The Dharma Bums - Jack Kerouac [23]
“As a junkey!”
“That’s my own translation, he actually says here am I as high as the sensualist in the city below, but I made it modern and high translation.”
“Great.” I wondered why Han Shan was Japhy’s hero.
“Because,” said he, “he was a poet, a mountain man, a Buddhist dedicated to the principle of meditation on the essence of all things, a vegetarian too by the way though I haven’t got on that kick from figuring maybe in this modern world to be a vegetarian is to split hairs a little since all sentient beings eat what they can. And he was a man of solitude who could take off by himself and live purely and true to himself.”
“That sounds like you too.”
“And like you too, Ray, I haven’t forgotten what you told me about how you made it in the woods meditating in North Carolina and all.” Japhy was very sad, subdued, I’d never seen him so quiet, melancholy, thoughtful his voice was as tender as a mother’s, he seemed to be talking from far away to a poor yearning creature (me) who needed to hear his message he wasn’t putting anything on he was in a bit of a trance.
“Have you been meditating today?”
“Yeah I meditate first thing in the morning before breakfast and I always meditate a long time in the afternoon unless I’m interrupted.”
“Who interrupts you?”
“Oh, people. Coughlin sometimes, and Alvah came yesterday, and Rol Sturlason, and I got this girl comes over to play yabyum.”
“Yabyum? What’s that?”
“Don’t you know about yabyum, Smith? I’ll tell you later.” He seemed to be too sad to talk about yabyum, which I found out about a couple of nights later. We talked a while longer about Han Shan and poems on cliffs and as I was going away his friend Rol Sturlason, a tall blond goodlooking kid, came in to discuss his coming trip to Japan with him. This Rol Sturlason was interested in the famous Ryoanji rock garden of Shokokuji monastery in Kyoto, which is nothing but old boulders placed in such a way, supposedly mystically aesthetic, as to cause thousands of tourists and monks every year to journey there to stare at the boulders in the sand and thereby gain peace of mind. I have never met such weird yet serious and earnest people. I never saw Rol Sturlason again, he went to Japan soon after, but I can’t forget what he said about the boulders, to my question, “Well who placed them in that certain way that’s so great?”
“Nobody knows, some monk, or monks, long ago. But there is a definite mysterious form in the arrangement of the rocks. It’s only through form that we can realize emptiness.” He showed me the picture of the boulders in well-raked sand, looking like islands in the sea, looking as though they had eyes (declivities) and surrounded by a neatly screened and architectural monastery patio. Then he showed me a diagram of the stone arrangement with the projection in silhouette and showed me the geometrical logics and all, and mentioned the phrases “lonely individuality” and the rocks as “bumps pushing into space,” all meaning some kind of koan business I wasn’t as much interested in as in him and especially in good kind Japhy who brewed more tea on his noisy gasoline primus and gave us added cups with almost a silent Oriental bow. It was quite different from the night of the poetry reading.
4
But the next night, about midnight, Coughlin and I and Alvah got together and decided to buy a big gallon jug of Burgundy and go bust in on Japhy in his shack.
“What’s he doing tonight?” I asked.
“Oh,” says Coughlin, “probably studying, probably screwing, we’ll go see.” We bought the jug on Shattuck Avenue way down and went over and once more I saw his pitiful English bicycle on the lawn. “Japhy travels around on that bicycle with his little knapsack on his back all up and down Berkeley all day,” said Coughlin. “He used to do the same thing at Reed College in Oregon. He was a regular