Chapter Four:

Early Daoism

Daoism (daojiao 道教, often spelled "Taoism" following the Wade-Giles form of Romanization) may have existed in rudimentary form as early as Confucius' day, although the label "Daoism" came later, during the Han dynasty. Traditionally, scholars have divided Daoism into two (allegedly) distinct entities: 1) a generic label for a wide variety of Chinese popular religions; and 2) an ancient Chinese social philosophy and world view that developed during the late Zhou dynasty. The first entity is usually called "religious" or "popular" Daosim, and the second philosophical Daoism. To some extent, this distinction can be useful, and this chapter emphasizes the basic philosophy of Daoism. Religious or popular Daoism, however, was not a radical departure from philosophical Daoism. Instead, it resulted from the practice and application of Daoist philosophy. Major religions typically began as relatively simple sets of teachings and became increasingly complex in terms of institutional organization, rites and ceremonies, doctrines, related artistic traditions, and so forth as time went passed. "Philosophical" Daoism generally refers to Daoism in its early stages, whereas "religious" or "popular" Daoism generally indicates Daoism as mature and complex Chinese institution (from roughly the Tang dynasty onward). So there is no radical divide between the two varieties of Daoism. It is probably best to think of Daoism as starting out as a particular school of philosophy in ancient China and then adding additional features onto this basic philosophical core--often features borrowed from other religions or schools of thought--as it developed through time. 

Origins and Basic Ideas of Daoism

In some important ways, philosophical Daoism was nearly the opposite of Confucianism. Daoism derives its name from the word dao, which means "the Way." The term should sound familiar, since "the Way" was also terribly important for Confucius. The Daoist conception of "the Way," however, was radically different from Confucian conceptions of "the Way." It was common for the members of most early schools of Chinese thought to regard their "Way" as the one and only correct Way, a Way patterned on the cosmos itself. But there were as many different one-and-only-correct-Ways as there were different schools of thought--and there were many schools of thought. So do not be confused by the fact that both the Confucians and Daoists spoke of "the Way." Realize that what each meant by the term was different, as we shall see below.

There are three figures associated with the origins of philosophical Daoism. One is a legendary ruler called Huangdi, the "Yellow Emperor." Although it is unlikely that he actually existed, Huangdi is an interesting figure because several different Chinese schools of thought and systems of knowledge claim him as their founder. More specific to Daoism are two figures, Laozi 老子 and Zhuangzi 莊子. There is no evidence that Laozi actually existed. Furthermore, his generic-sounding name ("Old Master") suggests that he was an imaginary composite of the ideal Daoist, not an actual, specific person. Even the traditional dates for Laozi's life are inconsistent, some accounts putting him in the 6th century BCE, others putting him in the 4th century BCE. There is greater evidence that an actual person later known as Zhuangzi did exist and that he lived sometime between 399 and 295 BCE. We know nearly nothing, however, about the details of his life. (#Daoist image gallery#) 

Both Laozi and Zhuangzi are said to have written books. As the story goes, when Laozi was riding out of town, about to abandon civilization, someone came running after him and begged him to write down his wisdom for the benefit of others. The resulting book goes by two titles, Laozi and Daodejing 道德經. The first title is simply Laozi's name. The second means roughly, "the potency of the Way," although it is more commonly translated as The Way and Its Power. The book is certainly real and has been translated more often than any other Chinese book, the Analects included. We do not know for sure who wrote it, and there may have been more than one author. (*typical depictions of Laozi*) (*typical depiction of Zhaungzi*)

The title of Zhuangzi's book is easy enough to remember: Zhuangzi. The chapters display some inconsistency regarding style and content, and most scholars agree that the Zhuangzi that has come down to us was written by multiple authors. Zhuangzi himself probably composed some of the chapters. (#more detail about Daoist literature/scriptures#)

The key to understanding Daoism is understanding the Daoist conception of the dao, but doing so is no easy task for those who like clear definitions and neat categories. Indeed, one tenet of Daoism is that there are no clear definitions and neat categories. Daoist tales and imagery tend to celebrate life on the fuzzy borders of human-made categories (e.g., #dragons,#  #immortals,#  #hermits and deformed creatures#).  Furthermore, for Daoists, language is inadequate for describing the profound truths and realities of the cosmos.

Despite the limitations inherent in language, there is probably no easier way to examine this topic than by jumping right in and looking at statements about the Way from Daoist literature. We begin with the opening passage from the Daodejing:

The way that can be spoken of

Is not the constant way;

The name that can be named

Is not the constant name.1

The first point is that the Way is too profound for words to describe. No matter how eloquent or detailed, words in any combination lack the power to describe the Way in its totality. At best, one could describe a small part of the Way in words, or, describe what is not the Way. Confucians regarded their human-centered Way as fully describable in words, particularly if we extend our definition of "words" to include the "text" of ritualized behavior (li). In contrast, classical Daoist literature, like the passage above, often casts doubt on the permanence and objectivity of language-derived categories.

One reason the Daoist Way cannot be described in words is that it is not human centered like the Confucian Way. The Daoist Way is the entire cosmos and all its workings. How could mere words describe something as vast and profound as that? Within this Way, human beings are just one of many kinds of living things. The Way is the creator of all things, yet it is not a deity or some other entity with a specific will:

The myriad creatures rise from it yet it claims no authority;

It gives them life yet claims no possession;

It benefits them yet exacts no gratitude;

It accomplishes this task yet lays claim to no merit (58).

Notice the great difference when compared with Confucius' conception of the Way. For Confucius, it was human beings who created the Way and advanced it. For the philosophical Daoists, it was the Way that gave rise to humans and there was nothing humans could do to modify or change it. Notice also that the Daoist dao seems intangible and lacking in objective reality. Confucius' dao, was concrete and tangible when embodied in li.

The thing for people to do, therefore, is take no specific action (wuwei 無為) to try and change their situation. This way, people simply drift along, going with the flow of the Way and offering no resistance to it. Be like water: "Highest good is like water. Because water excels in benefiting the myriad creatures without contending with them and settles where none would like to be, it comes close to the way" (64). Or, to put it in different terms, "Let your wheels move only along old ruts" (60). Taking no specific action to alter one's surroundings or situation is the only natural way to live, the Daoists would claim. Just follow your built-in instincts. When hungry, for example, pick up fallen fruit, but do not try to improve on the Way by constructing orchards.

The core or essence that lies at the heart of the Way is emptiness (wu 無, also "vacuity," "nothingness"). There is no specific thing other than emptiness that lies at the heart of the Way, and the human mind should be like the Way. Therefore, we should cultivate a vacuous mind, harboring no specific thoughts or desires, acting on instinct not rational, calculating thought:

The way never acts yet nothing is left undone.

Should lords and princes be able to hold fast to it,

The myriad creatures will be transformed of their own accord.

After they have been transformed, should desire raise its head,

I shall press it down with the weight of the nameless uncarved block.

It is but freedom from desire,

And if I cease to desire and remain still,

The empire will be at peace of its own accord (96).

We should be blockheads in the sense that our minds should be like a nameless uncarved block--unrefined and undifferentiated. Along with water, the "nameless uncarved block" was a favorite Daoist image, invoking an undifferentiated state of wholeness or unity. Do not think too hard and start to desire one thing or another. Just be still and without desires, and everything will fall into place.

There is something interesting--and not immediately apparent--in the passage above: political content. The passage seems to contain advice for how to rule a kingdom or the Chinese empire. Actually, the Daodejing is full of passages about how to rule, and the whole book can be read as a guide to using political power through understanding the Way and acting in accord with it. For example:

In the world there is nothing more submissive and weak than water. Yet for attacking that which is hard and strong nothing can surpass it. This is because there is nothing that can take its place.

That the weak overcomes the strong,

And the submissive overcomes the hard,

Everyone in the world knows yet no one can put this knowledge into practice.

[. . .]

Straightforward words

Seem paradoxical (140).

Here we catch a glimpse the late Zhou political context in which each state struggled for greater power and strength, wearing themselves out in the process. Better to be "weak" like water, said the Daodejing, to prevail in the end. This political dimension of Daoism is fascinating and important, but beyond the scope of our limited introduction. A similar political dimension is absent in Zhuangzi. This second Daoist classic suggests that people simply abandon politics live long and happy lives untroubled by the world's cares. For the purposes of this course, we will emphasize this relatively apolitical Daoism that advocates distancing one's self from human society and culture.

(Read the whole #Daodejing [Tao Te Ching].# Read the whole #Zhuangzi [Chuang Tsu].#)

In trying to understand what the dao was to early Daoists, consider the following description by Livia Kohn, a leading scholar of Daoism:

The Tao [=Dao] stands for an organic order, a whole including and embracing everything, yet at the same time pervading all. The Tao is the one power underlying the universe; it makes things be what they are; it causes the world to come into being, from which we all come and to which we all return.

The Tao is organic in that it is not willful, it is not a conscious, active creator, and it is not personal. The Tao is nature, yet it is more than mere nature, it is the essence of nature, the inner quality that makes things the way they are. The Tao is governed by the laws of nature, yet it is also these very laws itself.2

To summarize, according to early Daoists, the Way (dao):

Think of fog covering an area of mountains, trees and lakes. The fog touches everything. All creatures breathe it in. From a distance, the fog looks like a substantial thing, but try to grasp it with your hand and it vanishes into emptiness. Now, imagine that this fog has life-giving qualities, that it nurtures and sustains all living things. This extraordinary fog would be a reasonably good approximation of the Daoist dao.

Because words are not adequate to explain the dao, many Chinese, and other East Asians, attempted to explain it through the visual arts. Painting is the best example. As one classical Chinese art theorist explained:

Meanings that are subtle and beyond the expression of words and symbols may be grasped by the mind through books and writings. How much more so in my case, when I have personally lingered among [the mountains] and, with my own eyes, observed them all around me, so that I render forms as I find the forms to be and apply colors as I see them!"3

Although books can lead the mind to grasp the dao, at least in the view of this theorist, paintings produced by artists who have closely observed nature are an even better vehicle.

A *Daoist-influenced painting* is likely to contain several features. It will feature fog, mist, clouds and bodies of water. These entities will permeate and move through the painting just as the dao permeates an ever-moving, ever-changing universe. Daoist paintings often feature circular spaces, and sometimes the whole painting is organized as a series of circular spaces. Mountains and trees are often present, though never in neat rows. The mountains are usually jagged and irregular. The trees are bent and gnarled, their growth shaped by the forces of nature. Such twisted trees would be of no value to human beings for use as lumber, a major item of civilization. (*example*)

A notable absence in many Daoist-influenced paintings is human beings and their structures. Typically, they are not completely absent, but they are minimized, often greatly. People are small and indistinct as they walk along paths or scull their boats. Their houses, too, form just a small part of the overall landscape. This de-centering of humans points out that people are but a small part of nature and, according to Daoist aesthetic standards, should be depicted as such. (*example*)

Of course, Daoist paintings typically depict scenes of nature. If such a painting features a living creature, it will probably be a bird or another non-human animal. *Bamboo* was an important symbol for Daoists because its hollow center serves as an excellent example of the emptiness (wu) that underlies the Daoist dao. (*example*) (*example*) The empty core gives bamboo tremendous strength. Bamboo is able to withstand windstorms, for example, by bending instead of breaking.

Even the best painting cannot completely depict the dao--what possibly could? But a well-done painting might depict a more complete view of the dao than could words alone (*example*) (*example*).

Dragons (long 龍) often served as a vivid metaphor for the dao. Chinese dragons are long, lizard-like creatures, and they always suggest good things like proper rainfall, wealth, prosperity, et cetera. *Dragons* have long been associated with clouds, mists, and water, out of which they mysterious emerge, and then blend back into the unseen depths. *Humans in perfect harmony* with the dao were thought to be so light that they could ride atop dragons (or other flying creatures such as cranes), that is, they could ride the winds of the dao without effort--the ultimate in "going with the flow." The metaphor of dragons standing for the dao was often extended to other things such as *trees* or *Zhuangzi's walking stick.* (#Dragons in Chinese Culture#)

Daoists, of course, thought that human beings should live in accordance with the Way. To strive to do so, however, would never work. Relax and stop striving. Abandon all that useless book learning, worries about careers in government, and the stress and strain of civilization in all its forms:

In the pursuit of learning one knows more every day; in pursuit of the way one does less every day. One does less and less until one does nothing at all, and when one does nothing at all there is nothing that is undone. (109)

and

Exterminate the sage, discard the wise,

And the people will benefit a hundredfold;

Exterminate benevolence, discard rectitude,

And the people will again be filial. (75)

Burn this book for fuel! Drop out of school! One lives in harmony with the Way by abandoning all the things Confucians held so dear: learning, sagehood, rectitude, the "wisdom" acquired through formal training, et cetera. Take it easy! Do not strain yourself. Let your wheels move along old ruts. If we all lived this way, we would enjoy peace and harmony. We would all have simple, happy, long lives, as the Way intends--or at least that is what early Daoists contended.

"So what is someone supposed to do, abandon all civilization and live out in the woods like an animal?" many a confused reader has asked at this point. "Yes, do precisely that" the early Daoists would say. People are supposed to live *just like the other animals.* Civilization is unnatural and a source of constant grief. Of course we should abandon it. A few simple tools and clothes and small roving communities living off the land is about as complex as society should be. And, apparently, a few people actually attempted to *live such simple lives.*

For Confucians, the solution to the China's problems was more of the best forms of civilization. Return to the ancient li of King Wen and the Duke of Zhou. The early Daoists also sought a return to the past, but it was to a more remote past. Daoists sought a return to the pristine times before humans had been corrupted by culture and civilization and lived just like the other animals in a natural state. At a time like the Warring States period or the Qin dynasty, this vision must have had wide appeal, since human civilization and society did not seem conducive of happiness. Also, keep in mind that the population was much lower in Zhou times than in modern China, and archaeological evidence suggests the overall climate was slightly warmer than that of more recent centuries.

The *early Daoist view of history* (important: compare with the Confucian and Legalist views) was almost the inverse of Confucius' view of history. Recall that Confucius spoke highly of the legendary kings Yao, Shun and Yu as early founders of human civilization. There were other legendary figures as well, like Suiren, Fuxi, Shennong, and the Yellow Emperor, who supposedly came before Yao, Shun and Yu. According to legend, all were creators of human culture and civilization. With this information in mind, read the following paragraph from Zhuangzi:

The humans of old dwelt in the midst of crudity and chaos; side by side with the rest of the world, they attained simplicity and silence there. At that time the yin and yang were harmonious and still, ghosts and spirits worked no mischief, the four seasons kept to their proper order, the ten thousand things knew no injury, and living creatures were free from premature death. Although humans had knowledge, they did not use it. This was called the Perfect Unity. At this time, no one made a move to do anything, and there was unvarying spontaneity.4

The prehistoric past was a paradise. All was in harmony and all were happy, living in a simple state of nature. Nothing and nobody died prematurely. Many Daoists regarded the proper human life span to be hundreds of years. So why did people in Zhou times grow old and die so early? The following Zhuangzi passage explains how and why humans went downhill since those ancient, pristine times:

The time came, however, when natural potency began to dwindle and decline, and then Suiren and Fuxi stepped forward to take charge of the world. As a result there was compliance, but no longer any unity. Natural potency continued to dwindle and decline, and then Shennong and the Yellow Emperor stepped forward to take charge of the world. As a result, there was security, but no longer any compliance. Virtue continued to dwindle and decline, and then Yao and Shun stepped forward to take charge of the world. They set about in various fashions to order and transform the world, and in doing so defiled purity and shattered simplicity. The Way was pulled apart for the sake of goodness; natural potency was imperiled for the sake of conduct. After this, inborn nature was abandoned and minds were set free to roam, mind joining mind in understanding; there was knowledge, but it could not bring stability to the world. After this, 'culture' was added on, and 'breadth' drowned the mind, and after this the people began to be confused and disordered. They had no way to revert to the true form of their inborn nature or to return once more to the Beginning.5

It was culture that ultimately came to stand between humans and their true nature. Culture, for  Daoists, was like a poison. If only we could remove it, or if we could remove ourselves from it, we could return to our natural state of living. Early Daoists viewed Confucius' beloved siwen as today we might view radioactive waste and runoff from old copper mines--it literally poisons and kills us, making our lives miserable in the meantime.

In their view of history, Daoists and Confucians would have agreed on the initial premise: human beings once lived in a primitive state of nature like other animals. Daoists and Confucians would also have agreed that human culture, institutions, and other aspects of civilization developed through the efforts of several ancient figures, namely: the mythical Fuxi, Shennong, the Yellow Emperor, Yao, Shun, Yu, and more recent, historical rulers. They would have disagreed completely, however, in their subjective evaluation of the direction of human development. Confucius saw the primitive state of nature as the low point. From there it has generally been an uphill climb, except for a few periods of temporary decline like his own day. For the Daoists, the primitive state of nature was the high point of human development. It was a time when humans lived in accordance with the Way and their own inborn natures. Human development went steadily downhill since then.

Daoists and Confucius both asked the same question when evaluating the past: To what extent was any past age conducive to ideal human development? For Confucius, the distant past was not conducive to ideal human development and the recent past was. For Daoists, it was the other way around. "Contrary to the Analects," Ames points out, "the [Laozi] literature idealizes antiquity not because of its culture but rather the lack of it."6 Culture is what has caused our sorry, miserable, unnatural present-day (late Zhou period) state, Daoists contended.

"Weekend Daoism" in Later Dynasties

Daoism had a certain appeal to many Chinese in the last centuries of the Zhou dynasty. Likewise, contemporary American students are often attracted to the idea of abandoning socially-imposed rules, concerns, and worries to live a simple life amidst nature. In reality, however, very few Chinese of any time period became full-fledged Daoists in the sense described in this chapter. Similarly, most of us today make our peace with social expectations and conform to the norms of the "rat race." After all, there is also something appealing about heated homes in the winter, automobiles, indoor plumbing, grocery stores, computers, and the like. And, unfortunately, these things do not fall off trees like ripe fruit in the lush, sparsely-populated mountains of central and southern China during the Zhou period. Daoism, in short, was simply impractical in its full form as a way of life for most people. Few people anywhere have ever been willing to give up the comforts of civilization in order to escape its stresses and worries.

There is no law of nature, however, that requires people pursue Daoism full time. It is possible to incorporate Daoist-like experiences into various aspects of one's life while still living amidst society. As we move into the Han dynasty and later periods, we find that Daoism informed recreation and leisure for many Chinese, especially elite members of society. The typical upper-class Chinese male of the Han dynasty and later identified himself with Confucianism. Typically, he sought a career in government administration, or, if that was impossible, he might engage in commercial or scholarly activities. Despite pursuing such worldly careers, however, well-to-do Chinese men (and women, too, though usually limited to a narrower range of activities) took time out to recreate. This recreation typically involved an aesthetic appreciation of nature in ways clearly influenced by Daoism.

Let us consider some examples. In this *"Poetry Party" depiction,* a number of wealthy men have gathered by the banks of a small stream that meanders through an area of trees and bamboo. They sit on mats near the water while servants float cups of wine down the stream. The men on the mats drink the wine in the cups that happen to float their way, and while drinking, they compose poems on the scenery around them. This sort of activity is hardly the true Daoism of the Laozi and Zhuangzi, but it is nevertheless a Daoist-inspired form of enjoying nature. Of course, it helps to be rich and to have servants on hand to help make life amidst nature more enjoyable! You too could have a nice Daoist time for a week or two by renting a cottage on a remote beach on one of the Hawaiian Islands and having room service bring breakfast down to your beach chair.

On a more daily basis, and at a much lower cost, one could take a few moments out to gaze at a Daoist-inspired landscape painting hanging on the wall. Classical Chinese landscape paintings were often constructed so that the viewer could walk or otherwise travel through the scenery in his or her mind (*Take a walk here.*). For those with means, it was common to set up a rustic hut or a pavilion surrounded by a garden of trees and bushes within the confines of one's estate (*example*). For a Daoistic experience, one need only walk through the garden and sit in the hut or pavilion (*example*).

Sometimes government officials to retire to rustic cottages (with servants in tow, of course) to paint and compose poetry (*example*). This "retirement" could come after a long career, or, during times when one was out of favor with the government owing to factional disputes (common in all dynasties, especially the Song). Or, an official might take a Daoist vacation to recover from an illness or otherwise to take a break from the stressful, competitive world of official life. In this way, Daoist experiences served to ease the stress of an otherwise worldly life. For want of an ideal term, I designate the kinds of Daoist recreational activities described in these paragraphs as "weekend Daoism."

From the Han dynasty onward, all well educated Chinese studied the two Daoist classics, Laozi and Zhuangzi, regardless of whether they considered themselves to be Daoists in any formal sense (and most surely did not). Early Daoism, although not a practical way of life for all but a very small handful of Chinese, was highly influential in the realm of elite aesthetics. In this way, Daoism was the most important force in shaping Chinese painting as well as some of the other visual arts. Daoist aesthetics also influenced modes of recreation, particularly among the well-to-do. Daoism also developed in another direction during the Han dynasty and later: it became a popular religion. A later chapter takes up this aspect of Daoism. For now, we turn to a third and very different classical Chinese philosophy, Legalism.

Notes

1. D.C. Lau, trans., Lao Tzu/Tao Te Ching (New York: Penguin Books, 1963), p. 57. Henceforth all passages from the Daodejing will be based on this translation with all Chinese names converted into Pinyin and page numbers in parentheses in the body of the text.

2. Livia Kohn, Taoist Mystical Philosophy: The Scripture of Western Ascension (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1991), p. 7.

3. Quoted in Wm. Theodore de Bary, Wing-tsit Chan, and Burton Watson, comps., Sources of Chinese Tradition, Vol. 1 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1960), pp. 253-254.

4. Burton Watson, trans., The Complete Works of Chuang Tzu (New York: Columbia University Press, 1968), p. 172, with minor modification.

5. Ibid., pp. 172-3, with minor modification.

6. Ames, The Art of Rulership, p. 8.