LIN-CHI FOR OUR TIME

Burton Watson, trans. The Zen Teachings of Master Lin-chi: A Translation of the Lin-chi lu (Boston & London: Shambhala, 1993).

Ruth Fuller Sasaki, trans. The Recorded Sayings of Ch'an Master Lin-chi Hui-chao of Chen Prefecture (Kyoto: The Institute for Zen Studies, 1975).

The literature of Zen Buddhism consists primarily of yū-lu (Japanese: goroku)--dialogues and discourses of venerated teachers. The Lin-chi lu (Rinzai Roku), sayings and doings of Lin-chi, has rightly been called the "king of the yū-lu," as a comprehensive record of one of the greatest and most influential masters of the T'ang period.

Burton Watson was a graduate student in Chinese at Kyoto University in the 1950s, and he worked part-time with a team of scholars sponsored by Ruth Fuller Sasaki to edit a translation of the Lin-chi lu prepared by her late husband, the Zen master Sasaki Sōkei-an. Professor Iriya Yoshitaka, an expert in T'ang period texts, and Professor Yanagida Seizan, who went on to an eminent career in Zen Buddhist research, headed the team. Both of these scholars have produced critical translations of the Lin-chi lu into Japanese. Other members of the team included Mrs. Sasaki, who also co-authored Zen Dust, Professor Philip Yampolsky, who later translated, with an important introduction, The Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch; and Gary Snyder, distinguished poet, Zen student, and anthropologist of Asian religions. Dana Fraser, who collaborated with Mrs. Sasaki on The Recorded Sayings of the Layman P'ang, joined the group during the 1960s.

After circulating in manuscript in Japanese and Western Zen centers for about 12 years, The Recorded Sayings of Ch'an Master Lin-chi Hui-chao of Chen Prefecture was finally published by the Institute of Zen Studies in Kyoto in 1975, bearing Mrs. Sasaki's name as translator. This was eight years after her death and fifteen years after the project began. Unfortunately, this book is out of print, and is, I hear, unlikely to be reissued. Now a seasoned master of translation, best known perhaps for his translations of the Chuang-tzu and of Han-shan, Professor Watson has returned to that early project and rendered a completely new Lin-chi lu for English readers. It is a fine achievement.

Compare the following translations: First, the Sasaki rendering:

Another monk asked, "What about the cardinal principle of the Buddha-dharma?"

The Master shouted. The monk bowed.

"Do you say that was a good shout?" asked the Master.

"The thief in the grass has met complete defeat," returned the monk.

"What's my offense?" asked the Master.

"It won't be pardoned a second time," replied the monk.

The Master gave a shout. [1]

Now the Watson version:

Another monk asked, "What is the basic meaning of Buddhism?"

The Master gave a shout.

The monk bowed low.

The Master said, "Do you think that was a shout of approval?"

The monk said, "The country-side thieves have been thoroughly trounced."

The Master asked, "What was their fault?"

The monk said, "A second offence is not permitted."

The Master gave a shout. [2]

Chinese is a condensed language, with no pronouns, as we know them, no changes in nouns to indicate number, and no conjugation of verbs. Thus the reader must intuit by context and word-order who is speaking and who is being addressed, how many are involved, and whether the action is past, present, future, conditional, or whatever. Ch'an texts, moreover, are charged with metaphor, and the natural ambiguity of the language is commonly exploited. In this case, for example, "country-side thieves" would be the usual reading, probably an echo of a proverb. In context, however, the term refers to a single individual. Experts, even Zen masters, occasionally disagree about what the text is really saying.

Thus it is not surprising that the two translations of this case present different interpretations of the second half of the dialogue. The Sasaki version makes Lin-chi's question about his shout neutral, inviting a judgment about its quality. Watson has the old master asking for a comment about the effectiveness of his shout. The two versions then go off on separate tacks. In the Sasaki translation, the monk contests Lin-chi, who retreats, but then recovers and shouts. In the Watson version, it is the monk who retreats and then confesses metaphorically that he is not able to respond. Lin-chi then asks why not, and the monk says in effect that he doesn't dare make the effort. Lin-chi then shouts again, "Come on, brother, take that step!"

The Sasaki rendition lacks inner logic. Lin-chi is seen stepping back, but then returning to shout again, but in that context the second shout would lack significance--just a last gasp, so to speak. While other cases do indeed show Lin-chi acknowledging the realization of another, notably in exchanges with his friend P'u-hua, the weakness attributed to Lin-chi in the Sasaki version of this case would be uncharacteristic of the old master and does not ring true. I find that comparisons elsewhere in the two translations also tend to give credence to the Watson interpretations.

Stylistic differences as well as differences in interpretation show up in the two translations. It is here that I feel some reservation about the Watson version. I get the feeling that Watson chooses terms he thinks might be least threatening to readers who are looking at their first Buddhist book. For example, in the first line of the above case he uses the term "Buddhism" as a translation of fo-fa (Buddha Dharma). "Dharma" thus becomes "ism," impoverishing the most potent term of our tradition. And after all, "dharma" is a perfectly good English word--see your collegiate dictionary.

This mild tendency to over-translate is more than offset by Watson's cogent interpretation of metaphors that would be misleading if translated literally. For example, "grass" in the old Ch'an texts has two possible metaphorical implications: "confused" or "rustic." In the above case, Watson avoids using "thief in the grass," the literal but misleading translation of the Chinese. Instead he deftly employs the expression that fits the apparent intention: "country-side thieves"--"bumpkins," in other words. I find similar precision throughout the book.

So while Watson seems to direct himself particularly to the new reader of Buddhism, and though he chooses gender-specific words like "patriarch" and "man" where more inclusive terms would be expected today, his translation is nonetheless the Lin-chi lu for our time. However, I'm not quite ready to dump the Sasaki translation. For one thing, the earlier book includes the original Chinese. For another, it has more extensive notes, though some must be re-examined in light of the lifetime research of Iriya and Yanagida. The notes in the old version are for the most part historical and linguistic. I find Watson is a bit more ready to try interpretations. Watson's Introduction will be helpful to old-time students of Zen as well as to newcomers. He places the book neatly in its historical context, and offers beginners thoughtful advice about how to read it. I do take issue, however, with his remarks about Lin-chi's dialogues as kōans, and also with his suggestion that the reader ignore Lin-chi's categories of realization (which can also be treated as kōans). In the tradition of D. T. Suzuki, he writes:

In answer to a student's query about the nature of reality or the true meaning of Buddhism, we often find the teacher replying with a seemingly quite unrelated comment or irrational utterance. Since the ultimate nature of reality is in the end incapable of formulation in words, the teacher is attempting to convey this fact to the student, to jar the student's mind loose from its dependence on words and intellectual comprehension. [3]

I agree that Zen teachers do not formulate, but make no mistake: their purpose is not merely to jar students from their dependence upon intellectual comprehension. If the response of a Zen teacher seems unrelated or irrational it is because the student doesn't see into the underlying connection. As the Zen teacher Hasegawa Seikan says, the kōan is a point to be made clear.[4] Zen teachers worthy of their role present their points as incisively as possible and it is the task of students to experience them intimately. See, for example:

Someone asked, "How about when the lay-disciple Shih-shih worked the pestle but forgot he was moving his feet? Where had he gotten to?"

The Master said, "Drowned in a deep spring."

The Sasaki translators render the case like this:

Someone asked, "The lay-worker Shih-shih in treading the pestle-shaft of the rice mortar would forget that he was moving his feet; where did he go?"

"Drowned in a deep spring," the Master replied. [5]

The circumstances are thus clearer in the Sasaki version, but Watson sums the query itself up best.

The two translations agree upon the English of Lin-chi's final words. "Drowned in a deep spring" was Shih-shih's mind and body. I am reminded of Elder Ting after Lin-chi slapped him around:

A certain distinguished monk named Ting came to the Master for an interview and asked, "What is the basic meaning of Buddhism?

The Master got down from his chair, grabbed hold of him and gave him a slap. Then he let him go.

Ting stood still.[6]

How do you see Ting here? What had Shih-shih attained? Are there differences? Zen is not intellectual work, but it does involve under-standing. There are specific points in these two cases--and in every other case in the Lin-chi lu and in all Zen literature--to be personalized and re-presented in turn. Zen dialogues are direct communication, not shock therapy.

Any translation stands on its own merits, however, no matter how the translator advises the reader to interpret its contents. And in Watson's Introduction, most of the advice is excellent. He suggests that the new student begin with Lin-chi's discourses before going on to his dialogues. Good counsel, even for old timers. Finally, I must say that with the nicely spaced format of the Shambhala Dragon Editions, I find myself newly grateful for Lin-chi's discourses. I reread them as though they were in my own voice, reminding me what I already know but must recall again and again: The well-spring of my understanding is the Buddha's realization, as clearly as I can experience it.

Blind Donkey, September 1995

NOTES 1. Sasaki, p. 3. [back to text]

2. Watson, p. 14. [back to text]

3. Watson, pp. xxiv-xxv. [back to text]

4. Seikan Hasegawa, The Cave of Poison Grass: Essays on the Hannya Sutra (Arlington, VA: Great Ocean Publishers, 1975), p. 12; fn. 6, p. 169. [back to text]

5. Watson, p. 16; Sasaki, p. 4-5. [back to text]

6. Cf. Watson, p. 97 and Sasaki, p. 47. I take liberties with Watson's translation by rendering the last line literally. His translation reads, "Ting stood in a daze." [back to text]

-Robert Aitken 2003

posted 2003.10.29

updated 2003.10.29

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