Category: Ér

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#8 Ér néng 能 Shàn Shàng 上 yóu 尤 yuān 淵

traditional virtue—offering up a goat while back and forth speaking words that are like slaves or criminals, branded by a chisel, emerging from a mouth…

shàn (善)

Chapter 8 famously describes higher-level traditional virtue or good, as other Dào translators prefer to call it. Modern definitions of today’s featured character also include virtuous, charitable, and kind. Because of those nuances, and because its pictogram shows us a ritualized and verbal behavior, I prefer a subtly different translation of traditional virtue which I discussed when it first appeared in Chapter 2:

traditional virtue—offering up a goat while back and forth speaking words that are like slaves or criminals, branded by a chisel, emerging from a mouth…

Chapter 2’s introduction to this kind of virtue was in the context of public opinion: when public opinion says one particular thing is traditionally virtuous, then that lops off the opposite before it’s even born.

But here, Chapter 8 talks specifically about a higher level, shàng (上) form of this virtue. Shàng was the name of the dynasty preceding Lâozî’s time, and in Western Zhou script was drawn as one line above another:

This is the first time this character appears in the Dào. In its various contexts throughout the book, it does make sense when seen as a word that calls to mind the ruling class or a ruler, and since that’s also the historical context, I’ve included it in my translation:

higher, ruling level

~

Remember our hero’s mentor/friend/midwife, “someone?” And remember from the end of the last chapter that our hero’s now headed out into the world with a dual role that chops of the wings of Not-Being… unwholesomely personally concerned… meaning therefore… capable of completing personal concerns? Well now, out in that world, our someone’s making a helpful observation. Here’s my short version (you can read the whole thing here):

Higher, ruling level traditional virtue is like water flowing exactly in the center of the Han River, spraying up on both sides. Water-flowing-right-in-its-channel in terms of traditional virtue means benefiting all beings; and yet, now bearded, you’re not really competing (like when two hands are fighting over a ploughshare). In dwelling, that person’s place is disdained as ugly.

This is usually translated to mean the flowing water benefits all creatures while not-competing and dwelling in low places.

But this interpretation causes problems if I stick with my consistent translation of ér as and yet now, bearded, you... Why does this character even appear here if all it means is “while?” Why not just say “not really competing?” There could be many reasons, of course. It could be for poetic reasons like rhythm. Or it could be to emphasize that even exactly at the same time as being beneficial, the water is not really competing. It seems likely that every translator before me is correct since they understand the syntax and contextual implications of the language, and I don’t. Yet… in the course of seeking my own personal experience of these characters and my determination to use the same translation for each character everywhere it appears, I am curious to see what happens if I keep the definition of ér that I constructed carefully and objectively.

And so it sounds to me like someone is saying: “bearded, you are not really competing.” You aren’t really playing this game that the water does of benefiting all people; and that person’s place, in terms of dwelling, is disdained as ugly.

I will just continue my line of exploration to see what happens. (We already know what happens with the traditional interpretation.) The next line continues:

Anciently, this shows that

this here

is quite near

to The Way.

I take that to mean “you not competing in the traditional virtue game but living in this disdained place is quite near to The Way.”

And then what follows is a list of different parts of life and, presumably, what they mean in terms of traditional virtue. It’s remarkable how many ways we can interpret this list’s simple sequencing of words. Here’s the first entry:

abiding, dwelling where birthed…

traditional virtue…

Earth, this soil vagina

Most people translate this as “the virtuous form of living is close to the earth.” And they see this whole list as being the detailed version of the previous line, so in other words: “this virtuous form of living close to the earth is very near to The Way.”

But there are other possible interpretations. It could be saying that “your non-competing and disdained way of abiding has been very near to The Way, but traditional virtue calls it earth (this soil vagina).

Here’s an objective version of the whole list:

  • abiding in terms of traditional virtue = Earth (this soil vagina).
    • The character used here for abiding means “dwelling where birthed” and shows a person sitting or squatting over ten mouths. Does that mean dwelling where you birthed all those mouths or where you were birthed?
  • heart-core in terms of traditional virtue = the deep water
    • We saw this same character for deep water, yuān 淵, in Chapter 4 when we learned that The Way is pouring water from the center while doing useful work like a water bucket and not overflowing:
  • supporting in terms of traditional virtue = personable
    • Supporting is shown by offering to carry another on one’s shoulders
  • speaking in terms of traditional virtue = truth-telling
  • straight upright in terms of traditional virtue = governing by harnessing the river named Happy or speaking of turning oneself.
    • We learned about this, the sage’s way of governing, in Chapter 3.
  • one’s personal role in terms of traditional virtue = capable and powerful as that legendary bear with deer legs
    • The character for this kind of “capable” is néng, 能, and it’s one of my favorite images in the book… even though/especially because it does raise questions about reality! It’s the same adjective used in the last line of Chapter 7, just as our hero set out to live this new dual role.
  • laboring in terms of traditional virtue = seasonally timely
    • “Laboring” is shown as moving heavy bags with great strength.
    • “Appropriate seasonal timeliness” is shown as when the sun is between your footprint and the position on your arm where you measure your pulse. Good timing.

Then here’s the conclusion to Chapter 8:

That is to say, this particular grown man with a hairpin and public courtesy name…

essentially and only—like the heart of the ‘short-tailed bird’—

“the husk of the initial protective bud casing—the sepal—but not really the true inner flower of

competing—two hands clawing over a ploughshare,”

therefore—anciently, for ten generations, this lightly hits and leaves this mark of reason:

Nothing—no one dancing with long tails flowing from their wrists—nope never, no way, nowhere, nohow Not-Being

in particular—made lame by resentment.

~

The final word, yóu (尤) is a another puzzle to me. Etymologists say the character is a drawing of a man with bent legs plus that slash over top, which is a punctuation mark. The bent man alone traditionally meant lame and then came to mean anger or resentment. But combined with the punctuation mark, its modern meaning is strictly especially or particularly. The old Western Zhou script drew the character like this:

That does not look like a man (大) with bent legs to me. The Western Zhou version of a man looked like this:

Rather, that old version of yóu looks maybe more like some variation of the old symbol for a hand. Remember the symbol for competing— two hands on a plow:

Yet virtually all translators of the Dao translate that last line as “he’s not competing, and therefore not blamed.”

Of course, with my view of Not-Being as a character with its own life—perhaps as the secret, private, shamanic feminine self that Lâozî keeps hidden at home—I look at this a little differently. I think Chapter 8 is just a continuation of Chapter 7. There, we left off knowing that Heaven-Earth being now long-lasting and “capable of lengthy birthing” means that 1. the sage’s pregnant self, now bearded, is surviving and 2. the wings are broken off of Not-Being’s disastrous personal concerns, and therefore Not-Being’s capable of completing personal concerns [non-disastrous ones, I presume].

Now Chapter 8 follows up with this description of those personal concerns. When our hero isn’t fully playing the competitive traditional virtue game but is instead dwelling in a lowly disdained place, very close to The Way, those personal concerns look a certain way to traditional virtue. And that whole list is to say, “this particular man who’s essentially and only not competing is therefore, by logic, Not-Being in particular.” And possibly he is Not-Being, when Not-Being is crippled by resentment. It does summarize the situation when regular culture acts with blame and resentment toward Not-Beings.

It’s a rather un-satisfying way to live, I think. And while it’s close to The Way, it isn’t exactly The Way. But that’s possibly better than being far from The Way!

In the next chapter, we’ll learn more about what engagement in a more typical life would involve for our hero. Until then, thank you for reading, and please send me a note using the contact form. I know this is radically different, so tell me what you think. And, see you next time!

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#7 Ér Dì jiû 久 Tiān Wú 無

enduring through time—like someone receiving moxibustion treatments with mugwort used for cramps, turning a breech baby, or other health issues—

jiû (久)

Heaven (that sky level above the human head)…

lengthy as hair that has to be tied with a brooch;

Earth (this soil vagina)…

enduring for years—like someone receiving moxibustion treatments with mugwort used for cramps, turning a breech baby, or other health issues;

Thus begins Chapter 6.

Lâozî’s referred to Heaven-Earth several times by now:

  • In Chapter 1, we learned that Not-Being personal naming is Heaven-Earth’s beginning—like conception in a woman.
  • In Chapter 5, we learned that Heaven-Earth is not really personable, and it has an interstice that is like a bellows.
  • Last time, in Chapter 6, Lâozî said the double-winged gateway of the hard-to-see structure of a mother’s lap (vagina) is called Heaven-Earth root of the family tree (penis)… and is barely perceptible. Also: surviving.

Here, though, Lâozî’s pulled Heaven and Earth apart and is telling us something about each one, on its own. Heaven is long. Earth is enduring. Dào Dé Jīng translators variously say heaven is eternal or long-lasting and earth abides or is everlasting; or they lump them together and say they are enduring, or infinite and eternal.

In our last discussion of Heaven-Earth, I went into the images a little more, the history of each word, their association with all these pregnancy pictures… and confessed that I think Lâozî’s using a sort of double code where Heaven represents not only an abstract idea of a place/state but also a literal celestial spirit. Like: a person’s soul. And Earth represents not just this earthly plane but also an actual womb like the one pictured in the original glyph. That would mean that in the first line of Chapter 6, Lâozî’s just told us that a fetus is alive and also the womb is intact. Next we learn how that affects the combo of the two, when considered as a “place” or unit:

Heaven (that sky level above the human head)-Earth (this soil vagina) 

‘place’— somewhere intentionally created, like a door chopped with an axe…

this means

capable—powerful as that legendary bear with deer legs—of

“lengthy as hair that has to be tied with a brooch…”

abiding for a long time—the erect penis of a male ancestor—

“enduring for years—like someone receiving moxibustion treatments with mugwort used for cramps, turning a breech baby, or other health issues—”

—now this is cooking!

Yes, now we’re cooking! The celestial spirit in the earthen womb can be long-lasting for a long time and endure like someone receiving moxibustion treatments with mugwort used for cramps, turning a breech baby, or other health issues. Moxibustion really was, and still is, used in Chinese medicine for the exact OB/GYN uses described here. The pictogram of that process evolved to the modern character 久 (jiǔ) meaning a long time, presumably because it promotes health and longevity. This is the first place this character occurs in the Dào Dé Jīng. And what does it mean for our story? The next lines say:

This means

what it holds a basket of…

the husk of the initial protective bud casing—the sepal—but not really the true inner flower of

of course—one’s self personally, right on one’s nose…

birthing—a bud sprouting from the ground;

anciently, for ten generations, this therefore lightly hits and leaves a mark of reason…

“capable—powerful as that legendary bear with deer legs—of

lengthy as hair that has to be tied with a brooch…”

birthing—a bud sprouting from the ground.

So: not really oneself birthing, therefore capable of long-lasting birthing.

Okay, even if you don’t agree, you must admit that you can see how I might imagine that our midwife someone from the last chapter has just prevented premature labor and thereby allowed our hero to be birthing later?!

And how in the world do other translators make sense of this line, you ask? Referring to Heaven and Earth, they say:

  • Yi Wu: Is because they do not live for themselves. So, they can live long.
  • Feng and English: They are unborn, so ever living.
  • John C H Wu: Is it not because they do not live for themselves 
    That they can live so long?
  • Chao-Hsiu ChHen: because they have no ego; therefore they can live for ever.

It’s not that I disagree with these interpretations. It’s just that I wish we didn’t have to lose that other level of the earthy, intimate, domestic, human parts of life that Lâozî use to convey those lofty ideas.

And there’s more. As a result of all of the above, the sage’s life is a certain way:

The sun—walking across the sundial a while, stopping a while—sees indeed

this means…

the grounded sage—listening and speaking, standing connected to earth as well as the heavens,

that person:

being behind—what remains afterward when stepping slowly, only one’s left leg leading the way, leaving the tiniest of silk thread footprints—one’s descendants…

what it holds a basket of…

one’s pregnant self, 

The sage’s pregnant self is behind… or it’s what’s left behind. It’s the sage’s descendants, you could say.

and yet now, bearded, you: (ér, 而)

one’s pregnant self…

being long before—like one’s dead ancestor;

So, at the same time, that “bearded” pregnant self is ahead… it’s the sage’s ancestor, you could say.

It’s a paradox that most translators describe as: the sage puts himself behind and therefore is ahead. The description of the sage continues:

‘outside’ or foreign—like the relatives of your mother, sister, and daughter who divine by the moon…

what it holds a basket of…

one’s pregnant self,

and yet now, bearded, you:

one’s pregnant self…

surviving—on the plane of a baby with health issues, maybe a large head, but still sprouting;

Once more, phew: surviving despite being foreign or an outsider (with suspiciously witchy female relatives, at that!). And here’s what happens as a result:

breaking the little wings off…

this means…

what it holds a basket of…

Nothing—no one dancing with long tails flowing from their wrists—nope never, no way, nowhere, nohow Not-Being (wú, 無)

personal concerns—like about one’s private grain field—

of a disastrous nature—like that disease-causing environment around Tusk Town—

This reads like a double or triple negative! I see it as: this stops the sage’s Not-Being from potentially disastrous personal concern. (Also it makes me wonder about Tusk Town! Some think it was the old name of Langya. What calamity happened there—was it swampy and malarial? Was there some kind of unwholesome behavior thereabouts? In Classical Chinese medicine the term referred to pathogenetic factors… were there a large number of children born with issues? I can find reference to sulfur springs in the area, so maybe it was just the smell?) Anyway, as a result of this…

therefore—anciently, for ten generations, this lightly hits and leaves this mark of reason…

capable—powerful as that legendary bear with deer legs—of

completing—that final nail in the weapon on a pole—

what it holds a basket of…

personal concerns—like about one’s private grain field

Now the sage can complete his personal concern.

Without my habit of seeing the character Not-Being as a persona, it gets even more complicated: “stopping not being unhealthily personally-concerned means the sage can complete his personal-concern?”

Here’s how others translate this passage:

  • Yi Wu says: Is it not because he has no self that his self is realized?
  • Feng and English: Through selfless action, he attains fulfillment.
  • John C H Wu: Is it not because he is selfless that his self is realized?
  • Chao-Hsiu ChHen: Only through unselfishness can he achieve fulfillment.

Much easier to read! And I’m not saying they’re wrong, of course. But I like seeing where Not-Being shows up, especially after all that pregnancy and moxibustion. And I like seeing where the “bearded, you” appears.

To me, in the sub-text story, the day has been saved—that labor from the last chapter has been averted by moxibustion performed by our midwife-someone. And that means that our pregnant sage adopts a beard and sallies forth into this new double life.

Ok, well we CAN agree that the sage gives up a certain kind of personal concern in order to complete another kind of personal concern. That seems to be true no matter whether you agree with my imagination or not! And now here we go… into Act 2 and a whole new world with this new kind of selfless self in action.

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#4 Ér Bù 不 Shuî Yíng 沖

pouring water from the center, like from the hollow drum at the base of the flagpole

Yíng

The Way of the loose-haired chieftain—walking a while, stopping a while, listening, and speaking of it all:

pouring water from the center, like from the hollow drum at the base of the flagpole,

and yet now, bearded… (ér, 而)

doing of truly useful work—like a water bucket—by means of carrying-capacity

has this…

this particular territory—this enclave, defended by a weapon on a pole, plus its surroundings:

the husk of the initial protective bud casing—the sepal—but not really the true inner flower of (bù, 不)

full to overflowing its vessel. (yíng (沖)

As you remember, I’m exploring the idea that the Dào part of the Dào Dé Jīng follows Joseph Campbell’s story template. If so, then Chapter 4 would give us the hero’s “call to adventure.” And I do think it opens straight away with that call. It’s a call to The Way of the loose-haired chieftain—walking a while, stopping a while, listening, and speaking of it all. And it specifically calls for this:

Pouring water from the center of one’s “hollow drum” and yet, now bearded, do truly useful work like a water bucket… not really overflowing one’s vessel.

That is indeed quite a calling.

~

Yíng (沖)’s bronze inscription looks like this:

You recognize the sub-component on the right side of that image from this post where we learned it’s a picture of a drum with a flagpole. This kind of structure was traditionally placed in the middle of a field to call people to gather with drumming, provide a center point for that gathering, as well as detect wind and serve to foster group-identity and morale. The left sub-component shuî is the pictogram for a river or running water:

(And yes, that’s the same shuî from “Feng shui!”)

Modern definitions of the complete character yíng (沖) are to pour water on; to rinse; to flush; to wash; to infuse; to make drinks. More classic definitions included to soar; to rise; to shoot up. Dào translators have gone a different way. They translate it as like an empty bowl, appears empty, is an empty vessel, is like a well, is unimpeded harmony. I combine the images with the traditional definitions and translate it as:

pouring water from the center, like from the hollow drum at the base of the flagpole

This is the only place in the first 37 chapters of the Dào Dé Jīng that this word appears.

~

But the next part of “the call” is familiar to us from earlier in the Dào since we discussed this character here. Doing of truly useful work—like a water bucket—by means of carrying capacity is one of several different ways Lâozî describes work or getting things done. In this kind of work, something or someone uses their receptivity or negative space’s carrying capacity (as opposed to laboring forcefully, actively shaping something, etc.).

So, on The Way, the loose-haired chieftain is pouring water from their hollow drum and yet, “bearded” something else is also happening now. They’re doing this water-bucket-style-work WHILE not really overflowing their vessel.

No wonder the next line interjects:

The deep water—Oh! A breath, like wind through the tree branches!

Because that’s a tall order as well as a pleasantly puzzling paradox to consider.

Have you ever poured water from your hollow drum? In a literal sense, it reminds me more of having your water break during pregnancy than it does urinating… probably because I definitely looked like a drum when I was pregnant!

In a symbolic sense, water might mean lots of things. Carl Jung thought water was one of the few universal symbols—he believed it symbolized the unconscious. Considering the words that follow this phrase, Lâozî indeed could be alluding to how we work with the unconscious in our life. On the other hand, since Lâozî’s taking great care to describe the particular type of work that’s best described with the image of a bucket, the water may be a stand-in for whatever we may be working with at any given time.

No matter which of those meanings we adapt, what does it mean to have the water pour out of us but now, bearded, to do that useful, carrying-capacity kind of work while not really overflowing?

~

Here, I find myself wanting to go back and investigate that bearded character. As you remember, we looked at ér (而) in a previous post. Its most common translations are something like “and yet, now.” Its original glyph was a drawing of a beard:

A beard is a good image for trying to illustrate the concept that some original situation is yet existing (i.e., the unshaven face is yet there under the beard), and at the same time, now there’s a new situation. You can see how it also gets translated as but or but now because a change in the situation is apparently an important part of the word’s meaning. BUT (ha!) you can also see how neither’s exactly the same as saying “yet.” Yet is also a translation of this character, and it more closely matches the glyph. So do whereas and while.

Let’s think more specifically about the glyph image itself. What do we know about a beard? It’s is a sign of manhood. And it’s something that changes the look of a face even while the face is still under there—for that reason, it’s always been a popular disguise.

The other character Lâozî uses to impart a meaning akin to “but” is also in this first sentence of Chapter 4: bù (不). We talked about it here when we were looking at all the “negative particles” in the Dào Dé Jīng. It’s in fact the most common negative particle in the Dào.

From what I can find, ér isn’t talked about as a common negative particle in Classical Chinese (despite that fact, I do find versions of some historical documents from the 4th century translating ér as “and yet” ). Rather, when I re-examine information about this character, I see its “literary” translation is you or your. I’m not sure how I missed this before. Maybe because I didn’t know at first that the literary meaning usually corresponds to the older historical meaning for a word.

Interesting! A beard as a symbol for you… and also as a symbol for and yet now. I think I’ll modify my translation to include this information! Ér (而) will now appear as:

“and yet now, bearded, you”

Okay, I have to disappear for a bit and see what happens when I make that change everywhere! While I do that, I hope you’ll sit with the call, just let IT flow from you, and yet now, bearded, do the water-bucket kind of work while not really overflowing—maybe just experience this concept without words. And I also hope you’ll let me know what you found. See you next time with the rest of Chapter 4 (and maybe more on the implications of this big change I just made?!)

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#1 Ér Dào Fēi 非 Jiâo Míng Miào Tiān Wú 無 Yôu

By way of introduction… Chapter 1 summary

Here’s how I see it. Please consider it a light fanciful daydream if it offends your sense of the Dào Dé Jīng!

Setting the stage: conflict!

Yinxi the border guard recognizes Lâozî as he’s departing the country, allegedly fed up with politics in Zhou. He asks the renowned wiseman to leave behind some helpful words, presumably about his philosophy and the way to go about things. Lâozî says… well you might want to click here to read Chapter 1 and then pop right back. But basically Lâozî says…

The Way that I can describe to you as definitively The Way breaks the little wings off our traditional version of The Way.

Wow. What a great first sentence. It’s very overt and rather patronizingly graphic in setting up all sorts of conflict and questions… especially with those actual Western Zhou Bronze Inscription characters that Lâozî used! (Yes, I’m making lots of assumptions here, as do all translators. Mine are described here.)

What follows sets up some idiosyncratic themes for the whole book.

Hair

Somehow hairstyle figures prominently in this first sentence and the entire text! Here’s my full version of the first sentence:

The Way of the loose-haired chieftain—walking a while, stopping a while, listening, and speaking of it all—about which you can purse your lips like a piece of cane and puff: “Yup, that’s it, definitely The Way of the loose-haired chieftain—walking a while, stopping a while, listening, and speaking of it all—” is breaking the little wings off the ever-present square fabric which our grown men wrap around the ‘little bird’ top knots on their heads after receiving their public courtesy-names—or what we know as the timeless, whole-cloth ‘jin’ version of The Way of the loose-haired chieftain—walking a while, stopping a while, listening, and speaking of it all.

So we have a roaming prophet-like chieftain with loose hair. And then we have a sort of opposite: the current tradition in which men wrap their hair in a top knot on their head and cover it with a cloth as part of their puberty ritual. We’ll encounter some other hair and headdress images later in the book, but that theme’s established right here in the initial line.

What’s in a name

Different types of names also figure prominently throughout this whole first chapter. I count four different namings.

1.Above we learned about how when boys turned to men in ancient China, they received a new formal name.

2. The next sentence talks about the childhood name the boys gave up, a name you can still use with intimates after you’re a grownup:

Its personal, childhood name—what it says to identify itself urself by moonlight—about which you can purse your lips like a piece of cane and puff: “Yup, that’s it, definitely personal, childhood naming—what you say to identify yourself by moonlight” is breaking the little wings off our traditional its personal, childhood name—what it says to identify itself urself by moonlight.

[Yes, I shortened the ever-present square fabric which our grown men wrap around the ‘little bird’ top knots on their heads after receiving their public courtesy-names—or what we know as the timeless, whole-cloth ‘jin’ version of (chàng) into “our traditional.” Yes, it’s both a big assumption on my part AND a useful space saver! That character’s described in detail here.]

So here’s yet another harsh difference between tradition and what Lâozi could say. This time it’s over personal naming in particular. Now we feel like names might be key in the conflict that’s been staged for us.

Lâozi goes on to differentiate two kinds of personal names: Being, its personal name, and Not-Being, its personal name. In this simple step, Lâozi introduces two of our most central and most baffling characters and puts them squarely into this naming conflict… but more on them later. Let’s see what other kinds of naming are discussed in the first chapter.

3. There’s also how things are spoken of altogether with one another—like all earthly, mortal, commonplace plates. Lâozi uses THAT title when talking about Being and Not-Being when they’re a yoked pair, just before they’re stepping out “of a cave” and into their two different, masked personal namings.

4. To really describe them altogether like that, Lâozi adds in yet another kind of naming: what it’s called when speaking from the gut—words, like slaves or criminals branded by a chisel emerging from a mouth.

Later in the book, we’ll see some significant permutations of these naming types, and we’ll really notice them too, since the basics are pointedly noted in the first chapter.

Being, Not-Being, their altogetherness, their differently masked names once they step out of the cave and get bearded, plus the crux of the mystery:

Most importantly, in this introductory chapter we meet and learn a little something about two of the book’s fundamental characters. The facts we get, in order of appearance:

  • Not-Being is shown by a pictogram of a mysterious, shaman-like dancer and is often taken to mean “null” or “nothingness.” Lâozi tell us its personal naming is the conception of Heaven-Earth (merged to be something like… the whole universe or “heaven and earth”).
  • Being is shown by a pictogram of a hand holding a piece of meat. Lâozi says its personal naming is the rearing, raising, or “suckling” of all the gazillion of material things in that universe, literally 10,000 Things—all matter external or cut off from you.
  • In the traditional version, Not-Being is “wanting.” It’s missing something that’s been eroded, and that is a mysterious feminine essence called miào.
  • In the traditional tradition, Being is “wanting.” It’s missing something that’s been eroded, and that is delineated surface—like a patrolled frontier border lightly hit with a sword tip from left to right (jiâo).
  • Whoa, though! Really they’re a matched pair and can be spoken of in this state where they’re altogether—as common as daily dishes—stepping out of their cave…
  • But. Once they step out, lots of “buts” apply. The first, main, and most unusual and specific “but” is a character that’s a pictogram of a beard (èr). The instant they step out, Lâozi starts describing them with a qualifier: and yet now, bearded…. Every time this èr character’s used, I can’t help but harken back to its intro here as a description of Not-Being and Being as they step out of the cave.
  • So they’re altogether stepping out of a cave and yet now, bearded…. they have differently masked personal names (presumably this refers back to the “Being” and “Not-Being” personal names described before).
  • What they’re called from the gut when they’re altogether has this hard-to-see darkness—the figure-eight structure of a skein of string-dyed-black (xuán). Based on how the text’s written, I think the entire set-up described beforehand—what I summarized in the above bullet points—constitutes that xuán. But I guess it could be something as yet unspecified, something that we discover later.
  • And here’s the kicker… that hidden structure has its own hard-to-see dark figure-eight structure of string-dyed-black.
  • And THIS, my friends, is the mysterious feminine essence’s double-winged gateway. Ending the first chapter here leaves us with miào feeling somehow central to the whole story.

What’s this have to do with our original conflict between The Way and our tradition?

I guess that’s the question Lâozî’s setting up for the suspenseful tale about to unfold to Yinxi, me, and you.

What stands out to you?

I’m going to give you some time to ponder this introduction and my question and send me your answers before I prejudice you with mine—because they’re doozies! And with that cliff-hanger… I thank you for being here with me and for sending me your comments. It means the world to me.

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#1 Ér

and yet now, bearded—

ér

A beard. That’s the pictogram for ér in the old Western Zhou Bronze Inscription script that Lâozî seems likely to have used— and the modern character looks almost exactly the same:

而

Modern translations include and, and also, and yet, whereas, while, nevertheless, and from___to___, however the most common interpretation is but. “Literary” (which often means “older”) use includes you and your, but (ha!) Dào translators most often stick with some variation of but.

But. But… how do you get but from a beard? My guess is that with a beard, something indeed has changed from __ to ___. Even so, the first version of the thing is still there. And yet it also has this different quality now, at this time. Whereas and while there’s a smooth face underneath, nevertheless there’s definitely this hair on top.

(Some linguists say this pictogram depicts roots. Interestingly, I can see how that would carry some of those same implications: a very new different surface thing is co-existing with some previous something that’s still there, underneath. But the trend with the most reputable sources seems to be beard, so that’s what I’m using here.)

I loved looking into this word because it made me consider the subtle meanings and differences of all the little connecting words we use to show there’s a change from the preceding word/phrase to the following word/phrase. As far as I can tell (and remember, I don’t speak Chinese), ér seems to capture most of the aspects of but, possibly with an emphasis on while and whereas. So I wanted my translation to capture, in particular, the classic linking and juxtaposition of two things that are different plus the time change (now), the continuity (and, yet), and of course the original pictogram:

and yet now, bearded—

What do you think? Would it be better as simply “but” or maybe… “but, as if bearded?” Something else? Let me know your ideas and reactions by clicking on the comment counter in this post’s header or using the form in the Contact tab. I love my translation BUT also remain open! (Ha!)

Thanks for joining me here. I will see you tomorrow to look at an even tinier character with potentially even more impact on the Dâo‘s logic. (Ha again!)

UPDATE: in this later post, you’ll see where I changed ny translation of this term after digging deeper and discovering that its “literary” translation is you or your.