The Record of Nineteen-Line Seclusion: A Landscape of One Game

Opening Verse

What is there at the head of the nineteen lines?
In the stillness, it holds a spring yet to be painted.
With one move, the wind and clouds suddenly arise,
A thousand lives and ten thousand deaths enter the dust of a hair.

[Interpretation]
What is there at the head of the nineteen lines?
In the stillness, it holds a spring yet to be painted.
Once a move is made, wind and clouds suddenly arise,
A thousand lives and ten thousand deaths enter the dust of a hair.

—

Discourse

Someone asked, "What is Go?" I replied, "It is a landscape of nineteen lines."
They asked again, "Where are the mountains, where are the waters?" I replied, "Before a single stone is placed, the mountains are already high and the waters are already deep."
The questioner left. What remained was only the board and the one person watching it.

[Interpretation]
Someone asked, "What is Go?"
I replied, "It is a landscape of nineteen lines."
They asked again, "Where are the mountains, where are the waters?"
I replied, "Before a single stone is placed, the mountains are already high and the waters are already deep."
The questioner left. What remained was only one board and one person watching the board.

—

Preface: The Ten Thousand Phenomena in Stillness

When the board is spread upon the table, heaven and earth open at once. Before the first move is made, the mountains are already high there, and the waters are already deep here; without a sound, ten thousand sounds awaken from the sleep of the unborn.

Yet, before the first move, there are no mountains, no waters, no enemy, no self, no land, no form, no attack, no defense, no life, and no death. The nineteen lines are merely silent, pregnant with the ten thousand phenomena yet to be born.

This stillness is not a stubborn void. It is like a ridge shrouded in mist or a field covered in frost. Originally, there is not a single thing, yet it contains everything. It is not that there is nothing; it is simply that the forms have not yet manifested. Just as the sun rises and the peaks naturally divide, and shadows stand and the valleys naturally form, one move is the sun.

The ancient sages said, "Seeing the mountain, it is the mountain; seeing the water, it is the water." After thirty years of practice, they said, "Seeing the mountain, it is not the mountain; seeing the water, it is not the water." After thorough realization, they said again, "As before, seeing the mountain, it is just the mountain; seeing the water, it is just the water." On the board, these three layers of landscape are always superimposed.

A single board, small enough to fit on one's lap, folds heaven and earth within it, floats the four seas, and hides the past and present. It is wood, yet it is not wood. It is mountains, it is rivers, it is a temple, it is a battlefield, it is a dream.

Where is the original face before one's parents were born? The surface of the board before the first move is exactly that.

When a game begins, the world has its first sound. Click, a stone falls. That sound does not break the stillness; it only makes the depths of the stillness deeper.

Verse

On the board, there is originally nothing,
In the stillness, ten thousand springs are hidden.
Once picked up, heaven and earth move,
Only then do you know the cause of the unborn.

[Interpretation]
On the board, there is originally nothing.
In the stillness, ten thousand springs are hidden.
Once picked up, heaven and earth move,
Only then do you know the cause of the unborn.

—

Chapter 1: Hand-Talk

The World-Honored One was on Vulture Peak, held up a flower, and showed it to the assembly. At that time, the assembly was silent, and only Mahakasyapa broke into a smile. Not relying on words, a special transmission outside the teachings, pointing directly to the human heart—this is the ancestor of hand-talk.

A Go player picks up a stone and shows it to the enemy. The enemy responds with a corresponding move. When the response is brilliant, it is a smile. Without speaking, it exhausts a thousand words.

Words can be decorated, and explanations can be supplemented. But once a move is made, there is no escape. This is speech that is silence, and silence that is proof.

A slow move receives a silent reprimand. A move of blame is sterner than a thousand words. Yet, a move that responds well is deeper than a sentence of comfort.

Even if questioned, "Why here?" a true move can never be explained. After exhausting the reading, the situation, and years of training, only then does one slightly transcend logic. It is in the subtle place where one transcends logic that the move naturally arises.

Good hand-talk erases words, clears the breath, and finally makes the board ask and the board answer. The player is not a hand, and the board is not a board.

There is a question and there is an answer, and the answer opens up an even deeper question. This is the wonder of hand-talk. It is not conversation, it is not debate. It is just stillness and stillness measuring each other's depths.

Verse

What is the feeling of holding a flower and smiling?
Not relying on words, it is clear outside the sentences.
One finger falls and the whole intention is revealed,
Without sound, yet there is the sound of ten thousand thunders.

[Interpretation]
What is the feeling of holding a flower and smiling?
Not relying on words, it is clear outside the sentences.
One finger falls and the whole intention is revealed,
Without sound, yet there is the sound of ten thousand thunders.

—

Chapter 2: Ko

The Buddhist scriptures say: There is a solid rock, forty miles square. A heavenly maiden's robe brushes it once every three years. The time it takes for the rock to be completely worn away is called one kalpa. This is called the rock kalpa.

Even imagining it makes the heart weary.

Go traps this boundless time into a single point on the nineteen lines, a point not even filling half a grain of rice. The attachment to one point shakes the entire board. Neither side yields; they leave for a moment and then return. A move in a distant place sometimes becomes a ko threat that echoes here, and the struggle here awakens the distant place.

A ko is small. Yet it is an abyss dressed as something small.

The human heart is the same. A single thought of resentment, a single thought of desire, a single thought of profit, a single thought of face. Just one thought is enough to disturb the entire game of life.

"I must take it back," "I must not yield," "I must not lose this place." This single thought is the ko.

Therefore, winning a ko is not just about winning against the enemy. It is about seeing the reason why you are bound. The ko seems to be on the board, but in reality, it is in the heart. It seems like fighting over one move, but in reality, it is fighting against one's own attachments.

And yet, a ko often does not progress unless you leave it. If you cannot take it now, you go elsewhere. A move elsewhere creates a path to return. Not taking it now becomes the path to taking it later. Within the move of leaving, the path to return is already hidden.

It is not to cut off attachment. It is to look quietly at the structure of attachment from a distance. Coldness lies in this detour. Compassion also lies in this detour.

Verse

The rock, brushed for three years, wants to crumble,
Why is one struggle just a pile of kalpa dust?
Throwing away one stone now is not a true abandonment,
Leave it to wait for another time to be able to return.

[Interpretation]
The rock, brushed for three years, wants to crumble.
Why is one struggle just a pile of kalpa dust?
Throwing away one stone now is not a true abandonment,
Leave it to wait for another time to be able to return.

—

Chapter 3: Life and Death

A Go player does not move an eyebrow when slaughtering an enemy group. But slaughtering is not killing. It is making them die and still making them work.

"This group is alive," "This group is still in danger," "This cannot be saved," "This must be abandoned." If you only listen to the words, it sounds cruel. But life and death on the board are not simple things.

The heart that tries to save sometimes causes them to be piled up. Things that were abandoned sometimes save the whole game later. A group that seemed dead can still move in the depths of the situation.

Even things that have died still have flavor. Flavor is the work of something that has disappeared but still reaches far away.

Living is not just remaining. Dying is not just disappearing. Death is not the end point; it is a change. The direction of power turns, and the place where the intention is placed simply shifts.

Abandoning a group to gain sente, yielding a corner to gain thickness in the center, giving up a small life to regain the breath of the whole game. This is a sacrifice stone. A sacrifice stone is one who achieves the path with their own body—similar to Vimalakirti showing illness to preach the Dharma.

People often lose the whole game trying to save what is in front of them. The heart that hates to lose something actually blocks the path of retreat. Attachment is a virtue. But on the board, attachment also becomes a burden.

So, are you saying to be cold? No. Those who are truly cold cannot make what they have abandoned work. They only cut, and cannot shift their intention.

Abandoning is not casting aside. It is moving what a group carried to another place. Do not let death end as death. When this is possible, death on the board faintly carries an aftertaste. Those who do not know this aftertaste, even if they can read life and death, cannot read life and death.

Verse

Killing and living have never been in the game,
The wonder of the whole game by sacrificing the body is hard to know.
Vimalakirti showing illness is the true message,
One death still contains the path of life left behind.

[Interpretation]
Killing and living have never been in the game.
The wonder of the whole game by sacrificing the body is hard to know.
Vimalakirti showing illness is the true message,
One death still contains the path of life left behind.

—

Chapter 4: Seclusion

It is said that Bodhidharma faced a wall at Shaolin for nine years, and his shadow was imprinted on the wall. How many years has the person of seclusion faced the board? With white eyebrows, they still wait for the next move.

Those who play Go do not go anywhere. They do not cross mountains, they do not cross waters, they do not leave the capital. But when they sit before the board, the world gradually fades away. Interests, gains and losses, yesterday's regrets, tomorrow's worries, all fade for a while. What remains is only the heart waiting for the next move.

Seclusion is not escape. It is not forgetting the world. It is stripping away the noise of the world and exposing desires, fears, and calculations on the nineteen lines.

On the board, there is struggle, desire, fear, patience, sacrifice, vanity, and confusion. Everything in the mundane world is provided on the nineteen lines.

And rarely, there is one clear move. In that instant, while the game continues, something that transcends the game appears.

It does not try to gain something, it does not try to show something. It is just that what should be placed there is placed.

This is not the player's achievement. The board just allows it for a moment. Heaven and earth just borrow that form for a single instant. It is clear and bright, with nothing covering it.

Seclusion is waiting for this one instant.

Verse

Facing the wall for nine years, the heart is at peace,
Not leaving the empty hall, the ten thousand realms are wide.
Occasionally there is a game as clear as dew,
Forgetting all about winning and losing, the bones are cold by themselves.

[Interpretation]
Facing the wall for nine years, the heart is at peace.
Not leaving the empty hall, the ten thousand realms are wide.
Occasionally there is a game as clear as dew,
Forgetting all about winning and losing, the bones are cold by themselves.

—

Chapter 5: Rotten Axe Handle

Wang Zhi, a woodcutter of Jin, watched a game between several children in the mountains of Xinan. He placed his axe on the ground and just watched the board for a while. The children gave him something like a jujube pit; if he held it, he would not feel hunger. The children said, "Are you still here?" When the woodcutter tried to stand, the handle of his axe had already rotted and turned to moss, and there was dust on his sleeves. When he returned to his village, everyone he knew was already in the grave.

The rotten axe handle is not a fairy tale. It is a quiet fact that a game steals time from a person.

During a game, a person is not in time. Time itself comes into the board.

A move in the opening changes the intention in the endgame. A move that was too fast is blamed later. A casual move shines after a hundred moves. The place you thought was finished becomes a point of contention again.

The past does not pass away, and the future is not just something that has not yet come. All time is folded on the board.

When a game ends, the person is a little older. Whether winning or losing, something has been lost. And something has been seen.

In the joy of winning, there is a faint fatigue. In the pain of losing, there is a place that is clear. After a long game, a person cannot immediately return to daily life.

Even if the moon at the bottom of the water shakes and disappears, the memory of having seen the moon remains. The shape on the board is also like this. It leaves no trace, but within the person who played, it leaves a faint coldness.

The axe handle turns to moss. This is the usual thing for a Go player.

Verse

The mountain colors of Xinan are the autumn of one board,
Watching until the handle rots, ten thousand things rest.
How many times in the human world have I known faces,
When I returned, the old companions were all in the wild hills.

[Interpretation]
The mountain colors of Xinan are the autumn of one board.
Watching until the handle rots, ten thousand things rest.
How many times in the human world have I known faces,
When I returned, the old companions were all in the wild hills.

—

Chapter 6: The Interval

Ma Yuan painted a mountain on a piece of silk. The mountain was biased to the corner of the silk, and the blank space was wide. The world calls this "Ma the One-Corner." But looking at the silk, the mountain is high and the clouds are deep. It is because there is blank space that the mountain stands.

In Go, what is most important is not the form. It is between the forms.

The distance between one move and another—is it too close, or too far? Does it echo, or does it not echo? Is there breath, or is it blocked?

This interval, it seems visible but is not visible, it seems countable but cannot be counted. But those who are skillful listen to this interval.

There is sound on the board. However, it is not a sound heard by the ears. It is the sound of a move not yet placed. If you place it there, it echoes; if you place it there, it becomes muddy; if you place it there, a distant group breathes.

A game is not made only of what is visible. Rather, it is supported by what has not yet been placed.

Not playing can become a move. Not being in a hurry can become an attack. Leaving can become approaching.

Those who do not know the interval only try to fill it. If they are anxious, they approach; if they are afraid, they defend; if they are stingy, they connect; if they regret, they take back.

The board is not something to be filled and satisfied. The empty place is what supports the whole.

Manjushri asked Vimalakirti about the Dharma gate of non-duality. Vimalakirti was silent and said not a word. Manjushri sighed and said, "Even to the point of having no words or language, this is truly entering the Dharma gate of non-duality." Vimalakirti's silence was like thunder. Manjushri could not reach it. The unspoken silence is always heavier than the spoken words. The ultimate of hand-talk is also here.

Verse

Ma Yuan's silk edge has plenty of blank space,
Without applying a single brushstroke, one sees the mountain mist.
The wonder on the board is in the empty place,
Vimalakirti's one silence shakes the constant sands.

[Interpretation]
Ma Yuan's silk edge has plenty of blank space.
Without applying a single brushstroke, one sees the mountain mist.
The wonder on the board is in the empty place,
Vimalakirti's one silence shakes the constant sands.

—

Chapter 7: Momentum

Cook Ding butchered an ox for Lord Wenhui. For nineteen years, the blade was still like new. He did not go against the bones, he followed the joints. Where his hand went, he solved the key points, and as he played the knife, the ox collapsed by itself. He said, "What I love is the Way, which is more advanced than technique."

A good move is also like this. It does not push and bend the board, it only slightly clarifies the flow that was already heading there. The moment it is played, the observer thinks—there is nothing outside of this.

But this "nothing outside of this" is not without freedom. Rather, it is where freedom is at its limit, and only one path stands revealed.

People want to escape, want to avoid, want to choose another path. But they end up arriving at that one place no matter what. A move in Go is also like this.

However, it is not determined from the beginning. Countless possibilities, countless waverings, hesitations, and doubts, and at the end of that, one point of placement rises up.

A good move is not a command, it is not a revelation. It is the quietest necessity remaining after a long silence.

Cook Ding's blade does not split the bones, it naturally enters the joints. A good move does not break the form, it naturally follows the Way.

Verse

Cook Ding butchered an ox for nineteen years,
The blade is like new, the principle is natural.
Do not bend the board, follow its momentum,
One move is heaven-made, like realizing Zen.

[Interpretation]
Cook Ding butchered an ox for nineteen years.
The blade is like new, the principle is natural.
Do not bend the board, follow its momentum.
One move is heaven-made, like realizing Zen.

—

Chapter 8: The End of the Game

Du Fu once chanted, "The country is broken, but the mountains and rivers remain; the city is in spring, and the grass and trees are deep."

When a game ends, the mountains and rivers on the board also remain. The wounds are also mountains, the lingering attachments are also waters, the regrets are also clouds, and the grudges are also mist.

The end of the game is not that the struggle disappears. It is that the struggle settles into each of its places.

Everything on the board does not completely soften. Wounds remain, lingering attachments remain, and places where you think "I lost that place" remain. There are moves you wish you could return to if you could.

But a game ends. Ending is not just deciding the winner and loser. The time that was scattered becomes one landscape.

When it comes to the endgame, the struggle thins and the voices become low. But it is in the thin places that the shape of a game is determined.

The confusion of the opening, the fighting of the middle game, the attachment of the ko, the group that was abandoned, the move that was hurried, the instant that should have been waited for, the technique that was not seen, the place that was seen but could not be played. All of these sink quietly into the board at the end of the game.

The winner is not just winning. The loser is not just losing. A difference of half a point can break a night's sleep. Winning and still regretting, losing and still looking for excuses. Such turbidity is also the mist on the board.

What was scattered with every move, what disappeared, what was abandoned, what was overlooked, all push against each other and sink together when reaching the end of the game, becoming a landscape. That landscape cannot be read completely, and the logic is not just one way. But it is certainly formed.

While disappearing, it continues; while continuing, it changes; and at the moment it ends, the whole appears. Those who can read it read it, and even for those who cannot, for some reason, only a cold aftertaste remains.

There is the sound of returning the stones to the bowl. The board takes on a face as if nothing had happened again.

But the person who played knows. There were mountains and rivers, wind, struggle, death, life, ko, and silence there. And finally, only one strip of stillness returned.

Verse

The game ends, the board is still heaven and earth,
The wounds are green mountains, the grudges are traces.
Collecting the stones in a bowl is like washing everything,
Returning, there is only silence and no words.

[Interpretation]
The game ends, the board is still heaven and earth.
The wounds are green mountains, the grudges are traces.
Collecting the stones in a bowl is like washing everything.
Returning, there is only silence and no words.

—

Conclusion: The Silent Landscape

Go is a struggle, a game, an art. It is reading, form, and breath. But in the depths, Go is close to a sitting of Zen.

The sutra says, "One should produce a mind that does not dwell anywhere." If you dwell, you are bound; if you do not dwell, you are playing.

Those who want to win are bound by winning. Those who want not to lose are bound by losing. Those who attack are bound by attacking. Those who defend are bound by defending. Those who abandon are bound by abandoning. Those who want to realize are bound by realization.

After going through all of that, one still makes a move.

If that move is slightly clear, there is a text there that is not words. Talking with hands, breathing with intervals, there is something that appears on the board for an instant and then disappears.

Go is a silent landscape that appears on the nineteen lines and disappears on the nineteen lines.

—

Closing Verse

The stone falls without sound, the mountain appears by itself,
A thousand lives and ten thousand deaths make the previous cause.
The axe handle is completely gone, seeing each other in the void,
The game is over, the board is new again.

[Interpretation]
The stone falls without sound, the mountain appears by itself.
A thousand lives and ten thousand deaths make the previous cause.
The axe handle is completely gone, seeing each other in the void.
The game is over, the board is new again.

—

Postscript

The above, one volume of the Record of Seclusion, originally came from a draft in Japanese. I have now edited it, refined the sentences, and attached a verse to each chapter, slightly imitating the remaining style of the Five Mountains. Both the Chinese and the interpretations aim for an archaic elegance, mixing standard characters and following historical kana usage.

Although the writing admires the ancient, it has not yet reached the ancient. The landscape on the board originally transcends verbal explanation. How much more so when trying to capture what is outside of words with words.

Readers, please do not chase the words. For a while, settle into the stillness of the board.

Postscript Verse

Forced to use common words to imitate the high person,
Wanting to write the mountains and rivers, I have not yet reached the truth.
The game is over, there is no more room for words,
The evening window is still, and the ten thousand peaks are new.

[Interpretation]
Forced to use common words to imitate the high person.
Wanting to write the mountains and rivers, I have not yet reached the truth.
The game is over, there is no more room for words.
The evening window is still, and the ten thousand peaks are new.

—

Brief Notes

1. Seclusion/Hand-Talk—Based on the "Qiaoyi" chapter of the Shishuo Xinyu, "Wang Zhonglang used Go as seclusion, Zhi Gong used Go as hand-talk." The titles of the two chapters in this volume have their origins here.

2. Holding a flower and smiling—The World-Honored One held up a flower at the Vulture Peak assembly, and Kasyapa alone smiled. This refers to "not relying on words" and "special transmission outside the teachings." Wumenguan, Case 6, "The World-Honored One holds up a flower."

3. Three stages of seeing the mountain—Words of Zen Master Qingyuan Weixin. Before practicing, the mountain is the mountain; upon practicing, the mountain is not the mountain; after finding rest, the mountain is just the mountain.

4. Vimalakirti's silence—Vimalakirti Sutra, Chapter on Entering the Dharma Gate of Non-Duality. Following Manjushri's grand debate, Vimalakirti was silent. Later people commented, "One silence is like thunder."

5. Vimalakirti showing illness—Same sutra, Upaya chapter. Vimalakirti shows illness to perform the Dharma. The metaphor of the sacrifice stone is also taken from here.

6. Rock kalpa—A metaphor in the sutras. A kalpa is the time it takes to wear away a vast rock with a single brush of a heavenly robe. The Go ko shares the same word.

7. Facing the wall for nine years—It is said that Bodhidharma faced a wall at Shaolin on Mount Song, and his shadow was imprinted on the stone.

8. Rotten axe handle—Ren Fang's Shuyiji. Wang Zhi, a woodcutter of Xinan, watched a child's game, and the axe handle rotted. This is the origin of the alternative name for Go, "Rotten Axe Handle."

9. Cook Ding butchering an ox—Zhuangzi, Yangshengzhu. For nineteen years, the blade was still new, following the natural principles and the joints. A metaphor for advancing from technique to the Way.

10. Clear and bright—Zen term. Refers to exposing everything without covering anything.

11. Ma Yuan—Southern Song painter. Known for his painting style of placing the scene in one corner and utilizing blank space, he was called "Ma the One-Corner."

12. The country is broken, the mountains and rivers remain—Du Fu's "Spring View." In a world of chaos, he chants that the mountains and rivers remain as they were.