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Zhuangzi’s Ironic Detachment and Political Commitment

Bryan W. Van Norden

(version of 30 March 2015)

Max: What's going to happen is going to happen. Just make sure it doesn't happen to you.

Captain von Trapp: Max, don't you ever say that again.

Max: You know I have no political convictions. Can I help it if other people do?

Captain von Trapp: Oh yes, you can help it. You must help it.

-- The Sound of Music (1965) “No schools. No prescriptions. Dwell in

unity and lodge in what cannot be helped, and you’re almost there.” – Zhuangzi

Introduction

In a recent essay, Paul Gewirtz of Yale Law School describes one of the political issues

facing contemporary China:

China today places great value on making money and on self-interested material

success, long denied to the Chinese. But values in addition to individual

materialism are needed to hold a country together and make it a good country.

Where will these values continue to come from in China? The announced

ideology of China’s Communist Party no longer seems to be a source of moral

values for Chinese society. Indeed, it is no longer clear what that ideology really

is. China certainly has no equivalent to the United States’ faith in its Constitution

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as a continuing source of our country’s values, as almost a civic religion.

Moreover, China does not have a strong conventional religious tradition that can

be the source of values. Furthermore, the close family structures that were a

traditional forum for the generational transfer of values have been weakened as

Chinese society has become more mobile and, yes, more free. (Gewirtz 2014)

One way of phrasing this issue is that contemporary China lacks what Richard Rorty

referred to as a “final vocabulary”:

All human beings carry about a set of words which they employ to justify their

actions, their beliefs, and their lives. These are the words in which we formulate

praise of our friends and contempt for our enemies, our long-term projects, our

deepest self-doubts and our highest hopes. … I shall call these words a person’s

‘final vocabulary.’ It is ‘final’ in the sense that if doubt is cast upon the worth of

these words, their user has no noncircular argumentative recourse. Those words

are as far as he can go with language; beyond them there is only helpless passivity

or a resort to force. (Rorty 1989: 73)

As Rorty goes on to observe, a final vocabulary will include both “thin terms,” and “thick

terms,” where the latter “do most of the work” (Rorty 1989: 73). Thick terms are those

that have substantive content, such that the standards for their correct and incorrect use

are clear and largely agreed upon. Thick terms contrast with “thin terms,” which have

only vague content, and whose standards for correct and incorrect use are highly

disputed. For example, “good” and “bad” are paradigmatic thin terms. Although we

frequently use them, it is not obvious what we are saying about something that we label

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“good,” beyond making the most generic possible commendation of it. If we disagree

with someone over whether something is “good,” we either shrug our shoulders in

resignation (if the topic is something trivial, like “Well, I thought it was a good movie”),

or move to a thick vocabulary to give the disagreement more content (“How can you say

he’s a good employee when he’s so lazy?”). In contrast, “cowardly” and “dishonest” are

thick terms: labeling someone a coward is making a specific claim related to his actions

and motivations in the face of danger, and even if we disagree about the application of

the label we will at least know what specific characteristics of the individual and his

situation to appeal to in trying to settle our disagreement.1

Returning to Gewirtz’s point, the People’s Republic of China was once a nation in which

the “final vocabulary” included terms and phrases like “capitalist road,” “big landlord,”

“reactionary,” “counter-revolutionary,” “agrarian socialism,” and “avoiding Dogmatism

and Empiricism.” These were used as thick terms, whose specific content provided

potentially clear standards for correct usage. However, the situation is now different.

The government of the PRC endorses “Marxism-Leninism-Maozedong Thought” as its

official ideology. Faith in some version of this ideology is not completely dead.

However, the vast majority of intellectuals and government officials either pay mere lip-

service to it, or are reinterpreting it in a manner that reduces it to “thin terms.”

For example, China’s President Xi Jinping, in a speech delivered as part of the

celebration on the 120th anniversary of Mao’s birth (December 26, 2013), emphasized

that the “living soul” of Mao’s thought consisted of three elements: seeking truth from

facts, the mass line, and independence. However, as Gewirtz notes, President Xi

interprets each of these three phrases in a way that reduces them to platitudes:

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“Seeking truth from facts” is pragmatism and learning from experience. …

In Xi’s phrasing, “mass line” means “truly allowing the people to judge our work

(真正让人民来评判我们的工 作) and “subject[ing] power to the people’s

supervision” (自觉让人民监督权力). Of course the mass line concept does not

contain the slightest embrace of democratic elections. But at least at the level of

ideas, Xi has adapted the Maoist concept of the mass line to serve policies of

accountability to the people, transparency and responsiveness that have a more

democratic flavor. About “independence,” Xi says that China should “maintain

national pride and national self-confidence, unswervingly walk a path of its own,”

and adhere to an “independent foreign policy of peace.” (Gewirtz 2014)

In Rorty’s terms, President Xi has taken three thick phrases from the original

“Maozedong Thought” and transformed them into thin terms. What nation would dispute

platitudes about learning from experience, being responsive (in some suitably vague

sense) to the people, and being independent? But thin terms alone are inadequate to

constitute a “final vocabulary.”

Why should we regard it as problematic that contemporary China seems to lack a “final

vocabulary”? There are at least three issues. (1) First, as thinkers in the hermeneutic

tradition have stressed, human beings are creatures who can only make choices against

the “horizon of significance” that a final vocabulary supplies.2 Durkheim (2006) used the

term “anomie” to describe the feeling of alienation that results when the individual lacks

a horizon of significance and feels at sea in an amoral society. Anomie (which we might

also describe as “alientation”) is, at the very least, unpleasant. In addition, there is some

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reason to think that it is one of the causes of the second problem. (2) When individuals

have no final vocabulary in which to articulate deep values, they are easily prone to

certain kinds of wrongdoing. Specifically, whether one has any deep values or not, one

can see the force of satisfying immediate and superficial desires, such as desires for food,

sex, wealth, prestige, and power. There is nothing intrinsically wrong with any of these

desires. However, if pursued without regard for other values they can easily lead to

corruption and cruelty. (See the discussion of Mengzi in the final section of the essay for

a philosophical psychology that supports this claim.) (3) A third problem is that, in the

absence of a final vocabulary, it is far too easy for those who wield power to do so in an

arbitrary or self-serving manner. I take this to be part of the point that Milan Kundera is

making when he writes that “The struggle of man against power is the struggle of

memory against forgetting” (Kundera 1996: 4). Insofar as we, as a community,

remember our shared final vocabulary, we can deploy that vocabulary to resist arbitrary

exercises of governmental (or other) authority. For all three of these reasons, post-Mao

China needs a new final vocabulary.

Now, each of the three claims I have just made is controversial. However, I am not going

to argue for any of them here. In the remainder of this essay I hope to do the following:

(1) survey two candidates for China’s final vocabulary, Confucianism and Legalism; (2)

discuss some of the attractive aspects of the Inner Chapters of the Zhuangzi as a source

for a final vocabulary; (3) explore why the Inner Chapters of the Zhuangzi seems to

advocate an “ironic” approach to value in Rorty’s sense; and (4) discuss the political

implications of irony. My ultimate conclusion will be that an ironic stance undermines

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the commitment to ethical and political values. This presents a challenge to those who

have found in Zhuangzi an approach to value that is compassionate or heroic.

1. Candidates for a Final Vocabulary

One obvious possibility for a final vocabulary for the new China is to revive an old one:

Confucianism. Confucianism is similar to the other great world spiritual traditions

(including Buddhism, Christianity, Hinduism, Islam, and Judaism) in that it has shown an

amazing ability to continue to inspire humans over broad stretches of time and

geography. Admittedly, the identity of Confucianism and it precise relationship to

Chinese government, society, and culture is complex and historically variable.

Nonetheless, it seems undeniable that the Four Books and the Five Classics have been

regarded as canonical texts in several great civilizations, and have served as the basis for

vibrant intellectual traditions and have substantially informed political agency.

One of the attractive features of Confucianism is its emphasis upon the well being of the

people as the ultimate factor in evaluating a government’s success and legitimacy.3 In

addition, Confucianism regards it as a sign of a government’s failure that it finds it

necessary to rely heavily upon police authority or military power. One may even find in

Confucianism a defense of freedom of speech. In the Zuozhuan, Duke Xiang, Year 31,

we find the following exchange between Zichan, chief minister of the state of Zheng, and

his advisor Ranming:

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A man of Zheng rambled into a village school, and fell to discoursing about the

conduct of the government. [In consequence], Ranming proposed to Zichan to

destroy [all] the village schools; but [Zichan] said, "Why do so? If people retire

morning and evening, and pass their judgment on the conduct of the government,

as being good or bad, I will do what they approve of, and I will alter what they

condemn;—they are my teachers. On what ground should we destroy [those

schools]? I have heard that by loyal conduct and goodness enmity is diminished,

but I have not heard that it can be prevented by acts of violence. It may indeed be

hastily stayed for a while, but it continues like a stream that has been dammed up.

If you make a great opening in the dam, there will be great injury done,—beyond

our power to relieve. The best plan is to lead the water off by a small opening. [In

this case] our best plan is to hear what is said, and use it as a medicine." (modified

from Legge 1991: 565-66)

The preceding Zuozhuan passage concludes with a comment from Confucius praising

Zichan for the benevolence he showed in this situation.

Maoism was anti-Confucian.4 However, the official line on Confucianism has evolved.

For example, as part of its soft-power initiative, the Chinese government has funded

hundreds of “Confucius Institutes” around the world. Although the purpose of these

institutes is to encourage the study of Chinese language and culture in a broad sense (not

to teach Confucianism per se), the very fact that the government is willing to trade on the

name of Confucius is significant. In addition, President Xi recently visited the Temple of

Confucius in Qufu and met with scholars of Confucian thought. He remarked that

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Confucius was part of China’s “traditional culture that reaches far back in time and can

certainly create new glories for Chinese culture.” He added that studying Confucius was

part of “using the past to serve the present,” and that his teachings “can be made to play a

positive role in the conditions of the new era” (Buckley 2013a; see also Buckley 2013b).

It is not just the Chinese government that seems increasingly sympathetic to

Confucianism. There are clear signs that both the general Chinese public and many

contemporary intellectuals are taking Confucianism seriously again.5

Nonetheless, there are reasons for being skeptical. The criticisms of Confucianism raised

by the reformers of the May Fourth Movement were not targeting a straw man.

Traditionalism can easily become an excuse for maintaining existing systems of

oppression. It’s hard to think of many traditionalist feminists, for example.6

Furthermore, there continues to be a heated debate over whether the filial piety and, more

broadly, “differentiated caring” advocated by Confucianism are simply excuses for

nepotism.7 Finally, as a political philosophy, Confucianism has typically advocated rule

by Virtue in contrast with rule by law. However, one of the most distinctive features of

what we typically regard as flourishing contemporary societies is the rule of law.8

When we speak of the rule of law, it naturally suggests Legalism. At its most simplistic,

the principle of Legalism is that laws and administrative procedures should be clear and

public. In addition, punishments for violation and rewards for compliance should be

substantial, but the administration of the laws and procedures should be resolutely

impartial. A system that met these criteria would at least achieve procedural justice,

which is a substantial institutional good. However, my colleague Eirik Harris has

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convinced me that Han Fei’s version of Legalism is amoral (Harris 2012).9

Consequently, it might seem like a poor candidate for a final vocabulary to underwrite

moral discourse. At the very least, it is incomplete, because a system that achieved even

perfect procedural justice could nonetheless fail to achieve substantive justice. Not only

might a Legalist system violate basic human rights, it might not even be stable in the long

run, if it were inconsistent with the higher order human needs for self-determination and

self-expression that frequently become pressing when basic needs for physical necessities

and security are met.

So if we do not pursue Confucianism or Legalism, what are our options?10 On my first

visit to mainland China, I had the privilege of having brief conversations with some of

the intellectuals who were critics of the government. I was surprised that more than once

Zhuangzi came up as a potential source of inspiration for democratic political theory.

However, I gradually came to appreciate better what it was that they saw in Zhuangzi.

2. Zhuangzi as the Source of a Final Vocabulary

Arguably, Zhuangzi advocates a pluralistic acceptance of others that encompasses

lifestyle, social class, gender, and physical deformity.11 The Inner Chapters of the

Zhuangzi are framed by metaphors for joyful acceptance of the differences of others. The

text opens with the story of the huge Peng bird, whose back is thousands of li across, and

who “beats the whirlwind and rises ninety thousand li, setting off on the sixth-month

gale” (Watson 1964: 23). Given his immense size, this sort of flying is necessary for the

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Peng, because “[i]f wind is not piled up deep enough, it won’t have the strength to bear

up great wings” (Watson 1964: 24). However, the cicada, dove, and quail criticize him.

In the words of the quail: “Where does he think he’s going? I give a great leap and fly

up, but I never get more than ten or twelve yards before I come down fluttering among

the weeds and brambles. And that’s the best kind of flying anyway! Where does he

think he’s going?” (Watson 1964: 25). Zhuangzi points out that the perspective of these

little creatures is narrow. Referring to the cicada and the dove, he writes, “What do these

two bugs [蟲] understand? Little understanding cannot come up to great

understanding…” (Watson 1964: 24). There is an irony in the fact that the text seems to

condemn someone for condemning others. (Don’t you just hate people who hate others?)

But leaving that problem aside, the opening of the Zhuangzi could be read as a parable

about the dangers of judging others without a complete understanding of their individual

needs, situation, and perspective.12

The very last passage in the Inner Chapters could similarly be interpreted as a metaphor

for the dangers of enforced conformity. It tells the story of how the emperor of the North

Sea and the emperor of the South Sea decided to repay the kindness of their friend Hun-

tun, who had hosted them on several occasion:

“All men,” they said, “have seven openings so they can see, hear, eat, and breathe.

But Hun-tun alone doesn’t have any. Let’s trying boring him some.” Every day

they bored another hole, and on the seventh day Hun-tun died. (Watson 1964:

95)

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This charmingly morbid anecdote is a warning against imposing on others the standards

that are appropriate to oneself. I doubt that Zhuangzi intended either this (or the story of

the Peng bird) as political parables. However, each could be appropriated as such without

doing violence to it. The ignorance of the cicada, dove, and quail showed in negatively

judging the Peng illustrates why it is important for us to be open-minded in our

evaluations of our fellow citizens. Just as it was wrong of the emperors of the North and

South Seas to try to force Hun-tun to be like them (even though their intentions were

generous), so is it wrong (we might argue) to coerce others to live according to our own

lifestyles in matters of gender roles, sexual preference, religious practices, taste in art,

music, popular entertainment, and so on.13

The stories I have tried to derive political morals from are fantastic, so it is easy to think I

am finding too much in them. However, Zhuangzi does have specific comments that

seem directly relevant to issues of social class, gender, and physical disabilities.

Consider what is perhaps the most famous story in the Zhuangzi, that of a butcher who

carves up an ox with such skill that it amazes his ruler. The cook explains, “What I care

about is the Way, which goes beyond skill. …I go along with the natural makeup…and

follow things as they are.” (Watson 1964: 46-47) This is generally taken to be a

metaphor for, or even an example of, the manner in which the Daoist sage responds

spontaneously and appropriately to the “natural makeup” (tiān lǐ 天理) of the world.

Less often noticed, though, are the political implications of the story. In order to fully

appreciate them, we have to consider this work in its larger context.

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Zhuangzi is a younger contemporary of Mengzi, the “Second Sage” of Confucianism,

whose interpretation of their tradition Neo-Confucians came to regard as orthodox.14

One of the most famous stories in the Mengzi is about how King Xuan of Qi spared an ox

being led to slaughter because he “could not bear its frightened appearance, like an

innocent [person] going to the execution ground” (1A7).15 Mengzi points out to the king

that some people thought he spared this ox simply because he was being stingy, since he

had a sheep slaughtered in place of the ox. However, Mengzi assured the king that the

king’s motivation was genuinely benevolent: “Gentlemen cannot bear to see animals die

if they have seen them living. If they hear their cries of suffering, they cannot bear to eat

their flesh.” Then, quoting with approval what appears to be an adage, Mengzi

concludes, “Hence, gentlemen keep their distance from the kitchen.”

Returning to the story from Zhuangzi, we note that the ruler whom the butcher impressed

is King Hui of Wei, a ruler whom Mengzi visited and tried, unsuccessfully, to persuade to

adopt the Confucian Way.16 King Hui is obviously not “keep[ing] his distance from the

kitchen.” Furthermore, whereas Mengzi sees a ruler’s Virtue manifested in his dainty

unwillingness to sully his hands with kitchen work, Zhuangzi suggests that an ordinary

butcher, covered in blood and gore, manifests the Way to a greater extent than any so-

called gentleman.17 In other parts of the Zhuangzi, particularly Chapter 19, we see other

examples of common laborers who teach “gentleman” the true meaning of the Way,

including a craftsman who carves bell-stands, the pilot of a ferryboat, and a hunchback

who catches cicadas with a sticky pole.

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Not only are social class and occupation not impediments to wisdom, but neither

(apparently) are physical deformity or gender. In Chapter 5, we see several examples of

individuals whose limbs were amputated as punishment for crimes, or who were born

with deformities, including “Mr. Lame-Hunchback-No-Lips” (Watson 1964: 71). In each

case, we learn of their amazing Virtue. Significantly, this chapter features one of the

most negative portrayals of Confucius in the Inner Chapters. Confucius treats “Shusan

No-Toes” with condescension, but Shushan is later revealed to be a sage who chats with

Laozi about the limitations of Confucius (Watson 1964: 67-68).18

The Confucian tradition is rich with stories of virtuous women. However, their virtue is

typically of a very conventional kind. Even when they challenge men – as does Jing

Jiang of Lu and Mengzi’s mother – they do so in the name of reminding the men in their

lives to live up to traditional values.19 In contrast, in Chapter 6 of the Zhuangzi, “Woman

Crookback” is represented as a sage in her own right, who has “heard the Way.” (Watson

1964: 78). She refuses instruction to one man who asks for her guidance, and tells the

story of another man whom she proves unable to teach. Far from being a mere assistant

to the full realization of male Virtue, Woman Crookback represents the full expression of

sagehood by a woman in her own right. We thus find in Zhuangzi a refreshing

valorization of the lives of those who tend to be marginalized not just from a Confucian

perspective but from many other traditional viewpoints.

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3. Zhuangzi as Ironist

Whatever appeal the concepts I have abstracted from Zhuangzi might have, they present a

problem when we try to put them to the use I have suggested. We began by looking for a

final vocabulary. However, Zhuangzi seems determined to undermine any vocabulary

we come up with. I think this aspect of his approach is most evident when we read the

Inner Chapters as a whole. Zhuangzi sometimes advocates relativism, other times

skepticism, sometimes mysticism, and in a few places advocates what seems like a fairly

conventional morality. I have argued that this is part of his strategy to disabuse us of our

human tendency to become fixated on any one verbal formulation of the Way (Van

Norden 2011: 152-155).20 Zhuangzi’s penchant for undermining any and all vocabularies

is expressed concisely in one brief but incisive passage:

Suppose you and I have had an argument. If you have beaten me instead of my

beating you, then are you necessarily right and am I necessarily wrong? If I have

beaten you instead of your beating me, then am I necessarily right and are you

necessarily wrong? Is one of us right and the other wrong? Are both of us right

or are both of us wrong? If you and I don’t know the answer, then other people

are bound to be even more in the dark. (Watson 1964: 43)

In order to appreciate this passage, consider what it means for A to “beat” B in an

argument. It might mean that the audience of the argument (which could range from

King Xuan of Qi in the 4th century BCE to those who watched and listened to the

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Kennedy/Nixon Presidential debates in the 20th century CE) was convinced by A that A’s

position is correct, while B’s position is mistaken. Does this demonstrate that A is in fact

correct and B is in fact mistaken? We cannot believe this, because we all know of cases

in which we believe an audience is mistaken in being convinced. For example, if you

believe in evolutionary theory, you must acknowledge that there are audiences that are

convinced (mistakenly, in your view) by arguments for intelligent design. Or,

conversely, if you believe in intelligent design, you must acknowledge that there are

audiences that are convinced (mistakenly, in your view) by evolutionary theory. This

same problem will arise however we interpret the concept of “A beating B” in an

argument. Another way of framing Zhuangzi’s point is the following. All we really

know is whether people are convinced by certain considerations. However, there is no

non-question-begging way to establish that those considerations will arrive at the truth.

(Ironically, Zhuangzi’s skeptical argument here undermines even itself: all we know is

whether we are convinced by his argument, but it is question-begging to assume that for

that reason its conclusion is warranted.)21

In his commitment to undermining all vocabularies, Zhuangzi might seem similar to what

Richard Rorty describes as an “ironist.” Rorty states that he uses the term “ironist” to

describe someone who meets three criteria:

(1) She has radical and continuing doubts about the final vocabulary she currently

uses, because she has been impressed by other vocabularies, vocabularies taken as

final by people or books she has encountered;22 (2) she realizes that argument phrased

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in her present vocabulary can neither underwrite nor dissolve these doubts;23 (3)

insofar as she philosophizes about her situation, she does not think that her

vocabulary is closer to reality than others, that it is in touch with a power not

herself.24 (Rorty 1989: 73)

Rorty adds that ironists are “never quite able to take themselves seriously because always

aware that the terms in which they describe themselves are subject to change, always

aware of the contingency and fragility of their final vocabularies, and thus of their

selves”25 (Rorty 1989: 73-74).

4. The Political Consequences of Irony

What is the relationship between irony and political values, for example the commitment

to solidarity with the suffering and persecution of others? Móu Zōngsān 牟宗三 is an

example of a philosopher who would have found Rorty’s irony dangerously nihilistic.

Mou acknowledged that it is possible to formally separate politics from morality.

However, he stressed that such a separation could only be a matter of “linguistic

convenience,” because politics ultimately needs a moral basis:

Democratic politics doesn’t drop from the sky; getting rights is not eating a free

meal that just shows up at your door all prepared. These are obtained by people

struggling and bleeding for their ideals, for justice. It is obvious that freedom

must connect to moral reasoning and self-awareness; there is nothing abstract or

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abstruse here, nor is there any metaphysical theory likely to incite controversy.

This is a definite fact of practice. Rights are just the result of objectification [of

these moral values]. (Tiwald and Van Norden 2014: 391)

Mou was aware of the concern “that talk of connecting [freedom] with moral reason and

self-awareness becomes pan-moralism, which is an aid to totalitarianism” (Tiwald and

Van Norden 2014: 391). However, he argued that what prevents the slide into a

dangerous pan-moralism is the recognition that sagehood is not something that one can

force others to achieve. It is something that requires freely willed, individual effort.

Furthermore, the genuinely virtuous person lives by the Confucian credo that “one should

regulate oneself strictly but be tolerant of others” (Tiwald and Van Norden 2014: 394).

For these reasons, Mou argues, no one could consistently follow Confucianism and seek

to terrorize others into virtue.

However, one of the major points that Rorty argues for in works such as Contingency,

Irony, and Solidarity is that there is no inconsistency between being an ironist and being

firmly committed to liberal values, most importantly the value of solidarity with other

humans who suffer deprivation, injustice, humiliation, and cruelty. I think Zhuangzi

actually has something to say on this issue of the relationship between “irony,” to use

Rorty’s term, and political engagement. Consider the approach to political engagement

advocated by some characters in the Zhuangzi. A fictional dialogue between “Confucius”

and his most promising disciple, “Yan Hui,” is very representative, but a bit of

background is necessary to head off some possible misconceptions. “Confucius” appears

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in the Zhuangzi as a fictional character, not as an historical figure. (I will put his name in

quotation marks to distinguish this fictional creation of Zhuangzi’s imagination from the

historical Confucius.) Sometimes in the Zhuangzi, “Confucius” is a representative of

narrow, conventional thinking, as in the passage (cited above) in which he treats with

contempt a man who had his feet amputated. More often, “Confucius” represents a stage

of insight higher than that of ordinary humans, yet lower than that of the highest sage.

Chapter 6 includes the story of two sages who respond to their friend’s death with

seemingly irreverent singing. Confucius’s disciple “Zigong” is outraged by their

behavior and reports it to “Confucius.” However, “Confucius” replies,

Such men as they wander beyond the realm; men like me wander within it.

Beyond and within can never meet. It was stupid of me to send you to offer

condolences. Even now they have joined with the Creator as men to wander in

the single breath of heaven and earth. They look upon life as a swelling tumor, a

protruding wen, and upon death as the draining of a sore or the bursting of a boil.

(Watson 1964: 83)

Confucius goes on to admit that he can never achieve what these men have achieved: “I

am one of those men punished by Heaven.” “Confucius” is “punished” in the sense that

Heaven has “tattooed [him] with benevolence and righteousness and cut off [his] nose

with right and wrong” (Watson 1964: 85). In other words, Confucius has a sense of right

and wrong, appropriate and inappropriate, which he cannot escape.26

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However, in a few passages, “Confucius” represents the highest level of understanding

(or at least the highest level that Zhuangzi thinks can be expressed in words). The

dialogue between “Confucius” and “Yan Hui” in Chapter 4 is an example of this last type

of appropriation. In the dialogue, “Yan Hui” explains to “Confucius” that he is going to

the state of Wei (衞) because “…the lord of Wei is young and willful. He trifles with his

state and does not acknowledge his mistakes. He is so careless with people’s lives that

the dead fill the state like falling leaves in a swamp” (Ivanhoe Van Norden 2005: 226).

Yan Hui hopes to meet the ruler of Wei and “restore his state to health.” Confucius

replies bluntly:

Sheesh! You’re just going to get yourself hurt! … If you insist on parading

standards of benevolence and righteousness before this bully, you will just make

him look bad in comparison to you. That’s antagonism, and one who antagonizes

others is sure to be antagonized in return. … Trying to reform this kind of person

is like piling fire on fire or water on water. … You will surely die at this bully’s

hands. (Ivanhoe and Van Norden 2005: 227)

What follows is a subtle and fascinating discussion of philosophical psychology.27

However, for our purposes, what is most interesting is the final practical advice given by

“Confucius”:

You can go wander in his cage without being moved by his fame. If you’re

getting through, sing. If not, stop. No schools. No prescriptions. Dwell in unity

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and lodge in what cannot be helped, and you’re almost there. (Ivanhoe and Van

Norden 2005: 229)

It is not, I think, uncharitable to read this as a recipe for political passivity. And if we are

unsure about the import of this particular advice, there are plenty of other passages that

suggest a similar apathy toward politics. In Chapter 1, Huizi compares Zhuangzi’s

philosophy to a huge tree whose “trunk is so gnarled it won’t take a chalk line and

[whose] branches are so twisted they won’t fit a compass or square.” Huizi concludes,

“Your talk is similarly big and useless.” Zhuangzi retorts, “Haven’t you seen a weasel?

It bends down then rises up. It springs east and west, not worrying about heights or

depths – and lands in a snare or dies in a net. … You have a big tree and are upset that

you can’t use it. … It won’t fall to any axe’s chop and nothing will harm it. Since it isn’t

any use, what bad can happen to it?” (Ivanhoe and Van Norden 2005: 213). This story

takes on special poignancy when we remind ourselves that Huizi was prime minister to

the ruler of the state of Wei (魏). When Wei was invaded by the state of Qin, Huizi had

to run away (like a weasel, perhaps?).28 Consequently, while Zhuangzi never encourages

anyone in a position of political authority to leave office, he does discourage us from

getting ourselves into political contexts in the first place.

Who from our own history would be a paradigmatic “weasel” in Zhuangzi’s sense?

Surely Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Mohandas Gandhi were weasels.

They were “useful” – worse yet, they were essential – to major political movements.

They “antagonized” people who did not want to hear their messages, and as a result they

21

were killed. Perhaps it is unfair to focus on the tragic deaths of three of the most revered

figures of the modern era. However, I would argue that these three are indicative of a

deeper issue. None of them were ironists; each of them was motivated by what Rorty

would derisively refer to as a “metaphysics.”29 Indeed, I cannot myself think of anyone

who played a significant role in any major progressive social movement who was an

ironist. The “metaphysics” that motivate people to pursue political causes are varied, and

it may be that we will discover in the future that, as Rorty suggests, anything like a

“metaphysics” is dispensable in mass politics. However, induction based on our previous

experiences suggest that this is false. In fact, I think that one of Zhuangzi’s deep insights

is that (contrary to Rorty) there is a deep connection between taking an “ironic” stance

toward human values and avoiding, as much as possible, active political engagement. It

is not a coincidence that Zhuangzi’s advice seems to be to avoid political engagement if

possible, and to avoid confrontation with authorities and the status quo when political

engagement is unavoidable.30

Still, one might note that, while heroes of progressive political movements have had a

firm commitment to their convictions that was buttressed by some underlying

“metaphysics” of the self, morality, and the universe, so have the villains of tyrannical

political movements. Some, perhaps all, of the worst reigns of terror in history have been

framed in terms of a “metaphysics” in a broad sense, including those of Stalin, Hitler, and

– well, a certain 20th century Chinese leader. A Zhuangzian ironist might argue that we

wouldn’t need people to lead heroic fights against oppression if there weren’t people who

were motivated to oppress others because of their intense conviction in their own final

22

vocabulary cum metaphysics. A society of people “flitting and fluttering around, happy

with [themselves] and doing as [they] pleased” like butterflies (Watson 1964: 45), or

“com[ing] out and dart[ing] around where they please,” like the minnows of the Hao

River (Watson 1964: 110), doesn’t sound so awful in comparison with much of 20th

century world history.

The question, though, is what humans would actually be like if we convinced them that

their final vocabularies are ultimately ungrounded. This would be tantamount to

convincing people that, for example, their preference for freedom of speech (as opposed

to censorship) is ultimately no different from a preference for cheeseburgers (as opposed

to beef lao mian). There are at least four possible hypotheses about the consequences of

thoroughgoing Rortian irony. (1) The stereotypical American intellectual with a

smattering of philosophy seems to think that ironists would be more flexible and less

insistent about values that lead to conflict (particularly nationalistic and xenophobic

values), but continue to hold firmly values like compassion and tolerance. This is

transparently implausible: if all of our values are ungrounded, we should take the same

attitude toward all of them. If irony weakens our commitment to values that make us

judgmental and intolerant, then as a simple matter of logical consistency it must also

weaken our commitment to values that support compassion, tolerance, and courage. (2)

Rorty thinks that those converted to irony would hold the same ethical values and with

the same level of commitment that they do now. All that would be lost by the conversion

to irony would be an irrelevant metaphysical superstructure. (3) In contrast, Zhuangzi

suggested that those who came to see their own expressions of value as like “the peeps of

23

baby birds” (Watson 1964: 34) would often act like other people, but would take all their

values less seriously, including the value they attach to the satisfaction of their own

physical desires. They would smile at the petty, irresolvable debates between Confucians

and Mohists (or between Republicans and Democrats, or between fascists and

humanitarians), and would also be able to look with equanimity even upon their own

bodily decay and death.

(4) Mengzi would agree with Zhuangzi that irony will weaken our commitment to ethical

values. But Zhuangzi’s sages have transcended not just their attachments to right and

wrong, but also their more basic physical and acquisitive desires. Mengzi argues (Mengzi

6A15) that humans will always have desires for things like food, sex, and wealth; our

physical desires are innate and automatically triggered by their objects. In contrast, our

ethical motivations, while equally innate, require “reflection” in order to fully develop.

There is nothing wrong with our physical desires, but without the proper ethical reflection

we will pursue them regardless of whether we harm others or violate our own integrity in

doing so. “Reflection” involves having at least a minimal conception of how our ethical

motivations fit into our nature, human society, and the universe as a whole. In other

words, reflection requires a metaphysics. Consequently, if we become ironic about our

ethical values, it will weaken them, but do nothing to lessen our material desires. We

would then pursue the latter in an unrestrained manner. And this is precisely the point at

which those motivations go from being non-moral to being immoral. It is when we take

seriously our desires for sex, food, wealth, and prestige, but are ironic about our

commitments to benevolence and compassion, that we are cruel, abusive, and

24

manipulative of others, and “come close to being animals” (Mengzi 3A4.8). Based on

what I have seen of the human species, I side with Mengzi’s dour assessment of the

consequences of ethical irony.

Conclusion

We began with the suggestion by Paul Gewirtz that “values in addition to individual

materialism are needed to hold a country together and make it a good country,” and that

China currently lacks a shared framework of such values. I noted that a Rortian might

describe this by saying that China lacks a “final vocabulary” of “thick terms” with which

to resolve ethical disagreements. I briefly examined the strengths and weaknesses of

Confucianism and Legalism as potential sources of such a final vocabulary, but most of

this essay focused on Zhuangzian Daoism. Zhuangzi provides many stories and

metaphors that can inspire advocates of political pluralism. However, I suggested that

Zhuangzi is ultimately an “ironist” in Rorty’s sense. Undergraduates usually walk into

their first philosophy class assuming that there is something progressive and liberating

about broadly ironic stances like relativism and skepticism. Ethically, though, irony is

“the night in which all cows are black”: since it regards all positions as equally

undermined, an ironic stance cannot be enlisted in support of tolerance or

humanitarianism or in opposition to absolutism or cruelty.

Although this essay as focused on the political implications of Zhuangzi’s views, there is

a broader ethical lesson here. Kierkegaard states that “we find in irony that absolute

25

principle of negativity,” and warns that it “is directed quite as often against everything

else excellent in [the ironist] and of sterling worth” (Kierkegaard 1992: 476n64). Pontius

Pilate expressed irony very concisely when he quipped, “What is truth?” before

sentencing an innocent man to death in order to appease an angry mob (John 18:38). I

wonder how different Pilate is from those graduates of our best colleges and universities

whose hot-tub relativism provides a convenient excuse to rationalize whatever choices

they make.31

While there is something awe-inspiring about the equanimity of the Zhuangzian sage, I

personally admire Confucius more when he sobbed inconsolably over the death of Yan

Hui (Analects 11:10), or when he risked starvation (15:2) and being murdered (9:5) in an

effort to convince rulers that benevolence rather than violence was the solution to China’s

problems. A life of un-ironic commitment is a vulnerable one, but also one that is filled

with great meaning and value.

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30

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I would like to express my gratitude to the Center for East Asian and Comparative

Philosophy and the City University of Hong Kong for hosting the conference at which an

earlier version of this essay was discussed. I am particularly grateful to the Conference

1 I use the vocabulary of “thick” and “thin” terms here because I am explicating Rorty,

but I have also appealed to it in my own earlier work. However, A.P. Martinich argued

in conversation that this distinction betrays a confusion between the meanings of terms

and their criteria of application. The meanings of terms are shared by all competent

language users, are determined by the entailment relations of the sentences in which the

terms occur, and are relatively fixed. Nonetheless, speakers may disagree about the

appropriate criteria for correctly applying terms. On Martinich’s analysis, competent

speakers agree about the meanings of “good” and “bad” as much as they do about

“courageous” and “cowardly.” However, there is, perhaps, more disagreement about the

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criteria for correct application of “good” and “bad” than there is for “courageous” and

“cowardly.” See also Martinich 2014.

2 See, for example, Gadamer 2013, MacIntyre 2007, and Taylor 1985.

3 For a nuanced discussion, see Tiwald 2008.

4 However, the situation is more complicated than one would think if one considered only

the ideology and events of the Cultural Revolution. Liu Shaoqi offered a brilliant

synthesis of Confucianism and Marxism. See the selections from his On the Ethical

Cultivation of Communist Party Members, in Tiwald and Van Norden 2014: 370-373, as

well as the discussion in Nivison 1956.

5 The public interest in Confucianism is reflected in the fact that Professor Yu Dan’s

Insights into the Analects became a surprise best seller with over 10 million copies in

print (Yu 2009). While Professor Yu’s interpretation is resolutely apolitical, Joseph

Chan (2014) has been seminal in arguing for the political relevance of Confucianism.

Another important recent contribution to this discussion is Kim 2014. For a helpful

overview of major figures and issues, see Angle, 2012.

6 However, see Li Zhi, “A Letter in Response to the Claim that Women Cannot

Understand the Way Because They Are Shortsighted,” in Tiwald and Van Norden 2014:

300-304.

7 For a discussion of some of the issues, see Liu 2007, Guo 2007, Van Norden 2008b, and

Li 2012.

8 On the other hand, Huang Zongxi famously argued that the rule of law was a necessary

condition for virtuous Confucian rule. See his “On Law,” in Tiwald and Van Norden

2014: 315-318.

32

9 A.P. Martinich (2014) has argued that Hanfeizi’s philosophy is not amoral, but simply

regards political considerations as trumping moral ones.

10 One possibility would be an eclectic approach that synthesizes aspects of various

systems. (I consider this possibility of synthesizing Confucianism and Legalism in Van

Norden 2012.) However, we must keep in mind that the elements of a sophisticated

system of thought are typically related like the gears in a complex machine. To use an

analogy, we cannot pull the engine out of a steam train and simply graft it onto the

fuselage of an airplane, hoping to maintain the best of each system.

11 There are substantial debates over which parts of the received Zhuangzi are by the

same author, whether individual chapters show linguistic or thematic unity, and which

historical periods various strata might date from. I do not mean to slight the importance

of any of these issues. However, for the purposes of this essay, I shall permit myself the

luxury of bracketing these issues and treating the Inner Chapters of the received Zhuangzi

as if they represent the vision of a single genius, whom I shall refer to by the name

“Zhuangzi.” I will occasionally make reference to passages outside the Inner Chapters,

but I do not think that any of them are essential for substantiating my interpretation.

12 For an extended analysis of the opening of the Inner Chapters, see Van Norden 1996.

13 I had originally described these stories as suggesting “tolerance” of the differences of

others. However, Philip Ivanhoe reminded me in conversation that Zhuangzi’s view

seems to go beyond mere tolerance, to something more like a joyful acceptance of the

varieties of ways of life that can express the Way. In this sense, there are deep

similarities between Zhuangzi’s views and those of Western pluralists such as Isaiah

33

Berlin and Charles Taylor. At the same time, Zhuangzi’s view does not dissolve into

pure relativism. See Ivanhoe 2009, Wong 2005, Wong 2006.

14 More precisely, Neo-Confucians regarded their interpretation of Mengzi’s

interpretation of Confucius as orthodox. For an overview of the evolution of

Confucianism, see Ivanhoe 2000.

15 Mengzi 1A7. The translations here and below are from Van Norden 2008a.

16 In the Zhuangzi, he is identified as Lord Wenhui (文惠君), but this is the same person

as King Hui of Liang (魏惠王). (The state of Wei is also known as Liang after its capital

city.) On Mengzi’s interactions with this figure, see Mengzi 1A1-5.

17 As Eirik Harris reminded me in conversation, the story of King Xuan sparing the ox is

more nuanced and multifaceted than my loaded characterization of it here suggests.

However, on any reading of 1A7, Mengzi seems committed to the view that someone has

to butcher animals, but it cannot be anyone who aspires to sagehood. See also Graziani

2005.

18 See my comments later in this essay about Zhuangzi’s imaginative appropriation of

“Confucius” to serve as a fictional figure.

19 On the former, see Raphals 2002. On the latter (and some other conventionally

virtuous women), see the selections from Biographies of Women, in Wang 2003: 150-

161.

20 Of course, there are a variety of other plausible interpretations of the Zhuangzi,

including those of Coutinho 2004, Eno 1996, Huang 2010, Ivanhoe 2009, Raphals 1996,

Wong 2005, Wong 2006, Yearley 1983, and Yearley 1996 (to give just a few examples).

34

21 I think there is a way to respond to this argument, which relies upon accepting

something like C.S. Peirce’s definition of true beliefs as those that an ideal community of

inquirers will converge on in the limit of time (1878). However, this involves a much

more radical revision of our “common sense” conception of truth than might be obvious

at first.

22 “…we have the rights and wrongs of the Confucians and Mo-ists. What one calls right

the other calls wrong; what one calls wrong the other calls right” (Watson 1964: 34).

23 “If right were really right, it would differ so clearly from not right that there would be

no need for argument” (Watson 1964: 44).

24 “A road is made by people walking on it; things are so by being called so” (Watson

1964: 35).

25 Cf. “Confucius and you are both dreaming! And when I say you are dreaming, I am

dreaming, too” (Watson 1964: 43).

26 I  have  previously  referred  to  this  figure  of  “Confucius”  as  the  “wistful  Daoist,”  

because  he  appreciates  and  admires  the  sage  who  can  escape  ordinary  human  

evaluations,  but  realizes  that  he  can  never  achieve  it  himself  (Van  Norden  2011:    

157-­‐159).    It  is  important  to  recognize  that  the  “wistful  Daoist”  is  not  someone  who  

merely  shares  certain  general  concepts  or  commitments  with  Zhuangzi  (e.g.,  

nonaction  as  mentioned  in  Analects    15:5).    The  wistful  Daoist  is  someone  who  

regards  his  own  moral  commitments  as  optional,  from  an  objective  perspective,  but  

inescapable,  from  the  perspective  of  his  own  personal  history  and  character.    The  

wistful  Daoist  also  sees  something  to  admire  in  those  who  can  escape  conventional  

values,  even  though  he  cannot  do  so  himself.

35

27 And, as David S. Nivison pointed out long ago (1996: 128-130), Zhuangzi is critiquing

in this passage the philosophical psychology sketched in Mengzi 2A2. In 2A2, Mengzi

advises us to listen with our “hearts” for what we cannot find in doctrines, but

discourages us from looking to the qi for guidance. Because our hearts are our best

source of guidance, we must cultivate them gradually, like a wise farmer tending his

crops. In contrast, the “Confucius” of Zhuangzi’s dialogue advises “Yan Hui” to not

listen with his “ears” (i.e., do not listen to doctrines), and not listen with his heart, but

instead listen with his qi. In order to follow the promptings of the qi, one must first “fast”

(rather than cultivate) one’s heart.

28 Zhuangzi and Huizi were, to use a modern expression, “frenemies.” (See Zhuangzi,

chapter 24; Ziporyn 2009: 103-104.) Consequently, Zhuangzi’s weasel analogy may

have been a warning to Huizi, or perhaps a post-facto lament of the fate that befell him.

29 A “metaphysics” in Rorty’s sense need not be something like the ontological theories

of Aristotle or Plato. Broadly, any “meta-narrative” (in the sense used by Jean-Francois

Lyotard 1984) that transcends and justifies one’s final vocabulary counts as a

“metaphysics.” Such a meta-narrative might appeal to “self-evident truths,” “scientific

method,” “human nature,” or a particular interpretation of the progress of human history.

30 Although I would not want to ignore the deep dissimilarities between the Zhuangzi and

Montaigne’s Essays, it is intriguing that both works combine skepticism with a political

attitude that is fundamentally conservative: “…the wise man should withdraw his soul

within, out of the crowd, and keep it in freedom and power to judge things freely; but as

for externals, he should wholly follow the accepted fashions and forms” (Montaigne

1958: 86).

36

31 See Yearley 1991 for a thoughtful discussion of how casual relativism can become a

tool by which students insulate themselves from intellectual and political challenges.