肇論 劉遺民書問

Liu Yimin does not set up another doctrine outside the treatise. After praising the Treatise on Prajñā Without Knowing from the depths of his heart, he brings its three hardest points directly into view. If the sage's mind exhausts numinous illumination, why is it called without knowing? If it is merely naturally quiet and still, how can it still respond to beings and transform the world? If the sage sees the myriad changes of beings, he seems to illuminate more than the signless; if he illuminates only the signless, how can the work of tending and according with beings occur? If there is no fixed rightness yet nothing that is not right, and no fixed fitting yet nothing that is not fitted, this seems already to be true rightness and perfect fitting—why, then, still speak of rightness without fixed rightness and fitting without fixed fitting? The three questions together guard a single boundary: stillness cannot abolish knowing, the signless cannot abolish response, and the absence of fixed rightness and fitting cannot be seized again as a fixed entity. At the end of the letter, Liu also acknowledges that the doctrinal positions he and Huiyuan marked seem each to have their own grounds, without forcing every principle into complete sameness. The heart of the letter, then, is not to seize the answer in advance, but to state clearly the gates through which Sengzhao's reply must pass.

I. Greetings: Though Mountains and Rivers Divide Us, Shared Understanding Brings Us Near

Liu Yimin bows in greeting. Lately I have heard of your fine renown and have long waited in distant expectation. The year is drawing to a close, but the cold has not yet grown severe; how is your health? The obstruction of messages only deepens the feelings stored within me. Your disciple has long been detained by illness among the mountain marshes and is often afflicted by weakness. Because the practitioner Huiming is journeying north, I have written this brief letter to convey what is in my heart.

The ancients did not let physical distance make their affection remote; when understanding met and passed between them, they could draw near. Thus, though distant rivers and mountains separate us and we cannot meet face to face this year, I look up to your manner and spirit and use your treatise, as an image and a trace, to reflect upon my own mind. I wait earnestly for the joy of meeting you; this longing has indeed grown deep. Yet the distance is great and there is no occasion to meet, so I can only gaze toward the clouds and mists and sigh for a long while. Please follow the season and take good care of yourself. I hope that through travelers going back and forth I may often receive word from you.

I respectfully wish peace and harmony to the whole community there, and ease and well-being to the foreign Dharma master. With your capacity to bring understanding to light, you have encountered such profound questions and answers. I imagine that your work of unfolding and pursuing their meaning has already carried reflection on prajñā more than halfway through. Whenever I think of how far apart we are, my frustration and shame run very deep.

The monastic community here in the mountains remains as pure as ever and grows still more diligent in the path and the precepts. In the intervals of meditation and secluded dwelling, they devote themselves to study and exposition. They are careful, respectful, harmonious, and quiet—truly a joy to behold. Your disciple has not only fulfilled his earlier wish to withdraw and seek the path, but has also seen such an elevated model before him. My gratitude for Master Huiyuan and the sincerity with which I entrust my heart to the Dharma are engraved more clearly within me day after day, like the sun and moon.

Master Huiyuan has lately continued in fitting health. His contemplation and practice grow ever more refined and profound, and he labors without rest from morning to evening. If the path did not work secretly within his mind and its meaning did not guide his spirit, who, after passing the age of sixty, could preserve such clarity of heart and vigor and practice with such diligence? The consolation I draw from him is therefore very deep. When I try to express my thanks, words only fail me all the more.

II. Reading the Treatise: Joy, Yet One or Two Questions Remain

Only at the end of last summer did I see the Treatise on Prajñā Without Knowing, which Master Sheng showed me. Its movement of thought is lucid and graceful, its purport profound and sound; it explores the words of the sages and unfolds them subtly toward a definite point. I read it earnestly and savored it again and again, unable to put it down. It may truly be said to bathe the mind in the depths of the Mahāyāna vaipulya teachings and awaken a far-reaching heart where all darkness has been cut off. If this argument is allowed to circulate, the many streams of prajñā may almost converge without further words. How could one not rejoice? How could one not rejoice?

Yet the subtler the principle, the steeper the words; the more singular the voice, the fewer those who can answer it. Unless one has gone beyond words and images, will one not cling to their forms and thereby fall into divergence? As I read it, the section answering the inquiry that seeks wisdom through its object circles through the issue and pursues it to its limit. It is extraordinarily fine and exact, leaving no opening for criticism. Still, one who is dim cannot understand it at once. I retain one or two questions, which I now set down item by item below. I hope that when you have leisure, you will offer me a rough explanation.

III. The General Inquiry: How Can the Stillness and Knowing of the Sage's Mind Stand Together?

The preface to the treatise says that the substance of prajñā is neither being nor non-being: it is empty and still without losing illumination, and illuminating without losing empty stillness. It therefore says that without moving from equal awakening, it can establish all dharmas. A later section says that what distinguishes the sage from ordinary people is numinous awareness, so it cannot be sought through the characteristics of ordinary things. It also says that functioning itself is stillness and stillness itself is functioning: the more tranquil the spirit, the more active its response.

The sage's mind is profound and still; reaching the limit of principle, it accords with non-being. Without haste it can be swift, and without delay it can be measured. Knowing therefore does not abolish stillness, nor does stillness abolish knowing. It is never not still and never not knowing. In this way the sage moves and guides beings, accomplishing the work of teaching in the world. Although he dwells among everything that can be named, he remains far in accord with the nameless. This principle is extremely subtle and has long been the point at which my understanding grows most obscure.

IV. First Question: Does the Sage's Mind Know, or Is It Without Knowing?

What now perplexes me is the central purport of your lofty treatise. I wish to understand how the sage's mind differs from ordinary feeling. Does it exhaust numinous capacity, press every mental function to its limit, and by a subtle exhaustion darkly accord with principle? Or is the mind's substance naturally numinous, quiet, and still, responding on its own?

If it exhausts numinous capacity and presses every mental function to its limit, subtly exhausting them and darkly according with principle, then what are called stillness and illumination remain the substance of meditative concentration and wisdom. If instead the mind's substance is naturally numinous and still and responds alone, then its engagement with the many things would seem almost to cease.

Once the mind's many functions have become hidden and subtle, how can illumination still operate on its own? Once the spirit has become pure and harmonious, passing beyond worldly teaching and transformation, how can lucid wisdom alone remain? There must be some deeper demonstration here. I hope you will distinguish it for me.

V. Second Question: Does It Illuminate Only the Signless, or Does It Also See Change?

The questioner holds that the sage can tend and accord with beings, respond to their conditions, and also see the changes of things. Such knowing cannot be said to be wholly absent. Yet the treatise says only that the sage's mind is originally without a knowing that deludedly grasps; it has not yet explained why it is able not to grasp.

I think we must first determine how the sage's mind responds to and accords with beings. Does it illuminate only the signless, or does it also see every change? If it sees changes, that differs from the signless. If it illuminates only the signless, there is no one with whom it can accord and no one it can tend. Yet although there is no fixed object of tending and accord, the work of tending and according with beings still occurs. I have not understood this point and hope that you will instruct me further.

VI. Third Question: If There Is No Fixed Rightness or Fitting, Why Speak of True Rightness and Perfect Fitting?

The treatise says: if there is no fixed fitting, there is nothing it does not fit; if there is no fixed rightness, there is nothing that is not right. Because there is nothing that is not right, it meets every right without any fixed rightness; because there is nothing it does not fit, it fits everything without any fixed fitting.

But to have no fixed fitting and yet nothing that it does not fit is precisely perfect fitting. To have no fixed rightness and yet nothing that is not right is precisely true rightness. How could true rightness not be right, or perfect fitting fail to fit, so that one instead speaks of fitting without fixed fitting and rightness without fixed rightness?

If you mean that perfect fitting is not what people ordinarily call fitting, and true rightness is not what they ordinarily call rightness, then this says only that the awakened and the confused use different language. That is exactly the point the treatise has not yet made clear. I hope that you will explain it again through a simile and remove this doubt.

VII. Closing the Letter: We Read Together, Yet the Positions We Mark May Each Have Their Ground

On the very day this treatise arrived, I examined it closely with Master Huiyuan. He too was well able to meet its meaning and grasp its intent. Yet the doctrinal positions each of us marked seem to have their own grounds; perhaps every principle need not be made entirely the same. Recently I have also sent the treatise to several people who have some understanding in their hearts. Again and again they have struck its crucial points and raised challenges; all regret that they were not born in the same age as the author of the treatise.

If the Sage's Mind Is Without Knowing, How Can It Still Respond to Beings and Transform the World?

Liu Yimin begins by drawing a line from the Treatise on Prajñā Without Knowing: without moving from equal awakening, the sage establishes all dharmas. This brings the living question of the entire letter directly before us. If there is truly no movement, how can all dharmas still be established? If there is illumination, response, and teaching, why call prajñā “without knowing”?

This is not a polemic against the treatise. After reading it, Liu says that it bathes the mind in the depths of the Mahāyāna vaipulya teachings and awakens the heart where darkness has been cut off. The greater his joy, the less willing he is to leave what he has not understood blurred over. He knows that when principle is subtle, words grow steep, and when a voice stands alone, few can answer it. Precisely because the treatise's purport is subtle and its words difficult, he sets out the questions that remain and asks Sengzhao to answer them clearly.

A Letter That First Draws Distant People Near, Then Brings Their Questions Together

The letter begins by asking about cold weather and illness. Messages cannot easily pass between north and south; rivers and mountains lie between Liu Yimin and Sengzhao, who have never met face to face. Yet Liu says that when understanding meets, people can draw near. He takes the treatise as an image and trace by which to reflect upon his own mind, and he gazes toward the clouds and sighs. These are not courtesies unrelated to the doctrine. They show what kind of relationship gives rise to the challenge: Liu does not seek victory, but understanding born of respect.

Yuankang divides the complete exchange into three parts—the treatise, the inquiry, and the reply—and the letter itself into the greeting, the questions proper, and the conclusion. Read in that order, the praise in the first half and the three questions in the second are not separate matters. Liu first acknowledges the treatise's power to cleanse the mind, then asks about the points it is hardest to convey: how stillness and knowing, the signless and responsive transformation, and the absence of fixed rightness together with true rightness can avoid undoing one another.

The General Inquiry: If Stillness and Knowing Are Not Two Things, How Is That to Be Explained?

Liu does not immediately divide his challenge into three questions. He first gathers together the treatise's functioning and stillness, quiet and response, and says that in the sage's mind knowing does not abolish stillness and stillness does not abolish knowing. The sage does not first leave the world for a stillness devoid of all function and then return to act. Nor does he lose profound stillness whenever he responds to things.

Yet setting these two statements side by side does not itself solve the difficulty. Since the sage's mind moves things, brings works to completion, and teaches in the world, it clearly illuminates and responds. Since it is said to be profoundly still and in accord with non-being, it cannot be treated as ordinary knowing that grasps and discriminates. Liu's real question is this: how does a knowing that does not abolish stillness differ from ordinary knowing? And how is a stillness that does not abolish knowing anything other than the insensibility of wood and stone?

First Question: Is It a Knowing That Exhausts Everything, or a Stillness That Responds Alone?

The first question raises two alternatives. Does the sage's mind exhaust numinous illumination and every mental function, subtly reaching their limit and darkly according with principle? Or is the mind's substance naturally numinous and still, responding on its own? If it exhausts all illumination and mental functions and thereby accords with dharma-nature, then stillness and illumination seem to remain the activities of meditative concentration and wisdom and can still be called a kind of knowing. If the mind's substance is merely naturally still and responds alone, its engagement with the many conditions appears almost to cease.

Yuankang places the edge of the question very plainly: does the substance of wisdom know, or is it without knowing? Neither side can be accepted carelessly. If one speaks only of knowing, “without knowing” becomes an empty name. If one speaks only of being without knowing, illumination and response have no way to stand. Liu does not answer in Sengzhao's place. He says only that there must be a deeper demonstration and asks him to make the distinction.

Second Question: If It Illuminates Only the Signless, Who Is There to Be Guided?

The second question moves from the substance of wisdom to the object it illuminates. Does the sage illuminate only the signless, or does he also see every change? If he sees beings and the changes of all things, what he sees appears to have marks. If he illuminates only the signless, there seems to be no one to guide and no condition with which to accord.

The treatise says that the sage's mind is originally without a knowing that deludedly grasps. Liu accepts the absence of deluded grasping but asks that the reason it does not grasp be made clear. The sage's responsive activity is not an empty name: he can guide and transform beings and accord with conditions. The sharpest point of the question therefore emerges here. Although there is no fixed object with which to accord or which to guide, the work of guiding and according with beings still occurs. That “still occurs” is the difficulty.

Third Question: Why Do No Fixed Rightness and No Fixed Fitting Become True Rightness and Perfect Fitting?

The third question seizes on the treatise's statement that when there is no fixed fitting, there is nothing it does not fit, and when there is no fixed rightness, there is nothing that is not right. If there is nothing it does not fit, is that not precisely perfect fitting? If there is nothing that is not right, is that not precisely true rightness? Why, then, continue to speak of fitting without fixed fitting and rightness without fixed rightness?

This is more than a verbal contradiction. Ordinary rightness excludes what is not right, and ordinary fitting fits only a particular thing. The treatise, however, speaks of having no fixed rightness while there is nothing not right, and no fixed fitting while there is nothing not fitted. Liu therefore asks for another simile. If one says only that true rightness differs from ordinary rightness and perfect fitting from ordinary fitting, one has merely separated the language of the awakened from that of the confused without showing how the two relate.

At the End of the Inquiry, Difference Is Still Not Forced into Sameness

On the day the treatise arrived, Liu examined it closely with Huiyuan. At the end of the letter he says that the positions each of them marked seem to have their own grounds, and that perhaps the principles need not all be made entirely the same. This sentence gives the whole inquiry its measure. To grasp the treatise's intention does not mean that every doctrinal position is already identical; to have distinct grounds does not mean that one must immediately declare the positions mutually exclusive.

The force of the letter therefore lies not in giving the answer, but in setting out clearly the three gates through which any answer must pass. Being without knowing cannot abolish illumination. The signless cannot abolish responsive transformation. The absence of fixed rightness and fitting cannot be exchanged for yet another fixed rightness and fitting. Sengzhao's following reply will take up these gates one by one.

Continuation / What Carries Forward

Yuankang does not cover the letter with a system of his own. He first preserves its epistolary sequence, then divides its particular challenges into three questions: whether the substance of wisdom knows or is without knowing; whether the object illuminated has marks or is signless; and whether, when object and wisdom face each other, there is rightness or no rightness, fitting or no fitting. His outline turns an ancient letter into a clear path of reading and prevents later readers from extracting the phrase “prajñā without knowing” and rushing to explain it in isolation.

The Biographies of Eminent Monks preserves the historical setting in which Liu read the treatise, presented it to Huiyuan, and joined him in savoring it before the correspondence began; it also excerpts the opening of the letter. Although that witness does not preserve the three questions in full, it preserves the relationship in which the exchange took place: on one side, a treatise from Kumārajīva's community in Chang'an; on the other, the shared reading of Huiyuan and his companions on Mount Lu. Between these two places, Liu Yimin's letter turns praise into answerable questions and brings the meaning of prajñā without knowing to a sharper point.