A Truly Universal, All-inclusive Book
- Calvin Stevens
- Jan 29
- 8 min read
If you’re like me and have a fascination with Chinese culture, then the last few weeks should have been a treat. With the Spring Festival (Chinese New Year) upon us, Chinese communities around the world have been bustling with excitement; the local Chinatown in my home city has been especially dolled up with a number of pop-up stalls preparing various trinkets, décor, and food items necessary to partake in the upcoming festival. And, amidst one of these markets, I found a hidden gem.
Two beautiful second-hand copies of ancient Chinese wisdom.
Laozi’s Tao Te Ching and Sunzi’s The Art of War.
Both with translations by J.H. McDonald and Lionel Giles, respectively.
Oh, and they have some exquisite illustrations (bonus!).
I got them both for a bargain, discounted price off a clearance sale; apparently the original owner was clearing out some shelves before the start of the Spring Festival and subsequently decided he had no need for the English translations. So, being the bookworm and China-enthusiast that I am, I hesitated no further than reaching for my wallet secluded in the depths of my pocket.
Once home and with a coffee in hand — as goes my daily reading routine — I made the educated decision to start with the Tao Te Ching first.
Now, I am no stranger to ancient Chinese philosophy. In years prior, I read the Confucian Analects alongside some of the works by Confucius’ more well-known followers, Mencius and Xunzi. But, for reasons beyond me now, I never understood why I didn’t start with the Tao Te Ching. In hindsight, after having read the words of Laozi, I regret not having picked it up earlier.
While Confucian thought relays a strict mantra of duty, rituals, and moral principles, Taoism — as was sprung from the teachings of Laozi — revolves around a sense of intuition. If Confucianism is a guide for how to live a good, moral life, then Taoism is that which describes the exact nature of such a life, neither relying on human abstractions nor rituals to achieve something as far beyond our comprehension as life itself.
In a sense, Confucius’ words sought to tell me how to live my life; Laozi’s words expressed the very nature of that life.
Reading the ‘Tao Te Ching’
Have you ever noticed how the world around us can inevitably be reduced to complementary opposites?
There is Nothing, and there is Something; Cold, and Hot; Light and Dark; etcetera.
These two opposites, in their multiplicity, cannot exist without the other, for each gives unto the other that which it, itself, cannot express. You can’t feel happiness if you have no sadness to contrast it with, and likewise the same occurs vice versa. There seems, then, to be a continual flow from one opposite to the other, a constant flux from Being to Non-being, both forever intertwined. That balance between the two, right in the middle, is what we might call life, a phenomenon which we, each of us, all experience.
“Being and non-being produce each another. Difficult and easy complement each other. Long and short define each other. High and low oppose each other. Fore and aft follow each other.” (2)
But how does one begin to describe the Universe and all its seemingly intricate contradictions?
The Tao Te Ching does not have an answer for us.
And yet it’s that exact non-answer that makes the words of Laozi truly universal and all-inclusive.
Navigating the riddles
Now, I must admit, when I first read this book, I was, myself, a bit befuddled. I read J.H. McDonald’s translation of the ancient text and was quickly absorbed by the 81 lyrically composed aphorisms. The problem I found, however, was that, amidst these elegant lyrics, I could only make out a series of taunting riddles that seemingly spoke in contradictions.
“The Master puts herself last; and finds herself in the place of authority. She detaches herself from all things; therefore she is united with all things.” (7)
“Act by not acting; do by not doing.” (63)
But as I read on, as the riddles slowly sunk in, the crux became apparent: it is impossible for us to use words other than those which oppose one another; thus, the point is not to listen to the words but to the idea they invoke.
It reminded me somewhat of the ancient Greek philosopher, Heraclitus, who spoke in similar-sounding riddles — I’m sure many of you have heard the bizarre saying “One cannot step into the same river twice”.
Yeah, that guy.
Anyway, Heraclitus had a saying which, I think, applies quite amply here:
“Listen not to me but to the logos.”
Laozi, much like Heraclitus with a pinch of Parmenides, was trying to express a whole, a single unity, a certain one-ness. That, simply put, is the Tao. The Way. The natural order of things. And words just cannot properly describe such a concept; the many paradoxical dichotomies are the only means by which the exact essence of the Tao, the feeling of the Tao, can be truly elicited. It is not the words themselves you need to look at but the in-between.
Have you ever experienced a moment in life that you simply cannot explain?
“I don’t know how to explain it, but I felt so… alive.”
Or maybe you’ve encountered a feeling you can’t really describe? Like when you are
separated from a loved one for what feels like eternity.
“If this is love I’m feeling, then why, sometimes, does it hurt so much?”
Then you have experienced the Tao in its purest form.
Those moments feel as though there should be a word between two others — a word between love and pain, perhaps — and yet it simply does not exist. Love and pain are all we can use. And I suspect all of us have, or at least will have, experienced such moments, making the underlying experience of reading the Tao Te Ching to be universally appealing.
Encountering timeless words
You know a book is truly universal when its words are timeless, when it speaks a certain truth about humanity that is embedded within our very essence, our very being. And, quite frankly, many of Laozi’s words herein do just that.
There’s a reason why the Tao Te Ching is still widely read and studied to this day. If its words weren’t timeless and still relevant to the modern world, then it would have been reduced to yet another footnote in history long ago.
“Do you want to rule the world and control it? I don’t think it can ever be done.” (29)
Historians have, so far, surmised the text to have been written sometime during the Warring States Period (roughly between 475–221 BCE); and yet our world today, in many aspects, is not too different to Laozi’s world. There are still wars; those in power still hunger for more; there are still those who live lives of excess, forever obsessed with wealth; and people, generally speaking, are still concerned with their status within society. In fact, when thinking about it, our world really is just an exaggerated version of Laozi’s. So, perhaps the wisdom of the Tao Te Ching is even more relevant today than it was almost 2 500 years ago.
Why?
Because these are humanity’s universal truths; and we cannot escape them. And, within the 81 aphorisms, there are tidbits of wisdom that come in many forms.
Some are aimed at governance:
“Govern your country with integrity, weapons of war can be used with great cunning, but loyalty is only won by not-doing. How do I know the way things are? By these: The more prohibitions you make,the poorer people will be. The more weapons you possess, the greater the chaos in your country. The more knowledge that is acquired, the stranger the world will become. The more laws that you make,the greater the number of criminals.” (57)
While others are aimed at self-cultivation:
“Act by not acting; do by not doing. Enjoy the plain and simple. Find that greatness in the small. Take care of difficult problems while they are still easy; do easy things before they become too hard.” (63)
You can reserve your judgement and disagreements for all the passages that speak, specifically, of the Tao and its likeness — I’m not saying you need to become a Taoist — but no matter which way you look at the scattered wisdom, there are always lines that simply speak a truth we cannot deny. Some hit close to home — “The more weapons you possess, the greater the chaos in your country” — and others are purely logical — “The more laws that you make, the greater the number of criminals”. Nobody — nobody reasonable — I’m sure, is willing to object to a lot of these truths; they were true in Laozi’s time, the 1500s, our time, and will remain true well into the future for as long as humanity claims providence over its tiny domain in the vast universe.
And here’s the great thing: you don’t have to be interested in all these topics expressed in the Tao Te Ching.
I, for one, was particularly drawn to the concept of emptying one’s mind of all its knowledge in order to truly live a peaceful life; ignorance is bliss, as they say. But what I’m trying to say, here, is that this book will likely have something that you are drawn to. Thus, anyone can take something away from these pages, no matter where in the world you are.
Finding a home within the pages
I’ve always had one problem with some of the more “religious” mantras: they alienate a large portion of their readers.
Take the Ten Commandments of Christianity, for example. Four through seven are, just as I described above with the Tao Te Ching, beloved, universal commands that all morally upright humans can agree with. They offer advice for a better life, advice for creating a just, peaceful society. Great. Fantastic.
And then come one through three.
The topmost, prioritized commandments that come before all else are already a problem in that they are arranged in a hierarchy. Even if you agree with the other seven (which I’m sure you all do), if you don’t agree with the top three because you are, say, a non-believer, then you are immediately dismissed. The text feels antagonistic in a way, as though it were telling you to not take its wisdom if you weren’t going to agree with it in its entirety.
The Tao Te Ching, meanwhile, has no hierarchical system; no single aphorism is more important than the other. Moreover, whilst the book does espouse the notion of the Tao, it does not, in any way, give it the same rigid form or entity that is ascribed to a particular religious god. The Way, simply, is the natural order of things. Whether it is a god, an energy force, time, or any other intangible deity, is entirely up to the reader’s own perception.
Thus, the Tao Te Ching is all-inclusive, for it invites reader of all backgrounds to take in its wisdom, neither telling us how nor what to believe.
Now, I’m not claiming to have found inner peace by connecting to the Tao; I’m still mulling over the notion of “action through inaction” as expressed explicitly in 63; but the very experience of reading this book is somewhat comforting when faced with life’s many contradictions, even those within oneself. Laozi taught me to embrace all these convoluted intricacies, unlike many of the more religious, monotheistic texts which foresee punishment and suffering for those of us who seek salvation after having refused to blindly follow a strict creed.
Ultimately, at the end of the day, why should I desire salvation if I can simply accept the indestructible unity of all things in the universe and follow the way things are?
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