天隱和尚語錄序
Preface to the Discourses of Master Tianyin
予不會佛法，讀《磬山語》而歎：「石磬音嘹亮，聾人耳更聞。」斯言不我欺也。獨步大方，風颯颯地，盡大地人亡鋒結舌，如鴆鳥落水，魚鱉皆死，是吾師正令。頂門放光照四天下，如衣穿瘦骨露，屋破看星眠，覺他人見煙知火，猶隔一山在，是吾師金剛眼。推倒慈氏樓，拆卻空王殿，如向黑暗獄中敲枷打鎖，餓鬼隊裏放火奪漿，又如引人向萬丈懸崖一推命斷，是吾師白拈手。大用現前，不存軌則，拈頭作尾、指實為虛，有時點鐵成金、有時點金成鐵，如臨敵布陳，改旗變勢，分合無窮，是吾師殺活劍。有時海底生塵、須彌鼓浪，夜半日頭出，日午打三更，有時冬即言寒、夏即言熱，上來道箇不審，下去道箇珍重，觀根逗機，如袖頭打領、腋下剜襟，是吾師相體裁。有時如無孔笛氈，拍板咬嚼不破，是吾師鐵牛機。有時如桃花浪裏、七里灘頭拋綸擲餌，是吾師鉤頭意。有時如九鳥射盡，三足猶存，一箭墮地，天下暗黑，換骨洗腸重整頓，通身是眼更須參，是吾師竿頭步。有時坐斷舌頭，直得無出氣處，說詩呈劍，退三千里，寧自碎身如微塵，不敢瞎卻一僧眼，是吾師生鐵牢關。或疑今之談禪者幟赤白分，請問磬山與諸方有何分別？昔漢武帝以兵法教霍去病，去病曰：「不在學古，顧方略何如？」唐明皇示韓幹以御府圖，幹曰：「不願觀也。」去病胸中有活法，韓幹胸中有活馬，磬山胸中有活玄，要猛虎口邊拾得、毒蛇頭上安排，為一切抱椿搖艣人抽釘拔楔，是吾師別有生涯。昔鄭玄居家考索，便從著述起念；孔明身比管樂，便從勳業起念；叔子峴山墮淚，便從名稱起念；儀秦力攻揣摩，便從勢和起念。今諸方簇錦攢花搭東瓜印，便從熱鬧門庭起念。讀師語一過，如脫衣卸甲，素面相呈、摩胸示人，不遮不覆，是吾師直心道場。昔包敏道勸象山與晦翁各自著書，以待天下後世之自擇。象山正色厲聲曰：「且道天地間，有箇朱元晦，陸子靜便添得些子，無了後便減得些子。」今諸方無明熾盛，人我崢嶸，如獰龍變水，留一涔滴變為八萬四千繇旬海。磬山空谷音，非為好辨，如逢磨大師歎六宗之陷牛跡，我若不除，永纏邪見。又如世尊折伏外道，使知義墮，寧於有智人前斬首，不於無智人前得勝，是吾師老婆心切，獨是吾師鼻孔未易摸索，請以俟出格英靈之善讀師語者。
I do not understand the Buddha Dharma. Reading the *Qing Mountain Discourses*, I sigh: "The stone chime's clear sound— The deaf hear it even more." These words do not deceive me.
Walking the Great Way alone, wind roaring all around, the entire world falls silent, speechless—like poisonous birds landing in water, killing fish and turtles alike. Such is my teacher's true command.
From the crown of the head, light radiates, illuminating the four continents—like a tattered robe revealing a bony frame, like a broken roof where one lies gazing at stars. Recognizing smoke and knowing fire in others still leaves a mountain between. Such is my teacher's vajra eye.
To topple Maitreya's tower, dismantle the King of Emptiness's hall—like breaking chains and locks in a dark prison, snatching fire and seizing broth in a hungry ghost den, or like pushing someone off a ten-thousand-foot cliff to certain death. Such is my teacher's white-handed skill.
When great function manifests, rules do not apply. Taking the head as the tail, pointing to the real as the illusory—sometimes turning iron into gold, sometimes gold into iron. Like facing an enemy in battle, changing banners and shifting formations, dividing and merging without end. Such is my teacher's sword that kills and brings to life.
Sometimes, dust rises from the ocean floor, Mount Sumeru stirs up waves; at midnight, the sun appears; at noon, you strike the third watch. Sometimes winter is called cold, summer hot. Greeting with "Not sure" and parting with "Take care"—observing capacities and responding accordingly, like sewing a collar from the sleeve or cutting a patch from the armpit. Such is my teacher's tailoring to fit the form.
Sometimes, like a flute without holes, felt-covered clappers that cannot be chewed through—such is my teacher's iron-ox machine. Sometimes, like casting a line and bait in peach-blossom waves or on Seven-Mile Shoal—such is my teacher's hook-meaning. Sometimes, like shooting nine birds and still one three-legged crow remains; one arrow falls, plunging the world into darkness. Changing bones and washing the guts, reorganizing thoroughly; having eyes all over still requires further contemplation. Such is my teacher's step on top of the pole.
Sometimes, cutting off the tongue until there's no breath left—presenting poetry and offering swords, retreating three thousand miles. Better to shatter oneself into dust than to blind a single monk's eye. Such is my teacher's iron-fortress barrier.
Someone may ask: "Today's Chan teachers fly red and white banners—what difference is there between Qing Mountain and the others?"
In the past, Han Emperor Wu taught Huo Qubing military strategy from books. Huo Qubing replied: "No need to study the ancients—it's about your plan of action." Tang Emperor Xuanzong showed Han Gan the imperial painting collection. Han Gan said: "I don't wish to see it." Huo Qubing had living strategy in his heart; Han Gan had living horses in his heart; Qing Mountain has living mystery in his heart. Snatching treats from a tiger's mouth, arranging things on a viper's head—pulling out nails and wedges for everyone who drags their oars and shakes their rudders. Such is my teacher's unique way of life.
In the past, Zheng Xuan, studying at home, started from the thought of writing books; Kongming comparing himself to Guan Zhong and Yue Yi started from the thought of achievements; Yang Hu weeping at Xian Mountain started from the thought of reputation; Zhang Yi and Su Qin, tirelessly perfecting their craft, started from the thought of power and profit. Today, all directions pile flowers and brocade together and stamp a winter-melon seal—starting from the thought of a lively gate.
Reading the Master's words one time is like shedding armor and removing battle robes, revealing the naked face, opening the chest, showing oneself—nothing covered, nothing hidden. Such is my teacher's place of the straight mind.
In the past, Bao Minda urged Lu Xiangshan and Zhu Xi to each write their own books, so that future generations could choose. Xiangshan said sternly: "Tell me—in this world, if there were one Zhu Xi and one Lu Jiuyuan, would that add anything? Without them, would anything decrease?" Today, everywhere, ignorance rages, ego and pride tower high—like a fierce dragon churning water, leaving a single drop that turns into an eighty-four-thousand-yojana sea.
The sound in Qing Mountain's empty valley is not for the love of debate. Like Patriarch Bodhidharma lamenting the six schools' fall into a cow's hoofprint: "If I do not eradicate this, I will be forever entangled in wrong views." Or like the World-Honored One subduing heretics, showing them their defeat. Better to have one's head cut off before a wise person than to win a victory before the ignorant. Such is my teacher's grandmotherly urgency.
Only my teacher's nose is not easily grasped. I leave it for those unusually spirited ones, skilled in reading the Master's words.
崇禎癸酉八月江上弟子黃毓祺和南識
In the eighth month of the year 1633, the disciple Huang Yuqi, at the riverside, respectfully inscribed this with harmony and awareness.