“So once again I have been estranged from life!” I thought. "Why docs the Golden Temple try to protect me? Why docs it try to separate me from life without my asking it? Of course it may be that the temple is saving me from falling into hell. But by so doing, the Golden Temple is making me even more evil than those people who actually do fall into hell, it is making me into ‘the man who knows more about hell than anyone.' "
The main temple gate was black and quiet. In the side gate, the light, which was never extinguished until the morning bell, was shining dimly. I pushed the side gate. Inside I could hear the sound of the old, rusty iron chain as it pulled up the weight. The door opened. The gatekeeper had already gone to sleep. On the inner side of the gate there was a sign saying that the last person who returned after ten o'clock was responsible for locking the gate. Two of the wooden nameplates indicated that their owners were still not back. One of the plates was the Superior's; the other was the old gardener's.
As I walked towards the temple, I noticed a number of wooden boards about five yards long, which were being used for some reconstruction work. Even in the night one could sec the light grain of the wood. When I came closer,I saw that sawdust was scattered about the place like little yellow flowers; the fascinating smell of wood drifted through the darkness. Before entering the kitchen, I turned back and went to have a final look at the Golden Temple. I walked down the path towards it and gradually the building became visible. It was surrounded by the rustling of trees and stood there utterly motionless, yet wide awake, in the midst of the night. As though it were the guardian of the night itself. Although the residential part of the Rokuonji slept at night, I had never seen the Golden Temple sleep. This uninhabited structure was able to forget sleep. The darkness that dwelt within it was completely absolved from human laws.
Then in a tone that was almost like a curse I addressed the Golden Temple roughly for the first time in my life: “One day I shall surely rule you. Yes, one day I shall bring you under my sway, so that never again will you be able to get in my way."
My voice echoed hollowly in the night shadows of the Kyoko Pond.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A TYPE of cipher seemed to operate in my general experience of life. As in a corridor of mirrors, a single image is reflected again and again to an endless depth. Things that I had seen in the past were clearly reflected on those that I encountered for the first time, and I felt that I was being led by such resemblances into the inner recesses of the corridor, into some fathomless inner chamber. We do not collide with our destiny all of a sudden. The man who later in his life is to be executed is constantly-every time that he sees a telegraph pole on his way to work, every time that he passes a railway crossing-drawing an image in his mind of the execution site, and is becoming familiar with that image.
In my experience, therefore there was nothing in the nature of accumulation. There was no thickness of the kind that could form a mountain by piling one stratum upon another. I felt no intimacy with anything in the world except the Golden Temple; indeed, I was not even on intimate terms with my own past experiences. Yet one thing I knew was that among all these experiences certain small elements-elements that were not swallowed up in the dark sea of time. elements that did not subside into meaningless and interminable repetition—would be linked together and would come to form a certain sihister and disagreeable picture.
Which, then, were these particular elements? I thought about it on and off. Yet these scattered, shining fragments of experience were even more lacking in order and meaning than the shining pieces of a broken beer bottle that one sees by the roadside. I was unable to believe that these fragments were the shattered pieces of what had in the past been shaped as a thing of perfect beauty. For, in their meaninglessness, in their complete lack of order, in their peculiar unsightliness, each of these discarded fragments still seemed to be dreaming of the future. Yes, mere fragments though they were, each lay there, fearlessly, uncannily, quietly, dreaming of the future! Of a future that would never be cured or restored, that could never be touched, of a truly unprecedented future!
Indistinct reflections of this type sometimes gave me a kind of lyrical excitement that I could not help finding unsuitable for myself. On such occasions, if by good chance there happened to be a moon, I would take my flute and play it next to the Golden Temple. I had now reached the point of being able to play Kashiwagi's tunc, the “Palace Carriage," without looking at the music. Music is like a dream. At the same time it is, on the contrary, like a more distinct form of consciousness than that of our normal waking hours. Which of the two really was music, I used to wonder? Music had the power at times to reverse these two contrary things. And sometimes I was easily able to embody myself, as it were, into the tune of the “Palace Carriage" that I was playing. My spirit was familiar with the joy of embodying itself in music. For in my case, unlike that of Kashiwagi, music was truly a consolation.
Whenever I finished playing my flute, I used to wonder: “Why does the Golden Temple disregard this action of mine? Why does it not blame me or interfere with me when I embody myself like this into music? Never once has the temple disregarded me when I have tried to embody myself in the happiness and pleasures of life. On every such occasion it has been the fashion of the temple to block my effort instantly and to force me to return to myself. Why will the Golden Temple only permit intoxication and oblivion in the case of music?”
At these thoughts, the charm of the music would fade owing to the mere fact that the Golden Temple allowed me this particular pleasure. For inasmuch as the temple gave me its tacit approval, music, however closely it might resemble life, became an imaginary and spurious form of life; and, much as I might try to embody myself within it, that embodiment itself could only be something temporary.
I do not want to give the impression that I resigned myself and retired from the field as a result of my two setbacks with women and with life. Until the end of 1948 I had several more such opportunities, as well as Kashiwagi's guidance; and, nothing daunted, I set myself to the task. But the result was always the same.
Between the girl and myself, between life and myself, there invariably appeared the Golden Temple. Whereupon the thing that touched my hand as I tried to grasp it would instantly turn to ashes and the prospect before me would change into a desert.
Once when I was resting from some work in the field behind the kitchen, I happened to observe the manner in which a bee visited a small, yellow summer chrysanthemum. It came flying through the omnipresent light on its golden wings, then from among all the numerous chrysanthemums chose one flower and hovered in front of it. I tried to look at the flower through the bee's eyes. The chrysanthemum stood there with its proper petals spread out, yellow and flawless. It was just as beautiful as a little Golden Temple and just as perfect as the temple; but it did not become transformed into the temple and remained in the state of being a single summer chrysanthemum. Yes, it continued to be a steadfast chrysanthemum, one flower, a single form without any metaphysical connotations. By thus observing the rules of its own existence, it emitted an abundant charm and became a suitable object for the bee's desire. What a mysterious thing it was to lurk there, breathing, as an object for that shapeless, flying, flowing, moving desire! Gradually the form becomes more rarefied, it looks as if it is going to crumble, it quivers and trembles. This is quite natural, for that proper form of the chrysanthemum has been fashioned in terms of the bee's desire and its very beauty has blossomed forth in anticipation of that desire. Now is the instant when the meaning of the flower's form is going to shine within life. The form itself is a molding of life, which flows constantly and which has no form; at the same time, the flight of formless life is the molding of all forms in this world.... Thus the bee thrust its way deep into the flower and, covered with pollen, sank into intoxication. The chrysanthemum, having welcomed the bee into its body, became itself like a luxurious, armor-clad, yellow bee, and I watched it shake itself violently as if at any mo
ment it were going to fly away from its stem.
The light, and this act performed under the light, almost made me dizzy. Then; just as I left the bee's eyes and returned to my own eyes, it occurred to me that my eyes which had been gazing at this scene were exactly in the position of the eyes of the Golden Temple. Yes, this is how it was. In the same way that I had reverted from the bee's eyes to my own eyes, so at those instants when life approached me I abandoned my own eyes and made the eyes of the Golden Temple into mine. And it was precisely at such moments that the temple would intrude between me and life.
I returned to my eyes. In this vast, vague world of objects the bee and the summer chrysanthemum only remained to be "put in order," as it were. The flying of the bee and the shaking of the flower did not differ in the slightest from the rustling of the wind. In this still, frozen world everything was on an equal footing, and that form which had emitted so powerful a charm was extinct. The chrysanthemum was no longer beautiful because of its form, but because of that vague name of “chrysanthemum” that we give it and because of the promise contained in that name. because I was not a bee, I was not tempted by the chrysanthemum and, because I was not a chrysanthemum, no bee yearned after me. I had been aware of a sense of fellowship with the flow of life and with all the forms in it, but now this feeling disappeared. The world had been cast away into relativity and only time was moving. I do not want to labor my point. All I wish to say is that, when the eternal and absolute Golden Temple appeared and when my eyes changed into the temple's eyes, the world about me was transformed in the way that I have described, and that in this transformed world only the Golden Temple retained its form and possessed beauty, turning everything else back into dust. Ever since I trampled on the body of that prostitute in the temple garden, and especially since Tsurukawa's death, I had kept on repeating to myself the question: "Is evil nevertheless possible?”
One Saturday in January of 1948, I took advantage of having a free afternoon to visit a third-class cinema theater. After the film I walked through the Shinkyogoku by myself for the first time in ages. Among the crowds I suddenly found myself next to a very familiar face, but before I could remember who it was, the face was swallowed up in the sea of pedestrians and disappeared behind me.
The man had been wearing a felt hat, an elegant overcoat, and a scarf, and had been walking with a girl in a rust-vermilion coat, who was obviously a geisha. The man's pink, plump face, his air of baby-like cleanliness, so different from that of most middle-aged gentlemen, his lengthy nose-yes, all these were the distinguishing traits of the Superior, Father Dosen, and it was only the felt hat that had disguised them for a moment. Though I had nothing to feel ashamed of myself, my immediate reaction was fear that I might have been seen. For instantly I felt that I must avoid being a witness to my Superior's surreptitious expedition and thus becoming silently involved in a relationship of trust or mistrust with him.
Then a black dog walked through the crowds. He was a large, shaggy dog and was obviously used to walking in crowded places, for he picked his way skillfully between the feet of the women in their colorful coats and the men in their military uniforms, and occasionally stopped in front of a shop. I noticed the dog stopping to sniff outside a souvenir shop that had not altered since the time of Shogoin Yatsuhashi. Now for the first time I could see the dog's face in the light of the shop. One of his eyes had been crushed, and the blood and solidified mucus in the corner of the eye looked like a ruby. The uninjured eye was looking directly down at the ground. The shaggy hair on his back was conspicuously bunched together and had a hardened look.
I am not quite sure why this dog should have attracted my attention. Perhaps it was because, as this dog wandered about, he stubbornly carried within himself a world that was totally different from this bright, bustling street. The dog walked through a dark world that was dominated by a sense of smell. This world was superimposed on that of human streets, and in effect the lights of the city, the songs that come from gramophone records, and the sound of human laughter were all being threatened by persistent, dark smells. For the order of smell was more accurate, and the smell of urine that clung to the dogs damp feet was accurately connected with the faint, unpleasant odor that emanated from the internal organs of human beings.
It was extremely cold. A small group of young men, who looked like black-market operators, walked down the street, plucking at the New Year pine tree decorations, which were still standing outside some of the houses even though the holiday period had finished. They opened the palms of their leather gloves to see who had been able to collect most. One of the men had only a few leaves; another had an entire small pine branch. The young man laughed and disappeared from sight.
I found that I was following the dog. For a moment I thought that I had lost him, but he instantly reappeared. He turned into the road leading to Kawaramachi. I walked along after him and came to the road where the streetcars run. It was rather darker here than in Shinkyogoku. The dog disappeared. I stopped and looked in every direction for him. I went to the corner of the street and continued searehing for the dog. Just then a chauffeur-driven hired car with a glossy chassis stopped in front of me. The chauffeur opened the door and first of all a girl stepped in. I found myself looking at her. A man was about to get in after the girl, but, when he noticed me, he stood there rooted to the spot.
It was the Superior. I don't know by what chance it was that the Superior, who had passed me earlier on the street and who had made a detour with the girl, should have run into me again like this. Anyhow, there he was, and the coat of the girl who had entered the car was the rust-vermilion one that I remembered.
This time there was no avoiding him. But I was thoroughly upset by the encounter and I could not say a word. Before I could utter anything, stuttering sounds began to boil in my mouth. In the end my face assumed an expression that I had not intended. In fact, I did something that was entirely irrelevant to the situation: I burst out laughing at my Superior.
I cannot explain this laugh of mine. It was as if it had come from the outside and suddenly adhered to my mouth. But when the Superior saw me laughing, his look changed.
"You little fool!” he said. “Are you trying to follow me?”
Then he stepped into the car and slammed the door in my face. As the car drove away, I realized that the Superior had definitely noticed me when we had passed each other earlier in Shinkyogoku.
On the following day I waited for the Superior to call me in for a scolding. This would be an opportunity for me to explain myself. But, just as after that previous occasion when I had trampled on the prostitute, the Superior now began to torture me by passing the matter over in silence.
It was just then that I had another letter from Mother. She ended with her usual remark about living in the hope of seeing me become the master of the Golden Temple,
"You little fool, are you trying to follow me?"-as I thought about the words that the Superior had roared at me, they seemed more and more inappropriate. It he had been a more typical Zen priest, more open-minded and with a greater sense of humor, he would never have addressed such a vulgar reproof to his pupil. He would have made some more pithy, effective remark. Now, of course, the Superior could not take back what he had said; but I felt sure that at the time he had mistakenly believed that I had followed him on purpose and had sneered at him as though I had caught him out in some grave misdemeanor; as a result he had become flustered and automatically made a vulgar display of anger.
Whatever the facts of the matter may have been, the Superior's silence again became a source of uneasiness that pressed oil me day after day. The Superior's existence had become a great force, it had become like the shadow of a moth that flutters annoyingly before one's eyes.
It was customary for the Superior to take along one or two of the acolytes when he was asked to attend services outside the temple. In the past the deacon had invariably been in attendance on these occasions, but recently, as part of the so-called pro
cess of democratization it had become normal for five of us—the deacon, the sexton, myself, and two other apprentices—to take turns in accompanying the Superior. The superintendent of the dormitory, whose strictness had become proverbial among us, had been conscripted and killed in the war. His duties were now exercised by the middle-aged sexton. Following Tsurukawa's death, another apprentice had taken his place in the temple.
Just then the Superior of a temple (which belonged to the Sokokuji sect and which had the same historical lineage as the Rokuonji) died and our Superior was invited to attend the installation of his successor. It happened to be my turn to accompany him. Since the Superior did nothing to avoid my going with him, I expected that there would be a chance for art explanation between us on the way to the temple or back. On the night before the installation ceremony, however, it was arranged that the new apprentice would be added to our party and my hopes were seriously shaken.
Readers who are familiar with Gosan literature will no doubt recall the sermon that was delivered when Ishimuro Zenkyu entered the Manju Temple in Kyoto in the first year of the Koan era (1361). The beautiful words that the new priest spoke on arriving at the temple and as he proceeded from the main gate to the Earth Hall, then to the Hall of Ancestors, and finally to the Abbot's chamber have been handed down to us. Pointing to the main gate, he had spoken proudly in words that were charged with joy at the thought of assuming his new religious duties: "Within the Tenjo Kyuchu, before the gate of Teijo Manju. Empty-handed I open the lock, barefooted I climb the sacred Mount Konron.”
The incense ceremony began. First, the priest performed the Shinoko in honor of the great religious leader, Shiho. In former times, when the Zen religion had not yet been captured by convention and when the spiritual awakening of the individual was valued above all else, it had been customary for the pupil to select his teacher, rather than for the teacher to select his pupil. In those days the pupil received religious “approval” not only from the priest who had first instructed him, but from a variety of different teachers; and during the Shihoko incense ceremony he would make public the name of the teacher to whose mission he devoutly aspired to succeed.