Lao-Tzu- Te-Tao Ching

by Robert G Henricks

  The other case is the Lao-tzu: two copies of the Lao-tzu were found at Ma-wang-tui. Before this, the three earliest editions of the Lao-tzu were those associated with the commentaries of Yen Tsun (fl. 53-24 B.C.), Wang Pi (A.D. 226-249), and Ho-shang Kung (traditionally dated to the reign of Emperor Wen of the Han [179-157 B.C.], but dated by many to the third or fourth century A.D.). But all present versions of these three editions are “received” texts, having been copied many times over the centuries and thus passed down to the present. Our copies of these “early” texts, therefore, undoubtedly do not represent the text as it was seen by the commentators whose names they bear. The need for a new translation of the Lao-tzu based on the Ma-wang-tui texts is thus very clear.

  II. THE MA-WANG-TUI MANUSCRIPTS OF THE LAO-TZU AND OTHER VERSIONS OF THE TEXT

  The two Lao-tzu manuscripts, which we simply call Text A (chid) and Text B (i), are not exactly the same, neither in content nor in style, sure evidence that even at this early date there was more than one version of the Lao-tzu in circulation. Differences in content will be noted in Part Two, “Text, Commentary, and Notes,” below chapter by chapter. In terms of differences in style, the characters in Text A are written in “small seal” (hsiao-chuan) form, an old style of writing that was to be abandoned in the Han; the characters in Text B, by way of contrast, are written in the more modern “clerical” (li) script. This is one indication that Text A was copied before Text B. Further evidence proving this point is the fact that Text A does not avoid the taboo on the personal name of the founding emperor of the Han, Liu Pang (r. 206-194 B.C.) while Text B does, changing all pang’s (“country” or “state”) in the text to kuo’s (also “country” or “state”). Text B, on the other hand, does not avoid using the taboo names of Emperors Hui (r. 194-187 B.C.) and Wen (r. 179-156 B.C.), Liu Ying, and Liu Heng, while later texts all change ying (“full”) to man (also “full”) and heng (“constant”) to ch’ang (also “constant”). This seems to show that Text A was copied sometime before the reign of Liu Pang, while Text B was copied during it.

  In comparing the Ma-wang-tui texts of the Lao-tzu to later editions, let us state clearly at the outset that the Ma-wang-tui texts do not differ in any radical way from later versions of the text. That is to say, there are no chapters in the Ma-wang-tui texts that are not found in later texts and vice versa, and there is nothing in the Ma-wang-tui texts that would lead us to understand the philosophy of the text in a radically new way. The differences tend to be more subtle. A different word is used here and there, or a word, phrase, or line is added in or left out, or the syntax of a phrase or line is not the same. One of the striking features of the Ma-wang-tui texts of Lao-tzu in fact is that they are much more “grammatical” than later editions, using many more grammatical particles than later editions, but for that very reason being grammatically much more precise.

  The word, phrase, and line variants in the Ma-wang-tui texts are pointed out below in Part Two chapter by chapter. Here in this introduction we want to note three other interesting ways in which the Ma-wang-tui texts are different from later ones, all having to do with overall form.

  The standard texts of Lao-tzu are divided into two parts, chapters 1 through 37, which are sometimes called the Tao (“the Way”), and chapters 38 through 81, sometimes called the Te (“Virtue”). The Ma-wang-tui texts do have the same two-part division, but in reverse order: the “Virtue” part preceding “the Way.” The two halves are labeled Te and Tao, and that is the only indication of a title for the book in the Ma-wang-tui texts. In the Ma-wang-tui texts (both A and B), the book begins with what most texts call chapter 38 and ends with 37.

  We still do not know why this was done. Some scholars feel the Ma-wang-tui texts reflect the original order of the Tao-te ching and show that Lao-tzu (or the author) was all along more interested in social-political matters than he was in metaphysics and psychology, since the “Virtue” (Te) section has many chapters related to good government while “the Way” (Tao) has important chapters on the nature of the Way.* Kao Heng and Ch’ih Hsi-chao, on the other hand, pointing out that the order of the chapters in the Ma-wang-tui manuscripts agrees with the order found in the “Explaining Lao-tzu” chapter of the pre-Han Legalist text Han-fei-tzu, hypothesize that there were two different versions of the Lao-tzu in circulation in the early second century B.C., one with “the Way” (Tao) followed by “Virtue” (Te) and one in the Ma-wang-tui form, the former used by the Taoists and the latter used in the Legalist tradition. But Yen Ling-feng feels that the Ma-wang-tui form of the text is simply the result of packaging. He suggests that the Ma-wang-tui texts or their predecessors were copied from texts written on strips of bamboo that were tied together in bundles, one for part I of the text and one for part II. But when the copyist was finished, he put the part I bundle into a box first with part II on top of it; the next copyist opening the box would naturally begin with the bundle of slips on top, which would be the part II bundle.

  Secondly, with one possible exception, there are no chapter divisions in the Ma-wang-tui texts, no chapter numbers or names; the text in each case essentially reads as one continuous whole (except for the division into the Te and Tao parts). The exception to this is an important one: in part II of Text A there are black dots between characters every so often (we might call them “periods”), many of these, but not all, occurring at the beginning of present chapters.

  This seems to indicate that at the time when the Ma-wang-tui texts were copied the chapter divisions in the Lao-tzu were not yet firmly determined. We must then ask when were the present eighty-one chapters determined? And why was the number set at eighty-one? And, if this number proves to be arbitrary, is it possible that present chapter divisions are not always made at the right places, that is, at places where there is a clear change in theme and/or style?

  I think the evidence shows that the present eighty-one chapters were determined around 50 B.C. and that the number eighty-one indeed bears no relation to the intent of the author or compiler. The number eighty-one is a “perfect” one in Yin/Yang speculations since nine is the fullness of Yang (Yang qualities are heat, energy, power, and life) and eighty-one is the product of two nines. And, in the present text, a number of chapter divisions exist where there should be none (see, for example, chapters 17-19 and chapters 67-69, each of which should be one continuous unit of text). By contrast, in a number of places two or more originally separate units of text now form a single chapter (chapter 29 is one such possibility).

  Finally, were the Ma-wang-tui texts of Lao-tzu to be divided into chapters where the present-day text is divided, the sequence of material in the texts would be much the same. But there are three exceptions: what to us is chapter 24 comes between chapters 21 and 22 in the Ma-wang-tui texts; what to us is chapter 40 comes between chapters 41 and 42; what in present texts of the Lao-tzu are chapters 80 and 81 are placed between chapters 66 and 67 in the Ma-wang-tui texts. In the first two cases the Ma-wang-tui order seems to make sense in terms of the flow of ideas; why chapters 80 and 81 are placed where they are in the Ma-wang-tui texts remains unclear.

  III. THE PHILOSOPHY OF LAO-TZU

  A. The Tao

  The starting point for understanding the philosophy of Lao-tzu is understanding what he means by the Tao, or the Way. The Way is Lao-tzu’s name for ultimate reality (though he continually points out that he does not know its true name, he simply “calls” it the Way [for example, chapter 25]). For Lao-tzu the Way is that reality, or that level of reality, that existed prior to and gave rise to all other things, the physical universe (Heaven and Earth), and all things in it, what the Chinese call the “ten thousand things” (wan-wu).* The Way in a sense is like a great womb: it is empty and devoid in itself of differentiation, one in essence; yet somehow it contains all things in seedlike or embryo form, and all things “emerge” from the Tao in creation as babies emerge from their mothers (chapters 6 and 21).

  But the Way does not simply give birth to all things
. Having done so, it continues in some way to be present in each individual thing as an energy or power, a power that is not static but constantly on the move, inwardly pushing each thing to develop and grow in a certain way, in a way that is in accord with its true nature. The Way in things is generally what Taoists mean by te, “virtue.” But note that Lao-tzu uses “virtue” in his text in two different ways. On occasion it means this life-energy in things (for example, at the start of chapter 55); but in other places (for example, chapter 38) it seems to mean virtue in the sense of morality, the sense in which it is used by the Confucians.

  That the Tao is a feminine reality and a maternal reality thus seems clear. It is not surprising, therefore, that Lao-tzu refers to the Tao as the “Mother” in no less than five places—in chapters 1, 20,25,52, and59.

  Key chapters in the text on the nature of the Tao are chapters1,6,14,16,21,25,34, and52. The selfless “mothering” of the Tao is best described in chapter 34 of the text, which reads somewhat differently in its standard and Ma-wang-tui forms. Wing-tsit Chan’s translation of the standard text reads:

  1 The Great Tao flows everywhere. It may go left or right.

  2 All things depend on it for life, and it does not turn away from them.

  3 It accomplishes its task, but does not claim credit for it.

  4 It clothes and feeds all things but does not claim to be master over them.

  5 Always without desires, it may be called The Small.

  6 All things come to it and it does not master them; it may be called The Great.

  7 Therefore (the sage) never strives himself for the great, and thereby the great is achieved.

  In the Ma-wang-tui version of this chapter, lines 3 and 4 are quite different, and that the phrase “always without desires” in line 5 is out of place seems clear, in that without it lines 4 and 6 are strictly parallel to lines 7 and 8 (thus, it is the very thing that makes the Tao small that makes it great). The Ma-wang-tui version reads:

  1 The Way floats and drifts;

  2 It can go left or right.

  3 It accomplishes its tasks and completes its affairs, and yet for this it is not given a name.*

  4 The ten thousand things entrust their lives to it, and yet it does not act as their master.

  5 Thus it is constantly without desires.

  6 It can be named with the things that are small.

  7 The ten thousand things entrust their lives to it, and yet it does not act as their master.

  8 It can be named with the things that are great

  9 Therefore the Sage’s ability to accomplish the great

  10 Comes from his not playing the role of the great.

  11 Therefore he is able to accomplish the great.

  There is an analogy that works well in helping us see exactly what kind of thing the Tao is and how it works. In that analogy the Tao resembles an untended and uncared-for (“uncultivated”) field, and the varieties of wildflowers that grow in such a field represent the ten thousand things. Were you to go to such a field in the winter, you would see only brown soil or white snow. The field appears to be one in essence, undifferentiated, and “empty” of all forms of life. Nonetheless, should you return to that field in May or June, you would discover that a marvelous transformation had occurred, the field now being filled with all kinds of wildflowers. There are, as it were, “ten thousand” different varieties of flowers, with each species (dandelion, nightshade, chickory, etc.) and each individual in each of the species being somehow unique in color and shape. And you now know that what had appeared to be devoid of life in the winter was in fact a very fecund womb, containing within itself in its oneness the seeds and roots of all different things.

  Moreover, the work of the field does not end with springtime creation. For the field continues throughout the summer to care for and nourish each of its “children,” supplying them with the water and nutriments that are vital for life. And in this nurturing work, the field cares for all of the flowers without discrimination, and it takes no credit for all that it does. The brown soil is always in the background and “unseen,” our eyes being dazzled by the colors and forms of the flowers. Finally, the field accomplishes all that it does “without taking any action” (wu-wei); that is to say, we never see the soil actively doing anything; all that happens seems to happen on its own “by nature.” One of the things said about the Tao in the Lao-tzu a number of times is that it “does nothing, and yet there is nothing left undone” (wu-wei erh wu-pu-wei). And the ideal ruler in the Lao-tzu is someone who rules in this way. As the Tao is to the ten thousand things the ruler is to his people. The ideal ruler works to make it possible that all of his people will grow to maturity in good health and will feel free to be who or what by nature they are, yet he claims no credit for all that he does. As is said of the ideal ruler at the end of chapter 17: “He completes his tasks and finishes his affairs, Yet the common people say, ‘these things all happened by nature.’ ”

  B. Returning to the Way

  One of the things that seems to follow from the analogy of the Tao and the field is that for any individual flower (a) to be what it can be—for a sunflower to realize its “sunflowerness,” its genetic makeup; and (b) to live out its natural lifespan (which varies with wildflowers from species to species), there is only one requirement that must be met—it must keep its roots firmly planted in the soil.

  But this is precisely what humans do not do. That is to say, Lao-tzu seems to assume that something happens to people as individuals (and to societies as a whole) as they grow up such that as adults they are “uprooted” and have lost touch with the Way. As a result, adults constantly lose sight of who they are by nature and are constantly striving to be someone or something they are not, and they do things that lead them to physical danger and harm. Consequently, if human beings are to be what they are, and what they can be, and live out their natural years free from harm, they must as adults return to the Way.

  But what exactly does it mean to “return to the Way”? And how does one make that return?

  These questions are not easy to answer, and here we can simply touch upon a few themes that seem relevant in the Lao-tzu. One thing to which Lao-tzu would have people return seems to be a simpler way of life, perhaps one lived with fewer possessions. Lao-tzu and the Taoists clearly recognize that possessions can easily end up “possessing” and that the more one has, the more one has to worry about. As he says in chapter 22, “When you have little, you’ll attain [much]; With much, you’ll be confused.” The ideal in Taoist terms is to chih-tsu—“know contentment,” or more literally “know when you have enough.” And clearly the Taoists feel people really need a lot less than they think they do in terms of possessions and accomplishments to live healthy, happy, fulfilled lives.

  Chapter 80 of the Lao-tzu could be understood as suggesting a social ideal in which the state would be composed of small farming communities, with very little, if any, central authority in the state, and in each village the people would be so content with their lives that even if they knew there were other villages nearby, they would have no desire to visit them. This chapter reads:

  1 Let the country be small and people few—

  2 Bring it about that there are weapons for “tens” and “hundreds,” yet let no one use them;

  3 Have the people regard death gravely and put migrating far from their minds.*

  4 Though they might have boats and carriages, no one will ride them;

  5 Though they might have armor and spears, no one will display them.

  6 Have the people return to knotting cords and using them.

  7 They will relish their food,

  8 Regard their clothing as beautiful,

  9 Delight in their customs,

  10 And feel safe and secure in their homes.

  11 Neighboring states might overlook one another,

  12 And the sounds of chickens and dogs might be overheard,

  13 Yet the people will arrive at old age and dea
th with no comings and goings between them.

  If this represents Lao-tzu’s social ideal, then it is an ideal he shared with the “Agriculturalists” or “Tillers” (nung-chia) of the age, as Angus Graham has aptly shown.

  A second way in which we can understand “return” in the philosophy of Lao-tzu is that he thought the Taoist must literally return to the Tao by achieving mystical union with the Tao—experiencing the oneness of all things in the Tao—and that some form of meditation would lead to this goal. The importance of meditation in early Taoism and the role it played in Taoist experience are points about which scholars disagree. Would Lao-tzu have insisted that the only way to return to the Tao is by means of meditation and mystical experience? Did he and other Taoists have definite techniques that they followed in meditation? Answers to these kinds of questions do not come easy. The most we can say is that if Lao-tzu and his like practiced and advocated certain types of meditation, for some reason he chose not to elaborate on these techniques in his book.

  Nonetheless, there certainly are places in the text that seem to allude to and possibly describe meditation and mystical insight, the key chapters and passages in this regard being lines 2-8 in chapter 56, lines 5-6 in chapter 1, and the beginning sections of chapters 10 and 16.