An Introduction to Daoist Philosophies

The Zhuangzi anthology as a whole does not represent the philosophical ideas of a single school, let alone a single person, but rather the development of different lines of thought over several centuries. Still, ideas that resonate with those found in the Laozi and in the Inner Chapters remain clearly recognizable throughout the Outer and Miscellaneous Chapters, with the single notable exception of chapter 30, which does not contain any distinctively Daoist ideas. From a careful examination of the complete anthology, we can see that over the course of time, these ideas began to develop their own momentum, and interpretations began to diverge significantly. Moreover, influences from non-Daoist schools can also be found: ideas from Confucianism, Mohism, and Legalism, for example, appear in later passages written by more eclectically inclined thinkers. Despite the hankering for unity and simplicity of the dao, the streams of thought develop branches that grow and diminish, subdivide and reconnect, creating the variety of permutations represented in the Outer and Miscellaneous Chapters. From a distance, in addition to the Zhuangzian mainstream, two distinctive courses can be discerned leading to opposite ends of the political compass: a quasi-anarchistic type of utopianism and a composite theory of rulership based on a form of mystical cultivation. Both rightly claim their heritage in the pre-Qin Daoist texts, but while the utopian branch stays close to the source, the syncretist branch, through a shift in emphasis, follows the momentum in a surprising direction.

The division between the Outer and Miscellaneous Chapters does not appear to be based on considerations of style or content. It is true that many of the Miscellaneous Chapters (23 to 27 and 32) are more heterogeneous than others in the anthology—Graham refers to them as “ragbag” chapters—but overall the dividing line after chapter 22 appears to be somewhat arbitrary. While a few of the Outer and Miscellaneous Chapters are composed of extended essays, the majority are collections of assorted stories, parables, and philosophical musings of varying length: some just a few sentences long, others developed more extensively. Some chapters of the anthology fall together in neat groupings—they are written in similar styles, use similar terminology, and express similar points of view—but most contain a selection of themes and viewpoints, and a few appear to be almost random collections of passages. Apart from the Utopian essays, I prefer to refer to the strands of thought that can be discerned in scattered passages throughout the text, rather than to chapters as a whole.

Modern scholarship from China, Japan, and the West over the last hundred years or so has enabled us to disentangle several of these strands.1 Some passages advocate a clearly identifiable philosophical position, while others suggest intermediate positions consistent with the thought of more than one branch. Consequently, grouping and classifying each chapter, and even individual passages within each chapter, under separate strands has proved to be no easy task.

A few overall distinctive tendencies can be discerned. Several chapters show signs of direct influence of the quasi-anarchistic views espoused by significant portions of the Laozi. Six chapters, 8 to 10 and 29 to 31, are written in relatively lengthy prose and with consistent literary style. With the exception of chapter 30,2 they, and passages consistent with them, can be attributed to a utopian strain of Daoism that is largely social libertarian or anarchist in spirit. At the other end of the spectrum, a minority of passages exhibit the syncretistic, or eclectic, approach typical of Han dynasty thinkers and advocate a holistic political philosophy in which a single ruler is able to take control of a vast state system through esoteric forms of inner cultivation and delegation of practical duties. These are scattered through chapters 11 to 16, which are otherwise miscellaneous in character; chapter 33, however, appears to be a single Syncretist essay. The remainder of the anthology explores ideas that resonate closely with those of the Inner Chapters. These are classified by Graham as the “school” of Zhuangzi and were included in Chapter Four above. This Zhuangzian philosophy and passages consistent with the utopian strand of Daoist thought form the bulk of the Outer and Miscellaneous Chapters.

Even when the various philosophical positions represented in the anthology as a whole differ dramatically—the Utopian chapters and the Syncretist passages have political views that are almost diametrically opposed—their ancestral commonalities are not altogether lost. Indeed, insofar as similar views can be found in either the Laozi or Zhuangzian passages, the early “Daoist” part of their heritage remains impeccable.

In the following, I shall explore some philosophical issues raised by the utopian Daoists and briefly discuss the characteristics of syncretistic Daoism. I end with a rough guide to the strands of Daoism in the chapters of the Zhuangzi anthology.

DAOIST UTOPIANISM

There are several chapters, and a large proportion of passages throughout the Zhuangzi anthology, that appear to owe as much to the Laozi as to the Inner Chapters; they explicitly develop a critique of Ruism and call for a return to simplicity, to nurturing life, and to cultivating one’s natural tendencies. Chapters 8, 9, 10, 28, 29, and 31 and many of the passages in chapters 11, 16, and 22 express versions of this philosophical attitude.³ They extol the virtues of a simple life, reject the cultivation of humanity and rightness, and rail against the oppressive nature of social arrangements. They call for abandoning concern with political power and describe a utopian era when social groups were small and life was simple. Liu Xiaogan classifies this as a form of anarchism.

Chapters 8, 9, and 10 are so strikingly similar in style and philosophical content that they could have been written by a single person. A. C. Graham believes that these chapters, which are long essays, were indeed written by one author, whom he refers to as “the Primitivist.” However, although the chapters contain very similar critiques of social artifice and claims that we need to nurture our natural tendencies, xing 性, they have enough differences, particularly in terminology, to suggest the possibility of different writers, or of the same writer formulating thoughts and objections at different times. The first part of chapter 11 expresses a similar view, but it is written in a markedly different style and is composed of several medium-length essays. Graham believes that although chapters 28, 29, 30, and 31 present similar ideas about political activity, they are significantly different in style and content from those he attributes to the Primitivist. The chapters are also different enough from each other in style and terminology that they do not appear to be from the hand of a single author. Graham notices that the view expressed in chapter 28 is precisely that attributed to Yang Zhu (Yangzi) in the Lüshi Chunqiu, and so he refers to the authors of these chapters as Yangists.4

Philosophical Overview

The Confucian philosopher, Xunzi, sees social cultivation as absolutely necessary for our development as humans. He argues that without culture and artifice, without regulation and control, our natural tendencies will flow unrestrained and run amok. “The natural tendency of humans is ugly; as for their being good, it is because of artifice (wei 偽).”⁵ According to the utopian ideas of chapter 8, “Webbed Toes,” and chapter 9, “Horses’ Hooves,” however, it is the very process of enculturation itself that damages our xing. This is reminiscent of Mencius’ argument that our natures should not be damaged by the imposition of external structures. But Mencius and the Utopians have radically opposed understandings of the relationship between nature and the virtues. Mencius argues that virtues such as humanity and rightness derive from our natural tendencies, while wickedness results from neglecting or harming them. The Utopians assert that such harm results not only in wickedness but also in striving for virtuous behavior. In chapter 8, “Webbed Toes,” we read:

Nowadays the humane people of the age lift up weary eyes, worrying over the ills of the world, while the inhumane rupture the conditions (qing 情) of their natural tendencies (xing 性) and lifespan (ming 命) in their greed for eminence and wealth. Thus, I think that humanity and rightness are not the natural condition of humans (renqing).… Depending on curve and plumb line, compass and square to “rectify” things, this is to hack away at their xing. (100)

The direct attack on all ethical concepts in favor of ethically neutral natural tendencies gives rise to the recurring problem for Daoist ethics. But, as we shall see in the section on reluctant rulership below, unlike the Laozi and Zhuangzian philosophy, the Utopians may have a solution to this problem.

It is not only the inculcation of ethical ideals that disrupts our natures and causes confusion but also the purposive acquisition of knowledge. The recommendation of the Utopians is that we should reject the dysfunctional excesses of culture and civilization—the systems of measurements and laws through which we attempt to control what ultimately cannot be controlled, and technological innovations by which we try to improve on nature—and instead return to natural simplicity, pu 樸. We will thereby be able to nourish our natural tendencies and keep our lives whole.

Why might the very tools designed to bring about social harmony cause social turmoil? The simple answer is that culture diverts us from what is most genuine. Civilization and regulation are additions to nature that arise from human hubris: dissatisfied with our natural condition, we desire to improve it; we set up goals and intentions, and construct plans of action and social structures that will enable us to achieve those goals. Natural processes are fluid, free, and flexible, and have their own appropriateness, but we cut them down to our preferred specifications and stretch them to fit our rigid constructions. “What is long by nature needs no cutting off; what is short by nature needs no stretching.… I think, then, that humanity and rightness are not the human condition” (100).

Chapter 10, “Rifling Trunks,” warns against using intellectual artifice to control nature in order to benefit people:

With increased knowledge of bows, crossbows, nets, stringed arrows, and triggered contraptions, birds flee in confusion to the sky. With increased knowledge of fishhooks, lures, seines, dragnets, trawls, and weirs, fish flee in confusion to the depths of the water.… This is how the great confusion comes about, blotting out the brightness of sun and moon above, searing the vigor of hills and streams below, overturning the round of the four seasons in between. (112–13)

Interfere with nature and you will only throw it out of joint: the natural seasons will fall out of order, the birds and beasts will be in disarray! The more we seek knowledge, the more we use it to interfere with natural processes, and the more we inevitably throw them out of balance. At one time, such anxiety might have been dismissed as excessive and unrealistic alarmism, but from our present vantage point we can see that the authors of the Utopian chapters displayed a surprising and eerie prescience.

Chapter 10 seems to draw its primitivist inspiration directly from the Laozi. “Cut off sageliness, cast away wisdom, and then the great thieves will cease. Break the jades, crush the pearls, and petty thieves will no longer rise up” (110). It might be considered an early Chinese exercise in deconstruction, asserting that the cultivation of humanity results in inhumane behavior and therefore is inhumane, and that sagacity, sheng 聖, produces thieves, and therefore is itself a form of brigandry. This is developed further in chapter 29, “Robber Zhi” (see “Hypocrisy as a Philosophical Criticism” below). The critique of sagacity here echoes the attack on cleverness in the Laozi: those who are crafty can use their wits to outsmart and exploit the gullible.6

Moreover, the existence of artificial measures and values arouses people’s desires: they strive to acquire the objects valued and cheat to conform to the measures and regulations, and thereby harm their own natures.⁷ Xunzi also argued that following desires leads to excess, but recommended that desires be regulated through artifice. As with the Laozi, however, the analysis and recommendation of the Utopian chapters is just the reverse: the very structures through which we attempt to control behavior are excessive and result in harm. By defining what is valuable—profit, fame, humanity—they lead us away from a natural state of contentment and down a spiraling path of increasing artifice, acquisition, and control. If, however, we are in tune with our natures and potency, if we can settle into and find peace in an 安, our natural tendencies, then the senses cannot be thrown off balance.

Natural Tendencies⁸ Xing 性

The Utopian writers are particularly concerned that humans should preserve their natural life tendencies, and not sacrifice or exchange them for anything else. They are referred to as xing, sometimes as xingming 性命, or xingming zhi qing 性命之情, the circumstances (qing) of natural tendencies (xing) and lifespan (ming). Here, “ming” appears to have the sense of “lifespan” rather than Circumstance. “Xing” is etymologically related to, and indeed sometimes interchangeable with, the word “sheng” 生, meaning “life.” The heart radical, 忄, suggests the heart of life, the inner region from which the life processes originate, as it were: our life capacities, perhaps, or life impulses. These tendencies not only enable us to live but also make us what we are, and provide the conditions for the development of each individual natural lifespan. Our life tendencies are produced by nature and provide our distinctive predispositions, not only as the individual things we are but also as the kinds of things we are. They are naturally born in us, but they must nevertheless be nurtured if we are to complete our natural lifespans. However, since our ability to live to our fullest natural potential is as much the product of environmental circumstances as it is of our inner tendencies, the concept of xing tends to include some of those nurturing conditions.9

The Daoist conception of tian is not of a hegemonic ruler, a lawgiver that controls and governs the myriad things. It is rather a way of referring to the background conditions that enable or allow things to flourish in accordance with their own inner dispositions. Seeds do not grow into plants because they are commanded; they do so because that is their natural tendency. The natural disposition of horses includes, among other things, eating grass and galloping; the natural tendencies of water include falling and adopting the shape of its container. To be sure, modern science posits “laws” that “govern” all natural phenomena. However, the metaphor of “obeying” scientific laws is misplaced. The so-called “laws” of nature are rather principles that simply describe the most general repeating patterns in accordance with which natural phenomena occur. Since they describe the patterns that things actually follow, there is no sense in talking about obeying or disobeying them. To the extent that what happens does not correspond to our stated laws, it is not the events that are at fault, but our understanding of the natural patterns that actually took place. We need not to punish the event, but to come up with a better theory as to what patterns it actually followed.¹⁰ In every case, what happens naturally is simply what happens, not just as a matter of fact, but as a matter of the outward unfolding of inner processes. It is inevitable, given the way things are: it can neither be forced nor avoided.

Still, seeds do not always grow. If they do not get sufficient water they will not sprout; if they are overwatered they will drown. It seems that in unsuitable circumstances they cannot follow their natural tendencies. But is this right? Surely it is the natural tendency of a seed to decompose when soaked in water for an excessive amount of time. The rotting of organic matter is just as natural as the growth of an organism. Nevertheless, there is still an important distinction here that we should not be eager to lose too quickly: these natural tendencies are of two quite distinctively different kinds. The ability of a seed to follow its inner tendencies to grow into a plant of a particular species is something quite specific, quite different from its tendency to decompose. There is a sense in which decomposition is a general tendency that occurs when the species-specific processes are prevented from developing. This notion of the proper development of an organism of a specific species is comparable to Aristotle’s notion of the proper function of an organ. At any rate, even if it could be argued that there is no objective distinction between the two kinds of processes, it remains the case that the Daoists are looking to learn from the aspects of nature that enable life to flourish. Even if all processes follow their natural tendencies, some of those processes are more conducive to the flourishing of life than others, and it is these that are emphasized in the concept of xing. We may choose to follow and develop our cognitive, manipulative, and evaluative tendencies, but according to the Utopians, we harm our natural life tendencies when we do so.

There are also nonbiological tendencies that may result in flourishing or conflict. A stream will follow a channel down a hill, but a rock in the channel will block the path of the stream. The rock may break if the current is powerful, or slowly and imperceptibly be worn down and polished by the flow. Such physical processes are very different from biological phenomena and organic processes, where some sense can be given to the proper function of an organ or organism. Nevertheless, even in nonliving physical processes, where there is no sense of proper function, we may discover principles of natural flourishing that can be applied to the process of living. Living things, after all, are also physical; the events that occur and the processes they undergo also have general physical properties, not specific to the proper function and development of the living thing. They are also subject to mechanical laws and the law of gravity; they can move quickly or slowly, clash softly or roughly—and by observing nonbiological phenomena, we can learn which other kinds of interactions will promote flourishing and which kinds will hamper it. If there is a general Daoist claim, though not necessarily a universal principle, about such interactions, it is that a more natural and lasting success lies in understanding the yin, yielding, qualities while the yang, forceful, qualities will have a tendency to be more destructive. The natural world flourishes best when it is a dance of yielding processes, because mutual yielding allows mutual flourishing, but it is the recuperative yin qualities that embody the secret of successful engagement.

When this is applied to human life, the moral is that we should minimize action that hampers our natural tendencies. Popularizations of Daoism in the West have for decades interpreted this as “going with the flow,” dropping out from the rat race and following your desires. Although some of the depictions of Zhuangzi’s happy-go-lucky sages on the outskirts of society might seem to corroborate this interpretation, in fact, it is quite mistaken. On the contrary, the path of cultivation of natural tendencies is a difficult discipline. Humans are the product of thousands upon thousands of years of cultural development: we are thoroughly civilized creatures, and all our actions are shaped by artifice. We are born into a social world in which everything is evaluated, approved or rejected. It is a world of cultural habit and significance: we are rarely, if ever, confronted with purely natural objects, but are surrounded by artifacts that have social functions. From the moment of our birth we are shaped as cultural beings. The actions we perform are almost never merely physical movements or purely biological functions, but have meanings, motivations, and purposes that are thoroughly imbued with social and cultural significance. But in choosing the path of artifice, we neglect our natural capacities and leave them to atrophy. What they would have become if allowed to develop with minimal manipulation is either lost or buried deep beneath layers of socialization. Thus, the undoing of artifice, the recovery of spontaneity, and the cultivation of natural tendencies, if they are even possible, cannot be achieved by merely “going with the flow.”

Hypocrisy as a Philosophical Criticism

Chapters 29, “Robber Zhi,” and 31, “The Old Fisherman,” are literary masterpieces that engage in a savage critique of Confucius. The plot of chapter 29 echoes chapter 4 of the Inner Chapters, where Yanhui goes to visit the brutal lord of Wei.11 Here, it is Confucius who goes to visit the crime lord Zhi to convince him to change his ways. In reply, the ferocious and volatile Zhi launches a furious attack on Confucius, accusing him and all moralists of hypocrisy. Note that he refers to Confucius disrespectfully using his personal name, “Qiu”:

“In your flowing robes and loose-tied sash, you speak your deceits and act out your hypocrisies, confusing and leading astray the rulers of the world, hoping thereby to lay your hands on wealth and eminence. There is no worse robber than you! I don’t know why, if the world calls me Robber Zhi, it doesn’t call you Robber Qiu!” (328)

He gives several instances of people whose way is praised and commended by Confucius. But all of these either were unvirtuous or acted in ways that caused harm or even death, either for themselves or for others:

“Yao was a merciless father, Shun was an unfilial son, Yu was half paralyzed, Tang banished his sovereign Jie.… All these … men are held in high esteem by the world, and yet a close look shows that all of them for the sake of profit confused their genuineness, that they forcibly turned against their qing and xing.” (328–29)

In practice, the Confucian way, in promoting unvirtuous people, would appear to be either hypocritical or self-undermining.

There is not much explicit argument, but the story is narrated in a beautiful and compelling way.12 Zhi and his band have their own code of criminal conduct and ideals of excellence. Comparing it with the dao that Confucius teaches, he finds that the latter does not even result in a more harmonious society: in pursuit of Confucian virtue, people still suffer and lose their lives. The accusation of hypocrisy is essentially that there are no significant differences between the brigandry of Zhi and the way of Confucius, and that Confucius therefore has no right to preach. It is important, however, to note the rhetorical function of this chapter. Zhi’s dao of brigandry is not being promoted as an equally good ideal, but rather is being used as a device to show how the results of Confucian practice are inconsistent with its own ideals. That is, the deeper agenda behind Zhi’s tirade is to show that Confucianism and brigandry are both unacceptable, two sides of the same coin: a meddling interference with natural tendencies that causes contention.

The writer or writers of these stories seem at times to presuppose that there can never be any motivation other than profit of some kind, whether wealth or reputation. “Never-Enough said to Sense-of-Harmony, ‘After all, there are no people who do not strive for reputation and seek gain’” (335). Even Confucian striving for virtue is really just vying for some sort of personal advancement. As with those who believe that humans always act out of selfish motivations, the narrator does not say why Confucius is just striving for profit, but merely makes the accusation. The claim, however, is unjustified: it assumes dogmatically what it sets out to prove. Prima facie, we act sometimes selfishly and at other times altruistically. While it is true that one can always assume an egoistic story behind any stated altruistic motivation,13 that is not the same as proving that the ostensibly altruistic motivation was really selfish, and even if that is true in some cases, it certainly does not follow that all altruistic behavior is disguised self-interest. In the absence of such proof, there is no noncircular reason not to accept the altruism at face value.

Now, even if turns out to be true that Yao was a bad father or Shun a bad son, this would not invalidate the virtues of being a good father or son, even for someone who reveres Yao and Shun. One can revere virtues and respect a person as virtuous while also recognizing the extent to which they fail to be virtuous. There is neither inconsistency nor hypocrisy in that. And the claim that Confucianism is self-undermining is compelling only if the practice of Confucian cultivation necessarily results in an unvirtuous society; that is, if it can be shown that Confucianism is necessarily self-undermining.

A similar type of criticism can be found in postmodern critiques of enlightenment ideals. The ideals of objectivity, truth, and progress are deconstructed¹⁴ by showing how those who professed them systematically used them to justify all sorts of injustices: slavery, racism, hostile colonial occupations of other people’s countries, religious conversion forced under threat of torture, and so on. But the fact that some people use ideals to justify unethical behavior does not by itself invalidate those ideals. The ad hominem attack is not sufficient to refute the values behind the ideals. Nor would it be even if every proponent of the ideals also engaged in unjust, unethical practices. What is needed is to show that something in the very nature of the ideals themselves results inevitably in injustice. The accusation of logocentrism is an attempt to provide precisely such a contaminating factor.

Derrida points out that the very structure of definitive judgment necessarily seeks to exclude what is deemed incomprehensible and therefore either rejected as evil or dangerous, or not acknowledged as even having any existence. The ideals of objectivity blind us to the value of what cannot be encompassed from the perspective of those ideals.15 All moralism that seeks logical universality excludes, and thereby does “violence” to, an “other” that does not conform. If this type of criticism is correct, the hypocrisy is not deliberate, but is something that the proponents are incapable of seeing. It is thus hypocritical not in intention, but in deed: one does not mean to be causing harm, but one’s commitment to a certain set of ideals necessarily results in a harm that one is rendered incapable of recognizing. One is ideologically bound to refuse to classify it as a harm. The missionary who tortured those who refused to convert was ideologically bound to insist that the torture is beyond criticism. In a similar way, the Ruist insistence that virtue is more important than life results in devoted scholars inflicting damage on themselves, living in dire straits, ending their lives early, and encouraging others to do the same.

The presence of such aporias in the very nature of evaluative judgment is taken by some to entail the radical relativist conclusion that we must therefore refrain from making all such judgments: nothing can be criticized; everything must be accepted as it is. This sort of reasoning leads to the following kind of absurdity: the moralist who condemns murder or racial hatred is oppressing those who murder or hate people of other races. The unintended consequence of such a desire to avoid all violence thus becomes a paradoxical defense of those who are most violent, while criticizing those who judge that violence to be bad. The absurdity would be funny if such bizarre views weren’t becoming increasingly prevalent in popular culture. There is a second problem with this view: it falls prey to its own criticism. The radical relativist who claims that we ought not make evaluative judgments and criticizes those who do is thereby making an evaluative judgment! The relativist criticism of “absolutism” is itself a rejection of absolutism, and as such does “violence” to absolutists. Thus, the refusal to make any evaluative judgment must be accompanied by the refusal to reject absolutism: the radical relativist must thus both reject absolutism and accept it at the same time.

If this is correct, how do we respond to Zhi’s deconstruction of virtue? How do we acknowledge the force of the aporia and not fall into the absurdity of radical relativism? Conversely, how might we make ethical judgments and not become oppressive absolutists? I think the answer lies in the fact that we do, ipso facto, appear to share a deep level of basic intuitions about harm and suffering independently of our ideological commitments. Even those who insist on their right to inflict what are ostensibly harms (pain, deprival of freedom, inequitable treatment) do not simply assert the infliction of harm as a good; rather, they always seek to justify the necessity of the harm in accordance with an ideology. To act in accordance with values at all requires inflicting harm to some degree. Deep disagreements lie in the ideologies in terms of which such harms are justified. Perhaps the best we can hope for is to minimize the infliction of such harms, and in the dispute over the justification of necessary harm, remain genuinely open-minded and willing to change our stance.

Reluctant Rulership

Chapter 28, “Yielding the Throne,” expresses a view broadly consistent with chapters 8, 9, and 10, but is written as a collection of short narrative passages. The stories echo the theme of the last of the Inner Chapters, “Responding to Emperors and Kings,” and begin to set up the possibility of a new type of Daoism. A ruler or emperor wishes to yield the throne, usually to a Daoist or recluse of some sort. The recluse refuses and explains that nurturing life is more important than gaining control of a state.

Shun tried to cede the empire to Shan Juan, but Shan Juan said, “I stand in the midst of space and time.… When the sun comes up, I work; when the sun goes down, I rest. I wander through the cosmos, and my mind has found all that it could wish for. What use would I have for the empire?” (309–10)

However, if there has to be a state and a ruler, then surely the best ruler would be precisely a person who does not care for ownership of the state and is devoted only to the nurturing and preservation of life and the cultivation of xing. Prince Sou of the state of Yue fled his state for fear of assassination, but the people pursued him. They wanted him to be their ruler precisely because he had no personal stake in ruling them (311). People who have any kind of motivation to rule, who are tempted by power, are not to be trusted. For them, life is simply one factor in the calculation of gains and losses: life may have to be lost for territory to be gained. In contrast, a person who sees life as more important than power will not yield to such machinations. “The empire is a thing of supreme importance, yet [Zizhou Zhifu] would not allow it to harm his life.… Only one who has no use for the empire is fit to be entrusted with it” (309).

This concern with cultivation of life, moreover, is not selfish. When the state of Bin was attacked by the Di tribes, King Danfu refused to go to war, saying, “To live among the older brothers and send the younger brothers to their death; to live among the fathers and send the sons to their death—this I cannot bear! My people, be diligent and remain where you are. What difference does it make whether you are subjects of mine or of the people of Di?” (310). His concern for the lives of all his people outweighed his concern for rule. If Graham is right that this chapter represents the view of Yang Zhu, then the contrast is not between selfishness and concern for others, as Mencius sees it, but between concern for personal profit and caring about the lives of the people. It is therefore not a form of egoism. This might provide the beginnings of a solution to the recurring ethical problem for Daoist thought. Unlike Zhuangzian philosophy, the Utopians, while rejecting artificial distinctions, still presuppose a naturalistic distinction between benefit and harm, and by extending this concern to others raise the possibility of articulating naturalistic concepts that are genuinely ethical.

HAN SYNCRETISM: MYSTICAL RULERSHIP

Chapter 28 thus forms a pivot that, with a single aikido move, as it were, transforms utopian anarchism into a form of effortless imperialism.

Hence it is said, the genuineness of dao lies in regulating one’s person … its offal and weeds are for governing the empire. Looking at it this way, the accomplishments of emperors and kings are superfluous affairs for the sage, not the means by which to keep the person whole and nurture life. (312–13)

Cultivation of one’s natural tendencies now becomes the very means of bringing about a peaceful and harmonious life, not only for an individual or a small group but also throughout the entire empire. The sageliness of self-cultivation spills over by itself into a peacefully functioning social structure. This quasi-anarchistic attitude can be discerned even in chapter 7 of the Inner Chapters, where the “nameless person” says, “Let your mind wander in the neutral, blend your energy with the vacant, follow along with things as they are of themselves, and do not accommodate impartiality toward oneself—then the empire will be governed” (94).

There are a number of passages that start with this idea and, drawing on a comprehensive awareness of the various schools of thought, use it as the foundation for a more explicitly political form of Daoism. This is a kind of mystical rulership, also hinted at in the Laozi,16 rooted in Daoist cultivation, but now combined with a concern for the details of rule. Thus, the practice of cultivation of life tendencies is now combined with a distinctive interpretation of “wuwei” and promoted as a quasi-anarchistic method of ruling a vast empire. In this eclectic system, values and policies of Confucianism and Mohism can be identified, as well as a Legalist-type interpretation of the Laozi, according to which the ruler is devoted to what is most essential, while the activity of government must be entrusted to the subordinates.

The first to think in an eclectic way was the Confucian philosopher Xunzi, who criticized the proponents of various rival doctrines as unable to see the limitations of their own views and unwilling to evaluate others with objectivity. They happen upon an insight and become obsessed with it, taking it to be the whole of the way: Mozi promoted utility; Songzi argued for the lessening of desires; Shenzi championed the law; Shen Buhai believed in circumstance; Huizi was obsessed with language; and Zhuangzi was mesmerized by the cosmos. According to Xunzi, only Confucius had enough presence of mind to be free from obsession: his dao was able to balance utility with form, the lessening of desires with their need to be satisfied, and the value of the natural with the importance of the human, for example. In this way, the Confucian dao was promoted as an all-encompassing one.

This spirit of eclecticism and search for an overarching dao became the hallmark of Han dynasty philosophy. Rather than choosing and championing one particular dao, philosophers recognized each to have some value, though none could be thought complete. Hence the desire to construct a comprehensive dao by synthesizing philosophical positions, extracting what was of value in each, and eliminating what was problematic. Doctrines of competing schools were thus integrated into a larger system in which each was able to contribute its particular virtues to the smooth functioning of the whole.

Chapter 33 of the Zhuangzi, “Tian Xia” (“All Beneath the Heavens”)¹⁷ echoes Xunzi quite closely:¹⁸

How thorough were the people of ancient times! … They had a clear understanding of root policies and connected it even to petty offshoot regulations.… Many in the empire seize upon one aspect, examine it, and pronounce it good. But like the ear, the eye, the nose, and the mouth, each has its own understanding, and their functions are not interchangeable. In the same way, the various skills of the hundred schools all have their strong points, and at times each may be of use. But none is wholly sufficient, none is universal. (363–64)

Mozi, Songzi, Shenzi, and Zhuangzi are both praised for some of the doctrines and critiqued for their partiality and lack of comprehensiveness. Huizi receives criticism but no praise, and the philosophy of the Laozi is described without any apparent criticism. Rather than Ruism, the “way of the ancients” is identified as all-encompassing: the way of “sageliness within and kingliness without” (364). Most notable are the various ways in which Ruism and Daoism are merged in the Syncretist passages. Ruist values such as ren and yi are not lost, but are subordinated, at least theoretically, to those of Daoism. Even Legalist and Mohist policies are relegated to the outermost branches of this system. Sagely government is rooted in the cosmic (tian), ancestral (zong), potency (de), and dao; the chapter goes on to the cultivation of ethical virtues, the judicious application of law, and administrative concern for the welfare of the people. Beginning with Daoist principles and ending with Mohist goals, it incorporates Confucian ideals and Legalist procedures.

Chapter 13, “Tian Dao” (“The Way of Tian”) distinguishes between the way of the sage ruler and everyone else. The way of the sage is rooted in stillness, emptiness, and wuwei. This allows the way of the ministers to manifest in movement and activity, youwei, the counterpart of wuwei. The kingly way is merely to oversee from the perspective of tiandi (the cosmos), dao, and de, while the ministers busy themselves with details of the tasks of administration:

Emptiness, stillness, limpidity, vacancy, silence, wuwei—these are the level of the cosmos, the pinnacle of the dao and its potency. Therefore the emperor, the king, the sage rest in them.… Still, they may be without active interference (wuwei); as they are without active interference, it is those employed in service who take on the responsibilities. (142–43)

The potency of emperors and kings takes the cosmos as the ancestral, the way and its potency as principal (zhu 主), and wuwei as constant.… Superiors must adopt wuwei and make the world work for them; inferiors must adopt action and work for the world.… The heavens do not actively give birth, yet the many things are transformed; the earth does not rear, yet the many things are nourished. The emperor and the king do not actively administer, yet the world is benefited. (144–45)

It is worth recalling at this point that in the Records of the Historian, Sima Tan follows a similar pattern to Xunzi and the Syncretists. As we have seen in Chapter One above, he analyzes the faults and virtues of six families of philosophical thought—Yinyang, Ruism, Mohism, Legalism, the Linguistic school, and Dao(de)jia. In his account, Daojia emerges as the most perceptive and inclusive, adopting and absorbing what excels from the other schools. Emptiness and wuwei are also central to the practice of Sima Tan’s Daoist ruler. Whether this eclectic Daojia is the same as the Syncretistic way of the ancients of the “Tian Xia” chapter, or of chapter 13, is far from clear. Furthermore, whether either or both of these are to be identified with the eclectic Han dynasty school known as “Huang-Lao” is also unclear. They may well be three alternative formulations of syncretist philosophy. If the Mawangdui silk manuscripts have been correctly identified as belonging to the Huang-Lao school, then Randy Peerenboom has given quite a persuasive argument that its philosophy is distinctively different from the Syncretism of the Zhuangzi.¹⁹

Below is a list of the chapters of the Zhuangzi, grouped according to the philosophical tendencies discussed above that are dominant in each. Given the complexity of most chapters, this should only be taken as a rough classification.

“INNER CHAPTERS,” ATTRIBUTED TO ZHUANGZI

1. Wandering Beyond Xiao Yao You 逍遙游

2. Discussion on Smoothing Things Out Qi Wu Lun 齊勿論

3. Nurturing the “Principal” of Life Yang Sheng Zhu 養生主

4. The Realm of Human Interactions Ren Jian Shi 人間世

5. Signs of the Flourishing of Potency De Chong Fu 德充付

6. The Vast Ancestral Teacher Da Zong Shi 大宗師

7. Responding to Emperors and Kings Ying Di Wang 應帝王

UTOPIAN DAOISM (GRAHAM’S “PRIMITIVISM”)

8. Webbed Toes Pian Mu 駢拇

9. Horses’ Hooves Ma Ti 馬蹄

10. Rifling Trunks Qu Qie 胠篋