What This Concept Is About

First, a story. There was a young man, raised from childhood in an extremely wealthy household; his father was the richest man in the country. But he did not know his own origins—or rather, he had a vague sense of it but was unwilling to admit it, always feeling he did not measure up to such a family estate. So he left home and wandered, doing hard labor, scraping together a meal here and there, switching back and forth among six different trades—today waiting tables at a restaurant, tomorrow hauling bricks at a construction site, the day after carrying cargo at the docks. He thought this was his life: shuttling back and forth among various ways of making a living.

The "parable of the poor son" (窮子喻, qióngzǐ yù) in the *Lotus Sūtra* (法華經, Saddharmapuṇḍarīka-sūtra) tells exactly this story. When Chan Master Caoshan (曹山, Cáoshān) said "捨父逃逝" (shě fù táo shì, "abandoning the father and fleeing away"), he was using precisely this allusion.

The four characters of 往來異類 (wǎnglái yìlèi, "coming and going among other kinds"), taken apart: 往來 (wǎnglái) means going and coming, flowing without stopping; 異類 (yìlèi) is not "other kind" in the modern sense—not an oddball, not a nonconformist—but rather refers to every category that is other than "oneself." Other relative to what? Relative to the fundamental matter (本分事, běnfèn shì), relative to that "self." Caoshan says it bluntly: 「一切言語聲色是非總是往來異類。」 All speech, sound, form, right and wrong—these are all "coming and going among other kinds."

Notice that he does not say these things are "bad," nor does he say they are "false." What he says is: these are all "other kinds." Meaning, they are something other than your original face (本來面目, běnlái miànmù). You go back and forth among them, rising and falling, grasping and rejecting—this is what is called "coming and going among other kinds."

This concept is the first of Caoshan's four kinds of other kinds. Caoshan divides the other kinds into four levels:

First, 往來異類 (coming and going among other kinds)—ordinary beings (凡夫, pṛthagjana) flowing through the six destinies (六道, ṣaḍ-gati) and saṃsāra amid sound, form, speech, and opinions, without knowing there is a self.

Second, 菩薩同異類 (bodhisattva sharing with other kinds)—a bodhisattva (菩薩, bodhisattva) who has already realized nirvāṇa (涅槃, nirvāṇa) turns back and enters the birth-and-death (生死, saṃsāra) of other kinds to liberate sentient beings. Chan Master Nanquan (南泉, Nánquán) said, "先過那邊知有，卻來這邊行李" (xiān guò nàbiān zhī yǒu, què lái zhèbiān xínglǐ)—"First go over to that side and know there is [a self], then come back to this side and carry out the practice"—first see the fundamental matter on the side of nirvāṇa, then return to this side of birth-and-death to walk the bodhisattva way.

Third, 沙門異類 (śramaṇa among other kinds)—first settle the fundamental matter, put down all ordinary-and-sage causes, effects, merits, and practices, then wear fur and bear horns (披毛戴角, pī máo dài jiǎo), enter mud and enter water (入泥入水, rù ní rù shuǐ), like a water buffalo (水牯牛, shuǐ gǔ niú): when meeting grass, eat grass; when meeting water, drink water. This level is called "觸處得自由" (chù chù dé zìyóu, "free wherever one touches").

Fourth, 宗門中異類 (the other kind within the Chan school)—the deepest level. Nanquan said, "智不到處切忌道著，道著則頭角生" (zhì bú dào chù qiè jì dào zhe, dào zhe zé tóujiǎo shēng)—"Where wisdom does not reach, be careful not to speak of it; speak of it, and horns grow." At this level, even the concept of "other kind" itself must be put down. "逢木著木，逢竹著竹" (féng mù zhuó mù, féng zhú zhuó zhú)—meet wood, touch wood; meet bamboo, touch bamboo—and one must guard against offense (須護觸犯, xū hù chùfàn).

And 往來異類, as the first level, is the starting point—the state of "abandoning the father and fleeing away": spinning through all realms of sound and form, without knowing there is a "self."

Caoshan's determination of 往來異類 in question-and-answer is extremely precise: 問「往來異類」，答「未知有自己。」 Asked, "What is coming and going among other kinds?" he answered: "Not yet knowing there is a self." What is "coming and going among other kinds"? It is not knowing there is a self.

"Self" (自己, zìjǐ) here does not mean the "I" that has a name, a status, and thoughts; it means that fundamental matter, the original face, that which has never left. Not knowing it is there—that is "coming and going among other kinds"; knowing it is there—only then does one begin to move toward the other three kinds.

There is a key tension here: Caoshan says "一切言語聲色是非總是往來異類"—all speech, sound, form, right and wrong are always "coming and going among other kinds"—but he also says "知有底人不捨一切聲色是非、物物不滯" (zhī yǒu dǐ rén bù shě yīqiè shēngsè shìfēi, wù wù bú zhì)—"one who knows there is [a self] does not abandon all sound, form, right and wrong, nor is stuck on any single thing." That is to say, the problem is not sound, form, speech, or right and wrong themselves, but whether you "know there is." One who knows there is moves through all sound, form, right and wrong without being stuck—this is called "不變易" (bú biànyì, "not changing"). One who does not know there is is dragged along by sound, form, and speech, bobbing up and down through the six destinies—this is called "coming and going among other kinds."

So the concept of 往來異類, on the one hand, describes the drifting state of ordinary beings; on the other hand, it itself points out the direction of liberation—not escaping the other kinds, but "向上祖方得為異類" (xiàng shàng zǔ fāng dé wéi yìlèi, "going upward toward the ancestral [direction], only then can one be among other kinds"). This phrase is subtle: one must go in the direction of before the parents gave birth (父母未生前, fùmǔ wèi shēng qián) before one "can be among other kinds." That is to say, "other kind" is not a pejorative; it is simultaneously a field of practice—you do not roll around among other kinds, but you must practice among other kinds.

Walking Through It in Daily Life

Now let us walk 往來異類 through contemporary life.

Scenario One: The Phone on the Commuting Subway

At eight in the morning, you are packed into the subway, left hand on the pole, right hand scrolling your phone. Message after message jumps onto the screen: the boss hounding for a proposal in the work group, a friend posting breakfast photos on Moments, a short video clip followed by another short video clip, news push notifications about events you have no need to know. Your attention, like a startled bird, hops from one branch to another without stopping.

This is 往來 (wǎnglái, "coming and going")—going and coming, never staying.

Now look at 異類: these messages, images, sounds, emotions, judgments—all of them are "other kinds," because not one of them is your original face. You see a piece of negative news and anger rises in your heart; see an advertisement and desire arises; see a colleague's promotion update and jealousy wells up. Not one of these thoughts, emotions, or reactions is "you," yet they drag you along for the whole ride.

The subway reaches your stop, you look up, dazed for a moment: Where am I? Who am I? Where was I for the past half hour?

—That is "abandoning the father and fleeing away."

Caoshan said, "一切言語聲色是非總是往來異類." Scrolling your phone on the subway, you are coming and going among speech (text messages), sound and form (images and sounds), right and wrong (like or dislike, reply or not). You are in it, but you do not know there is a self. You think those emotions, judgments, and reactions are "you," but they are only other kinds—guest dust (客塵, kèchén, āgantuka-kleśa) other than you.

Here is the most common mapping error: someone will say, "Oh, so scrolling the phone is bad, I need to quit the phone." No. The problem with 往來異類 is not scrolling the phone, but "not yet knowing there is a self." Even if you do not scroll the phone and just sit there staring into space, your mind churning over work matters, worrying about your child's grades, replaying last night's argument with your partner—this is equally "coming and going among other kinds." Because you are still coming and going among speech, sound and form (inner images are also sound and form), right and wrong, without knowing there is a self.

Scenario Two: Hierarchy and Status in the Workplace

Caoshan said that "階級地位" (jiējí dìwèi, "rank and status") are also 往來異類.

At the company, above you are directors and presidents, below you are subordinates. You care about your job grade, worry about your boss's evaluation, compare salaries with colleagues. Get promoted, happy for two days; get criticized, depressed for a week. Your mood is like a stock K-line chart, rising and falling with external assessments.

These ranks, statuses, and evaluation systems—all of them are "other kinds." They are products of social construction, complex forms of "sound, form, speech, right and wrong," but they are not "you." Yet you take them as yourself: I am the director, I am the manager, I am the one appreciated by the boss, I am the one excluded by my colleagues. Each of these identifications is a rope binding you among the other kinds.

往來 manifests here as: you switch among different identities. At the company you are the leader; at home you are the father; before your parents you are the son; among friends you are one of the guys. Each identity has its corresponding speech, behavior, and emotional patterns. You are like an actor switching back and forth among roles, and after acting long enough, you take the role to be yourself.

Caoshan said "捨父逃逝"—you were originally the child of that "great wealthy elder," but you do not know it, and you take yourself for the poor son working odd jobs everywhere. You think the roles of director, manager, father, son are all you are, but you have forgotten that "self."

Scenario Three: Right and Wrong in Intimate Relationships

Arguments between partners are almost always disputes over 是非 (shìfēi, "right and wrong"): you are wrong, I am right; you should do this, you should not do that; you never consider my feelings; look how much I have given to this family. Each of these right/wrong judgments feels fully justified, each makes you feel you are right and the other is wrong.

But Caoshan says: these "rights and wrongs" are all 往來異類.

This is not to say right and wrong do not exist, nor that you should muddle through and endure everything. It means: when you are completely submerged in right/wrong judgments, dragged along by anger, grievance, and unwillingness—at that moment, you do not know there is a self. You think the angry person is you, you think your grievance is the whole truth, but that "self" which can see the anger, which can observe the grievance—you have forgotten it.

The Chan school speaks of 回光返照 (huí guāng fǎn zhào, "turning the light back to shine within")—not looking outward to see who is right and who is wrong, but turning back to look at the one who is looking. If, in the middle of an argument, even for an instant, you realize "I am getting angry" or "I am judging right and wrong"—in that instant, you have poked your head out of 往來異類.

But note: Caoshan's definition of 往來異類 is "not yet knowing there is a self." So the problem is not whether you are angry, but whether you know there is a not-angry self watching all of this.

Scenario Four: The Contemporary Version of the Six Destinies

Caoshan said that 往來異類 includes "天堂、地獄、餓鬼、畜生、修羅" (tiāntáng, dìyù, èguǐ, chùshēng, xiūluó—heaven, hell, hungry ghosts, animals, asuras). In classical Buddhism, these are the specific destinations of the six destinies (六道, ṣaḍ-gati). But if we do not read them as geographical other-worlds, but as the manifestation of mental states—then in contemporary life, the six destinies are everywhere.

Hell (地獄道, naraka): staying until three in the morning for overtime, body and mind exhausted, feeling you are living in hell. Or the moments scorched by hatred and resentment—that torment is more real than hell.

Hungry ghost (餓鬼道, preta): scrolling shopping apps, never feeling you have enough, buy this and still want that; scrolling social media, always feeling something is missing in your own life, that everyone else's life is better than yours. Forever hungry, forever unfillable.

Animal (畜生道, tiryagyoni): driven by instinct—sleepy when tired, eat when hungry, click when you see something stimulating. No reflection, only conditioned reflexes.

Asura (修羅道, asura): must win everywhere, must compete in everything. Cut people off in traffic, cut in line, always get the upper hand in conversation. Forever fighting, forever with enemies.

Heaven (天堂道, svarga): weekend afternoon, the sun just right, coffee in hand, music in the ear—for that moment, life truly feels beautiful. But this beauty is impermanent; the sun will set, the coffee will run out, the music will end.

You go back and forth among these six states—this is 往來 ("coming and going"); not one of these states is your original face—this is 異類 ("other kind").

The "fleeing" (逃) in "abandoning the father and fleeing away" manifests here as: you think these states are you. You think the anxious you is you, the happy you is you, the angry you is you. But you have never once turned back and asked: behind these coming-and-going states, what is that which neither comes nor goes?

Why Contemporary People Need It

Because We Are More "Coming and Going" Than Any Era

If for ancient people "coming and going" meant only the body moving between a few places, for contemporary people it has reached an unprecedented density and speed.

Your attention switches on the order of seconds: read this message for two seconds, swipe away; next one, one second, swipe; the next... Your emotions rise and fall countless times in a single day: angered by news in the morning, amused by a meme at noon, wounded by a colleague's words in the afternoon, moved by a short video at night. Your identities bounce back and forth between online and offline: a workplace elite in the group chat, a foodie on Moments, a raid commander in the game, an exhausted parent at home.

The most serious consequence of this high-frequency 往來 is not exhaustion—it is that you do not know there is a self.

You piece together a "self" out of countless fragmented roles, emotions, and reactions, but this "self" is patched together, fluid, deformed at any moment by external stimuli. Today you think you are a patient person; tomorrow one traffic jam makes you furious. You think you are a rational person; one sentimental advertisement makes you open your wallet. You think that "you" truly exists, but it is only a temporary collection of countless "other kinds."

Caoshan's 往來異類 is the most precise description of this state.

Because We Need a Way Out, Not More Methods

When contemporary people face the predicament of 往來, the usual response is to seek more methods. Time management, emotion management, attention management, energy management—all kinds of management techniques. These methods are essentially optimizations carried out on the level of 往來: making you switch among other kinds more efficiently, more smoothly, with less pain.

But Caoshan's diagnosis is completely different. He says: the problem is not whether you switch well enough, but that you "do not yet know there is a self." You do not need better time management; you need to know—who is the one managing time? You do not need better emotional control; you need to know—who is the one who is angry?

This is pulling the firewood out from under the cauldron. It is not about making you more skilled at coming and going among other kinds, but about recognizing that "self" which has never been among other kinds.

Because "Other Kinds" Can Also Be a Field of Practice

Here is Caoshan's most distinctive contribution. He does not tell you to flee the other kinds; he tells you to practice among them. The last three of the four kinds of other kinds—bodhisattva sharing with other kinds, śramaṇa among other kinds, the other kind within the Chan school—all are among the other kinds, not apart from them.

The contemporary predicament is not "too many other kinds," but "not knowing that other kinds are a field of practice." You think the commute on the subway is wasted time, but it is actually the best place to observe 往來; you think the anger after an argument is a nuisance, but it is actually the best opportunity to recognize 異類; you think the exhaustion of working late is suffering, but it is actually the threshold to touching the fundamental matter.

Caoshan spoke of "入泥入水" (entering mud, entering water) and "披毛戴角" (wearing fur, bearing horns)—these words may sound strange today, but their spiritual substance is: do not disdain any realm, do not flee any situation. There is water in the mud, mud in the water; do the practice right there in the mud and water. What is the mud and water for contemporary people? It is the 996 office, the noisy family, the unstoppable stream of messages, the scene you least want to face. Caoshan says: right there, do not flee, but do not be drowned either—"不變易處去" (bú biànyì chù qù, "go to the place of not changing").

Because the "Upward Matter" Needs the "Class-Side Matter" as a Stepping Stone

Caoshan's final warning: "向汝道，則恐落類邊去" (xiàng rǔ dào, zé kǒng luò lèi biān qù)—"If I tell you this, I fear you will fall into the class-side." The concept of "other kind" itself is, after all, "class-side matter" (類邊事, lèi biān shì), not "upward matter" (向上事, xiàngshàng shì). As the Chan school says of "the finger pointing at the moon" (指月之指, zhǐ yuè zhī zhǐ): the other kind is the finger; the upward matter is the moon. You cannot stare only at the finger, but you also need the finger.

Contemporary people's interest in "spiritual growth" and "self-exploration" grows ever stronger, but often this exploration itself becomes another kind of 往來異類: mindfulness (正念, zhèngniàn, smṛti) today, yoga tomorrow, the *Diamond Sūtra* (金剛經, Vajracchedikā-prajñāpāramitā-sūtra) the day after, a psychology course the day after that. You go back and forth among various "dharma gates," but that "self"—you have never recognized it.

Caoshan's 往來異類 reminds you: all of this exploration, practice, and study is still "class-side matter." They can be tools, but they should not become new "other kinds"—new things that make you forget yourself.

Common Misreadings and Clarifications

Misreading One: "Other Kind" Means the Animal Realm

The most common misreading: taking 異類 to mean "animal" or "non-human." Indeed, Caoshan used images like "披毛戴角" (wearing fur, bearing horns) and "水牯牛" (water buffalo), which easily makes people think "other kinds" refers to animals.

But Caoshan says clearly: "一切言語聲色是非總是往來異類." Speech, sound, form, right and wrong—these are all other kinds. That is, "other kind" refers not only to life forms of different types, but even more to all phenomena other than "oneself." Every message you see while scrolling your phone, every thought that arises, every judgment you make—all are other kinds.

Animals are only one extreme form of other kinds, not the whole of it. Narrowing other kinds to animals misses Caoshan's most profound point: other kinds are everywhere, right in the flow of your ordinary consciousness.

Misreading Two: "Coming and Going Among Other Kinds" Is Pejorative and Must Be Escaped

Another misreading: since 往來異類 is the drifting state of ordinary beings, one should flee it and eliminate it.

Wrong. Of Caoshan's four kinds of other kinds, the last three are positive, practice-oriented other kinds. The bodhisattva sharing with other kinds is actively entering birth-and-death; the śramaṇa among other kinds is freedom after "being one with the fundamental substance" (就體一般, jiù tǐ yībān); the other kind within the Chan school is "meet wood, touch wood; meet bamboo, touch bamboo." Caoshan is not telling you to flee other kinds; he is telling you to "know there is"—know there is a self—and then take other kinds as your practice ground.

The concept of 往來異類 names the state of "not knowing there is a self," not a problem with "other kinds" themselves. The same sound, form, and speech: one who does not know there is a self drifts among them (往來異類); one who knows there is does not change among them (沙門異類). The problem is not in sound and form, but in knowing and not knowing.

Misreading Three: "Not Knowing There Is a Self" Equals "Lacking Self-Awareness"

Some people read "未知有自己" as the psychological notion of "lacking self-awareness" or "unclear self-knowledge." There is some overlap, but it is not the same thing.

The "self" Caoshan speaks of is not the psychological "self"—not your personality, your values, your self-evaluation. The "self" he speaks of is that fundamental matter, the original face, what the Chan school often calls "the original face before the parents gave birth" (父母未生前本來面目). The psychological self is part of "other kinds"—because it too is a product of speech, sound, form, right and wrong—while the "self" Caoshan speaks of is that which comes and goes through all other kinds without changing.

This distinction matters: if you read "not knowing there is a self" as "lacking self-knowledge," you will go seeking more self-knowledge—understanding your personality, emotional patterns, childhood trauma. These certainly have their value, but they are still within the category of "other kinds." Caoshan points to another dimension: not knowing "who I am" (which is still objectified knowing), but recognizing that which "can know" itself.

Misreading Four: Conflating the Four Kinds of Other Kinds

Caoshan's four kinds of other kinds have distinct levels and must not be conflated.

「往來異類」is the level of ordinary beings—not knowing there is a self, drifting among other kinds.

「菩薩同異類」is the bodhisattva level—first realizing nirvāṇa, then entering birth-and-death, benefiting self and others.

「沙門異類」is the post-awakening level—settling the fundamental matter, exhausting all ordinary-and-sage causes and effects, wearing fur and bearing horns, free wherever touched.

「宗門中異類」is the upward level—"where wisdom does not reach, be careful not to speak of it"—even the concept of "other kind" itself is put down.

Conflating these four is the greatest misreading. For example, someone sees "披毛戴角" and thinks Caoshan is encouraging people to be reborn as animals—this is absurd. "Wearing fur and bearing horns" is a metaphor for the state after awakening, not an instruction to become an animal. Just as "水牯牛" (water buffalo) describes the unhindered freedom of "meeting grass, eat grass; meeting water, drink water," not an instruction to literally become a cow.

Others equate 往來異類 directly with 輪迴 (lúnhuí, saṃsāra)—this too is a narrowing. Saṃsāra is one facet of coming and going among other kinds, but what Caoshan emphasizes is "一切言語聲色是非" (all speech, sound, form, right and wrong), which is far broader than the usual meaning of "the six destinies." Your boss scolds you at work and you feel depressed for half a day—that is 往來異類; you do not need to wait until after death for saṃsāra. The flow of the present mind, moment to moment, is the microscopic manifestation of saṃsāra.

Misreading Five: Reading "Not Changing" as "Not Moving"

Caoshan says "不變易處去" ("go to the place of not changing") and also "知有底人不捨一切聲色是非、物物不滯" ("one who knows there is does not abandon all sound, form, right and wrong, nor is stuck on any thing"). Some people read 不變易 ("not changing") as a mind like still water, without any reaction—this is not what Caoshan means.

"Not changing" is not "not moving." Not changing is ease; not moving is suppression. You see something funny and laugh—this is movement, but your original substance has not changed. You hear something unpleasant and get angry—this is also movement, but if you "know there is," your original substance has not changed. Caoshan says "不捨一切聲色是非"—do not reject any realm—but "物物不滯"—do not stay on any thing. This is like a mirror reflecting objects: images come and go in the mirror, but the mirror itself does not change.

So "not changing" is precisely manifested within change. As Caoshan said, "逢草吃草，逢水飲水" (meet grass, eat grass; meet water, drink water)—the water buffalo eats grass and drinks water, this is movement, but its "buffalo nature" does not change. The point is not not-moving; it is not being turned by moving appearances.

Finally, return to Caoshan's seemingly contradictory words: "向汝道，則恐落類邊去" (xiàng rǔ dào, zé kǒng luò lèi biān qù)—"If I tell you this, I fear you will fall into the class-side." All speech about other kinds is, after all, "class-side matter." The concept is a ladder; once you have climbed it, you put it down. But before that, you need this ladder—first recognize the state of 往來異類, and only then know what to put down; first know "捨父逃逝" (abandoning the father and fleeing away), and only then can you speak of going home.

Caoshan's 往來異類 is not meant to make you despise that self which drifts through sound, form, and speech, but to make you turn back, in the midst of drifting, for one look—that one who has been watching all along has never left.