Word: buddha
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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Munakata's themes derive from conventional Japanese subjects-religious figures, folk tales and landscapes. Certainly the most impressive are the big prints of four of the Buddha's disciples. Here, Munakata's simple and strident forms recall Indian and Japanese Buddhist paintings, while suggesting the forcefulness of the best of the German Expressionists. Though the prints may lack the mystical introspection of earlier Oriental religious works, their clarity and technical control show how adept and proficient a master Munakata...
...frontier, said Lhasa was quiet, though tense. One unverified report said 300 Red troops and 50 to 60 Tibetans were killed. The battle was set off Friday by Tibetan fears that the Communist overlords planned to kidnap the Dalai Lama, the 23-year-old king called "the living Buddha...
...priests playing mah-jongg instead of sitting in immobile meditation, a priest drinking with a bar hostess, two novices staggering along a Kobe street late at night with a barmaid between them. Tsuchiya quoted one priest as saying: "By listening to good music and gazing on ikibosatu [the living Buddha], I feel I can understand the teachings." This wisdom was Tsuchiya's caption for a photograph of the same priest happily gaping at pictures of virtually naked women...
Kazantzakis takes his hero far beyond the pagan world that Homer's knew. He confronts him with characters reminiscent of Buddha, Christ, Faust and Don Quixote so that Odysseus can try his own view of God and man against theirs. He agrees with none of them, thus underscoring Kazantzakis' belief that each man must make his own spiritual odyssey; no one else can make it for him, no ready-made belief can serve for each individual. The search is one for freedom-freedom from the demands of Odysseus' heart and mind. Kazantzakis seems to say: not until...
...Yeah, man, I know; the Buddha kick. I remember I was on it for two weeks when I saw the wild Frisco nights from my Chinatown pad. Man, that was some living; creeping through the back alleys at night, yogi parties, the red lights of the east end, the drowning sounds of Powell Street in the afternoon, and in the early evening as the sun set on the bay the soft odors of won-ton soup drifting up through the air vents. Crazy! But take my advice, and give up the Oriental bit, and go domestic. Contemplation, inward communion...