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I
　　 D. T. SUZUKI HAS, in his writings, insisted again and again that Zen is not a philosophy and that Zen is not a religion, but that it is essentially different from both philosophy and religion, and yet, relevant to both as a significant alternative. Unless this much is understood one does not even approach Zen on the right foot, let alone in the right direction.

　　 Zen is not, certainly, a system of speculative philosophy. Zen is not concerned with an attempt to formulate, systematically and intellectually, answers to questions concerning the ultimate nature of man, the ultimate nature of the totality of reality in which man is caught up, or the ultimate nature of the good life and the good society for man. Zen gives us no laws, no rules, no principles, no "truths" which could possibly be construed as metaphysical, epistemological, or even moral. Thus it is that Zen cannot properly be spoken of as a form of materialism, idealism, dualism, pantheism, mysticism, or even existentialism. Nor can we say that Zen advocates the elimination of speculative philosophy. Zen is the elimination of metaphysics in the sense that Zen is not metaphysical at all. It does not solve or resolve metaphysical questions. Metaphysical questions do not, for Zen, come up from within the Zen orientation. When metaphysical questions are directed to Zen, Zen smiles broadly and marks them, one and all: Return to Sender. The understanding is that, if one can speak of understanding in this context, they have been sent to the wrong address.

　　 But if Zen is not a system of speculative philosophy, Zen is not a form of critical philosophy either. Zen is not concerned with the intellectual analysis of the meanings of terms and concepts, the rules of logic, or the diverse modes of linguistic functioning. Some who are students of Wittgenstein have been of the opinion that there is Wittgenstein in Zen and Zen in Wittgenstein. Nothing, it seems to me, could be farther from the truth. The writings

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of Suzuki and the writings of Wittgenstein cannot be compared. They move in opposite directions, and if they appear to arrive at times at somewhat similar conclusions, the similarity is appearance only. If Wittgenstein cannot be studied as Wittgenstein, let him be studied not as a student of Zen but as a student of Aristotle who, after all, was very much concerned with the rectification of names, the formulation of what it is to be a science, and the setting forth of rules of formal logic, though without the advantage of truth-table analysis.

　　 Just as Zen is not philosophy, speculative or critical, so Zen, as presented by Suzuki, is not religion either. In Zen there are no rites, no rituals, no dogmas, no doctrines, no sacred scriptures, no theologies, and no formulated "truths," noble or ignoble as the case may be. The religionist who claps his two hands together to summon a servant, natural or divine, is answered by the Zen man who holds one hand aloft and calls attention to the impact of its soundlessness. Even this is something one reads about but does not do. Holding one hand aloft is not Zen. There are too many things to do, quietly, with both hands to spend any time at all holding one hand aloft. A Zen man may meditate, just as the emotionally ill man may seek out an analyst, but meditation is not Zen. At best, meditation in Zen is a means to an end, not an end in itself-though even this dichotomous distinction between means and end is, at best, a symptom of our fallenness, our departure from and separation from the on-going immediacy that is Zen.

　　 It may be said, of course, from the outside, peering in, that the goal of Zen is the achievement of satori. Satori may be achieved, we are told, by way of zazen, or seated meditation, though enlightenment is not something that can be guaranteed in advance. Satori may also be achieved quite apart from zazen. If the eye has been opened, it is ridiculous to say that satori has not been achieved because zazen has not been systematically practiced. If the eye has been opened, if suddenly we find ourselves free from names and forms, if -- in response to whatever occasion or stimulus -- our world shines forth in its original face, no longer sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, this is -- if it is -- satori.

　　 Properly speaking, in Zen there are no sacred scriptures nor expository analyses. The basic "literature" of Zen consists, for the most part, of mondos and koans. Mondos and koans are happenings, and there is a difference between a happening and the report of a happening. One may, perhaps, learn from a report just as one may learn from the critical review of a novel; but reading the review of a novel is not undergoing a novel. Reading the reports of mondos and koans may be a way of "studying" Zen, but it is not a way of

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undergoing Zen nor of achieving satori. Koans are personal challenges and mondos are personal experiences, each one with a unique form of its own.