Two Ways of Ancient Chinese Thought in America 2003By Sparrow(These two essays were originally presented as talks at The Shala in New York in December 2002 and January 2003.--Ed.)
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- On Taoism There is something comical about me sitting in a room elucidating Lao Tzu. (To begin with, let me explain that I use a voice-activated computer, because I have carpal tunnel syndrome. This computer, though wise, has never heard of the Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu. Thus, when I spoke his name, while writing this speech, various phrases were printed on the monitor: "cloud Sue," "loud Sioux," and "loud soup." Let us think a bit about "cloud Sue." Who is she? I picture a young woman in a blue dress sitting upon a cloud. She has golden hair, and seems cheerful. "Loud Sioux" would be a group of Native Americans chanting -- or perhaps preparing for war. "Loud soup" suggests a small man with large glasses eating soup very noisily, in a Jewish restaurant. Do any of these pictures explain Lao Tzu? Probably not. Probably nothing explains Lao Tzu. I have chosen to explicate the one text that cannot ever be explicated. So what will we do? (I myself am curious.)
2. First of all, let me discuss translation. Translation is impossible. This is a secret, known primarily to translators. For many arts, there is no translation. In clothing, for example -- no one translates a sari into a three-piece suit. No one says, "I am presenting this garment -- it is a kimono if it were a sundress." Or in cuisine, no one creates a taco as it would be cooked in Somalia. Why then do we believe that words may be translated, when sandwiches cannot? This is because long ago writers tricked us into believing translations exist. Why is this? Because writers are audacious and busy. Now, I know what you're thinking. The writers you know sit in cafes all day drinking coffee and staring at the waitress. But it is the other writers who are audacious and busy, the ones you do not meet. You don't meet them because they are constantly in their rooms, writing three-part essays, revising plays, and in their spare time, "translating." They translate whatever language their girlfriend knows. (Translation, being impossible, requires collaboration.) In the introductions to their books translators admit, in a circumspect way, that translation does not exist. "I have attempted to stay as close to the tone of the original as possible," they remark. This is just what a hobbyist who builds a replica of the Eiffel Tower out of sugar cubes says. Let us recall, as we read the Tao Te Ching, that we are reading not a book but a replica of a book made of sugar cubes. In fact, the Tao Te Ching is not a book. It must (I assume) be a scroll. Just printing a book of it -- even in Chinese -- is a bold and dangerous translation.
3. The story of my life is the story of the Tao Te Ching. I first found this book when I was twelve years old. At that time I was in the smartest class at P.S. 152, in Manhattan. In fact, I was one of the smartest youths in the smartest class. I commonly received grades of 98, 99 and 100. I was also President of the class, and Captain of the Monitor Squad. I planned to become a doctor. But then, in my grandmother's house, on 5th Street in Philadelphia, I found Lao Tzu's book. (My Uncle Jimmy had read it in college.) This was the Mentor edition, of R. B. Blackney's translation. The price was 35 cents. I read:
Suddenly I chose not to be a doctor. I decided rather to be a quiet, humble man -- perhaps a streetsweeper. I hoped to be what we call in American "a failure." Ultimately, my life took this shape. After high school, I flunked out of Cornell University and found a job digging ditches at a construction site. A series of similar work ensued: building house trusses, laboring in a sheet metal factory, painting apartments. For three years I was a clerk in a health food store. For more than 20 years, I worked part time with mentally retarded adults. Three years ago, at age 46, I began to think: "Perhaps Lao Tzu was wrong!" Rereading him, I no longer admired his extremist humility. It is better to be a hero who helps the poor than another poverty-stricken man, I believed. But it is not easy, in middle age, to become a hero.
4. Despite my 38 years of familiarity with this book, as I prepared for this discussion I realized I did not know what "Tao Te Ching" means. It is commonly translated as "The Way of Life" -- in fact, the translation I have uses this title -- but that must be wrong. "Tao" is defined, actually, in the 25th poem. Let's look at that:
Let us return to our definition of "Tao Te Ching." I am going to define Tao (though it is morally wrong to define it) as "an inherent mothering principle in the world." Let us consider my definition for a moment. We'll start at the end (arbitrarily). "In the world" suggests something nearby. Unlike God, or Heaven, or enlightenment, or some other distant salvation, the Tao is present. Certainly if the Tao exists it must be in this room now. Secondly, I use the word "principle." You notice Lao Tzu says, "Conceive it as the mother of the world;" he does not say, "Conceive her as the mother of the world." The Tao is an "it," not a "her." It is closer to being a "principle" than a god. Thirdly, I use the word "mothering" to represent a compassionate, nourishing presence. The Tao is benign; it is a principle, yet it generates love. This seems a paradox -- unless we think of music, which creates loving feelings -- the music of John Coltrane, for example -- through a series of mathematical tones. In a similar way the Tao spreads kindness through its interior being. This leads us to the fourth segment of my definition, the word "inherent." The Tao is not merely present, like air, but it is inherent -- it is within the structure of life, inside the molecular soul of everything. So that is my definition of "Tao." "Te" looks like some kind of proposition, apparently "of", in the phrase "Way of Life." "Ching" could well mean "changes," as the I Ching is translated as "the book of changes." So "Tao Te Ching" means "the inherent mother-entity within all changes."
5. What is the Western equivalent of Taoism? It happens that my daughter Sylvia recently received a Groucho Marx CD (Here's Groucho!) for her birthday. She has been playing it constantly, and also singing it. Compare this selection from No. 14 of the Tao Te Ching and a song by Groucho:
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6. Here is an e-mail correspondence between myself and my friend Jim. First, I invited him to my discussion of Lao Tzu. He replied:
My answer:
Jim continued:
I responded further:
7. Another affinity is between Taoism and riddles. Consider this section of No. 43:
Compare these excerpts from Biggest Riddle Book in the World by Joseph Rosenblum (Sterling Publishing Co., New York, 1976):
8. Why isn't Taoism funny? This is an important question. Also a frivolous question. One day while doing yoga, I thought about Lao Tzu. I saw in my mind a blue coat, like a pea coat, which I was trying to cut. I could not cut it. A shears could not penetrate it. This is the Tao. It is one piece. It cannot be cut. You cannot choose one segment of it, and separate it from the rest. You cannot separate its gentleness from its eternity, or its greatness from its water-quality. Humor, too, cannot be cut. It is proverbial that no one can dissect a joke. A joke is a whole joke. Jokes and Taoism may be two parallel forms of mysticism.
9. In 1977 I read an interview with a Taoist farmer in the New Age Journal. He said, "In the spring I go down to the lower part of my land, near the creek. I throw some rice seeds in the ground. Then I return to my daily life. Sometime in the fall, I notice the rice is growing. I walk down and harvest it. Then I thresh it, and bring it to market. Then I continue with my life. Years go by and I forget I'm a farmer." Reading this had too large an effect on my life. This was the fate I wanted. And now I have it, at least for the present. I am here, harvesting what I forgot I have planted. I do my meditation every day, twice a day, and don't think, "I am planting rice seeds." Later, something grows in my mind. I write it on a page. The page is sent, via electronic mail, to another person. That second person places it in a newspaper. Years go by and I forget I'm a writer. I don't feel that I'm writing. I feel that I'm avoiding writing. And I am avoiding writing. Most of the writing in the world I am avoiding. I don't write novels about horseracing. I don't write sonnets. I don't write articles for The New York Times. Mostly I don't write at all. The only time I'm writing is when I'm writing. The rest of the time I'm trying not to be a writer.
10. One forgets that Lao Tzu is speaking to a King. Isn't that strange? No one remembers this. People picture Lao Tzu saying, "Make no effort. Avoid the world." Yet he speaks to a monarch, a man who rules a vast nation. For some reason, I never noticed this. If I had, my whole life might have been different. I might have become a King. (At least, I ran for president three times. I have not completely ignored Lao Tzu's intentions.) Here are some poems I wrote while considering Taoism:
it is comical that trees lose their leaves as if people's ears fell off
Poema crow on whom rain falls gives a cry
Definitionnumber - more numb
A JokeI realize why I can't sleep at night. I have insomnia.
PoemBumper sticker: IDEALIST DUTY
Jobs Of A MouseOne of the jobs of a mouse is to search.
SnowSnow falls. It is white. The whiteness of the snow falls with the snow to the ground, which waits to whiten.
I ForgotI forgot I was born; I thought I had always been. That's why death threatens me.
And here are two stories: The Wise Man and the TrollA wise man was walking in the forest when he met a troll. "I want to eat you," said the troll. "Go ahead and eat me," said the wise man. The troll ate the wise man. Afterward the troll was remorseful. He went to a monastery, to study the path of wisdom. Soon he became wise.
Taoist TaxiOne day I was on 23rd Street and Third Avenue (in New York City) and decided to hail a taxi. The moment I raised my hand, a yellow car appeared, though the street had been deserted the moment before. I entered the back seat. A peaceful man of indeterminate race was driving. "69th and Second," I said. "Fine," he answered. He drove up Third Avenue, threading through the traffic effortlessly. "He drives like a stream flows," I thought. At 48th Street, he suddenly turned left. "You're going the wrong way!" I shouted. "Something told me to go left," he explained. At 60th Street, he turned right again. Back on Third Avenue, I saw we had avoided a large traffic jam. We reached 69th Street and Second Avenue. I handed him a $20 bill; he gave me $25 change. "Thank you," I said. "The pleasure was mine," he replied.
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