we think that we have found the way to get a grip on our eligibility for immortality -- or being.

The whole basis of the urge to goodness is to be something that has value, that endures.... Man uses morality to try to get a place of special belongingness and perpetuation in the universe .... Do we wonder why one of man's chief characteristics is his tortured dissatisfaction with himself, his constant self- criticism? It is the only way he has to overcome the sense of hopeless limitation inherent in his real situation. (Becker)[16]

When I realize that I am not going to attain cloture on that diabolical part of myself, it is time to project it. "The Devil is the one who prevents the heroic victory of immortality in each culture-- even the atheistic, scientific ones."[17] As long as lack keeps gnawing, we need to keep struggling with the Devil, and as we all know the best devil is one outside our own group. Evil is whatever we decide is keeping us from becoming real, and since no victory over any external devil can yield the sense of being we seek, we have become trapped in a paradox of our own making: evil is created by our urge to eliminate evil. Stalin's collectivization program was an attempt to build a more perfect socialist society. The Final Solution of the Nazis was an attempt to purify the earth of its vermin.

The Buddhist critique of such ressentiment includes understanding the self-deception involved in such dualistic thinking, when I identify with one pole and vainly try to eliminate its interdependent other.[18] Buddhism gets beyond good and evil not by rebaptizing our evil qualities as our best, but with an entirely different perspective. As long as we experience ourselves as alienated from the world and society as a set of separate selves, the world is devalued into a field-of-play wherein we compete to full-fill ourselves. That is the origin of the ethical problem we struggle with today: without some transcendental ground such as God, what will bind our atomized selves together? When my sense-of-self lets-go and disappears, however, I realize my interdependence with all other phenomena. It is more than being dependent on them: when I discover that I am you, the trace of your traces, the ethical problem of how to relate to you is transformed.[19]

Of course, this provides no simple yardstick to resolve knotty ethical dilemmas. Yet more important, I think, is that this absolves the sense of separation between us which

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usually makes those dilemmas so difficult to resolve, including the conceit that I am the one who has privileged access to transcendental principles, or who embodies more fully the will-to-power. Loss of self-preoccupation entails the ability to respond to others without an ulterior motive which needs to gain something from that encounter. Buddhist ethical principles approximate the way of relating to others that nondual experience reveals. As in Christianity, I should love my neighbor as myself--in this case because my neighbor is myself. In contrast to the "Thou shalt not--or else!" implied in Mosaic law, the Buddhist precepts are vows one makes not to some other being but to one's t o-be-realized-as-empty self: "I vow to undertake the course of training to perfect myself in non-killing," and so forth. If we have not developed to the degree that we spontaneously experience ourselves as one with others, by following the precepts we endeavor to act as if we did feel that way. Yet even these precepts are eventually realized not to rest on any transcendental, objectively-binding moral principle. There are, finally, no moral limitations on our freedom -- except the dualistic delusions which incline us to abuse that freedom in the first place.

Grasping the Symbols that Grasp Reality

How much one needs a belief in order to flourish, how much that is "firm" and that one does not wish to be shaken because one clings to it, that is a measure of the degree of one's strength (or, to put the point more clearly, of one's weakness).[20]

If one's final delusion is the belief that one has lost all delusions, and if there is no greater delusion than the one that eliminates all others, mustn't that delusion be... the truth? "What really is it in us that wants 'the truth'?" begins Beyond Good and Evil, a question that echoes throughout Nietzsche's writings. The value of truth must be called into question. Perhaps no one yet has been sufficiently truthful about what truthfulness is -- in which case we should be careful, for that may be for good reason. Nietzsche warns that one might get hold of the truth about truth too soon, before humankind is strong enough to give up the need for truth.

Look, isn't our need for knowledge precisely this need for the familiar, the will to uncover under everything strange, unusual, and questionable, something that no longer disturbs us? Is it not the instinct of fear that bids us to know? And is the jubilation of those who attain knowledge not the jubilation over the restoration of a sense of security?[21]

Then what might truth become for a person who no longer seeks to restore a feeling of security? Nietzsche saw the relationship between our will-to-truth and our need for being: "Man seeks 'the truth': a world that is not self-contradictory, not deceptive, does not change, a true world--a world in which one does not suffer; contradiction, deception, change--causes of suffering!" (WP 585) The will-to-truth manifests will-to-power; the problem with this form of will is when it thinks the world rather than creates it. "Actual philosophers, however, are commanders and law-givers... Their 'knowing' is creating, their creating is a law-giving, their will to truth is--will to power" (BGE 211). Even basic logical categories reflect our need to perceive things in a stable way. That some things are equal, that there is such a thing as matter, that things naturally fall into categories: these are fictions, even if more or less indispensable in daily life. Such instrumental truths work to preserve us and give us a grip on our situation. In his later writings, when Nietzsche saw through the illusion of a unitary ego-self, he realized that

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these truths derive from the sense-of-self objectifying its own self-image. Then what would happen if we could cease believing in ego as a self- determining cause? If we cling to these "facts" for survival, can those who let-go of themselves let go of them?

Nietzsche does not consider this Buddhist possibility, yet he contemplates "the most extreme form of nihilism," which might also be called "a divine way of thinking": the view "that every belief, every considering-something-true, is necessarily false because there simply is no true world. Thus: a perspectival appearance whose origin lies in us (in so far as we continually need a narrower, abbreviated, simplified world)." Nietzsche describes this as another reversal: just as our rebaptized evil qualities trade places with our best qualities, so truth becomes lie --

Truths are illusions about which one has forgotten that this is what they are. Truth is the kind of error without which a certain species of life could not live. The value for life is ultimately decisive.[22]

--and lie becomes a kind of truth, for this makes the will to appearance, even the will to deception, "deeper, more metaphysical, than the will to truth" insofar as that will-to-truth is motivated by the need for security. Nietzsche accordingly calls his own philosophy "inverted Platonism: the further it is from actual reality, the purer, more beautiful, and better it becomes. Living in illusion as the ideal." There are no objective facts, no Immaculate Perception, no ultimate revelation of truth. Everything becomes a matter of perspective since "there is no solely beatifying interpretation."23 Like eternal recurrence, perspectivism is a test and an intensification of our will-to-power. Perspectives gain in power by competing with each other. Superior perspectives develop by refuting or refining lesser ones. In this way the will continually surmounts itself, as individuals develop according to their own ability.

Ernest Becker also believes that illusion is necessary. The Denial of Death starts with an insight of William James: "mankind's common instinct for reality... has always held the world to be essentially a theater for heroism." Why do we want to be heroes? Our narcissistic need for self-esteem mean that each of us yearns to feel of special value, Тf irst in the universe Т. Heroism (in the broad sense: e.g., Nietzsche as an intellectual hero) is how we justify that need to count more than anyone or anything else. Human society can be understood as a codified hero system, a symbolic-action structure whose roles and rules function as a vehicle for heroism. That raises the essential question:

If transference is a natural function of heroism, a necessary projection in order to stand life, death, and oneself, the question becomes: What is creative projection? What is life-enhancing illusion?... Man needs a "second" world, a world of humanly created meaning, a new reality that he can live, dramatize, nourish himself in. "Illusion" means creative play at its highest level. Cultural illusion is a necessary ideology of self-justification, a heroic dimension that is life itself to the symbolic animal.[24]

"The essence of normality is the refusal of reality", a refusal that Becker, like Nietzsche, justifies as psychologically necessary. Yet he too goes for what Nietzsche calls the bloody truths, peeling away repressions to arrive at "the potentially most liberating question of all, the main problem of human life: How empirically true is the cultural hero system that sustains and drives men?"[25] Thus Becker ends up with a double-tiered truth similar to Nietzsche's, between a life- enhancing illusion and the truth about this illusion, too painful for most of us to cope with. From the first perspective, the important truths for Becker too are the ones that defend my existence, all the more important if they are believed to help me qualify for eternal existence (or self-being,

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according to Buddhism). From the second and deeper perspective, however, the question is how much truth we can bear.

Buddhism also has a two-truths doctrine which distinguishes the usual truth of the everyday world from a higher truth that is not only difficult to understand but dangerous to misunderstand. The paradigmatic formulation is in chapter 24 of the Mulamadhyamikakarikas[26] of Nagarjuna, the most important Buddhist philosopher:

The teaching of the Buddhas is wholly based on there being two truths: that of a personal everyday world and a higher truth which surpasses it.

Those who do not clearly know the true distinction between the two truths cannot clearly know the hidden depths of the Buddha's teaching.

Unless the transactional realm is accepted as a base, the surpassing sense cannot be pointed out; if the surpassing sense is not comprehended nirvana cannot be attained.

The feeble-minded are destroyed by the misunderstood doctrine of sunyata, as by a snake ineptly seized or some secret knowledge wrongly applied.

For this reason the mind of the enlightened one was averse to teaching the Truth, realizing how difficult it would be for those of feeble insight to fathom it. (MMK XXIV: 8-12)

In this version, the higher truth that is fatal to the feeble-minded is sunyata, a term usually translated as "emptiness" yet better understood as "lack of self-existence". In the West the two-truths have often been understood in a Kantian way, as distinguishing the higher Absolute from the relative phenomenal world. Yet they do not presuppose another Reality transcendent to this world. If the terms absolute and relative are used, it is better to reverse their meaning: the Тl ower truth У is our usual, commonsense but illusory world of apparently discrete, hence self-existing, un- conditioned (ab- solute) things, while the Тh igher truth У is that phenomena are empty of self-existence because they are relative to each other.

Candrakirti's commentary on this MMK passage explains that someone who misunderstands sunyata will reject the self-existence of things only to fall into the opposite extreme of believing that everything is merely illusion, and will get into trouble by ignoring the physical and moral laws of cause-and-effect. Yet the higher truth is bloodier than that. Buddhism is more than a philosophy that refutes self- existence: it is a practice which deconstructs our sense-of-self, and letting-go of ourselves in order to realize our own sunyata is seldom easy. If normality is the refusal of reality, it is because few of us are ready to face the truth about our lack of self-existence and the social games whereby we reassure ourselves. For many, the alternative to self- illusion is not Becker's creative play but a nihilism that no longer sees any reason to live. No wonder, then, that after his enlightenment Sakyamuni Buddha hesitated to teach what he had realized, according to the traditional account. The problem is not only that we are unable to understand such a difficult doctrine "beyond the reach of reason"; we resist it, for it does not grant us the kind of salvation we want, a grounding being fo r the ego-self.

One form of that danger is that we will cling to sunyata, by accepting it as the correct description of the way things are. So Nagarjuna emphasizes that the concept of sunyata is relative to the self-existing things it refutes; having fulfilled that function, sunyata refutes itself. Sunyata is "the exhaustion of all theories and views" and those who make sunyata into a theory are "incurable." (MMK XIII: 8) While Nietzsche ends up with an infinity of possible perspectives, Nagarjuna seems to conclude with none, since

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sunyata is merely a heuristic device. Are these really contradictory, or does the exhaustion of perspectives liberate us for the polyvalence of many perspectives?

Ultimate serenity is the coming to rest of all ways of taking things, the repose of named things; no Truth has been taught by a Buddha for anyone, anywhere." (MMK XXV:24)

If truth is a matter of grasping the symbols that grasp reality, all truth is error on the Buddhist path. When nirvana is the end of all ways of taking things, the game of truth-and-delusion is turned upside-down. There is no truth to be taught because nothing needs to be attained; delusion is something to be unlearned. In the Diamond Sutra Subhuti asks the Buddha if his realization of supreme enlightenment means that he has not gained anything.

Just so, Subhuti. I have not gained the least thing from supreme enlightenment, and that is called supreme enlightenment."[27]

Buddhism does not provide a metaphysical system to account for reality but shows how to deconstruct the socially-conditioned metaphysical system we know as everyday reality. It does not give us truths but shows how to become aware of and let go of the automatized truths we are normally not aware of holding. Buddhism agrees with Nietzsche's and Becker's insight that our truth consists of illusions which we have forgotten are illusions, yet the Buddhist path is predicated on the possibility of deconstructing the ones that cause us to suffer: most of all, the ones that maintain our delusive sense-of-self.

The crucial issue is whether our search for truth is another attempt to ground ourselves by fixating on certain concepts that are believed to give us an effective fix on the world. When there is this compulsion, certain ideas become seductive: i.e., they become ideologies. The difference between samsara (this world of suffering) and nirvana is that samsara is this world experienced as a sticky web of attachments which seem to offer something we feel the lack of, a grounding for the groundless sense-of-self. Intellectually, that seductive quality manifests as a battleground of conflicting ideologies competing for our allegiance. Ideologies offer to ground the sense-of-self by providing the mind with a sure grasp on the world: now we know how the world is meaningful and what our role in that meaning is.

Ideology is the assumption that since the beginning and end of history are known there is nothing more to say. History is therefore to be obediently lived out according to the ideology."[28]

If there is no specifiable difference between nirvana and the everyday world (MMK XXV:19), then very different ideologies such as religions, metaphysical systems, Marxism and psychoanalysis are in the same dimension insofar as they serve the same psychological function: trying to resolve the sense-of-self's intellectual sense-of-lack by identifying with a belief-system. The problem is that ideologies tend to become computer-viruses of the mind. When we assent to them -- let them in--ideologies take it over and fill it up.

What, then, is truth? A mobile army of metaphors, metonyms, and anthropomorphisms--in short, a sum of human relations which have been enhanced, transposed, and embellished poetically and rhetorically, and which after long use seem firm, canonical, and obligatory to a people: truths are illusions about which one has forgotten that this is what they are: metaphors which are worn

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out and without sensuous power; coins which have lost their pictures and now matter only as metal, no longer as coins. (Nietzsche)[29]

As metaphors lose their sensuous power they gain another role, as emblems. The freshness of the original meaning decays into tokens. Once objectified and socially-validated, a truth enters the exchange market: it can be gained, possessed, and lost.

Explanations succeed only by convincing resistant hearers of their error. If you will not hear my explanations until you are suspicious of your own truths, you will not accept my explanations until you are convinced of your error. Explanation is an antagonistic encounter that succeeds by defeating an opponent. It possesses the same dynamic of resentment found in other finite play. I will press my explanations on you because I need to show that I do not live in the error that I think others think that I do.

Whoever wins this struggle is privileged with the claim to true knowledge. Knowledge has been arrived at, it is the outcome of this engagement. Its winners have the uncontested power to make certain statements of fact. They are to be listened to. In those areas appropriate to the contests now concluded, winners possess a knowledge that can no longer be challenged. (Carse)[30]

In this antagonistic encounter the will-to-truth is readily identifiable as will-to-power. When sense of lack evaporates because sense-of-self evaporates, however, the seductive web of samsara transforms into polyvalence, where each viewpoint is able to appreciate others because it no longer identifies with a Truth-project that is threatened by those others. This is not Nietzsche's perspectivism, the competition among perspectives each trying to impress its own will-to-truth upon the world, but a non-abiding wisdom that can wander freely among truths since it does not need to fixate on any of them.

Is this relativism, the bugaboo of all value-theory? Even if all ideologies are competing in the same intellectual arena, there are some important internal differences. Many ideologies are difficult to escape once you are committed. An old-style Marxist who began criticizing Marxism would be told to purge himself of his bourgeois tendencies; a psychoanalyst will tell the analysand that she is resisting. On the other side are what might be called meta-ideologies because they are designed to self- negate: to free us from all ideologies including themselves. Derrida writes about the need to lodge oneself within traditional conceptuality in order to destroy it31, which nicely expresses one of the reasons Nagarjuna insists on two truths: the everyday transactional realm must be accepted in order to point to the higher truth that negates it. According to Nagarjuna's Madhyamika Buddhism, sunyata is like a poison-antidote that expels the poison from our bodies and then expels itself, for if the antidote stays inside to poison us we are no better off than before. The difference between ideologies and meta-ideologies rests on whether the sense-of-self's anxious groundlessness is to be resolved by providing something to identify with or by letting-go of itself. Then the important issue is the liberating function of any truth or practice. The same thought that is liberating in one situation may be binding in another. Even the most valuable insights can lose their freshness and become "sticky" because they are now understood as something to cling to rather than a pointer to freedom; or rather, clinging to them is now misunderstood as the path to freedom.[32]

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The Nihilism of Eternal Recurrence

If everything manifests the will to power in one way or another, why bother to sublimate? Nietzsche found his answer in eternal recurrence, which solves the problem ingeniously: not by grounding this life in some otherworldly eternity but by impressing the form of eternity on this life. Eternal recurrence has been celebrated as the capstone of his philosophy, yet I shall argue that, instead of vanquishing nihilism, it eternally defers it. That is because nihilism is not the always- impending debacle of all meaning, but our fear of that debacle and flight from it -- which perpetuates the debacle and gives it power over us. The dread of nihilism, which Nietzsche rightly saw as our collective shadow, the ghost that haunts Western civilization, is the true nihilism. From a Buddhist perspective the problem is not our nothingness but the ways we try to evade it.

This puts Nietzsche in the same camp as Plato. If the Platonic invention of another Reality is an attempt to escape the lack we experience now, so too is Nietzsche's attempt to fill in the lack of that now by making the now recur eternally. The basic problem is that eternal recurrence of the now can add nothing unless the now-as-now lacks something. Again we encounter sense-of-lack, here in its implications for meaning. This lack is not the meaninglessness of life but the threat of meaninglessness, and therefore it manifests as the devices we use to deny meaninglessness. In this way too the repressed returns, sublimated into symbols/symptoms. Tillich believed that the problem of meaninglessness is the form in which nonbeing poses itself in our time, and that all human life can be interpreted as a continuous attempt to avoid despair.33 He also gave the solution: the meaning of life must be reduced to despair about the meaning of life, in order to take more nonbeing of the world into ourselves. Yet one must despair in the right way.

How to overcome nihilism was the fundamental problem for Nietzsche, whose sensitive nose detected its stink almost everywhere. It is not a late development of Western civilization but man's normal condition, which is why the Overman is an overcoming of man. Then does nihilism have an essential connection with lack, also humankind's normal condition? Nietzsche defines nihilism as increasing gloom, then terror at the exhaustion of all meaning, a grand disgust directed at oneself as well as at the world. Goals are missing, the desert grows. What Nietzsche the posthumous man predicted we postmodern men are now living, and no one can say yet when or how nihilism -- today becoming recognized as a global problem -- might be resolved.

At first, nihilism disguised itself by creating Platonic-type values. Nihilism shows its disgust at life by creating a "true world" having all the attributes that life does not: unity, stability, identity, goodness, happiness. This invention of another world is the nihilistic act par excellence because it devalues this world. The incomplete nihilism which constitutes the development of Western civilization is the slow decomposition of that true world, and when it finally disappears we are left with this one, the "apparent" world that can no longer be considered apparent if there is nothing to juxtapose it with, yet nonetheless remains devalued and therefore experienced as unsatisfactory.

Nietzsche's solution to this is eternal recurrence. As many have noticed, the key to what is otherwise a peculiar doctrine seems to be the ethical motivation behind it. "The question in each and every thing, ФD o you desire this once more and innumerable times more?' would lie upon your actions as the greatest weight", because this thought would transform us in one way or the other: either crush us under its weight or prompt the supreme affirmation that Zarathustra makes: "Was that life? Well then! Once more!"[34] This would be the great liberation that restores the innocence of Becoming

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because it makes one accountable only to oneself -- which from a Buddhist viewpoint, however, is still one too many.

Given Nietzsche's attitude towards truth ("Every philosophy also conceals a philosophy..."), this may have been his self-conscious attempt to promulgate a myth. By what myth do you live? asked Jung. Well, this one is better than most. Like Heidegger's analysis of death in Being and Time, it can inspire us to live the way we want to live rather than let life pass by while we are making other plans. For Nietzsche and the early Heidegger, the future is necessary to focus us in the now, for otherwise we are diverted and scattered by chance possibilities. In lack terms, both try to resolve our sense-of-lack by making the sense-of-self more efficient. But do their solutions replace one type of evasion with another? Unamuno dismissed eternal recurrence as "a sorry counterfeit of immortality," yet that puts the shoe on the wrong foot: the problem is not that it is a poor immortality but that it is an immortality, which still reflects a felt need to "stamp the for m of eternity upon our lives." Eternal recurrence seems to exalt the now by refusing to evaluate it according to some other standard or to ground it in some other reality, yet here too the now is weighed and found wanting: its lack can be filled up only by repeating it. The now as now --just this!-- is still not enough. A Buddhist may agree with Nietzsche that "this life is your eternal life!", but the eternity of this life must be understood differently, as a not-falling-away eternal now that, when it lacks nothing, may be discovered to be all we need.

Nietzsche calls eternal recurrence the basic conception of Thus Spake Zarathustra, yet it becomes a dominant theme only near the end of part four. Zarathustra teaches the Higher Men how to overcome the Spirit of Gravity, and at the beginning of "The Intoxicated Song" one of them asserts: "For the sake of this day -- I am content for the first time to have lived my whole life.... 'Was that -- life?' I will say to death. 'Very well! Once more!'" At that moment Zarathustra hears the sound of the midnight bell and sings its song, "whose name is 'Once More', whose meaning is 'To all eternity!'":

O Man! Attend! What does deep midnight's voice contend? 'I slept my sleep, 'And now awake at dreaming's end: 'The world is deep, 'Deeper than day can comprehend, 'Deep is its woe, 'Joy -- deeper than heart's agony: 'Woe says: Fade! Go! 'But all joy wants eternity, '--wants deep, deep, deep eternity!'

This roundelay is so important that it appears at the end of both part three and part four; and the reason it is so important is that it reveals the origin of eternal recurrence to be joy. This joy wants to recur eternally, and because it is deeper than the heart's agony such joy can even will that suffering to recur again too, if necessary for its own recurrence.

Did you ever say Yes to one joy? O my friends, then you said Yes to all woe as well. All things are chained and entwined together, all things are in love; If you ever wanted one moment twice, if you ever said: 'You please me, happiness, instant, moment!' then you wanted everything to return.[35]

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Alas, for the failure of Nietzsche's moment of joy! However deep it was it was not deep enough, for he needed it again, and again...: "Joy, however, does not want heirs or children, joy wants itself,... wants everything eternally the same." (Z, p. 331) This reaction is natural yet nonetheless ruinous. Ironically, that very desire for its recurrence is the worm which burrows in to destroy it, as in those most-cherished musical moments that inspire us to think "this is so beautiful, I wish it would never stop" -- only to discover that the moment has ceased, destroyed by the self-consciousness which reflexively distinguishes itself from the music in order to enjoy enjoying it. Nietzsche yearns for that moment of joy again, because it absolves his sense of lack, yet his desire for its recurrence is itself part of the problem that the deepest joy resolves. For contrary to his roundelay the deepest joy does not even will to recur: it wills nothing because it lacks nothing, if it is the deepest joy. By wanting to retain that joy Nietzsche separates himself from it and thereby loses it into the past as a memory, then can only try to bring it back by willing the recurrence of everything -- not realizing that his moment of pure joy was a temporary collapse of willing. Since the will-to-power always strives to overcome itself, it must project a future, which is why the only consummation it can attain is in the eternal recurrence of such moments. However, striving to find the past in the future is less a formula for joy than a psychoanalytic definition of neurosis.

What is attractive about eternal recurrence is that it foregoes the need for any other Reality to compensate for the defects of this one. It is an affirmation of this world, yet this world not as let-go but as grasped-at, fixated by being brought back again and again. "Very well: once more!" is his deep affirmation; yet deeper would be: "To all that has been: thanks! To all that will be: yes!" To say yes! to a single moment of joy, completely affirming it, is by definition an experience of no lack. At that instant one wants nothing else, no void needs to be filled in or evaded, which means (if, as Buddhism implies, sense-of-lack is the shadow of sense- of-self) that this must be a moment of egolessness. Then one cannot have such a joy, one can only be such a joy. Blessed are those who have had or rather been such a moment, for it transforms all other moments as well -- although not because of the entwined contingency that Nietzsche refers to. "An affirmation that is truly full and complete is also contagious: it bursts into a chain of affirmations that knows no limits." (Haar)[36] Yes, but this chain is not each contingent affirmation causing another. Just the opposite: a complete affirmation breaks all causal chains. The joy of just this! -- the Buddhist experience of tathata thusness -- needs nothing, desires nothing , and thus reveals that the causal chain is a succession of just this! in an eternal-now where there is nothing to gain or lose. Paradoxically, when the causal chain is such a succession, our experience is that there is no causal chain and no succession. As long as we experience the causal chain as a means to get somewhere else, we lose just this! and the eternal-now. In sum, life becomes joyous not when we get something from it but when we become it.

So a moment of deepest joy does not banish woe by discovering the interdependence of joy with everything else, past and future. Rather, it reveals that what we thought was the means for solving our lack is what maintains the problem. End of lack is not an effect that can be experienced at the conclusion of some causal chain, but the shattering of all causal chains insofar as they are our means for trying to overcome lack. Eternity is found not in the recurrence of time but in the evaporation of that objectified time whereby and wherein we hope to end our lack. This realization is embodied in perhaps Nagarjuna's most important verse, which distinguishes between samsara and nirvana:

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That which, taken as causal or dependent, is the process of being-born and passing on, is, taken non-causally and beyond all dependence, declared to be nirvana." (MMK XXV:9)[37]

Nirvana cannot be caused and therefore cannot be attained. We might think of it as some kind of substratum pervading all our experience but that is still too dualistic: it is simply the nature of our experience when there is not the delusive sense of a self-conscious yet ungrounded self that has the experience and therefore feels something to be lacking in it. The joy of that experience is deeper than the heart's agony.

On this account, happiness in the form we seek it -- "that too-hasty profit snatched from approaching loss"[38] -- cannot be gained. All we can do is realize that nondual "perspective" where nothing has ever been lacking. The amor fati Nietzsche celebrates is not accepting everything due to its interdependence with a moment of complete Yes! but the absence of any need to will that things be any different. The amor is not willing that everything be exactly the same, over and over again, but that everything be as it is; that, however, is not something which needs to be willed. Or, finally, which can be willed. In The Birth of Tragedy Nietzsche came close to this: only as an aesthetic phenomenon is existence justified, which amounts to saying that existence experienced aesthetically does not need to be justified. Are what we call "aesthetic experiences" tip-of-the-tongue tastes of something that we have always been immersed in?

Instead of yielding to this groundlessness, eternal recurrence is a last gasp at self-grounding being, for it attempts to fill up lack by discovering a being within becoming. "That everything recurs is the closest approximation of a world of becoming to a world of being" (WP 617). Nietzsche can find infinite value in the now only by having it recur an infinite number of times. Therefore he ends up not with the end of nihilism but with another, more will-ful reconstitution of it.

For Buddhism the problem of lack can be resolved only by ceasing to avoid it and instead becoming-one with it: letting-go of oneself and falling into the void, in order to realize that the void is not really void but the nondual realm of the Buddha- dharma, as Ch Хa n master Huang-po put it. What does this mean in terms of nihilism? To stop evading the debacle of all meaning and accept it, which requires experiencing the meaninglessness of one's life -- an anguish not to be recommended lightly. Such understanding of the solution also transforms our understanding of the problem, for this solution is usually understood as the problem. This implies that true nihilism is less the debacle of meaning than our terror of that debacle and the ways we flee it, which includes a compulsive need to find some meaning in life as a bulwark against that threat. If so, nihilism is not our lack but the fear and denial of that lack, experienced in this instance as impending loss of meaning. Insofar as Nietzsche's will-to-power is in flight from lack, then, the will- to-power is nihilism. Eternal Recurrence insures that flight will have no cloture, for it tries to fill up lack by flight itself, by repeated recurrence of the passing moment. Thus eternal recurrence would not be final victory over nihilism, but the final victory of nihilism: in grasping at the fleeting now by making it recur, it misses and loses the now that right now does-not-fall-away, and deflects us from the opposite solution of yielding to the nonbeing we most dread, which we might discover to be not so dreadful after all.

The "discovery" of objective meaning is one of our main ways of dealing with lack. As Zarathustra points out, man assigns values to things only to maintain himself. We can usually cope with anxiety and guilt as long as we know what the meaning of life is, for there is security in that even if we don't a lways do what that meaning implies we

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should do. However, such meaning-systems corrupt "the innocence of becoming" because in projecting and understanding them as objective we repress the fact that these meanings are our own creations, socially-constructed and - validated. Insofar as they originate in lack they are based on fear, so a test of our maturity is whether we are able to face that fear. "It is a measure of the degree of strength of will to what extent one can do without meaning in things, to what extent one can endure to live in a meaningless world because one organizes a small portion of it oneself" (WP 585A).

If the autonomy of ego-self is a delusion, we can see why that is difficult. Commonsense subject-object dualism presumes the sense-of-self to be the locus of awareness; subjectivism goes further to make the subject the only source of value and meaning, which devalues the world into a field-of-activity wherein the self labors to fulfill itself. Apparently objective meanings paper over the problem of lack because they provide some objective security. In order for the illusory self to feel secure, however, its meanings must be unconsciously projected. The sun that motivates me must not be realized to be my own creation, if I am to be inspired by it. When I am aware of constructing my own meaning, the absence of any external grounding for that meaning means I have nothing to lean upon. The natural response is a deepened sense of lack, experienced as anguish and ontological guilt: by what right do I create such meanings? Who am I to decide that this is the way to live?

Juxtaposing the possibilities in this way clarifies the Buddhist approach, which contra Nietzsche does not find any solution in strength of will. If the collapse of objective meaning exposes my sense of lack, that will be painful yet it is nonetheless desirable, since becoming aware of my lack is necessary in order to eventually solve it. Then realizing the subjectivity of meaning does not by itself resolve the matter, for it becomes a stage to be endured in order to realize something else.

If despair is a stage, however, one must despair in the right way. Odd as it sounds, the danger with despair is that one will cling to it. In Kierkegaard's school of anxiety (recommended in The Concept of Anxiety) despair is the final exam: it dredges up our most cherished meanings and devours them, leaving us disconsolate. But we do not become completely empty unless despair devours us wholly and also itself. Despair (literally "no hope") is the reverse side of hope and both are relative to the sense-of-self, for the ego-self alternates between the hope it will finally fixate itself and the dread it never will. Then despair evaporates with the self, like the matter and anti-matter of particle physics which disappear by collapsing back into each other. Yet often this does not happen, because when despair finally occurs after a lifetime of avoiding it, it appears with a force that makes it seem more real than the meanings it roots out, which had been used to repress it. From the Buddhist standpoint, the recurring thoughts and feelings that constitute despair are no more real and no less impermanent than any other thoughts and feelings. When we despair, however, our usual psychological defenses fail and we identify with self-pitying thoughts and self-destructive inclinations. Then, instead of despair consuming the self, it reinforces the worthlessness of that self. We end up not becoming-nothing but with a sense-of-self nourishing itself on self-disgust. This is the "reactive" tendency that so disgusted Nietzsche and he saw what the problem is: "He who despises himself still nonetheless respects himself as one who despises." (BGE 78) Man would rather will nothingness than not will.[39] Yet the void Huang-po recommends is not something that can be willed.

When we despair in the right way, what happens? Abandoning the hope that we will eventually become something, we yield to our nothingness and discover how we have always been everything. As Dogen expressed it in Genjo-koan, to forget oneself is to be

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actualized by myriad things, which is to perceive oneself as all things. What does such mutual interpenetration imply about the meaning of life? For Buddhism, meaning too is neither objective nor subjective. Life is neither meaningful nor meaningless but what might be called meaningfree. To forget oneself and become nothing is to wake up and find oneself in or, less dualistically, as a situation -- not confronted by it but one with it -- and if one is not self- preoccupied then meaning arises naturally within that situation. As Buber put it, you start with yourself in order to forget yourself and immerse yourself in the world; you understand yourself in order not to be preoccupied with yourself.

The existential psychotherapist Irvin Yalom has discussed the formidable problem posed by the "galactic" point of view, which seems to trivialize us into microscopic specks flickering in the vast expanse of cosmic time. He point s out that this renders life meaninglessness only from that perspective, a perspective that moreover is delusive from the Buddhist point of view: it abstracts me from my actual situation, yet there is no such "sub specie aeternitas " perspective outside our various perspectives. We are nondual with the whole only by virtue of our particular position within that whole. We are free to experience and appreciate different perspectives, but there is no perspectiveless-perspective. The therapist's goal, according to Yalom, is:

not to create engagement nor to inspirit the patient with engagement -- these the therapist cannot do. But it is not necessary: the desire to engage life is always there within the patient, and the therapist's clinical activities should be directed toward removal of obstacles in the patient's way."[40]

Searching for the meaning of life is searching for something that enables us to stop searching. When lack comes to an end, so does the problem of meaninglessness. And life becomes... play.[41]

Conclusion

Mature manhood: that means to have rediscovered the seriousness one had as a child at play. (BGE 94)

For Nietzsche, like Derrida today, the death of God unleashes limitless play.[42] Yet whether our god has died or not, we are already playing. The question is not whether we play but how. Do we suffer our games as if they were life-or-death struggles, because they are the means whereby we hope to ground ourselves, or do we dance with the light feet that Nietzsche called the first attribute of divinity? His philosophizing exceeds any system that can be constructed out of it, for, the will to power notwithstanding, it demonstrates how thinking can be such play.

I do not know what the spirit of a philosopher might wish more to be than a dancer. For the dance is his ideal, also his art, and finally also his only piety, his 'service of God.'" (GS 381)

A friend once complained to Samuel Johnson that he had tried to be a philosopher but cheerfulness kept breaking in; Nietzsche shows that the two need not be incompatible.

Zarathustra teaches three metamorphoses: from camel (a weight-bearing spirit) to lion (who captures freedom) to the child, who "is innocence and forgetfulness, a new beginning... a sacred Yes." Unless we become children, we shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven--which does not mean that children will enter therein, for they are already there, since without a matured sense-of-self they do not yet have a debilitating sense-of-lack.

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Of course, the normal child can soon distinguish easily and quickly between what adults call "real life" and "play." The more psychological way of stating the matter is to say that the child acts out his fantasies and seriously tries, through the play- situation, to resolve conflicts in which these fantasies play a part. But he normally recognizes reasonably well which of these selves and lives are defined as real by the adults around him; and he learns to go along with their game -- until finally he is quite unaware that it was their game, for it is now his, too.[43]

One grows up by learning the socially-acceptable ways to try to overcome lack.

Becker, like Nietzsche, concludes that "childlike foolishness" is the calling of mature men.44 But few of us are ready to hear it. "So the grand destiny of man is... to play?" Does our incredulity reflect the absurdity of the proposal, or how far we have trudged from the Garden of Eden? Perhaps the negative connotations of the word reveal less about play than about us: our self-importance, our need to stand out from the rest of creation (and from the rest of our fellows) by accomplishing great things -- the ones we hope will make us more real. We are to play not because there is nothing else to do, not because the lack of some higher meaning means we just while away our time, but because we realize the nature of meaning and time. This is not inconsistent with the selflessness of the bodhisattva, for loss of self- preoccupation is what makes true play possible, what enables the bodhisattva to manifest the liberation he or she teaches:

To be playful is not to be trivial or frivolous, or to act as though nothing of consequence will happen. On the contrary, when we are playful with each other we relate as free persons, and the relationship is open to surprise; everything that happens is of consequence. It is, in fact, seriousness that closes itself to consequence, for seriousness is a dread of the unpredictable outcome of open possibility. To be serious is to press for a specified conclusion. To be playful is to allow for possibility whatever the cost to oneself.[45]

The problem, ultimately, is "not enjoying yourself", Nietzsche's definition of original sin which is as good a definition of lack. This fits nicely with an equally simple definition of Buddhism offered by the Vietnamese teacher Thich Nhat Hanh: a clever way to enjoy your life.

David Loy, Faculty of International Studies, Bunkyo University, 1100 Namegaya, Chigasaki 253, Japan.

NOTES
[1]NIETZSCHE, FRIEDRICH(1968)in: Twilight of the Idols [hereafter "TI" in the text, with section number] and The Anti-Christ, tran. R. J. Hollingdale (Trans and Ed.)(Harmondsworth:Penguin), No. 20, p.129.
[2]NIETZSCHE,FRIENDRICH(1968)in: WALTER KAUFMANN & R. J. HOLLINGDALE (Trans.) The Will to Power ["WP"] (New York: Random House, 1968), No. 55. See also, e.g., WP Nos. 179, 23, 64, 55.
[3] This paper does not address the important question about how much Nietzsche's texts constitute a system or whether "there is no such thing either as the truth of Nietzsche, or of Nietzsche's text" (Derrida, Spurs). I assume that it is valuable to discover/construct a consistent philosophy. My interpretation of eternal recurrence is more "literal" than is fashionable nowadays, yet there is abundant textual support for it. In my opinion the apparent absurdity of such an identical repetition, rather than any lack of textual evidence, has led to the vast literature denying its literality. But to argue for this would leave little space for the rest of the paper.
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Dukkha, Inaction, and Nirvana: Suffering, Weariness, and Death?
A look at Nietzsche's Criticisms of Buddhist Philosophy

By Omar Moad


Comparisons between Buddhism and the various schools of existentialism have revealed a number of parallels. Such studies have frequently centered on each tradition's metaphysical approach and the fact that they all appear to share some form of phenomenological methodology. In the area of ethics, however, existentialism and Buddhism generally seem to differ radically. This difference is the most marked in the case of Nietzsche.
Nietzsche is interpreted nowadays as having been a major pioneer of existentialism in the western world, and certainly deals with many of the same problems and even takes positions similar to those that emerge in Buddhist philosophy. In places, however, he explicitly attacks the Buddhist ethical prescription as diametrically opposed to his own doctrine of life-affirmation. For Nietzsche was not uninformed when it came to Buddhism. Some scholars claim that he '...was probably one of the best read and most solidly grounded in Buddhism for his time among Europeans'. Be that as it may, when philosophers juxtapose their own views against others, it becomes imperative to determine to what extent they understand and accurately depict the ideas they are attacking.

When it comes to Nietzsche's criticisms of Buddhism, such an investigation uncovers what seems to be a misunderstanding of the real meaning of Buddhist doctrine; and one not limited to Nietzsche alone, but common to much of the lay-level understanding of this religion in the West. My goals here, then, will be to address this misunderstanding by examining three important Buddhist concepts at its center: dukkha, inaction, and Nirvana. By focusing on the meaning of these concepts for Buddhists, I do not hope to reconcile Nietzsche with Buddhism in any way, but only to identify a few areas wherein his understanding of it was misconceived. Furthermore, by selecting these three areas for analysis, I do not mean to preclude that there are other important elements of Buddhism that need analysis in light of Nietzsche's critiques.

At the end, I hope it will be seen that the possibilities for comparative study between these two philosophies are rich and numerous, even if the present project is meant only as a beginning look into the relationship between them with a view to a clearer understanding of the Buddhist concepts in question. The first step necessary to this analysis will be to briefly outline an important position that is shared by Nietzschean and Buddhist doctrine. Next, I will present Nietzsche's criticism of the Buddhist response to this position, his description of this response and how it differs from his own. Lastly, I will examine the concepts of dukkha, inaction, and Nirvana and show how Nietzsche's understanding of these concepts plays a part in his misconception of Buddhism.

An interesting thing about the comparison between Nietzsche and the Buddha, as just alluded to, is that they begin from a common notion about the nature of the world and the human condition. These commonalities have to do with their epistemological views and their nihilistic attitudes toward metaphysical issues.

A dialogue in the Sutta-Nipata presents the Buddha responding as follows to an enquiry on competing metaphysical theories. 'Apart from consciousness', he says, 'no divers truths exist. Mere sophistry declares this 'true' and that view 'false'.' A similar notion appears in Nietzsche's Will to Power:

'Judging is our oldest faith; it is our habit of believing this to be true or false, of asserting or denying, our certainty that something is thus and not otherwise, our belief that we really 'know' what is believed to be true in all judgments?'
The products of this 'habit of believing', for both Buddha and Nietzsche, include substance, self, universals, and duration. Both philosophers radically deny the reality of these things in favor of a dynamic, interdependent stream of phenomenon that lacks any objective basis whatsoever. Instead, underneath our perceptions there is only what the Buddhist philosopher Nagarjuna called sunyata, and what Nietzsche referred to as the 'abyss', a void beyond the categories of being and nothing, true and false.

This 'emptiness'is the human condition to which both Buddhism and Nietzsche respond. The subtleties and complexities of this view in both philosophies run deep enough to write volumes about, and the focus of this study is limited to the controversy over their respective responses; the answer to the question of appropriate praxis in the face of such an existence. The Buddha is said to have become aware of the fleeting, temporal nature of reality through his first encounters with a sick man, an old man, and a dead man. Nietzsche refers to what he interprets as the Buddha's reaction in Thus Spake Zarathustra:
'There are those with consumption of the soul: hardly are they born when they begin to die and to long for doctrines of weariness and renunciation. They would like to be dead, and we should welcome their wish. Let us beware of waking the dead and disturbing these living coffins! They encounter a sick man or an old man or a corpse and immediately they say, ìLife is refutedî. But only they themselves are refuted, and their eyes, which see only this one face of existence.'
Nietzsche criticized Buddhism for many of the same faults he attributed to Christianity, though he showed more respect for the former as being more realistic and opposed to revenge (he believed Christianity was a manifestation of latent resentment). He praised Buddhism for setting out to treat 'suffering'as opposed to 'sin', but believed the treatment itself represented a surrender of life, and ultimately a weaker response to the human condition than his own. In the following passage from Beyond Good and Evil, he contrasts his interpretation of Buddhism (along with Schopenhauer, a major contributor to this interpretation) with a general sketch of his own ideal response:
'Whoever has endeavored with some enigmatic longing, as I have, to think pessimism through to its depths and liberate it from the half-Christian, half-German narrowness and simplicity in which it has finally presented itself to our century, namely, in the form of Schopenhauer's philosophy; whoever has really, with an Asiatic and supra-Asiatic eye, looked into, down into the most world-denying of all possible ways of thinking - beyond good and evil and no longer, like the Buddha and Schopenhauer, under the spell and delusion of morality - may just thereby, without really meaning to do so, have opened his eyes to the opposite ideal: the ideal of the most high-spirited, alive, and world-affirming human being who has not only come to terms and learned to get along with whatever was and is, but who wants to have what was and is repeated into all eternity...'
These passages illustrate Nietzsche's interpretation of Buddhism as a life-negating philosophy that seeks to escape an existence dominated by suffering. In The Gay Science and Will to Power, Nietzsche comments on Buddhism further, characterising it as an effort to withdraw from pain into an 'Oriental Nothing - called Nirvana', by way of following the maxim 'One must not act'. In The Genealogy of Morals, Nietzsche categorizes Buddhism as one among a group of ideologies that promote '...nihilistic turning away from life, a longing for nothingness, or for life's 'opposite', for a different sort of 'being'' According to Nietzsche, Buddhism can be described as an effort, through restraint from action, to escape suffering and pass into absolute non-existence. But is this description accurate?
Dukkha is the Sanskrit word commonly translated as 'suffering'. Its full meaning, however, is much more extensive, and this has important implications for the interpretation of Buddhist doctrine, because it is an integral constituent in the articulation of the fundamental Buddhist doctrine, the Four Noble Truths, as expressed in the Vinayapitaka:

'And this, monks, is the Noble Truth of dukkha: birth is dukkha, and old age is dukkha, and disease is dukkha, and dying is dukkha, association from what is not dear is dukkha, separation from what is dear is dukkha, not getting what you want is dukkha - in short, the five aggregates of grasping are dukkha.'
Understood simply as 'suffering', the word dukkha in this central Buddhist passage expresses only simple pessimism. The common translation of dukkha as suffering has quite likely been the cause of a great deal of misunderstanding on the part of the non-Buddhist world. In fact, 'dukkha'comes in three flavors. The first is dukkha-dukkhata, suffering qua suffering in its direct physical and mental manifestations. The second is vapirinama-dukkha, or suffering through transformation. This refers to the awareness that one's happiness is highly contingent and dependent on factors beyond one's control. Though you may be happy now, it could change at any moment, and this is due to the ungrounded and fluctuating nature of existence itself.
The most important type of dukkha, however, is sankhara-dukkha, an existential incompleteness due to spiritual ignorance. This incompleteness arises from being limited to one's own contingent and unenlightened perspective. Panna is the word used to refer to the transcendental consciousness of those who have attained enlightenment and are thereby free from sankhara-dukkha and existentially complete. For those who have attained Panna, even the most blissful existence as a deva in one of the Buddhist Heavens would seem to be a miserable Hell. This is because any of these existences of a relative nature (more or less blissful, painful, etc.) are only results of the spiritual ignorance that results in sankhara-dukkha.

Interpreted in this way, it is easy to begin to see how the statement of the First Noble Truth takes on a much deeper meaning than was assumed by Nietzsche. Not only are birth, death, and disease painful, they are products of spiritual ignorance. To say that they are 'dukkha'implies that they are, as co-dependently arising oppositions, ultimately unreal. It is not, therefore, merely pain that the Buddhist wants to overcome, but the perspective within which these illusions (as well as their happy counterparts) are taken to be real. Perhaps the most compelling evidence that the primary motivation behind Buddhism is not simply suffering qua suffering is the fact that out of the 121 classes of conscious experience listed in Buddhist psychology, only three have to do with pain, while 63 are joyful. Both the joyful and the painful, however, are considered sankhara-dukkha - products of spiritual ignorance.

Kamma-niradha is the Sanskrit word for 'cessation of action'. This state is achieved through adherence to the eight-fold path, which guides the Buddhist into kusula, or 'skillful action'. Therefore, it is not simply ceasing to perform actions that the Buddhist believes will eventually lead one to his or her goal. Rather, the type of actions that are performed is the deciding factor. Likewise, it is wrong to conclude that just because one has attained Nirvana that one ceases to act. Such a conclusion implies a misconceived interpretation of kamma-niradha, as it is understood in Buddhism. This is the misconception Nietzsche seems to have made in characterising Buddhism as being centered on the guideline not to act. That such an interpretation is indeed misconceived is apparent when we consider the life and words of the Buddha. After attaining enlightenment and Nirvana, he continued to lead an active life for the next forty-five years. Again, it is the nature of the action that differentiates the enlightened, described in the following passage from the Vinayapatika:

'I, monks, am freed from all snares, both those of devas and those of men. And you, monks, are freed from all snares, both those of devas and those of men. Go, monks, and wander for the blessing of the manyfolk, for the happiness of the manyfolk out of compassion for the world, for the welfare, the blessing, the happiness of devas and men. Let not two (of you) go by one (way). Monks, teach the Dhamma which is lovely at the beginning, lovely in the middle, and lovely at the end.'
As this passage illustrates, there are certain kinds of actions that are enjoined on the enlightened. However, it is inaccurate to use the word 'enjoined'in this context because the skillful actions are naturally done by the enlightened Buddhist, and are no longer performed as if they are obligations in a code of behavior. Following the Buddhist 'code', the eightfold path, is merely a means to the end of making it obsolete upon enlightenment. This is because of the way 'skillful action'is defined in Buddhism. The action that ceases is not activity in general, but only the unskillful actions that originate in spiritual ignorance. An action originates in spiritual ignorance when it is affected by one of three biases. These biases are sense desire, desire for some future form of existence, and spiritual ignorance. Buddhism further classifies actions into three categories. Wrong actions run counter to the goal of enlightenment and are driven by one or more of the biases. Of right actions there are those that tend toward enlightenment but are still driven by one the biases and those that are completely free of the biases and based on the correct understanding of the enlightened agent.
Examples of the former are actions performed by aspiring Buddhists who have not yet attained enlightenment and behave according to the Buddhist guidelines because they are enjoined on them by the religion itself. Upon enlightenment, the cessation of action that takes place is a cessation of the actions that are driven by the biases and, hence, unenlightened.

By interpreting the Buddhist conception of inaction as a cessation of all action, Nietzsche presented Buddhism as an escapist, and 'weary'ideology. Rightly understood, however, the Buddhist ideal of kamma-niradha actually comes closer to Nietzsche's ideal - being, in his own words, action that is 'beyond good and evil', or outside the moral categories of a dogma. Now that it has become clearer that Buddhism does not involve a retreat simply from pain, and that it does not prescribe complete inertness, we must ask ourselves about the goal toward which its genuine recommendations are directed. The most crucial point of contention over Nietzsche's criticisms of Buddhism might be the question: is Nirvana really an 'Oriental Nothing?'Do Buddhists really seek, by developing panna and performing kamma-niradha, to exterminate themselves beyond the possibility of re-birth?

'Since a Tathagata, even when actually present, is incomprehensible, it is inept to say of him - of the Uttermost Person, the Supernal Person, the Attainer of the Supernal - that after dying the Tathagata is, or is not, or both is and is not, or neither is nor is not...'
(Majjhima-Nikaya)
It is hard to imagine that Nietzsche misinterpreted the concept of Buddhist Nirvana completely inadvertently, given the sheer amount of Theravada literature that exists on the topic. In so many passages, the texts insist that Nirvana transcends the difference between the four sets of categories given above (being, non-being, both, and neither), and that it is therefore inaccurate to say of Nirvana that it is nothingness - and just as inaccurate to conclude that it must be something. Nirvana is postulated as a state quite beyond the realm of reason and language. In the Suttanipata, the Buddha explains:

' 'There is no measuring of one who has gone to his setting, Upasiva,' said the Blessed One. 'That no longer exists for him by which people might refer to him. When all conditions [dhammas] are removed, then all ways of telling are also removed.'
All points of reference by which one makes descriptions and explanations are products of the unenlightened perspective. Nirvana, since it is beyond this perspective, is beyond description by way of these relative concepts and categories. It can only be understood by way of attainment ? of losing spiritual ignorance in exchange for enlightened understanding. That, according to Buddhism, is why it is so problematic to give an explanation for it. The Buddha replies to the bewilderment expressed by a disciple, Vacchagotta:
'It is enough to cause you bewilderment, Vaccha, enough to cause you confusion. For this truth, Vaccha, is deep, hard to see and hard to understand, peaceful and sublime, unattainable by mere reasoning, subtle, to be experienced by the wise. It is hard for you to understand when you hold to another view, accept another teaching, approve another teaching, pursue a different training, and follow a different teacher.'
Admittedly, having not attained the state of enlightenment described by the Buddhists, I find it perplexing to conceive of. It appears that in order to understand the concept one must transcend rationality itself and operate on some plane completely outside of anything we can imagine. In other words, only the enlightened can understand the goal they have achieved (at which point it ceases to be anything like a 'goal'). Though only a fool denies the reality of a thing based solely on the fact that one has not yet experienced it, it is quite understandable that in so many cases a concept that requires such direct experience should be completely misunderstood by those who have lack the experience. In such a case, one unenlightened onlooker has really no point of reference by which to test the accuracy of another unenlightened explanation. Indeed, it appears that any words used to explain Nirvana, according to the Buddhist postulations, would be horrendous mistakes. And so it is with this in mind that we should examine a statement by Schopenhauer (in The World as Will and Idea), who was a major influence on Nietzsche, regarding the subject.
'...We must banish the dark impression of that nothingness which we discern behind all virtue and holiness as their final goal, and which we fear as children fear the dark; we must not even evade it like the Indians, through myths and meaningless words, such as reabsorption in Brahma, or the Nirvana of the Buddhists. Rather, do we freely acknowledge that what remains after the abolition of will is for all those who are still full of will certainly nothing; but conversely, to those in whom the will has turned and denied itself, this our world, which is so real, with all its suns and milky ways - is nothing.'
Obviously, Schopenhauer, after being so influenced by Hindu and Buddhist ideas about the effect that desire and will has on binding us to continued existence, completely dismissed the perplexing descriptions of Nirvana as 'meaningless words'. Unable to conceive of a state beyond the categories of being and non-being, he concluded that the final state that is entered into after dissolution of the will is complete non-existence. Hence, his diagnosis that the philosophers who postulated inconceivable states were merely 'evading'the nothingness that they feared. Diagnoses of 'psychological dishonesty'such as this became, in some form or other, staples of later existentialist thinkers. Nietzsche, of course, made similar attacks against Christianity as well as Buddhism.
The fact is, Nirvana can only be explained to the 'unenlightened' by negation. The Buddhist texts tell us what it cannot be thought of as, but the only positive descriptions of it tend toward non-existence. An example of this is the simile of the fire that the Buddha uses in his dialogue with Vacchagotama. He asks whether the fire, when it is extinguished, can be said to have gone north, south, east, or west. Of course, the obvious answer is that the fire no longer exists. Nirvana, however, cannot be described as existing, not existing, both existing and not, or neither existing nor not. For Buddhism, even nothingness is constituted by the relative contingencies that arise co-dependently as samsara.

For Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, nothingness is what is left when these illusions are removed. This explains their sharply opposed responses to the human condition as they understand it. Schopenhauer and, according to Nietzsche, Buddhism, prescribe a surrender into nothingness that can only be actualized by extinction of the will. Nietzsche, on the other hand, asserts an affirmation of the illusion by becoming the creator of it. His überman, by accepting the groundlessness of his own 'truths'and yet maintaining them and continually creating them - wanting to create them over and over again (as opposed to wanting to escape the cycle) - represents an ideal response to existence.

So both Nietzsche and Schopenhauer greatly misunderstood Buddhism,by interpreting Nirvana as non-existence. The Buddhist response to them both would be that they failed to understand the system fully because they failed to adopt Buddhist practices aimed at enlightenment - at which point they would have developed the capacity to conceive of Nirvana. 'Sire, Nirvana is', says the Buddhist disciple, Nagasena, 'cognizable by mind: an ariyan disciple, faring along with a mind that is purified, lofty, straight, without obstructions, without temporal desires, sees Nirvana.'



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Address for correspondence:

Omar Edward Moad, University of Missouri-Columbia, 601 S. Providence #707I Columbia, MO 65203 1 (573) 771-0240

email: erm264@mizzou.edu





Back to main journal.

The Blind Men and the Elephant

Several citizens ran into a hot argument about God and different religions, and each one could not agree to a common answer. So they came to the Lord Buddha to find out what exactly God looks like.

The Buddha asked his disciples to get a large magnificent elephant and four blind men. He then brought the four blind to the elephant and told them to find out what the elephant would "look" like.

The first blind men touched the elephant leg and reported that it "looked" like a pillar. The second blind man touched the elephant tummy and said that an elephant was a wall. The third blind man touched the elephant ear and said that it was a piece of cloth. The fourth blind man hold on to the tail and described the elephant as a piece of rope. And all of them ran into a hot argument about the "appearance" of an elephant.

The Buddha asked the citizens: "Each blind man had touched the elephant but each of them gives a different description of the animal. Which answer is right?"


A Letter to a Dying Man

Bassui wrote the following letter to one of his disciples who was about to die:

"The essence of your mind is not born, so it will never die. It is not
an existance, which is perishable. It is not an emptiness, which is a
mere void. It has neither color nor form. It enjoys no pleasures and
suffers no pains.

"I know you are very ill. Like a good Zen student, you are facing that
sickness squarely. You may not know exactly who is suffering, but
question yourself: What is the essence of this mind? Think only of
this. You will need no more. Covet nothing. Your end which is endless
is as a snowflake dissolving in the pure air."


Dreaming

The great Taoist master Chuang Tzu once dreamt that he was a butterfly fluttering here and there. In the dream he had no awareness of his individuality as a person. He was only a butterfly. Suddenly, he awoke and found himself laying there, a person once again. But then he thought to himself, "Was I before a man who dreamt about being a butterfly, or am I now a butterfly who dreams about being a man?"


Empty Your Cup

A university professor went to visit a famous Zen master. While the master quietly served tea, the professor talked about Zen. The master poured the visitor's cup to the brim, and then kept pouring. The professor watched the overflowing cup until he could no longer restrain himself. "It's overfull! No more will go in!" the professor blurted. "You are like this cup," the master replied, "How can I show you Zen unless you first empty your cup."


The Moon Cannot Be Stolen

Ryokan, a Zen master, lived the simplest kind of life in a little hut at the foot of a mountain. One evening a thief visited the hut only to discover there was nothing in it to steal.

Ryokan returned and caught him. "You may have come a long way to visit me," he told the prowler, "and you shoud not return emptyhanded. Please take my clothes as a gift."

The thief was bewildered. He took the clothes and slunk away.

Ryokan sat naked, watching the moon. "Poor fellow, " he mused, "I wish I could give him this beautiful moon."


Chasing Two Rabbits

A martial arts student approached his teacher with a question. "I'd like to improve my knowledge of the martial arts. In addition to learning from you, I'd like to study with another teacher in order to learn another style. What do you think of this idea?" "The hunter who chases two rabbits," answered the master, "catches neither one."


Learning the Hard Way

The son of a master thief asked his father to teach him the secrets of the trade. The old thief agreed and that night took his son to burglarize a large house. While the family was asleep, he silently led his young apprentice into a room that contained a clothes closet. The father told his son to go into the closet to pick out some clothes. When he did, his father quickly shut the door and locked him in. Then he went back outside, knocked loudly on the front door, thereby waking the family, and quickly slipped away before anyone saw him. Hours later, his son returned home, bedraggled and exhausted. "Father," he cried angrily, "Why did you lock me in that closet? If I hadn't been made desperate by my fear of getting caught, I never would have escaped. It took all my ingenuity to get out!" The old thief smiled. "Son, you have had your first lesson in the art of burglary."


Obsessed

Two traveling monks reached a river where they met a young woman. Wary of the current, she asked if they could carry her across. One of the monks hesitated, but the other quickly picked her up onto his shoulders, transported her across the water, and put her down on the other bank. She thanked him and departed.

As the monks continued on their way, the one was brooding and preoccupied. Unable to hold his silence, he spoke out. "Brother, our spiritual training teaches us to avoid any contact with women, but you picked that one up on your shoulders and carried her!"

"Brother," the second monk replied, "I set her down on the other side, while you are still carrying her."Paradise

Two people are lost in the desert. They are dying from hunger and thirst. Finally, they come to a high wall. On the other side they can hear the sound of a waterfall and birds singing. Above, they can see the branches of a lush tree extending over the top of the wall. Its fruit look delicious. One of them manages to climb over the wall and disappears down the other side. The other, instead, returns to the desert to help other lost travelers find their way to the oasis.


Working Very Hard

A martial arts student went to his teacher and said earnestly, "I am devoted to studying your martial system. How long will it take me to master it." The teacher's reply was casual, "Ten years." Impatiently, the student answered, "But I want to master it faster than that. I will work very hard. I will practice everyday, ten or more hours a day if I have to. How long will it take then?" The teacher thought for a moment, "20 years."

(in other versions of this story, the student says he is eager to attain "enlightenment")


Without Fear

During the civil wars in feudal Japan, an invading army would quickly sweep into a town and take control. In one particular village, everyone fled just before the army arrived - everyone except the Zen master. Curious about this old fellow, the general went to the temple to see for himself what kind of man this master was. When he wasn't treated with the deference and submissiveness to which he was accustomed, the general burst into anger. "You fool," he shouted as he reached for his sword, "don't you realize you are standing before a man who could run you through without blinking an eye!" But despite the threat, the master seemed unmoved. "And do you realize," the master replied calmly, "that you are standing before a man who can be run through without blinking an eye?"

(other versions of this story then describe how the general, surprised and awed by the master, sheepishly leaves)


When Tired

A student once asked his teacher, "Master, what is enlightenment?"

The master replied, "When hungry, eat. When tired, sleep."


Wanting God

A hermit was meditating by a river when a young man interrupted him. "Master, I wish to become your disciple," said the man. "Why?" replied the hermit. The young man thought for a moment. "Because I want to find God."

The master jumped up, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, dragged him into the river, and plunged his head under water. After holding him there for a minute, with him kicking and struggling to free himself, the master finally pulled him up out of the river. The young man coughed up water and gasped to get his breath. When he eventually quieted down, the master spoke. "Tell me, what did you want most of all when you were under water."

"Air!" answered the man.

"Very well," said the master. "Go home and come back to me when you want God as much as you just wanted air."


Transient

A famous spiritual teacher came to the front door of the King's palace. None of the guards tried to stop him as he entered and made his way to where the King himself was sitting on his throne.

"What do you want?" asked the King, immediately recognizing the visitor.

"I would like a place to sleep in this inn," replied the teacher.

"But this is not an inn," said the King, "It is my palace."

"May I ask who owned this palace before you?"

"My father. He is dead."

"And who owned it before him?"

"My grandfather. He too is dead."

"And this place where people live for a short time and then move on - did I hear you say that it is NOT an inn?"


The Present Moment

A Japanese warrior was captured by his enemies and thrown into prison. That night he was unable to sleep because he feared that the next day he would be interrogated, tortured, and executed. Then the words of his Zen master came to him, "Tomorrow is not real. It is an illusion. The only reality is now." Heeding these words, the warrior became peaceful and fell asleep. Moving Mind
Two men were arguing about a flag flapping in the wind. "It's the wind that is really moving," stated the first one. "No, it is the flag that is moving," contended the second. A Zen master, who happened to be walking by, overheard the debate and interrupted them. "Neither the flag nor the wind is moving," he said, "It is MIND that moves."


The Nature of Things

Two monks were washing their bowls in the river when they noticed a scorpion that was drowning. One monk immediately scooped it up and set it upon the bank. In the process he was stung. He went back to washing his bowl and again the scorpion fell in. The monk saved the scorpion and was again stung. The other monk asked him, "Friend, why do you continue to save the scorpion when you know it's nature is to sting?" "Because," the monk replied, "to save it is my nature."


Nature's Beauty

A priest was in charge of the garden within a famous Zen temple. He had been given the job because he loved the flowers, shrubs, and trees. Next to the temple there was another, smaller temple where there lived a very old Zen master. One day, when the priest was expecting some special guests, he took extra care in tending to the garden. He pulled the weeds, trimmed the shrubs, combed the moss, and spent a long time meticulously raking up and carefully arranging all the dry autumn leaves. As he worked, the old master watched him with interest from across the wall that separated the temples.

When he had finished, the priest stood back to admire his work. "Isn't it beautiful," he called out to the old master. "Yes," replied the old man, "but there is something missing. Help me over this wall and I'll put it right for you."

After hesitating, the priest lifted the old fellow over and set him down. Slowly, the master walked to the tree near the center of the garden, grabbed it by the trunk, and shook it. Leaves showered down all over the garden. "There," said the old man, "you can put me back now."


Egotism

The Prime Minister of the Tang Dynasty was a national hero for his success as both a statesman and military leader. But despite his fame, power, and wealth, he considered himself a humble and devout Buddhist. Often he visited his favorite Zen master to study under him, and they seemed to get along very well. The fact that he was prime minister apparently had no effect on their relationship, which seemed to be simply one of a revered master and respectful student.

One day, during his usual visit, the Prime Minister asked the master, "Your Reverence, what is egotism according to Buddhism?" The master's face turned red, and in a very condescending and insulting tone of voice, he shot back, "What kind of stupid question is that!?"

This unexpected response so shocked the Prime Minister that he became sullen and angry. The Zen master then smiled and said, "THIS, Your Excellency, is egotism."


Cliffhanger

One day while walking through the wilderness a man stumbled upon a vicious tiger. He ran but soon came to the edge of a high cliff. Desperate to save himself, he climbed down a vine and dangled over the fatal precipice. As he hung there, two mice appeared from a hole in the cliff and began gnawing on the vine. Suddenly, he noticed on the vine a plump wild strawberry. He plucked it and popped it in his mouth. It was incredibly delicious!


Destiny

During a momentous battle, a Japanese general decided to attack even though his army was greatly outnumbered. He was confident they would win, but his men were filled with doubt. On the way to the battle, they stopped at a religious shrine. After praying with the men, the general took out a coin and said, "I shall now toss this coin. If it is heads, we shall win. If tails, we shall lose. Destiny will now reveal itself."

He threw the coin into the air and all watched intently as it landed. It was heads. The soldiers were so overjoyed and filled with confidence that they vigorously attacked the enemy and were victorious. After the battle, a lieutenant remarked to the general, "No one can change destiny."

"Quite right," the general replied as he showed the lieutenant the coin, which had heads on both sides.


Full Awareness

After ten years of apprenticeship, Tenno achieved the rank of Zen teacher. One rainy day, he went to visit the famous master Nan-in. When he walked in, the master greeted him with a question, "Did you leave your wooden clogs and umbrella on the porch?"

"Yes," Tenno replied.

"Tell me," the master continued, "did you place your umbrella to the left of your shoes, or to the right?"

Tenno did not know the answer, and realized that he had not yet attained full awareness. So he became Nan-in's apprentice and studied under him for ten more years


Going with the Flow

A Taoist story tells of an old man who accidentally fell into the river rapids leading to a high and dangerous waterfall. Onlookers feared for his life. Miraculously, he came out alive and unharmed downstream at the bottom of the falls. People asked him how he managed to survive. "I accommodated myself to the water, not the water to me. Without thinking, I allowed myself to be shaped by it. Plunging into the swirl, I came out with the swirl. This is how I survived."


Gutei's Finger

Whenever anyone asked him about Zen, the great master Gutei would quietly raise one finger into the air. A boy in the village began to imitate this behavior. Whenever he heard people talking about Gutei's teachings, he would interrupt the discussion and raise his finger. Gutei heard about the boy's mischief. When he saw him in the street, he seized him and cut off his finger. The boy cried and began to run off, but Gutei called out to him. When the boy turned to look, Gutei raised his finger into the air. At that moment the boy became enlightened.


Holy Man

Word spread across the countryside about the wise Holy Man who lived in a small house atop the mountain. A man from the village decided to make the long and difficult journey to visit him. When he arrived at the house, he saw an old servant inside who greeted him at the door. "I would like to see the wise Holy Man," he said to the servant. The servant smiled and led him inside. As they walked through the house, the man from the village looked eagerly around the house, anticipating his encounter with the Holy Man. Before he knew it, he had been led to the back door and escorted outside. He stopped and turned to the servant, "But I want to see the Holy Man!"

"You already have," said the old man. "Everyone you may meet in life, even if they appear plain and insignificant... see each of them as a wise Holy Man. If you do this, then whatever problem you brought here today will be solved."


Is That So?

A beautiful girl in the village was pregnant. Her angry parents demanded to know who was the father. At first resistant to confess, the anxious and embarrassed girl finally pointed to Hakuin, the Zen master whom everyone previously revered for living such a pure life. When the outraged parents confronted Hakuin with their daughter's accusation, he simply replied "Is that so?" When the child was born, the parents brought it to the Hakuin, who now was viewed as a pariah by the whole village. They demanded that he take care of the child since it was his responsibility. "Is that so?" Hakuin said calmly as he accepted the child.

For many months he took very good care of the child until the daughter could no longer withstand the lie she had told. She confessed that the real father was a young man in the village whom she had tried to protect. The parents immediately went to Hakuin to see if he would return the baby. With profuse apologies they explained what had happened. "Is that so?" Hakuin said as he handed them the child.


Concentration

After winning several archery contests, the young and rather boastful champion challenged a Zen master who was renowned for his skill as an archer. The young man demonstrated remarkable technical proficiency when he hit a distant bull's eye on his first try, and then split that arrow with his second shot. "There," he said to the old man, "see if you can match that!" Undisturbed, the master did not draw his bow, but rather motioned for the young archer to follow him up the mountain. Curious about the old fellow's intentions, the champion followed him high into the mountain until they reached a deep chasm spanned by a rather flimsy and shaky log. Calmly stepping out onto the middle of the unsteady and certainly perilous bridge, the old master picked a far away tree as a target, drew his bow, and fired a clean, direct hit. "Now it is your turn," he said as he gracefully stepped back onto the safe ground. Staring with terror into the seemingly bottomless and beckoning abyss, the young man could not force himself to step out onto the log, no less shoot at a target. "You have much skill with your bow," the master said, sensing his challenger's predicament, "but you have little skill with the mind that lets loose the shot."


It Will Pass

A student went to his meditation teacher and said, "My meditation is horrible! I feel so distracted, or my legs ache, or I'm constantly falling asleep. It's just horrible!" "It will pass," the teacher said matter-of-factly.

A week later, the student came back to his teacher. "My meditation is wonderful! I feel so aware, so peaceful, so alive! It's just wonderful!'

"It will pass," the teacher replied matter-of-factly.


Just Two Words

There once was a monastery that was very strict. Following a vow of silence, no one was allowed to speak at all. But there was one exception to this rule. Every ten years, the monks were permitted to speak just two words. After spending his first ten years at the monastery, one monk went to the head monk. "It has been ten years," said the head monk. "What are the two words you would like to speak?" "Bed... hard..." said the monk.

"I see," replied the head monk.

Ten years later, the monk returned to the head monk's office. "It has been ten more years," said the head monk. "What are the two words you would like to speak?"

"Food... stinks..." said the monk.

"I see," replied the head monk.

Yet another ten years passed and the monk once again met with the head monk who asked, "What are your two words now, after these ten years?"

"I... quit!" said the monk.

"Well, I can see why," replied the head monk. "All you ever do is complain."


Knowing Fish

One day Chuang Tzu and a friend were walking by a river. "Look at the fish swimming about," said Chuang Tzu, "They are really enjoying themselves." "You are not a fish," replied the friend, "So you can't truly know that they are enjoying themselves."

"You are not me," said Chuang Tzu. "So how do you know that I do not know that the fish are enjoying themselves?"


Maybe

There is a Taoist story of an old farmer who had worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away. Upon hearing the news, his neighbors came to visit. "Such bad luck," they said sympathetically. "May be," the farmer replied. The next morning the horse returned, bringing with it three other wild horses. "How wonderful," the neighbors exclaimed. "May be," replied the old man. The following day, his son tried to ride one of the untamed horses, was thrown, and broke his leg. The neighbors again came to offer their sympathy on his misfortune. "May be," answered the farmer. The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the son's leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbors congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out. "May be," said the farmer.The Moon Cannot Be Stolen
A Zen Master lived the simplest kind of life in a little hut at the foot of a mountain. One evening, while he was away, a thief sneaked into the hut only to find there was nothing in it to steal. The Zen Master returned and found him. "You have come a long way to visit me," he told the prowler, "and you should not return empty handed. Please take my clothes as a gift." The thief was bewildered, but he took the clothes and ran away. The Master sat naked, watching the moon. "Poor fellow," he mused, " I wish I could give him this beautiful moon."


More Is Not Enough The Stone Cutter

There was once a stone cutter who was dissatisfied with himself and with his position in life. One day he passed a wealthy merchant's house. Through the open gateway, he saw many fine possessions and important visitors. "How powerful that merchant must be!" thought the stone cutter. He became very envious and wished that he could be like the merchant.

To his great surprise, he suddenly became the merchant, enjoying more luxuries and power than he had ever imagined, but envied and detested by those less wealthy than himself. Soon a high official passed by, carried in a sedan chair, accompanied by attendants and escorted by soldiers beating gongs. Everyone, no matter how wealthy, had to bow low before the procession. "How powerful that official is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be a high official!"

Then he became the high official, carried everywhere in his embroidered sedan chair, feared and hated by the people all around. It was a hot summer day, so the official felt very uncomfortable in the sticky sedan chair. He looked up at the sun. It shone proudly in the sky, unaffected by his presence. "How powerful the sun is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be the sun!"

Then he became the sun, shining fiercely down on everyone, scorching the fields, cursed by the farmers and laborers. But a huge black cloud moved between him and the earth, so that his light could no longer shine on everything below. "How powerful that storm cloud is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be a cloud!"

Then he became the cloud, flooding the fields and villages, shouted at by everyone. But soon he found that he was being pushed away by some great force, and realized that it was the wind. "How powerful it is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be the wind!"

Then he became the wind, blowing tiles off the roofs of houses, uprooting trees, feared and hated by all below him. But after a while, he ran up against something that would not move, no matter how forcefully he blew against it - a huge, towering rock. "How powerful that rock is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be a rock!"

Then he became the rock, more powerful than anything else on earth. But as he stood there, he heard the sound of a hammer pounding a chisel into the hard surface, and felt himself being changed. "What could be more powerful than I, the rock?" he thought.

He looked down and saw far below him the figure of a stone cutter.


Great Waves

In the early days of the Meiji era there lived a well-known wrestler called O-nami, Great Waves.

O-nami was immensly strong and knew the art of wresting. In his private bouts he defeated even his teacher, but in public was so bashful that his own pupils threw him.

O-nami felt he should go to a Zen master for help. Hakuju, a wandering teacher, was stopping in a little temple nearby, so O-nami went to see him and told him of his great trouble.

"Great Waves is your name," the teacher advised, "so stay in this temple tonight. Imagine that you are those billows. You are no longer a wrestler who is afraid. You are those huge waves sweeping everything before them, swallowing all in their path. Do this and you will be the greatest wrestler in the land."

The teacher retired. O-nami sat in meditation trying to imagine himself as waves. He thought of many different things. Then gradualy he turned more and more to the feeling of waves. As the night advanced the waves became larger and larger. They swept away the flowers in their vases. Even the Buddha in the shrine was inundated. Before dawn the temple was nothing but the ebb and flow of an immense sea.

In the morning the teacher found O-nami meditating, a faint smile on his face. He patted the wrestler's shoulder. "Now nothing can disturb you," he said. "You are those waves. You will sweep everything before you."

The same day O-nami entered the wrestling contests and won. After that, no one in Japan was able to defeat him.


Annoucement

Tanzan wrote sixty postal cards on the last day of his life, and asked an attendant to mail them. Then he passed away.

The cards read:

I am departing from this world.


This is my last announcement.


Tanzan
July 27, 1892


Finding a Diamond on a Muddy Road

Gudo was the emperor's teacher of his time. Nevertheless, he used to travel alone as a wandering mendicant. Once when he was on his was to Edo, the cultural and political center of the shogunate, he approached a little village named Takenaka. It was evening and a heavy rain was falling. Gudo was thoroughly wet. His straw sandals were in pieces. At a farmhouse near the village he noticed four or five pairs of sandals in the window and decided to buy some dry ones.

The woman who offered him the sandals, seeing how wet he was, invited him in to remain for the night at her home. Gudo accepted, thanking her. He entered and recited a sutra before the family shrine. He then was introduced to the woman's mother, and to her children. Observing that the entire family was depressed, Gudo asked what was wrong.

"My husband is a gambler and a drunkard," the housewife told him. "When he happens to win he drinks and becomes abusive. When he loses he borrows money from others. Sometimes when he becomes thoroughly drunk he does not come home at all. What can I do?"

I will help him," said Gudo. "Here is some money. Get me a gallon of fine wine and something good to eat. Then you may retire. I will meditate before the shrine."

When the man of the house returned about midnight, quite drunk, he bellowed: "Hey, wife, I am home. Have you something for me to eat?"

"I have something for you," said Gudo. "I happened to get caught in the rain and your wife kindly asked me to remain here for the night. In return I have bought some wine and fish, so you might as well have them."

The man was delighted. He drank the wine at once and laid himself down on the floor. Gudo sat in meditation beside him.

In the morning when the husband awoke he had forgotten about the previous night. "Who are you? Where do you come from?" he asked Gudo, who still was meditating.

"I am Gudo of Kyoto and I am going on to Edo," replied the Zen master.

The man was utterly ashamed. He apologized profusely to the teacher of his emperor.

Gudo smiled. "Everything in this life is impermanent," he explained. "Life is very brief. If you keep on gambling and drinking, you will have no time left to accomplish anything else, and you will cause your family to suffer too."

The perception of the husband awoke as if from a dream. "You are right," he declared. "How can I ever repay you for this wonderful teaching! Let me see you off and carry your things a little way."

"If you wish," assented Gudo.

The two started out. After they had gone three miles Gudo told him to return. "Just another five miles," he begged Gudo. They continued on.

"You may return now," suggested Gudo.

"After another ten miles," the man replied.

"Return now," said Gudo, when the ten miles had been passed.

"I am going to follow you all the rest of my life," declared the man.

Modern Zen teachers in Japan spring from the lineage of a famous master who was the successor of Gudo. His name was Mu-nan, the man who never turned back.


Right and Wrong

When Bankei held his seclusion-weeks of meditation, pupils from many parts of Japan came to attend. During one of these gatherings a pupil was caught stealing. The matter was reported to Bankei with the request that the culprit be expelled. Bankei ignored the case.

Later the pupil was caught in a similar act, and again Bankei disregarded the matter. This angered the other pupils, who drew up a petition asking for the dismissal of the thief, stating that otherwise they would leave in a body.

When Bankei had read the petition he called everyone before him. "You are wise brothers," he told them. "You know what is right and what is not right. You may go somewhere else to study if you wish, but this poor brother does not even know right from wrong. Who will teach him if I do not? I am going to keep him here even if all the rest of you leave."

A torrent of tears cleansed the face of the brother who had stolen. All desire to steal had vanished.


The Other Side

One day a young Buddhist on his journey home came to the banks of a wide river. Staring hopelessly at the great obstacle in front of him, he pondered for hours on just how to cross such a wide barrier. Just as he was about to give up his pursuit to continue his journey he saw a great teacher on the other side of the river. The young Buddhist yells over to the teacher, "Oh wise one, can you tell me how to get to the other side of this river"?

The teacher ponders for a moment looks up and down the river and yells back, "My son, you are on the other side".


Publishing the Sutras

Tetsugen, a devotee of Zen in Japan, decided to publish the sutras, which at that time were available only in Chinese. The books were to be printed with wood blocks in an edition of seven thousand copies, a tremendous undertaking.

Tetsugen began by traveling and collecting donations for this purpose. A few sympathizers would give him a hundred pieces of gold, but most of the time he received only small coins. He thanked each donor with equal gratitude. After ten years Tetsugen had enough money to begin his task.

It happened that at that time the Uji River overflowed. Famine followed. Tetsugen took the funds he had collected for the books and spent them to save others from starvation. Then he began again his work of collecting.

Several years afterwards an epidemic spread over the country. Tetsugen again gave away what he had collected, to help his people.

For a third time he started his work, and after twenty years his wish was fulfilled. The printing blocks which produced the first edition of sutras can be seen today in the Obaku monastery in Kyoto.

The Japanese tell their children that Tetsugen made three sets of sutras, and that the first two invisible sets surpass even the last.


Inch Time Foot Gem

A lord asked Takuan, a Zen teacher, to suggest how he might pass the time. He felt his days very long attending his office and sitting stiffly to receive the homage of others.

Takuan wrote eight Chinese characters and gave them to the man:

Not twice this day
Inch time foot gem.
This day will not come again.
Each minute is worth a priceless gem.


Everything is best

When Banzan was walking through a market he overheard a conversation between a butcher and his customer.

"Give me the best piece of meat you have," said the customer.

"Everything in my shop is the best," replied the butcher. "You cannot find here any piece of meat that is not the best."

At these words Banzan became enlightened.


Open your own Treasure house

Daiju visited the master Baso in China. Baso asked: "What do you seek?"

"Enlightenment," replied Daiju.

"You have your own treasure house. Why do you search outside?" Baso asked.

Daiju inquired: "Where is my treasure house?"

Baso answered: "What you are asking is your treasure house."

Daiju was delighted! Ever after he urged his friends: "Open your own treasure house and use those treasures."


The Voice of Happiness

After Bankei had passed away, a blind man who lived near the master's temple told a friend: "Since I am blind, I cannot watch a person's face, so I must judge his character by the sound of his voice. Ordinarily when I hear someone congratulate another upon his happiness or success, I also hear a secret tone of envy. When condolence is expressed for the misfortune of another, I hear pleasure and satisfaction, as if the one condoling was really glad there was something left to gain in his own world.

"In all my experience, however, Bankei's voice was always sincere. Whenever he expressed happiness, I heard nothing but happiness, and whenever he expressed sorrow, sorrow was all I heard."


Trading Dialogue For Lodging

Provided he makes and wins an argument about Buddhism with those who live there, any wandering monk can remain in a Zen temple. If he is defeated, he has to move on.

In a temple in the northern part of Japan two brother monks were dwelling together. The elder one was learned, but the younger one was stupid and had but one eye.

A wandering monk came and asked for lodging, properly challenging them to a debate about the sublime teaching. The elder brother, tired that day from much studying, told the younger one to take his place. "Go and request the dialogue in silence," he cautioned.

So the young monk and the stranger went to the shrine and sat down.

Shortly afterwards the traveler rose and went in to the elder brother and said: "Your young brother is a wonderful fellow. He defeated me."

"Relate the dialogue to me," said the elder one.

"Well," explained the traveler, "first I held up one finger, representing Buddha, the enlightened one. So he held up two fingers, signifying Buddha and his teaching. I held up three fingers, representing Buddha, his teaching, and his followers, living the harmonious life. Then he shook his clenched fist in my face, indicating that all three come from one realization. Thus he won and so I have no right to remain here." With this, the traveler left.

"Where is that fellow?" asked the younger one, running in to his elder brother.

"I understand you won the debate."

"Won nothing. I'm going to beat him up."

"Tell me the subject of the debate," asked the elder one.

"Why, the minute he saw me he held up one finger, insulting me by insinuating that I have only one eye. Since he was a stranger I thought I would be polite to him, so I held up two fingers, congratulating him that he has two eyes. Then the impolite wretch held up three fingers, suggesting that between us we only have three eyes. So I got mad and started to punch him, but he ran out and that ended it!"


The Emperor's Seed

An emperor in the Far East was growing old and knew it was time to choose his successor. Instead of choosing one of his assistants or his
children, he decided something different. He called young people in the
kingdom together one day. He said, "It is time for me to step down and
choose the next emperor. I have decided to choose one of you."
The kids were shocked! But the emperor continued. "I am going to give each one of you a seed today. One very special seed. I want you to plant the seed, water it and come back here after one year from today with what you have grown from this one seed. I will then judge the plants that you bring, and the one I choose will be the next emperor!"
One boy named Ling was there that day and he, like the others, received a seed. He went home and excitedly told his mother the story. She helped him get a pot and planting soil, and he planted the seed and watered it carefully. Every day he would water it and watch to see if it had grown. After about three weeks, some of the other youths began to talk about their seeds and the plants that were beginning to grow. Ling kept checking his seed, but nothing ever grew. 3 weeks, 4 weeks, 5 weeks went by. Still nothing. By now, others were talking about their plants but Ling didn't have a plant, and he felt like a failure. Six months went by, still nothing in Ling's pot. He just knew he had killed his seed. Everyone else had trees and tall plants, but he had nothing. Ling didn't say anything to his friends, however. He just kept waiting for his seed to grow.A year finally went by and all the youths of the kingdom brought their plants to the emperor for inspection. Ling told his mother that he wasn't going to take an empty pot. But honest about what happened, Ling felt sick to his stomach, but he knew his mother was right. He took his empty pot to the palace. When Ling arrived, he was amazed at the variety of plants grown by the other youths. They were beautiful in all shapes and sizes. Ling put his empty pot on the floor and many of the other kinds laughed at him. A few felt sorry for him and just said, "Hey nice try." When the emperor arrived, he surveyed the room and greeted the young people. Ling just tried to hide in the back. "What great plants, trees and flowers you have grown," said the emperor. "Today, one of you will be appointed the next emperor!" All of a sudden, the emperor spotted Ling at the back of the room with his empty pot. He ordered his guards to bring him to the front. Ling was terrified. "The emperor knows I'm a failure! Maybe he will have me killed!" When Ling got to the front, the Emperor asked his name. "My name is Ling," he replied. All the kids were laughing and making fun of him. The emperor asked everyone to quiet down. He looked at Ling, and then announced to the crowd, "Behold your new emperor! His name is Ling!" Ling couldn't believe it. Ling couldn't even grow his seed. How could he be the new emperor? Then the emperor said, "One year ago today, I gave everyone here a seed.
I told you to take the seed, plant it, water it, and bring it back to
me today. But I gave you all boiled seeds, which would not grow. All of
you, except Ling, have brought me trees and plants and flowers. When you found that the seed would not grow, you substituted another seed for the one I gave you. Ling was the only one with the courage and honesty to bring me a pot with my seed in it. Therefore, he is the one who will be the new emperor!"



If you plant honesty, you will reap trust.
If you plant goodness, you will reap friends.
If you plant humility, you will reap greatness.
If you plant perseverance, you will reap victory.
If you plant consideration, you will reap harmony.
If you plant hard work, you will reap success.
If you plant forgiveness, you will reap reconciliation.
If you plant openness, you will reap intimacy.
If you plant patience, you will reap improvements.
If you plant faith, you will reap miracles.

But
If you plant dishonesty, you will reap distrust.
If you plant selfishness, you will reap loneliness.
If you plant pride, you will reap destruction.
If you plant envy, you will reap trouble.
If you plant laziness, you will reap stagnation.
If you plant bitterness, you will reap isolation.
If you plant greed, you will reap loss.
If you plant gossip, you will reap enemies.
If you plant worries, you will reap wrinkles.
If you plant sin, you will reap guilt.


My Heart Burns Like Fire

Soyen Shaku, the first Zen teacher to come to America, said: "My heart burns like fire but my eyes are as cold as dead ashes." He made the following rules which he practiced every day of his life.

In the morning before dressing, light incense and meditate.
Retire at a regular hour. Partake of food at regular intervals. Eat with moderation and never to the point of satisfaction.
Receive a guest with the same attitude you have when alone. When alone, maintain the same attitude you have in receiving guests.
Watch what you say, and whatever you say, practice it.
When an opportunity comes do not let it pass you by, yet always think twice before acting.
Do not regret the past. Look to the future.
Have the fearless attitude of a hero and the loving heart of a child.
Upon retiring, sleep as if you had entered your last sleep. Upon awakening, leave your bed behind you instantly as if you had cast away a pair of old shoes.


The Thief Who Became a Disciple

One evening as Shichiri Kojun was reciting sutras a thief with a sharp
sword entered, demanding either money or his life.

Shichiri told him: "Do not disturb me. You can find the money in that
drawer." Then he resumed his recitation.

A little while afterwards he stopped and called: "Don't take it all. I
need some to pay taxes with tomorrow."

The intruder gathered up most of the money and started to leave.
"Thank a person when you receive a gift," Shichiri added. The man
thanked him and made off.

A few days afterwards the fellow was caught and confessed, among
others, the offence against Shichiri. When Shichiri was called as a
witness he said: "This man is no thief, at least as far as I am
concerned. I gave him money and he thanked me for it."

After he had finished his prison term, the man went to Shichiri and
became his disciple.


How Grass and Trees Become Enlightened

During the Kamakura period, Shinkan studied Tendai six years and then
studied Zen seven years; then he went to China and contemplated Zen
for thirteen years more.

When he returned to Japan many desired to interview him and asked
obscure questions. But when Shinkan received visitors, which was
infrequently, he seldom answered their questions.

One day a fifty-year-old student of enlightenment said to Shinkan: "I
have studied the Tendai school of thought since I was a little boy,
but one thing in it I cannot understand. Tendai claims that even the
grass and trees will become enlightened. To me this seems very
strange."

"Of what use is it to discuss how grass and trees become enlightened?"
asked Shinkan. "The question is how you yourself can become so. Did
you even consider that?"

"I never thought of it that way," marveled the old man.

"Then go home and think it over," finished Shinkan.


The Giver Should Be Thankful

While Seietsu was the master of Engaku in Kamakura he required larger
quarters, since those in which he was teaching were overcrowded. Umeza
Seibei a merchant of Edo, decided to donate five hundred pieces of
gold called ryo toward the construction of a more commodious school.
This money he brought to the teacher.

Seisetsu said: "All right. I will take it."

Umezu gave Seisetsu the sack of gold, but he was dissatisfied with the
attitude of the teacher. One might live a whole year on three ryo, and
the merchant had not even been thanked for five hundred.

"In that sack are five hundred ryo," hinted Umeza.

"You told me that before," replied Seisetsu.

"Even if I am a wealthy merchant, five hundred ryo is a lot of money,"
said Umezu.

"Do you want me to thank you for it?" asked Seisetsi.

"You ought to," replied Umeza.

"Why should I?" inquired Seisetsu. "The giver should be thankful."


Sour Miso

The cook monk Dairyo, at Bankei's monastery, decided that he would
take good care of his old teacher's health and give him only fresh
miso, a paste of soy beans mixed with wheat and yeast that often
ferments. Bankei, noticing that he was being served better miso than
his pupils, asked: "Who is the cook today?"

Dairyo was sent before him. Bankei learned that according to his age
and position he should eat only fresh miso. So he said to the cook:
"Then you think I shouldn't eat at all." With this he entered his room
and locked the door.

Dairyo, sitting outside the door, asked his teacher's pardon. Bankei
would not answer. For seven days Dairyo sat outside and Bankei within.

Finally in desperation an adherent called loudly to Bankei: "You may
be all right, old teacher, but this young disciple here has to eat. He
cannot go without food forever!"

At that Bankei opened the door. He was smiling. He told Dairyo: "I
insist on eating the same food as the least of my followers. Whe you
become the teacher I do not want you to forget this."


The Last Will and Testament

Ikkyu, a famous Zen teacher of the Ashikaga era, was the son of the
emperor. When he was very young, his mother left the palace and went
to study Zen in a temple. In this way Prince Ikkyu also became a
student. When this mother passed on, she left him a letter. It read:

To Ikkyu:

I have finished my work in this life and am now returning into
Eternity. I wish you to become a good student and to realize your
Buddha-nature. You will know if I am in hell and whether I am always
with you or not.

If you become a man who realizes that the Buddha and his follower
Bodhidharma are your own servants, you may leave off studying and work
for humanity. The Buddha preached for forty-nine years and in all that
time found it not necessary to speak one word. You ought to know why.
But if you don't and yet wish to, avoid thinking fruitlessly.

Your Mother,

Not born, not dead.

September first.

P.S. The teaching of Buddha was mainly for the purpose of enlightening
others. If you are dependent on any of its methods, you are naught but
an ignorant insect. There are 80,000 books on Buddhism and if you
should read all of them and still not see your own nature, you will
not understand even this letter. This is my will and testament.


The True Path

Just before Ninakawa passed away the Zen master Ikkyu visited him.
"Shall I lead you on?" Ikkyu asked.

Ninakawa replied: "I came here alone and I go alone. What help could
you be to me?"

Ikkyu answered: "If you think you really come and go, that is your
delusion. Let me show you the path on which there is no coming and
going."

With his words, Ikkyu had revealed the path so clearly that Ninakawa
smiled and passed away.


The Gates of Paradise

A soldier named Nobushige came to Hakuin, and asked: "Is there really
a paradise and a hell?"

"Who are you?" inquired Hakuin.

"I am a samurai," the warrior replied.

"You, a soldier!" exclaimed Hakuin. "What kind of ruler would have you
as his guard? Your face looks like that of a beggar."

Nobushige became so angry that he began to draw his sword, but Hakuin
continued: "So you have a sword! Your weapon is probably much too dull
to cut off my head."

As Nobushige drew his sword Hakuin remarked: "Here open the gates of hell!"

At these words the samurai, perceiving the master's discipline,
sheathed his sword and bowed.

"Here open the gates of paradise," said Hakuin.


Soldiers of Humanity

Once a division of the Japanese army was engaged in a sham battle, and
some of the officers found it necessary to make their headquarters in
Gasan's temple.

Gasan told his cook: "Let the officers have only the same simple fare we eat."

This made the army men angry, as they wre used to very deferential
treatment. One came to Gasan and said: "Who do you think we are? We
are soldiers, sacrificing our lives for our country. Why don't you
treat us accordingly?"

Gasan answered sternly: "Who do you think we are? We are soldiers of
humanity, aiming to save all sentient beings."


The Tunnel

Zenkai, the son of a samurai, journeyed to Edo and there became the
retainer of a high official. He fell in love with the official's wife
and was discovered. In self-defence, he slew the official. Then he ran
away with the wife.

Both of them later became thieves. But the woman was so greedy that
Zenkai grew disgusted. Finally, leaving her, he journeyed far away to
the province of Buzen, where he became a wandering mendicant.

To atone for his past, Zenkai resolved to accomplish some good deed in
his lifetime. Knowing of a dangerous road over a cliff that had caused
death and injury to many persons, he resolved to cut a tunnel through
the mountain there.

Begging food in the daytime, Zenkai worked at night digging his
tunnel. When thirty years had gone by, the tunnel was 2,280 feet long,
20 feet high, and 30 feet wide.

Two years before the work was completed, the son of the official he
had slain, who was a skillful swordsman, found Zenkai out and came to
kill him in revenge.

"I will gived you my life willingly," said Zenkai. "Only let me finish
this work. On the day it is completed, then you may kill me."

So the son awaited the day. Several months passed and Zenkai kept
digging. The son grew tired of doing nothing and began to help with
the digging. After he had helped for more than a year, he came to
admire Zenkai's strong will and character.

At last the tunnel was completed and the people could use it and travel safely.

"Now cut off my head," said Zenkai. "My work is done."

"How can I cut off my own teacher's head?" asked the younger man with
tears in his eyes.


Gudo and the Emperor

The emperor Goyozei was studying Zen under Gudo. He inquired: "In Zen
this very mind is Buddha. Is this correct?"

Gudo answered: "If I say yes, you will think that you understand
without understanding. If I say no, I would be contradicting a fact
which you may understand quite well."

On another day the emperor asked Gudo: "Where does the enlightened man
go when he dies?"

Gudo answered: "I know not."

"Why don't you know?" asked the emperor.

"Because I have not died yet," replied Gudo.

The emperor hesitated to inquire further about these things his mind
could not grasp. So Gudo beat the floor with his hand as if to awaken
him, and the emperor was enlightened!

The emperor respected Zen and old Gudo more than ever after his
enlightenment, and he even permitted Gudo to wear his hat in the
palace in winter. When Gudo was over eighty he used to fall asleep in
the midst of his lecture, and the emperor would quietly retire to
another room so his beloved teacher might enjoy the rest his aging
body required.


The Most Valuable Thing in the World

Sozan, a Chinese Zen master, was asked by a student: "What is the most
valuable thing in the world?"

The master replied: "The head of a dead cat."

"Why is the head of a dead cat the most valuable thing in the world?"
inquired the student.

Sozan replied: "Because no one can name its price."


The Blockhead Lord

Two Zen teachers, Daigu and Gudo, were invited to visit a lord. Upon
arriving, Gudo said to the lord: "You are wise by nature and have an
inborn ability to learn Zen."

"Nonsense," said Daigu. "Why do you flatter this blockhead? He may be
a lord, but he doesn't know anything of Zen."

So, instead of building a temple for Gudo, the lord built it for Daigu
and studied Zen with him.


Temper

A Zen student came to Bankei and complained: "Master, I have an
ungovernable temper. How can I cure it?"

"You have something very strange," replied Bankei. "Let me see what you have."

"Just now I cannot show it to you," replied the other.

"When can you show it to me?" asked Bankei.

"It arises unexpectedly," replied the student.

"Then," concluded Bankei, "it must not be your own true nature. If it
were, you could show it to me at any time. When you were born you did
not have it, and your parents did not give it to you. Think that
over."


No Attachment to Dust

Zengetsu, a Chinese master of the T'ang dynasty, wrote the following
advice for his pupils:

Living in the world yet not forming attachments to the dust of the
world is the way of a true Zen student.

When witnessing the good action of another encourage yourself to
follow his example. Hearing of the mistaken action of another, advise
yourself not to emulate it.

Even though alone in a dark room, be as if you were facing a noble
guest. Express your feelings, but become no more expressive than your
true nature.

Poverty is your treasure. Never exchange it for an easy life.

A person may appear a fool and yet not be one. He may only be guarding
his wisdom carefully.

Virtues are the fruit of self-discipline and do not drop from heaven
of themselves as does rain or snow.

Modesty is the foundation of all virtues. Let your neighbors discover
you before you make yourself known to them.

A noble heart never forces itself forward. Its words are as rare gems,
seldom displayed and of great value.

To a sincere student, every day is a fortunate day. Time passes but he
never lags behind. Neither glory nor shame can move him.

Censure yourself, never another. Do not discuss right and wrong.

Some things, though right, were considered wrong for generations.
Since the value of righteousness may be recognized after centuries,
there is no need to crave immediate appreciation.

Live with cause and leave results to the great law of the universe.
Pass each day in peaceful contemplation.


Real Prosperity

A rich man asked Sengai to write something for the continued
prosperity of his family so that it might be treasured from generation
to generation.

Sengai obtained a large sheet of paper and wrote: "Father dies, son
dies, grandson dies."

The rich man became angry. "I asked you to write something for the
happiness of my family! Why do you make such a joke of this?"

"No joke is intended," explained Sengai. "If before you yourself die
your son should die, this would grieve you greatly. If your grandson
should pass away before your son, both of you would be broken-hearted.
If your family, generation after generation, passes away in the order
I have named, it will be the natural course of life. I call this real
prosperity."


Incense Burner

A woman of Nagasaki named Kame was one of the few makers of incense
burners in Japan. Such a burner is a work of art to be used only in a
tearoom of before a family shrine.

Kame, whose father before her had been such an artist, was fond of
drinking. She also smoked and associated with men most of the time.
Whenever she made a little money she gave a feast inviting artists,
poets, carpenters, workers, men of many vocations and avocations. In
their association she evolved her designs.

Kame was exceedingly slow in creating, but when her work was finished
it was always a masterpiece. Her burners were treasured in homes whose
womanfolk never drank, smoked, or associated freely with men.

The mayor of Nagasaki once requested Kame to design an incense burner
for him. She delayed doing so until almost half a year had passed. At
that time the mayor, who had been promoted to office in a distant
city, visited her. He urged Kame to begin work on his burner.

At last receiving the inspiration, Kame made the incense burner. After
it was completed she placed it upon a table. She looked at it long and
carefully. She smoked and drank before it as if it were her own
company. All day she observed it.

At last, picking up a hammer, Kame smashed it to bits. She saw it was
not the perfect creation her mind demanded.


The Real Miracle

When Bankei was preaching at Ryumon temple, a Shinshu priest, who
believed in salvation through repetition of the name of the Buddha of
Love, was jealous of his large audience and wanted to debate with him.

Bankei was in the midst of a talk when the priest appeared, but the
fellow made such a disturbance that Bankei stopped his discourse and
asked about the noise.

"The founder of our sect," boasted the priest, "had such miraculous
powers that he held a brush in his hand on one bank of the river, his
attendant held up a paper on the other bank, and the teacher wrote the
holy name of Amida through the air. Can you do such a wonderful
thing?"

Bankei replied lightly: "Perhaps your fox can perform that trick, but
that is not the manner of Zen. My miracle is that when I feel hungry I
eat, and when I feel thirsty I drink."


Nothing Exists

Yamaoka Tesshu, as a young student of Zen, visited one master after
another. He called upon Dokuon of Shokoku.

Desiring to show his attainment, he said: "The mind, Buddha, and
sentient beings, after all, do not exist. The true nature of phenomena
is emptiness. There is no realization, no delusion, no sage, no
mediocrity. There is no giving and nothing to be received."

Dokuon, who was smoking quietly, said nothing. Suddenly he whacked
Yamaoka with his bamboo pipe. This made the youth quite angry.

"If nothing exists," inquired Dokuon, "where did this anger come from?"


No Work, No Food

Hyakujo, the Chinese Zen master, used to labor with his pupils even at
the age of eighty, trimming the gardens, cleaning the grounds, and
pruning the trees.

The pupils felt sorry to see the old teacher working so hard, but they
knew he would not listen to their advice to stop, so they hid away his
tools.

That day the master did not eat. The next day he did not eat, nor the
next. "He may be angry because we have hidden his tools," the pupils
surmised. "We had better put them back."

The day they did, the teacher worked and ate the same as before. In
the evening he instructed them: "No work, no food."


True Friends

A long time ago in China there were two friends, one who played the
harp skilfully and one who listen skillfully.

When the one played or sang about a mountain, the other would say: "I
can see the mountain before us."

When the one played about water, the listener would exclaim: "Here is
the running stream!"

But the listener fell sick and died. The first friend cut the strings
of his harp and never played again. Since that time the cutting of
harp strings has always been a sign of intimate friendship.


Time to Die

Ikkyu, the Zen master, was very clever even as a boy. His teacher had
a precious teacup, a rare antique. Ikkyu happened to break this cup
and was greatly perplexed. Hearing the footsteps of his teacher, he
held the pieces of the cup behind him. When the master appeared, Ikkyu
asked: "Why do people have to die?"

"This is natural," explained the older man. "Everything has to die and
has just so long to live."

Ikkyu, producing the shattered cup, added: "It was time for your cup to die."


The Taste of Banzo's Sword

Matajuro Yagyu was the son of a famous swordsman. His father,
believing that his son's work was too mediocre to anticipate
mastership, disowned him.

So Matajuro went to Mount Futara and there found the famous swordsman
Banzo. But Banzo confirmed the father's judgment. "You wish to learn
swordsmanship under my guidance?" asked Banzo. "You cannot fulfill the
requirements."

"But if I work hard, how many years will it take to become a master?"
persisted the youth.

"The rest of your life," replied Banzo.

"I cannot wait that long," explained Matajuro. "I am willing to pass
through any hardship if only you will teach me. If I become your
devoted servant, how long might it be?"

"Oh, maybe ten years," Banzo relented.

"My father is getting old, and soon I must take care of him,"
continued Matajuro. "If I work far more intensively, how long would it
take me?"

"Oh, maybe thirty years," said Banzo.

"Why is that?" asked Matajuro. "First you say ten and now thirty
years. I will undergo any hardship to master this art in the shortest
time!"

"Well," said Banzo, "in that case you will have to remain with me for
seventy years. A man in such a hurry as you are to get results seldom
learns quickly."

"Very well," declared the youth, understanding at last that he was
being rebuked for impatience, "I agree."

Matajuro was told never to speak of fencing and never to touch a
sword. He cooked for his master, washed the dishes, made his bed,
cleaned the yard, cared for the garden, all without a word of
swordmanship.

Three years passed. Still Matajuro labored on. Thinking of his future,
he was sad. He had not even begun to learn the art to which he had
devoted his life.

But one day Banzo crept up behind him and gave him a terrific blow
with a wooden sword.

The following day, when Matajuro was cooking rice, Banzo again sprang
upon him unexpectedly.

After that, day and night, Matajuro had to defend himself from
unexpected thrusts. Not a moment passed in any day that he did not
have to think of the taste of Banzo's sword.

He learned so rapidly he brought smiles to the face of his master.
Matajuro became the greatest swordsman in the land.


Midnight Excursion

Many pupils were studying meditation under the Zen master Sengai. One
of them used to arise at night, climb over the temple wall, and go to
town on a pleasure jaunt.

Sengai, inspecting the dormitory quarters, found this pupil missing
one night and also discovered the high stool he had used to scale the
wall. Sengai removed the stool and stood there in its place.

When the wanderer returned, not knowing that Sengai was the stool, he
put his feet on the master's head and jumped down into the grounds.
Discovering what he had done, he was aghast.

Sengai said: "It is very chilly in the early morning. Do be careful
not to catch cold yourself."

The pupil never went out at night again.


A Drop of Water

A Zen master named Gisan asked a young student to bring him a pail of
water to cool his bath.

The student brought the water and, after cooling the bath, threw on to
the ground the little that was left over.

"You dunce!" the master scolded him. "Why didn't you give the rest of
the water to the plants? What right have you to waste even one drop of
water in this temple?"

The young student attained Zen in that instant. He changed his name to
Tekisui, which means a drop of water.


Teaching the Ultimate

In early times in Japan, bamboo-and-paper lanterns were used with
candles inside. A blind man, visiting a friend one night, was offered
a lantern to carry home with him.

"I do not need a lantern," he said. "Darkness or light is all the same to me."

"I know you do not need a lantern to find your way," his friend
replied, "but if you don't have one, someone else may run into you. So
you must take it."

The blind man started off with the lantern and before he had walked
very far someone ran squarely into him. "Look out where you are
going!" he exclaimed to the stranger. "Can't you see this lantern?"

"Your candle has burned out, brother," replied the stranger.


Non-Attachment

Kitano Gempo, abbot of Eihei temple, was ninety-two years old when he
passed away in the year 1933. He endeavored his whole life not to be
attached to anything. As a wandering mendicant when he was twenty he
happened to meet a traveler who smoked tobacco. As they walked
together down a mountain road, they stopped under a tree to rest. The
traveler offered Kitano a smoke, which he accepted, as he was very
hungry at the time.

"How pleasant this smoking is," he commented. The other gave him an
extra pipe and tobacco and they parted.

Kitano felt: "Such pleasant things may disturb meditation. Before this
goes too far, I will stop now." So he threw the smoking outfit away.

When he was twenty-three years old he studied I-King, the profoundest
doctrine of the universe. It was winter at the time and he needed some
heavy clothes. He wrote his teacher, who lived a hundred miles away,
telling him of his need, and gave the letter to a traveler to deliver.
Almost the whole winter passed and neither answer nor clothes arrived.
So Kitano resorted to the prescience of I-King, which also teaches the
art of divination, to determine whether or not his letter had
miscarried. He found that this had been the case. A letter afterwards
from his teacher made no mention of clothes.

"If I perform such accurate determinative work with I-King, I may
neglect my meditation," felt Kitano. So he gave up this marvelous
teaching and never resorted to its powers again.

When he was twenty-eight he studied Chinese calligraphy and poetry. He
grew so skillful in these arts that his teacher praised him. Kitano
mused: "If I don't stop now, I'll be a poet, not a Zen teacher." So he
never wrote another poem.


Buddha's Zen

Buddha said: "I consider the positions of kings and rulers as that of
dust motes. I observe treasures of gold and gems as so many bricks and
pebbles. I look upon the finest silken robes as tattered rags. I see
myriad worlds of the universe as small seeds of fruit, and the
greatest lake in India as a drop of oil on my foot. I perceive the
teachings of the world to be the illusion of magicians. I discern the
highest conception of emancipation as a golden brocade in a dream, and
view the holy path of the illuminated ones as flowers appearing in
one's eyes. I see meditation as a pillar of a mountain, Nirvana as a
nightmare of daytime. I look upon the judgment of right and wrong as
the serpentine dance of a dragon, and the rise and fall of beliefs as
but traces left by the four seasons."