Suzuki Daisetz: An Appreciation

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An Appreciation

A

lbert

S

tunkard

I

mylife. At that time, Iset downthese memories of him, which I have recently amendedslightly.

My introduction to Dr. Suzuki and to Zen came about in an unusual way, through the kindness of twomemorable men: Baron Hiranuma Kiichiro TvS

K—£|5,aformer Prime Minister ofJapan, andCount Durckheim,who was to

become a leading German philosopher.

Atthe time, in 1947, they were confined to SugamoMR Prison in Tokyo. Hiranuma was ontrial before the International Military Tribunalfor the Far East,while Durckheim was what might today be called an “enemy alien.” As

atwenty-five-year-old medical officerin the Army ofthe United States of

America, I wasserving as a doctor at the prison, caring for both Japanese pris­

oners and the American Guard Detachment. This positionmade it possible for me toget toknowtheprisoners, and I used to spend evenings in their cells

talking with them andtrying to learnaboutthestrangecountry in whichIhad suddenly found myself.

Oneof the first things I learnedabout was Zen Buddhism.In our evenings in his cell, Baron Hiranuma triedto teach me about Zen. He described his

studies at Engakuji Monastery during his summer vacations from university “under the stick” of Roshi Imagita Kosen and he taught me how to sit inzazen. But the language barrierintervened and I turned to

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another prisoner, Durckheim, who also tried to teach me about Zen. Soon,

however,he told me thatI should pursue myefforts withDr. Suzuki. He wrote

me a letterofintroduction and told me to takeit to Dr. Suzuki whowas then

living at Engakuji, where Hiranuma had studied.

Getting Acquainted

So,not long afterward,on alovely, warmSundayafternoon, whenI was off duty, I arrived at the quaint little semi-rural railroad station at Kita-Kama-

kura, a small suburb of the seaside resort,Kamakura, notable forits ancient

Buddhist temples.I walkedto the other sideofthe tracks and up the ancient

stonesteps, worn down byyears, perhaps centuries, of monks and sightseers. The path led between huge dark cryptomeria trees and under the massive Mountain Gate of Engakuji with its thatchedroof. Soon I found myselfbeside

a bamboo fence that enclosed a small house and garden, largely surrounded by foliage.In the gardenstood a small, bald man in a brown kimono, prun­ ing shears in hand. He looked up from hiswork and then came toward the

gate in the fence, quizzical, smilinggently.

Dr. Suzukiwelcomedme, took the letterfrom Durckheim andled me inside his house where he adjustedhisspectacles and read it. As he was reading, I had theopportunity to study him. Iwasstruck by howsmallheappeared, slen­ der and a bit frail in appearance. His face was dominated by his eyebrows

which were long andcurvedupwards and outwards. Beneath the eyebrows hisface radiated kindnessand intelligence. Even in this brief encounter he projecteda sense of wisdomand serenity.

When he had finished readingDurckheim’s letter, Dr. Suzuki looked up

andthankedme. He was impeccably polite, asking after Durckheim andhow the prisoners at Sugamo were faring, speaking brieflyabout Hiranuma, and

saying he was pleased tolearn that I was interestedin Zen. Then themeeting was over.

Only later did I learn that in this briefencounter he wasfarlessforthcom­ ing than usual and only much later the reason why. He didn’t really like Durckheim. He didn’t dislike him; I never heard Dr. Suzuki express dislike of anyone. He just didn’t like him and presumably had reservations about someone whom Durckheimhadrecommended.

Since Dr. Suzuki had invitedme tocome back, I did soandthe next meet­ ing was longer and warmer. It gave me a chance to study the inside of his house, one of the first Japanese houses Ihad seen. Atthe timein Tokyo, there

things that rose abovethegroundwerethe tall, thin chimney-like brick struc­

tures called “go downs”—tiny warehouses that hadbeen used to storevalu­

ablesand extra household materials.

Dr. Suzuki’s house was a small wooden structure in the Japanese style with straw mats(tatami) for the floor and sliding paper-covered doors that consti­

tutedthe walls of therooms. In a bright area nearglass doors that faced the garden was a low deskwith a typewriter on it and a cushion on the floorin front of it. Infuture visits, I would often findDr. Suzuki seated on thecush­ ion, wearing a green eyeshade and hunched over his typewriter.

On this occasion, however, he pointed to a Western-stylesection of the house witha few low chairs, offeredmeoneand sat down on another. After awhile, he asked me if I would like some tea. I said that I would. Hewent into the next room and brought out a large irregular glazed bowl, wiped it carefully and setit on a low tablebeside him.Then,he produced asmalllac­

querboxwhichheopened. He inserted a thin bamboo strip andscooped out some deepgreen powder, which he tapped into the bowl. Then he poured in steaminghot water froma kettle that had waited on ahot plate beside him and took a little whisk with which he beat the tea into a foamy green broth. He

handedthebowl to me with the samegrace that he had shownthroughoutthe preparation. During all ofthis timehe had said not a word.

The tea wasterriblybitterand unlike anything thatI had ever drunk. Even

though I hardly understood what Dr. Suzuki was doing, I was struck by the

quietintensity with which he had preparedthe tea. Later, after having received tea fromDr. Suzuki’s hands on otheroccasions, I realizedthat in his quiet, unpretentiousway, he was showingme the essence ofthe teaceremony.

Satori

Soon after I met him,perhaps on that same afternoon, Dr. Suzuki began to speak about Zen and, shortly, about “satori,” a major concern of his thought

and writing at the time. “Satori is the Alpha and Omegaof Zen Buddhism” was how he put itand “without satorithere is no Zen Buddhism.”It sounded

bizarre but, coming from this quiet, calm man, strangely appealing. And it was clear that Dr. Suzuki could talk about Zen in away that went far beyond Hiranuma’s earnest efforts.

Butwhatwas this satori?Todayit is farfromthe mystery it had seemed in that farawaytime and collegestudents identify it as “enlightenment.” But Dr. Suzuki was not to be tieddownbydefinitions and explanations. Satori was satori. It had tobe experienced tobe understood.

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Dr. Suzukihad translated old Zen stories that describedpersons’ “attain­

ing” satori by such improbable means as hearing the click of a stone brushed against a stalkof bamboo, orthe sound of a frogjumping into an old pond.

These old stories were aboutas far as he would go in talkingabout satori. I was lefttombetween thinking, on the one hand, that he waspurposely hold­ ing back and obscuringsomething thathad a simpler explanation and, on the

other hand, that he wastalkingabout something so profoundly different that

aWestern mind could neverhopetounderstand it. Itseemedbizarrebutalso

strangely appealing.

Part of the appeal and of the feeling that this was not complete nonsense lay in Dr. Suzuki’sunderstanding of Western thought. It was clearthat, if he

were retreating into an obscure Eastern mysticism, it was not because he

didn’t know what Western philosophers had taught.But hehadaspecialplace

in hisheartfor mysticalwriters, East andWest, andhe never tired oftalking aboutMeister Eckehart and Martin Buber. One ofhis favorite quotations was

Eckehart’s “the eye with which I see God is the same eye with which God

sees me.”

Intrigued but also puzzled and evena little troubled by suchacompletely new experience, I got in touchwithmy goodfriend Dr. Theodore vanItallie,

who wasthen serving in the Medical Corps atthe American Naval Base fur­ therdown the coast, at Yokosuka I told him about my meetings with

Dr. Suzuki and asked him ifhe would come up from Yokosuka to Kita-Kamakura to see what he thoughtofall this. Hecame and wewere soon lis­

tening to the old Zen stories and Dr. Suzuki’sthoughts about life, and—satori.

Thenthe afternoon was over and we walked silently throughthe Mountain Gateand down theweatheredstonesteps. Van Itallie didn’t speak for awhile. Ifinallyasked what hemade of it all. He didn’t reply at once, and, being impa­ tient,I volunteered, “It sounds likeschizophrenia to me.”

Van Itallie smiled. Then he replied in an assured way, “Well, ifitis schiz­

ophrenia, I’ll buy it.”

Sunday Afternoons at Engakuji

During the next few weeks, I had the chance to tell another friend, Richard DeMartino, about Dr. Suzuki and ask him to join van Itallie and me atDr. Suzuki’s on a Sundayafternoon. DeMartino had graduated from the Japanese NavalLanguage School at Boulder,Colorado,during the war and hadan envi­ ablecommand ofthe language and access to many aspects of Japanese cul­ ture.He began to attend the Sundayafternoons at Dr. Suzuki’s and brought

hisfriend Philip Kapleau, who was then working as a courtreporter at the International Military Tribunal for the Far East. We were soon joined by a young Englishman, Richard Crewdson, whose career as a Junior Officer in

the Grenadier Guards had been marked by the deaths or disabilities ofthe

other officers in his companynot once, but threetimes. Crewdsoneither had, orquickly developed, astrong interest inthekind of religious matters about which Dr. Suzukitalked andplanned to embarkon alife devoted to promot­ ing such interests. I believe that he did, but I havehad little contact with him over the years. Over a period of several months, all of us spent wonderful Sunday afternoons in Dr. Suzuki’s littlehouse, listening to him talk, asking him questions and being encouraged in our efforts at understanding. “Yes,

yes,” he would say, “that is very good. Not quite. But verygood.”

Occasionally, wewere joined by the poet R.H. Blyth who had spent the years ofWorld War II interned asanenemyalien inJapanese prison camps. Heeschewed the chairs that the rest of us were only too happy to use and would sit quietly on hisknees,listening to Dr. Suzuki with evidentaweand occasionally venturinga comment. His comments seemedimpressiveto me,

but apparently, they didn’t hit the mark any morethan those of the rest of us.

Dr. Suzuki wouldnod, smile benignly and say, “Very good, not quite, but

very good.”

Very occasionally we were joined by Faubion Bowers, a distinguished Japan scholar who had served as an interpreter for General MacArthur dur­ ing the war. At the time, he held an enviable position as a kind of cultural

overseerof the Japanese theaterfor the Occupation, deciding which pieces weremilitaristic and not to be performed and which were acceptable and could beencouraged. Hispositionmadeit possible forhimto provide very real help for the Kabuki theater,because he found veryfew pieces tobe unacceptable and was able to furtherthe production ofones thathe foundaestheticallymore

attractive. As a result of hisyears of study in Japan before thewar. Bowers knew a greatdeal more about Zen and about Suzuki than we younger men. But unlike us, heapproachedthesevisits with ameasure of detachment, more

from the perspective ofa cultural historian than ofa seeker after Buddhist wisdom.

Those Sundayafternoons had a magical quality, not only for us young men,

but I believe for Dr. Suzuki as well. Perhaps he particularly enjoyedthem after the isolation of the war years. I was, however, surprisedto read in the preface to his 1948 book “Living by Zen” whatour meetings had meant to him. “Since the end of the war the author had frequent occasions to meet

STUNKARD: SUZUKI DAISETZ

several young American and English inquirers concerning the teaching of Zen.Their approach was moreor less characterized by the modemscientific spirit. This made himgo over anew the ground which hehadbeen accustomed tocoverina rather old-fashioned traditionalway.”

Dr. Suzuki rarely talked about himself. It wasn’t that he held back,but more

that suchthings didn’t come up.When theydid, it wasusuallyin response to

our questions.

We used to spend theSundayafternoons drinkingtea and asking questions,

intrigued and frustrated,trying to understandwhathe was talking about, and

also wondering about his deep tranquility.We had many questions abouthow Zen affected a person’sexperience ofsuffering:

After enlightenment did a person still suffer? “Oh,yes,”Dr. Suzuki quick­

ly replied, “a person still suffers;hecan sufferagreat deal.” Had he himselfsuffered? “Oh, yes.When my wifedied.”

How did youfeel then? Without a moment’shesitation,he replied,“Icried bitter tears.”

What, then, is so greatabout Zen?How was his experiencedifferentfrom thatof someone who has not practiced Zen? He noddedand there was along pause. Finally he saidquietly, “My tears hadno roots.”

Lecturing to the Emperor

TheSunday afternoons often had a wonderful personal qualitybutthey were

sometimesvery frustrating and it was difficult, if not impossible, to under­ stand whatDr. Suzuki was talking about. This occurred, amongother times,

during the discussion of an unusual event: lecturesthat he had given before theEmperorand Empress theyear before.

When he told usof this event,we were eager toknow what hadhappened, what theEmperorhadseemed like and how hehad responded to the lectures. Dr. Suzuki was reserved in his response, saying that ithad been a great honor for him tobe asked to speak before theEmperor. He said he thought that his

talks had been well received. “The Empress seemed very interested in the

subject.” He saidnothing about the Emperor’sresponse.

Dr. Suzuki told us that hehad made an effort to give a general accountof Buddhism. Tointroducethetopichehad begun the lectures with stories about

Emperors andZen masters. One story dealtwith the Emperor Hanazono, a

devout Buddhist,who had invited the renowned Zen master, DaitoKokushi AllH®,togive a talkonBuddhism. The year was 1324.

The Emperor began themeeting by saying, according toDr. Suzuki’s text:

“Is it not a matter of unthinkability that the Buddha-Dharma should face theRoyal-Dharma on the samelevel?”

“Daito replied, ‘Isitnot a matterofunthinkabilitythatthe Royal-Dharma should facethe Buddha-Dharma on thesame level?’ ”

“The Emperorwas pleased with the reply.”

Dr. Suzuki said that hehadusedthis story as a way of introducing the topic of distinction andnon-distinction. Thus, theEmperor spoke outof the every­

day world of distinction, referringto the etiquettethat prescribedthatDaito sit belowhim.Daito,using the term “unthinkability” in a completely differ­

ent meaning, spoke to the non-distinction of theworld of the spirit and that

of the Absolute.

Dr. Suzuki said that he had felt that he had not treatedthe topic ofdistinc­

tionand non-distinction adequately, eitherin the lectures orin the printed text.

He felt that it required a farmore detailed exposition. He spentsometime dis­

cussing this more detailed exposition, particularly with Mr. Blyth, who was

helping him in thiseffort. It wasnot one of his more successful expositions.

Atone point inthenew text, after discussing the one andthetwo, he noted

that “the onemust befound in the two, withthetwo, andyet beyond the two, thatisto say, non-distinction is in distinctionand distinction in non-distinc­ tion. To state the point more directly and precisely, distinction is non-dis­ tinction and non-distinction is distinction.”

As he went on, itwas possibleto get somesense of whatDr. Suzukiwas trying to explain, that the world of non-distinction, or the Absolute, has no

separate existence butexists inthe world ofdistinctions.“It is spoken of as

if it were an independent world transcending the world of distinction.Butthis way oflookingat things is because our intellect requiresus to make distinc­ tions.” He went onto say that“the mergingof contradictions, the self-iden­

tity of distinction and non-distinction, is achievedbyfaith which ispersonal experience, the openingof the eye of transcendental wisdom.” He,then,once againcited Meister Eckehart’s “theeyewithwhich I see Godisthe same eye with which God sees me.”

After listening to such expositions overaperiodof time, I decidedthat this

kind ofphilosophical talk, whatever the Emperor and Empress may have

gained from it, would only confuse me. But in his talk of faith, Dr. Suzuki

seemed to besaying that only through faith, or possiblyjust through zazen,

sitting meditation, could these matters be understood. This fit in very well withmy growinginterestin practicingzazen.

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Reminiscences

Once whenwe were alone, Dr. Suzuki surprised me by talking about the emo­ tional turmoil he had experienced as ayoungmanduring his Zen training. He

had always seemed the soul of equanimity and itwashard to imaginehim in

turmoil.

Dr. Suzuki had, likeHiranuma, begunhisZen training at Engakujiduring

his summer vacation from Tokyo Imperial University and with the same teacher,Roshi Imagita. Imagita had died not long afterward. Dr. Suzuki told uswith evident interest thatImagita’sattendantsreported that he had fallen to the groundwith a loud noiseand thatwhen they reached himhewas already

dead.

Dr. Suzuki thenbegan Zen studywith Imagita’s successor, Roshi Shaku Soen Some time thereafter Soenwas invited to speak at the Chicago

World’s Fair in 1893, at what has sincebeen recognized asa historic event, the firstWorld’s Parliament ofReligions. Atthe time,Dr. Suzukiwas study­ ing English at Tokyo Imperial Universityand Soen askedhimto prepare an English translation ofthelecture that he had planned to deliver at theParlia­

ment ofReligions.Dr. Suzuki said that he haddone sobut that helater real­

ized how poor the translation had been. Hehad simply translated eachword in sequence,with little sense of theunderlyingsentencestructure. Dr.Suzuki

may have been exaggerating the problem with his translation or perhaps the translation was laterrevised. But Soen successfully delivered a lecture that

wasvery well received and an excellentversion was laterpublished.

Soen’s lecture had a very important result: it attracted the attention of an influentialAmerican, Paul Caras. Caras had long been concerned with the conflictbetween religionand science that was then raging in the United States andhadestablished a press,theOpenCourtPublishingCompany, in an effort to defuse the conflict. The press published works designed to find a middle

ground in the conflict and Carashadbeen impressed with Soen’s ideas, and

Buddhism in general, which might offer an unusual new opportunity. Accordingly, he invited Soen to join him in the Open Court Publishing

Company and in hisefforts toreconcile religion and science. Soenfelt hon­

ored by this request but told Caras that he had to return to his duties at Engakuji. He did have an excellent student,he said, and recommended Dr.

Suzuki to Cams as an assistant. Carasaccepted this arrangement and plans

were made for Dr. Suzuki to join him.

When he returnedto Japan, Soen toldDr. Suzuki of these developments and it was agreedthathe would join Carus in the future. Dr. Suzuki toldme

that hehad not “had” satori at that time andfelt that it wouldbe impossible

for him to dojustice to hisobligation to Carusunlesshe had. Althoughit was three years before Dr. Suzuki left for America, the pressure for satori mounted. As a result, he dropped out ofhisstudies at the university and spent

more and more time at Engakuji, working on his koan, “What is the sound of

one handclapping?”

As the time for his departure for America neared, the tension became unbearable and he made a fateful decision: if he had not “had” satoriby the

time he was to leave, he would kill himself. Then, suddenly, he experienced

satori. It occurred as he waswalking up the old stone steps to the Mountain Gateof Engakuji, between the rows of the huge, darkcryptomeriatrees, which

I had come to know, and love, even before this revelation. Dr. Suzuki re­

counted his experience asfollows:

AsI was walking up the steps, I became aware thatI was thesame asthetrees at which I was looking. It was not that I hadceasedto be myself, but I had become the trees as well.

Much later, Dr. Suzuki commented on this account that I had included, with­

out telling him, in a 1951 paper I wrote on“Some Interpersonal Aspectsof

an Oriental Religion.” After reading the paper, Dr. Suzuki referred to my description of hissatori. He said that he had not been in thehabit of talking

aboutsuchthings,that hehadnot thoughtthat they wereofinterest to other

people. He didn’t seem to be rebuking me although he hadevery right to do

so. Instead, he appeared to besurprised thatI had found his experience inter­

esting enoughto write about it. I wasimpressed with this reticence. Itwas a striking contrastto thepublicitygiven to the intimate dissection of every psy­

chological stateof the young Americans who established the “Zen boom” of

the 1960s.

Sitting at Engakuji

Some months went by, enlivened by the wonderful Sunday afternoons and reading bookson Zen. Thesebooks were just becoming availablein two excit­ ingbookstores,Kyobunkan and Maruzen 5k#. They had oftenbeen purchased fromold libraries and were beingsold at bargain prices.Then, there

were thediscussions with vanItallie. It all fed my growingpreoccupationwith

satori andhowit might be, as itseemed,“obtained.” Dr. Suzuki spokeabout

being alert all of the time andhelped to create an atmosphere at his Sunday afternoons, an expectation, that lightning might strike at any time. Thiswas

STUNKARD: SUZUKI DAISETZ

aperiod, as I learned later, when he believed that zazenwas not necessary to

understand Zen.He may,in fact,havebelieved that itwouldinterfere with an understanding of Zen. How he had come to this belief, and how it changed

over the years was another fascinating aspect of this old man. I didn’t know what he thought was necessary forlightning to strike, but, after some time, I

became convinced that, although lightning might strike other people, itwas

not likely to strikeme. If I weregoing to “get” satori, I wasgoingtohaveto do more than readabout it.

So I started practicing zazen. Hiranumaand Durckheim had already shown

me how to sit, imperfectly, in the lotus position and I had begun to do so.

When I asked Dr. Suzukihow to go further, hewas kind andreceptive, ashe was about everything, but, to my disappointment, hegave meno advice and

even seemed quite uninterested in my attempts atzazen.

My experience ofzazenat this time was primarilyone of aching muscles and salivation that led either to incessant swallowing or, when that became intolerable, drooling. Gradually I sat longer and longer, but satori seemed no closerathand. When I told Dr. Suzuki what I hadbeen doing, he received the

news without comment. Concerned withwhatseemedlike a lack ofprogress,

I asked him ifzazen could be made more effective if I worked ona koanbut

hewas equally non-committal. I waited for sometimeto see if he wouldsay

anything more and, when hedidn’t, I screwed up mycourage and askedhim torecommend a koan. He thought for some time andthen suggested, “Why don’t you workon my oldkoan-whatisthe soundof one handclapping?”

I set aboutenthusiastically meditating on “one hand” and wouldcome to Dr. Suzuki with answersthatI knew were off the mark. He would acknowl­ edgethem ina kindly manner andlet it go at that.

Clearlysomething more was needed. So I asked Dr. Suzukiif itwould be

possible toattend asesshin fibib atEngakuji, one of theweek-long periods of

intense meditation undertaken by Zen monks who sit in zazen from early

morning until late at night. He said he thoughtthat itwouldbe possibleand soon made arrangementsfor me to spend my next three-day pass from the

Army at a sesshin. Hefeltthat it would be too strenuousfor me to take part

in the full schedule of thesesshin, whichbeganat four in the morning, and

arranged for meto join themonks in the meditationhall atthebeginning of their afternoonzazen. In the meantime,I stayed at hislibrary across the small

valley, sleeping there atnight, eating packagedArmy “K rations” and walk­ ing in the countryside.

weathered woodenbuilding, open atthefrontand back andlined, on thesides,

with low platforms covered with straw mats. Theywere the standard straw

mats,three bysixfeet long, known as tatami. Eachmonkwas assignedone

mat where he ate, slept andpracticedzazen.Behind each mat on the sides of

the hall were curtains that covered small shelves containing all of a monk’s

belongings. Toward therear of the hall was a stand onwhichwas placed, to

my surprise,not a figure of a Buddhabut a small dark figure riding on a curi­ ous mythical creature. I later learned that this was the Bodhisattva Manjusri

riding a tigerand carrying the swordthat cuts off delusionandfolly.Manjusri

symbolized the “wisdom” prcijna), thatthemonks sought intheir med­ itation.

I may havebeenthe first Westerner to sit in zazenat Engakujiafter the war. Since I was in uniform, I was particularly concerned notto disgrace it. To minimize the ignominy ofmoving duringthe sitting periods,I took a codeine

pill beforehand. It lessened thepain andhelpedto avoid disgrace. My con­

centration,however, wasless on “onehand” than on thepain in mylegs and

the longing for the bell that ends thesitting period.

After thefirstnight, Iwent to Dr. Suzuki’shousewhere he waswaiting for

me. It was a wonderfulmoment, thepainbehindme and his warm, welcom­ ing face before me, and, very shortly,tea andcookies.

These two experiences, of zazen andofcookies, embodythetwovirtues of Zen, wisdom and compassion, represented by its two bodhisattvas. In the meditationhall,it was Manjusri andwisdom; in the eveningsit was Samantab-

hadra, riding on anelephantand symbolizing compassion. InZen, Manjusri and Samantabhadra are supposed to be veneratedequally. But in Zen monas­

teries, Dr. Suzuki said,Manjusrioftentakes precedence and Zenmonks strive desperately for the wisdomthatkoan study can bring.When Dr. Suzuki spoke of this dichotomy, it was sometimes in a less than even-handed manner. It was clear that, of the two virtues, he favored compassion. Of the monksand their single-minded striving forwisdomthrough koan study, he once said,

reflectively. “Those monks are very good at solving their koans, but some­ times they seem to forget Samantabhadra.”

One night in the meditation hall with my friend Dick DeMartino, I saw them forgetSamantabhadra, as I will describe later.

After tea and cookies with Dr. Suzuki, I walked slowly in the darkness

through the Mountain Gate, down the steps and across the valley to sleep

under thefuton on thefloor in the building thathoused his library.Dr. Suzuki

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So I spentmy three-day passeach monthsitting withthe monks at Engakuji. It was a golden period, sitting inzazen in the mornings at Sugamo,waiting for the monthlysesshin and feelingthat I was doing everything possibleto worktoward the satorithatwas so important to Dr. Suzuki. Then, I went to China and learned more about Dr. Suzuki, and whyhe had becomeso skep­ tical ofzazen.

A Trip to China

My trip to China occurred in late 1947, about a yearafter I had arrived in

Japan. It wasn’t difficult to arrange for a leave, or to hop aboard an Air Transport Serviceplaneto China and spend some time in Peking. The cus­ tom was, shortly afterarrival, to send word back thatyou couldn’t get out.

TheChinese Civil War provided acertainplausibilityto thisexcuse. But, at the time, there was a truce in the war, and you could get out if you really

wanted to. There was a kind of understanding, however,that atrip to China was a kind ofbonusof life in the Occupation.

Preparing for the trip was a welcome break frommy usual duties and I read

everything that I couldfind about China. For practical purposes, the comic

strip “Terry and the Pirates” was thebest guide to the roughand ready coun­

tryemerging from years ofJapaneseoccupation into a bitter civil war. But I also read Chinese philosophy and was impressed with the writings of a con­

temporary philosopher, Hu Shih gfil. He had been a student of JohnDewey

at Columbiain the early yearsof the twentieth century.His book, “Develop­ ment of theLogical Method in AncientChina,” was a highly regardedattempt to see John Dewey’s pragmatism in ancientChinesetexts.

Iasked Dr. Suzuki aboutFlu Shih andhesaid that he knew him and thatit

would be afine idea for me to meet him. He wroteme aletter of introduction

and said that, as busyas HuShihwas, he wassure that he wouldsee me and

itwould bewell worththe effort.

Dr. Suzuki gave methe letter witharequest. WouldI bring backsome san­

dalwoodincense? It hadn’t been possibleto obtain it since thewar had begun and the Chinese made verygood sandalwood incense.

Hu Shih was busy indeed. At the time he was the President of Peking University, but hisresponsibilities extended farbeyond even that prestigious

office. He was in the middle of critical negotiations between theNationalists

of ChiangKai Shek ftJNHand the Communists ofMao Tse Tung LiOt. A truce between the two parties had been arranged and General George Marshall,the former Chiefof Staff of theAmerican Armed Forces and others

were trying to establish a compromise government. For that purpose they

needed someone who would be a highlyrespected and non-political presi­

dent. Hu Shih was theforemost candidate.

WhenIarrivedin Peking, I sent Dr. Suzuki’s letterto HuShihandnot long afterward received an invitation to meet him at his office atthe university. After a bitterly cold ride by pedicab, I found Hu Shih’s office pleasantly warm,

as wasthe tea that heserved. Atfirst, he, too, was warm. Butafter what seemed

like an indecently brief period of pleasantries, he turned to the topic of Dr. Suzuki. He knew Dr. Suzuki, all right, he said, they had similar academic

interests and he had no use for the man.

Suzuki was aJapanese spy, Hu Shih said, commenting bitterly about the

Japanese andwhatthey haddone to his country.

“Spy?” Iasked, perplexed.

“Yes, spy,”was the answer.

Hu Shih then told me about a time when his ship had dockedatYokohama

harborduring the Japanese occupation of China.

“Suzuki came downto my shipto invite me to visit him.”

“Dr. Suzuki is a hospitable man,” Iventured, but was promptly cut off. “This wasn’t hospitality. He came because the militarists sent him. They

wanted metoget off the ship in Japan.ButI was determined nevertosetfood on Japanese soil while the Japanese were occupying my country. The mili­ tarists knewthatthey couldn’t getme off the ship so they sent their spy to try to do it.”

There was ashortpauseand then Hu Shih beganagain. “And he’s a bad scholar, too.”

Howwas he a bad scholar?

Hu Shih then told me about the thousand-year-old manuscripts,discovered

recentlyin Chinese caves, which described the early history of Ch’an(Zenin Japanese) Buddhism.

“Thesemanuscripts,” Hu Shihsaid, “show that the traditional history of

Ch’anwas a fabrication, that itwas based on forgeries. Suzuki knows this; he

workedon these manuscripts, too. But in his writings,he ignoresall this and goes on presentingthe old, traditional history ofCh’an, as if itwere true.”

I asked Hu Shihwhat itwas that Dr. Suzuki had ignored.

“It would take too long to explain it all to you,” he said, but I persisted.

Then he told me that Suzuki had ignoredthe fact that Ch’anwas an impor­ tant partof the history of Chinese philosophy.

I said I was sure Dr.Suzuki realizedthat and asked again what, specifically

STUNKARD: SUZUKI DAISETZ

Uncertainly, Hu Shih asked me, “Haveyouheard of HuiNeng S'fie ?” I had. Dr. Suzuki had often written about him. He was a seventh-century monkwho wasknownasthe Sixth Patriarch of Zen in China. That meant that he was the sixthperson in the lineof succession tohave received the esoteric

transmission of Zen fromthe Indianmonk, Bodhidharma,who was believed tohave brought ZenfromIndiato China.

“Suzuki continues to peddlethe traditional history ofHui Neng as the Sixth Patriarch, when he knows perfectly well that this isuntrue, that the whole

story is based on a forgery. In fact, Hui Neng was an illiterate peasant. He never wroteanything and thereisalmost no mentionof him in authentic re­ cords.”

After listening tomore denunciations ofDr. Suzuki, IthankedHu Shih and left to spend two fascinating weeks in Peking. With much difficulty, I was

able tofind some sandalwood incense, and, when I returned to Japan Igave it to Dr. Suzuki.Heaccepted it graciously, but just how graciously Ihad no ideauntil muchlater, when I found some truly highquality sandalwood in­

censeand realized whatitwas thatDr. Suzukihadbeen hoping for.

Regarding Hu Shih, Ifeltapologetic. Dr. Suzuki asked me if Ihadmethim andI saidthatIhad.

“Wasit a good meeting?”

“Yes,a good meeting,” Ireplieduneasily. Itdidn’t seem appropriate to ask

about espionage. But Ineededtofindout more.

“Hetold me about some old manuscripts that had been foundin a cave.” “Yes, theTun-huang ft® manuscripts.They were found in acave in China where they hadbeen undisturbedfor hundredsof years.”

“Hu Shih saidthat they raisedquestions about the history of Zen,” I ven­ tured.

“Yes, they did,” Dr. Suzukiobserved and did not go on.

“They raised questions about Hui Neng. That he hadn’t been the Sixth Patriarch. Thatthis was alater fabrication.”

“Yes,” Dr. Suzuki replied smiling, “there has been some disagreement

about these matters.”

“Hu Shih said that Hui Neng had beenanilliteratepeasantandhadn’t writ­

ten anything.”

“Well, there issome disagreement about these matters. Hui Neng certainly

didn’t have much education.”

I still wasn’t satisfied. “But could he have written ‘ThePlatform Sutra of

the Sixth Patriarch’ if he had beenilliterate?”

replied. “It may havebeen written by someone from his school, not by Hui

Neng himself.” Andthere the matter rested as faras I was concerned until,

yearslater, Iread theaccountofthe debatebetween Hu Shihand Dr. Suzuki

inthe journal Philosophy East andWest(vol. 3, 1953).

Hu Shih versus DaisetzSuzuki

What I had heardfrom these two men earlierhadonly partly preparedme for what they said about each other in Philosophy East and West.

Hu Shih begins by sayingthathe speaks “as a friend who has never con­

cealed from him (Dr. Suzuki) my disappointment in his method of ap­ proach. ...Any man who takeshis un-historical and anti-historical approach can never understand the Zen movement or the teachings of the great Zen

masters. The best hecan doisto tellthe worldthatZen is Zen andaltogeth­

er beyondour logical comprehension.”

Hu Shih goes on to describe the discovery of the eighth-century manu­

scripts from the Tun-huangcaves and editing them withDr. Suzuki. He then goes over, in greaterdetail, the same accusations that he had voiced during our meetingin his office. He was adamant aboutthe lack of authenticityof Hui Neng.

“What do we know about the illiterate monk, Hui Neng, the established

Sixth Patriarch?” he asks and proceeds to answer his question “—precious

little. He was bom of a lowlyfamilyinanarea where aborigines lived in peace

with Chinese people ... he was one ofthe aboriginal peoples of the South­ east.” HuShih’s text continues, maintaining that, during Hui Neng’s lifetime,

anothermonk had been recognized as the Sixth Patriarch. According to the Tun-huang manuscripts, HuiNeng came to prominence only years later, when a disciple of his, ShenHui attacked the teachings of the original Sixth Patriarch. Overa periodofmany years,ShenHui was abletosupplant these

teachings with ones that he attributedto Hui Neng. In the process, he helped

to rewrite the history and establish whatbecamethecurrently acceptedview

of Zen succession; thatHuiNeng had been the Sixth Patriarch and he had

been the Seventh.

Hu Shih acknowledges that Shen Hui’steachingswere revolutionary. To

understand the nature of this revolution, herefers to aspects of Buddhist his­

tory. A schoolof IndianBuddhism characterized by reliance on “meditation” (Skt. dhyana),came to China in the fifth century. There itwas recognizedas

Ch’an, a corruption ofthe word dhyana, which, corrupted in turn, became

STUNKARD: SUZUKI DAISETZ

Shen Hui’s teachings were revolutionary, HuShih writes, because “he con­ demned the dhydna practice” that made meditation the central feature of

Buddhism. He called it “ahindranceto enlightenment” and “swept asideall forms ofsitting in meditation as unnecessary.” The result, Hu Shih proposes,

wasa Chinese reformulation, or revolution,within Buddhism.

In the aggressiveness of his responseto HuShih, itwas hard to recognize

the Dr. Suzukiof ourSundayafternoons. He begins with his“conviction that

Hu Shih ... isnot qualified and equippedto discuss Zen asZen.” Ignoring

Hu Shih’s account of Zen history, he proceeds to argue for the traditional view, that Hui Neng’s ideas were “truly revolutionary” and that they were

embodied in the message that “dhydna and prajnd are one.” Hecontinues, “Before Hui Neng, the two wereregardedasseparate, which resulted in em­

phasizing dhydna at the expense ofprajnd. By his emphasis on prajnd, Hui Neng revivedthe enlightenment experience.”

Reading the explanation ofwhat this experience means in Dr. Suzuki’s essay,our Sunday afternoons came back to me. He begins by distinguishing between two kinds of knowledge, vijhdna, discriminative knowledge, and prajnd, “wisdom-knowledge.” As the term is generally used, knowledge

refers to discriminativeknowledge, “public knowledge,” which is the rela­

tionship between subject and object. When there is no distinction between subject and object, there isprajnd “consciousnessinits deepest sense ... a

result of an inner experience, wholly individual and subjective.”

He goes on, “Thestrangething about this kind of knowledgeis that theone

who has it isutterly convinced of its universality . . . theuniquenessofprajnd

intuition consists in its authoritativeness,utterly convincingand contributive

tothe feeling that ‘Iam theultimate reality itself,Iam the absolute knower.’ ” Dr. Suzuki never spoke to us in that way, butit was the way that he acted.

Returning to a morefamiliar tone, Dr. Suzukicontinues, “the Zen master, generally speaking, despisesthose who indulge in word-or idea-mongering,

andinthis respect both Hu Shih and myself aregreatsinners, murderers of

Buddhas andpatriarchs; we both are destined for hell.”

Then, sounding like his Sunday-aftemoon self, “But it is not a bad thingto go to hell,if it does some good tosomebody.”

This essay went a long way toward helping me understandDr. Suzuki’s

lack of interest inzazen. It may well have come from hisstudy of the early

Zen patriarchs,perhaps particularly from the impressionthat the Tun-huang manuscripts had made uponhim. But Dr. Suzuki’s lackofinterestinzazen

STUNKARD: SUZUKI DAISETZ

With that, he produced asmallfigureofBodhidharma, the man who had brought Zen from India toChina. The figure, with a cape over his head, was

sittingin meditation and in front ofhimwas a small emptycylinder inwhich

to insert incense sticks.

“I hopethat this will encourage you in your zazen.”

Overthe years, Dr. Suzuki took a more and morepositive attitude toward

zazen, particularly duringthe 1950swhenhe taughtatColumbia University and experiencedthefirst American reactiontoZen, the “Zen boom.” It may havebeenthisexperience that led to his re-evaluation of zazen thattook place

about this time. He may have feltthat evenzazen was preferable to theend­

less talk about Zen by peoplewhoseonlyexperiencehad been readingbooks

about it, perhaps particularly books by Dr. Suzuki. If they were practicing

zazen, perhaps theywouldn’thave so much time to talk aboutZen. Whatever

the reasons, Dr. Suzuki’ s views on zazen changed to the point whereheviewed

it again as an important path to the understanding of Zen.

Two Friends

To my surprise, noneof my friends at thetime of our visitsto Engakuji seemed

interestedin practicingzazen. Fortwo of them, however, our Sunday after­ noons were formative.

One of them was DeMartino, who later became a professor of religon at Temple University, where he specialized in Buddhistthought. After I had taken part inone or twosesshin,Iinvited Dickto join me duringan evening

sitting at Engakuji. Hewasn’t keenon the idea but he agreed and came with

me with no apparentmisgivings. Themonk in charge ledus toward the back

of the meditation hall where he assignedus seatsnot far from theopen door

throughwhich the monks wentoutfor theirperiodsof walking meditation.

Dickand I settleddownon our cushions inthe lotus position and soon the pain filled my consciousness and I began to look forward longingly to the

bell. Out ofthe comerofmy eye, I could see Dick andhe seemed tobe hold­ ing upwell. Then I sensed rather than sawthe restlessness and fidgeting that

I knew sowell from my own experience. “Just holdout,” I thought, “it can’t

be much longer.” But it was.

The monks were notabove hazing newcomers and this time theyseemed to have decided to letthenewcomer have it. Idon’t know howlongtheykept us sitting. Clearlyit wasnot a problemfor the professionals, but itbecamea

growing problemfor Dick, as I couldtellfromthe rustling at his place. Then out of the comerof myeye, I could see him bend forward and crawl on his

hands to the front of the platform and then,headfirst,wriggle down the two or three feet to the floor.Onceon the floor,he crawledoutthe back door and

disappeared into the night.

We never spoke of the incident and it was a longtimebeforehe sat inzazen again.Forsome years, Dickspentlargeamounts of time with Dr. Suzuki and traveled widely with him. He began graduate studies in Buddhism,became an expert on Zen literature of the T’ang period and could speak at lengthand with passion about Zen.He also became a student of Hisamatsu Shin’ichi A , a great layman of this time, and, under his tutelage, combinedzazen

and Zen philosophy. Dick wasawarded a degreeof Doctorof Philosophy from Temple Universityand for many yearswas a belovedprofessoronthe facul­

tythere.

A very different kind oflife followed theSundayafternoons’ initiation into

Zenof another friend, Philip Kapleau. Asherecounts in his pioneeringThree Pillars of Zen, he continued hisinterestin Zen afterhis return tothe United

States and attended Dr. Suzuki’s lectures atColumbia. But he found himself increasingly dissatisfiedwith hislife and with the solace that an

intellectual-ized Zen could offer. Accordingly,in the finestZen tradition, he gave uphis job as a court reporterand returned to Japan to enter a monastery where he

spent three painful years. A friend who saw him at that timesaid that she had

been worried abouthim, because he was so thin and drawn, so apparently

malnourished.Buthe stuck it out and eventually underwent the kind of intense enlightenment experiencethat featuredso prominently inDr. Suzuki’s writ­ ings. Returning to the United States, Kapleau established a Zen center in

Rochester, New York,and spent therest of his lifeasa teacher and Zen mas­ ter.

The lives of these two friends are wonderfulexamples of two directions

that a Zen life can take. Dick DeMartino became the scholar who taught

Buddhist philosophy and Buddhist lore to his students in the classroom.

Kapleau became themaster who taughtZen to his disciples. The Zen chron­ icles oftenth-century China also tell of thesetwo directions ofZen life. A thousand years later, the Sunday afternoons created by a kindly teacher

pointed in thesesamedirections.

Dr. Suzukiin America

There was always something sweet and appealing about Dr. Suzuki and it

came with him when he arrived inthe United States in 1950, toteachatthe Union Theological Seminary. By that time, I was fully immersed in my

STUNKARD: SUZUKI DAISETZ

psychiatric trainingat the Johns Hopkins Hospital, tryingtoput inperspec­ tive all that had occurred in Japan. The news of Dr. Suzuki’s arrival brought with it an intense sense ofanticipation. How would this little man seem to me

in America, in myhome, so far from Engakuji andallof the strange and won­

derful things that now seemed sofar away?

It turned out that Dr. Suzuki in America was not so different from Dr.

Suzuki in Japan.The biggest change wasin his dress. Instead ofhis fine brown

kimono, he wore a well-fitting tweed suit with a shirtand tie thatsomehow

made hissmall frameappear even smaller. It wasthe first time I had seen him

in Western dress,but hehad lostnoneof his same,warm manner and lovely

smile.In Japan,I had never thought muchabout his partiallytoothlessmouth. But Iwasstruck by theway his smile hadchanged,brightened by new den­ tures. Appearances aside,he had notchanged; always the teacher, he was soon back at his old profession.

Dr. Suzuki held small classes during the year that he taught at the Union TheologicalSeminary andlater at Columbia.They were heldinasmall con­

ferenceroom; we sat in chairsfacinghimaroundalargetablewhile hespoke

and answered questions. He would oftenget up fromhischair and go tothe

blackboard to write a Chinese word and then to commenton it, frequently at great length. Thesewordsandcommentswere usually enigmatic and intrigu­

ingand seemed to serve as akindof framework for talks that seemedto have no formal outline. ButDr. Suzuki’s lectures, as they were called, were not

really different from the Sunday afternoon discussions at Engakuji. There were the same old Zen stories, talk of satori and encouragement. It would seem at times as if a questionerhad truly understood a point and then we would hearagain, “Very good, yes, verygood. Not quite, butvery good.”

One day, there occurred an event thatwas perplexing and,as itturned out, instructive. Partway into the class, an intense young man sprangto his feet and loudly challenged something that Dr. Suzuki had said. To Dr. Suzuki’s

quietresponse he shouted out another challenge,sounding likea character in the “Dharmabattles” between Zen masters and their disciples that Dr. Suzuki

had described in his books. Dr. Suzuki again respondedquietly, his answer as enigmatic as the challenge. This went onfor anotherexchange. Then the

challenger sat down and Dr. Suzuki resumedhis homely discourse.

Iwas greatly impressed by this exchange and, as I thought more aboutit, reproached myself.I had beentrying foryears to understand something about

Zen andhad never gotten close to this kind of give andtake. What was the matter with me? I wasgladto have thechanceaftertheclass, to ask Dr. Suzuki

what the young man hadmeant by hischallenge. What had he been talking about?

“I don’t really know,” Dr.Suzuki replied,“He seemed to be a very earnest youngman butI don’t really knowwhathewas talking about.”

Perhaps Dr. Suzukiwasguardingthesanctityof someprivilegedZencom­ munication but I think not. I was content to believethat the intense young mandid nothave somespecialinsight thathad eluded me. Therewassome­

thingreassuring aboutDr. Suzuki’s quiet, undramatic approach.

Dr. Suzukias a Patient

Over a period of years, I had theunusual, andat times unsettling, opportunity toserveasDr. Suzuki’s physician. It began back in Japan whilehe was liv­ ing at Engakuji. One day, after green tea and a conversation about Zen, Dr. Suzukitold me that he was having difficulty with his tongueand asked me if I could give him some medicine for it. When I asked to examine his tongue he seemed surprised. At the time I didn’t thinkmuchabout his surprise, except tobe a little surprisedabout it myself.Later,as I learned more about Japanese medical practice,I realizedthatDr. Suzuki’s reaction was quite in keeping with this practice. Japanesephysicians oftenprescribedmedication on request

without what we wouldhaveconsidered an adequate examination and diag­

nosis.Prisonersat Sugamo often appeared at sick call, holding outa hand and sayingsimply“kusuri,”medicine.Some seemed surprisedwhen I asked what

the problem was for whichthey wanted the medicine.

A prisoner helped me to recognize the magical function that medicine servedin Japanese culture of the time.It was a kind of cure-all forany and all ills, even as a kind of preventive medicine for whateverillnessmight come along. Forall hissophistication,Dr. Suzuki was still a creature of his med­ ical culture.

WhenI looked into his mouth, I was shocked. Veryfew teeth remained, discoloredand ragged, protruding almosthaphazardly from his gums. It was

clearwhy his tongue was givinghim trouble.It was enlarged, withreddened, smooth, inflamed edges.

The picture was a classic one of riboflavin deficiency. Itold Dr. Suzuki

that he needed vitamins and thatI would obtain some for him. He seemed

gratefuland insisted that I go to nospecial trouble on his behalf.

Prisoners returning fromthe South Pacific frequentlysuffered from vitamin deficiencies and we usually supplementedtheir diets with vitamins during

STUNKARD: SUZUKI DAISETZ

their first weeks in prison.Accordingly,we hada largesupply of vitamins at

Sugamo and during mynext visit to Engakuji I took abottle of them to Dr.

Suzuki. He accepteditwith a gratitude that seemed more thanwaswarranted

by this simple gift.

The outcome ofmy first treatment of Dr. Suzuki was better than I could

have hoped. He soon reported that the burning in his tongue had subsided and

then that it haddisappeared. He was, again, very grateful.

Some time after this occasion, Dr. Suzuki askedme ifI could help “that

old woman,” Kono, who seemed to be in poorhealth. Kono was a small,

elderly woman in an inconspicuous darkkimono who was often inthe back­ ground during my visits. I don’tbelieve that Dr. Suzukiever introduced us and it was some time before I gathered that she kept house and cookedfor him.When I wouldmeet her,she was always on her kneeson the strawfloor matsand she would bowdeeply, almostto the floor. Those of us whospent

Sunday afternoons with Dr. Suzuki used to wonder about this shadowy fig­ ure, who was always available whensomething was needed. There were a numberof rumors, often romantic, about her. A popular one was that she had been a noblewoman,who had beenin lovewith Dr. Suzuki from an early age andhadgiven up her family to serve as his housekeeper.We never found out

more.

Themedicalhistory that“that old lady”gave was largely unrevealing. She

said that she had been in goodhealth until recently and thather healthwas

still reasonably good but that she seemed to be more tired than usual. When

I performed a physical examination, I found a thin, elderly woman with no readily apparent physical problems. Her abdomen seemed clear as did her

head, neck, arms and legs. Her chest, however, was another story. When I

percussed it, there was anarea ofdullness in the upper chest that suggested a past or presentinfection. When I listenedthere, I heard theunmistakablerales, or small crackles, that spoke of infection. The most likely cause of these find­

ings was tuberculosis, whichwas widespread inJapan after the deprivation

of the war andpostwar years. Without an x-ray, the diagnosis was uncertain

and there were some favorable signs: hertemperature was normal and she wasnot coughing. But getting an x-ray was a problem.Weweren’tallowed

to use American Army facilities forJapanese nationalsandI didn’t knowhow

to obtainthe servicesof aJapanese x-ray unit.

As van Itallie and I considered the situation, it seemed as if the lack ofan

x-ray was not as important as it would have been at home. There were no

of littlemorethanbedrestandgoodnutrition.Thesewereusuallyearned out

in a sanitoriumwhere time was measured in six-month intervals and few

patients leftwithin a year. Long-termhospitalizationwas the rule.

The situation in Japan was quitedifferent. It was notclear that there were any sanitariafortuberculosis in thecountryand,if there had been,theywould hardly have served as treatment. Adequate nutrition was very difficult to

obtain and patients were better offstaying out of the hospital and earning

enough moneyto buyfood. As van Itallie andI considered the status of our patient, we reluctantly made a decision: itwould be best for her to stay where

she was, living inasheltered environment, with adequate food. We did not

feel comfortable with thisdecision and it was not one thatwould have been

acceptable in the UnitedStates. But,all thingsconsidered,itseemed the best we coulddo.

Therewastheproblem,however, that “that old woman” might transmit the

disease to Dr. Suzuki. So we spoke to bothof them about this possibility,then aboutthe importance ofKono avoiding close contact withhimandabouttak­

ing special precautionswhen preparinghis food. They both understood the situation and did whatever they could to prevent transmissionof the disease. And wecomforted ourselves, Dr. Suzuki,and“that oldlady” with thepossi­ bility that she mightnot have tuberculosis after all.

Some weeks after these events, Dr. Suzuki told me that “that old lady”

wanted to give me a present.

He handed me a small woodenbox. Islipped back the top to finda piece

of brocadedsilkthat covered a small dark metalfigure. Dr. Suzuki said, “This

is that old lady’sKannon IS W,”the Bodhisattvaof Compassion about which he had sooften spoken. Iset it down on the low table. Itwas about two inch­

es tall on a small round wooden pedestal. The tiny graceful little bodywas

standingin the traditional pose with a largelotusleaf behind her head. A hint

of goldsuggested that the statue had once been gilded.

Dr.Suzuki said, “She wants you to have this in gratitude forwhat you have

done for us.”

Ihave kept it ever since, beside Dr. Suzuki’s Bodhidharma incense burner. I wasnottheonlyone to attend to “that old lady’s” medical care. Van Itallie

examined her eyes whentheycaused her trouble anddiscovered that she was

sufferingfromglaucoma. Sohe raided his medicalsupply closetat theNaval

Station and,asit was then termed,“liberated” somemedicationfor glaucoma.

It turned out tobe effective.

Hospital, conveniently located not far from Dr. Suzuki’s apartment. Van

Itallie’s medical training made it appropriate for himto assume responsibil­ ity for Dr. Suzuki’s medical care but even he did not consider himself as his doctor andnever formally enrolled him as a patient at St.Luke’s. Dr. Suzuki

was in excellent health but van Itallie wasconcerned aboutcaring for a man who was now in his80s. Programs ofInternal Medicine at that time rarely had patientsas old as Dr. Suzuki. Geriatrics was yet to be bom as a specialty andvery few physiciansknewmuch about the care of elderly persons.

One problem that surfaced was Dr. Suzuki’s blood pressure: 170/70mil­ limeters of mercury. Although his systolic pressure of 170 was severely

hypertensive,his diastolic pressure was extremely low. Normal blood pres­ sure is 120/80.The differencebetweenthe two numbers is calledpulsepres­ sure. Dr. Suzuki’s pulse pressurewas more than twice the normal. A pulse pressurethis high was rarelyencountered. It was presumablydue toarigid­ ityin the arteries which did not expand to accommodate the pressure ofthe

blood as it emerged from the heart. Butknowingthe mechanism didn’t help indeciding what to do about it.

At the time, most patients received non-specific treatments such as mild

sedatives and rest. Therewere only two specific treatments for hypertension.

One was a major surgicalprocedure that damaged the sympathetic nervous

system and left thepatientwithenormousdisabilities. The other one was the rice diet, a radical regimen that had recently been introduced and was still being investigated. Neither seemed appropriate and, inthe end, this factdic­

tatedthe decision. VanItallie reassured Dr. Suzuki about his blood pressure, occasionally prescribed a mild sedative, and hoped for the best. As he had hoped, the best occurred: Dr. Suzukineverencountered any problems with

his blood pressure.

Soon after van Itallie began to treat Dr. Suzuki, he told me of another find­ ing that hadintrigued him.

“He has an enormous abdomen,”van Itallie said and waited for thisfact to

sink in.

Then he continued, “But it isn’tfat.It’s as hardas rock.”

Van Italliewent on to say that it wasn’t Dr. Suzuki’sentire abdomen that wasenlarged,butonlythelowerpart, a part known in Japanese as the tanden HEB, that features strongly in zazen. Zen practice places greatimportanceon the tanden, as the site of abdominalbreathing. Meditation teachersstress the importance of tighteningthis area to the greatestpossible extentduring the

STUNKARD: SUZUKI DAISETZ

that these muscles might become highly developed in monks and other Zen practitioners who spend hours a day in meditation. But tofind such powerful musclesin this old man was arealsurprise. Perhaps, theyhad been built up during his years of Zentraining during his youth. Butthey could hardly have maintained the strong tone that vanItallie had found ifhis exercise of these muscles had ended with his formal Zentraining. We marveled over these mus­ cles and finally concluded that,in his oldage, Dr. Suzuki must be continuing the abdominal breathing that he had learned in his youth. If this were thecase,

it would be one of the most remarkable aspects of this remarkable man. For it meant thathe was continuing his Zen breathing atthesametime that he was downplaying the importance of zazen andmeditation.

After hisarrival in New York, Dr. Suzuki looked to vanItallie for much of hismedical care. When he approached me,it was with a question that befit­

ted my psychiatric training, about psychedelic agents. This question arose aboutthe timehe received a visit from Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg. It

hadbeen a short visitand had not apparently made a strong impression on Dr. Suzuki.However,at the time, psychedelic agentswerereceiving a great deal

ofattention in medicalcircles as well as inthepopular press, and Dr. Suzuki had been intriguedby what he had read about them. He wasparticularly inter­ estedin reportsthat theLSD experience was similar to thatofsatori.

Dr. Suzuki was sure, he said, that the LSD experience was different from satori. The experiences might feelthesame,he mused, but theywere clearly different. And their consequences must be different, as well. An LSD expe­

rience might leave people withanew outlook on theworld but it would hardly

transform themin the way thatsatoridid after therigorsof years ofZen train­

ing. But, even so, he feltthat it would be very interesting to have this experi­ ence and to be able to compare it to what he called “a Zenexperience.” He

shied awayfrom the word“satori” in describing his own experience. These concernshad obviously beenpreoccupying Dr. Suzuki when he finally asked: “Would you be able to bring mesomeLSD, Dr. Stunkard?”

I was impressed that this old man, now in his 80s, was so muchin touch with currentevents. Itwas not simply his knowledge of current events that impressed me, but also his thoughts about LSD and hisdesire toundergo the

experience.

“But should he?” vanItallieand I wondered. In the early days of the psy­ chedelic revolution littlewasknownabout these drugs.There were reportsof “bad trips” and we were concernedthat LSD might damagehis mind or his

LSD and had hada“bad trip.”According to the rumor, hehad lain downin

a fetal position and refused all communication, frightening the people who hadarranged for the experience. Eventually, theeffects of the drug had worn

off andtheZen master returned to theworld no worse for wear. We could not

bearthe thought of subjecting Dr. Suzukito thiskindof uncertainty.

In addition,there was the questionof hisbloodpressure. There wereno reports of the effects of LSD upon this at that time, even blood pressure of normallevels, let aloneDr. Suzuki’s 170/70.

Wemet with him and explained our concerns about the possible dangers

ofLSD in general and particularly in someone of his age and we recom­

mended that he not try it. He listened attentivelyand thoughtabout what we

had said. Then, withobvious reluctance, he agreed to forego somethingthat

heobviously wanted very muchto do.

Dr. Suzukiand MyParents

Soon afterDr.Suzuki arrivedin theUnited States, I visited my parents in New

York and told them that the man who had meant somuch to me in Japan was

nowhere. My mother askedme to invitehim to dinner and he accepted. This

visit became the stage on which the drama of Dr. Suzukiwith each ofmy par­

entsplayedout.

I came uptoNew Yorkfrom Baltimore andmetmyfather, who droveus to the UnionTheologicalSeminary, whereDr. Suzuki was staying. He was waitingfor us,dressedinhis tweed suit.

We had not been driving for long after pickingup Dr. Suzuki whenI became

aware of tension. My father, a customarily self-assured professor ofbiology, who conducted research on animals, wasunusually silent. Perhapsout of def­

erence, Dr. Suzuki alsohad little to say. Ifeltawkwardand tried tomake con­

versation but without muchsuccess.

As wepassed the Columbia-Presbyterian Medical Center, Ipointed it out to Dr. Suzuki as the place where I hadattended medical school. Heexpressed some interest andthen asked, “Do they practice vivisection?” Aroused, my

father spoke out for thefirsttime, once againsure of himself, even didactic. “Vivisection is necessary for medical progress. Without research on ani­ mals, wewould not know what weknow today and we would not learnany­ thing in the future.” Having delivered this pronouncement, my father fell

silent. Dr. Suzukimurmured“I see,” and the painful silence returned. Atleast it was painful to me, andprobably to my father as well. I think that it was probablynot painfultoDr. Suzuki.

STUNKARD: SUZUKI DAISETZ

Duringthe daythat Dr. Suzuki spent with us, my father saidlittle to him and seemed to have little interest in what he said. But he musthave been curi­ ous about this man, if onlybecausehe seemedimportant to his son. Oncehe

made an attempt in his awkward way to find out what itwas thatDr. Suzuki

was teaching.Fixing Dr.Suzukiwith a firmstare and a stemmanner, he asked,

“Now, Dr. Suzuki,I want youtotell mejust what this Zen Buddhismis all about.”

Dr. Suzuki spoke for a while in a pleasant manner without any apparent effect on my father. When he had finished, my fathersaid, withconviction,

and not a littlesatisfaction, “Well, Dr. Suzuki, I don’t understand a word of what you’re saying.” Dr. Suzuki nodded pleasantly and replied, “No, Pro­

fessorStunkard, I’m sure that youdon’t.” The words themselves may seem confrontational but the message was not. Dr. Suzuki spoke in such a kindly manner that even my father could not take offense.Dr. Suzukiwasjust pleas­

antlyacknowledgingthe way things were.

It wasn’t longafter Dr. Suzuki arrivedatourhouse that mymother uncov­

ered an improbable relationship. She used to tryto put peopleat their ease andwassoonembarrassingmebygushing,“Oh, Dr. Suzuki, youspeak such

wonderful English. Where did you everlearn to speak such good English?” Dr. Suzuki thanked her and said that hehad lived for some time in the United States asa young man; itwasthenthathe hadlearned to speak English.

Mymother promptly asked where he hadlived and Dr. Suzuki replied, “I’m

sure itwasn’t any placethat you knowof, Mrs. Stunkard, just a small town on the prairie.”

My motherexclaimed effusively, “Well, Dr. Suzuki, I come from a small town on the prairie. Which small town did you live in?”

Dr.Suzuki again demurred, andsaid that it was avery smalltown; it was

called La Salle.

With even greater enthusiasmmy mother exclaimed, “My goodness, Dr.

Suzuki, you lived in La Salle? Did you, really?” and went on, “I know La

Salle verywell.” She paused and then ventured, “Did you know the Carus family inLa Salle?”

Smiling, Dr. Suzuki said“Yes, Mrs. Stunkard,that’s whereIlived; I lived

with the CarusfamilyinLa Salle.”

My mother immediately asked, “DidyouknowElizabeth Carus?” and Dr.

Suzukireplied that, yes, indeed, hehad known Elizabeth very well.

Triumphantly, my mother thensaid, “Then you probably met me. Welived in Champaignand every month or so my fatherused to take me over to La

Salle to play with ElizabethCams. My father thought very highly of Paul Cams; healways said that he wasa man aheadof histime.”

Then my mother and Dr. Suzukidiscussedthe years when hehad lived with

theCamsesandthe years when my mothervisited them and it did indeedseem asif they could havemet. In a friendly way, Dr. Suzuki saidthat yes,he did

think that he now remembered a young friendof Elizabeth’s who used to come

from Champaign to visit her and that that must have been my mother. My

mother did not pretend to rememberDr. Suzuki but, since these visits must have takenplace about 1900, whenshe wasfive orsix, thatwas not surpris­

ing.

Mymother asked Dr. Suzukihow he hadhappenedto staywith the Camses

andhe recounted thetale ofhis teacher, Soen’s meeting Cams at the World’s Parliament of Religions and arrangingfor Dr. Suzukitocome and work with him.

“Sothatis how I cameto La Salle,Mrs. Stunkard.”

A recent biography of PaulCams cites aletterhe wrote to Soen from this

period, “We are all very much pleasedwith Mr. Suzuki and with the gentle­

nessof his character.”

After our lunch, Dr. Suzuki thankedmy motherandcomplimented her on her cooking, and we went into theliving room. We had been there for only a few minutes whenDr. Suzukiannounced, tono one inparticular, butclearly

meaning mymother,“Now I would like to liedown. It’s time for me to rest.” My mother asked Dr. Suzukiif he would like to go upstairs to bed.

“No,” he replied, pointingto the couch on which he was sitting, “here is

quitesuitable.”

My motherasked ifhe wouldlike a blanket and, when he said that he would,

shehurriedoffto getone. Dr. Suzuki took offhis shoes and jacket, set them down carefully, and then lay down, as my mother appearedwith a blanket.

Shecovered him with it. Hethankedher and promptly went to sleep.

During thistime,myfather waswatchingtheseactivities from hisoldeasy

chairwithwhat may have been curiosity, or more likely, disbelief. When Dr. Suzuki awoke after a brieftime,he sat up and my mother and I engaged him in conversation from which my father was notably absent. Instead, he sat

silently, hardly maskinghisemotions, glowering at thispresumptuous visi­

tor.

We spoke for some time and then it was time for Dr. Suzuki to leave. My

father drovehimandme back totheUnionTheological Seminary, saying not

STUNKARD: SUZUKI DAISETZ

“High Noon ”

I wascontinually surprised by Dr. Suzuki’s ability to relate to different situ­

ations. A poignant occasion involved ourgoing to the movie “High Noon.” I had been moved bythis Western, which tells the story of a sheriff(Gary

Cooper) whohasresigned his position and is leaving onhis honeymoon when

he learns that a “deadly killer” whom he hadsent to prisonyears before has been released and is returning to kill him. The sheriff makes a fruitlesseffort

to recruit townspeople to helphim face this killer and the three desperados

who accompany him. Then he goes to hisoffice,signs his will, and walks out

to meethis fate.

Thecharacterof thelone man of integrity, abandoned by his friends,who chooses death overdishonor, revived my old feelings of admiration for my

father. I had persuaded him to see “High Noon”with me, hoping to convey

tohimsomethingof my boyhood admiration. Butit didn’t work. He didn’t

like the film andsaidthat it was just a lot of violence and shooting and he

didn’t haveanyuse for that kind of thing.

Sometime after this misadventure,I asked Dr.Suzuki to see “High Noon” with me. I hoped that he would help me to understand what itwas that had movedmeso deeply. Wewent alongwithDr. Suzuki’s ward,the young Count Otani Kosho whose father wasthe headof Higashi Honganji. Young

Otani wasalso intrigued by thefilmand talked aboutitso muchthat we began

to call him “TwoGun” Otani.

Dr. Suzuki watched the filmwith rapt attention and afterward threwhim­ selfintoa lively discussion ofit.It was a wonderful film,hesaid, and it had

moved him. Hesaid that he hadparticularly likedthe point whenthe sheriff,

having been abandoned by his friends, wrote his will and went out to die.

“That was a very important moment for thatsheriff. That was the moment whenhe really lost his life, lost his self. After that moment, he was no longer concerned with living or dying. He was just performing the duty that lay before him. Atthatmomentthesheriffwas a true man of Zen.”

Auras andPersonal Influence

One of the thingsthatimpressed meabout Dr. Suzukiwas hisability tocalm thetides of human passion. I had hadlittle chance to seethis ability during his solitary life atEngakujiand hehad not succeededwithmy father. But from timeto time, I hadachance to see his influence on conflicts that arose among