zen and the art of divebombing, or the dark side of the tao

zen and the art of divebombing,

or
the dark side of the tao

in the bhagavad gita, arjuna is taught by krishna that it is his dharma as a

warrior to fight the righteous battle with his cousins and kill them, and that
if he kills them without passion or expectation, practicing karmayoga, he can
achieve salvation even while he does this. a similar mix of purposes, religious
and martial, though with major differences, can be found centuries later with
the samurai warrior class of japan, and with the militaristic ideology that
later developed in modern japan.
although fighting battles and killing enemies would seem to violate the
buddha-dharma, specifically the precept of the buddha not to kill, an apparent
violation that has troubled many over the years, certain samurai, and later the
modern military, ultimately could see themselves as fulfilling a buddhist
purpose in what they did, even in the horrors of world war ii in the pacific.
the code of the samurai, later called bushid�, the "way of the warrior," was in
no way a religious duty like arjuna's dharma, but a connection between religion
and battle was made through the way in which zen buddhism wedded buddhist
purposes to both the taoist practice of an art or a craft and, in a historical
tradition dominated by a military class, the japanese "martial arts."
while the most important modern political application of karmayoga has been
mah�tm� Gandhi's satyagraha, "non-violent resistance," which inspired martin
luther king's conduct of the civil rights movement in the united states, the mix
of zen and bushid� arguably contributed to the aggression and war crimes of
japan during the "china incident" and the pacific war. the ultimate lesson, as
we shall see, is one about the nature of morality.
"zen" is the japanese pronunciation of the name of a school of buddhism that
originally began in china, combining buddhist ideas with influence from the
ancient chinese school of taoism. the chinese name was "ch'an" (, ch�n in pinyin
-- the character at far left is a modern simplified japanese version), which
itself was the chinese pronunciation of dhyana, "meditation," in sanskrit. it
has become common to use "zen" to refer to the ch'an school both in china and in
the other places to which the school spread, like korea and vietnam. this has
occurred probably because zen was popularized in the west by japanese
practitioners like d.t. suzuki (1870-1966). the chart illustrates the historic
flow of influence, with the korean and vietnamese pronunciations, as well as the
japanese, of "ch'an." the major schools of zen in japan are also given.
traditionally, ch'an is supposed to have begun in china with a semi-legendary
buddhist missionary from india, bodhidharma (died c.528) -- japanese bodai
daruma, or just daruma. the story is that bodhidharma arrived in china, went to
the shao-lin monastery, famous as the place were kung-fu (from , "ability; work;
service"), chinese boxing, is supposed to have originated (and so popularized in
the kung fu television series, starring david carradine, in the 1970's), and sat
down to stare at a wall. after nine years, he suddenly achieved enlightenment.
bodhidharma is often shown with legs that are whithered, or have even fallen
off, because of how long he had sat on them, cutting off the circulation.
in this strange story, bodhidharma is supposed to have achieved "sudden
enlightenment," whose characteristic is not just that it is sudden but that it
is inexplicable. there is nothing about the wall, or about what bodhidharma was
thinking about (if anything), that explains why or how he achieved
enlightenment. this goes back to a fundamental feature of buddhist thought, that
not everything about reality is or can be explained. thus, when the buddha was
asked about certain things, he said they were "questions which tend not to
edification," and refused to answer them. the buddha said:
 bear always in mind what it is that i have not elucidated, and what it is that
i have elucidated. and what have i not elucidated? i have not elucidated that
the world is eternal; i have not elucidated that the world is not eternal; i
have not elucidated that the world is finite; i have not elucidated that the
world is infinite; i have not elucidated that the soul and the body are
identical; i have not elucidated that the soul is one thing and the body
another; i have not elucidated that the saint [arhat, one who achieves
enlightenment in therav�da buddhism] exists after death; i have not elucidated
that the saint does not exist after death; i have not elucidated that the
saint both exists and does not exist after death; i have not elucidated that
the saint neither exists nor does not exist after death. and why have i not
elucidated this? because this profits not, nor has to do with the fundamentals
of relgiion, nor tends to aversion, absence of passion, cessation, quiescence,
the supernatural faculties, supreme wisdom, and nirvana; therefore have i not
elucidated it.
and what have i elucidated? misery [duhkha, pain, suffering -- from the root
du, to burn, pain, torment] have i elucidated; the origin of misery have i
elucidated; the cessation of misery have i elucidated; and the path leading to
the cessation of misery have i elucidated [i.e. the four noble truths]. and
why have i elucidated this? because this does profit, has to do with the
fundamentals of religion, and tends to aversion, absence of passion,
cessation, quiescence, knowledge, supreme wisdom, and nirvana; therefore have
i elucidated it. [henry clarke warren, buddhism in translation, harvard
university press, 1896, atheneum, 1962-1987, p.122 -- sutta-pit.aka,
majjhima-nik�ya, sutta 63]
the buddha's refusal to "elucidate" that the saint exists after death, or does
not exist, or both, or neither, produces one of the basic principles of buddhist
thought, the fourfold negation (or "tetralemma"). the greek hellenistic
philosopher pyrrho of elis picked up this idea while in india with the army of
alexander the great, and taught a skepticism where we are to "suspend judgment"
in all things, refusing to say of anything either that it is, or that it is not,
or both, or neither. the buddhist origin of this is unmistakable, even if we did
not also have credible evidence of pyrrho having been in india. in buddhism
itself, a stronger idea developed, not just that these issues do not "tend to
edification," but that the nature of reality is such that these rational
alternates cannot apply to it, so that, in fact, the saint neither exists after
death nor does not exist nor both nor neither -- because, whatever the nature of
the saint's existence, it is beyond rational comprehension, beyond the
affirmation or denial of any possible predicate.
we see this in a story recorded about bodhidharma by tao-y�an (D�gen, in
japanese) in about 1004. desiring to choose a "dharma heir" and return to india,
bodhidharma asked his closest students to state the essence of his teaching
[these are the japanese versions of their names]:
dofuku said, "in my opinion, truth is beyond affirmation or negation, for this
is the way it moves."
bodhidharma replied: "you have my skin."
the nun soji said: "in my view, it is like ananda's sight of the buddha-land
-- seen once and for ever."
bodhidharma answered: "you have my flesh."
doiku said: "the four elements of light [i.e. fire], airiness [i.e. air],
fluidity [i.e. water], and solidity [i.e. earth] are empty [sh�nya, i.e.
neither existence nor non-existence, etc.] and the five skandhas are
no-things. in my opinion, no-thing is reality."
bodhidharma commented: "you have my bones."
finally, eka bowed before the master -- and remained silent.
bodhidharma said: "you have my marrow."
[paul reps, zen flesh, zen bones, charles e. tuttle, 1967, anchor books, and
shambhala, 1994, pp.ix-x]
in buddhism, the "marrow" here is a distinctively ch'an idea, that the ultimate
teaching is silent. this is not, of course, an unfamiliar idea in china, where
taoism was already the "silent teaching" and the tao te ching said, "one who
knows does not speak; one who speaks does not know" [lvi:128]. this
characteristically taoist idea, then, is assimilated into buddhism through
ch'an. a buddhist background for it, however, needed to be discovered
or....manufactured. the legend that developed was that bodhidharma was the 28th
"patriarch" in a line of apostolic succession from the buddha's disciple,
mah�k�shyapa, who had smiled faintly and attracted the buddha's attention after
the buddha delivered a sermon and was just twirling a lotus flower. mah�k�shyapa
understood that the real teaching was the silent twirling of the lotus, and the
buddha recognized that he alone understood this.
as it happens, one of the most important buddhist texts in the mah�y�na
tradition is the lotus s�tra (in full, the saddharma pun.d.ar�ka s�tra, the
"sutra of the true dharma of the lotus blossom," miao-fa lien-hua ching in
chinese and my�h� renge ky� in japanese), which has the peculiar structure of
referring to a sermon that the buddha gives, the lotus sermon, even while it is
never clear that he actually does give this sermon in the text (cf. leon
hurvitz, scripture of the lotus blossom of the fine dharma, columbia university
press, 1976). although i don't know if the claim was ever made, the ch'an
tradition could easily say that the "lotus sermon" was in fact the silent
twirling of the flower, which could not be recorded in the text, but which did
constitute the extra-texual "silent teaching." as it happens, the episode with
mah�k�shyapa is supposed to have taken place on gr.dhrak�t.a, "vulture peak"
("mount of the numinous eagle" to hurvitz), which is where the sermon of the
lotus sutra was located.
thus, ch'an claimed a special "transmission separate from texts," which had to
be confirmed in someone by a person in the line of transmission from
mah�k�shyapa. the idea of the transmission apart from texts could be fiercely
denied by other buddhist figures. zen may sometimes seem to dispense with texts
altogether, but this tendency was even criticized by some zen figures, like
d�gen (1200-1253), who said that without texts buddhism was nothing but "bald
headed monks." indeed.
since each person's enlightenment needs to be certified by someone in the
apostolic succession, ch'an contains an essential element that could easily
become authoritarian and dictatorial, depending on the personal authority of the
certified teachers. but ch'an contains the opposite tendency also, at times
seeming very antinomian, anarchic, and individualistic, as in the saying that if
you meet the buddha on the road, you should kill him -- since enlightenment is
not be found in some person. other factors will determine which tendency
predominates at different times and places.
the indirect nature of the "silent teaching" can be illustrated with a couple of
examples. one is a story, the very first one i ever heard about zen (back in
1967):
a young man hears that there is a zen master living as a hermit in the forest.
he decides to become his student. after much searching, he finds the hut of
the old master, and the man himself is out in front of the hut, raking leaves.
introducing himself and explaining his desire to become the master's student,
the young man is surprised to then receive no answer. the old man has
continued his raking and never even looks up or acknowledges the young man's
presence. this is naturally very disconcerting, and the young man stands and
thinks for some time. then he does off in another part of the forest and
builds his own hut. ten years later, while he is raking leaves, he suddenly
achieves enlightenment (satori). he immediately returns to the old zen master,
bows, and says, "thank you."
this little story exhibits the purest form of the "silent teaching." indeed, it
is no less than the "silent treatment" by the old zen master. few zen masters
are so reticent. the japanese zen master bankei (1622-1693) was famous for his
popular lectures. but this story illustrates very well the idea that
enlightenment cannot be conveyed by language. indeed, there is a familiar saying
that nothing can be said that can do more for enlightenment than what a finger
pointing at the moon can do for seeing the moon. in this image, it is not hard
to understand that the finger is not the moon, has basically nothing to do with
the moon, and that once the moon is seen, the finger becomes superfluous and
irrelevant. someone who continued pointing at the moon after all others had
already seen it would be thought a fool. i especially like his image because i
had a cat once, and whenever i used to set out her dinner and tried to point to
it, she always just looked at my finger. in ch'an, one would say that we are
distracted by the language the same way that my cat was distracted by my finger.
with my cat, i could move my finger toward her dinner, and eventually she would
notice the food and forget about the finger. with enlightenment, or even with
the moon, such an expedient is not available.
bodhidharma is supposed to have anointed as his successor (the "second
patriarch" in china) his student hui-k'o (eka, the "marrow" student above, in
japanese). after the death of the fifth patriarch, heng-jen, there was a split
in the tradition, resulting in the northern school, of shen-hsui, who held that
enlightenment is attained gradually (a common idea in buddhism at the time, when
it was thought that merit, from worthy deeds, needed to be accumulated over many
lifetimes), and the southern school, of hui-neng (638-713, en�, in japanese),
who taught the charactestic ch'an idea of sudden and spontaneous enlightenment.
the southern school is the one that became particularly antinomian, careless of
ritual, and emphasizing the "silent teaching" passed from teacher to student.
eventually the southern school eclipsed the northern school, but by the 9th
century, two more tendencies began to differentiate ch'an practice, over the
manner of meditation. the basic practice of meditation, as bodhidharma seemed to
be doing it himself, was called "just sitting" (tso-ch'an in chinese, zazen in
japanese -- or, more commonly, ). this is meditation without any of the
meditative aids familiar from india, mantras (words or formulas), man.d.alas
(diagrams), or mudr�s (gestures). staring at a wall for nine years is indeed
"just sitting." this practice becomes characteristic of the ts'ao-tung school in
china, the s�t� school in japan.
another form of practice also became popular, however. stories or questions that
had arisen in the tradition could themselves become the objects of meditation
(as, in effect, mantras). these were called kung-an in chinese -- , k�an in
japanese -- a term that originally meant a judge's table and which came to mean
court cases. so in meditation one can consider "cases." this became
characteristic of the lin-chi school in china, the rinzai school in japan.
it is a japanese k�an, from hakuin (1685-1768), that is probably the most famous
of all. to begin meditation, one might be asked (by the master or by the abbot
of one's monastary), "what is the sound of one hand clapping?" several simple
answers might suggest themselves. the sound of one hand clapping could be
silence. "silent teaching," right? or it might be slapping the hand against
one's thigh, or even clapping the palm of the hand with the fingers on the same
hand. all of these answers, however reasonable, might only earn a beating from
the zen master. the point of all such k�ans is that there is no answer. the
negation goes deeper than just saying either "silence" or "no sound." the
negation applies to the question itself: it is a self-contradictory question.
one hand cannot clap. so the whole idea of the sound of one hand clapping is
meaningless.
what is the point of asking meaningless questions? entirely to disrupt rational
thought and make the mind jump the tracks that normally confine it. since that
is the only way to get at enlightenment, which also defeats rational thought,
then even humble questions can do the job. but how does one answer the question
to the satisfaction of the zen master? with an answer just as meaningless and
irrelevant as the question, or perhaps by giving the zen master a beating
himself.
 a monk asked fuketsu: "without speaking, without silence, how can you express
the truth?"
fuketsu observed: "i always remember springtime in southern china. the birds
sing among innumerable kinds of fragrant flowers." [zen flesh, zen bones,
p.200]
meditation by "just sitting" and by trying to answer a k�an are what i call the
theoretical side of ch'an. in mediation what you want is knowledge or
understanding. you are not doing anything. indeed, in zen meditation there is a
tendency for one to fall asleep, which is why a proctor is often used to thrash
sitters back to consciousness. bodhidharma may have achieved enlightenment after
staring at his wall, but he had not done anything practical, and, if his legs
really whithered, he had damaged his ability to ever do very much that was
practical. we find, however, a zen tradition that displays a practical
application of its ideas. this is especially conspicuous in the zen classic, zen
in the art of archery (originally zen in der kunst des bogenschiessens), by the
german philosophy professor eugen herrigel (1884-1955).
herrigel had been interested in zen for some time and managed to get a teaching
appointment in japan, from 1923 to 1929, just so he could explore the
"mysticism" of such a different tradition. however, he was discouraged at every
attempt to enter into the practice of meditation. his japanese hosts (in their
own politely xenophobic way) did not think that meditation would be to his taste
(i.e. the gaijin isn't up to it). what was eventually suggested, however, was
that he study an art under a zen master. archery was something he already knew a
little, so that seemed like an agreeable avenue. his wife simultaneously took up
flower arranging [note].
the archery techniques were rather different from what was familiar to him. but
the first lesson, drawing the bow, was not so bad. the second lesson, however,
was very bad. he was told by the archery master that he must release the arrow
without releasing the arrow: "you mustn't open the right hand on purpose" [zen
in the art of archery, vintage books, 1989, p.29]. this would seem to be a
necessarily impossible task. if one is to release the arrow, then the arrow will
necessarily need to be released? no? evidently not.
familiarity with ch'an and taoism, however, answers the paradox of the
instruction. an impossible task is a kind of k�an, but to do this, to release
the arrow without releasing the arrow, without purpose or intention, this is
thoroughly explained by something else: it calls for not-doing (), the
fundamental principle of taoism. taoism is about actions and already has views
about art and practice. the zen practice of the "art of archery" combines taoist
theory and taoist purposes with buddhist theory and buddhist purposes. the
taoist purpose of art is to perfect an art and achieve beauty. these are
purposes wholly alien to buddhism. back in india, the idea that buddhism might
be used to achieve beauty in life would be absolutely farcical. in india,
buddhist meditation on the transiency of life might take place at a cremation
ground or other places where death and decay are present and obvious. by the
time buddhism gets to japan, meditation on the transiency of life might take
place in the presence of blooming cherry trees, whose flowers are indeed
transient, but which are certainly far more pleasant to contemplate than burning
or rotting corpses. herrigel says:

the effortlessness of a performance for which great strength is needed is a

spectacle of whose aesthetic beauty the east has an exceedingly sensitive and
grateful appreciation. [ibid., p.27]
but it is not an "appreciation" that comes from buddhism. the buddhist purpose
of any practice, of course, is to achieve enlightenment and nirvana, the things
that the buddha "elucidated" above. how are these buddhist purposes accomplished
through the practice of an art? or, more specificially, accomplished through
not-doing? we can find the answer by asking what is doing the practice if the
artist himself is "not" doing it. as it happens, herrigel's archery master says
something about this:
then, one day, after a shot, the master made a deep bow and broke off the
lessson, "just then 'it' shot!" he cried, as i stared at him bewildered...
"what i have said," the master told me severely, "was not praise, only a
statement that ought not to touch you. nor was my bow meant for you, for you
are entirely innocent of this shot. [ibid., pp.52-53]
when herrigel achieves not-doing, he does not release the arrow, but "it"
releases the arrow. when herrigel asks what "it" might be, he is told, "once you
have understood that, you will have no further need of me" [p.52].
in taoist terms, the answer to what the "it" might be is fairly simple: when we
achieve not-doing, it is the tao that does whatever is done. but the tao is not
part of buddhism -- except perhaps as the fourth noble truth, the "way" -- but
certainly not as a metaphysical agent. what releases the arrow for buddhism?
well, if the purpose of buddhism is to achieve enlightenment, then the purpose
of buddhism is to become a buddha. if achieving not-doing means achieving
enlightenment, then it is one's own self as a buddha that releases the arrow. of
course, in buddhism there is no self, so we cannot really say it is "one's own
self" that becomes a buddha. what we find instead is that it is one's "buddha
nature" that is realized in enlightenment. so we can say that one's buddha
nature is "it" and that it is the buddha nature that releases the arrow.
now, herrigel's teacher does not discuss the buddha nature, so in zen in the art
of archery ones never does learn what "it" is. while the buddha nature is
commonly discussed in mah�y�na buddhism, and also in zen (e.g. bankei), there is
a zen tradition to avoid the idea as not "tending to edification." thus the
chinese master chao-chou (778-897, joshu in japanese) was asked whether a dog
had a buddha nature. since dogs are sentient beings, and all sentient beings can
be reborn as humans and become buddhas, dogs would ordinarily be said to
certainly have a buddha nature. however, chao-chou answered "wu!" in chinese.
this is often translated as "no!" but it is not the ordinary chinese negative
for "no" or "not" (which would be pu -- in wade-giles, bu in pinyin -- mathews'
chinese-english dictionary, character 5379, [harvard university press, 1943,
1972]). chao-chou uses mathew's character 7180, , whose meaning is given there
as "without; apart from; none. a negative" [p.1065]. chao-chou is not really
answering "no" to the question, i.e. to deny that a dog has a buddha nature; he
is saying not to ask the question, which is hard to do in one word -- but this
is the traditional and reasonable interpretation of his answer. since the
japanese pronunciation of wu is mu (hence, the "mu k�an"), one japanese author
playfully suggested that chao-chou was simply making a noise like a cow ("moo!")
and not answering the question at all. in the "gateless gate," the chinese
master ekai (1183-1260, japanese pronunciation), comments with a poem stating
the unanswerability of the question:
has a dog a buddha-nature?
this is the most serious question of all.
if you say yes or no,
you lose your own buddha-nature.
[zen flesh, zen bones, p.165]
the "silent teaching" thus may avoid the issue of the buddha nature altogether,
but if we want to know what not-doing has to do with buddhism, it is the buddha
nature that is available in place of the taoist tao. this ties together buddhist
practice and taoist practice and the dual goals of enlightenment and beauty.
further debates occur about whether the buddha nature is acquired, through
practice and the accumulation of merit, or is original, i.e. inherent in all
beings capable of enlightenment. this question would, of course, be even more
irksome for the likes of ekai, so we need not consider it any more here, except
to give a characteristic quote from bankei, whose whole teaching rested on the
"unborn" buddha-mind, i.e. everyone's original buddha nature:
not a single one of you people at this meeting is unenlightened. right now,
you're all sitting before me as buddhas. each of you received the buddha-mind
 from your mothers when you were born, and nothing else. this inherited
buddha-mind is beyond any doubt unborn, with a marvelously bright illuminative
wisdom. in the unborn, all things are perfectly resolved. [the unborn, the
life and teaching of zen master bankei, 1622-1693, translated and with an
introduction by norman waddell, north point press, san francisco, 1984, p.35]
bankei's statement, "in the unborn, all things are perfectly resolved,"
highlights another aspect to this. if buddhist practice can produce beauty, then
maybe this world, the place of birth, disease, old age, and death, is not so bad
after all. maybe we don't really need to avoid rebirth -- the goal of all indian
religion. indeed, the chinese influence in ch'an tended to turn buddhism from a
world-denying religion into a more world-affirming religion. this can be stated
in traditional buddhist terms. the buddha himself achieved enlightenment under
the bodhi tree, but the sutta-pit.aka states clearly that he achieved nirvana at
his death -- "and rising from the fourth trance, immediately the blessed one
passed into nirvana" [buddhism in translation, op. cit., p.110]. we have a
special term for that occasion, the pari-nirv�n.a, the "complete" nirvana. if
the purpose of buddhist practice is to be free of sam.s�ra, the round of birth
and death, then this could only be accomplished through a parinirv�n.a.
on the other hand, was the buddha really still suffering after he achieved
enlightenment? if not, then he had achieved nirvana already and sam.s�ra had
actually been transformed into a place without suffering. the metaphysical
possibility for this had been opened in mah�y�na buddhism by the m�dhyamika
("middle") school. the greatest philosopher of this school, and possibly the
greatest buddhist philosopher ever, nag�rjuna (c.150-250), had applied the
fourfold negation to most attempts at rational understanding, even to the
difference between nirvana and sam.s�ra, which thus come out neither the same,
nor different, nor both, nor neither. this ambiguity opened the way for
world-affirming chinese interpretations, and probably for the much more worldly
tantrism of the vajray�na stage of buddhism even in india. ch'an, with its
taoist side, was never very interested in being free of the world, and when it
became attached to the practice of arts and skills, it could even see itself as
supremely successful at participating in worldly affairs. other schools of
chinese buddhism, like t'ien t'ai (tendai in japan), became similarly world
affirming, as did some distinctively japanese schools.
thus, we often find statements in east asian buddhism that the fruit of
enlightenment is to see that life and the world are just fine the way they are.
this is rather astonishing in comparison to the original message and milieu of
buddhism back in india, but it naturally reflects both the internal evolution of
buddhist thought and the powerful influence, once the message arrives in china,
of a civilization that no one would ever mistake for being world-denying, or
"otherwordly" in any sense.
now, i have been considering the case of eugen herrigel learning the "art of
archery"; but there is something odd about that art. it was not invented in
order to shoot at straw targets, as herrigal and his teacher do. no, archery had
the very practical purpose of use in hunting, to shoot bambi, or in war, to
shoot people. indeed, herrigel's teacher says, "we master archers say: one shot
-- one life!" [p.31]. archery is a martial art, i.e. an art of war.
although archery was originally the most important martial art in japan, and
shooting targets from horseback is still a practiced sport, eventually the sword
became for the warrior class of mediaeval japan, the samurai, the most imporant
weapon, at least in theory. "the sword is the soul of the samurai" -- though
this became the case mainly during the edo period, when there was rarely real
fighting, apart from duels, and when firearms, which had decided battles in the
16th century, had all been seized and destroyed. the edo samurai were required
by law to carry two swords, and no one else was permited to carry more than one
short sword (the wakizashi) for self defense. today the basic techniques of
sword fighting can still be learned in the sport of kend� (the "way of the
sword"), and the techniques special to using an actual sword can be learned in
the martial art of iaid� (the "art of drawing the sword"). both of these
disciplines can be considered parts of kenjutsu (the "art of the sword").
the sword as an art easily fits a taoist paradigm, articulated through the k�an
of a chinese master, who said that before he ever studied ch'an, he always
thought that mountains were just mountains. then when he began studying, he
found that mountains were not mountains (a typical taoist paradox). after long
study, he stopped worrying about this and mountains went back to being mountains
again. this easily describes the stages of reaching enlightenment through
meditation, but it can also describe the stages of learning an art or skill, not
just something like the sword, but even very humble skills.
for instance, learning to drive an automobile with a clutch, which cannot be
done without some instruction, actually involves a very simple rule: (1) step on
the clutch, (2) put the engine in gear, and (3) slowly step on the gas pedal and
the release the clutch at the same time. this simple procedure always turns out
to be very difficult to effect. it takes, not more instruction, but just
constant practice. eventually, it becomes easy, smooth, and natural, and the
driver simply forgets about it, doing it automatically, which is good, since a
driver needs to look where he is going. learning the use of a sword has an added
aspect that a completely ignorant person can still pick up a sword and, in
general, know what to do with it. such a person can even be dangerous, since in
a fight he will be desperate and there is no telling what they might do. someone
who receives instruction, however, is endangered by their own concentration on
the techniques they are learning. they may even be a worse swordsman than the
ignorant person, until the techniques become natural and automatic. this is
easily explained by the circumstance that ignorance is much more like
"not-doing" than is the "doing," effort, and trying of the stage of instruction.

another humble example also illustrates the taoist principle of "no-mind"

(wu-hsin, ), which is the emptiness of thought that results from the not-doing
of the mind. typing is a skill that anyone can practice, since the identity of
the letters is usually printed on the keys. anyone can thus sit down and type,
by the "hunt and peck" method, usually using just index fingers. people can go
their whole lives typing like this and doing just fine. on the other hand, "hunt
and peck" can never be all that fast, and anyone might wish to increase their
speed and facility by taking lessons in "touch typing," where all the fingers
are assigned to particular keys. beginning instruction, one's typing is
certainly much worse than even the slowest "hunt and peck" typist; and it takes
some time to develop ease and facility with the method. eventually, however,
one's fingers become accustomed to hitting certain keys, and speeds of 70, 100,
or more words-per-minute can be achieved. a very odd thing may then happen.
years after i had learned to type, i realized that i had actually forgotten,
consciousnessly, where all the keys were. my fingers would go them them
automatically when typing a word, but if i asked myself, "where is such-and-such
a key," it often took some thought, or looking, to identify where the key was.
this loss of memory, while retaining an automatic skill, is a perfect example of
"no-mind." with the sword, the ideal was to be able, with thought, to
spontaneously draw, strike, and kill all in the same blinding motion. i think
this is why baseball is popular in japan -- a game with a great deal of standing
around but where, once the ball is hit, the action proceeds in a flash, and
players who stop to think what to do will certainly commit an "error."
with the sword, there is indeed little else to really do with it but kill. but
war and killing raise the awkward problem, for anyone in east asia, that they
violate the moral precept of the buddha not to kill. this injunction was taken
very seriously in the entire history of buddhism, and even in japan it was long
believed that fowlers and fishermen would fall into one of the buddhist hells
(of which there are many) because they killed sentient beings. they did not
practice what, in the eightfold way, would be called "right livelihood." and
besides, if the purpose of buddhism is to eradicate suffering, doesn't killing
inflict suffering? but if fowlers and fishermen would fall into hell for their
professions, what about men whose livelihood involved killing, not just sentient
beings, but human beings? this would mean the samurai. what is going to prevent
them from falling into hell?
it has now become common to see the samurai as resorting to zen to effect their
salvation. thus, in his zen and japanese culture [1938, bollingen series lxiv,
princeton university press, 1959], d.t. suzuki said:
we have the saying in japan: "the tendai is for the royal family, the shingon
for the nobility, the zen for the warrior classes, and the j�do for the
masses." this saying fitly characterizes each sect of buddhism in japan.
[p.63]
actually, it doesn't. one of the greatest samurai of all, the first edo period
sh�gun, tokugawa ieyasu, was a patron of j�do, or "pure land" buddhism. the
great appeal of j�do for a samurai was its teaching that all of us are
hopelessly sinful, all destined for hell, and that our only chance for salvation
is to rely on the power of the original vow of the buddha amit�bha (amida butsu
in japanese) to cause all beings who call on him to be born into his western
paradise, his pure land, where they can work out their salvation without
suffering or distractions (like sex -- people are born from lotuses). invoking
amida means chanting the "nembutsu" -- namu amida butsu -- where namu comes from
sanskrit namas, "bowing, obeisance, adoration."
j�do, and the closely related j�do shin-shu, are still the most popular forms of
buddhism in japan; and so suzuki's saying that it is for the "masses" is, as far
as that goes, accurate. but besides a samurai like ieyasu, and his predecessor
toyotomi hideyoshi (who is buried on amida-yama in ky�to), we also have a
counterexample to suzuki in perhaps the greatest japanese epic, the heike
monogatari (the tale of the heike, c.1240 -- or see the story of "hoichi the
earless" in masaki kobayashi's classic 1964 movie kwaidan). as the fleet of the
samurai clan of the taira is defeated at the battle of dan-no-ura by the
minamoto clan in 1185, and the child emperor antoku is about to die with his
grandmother, nii-no-ama, when she jumps with him into the water, she first tells
him to face east, to honor the sun goddess amaterasu-�mikami at ise, and to the
west, to invoke the buddha amida and his pure land.
she turned her face to the young sovereign, holding back her tears. "don't you
understand? you became an emperor because you obeyed the ten good precepts in
your last life, but now an evil karma holds you fast in its toils. your good
fortune has come to an end. turn to the east and say goodbye to the grand
shrine of ise, then turn to the west and repeat the sacred name of amida
buddha, so that he and his host may come to escort you to the pure land. this
county is a land of sorrow; i am taking you to a happy realm called paradise."
[the tale of the heike, translated by helen craig mccullough, stanford
university press, 1988, p.378]
the j�do sect did not yet exist at this time, but pure land practice was
widespread. thus, not only do we find samurai, like ieyasu and hideyoshi, as
pure land patrons, but also important persons from the "royal [actually,
imperial] family."
in pure land practice, the whole issue of the sinfulness of war and killing is
conveniently avoided. people are expected to sin anyway, so if we must, we don't
have to worry about it too much. all we have to worry about is getting to the
pure land. this is not just a japanese approach. rebirth into a buddha land
(there are several besides amida's) is also one of the possibilities in the
tibetan book of the dead. not as good as nirvana, but better than being reborn
here.
there were also, however, samurai who were patrons of zen. this began with the
h�j� regents of the kamakura shoguns, but later one of the most important
figures was oda nobunaga, the first local lord, besides hideyoshi and ieyasu,
who was responsible for the unification of japan in the 16th century. the
personalities of the three figures are captured in a parable about how each of
them would get a bird to sing: nobunaga would say, "sing, or i'll kill you";
hideyoshi would say, "sing, or i'll make you sing"; and ieyasu would say, "sing,
or i'll wait for you to sing." distinguished by his ruthlessness, nobunaga
became infamous for burning the tendai temples on mt. hiei, above ky�to, and he
is buried in a complex of zen temples, the daitokuji, in the same city.
how would zen enable the samurai to avoid the sinfulness of their profession?
mainly through the taoist expedient of not thinking about it. the "silent
teaching" can very effectively avoid moral issues, including breaches of the
precepts, by dismissing them with all other conceptual and rational issues.
taoism, of course, expects that by not-doing, by not thinking about moral
principles, things will take care of themselves.
exterminate benevolence, discard rectitude [righteousness],
and the people will again be filial...
[tao te ching, translated by d.c. lau, penguin books, 1963, p. 23, xix:43]
a version of this also turns up in robert pirsig's zen and the art of motorcycle
maintenance: "peace of mind produces right values, right values produce right
thoughts. right thoughts produce right actions...." [p. 267]." pirsig apparently
thinks that the right meditative attitude, "peace of mind," will spontaneously
produce right values, thoughts, and actions, without the mediation of rational
examination and analysis -- the kind of thing that socrates, whom pirsig
dislikes, might do. this is a version of moral aestheticism. with zen, its
effects can be tested. did the mastery of archery by eugen herrigel produce
"right values, thoughts, and actions"? evidently not, since he returned to
germany and became an enthusiastic nazi. is there anything in zen and the art of
archery that might provide some moral principle prejudicial to things like
naziism? really, no. d.t. suzuki himself, writing in the 1930's, said:
zen has no special doctrine or philosophy, no set of concepts or intellectual
formulas, except that it tries to release one from the bondage of birth and
death, by means of certain intuitive modes of understanding peculiar to
itself. it is, therefore, extremely flexible in adapting itself to almost any
philosophy and moral doctrine as long as its intuitive teaching is not
interfered with. it may be found wedded to anarchism or fascism, communism or
democracy, atheism or idealism, or any political or economic dogmatism. it is,
however, generally animated with a certain revolutionary spirit, and when
things come to a deadlock -- as they do when we are overloaded with
conventionalism, formalism, or other cognate isms -- zen asserts itself and
proves to be a destructive force. [ibid., p. 63]
as he was writing, "fascism" actually meant adolf hitler and benito mussolini,
and "communism" actually meant josef stalin. they were all of them, indeed, a
"destructive force" -- they may have been responsible for the deaths of up on 70
million people. and suzuki himself appeared to have no objections to fascism and
militarism as they developed in japan -- recently examined by brian victoria in
his zen at war [weatherhill, 1997]. morally this leaves us with zen as
completely undiscriminating -- morally blind -- which is not what taoism, or
many zen masters, would have expected. we might call this the "dark side of the
tao," on analogy with the "dark side" of the tao-like "force" in the star wars
movies. as it happened, the "silence," or the "dark side," allowed for the
practice of great wrongs and the perpetration of great evils.
what happened to taoism, morally, back in china? well, nature abhores a vacuum.
if the taoists didn't want to talk about morality, the confucians were more than
happy to do so. the void of moral discourse left by taoism was easily filled by
the moral discourse of confucianism; and taoists were largely expected to obey
confucian morality in their public and private life, enforced by confucian
officials, which is why taoist sages often took to the hills as hermits. in
japan something rather different happened. the samurai would pay little
attention to confucius, who, after all, had said, "your job is to govern, not to
kill" [analects, xii:19]. it was indeed the job of the samurai to kill. nor was
there a class of confucian bureaucrats to dominate the government, as in china
during the ming dynasty. japan had gone the opposite way of china, with the
military coming to dominate the country in the kamakura period. what moved to
fill the taoist void of zen was then the ethos of the military, of the samurai,
namely bushid�, the "way of the warrior." in the feudal system that came to
dominate japan, one's duty was to one's lord. if he said, "go kill those
fellows," you go kill them. if he said, "go kill your family," you go kill them.
and if he said, "go kill yourself," then you go kill yourself (seppuku, ritual
suicide).
while it is not uncommon to see statements, in martial arts books or even in
samurai movies, that a samurai only draws his sword in the interest of justice,
or only returns an attack that has been made on him (the "submissive way," jud�,
, ideology derived from taoism), the only samurai who had the luxury of acting
this way were the r�nin, the "wave men," who were unemployed and so without a
master. they could defend the innocent or do whatever else they liked, as we see
in the classic kurosawa akira movies the seven samurai (shichi-nin no samurai,
1954 -- remade as a western, the magnificent seven, 1960) and yojimbo (1961 --
remade as a western, a fistful of dollars, 1964 -- though the original story
seems to have been dashiell hammett's "continental op" novel, red harvest).
there are even stories about a samurai who was the "master of no sword." in one
of those, he was recognized and challenged by another samurai while they were
taking a ferry across a river. he suggested that they be put off and fight on an
island that was coming up. after they got off the ferry, the "master of no
sword" pushed the boat off but then jumped on himself, calling back, "that is my
technique of 'no sword'," as the challenger was left behind on the island.
but no samurai wanted to be unemployed. this meant poverty, and the samurai as
much as anyone wanted a family and a position in life. how unpleasant it could
be to be a r�nin we see in masaki kobayashi's movie harakiri (1962), where we
find that many unemployed samurai are really reduced to begging. toshiro
mifune's character in yojimbo, like john belushi in his saturday night live
samurai skits of the 1970's, is dressed very nearly in rags and seems to scratch
himself a lot, from lice or just lack of bathing. indeed, that is what poverty
is like. with a job and a master, however, a samurai no longer was free to make
his own judgments -- he was expected to do what he was told.
what bushid� was originally all about is now open to debate. g. cameron hurst
iii argued in "death, honor, and loyalty: the bushido ideal" [philosophy east
and west, volume xl, no. 4, october 1990, pp.511-527] that 20th century notions
about bushid� mostly have nothing to do with the samurai but are based on an
1899 book by nitobe inaz� (1862-1933), bushid�: The soul of japan. nitobe was
western educated, knew relatively little about japanese history, and even
thought that he had coined the word bushid� himself. his ability to faithfully
represent japanese history, culture, and values is thus sorely in question.
hurst, on the occasion of the death of emperor hirohito in 1989, noted the
hostility to the emperor, as a possible war criminal, at the time.
the emotional reaction to the emperor's death and funeral protocol, as well as
discussions with many who are not japan specialists, impressed upon me once
again the widespread belief that the behavior of japanese forces in world war
ii was conditioned by adherence to the old samurai code of ethics called
bushid�, which emphasized unflinching loyalty to the emperor, even to the
point of willingly sacrificing one's life, by suicide if necessary. bushid� in
many western minds, as represented, for example, in baron russell's the
knights of bushido, is intimately linked to the rise of japanese imperialism,
kamikaze attacks, suicide charges, and prisoner-of-war atrocities. that this
is a historical perversion -- that even if there was a modern bushid� that
functioned as a normative ethical code for japanese troops, it might in fact
be a modern creation, with no real link to any japanese traditional set of
ethics, real or imagined -- is seldom considered. [p.512]
while hurst seems correct that the 20th century idea of bushid� in both japan
and the west is a modern, meiji period, creation, and while even traditional
japanese discussions of the duties of the samurai were largely the creation of
the edo period, when more samurai were bureaucrats than warriors, fighting more
duels than battles, nevertheless, i think he is wrong about it being a
"historical perversion" to trace the crimes of the modern japanese military back
to the samurai. if hurst merely wants to say that there was never a unified,
recognized, official ideology called "bushid�" in traditional japan, then he is
certainly right. if he wants to say that the values and practices that led to
the characteristics of later japanese militarism were hotly disputed by many
japanese themselves at the time, he is certainly right. but if he wants to say
that the modern, militaristic versions of bushid� have "no real link to any
japanese traditional set of ethics," then i think he is quite wrong. however
much a modern creation, the ideology of bushid� is very much based on real
values and tendencies in japanese history. not everyone had to agree about these
values and tendencies for them to exist, any more than all the samurai had to
practice zen rather than j�do, for them to be real antecedents and so real
precedents and sources for the japanese militarism and war crimes of the 20th
century.
a key point is about the meaning of "loyalty." the confucian term is chung
(zhong in pinyin). the word, although not well defined in the analects,
nevertheless appears to mean "conscientiousness," and is applied to those who
"do their best, to do their duty," where their duty is always, in confucianism,
to do what is right. that is the chinese ideal. in japan, however, most
certainly by the modern period (meiji through world war ii), chung, or ch� in
japanese, had come to mean blind obedience, that "loyal" persons are supposed to
do what they are told, whether it is even right or wrong. where in china a truly
"loyal" minister might refuse to carry out the wrongful orders of an emperor,
and gladly pay with his life for refusing, a martyr to righteousness, in japan
this kind of individual dissent became intolerable.
the question, then, must be, how far back does this japanese interpretation go?
when did the ideal of "blind obedience" become current? indeed, it became
established quite early. a good clue about this is that we can step right into
the middle of the debate already raging in the 13th century, when the buddhist
monk nichiren (1222-1282), founder of a sect now usually known by his name
(though previously as the hokke or "lotus" sect), argued vehemently against the
"blind obedience" interpretation of ch�, citing the chinese classics:
in the same letter you say: "to obey one's lord or parents, whether they are
right or wrong, is exemplary behavior, approved by the buddhas and kami and
according with worldly virtue." because this is the most important of
important matters, i will not venture to give my own view but will cite
original texts. the classic of filial piety says, "a son must reprove his
father, and a minister must reprove his sovereign." cheng hs�an comments,
"when a sovereign or father behaves unjustly and his minister or son does not
admonish him, that will lead to the country's ruin or the family's
destruction." the hsin-hs� says, "one who does not admonish a ruler's tyranny
is not a loyal retainer. one who does not speak from fear of death is not a
man of courage." ...i can only grieve to see my lord, to whom i am so deeply
indebted, deceived by teachers of an evil dharma and about to fall into the
evil paths. ["yorimoto chinj�," sh�wa teihon nichiren sh�nin ibun 2:1356]
nichiren himself preached adherence to the lotus sutra above all else, and
rebuked the authorities for their adherence to false doctrines, like zen, which
he called the "work of devils." he and his successors found themselves at odds
with the authorities over this then and ever since, often exiled or tortured.
nichiren himself was almost executed. he was arguing against the attitude,
certainly of the authorities themselves, who happened to be the samurai h�j�
regents of the kamakura sh�guns, who expected obedience. so the tension between
chinese (confucian) loyalty and japanese (samurai) loyalty already existed soon
after the samurai had themselves taken over japanese history -- the effect of
the battle of dan-no-ura and the establishment of the sh�gunate.
it is noteworthy in this that the attitude of the authorities, in prefering
blind obedience, was nothing peculiarly japanese. we don't need a theory of the
"japanese mind" to explain it. authority loves obedience, and there are still
few politicians, judges, or policemen even in the united states who would allow,
as martin luther king said, that "an unjust law is no law at all." in the german
army, the saying was, "an order is an order is an order." we find the ability of
authorities to command obedience compromised only through some kind of
institutional check. in china, even after the triumph of the scholar
bureaucrats, there was still an institutional tension between the mandarins and
the throne itself; and in mediaeval europe, all know of the institutional
independence of the church and of the epic contests for authority between the
popes and the german emperors, kings of england, france, aragon, etc., etc. but
with only figurehead emperors, and de facto rulers who were samurai themselves,
japan no longer possessed, and later would ruthlessly crush, any institutions or
movements that might oppose the absolute authority of the (now military)
government. this circumstance may be obscured by undoubted examples in japanese
history of betrayal and disobedience, even revolt and insurrection, but these
examples are presented in japanese history itself as redeemed by the willingness
of the disobedient to die. this makes it all the easier for the government to
crush real dissent and to create, whether in the 17th century or the 1930's, a
totalitarian state.
later in japanese history, we get actual manuals of bushid�, most famously the
hagakure ("hidden [kakure] [by?] leaves [ha]," 1716) by yamamoto tsunetomo [a
book cited and illustrated in a curious 1999 movie, starring forest whitaker,
ghost dog, which is about an unusual gangster, a hit man, who lives by
yamamoto's code of the samurai -- the movie is even subtitled the way of the
samurai]. cameron hurst is concerned to emphasize that many scholars disagreed
with tsunetomo in his day. fair enough. but, again, the point is not that
everyone agreed with him, but that we only have to produce some counterexample
to hurst's statement that there is "no real link to any japanese traditional set
of ethics" from 20th century bushid�. Tsunetomo is a "link" and does represent a
"japanese traditional set of ethics." tsunetomo also, as it happened, became, on
the death of his lord in 1700, a zen monk.
confucius says, "the superior man [or gentleman] understands righteousness; the
small [or mean] man understands profit" [analects, iv:16]. tsunetomo rejects
both.
to hate injustice and stand on righeousness is a difficult thing. furthermore,
to think that being righteous is the best one can do and to do one's utmost to
be righteous will, on the contrary, bring many mistakes. the way is in a
higher place than righteousness. this is very difficult to discover, but it is
the highest wisdom. when seen from this standpoint, things like righteousness
are rather shallow. [hagakure, william scott wilson translation, discus/avon,
1979, 1981, pp.25-26]
tsunetomo is not here recommending a machiavellian prudence that occasionally
must "take the way of evil" for a good end [the prince, daniel donno
translation, bantam, 1966, 1981, p.63], that approach would be calculating and
tsunetomo says:
calculating people are contemptible. the reason for this is that calculation
deals with loss and gain, and the loss and gain mind never stops. [p.44]
nor does one go looking for a righteous lord. instead, "being a retainer is
nothing other than being a supporter of one's lord, entrusting matters of good
and evil to him" [p.20], i.e. suspending one's own judgment. indeed:
nakamo jin'emon constantly said, "a person who serves when treated kindly by
the master is not a retainer. but one who serves when the master is being
heartless and unreasonable is a retainer. you should understand this principle
well." [p.132]
in other words, whether the lord is kind or heartless, reasonable or irrational,
one is to obey him, and "matters of good and evil" are left to his judgment. all
the retainer does is obey. "for a warrior there is nothing other than thinking
of his master" [p.23].
so if the samurai thinks neither of righteousness nor profit, what does he
"understand"? the answer is the real theme of the hagakure, "the way of the
samurai is found in death" [p.17]. a samurai understands death.
victory and defeat are matters of the temporary force of circumstances. the
way of avoiding shame is different. it is simply death.
even if it seems certain that you will lose, retaliate. neither wisdom nor
technique has a place in this. a real man does not think of victory or defeat.
he plunges recklessly towards an irrational death. by doing this, you will
awaken from your dreams. [p.30]
thus tsunetomo condemns the famous "47 r�nin," the retainers of lord asano of
ak�, who waited a year to avenge his death (in 1701), not because they defied
the sh�gun and killed lord kira in revenge, but just because they waited (see
inagaki hiroshi's movie chushingura, "the treasury of the loyal retainers,"
1962). this was "calculating." what a samurai needs to do is "constantly
hardening one's resolution to die in battle, deliberately becoming as one aleady
dead" [p.33].
the person without previous resolution to inevitable death makes certain that
his death will be in bad form. but if one is resolved to death beforehand, in
what way can he be dispicable? [p.34]
concerning martial valor, merit lies more in dying for one's master than in
striking down the enemy. [p.55]
this is a real todesliebe, a "love of death" -- for which we have,
interestingly, a suitable term in german. these sentiments easily explain what
rear admiral matome ugaki wrote in his diary in 1941, after seeing the submarine
i-22 leaving saeki bay on the way to join the pearl harbor strike force at
hitokappu bay in the kuriles:
how much damage they will be able to inflict is not the point. the firm
determination not to return alive on the part of those young lieutenants and
ensigns who smilingly embarked on their ships cannot be praised too much. the
spirit of kesshitai [self-sacrifice] has not changed at all. we can fully rely
upon them.
gordon w. prange, who quotes this in at dawn we slept [penguin books, 1981],
says:
one cannot help wondering, if the amount of damage they could inflict was "not
the point," what indeed was the purpose of training, arming, equipping them,
and sending them forth? [p. 349]
if we answer simply, "the way of the samurai is death," then cameron hurst might
say we are being anachronistic; but, indeed, admiral ugaki's statement doesn't
make any sense on any consideration of prudence or righteousness. what makes
more sense to us is what george c. scott says as general george patton at the
beginning of the 1970 movie patton:
the idea is not to die for your country, but to get the other poor, dumb
bastards to die for their country.
so if we want to explain admiral ugaki we have to look for something in japanese
history and culture that exalts death above prudence or even rationality. but
that is certainly there in hagakure. each of the "young lieutenants and ensigns"
were at, as tsunetomo says, "the point of throwing away one's life for his lord"
[p.21], though the lord in this case had become the emperor rather than a feudal
daimy�.
but there was a bit more. admiral ugaki was really not indifferent to success,
and tsunetomo sometimes lets some consideration of prudence slip into his
maxims. thus he says, "if a warrior is not unattached to life and death, he will
be of no use whatsoever" [p.158]. "use"?! what kind of heresy is this? a warrior
is to be "used" for something besides getting himself killed? indeed. we see a
different aspect of this in the following long passage:
in the secret principles of yagy� Tajima no kami munenori [1571-1646, founder
 of the official school of the sword of the tokugawa sh�gunate] there is the
saying, "there are no military tactics for a man of great strength." as proof
of this, there was once a certain vassal of the shogun who came to master
yagy� and asked to become a disciple. master yagy� said, "you seem to be a man
who is very accomplished in some school of martial art. let us make the
master-disciple contract after i learn the name of the school."
but the man replied, "i have never practiced one of the martial arts."
master yagy� said, "have you come to make sport of tajima no kami? is my
perception amiss in thinking that you are a teacher to the shogun?" but the
man swore to it and master yagy� then asked, "that being so, do you not have
some deep conviction?"
the man replied, "when i was a child, i once became suddenly aware that a
warrior is a man who does not hold his life in regret. since i have held that
in my heart for many years, it has become a deep conviction, and today i never
think about death. other than that i have no special conviction."
master yagy� was deeply impressed and said, "my perceptions were not the least
bit awry. the deepest principle of my military tactics is just that one thing.
up until now, among all the many hundreds of disciples i have had, there is no
one who is licensed in this deepest principle. it is not necessary for you to
take up the wooden sword [i.e. become a student of the sword]. i will initiate
you right now." and it is said that he promptly handed him the certified
scroll. [pp.163-164]
what we see in this passage is the notion that someone who does not worry about
death also has a certain skill that follows from this. the man is certified in
the sword by maser yagy� just because of this state of mind, not because of any
actual instruction. there was also a samurai saying, that "he who leaves his
house intending to live will die; and he who leaves his house intending to die,
will live." there is a taoist expectation in this that, by the "doing" of life,
death will result, but by the "not-doing" of life (the "doing" of death), life
will result. this was actually the frame of mind of many of the naval pilots who
attacked pearl harbor. when they returned successfully to their aircraft
carriers, many pilots were astonished that they had survived. all they had
thought about was dying and had not considered surviving. that they both
survived and succeeded in their mission could then be ascribed to the skill that
their determination to die had given them. not skill in the sword, to be sure,
but skill in modern "martial arts" like torpedoing and divebombing -- the
divebomber pilots who called themselves "hell divers" after an american movie
starring wallace beery and clark gable (hell divers, 1932). somewhat miraculous
results from not-doing are already expected in the tao te ching, which says,
"heaven and earth will unite and sweet dew will fall" [xxxii:72]. so the
intention to die can easily to be thought not to be without its reward.
the pearl harbor attack and several months of subsequent actions were very
successful, but eventually many japanese soldiers, sailors, and airmen went off
intending to die, and did, without even achieving military success thereby.
actually, this was no more than what was expected by the architect of the pearl
harbor strike, admiral yamamoto isoroku (1884-1943), who did not believe in
suicidal attacks and had no illusions about japan's ability to win a protracted
war with the united states. he almost seemed to be expecting and welcoming death
by the time he was shot down and killed in 1943. when it became clear that japan
was losing the war, however, the reponse of the japanese military seemed to be
that they were losing just because the men were not intending to die with enough
spiritual purity. the introduction of the kamikaze suicide pilots in 1944 would
have gladdened the heart of the earlier yamamoto, tsunetomo, who, it seems,
would have relished such senseless acts of pointlessly throwing away lives for
the emperor. of course, the 20th century military was still rather hoping for
some success from these tactics, and was perfectly willing to see 100,000
japanese soldiers, and a similar number of civilians, die in the defense of
okinawa, long after the war was known to be lost, just to discourage the
invasion of japan. discourage it they did; so president truman dropped atomic
bombs, killing another couple hundred thousand japanese, and received the
japanese surrender on the same terms they could have gotten a year earlier.
the 20th century fruit of blind obedience and the love of death was thus ugly
and sordid almost beyond comprehension. and this is not even to take into
account japanese atrocities against civilians and prisoners of war -- incidents
like the horrific "rape of nanking" -- often motivated by racism and by contempt
for those who ignominiously surrendered rather than "throwing away" their lives
in senseless but virtuous death.
the brutality of the japanese military, which was visited upon its own people as
well as on prisoners and civilians, itself has antecedents in zen. it has
already been noted that the "silent teaching" may actually be expressed by
beatings, and that the zen meditation hall is a place where someone sitting
zazen can be struck and beaten just to keep them awake. and we have the
following story:
gutei raised his finger whenever he was asked a question about zen. a boy
attendant began to imitate him in this way. when anyone asked the boy what his
master had preached about, the boy would raise his finger.
gutei heard about the boy's mischief. he seized him and cut off his finger.
the boy cried and ran away. gutei called and stopped him. when the boy turned
his head to gutei, gutei raised up his own finger. in that instant the boy was
enlightened. [zen flesh, zen bones, pp.169-170]
we may stipulate that enlightenment is well worth a finger, and that gutei was a
great enough zen master to know that so bloody and permanent an expedient would
be effective -- and it is a nice thought that the boy has "no finger" to raise
up. but for ordinary fallible humans, this would be an appalling act of
brutality and child abuse, and it can be expected to be little else if emulated
in any way by subsequent teachers. just as disturbing is the circumstance that,
although the names in the story are in japanese, it is actually a chinese story,
from tao-y�an's collection. this makes for a very dangerous precedent once it
gets into a tradition, the japanese one, where positive reasons to value
violence, for its art, arise.
thus, into the "silence" of the "dark side of the tao" there rose values and
behaviors that would have been appalling in every imaginable way to confucius
and to the sages of taoism, let alone to the saints and ancient teachers of
buddhism. the aestheticization of brutal violence, which is no less than what we
see in any "martial art," is necessarily offensive to both confucianism and
buddhism, and would be an unexpected and unwelcome possibility to taoism.
a characeristic example of the aestheticization of violence may be seen in
inagaki hiroshi's triology of movies, musashi miyamoto (in japan, 1954), or
samurai (i, ii, & iii), when subtitled. mifune toshiro plays the famous r�nin
musashi miyamoto (1584-1645), a real but semi-legendary character, supposedly
influenced by the monk takuan (1573-1645), who is usually considered a
representative of zen but was actually ordained in j�do. in the movies, musashi
has a friendly rival, sasaki kojiro, whom in the end he must reluctantly face
and kill in a duel -- fighting with only an oar and a short sword. sasaki,
however, is a worthy and noble samurai, who at one point early in the story is
ambushed by a group of bad guys. musashi hears of this and rushes to his
friend's aid. by the time he arrives, however, all the bad guys have been killed
and sasaki has already left. when musashi sees the scene of the fight, with
bodies strewn around, does he exclaim "what carnage!" or anything of the sort?
no. he says, "what art!" it seems that every attacker had been killed with just
one sword stroke, an elegant economy of effort and demonstration of artistic
perfection. musashi, it is true, it shown becoming weary of fighting and hates
to kill his worthy rival. but he does nevertheless.
a very real life moment of both senseless death and aesthetic violence took
place at the battle of midway in 1942. the aircraft carrier hiryu ("flying
dragon"), fatally hit by american divebombers, was burning and sinking. the
commander of the carrier division, gifted rear admiral yamaguchi tamon, decided
to go down with the ship -- a british tradition, to be sure, but fully
conformable with bushid�. Captain kaku tomeo of the hiryu decided to stay with
the admiral, and yamaguchi was overheard, by others leaving to abandon ship,
saying to him, "there is such a beautiful moon tonight. shall we watch it as we
sink?" as it happens, "moon viewing" is a venerable japanese custom -- the old
castle at matsumoto even has a special "moon-viewing-tower." so here we have
this ancient aesthetic diversion calmly anticipated on the burning deck of an
aircraft carrier, with exploding magazines underneath, in the middle of the
pacific ocean.
so what went wrong here? simple enough. logically, the "silent teaching" is a
poor, indeed an empty, basis for moral judgment. confucius, not the tao te
ching, was correct about that. taoism opened itself to misuse, and so did ch'an,
though many people still have difficulty believing that the "true religion" or
the proper "peace of mind" can actually accompany wrongful, even cruel and
atrocious, actions. but this is the case. it is not to say, on the other hand,
that taoism and ch'an are without value. they are of great interest and value --
taoism corresponds quite nicely to modern theories of spontaneous order; ch'an
is quite orthodox buddhism when it comes to the defeat of reason by
enlightenment and nirvana; and zen really may help both with archery and with
motorcycle maintenance -- just not as morality. even real holiness in religion
may be accompanied by moral error. morality is a matter for reason, and both
religion and aesthetics can be morally judged, regardless of their own claims,
intuitions, or logic. the real lesson is for the polynomic theory of value, that
morality, aesthetics, and religion are about different things, logically
independent systems of value, but that human existence combines them all. in
buddhist terms, the dharma as a moral teaching cannot be replaced with an
incomprehensible transmission separate from the texts; and the blind obedience
of the samurai, whether practicing zen or j�do, was neither righteous action nor
right livelihood.

bibliography
world war ii bibliography
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philosophy of religion
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copyright (c) 1999, 2003, 2004, 2005 kelley l. ross, ph.d. all rights reserved

zen and the art of divebombing,

or the dark side of the tao, note

herrigel did not mention the name of his teacher in the book, and for many years
there was considerable perplexity and debate about who his teacher was, or even
if there was one. there was indeed a teacher, who now has been identified as awa
kenz� (1880-1939). unfortunately, master kenz�, although a teacher of archery,
was not a teacher, and did not pretend to even be an adherent, of zen buddhism.
what kenz� calls the "great doctrine" in the book was not zen but his own
original practice, the daishaky�d�, the "way of the great doctrine of shooting."
when herrigel wrote about his experience in 1936, he did not characterize his
lessons as a form of zen. what changed was when he read d.t. suzuki in 1938.
then he decided that kenz�'s teaching actually was zen. suzuki obviously
endorsed this identification, since he wrote the introduction to the post-war
edition of herrigel's book. modern scholarship on zen has come to regard
suzuki's own reading of zen as idiosyncratic and not well grounded in the
traditions of the school. so what does this add up to? does zen in the art of
archery simply have nothing to do with zen? should it be dropped from
consideration in an essay like this?
well, no. however idiosyncratic or personal suzuki's interpretation of the zen
tradition, it was an influential interpretation in japan both before and after
the war, and very much of a piece with the ideological climate in both periods,
as an adjunct both to the pre-war militarism and imperialism and the post-war
yearning for irrationalism on the part of westerners, of whom herrigel was a
forerunner. more importantly, what distinguishes the approach of suzuki,
herrigel, and master kenz� himself remains the development of the taoist
features of the tradition. whether this was a specifically zen tradition or not,
there is no doubt that what characterized and differentiated even chinese ch'an
buddhism was already a taoist admixture. in those terms, kenz�'s teaching has
zen features, whether he wanted to call it that or not.
thus, while herrigel and kenz� are often now said to have sometimes simply
misunderstood each other, these instances actually are poor counterexamples to
the general tendency. thus, the famous scene, reproduced in james clavell's
novel shogun, when kenz� shot two arrows out into the dark, where the first hit
the target and the second split the first, is now said to represent poor
technique, and kenz�'s silence about it embarrassment rather than quiet
countenance. be that as it may, it impressed the hell out of herrigel and anyone
else reading the book (or shogun) ever since. in taoist terms, that got the job
done, whatever kenz�'s conscious expectations. more importantly, this possibly
awkward moment is far from exhausting the examples of "silent teaching" in zen
in the art of archery. the most telling case comes at the end of the book, when
herrigel asks if kenz� would like to hear from him after he returns to germany.
kenz� says that herrigel should just occasionally send a photograph of him
holding the bow. from that all else will be plain. perhaps kenz� didn't want to
bother with getting letters translated, or perhaps, as i suspect, words were
unnecessary. this was not as "mystical" as the magical arrows, but as solidly
taoist as one can get.
[my thanks for information in this area goes to articles and translations by
william bodiford of the department of asian languages & cultures at ucla.]
return to text

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