where did lao tzu travel after he disappeared

Biography Online

Lao Tzu Biography

Life of Lao Tzu

Amongst historians there is uncertainty over the historical facts about Lao Tzu’s life – some even doubt whether he existed. But, the most prominent sources suggest he was born with the birth name of Er Li in the 5th or 6th Century BC. Laozi 老 was an honorific name which means “Old venerable, Master” It can be anglicised in different ways – hence both Laozi and Lao Tzu have been used.

The strongest historical sources suggest he worked as a scholar and served as the keeper of the archives for the Royal Court of Zhou. Lao Tzu would have had access to the great literature of ancient Chinese culture and this would have informed his own philosophy. However, Lao Tzu went beyond synthesis of past ideas and created a new strain of philosophy – which expressed mystical sentiments in thought-provoking paradox and analogies.

“Knowing others is intelligence; knowing yourself is true wisdom. Mastering others is strength; mastering yourself is true power.”

Tao Te Ching . Ch. 33, translated by Stephen Mitchell (1992)

The philosophy and teachings of Lao Tzu are said to have drawn many students and disciples who began following him. However, there are no records of Lao Tzu creating a formal school.

The essence of Lao Tzu’s teachings was the importance of seeking to live in harmony with the Tao. Lao Tzu implied that the Tao was beyond name and form and could never adequately expressed in words.

“The Tao that can be expressed is not the eternal Tao; The name that can be defined is not the unchanging name.”

Tao Te Ching

The Tao Te Ching gives advice for a seeker to go beyond the limited ego, and gain a greater appreciation for the invisible power and force which underlies the universe. The Tao Te Ching is a classic of mystical philosophy. It challenges conventional wisdom and the earthly pursuit of wealth, power and success. By contrast, it encourages the qualities of humility, modesty and simplicity.

“Wise men don’t need to prove their point; men who need to prove their point aren’t wise. The Master has no possessions. The more he does for others, the happier he is. The more he gives to others, the wealthier he is.”

It suggests the best form of leadership is to lead from behind, not grasping for power, but using gentle methods of persuasion to keep people on the right track.

“The Tao nourishes by not forcing. By not dominating, the Master leads.”

According to the Tao Te Ching, the ultimate goal of life is to attain the state of wu wei – free from desires. This can be achieved by emptying the mind and going beyond awareness of the body and human ego.

The Tao Te Ching is not for a mere literal understanding. When it talks about the virtue of ignorance, Taoist scholars suggest this means the absence of worldly vanity and false pride in material knowledge. The Tao also avoids the fundamentalism of religious texts. It doesn’t list a set of commandments, but suggests the Tao is a guide with no fixed path – each individual must follow the Tao according to his inner prompting.

“The Tao is teachable, yet understanding my words is not the same as following the Tao. The guidance is describable, yet knowing the description is not the same as following the guidance.”

In the Zhuangzi , the author relates a meeting between Lao Tzu and Confucius . Confucius was an eminent scholar and philosopher in his own right. Confucius promoted a more formal philosophy which emphasised formality and deference to your elders. Lao Tzu took a more intuitive and liberal approach, which emphasised the importance of being in tune with the universal harmony – and not just the conventions of the time. However, the meeting suggested a mutual appreciation for their respective approaches. The three philosophers Master Zhuang, Confucius and Lao Tzu, are the most notable Chinese philosophers. The Zhuangzi and the Tao Te Ching are the two cornerstones of Taoism.

In one version of Lao Tzu’s life, he married and had a son called Zong who became separated from him and went on to be a celebrated soldier. At a later time, Lao Tzu comes across a great military figure who is celebrating a military victory. It is at this point that Zong recognises his long-lost father. Lao Tzu then gives advice to his son – in particular, the value of respecting the defeated army and giving his foes a proper burial. Through listening to his father and avoiding a sense of triumphalism, Zong was able to broker a peace between the warring parties which lasted for many years.

In another version of Lao Tzu’s life, based on the writings of Sima Qian (a Chinese Historian of the early Han dynasty 206 BBC) Lao Tzu lived in Changzhou. However, he became discouraged by the moral decay and worldliness of the city. Seeking peace to meditate, he resolved to leave the city and live as a hermit in the mountains. However, at the western gate of the city, he was stopped by a guard Yinxi, who asked Lao Tzu to write his knowledge down for the benefit of citizens before he was given a pass to leave. It was at this juncture that Lao Tzu wrote the Tao Te Ching. In some versions of the story, Yinxi was so impressed with Lao Tzu that he became his disciple and followed Lao Tzu into exile. Yinxi then followed the different Taoist disciples of preparation and obedience to his Master – after completing a long period of preparation and training. He became the model Taoist student.

Religious interpretations of Lao Tzu

Lao Tzu is generally regarded as the founder of Taoism. In some branches of Taoism, Lao Tzu is worshipped as a God. Lao Tzu was viewed as a perfect personification of the Tao and throughout history, he has appeared to lead humanity towards its goal.

Citation: Pettinger, Tejvan . “Biography of Lao Tzu”, Oxford, UK – www.biographyonline.net . Published 27 January 2019. Last updated 27 Jan 2019.

Pythagoras: His Life and Teachings

Tao Te Ching by Lao Tzu at Amazon.com

Chasing the Pearl of Lao Tzu

A tale of ancient philosophers, alien abductions, murder-for-hire—and how the world’s largest pearl came to be the centerpiece of an 80-year-old hoax

L egend says the diver drowned retrieving the pearl. Trapped in a giant Tridacna clam, his body was brought to the surface by his fellow tribesmen in Palawan, a province of the Philippines, in May 1934. When the clam was pried open, and the meat scraped out, the local chief beheld something marvelous: a massive pearl, its sheen like satin. In its surface, the chief discerned the face of the Prophet Muhammad. He named it the Pearl of Allah. At 14 pounds, one ounce, it was the largest pearl ever discovered.

A Filipino American, Wilburn Dowell Cobb, was visiting the island at the time and offered to buy the jewel. In a 1939 article that appeared in Natural History magazine, he recounted the chief’s refusal to sell: “A pearl with the image of Mohammed, the Prophet of Allah, is earned by devotion, by sacrifice, not bought with money.” But when the chief’s son fell ill with malaria, Cobb used atabrine, a modern medicine, to heal him. “You have earned your reward,” the chief proclaimed. “Here, my friend, claim this, your pearl.”

In 1939, Cobb brought the pearl to New York City, and exhibited it at Ripley’s Believe It or Not, on Broadway. There, a new legend emerged, eclipsing the first. Upon seeing the pearl, Cobb said, an elderly Chinese gentleman “of highest culture and significant wealth” named Mr. Lee “burst into an hysteria of trembling and weeping.” This wasn’t the Pearl of Allah; this was the long-lost Pearl of Lao Tzu.

Around 600 b.c. , he told Cobb, Lao Tzu, the ancient Chinese philosopher and founder of Taoism, carved an amulet depicting the “three friends”—Buddha, Confucius, and himself—and inserted it into a clam so that a pearl would grow around it. As it developed, the pearl was transferred to ever-larger shells until only the giant Tridacna could hold it. In its sheen, Mr. Lee claimed, was not just one face, but three.

On the spot, Mr. Lee offered Cobb half a million dollars, saying the pearl was actually worth $3.5 million. But like the principled chief before him, Cobb refused to sell.

The mysterious Mr. Lee returned to China, never to be heard from again. But his spontaneous appraisal—$3.5 million—still forms the basis of a price that has steadily grown, from $40 million to $60 million to $75 million and beyond. And Mr. Lee’s recognition of Lao Tzu’s legendary pearl is at the heart of an 80-year-old hoax that has left a trail of wreckage across the United States—a satin mirage many try to grasp, before the jaws snap shut.

Bits of the legend are true. The pearl really was discovered when a diver drowned; Cobb really did acquire it from the local chief; and gazing at the pearl, you really can discern the face of a turbaned man. The rest is a fantasy Cobb invented.

In the dry hills of Union City, California, I met his daughter Ruth Cobb Hill. Born in the Philippines, she is now 85 years old, a retired clinical psychologist. Facing her wall of artifacts—pottery, bracelets, and necklaces dating back to the Song dynasty ( a.d. 960–1279)—she began excavating the pearl from its foundational myth.

Wilburn Cobb was born in 1903 on Cuyo, an island in the western Philippines. His father was an American mining engineer, and Cobb grew up affluent, with a penchant for adventure. Ruth described him as a brilliant swimmer who would go diving in Palawan’s underwater caves and race with schools of sharks. As he traveled from island to island, he grew enamored of indigenous cultures, and began writing romantic stories about the people he encountered.

“The storytelling part of him was always, always there,” Ruth told me. “He wanted to be a writer.” Cobb studied his pearl, sketched it from different angles, and finally saw the turbaned face, like a figure in a cloud. He called it the Pearl of Allah in heretical, if well-meaning, deference to the chief, who was Muslim—and then put the words in the chief’s mouth, in the pages of Natural History . With a childlike indifference to distinctions of fact and fiction, Cobb seemed to perceive the pleasure of a story as proof of its validity.

By the time he acquired the pearl, Cobb was a husband and a father to eight children, but domestic life never suited him. He pictured himself taking the pearl to America. It wasn’t long before Ruth saw the jewel as a rival. No older than 5, she came upon the pearl one night and kicked it—surely the only time the world’s largest pearl has been treated with such disregard.

Ruth was right to worry; Cobb left for America in 1939. He brought the pearl to Roy Waldo Miner, a curator at the Museum of Natural History in New York, who wrote a letter certifying it as a genuine Tridacna pearl, and “a record specimen.” The Miner letter was enough to land Cobb his contract at Ripley’s, until the novelty wore off.

Cobb’s American adventure meant abandoning his family to the Japanese occupation, which came in 1941. At the age of 9, Ruth witnessed massacres, had her home razed, and lived as a fugitive. Her father’s wartime experience sounds jolly by comparison. He joined the Merchant Marines, working in a ship’s kitchen while in his suitcase the pearl made an unofficial world tour, all the way to India before the fighting got too heavy.

“Psychologically, he really couldn’t separate from it,” Ruth said, even as his life grew increasingly austere. Upon returning from the war, he settled in San Francisco and got a job as a guard at San Quentin State Prison. Cobb cherished the pearl all the more in San Quentin’s spare confines. “A lot of money would be just another headache to me,” he told the San Francisco Chronicle in 1967. “The richest man in the world doesn’t have what I have.”

But what was it worth? Such a singular object was hard to appraise. In a way, the pearl was worth only what someone would offer, and it was toward the end of Cobb’s life—when he flirted with putting the pearl on the market—that the story of Mr. Lee first circulated.

In 1967, Lee Sparrow, who operated the San Francisco Gem Laboratory, helped make the story a reality. “If Cobb was offered $3.5 million,” he told the San Francisco Chronicle, “then that is what it is worth.” But in Sparrow’s estimation, $3.5 million would be the bargain of the century. His laboratory set out to prepare an authoritative appraisal. With a whopping 127,574 pearl grains, Sparrow said, the pearl should be valued at $40 million to $42 million.

The Sparrow appraisal surely flattered Cobb’s fantasy, but though he sometimes considered selling the pearl, he never did. He’d be approached by men who wanted to broker a sale, and leave them vexed.

Cobb’s refusal to sell complicates certain accusations recently leveled against him. In the Philippines today, descendants of the Palawan chief reportedly insist that Cobb was only ever given the pearl as a broker. He was meant to sell it and share the proceeds with the chief. The descendants believe that their family still has a viable claim to the pearl—a matter of symbolic as well as financial importance. In 1996, Filipino President Fidel Ramos declared the South Sea pearl the country’s national gem, and singled out the Pearl of Lao Tzu as the world’s premier specimen.

When Cobb died, in 1979, Ruth was left to settle his estate. Once a rival for her father’s affection, the pearl now became a tax liability. Wanting a second opinion of its value, Ruth consulted a gemological expert at the IRS, and they arrived at a price of $200,000. That sounded fair. Soon after, a jeweler from Beverly Hills said he’d found a buyer.

And so, 40 years after the Pearl of Lao Tzu had come to America, Ruth Cobb Hill met its buyer at a Wells Fargo in San Francisco. Under armed guard, she lifted the world’s largest pearl from its safe-deposit box, and handed it over to a man named Victor Barbish.

I f Cobb wrote the pearl’s original gospel, Victor Barbish was its fundamentalist. He founded a holding company, the World’s Largest Pearl Co. Inc., and named himself president. Then he elaborated on Cobb’s story—“the factual history,” he called it.

During the Sui dynasty ( a.d. 581–618), Barbish said, the pearl’s owner awoke to find a young boy desperate for food and shelter knocking on his front gate, and took him in. One night, the man dreamed that the Pearl of Lao Tzu spoke to him and prophesied that the boy would initiate a new dynasty, “a reign distinguished by a more humane attitude than has prevailed heretofore.” Sure enough, the boy grew up to become Li Shih-Min, a founder of the Tang dynasty.

Barbish also resolved a key logistical hitch in Cobb’s story: how the pearl ended up off the coast of the Philippines, some 1,800 miles away from the seat of the Chinese empire. Still snug in its shell, he said, the pearl found its way onto a trading ship during the Ming dynasty ( a.d. 1368–1644), and was swept overboard in a typhoon.

He claimed to have learned these facts from a member of Mr. Lee’s family in Pasadena in 1983. With the help of a former CIA agent named Lewis Maxwell, Barbish said, he planned to sell the pearl to the Lee family.

Yet something always seemed to thwart the pearl’s sale. The problem wasn’t that Mr. Lee never existed—that he was only ever a Wilburn Cobb invention—it was a series of action-packed calamities of the sort Barbish seemed to attract. In Japan, Barbish said, Mr. Lee gave Maxwell a check for a $1 million down payment, but after returning home to Alaska, Maxwell bled to death during a botched bypass surgery. The check disappeared, and Barbish never heard from the Lees again.

Lewis Maxwell is just one of many names that float through the pearl’s history with Victor Barbish. Doctors, generals, princesses—there usually was a real figure somewhere behind the name. Like Cobb, Barbish sensed that the story could be worth more than the actual object. And in Barbish’s telling, the story of the pearl always ended with you becoming rich.

When I began looking into the Pearl of Lao Tzu, I heard about a woman in Florida who knew more than anyone else about Victor Barbish’s 25-year ownership. She’d even written a memoir about Barbish, I was told, but was sitting on it for fear of being sued, or worse.

I met Laura Lintner-Horn in Bradenton, Florida, in October, and over the course of several days, she told me how she had lived with Barbish’s family, on and off, for 50 years—from when she was a little girl until she met her third husband—never questioning his claims or disobeying his orders. She’d held the Pearl of Lao Tzu in her hands, and thought Barbish was here to fulfill its ancient message of peace. Indeed, she’d have done anything for the man she believed to be her father.

Laura became an unknowing accessory to Barbish’s schemes, all the while believing equally in the legends of the pearl and the man. By the time she learned she’d been living a lie, she’d endured unimaginable tragedy, and had nothing left. “Everybody ends up defending the pearl until they lose,” she said. “And they lose big.”

The story she told, and what I discovered during my own yearlong pursuit of the pearl, braided fact and fiction into a theater of the American absurd. From contract killings to alien abductions, Chinese emperors to Osama bin Laden, the Pearl of Lao Tzu’s story kept getting weirder with every detail I uncovered. And, as I’d learn, this artifact has come back on the market, and is only waiting for the next set of hands to pry it loose.

F or 10 years, Laura has been trying to piece together the life of Victor Barbish, yet even basic facts are difficult to recover. He was a man who praised America as a place where a citizen “could be anything he or she wants to be,” and took full advantage of the national tolerance for self-invention. He said he was a monk, a prizefighter, a CIA agent, an opera singer. He was the business partner of Sammy Davis Jr., the lover of Sophia Loren. He was poisoned, shot, imprisoned in war, possessed by demons. His family calls him a visionary; most others call him a con artist.

Barbish claimed to be the son of Al Capone, and he dressed the part, wearing open jackets, his bare chest heaped with gold chains. Whenever he happened to be near Mount Carmel Cemetery in Hillside, Illinois, he’d place a Cuban cigar on Capone’s grave site, a tribute to “Dad.” In fact, his father was a butcher named Lester Barbish, who married Helen Ruben and had a boy, Lawry Barbish, in New Castle, Pennsylvania.

The man we know as Victor Barbish makes a debut in the public record in 1970, in La Verne, California. The city council prohibited gambling, but Barbish was running a bridge parlor at Vic’s Steak House, his restaurant and nightclub. Reading about his decadelong fight to legalize his operation, one gains a kind of admiration for his tenacity. To stop the constant raids on his bridge parlor, Barbish threw everything at the city council. He switched from card games to bingo, and said the proceeds would go to youth sports: He’d fund the completion of a downtown minipark. But La Verne didn’t want his money, or him. “I certainly would not want the minipark known as ‘the park that Vic built,’ ” one city councilman said. When flattery failed, Barbish unsuccessfully sued the city, demanding to know “the price of becoming a respectable citizen.”

He moved to San Bernardino and founded the Church of All Faiths in a former five-and-dime store, using religious exemptions to start a bingo game there. Now he was Reverend Vic Barbish, ordained by the Universal Life Church of Modesto, a mail-order service. He published apocalyptic sermons in the local newspaper, while his bingo games took in about $80,000 a month. The city government finally realized he’d been investigated before, and revoked his gambling license.

No matter what Barbish tried, he couldn’t shake a scent of the illicit; the people of San Bernardino thought he had ties to the Mafia. He needed something to legitimize him, something solid. He found that something in 1979, when word came to him that Wilburn Cobb had died. The world’s largest pearl was for sale. The price of becoming a respectable citizen: $200,000.

In 1985, Barbish moved to Colorado Springs and reinvented himself yet again. As president of the World’s Largest Pearl Co., his name in The Guinness Book of World Records , he fostered an image of prosperity. A driveway of luxury cars led up to an enormous house filled with jade dragons, stuffed lions, a photograph of Princess Diana and Prince Charles personally addressed to Barbish’s glamorous wife. He ingratiated himself with the city’s jewelers, real-estate agents, and car dealers. He invited the police for dinner.

Barbish would dazzle you with gaudy opulence. Then he would ask for an investment, or perhaps a short-term loan— just a few hundred thousand, say—to finesse the final touches of a blockbuster deal.

“Victor was constantly saying, ‘I’m working on a $20 million loan on the pearl, and it’s going to be coming any minute,’ ” one of his marks told me. Or he’d say he had a buyer: Ferdinand Marcos, Whoopi Goldberg. But at the last possible moment, the deal would fall through—if not from some calamity, then because Barbish was just too principled. In the mid-’80s, he said, an excommunicated Iranian princess had brokered a $40 million sale on behalf of a group in Europe. But when Barbish learned that the buyers were “all of a criminal, unscrupulous origin,” he called it off.

At other times, fate would intervene to protect the sanctity of Lao Tzu’s pearl. In 2004, Barbish told Aaron Klein of WorldNetDaily that he’d received a $60 million offer on behalf of a foreign buyer named Osama bin Laden back in 1999. According to Barbish, bin Laden had intended to purchase the pearl as a gift for Saddam Hussein, “to unite the Arab cultures.” The deal was in place, but bin Laden’s representatives were stopped at the Canadian border.

When Klein, now the Jerusalem chief of Breitbart News , wrote about the deal, Barbish suggested that it established a link between bin Laden and Hussein—a crucial missing piece of George W. Bush’s justification for invading Iraq. “I just couldn’t sit back and listen to these lies about our government and President Bush,” Barbish said. “Bin Laden tried to purchase my pearl as a gift to Saddam, and Saddam wanted to accept it.” (Klein wrote that he was provided faxes documenting this historic deal, but when I reached him for comment, he said he couldn’t find them.)

Written down, such stories seem so artless, it’s hard to imagine how Barbish passed them off. After all, his targets were savvy, successful people. But they had one thing in common: a fatal thread of greed that Barbish masterfully teased out.

S ome fought back. Through the 1980s and ’90s, hardly a month passed without one legal action or another, brought by a large cast of characters claiming a share—$250,000 here, $500,000 there—of the Pearl of Lao Tzu.

A constant presence in the legal saga was Peter Hoffman, the Beverly Hills jeweler who’d brokered the purchase from Wilburn Cobb’s estate in 1979. When a Colorado judge, fed up with all the legal wrangling, ordered the pearl to be sold at auction by August 1990 to settle the debts, Hoffman went to work. The bidding would begin at $10 million.

Hoffman still owns a one-third stake in the pearl, and he’s always seen himself as the pearl’s rightful guardian, the only one who could successfully market it. Wilburn Cobb, he once told a reporter, “saw me in a dream with the three sages, Buddha, Confucius, and Lao Tzu, who said I would be the next caretaker of the pearl.”

In May 1990, Hoffman exhibited the pearl in a vault at Studio City, in Los Angeles, the last time it was seen in public. On black velvet and gold lamé, it elicited gasps from reporters at a press conference, where Hoffman said the pearl had been cultivated by Lao Tzu’s descendants. Indeed, “the pearl’s purported spiritual powers” were far more important to him than the money, which he pledged to use “to benefit mankind.” As for that money, he expected the pearl to sell for $25 million to $50 million. (Citing too much “fake news” about the pearl, Hoffman declined to comment for this story, but noted that it “should be properly referred to as a priceless famous historical artifact.”)

Hoffman has claimed that he was close to a sale several times in the ’80s and ’90s. Ferdinand Marcos was supposed to buy it, but was deposed before a sale was finalized; a baroness briefly had the sultan of Brunei intrigued. But his efforts ultimately led nowhere. The deadline passed, and the pearl drifted back into limbo, sealed in a safe-deposit box—right where Victor Barbish wanted it.

For more than 20 years, the Pearl of Lao Tzu has remained in Colorado Springs. There, its secret is kept safely out of sight: It isn’t worth what the owners claim. In fact, it isn’t even a real pearl—at least, not as you might think.

If someone says he owns a 14-pound pearl, you’ll probably picture one of those familiar, very precious little gems, and multiply the value out of all proportion. Seemingly to generate such warped calculations, the appraisal prepared by Lee Sparrow in 1967—$40 million to $42 million—cherry-picked from the 1939 letter written by Roy Waldo Miner, the Museum of Natural History curator. Miner had asserted that the specimen “can truly be called a pearl.” With this established, Sparrow proceeded to calculate the object’s value as though it were one of those tiny round gems blown up to Guinness -record size.

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But elsewhere in the Miner letter, the curator terms the specimen a “pearlaceous growth,” and stresses that it ought not to be classified as a precious pearl. The gems we commonly know as pearls are formed within the organic tissue of saltwater oysters, whose inner shells possess nacre, or mother-of-pearl, which generates a pearl’s signature luminescent sheen. Compared with these gems, Tridacna -clam pearls are more like porcelain. Indeed, the Pearl of Lao Tzu cuts an ugly figure. Some might liken it to a lump of white clay; others might think it’s an alien egg.

Under U.S. trade law, it’s perfectly legal to call such objects pearls; any shelled mollusk—even a snail—can make a pearl. But gemologists traffic in precious pearls, and discard the rest with a pejorative classification: calcium-carbonate concretions.

What was Sparrow doing? I located a colleague of his, who worked with him for 20 years (Sparrow passed away in 1990), and she recalls him as credible, even admirable. But with the Pearl of Lao Tzu, he was pulling a stunt. “I laughed my way through that whole thing,” she told me. She described how Sparrow was egged on by excited colleagues to inflate the number, until, in a collective frenzy, they reached $40 million to $42 million. If the pearl could attract a buyer at that price, then surely Cobb wouldn’t refuse to sell (and Sparrow would get a handsome commission). “It’s not like you’re breaking the law,” she added. “It just makes you look silly.”

The Sparrow appraisal left room for the pearl’s “historical significance” as well, claiming that the pearl had been “carbon dated to be ±600 years old.” But Michael Krzemnicki, who directs the Swiss Gemmological Institute and has written extensively on techniques for dating pearls, told me there’s no record of the pearl’s ever having been subjected to radiocarbon dating.

None of these facts inconvenienced Victor Barbish. In 1992, he commissioned a fresh appraisal, something to replace that of the deceased Lee Sparrow. Michael “Buzz” Steenrod, a former video-equipment salesman who worked at All That Glitters, a jewelry store in Colorado Springs, prepared the document.

While Sparrow only said the pearl could be about 600 years old, the slippage is complete in Steenrod’s work. “It has been carbon dated to 600 b.c. ,” his appraisal avers. All things considered, he estimated its worth at $52 million. (Steenrod declined to comment.)

It’s hard to blame those who fell for such fabulous appraisals, when the media provided no bulwark against them. Time after time, journalists failed to apply even the slightest pressure to the story. The pearl is “an estimated 6,000 years old,” the Los Angeles Times reported . It has been valued at $42 million, Channel 5 News in L.A. said. An anchor at CNN asked her audience: “Could you imagine the oyster?”

Victor Barbish knew where the real money was—not in actual clams, but imaginary oysters.

On no one did the spell work so well, or last so long, as Laura Lintner-Horn. She was the perfect candidate for life in Barbish’s hall of mirrors. Born in 1953 in Maywood, Illinois, a suburb of Chicago, Laura was adopted by her grandparents at the age of 3. Her parents had divorced, and it was considered seemlier for Laura’s mother to give her up, the better to attract another husband in their conservative, Italian Catholic neighborhood. Rather than being candid about the arrangement, however, Laura’s grandparents presented themselves as her parents, while her biological mother and aunt became her older sisters. Laura never doubted these relations, even as her classmates taunted her: “Your mother has gray hair! Your mother’s an old woman!”

Victor Barbish met Laura’s “sister”—actually her aunt—at the Paradise Ballroom in Chicago in 1957, and they married. With his usual creep toward fabrication, he began putting it out that he’d had a one-night stand with Laura’s biological mother and that Laura was his daughter. And so Barbish’s revelation that her parents were really her grandparents only gave way to another primal deception: that he was her father. Until his death, in 2008, she believed it.

She wanted to believe it. “I wanted a normal family so bad,” she told me. “I worshipped the Barbishes.” But while Barbish absorbed her into his family, she was always second-class, always playing catch-up in his affections. Every time she cleaned his house or worked without pay, she said, “I did it out of my heart.”

One gets the sense that Barbish enjoyed seeing how far he could stretch Laura’s faith. When she divorced her first husband, whom she’d impulsively married at the age of 18 and who’d turned out to be abusive, Barbish told her he’d had him killed, and Laura didn’t learn otherwise until she ran into the man in Colorado Springs some 30 years later. When asked what had really happened, Barbish told her: “Let’s not go there, Laura.”

And so she didn’t. Barbish wielded such supreme authority, she didn’t even doubt his live performances of alien abduction. He’d be driving down the highway, and his head would suddenly wrench back and his eyes would roll: The aliens had snatched his body. Laura would grab the wheel and shake him—“Please, Vic, wake up, wake up!”—and in the nick of time, he’d come to his senses, with no memory of his latest close encounter.

L aura made her career in loss prevention for a department store, stalking shoplifters in a trench coat like her role model, Columbo. She’d wrestle them to the ground; once she jumped through the window of a car to prevent an escape, only to have a gun put to her head. “I was such a bitch,” she recalled. “I prided myself on that.”

But she had a blind spot for the thief in her life. Looking back, she’s astonished by her gullibility, which she credits to the atmosphere of the Barbish home, describing it as cultlike. “You asked permission for everything,” she recalled.

Laura’s major losses began on August 30, 2000. Lisa, Laura’s daughter with her first husband, had herself survived a physically abusive marriage, and Barbish had directed her to move to the town of Stockton, Illinois, to put her life back together. In Stockton, Lisa struggled with depression, started drinking, and lost her driver’s license. But that didn’t stop her from driving; she just evaded police along back roads, where the corn grew high in summer.

At an intersection that August morning, a fully loaded 18-wheel truck hit Lisa’s car, driving it 200 feet into the fields, and killing her instantly. “I remember going through the cornfields just looking for things,” Laura said. She still has the items she recovered that day: a hubcap, a shoe.

At the time, Laura was married to Phillip Lintner, an Elvis Presley impersonator. He’d raised Lisa from the crib, and when she died, Laura said, he destroyed himself in grief. He drank cheap liquor, smoked cigars, and stopped singing. Thirty days after receiving a diagnosis of stomach cancer, Phillip died, on Christmas Eve 2001.

Laura retired early, and drew closer to Barbish. In addition to her pension, she had money from the sale of a house, as well as life-insurance payouts from her husband’s and daughter’s deaths—hundreds of thousands of dollars. Barbish convinced her that in her grief, she wasn’t thinking straight, and that people would try to take advantage of her. Wouldn’t it be prudent to turn everything over to him, to let him invest the money and steward her accounts?

In 2005, Barbish moved one last time, to Sarasota, Florida. In typically grand fashion, he took up residence in a $1.5 million house, established a jewelry store in the city’s historic downtown, and dissolved the World’s Largest Pearl Co. After all these years, he said, he’d “become weary of the unceasing evils” of those who’d tried to possess his pearl. “It draws the wrong type of people,” he told the Associated Press . “It was made to do something good.”

And so he created the Pearl for Peace Foundation , a registered nonprofit organization that pledged to support law enforcement. Anyone who paid a membership fee—from $25 to $600—received a golden badge with an image of the pearl at the center, and a membership card depicting a dove soaring with the pearl in its talons: to unite and protect us all . President George W. Bush was named member No. 1.

Barbish’s family says the foundation reflected his passion for America. “His whole life was about trying to do something great for the country,” his son Mario told me. Indeed, the foundation was a precursor to the Blue Lives Matter countermovement. “He knew what was coming,” Mario said, “the disrespect for law enforcement in our country.”

Without access to her own money, Laura was compelled to move to Florida to help care for Barbish in his twilight years. He installed her as the manager of his jewelry store and the nominal director of the foundation. On everything from checks to tax returns, Barbish had Laura sign his name. She thought she was doing solid charitable work. Every day, she randomly selected 30 names from the phone book and called for donations. Barbish had prepared the script: The money will be spent on disabled agents, death benefits, bulletproof vests. The goal was to donate $20 million. Laura estimates that in just two years on the Gulf Coast, Barbish took in about $5.5 million through a variety of cons.

The Pearl for Peace Foundation’s mission statement ended with what can be read as a blessing, or a curse: “Let the Legend and the Legacy live on from generation to generation …”

When I visited Laura in Bradenton, just outside Sarasota, in October, Hurricane Nate had recently struck the Gulf Coast, and trucks were still cruising around town, collecting broken palms. She lives in a bungalow with her third husband, Robert Horn, along with five borzoi dogs, two cockatoos, and a foulmouthed 68-year-old parrot that once belonged to Victor Barbish. Halloween was coming, and the couple had decorated, submerging a plastic replica of the Pearl of Lao Tzu in water: the brain in a vat.

The story of Laura and Robert’s union is also the story of her final break with Barbish. While operating the foundation, Laura liked to walk her borzoi through the streets of old Sarasota, and she’d be asked whether she’d ever seen the man with the same striking breed of dog. When she saw the two out walking, she approached the man, who introduced himself as Robert Horn. In a publicity stunt for the jewelry store, they had a Wiccan minister marry their borzoi on the street out front. The humans married soon after, in 2007.

Robert was excited to join a large Italian family, headed by a man who struck him as “the godfather of Florida,” the owner of the world-famous Pearl of Lao Tzu. One day, he heard his father-in-law on the phone, sounding distressed. Barbish had found a buyer in New York City, he overheard, but didn’t have the cash in hand to securely transport the pearl. The deal was in peril. Robert leaped at the opportunity to help his new family. It would be only a few months, anyway, until the sale cleared. An accountant by training, Robert still can’t fathom the spell he was under when he cut Barbish a check for $100,000.

Although Laura suffered from fibromyalgia, Barbish made her sleep in the jewelry store to protect the merchandise. When he started telling her that jewels were missing from the safe, and accusing her of negligence, Laura thought she was losing her mind. Relying on her years in loss prevention, she staked out the store from a nearby restaurant, and saw Barbish entering the premises after hours. The discovery prompted her to finally turn an investigative lens on her father. She began questioning him about where the foundation’s money had gone, and the exact nature of his deals. Barbish reacted with hostility to her sudden back talk.

When he died, peacefully at home in January 2008, his widow, Laura’s aunt, made keepsakes with his ashes and distributed them to his four children. Laura didn’t get one. She obtained her adoption papers, from when her grandparents became her guardians, from the state of Illinois and didn’t recognize the name of her biological father, Richard Walters. By the time she tracked him down, she found only his ashes in an urn. He’d died in 2007.

So now she knew. A 50-year hypnosis broke, and Laura began to perceive the full fraudulence of her past. She told Robert to hire a lawyer to get his money back. (Her own, she realized, was long gone.) The Barbish family took this as a direct assault, and the couple claim that Mario Barbish, the executor of his father’s estate, threatened to have them killed if Robert pursued his money. Laura says it wasn’t the first time she feared for her life; she’d earlier hidden a letter: If my husband or I come to harm, please investigate. (Mario denies having issued the threat, calling Laura a “delusional woman” and disputing her version of events.)

Yet to his dying breath, Victor Barbish had seen himself as the real victim, a “passionate romanticist” who’d placed too much trust in more-imperfect souls. “I almost was a billionaire,” he lamented in his will, “but due to dishonest law firms, banks and brokers, I got swindled out of my wealth.” Still, he took solace that his legacy was secure. “Fortunately you, my loved ones, were protected,” he wrote. “You have an article in your corporation that is valued between $38–$60 million.”

Beneath a signature that doesn’t appear to be his, Victor Barbish added an apt motto for his life: “This is who I am and wish to be.”

With the help of Ebby Salinas, a former partner from loss prevention, Laura has been deconstructing Victor Barbish’s lies in her memoir, The Last Con. There’s an element of vindictiveness to the project. When it’s finally finished, Laura and Ebby intend to self-publish and tour it through the cities where Barbish lived, laying waste to the myths he constructed. They want to see The Last Con made into a movie, a stage play, an episode of American Greed .

Whatever success The Last Con enjoys, it won’t make up for Laura’s losses. For that, she’s recently turned to a faith her grandmother once practiced in secret—metaphysical Christianity. She’s become an energetic healer in the church, according to which death is merely a transition from one form of energy to another. “Lisa is with me all the time,” Laura told me—manifesting as a barn dove, or purple flowers. Her connection to her deceased husband, Phillip, isn’t so vivid, but in times of crisis, she’ll hear a song by Elvis, and know he’s there.

Before leaving Florida, I visited the lawyer for the Barbish estate, who’s functioned as something like the janitor for the aftermath. I saw Robert Horn’s name on a list of claims, along with dozens of others. Despite the alleged threats, Robert had pursued his money after all. But Barbish’s other assets couldn’t come close to satisfying everyone. Only a sale of his share in the pearl could initiate the needed cascade. Even the estate’s lawyer said he was owed half a million dollars. When I asked why on Earth he kept working the case, he said he has to know how the story ends.

For decades, the pearl case has dragged on in court, as litigants have tried to finally force a sale and get their money back. The original players are passing away—only Peter Hoffman remains—and the old animosities are enacted by latecomers, like a famous show revived by understudies. This state of paralysis was determined by the fates of two women, who died without ever hearing about the Pearl of Lao Tzu.

A fter midnight on March 25, 1974, Ann Phillips was riding in a Cadillac with her husband, Tom, on the Hancock Expressway, in Colorado Springs. When a police light swirled behind them, Tom dutifully pulled over. But instead of police, masked men emerged from the car. They shot Ann dead, knocked her husband unconscious, and fled into the night.

Twenty months later, on the evening of November 23, 1975, a man answered the door at the house of his aunt Eloise Bonicelli on West Arvada Street, also in Colorado Springs. As soon as the nephew opened the door, a stranger in a stocking cap shot him in the chest and stormed the house. The nephew escaped to the basement, and minutes later found his aunt in the fetal position on her bedroom floor, dead from a bullet through the heart.

For 25 years, the murders went unsolved. But as it turned out, the husbands of Ann Phillips and Eloise Bonicelli had two things in common: They’d both hired a hit man to kill their wives, and they both became investors in the Pearl of Lao Tzu.

Joseph Bonicelli owned legitimate businesses in Colorado Springs—a bar, a used-car lot, a construction company—but his reputation was far from spotless. Many former acquaintances recall him as a mobster, or at least a “gangster type”; he’d owned a massage parlor where a woman had been killed before it burned down. Others remember him as a man who dreamed big. In the 1970s, he built a nascar -style racetrack, the Colorado Springs International Speedway, out near the Air Force base.

Tom Phillips also owned a bar, but he was never particularly entrepreneurial. He was a heavy gambler, known as “Mr. P.” in Las Vegas, where the house always won. Yet he had an uncanny knack for getting close to people with money, people like Joseph Bonicelli. Even those who loathed Phillips grant that he was charming.

By his own admission, Tom Phillips contracted the murder of his wife to collect on her $300,000 life-insurance policy. He paid a local barber to arrange the hit, and staged himself as the victim of a robbery-homicide. So pleased was Phillips with the barber’s service, he recommended it to Bonicelli, who was staring down a costly and bitter divorce with Eloise. Neither man was ever brought to justice—not while alive, anyway.

I n Colorado Springs today, some controversy remains over why Bonicelli was finally accused of arranging Eloise’s murder, several years after his death in 1998. Her children say they were motivated to reopen the case by a desire to honor their mother’s memory; others claim that it was an attempt to wrest control of Bonicelli’s estate from his new wife and her daughter, to whom he’d left everything.

The means by which Bonicelli was posthumously tried have certainly invited questions. In exchange for testifying against the dead man, Tom Phillips was granted full immunity for arranging his own wife’s murder. Even though he’d been the connection between Bonicelli and the hit man, and committed the exact same heinous crime, Phillips was allowed to go free. He has since died.

Based on the Phillips testimony, the children of Eloise brought a civil suit against their dead father’s estate, which possessed at least one major asset that they knew of: a one-third stake in the Pearl of Lao Tzu. Around 1984, Phillips introduced Bonicelli and Barbish, and Barbish brandished a contract for a sale purportedly authored by Ferdinand Marcos. Bonicelli had just sold his speedway for $750,000, and he sank the whole sum into the pearl. Naturally, the sale fell through, and Bonicelli never got over it. In his final years, he’d sit at his kitchen table with a .38, promising to kill Phillips on sight. As for Barbish, Bonicelli said he wanted to blow up his house.

In 2005, seven years after his death, Bonicelli was finally found responsible for Eloise’s murder. The judgment was directly tied to the value of the pearl. Though defense lawyers produced records showing that it had only ever sold for $200,000—when Barbish bought it from Cobb’s estate—the testimony of Buzz Steenrod carried the day. He had spruced up his previous appraisal, adjusting for “economic fluctuations,” and set the pearl’s value at $59.75 million. Before a jury, he explained how the pearl had been cultivated by Lao Tzu more than 2,500 years ago. “His thought was that it would symbolize peace and unity of all mankind,” he testified. “This is not a conventional pearl.”

The jury awarded Eloise’s children what was reported to be the largest wrongful-death judgment in Colorado history: $32.4 million.

Today, the Pearl of Lao Tzu is legally divided between Peter Hoffman and the estate of Victor Barbish; Eloise Bonicelli’s children are owed half of Barbish’s share in the event of a sale. The court battles have waylaid efforts to sell the pearl. But toward the end of 2017, I began to hear whispers that the path might be clearing.

Curious to know the status of the pearl, I met Mario Barbish, Victor’s son and the executor of his estate, for lunch at an outlet mall on the outskirts of Colorado Springs. “I totally believe in the entire story,” he told me. “I don’t question it at all.” He believes the pearl was cultivated in ever-larger clams through the centuries; he believes Lao Tzu’s amulet is still lodged deep inside the jewel. “It’s like I’m a Christian,” he said. “I believe in Jesus Christ. Can I prove it? No, it’s a belief.”

Mario also believes that the pearl’s reputation has been unfairly sullied. When I met him, the #MeToo movement had been in the news, and Mario likened it to what’s happened to the Pearl of Lao Tzu. “You can discredit somebody’s character, and it never goes away,” he said. What the jewel needs is positive writing, positive promotion, maybe a world tour. “It’s really time to blow life back into the pearl.”

To that end, Mario showed me a brochure he’d compiled. It included photos of the pearl laid out on what appeared to be a beach towel, and several pages of text relating the legend. It was almost sad to see Wilburn Cobb’s fantasy ground up like this:

The Pearl was indeed born of the clam but it was with the guidance in nurturing interference of man and brought it to it’s [sic] present state of beauty and rarity … who will be the benevolent guardian that will possess this priceless, historical, and significant scientific, One of a Kind Artifact.

Only such a campaign could attract the right buyer, Mario insisted. As for the price, he produced a copy of the Sparrow appraisal, and cited $100 million as his benchmark.

In the final analysis, Mario said, the Pearl of Lao Tzu is priceless. When I asked whether he’d consider selling it through an auction house, he demurred. “You want the auction house to think like you do,” he said. “That attitude is what’s going to bring the money.” If a house has its doubts about the pearl’s pricelessness, why would he entrust it to them?

And the houses certainly do seem to have doubts. I obtained a memo circulated to the owners in August 2016 by David Beck, a lawyer in Santa Cruz, California, who represents the interests of a long-deceased man. (“I started working the Pearl case when I was a new attorney in the mid-1980s,” Beck wrote. “Now I am nearing retirement.”) Slowly but surely, he’d seen the many claims on the pearl defeated; only Joseph Bonicelli’s has held up in court.

At the time of the memo’s writing, Beck stood as the last lawyer still trying to wrestle money out of the pearl. In the final episode of his 30-year struggle, he’d filed a motion to compel a sale, trying to initiate the long-awaited settlements. He’d wanted to understand how such a sale might occur, and he’d asked the esteemed natural-history department at Bonhams, the British auction house, what it would look like to sell the pearl.

The department prepared a proposal. But it showed no $100 million figure, no $75 million, no $42 million. Instead, Bonhams offered an estimate of $100,000 to $150,000. “The Pearl has no value except for any historical value there may be,” Bonhams said. “Beyond that, it is a mere curiosity.”

Beck’s memo was met with silence.

O n February 28, 2018, a United States District Court denied Beck’s motion. And so, after more than 30 years, the final claim on the Pearl of Lao Tzu was vanquished.

But obstacles to a sale remain. Mario Barbish told me that Asia would be his ideal market. But because the Tridacna clam is an endangered species, in order to export the pearl, the Philippines would probably have to endorse the transaction—an unlikely scenario.

A buyer must emerge from within the United States, but the pearl’s beauty is lost on many Americans. Newspapers have described it as “wrinkled,” a “deformed brain,” “a blob.” Its ungainly size means that it will never be seen as jewelry; one attorney said, “It’s not the sort of thing you wear around your neck unless you’re the Incredible Hulk.”

Perhaps its status as the world’s largest pearl would be sufficient enticement, but even that mantle is threatened. In 2016, a fisherman from Palawan came forward with a specimen he’d discovered 10 years earlier when his anchor snagged a giant clam. (He’d been keeping the pearl under his bed as a good-luck charm.) While it hasn’t been officially verified, this pearl reportedly weighs 75 pounds, dwarfing the Pearl of Lao Tzu’s Guinness record. As David Beck observed in his memo to the owners, “We may have missed our moment.”

A day after the motion was denied, I called Mario Barbish. He wanted to know the status of my story, which he hoped would focus on the pearl’s beauty and religious significance. When I described what I had learned, his affable tone rocketed to a register of high indignation. The curse of the pearl, he said, was people like me, who sought to discredit the legend. I couldn’t know the truth; I hadn’t spoken with Victor Barbish, or Lee Sparrow, or Wilburn Cobb. “You’ve never seen the pearl. You’ve never seen the growth lines. You don’t know anything about the pearl.”

Only Mario had the documents proving the valuation beyond a reasonable doubt, but when I asked him to produce them, he refused: “I could, but I’m not.” He seemed to find me pitiable. “The pearl would amaze you if you just held it in your hands,” he said. “A lot of this garbage you’re spewing out of your mouth, you would let it go, because you’d feel that intrinsic value just holding the pearl.”

The Pearl of Lao Tzu isn’t a gem, Mario told me; it’s a “religious artifact.” And just as if the Shroud of Turin went up for auction, he said, those who believe are the ones who will bid. The appraisals will become credible, as if by magic, once you put your faith in the story. (Not the Bonhams appraisal, however; Mario said, “They’re out of their mind.”) That leap of faith will be the sign that Lao Tzu’s pearl has found its true guardian.

When I hung up, I thought of something Wilburn Cobb’s daughter Ruth had told me in Union City. We were discussing the new, 75-pound pearl and what its discovery meant for the Pearl of Lao Tzu. Cobb’s pearl was still the famous one, she said. “But the fame came from the stories, and my father started that. And I don’t know what that brings.”

The pearl’s long, destructive fiction finally ends with the owners now left holding what is likely the world’s second-largest pearl—a bogus religious artifact—seemingly unable to accept the truth, and escape. If there is something mystical about the Pearl of Lao Tzu, it’s the story’s strange tendency toward repetition. Stare long enough, and the owners’ stubborn faith looks like that of Victor Barbish, who stitched myths together and called them history, or like that of Wilburn Cobb, who never relinquished his romance. They begin to seem like the diver, who drowned all those years ago, when he glimpsed that first fateful flash of white.

This article appears in the June 2018 print edition with the headline “Chasing the Pearl of Lao Tzu.”

Lao Tzu: The Founder of One of the Three Pillars of Traditional Chinese Thought

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Lao Tzu is traditionally regarded as the founder of Taoism, a school of thought that developed in ancient China. Taoism is seen as one of the three main pillars of traditional Chinese thought. The other two pillars are Buddhism, which was transmitted to China from India, and Confucianism, which was founded by Confucius. Thus, Lao Tzu is regarded as a very important figure in Chinese history, and even revered by many as a deity in the Taoist pantheon.

The Debated Existence of Lao Tzu

Unlike Confucius, Lao Tzu is a much more difficult character to pin down. For a start, some modern scholars are skeptical about his existence, and argue that there is no ‘historical’ Lao Tzu, and that he is an entirely legendary figure.

According to Chinese tradition, however, Lao Tzu lived during the 6th century BC. The ancient Chinese historian, Sima Qian, said that Lao Tzu was a contemporary of Confucius. In addition to this, a biography of Lao Tzu can be found in Sima Qian’s work, the Shiji , known also as the Records of the Grand Historian .

Confucius Lao-tzu and Buddhist Arhat ( 三 教) ( Public Domain )

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Sima Qian’s Shiji

In Sima Qian’s Shiji , it is written that Lao Tzu was a native of the state of Chu, which is located in what is today the southern part of China. It is also written in this ancient source that Lao Tzu’s personal name was Li Er ( 李 耳), and that he served as a keeper of archival records at the Zhou imperial court. There have also been claims that Lao Tzu was consulted by Confucius on certain matters of ritual, and subsequently heaped praises on him.

Records of the Grand Historian ( Public Domain )

Sima Qian also wrote that Lao Tzu lived in the state of Zhou long enough to witness its decline. As a result, Lao Tzu decided to depart. When Lao Tzu arrived at the northwestern border that separated China from the rest of the world, he met an official in charge of the border crossing by the name of Yin Xi.

It was this official who requested Lao Tzu to put his teachings into writing. The result of this request was a book which consisted of about 5000 Chinese characters, and is known today as the Tao Te Ching (道德经). Lao Tzu seems to have disappeared after this, and neither his date nor place of death is recorded in Sima Qian’s account.

The Tao Te Ching

The Tao Te Ching is undoubtedly the work Lao Tzu is best known for. Additionally, it is one of Taoism’s major works. Nevertheless, it may be pointed out that the authorship of this important piece of writing has been debated throughout history.

For instance, it has been suggested that that the text was not written by a single author, but by several different authors. Additionally, some have speculated that the contents of the Tao Te Ching were first circulated orally before being written down.

Ink on silk manuscript of the Tao Te Ching, 2nd century BC, unearthed from Mawangdui. ( Public Domain )

On the one hand, it has been argued that it was Lao Tzu’s disciples who kept their master’s teachings alive through oral transmission, and the lessons were later compiled by one / several of Lao Tzu’s students.

It may be also possible that the compiler(s) of the Tao Te Ching had access to other oral traditions. In this case, it would mean that the Tao Te Ching contained not only the lessons of Lao Tzu, but potentially of other Chinese sages as well.

According to Chinese legend, Laozi (Lao Tzu) left China for the west on a water buffalo. ( Public Domain )

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Regardless of its origins, the Tao Te Ching and the philosophy it expounds is argued to be a way of thinking that was in direct opposition with that of Confucianism. Although both schools of thought addressed the social, political, and philosophical questions faced by ancient Chinese society, each took a distinct approach. Confucianism, for instance, focused on social relations, good conduct, and human society. By contrast, Taoism took a more mystical approach, and focused on the individual and nature.

Other important features of Taoism were its anti-authoritarian stance, its promotion of simplicity, and its recognition of a natural, universal force known as the Tao . Whilst it may be said that Confucianism better suited the tastes of China’s rulers, Taoism was nevertheless a highly influential force, and remains so in Chinese culture even today.

Featured image: An Illustration of Lao-Tzu. Photo source: ( patriziasoliani /CC BY-NC 2.0 ).

Chan, A., 2013. Laozi. [Online] Available at: http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/laozi/

Littlejohn, R., 2016. Daoist Philosophy. [Online] Available at: http://www.iep.utm.edu/daoism/

Littlejohn, R., 2016. Laozi (Lao-tzu, fl. 6th cn. B.C.E.). [Online] Available at: http://www.iep.utm.edu/laozi/

Majka, C., 2016. Lao Tzu: Father of Taoism. [Online] Available at: http://www.chebucto.ns.ca/Philosophy/Taichi/lao.html

Lao Tzu's full story can be found in the Urantia revelation

Wu Mingren (‘Dhwty’) has a Bachelor of Arts in Ancient History and Archaeology. Although his primary interest is in the ancient civilizations of the Near East, he is also interested in other geographical regions, as well as other time periods.... Read More

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Lao Tzu: the Tao of Reality.

A history of pantheism by Paul Harrison.

Are you a pantheist? Find out at the Scientific Pantheism site.

There is a thing, formless yet complete. Before heaven and earth it existed. We do not know its name, but we call it Tao. It is the Mystery of Mysteries.

The Tao te Ching is the oldest scripture of Taoism. It was composed during the warring states period when China descended into a chaos of rival kingdoms, some time between the sixth and the fourth or third centuries BC. It was supposedly written by Lao Tan, a possibly mythical figure, said to have lived till he was 160 or 200 years old.

The classical Chinese historian Ssuma Chien says the work was by Li Erh, a custodian of imperial archives from the state of Ch'u in southern China, in the present province of Honan. This was a fertile, well-watered state. "Its people make little exertion, delight in life, and neglect to store anything."

Li Erh was no seeker after fame. "The chief aim of his studies was how to keep himself concealed and remain unknown." says Ssuma Chien. Li Erh wrote his ideas only because, as he was heading into retirement, the royal gatekeeper pleaded with him to record his ideas before he disappeared into oblivion. He may have written the book under the pseudonym Lao Tan to avoid attention.

A brutally honest personal confession in the Tao te Ching [chapter 20] suggests that he was not always happy with his reclusive way of life and personality:

I alone am inert, showing no sign of desires, like an infant that has not yet smiled. Wearied, indeed, I seem to be without a home. The multitude all possess more than enough, I alone seem to have lost all … Common folks are indeed brilliant; I alone seem to be in the dark.

The book of Chuang Tzu pays tribute to his character: "Men all seek the first. He alone sought the last. He said: "Accept the world's refuse." Men all seek happiness. He alone sought completion in adaptation … He was always generous and tolerant towards things." [Chuang Tzu, chapter 33]

The Tao te Ching is a short, dense book of only 5,250 words - probably the most influential 5,250 words ever written. Its ideas became very popular under the Han dynasty in the second century BC.

Lao Tan/Li Erh was even said to have met Confucius. After one visit Confucius' disciples asked him how he was able to correct and admonish Lao Tzu. "In him I have seen the dragon that rides on the cloudy air," replied Confucius. "My mouth fell open and I was unable to shut it; how could I admonish and correct Lao Tan?" After another crushing visit he admitted: "In the knowledge of the Tao am I any better than a tiny creature in vinegar?" A final episode shows him becoming virtually a disciple of Lao Tzu.

These accounts are, of course, Taoist propaganda. In reality Confucius would have regarded Lao Tzu as a dangerous threat to established custom and filial piety. The Tao te Ching contains not a single word about either of these central Confucian concepts. Indeed by stressing spontaneity and harmony with nature, it represents a rebellion against Confucian obsession with form and duty.

But Taoism did alter the course of Confucianism, leading to the synthesis of neo-Confucianism in thinkers like Chang Tsai . It also moulded the shape of East Asian Buddhism, giving Buddhism a much less negative stance to the world.

Was Lao Tan/Li Erh a pantheist? His description of the reality of the Tao is of a mysterious, numinous unity underlying and sustaining all things. It is inaccessible to normal thought, language or perception. While he never calls the Tao a God, and rejects the idea that it is personal or concerned with humans, he clearly views it in the same light of awe and respect as believers view their Gods. Since the Tao is omnipresent and sustains everything, the Tao te Ching is clearly espousing a materialist form of pantheism.

The Tao te Ching does not fall into the trap of Buddhism, assuming that because there is an underlying unity the diversity of the world is an illusion and there is only "emptiness." It recognizes both being and non-being as complementary. Non-being defines being as dark outlines light. Being and diversity emanate from non-being.

Lao Tan/Li Erh also believed that human happiness consisted in understanding and living and acting in harmony with this underlying Reality. This means following a simple, frugal and peaceful way of life, not seeking after wealth, power or fame. Unlike the Chuang Tzu he is not an advocate of total withdrawal from public action. But he stresses the need for taking minimal action. He prefers non-violence over violence, softness over hardness, water over sharpened swords. He is a clear pre-cursor of both Jesus and Gandhi.

In government his philosophy makes him in certain ways Machiavellian and laissez-faire. Kings should not encourage learning, wisdom or virtue. They should fill their people's bellies and keep their minds empty. A happy country would be one where people could hear dogs barking in the next village, yet would have no desire to go there.

There are also repeated suggestions through the text that the sage can achieve long life and escape death. This gave rise to a much less philosophical aspect of later Taoism: the pursuit of everlasting life, not in heaven but on this earth, but through physical immortality, and by often magical means.

There are dozens of translations of the Tao te Ching, many of them radically different from one another. Unless otherwise indicated, the texts below are from Wing-Tsit Chan in A Sourcebook in Chinese Philosophy , Princeton University Press, New Jersey, 1969. Additional biographical material from Fung-Yu Lan, A History of Chinese Philosophy , trs Derk Bodde, Princeton University Press, New Jersey, 1952, and James Legge, The Texts of Taoism , Sacred Books of the East vol 40, Dover, New York, 1962.

Selected passages.

Nature of the tao, origin of all things..

There is a thing, formless yet complete. Before heaven and earth it existed. Without sound, without substance, it stands alone and unchanging. It is all-pervading and unfailing. One may think of it as the mother of all beneath Heaven. We do not know its name, but we call it Tao. 25. [Bodde]. Deep and still, it seems to have existed forever. 4.

Sustainer of all things.

The Great Tao flows everywhere. It may go left or right. All things depend on it for life, and it does not turn away from them. It accomplishes its tasks, but does not claim credit for it. It clothes and feeds all things, but does not claim to be master over them. Always without desires, it may be called the Small. All things come to it and it does not master them; it may be called The Great. 34.

Tao is incomprehensible to us by normal means or language.

We look at it and do not see it; Its name is the invisible. We listen to it and do not hear it; Its name is the inaudible. We touch it and do not find it; Its name is the Subtle (formless). These three cannot be further probed, and hence merge into one … Infinite and boundless, it cannot be given any name; It reverts to nothingness. This is called shape without shape, form without object. It is the vague and elusive. Meet it and you will not see its head. Follow it and you will not see its back. 14. The Tao that can be told of is not the eternal Tao; the name that can be named is not the eternal name. 1.

Tao is both being and non-being.

Non-Being is the term given to that from which Heaven and Earth sprang. Being is the term given to the mother that rears all things … [Bodde] The two are the same, But after they are produced , they have different names. The two together we call the Mystery. It is the Mystery of Mysteries. [Bodde]. 1.

Being and Non-being produce each other.

When the people of the world all know beauty as beauty, There arises the recognition of ugliness. When they know the good as the good, There arises the perception of evil. Therefore Being and non-Being produce each other. 2. The thing that is called Tao is eluding and vague. Vague and eluding, there is in it form. Eluding and vague, in it are things. 21.

Tao achieves action through inaction.

Tao invariably takes no action, and yet there is nothing left undone. 37. Clay is molded to form a vessel, But it is on its non-being that the usefulness of the utensil depends. Doors and windows are cut to make a room, but it is on its non-being that the utility of the room depends. 11.

Tao is indifferent to human affairs.

Heaven and earth are not humane. They regard all things as straw dogs. 5.

Following the Tao in human affairs

Success in human affairs depends on understanding and following the nature of the tao..

Hold on to the Tao of old in order to master the things of the present. 14. Being one with Nature, he is in accord with the Tao. Being in accord with the Tao, he is everlasting. 16.

Avoid action.

The sage manages affairs without action And spreads doctrines without words … By acting without action, all things will be in order. 3.

Be content with enough; don't go too far.

To hold and fill to overflowing is not as good as to stop in time. Sharpen a sword-edge to its very sharpest, And the edge will not last long … Withdraw as soon as your work is done. Such is Heaven's Way. 9.

Softness conquers: non-violence.

The weak and the tender overcome the hard and the strong. 36. To yield is to be preserved whole. To be bent is to become straight. To be empty is to be full … To have little is to possess. 22. The stiff and the hard are companions of death, The tender and the weak are companions of life. 76. There is nothing softer and weaker than water, And yet there is nothing better for attacking hard and strong things. 78. The use of force usually brings requital. Wherever armies are stationed, briers and thorns grow. Great wars are always followed by famines. 30. Weapons are instruments of evil, not the instruments of a good ruler. When he uses them unavoidably, he regards calm restraint as the best principle. Even when he is victorious, he does not regard it as praiseworthy, For to praise victory is to delight in the slaughter of men. 31.

Turn the other cheek.

I treat those who are good with goodness, And I also treat those who are not good with goodness, Thus goodness is attained. 49. Whether it is big or small, many or few, repay hatred with virtue. 63.

Return to the root.

Attain complete emptiness, Maintain steadfast quietude. All things flourish But each one returns to its root. This return to its root means tranquility. 16.

Pursue simplicity and frugality.

Therefore let people hold on to these: Manifest plainness, Embrace simplicity, Reduce selfishness, Have few desires. 19. He who hoards most will lose heavily, He who is contented suffers no disgrace. 44.

Avoid overconsumption.

There is no calamity greater than lavish desires. There is no greater guilt than discontentment. And there is no greater disaster than greed. He who is contented with contentment is always contented. The courts are exceedingly splendid, while the fields are exceedingly weedy, and the granaries are exceedingly empty. Elegant clothes are worn, sharp weapons are carried, Foods and drinks are enjoyed beyond limit, And wealth and treasures are accumulated in excess. This is robbery and extravagance. This is indeed not the Tao. 53.

ARE YOU A TAOIST, OR A PANTHEIST, OR BOTH?

Philosophical Taoism overlaps in many respects with Scientific Pantheism. Both are non-dualist, and deny that spirit and matter are separate substances. Both are non-theist, and deny the existence of any personal creator God or supernatural realm. Yet both have a deeply religious reverence for nature and the universe. Both stress the importance of living in harmony with nature. If you are attracted to the Taoism of Lao Tzu and Chuang Tzu, then you will find scientific pantheism totally congenial. There are of course some differences. Unlike Chuang Tzu, Scientific Pantheism does not advocate social inaction, and does not assume that there is an ultimate reality beyond the material universe (though it does not deny the possibility of this). Scientific Pantheism is completely free of the later accretions of religious Taoism: the alchemical pursuit of physical immortality, the multiplicity of deities and so on. Scientific Pantheism recognizes the right of all pantheists to celebrate their beliefs in any ritual or symbolic form they prefer: so it is entirely possible to be a scientific pantheist and a Taoist at the same time, and many of our members are. If you would like to spread the message of scientific pantheism please include a link to Scientific pantheism in your pages, and make sure yours are indexed in the main Web engines and directories. Use the word pantheist whenever possible. Check How you can help for more details. Elements of Pantheism ,   An overview of pantheist history, theory and practice. Includes almanac and calendar. $9.95 US - ©5.99 UK 20% off at Amazon Books        The Finest of Religion, Science, Nature and Philosophy Bookstore Come have arabica coffee and browse with Lao Tzu,  Einstein, Thoreau, Spinoza, Sagan, Wordsworth,  Whitman, Hawking, Marcus Aurelius, and friends.

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Confucianism, Daoism (Taoism), and Buddhism generally name the three main currents of Chinese thought, although it should be obvious that like any “ism,” they are abstractions—what they name are not monolithic but multifaceted traditions with fuzzy boundaries. In the case of “Daoism,” it designates both a philosophical tradition and an organized religion, which in modern Chinese are identified separately as daojia and daojiao , respectively. With their own rich histories and internal differences, the two are deeply intertwined. Laozi (or Lao-tzu, in the “Wade-Giles” system of transliteration favored by earlier generations of Western scholars) figures centrally in both.

Philosophical Daoism traces its origins to Laozi, an extraordinary thinker who flourished during the sixth century B.C.E., according to Chinese sources. According to some modern scholars, however, Laozi is entirely legendary; there was never a historical Laozi. In religious Daoism, Laozi is revered as a supreme deity.

The name “Laozi” is best taken to mean “Old ( lao ) Master ( zi ),” and Laozi the ancient philosopher is said to have written a short book, which has come to be called simply the Laozi , after its putative author, a common practice in early China.

When the Laozi was recognized as a “classic” ( jing )—that is, accorded canonical status in the classification of Chinese literature, on account of its profound insight and significance—it acquired a more exalted and hermeneutically instructive title, Daodejing ( Tao-te ching ), commonly translated as the “Classic of the Way and Virtue.” Its influence on Chinese culture is pervasive, and it reaches beyond China. It is concerned with the Dao or “Way” and how it finds expression in “virtue” ( de ), especially through what the text calls “naturalness” ( ziran ) and “nonaction” ( wuwei ). These concepts, however, are open to interpretation. While some interpreters see them as evidence that the Laozi is a deeply spiritual work, others emphasize their contribution to ethics and/or political philosophy. Interpreting the Laozi demands careful hermeneutic reconstruction, which requires both analytic rigor and an informed historical imagination.

1. The Laozi Story

2. date and authorship of the laozi, 3. textual traditions, 4. commentaries, 5. approaches to the laozi, 6. dao and virtue, 7. naturalness and nonaction, other internet resources, related entries.

The Shiji (Records of the Historian) by the Han dynasty (206 B.C.E.–220 C.E.) court scribe and historian Sima Qian (ca. 145–86 B.C.E.) offers a “biography” of Laozi. Its reliability has been questioned, but it provides a point of departure for reconstructing the Laozi story.

Laozi was a native of Chu, according to the Shiji , a southern state in the Zhou dynasty (see map and discussion in Loewe and Shaughnessy 1999, 594 and 597). His surname was Li; his given name was Er, and he was also called Dan.

Laozi served as a keeper of archival records at the court of Zhou. Confucius (551–479 B.C.E.) had consulted him on certain ritual matters, we are told, and praised him lavishly afterward ( Shiji 63). This establishes the traditional claim that Laozi was a senior contemporary of Confucius. A meeting, or meetings, between Confucius and Laozi, identified as “Lao Dan,” is reported also in the Zhuangzi and other early Chinese sources.

“Laozi cultivated Dao and virtue,” as Sima Qian goes on to relate, and “his learning was devoted to self-effacement and not having fame. He lived in Zhou for a long time; witnessing the decline of Zhou, he departed.” When he reached the northwest border then separating China from the outside world, he met Yin Xi, the official in charge of the border crossing, who asked him to put his teachings into writing. The result was a book consisting of some five thousand Chinese characters, divided into two parts, which discusses “the meaning of Dao and virtue.” Thereafter, Laozi left; no one knew where he had gone. This completes the main part of Sima Qian’s account. The remainder puts on record attempts to identify the legendary Laozi with certain known historical individuals and concludes with a list of Laozi’s purported descendants (see W. T. Chan 1963, Lau 1963, or Henricks 2000 for an English translation).

Few scholars today would subscribe fully to the Shiji report. Indeed, according to William Boltz, it “contains virtually nothing that is demonstrably factual; we are left no choice but to acknowledge the likely fictional nature of the traditional Lao tzu [Laozi] figure” (1993, 270). Disagreements abound on every front, including the name Laozi itself. Although the majority takes “Laozi” to mean “Old Master,” some scholars believe that “Lao” is a surname. The Zhuangzi and other early texts refer to “Lao Dan” consistently, but not “Li Er.” The name “Dan” is generally understood to depict the bearer’s “long ears,” a mark of longevity in Chinese physiognomy. According to Fung Yu-lan, Sima Qian had “confused” the legendary Lao Dan with Li Er, who flourished later during the “Warring States” period (480–221 B.C.E.) and was the “real” founder of the Daoist school ( daojia ) (1983, 171).

In an influential essay, A. C. Graham (1986) argues that the story of Laozi reflects a conflation of different legends. The earliest strand revolved around the meeting of Confucius with Lao Dan and was current by the fourth century B.C.E. During the first half of the third century, Lao Dan was recognized as a great thinker in his own right and as the founder of a distinct “Laoist” school of thought. It was not until the Han dynasty, when the teachings of Laozi, Zhuangzi, and others were seen to share certain insights centering on the concept of Dao, that they were classified together under the rubric of philosophical “Daoism.”

I cite these views here only to give a sense of the diversity and volume of research on the Laozi story. It is clear that by 100 B.C.E. if not earlier, Laozi was already shrouded in legends and that Sima Qian could only exercise his judgment as an historian to put together a report that made sense to him, based on the different and sometimes competing sources at his disposal.

The fact that Laozi appears favorably in both Confucian and Daoist sources seems to argue against the likelihood that the figure was fabricated for polemical purposes. It is conceivable that a philosopher known as Lao Dan attracted a following based on his novel reading of the Way and virtue. Deferentially, his followers would refer to him as “Laozi.”

Confucius had sought his advice presumably on mourning and funeral rites, given that the Confucian work Liji (Records of Rites) has Confucius citing Lao Dan four times specifically on these rites. Indeed, various dates have been proposed for the encounter—for example, 501 B.C.E., following the account in the Zhuangzi (ch. 14). In any case, testifying to its appeal, different accounts of the meeting circulated among the educated elite during the Warring States period. Other details then came to be associated with Lao Dan, which formed the basis of Sima Qian’s reconstruction.

Admittedly, this is conjecture. Though I find little reason not to accept the traditional claim that Laozi was a senior contemporary of Confucius, the identity of the “Old Master” no doubt will continue to attract and divide scholarly opinion. In many popular accounts, Laozi is described as the “founder” or “father” of “Daoism.” This begs a number of questions and therefore should not be taken uncritically, and this is the reason why a fairly extended discussion of the Shiji Laozi story is offered here.

The story of Laozi occupies a cherished place in the Daoist tradition. It is important also because it raises certain hermeneutic expectations and affects the way in which the Laozi is read. If the work was written by a single author, one might expect, for example, a high degree of consistency in style and content. If the Laozi was a work of the sixth or fifth century B.C.E., one might interpret certain sayings in the light of what we know of the period. There is little consensus among scholars, however, on the date or authorship of the Laozi , as we shall see below.

With the arrival of the “Way of the Celestial Masters” ( tianshidao ), the first organized religious Daoist establishment ( daojiao ) in the second century C.E., the story of Laozi gained an important hagiographic dimension.

The founding of “Celestial Master” or “Heavenly Master” Daoism was based on a new revelation of the Dao by Laozi (on which see Kohn 1998a and 1998b, Kleeman 2016, and the entry on religious Daoism ). In the eyes of the faithful, the Dao is a divine reality, and Laozi is seen as the personification of the Dao. Lao Dan is but one manifestation of the divine Laozi, albeit a pivotal one because of the writing of the Daodejing , which in religious Daoism commands devotion as a foundational scripture that promises not only wisdom but also immortality and salvation to those who submit to its power. During the Tang dynasty (618–907 C.E.), the imperial Li family traced its ancestry to Laozi. Today, Laozi’s “birthday” is celebrated in many parts of Asia on the fifteenth day of the second lunar month.

The influence of the Laozi on Chinese culture is both deep and far-reaching. One indication of its enduring appeal and hermeneutical openness is the large number of commentaries devoted to it throughout Chinese history—some seven hundred, according to one count (W. T. Chan 1963, 77). The Laozi has inspired an intellectual movement known as xuanxue , “Learning in the Profound”—or “Neo-Daoism,” as some scholars prefer, emphasizing its roots in classical Daoism—that dominated the Chinese elite or high culture from the third to the sixth century C.E. (See the entry on “Neo-Daoism” in this Encyclopedia .) The Laozi played a significant role in informing not only philosophic thought but also the development of literature, calligraphy, painting, music, martial arts, and other cultural traditions.

Imperial patronage enhanced the prestige of the Laozi and enlarged its scope of influence. In 733 C.E., the emperor Xuanzong decreed that all officials should keep a copy of the Daodejing at home and placed the classic on the list of texts to be examined for the civil service examinations (see, e.g., the report in the official Tang history, Jiu Tang shu 8). In religious Daoism, recitation of the Daodejing is a prescribed devotional practice and features centrally in ritual performance. The Daodejing has been set to music from an early time. The term “ Laozi learning” ( Laoxue ) has come to designate an important field of study. A useful work in Chinese that sketches the major landmarks in this development is Zhongguo Laoxue shi (A History of Laozi Learning in China) (Xiong Tieji, et al. 1995); a follow-up effort focusing on Laozi scholarship in the twentieth century by the same lead author was published in 2002.

The influence of the Laozi extends beyond China, as Daoism reaches across Asia and in the modern period, the Western world. In Hong Kong, Taiwan, and among the Chinese in Southeast Asia and beyond, Daoism is a living tradition. Daoist beliefs and practices have contributed also to the formation of Korean and Japanese culture, although here the process of cultural transmission, assimilation, and transformation is complex, especially given the close interaction among Daoism, Buddhism, and indigenous traditions such as Shintō (see Fukui, et al. 1983, vol. 3).

During the seventh century, the Laozi was translated into Sanskrit; in the eighteenth century a Latin translation was brought to England, after which there has been a steady supply of translations into Western languages, yielding a handsome harvest of some 250 (LaFargue and Pas 1998, 277), with new ones still hitting bookstores and internet sites almost every year. Some of the more notable recent translations in English are Roberts 2001, Ivanhoe 2002, Ames and Hall 2003, Wagner 2003, Moeller 2007, Ryden and Penny 2008, and Kim 2012. A forthcoming translation is Minford 2018.

Laozi is an “axial” philosopher whose insight helps shape the course of human development, according to Karl Jaspers (1974). The influence of the Laozi on Western thinkers is the subject of Clarke 2000. Memorable phrases from the Laozi such as “governing a large country is like cooking a small fish” (ch. 60) have found their way into global political rhetoric. At the popular level, several illustrated or “comic” versions of the Laozi reach out to a younger and wider readership (e.g., Tsai Chih Chung, et al. 1995, now available also on YouTube). Some may have come to learn about the Laozi through such best-selling works as The Tao of Physics (Capra 1975) or The Tao of Pooh (Hoff 1982); and there is also A Taoist Cookbook (Saso 1994), which comes with “meditations” from the Daodejing . From nature lovers to management gurus, a growing audience is discovering that the Laozi has something to offer to them. The reception of the Laozi in modern Asia and the West falls outside the scope of this article; nevertheless, it is important to note that the Laozi should be regarded not only as a work of early Chinese philosophy, but also in a larger context as a classic of world literature with keen contemporary relevance.

The next three sections are intended for readers who are interested in the textual history and commentarial tradition of the Laozi , including the major manuscripts recovered through archaeological excavations or from the antiquities market. They are important to understanding the Laozi , but one may go directly to section 5 on the main interpretive approaches to the text if one wishes to bypass them.

The date of composition refers to the time when the Laozi reached more or less its final form; it does not rule out later interpolations or corruptions. The traditional view, of course, is that the Laozi was written by Lao Dan in the sixth or early fifth century B.C.E. This seems unlikely, however, if it is assumed that the Laozi was written by a single author. As the archaeological evidence to be presented below will indicate, bodies of sayings attributed to Laozi were committed to writing probably from the second half of the fifth century B.C.E., resulting in different collections with overlapping contents. These collections grew, competed for attention, and gradually came to be consolidated during the fourth century B.C.E. By the middle of the third century B.C.E., the Laozi probably reached a relatively stable form.

It is possible, as A. C. Graham suggests, that the Laozi was ascribed to Lao Dan around 250 B.C.E. by the text’s author or “publiciser,” capitalizing on Lao Dan’s reputation (1986, 119; also see Graham 1989). It is also possible that the Laozi has “preserved” the ideas of Lao Dan. W. T. Chan, for example, believes that the text “embodied” the teachings of Laozi, although it was not written until the fourth century (1963, 74).

It seems reasonable to suppose that Laozi, whether or not his real name was Li Er, attracted a following and that some of his sayings entered the world of Chinese philosophical discourse during the fifth century B.C.E. A process of oral transmission may have preceded the appearance of these sayings in written form.

It is conceivable that a succession of editors or compilers brought together diverse bodies of Laozi sayings, resulting in the mature Laozi . D. C. Lau, for example, is of the view that the Laozi is an “anthology” (1963, 14). According to Bruce Brooks and Taeko Brooks, the Laozi contains different layers of material spanning the period between 340 and 249 B.C.E.—“its long timespan precludes a single author” (1998, 151). Indeed, Chad Hansen describes the “dominant current textual theory” of the Daodejing as one which “treats the text as an edited accumulation of fragments and bits drawn from a wide variety of sources … there was no single author, no Laozi” (1992, 201).

Although in this sense the Laozi may be regarded as a composite work, the product of many hands over a long period of time, it should not be assumed that the sayings that now inhabit the Laozi were put together at random. More likely, the final product reflects a process of intellectual distillation on the part of the compilers, who arranged and/or altered the material at their disposal (see also LaFargue 1992 and Mair 1990 on the composition of the Laozi ).

The language of the Laozi does provide some clues to its date of composition. Much of the text is rhymed. Focusing on rhyme patterns, Liu Xiaogan (1994 and 1997) concludes that the poetic structure of the Laozi is closer to that of the Shijing (Classic of Poetry) than that of the later Chuci (Songs of Chu).

The dating of the Shijing and the Chuci is by no means precise, although generally the poems collected in the former should not be later than the early fifth century B.C.E., whereas those collected in the latter can be traced to no earlier than the middle of the Warring States period, around 300 B.C.E. For this reason, Liu Xiaogan argues, the traditional view first articulated by Sima Qian should be upheld. Examining a wider range of linguistic evidence, William Baxter agrees that the Laozi should be dated earlier than the Zhuangzi and the Chuci , but he traces “the bulk of the Lao-tzu to the mid or early fourth century” (1998, 249). Both Liu and Baxter provide a concise analysis of the different theories of the date of the Laozi .

Why is all this important? It may be argued that date and authorship are immaterial to and may detract from interpretation. The “truth” of the Laozi is “timeless,” according to this view, transcending historical and cultural specificities. Issues of provenance are important, however, if context has any role to play in the production of meaning.

Polemics among different schools of thought, for example, were far more pronounced during the Warring States period than in the earlier “Spring and Autumn” period (770–481 B.C.E.). (There are different ways to date the Spring and Autumn and Warring States periods, but they do not affect the discussion here.) The Zhou government had been in decline; warfare among the “feudal” states intensified both in scale and frequency from the fourth century B.C.E. onward. As the political conditions deteriorated, philosophers and strategists, who grew both in number and popularity as a social group or profession during this time, vied to convince the rulers of the various states of their program to bring order to the land. At the same time, perhaps with the increased displacement and disillusionment of the privileged elite, a stronger eremitic tradition also emerged. If the bulk of the Laozi had originated from the fourth century, it might reflect some of these concerns. From this perspective, the origin of the Laozi is as much a hermeneutical issue as it is a historical one.

The discovery of two Laozi silk manuscripts at Mawangdui, near Changsha, Hunan province in 1973 marks an important milestone in modern Laozi research. The manuscripts, identified simply as “A” ( jia ) and “B” ( yi ), were found in a tomb that was sealed in 168 B.C.E. The texts themselves can be dated earlier, the “A” manuscript being the older of the two, copied in all likelihood before 195 B.C.E. (see Lau 1982, Boltz 1984, and Henricks 1989). A documentary on the Mawangdui find was aired on Chinese CCTV-10 in June 2010, which can be viewed from its website. The Hunan Provincial Museum website also provides useful information.

Before this find, access to the Laozi was mainly through the received text of Wang Bi (226–249 C.E.) and Heshanggong, a legendary figure depicted as a teacher to Emperor Wen (r. 179–157 B.C.E.) of the Han dynasty. There are other manuscript versions, but by and large they play a secondary role in the history of the classic.

A more recent archaeological find in Guodian, the so-called “Bamboo-slip Laozi ,” which predates the Mawangdui manuscripts, has rekindled debates on the origin and composition of the Laozi . But first, a note on the title and structure of the Daodejing .

The Laozi did not acquire its “classic” status until the Han dynasty. According to the Shiji (49.5b), the Empress Dowager Dou—wife of Emperor Wen and mother of Emperor Jing (r. 156–141 B.C.E.)—was a dedicated student of the Laozi . Later sources added that it was Emperor Jing who established the text officially as a classic. However, the title Daodejing appears not to have been widely used until later, toward the close of the Han era.

The Daodejing is also referred to as the Daode zhenjing (True Classic of the Way and Virtue), the Taishang xuanyuan daodejing (Classic of the Way and Virtue of the Highest Profound Origins), and less formally the “five-thousand character” text, on account of its approximate length. Most versions exceed five thousand characters by about five to ten percent, but it is interesting to note that numerological considerations later became an integral part of the history of the work. According to the seventh-century Daoist master Cheng Xuanying, it was Ge Xuan (fl. 200 C.E.), a revered Daoist adept, who shortened the Laozi text that accompanied the Heshanggong commentary to fit the magical number of five thousand. This claim cannot be verified, but a number of Laozi manuscripts discovered at Dunhuang contain 4,999 characters.

The current Daodejing is divided into two parts ( pian ) and 81 chapters or sections ( zhang ). Part one, comprising chapters 1–37, has come to be known as the Daojing (Classic of Dao), while chapters 38–81 make up the Dejing (Classic of Virtue).

This is understood to be a thematic division—chapter 1 begins with the word Dao, while chapter 38 begins with the phrase “superior virtue”—although the concepts of Dao and virtue ( de ) feature in both parts. As a rough heuristic guide, some commentators have suggested that the Daojing is more “metaphysical,” whereas the Dejing focuses more on sociopolitical issues.

In this context, it is easy to appreciate the tremendous interest occasioned by the discovery of the Mawangdui Laozi manuscripts. The two manuscripts contain all the chapters that are found in the current Laozi , although the chapters follow a different order in a few places. For example, in both manuscripts, the sections that appear as chapters 80 and 81 in the current Laozi come immediately after a section that corresponds to chapter 66 of the present text.

Both the Mawangdui “A” and “B” manuscripts are similarly divided into two parts, but in contrast with the current version, in reverse order; i.e., both manuscripts begin with the Dejing , corresponding to chapter 38 of the received text. “Part one” of the “B” manuscript ends with the editorial notation, “Virtue, 3,041 [characters],” while the last line of “Part two” reads: “Dao, 2,426.” Does this mean that the classic should be renamed, from Daodejing to “ Dedaojing ” (Classic of Virtue and the Way)? One scholar, in fact, has adopted the title Dedaojing ( Te-Tao ching ) for his translation of the Mawangdui Laozi (Henricks 1989).

It seems unlikely that the Mawangdui arrangement stems simply from scribal idiosyncrasy or happenstance—e.g., that the copyist, in writing out the Laozi on silk, had made use of an original text in bamboo slips and just happened to start with a bundle of slips containing the Dejing (Yan 1976, 12, explains how this is possible). If the order is deliberate, does it imply that the “original” Laozi gives priority to sociopolitical issues? This raises important questions for interpretation.

The division into 81 chapters reflects numerological interest and is associated particularly with the Heshanggong version, which also carries chapter titles. It was not universally accepted until much later, perhaps the Tang period, when the text was standardized under the patronage of Emperor Xuanzong (r. 712–756). Traditional sources report that some versions were divided into 64, 68, or 72 chapters; and some did not have chapter divisions (Henricks 1982).

The Mawangdui “A” manuscript contains in some places a dot or “period” that appears to signal the beginning of a chapter. The earlier Guodian texts (see below) are not divided into two parts, but in many places they employ a black square mark to indicate the end of a section. The sections or chapters so marked generally agree with the division in the present Laozi . Thus, although the 81-chapter formation may be relatively late, some attempt at chapter division seems evident from an early stage of the textual history of the Daodejing .

Until about two decades ago, the Mawangdui manuscripts held the pride of place as the oldest extant manuscripts of the Laozi . In late 1993, the excavation of a tomb (identified as M1) in Guodian, Jingmen city, Hubei province, yielded among other things some 800 bamboo slips, of which 730 are inscribed, containing over 13,000 Chinese characters. Some of these, amounting to about 2,000 characters, match the Laozi (see Allan and Williams 2000, and Henricks 2000). The tomb is located near the old capital of the state of Chu and is dated around 300 B.C.E. Robbers entered the tomb before it was excavated, although the extent of the damage is uncertain.

The bamboo texts, written in a Chu script, have been transcribed into standard Chinese and published under the title Guodian Chumu zhujian (Beijing: Wenwu, 1998), which on the basis of the size and shape of the slips, calligraphy, and other factors divides the Laozi material into three groups. Group A contains thirty-nine bamboo slips, which correspond in whole or in part to the following chapters of the present text: 19, 66, 46, 30, 15, 64, 37, 63, 2, 32, 25, 5, 16, 64, 56, 57, 55, 44, 40 and 9. Groups B and C are smaller, with eighteen (chs. 59, 48, 20, 13, 41, 52, 45, 54) and fourteen slips (chs. 17, 18, 35, 31, 64), respectively.

On the whole, the Guodian “bamboo-slip Laozi ” is consistent with the received text, although the placement or sequence of the chapters is different and there are numerous variant and/or archaic characters. Particularly, whereas chapter 19 of the current Laozi contains what appears to be a strong attack on Confucian ideals—“Cut off benevolence ( ren ), discard rightness ( yi )”—the Guodian “A” text directs its readers to “cut off artificiality, discard deceit.” This has been taken to suggest that in the course of its transmission, the Laozi has taken on a more “polemical” outlook. However, the Guodian “C” text indicates that ren and yi arose only after the “Great Dao” had gone into decline, which agrees with chapter 18 of the current Laozi . In other words, it would be a hasty assumption that the Guodian texts do not engage in a critique of some of the key ideas central to the “Ru” or Confucian tradition.

It is not clear whether the Guodian bamboo manuscripts were copied from one source and meant to be read as one text divided into three parts, whether they were “selections” from a longer original, or whether they were three different texts copied from different sources at different times (for a nuanced discussion, see Boltz 1999). There is one important clue, however. The “A” and “C” texts give two different versions of what is now part of chapter 64 of the Laozi , which suggests that they came from different sources. One scholar at least has suggested a chronology to the making of the Guodian Laozi bamboo slips, with the “A” group being the oldest of the three, copied around 400 B.C.E. (Ding 2000, 7–9).

Taking into account all the available evidence, it seems likely that different collections of sayings attributed to Laozi expanded and gained currency during the fourth century B.C.E. They would have been derived from earlier, oral or written sources. During the third century B.C.E., the Laozi settled more or less into its final form. It was then quoted extensively in such works as the Hanfeizi and the “outer” and “miscellaneous” chapters of the Zhuangzi , and began to attract commentarial attention.

Even more recently, the growing family of Laozi texts welcomed another new arrival. In January 2009, Peking University accepted a gift of a sizeable collection of inscribed bamboo slips, said to have been retrieved from overseas. Among them, we find a nearly complete version of the Laozi .

Although the published material to date did not mention any carbon dating of the slips, the consensus among the scholars who have worked with them is that they date to the Western Han dynasty. More precisely, based especially on the calligraphic form of the writing—a relatively mature form of the “clerical” script established during the Han period—they have been dated to the second half of the reign of Emperor Wu of the Han (141–87 B.C.E.).

Like the Mawangdui silk manuscripts, the Peking University text, now referred to as the “Beida Laozi ,” is divided into two parts. They are titled “Laozi Classic, Part 1” ( Laozi shang jing ) and “Laozi Classic, Part 2” ( Laozi xia jing ). This indicates that not only the Laozi was divided into two parts during the Western Han period, but also it was accorded the status of a “classic” ( jing ), which may give some credence to the traditional claim that the Laozi achieved canonical status during the preceding reign of Emperor Jing (156–141 B.C.E.).

The Beida Laozi agrees with the Mawangdui manuscripts in another important respect; that is, Part 1 also corresponds to chapters 38–81 of the current 81-chapter version, or the Dejing , and Part 2, chapters 1–37, or Daojing . Although this cannot be taken to mean that the Laozi was “originally” written in that order, it may be the case that this was the dominant textual tradition during the Han period. Like the Mawangdui manuscripts, the Beida Laozi also records the number of characters at the end of each part.

In terms of wording, the Beida Laozi agrees with the Mawangdui manuscripts in many instances, although in some places it agrees rather with that of the received text. For example, whereas Chapter 22 of the received text describes the sage as a “model” ( shi ) for the world, the Beida Laozi agrees with the Mawangdui versions in likening the sage more concretely to a “shepherd” ( mu ). However, the Beida text agrees with the standard version at the beginning of Chapter 2, as opposed to the shorter formulation found in the Guodian and Mawangdui versions.

What is equally significant is that the sequence or order of the chapters is exactly the same as that in the received Laozi . The difference lies in the division of some of the chapters. Chapters 17–19 of the received text form one chapter in the Beida Laozi . The same is true for chapters 6–7, 32–33 and 78–79. However, the current chapter 64 appears as two chapters in the Beida slips. Altogether there are 77 chapters. Each chapter is clearly marked, with a round dot at the start, and each chapter starts on a separate bamboo slip.

The Beida Laozi is almost intact in its entirety, missing only some 60 characters when compared with the received text. While it offers fresh glimpses into the development of the text, it does not provide any significant new insight into the meaning of the Laozi . A series of articles on the Peking University bamboo slips were published in the journal Wenwu (2011, no. 6). The Beida Laozi was published in December 2012 and launched in February 2013. Although the majority of scholars accept the authenticity of the find, a notable critic is Xing Wen, who argues strongly that it is a forgery (Xing 2016; for a critical discussion in English, see Foster 2017).

In summary, two approaches to the making of the Laozi warrant consideration, for they bear directly on interpretation.

A linear “evolutionary” model of textual formation would suggest that the earliest sayings attributed to Laozi address principally issues of governance, reflecting a deep concern with the decline of Zhou rule. Some of these sayings were preserved in the Guodian bamboo texts.

On this view, the Laozi underwent substantial change and grew into a longer and more complex work during the third century B.C.E., becoming in this process more polemical against the Confucian and other schools of thought, and acquiring new material of stronger metaphysical or cosmological interest. The Mawangdui manuscripts were based on this mature version of the Laozi ; the original emphasis on politics, however, can still be detected in the placement of the Dejing before the Daojing . Later versions reversed this order and in so doing subsumed politics under a broader philosophical vision of Dao as the beginning and end of all beings.

As distinguished from a linear evolutionary model, what is suggested here is that there were different collections of sayings attributed to Laozi, overlapping to some extent but each with its own emphases and predilections, inhabiting a particular interpretive context.

Although some key chapters in the current Laozi that deal with the nature of Dao (e.g., chs. 1, 14) are not found in the Guodian corpus, the idea that the Dao is “born before heaven and earth,” for example, which is found in chapter 25 of the received text is already present. The critical claim that “being [ you ] is born of nonbeing [ wu ]” in chapter 40 also figures in the Guodian “A” text. This seems to argue against the suggestion that the Laozi , and for that matter ancient Chinese philosophical works in general, were not interested or lacked the ability to engage in abstract philosophic thinking, an assumption that sometimes appears to underlie evolutionary approaches to the development of Chinese philosophy.

Another Guodian document, given the title “Taiyi shengshui” (“The Great One Gives Birth to the Waters,” translated in Ames and Hall 2003; also see Boltz 1999 and Allan 2003) and which may have formed an integral part of the Guodian Laozi “C” text, certainly reflects strong interest in cosmogony and cosmology. The text known as “Heng Xian,” one of the documents found in the corpus of bamboo slips recovered by the Shanghai Museum in 1994 and which I interpret in the sense of that which comes before and determines the created order, testifies further to the active engagement with cosmological and metaphysical questions in early China (Ma Chengyuan 2003; a special issue of the journal Dao 12.2, 2013 is devoted to this work).

The Guodian and Mawangdui finds are extremely valuable. They are syntactically clearer than the received text in some instances, thanks to the larger number of grammatical particles they employ. Nevertheless, they cannot resolve all the controversies and uncertainties surrounding the Laozi . In my view, the nature of Dao and the application of Daoist insight to ethics and governance probably formed the twin foci in collections of Laozi sayings from the start. They were then developed in several ways—e.g., some collections were combined; new sayings were added; and explanatory comments, illustrations, and elaboration on individual sayings were integrated into the text. The demand for textual uniformity rose when the Laozi gained recognition, and consequently the different textual traditions eventually gave way to the received text of the Laozi .

As mentioned, the current Laozi on which most reprints, studies and translations are based is the version that comes down to us along with the commentaries by Wang Bi and Heshanggong. Three points need to be made in this regard.

First, technically there are multiple versions of the Wang Bi and Heshanggong Laozi —over thirty Heshanggong versions are extant—but the differences are on the whole minor. Second, the Wang Bi and Heshanggong versions are not the same, but they are sufficiently similar to be classified as belonging to the same line of textual transmission. Third, the Wang Bi and Heshanggong versions that we see today have suffered change. Prior to the invention of printing, when each manuscript had to be copied by hand, editorial changes and scribal errors are to be expected. In particular, the Laozi text that now accompanies Wang Bi’s commentary bears the imprint of later alteration, mainly under the influence of the Heshanggong version, and cannot be regarded as the Laozi that Wang Bi himself had seen and commented on. Boltz (1985) and Wagner (1989) have examined this question in some detail.

The “current” version refers to the Sibu beiyao and the Sibu congkan editions of the Daodejing . (The Sibu beiyao and Sibu congkan are large-scale reproductions of traditional Chinese texts published in the early twentieth century.) The former contains the Wang Bi version and commentary, together with a colophon by the Song scholar Chao Yuezhi (1059–1129), a second note by Xiong Ke (ca. 1111–1184), and the Tang scholar Lu Deming’s (556–627) Laozi yinyi (Glosses on the Meaning and Pronunciation of the Laozi ). It is a reproduction of the Qing dynasty “Wuying Palace” edition, which in turn is based on a Ming edition (see especially Hatano 1979).

The Heshanggong version preserved in the Sibu congkan series is taken from the library of the famous bibliophile Qu Yong (fl. 1850). According to Qu’s own catalogue, this is a Song dynasty version, published probably after the reign of the emperor Xiaozong (r. 1163–1189). Older extant Heshanggong versions include two incomplete Tang versions and fragments found in Dunhuang.

Besides the Guodian bamboo texts, the Mawangdui silk manuscripts, the Beida Laozi and the received text of Wang Bi and Heshanggong, there is an “ancient version” ( guben ) edited by the early Tang scholar Fu Yi (fl. 600). Reportedly, this version was recovered from a tomb in 574 C.E., whose occupant was a consort of the Chu general Xiang Yu (d. 202 B.C.E.), the rival of Liu Bang before the latter emerged victorious and founded the Han dynasty. A later redaction of the “ancient version” was made by Fan Yingyuan in the Song dynasty. There are some differences, but these two can be regarded as having stemmed from the same textual tradition.

Manuscript fragments discovered in the Dunhuang caves form another important source in Laozi research. Among them are several Heshanggong fragments (especially S. 477 and S. 3926 in the Stein collection, and P. 2639 in the Pelliot collection) and the important Xiang’er Laozi with commentary. Another Dunhuang manuscript that merits attention is the “Suo Dan” fragment, now at the University Art Museum, Princeton University, which contains the last thirty-one chapters of the Daodejing beginning with chapter 51 of the modern text. It is signed and dated at the end, bearing the name of the third-century scholar and diviner Suo Dan, who is said to have made the copy, written in ink on paper, in 270 C.E. According to Rao Zongyi (1955), the Suo Dan version belongs to the Heshanggong line of the Laozi text. William Boltz (1996), however, questions its third-century date and argues that the fragment in many instances also agrees with the Fu Yi “ancient version.”

While manuscript versions inform textual criticism of the Laozi , stone inscriptions provide further collaborating support. Over twenty steles, mainly of Tang and Song origins, are available to textual critics, although some are in poor condition (Yan 1957). Students of the Laozi today can work with several Chinese and Japanese studies that make use of a large number of manuscript versions and stone inscriptions (notably Ma 1965, Jiang 1980, Zhu 1980, and Shima 1973). Boltz (1993) offers an excellent introduction to the manuscript traditions of the Laozi . Wagner (2003) attempts to reconstruct the original face of Wang Bi’s Laozi (cf. Lou 1980 and Lynn 1999). A major contribution to Laozi studies in Chinese is Liu Xiaogan 2006, which compares the Guodian, Mawangdui, Fu Yi, Wang Bi, and Heshanggong versions of the Laozi and provides detailed textual and interpretive analysis for each chapter. In an article in English, Liu (2003) sets out some of his main findings.

Commentaries to the Laozi offer an invaluable guide to interpretation and are important also for their own contributions to Chinese philosophy and religion.

Two chapters in the current Hanfeizi (chs. 21 and 22) are entitled “Explaining (the Sayings of) Laozi ” ( Jie Lao ) and “Illustrating (the Sayings of) Laozi ” ( Yu Lao ), which can be regarded as the earliest extant commentary to the classic (for a detailed study and translation, see Sarah A. Queen 2013). The “bibliographical” section of the Hanshu (History of the Former or Western Han Dynasty) lists four commentaries to the Laozi , but they have not survived. Nevertheless, Laozi learning began to flourish from the Han period. The commentaries by Heshanggong, Yan Zun, Wang Bi, and the Xiang’er commentary will be introduced in what follows. Some mention will also be made of later developments in the history of the Daodejing . The late Isabelle Robinet has contributed an important pioneering study of the early Laozi commentaries (1977; see also Robinet 1998).

Traditionally, the Heshanggong commentary is regarded as a product of the early Han dynasty. The name Heshanggong means an old man who dwells by the side of a river, and some have identified the river in question to be the Yellow River. An expert on the Laozi , he caught the attention of Emperor Wen, who went personally to consult him. Heshanggong revealed to the emperor his true identity as a divine emissary sent by the “Supreme Lord of the Dao”—i.e., the divine Laozi—to teach him. The emperor proved a humble student, as the legend concludes, worthy of receiving the Daodejing with Heshanggong’s commentary (A. Chan 1991).

Recent Chinese studies generally place the commentary at the end of the Han period, although some Japanese scholars would date it to as late as the sixth century C.E. It is probably a second-century C.E. work and reflects the influence of the “Huang-Lao” (Yellow Emperor and Laozi) tradition, which flourished during the early Han dynasty (A. Chan 1991a). Called in early sources the Laozi zhangju , it belongs to the genre of zhangju literature, prevalent in Han times, which one may paraphrase as commentary by “chapter and sentence.” Its language is simple; its imagination, down-to-earth. The Heshanggong commentary shares with other Han works the cosmological belief that the universe is constituted by qi , the energy-like building blocks of life and the vital constituent of the cosmos, variously translated as “vital energy,” “life-force,” or “pneuma.” On this basis, interpreting the text in terms of yin-yang theory, the Laozi is seen to disclose not only the mystery of the origins of the universe but also the secret to personal well-being and sociopolitical order.

What the Laozi calls the “One,” according to Heshanggong, refers to the purest and most potent form of qi -energy that brings forth and continues to nourish all beings. This is the meaning of de , the “virtue” or power with which the “ten thousand things”—i.e., all beings—have been endowed and without which life would cease.

The maintenance of “virtue,” which the commentary also describes as “guarding the One,” is thus crucial to self-cultivation. A careful diet, exercise, and some form of meditation are implied, but generally the commentary focuses on the diminishing of selfish desires. The government of the “sage”—a term common to all schools of Chinese thought but which is given a distinctive Daoist meaning in the commentary—rests on the same premise. Policies that are harmful to the people such as heavy taxation and severe punishment are to be avoided, but the most fundamental point remains that the ruler himself must cherish what the Laozi calls “emptiness” and “nonaction.” Disorder stems from the dominance of desire, which reflects the unruly presence of confused and agitated qi -energy. In this way, self-cultivation and government are shown to form an integral whole.

A second major commentary is the Laozi zhigui (The Essential Meaning of the Laozi ) attributed to the Han dynasty scholar Yan Zun (fl. 83 B.C.E.–10 C.E.). Styled Junping, Yan’s surname was originally Zhuang; it was changed in later written records to the semantically similar Yan to comply with the legal restriction not to use the name Zhuang, which was the personal name of Emperor Ming (r. 57–75) of the Later or Eastern Han dynasty. Yan Zun is well remembered in traditional sources as a recluse of great learning and integrity, a diviner of legendary ability, and an author of exceptional talent. The famous Han poet and philosopher Yang Xiong (53 B.C.E.–18 C.E.) studied under Yan and spoke glowingly of him.

The Laozi zhigui (abbreviated hereafter as Zhigui ), as it now stands, is incomplete; only the commentary to the Dejing , chapters 38–81 of the current Laozi , remains. The best edition of the Zhigui is that contained in the Daozang (Daoist Canon, no. 693 in the Daozang zimu yinde , Harvard-Yenching Sinological Index Series, no. 25), which clearly indicates that the work had originally thirteen juan or books, the first six of which have been lost. Judging from the available evidence, it can be accepted as a Han product (A. Chan 1998a). The Laozi text that accompanies Yan Zun’s commentary agrees in many instances with the wording of the Mawangdui manuscripts.

Like Heshanggong, Yan Zun also subscribes to the yin-yang cosmological theory characteristic of Han thought. Unlike Heshanggong’s commentary, however, the Zhigui does not prescribe a program of nourishing one’s qi endowment or actively cultivating “long life.” This does not mean that it rejects the ideal of longevity. On the contrary, it recognizes that the Dao “lives forever and does not die” (8.9b), and that the man of Dao, correspondingly, “enjoys long life” (7.2a). Valuing one’s spirit and vital energy is important, but the Zhigui is concerned that self-cultivation must not violate the principle of “nonaction.” Any effort contrary to what the Laozi has termed “naturalness” ( ziran ) is counter-productive and doomed to failure.

The concept of ziran occupies a pivotal position in Yan Zun’s commentary. It describes the nature of the Dao and its manifestation in the world. It also points to an ethical ideal. The way in which natural phenomena operate reflects the workings of the Dao. The “sage” follows the Dao in that he, too, abides by naturalness. In practice this means attending to one’s “heart-mind” ( xin ) so that it will not be enslaved by desire. Significantly, the Zhigui suggests that just as the sage “responds” to the Dao in being simple and empty of desire, the common people would in turn respond to the sage and entrust the empire to him. In this way, the Laozi is seen to offer a comprehensive guide to order and harmony at all levels.

An early commentary that maximizes the religious import of the Laozi is the Xiang’er Commentary . Although it is mentioned in catalogues of Daoist works, there was no real knowledge of it until a copy was discovered among the Dunhuang manuscripts (S. 6825 in the Stein collection). The manuscript copy, now housed in the British Library, was probably made around 500 C.E. The original text, disagreement among scholars notwithstanding, is generally traced to around 200 C.E. It is closely linked to the “Way of the Celestial Masters” and has been ascribed to Zhang Daoling, the founder of the sect, or his grandson Zhang Lu, who was instrumental in ensuring the group’s survival after the collapse of the Han dynasty. A detailed study and translation of the work in English is now available (Bokenkamp 1997).

The Xiang’er manuscript is unfortunately incomplete; only the first part has survived, beginning with the middle of chapter 3 and ending with chapter 37 in the current chapter division of the Laozi . It is not clear what the title, Xiang’er , means. Following Rao Zongyi and Ōfuchi Ninji, Stephen Bokenkamp suggests that it is best understood in the literal sense that the Dao “thinks ( xiang ) of you ( er )” (1997, 61). This underscores the central thesis of the commentary, that devotion to the Dao in terms of self-cultivation and compliance with its precepts would assure boundless blessing in this life and beyond.

The Xiang’er commentary accepts without question the divine status of Laozi. While Yan Zun and Heshanggong direct their commentary primarily to those in a position to effect political change, the Xiang’er invites a larger audience to participate in the quest for the Dao, to achieve union with the Dao through spiritual and moral discipline. It is possible to attain the “life-span of an undefiled, godlike being” ( xianshou ). Nourishing one’s vital qi -energy through meditation and other practices remains the key to attaining “long life” and ultimately to forming a spiritual body devoid of the blemishes of mundane existence (Rao 1991; see also Puett 2004).

Spiritual discipline, however, is insufficient; equally important is the accumulation of moral merit. Later Daoist sources refer to the “nine precepts” of the Xiang’er . There is also a longer set known as the “twenty-seven precepts” of the Xiang’er . These include general positive steps such as being tranquil and yielding, as well as specific injunctions against envy, killing, and other morally reprehensible acts. Likening the human body to the walls of a pond, the essential qi -energy to the water in it, and good deeds the source of the water, the Xiang’er commentary makes clear that deficiency in any one would lead to disastrous consequences (see Bokenkamp 1993).

Compared with the Xiang’er , Wang Bi’s Laozi commentary could not be more different. There is no reference to “immortals”; no deified Laozi. The Daodejing , as Wang Bi sees it, is fundamentally not concerned with the art of “long life” but offers profound insight into the radical otherness of Dao as the source of being, and the practical implications that follow from it.

Styled Fusi, Wang Bi (226–249) was one of the acknowledged leaders of the movement of “Learning in the Profound” ( xuanxue ) that came into prominence during the Wei period (220–265) and dominated the Chinese intellectual scene well into the sixth century. The word xuan denotes literally a shade of dark red and is used in the Laozi (esp. ch. 1) to suggest the mystery or profundity of Dao. The movement has been termed, perhaps not without ambiguity, “Neo-Daoism” in Western studies. It signifies a broad philosophical front united in its attempt to discern the “true” meaning of Dao but not a homogeneous or partisan school. Alarmed by what they saw as the decline of Dao, influential intellectuals of the day initiated a sweeping reinterpretation of the classical heritage. They did not neglect the Confucian classics but drew inspiration especially from the Yijing , the Laozi , and the Zhuangzi , which were then referred to as the “Three (Classics on the) Profound” ( sanxuan ); that is to say, the three key treatises unlocking the mystery of Dao. Wang Bi, despite his short life, distinguished himself as a brilliant interpreter of the Laozi and the Yijing (see A. Chan 1991a, Wagner 2000, Lynn 2015, and “Neo-Daoism” in this Encyclopedia ).

According to Wang Bi, Dao is indeed the “beginning” of the “ten thousand things.” Unlike Heshanggong or the Xiang’er , however, he did not pursue a cosmological or religious interpretation of the process of creation. Rather, Wang seems more concerned with what may be called the logic of creation.

Dao constitutes the absolute “beginning” in that all beings have causes and conditions that derive logically from a necessary foundation. The ground of being, however, cannot be itself a being; otherwise, infinite regress would render the logic of the Laozi suspect. For this reason, the Laozi would only speak of Dao as “nonbeing” ( wu ). We will come back to this point later.

The transcendence of Dao must not be compromised. To do justice to the Laozi , it is also important to show how the function of Dao translates into basic “principles” ( li ) governing the universe. The regularity of the seasons, the plenitude of nature, and other expressions of “heaven and earth” all attest to the presence of Dao. Human beings also conform to these principles, and so are “modeled” ultimately after Dao.

Wang Bi is often praised in later sources for having given the concept of li , “principle,” its first extended philosophical treatment. In the realm of Dao, principles are characterized by “naturalness” ( ziran ) and “nonaction” ( wuwei ). Wang Bi defines ziran as “an expression of the ultimate.” In this regard, attention has been drawn to Yan Zun’s influence. Nonaction helps explain the practical meaning of naturalness. In ethical terms, Wang Bi takes nonaction to mean freedom from the dictates of desire. This defines not only the goal of self-cultivation but also that of government. The concepts of naturalness and nonaction will be discussed further below. Wang Bi’s Laozi commentary has exerted a strong influence on modern interpretations of the Laozi in both Asia and the West. There are four English translations available (Lin 1977, Rump 1979, Lynn 1999, and Wagner 2003).

Among these four commentaries, Heshanggong’s Laozi zhangju occupied the position of preeminence in traditional China, at least until the Song dynasty. For a long period, Wang Bi’s work was relatively neglected. The authority of the Heshanggong commentary can be traced to its place in the Daoist religion, where it ranks second only to the Daodejing itself. Besides Heshanggong’s work and the Xiang’er , there are two other commentaries, the Laozi jiejie (Sectional Explanation) and the Laozi neijie (Inner Explanation), that are closely associated with religious Daoism. Both have been ascribed to Yin Xi, the keeper of the pass who “persuaded” Laozi to write the Daodejing and who, according to Daoist hagiographic records, later studied under the divine Laozi and became an “immortal.” These texts, however, only survive in citations (see Kusuyama 1979).

From the Tang period, one begins to find serious attempts to collect and classify the growing number of Laozi commentaries. An early pioneer is the eighth-century Daoist master Zhang Junxiang, who cited some thirty commentaries in his study of the Daodejing (Wang 1981). Du Guangting (850–933) provided a larger collection, involving some sixty commentaries ( Daode zhenjing guangshengyi , Daozang no. 725). According to Du, there were those who saw the Laozi as a political text, while others focused on spiritual self-cultivation. There were Buddhist interpreters (e.g., Kumārajīva and Sengzhao), and there were those who explained the “Twofold Mystery” ( chongxuan ). This latter represents an important development in the history of interpretation of the Daodejing (Assandri 2009).

The term “Twofold Mystery” comes from chapter 1 of the Laozi , where Dao is said to be the mystery of all mysteries, in the sense of an incomparably profound reality beyond ordinary comprehension ( xuan zhi you xuan ). As a school of Daoist learning, “Twofold Mystery” seizes this to be the key to understanding the Laozi . Daoist sources relate that the school goes back to the fourth-century master Sun Deng. Through Gu Huan (fifth century) and others, the school reached its height during the Tang period, represented by such thinkers as Cheng Xuanying and Li Rong in the seventh century. The school reflects the growing interaction between Daoist and Buddhist thought, particularly Mādhyamika philosophy. Unlike Wang Bi, it sees “nonbeing” as equally one-sided as “being” when applied to the transcendence of Dao. Nonbeing may highlight the profundity or mystery of Dao, but it does not yet reach the highest truth, which according to Cheng Xuanying can be called the “Dao of Middle Oneness” (Kohn 1992, 144; Assandri 2009, chs. 4 and 6). Like other polar opposites, the distinction between being and nonbeing must also be “forgotten” before one can achieve union with Dao.

The Laozi has been viewed in still other ways. For example, a Tang commentary by Wang Zhen, the Daodejing lunbing yaoyishu ( Daozang no. 713), presented to Emperor Xianzong (r. 806–820) in 809, sees the text as a treatise on military strategy (Rand 1979–80; see also Wang Ming 1984 and Mukai 1994). The diversity of interpretation is truly remarkable (see Robinet 1998 for a typological analysis). The Daodejing was given considerable imperial attention, with no fewer than eight emperors having composed or at least commissioned a commentary on the work. These include Emperor Wu and Emperor Jianwen of the Liang dynasty, Xuanzong of the Tang, Huizong of the Song, and Taizu of the Ming dynasty (see Liu Cunren 1969 for a discussion of the last three).

By the thirteenth century, students of the Daodejing were already blessed, as it were, with an embarrassment of riches, so much so that Du Daojian (1237–1318) could not but observe that the coming of the Dao to the world takes on a different form each time. That is to say, different commentators were shaped by the spirit of their age in their approach to the classic, so that it would be appropriate to speak of a “Han Laozi ,” “Tang Laozi ,” or “Song Laozi ,” each with its own agenda ( Xuanjing yuanzhi fahui , Daozang no. 703).

Is the Laozi a manual of self-cultivation and government? Is it a metaphysical treatise, or does it harbor deep mystical insights?

Chapter 1 of the current Laozi begins with the famous words: “The Way that can be spoken of is not the constant Way.” Chapter 10 speaks of nourishing one’s “soul” and embracing the “One.” Chapter 80 depicts the ideal polity as a small country with few inhabitants.

The Laozi is a difficult text. Its language is often cryptic; the sense or reference of the many symbols it employs remains unclear, and there seems to be conceptual inconsistencies. For example, whereas chapter 2 refers to the “mutual production of being and nonbeing,” chapter 40 declares, “Being originates in nonbeing” (Henricks, trans. 1989). Is it more meaningful to speak of the “worldviews” of the Daodejing , instead of a unified vision?

If the Laozi were an “anthology” put together at random by different compilers over a long period of time, occasional inconsistencies need not be an issue. Traditionally, however, this was never a serious option. Most modern studies are equally concerned to disclose the “deeper” unity and meaning of the classic. While some seek to recover the “original” meaning of the Laozi , others celebrate its contemporary relevance. Consider, first of all, some of the main modern approaches to the Daodejing (cf. Hardy 1998).

One view is that the Laozi reflects a deep mythological consciousness at its core. The myth of “chaos,” in particular, helps shape the Daoist understanding of the cosmos and the place of human beings in it (Girardot 1983). Chapter 25, for example, likens the Dao to an undifferentiated oneness. The myth of a great mother earth goddess may also have informed the worldview of the Laozi (Erkes 1935; Chen 1969), which explains its emphasis on nature and the feminine (Chen 1989). Chapter 6, for example, refers to the “spirit of the valley,” which is also called the “mysterious female.”

A second view is that the Laozi gives voice to a profound mysticism. According to Victor Mair (1990), it is indebted to Indian mysticism (see also Waley 1958). According to Benjamin Schwartz (1985), the mysticism of the Daodejing is sui generis , uniquely Chinese and has nothing to do with India. Indeed, as one scholar suggests, it is unlike other mystical writings in that ecstatic vision does not play a role in the ascent of the Daoist sage (Welch 1965, 60). According to another interpretation, however, there is every indication that ecstasy forms a part of the world of the Laozi , although it is difficult to gauge the “degree” of its mystical leanings (Kaltenmark 1969, 65). A more recent champion of the mystical view is Harold Roth, who argues that Daoist “inner cultivation” and Indian yoga may be similar, but “they are parallel developments in different cultures at different times.” (Roth 1999, 137).

It is possible to combine the mystical and mythological approaches. Although the presence of ancient religious beliefs can still be detected, they have been raised to a “higher” mystical plane in the Laozi (e.g., Ching 1997). Broadly, one could carve out a third category of interpretations that highlights the religious significance of the Laozi , whether in general terms or aligned with the tenets of religious Daoism.

A fourth view sees the Laozi mainly as a work of philosophy, which gives a metaphysical account of reality and insight into Daoist self-cultivation and government; but fundamentally it is not a work of mysticism (W. T. Chan 1963). The strong practical interest of the Laozi distinguishes it from any mystical doctrine that eschews worldly involvement. In H. G. Creel’s (1977) words, it is “purposive” and not purely “contemplative.”

Fifth, to many readers the Laozi offers essentially a philosophy of life. Remnants of an older religious thinking may have found their way into the text, but they have been transformed into a naturalistic philosophy. The emphasis on naturalness translates into a way of life characterized by simplicity, calmness, and freedom from the tyranny of desire (e.g., Liu Xiaogan 1997). For Roger Ames and David Hall (2003), indeed, the essence of the Laozi is “making this life significant.” Unlike the claim that the Laozi espouses a mystical or esoteric teaching directed at a restricted audience, this view tends to highlight its universal appeal and contemporary relevance.

Sixth, the Laozi is above all concerned with realizing peace and sociopolitical order. It is an ethical and political masterpiece intended for the ruling class, with concrete strategic suggestions aimed at remedying the moral and political turmoil engulfing late Zhou China. Self-cultivation is important, but the ultimate goal extends beyond personal fulfillment (Lau 1963, LaFargue 1992, Moeller 2006). The Laozi criticizes the Confucian school not only for being ineffectual in restoring order but more damagingly as a culprit in worsening the ills of society at that time. The ideal seems to be a kind of “primitive” society, in the non-pejorative sense where people would dwell in simplicity, harmony and contentment, not fettered by ambition or desire (e.g., Needham 1956).

This list is far from exhaustive; there are other views of the Laozi . Chad Hansen (1992), for example, focuses on the “anti-language” philosophy of the text. Different combinations are also possible. A. C. Graham, for example, emphasizes both the mystical and political elements, arguing that the Laozi was probably targeted at the ruler of a small state (1989, 234). For Hans-Georg Moeller (2006), though a work of political philosophy in its original context, the Laozi offers a powerful critique of “humanism” that is ethically as relevant then as it is now. The Laozi could be seen as encompassing all of the above—such categories as the metaphysical, ethical, political, mystical, and religious form a unified whole in Daoist thinking and are deemed separate and distinct only in modern Western thought. Alternatively, coming back to the question of multiple authorship and coherence, it could be argued that the Laozi contains “layers” of material put together by different people at different times (Emerson 1995).

Is it fair to say that the Laozi is inherently “polysemic” (Robinet 1998), open to diverse interpretations? This concerns not only the difficulty of the Laozi but also the interplay between reader and text in any act of interpretation.

Polysemy challenges the assertion that the “intended” meaning of the Laozi can be recovered fully. But, it is important to emphasize, it does not follow that context is unimportant, that parameters do not exist, or that there are no checks against particular interpretations. While hermeneutic reconstruction remains an open process, it cannot disregard the rules of evidence. Questions of provenance, textual variants, as well as the entire tradition of commentaries and modern scholarship are important for this reason. And it is for this same reason that the present article leaves the discussion of the Laozi itself till the end. The following presents some of the main concepts and symbols in the Laozi based on the current text, focusing on the key conceptual cluster of Dao, de (virtue), ziran (naturalness), and wuwei (nonaction). I propose that the two readings represented by the Heshanggong and Wang Bi commentaries both bring out important insight from the Laozi .

To begin with Dao, the etymology of the Chinese graph or character suggests a pathway, or heading in a certain direction along a path. Most commentators agree in translating dao as “way.” In early Chinese literature, dao generally depicts a relatively wide thoroughfare or carriage way, and in some contexts waterways, but it is used also to convey what is deemed the right or proper course, and by extension the doctrines or teachings that set forth such a course, or the means and methods that would bring it about. Laozi 53, for example, states, “The great dao is very even (flat, easy to travel on), but people like (to take) by-ways ( jing ).” The literal sense of dao as a path, contrasted in this instance with jing , a small trail off the main road, is clearly preserved here, but it is also easy to see how it can be used as a metaphor, how the extended ethical and spiritual sense of dao comes into the picture.

As a verb, perhaps on account of the directionality involved, dao also conveys the sense of “speaking.” Thus, the opening phrase of chapter 1, dao ke dao , literally “Dao that can be dao-ed,” is often rendered, “The Way that can be spoken of.” Because dao is paired with “name” ( ming ) in the next line—“ ming ke ming ,” “the name that can be named”—forming a parallel couplet construction, there is thus reason to interpret the verbal usage in the sense of something verbalized, as opposed to a pathway that is travelled on, trodden, or followed. This is also how most commentators in traditional China have understood it: the many normative discourses that clamor to represent the right way are seen to be fickle, partial and misleading. In most English translations, the capitalized form—“Way” or “Dao” (or “Tao”)—is used, to distinguish it from other usages of the term.

The concept of dao is not unique to the Laozi . A key term in the philosophical vocabulary, it informs early Chinese philosophy as a whole. It is interpreted differently, signifying a means to a higher end in some writings and as an end in itself in others. The Laozi underscores both the ineffability and creative power of Dao. This is distinctive and if one accepts the early provenance of the text, charts a new course in the development of Chinese philosophy.

The ineffability of Dao is highlighted in chapter 1: the “constant” ( chang , also translated as “eternal”—e.g., W. T. Chan 1963) Dao cannot be defined or described; it is “nameless.” Chapter 14 brings out clearly that Dao transcends sensory perception; it has neither shape nor form. Nameless and formless, Dao can only be described as utterly profound, and in this sense “dark” or “mysterious” ( xuan ), or as wu , literally “not having” any name, form, or other characteristics of things (see also chs. 21 and 32). Indeed, though suggestive, the term “Dao” itself is no more than a symbol—as the Laozi makes clear, “I do not know its name; I style it Dao” (ch. 25; see also ch. 34). This suggests a sense of radical transcendence, which explains why the Laozi has been approached so often as a mystical text.

The concept of wu is difficult and has been translated variously as “nothing,” “nothingness,” or “nonbeing.” It marks not only the mystery of Dao but also its limitlessness or inexhaustibility (e.g., ch. 4). Names serve to delimit, to set boundaries; in contrast, Dao is without limits and therefore cannot be captured fully by language. This suggests a positive dimension to transcendence, which brings into view the creative power of Dao: “All things under heaven are born of being ( you ); being is born of wu ” (ch. 40). What does this mean?

Elsewhere in the Laozi , Dao is said to be the “beginning” of all things (chs. 1, 25). Daoist creation involves a process of differentiation from unity to multiplicity: “Dao gives birth to One; One gives birth to Two; Two gives birth to Three; Three gives birth to the ten thousand things” (ch. 42). The text does not indicate tense or spell out what the numbers refer to—is it saying that something called the “One” produced or produces the “Two” in the sense of two other things?

The “nothingness” of Dao helps impose certain constraints on interpretation. Specifically, the idea of a creator god with attributes, like the “Lord on High” (Shangdi) in ancient Chinese religion, does not seem to fit with the emphasis on transcendence.

The dominant interpretation in traditional China is that Dao represents the source of the original, undifferentiated, essential qi -energy, the “One,” which in turn produces the yin and yang cosmic forces. While the “lighter,” more rarefied yang energy-stuff rises to form heaven, the “heavier” yin solidifies to become earth. A further “blending” of the two generates a “harmonious” qi -energy that informs human beings.

This is essentially the reading of the Heshanggong commentary. Although the Laozi may not have entertained a fully developed yin-yang cosmological theory, which took shape during the Han period, it does suggest at one point that natural phenomena are constituted by yin and yang: the “ten thousand things” or myriad creatures, as it rather lyrically puts it, “carry yin on their backs and embrace yang with their arms” (ch. 42). That which gave rise to the original qi -energy, however, is indescribable. The Laozi calls it Dao, or perhaps more appropriately in this context, “the Dao,” with the definite article, to signal its presence as the source of the created order.

In modern terms, minus the language of yin-yang cosmology, this translates into an understanding of the Dao as “an absolute entity which is the source of the universe,” as the Oxford English Dictionary (online edition, under “Tao”) defines it. Not being anything in particular, the Dao may be described as “nothing” ( wu ). However, on this reading, wu does not mean “nothingness,” “negativity” or absence in the nihilistic sense, in view of the creative power of the Dao.

Alternatively, one could argue that Dao signifies a conceptually necessary ontological ground; it does not refer to any indescribable original substance or energy. “Beginning” is not a term of temporal reference but suggests ontological priority in the Laozi .

The process of creation does proceed from unity to multiplicity, but the Laozi is only concerned to show that “two” would be impossible without the idea of “one.” The assertion in Laozi 42, “One gives birth to Two,” affirms that duality presupposes unity; to render it as “The One gave birth to the Two” is to turn what is essentially a logical relation into a cosmological event.

As the source of being, Dao cannot be itself a being, no matter how powerful or perfect; otherwise, the problem of infinite regress cannot be overcome. For this reason, the Laozi makes use of the concept of wu , “nonbeing,” not to suggest a substance or something of which nothing can be said, but to signify the conceptual “otherness” and radical transcendence of the ground of being.

This agrees with Wang Bi’s interpretation. If wu points to a necessary ontological foundation, the distinction between “Dao” and “One” seems redundant. Commenting on chapter 42 of the Laozi , Wang Bi writes, “One can be said to be wu ”; “One is the beginning of numbers and the ultimate of things” (commentary on ch. 39; see also Wang’s commentary on the Yijing , trans. in Lynn 1994, 60). The concept of “One” and the concept of wu thus complement each other in disclosing different aspects of the logic of creation—both unity and nonbeing are necessary for understanding the generation of beings.

Comparing the two interpretations, whereas the first, “cosmological” reading has to explain the sense in which the Dao can be said to be “nothing,” the second emphasizes the centrality of wu , “nonbeing,” for which “Dao” is but one designation. For the latter, Dao is entirely conceptual, whereas the former envisages the Dao as referring to a mysterious substance or energy that brings about the cosmos and continues to sustain and regulate it. Depending on the interpretation, wu may be translated as “nothing” or “nonbeing” accordingly. The latter may be awkward, but it serves to alert the reader that the nothingness or emptiness of Dao may not be understood referentially or reduced simply to the fullness of qi .

In light of the interest in cosmology during the Warring States period, the cosmological reading may be privileged, but the Laozi is also open to an ontological interpretation. Both are philosophically potent. At one level, the ontological reading may accommodate the qi -based yin-yang cosmology, although there is significant divergence in the interpretation of the ethics of the Laozi , as we shall see in the next section. In either case, the metaphor of “Dao” is apt. It shows that all things are derived ultimately from an absolute “beginning,” in either sense of the word, like the start of a pathway. It also suggests a direction to be followed, which brings out the ethical interest of the Laozi .

The Daodejing is concerned with both Dao and de . The graph de has also made it into the Oxford English Dictionary : “In Taoism, the essence of Tao inherent in all beings”; “in Confucianism and in extended use, moral virtue.” De has been translated variously as virtue, potency, efficacy, integrity, or power (for an etymological study, see Nivison 1978–79, and Hall and Ames 1987, 216).

Like Dao, de is a general concept open to diverse interpretation. The Confucian understanding of de is by no means uniform (A. Chan 2011). While some early Ru scholars emphasize in their interpretation of “virtue” the roles and responsibilities embedded in the network of kinship ties and sociopolitical relationships that constitute the ethical realm, others focus on the formation of individual moral character through self-cultivation. Confucius may have emphasized the latter, but there is ample evidence in the Analects and other Confucian works testifying to the importance of the former as well. The Laozi seems to be suggesting a “higher” de against any moral achievement attained through repeated effort (e.g., ch. 38). The different translations mentioned above aim at bringing out the perceived uniquely Daoist understanding of de .

Admittedly, “virtue” is ambiguous, and in Latin, as many scholars have noted, “ virtus ” has more to do with strength and capacity than moral virtues. Nevertheless, there are advantages to translating de as “virtue,” as it keeps in the foreground that the Laozi is giving new meaning to an established concept, as opposed to introducing a new concept not found in other schools of Chinese philosophy. From this perspective, both Laozi and Confucius are interpreters of de -virtue.

The marriage of Dao and de effectively bridges the gap between transcendence and immanence. Traditional commentaries beginning with the Hanfeizi often play on the homonymic relation between de (virtue) and another graph also pronounced de , which means to “acquire” or “obtain” something. De is thus what one has “obtained” from (the) Dao, a “latent power” by “virtue” of which any being becomes what it is (Waley 1958, 32). In this sense, the Laozi speaks of de as that which nourishes all beings (e.g., ch. 51).

Within these parameters, interpretations of de follow from the understanding of Dao and wu . On the one hand, for Heshanggong and other proponents of the cosmological view, what one has obtained from the Dao refers specifically to one’s qi endowment, which determines one’s physical, intellectual, affective, moral, and spiritual capacity. Read this way, the title Daodejing should be translated as the “Classic of the Way and Its Virtue,” given that de is understood to have emanated from the Dao.

On the other hand, for Wang Bi and others who do not subscribe to a substantive view of Dao, de represents what is “genuine” or “authentic” ( zhen ) in human beings (e.g., see Wang Bi’s commentary on Laozi chs. 3, 5, 16, 51). Because wu does not refer to any substance or cosmological power, what the Laozi means by de , the “virtue” that one has “obtained” from Dao, can only be understood as what is originally, naturally present in human beings.

In either case, the concept of de emerges as a Daoist response to the question of human nature, which was one of the most contested issues in early Chinese philosophy. The two readings of the Laozi , despite their differences, agree that it is an inherent de that enables a person to conform to the way in which Dao operates. “Virtue” may be corrupted easily, but when realized, it radiates the full embodiment of the Dao understood in terms of qi on Heshanggong’s view, or the flourishing of authenticity on Wang Bi’s interpretation. As such, Dao points to not only the “beginning” but also through de the “end” of all things.

The Laozi makes use of the concept of ziran , literally what is “self ( zi ) so ( ran ),” to describe the workings of Dao. As an abstract concept, ziran gives no specific information, except to say that Dao is not derived from or “modeled” ( fa ) after anything (ch. 25). However, since “heaven and earth”—interpreted as nature in most modern studies—are said to be born of Dao and come to be in virtue of their de , the Laozi is in effect saying that the ways of nature reflect the function of Dao.

In a cosmological reading, this suggests an understanding of nature as governed by the operation of qi energies in an ideal yin-yang system characterized by harmony and fecundity. As interpreted by Wang Bi, the Laozi means more generally that there are “principles” ( li ) inherent in nature.

Human beings are, in turn, born of heaven and earth and so are “modeled” after them, either in terms of their qi -constitution or in the sense that they are governed also by the same basic principles. Usually translated as “naturalness” or “spontaneity,” ziran thus builds on the concept of de in suggesting not only that the power of Dao finds expression in nature, but also at the practical level a mode of being and way of action in accordance with the ways of nature.

Nature in the Daoist sense, it is important to note, need not exclude the spiritual and the social. The existence of gods and spirits, which can be understood also as being constituted by qi energies, was hardly questioned in early China. The Laozi makes clear that they, too, stem from Dao and form a part of the order of ziran (e.g., chs. 39, 60).

Further, nature encompasses not only natural phenomena but also sociopolitical institutions. The king clearly occupies a central place in the realm of Dao (chs. 16, 25); the family also should be regarded as a “natural” institution (chs. 18, 54). As an ethical concept, ziran thus extends beyond the personal to the sociopolitical level. It is worth mentioning that ziran remains an influential idea today, especially in conceptions of love, beauty, and one’s attitude toward life and death in Chinese thinking.

The concept of wuwei , “nonaction,” serves to explain naturalness in practice. Like “nonbeing,” “nonaction” is awkward, and some translators prefer “non-assertive action,” “non-coercive action” or “effortless action”; but it identifies wuwei as a technical term. For this reason, I prefer “nonaction,” or better still, retaining wuwei in its transliterated form and explaining what it means in the Laozi.

Wuwei does not mean total inaction. Later Daoists often emphasize the close connection between wuwei and techniques of spiritual cultivation—the practice of “sitting in forgetfulness” ( zuowang ) and “fasting of the mind” ( xinzhai ) discussed in the Zhuangzi are singled out as prime examples in this regard. In the Laozi , while meditation and other forms of spiritual practice may be envisaged, the concept of wuwei seems to be used more broadly as a contrast against any form of action characterized by self-serving desire (e.g., chs. 3, 37).

It is useful to recall the late Zhou context, where disorder marched on every front. The Laozi , one assumes, is not indifferent to the forces of disintegration tearing the country asunder, although the remedy it proposes is subject to interpretation. The problems of political decline are traced to excessive desire, a violation of ziran . Naturalness encompasses basic human needs, of course, but these are to be distinguished from desire that fuels and inflates self-gratification, which knows no end. Nonaction entails at the personal level simplicity and quietude, which naturally follow from having few desires. At the political level, the Laozi condemns aggressive measures such as war (ch. 30), cruel punishment (ch. 74), and heavy taxation (ch. 75), which reflect but the ruler’s own desire for wealth and power. If the ruler could rid himself of desire, the Laozi boldly declares, the world would be at peace of its own accord (chs. 37, 57).

In this sense, the Laozi describes the ideal sage-ruler as someone who understands and follows ziran (e.g., chs. 2, 17, 64). In this same sense, it also opposes the Confucian program of benevolent intervention, which as the Laozi understands it, addresses at best the symptoms but not the root cause of the disease. The Confucian project is in fact symptomatic of the decline of the rule of Dao. Conscious efforts at cultivating moral virtues only accentuate the loss of natural goodness, which in its original state would have been entirely commonplace and would not have warranted distinction or special attention (chs. 18, 38). Worse, Confucian ethics assumes that learning and moral self-cultivation can bring about personal and social improvement. From the Daoist perspective, artificial effort to “change” people, “improve” things or to “correct” the order of ziran only perpetuates a false sense of self that alienates human beings from their inherent “virtue.”

The concept of nonaction is exceedingly rich. It brings into play a cutting discernment that value distinctions are ideological, that human striving and competitive strife spring from the same source. Nonaction entails also a critique of language and conventional knowledge, which to the Daoist sage has become impregnated with ideological contaminants.

The use of paradoxes in the Laozi especially heightens this point. For example, the person of Dao is depicted as “witless” or “dumb,” whereas people driven by desire appear intelligent and can scheme with cunning (ch. 20). The way of learning, as one would normally understand it, “increases” the store of knowledge and adds value to goods and services; in contrast, questioning the very meaning of such knowledge and value, the Laozi describes the pursuit of Dao as constantly “decreasing” or chipping away at the artifice built by desire (ch. 48).

Driving home the same point, to cite but one more example, the Laozi states, “The highest virtue is not virtuous; therefore it has virtue” (ch. 38). In other words, those who fully realize “virtue” in the Daoist sense do not act in the way that men and women of conventional morality typically act or are expected to act. Paradoxes of this kind function as a powerful rhetorical device, which forces the readers, so to speak, to move out of their “comfort zone,” to wake up from their dogmatic slumber, and to take note of the proposed higher truth of Dao (see also, e.g., chs. 41, 45, 56). In this context, one can also understand some of the provocative statements in the Laozi telling the ruler, for example, to keep the people in a state of “ignorance” (ch. 65).

Some scholars would object that this interpretation misses the religious import of the Daodejing , while others would question whether it is too eager to defend the philosophical coherence of the classic. Perhaps the Laozi in chapter 65 of the current text did mean to tell the ruler literally to keep the people ignorant or stupid for better control, which as a piece of political advice is not exactly extraordinary. The remarks offered here take nonaction as central to the Daoist view of life, recognizing that the concept of wuwei does not only initiate a critique of value but also points to a higher mode of knowledge, action, and being.

At the critical level, the Laozi emphasizes the relativity of knowledge and value. Things appear big or small, for example, only in relation to other things; knowledge and ignorance are meaningful only in relation to each other. Good and bad, being and nonbeing, and other opposites should be understood in the same light (ch. 2).

Distinctions as such are not necessarily problematic; for example, an object can be described as rare or difficult to find as compared with other objects. Problems arise, however, when objects that are rare are deemed more valuable than commonplace objects, when “big” is deemed superior to “small,” or in general terms when distinctions become a basis for value discrimination. When certain things or features (e.g., precious stones, reputation, being slim, skin color) are regarded as “beautiful” or “worthy”—i.e., desirable—other things will inevitably be deemed “ugly” and “unworthy,” with serious social, economic, and political consequences (ch. 3).

The recognition of the relativity of value does not end in a kind of moral relativism or ethical paralysis. The deconstruction of conventional beliefs and values opens the door to deeper reflection on the order of ziran. The Laozi also does not appear to be advocating the obliteration of all distinctions, and by extension civilization as a whole, in a state of mystical oneness. For example, while there is some concern that technology may bring a false sense of progress, the antidote does not lie in a deliberate rejection of technology but rather in a life of natural simplicity and contentment that stems from having few desires (ch. 80).

In this way, the apparent conceptual inconsistency in the Laozi can be resolved. On the one hand, there is little reason to equate, for example, “hardness” with strength and assign a higher value to it over “softness.” However, once such value discrimination is shown to be arbitrary, the Laozi can make use of qualities such as softness, weakness or yieldingness (e.g., ch. 78) to intimate the Daoist way of life as grounded in nonaction. In this same way, the Laozi can therefore also speak of Daoist virtue as the “highest good” (ch. 8) and “highest virtue” (ch. 38). Wuwei ultimately derives its meaning from wu , which as an ethical orientation privileges “not having” over the constant strivings of the mundane world. This constitutes a radical critique of a world given to the pursuit of wealth and power. More important, in being “empty,” the person of Dao is shown to be “full”; without desire, he or she is able to rediscover the riches of ziran and finds fulfillment.

The critique of value demonstrates the way in which desire ( yu ) perverts the mind— xin , literally, “heart,” but understood as the seat of both cognition and affectivity—and colors our judgment and experience of reality. Desire is a complex concept. Fundamentally, it depicts the movement of the mind as it is drawn to things it finds agreeable (e.g., pleasure) or away from things it dislikes (e.g., pain). Phenomenologically, the mind is always in motion. Calmness or tranquility of mind does not mean the cessation of all cognitive or affective movement. Rather, from this perspective, it is the act of desiring that transgresses the order of nature, resulting in a plethora of desires pulling the mind in different directions, that is seen to be at the heart of the problem. Nonaction contrasts sharply, according to the Laozi , with the way people typically act in a world in which the rule of Dao no longer prevails, with profit motives, calculated steps, expectations, longings, regrets, and other expressions of desire. Put differently, nonaction would be “normal” action in the pristine order of nature, in which the mind is at peace, free from the incessant stirring of desire.

As a philosophical concept, wuwei intimates a mode of being that governs existential engagement at all levels, transforming the way in which we think, feel, and experience the world. It does not stipulate what one ought to do or ought not to do in particular cases. Terms such as quietude, emptiness, and simplicity favored by the Laozi describe a general ethical orientation rather than specific practices. Although in following wuwei there are things that a person of Dao naturally would not do (e.g., wage a war of aggression), and there is a sense in which doing less may be more productive than self-conscious over-exertion, philosophically wuwei is not about not doing certain things (thus, military engagement is not ruled out entirely—e.g., see chs. 67, 68, 69) but suggests a reorientation of perception and value that ideally would bring an end to the dominance of desire and a return to the order of ziran .

Again, nonaction need not exclude spiritual practice—ethics and spirituality generally form an integral whole in the Daoist frame—rather, the point is that once realized, the transformative power of nonaction would ensure not only personal fulfillment but also sociopolitical order. This seems to weigh against a strictly mystical reading of the Laozi , if mysticism is understood to entail a kind of personal union with the Dao transcending all political interests. The concept of “virtue,” whether interpreted in terms of authenticity or the purity and fullness of qi -energy, depicts a pristine natural and sociopolitical order in which naturalness and nonaction are the norm. The ethics of wuwei rests on this insight.

To elaborate, wuwei as an ethical-spiritual ideal entails that the man of Dao, the sage, would be free from the disquieting movement of desire. This would naturally find expression in a mode of being and action characterized by not doing certain things (e.g., binge drinking) or doing less of certain things (e.g., consumption of alcohol). This is different from the argument that wuwei prescribes not doing or doing less of certain things, if such prescription requires deliberate effort. As a guide to recovering or attaining that ideal, there may be room for the ruler to impose conditions that would lead to a diminishing of desire-driven action; but this is not quite ideal wuwei . Similarly, although it may be said that nonaction points to a state of mind in which one does everything that one does, it is on the understanding that in that ideal state certain actions simply would not occur as a matter of course, as the mind would not be aroused and move in their direction. For example, to argue that there is a qualitatively different wuwei way of stealing or gambling would not be meaningful in the world of the Laozi , because such action would not arise in the ideal realm of naturalness.

To elaborate further, consider the ideal ethical situation in the cosmological reading of the Laozi as represented by the Heshanggong commentary. The dispensation of qi gives rise to a pristine hierarchical order in which those who are blessed with a perfect qi endowment, the rare sages, would govern the majority. It can be assumed that the sages are naturally predisposed to quietude, whereas the common people are driven by desire in varying degree. Indeed, at one point, the Laozi seems to distinguish three different grades of human beings (ch. 41), which on this view would be the result of their unequal qi endowment. The role of the sage-ruler, then, would be to guide the people to abide by simplicity through personal charisma and example, and also by means of policies designed to cultivate an environment in which desire would not run rampant. In the absence of a true sage-ruler, the Laozi is saying, according to this interpretation, those in power should emulate the Daoist sage, cultivate their internal qi energies, and bring about peace and harmony through naturalness and nonaction.

An ontological reading can accommodate the theory that heaven and earth and the “ten thousand things” are all constituted by qi . The decisive difference is that on this account, human beings all share the same essential nature, as distinguished from their qi -constituted capacities. For example, some people may be better endowed and therefore could live to a ripe old age, while others with a poorer endowment may die prematurely; but this does not detract from the fundamental assertion that they share the same inherent de , which defines their nature.

Sages are not a different kind of being, god-like, with a radically different nature; rather, they are individuals who manage to realize their authentic de to the full. Unlike the cosmological interpretation which essentially traces “sagehood” to a special inborn sage-nature, the idea of an authentic ontological core assures the possibility of attaining sagehood. Being one with Dao does not describe any mystical union with a divine source or sacred power, but reflects a mode of being that accords with the assumed original nature marked by natural goodness and the absence of excessive desire. Because the world is in a state of decline, the Laozi therefore speaks of a “return” to Dao, to naturalness and nonaction.

Regardless of the position one takes, in this general interpretive framework a number of symbols which both delight and puzzle readers of the Laozi can be highlighted. Suggestive of its creativity and nurturance, Dao is likened to a mother (e.g., chs. 1, 25). This complements the paradigm of the feminine (e.g., chs. 6, 28), whose “virtue” is seen to yield fecundity and to find expression in yieldingness and non-contention. The infant (e.g., chs. 52, 55) serves as a fitting symbol on two counts. First, it brings out the relationship between Dao and world; second, the kind of innocence and wholesome spontaneity represented by the infant exemplifies the pristine fullness of de in the ideal Daoist world.

Natural symbols such as water (e.g., chs. 8, 78) further reinforce the sense of yielding and deep strength that characterizes nonaction. The low-lying and fertile valley (e.g., chs. 28, 39) accentuates both the creative fecundity of Dao and the gentle nurturance of its power. Carefully crafted and ornately decorated objects are treasured by the world, and as such can be used as a powerful symbol for it. In contrast, the utterly simple, unaffected, and seemingly valueless pu , a plain uncarved block of wood, brings into sharp relief the integrity of Daoist virtue and of the person who embodies it (e.g., chs. 28, 32). Finally, one may mention the notion of reversal (e.g., chs. 40, 65), which suggests not only the need to “return” to Dao, but also that the Daoist way of life would inevitably appear the very opposite of “normal” existence, and that it involves a complete revaluation of values.

In sum, any interpretation of the current Laozi as a whole must take into account (a) the “nothingness” of Dao and (b) the way in which wuwei and ziran provide a guide to the good life.

With respect to the latter, it is true that in many chapters the text seems to be addressing the ruler or the ruling elite, explaining to them the ideal government of the Daoist sage. This is not surprising given the Zhou context and given that the production of written documents and the access to them were generally the preserve of the ruling class in ancient China. However, this need not restrict interpretation to politics in the narrow sense of statecraft or political strategies. In the light of the emphasis on ziran and wuwei , there is sufficient evidence that the Laozi views politics in a larger ethical-spiritual context, in which the flourishing of sociopolitical order is rooted in self-cultivation.

In the final analysis, naturalness and nonaction are seen to reflect the function of the nameless and formless Dao. As such, Daoist ethical ideals are anchored in a non-empirical, idealized view of nature. Specifically, the ethics of the Laozi rests on the understanding that de is inherent in nature, or better, the Daoist world. It is on this basis that the concept of de is raised to a higher level than “virtues” in the sense of moral attainments. Perhaps for this reason, the Laozi did not resort to the language of “human nature” ( xing ) commonly employed in early Chinese philosophy.

The understanding of de , however, is dependent on that of Dao, which in turn hinges on the interpretation of wu as either original substance or nonbeing. Both readings are plausible and are within the semantic range of the Laozi . Whereas the former subscribes to the prevalent qi theory that underlies much of Chinese philosophy and on that basis provides an integrated view of the cosmos, self-cultivation and government, the latter focuses on the fundamental unity of being characterized by natural simplicity and quietude that ideally should define the ethical course for both the individual and society.

The Laozi should be recognized as a seminal work. It is profoundly insightful; but it is the task of the interpreter to work out the full implications of its often provocative insight. It seems reasonable to assume that while the Laozi has something new to offer, it nonetheless shares certain background ideas and assumptions with other early Chinese philosophical texts. As such, the cosmological interpretation should be given due consideration. However, in bringing into view the nothingness of Dao and the order of ziran , the Laozi invites reflection on the very core of being beyond any cosmological assumptions. While the production of meaning is context dependent, new horizons do emerge from great works of philosophy. The two lines of interpretation outlined here have different ethical implications regarding the nature of the ideal sage, but neither can be said to have transgressed the hermeneutic boundaries of the Daodejing . The suggestion that they both arise from the Laozi is not a matter of equivocation but an acknowledgement of its hermeneutical depth (for a good set of essays incorporating the latest scholarship on the Laozi , see Liu 2015).

The power of the Daodejing does not lie in a clearly laid out set of doctrines, but in its seminal insights. The concept of qi may be culture specific, and the prospects of realizing universal Daoist order may seem remote, but the recognition of the fundamental problem of desire should still give us pause. The ills of discrimination, exploitation and intellectual hubris, so deeply embedded in language and value systems, remain as serious today as they were in early China. The healing power of nonaction still strikes a chord and commands continuing reflection and engagement. Although in working out these insights differences will no doubt arise, they unite all interpreters of the Laozi and draw new generations of readers into the mystery of Dao and (its) virtue.

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How to cite this entry . Preview the PDF version of this entry at the Friends of the SEP Society . Look up topics and thinkers related to this entry at the Internet Philosophy Ontology Project (InPhO). Enhanced bibliography for this entry at PhilPapers , with links to its database.

• Dao Is Open This site focuses on the Laozi , including the Guodian find, and the Zhuangzi .
• Daoist Studies Website “The Daoist Studies website contains scholarly information about Daoism, including books on Daoism, conferences, scholars, a bibliography and general resources for learning about Daoism.” An excellent website; the bibliography section is helpful.
• Laozi, Daoist, and Chinese Links Extensive links.
• Selected Internet Resources on Daoism Part of the Society for the Study of Chinese Religions website.
• Links for Daoism Maintained by Joseph Adler at Kenyon College, the site contains useful links.
• The China WWW Virtual Library. Internet Guide for China Studies This is one of the most comprehensive websites on China Studies today; highly recommended.
• Chinese Daoist Association The official website of the Chinese Daoist Association.
• Terebess Asia Online (Tao) English Translations of the Laozi

Chinese Philosophy: Mohism | Confucius | Daoism | Daoism: religious | Mencius | Neo-Daoism | Zhuangzi

Acknowledgments

Transliteration of Chinese terms in this article follows the hanyu pinyin romanization system, except for a few proper names and quotations. Some of the material presented above first appeared in “The Daodejing and Its Tradition,” Daoism Handbook , edited by Livia Kohn [Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1999], pp. 1–29; permission by the publisher to rework them here is gratefully acknowledged.

Copyright © 2018 by Alan Chan < alanchan @ cuhk . edu . hk >

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The Man Behind The Way: Lao Tzu & Daoist Spirituality

Emptying oneself to experience the moment , the man behind the way: lao tzu & daoist spirituality, by stephen hills.

Little is truly known about the Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu, the guiding figure in Daoism ( also translated as Taoism ), which is still a popular spiritual practice. He is said to have been a record keeper in the court of the central Chinese Zhou Dynasty in the 6th century BCE, and an older contemporary of Confucius. This could be true, but he may also have been entirely mythical. It is certainly very unlikely that (as some legends say) he was conceived when his mother saw a falling star – was born an old man with very long earlobes – or lived 990 years.

Photo: Inner Journey Events, C.c. 2.o nc nd

                        Lao Tzu is said to have tired of life in the Zhou court as it grew increasingly morally corrupt and was saddened and disillusioned that men were unwilling to follow the path to natural goodness. At the age of 80 years old he set out for the western border of China, toward what is now Tibet. Although he was dressed as a farmer, the border official recognized him and asked him to write down his wisdom.

According to this legend, what Lao Tzu wrote became the sacred text called the Tao Te Ching (The Way and Its Power) . After writing it, Lao Tzu is said to have crossed the border and disappeared from history, perhaps to become a hermit. In reality, the Tao Te Ching  is likely the compilation of the works of many authors over time. But stories about Lao Tzu and the Tao Te Ching   passed down through different Chinese philosophical schools for over 2000 years.

Daoism is deeply intertwined with other branches of thought, particularly Confucianism and Buddhism. Confucius is often believed to be a student of Lao Tzu. Similarly, some believe that when Lao Tzu disappeared, he travelled to India and Nepal and either taught or became the Buddha. Confucian practices to this day not only respect Lao Tzu as a great philosopher but try to follow many of his teachings. Whatever the truth, Daoism and Confucianism have to be seen side-by-side as two distinct but deeply compatible responses to the social, political, and philosophical conditions of life two and a half millennia ago in China. Whereas Confucianism is greatly concerned with civic life, social relations, conduct, and human society, Daoism has a much more individualistic and mystical character, greatly influenced by nature.

Confucius Lao-tzu and Buddhist Arhat – Photo: Wikimedia Commons

A story about the three great Asian spiritual leaders, Lao Tzu, Confucius, and Buddha, is instructive. All were meant to have tasted vinegar. Confucius found it sour, much like he found the world full of degenerate people. Buddha found it bitter, much like he found the world to be full of suffering. But Lao Tzu found the world sweet. Lao Tzu’s philosophy tends to look at the apparent discord in the world and see an underlying harmony guided by something called the Dao or Tao  – a term which means “way,” “path,” or “principle.”

The Tao Te Ching  is somewhat like the Bible: it gives instructions (at times vague and generally open to multiple interpretations) on how to live a good life. It discusses the “Dao” of the world, which is also the path to virtue, happiness, and harmony. This “way” isn’t inherently confusing or difficult. Lao Tzu wrote, “the great Dao is very even, but people like to take by-ways.” In Lao Tzu’s view the problem with virtue isn’t that it is difficult or unnatural but simply that we resist the very simple path that might make us most content.

In order to follow the Dao, we need to go beyond simply reading and thinking about it. Instead we must learn wu wei  (“flowing” or “effortless action”), a sort of purposeful acceptance of the way of the Dao and live in harmony with it. This might seem lofty and bizarre, but most of Lao Tzu’s suggestions are actually very simple.

Photo: Nick Kenrick, C.c. 2.o

When we are still and patient we also need to be open. We need to be reminded to empty ourselves of frivolous thoughts so that we will observe what is really important. “The usefulness of a pot comes from its emptiness,” Lao Tzu said. “Empty yourself of everything, let your mind become still.” If we are too busy, too preoccupied with anxiety or ambition, we will miss a thousand moments of the human experience that are our natural inheritance. We need to be awake to the way light reflects off of ripples on a pond, the way other people look when they are laughing, the feeling of the wind playing with our hair. These experiences reconnect us to parts of ourselves.

Nature is particularly useful for finding ourselves. Lao Tzu liked to compare different parts of nature to different virtues. He said, “The best people are like water, which benefits all things and does not compete with them. It stays in lowly places that others reject. This is why it is so similar to the Way (Dao).” Each part of nature can remind us of a quality we admire and should cultivate ourselves — the strength of the mountains, the resilience of trees, the cheerfulness of flowers.

Of course, there are issues that must be addressed by action, and there are times for ambition. Yet Lao Tzu’s work is important for Daoists and non-Daoists alike, especially in a modern world distracted by technology and focused on what seem to be constant, sudden, and severe changes. His words serve as a reminder of the importance of stillness, openness, and discovering buried yet central parts of ourselves.

This article was originally published on February 7, 2015 by Spirituality Ireland.

Header Photo: Kevin Dooley, C.c. 2.o

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3 Lao-tzu: Absence of Action

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The lineage of nonexistent philosophers continues with Lao-tzu. Whereas Confucius answers “What should be done?” the sages writing under the pen name Lao-tzu answer “What should be omitted?” They focus on the hazards of intervention, anticipating themes from laissez-faire economics and anarchist critiques of the state. What is natural, in the sense of being uninterrupted, becomes valorized as normal. Negative thinking develops in methodological principles such as null hypothesis testing. Taoism develops a religious branch that elevates absences into objects of reverence. Shadows have one foot in the realm of being and another foot in nonbeing. These amphibians are frequent ambassadors.

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The Way of Lao-Tzu

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The texts of Taoism, specifically The Tao Te Ching of Lao-Tzu, are instructive here on the event of Learning as occurring in the Leap into the mystery of Being, which appears to us as the openness of an abyss, a primeval chaos. Becoming teachable, we have said, is to be re-posed in the repose, the dignified calm of letting-be. With Learning we Leap into the emptiness, and we become open to the circulation of Being, the movement of presencing.

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Duarte, E. (2012). The Way of Lao-Tzu. In: Duarte, E.M. (eds) Being and Learning. SensePublishers, Rotterdam. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-94-6091-948-0_4

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Did Lao-Tzu and Confucius Know Each Other?

The legend of two masters: from a new introduction to the tao te ching.

Legend has it that the two Masters met more than once, Lao-tzu being somewhat senior to Confucius. In a probably apocryphal chapter of the later The Book of Taoist Master Zhuang , their encounters are described with a mischievously mocking Taoist sense of humor.

Confucius had reached the age of fifty-one and still had not “heard the Tao.” Finally he went south to Pei and called on Lao-tzu.

“Ah,  here you are!” said Lao-tzu. “I’ve heard of you as  a worthy man from the north. Have you attained the Tao?”

“Not yet,” replied Confucius. “How have you sought it?”

“I sought it through rules and regulations. Five years went by and I could not attain it.”

“How else did you seek it?” asked Lao-tzu.

“I sought it in the Yin and the Yang. Twelve years went by and still I could not attain it.”

“Of course not!” replied Lao-tzu. “The Tao cannot be sought in this manner . . . The perfecti of olden times wandered freely in the wilds, they found nourishment in the fields of Simplicity, they took their stand in the garden of No-Giving. They abode in Non-Action, and found easy nourishment. Their wanderings brought them to the True Tao. This was their Wealth . . .”

Confucius called on Lao-tzu again and this time asked him about the Virtues of Benevolence and Righteousness.

Lao-tzu replied:

“When chaff from the winnowing fan blinds the eyes, then Heaven, Earth, and the Four Directions all appear to be out of place.The sting of a mosquito or of a horsefly can keep a man awake all night. Similarly, these so-called Virtues of yours do nothing but muddle the mind and cause confusion. Let the world cleave instead to Simplicity and the Uncarved Block. Let it move freely with the wind, and abide in Inner Power. Don’t go around huffing and puff- ing, beating a big drum as if to chase an errant child! The snow goose needs no daily bath to stay white. The crow needs no daily ink to stay black…”

When Confucius returned from this visit to Lao-tzu, he was silent for three days. His disciples questioned him, saying:

“When you met Lao-tzu, what advice did you give him?”

“Finally,” replied Confucius, “I have set eyes on a Dragon! A Dragon that coils to show off the extent of its body, that sprawls to display the patterns on its scales. A Dragon that rides on the Breath of the Clouds, and feeds on the purest Yin and Yan . My mouth simply fell open in amazement. How could I possibly offer such a Dragon advice?”

Sima Qian (ca. 145–86 BC), the Grand Historian, recorded a similar encounter, in his biographical sketch of Lao-tzu.

Lao-tzu was from Quren Village in the southern state of Chu. His name was Li Dan, and he was the Zhou Official Archivist. Confucius went to Zhou to ask him about the Rites. Lao-tzu said to him:

“You speak of men who have long decayed together with their bones. Nothing but their words has survived. When a Gentleman is in tune with the times, he rides a carriage; when he is out of tune, he makes his way disheveled as he is. I have heard that just as the best merchant keeps his stores hidden so that he appears to possess nothing, so the True Gentleman conceals his abundant Inner Power beneath an appearance of foolishness. Rid yourself of Pride and Desire, put aside your fancy manner and your lustful ways. They will bring you nothing but harm. That is all I have to say.”

After he had taken his leave of Lao-tzu, Confucius said to his disciples: “Birds fly; fishes swim; animals run. These things I know. Whatsoever runs can be trapped; whatsoever swims can be caught in a net; whatsoever flies can be brought down with an arrow. But a Dragon riding the clouds into the Heavens—that is quite beyond my comprehension! Today I have seen Lao-tzu. He is like a Dragon!”

Lao-tzu cultivated the Tao and the Inner Power. He advocated the hermit’s life, a life lived in obscurity. He lived in Zhou for a long time, but when he saw that the Zhou dynasty was in a state of de- cline, he departed. When he reached the Pass, the Keeper of the Pass Yin Xi said to him: “You sir are about to retire into seclusion, I beseech you to write a book for me!” So Lao-tzu wrote a book in two parts, treating of the Tao and the Power, in a little over five thousand words. And then he went on his way . . . No one was able to tell who he really was, no one knew where he went to in the end . . . He was  a recluse.

The two accounts differ in many ways, but they have in common the vision of Lao-tzu as that transcendent, most auspicious and most powerful creature, a Dragon. He is portrayed as someone with a truly remarkable charisma, someone whose mana made a deep and lasting impression, a Great Man, a genuine Immortal riding the clouds. Truly, in the words of the I Ching :

The Dragon Flies in Heaven.  Draco Vo l ans  in coelo. It profits To see a Great Man.

The Great Man is the Dragon. The Yang which has been slowly accumulating is suddenly transformed, it attains perfect freedom. The soaring flight is free, effortless, and unhampered. The Sage simply takes off, following the Tao as naturally and instinctively as if it were an Edict of Heaven.

______________________________

From TAO TE CHING by Lao Tzu, published by Viking, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Translation, introduction, and commentary copyright (c) 2018 by John Minford.

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John Minford

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