LXXVI (181)
Po-Kui-yi dit : "Même si l'on est doté de fortune, il persiste toujours de la souffrance, parce que celle-ci réside dans l'inquiétude du cœur ; même dans la pauvreté, il y a toujours de la joie, parce que celle-ci se trouve dans la liberté de notre corps."[...] Le chapitre Shôyô du Hakushi monjû comprend de nombreux poèmes exprimant des sentiments personnels ; parmi ceux-ci j'ai gravé dans mon cœur celui où il est dit que Po-Kui-yi commença par s'occuper de littérature, et que plus tard il parvint à la doctrine du Zen. [...] Le sens en est le suivant : Oublier la différence entre la vie et la mort est comparable au geste de l'homme sage qui, dans le récit rapporté [plus haut], chassait à la fois la sœur ainée et la sœur cadette. Si l'on voulait parler de la vie et de la mort par une métaphore, on dirait : elles sont analogues à l'eau et à la glace. La vie est comme l'eau qui se prend pour devenir glace, et la mort est comme la glace qui fond pour redevenir eau. Les formes de l'eau et de la glace sont, certes, différentes, mais par leur nature qui est humidité, elles ne sont point différentes. [...] Kanzan dit : "Eau et glace sont inséparables ; de même vie et mort, toutes deux sont beauté." Il ne faut pas s'attacher aux deux phénomènes que sont la vie et la mort, parce que cela entrainerait à une illusion vaine. Aussi bien il n'y a rien à abandonner, car ce ne sont que des transformations illusoires qui naissent et disparaissent. Que l'on aille pas, aveuglé par la taie qui nous couvre les yeux, s'adonner sans contrainte aux sentiments de joie et de chagrin face à la vie ou à la mort ; ces sentiments ne sont que fleurs du ciel ! Po-Kiu-yi dit : "Il ne faut pas trop s'aimer soi-même, non plus que se détester. Comment notre corps serait-il digne d'être aimé, lui qui est à l'origine de passions sans fin ? En quoi ce corps mériterait-il d'être détesté lui qui [n'] est [qu'] un ensemble de poussières irréelles ?"
En vérité, si l'on n'aime pas et si l'on ne déteste pas, on atteint tout naturellement à la doctrine de l'absence d'aspects particularisés, laquelle enseigne la non-différenciation de toute existence quant à sa nature propre. C'est là l'essentiel de la Loi du Buddha, et le sens profond de l'entrainement à la pratique !
(Shasekishû, traduit et commenté par Hartmut O. Rotermund, Connaissance de l'Orient / Gallimard 1979)
Accessoirement, une collection de kôans extraite du Shasekishû, ici.
Celui-ci, par exemple :
In modern times a great deal of nonsense is talked about masters and disciples, and about the inheritance of a master's teaching by favorite pupils, entitling them to pass the truth on to their adherents. Of course Zen should be imparted in this way, from heart to heart, and in the past it was really accomplished. Silence and humility reigned rather than profession and assertion. The one who received such a teaching kept the matter hidden even after twenty years. Not until another discovered through his own need that a real master was at hand was it learned hat the teaching had been imparted, and even then the occasion arose quite naturally and the teaching made its way in its own right. Under no circumstances did the teacher even claim "I am the successor of So-and-so." Such a claim would prove quite the contrary.
Accessoirement, une collection de kôans extraite du Shasekishû, ici.
Celui-ci, par exemple :
What Are You Doing! What Are You Saying!
In modern times a great deal of nonsense is talked about masters and disciples, and about the inheritance of a master's teaching by favorite pupils, entitling them to pass the truth on to their adherents. Of course Zen should be imparted in this way, from heart to heart, and in the past it was really accomplished. Silence and humility reigned rather than profession and assertion. The one who received such a teaching kept the matter hidden even after twenty years. Not until another discovered through his own need that a real master was at hand was it learned hat the teaching had been imparted, and even then the occasion arose quite naturally and the teaching made its way in its own right. Under no circumstances did the teacher even claim "I am the successor of So-and-so." Such a claim would prove quite the contrary.
The Zen master Mu-nan had only one successor. His name was Shoju. After Shoju had completed his study of Zen, Mu-nan called him into his room. "I am getting old," he said, "and as far as I know, Shoju, you are the only one who will carry on this teaching. Here is a book. It has been passed down from master to master for seven generations. I also have added many points according to my understanding. The book is very valuable, and I am giving it to you to represent your successorship."
"If the book is such an important thing, you had better keep it," Shoju replied. "I received your Zen without writing and am satisfied with it as it is."
"I know that," said Mu-nan. "Even so, this work has been carried from master to master for seven generations, so you may keep it as a symbol of having received the teaching. Here."
The two happened to be talking before a brazier. The instant Shoju felt the book in his hands he thrust it into the flaming coals. He had no lust for possessions.
Mu-nan, who never had been angry before, yelled: "What are you doing!"
Shoju shouted back: "What are you saying!"
