If the Zen concept of satori (sometimes translated as awakening, other times as enlightenment) can be challenging for the novice student to understand, it must certainly be quite the challenge for the experienced teacher to attempt to explain it. This is the task undertaken by the author of this classic book, first published in France in the early 1950s, and remarkably still in print today, nearly seventy years later.
Benoit was a psychotherapist with a strong interest in the parallels between the teachings of Zen and the psychoanalytic methods of Freudian psychoanalysis. Not surprisingly, then, the book is written in a highly formal academic style, with the author confidently presenting himself as the all-knowing professor lecturing to a classroom of students assumed to have little or no knowledge of his field of expertise. As he himself states in his preface: “The reader to whom I address myself in writing this book must admit that his understanding of the state of man is capable of improvement; he should be good enough to assume also that my understanding therein is greater than his.”
Clearly, Benoit felt himself up to the challenge – and for the most part, I think he was. But I do have a few reservations, which I will get out of the way first.
First of all, for a book whose central concept is satori, there is surprisingly little direct discussion of what this mysterious concept actually refers to. Of the twenty-four chapters which comprise the contents, only one (chapter 19) even features the word itself in its title (“The Immediate Presence of Satori”). And in consulting my notes from this chapter, I find only this mostly unhelpful description of “the state of satori itself … is from the present moment my state, has always been my state, and is my eternal being” (from p.175 in my softcover edition). Rather than satori itself, the primary focus throughout the book is on the psychological factors which get in the way of our achieving this “state of satori”. It’s Benoit the therapist, rather than Benoit the authority on Zen, who’s in control of the authorial voice.
A second, and in my opinion a much more grievous, fault rests in Benoit’s repeated references to such philosophical and/or theological abstractions as “Independent Intelligence”, “Absolute Truth”, “Divine Reason”, “Cosmic Intelligence”, “Absolute Principle” , and “Divine or Absolute Substance”. Every one of these aforementioned terms is included in one stunningly incomprehensible paragraph (p.32 in my edition) which purports to, in the author’s words, “sketch the state of the man who has attained realization, who is perfect, enjoying his divine essence.” Not one of the terms is explained, or in any other way justified as a concept to which the reader ought to give any credence whatsoever. But they appear again and again throughout the book – always as mystifying as in the aforementioned paragraph.
In spite of these serious criticisms, there is much to be gained from a close reading of this book, even for someone who – like this reviewer – is not all that familiar with Zen. For example, something that resonated strongly with me, as a practitioner in the Theravada tradition of Buddhism, was Benoit’s distinction between what he terms “living” and “existing”. The latter refers to our basic bodily requirements for food, shelter, companionship, etc., while the former refers to our mental aspirations for success, social status, power, etc. Benoit continually points to our fictitious “living” goals as a root cause of the mental anguish we inflict upon ourselves, which blocks our attainment of the elusive state of satori. I found this to be a very useful way of better understanding the difficult Theravada concept of “bhava tanha”, the craving to become something more than one is, a craving that drives so much of our daily strivings, and one that so often leads to suffering.
Also helpful to me was Benoit’s constant assertion that there is no set “path”, or prescribed program of training, that can lead one to the moment of satori, which he often describes (again, mysteriously and hence inexplicably) as a sudden “explosion” of personal transformation. While I don’t personally subscribe to such a seemingly momentous mystical experience, Benoit’s warning against devoting oneself to a regimen of self-improvement in order to attain satori reminded me, usefully, of Theravada Buddhism’s teaching (and warning) that one can get too attached to one’s practice and then confuse that with enlightenment, when in fact it’s simply a cleverly-disguised form of clinging. At best, in my tradition, we can have moments of awareness, but we continually fall short of permanent enlightenment (the satori of Benoit’s aspiration).
And finally, while there are many aspects of contemporary Western Buddhist thinking that are missing from this book, in particular the central role that generosity and compassion play in living one’s life skillfully, so as to alleviate suffering for oneself and for others, I was continually aware of Benoit’s own deep compassion, both as an author for his readers and as a therapist for his patients. The professorial style of his writing may be a bit cold and off-putting, but the educational and therapeutic intent behind the writing comes across as warm and inviting.
So, while Benoit did not convince me of the soundness of this perhaps inexplicable concept of satori – this sudden and mysterious crossing over into some sort of lasting state of enlightenment – he did strengthen my commitment to the ongoing task of living in accord with the Buddhist intention of alleviating suffering through the cultivation of mindful awareness.
Perhaps he would have considered the first half of the preceding paragraph as a failure on his part, but if so, I would appropriate one other term from my Theravada Buddhist teachings, and call it “a noble failure” – one worthy to have been in readers’ hands for seven decades now.