Hey! There's a clownish sort of monk I know who is always darting his eyes around the Hall, secretly worrying that some other monk in the Zen monastery might have "attained," "realized," or "penetrated directly" before him.
This monk's life is a living hell, the hell of hungry ghosts. He gobbles down Zen texts and strains his ears to listen to the lectures in the Dharma hall in hopes of comprehending Zen; he holds forth, citing the words of the old Masters, as if words had any essential substance.
Words are just gobs of spittle! The records of the old Masters are for wiping your ass!
You must instead just resolutely fix your eyes on This, which is appearing right before you, yet is beyond any name or form! Got it?
Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!