László Krasznahorkai - Destruction and Sorrow beneath the Heavens - Reportage

Standing amid the natural beauty of Tiantai Mountain[106] is the Guoqing Si monastery,[107] founded during the Sui dynasty; it takes its name from the mountain and belongs to the Tiantai school as well. The Tiantai school was established by an extraordinary individual, a monk by the name of Zhiyi,[108] who — with the help of a particular doctrine, according to which everything in the world is of equal significance, and this equal significance is comprised of minuscule elements all containing the Buddha — recommended an unusual solution to the problem of Chinese Buddhism, already in profound crisis at the time of the early Sui dynasty: how to trace the confusing multiplicity of the remaining texts, often diametrically opposed in meaning, back to the Buddha’s actual words. Zhiyi regarded the sacred writings of the Hinayana[109] and Mahayana[110] as connected to various epochs of the Buddha’s life and expressing various stages of his teachings. Hence he put all the sacred writings translated into Chinese at that point into chronological order and, connecting them to concrete points in the life of the Buddha, ultimately laid particular stress on one, the Lotus Sutra, as the sutra most deeply expressive of the Buddha’s thoughts. So it was Zhiyi who was the first to attempt to standardize the scattered variations of Buddhism; in the meantime, he tried to make peace among the different contending schools of thought, as if the question weighed heavily upon him as to whether there could ever be a way to have some presentiment of what the Buddha might have said and thought — in reality. For very many, this remains an insoluble problem: the Buddha’s words were put into writing only several centuries after they were heard. Coming close to that place, where Zhiyi lived, and aware that the founder of the distant fraternal sect, Saicho,[111] who established the Tendai[112] school in Japan, lived here in the ninth century so as to study the spirit and the teachings of Zhiyi, László Stein and his interpreter arrive at this mountain in the hope that chance will lead them to a monk in the monastery with whom they can clear up the question.

So stepping into the inner courtyard of the Guoqing Si, they do not hesitate for long. They address the first young monk they see, and without hesitation ask him if he would have the time and the disposition to talk to them. He gestures for them to wait and then goes off somewhere. Not long afterward he returns, motioning for them to follow. Fate has not made it possible for him to be able to converse with them. Fate has led them to one of the directors of the monastery, Abbot Pinghui. They end up in an office crammed with people coming and going, where Stein is seated in an easy chair and the interpreter in a plain wooden one next to him, slightly to the back. A cell phone is constantly ringing; someone picks it up, perhaps a secretary, says something quickly, then puts it down. But it rings again. And it rings almost constantly as they sit there in the armchair and the wooden chair, it rings eternally while they hope that Stein will be able to get a sympathetic response from the person who is slowly lowering himself into an armchair, padded with heavy blankets, across him.

A middle-aged, serious, severe and, as it quickly emerges, busy person sits across him wearing the orange robes of a monk and enormous metal-framed glasses. His glance is penetrating. During the introductions, which the interpreter transmits in a rather moved state, he does not cease gazing at Stein. Nor does Stein cease gazing at him.

Stein begins by saying that the reason he has made this long journey to Guoqing Si is not because of some kind of poetic task, as one could think due to his occupation. He does not wish to write any kind of poetry here: it is not poetry at all that he is engaged with but altogether another question, a question which is for so many the most troubling or the most tormenting, and to which he hopes to obtain an answer from the abbot.

Once again the din strikes up in the room, the telephone rings, someone runs out, someone else runs in. Stein stops speaking, the interpreter looks at him, confused, what should he translate, but Stein cannot continue, because as he looks into this pair of eyes in the midst of this chaos, he suddenly understands that he has either come at the wrong time or that he will always come at the wrong time, so he must put an end to it now, even before he begins, because these two eyes, the gaze of the abbot of Guoqing Si, in spite of all the implacability of this being, is, in reality, impatient. Stein wants to stand up, wishing only to say that even to have met the abbot is a tremendous experience and, as he sees that he is busy, he will ask him another time. Perhaps he will come back later, on another occasion.

But the abbot, with a gesture that brooks no dissent, motions to the interpreter.

pinghui. Absolutely not. I am listening.

Stein is now completely certain that they must leave. He thanks him very much, he says, but asks the abbot to tell him if he does not have time for a more tranquil discussion. .

pinghui. No, just say it. Say it.

Stein remains seated, trying to find the right words, if after all there might be some hope of a discussion. He starts with numerous courteous formulae, and relates to the abbot, as is necessary on each occasion, by way of introduction, who he is, what he wants, what he is looking for here and what he has not found. He has attempted to seek out every remaining Buddhist temple and monastery. And he is appalled by what is going on so often in these temples and monasteries. Everything reeks of money. High entrance fees are collected — entrance fees! At the gates, impossible things are for sale, fake rubbish, the basest religious kitsch, the faithful are made to throw money into the collection box, and in the evening they spill it out and count it up nicely and accurately, they count up the takings. .! And these are not simple vendors but monks. .! Venerable abbot, László Stein involuntarily lowers his head, this is so sad.

pinghui. Zhiyi was the founding father of the creation of our temple. After he died in 597, his body was buried here. That is why the centre of our faith is here.

Stein looks at the interpreter: What is going on here? — but the interpreter indicates that he is translating exactly what the abbot is saying. Stein tries to interrupt but the abbot does not let the interpreter get a word in; clearly, he views all interruptions as impossible.

pinghui. Zhiyi lived here, and there is a sutra, the Lianhua Jing or the Lotus Sutra which he studied with extraordinary profundity, and it was upon this sutra that he established everything that. .

A cell phone rings again. Abbot Pinghui stops speaking, looks at the secretary, nods once, and the secretary hands him the phone.

pinghui. Hello. Yes, that’s fine. . No problem. If they come, we can talk.

He gives the phone back to the secretary who ends the call. Stein does not continue, and the abbot does not expect him to. He looks at him penetratingly, like someone trying to find his way back to his train of thought, then he pushes the glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

pinghui. Yes. The Guoqing Si, namely, the monastery of the Tiantai school, was built after the death of Zhiyi.

Stein raises his voice just perceptibly and says that perhaps there is a misunderstanding, perhaps due to the difficulties of translation, he does not know, but his question refers to something completely different — he wants to talk about how the meeting with the figure of Saicho and the Japanese Tendai school led Zhiyi to the idea of seeking out the place where it all began, and with the abbot’s permission. .

The abbot does not permit. He motions to the interpreter not to speak.