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During recent years Daisetz Teitaro Suzuki has done
a great deal of lecturing at Columbia University.
First he was in the Department of Religion, then
somewhere else. Finally he settled down on the
seventh floor of Philosophy Hall. The room had
windows on two sides, a large table in the middle
with ash trays. There were chairs around the table
and next to the walls. These were always filled with
people listening, and there were generally a few
people standing near the door. The two or three
people who took the class for credit sat in chairs
around the table. The time was four to seven. During
this period most people now and then took a little
nap. Suzuki never spoke loudly. When the weather was
good the windows were open, and the airplanes
leaving La Guardia flew directly overhead,
drowning out from time to time whatever he had to
say. He never repeated what had been said
during the passage of the airplane. Three lectures
I remember in particular. While he was giving
them I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what
he was saying. It was a week or so later,
while I was walking in the woods looking for
mushrooms, that it all dawned on me.
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