In the Zhizheng era of the Yuan dynasty, there lived a ascetic monk in the Kuocang Mountains, with the dharma name Zhengyi and the daoist title Gufeng.
This monk had originally been the top scholar in the prefectural academy. From childhood he possessed the root of wisdom. Day and night in his swaddling clothes he would babble “yi yi wu wu,” reciting phrases exactly like schoolchildren chanting their lessons. At first his parents thought it was merely a toddler learning to speak and paid it no mind.
Later, a wandering monk came to beg alms. He saw the plump infant in the maid’s arms, looking as though it were half-crying, half-smiling, its mouth ceaselessly muttering. The itinerant drew closer, pricked up his ears, and was so astonished his jaw dropped. He cried out that the child was reciting the Lengyan Great Treasury Sutra and declared it the reincarnation of a great master, insisting on taking it as his disciple.
The couple refused outright. They cursed the wild monk roundly, seized the broom behind the door, and drove him out.
When Zhengyi began his studies, he indeed memorized everything at a glance—an unmistakable prodigy. His family hoped he would pass the examinations and bring honor to the ancestors, but the boy cared nothing for fame or fortune. He spent all his time delving into Buddhist teachings, for which he received countless beatings from his father. Unable to endure the pain any longer, he reluctantly sat for the exams and passed on his first attempt, entering the prefectural academy and receiving a government stipend.
After his parents passed away, he dutifully observed the full three years of mourning. On the day the mourning period ended, he divided the entire family fortune among his clansmen, keeping not a single coin. He sewed a crude leather sack, filled it with a wooden fish, sutras, and old robes, shaved his head with a knife, and barefoot strode into the deep mountains to cultivate in seclusion.
Thereafter, those who knew him respectfully called him “Elder Gufeng”; those who did not, seeing the leather sack, simply called him “Leather Bag Monk.”
This monk was utterly unlike the gluttonous and lustful monks in temples. He touched neither meat nor wine and regarded women’s bodies as venomous snakes and scorpions. He imposed three iron precepts upon himself: never to solicit alms, never to preach from a platform, and never to enter famous mountains or ancient temples.
When asked why he refused alms, he sneered: “To attain Buddhahood, there is no comfortable path. One must labor the body and starve the belly, letting hunger and cold scrape daily at the bones! When the body suffers cold and hunger, the root of evil between the legs grows naturally weak, and lustful fires cannot ignite. If the lower part does not act foolishly, the lustful thoughts in the mind can be eradicated, and the spirit platform will find peace. Over time, the fleshly body will naturally become Buddha. But if one merely eats without working, relying on foolish patrons for fine food and wine, then ‘when the belly is full, lust arises.’ While wandering outside, the eyes inevitably fall upon young women and wives; lying down to sleep, dreams fill with naked, warm, soft flesh. Not only will one fail to become Buddha, but every kind of lustful demon will queue up to seek one out!”
When asked why he remained silent despite his profound knowledge, he scoffed again: “Buddhist sutras and verses all come from the mouths of Buddhas and bodhisattvas. Unless the Buddha himself descends, who can truly explain their meaning? When ordinary people mount the platform to preach, it is merely madmen chewing their tongues and fools speaking in dreams! In the past, Tao Yuanming read Central Plains literature and still advocated ‘not seeking deep understanding.’ We Central Plains people cannot even fully grasp our ancestors’ writings; how much less can we understand scriptures from foreign India, then glibly translate and fabricate with oily mouths? I dare not strive to be a meritorious servant of the Buddhas and bodhisattvas; I only wish to avoid twice becoming a sinner who distorts the Buddha’s meaning! Therefore I will never preach.”
When pressed why he refused to enjoy comfort in famous mountains and great temples, preferring a thatched hut in the wilderness, he spat and said: “For the cultivator, the first necessity is to tightly close the eyes that invite wind and fire, lest desires disturb the meditative mind. The things that can ensnare the soul in this world are not limited to women’s flesh and yellow-white silver. The refreshing breeze, the bright moon that itches the heart, the melodious wild birds, the crisp tender wild vegetables—any of these can soften the bones and shake the daoist resolve. Once one moves into famous scenic mountains, the beautiful scenery will surely tempt one to write poetry and roam. Those who go to famous mountains to study never finish their books; those who cultivate there can never cleanse the root of fame and profit from their hearts! Moreover, in every famous mountain temple, are there not painted and powdered young women burning incense? Are there not idle gentlemen in fine robes strolling about? Was the scandal of Honglian breaking Yutong Chanshi’s precept of lust not warning enough?”
Hearing this, everyone was filled with admiration, calling it a realm no great monk of antiquity had ever penetrated. Because he upheld these three iron precepts, the less he sought fame, the more miraculous his reputation became. People from ten li around flocked to become his disciples, breaking down his threshold. Yet the monk was sharp-eyed and hard-hearted; he accepted no one lightly. Only after repeated scrutiny confirming genuine Buddhist affinity and complete absence of worldly thoughts would he wield the razor. If he detected even a trace of vulgarity, he would drive the person out with a carrying pole. Thus, after half a lifetime, he had not a single disciple. Alone, he built three thatched huts beside the desolate mountains and evil waters, digging the earth at sunrise and swallowing bran at sunset, enduring the years in bitter cultivation.
On this day, autumn winds swept the land, vegetation withered, and cold insects cried mournfully throughout the mountain. The monk rose at dawn, swept the fallen leaves before the door, replaced the pure water on the Buddha altar, lit a stick of incense, pulled over the worn rush cushion, and sat cross-legged in the main hall to enter meditation.
Just as he reached a state of forgetting self and object, he suddenly heard footsteps outside the half-closed wooden door. A handsome young scholar, followed by two page boys, swaggered inside.
The scholar’s features were as clear as autumn water, his figure as graceful as a half-rolled spring cloud. Yet he possessed a pair of peach-blossom thief’s eyes brimming with wicked energy, pupils shooting forth lascivious light. He disdained looking at people directly, preferring to glance at them sideways from the corner of his eye. These eyes were useless for anything proper, but when used to steal glances at women, they were truly divine!
He needed no proximity to appraise a woman. Even from dozens of meters away, a single sidelong glance instantly told him whether her breasts were large, her buttocks pert, or her flesh tender and juicy. If he spotted a supreme beauty, his gaze shot forth like a hooked flying dagger.
If the approaching woman was proper and modest, lowering her head and quickening her step as though treading on wild dog droppings, the glance would strike empty air. But should he encounter a wanton creature whose bones were already itching below, the spectacle was marvelous—his sidelong glance flew over, and her seductive aura instantly rippled back. Across the entire street, their eyes alone could strip each other naked on the spot and entwine them inseparably.
Therefore, whether man or woman, anyone born with such soul-stealing, wicked eyes is surely no decent sort. Future ruin, name dragged through the mud, and fingers pointed at one’s back—all will stem from these thieving eyes.
The handsome scholar entered the meditation hall and performed every courtesy. First he respectfully kowtowed three times before the clay Buddha on the altar, then turned and bowed three times to the old monk with proper decorum, before standing quietly beside the rush cushion, hands at his sides.
The old monk had been deep in meditation at a critical juncture and could not immediately return the greeting. After slowly expelling the turbid qi from his dantian, he descended from the cushion, performed a deep bow, and returned three bows in kind.
The two sat facing each other as host and guest. The monk joined his palms and asked, “May I know the honorable guest’s name?”
The scholar straightened his collar, gently waved his folding fan, assumed a refined air, and smiled: “This humble one is a scholar who travels everywhere. Currently wandering the Suzhou and Hangzhou region, friends in the jianghu have bestowed upon me the sobriquet ‘Weiyang Sheng.’ Long have I admired the Chan master as a great monk and living Buddha reincarnate. I have fasted and bathed for several days to come up the mountain and pay my respects, hoping to seek a few true words of Buddhist teaching.”
The old monk saw the string of lavish compliments and repeatedly waved his hands, chanting “Amitabha” in modest refusal. Just then the earthenware pot on the stove began to puff steam; the coarse rice was done. The monk ladled out two bowls and invited him to share a simple meal.
Seated across the battered wooden table, the two ate coarse rice while discussing Zen.
The old monk tossed out a few abstruse Zen riddles merely to test him, yet Weiyang Sheng responded with astonishing speed. Within two or three exchanges the dialogue meshed perfectly, not a drop of water leaking through!
It turned out the youth truly possessed learning, and his mind was extraordinarily agile. He had long since devoured all manner of miscellaneous books from the Three Teachings and Nine Schools. Those Buddhist knots that left dull monks scratching their heads for half a lifetime, the old monk had barely uttered half a phrase before Weiyang Sheng’s eyes rolled and he immediately drew inferences, laying bare every detail.
The old monk held his coarse earthen bowl, outwardly calm, yet inside a storm raged:
What a heaven-born demon of spiritual root!
That blind old heaven should randomly bestow such supreme wisdom capable of attaining Buddhahood upon a lascivious, troublemaking body!
Every movement and glance of this youth showed not the slightest Buddhist inclination. He was plainly a libertine whose courage reached the heavens and whose mind crawled with lustful worms!
If today I do not strip this skin of Buddhist precepts from him and forcibly shave him on the cushion, once this scourge descends the mountain he will spend his days digging tunnels and climbing walls, burrowing into the fragrant beds and brocade quilts of great households. Countless decent women will be ruined by the evil root in his trousers, their bones softening and sinews numbing, their families destroyed!
The monk thought: “Since I have encountered this seed of calamity today, if I do not remove this scourge for all living beings under heaven, what kind of compassionate Zen am I cultivating?!”
Having made up his mind, the old monk slammed his bowl and chopsticks onto the table.
Two venomous-snake-like gazes instantly fixed upon Weiyang Sheng’s face. In a low voice he said:
“In the decades since this old monk shaved his head and left the household, he has seen no fewer than eight or nine thousand worldly visitors. We need not speak of those foolish men and women who know only eating, drinking, and excreting; even high officials spouting benevolence and righteousness, or self-proclaimed lofty poets and scholars who come up the mountain to listen to sutras and ask about Zen, are in truth all ignorant blockheads!”
At this point the old monk leaned forward slightly, his tone filled with patient guidance:
“Yet I never imagined that at such a young age the layman’s mind could be so penetrating. If you would apply this spiritual nature to seated meditation, within three to five years you could surely attain the right fruit! In one lifetime it is easy to obtain a stinking fleshly body; what is rare is this supreme root of wisdom you brought from the womb. Decades of good years flow away like water in the blink of an eye, yet the romantic karmic debts incurred—how will you repay them in the next life?”
“You were born with the makings of a Buddha or ancestor. Why forsake the bright Yangguan road and plunge headlong into the Avici hell swarming with evil ghosts and yakshas?”
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