Mastery

by Robert Greene

  At the age of eighteen he was sent to a training center to prepare him for his life as a priest. The method of teaching, however, disappointed him. He had imagined twenty-four-hour sessions of meditation and other ordeals. Instead, he was made to study all kinds of Chinese and Japanese texts. What he read and heard from his instructors did not change him at all. It was merely intellectual knowledge that had little connection to his daily life. His anxieties only increased. He left this temple and began to wander, looking for the mentor who could guide him.

  He entered one Zen school after another, in every corner of Japan, and he began to get a clear idea of the state of Zen instruction at that time. It revolved around simple sessions of seated meditation, with little instruction, until finally a giant bell would sound and the monks would hurry to eat or sleep. In their spare time, they would chant for happiness and peace. Zen had turned into one large soporific, designed to lull students into a state of rest and lethargy. It was deemed too invasive and too overbearing to give students any direction; they were supposed to find their own way to enlightenment. Naturally, when given such free rein, they would opt for the easiest path—doing nothing. This trend had spread throughout Japan; monks everywhere had convinced themselves that Zen was easy and simple, and that whatever felt right was right.

  Occasionally Hakuin would hear of some school or priest that was creating a stir somewhere, and he would travel to see for himself. In 1708, he spent weeks traveling to reach a temple at a coastal town where just such a provocative priest was making an appearance, but after hearing a few sentences from his lips, Hakuin felt the same profound boredom and disappointment—quotes from texts, clever stories, all to cover up the deadness of the words. He began to wonder if it was time to give up, if true enlightenment no longer existed. At the temple he met another young monk who was equally disappointed with the talk of the priest. They became friends, and one day the monk mentioned that he had studied for a few days under a strange and completely reclusive Master named Shoju Rojin, who was not like any other teacher he had encountered. He lived in a hard-to-reach village, accepted only a handful of students, and was very demanding. This was all Hakuin needed to hear. He asked the young monk to guide him right away to Shoju.

  When he met the Master, he could see something in his eyes that was different from any other priest or teacher. He radiated power and self-mastery; you could read in his expression the pain he had endured to reach his current state. This man had lived and suffered. Hakuin was delighted when Shoju said he would accept him as a pupil, but his excitement soon turned to fear. During their first personal interview, Shoju asked him, “How do you understand the koan (a Zen anecdote designed for instruction) about the Dog and the Buddha-Nature?” “No way to lay a hand or foot on that,” Hakuin replied, imagining that was a clever response, at which point Shoju reached out and grabbed his nose, pushing it with a harsh twist and yelling in his face, “Got a pretty good hand on it there!” He held on tightly for several minutes, giving Hakuin a feeling of utter paralysis.

  Over the course of the next few days he endured more and more abuse. Shoju made him feel that all of his studies and traveling had taught him nothing. He could not say or do one right thing. Out of nowhere he would receive a blow or a gob of spit in his face. He began to doubt every element of his previous knowledge, and he lived in complete terror of what Shoju would do next.

  Shoju gave him a series of the most difficult koans Hakuin had ever heard to ponder and discuss. He could not make heads or tails of them. His feelings of dejection and demoralization were reaching a breaking point, but knowing that persistence was important, he kept at it night and day. Soon he had doubts about Shoju himself, and entertained thoughts of leaving him in the near future.

  One day, feeling particularly agitated, he wandered into a nearby village, and without knowing why or how, he began to contemplate one of the thorniest koans Shoju had given him. Deep in thought, he strayed into the garden of a private house. The woman who lived there yelled at him to leave, but Hakuin seemed oblivious. Thinking he was a madman or a bandit she attacked him with a stick, knocking him hard to the ground. When he came to, minutes later, he suddenly felt different—he had finally penetrated to the core of Shoju’s koan! He understood it from the inside out! It was alive within him! Everything fell into place and he was certain that he had finally reached enlightenment, the world appearing to him in a totally new guise. He began clapping his hands and screaming with delight. For the first time he felt the weight of all of his anxieties lifted from him.

  He ran all the way back to Shoju, who recognized right away what had happened to his pupil. This time the Master was gentle with him, stroking Hakuin’s back with his fan. He finally revealed to his pupil his thoughts—from the first time they had met, he had recognized in Hakuin the necessary ingredients for true learning. He was fierce, determined, and hungry for enlightenment. The problem with all students, he said, is that they inevitably stop somewhere. They hear an idea and they hold on to it until it becomes dead; they want to flatter themselves that they know the truth. But true Zen never stops, never congeals into such truths. That is why everyone must constantly be pushed to the abyss, starting over and feeling their utter worthlessness as a student. Without suffering and doubts, the mind will come to rest on clichés and stay there, until the spirit dies as well. Not even enlightenment is enough. You must continually start over and challenge yourself.

  Shoju had faith that Hakuin would continue in this process because he was tenacious. Zen was dying throughout Japan. He wanted Hakuin to stay with him and serve as his successor. He believed the young man would someday be responsible for reviving the religion. In the end, however, Hakuin could not tame his restlessness. After eight months he left Shoju, certain he would return as soon as he could. But the years went by, and once again he fell into new doubts and anxieties. He wandered from temple to temple, experiencing continual highs and lows.

  At the age of forty-one, he finally had his ultimate and deepest moment of enlightenment, bringing with it a mind-set that would not leave him for the rest of his life. At this point, all of the ideas and teachings of Shoju came back to him as if he had heard them yesterday, and he realized that Shoju was the only true Master he had ever known. He wanted to return to thank him, but the Master had died some five years earlier. His way to repay him was to become a teacher himself, keeping alive his Master’s teachings. In the end, it was indeed Hakuin who rescued Zen practice from the decay it had fallen into, just as Shoju had predicted.

  To reach mastery requires some toughness and a constant connection to reality. As an apprentice, it can be hard for us to challenge ourselves on our own in the proper way, and to get a clear sense of our own weaknesses. The times that we live in make this even harder. Developing discipline through challenging situations and perhaps suffering along the way are no longer values that are promoted in our culture. People are increasingly reluctant to tell each other the truth about themselves—their weaknesses, their inadequacies, flaws in their work. Even the self-help books designed to set us straight tend to be soft and flattering, telling us what we want to hear—that we are basically good and can get what we want by following a few simple steps. It seems abusive or damaging to people’s self-esteem to offer them stern, realistic criticism, to set them tasks that will make them aware of how far they have to go. In fact, this indulgence and fear of hurting people’s feelings is far more abusive in the long run. It makes it hard for people to gauge where they are or to develop self-discipline. It makes them unsuited for the rigors of the journey to mastery. It weakens people’s will.

  Masters are those who by nature have suffered to get to where they are. They have experienced endless criticisms of their work, doubts about their progress, setbacks along the way. They know deep in their bones what is required to get to the creative phase and beyond. As mentors, they alone can gauge the extent of our progress, the weaknesses in our character, the ordeals we must go through to advance
. In this day and age, you must get the sharpest dose of reality that is possible from your mentor. You must go in search of it and welcome it. If possible, choose a mentor who is known for supplying this form of tough love. If they shy away from giving it, force them to hold up the mirror that will reflect you as you are. Get them to give you the proper challenges that will reveal your strengths and weaknesses and allow you to gain as much feedback as possible, no matter how hard it might be to take. Accustom yourself to criticism. Confidence is important, but if it is not based on a realistic appraisal of who you are, it is mere grandiosity and smugness. Through the realistic feedback of your mentor you will eventually develop a confidence that is much more substantial and worth possessing.

  3. Transfigure their ideas

  In 1943 the eminent pianist and teacher Alberto Guerrero accepted a new pupil, a precocious eleven-year-old named Glenn Gould who was unlike any other student he had ever encountered. Glenn had been playing since he was four years old, having been taught by his mother, who was an accomplished piano player in her own right. After a few years under her tutelage, Glenn had surpassed his mother in skill on many levels; he began to argue and correct her; he wanted more challenging work. Guerrero was well known in Toronto, Canada, where the Goulds lived; he was reputed to be very patient, yet also demanding—traits that could serve him well as a teacher for the young Gould, which is why the parents chose him. From the very first session, Guerrero could sense an unusual seriousness and intensity in someone so young. Gould listened with complete attention and could absorb Guerrero’s style of playing in a way he had never seen in a pupil. He was a consummate mimic.

  Soon, however, Guerrero began to notice some strange traits in his pupil. On one occasion he decided to expand Gould’s repertoire, introducing him to the music of Arnold Schoenberg—the great composer of atonal music whose work Guerrero liked to champion. Expecting his pupil to be excited by the newness of the sound, he was surprised instead to see an expression of complete disgust. Gould took the sheet music home with him, but apparently he never practiced the pieces, and Guerrero let the matter drop. Then, a few weeks later, he shared with his teacher some of his own recent compositions—interesting work that was clearly inspired by Schoenberg. Soon after that, he brought in sheet music that he wanted to practice with Guerrero—all atonal music from various composers, including Schoenberg, but not the pieces Guerrero had originally given him. He had obviously been studying the music on his own and had decided he liked it.

  It became almost impossible for Guerrero to gauge how Gould would respond to his ideas. For instance, he recommended to his pupils that they learn and memorize a piece by studying it on paper, before ever trying to play it. In this way, it would come alive first in their minds and they would be able to envision it as a whole, instead of merely playing the notes. Gould dutifully followed this advice with a particular composition of Bach’s, but when they discussed the structure and concept behind the piece, the young man had his own notions that were rather strange and quite contrary to Guerrero’s, which Gould found romantic and quaint. On another occasion Guerrero revealed his idea that it was often best to imagine you were playing a piano piece by Bach as if it were on a harpsichord. Gould warmed to this idea, then a few months later said that he preferred imagining a different instrument with Bach.

  Guerrero’s most important ideas revolved around the physical aspects of playing the piano. He had spent years studying human physiology, particularly anything related to the hands and fingers. His goal was to impart in his pupils a relaxed yet powerful style, in which they would gain complete command of the keyboard with fingers that had a lightning touch. He spent hours indoctrinating Gould in his approach, working on the peculiar posture he advocated—a kind of slump or hunch over the keyboard, with all of the action coming from the lower back and hands, the shoulders and arms completely still. He demonstrated this technique endlessly to his pupil. He gave Gould all kinds of unusual exercises he had developed to strengthen the fingers. Gould seemed interested enough, but as with everything, Guerrero had the impression he would soon forget it all and go his own way.

  As the years went by, Gould began to argue with his teacher more and more. He found Guerrero’s ideas and approach to music too Latin, too mired in another era. Finally, at the age of nineteen, Gould announced that he was going to proceed on his own. He had no more need for a mentor, a fact that Guerrero graciously accepted. It was clear that by now the young man needed to work through his own ideas about music and performing.

  Over the years, however, as Gould slowly established himself as one of the greatest pianists who has ever lived, Guerrero began to realize how deeply his former pupil had absorbed all of his ideas. He would read reviews of Gould’s performances in which the critic would note how he seemed to play Bach as if it were on the harpsichord, something soon echoed by others. His posture, his way of crouching and leaning over the instrument made him look like an uncanny double of the younger Guerrero; his finger work was so unusually powerful, it was clear he had spent years using the exercises Guerrero had taught him. In interviews, Gould would talk about the importance of learning a piece of music on paper before performing it, but he would say it all as if it were his own idea. Strangest of all, Gould played particular pieces of music as Guerrero had always imagined them in his mind, but with a verve and style that he could never have matched. It was as if his former protégé had internalized the essence of his style and transfigured it into something greater.

  As a child, Glenn Gould intuited his great dilemma. He had an uncanny ear for music; he was so responsive that he could pick up the nuances of another piano player and reproduce them after a single hearing. At the same time, he knew that he was a peculiar young man with very distinct tastes. He had the ambition to become a master performer. If he listened too closely to teachers and other performers and picked up their ideas or styles, he would lose his sense of identity in the process. But he also needed knowledge and mentorship. This dilemma became particularly acute with Alberto Guerrero, who was a charismatic teacher. It is often a curse to learn under someone so brilliant and accomplished—your own confidence becomes crushed as you struggle to follow all of their great ideas. Many pianists become lost in the shadow of their illustrious mentors and never amount to anything.

  Because of his ambition, Gould found his way to the only real solution to this dilemma. He would listen to all of Guerrero’s ideas about music and try them out. In the course of playing, he would subtly alter these ideas to suit his inclinations. This would make him feel that he had his own voice. As the years went by, he made this differentiation between himself and his instructor more pronounced. Because he was so impressionable, over the course of the apprenticeship he had unconsciously internalized all of the important ideas of his mentor, but through his own active engagement he had managed to adapt them to his individuality. In this way, he could learn and yet incubate a creative spirit that would help set him apart from everyone else once he left Guerrero.

  As apprentices, we all share in this dilemma. To learn from mentors, we must be open and completely receptive to their ideas. We must fall under their spell. But if we take this too far, we become so marked by their influence that we have no internal space to incubate and develop our own voice, and we spend our lives tied to ideas that are not our own. The solution, as Gould discovered, is subtle: Even as we listen and incorporate the ideas of our mentors, we must slowly cultivate some distance from them. We begin by gently adapting their ideas to our circumstances, altering them to fit our style and inclinations. As we progress we can become bolder, even focusing on faults or weaknesses in some of their ideas. We slowly mold their knowledge into our own shape. As we grow in confidence and contemplate our independence, we can even grow competitive with the mentor we once worshipped. As Leonardo da Vinci said, “Poor is the apprentice who does not surpass his Master.”

  4. Create a back-and-forth dynamic

  In 1978, a promising lightweigh
t boxer named Freddie Roach traveled to Las Vegas with his father in search of a trainer that could elevate him to the next level. And as previously narrated in chapter 1 (see here), Freddie and his father quickly settled on Eddie Futch, one of the most legendary boxing coaches in the field.

  Futch had a magnificent résumé. As a young man he had sparred with Joe Louis. Barred from turning professional because of a heart murmur, he became a trainer, working later with some of the most illustrious heavyweights, including Joe Frazier. He was a quiet, patient man who knew how to give precise instructions; he was a master at improving a fighter’s technique. Under his guidance, Roach advanced quickly, winning his first ten bouts.

  Soon, however, Roach began to notice a problem: in training he listened intently to what Futch had to say, and put it into practice with relative ease. But in actual bouts, the moment he exchanged blows with his opponent, he would suddenly throw out all the technique he had learned and fight on pure emotion. Sometimes this worked, but he took a lot of blows, and his career started to sputter. What surprised him several years into the process was that Futch did not really seem to notice this problem of his. With so many fighters in his stable, he tended to keep his distance; he did not give much personalized attention.

  Finally, in 1986, Roach retired. Living in Vegas and moving from one bad job to another, in his off-hours he began to frequent the gym where he had trained. Soon he was giving advice to fighters and helping out. Without getting paid, he became a de facto assistant to Futch, even directly training a few of the fighters himself. He knew Futch’s system well and had internalized many of the techniques he taught. He added his own wrinkle to the training sessions. He took the mitt work—the large padded gloves that a trainer uses in the ring to practice various punches and combinations with his fighter—to a higher level, creating a longer and more fluid practice session. It also gave Roach a chance to be more involved in the action, something he missed. After several years he realized he was good at this and so left Futch to begin his own career as a trainer.