When the ownership of a kitten was disputed between two parties of monks, the Master Nansen (Nan-ch‘üan P‘u-yüan, 749–835) came out, took hold of the animal, and said to them,[6.17] “If you can say a word, this will be saved: if not, it will be slain.” By “a word” of course he meant one that transcended both affirmation and negation, as when Jōshu was asked for “One word of the ultimate truth.” No one made a response, whereupon the master slew the poor creature. Nansen looks like a hard-hearted Buddhist, but his point is: To say it is, involves us in a dilemma; to say it is not, puts us in the same predicament. To attain to the truth, this dualism must be avoided. How do you avoid it? It may not only be the loss of the life of a kitten, but the loss of your own life and soul, if you fail to ride over this _impasse_. Hence Nansen’s drastic procedure. Later, in the evening Jōshu who was one of his disciples came back, when the master told him of the incident of the day. Jōshu at once took off one of his straw sandals and putting it over his head began to depart. Upon this, said the master, “What a pity you were not to-day with us, for you could have saved the kitten.” This strange behaviour, however, was Jōshu’s way of affirming the truth transcending the dualism of “to be” (_sat_) and “not to be” (_asat_). While Kyōzan (Yang-shan, 804–890) was residing at Tōhei (Tung-ping) of Shao-chou, his master Isan (Wei-shan, 771–853),—both of whom were noted Zen masters of the T‘ang dynasty—sent him a mirror accompanied with a letter.[6.18] Kyōzan held forth the mirror before a congregation of monks and said, “O monks, Isan has sent here a mirror. Is this Isan’s mirror or mine own? If you say it is Isan’s, how is it that the mirror is in my hands? If you say it is mine own, has it not come from Isan? If you make a proper statement, it will be retained here. If you cannot, it will be smashed in pieces.” He said this for three times but nobody even made an attempt to answer. The mirror was then smashed. This was somewhat like the case of Nansen’s kitten. In both cases the monks failed to save the innocent victim or the precious treasure, simply because their minds were not yet free from intellectualism and were unable to break through the entanglements purposely set up by Nansen in one case and by Kyōzan in the other. The Zen method of training its followers thus appears so altogether out of reason and unnecessarily inhuman. But the master’s eyes are always upon the truth absolute and yet attainable in this world of particulars. If this can be gained, what does it matter whether a thing known as precious be broken and an animal be sacrificed? Is not the recovering of the soul more important than the loss of a kingdom?