tang dynasty times

Kuchean Dancers and the Sogdian Whirl

 

--from the Peony archives

There is a rumor that circulates in India that Jesus-- rather than dying on the cross--  spent his later years journeying through Kashmir; or even that he made it all the way to Japan where he worked as a rice farmer tending a small paddy in a small village in Aomori. Indeed, grave hunters spend their fine careers visiting the various "graves of Jesus" that dot remote areas of the East.

Some of you may recall the story of Persian Prince Pirooz, who had traveled so far to Chang'an in exile at the collapse of the Sassanian dynasty. Well, you may be interested to know there is a similar rumor about him, and that is that he too actually traveled even further East than my story had it-- all the way to Japan. And there, it is suggested that he had a hand in influencing the elegant Iranification of that land. This is all the stuff of urban legend, of course...

Japan is one of the world's great civilizations-- but, alas, it was a late bloomer, and many Japan-scholars will acknowledge that Japan must have got significant help from "foreign advisors" during the 5th-6th century. For the most part, the Koreans are credited for the direction of the great surge in artistic and intellectual productivity of the Asuka and Nara periods. There are those, too, who say Iranians had a large (if indirect) part to play-- and even that our Prince Pirooz came to lend a hand. Marrying a Japanese lady, the legend has it that he left her and their children behind when he returned to China in his later years. And so his legacy lives on in the Land of the Rising Sun as well.

Even if he himself did not come-- which he most probably did not-- Persian musicians and dancers did. And, so did beautiful objects of art. Glassware was one of the miraculous items brought to Japan from the West. Unlike the Chinese, Persian royalty and aristocrats, preferred glass and metalware to ceramics and their glassware was particularly exquisite. There is one particularly stunning piece of cobalt blue cut glass in the Shosoin Collection. A goblet, 22 cobalt color glass rings are fused to the outer walls of the glass, which has a beautiful etched silver stem and base. Carried on the backs of horses and camels across the deserts of Central Asia, Japanese emissaries to the Tang Court brought such glass back to Japan from China where they stole the hearts of the Japanese. Of extremely high quality, these objects were treasured in Japan and most of the finest remaining examples of this early glass are preserved there today.

It is one of the peculiar tendencies of the Japanese to treasure and preserve what is fine, and this almost obsessive antiquarianism is one of the traits that sets the Japanese apart. For while "Roman," or Sassanian Glass objects are found here and there from Damascus to the markets of Tehran, the glass is usually milky or silvery from exposure. Those pieces preserved in Japanese collections, however, have retained their original sparkling transparency in a way that seems almost miraculous.

Perhaps even more phenomenal is what happened with music and dance.

Have you ever heard of the Sogdian Whirl?

A rigorous, twirling dance, the Sogdian Whirl was usually performed on a colorful felt carpet. The dance took the Tang capital by storm. Not only the emperor, but his favorite concubine, the infamous Yang Guifei-- along with her "favorite," the 400 pound Sogdian-Turk An Lushan could perform this exotic dance, snacking on Lychees from Canton and sipping grape wine out of Roman cut glass goblets, all night long. There were Sogdian dances danced to Persian melodies, played on Persian lutes and harps, Indian dances and music and those from the Northern steppes and Korea. Without a doubt, most famous of all the Tang dances was the music and dance of Kucha.

As is well known, at Kashgar the Silk Road, in order to skirt the desert of death, splits into two routes, the northern and southern. Here, where now there is nothing but dusty, long forgotten outposts (oasis sounds too charming) in the desert, there once thrived a great Buddhist civilization. Among the first Buddhist Kingdoms on earth, the cities on both sides of the desert were not only bustling trading centers of goods from both east and west, but they were great centers of Buddhist scholarship. Of all the Kingdoms from Khotan to Dunhuang, Kucha was the largest. And Kucha was famous-- very famous-- for its dances, music and instruments.

Located on the Northern Route, not far from present-day Aksu, it was a place where Theravada Buddhism reigned. The King was particularly devout and it was said the city was full of temples, monks and music. The palace was made of gold, as the kingdom was wealthy from its rich mineral deposits of gold, copper and iron. Another highly cosmopolitan Silk Road garrison city-state, a dozen languages could be heard in the marketplaces, including Chinese, Tibetan, Persian and Kuchean (which was itself an Indo-Euopean language).

Susan Whitfield in her wondrous, Life Along the Silkroad, desribes Kuchean dance as being "not unlike Indian dance, with its emphasis on hip movements, changes of gesture and expressive eyes, but it also adapted dance forms taken from other places, such as the famous Sogdian 'whirling dance,' performed by both men and women."

"Music, song and dance," says Whitfield, "were Silk Road commodities, bought and sold like silver and jade. Itinerent dance troops from India, Burma, Cambodia and Sogdiana performed at both the royal court and the public marketplace in every silk road town." We have Tang period pottery of "Western" dancers and musicians on camelback. These statutes still fascinate and are proudly preserved in museum collectons in many places from Shanghai and Tokyo to Paris.   

The dances of the Silk Road were taken up by the Tang Court and there they were performed with native and other foreign elements to be transformed into the music and dance that today is known as ancient Tang music. And, what is perhaps the most fascinating part of the entire story, this music and these dances were then "borrowed"-- in what is often referred to as the "great borrowing of continental culture"-- by the ancient Japanese of the Nara period.

When we speak of ancient Tang music, the influence from Kucha cannot be ignored. The Tang court music itself was based, explains Whitfield, on the tuning of the Kuchean lute and most of the Tang emperors were proficient at playing the Kuchean drum, as well. Like golf among the wealthy today, the Kuchean drum was "de rigueur among emperors and noblemen of China." Emperor Xuanzong had some 30,000 musicians and dancers housed within the walls of the Palace, and many of those performed in the Kuchean style, playing orchestral pieces, as well as performing great dance dramas perhaps similar to those still performed in South India and in Java today.

Don't you wish you could hear it? Of course, the great civilizations of the desert are long since gone. Covered in sand, if it weren't for the murals of Dunhuang and the Tang chronicles, we would hardly even know of their existence. Not only the civilizations, but the languages too are long since dead. Kuchean, Sogdian, Khotanese, they are nothing but echoes in the desert. In China, too, we only have the written record.

Believe it or not though, these Persian and Central Asian melodies and dances still exist in Japan much as they were 1500 years ago. Just like the perfectly preserved roman glass goblets, the Japanese Imperial Household has preserved this music for a millenium. Japanese Imperial Court Music and Dance, called Gagaku (or "elegant music"), is made up of three bodies: Saibara (native Shinto), Komagaku (Korean and Manchurian) and Togaku (Tang Music). Amazingly, you can still see these dances and listen to this music today in Japan; performed either by the Imperial Household Department of Music (which performs both Western classical music as well as all forms of gagaku) or by groups formed by former members of the Imperial Household Department of Music who form their own groups (most famous has to be Hideki Togi, who performs to sold-out concert halls in Japan and Europe. Read about him here).   

"Like whale song, a haunting blend of flutes rising up from the deep, accompanied by the strumming of silk strings and the rumble of drums." Says National Geographic.

"The group was officially designated as “maintainers of a significant cultural asset,” a kind of Japanese National Treasure. They were playing gagaku, literally “gracious music,” which the Japanese claim as the oldest surviving orchestral music in the world. It is ancient music, which came to Japan by way of Korea and China well over a thousand years ago and still survives as the official music of the Japanese Imperial Court.

That venerable legacy stretches back to the beginnings of Japan’s imperial family, which is thought to be the longest running monarchy in the world. The music exists today because of the Emperor’s patronage, which supports the carefully chosen, rigorously trained court musicians who perform at official palace functions, garden parties, religious occasions, and public concerts.

Whale songs with a deep drumbeat.... Well, at first listen, it certainly does sound pretty bizarre. The more you listen, however, the more the music intrigues. Especially the range of various instruments. Other-worldly best sums it up, I think.

You can listen to a sample here.

As National Geographic hints, yes, without the unique antiquarianism of the Japanese and the loyal patronage of 100 or so generations of Japanese emperors, this music certainly would have been long lost. For it remains the oldest, pre-composed music for large orchestras on earth, and inside the Imperial Household, the music is accompanied by 1500 year old dances with costumes and masks reminiscent of their ancient Central Asian originals-- actually, some masks are originals.

A unique musical tradition that is a tradition bearing little resemblance to Arab or Ottoman music, the music of the Persian Sassanian Empire was to make waves that floated all the way to the Eastern shores of the earth-- all the way to Japan, where it would be prized and then preserved by 100 generations of Japanese emperors.

As one friend paints it

Now think about it, a civilization dead these 1500 years has left us a legacy in the form of the most ephemeral of all art, music, in places as distant from each other as Japan and Persia. The past, though passed, is still with us in mysterious ways and the dead musicians of the Taklamakan continue to whisper in the conchlea of our ear.

It boggles the mind. A cup of fossil tea anyone?

I'd love a cup, actually.

Finally, as BBC's Melvyn Bragg pointed out in one of his email newsletters, compared with other great empires of the past, less is known about the Sassanids. This is because the language is dead and there is a paucity of written records.  They were-- like Bragg himself perhaps-- devoted to the oral tradition. The ancient Persians were Zoroastrians, who as a religion stressed prayer, chanting and the oral tradition (having less faith in the written word, which they thought could be corrupted). So, little actually remains from their great empire. And, yet the cultural triumphs of the dynasty still informs Iranian identity.

I wrote more about gagaku's silk road roots here.

**

  

 There is one more legend about Prince Pirooz that bears repeating. After his death in China, Prince Pirooz's life story came to be melded into the Zooroastrian myth of "Shah Bahram  Varjavand." Like the Moshiach of the Jews, Shah Baham Varjavand is the Coming Messiah of the Zooroastrian religion. People believed that it would be Shah Bahram Varjavand who would rise in the East to come and avenge Iran's occupation by the Arabs and restore the glory of the empire.

Another more modern persona considered to be the "Shah Bahram Varjavand," is-- of course--  Baha'u'llah, founder of the Bahai faith.

Born in Iran, the Bahai faith is perhaps the most spread out religion on earth. And, of the some 5 million adherents, 2.5 are in India. For the life of me, I cannot recall know how I ended up touring the famous Bahai Lotus Temple in New Delhi, but the place has vividly stuck in my mind for years-- almost as if I was there yesterday.

Like Zen, the Bahai faith appeals to Westerners in search of something they can believe in-- and all over Kashmir and in Northern India, I met American and European Bahai faithful. Perhaps, it was having met so many British and Americans talking about "the Bab" and Baha'u'llah that led me to want to see the famed temple for myself. Whatever the reason, it truly was as close to an ideal image of a temple as I can imagine. I couldn't find any good images online, but what really struck me was the lack of ornamentation inside the great temple. There was no altar or statues or candles-- just a simple wooden lectern, pews and beautiful Persian carpets.

More than anything, however, it was the quiet of the place that struck me. I don't know how to describe it, but it was perfectly, beautifully quiet, and I remember thinking what great possibilities quiet like that could have.

I suppose what is so resonent for modern people about the Bah'ai religion is its stress on unity (one God with all religions being different expressions of God's message) and peace. The religion is also strongly rooted in social service and community (discouraging asceticism and monasticism in any form). The Bahai is one of the only religions I know of that has not acrimoniously split into factions either. Because of their commitment to unity (unity with God and unity in humankind) they are vehemently opposed to war. 

It was so hot and dusty as trudging up the path toward the temple. The simple beauty and deep quiet of the inside of the temple, though, was cool and refreshing as a glass of water. The founder of the Bahai faith, Baha'u'llah, was believed to be Shah Bahram Varjavand, the Messiah. He is also asserted to be a descendent of Yazdgerd III, the last monarch of the Sassanian Dynasty.

The Lotus Temple

The Battle of the Blossoms

  

（春立） --Beijing asks me: why did the Japanese do away with the spring festival (Chinese New Year)?

When I first arrived in Japan all those years ago, it was the cherry blossom season. I recall writing in my journal at the time that “the entire country seems drunk on flowers!” I don’t think in many other places in the world you would see so much activity surrounding a blossoming tree—no matter how beautiful. Trains change their schedules to facilitate easier blossom-viewing and it seems that the whole country becomes mobilized into flower-viewing mode.

Indeed, so beloved are they that most people refer to them simply as "o-hana," meaning flower. The preference for the sakura, however, is not as old as you might think. In classical poetry, there are surprisingly few poems about cherry blossoms as it was the plum which was considered the most beautiful of all blossoms. Like so many other things which are highly valued by the Japanese, plums originally came from China and they were valued in great part because of their connection with the great civilization of the continent; for in those days, “made in China” was the height of fashion and prestige in the same way as “imported from France” is nowadays.

Ume （梅）-- in China, plum is celebrated as a symbol of winter. Grouped together with pine and bamboo, the plum is known as one of the “Three Friends of the Cold ”岁寒三友 as the Asian plum (which is actually closer to an apricot) blooms during the coldest month of the year. When I lived in Tokyo, I lived in a town famous for its plum blossoms. During the time when the plums were in bloom the Keio line would change its schedule so that trains full of blossom-viewers could travel on express trains from Shinjuku. Closer still, right around th corner from the apartment I was living in, was a small orchard of plum trees.

To see those fragile-looking plum flowers blooming defiantly in the snow was unforgettable. "Plum blossoms covered in snow"...Especially at night, the pale flowers on the half dozen frozen trees would shimmer in the moonlight. It was probably seeing them ifor the first time glimmering in moonlight that I made up my mind forever: I stand with the Chinese.

Sei Shonagon's Elegant Things (For MW)

A white coat worn over a violet waistcoat.
Duck eggs.
Shaved ice mixed with liana syrup and put in a new silver bowl.
A rosary of rock crystal.
Wisteria blossoms. Plum blossoms covered with snow.
A pretty child eating strawberries. 

And, of course, they smell like paradise too.

I seem to recall that there was an imagined ancient battle between Murasaki Shikibu who insisted that it was the plum which was the finest among blossoms and Sei Shonagon who never waivered in preferring the plum.

The battle of the blossoms-- it is as ancient as the "battle of the seasons." For while the poets tell us that Chinese prefer spring and plum blossoms, we know that the Japanese prefer cherry blossoms and the fall. And speaking of the battle of the blossoms, I remember at least 10 years ago there was a debate on the continent to decide upon a national flower. Polls were taken across the provinces and it was a dead heat between the plum blossom and the peony. Obviously, I wouldn't have known which way to vote. Of course, my lover the emperor loved peonies-- hence my name. But, the plum,  is perhaps more elegant blossom.

I remember the popular vote had the peony coming out ahead of the plum, but the National Congress failed to ratify the selection. The plum had already been designated the national flower of Taiwan as early as 1964, and with the upcoming Olymic 2008 Games in China, the debate has simmered on. China watchers (China watchers perhaps being a bit more subtle back then?) were saying things like we are headed for a "one country two flower" conclusion! I lost track of how it ended (either way as they are both-- to me-- peerless among flowers).

So, I leave you with a poem by the man-who-became a god, Sugawara Michizane. An 9th century man-of-letters in the service of the emperor, he was also a renown poet, famous for his poems about plum blossoms. As usually happens with political favorites, Sugawara lost favor with the court and was exiled to Dazaifu. Located on the island of Kyushu, it was like being sent away to Siberia. After his death, plague and fire swept the capital and many believed it to be the angry spirit of Michizane. There was little to be done but restore his titles posthumously and build a Shinto shrine in his honor, turning him into the god of education.

Even today, students hoping to pass their exams flock to a Tenjin Shrine to pray for the assistance of the god of scholars. And because of Michizane’s fondness for plums, plums are always planted in Tenjin shrines. Plums, then, over time also came to be associated in Japan with education and scholarship. Known as 好文木 (education loving trees), in China, too, their fragrance is associated with education. It is said in China that the plum sends out its fragrance in times when scholarship too is blossoming, and the fragrance of plum blossoms is also thought to “cultivate a sublime spirit.”

Probably one of the most famous Japanese poems about plum blossoms, Michizane wrote of the plums in his garden in exile in Kyushu:

**
When the East wind blows
Send me your fragrance
Beautiful plum blossoms

Though your Lord may be absent
Do not forget it is Spring
東風吹かばにほいおこせよ梅の花、主なしとて春な忘れそ

 

Over the centuries, it has been debated, was he encouraging his wife to remember the beauty of spring in his absence of exile, or was he encouraging the plum blossoms in his garden not to forget to blossom while he was away…

**

Anyway, yes, Japan doesn't really do "Chinese New Year" anymore-- and here it has been the year of the ox for an entire month almost! However, the Japanese have not given up the plum blossoms-- so symbolic of the spring festival. And today, an eastern wind if blowing...(do not forget it is spring, as the good professor says so faraway)

And... because I loved it too! (Namit's alma matar-- and where the hell is matt?)

A Lady of Ren

 

-- for Geneva & Seneca Crane (blogging while drinking plum wine)

A few days ago, Professor A. Ku asked a question that continues to fascinate me. Concerned with 4.3 of the analects

4.3: 唯仁者能好人，能惡人

“The Master said: It is only the one who is ren who can love and hate others.”

he asks, "why should anyone be required to hate (or to love)?" For the obvious reasons, I am not crazy about the translation and attempted to give my gloss:

For me, the word of interest is not 惡 but rather, 能– which is to say that what is being emphasized is that this “liking and disliking” is based on a certain capacity, which is itself made possible by self-cultivation. And for what it is worth, this is how I am reading 4:3

The Lady of Ren, does not 1) restrain all emotion; nor does she 2) not restrain all emotion; rather she seeks to form/transform (形）emotion through the cultivation of self (via among other things the practice of rites) in order to discern the true ren capability in others. The like and dislike is not about personal preferences (arbitrary blind love or unmerited dislike) but rather is born out of cultivation of self.

The Professor then repeats his original question:

So, still my question here is — even if we build into “hating and loving” (on the part of the Lady of Ren) this very portrait you describe — whether this “intuition” is merely a ground floor level “capacity” that is simply redirected towards certain targets (like a culvert), or whether that intuition is a kind of “emergent” property, a new capacity that only the Lady of Ren would have. If so, then it’s not necessarily just a ground-floor level emotion “redirected by li. It’s more than that.

OK, I have no idea what a culvert is, but I intuitively feel that the closest approximation to what this is like is our aesthetic sense. And I say:

This is perhaps not unlike aesthetic sensibility. If you don’t turn off the TV; if you don’t stop drinking your booze out of a brown paper bag– well, need I say more?

Like our aesthetic sensibility, some people are born with more than others, but most people have this capacity. And yet, if we do not cultivate our aesthetic sensibility, perhaps only in a genius would it cultivate itself.

My beloved tea teacher would always repeat that the practice of tea (this kind of embodied mindfulness) and the actual handling of beautiful objects had the affect of "polishing our hearts"-- "This makes us more virtuous," she would repeat. For her, an aesthetic sensibility 美感 was not necessarily equivalent to virtue 美徳 but one could lead to the other (and indeed that understanding can be seen right in the kanji itself　→美).

What do these two perhaps connected sensibilities share? Well, first of all, both require a kind of self-cultivation that is embodied. You cannot learn beauty nor virtue from books. It is impossible. It is sense know-how (embodied know-how) that is carried over into how you live your life (hence, "ritual comportment"). In addition, both types of sensibility, rather than universalize or categorically deginerate our emotions (love and hate) in the way of religion (Buddhism), instead seek to transform these emotions in a refined or edifying way (maybe this is what Professor Ku meant by a culvert??).

In what sense is this also cognitive? Well perhaps something along the lines of Merleau-Ponty's "anti-cognitive cogntive science" approach. Because we are talking about is-- in Sam Crane's words: a cultivated moral aesthetic sensibility.

And embodied practice is probably the only real means of improving or refining this sense. As Sam says:

And that is where Ritual comes in. Ritual is the conscious and well-intentioned enactment of all facets of Duty (the big duties and the little duties) at all times. It’s not like going to church on Sunday and then stealing hubcaps during the week. It is an all the time thing. The Ren person is always on, always working to perceive context and orchestrate proper response to context. It may get easier with age and reiteration (like Fingarette’s handshake!), but it always requires care and attention.

Human sensibility is probably something most humans are hard-wired for. But it demands exemplery examples and routine, doesn't it? And it is these exemplery examples (in the form of a teacher or art work) which are beautiful plus virtuous.

As is their enactment-- beautiful plus virtuous.

And again (for this is my main point this week): based firmly in human emotion, their aim-- rather than negating emotion or extinguishing desire-- rather is to refine them. And, perhaps no where is this linking of beauty and virtue more pronounced than in Japan-- don't you think? Is this not the hallmark of Japanese traditional arts and literature?

**

Anyway, I have been working on an editing job about the murals of Kizil. Part of the great "pearl necklace" of Buddhist murals that form a great arc across Asia, from Ajanta to unforgettable Alchi; up to Kizil, Bezeklik, Dunhuang-- straight across to the phenomenal murals at Horyuji in Nara; Kizil is said to have been perhaps one of the finest. I already wrote a bit about the lavish use of ultramarine that so stunned the German expedition team here, but thinking about the murals again today, I was imagining what it must have been like before the murals were cut out of the caves and shipped overseas. Pilgrims would have entered the cave from the blinding sunlight of the desert outside-- and much like pilgrims at the Borobudur, they would have moved along an "iconographic program": like any ritual, it would have been structured in such a way to aim at an inner transformation-- achieved bodily as one performed the ritual.

Emotions (émouvoir) as that which most moves us cultivated through physical movement (practice/pilgrammage). This is the task of the Lady of Ren. And you will notice that its opposite (Enlightenment) is characterized by non-movement, stillness and extinguishing. Anyway, it's interesting to think of it this way at least.

Dido Sings the Wuwei Blues (Part 2)

 

 Shipwrecked at Carthage-- Part 2 (this time for the Gialbo) 

Seneca is stoically silent, while Ibn Arabi voices his complaints loudly on Facebook. It seems that some of you are not yet convinced that Dido had a point. The Gialbo-- in his typically subtle and yet sophisticated manner-- brings up the famous scene where Zhuangzi mourns his dead wife in order to try and better understand what exactly we are talking about:

莊子妻死，惠子弔之，莊子則方箕踞鼓盆而歌。惠子曰：“與人居長子，老身死，不哭亦足矣，又鼓盆而歌，不亦甚乎！”莊子曰：“不然。是其始死也，我獨何能無概然！察其始而本無生，非徒無生也，而本無形，非徒無形也，而本無氣。雜乎芒芴之間，變而有氣，氣變而有形，形變而有生，今又變而之死，是相與為春秋冬夏四時行也。人且偃然寢於巨室，而我噭噭然隨而哭之，自以為不通乎命，故止也

I am at first taken aback by Seneca Crane's interpretation (see here). It is pure stoicism (I cannot help but think darkly). Although I do know what he means in a sense. That one is to "taste without tasting" (ddj63) etc. At the same time, I decide to go ahead and make my own translation of the passage to see if I cannot get to an interpretation that will be more satisfactory to me (and to Dido).

After completing my rendition, I discover, it's not all that different from Watson's-- except perhaps that I would want to stress much more this concept that Zhuangzi (otherwise known as ZZ) is basing both his behavior as well as the reason behind his behavior on something the Japanese translations have as 自然の法則　principles of nature and the dao　道理.

Ibn Arabi-- whose stamina for debate is unsurpassed-- has many problems with this, but for now I am sticking to this idea that what Watson call fate and what Legge calls "what is appointed for all" is really best expressed as the laws of nature or Way.

But more importantly, that this really boils down to one man's (the man we call ZZ) personal response to Way. And, that this personal response to Way has less stress on an objective-sounding normative "should" than the Roman version would suggest (I am basing my interpretation on online Japanese sources-- which many of you will be aware that I usually am more friendly to since after all they have been doing this a 1000 years). In fact, concerning this second point, two of the online sites I used had this last line explicitly translated something like, "and as for myself, I thought to cry like that would be ignoring what was natural as Way.... "

These small adjustments in emphasis lend for a translation that is much more intuitive to me:

(牡丹訳）

(trans)
When Zhuangzi's wife died, Huizi found him singing and drumming.

Huizi asked him: "Zhuangdi, is it right to to be singing and drumming during a time of mourning? Afterall was it not your wife who lived with you all these years, raising your children? To not cry is one thing, but to sing and drum-- is this not a time for sadness (is not your reaction unnatural)?"

Zhuangzi replied: "Not at all. Was I not devastated when she first died? Did I not cry then?

"Thinking about it, though, I thought about that time before she was born when she had no real "existence." Not only did she have no real "existence" but she had no physical form. And without a body, she also had no spirit (氣). From out of this murky nothing, however, 氣 was generated and this was changed into "form." Now this body and 氣 has returned to it's origins-- and this is no different than the changing of the seasons. From spring to summer, from summer to fall, from fall to winter, this is the natural way of the world. That humans can return to a peaceful slumber in a great room within nature-- in this happy state, why would I then cry thinking of her like that? To cry after thinking of it in this way would be to ignore what is natural-- or the Way of Nature." (天命）

Watson calls this concept of 「命」 Fate. And, I don't dislike this-- as long as we remember that while for the Stoics, fate was like a dog tied to cart being dragged around town; for the daoist sage, what was fate other than simply the natural unfolding of events? Actually, just going by the Japanese, 天命 perhaps all it really suggests is the concept of all those things which are out of human hands-- or as wikipedia explains, "how one should live the life given to human beings by "heaven" (天から人間に与えられた一生をかけて行うべき命令のこと)

Ok, fate.

To my mind, the interesting question is: how does one know what to do in any given situation? How can person understand what is their fate? Well for the stoics, one knew fate (or Nature) through reason. And to cultivate reason one was to do everything in their power to diminish the emotions which could cloud our rational faculties (like our Lady Dido). Harvard tells me that his Latin professor once remarked in class that the main Stoic policy was, "Never fall in love, under any circumstances". 

I just don't see that as being part of the daoist mindset since emotions and passions are not categorically dismissed in the same way. And indeed, to "not act" is-- in fact-- to act. "Not acting" as such is an absurd concept so we really, I think, have to be not so quick to dismiss poor Dido just because she acted (even in this case cursing unto suicide!). Because of course, even had she not acted with passion, she still would have been acting.

How can one possible judge what was in harmony with the way and what was not? Well, I am left with the idea that our fate (or Way) is known through our intuition and to cultivate intuition one seeks to heighten sensibility in what is in the end a very individual project. And, I would suggest that only those involved-- including Dido's subjects-- only they could pass accurate ethical judgement-- after the fact.

**

So, what does that say about Zhuangzi mourning his dead wife? Well, I reject that it says anything whatsoever about the limits of our loving relationships-- at the same time agreeing with Professor A Ku that it recommends-- rather than any sort of emotional detachment--  rather it prescribes an individual commitment to staying in the present tense and yes-- going with the flow (even if that means cursing onto suicide).

Indeed, when I read the passage, it resonates to me as one long meditation which has as its base ZZ's tremendously attached love for his wife. For if he wasn't so enthralled by her as to be devastated by her passing, why would he have thought about this so deeply. It is absolutely beautiful, I think.

And no where does he say, "better not to be attached to love," but rather-- better to understand that death is nothing to be fearful of as death is part of the natural cycle of things (自然の循環 ）. Where Confucian teaches, "just take care of your life and death will take care of itself," our Man from the State of Song, says that death is as part of nature as the passing of the seasons. It is not only not a sad event, but it is all part of the way things are (無為自然→自然の規則的な循環 ）

As a side note, I read a very interesting paper last night as I lay next to Adonis watching him sleep like an angel. Written by a professor at Nihon Daigaku, Kunitsugu Kosaka, it presents wuwei as being not something that humans do alone, but rather that it is nature that is wuwei. Again and again the paper had this phrase 無為自然 and so this I think is the best clue to understanding what wuwei is (and perhaps it is something that all daoists need to take their own stand on in individual ways?)

**

Anyway, I learn that my man Ibn Arabi also plays the guqin. Over at his very bare-bones abode, he writes very beautifully about a piece of music called Mozi Grieving over Silk, explaining,

Mozi was walking through town one day when he came across silk dyers plying their trade. He was moved to tears by this scene as it led him to reflect that on the inevitable force exerted on man by his surroundings, his relationships, and his experiences. Life dyes us: we can never go back to the way we were, let alone imagine how we might have turned out if this hue, that hue had never bled through us.

And when I complain

Yes, I think it is true that life dyes us– every single experience. Therefore, don’t you think only the cowardly turn away?

He wisely responds-- whether you turn away or not, life will dye you.

True. But, we also don't want to turn away from life or our emotions, right?

Ronald de Susa ends his paper Learning to be Natural like this

We are forever launched into a dialectical dance: our emotional dispositions respond to, but also create, entirely new contexts. We obviously can't judge new situations with anything other than our old dispositions; but if we apply ourselves to take as comprehensive a view of the new context as possible, the totality of our emotional reactions will generate new paradigm scenarios, from which emerge fresh axiological judgments.

"Every translation is an interpretation"

Happy birthday to Sam, and to the man who made me smile all day long yesterday after telling me, "I am no Roman-- I am all about the love" this is for you:

lacrimae rerum ( & Dido sings the wuwei blues)

 

I abandoned your shores, Empress,
against my will.
-- Aeneid, Book 6

It was his fate. Well, that is, if you believe that fate is a person's chosen path (plus their character).

Aeneas.

Thinking about Him, I spent some time last night re-reading a discussion about wuwei 無為 that went on over at the Gialbo's palace last spring: Wuwei-- what does it mean? The Gialbo suggested that in daoist wuwei there is more emphasis on something like “non-learned action.” I agree to a point-- though I personally would much prefer to see the emphasis placed the avoidance of action based on over-thinking ("hard-boiled action?).

But, we actually don't have a lot to go on, do we? 

In Japan, wuwei has become so intertwined with Buddhist notions of non-causality that it's hard to step back and recall how wuwei was used by the daoists-- especially if you are thinking in Japanese. But, in fact, kojien gives this earlier pre-Buddhist understanding of the word first in its list of definitions: 道の在り方 "the way of the Way." (also, "the natural state of the natural state").

Maybe the Buddhist conception has somehow influenced the understanding of the word in today's time, but I question whether wuwei is anything more than a general policy concerning not over-thinking one's actions; that is, rather than a categorical state of non-action (as a form of Self-extinguishing), it is instead a Will to heightened-awareness in order to be more sensitive about what is happening around oneself; a sensitivity to how things are unfolding, developing, moving or not moving in any direction. And, the Sage or Hero cultivates this sensibility in order to "go with the flow."

As a side note about flow, to me this is profoundly different from Czikszentmihalyi's concept of Flow-- which has more in common, I think, with a skilled absorption in meaningful occupation as a means to achieving happiness.

For one thing, is wuwei even about achieving happiness? Not really. Isn't it more about achieving a kind of harmony with the here and now (people and events as they exist in front of us)?

What do you do, though, when there is a Disturbance in the Force?

Last month, my sister took Adonis with my nephew, little Puyi, to Puyi's preschool. Some little girls can be so forward with little boys, and one of the girls in Puyi's class took a real liking to my Adonis and latched on to him like glue; following him around, not letting anyone else get near him and otherwise monopolizing him. So, there they were out on the playground happily playing with Adonis' hotwheel cars (which he always travels with a few hotwheels in his pocket). Well, he must have said or done something really stupid because the little girl suddenly flung her hotwheel down in to the dirt and yelled, "I hate you!" And turned and walked away.

Adonis, looked around in complete bewilderment at all the mothers and raising his arms up toward the heavens, asked, "What just happened here?"

Yes, that is what I call a Disturbance in the Force.

Baffled and completely beyond understanding, he just went back to playing. Some may think-- yes, non-action, wuwei.

But is it? Did Adonis take the hero's path?

Wuwei is not really about non-action as much as knowing when it is natural to act and when it is not natural to act-- and how does one "know" this? I would say by pure Confucian sensibility.

I know some of you may blame Peerless Helen. I mean, of course, all those dead Trojan soldiers for one thing. Virgil, too, I think came down hard on her. But, it's interesting to note that the ancients themselves had a more ambiguous understanding of Helen, whom they called, Peerless Among Women. For in one sense that great Mood that overcame her to run away with Paris, well by acting on it, was she not going with the Flow (it is hard in a sense to judge now because we cannot but help see it through Christian or even Roman terms, can we?) The above is pure Dreyfus-- but I like it.

Now back to my man-- the Antihero. He tells us that it is his Fate to leave the Empress, right? It is his path and is also his character. But was it wuwei?

How can one even know?

I think the tricky aspect of thinking about wuwei is just this: that perhaps it can really only be understood in retrospect.

As some of the readers of these pages may recall, I have unendingly watched My Lover the Emperor trying to navigate this path of lesser resistence. He was an ardent daoist-- like me, he tried to keep his head down and never look Fate in the eye. This fate of His, though, (the world falling in on you) was never faraway and as armies amassed along his borders, he still chose non-willed engagement-- choosing instead to focus on other projects-- the bronzes, calligraphy, his gardens, poetry, painting, music and the perfect shade of blue. Distractions? Or merely the path of lesser resistence?

It wouldn't end well for him, would it? And yet, history has not come down hard on him like it did on the wet-blanket Aeneas.

Odysseus, Huizong and Aeneas-- all three chose to act-- even if acting was not a direct confrontation of the issues at hand (Huizong).

Self chooses-- to act or not to act.

Of the three, Aeneas alone was not particularly sensitive to his surroundings as he chose his course of action-- insulting Dido and then sneaking out in the middle of the night. Really, is it any wonder that she would not speak to him when their paths crossed again in Hades? This was perhaps my friend's gripe with him: that his actions were over-thought, hard-boiled and not sensitive to the situation.

The situation being Dido.

My friend Geneva might well suggest that Dido could do with a little wuwei herself. And yet, did not the great poet already tell us that her love was like a fish? (Fish, of course, usually swimming with the flow) That is, did she not do what felt so right to her that it overcame her? And did not the gods forgive her in the end? Because wuwei does not mean "doing nothing"-- but rather suggests a sweet and skillful understanding of the situation based on a harmonious and intuitive grasping of what is happening right in front of your eyes concerning how and when to act (or not). Whether you call it destiny, or Way or "fate plus character," I would argue that a Self is there that intutively chooses. 

And the sea became a sea of tears.
But, as one knows, precisely at the moment
of despair, the auspicious wind begins to blow.

And the great man left Carthage.

**

Professor Ku and I started chatting about choice in Confucian philosophy versus Existential philosophy. We may or may not disagree as we have not gotten that far yet. We did, however, decide to next read Fingarette's Confucius: the Secular as Sacred. I will make an announcement when we decide when and where-- but for anyone who might like to join the conversation, the more the merrier. Chris and Manyul will also post announcements to the reading before we start.

**

And about the heartbreaking world of tears and the burdens of mortality that so touch the heart, my comrade Conrad's comrade, the honorable Raminagrobis, has written a great post about the problems of... yes, the problems of translation.

Finally, I copy the Akhmatova poem that I loved so much below(thanks Austin) And below that-- because, well, why do I not own this DVD yet??-- The 2005 Choreographic Opera, Dido and Aeneas (this one too even better--for Geneva of course)

11

I abandoned your shores, Empress,
against my will.
-- Aeneid, Book 6

Don't be afraid -- I can still portray
What we resemble now.
You are a ghost -- or a man passing through,
And for some reason I cherish your shade.

For awhile you were my Aeneas --
It was then I escaped by fire.
We know how to keep quiet about one another.
And you forgot my cursed house.

You forgot those hands stretched out to you
In horror and torment, through flame,
And the report of blasted dreams.

You don't know for what you were forgiven ...
Rome was created, flocks of flotillas sail on the sea,
And adulation sings the praises of victory.

--Anna Akhmatova1962
Komarovo

Red Pine

Some of you will no doubt recall with a smile the discussions that took place here a few months back about translating Passage 60 from the Daodejing.

The Discussion started off at the Gialbo's Palace here, before continuing on at my more humble abode here and here (The topic generated about 300 comments-- mainly between Bill and me.)

Yesterday, Red Pine was kind enough to send along his rendition of the passage along with some very interesting notes-- which I now upload here.

For those of you who-- like me-- are fans of his translations, you will be happy to hear that a revised edition of his daodejing (from which this below will appear) is due out in the fall. Published by Copper Canyon Press, he says it should be in their Fall/Winter Catalog. 

For what it's worth, I still prefer my rendition here-- shown at the bottom of the page in blue. Red Pine wn't budge though :) 

Also, recommended is this Kyoto Journal Interview with Red Pine (also linked in wiki article)

**

Ruling a great state
is like cooking a small fish
when you govern the world with the Tao
spirits display no powers
not that they have no powers
their powers don’t harm the people
not that their powers don’t harm
the sage keeps them from harming
and neither harms the other
for both rely on Virtue.

In a poem bemoaning the absence of virtuous rulers, the Shihching (Book of Odes) says, “Who can cook fish / I’ll wash out the pot.” (Kuei: 4)

Li Hsi-chai says, “For the sage, ruling a state is a minor affair, like cooking a small fish.”

Ho-shang Kung says, “If you cook a small fish, don’t remove its entrails, don’t scrape off its scales, and don’t stir it.  If you do, it will turn to mush.  Likewise, too much government makes those below rebel.  And too much cultivation makes one’s vitality wither.”

Han Fei says, “In cooking a small fish, too much turning ruins it.  In governing a great state, too much reform embitters the people.  Thus, a ruler who possesses the Way values inaction over reform.”

Te-ch’ing says, “A cruel government brings calamity down on the people.  The people, however, think their suffering is the work of ghosts and spirits and turn to sacrifice and worship to improve their lot, when actually their misfortune is caused by their rulers.”

The Tsochuang says, “If the state is meant to flourish, listen to the people.  If the state is meant to perish, listen to the spirits.” (Chuang: 32)

Wang Chen says, “The government that takes peaces as its basis doesn’t lose the Way.  When the government doesn’t lose the Way, yin and yang are in harmony.  When yin and yang are in harmony, wind and rain arrive on time.  When wind and rain arrive on time, the spirit world is at peace.  When the spirit world is at peace, the legion of demons can’t perform their sorcery.”

Wang Pi says, “Spirits don’t injure what is natural.  What is natural gives spirits no opening.  When spirits have no opening, spirits cannot act like spirits.”

Ch’eng Hsuan-ying says, “Spirits dwell in the yin, and people dwell in the yang.  When both accept their lot, neither injures the other.”

Su Ch’e says, “The inaction of the sage makes people content with the way they are.  Outside, nothing troubles them.  Inside, nothing frightens them.  Even spirits have no means of using their powers.  It isn’t that spirits have no powers.  They have powers, but they don’t use them to harm people.  The reason people and spirits don’t harm each other is because they look up to the sage.  And the sage never harms anyone.”

Wu Ch’eng says, “The reason spirits don’t harm the people is not because they can’t but because the sage is able to harmonize the energy of the people so that they don’t injure the energy of the spirit world.  The reason neither injures the other is due to the sage’s virtue.  Hence, they both rely on the virtue of the sage.”

Hsuan-tsung says, “‘Neither’ here refers to spirits and the sage.”

Li Jung says, “Spirits and sages help people without harming each other.  One is hidden, the other manifest.  But both rely on virtue.”

Sung Ch’ang-hsing says, “Spirits are spirits because they respond but can’t be seen.  Sages are sages because they govern but don’t act.  The virtue of sages and the virtue of spirits is the same.”

Commenting on the Taoteching is also like cooking a small fish.  Better not to have caught it.  Once having caught it, there’s no way to give it back its life.  Commentators are divided as to whether the subjects of lines nine and ten are spirits and the people or spirits and the sage.  Both are possible, given the usual ambiguous syntax of the Chinese language, but my reading gives the nod to spirits and sages.

Going Visiting with Daniel Bell (part 2)

Today, I am back in my rickety boat with all the gaping holes in the bottom, drifting into deep-- and for me-- very unchartered waters. I know I should turn back-- but it's this or go back to work. So I leave you this page, dear readers, asking for your understanding that I write in the spirit of questioning-- not answering.

**

Right off, many of you will notice the object of my desire-- at left. Imagine him here not as a victorious athlete, but rather as Meno's slave. We know that our man from Thessaly arrived on a trip to Athens with a large retinue of slaves. One of these slaves became forever after immortalized in Plato's Socratic dialogue, the Meno. Clever, he was perhaps also very handsome (that's how I like to imagine him, at least).

And so, during the course of a pleasant dialogue that occurred between Meno, and then his slave and Socrates, we learn that, according to Plato, the purpose of all dialogue-- indeed the aim of education itself-- is to recover the knowledge that already exists within us. Learning, then, is a kind of recollection; so that Truth, rather than being knowledge deducted empirically from the world around us, exists a priori within all of us and is knoweable through human reason.

As I mentioned here, I have been re-listening to Dreyfus' lectures on Kierkegaard. In the first lecture Dreyfus talks about the scene in the Meno in which Socrates teaches a foreign-born slave how to solve the Pythagorean Theorem. Socrates, by asking the slave a series of questions leads him to rationally come up with the solution to the theorem; thereby, declares Plato, proving that knowledge is innate. Dreyfus then goes on to explain that not only does Plato prove that truths are universal (not dependent on context) but also that Greek civilization and the heights of its cultural achievements (effective utilization of human reason) were in fact open to everyone (as long as they spoke Greek perhaps?) A slave yes, but even still participation in culture was open to him.

**

Now, fast forward 2500 years into the future. My buddy in Beijing and I are debating once again about Daniel Bell (disguised in the form of Samuel Huntington). I wanted to make the point (which I stand by) that universalist thinking is strongly inherent to Western philosophical and religious traditions. But again, this is not to say that 1) the Western tradition is exclusively or categorically universalist; nor is it to 2) deny universalist approaches that exist in other cultures. Still, I would argue that Western political and moral discourse tends to couch its principles as universal and objective truth.

My buddy in Beijing, however, urged me to not be so quick to discount strains of universalism in Chinese thought as well, and mentioned the famous Mencius episode where the philosopher argues for the innate goodness of humans.

Here is the wiki version:

To show innate goodness, Mencius used the example of a child falling down a well. Witnesses of this event immediately feel

“ alarm and distress, not to gain friendship with the child's parents, nor to seek the praise of their neighbors and friends, nor because they dislike the reputation [of lack of humanity if they did not rescue the child]...
The feeling of commiseration is the beginning of humanity; the feeling of shame and dislike is the beginning of righteousness; the feeling of deference and compliance is the beginning of propriety; and the feeling of right and wrong is the beginning of wisdom.

Is this the same quality of universalism seen in the Meno, though?

That Mencius is positing that all human beings would feel a similar compassion for a child in mortal danger is "universalist" of course in the sense that he is saying that this is a trait which all humans share by virtue of our shared humanity. But are all shared human traits universalist in the philosophical sense (ie, a truth derived from human reason which can be universally applied despite context)?

That is my question.

I have no real answer, because I have not read enough Mencius. I will just briefly explain my concerns (with regard to this particular passage only) and then hope one of you will leave a comment to give me something to think about regarding this issue.

My first concern I have already stated above: aren't shared human traits (even universally shared human traits) somehow fundamentally different from Plato's innate knowledge as truth? This is really slippery to me.... because, of course, Mencius' position is based on an innate concept of virtue-- and that perhaps could fall under the aegis of innate knowledge. Except if I were to accept that Mencius' concept of innate virtue is a form of innate knowledge, I would want to make sure this can be differentiated from other shared human traits-- for example those derived from instinct or emotion. So, out first question should be to ask, what is Mencius' innate virtue based on?

Mencius makes it clear that he is basing his argument on feeling-- not rationally-derived a priori concepts. And, this is my problem. It's not that all people rationally know that having compassion for a child in mortal danger is virtuous. Rather it is something we all feel. It is a shared (ie "universal") human trait. The Chinese is 心 xin, which I assume is the same meaning as the Japanese (heart/mind) and it appears a lot! And what does the heart mind do? It feels or is thoughtful (思う）-- differentaited from sense perception (感覚→　感觉）as well as from rational thinking 考.

Like sense perceptions and like rationality, however, feeling is something bequeathed to all humans by nature 天. And, it is through the functioning of feeling, or thoughtfulness, that one arrives at virtuous action 徳. 

Is this knowledge? 

I would argue (based on my reading of this passage as well as my understanding of the Japanese) that even if Mencius was referring to "knowing," that this "knowing" is based fundamentally on one's heart-felt/embodied (心）engagement （得） with the world (in contrast to Platonic a priori notions which are not based on knowledge obtained from the senses or feelings, etc.)

This, therefore, leads to the point of my question: Yes, the child in a well episode posits a human universalism, but my feeling is, being based on 1) human feeling and 2) engagement with the world-- that the universalism we see in this particular Mencius passage is not based on a priori concepts of Truth (as in Plato)-- but rather has more in common with other shared human traits (such as the universalism of falling in love). And, it is this linking of universal principles with truth via Greek rationality that we see in Plato and that characterizes the Western philosophical tradition, which would lead Dreyfus to state that

Plato proves that Greek civilization and the heights of its cultural achievements were in fact open to everyone; a slave yes, but even still participation in culture was open to him.

Indeed, I do not think Mencius' episode carries the same weight (for to say that, "you must do x, because it is something we all inherently feel" is an altogether different kettle of fish than to say, "you must do x because it is objectively Right." The former has a much stronger emphasis on dialogue and varying emphases depending on time and place, for example (as logically speaking, if something is true than it is so despite context).

**

Has everyone read Chris' really interesting post called Embracing Your Inner Elitist? I left a comment to his post trying to make a very similar point with regard to Bell's House of Scholars versus Plato's Philosopher-Kings. While at a glance Bell's advance of a "House of Scholars" is reminiscent of Plato's philosopher-kings, in fact, while Plato's ideas are derived ultimately from universal principles (expounded as truth) we do not see the same claims in Bell (disguised as Mencius); and being based in time (historicity) and location (culture), I really do think Bell's ideas are more fluid and open to various interpretations and applications than we are seeing in reviews etc. 

Having said all this, I guess I had better explicitly state the following (otherwise Shunya is sure to call me on it): while I do think there is a significant difference between universally shared ethical traits versus universal principles which are "true  in all possible contexts," this is not to say that I think Chinese culture is particularly exclusionary. Like any other cultures, I think Chinese culture is ever-changing and multi-faceted-- hence it remains flexible and indeed open. But, not unlike French civilization, I think access to it remains dependent on the acceptance (and acquisition) of language, values and cultural practices.

**

Finally, one last point, on East Meets West: Bell takes a huge risk by delivering his ideas in a Socratic dialogue. Some have felt a strong aversion to this format, but I think it should be remembered that a philosophical dialogue has different aims than literature and while the characters (Demo, Lo et al) are every bit as one-dimensional as Socrates, Meno and the slave, still the format is employed with a commitment to seeing truth as occurring in the dialectic. This is something that Chris has brought up several times (if I am understanding him correctly, that is). I think it is a great point-- and it one that I share.

(See my post: Going Visiting with Hannah Arendt).

If no one has read this book (Moral Foundations: Mencius versus Kant, Rousseau & Nietzshe) by Francois Jullien, I may try and get a copy in Japanese-- but I've got to tell you, I would much prefer to read it in English (has it not been translated?) The child in a well anecdote appears right on the cover and his other books look interesting.... any thoughts?