RS88.23.7 Final
Nick Shere
The Dark Meaning:
Transformative Language in
the Buddhist Tradition
“Get hold of this thing and use it, but don’t fix a label on it. This
I call the Dark meaning.”—Lin-chi (Watson, 55)
1. The
Transformative Function of Language
[In the aÿ÷as˜hasr˜niprajñ˜p˜ramit˜ ] The
primary function of even the statements that describe what is happening in the
world is to recondition the thinking-feeling mechanism of the readers of the Ashta; that is to purify their thinking…the use of mystical
language in the Ashta suggests that words can
function either to bind a person to, or release a person from, the world that
one is helping to construct. While all-knowledge is depicted in the Ashta as ‘unthinkable’ this is because ‘all-knowledge’ is
not something-in-itself; in the words of the Ashta:
‘the very all-knowledge does not possess the own-being of all-knowledge.’ (Streng, 160)
In his article,
“Language and Mystical Awareness” in Katz’s Mysticism
and Philosophical Analysis, Frederick Streng
argues that in some forms of mysticism, and particularly in Buddhist mysticism,
language takes on a more “transformative” than “descriptive” function. These
two functions or dimensions of language are conceived as a continuum; no
language act is either purely transformative or purely descriptive. However,
one can be more or primarily transformative, in which case it is intended not
to report some true reality but rather to bring about a change in the person to
whom the communication is directed. Streng believes
that some accounts of mystical language have overlooked the importance of this
transformative function, focusing too much on seemingly metaphysical claims
that Streng claims are really not intended for the
development of metaphysics, but only for particular practical, soteriological aims.
In his
interpretation of the aÿ÷as˜hasr˜niprajñ˜p˜ramit˜, Streng notes
that claims regarding the role of “rejoicing in the merit of others” are
contradicted within the text:
We
might ask here whether or not this apparent description of the relation between
meritorious work, jubilation, and full enlightenment can be taken literally.
According to Subhuti in subsequent paragraphs, it cannot. To do so would be to
treat these terms as objective supports, as
‘signs’ of some essential qualities or entities. He warns:
The
thought by which one has rejoiced and turned over, or dedicated that…is [at the
time of turning over] extinct, stopped, departed, reversed…
This
negation…indicates, I think, that the
earlier description cannot be taken as a literal description Rather the process of the dialogue is important as a
way to shift the expectations of the reader. (Streng,
156, emphasis added)
In other words, some Buddhist teachings will be non-true expressions
which nonetheless retain a purifying function, helpful in the pursuit of
enlightenment. This argument is embedded in the assumption, based on Buddhist
texts and secular scholarship on mysticism, that there is an essential
difference between the state of consciousness that is the goal of mystical
practice and normal modes of knowing, so that any verbal teaching must to some
extent be recognized as intended to purify rather than merely describe, since
not only is the average mind unable to reach this awareness without purification,
the awareness is in fact not susceptible to description in the first place.
Essentially, Streng is offering a pragmatic account of language. Rather
than focusing on the concepts, ideas, objects, or meanings conveyed by
language, he considers language as a functional means of action, of bringing
about a certain set of circumstances. Given this, we should recall that, as
Dewey writes, “The essence and import of communication, signs and meaning” is
that “Something is literally made common in at least two different centers of
behavior [that is, people]. To understand is to anticipate together, it is to
make a cross-reference which, when acted upon, brings about a partaking in a
common, inclusive, undertaking.” (Dewey, 178-9) Thus, every descriptive act can
be framed in pragmatic terms, the goal of a description being to create some
awareness in the hearer which has already appeared in the speaker; to this end,
various instrumental techniques of description are applied, which we judge to
be “accurate” or “true” inasmuch as they succeed in producing common objects of
experience. So, a distinction might better be made between a weak
transformative function of language (which has as its goal the mere addition of
some new, minor awareness of something, and a strong transformative function of
language, which has as its goal an essential reconditioning of the knowing
apparatus—the mind or self.
Curiously, Streng does not call attention to the category of up˜ya in Buddhism itself, which deals
with this very issue. “Up˜ya” is normally translated as “means” or
“skillful means” or “expedient.” Of these, the last is probably the most
accurate. The word comes from “upa-i”, “upa” being a preverb meaning
something like “near” or “towards”, and “i” being one
of the basic Sanskrit verbs of going. An up˜ya is something that approaches the
goal or brings one to the goal, contrasted with ˜p˜ya, which is an inexpedient—that
which goes away from the goal. An up˜ya is a strategy, technique, plan,
tactic, etc. that is designed to fulfill some particular aim, to go up to the
target of action. “Up˜ya,”
in its very formation as a word, embodies the kind of pragmatic, aim-oriented
intentionality that Streng ascribes to his
“transformative” function of experience. And when up˜ya is used as a Buddhist technical
term, it can take on exactly the soteriological
intent and suspension or relativization of metaphysical or truth claims that Streng wants to account for.
We will consider Streng alongside John Schroeder and Thomas Kasulis, who have a similar understanding of the role of
transformative language in Buddhism, but who do directly address the question of Up˜ya. As Schroeder writes in his Skillful
Means, “Up˜ya…has no interest in solving pressing metaphysical dilemmas.” He
invokes the term “metapraxis,” coined by Kasulis, to account for Buddhist thought about up˜ya. Metapraxis is defined as reflection on or
theoretical accounts of practice, as opposed to metaphysical or even
phenomenological accounts that are concerned with reporting truths or
realities. Kasulis writes, “Metapractical
reflection inquires into the purpose and efficacy of the practice in terms
of…participative and transformative functions [of religion].” (cited in Schroeder, 6)
For Kasulis and Schroeder, this “metapraxis”
in Buddhist thought represents a sharp turn away from metaphysics. In his
introduction to Schroeder’s book, Kasulis summarizes
the method of an up˜yin: “You’re passing down a kind of
technical know-how. You’ve got no real knowledge about the way things are; you
just have a set of acquired skills, a craft. Truth doesn’t even come into
play.” (Schroeder, xiv)
Kasulis
and Schroeder assume a particularly strong form of up˜ya, however, and this may obscure the complexity of this and related
concepts in the Buddhist tradition. Up˜ya’s basic use to differentiate a practice or teaching
which is merely instrumental from a true or authoritative teaching with which
the “up˜ya” seems to disagree. Essentially, the designation of “up˜ya” is used to relativize this teaching, to
consign it to a subordinate realm of things which are only “relatively” real or
true. But, as we will see, this can involve varying degrees of relativization. The radical form Kasulis
demonstrates is one version—the complete rejection of a concern with truth at
all, an abnegation of alethic orientation, as it
were. Streng gets at a strong but less radical form
in which a given teaching is completely relativized, but the idea of a truth
which is to be gotten at remains. And a weak form exists in which there is a
truth which is gotten at by the
relativized teaching, but is not fully describable. In addition, we may speak
of teachings which are not relativized at all—which appear to convey
straightforward truths. This pre-relativized category corresponds to the
descriptive function of language in Streng and the
metaphysics eschewed by Kasulis and Schroeder. We
will also see, however, the possibility of a different category which is not unrelativized in the sense of the purely descriptive, but
is rather transcendent of, after, beyond the
distinction between up˜ya and whatever ultimate truth, reality, or awareness is pursued by
means of the up˜ya. We will see as we look at later Buddhist texts—specifically those
of Lin-chi and Dogen in Ch’an/Zen, that this post-relativized
category is of definite importance in considering the relationship between the
“transformative” and the “descriptive.” while Streng,
Kasulis, and Schroeder, while correct in calling
attention to the middle of the spectrum of relativization (a continuum of
positions in the transformative-descriptive continuum), have failed to reckon
with an important part of that spectrum.
2. Vajraccedik˜ as Metapraxis
The Vajraccedik˜ (Vaj.), commonly known as the Diamond Sutra, is perhaps the most
famous of the prajñ˜p˜ramit˜ or
“Perfection of Wisdom” literature. The entire text is framed essentially as an
answer to the question, posed by Subhuti, “How…O Lord, should a son or daughter
of good family, who [has] set out in the Bodhisattva-vehicle, stand, how progress,
how control their thoughts?” (Vaj. 2; Conze, 1958/2001, 13)
Much of the text is
taken up with formulaic discourse on the primacy of teaching others over all
other ways of acquiring merit, and various potential barriers to understanding
and enlightenment. But the core of the response is contained in Vaj. 3:
The Lord said this:
Here, O Subhuti, thus a thought is to be produced by one who is set out in the
vehicle of a Boddhi-sattva: Inasmuch as there are sattvas (normally translated “beings,” more etymologically,
“essences” or “is-ings.”) apprehended by
sattva-apprehension in the plane of sattvas (sattva-dh˜tu)…inasmuch
as something is taught as being taught in the plane of sattvas,
all of these are to be extinguished by me in the extinction-plane (nirv˜õa-dh˜tu) which
is without trace of a limit. Thus, although having extinguished many sattvas, not any sattva is extinguished. Because
of what? If, O Subhuti, a Bodhisattva should have a
cognition (thought) of a being, he is not to be called a Bodhisattva. O
Subhuti, he is not to be called a Bodhisattva of whom a
cognition of a self should arise, or a cognition of a sattva, or a
cognition of a soul, or a cognition of a person. (Adapted from Conze, 1957)
This passage shows us two important things. One is the essential aim
that governs the whole text of the Vaj: the entire
text is an up˜ya intended to instruct readers/hearers on how to become Bodhisattvas.
This involves the ubiquitous pursuit in Buddhism of personal enlightenment, but
also the added complication that each individual is expected not only to seek
their own enlightenment, but the enlightenment of others as well. Because the
whole text is an answer to Subhuti’s question, it is
essentially a work of metapraxis delineating the
modes of praxis suitable for prospective Bodhisattvas.
The second key
element in the passage is a logical form sometimes called the “logic of not,”
discussed by Shigenori Nagatomo in an article
entitled, “The Logic of the Diamond
Sutra: A is not A, therefore it is A.” (Nagatomo,
213) In Vaj. 3 above, we
find a weak expression of this logic (“O Subhuti, he is not to be called a
Bodhisattva of whom a cognition of a self should
arise”), Nagatomo lists the following strong
examples, taken from later in the text:
(1) ‘The
world is not the world, therefore it is the world’ (13-c)
(2) All dharmas are not
all dharmas,
therefore they are all dharmas’
(17-c)
(3) ‘The
perfection of wisdom is not the perfection of wisdom, therefore it is the
perfection of wisdom’ (13-a)
(4) A
thought of truth is not a thought of truth, therefore
it is the thought of truth. (14-a) (Nagatomo, 214)
The sense in the text as a whole is that this “logic of not” applies
to everything utterly. In the specific case of Vaj. 3, the claim is essentially that a saved being
is not a saved being, therefore it is a saved being—that is, a saved “being” is
not (to be thought of as) a saved being,
therefore it is saved.
In addition to being
the first instance of the “logic of not” in the Vaj., this is significant in
that it penetrates to the very heart of the text—that is, to the ultimate aim of the text. The wordplay on Bodhi-sattva is not just play for play’s sake; it focuses
our attention on a critical problem concerning the entire Mah˜y˜na scheme: How can we have
a “bodhi-sattva” that is “extinguishing” other “sattvas” if the very “cognition” of a “sattva” is forbidden
by Buddhist doctrine? If all phenomena are empty—as is established in the
earlier prajñ˜p˜ramit˜
literature—and there is no self, then how is it even possible to speak of
bodhisattvas and their mission to save others? Is this nonsense? Certainly, as Nagatomo points out, the “logic of not” makes no sense when
viewed from the standpoint of Aristotelian logic. We must, then, find some
other way to make sense of it. The question is, are we to do this at the level
of metaphysics, or at the level of metapraxis?
Nagatomo, assuming a primarily
descriptive function of language in the Vaj. and thus a metaphysical significance for the logic of not,
concludes that the sutra’s real message is unconveyable
by means of the very logic in which it is framed:
Its provisional use [of
either-or logic] is based on the Sutra’s
concern for the ‘foolish, ordinary people’ because their either-or logic is a
method of discourse most readily understandable and familiar to them in their
use of ordinary language. In so doing, however, the Sutra was not successful, because it usually mystifies the
‘foolish, ordinary people’, or if not that, simply leads them to dismiss the
linguistic formulation of its philosophical position as nonsensical…The Sutra’s own position is a third
perspective that cannot be accommodated by either-or logic, and for this reason
it chooses to express its philosophical position by relying on a ‘neither-nor’
propositional form. (Nagatomo, 237-8)
Thus Nagatomo’s suggestion is essentially
that this is a weak relativization, pointing to a truth it cannot adequately
express. The ultimate goal is to bring about a true understanding of things as
they are, but, because of the foolishness of the ordinary, this cannot be
achieved through direct description. As a compromise, a sort of half-logic is
adopted which does its best to approximate
the truth in either-or (or, more accurately, neither-nor) form.
This demonstrates an only partial understanding of the significance
of the up˜ya on Nagatomo’s part. He recognizes that the
half-truth is intended as an expedient, but understands both the ultimate goal
and the expedient in terms primarily of descriptions, either more or less
accurate. These descriptions are perhaps even intended to serve a
transformative function, but they are still seen primarily in terms of their
descriptive value, and in terms of metaphysics rather than metapraxis.
Nagatomo’s
account is probably warranted at least inasmuch as the “logic of not” can be
said to be involved in the communication of a particular metaphysical
concept. Nagatomo
suggests that “ ‘A is not A, therefore it is A’
signifies the idea of A’s non-substantiality.” (Nagatomo,
237) This makes fair sense; the notion of þ¨nyat˜ or emptiness is present in the earlier aÿ÷as˜hasr˜niprajñ˜p˜ramit˜ on which later perfection of wisdom
literature is based, and the essential point of emptiness, as expressed in the Heart Sutra, is that things are empty in
or of “sva-bh˜va”, meaning own-being, or innate
nature—in other words, that they are basically non-substantial. Indeed,
according to McCagney the adjective “empty” (þ¨nya) is tied in the Mah˜y˜na tradition to this kind of logic (McCagney,
20-21) Indeed, N˜g˜rjuna, an early Mah˜y˜na thinker who makes explicit many of the implicit philosophical
positions of the perfection of wisdom literature (McCagney,
21), defines nirv˜õa as “not existent and not nonexistent” (Mulamadhyamakak˜rik˜ (MK) 25:15) and writes, “the nature of
events is like nirv˜õa.” (MK 28:7) This suggests that events are similarly not existent and
not nonexistent, A and not A.
However, Nagatomo does not reckon with the whole aim of the text. He
writes, “the thematic concern of the Sutra…centres
on the idea of practically perfecting the goal of wisdom that functions like a
diamond or a thunderbolt, such that it severs ‘all doubts and attachments’.”
Interestingly, this suggests more the transformative function of language than
the descriptive, though this is not reflected in his actual reading of the
text. But the goal of the text itself is not the immediate “perfection of
wisdom”; rather, the text is a metapractical
reflection on the Bodhisattva’s mission in transforming others.
The text is
attempting to guide Bodhisattvas, and this goal has different implications than
(merely) “perfecting wisdom.” Nagatomo frames the up˜ya as a relationship between the enlightened author and the “foolish,
ordinary people,” when in fact there are three
positions implicated in the text: that of the ordinary people, that of the
Buddha, and that of the Bodhisattva, who Nagatomo
treats as a goal aspired to by the ordinary, but who is actually presented by Subhuti’s question as a real role with real problems, a
present-tense project as much as a future aim.
Thus, Nagatomo does not pick up on the interrelations between the
rejection of innate being or essence, the title “Bodhi-essence”,
and the goal of extinguishing, or liberating, essences. Consider again the text
of Vaj. 3:
The Lord said this:
Here, O Subhuti, thus a thought is to be produced (caused to arise) by one who
is set out in the vehicle of a Boddhi-sattva: O
Subhuti, inasmuch as there are sattvas apprehended by
sattva-apprehension in the plane of sattvas…inasmuch as something
is taught as being taught in the plane of sattvas,
all of these are to be extinguished by me in the extinction-plane which is
without trace of a limit.
Thus, although having extinguished innumerable sattvas,
not any sattva is extinguished. Because of what? If, O Subhuti, a Bodhisattva should have a cognition (thought) of a being, he is not to be called a
Bodhisattva. O Subhuti, he is not to be called a Bodhisattva
of whom the cognition of (a?) self should arise, or cognition of a sattva, or
cognition of a soul, or cognition of a person.
What is being posed here may be getting at a descriptive reality, but
it is not (simply) for the sake of communicating that reality, whether to the
ordinary or not. This is not (just) a metaphysical speculation but a metapractical injunction: it is a reflection on and a
judgment about the predicament of one who has set out to be a Bodhisattva. This
passage does not make explicit metaphysical claims (even in the logic of not),
but rather refers to practice: how a Bodhisattva should think and act and how
others should address her.
Rather than making
metaphysical claims in Nagatomo’s half-logic, Vaj. 3 uses a sort of two-level
thinking which would not contribute much to a description of reality, no matter
to whom, but which is necessitated by
the peculiar practical predicament of
the Bodhisattva. Consider the delicate phrasing of the first portion: “Sattvas apprehended by sattva-apprehension” relativizes the notion of sattva; it is not a
sattva-as-such, but perhaps a sattva constituted by the very thought or
designation which reaches for a sattva. Nagatomo
touches on this, but only in a descriptive way—as a problem with the “ordinary”
worldview. (Nagatomo, 217) He does not discuss it as
an essential practical concern for the Bodhisattva, since it is only inasmuch
as sattvas are “apprehended” or otherwise reified,
the Bodhisattva has a particular purpose.
“Inasmuch as something is taught as being taught in
the plane of sattvas” further relativizes
the sattva while maintaining whatever was gained in the comment on
‘apprehension.’ The sattva is not even specified here but is rather “something”
which is the object of teaching when teaching
about the sattva-plane is done. “All
of these are to be extinguished by me in the extinction-plane which is without
trace of a limit” creates a duality (probably provisional—cf. MK 25:19-20,
where nirv˜õa and saÕs˜ra are equated) between the “plane
of sattvas” in which the sattva-apprehension and
sattva-teaching, take place, and the “plane of nirv˜õa,” in or into which such sattvas are extinguished—made extinct. This use of two
locatives to distinguish between a seeming lower provisional reality and a
higher reality which ultimately subsumes the seeming lower reality is attested
elsewhere in Indian philosophy (e.g., B®had˜raõyaka 2.4) Such a tentative duality allows for the seeming paradox that, while
innumerable beings have been extinguished, not any being as been
extinguished—because the very notion or apprehension of a sattva is valid only
on the plane of sattvas, not on the plane of nirv˜õa.
If this passage were
only or even primarily descriptive, the way Nagatomo
reads it, there would be no need to talk of beings even as apprehended or
taught; if nirv˜õa is the ultimate reality, and, indeed, the real character of saÕs˜ra as well as is clear in N˜g˜rjuna and suggested in the Heart
Sutra, the text could simply deny the substantiality of beings and have
done with it, just as the Heart Sutra
does: “The Bodhisattva, practicing the deep transcendent wisdom, was looking
down at the five skandhas and saw them empty of
own-being.” (Adapted from Conze, 82) The Heart Sutra goes on to elaborate on the
significance of emptiness and its universality; this is a good case of the
pre-relativized, in which reality is straightforwardly described.
The Vaj., on
the other hand, never even refers explicitly to emptiness. Rather, it uses a
related two-level language/logic that complicates things to a degree
unnecessary and undesirable from a metaphysical standpoint—but absolutely
necessary to a metapractical
standpoint. The Bodhisattva cannot take the position of absolute reality (the
plane of nirv˜õa alone) because from the perspective of nirv˜õa, there is no being to save. But
at the same time, she cannot take the position of the plane of sattvas alone, because the plane of sattvas
is precisely what that which is apprehended as a sattva must be saved from. The
two-level language operates on the basis of both the relative and the absolute,
not in a synthesis but in an uneasy composite; it is, in itself, essentially
untenable, but this only reflects the practical position of the Bodhisattva.
Ultimately, the two-level thinking must collapse into one level—that of nirv˜õa, or nirv˜õa-in-saÕs˜ra—but this cannot take place while Bodhisattvas still have beings left
to save. And this unease is carried right into the very term “Bodhi-sattva,” since that term, it is specified, can only
be applied to those who have no cognition of a sattva.
This does not fully
negate Nagatomo’s point—the passage is by no means
bereft of descriptive functionality, and it does
get at a truth which is garbled in the “logic of not.” However, it is essential
that we understand the importance of the basically metapractical
character of the Vaj. as a
whole, and interpret the “logic of not” to some extent in light of this, and
perhaps even as a result of it. This is basically a form of weak
relativization—a partial truth or, more accurately, truth-lie, necessitated by
certain practical conditions. This puts it more or less in line with Streng, Schroeder, and Kasulis. However,
we should note the possibility that the kind of two-level awareness that is
suggested in the Vaj. is an
early form of the phenomenological metaphysics which we’ll discuss later in
this paper. If so, this will suggest not that our theorists’ theories do not
hold for the Vaj., but rather that this early text is already pointing
beyond them, even while it itself remains within their purview.
3. The Up˜ya in Lin-chi
The Lotus Sutra, another Mah˜y˜na scripture, devotes its
second chapter to up˜yas. The concept of up˜ya presented there is a strong one, divorcing up˜ya to some extent from metaphysical truths and emphasizing the notion
of different up˜yas with different degrees of reality for different
degrees of ability on the part of the student.
These people of few qualities
and little merit
Are
afflicted by various sufferings.
They enter into the jungle of
sixty-two false views
Such as: “This does exist,” or
“This does not exist.”
They are so firmly and deeply attached to false teachings
That they cannot get rid of
them…
That is why, O Shariputra, I devised the method of teaching
The way to extinguish all
suffering through nirvana.…
All phenomena have the tranquil
character
Of the Dharma:
This could not be expressed in words,
So I taught the five monks
Through the power of skillful means.
This I named: “Turning the Wheel of the Dharma,’
And immediately the word nirvana appeared in it
And the different designations for Arhat,
Dharma
and Sangha.
From a great many kalpas ago
I have always taught like this:
I have praised and illuminated
The teaching of nirvana,
Saying that it ends the
sufferings
Of
birth and death.
(Tsugunari and Yuyama,
41, 48, emphasis added.)
The key points here are: (1) Human attachment is exceedingly strong.
(2) The truth cannot be expressed in words. (3) When the truth cannot be
expressed in words, skillful mean are the mode of teaching. (4) Such vital
concepts as nirv˜õa itself, and the dharma, are names fabricated through up˜ya-based teaching. The fact of some true insight at the center of
Buddhism is maintained, but this true insight is not the object of any of the
descriptions in Buddhist texts—rather, the words used in Buddhism are all
simply expedients, and thus have no special claim to reality.
These points are, to
some extent, a function of the polemical intent of the sutra. The notion of up˜ya is used here primarily to subordinate traditional forms of Buddhist
religious practice and thought to the Mah˜y˜na: “Having openly set
aside skillful means,/I will teach only the highest
path/To all the Bodhisattvas.” (Tsugunari and Yuyama, 49) Other teachings are recognized as pointing to a
real truth, but being in themselves empty. Precisely
the same kind of argument about up˜ya is used in the Platform Sutra
against practices and teachings that aim towards gradual enlightenment. This is
a form of weak relativization—the up˜ya defined in relation to the incompletely expressed truth—but the
belittling aspect of this kind of polemical usage begins a strengthening
process which is
picked up and radicalized (though also, paradoxically, problematized)
in the Lin-chi lu,
despite the fact that Lin-chi did not use it for polemical purposes.
The aims of the Lin-chi lu are more difficult to pin down than those of
the prior texts, because the “author” of the teachings is not the compiler of
the text, and thus there is a discrepancy in aims. The goal of the compiler is
to preserve the teachings of Lin-chi, but Lin-chi’s
goal is something else entirely. In general, we can ascribe to him the two
goals of the Bodhisattva: one’s own enlightenment and the enlightenment of
others. Because most of the stories in the Lin-chi
lu are the teachings of
Lin-chi to his students or other interested parties, it is the second goal
(Lin-chi’s pursuit of others’ enlightenment) that predominates in the text. Most
of the text consists of neither metaphysical nor metapractical
reflections, but rather simply straightforward records of practice as such.
Lin-chi’s terse language and his tendency to eschew words entirely wherever
yelling or hitting will do make his practice very much a matter of just
practice, with an absolute minimum of metaphysical claims and implications.
This fits perfectly
with Streng, Schroeder, and Kasulis—becaue Lin-chi’s language and activity is so focused on the
practice of teaching—and thus transforming—his students, Streng
is clearly supported, and Lin-chi’s highly critical attitude toward metaphysical
descriptions of reality similarly supports Schroeder and Kasulis.
Lin-chi’s teaching method practically embodies the transformative function, and
as we shall see he himself provides strong and radical relativizations of his
own teachings as up˜yas.
However, there are a few metapractical comments Lin-chi makes in reference to
his own teaching and to Ch’an/Buddhist pedagogy at
large, and some of these may present problems for our theorists, suggesting
that while Lin-chi uses some Kasulis-like up˜yas, these are only a part of his teaching; he also gets at the
post-relativized, transcending descriptive and transformative language.
Of all his comments
that bear on the question of up˜yas, one particularly representative one
stands out: “Get hold of this thing and use it, but don’t fix a label on it. This
I call the Dark meaning.” (Watson, 55) With this statement, Lin-chi suggests
that Buddhist teachings convey something,
but he expresses a strong distrust for the fixing of “labels”—that is, for
naming this “something” so that it can be talked about. Arthur Zajonc uses some of Goethe’s words to express a similar
concern: “Yet how difficult it is not to put the sign in the place of the
thing; how difficult to keep the being (das Wesen) always livingly before one and not to slay it with
the word.” (Goethe, cited in Zajonc) Streng identifies the same concern in the aÿ÷as˜hasr˜niprajñ˜p˜ramit. (Streng, 156)
This is a step
beyond the Lotus Sutra, which
regarded “designations” as useful but not totally true, and in particular as
less true than the teachings espoused by the author. Lin-chi regards these same
“designations” as dangerous, and
cautions his students against them. But at the same time, like the Vaj.,
he addresses the practical/metapractical problem of actually going about the work of
pursuing enlightenment—so he tells them, “Get hold of this thing and use it.”
Lin-chi appears to be making an explicit differentiation between theory and
practice, and privileging the latter over the former.
Unlike the Lotus Sutra, he is completely explicit
in refusing to take a privileged epistemological position of his own.
Everything I am saying to you is for the moment only, medicine to cure the
disease. Ultimately it has no true
reality. If you can see things in this way, you will be true men who have
left the household, free to spend ten thousand in gold each day. (Watson, 34,
emphasis added)
I don’t have a particle of Dharma to give to anyone. All I
have is a cure for sickness, freedom from bondage…I tell you, there’s no
Buddha, no dharma, no practice, no enlightenment…There’s no Dharma outside, and
even what is on the inside can’t be grasped. You get taken up with the words
from my mouth, but it would be better if you stopped all that and did nothing.
(Watson, 53, emphasis added)
This kind of radical self-relativization breaks from the Lotus Sutra and Platform Sutra but to some extent still echoes N˜g˜rjuna, who defended himself against the
accusation that his doctrines, responded, ‘If I had a proposition, this defect
would attach to me. But I have no proposition. Therefore I am not at fault.”
(Schroeder, 141) In a less argumentative moment, he also claimed that “Not any
doctrine anywhere has been taught to anyone by the Buddha.” (MK 25:24) However,
Lin-chi is much more aggressive in phrasing and expressing his self-relativization
than N˜g˜rjuna. Where N˜g˜rjuna was arguing against Ny˜ya, and the Lotus Sutra against Hinayana, Lin-chi is concerned with a much more general
problem, localized in no particular school, and present in his own: He is
afraid his students will misinterpret or overinterpret
his teachings, a concern that remained with him all his life. He blames the
problem largely on attachment to labels:
There are patriarchs and
there are buddhas, but those
are all just things found in the scriptural teachings. Someone comes along with
a phrase he has picked up, brings it out in a manner that’s half clear, half
murky, and at once you start having doubts, looking at the sky, looking at the
ground, running off to ask somebody else, getting into a great flurry. (Watson,
40)
It was with this in mind that he said while dying, “After I am gone,
you must not destroy my True Dharma Eye!” (Watson, 126)
Lin-chi’s
self-relativizations take two forms: strong and radical. The radical comments
suggest that his words have “no true reality,” and are merely “medicine” to
cure the disease. This means that they take their form from the disease, and
(because for every single truth there will be many delusions) need not get at
any truth themselves. Unsurprisingly, Schroeder emphasizes this element in
Lin-chi: “What Lin-chi teaches therefore depends on what he thinks his students
suffer from. It is their ‘disease’ that directs his responses.” (Schroeder,
137) And there are certainly a number of passages in the text that demonstrate
this, and others that demonstrate the anti-metaphysical turn in other ways. For
example:
The Master said, “Buddha—this
is the cleanness and purity of the mind. The Dharma—this is the shining
brightness of the mind. The Way—this is the pure light that is never obstructed
anywhere. The three are in fact one. All are empty names and have no true
reality. (Watson, 67)
In the space of an instant you
may enter the Lotus Treasury world, enter the
Phantoms, illusions, empty
flowers—
Why trouble yourself trying to
grasp them?
Gain, loss, right, wrong—
Throw them away at once.
(Watson, 59)
Like the Lotus Sutra, he
gives (or, rather, cites) an etiology for up˜yas as instructional methods, but his is a somewhat more grim
account—rather than suggesting only that the truth could not be stated, he
claims that up˜yas were meant to prevent nihilism in
response to Buddhist teachings:
You say that someone with the
thirty-two features and the eighty auspicious characteristics is a Buddha. But
that must mean that a wheel-turning sage king is a Thus Come One. So we know
clearly that the Buddha is a phantom. A man of old said,
The marks that fill the body of
the Thus come One
Were
made to sooth worldly feelings.
Lest people give way to
nihilistic views,
These empty names were
postulated.
As an expedient we talk of
thirty-two features;
The eighty characteristics are
empty sounds. (Watson, 48)
However, Lin-chi’s
statements also sometimes suggest only a strong relativization, indicating that
there is a truth, but that it cannot be directly told, and that the up˜yas are a means of attempting to get at it imprecisely. The passage
previously cited mentioning that “what is on the inside can’t be grasped” is of
this sort, as is:
The ultimate principles that make up the Way are not something to be
thrashed out in contentious debate, clanging and banging to beat down
unbelievers. This thing handed down from the buddhas and patriarchs has no special meaning. If it were put in the form of verbal
teachings, it would sink to the level of the teaching categories, the Three
Vehicles, the five natures, the conditions leading to birth as human and
heavenly beings. But the teaching of the sudden and immediate enlightenment is
not like that. The Bodhisattva Good Treasures never went around searching
anywhere…A man of old said, “Say
something about a thing and already you’re off the mark.” You just have to
see it for yourselves. (Watson, 78-9, emphasis added)
The implication of the coexistence of both radical and strong
relativizations is probably that Lin-chi does actually have some “particle of
dharma” to impart, but that this dharma cannot be taken too seriously, or
treated as something extraordinary. Rather, “Get hold of this thing and use it,
but don’t fix a label on it. This I call the Dark meaning.” This interpretation
would depend on it being possible to “say something” without “saying something
about a thing,” or formulating “verbal teachings.”
So, Lin-chi may not
really deny the reality of his own teachings as much as the reification of
those teachings. In other words, they are not invalidated in the moment of
actual, direct performance, but rather when they are recorded, as in the Lin-chi lu. The possibility of “Saying something” without
the “about a thing” is supported by the statement, “if a student appears whose understanding
surpasses all…categories, then I deal with him with my whole body and take no account of his ability.” (Watson,
58, emphasis added)
This notion of the
“whole body” seems to suggest a form of encounter in which Lin-chi holds
nothing back, and thus is not engaging in a practice which is characterizable merely in terms of up˜ya, or in terms of the
anti-metaphysical “medicine.” Indeed, this notion of Lin-ch’s
“whole body” may already be getting at the post-relativized. Either way, there
are statements in Lin-chi that do so, problematizing the ideas of both strong
and radical up˜ya. For example:
The Master said, “Manjushri’s wonderful understanding could of course not
tolerate Wu-chu’s questioning. Yet why should expedient means be at variance
with the wisdom that cuts off delusions?” (Watson, 19)
This is runs counter to most notions of an up˜ya—Nagatomo’s, the Lotus and Platform Sutras’,
Streng’s, Schroeder’s, Kasulis’s,
and both the strong and radical expressed elsewhere in Lin-chi. Taken literally, it would seem to suggest that up˜ya and prajñ˜ are essentially the same, and thus that they would have to be some
kind of up˜ya-prajñ˜, both expedient and true.
Does this mean that up˜yas are more than we think, or that Manjushri’s understanding is
less, or both, or neither? All these are possible, and the passage—which Watson
calls “one of the most baffling in the whole text.” (Watson, 19)—does not provide us with a clear solution. All we are given
is the knowledge that this is one of three phrases which is intended to
describe (ironically enough) “the basic
meaning of Buddhism” (Watson, 19, emphasis added) The
question is, which statements are to be interpreted in terms of which other
statements? Our suggestion is to take “why should expedient means be at
variance with the wisdom that cuts off delusions?” and interpret the strong and
radical relativizations in terms of it, inasmuch as it clearly represents a metapractical reflection on up˜yas as a class. Then, we would have to understand relativizations as
themselves strong up˜yas inasmuch as they relativize
the class of up˜yas, the ultimate picture being one in
which there is a form of up˜ya-prajñ˜ at the center of things (Lin-chi’s
“whole body,”), and various layers of relativizations around that which are
used with students of lesser discernment. However, it might remain the case
that these other up˜yas still represent prajñ˜ itself for the master and in their
moment of manifestation—but when they are reified by students they become
dangerous labels detached from vital truth, and thus require a specialized
sub-type of the second kind of up˜ya, the warning to students
regarding the dangers of taking Lin-chi’s teachings as representing substantial
realities.
The picture is
perhaps clarified by the presence two additional passages. One seems to take a
standard position denying that teachings get at the truth of things:
A study director said, “The
Three vehicles and twelve divisions of the teachings make the Buddha-nature
clear enough, don’t they?”
The Master said, “Wild
grass—it’s never been cut.”
The study director said,
“Surely the Buddha wouldn’t deceive people!”
The Master said, “Buddha—where
is he?”
The study director had no
answer. (Watson, 10)
The other, however, seems to disagree:
Wei-shan asked Yang-shan, “If ‘sparks from a flint can’t overtake it, streaks
of lightning would never reach that far,’ then how have all the wise men from
ages past been able to teach others?”
Yang-shan
said, “What do you think, Reverend?”
Wei-shan said,
“It’s just that no words or explanations ever get at the true meaning.”
Yang-shan
said, “Not so!”
Wei-shan said,
“Well, what do you think?”
Yang-shan
said, “Officially not a needle is allowed to pass, but privately whole carts
and horses get through!” (Watson, 124)
If we take this last passage, which appears to claim that words
genuinely can “get at the true meaning” seriously, we may be moved to conclude
that Lin-chi means exactly what he
seems to mean about up˜ya and prajñ˜: that expedient means themselves may actually “get at the true
meaning,” not just by being the practical manifestation of theoretical
“wonderful understanding”, but by actually conveying that understanding, and,
given the earlier passage, simultaneously being
it: a unity rather than a balance of theory and practice; theory as practice; theory-practice.
This would make
sense particularly if we understood the scriptural teachings mentioned by the
study director in the prior passage to be part of the domain of the
“official”—that is, the domain in which not a needle is allowed to pass. This
“official” could connote formal thinking and communication, the sort of
(descriptive) thinking in which metaphysical truths are normally formulated,
“saying something about a thing”;
“privately” would then connote the dynamic personal instruction in which the
master brings various (transformative) up˜yas to bear upon the student, “saying something” about nothing, or not about any thing. The claim would
then be that, while “official” truths cannot be conveyed, the expedient means
used in place of them really do get at
the meaning, just as goods smuggled past a checkpoint really arrive at
their destination. This would reverse the original hierarchy, in which
discrepancies between philosophical doctrines established in scripture (the official teachings) and individual (private) teachings result in the
relativization of the teachings (as
merely expedients). Instead, scripture would be regarded as a meaningless
label—thus showing us that Lin-chi’s paradoxical self-validation is not a
return to the Lotus Sutra’s polemical
assertion of its school’s superiority—while the expedient means, allied with the
“wild grass that’s never been cut” is not maintained as such but is to rather absolutized to take the role that was previously played by
scripture, and that was played by the Mah˜y˜na in the Lotus Sutra and sudden realization in the Platform Sutra..
This would still seem, of course, to be in conflict
with some of Lin-chi’s earlier claims about his own teaching—that it has no
true reality, for example. It is possible that, as suggested earlier, Lin-chi
conceives of a continuum of up˜yas, some representing this point of post-relativized
up˜ya-prajñ˜ and others
representing various degrees of relativization. Or,
perhaps it is precisely inasmuch as Lin-chi’s teachings are of the relativity,
hollowness, and incompleteness of all possible teachings, that they are
absolute, real, complete teachings—of the insubstantial nature of the universe.
If Lin-chi were Dōgen (or were interpreted by Dōgen), this would
certainly be(come) the case; all the discussions of
the “empty” labels would be seen as showing their ultimate realization of þ¨nyat˜. And it is more than possible that
something of this spirit moved Lin-chi, though he and his compilers almost
certainly did not intend such a message to be read into the contradiction found
in his teachings.
In
any case, “why should expedient means be at variance with the wisdom that cuts
off delusions?” runs against both the
idea that up˜ya points to but
does not achieve truth, and the idea that it disregards truth. Both assume a disconnect
between up˜ya, the expedient means, and the consciousness which is the goal of the
up˜ya. In Goethe’s terms, it is not protecting the being from being slain
by the sign, but being able to unite sign and being, or rather recognizing the
essential unity of sign and being before they are divided by the ignorance which
destroys the True Dharma Eye.
4. Interpretation in Dōgen
At first glance,
Dōgen seems a weak case for investigating the transformative function of
language. Certainly he would be a poor focus of someone interested in examining
the transformative as opposed to the
descriptive function. Dōgen’s work is profoundly, perhaps primarily
concerned with metaphysics—precisely that extreme of the descriptive dimension
of language that Kasulis/Schroeder and Streng want to avoid. Indeed, his teachings, which seem
almost upsettingly confident about their own truthfulness, might seem to be an
un-relativized metaphysics. Kasulis has tried to
argue that Dōgen is anti-metaphysical, but, as Kevin Schilbrack
points out, this only holds on a limited definition of metaphysics:
When Kasulis
argues that Dōgen rejects metaphysics, he means that Dōgen neither
aspires to the knowledge of things independent of experience nor conceives of
things as unchanging substances.
Neither of these two ideas,
however, is intrinsic to what metaphysics involves. Kasulis
does not explore either the possibility of a metaphysics that seeks to describe
the necessary features of things-as-experienced or the idea that the nature of
these entities might be that of process, becoming, or flow. (Schilbrack, 47)
Kasulis essentially argues that because
Dōgen is a phenomenologist he is therefore not a metaphysician, but in
fact the two vocations are not mutually exclusive. Dōgen’s textual career
could perhaps be described as a metaphysics of
phenomenology or a phenomenological metaphysics; in any case, it is hardly up˜ya-centered or characterized by practice as opposed to theory, though
it is true that Dōgen constantly emphasizes the primacy of meditation over
a merely intellectual or text-based
religiosity.
On the question of
the precise relationship between metaphysics and phenomenology in Zen, it is
worth referring to something Thomas Merton wrote in his preface to Mystics and Zen Masters:
Zen is
not theology, and it makes no claim to deal with theological truth in any form
whatever. Nor is it an abstract metaphysic. It is, so to speak, a concrete and
lived ontology which explains itself not in theoretical propositions but in
acts emerging out of a certain quality of consciousness and awareness. Only by
these acts and by this quality of consciousness can Zen be judged. The
paradoxes and seemingly absurd propositions it makes have no point except in
relation to an awareness that is unspoken and unspeakable. (Merton, xi-x)
Merton is emphasizing the up˜yic character of Zen teachings in a
very absolute way because, as a Catholic, he would like to appropriate Zen
teachings without compromising his Christian faith. So Merton essentially argrees with Schroeder-Kasulis:
Zen eschews metaphysics, does not abide in theory, and is act-centered. But the
rich and pregnant phrase “lived ontology” gets at something deeper than we find
in Schroeder’s account. What would it mean to have an “ontology,”
lived or otherwise, that is different from a “metaphysic”? Merton specifies not
a rejection of metaphysics at large, but of abstract
metaphysics; a concrete metaphysics—that is, metaphysical understanding that is
not divorced from everyday experience and action could fit within his
understanding of Zen as “lived ontology.” The very phrase “lived ontology”
connotes the kind of metaphysical-phenomenological unity that Schilbrack favors. Indeed, the use of “lived” with a
theoretical term is commonly used to specify a phenomenological version or
account of what is denoted by that term.
Still, Schroeder
does make an attempt to appropriate Dōgen into his account of up˜ya-based Buddhism, writing, “For Dōgen, the transformative and soteriological dimension of Buddhism is a ‘face-to-face’
transmission, an intimate relationship between the master and student that is
direct and unmediated.” (Schroeder, 137) This is essentially true—at least if
the “face-to-face” encounter is understood in significant part through
meditative practice. (cf. Waddel and Abe, 102) But
still, Dōgen’s understanding of encounter in no way abrogates his
metaphysical tendencies or relativizes his
teachings—it merely indicates his preference for one particular mode of
practice, which, on Schilbrack’s account, would
likely still be a part of his phenomenological metaphysics. So, having noted
that Dōgen is not characterized by the transformative rather than the descriptive, the question remains whether he is
merely descriptive, in the pre-relativized sense of the Heart Sutra, or whether he demonstrates Lin-chi’s transcendence of
the distinction between the two? Surprisingly, we may find the answer not
through Dōgen’s metaphysical or metapractical
claims, but through his interpretive strategies, his literary style.
Dōgen appears
to take considerable perverse glee in deliberately skewing the intended meaning
of texts he interprets. “I wonder if the sixth patriarch was aware of this
implication,” (Waddel and Abe, 74) he coyly remarks
after one such performance. David Loy divides Dōgen’s interpretive
techniques into ‘Transposition of Lexical Components,” “Semantic Reconstruction
through Syntactic Change,” “Explication of Semantic Attributes,” “Reflexive,
Self-causative Utterances,” “The Upgrading of Commonplace Notions and the Use
of Neglected Metaphors”, “The Use of Homophonous Expressions,” and
“Reinterpretation Based on the Principle of Absolute Emptiness.” (Loy, 252-255)
Each of these techniques is used to transform the meaning of the original
texts, often flamboyantly.
The proximate aim of
any scriptural interpreter anytime, anywhere, is of course simply to use
traditional—and thus authoritative—texts to convey one’s own teachings.
Certainly Dōgen does this, and in doing so flamboyantly repeats Lin-chi’s
hierarchical inversion, legitimating his own views at the expense of past
thinkers, including the authors of the interpreted teachings. But some scholars
see greater implications in Dōgen’s blithe appropriations:
Concepts,
metaphors, parables, and so forth are not just instrumental, convenient means to communicate truth, for they themselves manifest the truth—or,
rather, since that is still too dualistic, they
themselves are the truth that we need to realize. “Metaphor in Dōgen’s
sense is not that which points to something other than itself, but that in
which something realizes itself,” summarizes Kim. “In short,
the truth.” As Dōgen himself puts it… “The Buddha-dharma, even if it is a metaphor,
is ultimate reality.” If I do not try to get some graspable truth from the
metaphor, it can be a way my mind consummates itself: although symbols can be
redeemed only by mind, the mind does not function in a vacuum but is activated
by—or as—symbols. (Loy,
256. Emphasis added.)
In evaluating any interpretive act, we must consider the desires
and/or needs that drive the interpreter. In the (usually) simplest case,
translation, the goal may simply be to render the original meaning
comprehensible in a new language, though this by no means exempts translation
from constituting a re-interpretation, sometimes radical. In other cases, there
is a clear sectarian agenda—bending the text to denounce some other sect, or to
support one’s own. In Dōgen’s case, Loy (drawing on Masao Abe) suggests
that language is being used “against its own mystifications.” (Loy, 258) That
is, Dōgen, while not directly spurning the textual traditions of Buddhism,
refuses to compromise his particular view of reality as it is. He shifts the
meaning of the text, transforming it in his own image, as it were. But for
Dōgen, this is not simply an expedient way to gain authority, but rather
or also is itself a way of
manifesting suchness. “The Buddha-dharma, even if it is a metaphor,
is ultimate reality.” Loy continues,
Dōgen…shows us that words
and metaphors can be understood not just as instrumentally
trying to grasp and convey truth (and therefore dualistically interfering with
our realization of some truth that transcends words), but as being the truth—that is, as being one of
the many ways that Buddha-nature is.
(Loy, 257, some emphasis added)
This is
essentially no different from Lin-chi’s “why should
expedient means be at variance with the wisdom that cuts off delusions?”
Metaphor, in this context, is originally just up˜ya; Dōgen
sees it as having been subjected to exactly what Lin-chi feared—people grown attached
to labels. Loy writes,
By Dōgen’s time, a
number of metaphors had become traditional as ways to contrast this world of
suffering with the realm of enlightenment: for example, gabyō (pictured cakes, which
cannot satisfy our hunger), kūge (literally,
sky-flowers, seen when the eye is defective,
and hence a metaphor for
illusory perceptions)…In this way, too, Buddhist teachings that work to
deconstruct dualisms created new ones, and in the thousand years between N˜g˜rjuna and
Dōgen these images had ossified
to become more problematical. Here, too, Dōgen’s “misinterpretations” revitalize these depreciated terms by
denying the dualism implicit in each. Instead of dismissing pictures (i.e.
concepts), the Gabyō
fascicle emphasizes their importance by transforming “pictures cakes do not
satisfy hunger” into “pictured cakes are no-satisfaction-hunger”, escaping the
dualism of hunger and satisfaction into the nondualism
of a hunger that, because it is itself ultimate reality, lacks nothing: “Because the world and all dharmas are unequivocally pictures, men and dharmas are actualized through pictures, and the buddhas and
patriarchs are perfected through pictures. (Loy, 254, some emphasis added)
Rather than discarding these “ossified” images or making
them objects of distrust, as Lin-chi did, Dōgen preserves them by giving
them a meaning that is alive. Dōgen is reuniting sign and being, up˜ya and prajñ˜. This is essentially identical to Lin-chi’s
transcendence of the transformative-descriptive distinction, but without the
confusion of being said alongside radically self-relativizing
statements. Where Lin-chi is concerned with preservation
of his “True Dharma Eye,”—and thus had to want his students against
reifying his teachings—Dōgen is concerned with restoration and revitalization of meanings that are already lost.
In neither case, however, is the discrepancy between expedient means and metaphysical
truth to be understood as a fundamental part of Buddhism, as Schroeder/Kasulis suggest. And neither are interested in language
that is transformative rather than or
perhaps even more than descriptive,
as Streng suggests. Rather, both seem to be
interested in the truth which is expedient/the expedient which is true, in
language as both transformative and descriptive, as beyond the distinction.
The sign and the being are originally no different—the teacher’s
utterance is not two in its signifying capacity and its status as immediate
manifestation of suchness. But as time passes, danger
creeps in; the utterance becomes divided into sign and signifier, taken as
pointing to some reality apart from itself. Thus Lin-chi inherited a vocabulary
of empty labels, and he knew his students, despite his efforts, would likely
inherit more such from him. He attempted to head this off by engaging in a form
of teaching that was immediate and often physical—a form of teaching that would
not readily lend itself to ossification. For this very reason, the Lin-chi lu would likely have horrified him. Dōgen,
faced with a similar inheritance of empty labels, sought not to move to
different forms of communication, but to revitalize
the labels themselves through radical reinterpretation, to bring them back into contact with the truth. If one
had to choose, Dōgen’s would probably be the
more sensible strategy, since rather than attempting to head off the
inevitable, it presents a positive model for countering it once it has
occurred.
5. Conclusion
For Streng, Schroeder, and Kasulis,
Buddhism and in particular the up˜ya represent a turn away from
metaphysics, away from the “true” or “ultimate” state of reality, and towards a
technical, practical knowledge in language that is transformative more than or
rather than descriptive, that is, that is intended to fundamentally or
holistically transform the individual, rather than merely to add the cognition
of some object to their consciousness.
This only fits
perfectly two texts mentioned here—the Lotus
Sutra and The Platform Sutra,
which express precisely the full-fledged doctrine of up˜ya as an expedient means used in
place of an inexpressible truth. But even here, the strong form of up˜ya emerges at least to some extent from its essentially polemical
function. We find a very different picture in the later Zen thinkers, Lin-chi
and Dōgen, who each in his own way argue against and, through their modes
of teaching and interpretation, respectively, act to oppose the disjunction of
“expedient means” from “wonderful understanding,” “metaphor” from “Buddha-nature.”
The Vajraccedik˜ is a somewhat more ambiguous case. It does not speak of up˜ya at all, but rather embodies a metapractical
concern that Schroeder was correct to associate with up˜ya, and which results in the tense
two-level “logic of not.” This brings it more or less into agreement with
Schroeder/Kasulis, though because it is directed
towards the conditions for transformation (of others) rather than enacting
transformation itself, it perhaps fits Streng’s
concept of transformative language less than Schroeder’s. However, we mentioned
that it might be possible to understand the logic of not as a precursor to Dōgen’s
phenomenological metaphysics. Recall that the logic of not is invoked to
provide the Bodhisattva with a way of thinking that keeps one foot, as it were,
in the plane of sattvas (apparent beings/essences)
and one in the plane of nirv˜õa. This way of thinking corresponds to the
practical predicament of the Bodhisattva—that is, it is a way of formulating
the world that is presented to the lived experience of the Bodhisattva; it
bears some resemblance to a phenomenological metaphysics. It is possible that this,
then, with its attempt to have its cake and eat it too by using two-level
thought is getting at the kind practical unification of the relative and the
absolute that we find in Lin-chi with “why should expedient means be at
variance with the wisdom that cuts off delusions?” and in Dōgen
with “The Buddha-dharma, even if it is a metaphor, is
ultimate reality.” This would be in line, further, with N˜g˜rjuna’s assertion of the identity of nirv˜õa and saÕs˜ra; if the two planes are ultimately one, then the modes of practice
and knowledge appropriate to them would be unified as well. It might also form
a progressive development of one version of Buddhist phenomenological
metaphysics, from the Vaj. through
Lin-chi to Dōgen, with the
ambiguities and contradictions about relativization in Lin-chi showing an
intermediate stage in the development. Since this version comes to fruition in
Zen, the form of Buddhism perhaps most concerned with mysticism, and because it
initiates in the perfection of wisdom literature, this bears strongly on Streng’s account of the transformative, because Streng’s article is a contribution to constructivist
philosophy on Buddhist mysticism, and his main textual source is from the
perfection of wisdom literature.
Interestingly enough, the idea of a continuity between the Vaj. and Dōgen would fit Loy’s analysis of N˜g˜rjuna and Dōgen. Toward the end of his article, Loy
suggests that the Sanskrit language, while perfectly suited to the generation
of fertile paradoxes, could not provide a full expression of the implications
of N˜g˜rjuna’s own philosophy; rather, Dōgen provides that fulfillment in his unification of
instrumental (metaphorical) language with ultimate reality. While
N˜g˜rjuna
wrote in slightly different language than the Vaj.
(actual, as opposed to Buddhist Hybrid, Sanskrit), and in much more explicitly
philosophical terms, we have noted previously his close affiliation with the
perfection of wisdom literature; what holds for him—and for the limits of his
philosophy—should hold, more or less, for the Vaj. as well.
Overall, the texts
we’ve looked at suggest that while Streng, Schroeder,
and Kasulis have contributed something useful and to
some extent accurate in their accounts of up˜ya and transformative language,
their characterizations to some extent fall short. They re-instantiate a kind
of duality (between transformative and descriptive, between up˜ya and metaphysics) that is perhaps not sufficiently in line with the Buddhistic worldview to account for it comprehensively, or
to deal with contradictory cases like Lin-chi.
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