Laozi and the Tao-te Ching

Behind all forms of Taoism stands the figure of Laozi, traditionally regarded as the author of the classic text known as the Laozi, or the Tao-te Ching (“Classic Way of Power”). The first mention of Laozi is found in another early classic of Taoist speculation, the Zhuangzi (4th–3rd century bce), so called after the name of its author, Zhuang Zhou. In this work Laozi is described as being one of Zhuang Zhou’s own teachers, and the same book contains many of the Master’s (Laozi’s) discourses, generally introduced by the questions of a disciple. The Zhuangzi also presents seven versions of a meeting of Laozi and Confucius. Laozi is portrayed as the elder and his Taoist teachings confound his celebrated interlocutor. The Zhuangzi also gives the only account of Laozi’s death. Thus, in this early source, Laozi appears as a senior contemporary of Confucius (6th–5th century bce) and a renowned Taoist master, a curator of the archives at the court of the Zhou dynasty ( c. 1046–256 bce), and, finally, a mere mortal.

The first consistent biographical account of Laozi is found in the “Records of the Historian” (Shiji)—China’s first universal history (2nd century bce)—of Sima Qian. This concise résumé has served as the classical source on the philosopher’s life. Laozi’s family name was Li, his given name Er; and he occupied the post of archivist at the Zhou court. He is said to have instructed Confucius on points of ceremony. Observing the decline of the Zhou dynasty, Laozi left the court and headed west. At the request of Yin Xi, the guardian of the frontier pass, he wrote his treatise on theTao in two scrolls. He then left China behind, and what became of him is not known. The historian quotes variant accounts, including one that attributed to Laozi an exceptional longevity; the narrative terminates with the genealogy of eight generations of Laozi’s supposed descendants. With passing references in other early texts, this constitutes the body of information on the life of the sage as of the 2nd century bce; it is presumably legendary (see also Laozi).

Modern scholarship has little to add to the Shiji account, and the Tao-te Ching, regarded by many scholars as a compilation that reached its final form only in the 3rd century bce, rather than the work of a single author, stands alone, with all its attractions and enigmas, as the fundamental text of both philosophical and religious Taoism.

The work’s 81 brief sections contain only about 5,000 characters in all, from which fact derives still another of its titles, Laozi’s Five Thousand Words. The text itself appears in equal measure to express a profound quietism and anarchistic views on government. It is consequently between the extremes of meditative introspection and political application that its many and widely divergent interpreters have veered.

The Tao-te Ching was meant as a handbook for the ruler. He should be a sage whose actions pass so unnoticed that his very existence remains unknown. He imposes no restrictions or prohibitions on his subjects; “so long as I love quietude, the people will of themselves go straight. So long as I act only by inactivity, the people will of themselves become prosperous.” His simplicity makes the Ten Thousand Things passionless and still, and peace follows naturally. He does not teach them discrimination, virtue, or ambition because “when intellect emerges, the great artifices begin. When discord is rife in families, ‘dutiful sons’ appear. When the State falls into anarchy, ‘loyal subjects’ appear.” Thus, it is better to banish wisdom, righteousness, and ingenuity, and the people will benefit a hundredfold.

Therefore the Sage rules by emptying their hearts (minds) and filling their bellies, weakening their wills and strengthening their bones, ever striving to make the people knowledgeless and desireless.

The word “people” in this passage more likely refers not to the common people but to those nobles and intellectuals who incite the ruler’s ambition and aggressiveness.

War is condemned but not entirely excluded: “Arms are ill-omened instruments,” and the sage uses them only when he cannot do otherwise. He does not glory in victory; “he that has conquered in battle is received with rites of mourning.”

The book shares certain constants of classical Chinese thought but clothes them in an imagery of its own. The sacred aura surrounding kingship is here rationalized and expressed as “inaction” (wuwei), demanding of the sovereign no more than right cosmological orientation at the center of an obedient universe. Survivals of archaic notions concerning the compelling effect of renunciation—which the Confucians sanctified as ritual “deference” (rang)—are echoed in the recommendation to “hold to the role of the female,” with an eye to the ultimate mastery that comes of passivity.

It is more particularly in the function attributed to the Tao, or Way, that this little tract stands apart. The term “tao” (Pinyin: dao) was employed by all schools of thought. The universe has its tao; there is a tao of the sovereign, his royal mode of being, while the tao of man comprises continuity through procreation. Each of the schools, too, had its own tao, its way or doctrine. But in the Tao-te Ching, the ultimate unity of the universal Tao itself, is proposed as a social ideal. It is this idealistic peculiarity that seems to justify later historians and bibliographers in their assignment of the term Taoist to the Tao-te Ching and its successors.

From a literary point of view, the Tao-te Ching is distinguished for its highly compressed style. Unlike the dialectic or anecdotal composition of other contemporary treatises, it articulates its cryptic subject matter in short, concise statements. More than half of these are in rhyme, and close parallelism recurs throughout the text. No proper name occurs anywhere. Although its historical enigmas are apparently insoluble, there is abundant testimony to the vast influence exercised by the book since the earliest times and in surprisingly varied social contexts. Among the classics of speculative Taoism, it alone holds the distinction of having become a scripture of the esoteric Taoist movements, which developed their own interpretations of its ambiguities and transmitted it as a sacred text.

The interpretation of Zhuang Zhou

Pseudohistorical knowledge of the sage Zhuang Zhou is even less well defined than that of Laozi. Most of Sima Qian’s brief portrait of the man is transparently drawn from anecdotes in the Zhuangzi itself and as such has no necessary basis in fact. The Zhuangzi, however, is valuable as a monument of Chinese literature and because it contains considerable documentary material, describing numerous speculative trends and spiritual practices of the Warring States period (475–221 bce).

Whereas the Tao-te Ching is addressed to the sage-king, the Zhuangzi is the earliest surviving Chinese text to present a philosophy for private life, a wisdom for the individual. Zhuang Zhou is said to have preferred the doctrine of Laozi over all others; many of his writings strike the reader as metaphorical illustrations of the terse sayings of the “Old Master.”

Whereas Laozi in his book as well as in his life (in legend) was concerned with Taoist rule, Zhuang Zhou, some generations later, rejected all participation in society. He compared the servant of state to the well-fed decorated ox being led to sacrifice in the temple and himself to the untended piglet blissfully frolicking in the mire.

Here there is none of the Tao-te Ching’s studied density. The rambling Zhuangzi opens with a sprightly fable, illustrating the incomprehension of small wildfowl of the majestic splendor of a gigantic bird. Other such parables demonstrate the relativity of all values: the sliding scales of size, utility, beauty, and perfection. There is a colloquy between the Lord of the Yellow River and the God of the Eastern Ocean, in which the complacent self-satisfaction of the lesser spirit is shaken by his unexpected meeting with inconceivable vastness. Humble artisans are depicted, who, through the perfect mastery of their craft, exemplify for their social superiors the art of mastering life. Life and death are equated, and the dying are seen to welcome their approaching transformation as a fusion with the Tao. The text includes disabled people who are presented in a manner that celebrates their inherent human nature, against Confucian notions of what is normal. . Those involved in state ritual are brought onstage only to be mocked, and the propositions of contemporary logic-choppers are drawn into the unending whirl of paradox, spun out to their conclusions, and so abolished. Such are a few aspects of this wild kaleidoscope of unconventional thought, a landmark in Chinese literature. Its concluding chapter is a systematic account of the preeminent thinkers of the time, and the note of mock despair on which it closes typifies the Zhuangzi’s position regarding the more formal, straitlaced ideologies that it parodies.

Among the strange figures that people the pages of Zhuangzi are a very special class of spiritualized beings. Dwelling far apart from the turbulent world of men, dining on air and sipping the dew, they share none of the anxieties of ordinary folk and have the smooth, untroubled faces of children. These “supreme persons,” or “perfect persons,” are immune to the effects of the elements, untouched by heat and cold. They possess the power of flight and are described as mounting upward with a fluttering motion. Their effortless existence was the ultimate in autonomy, the natural spontaneity that Zhuangzi ceaselessly applauds. These striking portraits may have been intended to be allegorical, but whatever their original meaning, these Immortals (xian), as they came to be called, were to become the center of great interest. Purely literary descriptions of their freedom, their breathtaking mobility, and their agelessness were construed as practical objectives by later generations. By a variety of practices, people attempted to attain these qualities in their own persons, and in time Zhuangzi’s unfettered paragons of liberty were to see themselves classified according to kind and degree in a hierarchy of the heavenly hosts (see also Zhuangzi).