Tōsu—All Sounds Are Buddha's Voice

Engo's commentary on the case

Tōsu was guilelessly direct yet possessed eloquence surpassing the crowd. Whenever someone questioned him, opening his mouth revealed his courage. Without extra effort he cut off the questioner's tongue—planning within the command tent and deciding victory a thousand miles away. This monk pasted an interpretation of sounds, forms, and Buddha-Dharma on his forehead and asked everyone about it. Tōsu, an adept, deeply distinguished the wind as it arrived. Knowing Tōsu was direct, the monk first made a snare to draw him in and prepared a later statement. Tōsu instead used a tiger trap to fish that statement out. The monk seized Tōsu's answer and delivered his obscene taunt. He rose to the hook at once. Another person could not have handled him, but Tōsu had an eye and struck immediately. Only an adept has the hands and feet that bite pigs and dogs, rolling along whether the adversary turns left or right. The monk meant to stroke the tiger's whiskers, unaware that Tōsu stood above his snare. Yet the monk had a head and no tail. When Tōsu raised the staff, he should have overturned the Zen platform; even Tōsu at full functioning would have retreated three thousand li. The second exchange repeats the first. Tōsu's “Yes” draws out “May I call you a donkey?” and another blow. The monk builds a nest, though he remains remarkable. An old fellow on the curved wooden seat without an eye at the crown would have struggled to break him, but Tōsu had a place to turn. The monk tried to use doctrine to undercut Tōsu's market price, yet could do nothing with him. Gantō said that in battle everyone must stand at the turning place. Tōsu released too slowly and gathered too quickly. Had the monk known how to turn and breathe out, he could have become a fellow whose mouth was like a basin of blood. A patch-robed monk does not stop halfway. Unable to throw it back, this monk had his nostrils pierced by Tōsu. Tōsu's responsive wheel turns without obstruction. He used to say, “You all call Tōsu direct. Three steps down the mountain, if someone asks what Tōsu's direct place is, how will you answer?” An ancient said, “Where the wheel of functioning turns, even an adept is confused.” Thus Setchō says, “Release one and obtain two.” Asked “What is Buddha?” Tōsu answered “Buddha”; asked Way, “Way”; asked Zen, “Zen.” Asked about the moon before it is full, he said, “Swallow three or four”; after it is full, “Spit out seven or eight.” He regularly received people through this mechanism. Here he answers with only one word, “Yes,” and the monk is struck twice. “The same with that, the same with this” finishes the first four lines on Tōsu. The remaining lines treat the monk. He dares seize flag and drum with his two taunts: that is playing in the tide. Yet after exhausting his skills, he still dies within Tōsu's phrase and receives the blows. Setchō rescues him counterfactually: if he suddenly came alive, he would overturn the platform and Tōsu retreat three thousand miles. A hundred rivers would reverse with a roar; not only the platform but mountains and rivers would shake, heaven and earth go abruptly dark. If everyone were like this, this mountain monk would sound the retreat. Where would you establish your life?