Schmithausen, L.
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Everyone who has had at least some glimpses at Buddhism knows that it contains various philosophical theories as well as various spiritual practices. The term ' philosophical theory ' should be understood here in a general sense comprising any attempt to make rational statements about the true nature or the fundamental principles of the totality or some part of the existent, or about those aspects of it of which everyday experience is not aware. In this sense, philosophical theories in Buddhism are, e.g., the doctrine that there is no substantial Self, no ātman; or the doctrine that the whole universe consists of momentary factors, of factors each of which lasts only for the time of an extremely short moment. ' Spiritual practice ', in the case of Buddhism, consists essentially of moral or ethical exercises, and of practices of meditation, deep concentration, or trance. As an example, we may adduce the so-called four 'infinitudes', or 'unlimited ones' (apramāṇa), i.e. the meditative practice of the attitudes of friendliness, compassion, sympathetic joy, and impartiality or equanimity with regard to all living beings. Another example is the 'contemplation of the impure' (aśubhabhāvanā). Here the Yogin, in order to subdue excessive covetousness, contemplates dead bodies in their different stages of decomposition. In this exercise, it is not necessary that the Yogin actually stays at a cemetery for the whole time. He may well continue the exercise at any other place, making use of a special meditative practice in which he is able to visualize those dead bodies he saw previously.
In this article I want to contribute to the solution of the problem of the historical relation of these two elements — philosophical theory and spiritual practice — in Buddhism. Did Buddhism usually start from philosophical theories and afterwards develop corresponding spiritual practices? Or is it more typical for Buddhism that first there are spiritual practices and that philosophical theories are only the result of a subsequent reflection which leads to a theoretical consolidation and generalization of those spiritual practices? (Schmithausen, "On the Problem of the Relation of Spiritual Practice and Philosophical Theory in Buddhism," 235)
However, being a living or animate being (e.g. p(r)āṇa/p(r)āṇin, satt(v)a, jīva, bhūta) is, in India, at any rate in theoretical contexts, by and large equated with being sentient ((sa)cetana, sacittaka, cittamaṃta, etc.), with being, to a certain extent at least, capable of perception and sensation, and in doctrinally developed Buddhism it is, apart from men and mythological beings, only animals that are regarded as sentient beings. Except for certain developments
in the Far East and perhaps Tantric Buddhism (which requires special investigation), plants are not admitted in Buddhism as sentient beings, let alone crystals, stones, earth, water or other inorganic things. These are hence not, at least not directly, protected by the precept to abstain from killing/injuring animate beings.
The question is, however, whether this restriction of living, sentient beings, in the sphere of nature, to animals only was the position of Buddhism from the outset. Actually, from what we know about other Indian religions prior to or contemporary with earliest Buddhism, such a position would seem to have been anything but a matter of course.
As for Vedic religion, there is sufficient evidence that not only animals but also plants as well as seeds and even water and earth were, more or less naively, believed to be living and even sentient, and fire and wind had at least a personalized, divine aspect (viz. the gods Agni on the one hand, and Vāyu and Vāta on the other; cp. also the idea of water and fire as principles of life in late Vedic thought). Even in post-Vedic Hinduism, at least the view that plants and seeds capable of germination are sentient beings is still well documented, although some circles and authors disagree. Occasionally, even stones, water or the earth are admitted as living or sentient.
In Jainism the view that plants and seeds are sentient beings is clearly expressed and undisputed, and according to the view prevailing in Jaina sources even earth, water, wind and fire are alive, i.e., consist of minute living beings possessing, like plants, the sense of touch.
Against this background, it appears natural to raise the question whether in earliest Buddhism, too, at least plants and seeds (but perhaps even earth and water) may still have been viewed as living, sentient beings, in spite of the later rejection of such a view. To be sure, in this case it would be necessary to explain how the later view arose. But in the opposite case, too, one would have to search for a reason why the Buddhists, or the Buddha, abandoned the view, current at their time, that plants are sentient beings.
It would be easy to determine the status of plants and seeds in earliest Buddhism if the canonical Buddhist texts, and especially such layers as can be regarded as comparatively old, did contain fully explicit statements either rejecting or
asserting the sentience of plants. But there are none, as far as I can see. Hence, the matter has to be decided by induction. In view of the later doctrinal position of Buddhism that plants (etc.) are not sentient beings, the onus probandi is, of course, incumbent on him who maintains that in earliest Buddhism the situation was different. Therefore, I shall, in the following chapters (II-IV), discuss passages which may indicate that in earliest Buddhism plants were still regarded as living, sentient beings, or at least not yet definitely considered to be lifeless and insentient. (Schmithausen, The Problem of the Sentience of Plants in Earliest Buddhism, 1–4)
addition to the traditional six kinds of mind, viz. the five sense-perceptions and non-sensory cognition (manovijñāna), there are two new, more or less subliminal forms, viz. kliṣṭa-manas and ālayavijñāna. The former is a continuous, subtle notion or feeling of 'I', whereas the latter, in accordance with the frequent Chinese rendering, i.e. "store mind," "connaissance-réceptacle, may, in a preliminary way, be characterized as the container or store-house of the latent residues or Impressions of previous actions (karman) and mind processes, or, following the usual Tibetan translation kun gźi rnam par śes pa ("fundamental mind", "Grunderkennen"), as the basic layer of mind processes or even the very basic constituent of the whole living being. It should be kept in mind that (at least in the "orthodox" Yogācāra school) ālayavijñāna is strictly person-bound, each living being having its own ālayavijñāna.
The present essay, though also including a few remarks on the origin of kliṣṭa-manas ( see § 7. 1A. 2. 2), is primarily concerned with the problem of the origin and development of ālayavijñana. Yet, my treatment of this matter is not exhaustive either. I have rather confined myself to dealing with the problem of the origin of ālayavijñāna in a rather limited sense (see § 1.4), and to an attempt to deduce, from my starting-point and the data available in the oldest materials, certain crucial aspects of the early development of this concept.
In accordance with the limited scope of the present essay, I
feel it justified to confine myself, as for previous research, to a short systematic outline of the essential aspects of what it has contributed to the question of the formation of the concept of ālayavijñāna (§ 1.3). Though I admit that a full account of the history of research on ālayavijñāna would be useful, it would take much more time than I can afford, and anyway it should, in view of the fact that most pertinent works are in Japanese, be written by a Japanese scholar. Nevertheless, apart from specific references in the notes, a few
recent theories on the origin of ālayavijñāana will be discussed in detail in § 7, because they advocate solutions considerably differing from mine, and because I should scarcely be justified in setting up a theory of my own if I did not give my reasons for not adopting one or the other of those already set forth.
As for the question of the origin of the concept of ālayavijñāna, the solution presented in this essay must remain a hypothetical one. In view of the fact that
even basic problems of the literary history of the older Yogācāra texts, esp. of the Yogācārabhūmi, are still unsolved or controversial and since some early materials are known only from fragments—and there may have been others no longer extant in explicit quotations—, statements on the early history of Yogācāra thought are almost inevitably, at least for the time being, bound to be hypothetical. But I think Suguro is right in emphasizing that we have no choice but to try to reconstruct the historical development of Yogācāra thought if we want to re-enact it, as it were, as a dynamic, living process, and not merely take stock of the
petrified (and often incoherent) results. Besides, even preliminary observations in terms of a history of ideas may, if handled with caution, on their part be helpful in resolving problems of literary history. But what I consider essential is that, even if we cannot (or cannot yet?), in our hypotheses on matters of the history of ideas (as well as of the literary history) of uncertain periods like early Yogācāra, reach certainty, we are none
the less clearly called upon to proceed from mere possibility or non-committal plausibility to probability; i.e. we should try to find out criteria which permit us to single out, from among the at times considerable number of possible explanations, the one which is (or at least those few which are) probable; and it is precisely this that I intend to do in the present essay. (Schmithausen, introductory, programmatic and methodological remarks, Vol. 1, 1–3)
(*Author's notes have been omitted)
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