The stories that come from a one-off are not customarily staged. The person could have gone on a journey whether or not a publisher gave them an advance. When the non-writer left, they were not a writer but must they have become a writer, otherwise nothing would have been written.
Is this silly to even discuss. To be human is to experience and be reflective. If we do not, does this mean we are not human? These are awkward questions to answer with the intellect. Maybe the questions need to be simplified to, what allows me to ask the question, or the inverse, what allows me to expect an answer. In this, the inverse seems the ultimate conceit.
I was trained in the biological sciences: from the basic molecular building blocks to the circuitry of the brain. Along the way, I dissected multiple species, teasing out their intimate details. I understand, at least conceptually, the chemical nature of a neuron’s function. But none of this gives me a clue about how to answer the above questions.
Several years ago I decided that instead of buying new books I would strive to read the books I already have. With this in mind, I reached for a book that has spent decades patiently waiting to be noticed. It is a compact volume expertly printed in Japan by The Hokuseido Press. I have the first printing from 1966 but alas, not its jacket. It is Volume Four of R.H. Blyth’s series Zen and Zen Classics titled Mumonkan.
I was unprepared as I flippantly flipped through its pages for how thoroughly it would grab my attention and relate to the above dilemma. Even though it is a sequential record of 48 “Cases”, I cannot read it page for page. I jump from the preface to multiple cases and then back to the introduction, which only lead me to the index in a vain attempt to make sense of what I am reading.
This thesis on the teaching and transmission of Zen was first published in 1229. Mumon, the compiler, gathered the content from many different sources. Each case is presented in a similar format but I am uncertain if that was the wish of Mumon or R.H. Blyth. There is the title, a discussion of the protagonists, the case is stated followed by commentary and finally a verse.
It is a curious book, for Blyth uses both the translation of the cases (presented in the form of a koan), and an interactive style of pithy comments and illustrative examples from western writers to help explain Zen’s universality within its intangibility.
Blyth has strong opinions and though he is enamored of Buddhism, especially Zen, it does not prevent him from harsh criticism. In Case XXXII, Buddha and the Non-Buddhist, he writes that he has “warm friendly feelings” for Christ but only “coldness” for the Buddha. In this case the Non-Buddhist says to the Buddha, “I do not ask for words; I do not ask for silence.” And then when there is no reply he states that the Buddha’s compassion “has enabled me to enter on the Way.” and departs.
A discussion begins between the Buddha and his disciple Ananda about what the Non-Buddhist understood and if I read it correctly, the Non-Buddhist comprehends the encounter better than Buddha’s disciple. The commentary continues. There is talk of a horse and a whip, and of balancing on the edge of a sword, and since I am not a Buddhist scholar, I suggest you read it for yourself. It is on page 223.
The discourse has my mind doing cartwheels. The mental gymnastics leads me back to my original question: when does a non-writer become a writer? I realize that my “simplified” version — Is it possible to ask an intangible question with the expectation of a tangible answer — adds more complexity.
I stop, take a deep breath, and find that I have broken into a fine sweat. It is August after all, and the air is thick with moisture and the sound of unseen cicadas. Time to move on. The delight is that each individual, whether Buddhist or not, must work this out for him or herself. With the male life expectancy in the USA approaching 80 years, I have seventeen years left to find an answer. That is if my intangible intellect holds out!
August 2016
