Śramaṇa Tanwuzui had the secular surname Dong and was a native of Wu'an. His spiritual comprehension plumbed the abstruse; in waking and sleeping he took the dark mysteries as his nourishment. From an early age he received the teachings of the Way, and his fame resounded through court and country. He was an able general of the Triratna, a veritable bronze wall and iron moat for the Semblance Dharma. He chanted the sūtras and treatises and strictly maintained the Vinayapiṭaka. He especially loved dhyāna, his mind empty and serene. When he offered guidance to the times, all looked up to him as their exemplar. Furthermore, he was thoroughly versed in the Daoist and Confucian classics, and was particularly illuminating when discussing principles. As a result, the seven assemblies looked toward his dust, crowding around him. Tanwuzui grew weary of worldly sentiments and intended to leave the fourfold assembly behind. In bestowing encouragement and instruction, he mostly gave precedence to the precepts and prohibitions. He repeatedly stirred the spiritual faculties of beings, and confidence in him spread like clouds. Once, he recited the precepts at Chongzun Monastery in Handan. His disciples numbered more than a thousand, all being regular followers of his school. On the thirtieth day of the fourth month, during the poṣadha, when casting tallies to distribute them according to rank, there were sixty more than the usual count. Tanwuzui sat at the head of the assembly, greatly marvelling at this anomaly. Since there were no outside visitors, he harboured doubt through the whole night. The next morning, he investigated again. Someone had seen people coming from the west of Handan city, all of whom were venerable masters of extraordinary caliber; their garments were neat and decorous, and their stride leisurely and graceful. Others had seen people coming from the east of Gushan, or those who met them on the road, all of whom said: 'We are going to Chongzun Monastery to hear the saṅgha recite the precepts.' In this manner, when checking their various cohorts and matching their ages and companions, the number of persons was precisely sixty. Thus it was known that his realization accorded with the sage mind, and spiritual beings had descended from afar; the recluse multitude of the Bamboo Grove clearly had not accepted the tallies in vain. Tanwuzui's virtue suffused the Buddhist tradition, and he frequently commanded the respect of the times. Later, by imperial decree, he took up residence at Rongjue Monastery in the capital of Luoyang. The monastery was founded by Prince Wenxian of Qinghe, [Yuan] Yi; its halls and cloisters were abundant, spanning a circumference of three li. Tanwuzui was skilled at expounding and guiding, wonderfully penetrating the Mahāparinirvāṇa Sūtra and the Avataṃsaka Sūtra. A thousand monks gathered around him, pursuing their regular vocation without remiss. The Indian śramaṇa Bodhiruci saw him, bowed to him in veneration, and called him the 'Bodhisattva of the Eastern Land.' Bodhiruci once read Tanwuzui's Dasheng yizhang (Essays on the Meaning of the Mahāyāna); he would snap his fingers in praise at every turn, translated it into Indic script, and sent it to Daxia (Bactria). Those in that land who read it all faced east and bowed to him as a holy sage. Yet he always took the propagation of the Dharma as his duty. In the first year of the Zhengguang era of the Yuan Wei (520 CE), Emperor Ming donned court robes, issued a general amnesty, and invited both the Buddhist and Daoist traditions to ascend the palace hall. When the vegetarian feast concluded, the Palace Attendant Liu Teng proclaimed the imperial decree, asking the masters of the Dharma to debate the principles with the Daoists. At that time, the Daoist Jiang Bin of the Qingdao Abbey debated with Tanwuzui. The Emperor asked: 'Were the Buddha and Laozi contemporaneous or not?' Jiang Bin said: 'Laozi traveled west to convert the Hu, and the Buddha served as his attendant at that time. The text appears in the Laozi kaitian jing (Laozi's Scripture on the Opening of Heaven). Relying on this, it is clear that they were contemporaries.' Tanwuzui asked: 'Under which king of the Zhou was Laozi born? In what year did he journey to the west?' Bin said: 'It was in the third year of King Ding of Zhou, in Quren Hamlet, Li Village, Ku County, Chen Commandery of the State of Chu. He was born on the night of the fourteenth day of the ninth month. In the fourth year of King Jian, he served as the Keeper of the Archives. In the first year of King Jing, when he was eighty-five years old, seeing that the virtue of the Zhou had declined, he thereupon accompanied Yin Xi, the magistrate of the San Pass, westward to convert the Hu. Drawing upon this, it is manifest.' Tanwuzui said: 'The Buddha was born on the eighth day of the fourth month in the twenty-fourth year of King Zhao of the Zhou, and entered extinction on the fifteenth day of the second month in the fifty-second year of King Mu. Calculating to the third year of King Ding is three hundred and forty-five years after his entering nirvāṇa, at which time Laozi was just born. After he was born and reached eighty-five years of age, down to the first year of King Jing, a total of four hundred and thirty years elapsed before he fled west with Yin Xi. These years are so utterly disparate—is this not an absurdity?' Bin said: 'If so, from what textual record do your words concerning the Tathāgata derive?' Tanwuzui said: 'The Zhoushu yiji (Strange Records of the Book of Zhou) and the Han faben neichuan (Inner Chronicle of the Origin of the Dharma in the Han) both contain explicit texts.' Bin said: 'Confucius was the sage who instituted models; why is there completely no textual record of the Buddha from his time?' Tanwuzui said: 'In the three parts of Confucius's divination classics, the words concerning the Buddha appear in the Zhongbei (Middle Preparation). Benevolent sir, your understanding is like peering through a tube, and your reading is not broad or far-reaching; how could you realize this for yourself?' The Emperor dispatched the Director of the Department of State Affairs, Yuan Cha, to proclaim an imperial decree: 'The Daoist Jiang Bin's debate is devoid of core principles; let him step down from his seat.' There was also deliberation over who had spoken the Kaitian jing. The Vice Director of the Secretariat Wei Shou and the Secretarial Court Gentleman Zu Ying went to the Daoist abbey to fetch the scripture. Grand Commandant Xiao Zong, Grand Tutor Li Shi, Commandant of the Palace Guard Xu Botao, Minister of Personnel Xing Luan, and Cavalier Attendant-in-Ordinary Wen Zisheng, together with one hundred and seventy others, read it and memorialized: 'Laozi composed only the five thousand characters; he left no other discourse. We ministers deliberate that Jiang Bin's crime warrants punishment for misleading the masses.' At that time, the Emperor was about to inflict capital punishment upon Bin, but the Western Tripiṭaka Master Bodhiruci bitterly remonstrated, so it was stopped, and he was only exiled to Mayi. Tanwuzui's learning excelled over the standard requirements, and his record was carried over into the History of Wei. His resonant fame spread widely, shifting the marketplace talk throughout the entire country. Consequently, accomplished Confucians and court gentlemen descended from their dais to offer veneration and prostrated at his feet to take refuge. The revival of the Buddha-Dharma was indeed due to his pioneering efforts. His end was subsequently unknown.

23.10

Śramaṇa Tanxian: it is not known who he was. In the late years of the Northern Wei, he wandered and resided in Ye, lodging in Buddhist monasteries without a fixed abode. Whenever there was a Dharma gathering, he would certainly be present in the crowd, posing penetrating queries on the definitive teachings and hidden passages. But when it came to long recitations and rambling expositions, he would abandon them and go to other lectures. When the subsequent explanation reached profound and esoteric principles, Tanxian would already be there listening. People at the time marveled at this, yet seeing that his demeanor and clothing were coarse and disorderly, and his appearance unkempt, they repeatedly disparaged and slighted him. Therefore, at first no one paid attention to him; only the Master of the Dharma and Controller-in-Chief [Fashang] deeply recognized his far-reaching perception. Fashang privately granted him wealth and goods to supply his needs for food and drink. Tanxian would sometimes lie drunk by the roadside; at other times he would be clear and outstanding, composing his spirit. When Emperor Wenxuan received the abdication and the Qi fortune flourished greatly, during the Tianbao era, the Buddhist and Daoist gates competed with each other in superiority. It happened that the Daoist Lu Xiujing made reckless fabrications and extensively instituted vegetarian rituals that were extremely extravagant and wasteful, intending for the sovereign to observe and uphold them. Coinciding with the rise of Emperor Wu of Liang, in the third year of the Tianjian era (504 CE), an imperial edict was issued to abandon Daoism, and the Emperor personally wrote an address that was utterly thorough. Lu Xiujing could not contain his indignation, and together with his disciples and fugitives from the frontiers, he rebelled and fled into Northern Qi. Furthermore, he lavished gold and jade upon the nobility, entrusting his aspirations in hopes of reviving the Daoist teachings. The Emperor was deceived by him, and thereupon issued an imperial decree summoning the śramaṇas and Daoists to contest their arts. At that time, the Daoists cast spells on the robes and bowls of the śramaṇas so that they were either lifted up or turned around, or they cast spells on square beams so that they stood erect on the ground. The śramaṇas had never studied magical arts and remained silent without a word in response. Men and women swarmed in a commotion, and people both noble and base shifted their allegiance, all regarding Xiujing's disciples as superior. Xiujing then engaged in high talk to boast of himself, showing off his Daoist arts, and proclaimed aloud: 'Supernormal powers are provisionally established to suppress arrogance and insults. If a śramaṇa manifests one art, I shall manifest two. Now I have briefly shown a slight technique, yet they have all yielded in speech and retreated; the matter is quite evident.' The Emperor commanded Controller-in-Chief Shang to compete with Xiujing. Shang said: 'Magical arts are minor tricks which even worldly Confucians are ashamed of, to say nothing of world-transcending monks. Even so, since the imperial command directs us to contend, how could we remain silent? Let the monk in the lowest seat respond to him.' At that time, Tanxian occupied the very last seat. Fully intoxicated with wine, he was supported and brought up to take the seat, whereupon he stood up and laughed. The multitude were all apprehensive, but because he was dispatched by the Controller-in-Chief, they dared not remonstrate. Tanxian said to the followers of Laozi: 'Your boast just now about manifesting techniques of one against two had great point to it!' Thereupon, standing on the seat on one foot, he said: 'I have already manifested one; you, sir, may now manifest two.' None of them could answer. Tanxian said: 'As for the spells cast just now making the robes and articles fly up, that was merely to test your art.' He ordered that the robe and bowl of Dhyāna Master Chou be brought forward and cast a spell upon; neither moved in the slightest. The Emperor decreed ten men to lift them, but they remained unmoved as before. Then they placed the robe upon the wooden beams, and it sat securely without any paranormal sign. The Daoists looked at one another, completely crestfallen. Still trying to prevail through rhetorical eloquence, they said: 'The Buddhist house calls itself "inner"; inner means small. It calls the Daoist house "outer"; outer means great.' Tanxian replied immediately: 'If that is so, then since the Son of Heaven dwells within the interior, he must certainly be smaller than a commoner!' Xiujing and his assembly held their tongues without a word. Emperor Wenxuan, sitting upon his throne, witnessed their merits and faults with his own eyes. On that day, all of Xiujing's disciples abandoned the heterodox to follow the orthodox, begging with sorrow for salvation. Those who had not yet generated the aspiration were commanded to shave their heads and dye their robes; thus more than one was decapitated. Those who styled themselves divine immortals were all made to ascend the Sanjue Terrace and ordered to cast themselves down in flight; all of their corpses were abandoned on the ground. The fake and deceitful were thereby subdued. Thereupon an imperial edict was issued: 'The Dharma gate is non-dual; the true lineage is one. In seeking it on the correct path, tranquility is the fundamental basis. The libationer Daoists are worldly frauds; worldly people have not awakened and still revere them. Fermented wine is their flavour—where is the pure emptiness in that? Dried ginger is sweet to them; compassion is forever severed. Above, it differs from the halls of benevolence; below, it contradicts the rites of sacrifice. All of them should be prohibited and cut off, and no longer followed or practiced. Let this be proclaimed far and wide, so that all are made aware.' The Daoists who submitted were all handed over to Shang, the Controller-in-Chief of the Zhaoxuan Office, who ordained them and permitted them to leave householder life, as extensively recorded in the separate biography. At that time, the territory of the Qi revered Buddhism single-mindedly, and the state had no divided allegiance. Not until the advent of the Sui dynasty did the other tradition gradually begin to re-emerge. Even down to the present day, such practices are still rare in the eastern region. The biographer says: 'Fathoming transformation and protecting the Dharma, Sengrong and Sengshang gained renowned glory during the Qin dynasty; with small means achieving great results, Master Tanxian made remarkable achievements under the High Qi. Knowing men is truly difficult! Controller-in-Chief Fashang discerned his caliber, seeing him as a swift steed of a thousand li, yoked together with those of different ages. Judging men by appearances has been a pitfall since antiquity; for that would merely be decorating with black and yellow! How could they then have repulsed them?' Tanxian ultimately lived an unfettered and unconventional life, wandering among the common folk, and retreated into obscurity from the human world; no one knew where he went.

23.11

Śramaṇa Jing'ai, surnamed Zheng, was a native of Xingyang. From his early years he was marked by worldly renown, known for being gentle and refined; yet his spiritual capacity was calm, simple, and outstanding beyond mundane affairs. When he was just a scholar, he widely set his aspirations on the classics and histories. The preeminent figures among the Zheng clan all appreciated his uniqueness, saying: “The one who will bring prosperity to our clan must be this boy!” Once, while visiting a monastery with his companions, he observed a tableau transformation depicting the hells. Turning to the scholars, he said: “How extraordinary! If the principle of karmic retribution is genuinely inevitable, who can escape this cruelty?” Thereupon, obstinately going against earnest admonitions, his two parents were unable to deter his resolve. Although the Zheng clan steadfastly sought to retain him, Jing'ai resolutely severed the fetters of attachment, his feelings parted as if [cleaved like] stone. He then went alone to Baiguan Monastery, where he went forth into homelessness relying on Meditation Master He. He was then seventeen years of age. After receiving the full precepts, he revered and adhered to the monastic deportment, protecting and maintaining it with clarity and practice, for which he was esteemed and revered by his contemporaries. He also listened to Master Jing expounding the *Mahāprajñāpāramitā-śāstra*; upon hearing it once, his spiritual comprehension opened as if illuminated through dense obscurity. When he re-examined earlier explanations, he knew they were improper expositions. Traveling widely throughout the territory of Qi, he inquired and sought the ford of understanding. In lecture halls and debate chambers, he frequently engaged in dialogues; his rhetoric was detailed and elegant, and his underlying principles were fresh and clear, completely lacking reliance on established teachers, yet remaining free of worldly entanglements. He then patted his chest and sighed: “I was born in an unfortunate year, meeting with the intermingling turbulence of the five defilements. To lose out to worldly opinion is acceptable, but to gain [worldly approval] is contemptible. Advancing or retreating is difficult—is it not best to withdraw into seclusion?” Thereupon, consoling himself in mind and voice, he concealed his shadow on Mount Song. Searching and collating the sūtras and treatises, he forgot sleep and food. Among them, he most reverently devoted his mind to the four treatises: the *Mahāprajñāpāramitā-śāstra*, the *Madhyamaka-śāstra*, the *Śata-śāstra*, and the *Dvādaśamukha-śāstra*. As for the rest, he collaterally gathered disparate traditions to complete his pervasive illumination. His speech was always like brocade and strung pearls, and his calligraphy linked cursive and running scripts; he was highly valued by the world, and there were few who did not consider him splendid. Later, he realized on his own: “Florid words obscure principle; blossoms without fruit disorder truth. How could I wander dissolutely, forgetting to return, and not consider correcting myself?” From then on, he vowed to sever them, focusing solely on the eastern course of the Buddhist teachings while tasting what he had previously learned, fearing that treading on heterodox paths would bring regret to later students. He also entered Mount Bailu to look from afar at Huang-Lao, broadly accommodating various approaches; but regarding the deceptive and disputatious allegorical theories of Zhuangzi and Huizi, he did not esteem them. Hearing that an Indic monk from Tianzhu—a man of profound scholarship and lofty conduct incomprehensible to the world—had arrived in the west at Xianyang, Jing'ai's passion for seeking the Way was ardent, and he rejoiced at what he heard. Secretly crossing the mountain passes, enduring the passage of cold and heat, as soon as he reached the south of the Wei River, before he even had time to wash his feet, he immediately presented his respects. What he had formerly heard and what he now saw proved that seeing was burdened by hearsay: the great drum had been sounded in vain, and his inquiries yielded nothing. He therefore concealed his form among the monastic ranks, refining his previous understanding. Obscure and withdrawing into seclusion, those who knew him were few. Depressed and restrained for ten years, he comprehended the measures of adversity and prosperity and embodied the principle of causes and conditions. Attaching his resolve to Mount Zhongnan, he harbored the intention to spend his final days there. The mists, clouds, wind, and moon were used to dispel distraction; the peak was named “World-Fleeing,” which he relied upon to savor tranquility. Having only a single rope-bed and entirely without a thatched hut, he prepared food over an open fire, abandoning all undertakings. Summoning victims of leprosy, he instructed them in the ultimate principle and had them present offerings which he consumed daily with them. Even though pus and ulcerations flowed freely, he wept facing them without aversion. Because of this, those who stilled their minds gathered in the forest; he instructed them in righteous principles, and it flourished into a bustling marketplace of learning. The mountain originally had no water, and whenever they needed it, they had to drink from the ravines. Once in the dusk, while students stood in attendance, a tiger suddenly descended before them, pawed the ground, and left. When they inspected it at dawn, they saw it gradually becoming moist; he then had it excavated, and a leaping spring gushed forth, continuously flowing. From then on, they were spared having to go down to the ravine, dipping and pouring whenever needed. This is what is now known as the Tiger-Pawed Spring at the World-Fleeing Fortress in Xigu. Jing'ai conducted himself with strict discipline, and his penetrating understanding surpassed his peers. Relying on the forest, he guided the assembly and lectured on the aforementioned four treatises, wishing to transmit them with joy to benefit and propagate them mutually. His rule for expounding the Dharma was to revere it before preaching: he invariably required his fellow students to bare one shoulder, stand with palms joined, and show earnest reverence for a long time before proceeding. Only then would he order rope-beds to be brought, arranged in a circle, and after paying respects, they sat down. Jing'ai would slowly take up the text of the treatise, pointing out each part with his own hand; line by line and verse by verse, he analyzed and explained them to foster awakening, turning to inquire what the listeners had understood. Only when they grasped the meaning would he proceed to the next verse. If anyone nearby had not yet comprehended, he would reiterate it. Every day he condescended to expound this Dharma without weariness. He would often state: “I detest arrogance toward the Dharma. Having not been born during the Buddha's lifetime, even if I hear the bequeathed teachings, my mind lacks genuine faith and reverence, constantly harboring discontent. I must ultimately discipline this body and mind. Sometimes I try indulging only in desires, sincerely committing evil; sometimes I restrain my thoughts, wishing only to practice superficial good. This cannot be called pacifying the body, nor can it be called purifying the mind. Therefore, restricting oneself and curbing others is truly not the correct discipline. However, the capacities and conditions in the final age are mostly similar: those who surely detest trouble and submission must stay, while those who do not decline complete deportment must depart from here.” His enlightening and encouraging were all of this kind. There was a śramaṇa named Zhicang, whose bodily appearance was heroic and who was renowned for his wisdom and understanding. Carrying two piculs of provisions on his back, he approached the mountain to seek the Way. Seeing horizontal branches on a tree trellis, he playfully weighed himself upon them. It happened that Jing'ai saw this; at first, he did not rebuke him, but after three days he summoned and reprimanded him, saying: “With others' food in your belly, how dare you play so frivolously? Nurturing oneself like this is called being a two-legged dog!” Zhicang held back tears and apologized for his error, but [Jing'ai] ultimately would not admit him again, sending him away from the mountain. The śramaṇas Tanyan and Dao'an were known to the world as the two paragons of the Mysterious Gate; at that time, they were preeminent, their renowned virtues surpassing each other. Yet when discussing the substance of the teachings, disputes arose. They consulted Jing'ai for an adjudication; after demurring for a long time, he finally resolved and dispersed their doubts. Both were delighted in their minds and unconsciously paid homage; each kissed one of his feet, knelt, and stated: “Great Master, your understanding matches heavenly illumination, and you should dwell in the world to gather and guide people. Now you merely cultivate yourself in isolation, letting your virtue waste away amidst the springs and rocks; we do not see this as fitting.” Jing'ai said: “The Way values practice and application, not being mere words. I observe the times to advance or retreat, and therefore temporarily live in seclusion to seek my aspirations.” After that, due to circumstances, he entered the city, but then returned to the forests and wilds. It happened during the reign of Emperor Wu of the Zhou dynasty that the Daoist Zhang Bin deceitfully misled the sovereign, coveting increased honor and favor; he secretly promoted the Li clan [Daoism], wishing to abolish the Buddhist tradition. Having gained favor in the purple palace, like flies swarming the imperial carriage, he acted in concert with the former monk Wei Yuansong like lips and teeth. The Emperor possessed penetrating perception and bright discernment, internally fierce yet externally gentle. He summoned the monks into the palace for seven nights of repentance rituals, intending to personally observe any arrogant transgressions in hopes of carrying out demotions and dismissals. At that time, secretly knowing this, [the monks] redoubled their sincerity. The Emperor also stayed awake with the monks for seven nights, chanting hymns and conducting various Dharma rites for them; among the seven turns of scriptural recitations, none was not clear and melodious. When the event concluded, a banquet was held, where he openly set forth his original intention. There was Master Meng, whose spirit and tone were lofty and preeminent; he personally resisted the imperial intention, his words rather sharp and incisive. The assembly feared disaster would befall him, but the Emperor merely expressed his thoughts, without showing the least intimidation. Hearing of this, Jing'ai sighed: “The mixing of vermilion and purple, the mad encroaching upon the wise, has reached its peak! How can we allow the five groups to be scattered and the four classes of people to be bewildered?” He also said: “Eating the grain of the Zhou and drinking the water of the Zhou, like eating mulberry berries and remembering the call [of birds], can one fail to repay virtue? Furthermore, as a disciple of the Buddha, how can I watch this ruin, sitting with this physical frame quietly at ease? I would rather make a great sacrifice for the Semblance and Final ages, being sliced and minced like the Robber Zhi.” He went straight to the palace gates and presented a memorial to appeal. Granted an audience and ascending the hall, he raised his hand and proclaimed: “My intention in coming is twofold: namely, to repay the benevolent kindness of the triratna, and to recompense the generous virtue of the dānapati.” Citing sūtras, treatises, philosophers, histories, and chronicles, he set forth the correct principles with evident proof. From dawn to noon, his words were completely to the point, clarifying the principle that [the Dharma] cannot be destroyed. Exchanging arguments and holding his ground, his replies flowed smoothly; with firm words and stern countenance, he was resonant and unyielding. The hundred officials and close ministers trembled on his behalf, but his spiritual composure remained self-possessed, unswayed from his lifelong manner. Although the Emperor was satisfied with his reasoning, his resolve to destroy the religion was already fixed. He neither accepted the admonition nor dismissed him. Jing'ai stepped forward again and said: “Whether the teachings of Śākya or Li are heterodox or orthodox, when people and doctrines are mixed together, one can seek the truth through tangible trials without troubling Your Majesty's mind. If Your Majesty truly harbors no private bias and wishes to distinguish the Jing from the Wei, I request a cauldron of boiling oil: in the palace courtyard, let the people and scriptures of both traditions be boiled together. Those who remain unharmed will immediately be known.” The Emperor was intimidated by his words and had him ushered out. At that time, Śramaṇa Daoji of Yizhou also came forward to admonish, but his words were likewise ignored. Thereupon, together with seven companions, he practiced repentance before an image of Maitreya for seven days; having ceased eating, they all passed away at the same time. Jing'ai knew the Great Dharma would inevitably be destroyed, and unable to endure the cruelty, he led more than thirty of his disciples into Mount Zhongnan. From east to west, he built twenty-seven monasteries, relying on crags and adhering to precipices, allowing fugitive monks to preserve their profound faith. When the destruction of the Dharma took place, the Emperor thereupon eradicated all official and private Buddhism established over several centuries east and west of the passes, sweeping it completely away. He melted and scraped sacred images and burned the scriptures. Throughout the eight provinces of the *Tribute of Yu*, existing temples and shrines numbering over forty thousand were all bestowed upon princes and dukes as private residences. Throughout the three regions, Buddhist monks and nuns numbering nearly three million were all returned to military and civilian status, enrolled in household registers. The boundless merit-wealth and assets of the triratna were inventoried and confiscated by the state, then immediately squandered and dispersed entirely as rewards and expenditures. The cruelty was initially enacted in Guanzhong in the fifth month of the third year of Jiande. When that calamity ended, on the fifteenth day of the sixth month, the court session was dismissed. In the ministry of Duke Jincheng of the Ren clan, while he and his attendants were strolling and gazing at the sky at his administrative office, they suddenly saw five or six pieces of objects soaring into the void along the birds' flight path. The largest brushed against the azure sky, as big as a granary of ten bushels, and gradually vanished; the other several pieces were smaller and lower, yellow-white in color, rolling and unrolling across the sky like streamers without ribbons. On that day, the sky was clear, the atmosphere calm, without a speck of dust stirring, only the blazing sun intensified. Passing through the circular prison while heading to the Ministry of Works, he saw to the north, atop a double wall, a yellow book trailing across the brambles. When he went to retrieve it, it was none other than the nineteenth fascicle of the *Mahāprajñāpāramitā Sūtra*. When he asked about its origin, he was told: “It flew down from the sky and fell here.” At that time, the triratna had just been suppressed and the penal laws were severe; having briefly shown it to officials sitting alongside him, he concealed it in his sleeve and locked it in a chest upon returning. When the Sui dynasty arose and fortune turned, being appointed as governor of Ji Province, he ordered his subordinate attendant Zhao Xuan to compose a preface, which said: “There was a pure-faith great being with an official post, whose body was entangled in mundane ties, yet who esteemed the principles of the Dharma. His refined sincerity moved the luminous spirits, and divine transformations responded accordingly. Thus, a multitude of scriptures soared aloft, rising like the whirlwind of Fuyao; a single scroll drifted back, descending like the cinnabar bird. Its departure clarified that it would not remain in an evil world; its arrival showed that good people could gather. Auspicious omens were like that, and sacred manifestations were like this! Our Emperor has arisen from Zhen and mounted Qian, retuning the zither and lute. Personally overseeing the nine realms and commanding the eight wildernesses, he recognized that the triratna should be revered and realized that the four forms of birth are impermanent. Thereupon, he proclaimed throughout the realm the restoration of pure saṅghārāmas, making the fragrance of the Semblance Dharma gather as in Śrāvastī, and monks and nuns flourish again like at the Hiranyavatī River. This scripture uniquely manifested the brightness of the spirits; had it not been for accumulated virtue, how could this have occurred? I venture to record and celebrate it, transmitting its fragrance to future generations.” Earlier, Emperor Wu knew of Jing'ai's determined character and joyfully wished to meet him. He ordered more than twenty imperial guards to patrol the mountains in search of the “felt-robed man of the Way,” saying: “I shall grant him the rank of chief minister to govern the realm together.” Jing'ai lived secluded in the deep mountains, and their pursuit could not find him. Later, while hiding in Xigu on Mount Taiyi, seeing that the Great Dharma was ruined and the monastics and laity had no reliance, his own body entangled in constraints and powerless to assist, he told his disciples: “I am of no benefit to the world, and shall now abandon my body; therefore I inform you beforehand.” The assembly at first would not permit it, yearning to hear the Dharma from him. He then opened and surveyed the various Great and Small Vehicles, compiling the *Sanjie ji* in twenty fascicles. Fictitiously setting up host and guest to dispel doubts, modulating and deploying concepts, he broadly gathered textual principles to propagate the Great Vehicle, glorify the Semblance Era, and record contemporary events clearly like the palm of a hand, hoping to hide it in crag caves so that it might be revived in future generations. From the time Jing'ai entered the Dharma, he practiced the gate of great compassion: he never wore silk, floss, or leather on his body, using only coarse felt and cloth until his retribution [life] ended. Later, weary of the body and pressed by feelings, he occupied an isolated crag alone, ordering his attendant: “Go down the mountain, and return early tomorrow.” Jing'ai sat cross-legged on a flat rock, retaining only one inner garment. He sliced the flesh of his body, laying it piece by piece upon the stone. Drawing out his intestines, he hung them on pine branches, exposing all five internal organs. The rest of the sinews, flesh, hands, feet, head, and face were completely scraped and severed, leaving only bones visible. Cutting his heart with a knife, he held it up and died. The attendant was terrified and could not sleep the whole night. Rushing there the next morning, he still saw him holding his heart with palms joined, body facing west, sitting cross-legged as before. Among his injured remains, there was no blood left, only white milk pouring forth and congealing upon the stone. They then piled stones to seal it from the outside and buried him there. This was the sixteenth day of the seventh month of the first year of the Xuanzheng era of the Zhou dynasty; he was forty-five years of age. His disciples were renowned in their day, as fully recorded in separate biographies. His personal attendant, Śramaṇa Huixuan, was broadly versed in internal and external learning and possessed extraordinary resolve. Grieving that the mountain had crumbled with none to look up to, and sorrowing that the beam had broken leaving none to rely on, he chronicled his fragrant conduct and erected a stele at the stupa. Later, those who sought the Way and longed for the worthy entered the mountain to pay homage, traversing the dangerous cliffs; there they saw Jing'ai's bequeathed verse written on the rock wall, with the heading: “Originally I wished to write with blood, but never expected it would turn white; this was the work of Māra preventing its completion, which is why I wrote it in ink. It reads: ‘May all who have karmic ties—lay or monastic, male or female—all dwell securely within the Buddha's Dharma and never give rise to retrogression. If one regresses, one loses wholesome benefit. I abandon this bodily life on account of three causes and conditions: first, seeing the many faults of the body; second, being unable to protect the Dharma; third, wishing to see the Buddha quickly, venturing to emulate the ancient sages.’” The verses were then set forth.

23.12

This useless body loathes troubling the labor of men; / I dissolve my form upon the rugged crags, / I scatter my limbs among the cliff pines. / Devas, humans, and asuras, / mountain spirits and tree spirits, / who seek the Way, / look upon my abandonment of the body. / May it cause sentient beings / who see my bones / to find the great ship of their defilements / completely overturned and submerged. / May it cause sentient beings / who hear of my forsaking life / to accomplish the divine ear, / culminating in bodhi. / May it cause sentient beings, / when they remember me, / to be fully endowed with the power of mindfulness, / of erudition, and dhāraṇī. / Once this retribution is ended, / the four great elements wither away; / the paths through springs and groves are cut off, / and the cliff chamber becomes silent. / Universally bestowed upon birds and beasts, / down to creeping insects: / eating the flesh and drinking the blood, / may roots of goodness fill them within. / May I in the future / swiftly become a Sugata; / with body and mind sovereign, / I shall surely rescue them. / This body is impure, / a bag of excrement at its base; / its nine apertures constantly flowing, / like a breached dike. / This body is loathsome, / not to be looked upon: / thin skin wrapping blood, / coated and smeared with filth. / This body is foul and putrid, / just like a dead dog, / composed of the six and six, / not born from a flower. / Contemplating this stinking body, / imprisoned by impermanence, / there is no escape whether advancing or retreating; / it will inevitably meet ants and lice. / This body is hard to protect; / wherever there is life, it must be lost, / devoured by foxes and wolves, / in the end turning into maggots and worms. / Devas, humans, men, and women, / the lovely and the hideous, the noble and the base, / are all burned by the fire of death, / seen only fleetingly like lightning. / The dharma of death invades humanity, / the enemy among all enemies; / I take it as my foe, / and vow to sever its source. / This body has no pleasure, / a basket of venomous snakes; / surrounded by the four great elements, / the hundred illnesses intertwine. / Known as an aggregate of suffering, / a swamp of old age, illness, and death; / with burning vexation in body and mind, / it possesses many faults. / This body has no self, / because it lacks sovereignty; / with no reality, falsely imputed, / dominated by ordinary mortals. / Long confused and deluded, / driven by erroneous inversions, / losing their roots of goodness, / dying together with beasts. / Cast away hundreds of thousands of times, / blood and milk would form an ocean; / bones piled up would make a great mountain, / yet the future will double it. / Never having yielded benefit, / vainly enduring hardship and pain; / of no profit to sentient beings, / of no help to the Dharma. / Enduring pain to give it up in abandonment, / its efficacy is boundless; / I vow never to retrogress, / and to transcend the four abysses. / Abandoning this defiled form, / I vow to be born in the Pure Land; / in a single thought-moment the flower opens, / at the dwelling of Amitābha Buddha. / Swiftly seeing the ten directions, / all Buddhas, worthies, and sages; / bidding eternal farewell to the three bad destinies, / determined in the correct path. / Receiving as retribution the five spiritual powers, / flying freely at will; / feeding on the Dharma at the jeweled trees, / realizing the great non-arising. / Sovereign in the Dharma body, / not severing the three states of existence; / eradicating the ways of Māra, / foremost in defending the Dharma. / Fulfilling the ten stages, / spiritual transformations without bounds; / virtues complete in the four excellences, / titled King of the Dharma. / Having vowed to abandon this body, / may my form soon attain sovereignty; / once the Dharma body is sovereign, / everywhere throughout the destinies, / wherever there is benefit to be made, / I shall defend the Dharma and save sentient beings. / Moreover, karma must come to an end; / all conditioned dharmas are thus. / The three realms are all impermanent; / when the time arrives, there is no sovereignty. / Slain by others or dying of oneself, / in the end it comes to such a place. / That which the wise do not delight in, / one ought to contemplate like this. / All conditions having assembled, / karma comes to an end this day.

23.13

Shi Dao'an, whose secular surname was Yao, was a native of Hucheng in Pingyi. Awakening to the profound truth, he early joined the Dharma gate. By nature he had no permanent teacher, going wherever he heard the Way. Furthermore, being placid, vacuous, quiet, and tranquil, he concentrated his mind upon superior realms. Employing modesty and solemnity, his movements and pauses displayed moderation. Among his fellow dhyāna companions, there were none who did not defer to and admire him. Later, he secluded himself on Taibai Mountain, dwelling in retirement among forests and springs, harboring aspirations toward the sūtras and treatises. Through deep dhyāna he extracted profound insight, thus elevating his undertaking of wisdom. He looked collaterally into the masters and histories, broadly touching upon their general outlines. His vital spirit was lofty and bright, harboring pure and far-reaching principles. After receiving full ordination, he venerated the Mahāparinirvāṇa Sūtra, regarding it as the bequest of ultimate instruction; he was widely versed in the Mahāprajñāpāramitopadeśa, using it as a foundation for propagating the Way. Thus during the Zhou dynasty, these two works were vigorously promoted along the banks of the Wei River; alternating his preaching and instructions, he never ceased throughout the four seasons. Dwelling at Dazhigu Monastery, he constantly took the propagation of the Dharma as his duty. The scholars of the capital all attached themselves to his pure dust. With both internal and external learning lucidly understood, An was especially gifted in literary composition; his spontaneous speech and brushwork both harmonized with artistic talent. Moreover, his demeanor was open and penetrating, his refined tone soaring and concise. Upholding etiquette and residing in a place of honor, his benevolence extended to the nobility of the court. Therefore, prosperous and distinguished Confucian ministers and renowned Daoist masters daily came to request discussions, all giving rise to faithful minds. Consequently, his doctrine flowed throughout the realm, and the people bowed like grass before the wind. When Emperor Wu of Zhou cleared the realm and brought blessings to both inner and outer regions, he frequently rode his carved carriage to pay personal respects to An. Because An's Way made him a leader among men, he remained seated to command respect, bidding the emperor to sit on the floor and remain there. An then expounded teachings as usual, discoursing loftily on the true Dharma without words touching upon mundane affairs. The dukes and ministers watched with sidelong awe, and the onlookers felt honored and delighted. When noon arrived for the midday meal, An ordered food to be served. As the emperor was about to raise his chopsticks, he said, "This disciple has heard that laypeople are not permitted to eat the food of the saṅgha. How can the Dharmabhāṇaka burden people with guilt?" An replied, "In the Buddha's teachings of the provisional and real, and the Vinaya's regulations of permission and prohibition, provision is extended to kings, bandits, and evil ministers alike. I, a poor monk, base this upon the Dharma; this reasoning is not unfounded." The emperor said, "If it is truly as the Tathāgata spoke, it was not the Buddha's intention [to give indiscriminately]; I only fear harming the community of the Way. Moreover, I truly have no part in sharing a seat with rebel ministers." He then ordered the food removed and discussed other Dharmas instead, never holding a grudge in mind. Such was the lofty capacity of that late age. Later, by imperial decree, he was installed at Daxingzhong Monastery, where exceptional honors were additionally bestowed. When the emperor went to the southern suburbs, with cultural and military trappings fully prepared, he ordered the monastics and laity alike to view the main thoroughfares. A special decree was sent to An, commanding him to view the emperor's imperial insignia and regalia. An answered, "Your Majesty goes out for the sake of the people; I, a poor monk, do not go out for the sake of the Dharma." Hearing this, the emperor snapped his fingers in praise for a long time. An's discernment and awakening were peerless, and the wind of his virtue fanned far and wide. Establishing himself in impartiality and abiding by the Way through self-restraint—all his conduct was of this kind. Together with his fellow student Huijun, he was famous throughout the Zhou region. Jun's surname was Zhu, a native of Sanyuan in Jingzhao. He had never studied books from birth, but by listening he attained awakening; hearing once, he never forgot, storing it in his breast. Versed in both Confucianism and Buddhism, his discourse gushed forth like a spring; his attacks, queries, and critiques were as sharp and dense as clustered spear points. Once, on a day when the Venerable An was lecturing on the Mahāparinirvāṇa Sūtra, Jun raised the chapter and posed questions, exchanging arguments until dusk without progressing through the text. The next morning he questioned again, his disputations exquisite and piercing. Although An responded immediately to each point, the listeners thought the objections would never end. Jun persistently cited texts and principles to examine and counter An, so that for three consecutive days they debated only a single meaning. Only after both laid aside their views did they turn to explaining the text. This amazed their predecessors, and those who heard bowed in deep respect. Jun later traveled throughout China, studying under renowned masters at will; whatever met his ears was understood in meaning and grasped in purport. An shared a room with him for more than thirty years; their exchanges soared in profundity, their sincerity surpassing speech. When Jun died of illness, An stroked the corpse and wept bitterly, saying, "Confucius's words were truly not in vain!" In the fourth year of the Tianhe era, the year yichou [569 CE], on the fifteenth day of the third month, an imperial decree summoned more than two thousand virtuous monks, famous Confucians, Daoists, and civil and military officials to the main hall. The emperor ascended the imperial throne and personally evaluated the superiority and inferiority, the abolition or establishment, of the three teachings. The assembly's opinions were divided, each following their personal views to compare the broad outlines, none yielding to another. On the twentieth day of that month, they assembled as before; the arguments grew discordant, and right and wrong proliferated, none satisfying the emperor's mind, so they retreated despondently. In early fourth month, an imperial decree again broadly summoned monastics and laity, commanding them to express principles to the utmost. He also commanded Zhen Luan, Grand Master of the Metropolitan Rectifier, to examine the two teachings of Buddhism and Daoism in detail, determining their priority, depth, sameness, and difference. Luan then presented the Xiaodao lun (Treatise Ridiculing the Dao) in three fascicles comprising thirty-six articles, using it to ridicule the title of the "Three Caverns" and to ridicule their sūtras numbering thirty-six sections. Its text was extremely detailed in evidence, with many vehement polemics. On the tenth day of the fifth month, the emperor again assembled the ministers to examine the treatise Luan had presented; deeming it harmful to the Daoists, he burned it in the palace courtyard. Dao'an, lamenting the confusion of worldly customs and grieving over the suppression of historical records, composed the Erjiao lun (Treatise on the Two Teachings) to address Emperor Wu, detailing the ultimates of the three teachings. The text formed one fascicle divided into twelve sections. The first was the "Section on Returning to the Fundamental and Revealing the Root." A guest asked: "I have heard that when refined customs collapsed, the Six Classics were compiled; when boastfulness became rampant, the two chapters [of the Daodejing] were composed. Thus, that which is gentle and broad, necessarily aiding all creatures, is called Confucianism; that which is inexhaustible in use, necessarily connecting with all things, is called Daoism. These are all the spiritual works of Confucius and Laozi, which can be known in detail. Recently I examined the Buddha's teachings; their texts are vast and their meanings rich. Looking at how they guide, they are gentle and skillful; grasping their purport, they are ever fresh. Truly, though the three teachings differ, their encouragement of goodness follows one path; though the traces of their teachings are indeed distinct, their realization of principle is identical. As for Laozi lamenting bodily affliction and Confucius sighing over the flowing stream—the former surely wished to place himself last and outside so as to preserve life, while the latter was moved by what passes to know the transformation of things. How does this differ from the Buddhist scriptures' disgust with the body and discourse on impermanence? It is only that narrow-minded men have not mounted a lofty perspective, unable to equalize heaven and earth into a single finger, or level right and wrong into a single vital breath. This causes their discussions always to diverge. This is what is called concealing the maṇi jewel within its casing, or shrouding great brightness in deep night, harming the pure custom of non-duality and blocking the profound purport of pervasive oneness. Praying for it through kalpas, how could they encounter it?" The host answered: "Your exhaustive debate has not reached the ultimate principle. The myriad transformations are rooted in continuous generation; the three realms of existence originate from the primal beginning. However, being without birth and without beginning is the nature of things; having transformation and having birth is the gathering of humans. Though gathered into one body, form and spirit are two distinct things; though dispersed into different substances, the mental states do not perish. Therefore, the teaching that saves the physical form is called external; the teaching that delivers the spirit is called internal. For this reason, the Mahāprajñāpāramitopadeśa speaks of internal and external scriptures; the Renwang jing distinguishes internal and external treatises; the Vaipulya sūtras clarify internal and external Vinayas; and the Śataśāstra speaks of internal and external paths. If we speak broadly of internal and external, it covers both Chinese and barbarian; if we restrict the terms to this land, it may be said to refer to Confucianism and Buddhism. That Buddhist teaching is internal and Confucian teaching is external is fully demonstrated in the sacred scriptures and is no fabrication. Carefully examining the records and tracing the origins, there are only two teachings; how could there be three? Why? In ancient times of simplicity, the proclamations of the ancient scriptures had not yet expanded; as pure customs gradually waned, the writings of the three ancient tombs and eight books appeared. Thus, encompassing the seven canons and gathering the nine schools of thought, all serve as strategies for governing the state, and all are arts of cultivating the person. If branched and distinguished, there should be nine teachings; if gathered and united, they belong together to the Confucian tradition. Discussing their offices, each was a post in the royal court; discussing their books, they are all writings of the royal house. Within a single transformation, you wish to make the nine schools vie like rivers; in an age of the Great Way, you cause small accomplishments to compete in debate. Does this not, above, harm the non-dual custom of the royal standard, and below, open up the corrupt practices of narrowness, licentiousness, vulgarity, and dissolution? Truly it can be called a great blight upon the grand plan, dazzling and misleading both court and populace. As for the Buddhist teaching, it consists of standard words that fathom principle and exhaust nature, the correct track for transcending the world and entering truth. In terms of its texts, it is divided into twelve parts; speaking of its purports, it encompasses the four siddhāntas. Its principle is marvelous within the cosmos, certainly beyond what names can reach; its transformation dominates beyond attachments, and is not what ordinary intellect can seek. Reaching the abandonment of burdens, the dropping of fish traps, the refining of spirit and the culmination of illumination, it transcends birth and death in the near term and realizes nirvāṇa in the far term. It propagates the five vehicles, receiving the capacities of living beings according to depth; it completely clarifies the six destinies, distinguishing the ascent and descent of good and evil. Reaching far beyond the world, its principles are entirely comprehensive; drawing near to assist royal governance, its matters are exhaustively handled. Able to be vast and concise, neither crude nor embellished—unless one has the utmost reflection under heaven, who could match this teaching? Even if the thousand schools of Confucians and Daoists, and the hundred lineages of agriculturalists and Mohists, select and discard, strive and gallop, they cannot reach its measure. The teaching of the Śākya clan is rich in the provisional and the real. That which has remainder and is not definitive is called provisional; that which is without remainder and definitive in meaning is called real. To speak generally of skillful guidance—how could that be called marvelous appreciation? You said that although the three teachings differ, their meaning in encouraging goodness is one. I say that goodness has refined and coarse aspects, and superiority and inferiority should differ. The refined transcends the hundred transformations to ascend high; the coarse follows the nine abodes without resting. How can one speak of their victory and defeat in the same breath? You also said that though the traces of their teachings are distinct, their realization of principle is identical, citing worldly teachings to match the profound teaching. This is what the common herd is blind to, having not reached its root. What is teaching? It is that which captures principle. What is principle? It is that which is expressed by teaching. If teachings are truly different, how can principle be identical? If principle is necessarily identical, how could teachings differ? The fish trap does not expect a fish; the snare is not made for a rabbit. If taking names, where is the identity of principle? Now, deep attachment to life gave rise to the warning about bodily afflictions; failure to understand impermanence produced the sigh over the flowing stream. Both are supreme discourses within the cosmos, not grand proclamations that transcend boundaries. Why? Tracing form down to its infinitesimal particles is what Laozi could not distinguish; fathoming the mind down to arising and ceasing is what Confucius did not speak of. It may be said that looking at them, they seem exhausted, but examining them, they are not ultimate. The scripture says: 'Distinguishing form and mind has immeasurable characteristics, which are beyond the knowledge of the two vehicles.' Furthermore, both the two vehicles and the great practice transcend the realm of delusive thoughts. A bodhisattva's wisdom encompasses the nine destinies, while a śrāvaka only cultivates his own person. It is like comparing dew drops to a vast ravine, or a particle of dust to Mount Sumeru. How much less can the consciousness and thought of ordinary people be equaled! Therefore the scripture says: 'Do not equate sunlight with the fire of a firefly.' If one equalizes the unequal by means of equality, it is not yet equal. If one equalizes the equal by means of equality, it is still not equal. I have heard that one who is good at equalizing the realm equalizes the realm through inequality. Why must one level mountains and fill abysses before achieving flatness, or lengthen a duck's legs and shorten a crane's legs before making them equal? This is merely the rustic opinion of an obstinate man; how could it be the upright perspective of an enlightened scholar? Therefore the proverb says: 'Purple truly obscures vermilion; the madman thus mimics the philosopher.' Let us expand its categories: from the Son of Heaven down to the commoners, none fail to rely on form and mind to make a body, receiving yin and yang to transform the physical frame. One cannot, because form and mind are equal, confound the wise and foolish; or because yin and yang are equal in principle, equate the noble and base. That this is unacceptable is clear in the ultimate principle; though one forces equality upon them, where is the meaning in it?" Because Emperor Wu was slandered by Zhang Bin, he intended to eliminate the Buddhist order. When he first examined An's treatise and inquired of the ministers, the textual evidence was so outstanding that none dared reject it. At that time, the abolition was temporarily shelved, for it truly commanded respect. In the third year of the Jiande era, the year jiawu [574 CE], on the seventeenth day of the fifth month, he universally abolished both the Buddhist and Daoist orders. He separately established the Tongdao Monastery, selecting famous monks and Daoists and making them wear cap and gown as scholars. The matter is recorded in a separate biography. An concealed his traces, silenced his voice, and fled to the forests and marshes. The emperor issued an edict to search for him, and when he was arrested and brought to the royal court, the emperor personally consoled and received him, granting him an ivory tablet, colored silks, and a rank among the court officials. In the end he did not accept them. He passed away during the Zhou dynasty. Earlier, when An lived at Zhongxing Monastery, he brought his mother to live nearby. Every morning he went to greet her and cooked food with his own hands before ascending to lecture. Although attendants were plentiful, he did not allow them to assist; even gathering firewood and drawing water, he invariably did with his own limbs. He told others, "My mother was able to give birth to and raise me; if not done by myself, it cannot be called filial support." He passed away during his mother's lifetime, never having rested for a moment. This followed the Great Sage's example of carrying the coffin, to spread conversion among unfilial men. When he was about to pass away, he composed the "Nine Chapters of Bequest Instructions" to instruct his disciples. The text reads: "I respectfully address the disciples. Leaving home to practice the Way is extremely grave and extremely difficult; one must not take oneself lightly or easily. That which is called grave means shouldering the Way, carrying virtue, wrapping oneself in benevolence, and bearing righteousness, upholding the pure precepts until death brings an end. That which is called difficult means cutting oneself off from the world, leaving secular life, severing affections forever, changing emotions and altering nature, differing from the multitude. One practices what people cannot practice, severs what people cannot sever, endures suffering and accepts humiliation, abandoning bodily life. Being called difficult, one is named a 'person of the Way' (dāorén). A person of the Way is one who practices the Way. His actions must be worthy of emulation, his words worthy of law. Wearing the robes of the monastic, his every movement serves as a model. He is not greedy, not contentious, not slanderous, and not secretive. His learning is lofty and far-reaching, his aspirations lie in profound silence. Thus his reputation joins the rank of the Three Jewels; transcending sages and entering arhats, he purifies the essence of his soul. Therefore, sovereign kings do not expect repayment from him, and parents do not expect his labor. All people under heaven bow down to him, abandoning wives and reducing their own sustenance to offer food and clothing, bowing and prostrating without refusing toil, because his aspirations and deeds are pure, communicating with the spiritual powers; his detachment and luminous purity are extraordinary and precious. Recently, through disruption and wandering, the Dharma has declined. New students have not realized the regulations; abandoning the correct and clinging to the perverse, they forget the true reality. Taking petty cunning as wisdom and small offerings as sufficiency, they eat their fill all day without using their minds. Looking back upon this self-reflectively, it is truly lamentable. Calculating the present monastic life, some have spent years, yet their scriptural studies are not mastered, and the characters are unresolved; in vain they waste a lifetime without achieving any reputation. Such matters cannot be thought of deeply! The limit of impermanence comes either in the morning or the evening; the pains of the three bad destinies spare neither the strong nor the weak. The bond between master and disciple is deep, so I express this to serve as an everlasting admonition to all sentient beings. The first says: You have left home, forever parting from your parents. Shaving your hair and altering your appearance, the Dharma robes adorn your form. On the day of parting from kin, high and low wept; severing love and exalting the Way, your intention soared above the Great Purity. You ought to abide by this resolve, clarifying scriptural study and the Way; how can you be thoughtless, still lingering in sights and sounds? Idling all day long, your scriptural study remains unaccomplished; your virtuous conduct diminishes daily, and impure traces multiply. Masters and friends feel shame, and common folk despise you. Leaving home in this manner is merely bringing disgrace upon your name. Now I admonish and encourage you: you must be dedicated and refined. The second says: You have left home, abandoning the secular and parting from the ruler. You should admonish yourself, with aspirations resolute as the clear clouds. Paying no heed to wealth and beauty, not mingling with the world; valuing neither gold nor jade, prizing only the Way. Restraining oneself and keeping integrity, finding sweet the bitter and delighting in poverty; advancing virtue to deliver oneself, and also able to deliver others. How can you alter your conduct, rushing about in the mundane dust? Sitting without warming the mat, scurrying west and east on affairs, more harassed than corvée labor, dragged about by county magistrates! Scriptural study is not mastered, precept virtue is incomplete; friends mock you, and classmates abandon you. Leaving home in this manner merely wastes your heaven-allotted years. Now I admonish and encourage you: you should each take pity on yourselves. The third says: You have left home, parting forever from your clan. Having neither close nor distant kin, pure and free from desire; not rejoicing in good fortune, not sorrowing in calamity. Transcendent and unhurried, broadly detached from the secular; with aspirations in the profound and marvelous, emulating truth and preserving simplicity. Attaining liberation to deliver broadly, all receiving blessing and fortune. How can you be thoughtless, still attached to defilement? Vainly disputing over long and short, ounces and bushels, pursuing worldly gain—how do you differ from servants? The scriptural Way is not clear, virtuous conduct is deficient. Leaving home in this manner merely brings humiliation upon yourself. Now I instruct you: you should wash and purify yourselves. The fourth says: You have left home, bearing the name of 'person of the Way.' Parents do not receive your veneration, secular emperors do not make you a subject. All under heaven revere you together, serving you like a spirit; bowing their heads in deep respect, regardless of rich or poor. They esteem your pure cultivation, which benefits oneself and others. The gravity of their curtailment is such that a single grain of rice weighs seven catties. How can you be negligent, unable to repay kindness? Indulging in leisurely wandering, body and mind vainly agitated; without precepts consuming offerings, upon death entering Mount Tai! Consuming burning iron as food, molten copper poured down the throat; such agony is proclaimed in the Dharmapada. Now I admonish and instruct you: you should reform and renew yourselves. The fifth says: You have left home, bearing the title 'one who rests the mind.' Clinging to no defilement, revering only the Way. Aspirations equal to purity, like jade and ice; you should cultivate scriptures and precepts to deliver your spirit. Sentient beings receive blessings, and close kin are also delivered. How can you be thoughtless, drifting with the secular? Giving rein to the four elements, indulging the five senses; the Dao and virtue become shallow, while worldly affairs grow deeper. Leaving home in this manner is mingling with the dust of the world. Now I admonish you: fortunately, awaken your own spirits! The sixth says: You have left home, casting aside the worldly physical form. You must devote your heart to matching the tally of nirvāṇa. How can you be agitated, not delighting in quiet seclusion? The scriptural Way diminishes, while worldly affairs are surplus; not walking in purity, but instead stepping into the mire! Life, like a passing shadow, may last but a moment; the pains of hell can hardly be fully written. Now I admonish and encourage you: you should esteem the classic models. The seventh says: You have left home; you must not be lenient with yourself. Though your appearance is humble, let your conduct be worthy of regard. Though clothing is coarse, let your sitting and rising be dignified. Though food is plain, let the words you utter be edible. In summer endure hunger, in winter endure cold. Able to preserve integrity, do not drink from the Stolen Spring. To an unworthy offering, let your feet not advance recklessly. Long abiding in private quarters, act as though facing the Supreme Monarch. Though your learning is not great, you can match the foremost sages. Leaving home in this manner suffices to repay both parents; clan, friends, and acquaintances all receive grace. Now I admonish you: each should cultivate sincerity. The eighth says: You have left home; natures vary in dullness and brightness. In learning, it matters not whether much or little; the essential lies in refining cultivation. The superior person practices dhyāna; the middling person recites scriptures; the lower person is capable of managing pagodas and monasteries. How can you spend the whole day achieving nothing? Establishing yourself without renown may be called living in vain. Now I instruct you: you should rectify your emotions. The ninth says: You have left home, parting forever from both parents. The Dharma transforms nature, and secular clothing leaves the body. On the day of parting from kin, one is now sorrowful, now joyful; distantly cutting off the world, transcending the dust. You should cultivate the scriptural Way, restrain yourself, and practice truth. How can you be thoughtless, becoming reinfected with secular causes? The scriptural Way is already meager, conduct lacks even a hair's breadth of goodness. Words are not worthy of value, virtue is not worthy of treasure; masters and friends incur burden, resentment and regret daily multiply. Leaving home in this manner harms the Dharma and disgraces oneself. Ponder it, reflect on it, and take good care of yourselves!" An had disciples named Huiying and Baogui, both renowned in the Sui dynasty. Ying transmitted the lamp of the Mahāprajñāpāramitopadeśa, following in the footsteps of the wheel of the Dharma. Moving through the human world, his mind was largely set on the wilderness. He composed three treatises: Shangxue (Grieving over Learning), Cunfei (Preservation and Abolition), and Yanxiu (Disgust with Cultivation). Shangxue eradicated the transgression of slandering the Dharma; Cunfei guarded against crafty ambitions; Yanxiu caused people to reform errors and submit to the Way. All were elegant, radiant, and brilliant, worthy of being followed. He later died in the final years of the Kaihuang era. Gui engaged in reading various scriptures and lecturing on the Vinaya as his duty. Seeing that Zhi Mindu of the Jin dynasty had combined the five translations of the Śūraṅgama Sūtra into a single text of eight fascicles, and combined the three translations of the Vimalakīrtinirdeśa Sūtra into a single text of five fascicles; and that the Sui śramaṇa Sengjiu had combined the four translations of the Mahāsaṃnipāta into a single text of sixty fascicles, Gui combined the three translations of the Suvarṇaprabhāsa Sūtra into a single text of eight fascicles. He further requested the Tripiṭaka Master Jñānagupta to translate the Yinzhu tuoluoni (Silver Lord Dhāraṇī) and the Entrustment Chapter, using them to complete the text. The śramaṇa Yancong re-examined the Indic manuscript, and the chapters and sections were thus fully established.

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續高僧傳 — 道宣, Classical Chinese