I felt as if this boundless space itself were broken up into pieces, and the great earth were altogether levelled away. I forgot myself, I forgot the world, it was like one mirror reflecting another. I tried several kō-an in my mind and found them so transparently clear! I was no more deceived as to the wonderful working of Prajñā (transcendental wisdom).” When Kōho saw his old master later,[5.35] the latter lost no time in asking him, “Who is it that carries this lifeless corpse of yours?” Kōho burst out a “Kwats!” Thereupon the master took up a stick ready to give him a blow, but the disciple held it back saying, “You cannot give me a blow to-day.” “Why can’t I?” was the master’s demand. Instead of replying to him, however, Kōho left the room briskly. The following day the master asked him. “All things return to the One, and where does the One return to?” “The dog is lapping the boiling water in the cauldron.” “Where did you get this nonsense?” reprimanded the master. “You had better ask yourself,” promptly came the response. The master rested well satisfied. * * * * * Hakuin (1683–1768)[f117][5.36] is another of those masters who have put down their first Zen experience in writing, and we read in his book entitled _Orategama_[5.37] the following account: “When I was twenty-four years old, I stayed at the Yegan Monastery, of Echigo. [“Joshu’s Mu” being my theme at the time] I assiduously applied myself to it. I did not sleep days and nights, forgot both eating and lying down, when quite abruptly a great mental fixation[f118][5.38] (_tai-i_) took place. I felt as if freezing in an ice-field extending thousands of miles, and within myself there was a sense of utmost transparency. There was no going forward, no slipping backward; I was like an idiot, like an imbecile, and there was nothing but ‘Jōshu’s Mu.’ Though I attended the lectures by the master, they sounded like a discussion going on somewhere in a distant hall, many yards away. Sometimes my sensation was that of one flying in the air. Several days passed in this state, when one evening a temple-bell struck which upset the whole thing. It was like smashing an ice-basin, or pulling down a house made of jade. When I suddenly awoke again, I found that I myself was Ganto[f119] (Yen-t‘ou) the old master, and that all through the shifting changes of time not a bit [of my personality] was lost. Whatever doubts and indecisions I had before were completely dissolved like a piece of thawing ice. I called out loudly, ‘How wondrous! how wondrous!; There is no birth-and-death from which one has to escape, nor is there any supreme knowledge (_Bodhi_) after which one has to strive. All the complications[f120] past and present, numbering one thousand seven hundred are not worth the trouble of even describing them.’” * * * * *