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The ontology of rebirth, or, Does it make sense to be a bodhisattva?

If one wants to be a bodhisattva, the first question one has to ask is, Does this project really make sense?  The whole basis of the bodhisattva ideal is that one should dedicate a long time to perfecting certain mental characteristics to render one the most perfect possible vehicle of teaching for the liberation of suffering beings.  This is all sounds very heroic and altruistic, but there are several problems with this notion.

  1. The first problem is that this is not what the historical Buddha taught his disciples to do.  Forget the teaching of “provisional vehicles” in the Mahayana sutras: modern scholarship is emphatic these texts didn’t issue from the Buddha’s mouth but were later creations credited to him.  (This sort of after-the-fact, alleged authorship happened all the time in the ancient world.  Consider, e.g., the deutero-Pauline and pastoral epistles, all of which are dubiously attributed to Paul.)  The Buddha urged his disciples to guarantee their liberation as fast possible, to practice meditation like their hair was on fire.  He did not encourage anyone to hang around and wait for years, not to mention lifetimes, to perfect themselves so they could do a better job getting enlightened and teaching later on.  So anyone taking the route of the bodhisattva is not following what the historical Buddha taught.
  2. Let’s face it: our characters are, to an extent, determined by our genes.  This can be seen in the dispositions of infants and how they develop later as adults.  (Note: there’s a very strong correlation!)  This means fundamentally changing ourselves, training our characters, is a very difficult if not impossible task.  When you start studying bodhisattva literature (one of the main points of this blog) you will realize that very few people are equipped for this task, which is to say they are not ripe for becoming Buddha’s.  We can admire people like Mother Theresa, Mahatma Gandhi, and Nelson Mandela for their mental toughness, their ability to sacrifice present pleasures for later, worthy gains, to demonstrate compassion and care for others.  But as extraordinary as any of them is/was, none of them had all the “requisites of enlightenment” (bodhisambhara) essential for the complete awakening of a Buddha.  (I’m stating this per the orthodox opinion.  In later posts I want to explore whether or not this orthodoxy is meaningful from a practical standpoint.)  What I’m getting at is that this project has to extend past this particular life–unless of course you already are a bodhisattva and this is your last birth.  Which begs the question: Is there any good reason to believe in rebirth?  I happen to think there is, but of course, I may be wrong.  (See here for one of my reasons.)  If there is rebirth, then you have all the time in the world; actually, you have much more time than that–you have all the time in the universe, through every cycle of creation and destruction, and in multiple universes to boot.  (Scientific opinion seems to be converging on the idea of a multiverse.  See, e.g., the eye-opening article “Starting Point” by Steve Nadis on the work of Tufts University cosmologist Alexander Vilenkin in the September 2013 issue of Discover.)  If rebirth is not the case, then in this one fleeting life you’ve thrown away the opportunity to experience what a liberated human mind is like.
    Infinity art
    infinite time and space
  3. Let us assume rebirth is a fact and you’ve determined on the bodhisattva career (despite the Buddha’s advice).  What is the guarantee you’ll have any recollection of this decision in a later life?  In fact, what’s to stop you from going senile in this life and forgetting who your spouse is, not to mention all your valiant resolutions (like giving up porn or cigarettes or whatever)?  Remembering that you wanted to become a Buddha may be really tough when you’re reborn as a sponge or even just as a regular bloke hauling fish for a living.
  4. Even if you manage to remember the awe-inspiring decision you made 100,000 lifetimes ago, how can you be sure you’ll feel like sticking with it?  I mean, when I was a little kid I wanted to be a paleontologist; I didn’t become a paleontologist.  Then I wanted to be a professor of comparative religion; I didn’t do that either.  For most of the past fifteen years I wanted to be a best selling novelist, but, needless to say, that didn’t pan out.  Now…  Hell, I’m still not sure what I want to be when I grow up.  Given the fickleness of thought, how can anyone expect to make up their mind for a lifetime, not to mention for uncounted cosmic cycles.
  5. Actually, when I said “uncounted cosmic cycles” I was being rather vague.  The texts (e.g. Acaryiya Dhammapala’s A Treatise On the Paramis) cite eight incalculables (asankheyya) and a hundred thousand great eons (mahakappa) as the median length of time required for the task, but it could take as long as twice that!  How long, exactly, are eight incalculables and a hundred thousand great eons?  Well, by definition their length is incalculable and if you look about online for definitions and specs you’ll see that after a certain point the length of time in countable years stops meaning anything.  It might as well be forever.  A job that takes forever or almost forever is a job best not started.

These are just a few of the problems I’m noticing with the bodhisattva project.  I’m sure there are other problems people more astute than I am could think up.  That said, I still think it is not such a bad idea to dedicate oneself to being a bodhisattva.  In fact, it probably is the best thing you could possibly do.  More on this in my next post, where I will proceed to refute everything I said in this post.

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The Way of Korean Zen by Kusan Sunim

The Way of Korean Zen by Kusan Sunim.  (Translation by Martine Batchelor; edited, with an introduction by Stephen Batchelor.)  Weatherhill 2009. 182 pages.

I think you would be hard pressed to find a better, more authentic introduction to Zen Buddhism–or, as it is called in Korea, Seon Bulgyo (where “seon” is pronounced like English “son”).  But perhaps the word “introduction” is not really appropriate.  If you know nothing about Zen Buddhism this is probably not the best place to start.  If you’ve waded into the ocean of Zen and are looking for a fine “fish” to eat, something tasty and nutritious, something truly representative of these particular “waters” (to carry my analogy near the breaking point), this book is marvelous.

It is not about Japanese Zen, though, but Korean.  The Koreans have been practicing Buddhism longer than the Japanese, plus there is more active, “authentic” Buddhism happening in Korea than in Japan.  (At least that’s been my impression; let me know if you think otherwise.)  This situation, however, is changing; as I’ve mentioned elsewhere, the tradition is dying and is probably ready for life support at this point.  (In Japan it is as good as clinically dead; there is probably more authentic Zen in America than in Japan.)  That said, the Koreans understand the whys and wherefores of koan (or “hwadu”) practice in a way I never got the sense contemporary Japanese do.  This book delves in depth regarding koans and contains prime instruction for anyone utilizing this particular meditation subject.

Kusan Sunim (1909-1983)

Some words about the source of these teachings.  Kusan Sunim was, along with Seong-cheol Sunim (“sunim” means monk in Korean), arguably the greatest living exponent of Zen Buddhism in twentieth century Korea.  He started life as a farmer and barber, was even a married man.  At the age of 26 a life-threatening disease struck him.  He survived by going to a temple and reciting the mantra Om mani padme hum for a hundred days, which practice cured him.  Three years later he renounced family life and ordained as a monk and soon after took up meditation, which he did with fanatic resolve.  Sometimes circumstances intervened to interrupt his practice, but he repeatedly went back to it with increased determination.  During one stint, to fight off drowsiness he practiced continuous standing meditation for days on end, during which time “he lost any sense of the outside world.  He was no longer concerned whether he lived or died.  He was so absorbed in his meditation that birds would come and sit on his head and shoulders and take pieces of stuffing that protruded from his padded coat for their nests” (45).  Eventually he attained Great Awakening, which caused his teacher Hyobong Sunim to say “Until now you have been following me; now it is I who should follow you” (47).  This book gives you a chance to follow this great man.

The contents offer a good variety.  The introduction (by Stephen Batchelor) chronicle the history of Buddhism in Korea, a much neglected area of study by Western Buddhists.  Readers who wish to delve more deeply into this would be advised to check out Mu-Seong Sunim’s Thousand Peaks: Korean Zen Tradition and Teachers.  Those with a philosophical bent will appreciate Tracing Back the Radiance: Chinul’s Korean Way of Zen.  (Chinul, a contemporary of Dogen’s, is the intellectual godfather of Korean Zen, though in the last several decades he has been somewhat overshadowed by Seong-cheol’s “sudden awakening, sudden cultivation” teachings which hearken back to the Sixth Patriarch.)  There follows an overview of life in a Korean Zen monastery and a brief bio of Kusan.  Those wishing to know more about the former should read The Zen Monastic Experience by Robert E. Buswell.

The second half of the book constitute the teachings proper.  They consist of meditation instructions, specifically how to practice the koan (hwadu), as well as discourses from winter retreats delivered by Kusan to monks assembled at Songgwang-Sa, where Kusan was the abbot.  (This is also the temple where I lived most of the time that I spent in Korean temples.)  There are also less formal talks–“advice and encouragement”–and a series of poems and commentaries on the traditional “Ten Oxherding Pictures.”

Entrance to Songgwang-Sa

The feeling one gets from reading the words of Kusan is This is the real deal.  Imagine if one of the ancient Chinese masters–Huang-po or Linchi or even Huineng–were suddenly resurrected in the here and now and started spouting off–this is what you’d expect to hear.  Kusan has the same punch, energy, sense of paradox, and intrinsic authority.  You can’t help but want to take this man’s advice, to run off to the mountains, live in a cave and risk all for the breakthrough.

But don’t believe me.  Listen to him:

To live long would be to live for a hundred years. A short life is over in the time it takes to inhale and exhale a single breath. A hundred years of life depends upon a single breath, for life stops when respiration ceases. Can you afford to wait for a hundred years when you do not know how soon death will come? You may die after having eaten a good breakfast in the morning; you may die in the afternoon after a good lunch. Some die during sleep. You may die in the midst of going here and there. No one can determine the time of death. Therefore, you must awaken before you die (78-9).

What will it take to awaken?  Kusan tells us:

The Buddhas and the patriarchs did not realize Buddhahood easily. They realized it through great effort and much hardship. They exerted themselves with such great effort because the sufferings of birth and death are so terrifying. Therefore, even though you want to sleep more, you should sleep less. Even though you want to eat more, you should eat less. Even though you want to talk a lot, you should try to talk less. Even though you want to see many things, you should see less. Your body will definitely feel restrained by acting in such a way. This is indeed a practice of austerity. However, none of the Buddhas and the patriarchs would have awakened had they not trained themselves in this manner (81-2).

Finally, if you want to help sentient beings, how can you do it?  Kusan says

In order to be able to actually help others, you should seek to emulate the spirit of a great hero.  This is necessary because only one who is the greatest hero among heroes is able to accomplish this difficult task [of awakening]. You need supreme courage in order to bring this practice to its completion. To transform this world into a Pure Land and to change ordinary sentient beings into accomplished sages is no easy matter. It is truly the work of a great hero (118).

I advise all you wanna-be great heroes to get a copy of this illuminating and inspiring book and enter soon the practice of the Way!

My Amazon rating: 5 stars 

Shobogenzo-Zuimonki by Dogen Zenji

Shobogenzo-Zuimonki: Sayings of Eihei Dogen Zenji recorded by Koun Ejo.  Translated by Shohaku Okumura.  Kyoto Soto Zen Center 1987.  232 pages.

To what indeed shall I liken the world and human life?

Ah!  The shadow of the moon as it touches in a dewdrop

The beak of the water fowl.

–Dogen Zenji

Dogen was the ultimate Zen philosopher.  He was also one hardcore, butt-kicking meditation master.  If you feel like slacking off in your practice, if you just want to sit back, watch a game and drink a Bud Lite, Dogen is the man you should turn to:

The practice of being released from samsara and attaining the Way seems to be sought by everyone, but those who accomplish it are few.  Life-and-death is the Great Matter; impermanence is swift.  Do not let your mind slacken.  If you abandon the world, you should abandon it completely (113).

Across so many centuries this man speaks very clearly to us.  His philosophy is one of direct Realization, not of study.  Though he himself was brilliant and wrote extensively, he did not see the point of such things unless one had already attained the Way:

I have heard that Ku-Amidabutsu of Koya was an eminent scholar of both Exoteric and Esoteric Buddhism.  After he abandoned his temple and entered the Nenbutsu School, a Shingon priest visited him and asked about the doctrine of the Esoteric teachings of the school.  He replied, “I have forgotten everything.  I don’t remember a single word.”  Thus, he did not answer the priest’s question.  This should be the ideal bodhi-mind.  He must have remembered something, but did not talk about things he thought were useless…  Students today should also cultivate this attitude.  Even if you used to know about the philosophy of the teaching-schools, it would be better to forget it completely.  Needless to say, you should not begin studying now (88).

Perhaps this seems contradictory to some things you think you know.  Sometimes Dogen seems to contradict himself, but then he was talking to different people at different times and in different circumstances.  So it is all works out.  What is important is to read this book as something you can and should put into practice.  It is easily one of the hardest hitting, most visceral and memorable books on spiritual practice I have ever come across.

Let me step back, as I am now meandering a little. I went to Japan in 1989 to practice Zen. At the time I prepared by writing various temples for advice and suggestions. One temple sent me this book. I have treasured it ever since, and though I have bought and given away multiple copies, I have always tried to have one on hand. There are just not enough good things I can say about it.

Here you will read stories direct from the life of Japan’s greatest ever Zen monk.  You will hear about the challenges and tribulations of those who practiced under him, of laity he knew, and of his evaluations of his Ch’an ancestors (“the Patriarchs”).  Forget the sound of one hand clapping and the romance of pretty Zen gardens–Dogen talks about life-and-death and clarifying the mind in the immediate present, of how our actions, thoughts and attitudes facilitate or frustrate our accomplishment of the Way.

He has advice on just about everything.  Are you concerned about what you should pursue for a career, which company you should work for or job you should take? Dogen has advice for you:

Students of the Way, it goes without saying that you must consider the inevitability of death.  Even if you don’t consider this right now, you should be resolved not to waste time and refrain from doing meaningless things.  You should spend your time carrying out what is worth doing.  Among the things you should do, what is the most important?  You must understand that all deeds other than those of the buddhas and patriarchs are useless (97).

Or consider the inevitability of arguments and disputes–the Universe knows I have (wrongly) engaged in too many of those.  Here is Dogen on such things:

There is an old saying which goes, “Although the power of a wise man exceeds that of an ox, he does not fight with the ox.” Now, students, even if you think that your wisdom and knowledge is superior to others, you should not be fond of arguing with them. Moreover, you should not abuse others with violent words, or glare at others angrily…

Once, Zen Master Shinjo Kokubun told his students, “In former times, I practiced together with Seppo . Once Seppo was discussing the dharma loudly with another student in the monk’s dormitory. Eventually, they began to argue using harsh words, and in the end, wound up quarreling with each other. After the argument was over, Seppo said to me, ‘You and I are close friends practicing together with one mind. Our friendship is not shallow. Why didn’t you help me when I was arguing with that man?’ At the time, I could do nothing but feel small folding my hands and bowing my head.

Later, Seppo became an eminent master, and I too, am now an abbot. What I thought at the time was that Seppo’s discussion of the dharma was ultimately meaningless. Needless to say, quarreling was wrong. Since I thought it was useless to fight, I kept silent.”

Students of the Way, you also should consider this thoroughly. As long as you aspire to make diligent effort in learning the Way, you must be begrudging with your time. When do you have time to argue with others? Ultimately, it brings about no benefit to you or to others. This is so even in the case of arguing about the dharma, much more about worldly affairs. Even though the power of a wise man is stronger than that of an ox, he does not fight with the ox.  Even if you think that you understand the dharma more deeply than others, do not argue, criticize, or try to defeat them (176-8).

In short, this little book is a primer of life.  It will tear you down and build you back up. It will pluck out your eyes and stick them back in your head and set your feet off down a different path.  At times in my life I have obsessed over it, reading it repeatedly and earmarking and outlining it.  It is a lovely and poetic book and hard as diamond.  Buy it.  Read it.  Practice it.

My Amazon rating: 5 stars

Echoes From Mt. Kaya by Ven. Seong-cheol

Echoes From Mt. Kaya: Selections on Korean Buddhism by Ven. Song-chol, Patriarch of the Korean Chogye Buddhist Order.  Translation by Brian Barry.  Lotus Lantern International Buddhist Center 1988.  217 pages.

Regrettably, this is not a book you’ll easily find, nor will you easily get other writings by the same author, though Ven. Seong-cheol (1912-1993) wrote a lot in his day and was well known and widely respected in his homeland of Korea.  This unfortunate fact is on account of Korean Seon (Zen) being much less well known than its Chinese and Japanese counterparts.  Exactly why this is the case I can’t say, especially when one considers the close ties historically between the United States and South Korea.  One thing though I can say with a fair degree of certainty is this: if you want to get a first hand taste of traditional Zen practice the place to go is not Japan, and most certainly is not China (I’m not sure what, if anything is left there)–it is Korea.

Consider the practice of the koan.  In Japanese temples koan practice has degraded into a sort of mantra-like parody.  The Japanese–I’m speaking from my experience, others may have had different experiences–seem to have lost a sense of what it means to go beyond samadhi (zanmai), and in fact I knew many monks who had spent years, even decades, working on koan after koan but never getting beyond samadhi states.  (If only they took a month or two off for a vipassana course, what a difference it would make.  But I digress….)  And the reason for this is on account of how they approach koan study which, as I noted, has too much in common with a mantra.

The Koreans have a different understanding of the koan, which they call hwadu, or “head of speech.”  If you investigate the dialogues of early Chan and Zen masters you’ll see that enlightenment experiences, though often proceeded by many years of practice, typically erupt out of a paradoxical situation, question or experience.  In other words, a cognitive disruption of some kind gives birth to kensho/satori/awakening.  This is what is lacking in modern Japanese Zen but is the vein through which Korean Seon approaches the koan.  The point in Korean koan practice is not to answer the koan, but to be changed by it.  The most common koan these days in Korean monasteries is the question “What is this?”  The point of this question is to evoke first a puzzled sense, then doubt, then further inquiry, until the sense of doubt/questioning consumes the thinking mind.  Out of that state, which consists of both samadhi and insight, comes true awakening, and by this process the Koreans, I suspect, avoid the samadhi-stagnation that I saw over and over again in Japanese monasteries.

But enough of my tiring sidetrack.  On to the book review.

Seong-cheol Sunim

The author, Seong-cheol Sunim (sunim is Korean for monk; you can read his extraordinary bio here on Wikipedia) was in his own day known as a “living Buddha”.  I suspect the number of people who have been accorded such a designation is rather small and there is good reason for that.  How many people sequester themselves in solitude for 18 years, even to the point of surrounding their hermitage with barbed wire and living mostly on food they grow?  How many sleep sitting up in the full lotus posture for eight years?  How many, though never leaving the mountains, become beacons of inspiration and instruction to millions and get appointed heads of major monastic orders?  Not many.  This tells you a little about this amazing man.

As for the book’s contents: snippets from dharma talks–all dating from the 1980s, when Seong-cheol was abbot of Haein Temple and Supreme Patriarch of the Korean Chogye Buddhist Order–make up the first part.  The second part consists of selections from interviews, and part three specifically concerns monastic life.  Some selections are but a page in length, poetic and inspirational, others are ten to fifteen page essays.  In other words, the book is a miscellany, though generally of high quality, especially if one is practice oriented.  There is also a very brief introduction, a translator’s preface, and a capsule history of Korean Buddhism.

I think a few brief quotes might give a feel for the contents of this book.

Fundamental oneness includes and transcends being and non-being.  Absorbing mind and matter, it syncretizes self and others.  Should the world as we know it come to an end, fundamental reality would still remain unmoved, stable and free.  How heartbreaking that endless personal greed blocks people’s  sight from this brilliant scene; how tragic that people continue to writhe in a world filled with darkness (73).

The Emperor of Chin conquered all of China.  He built a huge palace, and tried to forget the tragedy of life by surrounding himself with all kinds of elegant pursuits.  But he ended up as no more than a handful of dirt on Mt. Lu.  Life is like the dance of a criminal being sent to the gallows (185).

And this is Seong-cheol’s prescription for meditative success:

You must strictly observe the following: do not sleep more than four hours a night, act as if you were a deaf mute, avoid all script as if you were illiterate, do not snack at any time, and do a proper amount of physical work (205).

This, finally, from the section on monastic living:

The goal of monastic life is total altruism.  You should constantly serve others both psychologically and materially.  And when doing so, you must never take a thing for it.  Lend a helping hand whenever you can, especially to the old, the young, the ill and the poor.

The Buddha’s very own son, Rahula, became one of the Buddha’s ten great disciples, and he later became known for his anonymous works of compassion.  All your deeds, no matter how outstanding, must be carried out without even a ghost knowing about them.  This too, is essential for your enlightenment.  A dollar worth of good can be ruined by a penny worth of evil, and you are the loser (207).

Note: Korean Buddhism is a dying tradition.  As the decades slip by, the numbers of Koreans calling themselves Buddhist dwindles, their percentage of the population goes down.  It is high time people outside of Korea take an interest in this rich cultural tradition, every bit as worthy as its Chinese and Japanese counterparts.  I list a few other books here I have happened upon that can ease you on this journey if you decide to partake:

The Zen Monastic Experience by Robert E. Buswell

Tracing Back the Radiance: Chinul’s Korean Way of Zen translated by Robert E. Buswell

The Way of Korean Zen by Kusan Sunim.  Kusan was a monk of prodigious attainment, a rival to Seong-cheol in his ascetic feats.

Thousand Peaks: Korean Zen Tradition and Teachers by Mu-Seong Sunim

Food of Bodhisattvas by Shabkar Tsogdruk Rangdrol

Food of Bodhisattvas: Buddhist Teachings on Abstaining from Meat by Shabkar Tsogdruk Rangdrol (translated by the Padmakara Translation Group).  Shambhala 2004.  144 pages.

I confess I was less than rousingly impressed by this book.  While the author, Shabkar, was one of Tibet’s greatest yogi’s since Milarepa, very little of the text is actually from his hand.

The book has three parts.  The first, the introduction, is the lengthiest at 46 pages.  It discusses something of the history and place of vegetarianism in traditional Tibet, contrasting the situation with Tibetans in exile and Buddhists in the West.  The main section of the introduction paints a portrait of Shakar himself.  I can only say he must have been an extraordinary character, living homeless much like the Buddha’s early disciples, but instead of hanging out in jungles he lived amid the cold and treeless mountain crags of Tibet.

The intro then discusses the place of meat-eating in Buddhism.  The traditions drawn from here–as in Shabkar’s writings–are from the three major “turnings of the wheel,” i.e. shravakayana (Hinayana), Mahayana, and Mantrayana (i.e. Vajrayana, the Buddhism of the tantras).  Underpinning everything is the notion that, as diverse and often contradictory as they often are, the Buddha taught all these doctrines as part of a gradual, or graded, dispensation.  And so, according to the introduction…

…there exists a hierarchy of teaching, a scale of validity, according to which basic instruction is regarded as provisional, set forth according to need and superseded by higher, more demanding instruction to be expounded when the disciple is ready.  For Shabkar, as for all teacher of Tibetan Buddhism the instructions set forth on the Hinayana level are of vital importance in laying the foundations for correct understanding and practice.  But they are not final.  They are surpassed by the teachings of the Mahayana, just as, within the Mahayana itself, the sutra teachings prepare the way for, and are surpassed by, the tantra.  It is thus that the entire sweep of the Buddha’s teaching fits together in a harmonious ad coherent system, in which teachings that seem incomplete from the standpoint of a higher view are assigned an appropriate, preparatory position lower down the scale (16).

This view has prevailed throughout much of the Buddhist world for a long time, and is the result of various cultures (China, Tibet, etc) receiving diverse canons and texts, many of which originated in different periods of Buddhist history, while believing them all to represent the Buddha’s words.  Given the discrepancies and outright contradictions of outlooks and practices between the many texts, the approach above is hardly surprising if one assumes they all sprang from one man.  Shabkar certainly believed this, and no one can blame him.  It irks me, however, that contemporary scholars and practitioners persist in perpetuating this nonsense, given what we now know about the history of Buddhist texts.   For example, the Lankavatara Sutra, a widely quoted work that harshly condemns meat-eating, is assumed to be the Buddha’s own words, yet it is clearly a composite work, first translated into Chinese in 443 CE, though probably originating several hundred years earlier.  While its dating is tricky, not even its seed ideas can in any way be attributed to Shakyamuni or any of his disciples.  (See E.J. Thomas, The History of Buddhist Thought, pp. 230ff.)  Similar remarks can be made about every other Mahyanist sutra, not to mention the various, still later tantras.

Following the above, the introduction discusses the notion of “three-fold purity” in the Hinayana (meaning, the Buddha’s teachings in the Pali Suttas), where the Buddha enjoins monks not to eat any meat offering if they have “seen, heard or suspected” it to have been killed specifically for them.  This ordinance, totally understandable as applied to mendicant monks, becomes problematic, however, when applied to laity, and this really is the source of the confusion and debate about meat-eating among Buddhists.  The Mahayana and Mantrayana (tantric) perspectives on vegetarianism are also discussed.

What bothered me most about the introduction–its moralising and lecturing quality, especially toward the end–got even worse in the second section of the book, entitled “The Faults of Eating Meat.”  This is a kind of compendium of Buddhist textual sources on the subject selected and arranged by Shabkar.  If one’s goal is simply to learn what Buddhists have said about meat-eating over the years, this section serves admirably.  If you are looking for well-reasoned, cogent arguments, look elsewhere.  Much of it is hellfire-and-brimstone preaching; apparently the Christians haven’t got anything on the Buddhists in this regard, sad to say.  Here’s an inspiring snippet:

It is written in the Sutra Describing Karmic Cause and Effect:

If you eat meat and chew on bones, you will lose your teeth!  If you eat intestines and the meat of dogs and swine, you will be reborn in an infernal state that is filled with filth.  If you eat fish after scraping off their scales, you will be born in the hell of sword-forests (77).

Very little of this section comes from Shabkar; he simply scoured sutras, tantras and commentaries and took whatever he could find to support his beliefs–a kind of eighteenth century Tibetan cut-and-paste creation. The third part of the book, however, is all Shabkar, though regrettably brief–only 28 pages out of the book’s 144!

Entitled “The Nectar of Immortality,” I found it a well reasoned, impassioned polemic against meat-eating.  The principal–and most persuasive–argument here can be summed up as “If there is no meat-eater, there will be no animal killer…” (101).  He discusses this idea at length, giving examples of how local monasteries, though themselves not involved in the act of butchery or animal killing, by their plentiful purchases of meat help to sustain the local meat industry.

Which cuts quick to the bone, if you don’t mind the pun.  I once had a discussion with a friend on this subject, and he pointed out that I was hardly less guilty of the deaths of animals than the butcher himself since I basically employed the butcher to do the dirty work.  Indeed, I couldn’t escape the logic of it then, and readers will be hard pressed to miss Shabkar’s points.  This section of the book was easily the most rewarding and satisfactory, worth the rest combined.  While the book as whole was something of a disappointment, it gave me a bit of a sense of Shabkar the man and I look forward to reading his autobiography.  Perhaps I’ve found my patron saint.

My Amazon rating: 2 stars

Mahayana Buddhism: The Doctrinal Foundations by Paul Williams

Mahayana Buddhism: The Doctrinal Foundations by Paul Williams.  Routledge 1989/2009.  438 pages.

As the back of the book will tell you, the 1989 publication of this work’s first edition made quite a stir and, I quote, “It is still unrivalled.”  Indeed, it has become a foundational text for courses on Mahayana Buddhism at the university level, and since almost two decades of burgeoning scholarship in the field had passed, a second edition was considered necessary.

I can say this much: it is quite a book.  If you are smitten with a lust for all things Mahayana—its history, people, practices, and philosophies—look no further.  In fact, this book may even cure you of your unwholesome desires.  What I mean is that the page count does not give you any idea of what you’re getting into.

By the numbers: 438 total pages; 266 pages of main text; 122 pages of end notes; 32 pages of bibliography.  You can do the math for the rest.  Every page is dense with names, dates, terms, unpronounceable sutra titles (if you can actually say Bodhisattvagocaropayavishayavikurvananirdesha Sutra you must already be enlightened) and who knows what else.  And just look at the notes to main text pages ratio: 0.46!  I scrounged around my shelves, where I have a great many scholarly books on a wide array of topics, but could find nothing comparable.  Even Bhikkhu Bodhi’s monumental translation of the Samyutta Nikaya clocked in at an anemic 0.25.  Usually I’m an assiduous reader of notes (though I confess to loathing endnotes—why oh why did the publishing industry quit on footnotes??), but this time I just gave up.  Many of the end notes are so lengthy by the time you finish one you’ve forgotten where you were on the main page.  All of which leads me to my chief complaint about Williams’ opus:

Loss of control.

Sometimes you want to lose control (think sex—especially if you’re a woman).  But when you’re writing something touted as a textbook—and an intro textbook to boot—you want to be measured in just how much data you dump on your audience.  One hundred twenty-two pages of endnotes are not only unhelpful, they’re positively sadistic—or self-indulgent, which in this case comes to the same thing.  Let me put this in perspective: I have a fair education in Buddhist literature under my belt.  I’m not as deeply read as most scholars, but I would wager I understand a few things as well as anyone.  I will admit though I began to get dizzy in places as I read this book (lack of oxygen?), and resorted to skipping to those areas where I felt greater interest and surer footing.  So…reader beware: you are in for a sensory overload with this one; bring the Dramamine.  I’ll now return to my ordinarily more professional reviewing style.

Williams starts with an introduction the likes of which I’ve never seen.  Introductions are usually, well, introductory, but by page 17 (it goes on for 44 pages) he was already enumerating the numbers and types of dhammas according to the Abhidhamma classification scheme!  Needless to say, this sort of material is not ordinarily considered introductory.  At times I wondered if I’d somehow skipped into the first chapter and missed something, but no…on checking I found I was still in the introduction.  I think this is where I started to get worried.

To sum up the above complaint and how it affects the text as a whole: it appears Williams felt compelled to put everything he knew into this book, not to mention the obscure article he read the night before.  He mixes social history, philosophy, biographies, the history of specific texts and schools, all in a jumble.  (See, e.g., p. 67, where a chart would have been so much more helpful.)  You can’t write a book in this fashion; or at least, I advise against it.  Different areas need to be kept separate, or integrated with great care, but that is clearly not what happened.  In other words, I don’t suggest discussing a sutra’s history and provenance, its philosophy, the school that formed around it, and its effects on later readers and its place in the grand scheme of things all on the same page.  It’s just too much.  But this is really the best way to characterize how Williams has gone about summarizing fifteen hundred years of Mahayana doctrinal history.  Like I said, “loss of control”…

The upside of this avalanche of information is that there’s something for everyone.  And if you need the latest scholarly speculation on this text or that school, chances are you’ll find it in here (somewhere).  So this is the other edge of the sword—an abundance of fact and insight (yes, Professor Williams has carefully and intelligently considered his material) that is there if you have the patience and fortitude to dig it out.  I’ll offer a random list of what were, for me, eye opening or especially intriguing passages:

  • Page 43 on how the Mahayana began to develop a separate identity vis-à-vis “mainstream” Buddhism;
  • Pages 48-9 on Conze’s outline of Mahayana intellectual history;
  • Pages 60-1 on some of the internal logical inconsistencies besetting Mahayana Buddhology (authors rarely think out loud like this—I found the honesty refreshing);
  • Pages 68-9 make clear the meaning of svabhava;
  • Pages 71-2 indicated to me that Nagarjuna was first and foremost a deconstructionist, not a nihilist as opponents have charged;
  • Page 74 reassured me that Nagarjuna did not abrogate the teaching of anatta;
  • Pages 108ff suggested where notions of a True Self in Buddhism came from;
  • Pages 122ff on the debate over not-self in Thai Buddhism was fascinating, something I was previously unaware of;
  • Pages 132ff are a wonderful discussion of the Avatamsaka Sutra, the most profound if not most influential of Mahayana scriptures;
  • Chapter seven on the Lotus Sutra reminded me many times over why I so detest this particular scripture;
  • Page 184 has an excellent chart on the three bodies of the Buddha;
  • Chapter nine on the bodhisattva was at once inspiring and comical (on account of all the contradictions found in the texts);
  • Chapter ten offers a detailed who’s who of bodhisattvas and buddhas for all you folks out there who can’t figure out which statue is for whom and why.

And that about does it.  As I said, not only will you be punished in the course of this text, you will be rewarded as well.  There is a lot of pleasure and pain to go around.

My Amazon rating: 3 stars

 

Buddhist Thought by Paul Williams et al

Buddhist Thought: A Complete Introduction to the Indian Tradition by Paul Williams et al.  Routledge 2000, 323 pages.

This is one of the better (I hesitate to say “best”) surveys of Buddhist intellectual history I’ve read.  As such I’d say it’s good for relative—i.e. not total—beginners.  The author, Paul Williams, is a British academic with many publications under his belt, but is perhaps best known for his Mahayana Buddhism: The Doctrinal Foundations, often used as a textbook in Buddhist studies.  (A second edition of the 1989 original is imminent.)  The writing, while intelligent and at times demanding, is not so academic as to be stultifying.  Williams even displays a bit of English wit now and then.

I always appreciate illuminating passages, no matter what the sort of book I’m reading happens to be.  I mean the sort that make you snatch out a pen and scribble something next to it, or underline a sentence or paragraph.  There are quite a few in this book, particularly, I’d say, in the first two chapters, which make up 40% of the book’s text proper.

Chapter one, entitled “The doctrinal position of the Buddha in context,” offers an excellent starting point.  Indeed, some things said here need to be remembered by everyone venturing into the world of Buddhism.  Consider the following from pages 2-3:

Buddhism is thus…concerned first and foremost with the mind, or, to be more precise, with mental transformation, for there are no experiences that are not in some sense reliant on the mind.  This mental transformation is almost invariably held to depend upon, and to brought about finally by, oneself for there can also be no transformation of one’s own mind without on some level one’s own active involvement or participation.

How different the history of the world would be if every religion and philosophy understood and acted upon this seemingly simple and self-evident truth!

This section discusses the historical background of Brahmanism and shramanism, smartly noting that any characterization of the Buddha as a “Hindu reformer” is anachronistic at best (8).  Williams points out that the story of the Buddha’s life demonstrates what is most important in his teachings.  For starters, unlike in Christianity, the message (Dharma/Dhamma) is preeminent over the messenger (the Buddha).  The Buddha was just a man who found Dharma; it is Dharma that really counts.  You can have Dharma without the Buddha, but you cannot have the Buddha without Dharma.  Williams’ discussion of elements in the Buddha’s hagiography and how it exemplifies and illuminates the Teaching is one of the most insightful and satisfying I’ve read on this subject.

The second chapter also considers “mainstream Buddhism” (i.e. non-Mahayana) and is entitled “A Buddha’s basic thought.”  Williams does a good job here, except a few stumbles (more on this below); in fact, his approach is unique in ways.  On 60ff he does a wonderful job debunking the notion the Buddha posited a Self outside the five aggregates:

On the basis of [the Buddha’s discussion of the aggregates] there are those who consider that all the Buddha has done here is to show what is not the Self.  I confess I cannot quite understand this.  If the Buddha considered that he had shown only what is not the Self, and the Buddha actually accepted a Self beyond his negations, a Self other than and behind the five aggregates, fitting the paradigmatic description for a Self, then he would surely have said so.  And we can be quite sure he would have said so very clearly indeed.  He does not (60).

This passage illustrates another aspect of Williams’ writing I find admirable—a sort of humble, commonsensical honesty that is rarely displayed in writing by scholars.  I think many would be sympathetic, for example, when he says (on page 68) “…it is not at all obvious in detail what the twelvefold formula for dependent origination actually means.”  And I liked it even better when he wrote “This twelvefold formula for dependent origination as it stands is strange” (71).  Rather than pretending scholarly omniscience and superiority in regards to the texts (I’m thinking of E.J. Thomas at his worst), Williams expresses understandable puzzlement as, no doubt, most people do when encountering the Buddha’s thought for the first (or even hundredth) time.

Chapter two is really a core piece of Buddhist writing in that it hits every significant point (the four truths, anatta, cosmology, nirvana, etc) and does so in an intelligible and intelligent fashion.  This is not an easy feat to pull off, as anyone who has read a good many dharma books can tell you.  In fact, I might even say that Williams goes about as far in his understanding as a scholar qua scholar can.  But while surveying so much and dealing with so many difficult concepts, he (perhaps inevitably) takes a few pratfalls.

I won’t go into detail about what I think he does wrong; a brief list and comments should be enough:

  • When referring to atta (“self”) he consistently capitalizes the S, inferring that the Buddha was discussing only the transpersonal Atman or True Self.  This is not the case; the Buddha was referring especially to the experience of a subjective controller, doer, or identity (sakkaya), the self of everyday experience.  The Self as an ontological construct follows upon this.
  • He fails to thresh out the distinction between “intention,” “desire” and “wanting” as these pertain to the liberated person (an arhat or Buddha) (44).  This may seem like nit-picking, but it is in fact an essential issue that spells the difference between insight and its lack.
  • He states (67) that Ananda was unenlightened at the time of the Buddha’s death—in fact Ananda was a sotapanna.
  • On 69 he perpetuates the thesis that the being reborn is “neither the same nor another” than the one who died.  This teaching comes from the Milindhapanha and has infected Buddhism everywhere ever since.  It is a view entirely at odds with the Suttas, falling into attavada.  This is perhaps Williams’ biggest stumble from a doctrinal point of view.  (The correct answer, when asked “who is reborn?” is to reject the question as meaningless on account of its presupposition of self in some form or another.)
  • He continues the old saw that dependent origination is “causality.”  Causality (as a descriptive concept) certainly applies to karma (“intentional action”) but it has nothing to do with paticcasamuppada.  I have discussed this at length in other reviews.  Part of the problem may arise from the 12-factor formulation, wherein the first ten elements are certainly structural as opposed to temporal, and then the last two are cause-effects.  Williams gets it right (I think) when he suggests the list may well be “a compilation from originally different sources” (71).  In other words, I suspect the 12-factored formula is a later intellectual (though still pre-scholastic) description of the original assertion: “When there is this, that is…” etc.
  • Description of satipatthana as the “sole way” (83).  This is a frequent mistranslation.  The word here is ekayana, meaning a course that goes one way or one direction.
  • His discussion of meditation (83ff) is palpably second-hand.  Once again I must lament the unnecessary divorce of scholarship from practice.

The rest of the book discusses Mahayana—its early formulation, development, key concepts and texts.  This area is Williams’ forte, and for the most part I think his discussions are quite good, though he does sometimes confusingly mix the names of schools, terms, and people together into a less than lucid jumble.  Neophytes are likely to get lost or frustrated at times; I did myself (though I was once again, quite viscerally, reminded why I so dislike Nagarjuna’s thought!).

A special note on the last chapter, written not by Paul Williams but Anthony Tribe.  This is an excellent introduction to and overview of tantric Buddhism, an area often inadequately covered in texts like this.  (E.J. Thomas’ survey not only neglected but maligned it.)  Tribe’s writing is clear and organized and he offers an invitation to everyone to better get to know this unique phase of Buddhist thought.  I confess that while I am not convinced that tantra has added substantively to Shakyamuni’s philosophical thinking, I am now totally in the camp that affirms it possesses a host of valuable and powerful practices/techniques that can facilitate one’s spiritual journey.  Lastly, the book has a lengthy bibliography tacked on at the end to enable further exploration of texts the authors drew upon during the course of their survey.

My Amazon rating: 4 stars

 

The History of Buddhist Thought by Edward J. Thomas

The History of Buddhist Thought by Edward J. Thomas.  Dover Publications 2002 (1951).  316 pages.

This is my second review of an Edward J. Thomas (1869-1958) book, and I’ll say again a few things about the man’s background.  The author of a number of Indological works, Thomas was a British librarian living inIndiachiefly remembered today for the present work and his biography of the Buddha.  As will be apparent to anyone reading these books, Thomas was a brilliant and erudite man, widely read, with a formidable command of the source texts and languages (Pali certainly and, I believe, Sanksrit as well).  That these two books are still cited in discussions of Buddhist intellectual history is a tribute to their having been, at least at the time of their authorship, cutting edge scholarship, not to mention still capable of yielding nuggets of insight and a wealth of information.

History follows the standard format for surveys of Buddhist philosophy inIndia.  Chapters one, two, six and seven sketch a lot of the pre-Buddhist material—Brahmanism, the Upanishads, yoga, etc.  One interesting point Thomas makes, and which is confirmed by my other reading, is that “The original centre of brahmin culture was far from the cradle of Buddhism.  …[T]here are indications to show that the East, andMagadha especially, were long considered unfit for the habitation of brahmins.”  In other words, the Buddha taught in a backwater, and this fact, coupled with other passages (87, 90-1), indicates pretty decisively that the central thesis of the Upanishads (the atman-Brahman equivalence) was unknown to the Buddha.  This is important as it is often implied by Hindus that the Buddha was a Hindu and that he falls in line with the Upanishadic tradition (cf. Eknath Easwaran’s Dhammapada translation, 26) —a hard theory to sustain if what Thomas is saying is true.  (I believe it is.)

Thomas is quite effective when discussing the history of ideas and when speculating about what may (or may not) be different strata of teaching (“primitive” vs. later, e.g.).  Clearly, his knowledge of the sources was thorough and he had a discriminating intellect.  However, one should not look to him for doctrinal or philosophical insights, as he tends to run into problems when discussing some of the more challenging teachings of early Buddhism.

These are principally covered in chapters four, five, eight, nine and ten—“Early Doctrine,” “Causation,” “The Soul,” “Karma,” “Release and Nirvana.”  Thomas’ definition of atta (93) is really quite good, though he does not reflect much on what anatta means.  (Though he does offer a good rebuttal to those who try to insert the notion of soul into Buddhist thought—101.)  When tackling Dependent Arising and nirvana, he wades full into the scholarly debates of the day, and these sections can be quite interesting and vexing, all at the same time.  Interesting because we are made privy to the early Western, academic speculations regarding this exotic animal called “Buddhist thought,” and vexing because so often the scholars sound like the proverbial blind men with the elephant.  Consider on pages 77ff where Thomas reviews scholarly theorizing concerning dependent arising.  Not only are many of the conclusions little better than shots in the dark (the chain is a “cosmic emanation,” the product of Sankhya influence, etc), we once again can see that book knowledge, decoupled from actual practice, is of little use in this arena.  The discussion of nirvana (123ff and 130ff) is predictably sterile, sounding like a conference of food pundits sitting around a table with menus in hand, arguing about what the foods taste like, while never bothering to actually order a dish and find out.  I inevitably have to scratch my head when reading this kind of material.

Chapter eleven presents a solid discussion of the Buddha as he is viewed in the early texts, and is followed by a more strictly chronological discussion of developments in Abhidhamma (ch. 12), the conception of the Buddha (à la the early Mahayana—ch. 13), an in depth examination of the Lotus Sutra (ch. 14), the idea of the bodhisattva (chs. 15 & 16), and the Madhyamika and Yogacara schools (chs. 17 & 18).  The last chapter, “Buddhism and Modern Thought,” is a less helpful piece tacked on almost as an afterthought that begins with a startlingly dubious assertion:

The spread of Buddhism into other countries does not properly form a part of the history of Buddhist thought, except in so far as the mingling of cultures may have produced new schools.  Theoretically there was no development (249).

With this one statement the whole history of Ch’an (Zen), not to mention the Tantric schools of India and especially Tibet (the so-called Vajrayana) are dismissed, the specific reasons in the latter case made clear: “Tibetan Buddhism, except for some historical and grammatical works, has been little but a development of the less worthy elements introduced from India along with superstitions of its own” (249-50).  The early scholarly contempt for all things Tantric is strongly in evidence, to say the least!

Lastly, the scholarly state of affairs at the time of the book’s writing is made abundantly clear when Thomas writes

Mahayana has never made any impression on the West either as religion or philosophy.  Presented by the early investigators as a tissue of absurdities or niaiseries, it is still commonly looked upon as nihilism or subjectivism.  Now it is beginning to be recognized as more than this, but a full exposition of its metaphysical theories still awaits the complete publication of its authoritative texts and commentaries (256).

My, how far we’ve come in sixty years!

I hope these last tidbits won’t scare off potential readers.  Clearly, the book has its failings, but it can be a worthy addition to the reading list of those trying to shore up their history of Buddhism.  Just be sure its not your only read in this category.  Try to supplement it with others, such as Kalupahana’s Buddhist Philosophy: An Historical Analysis, Paul Williams’ Buddhist Thought, and Warder’s Indian Buddhism.

My Amazon rating: 3 stars

 

Buddhist Philosophy: A Historical Analysis by David J. Kalupahana

Buddhist Philosophy: A Historical Analysis by David J. Kalupahana.  The University Press of Hawaii 1976.  188 pages.

I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve read this book—probably at least four times, maybe five.  There’s a reason for this: it’s relatively short, dense with information and insight, well written, and the single best book I know of for demonstrating the clear differences—nay, the rift—that lies between the teachings of the early texts (Pali suttas) espoused by the Theravada and those of the later Mahayana and Vajrayana sutras.

If the above sounds partisan, allow me to explain.  I have long been dismayed by the cavalier way in which so many Buddhists—and even scholars—muddle up terms and ideas from the different Buddhist traditions.  They take a little from here, a little from there, and assume that all of this represents the Buddha’s thinking.  They sometimes even buy into the idea that the early teachings were somehow “less developed” or “sophisticated”—hinayana, as they say.  Very beginner books are especially prone to do this, and since that’s where so many people start their dharma journey (for understandable reasons), the intellectual foundation they lay for themselves is often vague and non-discriminating as regards the historical realities of Buddhist thought.  Needless to say, a foundation of sand cannot serve anyone well when they venture into more difficult and challenging terrain.  Anyone reading this book, however, should avoid such troubles.

While the subtitle is “a historical analysis” the emphasis is much more on analysis than history.  In line with a historical approach, however, the book starts at the beginning in “Early Buddhism.”  Seven chapters take up critical points of the historical Buddha’s thoughts—epistemology, causality (more on this later), the three marks of existence, karma and rebirth, ethics and, lastly, nirvana.  In each case Kalupahana shoots right for the heart, trying to dig at the critical points underlying each concept.  Particularly noteworthy here, I think, is his discussion of the Buddha’s epistemology—that is, what the Buddha viewed as valid sources of knowledge.  Already here we can see how the Buddha stands out from so many other philosophers—not to mention religious teachers—in that he clearly equates the means of knowledge with knowledge (“gnosis”) itself.  The two are not distinct; his approach is relentlessly empirical.  Revelation and reason from unexamined a priori assumptions are rejected.  Only direct seeing without the intrusion of egoic distortions can be taken as valid (“in the seeing, only the seen” etc.).  I always get a thrill reading these kinds of passages and contemplating this man, a product of fifth century BCIndia, so far ahead of even the most modern of thinkers.  Kalupahana does an excellent job illustrating this, as well as other points.

This is not to say I agree with everything Kalupahana writes about the early teachings.  In particular I would fault his discussion of paticcasamuppada (“Dependent Arising”) or, as he terms it, “causality.”  My problem lies in particular with that word—causality.  As defined by Merriam-Webster, causality is “the relation between a cause and its effect or between regularly correlated events or phenomena.”  Consulting Hume, we get his first three points on causality, which define the commonsense notion:

  1. The cause and effect must be contiguous in space and time.
  2. The cause must be prior to the effect.
  3. There must be a constant union betwixt the cause and effect.

Clearly what is implied in these definitions is a process in time: A (at time 1) causes (or determines) B (at time 2) etc.  But this is not how the Buddha describes Dependent Arising.  In fact, look at that translation—dependent arising.  B can be dependent upon A, but this does not mean A is its cause or precedes it in time.  Referring to the classical definition of dependent arising: “When there is this, that is; with the arising of this, that arises; when this is not; that is not; with the cessation of this, that ceases”—we can see clearly that the order of A and B is not chronological but structural.

Consider a twelve storey building.  It would be ridiculous to say that the first floor causes the second floor.  It would be perfectly correct though to say that it supports it, that the second floor is dependent upon it, and that if the first floor ceases, the second will cease (collapse) as well.  In considering this analogy, its obvious limitation has to be acknowledged: when building a twelve storey tower the first floor is necessarily constructed in time before the second floor.  But when speaking of human consciousness—which is what paticcasamuppada concerns—one part of consciousness does not appear before another part—consciousness simply appears, it is—and as it is, its structure is internally dependent/conditioned after the fashion of the Buddha’s description.

Failure to consider Dependent Arising as a structural principle leads to the sort of nonsense Theravadan commentators wallowed in, like the three lives interpretation.  Obviously, if the Buddha had actually wanted to teach such a thing, he would have done so, but nowhere in the suttas does the Buddha ever imply that dependent arising is a process stretching over time, not to speak over multiple lives.  Instead, he describes it as akalika—literally “not (in) time.”  Moreover, were it a process in time, it would of necessity be a thing remembered and therefore open to the distortion of memory.  But the Buddha described it also as sanditthika, meaning visible here-and-now.  Too, no arhant’s awakening experience (as described in the suttas) ever involved memory of past lives, which, again, the notion of causality and the resulting three-lives interpretation of necessity imply.  (None of this is to say though that the Buddha never discussed causality in the sense of trains of response and counter-response in emotions, actions, and social behaviors.)This is the most significant caveat I would issue in regards to Kalupahana’s work, though even this does not obviate the invaluable service he offers in distinguishing early and later Buddhisms.

The latter portions of the book clarify Mahayana, beginning first with the development of scholasticism, then the newer sutras and explicitly philosophical schools, such as Nagarjuna’s Madhyamaka and the Yogacara.  In these later thinkers we see the development of philosophical absolutism and the steady departure from the Buddha’s psychological and empirical approach in favor of more metaphysical and speculative ideas.  The results often bear more resemblance to the Advaita of Shankara than to the Dhamma of the Buddha.  As Kalupahana puts it:

We have attempted to explain the gradual development of the absolutist tendency within Buddhism after the death of the Buddha.  If what has been said here regarding the early doctrines is true, then the Prajnaparamitas certainly represent a “revolution”…in Buddhism.  The revolution consists of the adoption of the transcendentalist standpoint, which is opposed to the empirical approach of early Buddhism (p.134).

That, in a nutshell, is the vital lesson of the book and the best reason for reading it.

My Amazon rating: 5 stars

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