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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, and
then somewhere else. Finally he settled down on
the seventh floor of the philosophy building. 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 took now and then a little nap. Suzuki never
spoke loudly, and 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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