The Foolish Can Attain the Fruit of Arhatship, While the Clever Cannot Escape 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, ancient and modern, Chinese and foreign, have exhaustively combed through the Tripiṭaka and produced voluminous writings, with poems, verses, and witty sayings flowing in profusion—so 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; what can be put to actual use is what truly matters. It is like an apple: eating it into the mouth and swallowing it into the stomach to fill the belly is the greatest benefit—far more practical than studying apples and writing award-winning papers about them. 

Cūḍapanthaka was so dull-witted and ignorant of theory that when he contemplated the breath at the nose, the various virtues of the mind consciousness were basically of no use, and there was no possibility of resorting to shortcuts in his contemplative practice (vipaśyanā-caryā). Unable to analyze the breath and other formations as arising and ceasing, as suffering, empty, impermanent, and non-self, and unable to infer that all formations are non-self and the five aggregates (pañcaskandha) are non-self, this conveniently spared him the mind consciousness's emotional thinking and intellectual interpretations, so that the functions of the manas were 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 ultimate realization of the Buddha's Dharma does not lie in making effort on the mind consciousness. Not understanding theory does not matter; as long as the method and direction of practice are correct, and one cultivates diligently, one can still awaken to the Way.

Whereas the theorists and researchers who have exhaustively combed the Tripiṭaka and are steeped in learning can only make effort on the mind consciousness. Despite their torrential eloquence, ornate rhetoric, the admiration they receive, their boundless glory, and illustrious fame, they ultimately gain nothing at all—the very place where they gained an advantage is precisely where they lost it. Take Su Dongpo, for example: no matter how well he could interpret the Buddha's Dharma or how many insights he had, he achieved nothing in actual realization. The habits of the literati are serious obstacles to the Way and are not easily overcome. The zither, 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 who like to have something to gain reflect on this?