Classical Chinese Poetry

TAO TE CHING

(c. 6th century B.C.E.)

LIKE The Book of Songs, the Tao Te Ching derives from the oral tradition, but its origins lie in a very different dimension of that tradition. Rather than the folk and political poetries of The Book of Songs, the Tao Te Ching grew out of an ancient wisdom tradition. The earthly humanist culture that replaced early China’s otherworldly theocratic culture was shaped by a spirituality of our immediate empirical experience, and this spirituality was first articulated in the Tao Te Ching. The Tao Te Ching is generally considered more a book of philosophy than poetry, and the system of thought that it articulates came to shape the conceptual world of China’s intellectuals, including poets. Its widespread influence continues today in the West, where new translations appear regularly. Indeed, in terms of the number of people and the amount of cultural production it has influenced, the Tao Te Ching may well be the single most influential spiritual text in human history.

According to cultural legend, the Tao Te Ching was written by Lao Tzu (c. 6th century B.C.E.), an elder contemporary of Confucius. It is said that they met once, and that after the meeting an awestruck Confucius exclaimed: “A dragon mounting wind and cloud to soar through the heavens—such things are beyond me. And today, meeting Lao Tzu, it was like facing a dragon.” But Lao Tzu, whose name simply means “Old Master,” was in fact probably constructed out of fragments gleaned from various old sage-masters active in the oral tradition during the centuries prior to the sixth century B.C.E. Perhaps Lao Tzu was the last in that line of sage-masters, and it was he who cobbled the text together. More likely it was a series of sage-editors. Whoever was responsible, they realized that the surprisingly modern sense of fragment and collage was the perfect embodiment of Lao Tzu’s mysterious thought, and they managed to weave those fragments into a remarkably personal presence. If we look past the fragmentary text and oracular tone, we find a voice that is consistent and compassionate, unique, and rich with the complexities of personality.

The actual sayings that make up the book may predate Lao Tzu by several centuries, but their origins must go back to the culture’s very roots, to a level early enough that a distinctively Chinese culture had yet to emerge, for the philosophy of Tao embodies a cosmology rooted in that most primal and wondrous presence: earth’s mysterious generative force. In the Paleolithic period, the mystery of this generative force gave rise to such early forms of human art as vulvae etched into stone and female figures emphasizing fecundity. This art was no doubt associated with the development of humankind’s earliest spiritual practices: the various forms of obeisance to a Great Mother who continuously gives birth to all creation and who, like the natural process she represents, also takes life and regenerates it in an unending cycle of life, death, and rebirth. This spiritual system appears to have been ubiquitous among Paleolithic and early Neolithic cultures, where it was integral to gynocentric and egalitarian social structures.

In the Tao Te Ching, this venerable generative force appears most explicitly in Lao Tzu’s recurring references to the female principle, such as “mother of all beneath heaven,” “nurturing mother,” “valley spirit,” “dark female-enigma.” But its dark mystery is everywhere in the Tao Te Ching, for it is nothing other than Tao itself, the central concept in Lao Tzu’s thought. It is a joy to imagine that the earliest of the sage-poets woven into Lao Tzu, those responsible for the core regions of his thought, were in fact women from the culture’s proto-Chinese Paleolithic roots.

Lao Tzu’s spiritual vision, his philosophical system, is described in the general introduction (here). But it is interesting to note here how the concept of Heaven evolved in the Tao Te Ching, for in it we can see the end result of the historical process of secularization described in the introduction to The Book of Songs, a process that began only a century or two ago here in the West. The most primitive meaning of heaven is simply “sky,” a meaning the word continues to have. By extension, it also came to mean “transcendence,” for our most primal sense of transcendence must be the simple act of looking up into the sky. By association with the idea of transcendence and that which is beyond us, heaven also comes to mean “fate” or “destiny” (this is the Heaven that had been used in the early Chou to replace the personal monotheistic Shang Ti with a more generalized divine force). This complex of ideas was transformed completely when Lao Tzu added “nature” or “natural process” to the weave of meaning (in the translation, this secularization calls for the term to be translated without a capital: heaven). And so, heaven became an organic sense of destiny: things working out their fates according to their own inborn natures and in interaction with other such destinies. As such, it was almost synonymous with Tao. This dramatic transformation infuses the empirical cosmos with sacred dimensions. In it Heaven becomes earth, and earth Heaven. Earth’s natural process is itself both our fate in life and our transcendence, for we will soon take on another of earth’s fleeting forms, thereby transcending our present selves. And indeed, our truest self is all and none of earth’s fleeting forms simultaneously.

The Tao Te Ching offers not only a spiritual vision but a social vision as well. Lao Tzu imagined a society in which a benevolent and selfless emperor is all but invisible: he simply establishes a framework within which the people live simple and contented lives as integral parts of tzu-jan’s perennial burgeoning forth. And Lao Tzu spoke of this society as existing at some time in the distant past, in what we would now call the early Neolithic. It is an idealized version of the simple agrarian culture we see in The Book of Songs, and one might almost imagine the more bucolic of those folk-songs emerging from the society Lao Tzu described. But needless to say, the war and injustice that play so large a role in the Songs continued into Lao Tzu’s time. According to legend, the agèd Lao Tzu was heartbroken by this ongoing situation. In the end, his is not so much a practical political philosophy as a political poetry, a lament that only grows more poignant as stratified societies continue to thrive on social injustice. Overwhelmed by the intractable suffering of the people, and his inability to change the situation, Lao Tzu set out into the western mountains. It is said that we have the Tao Te Ching only because a gatekeeper high in a mountain pass convinced Lao Tzu to leave behind his five-thousand-word scroll of wisdom before vanishing beyond the mountains into the dusk-lit mists of the far west.

A Way you can call Way isn’t the perennial Way.

A name you can name isn’t the perennial name:

the named is mother to the ten thousand things,

but the unnamed is origin to all heaven and earth.

In perennial absence you see mystery,

and in perennial presence you see appearance.

Though the two are one and the same,

once they arise, they differ in name.

One and the same they’re called dark-enigma,

dark-enigma deep within dark-enigma,

gateway of all mystery.

All beneath heaven knows beauty

is beauty only because there’s ugliness,

and knows good is good

only because there’s evil.

Presence and absence give birth to one another,

difficult and easy complete one another,

long and short measure one another,

high and low fill one another,

music and noise harmonize one another,

before and after follow one another:

that’s why a sage abides in the realm of nothing’s own doing,

living out that wordless teaching.

The ten thousand things arise without beginnings there,

abide without waiting there,

come to perfection without dwelling there.

Without dwelling there: that’s the one way

you’ll never lose it.

Never bestow honors

and people won’t quarrel.

Never prize rare treasures

and people won’t steal.

Never flaunt alluring things

and people won’t be confused.

This is how a sage governs.

Fill bellies and empty minds,

strengthen bones and weaken ambition,

always keep the people from knowing and wanting,

then those who know are those who never presume to act.

If you’re nothing doing whatever you do

all things will be governed well.

The valley spirit never dies.

It’s called dark female-enigma,

and the gateway of dark female-enigma

is called the root of heaven and earth,

gossamer so unceasing it seems real.

Use it: it’s effortless.

Heaven goes on forever.

Earth endures forever.

There’s a reason heaven and earth go on enduring forever:

their life isn’t their own

so their life goes on forever.

Hence, in putting himself last

the sage puts himself first,

and in giving himself up

he preserves himself.

If you aren’t free of yourself

how will you ever become yourself?

Can you let your spirit embrace primal unity

without drifting away?

Can you focus ch’i into such softness

you’re a newborn again?

Can you polish the dark-enigma mirror

to a clarity beyond stain?

Can you make loving the people and ruling the nation

nothing’s own doing?

Can you be female

opening and closing heaven’s gate?

Can you fathom earth’s four distances with radiant wisdom

and know nothing?

Give birth and nurture.

Give birth without possessing

and foster without dominating:

this is called dark-enigma Integrity.

Honor is a contagion deep as fear,

renown a calamity profound as self.

Why do I call honor a contagion deep as fear?

Honor always dwindles away,

so earning it fills us with fear

and losing it fills us with fear.

And why do I call renown a calamity profound as self?

We only know calamity because we have these selves.

If we didn’t have selves

what calamity could touch us?

When all beneath heaven is your self in renown

you trust yourself to all beneath heaven,

and when all beneath heaven is your self in love

you dwell throughout all beneath heaven.

The loftiest ruler is barely known among those below.

Next comes a ruler people love and praise.

After that, one they fear,

and then one they despise.

If you don’t stand sincere by your words

how sincere can the people be?

Take great care over words, treasure them,

and when the hundredfold people see your work succeed in all they do

they’ll say it’s just occurrence appearing of itself.

If you give up learning, troubles end.

How much difference is there

between yes and no?

And is there a difference

between lovely and ugly?

If we can’t stop fearing

those things people fear,

it’s pure confusion, never-ending confusion.

People all radiate such joy,

happily offering a sacrificial ox

or climbing a tower in spring.

But I go nowhere and reveal nothing

like a newborn child who has yet to smile,

aimless and worn-out

as if the way home were lost.

People all have enough and more.

But I’m abandoned and destitute,

an absolute simpleton, this mind of mine so utterly

muddled and blank.

Others are bright and clear:

I’m dark and murky.

Others are confident and effective:

I’m pensive and withdrawn,

uneasy as boundless seas

or perennial mountain winds.

People all have a purpose in life,

but I’m inept, thoroughly useless and backward.

I’ll never be like other people:

I keep to the nurturing mother.

There was something all murky shadow,

born before heaven and earth:

O such utter silence, utter emptiness.

Isolate and changeless,

it moves everywhere without fail:

picture the mother of all beneath heaven.

I don’t know its name.

I’ll call it Way,

and if I must name it, name it Vast.

Vast means it’s passing beyond,

passing beyond means it’s gone far away,

and gone far away means it’s come back.

Because Way is vast

heaven is vast,

earth is vast,

and the true emperor too is vast.

In this realm, there are four vast things,

and the true emperor is one of them.

Human abides by earth.

Earth abides by heaven.

Heaven abides by Way.

Way abides by occurrence appearing of itself.

Holding to the great image

all beneath heaven sets out:

sets out free of risk,

peace tranquil and vast.

Music and savory food

entice travelers to stop,

but the Way uttered forth

isn’t even the thinnest of bland flavors.

Look at it: not enough to see.

Listen to it: not enough to hear.

Use it: not enough to use up.

Return is the movement of Way,

and yielding the method of Way.

All beneath heaven, the ten thousand things: it’s all born of presence,

and presence is born of absence.

The weakest in all beneath heaven gallops through the strongest,

and vacant absence slips inside solid presence.

I know by this the value of nothing’s own doing.

The teaching without words,

the value of nothing’s own doing:

few indeed master such things.

When all beneath heaven abides in Way,

fast horses are kept to work the fields.

When all beneath heaven forgets Way,

warhorses are bred among the fertility altars.

What calamity is greater than no contentment,

and what flaw greater than the passion for gain?

The contentment of fathoming contentment—

there lies the contentment that endures.

To work at learning brings more each day.

To work at Way brings less each day,

less and still less

until you’re nothing’s own doing.

And when you’re nothing’s own doing, there’s nothing you don’t do.

To grasp all beneath heaven, leave it alone.

Leave it alone, that’s all,

and nothing in all beneath heaven will elude you.

There’s a source all beneath heaven shares:

call it the mother of all beneath heaven.

Once you fathom the mother

you understand the child,

and once you understand the child

you abide in the mother,

self gone, free of danger.

Those who know don’t talk,

and those who talk don’t know.

Block the senses

and close the mind,

blunt edges,

loosen tangles,

soften glare,

mingle dust:

this is called dark-enigma union.

It can’t be embraced

and can’t be ignored,

can’t be enhanced

and can’t be harmed,

can’t be treasured

and can’t be despised,

for it’s the treasure of all beneath heaven.

You may govern the nation through principle

and lead armies to victory through craft,

but you win all beneath heaven through indifference.

How can I know this to be so?

Through this.

The more prohibitions rule all beneath heaven

the deeper poverty grows among the people.

The more shrewd leaders there are

the faster dark confusion fills the nation.

The more cleverness people learn

the faster strange things happen.

The faster laws and decrees are issued

the more bandits and thieves appear.

Therefore a sage says:

I do nothing

and the people transform themselves.

I cherish tranquillity

and the people rectify themselves.

I cultivate indifference

and the people enrich themselves.

I desire nothing

and the people return of themselves to uncarved simplicity.

Let nations grow smaller and smaller

and people fewer and fewer,

let weapons become rare

and superfluous,

let people feel death’s gravity again

and never wander far from home.

Then boat and carriage will sit unused

and shield and sword lie unnoticed.

Let people knot ropes for notation again

and never need anything more,

let them find pleasure in their food

and beauty in their clothes,

peace in their homes

and joy in their ancestral ways.

Then people in neighboring nations will look across to each other,

their chickens and dogs calling back and forth,

and yet they’ll grow old and die

without bothering to exchange visits.