The Foolish Can Attain the Fruit of Arhatship, While the Clever Cannot Avoid the Three Evil Destinies

Cūḍapanthaka's consciousness was extremely dull; he could not memorize even a single line of Buddhist doctrine, and his power of deliberation was even weaker—he could not reason, organize, summarize, generalize, analyze, or compare. Yet merely by contemplating the breath at the nose, why was he able to attain the fourth fruit of arhatship? Literary scholars and men of letters throughout the ages, in China and abroad, have combed through the Tripitaka and produced voluminous writings, with poetry, verses, and brilliant words flowing in profusion—why is there no trace of them attaining realization? The Buddha's Dharma does not lie in speaking, nor in interpreting, nor in how beautiful and moving the words are; only what can be put to use is the Buddha's Way. It is like an apple eaten into the mouth and swallowed into the stomach—filling the belly is the greatest benefit, far more practical than researching apples and writing an apple thesis to win an award.

For someone as dull as Cūḍapanthaka who did not understand theory, when contemplating the breath at the nose, the various faculties of the mind consciousness were basically of no use, and there was no possibility of taking shortcuts in contemplative practice (vipaśyanā-caryā). He could not analyze the momentary arising and ceasing of the breath and other formations, their suffering, emptiness, impermanence, and non-self, nor could he infer that all formations are without self and that the five aggregates (pañcaskandha) are without self. This happened to spare him the mind consciousness's sentimental interpretations and intellectualizations, so the functions of the manas were able to be brought into full play. As a result, he not only eliminated self-view (ātma-dṛṣṭi) but directly attained the fourth fruit of arhatship. This shows that the final cultivation and realization of the Buddha's Dharma does not lie in exerting effort on the mind consciousness. Not understanding theory does not matter; as long as the method and direction of practice are correct, and one can cultivate diligently, one can still awaken to the Way.

Meanwhile, the theorists and researchers who have combed through the Tripitaka and are learned as five carts of books can only exert effort on the mind consciousness. Despite their torrential eloquence, ornate rhetoric, the admiration they receive, their boundless glamour, and illustrious fame, they ultimately gain nothing at all—the place where they gain an advantage is precisely the place where they lose it. For instance, no matter how well Su Dongpo could interpret the Buddha's Dharma and how many insights he had, he achieved nothing in cultivation and realization. The habits of literati are severe conditions that obstruct the Way and are not easy to overcome. The qin, chess, calligraphy, and painting—all worldly arts and skills—are conditions that obstruct the Way, yet worldly people take pride in them; this is truly inverted. Shouldn't those learners who are fond of theory and like to have something to gain reflect on this?