I'd like to start by explaining why I have brought you to Matsue.
 And this involves some autobiography, which I think will interest you,
 but I ask your pardon for being so egocentric.
 My mother taught physical education at a school in England,
 which was specially designed for the daughters of missionaries to China.
 When the missionaries went on their way to China, and most of them were Baptists,
 they left their daughters at the school,
 and often they gave presents of objects of Chinese art,
 embroidery, pottery, and so on, to the mistresses of the school.
 And my mother, therefore, inherited a rather large quantity of very beautiful Chinese objects.
 And so from my earliest infancy, I was surrounded by these things.
 And I remember that I didn't like the look of the Chinese people.
 They were very strange and disconcerting.
 And until I was about eleven years old, I couldn't stand them.
 But I always did like the look of the birds, the butterflies, the flowers,
 the bamboos, and the trees designed by the Chinese artists.
 Now, it so came about that when I was about ten to eleven years old,
 I began to read thriller or mystery stories written by such people as Edgar Wallace and Sax Roma
 about sinister Chinese villains.
 You remember Dr. Fu Manchu?
 And there were all sorts of others like that.
 Very, very strange, exotic figures who kept knives in their sleeves,
 who had ivory boxes full of the strangest poisons,
 who could practice the most exquisitely horrible tortures.
 But at the same time, who had a kind of urbanity, a kind of culture
 that was never crude, always perfect manners.
 And whereas other children at that time of life wanted, when they grew up,
 to become engineers driving trains, or test pilots, or sports car champions,
 or whatever it was, I wanted to become a Chinese villain.
 [laughter]
 And so, just as every child at that time of life
 decorates their room with the things they're interested in,
 I did the same thing, and I acquired from my mother's collection
 and from antique shops and all sorts of places
 Chinese and Japanese bric-a-brac to decorate my room.
 And so, in this way, I became fascinated with the forms
 and the feeling of Chinese and Japanese art.
 And I still can't quite explain what it is.
 My mother, when she looked at certain kinds of flowers that were very beautiful,
 she said, "It makes you feel jazzy inside.
 It hits you right here."
 So, in the same way, when I looked at landscapes done in painting
 or in lacquer or on ceramics from China or Japan,
 I got a funny feeling inside here.
 There was a certain quality, a certain atmosphere of unbelievable beauty.
 And I couldn't explain it then, and I can't explain it now,
 but it caught me.
 I remember particularly a very, very unimportant little watercolor
 of bamboos and a few sparrows perched on the bamboos,
 drawn by some Japanese painter.
 And I cherished and loved that little painter as if it were utterly priceless.
 And I still can't explain what it was about it that struck me.
 But you know how it feels, don't you, when you go in springtime through a wood
 and there are saplings, young trees growing densely,
 and the whole floor of the wood is carpeted with spring flowers?
 Or in the United States, a dogwood.
 In England, there will be crocuses, snowdrops, primroses.
 And there is a strange quality of freshness, of light,
 of articulate luminosity of shapes in all these flowers.
 Well, it was something like that that captured me
 in the Chinese and Japanese vision of nature.
 And I wanted to find out how and why it was they saw it that way.
 So this is what happened.
 Don't forget that I was also interested in the sinister side of this.
 I loved Chinese villains.
 I loved horror stories and ghosts.
 And one day when I was 14 years old,
 I was rummaging around in a bookshop in Canterbury where I went to school.
 And I came across two volumes by Lafcadio Hearn called "Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan."
 And I looked through these two books
 and I could only afford to buy one of them.
 I just didn't have enough cash for both.
 So I bought the second volume because it had in it a chapter on ghosts.
 And I thought that Japanese ghosts would be the most horrible
 and dreadfully sinister and weird ghosts that ever were thought about.
 So I started with the second volume and I read it from the beginning.
 Now the first chapter of this volume is a description of a garden.
 And that is the garden we will see tomorrow.
 It's a very unpretentious, simple, little, ordinary Japanese garden.
 But Lafcadio Hearn described all the kinds of newts and insects and plants that he found in this garden.
 Frogs, gairo, wonderful things.
 And I was enchanted.
 I just couldn't wait to get home from school so that I could create my own Japanese garden.
 And when it came to the chapter on ghosts, I was amazed.
 Now I was so enchanted by this book that I had to read other things by Lafcadio Hearn.
 And there were quite a number of other things available.
 And I bought every book that he had written that I could lay my hands on.
 And as you know, a lot of his writing was about Buddhism.
 But now I found myself at this time in a very funny situation.
 Because here I was, 14 years old, and I had been brought up in the Church of England to be a Christian.
 And I was about to be confirmed.
 And I must explain this to you because some of you may not understand what this is.
 In Christianity, there is an initiation into the Church called baptism.
 And this consists in having water poured upon you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, the triune God.
 But this nowadays is done to most people when they are babies.
 And they have no choice in the matter whether they want to become Christians or not.
 They are just baptized by their parents.
 In the same way as in Japan, many young men are sent to a monastery to study Buddhism just because they were sons of priests.
 They have no personal interest in it, but the family tradition demands that they go.
 So in exactly the same way, in the country where I was raised, because your parents were Christians,
 and because the country was Christian, you automatically had to become a Christian.
 So as a baby, you were whiffled off to the church, and they baptized you.
 But then there comes a point later in life when you begin to be an adolescent, you go through the stage of puberty,
 when you are supposed to take this on your own initiative and on your own responsibility.
 Well, what can you do? You are defenseless. You have nothing else to choose from.
 No other religion has been explained to you. You only know the one you have.
 But I was different, because it just so happened that by chance I had become exposed to an alternative.
 But I went through the process of confirmation in the Church of England, and it was a very strange process,
 and I must tell you about it in order to give you the whole background of why you are here tonight.
 Religion in England is a kind of archaeological piety.
 The country is full of glorious monuments from a long, long past, beautiful cathedrals,
 and the country reveres its ancient monuments in just the same way as do the Japanese.
 And the ancient... I went to school at Canterbury, which is the very, very center of the Church of England.
 The Archbishop of Canterbury is the head of the Church of England, and I was elected when the Archbishop was enthroned to carry his train.
 And so he gave me a signed photograph of himself afterwards. Think of that.
 And so in this great shrine of the Church of England, here we were.
 It was like if you were in Japan, you were born right in the neighborhood of Higashihonganji or Eheiji or Nanzenji or some great, great religious center.
 So I was at Canterbury.
 And so there was something very, very romantic about being initiated into this particular mystery.
 And most of the instructions that we received had nothing to do with the really fascinating questions about Christianity.
 That is to say, the clergymen didn't seem to be interested in what is the nature of the universe, what is oneself, what is the meaning of it all.
 They were mostly interested in ecclesiastical history.
 And they taught us endlessly about the history of the Church and the history of the Church in England,
 and how we were kind of fitting in with this long line of tradition which went back to the past.
 And so naturally we learned about the Pope Gregory the Great, who sent St. Augustine to Canterbury in 595 A.D.,
 just almost the same time as Shotoku Taishi in this country promulgated Buddhism.
 And so all this history was learned, and we were told that at the moment of confirmation,
 when the bishop would lay his hands on our heads, we would receive a mysterious power,
 which had been handed down from Jesus Christ through his apostles, through his bishops,
 and in what is called the apostolic succession.
 And by receiving this power, it would be something to make us good, in every sense of good.
 But we were yet to find out what it was to be good.
 Because at the end of all this long, long instruction, each one of us had to have a private conference with the chaplain of the school.
 And, you know, you would think that when you were being initiated into a great mystery,
 the private conference with the chaplain would be about some very deep, important secret.
 Say, about the nature of God. It would be like Sun Zen with the Zen master, you know,
 where you would really face up to truth and reality.
 Ah, ah! What do you suppose it was all about?
 A private talk with the chaplain was a lecture on the evils of masturbation.
 How one must... there was a kind of vague talk about sex, and they were against it.
 That was the one thing they would not tolerate. Anything about sex.
 I remember I had a very, very dear friend in school who later became a brigadier general in the British Army
 and captured a German general staff in Cyprus, single-handed.
 He was expelled from school because he went for a walk with the daughter of the local greengrocer.
 He didn't do anything else. He just took her out for a walk, and they expelled him.
 Outwardly, because he had associated with a girl.
 Well, I didn't react very well to this, because the general impression of Christianity that I had received as a child
 was of God as an on the whole beneficent, but grandfatherly character who lived in heaven,
 who always took the attitude of "this is going to hurt me a lot more than it's going to hurt you."
 But he was, you know, a definite authoritarian character who was watching you all the time.
 He was an all-seeing eye that peered at you from everywhere, examined everything that you did and judged you.
 Well, at the same time then, as all this instruction was going on, I was reading Lafcadio Hearn.
 And I found out about Buddhism where instead of this repulsive father-God, there was something called "Qinyo."
 There was something called "true suchness" or "universal consciousness," "alaya-vijnana."
 Well, that was a tremendous relief.
 To feel, in other words, that instead of this authoritarian construction of the universe,
 where there was the big, big boss at the top and then a hierarchy of kings and archbishops, bishops, prelates, and so on,
 all representing government by force from above, there was instead a completely different system,
 whereby there wasn't a governed universe on an authoritarian basis, but an organic universe,
 wherein every single being was like a flower on a plant or a leaf on a tree,
 all of us growing out from the center like rays from the sun, manifestations of the original primal consciousness, alaya-vijnana.
 Well, you can't imagine what a relief that was.
 To get out of this ghastly system of government by force.
 And so I suddenly announced in the middle of this whole scene that I was a Buddhist.
 And the British are very, very secure, and they're not threatened by this kind of thing, as Americans are.
 You know how the British allow a Hyde Park corner to exist, where you can utter all kinds of blasphemies against the king and the queen,
 and anything you want to say, the policemen just lean around there and laugh.
 So in the same way, I was in Canterbury at the same time as Dr. Hewlett-Johnson, who was the famous red dean,
 and he invited us senior boys to dinner one night, and I remember a long conversation with him.
 It was a pretty far out scene.
 So when I announced that I was a Buddhist, they said, "Jolly what? The man's a Buddhist."
 And they were terribly entertained.
 They thought this was awfully jolly.
 And so when there was an occasion that arose that the school had to send two representatives to a conference of schoolboys on religion,
 presided over by the Archbishop of York, who was then the great William Temple.
 And they sent me as one representative to be the unorthodox point of view,
 and as the other representative they sent a young man who was going to be a clergyman, as his father had been.
 And he was so, so much wedded to the clergy scene that the kind of tobacco he smoked was called "Parson's Pleasure."
 Isn't that?
 And he had already cultivated a clerical voice and a clerical style long before even entering upon his theological training.
 And in due course, I remember, he did become a clergyman.
 But he was simply playing a role.
 And it fitted in, and it had been in his family for centuries probably, and he just went on with the same thing.
 Because I was a rebel, and I was Buddhist.
 So, this fascinated me, you see, this different conception of the world as something which was not constructed on a political basis,
 but on an organic basis.
 Now this is quite central to one's understanding of Chinese philosophy and Japanese attitude to nature.
 But with the Japanese and with the Chinese, there is a very strange situation going on,
 because the politics of China, and to an even greater extent, the politics of Japan, have been very strongly authoritarian.
 The figure of the father, the emperor, the master, the authority, is in the Far East greatly venerated, just as much as it was in my culture.
 For Americans, you see, this is a little less.
 There is not a real great authority figure in the United States.
 The president of the United States can be called Ike or LBJ, but you can't slap the Pope on the back and call him Harry.
 And you can't talk about the king and the queen of England as Liz or George, just like that, you know.
 In America, one thing that astounds me is how people who are members of a republic can believe in an authoritarian religion.
 If you are a member of a democracy and believe deeply in democratic principles of government,
 how on earth can you square this in your conscience with a universe designed on monarchical lines?
 But many Americans do just that.
 They go to church as Catholics, as Episcopalians, or as Baptists, or whatever, and they bow and scrape before the Lord God Almighty.
 But they would be absolutely infuriated if the president of the United States were to take dictatorial powers into his hands and to rule the country as if he were God.
 But with the British, with the Japanese, it's very different, because both my background and the Japanese background is we belong to monarchies.
 And as children, we felt that the hierarchy went all the way up from our own superiors in school, from our superiors in the church,
 it went right the way up to the Archbishop of Canterbury, and above him the king, and above the king, who is defined as the defender of the faith, the Lord God.
 There was this stairway, this hierarchy, right the way down.
 But in these cultures here, while they have this authoritarian picture politically, there is always a counter-tradition going on.
 You see, in China, the authoritarian picture is supported by Confucianism.
 But always contrary to Confucianism, there is Taoism.
 And Taoism is a way, as it were, of slipping out from the authoritarian pattern, from the feudal pattern.
 So in this country, Shinto is very much involved with the authoritarian pattern, the line of hierarchy by which we are all ruled.
 Whereas on the other hand, Buddhism represents something of another kind, because you see, if everybody has in him the Buddha nature,
 this is a point of view that is non-royalistic, that is deeply democratic.
 Various schools of Buddhism have, of course, from time to time, gone along with the hierarchical and royalistic conception of the world and of social order.
 But other schools of Buddhism have never really gone along with it.
 They have instead been a secret teaching that there really fundamentally isn't any hierarchy in nature.
 There isn't a political order, but there is another kind of order altogether.
 The order which I described to you in the first talk I gave you, called in Chinese "li", in Japanese "ri".
 You know, this character, sometimes translated "reason", "principle", but which basically is best translated as "organic pattern".
 Because its original meaning is the markings in jade, the grain in wood, or the fiber in muscle.
 It is that quality that one sees in flowing water, or in the shapes of clouds, or in the grain of wood, in which one recognizes order and intelligence.
 But you can't put your finger on it and say why it is orderly, why it differs from just a mess.
 Well then, you might say this.
 In the Christian world, and in the Confucian world, we see the universe, we see nature, as something that is obeying laws.
 There is a boss behind the whole scene, who tells everything what to do.
 And you have to toe the line, obey that.
 But in the Chinese Taoist conception, there is no boss.
 Everything follows its own nature.
 Everything acts by letting itself do what comes naturally.
 But inferior virtue is so studied, so contrived, so trying to be virtuous, that it is not virtuous.
 And so, in this way, the idea of the Tao is that it is the regulative principle of the universe,
 just for the very reason that it does not exercise force and does not dominate things.
 You know this now. Look, supposing you have been very much in love with a man or a woman,
 and you want them to love you.
 But you know always, don't you, that you can't force them to love you.
 And if you say, "You must love me," love dries up.
 But on the other hand, if you say, "Look, please have it your way.
 You don't have to meet me tomorrow. Please, you choose. Let's let it go.
 And if you want to go and date somebody else than me, please help yourself."
 They always come back if you do it that way.
 Let it go, and it returns to you.
 But dominate it and say, "You must be mine." You will lose it.
 See? So in the same way, the Chinese have the conception that the basic principle of the universe
 governs the universe, not by ruling, but by allowing everything in the universe to follow its own nature and to be itself.
 And you see, this is a colossal act of trust, of faith, in everybody and everything else.
 And this is finally the only sane attitude.
 Because if you don't trust everybody and everything else, the only other thing you can do
 is to live in an armed camp where everybody and everything is watched, governed, regulated,
 with guards, with guns, with locked doors, with all kinds of big brother watching you on television.
 And what does poor big brother do on the other end of the TV set?
 Here he is sitting, watching what everybody else is doing.
 And he hasn't even got time to take a walk in the park with his girlfriend.
 What a mess he is.
 See, that would be the situation of God.
 If you take the idea of God literally as the authoritative watcher of everybody,
 who is writing in his little black book everything that everybody does,
 wouldn't you be sorry for God?
 There he is wretchedly watching and writing in his little black book, seeing what everybody does.
 He has no time to twiddle his thumbs, no time to look at the stars, no time to just plain enjoy being God.
 [Groans]
 He's got to watch all this.
 So, you can see then for a young man, aged 15, 16, what a blessed relief it was
 to discover a conception of the universe where there wasn't a boss.
 A new cosmology, utterly different from the cosmologies we knew in the West at that time.
 We had two cosmologies in the West, you see.
 One was the authoritarian one, with the boss and God.
 But if you didn't want that, you did have another choice.
 And that was the cosmology of mechanism.
 Newton's billiard game.
 Descartes and Newton invented this between, the game of cosmic billiards, where everything is mechanical.
 There isn't a God, there is just simply a mechanistic system which goes clippety-clip, plop, plop, plop, plop, plop, plop, you know.
 Balls hit balls hit balls hit balls, and so on.
 And they don't have a ball at all, because it's simply mechanical.
 And you could have that, too.
 But I, you know what it is. This, both of the systems are mythological.
 The system of the universe controlled by the divine master has at least the virtue of being alive.
 There is somebody who cares upstairs.
 The other system, where everything is just mechanical, is really a state of mind.
 It's invented by people who want to insist that they are very hard-boiled.
 They would say to the people who believe in God,
 "You are just a lot of wishy-washy people who have indulged in wishful thinking.
 You want to think that there is somebody up there who cares."
 Now, as a matter of fact, there isn't.
 The universe in which we live is one which is totally stupid.
 And that we happen to be intelligent and feeling human beings is a mere accident.
 We are a fluke.
 We are a mere chance in the middle of this mindless mass of rock and fire.
 And because we know this, we are the tough guys, we are real hard-boiled,
 and we don't indulge in wishful thinking.
 Well, you see, this is just a way of setting yourself up.
 It's a kind of one-upmanship that you play this game of being a tough guy.
 Now, you see, the thing I came across in Buddhism was neither of these two conceptions.
 Now, it wasn't on the one hand the authoritarian God, nor was it on the other hand the mechanistic nonsense,
 the universe is just a machine.
 It was quite different.
 It involved...
 It didn't sacrifice the feeling that the world is intelligent.
 And yet at the same time, it didn't have to combine the idea of an intelligent universe
 along with the notion that this intelligence was a tyrant.
 Instead, it would say that the universe is a fundamental mind or consciousness
 and every individual is an expression of it.
 Not something ruled by it, not something governed by it,
 but something which expresses it so that we are all, shall I say, a game which that universal consciousness is playing.
 And you see, how much more humane this idea was than the authoritative idea on the one hand,
 or the dully mechanistic idea on the other.
 See, the extraordinary thing about the mechanistic idea,
 which has to an amazing degree penetrated our common sense,
 which for many people living in the Western world today,
 the idea that nature is a mechanism and that we are mechanical objects functioning within the mechanical system of nature,
 this has become amazingly plausible to millions and millions of people.
 What is avant-garde thinking 50 years ago becomes the common sense of today.
 And so this notion of the mechanical universe has become to most people now plausible.
 They are really rather convinced by it and think, "Well, I'm just a chemical.
 My consciousness is just a matter of a funny chemical event that has occurred,
 and while it lasts, it lasts, but when it's over, that'll be that."
 And so people who feel that way feel curiously estranged from nature and the rest of the world
 because they feel that to be conscious, to love, to have values, to have a sense of beauty,
 the sense of companionship with other human beings, is a freak.
 A freak in nature.
 That nature as such has no respect for this point of view at all.
 At the same time, you see, this goes along with astronomy, with the conceptions of modern astronomy.
 Whereas under ancient astronomy, human beings had thought that the world was the center of the cosmos
 and that all the gyrations of the stars were centered upon influencing what went on in this planet.
 At the end of the 19th century, modern astronomy had given us instead the idea that man is an utterly insignificant being,
 a tiny, tiny little fungus growing on a speck of dust called the Earth,
 which moves somewhere on the outside of a galaxy and is absolutely unimportant.
 Do you see what a masochistic point of view this is? What a put-down of ourselves.
 It neglects the other side of the picture, equally scientific.
 The other side of the picture being that the human organism is the most complicated thing in nature that we know.
 You may look out to galaxies, but they are very simple in structure compared with the human organism.
 And so the human organism, with its nervous system, calls into being this whole cosmos,
 because without eyes the sun is not light. Without ears, vibrations in the air make no noise.
 Without muscles, nothing is heavy or light. And without the soft texture of the skin, nothing is hard or soft.
 It is our organism that calls all these properties into being.
 And so we live in a universe that is a human universe. It is not anti-human.
 It is something that grows humans just as apple trees grow apples, just as persimmon trees grow persimmons.
 And so this tree of the world which grows us human beings on it is a peephole tree.
 You know, it's under a peephole tree that the Buddha was enlightened.
 That's a funny coincidence.
 And so I can say in retrospect that what absolutely charmed me in coming across Lafcadio Hearn
 and in coming across Chinese and Japanese art and the whole world of feeling that that represented
 was here was a view of the world in which man and nature go together.
 Now you see, as a Christian, I couldn't find nature in church.
 Here I was at this great cathedral, Canterbury.
 And I love this cathedral because it was a jewel box.
 It had marvelous, almost filigree stone arches and stained glass that glowed like jewelry.
 What a thing. And yet the style of this architecture had nothing to do with the world outside.
 I would look at trees and flowers and human bodies and at fish and elephants
 and say, "If you were the work of an artist, you are the work of a totally different artist
 from the one who designed the cathedrals."
 They're both very good artists, but they are sure not the same artists.
 Just as you know immediately the difference between Hokusai and Sesshu or between Leonardo da Vinci and Jackson Pollock.
 You know it like that. It's just that the painters couldn't be done by the same person.
 So in the same way, the world in the cathedral and in the Bible, which was bound in black and had gold edges,
 all that world, and the clergy who were dressed in black cassocks, they were stuffed with clothes.
 There wasn't an inch of them except their faces and their hands available.
 Otherwise they were completely covered in upholstery and had very weird voices.
 Everything about it was unnatural.
 And so then I found out about Zen Buddhist painting, architecture, gardens,
 where the temple, you see, did not exclude the outside world.
 You know, you have a tokonoma here which is in Zen style.
 Calligraphy, pines and chrysanthemums here in the room.
 Push this wall aside, you know, and the whole thing flows into a garden.
 You take Ryoanji, for example. You've all seen that.
 The temple part opens up screens and here is the garden.
 And the two mix in like this.
 And that was for me.
 Plus everything, yes.
 The background of the garden, as Kobori-san was explaining to us, is terribly important.
 You can't just take a Japanese garden and go blunt like that, just put it down anywhere.
 It has to go against a certain background.
 And so this way of living where the human being is not cut off from the surroundings.
 Say in those great Chinese paintings where the subject of the painting, it says,
 is a poet watching the moon and drinking wine.
 Suddenly a great landscape occurs before you and you have to use a magnifying glass
 to see the poet watching the moon drinking wine.
 And there he is in his little place.
 See? Whereas in Western art, the landscape originated only as a kind of detail
 in the background of enormous human figures and human subjects
 with a little landscape off in the background, somewhere behind, dominated by the human figure.
 Later, Western artists, under the influence of Chinese artists in the 18th century,
 began to become fascinated with landscape as such.
 And they learned watercolor techniques from the Chinese
 and began to see that landscape for itself was fascinating.
 Nevertheless, we kept in all our drawings of landscape a point of view,
 that is to say, specifically, a perspective,
 which drew every painting from the standpoint of an observer facing it,
 so that everything goes to the vanishing point of a single observer.
 Chinese landscape is drawn with several points of observation.
 That's the difference in perspective.
 We were watching yesterday a Daitokuji, a marvelous old gentleman,
 who was drawing a total panorama of the Kyoto hills with all the temples.
 He just unrolled it, like you do in the Torah.
 He had a makimono, which was enormously long, and he was drawing the whole of Kyoto,
 seen from a point of view which nobody who's not in a helicopter can have.
 He was looking down on the hills, but also he was looking at everything from many different angles.
 And he was going around to each individual temple and painting in all the architectural details.
 And he had a kind of way of gluing pieces of paper together,
 wherever he wanted to fill in the detail, or he hadn't approved of the painting he had already done.
 He'd simply cut out a square and put a new one in and repaint it.
 So that he had a way of looking at Kyoto from every point of view, and it was all synthesized.
 So you see, this is not the angle of somebody standing in a fixed position
 and looking at the world as something out there,
 looked at from one center, which is called ego, "I".
 This is the point of view of somebody watching it from many points of view,
 and above all, feeling himself as a symptom of, an action of, the world he is painting.
 So that even his art, this I'm going to talk about in the next seminar,
 his art is a work of nature.
 The very way in which he uses his brush,
 he does it in the same way that the trees grow.
 This is, I can't go into this tonight, because it raises a whole lot of other questions,
 but in the far eastern philosophy of artistry, the art, the artist is an extension of nature.
 He is not a copier of nature.
 He is not someone who practices something called art, which is different from nature.
 Art is nature, "shizen", or Chinese "zirang", what is so of itself.
 That is art, art and nature are the same.
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