Beat Zen, square Zen, and Zen
Autor: Luís César Nunes | Publicado: 2012-09-21T10:39:00-03:00

Beat Zen, square Zen, and Zen


by Alan Watts 
Chicago Review

Vol. 42 No. 3-4 1996

Pp.49-56

Copyright by Chicago Review



It is as difficult for Anglo-Saxons as for the Japanese to absorb anything

quite so Chinese as Zen. For though the word "Zen" is Japanese and though

Japan is now its home, Zen Buddhism is the creation of T'ang dynasty China.

I do not say this as a prelude to harping upon the incommunicable

subtleties of alien cultures. The point is simply that people who feel a

profound need to justify themselves have difficulty in understanding the

viewpoints of those who do not, and the Chinese who created Zen were the

same kind of people as Lao-tzu, who, centuries before, had said, "Those who

justify themselves do not convince." For the urge to make or prove oneself

right has always jiggled the Chinese sense of the ludicrous, since as both

Confucians and Taoists--however different these philosophies in other

ways--they have invariably appreciated the man who can "come off it." To

Confucius it seemed much better to be human-hearted than righteous, and to

the great Taoists, Lao-tzu and Chuang-tzu, it was obvious that one could

not be right without also being wrong, because the two were as inseparable

as back and front. As Chuang-tzu said, "Those who would have good

government without its correlative misrule, and right without its

correlative wrong, do not understand the principles of the universe."

To Western ears such words may sound cynical, and the Confucian admiration

of "reasonableness" and compromise may appear to be a weak-kneed lack of

commitment to principle. Actually they reflect a marvelous understanding

and respect for what we call the balance of nature, human and otherwise--a

universal vision of life as the Tao or way of nature in which the good and

the evil, the creative and the destructive, the wise and the foolish are

the inseparable polarities of existence. "Tao," said the Chung-yung, "is

that from which one cannot depart. That from which one can depart is not

the Tao." Therefore wisdom did not consist in trying to wrest the good from

the evil but in learning to "ride" them as a cork adapts itself to the

crests and troughs of the waves. At the roots of Chinese life there is a

trust in the good-and-evil of one's own nature which is peculiarly foreign

to those brought up with the chronic uneasy conscience of the

Hebrew-Christian cultures. Yet it was always obvious to the Chinese that a

man who mistrusts himself cannot even trust his mistrust, and must

therefore be hopelessly confused.

For rather different reasons, Japanese people tend to be as uneasy in

themselves as Westerners, having a sense of social shame quite as acute as

our more metaphysical sense of sin. This was especially true of the class

most attracted to Zen, the samurai. Ruth Benedict, in that very uneven work

Chrysanthemum and Sword, was, I think, perfectly correct in saying that the

attraction of Zen to the samurai class was its power to get rid of an

extremely awkward self-consciousness induced in the young. Part-and-parcel

of this self-consciousness is the Japanese compulsion to compete with

oneself--a compulsion which turns every craft and skill into a marathon of

self-discipline. Although the attraction of Zen lay in the possibility of

liberation from self-consciousness, the Japanese version of Zen fought fire

with fire, overcoming the "self observing the self" by bringing it to an

intensity in which it exploded. How remote from the regimen of the Japanese

Zen monastery are the words of the great T'ang master Lin-chi:

In Buddhism there is no place for using effort. Just be ordinary and

nothing special. Eat your food, move your bowels, pass water, and when

you're tired go and lie down. The ignorant will laugh at me, but the wise

will understand.

Yet the spirit of these words is just as remote from a kind of Western Zen

which would employ this philosophy to justify a very self-defensive

Bohemianism.

There is no single reason for the extraordinary growth of Western interest

in Zen during the last twenty years. The appeal of Zen arts to the "modern"

spirit in the West, the work of Suzuki, the war with Japan, the itchy

fascination of "Zen-stories," and the attraction of a non-conceptual,

experiential philosophy in the climate of scientific relativism--all these

are involved. One might mention, too, the affinities between Zen and such

purely Western trends as the philosophy of Wittgenstein, Existentialism,

General Semantics, the metalinguistics of B. L. Whorf, and certain

movements in the philosophy of science and in psychotherapy. Always in the

background there is our vague disquiet with the artificiality or

"anti-naturalness" of both Christianity, with its politically-ordered

cosmology, and technology, with its imperialistic mechanization of a

natural world from which man himself feels strangely alien. For both

reflect a psychology in which man is identified with a conscious

intelligence and will standing apart from nature to control it, like the

architect-God in whose image this version of man is conceived. The disquiet

arises from the suspicion that our attempt to master the world from outside

is a vicious circle in which we shall be condemned to the perpetual

insomnia of controlling controls and supervising supervision ad infinitum.

To the Westerner in search of the reintegration of man and nature there is

an appeal far beyond the merely sentimental in the naturalism of Zen--in

the landscapes of Ma-yuan and Sesshu, in an art which is simultaneously

spiritual and secular, which conveys the mystical in terms of the natural,

and which, indeed, never even imagined a break between them. Here is a view

of the world imparting a profoundly refreshing sense of wholeness to a

culture in which the spiritual and the material, the conscious and the

unconscious, have been cataclysmically split. For this reason the Chinese

humanism and naturalism of Zen intrigue us much more strongly than Indian

Buddhism or Vedanra. These, too, have their students in the West, but their

followers seem for the most part to be displaced Christians--people in

search of a more plausible philosophy than Christian supernaturalism to

carry on the essentially Christian search for the miraculous. The ideal man

of Indian Buddhism is clearly a superman, a yogi with absolute mastery of

his own nature, according perfectly with the science-fiction ideal of "men

beyond mankind." But the Buddha or awakened man of Chinese Zen is "ordinary

and nothing special"; he is humorously human like the Zen tramps portrayed

by Mu-chi and Liang-k'ai. We like this because here, for the first time, is

a conception of the holy man and sage who is not impossibly remote, not

superhuman but fully human, and, above all, not a solemn and sexless

ascetic. Furthermore, in Zen the satori experience of awakening to our

"original inseparability" with the universe seems, however elusive, always

just round the corner. One has even met people to whom it has happened, and

they are no longer mysterious occultisrs in the Himalayas nor skinny yogis

in cloistered ashrams. They are just like us, and yet much more at home in

the world, floating much more easily upon the ocean of transience and

insecurity.

But the Westerner who is attracted by Zen and who would understand it

deeply must have one indispensable qualification: he must understand his

own culture so thoroughly that he is no longer swayed by its premises

unconsciously. He must really have come to terms with the Lord God Jehovah

and with his Hebrew-Christian conscience so that he can take it or leave it

without fear or rebellion. He must be free of the itch to justify himself.

Lacking this, his Zen will be either "heat" or "square," either a revolt

from the culture and social order or a new form of stuffiness and

respectability. For Zen is above all the liberation of the mind from

conventional thought, and this is something utterly different from

rebellion against convention, on the one hand, or adopting foreign

conventions, on the other.

Conventional thought is, in brief, the confusion of the concrete universe

of nature with the conceptual things, events, and values of linguistic and

cultural symbolism. For in Taoism and Zen the world is seen as an

inseparably interrelated field or continuum, no part of which can actually

be separated from the rest or valued above or below the rest. It was in

this sense that Hui-neng, the Sixth Patriarch, meant that "fudamentally not

one thing exists," for he realized that things are terms, not entities.

They exist in the abstract world of thought, but not in the concrete world

of nature. Thus one who actually perceives or feels this to be so no longer

feels that he is an ego, except by definition. He sees that his ego is his

persona or social role, a somewhat arbitrary selection of experiences with

which he has been taught to identify himself. (Why, for example, do we say

"I think" but not "I am beating my heart"?) Having seen this, he continues

to play his social role without being taken in by it. He does not

precipitately adopt a new role or play the role of having no role at all.

He plays it cool.

The "beat" mentality as I am thinking of it is something much more

extensive and vague than the hipster life of New York and San Francisco. It

is a younger generation's nonparticipation in "the American Way of Life," a

revolt which does not seek to change the existing order but simply turns

away from it to find the significance of life in subjective experience

rather than objective achievement. It contrasts with the "square" and

other-directed mentality of beguilement by social convention, unaware of

the relativity of right and wrong, of the mutual necessity of capitalism

and communism to each other's existence, of the inner identity of

puritanism and lechery, or of, say, the alliance of church lobbies and

organized crime to maintain the laws against gambling.

Beat Zen is a complex phenomenon. It ranges from a use of Zen for

justifying sheer caprice in art, literature, and life to a very forceful

social criticism and "digging of the universe" such as one may find in the

poetry of Ginsberg and Snyder, and, rather unevenly, in Kerouac. But, as I

know it, it is always a shade too self-conscious, too subjective, and too

strident to have the flavor of Zen. It is all very well for the

philosopher, but when the poet (Ginsberg) says--

live

in the physical world

moment to moment

I must write down

every recurring thought--

stop every beating second

this is too indirect and didactic for Zen, which would rather hand you the

thing itself without comment.

The sea darkens;

The voices of the wild ducks

Are faintly white.

Furthermore, when Kerouac gives his philosophical final statement, "I don't

know. I don't care. And it doesn't make any difference"--the cat is out of

the bag, for there is a hostility in these words which clangs with

self-defense. But just because Zen truly surpasses convention and its

values, it has no need to say "To hell with it," nor to underline with

violence the fact that anything goes.

Now the underlying Protestant lawlessness of beat Zen disturbs the square

Zennists very seriously. For square Zen is the Zen of established tradition

in Japan with its clearly defined hierarchy, rigid discipline, and its

specific tests of satori. More particularly, it is the kind of Zen adopted

by Westerners studying in Japan, who will before long be bringing it back

home. But there is an obvious difference between square Zen and the

common-or-garden squareness of the Rotary Club or the Presbyterian Church.

It is infinitely more imaginative, sensitive and interesting. But it is

still square because it is a quest for the right spiritual experience, for

a satori which will receive the stamp (inka) of approved and established

authority. There will even be certificates to hang on the wall.

I see no real quarrel with either extreme. There was never a spiritual

movement without its excesses and distortions. The experience of awakening

which truly constitutes Zen is too timeless and universal to be injured.

The extremes of beat Zen need alarm no one since, as Blake said, "the fool

who persists in his folly will become wise." As for square Zen,

"authoritative" spiritual experiences have always had a way of wearing

thin, and thus of generating the demand for something genuine and unique

which needs no stamp.

I have known followers of both extremes to come up with perfectly clear

satori experiences, for since there is no real "way" to satori the way you

are following makes very little difference.

But the quarrel between the extremes is of great philosophical interest,

being a contemporary form of the ancient dispute between salvation by works

and salvation by faith, or between what the Hindus called the ways of the

monkey and the cat. The cat--appropriately enough--follows the effortless

way, since the mother cat carries her kittens. The monkey follows the hard

way, since the baby monkey has to hang on to its mother's hair. Thus for

beat Zen there must be no effort, no discipline, no artificial striving to

attain satori or to be anything but what one is. But for square Zen there

can be no true satori without years of meditation-practice under the stern

supervision of a qualified master. In seventeenth-century Japan these two

attitudes were approximately typified by the great masters Bankci and

Hakuin, and it so happens that the followers of the latter "won out" and

determined the present-day character of Rinzai Zen.[*]

Satori can lie along both roads. It is the concomitant of a "non-grasping"

attitude of the senses to experience, and grasping can be exhausted by the

discipline of directing its utmost intensity to a single, ever-elusive

objective. But what makes the way of effort and will-power suspect to many

Westerners is not so much an inherent laziness as a thorough familiarity

with the wisdom of our own culture. The square Western Zennists are often

quite naive when it comes to an understanding of Christian theology or of

all that has been discovered in modern psychiatry, for both have long been

concerned with the fallibility and unconscious ambivalence of the will.

Both have posed problems as to the vicious circle of seeking self-surrender

or of "free-associating on purpose" or of accepting one's conflicts to

escape from them, and to anyone who knows anything about either

Christianity or psychotherapy these are very real problems. The interest of

Chinese Zen and of people like Bankei is that they deal with these problems

in a most direct and stimulating way, and begin to suggest some answers.

But when Herrigel's Japanese archery master was asked, "How can I give up

purpose on purpose?" he replied that no one had ever asked him that before.

He had no answer except to go on trying blindly, for five years.

Foreign religions can be immensely attractive and highly overrated by those

who know little of their own, and especially by those who have not worked

through and grown out of their own. This is why the displaced or

unconscious Christian can so easily use either beat or square Zen to

justify himself. The one wants a philosophy to justify him in doing what he

pleases. The other wants a more plausible authoritative salvation than the

Church or the psychiatrists seem to be able to provide. Futhermore the

atmosphere of Japanese Zen is free from all one's unpleasant childhood

associations with God the Father and Jesus Christ--though I know many young

Japanese who feel just the same way about their early training in Buddhism.

But the true character of Zen remains almost incomprehensible to those who

have not surpassed the immaturity of needing to be justified, whether

before the Lord God or before a paternalistic society.

The old Chinese Zen masters were steeped in Taoism. They saw nature in its

total interrelatedness, and saw that every creature and every experience is

in accord with the Tao of nature just as it is. This enabled them to accept

themselves as they were, moment by moment, without the least need to

justify anything. They didn't do it to defend themselves or to find an

excuse for getting away with murder. They didn't brag about it and set

themselves apart as rather special. On the contrary, their Zen was wu-shih,

which means approximately "nothing special" or "no fuss." But Zen is "fuss"

when it is mixed up with Bohemian affectations, and "fuss" when it is

imagined that the only proper way to find it is to run off to a monastery

in Japan or to do special exercises in the lotus posture for five hours a

day. And I will admit that the very hullabaloo about Zen, even in such an

article as this, is also fuss--but a little less so.

Having said that, I would like to say something for all Zen fussers, beat

or square. Fuss is all right, too. If you are hung on Zen, there's no need

to try to pretend that you are not. If you really want to spend some years

in a Japanese monastery, there is no earthly reason why you shouldn't. Or

if you want to spend your time hopping freight cars and digging Charlie

Parker, it's a free country.

In the landscape of Spring there is neither better

nor worse;

The flowering branches grow naturally, some long,

some short.

* * *

Although Chicago Review had published several poems by Allen Ginsberg in

its feature on San Francisco writers (including one of his best-known

works, "Malest Cornifici Tuo Catullo"), two letters from Ginsberg in the

Autumn 1958 issue attracted particular attention. The letters show

Ginsberg's enthusiasm for his cohort and introduce William S. Burroughs.

But this was the issue which the Chicago Daily News said was "filthy" and

which led to the suppression of the contents of what was to be the

subsequent issue (see the discussion of these events in the note

accompanying William S. Burroughs's work, above). University of Chicago

Chancellor Lawrence Kimpton complained about the editor's preoccupation

with the Beat writers: "Rosenthal was so infatuated ... that even the

business letters of these authors were sacred."[*] The issue also included

work by Burroughs, Philip Whalen, and John Logan, among others. As former

editor PETER MICHELSON recently told us, the suppression would have a

lingering effect on the magazine's efforts to conduct business:

At least as late as 1964 we were obliged to supply the local postmaster a

copy of each issue when we brought them to the dock for mailing. We would

wait trying to look casual while he riffled through the pages. Occasionally

he would ask about something, to impress upon us the weight of his office I

suppose. Meanwhile, the PO workers were already processing the mags, and I

doubt he would have stopped the mailing on his own hook anyway. So it was

always a slightly bizarre charade, a legacy of the CR/ Big Table fiasco. On

the other hand, we were always aware we were going to have to go through it

and at any given occasion it might not be a charade. And Naked Lunch wasn't

liberated until 1966, etc. So censorship was a hovering specter.

* Rinzai Zen is the form most widely known in the West. There is also Soto

Zen which differs somewhat in technique, but is still closer to Hakuin than

to Bankei. However, Bankei should not exactly be identified with beat Zen

as I have described it, for he was certainly no advocate of the life of

undisciplined whimsy despite all that he said about the importance of the

uncalculated life and the folly of seeking satori.