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高山泰巌 Takayama Taigan (1933-1998)

『清風萬里秋』
Calligraphy by Takayama Taigan

昨夜一声雁 清風万里秋
さくやいっせいのかり せいふうばんりのあき, Sakuya issei no kari, Seifuu banri no aki
cited from the 禅林句集 Zenrin-kushū

Last night I heard the cry of the lone wild goose, and in the morning I feel the great pure autumn wind.

This means that after you wake up in the morning after hearing the goose honking to begin the migration you feel the crisp autumn wind on your face and are reminded that fall has arrived.

As autumn approaches the wild geese gather into flocks and begin to fly South. That honking is an indicator communicating to our hearts the fall season. The Issei in the verse is expounded to teach us that it only takes one goose to sound the honk to gather the birds into a flock. They gather quickly in the evening, begin the migration, and by the morning all that remains of their presence are the crisp autumn winds in your face.

Another deeper meaning of this verse is that through one act alone all things can begin to move. It reminds us that through the honking of only one goose, we can feel the effects of the fall wind. It is this one act that reminds us that the season, predicted to transform is actually already surrounding us in its entirety and only now have we become aware.

TAIGAN TAKAYAMA, Zen master, was named a successor to Zenkei Shibayama Roshi, Abbot of Nanzenji, Kyoto, one of the most important Zen temples in Japan. He graduated in History of Chinese Philosophy from Kyoto University in 1951, at which time he began his studies at Nanzenji. In 1958, he was appointed chief priest of Toshuhji Temple in Yamaguchi. Director of the Council of Social Welfare of his city, and of the prefectural Association for the Protection of Cultural Properties, he is also Director of the Yamaguchi Orphanage, which is subsidized by the prefecture and is located on the grounds of Toshunji.

Takayama's Dharma Lineage

[…]

Foreword by Taigan Takayama
In: The Crane's Bill
Translated by Lucien Stryk and Ikemoto Takashi [池本喬, 1906-1980] with the assitance of Takayama Taigan [高山泰巌, 1933-1998], Zen Master
Anchor Books, Doubleday & Co., Inc., Garden City, New York, 1973.

FOREWORD

“Alas, seeing, I saw him not; meeting, I met him not. Now I repent and bemoan it as much as I did then.” This sentence is found in a monumental inscription Butei (464–549), Emperor of Ryo, compiled in memory of Bodaidaruma (Bodhidharma in Sanskrit), the first Zen Patriarch in China. Butei was called Emperor Buddha-mind, so faithfully did he devote himself to the Buddhist’s good works. In his days Buddhists vied with one another in translating and annotating Indian sutras, building temples, carving or casting Buddhist images or providing for bonzes (monks); and he was the foremost Buddhist of the day. It was around 520 that Daruma arrived in China from India. Butei, receiving him in audience, told him that he had accumulated a great number of merits. To which Daruma replied, “No merit.” Daruma’s bit of repartee was apparently intended to be a radical criticism of the Buddhism of that time, a type of Buddhism engrossed in trivialities, ignoring the prime essential to the Buddhist, i.e., awakening to the Real Self. What the Patriarch wanted to convey was not that there was no need of supporting Buddhist communities, etc., but rather that to be engrossed in trifles in ignorance of the essential was meaningless and of no avail. As long as one did not lose sight of the essence of Buddhism, one would be able to behave with real profit like the then Buddhist followers. However, Butei failed to grasp Daruma’s intent; and the latter left him and settled down in Shorin Temple beyond the Yangtze River. When Butei heard of the Patriarch’s death, which occurred many years later, he, with great repentance, erected the monument mentioned above. This then is what happened to the intelligent emperor, and one is reminded of how unaccountable are the encounters of life.

This book is a joint effort of the three of us. Years ago, through Professor Takashi Ikemoto’s introduction, I had a talk with Luden Stryk in my temple, which eventually led to the publication of this volume. Our encounter was not of such fundamental significance as that of Daruma and Butei, and yet I deeply feel the mystery of karma in life.

In this Foreword I would like to discuss briefly how Zen and Zen poetry are related to one another. First, let me consider the essentials of Zen. The most important thing in Zen is, as Daruma pointed out, to awaken to the Real Self. It is to become conscious of the Formless Self; it means going beyond not only spatial or material forms, but psychic or conceptual forms as well, that is, truth/falsehood, beauty/ugliness, good/evil, etc. This Zen type of Self-consciousness cannot be treated as an object as in psychology or metaphysics. Ordinary self-consciousness, which can be treated in that way, is a differentiated and limited one, having a form. The Self-consciousness of Zen is what can in no way be objectified or differentiated, because it invariably remains the subject instead of becoming an object. In Zen, awakening to the Real Self is termed seeing into one’s nature (kensho in Japanese). An ancient master restated it as “seeing is nature.”

Thus the Zennist’s Self-consciousness is totally devoid of form. Rinzai (Chinese, ?–867) states: “Mind is formless, permeating the whole universe.” The Diamond Sutra gives a warning: “Whoever wants to see me through form or to seek me through sound is on the wrong track and will never meet the Tathagata [i.e., Buddha].” In the Soto sect, frequent reference is made to the dictum “Body and mind have fallen off.” All this points to the Formless Self. Here the reader may have the mistaken notion that the Formless Self can be understood conceptually. But Zen detests conceptualization. In one of his mondos (questions and answers) Rinzai uses the expression “a real man of no titles.” He says: “In the naked flesh-mass exists a real man of no titles. He is always coming in and out through your sense-organs. If you don’t know him yet, look! look!” A monk, stepping forward, asks, “Who is the real man of no titles?” Rinzai climbs down from his chair and, gripping him, demands, “Speak! speak!” The poor monk hesitates, whereupon the master lets go of him, reviling, “What, he’s no better than a lavatory spatula, this real man of no titles!” and hastens back to his room. In his every word and motion is revealed the master’s refreshingly vivacious and firm stand on Zen activity and Zen principles.

At this point, a brief explanation of the method of Zen discipline will not be out of place, since it will help in the appreciation of Zen poetry, especially the poetry of satori (awakening). Zen, ever since its inception, has had for its motto the statement: “Pointing directly to one’s mind/ Let one see into one’s nature to attain Buddhahood.” This is to say that Zen cannot be taught through the medium of letters and doctrine, but that it must be experienced immediately and by one’s own efforts. The Real Self or the Original Self is above learning or receiving from others. Ganto (Chinese, 828–887) once said: “What enters through the gate is not one’s family treasure.” Any Zen master, therefore, sees to it that each of his disciples be rigorously trained to get enlightened for himself without being taught. To that end, the master may give his disciple a koan (Zen question) such as Joshu’s “What is Nothingness?” or Hakuin’s “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” But he never teaches him (even if the disciple cannot grasp the point of the koan, say, for ten years); the master only testifies to his disciple’s understanding.

Here is a typical story of self-discipline in Zen. Kyogen (Chinese, ninth century) first studied Zen under Hyakujo, but, handicapped by his “sagacity,” he could not comprehend Zen till his master died. Then he went for guidance to Isan, an enlightened senior monk. Isan said to Kyogen, “I’m told that studying under our late teacher Hyakujo, you used to give ten pat answers to one question. But, you see, that was your sagacity, discrimination based on discursive thinking; it’s the very cause of the delusion of life and death. Now, tell me in a word who you were before you were born.” Nonplused by Isan’s challenge, Kyogen, back in his room, examined all he had ever learned, and yet he was incapable of finding even a single word to present to Isan. He said to himself that a picture of rice cake could keep off no hunger. More than once he begged Isan to expound for him, only to be rebuffed by the latter with: “If I tell you, you’ll be sure to censure me one of these days. What I expound is my own satori; it’s nothing to do with your satori.” At last, despairing of success, Kyogen burned up all his notes on Zen and left Isan to spend the rest of his days as a common bonze. He went and stayed at the site where National Teacher Echu of Nanyo had resided when alive, looking after Echu’s grave. (One should note that the greater was Kyogen’s resignation, the deeper was his unconscious absorption in his problem.) One day, cleaning the garden with his broom, he chanced to send a stone flying against a bamboo close by. At the clinking sound, he had a thorough awakening. He hurried back to his hermitage, where, after purifying himself, he burned incense toward where Isan lived and thanked him, saying, “You’re more kindhearted than my parents. If you’d taught me at that time, how could I have gained the blissful satori I’ve had today?” Then he composed the following poem of satori:

One strike—all knowledge gone.
No more dabbling.
The old path discovered, I stride,
Traceless, anywhere.
Who knows me now?
Dare any not approve?

Isan, when informed of the poem, approved of it with this remark, “Kyogen has penetrated.” Kyogen’s brother-monk, Gyozan, however, refused to admit that it was penetrating enough, and both of them subjected themselves to harder discipline till they became great masters. When satori came to him, Kyogen composed a poem; but how one expresses oneself at the moment of this Zen experience depends on the situation, the enlightened person’s previous career, etc. One student may make a bow, another may thrust out his fist; while one master may approve with “You have penetrated,” another with “Who knows whether my true Zen will be trampled to death by a blind donkey?” All this goes to confirm that, in spite of different attitudes held by the disciple and the master, the former has gained an insight into the Formless Self, while the latter testifies to it.

What, then, is Zen poetry? There is a form of poetry used for preaching in Indian Buddhist scriptures. In Zen literature, too, there is found a group of poems apparently descended from this traditional type: for example, The Song of the Way (Shodoka in Japanese), The Song of Faith and Mind (Shinjinmei) or The Jewel-Mirror Samadhi (Hokyo Zammai).* Further, there is a large body of poetry, completely independent of the scriptural tradition and peculiar to Zen literature; it is metrical commentary on koans, found in koan collections such as Hekiganroku, Shoyoroku, Mutnonkan, as well as in Patriarchs’ writings. The poems selected for this book are those of satori, death and general subjects.

In his Analects, Confucius characterizes in a word the basic feature of The Book of Songs: “There is no evil thought in it.” The Preface to the same book states: “Poetry is an expression of thought. What is in the mind is thought; expressed in words, it becomes poetry.” Apart from the problem of literary or metric forms, these remarks, I think, clarify one of the fundamental characteristics of Zen poetry; and herein, despite the Zen sect’s negation of letters, there seems to lie the possibility of Zen experience necessarily taking the form of verse when it gives itself literary expression. In this way there has all along been a close relationship between poetry and Zen. Poems of satori and death are poetic expressions of the Formless Self at the most significant moments in life, of satori and death respectively. Poems on general subjects are likewise versifications in various situations of that void Self. I will refrain from touching further upon the characteristics of Zen poetry since they are discussed by Lucien Stryk. What I would like to emphasize is the importance of always grasping the Zen personality which vitalizes Zen poetry and makes it the most refreshing of verse.

We are now in the midst of highly advanced civilization which has no match in human history. But frequent reference is made to man’s mechanization, loss of subjectivity, decay of life and liberty. People the world over hunger after leisure, to go hiking across fields and mountains, or to enjoy sports and shows. Some of them sit in religious meditation or even use drugs, all to isolate themselves from the outer world. Conscious or not, this is escapism on the part of those who have failed to confront modern civilization; in it is revealed the basic self-contradiction of modem civilization. Man seeks to achieve an endless evolution, which, however, is blocked by what he has created for himself. Man’s life is decaying. To overcome such self-contradiction, to restore lost subjectivity, life itself, is an urgent problem for all mankind. Escapism of the type mentioned above is but a makeshift, not a radical solution. It is in the overcoming of the self-contradiction of modem civilization that the raison d’être of Zen lies. To awaken to the Formless Self and work as “a real man of no titles”—this is to restore one’s free subjectivity, embodying in oneself the Zen saying, “Today the bird, come out of its old cage, flies with the clouds.”

Our translation is, in a sense, a thing of no merit just as Daruma declared. Yet, if the reader, inspired by the poems in this volume, discovers his original Formless Self, then he, unlike the penitence-stricken Butei, will have done a thing of great merit for himself.

Taigan Takayama

Interview with Master 高山泰巌 Takayama Taigan
by Lucien Stryk & Ikemoto Takashi [池本喬 1906-1980]
In: ZEN: Poems, Prayers, Sermons, Anecdotes, Interviews
Anchor Books, Doubleday & Co., Inc., Garden City, New York, 1963, pp. 137-147.

Yamaguchi, the "Kyoto of the West," is one of the
best preserved of the castle towns of Japan, and is well
known for its superb Zen temples, among them To-
shun, one of the most beautiful in spite of its age (or
because of it), which the billowy green of the young
bamboo trees planted on the slope of the mountain
against which it was built tends to belie. As has so
often been the case in this crowded land, the moun-
tain has served to protect the temple from the en-
croachment of those seeking breathing space on the
outskirts of town. In this respect it most clearly re-
sembles Kyoto: to its ring of mountains might be
attributed the fine state of its shrines and temples, if
not their very survival.

If the reader has seen Kurosawa's Rashomon, he
will remember the opening scene: the rain, the old
gate, the wasted grandeur of the temple. Well, it was
raining when Takashi Ikemoto and I bicycled up from
the national university where we teach, and I was
strongly reminded of that scene. We parked our bicy-
cles and entered the temple. A few minutes later we
were met by Taigan Takayama, master of the Toshun,
and led to his reception hall, which overlooks a lovely
garden. Takayama is young (thirty-four), intellectual
(a graduate in Chinese Philosophy of Kyoto Univer-
sity) and, Ikemoto has informed me, he journeys to
Kyoto a few times a year to undergo more discipline.

Though we have had about a week to mentally pre-
pare for the exchange, we did not think it in the spirit
of Zen to prepare a list of questions. Perhaps this will
turn out to be a mistake. It was agreed that we take
turns asking questions and that Ikemoto would record
what was said and translate the difficult parts.

Before we begin, a few words from Takayama: "I
know very well that Zen is above explanation, and that
the Westerner may find expository remarks in a Zen
interview inadequate. Nonetheless, an exchange be-
tween a Westerner and a Japanese master might very
well serve as a stimulant toward the reader's further
efforts for a better appreciation of Zen. Indeed the re-
mark that. Zen is above explanation applies only to
those destined to remain ignorant of it. As for those,
on the. other hand, possessed of insight keen enough,
they will be able to intuit a Zen meaning in a master's
words, spoken or written. It is my hope that the
reader will read the following exchange in the proper
way and, thus, see into the spirit of Zen."

STRYK: Takayama-san, as a Zen priest you have been
trained in the ways of proper meditation. Now, if I were
to undertake Zen discipline it would be with the view
of achieving something like inner peace. Is it that which
the priest seeks when meditating, or does his medita-
tion lead him to other, more "religious" things? And if
the latter is true in the case of the priest, what is it the
serious lay Zen Buddhist seeks when he attempts to
gain a satori awakening?

TAKAYAMA: In a sense Zen is a religion of peace of
mind; therefore Zen and "inner peace" seem to be con-
nected. But all depends on what is meant by this "in-
ner peace," inasmuch as, complications being inciden-
tal to life, we must invariably confront them. The way
of coping with them determines the nature of the "in-
ner peace" experienced.

STRYK: You surprise me. Rightly or wrongly, I have
always considered inner peace to be a rather absolute
thing. If I understand correctly, you feel that the peace
achieved through zazen and through satori itself is de-
pendent on the circumstances of one's life at the time
of meditation, on the things, perhaps, which made one
turn to meditation in the first place. Is that right?

TAKAYAMA: Yes.

STRYK: But if a person seeks shelter in a storm, it
doesn't much matter, does it, whether it is a rain or
snow storm, so long as he finds on entering the shelter
the protection he sought?

TAKAYAMA: This type of inner peace is different from
that offered by Zen. A Zen-man, you see, must be able
to keep his mental serenity in the midst of life's great-
est difficulties. Here is a well-known Zen poem by Ma-
nura, the Twenty-second Patriarch of India:

The mind moveth with the ten thousand things:
Even when moving, it is serene.
Perceive its essence as it moveth on,
And neither joy nor sorrow there is.

(translated by D. T. Suzuki)

This "being serene" is the inner peace of Zen. As to
your second question, of course both priest and lay-
man seek the selfsame serenity.

IKEMOTO: When recently questioned about the se-
cret of manipulating his puppets, a prominent Ameri-
can artist replied: "The most important thing is to love
the puppets. When I manipulate Judy, my fingers be-
come Judy. When I move the monkey, they become
the monkey. I forget myself and become the thing I
handle. That's the secret." Now, it seems to me that his
words resemble those of a Zen master. Am I right in
thinking that the puppeteer has realized a Zen state, at
least as far as his art is concerned?

TAKAYAMA: Perfectly right.

STRYK: I dislike leaving that puppeteer, but there is
something that interests me very much. Ikemoto-san
has pointed out to me that unlike Christian mystics
who seek vision, the Zen-man seeks release from vision.
It is sometimes described, is it not, as a vision of emp-
tiness? Now, is this image of nothingness complete and
instantaneous or, to use the metaphor of the room does
one cushion at a time, say, then the walls themselves,
have to be removed?

TAKAYAMA: I'm very much afraid that Zen has noth-
ing to do with your vision of nothingness. How can
one have such a vision?

STRYK: Well, we've all tried to vision the reaches of
space, haven't we? Surely the open eye sees, even emp-
tiness.

TAKAYAMA: Nevertheless Zen, which disowns all that
has form, rejects any and all kinds of vision. According
to it, a mountain is not high, nor is a pillar vertical.
Emptiness in Zen is that in which being and non-being
originate. It is realized, if you continue to insist on the
term, when the dualism of being and non-being is done
away with. The emptiness is not there as something to
be seen or not seen, it is what you have become. And its
realization is instantaneous, meaning timeless without
beginning or end. It is perhaps to be conceded that
one can experience emptiness at a given moment, but
the experience itself transcends time.

IKEMOTO: While we're on the subject of that experi-
ence, Dr. Daisetsu Suzuki, who as you know is a fol-
lower of the Rinzai sect, has always been of the opinion
that there is no Zen without satori. It appears that
Western readers of Dr. Suzuki have been intrigued
above all by his dramatic descriptions of satori awaken-
ing. Yet the Soto sect, which has many more adherents,
insists on the primacy of sitting in meditation without
seeking satori. With Westerners in mind, what is your
opinion of the Soto standpoint?

TAKAYAMA: Simply though perhaps inadequately put,
it seems that Rinzai Zen is more accessible to West-
erners.

STRYK: To continue our discussion of satori, exactly
what does one feel as distinct from what one sees, or
no longer sees, at the moment of the awakening, and
how long does the feeling last?

TAKAYAMA: The feeling will differ with individuals,
of course, but perhaps I can say this much. Until the
coming of satori one's being is filled with doubt. At
the moment of awakening the Zen-man is beside him-
self with joy to know that he has discovered THAT prop-
erly. This ecstasy will not last very long, maybe only a
few hours, but after satori he cannot move outside its
world whether awake or asleep. As you well know, Zen
masters are in the habit of expressing in verse their state
of mind while in satori. The following poem by Yomyo-
Enju, a Chinese master, is among the best known. It
may be helpful to know that he had his awakening at
the instant of hearing a pile of firewood topple.

Toppling over is none other than THAT:
Nowhere is found an atom of dust.
Mountains, rivers, plain--
All reveal the Buddha-body.

Satori will make it possible for you to live constantly
in a state of joy. But remember that one needs further
discipline to rid oneself of this joy, for there must not
be even the shadow of attachment, any kind of attach-
ment, in Zen. In this way you can attain a genuine
awakening.

IKEMOTO (after tea and a few minutes of small talk) :
In principle, Zen masters should be able to read and
utilize any kind of writing. Again with Westerners in
mind, do you think that even the Bible could be read
and commented on from the Zen point of view?

TAKAYAMA: Why not? If, that is, a talented master
sets about it.

STRYK: Since Ikemoto-san brought up Westerners
again, in a recent article read by each of us the writer
states that unlike Westerners, Japanese are Zen-minded,
and for that reason Zen as it is practiced here is really
inaccessible to someone like myself. Do you agree? To
pursue this in a different way, were you more Zen-
minded than your friends at the university? Would
many of them have been able to undergo Zen train-
ing? And here I am perhaps repeating myself: would a
serious Westerner have a fair chance of understanding
Zen, finding the true path? And if so, why do some
Westerners known for their interest in Zen speak of the
effectiveness of certain drugs in the attainment of sa-
tori? Is drug taking compatible with Zen practice in
Japan?

TAKAYAMA: I'll take these questions up one by one.

It is true, perhaps, that Zen may be somewhat inac-
cessible to Westerners. This is only natural. Of course
in itself, as you fully realize, Zen has no such limita-
tions: there's no East nor West in it. But in its most
important manifestations it has been characterized by
geographical and historical features peculiar to China
and Japan. Indeed it may very well be these special fea-
tures which most strongly appeal to the West. And
maybe for that very reason, I should add, they stand
more or less in the way of a Westerner's attainment of
real insight, let alone Zen awakening. Speaking of my-
self, I was not more Zen-minded than my fellow stu-
dents in Kyoto, and I firmly believe that anyone
should be able to profit by Zen discipline, though it is
undeniable that some people, by reason of character
and temperament, are more suited to the discipline
than others. If a Westerner can find a master willing to
train him, he should be able to find the true path you
speak of as quickly as a Japanese, always assuming of
course that he understands the language. As you are no
doubt aware, history offers many such instances. When
Zen thrived in China, a number of Japanese went there
to study and some of them attained true satori. It
should be unnecessary to add that they already had be-
fore leaving these shores a proper knowledge of Chinese
culture in particular and Buddhism in general to make
the experience profitable. Finally, and most emphati-
cally, drug taking is not compatible with Zen.

IKEMOTO: Both of us are teachers of literature and
are interested in Zen poetry. As you probably know, the
contemporary poet Shinkichi Takahashi has undergone
regular discipline and, it seems, is known as a Zen poet
among his fellow writers. What do you think of the fol-
lowing poem, one of his most recent?

The Peach

A little girl under a peach tree,
Whose blossoms fall into the entrails
Of the earth.

There you stand, but a mountain may be there
Instead; it is not unlikely that the earth
May be yourself.

You step against a plate of iron and half
Your face is turned to iron. I will smash
Flesh and bone

And suck the cracked peach. She went up the mountain
To hide her breasts in the snowy ravine.
Women's legs

Are more or less alike. The leaves of the peach tree
Stretch across the sea to the end of
The continent.

The sea was at the little girl's beck and call.
I will cross the sea like a hairy
Caterpillar

And catch the odor of your body.

TAKAYAMA: Most interesting, from both the Zen and
the literary points of view. Let's begin with the former:
an Avatamsaka doctrine holds that the universe can be
observed from the four angles of (1) phenomena, (2)
noumenon, (3) the identity of noumenon and phe-
nomena, and (4) the mutual identity of phenomena.
Now, whether he was aware of it or not, the poet de-
picted a world in which noumenon and phenomena are
identical. Considering the poem with Zen in mind, the
lesson to be drawn, I suppose, is that one should not
loiter on the way but proceed straight to one's destina-
tion-the viewpoint of the mutual identity of phenom-
ena. But from a literary point of view, the significance,
and the charm of the poem lies in its metaphorical pre-
sentation of a world in which noumenon and phenom-
ena are identified with each other.

STRYK: A very profound reading. I must confess that
I didn't see half as much in the poem, though I like it
very much for the freedom of imagination and the
harshness of tone. To continue with the arts, do you
think Zen could be "used" by artists, as might have
been the case with the master-painter Sesshu, to
achieve, well, the proper state of mind for serious pro-
duction?

TAKAYAMA: Zen is not something to be "used." Its
art is nothing more than an expression of Zen spirit.

STRYK: I see. Well then, how would you describe that
spirit, as it relates, that is, to the artist and his work?
And though here I may be asking too much, would you
say that artists-painters, writers, composers-might
gain by periods of discipline? And if so, what have they
to gain that drink or, to be more consistent, prayer and
the seeking of vision might not be able to afford with
far less difficulty? Finally have you yourself felt, how-
ever vaguely, creative while meditating? I ask because
I have always thought of creative activity as being an
assertion of self, and can't imagine its taking place in a
state of "non-being."

TAKAYAMA: In a sense I have already described the
Zen spirit or state of mind. Doubtless there are artists
who try to achieve through Zen the proper spirit for
serious production. Well, I'll try to relate the Zen mind
to the artist and his work, though I should mention at
once that I myself am not an artist and, to answer one
of your questions, have not felt even vaguely creative
while meditating. Let's put it this way: it is a state of
mind in which one is identified with an object without
any sense of restraint. In this connection one could
mention the wakefulness of Zuigan, the Chinese mas-
ter, who had the following dialogue with himself every
day:

Master!
Yes, sir!
Be wide awake!
Yes, sir!
And from now on don't let anyone deceive you!
Yes, sir! Yes, sir!

When an artist, in this state of mind, depicts an object
in words, he has a fine poem; when in lines, a true pic-
ture. Fundamentally, however, Zen offers nothing to
gain, but there is something in this non-gaining which
quite naturally becomes part of the Zen-man's whole
being. As Rinzai, the founder of our sect, put it, you
gain worthiness without seeking it. No, after all, I sup-
pose it is possible to say that artists would gain by Zen.
As to what it offers the artist who seeks inspiration
from it that drink, say, cannot hope to give him, well,
try it and see.

STRYK: You tempt me, but I'm sure to find the dis-
cipline too strict. By the way, have you yourself ever
found it to be too strict? I ask this from a rather special
point of view, from that of one who might find it too
difficult, even impossible, to accept discipleship in an
order so authoritarian but who is very willing to con-
cede that the authority must be imposed for the good
of the initiate.

TAKAYAMA: No, I have never felt the discipline to be
too strict. Indeed it is a very tough mental job at times,
especially during a period of sesshin when for seven
days, all day long, one is trained in devotional matters.
But I am simply grateful for all this.

STRYK: Our time is almost up and Ikemoto-san, out
of his usual courtesy, insists that I ask the final ques-
tions. You have heard of the great interest in Zen in
my country. I understand that while in Kyoto you were
sometimes approached by Americans seeking explana-
tions. From your reading and observation, do you think
it likely that those Americans who think of themselves
as Zen-men, and there are a fair number, know what
true Zen is? Is not the taking of drugs, upon which you
have already commented, a simple confession of defeat?
And what about those who think that satori or some-
thing like it can be gained through drink or strenuous
love-making? Last of all, does Zen have anything to of-
fer the serious Westemer who, though he may not wish
to undergo discipline, feels himself in search of a truer
way?

TAKAYAMA: Well, I would have to meet those Ameri-
cans you speak of before passing judgment. But, yes,
drug taking as it relates to the seeking of an awakening,
could very well be described as a confession of defeat.
By the same token, those given to excessive drinking
and woman chasing and who still hope for Zen are
no doubt deluding themselves. Certainly they have
never heard the old Zen saying: "A man of consummate
activity knows no rules to follow." Zen offers Some-
thing to everyone, Westerner or Oriental, but just what
it offers is beyond conceptual understanding. Indeed
Zen is always offering that Something, and offering it
directly. People just can't seem to grasp it.