The pipes of heaven and the axis of dào

In a couple previous posts I have asked how Zhuangist writers relate the one and the many: how they conceive what things have in common, what they don’t have in common, and how this matters to us. One conclusion was that Zhuangists prioritize unity, or what things share with one another, as part of an ethical project centered on flexibility—flexibility of judgment that permits individual resilience as well as social cooperation. Another was that the metaethical discussions of the Qiwulun demonstrate a strongly theoretical interest in distinguishing the one from the many in considerations of proper action. The chapter scrutinizes what would make for proper action in general, in the face of its radically plural and contingent expression in the world as we find it.

Previously I have drawn attention to part-whole imagery in the Qiwulun—here as elsewhere in Daoist literature, the many are subtracted or hacked out of the one. Put everything together again, and you move from diversity to unity. But this is not the only image we’re given: the famous “pipes of heaven” passage asks the difference between the wind and what we hear when it blows. Can we really be said to hear the wind, when all we hear at one time is some tiny selection of the wind’s effects on the physical objects it touches? Subsequently we are invited to think about discs and circular motion: there is an “axis of dào” that somehow relates to limitless responsiveness. In any circular motion there is peripheral displacement around a still center, which again suggests a one-many contrast. In this post I’d like to explore the metaphors of the wind and the axis, in their immediate contexts, and to ask what philosophical implications they might have.

Zhuangzi and the possibility of philosophical culture

A core feature of philosophical culture in the Western tradition is the supposition that debating about abstract matters is productive of insight, and that it encourages (or at least comports with) the attainment of appealing moral and religious goals. The canonical thinkers of classical Greece and China all deplore eristic debate, where the point of articulating and defending theses is simply to gain victory over the opponent. Plato and Aristotle, however, domesticate the procedures of eristic debate, yoking precise definition and dogged discussion of entailments and justification to ideals of friendship and inquiry.

I think this kind of domestication never took place in classical China: the moralists with lasting influence (Confucians and Daoists) were not inclined to think friendship and inquiry well-served by prolonged argumentative discussion. They used argument to persuade others and to combat their opponents; what I think we don’t see is the idea that the social and psychological fruits of an argumentative lifestyle are worth pursuing in themselves. Mohists and some bits of the Zhuangzi demonstrate greater trust in the moral and religious usefulness of careful theoretical discussion, but the more famous Daoist anti-intellectual and anti-language material seems best explained by a failure to appreciate this possibility. When Daoists reject clear talking, clear thinking, and clear goals, they often appear to assume that the only alternative to their own free-wheeling approach is sclerotic dogmatism. The choice they offer is between getting instructed by a teacher and abandoning all structured moral improvement whatsoever. In this post I will look at a particularly anti-intellectual text from Zhuangzi 22, and ask whether its evasiveness is a credible response to the moralistic traditions it opposes.

The Way, the Ditch, and the Ten Thousand Things

In several recent posts I have tried to talk about the Zhuangist understanding of dào—the core Warring States concept of appropriate action. One conclusion I suggested is that, while some Daoist writers identify dào as a supreme and mysterious entity that births and rules the myriad things, this identification is anything but consistent. Many Zhuangzi passages that discuss the supreme entity never relate it to dào, and most discussions of dào do not suggest any link with metaphysical or cosmogonic concerns. Another conclusion is that the anthology’s critical second chapter retains a kind of monism or absolutism about dào—trusting that there is such a thing as the best response to each situation, or at least an optimal range of responses—while declaring its proper expression radically contingent and uncodifiable.

The Zhuangzi frequently seems interested in probing the concept of proper conduct at an abstract level, rather than advancing a specific normative view against opposing views. Departing from standard Warring States practice, it offers various definitions of dào that sever the concept from association with any concrete commitments, virtues, or exemplars. One of these definitions is familiar from chapter 2: somewhat interpretively translated, “unselfconscious situational accord is what is called ‘dào’” (因是已；已而不知其然，謂之道). Chapter 22 offers “matching and responding is dào” (偶而應之，道也), and chapter 25 gives “‘dào’ means acting in the most impartial way” (道者，為之公). In this post I will explore the third of these formulations, which hails from a strikingly argumentative and analytical dialogue too often overlooked by philosophical readers.

Daoist monism: unity as (in)difference

Daoist thought is frequently associated with monism, or the position that “all things are one”. The classical texts contain both direct assertions of monism (萬物與我為一, 萬物皆一也) and descriptions of agents who render all things one (磅礡萬物以為一); they also reject some formulations of monism in favor of others. The latter point is especially important for helping us understand what was at stake in the ancient debates—monism was not only on the table, it was articulated in more than one version.

Zhuangzi is the place to look for evidence on Daoist monism, since evidence in the Laozi is characteristically vague. I will argue that, in Zhuangzi chapters 2 and 5, monism (of a certain kind) is recommended as a cognitive stance that, when adopted, permits agents to issue judgments more flexibly. In chapter 2, this kind of flexibility-enhancing monism is contrasted with the balder thesis—likely associated with sophists—that there is exactly one thing. I read the Zhuangists as asserting that there really is just one thing (in a certain sense) but that things really are plural as well (in a different sense). Given the plurality of things we typically perceive and interact with, it is important to recognize the sense in which they are one; doing so enables us to shift our judgments as the situation demands.

Dao and the Limits of Skill

A recent post by Dan Robins mentioned the three skilled masters who appear in Zhuangzi 2. The ensuing comment thread did not spend much time on this passage, but I think it could detain us for longer. Many interpreters have seized on the Zhuangzi’s interest in skillful virtuosos as though skill itself were being presented as a normative ideal, or as though the virtuosos provide a model for sagehood in general. However well this interpretive tack explains “skill stories” from elsewhere in the anthology, chapter 2’s treatment of the topic is notably cynical. (This is perhaps why it has attracted so little commentary.) It also gives us direct access to some of the chapter’s most challenging contentions about normative judgment and the good life.

We are presented with three leading masters of their arts: Zhao Wen the zither-player, Shi Kuang the orchestral conductor, and Hui Shi the debater. Now while Hui Shi’s chosen profession is singled out for criticism throughout the anthology, Zhao Wen and Shi Kuang seem to be on safer ground. (Zhuangist thought shows no suspicion of music to compare with its suspicion of debate.) These masters were all expert, became famous, and liked what they did. They also wanted to make their arts “clear” to others—this may mean that they aimed at teaching others, or simply that they took pleasure in display and being appreciated. In any case, their attempt at making their arts “clear” to others backfired. Hui Shi got lost in the darkness of sophistical arguments, and Zhao Wen was unable to transmit his art to his son, despite the latter’s lifelong efforts. In teaching or popularizing their arts, we are told, these masters tried to illuminate, or make clear, or make obvious (míng 明) something that was not clear or obvious to their audience. That was a recipe for disappointment.

Wandering in the Ancestor

“Dào” is by far the most famous label Daoist texts use for the entity that gives rise to the cosmos. There are many more, however. The writers sometimes anthropomorphize the cosmogonic entity as mother, teacher, lord, or maker of things; they are also comfortable calling it nothing, the formless, the root, that to which all things are tied, and so on.

Most interpretive work on these texts assumes that “dào” is the most proper or illustrative label—despite Laozi 25′s insistence that this use of the word is at best a stretch. If all cosmogonic passages in the Laozi and Zhuangzi are talking about something that is most usefully called “dào”, then we face two interpretive options. The first takes what we know about dào and reads the variety of cosmogonic discussions in light of this shared core concept. The second works in the reverse direction, accepting the variety of the discussions and incorporating that diversity into our understanding of what “dào” means for these authors. The second tack is much more common, and renders the texts considerably more vague and confusing than they actually are. In fact, most cosmogonic discussions in Daoist texts have nothing to do with dào, and most discussions of dào have nothing to do with cosmogony.