Ichikawa Hakugen, “Buddhism and the Development of Communist Thought”

From The Radical Buddhism Project


Ichikawa Hakugen 市川白弦 (1949). “Buddhism and the Development of Communist Thought” (Kyōsanshugi shisō no tenkai to Bukkyō 共産主義思想の展開と仏教). (Japanese original here.)

Translation


I

The development of communist thought and Buddhism—this is the subject I have been assigned, but it is one that leaves me somewhat perplexed. For such is the condition of our country today that grieving for the poor and the unemployed, or feeling troubled by the danger of war, is regarded as something shameful, while investigating these problems thoroughly is treated almost as though it were a crime. Consequently, I suspect that what people within Buddhist institutions expect from the subject assigned to me is an account of the shortcomings of communism and how Buddhism might best counterattack them. And if I were to respond to these expectations by promptly producing yet another “Anti-Communist's Handbook,” I might easily win praise. But my conscience would reproach me. I have therefore resolved, even at the risk of disappointing some of my readers, to consider the prerequisites for Buddhists to confront communism—by which I shall mean Marxism, although there are many varieties of what is called communism.



Let us consider these prerequisites.

Communism takes as its mission the practical task of liberating the proletariat, or of liberating humanity from the world of commodities[1]. It is therefore a body of thought that takes concrete shape through its own practice. For this reason, the central question concerning communism is not whether it is perfect as a “finished system of thought,” but whether it actually brings about the liberation of the proletariat. Consequently, anyone wishing to criticise communism cannot simply sit idly by, waiting for some flawless philosophy of liberation to appear, and then point out communism's deficiencies from that standpoint. Unless such a critic takes the initiative in developing a philosophy of popular liberation and puts it into practice in some form, their criticism will not only lack genuine persuasive force but may actually serve a reactionary purpose.

The greatest challenges of our time are poverty and war. Moreover, these are twins born of the same womb[2]: the capitalist social system. Communism confronts us with a groundbreaking solution to these two world-historical problems—poverty domestically and war internationally—and demands that we take a position. Before criticising communism, therefore, we must examine ourselves. To what extent do we genuinely recognise the necessity of eliminating the fundamental causes of poverty and war from contemporary society? And what kinds of theory and practice are we currently developing on the basis of that recognition?

If, upon examining ourselves, we find that this awareness is deeply felt and accompanied by practice, we may be said to have fulfilled at least the first condition for becoming critics. Conversely, if someone lacks any heartfelt sympathy for the unemployment and poverty suffered by the masses and merely speculates vaguely about how “we, from the Buddhist standpoint, ought to criticise communism,” that must be called an arrogance unworthy of a Buddhist.



Compared with the passionate—and at times even fanatical—efforts of communists to win comrades to their cause, in what ways are we ourselves demonstrating an equally intense commitment? Does the Buddhist Youth Association possess enough passion to rival the Communist Youth League? If not, what is the fundamental reason for this deficiency? Are we seriously reflecting on these questions? If we merely sit idly by, hoping to acquire a convenient understanding of such questions as “What Buddhist truths cannot be denied by communism?” or “What are the shortcomings of communism from the Buddhist standpoint?” so that we can quote the answers in tomorrow's sermon, what can we possibly say to such a narrow-minded outlook?

II

Anyone who wishes to criticise communism ought to possess a theory and practice more effective than those of communism in addressing poverty and war—the problems that constitute the central concern of communist theory and practice. At the very least, such a person must be actively working to establish an alternative. This was the first prerequisite for anyone wishing to criticise communism.

But if this seems an excessively demanding requirement, let us retreat somewhat and reformulate it. Suppose that Buddhists have little concern for the poverty of their fellow human beings or the danger of war, regarding such matters as peripheral details of human life, or even as events belonging to a world in which “all things are falsehood.” If, nevertheless—or precisely for that reason—they wish to criticise communism, they must undertake a further examination of themselves. Have they truly never desired to maintain or improve the living standards of their own families? And have they embarked upon the spiritual education of the masses with a determination and enthusiasm comparable to those of communists?



If, upon examining themselves, they can honestly declare that they are wholeheartedly pursuing such practice, we may provisionally recognise their qualifications as critics.

But if even this requirement is considered too demanding, let us retreat once more and put the matter differently.

Suppose there are Buddhists who are neither particularly concerned about poverty and war nor especially inspired by religious conviction. If such people nevertheless wish to criticise communism, they must first reflect upon the following questions: Have they made an effort to obtain fair and accurate information about communism? And how much do they actually understand of the writings of Marx and Lenin? These are the minimum qualifications that anyone wishing to criticise communism must possess.

Imagine, then, a Buddhist who, first, has little concern for poverty or war; second, is hardly wholehearted in the practice of religious detachment; and third, knows virtually nothing about communism. Suppose, nevertheless, that such a person possesses great “confidence” in their ability to criticise communism, and responds to Marxism's criticism of religion by declaring, “They simply do not understand what religion is.” How should we diagnose the “confidence” of such a Buddhist?

Recently, I heard an interesting story. Some young people approached a Zen temple and requested that the resident priest take the trouble to visit them, saying that they would very much like to hear his learned views. Seeing an opportunity to educate the younger generation, the priest readily agreed. After delivering his talk, however, he was bombarded with questions. Pressed relentlessly, he eventually found himself unable to respond. His initial confidence completely evaporated, and he returned home thoroughly humiliated. Later, he confided to an acquaintance: “Never again will I respond to a request from someone who wants to ‘hear my learned views’!” As it turned out, the young people who had invited him were members of the local Communist Party cell.



Among Communist Party members there are certainly some whose character and education leave much to be desired. But there are also people of considerable ability. What would happen if such people organised themselves and went from temple to temple in rural communities, asking the resident priests to share their learned views?

“How should we live?” “What should we do?” These are the questions confronting the serious young people of our time.

And these questions cannot be separated from the intellectual problems of the present. Are contemporary Buddhists genuinely qualified to serve as guides in confronting such pressing human questions? True religion is not a religion of mere verbal exposition; it is a religion of practice. But does this mean that one need only go silently about the ordinary activities of wearing one's robes and eating one's meals? When someone asks to hear one's learned views, is behaving as though one were unable to speak really what is meant by the “practice” of a religion of practice?

It is said that genuine religious instruction consists in teaching through one[3]'s own person (ishin seppō 以身説法). Yet the “person” or “body” referred to here must be a human body, not the body of a mere animal. The essential difference between the body of a cat and that of a human being does not lie in the number of legs or the arrangement of their hair. Plato is said to have defined the human being as a “two-legged animal with flat nails,” but the fundamental difference between human beings and other animals is not to be found in such characteristics. Rather, it lies in whether there is an inner awareness in the ultimate sense—or, to put it another way, whether there is thought (shisō 思想). “Man is a thinking reed,” said Pascal. To possess intellectual self-awareness within oneself and to act in accordance with that awareness: this is what constitutes the “body” in the true sense of the word. Because the body is the embodiment of intellectual self-awareness, it is capable in itself of performing the work of teaching the Dharma. Moreover, only when this self-awareness is genuinely contemporary does the body truly live. A person today whose intellectual sensibilities remain those of the Meiji period is nothing more than a “living corpse,” and cannot be considered qualified to teach through their own person.



Thought always has a tendency to become fixed and stagnant. As Goethe puts it in Faust, thought seeks to hold fast through enduring reflection to what otherwise floats amid shifting appearances. Yet this very tendency toward stability also makes thought susceptible to rigidity.

The underlying structures of history, meanwhile, are constantly changing and developing. A gap therefore opens between the logic of the intellect and the logic of history. This divergence becomes especially conspicuous during great historical transformations, when a separation emerges between personal character and intellectual outlook. And we are living precisely in such a time. The ideas and pronouncements of so-called “persons of character” may become anachronistic because they fail to grasp the direction of world history. Consequently, however sincere or enthusiastic such people may be, their efforts fail to achieve their intended effects. They no longer manage to strike the appropriate mark.

This separation of character and thought, and the resulting deterioration of character, is not simply a consequence of the tendency of ideas themselves to become fixed. It also derives from intellectual inertia or laziness and, at a still deeper level, from self-interested calculations bound up with the individual's social position. This is precisely one of the things we call karma (gō 業). When confronted with revolutionary ideas, its rigidity manifests itself in violent passions. The distinctive feature of such passions is an inability to listen to an opponent's arguments, accompanied by an inability to engage in flexible self-criticism. Those possessed by such passions fail to recognise that their own violence provokes resistance. Instead, they perceive the resistance of others as violence directed against themselves. This is precisely the inversion of judgment that characterised medieval religious persecution. Religious tribunals regarded their cruel repression and persecution of heretics as expressions of fidelity to God, without recognising them as violence. Violations of the fundamental human rights of others were not regarded as violent, while resistance to those violations was condemned as violence. One of the most familiar examples of this inversion is the fact that anti-communists are extraordinarily sensitive to any infringement of their own interests and become fervent advocates of equality whenever they themselves experience discriminatory treatment. This condition corresponds to a disturbance that psychopathology calls “egomania.” It is said that a characteristic feature of this condition is the failure to recognise that one is afflicted by it. The great majority of people, including Buddhists—



—are unaware that they suffer from precisely such a disturbance. Similarly, those caught up in this inversion of judgment regard their distorted perceptions as evidence of the soundness of their thinking. They declare that communism represents “bad egalitarianism.” By this they mean a system in which everyone, apart from a privileged few, is required to wear the same national uniform, eat the same soybean meal, and be regimented under the slogan “One Hundred Million Hearts as One.”[4] Yet the common goal of the various forms of communist thought is the construction of a differentiated society in which people work according to their abilities and receive according to their needs. This is elementary knowledge of socialist thought. Nevertheless, many critics lack even this introductory understanding. They regard Buddhist teachings from three thousand years ago as inviolable truths, while accusing Marxists of blindly worshipping Marx. They also mistakenly identify Soviet Russia with a fully realised communist society. Given these assumptions, their criticisms are hardly surprising.

Such critics must first acquire some elementary historical understanding. Even Copernicus was probably a believer in the geocentric theory during his youth. Similarly, Tokuda Kyūichi was not born proclaiming the principles of dialectical materialism, nor did Nosaka Sanzō emerge from his mother's womb shouting slogans about class struggle. This point is extremely important, for much of the confusion surrounding communism arises from ignorance of such intellectual transformations. Most of the questions and criticisms that contemporary Buddhists direct against communism arise from the same assumptions that communists themselves held before becoming communists. Communists would surely be bewildered to be told, “You were already a Marxist in your mother's womb.” To imagine that communists will recognise their errors and convert to Buddhism simply because someone tells them that materialism is mistaken and that mind and matter must be understood as one is a serious misunderstanding. History shows, and contemporary reality confirms, that Buddhism has sometimes reinforced class society but has never overcome it. The philosophy of communism is a philosophy of the transformation of class society, not of its contemplation. It is theory for the sake of practice, not



for the sake of contemplation. It is not a philosophy content to rest in lofty detachment, invoking expressions such as “Looking down from a high mountain into the valley, gourds and eggplants are in full bloom,” or “The dharma abides in its dharma-position, and the characteristics of the world are eternally abiding.” Still less is it a philosophy that teaches the poor to endure their lot through the doctrine of karmic causation across three lifetimes, while encouraging the wealthy to practise charity. What the proletariat demands is substantive respect for fundamental human rights, not crumbs thrown from the tables of the propertied classes. The task is not charity or almsgiving, but transforming the social structures that make such “good deeds” and “heartwarming stories” necessary. In other words, it is to eliminate the kind of society that requires charitable giving of the sort practised by institutions such as the Hiden'in and Seyakuin, or Buddhist social welfare activities. There is an old saying: “When the Great Way declines[5], benevolence and righteousness appear.” To borrow this expression from Laozi, our task is to establish a world of the Great Way in which benevolence and righteousness are no longer necessary. Christ taught, “Sell what you possess and give it to the poor.” Whatever the appropriateness of this teaching in Christ's own time, to make charitable giving the foundation of religious ethics today is effectively to affirm the existence of the class society that necessitates such charity, and thereby to defend its continued existence. This is what it means to say that kindness can become unkindness. What is subjectively an act of compassion may objectively be an act of cruelty; what is subjectively diligent effort may objectively be nothing more than indolence. It is not enough merely to have nothing to be ashamed of before heaven and earth. The shortcomings of an ethics based on motives are already common knowledge in moral philosophy, yet Buddhist ethics up to now has been permeated by precisely these shortcomings. The idea expressed in the Vimalakīrti Sūtra[6]—“As the mind becomes pure, so too does the Buddha-land become pure”—is a form of social ethics found throughout Buddhism. At the same time, however, it exemplifies the abstract character of individualistic utopianism[7]. Such an idealistic, inward-looking orientation places greater emphasis on changing one's state of mind than on transforming the structures of society. Consequently, it inevitably leads to preaching at the masses. Instead of critically examining concrete social institutions in terms of their structures, characteristics, and governing principles, it indiscriminately dismisses everything as “falsehood and illusion”—including the poor and oppressed, and even the social practices directed toward their fundamental liberation. In this way, rather than encouraging the masses—



—to cooperate in eliminating social evils, it directs them to devote themselves to overcoming “ignorance” and purifying the “desiring individual.” It then proclaims that this constitutes the truly thoroughgoing “ethics of the proletariat,” and perpetuates the age-old, futile dream that a beautiful ideal society will emerge when individuals purified by such an ethics come together one by one. Herein lies the reason that idealism can be identified with reactionary politics. In its consequences, such an outlook ends up affirming the social mechanisms of exploitation that constitute the fundamental causes of contemporary social evils and tragedies. The defence that “I never intended anything of the sort” is valid only within a moral universe in which an ethics of intention is regarded as the sole truth. One must demonstrate one's principles through practice and substantiate them through the results of that practice.

III

If Buddhists intend to confront communism, then, let us recall once more what they must first examine within themselves and put into practice.

(1) Do I wish to be happy rather than unhappy? Would I feel comfortable if I were subjected to discriminatory treatment?

(2) Do I feel compassion for the suffering of others? Do I sympathise with those who are treated unjustly? Just as I feel sympathy for individual people suffering from poverty, am I capable of sharing in the suffering of the proletariat as a whole?

(3) To what extent do I feel resistance to the danger that my country might once again become embroiled in war?

(4) Do I possess the enthusiasm and consistency necessary to put into practice what I feel and think?

(5) If, in reflecting upon these four questions, I discover that I seek not only my own happiness but also the happiness of others—



—if I feel indignation not only at discriminatory treatment directed against myself but also at the social disadvantages suffered by others; if I recognise a community of shared suffering not merely with individual poor people but with the proletariat as a whole; if I strongly resist the approaching danger of war; and if I possess the determination to put what I feel and think into practice—then the following questions must become my own concerns as a Buddhist. How did contemporary capitalist society come into being? What principles and structures sustain it? What are the fundamental causes of exploitation, poverty, unemployment, and war, and how can these causes be eliminated? Buddhists must first make these questions their own, investigate the principles and methods by which they can actually be resolved, and clarify how these principles and methods differ from, or are connected with, those of Marxism.

Yet suppose that some “Buddhists” make no effort whatsoever to engage in such reflection or action. However widespread poverty and unemployment may become, however many young people wander homeless or children remain out of school, and however imminent the danger of war, they regard these things as merely the way of the world, as conditions that have always existed. They believe that all is well so long as they and their families can somehow live comfortably, and that it is unwise to concern themselves with other households when they have enough to eat at home. Suppose, moreover, that these same Buddhists preach compassion while pointing accusing fingers at those who are struggling to relieve their fellow human beings of the burdens of poverty and war, shouting: “He's a Red!” “He's a scoundrel!” “Drive him out!” How should we greet such practitioners of “compassion,” such apostles of the “rejection of violence”? Should we address them as genuine Buddhists and defenders of the Dharma? What, after all, does it mean to be shameless? Is it enough to secure comfort and honour for oneself, and simply get through one's own life? Is it acceptable to have no interest in truth or scholarship, believing that one need only adjust to circumstances whenever the times change? Is this really—



—what we should call a sound and honourable attitude for a Buddhist?

IV

Nevertheless, apart from this great majority of Buddhists, we know that there are a serious few who, together with the earnest young people of our time, are grappling with the question, “What are we to do?” It is to these few that we extend our deepest respect, and it is their cooperation and support that we seek. I would like to set down my thoughts concerning Buddhism and communism in the form of preliminary notes and invite their criticism.

(1) On Buddhist Institutions

It seems unlikely that Buddhist institutions can reform and rejuvenate themselves from within. There is therefore nothing further to say about them.

(2) On Buddhist Studies

What is required is to dismantle the existing system of Buddhist studies and begin again from scratch. We must abandon the mistaken approach to learning that regards only those portions of the curriculum devoted to the doctrines of one's own sect and of other Buddhist schools as genuinely Buddhist studies, while treating sociology, economics, philosophy, and other disciplines as secular forms of knowledge unrelated to Buddhism. Instead, we must establish the fundamental, systematic principles and methods of an approach in which studying any discipline is understood as studying the “Way.” If we provisionally borrow the terminology of traditional Buddhism, the principle that unifies these approaches at their root is the awakening to the “intrinsically pure mind”[8] (jishō shōjōshin 自性清浄心). Even if we dismantle all the doctrinal disputes and conflicts that have accumulated within Buddhist scholarship, I believe that this principle must still be recognised as fundamental. After all, what we are seeking is “truth.” There is no necessity that this truth be specifically “Buddhist.”



And it is precisely this attitude of inquiry that may be regarded, in the deepest sense, as a humanistic approach. Through such inquiry, we must establish a logic and an ethics capable of integrating the paths of social revolution and spiritual revolution. We should not concentrate on conventional schemes for Buddhist reform—such as modern interpretations of Buddhism, modern forms of Buddhist propagation, or the socialisation and popularisation of Buddhism—which are little more than temporary expedients. So long as we confine ourselves to such measures, we will accomplish no more than pouring old wine into new wineskins, without advancing a single step beyond the opportunism of the past three thousand years. Unless Buddhist scholars cease treating Buddhist studies as their exclusive domain and, for a time, entrust it to the hands of non-specialists, nothing new will emerge. Alternatively, Buddhist scholars themselves must abandon their accustomed field and travel through the worlds of other disciplines. Buddhist studies has reached just such an impasse.

(3) On Marxism

What originally prompted Marx to undertake his analysis of capitalist society and commodities? What was the fundamental motive underlying all his other motives? We must clarify this original impulse, consciously recognise it, and assign it a systematic place within our thought. Only then can we establish an ethics of human liberation. There are various reasons why Marxists' behaviour is so often regarded with aversion, why repeated discussions of “subjectivity” seem somehow to lose their way, why demands for a “Communist Party worthy of affection” are continually renewed, why those who have contributed to the revolution are repeatedly subjected to bloody purges, and why excessive dictatorship occurs. These phenomena undoubtedly have many causes, both internal and external. Yet I believe their fundamental cause lies in the crude and immature character of proletarian humanism[9]. This is not the so-called “ethics of the proletariat” advocated by Professor Yanagida, whose principal aim is the overcoming of human ignorance. Marxists constantly speak of the “recovery of alienated humanity,” yet regard reflection on human nature itself as idealistic and bourgeois. Herein lie Marxism's stubborn narrowness and the rigidity of its materialism. The path by which communism may recover a rich sense of humanity and liberate itself from needless sacrifice—



—and authoritarianism lies in recognising human nature as fundamental to its system of thought and freeing itself from the “sophistical totality” of dialectics. Ogasawara Hidemi's Essentials of Social Thought offers much from which we may learn concerning the criticism of dialectics.

But why must we place human nature, or the original condition of human existence, at the beginning or foundation of our philosophical system? To discover one of the fundamental reasons, let us begin with the following proposition:

“Certainly, the ‘ideal’ that drives materialists toward practical action does not yet exist anywhere. Nevertheless, it emerges from contradictions that actually exist, either as the direction in which those contradictions are to be overcome or as the form they will assume once overcome. The source of the passion directed toward that ideal is the suffering experienced within present contradictions and the desire to escape from them.” (Umemoto Katsumi, “The Materialist Standpoint and the Idealist Standpoint,” Shisaku, no. 7.)

How, then, do the “suffering experienced within present contradictions” and the “desire to escape from them” arise in human beings? What makes them possible in the first place? What gives rise to “suffering within contradiction” is, in fact, contradiction itself. In this context, contradiction means nothing other than a breakdown in the harmonious correspondence between the subject and its environment. Why does this breakdown occur? Various explanations may subsequently be offered, but as a matter of immediate awareness, it can only be described as occurring “suddenly.” With this sudden breakdown, two tendencies emerge. On the one hand, the desire for self-preservation appears; on the other, an awareness of mutual aid[10] arises from sympathy with others of one's own kind. The former is not necessarily unhealthy in itself. Indeed, it is one of the driving forces through which living beings have preserved their species, and it provides the very basis for activities of mutual aid. Yet when its exclusive, self-centred aspect is brought into the foreground, we arrive at what is called the theory of the inherent evil of human nature. Conversely, when we emphasise the latter tendency, we arrive at the theory of the inherent goodness of human nature. Before the breakdown, good and evil have not yet become differentiated; there is



an aesthetic world, an unblemished clarity in which pleasure and suffering have not yet become intertwined, a world in which human nature can exist as it truly ought to be. Let us provisionally call this the “intrinsically pure mind” (jishō shōjōshin 自性清浄心).

Here, “mind” does not mean simply mind in the ordinary sense, but something closer to fundamental experience. This is by no means something that manifests itself only in a small number of spiritually exceptional individuals. Marxists, of course, are no exception. As the foundation of all experience, it makes no distinction between ordinary people and sages, and lies on this side of both idealism and materialism. It is through the loss of the pure harmony consonant with this original nature that suffering becomes conscious. Through the awareness of suffering, contradiction is recognised, and there arises a desire to escape from it—a longing to restore the harmony that has been lost. By acknowledging the existence of this fundamental experience and taking it as the foundation of our argument, our thought may acquire a systematic basis. It is from this fundamental experience—the intrinsically pure mind—that fellow-feeling with the poor and oppressed arises, that the fundamental motivation for transforming social institutions takes shape, and that the scientific understanding necessary for such transformation develops. It is upon this foundation, too, that we discover the primordial unity of intellectual reasoning and emotional understanding, of the head and the heart. By grounding ourselves in this principle, we may develop a genuinely sound humanism—a humanism that establishes the fundamental principles of social transformation, or what we might today call proletarian humanism. If we take this original condition of human existence as the starting point of our philosophical system, the remaining question is whether that system can properly be called “materialism.” To suggest that this foundation is itself merely a product of material atoms or nothing more than the activity of proteins is to confuse different standpoints. The question of how the principles of social transformation emerge from what is called the intrinsically pure mind must be examined more fully on another occasion.

Notes

  1. ↑ Ichikawa characterises communism as a practical endeavour aimed at freeing human beings from a social world organised by commodity relations.
  2. ↑ Ichikawa explicitly identifies capitalism as the common source of domestic poverty and international war.
  3. ↑ Ishin seppō 以身説法 refers to teaching the Dharma through one’s embodied conduct. Ichikawa insists that such conduct must be informed by historically responsive thought.
  4. ↑ The slogan 「一億一心」 evokes the rhetoric of total mobilisation in wartime Japan.
  5. ↑ An allusion to chapter 18 of the Daodejing 道徳経.
  6. ↑ The reference is to the Vimalakīrti Sūtra 維摩経 and its association of the purity of mind with the purity of the Buddha-land.
  7. ↑ Ichikawa’s Japanese expression is kojinteki yūtopianizumu 個人的ユートピアニズム, criticising an account of social reform centred on the purification of isolated individuals.
  8. ↑ Jishō shōjōshin 自性清浄心 denotes intrinsic purity of mind. Ichikawa subsequently describes it as kiso keiken 基礎経験 (“fundamental experience”); his proposal should not be mistaken for a completed theory of social change.
  9. ↑ Ichikawa distinguishes his proposed proletarian humanism from accounts grounded exclusively in class identity or subjective purification.
  10. ↑ The Japanese is sōgo fujo 相互扶助. No direct intellectual borrowing from Kropotkin should be inferred without independent evidence.

Source Note

“Buddhism and the Development of Communist Thought” (Kyōsanshugi shisō no tenkai to Bukkyō 共産主義思想の展開と仏教) is a 1949 essay by Ichikawa Hakugen 市川白弦 (1902–1986). It examines the obligations of Buddhists who criticise communism, the social causes of poverty and war, institutional and educational reform, and the possibility of integrating social and spiritual transformation. The essay culminates in a proposal to ground proletarian humanism in the notion of intrinsically pure mind (jishō shōjōshin 自性清浄心), described as fundamental experience.

This translation follows Ichikawa Hakugen 市川白弦, “Kyōsanshugi shisō no tenkai to Bukkyō” 共産主義思想の展開と仏教, in Ichikawa Hakugen chosakushū 市川白弦著作集 [Collected Writings of Ichikawa Hakugen], vol. 2, Zen to gendai shisō 禅と現代思想 [Zen and Contemporary Thought] (Kyoto: Hōzōkan, 1993), pp. 259–272. The Japanese transcription uses the same collected edition. Page markers identify printed pages in that edition; English divisions at sentence breaks are approximate.

The essay appeared in Gendai Bukkyō mondai gokō 現代佛教問題五講 [Five Lectures on Contemporary Buddhist Problems], edited by Nakajima Bunkyō 中島文鏡 (Tokyo: Young East Sha, 1949). Its page range in that volume and any earlier appearance have not yet been verified.

Translated and annotated by James Mark Shields (2026). This is a working scholarly translation. Certain quotations, historical references, and residual textual questions await final independent verification.

How to Cite this Text

Ichikawa Hakugen (1949). “Buddhism and the Development of Communist Thought” (Kyōsanshugi shisō no tenkai to Bukkyō 共産主義思想の展開と仏教). Translated and annotated by James Mark Shields. The Radical Buddhism Project. Version of 8 October 2026. https://radicalbuddhism.net/wiki/IH49KST-T.

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