Konrad and Alexandra (pdf) - Rolf Gross

which I did not understand.
When I found Wei-ji and George they were having a glass of wine in the village
tavern. George laughed, he had feared that I had gone straight to nirvana. They were
discussing my cremation, hoping that the incineration of my mortal remains would free
the world of my restless foreign spirit (gui-hu) and I would no longer threaten my friends’
sense of reality. Wei-ji exploded in a peal of laughter. I must have looked nonplussed.
But I could understand these two soulless materialists, they were bored.
In the afternoon we decided to climb the mountain. On our way we passed a
nunnery with an over-life-sized reclining Buddha in Paranirvana, the death of the
historical Buddha Gautama. The nuns had shaven heads and wore no headgear.
Strange, how similar men and women look without hair.
The path to the top of the island mountain climbed straight up the steepest slope,
by way of stairs! It was hot and humid. We passed two young girls in heavy clothing
who threw themselves on the stairs, got up and two steps onwards threw themselves
down again. In the heat of noon!
Wei-ji could not hide her disgust. She said guardedly. "Mr. Konrad, these are
Tibetan girls, aren’t they embarrassing? No Chinese would make a show of his
emotions like that." I was overcome by contradictory feelings. The surprise of seeing
Tibetans for the first time, compassion with their devout prostrations, annoyance with
Wei-ji’s Chinese arrogance—and the eminently sensible Confucian insight that man
should leave religion to the clerics who specialize in such things. I am afraid it will cost
me some time to resolve these contradictions in my mind.
At the top of the mountain opened a panoramic view across numerous islands
and the open yellow sea, and then I discovered that the flags on the mast—squares of
colored cloth frayed by wind and weather—were densely printed with Tibetan letters,
prayer flags, so far from the Land of the White Clouds!
Exhausted and thirsty, we asked for a cup of tea in a monastery which cowered,
protected from the wind, in a hollow on the far side of the mountain. The brother
doorkeeper produced an intelligent-looking monk of my age who introduced himself in
English as the abbot and inquired after our wishes.
Over a cup of tea, its leaves swimming—one strains them with one’s teeth—I
collected my courage and asked the abbot for the history of early Ch’an.
In contrast to the Sufi, the Chinese have a very pronounced sense for history. The
abbot gave us a brief description of this Chinese variant of Buddhism. Bodhidharma, the
mythical founder, came to China from southern India in the sixth century. The
characteristic Chinese form evolved a hundred years later. By the thirteenth century
Ch’an had displaced all other schools of Buddhism in China. In this period it must have
reached the Sufi in Turkestan.
To my question, what are the specific methods and doctrines of Ch’an, the man
was silent. Eventually he smiled. "I assume, that you know nothing about Ch’an or its
Japanese variant Zen?"
I nodded.
"Well, Ch’an uses averbal and arational methods, which one can practice, but
which defy description in words... Ch’an reduced the complex and slow Indian
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