The Dao Of Rhetoric (Suny Series in Communication Studies)

The Dao of Rhetoric

SUNY Series in Communication Studies Dudley D. Cahn, editor

The Dao of Rhetoric


Steven C. Combs

STATE UNIVERSITY OF NEW YORK PRESS

Published by State University of New York Press, Albany © 2005 State University of New York All rights reserved Cover art by Robert Burchfield, Loyola Marymount University Printed in the United States of America No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission. No part of this book may be stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means including electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. For information, address State University of New York Press, 90 State Street, Suite 700, Albany, NY 12207 Production by Christine L. Hamel Marketing by Michael Campochiaro Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Combs, Steven C., 1957– The Dao of rhetoric / Steven C. Combs. p. cm. — (SUNY series in communication studies) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-7914-6281-1 (alk. paper) 1. Rhetoric. 2. Rhetoric—China. 3. Taoism. 4. Motion pictures—Moral and ethical aspects. I. Title. II. Series. PN175.C53 2005 808’.00951—dc22 2004052137 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To my wife, Kerry Ann Causey, for the balance and harmony you bring to my life.

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Contents

Acknowledgments

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Introduction: Rhetoric East and West 1. Culture, Text, and Context

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2. Laozi and the Natural Way of Rhetoric

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3. Zhuangzi and the Rhetoric of Evocation 4. Sunzi and the Rhetoric of Parsimony 5. Daoist Rhetorical Criticism

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6. Is The Tao of Steve Really “The Way”?

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7. Values East and West in Antz and A Bug’s Life 8. Shrek as the Daoist Hero 9. The Future of the Past Notes

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References Index

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Acknowledgments

This project is the result of the generous support of the universe, without whose opportunities, none of this would have been possible. I’d like to foreground and thank those who teach me rhetorical criticism—especially Karlyn, Walt, and Randy; those who teach me the Dao—especially Robin and Jeff; and those who teach me what’s most important in life—especially Kerry, Ryan, Hayley, Cody, and Mom. I have been fortunate to receive tremendous enrichment from Loyola Marymount University, whose support includes research grants, release time from teaching, and funding for research assistants. My colleagues at LMU have been incredibly generous with their time and ideas—thank you all, especially Annika, Kyra, and Nina, whose comments on drafts were very helpful. A special thank you to Gale, Aubrey, Nisha, and my “silent” partners. My work has been greatly enlivened by my students—who inspire me in so many ways. I’d also like to thank my colleagues in NCA, PACA, ACCS, and IAICS, who gave me opportunities to present my work and shared their ideas and energy. Three of my previously published works, listed below, have provided materials for this book. Elements of each of them are included in the introduction and chapter 1. In addition, I wish to thank and credit the following publications individually: “Sun-zi and the ‘Art of War’: The rhetoric of parsimony,” The Quarterly Journal of Speech, 86 (2000), 276–94, copyright by the National Communication Association, was used extensively in chapter 4. The website for the journal is http://www.tandf.co.uk. “The Dao of communication criticism: Insects, individuals, and mass society,” Social Semiotics, 12 (2002), 183–99, copyright by Taylor and Francis

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Ltd., was used extensively in chapter 7. The website for the journal is http://www.tandf.co.uk. “The Dao of rhetoric: Revelations from The Tao of Steve,” Intercultural Communication Studies, 11 (2002), 117–36, was used extensively in chapter 6. Finally, a version of Chapter 8 will appear in the forthcoming book Heroes in a Global World, G. Gumpert and S. Drucker (Eds.), Cresskill, NJ: Hampton Press.

Introduction Rhetoric East and West

Rhetorical theory is often purported to have arisen from the demands of democracies in ancient Greece, and many scholars view the development of rhetorical theory as a decidedly European enterprise. While some make minor mention of non-Western rhetoric, others ignore it or exclude it from discussion. For example, Murphy and Katula (1995) contend, “the study of human discourse is an entirely Western phenomenon” (p. x). Bizzell and Herzberg (1990) say that “to speak of classical rhetoric is thus to speak of Aristotle’s system and its elaboration by Cicero and Quintilian” (p. 3). Greece and Rome, while highly significant, were not the sole sites for rhetoric in antiquity.1 Rhetoric, especially when conceived as persuasive communication, has been practiced around the world. Furthermore, rhetoric is actualized through its practice and thus takes its particular forms from its cultural contexts (Kennedy, 1999b). When these cultural contexts are sufficiently different, the practice of rhetoric within a culture may, to outsiders, look like something other than rhetoric. Perhaps that is why some scholars maintain that rhetoric is a unique product of Western culture. It would be more appropriate to say that other cultures conceptualize rhetoric—its explicit theorizing and applications—so differently from the West that, by traditional Western standards, rhetoric is a vastly different enterprise. Rather than define away non-Western approaches as something other than rhetoric, it is worthwhile to look more closely at their unique perspectives. If we take seriously the task of understanding human communication in all its forms, then it is essential to examine non-European cultures and their approaches to rhetoric. 1

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Scholars have become increasingly interested in classical China as a site for rhetoric because it provides rich insights on Asian culture and the communication process.2 Classical Chinese rhetoric is particularly important in understanding human communication because it developed without any significant influence from the West. In fact, “there was no influence of Western ideas of rhetoric on ancient China” (Kennedy, 1998, p. 167). Consequently, studies of classical Chinese rhetoric offer the potential for clear comparisons between Western and Chinese rhetorical traditions and the opportunity to challenge questionable Eurocentric assumptions about communication and culture. One of the most significant components of classical and contemporary Chinese cultural values is Daoism.3 Daoism has been a “central and pervasive” factor in Chinese society (Clarke, 2000, p. 4), having “permeated every area of Chinese life” (Lu, 1998, p. 228), “including religion, government, art, medicine, even cooking” (Nagel, 1994, p. 8). Daoism continues to affect all Asian countries influenced by China (Chan, 1963; I-ming, 1986; Lu, 1986; Sun, 1995). Its further study has the potential to provide tremendous insight about Chinese cultural and rhetorical traditions. In addition, Daoist rhetoric offers a challenging and productive alternative to Western rhetorical theory. Daoism is an intriguing subject for rhetorical studies because it seems to devalue persuasion and argumentation, making it antithetical to the early European rhetorical tradition. Oliver (1971) claims, “any attempt to discover in Asia prototypes of the Western rhetorical canons would be unavailing. It would resemble trying to measure the salinity of water with a ruler” (p. 3). Indeed, earlier explorations of Daoist views on rhetoric stressed their strange and exotic nature (Jensen, 1987, 1992; Oliver, 1961, 1971). While these studies contribute to an awareness of Daoist thought on communication, their treatments are overly simplistic. Lu (1998) maintains that Western scholars must study Chinese rhetoric “on its own terms, with an analysis rooted in ancient Chinese cultural texts and contexts” (p. 33). This book engages the vastness of Daoism as an alternative to Western conceptions of rhetorical theory and criticism. In so doing, it offers a unique vantage point for revisioning social theory and action. It also answers the call for culturally sensitive approaches to Chinese rhetoric by grounding its ideas in readings of pivotal texts by key Daoist theorists, which are informed by the philosophical, political, and cultural landscape of classical China. Throughout this book I maintain a focus on Daoism, rather than attempt a strict, point-by-point comparison to Western scholarship, because I believe Daoism is significantly underdeveloped in rhetorical

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studies. At the same time, I hope that my analysis creates space for theorists to engage Daoism in the development of their own projects; thus some level of comparison is inevitable. Consequently, I will next summarize basic differences and implications of those differences, which are attenuated throughout the first five chapters, in order to help Western readers situate Daoism. Classical Greek theorizing posits a “two-world” notion of reality that distinguishes a highly variable world of appearances from a stable world of essences. “Knowledge” is the proper alignment of human perception with the underlying reality—the ability to distinguish the “real” from the perceived or conceived. Reason is celebrated as central to an understanding or recognition of what is real. Language is an attempt to represent or “symbolically capture” reality. The Greeks attempted to distinguish the various entities of the world by sorting them into categories based on their innate and unique qualities, such as genus, species, and phylum in the case of living creatures. For example, Aristotle defined rhetoric so as to distinguish it from philosophy and poetry, delineated artistic and inartistic proofs, and subdivided artistic proofs into ethos, pathos, and logos. In contrast, Daoism holds a “one-world” view of reality, a world that is created by the opposing forces of yin and yang. These forces create ongoing patterns of interaction that both unify and distinguish the entities of the universe in a constant, interdependent flow of events. Nothing is inherently stable or distinct from anything else, although reality constantly presents facets of itself that give the illusion of distinction and stability. Perceptions are inherently incomplete, because one cannot grasp the entirety of the universe. Hence, one always perceives a sense of the true—what is the case at this moment to the perceiver—as well as the false—what is beyond an individual’s vantage point. Reason is one way to sort through cognitions, but it is highly susceptible to error and less reliable than experience and holistic intuition in discerning the nature of things. Language cannot possibly represent reality, because it is finite and perspectival. Any attempts to distinguish or categorize violate the underlying unity of all things, but distinctions, like language, can nonetheless be useful in navigating the everyday world. Daoism was originally offered as a challenge to prevailing views in classical China and its unique perspectives and traditions are even more challenging to basic Western concepts. Interestingly, while the Western philosophical inheritance from classical Greece is vastly different from classical China, Daoism anticipates a great deal of contemporary theorizing in the West—particularly postmodernism4—and seems, over time, to move closer to current iterations of Western thought. Of course, Daoism

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has not moved toward the West as much as Western thought has moved toward Daoism. I indicate throughout this book that Daoism, approximately twenty-five hundred years ago, espoused views that are compatible with postmodern critiques that deny objective foundations for knowledge, essential meanings and identities, universal truths, and deprivilege reason and rationality. Daoism shares postmodern views of the plurality and instability of meanings and identities, and the decentered, perspectival text. Daoist perspectives on rhetoric are conditioned by its worldview and are thus highly divergent from classical Western rhetoric. Consequently, one should not expect a treatment of Daoist rhetoric to situate itself neatly within traditional Western rhetorical constructs. In fact, I believe that readers will see far more possibilities for Daoism if they are able to engage it with as few expectations as possible. While certain comparisons to the West are appropriate, one will not find an explicit definition of rhetoric or an inventory of the “rhetorical canons” of the Daoist sages. Daoists never treat rhetoric as a distinct subject, but incorporate ideas on language and communication in their overall philosophy. Furthermore, persuasion, in general, is not an end for rhetoric. Rhetoric is used to serve Daoism, and its persuasiveness is designed to make Daoist views accessible and appealing to potential adherents. The “Dao of Rhetoric” is thus a perspective on rhetoric that defies simple categorization or definition. It emphasizes spontaneity and creativity in an interdependent and unified universe that always presents itself novelly and incompletely. I “foreground” its unique moves, momentums, and implications, which empowers interrogation and interpretation not only of society, but also of rhetoric itself. I endeavor to honor the generative nature of Daoism as a “living” philosophy that recognizes that reality is not preformed and the future is not preordained but is informed and shaped by ongoing practice. I attempt to invoke the roots of Daoism while bringing it to life in my contemporary, non-Asian world. Elements of the works of Daoist sages will be highlighted as groundings for rhetorical theory, which I then use to inform a methodology for rhetorical criticism. Finally, I apply “Daoist rhetorical criticism” to contemporary texts in order to enrich perspectives on both Daoism and rhetoric. In chapter 1, I situate classical Daoist thought within its historical milieu. I note that Daoism takes an arbitrary, yet productive, approach to the text/context interplay. I note some of the challenges of working with ancient Chinese texts, the key personae identified as the authors of these works, and outline the political and philosophical context in which Daoism emerged. The next three chapters explore, respectively, the primary works attributed to Laozi, Zhuangzi, and Sunzi.5

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Chapter 2 analyzes the Dao de jing in order to indicate the basic architecture of Daoism and the rhetorical principles that can be discerned in Laozi’s work. Laozi introduces the substance of Daoist rhetoric by a philosophy that is comfortable with changing permanence, blended opposition, and the celebration of the low, weak, and soft. It notes Laozi’s basic strategic approach, to speak naturally, and his primary methods for communicating Daoism. The analysis indicates that Laozi’s rhetoric is consistent with his philosophy. His rhetoric is conditioned by the limitations of language and the ineffability of the Dao. Yet he uses a strategy and methods that are consistent with his natural way of communication. In chapter 3, I analyze the Zhuangzi and note its elaborations and revisions of basic Daoist principles found in the Dao de jing. Zhuangzi uses fanciful ideas, intriguing imagery, and striking humor to suggest that language cannot represent meanings, one cannot particularize or hold a point of view, and one must not try to persuade. Yet, these admonitions appear in a text that does exactly those things, using language to persuade others to accept Daoist principles. These views are reconciled in a rhetoric that relies on evoking the participation of the audience in the persuasion process. In chapter 4, I expand the scope of Daoist rhetoric by examining Sunzi, famous for the Art of War. Laozi and Zhuangzi promote principles of communication that are predicated on conflict avoidance and minimization, however, these principles may lack utility for twenty-first-century Westerners. Conflict, disagreement, or choice is often the starting point for Western communication. Using war as a metaphor for rhetoric, Sunzi provides a parsimonious approach to conflict communication. His perspective offers abundant tactical advice and advances keen insights on knowledge, strategy, and responsiveness. Art of War thus adds richness to rhetorical Daoism, making it especially relevant in the contemporary world. In chapter 5, I advance the idea that the rhetorics of Laozi, Zhuangzi, and Sunzi can be fused into a coherent genre, which I term Daoist rhetoric, which can then form a methodology for Daoist rhetorical criticism. I begin by considering whether Daoism can be used as a basis for criticism without violating its basic principles. Next, I argue that Daoism constitutes a unique genre of rhetoric, one that challenges traditional notions of discourse categories, characterized by substantive and strategic elements that are bound together by the internal dynamic of the Dao. I then examine the applicability of Daoism for criticism and detail suggested approaches to the critical process. The next three chapters use this genre to examine contemporary films from a critical perspective in order to promote a deeper understand-

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ing of Daoism and offer insights on various social practices. While Daoist rhetoric can potentially be used for any rhetorical artifact, I argue that contemporary films provide a particularly useful framework for analysis. The chosen films are readily accessible, winners of awards from film festivals and the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. Consequently, they have the potential to encourage broad audiences to engage in critical viewing practices. It must be noted, however, that I analyze these films not as a way to investigate popular culture, but to further explore Daoism. These films have significant moral implications, and the application of Daoism promotes thinking about proper conduct for our nations, businesses, families, and selves. These artifacts are easily accessed by large and diverse audiences, speak to broad social themes and ideas that transcend particular historical moments, and illuminate Daoism as a critical response to these issues. Chapter 6 examines The Tao of Steve because it is, ostensibly, the story of Daoism put into practice in the West. If Daoist rhetoric can function as a method for rhetorical criticism, then it must, at the least, prove useful in the consideration of texts that purport to be Daoistic. Analysis of the film reveals that the hero uses a number of strategies and tactics found in Sunzi’s Art of War, yet fails to comprehend and enact the substantive elements of the philosophy. This story may thus be seen as a metaphor for the potential pitfalls that occur when westerners attempt to appropriate Eastern thought. Chapter 7 extends the project beyond the consideration of Daoist texts to determine if Daoist rhetoric is a viable approach for texts that are not readily identifiable as “Daoist.” The chapter looks at two animated films, A Bug’s Life and Antz, as a test of Daoism as a critical method. The analysis demonstrates that A Bug’s Life and Antz are not merely animated films, but important statements about the appropriate role of the individual in a mass society. The films reflect clear value orientations of Western and Eastern cultures respectively, providing very different answers to the question of how an individual can live a meaningful life in a mass society. Chapter 8 considers the prospect of using Daoist rhetoric in conjunction with other analytical tools. The chapter examines the Academy Award winning film Shrek as an example of the “Hero Archetype” advanced by Joseph Campbell. The critique questions the purported universality of the hero myth. It argues that Shrek induces audiences to identify with a new vision of the hero, one that challenges the traditional Western hero by valorizing the individual who focuses on being content, living simply, and avoiding conflict. It celebrates living harmoniously with nature and using the natural flow of the universe to accomplish one’s objectives.

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The concluding chapter suggests possibilities for Daoist rhetoric to further contribute to rhetorical theory and criticism, and how it might be deployed as a condition for social action. I explore the potential for Daoism to provide a lens for viewing limitations of current Western rhetorical theorizing. The analysis begins by focusing on ideas of Kenneth Burke, arguably the most central figure in contemporary Western rhetoric, and responding to those views from a Daoist perspective. It then considers Daoist rhetoric as a potent critical perspective in the contemporary, postmodern world. I maintain that Daoist rhetoric opens exciting avenues for theory, criticism, and social action, is energized when it is put into practice, and can be valuable at the most mundane levels of existence. I believe that the future of rhetorical studies lies, in part, in the past. The intellectual path that is being followed in the West would benefit by considering the path not taken.

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CHAPTER 1

Culture, Text, and Context

Daoists believe that texts are not created in isolation but are products of a vibrant, interactive environmental field. An account of the historical environment or context for the works of the sages, which are analyzed specifically in the next three chapters, adds richness to the potential meanings and applications of Daoism for rhetoric. Insights about context may help distinguish aspects of the texts that are situation-specific, bound by context in such a way as to be irrelevant in other contexts, from elements that espouse timeless wisdom. Examining the historical environment or milieu, therefore, can assist our understanding of these ancient texts and how their views of Daoism might be applicable to rhetorical theory and criticism. Exploring the historical context for these texts also engages a theoretical issue of the text/context distinction.1 It thereby provides an opportunity to investigate important philosophical underpinnings of Daoist rhetoric and contrast those with philosophical suppositions inherent in classical Western rhetoric. I begin this chapter by elaborating on dominant features of classical Greek and Daoist worldviews in order to articulate a Daoist view of text and context. I then consider contextual elements, factors outside of the texts, which I believe interacted most significantly in their assemblage. These factors include the translation process, rhetorical personae, and the political and philosophical environment.

DAOISM AND CONTEXT In order to distinguish classical Greek and Daoist rhetorical perspectives on text and context, and thereby delineate the unique Daoist perspective

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on this issue, one must begin with their respective fundamental worldviews. At a cosmological level, Ames (1993) characterizes the Greek view as a “two-world” theory while the Chinese espouse a “one-world” view. To the Greeks, there is a permanent real world that stands behind appearance. This view is starkly exemplified by Plato’s distinction between the true world of forms and the seductive pseudoreality of the sensual world, and later by the Christian distinction between heaven and earth. By virtue of the belief in an underlying objective reality, “knowing” to the Greeks means discovering the “mirroring correspondence between an idea and an objective world” (Ames, 1993, p. 57). To know something, therefore, is to discover its “true” reality. Within this conception, reason plays a paramount role. Reason is thought of as “a human faculty independent of experience that can discover the essence of things” (pp. 55–56), and “rational explanation” lies “in the discovery of some antecedent agency or the isolation and disclosure of relevant causes” (p. 56). The Western notion of dualism is also apparent in conceptions of the self. Individuals are thought to look a certain way or behave in certain ways, but what one exhibits or how one acts at a particular time may be distinct from one’s fixed nature, essence, or core self. The idea of manifest and latent self, as well as body and soul, communicates a dualistic sense of the individual that is foreign to Daoists. In Daoism, there is one world, and it alone constitutes reality. There is no independent agent, such as a god, to provide order and life. The world’s order results from a continuous interaction of the opposing forces of yin and yang. Reality is a ceaseless alternation “between rising and falling, emerging and collapsing, moving and attaining equilibrium that is occasioned by its own internal energy of transformation.” This movement “is not ‘cyclical’ in the sense of reversibility and replication, but is rather a continuing spiral that is always coming back upon itself and yet is ever new” (Ames & Hall, 2003, p. 28). The order in the universe is not created by a grand design but is the natural consequence of the dynamic interaction of all life forms—“the many making one.” There are no essences that define, stabilize, and make unique the entities of reality. Instead, everything in the universe is constantly changing, developing, and interacting. The inherent nature of reality is change and novelty. In contrast to the Greek notion that reality is a “permanent structure to be discovered behind a changing process,” the classical Chinese view is that knowledge is “a perceived intelligibility and continuity that can be mapped within the dynamic process itself” (Ames, 1993, p. 55). Knowing, then, rests on the ability to perceive the connections and interactions, the comprehensiveness, which constitute the world:

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Without an assumed separation between the source of order in the world and the world itself, causal agency is not so immediately construed in terms of relevant cause and effect. All conditions interrelate and collaborate in greater or lesser degree to constitute a particular event as a confluence of experiences. “Knowing” is thus being able to trace out and manipulate those conditions far or near that will come to affect the shifting configuration of one’s own place. (p. 56) Reason is viewed as “coherence—the pattern of things and functions.” One who knows can see the relationship between all things and break them down into the collaborative elements that explain events and phenomena. “Rational explanation” lies “in mapping out the local conditions that collaborate to sponsor any particular event or phenomenon” (p. 56). One must understand the connections between all things, integrating the perceptions of both mind and body in order to see the unity of the universe. The Chinese, lacking the notion of a unique identity for things and people that stands apart from the experiential thing or person, would say that a person’s identity is grounded in her or his relationships with other things. A person has no unique essence, but is simply a part of the many. An individual exists and is defined in relation to everything else, by his or her roles and relationships with others, meaning that the human is “irreducibly communal” (p. 64). A person may therefore be known as the man who lives next to the butcher, the father of Qi, or the son of Wu. It is the association of things that constitutes all things. Nothing stands apart from everything else because “the many make the one.” The classical Western tendency to emphasize the uniqueness and stability of the elements of reality conditions views of rhetoric. Rhetorical action involves three distinct elements: rhetor, message, and audience. The message (text) responds to a preexisting situation—the mind of the rhetor, the historical circumstances, and the predispositions of the audience—or context. The text is thus a product of the context, and it, in turn, affects the attitudes and beliefs of the audience. Artful rhetoric, as Aristotle suggests, is the faculty of observing the available means of persuasion in a given case. Rhetoric becomes a quasi-scientific enterprise, as rhetors apply reason to divine the underlying aspects of the context and then fashion texts that produce desired audience responses. This approach clearly identifies component parts of the rhetorical process and specifies, in a linear way, the movement from preexisting situation to text to audience effect. It also makes it encumbent on rhetors and critics to account for contextual factors in crafting and/or critiquing a text.

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Daoists believe, contrarily, that reality is a unified whole and the individual is not distinct from the rest of the universe. As I will further explore in chapter 2, the temporary assemblage of elements into a body, message, or physical object creates the illusion of stability and uniqueness, but only because one is looking at that assemblage from a particular vantage point at a particular time. Over time, elements in the universe generate a body that alternately degenerates and regenerates, before ultimately returning its elements to the environment. The assemblage of that body over the course of what we term a “lifespan” is actually temporary and indistinct from the grand mix that constitutes the universe. Accordingly, distinctions such as text and context are not true distinctions but rather arbitrary and time-bound labels. A text is simply a temporary assemblage of symbols whose meaning interacts cyclically with everything else in the environmental field: “Particular ‘things’ are in fact processual events, and are thus intrinsically related to the other ‘things’ that provide them context. Said another way, these processual events are porous, flowing into each other in the ongoing transformations we call experience” (Ames & Hall, 2003, p. 15). Meanings and identities change and are never fully formed or stable. In fact, change and interaction produce the identity and meaning of things in the world. Text and context, like rhetor and audience, are inseparable. Distinguishing text and context, then is an arbitrary imposition on the fundamental nature of reality. It is nonetheless useful and necessary. The Daoist view that context is both an important and arbitrary category appears contradictory, but as we shall learn, in Daoism opposites do not negate or repel but complement. Context is important because rhetorical artifacts are situated historically—there is a spatial and temporal dimension that is relevant when a text is created and has some bearing on meaning. Texts are connected to time and place because, in Daoism, nothing stands apart from the world. The artifact is a product of all aspects of the environmental field, and the more we know about the interconnected aspects of the environment, the more we can understand. Of course, when we refer to something as a distinct entity or product of a particular set of circumstances we are speaking of how it presents itself at a particular time. We can propose an arbitrary historical context, as long as we recognize that claims regarding context, while important, are provisional: “Sages envision a world of changing events that they can, for whatever reason, choose to freeze momentarily into a distinct pattern of discrimination, but that they recognize, when they see clearly, as being beyond such distinction” (p. 43). Articulating a historical context temporarily places events in the foreground amid the background of reality.

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As a practical matter, we must be able to isolate events and individuals from time to time so that we can communicate and organize activities. For example, the distinctions between the four seasons are arbitrary. There have been blizzards in the middle of summer and heat waves in the depths of winter. There have been epochs where weather stayed relatively stable from season to season for centuries. Furthermore, “spring” is not discrete but is a blend of winter and summer. At the same time, farmers are wise to teach their children to follow the seasons regarding when to plant, when to fertilize and water, when to harvest, and when to leave the soil fallow. We pull things into the foreground and speak of them as though they are discrete in order to do business. When we do this, which includes any instance when we use language, we create artificial distinctions because they are useful. Daoists use language and create categories, such as context, as a way of foregrounding. They see no problem in this because they do not think that they are making statements about the ultimate reality or an individual’s essence, and recognize that the parts we focus on are actually facets of a larger whole. It can serve a practical purpose to create categories or distinctions and label them so that we can act in this world. As long as we recognize what we are doing, there is no harm or issue. In fact, we must do these sorts of things in order to survive. When we isolate text and context we are using them as a basis for understanding, not positing a claim about the nature of reality. Specifying a context foregrounds the elements in the field—historical and cultural events, rhetors, audiences—that seem to be of great importance in their interaction with each other. If a Daoist were to talk about a rhetorical interactant, text, or context it would be assumed that the conversation is not treating these elements as fixed or stable entities that exist in isolation from one another or anything else. Furthermore, context does not imply causation. Daoists reject linear explanations of events. Texts are not caused by situations but are part of them. There is an interactive flux that dynamically conditions all features in the environmental field. Situating Daoism within a time frame in which certain events took place does not mean that those events caused the sages to say what they did in a linear sense. It is more appropriate to say that Daoist thought influenced historically situated events just as those events affected Daoist thought. To treat Daoism with an appreciation for its texts and contexts is to recognize its fluid and dynamic presence in the world. Locating a context or historical framework for the crafting of key texts does not tell us what Daoism is, but what it might have been to emerging identities at one time.

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Of course, I cannot claim definitively that the aspects or events that I focus on were necessarily on the minds of the crafters of those texts, nor can I say, even if they were, that the rhetors were interpreting these contextual elements in the same way that I do. My examination of historical context indicates, from my vantage point, what I think was in play during the construction of the texts. While we cannot contain Daoist thought or objectify its teachings, situating Daoism contextually may help us understand Daoist thought not as timeless prescriptions but as living events. We may even discern how these lessons might be meaningful in our unique circumstances.

TRANSLATION Chinese is a highly contextual language that demands a great deal of interpretation. For example, “because Chinese contains neither definite nor indefinite articles, no recorded distinction could be made between references to Lao Tzu, the person, or to the Lao Tzu, the writings” (Grigg, 1995, p. 125). The translation problems of which I speak are not simply encountered in moving from Chinese to English but originate in translating classical Chinese, which has not been used for centuries, to modern Chinese. Classical Chinese, the form in which the various versions of the Lao Tzu are recorded, is simply long columns of uninterrupted characters with no indication of chapters, stanza/paragraphs, or even sentences. Sentences are determined by what appears to be meaningful units of thought. The present chapter divisions have simply evolved by convention. There is no textual basis for dividing them as they are; the stanza/paragraphs are still discretionary, even in modern Chinese. For translators and readers alike, the meaning of the text is undoubtedly influenced by these divisions. (p. 121) The grammatical structure and paucity of characters in classical Chinese make the language “compressed and cryptic” (Clarke, 2000, p. 52). Grigg (1995) proclaims that “translating the Lao Tzu is so difficult that intelligent guessing rather than translating is often the rule rather than the exception” (pp. 111–12). Because of the difficulties in translating classical Chinese works, the Dao de jing has been translated in Chinese several hundred times and “continuously reinterpreted throughout Chinese history” (Clarke, 2000,

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pp. 50–51). Interestingly, there are no extant copies of the original version. Existing traditional renditions are rife with errors. Of the traditional texts that do exist, most scholars now agree that some of the characters are incorrect and the meanings of others are uncertain. Still other characters—indeed, whole lines of them—are incorrectly placed. And some characters and lines are missing entirely. This has been confirmed by the recently discovered Ma-wang-tui texts, which have filled in as many as three lines in one so-called chapter. (Grigg, 1995, p. 119) While some of these errors were wholly inadvertent, some were deliberate, most likely made by Confucians who “adjusted the Taoist texts to accommodate their own particular purposes” (p. 119). Daoism is certainly affected by the politics of translation. One might wonder to what extent translation politics may have affected Western versions of the text. For example, the Western appropriation of Hinduism during the colonial period “helped both to reinforce European hegemony over India and at the same time to construct a nationalist Indian ideology” (Clarke, 2000, p. 7). In this case, however, the study of Daoism in the West came largely after the primary colonial period. Hence, “Daoism has neither helped to shape the mentality of colonial rulers nor been a focus of anti-imperialist struggle.” More recently, Western encounters with Daoism have been diverse and complicated, indicating that “the recently emerging relationship with Daoism cannot be understood simply in terms of Western power over a passive and subjugated Orient” (p. 7). Thus, while there is always a certain politicization of texts, in the case of Daoism this has not been particularly pervasive. Nonetheless, as we read these germinal works we must remain aware that all translations are perspectival interpretations.

RHETORICAL PERSONAE Many traditional approaches to textual analysis make the seemingly obvious assumption that it is valuable to examine the author, or rhetor, as a central contextual factor. If nothing else, identifying authorship provides a historical time frame for the text that can point to significant social forces that may have interacted with the rhetorical act or artifact. Situating the texts upon which I rely, however, is complicated by the fact that there were no extant or systematic historical records of China until centuries after the

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deaths of the Daoist sages; the lack of clear records makes it difficult to separate folklore from fact. Grigg (1995) points out “there is no definitive evidence that Lao Tzu himself even existed” (p. 123). The book Dao de jing was originally titled Laozi, in accordance with the Chinese custom of attributing philosophical texts to a named figure thought to have originated or popularized the ideas (Kaltenmark, 1965). The most prevalent, and I think credible, view is that Dao de jing is a composite work. Ames and Hall (2003) agree: “It would seem that a great many hands across an expanse of time set down, sorted, re-sorted, edited, and collated the Daodejing and the materials that constitute it” (p. 7). While the precise compilation dates for Dao de jing are unknown, Ames and Hall, in a recent and impressive translation and commentary, maintain that the book was “born” during the Warring States Period (circa 403–221 B.C.E.). The text is also referred to in Zhuangzi, indicating the order in which those works were rendered. Like the Dao de jing, the authorship of the Zhuangzi is uncertain. The text is widely considered to be a composite of several works by different authors from different periods of time (Clarke, 2000). The book is divided into three sections—the Inner Chapters (1–7), the Outer Chapters (8–22), and the Miscellaneous Chapters (23–33). The Inner Chapters are thought to be composed by a single individual, most likely the historical Zhuang Zhou (Chuang Chou), during the Warring States period (Clarke, 2000; Graham, 1986; Roth, 1991). The Inner Chapters, which are my focus in chapter 3, contain “all the major themes for which the Chuang Tzu has been renowned” (Roth, 1991, p. 80). The core text of Art of War, consisting of thirteen chapters, was probably written by Sun Wu or his disciples (Ames, 1993; Griffith, 1963; Huang, 1993; Sawyer, 1994). Because of questions regarding the accuracy of historical records, and the possibility that Art of War was compiled by adherents of Sun Wu after his death, there are conflicting ideas regarding when it was written. According to Ames, the historical Sun Wu is estimated to have lived circa 544-496 B.C.E., making him “a contemporary of Confucius at the end of the Spring-Autumn period” (p. 18). Most scholars date the compilation of Art of War somewhere between the end of the Spring-Autumn period and the late Warring States period (Ames, 1993; Griffith, 1963; Huang, 1993; Sawyer, 1994). Regardless of its exact date of compilation, Art of War responds to major philosophical perspectives and political events that occurred during the intense military campaigns of the latter SpringAutumn period (circa 770–481 B.C.E.), and the text informed military strategists during the brutal Warring States period (circa 403–221 B.C.E.). In sum, all three texts upon which I rely were most likely compiled between the fifth and third centuries B.C.E., during the Spring-Autumn

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and Warring States periods. Sunzi’s teachings appear first, followed by Laozi and Zhuangzi, who were preceded by and highly aware of Confucius.2 Furthermore, it is likely that many hands, either original authors and/or translators, have crafted the works of these sages. They are “not the heroic inventions of a single originating author but redactions created over periods of time out of a variety of sources, shaped by a mixture of influences and interpreted in widely different ways” (Clarke, 2000, p. 50). Consequently, I treat Laozi, Zhuangzi, and Sunzi as rhetorical personae and not necessarily actual historical figures solely responsible for particular texts.

POLITICAL CONTEXT The political climate of the Spring-Autumn and Warring States periods is a critical spur to not only Daoism but also many of Asia’s most profound thinkers, writers, and artists. The years of chaos spawned a free and diverse intellectual environment that “laid the foundation for subsequent literary forms, philosophical thinking, and cultural formation” (Lu, 1998, p. 66). This era, the “Golden Age” of Chinese literature, includes the life and works of Confucius, as well as Laozi, Zhuangzi, and Sunzi. Graham (1989) observes in reference to the ancient scholars that their “whole thinking is a response to the breakdown of the moral and political order which had claimed the authority of Heaven” (p. 3). This political context is rooted in the Zhou (Chou) dynasty, which was formed around 1100 B.C.E. While the early years of Zhou rule are thought of as a Golden Age that unified the world, the “dynasty” gradually disintegrated to a point where city-states operated on an independent basis with little or no acceptance of, let alone deference to, the house of Zhou. Zhou kings were plagued by the problem of controlling a vast empire of “disparate peoples and far-flung territories with only a small Chou population” (Sawyer, 1994, p. 48). Barbarians to the north and west presented an ongoing danger to the dynasty. The kings countered these threats by granting fiefs and monetary rewards to feudal lords who pledged loyalty to the Zhou. As the feudal lords became more powerful, the central government became increasingly ineffectual. Within a few generations, the power of the western Zhou began to erode precipitously. In 770 B.C.E., after years of barbarian attacks, the Zhou lost their western capital. The Zhou capital was retrenched in the east, and the loss of political power by the Zhou royal house allowed the city-states, ruled by feudal lords, to exert increasing power. Lords of some of the more power-

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ful states were eager to fill the power vacuum left by the weak central government, but no city-state was strong enough to control the others. The result was a period of continual battle for conquest and survival. In the period from 722–464 B.C.E., at least 110 states were conquered or annexed (Sawyer, 1994). Eventually, a permanent imbalance of power prevailed: The conflicts of the Spring and Autumn period had segmented China into seven powerful survivor-states, each contending for control of the realm, and fifteen weaker states for them to prey upon. The feudal lords had by then evolved into despotic monarchs who were compelled to nurture the development of extensive economic and political bureaucracies just to survive. (Sawyer, 1994, p. 53) No state was immune, “and even the most powerful state, should it fail to prepare its defenses and train its soldiers, could be vanquished” (Sawyer, 1994). In the following centuries, from 464–222 B.C.E., “wars were even longer and larger” (Hsu, 1965, p. 77), so much so that 403–221 B.C.E. became known as the Warring States period (Ames, 1993; Sawyer, 1994). This era was noted for its “political and emotional turmoil, constant warfare, treachery, and personal danger” (Major, 1975, p. 265). According to Sawyer (1994), “the scale of conflict surged phenomenally” (p. 53). Even the minor states “easily fielded armies of 100,000 and the strongest . . . reportedly maintained a standing army of nearly a million,” mobilizing “600,000 for a single campaign” (Sawyer, 1994, p. 54). As the size of warfare increased so did its brutality: The “art” of warfare progressed from swarming militia to the efficiency of phalanx-like fixed troop formations. At every level of innovation, from the introduction of cavalry, to standard issue crossbows, to siege engines, these instruments of aggression made a folly of defense. Cities were walled and fortified only to be breached; borders were drawn up only to be redrawn; alliances were formed only to be betrayed; treaties were signed only to be reneged upon. (Ames & Hall, 2003, p. 1) The ability to project these powerful armies into battle constituted an enormous threat to all: “In the race to empire, the game was zero-sum. And to lose was to perish utterly” (p. 1). Constant offensive warfare, political betrayal, and official corruption dominated life in classical China. Ames and Hall (2003) point out that

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“for generation after generation, death became a way of life, so that mothers gave birth to sons with the expectation that they would never reach majority” (p. 1). Tremendous energy was devoted to coping with the uncertainty and brutality of everyday life.

PHILOSOPHICAL CONTEXT The political context in classical China had significant philosophical implications. The central authority, both politically and spiritually, was disrupted during the Spring-Autumn and Warring States periods and China was divided into independent feudal territories ruled by various lords. These rulers tended to the ceremonial needs of spiritual practice, but because of the decentralization of political power, spiritual authority had also been scattered. Rulers were desperate for sources of philosophical insight, political ideas, and military strategies that “would ensure peace and prosperity to their people, increased power for themselves and hegemony over the whole land” (Smith, 1980, p. 3). This invigorated the shih, or scholar class, who found themselves with valuable opportunities to influence rulers and thus increase their own prestige. The rulers, with but little understanding of the arts of government, sought the advice of learned men of various schools of thought. In return they offered positions of prestige and dignity, and lavished wealth and honours on those whom they trusted. To these blandishments of the rulers the Taoist mystics turned a deaf ear. (p. 3) These philosophers proliferated, “traveling from one court to another, gathering adherents, propounding their theories and arguing them in open debate, each seeking a prince who would put their way in practice” (Parrinder, 1983, p. 317). The various philosophical perspectives—including Mohist, Legalist, Sophist, and Logician, as well as Daoist and Confucian— have been described as the “Hundred Schools” of philosophy. Daoism and Confucianism arose from the debates of the Hundred Schools as China’s two principal philosophies and indigenous religions.3 From its beginnings in the Dao de jing, Daoism is offered as an alterative to Confucianism. Hence, Daoism is seen in a richer light when juxtaposed with Confucianism as competing responses to challenging social, political, and philosophical conditions in ancient China. Confucius was the founder of the earliest of the “Hundred Schools.” By the year 100 B.C.E. Confucianism became the official philosophy of

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China, emerging as “final and permanent victor” of the battle for religious dominance. Furthermore, “for nearly two thousand years the Confucian canon was the mainstay of the curriculum in Chinese education” (Parrinder, 1983, p. 305). The imperial house and the Chinese ruling establishment have been pre-eminently Confucian, and Confucianism as the dominant philosophy of administrative classes became institutionalized in official rites and ceremonies and in the imperial sacrifices. In this way, it became part of the apparatus of government. Classical Chinese philosophy is centered on the Dao, but Confucians and Daoists view the Dao differently. While Daoists emphasize tian Dao, the Way of Heaven, Confucians focus on ren Dao, the Way of Human. Confucius was interested in the perfection of the human in society. He taught what he believed was the correct, moral way to live, prescribing detailed guidelines for behavior. Confucius believed that the good order once existed in the two preceding dynasties and that the only hope for the future was to recapture the past splendor by restoring the values and practices of a prior golden age. Drawing on the authority of revered ancestors, and from a long and sacred tradition of religious ceremony, Confucius created a system of moral conduct governing virtually every aspect of life. His code for proper conduct governed not only morality, but also dress, manners, demeanor, and gesture (Parrinder, 1983). Enlightenment was achieved through study of the classics and respectful participation in correct ritual, custom, and tradition (Schwartz, 1985). This orientation allows everyone to know what is expected of them and others as well as how to conduct oneself. Duty and social propriety are clearly marked paths. Daoists would agree with Confucians that the Dao had been lost and that this explained the current problems in society. They disagree in the notion of why the Dao was lost and where it may be discovered. For Confucians, the problem was forgotten traditions and the solution was a strict conduct code, the observance of rituals, and resurrection of practices of sage monarchs. For Zhuangzi, the Dao had been lost because of the human’s alienation from nature. The answer was not duty to ancestral traditions but to align oneself with the eternal, universal force of the Dao by living consistently with the natural world, recognizing the unity of things rather than their distinctions, and transcending the material world. Disillusioned by the scheming, intrigues and sycophancy of the feudal courts, and highly critical of the social conventions, elaborate ceremonial, moral precepts, and detailed rules of behaviour which formed a veneer to cover hypocrisy and selfseeking, the early Taoists contrasted the artificialities of man-

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made institutions with the ordered sequences of natural processes. (Smith, 1980, p. 4) While Confucius’s “superior man” overcomes natural, base drives, Zhuangzi’s “pure man” or “true man” adapts to nature and avoids imposing human ways on the rhythm of the universe. The Confucian solution to chaos, from the perspective of the Daoists, entrenched the problem, by insisting on conformity with humanmade laws, and moved humans further from the Dao of Heaven. The natural way is thus “trivialized by recourse to contrived rules and artificial relationships that are dehumanizing, and by strategies for social regulation that privilege an ordered uniformity over spontaneity” (Ames & Hall, 2003, p. 32). While the Confucian perspective created order, it endorsed humanism and hierarchy. To a Daoist, it is capable of leading “socially to nepotism, parochialism, and jingoism, and within the natural environment, to anthropocentrism, speciesism, and the pathetic fallacy” (p. 32).

CONCLUSION While the task of approaching classical Daoism with sensitivity toward context might seem problematic, especially for an English speaker in the twenty-first century, the dynamic, generative nature of Daoism deproblematizes this issue. There is no inherent reason why a scroll penned by Laozi himself would be more “genuine” or useful for us than an English translation rendered over two thousand years later. The Dao itself is universal, but changing. The ways we perceive and talk about the Dao are always reflections of our perspectives. Our discussions will always be tempered by the inadequacy of language to account for the ineffable. Yet these difficulties are no different from the ones Laozi faced, and they are not insurmountable. In fact, what makes this book unique is that its objective is not only a deeper understanding of Daoism, but also a study of the uses of rhetoric. What is of particular interest to rhetoricians, and will be centered throughout this book, are the methods the sages used to communicate given these difficulties. A study in Daoist rhetoric is a study in working with the fluctuating ineffable with imperfect tools. It is because of these challenges that we can learn much from the rhetoric of the Daoist sages.

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CHAPTER 2

Laozi and the Natural Way of Rhetoric

According to legend, Laozi was the curator of the Royal Library and keeper of the archives at the imperial court. Sometime after the age of eighty, he became tired of his work, disgusted with the abuses of the court, and saddened and disillusioned that people were unwilling to follow the path to natural goodness. He attempted to flee from the kingdom, setting out for the western border of China, toward what is now Tibet. The warden of the frontier guard stopped him at the border and insisted that he write down his teachings and ideas before he departed. Laozi then composed in five thousand characters the Dao de jing. While the legend behind the Dao de jing is highly disputable, there is no question that the text has had a profound influence on the world. Ames and Hall (2003) note that it “has probably been translated into the English language more often than any other piece of world literature” (p. ix). Lu (1998) says, “one cannot truly understand the Chinese mind without understanding the Daoist sensibilities embodied in the Dao De Jing.” The teachings “have permeated every area of Chinese life” (Lu, 1998, p. 228). The central focus of Laozi’s philosophy is encapsulated in the terms found in the title of his work—Dao and de—and I will begin with the first and end with the latter. In between are explorations of the concepts of “yin/yang polarity,” “the natural way,” “harmony,” and “wu-wei.” These concepts are key components of the substance of Daoist rhetoric. I will next examine Laozi’s insights regarding language and appropriate communication as well as his own use of rhetoric. This analysis allows consideration of the consistency of Laozi’s rhetoric with his philosophy and indicates principles of rhetorical strategy and method. 23

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KEY CONCEPTS Dao has been literally translated as “way” or “path.” Contextually, it can also refer to a skillful, artful, or effective method or approach. Hence, we can refer to the Dao of architecture, war, or wellness. Numerous books, typically titled, The Dao of (blank), attempt to convey this sense of the Dao. Dao can also mean a power or energy source. Consider, the next time you watch Star Wars, substituting “Dao” whenever you hear a Jedi refer to “the Force.” “Using the Force,” means surrendering to the universe’s energy source in order to tap into it, then focusing that energy to accomplish something. Dao also refers to an ultimate state of being. Athletes sometimes talk about being in a “zone” or “the flow” when they are playing well. Their consciousness is so keenly attuned to the moment that everything fades into the background. Time seems to slow down, and they are able to move instinctively, without thinking, in just the right way. When I bodysurf I sometimes lose track of everything except the ocean. I feel the salt water moving, and “know” where to stand so that I can stroke into a wave, glide almost effortlessly into the wave’s rhythm, and find myself carried to shore like I am floating on air. Only later, when I lose my connection to nature’s rhythms and am no longer with the Dao, do I notice that I am tired, thirsty, and sunburnt; only then do I reflect on where I am and how long I was in the water. Dao can also stand for the underlying reality of all things, as well as the design that stands behind that reality. Wu (1989) translates the first line of the Dao de jing thusly: “Tao can be talked about, but not the Eternal Tao” (ch. 1, p. 3).1 Similarly, Lau (1963) says, “The way that can be spoken of is not the constant way” (ch. 1, p. 57). Hence the Dao that can be communicated is not the ultimate Dao. Is this because the ineffable Dao defies linguistic description, language is limited and cannot adequately represent certain ideas, or both? While questions regarding language will be taken up later, Dao de jing continues to distinguish the nameable and nameless Dao: “the nameless was the beginning of heaven and earth; the named was the mother of myriad creatures” (ch. 1, Lau, 1963, p. 57). Thus, when we name the Dao we refer to the “mother” or creator of all things, while the nameless Dao stands behind creation as the origin of the universe. Of course, there is only Dao, although its forms and processes seem divided and paradoxical: Dao was considered both unchanging in its essences and changing in its expression of that essence: unchanging in that its principles were enduring and encompassing with the capacity to transcend and reconcile opposites; changing in that all

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things were said to undergo a perpetual cyclic movement from birth to death to birth to death (25.38–39). (Lu, 1998, p. 230). The Dao’s processes are universal and unnamable. Its manifestations, which can be named, are constantly changing. The Dao can and cannot be named because it is eternal and universal, time-bound and particular. We cannot find words to express the nameless Dao because we cannot apprehend the universal. We can label Dao “the ultimate reality,” or “the grand design of the universe,” but that does not tell us what is that reality or design; no words can express the ultimate infinite. Furthermore, we cannot use words for the Dao because naming something demarcates its opposite. “Is” implies “is not.” Since the Dao is everything, it has no “is not.” Thus, we cannot speak of the Dao since there is no not-Dao. To distinguish the Dao that can be named from the nameless Dao is also to say that we can name certain aspects of the Dao. We have some ability to describe what is with language. But the total and all-encompassing nature of the Dao cannot be expressed in words. It is the sense of the Dao as the “ultimate design” that I tend to think of and refer to when I contemplate or attempt to communicate its meaning. Yet, at the same time, I recognize that all of these meanings of the Dao overlap to a certain extent, and can be appropriate. They are only distinguishable through a specific context, because the nature of the Dao is the unity that is all. Tai chi exercise, Feng shui placement, and numerous martial arts techniques are grounded in the Dao. Because the Dao is the way, it makes available efficacious methods and approaches that tap into the design of the universe. Furthermore, we can lose ourselves and become one with the unity, allowing us to move with the rhythm of the universe. It is also important to remember that the Dao, because it is all, includes the potential of all that is not. Consider the color “black.” It is an undifferentiated void in the sense that it can be defined as the absence of light. At the same time, black is a nonvoid containing and sustaining all things because when all colors are combined together they become black. Hence, black can be seen as a unification of all things—the result of blending everything together. Furthermore, black does everything by doing nothing because it is the completion of all things, the combination of all colors; and it is the potential for all things because it takes no particular form. It has the boundless potential to be anything if light is introduced. Similarly, the Dao is all that is and will be. It is the named, as mother or creator of what is, and the nameless, as the boundless potential of everything that can be. It does everything and nothing. It is the many and the one.

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Reality is a flow of events that emanate from the constant interaction of the opposing forces of yin and yang. Yin is passive energy— motionless and still, sometimes described as feminine, earthy, or dark. Yang is active and overt energy—male, fiery, or light. According to Laozi, the Dao is the source of these two elements: “Tao gave birth to One, One gave birth to Two, Two gave birth to Three; Three gave birth to all the myriad things” (ch. 42, Wu, 1989, p. 87). Laozi goes on to explain that everything is formed and harmonized by the interaction of the two: “All the myriad things carry the Yin on their backs and hold the Yang in their embrace, deriving their vital harmony from the proper blending of the two vital breaths” (p. 87). Of course, nothing is entirely yin or yang. The process of change places one or the other in ascendancy, but at its peak, it recedes, just like the darkest moment of night is immediately followed by a touch of light. Hence, the constant blending of opposites, the mingling of all things into the one thing, constitute the rhythm and design of the universe. In this view it does not make sense to think of things or creatures as “objects” that have unchanging features, elements, or essences. All creatures are constantly moving, and the sense of permanence, or at least control, which so often accompanies Western worldviews, is illusionary. We may see ourselves, for example, as stable entities. In fact, at the molecular level, our cells are constantly degenerating and regenerating. In order to stay alive, your body must live on the wings of change. At this moment, you are exhaling atoms of hydrogen, oxygen, carbon, and nitrogen that just an instant before were locked up in solid matter; your stomach, liver, heart, lungs, and brain are vanishing into thin air, being replaced as quickly and endlessly as they are being broken down. (Chopra, 1993, p. 9) We readily recognize that our hair and fingernails grow, but we are not as cognizant of the fact that our entire bodies—skin, bones, and organs—are regenerating. The skin replaces itself once a month, the stomach lining every five days, the liver every six weeks, and the skeleton every three months. To the naked eye these organs look the same from moment to moment, but they are always in flux. By the end of this year, 98 percent of the atoms in your body will have been exchanged for new ones. (p. 9)

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We might also be tempted to think of solid objects as stable or fixed, but at a microscopic level they are being eroded and degraded. They may also provide habitats for microscopic creatures. They “breathe,” in the sense that they accumulate and discharge humidity, and their temperature changes. Chopra (1993) notes, “quantum physics tells us that every atom is more than 99.9999 percent empty space, and the subatomic particles moving at lightning speed through this space are actually bundles of vibrating energy” (p. 15). Thus, at a molecular level, “solid” objects are mostly space, and the constant movement of vibrating particles of energy enlivens the space. All things come into existence from the one, by virtue of their interaction. Constant flux and transformation is the natural state, or nature, of the process that makes everything as one. Hence, life itself, as well as individual identity, is enabled by the natural way of things, and “nature” becomes a crucial touchstone for conduct. Just like everything else, nature has a oneness but it also can be differentiated or particularized. Nature may thus be universal, as in this example from Laozi: “for something to be old while in its prime is called a departure from the way of things. And whatever departs from the way of things will come to an untimely end” (ch. 30, Ames & Hall, 2003, p. 123). We can also consider particular qualities that are natural for certain things: “some move ahead while others follow behind; some breathe to warm themselves while others breathe to cool themselves down; some are strong while others are disadvantaged; some accumulate while others collapse” (ch. 29, p. 122). The sage understands the natural way and attends to the universal and particular—the one and the many. When the world is in a state of equilibrium, it is harmonious and balanced. And for the world to be harmonious, individuals, and all its constituents, must be harmonious. Since identity inheres in the interactions of reality, one is completed by all others. To be a balanced person, the universe must also be balanced. Harmony, in Daoism, is a paramount goal for human activity. The Dao created a natural equilibrium where everything blended perfectly, but Laozi acknowledges that humans have the ability to follow what is natural or defy the natural way and be governed by human conventions. For example, it is natural to make minor adjustments to adapt to different circumstances. The way of tian is like archers drawing their bows. To hit something high in the air, they pull the string downward; to hit something lower, they pull the string upward. When they have

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drawn the string too far back, they let some go, and when they have not drawn it far enough, they pull harder. (ch. 77, p. 196) But humans do not readily make the minor adjustments to sustain the equilibrium of the world. The way of human beings, on the other hand is not like this at all. It is instead to take away from those who do not have enough in order to give more to those who already have too much. (p. 196) Whether we act out of greed or benevolence, the outcome will be disastrous if we are motivated by our desire and not the natural way. Laozi laments the shortcomings of the rulers of the Spring-Autumn and Warring States periods and notes the solution to the problems of the world is for rulers to stop acting out of personal desire and be guided by the larger, universal way of things: “in not desiring, they would achieve equilibrium, and all the world would be properly ordered of its own accord” (ch. 37, p. 134). In fact, much of Laozi’s advice is directed to rulers and his urging is for them to restore the natural way. What exactly is the natural way? After all, one can argue that it is natural for humans to try to conquer disease and fly to the moon, since humans have done these things. By this reasoning it is also natural to commit genocide and destroy the ability of the Earth to sustain its various species, because our history includes genocide and we now have the capacity for ecological destruction. In response, I suspect Laozi would remind us of two things. First, the Earth, if not blown to bits, will retain a capacity for life regardless of human activity. There was a time before humans, and the future will not necessarily include human life. Species die when the environmental field cannot enable and sustain them. Ultimately, humans may tragically learn that the natural way stands above human convention. It would seem wise to recognize that our ability to do something does not make it natural or desirable. If humans wish to be a part of the world, then Laozi believes they are at risk when they set themselves apart from it. If someone wants to rule the world, and goes about trying to do so, I foresee that they simply will not succeed. The world is a sacred vessel, and is not something that can be ruled. Those who would rule it ruin it; those who would control it lose it. (ch. 29, p. 122)

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Second, we can perhaps discern what is natural, even for humans, if we use the overall state of nature, not just human tendencies, as a guidepost. Human activity must coordinate with the workings of the rest of the world. Laozi argues that the natural way is temperate and moderate. The example of the archer’s micro adjustments indicates that nature moves constantly but inexorably. Laozi says that is why “the sages eschew the excessive, the superlative, and the extravagant” (p. 122). He suggests that we pay attention to the small things, because they preempt large problems. It is easy to keep one’s grip when things are subtle, it is easy to plan for a situation that has yet to happen, it is easy to snap something that is brittle, it is easy to break something up that is just beginning. Deal with a situation before it happens; Bring it under control before it gets out of hand. (ch. 64, p. 177) Nature also affirms softness and flexibility: While living, people are supple and soft, but once dead, they become hard and rigid cadavers. While living, the things of this world and its grasses and trees are pliant and fragile, but once dead, they become withered and dry. Thus it is said: Things that are hard and rigid are the companions of death; Things that are supple and soft are the companions of life. (ch. 76, p. 195) One of Laozi’s favorite metaphors to illustrate these principles is water. Nothing in this world is as soft and weak as water and yet in attacking what is hard and strong, there is nothing that can surpass it. This is because there is nothing that can be used in its stead. There is no one in the world that does not know that the soft prevails over the hard and the weak prevails over the strong, and yet none are able to act accordingly. (ch. 78, p. 197) The way of nature is balance and harmony that derives from diversity and interdependence. Nature also moves slowly and is best adapted to with minor changes made early and often. Life is affirmed by being soft and flexible, while hardness and rigidity move toward death. Nature also stands at the intersection of theory and practice. It is understood theoretically as a manifestation of Daoist cosmology and

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expression of ontology. Practically, nature is the movement of the here and now that we all experience. Its pragmatic sense is enlivened by the concept wu-wei, which is the expression of the natural way in human activity. The presence of wu-wei in one’s actions indicates that the individual is aligned with the natural way of doing things. Wu-wei refers to effortless action—the ability to accomplish without coercion. When one is aligned with the Dao it is possible to move like a leaf on a stream of water. One abandons the Western sense of being goal oriented, that is, driven to achieve something external, and instead attempts to enact one’s internal nature. To be moved by one’s nature requires no effort. A tree does not try to be a tree; it simply is one. Similarly, a Daoist does not strategize and strive to achieve humanistic objectives but simply moves in accordance with the natural coherence of the world. Once again, water exemplifies a difficult concept: “The softest things in the world ride roughshod over the hardest things. Only the least substantial thing can penetrate the seamless. This is how we know that doing things noncoercively [wu-wei] is beneficial” (ch. 43, p. 145). To be with the Dao also means that one is thinking only of the moment and what is at hand. The attention is so keenly focused on the nature of the present that there is no planning per se. One simply responds intuitively to the circumstances. When one knows well “the principles, structures, and trends of human and natural affairs” then “one uses the least amount of energy in dealing with them” (Watts, 1975, p. 76). Hence, wu-wei combines comprehensive and innate intelligence “with taking the line of least resistance in all one’s actions” (p. 76). When one accomplishes without exertion it indicates that one knows the Dao and is attuned to the natural way of things. Action that is actionless (wu-wei) entails the ability to flow with the stream of reality. In the sense that wu-wei puts a human component to the natural way, and signifies or marks its presence in an individual, de brings the eternal and theoretical aspects of Daoism to the pragmatic human level. Dao is the container word for the ineffable and it organizes cosmological aspects of Daoism. De is the presence of the potency of the Dao within an individual. It is “the fulfillment of the dao through wise speech and proper action” (Lu, 1998, p. 230). De is frequently translated as virtue or power. For Confucians it is “pursued through one’s full participation in the ritualized community, where achieved excellence in the roles and relationships that constitute one’s person makes one an object of deference for others” (Ames & Hall, 2003, p. 60). In the Daoist context de refers to efficacy or virtuality— “inherent virtue or power to produce effects” (p. 61). Laozi explains that

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it does not result from cultivation of ritualized human conventions, but from a communion with the Dao. Way-making [dao] gives things their life, and their particular efficacy [de] is what nourishes them. Events shape them, and having a function consummates them. It is for this reason that all things honor way-making and esteem efficacy. As for the honor directed at way-making and the esteemed directed at efficacy, it is really something that just happens spontaneously without having ennobled them. (ch. 51, p. 156) It must be remembered that de is not overtly powerful but quietly so. In fact, the highest efficacy may be invisible or involve the use of proxies. Those who are good as students are not militant; those who are good at waging war are not belligerent; those who are good at vanquishing their enemies do not join issue; those who are good at employing others place themselves beneath them. This is what is called having noncontentious efficacy [de]. It is what is called making use of others. It is what is called an axis that is as old as the heavens. (Ch. 68, pp. 184–85) This communion allows one to be highly productive. Those with de can be thought of as “paragons of achieved excellence” (p. 61). Their de is both generated by their character and the recognition conferred by those around them (p. 60). Thus, those with de are efficacious because they manifest qualities of the Dao and produce outcomes that engender gratitude and appreciation, which further enables their accomplishments. In this sense, de is a marker for the Dao in an individual. When one has de, one is with the Dao. We cannot “see” the Dao, but we can note its manifestation in an individual as de. De gives a particularity to the Dao and indicates that an individual is walking the path of the Dao. While this overview of Daoism provides mere glimpses of its principles, it seems fair to ask if Daoism is valuable for those who do not understand or accept it as a worldview. I believe that Daoist principles are important even without Daoist metaphysics. Daoism highlights the continuity or connection between all things. We are reminded that we are part of something that is larger than ourselves. Furthermore, things have come before us and things will continue after our bodies leave the earth. We are interdependent creatures who are invited to find our identities in interaction, pay attention to the small details, and consider the ease with which

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we go through life. We are encouraged to reject human conventions that are inconsistent with the bigger picture, accept the inevitability of change, and avoid the dangers of conquest. The Dao also forces us to question, discern, and discover. While there is a sense of destiny, it is not predetermined. We can deny our nature and make choices that are inconsistent with the natural flow for us. These observations provide a foundation for discussions of equality, environmentalism, and social justice. The issues are global, yet also abound in communities, organizations, and individual relationships.2 The indeterminacy of the future, possibility for choice, and stakes involved in our decisions also create a vital space for rhetoric.

LANGUAGE AND RHETORIC Laozi’s views on rhetoric entail a philosophy of language woven into his views on the use of language. As was noted earlier, Laozi’s philosophy of language recognizes the inability of words, which are finite and temporal, to express what is infinite. The Dao includes all things, even those for which there are no words yet, as well as things that have not come into material existence. Any use of language to express the Dao would inherently devalue its magnitude. But were way-making [dao] to be put into words: It could be said to be so bland and insipid that it has no taste. Look for it and there is nothing to see, listen for it and there is nothing to hear, and yet in availing oneself of it, it is inexhaustible. (ch. 35, p. 132) Laozi’s statement that the Dao that be put into words is not the universal Dao suggests that universal statements are impossible, thus a linguistic claim is always particular and projects the rhetor’s unique standpoint at a given time. Laozi’s precepts for effective use of language begin with recognition of its shortcomings. He points out that “those who understand it do not talk about it, and those who really talk about it do not understand it” (ch. 56, p. 164). In fact, “rare are those in the world who reach an understanding of the benefits of teaching that go beyond what can be said, and of doing things noncoercively” (ch. 43, p. 145). Logically, communicators must resign themselves to the conditionality of their discourse or find modes of expression that do not rely on words.

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A consistent theme of Laozi is that we should avoid contentiousness. The Dao de jing ends with the line, “the way of sages is to do without contending” (ch. 81, p. 204). Earlier, Laozi says “it is only because there is no contentiousness in proper way-making that it incurs no blame” (ch. 8, p. 87). Oliver (1971) maintains that this theme is the singular rhetorical insight. The rhetorical contribution in the writings derived from LaoTzu is their insight concerning the futility of argument and contention, their recognition that nobody wins an argument, that he who appears to win actually loses more than he gains. (p. 235) Oliver (1971) believes that Laozi’s focus on the singular Dao and the futility of overt uses of force recommends a strategy of “identification of the contesting viewpoints with a higher good so inclusive of complementary ideas that their true unity becomes evident” (p. 236). While I agree with much of what Oliver observes, it will be shown that Laozi suggests additional implications besides the futility of argument. Furthermore, the notion of transcending and identifying with the universal glosses over some of the nuances of interaction. If I say, “the big fish eat the little fish,” someone can counter with “piranhas eat bigger fish.” Yet this retort does not actually invalidate the original claim as much as it reduces its generalizability. It can be the case sometimes, even most of the time, that big fish eat little fish, but it can also be true that there are exceptions, such as in the case of piranha. The second claim is thus additional information and not complete contradiction. The second claim reveals the general, but nonuniversal, nature of the initial claim and/or the unique vantage point of the person who utters the comment (and may not know about piranha). One could argue that the move to see the two claims as noncompetitive is an act of transcendence, but even then the move does not rely on identification with a higher good. Both statements, like all discourse, remain particularized and do not require reconciliation through transcendence. One cannot universalize particulars; hence claims that appear competitive are not because they represent discrete statements of localized actors at a given point in time. A strategic response might be transcendence, but it is also viable to remain silent or reframe the seemingly disputed claims. Thus Laozi not only points out the futility of arguing because of the universality of reality, but also because of the particularity of perception and limitations of language. He suggests further that a

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strategy for avoiding contention is to see the conditional or localized nature of certain claims. Recognizing their limitations allows one to avoid the need to contest them. Laozi warns not only against arguing, but also excessive verbiage or ornamentation. He sees verbosity as unnatural: “It is natural to speak only rarely. Violent winds do not last a whole morning and torrential rains do not last a whole day” (ch. 23, p. 111). Furthermore, those who are with the Dao realize that their words are simply attempts to express the Dao. They are part of the Dao, but are not the Dao itself. Words are markers of meaning and not significant in themselves. Laozi suggests that “able travelers leave no ruts or tracks along the way; Able speakers make no gaffes that might occasion reproach” (ch. 27, p. 119). Communicators must not draw too much attention to their words but must focus on the Dao. This also suggests another approach for noncontention—avoiding mistakes, perhaps over claims, thereby preempting further argument. Because knowledge is an attunement with the natural workings of the world, it is largely apprehended through the ongoing assessment of the world itself. Words have very limited utility in this scheme, and a reliance on words may indicate a lack of true insight. Words can also be used to obscure the Dao and champion undesirable qualities. Those who are not self-promoting are distinguished, those who do not show off shine, those who do not brag have lots to show, those who are not self-important are enduring. It is only because they do not contend that none are able to contend with them. (ch. 22, p. 110) Hence, “credible words are not eloquent; Eloquent words are not credible” (p. 203).

THE RHETORIC OF LAOZI Laozi recognizes the inadequacies of language and the nonproductivity of argumentation, yet uses words to espouse a philosophy in opposition to Confucianism in the Dao de jing. Notice that he does not advocate silence, nor is he opposed to the use of language. His advice to communicators is to speak naturally, that is, rarely and plainly. Furthermore, words must be chosen very carefully. Communicators must focus on the Dao, and cycle their linguistic choices through a lens that sees the particular and its connection to or inclusion in the universal.

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Scholars have analyzed the ways that Laozi operationalizes his philosophy in his own use of rhetoric (Xiao, 2002; Chen & Holt, 2002). Considering Laozi’s rhetoric from these vantage points reveals the consistency of his philosophy and rhetoric and the potential for additional insights about rhetoric. Xiao (2002) notes that Laozi uses three methods to communicate the Dao: negation, paradox, and analogy. Negation is a way of describing the Dao by what it is not: “as for this ‘one’—its surface is not dazzling nor is its underside dark” (ch. 14, Ames & Hall, 2003, p. 96). Since attributing positive qualities to something indicates also what it is not, Laozi avoids limiting the infinite Dao, by stating negatively what the Dao is not. The second rhetorical strategy Xiao identifies is paradox. Laozi is fond of using the seemingly contradictory to indicate that the Dao is neither one thing nor its opposite, but both simultaneously: “The bright Way looks dim. The progressive Way looks retrograde. The smooth Way looks rugged. . . . Great sound is silent. Great Form is shapeless” (ch. 41, Wu, 1989, p. 85). Paradox can also teach us how to conduct ourselves: “Bend and you will be whole. Curl and you will be straight. Keep empty and you will be filled. Grow old and you will be renewed” (ch. 22, p. 45). Paradox functions rhetorically by forcing the audience to confront inconsistency that is posed as consistent. The incongruity is meant to be uncomfortable, spurring insight by challenging habitual assumptions. Furthermore, Laozi’s methods are not discrete. For example, he combines negation with paradox to invite new ways of thinking about the Dao: “following behind you will not see its rear; Encountering it you will not see its head” (ch. 14, Ames & Hall, 2003, p. 96). Xiao argues that negation and paradox are “destructive” or negative ways of communicating, and notes a final and positive method Laozi uses: analogy and metaphor. Analogies and metaphors allow rhetors to move beyond the limitations of language because their meaning is not literal but is informed by context. Chen and Holt (2002) examine Laozi’s use of the water metaphor in order to make its metaphysical principles meaningful at the social and behavioral levels. Specifically, they demonstrate ways that Laozi “employs the water metaphor as a persuasive tool in Dao De Jing for the purpose of reforming social life” (p. 154). Water becomes a proof of the value of vacuity, softness/weakness, and subordination/ noncompetition. To these insights I add an additional positive rhetorical method that Laozi employs: the use of vague expressions to refer to the Dao. Words such as “indeterminate,” “empty,” and “bottomless,” indicate what the Dao is, but they do little to limit its vastness: “Way-making [Dao] being empty,

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you make use of it but do not fill it up. So abysmally deep—it seems the predecessor of everything that is happening” (ch. 4, Ames & Hall, 2003, p. 83). By using vague referents to positively describe the Dao, Laozi maintains an ambiguity that does not detract from the infinity of the negative. This analysis of the Dao de jing suggests a number of implications for rhetoric. First, it specifies the substance of Daoist rhetoric by outlining basic Daoist principles. Second, it notes Laozi’s strategic approach, to speak naturally, and indicates that the natural style is brief and plain. Third, examinations of the rhetoric of Laozi reveal his use of four methods for communicating Daoism: negation and paradox (negative methods), as well as analogy/metaphor and vague expressions (positive). Finally, the analysis suggests that Laozi’s rhetoric is consistent with his philosophy. His rhetoric is conditioned by the limitations of language and the ineffability of the Dao. Yet he uses a strategy and methods that are consistent with his natural way of communication.

CHAPTER 3

Zhuangzi and the Rhetoric of Evocation

Zhuangzi stands with Laozi as the best known ancient Daoist philosophers. His germinal work, Zhuangzi, has been lauded as a literary masterpiece and philosophical classic (Schwartz, 1985; Graham, 1989). Creel (1970) proclaims Zhuangzi “the finest philosophical work known to me, in any language” (p. 55). Despite Zhuangzi’s literary and philosophical significance, it has received little attention from rhetorical scholars. Lu (1998) offers a notable exception to the scant treatment of Zhuangzi’s rhetoric. She identifies six elements that characterize his rhetoric: (1) three models of speech; (2) paradoxical and oxymoronic sayings; (3) fables or parables; (4) pseudodialogues; (5) reconstructed anecdotes; and (6) glorification of the ugly and handicapped. The three models of speech are imputed words, repeated words, and goblet words. Imputed words were those put into the mouths of individuals who were not followers of Zhuangzi. By using this strategy, Zhuangzi could freely express himself through other persons. Repeated words were those spoken by respected and established elders, primarily Confucius and Laozi. This strategy appealed to the Chinese cultural tendency to value the elders and, in the process, also added to the credibility and persuasive effect of Zhuangzi’s ideas. Goblet words were those used to present all sides of an issue, giving equal treatment to different schools of thoughts. (Lu, 1998, p. 251) These language strategies, as well as other rhetorical elements, are frequenly presented by Zhuangzi in the form of fables and parables. 37

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This examination of the Zhuangzi is centered on a parable contained in the fifth of the seven Inner Chapters, supplemented by other key passages from the Inner Chapters. The parable is particularly interesting because it encapsulates the major ideas in the text. Furthermore, it exemplifies several of Zhuangzi’s rhetorical methods. Besides being a parable, the story uses imputed words, repeated words, pseudodialogue between Duke Ai and Confucius, paradox, and glorification of the ugly. The analysis deepens our understanding of key elements of Zhuangzi’s rhetoric delineated by Lu (1998). It demonstrates further that, given the constraints of Daoism, Zhuangzi was a remarkably adept rhetorician and his use of rhetoric provides valuable insights on rhetorical theory and its relationship to Asian culture. I conclude that the defining characteristic of Zhuangzi’s rhetorical strategy is evocativeness—the use of rhetoric designed to induce others to join in a communication interaction and engage in self-persuasion.

PRELUDE AND PARABLE The central action of the parable is found in a monologue delivered by Duke Ai of Lu within a dialogue with Confucius. Duke Ai is recounting his experiences with an unusual man: In Wei there was an ugly man named Ai T’ai-t’o. But when men were around him, they thought only of him and couldn’t break away, and when women saw him, they ran begging to their fathers and mothers, saying “I’d rather be this gentleman’s concubine than another man’s wife!”—there were more than ten such cases and it hasn’t stopped yet. No one ever heard him take the lead—he always just chimed in with other people. He wasn’t in the position of a ruler where he could save men’s lives, and he had no store of provisions to fill men’s bellies. On top of that, he was ugly enough to astound the world, chimed in but never led, and knew no more than what went on right around him. And yet men and women flocked to him. He certainly must be different from other men, I thought, and I summoned him so I could have a look. Just as they said—he was ugly enough to astound the world. But he hadn’t been with me more than a month or so when I began to realize what kind of man he was, and before the year was out, I really trusted him. There was no one in the state to act as chief minister, and I wanted to hand the government over to him. He was vague

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about giving an answer, evasive, as though he hoped to be let off, and I was embarrassed, but in the end I turned the state over to him. Then, before I knew it, he left me and went away. I felt completely crushed, as though I’d suffered a loss and didn’t have anyone left to enjoy my state with. What kind of man is he anyway? (ch. 6, Watson, 1964, p. 76)

INTERPRETATIONS OF THE PARABLE In one sense this is a simple story. A common man, who follows the crowd, has no extraordinary wealth, and is ugly, is nonetheless adored and respected. The moral appears to be that “beauty is only skin deep,” “beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” or “one cannot judge a book by its cover.” These interpretations are appropriate, but they stop short of other possible interpretations that may be more revealing. On further reflection, the simplicity of the story masks its oddities. Given what seemingly little the man had to offer to others, it is difficult to understand why he is adored by all. Both the situation and the extent of his ugliness, the exaggeration, are striking. The man is “ugly enough to astound the world” yet women would rather be his concubine than be married to someone else. Duke Ai is around him for a month and then comes to realize “what kind of man he was.” But we are never told what kind of man he is. What does the Duke see? Apparently, he sees something good, because he forces the control of government onto the unusual man. Again, one is struck with the question “why?” The man “chimed in but never led, and knew no more than what went on right around him.” What qualifies him to lead a government? Finally, the man leaves and “goes away.” Why would the man do this? Where did he go? No motive is discussed. And why is the Duke left with the sense of being “completely crushed, as though I’d suffered a loss and didn’t have anyone left to enjoy my state with.” The man’s initial reluctance to take the job should have tempered any illusions the Duke might foster about the man’s commitment to the position. The story does not say, and one is left with the explicit question “What kind of man is he anyway?” This is certainly a strange tale. All told, there are at least three notable features of the story: the man’s incredible ugliness, his unassumingness, and his ambivalence about government office. Given these three features, it is also interesting to consider the strange attachments other people have for him. Further contemplation of the parable evokes at least three additional interpretations: the man personifies the Dao, exemplifying appropriate

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conduct for individuals; the story is a survival manual for peasants during the Warring States period; and, the narrative suggests and enacts principles for effective communication from a Daoist perspective. The richness of these interpretations in themselves is evidence of the evocative nature of Zhuangzi’s parable. I shall consider each of these interpretations in turn before discussing their implications for rhetoric and culture.

PERSONIFICATION OF THE DAO An interpretation of the story, based on its philosophical context, is that the man personifies the elusive qualities of the Dao, exemplifying the ideal person or True Man. By making a metaphorical connection between a common man and the divine Dao, Zhuangzi helps his audience to find the Dao in their own lives. The unusual man can be seen as the enactment of the Dao when one considers his looks, unassumingness, and effortlessness. These qualities demonstrate that the man epitomizes the Dao by manifesting its fundamental and essential elements. Recall that the man “was ugly enough to astound the world” (a line which is repeated twice), yet people flocked to him and women threw themselves at his feet, begging their parents to allow them to be his concubines. Obviously, people were attracted to the man because they saw something in addition to, or instead of, his physical appearance. What they saw in him was the Dao. Because the Dao is the unification of all things, Daoists are loath to make distinctions in or particularize about the natural world. By making distinctions—perceiving something as good or bad, or defining a person by particular characteristics—one violates the very essence of the Dao. “Whether you point to a little stalk or a great pillar, a leper or the beautiful Hsi-shih, things ribald and shady or things grotesque and strange, the Way makes them all into one” (ch. 2, Watson, 1964, p. 36). For Zhuangzi, posing alternatives and attempting to label things as right or wrong is “the fundamental error in life” (Graham, 1989, p. 186). Consequently, the sage must approach the Dao in the way of the Dao. One must integrate the powers of mind, body, and spirit in order to see the underlying unity and creativity in all things (Blofeld, 1985). Usually, standards that preference particular physical features assess what is judged to be beautiful. Zhuangzi would focus on the universal Dao and not in a particular combination of superficial features: Men claim that Mao-ch’iang and Lady Li were beautiful, but if fish saw them they would dive to the bottom of the stream, if

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birds saw them they would fly away, and if deer saw them they would break into a run. Of these four, which knows how to fix the standard of beauty for the world? (ch. 2, Watson, 1964, p. 41) By making distinctions between things one loses the essence of the Dao. If one judges the man to be ugly then one is committing a fundamental error and indicating a profound alienation from the Dao. The fact that the man does not acknowledge his physicality, let alone define himself by his looks, shows that the man is whole. He personifies the Dao by avoiding distinctions and being unified. While others perceive his particular characteristics, they ultimately discover his de, further testifying to the man’s sagacity. Like the Dao, he can appear ugly or beautiful. Ultimately, he is neither, because the Dao resides in him and makes him one. The demeanor of the man is also an indication of his perfection. He is unpretentious, offers no opinions, and displays no obvious talents. These are the fundamental qualities Zhuangzi perceives in the True Man, Perfect Man, or Great Man: This was the True Man of old: his bearing was lofty and did not crumble; he appeared to lack but accepted nothing; he was dignified in his correctness but not insistent; he was vast in his emptiness but not ostentatious. Mild and cheerful, he seemed to be happy; reluctant, he could not help doing certain things; annoyed, he let it show in his face; relaxed, he rested in his virtue. Tolerant, he seemed to be part of the world; towering alone, he could be checked by nothing; withdrawn, he seemed to prefer to cut himself off; bemused, he forgot what he was going to say. (ch. 6, Watson, 1964, p. 75) The man moves effortlessly and makes no judgments. His de is apparent and the man exemplifies the fundamental Daoist notion of wu-wei. Lu (1998) describes wu-wei as the natural, spontaneous movement that harmonizes everything. Thus, “to live by the Tao is to function like the Tao, to conform with that marvelously effortless way of getting all things done, and to produce what is of use to others as the Tao produces beneficial rains and dews with never a thought of praise or thanks, still less reward” (Blofeld, 1985, p. 44). In other words, one must release oneself from an effortful life “by engaging in the activities which are actionless” (Parrinder, 1983, p. 333). The man is the Dao because his demeanor displays the characteristics of virtue—“limpidity, silence, emptiness, and inaction” (Lu, 1998, p. 243).

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The man recognizes what is fated or destined to be. He has been given a deformity or imperfection of features, something over which he has no control. The challenge for the man is to transcend his material self and unify his total self, thus discovering the Dao: “To know what you can’t do anything about, and to be content with it as you would with fate—only a man of virtue can do that” (ch. 5, Watson, 1964, p. 66). Concentrating on certain aspects of persons is unnatural, since it renounces their fates. Zhuangzi believed that the simplest things, including toads, insects, snakes, and birds, can give insight because they live in nature (Lu, 1998). Furthermore, the seemingly humblest person can serve as an example of the divine. Great wisdom “recognizes small without considering it paltry” (ch. 17, Watson, 1964, p. 98). Thus, Zhuangzi chooses as the hero of this story a person who most people would consider insignificant. Yet, the man is a unified spirit who moves effortlessly. He not only shows us the way by example, he metaphorically is the way. Confucius’s prologue to the parable explains that: Now Ai T’ai-t’o says nothing and is trusted, accomplishes nothing and is loved, so that people want to turn over their states to him and are only afraid he won’t accept. It must be that his powers are whole, though his virtue takes no form. (ch. 5, Watson, 1964, pp. 69–70) This analysis indicates that the unusual man can be viewed as a metaphor for and personification of the Dao. Despite the temptation to judge people and things by their superficial features, perceptions regarding one’s appearance are antithetical to the Dao. The man’s apparent ugliness is thus a “vehicle for perfection” (Wu, 1982, p. 56). If a man of extremely bad looks is capable of transcending his physicality then he must surely be a True Man. He accepts what he cannot change and sees no distinctions that would make him ugly. Hence, it is because of the extreme nature of his gross features that he stands as proof of his own sagacity. Having recognized the mingling of opposites and transcended the material, the unusual man is evidently a personification of the Dao. We learn that by avoiding distinctions, living easily, and being true to nature and fate we may live with the Way. Further, we learn that our outward appearance and the circumstances of the material world are unimportant. The sage recognizes that such matters are the concerns of the foolish. The story also illustrates that the personification of abstract ideals can be an important rhetorical strategy. Zhuangzi attempts to make the Dao accessible to his audience by using a persona, the unusual man, to

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concretize abstract, philosophical concepts. In the same way that Jesus exemplifies goodness to Christians, and Socrates personifies the ideal philosopher for Plato, the unusual man walks in the everyday world and attempts to discover ultimate and profound meaning. Unlike Jesus and Plato, Zhuangzi’s man does not discuss any of his ideas. In fact, he appears devoid of original or profound thought. Instead, the man exhibits ideal behavior, indicating the Dao need not be directly communicated. Rather, one may infer the presence of the Dao through outward demeanor.

MANUAL FOR SURVIVAL The historical, political context that dominated classical Chinese thought also enlivens an account of the story of the unusual man and the bulk of Zhuangzi. Analysis of this context and the text of Zhuangzi reveal that Zhuangzi goes beyond Laozi’s advice for rulers and offers the common peasant a manual for practical living during an incredibly dangerous period in Chinese history. This advice also suggests principles for appropriate ways to communicate. Hsu (1965) observes that the peasant in classical China was, on the whole, “a man of few rights, few opportunities, and few pleasures. He is almost at the bottom of the social scale” (p. 11). The effect of warfare on the peasant class was significant, as war meant conscription and front-line fighting or being killed as a deserter. Despite new opportunities for many people as states were conquered, ancient China remained a place of widespread illiteracy, official corruption, and cruelty. Zhuangzi responded to the brutality of the Warring States period with a message for all of humanity, particularly the peasant class, on how to live harmoniously and in acceptance of one’s lot in life. His goal is to help all people become wise in the Dao, or “True Men.” The story of the unusual man suggests that a sage goes along with the crowd, does not venture an opinion, and possesses nothing that may be deemed valuable by others. Zhuangzi tells us to “follow the middle; go by what is constant, and you can stay in one piece, keep yourself alive, look after your parents, and live out your years” (ch. 3, Watson, 1964, p. 46). Zhuangzi also admonishes us not to bring attention to ourselves, for it may be hazardous to one’s health: Don’t you know about the praying mantis that waved its arms angrily in front of an approaching carriage, unaware that they were incapable of stopping it? Such was the high opinion it had of its talents. Be careful, be on your guard! If you offend him

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by parading your store of talents, you will be in danger! (ch. 4, p. 59) Notice also that when the Duke offered to make him the prime minister the man did not accept. He was “vague about giving an answer,” but in the end the state was turned over to him. After a short time, unexpectedly, “he left me and went away.” Given the political situation, it is not surprising that we are warned to avoid working for a lord. Another chapter of Zhuangzi tells of a time that Zhuangzi was offered a prime ministership: Once, when Chuang Tzu was fishing in the P’u River, the king of Ch’u sent two officials to go and announce to him: “I would like to trouble you with the administration of my realm.” Chuang Tzu held on to the fishing pole and, without turning his head, said, “I have heard that there is a sacred tortoise in Ch’u that has been dead for three thousand years. The king keeps it wrapped in cloth and boxed, and stores it in the ancestral temple. Now would this tortoise rather be dead and have its bones left behind and honored? Or would it rather be alive and dragging its tail in the mud?” “It would rather be alive and dragging its tail in the mud,” said the two officials. Chuang Tzu said, “Go away! I’ll drag my tail in the mud!” (ch. 17, p. 109) When states were vanquished, members of the ruling family, leading citizens, and military officers of a defeated state lost all social status. Hsu (1965) notes, “large numbers of people were forced to undergo this humiliation” (p. 77). Zhuangzi tells us that the prestige of office is shortlived and hardly worth the nearly inevitable consequences. Despite his lack of interest in government office, the unusual man cannot resist when the Duke presses the office onto him. This is because one must “not attempt to control things or go beyond what one can know.” Instead, “resign yourself to what cannot be avoided and nourish what is within you—this is best” (ch. 4, Watson, 1964, pp. 57–58). The man could no longer avoid the Duke and resigned himself to the imposition of office. Of course, before anyone realized what was happening, the man went away, leaving without confronting the Duke. Presumably the man knew that his destiny lie elsewhere and quietly moved on. A key idea that is embedded in the story is that one should avoid communicating uncomfortable ideas. The man did not want the ministership, yet he did not refuse it directly. When he left he did so without con-

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fronting anyone with his decision because leaving would make many people unhappy. The message to communicators is clear: do not use words to draw attention to yourself. Avoid confrontation and conflict, especially when one might be called upon to provide information that would be viewed negatively. Never take the lead in a conversation; just pleasantly chime in with everyone else. A final strategy for coping with difficulties is to transcend them, focusing only on our internal states and avoiding what goes on outside of us. Zhuangzi is a mystic who advocates the use of introspection to reach elevated states of awareness that allow one to transcend the everyday world and align with the eternal, universal one. Being at one with the Dao frees one from physical limitations and otherwise daunting circumstances and allows one to enjoy longevity, perhaps even immortality (Thompson, 1989). Notice that the man in the story is unconcerned about anything that went on around him because “if you abandon the affairs of the world, your body will be without toil” (Ch. 19, Watson, 1964, p. 118). By living easily and focusing on our inner strength we may live with the Dao. Our ability to harmonize all gives us endless joy, regardless of our physical circumstances. This message must have been heartening to many of the common people of China who led a miserable material existence. The story of the unusual man advises peasants that long life is possible if one communicates in such a way as to blend in with the crowd, stay out of the spotlight, and avoid conflict. Maintaining a focus on our internal states, avoiding what goes on outside of us, and being satisfied with what fate has destined is a prescription for a satisfying life. By knowing the Dao no human can harm us.

PRINCIPLES OF DAOIST RHETORIC A final interpretation of the story, based on its rhetorical context, is that it illustrates a Daoist view of appropriate ways to communicate persuasively. Analyzing the communication principles at work in the Zhuangzi should help scholars not only understand Zhuangzi’s theory of rhetoric but also judge his use of rhetoric and ability to enact his own principles. Communicating an idea in a manner that is consistent with Daoism can be difficult given Daoist views on language and persuasion. Zhuangzi agrees with his predecessor, Laozi, that language cannot fully express the Dao, saying, “if the Way is made clear, it is not the Way” (ch. 2, Watson, 1964, p. 40). Hence, language must be thought of as a crude tool that cannot literally represent meanings. Zhuangzi illustrates this by showing words may “capture” meanings but they are not the things they represent.

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The fish trap exists because of the fish; once you’ve gotten the fish, you can forget the trap. The rabbit snare exists because of the rabbit; once you’ve gotten the rabbit, you can forget the snare. Words exist because of meaning; once you’ve gotten the meaning, you can forget the words. Where can I find a man who has forgotten words so I can have a word with him? (ch. 26, p. 140) Language does not represent reality. At best, it can be a figurative spur that goes beyond language and promotes deeper mental communion (Lu, 1998). Zhuangzi illustrates his preference for avoiding words by describing conversations that seem to end prematurely, either in silence or agreement, because everyone understands: Master Sang-hu, Meng-tzu Fan, and Master Ch’in-chang, three friends, said to each other, “Who can join with others without joining with others? Who can do with others without doing with others? Who can climb up to heaven and wander in the mists, roam the infinite, and forget life forever and forever?” The three men looked at each other and smiled. There was no disagreement in their hearts and so they became friends. (ch. 6, Watson, 1964, p. 82) Notice in the parable the Duke says of the unusual man that he “began to realize what kind of man he was,” yet we are never told what it is that he sees. I suggest that the Duke implicitly acknowledges a limitation of language. Recall also that the man says nothing of consequence, indicating that his union with the Dao may be unrelated to his ability to verbalize. Besides the fact that language is unable to fully represent reality, Zhuangzi maintains that words create distinctions that can prevent attainment of the Dao. “For Laozi, to the extent that language classifies and dichotomizes reality, it interferes with the natural order of things, or the dao” (Lu, 1998, p. 235). Zhuangzi took the problem of classification even further. He believed that the use of language created distinctions and value judgments that “clouded” people’s minds, preventing them from seeing the unity, or Dao, of the universe. “In other words, language, to the extent it functions as a dichotomizing element, is an obstacle to truth and knowledge” (p. 244). Furthermore, the abuse of symbols “led to the formation of a hierarchical society, caused greed and fear to flourish, and encouraged people to engage in endless disputations over truth and falsehood” (pp. 238–39). Thus, words were not only lacking, but also caused a number of problems in classical China.

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A final constraint on language and rhetoric stems from Daoist principles that valorize effortlessness (wu-wei) and nondistinction. Zhuangzi muses that if there were a true perspective, which is impossible, it would be so obvious that it would not require rhetoric: If right were really right, it would differ so clearly from not right that there would be no need for argument. If so were really so, it would differ so clearly from not so that there would be no need for argument. Forget the years; forget distinctions. Leap into the boundless and make it your home. (ch. 2, Watson, 1964, p. 44) Given Zhuangzi’s loathing of distinction, right and wrong, and interference with others, it is difficult to conceive how anyone could formulate even an intention to persuade, let alone engage in persuasion, and remain true to the nondirective wanderings of Daoism. The claim that Daoism is antagonistic to rhetoric overgeneralizes certain textual statements and fails to fully account for the philosophical and cultural context in which the literature was written (Lu, 1998). Contrary to the positions taken by Jensen (1987) and Oliver (1971), Laozi “did not condemn speech and argumentation out of hand, but only in those instances where they failed to conform to the virtues of nonaction, spontaneity, and noncontention” (Lu, 1998, p. 234). Similarly, Zhuangzi points out limitations of speech without rejecting it entirely. Of course, certain speaking practices are highly correlated with ineffectiveness. For example, “flowery, and hollow expressions” impose “too much artificiality upon the natural process” (p. 234). But none of this analysis suggests the abandonment of speech, merely the need for appropriate language and speaking techniques, given their limitations. While language can be used detrimentally, the Dao of language would imply that it is both good/bad because it is part of the unity of all things. The fact that Laozi and Zhuangzi use language to expound their views demonstrates that their admonitions about language are not meant to be taken as absolute indictments. Appropriate language use can be enabling by illuminating the Dao, enhancing its accessibility to potential adherents. Given the utility and limitations of language, one must use it “in a limited way,” and rely on one’s thoughts “for more profound and subtle exploration” (p. 245). Similarly, one can use rhetorical strategies that are consistent with wu-wei. Wu-wei suggests that one must avoid doing anything that is effortful, meaning unnatural, including striving to persuade others of a particular point of view. Wu-wei, however, does not necessarily prevent one from

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influencing others. The Dao of action implies that one may engage in persuasion if it is effortless and encompassing of all views. The rhetorical challenges for Zhuangzi, and all Daoists, are to overcome the inherent problems of language use and speaking technique, communicate a philosophy that is based on the ineffable, and teach without striving to uphold a particular point of view. Zhuangzi’s answer to these challenges is to use imaginative rhetorical forms, such as parables, to evoke contemplation about a universal point of view. It will be shown that these forms can be consistent with Daoist admonitions against language, striving, and particularizing. Zhuangzi’s parables place minimal reliance on language, they are effortless because they flow naturally from Zhuangzi’s fated role as a teacher and place the persuasive onus on the audience, and they are universal, rather than particular, because they make the Dao central to the message. The story of the unusual man demonstrates Zhuangzi’s belief that forms, or outward appearances, must be consonant with or harmonized within the oneness of reality. This generalization also holds true about rhetoric in particular. Daoist admonitions against inappropriate rhetorical approaches such as disputation, ornate language, and vociferous delivery do so because these rhetorical forms can be difficult to harmonize with the Dao. More inherently harmonious rhetorical forms, on the other hand, are exemplified in the story of the unusual man. This story is a parable, and parables are an appropriate form for Daoist rhetoric because they are brief stories that use odd comparisons to promote images that are otherwise difficult to explain. In so doing, they invite the audience to engage in self-persuasion. Parables are short, concrete narratives that stem from the oral tradition (Crossan, 1980; Lambrecht, 1981; Scott, 1989; Tolbert, 1979). They display “a sharp economy in the presentation of characters/agents and plot” (Tolbert, 1979, p. 17). They appear “scrubbed clean, with few if any useless details” (Scott, 1989, p. 36). Crossan (1980) adds, “it may well be the very brevity of the narrative that first impels us to look elsewhere for its fullest meaning” (pp. 4–5). Hence, brevity is a central feature of an effective parable. Parables are said to compare the usual and the unusual (Lambrecht, 1981), juxtapose the familiar with the unfamiliar (TeSelle, 1975), or frame the ordinary within the extraordinary (Tolbert, 1979). Common to all of these views is the sense that the configuration of the story places the known with the unknown. This juxtaposition tends to radicalize the comparison, provoking the hearer to reconcile what seems odd, shocking the hearer into potentially new insights (Lambrecht, 1981). The realistic element of parables also shocks the imagination by conveying the idea that

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“important things happen and are decided at the everyday level” (TeSelle, 1975, p. 76). By making comparisons, parables function metaphorically, providing the hearer with many possible choices or interpretations (Kirkwood, 1985; Scott, 1989; Tolbert, 1979). The juxtaposed elements in parables encourage the listener to confront the disparate elements in the story. A further confrontation exists because parables challenge us to act. A parable exemplifies a particular way of behaving or state of mind (Kirkwood, 1985). The audience applies the spur to itself because, while the parable provides an obvious choice for conduct, enacting the choice is challenging. Because parables are metaphoric they can illustrate ideas that defy rational explanation through language. In the same way that scientists use models to illustrate what cannot be fully described, poets and philosophers have long relied on metaphors to invoke images that would perhaps otherwise escape linguistic description. Because parables invite us to see the familiar in a new way they invite spiritual insight. TeSelle (1975) contends, “meaning and truth for human beings are embodied, hence embodied language, metaphorical language, is the most appropriate way— perhaps the only way—to suggest this meaning and truth” (p. 15). Parables also speak to the whole person. TeSelle (1975) notes, “metaphorical language, as the language of ‘a body that thinks,’ knows no subjective-objective split” (p. 33). A fitting parable works because hearers “begin to understand (not just with their heads) that another way of believing and living—another context or frame for their lives—might be a possibility for them” (p. 79). If a parable appears ordinary but defies easy interpretation because of its oddities, then it can move an audience to wrestle with its potential implications. When this happens the parable “initiates a process in which the entire person, with his [sic] understanding and power of decision, is involved” (Lambrecht, 1981, p. 5). Lambrecht adds, “once I have heard and understood a parable, I am no longer the same person as before. I am affected at the core of my being, at the center of my decision-making” (pp. 4–5). Effective parables creatively use incongruity to motivate audiences to move beyond the limitations of language and into the realm of spirit. They speak to the total person, evoking a holistic response. Employing parables would, therefore, appear to be an exemplary rhetorical strategy for a Daoist. Lu (1998) notes “Zhuangzi’s strategy was to shock his readers into self-realization of their own bondage, simultaneously gaining insights through the use of satire, humor, paradoxical anecdotes, and dazzling descriptions of mythical and magical figures” (p. 240). Our wondering about the oddities, absurdities, and contradictions is the sort of response that results from Zhuangzi’s rhetoric.

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Zhuangzi’s story of the unusual man is a prototypical parable: it is a brief, yet complete story; it presents ugliness as beauty, defying ordinary social conventions; it idealizes certain behavior stemming from a spiritual perspective; and it provides analogical referents that evoke a holistic audience response. The parable is also appropriate for a Daoist message: the Dao is central to the message; its metaphoricity is unaffected by the limitations of language; it promotes a holistic audience response rather than one that dichotomizes the world and self; and, it is effortless from the standpoint of the rhetor because it is the audience that must struggle with determining its meaning and implications. Thus, Zhuangzi avoids advocating a particular point of view and engages audiences in a process of selfenlightenment: Chuang Tzu’s style beckons us to complete in our own lives what he initiated. It is as though Chuang Tzu begins an interesting story, with conflicting but persuasive ingredients thrown in and even an unbelievable plot laid out, and then suddenly chops it off. The intrigued reader is left on his own to complete the story in his own life. (Wu, 1982, p. 16) Hence, Zhuangzi provides us with a story that never ends—a vehicle with no destination. As such, it is itself a metaphor for the eternal Dao. Zhuangzi thereby enacts a rhetorical strategy that is consonant with his view of Daoism.

DISCUSSION The story of the ugly man could be a simple expression of the theme “beauty is only skin deep.” The suggestion throughout, however, is that there are three fruitful additional interpretations that correspond respectively to philosophical, historical, and rhetorical contexts. The parable could be about how to live with the Dao, how to survive difficult times, or how to communicate the ineffable. More likely, it is about all of that and not all of that. Considering the text in its philosophical context shows it to be an account of the groundings and major attenuations of Daoist thought. Using the rhetorical tactic of personification, Zhuangzi introduces his readers to the essential unity of the Dao, the errors of drawing distinction or passing judgments, the concept of wu-wei, and the natural way of things. Furthermore, by exemplifying a philosophically ideal human, Zhuangzi demonstrates the essential nature of Daoism. The audience is

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given a role model with whom they may identify, suggesting how to “walk the walk.” Looking at the story of the unusual man in its historical context reveals a pragmatic treatise written, during the Warring States period in China, to help ordinary people respond to difficult times. When viewed in this context, Zhuangzi gives sound advice on rhetoric and life in general. Unlike Western views that may extol the conspicuous display of virtues such as bravery and prosperity, Zhuangzi tells people to be inconspicuous, unworldly, and without talent, possessions, or anything of apparent value to others. His advice, to be content to be unattractive to others in every way, offers a strategy for survival and a principle for appropriate communication: do not communicate in a way that draws attention to oneself. Analysis of the rhetorical context indicates how a communicator might approach persuasion given the constraints of Daoist philosophy. It suggests how to “talk the talk.” In this sense, Zhuangzi is remarkable because it offers a fitting response to a difficult rhetorical problem. Daoists need to contend with the limitations and distinctions inherent in symbol use, while still communicating effortlessly. Zhuangzi uses evocative rhetorical forms to induce the audience to go beyond literal meanings of language and put the message together themselves. In so doing, he enacts a message that is consistent with his philosophy. Zhuangzi’s rhetoric, unlike classical Western rhetoric, minimizes conflict, avoids the need for external proof, and recognizes the importance of harmonious relationships. Examining the text from the vantage point of the three perspectives collectively—philosophical, historical, and rhetorical—demonstrates that it is a highly evocative work, capable of inducing the audience to engage in challenging mental forays. In fact, considering the previous analysis, the defining characteristic of Zhuangzi’s rhetoric is his use of evocation to persuade. It has been suggested that the evocativeness of one’s rhetoric can be an important test of its significance (Combs, 1995). Zhuangzi’s “evocation,” along with his use of forms such as parables, is a valuable contribution to rhetoric that may prove no less remarkable than Aristotle’s “enthymeme” or Burke’s “identification.” All three concepts advocate the use of language to induce audiences to engage in a process where they participate in their persuasion. All three demonstrate the incredible insight of their proponents in understanding the human mind, given the general state of knowledge in their cultures. Evocativeness differs from these concepts, and adds a vital element to Western rhetorical theory, because of the relatively low level of immersion of the rhetor in the persuasive process and the way audiences are induced to elaborate on messages. Zhuangzi also provides a case study in the power of rhetoric to respond to difficult situations. His advice to the common people of

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Warring States China demonstrates the pragmatic value of rhetoric in different and challenging contexts. Zhuangzi indicates Daoism’s viability as a pragmatic situational response at the same time that it espouses a universal and enduring perspective. Daoism per se, like Daoist rhetoric, can be situationally responsive without compromising its universal precepts. This analysis of Zhuangzi offers insight into the culture dependence of rhetoric and the classical Chinese rhetorical tradition. It indicates that Chinese thinkers crafted ingenious approaches to rhetoric in cultures that developed quite differently from Western cultures. Scholars must continue conversations that explore Chinese and other rhetorical traditions in order to more completely understand the nature of human communication. If there is a Dao of rhetoric, it lies in the unification of all rhetorics. Different views, including Western and Daoist, are not opposites, but parts of the whole. Scholars must persevere in attempting to understand the differences in rhetorics, but Zhuangzi would admonish us that the many make the one.

CHAPTER 4

Sunzi and the Rhetoric of Parsimony

A common thread in the rhetorics of Laozi and Zhuangzi is the notion that communication should not be designed to impose one’s ideas on others but to induce the audience to engage key ideas in novel ways that promote self-persuasion. Furthermore, these approaches recommend that conflict be kept to a minimum because it can be unproductive and moves interactants into pointless disputes for the sake of being deemed correct rather than moving toward the unified Dao. They challenge deeply held values and beliefs in the West and offer intriguing ways to rethink basic communication principles and practices. The rhetorics of Laozi and Zhuangzi, while valuable, may not offer comprehensive perspectives on rhetoric because their approaches are suited for dialogic encounters where rhetorical interactants are amicable, open minded, and willing to interact solely for the purpose of enlightenment. They place a great deal of value on harmonious, indirect methods of self-persuasion. These qualities and assumptions are not always present in many typical rhetorical interactions. In fact, the focus for a great deal of rhetoric in Western culture is persuasive communication designed to explicitly address a conflict between the beliefs, attitudes, and/or behaviors of the interactants in order to demonstrate the superiority of one view over another. Foss and Griffin (1995) note, “as far back as the Western discipline of rhetoric has been explored, rhetoric has been defined as the conscious intent to change others” (p. 2). While the utility of Laozi and Zhuangzi is not readily apparent in those far too common situations where overt conflict is unavoidable, Sunzi, in the monumental work attributed to him, Art of War,1 offers an accessible and rich account of strategy from which one may reasonably 53

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infer a comprehensive and insightful treatment of persuasive communication. This analysis will demonstrate that the underlying strategic principle in Art of War is parsimony: the use of extreme economy in the expenditure of resources. The principle of parsimony, as explicated in Art of War, can add to our understanding of Daoist rhetoric and inform contemporary rhetorical theory and practice. Sunzi’s Art of War is considered to be a masterpiece of military strategy. Its ideas are considered unsurpassed “in comprehensiveness and depth of understanding. They might well be termed the concentrated essence of wisdom on the conduct of war” (Hart, 1963, p. v). Sawyer (1994) notes, “in every sphere, Sun-tzu’s Art of War predominates, eclipsing all the other military strategy books combined” (p. 16). Ames (1993) agrees, calling the book “the world’s foremost classic on military strategy” (p. 35). Griffith (1963) notes that the text “has had a profound influence throughout Chinese history and on Japanese military thought; it is the source of Mao Tse-tung’s strategic theories and of the tactical doctrine of the Chinese armies” (p. xi). Art of War is also applicable to Western views of rhetoric for two reasons. First, its subject matter, warfare, is analogous to contentious persuasion—“the battle for hearts and minds.” While rhetoric is less extreme than war, both subjects presuppose conflict. Second, Art of War is, essentially, a philosophical manual on strategy. Huang (1993) declares it “the most brilliant and widely applied strategic book ever written” (p. 15), lauding “its sweeping grasp of strategy’s comprehensive truths” and the “inspiring prose” that “sophisticatedly forges these versatile principles into an uncomplicated but perfectly tangible system” (p. 20). Ames (1993) notes, “almost every one of the early Chinese philosophers took warfare to be an area of sustained philosophical reflection.” Chinese military texts, therefore, are considered to be “applied philosophy” (p. 7). Rhetoric in ancient China, on the other hand, was not studied as a separate discipline but “as a part of political and moral philosophy” (Kennedy, 1998, p. 166). It was common for ideas about rhetoric to be “embedded in texts which do not treat rhetoric as an explicit topic of discussion.” In fact, “ancient Chinese rhetorical theories, with the exception of those expounded by the Later Mohists, are embedded in works of ethics, epistemology, and statecraft” (Lu, 1998, pp. 2–3). War and rhetoric can both be seen, from the classical Chinese view, as applications of philosophy. The political context helps account for the fact that warfare received explicit treatment, while rhetoric did not. Nonetheless, principles of military strategy can be used as a source of metaphors for rhetoric because warfare and rhetoric are both philosophically based arts.

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For example, the military commander may be compared to the rhetorician because both roles require “a thorough understanding of the conditions determining the situation and the manipulation of these circumstances to his chosen end” (Ames, 1993, p. 96). The overarching subject is a philosophical approach to strategy; hence it is applicable to the adaptation of discourse to achieve certain objectives with a particular audience. Surprisingly, while Art of War is thought to have been “extensively adopted in all areas where problem solving, competition, or development require strategic guidance” (Huang, 1993, p. 15), its principles, with the exception of my previous work (Combs, 2000), have not been adapted to the realm of persuasion. I will argue throughout the chapter that Art of War, when applied to persuasion, offers a central principle of Daoist rhetoric and a unifying strategic guideline for rhetorical practice. I refer to this principle as “the rhetoric of parsimony,” and it may be stated thusly: when conflict is inevitable, rhetors must exert the minimum level of resources needed to restore harmony. Analysis of the text of Art of War reveals the nature of parsimonious rhetoric as well as the three key attendant principles of knowledge, strategy, and responsiveness. Before moving to parsimony, however, I must consider whether Sunzi’s approach is so different from those of Laozi and Zhuangzi, that he is not actually a Daoist. Pursuing this question is not an esoteric exercise, for it further illuminates Daoist views on the utility of particularizing— using categories, discriminations, and language—in everyday existence. It also considers in greater depth the nature of wu-wei. Ma (2001) makes the argument that Sunzi’s approach is closer to Aristotle’s than to the two Daoists because, like Aristotle, he delineates categories, such as types of attack and terrain, rather than the swirling paradox of Laozi and Zhuangzi. Furthermore, military strategy is “invariably deliberate and goal-oriented. The bottom line is to win” (p. 436). Consequently, according to Ma, Sunzi’s philosophy violates the notion of wu-wei and Sunzi is not a Daoist. Contrarily, Simpkins and Simpkins (1999) point out “Taoist values permitted strategic maneuvering and deception in marital arts, as shown in The Art of War.” Furthermore, “the perspective given by the book . . . is clearly that of a Taoist skilled in the ways of war” (p. 130). I will attempt to enter the dispute as to whether Sunzi is a Daoist in true Daoist fashion by saying the claim is both true and not true. It is true that Sunzi is not a Daoist in the sense that he is not usually identified as such by sinologists. In fact, he most likely predates Laozi, who is thought by many to be the “founder” of Daoism.

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All early Chinese philosophers were interested in the Dao, but Daoists are unique in stressing the cosmological aspects of the Dao. Interestingly, the term “Daoism” was not actually used until the nineteenth century C.E. (Clarke, 2000). Technically, Sunzi is not a Daoist in that he did not deliberately follow a school of thought, or choose to be involved in a named group, or adopt an easily identifiable spiritual perspective. For that matter, Laozi and Zhuangzi are not Daoists either. And, of course, Jesus was a Jew, not a Christian. This kind of silliness is an example of the Daoist recognition that linguistic categories do not approximate or create reality. While Jesus was not born a Christian, he was instrumental in the spiritual perspective that now bears his name. Similarly, Daoism is a spiritual perspective that is identified in name long after its founders have passed from the Earth. What is important in deciding upon a category in which to place someone is recognition that the category name and placement will always be somewhat arbitrary, somewhat crude. I will advance a rationale for why I believe that Sunzi is a Daoist, because I think Ma raises interesting and valuable issues, but I recognize not only the legitimacy of disagreement but also the necessity to question any categorization. When I say that the sages are Daoists I am making the claim that their features that I focus on resonate harmoniously with what I am able to understand about Daoism. The idea that a Daoist would not write about categories of anything but would only pose paradoxes and vagaries that represent the infinite unity is questionable. The way we talk about reality and move through the world is always to move between the infinite and particular, and to particularize necessitates distinction or categorization. As I note in chapter 1, there is a constant tacking between background and foreground. In the background there is always the infinite Dao. It is an absolute and universal process. But the way the Dao is manifest in the world, the world itself for that matter, is a constant transforming flux of appearances and forms. Categories operate as foreground and are meaningful as ways to talk about the world in its various forms. Thus, it is inconceivable that a Daoist would be opposed to categorical thinking per se, and it is very conceivable that Sunzi might do this in order to help people survive the Spring-Autumn period. Laozi is not opposed to categorizing, and does that in delineating yin and yang. Sunzi’s approach may resemble Aristotle’s in a superficial way, but the form that Sunzi’s rhetoric takes is not determinate of its meaning or reality. What is most relevant is what I will indicate in the progression of this chapter, that Sunzi uses categories as foregrounding, while remaining consistent with the basic worldviews of Laozi and Zhuangzi.

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The remainder of Ma’s (2001) rationale is that Sunzi’s purpose is to show how to win wars, and that warfare, being calculating and deliberate, is antagonistic to wu-wei. I believe, on the other hand, that Ma views Sunzi’s purpose superficially and makes questionable assumptions about the nature of wu-wei. To begin, viewing Sunzi in his historical context, and in light of the textual analysis to follow, there are strong indications that Sunzi’s purpose is not to win wars but to prevent them. During the SpringAutumn and Warring States periods one did not need to strive to go to war. War was pervasive and nearly unavoidable. While Sunzi was interested in winning, his approach was to put forth a strategy designed to win without fighting. Ma also seems to believe that Daoists are pacifists and that warfare is inherently forceful and calculating. While Daoists hold harmony to be paramount, they are not pure pacifists. In Laozi’s vision of community, the people have weapons but “do not show them” (Watts, 1975, p. 82). If there is no use for arms, then there would be no need to have them. I suggest that people do not show their arms because their weapons deter outside aggressors so effectively that they never need to be displayed. Furthermore, while the use of weapons is deplored, even the sage can use arms in self-defense. Hence, “war is sometimes a regrettable necessity” (Kaltenmark, 1965, p. 56). There is nothing in Daoism that rejects being prepared for war or using strategy to win. One can even fight for survival. While these activities would be completely unnecessary in a perfect world, they were essential in classical China. Of course, the approach to war must always be informed by the Dao and the natural way. War is a viable though regrettable option but it is not necessarily antagonistic to wu-wei. While war would seem to be forceful or calculating, that depends on the way that one approaches warfare and the sense in which one uses those words. For example, changing a tire on a car can be forceful and calculating. Tilling soil to plant crops is forceful and calculating. Every predatory animal is forceful and calculating. Cheetahs, hawks, and dolphins hunt in a calculated way and use great force to overpower their prey. In fact, their very existence depends on their ability to make effective calculations and applications of force. It does not make sense to say that we cannot change a tire, till the soil, or eat to live. Being forceful and calculating is not inconsistent with wu-wei. What is important is whether one is working within natural rather than human conventions when being forceful and calculating. Wu-wei is not void of movement and is not mindless. It is “effortless,” or seemingly so, because its machinations are based on the natural way. If I am changing a tire, the process will flow better if I loosen the lug nuts while the car is firmly on the ground, so that I have leverage, rather than

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jack the car in the air and attempt to remove the nuts in vain while the tire spins with my every move. After I replace the tire, I may find that if I tighten every other lug nut in order, and not too tightly at once, I stand a better chance of the wheel being in alignment, rather than pinning one side to the tire first and off-setting the balance point. Hence, wu-wei does not come into play by virtue of the types of activities in which one may engage, those that are not forceful and can be approached mindlessly, but by the state of mind or self that one brings to an activity. War, or more appropriately, strategy, is not inherently contrary to wu-wei. If one’s nature is to strategize or be a warrior, and one’s actions flow from the natural way, then one can be a strategist, warrior, and Daoist sage.

PARSIMONY Sunzi’s Art of War is a philosophy of strategy that attenuates the concept of parsimony, which I then apply to rhetoric. The most parsimonious response to conflict is to deter or end aggression without fighting. Sunzi upholds the Daoist principle of avoiding conflict, viewing war as one of the least desirable strategic outcomes, and believing instead “that the skillful strategist should be able to subdue the enemy’s army without engaging it, to take his cities without laying siege to them, and to overthrow his State without bloodying swords” (Griffith, 1963, p. x). Huang (1993) notes that for Sunzi, “the purpose of strategy is not conflict, but advantage; conflict serves no more than one of the strategic tools. Therefore, conflict is a tactical choice rather than a certitude” (p. 23). It is best to keep one’s own state intact; to crush the enemy’s state is only a second best. It is best to keep one’s own army, battalion, company, or five-man squad intact; to crush the enemy’s army, battalion, company, or five-man squad is only a second best. So, to win a hundred victories in a hundred battles is not the highest excellence; the highest excellence is to subdue the enemy’s army without fighting at all. (ch. 3, Ames, 1993, p. 111) Thus, “the expert in using the military subdues the enemy’s forces without going to battle, takes the enemy’s walled cities without launching an attack, and crushes the enemy’s state without a protracted war” (p. 111). The preference for subduing an enemy without fighting reflects the Daoist idea that conflict occurs because at least one party is not cognizant

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of alternatives that may facilitate harmony (Sun, 1995). Sunzi believed that “even military victory is a ‘defeat’ in the sense that it requires an expenditure of a state’s manpower and resources” (Ames, 1993, p. 85). “Not battling” is as much a form of strategy as is battle (Huang, 1993, p. 24). Therefore, war is a last resort, an action that is justified “only when all possible alternatives have been exhausted” (Ames, 1993, p. 85). While “striving” to do battle is unacceptable, if conflict is fated, warfare may be justified. The justification for war must be made on the basis of harmony. If the harmony of the world has been upset, and all efforts to restore harmony peaceably have failed, then one may contemplate warfare. Military action must be predicated “on the necessity of such action to revive and reshape the shared world order” (p. 69). Accordingly, military engagement must be “seen as an attunement on the existing order from within—ideally it is always responsive, always punitive, always pro-social” (p. 70). Military leaders must be endowed with the ability to act on the basis of harmony. In fact, “the first and foremost defining feature of the consummate military commander is that he must be an exemplary person (chun tzu), and must ply his military skills from a foundation of superior character” (p. 87). Superior character in a leader is viewed as the ability to achieve harmony. Because of the commander’s duty to the harmony of the world, the commander may even disobey orders. If the way (tao) of battle guarantees you victory, it is right for you to insist on fighting even if the ruler has said not to; where the way (tao) of battle does not allow victory, it is right for you to refuse to fight even if the ruler has said you must. (ch. 10, p. 150) The commander who is free of ego or thoughts of personal reward or punishment, “whose only concern is to protect his people and promote the interests of his ruler, is the nation’s treasure” (p. 150). The principle of parsimony, or economical use of resources, is the key to understanding Art of War. If it is impossible to avoid warfare, then one must employ the military economically. Sunzi proclaims “the farsighted ruler approaches battle with prudence, and the good commander moves with caution. This is the way (tao) to keep the state secure and to preserve the army” (ch. 12, p. 166). Ames explains that once “a commitment has been made to a military course of action, the project becomes to achieve victory at the minimum cost” (p. 85). A central element in cost minimization is to overwhelm an opponent quickly and decisively. Sunzi says that “in joining battle, seek the quick

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victory” (ch. 2, p. 107). One maximizes advantage, first to pressure the enemy into surrender without battle, and second, to make the use of force minimally sufficient to achieve harmony. Art of War, when applied to rhetoric, would offer similar recommendations to communicators as did Laozi and Zhuangzi: avoid contentious or argumentative rhetoric; focus on the harmony of relationships rather than winning a point. Sunzi adds an additional level of insight, however, with the principle of parsimony: when conflict is inevitable, communicate parsimoniously. When conflict is necessary, the “speaker-warrior” must use persuasion judiciously, economically, to restore the balance of the world. The use of such rhetoric is to be seen as a “loss” in the short term that is justified by promoting harmony overall. The principle of parsimony in warfare and rhetoric can be more clearly delineated by exploring some of the tactics recommended in Art of War. For example, parsimonious military commanders are advised to avoid protracted battle because of the huge expense in lives and equipment (Ames, 1993; Griffith, 1963; Huang, 1993; Sawyer, 1994). Sunzi provides a hierarchy for military engagement designed to minimize losses, saying that “the best military policy is to attack strategies; the next to attack alliances; the next to attack soldiers; and the worst to assault walled cities” (ch. 3, Ames, 1993, p. 111). This hierarchy of engagement advises the speaker-warrior in clearly confrontational situations to avoid attacking an opponent’s strongest arguments. Rhetors should begin by addressing the opponent’s strategy (attack strategies); then, if necessary, isolate the opponent from the support of others (attack alliances); next, challenge the opponent’s proofs (attack soldiers); and, if all else fails, assault major argumentative positions (attack walled cities). In less confrontational settings, such as when a single speaker is addressing an audience, Sunzi would say that one must minimize audience/speaker conflict. The rhetor should avoid attacking an audience’s deeply held attitudes and values, attempting instead to create identification between the speaker and audience. This view is consistent with Burke’s (1950) idea that rhetors overcome divisions with the audience through the rhetorical strategy of identification. Rhetors can further strengthen alliances by aligning themselves with sources deemed credible by the audience; if that is an untenable option, one can offer proofs of one’s position. Only as a last resort should one attempt to disprove an audience’s deeply felt attitudes and values. Another example of how to act parsimoniously and avoid unnecessary losses is to focus on the enemy’s weakness. When one decides to attack, one should avoid engaging an army that is strong and disciplined.

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Sunzi warns: “Do not intercept an enemy that is perfectly uniform in its array of banners; do not launch the attack on an enemy that is full and disciplined in its formations” (ch. 7, Ames, 1993, p. 131). Instead, one should create advantages by moving the enemy and dividing the enemy. The tactic of moving the enemy is based on the idea that an army at rest has an advantage over an army that moves into the battle. Generally he who first occupies the field of battle to await the enemy will be rested; he who comes later and hastens into battle will be weary. Thus the expert in battle moves the enemy, and is not moved by him. (ch. 6, p. 123) In order to move the enemy about, the sagacious warrior employs a combination of “making things easy for him” or “obstructing him” (ch. 4, p. 116). One divides an enemy by obstructing the mustering of troops and the formation of alliances. When attacking a large state, the king “does not allow the enemy to assemble his forces; when it brings its prestige and influence to bear on the enemy, it prevents his allies from joining with him” (ch. 11, p. 161). One must also be able to divide an assembled army so as to gain a numerical advantage with troops. When armies are divided or lose the ability to communicate they are not able to form ranks, let alone sustain the battle. When the attack comes, it should be speedy and powerful: “war is such that the supreme consideration is speed” (p. 157). Therefore, “when the enemy gives you the opening, you must rush in on him. Go first for something that he cannot afford to lose, and do not let him know the timing of your attack” (p. 162). The speaker-warrior would be wise to follow these same principles. Avoid moving by occupying the ground of the battle before the opponent. This forces the enemy to move to the battle zone and attack, in spite of its disadvantaged position. Sunzi’s advice would be contextualized to rhetoric to say that one should develop ways of having a presumptively favorable position and forcing the opponent into the burden of proof. Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca (1969) say that presumptions may be thought of as notions that enjoy the consensus of the audience. Presumptions are based on what is considered “normal,” and if a speaker advocates what appears to be the norm for a given reference group it has a tremendous amount of argumentative power. Occupying the ground encompassing an audience’s norm is equivalent to holding the hill in a battle and forcing the opponent into the burden of fighting uphill. In addition, the speaker-warrior should move with speed and strike decisively when there is an opening.

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The principle of parsimony in warfare and rhetoric recommends tactics of movement, division, and speed so as to allow one to attack an army at its weakest point and create an overwhelming and quick victory. To these tactics must be added the key concepts of knowledge, strategy, and responsiveness, in order to allow for full consideration of this principle.

KNOWLEDGE A central tenet of Art of War is that one must thoroughly assess the situation and possess vast knowledge before deciding to go to battle. “Thus the reason the farsighted ruler and his superior commander conquer the enemy at every move, and achieve successes far beyond the reach of the common crow, is foreknowledge” (ch. 13, Ames, 1993, p. 169). One must have knowledge of the Dao in order to have the authority to send people to their deaths, assessments of military capability, including the command and regulation of forces, and a full appraisal of the conditions of battle, including terrain (Ames, 1993). The assessment process, according to Sunzi, must look at these factors from the perspective of both armies, since “the business of waging war lies in carefully studying the designs of the enemy” (ch. 11, p. 161). He who knows the enemy and himself Will never in a hundred battles be at risk; He who does not know the enemy but knows himself Will sometimes win and sometimes lose; He who knows neither the enemy nor himself Will be at risk in every battle. (ch. 3, p. 113) Hence, one must assess all factors in light of the relative strengths of the two sides. The speaker-warrior can easily apply Sunzi’s advice on knowledge. To know the enemy and oneself in war is no different from the process of assessing factors that figure prominently in a rhetorical interaction—the opposing viewpoints and the audience. Assessing one’s skill as a communicator is the same as examining the command of an army. One should look at the speaker’s “wisdom, integrity, humanity, courage, and discipline” (ch. 1, p. 103). This advice is not terribly different from Aristotle’s notion of ethos, saying that the speaker’s character presents a credible proof by virtue of her or his wisdom, virtue, and goodwill (Kennedy, 1991). Assessing the enemy involves knowing the opponent and the audience, depending on the setting. Aristotle provides a detailed account, for his era, of the

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nature of various audiences and urges speakers to adapt accordingly (Kennedy, 1991). Sunzi’s advice diverges considerably, however, in that Aristotle’s treatment of rhetor and audience assumes that they are fairly stable entities. Daoism, on the other hand, recognizes the dynamic, ongoing movement of these entities. When one pulls an audience or rhetor into the foreground, “freezing” it within a temporal/spatial context, one must be mindful of the dynamic interplay of the background. Terrain is one of the most important considerations to be assessed and included in the overall array of knowledge that dictates strategy. It is an important aspect of parsimony because it offers the opportunity for a decisive victory. The expert in battle takes his stand on ground that is unassailable, and does not miss his chance to defeat the enemy. For this reason, the victorious army only enters battle after having first won the victory, while the defeated army only seeks victory after first having entered the fray. (ch. 4, Ames, 1993, p. 116) In order to obtain this information one must employ local scouts to report on “the lay of the land—its mountains and forests, its passes and natural hazards, its wetlands and swamps,” otherwise, “you cannot turn the terrain to your advantage” (ch. 7, p. 130). Sunzi identifies, at one point, six different kinds of terrain, and at another, nine kinds of terrain, as well as the Dao, or guidelines, governing their use. These types of terrain can be synthesized into ten types and then divided into two principle classes. The first class sorts terrain on the basis of its effect on the advantage to the armies, and includes terrain that is “accessible,” “entangling,” “even,” “narrow,” and “precipitous.” The second class of terrain is based on proximity to territories, and includes “scattered,” “marginal,” “strategically vital,” “critical,” and “distant.” Terrain, as applied to the speaker-warrior, can be thought of as the grounding of a rhetorical position. It may entail the perceived credibility of sources cited, consistency in the rhetor’s use of evidence and reasoning, and appropriateness of the proof. Terrain, at other times, would be the proof itself, for example, a quotation, statistic, logical argument, or metaphor. Accessible terrain can be approached freely by both armies. Sunzi advises “on accessible terrain, the army that enters the battle having been first to occupy high ground on the sunny side and to establish convenient supply lines, fights with the advantage” (ch. 10, p. 147). Similarly, the speaker-warrior would also be advised to seek the high ground, with its presumptive advantages. Favoring the light side means to seek groundings

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that can be exposed to the light of day without fear; and, obviously, one should choose groundings that are easily reinforced. Terrain that “allows your advance but hampers your return is entangling” (ch. 10, p. 147). In this situation, the soldier and speaker-warrior should only engage an unprepared enemy, otherwise “if you go out and engage him and fail to defeat him, you will be hard-pressed to get out, and will be in trouble” (p. 147). Avoid debating with people who are easily drawn into an argument but are not willing to modify their position in light of proof contrary to their position. Also, if a position does not allow for retreat, the nature of that position forces retrenchment and protracted battle, or the loss of face. Even terrain creates disadvantages for both sides, leading to a standoff. “On this kind of terrain, even if the enemy tempts us out, we must not take the bait, but should quit the position and withdraw. Having lured the enemy halfway out, we can then strike to our advantage” (p. 147). An excellent example of this occurs when armies meet near running water. Sunzi is saying do not cross water to meet an enemy, for the terrain is treacherous. If, however, the enemy chooses to cross, wait until half of his or her army has crossed and then attack those troops who have landed. The enemy force will be at half strength and is then ripe for a rout. Similarly, the speaker-warrior, debating in front of an audience that is hostile to both debaters, would be wise to wait for the opponent to irritate or offend the audience before making any substantial rhetorical moves. Narrow terrain, like a gorge, can be very dangerous. If an army can occupy and fortify the position first, then it is wise to “await the enemy.” But if “the enemy has occupied it first, if he garrisons it completely, do not follow him” (p. 147). The difficulties in passage, compounded by the enemy’s fortifications, make it difficult to win in narrow terrain. For example, if a politician wants to stake a campaign solely on the issue of character rather than a platform of substantive issues, then that politician must be unassailable on ethical grounds. The speaker-warrior must remember that narrow ground is advantageous if occupied first, but disadvantageous if the opposition is secure in that ground. The same is true of precipitous ground. If one can seize the ground first, one can “take the high ground on the sunny side and await the enemy. Where the enemy has occupied it first, quit the position and withdraw, and do not follow him” (pp. 147, 149). Grounding an argument in a particular philosopher’s ideas, for example, is only recommended if the rhetor is able to take and fortify the position before the opponent does. The remaining class of terrain relates to territorial positioning. Scattered terrain exists when one “does battle within his own territory, it is a terrain that permits the scattering of his troops” (ch. 11, p. 153). “This

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being the case, do not fight on scattered terrain” (p. 155). The speakerwarrior should not communicate defensively for it offers too much potential for disarray. It is better to be on the offensive, if one must enter a conflict. Marginal terrain exists “where one has penetrated only barely into enemy territory” (p. 153). The inability to push further is an indication of a lack of potency and the potential for a standoff and protracted situation. Sunzi says, “do not stay on marginal terrain” (p. 155). The speaker-warrior cannot remain parsimonious on marginal terrain. The debater who is able to make only small inroads is wise to withdraw from the position. A better choice is to probe a number of fronts and then assault the weakest spots. Strategically vital terrain lies at the borders of several states. It is important ground because “the first to reach it will gain the allegiance of the other states of the empire” (p. 153). Sunzi advises that one “form alliances with the neighboring states at strategically vital intersections” (p. 155). The speaker-warrior encounters strategically vital terrain when enjoying a point of common ground with an audience. This terrain offers the opportunity to secure and fortify alliances with the audience. Critical terrain is encountered after an army penetrates deep into enemy territory, so much so that walled cities are at its back. One should “plunder the enemy’s resources on critical terrain” (p. 155). This advice is not clearly relevant to a single speaker addressing an audience, but is useful to debaters. Critical groundings allow the speaker-warrior to be fortified by the enemy. Rather than burn the enemy’s fields, eat from them; rather than negate an opponent’s argument, the rhetor reinterprets it as supportive of his or her own position. Finally, distant terrain exists when the enemy is far away. “When the enemy is at some distance, if the strategic advantages of both sides are about the same, it is not easy to provoke him to fight, and taking the battle to him is not to our advantage” (ch. 10, p. 149). Distant battles lack parsimony. It is better to defeat such an enemy through strategic alliances than with a long-distance campaign. When speaking of distance from a rhetorical perspective one refers to the discrepancy between the ideas presented and not physical distances. Speaker-warriors must constantly assess distant enemies, but parsimony suggests they not engage in contentious communication with others whose positions are extreme. Direct engagement with those holding extreme ideas is likely to grant extremists more credibility than would normally be accorded them by presumption (audience conceptions of normalcy). In sum, gathering and assessing vital information on key interactants and conditions will yield knowledge that will allow for military and rhetorical victory.

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Know the other, know yourself, And the victory will not be at risk; Know the ground, know the natural conditions, And the victory will be total. (p. 151). Sunzi maintains, “he who fights with full knowledge of these factors is certain to win; he who fights without it is certain to lose” (p. 150). When one is certain to win, one can battle parsimoniously.

STRATEGY Another concept important to the principle of parsimony is strategy. Strategy is discussed in the context of two important terms, shih and hsing. Shih, often referred to as strategic advantage, has been called “the key and defining idea” in Sunzi’s work (p. 71). Shih has been translated in various ways, including “circumstances, energy, latent energy, combined energy, shape, strength, momentum, tactical power, force, authority, influence, power, condition of power, force of circumstances, positional advantage, and purchase” (Sawyer, 1994, p. 144). Sawyer concludes, “the concept of shih entails the idea of advantage resulting from superior position” (pp. 144–45). Hsing, or strategic positioning, refers to the positioning that allows for the use of force, the ability to bring one’s resources to bear on the attack (Ames, 1993). While shih appears to overlap with hsing, the terms are not synonymous: Where hsing is limited to the tangible and determinate shape of physical strength, shih includes intangibles such as morale, opportunity, timing, psychology, and logistics. . . . Strategic advantage (shih), by contrast, is the full concentrated release of that latent energy inherent in one’s position, physical or otherwise. (Ames, 1993, p. 82) Thus, shih goes beyond one’s physical position to include elements such as courage and the enemy’s fatigue. Shih, like knowledge, is an important aspect of parsimony because it can create victory without military engagement. “The expert at battle seeks his victory from strategic advantage (shih) and does not demand it from his men” (ch. 5, Ames, 1993, p. 120). Presumably, an enemy who is

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able to discern the strategic advantage of the opponent will be aware of the likelihood of defeat and will be less likely to engage in battle. Shih is also important to parsimony because it produces quick and decisive victory if one must go to war. The expert at battle channels strategic advantage, “like a drawn crossbow,” and times the attack precisely, “like releasing the trigger” (p. 120). The commander who makes proper use of shih “sends his men into battle like rolling logs and boulders” (p. 120). Because the leader is able to understand the nature of round heavy objects, like logs and boulders, and the effect of gravity upon those objects, force can be brought to bear on the enemy that “can be likened to rolling round boulders down a steep ravine thousands of feet high” (p. 120). Another example, drawn from nature, is “that the velocity of cascading water can send boulders bobbing about is due to its strategic advantage (shih)” (p. 120). In order to make use of shih, one employs two types of operations: surprise and straightforward. In fact, “there are no more than ‘surprise’ and ‘straightforward’ operations, yet in combination, they produce inexhaustible possibilities. ‘Surprise’ and ‘straightforward’ operations give rise to each other endlessly just as a ring is without beginning or an end” (p. 120). One uses “‘straightforward’ to engage the enemy and the ‘surprise’ to win the victory. Thus the expert at delivering the surprise assault is as boundless as the heavens and earth and inexhaustible as the rivers and seas” (p. 120). Shih illustrates how rhetoric is culture bound. Aristotle, the progenitor of Western rhetoric, says that speakers may demonstrate a point through either artistic or inartistic proofs. Yet, of the two types, he clearly favors the use of artistic proofs, logos in particular. Aristotle advises students to be especially versed in the use of enthymemes, a form of probable argument, because they can produce the most effective results (Kennedy, 1991). Shih diverges from Aristotle’s concept of rhetoric in two ways. First, it suggests that the rhetor’s power stems from the combination of all strategic elements, as opposed to an emphasis on certain elements, such as logos. The commander is advised to attain knowledge of all factors in order to attain victory. Second, shih includes intangible properties such as momentum, energy, and timing, factors that receive little or no attention from Aristotle. For Aristotle, rhetoric produces power primarily from logos and secondarily from ethos and pathos. For Sunzi, rhetorical power stems from the ability to see the connections and workings of all aspects of the world. Aristotle envisions rhetoric as a line of argument, moving an audience from one point to another, much like an archer sending an

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arrow to a target. The archer (rhetor) eyes the target (audience), selects an arrow (message), and delivers it forcefully. While Sunzi uses the metaphor of a crossbow at one point to describe the power and timing involved in shih, the metaphor is not appropriate for discussing the total nature of rhetorical communication. The speaker-warrior may, at times, act like an archer shooting an arrow on a straight line to a target, but more often should be like a spider and its web. The web is placed in a location that is likely to be trafficked by small insects. The web is spun in an ever-widening circle, with a number of strands running throughout and connecting all the segments. This image represents the nature of knowledge and the relationships between various elements. The way the strands are connected gives the web strength, much like comprehensive knowledge gives the rhetor strength. The web is nearly invisible, yet straightforward in its engagement of the enemy. The first surprise comes when the prey moves into the web and realizes that the web’s strands contain a powerful adhesive and the fibers are connected in such a way that they are capable of tremendous tensile strength. The true enemy becomes the fear and panic of the prey, as its struggles are exhausting and entangling, preventing the hapless insect from maintaining its resistance. When the prey is nearly incapacitated, a second surprise is revealed—the spider! The spider swiftly and silently delivers its venom, paralyzing the prey, whereupon it is stored for later consumption. Sunzi, unlike Aristotle, would advise rhetoricians to be more like spiders than archers. Hsing, strategic positioning, is directly related to knowledge because the formation of the army provides an opportunity for the enemy’s assessment. One must keep secret the place of the attack. If he cannot anticipate us, the positions the enemy must prepare to defend will be many. And if the positions he must prepare to defend are many, then any unit we engage in battle will be few in number. (ch. 6, Ames, 1993, p. 125). Even when the army has been deployed it should make creative use of deception to disguise its true intentions. Whenever the army deploys onto the battlefield, its configuration, being immediately apparent, will evoke a reaction in the enemy. Whether the enemy will modify his original anticipations, vary his tactics, or view the events as confirming a preconceived battle plan depends on his evaluation of the unfolding situation. (Sawyer, 1994, p. 137)

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Hence, the goal of the military commander is to appear formless so that the enemy cannot make a reasonable assessment of the situation and its changing conditions. In fact, the “ultimate skill” in using hsing is “to have no form (hsing). If your position is formless (hsing), the most carefully concealed spies will not be able to get a look at it, and the wisest counselors will not be able to lay plans against it” (ch. 6, Ames, 1993, p. 126). The speaker-warrior can use the concept of hsing by employing tactics designed to prevent an opponent from anticipating the nature of one’s strategy. One way to accomplish this is to avoid taking a firm stand on an issue for as long as possible in the communication encounter. This tactic, however, must be employed cautiously. In the classical Chinese view, a number of practices are considered appropriate for restoring harmony that may be considered unethical to those holding the classical Greek view of a fixed truth. Yet, even with audiences holding a traditional Western ethical perspective, the speaker-warrior should be able to take advantage of a number of tactics designed to induce formlessness. For example, one can reduce an opponent’s anticipation of one’s arguments by not following habitual lines of discourse, issuing a multiplicity of proofs without indicating which ones are the most significant, developing minor arguments into major ones late in the rhetorical exchange, and avoiding taking a firm stand until the opponent has committed to a position. Also, one can avoid form by listening or asking questions rather than expressing an opinion on a particular matter.

RESPONSIVENESS The final pivotal idea in Art of War is responsiveness to context, or yin. Yin refers to the ability “to adapt oneself to a situation in such a manner as to take full advantage of the defining circumstances, and to avail oneself of the possibilities of the situation in achieving one’s own purposes” (Ames, 1993, p. 84). This quality is essential to military success because situations are in constant flux, requiring constant revision of strategy. Sunzi says “one’s victories in battle cannot be repeated—they take their form (hsing) in response to inexhaustibly changing circumstances” (ch. 6, p. 126). Yin is the ability to see all the possibilities in a constantly evolving environment: Yin means feeding your army from the enemy’s fields; yin means taking advantage of inflammable materials in the vicinity of the enemy’s camp; yin means shifting your posture so

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adroitly and imperceptibly that, from the enemy’s perspective, you are inscrutable (p. 84) In order to be responsive one must be open to all types of “information.” Yin requires sensitivity and adaptability. Sensitivity is necessary to register the full range of forces that define one’s situation, and, on the basis of this awareness, to anticipate the various possibilities that can ensue. Adaptability refers to the conscious fluidity of one’s own disposition. One can only turn prevailing circumstances to account if one maintains an attitude of readiness and flexibility. (p. 84) Responsiveness requires a total receptivity of knowledge that comes from being with the Dao. From the perspective of the speaker-warrior, the advice to be responsive to one’s context is superficially reminiscent of, but fundamentally different from, the Aristotelian notion of adapting to one’s audience. This is because the classical Chinese and Greeks had vastly different worldviews. Recall that the Greeks perceived a stable underlying order to the world while the Chinese perceived a dynamically interactive oneness. Accordingly, when Aristotle recommends that one adapt a message, he thinks of adaptation in terms of the audience and their needs and expectations based on culture, and the analysis is conducted through rational processes of assessment (Kennedy, 1991). When Sunzi advises adaptation, he assumes consideration of all factors that condition the environmental field, because everything is connected, and draws on both rational and intuitive sensitivities to information. Hence, the speaker-warrior has a difficult burden in accounting for the nature of context, and must be “knowledgeable” in the classical Chinese sense of knowing. If such a state of awareness can be achieved, one is likely to be richly rewarded.

CONCLUSION Art of War illustrates how the principle of parsimony is derived from, and augments, the Daoist philosophical tradition and complements Daoist rhetoric. If we want to address an issue of social justice, for example, Laozi can guide us in petitioning leaders as agents of change, Zhuangzi can show individuals how to transcend their misfortunes, and Sunzi can advise us in mobilizing a social movement geared toward direct assaults. Further-

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more, parsimony suggests a powerful strategic perspective that can serve as the basis for a comprehensive rhetorical theory. Sunzi’s rhetoric is distinctly Chinese, reflecting fundamental differences in classical Chinese and Greek worldviews, theories of knowledge, and assumptions regarding the ends of rhetoric. Although Art of War reflects its culture, it takes conflict, a tradition in Western rhetorical theory, as a paradigm case for analysis. Art of War is teeming with tactical advice and advances keen insights on knowledge, strategy, and responsiveness. Sunzi’s rhetoric is also compatible at times with Western rhetorical concepts such as identification and presumption. Thus, Sunzi shows that while the text cannot be homogenized or fully subsumed within the Western rhetorical tradition, it can help bridge understandings of East/West rhetorical theory and practice. It indicates that non-Western cultures can develop coherent and thoughtful approaches to fundamental social practices that challenge and enliven Western assumptions about persuasive communication. Art of War adds to our views of Daoist rhetoric and persuasion in general, and is thus a welcome addition to our understanding of the human experience.

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CHAPTER 5

Daoist Rhetorical Criticism

The preceding three chapters discuss the rhetorics of Laozi, Zhuangzi, and Sunzi. In this chapter, I advance the idea that these rhetorics can be fused into a coherent genre I term “Daoist rhetoric.” By articulating Daoist rhetoric as a distinct category of discourse, I not only put forth a statement about the rhetorical principles of Daoists but also propose a view of rhetoric that can serve as a critical methodology. I shall first discuss the sense in which the rhetorics of the Daoist sages constitute a genre and, second, suggest a process by which Daoist rhetoric might be used by a critic. Before making these moves, however, it is important to consider whether Daoism can be used as a basis for criticism without violating its basic principles. One could maintain that Daoism is not amenable to a critical perspective; the warnings about noncontentiousness, risks about taking positions that promote distinctions, and admonitions against meddling into the affairs of others seem to preclude acts of critique and, thus, a critical Daoist perspective. While Daoism seems unsympathetic towards contentiousness, distinctions, and meddling, this does not mean that Daoists oppose criticism and Daoism cannot be used critically. Daoism is by nature a critique of human conventions and an urging for an alternative—the natural way. The key to understanding Daoist prescriptions or admonitions about any particular behavior or stance is to consider their views as foregroundings of those behaviors or stances and not as background, or universal, pronouncements. The behavior, say arguing, is not inherently good or bad. In fact, arguing is part of the universal Dao. And arguing is both good and bad. Zhuangzi, in fact, argues in order to demonstrate the uselessness of arguing. He recognizes its limitations and argues primarily as a form of satire against debaters. Thus a criticism of arguing is a statement regarding the motive underlying the arguing, not the act of arguing itself. The 73

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attacks on contentiousness are critiques of those who believe that reason can uncover truth or who argue for the sake of being right. The complaints about distinctions, similarly, are not based on their use per se. Daoists accept the need to take positions and themselves posit useful distinctions. They take issue with those who believe that their distinctions are “real” or make distinctions based on human conventions. Daoists have no problem, however, with making distinctions to foreground something momentarily because they do so without losing sight of the underlying oneness of reality. Finally, the attacks on meddling focus on intruding into the affairs of others. There is nothing inherently wrong with having an opinion, as long as one is not intrusive. That is exactly what Laozi does, in his advice for rulers, and Zhuangzi maintains, in his espousal of freedom from social conventions. Note also that the manner in which the advice is given, the rhetorical dimension of the philosophy, is natural and effortless. What distinguishes Daoist critical interventions, then, from those that they critique is not the activity of contending, distinguishing, or intervening, but the rhetorical enactment of the critique and underlying motives behind these actions. The spirit of Daoism is harmonious. The appropriate motivation for a critical perspective is to attempt to restore the world to its natural way.

THE GENRE OF DAOIST RHETORIC The concept of rhetorical genre is not a new one. Black (1965) believes that there are a limited number of rhetorical situations and situational responses, hence different rhetorical acts respond to similar circumstances and will often exhibit similar characteristics. Campbell and Jamieson (1978) maintain that elements of rhetoric, substantive, strategic, and stylistic, recur in different rhetorical acts and may, arguably, typify a category of discourse. The category, or genre, is said to exist when the elements constitute “a constellation of recognizable forms bound together by an internal dynamic” (Campbell & Jamieson, 1978, p. 21). Thus, “when the term genre is assigned to a grouping of speech or writing, it suggests a distinct, distinguishable category of speech or literature” (Cali, 1996, p. 5). The genre, once constituted, may then be used as a benchmark by which one may make critical assessments about rhetorical artifacts. Genres can illuminate a given act, by revealing the conventions and affinities a work shares with others as well as the unique elements of the rhetorical act. Genres also allow critics to generalize beyond the individual event by providing a framework for assessing how different rhetors in different

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instances respond to similar rhetorical situations. Genres may thus provide standards for judging rhetorical acts in relation to the genre or in juxtaposition to one another. While I will momentarily delineate what I believe are the generic features of Daoist rhetoric, it is useful to note that Daoist rhetoric itself can be seen in relation to an even larger classification of rhetorical approaches. Kennedy (1999a) divides the dominant rhetorical perspectives of the classical Western tradition into technical, sophistic, and philosophical rhetoric. The contrast between technical and philosophical rhetoric, in particular, helps clarify the nature of Daoist rhetoric. Technical rhetoric, “the art of persuasion,” focuses on the message and “shows how to present a subject efficiently and effectively but makes no attempt to judge the morality of the speaker and pays little attention to the audience” (Kennedy, 1999a, p. 14). Hence, this is an amoral perspective that offers precepts and principles for artful and effective presentation. Philosophical rhetoric, on the other hand, “tended to deemphasize the speaker and to stress the validity of the message and the effect on an audience” (pp. 14–15). This genre judges rhetoric, in large part, by the extent to which the content of the message is consistent with and conveys the philosophical perspective. Based on Kennedy’s distinctions, Daoist rhetoric is a philosophical rhetoric. The focus of Daoist rhetoric is Daoism; rhetoric is subsumed within the larger philosophy. Daoist rhetoric engages audiences in philosophical conversations that have tremendous moral implications and provides principles for communication in service of a philosophy. Rhetoric, from this perspective, stands in service of Daoism, and tests of rhetorical propriety are the extent to which the use of rhetoric promotes or espouses the Dao. Daoist rhetoric is thus similar to Platonic or Christian rhetoric. In all three cases, the strategic and tactical enactment of the message is considered appropriate when it is consistent with the underlying principles of the system of thought. Plato articulated a rhetoric in service of philosophy while Augustine propounded a rhetoric designed to promote Christianity. Platonic, Christian, and Daoist rhetoric share a concern that the substance of messages, more than anything else, promotes the worldview. Of course, Daoism presupposes a far different reality from Plato or Christianity. Daoist rhetoric can be differentiated from other philosophical rhetorics and classified more specifically as a distinct category or genre of discourse. Yet, before delineating elements of Daoist rhetoric, it must be noted that Daoist rhetoric recasts traditional notions about rhetorical genre, thereby enriching Western rhetorical theory. Campbell and Jamieson’s (1978) notion that rhetorical genres are constituted by the fusion of substantive, strategic, and stylistic forms is problematic for Daoist

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rhetoric for two reasons. First, the term “style,” which typically refers to the use of language, is too narrow. Because Daoists often rely on nonverbal elements, such as music and visual images, to convey an idea, we must either think of style as something other than language or use a different term. I tend to use either “tactic” or “method” in place of style because tactics or methods are means to enact particular strategies. This distinction will be clearer when I later delineate Daoist rhetorical strategies. A second problem with distinguishing rhetorical substance, strategy, and style (or even tactics), is that these categories make distinct what are in fact unified. One could ask, for example, whether the parable of the unusual man is a substantive move, a strategy, or a tactic. The parable is substantive because it expresses essential aspects of Daoism. It is strategic because it is designed to overcome the limitations of language and remain consistent with wu-wei. It is a stylistic or tactical element because it is a particular language form. Hence, whether we call something substantive, strategic, or stylistic is often arbitrary and masks the multiple ways in which a rhetorical form may function. This is not to suggest that Campbell and Jamieson are unaware of these issues, although they might not agree that the generic categories are arbitrary. I point out the arbitrariness of the three categories because Daoism, which insists on the unity and oneness of reality, highlights the provisionality of distinctions. Daoist rhetoric speaks to the whole person, not just the rational mind, and it thus employs a variety of nontraditional methods. It sees the connections in all things, and recognizes that useful distinctions must always be considered as a move of foregrounding and not a statement about the background reality. In fact, to speak of Daoist rhetoric, apart from Daoism, is to put rhetoric into the foreground when it is, in reality, inextricably bound with everything else. A final aspect of Daoism that challenges conventional approaches to rhetoric is that the principles of Daoist rhetoric are generative—in a state of constantly becoming. When critics are interested in genre they are typically focusing on recurring and stable aspects of discourse that can be said to typify constituents of the category. Daoist rhetoric, on the other hand, is inherently unstable because the world constantly changes, and, with it, its rhetorical principles and perceptual vantage points. Like Daoism itself, Daoist rhetoric posits a process of rebirth and renewal. In fact, an important contribution of Daoist rhetorical criticism is its ability to further understanding of the dynamic aspects of both Daoism and rhetorical processes. Thus, Daoist rhetoric recasts notions of genre because it suggests replacing the term style with tactic or method, maintains that substance, strategy, and tactics are useful but arbitrary distinctions, and posits a genre that is generative, or constantly becoming.

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While Daoist rhetoric is unstable, in the sense that it will constantly present itself in novel ways, it is also stable, in terms of its underlying processes and principles. Hence, it is possible to say a few things about the genre as I conceive it as this juncture. Daoist rhetoric, as a philosophical rhetoric, must be primarily concerned with expressing the Dao and affecting its audience. It has a clear internal dynamic that fuses its elements together: the touchstone for appropriate communication, and internal dynamic that distinguishes Daoist rhetoric from other categories of discourse, is the Dao itself. Daoist rhetoric makes the Dao the centerpiece of communication because the motive for language is to illuminate the Dao, enhancing its accessibility to potential adherents by spurring deeper mental communion. If we temporarily foreground substance as a constituent of rhetoric, then the substance of rhetoric, for a Daoist, must focus on the whole— making the Dao central to the message. The substance of rhetoric should be unifying and nonjudgmental. It must be careful about particularizing and subscribe to the natural way. It must show recognition for the underlying perfection of the natural world and the value of consonance with one’s fate or destiny, because acting within oneself is the most natural way for a self to act. Furthermore, one must uphold the values of balance and harmony, which result from the inherent order of the natural way. Rhetors must not advocate striving to achieve external, human goals, but move in accordance with nature. Of course, not all of these substantive elements will be present in every rhetorical act. Some may be highlighted, others omitted. But whatever is discussed and omitted must be consonant with the overall philosophy. When rhetorical strategies are pulled into the foreground, a Daoist view is that they must flow effortlessly and seamlessly, embodying the principle of wu-wei. Daoist rhetoric is notable for three particular communication strategies, the natural way (Laozi), evocation (Zhuangzi), and parsimony (Sunzi), which couple form and substance and facilitate appropriate communication. These strategies, and the tactics or methods associated with them, can be used exclusively or combined with one another, depending on the particular situation. The substantive, strategic, and tactical elements of Daoist rhetoric can be used critically in a number of ways. Before I speak to its use as a critical method, however, it should be noted that Daoist rhetoric provides guiding principles for creating messages and not just for critiquing the messages of other rhetors. As a minor example of how Daoism can inform rhetorical practice, I recently found a focal point for a presentation I was to give by utilizing a Daoist rhetorical tactic—a metaphor drawn from mundane elements of the natural world.

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The metaphor occurred to me one day as I was pulling weeds in the garden, and somehow connected the activity with a sound bite from President Bush where he said he was committed to “rooting out the terrorists.” Anyone who has weeded crabgrass knows that “rooting out” is essential to success. One must carefully dig out the roots, because if you tear out a plant but leave the root, the plant will regrow. Crabgrass also reproduces by sending out “runners.” One needs to follow their roots as well. Severing a runner without extracting the root will simply result in an independent but otherwise healthy plant. Pulling crabgrass is an exercise in patiently tracing out and digging up roots. This sounded like the descriptions I was hearing of our government’s approach to confronting the Al Queda network. The more I played with the metaphor, the more sense it made. I thought about how the same elements and nutrients that nourish my grass and flowers also nourish the crabgrass. I likened this to how the high quality of life that citizens of the United States enjoy, relative to the rest of the world, is enabled by capitalism, environmental destruction, and commodification—which in turn makes our lifestyles conspicuous and leads us into foreign territories to protect our economic interests. Like crabgrass living off the nutrients in garden soil, the qualities that nourish our lifestyle also breed resentment and anger in others. The approach we take to terrorism must account for how our lifestyle and economic interests make us vulnerable. It also occurred to me that to kill the crabgrass one must remove its root system; but that is insufficient in the long run because the ground can become reseeded. The best approach to inhibiting reseeding is to preclude it by planting something in the area that has been weeded. By removing the crabgrass and then replacing it with something else, a gardener stands a better chance of creating the desired garden than by leaving bare patches and seeing what pops up. Similarly, if the United States succeeds in rooting out terrorists, in this case, wiping out Al Queda’s presence in a particular region, this action will have little long-term impact. Terror cells will be repopulated by disgruntled extremists, unless we can also promote a viable political and economic system that provides opportunities for expression and income realization for all human beings. The message that I ultimately constructed was drawn out of Daoist principles of unity, the connectedness between our lifestyle and the ensuing economic and political entanglements, and holism, the need to address not only terrorism but also its causes. The message was wrapped in a simple metaphor drawn from the natural world. I bolstered my message with additional proofs, but the core ideas stemmed from my Daoist “roots.”

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PROCESSES OF DAOIST RHETORICAL CRITICISM Daoist rhetoric is useful not only in creating messages but also in critiquing messages. In fact, the crabgrass example shows that it can be difficult to separate the two. The message I constructed also critiqued Bush’s expressed policy on terrorism by calling into question some of the regrettable ways that our nation sets itself apart from the rest of the world. It also points out the inadequacy of our response to promote meaningful social justice. There are a number of potentially fruitful methods for Daoist rhetorical criticism. The primary requirement of any such endeavor is consistency of methodological approach and Daoist principles. The practices I employ are not necessarily unique to Daoist rhetorical criticism, although some are distinct from other critical approaches, but they are designed to work holistically in the manner of the Dao. The first part of my process, which seems to me to be particularly Daoistic, is not to seek a text to critique; instead, I let the text find me. Critics must be open to the possibility that the unread book sitting on the nightstand for months, or the popular song they can’t get out of their heads, is speaking to them. The book that sits on a nightstand is taking up space. Why hasn’t it been shelved for another, more convenient, time? Perhaps opening the book will take the reader into an emotional confrontation he or she “knows” (at some level) is necessary for personal growth but is nonetheless unwilling to undertake. The song may be annoying, mindless babble. Or it may be an anthem, proclaiming for all to hear a message that the listener wants to make her own. I believe that critics do their best work when they are involved with texts professionally and intrapersonally. The journey of discovering the rhetorical workings of the text also becomes a journey of self-examination and discovery. Letting the text find the critic is harmonious with Daoism. It suggests unity between the critic and artifact, which enliven and inform one another. This method is also consonant with wu-wei. The process is seemingly effortless because the critic is not affirmatively seeking anything. The difficulty is making oneself available to the universe because it requires a state of openness and readiness to nontraditional forms of information. It is difficult to stop looking for something that does not seem to be present and instead know that it is present but is presenting itself unconventionally. The issue in letting go of the struggle to acquire information is the same as the difficulty many people have with Daoism in general. Being with the Dao is effortless. But getting to that point is a struggle where one must overcome the unnatural social conventions that pervade our daily lives.

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I also believe in this method because it works time and again. In fact, all of my texts have, in one way or another, come to me. Zhuangzi, for example, was given to me by a former student who thought it might comfort me in the aftermath of a painful breakup of a relationship. My son presented Antz and A Bug’s Life to me when he was three years old. We watched those films over and over, much to my dismay, because during Ryan’s “TV time,” which I supervised, that was all he wanted to watch. I finally realized that I was watching these films not for Ryan, but for myself. Once I saw the connections between the films and my life, I realized I had received yet another important gift from my son. My more traditional use of methods of rhetorical criticism began in a graduate course taught by Karlyn Campbell, who also directed my master’s thesis, while we were both at the University of Kansas. Her approach to criticism, which is influenced by Edwin Black, is imprinted in my work. When I critique rhetoric from a Daoist perspective I generally follow Campbell’s method of conducting criticism in stages. She recommends a four-stage process where one analyzes discourse in order to identify distinctive characteristics (textual or intrinsic analysis), attempts to understand the discourse in relation to its milieu or context (contextual or extrinsic analysis), selects or creates a critical approach (rhetorical methods), and evaluates the text based on criteria derived from the critical method (evaluation) (Campbell & Burkholder, 1997). My specific approach is identical in some respects and differs in others from Campbell and Burkholder’s. After letting the text find me, I undertake, as Campbell and Burkholder recommend in their first stage of criticism, an intrinsic analysis of the text. The purpose is to discover how the discourse works to achieve its ends as well as its defining characteristics. My goal is to minimize interpretation and maximize description so that I can understand the nature of the text. I realize that there is an assumption or tension in this method that should be clarified. On the one hand, I shy away from the notion that there is a “correct” reading of a text and its meaning. I am not necessarily trying to “crack the code” or uncover a treasure chest. Texts have lives that are constantly reworked as they interact with other texts (including people). By engaging in intrinsic analysis I strive for a close reading because my goal is to discover the nature of the text as I interact with it and note “evidence” for the arguments I will later make about the workings of the text. If I can point to examples from the text when I assert, I feel more comfortable defending my claims than when I am vulnerable to the argument that the text itself does not support my claims. My aim is to focus on the workings of the text and avoid using it as a springboard for my own agenda. The danger in “seeing” something in a

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text that does not ring true for others, or stand on its own as being reasonable, is that any conclusions about the text can be dismissed by others as being fabricated by the critic or incidental to textual interaction. If the critic is manufacturing meaning that does not seem to resonate with the text, then why bother with texts? In these cases, critics are more persuasive, and certainly more authentic, if they argue their ideas without resorting to a text as a showcase or straw man for argument. I also follow Campbell and Burkholder’s second stage of criticism by next attempting to analyze context as a way to deepen and broaden my understanding of the text. The extrinsic perspective provides a different vantage point, and potentially different insights, for the work than a purely intrinsic analysis. For example, textual analysis of the Dao de jing indicates that Laozi shows a clear preference for the rural, agrarian peasantry. He also favors the soft, low, and feminine. His favorite metaphor for appropriate conduct is water. One might well wonder why Laozi says that the world is constituted by all things and that we should avoid discriminating, yet he promotes rural over city, farming over crafts and professions, soft over hard, low over high, feminine over masculine, and water over fire. The answer that resonates with me is derived by an augmentation of the text with the historical context. My view is that Laozi is not promoting anything, in the sense of advocating its absolute superiority. He is showing, within the context of his world, that the undervalued—soft, water, women, rural poor—were also valuable, in fact, could in some senses be superior to their counterparts. In the context of classical China, where foolish lords were building walled cities to protect themselves from invasion, Confucianism was pervading the royal houses, greed and warfare were rampant, and everything seemed highly competitive and chaotic, Laozi is saying that there are other possibilities. Laozi does not want everyone to be farmers. This would create obvious problems since a division of labor seems necessary for social life in general, let alone transporting and storing food. Someone needs to build houses and furniture, sew clothing, and tend the sick and feeble. It seems much more reasonable to read Laozi as using “the farmer” as a metaphor, not the prototype for all human activity. The farmer is a corrective to the devaluing of manual labor and society’s exaltation of technology and excessive adornment. The farmer is also intimately connected to nature. The farmer understands the changes in seasons, the interdependence of all creatures, the land, and water. The farmer prepares for difficult seasons and lean years by storing food and saving the best seed to be resown in the next season. The farmer allows the soil to rest and replenishes what is taken out. The farmer irrigates. In fact, the most successful farmer is the

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one who can “know” the minute changes in environmental circumstances and adapt accordingly. The farmer also experiences, first hand, birth and death—the cycles of life. The farmer, while not entirely self-sufficient, is invested in survival. Finally, the farmer prospers when positively connected to a community. Hence, to read Laozi intrinsically is to miss key elements of Daoism. Extrinsic analysis helps us recognize that Laozi is advocating nothing absolutely; his advocacy is a context-bound urging for correctives designed to restore the natural way. While contextual analysis can be extremely valuable, it is not without limitation or difficulty. For one, as I outline in chapter 1, it is best thought of provisionally as foregrounding that represents the choices and perspectives of the critic. Another difficulty is that some texts do not lend themselves to traditional views of context. Putting the works of the sages into a reasonable contextual scheme is not terribly difficult. Although one can certainly argue with my choices, I am comfortable grounding my contextual analysis in Chinese politics, philosophy, and social life during the Spring-Autumn and Warring States eras. The task is more difficult when texts are artifacts of popular culture, such as films and music, which present highly ambiguous or even fantastic points of view. In addition, obvious and standard contextual factors, like the rhetor or agency, are complicated by the fact that films and songs are typically produced through a tremendous amount of collaboration. Who is the “rhetor” of a big-screen movie? The novelist or playwright? The screenwriter? The producer(s)? The director? Actors? Which extrinsic factors, for example, would be useful in understanding the film Monsters, Inc. (Lasseter & Stanton, 2001)? Do I need to look outside the texts at all? While there are viable answers to these questions, the issue of how to arrive at those answers is worth consideration. Deciding how to approach context with rhetorical artifacts that are highly ambiguous or removed from ordinary reality is less daunting if one uses methods drawn from a Daoist perspective. I recommend three particular methods for approaching challenging contexts: thinking intuitively, metaphorically, and holistically. Thinking intuitively involves being open to a sudden insight regardless of its source or form. I experienced an intuitive insight the first time I watched Monsters, Inc. Monsters, Inc. tells the story of a corporation in a fantasy world that employs the monsters that come out of closets at night and scare children. The monsters work in a factorylike setting producing power by collecting in canisters the energy emitted when a scared child screams. We see a huge undertaking with a training program for “scarers,” an administrative bureaucracy, technical teams that collect and store the canisters, and a competitive system that tallies how much energy each scarer produces. The scarers are treated like heroes around the factory and each has an

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assistant who handles administrative and logistical chores. We also learn that there is an elaborate security system to help ensure that the monsters are not contaminated by contact with any of the children or their belongings. If children knew that the monsters were actually more afraid of the children than the children were of the monsters, then the system would collapse because children would no longer scream out of fear of monsters. The complication in this story is that a young girl, “Boo,” somehow follows the company’s top monster, “Sully,” back through her closet door and into the factory. Sully and his assistant Mikey spend the rest of the movie trying to conceal Boo from their bosses and return her to her home. In so doing, the child and monsters are in regular contact. Sully comes to learn that a child’s laughter is ten times more powerful as an energy source than a scream. Boo also helps Sully shed his scary exterior. She doesn’t see him as a big hairy monster but a kitty cat. She shows him that being funny and soft is emotionally satisfying for both her and Sully. My intuitive moment came over me at the movie theater, where I sat with my two children, my two-year-old daughter (nicknamed Boo-boo) sitting in my lap. It occurred to me that the monsters were metaphors for fathers. This insight pulled together everything in the film for me: fathers are actually more afraid of their small children than the reverse, fathers are assigned roles in society as disciplinarians (or scarers), and love, tenderness, and humor are much better ways to parent than fear. The film was an urging to break through stereotypical roles for fathers and create sensitivity for these expanded roles in the workplace. The extrinsic factors that needed to be considered included parenting roles in contemporary society, approaches to child discipline, and gender bias toward fathers in the workplace. Monsters Inc. works as an example of both intuition and metaphor. By seeing monsters as metaphors for fathers I was able to identify extrinsic factors for further analysis. In fact, animated films regularly employ metaphors because they simultaneously attempt to appeal to several audiences—children who are often most attracted to them, and their parents, who often must transport them to the theater and pay for tickets and popcorn. Through metaphor, animators are able to create multiple possibilities for meaning that makes Bugs Bunny or Spongebob Squarepants entertaining for diverse audiences. Of course, animated films are not the only rhetorical artifacts that use metaphor. Metaphor is central in communication in general, and prevalent throughout mediated messages. Thus, thinking in terms of metaphors can spur the imagination and provide a useful way to distinguish contextual factors that merit further analysis. From a Daoist perspective, metaphorical thinking is an appropriate method for working with the limitations of language and linear thinking.

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My final suggestion for revealing and highlighting extrinsic factors is to work holistically by unifying the critic and text. If critics are able to let texts come to them then they can also locate appropriate extrinsic factors by considering what motivated their initial attraction to the text. In the case of Monsters, Inc., I was able to identify personal issues, about being able to make the choice of family over work, and my frequently being cast in the role of disciplinarian in my family, that were featured prominently in the film. Identifying myself with the text, unifying the artifact and critic, helped me hone in on key extrinsic factors. In summary, I have suggested three methods, thinking intuitively, metaphorically, and holistically, by which one can distinguish key contextual elements in challenging texts. This is not to say that Daoism is limited to works of fantasy, which are highlighted in chapters 7 and 8, but that it provides a unique vantage point for criticism of challenging texts. I have, in chapters 2 through 4, also used Daoist principles in more traditional ways to examine the verbal elements of the philosophical works of the sages. I have no doubt that Daoist rhetoric can be valuable in the analysis of a wide range of acts and artifacts. The third stage of analysis for Campbell and Burkholder is to select a rhetorical method for evaluating the text. While the focus of this book suggests a commitment to a Daoist rhetorical method, and thus perhaps few choices to make at this stage, I insist that I am not devoted to a Daoist analysis for all texts. The utility of a method is based on the insight it brings to the project, and one should only utilize a Daoist perspective when it is justified by its revelatory power. Nonetheless, if a critic decides that Daoism is an appropriate lens for a particular text, this does not entail following a recipe for criticism. One must still discover what aspects of Daoism are most amenable to the analysis. A particular text might focus on the natural way, while another centers on de. Still others may require additional analysis of Daoist ideas to inject previously unexplored, undeveloped, or reconfigured Daoist elements into the critique. Ideally, a Daoist rhetorical analysis will offer unique insight not only into the text but also about Daoism. The final phase of rhetorical criticism according to Campbell and Burkholder is the critical stage. There are two steps involved: first, relying on the textual and contextual analyses, interpret the text. Second, apply the standards from the rhetorical method to the interpretation to evaluate or critically assess the text. In particular, critics could evaluate Daoistically by considering in what ways and to what extent a text upholds core Daoist principles, and the consistency between the substance of the text and its rhetorical enactment. I take this approach in chapter 6, when I analyze the film The Tao of Steve. I have also argued that, in various ways, Laozi,

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Zhuangzi, and Sunzi enact rhetorical strategies that are entirely harmonious with their philosophical views. Daoism might also be useful in considering the consequences of adhering to the values presented in a message. I attempt this in chapter 7, where I propose a non-Western view on the individual’s meaning in mass society, and chapter 8, when I suggest an alterative to the Western prototype of the hero. Daoist rhetorical criticism can also provide an avenue for further exploration of Daoist ideas and Chinese culture, something I attempt to do throughout this book. In addition, Zhuangzi’s rhetoric could be used to examine whether a text inspires audiences to engage the Dao on their own terms, its evocativeness, thus considering audience effects. Finally, there is no finally. Daoism can certainly be used by rhetorical critics in ways I have not yet imagined.

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CHAPTER 6

Is The Tao of Steve Really “The Way”?

If Daoist rhetoric can be adapted for rhetorical criticism, it seems reasonable to expect it to be useful in analyzing texts that identify themselves as “Daoist.” Accordingly, I further advance my claim that Daoism provides a unique vantage point for rhetorical theory and criticism through an analysis of a recent, and surprisingly successful, independent film. The Tao of Steve (Goodman, 2000) tells the story of Dex, an overweight and underemployed thirty-something guy who subscribes to a strategy known as the “Tao of Steve” in order to seduce women. His success in employing this strategy allows him to become romantically involved with a number of beautiful and intelligent women who would otherwise seem unapproachable to a person of Dex’s modest means and average looks. While the film appears to be a simple story of how a good girl saves a bad boy, it is also a portrayal of contradiction that distinguishes important Eastern and Western worldviews and rhetorical principles. Dex, a student of philosophy and claimed adherent of Daoism, uses tactics that can be derived from Daoist thought, yet he violates the underlying rationale for those tactics. At the same time the female lead, Syd, who lacks such scholarly training and awareness of Daoism, appears to be a more authentic Daoist than Dex. These observations underlie my central claim: The Tao of Steve succeeds as an example of Daoist rhetoric because it presents Daoism paradoxically. Furthermore, at a meta-level, the film makes a statement about Eastern and Western approaches to contradiction. The Western approach, which is exemplified by Dex, is to create dichotomies and distinctions that, stemming from a dualistic worldview, attempt to resolve or minimize contradictions. Syd exemplifies the Eastern approach, seeing a unity that recognizes the unreality of distinctions and frames potential contradiction as paradox. 87

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This chapter demonstrates the levels of meaning in the film that contribute to its paradoxicality by overviewing Daoism and the film, then providing intrinsic and extrinsic analyses of The Tao of Steve, in order to consider the implications for rhetorical theory and practice. The implications include an admonition regarding the misappropriation of Daoism, assessment of the potential for Western rhetoric to communicate the Dao, and insight into culturally appropriate ways of engaging potential contradictions.

OVERVIEW OF THE FILM While the elements of Daoism in the film are significant, and will be discussed later, the basic story is about the transformation of Dex, a bright, underachieving man who is unwilling or unable to make a commitment to a particular woman. Dex combines a Western fantasy of masculinity with bits of Daoist philosophy to create an ongoing strategy of womanizing: “The Tao of Steve.” The opening scene, a ten-year college reunion, introduces the idea that Dex hasn’t changed much since college. The reunion also gives us a sense of Western idealized notions of the possible self, from the perspective of a man who has “returned” to college (an American dream in itself) after a number of years. There is a priest, one who has a strong relationship with God, an unfulfilled woman (Beth), who is “married with baggage,” her husband (Ed), the businessman who is happy and has a perfect home for his business life, yet has no idea that his wife is miserable and unfaithful. There is also a happily married couple (Rick and Maggie), a professional opera set designer who plays drums in her spare time (Syd), and Dex, the brightest person in his class, now content to be a “slacker” and perfect his considerable ability to “scam” on women. The scene is also notable because of who is not there. Dex has three roommates (Chris, Matt, and Dave) who play significant roles in his life. The “Tao of Steve,” comprised of three rules, is revealed in the relationships between Dex and his roommates, particularly Dave, his young disciple. The “Tao of Steve” refers to having the state of mind of “Steveness” when approaching relationships with women. “Steve” is a metaphor for the ideal male—a blend of elements of Eastern wisdom with the on-screen persona of Steve McQueen, especially noted for his unflappable bravery and motorcycle riding in The Great Escape. McQueen never tries to impress women, but “he always gets the girl.” Steve, however, is not simply a name; it is a state of mind. James Bond and Spiderman are Steves. The opposite

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of a Steve is a Stu. A Stu is uncool, exemplified by Barney Fife, Gomer Pyle, and Jugghead. The reunion establishes the starting point, or baseline, of Dex’s transformation from an emotionally immature womanizer to a man willing to commit to a monogamous relationship. Dex is driven simultaneously by fear of rejection and of settling for an inadequate relationship. He is unable to commit to a relationship with a woman because he may ultimately get rejected and hurt. If he is not rejected, he reasons, it must be because the woman is unworthy of his love. Her willingness to accept his flaws indicates her undesirability. Thus, Dex cannot ever find love because women will either love him or leave him; either way, Dex finds a reason to “play the field.” He is transformed by Syd, who leads him to acknowledge that he is simply another underachieving “guy on the make” who brings pain to others through his drive for self-gratification. Eventually, Dex is transformed from a womanizer to a man who stands ready to risk rejection and commit to Syd. In so doing, he has disavows the three rules of Steve.

INTRINSIC ANALYSIS Intrinsic analysis of a text derives the standards of assessment from the text itself, offering potential insight into the text’s internal workings. In this case, the analysis will consider the gist of Dex’s Dao, the Three Rules of Steve. These rules will be examined in order to better understand them and note the role the “Tao of Steve” plays in the transformation of Dex. This analysis will reveal a contradiction between the substance of Daoist philosophy and the strategies Dex derives from that philosophy. Dex’s strategies often mimic Daoist thought, but they distort the underlying philosophical basis for those strategies. Furthermore, the analysis will show that there is a contradiction between the way Dex treats women in general and the way he treats Syd in specific. The contradiction, and its resolution, signifies Dex’s transformation and ultimate abandonment of the Tao of Steve. The Three Rules of Steve provide a mantra for relationships with women: (1) detach yourself from desire; (2) be excellent in her presence; and (3) after you have done these two things, retreat. The Rules are an appropriate source for critical analysis because they are suggested by the text itself. The rules are also significant because Dex uses them successfully in general, but not in the case of Syd. In fact, Syd “out Daos” Dex by upholding the rules and conquering Dex, while Dex abandons his rules, shamelessly pursuing Syd and realizing his underlying lack of fulfillment.

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The First Rule of Steve is explained in the course of Frisbee golf and poker games. While playing golf with Rick, Chris, Matt, and Dave, Dex scores a hole in one. One of his friends says “very Steve.” Dave, who appears younger than the rest and fairly new to the group, expresses his excitement about a woman he is courting. Dex says that if Dave is as excited as he sounds, then he is “already dead in the water.” Dave is violating the First Rule of Steve: eliminate your desire. Dex and Rick explain that Dave will have a much better chance of having sex with his woman if he doesn’t want sex. If a man’s agenda is sexual, women will use their innate ability to discover the man’s motives. Hence, the best approach is to satisfy desire by having no desire. That will cause the object of your desire to desire you as well. That night the men are playing poker and Dex smokes a cigarette, explaining that, theoretically, he should not be able to have sex with the attractive and interesting women he courts, given his looks and low level of career success. He attributes his success with women, his ability to have sex with women, to his strategy of not pursuing them. This perplexes women, who are used to being pursued and fighting off their pursuers, leading them to be attracted to him because he appears not to be attracted to them in a sexual way: “Women want to have sex like fifteen minutes after us. So if you hold out for twenty, she’ll be chasing you for five.” As proof of the power of the first rule, the next scene begins with a shot of a bookcase, Dex’s bookcase in his bedroom, which reveals his collection of philosophical treatises. Dex is strumming a guitar in the background while Julie, the bartending student he met at the reunion, is browsing the shelf and admiring the collection. “You’ve got so many great books,” says Julie. “The better to seduce you with,” mutters Dex to himself. “What?” replies Julie. “All the better to deduce the truth with,” he replies. She then remarks that in certain ways, she is having a better time than she did on her last date. Dex says that he doesn’t consider this a date. He is only interested in being her friend, and doesn’t want any romantic entanglements to spoil their friendship. Dex is obviously courting the woman. He has pursued her since the reunion, fixed her dinner and drinks, and now is playing the guitar for her in the bedroom. Yet he denies what is obvious in order to perplex Julie. Dex thus uses avoidance and passive detachment to propel Julie’s desire for him. It obviously works, because the next scene shows Dex waking up the following morning next to Julie, who is still sleeping. He goes into the kitchen to make some coffee and spots Syd from the kitchen window. She is jogging along the side of the road, looking very fit. Dex, in a classic display of eliminating his desire for Julie, expresses a clear interest in Syd. The problem is that he is violating his own rule because he has desire for

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Syd. It becomes clear that Dex is generally successful in his romantic strategy, but he appears to have met his match in the case of Syd. The notion of detachment from desire is consistent with Daoism. Furthermore, the strategy of subduing an enemy without fighting is a basic principle in Sunzi’s manual on warfare. Sunzi also advocates being formless, thereby making it impossible for an enemy to anticipate an attack (Sawyer, 1994). Yet these occasional analogs to Daoist philosophy are violated on the whole because Dex does not truly start from a standpoint where he is detached from the outcome. The first rule is prompted by the desire to have sex. Hence, the motivational state behind everything is impure. Rather than truly being detached, Dex gives the appearance of nondesire in order to satisfy his true desire. Dex justifies this by claiming that he is not being manipulative but adjusting to the timetable of the woman. Both men and women want to have sex, they just have different schedules. A man who wants to achieve his objective must adapt to the woman’s timetable, arousing her desire by waiting longer than she wants, thus ensuring there will be sexual contact that is motivated by strong desire. A Steve will give the appearance of indifference, attempting to be formless, in order to force the woman to make the move the man desires. This interpretation of Daoism is inappropriate, because it allows for practices that violate Daoist principles. Dex is not detached, but merely feigns indifference in his goal-oriented and selfish pursuits. Dex not only misappropriates Daoism, but also is unable to enact his notion of eliminating desire in the case of Syd. Dex asks her out the first time they ride together in a car, tells her he is falling in love with her at a pool party, fixes her wreck of a motorbike, shamelessly pursues her on a camping trip, and finally, follows her to New York. Dex and Dave are hanging out at the house when Dex tells Dave the Second Rule of Steve: do something excellent. Dex explains that everybody is excellent at something. Figure out what you are excellent at, and then do it in her presence, thus demonstrating your sexual worthiness. Dex is excellent at philosophy, and he constantly uses his charisma and intelligence to express his excellence. Once again, Dex’s interpretation of Daoism is suspect. He is correct in saying that people have innate talent that can distinguish them from others, but he is wrong in advocating the display of excellence. Zhuangzi’s story of the praying mantis warns of the danger of being conspicuous. Much of his advice to peasants in the parable of the ugly man is to blend in with the crowd and stay out of the spotlight. He recommends quietness and inaction. Although the Second Rule of Steve is not grounded in Daoist thought, Dex still finds it difficult to maintain consistency with his rule

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because of Syd’s intellect and beauty. On the first morning they are to ride to work together, Syd arrives at Dex’s house as agreed—at 7:30 sharp. Dex answers the door in his pajamas, and leads Syd to his bedroom, where he pulls out a bong and takes several long hits of pot to prepare him for the morning. Syd observes that Dex smokes pot for breakfast and works parttime, yet of all the people she knew in college, he was one of the most gifted and seemed to have tremendous potential. In Syd’s opinion, Dex is not being excellent in her presence. Syd asks Dex if he ever wanted to do more with his life. Not really, says Dex. “Doing stuff is overrated. Like Hitler, he did a lot. But don’t we all wish he would have just stayed home and gotten stoned?” Syd challenges his overly simplistic dichotomy: “I see. So the only options are to get stoned or commit genocide?” Dex remarks, “Lao Tzu said, ‘The sage, because he does nothing never ruins anything.’ Buddha said, ‘Passionlessness is the best of virtues.’” Syd is unimpressed: “And the Pillsbury Doughboy said, ‘Eat me when you’re ready.’” A couple of days later, Syd arrives to pick up Dex after work. Syd says that she needs to stop at the opera house, where she works as the production designer, and pick up some work. The opera house is a magnificent place that foreshadows the quality of its performances. She is treated with the courtesy and respect that a professional such as she would merit. She also moves easily and freely throughout the place, displaying her general sense of comfort in a high-class establishment. Dex, meanwhile, knocks over some props. Dex is also inept throughout a later scene, an overnight camping trip with Maggie, Rick, and Syd. He is obviously out of shape, constantly laboring on the trail. At night, he renders his tent unusable defending himself against a spider. On the hike home he has to be rescued because he thinks he is having a heart attack. Meanwhile, Syd is extremely fit, moving easily, and is very adept in the natural world. At this point in the film, Dex has failed on two counts: he has repeatedly expressed his desire for Syd and has been largely unexcellent in her presence. Meanwhile, Syd has been fairly spectacular in Dex’s company. She is a better Steve than is Dex, remaining detached and displaying excellence in Dex’s presence. The Third Rule of Steve is that, after eliminating desire and doing something excellent in her presence, one must retreat. Dex displays this principle throughout the film. We meet many of the considerable number of women that Dex has slept with, but none of his past relationships were meaningful and all were short lived. Once again, Dex’s strategy may be found in Daoism, but the underlying philosophical substance is distorted. The strategy of using retreat can be supported if it is an attempt to harmonize or balance the universe. For

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instance, using retreat to attack may be an example of using yin to balance yang. Laozi points out, “what is softest in the world drives what is hardest in the world” (ch. 43, Cleary, 1999, p. 30). Unfortunately, Dex’s circumstances and mindset are inconsistent with Daoism. For instance, the phrase “We pursue that which retreats from us” is more likely to come from Heidegger than Laozi. Laozi taught that all straining, all striving are not only vain but also counterproductive. The fact that the Tao of Steve is studied, cultivated, and turned into generic rules of conquest suggests that it does not represent truth. True insight is not “learned” by following rules but by contemplating, adapting them to context, and even challenging them. Using retreat as a strategy can be justified only if it stems spontaneously from one’s nature, not if it is a method to achieve self-gratification. Furthermore, while yin energy may be appropriate when yang has disturbed the balance of the universe, Dex is interested only in sexual gratification and not the harmony of the universe. In fact, Dex’s deployment of this strategy frequently is unharmonious, because its deceptiveness is painful to the women he seduces. In addition to the tension between Dex’s version of Daoist strategy and its underlying substance, Dex fails to follow this rule with Syd. Dex “conquered” Syd, sleeping with her a few days before she was scheduled to leave for New York. This scenario, for the Dex we see at the reunion, would be perfect. It would undoubtedly be used eventually as an object lesson in Dave’s discipleship. Instead, Dex violates his own rule, following Syd to New York in the final scene of the film. In fact, Dex violates every rule with Syd, showing that according to the standards prescribed by the Three Rules of Steve, Dex is a Stu, not a Steve. If anything, Syd more closely approximates a Steve than does Dex. Intrinsic analysis reveals that Dex avoids rejection or “settling” by sleeping with many women. His strategy works seamlessly to accomplish these objectives. By masking his approach to sexual conquest he engages through noninvolvement and attacks through retreat. His philosophy shields him from the sequence of approach and rejection. Dex’s “Dao” provides a grounding for his womanizing, enabling him to justify his existence and resist change. When Dex is motivated to change, because of Syd, he abandons the strategy. Hence, the resolution of the film is for Dex to reject his view of Daoism. Finally, it is clear that Dex’s Dao is not the Dao of Laozi and Zhuangzi. Dex quotes elements of Daoism and uses the ideas strategically, yet his use of these elements contradicts the nature of Daoism. While Dex could resolve the contradiction by becoming a true Daoist, he chooses instead to resolve the contradiction between substance and form, philosophy and strategy, by abandoning Daoism.

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EXTRINSIC ANALYSIS While the “Tao of Steve” is rejected in the film, an important question remains. Does the film recommend the abandonment of philosophical Daoism, as espoused by Laozi and Zhuangzi, or simply the rejection of Dex’s version of the Dao? The answer is significant, because the conclusion that Dex rejects Daoism, derived from the intrinsic analysis, may be premature. The following section will offer an answer to this question through an extrinsic analysis of the text. Extrinsic elements are factors outside of the text that may illuminate the text by providing a unique vantage point for analysis. Given the focus in the film on Daoism, it is appropriate to consider fundamental aspects of Daoism outside of those outlined by Dex. By looking more broadly at Daoism it is possible to consider more fully the film’s Daoist implications. The fundamental elements of Daoism to be considered are the notion of unity, the natural way, effortlessness, and the values of balance and harmony. Several key scenes in the film show that Dex does not see the unity that is the world; instead, he constantly makes distinctions and judgments. It has already been noted that Dex dichotomizes Daoism, upholding certain tactics while negating their underlying rationale. He distinguishes between good and bad marriages to justify his affair with a married woman. In one scene Dex admits that he is a “fatist,” that he is not attracted to fat women even though he has a large belly himself. He says he is a “fat fatist”—the worst kind because he holds others to standards that he does not feel obliged to maintain for himself. The Second Rule of Steve—demonstrate excellence—distinguishes between certain types of behavior, labeling some as excellent while others are not. Finally, the dichotomy between Steve and Stu is a powerful statement of the distinctions Dex regularly makes. Syd, on the other hand, is far less likely to draw distinctions in the manner of Dex. She does not distinguish between types of marriage, and although thin herself, says that she would have no problem dating a fat man. In fact, at the end of the film she does. Although she labels Dex a “slacker,” she bases this on the fact that Dex does not live up to his potential, that he is not being true to his nature. A Daoist would seem likely to appreciate and find comfort in the natural world. Dex, on the other hand, constantly demonstrates his alienation from nature. While others pack the car for a hike and camping trip, Dex smokes a cigarette. Rick and Maggie question his ability and desire to go on a rigorous hike. Dex says with plenty of bluster, “I love camping.” Later, Dex struggles mightily to keep pace with the others on the hike. He is obviously in bad shape, and his cigarette smoking doesn’t help. But he

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denies to everyone that he is having a problem. The song playing in the sound track is, “I lied about being the outdoor type.” When Syd and Dex arrive at the campsite, they sit on a rock, where Syd uses an inhaler while Dex lights up a cigarette. She offers the inhaler to Dex who uses it between puffs on a cigarette. It is clear that Dex is totally out of his element in the pristine natural world. The dichotomy in these shots, between Syd using an inhaler to purify her lungs and Dex smoking a cigarette to return his lungs to their usual poisonous state, exemplifies the differences between Dex and Syd in regard to their consonance with nature. While one may be tempted to argue that Dex is true to his nature, because he is contemplative and comfortable with his lack of ambition, this claim is inaccurate. If Dex were acting within his true nature his serenity and harmony would be obvious. Instead, Dex is obviously uncomfortable with himself, constantly smoking, eating, drinking, or talking. He is obsessive, compulsive, and harmful to his health because he is not living in harmony. His true nature is submerged beneath his complex rational view of the world, and the self we see is constantly fighting itself. Syd, on the other hand, is an accomplished professional who still does a credible job as a drummer in a rock band, jogs, hikes, and maintains a trim and healthy physique. Her quiet and stillness, noted by her sparse dialogue and a scene where she convinces Dex to stop talking and enjoy a quiet float in a water pond, indicate the extent to which she is true to her nature. Syd never directly calls attention to herself, but Dex always notices when she is around. Not surprisingly, Dex regularly violates the principle of wu-wei. His life is dedicated to conquering, overcoming the resistance of women to typical male advances. His psychological assaults on the women he tries to seduce are perhaps as violative of others as one who uses overt physical means to overcome resistance. Dex knows what he is doing, and, as he confessed to Syd, deliberately seeks out women with low standards. The fact that he must regularly lie, and heap on additional lies to cover his tracks, is an indication that Dex rarely takes the path of least resistance. Instead, he takes the path of reducing the resistance of others. He does not find the gentle flow, which is actually quite difficult for most people, and is dominated by a goal-oriented, self-serving mentality. The effort that Dex must ultimately exert to win over Syd indicates that he is not with the Dao. Syd, in contrast, accomplishes everything by doing nothing. She is a valued professional who never appears to work hard or strive to get ahead. She is in Dex’s life because of her opera job, and her next one is lined up before she leaves. Most significantly, she is able to induce Dex to abandon his questionable ways, something he has clung to since his college days,

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with virtually no effort. Syd invites Dex to look at himself and see through the rationalizations and other defense mechanisms into a deeper level. She does not give speeches, gifts, or threats. Syd simply alerts Dex to how he affects others, finishes her professional work, and moves on. Dex does all of the work in the relationship, while Syd seems satisfied with whatever happens. If Dex is the man of her dreams he will come around. If he doesn’t come around, then he is not the man of her dreams and she hasn’t lost a step in life’s journey. A critical element of intimate relationships is to balance the desire for a close connection with the other with the risk of being rejected. Dex’s restlessness, oral excesses, constant need for sexual conquest, and deceptions indicate a lack of harmony and balance. The whole point of the Tao of Steve is to avoid a balance between intimacy and rejection. Dex avoids rejection by women by refusing to be intimate with them. The whole point of the Third Rule of Steve is to leave when the relationship threatens to become more intimate. While hiking home from the campout, Dex suffers what he thinks is a heart attack. Fortunately, the doctor tells Dex that he did not suffer a heart attack, but he is imperiled because of his obesity and smoking. He is told that his excesses constitute serious problems that need to be changed: “your life does depend on it,” says the doctor. Dex responds to this life-changing news by making a pile of peanut butter sandwiches, which is to be his new diet. Rick chides Dex, telling him the diet, which apparently will consist solely of peanut butter sandwiches, is as ridiculous as his pizza diet (where Dex points out he lost twenty-five pounds) or the sleeping diet (Dex lost thirty pounds but he also lost his job). The diets are extreme and unhealthy. Ultimately, they fail: Dex is still overweight and has not achieved long-term weight management. Hence, Dex is seriously imbalanced. In addition, the film shows that Syd harmonizes Dex’s overabundance of yang. Dex is constantly smoking, talking, and conquering. Syd, on the other hand, expresses her yin in her receptiveness of nature, quietness, and ability to “overcome through her stillness.” She teaches by doing, not by talking. She also has a lot of yang—she is physically strong, rides a motorcycle, creates opera sets, and is willing to confront Dex intellectually. Hence, Dex’s transformation is a movement toward Syd’s balance. Dex begins to become quieter. He is no longer seen with fire (yang-smoking) but accepts Syd’s offer to float quietly in the water. He blows out a candle in his bedroom. The final shots in the film abound in harmony. The preceding analysis indicates that Dex is alienated from the Dao while Syd exemplifies many Daoist traits. Furthermore, Dex’s transforma-

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tion results from intuitively sensing the harmonious balance that inheres in Syd. Significantly, Dex’s self-serving and inaccurate version of Daoism is ultimately rejected in favor of a true representation of Daoism. Since Dex’s views are not truly Daoist, while Syd’s are, the film affirms philosophical Daoism when it brings Dex to Syd.

IMPLICATIONS Both of the analyses conducted thus far yield unique insights about the text. Intrinsic analysis reveals a contradiction between the substance of Daoist philosophy and the strategies Dex derives from that philosophy. The analysis also shows that there is a contradiction in the way Dex treats Syd compared to all other women. The contradictions are resolved when Dex abandons the Tao of Steve. Extrinsic analysis shows that Dex’s Dao is generally inconsistent with Daoist thought, while Syd exemplifies consonance with Daoism. Dex’s transformation leads him to Syd, thus affirming philosophical Daoism and rejecting a sham Daoism. Interestingly, the conclusions drawn from the intrinsic analysis, that Daoism is rejected, and extrinsic analysis, that Daoism is affirmed, are paradoxical in that the film both affirms and rejects Daoism. These insights make it possible to answer a remaining question: Does the film communicate its ideas in a manner compatible with the Dao? The answer allows clear consideration of the extent to which the present study makes a significant contribution to an understanding of rhetorical theory and practice. Rhetorical analysis of The Tao of Steve reveals that the film not only maintains philosophical Daoism, but also is an excellent example of Daoist rhetoric. The film is consonant with the substance of Daoist rhetoric since it uses Daoism as its internal dynamic. The film tells the story of a person who jettisons a false and dichotomous Dao for a unified and authentic Dao. Examining Dex and Syd as communicators reveals additional substantive Daoist elements. Dex employs dualities and crucial distinctions, is alienated from his true nature and the natural world, and engages in ardent conquests that disrupt harmony and hurt him and others. Syd, contrarily, shuns dualities, is natural, and moves effortlessly. Syd’s character is also highly evocative. Although Syd spurred Dex’s growth, it ultimately resulted from his actively confronting his integrity. The vehicle for Dex’s transformation is himself, although he is propelled by the presence of Syd. The film is also evocative because of its use of paradox. The intrinsic and extrinsic analyses leave us with the paradox that Dex has both

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abandoned and embraced the Dao. This paradox is latent in the film, waiting to be evoked or called forth by the audience. If the audience is evoked to supply the missing contextual elements of Daoism, then they will see the paradox between the intrinsic and extrinsic views. In this sense, the film uses the sort of paradox seen in Zhuangzi to goad the audience to deeper levels of insight. The film also uses personification, through Syd, as a rhetorical device that promotes the audience’s identification with a “real” person walking the Earth much as the rest of us do or could. It should be pointed out that the extrinsic view of the film does not end the conversation. The conclusion of the film retains its evocativeness because it is ambiguous. We do not know if Dex is sincere, or has merely adapted a new philosophical stance in order to conquer the otherwise unassailable Syd. Perhaps Dex has not embraced Daoism, but is instead fulfilling a Machiavellian quest for a prize. In addition, the audience does not know what comes of the relationship between the two stars. Maybe they will have a great few weeks, but what happens the next time Syd undertakes an out-of-town job? Will Dex continue to follow her? We don’t even know how they feel about kids! An even more fundamental question, in certain respects, is what does Syd see in Dex? She never succumbs to his “Tao of Steve.” Something else, that is unclear in the film, attracts Syd to Dex. There are far too many questions that remain for the analysis of this film to end. Analyzing Dex and Syd as communicators also reveals elements of parsimony in the film. Dex’s character is always talking, to the point where Syd and others ask him to be quiet. Furthermore, Dex’s avoidance of the truth forces him to offer a string of lies to maintain the appearance of consistency. Syd, on the other hand, says little and does much by her actions. When she does confront Dex’s dualities she exerts the minimum resources in order to refute him. The film is also parsimonious on a meta-level because it relies less on dialogue and more on imagery to communicate its ideas. The film also takes an economical approach to its point in the sense that Dex is given two clear alternatives from which to choose—Syd and Dave. Syd allows Dex a glimpse of a true Dao and its potential for harmony, Dave represents the shallow and selfish path that Dex has thus far traveled. There are several conclusions to be drawn at this point from The Tao of Steve. The first is that the film serves as an admonition regarding the misappropriation of Daoism. Dex’s strategies emanate from the Dao, without being grounded in the Dao, making Dex a metaphor for westerners who sometimes misuse Asian thought in a dualistic world. As westerners continue to encounter Asian thought they might be inclined to ignore its

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cultural foundations and choose strategy and tactics over substance and holistic understanding. In some ways, The Tao of Steve is a second coming of The Karate Kid (Avildsen, 1984). In that film, Mr. Miyagi teaches martial arts not for the sake of conquering opponents, but as a vehicle for learning important Eastern values. His adversary in the film, sensei John Kreese, runs the Cobra Kai, a dojo that values winning awards. They use martial arts as strategies and tactics for personal gain and fulfillment. The film points out how the underlying purity of Asian thought is lost in the Cobra Kai dojo and how Mr. Miyagi’s approach, an integration of substance and strategy, is the only proper approach. The dojo analogy is not a fiction. Many people in the United States have learned Eastern martial arts techniques without studying its philosophical undercurrent. The Tao of Steve warns against such misuses of Daoist thought by villainizing Dex’s bastardization of Daoism. A second conclusion is that the film illustrates appropriate ways of communicating a Daoist message. Dex uses inappropriate communication practices, focusing on personal gain, not illumination of the Dao. He lives in a world of dichotomy and distinction rather than unity. He is alienated from nature, using logic, citation of expert testimony, and information gleaned from books rather than intuitive insights expressed nonverbally or silently. Dex is verbose, exerts much effort, and lacks balance and harmony. Syd, who communicates appropriately, is unified, natural, and effortless. She says little, but speaks volumes by her demeanor and actions. At a meta-level, the film communicates an evocative message through its use of paradox, and a parsimonious one, because of its reliance on visual images rather than dialogue and the clarity of the two choices confronting Dex. The third conclusion to be derived is that The Tao of Steve offers insight into culturally appropriate ways of engaging potential contradictions. Dex exemplifies the Western approach popularized by Plato, while Syd demonstrates an Eastern approach. One of Plato’s primary ways of dealing with potential contradictions is to dichotomize, essentially saying that the contradiction does not exist because two different things are being considered. Hence, Plato can contradict himself by using rhetoric to say that rhetoric is immoral, yet claim that no contradiction exists because he dichotomizes an idea with a crucial distinction. Plato argues that rhetoric, while generally bad, is acceptable when a philosopher, one who has studied and knows the truth about reality, uses it. Thus, there is a good rhetoric and a bad rhetoric, distinguished by the nature of the user. Aristotle makes a similar move, saying that rhetoric is a neutral instrument, while it is the user who is either

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ethical or unethical. For Plato, the contradiction is avoided because “the ends justify the means,” and one guided by philosophy can discern the greater good. Aristotle, rather than distinguish good and bad rhetorics, divides rhetoric, the instrument, from the speaker, the user. By placing ethical responsibility on the speaker, his dichotomy makes rhetoric amoral, neither good nor bad. It is important to note the difference between duality and paradox. A duality seeks to split something in two—the person into body and soul, research methods into subjective and objective, the universe into heaven and earth, communication ethics into rhetor and rhetoric. A paradox says that two opposites are true of the same thing—depending on how one looks at it. Rhetoric is both good and bad—at the same time. There are nuanced differences here that are significant. Dualities simplify the complexity of life by dividing things into separate, component parts. Paradoxes speak to complexity. They demonstrate how many things may be true of one thing without a contradiction or negation. More importantly, dualities invite defensiveness and justification of the distinction one makes. Dualities always run the risk of being contradictions because they may pose a false duality that does not truly exist. In Dex’s case, many of his rationalizations attempt to avoid contradiction by posing “crucial distinctions,” the key defining quality that sets them apart. Syd challenges these distinctions as being artificial and self-serving. There can be no distinctions in a natural state because of the oneness that is all. Thus, duality and paradox differ significantly because dualities are based on the ability to correctly distinguish and categorize. They invite justification and defense of their interpretation because they are either right or wrong. Paradoxes, on the other hand, do not claim to be exclusive or correct. They are interpretations based upon viewing a facet of something. Paradoxes do not suggest right and wrong, but add layers of meaning and richness to our understanding. It is clear that duality is an appropriate strategy when one operates from a dualistic worldview, while paradox is appropriate for monism. These two strategies are therefore bounded, to some extent, by cultural assumptions regarding the nature of things. While a Daoist might employ a duality, it would most likely be to show the folly of adopting a single perspective and claiming that something belongs in one category or another. Similarly, a dualist might use paradox, but most likely to demonstrate the accuracy of one interpretation over another. The film reveals itself to be a Daoist tale because it uses paradox to critique duality; yet it does so evocatively, inducing the audience to interact with the film in order to render the insight.

CHAPTER 7

Values East and West in Antz and A Bug’s Life

The previous chapter points to the viability of using Daoist rhetoric to assess a film that claims to be Daoistic. It remains to be considered, however, whether Daoist rhetoric is limited to testing the internal consistency of communication acts that claim to be Daoist, or whether it has more general utility in the analysis of non-Daoist communication acts. That is, does Daoist rhetoric offer a critical perspective that allows one to assess more generally the phenomenon of human communication? I further answer this question and articulate my claim that Daoist rhetoric offers a unique and useful vantage point for communication criticism by using principles of Daoist rhetoric to analyze the films A Bug’s Life (Lasseter & Stanton, 1998) and Antz (Darnell & Johnson, 1998). The Daoist lens will illuminate key differences and offer unique insights in the films that have escaped the analysis of cinema critics (Corliss, 1998; Ebert, 1998; Lehmkuhl, 1999; Major, 1998; McDonagh, 1998; Ryerson, 1998; Stack, 1998; Stone, 1998) and would likely go unnoticed in other methods of criticism. While these films have no obvious Daoist claims in them or influence surrounding them, making them appropriate subjects for this analysis, I have not selected them randomly. These films are particularly interesting because animated films typically communicate significant messages through visual images rather than verbal texts, their “logic” is often a function of their narrativity rather than systems of formal and informal reasoning, and they may reflect values from non-Western cultures that may be difficult for westerners to appreciate. Furthermore, these animated films use insects to metaphorically address issues of humans and society. Metaphor is a central strategy in Daoist rhetoric, and Zhuangzi is 101

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notable for his use of seemingly insignificant creatures to make significant observations. Zhuangzi not only directed the reader to observe the insignificant, the neglected, and the negative, but also empowered them by glorifying their inner strengths and inner completeness. For him, the ability to see and not forget the unobvious rather than paying attention to the obvious was an indication of having attained the Dao. (Lu, 1998, p. 256) The personification of ants, which to many of us are the most mundane of all life forms, opens a space for Daoist analysis. Furthermore, ants are an excellent metaphor for framing issues of individuality in mass society. As Gordon (1999) notes, “because ants are separate beings that move around freely, they attract attention as individuals. But nothing ants do makes sense except in the context of the colony” (p. viii). The films are appropriate for juxtaposition because they share similar subject matter. The stories center on an ant that is searching for meaning; in a larger sense, the films consider an individual’s proper place in a collective society. Flik, the hero in A Bug’s Life, wants “to make a difference,” while Z, from Antz, wants to feel “significant.” The central figures also must seek the outside world in order to resolve their conflict. Finally, they both want to win the heart of the Princess, who will someday be the Queen. Despite these similarities, the Daoist perspective will reveal that the films are markedly different in their key themes. A Bug’s Life views the most significant threats to society to be external, praises the use of technology, and celebrates Western values of individual cunning and bravery. Antz, on the other hand, sees the most significant social threats to be internal, resolves problems through consciousness raising and teamwork, and promotes Eastern values of community and cooperation. The films also suggest different answers to the question of how an individual’s life can be meaningful in a mass society. A Bug’s Life is consistent with Western cultural values: one makes a difference when one overcomes tradition, fear, and the opinions of others to accomplish great things. The answer in Antz is consistent with Daoist values: an individual is significant when that person is able to discover and enact his or her own destiny. These differences in the films, which focus on the tension between the individual and the social, are revealed by first analyzing the onset, development, and resolution of the central conflicts of the films. Following this, I apply the Daoist themes of nature, effortlessness (wu-wei), and balance and harmony to further evaluate the films. I conclude by dis-

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cussing the central differences in the films’ orientations toward the individual and the social, differences that reflect, respectively, Western and Eastern cultural values.

ANALYSIS OF THE FILMS The portrayal of conflict is an important starting point in understanding how the films differ in their treatment of the individual’s search for meaning in the midst of a collectivist society. The onset and framing of these conflicts occurs in the opening scenes of the films. The opening scene of A Bug’s Life shows the worker ants in the colony on Ant Island carrying grain to a large leaf that is braced by rocks. The rocks form a giant altar on which the grain is placed as an offering for a gang of grasshoppers. The process is highly labor intensive, involving climbing up the stalk, separating each kernel of grain, toting the grain to the offering leaf, and placing the grain on the leaf. One ant, Flik, is using a threshing machine that he has invented. The machine cuts the entire grain stalk, which includes several kernels at once. The stalk is dropped into a holding bay and then catapulted into the offering pile. Princess Atta, who is training to take over when the Queen retires, is supervising the operation. Atta is very concerned about the process of gathering the grain, poring needlessly over details and fretting about minor setbacks like gaps in the line of ants carrying grain. The Queen tells the Princess not to fear the impending arrival of the fearsome grasshoppers. “They come. They eat. They leave. It’s our lot in life. It’s not a lot, but it’s our life.” Flik has an accident with his machine. Instead of flying into the offering pile, a stalk of grain hits an ant. He is scolded after the accident and told to just pick the grain like everyone else. A horn sounds signaling the arrival of the grasshoppers. Everyone throws their last kernel onto the pile and then heads into the anthill. Flik is “a young freethinker in a closed society” (Stack, 1998, D1). “Deeply individualistic, inventive and clever,” Flik is, to some, a “misfit with big ideas” and, to others, a “courageous visionary” (Major, 1998, p. 1). Flik is described as having a problem with self-esteem (Stone, 1998, p. 3). He desperately wants “to make a difference.” Unfortunately, Flik begins to stand out in a disastrous way. Encumbered by his machine, Flik lags behind everyone else. The machine goes out of control and knocks out a key rock that supports the offering leaf. The leaf is dislodged and the grain slips into a pool of water below, submerging the entire offering. Flik goes into the anthill to join the others, tries to explain what happened to

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Princess Atta, but is rebuked and told to keep quiet so that Atta can hear what is going on with the grasshoppers above. The grasshoppers arrive at Ant Island and seeing that there is no food for them, become enraged, smash through the ground, and fly down into the anthill. They confront the frightened ants, who do not understand why the grasshoppers didn’t just eat and leave. The head of the gang, Hopper, demands that the ants double their offering and have it ready at the end of the harvest season, “when the last leaf falls.” The ants protest that there isn’t enough time to meet the grasshoppers’ demands. The ants would not be able to gather food for themselves and would starve if they met Hopper’s demands. Hopper menaces and threatens the ants, and no one will stand up to him. The grasshoppers fly off leaving the frightened ants. Antz opens with Z, a seemingly neurotic ant, talking to his therapist about his feelings of alienation. Z is concerned about finding his true nature, believing “there’s got to be something better out there” than his assigned role as a worker. Psychologically, he rejects this role, feeling insignificant and complaining that he is physically inadequate because he is unable to lift more than ten times his own body weight. Furthermore, he finds handling dirt to be unrewarding. He has trouble getting behind “this whole gung ho super organism thing.” It might work well for the colony, but “what about my needs? What about me?” Z complains, “this whole thing makes me feel so insignificant.” “Excellent,” says the therapist. “You’ve made a real breakthrough.” “I have?” “Yes Z, you are insignificant.” The next scene reinforces Z’s insignificance, where the camera pans back to reveal a fantastic underground city, an incredible metropolis of sophisticated structures and passageways. There is a scene where maggots are born and instantly assigned to be either a worker or soldier. We also see aspects of the organization of hordes of ants that are building a “Mega Tunnel.” Z is working on the tunnel, digging next to his friend Azteca. Z laments his unappealing lot in life, but Azteca, who loves her work, is unsympathetic because she thinks, “it’s not about you. It’s about us. The team. It’s about this” (the mega tunnel). Z is assigned to be a part of the wrecking-ball crew. The wrecking ball is a giant mass of ants that cling together and, with their bodies, form the mass and chain of the ball. The ball is swung from the ceiling of their dwelling like a pendulum and then smashed into rock in order to help excavate the tunnel. In this way “millions of individuals can become one collective tool” (Ebert, 1998, p. 2), a piece of heavy construction equipment. The problem is that Z, who is assigned to the chain, loses his grip and “drops the ball” causing it to careen wildly below.

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General Mandible, the leader of the ant’s army, laments that workers are weak and lack commitment and discipline. He opines that this is the nature of workers, thus they can’t help it that they are inferior to the soldiers. Mandible outlines a plan to his top officer, Colonel Cutter, where Mandible takes over the colony and destroys the workers. He decides to send military troops who are loyal to the Queen, the ruler of the colony, on a suicide mission, an attack on a termite colony. His plan is to eliminate the loyal troops, marry the Queen’s daughter, Princess Bala, kill the workers and the Queen, and start a new colony of his own without the inferior workers. He will kill the workers by having them build the Mega Tunnel, which winds up to a lake on the surface. Once the tunnelers break through to the surface they will unwittingly unleash a torrent of water that will fill the lower chamber of the colony. Mandible will assemble all the workers in the chamber for a ceremony and then seal the exits. When the water fills, the ants will drown in the tomb they dug for themselves. There is a saying in psychotherapy that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. The fact that both heroes are portrayed initially as disaffected or counterproductive to themselves and others foreshadows the need for change in order for Flik and Z to feel good about themselves, maintain an identity, and make a contribution to society. The issues developed in the rest of the film concern the extent and ways both the individual and society must transform. In addition to the personal conflict of Flik and Z regarding the meaning in their lives, the films portray a conflict that will threaten the well-being of the entire colony. What is most interesting about the depiction of conflict is that, in A Bug’s Life, the greatest threat to the group is an external threat posed by the grasshoppers. In Antz, the most significant threat is internal—a military coup by General Mandible. These contrasting views clearly distinguish the way the films address their common theme. In A Bug’s Life, the individual’s quest for meaning in mass society entails responding to conflict caused by agents outside of the individual and that individual’s affiliated group. In Antz, the most important conflicts take place within the individual and the group with which one is affiliated. Flik responds to the conflict with the grasshoppers by bravely venturing into the outside world to find some bigger bugs that can help the ants by fighting the grasshoppers on their behalf. Unfortunately, Flik believes he has found a band of ferocious warrior bugs when, in fact, they are merely unemployed circus performers. The circus bugs think that Flik is organizing a party for the grasshoppers and the bugs are being hired to be the entertainment. They all fly back to the colony where the bugs promise the colony a performance that will “knock the grasshoppers dead.”

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Flik eventually realizes that the circus bugs are not going to be able to save the colony. He asks them to conceal their true identities so that he can maintain his credibility and implement a new plan. Flik proposes to build a mechanical bird that the ants can operate from the inside. They will place it in a tree, attached to a tether, and release it when the grasshoppers come for their offering. The bird will “fly” about and scare off the grasshoppers. In A Bug’s Life, the external conflict is given primary consideration in the story while Flik’s inner struggle for meaning is given little direct attention. Antz looks more carefully at the personal conflict plaguing its hero as well as the military threat. The personal conflict stems from the fact that everyone in the colony has a role assigned for him or her. Princess Bala, for example, must marry General Mandible because it is “her place” to take over for the Queen. The theme is echoed in the next scene, a bar, where ants relax after a busy day. Z is there with his gigantic ant friend Weaver. Weaver is a kindhearted and simple soldier who would rather be a worker so he can meet “those beautiful worker girls.” The bar scene also hints at the process of resolving this conflict. Princess Bala, tired of the pampered and boring life of the royalty, sneaks down to the bar incognito with two of her escorts. There, ant musicians play a somber version of Pete Seeger’s “Guantanamera” while thousands of ants assemble themselves into several long lines and begin to dance in the same robotic way. Bala wants to dance with a worker and ends up with Z. They follow the monotonous horde, but soon Z pulls Bala out of the line to dance a different way. They use their creativity to conjure up new steps that are obviously much more fun than the old style of dancing. This illustrates that one can be happy by rejecting one’s assigned lot in life, which Bala did by coming to a bar of commoners, and Bala and Z did by rejecting the dance line and dancing on their own. The scene ends when Z accidentally touches off a gigantic, dance-ending brawl. Z learns that Bala is a princess as she is leaving. In order to meet Bala again, Z convinces Weaver to trade places with him for one day so that he can march in a royal military review. The next day Weaver reports to the tunnel for work and Z masquerades as a soldier. Z and Weaver are both happy about choosing their roles, if only for a day. The royal review takes a tragic turn, however, when Z learns that the ceremony is actually a pep rally for the suicide strike against the termites. Mandible reinforces the conflict regarding individuality, telling his soldiers that “the life of an individual ant does not matter” because the colony is all that matters. As Z marches to battle against the fearsome termites Weaver is working in the tunnel. Weaver loves digging and hauling away the dirt.

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The ants vanquish the ferocious termites but lose their entire army, except for Z, who missed the battle by hiding in a crevice. As Z emerges later and surveys the horrible massacre he finds the still-animated head of Barbados, a soldier who saved Z’s life and died fighting an absurd battle that was nominally for the sake of the colony. Barbardos gives Z the lesson of a lifetime: “Don’t make my mistake kid. Don’t follow orders your whole life. Think for yourself.” Z returns to the colony and is hailed as a hero by virtue of his being the sole survivor of the battle. The General publicly praises Z and brings him before the Queen and Princess to receive their congratulations. Bala reveals to everyone that Z is only a worker, not a soldier. Mandible realizes that lionizing a worker who successfully violated the assigned social order threatens the foundations of his fascist plans. Mandible orders his men to arrest Z. Z grabs the Princess as a hostage and they inadvertently fall down the trash chute before being catapulted outside. Mandible’s guards chase them, but before they can capture Z, a giant magnifying glass appears and incinerates the guards one by one. Z and Bala hide under a plant and the menace leaves the scene. Z realizes that he cannot return to the colony and face Mandible’s goons. He decides to try to find Insectopia, a mythical place where food is plentiful and life is easy. Bala decides to accompany Z. Inside the colony the workers are spreading tales of Z. He is characterized as a hero for killing scores of termites, receiving medals, running off with the Princess, and causing the guards who chase him to burst into flames. In fact, Z never meant to be a soldier, accidentally survived the massacre, tripped and fell to escape with Bala, and was fortuitously assisted by a child and his magnifying glass. When Weaver tells the workers that Z was a worker who wanted to be a soldier and that Weaver was a soldier who wanted to be a worker, this causes the workers to question their social order. The heroic Z and titanic Weaver dispel the myth that workers can’t do anything but work. They exemplify the value of ants thinking for themselves. Mandible is desperate to find the Princess, because she is a crucial element to his building a new colony. He learns Z may have set out for Insectopia and orders Colonel Cutter, who can fly, to bring back the Princess and kill Z: “Individualism makes us vulnerable.” The irony is that Mandible individually decided to reshape the colony. Back at Insectopia, which is actually a garbage pile, Z and Bala are falling in love. Z goes off on an errand at the exact moment Cutter arrives. Cutter grabs Bala, saying he is under orders to bring her back to the colony. “Orders,” she says, “can’t you think for yourself?” Cutter asks about Z, and Bala, thinking for herself, lies and says Z is dead. Cutter remarks that Z is dangerous because “he is an ant with ideas.” Nearby, Z looks up

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to see Cutter flying Bala back to the colony. Z decides to save her and hitches a ride to the colony with a drunk and melancholy wasp. Issues surrounding the appropriate nature and relationship of the individual and society are developed in the stories through the conflicts that threaten Flik and Z as well as their entire colonies. The conflicts foreshadow the key values that are embedded in the films and set the stage for the resolution of the conflict, which, ultimately, transforms Flik, Z, and their respective colonies. In A Bug’s Life, the grasshoppers return to Ant Island and are ready to squash the Queen when, suddenly, the bird is launched from its perch in the tree. It swoops down out of the near darkness screeching loudly, panicking the grasshoppers. The circus bugs pretend to be victims, covering themselves with berries and juice to make it appear that they have sustained wounds as the bird makes several terrifying passes at the insects. The plan takes a disastrous turn when the bird is accidentally set on fire and the ants inside are forced to crash land and abandon the bird, revealing their deception. Hopper is enraged, corners Flik, and begins to pound his tiny body into submission. But Flik stands up to the ferocious Hopper and tells everyone about Hopper’s plan to kill the Queen. He stresses the independence of the ants from the grasshoppers, arguing that the grasshoppers depend on the ants for food but the ants receive nothing from the grasshoppers. Hence, the two species are independent of one another; in fact, the ants are superior because they fulfill an important role while the grasshoppers are useless criminals. The ants, which badly outnumber the grasshoppers, are stirred by Flik’s martyrdom and rousing words and attack the grasshoppers. The grasshoppers fly off in a panic, except for Hopper who wants revenge on Flik before he leaves. Princess Atta grabs Flik and flies off with him, with Hopper in hot pursuit. It is clear that Hopper is faster and stronger and will eventually catch Atta and Flik. Flik directs Atta to fly toward the nest of a bird that nearly ate several of Flik’s friends on an earlier occasion. Hopper catches up to Atta and corners Flik below the bird’s nest. Just as Hopper is about to do in Flik, the bird pops up and looks down on the bugs. Hopper thinks this is another one of Flik’s trick birds, and refuses to be intimidated, until the bird opens its enormous and obviously real beak. In no time the bird corners Hopper and grabs him. The bird returns to the nest to feed a screaming Hopper to its hungry babies. Hopper is gone, and there is hope for a better life. A Bug’s Life ends with shots of a much-improved colony. Atta has become Queen, and she is a confident and capable leader. Scores of ants are using Flik’s threshing machine, and they are able to harvest plenty of food without toiling laboriously for hours on end. The heroism of individ-

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ual ants and the perfection of technology bode well for the future of Ant Island. In Antz, Z returns to the colony and finds his way to the Princess. Reunited, they spot a copy of the plans for the tunnel and figure out Mandible’s evil scheme. They run down to the lower chamber, where the workers are assembled for the ceremony opening the Mega Tunnel, in order to warn everyone of the impending disaster. Z explains the danger to the tunnelers and asks them to stop. The ant foreman asks, “on whose authority?” Z replies, “on your own authority. Can’t you think for yourselves?” The workers stop, except the foreman, who replies, “My orders say ‘dig.’” The foreman throws a pick into the rock saying, “Get back to work.” The pick strikes a fatal blow, creating just enough of a crack to allow some water to seep through. The workers realize that Z was right and run for their lives. The tunnelers run to the rest of the workers in the lower chamber only to learn that they have been locked inside. The water rushes in, forcing the ants to gather on higher ground in the middle of the chamber. Z gets an idea when he notices some ants climbing up to a ledge. He and Weaver begin organizing everyone to create a gigantic ant ladder. The ants form a foundation with their bodies and lock their arms and legs together to create a structure that begins to tower up toward the ground above. Finally, Z begins to climb to the top of the heap. Above all of this, on the outside, the General has assembled the soldiers and has launched into a speech about his grand vision and the superiority of the soldiers: “The weak elements” below are about to be “washed away,” ridding the colony of filth and inferiority. “Our glorious future is at hand. It is time for a new beginning.” Suddenly, a fist breaks through the ground from below. It is Z! “What the hell is that?” asks the General. Cutter replies, “I think it is the weak element sir.” Z asks someone to pull him out. Mandible refuses, “for the good of the colony.” Z replies, “we are the colony.” Colonel Cutter fully realizes that the General’s idea that the workers are inferior is nonsensical given the splendid tunnel the workers built. He turns against the General and offers Z a hand saying, “This is for the good of the colony.” He then orders his men to help pull up the ant ladder. The General is enraged and says, “I am the colony.” He tackles Z, pushing them both into a hole that has been created above the chamber. Mandible falls onto solid ground and is killed. Z falls into the water, but Cutter quickly flies down and rescues Z. When Z is revived by a breath of air from Bala she exclaims “You did it!” He modestly replies, “We did it.” In Antz, Z saves the colony, marries Princess Bala, and discovers how to feel significant in a mass society. As Z puts it, it’s a simple story: “Boy meets girl. Boy likes girl. Boy changes underlying social order.” The movie

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ends with Z describing how the colony has been rebuilt better than before “because now there’s an indoor pool.” Z is going to start a family with Bala, and he is “working with a new therapist” who is “putting me in touch with my inner maggot.” Most importantly, says Z, “I found my place” and “it’s right back where I started.” The key to his new life is that “this time I chose it.” Analysis of the resolution of the central conflicts in the films indicates the transformation that has taken place over the course of the films. In A Bug’s Life Flik responds to the threat posed by the grasshoppers by attempting to find stronger weapons to intervene on behalf of his colony, using technology to build a mechanical bird to save the ants, and heroically and ingeniously facing the threat. The inner struggle for a meaningful existence is also resolved in the process of resolving the external conflict. Flik makes a difference because he advocates independence and unbridled individualism. His ingenuity and bravery convince the royalty to adopt military escalation and technological innovation. Antz centers on internal conflicts, balancing the personal conflict of an individual’s meaning with the social threat to the colony. Z finds meaning in a mass society by thinking and deciding for himself within his natural limitations. He resolves the social threat by raising the consciousness of the group about the dangers of having others decide our place and organizing group efforts to solve problems. At the same time, individualism is not absolute. While the personal conflict exists because of a denial of individual freedom, the social conflict exists because of Mandible’s selfish individualism. Thus, Z advocates interdependence, balancing the needs of the individual and the group.

CRITICAL ASSESSMENT AND IMPLICATIONS Applying Daoist rhetorical principles to the analysis of the conflict in A Bug’s Life and Antz allows for a critical assessment from a Daoist perspective. Specifically, in this case, the analysis reveals that A Bug’s Life offers a typically Western orientation to issues of self and society while Antz upholds Daoist views. This claim is justified, first, by considering the extent to which the films express consonance with the natural way of the universe and the concept of effortless action (wu-wei). A Bug’s Life presents the view that one should attempt to overcome nature through the use of technology. The opening scenes of the film show Flik using his threshing machine with great zeal. The machine has problems only because the rest of the colony refuses to acknowledge Flik’s ingenious idea and offers no support. In the closing scenes of the movie

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scores of ants are successfully using the machine to improve the quantity of food harvested and reduce the amount of time and labor expended in the enterprise. The clear message is that the labor-intensive way that ants traditionally gather food is inferior to a technological solution. Similarly, the mechanical bird is highly successful at scaring away the grasshoppers until a naïve individual unwittingly sets the bird on fire. The use of technology per se is validated. The failure of technology stems from the inability of some individuals to use it properly or grasp its significance and advantages. Hence, the film values the large-scale use of technology to overcome the natural limitations of the creatures of the universe. In contrast, Antz advocates the natural way; in fact, it is a story about restoring the harmony of nature. The major conflicts in the film occur because particular individuals attempt to decide the role or fate of others without considering the individual’s inner self. Ants are assigned at birth to be either soldiers or workers based solely on random sequencing. This process miscategorized Weaver and Z. Furthermore, Mandible wants to enforce unnatural distinctions between equals. He plots to exterminate the workers and honor the soldiers because of his mistaken beliefs regarding their respective abilities. Similarly, Bala is forced to replace her mother because of a notion established within the colony regarding her rightful place. These approaches are unnatural because they attempt to plug individuals into predesigned categories that have been established by other individuals in an attempt to make discriminations. A more natural approach is to allow individuals to discover and enact their nature for themselves. This is precisely Z’s goal, and the ultimate transformation he makes in the closing scene is that he is happy being what he was all along because he got to choose for himself. Given the dichotomy regarding adherence to nature, it is not surprising that the films differ greatly in the extent to which the heroes act effortlessly, in accordance with the concept of wu-wei. Zhuangzi advises us to accept what we cannot control and focus on ourselves. Flik, on the other hand, struggles every step of the way. His various schemes require a tremendous amount of effort and usually fail because they are so antagonistic to the natural flow around him. His journey in search of vigilantes, for example, begins with “a spectacular aerial sequence,” where “Flik plucks a dandelion spore and floats into the great unknown” (Stack, 1998, p. D1). Tremendous energy is expended attempting to mold his “ragtag band of misfits” to “outwit the grasshopper gang” (Lehmkuhl, 1999, p. 1). Flik’s efforts are not simply the result of individuality, but the result of the particular way he expresses his individuality. Flik, for instance, “is forever urging the rest of the ants to think progressively, with overzealous admonishments that serve to annoy more than inspire” (Major, 1998, p.

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1). Daoism appreciates individuality, but while “individualism is its hallmark, . . . a wise individual is unassuming, simple, and artless, certainly not egotistical” (Nagel, 1994, p. 7). Thus, the characters in A Bug’s Life are striving with great effort to achieve their objectives. The grasshoppers are loud, noisy, bullies who will stop at nothing to get their way. Flik invents machines, makes heroic journeys, and develops sophisticated plans involving numerous allies in his quest for respect and redemption. The bugs engage in daring rescues and complicated deceptions. In Antz, Z is virtually the opposite in his actions. Note how he does nothing but accomplishes everything in virtually every significant incident. Z accidentally “finds himself shipped off to battle against a termite colony” (McDonagh, 1998, p. 1). Z never raises a weapon in the battle, but is the sole survivor because he fell into a crevice. Upon his return, “he’s suddenly hailed as a war hero. More wacky happenstance later, Z accidentally kidnaps Bala” (p. 1). He inspires a revolution that is based solely on a mischaracterization of his reputed acts “and stumbles onto an evil plot by General Mandible to betray the Queen” (p. 1). Even when he saves the day, by raising the consciousness of the group and inspiring them to work together, he does so spontaneously and effortlessly. When Bala tries to thank Z for what he has done, he modestly says that he did nothing; the group did everything. This is consistent with Daoism, as Nagel (1994) points out: “The pursuit of gain and fame is not a proper human course, according to the Way” (p. 8). Obviously, actions that are valorized in A Bug’s Life go against the Daoist values of nature and effortlessness while Antz demonstrates consonance with nature and the virtue of nonaction. A second area for analysis is the extent to which the films uphold the values of balance and harmony. According to Daoism, consideration should be given to the overall well-being of all entities in the universe and the ease with which everyone lives together. Nagel admonishes us to “remember, you are one of many” (p. 71). In these respects, A Bug’s Life fails to promote balance and harmony because the desires of the individual are held to be superior to those of the group. A Bug’s Life creates a vision of how an individual can be significant. Insects are rewarded for their independence by overcoming mindless traditions, fear, and the opinions of others to accomplish great things. Technology is used successfully to overcome the need for collective efforts. The threshing machine allows individuals to gather enormous amounts of food by themselves. At the same time, Flik risks his life, the lives of the circus bugs, and the well-being of the colony, and lies to his group for the sake of his plans. A Bug’s Life makes the statement that an individual’s meaning derives from the ability to be ingenious and brave, despite the size of one’s

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enemies or the assumptions of society. In this sense, enemies and society have the same role. They are obstacles that individuals must overcome in order to discover their significance. Hence, the ultimate answer is that society must accommodate the individual, not the reverse. There is no attempt at balance and harmony as Daoism contextualizes them. Antz also focuses on the question of the appropriate relationship between the individual and society, but it provides a very different answer. Individuals rely on the collective for their well-being. There is no doubt that teamwork can provide tremendous benefits to everyone. At the same time, the needs of the individual must be balanced by allowing individuals to determine their roles within society. Mindless conformity allows for exploitation while unbridled individualism, as exemplified by Mandible, can lead to genocide or slavery. Hence, an individual’s attempt to live a meaningful life must be mediated by or undertaken in light of one’s connection and responsibility to the group. Balance and harmony between the individual and the group stem from the appropriate mix of certain instrumental and terminal values. Organizability is the paramount instrumental value, or means to achieve an end. Mass society is necessary because it allows for the efficient production and delivery of goods and services. All creatures have material needs that must be met—food water, shelter, and so on—and these needs must be met by working. Because a collective can produce and deliver the materials we need, it provides a potentially optimal method of increasing the quality of goods and services and/or minimizing the time and effort required to acquire them. The film reinforces the notion that no individual is capable of prospering alone. The metropolis, tunnel, and escape ladder are built through collective action. There are also other moments when ants are shown to need others, although not necessarily a collectivity. When Cutter rescues Z from the water it illustrates the importance of a social world. The good society must also be guided by appropriate terminal values, or visions of appropriate ends. In this film that value is the wellbeing of all individuals. We are told this in several ways. First, Mandible uses the ability to organize the efforts of the workers to try to enact his evil plan of genocide. He uses the workers to build a tunnel that will eventually flood the lower level of the colony where the worker’s have been trapped and will soon drown. He represents the flaw of a society that has an instrumental value of efficacy, organizability, but a terminal value of favoring a particular class in society. By considering the well-being of some individuals at the expense of the rest, Mandible’s value allows for hatred and prejudice. Organizability has the potential to do great good or evil,

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depending on the terminal vision. The same is seen in the various snipes about the royalty and their privileges and the classism that elevates the soldiers above the workers. Considering the well-being of all individuals, operationally, means allowing for individual choice. Choice is fulfilling and fosters creativity. The value of creativity is seen in the dance scene, where Z innovates and has much more fun, the wrecking ball that allows much work to be done, the ladder that saves everyone, and the use of the water to rebuild a better colony—one that includes a lake. Freedom of choice is also celebrated throughout the film: the negative image of babies being born and immediately assigned a pickaxe, for workers, or a combat helmet, for soldiers; the fact that Weaver is so happy being a worker once he switches places with Z; and the transformation of Z from an alienated, unhappy soul who begins the film in therapy, to one who has chosen a destiny he looks forward to. At the same time, creativity and freedom are not entirely unbounded. They are regulated by adherence to one’s nature or fate. One is not free to choose any solution or path. One is free to discover his or her nature and attempt to enact what the universe destines. In so doing, one balances the needs of the one and the many and harmonizes the universe. Daoist analysis demonstrates that A Bug’s Life and Antz are not merely animated films, but important statements about the appropriate role of the individual in a mass society. The films reflect clear values of Western and Eastern cultures, respectively, providing very different answers to key questions. They thereby offer two clear alternatives in the orientation of self and society. Perhaps the view of society offered in Antz represents a long-overdue and necessary shift in consciousness. Stalwart independence, a treasured hallmark of Western societies, may need to be rethought with a greater sensitivity toward the fact that our world is increasingly interdependent. Antz also admonishes us that the greatest threats to society can come from within. While external threats to peace and security cannot be ignored, they are sometimes manufactured and manipulated, as in the case of the termites, to justify and bolster dangerous military power.

CHAPTER 8

Shrek as the Daoist Hero

For as long as humans have told stories, we have talked about great individuals who have performed with remarkable skill and valor. These “heroes” are notable not only for their reputed feats of conquest but also for their symbolic function. The hero functions symbolically as a role model or possible self that embodies particular social values. We are induced to identify with the hero, seeing ourselves in the hero’s trials and triumphs. Hence, the rhetorical form and function of hero stories is to illustrate how heroes look and act. The attributes of heroes themselves, and the solutions of successful heroes to their challenges, suggest the traits that individuals should aspire to in order to be positive influences on the community. The stories of heroes are thus symbolic inducements that suggest possibilities for action in a world of conflict and choice. Hero stories use princesses, dragons, and magic as metaphors for the problems that beset us and the pathways for our triumphs. In his monumental work, The Hero with a Thousand Faces, Joseph Campbell (1949) first puts forth the idea that the story of the hero is universal, representing basic patterns of human existence found in every culture: And whether it was Finnegan’s Wake or the Navaho material, or the Hindu material, or Heinrich Zimmer’s, it was all the same material. That was when I realized—and nobody can tell me any differently—that there’s one mythology in the world. It has been inflected in various cultures in terms of their historical and social circumstances and needs and particular local ethic systems, but it’s one mythology. (Campbell in Cousinesau, 1999, p. 126)

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Campbell believes that hero stories are universal because the hero is an archetype of the human psyche. Hero stories represent basic psychological issues that face us all. The challenges the hero faces, and the appropriate responses, are thus keys to the basic human condition. Therefore, while there can be many variations of the hero myth, as suggested by titular reference to “a thousand faces,” Campbell maintained that there is one basic hero story or monomyth. Since the hero story is a monomyth, the path the hero travels to successfully resolve the various issues of the human psyche is also invariant. Campbell presents the solutions to our problems as universal, thus celebrating certain paths of transcendence as correct for all of us. Given the symbolic function of hero stories, to promote identification with the hero, Campbell suggests that the monomyth allows individuals to see possibilities in their own lives for navigating the universal problems of human existence. I take issue with Campbell’s notion that the hero is an archetype of the subconscious mind and the implication that the key conflicts in our lives, and their solutions, can be framed as universal. I argue, in contrast, that the hero is a culture-bound construct used to reify particular values held important in the community. Furthermore, by moving from universal to cultural explanations for approaching conflict we allow for new conceptions of what is important and valuable in our lives. I justify these claims by examining key elements of a particular cultural value system, Daoism, and applying them to the film Shrek (Adamson & Jenson, 2001). Daoism is but one example for my view that there are unique cultural differences in the definitions and uses of heroes. This examination reveals that the hero in Shrek, an ogre, is an appropriate model of the hero from a Daoist perspective, and that the ogre, for whom the film is titled, fails in significant ways to follow the pattern of Campbell’s monomyth. In fact, Shrek offers a competing version of the hero, one that is grounded in Asian philosophy and not universal human psychology. I begin with an overview of the relevance of Shrek and the choice of Daoism as an analytical perspective. Following this, I acquaint the reader with the basic form of Campbell’s hero journey and the general plot of Shrek in order to situate Shrek as a hero story. Next, I examine fundamental elements of Daoism and apply them to the film in order to situate the central character in the film, Shrek, as a Daoist figure. I then note and apply the form of the hero story to Shrek in order to test the applicability of Campbell’s archetypal hero to the Daoist hero. I conclude by discussing the findings and implications of this study.

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SHREK AND DAOISM Shrek is a particularly appropriate choice for this analysis because animated films have the potential to communicate their messages in a manner that is consistent with Daoist precepts for communication. For one, Daoists recognize the limitations of words in expressing ideas and consequently attempt to go beyond their limitations with imaginative strategies such as metaphor, paradox, and imagery. An animated film seems especially helpful in this regard because it communicates its message not only with words but also with sounds and visual images. Hence, films allow rhetors to move beyond language and speak to the whole person, not simply the verbal, conscious mind. Furthermore, audiences do not necessarily expect animated films to be “realistic,” and animation can stretch the imagination without violating the genre. Shrek is also an apt case study in Daoist rhetoric because of several aspects of the story. As we shall see, Shrek is the paradoxical fable of an ugly, hideous creature who manages to find true love and happiness. Paradox, fables, and glorification of the ugly and handicapped have already been identified as central characteristics of the rhetoric of Zhuangzi. Shrek is an unassuming soul who lives in a swamp and is integral with his natural world. Shrek, through animation, paradox, fable, and central character, is a study in Daoist communication forms. Its content is an alternative vision of the hero with which audiences are invited to identify.

SHREK AS A HERO STORY Campbell views the hero as an archetype of the psyche, following C. G. Jung’s notion that an archetype is an image or idea that is part of the collective unconscious. Hence, “the symbols of mythology are not manufactured; they cannot be ordered, invented, or permanently suppressed. They are spontaneous productions of the psyche, and each bears within it, undamaged, the germ power of its sources” (Campbell, 1949, p. 4). Archetypes thus transcend culture because they are situated in the unconscious minds of all individuals. According to Campbell, the Jungian archetype theory explains why the pattern of the hero myth recurs in the stories found in many cultures: The whole sense of the ubiquitous myth of the hero’s passage is that it shall serve as a general pattern for men and women,

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wherever they may stand along the scale. Therefore it is formulated in the broadest terms. The individual has only to discover his own position with reference to this general human formula, and let it then assist him past his restricting walls. (p. 121) The hero represents every individual embarking on a quest or journey of self-discovery. The motivation for this struggle is the search for identity, the individual’s need to find meaning and purpose in life. An individual’s journey or quest can thus be expected to approximate “the general human formula” that develops in response to the need for personal development. The archetype of the hero’s journey can be manifest in different types of narratives. The quest is found in both myths and fairy tales, such as Shrek. Campbell makes the distinction that “typically, the hero of the fairy tale achieves a domestic, microcosmic triumph, and the hero of the myth a world-historical, macrocosmic triumph” (pp. 37–38). The process of enlightenment requires the hero to attend to two primary tasks. The first is a process where one identifies core underlying issues of the psyche, as opposed to those that are manifest, battles the demons attendant to these core issues, and makes a breakthrough that engenders transformation. The second task is to give the insight derived to others, “to return then to us, transfigured, and teach the lesson he has learned of life renewed” (p. 20). A hero ventures forth from the world of common day into a region of supernatural wonder: fabulous forces are there encountered and a decisive victory is won: the hero comes back from this mysterious adventure with the power to bestow boons on his fellow man [sic]. (p. 30) The hero’s victory or transformation is only complete if it benefits the community. Thus, “the happy ending of the fairy tale, the myth, and the divine comedy of the soul, is to be read . . . as a transcendence of the universal tragedy of man [sic]” (p. 28). The one single myth that is the core of the hero quest is referred to as “the monomyth.” The monomyth has a standard path or formula that breaks the rite of passage into three stages: separation-initiation-return. Campbell refers to these stages as “the nuclear unit of the monomyth” (p. 30). The nuclear unit is broken down into further elements: 1. Separation or Departure The Call to Adventure Refusal of the Call

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Supernatural Aid Crossing the First Threshold Into the Belly of the Whale 2. The Initiation Road of Trials Meeting with the Goddess Woman as the Temptress Atonement with the Father Apotheosis The Ultimate Boon 3. Return Refusal of the Return Magic Flight Rescue from Without Crossing the Return Threshold Master of Two Worlds Freedom to Live These subsections will be examined in more depth later in this chapter when I apply them to the film. Shrek is an enormously successful film, as evidenced by its Best Animated Film award for 2001 from the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. The film situates itself as a fairy tale, although an irreverent one, in the opening scene. The film begins with a shot of a book; the page opens to a classic fairy tale about a lovely princess who had a spell on her that “could only be broken by love’s first kiss.” The pages continue to turn as Shrek reads the story aloud: She was locked away in a castle, guarded by a terrible firebreathing dragon. Many brave knights had attempted to free her from this dreadful prison but none prevailed. She waited in the dragon’s keep, in the highest room of the tallest tower for her true love and true love’s first kiss. Shrek then laughs, “like that’s ever going to happen,” and tears out the page of the book to wipe himself after using the outhouse. “What a load of . . .” and we hear the sound of the toilet flushing. The basic plot line in Shrek is that Lord Farquaad wants to marry a Princess in order to raise his social standing. By marrying a Princess and making her his queen, Farquaad believes that DuLoc, his realm, “will finally have the perfect king!” He chooses to wed Princess Fiona, who is

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imprisoned in a castle guarded by a ferocious dragon. Farquaad puts together a tournament so that the finest men in DuLoc can compete to determine the knight most capable of rescuing the Princess on Farquaad’s behalf. Shrek enters the picture by virtue of a decree made earlier by Farquaad designed to promote perfection in his realm. Farquaad’s forest is populated by a number of fairy-tale creatures, including The Three Little Pigs, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, The Three Blind Mice, Pinocchio, and The Big Bad Wolf. Farquaad believes that the “fairy-tale trash” are poisoning his beautiful world. He has decided to have the creatures physically relocated—to the swamp that is Shrek’s home. The invasion of the numerous, clamorous creatures destroys Shrek’s peaceful solitude, and this forces him to seek out Farquaad to demand his swamp be returned to its previous state. Donkey, a talking donkey who has “glommed on” to Shrek in order to be protected from Farquaad’s goons when they were rounding up the fairy-tale creatures, accompanies Shrek in his journey to DuLoc. Once in DuLoc, Shrek and Farquaad make a deal. Shrek gets his swamp back if he rescues Princess Fiona for Lord Farquaad. Shrek and Donkey make their way to the castle, battle a ferocious dragon, and rescue the Princess. On the trip home Shrek and Fiona realize that they are attracted to each other. A crucial misunderstanding leaves them unrequited and unable to tolerate each other. We also learn the secret of Princess Fiona. She is a beautiful woman by day, but beginning each sunset she turns into an ogre. A witch cast an enchanted spell on her as a little girl: “By night one way. By day another. This shall be the norm until you find true love’s first kiss and then take love’s true form.” Shrek returns to Farquaad with the Princess and is granted the title to his swamp. He returns to his now quiet home but is very sad that he will no longer be with Fiona. Donkey clarifies Shrek’s misunderstanding with Fiona and tells him that she loves him. Shrek decides to go to DuLoc and tell Fiona how he feels about her. With a ride from the flying dragon, who previously guarded Fiona’s castle and has returned to the scene, Shrek and Donkey arrive just in time to stop the wedding. The dragon eats the evil Lord Farquaad, Shrek and Fiona confess their love for each other and kiss, and the Princess turns into her true form—that of an ogre! Everyone lives happily ever after. Shrek is clearly positioned by its producers as a hero story, complete with a dragon, Princess, and a happy ending; it is thus ripe for analysis of the extent to which it upholds the hero archetype.

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SHREK AS DAOIST In order to pose Shrek as a test of the Daoist hero, I must establish that Shrek is a Daoist. I have noted that spontaneity, effortlessness, desirelessness, and freedom from strife follow naturally from the Dao. Mair (1994) observes, “above all, Master Chuang [Zhuangzi] emphasized spontaneity” (pp. xliii). By being spontaneous the sage “could climb the high places and not be frightened, could enter the water and not get wet, could enter the fire and not get burned” (ch. 6, Watson, 1964, p. 73). The sage recognizes that the purpose of life is to find what is inside oneself and be open to the unfolding elements of reality that have been conditioned by the universe. Shrek’s spontaneity is evident throughout the film. His planning does not seem to go beyond the moment, yet he manages to acquit himself quite well in whatever he does. Shrek is also fearless, although he displays prudence in all of his deeds. He even manages to quell the fear in others. In order to rescue the Princess, Shrek and Donkey must cross over a rickety wood and rope bridge suspended over the lava below. Donkey is very unsettled about crossing “a boiling lake of lava.” Shrek assures the donkey that he will be right beside him to provide emotional support. Shrek says “we’ll just tackle this thing together one little baby step at a time.” Ultimately, Shrek helps Donkey overcome his fear and enables him to cross safely. The castle interior is dark and dripping with water. Shrek and Donkey make their way inside, where there are piles of the bones of knights who have tried to slay the dragon. Suddenly, the dragon appears. Shrek grabs the dragon by the tail, just as the dragon is about to eat Donkey. Shrek is swung back and forth wildly. He lets go of the tail at the precise moment and the momentum sends him flying high in the air, across the castle and through the roof of the Princess’s chamber. Shrek exhibits his spontaneity and adherence to wu-wei as the rescue scene continues. As Shrek flies off to rescue Fiona and spirit her out of the castle, Donkey is left alone with the dragon. He discovers that the enormous beast is female and very susceptible to flattery. Donkey has made a friend, but Shrek continues with the business at hand and hurries Fiona out. Suddenly, the dragon roars and appears down the hall. “You didn’t slay the dragon,” Fiona cries out in disbelief. “It’s on my to-do list,” replies Shrek. “Now come on!” “But this isn’t right!” protests Fiona. “You were meant to charge in, sword drawn, banner flying. That’s what all the other

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knights did.” “Yeah,” notes Shrek wryly, “right before they burst into flame.” “What kind of knight are you?” asks Fiona. Shrek replies, “One of a kind.” Shrek takes the path of least resistance. He is aware that the goal is not to display bravery but to rescue the Princess. By not battling the dragon he avoids the fate of other knights who failed to rescue Fiona. Furthermore, by not killing the dragon, Shrek keeps intact a vital savior who will reappear later in the film. Living spontaneously, effortlessly, without desire, and focusing on the self and not the control of others enables one to minimize conflict and strife. An example of how Shrek attempts to avoid unnecessary strife is found in a scene where Shrek and Donkey have embarked on their quest to save the Princess. Donkey confronts Shrek with the irony that Farquaad had no right to relocate the fairy-tale creatures in his swamp in the first place, and now Shrek must do an additional duty, rescue of the Princess, in order to get his swamp back. Donkey maintains that Shrek shouldn’t have to perform the rescue, and wonders why Shrek doesn’t just stand up to Farquaad: “I don’t get it. Why don’t you just pull some of that ogre stuff on him? You know. Throttle him. Lay siege to his fortress. Grind his bones to make your bread. You know, the whole ogre trip.” Shrek replies, mockingly, “Maybe I could have decapitated an entire village and put their heads on a pike, gotten a knife, cut open their spleen and drink their fluids. Does that sound good to you?” The donkey doesn’t think so. Shrek realizes that he must not draw attention to himself or it will lead to further trouble. In every way imaginable, Shrek lives a dignified life, despite being alone and situated in a swamp. He is quite adept at living in the natural world, maintaining a balance that stems from his effortless and parsimonious approach to life. Shrek lives simply and comfortably, apart from society. He satisfies his appetites, but does so in modest ways. He avoids planning, acts only when necessary, and when he does act it is with the minimum effort needed to accomplish his objectives. Consequently, Shrek is a Daoist.

SHREK’S HEROIC QUEST Stories of the hero’s quest can be expected to follow a narrative formula that corresponds to the “general pattern” of the monomyth noted earlier. By indicating in more detail the nature and functions of the subsections of the monomyth we can develop expectations regarding the form of hero stories such as Shrek. These expectations of form can then be used to ana-

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lyze the extent to which Shrek follows the form and whether its variations are significant. The hero’s journey begins with “the call to adventure.” This stage “signifies that destiny has summoned the hero and transferred his spiritual center of gravity from within the pale of his society to a zone unknown” (Campbell, 1949, p. 58). The call may be seen psychologically as “the awakening of the self.” It is an indication that “the familiar life horizon has been outgrown; the old concepts, ideals, and emotional patterns no longer fit; the time for the passing of a threshold is at hand.” The call is frequently announced by a “herald,” whose appearance marks the “call to adventure” (p. 51). The form of the call includes typical circumstances such as “the dark forest, the great tree, the babbling spring, and the loathly, underestimated appearance of the carrier of the power of destiny” (p. 52). The hero does not always answer the call, and may instead enact the second stage, “Refusal of the Call.” This amounts to “a refusal to give up what one takes to be ones’ own interest” (p. 60). These sequences are evident in Shrek. The herald is Donkey, who crashes into Shrek as he attempts to escape Farquaad’s guards, who are trying to remove him from the forest along with the other fairy-tale creatures. Donkey is “easily underestimated,” and he is seen cowering behind Shrek as the guards confront him. The guards run off, scared of Shrek, who then turns and walks away. Shrek’s challenge is foreshadowed. He makes it clear that he wants to be left alone. Despite Donkey’s flattery, charm, and humor, Shrek insists that Donkey “go away.” Shrek thereby refuses the call by not accepting the challenge of interaction. Since Donkey has nowhere to go, Shrek allows him to sleep outside on the porch. Shrek’s initial refusal, however, is soon overridden. It seems that all the fairy-tale creatures that have been rounded up were relocated to Shrek’s swamp, where they eventually found his house and warm fire. Shrek tries to shoo away the creatures, but there are too many of them and they protest that they have nowhere to go. Pinocchio and one of The Three Pigs tell Shrek that Lord Farquaad has forced them to go to the swamp. Shrek finally answers the call by announcing that he will demand that Farquaad rid the swamp of the creatures. He is somewhat surprised that his outburst is greeted with wild and joyful cheers from the displaced creatures. Shrek realizes that he will not be left alone until he responds to the call. It is clearly in his perceived self-interest to answer. When the hero answers the call, he or she has an encounter with someone or something that provides assistance. This “Supernatural Aid” is given by “a protective figure . . . who provides the adventurer with amulets against the dragon forces he is about to pass” (Campbell, 1949, p. 69). In

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the case of Shrek, the supernatural aid is a gift from Donkey. It is not prototypical, though, in two respects. First, the supernatural aid comes from the herald and not the usual crone or old man. Second, the gift is not a magical ability or an amulet but a personal relationship. Donkey has the ability to penetrate Shrek’s tough exterior, provide amiable companionship, and confront him with honesty and compassion. Donkey is the key to Shrek’s challenge—overcoming his fear of being hurt by people who don’t understand and appreciate him. The next stage of a hero’s journey is “Crossing the First Threshold.” This is where the hero, accompanied with “the personifications of his destiny to guide and aid him,” encounters the “threshold guardian,” custodian of the new territory (pp. 77–78). The threshold represents the foray outside the protection of the old way of life. The castle DuLoc is the first threshold in Shrek’s journey, and Farquaad is its guardian. The opening shot of the scene where Farquaad is introduced shows him walking proudly, stridently, and menacingly down a long hallway while a hooded torturer pours milk into the empty glass. When Farquaad arrives at the doorway to the dungeon, where the torturer and the glass of milk are waiting, it becomes clear that Farquaad is only half the size of the two guards waiting outside the doorway. Inside, the “Gingerbread Man” is whimpering, as the torturer abuses him by dunking him head first into the glass of milk. Throughout the scene, Farquaad is portrayed as cruel, petty, and narcisstic. The final stage in The Separation or Departure is to enter “The Belly of the Whale.” Here the hero is prepared for transformation by killing the former self. The hero dies (is annihilated) and emerges a new person. The passage is “a magical threshold” or “transit into a sphere of rebirth” that “is symbolized in the worldwide womb image of the belly of the whale” (p. 90). The two sets of teeth at the entrance (whale’s mouth) and the ordeal of the belly force the self to break through the ego barriers that protect the former self. One by one the resistances are broken. He must put aside his pride, his virtue, beauty, and life and bow or submit to the absolutely intolerable. Then he finds that he and his opposite are not of differing species, but one flesh. (p. 108) The ordeal forces a confrontation of the self where the hero “discovers and assimilates his opposite [his own unsuspected self] either by swallowing it or by being swallowed” (p. 108). Shrek must venture out of his swamp (safety zone) and into the excessively stylized and heavily populated castle. There, Shrek defeats Far-

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quaad’s best knights and confronts the tiny tyrant. Entering DuLoc, and crossing the threshold takes Shrek into “The Belly of the Whale.” As Shrek and Donkey enter the castle, which looks like a storybook castle one might find at Disneyland, except that it is incredibly phallic, they walk toward some noise, and end up in the arena where the knights are about to begin the tournament. Shrek interrupts Farquaad, who then decides that the champion will be the knight who kills the ogre. Shrek, with Donkey’s able assistance, defeats all the knights and displays his tremendous strength, agility, and cunning. Shrek has spontaneously and effortlessly acquitted himself as a champion, thereby positioning himself for a fortuitous meeting with Fiona. Shrek’s bargain with Farquaad to rescue the Princess represents the annihilation of his former self because Shrek has engaged the world outside his swamp, and must venture out further still. The self-annihilation of the hero is an important part of the preparation for personal growth. But “the original departure into the land of trials represented only the beginning of the long and really perilous path of initiatory conquests and moments of illumination. Dragons have now to be slain and surprising barriers passed—again, again, and again” (p. 109). The hero now enters the “Initiation” phase, which involves a series of further trials (Road of Trials) that represent “a deepening of the problem of the first threshold.” The question remains: “Can the ego puts itself to death?” (p. 109). In the second phase, the hero will confront the feminine form (goddess, temptress), the masculine form (father), and the deity (gods, goddesses). Having mastered the tests or issues attendant to these three forms, and received the gifts of insight derived from these confrontations, the hero is prepared for the final phase of the quest—the return. Before Shrek encounters the feminine, which in this case is Princess Fiona, he must rescue her from the dragon’s lair. Shrek and Donkey set out for the dragon’s castle and arrive two days later. Once inside the dragon’s lair Shrek rescues the Princess, outwits the dragon, and escapes across the bridge as the dragon incinerates it right behind them. Shrek and the others climb to safety while the dragon looks on, unable to give pursuit. The dragon seems far more upset at losing her new found love, Donkey, than at having let Fiona escape. One of the important encounters in this stage of the journey is “Meeting with the Goddess.” The hero encounters the feminine, “the Queen Goddess of the World” (p. 109). The relationship between the two establishes the distance the hero must go in the quest for transformation. Woman, in the picture language of mythology, represents the totality of what can be known. The hero is the one who comes

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to know. As he progresses in the slow initiation which is life, the form of the goddess undergoes for him a series of transfigurations: she can never be greater than himself, though she can always be more than he is yet capable of comprehending. She lures, she guides, she bids him burst his fetters. And if he can match her import, the two, the knower and the known, will be released from every limitation. (p. 116) The woman as knower, hero as the one who comes to know, indicates a superior/subordinate relationship. The hero’s task is to become an equal and then a master. What enables the hero to learn what she or he needs to know is that the woman presents herself not only as a goddess, the Madonna, but also as a sinner. It is the further meeting of “Woman as the Temptress” that is crucial. The woman confronts the hero with contradiction—the mother’s love and the seducer’s lust. She is “the guide to the sublime acme of sensuous adventure. By deficient eyes she is reduced to inferior states; by the evil of ignorance she is spellbound to banality and ugliness. But she is redeemed by the eyes of understanding” (p. 116). If the hero can see the woman as she is in roles such as mother, grandmother, seducer, and wife, then he has mastered the gift of love and understands the “total mystery of life; for the woman is life, the hero its knower and master.” The hero is now equated with the father figure: “He is in the father’s place” (p. 121). The seeker becomes the master: “The seeker of life beyond life must press beyond her, surpass the temptations of her call, and soar to the immaculate ether beyond” (p. 122). Shrek’s meeting with the goddess and temptress are pivotal and welldetailed elements of the film. As he and Donkey first approach the castle gate Donkey asks “So where is this fire-breathing pain in the neck anyway?” “Inside,” says Shrek, “waiting for us to rescue her.” “I was talking about the dragon Shrek.” Once rescued, Fiona insists on knowing the identity of her rescuer. “The battle is won. You may remove your helmet, good Sir Knight.” Shrek is reluctant to reveal himself, but Fiona persists and he finally relents. It is obvious from Fiona’s face that she is disappointed. Instead of the handsome prince she expected, she sees a huge green head with large ears that stick out like fat antennae. Fiona is upset that her true love, who she thinks is Farquaad, did not care enough about her to rescue her himself. They then set out on their journey back to DuLoc. As nightfall approaches, Fiona is visibly agitated and demands that they make camp for the night and she be provided with shelter. She knows the sundown

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will mark her transformation to an ogre and she does not want anyone to know her secret. The next morning Princess Fiona is up and in a very good mood. This day is remarkable because we see some of her unique talents. For example, while Shrek and Donkey lay asleep on the ground the Princess comes upon a beautiful blue songbird, nesting in a tree. She begins singing to the bird, which answers back with its song. They continue singing back and forth in turn until Fiona emits an incredibly highpitched note that the bird tries to imitate. The note, however, is well beyond the bird’s range, and its chest swells from the effort until the bird pops and explodes. There are three eggs in the nest. The next shot shows the eggs frying sunny-side-up on a rock. Fiona is cooking the eggs for Shrek and Donkey. Later, as they continue the journey and are walking in the woods, Shrek belches, which he says is a compliment to the breakfast. Donkey scolds Shrek for acting that way in front of a Princess. Fiona then burps herself and says that she appreciates the compliment. Donkey observes, “She’s as nasty as you are.” Shrek says, “You know, you’re not exactly what I expected.” As the Princess continues walking, a man swinging by on a rope suddenly sweeps her off the ground. It’s “Monsieur” Hood (aka Robin)! He is making a gallant attempt to rescue the Princess, who has given no indication that she needs to be rescued. Robin assumes this to be the case because she is a beautiful woman in the company of a big, green “beast.” Just as Hood makes a threatening advance to stab Shrek with his blade, Fiona comes swinging out of the trees on a vine screaming a karate yell. She knocks Hood senseless. One of the Merry Men shoots an arrow, which she deftly dodges. She then does forward handsprings at the archer and ends up punching him out. With powerful and agile karate moves, Fiona incapacitates the rest of the Merry Men, leaving them sprawled out on the ground. Shrek and Donkey stand in stunned silence at this display of physical prowess. Fiona polishes off the last of the Merry Men and asks Shrek and Donkey if they would please continue on their way. As they continue walking back to DuLoc, Shrek and Fiona flirt and play constantly. As they cross a meadow, Shrek is annoyed by hordes of flies. Fiona breaks off two sticks holding a big spider web, and uses the web to snare the flies. She ends up with a wrapped-up ball of web and flies on a stick, which she then gives to Shrek, who eats it like cotton candy. Shrek grabs a frog and blows into it until it pops up and floats like a living balloon. He ties a string to it and presents it to Fiona. Fiona grabs a snake, blows it up, twists it like a balloon poodle, strings it, and gives it to Shrek. They are laughing, giggling, and falling in love.

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Later, as they prepare to camp for the night, Shrek barbecues some “weed rats” cooked whole. Fiona is very complimentary, proclaiming the nasty rodents to be delicious. They are obviously in love and nearly kiss before being interrupted by Donkey. Shrek thus meets the goddess. He seems to have found a soul mate, a yin for his yang. Fiona is in a bind because of her circumstances, but her heart tells her to tell Shrek her secret and hope that he still loves her. Unfortunate circumstances, however, further test Shrek as the goddess becomes a witch. That night Donkey enters the windmill in which Fiona is staying for the night and inadvertently discovers Fiona’s secret. She explains that she has always been an ogre, beginning each sunset. Meanwhile, Shrek makes his way back to the windmill, carrying a sunflower and practicing a conversation with Fiona where he professes his love for her. Just as he steels himself to knock on the door, he overhears the conversation going on inside. “I can’t just marry whoever I want. Take a good look at me, Donkey. I mean, really. Who could ever love a beast so hideous and ugly? ‘Princess’ and ‘ugly’ don’t go together. That’s why I can’t stay here with Shrek.” Shrek is crestfallen, thinking that Fiona is referring to his looks when, in fact, she is bemoaning hers. He throws down the flower and walks away, not hearing Fiona continue, “It’s the only way to break the spell.” “You at least gotta tell Shrek the truth,” says Donkey. “No! You can’t breath a word. No one must ever know.” Fiona makes Donkey promise never to tell. The next morning Fiona tries to tell Shrek her secret and feelings for him. But Shrek is too hurt and angry to listen. Fiona doesn’t know that Shrek is caught in a misunderstanding, and is taken aback by his anger and stern words. Just then Farquaad and a contingent of soldiers arrive, and both Shrek and Fiona have seen enough of each other for the moment. Farquaad gives Shrek the deed to his swamp and then proposes, saying, “Will you be the perfect bride for the perfect groom?” Fiona accepts the proposal and they make plans to marry that day, “before the sun sets.” Shrek shuffles back to his swamp, crestfallen and angry. Shrek ultimately reconciles his anger for Fiona through Donkey. In fact, throughout the movie Donkey confronts Shrek’s inability to express his feelings and connect with others. Donkey follows Shrek back to his house in the swamp and tries to be supportive of the sad and angry ogre. Shrek finally tells Donkey to go away. “There you are, doing it again,” says Donkey. “Just like you did to Fiona. All she ever did was like you, maybe even love you.” “Love me? She said I was ugly, a hideous creature. I heard the two of you talking,” Shrek confides. “She wasn’t talkin’ about you,” urges Donkey. “She was talkin’ about, uh, somebody else.” Shrek decides to crash the wedding and confront Fiona. Donkey whistles for his girl-

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friend, the dragon, who has returned to the scene, and they all fly to DuLoc. The trio land outside the castle, and Donkey tells the dragon he will whistle for him if needed. Shrek and Donkey break into the chapel just before the couple’s first kiss. Shrek implores Fiona not to go through with the marriage. He begins to confess his feelings for her. The sun has now set, and Fiona reveals her ogre form to Shrek. “That explains a lot,” remarks Shrek. Farquaad is appalled. “Ugh! It’s disgusting!” He calls for his guards to take Fiona and Shrek away. As large and powerful as Shrek is, the dozens of guards are able to overpower him and begin to cart him off. Shrek frees his arm and whistles for the dragon. Farquaad rants amid the chaos, “I will have order! I will have perfection! I will have. . . .” Just then, the dragon bursts through the large window overhead and reaches down and eats Farquaad. Shrek tells Fiona he loves her and she tells Shrek she loves him. They kiss, and there is more fog and magic dust sparkling about. We hear Fiona’s voice: “Until you find true love’s first kiss and then take love’s true form. . . .” Fiona’s body emits giant beams of light, as her true form is manifest. It turns out that “love’s true form,” the form Fiona takes, is that of an ogre. Shrek, her rescuer, is also her true love. Fiona is a bit dazed. “But I don’t understand. I’m supposed to be beautiful.” “But you are beautiful,” says Shrek. Donkey, perched atop the dragon’s back, tearfully says, “I was hoping this was going to be a happy ending.” As a coach carrying Shrek and Fiona drives off down the road, the camera pulls back, framing the scene in the book of fairy tales that opened the movie. The last full line in the story is “And they lived ugly ever after.” The next page proclaims “The End,” and the book closes to conclude the film. Shrek’s final confrontation with the feminine is out of sequence with Campbell’s hero pattern. It occurs toward the end of the film during the wedding scene. It is also unclear if the confrontation leads to a reconciliation of the duality of the feminine. Further, the remaining elements of the hero pattern are not evident in the film. What is left undone is the confrontation with the masculine figure (Atonement with the Father), the transcendence of the masculine/feminine duality (Apotheosis), the communion with the gods and the gift of their transcendence (The Ultimate Boon), and the entire return stage. Although there is no explicit “Atonement with the Father” or “Apotheosis,” it is possible to give a sympathetic reading of Shrek to tease out what may be implied. A basic issue in the atonement with the male is resolving the father figure’s godlike and sinful nature. The father sins with the temptress, but is more importantly a source of evil power. Interestingly,

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Campbell (1949) often refers to the father as an “ogre” (see p. 130). Campbell also refers to ogres as barriers of the hero or things that must be overcome (see pp. 109, 121). The father then is two dragons to be slain: “the dragon thought to be God (superego) and the dragon thought to be Sin (repressed id).” The idolization of the father seals off “the potentially adult spirit from a better balanced, more realistic view of the father, and therewith of the world” (p. 130). “Atonement (at-one-ment)” “requires an abandonment of the attachment to the ego itself,” which leads to “the abandonment of the selfgenerated double monster—the dragon thought to be God (superego) and the dragon thought to be Sin (repressed id)” (p. 130). Hence, the hero must reconcile the false image of the father as all-powerful and interact with the father as a peer rather than subordinate. When the hero successfully confronts the dualities of the feminine (goddess/temptress) and masculine (god/ogre) then another aspect of transcendence occurs. Campbell refers to this as “Apotheosis.” Apotheosis is the elevation of oneself to the status of a god. This occurs because the hero has mastered the feminine and masculine. Furthermore, this mastery leads to the realization of our androgyny. The conflict with the feminine and masculine is with those elements within ourselves. The hero becomes the androgynous god: “Male-female gods are not uncommon in the world of myth. They emerge always with a certain mystery; for they comduct the mind beyond objective experience into a symbolic realm where duality is left behind” (p. 152). The hero masters the dualities among and between the feminine-masculine through love (p. 158). Love is the corrective for ignorance and fear. While not explicit in the film, one could read Shrek in this way: the father figure is the ogre—Shrek himself. The task is to see that he is not all-powerful and that he can be emotionally needy. Shrek becomes at one with himself when he accepts the desirability of a relationship with Fiona. He thus achieves apotheosis. His transcendent love, acceptance of himself and another, irrespective of form, is the final result of the film. Because the film ends at this point Shrek neither receives “The Ultimate Boon” nor engages in the third and final stage—“The Return.” In Campbell’s view, this is a crucial stage. The return entails a “reintegration with society,” that is, “is indispensable to the continuous circulation of spiritual energy into the world, and which, from the standpoint of the community, is the justification of the long retreat” (p. 36). The return is a difficult task, for “the returning hero, to complete his adventure, must survive the impact of the world” (p. 226). It is important to understand what Campbell thinks happens in The Return in order to assess Shrek’s failure to complete this stage.

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The final trial of the hero is to reconcile her or his mortality. “The Ultimate Boon” is a gift from the gods. The hero ascends to the heavens and interacts with the gods and goddesses in order to obtain the gift of immortality. As he crosses threshold after threshold, conquering dragon after dragon, the stature of the divinity that he summons to his highest wish increases, until it subsumes the cosmos. Finally, the mind breaks the bounding sphere of the cosmos to a realization transcending all experiences of form—all symbolizations, all divinities; a realization of the ineluctable void. (p. 190) The grasp of the universal gives the hero a sense of immortality. The hero is able to see the boundless and realize that there is a place there for all of us. The hero is released from the ego-driven focus of the mortal body. “Immortality is then experienced as a present fact: ‘It is here! It is here!’” (p. 189). The annihilation of the former self is now complete and the enlightened, transcendent self is ready to engage in the third stage of the process. “The Return” is an essential element of the monomyth: The full round, the norm of the monomyth, requires that the hero shall now begin the labor of bringing the runes of wisdom, the Golden Fleece, or his sleeping princess, back into the kingdom of humanity, where the boon may redound to the renewing of the community, the nation, the planet, or the ten thousand worlds. (p. 193) Not surprisingly, this stage of the quest also has its risks and challenges, and so the hero’s journey remains perilous. The first issue is whether the hero will return at all. Sometimes there is a “Refusal of the Return.” Assuming the hero does not get caught up in some element of narcissism or self-focus, the hero begins to return. The journey home is termed the “Magic Flight,” because supernatural forces often aid it. Sometimes there is a need for intervention in order to escape the guardians of the return threshold, and the hero receives “Rescue from Without.” Had Shrek accomplished his tasks and returned with the gift from the gods and goddesses, then the dragon’s assistance in killing Farquaad would exemplify “Rescue from Without.” But Shrek’s was not a return and the dragon’s act could not be termed as assistance in the return.

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The hero’s return is marked by “Crossing the Return Threshold.” This can be seen as a return from the spirit world or heavens. It is a crossing from one world to another. Yet the mystery that is discovered is that the divine and human worlds are not distinct: Here is a great key to the understanding of myth and symbol— the two kingdoms are actually one. The realm of the gods is a forgotten dimension of the world we know. And the exploration of that dimension, either willingly or unwillingly, is the whole sense of the deed of the hero. The values and distinctions that in normal life seem important disappear with the terrifying assimilation of the self into what formerly was only otherness. (p. 217) The individual is left behind at this crossing point. But in its place is the sense of the ultimate and boundless. The individual becomes one with the universe, making the loss of self a discovery of something far more important. The burden of the quest is now clear: overcoming the fear of losing the self. That is why this is the domain of heroes: “The hero-soul goes boldly in—and discovers the hags converted into goddesses and the dragons into the watchdogs of the gods” (p. 217). Crossing the final threshold enables the hero to be “Master of Two Worlds.” The hero is able to pass freely between the divine and human. The hero’s mastery is the ability to move back and forth without “contaminating the principles of the one with those of the other, yet permitting the mind to know the one by virtue of the other” (p. 229). The hero “has been blessed with a vision transcending the scope of normal human destiny, and amounting to a glimpse of the essential nature of the cosmos” (p. 234). This perspective gives one the “Freedom to Live.” Dwelling in the mortal and immortal makes it possible to live without fear of death. The hero’s actions are released from worry because of “a realization of the passing phenomena of time to the imperishable life that lives and dies in all” (p. 234). The hero is released from annihilation and, thus, the fear of death.

DISCUSSION AND IMPLICATIONS Obviously, Shrek’s failure to work through the process of the return is significant. What must be considered is whether the analysis suggests that Shrek is a flawed hero, because he fails to complete his initiation and does not return to society with the gifts of his transcendence, or whether,

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instead, Shrek exemplifies a different kind of hero altogether, one who would not be expected to follow Campbell’s pattern. If Shrek is flawed, then Campbell’s claim of universality remains intact, and this fairy tale supports the pattern. On the other hand, if the story of the ogre is the story of a different kind of hero with a unique purpose and narrative form, then it mitigates Campbell’s claim of universality. Campbell admits that different cultures have variations in their hero stories, the issue here is the significance of the variation. Ultimately, the test for the significance of the variations is whether the story makes more sense as a flawed-hero story or a Daoist tale. I am disinclined toward the first view, a flawed story, because what happens in the film is more omission than failure. Of course, it is always dangerous to interpret what is “not there.” Yet the nature of the omissions, and the overlay of Daoism, make a better accounting of what is and is not present in the story than simply to say that it fails because it is incomplete. I claim that the story is complete. Shrek succeeds as a Daoist tale. Closer examination of the form of the monomyth reveals that the hero’s trials revolve around one essential idea: overcoming the ego or self in order to transcend dualities through divine love or grace. The purpose of the call is to awaken the hero to the sense that things must change. The individual, with supernatural help, must cross the threshold and annihilate the ego. This prepares the hero to resolve several important dualities: the female, the male, the male/female, and mortality/immortality. The hero must then return and, again with supernatural rescue, transcend the human and divine worlds and the individual and the universal. The result of all of this is freedom. One’s unique identity is discovered. The annihilation of the former self and communion with the divine signifies immortality. For a Daoist, this process and its functions are nonsensical. The Dao knows of no distinctions. There are no dualities; hence they do not need to be overcome. Seeing the female as either goddess or temptress, seeing male as god or ogre, is incongruent with Daoism. Even the male/female dichotomy, which is seen in yin and yang, is only marginally compatible with Daoist thought. All things are created by the dynamic interaction of yin and yang, and the feminine and masculine exist in varying degrees in all things. The mingling of the two is the essence of creation and the nature of all things. The end point for Campbell’s hero, androgyny, is the starting point for a Daoist. Daoist views of mortality/immortality and divine/human are also similar but crucially different. Campbell clearly maintains a two-world focus, Heaven and Earth. Daoists are monists. There is no deity in Daoism and immortality does not come from mastering a two-world dichotomy

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but from recognition of the one that is all. Dichotomy is an illusion. It should never be postulated in the first place; it does not need to be overcome. By resisting the tendency of some humans to dichotomize we avoid the need to transcend a false perception of distinctions. Finally, freedom does not come from mastery of the dualities of the universe. It comes from submission to the natural way, surrendering to the flow that is the undivided universe. Freedom is the goal, but it is achieved by release from effort, not by slaying dragons. For these reasons, it makes sense that Shrek does not complete the work of Campbell’s hero. Shrek begins the film as a Daoist, and his only reason for leaving his hermitage is to restore it to its natural state. Farquaad is a metaphor for meddlers such as Confucians, who attempt to impose human values, such as beauty and perfection, on a universe that is naturally balanced. While Shrek must come to terms with his pain from thinking he had been scorned by his love, he does not do so by transcending the duality of the goddess/temptress. He simply acquires more information: the truth about Fiona’s feelings. Shrek never had a problem with either of the forms Fiona takes in the film. His response when she reveals her ogre self is matter of fact. Shrek does suspect that a beautiful Princess will not be attracted to him, but that is because of the likelihood that she is not with the Dao, not because he needs to work on himself. His lack of confidence is not in himself but in her sagacity. He is clearly thrown off by his misunderstanding, which he interprets as a betrayal by Fiona, but he is hurt because Fiona had seemed to like him. He was content with not liking her until she showed interest in him. Shrek stops short when he doesn’t resolve dichotomies because he has no need for growth. His views are situated in the here and now, and he has no duality to overcome. Shrek is a sage, a Daoist hero. What makes the story a Daoist tale is that there is a message for Daoists. Namely, do not be so successful in your detachment from others that you miss out on the rare individual who might be compatible with you. It is understandable that Daoists feel the need to retreat from society to be themselves. Nonetheless, there may be occasional individuals that the universe puts in your path who should be embraced. Fiona and Donkey prove their alignment with the Dao because they refuse to let Shrek’s form, his unusual appearance and habits, detract from his overall wholeness. The message for Daoists is: Do not shut out everyone. Remain open to whatever the universe presents. By overcoming his inclination to live as a hermit, Shrek learns a valuable lesson. Shrek is the story of someone who lives as a Daoist. Shrek has no desire, until his solitary and natural life is shattered. He does not transcend or bring back boons for the good of society. He returns to his prior

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state. The difference in Shrek is not a transformation, but a revision of circumstance. His quest or restoration gives him the opportunity to connect with another being like himself. He meets a counterpart who is just like he is. He is no longer alone, and he has learned a valuable lesson about trusting his feelings to select others, but he is otherwise the same. This chapter demonstrates that Daoist rhetoric can be used in conjunction with other analytical schemes, such as Campbell’s monomyth, in its application to rhetorical criticism. The analysis also indicates that Campbell’s claim that the hero is an archetype is an overstatement. A more reasonable conclusion is that concepts of the hero are more products of culture than the unconscious mind. Moving from universal to cultural explanations of heroes enlivens the possibilities for finding meaning and value in our lives. Rather than maintain that we are all the same, based on Campbell’s Western modernist values, cultural approaches validate the different answers humans have found for vital questions regarding how one should live. Modernists and Confucians might not see Shrek as a hero, preferring more scrupulous planning, the elevation of the hero above the natural world, and an outcome where the hero improves the community by sharing the insights of rational “enlightenment.” Yet others, including those who do not consider themselves to be Daoists, may appreciate the actions, outcomes, and values that are celebrated in the film. Shrek induces audiences to identify with a new vision of the hero’s form and function. It challenges the traditional Western notion of hero by valorizing the individual who focuses on being content, living simply, and avoiding conflict. It celebrates living harmoniously with nature and using the natural flow of the universe to accomplish one’s objectives. The film thus illuminates non-Western perspectives on society and vividly demonstrates the possibilities for alternative visions not only of the hero but also the individual in the world at large.

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CHAPTER 9

The Future of the Past

Traditional Western wisdom and conventions suggest that the final chapter of a book is a place to attempt, in some way, to bring closure to a project. While that approach makes a great deal of sense, Daoism suggests that we do the opposite: avoid closure and perpetuate a flow of creativity. This chapter attempts to honor Daoist wisdom by widening the field of inquiry rather than put a bow on its boundaries. In so doing, it may prompt others to investigate the implications of Daoism in their own work. The analysis thus far has focused on developing Daoist perspectives on rhetorical theory and criticism with minimal comparison to Western rhetoric. While this approach highlights and centers Daoism, an exciting possibility for further deployment of Daoist rhetoric, and another indication of its scope and depth, lies in using it as a lens for pointing out limitations of current Western theorizing. In this chapter, Daoism is positioned as a counterpoint and complement to contemporary Western rhetoric. The analysis begins by focusing on ideas of Kenneth Burke, arguably the most central figure in contemporary Western rhetoric, and then responding to those views from a Daoist perspective. It then considers Daoist rhetoric as a potent critical perspective in the contemporary, postmodern world. Daoism, like postmodernism, rejects foundationalism and energizes social critiques of universalizing theories and metanarratives. It fosters critiques of power and hegemony and empowers marginalized discourse. Yet, it is distinct from other critical perspectives because, in true Daoist paradoxicality, it retains a basis for normativity, consensus, and unity. KENNETH BURKE Burke is one of the most important and respected thinkers of the twentieth century, acclaimed as a poet, literary critic, political theorist, and 137

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philosopher. His influence is felt throughout the social sciences and humanities. Burke’s originality and scope reconfigured rhetorical studies, and his legacy continues to challenge and delight rhetorical theorists. As a compact way of analyzing Burke, I note crucial thematic underpinnings of his work: the definition of the human, action/motion distinction, and process of division/identification. Following an examination of these topics in turn, I offer responses based on my perspective on Daoist rhetoric. Ultimately, I will note variances between Burke and Daoism with the hope that the analysis will suggest opportunities to refashion Burkean concepts with Daoist insights. Burke (1966) defines the human as “the symbol-using (symbolmaking, symbol mis-using) animal inventor of the negative (or moralized by the negative) separated from his natural condition by instruments of his own making goaded by the spirit of hierarchy (or moved by the sense of order) and rotten with perfection” (p. 16). He distinguishes the symbolic nature of the human generally, and then elaborates on this distinction. Saying we are inventors of the negative is to claim that there are no negatives in nature. Nature simply “is.” Humans add the “is not” because they can attach values to the natural world (ought, should) and they can consider what is not present (fantasy) or reject what is (“No”). The negative is enabled by language, which separates the symbol (signifier) from the referent (signified). Instruments of our making, such as language, separate us from the natural world. Humans are also moved to organize relationships, according to Burke, and his term for this organizational framework is hierarchy. Hierarchy is engrained in language. Humans are also dissatisfied with their present condition. They have a need for perfection, although it is impossible to attain. Hence, our “perfect rottenness.” I agree with much of what Burke maintains, if the definition of the human is meant to be descriptive of the human condition, and not a pronouncement of our essential qualities. Humans do intrude on the natural state by imposing artificial distinctions, values, and hierarchies and acting upon rather than within the world. In fact, the view Burke holds of humans is similar to the state of humanity that Laozi and Zhuangzi not only witnessed but also spoke against. I have noted that Laozi and Zhuangzi believed that language is crucial in separating us from the state of nature. Humans, through language, impose values on the world and create distinctions that uphold certain values at the expense of others. If Burke is articulating his view of the essential nature of humans, suggesting that these activities are inevitable, then I disagree. Instead, I believe that the characteristics Burke outlines are the result of choices people make about how they wish to live and not inevitable or necessary qualities. In fact, Daoists believe that the Confucian way, in consonance

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with Burke, is to make the choice of humanism and hierarchy that allows us to rise above other animals. A major thrust of Daoism is the urging to restore the natural way and resist the tendency to set humans apart from the rest of the world. Burke’s tone suggests that he is interested in separating humans from others as an essentializing move. His view on rhetoric, which I will discuss momentarily in the analysis of division/identification, presupposes the ongoing estrangement of humans from the natural world and each other. As for Burke’s observation regarding hierarchy, I would not dispute the concept itself because there are natural hierarchies. I would add, however, that people err when they organize around human conventions rather than the natural order. To say that humans are “goaded by the spirit” of hierarchy is to suggest that they create hierarchy where it would not otherwise exist naturally. The Daoists observed the creation of unnatural hierarchy in the rigid structure of Confucian society. Finally, while humans have the capacity to be rotten with perfection, I maintain that this stems from their unwillingness to accept their roles in the natural world. The striving for perfection is evident, but unnecessary and counterproductive. Daoists abandon this striving because humans cannot improve upon the universe’s balance and harmony. Human activities can spoil the universe’s perfection; we can be rotten with perfection. Humans can also choose to live perfectly by being one with the Dao. Burke’s definition of the human describes one vision of the human—the counterpart in the West of the Confucian who is invested in human conventions. It does not describe the Daoist. A decisive aspect of Burke’s work is the action/motion distinction: humans act while things move. The core is that humans are both motivated and animated when they behave, unlike animals, pool balls, and waterfalls, whose locomotion is determined for them, dictated by base instincts or the laws of physics. Burke (1961) explains further that nonhumans “do not have a ‘sense of right and wrong,’ or, more generically, a ‘sense of yes and no.’ They simply do as they do—and that’s that” (p. 186). According to Burke (1945/1969), humans are able to go beyond their sheer motion and enact motivational states through the choices they make. Because humans are free to make choices, any action stems from, and expresses, an underlying motive. Humans are not relegated to moving within the world; they are able to act upon the world. Motive distinguishes action from motion, human from nonhuman. The action/motion distinction is problematic for Daoists in two ways. First, while it may be true that human behavior is motivated and entails choice, I would wish for humans to choose not to “act” but simply “do as they do.” Action implies the purposeful, intentional movement that

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expresses the individual’s desires. Its trajectory is to move away from the base or natural impulses of the animal world. Daoists do not want humans to set themselves apart from the natural world, preferring that they move without acting. Simpkins and Simpkins (1999) note, “life becomes a struggle when people try to impose their personal will on inner nature, when they try to disrupt the natural cycles. When we learn to let things be, we live as nature intended, and orderliness and fulfillment of destiny comes of itself” (p. 64). Recall that wu-wei, effortless or noncoercive action, is the spontaneous movement that arises when one loses oneself in the natural rhythms of the universe. While one may be initially motivated to simply move, once one reaches a state of wu-wei the self is lost, and motive is replaced by the same attunement to the natural world as a nonhuman animal. People, perhaps uniquely, can act. But they should simply move. Humans should lose themselves in the natural flow. A second disagreement over the action/motion distinction is that, while Burke sees motive as “the structural differential that is the condition of possibility for the historical emergence of the human being in a world” (Biesecker, 1997, p. 29), Daoists see historical identity as emerging not from the workings of the individual human mind, but from the existence of and connection to all other things. If action, and hence motive, is what constitutes historical identity, then nonhumans are simply objects of the world whose status is clearly subordinate to humans. Daoism posits the interdependence, and thus equal status, of everything in the world. Furthermore, worldly things are not objects but processual events whose boundaries, while constantly shifting, are formed by the relationships and orientations of one thing to another. The integrity of something lies in reaching its unique potential within the environmental field. Things are, by virtue of their relationships with everything else, in a state of becoming. Hence, “integrity is consummatory relatedness” (Ames & Hall, 2003, p. 16). Identity is entirely relational, and historical identity is the foregrounding of the process person within his or her relationships to everything else at a particular time and place. The unique constellation or configuration of relationships at a given historical moment, not the motivated individual mind, enables the emergence of an identity. The imposition of time and place allows us to foreground or freeze process, giving it a momentary historical identity. In short, the action/motion distinction imposes categories of human and nonhuman. It claims as a norm behavior that acts upon nature rather than within nature. It locates identity within the individual mind rather than a configured set of relationships. Burke’s discussion of the process of division and identification provides an important foundation for his rhetorical perspective. Burke asserts that humans are alienated or estranged from one another biologically. We

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enter the world as distinct beings. Our division from one another motivates us to compensate by seeking to unify ourselves with others. We do this through rhetoric—the symbolic process of identifying ourselves with others. Hence, “identification is affirmed with earnestness precisely because there is division. Identification is compensatory to division. If men were not apart from one another, there would be no need for the rhetorician to proclaim their unity” (Burke, 1950/1969, p. 22). Once again, motive is a crucial element for Burke. It not only allows for the emergence of the individual, but also enables the social. The motive for communication is to overcome division. Our differences from one another sustain interaction. Furthermore, the division that motivates rhetoric, because it is based on the biological differences between individuals, can never be overcome. Burke (1950/1969) points out “if union is complete, what incentive can there be for appeal? Rhetorically, there can be courtship only insofar as there is division” (p. 271). Our substantial, organic divisions call rhetoric into being. For Burke, rhetoric will always be called into the service of vainly muting the discomfort of being alone in the world. I can only partially agree with Burke’s division/identification process. To begin, Burke’s initial assumption, that we are born into difference because of our unique biology, is contrary to the notion that we exist as part of a unity—as one of the many who constitute the one. To think of a human as biologically distinct is to pose the corpus as a container of substance with a beginning point (birth) and end point (death). Of course Burke admits our “consubstantiality” with others. Yet he concludes that the paradox of shared and distinct substance creates substantial overlap but not unity. I note in chapter 2 that our bodies are open systems that constantly exchange elements with the rest of the environment. Our substance is not “ours” in the sense of being removed from the substances of others. We have all inhaled the same molecules as Jesus, Plato, and Laozi. Our bodies are in a constant state of recycling the earth, air, water, plants, and animals. While the information in our DNA and the configuration of our bodies seems unique, they are both created from the same substance as everything else in our environmental system. Furthermore, our substance existed, in different forms, before our bodies were assembled and will continue to exist after our bodies are disassembled. Hence unity, not division, is the default position of the universe. To postulate the birth of a body as the starting point of the individual is to ignore everything that existed before that assemblage. To assert that the body is distinct in substance is to ignore that bodies are open systems that constantly exchange their substance. Bodies are substantially distinct only when momentarily foregrounded. The

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substantial configuration of a given body changes in each moment. The prior, the background, the universal, is the oneness that is all. If unity is the starting point, then Burke’s claim that rhetoric arises out of division would imply that there is no condition for the emergence of rhetoric. This would be true if rhetoric arose only from division. Unlike Burke, I believe that rhetoric is motivated not only by division but also by unity. Rhetoric allows us to momentarily foreground aspects of reality, to distinguish one thing from another, to identify, in order to function on a daily basis. The particular, spatial and temporal assemblage of substance is relevant, for example, when we decide whether eating a particular plant will nourish or poison us. Unity also occasions rhetoric because humans can make unnatural distinctions to promote a particular identity, value, or hierarchy. Rhetoric in this way can divide us from nature and from one another by enabling us to temporarily foreground facets of the ultimate background unity. This paradox of rhetoric, the search for unity (identification) when we perceive division, and the quest for division (identity) when we perceive unity, places rhetoric in a potentially endless symbolic spiral1 not unlike the basic workings of yin and yang. Yin rhetoric unites division to make us consonant with “the one.” Yang rhetoric divides the unity to create identity for “the many.” Like light and dark, yin rhetoric and yang rhetoric exist in opposition to each other. If rhetoric’s paradoxicality moves us from unity to division then, as Burke suggests, rhetoric will always need to be called into existence. This is true, but not because unity is impossible. It will be possible, momentarily, like the total ascendancy of daylight. But like the cycles of day and night, it is unsustainable. There will always be a motive for rhetoric because rhetoric works not only to unite but also to divide. Rhetoric is polar and its aspects of unity and division stand in opposition to each other. Daoists believe that total unity is theoretically possible. Burke (1950/1969) points out that “if men were wholly and truly capable of one substance, absolute communication would be of man’s [sic] very essence” (p. 22). Interestingly, Daoists have long held that direct communication is not only possible, but also the only way to truly impart meaning: Indeed, words cannot fully represent the mind; language can never completely express ideas. Ultimately, meaning and ideas can only be transmitted directly from mind to mind. In fact, in Chinese culture, the ability to know another’s mind beyond words is considered an essential element of truly artful communication, for once things are put into words, their rich, subtle, and profound meaning is lost. (Lu, 1998, p. 245)

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Admittedly, some of us never reach a state of absolute communication, and even those who do are unlikely to remain unified permanently because of the need to attend to matters in the local environmental field. Burke’s rhetorical perspective, while sweeping and creative, is nonetheless Western. His approach is grounded in humanism and human conventions. It values action over motion, views the body as a container of substance, and locates identity and the possibility for the social in the individual mind. His rhetoric moves linearly from division to identification and denies the possibility of unity. Daoist rhetoric, contrarily, holds all creatures to be equally vital contributors to the world. It upholds the natural way over human conventions and being with nature rather than attempting to rise above it. It makes relationality prior to identity, thus offering a novel sense of integrity and possibilities for the social. Rhetoric has two polar aspects that spiral in ongoing engagement with one another. When yin rhetoric is in total ascent, unity is achieved.

BEYOND POST The introductory chapter explains that Daoism was formulated in a distinct culture. This early separation means that the Daoist sages did not experience the further development of the classical Greek philosophical tradition, the European Enlightenment, and the various projects of modernity. While Daoism was unaffected by the Western intellectual tradition, the trajectory of the West is moving forward to the past, as postmodernity struggles with issues that Daoists contemplated long ago: Daoism is a challenge to the West’s over-valuation of Enlightenment-style rationalism, to its dependence on technology, to a certain philosophical over-simplification which leads to either/ or-ness, and to a kind of monotheism of the imagination which ties thought to a single methodological viewpoint or a single model of historical evolution. (Clarke, 2000, p. 206) Daoism is relevant as a path not taken, suggesting new possibilities for thought and action because of its position relative to Western scholarly trajectories. Like many “post” thinkers, Daoists denounce foundationalism and rationalism. Daoism assumes ongoing, dynamic processes of change. The elements of the universe are fluid, and are neither amenable to essential distinctions nor comprised of fixed or stable features. Reality is inherently changing, and it is created by the dynamic, productive interaction of

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opposites. Opposites are not negated, but merge in endless combinations that produce the many from the one. When humans attempt to extract universal standpoints or criteria from the flux of reality, they are violating the essence of the Dao and imposing their will on the natural way. Furthermore, reason is viewed with suspicion because it is grounded in discourse, which does not reveal reality. Knowing does have a rationality, in the sense of tracing out connections and interacting processes, but knowledge is available in all aspects of the universe, and one can only know through direct experience and intuition. I argued earlier that the Western philosophical tradition, beginning most particularly with Plato, was invested in a correspondence theory of truth: language was thought to be able to correspond to thought or reality. It was a logical system that attempted to achieve one-to-one correspondence between the word and the thing. First structuralists, and then poststructuralists, challenged the correspondence view of signs, arguing that the signifier is meaningful not because it represents reality but because of its difference from other signifiers. In contrast to the Greeks and in anticipation of poststructuralism, early Chinese philosophers and poets rejected the notion that language could fully represent reality. Words were deemed inadequate as a means of thought and expression. Tang (1999) describes the sense that “words do not exhaust meaning” as “a central notion of Chinese philosophy” (p. 2). This is because reality is not “what man [sic] conceives it to be,” but is “a vast organism, self-generating and self-transforming regardless of man’s [sic] views and actions.” Thus, “when man [sic] imposes his views on the world through language or other conceptual means, the true nature of reality is distorted” (p. 16). Truth lies not in utterance “but rather in the living, in the most existential terms, of that reality” (p. 17). Knowing is derived from intuition and empathy emanating from acting in the world. Because Western thought moves increasingly from a representational to a poststructural view of language, there is an uprooting of foundations for meaning that did not exist for Daoists. Daoists never believed that language represented reality, thus they never relied on language to express meaning. By recognizing that symbols are limited and incomplete, Laozi and Zhuangzi do not confer any power to words themselves: Naming as power undermines the importantly creative aspect in the effective use of names. In a processual world—a world ever under construction—to be able to name something is to be able to trace out its concrete relation to you and the world, and on that basis, respond to it productively. While naming can

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be understood as an abstractive and isolating gesture, Daoist naming personalizes a relationship and, abjuring any temptation to fix what is referenced, instead understands the name as a shared ground of growing intimacy. Such naming is presentational rather than just representational, normative rather than just descriptive, perlocutionary rather than just locutionary, a doing and a knowing rather than just a saying. (Ames & Hall, 2003, pp. 45–46) Language is a tool of humans; humans are not victims of language. As Tang (1999) notes, “Chinese philosophers recognized the imperfection of language but did not give in to the hegemony of words” (p. 6). Rather than distrust the paradox of language—that it always communicates less than what is “there” (the signifier cannot fully express the signified) and more than what is “there” (the “surplus meaning” of the signifier over the signified), Daoists focus on the potential of language to manifest human creativity. Their approach to signs, as evidenced in the texts of Laozi and Zhuangzi, is playful and intentional. They use fantastic characters, stories, metaphors, and humor to “stretch language and force it to say more than it does” (p. 6). For the Daoists, the “less than what is there” and “more than what is there” are the spaces for strategic communication—rhetoric. Zhuangzi’s views on language are compatible in many ways with those of poststructuralists such as Derrida. Both would agree that signifiers are completely arbitrary. Also, they agree that distinctions, including binaries such as true/false and good/evil, have no basis in the external world but are only distinguishable internally—as different from one another. Language enables humans to draw distinctions that for Zhuangzi are not part of the natural way of things. Despite these similarities, Derrida’s deconstruction departs from Daoism in significant ways. Daoism provides alternative possibilities for the issues Derrida ponders. The biggest difference between Derrida—indeed all antifoundational approaches—and Daoism is the underlying cosmology2 of Daoism and the implications of that cosmological view. While Derrida and Zhuangzi reject the notion of a permanent reality that stands behind the perceivable world, Derrida’s antifoundationalism commits him to a stance that there is nothing besides the perceivable world. Instead, “the meaning of meaning is infinite implication, the indefinite referral of signifier to signified” (Derrida, 1973, p. 58). There is no stable reference point for the correspondence between signifier and signified. There is, simply, a constant interplay of signifiers with no end to the iterations of meaning.

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While Derrida sees the play of signifiers as infinite, with no underlying stability, Zhuangzi never loses faith in the immutable Dao. Zhuangzi would agree that signifiers are arbitrary, and there is no basis for upholding distinctions, but this does not lead him to moral relativism. Meanings are never singular and fixed in Daoism because language cannot capture the inexpressible and ever-changing Dao. Zhuangzi sees the infinite regress of signifiers as a consequence of language, not as an ontological statement. For Zhuangzi there is a single, universal, transcendent reality that is the background, and words and perceptions are perspectival (true/false) foregroundings. The Dao, the one that is all in this world, provides, through the natural way, a basis for “true” (or natural) distinctions and transcendent values. It is reasonable to call Zhuangzi a deconstructionist “of sorts” because of his attempt to emancipate individuals from rigidly held social ideas and practices through his critique of language and meaning (Lu, 1998). Ultimately, holding the Dao as a univocal norm that can be followed by all disallows a view of Zhuangzi as deconstructionist, as the term is frequently used. While change is inherent, and how one follows the natural way is arguable, Daoism is not susceptible to infinite regress. Daoists would agree with the poststructural view that there is no essential justification for distinctions. Judgments about right/wrong and good/bad, binary opposites, are simply expressions of a particular perspective devoid of objective meaning or validity (Derrida, 1976). Derrida is grounded in the view that there are no underlying foundations for truth and thus no necessary correspondence between language and truth. Daoists, contrarily, arrive at these conclusions not because of the lack of universal reality but because of the inability of language to express reality. Distinctions, for Zhuangzi, are perspectival intonations because the Dao is inexpressible, not because it does not exist. Derrida also maintains that binary opposites function to position those terms so as to create a superior/subordinate relationship (i.e., male/female, reason/emotion, text/performance). Overturning this hierarchy is a critical move: The first move in deconstruction is to reveal and overturn this hierarchical positioning: In a classical philosophical opposition we are not dealing with the peaceful coexistence of a vis-à-vis, but rather with a violent hierarchy. One of the two terms governs the other (axiologically, logically, etc.), or has the upper hand. To deconstruct the opposition, first of all, is to overturn the hierarchy at a given moment. To overlook this phase of overturning is to forget the conflictual and subordinating structure of opposition. (Derrida, 1981, p. 41)

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Because the unity of the universe comes from the blending of opposites, Daoists also differ from Derrida in his idea that binary opposites form hierarchies. Daoists believe in the concept of oppositional forces—after all, the universe is created through the mingling of yin and yang—yet they do not pose these elements in contradiction to one another. Yin and yang are interdependent and co-equal: “one element could not exist without the existence of its opposite. The union of the two formed the continuous and dynamic process of the dao” (Lu, 1998, p. 236). Derrida sees binaries as hierarchical arrangements, while Daoists see them as complementary or blended. The male/female distinction does not privilege male but posits the terms as irreducibly interdependent and valuable. Bifurcation can even be useful, as when we are following directions and need to turn left instead of right. None of this denies that people can choose to frame opposites as contradicting or repelling one another or as ways to create unnatural hierarchies. Laozi precedes Derrida by observing that social elites dominate discourse by controlling the classification of binaries. Unlike Derrida, who sees opposites in a typically Western fashion, logical counterparts constructed by the mind, Daoists see opposing forces as basic aspects of the natural world. They would claim that binaries are often natural and useful, but that any hierarchy stemming from the juxtaposition of the two elements is human-made and thus unnatural. Unlike postmodernism and poststructuralism, Daoism posits an underlying reality, but it differs from Western foundational views because it is neither fixed nor apprehended through reason. Daoism productively confronts modernity because it rejects perspectival metanarratives, retaining the Dao, provides a moral standpoint, the natural way, and expresses clear values, harmony and balance. Daoism “answers” some issues that currently plague the West because it never supposed notions that are now being overturned. It stands as “a counterpoint and source of resistance to prevailing orthodoxies, an antidote to the one-sidedness and singleness of vision associated with the still dominant role of Eurocentric attitudes” (Clarke, 2000, p. 206). Daoism can support much of the work of the “posts” without resorting to fragmentation, dissensus, or nihilism. Daoism is unlike “post” critiques because it proposes an absolute reality that provides a standpoint for action. The natural way encourages recognition of unity and interdependence and the values of balance and harmony. Daoism thus contains a foundation or metanarrative, but it is a story of unity through diversity, balance and harmony through the unique contributions of all things—including seemingly opposing forces. Nothing, except the story of the many making the one, is privileged.

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We can argue about what is natural for humans—for example, how much technology is appropriate—but Daoism does not collapse into existentialism: it must be natural for humans to do X because they do X. Not everything humans do is natural to a Daoist or Laozi would never have critiqued society in the first place. Again, we can debate about our perspectives, which might be a huge terrain, but boundaries will emerge because “natural” is conditioned by interdependence and diversity and manifest as harmony and balance. We can argue about policies, but Daoism places stewardship of the planet at the top of the values hierarchy. While humans can debate among themselves about right and wrong, the environment gives feedback about healthy and unhealthy practices. We just need to pay attention. Daoist rhetoric allows critics to consider all texts from all vantage points. It acknowledges the multiplicity of interpretations that are available, the incommensurability of certain systems of interpretation, and the folly of privileging vantage points based on dominant power structures in society. Multiple interpretations are available because the nature of reality is to constantly change. The nature of interpretation is to express a situated perspective, and no vantage points can be identical because of the flux of reality. One cannot privilege a particular interpretation because it is erroneous to suggest that there is only one way to look at something, including a text. All interpretations are discriminations that are simultaneously correct and incorrect. They have some truth because they are elements of the whole, expressing an aspect of the Dao. Interpretations also fail to account for the totality of truth, and are thus false, because they are perspectives on reality. Daoism acknowledges the contributions of the particular, but recognizes that aspects do not equal the one. Furthermore, there is space for social interaction in articulating and contesting the ways in which claims are correct at times and incorrect at others. The only privileged position is one that posits the universal Dao. Daoist criticism can remind us of the unity that underlies all things while pointing to the differences that contribute to the whole. By considering new texts and vantage points, criticism can value all of the entities that constitute the one. The critic can also give voice to alternatives without denouncing the mainstream. Daoist rhetorical criticism can be used to advocate social issues such as environmental responsibility and equality. From the Dao, one can argue the injustices of the past, where not just individuals but entire groups of people and species of plants and animals were dominated and victimized by the shortsightedness of dominant groups. It can make a statement against commodification, violence, and unbridled technology. Daoist rhetorical criticism can help us to see the connectedness and value of all life, as well as the inevitability and harmony

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of death. It may prove to be our best hope for the dialogue that is necessary for global peace and prosperity. Daoist rhetoric opens exciting avenues for theory, criticism, and social action. Yet it must be remembered that Daoism is truly energized when it is put into practice and it can be valuable at the most mundane levels of existence. Daoism teaches me to look to myself first when I want to make the world a better place. It places responsibility on me to cherish the natural world. It reminds me that I am vitally connected to everything else and my smallest act affects the entire universe. It helps me avoid extremes and work with the flow of everything else. It comforts me because change is inevitable and necessary. It encourages me to seek balance and unity in my mind, body, and spirit. It predisposes me to empathy. It reminds me that nothing is destined, anything is possible, and everything I do is an act of creation.

IN CONTINUATION . . . Laozi says “a journey of a thousand miles starts from beneath one’s feet” (ch. 64, Lau, 1963, p. 125). My hope is that, in articulating an outline of Daoist rhetoric and its applicability to rhetorical criticism, I have set out at least a few steps on a long expedition. This journey is particularly intriguing because the trail is constantly evolving. While I “map out” features of Daoist rhetoric and suggest possibilities for its further deployment, I recognize the provisional nature of both the map and the territory. The “Dao of Rhetoric” is both a rhetoric of philosophy and a philosophy of rhetoric. The term “rhetorical Daoism” centers Daoism, and positions rhetoric in service of philosophy, a comprehensive worldview that posits a cosmology, ontology, and epistemology that is quite distinct from classical Western worldviews. These underpinnings promote an axiological position, however, that is well received in Western liberal politics: the values of harmony and balance. Daoism, with its understanding of unity and interdependence, enlivens Western politics with a vantage point for contesting oppression and devaluation of elements of our complex and diverse world. It offers a way to argue for social justice and environmental responsibility by virtue of the nature of the universe. It “essentializes” unity and diversity. Rhetoric is an integral part of the social dimension of this metaphysical system. “Daoist rhetoric” is a critical perspective on rhetoric that can, depending on the critic, stand apart from the worldview. Daoist rhetoric enables critics to examine discourse from new vantage points with novel processes and concepts that honor the creativity and complexity of human

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communication. It posits a communication theory, the yin and yang of rhetoric, and specific substantive, strategic, and tactical elements of discourse. Daoist rhetoric also suggests the need for further investigation of my assumptions and issues that have not been addressed. For example, is de a counterpart to ethos? Is the natural way (or wu-wei) a useful concept for thinking about agency? Daoist rhetoric also challenges current theories of symbolic interactionism as the precursor to meaning and rhetoric as a way of knowing. Daoist rhetoric also suggests ways to examine all forms of discourse and move beyond rhetoric as public address. It implies that rhetorical action can be intrapersonal and interpersonal, as well as public or mediated. In fact, the intrapersonal interaction with a rhetor in tune with the world can be a critical encounter leading to personal enlightenment and harmony. Daoist rhetoric can energize the world one person at a time or all at once. Its ubiquitousness speaks to the vast and undeveloped potential of rhetoric for personal and social action.

Notes

INTRODUCTION 1. See Kennedy (1998) for an overview of non-Western approaches to rhetorical theory. 2. Garrett (1991) provides a useful review of Western studies of Asian rhetoric and Lu (1998) offers an excellent account of classical Chinese rhetoric. 3. Also Taoism. There are two primary systems for romanizing Chinese characters—Wade-Giles and pinyin—that result in different English spellings of Chinese names and terms. I use the pinyin system, but have not converted the terms of scholars who use Wade-Giles and/or alternate spellings. Similarly, scholars use Dao, Daoist (pinyin) and Tao, Taoist (Wade-Giles) respectively. 4. The term “postmodern” can be problematic because it defies set meanings and lacks clear boundaries. When I refer to postmodern ideas or writings (postmodernist) I refer primarily to my interpretations of Baudrillard, Lyotard, and Foucault. I also include under “postmodern” the views of Derrida and other “poststructuralists,” whose ideas are often appropriated and extended by postmodernists. When I refer to postmodern as a condition (postmodernism) I mean the sense that reality, including individuals, objects, and ideas, is without foundation, stability, or underlying order. Nothing is prior to perception and symbolization, and all meanings and symbols are perspectival and subjective. 5. Some of the various spellings in English include Laozi, Lao-zi (pinyin) and Lao Tzu, Lao Tsu, Lao Tse (Wade-Giles); Zhuangzi, Zhuang-zi (pinyin) and Chuang Tzu, Chuang Tsu, Chuang Tse (Wade-Giles); and Sun-zi (pinyin) and Sun-tzu, Sun Tzu (Wade-Giles).

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CHAPTER 1. CULTURE, TEXT AND CONTEXT 1. Several excellent articles by rhetorical scholars on issues of text and context appear in a special issue of the Western Journal of Speech Communication, 1990, 54, 3. 2. Kong Fuzi (pinyin). In the case of “Confucius” and “Confucianism,” I will use the Wade-Giles spellings since they are used almost exclusively in English. 3. “Religion” from a Chinese perspective, differs greatly from the use of the word in the Judeo-Christain heritage. Early scholarship did not recognize the religiosity of Daoism and Confucianism. Scholars seem more comfortable treating Confucisnism and Daoism as philosophy because neither Confucianism nor Daoism assumes a transcendent deity and their religious practices and rituals include worship of cultural heroes and dead ancestors. While these practices have been trivialized by those influenced by the Christian missionaries, who first wrote about China, Robinet (1997) argues effectively for the recasting of elements of Daoism as religious. Because the religiosity of Daoism differs from the Judeo-Christian traditions, and these issues are beyond the scope of this book, I tend to use the word “spiritual” when discussing Daoist views on concepts such as creation and immortaltiy.

CHAPTER 2. LAOZI AND THE NATURAL WAY OF RHETORICS 1. In order to situate the various translations that I use and those with which the reader may be familiar, I begin each citation of the Dao De Jing, Zhuangzi, and Art of War with its chapter number. 2. Clarke (2000) offers an excellent review of Daoist scholarship, particularly its potential ethical, social, and political implications in the contemporary world.

CHAPTER 4. SUNZI AND THE RHETORIC OF PARSIMONY 1. Also Art of Warfare. According to J. H. Huang (1993), “Sun-tzu is the original title of the book, and it was renamed Sunzi bingfas (bingfa means ‘the principles for using forces’) at a much later date. This is generally translated in English as ‘The Art of War,’ which actually is an emulation of the titles of books written by Machiavelli and Baron de Jomini. Sun-tzu in the pinyin system is spelled Sunzi, but Sun-tzu is the broadly accepted English rendering” (p. 25).

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CHAPTER 9. THE FUTURE OF THE PAST 1. The “spiral” is chosen rather than the “cycle” because cycles are repetitive while spirals are not. Daoism views life as an ongoing act of creativity and novelty generated by the movement of opposites. 2. Ames & Hall (2003) conclude that Daoism is actually acosmotic: “The Daoist understanding of ‘cosmos’ as the ‘ten thousand things’ means that, in effect, the Daoists have no concept of cosmos at all insofar as that notion entails a coherent, single-ordered world which is in any sense enclosed or defined. The Daoists are, therefore, primarily, ‘acosmotic’ thinkers” (p. 14). While the point is interesting, having “no concept” is a conception, so I maintain that Daoism has a “unique” cosmology.

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Index

Antz, 6, 80, 101–102, 104–114. See also under conflict; harmony argumentation. See contentiousness; Laozi, contentiousness; Zhuangzi, argument artifact. See text Art of War, 5, 6, 16, 53–55, 58, 62, 69, 70, 71. See also Sunzi Asian culture, 1, 2, 38, 71 audience, 11, 61, 62–63, 70. See also rhetoric, Aristotelian, audience adaptation authorship of texts, 15–17 balance. See harmony Black, Edwin, 74, 80 Bug’s Life, A, 6, 80, 101–103, 105–106, 108–112, 114. See also under conflict; harmony Burke, Kenneth, 7, 137–138 action/motion distinction, 139–140, 143 definition of the human, 138–139 process of division/identification, 51, 60, 71, 140–143 Campbell, Joseph, 6, 115–119, 123–126, 129–135 Campbell, Karlyn K., 80–81, 84–85 categorization. See distinction

cause/effect linearity vs. collaboration, 11, 13, 83, 143 Chuang Tzu. See Zhuangzi Chou. See Zhou classical China historical/political context, 12, 14–15, 17–19, 43–51, 81–82 (see also Spring-Autumn period; Warring States Period) philosophical context, 19–21, 40 (see also Confucianism) rhetorical context, 9, 12, 45, 51 commodification, 78, 148 conflict Antz/Bug’s Life, A, 102–103, 105, 106, 108, 110, 111 avoidance and minimization, 5, 51, 53–54 deterrence, 57 Shrek, 6, 115, 116, 122, 130, 135 See also Sunzi, conflict Confucianism, 19–21, 30, 138–139 Confucius, 16, 17, 19–20 contentiousness, 73–74 Laozi, 33–34 contextual analysis, 80–82, 89, 94. See also text/context distinction contradiction, 87, 89, 93, 94–95, 97, 99–100, 111, 133–134. See also distinction

163

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cosmology, 29, 145. See also reality, oneworld vs. two-world view crabgrass, 78–79 creativity, 114, 137, 145 critical methods. See rhetorical, criticism Dao, 20, 30–31, 35–36 as process, 24, 26, 133 definitions, 24–25 ineffability, 5, 21, 24, 30, 32, 48, 50 ren, 20 tian, 20, 27–28 Dao de jing (Daodejing), 5, 14, 16, 19, 23, 24, 33–36, 81. See also Laozi Daoism, 4, 50, 55, 75, 77, 94, 97–99 alternative to Confucianism, 19 challenge to the West, 143–144, 146 cultural significance, 2 first use of the term, 56 de, 23, 30–31, 41, 84 debate, 19, 64, 65, 73. See also contentiousness deconstruction. See under Derrida, Jacques destiny/fate, 4, 32, 42, 44, 45, 77, 111, 114, 140 Derrida, Jacques, 145 deconstruction, 145–147 See also poststructuralism; Zhuangzi, language detachment from desire, 28, 90–91, 92, 134 dichotomy. See contradiction; distinction distinction, 3, 11, 20, 40–42, 50–51, 56, 73–74, 87, 94, 97. See also foregrounding/backgrounding; language, problems caused by; text/context distinction dualism. See reality, one-world vs. twoworld view duality, 129–130, 134. See also contradiction; transcendence

education, 20 effortless action. See wu-wei/effortless action enlightenment Confucian, 20 self, 50, 118, 150 Enlightenment, The European, 143 environmental field, 9, 28, 70, 140, 143 environmental responsibility, 148, 149 equality, 32, 148 equilibrium. See harmony essence, essentialism, 3, 10, 11, 13, 26, 143 Eurocentrism, 1–2, 147 extrinsic analysis. See contextual analysis fables, 37, 117 films, 6, 82 animated, 6, 82–83, 101, 117 foregrounding/backgrounding, 12–13, 56, 63, 73–74, 76, 77, 82, 146. See also text/context distinction foundationalism, 137, 143, 145, 147–148 freedom, 74, 110, 114, 121, 132, 133–134 genre. See rhetorical, genre goal orientation, 30, 55, 67–68, 77, 91, 122. See also values: terminal, Western Greek philosophy, classical, 3, 9, 69, 143 group consciousness, 102, 110, 112–113 harmony, 10, 26–29, 57, 59, 60, 69, 77, 96–97, 139, 147–148, 149 Antz/Bug’s Life, A, 102, 112–113, 114 Shrek, 122, 135 Tao of Steve, The, 92–93, 94, 99 See also values, Daoist hegemony, 15, 137, 143

Index hero(es) archetype, 6, 117, 122–124, 129–135 Daoist conceptions of, 6, 133–135 journey, 117–119 monomyth, 116, 118, 122, 131, 133, 135 stories, 6, 115–116 Western conceptions of, 6 hierarchy, 21, 138–139, 142, 146–147 hsing. See under Sunzi “Hundred Schools” of philosophy, 19 identity, 105 classical Greek views, 10 Daoist views, 11, 12, 26–27, 133, 135, 140, 142 Western views, 118, 133 See also Burke, Kenneth, definition of human individualism, 6, 108–109, 110, 112–113, 114 interdependence, 3, 4, 29, 31, 81–82, 110, 140, 147–149 interpretation, 4, 14–15, 39–40, 80, 84, 100, 148 intrinsic analysis. See rhetorical, criticism Jung, C. G., 117 Karate Kid, The, 99 knowledge, knowing classical Greek views, 3, 10 Daoist views, 3, 10–11, 34, 46, 144 See also Sunzi, knowledge language, 76 Chinese, 14, 144–145, 151n3, 151n5 classical Chinese views, 3, 142, 144–145 Laozi, 5, 24–25, 32, 34, 46, 138, 146, 147 Western views, 3, 144




165

Lao-Tzu. See Laozi Laozi, 37, 81–82, 92, 93, 148, 149 persona, 14, 16, 17, 23, 37, 92 See also under contentiousness; language. See also Dao De Jing; rhetorical, strategies and tactics, natural style Laozi, 14–15 linearity, 13 Ma, Ringo, 55–57 metanarrative, 137, 148 metaphor. See under rhetorical strategies and tactics metaphorical function, metaphoricity, 49–50 military strategy and tactics, 54, 55. See also terrain modernist values, 135, 147 monism. See reality, one-world vs. twoworld view Monsters, Inc., 82–83 natural way, 57–58, 94–95, 110–111, 134, 138–139, 148 as corrective, 20–21, 143–144, 146, 147–149 Laozi, 23, 27–30, 32, 34, 36, 81–82, 92 Zhuangzi, 42, 50 See also rhetorical, strategies and tactics, natural style; wu-wei/effortless action opposites, complementation. See yin/yang, polarity parable. See under rhetorical, strategies and tactics. See also Unusual Man, The paradox. See under rhetorical, strategies and tactics paradox of rhetoric. See rhetoric, paradox of

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perception as perspectival, 3, 13, 33, 148 Perelman, Chaim and Lucie OlbrechtsTyteca, 61 personae, rhetorical. See rhetorical, personae persuasion, 2, 4, 5, 11, 47–48, 51, 53–55, 60, 71, 75. See also self-persuasion Plato, 10, 75, 99–100, 144 postmodernism, 3, 4, 7, 151n4 poststructuralism, 144. See also Derrida, Jacques; language, Zhuangzi power, 137, 148 presumption, 61, 65, 71 rationality/reason classical Greek views, 3, 10 Daoist views, 3, 4, 11, 13, 143–144 reality classical Greek views, 11 Daoist views, 4, 12, 24–25, 26–27, 56, 143–144, 146, 147 instability, 3, 4, 11–12, 146 one-world vs. two-world view, 3, 10, 70, 133, 145, 147 religion, 2, 9, 152n3 responsiveness (yin). See under Sunzi retreat, 64, 89, 92–93, 134 rhetoric Aristotelian, 1, 3, 11, 55, 56, 62–63, 67–68, 70, 99–100 artistic proofs, 3, 62, 67 audience adaptation, 11, 51, 67–68, 70 enthymeme, 51, 67 classical Chinese, 2, 54 classical Greek, 1 Daoist, 2, 4, 21, 50, 73, 77–79, 99, 149–150 as philosophical rhetoric, 75 generativity, 4, 21, 76 paradox of, 142–143, 150 philosophical, 75 Roman, 1

technical, 75 Western, 2, 4, 11, 51, 53, 54, 71, 75 rhetorical criticism, 80–82, 84, 89, 94 criticism, Daoist, 4–7, 73, 79–85, 148–149 canons, 2, 4 Daoism, 4, 149 (see also rhetoric, Daoist) genre, 5, 74–78 personae, 4, 15–17 strategies and tactics, 77 analogy/metaphor, 35, 83, 101 evocation, 5, 40, 51 formlessness, 69–91 natural style, 5, 32–36, 47, 53, 73, 74 negation, 35 parable, 37–39, 48–51 paradox, 35–38, 49, 56, 87–88, 97–100, 145 parsimony, 54, 55, 58–62, 67, 68, 70–71, 77, 98 personification, 39–43, 50–51, 98, 102 vague expressions, 35 style, 76 substance, 36, 77 self-persuasion, 48, 51, 53. See also rhetorical, strategies and tactics, evocativeness shih (scholar class), 19 shih (strategic advantage). See under Sunzi Shrek, 6, 116 and Daoism, 117, 121–122 as a hero story, 117–135 Shrek as Daoist hero, 6 wu-wei/effortless action, 121–122 See also under conflict; harmony social justice, 32, 70, 79, 149 speaker-warrior, 60–70 Spring-Autumn period, 16, 18–19, 28, 56, 57, 82

Index Star Wars, 24 strategic positioning. See Sunzi, hsing strategic advantage. See Sunzi, shih Sun-tzu. See Sunzi Sun Tzu. See Sunzi Sun Wu, 16. See also Sunzi Sunzi classification as Daoist, 55–58 conflict, 5, 58–60, 65 hsing, 66, 68–69 justification for warfare, 59 knowledge, 5, 62–63, 66 persona, 16, 17 responsiveness (yin), 5, 69–70 rhetoric, 60, 73 rhetoric as warfare, 5, 54–55, 60 shih, 66–68 speaker/warrior strategy, 5, 58, 66–69 terrain, 56, 62–65 See also Art of War; rhetorical, strategies and tactics: formlessness, parsimony Tao. See Dao Tao of Steve, The, 6, 84, 87–100 wu-wei/effortless action, 95–96 See also under harmony technology, 81, 102, 110–111, 112, 148 text, 11–12, 79–80, 84 text/context distinction, 4, 9–13, 81–82 textual analysis. See rhetorical, criticism transcendence, 33, 42, 45, 132–134 translation process, 14–17, 21 unity, 3, 11, 26, 40, 47, 56, 77, 141,142, 147, 148, 149 Unusual Man, The, 39 values Daoist, 6, 27, 29, 58, 60, 77, 102, 110, 111, 112, 147–149 (see also harmony; unity instrumental, 113 terminal, 113–114




167

Western, 53, 101, 102, 110, 111, 112–113, 149 (see also individualism) Warring States Period, 16, 18–19, 27, 40, 43–45, 51, 52, 82. See also classical China, historical/political context water, 24, 29, 30, 35, 64, 81 Way, the. See also Dao words. See language wu-wei/effortless action, 42, 50, 110, 111, 112, 140 and rhetoric/language, 47, 48, 51, 76, 77 and warfare/force, 57–58 and criticism, 74, 79, 80 defined, 30, 41 See under Tao of Steve, The; Shrek. See also natural way yin (responsiveness). See Sunzi, responsiveness (yin) yin/yang polarity, 3, 10, 12, 25–26, 56, 93, 96, 133, 144, 147 rhetoric, 142–143, 150 See also rhetoric, paradox of Zhuang Zhou, 16, See also Zhuangzi, persona Zhuangzi argument, 47, 73–74 language, 45–9, 51, 138, 145–146 persona, 16, 17, 44 rhetoric, 5, 37–38, 40, 44–47, 49–50, 53, 73 See also under contentiousness; language; natural way. See also rhetorical, strategies and tactics: evocation, parable, personification Zhuangzi, 16, 37, 38, 43, 52, 80. See also Zhuangzi Zhou (Chou) dynasty, 16–17. See also Spring-Autumn period; Warring States period

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