Laughter in Eastern and Western Philosophies: Proceedings of the Académie du Midi 9783495860380, 9783495483855

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WELTEN DER PHILOSOPHIE

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About this book: This anthology looks at laughter through intercultural and interdisciplinary perspectives. It focuses on humoristic aspects of East-Asian philosophies such as Daoism and Zen Buddhism as well as on the use of irony and wit by Western authors ranging from ancient Greece to contemporary Newfoundland.

The editors: Hans-Georg Moeller, born in 1964, is a Senior Lecturer at the Philosophy Department at University College Cork in Cork, Ireland. His research focuses on Chinese and Comparative Philosophy and on the social theory of Niklas Luhmann. Among his book publications are: Daoism Explained. From the Dream of the Butterfly to the Fishnet Allegory. (Chicago: Open Court, 2004), The Philosophy of the Daodejing (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), Luhmann Explained. From Souls to Systems (Chicago: Open Court. 2006), Daodejing (Laozi). A Complete Translation and Commentary. (Chicago: Open Court, 2007) as well as a treatise in defence of amorality: The Moral Fool. A Case for Amorality. (New York: Columbia University Press, 2009). Guenter Wohlfart, born 1943 in Frankfurt /Germany, studied philosophy, German literature and psychoanalysis in Germany. As a young man he taught at different German universities specializing in German Idealism and ancient Greek philosophy. He published books on Kant (Ph.D. thesis), Hegel (Habilitation), Nietzsche, and Heraclitus. His main fields of research were aesthetics and philosophy of language. After his transcultural turn he dealt with Zen-Buddhism and philosophical Daoism. As a visiting professor he taught in Mainland China, Japan, Korea and Taiwan. He published books on Zen, Laozi and Zhuangzi. His main fields of research are comparative philosophy and ancient Chinese thinking. Since his retirement, Wohlfart lives in his mountain cottage in Southern France.(www.guenter-wohlfart.de)

https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Ver

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Hans-Georg Moeller, Günter Wohlfart (eds.) Laughter in Eastern and Western Philosophies

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Welten der Philosophie 3 Wissenschaftlicher Beirat: Claudia Bickmann, Rolf Elberfeld, Geert Hendrich, Heinz Kimmerle, Kai Kresse, Ram Adhar Mall, Hans-Georg Moeller, Ryôsuke Ohashi, Heiner Roetz, Ulrich Rudolph, Hans Rainer Sepp, Georg Stenger, Franz Martin Wimmer, Günter Wohlfart, Ichirô Yamaguchi

https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Ver

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Hans-Georg Moeller, Günter Wohlfart (eds.)

Laughter in Eastern and Western Philosophies Proceedings of the Académie du Midi

Verlag Karl Alber Freiburg / München

https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Ver

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Originalausgabe © VERLAG KARL ALBER in der Verlag Herder GmbH, Freiburg im Breisgau 2010 Alle Rechte vorbehalten www.verlag-alber.de Satz: SatzWeise, Föhren Druck und Bindung: AZ Druck und Datentechnik, Kempten Gedruckt auf alterungsbeständigem Papier (säurefrei) Printed on acid-free paper Printed in Germany ISBN 978-3-495-48385-5

(Print)

ISBN 978-3-495-86038-0 (E-Book) https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Ver

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Contents

Introduction (Hans-Georg Moeller) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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I. East Anna Ghiglione: Laughter in Mohist Writings . . . . . . . . . . .

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Robin R. Wang: Can Zhuangzi Make Confucians Laugh? Emotion, Propriety, and the Role of Laughter . . . . . . . .

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Paul D’Ambrosio: From Foolish Laughter to Foolish Laughter: Zhuangzi’s Perspectivism Leads to Laughter . . . . . . . . .

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Richard John Lynn: The Modern Chinese Word for Humour (huaji) and its Antecedents in the Zhuangzi and Other Early Texts .

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Franklin Perkins: The Ridiculousness of Attachment in the Journey to the West . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Robert E. Carter: »Why Do Birds Shit on Buddha’s Head?« Zen and Laughter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Karl-Heinz Pohl: What Is There to Laugh About in Buddhism? . .

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Robert Borgen: Comic Verse in the Classical Japanese Literary Tradition . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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William R. LaFleur: Ludicrous Professionals: Physicians and Priests in Japanese Senryû . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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II. West Haijo Jan Westra: Irony, Ambiguity, and Laughter in Greek and Latin Texts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Manfred Malzahn: »Great Laughter was in Heaven«: Roots and Repercussions of a Literary Motif . . . . . . . .

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Lorraine Markotic: Nietzsche’s Nascent Laughter

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Brendan Moran: Foolish Wisdom in Benjamin’s Kafka

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Stephen Crocker: Laughter as Truth Procedure: The Evolution of Comic Form in Newfoundland

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III. East-West Alfredo P. Co: Siddhartha, Socrates, and Zhuangzi: Laughter across Ancient Civilizations . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Günter Wohlfart: Transcendental Laughter beyond Enlightenment

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List of Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Introduction

Unfortunately, to philosophize about laughter is usually quite unfunny. On the other hand, thinking back to previous topics discussed at the meetings of the Académie du Midi, it should also be considered that philosophizing about death is not lethal, and philosophizing about war is often rather peaceful. That one cannot expect too much congruency between the exercise of philosophy and its various subjects may therefore also have its blessings. In any case, laughter is not a typical theme in philosophy. Therefore it can be no surprise that many of the articles included in this volume deal with issues and sources that do not belong to the core canons (whatever these may be) of either Western or Eastern philosophical traditions. Some papers refer to works of literature—such as the Journey to the West and the Iliad, medieval Japanese and English poetry, or the writings of Hanshan and Kafka—and others even to contemporary comedians from Newfoundland. However, I think that in general the methodologies that are applied throughout the volume are to a certain extent, »traditionally« philosophical. The leading questions are: How to think (and write) with, through, or about humor? Some sort of preliminary typology of laughter and humor in philosophy (and literature) emerges when reading the various essays. First, as arguably the most radical type of a philosophy of laughter, it can be considered a philosophical practice or method itself. In Zen Buddhism the outburst of laughter as such is physically, emotionally, and socially applied philosophy. It is not an exaggeration to say that in Zen Buddhism laughter can be deemed a more appropriate philosophical practice than, for instance, writing or lecturing—or even thinking. Interestingly enough, one may also ascribe such an attitude to Friedrich Nietzsche. Second, there are philosophies that use humor, and, by extension, the laughter of the reader, as a mode of expression. The works of Zhuangzi, for instance, are renowned for their outstanding literary 9 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Ver

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wit. But one will probably be able to find examples for exquisite hilarity or subtle irony in most philosophical traditions around the globe. Philosophy and literature are, as Richard Rorty insisted, intrinsically similar, and they thus can share humor as a major stylistic feature. Some philosophical works actually can make people smile and thereby promote a humorous outlook on whatever they deal with. Third, there is a philosophy about humor. Kant, although on occasion even a somewhat funny writer, provided us with a fundamentally unfunny definition of laughter in the Critique of Judgment. Although he otherwise dealt with laughter mainly in his philosophical anthropology, and thus one of the minor and least important branches of his selfstyled scientific philosophy, laughter still seemed to be a remarkable enough phenomenon to deserve at least some of his intellectual efforts. Fourth, there can be a philosophy against humor, a teaching that warns us about the perilous effects of having too much fun. »Laughter ethics,« so to speak, tend to describe the limits of decency with respect to enjoyment and wit, and to prescribe when and, in particular, when not to laugh. For some Confucians, for instance, laughter was morally much more suspicious than crying. But without doubt, the perception of laughter as a potential threat to morality is not a uniquely Confucian feature. Fifth, there is the rhetorical usage of humor and laughter in a derisive way. The ancient Chinese Mohists liked to portray their philosophical opponents as ridiculous fools. But again, this is by no means a specifically Mohist quality. I would dare to speculate that most philosophical and religious traditions contain a certain dosage of mockery of those who do not share their beliefs. But, after all, if one is not a proponent of a strict »laughter ethics,« one may find such uses of humor more delightful, and even more truthful, than a presumably emotionless and unbiased critique of what one considers wrong. I chose once more and East-West order for structuring this volume. As it turned out, the structure then also became more or less chronological, at least within the three major sections on »East,« »West,« and »East-West.« No ideological commitment to cultural differentiations underlies such a division; it simply seemed to me that the three sections each include essays that are thematically, historically, and/or methodologically linked to one another. Anna Ghiglione provides us with an insight into one of the more neglected philosophical schools within the ancient Chinese tradition, 10 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Ver

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Introduction

namely the Mohists. In line with their advocacy of frugality and utility, the Mohists promoted an austere and thus not very funny way of life. They did not appreciate humor very much and hardly used wit as a literary device in their texts. Nevertheless, they did on occasion »maliciously« mock their main rivals, the Confucians. Thus, they did in fact produce some at least vaguely humorous polemics. Robin Wang takes a look at the different attitudes towards laughter in ancient Confucianism and Daoism. Figuratively speaking she says that »Zhuangzi is laughing while Confucians are crying.« In particular, she focuses on the more somatic aspects of laughter and points out that while the Confucians embraced singing and dancing as forms of emotional expression, they nevertheless did not encourage laughter. It may be, Wang suggests, that the Confucians abhorred the absurd aspects of humor that present a challenge to a worldview based on an ideal of harmonious social order. Laughter may thus pose a danger for civilization by giving way to some unobstructed natural or »uncultivated« impulses. Paul D’Ambrosio dissects the allegory of the »happy fish« and several related stories in the Zhuangzi in order to define the kind of philosophical humor employed in this work. He argues that the Zhuangzi’s laughter is foolish. Foolish laughter is laughter at others, but it is not derogatory. It is not supposed to express that the one who is laughing considers himself superior to or wiser than the one whom he laughs at. To the contrary, the foolish laughter of the Daoist sage expresses not only amusement about others, but, at the same time, amusement about oneself. He laughs about the foolishness of the other only to confirm his own foolishness. When a philosophical dialogue ends in laughter in Zhuangzi, the Daoist sage thereby expresses something like: »Look how ridiculously foolish all of us philosophers indeed are!« Richard John Lynn presents a most elaborate philological analysis of the history of the modern Chinese word for humor: huaji, or, in premodern pronunciation, guji. He looks specifically at the occurrence of this word in the Zhuangzi and in Guo Xiang’s commentary and Chen Xuanying’s sub-commentary to this text, and then compares these with passages from other sources such as the Shujing (Book of History) and the Shiji (Records of the Grand Historian). In conclusion, he suggests that the term originally referred to what he translates as »slippery operators,« i. e. political or military advisors who used cunning and witty rhetorics to »undermine conventional assumptions about life and the 11 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Ver

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world, to reform harmful behavior, and reverse wrong strategies.« Even Zhuangzi himself, Lynn argues, may have conceived of himself as a »slippery operator« in philosophy. Robert Carter answers the question »Why do birds shit on Buddha’s head?« This is a reference to a Zen (or Chan) Buddhist Koan, and Carter’s answer explains the usage of humor in this tradition. He mentions the »deconstructionist« function of humor in Zen that challenges ordinary thinking, values, and hierarchies. Existentially speaking, life is paradoxical, and so is laughter. More concretely, to point out that birds shit on the head of (a) Buddha (sculpture) indicates a rejection of any pretence of holiness, the overcoming of dualistic value distinctions between what is beautiful and what is disgusting, and an emphasis on the fact that there is no ontological »waste,« that all things are of equal reality. Karl-Heinz Pohl approaches laughter in Buddhism by focusing on its iconography. One of the founding figures of Chinese Buddhism, Huayan (334–416), is typically portrayed pictorially as having a laugh with his visitors Tao Yuanming (365–417) and Lu Xiujing (406–477). This presentation is not meant to depict an actual historical scene, but rather the harmonious unity of the three teachings Buddhism, Confucianism, and Daoism. Similarly, there are a number of paintings that show the famous poet Hanshan, who is often linked in one way or another with Buddhism, with a laughing face. Even more present in pictorial art is the »Laughing Buddha,« the Bodhisattva Maitreya who can be seen in many Buddhist temples. The medieval Chinese Buddhist iconography of laughter is, as Pohl shows, continued even in contemporary postmodern American literature. The novel The Laughing Sutra by Mark Salzman plays with exactly this heritage. Franklin Perkins writes about the philosophy of laughter in the Chinese predecessor of The Laughing Sutra, namely the famous Ming Dynasty novel Journey to the West. The plot of this quite fantastic novel revolves around the monk Xuanzang who travels to India in order to bring sacred Buddhist texts to China. According to Perkins, the novel as such »presents a profoundly pessimistic view on human life« which is quite in line with »orthodox« Buddhist beliefs. However, Perkins shows that the text is nevertheless full of irony and humour. While Xuanzang himself is a rather serious and unfunny character, his travel companion Monkey is a comic figure who constantly provokes the pious monk. Perkins interprets the comic tension between Xuanzang and Monkey 12 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Ver

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as an illustration of a certain ambiguity in Buddhism. On the one hand it advocates »serious« compassion for all beings that suffer while, on the other hand, it promotes a much more light-hearted pursuit of non-attachment. Robert Borgen explores the historical roots of Japanese Haiku poetry. The term Haiku became widely used only in the nineteenth century. The genre essentially goes back to the older genre of haikai. Haikai was the title of a section in the Japanese poetic anthology Kokinshū (Collection of Japanese Poems, Ancient and Modern) which was compiled around the year 905. While the term haikai can be literally translated as »fun, a joke,« it is often very difficult to understand what about the poems in this section in the Kokinshū is actually supposed to be funny. As Borgen demonstrates on the basis of a detailed analysis of some of the poems, they do contain quite intriguing word plays. These could have been perceived as funny by an audience that was familiar with concrete allusions and cultural references which may totally escape contemporary readers. William R. LaFleur introduces a genre of Japanese poetry that evolved out of the haikai and Haiku tradition, a short and humorous mode of verse named senryū that became popular in the Edo period (1600–1867). LaFleur is particularly interested in the relation between humor and the human body. One of the main reasons for humans to laugh about themselves is, according to LaFleur, the fact that we both have and are bodies. This issue is dealt with in a number of senryū where human physicality becomes a laughing matter. In particular, the »intellectual« professions of priests and physicians are made fun of with respect to their bodily existence that they cannot deny; they also, for instance, sneeze or experience sexual arousal. The senryū mock these and other manifestations of our physical life, but they do so, as LaFleur points out, in a healthy way that does not intend to do harm to those it ridicules, but to make us share a refreshing and relaxing laugh. Haijo Jan Westra’s topic is humor and, in particular, irony in ancient Greek and Latin literature. He begins by pointing out, not unlike Robert Borgen in his analysis of Japanese poetry, that it is often difficult to detect a pun in a text when the reader is not familiar with its immediate social context. This is particularly so in the case of irony which by itself is one of the more hidden forms of humor. In order to better indicate passages that are meant in a funny way, various textual signs (nota) where sometimes employed in writing, but this has not been a 13 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Ver

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common practice. Westra then uncovers a number of ironical scenes and statements in the Iliad and the Odyssey as well as in Virgil’s Aeneid and Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Finally, he comments on the religious use of irony by the early Christian poet Prudentius. Manfred Malzahn quotes from John Milton’s Paradise Lost in the title of his article: »Great laughter was in Heaven.« This line introduces a survey of occurrences of humor and laughter in European English language literature ranging from the Middle Ages to the twentieth century. He begins with a look at grim humor in Beowulf and then turns to sardonic and sombre humor in the works of Shakespeare, Andrew Marvell, and John Donne. Further evidence for laughter in this literary tradition is given by reference to Milton and Alexander Pope. A wellknown representative of satirical literature in the eighteenth century is Jonathan Swift, while Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot is an example for absurd dimensions of humor in more recent times. Lorraine Markotic deals with laughter in the works of Nietzsche. Her attention is devoted not so much to the witty or funny aspects of Nietzsche’s writing, but more to the pronouncements and aphorisms that actually talk about laughter and its »philosophical« role. In Thus Spoke Zarathustra, laughter can be linked to a break with traditional thought and values. Nevertheless, according to Markotic, in other works by Nietzsche, laughter appears not at all as a sign of liberation, but rather as one of restraint and limitation. It indicates a merely »temporary upsetting that functions to fortify existing structures.« An example she cites for laughter as an act of constraint is the ridicule that is met by »The Madmen« who announces the death of God in the Gay Science. But there is also another function of laughter for Nietzsche: In Thus Spoke Zarathustra, for instance, laughter opens up the possibility of the transformation of the human into das Übermenschliche. Brendan Moran discusses Walter Benjamin’s detection of occasions for laughter in the works of Franz Kafka. Just as D’Ambrosio with respect to Zhuangzi, Moran classifies this laughter as foolish, but as a kind of foolishness that is connected with wisdom. Interestingly enough, Benjamin conceives of this connection explicitly as Daoist. Not so different from what D’Ambrosio says about laughter in the Zhuangzi, Moran says that for Benjamin, »Kafka enables us to laugh at the fools only insofar as this becomes laughter at us, laughter that passes into thinking about the mythic production of ourselves.« Moran how-

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ever also states that humor in Kafka is »often inextricable from horror.« This is, I would say, hardly the case in the Zhuangzi. Stephen Crocker reports on the humoristic productions by a group of comedians from Newfoundland called Codco and their former member Andy Jones. Crocker highlights the postcolonial aspects of their satirical works which often focus on the problematic identity of Newfoundlanders as inhabitants of a once autonomous entity that then decided to join the Canadian state. The solo performances by Andy Jones, according to Crocker, transcend the socio-political dimensions of humor, and connect with religious and philosophical practices. Jones looks at comedy as a »truth procedure« that culminates in an act of »desubjectification« of the comedian—which leads Jones to claim in somewhat Buddhist fashion: »To know me is to remove me.« Alfredo P. Co compares different types of laughter and humor in three of the main figures of the »axial age«: Siddhartha, Socrates, and Zhuangzi. Socrates’ kind of laughter, as depicted in the Symposium, is characterized as »laughter in erotic innuendos.« Zhuangzi’s laughter, according to Co, can be classified as a »practico-cynical« laughter that »brings us face to face with the absurdity of existence and the way we look at reality.« Siddhartha provides us with a third type of laughter, the »spiritual-intuitive humor« of Buddhist enlightenment. Co concludes with a plea for cross-cultural understanding through humor and joy. One can »intuit the essence of truth« in laughter, and thus it may serve as a foundation for a harmonious new universal culture. Günter Wohlfart leads us »beyond enlightenment.« Commenting on Kant’s definition of laughter as »an emotion resulting from the sudden transformation of eager expectation into nothing,« Wohlfart suggests a slight amendment: The »nothing« should be spelled with capital »N«—and the laughter with capital »L.« If so, one could actually arrive at an understanding of laughter that can be found in Zen Buddhism: Enlightenment is an act of bursting into laughter while paradoxically experiencing that the search for enlightenment ends with the realization of its »emptiness.« Here, we are facing the most »radical« type of a philosophy of laughter that I listed above, a philosophy in which laughter is a most philosophical activity.

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Anna Ghiglione

Laughter in Mohist Writings

Introduction The Mozi is a composite corpus of fifteen books (juan) subdivided into seventy-one sections (bian), eighteen of which are lost. Most of it dates approximately from the Warring States period (481–221 B.C.E.). Mozi (ca. 480–390) and his followers, whose sayings are collected in the Mozi, developed a number of ethical, political, and economic doctrines, which emphasize the importance of social order and utility, frugality, mutual aid and universal care (jian ai) for all human beings, meritocracy and work, submission to the superiors, conformism (tong) and acceptance of popular beliefs in ghosts and demons. On the whole, the Mozi is an overtly anti-Confucian text; it rejects several values cherished by the Literati (the Ru or Ruists), such as elaborated rituality, lengthy mourning, music, cultural refinement, and the priority of kinship over public obligations. Mozi’s vision of the world is well-known for its sternness and gravity: the Mohists systematically condemned all forms of pleasure and superfluous practices. Their utilitarian positions are grounded on a rigidly moralistic view in which usefulness and goodness appear as interchangeable principles. Despite the heterogeneous character of the corpus and the diversity of its contents, 1 all along its fifteen books, little place is left for laughter, smile or irony. As Christoph Harbsmeier observed, »One never suspects the Later Mohist thinkers of any sense of humor whatsoever. Indeed, the whole book of Mo Zi shows a pedestrian style of earnestness, both linguistically and stylistically, that is quite inconsistent with light-hearted jocularity.« 2 In addition to their ethical, political and economical reflections, the Mohists showed interest in language and logic, physics and military strategy. 2 Christoph Harbsmeier, »Humor in Ancient Chinese Philosophy,« Philosophy East and West 39/3, 1989, p. 303. 1

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My first objective in this paper will be to try and find out whether the Mohists never betrayed themselves in their writings. Is it really impossible to detect a break in their austere outlook on life? Were they always at the height of their moral principles? My second objective is to explain, through textual analysis, that their rejection of humour does not necessarily entail a complete refusal of laughter. I provisionally provide a simple definition of humour as the capacity to cause laughter or one to smile (as a less intense somatic reaction) within a shared experience of enjoyment. In these terms, the phenomenon of humour is more restrictive than laughter, the semantic of which is complex and multifaceted. My exegetical study will confirm the overall impression that the Mohists’ sense of humour was limited. A careful reading of the text will nevertheless show that it is not completely absent from the text, whilst the use of laughter as an argumentative device reveals the Mohists’ critical attitude of superiority towards their adversaries. From the methodological viewpoint, I will evoke some of the existing theories about humour and laughter as complementary and compatible tools that will enable me to interpret a number of Mohist reflections in a coherent way. I will not advocate the universal validity of these theories, but only their contingent usefulness for casting new light on a relatively well-known Classic. In this exploratory investigation, textual evidence will be drawn from different sections of the Mozi, independent of the branch of the movement they spring from. 3

Terminological analysis It is reasonable to start our analysis by focusing on the lexicon at issue. Among the graphs belonging to the semantic field of laughter in Classical Chinese, we can point out xiao meaning »to laugh, to smile« (as somatic reactions), and »to ridicule«. In the dictionary of glosses Erya (3rd-2nd century B.C.E.), xiao appears within a verse of the Classic of

It might be useful to remind the reader that the core of the Mozi (chap. 8–37) expounds ten doctrines »each in three versions which are presumably the records of a common oral tradition preserved by three sects.« See A. C. Graham, Later Mohist Logic, Ethics and Science, Hong Kong: The Chinese University Press, [1978] 2003, p. 3. By the 3rd century B. C. E., the movement, in addition, »split into three branches which called each other ›heretical Mohists‹.« (ibid.)

3

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Odes (Maoshi 30/14/5, »Zhong feng«), where it indicates a malevolent attitude of scorn: Ridiculing (nüe) 4 recklessly, laughing at [somebody, xiao] with arrogance means: amusing oneself to ridicule (nüe). (Erya 1.16/5/9) 5

From the graphical point of view, the script xiao consists of two components, namely zhu »bamboo« and yao »fresh looking, young.« The semantic implications of the latter seem to suggest that laughter somehow corresponds to a juvenile and youthful behaviour. Actually, in Chinese ritualistic tradition, weeping and crying went through a process of social codification according to precise rules. Mourners were even supposed to deliberately intensify their somatic expression of sorrow during funerary rites. 6 Laughter as a spontaneous manifestation of hilarity and sensuality, on the other hand, simply had to be controlled. 7 The standard character xiao has three graphic variants. 8 Xu Shen (ca. 58–147 C.E.), the author of the etymological dictionary Explaining Simple and Analyzing Compound Characters (Shuowen jiezi, 100 C.E.), will only concisely take into account the script written with the quan »dog« component as an alternative to yao: Laughing means getting pleased (xi). From »bamboo« (zhu) and from (quan) »dog.«

The second component of this graphic variant – »dog« – is probably a semantic hint indicating that laughter, as a somatic expression of pleasure, has to do with spontaneity, which is an animal feature, rather than with ritualised, socially codified behaviours. 9

Nüe without the radical yan »word, speech« means »to be cruel, to humiliate«. In the main, references to the Chinese Classics are based on the The ICS Ancient Chinese Texts Concordance Series, ed. by D. C. Lau and Cheng Fong Ching, Hong Kong: The Commercial Press. 6 In chapter 25 »Moderation in funerals« (Jie zang), the Mohists criticize all these rules on the ground that they are unproductive and that they drive people to idleness (see especially Mozi 6.6/39/14). 7 In the Book of Rites (Liji 1.29/4/23), for instance, young men whose parents have fallen ill are requested not to laugh by showing their teeth (shen). In another section of the same text (Liji 13.5/5/21), it is also recommended not to laugh while mourning or when close to a dead body (lin sang bu xiao). 8 For the most ancient graph, see character 4231, in Grand dictionnaire Ricci de la langue chinoise, Paris; Taibei: Desclée de Brouwer, 2001. 9 See Shuowen jiezi, Taibei: Tiangong shuju, 1987, p. 198. Other editors of the Shuowen 4 5

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Only four occurrences of xiao appear in the Mozi. Their meaning can be interpreted in light of the definition provided by the Erya. In the first, laughter, in the sense of derision, is directed against the Confucians and it provokes a reaction of anger on their behalf: When the gentlemen laugh (xiao) at them [the Ru, the Confucians], they become angry and say: »What do you wrecks know about brilliant (liang) Confucians?« (Mozi, 9.7/64/24, chap. 39: »Criticizing the Confucians, III,« »Fei Ru xia«) 10

The object of laughter, in this paragraph, is described with a particularly straight and insulting imagery. The Literati are said to behave like beggars, hamsters, he-goats, wild boars or castrated pigs. 11 We are definitely confronted with a kind of contemptuous laughter expressing an attitude of derision. Differently from the Analects (Lunyu), where Confucius’s replies to criticism are generally moderated and sometimes even betray a subtle irony, 12 the Ruist response, here is emotional and shows no capacity for self-control, temperance or wit. In the remark that the Mohists forged, the word liang »brilliant, good, excellent« amplifies the derisive intention and sounds somehow sardonic, even if it is pronounced by Mozi’s adversaries themselves. Two occurrences of xiao are found in chapter 47 (»Gong Meng«), where they have an analogous meaning: »to ridicule, to scorn«. The context, however, invites the reader to smile: A man visited Master Mozi’s school. He was physically well built and brilliant. Desiring to have him as a disciple and to convince him to study, jiezi just emend this graphic variant of xiao, but then the etymological analysis of the character becomes unsound. 10 My translations are partly borrowed from Mei Yi-pao, The Ethical and Political Works of Mo Tzu, London: Probsthain, 1929, reprinted as The Works of Motze, Taibei: Confucius Publishing Co., 1976; when they are available, from Burton Watson’s shorter work: Mo Tzu: Basic Writings, New York: Columbia University Press, 1963; and from the more recent translation by Wang Rongpei & Wang Hong, Mozi, 2 vols. Changsha: Hunan People’s Publishing House, 2006. My modifications mainly concern the lexicon and the key-words. Methodologically, I opted for a certain literalism in order to preserve the imagery as well as a number of significant repetitions that I find important to render the prosody of the text. 11 See respectively Mei, op. cit., p. 404, Watson, op. cit. p. 127, Wang & Wang, op. cit., p. 301. 12 See, for instance, Lunyu 9.2/20/7, where Master Kong, accused of not deserving his good reputation, formulates this ironic concession: »What shall I undertake, archery or chariot driving? I will undertake chariot driving.«

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Master Mozi told him: »For the moment you study, and then I will make you an official (shi)«. Persuaded by such an attractive promise, he came to study. In a year, he demanded [a position of] official from Mozi. Master Mozi replied: »I do not make you an official. But have you not heard the story of Lu? There were five brothers in Lu whose father passed away. The eldest son had a weakness for wine and would not conduct the funeral. The four younger brothers said to him: »You conduct the funeral for us, and we shall buy wine for you.« Persuaded by such an attractive promise, he buried [his father]. After the burial, he demanded wine from the four brothers. The four brothers told him: »We will not give you any wine. You are to bury your father and we, ours. Or is it only our father? If you do not bury him, people will laugh at you (ze ren xiao zi). Therefore we persuaded you to bury him.« Now, you have to practice righteousness (wei yi), and I have to practice righteousness too. Or am I the only one who has to practice righteousness? If you do not study, people will laugh at (xiao) you. Therefore I persuaded you to study. (Mozi, chap. 48 »Gong Meng«, 12.2/110/5) 13

Despite the moralistic aim of this anecdote, where the importance of burying one’s father is compared to the necessity of studying, the effect it produces is permeated with a humorous touch. The contrast between the spontaneous desire for debauchery on behalf of the eldest son and the funerary conventions he was supposed to respect could even be ascribed to the category of black humour. This clash gives partly reason to the usually called »incongruity theory,« which defines humour as »the enjoyment of experiencing something which clashes with our conceptual schemes.« 14 In his pioneering work on Traditional Chinese Humor, Henry W. Wells also adheres to the incongruity theory in order to explain the main source of humour in Chinese art and literature: »Humor, then, is 13 Mei, op. cit., p. 476–478; Wang & Wang, op. cit. p. 457, where xue is interpreted in the sense of »to follow« (Mozi’s school). I rather adopt Mei’s reading as stating that scorning somebody who has not reached a certain cultural level is more understandable, for classical China, than laughing at somebody who would refuse to become Mozi’s follower.

John Morreall, »The Rejection of Humor in Western Thought,« Philosophy East and West 39/3, 1989, p. 244; see also Victor Raskin, Semantic Mechanisms of Humor, Dordrecht; Boston; Lancaster: D. Reidel, [1944] 1984, p. 31; this account of humour was formulated, with different arguments, by Immanuel Kant, Critique of Judgment, Part I, div. 1, 54; and by Arthur Schopenhauer, The World as Will and Idea, Book 1, § 13; see John Morreall, The Philosophy of Laughter and Humor, Albany: State University of New York Press, 1987, p. 45–64.

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the quality of thought that imagines a pleasing incongruity,« 15 he claims. This is probably not the only key to interpret hilarity and jokes in Chinese tradition, but it is certainly a useful and an easy one to handle in several contexts. In the above anecdote, the parallelism between the four brothers and Mozi himself sounds like a joke: a moral doctrine (the obligation to bury one’s father and the necessity of studying) is enforced through a trick. The pragmatic principle according to which the end justifies the means implicitly justifies cunning behaviour. Humour is actually linked to cheating and deception, namely to the disruption of ordinary codes of communication, including gregarious morality. The Mohists generally condemned trickery and hypocrisy (zha, qi); their moral imperatives certainly do not encourage the use of »metic intelligence« or wisdom based on cunning. 16 But it seems that, in order to develop their movement, they could allow themselves some exceptions, as Mozi himself does not keep his word to his pupil. The message of this episode is at any rate ambiguous. Expenses in funerals as well as sumptuous rituality are thoroughly criticized in the Mozi. 17 The choice of the significant element of the analogy (the analogon) is therefore not an innocent one. It rather reveals the conscious will of ridiculing funeral rites by stressing the conflict between formal obligations on the one hand, and authentic feelings on the other. In addition, the whole argument presents a certain dialectical interest: in both cases (the story of the brothers from Lu and the demand set up by Mozi’s disciple), the ethical deliberation remains undetermined since, from one’s particular viewpoint, everybody is right (yi) in one’s claim: the drunkard and the disciple defend their position on the ground of reliability and trustworthiness; the four filial brothers and Mozi respectively advocate the necessity of burying one’s father and of studying. Mozi finally claims that he has the right to deceive his pupil because of the justness of his goal. His

15 Henry W. Wells, Traditional Chinese Humour: A Study in Art and Literature, Bloomington; London: Indiana University Press, 1971, p. 4. 16 About the importance of mētis »cunning« in Chinese tradition, see Lisa Raphals, Knowing Words: Wisdom and Cunning in the Classical Traditions of China and Greece, Ithaca; London: Cornell University Press, 1992, chap. 3 in particular. On the Mohist condemnation of trickery and cheating, see Mozi 7.1/43/26, 7.2/46/19, 7.3/48/24, 8.4/ 56/9. 17 See chapter 25 »Moderation in funerals, III« (Jie zang).

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argument is grounded on a puzzling language game that does not make any logical sense, but that intends to cut short with all objections. The last occurrence of the graph xiao appears in one of the socalled »strategic chapters« (52–71, book fifteen) of the Mozi. Qing Huali, one of Mozi’s servants, consults his Master on the art of defending a city. Mozi starts his teaching by presenting a negative example. The context is highly tragic and refers to a situation of total defeat: the country is ruined, the people are lost, and a certain incompetent ruler of antiquity is the object of everybody’s posthumous derision: Master Mozi said: »For the moment, forget about this, forget about this! In ancient times, there was somebody 18 who followed this method: within, he did not cherish his people; outside, he did not reach any agreement to maintain order. Despite disposing of few [forces], he inconsiderably fought against multiple ones; despite being weak, he light-heartedly fought against the strong. He lost his life, his country was ruined, and the whole world laughed at him (wei tian xia xiao). […]« (Mozi, 14.3/ 125/5, chap. 56: »Preparation against scaling ladders,« Bei ti).

The above description displays another case of laughter that does not arouse any benevolent feeling of common enjoyment. Amusement and sensuality are thoroughly condemned in the Mozi. Yet, the Mohists tolerated a certain degree of pleasure and gratification in order to justify their policy of reward and punishment, as well as their insistence on beneficial (li) action. The graph xi »to enjoy, to be satisfied,« that Xu Shen will employ later to define his graphic variant of xiao, comes forth as a vox media in the Mozi. Its fifteen occurrences do not all have a pejorative connotation. Xi indicates, for instance, a legitimate sense of satisfaction one is entitled to feel if conveniently rewarded. 19 In the socalled »dialectical chapters« (40–45) of the Mozi, the key concept of »profit, benefit, advantage« (li) is also defined by introducing the notion of xi in a positive light:

Wang & Wang, op. cit., p. 521, interpret these lines as referring to a whole community: »In ancient times, we had people who knew how to defend the city, but they neither loved their own people …« I do not find it convincing to speak of »people who did not love their own people,« and I rather read the sentence as a reference to a wicked ruler of antiquity. 19 In chapter 5 »The seven types of calamities« (Qi huan), the fact of receiving unsatisfactory (bu neng xi) rewards (shang ci) is listed among the adversities that a country risks enduring (Mozi 1.5/5/14). 18

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C. »Li (benefit) is what one is pleased to get. E. If you are pleased [xi] to get this one, this is the beneficial one, and the harmful [hai] one is not this one. (Graham, op. cit, A 26, p. 282)

In chapter 47 »Esteem for righteousness,« (Gui yi), instead, xi is definitely condemned as one of the six major vices (pi). In the name of righteousness (yi), the moralist thinker recommends the elimination of pleasure (bi qu xi), jointly with anger (nu), lust (le), sorrow (bei), and love (ai). 20 Thus, on the whole, emotions, including love (ai) as a personal feeling, are viewed as negative factors of confusion and turmoil in the Mozi, whilst righteousness is constantly characterized as the leading principle, the highest rule (zheng) by means of which order is maintained. 21 We find no open attack on the phenomenon of laughter in the text, but no reference to laughter as a legitimate sign of pleasure either. To sum up, the four occurrences of xiao one finds in the Mozi do not refer to characters who laugh out of hilarity but to situations of contemptuous laughter where one, having lost social dignity (in one case even one’s country and life) is hit by public derision. These examples, that further evidence will support, suggest that laughter, in the Mozi, tends to be connected with the sense of shame rather than with the sense of humour.

Contemptuous laughter and its ethical background This terminological analysis is far from being exhaustive, but it offers us a few hints in order to proceed to a more extensive exegesis of the doctrinal contents of the Mohist writings. By quoting Ernest Dupréel, Marcel Gutwirth reminds us of an articulation that proves to be useful for understanding the phenomenology of laughter: »Laughter falls into two types, in the main: laughter of welcome (le rire d’accueil), laughter of rejection (le rire d’exclusion). The former cements union, seals a tacit compact, creates and celebrates the kind of unison on which group life thrives. The latter sets up a border, erects the wall of See Mozi 12.1/104/25. About the importance of righteousness, see for instance Mozi 7.1/42/27; 7.2/44/10; 7.3/47/23. 20 21

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exclusion that defines the group by the counterexample of who does not belong.« 22

Thus, Mohist laughter undoubtedly belongs to the latter category: it is profoundly exclusive, derisive, and critical – in the etymological sense of the word – and contemptuous in nature. I have already explained that the Confucians are the main target of Mozi’s scorn. As we could observe for the above excerpt, several reflections from the Mozi present a portrait of the Literati in offending, disrespectful tones. In chapter 39 »Criticizing the Confucians, III« (Fei Ru xia), this kind of contemptuous laughter is widely attested. In some passages, the denigration of the Literati is even expressed with a touch of black humour, as in the following considerations, where the Mohists make fun of some curious funerary practices: When a parent dies, [the Confucians] lay out the corpse for a long time before dressing it for burial. They climb up onto the roof, peer down the well, poke in the rat holes, and search in the washing basins to look for their man (er qiu qi ren yi). If they believe he is really there, then their procedure is idiotic indeed. If they are aware he has disappeared, but they insist to look for him, then it is a completely false performance (wei)! (Mozi 9.7/64/7) 23

Confucians’ behaviour before death is again pictured in pitiless, vigorous, and offensive tones. The Literati are accused of conducting themselves awkwardly, inspecting unusual places, looking for »the man« (ren). The description actually makes no reference to anything like the souls or the ghost of the deceased. It is this astute idea that contributes to making fun of the Confucians, who seemed to be unaware of the difference between the living person and its vital essence or spirit. It is also a doctrinally coherent but logically weak argumentative choice, since the Mohists approved of beliefs in ghosts and demons (shen gui), and they deliberately promoted them because of their deterrent function. 24 Thus, if they had scorned their rivals for believing in occult forces, they would have fallen into self-contradiction. Marcel Gutwirth, Laughing Matter: An Essay on the Comic, Ithaca; London: Cornell University Press, 1993, p. 37. Ernst Dupréel, »Le problème sociologique du rire,« Revue philosophique de la France et de l'étranger 106, 1928, p. 213–260. 23 Mei, op. cit., p. 401; Watson, op. cit., p. 125; Wang & Wang, op. cit., p. 299. 24 See chap. 31 on »Making it clear about ghosts« (Ming gui), where beliefs in occult forces are characterized as positive factors of order as they would lead people to behave 22

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The Mohists, then, laughed at the Confucians with a high sense of disdain. Their attitude partly confirms the so-called »superiority theory«, according to which mockery would be a sign of hostility. This hypothesis, which was already held by Plato (428–348 B.C.) and Aristotle (384–322 B.C.), found with Thomas Hobbes (1588–1679) one of its more subtle interpretations. 25 Among its limits, we should mention that it does not always distinguish laughter from humour. 26 Besides, it certainly goes too far in reducing these phenomena to aggressiveness, insolence and scorn. We do not need to adopt this theory in its radical version, but it seems undeniable that one of the doctrinal meanings of laughter in Mohist writings expresses a deep contempt for their rivals. David R. Knechtges also exploits the superiority theory to analyse early Chinese humour. According to the American sinologist, »much of it belongs to the category of cruel and sadistic humor, in which suffering or injury is an object of laughter.« 27 This form of humour, which would correspond to what Sigmund Freud (1856–1939) has called »tendency wit« (involving sadistic enjoyment) versus »harmless wit« (non-malicious laughter), would be essentially verbal in nature. This consideration is problematic. Even if in any kind of literature humour is necessarily expressed through linguistic means, one should distinguish between hilarity specifically stemming from word or language games and laughter and smile originating from descriptions of atypical, awkward situations. The latter expression of humour is in fact visually oriented in the sense that it arouses mental representations of funny scenes where (written) language plays a subsidiary or complementary role. In Mohist moral thinking, the pleasure of looking or observing (guan le) is widely censured in the name of a normative principle of temperance and immediate practical utility. 28 But, as we could observe, correctly out of fear. Ghosts and demons were actually supposed have the faculty of inspecting the living and of assisting Heaven in its retribution mechanism of rewards and punishments. 25 By Plato, see Philebus 48–50; by Aristotle, see for instance Poetics, chap. 5, 1449a and Nicomachean Ethics, Book IV, chap. 8; by Thomas Hobbes, see Human Nature, chap. 8, § 13; Leviathan, Part I, chap. 6. Morreall, in his anthology, provides extensive excerpts of these reflections (1987, op. cit., p. 10–13; p. 14–16; p. 19–20). 26 Raskin, op. cit., p. 32; Morreall, 1989, op. cit., p. 244. 27 David R. Knechtges, »Wit, Humor, and Satire in Early Chinese Literature (to A.D. 220),« Monumenta Serica 29, 1971, p. 89. See also p. 80 and p. 97 for the following reflections. 28 See for instance Mozi 1.6/6/22, 1.6/7/5.

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the Mohists were not always up to their ideals. Their general disapproval of visual enjoyment does not seem to count for themselves when they display their merciless scorn for the Confucians. Their offensive verbal accounts could be easily illustrated by provocative cartoons and clearly entail a visual dimension. Word and (verbal or mental) image are therefore both relevant to explain the phenomenon of laughter in the Mozi. The theme of shame deserves to be dealt with in a careful way because of its anthropological and sociological implications. Derision certainly involves a public dimension, and presupposes that the object of scorn is sensible to humiliation and dishonour. Yet, by stressing the importance of contemptuous laughter in the Mozi, I do not intend to support the common assumption according to which in »Oriental societies,« and in the Chinese one in particular, the sense of shame would prevail over feelings of guilt, as these latter would be closely connected with Judeo-Christian cultures. This difference between, on the one hand, social concerns for exteriority or forms and, on the other hand, sincere inner feelings of culpability, which are implicitly viewed as morally superior, reflect the wider opposition between group-oriented cultures and individualistic societies. The former would perceive transgression as a formal violation of social codes, whereas the latter would lay emphasis on the autonomy of man in front of the community, and would therefore develop elevated values such as freedom and responsibility. 29 Wolfram Eberhard, in a monograph on Guilt and Sin in Traditional China that was published in 1967, 30 provided a more articulated analysis of the question and showed that shame can be also interiorised. More recently, the debate among sinologists focuses mainly on Confucian ethics and on the moral basis of rituality (li). 31 Authentic feelings 29 Max Weber’s (1864–1920) position on this subject is prototypal. See, by the German sociologist, The Religion of China: Confucianism and Taoism, transl. and ed. by Hans H. Gerth, New York: Free Press, [1916] 1968. 30 Taibei: Rainbow-Bridge, p. 119 in particular. 31 David L. Hall & Roger T. Ames (Thinking Through Confucius, Albany, N.Y.: State University of New York Press, 1987, p. 174), for instance, claim that in Confucian thought ritual action versus punitive law (xing) encouraged a sense of shame (chi) rather than feelings of guilt. See, however, Lunyu 5.27/11/22, where Master Kong introduces the vigorous image of the »inner trial« (nei zi song) and deplores the lack of moral consciousness among his contemporaries. Heiner Roetz (Confucian Ethics of the Axial Age: A Reconstruction under the Aspect of the Breakthrough toward Postconventional Thinking, New York: State University of New York Press, 1993, p. 174 and p. 177) points

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and sincerity (cheng, xin) in general are actually highly important in Confucian axiology, according to which the gentleman (junzi) had to be intimately refined and educated in moral values. Conventional behaviours were just the visible side of the whole process of education. Instead of opposing guilt to shame, in the case of Confucian ethics, it would be more appropriate to stress the interdependence between the inner dimension of morality and the outer manifestation of it. The Sage, because of his inner strength, was actually supposed to behave as a model for ordinary people and his public visibility was therefore viewed as beneficial for the whole community. This does not necessarily mean that Chinese society, throughout its history, followed such an ideal pattern. Principles we find in writings are not systematically put into practice in concrete life. In other words, intellectual history has undoubtedly a link with social history, but the two levels do not coincide entirely. The necessity of distinguishing the two proves to be especially pertinent for the Mohist tradition that, differently from the Confucian, was of short duration, as the movement declined by the middle of the Western Han dynasty (206 B.C.E.–24 C.E.). At any rate, in Mohist moral and economic thinking, rituality plays a minor role; it is condemned to a certain degree, not in order to defend personal freedom and spontaneity, but moderation in expenses. Mozi and his followers criticized contemporary rulers and elites and constantly described their habits as immoral, perverted, far from the way of the Sage Kings (sheng wang) of antiquity. They advocated »Conformity with the superior« (chap. 11–13, Shang tong), namely with the authorities, in order to maintain socio-political order and stability. Yet, to their eyes, the ruling class of their day had to change policy, give up expansionistic aims, lavish and extravagant practices and had to resume the austere lifestyle they attributed to the legendary kings of the past. Public opinion, in the society they intended to recreate and save from decadence, was thought to be a powerful tool of social out that in Confucian writings of the classical period, guilt and shame complement each other. On this topic, see also Herbert Fingarette, Confucius: The Secular as Sacred, Harper Torchbooks, 1972 (and Charles Le Blanc’s commentary in his translation: Confucius: Du profane au sacré, Montreal: Presses de l'Université de Montréal, 2004, p. 84–85); Shun Kwong-loi, »Self and Self-Cultivation in Early Confucian Thought,« in Bo Mo (ed.), Two Roads to Wisdom? Chinese and Analytic Philosophical Traditions, Peru (IL): Open Court, 2001, p. 229–244; Jane Geaney, »Guarding Moral Boundaries: Shame in Early Confucianism,« Philosophy East and West 54/2, 2005, p. 113–142.

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control, a weapon against criminal action and revolt. Collective admiration (yu) and blame (hui) were intended to play an similar role as the more organized system of rewards and punishments, and were thought to contribute to the development of a meritocratic culture. 32 Derisive laughter, then, pertains to the same conceptual scheme as blame and punishment. In the Mohist normative vision of the right (yi) society, little room is left for the inner dimension of man. The notion of individual is relatively recent in Western cultures too, and it would be an anachronism to look for its equivalent in ancient societies in general. In Chinese Classics, one finds, at the most, general concepts such as human nature (ren zhi xing) or sensibility (qing), which were thought to be similar for all human beings. Mohist doctrines, however, showed hardly any interest in this sphere that other Schools of thought tried to explore. Their one-dimensional vision of man lacks moral as well as psychological depth, but, despite the substantial influence that the Mohist movement exerted in classical China, it would be an epistemological mistake to consider it as representative of Chinese culture as a whole. Thus, although the few cases of derisive laughter we found in the Mozi certainly involve ignominy, this neither proves that the sense of shame is a distinctive and endemic Chinese cultural feature, nor that the Chinese have always been shame-prone people.

The interplay between the tragic and the comic In Greek culture and Western intellectual tradition, tragedy and comedy are generally distinguished and constitute two different types of literary expression. Black humour is especially ambiguous, as it does not completely respect this difference of genres. On the one hand, it is intended to cause enjoyment; on the other hand, it plays on tragic situations. As for the Mozi, I have already singled out two cases of black humour where funerary rites where at issue. In this section of my paper, I mean to briefly show that one of the reasons why we have the impression that the Mohist style is stern and severe is in part due to a lack of a sharp division between tragic and comic elements within the same narOn the policy of promoting public admiration and blame, see Mozi 3.1/16//21; 3.2/18/ 3–5; 3.3/22/14. Although references to situations of shame are not rare in the Mozi, one the most common words for this feeling – »chi« – is absent from the text. 32

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rative context. This tendency does not concern only the Mozi, and would deserve a deeper investigation than the few clues I am going to provide. We can find an example of a tragicomic narration in chapter 15 »Universal Love, II« (Jian ai zhong). Mozi criticizes several former rulers who lacked the capacity to understand what is beneficial to the world. He therefore insists on the fatal consequences of their whimsical decisions: In the past, 33 Duke Wen of Jin adored (hao) his officers to be badly dressed. So, all his ministers wore sheepskin robes, carried their swords in leather girdles, and put on hats of plain silk; they covered themselves with heavy cotton clothes and, in addition, they used hemp shoes. They entered the court [like that], appeared in front of the ruler, and then stepped out. What was the reason for this? It was that the ruler had convinced his ministers to behave in such a way and they did it. In the past, 34 King Ling of Chu adored (hao) slender waists for his officers. So, all his ministers limited themselves to a single meal [a day]. They tied their girdles after holding their breath in their belly, and could not stand up without leaning against the wall. Within a year, the court looked grim and dark. What was the reason for this? It was that the ruler had convinced his ministers to behave in such a way and they could endure it. In the past, 35 King Goujian of Yue liked (hao) his officers to be brave. So, he trained his ministers to adapt with docility to his [wish]. Once, he set fire on his ship and let the flames consume it. In order to test his officers, he proclaimed: »All the treasures of the State of Yue are there!« Then the King of Yue struck the drum himself to urge his officers on. Hearing the sound of the drum, the officers hurriedly rushed on in disorder. More than a hundred guards walked through the fire and perished. Thereupon the King of Yue struck the gong to let them retreat. (Mozi, 4.2/26/1) 36

The text can be divided into three narrative segments. The first presents a definitely humorous situation: a bunch of officers and ministers, probably including guards, instead of wearing convenient uniforms, are dressed up like fools to please their duke. The humour implicit in this situation can be again explained by evoking the incongruity theory: 33 34 35 36

About 630 B.C., following Mei, op. cit., p. 166. About 535 B.C., following to Mei, ibid. About 480 B.C., following Mei, op. cit. p. 168. Mei, op. cit., p. 166–168; Wang & Wang, op. cit., p. 119–120.

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officers and ministers disguised in shepherds’ clothes produce a curious effect. The second segment provokes just a little smile: it does not make fun of clothes but of people who became too thin to stand up correctly. Yet, this situation is so unlikely and so far from political concerns that one finds some humour in the scene at the court of King Ling, who appreciated slender waists to the point that he made it a rule for attending the royal palace. In the third segment, the smile of the reader vanishes completely. Although the person responsible for the tragic event is condemned for his arbitrary behaviour, the description is somehow sadistic as the brave warriors spectacularly end up in flames. It would be legitimate to assume that this development from laughter to horror is intentional and that it corresponds to a rhetorical device: at the beginning, the reader or the disciple, being unaware of the extreme consequences of a bad government, simply smiles; then, he gets emotionally shocked by the concrete image of fire (a classical and universal image for immorality), and he finally becomes conscious of the importance of universal care. Philological problems are nevertheless still unresolved and do not allow a definite interpretation of this shift from comedy to tragedy. In chapter 16 (»Universal Love, III,« Jian ai xia) of the Mozi, we can actually read similar descriptions, but the order of the three episodes is not the same: the tragic event is reported between the slender waist story and the clothes anecdote. 37 The contrast is therefore less striking, although the narrative sequence confirms my hypothesis that comic and tragic utterances are confusingly intermingled in the Mozi. This lack of clearly defined literary styles puzzles the modern Western reader. In the end, negative impressions prevail over humorous tones.

The Sage as an automatic being Henri Bergson (1859–1941) developed the superiority hypothesis by introducing new arguments. According to his well-known theory, »the comic does not exist outside the pale of what is strictly human.« 38 Mozi 4.3/29/27 Henri Bergson, Laughter: An Essay on the Meaning of the Comic, transl. by Cloudesley Brereton & Fred Rothwell, New York: Macmillan, [1899] 1912, p. 3; See also Morreall, 1987, op. cit., p. 117.

37 38

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Laughter, then, would spring up as a socially corrective response to particular cases of dehumanisation that occur when a certain mechanical inelasticity and rigidity is applied to the human body and to its movements: »The comic is that side of a person which reveals his likeness to a thing, that aspect of human events which, through its peculiar inelasticity, conveys the impression of pure mechanism, of automatism of movement without life.« 39 This idea, which is certainly not the only key to understanding the logic and the psychology of laughter, will help us to interpret at least two humorous representations of the Sage we find in two different chapters of the Mozi. The Confucians are once more the target of the Mohists, who denigrate their adversaries by turning to derision the classical and solemn image of the bell (a fundamental ritual object in early China) with the following words: Besides, [the Confucians] say: »The gentleman is like a bell (junzi ruo zhong). Strike it and it will sound (ji zhi ze wu); do not strike it and it will not sound.« We answer them: »A benevolent person, in serving his superiors, should exert the utmost loyalty, and in serving his parents, he should strife for filial piety. If [his superiors] achieve goodness, he will praise them; and if they have any fault, he will admonish them. This is the way of the subject. Now, if one sounds only when struck, and does not sound when not struck, then one will be concealing his knowledge (yin zhi) and sparing his strength, waiting in dumb silence until he will be consulted. Even if there is some great advantage at stake for his ruler or parents, he will not speak up unless consulted. And, if a serious revolt or disorder is approaching, if robbers and bandits are about to rise up at any moment or some trap is about to spring and no one knows of it but himself, yet even in the presence of his ruler or of both his parents he will not speak up unless consulted. Such bandit-like (zei) behaviour provokes only serious disorder! As a subject, a person of this sort will not be loyal; as a son, he will not be filial; in serving an elder brother, he will not behave as a younger brother; in dealing with other people, he will be dishonest and malevolent. (Mozi, 9.7/65/12; chap. 39: »Criticizing the Confucians,« Fei Ru xia) 40 Gong Mengzi 41 declared to Master Mozi: »The gentleman should fold his hands and wait. He should speak when consulted; he should not speak when not consulted. He resembles a bell (pi ruo zhong ran). Hit it Ibid., p. 87. See also Raskin, 1985, op. cit., p. 34–35; Gutwirth, op. cit., p. 36. Mei, op. cit., p. 410; Watson, op. cit., p. 129; Wang & Wang, op. cit., p. 305 41 Gong Mengzi or Mingyi, who lived in the state of Lu, probably completed his education under the direction of Cengzi (a Confucian). 39 40

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(kou) and it will sound; do not hit it and it will not sound.« Master Mozi replied: »[…] Moreover, according to what you have declared, the gentleman should fold his hands and wait. He should speak when consulted; he should not speak when not consulted. He resembles a bell. Hit it and it will sound; do not hit it and it will not sound. Now, nobody has hit you yet, but you spoke. Is this what you call producing sounds without being hit (bu kou er wu)? Is this what you call not behaving like a gentleman (junzi)?« (Mozi, 12.2/106/25; chap. 48, Gong Meng) 42

The source of humour in these two reflections is not the image of the bell as such, nor is it the analogy (pi ruo »to resemble, to look like«) of which Gong Mengzi avails himself in his apology for deference and courtesy. It is rather that the process of the de-realization of the bell as a physical object is intentionally inverted; the literal meaning of the imagery is deliberately rescued and prevails over the figurative one. This rhetorical device produces a comical effect. In other words, the Confucian gentleman is somehow progressively associated with the concrete image of a bell and gets physically »struck« or »hit« in the Mohist sarcastic imagination. His reactions are mechanical and seem to be passive rather than dictated by free will or by moral awareness. The Mohists shrewdly play on a figure of speech in order to condemn laziness and socio-political disengagement and to recommend, as an alternative, a sense of responsibility. It goes without saying that they attribute the former tendency to the Confucians and the latter to themselves. They suggest that ritual action, advocated by their rivals, transforms man into an automaton. Once more, laughter is effected by a sense of superiority and it is profoundly derisive in nature. The final observations of the second excerpt also reveal a certain wit or verbally oriented humour. Mozi gets his interlocutor into selfcontradiction: on the one hand, Gong Mengzi evokes the importance of speaking only when consulted; on the other hand, he takes the initiative to express the bell principle without having being asked.

Wit or verbally oriented humour Word games, language puzzles, sophisms and understatements are rare in the Mozi. On the whole, the style of this collection of sayings reflects 42

Mei, op. cit., 460–462; Wang & Wang, op. cit., p. 443–445.

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the authoritarian orientation of the movement: normative repetitions of the same doctrinal message, a certain taste for particles and »empty words,« heavy syntactical construction, detailed and lengthy descriptions of pseudo-historical cases to support an argument, prolixity, diatribes and invectives are common rhetorical devices in Mohist writings, especially in the canonical sections of text. 43 Yet, as we could learn from the Lu brothers story and from the second joke of the bell analogy, wit is not completely absent from the Mozi. In chapter 46 (»Geng Zhu« 耕 柱), we can read additional examples of verbally oriented humour: Master Mozi was angry with Geng Zhuzi, 44 who asked him: »Am I not better than others?« Master Mozi replied: »Suppose I am starting out for the mountains Tai; a thorough-bred horse or a sheep 45 may pull my cart. Which of them would you suggest? Geng Zhuzi said: »I would suugest the thorough-bred horse.« Master Mozi asked: Why would you suggest the horse? Geng Zhuzi answered: »Because the horse is at the height of the task (zu yi ze).« Mozi said: »I also think you are at the height of the task.« (Mozi 11.3/100/3) 46

Mozi’s clever and quick reply is an instance of indirect mode of communication; it elicits smile because of its intentional ambiguity. One needs to make a certain mental effort to understand the analogical reasoning it implies. Although the final assessment on Geng Zhu seems to be formulated in positive words, Mozi’s pupil is implicitly compared to a good stallion. A horse, in fact, cannot be praised for being a better means of transport than a sheep, as it is its nature to be so. By analogy, Geng Zhuzi has does not deserve special praise for being more gifted than ordinary people, who are implicitly measured up to sheep. Mozi’s concession manifests a high sense of superiority: he prefers his student to other people, who are comparatively mediocre, and intends to continue to employ him as he would select a good horse, instead of less suitable animals, to pull his cart. In the same chapter, another joke introduces a language puzzle and plays on a rather complicated analogical reasoning. Mozi’s dialectical

See supra, note 3. One of Mozi’s students. 45 Both Mei (op. cit., p. 424) and Wang & Wang (op. cit., p. 415–417) translate yang as »ox.« 46 Mei, op. cit., 424; Wang & Wang, op. cit., p. 415–417. 43 44

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capacities defeat his interlocutor, who dares raising doubts about the utility of righteousness (yi): Wu Mazi 47 said to Master Mozi: »You practice righteousness, but people will not see it and help you, nor will ghosts see it and enrich you. Yet, you keep on practicing it. You must suffer from dementia (kuang)!« Mozi replied: »Suppose you have here two servants. One of them works when he sees you, but will not work when he does not see you. The other one works whether he sees you or not. Which of the two would you appreciate more? Wu Mazi answered: »I would appreciate more the one who works, whether he sees me or not.« Master Mozi concluded: »Then your appraisal shows also signs of dementia.« (Mozi, 11.3/100/30) 48

This word game or sophism plays on the shift from an ocular metaphor to the literal meaning of the verb »to see« (jian). In the first statement, jian is used in a metaphorical way and means »to realize, to be conscious« (not only through physical perception). Wu Mazi insults Mozi explicitly and calls him crazy because he behaves in the right way even if people and ghosts do not see it, in the sense that they are unaware of his worth. At the same time, he falls into Mozi’s trap, as he admits he appreciates more a servant who works whether he sees (literarily) his lord or not. The analogy is counterintuitive since Mozi implicitly compares himself to a servant who works whether he physically perceives his lord or not, whereas in a hierarchical relationship one would expect the lord to see (in the sense of inspecting) whether his servant is doing his duty. This word game is rather puzzling and simply aims at ridiculing Wu Mazi’s ignorance about righteousness as a moral imperative. Humour, here, is a rhetorical device which is used again as an alternative to rigorous logical demonstration. Inversely, we can also state that intentional non-logicality, as a sign of cunning and incongruity, as a disruption of acceptable codes of communication, is a source of humour. Before quarrelling about the value of righteousness, Wu Mazi and Master Mozi had a brief dispute on the importance of universal love (jian ai). Master Mozi defends his pivotal doctrine by introducing another pseudo-logical argument by analogy, which makes us smile simply because of its total inconsistency. The contrast between the serious topic of the discussion (practicing or not practicing universal love), the tragic 47 Possibly Wu Maqi, who studied also under Confucius, or one of Wu Maqi’s descendants. 48 Mei, op. cit., 428–430; Wang & Wang, op. cit., 419–421.

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comparison (trying to extinguish a fire or poking it) and the silly conclusion produce a rather comical effect. As in the two excerpts translated above, the tone of the conversation is somehow popular and close to spoken language: Wu Mazi said to Master Mozi: »You love the world universally, but so far you cannot say there was any benefit in it. I do not love the world universally, but so far I cannot say there was any harm in it. Since neither of us has obtained any result, why do you praise only yourself and you criticize me? Master Mozi replied: »Suppose something is starting to burn here. Someone is to fetch water to extinguish the fire, while another is to poke the fire to reinforce it. Neither of them obtains any result. Which one of them would you appreciate more? Wu Mazi answered: »I would appreciate more the one who fetches water to extinguish fire and I would criticize the one who pokes it.« Master Mozi replied: »I also praise my intentions and I criticize your intentions.« (Mozi, 11.3/100/20) 49

By the 3rd century B.C.E., the Later Mohists (or Neo-Mohists) developed a certain interest in logic, epistemology, and semantics. Their fragmentary speculations are collected in the so called »dialectical chapters« (40–45) of the Mozi. The notion of bian »disputation« on two opposite claims (according to A. C. Graham) 50 or »formal logical analysis« (according to Harbsmeier) 51 is central in this section. Among the objectives of bian, the Neo-Mohists point out the faculty »to resolve confusions and doubts« (NO 6). These logicians, in fact, explicitly adhered to the principle of non-contradiction; they aimed at clarifying language traps, semantic fallacies and paradoxes. 52 It is therefore a coherent epistemological decision when, different from other contemporary thinkers, they hardly allowed themselves the pleasure of formulating language games, paradoxes, and sophisms. The style of the dialectical chapters is highly concise; the lapidary definitions provided in this section make the reader think of a kind of glossary because of their total absence of a narrative context. The intention of producing humorous effects is very limited, Mei, op. cit., 426–428; Wang & Wang, op. cit., 419. See the definition provided in the Canon (Graham, op. cit., A 74): »Pien (disputation) is contending over claims which are the converse of each other. Winning in disputation is fitting the fact.« 51 See Christoph Harbsmeier, Science and Civilisation in China, Vol. 7, part I: Language and Logic, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998, p. 330. 52 See Christoph Harbsmeier, 1998, op. cit., p. 342. 49 50

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even if occasionally some remarks betray a touch of sagacity. The notorious conclusion of the following inference deserves to be mentioned as an example of shrewdness: »[…] although robbers are people, loving robbers is not loving people, not loving robbers is not loving people, killing robbers is not killing people.« 53 We could actually ascribe this claim to the category of wit since the practical aim of maintaining social order by punishing robbers to death prevails over the moral principle of not killing people through a pseudo-logical demonstration. In fact, according to the Later Mohists, one of the four objects of knowledge concerns how to act. 54 Humour and pragmatism, in the loose sense of practical wisdom, prove to be two related attitudes. Thus, despite the moral orientation of the movement, Mozi’s followers do not hesitate to use language in an instrumental way in order to support their own doctrines.

Final remarks Textual analysis has confirmed that humour, intended as a rhetoric strategy that arouses shared enjoyment and amusement for the disciples of antiquity, and may make a modern reader smile, is not a frequently used tool of communication in the Mozi. However, a number of narrative segments are permeated with a humorous touch, despite the doctrinal seriousness of their contexts. The few comical situations that I singled out can be ascribed to a more general tendency of classical Chinese philosophy, namely thinking through anecdotes. It is a wellknown fact that abstract thought in ancient China tended to be formulated by means of concrete cases illustrating more general principles. 55 Funny stories are eloquent examples of this intellectual and rhetorical orientation. My results, then, also support the hypothesis that humour and laughter, in the sense of derision, are two different phenomena that only occasionally overlap. Argumentation based on denigration is Graham, op. cit., NO 15, p. 487. See Graham, op. cit., p. 30 and A 80. 55 On abstraction, see Anna Ghiglione, La Pensée chinoise ancienne et l'abstraction, Paris: You-Feng, 1999. This tendency to introduce humorous anecdotes is also present in historical reports. See Alvin P. Cohen, »Humorous Anecdotes in Chinese Historical Texts,« Journal of the American Oriental Society 96/1, 1976, p. 121–124. 53 54

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clearly attested in the Mozi, whereas humour is rare. In the main, Mohist laughter is used in the context of anti-Confucian polemics; it is consequently exclusive and self-assertive, and perfectly matches the authoritarian positions of the School. On a doctrinal level, derision and sarcasm are systematically used to deconstruct the Literati’s views by introducing concrete examples of ridiculous behaviours rather than through rigorous demonstration. A coherent account of this tendency can be provided by evoking the superiority hypothesis, which I used as a complementary methodological tool. This theoretical position is certainly inadequate to explain the implications of laughter in other texts, but it turns out to be pertinent to describe the Mohists’ attitude toward their adversaries. Other classical theories about humour are in fact relevant to analyse the semantic of laughter in the Mozi: the incongruity hypothesis and the mechanical interpretation. These three methodological solutions are compatible and equally applicable to the Mozi. This proves once more that laughter is a polysemic phenomenon that eludes mono-lateral explanations. Verbally oriented humour or wit is also attested in Mohist writings. The few sophisms I have pointed out reveal a touch of sagacity, of metic intelligence, namely of wisdom based on cunning. This use of humour is not necessarily in contradiction with the moral philosophy of the school as tricks and funny stories are never introduced to cast doubt on its doctrinal fundamentals. Since the publication of Dennis M. Ahern’s paper »Is Mo tzu a utilitarian?« in 1976, 56 a debate has been going on, regarding the epistemological compatibility between two different theoretical positions that seems to be simultaneously adopted in the Mozi: on the one hand, a deontology according to which the moral rightness of acts and behaviours depends on a number of a priori norms, laws and duties; on the other hand, a consequentialist-utilitarian perspective, claiming that human actions are correct if and only if their consequences are useful or concretely applicable. 57 Wit as such can be ascribed to the latter tendency, namely to the 56 Dennis M. Ahern, »Is Mo Tzu a Utilitarian?,« Journal of Chinese Philosophy 3/2, 1976, p. 185–193. 57 For a more recent discussion on this topic, see Kristopher Duda, »Reconsidering Mo Tzu on the Foundations of Morality,« Asian Philosophy 11/1, 2001, p. 23–31.

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Mohist concern for practical results. At the same time, all the jokes I have analysed are used to support a specific doctrine because of its a priori ethical value, disregarding both logical demonstration and utilitarian aims. In his discussion with Wu Mazi, Mozi explicitly advocates the importance of universal care (jian ai) and of righteousness (yi) for their own sake, independently of the results they produce. Mozi’s sophisms and intricate analogies rather express his high sense of superiority and manifest a mocking attitude that no hint of self-irony seems to moderate. They complement the derisive use of laughter we found in other sections of the book. Thus, on the whole, to paraphrase an expression that Harbsmeier used for the title of his paper on humour in the Analects, »Confucius ridens«, in early China, was countered by »Micius deridens.« 58

See Christoph Harbsmeier, »Confucius Ridens: Humour in the Analects,« Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 50/1, 1990, p. 131–161.

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Can Zhuangzi Make Confucians Laugh? Emotion, Propriety, and the Role of Laughter

And we should consider everyday lost on which we have not danced at least once. And we should call every truth false which was not accompanied by at least one laugh. Friedrich Nietzsche (1844–1900)

Zhuangzi is laughing while Confucians are crying Zhuangzi tells us a story: Three men were friends together. One of them said, ›Who can associate together without any thought of such association, or act together without any evidence of such co-operation? Who can mount up into the sky and enjoy himself amidst the mists, disporting beyond the utmost limits (of things), and forgetting all others as if this were living, and would have no end?‹ The three men looked at one another and laughed, not perceiving the drift of the questions; and they continued to associate together as friends. Suddenly, after a time, one of them died. Before he was buried, Confucius heard of the event, and sent Zi-gong to go and see if he could render any assistance. One of the survivors had composed a ditty, and the other was playing on his lute. Then they sang together in unison, Zi-gong hastened forward to them, and said, ›I venture to ask whether it be according to the rules to be singing thus in the presence of the corpse?‹ The two men looked at each other, and laughed, saying, ›What does this man know about the idea that underlies (our) rules?‹ Zi-gong returned to Confucius, and reported to him, saying, ›What sort of men are those? They had made none of the usual preparations, and treated the body as a thing foreign to them. They were singing in the presence of the corpse, and there was no change in their countenances. I cannot describe them; what sort of men are they?‹ 1 1

Zhuangzi, Da Zhongshu Hunan People’s Publishing House, 1999, p. 103.

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This conversation illustrates the situation where one should cry (ku) according to a proper Confucian ritual yet one can laugh (xiao) based on Zhuangzi’s free spirit. Another well known story is that of Zhuangzi hitting a drum and singing at his wife’s funeral. Obviously there is a contrast between crying (ku) and laughing (xiao) in early Chinese texts. Xiao (laughing) is rarely mentioned in the Confucian texts but ku (crying) is a quite common theme. For example, in the Liji, The Book of Rituals, one of the five Confucian classics, ku (crying) appears 320 times yet xiao (laughing) is mentioned only 8 times. In the Analects, Confucius cries excessively when Yanhui dies. His disciples even warned him: »Master, your grief is excessive!« Confucius answered, »Is it excessive? If I am not to mourn bitterly for this man, for whom should I mourn?« (Analects, 11, 10) Why is crying so important? Why is it that in Confucian teachings, crying is a permitted (even cultivated) practice but laughing is not? First, crying is an important part of the funeral ritual performance and it is granted a moral significance. In Mencius we read a claim that when one is in the right situation, there is an imperative to cry (Mencius, 3A2). There are also many detailed descriptions of crying in the Liji’s discussion of how to perform the funeral rituals. In a common conventional funeral, crying is a necessary mourning procedure. When to cry, how to cry and where to cry are all documented in Liji. There are at least three different ways of crying: a) there is three-times crying and five-times crying in the long funeral procession; b) there is female crying with hand hitting the chest and male crying with forehead hitting the ground to show the utmost sorrow; c) there is crying toward the west and there is crying toward the east to distinguish gender difference. All of these forms of crying express proper ritual implementation. The fact that crying is publicly encouraged in ancient Chinese practice might offer a strong support for contemporary research on the science of crying, which demonstrates many beneficial results for one’s wellbeing, especially for men. New scientific studies actually prove that tears caused from »emotional crying« carry toxins not normally found in the tears created to simply moisten the eye. Crying, like sneezing, coughing and defecating, is a natural way of releasing toxins that are associated with various emotions: both those considered »good« and those considered »bad.« Second, according to the early Confucian texts crying is not simply a proper ritualized behavior but more importantly it is a way to express 40 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Ver

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one’s internal emotional state and exhibit an inner strength of character. For Confucius, if one has no sorrow one should not cry. Crying is an external expression of an internal condition. On the other hand, if one feels a deep sense of sadness then one should express it without restriction. Crying can also reflect one’s moral virtue. Confucius makes evaluative moral judgments from the sounds of crying. In the Shuo Yuan, (Western Han text by Liu Xiang) Confucius heard a crying so sad that it could compare with the effect of musical instruments. Confucius asked who was crying so profoundly. His disciple responded that it was Hui. He was crying not just for the sorrow of death but also for the sadness of separation. Confucius wanted to learn more about this. Hui said, »My father passed away but I am so poor and have no money to give a funeral so I have to sell my son in order to give my father a funeral« Confucius appraised: »This is goodness! This is goodness! He is a sage!« 2 In this conflicting moral predicament, the virtue of filial piety has primacy over the obligation toward one’s own child. It is also a case of self-sacrifice in order to fulfill the most important duty in one’s life. Third, it is interesting to notice that crying is considered as having the same function as the singing. In the Analects, Confucius claims that one should not cry and sing on the same day. (7.10) He did not sing on the same day in which he had been weeping. In the Liji, we also read many discussions contrasting and comparing crying and singing. They are given the same status in a ritualized life. This intrinsic connection perhaps stimulates Zhuangzi to articulate his opposition to Confucian rituals by creating his characters singing at the funeral.

Singing and dancing as the expressions of emotions The promotion of ritualized behaviors such as crying in the Confucian teachings strikes at the core of human emotions and their expressions. This reveals how the Confucians did attend to the physical expression of emotions, and so one might expect also an attention toward laughter. According to one of the recently unearthed Guodian bamboo texts, human beings have four basic qing (emotions): xi (joy) nu (anger), ai (sorrow) and bei (sad). They are not learned abilities but rather natural responses which are rooted in human nature (xing). These four qing 2

Shuoyuan, Bianwu Chapter

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are a natural part of human existence and an embodiment of the heavenly Dao. »Dao originates in qing and qing is generated by xing.« 3 When the xi, nu, ai, bei have not been activated, they are the xing, and when they are activated, they are the qing. These xi, nu, ai, bei manifest one’s qing. The transformation from xing to the qing depends on external stimulation or the relationship with external things. It is like a gold bell, which has the potential to make sounds but can only produce beautiful notes when it is thumped. By the same reasoning, when human xing is stimulated by external things it brings out the qing. If death or other worldly external events cause qing to arise as sadness or sorrow and crying is the proper way to express them, then what about the emotions of xi and nu? How do these emotions communicate? Do Confucians find joy in life? How do Confucians express emotions other than the feelings of sorrow and sadness? We find these answers in the Guodian text. »The natures of sadness (ai) and joy (le) are similar; the hearts which cause them are not far apart. 4 When people feel joy, one will feel tipsy and the feeling of tipsiness will lead to excitement, the excitement will lead to singing, singing leads to moving the body, and the movement of the body will lead to dance. Dancing is the highest point of joy. On the other hand, when one becomes mad, one will be angry, anger will lead to worry, worry will lead to singing, singing will lead to hitting the chest and stomping of the feet. Stomping of the feet will lead to jumping around. The jumping and stomping of the feet are the highest point of anger.« 5 Mencius has also offered a special discussion of dancing: The preciousness of benevolence is this, the serving of one’s parents. The preciousness of appropriateness is this, the obeying of one’s elder brother. The preciousness of wisdom is this, to know these two. The preciousness of ritual is this, to order and culture these two. The preciousness of music is this, to delight in these two. With delight, then they grow – growing, how can they be repressed? When they cannot be repressed, the feet begin to jump and the hands begin to dance, without knowing. 6

3 Xing zi ming chu,Guodian chujian xiaoyi, Fujian People’s Press, 2005,p. 92. Translations by Franklin Perkins. 4 Xing zi ming chu, strip, Guodian chujian xiaoyi, Fujian People’s Press, 2005, p. 98) 5 Xing zi ming chu, strip, Guodian chujian xiaoyi, Fujian People’s Press, 2005, p. 100) 6 Mencius 7. 29

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Singing and dancing are natural as well as proper ways to communicate joy. Thus we see that there is great attention paid to the physical and embodied expression of joy. The question is, why is music, rather than laughter, the proper way to express one’s emotions, especially those happy ones? First, music is a crafted art that takes time and practice. The process of learning music is the process of a forming one’s dispositions. In the Lunyu, Confucius makes an intrinsic link between ren, rituals and music. Ritual is the cultivation of one’s external manner and music is the cultivation of one’s internal disposition. »Music is the harmony of heaven and earth; ritual is the order of heaven and earth. Harmony is the reason for the transformation of myriad things and order is the reason for differences of all kinds.« 7 It was told that past sagely kings taught their children to rely on li and yue. More importantly, yue (music) cultivates the inside and li cultivates the outside. Li and yue intersect. The learning of the rituals trains ones external expressions and behavior while the learning of music refines ones internal disposition and heart/ mind. One must cultivate the xin through learning of the ritual and music. The ritual and music function differently but both aim at a proper training and refining of human emotions and actions. According to the Liji: All sounds (ying) are generated from one’s xin (heart/mind). The one who knows music (yue) is one who grasps ethical reasons. Animals know voices but do not know sounds; the masses of people know sounds but they do not know music. It is only the junzi who knows music. The junzi knows sounds from evaluating voice; knows music from evaluating sound; knows politics from evaluating music, therefore he can manage the way. … Those who have ritual and music have virtue (de).‹ To have virtue means to attain … That is why sages govern through ritual and music. 8

It is noteworthy that music harmonizes one’s emotion and is a much more enhanced and cultured way to express human emotion than a quick, contingent, spontaneous outburst of laughter. Second, human emotion qing should be closely connected with the internal disposition of jing (respect), and cheng (sincerity). Qing should

7 8

The Interpretation of Liji,, Yueling Press, 2004, p. 276 The Interpretation of Liji,, Yueling Press, 2004, p. 273

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be rooted in a deep sense of jing and cheng. Xiao (laughter) as a response to a situation does not require a cultivated sincerity. This is probably what the Xing Zi Ming Chu refers to when it says, »Laughing (xiao) is the shallow expression of li, music is the deeper expression of li.« 9 Liji, Yueji states, »Poetry is using language to express the will; song is using sound to express voice; dancing is using movement to express the manner. These three are rooted in xin and follow the qi. Therefore the wen (culture) is deep and civilized, and qi is full and transforms the spirit.« 10 There is a continuity of sound, music, emotions, temperament, bodily form and appearance. Appearance and music all contribute to one’s refinement. Through musical training one is able to align with righteousness in one’s disposition and character. Emotions should be regulated and managed by xin (heart/mind.) As the Zhongyong states, the state in which emotions such as xi nu ai le have not yet been activated it is called zhong (centeredness, the mean); when they are activated, they aim at the regulation of zhong. This is called harmony. Zhong is the root of all things; he (harmony) is the way of all things.« Following music is a part of ritual actions and a way of refinement. »Junzi beautify their emotion and nature, honor their rightness; make good their rituals and behavior; love their appearances, enjoy their art of Dao and please in their transformation. By all of these they are respected.« 11 Evidently Confucians embrace a wide range of human emotions yet call for a proper approach to develop and express them. It is worthy to point out that the word yue as music is the same character as the word le joy. Is this only accidental coincidence? Le as attainable enjoyment is deeply rooted in human effort. Perhaps for Confucians, the highest joy is a cultivated, highly developed delight. It can be found or achieved just like through musical training. As Confucius claims: »To truly love it is better than just to understand it, and to enjoy it is better than simply to love it.« (Analects, 6.20)

9 Xing zi ming chu, strip 22, 23, Guodian chujian xiaoyi, Fujian People’s Press, 2005, p. 90) 10 The Interpretation of Liji,, Yueling Press, 2004, p. 278. 11 Xing zi ming chu, strip, Guodian chujian xiaoyi, Fujian People’s Press, 2005,p. 96.

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Why not a laughing Confucian? Bergson claims that human beings are »an animal which laughs« 12 To what extent is laughter an inevitable necessity of human life? Is laughter an innate natural human ability which one should cultivate? Is laughter a form of joy in a flourishing life? In his book, Taking Laughter Seriously, John Morreall shows that laughter means more to our existence than just a fleeting sense of amusement. He claims that laughter is a type of aesthetic experience, a form of mental liberation, and a way of interpreting one’s life as a whole. All of these traits are conducive to living a fulfilling life. 13 Why not a laughing Confucians? Do Confucians miss out on a very important aspect of human life? It is important to make a distinction between humor and laughter in early Confucian tests. Confucius can be very humorous but the Confucians do not easily laugh. Confucians can be humorous in their writings but not necessarily laughable in their appearance or action. However it is not a case that Confucians are just a group of boring and serious ru intellectuals. For Confucians following rituals takes the most important precedence over other human activities. Does Confucius laugh at all? There are two places which mentioned Confucius’ laughter in early classical texts. One is in The Genealogy of Kong’s Family (Han dynasty), where Confucius actually laughed. The story goes this way. Confucius was separated from his disciple and went to the east gate of the state of Zheng. The people of Zheng described that they saw a person »looking like a dog who lost his home (dog without home).« Confucius heard about it and laughed, »That makes sense; that makes sense.« The other place appears in the Analects, 14.13 »Is it true that your master speaks not, laughs not, and takes not?« Gong Mingjia replied, »This has arisen from the reporters going beyond the truth. My master speaks when it is the time to speak, and so men do not get tired of his speaking. He laughs when there is occasion to be joyful, and so men do not get tired of his laughing. He takes when it is consistent with righteousness to do so, and so men do not get tired of his taking.« This 12 Henri Bergson, Laughter in Comedy, An Essay on Comedy, Doubleday & Company, Inc, Garden City, New York, 1956, p. 62. 13 John Morreall, Taking Laughter Seriously, (Albany: SUNY Press, 1983, p. 39)

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answer presents a view of laughter as a cultivated ability that is contingent on something else, such as the right place, right time and right circumstance. In other words, the laughter of Confucius is subordinated to propriety, so much so that no one even notices it. This is why Confucius quotes the Book of Songs and admires a woman who has a qiaoxiao, an artful or cultivated laugh. It manifests a Confucian belief that everything has a proper way or desirable order to go about, even in the case of laughing! Like many things in life, laughing cannot be deliberatively prepared for; it is a spontaneous event. Laughter is not an articulate, clear, well-defined sound. The laughable elements lack elasticity in both sense and intelligence. Laughing is very much a spontaneous action and is often caused by words. The feelings are evoked by experience and dependence on otherness. But for Confucians, words have to be carefully chosen. In the Analects, »Zizhang asked about proper conduct. The master replied: ›If you do your utmost (zhong) to make good on your word (xin), and you are earnest and respectful in your conduct, even though you are living in the barbarian state of Man or Mo, your conduct will be proper.« 14 Speaking with trust and loyalty and acting with sincerity and respect are the significant Confucian virtues. One’s internal disposition such as humaneness, sincerity, and trustworthiness are related with external appearance, manner and talking. Jing, respect, is the first principle one must rely on when one deals with the outside world. The Liji says, »Junzi beautify his qing, values the righteousness, good, loves the appearance, enjoy the way, take pleasure in the teachings; all of these based on jing.« Yan (words) can be a superficial and funny thing that can also be meaningless. Confucians focus on rectifying one’s words and actions so that they can perform the very best responsibility of rituals. If junzi do not watch their word choice, manner and appearance then they would lose all the credibility of their position. One’s words and manner need to be regulated as other human actions. For example, Banzhao, a female Confucian scholar in Han, articulated four female virtues: womanly virtue (fude), womanly words (fuyan), womanly appearance (furong) and womanly work (fugong). 15 Womanly words refer to speaking with caution and talking with consideraAnalects, 15.6. Translated by Roger Ames. For more information about this, Robin R Wang: Images of Women in Chinese Thought and Culture, Readings from Pre-qin to Song Dynasty, (Hackett, 2003).

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tion. It is believed that diseases (viruses) come from outside in and troubles caused by words from inside out. It has been argued that Chinese language is a performative language that can form, shape and influence the reality. 16 If words can shape reality then seriousness about words will bring a highly organized and well-maintained world. Based on this Confucian framework, one function laughter can still retain is as an ethical and moral regulator in a shame-oriented Confucian culture. One should do the right thing in order to avoid being the »tian xia xiao« (being laughed at by whole world). It is striking how often xiao in both Confucian texts and more broadly in the Warring States period has the meaning of ridicule or laughing at. We can see how this functions as a regulator in an example from the Mozi (Gong Meng chapter). A man visited Mozi’s school. He was physically well built and mentally brilliant. Desiring to have him in his school, Mozi told him to come and study and that he would make him an official. Persuaded by such an attractive promise, he came to study. In a year, he demanded a position of Mozi. Mozi said: I have not made you an official. But have you not heard the story of Lu? There were five brothers in Lu whose father passed away. The eldest son loved wine and would not conduct the funeral. The four younger brothers said to him, »You conduct the funeral for us, and we shall buy wine for you.« He was persuaded by such an attractive promise and buried (his father). After the burial he demanded wine of the four brothers. The four brothers told him, »We will not give you any wine. You are to bury your father and we, ours. Is your father only ours? If you don’t bury him people will laugh at you, therefore we urged you to bury him.« Now, you have done right and I have done right, is it only my righteousness? If you don’t learn, people will laugh at you. Therefore I urged you to learn.« This story illustrates how laughter functions as a moral restriction. Aside from direct concerns with social propriety, the Confucian aversion to laughter may have deeper roots. What makes laughter, perhaps, at an ontological level, is absurdity. For Zhuangzi, life is a vitality of energy and a series of spontaneous changing events. Human beings respond to each situation in which they find themselves. The rhythm of life and impulse of one’s natural feelings cannot really be grasped by a well-trained human rational and linguistic ability. Zhuangzi’s sense of 16

Chad Hansen.

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humor allows him to look at life from the flexibility of perspectives. His playfulness results from his outlook: human life at its depth is inherently absurd. Laughter is the way to deal with this absurdity. For Zhuangzi, the comic spirit plays a fundamental role in life. This comic spirit is what Zhuangzi activates to deconstruct the certainty of any single perspective. On the other hand, Confucians see the world as the opposite of absurd. The world can be meaningful, sensible and orderly. They have a full confidence in human being’s conceptual and practical ability to pursue this order and their ideals. This outlook guides one’s action and emotion for a lifelong process of cultivation and transformation. This process can be a rigorous and sincere effort and it is required by all moral agents. It doesn’t involve much silliness. The lack of laughter in the Confucian teachings reveals a tension between a spontaneous reaction and a ritualized expression, rooted in a tension between the spontaneity of nature and the long process of cultivation and enculturation so prized by the Confucians. Ultimately, this concern is based on the primacy of maintaining a harmonious social order. As Bergson says, laughter »indicates a slight revolt on the surface of social life.« 17 Nonetheless, we have no way to know what they were like when Confucius and his disciples sat around drinking Maotai at night after spending all day training in the six arts. Would they laugh? A final observation: The whole China is currently drunk with the Olympic spirit. One of the basic trainings for the ten thousand volunteers is weixiao (gentle laughter or smiling). The official slogan is: »The weixiao (gentle laugh) of volunteers is the best busy card of Beijing.« The fact that a smile is the best way to represent Beijing underlines a cultural context, Chinese do not laugh enough nor is it easy to make them laugh. Now the people are being trained for laughter just as the giant Olympic statues are being finished and polished. This kind of laughter, though, is quite different from the spontaneous outbursts one might expect from Zhuangzi; it is not what Bergson had in mind when he said that to laugh is »To be alive, to be quick in the soul.« Rather, this kind of gentle laughter cultivated for the ritual of welcoming guests from afar might be just the kind of laughter Confucius himself could approve.

17

Bergson, p. 190.

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From Foolish Laughter to Foolish Laughter: Zhuangzi’s Perspectivism Leads to Laughter

»Instead of running around pointing fingers, why not laugh?« — Zhuangzi

Perspectives on fish One of the most referenced stories in the Zhuangzi is the story of Zhuangzi and Hui Shi discussing whether or not the fish they observe are happy. Analyzed by commentators from Guo Xiang to Roger T. Ames, this story is frequently cited for its use of humor in relation to knowledge. The story, as it has been translated by A. C. Graham, goes as follows: Chuang-tzu [Zhuangzi] and Hui Shih [Hui Shi] were strolling on the bridge above the Hao River. »Out swim the minnows, so free and easy,« said Chuang-tzu. »that’s how fish are happy.« »You are not a fish. Whence do you know that the fish are happy?« «You aren’t me, whence do you know that I don’t know the fish are happy?« »We’ll grant that not being you I don’t know about you. You’ll grant that you’re not a fish, and that completes the case that you don’t know the fish are happy.« »Let’s go back to where we started. When you said, »Whence do you know that the fish are happy,« you asked me the question already knowing that I knew. I know it from up above the Hao [River].« 1

The joke, or pun, is in Zhuangzi’s final statement. Hui Shi asked »whence« (an), which can mean either »from where« or »how.« Hui Shi attempted to beat Zhuangzi because he thought Zhuangzi could 1 Ames, Roger T., »Knowing in the Zhuangzi: ›From here, on the Bridge, over the River Hao« in Wandering at Ease in the Zhuangzi ed. Roger T. Ames (Albany NY.: SUNY press, 1998) p. 123

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not prove how he knew that the fish were happy. In the final statement Zhuangzi plays with the word »whence« and »wins« the argument by addressing the second meaning and answering »from where« he knew the fish were happy. In his article entitled »Knowing in the Zhuangzi« 2 Roger Ames uses this pun as the focal point of his argument. He argues that knowledge in the Zhuangzi is primarily perspectival. 3 I agree with Ames, I think that knowledge for Zhuangzi is perspectival, and that the question of »how« is just as important as »from where.« 4 I would, however, add that this passage is important for its humor as well. The joke not only tells us that Zhuangzi sees knowledge as perspectival, but it also gives us a clue as to what Zhuangzi thinks about serious arguments and distinctions. It seems that he would rather joke then have a serious argument. Other philosophers use principles and reasons to form arguments (li xing), but Zhuangzi would rather use feeling (gan xing), making comments and arguments that are not necessarily logically structured. Finding himself in a difficult logical position, Zhuangzi finds it appropriate to finish the argument with a joke. Left with no words, humor is his only choice; so we must consider jokes and laughter as important themes in the Zhuangzi. In this paper I will explore the use of laughter 5 in the Zhuangzi. In particular, I will consider »foolish laughter« and its connection to perspectival knowledge. I will explore several different stories where laughter is mentioned in an attempt to reveal its relationship to perspectival knowledge. It shall be made clear that the use of different types of foolish laughter in the Zhuangzi plays an important role when discussing different levels of knowledge. Towards the end of this essay I will distinguish between knowledge with content, or what I call »positive knowledge,« and understanding gained by distinguishing things without judging them, or »negative knowledge.« I will demonstrate that with negative knowledge, when there are no words left to say, foolish laughter is the best alternative. Ibid., p. 219 Ibid., ,p. 224 4 It is interesting to note that in modern Chinese the phrase »wo na'er zhidao?«, which is literally, »where would I know [from]?« is best translated as, »how would I know?« 5 The Chinese word xiao can be translated as to laugh or to smile. In this paper I will discuss instances of xiao as laughter. I do not wish to argue whether or not there is a difference between laughter and smiling, but would rather take the two as exchangeable for the sake of simplicity. 2 3

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Foolish birds laugh The first story in the Zhuangzi is about a giant kun fish that is able to transform itself into a giant peng bird. This bird is so big that it must travel thousands of miles high into the sky before it begins its long sixmonth journey to the south. A small dovetail who watches the peng laughingly comments on how silly it is for the peng to travel such a great distance. The dovetail only needs to fly a few meters high to the branch of a tree. The dovetail laughs and criticizes the peng because she does not think it necessary for a bird to fly so high and then embark on such a long journey in order to satisfy itself. The Zhuangzi comments that the dovetail is foolish in its laughter saying, »This is the difference between the great and the small…Small knowledge is not to be compared with the great nor a short life to a long one.« 6 The meaning is simply that one perspective cannot criticize another. Both perspectives are equally valid, but it is foolish for a small perspective (the dovetail) to assume that it knows more than a bigger one. The view of the smaller perspective is narrower, it cannot understand what the bigger perspective understands because it cannot see or experience it. The dovetail’s laughter is the product of a two-fold ignorance, that is; it is ignorant of the content of the wider perspective, as well as of the difference and equal validity of the wider perspective. The dovetail laughs because it thinks it is right. In the fish story, Zhuangzi, like the dovetail, only has his own perspective, but unlike the dovetail he is able to recognize that different things have varying, yet equally valid perspectives. When Zhuangzi comments on the fish he does so without criticizing them. He recognizes that they are different, but comments only on how they are like him. Fish swimming through the water are similar to humans strolling along the riverbanks. He thinks that humans are happy to stroll and likewise fish are happy to swim. The dovetail takes this kind of comparison and makes more critical judgments when she laughs at the peng. Seeing that another bird must fly a much further distance, and take more time doing so, the dovetail foolishly laughs thinking that she is better than the peng. For the dovetail, differences are subject to preference, ranking, and judgment. Zhuangzi’s view of the diversity of viewZhuangzi, Zhuangzi, Trans. Fung Yu-Lan (Beijing, China: Foreign Language Press, 1989) p. 29, 27.

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points is quite different, the variety of viewpoints are noted and commented on without making a judgment or hierarchical claims. In his book Daoism Explained Hans-Georg Moeller explains this position as the »zero-perspective.« 7 It is at the »zero-point« because »[v]iewed from the zero-perspective of the Daosit sage all positions, however contradictory they are, are equally ›right‹.« 8 This negates the need to make preferences, or to judge or grade one another. Even the comment about the dovetail is not critical; the Zhuangzi merely points out that it is silly for the dovetail to assume so much. This difference between Zhuangzi and the dovetail can be clearly explained with a simple allegory: If one were to put a chair in the middle of the room and have several artists sit around it and sketch a picture, each of their pictures would be slightly different because each person has a different perspective on the chair. Assuming that all pictures were of a relative likeness to the chair, it would still be impossible to argue that any one picture represented a more accurate perspective of the chair. All pictures would be from different angles, different enough in content that some would contradict others. Everything, like the artists, has its own perspective, but by laughing at the peng the dovetail is like one artist in the group telling all others that his picture of the chair has captured »the best perspective« and all others are somehow lacking. This would be silly because the dovetail only has one perspective, and there is no reason that her perspective is more accurate than anyone else’s. Whether it is small and narrow or large and comprehensive, every perspective will always be lacking what others view. Zhuangzi, another artist, sees that he is not the only one sketching the chair and therefore thinks it possible that the other artists, with their own perspectives, probably see things differently. Understanding this he is not only weary of putting too much faith in his own perspective, but also quite fair when hearing the views of others. Zhuangzi believes that the best approach is to try and understand other perspectives. Perhaps one can even walk around the chair and see that the many positions have both differences and similarities. Doing this it will become clear that there is not one way to view the chair, and that if one wishes to view the different pictures as different, he or she might go so far as to argue Moeller, Hans-Georg, The Philosophy of the Daodejing (New York, New York: Columbia Press, 2006). 8 Ibid., p. 126 7

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that different pictures represent different chairs. However, if one wishes to view similarities, they will see that it is the same chair. 9 This clearly suggests that value judgments, or distinctions between the myriad of views, are silly because they are only different views and there is no way of escaping or transcending them; there is no way to see from an »ultimate view-point.« Since one cannot go »above« the other perspectives to judge them, the Zhuangzi decides to go »below« (the »zeroperspective«), where things are viewed equally. Of course pictures, like lives, have many differences, but they do not need to be so sharp and distinct. 10 This observation leads to the Zhuangzi’s discussion of the varying degrees of knowledge in the second chapter. Although knowledge is, as stated above, perspectival, this does not mean that »anything goes.« To say that knowledge is perspectival only means that the content of any perspective cannot be compared with the content of another perspective. In the Zhuangzi it is said that the most perfect knowledge was had by the ancients, which seems more like ignorance for they »did not yet know that there were things.« 11 It should be noted that this type of knowledge does not describe any content, but rather a way of viewing things (or a »state a mind« 12). The second level of knowledge is knowing that there are things, making distinctions, but not passing judgments. The last level, which leads to the destruction of the Dao, is passing judgments and having preferences. 13 The dovetail is then on the lowest rung of knowledge, she laughs at the peng because she thinks it is inferior. The dovetail’s laughter is foolish because she judges ithout understanding sameness and difference; but there are also other types of foolish laughter. There are stories where it is Zhuangzi himself who laughs at others.

»If we see things from the point of view of their difference…even the live and gall are as far away from each other as Chu from Yueh. If we see things from the point of view of their identity, all things are one.« Fung, p. 81. 10 In fact many ancient Chinese pictures are quite obscure and lack sharp distinctions and bright colors. For more on this topic see Jullien, Francois, In Praise of Blandness: Proceeding from Chinese Thought to Aesthetics. 11 Fung, p. 47. 12 Ziporyn, Brooke, Zhuangzi: Essential Texts and Commentaries. (Forthcoming in Hackett Publishing: 2008), p. 25. 13 Ibid., p. 46–47. 9

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Laughing at oxen Zhuangzi is famously remembered as someone who would rather »wag his tail in the mud« then take office and be given riches and fame. 14 In the Zhuangzi, there appear many instances where Zhuangzi is offered high positions and large salaries to take office. In one such story King Wei offers him rich presents and the position of chief minister. Zhuangzi turns down this position with a laugh. Zhuangzi likens his situation to that of an ox that is chosen to be sacrificed. It is true that for a few years the ox is praised, well fed, and allowed to live comfortably. But in the end, when it is time for the sacrifice, the ox is prematurely killed and not allowed to live out its life naturally (tian nian). According to Zhuangzi the same would happen to him. 15 Even if he was not killed outright, the stress and pressure of having so much responsibility would clearly take a toll on his health. The new job would also significantly limit his freedom. He ends this discussion saying »All of my life I shall refuse office and please my own fancy.« 16 In a similar story Confucius is playing a zither and singing when a strange man (presumably a sage) asks some of Confucius’ followers about him. The followers give a brief description of Confucius, pointing out his benevolence, dutifulness and establishment of the rites and music. The stranger than laughs at this, walking off and saying, »[b]enevolent he may be, but I’m afraid he won’t escape with his life. By such exertions of heart and body he is endangering the genuine in him.« 17 The story continues, and Confucius, having been made aware of what the stranger said, runs after him. The sage does not want to speak to Confucius, but eventually ends up telling him that worrying too much about the affairs of others can only mean ignoring one’s own self. 18 One commonality in these two stories is the importance of preserving one’s self by taking care of one’s thoughts and emotions. Both stories express the view that if one spends too much time worrying about others, it will only distract one from focusing their attention on themselves. The value of riches or fame pale in comparison to one’s self.

14 15 16 17 18

Graham, p. 122. Ibid., p. 119. Ibid., p. 119. Ibid., p. 249. Ibid., p. 248–253.

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The stories also share the idea that laughter is used as a way to express how foolish it is that others think riches and fame are the goals of life. It seems that the Zhuangzi is snickering at others with the thought »as if a few hundred pounds of gold are worth more than taking care of one’s self and doing as one pleases.« The question now becomes, how and why is Zhuangzi’s laughter and that of the strange sage different from that of the dovetail. They are all laughing at others, and yet the former two are slightly revered while the latter is looked down upon. A major difference between the laughter of Zhuangzi and the dovetail is the tone in which the two laugh. When the dovetail laughs it does so saying the peng is foolish for having to go so far while she needs only fly a few meters to be satisfied. When Zhuangzi laughs his attitude is different. He does not laugh because he thinks he is better, he only laughs because he thinks it is silly that someone should presume he would choose riches or fame as opposed to doing as he pleases. It would be wrong to assume that Zhuangzi’s laughing at the offer of fame and riches is a pompous or derogatory laughter. Zhuangzi is laughing because he is approached with a seemingly undeniable offer, which is so easy for him to decline. Compared with the dovetail story, Zhuangzi’s laughter makes perfect sense. He laughs because others think that they understand him and thereby judge him and offer him what is their own preference. Actually, King Wei and the dovetail are very much alike. They both see their own view as the right view and impose it on others. Zhuangzi laughing would be like the peng bird laughing at the dovetail for presuming so much. It is not the laughter of judgment, but rather the laughter of the one judged at the one who judges. It is laughing because the one who judges presumes so much and is foolish in not understanding that the perspectives of others are different from one’s own. When the strange sage laughs at Confucius, he is doing so in a similar manner as Zhuangzi. The laughter of the strange sage also comes from him thinking that Confucius is silly. The strange sage laughs at Confucius’ way of life and expresses some cheeky concern, but he does not do so thinking his life is better than Confucius’. He does not give any perspective advice. It is only after Confucius runs after this strange man that he does give some advice. But again it is not prescriptive, and he does not compare himself to Confucius. When asked, the sage will not compare himself with Confucius, saying »I propose not to talk about what belongs to my own sort, but to put you right on what 55 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Ver

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concerns yourself.« 19 The dovetail’s criticism, on the other hand, stems from a direct comparison of another to herself. The sage’s advice comes from his idea that Confucius is looking too narrowly through his own perspective. It seems that the sage only wishes to point out a few things that Confucius may be ignorant of. He therefore offers some rather vague (non-prescriptive) advice to Confucius, mainly pointing out that Confucius is not even an official, so there is no reason for him to meddle in affairs of the state. The sage does not wish to convince Confucius of anything, he gives his advice nonchalantly. 20 Confucius, on the other hand, is very concerned with persuading others to agree with his own thoughts. Using the metaphor above, Confucius is like an eager sketch artist who thinks that his sketch contains the perfect picture of the chair. 21 He spends so much time looking at the chair and drawing exactly what he sees that he does not have time to look around and notice the other artists. When he does notice that there are others, he is only concerned with showing them his picture, but he does not care to see theirs. All of his time is spent on trying to convince others that his picture is truly the correct one. According to Confucius, others do not need to look at the chair themselves, they need only to view Confucius’ picture. Acting like this, he not only denies the validly of others, but also ignores himself. The sage laughs at how eager Confucius is, not only to persuade others, but also in trying to learn from the strange sage. 22 Acting as if the Confucian way is the only correct way to interact with the world is a fault that is coupled with a fixation on correcting others and consequently ignoring one’s own self. Ignoring one’s self is the mistake Zhuangzi avoids when he laughs at King Wei’s offer. The Ibid., p. 249. I would make a distinction between the sage’s thinking and the dovetail’s. The dovetail is obviously judgmental, comparing for the sake of ranking. The sage, on the other hand, is making an observation, he is not judging, just merely pointing out a few things that Confucius may have overlooked. 21 The Zhuangzi gives another good example of Confucius' narrowness. In this story, Confucius and his followers see a man jump into a dangerous waterfall. Confucius sends one of his friends to fetch the man’s dead body for they are all sure that he is dead, but to his surprise the man is perfectly fine. Confucius, bewildered, asks the man how he was able to survive the jump and the treacherous waters. The man merely replies that he goes with the water. He has no intention of exercising his will in the water, and is therefore carried along with it perfectly. 22 When Confucius addresses the strange sage in the story he is said to bow in a manner more polite than when meeting princes and kings. 19 20

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offer of King Wei and Confucius’ devotion are therefore subject to the laughter of Zhuangzi and the sage. However, Zhuangzi and the sage are foolish themselves in their laughter.

Nothing to say Zhuangzi and the strange sage share the idea that neither of them actually has any knowledge. They are capable of understanding situations and acting in them, but they have no actual »positive knowledge.« They do not know anything, they are only able to act and react. Each observes that there are many perspectives, all equal and varying, but this is only a looking around and noticing. Observing others as well as themselves, seeing difference and similarities, they are content with this and rest in the change of things. Resolving that there is no content to their knowledge (it is not positive knowledge), they can only observe; they cannot make any judgment or knowledge claims. In other words, they can distinguish, but not properly argue. They can comment on others only because of their understanding of the validity of others, which I would call »negative knowledge.« Even life and death are passed over without judgment. The Zhuangzi contains another story where four masters act like Zhuangzi and the sage, and again engage in laughter: Four men, Masters Ssu, Yu, Li, and Lai, were talking together. «Which of us is able to think of nothingness as the head, of life as the spine of death as the rump? Which of us knows that the living and the dead, the surviving and the lost, are all one body? He shall be my friend.« The four men looked at each other and laughed, and none was reluctant in his heart. So they all became friends. 23

This small story shows that the four men are all wise enough to know that they cannot know. They then laugh because there is nothing else to say. They are able to distinguish differences, but they do not judge them and see even life and death as all part of »one body.« Laughter is used to express their understanding. Their comment, in the same fashion Zhuangzi comments on the fish, is based on feeling and experience. The men laugh, like Zhuangzi laughs with Hui Shi, because it is the only thing to do once words are exhausted. Their only knowing is a 23

Graham, p. 88, translation slightly altered.

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»knowing [that can] rest in, and stop at, what it does not know.« 24 Content with the vast amount of things they do not understand 25 they have settled on foolishness, and live life according to their whims. 26 In the words of Lee H. Yearly: [Zhuangzi] has trained himself…to possess an incapacity to understand much of what is obvious to virtually everyone else. This incapacity is far from either naiveté or intellectual dullness, although it can seem like that to the uninitiated…. [It is] the voluntary surrender of the guidance knowledge… 27

This is foolishness alone, not the result of any principle or reason. Foolishness is all that is left, simply because nothing can be definitively decided on. However, it is a foolishness that is chosen, a foolishness that knows that it is foolish.

Fools laugh at fools Laughter is important because it is the foolish persons’ only authentic expression of their foolishness. From serious epistemological questions to everyday activities, the sages can use laughter to acknowledge any situation, laughing sometimes at the situation, themselves, or at others Ziporyn, p. 25. Several famous Chinese thinkers have commented on a type of foolishness similar to Zhuangzi’s. One such thinker is Cao Xueqin, the author of one of China’s most famous novels, The Dream of the Red Chamber. Before the proper story begins, there is a small story about the author referring to himself as a foolish stone who has written idle words. There is also a famous phrase attributed to Zheng Banqiao, a famous Qing Dynasty artist saying »rare are the [truly] foolish« (nade hutu). Both instances seem to be referring to a foolishness that is not simply foolish, but a learned foolishness that reflects on its own naivety. Different from the foolishness that assumes it knows and ignores the difference of others. 26 This is the difference between lixing and ganxing. The former word means that one uses principles and reasons to make decisions. The latter word means a reliance on feelings and intuition to guide one’s decisions. When Zhuangzi laughs at King Wei’s messenger, saying he would rather fulfill his whims, he is expressing that he would like to use feeling to live. In fact the entire Zhunagzi seems to build many of its stories and allegories upon the use of ganxing, while characters like Huishi and Confucius hold tightly to lixing. 27 Yearley, Lee H. »Zhuangzi’s Understanding of Skillfulness and the Ultimate Spiritual State« in Essays on Skepticism, Relativism, and Ethics in the Zhuangzi ed. Paul Kjellberg and Philip J. Ivanhoe (Albany NY.: SUNY press, 1996), p. 157. 24 25

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and their narrow perspectives. This method is used in the stories of the fish, Zhuangzi and King Wei, the sage and Confucius, and the four men. The laughter is used in each case to ignore the seriousness of the situation by acknowledging one’s own limitations. Externally, it is impossible to distinguish between the laughter of the foolish sages and that of the na’ve dovetail. The laughter itself is the same, but it comes from different feelings. The overall difference between the na’ve dovetail’s laughter and that of the sages is not a question of whether or not they laugh, but what they do after they laugh. The dovetail laughs and then proclaims her judgment, but after the sage has finished laughing, there is nothing for him to say. The sage has no words because there is nothing that he knows, and therefore nothing to express beyond foolish laughter. You dream that you are a bird and fly away in the sky, dream that you are a fish and plunge into the deep. There’s no telling whether the man who speaks now is the waker or the dreamer. Rather than go towards what suits you, laugh; rather than acknowledge it with your laughter, shove it from you. Shove it from you and leave the transformations behind; then you will enter the oneness of the featureless sky. 28

28

Graham, p. 91.

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The Modern Chinese Word for Humour (Huaji) and its Antecedents in the Zhuangzi and Other Early Texts Three terms meaning »humour« or »humorous« exist in modern Chinese: youmo 幽默, transliteration of the English word »humour,« coined by Lin Yutang 林語堂 in 1923, huixie 詼諧, and huaji 滑稽. Huaji 滑稽 was pronounced guji in pre-modern northern dialects and sometimes still designated its primary pronounciation in Modern Standard Chinese (so-called »Mandarin«) lexicography, especially in Taiwan. Its ancient pronounciation was probably something like *ghwatkhei or *ghwetkhei, which is close to the modern Cantonese gwatkai and to the modern Japanese kokkei (kotsu + kei). Therefore, despite the pronounciation that appears in the title, I shall render the term guji and not huaji throughout this paper. On the other hand, huixie seems to have first appeared in Chinese letters only during the Han era, so it is not as old as guji; moreover, it neither appears in the text of the Zhuangzi nor in the commentary of Guo Xiang’s (died 312 C.E.). Therefore only guji need concern us here. The term guji 滑稽, which eventually came to mean »humorous,« »amusing,« or »comic,« occurs only once in the Zhuangzi, Chapter 24, Xu Wugui 徐無鬼, 1 as the name given to a member of the Yellow Thearch’s entourage:

Victor Mair translates the title of this chapter, a surname and name, as »Ghostless Hsü«; see Mair, Victor H., trans., Wandering On the Way: Early Taoist Tales and parables of Chuang Tzu (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1994), 237, but it is more likely that either (1) gui 鬼 is a phonetic loan for wei 畏, resulting in »Fearless Xu [Hsü] or (2) gui 鬼 is short for guize 鬼責 »spirit blame,« i. e., »one who knows the joy of heaven [the Natural] … is free of blame from the spirits«; see Guo Qingfan, ed. Zhuangzi jishi 莊子集釋 (Collected Explanations of Zhuangzi). Ed. Wang Xiaoyu 王孝魚. Xinbian zhuzi jicheng 新編諸子集成 (New edition of the Grand compendium of the philosophers. First Collection . Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1961. Reprint. 1997), 2:462. This would result in »No Spirit Blame Xu.« Moreover, a primary meaning of xu 徐 is »relaxed« or »easy going,« which seems to characterize the personality and behavior of Xu Wugui.

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When the Yellow Thearch went to see Dawei 大隗 (Big Steep Craggy) at Juci zhi shan 具茨之山 (Resting Place Mountain), Fangming 方明 (Bright Just Now) was his carriage driver to the left, and Changyu 昌宇 (Cast Brilliance On All In the World) was his bodyguard to the right, with Zhangruo 張若 (As If Bow Strung) and Xipeng 謵朋 [duo 多] (Overawe Many) leading the horses, and Kunhun 昆閽 [Hundun 混沌] ( Primal Chaos) and Guji 滑稽 (Slippery Operator) bringing up the rear. But when they reached the wilds of Xiangcheng 襄城 [Rangcheng 攘城 (Government Authority Banned)], the seven sages knew not where to go, and there was no one there to ask the way. 2

Liu Xiaogan assigns Xu Wugui to his »Group I« chapters, which he characterizes as »Transmitters and Expositors of Master Zhuang« (Late Warring States period before 235 B.C.E. ) which »explain or develop thought from the Inner Chapters and do not raise important points of their own clearly different from those of the Inner Chapters. In the wrangling of the hundred schools, these writings essentially fought to transcend the conflicts between Confucians and Mohists.« 3 If so, we can assume the above passage is consistent with the thought and rhetorical expression of the Inner Chapters and stays close to what Master Zhuang might have said. I know of no other Western translator of the Zhuangzi who tries to translate the names of the Yellow Thearch’s companions except Victor Mair, who renders them »Square Bright,« »Brilliant Canopy,« »Vernal Eurus,« »Autumnal Zephyr,« »Dusky Gate,« and »Gaudy Wag.« 4 It looks like Mair’s versions are derived from the assumption of an imaginary sky journey in which the Yellow Thearch in his sun chariot travels east to west, just as the sun appears to move, for all of Mair’s names except »Gaudy Wag« (unexplained) are sky-related. However, I suggest other interpretations of the names of the entourage, which I believe all refer to attitude of mind, ways of knowing, and strategies of rulership. Moreover, I shall also explain how I arrived at »Great Craggy« and »Resting Place Mountain.« Most traditional and modern commentators, both Chinese and Japanese, either identify Dawei, Juci zhi shan, and Xiangcheng as actual places in China, a reading which I think can be discounted as far as the original meaning of the Zhuangzi Guo Qingfan, ed. Zhuangzi jishi, 4:830. Liu, Xiaogan, Classifying the Zhuangzi Chapters (Ann Arbor: Center for Chinese Studies, University of Michigan, 1994), 87. 4 Mair, Victor H., trans., Wandering On the Way, 240–241. 2 3

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text is concerned, or, much more likely, as mythic places associated with the Yellow Thearch’s sky journey. The most detailed of the latter interpretations of this passage is by Akatsuka Kiyoshi 赤塚忠, summarized as follows: 5 Ju 具 is a phonetic loan for yu 虞, and ci 茨is a phonetic loan for ci 次 (halting place, lodging). The meaning of yu 虞 in this context is assumed to be the same as in the expression Yuyuan 虞淵 [Abyss of Yu], the legendary place where the sun goes when it sets, as in the Tianwen xun 天文訓 (Explanations of Heavenly Patterns) in the Huainan zi 淮南子 (Book of the Master of Huainan): »When the sun reaches Yuyuan, this is what is we call ›dusk.‹ « 6 Setting there, it is where the sun »rests,« [a specialized meaning of yu perhaps related to the ancient Yu sacrifice performed to bring solace and rest to the spirit of the deceased]. The sun, the Taiyang (Great Yang), thus sets at the western edge of the earth going to rest at Dawei 大隗 (Great Craggy), another name for Dakuai (Great Clod), the Taiyin (Great Yin), the earth, which by extension means Nature and the Dao—all personified here as the god of the earth. All this seems quite likely, thus my »Big Steep Craggy« and »Resting Place Mountain.« Akatsuka then goes on to explain the names of Yellow Thearch’s entourage: (1) Fangming 方明 means masa ni akaruku 方に明く »Bright Just Now« as the sun is when it first rises. Akatsuka also quotes Fukunaga Mitsuji’s 福永光司 explanation: »One who possesses intelligence universally conversant with Heaven, Earth, and the Four Directions,« 7 derived from his reading of Zheng Xuan’s 鄭玄 (127–200) commentary on a passage in the Yili 儀禮 (Book of Etiquette and Rites) in which a Fangming is described as a six-sided altar located on the imperial dais, the sides representing Heaven, Earth, and the Four Directions, which together symbolize the shenzhi 神知 (divine intelligence) of the ruler. 8 I think the former is more likely an explanation because the latter seems more or less identical with the meaning of the next name Akatsuka Kiyoshi 赤塚忠. Sōji 荘子 (Zhuangzi). 2 vols. (Tokyo: Shūeisha, 1974) 2:384. 6 Huainanzi 淮南子 (Zhuzi jicheng 諸子集成 ed. [Hangzhou: Zhejiang guji chubanshe, 1999]), 3:1045b. 7 Fukunaga Mitsuji 福永光司, trans. Sōji 荘子 (Zhuangzi). 6 vols. (Tokyo: Asahi shinbunsha, 1978. Reprint. 1992) (Chūgoku koten sen 中国古典選 12–17), 16:100–101. 8 Yili 儀禮 (Book of Etiquette and Rites) (Shisanjing zhushu 十三經注疏 [Commentaries and sub-commentaries on the thirteen classics]; 1815 woodblock ed. reduced facsimile edition Taipei: Shijie shuju, 1963; reprint Shanghai: Guji chubanshe, 1990, 1997), Jinli 覲禮 (Audience Ceremonials), 27:1092b. 5

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Changyu 昌宇. (2) Changyu is explained as udai o sakae shimuru mono 宇内(世界)を昌えしむるもの »Cast Brilliance On All In the World.« (3) Zhangruo 張若 forms a pair with the next name (4) Xipeng 謵朋, which Fukunaga, following Zhu Junsheng’s 朱駿聲 (1788–1858) Shuowen tongxun dingshen說文通訓定聲 (Pronounciation and Definition of Characters in the Shuowen), reads as phonetic loan characters for Xipeng 習鵬 (Flying Peng Bird). Fukunaga then says of Zhangruo 張 若: eda o hatta jakumoku 枝を張った若木 »As If A Tree With Its Branches Spread Wide.« The legendary »As If A Tree« grows in the far west on Kunlun Mountain where the sun sets and where the great Peng bird sometimes perches. I think all this is rather far-fetched and prefer more immediate sense for the two names based on literal meaning: »As If Bow Strung« for Zhangruo 張若, i. e., »ready to shoot,« and »Overawe Many« for Xipeng 謵朋. It has been frequently noted that peng 朋 is often a scribal error for duo 多 (many) in various ancient texts, including the Zhuangzi; moreover peng itself can also mean zhongren 衆人 (the masses, everyone). Since xi 謵 can only mean »overawe« or »blame« I have thus decided on »Overawe Many.« (5) Kunhun 昆閽 is the same as hunhun (Japanese konkon) 混涽, which Fukunaga glosses as fukaku tataeta eichi o iu 深くたたえた英知をい う » Brimming Over With Profound Wisdom.« I think it more likely that Kunhun 昆閽 is a phonetic loan for Hundun 混沌 » Primal Chaos,« i. e., a mind that perceives things as an undifferentiated whole—one capable of holistic comprehension. (6) Fukunaga says that Guji 滑稽 is the same as the expression huayi 滑疑 as it occurs in Chapter 2 of the Zhuangzi, Qiwu lun 齊物論 (On Regarding All Things Equal), which he explains as: enten katsudatsu no kichi円転滑脱の 機知 »Versatile and Adroit Wit.« This instance of huayi 滑疑, a sole occurrence in the Zhuangzi, is worth exploring further: 是故滑疑之耀，聖人之所圖也。為是不用而寓諸庸，此之謂以明。 Therefore, the brightness [understanding] created by slipperiness and uncertainty is what the sage charts. As for deeming things »right,« he does not do this but instead entrusts himself to the ordinary. This may be said to be the way to make things clear.

Guo Xiang’s commentary elaborates: 夫聖人無我者也。故滑疑之耀，則圖而域之；恢恑憰怪，則通而一 之；使群異各安其所安，眾人不失其所是，則己不用於物，而萬物

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之用用矣。物皆自用，則孰是孰非哉！故雖放蕩之變，屈奇之異， 曲而從之，寄之自用，則用雖萬殊，歷然自明。 The sage is someone who has freed himself from self. Therefore, when it comes to clarity [understanding] created by slipperiness and uncertainty, he charts and makes it his realm, and when it comes to the lenient, the amazingly facile, the weird, and the pernicious, he regards them as interchangeable and thus makes them all one. He allows every separate individual to find contentment in what makes him content and ensures that no one ever has to deny what he himself deems »right.« Thus, no individual will ever be made use of by anyone else, and the usefulness of all the myriad folk becomes useful. When all people themselves become useful, who will ever be »right« or who ever »wrong«! Therefore, even if an utterly unconventional situation or crookedly bizarre set of circumstances arise, such a one can follow their every twist and turn, temporarily lodging in what in itself is useful. As a result, although the useful prove to be infinitely varied, each instance in turn will clarify itself.

I think Guo Xiang has got it right: the sage thrives on slipperiness and uncertainty, for these continually save him from taking fixed positions, so the light they cast is the light of true wisdom. At first glance, it appears that Sima Biao’s 司馬彪 (240–306) gloss of huayi 滑疑 as luan 亂 (chaos, confuse) would suggest that since huayi leads to chaos, it is not a good thing, but actually this is not so: in discourse the sage deliberately confuses right and wrong in order to lead people to true wisdom that transcends such distinctions. 9 It will help to see what Cheng Xuanying 成玄英 (fl. 631–655) in his sub-commentary makes of this: 夫聖人者，與天地合其德，與日月齊其明。故能晦跡同凡，韜光接 物，終不眩耀群品，亂惑蒼生，亦不矜己以率人，而各域限於分 內，忘懷大順於萬物，為是寄於群才。而此運心，斯可謂聖明真知 也。 The sage ensures that his virtue stays in step with heaven and earth, keeps his brightness even with that of the sun and moon. Therefore, he hides outward signs of his activity thus merging imperceptibly into the ordinary. He conceals his brightness when interacting with others, so never bedazzles anyone whatsoever, nor baffles or misleads the mass of common folk. Moreover, since he is never so arrogant as to try to lead others, each person can stay within the bounds of his own natural allotment, and since he unconsciously lets himself be led by the myriads of people, »doing right« for him is to trust to the collective skills of every9

Guo Qingfan, Zhuangzi jishi, 1:78.

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one else. Since he employs his mind in this way, it may be said of it that it consists of sagely intelligence and true knowledge. 10

»Brightness« and »clarity« thus refer to the understanding and wisdom of the sage, whose articulation is characterized by slipperiness and uncertainty. However, if guji 滑稽 and huayi 滑疑 mean the same thing, as Fukunaga and others think, 11 we should be able to determine what ji 稽 and yi 疑 might have in common. I first thought that the most likely meaning of ji in guji 滑稽 was jijiao 計較 »haggle« or zhenglun 爭論 »dispute,« 12 which would make guji »slippery haggler« or »slippery disputer,« but after more research and consideration, I now think that ji in guji in early texts probably means »handle« or »manage,« an ancient meaning that goes back to the Shangshu 尚書 (Venerated Documents) or Shujing 書經 (Book of History): 若稽田，既勤敷菑。惟其陳修，為厥疆畎。 It [government] is like the scrutinizing/management (ji 稽) of a field: Once it is diligently plowed and planted, then it is a matter of keeping it in good repair and maintaining boundaries and ditches. 13

In a commentary to the Shujing attributed to Kong Anguo 孔安國 (died ca. 100 B.C.E.), ji is glossed as jian 監 or kao 考 (examine, scrutinize). Although Kong’s commentary has been shown to be a forgery of the fourth century C.E, 14 this is still early enough to contribute to the discussion here. However, we should also consider the close relationship between »scrutinize« and »manage,« as other later commentators have done, who conclude that ji 稽 in the above passage means the same as zhi 治 »manage,« commentators such as Xia Zhuan 夏僎 (jinshi of 1178) 15 and Cai Shen 蔡沈 (1127–1279), a disciple of Zhu Xi 朱熹 Guo Qingfan, Zhuangzi jishi, 1:78. Wen Yiduo 聞一多 (1899–1946) was among the first modern scholars to hold this view; see his Gudian xinyi 古典新義 (New Interpretations of Old Classics), Zhuangzi neipian jiaoshi 莊子內篇校釋 (Collation and Explication of the Inner Chapters of the Zhuangzi) (1943). 12 Hanyu da cidian 漢語大詞典 (Great Dictionary of the Chinese Language) (Shanghai: Hanyu da cidian chubanshe, 1990; reprint 1995), 8:119. 13 Kong Yingda 孔穎達 (574–648), Shangshu zhengyi 尚書正義 (Correct Meaning of the Venerated Documents) (Shisanjing zhushu ed.), 14:208c. 14 Lowe, Michael, ed., Early Chinese Texts: A Bibliographical Guide (Berkeley, Ca.: Society for the Study of Early China 1993), 385. 15 Xia Zhuan 夏僎, Xiashi Shangshu xiangjie 夏氏尚書詳解 (The Venerated Documents Explained in Detail by Master Xia) (Siku quanshu 四庫全書 ed.),19:47a. 10 11

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(1130–1200). 16 The relationship between scrutinize and manage is easily seen in other languages as well, as in English: scrutinize ! oversee ! manage. On the other hand, the yi in 滑疑 can be explained several ways: as mihuo 迷惑 »baffle« or »confuse,« huoluan 惑亂 »delude« or »mislead,« chiyi 遲疑 »[make] hesitate,« or youyu 猶豫 »[cause to] be irresolute,« 17 all of which a disputer or »operator« would try to provoke in his opponent. The main obstacle to true knowledge is the propensity of mankind to think in terms of »right« or »wrong,« »it is« or »it is not,« which the »slippery operator« transcends, his devious and cunning rhetorical arguments designed to undermine such dualism. Before moving on, another perspective on guji is worth exploring. A guji is also a type of leather wine sack, as described by Yang Xiong 揚 雄 (53 B.C.E.–18 C.E.) in his Jiuzhen 酒箴 (Admonition Against Wine): 不如鴟夷滑稽，腹大如壺，盡日盛酒，人復借酤。 It would be better to be a soft leather guji, with a belly as big as a pot, all day long filled with wine, so one could continually get fresh wine from it. 18

It is likely that here guji (*ghwatkhei) is onomatopoeia for the sound of wine being poured out (compare English glug glug). The commentary of Yan Shigu 顏師古(581–645) elaborates: 滑稽，圜轉縱捨無窮之狀。 Guji refers to the inexhaustible smooth release of something.

Cui Hao 崔浩 (died 450 C.E.) expands on this even further: 滑稽，酒器也。轉注吐酒，終日不已，若今之陽燧樽。 A guji is a wine vessel, the figurative extended meaning of which is »spew out wine all day long without cease,« It is similar to our present day »bronze mirror flask.« 19 Cai Shen 蔡沈, Shujing zhuan書集傳 (Collected Commentaries on the Book of History) quoted in Hu Guang 胡廣 (1370–1418) et al., ed. Shujing daquan 書經大全 (Complete Collection of Works on the Book of History) (Siku quanshu 四庫全書 ed.),7:87b. 17 Hanyu da cidian, 8:511. 18 Quoted in Ban Gu 班固 (32–92), Hanshu 漢書 (History of the Former Han Dynasty) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1962; reprint 1975), 92:3713. 19 Cui Hao 崔浩 (d. 450), Hanji yinyi 漢記音義 (Pronunciation and Meaning of the 16

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As wine is continually spewed out, so might words be spewed out by the »slippery operator.« This should remind us of the expression zhiyan 卮 言 »goblet words« that occurs at the beginning of Chapter 27 of the Zhuangzi, Yuyan 寓言 (Parables,): 卮言日出，和以天倪。 Goblet words keep on appearing day by day in harmony with Nature.

About which Guo Xiang has this to say: 夫卮，滿則傾，空則仰，非持故也。況之於言，因物隨變，唯彼之 從，故曰日出。日出，謂日新也，日新則盡其自然之分，自然之分 盡則和也。 A goblet when full gets tipped and when empty is set upright—it does not just stay the same. How much the more this is true of words, for they change according to what they refer to. Since they but follow them [their referents], this is why the text says they »appear day by day. »Appear day by day« means »new each day.« Since they are new each day, they fulfill what is naturally allotted to them, and because their natural allotments are thus fulfilled, they operate harmoniously.

Cheng Xuanying elaborates: 夫卮滿則傾，卮空則仰，空滿任物，傾仰隨人。無心之言，即卮言 也，是以不言，言而無係傾仰，乃合於自然之分也。 A goblet when full gets tipped and when empty is set upright. Whether it is tipped or set upright depends on someone. Words uttered unconsciously, this is what »goblet words« are. Therefore, one either does not speak or one’s speech is done without any »tipping« or »being set upright.« Only then do words match what is naturally allotted to them. 20

Cheng is most explicit: »goblet words« are unconscious words, spontaneously perfect expressions of what they refer to. And it is the sage who can speak in »goblet words«—they keep flowing out perfectly in tune with their referents. As such, might not »goblet words« also be the words of the »slippery operator«? At least when a »slippery operator« also happens to be a sage? Let us now return to the Yellow Thearch and his entourage, the Records of the Han), quoted in Li Fang李昉, et al., ed., Taiping yulan 太平御覽 (Readings Perused By His Majesty During the Era Of Great Peace) (977) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1960; reprint 1998), 761:7a. 20 Guo Qingfan, Zhuangzi jishi, 3:947.

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positioning of the six members of which is significant. Immediately to the right and left of the Yellow Thearch are »Bright Just Now« and »Cast Brilliance On All In the World.« As aspects of intelligence the former refers to the sagely mind in its initial grasp of an idea or perception, the blossoming of its growing awareness, and the latter refers to the universal intellectual capacity of the sagely mind with its infinite range. The mind of the Yellow Thearch thus operates like the sun, from first light to the full brightness of day, when nothing escapes its radiance. »As If Bow Strung« and »Overawe Many« lead the carriage horses. I believe they represent the first inclinations of the sagely mind to action: the former is always »ready to shoot« and is the mind ever primed for immediate action, and the latter signifies the universal effect of the Yellow Thearch’s actions on his myriads of people. Following the carriage are »Primal Chaos« (Holistic Knowledge) and »Slippery Operator,« the Yellow Thearch’s rear guard, whose role is to promulgate his teachings to posterity—those who »follow.« Both may even be said to represent two aspects of Master Zhuang himself, a teacher of holistic knowledge that transcends right and wrong and thus based on flexibility and uncertainty. However, note that »when they reached the wilds of Xiangcheng 襄城the seven sages knew not where to go, and there was no one there to ask the way.« My reading of Xiangcheng as Rangcheng 攘城 »Government Authority Banned« was first suggested by Xuan Ying 宣穎 in his commentary to the Zhuangzi (preface dated 1721): Xiangcheng is an allegorical name in which xiang means chu 除 (get rid of), as in the Shi 詩 (Classic of Poetry) [Chuju 出車»Dispatch Chariots« #168]: 玁狁于襄 »Get rid of the Xianyun [northern barbarians].« Wilds where chengfu 城府 (institutions of government) have been gotten rid of signify the vast empty countryside. 21

Xiang 襄 thus should be read as if written rang 攘. So even the greatest of sagely wisdom, represented by the Yellow Thearch and his entourage, was thus confounded when confronted with the wilds of Rangcheng, where all governmental institutions are absent and disallowed. A text roughly contemporary with the Xu Wugui chapter in the Zhuangzi (probably early third century B.C.E.) is the Buju 卜居 (Divine Xuan Ying 宣穎 , Zhuangzi Nanhuajing jie 莊子南華經解 (Explication of the Classic of Nanhua of Zhuangzi) (Xu daozang續道藏 [Continuation of the Daoist Canon] ed.), 24:3a.

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Wherein To Dwell) piece in the Chuci 楚辭 (Elegies of Chu), in which these lines appear: 寧廉潔正直以自清乎？將突梯滑稽，如脂如韋，以潔楹乎? Is it better to be incorruptible and honest and so keep onseself pure? Or better to be slick and slippery with tact, like grease or soft leather, and so play the sycophant? 22

The phrase tuti guji 突梯滑稽actually became a set proverbial portrayal of artful sycophancy or cunning and deceptive rhetoric or writing; as such, it is thoroughly negative. The role of guji滑稽 in the Buju seems initially quite different from its presence in the Zhuangzi, where it seems to have a thoroughly positive meaning, but perhaps much is shared between the two occurrences—with one major difference, of course: in the Zhuangzi sycophants are only apparent sycophants, their sycophancy a subtle means to manipulate and manage those whom they defer to and flatter. Closer to the Zhuangzian sense of guji 滑稽 appears to be its meaning in the Guji liezhuan 滑稽列傳 (Biographies of Slippery Operators) in Sima Qian’s 司馬遷 (ca. 163–85 B.C.E.) Shiji 史記 (Records of the Grand Historian), which begins with a short introduction to the value of the »slippery operators«: 孔子曰：「六蓺於治一也．禮以節人，樂以發和，書以道事，詩以 達意，易以神化，春秋以義．」太史公曰：天道恢恢，豈不大哉！ 談言微中，亦可以解紛． Confucius said »The six disciplines in regard to government share one integrated function. The Record of Rites is used to regulate human behavior; the Book of Music is used to engender a sense of social harmony; the Book of History is used to encourage proper conduct of affairs; the Book of Odes is used to help the conveying of thought; the Book of Changes is used to show the workings of numinous transformation; and the Spring and Autumn Annals addresses the meaning of righteousness. The Grand Historian now says, »Since the Dao of Heaven has to stretch far and wide how could it fail to be as great as it is! And when discourse is subtle but hits the mark it too can be used to cut away the tangled. 23 Wang Yi 王逸 (fl. first half of 2nd century C.E.) ed. and ann., Chuci 楚辭 (Elegies of Chu) (Sibu beiyao 四部備要ed.), 6:2b. 23 Sima Qian 司馬遷 , Shiji 史記 (Records of the Grand Historian) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1959; reprint 1975), 66:3197. 22

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»Cut away the tangled« alludes to the Laozi 老子: 知者不言。言者不知。塞其兌。閉其門。挫其鋭。解其紛。和其 光。同其塵。 He who knows does not speak. He who speaks does not know. Block up your apertures; close your door; blunt your sharpness, Cut away the tangled; Merge with the brilliant; Become one with the very dust.

Wang Bi 王弼 (226–249) explains »cut away the tangled« as 除爭原 »eliminate the cause of contention,« 24 though here jiefen 解紛seems to imply »avoid trouble by setting things right.« It appears that Sima had great respect for the »slippery operators,« who spoke with such cunning subtlety to »hit the mark« thus reforming wayward sovereigns and reversing ill conceived strategies, both contributing to good government. Elsewhere, in the Taishi gong zixu太史公自序 (His Own Preface, By the Grand Historian), Sima explains his inclusion of biographies of »slippery operators«: 不流世俗，不爭埶[勢]利，上下無所凝滯，人莫之害，以道之用。 作滑稽列傳第六十六。 They neither drifted with trends of common custom nor did they contend for power. Not hindered in their interactions with either those above or those below, they harmed no one but acted in accordance with the Dao. Therefore, I composed a »Biographies of Slippery Operators« as the sixty-sixth biographical section. 25

Sima also summed up the achievements of some »slippery operators« at the end of a group of narratives concerning them: 淳于髠仰天大笑，齊威王橫行。優孟搖頭而歌，負薪者以封。優旃 臨檻疾呼，陛楯得以半更。豈不亦偉哉。 Chunyu Kun raised his face to the sky and laughed out loud, and King Wei of Qi was able to dominate the world. You Meng wagged his head and sang, and a firewood carrier was thereby enfoeffed. You Zhan approached the palace entrance, and palace guards were allowed to rotate in Laozi, Section 56; Lynn, Richard John, trans. The Classic of the Way and Virtue: A New Translation of the Daodejing of as Interpreted by Wang Bi (New York: Columbia University Press, 1999), 157. 25 Shiji, 130: 3318. 24

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half complement shifts. Should not such achievements also be thought great! 26

When Chu threatened Qi, King Wei wanted to dispatch Chunyu Kun to Zhao to solicit military aid but would send only a small sum with him, which provoked Chunyu Kun to laugh out loud. Puzzled, the king asked what was so funny. Chunyu Kun then told him the story of the man who wished to obtain great blessings from the gods but would only make a small offering to them. Thus prompted to see the light, King Wei sent an enormous sum with Chunyu Kun to Zhao, which provided enough military aid not only to secure Qi but also to make King Wei hegemon among the states for the rest of his reign. Sun Shufang 孫叔敖, the scrupulously upright prime minister of Chu, died and left his son in abject poverty, but before dying he advised his son to go to You Meng for help. When the son did so, You Meng had a set of Sun Shufang’s clothes made and practiced how Sun had talked and acted, and when he was able to impersonate Sun perfectly, he went to see King Zhuang, who thought that Sun Shufang had come back to life in his son and so wanted to make him prime minister. However, You Meng, still pretending, said he needed three days to talk things over with »his« wife. When he returned to the king, he said that »his« wife had decided him against it, saying that the prime ministership was something he could not afford. Whereas Sun Shufang had been honest and incorruptible, since his son lived a miserably poor life out in the country utterly without wealth and property even the honour of becoming prime minister would not keep him, poor as he was, from accepting bribes and compromising his duties, which would lead inevitably to his execution—that was how it was not worth it. It would be better instead to remain poor but virtuous. All this You Meng expressed in the lyrics of a ballad he sang before the king. The king then realized that it was not Sun’s son but actually You Meng impersonating him, but he was so moved that he gave Sun’s son high office and enfoeffed him with great estates, which became the basis of the Sun family’s prosperity for generations. The story of You Zhan seems trivial by comparison but probably impressed Sima Qian the most, for You Zhan, a song and dance performer at the court of Qin Shi Huangdi managed to trick the first emperor, 26

Shiji, 130: 3203.

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not known for his kindness and consideration, into granting a humane boon. You Zhan had noticed that the palace guard were stationed outside the front of the palace in the cold and rain, so, taking pity on their misery, he devised a trick to get the troop divided in two, with only half on guard at a time. He told them that when he called to them from inside the palace they should quickly shout out in unison »Yes, Sir!« A brief time later, when the emperor was toasted with »May You Have Myriads of Years« You Zhan went to the palace entrance and shouted »guards!« They immediately responded loudly with »Yes, Sir!« You Zhan then said, »You guards, as luck would have it, are all grand and tall but have to be out in the rain and cold, whereas, as luck would have it, although insignificant and short, I still enjoy being here inside.« At this, the first emperor realized that the palace guards were all out together in the cold and rain, and so had their company divided in two, with only half outside at a time. 27 In all these anecdotes, the guji are »slippery operators« who enjoyed a great deal of success. Sima Qian praised them and was well aware of the positive effect that had on the thought and behavior of rulers. Their role was thus not unlike that of court jesters in the West—wise fools who knew how to save their sovereigns from wrong judgments and disastrous behavior, and, like their guji counterparts in ancient China, at times contributed significantly to, if not good, at least better government. 28

Conclusion Guji has been variously translated as »comedians,« »humorists,« »jokesters,« »buffoons,« »clowns,« or »comics,« among others, but all these do not do justice to the term, for »slippery operators« used their rhetorical skills to undermine conventional assumptions about life and the world, to reform harmful behavior, and reverse wrong strategies. They may have been humorous or comic, but they employed humor or comedy in such a way that they always made a point. As Sima Qian said, they could hit the same mark as that at which the Six Classics themShiji, 130: 3198–3202. See Otto, Beatrice K. 2001. Fools Are Everywhere: the Court Jester Around the World (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001; reprint 2007).

27 28

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selves aimed—essentially to alleviate contention, divert people from trouble and set things »right.« In what he said about all this, Sima also seemed to imply that this was a sagely goal articulated in the Laozi as well, and from what we know of occurrences of the terms guji and huayi in the Zhuangzi, Master Zhuang may have thought of himself too as a »slippery operator.« In any event, much of the wit, charm, and humor that so enrich many of the parables and anecdotes in the Zhuangzi text depend on the discourse and antics of characters who clearly exhibit »slippery operator« traits.

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The Ridiculousness of Attachment in the Journey to the West

The Journey to the West presents a profoundly pessimistic view of human life. 1 We see this pessimism at the start of the novel, in the origins of Xuanzang, the monk who ends up leading the journey. He begins well enough. As part of restoring order and fairness in the world, the Tang emperor Taizong restarts the examination system (I: 198). Xuanzang’s father, Chen E, passes the exam with the highest marks. As he leads a celebratory procession through the city, it happens that Yin Wenqiao, a beautiful daughter of a high official, is about to choose a husband by throwing a ball out of her window (I: 199). Soon the two are married and they set out with his mother for a position as governor. Chen E’s mother falls ill along the way, though, and when he can wait with her no longer, he rents her a room in a small town, planning to return later. Then disaster strikes. When Chen E and Wenqiao cross a river, the two boatmen cannot resist her beauty. They murder Chen E and toss his body overboard. Liu Hong, one of the boatmen, replaces The Journey to the West was written in the Ming Dynasty, in the late 16th or early 17th century. It is usually attributed to Wu Cheng'en, but that is far from certain. The novel incorporates and builds on centuries of legends and stories embellishing the actual journey of Xuanzang from China to India and back around 627–645 CE. In the fictionalized version, Xuanzang’s pilgrimage consists of overcoming various monsters and demons with the help of four monster-disciples: Monkey (Sun Wukong), Pigsy (Zhu Bajie), Sandy (Sha Zeng), and a dragon who becomes Xuanzang’s horse. Unless otherwise noted, translations are from Anthony Yu, The Journey to the West (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980, four volumes) and citations are to volume and page number in that translation, but I have followed Arthur Waley (Monkey: Folk Novel of China (New York: Grove Press, 1970)) in translating the names of the characters consistently as Monkey, Pigsy, and Sandy, and I have used pinyin Romanization rather than WadeGiles. I have also consulted the translation by J. F. Jenner in Journey to the West (Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 2003), and used the Chinese text included in that edition, as well as the Xi You Ji (Beijing: Remin Wenxue Chubanshe, 1972), which is based on the »Shi De Tang« edition.

1

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Chen E, taking his wife and position as governor. When they arrive at »his« new post, Wenqiao realizes that she is pregnant. Fearing for the life of her newborn son, she sets him on a raft to float down river (I: 204). Chen E’s mother, abandoned in the village, eventually cries herself blind, begging on the streets and living in an old tile kiln (I: 209). The story picks up again seventeen years later. The infant Xuanzang was taken in by a monastery and has become a great monk. He reunites with his mother and contacts her father, who sends an army to catch Liu Hong. Liu’s old partner just happens to be in town as well, and the two are brutally executed. 2 Xuanzang retrieves his grandmother, and his father even rises from the dead. His mother does the only honorable thing she can after having lived with Liu Hong for seventeen years – commit suicide. Chen E declares the story a happy ending: »Indeed, bitterness has passed and sweetness has come! What unsurpassable joy!« (I: 212) It is difficult not to see the comment as ironic. The two boatmen do end badly, but Liu Hong got seventeen years with a beautiful woman and as much power as he wanted, while the grandmother was a blind beggar, the mother a sexual slave, and Xuanzang an orphan. 3 While the story appears to emphasize contingency, from the ball landing on Chen E’s head to the discovery of the infant Xuanzang by Buddhist monks, the readers see other forces at work. While in the village where he left his mother, Chen E had bought a fish for dinner. The fish blinked at him oddly and he decided to set it free (I: 201–202). That fish turned out to be the dragon who ruled the river – he preserved Chen E’s body, enabling him eventually to return to life. The narrator of the story also mentions (without further explanation) that Chen E »was destined in his previous incarnation to meet this calamity, and so had come upon these fated enemies of his« (I: 201). In the broader picture, Xuanzang’s whole life is directed toward working off the sins of a time long passed – he was once »Golden Cicada,« Buddha’s second disciple, punished because his attention drifted while listening to a sermon on the Dharma (IV: 425). When the dragon saves Chen E, he states that »kindness Li Biao is nailed to wooden donkey, paraded through town, and then cut into a thousand pieces, his head put on display. Liu Hong has his heart and liver cut out while alive. (I: 211) 3 It does not work out so badly for Chen E himself, who served in the court of the river dragon until he came back to life. 2

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should be paid by kindness« (I: 202), and there is a sense in which justice works through the story, as the narrative implies all have caused their own suffering in earlier lives. Nonetheless, the characters themselves have no way to comprehend any of these reasons, and all the members of Xuanzang’s family act only with the best intentions. 4 This episode is typical of how human life is portrayed in the Journey to the West. Even when they do the best they can, human beings are inevitably entangled in suffering, at the mercy of forces they can neither comprehend nor control. Such pessimism fits the beginning of a spiritual journey – if life were easy, we wouldn’t be driven to seek something else. Monkey’s journey first begins when he realizes the possibility of death, a moment one of his monkey disciples calls the »initial expression of the heart of dao.« 5 But this is where the Journey to the West can be called profoundly pessimistic. It undermines any alternative or route of escape. 6 Anthony Yu takes seriously the claims that suffering comes as a result of bad actions, taking the novel as emphasizing »the need of merit-making through suffering«(»Religion and Literature in China: The ›Obscure Way‹ of the Journey to the West,« in Tradition and Creativity: Essays on East Asian Civilization, edited by Ching-I Tu (New Brunswick: Transaction Books, 1987), p. 124). Francisca Cho Bentley (»Buddhist Allegory in the Journey to the West,« The Journal of Asian Studies, 48: 3, pp. 517–18) and Laurie Cozad (»Reeling in the Demon: An Exploration into the Category of the Demonized Other as Portrayed in the ›Journey to the West,‹« Journal of the American Academy of Religion, 66:1, p. 122) follow Yu on this point. Nonetheless, the novel seems rather to problematize claims of divine justice. For example, while Sandy is punished by being stabbed in the breast a hundred times every seven days for accidentally breaking a vase (I: 189), Monkey is rewarded after extorting immortality from the lord of the dead and a great weapon from the Dragon King, the same Dragon King whose son is hung in the sky, beaten a hundred times, and sentenced to death, all for setting an accidental fire in his palace (I: 193–94). Similarly, the Tang emperor Taizong faces no repercussions when he has his life artificially extended by an official who secretly changes his entry in the book of the dead. Such events suggest that punishment is arbitrary, or that the weak are punished more harshly than the strong. C. T. Hsia says that no scheme of justice could justify such incommensurate punishments and that Wu Cheng'en is criticizing the »arbitrary despotism of the heavenly government« (The Classic Chinese Novel: A Critical Introduction (New York: Midland Book Edition, 1980), p. 147). 5 My translation. Yu has »sprouting of his religious inclination« (I: 73). 6 It is common to take the novel as advocating some particular path, although there is little agreement on which path that is. Andrew Plaks takes the novel as advocating a unity of the three religions based on xinxue »Neo-Confucianism« (The Four Masterworks of the Ming Novel (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987), pp. 240–42, 258). Zuyan Zhou takes the novel as advocating Chan Buddhism over »canonical formality« and »traditional Buddhism« (»Carnivalization in the The Journey to the West: 4

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Consider one of the earliest possibilities, a simple life close to nature. In search of Immortals, Monkey comes across a Woodcutter who sings: I watch the chess game, my ax handle’s rotted. I chop at wood, cheng-cheng the sound. I walk slowly by the cloud’s fringe at the valley’s entrance. Selling my firewood to buy some wine, I am happy and laugh without restraint. (I: 77)

When Monkey delightedly greets him as an immortal, the woodcutter responds in shock: »I, a foolish fellow with hardly enough clothes or food! How can I bear the title of immortal?« (I: 78) He goes on to explain that his father died when he was young and he has no siblings. He works bitterly all of the time just to keep himself and his mother alive. He sings this song when he is miserable, as he happened to be at the moment (I: 78). The Buddhist path is undermined as well. Before Xuanzang starts on his journey, when his disciples go on and on about all the dangers and suffering he will face, he points to his heart and proclaims, »When the heart lives, all kinds of demons live; when the heart dies, all kinds of demons die.« 7 While this line reveals the allegorical meaning of the journey, where demons represent flaws or perversions of the heart, Xuanzang’s own point is that one with an empty heart need have no fear. His disciples are suitably impressed by his courage and wisdom. A few days and a few pages later, though, we find Xuanzang a quivering mass on the ground, crying and paralyzed with terror (I: 286, 288). A few chapters later, he lectures Monkey on how Buddhists should never lie (I: 312), after which, he lies, enticing Monkey to wear a magical paininducing headband by telling him it was something he wore as a child (I: 312–313). From that lie on, Monkey is under Xuangzang’s command. In the same episode, Xuanzang declares that it would be better to die than engage in violence (I: 308), a sentiment contradicted by his utter Cultural Dialogism in Fictional Festivity,« Chinese Literature: Essays, Articles, Reviews, vol. 16, p. 86). Cozad makes the same point (Cozad, p. 118–120). For the evidence for these different strands, see Yu, Journey to the West, pp. 33–62, and Yu, Religion and Literature, pp. 124–32. While the Journey to the West may be advocating one particular path, the greatness of the novel lies in presenting the limits and sacrifices involved with any path. My own interpretation focuses on the novel’s ambivalence, following C. T. Hsia’s claim that the greatest Chinese novels embody »various attitudes in a state of unreconciled tension« (Hsia, p. 21). 7 My translation; cf. I: 283.

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dependence on violent people throughout the novel, as well as his use of the headband to inflict pain on Monkey. These comments highlight one of dominant modes of the novel – irony. Earnestness is the attitude most consistently ridiculed. The story with the woodcutter marks one of the few places where Monkey himself falls prey to earnestness, taking that song seriously. We may think of Pigsy as the most comic character in the novel, but as an object of laughter, Xuanzang is his rival. Each obstacle makes him crumble and cry, just as he falls down in worship before any false appearance of the divine and trembles at the sight of a woman, like a child afraid of thunder or a toad soaked by rain (I: 450). Even his compassion leads him astray, several times leaving him manipulated by demons in disguise. 8 Monkey is Xuanzang’s opposite. In the thousands of pages of the novel, as far as I can tell, Xuanzang laughs just once (II-7). 9 Monkey, in contrast, says of himself, »I was born with a laughing face« (I: 478). Following the explicit direction of the story, Xuanzang is the cultivated Buddhist master and Monkey is his disciple, but the comic narrative itself undermines taking Xuanzang’s seriousness too seriously. The tension between the laughter of Monkey and the tears of Xuanzang points to the strangest thing about the novel – if one were to categorize it in contemporary terms, it would fall into the familiar genre of action-comedy, an odd choice for a spiritual journey. Along with violence, a comic spirit permeates the entire novel, from bits of word-play to derision before a fight to the practical jokes played amongst the disciples. While all of these elements contribute to the atmosphere of the novel, this paper will focus on how laughter appears intrinsic to its philosophical and religious themes, concentrating on the relationship between laughter and attachment. We can begin with a theoretical point, taken from Henri Bergson. In his essay »Laughter,« Bergson writes: »It seems as though the comic could not produce its disturbing effect unless it fell, so to say, on the surface of a soul that is thoroughly calm and unruffled. Indifference is its natural environment, for laughter has no greater foe than emoThe most dramatic is the story of Lady White Bone (chapter 27), who appears first as a young (beautiful) woman, then her mother, and then her father. Monkey kills each incarnation, which causes Xuanzang to banish him, leading into the story of Yellow Robe, discussed below. For more on this point, see Hsia, pp. 129–30. 9 He laughs at Pigsy, who is acting out various skits and gestures based on literal understandings of ritual sayings. 8

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tion.« 10 Bergson’s analysis points toward one difference between Monkey and Xuanzang – although one would expect Xuanzang to have reached some point of non-attachment, he has not. It is precisely his attachment that leads him to such depths of fear, despair, respect – and compassion. Monkey, in contrast, has few emotional attachments other than an occasional anger that rises and passes quickly. If the ability to laugh reflects some degree of non-attachment, it would follow along with some level of Buddhist enlightenment. Bergson, however, carries the point a disturbing step further, turning toward sympathy or compassion: Try, for a moment, to become interested in everything that is being said and done; act, in imagination, with those who act, and feel with those who feel; in a word, give your sympathy its widest expansion: as though at the touch of a fairy wand you will see the flimsiest of objects assume importance, and a gloomy hue spread over everything. Now step aside, look upon life as a disinterested spectator: many a drama will turn into a comedy. 11

Some of the most dissonant moments in the Journey to the West come when suffering is met by laughter rather than compassion. We might assume that while Monkey’s laughter is generally a sign of his enlightenment, his laughter in place of sympathy shows that he still falls short. Such an interpretation, though, is thrown into doubt by the emphasis on Monkey’s greater perception of reality and the comic tone of the narrative itself. Ultimately, Monkey’s laughter and lack of compassion are tied to his ability to see the fuller context of the human condition. Before considering this fuller context, we can begin with three episodes that illustrate how comedy and laughter function in the novel. The first story is primarily a satire on reverence and earnestness. In the Cart Slow Kingdom, there was a prolonged famine which the local Buddhists were unable to alleviate. Three powerful Daoists arrive and bring rain. The muddle-headed king falls under their control and is led to persecute the Buddhists, making them the slaves of the Daoists, who enjoy a very comfortable life. The pilgrims come in to rectify the situation. One of the most comic scenes in the novel comes when Monkey, Pigsy, and Sandy, enter the palace and find a Daoist ceremony takHenri Bergson, »Laughter,« in Comedy, edited by Wylie Sypher (New York: Doubleday Anchor, 1956), p. 63. 11 Ibid., p. 63. 10

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ing place. Monkey scares the monks away with a mighty wind (II: 314), but before eating the sacrificial feast themselves, he suggests they remove the statues of the three immortals and assume their places. He instructs Pigsy to put the statues in the »Bureau of Five-Grain Transmigration« and points toward a door, which turns out to be the latrine (II: 315). Before throwing the divine statues into a pool of human waste, Pigsy offers a prayer: O Pure Ones Three, I’ll confide in thee: From afar we came, Staunch foes of bogies. We’d like a treat, But nowhere’s cozy. We borrow your seats, For a while only. You’ve sat too long, now go to the privy. In times past you’ve enjoyed countless good things By being pure and clean Taoists. Today you can’t avoid facing something dirty When you become Honorable Divines Most Smelly! (II: 315–16)

When the pilgrims disguise themselves as the gods and begin to consume the sacrificial feast, the Daoist priests assume the gods have come down in response to their great piety. They approach and, after listing all the ways in which they have demonstrated their holiness and dedication, they plead for a gift of holy water. Monkey eventually agrees, as long as the ›holy water‹ can be produced in private. We can pick up the scene when the Daoists return and have a drink: »Elder Brother,« said the Deer-Strength Immortal, »is it good?« »Not very,« said the old Daoist, his lips still pouted, »the flavor is quite potent!« »Let me try it also,« said the Goat-Strength Immortal, and he, too, downed a mouthful. Immediately he said, »It smells somewhat like hog urine!« (II: 321)

The episode darkens while continuing to play on the earnestness of the three Daoists, who take themselves too seriously. This leads them to drink monkey-piss, and in the end it leads to their deaths. They challenge the pilgrims to a series of ordeals, the last three involving death defying tricks. The first Daoist dies in a test of head removal. The second challenge involves cutting open your stomach and pulling out your guts. Monkey approaches the test with humor, noting that he recently ate too much steamed bread and needs to clean his stomach anyway. He cuts himself open, sorts through his innards, puts them back and heals up. The Daoist then must face the same trial, but as he pulls out his guts, 80 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Ver

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Monkey turns one of his hairs into an eagle, which sweeps down, grabs the Daoist’s organs, and flies off to eat them. The Daoist collapses, reduced to »A drippy ghost of torn belly and empty trunk, an aimless soul with less innards and no guts!« (II: 347) This part of the episode could evoke horror or pity, but the tone remains comic, as is clear in the third trial, boiling in hot oil. While hiding in the boiling oil, Monkey hears Pigsy teasing him and decides to play a joke by faking his death. He reappears only when he becomes furious at Pigsy’s mocking eulogy. When the confused executioner who declared him dead now declares him a ghost, Monkey becomes enraged, leaps from the boiling oil and squashes the executioner into a »meat patty« (II: 350). The second episode to consider begins in Heaven, where Revati the Wood-Wolf Star and one of the Jade Maidens of the Spread Incense Hall fall in love. Their desire is so intense that, since they are unable to act on it in Heaven, they choose to descend to earth (II: 95). It is the perfect set up for a tragedy, and tragedy does indeed ensue. The Jade Maiden is born as a human princess with no memory of her Heavenly identity. The Wood-Wolf star also comes down to earth, but as divine, he is among humans like humans are among animals, meaning that he uses and occasionally eats them, becoming the monster known as »Yellow Robe.« 12 His love remains, though, and he eventually captures the princess. They live together for thirteen years, happily it seems, and have two children. Meanwhile, her father mourns his lost daughter and beats to death the officials responsible for her disappearance (II: 54). The pilgrims first encounter Yellow Robe when he captures Xuanzang, but at his wife’s pleading, he lets the monk go. Although the princess seems to genuinely care for her monstrous husband, she secretly sends a note to her parents in order to ease their worries. Based on that note, the pilgrims go back to set her free. The sad side of the story comes to a climax when, in order to provoke Yellow Robe to battle, Monkey seizes their two children. The princess screams desperately, pleading with him to spare their lives (II: 85–86). Monkey tells Pigsy and Sandy »not to bother about the consequences« and to take the two children to the palace and dash them on the steps in front of Yellow Robe (II: 86). 13 In 12 This parallel between monsters eating humans and humans eating animals appears in several places in the novel and is probably meant to support its promotion of vegetarianism. 13 The phrase translated by Yu as »do not worry about the consequences« is very diffi-

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the end: »Alas! They were reduced to two meat patties; their bones were all crushed and blood spattered all over« (II: 89). As a final cruelty, Monkey takes on the form of the princess and meets Yellow Robe in tears, telling him how her heart aches for their lost children. What makes this episode so odd, though, is the dissonance between the cruelty and tragedy on one side, and the comic tone on the other. Monkey’s final deception is meant to be silly, as shown by its culmination – when Monkey takes back his true form, Yellow Robe replies, »Gosh, Mistress! How did you manage to bring out a face like that?« (II: 91) The pilgrims show no compassion. Consider Pigsy’s response when Monkey tells him to kill the two children: »Elder Brother,« said Pigsy with a giggle, »the moment you do anything, you start to bamboozle us.« »What do you mean?« said Monkey. Pigsy said, »These two kids, after having been seized by you like that, are already shocked beyond cure. Just now they cried until they became voiceless; after a while, they will die for sure. If we hurl them to the ground from the air, they’ll turn into meat patties. You think the fiend will let us go once he catches up with us? He will surely make us pay, while you get away scot free. There’s not even a witness against you! Aren’t you bamboozling us?« (II: 87)

The passage emphasizes not only the suffering of the children but the fact that Pigsy sees it while being completely unmoved. The third episode begins with the dripping, weeping ghost of the king of the Black Rooster Kingdom appearing to Xuanzang in a dream. He tells this sad story. Some years back, his people were suffering desperately from a prolonged drought and famine. Fortunately, a Daoist wizard appeared and brought rain, saving the people. The king was delighted and treated him like a brother, until one day as he was walking in the garden, the wizard threw him into a well and then sealed it. The wizard took on the appearance of the king and for the past three years has had total possession of the kingdom, including his wife and concubines. Xuanzang reacts with compassion and promises that his disciples will rectify the situation. After a complex scheme to enlist the help of the king’s son, Monkey decides they need to retrieve the king’s body as evidence. From here on, it is all silliness. Monkey tricks Pigsy by telling cult. It seems to literally mean »do not distinguish good and bad«, but Jenner connects it more directly to non-attachment by translating it as »harden your hearts« (Jenner, p 1017).

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him a great treasure lies at the bottom of the well. Monkey then lowers Pigsy into the well, deliberately dunking him, while laughing (II: 206– 207). Of course there is no treasure. After Monkey compels Pigsy to bring back the dead body, Xuanzang reacts with all seriousness: He was so broken up that he could not speak anymore as tears ran down his cheeks. »Master,« said Pigsy, laughing, »what does his death have to do with you? He isn’t one of your ancestors. Why weep for him?« »O disciple!« said the Tang monk, »the fundamental principle of life for those who have left the family is compassion. How can you be so hardhearted?« (II: 211)

Pigsy then appears concerned but in fact sets up another practical joke, telling Xuanzang – falsely – that Monkey can raise the dead. When Monkey denies it, Xuanzang uses his headband spell to make him squirm with pain, his eyes bulging out, while Pigsy tumbles about with laughter (II: 213). Monkey has no alternative but to set off in search of a way to revive the king, but he doesn’t let Pigsy off. He orders Pigsy to mourn the dead body – loudly! The narrator describes it: [Pigsy] pulled out a scrap of paper from somewhere and rolled it into a thin strip, which he stuck into his nostrils twice. Look at him! After sneezing a few times, tears and snivel all came out and he began to wail, mumbling and muttering protests all the time as if someone in his family had actually died. He bawled lustily, and when his passion rose to terrific pitch, even the Tang elder was moved to tears. (II: 214)

Monkey of course, laughs, and Pigsy waves him off, laughing through his tears, while Xuanzang weeps genuine tears of compassion. We need not go through the rest of the story – the king is brought back to life and restored to the throne. The series of practical jokes takes one more turn, though. In the end, the monster takes a form identical to Xuanzang and, as Pigsy points out while roaring with laughter, the only way to distinguish the two is to have the real Xuanzang recite his pain inducing spell, which leaves Monkey again on the ground reeling in pain (II: 226–27). The episode ends with one final comic moment. It turns out that the monster is really the blue-haired lion from the throne of the Bodhisattva Manjusri. When Monkey scolds the Bodhisattva for allowing that greatest of transgressions, sex between divine (beast) and human, the Bodhisattva explains that the lion was castrated. Pigsy shuffles over and gropes him to confirm the story. He laughs and says: »This monsterspirit is truly a ›red nose who doesn’t drink’The tension in the text 83 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Ver

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between the seriousness and compassion of Xuanzang and the silliness and fake tears of the disciples nicely illustrates Bergson’s point about detachment and laughter. But what are we to think when, in a novel with an explicitly Buddhist message, both we and the author seem to be on the side of the laughing rather than the crying? More basically, what makes these episodes comic rather than tragic? We can turn again to Bergson for guidance. Bergson writes: All that is serious in life comes from our freedom. The feelings we have matured, the passions we have brooded over, the actions we have weighed, decided upon and carried through, in short, all that comes from us and is our very own, these are the things that give life its ofttimes dramatic and generally grave aspect. What, then, is required to transform all this into comedy? Merely to fancy that our seeming freedom conceals the strings of a dancing-jack, and that we are, as the poet says, … humble marionettes The wires of which are pulled by Fate. So there is not a real, a serious, or even a dramatic scene that fancy cannot render comic by simply calling forth this image. 14

Bergson’s insight is that tragedy and comedy are not distinguished by their content – the exact same events could be tragic or comic. In the Journey to the West, human beings are shown as suffering but laughable, because they suffer as a result of forces so thoroughly outside their own control and understanding. The most explicit example comes when Guan Yin assists Monkey in defeating the monster Red Boy. She throws constricting bands on his head, wrists, and ankles (the same kind that Monkey was fooled into putting on his head). While Monkey laughs, Guan Yin takes over Red Boy’s body like a marionette, bringing his wrists together as if in prayer (II: 280–81). He becomes precisely Bergons’ »dancing-jack.« His bondage, though, just makes more visible the way all are bound by fate. We have already seen these dominating forces in the story of Xuanzang’s birth, but consider the fuller context of the episode of the king thrown into the well. Already early in that story, Xuanzang notes that the king’s suffering must have been preordained by Heaven (II: 184) and that the king must have offended the wizard in a previous life Bergson, p. 111–112. Bergson refers to the poem »Un Bonhomme,« by René Sully Prudhomme, which itself refers to the views of that fatalist and great enemy of »sad passions,« Benedict de Spinoza.

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(II: 211). At the end, the Bodhisattva Manjusri reveals the whole story. Previously, Buddha sent him to reward the king for his virtue, but the king took Manjusri for an enemy and suspended him in the moat for three days. The king’s three years in the well were pay back for that. While the moral of the story might be that you get what you deserve, the explanation renders the whole episode absurd. Aside from the imbalance between the act and its punishment, the king has no way to know why any of this happens nor any way to resist its unfolding. He doesn’t even remember the incident, let alone know that the person he punished was a Bodhisattva. The irrelevance of the king’s own agency is shown by that fact that we are given no explanation for his initial act of taking Manjusri as an enemy. Thus rather than a tragic hero asserting himself in the face of an impenetrable and ambivalent world, he appears as a dupe, ridiculous rather than noble, comic rather than tragic. Similar factors undermine any drama in the story of Yellow Robe/ Revati. That episode would appear to have the most tragic elements, unfolding through the transgression of the boundaries between divine and human. The princess could even be interpreted as facing a double bind, between the demands of birth in a human family and the demands of being divine, a bind manifested in her ambivalence toward Yellow Robe and her own children. 15 C. T. Hsia even notes that the episode has the makings of a Hamlet myth. 16 The hand of fate, though, is never far behind. The episode concludes with Revati, returned to his proper form, saying, »Every bite and every sip is pre-ordained« (II: 95), a line which also appears in the conclusion of the story of the Black Rooster Kingdom (II: 228). Of course, conflicts with fate are a common – perhaps essential – element in tragedy, but the Journey to the West pushes this fatalism to such an extreme that any sort of human agency is lost. 17 15 When she cries for her murdered children, Monkey shames her into submission by pointing out how she has betrayed her parents: »Filial piety is the foundation of a hundred virtuous acts, the source of all morality. How could you entrust your body to be the mate of a monster-spirit and not think of your parents at all? Haven't you committed the crime of an unfilial act?« (II: 87–88) Bantley takes Monkey’s statement as a serious expression of the novel’s Confucian ideals, but that ignores the princess’s original divinity (Bantley, p. 517). Moreover, Monkey’s accusation of lack of filial piety is said as a criticism for her sorrow at the death of her own family in the form of her children, showing the multiple and conflicting binds in which she finds herself. 16 Hsia, p. 140. 17 For a subtle discussion of the interplay between fate and agency in tragedy, see David Farrell Krell, The Tragic Absolute: German Idealism and the Languishing of God (Bloo-

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The forces of fate go to the heart of agency itself. Once the Wood-Wolf Star has transgressed the boundary between divine and human, he cannot help but act monstrously. In one disturbing episode, Yellow Robe visits his father-in-law and attempts to appear as a normal human being, but later, while being entertained by dancing girls, he cannot resist grabbing one and taking a bite of her head (II: 70). 18 The agency of the princess is also undermined because she has no memory of her divine existence, truly lost to her self. Rather than portraying characters as agents making weighty decision under conditions of uncertainty and irreconcilable demands, they appear as mere moments in the unfolding of cosmic forces. This portrayal of human beings as blindly playing out other forces is what, following Bergson, shifts drama into comedy. It is precisely because Monkey can see the absurdity of human (and divine) action that he goes through life with a smile on his face. In this context, we can turn back to the status of compassion and the relationship between the reader and the text. One of the central conundrums in a philosophical understanding of Buddhism is how to reconcile compassion and non-attachment. As it so often does, the Journey to the West brings out this tension with sensitivity to both sides. We have seen Xuanzang state, »the fundamental principle of life for those who have left the family is compassion« (II: 211). On the other extreme, his disciples express such thoroughgoing non-attachment that they can laugh and joke as they crush crying children into »meat patties.« We have also seen an explanation for the difference between the two outlooks – when we identify with characters as individuals striving and suffering, we feel this compassion, but when we see them as momentary configurations in the endless playing out of cosmic forces, we become unattached. Explained in these terms, the novel appears to advocate the latter stance, which follows from seeing the world as it really is and corresponds to the attitude of the most clear-seeing character, Monkey. Thus C. T. Hsia takes the novel as a criticism of being »obsessed with love and compassion for phenomenal beings.« 19 Nonetheless, we cannot ignore the most brilliant aspect of the novel, its refusal of simple solutions. In this case, mington: Indiana University Press, 2005), particularly the chapter, »Voices of Empedocles,« pp. 210–249. 18 The text says more literally, »he could not bear to not act freely,« and his »vicious heart suddenly went forth« (my translation). 19 Hsia, p. 129.

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its ambivalence comes in the way the novel presents episodes from both of the above perspectives. Thus readers find themselves alternately drawn into concern for living characters and then stopped short when the overall absurdity of their situations intrude. More simply, the reader is alternately put in the position of Xuanzang and that of Monkey. C. T. Hsia describes this situation perfectly: Wu Cheng’en […] provides in episode after comic episode the illusion of mythical reality, but then inevitably exposes the falsehood of that reality in furtherance of his Buddhist comedy. Every time he kills off a fascinating monster or arbitrarily returns him to heaven, we are justified in feeling that he is mocking our emotional attachment to that monster. Like Tripitaka himself, we are too much creatures of the senses and of humanitarian sympathy to be able to adjust adequately to the Buddhist reality of emptiness. 20

We could take this technique as a tool for edification, repeatedly tearing us from our tendencies to become attached. In other words, the text helps free us from our attraction to tragedy by repeatedly revealing tragedy as comedy and by turning us into the objects of laughter ourselves. But it may not be so simple. The text could just as well show that neither the attachment that leads us so often to cry nor the non-attachment that could laugh at crushed children can be ultimately satisfying. Our ambivalence as readers may reflect not our inadequacy but rather the ambivalence of the conditions themselves. We can conclude with one more story, one that perhaps most beautifully captures the ambivalence toward either path. The episode comes late in the journey, while the pilgrims are traveling through thousands of miles of brambles. A tree spirit sweeps Xuanzang up and takes him to a small grove with flowing water and fragrant flowers. Xuanzang sits under a bright moon with some gentle spirits and they exchange poems. Even the severe Xuanzang seems seduced by the pleasure: »The elder, in gazing on this divine scenery, felt content, joyful, and thoroughly pleased.« 21 He cannot resist initiating a poem, which begins with praise of Buddhism (»The mind of chan seems like the dustless moon« (III: 229)), but when it comes his turn to complete the final lines, he turns to nature and sociality: Hsia, p. 148. My translation. Yu’s translation de-emphasizes Xuanzang’s pleasure: »Gladdened and comforted by such heavenly scenery« (III: 229). 20 21

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Ere the tea darkens as pine breezes sing, This gay mood of songs fills my heart with spring. (III: 230)

The encounter goes too far, though, when the beautiful spirit of an apricot tree joins in. She tries to seduce Xuanzang, who reacts with anger and panic. His disciples rescue him and when they find the trees, Pigsy takes his rake and destroys them. It is a brutal message of the austerities required by the Buddhist way pursued by Xuanzang. 22 The brief respite he finds after struggling through endless brambles proves itself to be a threat that must be eliminated. Yet the words of the Apricot Fairy linger: What’s the matter with you, charming guest? If you don’t have some fun on such a beautiful night, what else are you waiting for? The span of a life time, how long could that be? (III: 234)

I doubt the narrator misses the appeal of the statement, and he adds one detail that conveys some ambivalence: when Pigsy crushes the trees, blood wells up from the roots (III: 237). Of course, we cannot let the charms of the Apricot Fairy make us forget that a life of play in harmony with nature was how Monkey began: the insatiability of desires drove him eventually to rebel against Heaven and end up crushed under a mountain, imprisoned for five hundred years. This is part of the pessimism of the novel – no alternative works – but this pessimism should apply to Xuanzang’s absolute rejection of pleasure just as much as it does to pleasure itself. In the end, if the novel provides us with any consolation, it is in the fact that it remains a comedy; it has no »gloomy hue,« to take a phrase from Bergson. Perhaps the one answer the novel provides is no particular path but rather an attitude toward any path – don’t take it so seriously. Ultimately, our pursuits are ridiculous, but in our ridiculousness, at least we are kind of funny. 23

Zuyou Zhou takes the tone of this episode quite differently, as comic farce (Zhou, p. 78), which follows from taking it as focused narrowly on debate and philosophical discussion (with the brambles symbolizing discourse). The scope of the episode is broader, though, at least including an appreciation of nature and social intercourse. 23 This paper was greatly improved from suggestions made by Esther Park, as well as discussions with Robin Wang and general discussions of tragedy and comedy with Sean Kirkland. I am thankful for their insights. An earlier version of the paper was presented at the Académie du Midi and I am grateful for feedback from the audience there. 22

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»Why Do Birds Shit on Buddha’s Head?« Zen and Laughter

Zen Buddhist teaching is often purposefully offensive, shocking, and crude. Zen pedagogy is crafted to shock and surprise, either verbally or physically, by means of off-color language, a slap in the face or a kick in the shins. But whether the shock administered is physical or psychological, it is designed to alter the students’ way-of-being-in-the-world. The assumption, based on centuries of experience, is that most of us will continue to think and act much as we always have, in spite of Zen training, unless we are suddenly caught up short and catapulted to experience, think, and act differently. Zen pedagogy is designed to achieve this about-face through shouting, hitting, speaking paradoxically, or spouting irreverent phrases, or even nonsense. Any and all of these techniques can trigger an insight that is truly life-changing. The title of my paper is an actual, working Zen kōan. »Kōan study,« as Ruth Fuller Sasaki wrote, »is a unique method of religious practice which has as its aim the bringing of the student to direct, intuitive realization of Reality …« 1 It is the Rinzai school of Zen that most emphasizes kōan practice, although it is practiced in Sōtō Zen as well, albeit to a lesser extent. In both schools, proficiency at zazen, or meditation, is a necessary prerequisite for kōan practice. Kōans are puzzles, paradoxes to which no rational solutions are possible. But as many have pointed out, the paradox disappears when one approaches them from a different perspective than ordinary thinking provides. They are meant to paralyze the mind, to push incessant reliance on reasoning and logic to the side. Yet kōans are somehow resolved when a more advanced state of awareness is achieved. When this desired state of consciousness is reached, a student will respond to his or her kōan in a way that reveals this growth. The answer will testify to an awakening, to an Isshu Miura and Ruth Fuller Sasaki, The Zen Koan: Its History and Use in Rinzai Zen (a Helen and Kurt Wolff Book, Harcourt, Brace and World, Inc.: New York, 1965), p. x.

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advance over ordinary understanding. The ultimate aim is the achievement of a realization of the oneness of all things. So, why do birds shit on Buddha’s head? Because this kōan is irreverent, risqué and shocking, it was always the favorite of my students. In 1975, Yoel Hoffman translated a Japanese book written in 1916 that created a scandal among Zen Buddhist teachers when it appeared. His translation, with commentary, presumptuously entitled The Sound of the One Hand: 281 Zen Kōans with Answers, 2 provides a good insight into the sorts of puzzles that Zen masters continue to employ. With regard to the specific example of birds and the Buddha, the so-called acceptable answer to the kōan is »What the hell! Some damned bird shit on my head« 3. The commentary continues, »Saying this, the pupil makes a pretense of shaking it off his head.« None of the three major Western religions would find it acceptable to place the founder of their tradition in such peril. And perhaps that is the first characteristic to observe: (1) Zen rejects the otherworldliness and pretense of »holiness.« Zen is rooted in the soil and shit of this world, for all things have the same value as the allegedly holy, which other traditions hive off as special, sacred and sacrosanct. (2) Second, one of Zen’s chief aims is to upset dualistic thinking, together with the rational and value structures that arise from it. Flowers are sweet smelling and therefore good; shit is foul smelling and therefore bad. And yet, like a paradoxical kōan, shit is used to fertilize the growing flowers, among many other things. Now reflect upon the other value dichotomies in our cultural-set and ponder how many of them collapse in the same way: what is good is, in another context, problematic, and what is bad can actually turn out to be good. (3) The third insight that this initial kōan and its answer gives us is that all things are one and have equal standing. Shit is a part of the whole. Without shit, a normal fact of living, there is no living and no health; no birds, no Buddha, no us. And this profound insight is akin to the insight of the mystics’ vision; namely, the actual experiencing of the oneness of all things. The 10,000 things of the world are to be experienced as inextricable parts of an intrinsically valuable whole. But what I want to emphasize is that Hoffmann, and the Zen mas2 Yoel Hoffman, The Sound of the One Hand: 281 Zen Koans with Answers, (Basic Books, Inc.: New York, 1975). 3 Ibid., p. 76.

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ter who originally revealed the answers to 281 kōans, actually ought not to have elicited a worried response. Back in 1916, part of the purpose of the revelation was to smoke out the frauds, those teachers and alleged masters who had the power to authenticate enlightenment experiences and who themselves lacked insight and were turning Zen into a questionable business. Of course, that problem never goes away in any societal organization, including academic institutions, as we all know. But the delightful surprise in all of this is that you simply cannot supply the answer to a Zen kōan to someone else. You might memorize an answer, and an authentically enlightened master would kick you in the shins or slap you on the head. It is what you bring to your answer, as an expression of who you now are, that is being judged. You just can’t give away your answer because what the answer represents is the transformation of your own self, and that has to be sought and achieved by each and every individual, alone. The scandal is, in this sense, really a non-scandal! Conrad Hyers provides a Zen anecdote to fix this point. A Zen master lay dying. »His monks had all gathered around his bed, from the most senior to the most novice monk. The senior monk leaned over to ask the dying master if he had any final words of advice for his monks. The old master slowly opened his eyes and in a weak voice whispered. ›Tell them Truth is like a river.‹ The senior monk passed on this bit of wisdom in turn to the monk next to him, and it circulated around the room from one monk to another. When the words reached the youngest monk he asked, »What does he mean, ›Truth is like a river?‹ The question was passed back around the room to the senior monk who leaned over the bed and asked, ›Master, what do you mean, »Truth is like a river?«‹ Slowly the master opened his eyes and in a weak voice whispered, ›O.K., Truth is not like a river.‹« 4 Fundamentally, Zen does not give »truths,« but elicits truth from within the student. Don’t look at the finger, look at the moon; don’t mistake the words and theories for reality. Look within. Zen is engaged in midwifery, many have noted, and like Socrates, the goal is to make what is unconscious conscious; to assist in giving birth to the awareness of non-duality, and we are back to mysticism again. But don’t bother getting ready to jump all over me for asserting an identity between Zen Conrad Hyers, »Humor in Zen: Comic midwifery,« Philosophy East and West (Vol. 39, no. 3 [July, 1989, pp. 267–77]), p. 6

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and mysticism, for I am going to partially take it back at the end of my talk. Think of it as a paradoxical take on Zen! There are no final words that in themselves transfer enlightenment from one person to another. A phrase or sound might well serve to awaken another, but the experience itself is non-transferable. So the master laughs at and with his monks by showing them that Zen is not about words. Zen is a wordless transmission, a transmission without scripture or creed or collection of ethical and religious commandments. As with Kashapya at the Buddha’s flower sermon, the showing of the flower and the slight smile jogged Kashapya into a realization echoing that of the Buddha’s, and the corresponding smile on his face confirmed that he understood. However, without the direct experience, it is best not to smile artificially when being interviewed by a Zen master (else a kick in the shins or slap on the head might follow). Hyers writes that Zen humor can jolt one »into moving beyond the boxes and labels within which one hopes to capture and incarcerate reality«. 5 One is encouraged to see »the absurdity in trying to grasp after and cling to reality by means of this or that philosophical position« 6. The surprise that a joke provides »breaks down the categories with which we would divide up experience into such dualities as sacred and profane, sublime and ordinary, beauty and ugliness, and even nirvana and samsara« 7. Like contemporary deconstruction, the reversal of status regularly creates a sufficient shift in ordinary thinking to bring about a revolution in the hierarchy of privilege, and an over-turning of values. Hyers recalls that a monk »once asked Sozen, ›What is the most prized thing in all the world?‹ Sozan answered, ›A dead cat.‹ The surprised monk exclaimed, ›Why is a dead cat to be prized at all?‹ Sozan replied, ›Because no one thinks of its value’«. 8 The entire valuation structure of the discriminating mind is being questioned. Shock and surprise is used to assist in such reevaluation. A Zen mondo asked »Where is the Buddha now?« and instead of responding that the Buddha is in Nirvana, or some such, the answer given is »The Buddha is taking a shit!« 9 In order to safeguard this lecture from becoming solely scatologi5 6 7 8 9

Ibid. Ibid. Ibid., p. 7. Ibid. Ibid., p. 6.

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cal, let me turn to haiku poetry. As with a haiku poem, which is a snapshot of this very moment – ichigo, ichi-e – one time, one place – Zen kōans insist on an immediate response from one’s gut (i. e., one not mediated by reflection or logical deduction). There will never again be a time like this, even if what you are thinking is »will he be through soon?« Like cherry blossoms as symbols of impermanence, even birds and Buddhas offer us a moment never to be repeated in just this way, to be treasured and laughed at heartily as a result. Let nothing go by without taking it in fully, and then laugh about it as you wipe off the result. Years ago, I came upon a filmed conversation between my friend and colleague, Huston Smith, and the great Zen scholar Daisetz T. Suzuki. 10 In the interview, Suzuki concludes his account of Zen by referring to the painting of the Zen monk laughing at the moon. Dr. Suzuki said of the painting that it made abundantly clear that the Zen man’s laughter was so robust that it traveled many miles, and could be heard at a distant monastery a considerable distance away. He then added that Zen laughter even shakes the moon and the universe itself! The film closes with Suzuki gently laughing at this unexpected claim that Zen laughter reaches all the way to the moon and infinitely beyond. Yet, given some of what we know about Zen, while the claim is amusing because it is counterintuitive, it is, in fact, quite accurate. Korean Zen Master Seung Sahn writes that the »›I‹ is part of universal substance. Your substance, this desk’s substance, this stick’s substance, the sun, the moon, the stars – everything’s substance is the same substance. So if you want to understand your true nature, first you must attain your original substance. This means attaining universal substance and the substance of everything.« 11 And this finally brings us to mysticism. Mysticism is the experience of the oneness of all things. My first philosophy teacher, George B. Burch, urged that there are three types of experience; empirical, rational, and mystical. Seeing a house is an empirical experience; seeing the truth of the Pythagorean Theorem is a rational experience; and seeing the oneness of all things is a mystical experience. One who cannot see a house is blind; and one who cannot «An Interview with D. T.Suzuki by Huston Smith« (NBC, 1958). Seung Sahn, The Compass of Zen (Boston & London: Shambhala Publications, Inc., 1997), p. 207. I take it that »substance« is here used not to re-substantialize Buddhism, but only as a term to point out that all things come from and are of the same universal »stuff.« 10 11

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see the truth of the Pythagorean theorem is mentally challenged; and one who cannot see the oneness of all things is … normal. The mystic goes beyond normality, although his or her experience is open to anyone who takes on the journey to enlightenment. Ueda Shizuteru argues that while Zen includes the mystical, it goes beyond it by becoming »non-mysticism.« Non-mysticism, while not just mysticism, nevertheless includes mysticism in a relationship that Ueda insists is dynamic; the mystical foundation of non-mysticism continues to inform and affect non-mysticism, and non-mysticism continues to affect mysticism. What characterizes non-mysticism is twofold. First, something spiritual arises in the experience of the mutually interactive relationship between mysticism and non-mysticism. It is a different spirituality from the more somber spirituality of mysticism. Instead, it is embedded in the soil of the everyday. Laughter, even a zany craziness, can be a part of the Zen life. Second, the non-mystic’s experience of the oneness of all things takes us beyond the »things,« beyond God, and even beyond Being, to non-being, nothingness, mu. It is as though a hole opens, and this empty hole or opening leads infinitely beyond. Absolute nothingness is not a thing in any sense, but more like an infinitely expanding and extending process or pathway. Non-mysticism is the disembodiment of mysticism (Bret Davis terms it »de-mysticism«) 12. Nothingness is an aperture or process that leads to an experience of impermanence as the only reality, with infinite flow as the only stability. As Varela writes, »It is no ground whatsoever; it cannot be grasped as ground, reference point, or nest for a sense of ego. It does not exist – nor does it not exist. It cannot be an object of mind or of the conceptualizing process; it cannot be seen, heard, or thought of. … When the conceptual mind tries to grasp it, it finds nothing, and so it experiences it as emptiness. It can be known (and can only be known) directly« 13. That is to say, it can be located in the experience of an Eckhart, or in the non-mysticism of Nishida or Ueda. And yet Zen is ever paradoxical, because once one experiences the oneness of all things as pure nothingness – that is to say, when all disBret W. Davis, »Letting Go of God for the Sake of Nothing: Ueda Shizuteru’s NonMysticism and the Question of Ethics in Zen Buddhism,« p. 2. Unpublished manuscript (9. 2007). 13 Francisco J. Varela, Ethical Know-How: Action, Wisdom, and Cognition (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1992), p. 68. 12

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tinctions disappear and there is only the one(ness) of nothingness without the many – then nothingness, too, must be let go of so that we not make of it a thing. Then the world reappears once more with a renewed brilliance and pin-point sharpness, and each thing now self-manifests with an even more intense distinctness. Those familiar with the Ten Ox herding Pictures will recognize this as the move from picture eight, of the empty circle as mu, to picture nine as filled with brilliant blossoms, rushing water, rocks and grass, all with a new intense brilliance. The enlightened individual sees both of these stages at once, having acquired a kind of stereoscopic vision or becoming accustomed to a double exposure in seeing. Nishida Kitarō uses the metaphor of the kimono, which hangs as beautifully as it does on the wearer because of an unseen lining deftly sewn in by a skilled seamstress or tailor. A well-tailored garment is recognizable because of the way it hangs and keeps its shape. Likewise, all things that exist are formed as they are, and yet their very form is a manifestation of nothingness, and this nothingness can be discerned in each and every existing thing by those who can see it. D. T. Suzuki expresses this radical change of perspective with great clarity. He tells us that from a practical standpoint, satori »means the unfolding of a new world hitherto unperceived in the confusion of a dualistically-trained mind … the old world for those who have gained a satori is no more the old world as it used to be.« 14 In Zen, the mountains are first lost in nothingness, and then regained, but now even more brilliantly, as the form of nothingness itself. One is now not attached to the world; one simply experiences it, not clinging to it, knowing that it represents a reality far greater. One greets each and every thing and each and every one in their suchness. They and we just are. Nothing is more real than each and every thing, each and every moment, and each and every person. Just look more deeply. The world and everything in it exists without a »why«. They and we just are. The mystery of our own existence, which we take so very seriously, should cause us to pause and then to laugh at the projects, purposes, regulations, wars and environmental degradation we have wrought in the names of progress and bottom-line thinking. It does make Zen »craziness« look remarkably sane by contrast. And perhaps this laughter is, as Conrad Hyers suggests, not just the regaining of the 14 D. T. Suzuki, Essays in Zen Buddhism (First Series), (London: Rider and Company, 1970), p. 230.

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innocent laughter of childhood, although it includes this, but the »laughter of maturity,« the laughter of »one who has passed through Paradise-lost, who has known alienation and anxiety, but who has come out on the other side that is identified in myth as Paradise-regained.« 15 It represents freedom from grasping, clinging, the fear of death, and the relentless seeking and fearful protecting of a self that has not been there all along. For the first time, we are free to laugh at the construction that is our self and our world. Zen training softens our normally rigid attitudes and perspectives and enables us to both appreciate life more and, at the same time, not cling to it and be able to laugh at it. It is a »carefree laughter that transcends the rational categories with which [we] … would coerce the world,« 16 rendering us free to experience the wonder of being alive apart from the grasping, clinging, worry and fear that can so easily permeate our short time on this earth. It is a carefree laughter which expresses a willingness to romp with the butterflies, to sway with the bamboo, and to bloom with the flowers. No doubt that is the inner meaning of the response of a monk who was kicked by his master: »immediately … [he was] enlightened, got up, and began clapping his hands and laughing.« 17 When he was asked about his response, he replied »since the master kicked me, I have not been able to stop laughing.« 18 Perhaps that is the ideal image of Zen enlightenment: to be able to laugh one’s way through life, free to take on sorrow and pain, yet able to rise above it with strength and a suitable sense of proportion. M. Conrad Hyers, »The Ancient Zen Master as Clown-Figure and Comic Midwife, Philosophy East and West (Vol. 20, 1970. 10), pp. 3–18), p. 17. 16 Ibid., p. 18. 17 Ibid., p. 17. 18 Ibid. Laughter is itself an instance of pure experience – experience without »the least addition of deliberative discrimination,« as in »the moment of seeing a color or hearing a sound,« as Nishida Kitarō described it (Nishida Kitarō, An Inquiry into the Good, Masao Abe and Christopher Ives, trs. [New Haven and London: Yale University Press, p. 3.]) Pure experience is an immediate response prior to any and all distinctions, and while laughter can be a calculated response, or used to intentionally harm or offend, we all recognize a laughter which is spontaneous, a heartfelt bubbling-up from within. In the context of Zen, it could be a pure experience as an immediate reaction to the pure experience of enlightenment itself. Such laughter would be a spontaneous reaction, like a gasp in the face of something horrible or threatening, but instead an expression of delight and surprise rather than fear and loathing. It is to realize in an instant what one has sought for decades: this is it, now, and all at once. 15

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»Why Do Birds Shit on Buddha’s Head?«

Life itself, after all, is a Zen kōan. We laugh in the midst of crying, and we cry oftentimes as we laugh. Nishida Kitarō taught that we live by dying and die by living. It is just such paradoxes as these that Zen philosophy requires in order to even come close to a description of reality as we actually experience and live it. Our language, by necessity, strips down the richness of experience isolating one or two of the more prominent aspects of this richness, and by-passing the rest. Nishida urged that we come closer to describing lived experience by speaking self-contradictorily. The »identity of self-contradiction,« or »self-contradictory identity« that he wrote of better captures the fullness and paradoxicality of lived experience. 19 The logic of soku-hi (best translated as »and yet«) reminds us that an experience is arguably this, and yet it is, at the same time, that. It is by living the kōan of dying that we both recognize that each day of life brings us closer to death: and yet it is by robustly living each day to the fullest that we die by living. 20 Joy in the midst of dying is made all the more intense through the recognition that each day could be our last – living in the face of death; and yet to treasure the moment, the day, may actually diminish our fear of dying by living so fully all along the way. And this is certainly something to be happy about, and even to laugh about.

19 See Nishida Kitarō, Last Writings: Nothingness and the Religious Worldview, tr. with an Introduction by David A. Dilworth (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1987), pp. 77, 87, 66. See also Nishida’s essay »The Unity of Opposites« in Intelligibility and the Philosophy of Nothingness, tr. and introduced by Robert Schinzinger (Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood Press, Publishers, 1958.) Readers might also find useful my chapter on »Self Contradictory Identity« in Robert E. Carter, The Nothingness Beyond God: An Introduction to the Philosophy of Nishida Kitarō, 2nd ed. (St. Paul, Minnesota: Paragon House, 1997), pp. 58–80. 20 Ibid., p. 130. Dilworth writes, in his essay on Nishida’s logic, that the »paradoxical mode reduces to the basic predicative structure of »is and yet is not.«

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What is There to Laugh about in Buddhism?

Introduction Buddhism is considered to be a somewhat pessimistic religion. Its basic teachings begin with the »Four Noble Truths«, the first of which says that life is suffering – old age, disease and death. This is not a particularly joyful outlook on life, and one wonders whether there is anything to laugh about at all in Buddhism – if not the mad laughter of desperation. But that is not what the Buddha envisaged as a consequence of his first noble truth. He taught that there are reasons for suffering – human desires of various kinds – and that there is a way out of it: following the Eightfold Path; that is, a combination of proper moral behaviour and right contemplation, in order to be released from samsara, the cycle of rebirth. Considering these fundamentals, Buddhists were not supposed to laugh. From fourth century India, we have a classification of laughter into six classes, ranging from a very faint smile (not showing the teeth) to uproarious laughter with slapping the thighs and rolling around. Needless to say, a Buddha was only to indulge in the first kind, called sita. And even monks were only supposed – if at all – to show smiles of the second category which barely reveals the tips of the teeth. 1 As it happened, Chan- or Zen-Buddhism – the most important school of Buddhism in China – is said to have started with a smile. At a sermon, Buddha once held up a flower without saying anything; only one of his disciples, Kasyapa, responded with a smile – this way show-

Conrad M. Hyers, Zen and the Comic Spirit. London: Rider, 1974, p. 34; Michel Clasquin, »Real Buddhas Don't Laugh: Attitudes towards Humour and Laughter in Ancient India and China.« Social Identities, 2001, Vol. 7, Nr. 1, p. 98.

1

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ing that he fully understood reality as it is in this very moment. 2 Because of his smile in this so-called Flower Sermon, he later was considered to be the first patriarch of the Chan-Sect, the school of wordless understanding. But smiles are not laughs. In the course of Buddhism reaching China, there is a notable development: In marked contrast to its earlier history in India, we begin to encounter laughter – at least occasionally. I will try to exemplify this in the following areas: 1. The story of the Three Laughs at Tiger Creek, involving Huiyuan, the founder of the White Lotus Society of early Chinese Buddhism. 2. The laughter of the alleged Chan disciple Hanshan (Cold Mountain) in the Tang period. 3. The appearance and popularity of the Laughing Buddha in Chinese iconography. Instead of venturing into a general (and probably boring) phenomenology of laughter, I will conclude in a fourth part by referring to modern literature: a book entitled The Laughing Sutra by Mark Salzman (famed author of Iron and Silk). Here, I will not deal with Chinese religious, cultural or art history, but with a piece of fiction, not even by a Chinese but an American author. And yet, as I hope to show, in Salzman’s treatment of laughter in his very funny book (modelled after the famous Chinese classical – and comical – novel Journey to the West), he hits on the head in what laughter in Buddhism – as true laughter of liberation – might be all about.

1.

Huiyuan and »Three Laughs at Tiger Creek«

Huiyuan (334–416) is one of the great early figures in Chinese Buddhism. He resided in the Donglin-Monastery on Mount Lu in southern China and was the founder of the so-called White Lotus Society, which is considered to be the origin of Pure Land Buddhism. 3 Huiyuan was said to have had contact with some interesting literati figures of his time, in particular with the famous field and garden poet Tao Yuanming What has been rendered in Buddhist terminology as »thusness« or »suchness« (sans.: tathata; chin.: zhenru. 3 Its main practice was worship of Amitabha-Buddha in order to be reborn in his Western Paradise. 2

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(365–417) who lived not far from Lushan. Now the story goes that one day Huiyuan was hosting Tao Yuanming as well as a Daoist Priest called Lu Xiujing (406–477). When he sent his guests off, they were approaching a bridge over a creek called Tiger Creek (Huxi). When Huiyuan had entered the monastery, he had made a vow never to leave the precepts of the monastery which ended at Tiger Creek. But on this occasion, the three gentlemen were so engrossed in their talk about Buddhism, Daoism and Confucianism that they didn’t realize they had crossed the bridge. After they noticed where they had gone, the three of them broke out in roaring laughter. 4 The story is most likely not a true story (if the dates of the persons involved are correct, Lu Xiujing would have been ten years old when Huiyuan died), but even if so, it has been ingeniously invented in order to illustrate important points. 5 For this reason the story has often been depicted by painters. In Japan, it has been turned into a No play. 6 What is there to laugh about for Huiyuan as the only Buddhist among the three gentlemen? Having noticed that, because of a lively talk with friends, he had broken his own rule, he must have realized that even solemn vows do not matter in the face of true human feelings of friendship. To explain it in Buddhist terms, also rules and vows are empty (sunya), and it would be just another way of attachment to give them more weight than necessary. Hence the laughter stands for a freedom from rules and regulations and insight into one’s own limitations. Furthermore, according to traditional reading, the meaning of the story is to show the limitations of each of the teachings the three men are standing for: Huiyuan for Buddhism, Lu Xiujing for Daoism and Tao Yuanming for Confucianism (I don’t know if the latter would have One variation of the story has it, that a tiger, as the guardian of Donglin-Temple, gave a roar, and that they realized at this point that they were on the way of going too far, also resulting in their laughter. 5 One of the earliest sources of the story is a poem by the Tang Buddhist painter-poet Guanxiu (Quan Tang shi, j. 846, p. 9420). 6 Unfortunately, the paintings of the story by famous Chinese artists of the past are all lost, among others: Shi Ke, Li Gonglin, Li Tang, Muxi etc. See John Calvin Ferguson, »Stories in Chinese Painting.« Journal of the North China Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society, Vol. LXI (1930), p. 50–51 (http://libweb.uoregon.edu/ec/e-asia/read/ 00paintstory.pdf). According to Japanese sources, there are over 60 paintings of this story by 32 Zen monks. Leo Shing Chi Yip, Reinventing China: Cultural adaptation in Medieval Japanese No Theatre. Ph.D. Dissertation, Ohio State University, 2004, p. 244. 4

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liked this classification if he had known). Even more so, their laughter implies the unity of the three schools. Su Dongpo (1037–1101) expressed exactly this insight in the following poem written as a colophon on a painting of the story (San xiao tu): The three gentlemen: In gaining the idea, words are forgotten. Instead they utter a stifled laugh In their natural pleasure. […] What do any of you know? And yet you are laughing. In the complexity of all life What is despicable? What is admirable? Each laughs his laugh – I don’t know which one is superior. 7

In their laughter, the three show their wordless understanding of the underlying common ideas of their teachings. This insight is conveyed at the beginning of the poem by an allusion to a well known passage of Zhuangzi in which he compares ideas or meaning (yi) and their expression in words (yan) with fish-traps and fish: Once one has got the fish – the idea (of the fundamental unity of the three teachings) – one can forget about the traps – the words (of the respective teaching). Hence, in the end, there remains only laughter; it is the great equalizer uniting the three and their respective teachings, and it would be senseless to ask, as Su Dongpo points out at the end of the poem, which laughter is superior to any of the other.

2.

Hanshan

Hanshan gives us another example to look at laughter in Buddhism. He, or rather his poetry, at least in the eyes of many Westerners, is regarded as the quintessence of Chan (Zen-) poetry, and hence he has become somewhat of a cult figure in the West. Historically, though, he is an elusive figure. We hardly know any certain dates or facts (he might have been a man of the 7th century); and a lot of what has been written about him since his rediscovery in the early 20th century, are scholarly 7

Leo Shing Chi Yip, p. 241. Su Dongpo quanji, II, p. 303.

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conjectures, only adding to the puzzle of his life. But we do have a corpus of about 300 poems attached to his name, together with a preface by an alleged Tang official, Lüqiu Yin (prefect of the Taizhou County), all of which has been transmitted since Song times and is included in the collection of the Complete Tang Poems (Quan Tang shi) 8. First of all, Hanshan appears having been neither a follower of Chan, nor a monk. According to the preface to his collection, he lived in the Tiantai-Mountains of today Zhejiang Province near the Guoqing-Monastery which was the main temple of the Tiantai sect of Buddhism. What we can gather from the few sources suggests that he might have been a lay Buddhist living as a hermit on a mountain called »Cold Mountain« with loose contact to the Guoqing-Monastery, being friends with another lay Buddhist disciple working there in the kitchen by the name of Shide (»foundling«) 9. Hanshan is supposed to have written his poetry on cliffs and walls, and we find in them occasional laughter, but most of all, it is the description of his (and his friend Shide’s) excentric behaviour in the mentioned preface, that made him famous as a »laughing Zen-Buddhist«, resulting in many depictions of him (and Shide) in roaring laughter. Let us just quote the relevant passages and then try to understand his laughter. According to the preface, this is what Lüqiu Yin heard about Hanshan: Sometimes Hanshan would stroll for hours in a long corridor of the monastery, cry cheerfully, laugh or speak to himself. When he was taken to task or driven away by some of the monks armed with sticks, he would afterwards stand still and laugh, clapping his hands and then disappear. His appearance resembled that of an emaciated beggar, but every word he uttered was pithy, meaningful and inspiring. […] Hanshan used to sing along in the long corridors of the monastery: »Oh! Oh! The transmigration among the three realms« 10. Other times he would sing and laugh with the cowherds in the neighbouring villages. 11

Before setting out to the Guoqing-Monastery, Lüqiu Yin, looking for help, approached a Chan-Master by the name of Fenggan 12 who recomQuan Tang shi, j. 806, p. 9063–9102. There are also about 50 poems ascribed to Shide in Quan Tang shi, j. 807, p. 9103– 9109. 10 Sansk.: Triloka 1) world of desire, 2) world of form, 3) formless world. 11 Wu Chi-yu, »A Study of Han-shan«, T'oung-Pao, 45 (1957), p. 410–413. 12 Fenggan is said to have »picked up« Shide as a child. 8 9

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mended Hanshan and Shide. Although they would appear as beggars and behave like madmen, they were, as he said, reincarnations of two famous Bodhisattvas (Manjusri and Samantabhadra). When Lüqiu Yin arrived at the Guoqing-Monastery, he saw Hanshan and Shide in the kitchen in front of the stove roaring with laughter. When he bowed to the two of them, they cheered, holding hands and rolled over laughing. Then they said: »Fenggan has a long tongue. You did not recognize Amitabha at sight, why are you making obeisance to us now?» 13 Afterwards they disappeared towards Cold Mountain. Lüqiu Yin’s story ends similarly to Tao Yuanming’s story of the Peach-blossom Spring: He sent somebody off to offer presents to them, but they had disappeared, not to be found again. He then had people gathering their poems written on rocks, bamboo or walls in the nearby villages and edited them. Here, we are not concerned with questions of scholarship about the authenticity of the preface, poems and persons, but only with the history of reception of Hanshan who, particularly with his laughter, came to represent a certain attitude in Buddhism. And yet, if we would want to know from the transmitted story why Hanshan laughed or what his laughter was about, we would be hard pressed to come up with a convincing answer. For Hanshan and Shide appear to break out in laughter without any reason. Theirs is a seemingly wild and nonsensical laughter. In this trait we have something prefigured which will later become popular in Chan or Zen stories: Chan masters acting like clowns or fools, showing apparently mad or lunatic behaviour in response to questions of disciples, which, however, as a »teaching device« (upaya) 14, was apt to bring disciples, stuck in their square ways, to enlightenment. The following poem by Hanshan might exemplify his laughter further: In the house east of here lives an old woman. Three or four years ago, she got rich. In the old days she was poorer than I; Now she laughs at me for not having a penny. She laughs at me for being behind; 13 According to the legends, Fenggan was supposed to be an incarnation of Amitabha. There are two poems ascribed to Fenggan in Quan Tang shi, j. 807, p. 9109–9110. 14 Clasquin, »Real Buddhas Don't Laugh«, p. 99 (see footnote 1).

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I laugh at her for getting ahead. We laugh as though we’d never stop: She from the east and I from the west! 15

In contrast to the laughter of the three gentlemen in the first story (equalizing the three teachings), Hanshan’s and the old woman’s laughter is nonsensical: laughing at one for getting ahead, and at the other for being behind, for being rich and for being poor – from the higher Buddhist perspective of non-duality, both positions, as manifestations of duality, are empty and meaningless and hence only laughable. Hanshan’s laughter can be interpreted as laughter of disrespect and iconoclasm: It is an anarchic laughter, ridiculing the traditions as well as the rules and hierarchies not only of society but also of the monks and thus of the Buddhist cleric order (the sanga). One might even say that he is laughing at us as his onlookers across the ages. It is just those traits that – more than a thousand years later – have made Hanshan a cult figure of Western counter culture. In the fifties of last century, Hanshan was discovered by rebellious poets and artists of the American Beat Generation, who used Zen as a means to »glorify their own anarchical individualism«. 16 Through the example of Hanshan, we encounter for the modern age a reception of Zen as anti-establishment behaviour; in other words, Zen (mis-?) understood as a pre-modern freewheeling lifestyle option or as an Eastern version of European early modern Dada nonsense-performance.

3.

The Laughing Buddha

One of the most noticeable figures in Buddhist temples is that of Maitreya (chin.: Milefo). In the Mahayana tradition, which became dominant in China, Korea and Japan, he is usually understood as a Bodhisattva who – as a successor of the historic Gautama Buddha – is to 15 Burton Watson (transl), Cold Mountain. 100 Poems by the T'ang Poet Han-shan, New York: Grove Press, 1962, p. 41. 16 Umberto Eco, »Zen und der Westen« in Umberto Eco, Das offenen Kunstwerk, Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1973, p. 215. Among the authors of the Beat Generation, it were most of all Gary Snyder and Jack Keruac who referred Hanshan. Snyder translated a selection of Hanshan’s poems into English. In Jack Keruac’s novel The Dharma Bums (1958), which is dedicated to Hanshan, Snyder is the main protagonist (under the guise of Japhy Ryder).

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appear on earth, achieve complete enlightenment, and teach the pure Dharma for the salvation of everyone. Hence, he is the Coming Buddha. Because of this messianic expectation about Maitreya, there have been various Maitreya sects and religiously motivated uprisings in Chinese history. So-called Maitreyan rebellions wanted to eradicate the demons of the past and create instead a future Buddha world. Also, there have been a few people throughout history claiming that they were incarnations of Maitreya, not only in China but also in the West: from the Tang-Empress Wu to L. Ron Hubbard of Scientology – certainly also worth a laugh. There has been, however, an important iconographic change from Maitreya as a slender looking and wisely smiling Bodhisattva in the Indian Buddhist tradition to the way Maitreya became depicted in China: as the fat bellied Laughing Buddha. The origin of the image of the Laughing Buddha is not quite clear; attempts to unravel its history have brought different solutions. One theory has it that it originates with one of the so-called Luohan-figures of which there is a famous depiction by the Tang painter Guanxiu: the Sixteen Luohans. The 13th of those sixteen, called Angida (Yinjietuo), is said to be the origin – or another incarnation – of the Laughing Buddha. Another theory suggests that the Laughing Buddha evolved out of a well-known Liang-Dynasty monk who carried a linen sac on a stick over his shoulder; hence he was called monk Budai (»linen sac«), and he was considered to be the incarnation of Maitreya. One also finds a view of a combination of the two, that is, Budai is a reincarnation of the 13th Luohan and so on. Be that as it may, the origin of the image is a puzzle that might never be satisfactorily solved and will thus not concern us further. Our interest is rather on what the image of the Laughing Buddha signifies. First of all, it has been pointed out that his big belly signifies a big heart, that is, limitless tolerance and generosity 17. That’s why one often sees the Laughing Buddha with children playing all over him. Second, his laughter is a happy laughter. This means the Laughing Buddha of the coming ages will bring future happiness – however not in the form of a rebirth in Western Paradise (as it is believed in Pure-LandBuddhism), but in this life: His laughter promises the good life here and now: enough food (big belly) and many children. 17

http://www.taoism.net/living/1999/199907.htm

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For this reason, it is not surprising to find the image of the Laughing Buddha in a prominent position when entering a Buddhist temple in China. A sculpture of Milefo, as the Chinese call him, is usually the first sight in the first temple hall, that of the Heavenly Kings. Finally, we encounter in the iconographic history a change similar to that of Bodhisattva Avalokiteshvara who turned from a male figure in India to a female one in China, the Goddess of mercy, Guanyin, thus suiting the needs of the common people (very much like the worship of the Virgin Mary in the Catholic Christian tradition) 18. In the iconography of Maitreya, we have, likewise, a shift from an image transcending earthly life in India to a figure accepting this very life on earth in China. This is very much in accord with the adaptation of Buddhism to Chinese priorities, to a Confucian oriented optimistic and worldly outlook on life, also suiting the needs of the common people. Hence, the message of Milefo’s laughter to the followers of Buddhism in China seems to be: Buddhist teaching is not that pessimistic, after all.

4.

Laughing Sutra

The examples thus far have illustrated that – at least in the Chinese tradition – there was room for laughter in Buddhism: laughter over one’s own limitations and follies, anarchic laughter of disrespect and finally optimistic laughter of worldly happiness. Neither one of those is a true laughter of liberation. Let us now turn to Mark Salzman’s The Laughing Sutra, in order to see whether Buddhism also has this to offer. Salzman models his book along the well-known Chinese classical novel Journey to the West. This novel deals with the Tang monk Xuanzang’s journey to India in order to get the holy Buddhist scriptures that he then translates into Chinese. The story is known outside of China also because of one of the participants of the journey: the Monkey King, Sun Wukung (the name meaning »awakening to emptiness«). On their way, the group of five pilgrims (there are 3 more figures accompanying them) has to brave many dangers, ward off quite a few demons, experience many adventures and encounter a lot of strange and comic happen-

18 Chun-fang Yu, Kuan-yin, The Chinese Transformation of Avalokitesvara, Columbia University Press, New York, 2001.

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ings in foreign lands. In the end, the story can be understood as a journey toward enlightenment. The Laughing Sutra combines its story thread with that of the Journey to the West. It unfolds in the modern period around an old monk by the name of Wei-ching (guardian of the scriptures) who has heard of a long forgotten sutra that Xuanzang was also supposed to have brought back from India: A scroll so precious that whoever understood its message would instantly perceive his Buddha-nature, and – this was the remarkable part – achieve physical immortality as well. 19

The content of this sutra is said to be based on a private sermon Gautama Buddha was supposed to have given to one of his most talented disciples: In that sermon, Buddha described the formless, chaotic nature of existence. He insisted that the human situation is utterly hopeless, the universe un¡knowable, and our individual souls mere illusions. When the disciple heard this, he tumbled into fathomless despair. In that moment of total surrender, he directly perceived that he had been enlightened and immortal from the very beginning, and dissolved into laughter so profound and free from delusion that even the stones around him shook in sympathy. 20

It was said that because of a misinterpretation of the disciple’s laughter – it was taken as laughter of disrespect towards the Buddha (taking him for a fool) – the sutra never became popular and both sutra and the disciple had fallen into oblivion. For some strange reason (which we will not go into here) the last extant scroll of this sutra is supposed to be in the USA, and Wei-ching is fortunate to find a young disciple, named Hsun-ching (»seeker of scriptures«), to travel to America in order to get this important scripture and bring it back to China. Hence, Salzman’s story is just another »journey to the West« in order to get scriptures. He is accompanied on this trip by a fierce looking mythic and martial figure, Colonel Sun, who is nobody else but the Monkey King, Sun Wukong, only in another appearance. The two of them also brave many adventures, journeying in the 1970s from southern China over the heavily guarded Hong Kong bor19 20

Mark Salzman, The Laughing Sutra. New York: Knopf Publishing, 1992, p. 11. Ibid.

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der into the territory and then travelling by ship to San Francisco. Particularly in the USA (but also in Hong Kong), there are numbers of slapstick encounters of cultural difference between China and the West (which also make his book Iron and Silk a wonderful reading). Hsun-ching manages to get the Laughing Sutra and succeeds – with difficulties as an »illegal alien from China« – to return from Hong Kong to China (»probably the only man in the world trying to defect back to China«). There he is caught by the police and faces charges of anti-party and counterrevolutionary activities. He agrees to cooperate with the official propaganda bureau and a friendly party cadre allows him to bring the scroll to the ailing Wei-ching before it should be (as a document stolen from China) returned to a museum. Before meeting Wei-ching, Hsun-chin opens the scroll and tries to read it himself, but he cannot make much sense out of it because of its special language. But then he discovers a postscript colophon at the bottom by the famous Tang monk Xuanzang: This unworthy monk presents this scroll to the fearsome Dragon Throne as an example of the sort of corrupted texts which are now becoming popular both in China and in India. While the sutra begins properly, noting that all ignorance, and therefore all suffer¡ing, springs from our attachments to the illusory realm of the senses, it then diverges from the Path. It suggests that spiritual disciplines are just as deluded and illusory as material attach¡ments.

Buddha was supposed to have this message, which is certainly in accord with the orthodox Buddhist teaching of emptiness, revealed to one of his most fervent disciples. But when the disciple heard Buddha’s explanation, he did not respond in an appropriate or orthodox way, he rather flung himself wholeheartedly into all sorts of depravity. »By doing so, he supposedly lost his appetite for it, like a guest at a banquet who overeats until he vomits and then no longer wishes to eat any more.« Xuanzang concludes in his colophon: Having thus momentarily freed himself from desire, the disciple suddenly realized that his own desire for enlightenment was, in reality, no different from a greedy man’s desire for wealth and fame. When he understood the unity of all desire, he became enlightened and laughed very hard.

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While this anecdote sounds attractive, it cannot be true. It is well known from experience that the more depraved a man is, the more depraved he wishes to become; moreover, the depraved man often erroneously believes that he is experiencing great pleasure while indulging in lustful excesses. This is, of course, false plea¡sure and not useful to us in our search for Truth. We must avoid false pleasure at all costs, and must condemn literature of this type as worthless. 21

With other words, according to the authority of Xuanzang, the sutra is a fake and completely useless. But as he had promised to show it to Weiching, Hsun-ching removes the colophon and visits Wei-ching in the hospital. Wei-ching is moved to tears that after his adventurous journey Hsun-ching managed to return the scroll to him and eagerly begins to read: Hsun-ching, meanwhile, sat by the bed and smiled to himself. He was smiling because he knew Wei-ching would not have to endure the agony of reading the damning colophon; he had cut it off with a pocketknife and thrown it into a panda-shaped trash bin. It took Wei-ching nearly an hour to finish. When he came to the end, he let the sutra fall back on his chest. A look of sadness passed over his face, then he closed his eyes. Hsun-ching thought the old man was about to cry, but then he thrust his toothless jaw forward and, with great effort, sat up in bed. He rolled the sutra up and handed it back to Hsunching. »I am ashamed and very sorry to tell you this. This sutra has no value whatsoever. It contains nothing but superstitious nonsense. And I am deeply shocked that Xuanzang did not realize this when he translated it for the emperor. Perhaps he was a better traveler than scholar.« 22

Wei-ching thus understands without the help of Xuanzang’s postscript that the sutra is a fake. Hence all of Hsun-ching’s endeavours and journey to the West appear to be in vain: »What a mess.« But then, Weiching begins to laugh; and here is the final dialogue between the two: »Excuse me for laughing,« Wei-ching said. »But it is called the Laughing Sutra, after all. At least it was appropriately titled.« »I’m very sorry,« said Hsun-ching. »Don’t be!« Wei-ching answered cheerfully. »I spent most of my life waiting for this book, and now I learn that it is useless! That is a terrible thing. But imagine how much worse it would have been if I

21 22

Salzman, p. 257. Salzman, p. 259.

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hadn’t found that out? Even if I live for only a day now, it is a day of freedom from yet another sort of ignorance!« Wei-ching’s eyes shone with inexpressible gratitude. »Don’t you see?« he cried. »You have released me! The boy I tried to teach Buddhism has taught me the greatest lesson of all! Buddha be praised for sending you to me! It is as Buddha said all along: Enlightenment cannot be found in books. It must be expe¡rienced directly! Foolish as I was, I did not take him at his word. But now I do! I am free!« He was so exhilarated he nearly fell out of bed. 23

After this encounter, »Wei-ching enjoyed nearly two weeks of liberation from ignorance, then he died in his sleep.« 24 Hence the story ends with the liberating laughter of enlightenment. But before interpreting the laughter of the Laughing Sutra, let us first deal briefly with the peculiar make up of the story in order to appreciate it better. As a book circling around another book (The Journey to the West), The Laughing Sutra is a typical postmodern novel. Not only do we have the re-appearance of characters – Sun Wukong as Colonel Sun – but the layout of the story is similar: a journey to the West in order to get holy scriptures; only that the main protagonist in the earlier story is a famous monk, whereas Hsun-ching, the »seeker of scriptures« in the later one, is a modern Chinese who has fallen from Buddhist belief and endeavours on his journey only out of gratitude for his father substitute Wei-ching. The adventures both are experiencing in foreign lands are equally comic. Postmodern critics call this feature – a book about a book – intertextuality. This also means that it is helpful to know a little about literature if one wants to fully appreciate such stories. As Umberto Eco once said (in his »Postscript to The Name of the Rose«), intertextuality means that »books always speak of other books, and every story tells a story that has already been told.« Eco is himself author of one of the most famed postmodern books: The Name of the Rose, and The Laughing Sutra is also in conversation with this book. Both circle around scriptures dealing with laughter: in Eco’s book, it is the lost second part of Aristotle’s Poetics on the comedy which – once discovered – might set free the subversive power of laughter. In Salzman’s book it is a scripture on laughter promising enlightenment which – once disclosed as a fake – 23 24

Salzman, p. 260. Salzman, p. 261.

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shows that enlightenment cannot be found in scriptures – thus leading to liberation from ignorance and laughter of enlightenment. Hence, as Wei-ching says, the sutra, though a fake, is »appropriately titled«. As a piece of literature, the book offers no genuinely Buddhist views on laughter from a perspective of Chinese cultural or religious history. It is much rather the fascinating embedding of the liberating laughter of enlightenment into aesthetic laughter (appreciation of fine irony woven into intertextuality) that makes the book both a good reading – and a good laugh.

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Comic Verse in the Classical Japanese Literary Tradition

Haiku is surely the best-known form of Japanese poetry in the Western world. Most people probably take it as representative of traditional Japanese poetry and presume it to be quite serious. This image is not altogether accurate. The word »haiku« itself was not widely used until the poet Masaoka Shiki (1867–1902) popularized it in the late nineteenth century. Previously the genre had gone by various names, the most common being haikai, a word that Japanese dictionaries define first as »fun, a joke,« before noting it is also the name of a type of Japanese poetry. 1 It had indeed been a lighthearted, even frivolous genre until the late seventeenth century, when Matsuo Bashō (1644–94), one of Japan’s most admired poets, began to treat it seriously. The result was what we now know as haiku. The playful genre that Bashō transformed had appeared around the turn of the sixteenth century, ironically as a variation on a more solemn type of poetry, renga or »linked verse.« That genre in turn traced its history back to Japan’s courtly poetic tradition, which had originated in the ninth century, if not earlier. Courtly poetry came to be defined by a seminal anthology, Kokin Waka Shū or »Collection of Japanese Poems, Ancient and Modern,« usually contracted to Kokinshū. It had been compiled by imperial command around the year 905, and its influence was extraordinary. It became the model for another 20 imperially sponsored anthologies that followed, the last one having been completed in 1439. Poets continued to work in its style until modern times and a few probably are still doing so even today. Kokinshū defined what came to be regarded as poetic orthodoxy and was taken very seriously indeed. Ironically again, however, it is also

1 Strictly speaking, haikai is the Japanese pronunciation of a Chinese word, paixie, which Chinese dictionaries give roughly the same definition, omitting the part about its being a form of Japanese poetry.

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the source of haikai, for its compilers included a short section of poems under that heading. To understand these original haikai, one must first know something of Kokinshū itself. It consists of over 1,100 poems, the precise number varying in different manuscripts. Almost all the poems are in the form today known as tanka or »short poems,« each consisting of thirty-one syllables, arranged in phrases of 5–7–5–7–7 syllables. The modern haiku derives from the first three phrases of the form. Since Japanese is a polysyllabic language, thirty-one syllables can add up to very few words. For example, a five syllable »phrase« may consist of only a single word. Compilers classified poems by topic. The first six chapters of the anthology are devoted to the four seasons, with spring and autumn, being particularly poetic, each getting two chapters. Four chapters of poems on less important topics follow. Then, at chapter eleven, the second half of the anthology begins with its other major topic, love, in five chapters. The remaining five chapters are again devoted to lesser topics. The haikai appear as a subsection of chapter nineteen, »Zattei,« meaning something like »miscellaneous forms.« It begins with ten poems that do not follow the usual thirty-one syllable pattern, and they are followed by the anthology’s fifty-eight haikai poems. 2 Despite the name of the chapter, these haikai share the same thirtyone syllable form as the remaining 1,000 or so poems in the other chapters and are similar in other ways as well. Poems in each section of the anthology are carefully arranged in logical order. Those on the seasons start with the first day of the New Year, which is also the first day of spring in the traditional Chinese calendar that was also used in Japan. The poems proceed through the 2 Kokinshū has been translated into English several times, the two best versions being Kokinshū: A Collection of Poems Ancient and Modern, translated and annotated by Laurel Rasplica Rodd with Mary Catherine Henkenius (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1984) and Kokin wakashū: The First Imperial Anthology of Japanese Poetry: with Tosa Nikki and Shinsen Waka, translated and annotated by Helen Craig McCullough (Stanford, Cal.: Stanford University Press,1985). The haikai poems are on pp. 348–64 and pp. 228–38 respectively. Several Japanese editions were consulted in preparing this paper, notably Kokin Wakashū, Kojima Noriyuki and Arai Eizō eds., Shin Nihon Koten Bungaku Taikei vol. 5 (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1989), along with two heavily annotated versions, both in three volumes, Katagiri Yōichi, Kokin Wakashū Zenhyōshaku (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1998) and Kubota Utsubo, Kokin Wakashū Hyōshaku (Tokyo: Tōkyōdō, 1960). Kokinshū (KKS) poems will be cited by the standard numbers given them in all modern editions.

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year celebrating the sequence of poetic natural phenomena as they would normally occur until the seasonal poems–and the year–end on the last day of winter. The love poems too follow what was presumed to be the natural trajectory of courtly romance, beginning with many poems on the frustrations of courtship, a few poems on the joys of love fulfilled, and finally a substantial number on the anguish of love grown cold. 3 The haikai poems are similarly arranged, albeit not quite so symmetrically. Like the anthology itself, they begin with seasonal poems in their natural order, although the balance is off, with only two for spring, one for summer, fully seven for autumn, and one for winter. The seasons are followed by love, Kokinshū’s other major topic. Thirteen complain of the difficulties in gaining the favor of the person one loves, two are addressed to actual lovers, and twenty-four lament the process of love dissolving. The haikai section concludes with eight poems on miscellaneous topics. These numbers are suggestive. Of the seasonal poems, a disproportionate number treat autumn, the time of decay and death. Of the love poems, only two treat fulfilled love, and even they are addressed to seemingly reluctant partners. The preferred topics of the haikai poems thus hint at tears, not laughter. Although this may seem odd for presumably »comic« poems, it makes them makes them match the general tone of Kokinshū, since its poems tend to be lachrymose. Even in the spring, when the cherry blossoms are glorious, poets lament how soon they will scatter, reminding us of the impermanence of all things. The gaudy autumn leaves foretell only the coming winter. Love is first unrequited and after only a brief moment of fulfillment soon turns cold. The topics of Kokinshū’s haikai poems do not seem to lend themselves to comedy and, in fact, few are likely to provoke mirth in readers today. Accordingly, some scholars have proposed that, regardless of what modern dictionaries tell us, to Kokinshū’s compilers, haikai really meant »eccentric.« 4 As these authorities note, usually it is unorthodox language rather Jin'ichi Konishi, »Association and Progression: Principles of Integration in Anthologies and Sequences of Japanese Court Poetry, 900–1350,« translated and adapted by Robert H. Brower and Earl Miner, Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies, 21 (Dec. 1958) pp. 67–127; for the love poetry, see Janet A. Walker, »Poetic Ideal and Fictional Reality in The Izumi Shikibu nikki,« Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies, 36.1 (June, 1977) pp. 137– 48 4 See Helen Craig McCullough, Brocade by Night: ›Kokin Wakashū‹ and the Court 3

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than humor that seems to have caused Kokinshū’s compilers to classify poems as haikai. Here too, however, the pattern is not quite what one might have expected, since, superficially, the language of most haikai poems appears to be typical of Kokinshū poetry. Kokinshū is characterized by verbal complexity. It was poetry for connoisseurs who knew the tradition and wrote poetry themselves, so they easily recognized its subtle wordplay. Even so, already in the early twelfth century, Japanese scholars had begun producing commentaries. For modern readers, the language is not only complex, it is also antique. The result is a good market for annotated editions, complete with translations into modern Japanese, to help the uninitiated understand and appreciate the poems. Thus, one bibliography of commentaries, published in 1989, included 297 items, the earliest dated ca. 1107–16. 5 There are more today. Linguistic complexity overlaps with a tendency to display verbal wit, often taking the form of puns. Whereas at least in English puns are used almost exclusively for comic effect, in classical Japanese poetry they were typically a device for compressing extra layers of meaning into a short poem. The combination of complexity and wit results in an intellectual style that does not appeal to some modern readers. The same Masaoka Shiki who popularized the term »haiku« also condemned Kokinshū poems for displaying more artifice than true art. »All of them of them,« he complained, »are concerned with some trivial play on words or shallow wit and reasoning.« 6 That artificiality is conspicuous in most of the haikai poems. If Kokinshū’s haikai poems were eccentric, their authors–at least the named ones–were not. Of fifty-eight haikai poems, fully thirty-one or 53% are by unknown authors, but this is only a modest deviation from the pattern of the anthology as a whole, since over 40% of its poems are anonymous. Of the haikai poems by known authors, twenty-one or 36% are by men and six or 10% are by women. Again, this is roughly equivalent to what one finds in the anthology as a whole. In their social status, too, the authors of the haikai are typical of the Style in Japanese Classical Poetry (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1985) pp. 481– 89, where one will find the most detailed analysis of these poems available in English. 5 Shin Koten Bungaku Taikei edition of Kokinshū, pp. 440–53. The bibliography is heterogeneous, including, for example, translations into modern Japanese. 6 Robert H. Brower, »Masaoka Shiki and Tanka Reform,« in Donald H. Shively ed., Tradition and Modernization in Japanese Culture (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1971) p. 391–2.

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collection. Like most notable poets of the age, they were members of the aristocracy, but usually not of its highest rungs. Among the haikai authors, a conspicuous exception is Fujiwara no Tokihira (871–909), the dominant political figure at the time of Kokinshū’s compilation. Unlike Tokihira, most of the named poets from the haikai section were known principally for their literary skill, not their political influence, and some were skilled indeed. Around the year 1010, Fujiwara no Kintō (966–1041) a distinguished scholar and poet compiled an anthology of verses by thirty-six poets he particularly admired. The first of them was active in the seventh century; the last, at the end of the tenth. Together, they came to be revered as the thirty-six »poetic immortals« (kasen). Of the thirty-six, fifteen have works in Kokinshū, although only fourteen of them are generally associated with the anthology. Its fifteenth immortal is Kakinomoto no Hitomaro, active in the late seventh century, and already a revered »ancient« poet whose style would have seemed archaic when Kokinshū was compiled. 7 Of the fourteen immortals active in the age of the Kokinshū, eight had works selected for inclusion in its haikai section, and, since two had multiple works included, twelve of the section’s fifty-eight poems are by immortals. The poems may have been comical or eccentric, but many of the poets were truly distinguished. What of the poems themselves? Here are two examples: Topic unknown, anonymous Yo no naka no ukigoto tabi ni mi wo nageba fukaki tani koso asaku nariname

In this world, with each misfortune, were people to fling their bodies into it, even a deep valley would become shallow. 8

Topic unknown, by Ariwara no Motokata Yo no naka wa ika ni kurushi to omouran Kokora no hito ni uramirarureba

This world itself, how much does it suffer, I wonder, because of people here who despise it so. 9

7 In its introduction, Kokinshū describes Hitomaro as »an immortal of poetry« (uta no hijiri), using the same Chinese characters as »kasen,« but in their alternate Japanesestyle pronunciations. Note that the term has also been translated as »poetic geniuses.« 8 KKS 1061 (i. e. Kokinshū poem no. 1061). 9 KKS 1062.

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These are the first two of the miscellaneous haikai poems that appear toward the end of the section. They are atypical in several ways. First, their language is uncomplicated. A reader with a basic knowledge of classical Japanese should not have much difficulty understanding them. More remarkably, something of their wit can be conveyed in translation, for it takes the form of clever reasoning rather than wordplay. They address the idea that the world in which we live is fundamentally sad and should be rejected, a Buddhist concept lying behind much Kokinshū poetry. They treat it, however, in unconventional ways. The first poem, in effect, attempts to calculate the unhappiness of the world by using the number suicides as a measure. The second poem then personifies the world and wonders if it too might not be unhappy precisely because people hate it so. These poems also offer a clear example of how the anthology’s compilers arranged poems so that each would pick up on material from the previous poem. In this case the second poem employs the phrase »yo no naka,« literally »within the world,« and the idea that the world is fundamentally unhappy, both of which appeared in the previous poem. The poems probably were not written together but rather placed together to form a logical, aesthetically pleasing–or in this case witty–sequence. First we are asked to measure the sadness of the world and then to ponder whether this human sadness makes the world itself unhappy. Finally, even modern readers who know the poems only in translation may find them amusing, since their cleverness lies more in their reasoning than in their language. This too is exceptional. In contrast to these examples that may seem humorous even today, the following poem comes closer to the haikai norm: When people spread a rumor that I was having an affair with a man who is my cousin, by Kuso Yoso nagara waga mi ni ito no yoru to ieba tada itsu-hari ni sugu bakari nari

Although actually no relation, he has been knotted to me as a cousin, in the words of those who twist things. Because they needle me, I live tied to a false accusation. 10

10 KKS 1054. The author has been identified as the daughter of either Minamoto no Tsukuru (otherwise unknown) or Abe no Kiyoyuki (825–900), two of whose poems also appear in Kokinshū. Note that the »name« of the poet–if it really is a name–is the Japanese word for »shit.« In The Tale of Genji too one finds women referred to the same term

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The translation of this poem requires more words than do first two because the original Japanese uses four puns. The punning starts in the second phrase with the word ito. It is both a contraction of itoko, the word meaning »cousin« that is actually used in the heading, and at the same time it is also the usual word for »thread« or »string.« This leads to a second pun, since the verb »yoru« in the next phrase means both »to come close,« either physically or emotionally, and »to twist.« Thus, the second phrase simultaneously speaks of loving someone and twisting thread. The final two phrases continue those phonetically related but semantically distinct lines of reasoning with two more puns. The word above romanized as »itsu-hari« would normally be written that way but, at least in modern Japanese, pronounced »itsuwari,« meaning »falsehood.« The original orthography, however–and the original pronunciation too–includes a pun, for »hari,« the second half of the word, by itself means »needle.« Finally, the verb sugu in the last phrase again has two meanings, »to spend time,« or simply »to live,« and also »to tie.« The repeated use of words relating to thread and sewing is a technique known as engo, or »word association.« When skillfully used, words with double meanings can add an additional dimension to the basic meaning of the poem. For example, on the occasion of seeing off a traveler in the autumn mist, a poem might include words that refer simultaneously to the parting and the mist. Since both are intrinsically sad–at least in Japanese poetic convention–hinting at the mist while writing of the parting adds an extra layer of depth to the poem. 11 At a certain level, the concepts of love and sewing are also related, since both involve fastening things together, which may be why some of the word play from the original can be conveyed (at least clumsily) in the translation. In English too, one can easily pun on »sew« and »sow.« Nonetheless, in the haikai poem, the hints at sewing do not seem to add depth of feeling to the complaint about being falsely accused. Instead, they reveal the poet’s skill at using language cleverly. Readers thoroughly trained in the practice of classical Japanese poetry would recognize the word play easily and perhaps be amused by how the poet is able to express her (Katagiri, Kokin Wakashū Zenhyōshaku, III, p. 574–76). Certainly in modern Japanese, the term is not a »nice« one, although it is not so strongly taboo as its English equivalent. 11 KKS 386; also see Robert H. Brower and Earl Miner, Japanese Court Poetry (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1961) p. 14.

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dismay at being accused of having an affair with her cousin in language related to something as mundane as sewing. Most modern readers, unfortunately, will need the help of footnotes to unravel the complexities. In some cases, puns allow the poet to convey two distinct meanings simultaneously: Topic unknown, by [Ōshikōchi no] Mitsune Semi no ha no hitoe ni usuki natsu koromo nareba yorinamu mono ni ya wa arane

Like a cicada’s wing a single layer, thin, my summer robe: easily wrinkled, is it not? 12

Again, the poem is linguistically complex. »Hitoe« in the second phrase can mean »a single layer,« but it is also an adverb used for emphasis, meaning something like »entirely,« »utterly,« or »single mindedly.« The two words in the forth phrase both have double meanings. »Nareba« can mean simply »because it is,« in this case, » because it is a summer robe,« but it is also a form of the classical verb »naru,« »to get used to« or »be accustomed to.« »Yorinamu« is a form of the same verb »yoru,« »to come close,« that appeared in the previous poem. Referring to a summer robe, it would mean »to become wrinkled,« but, if it refers to people, it means they get together. Thus, by taking the alternate meanings of these words, the real message of the poem becomes apparent. Freely translated, the poem is saying: Your feelings for me may be as utterly shallow as a cicada’s wing is thin, but once you get to know me, will you not come and cling to me like a summer robe?

This is a love poem, and the images of the thin, frail cicada’s wing and the clinging summer robe seem more suggestive and appropriate to the topic of love than does sewing, even if the puns do not lend themselves as well to translation. In this case, the word play amplifies the message of the poem more directly than in the previous example, but, however one reads the poem, 12

KKS 1035

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it does not seem particularly comical. Since poems with double meanings of this sort are not at all unusual in Kokinshū, one is left wondering why it was classified as haikai. Modern critics suggest that the poem’s hint at one’s lover clinging like a soft, wrinkled summer robe was too vulgar, too explicit, to allow its inclusion among the anthology’s love poems. 13 Since the author was one of the anthology’s compilers, not to mention one of the thirty-six poetic immortals, presumably he was a reliable judge and believed the classification appropriate. At the same time, because the poem was included in an imperially sponsored anthology, its vulgarity must have been within the acceptable limits of courtly taste. In other words, it seems only slightly eccentric at best. Perhaps the poem’s most distinctive feature is simply that it is one of the two haikai love poems that treats consummated love. Although the poem itself may be unclear on that point, the interpretation is supported by its placement in the sequence of love poems. It falls between one that unambiguously laments unrequited love and another that worries over the gossip that may spread after lovers have met. Since the poet, in this case, is encouraging his beloved to spend more time with him, presumably they have moved beyond mere courtship. Note that in classical Japanese literature, unrequited love was common but platonic love was rare if not unknown. This poem is in many ways typical of the haikai poems in Kokinshū. Because of its linguistic complexity, readers who have not mastered Japan’s courtly poetic tradition will have difficulty understanding it without the help of annotation. Furthermore, among the issues annotators need to address is the problem of why it was classified as haikai, which is in fact a recurring problem. The poem certainly does not seem particularly funny and even its deviation from normal poetic practice might not be apparent if learned authority did not point it out. In some cases, even the experts are not certain why a poem was classified as haikai. This difficulty in finding humor in them explains is why scholars suggest haikai, in the context of Kokinshū, really means eccentric, not comic. Another interpretation, however, is also possible. As the eminent British philosopher Rowan Atkinson has observed, »an object or a person can become funny in three different ways. They are: 13 Kubota, Kokin Wakashū Hyōshaku III, p. 230; Katagiri, Kokin Wakashū Zenhyōshaku III, p. 536.

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• by being in an unusual place • by behaving in an unusual way • by being the wrong size« 14 To illustrate this point, those who know that Rowan Atkinson is a British comedian may have laughed when he was inappropriately described as an eminent philosopher. On the other hand, the inaccurate label will get no response from someone who has never heard of him. Atkinson may not be a philosopher, but he is a master of applied humor and his observations are perceptive. Things that violate convention can be funny. Kokinshū’s original audience was a small group of Japanese aristocrats who lived over 1,100 years ago and could have been expected to have mastered the rules of courtly poetry. To them, its haikai poems may well have seemed unusual to the point of being comical. Perhaps they did laugh when reading them. Most modern readers need footnotes to understand the meaning of the poems and jokes that require footnotes rarely provoke laughter. Today, most of Kokinshū’s haikai seem at best eccentric, but to ancient Japan’s courtiers they may well have been funny. Unfortunately, the time when any of Kokinshū’s poems might have seemed fresh and even amusing has long passed, and so, without the aid of a time-travel machine, that proposition will remain difficult, probably impossible, to verify.

Appendix: One Haikai Poem, Seventeen Times The Problem of Translation Kokinshū’s haikai poems are more likely to illustrate the reasons why Masaoka Shiki did not like the anthology rather than to show why many other critics admire it, or at least admire its better poems. Thus, studies of classical Japanese poetry typically give only passing attention to the haikai poems and most are translated only in complete versions of the anthology. One poem, however, is an exception to this rule. A haikai poem by Ono no Komachi (active ca. 850–84) has found an ap14 Quoted from the Wikipedia article on humor (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Humour), where it has the following citation: »Rowan Atkinson/David Hinton, Funny Business (tv series), Episode 1 – aired 22 November 1992, UK, Tiger Television Productions.« The production company’s website states that the program is »not yet available as a DVD, video or book« (http://www.tigeraspect.co.uk/prog.asp?id=153).

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preciative audience, certainly among Western readers. Komachi is perhaps the most highly regarded of early Japanese women poets. Not only is she one of the thirty-six immortals, she is the only woman among the six poets discussed in the preface to Kokinshū. She is particularly known for her love poetry, as are many of early Japan’s most admired women poets. Komachi was skilled at using the linguistic complexity characteristic of Kokinshū poetry to good effect. Her poems serve to counter Shiki’s objections to Kokinshū by demonstrating that verbal intricacy and literary artistry are not mutually exclusive. Komachi’s one haikai poem appears among the love poems, shortly before the one by Mitsune translated above. As suggested by its place in the sequence, it treats not yet fulfilled: [Topic unknown] by Ono no Komachi Hito no awamu tsuki no naki ni wa omo-hi okite mune-hashiri-hi ni kokoro yakeori

Wanting to meet him in vain, no moon, awake, my love’s flying embers, like a fire in my breast, burn my heart. 15

This poem has been translated often, perhaps because its vivid language appeals to modern readers. The same vivid language may be what makes it a haikai rather than a conventional love poem. Skilled translators (and some less-skilled ones too) have rendered it various ways. The discussion here will call attention to the difficulties the poem presents to the translator. The sample translations that follow will illustrate how translators have dealt with them. As in previous examples, the poem is based on a series of puns. The second phrase means both »when there is no moon« and »when there is no means.« A variant of the poem exists in which the »ni,« here meaning »when,« is replaced by »yo« or »night.« Although this alternate version seems more vivid, most scholarly editions use the version presented here. Some translators who include the Japanese original, however, give the more specific alternative. Others, who include the version presented here, add the word »night« to their translations anyhow. In the third phrase, the word romanized »omo-hi« today would normally be read »omoi« and in this context means »love,« but its archaic orthography and pronunciation included »hi,« meaning »fire.« The final word, »okite,« means both to »stir up« or »arouse« 15

KKS 1030.

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(both love and fire) and also simply »to awaken.« The fourth phrase begins with three run-on words, again romanized to call attention to the word play. »Mune« means »chest« or »breast;« »hashiri,« »run,« and, as before, »hi« is »fire.« They combine to form two linked compounds. First, »munehashi« means something like »heart pounds« or, to borrow a phrase from a Japanese-English dictionary, »a tempest in the breast.« Note that the Japanese »mune,« like the English »breast« literally may refer simply to the part of the human body between the neck and the abdomen, but it has many secondary meanings associated with emotions. Furthermore, the words in both languages can also refer to a woman’s mammary glands (for which polite English lacks a more precise single word). When the English word is used in the latter sense, it is usually pluralized, »breasts,« indicating precisely what is meant, but, since Japanese does not indicate plurals, the word remains ambiguous in the original. The second part of the three run-together words, »hashiri-hi« (normally read »hashiribi«) may literally be a »running fire,« but authorities offer minor variations when explaining what exactly it indicates. According to a standard dictionary, it means something like »a leaping fire« (hanetobu hi), but one commentator expands that into »crackling sparks that fly about when charcoal etc. breaks apart« (sumi nado ga hajikete pachipachi to hanetobu hi no fun). 16 Certainly in English, »leaping fire« and »flying sparks« suggest rather different images. Several dictionaries join the commentator in adding the onomatopoetic »pachipachi« (»crackling«) to their definition, which adds yet another element, sound, to the picture, although it would seem to be more implied than expressed by the original word. All translators struggle first to determine which of the alternate nuances suggested by a text should be conveyed in the translation and then how to convey them. In the past, those translating Japanese poetry into English sometimes attempted to make their translations seem like English poetry by putting them into conventional English poetic forms, with rhyme and meter. More recently, other translators have tried to do just the opposite: preserve the original Japanese forms in their English renditions. Some count syllables to retain the 5–7–5–7–7 pattern; one puts the translation in a single line, which is indeed how Japanese often wrote out their poems. In my translations, I have attempted to retain 16 The first definition is from the digital version of Kōjien, probably the dictionary most widely used in Japan; the second, Katagiri, Kokin Wakashū Zenhyōshaku III, p. 523.

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the original sequence of images, ideas, and actions. In practice, this means translating phrase by phrase. The result sometimes strains English syntax, since Japanese word order is quite different from English, but I hope the effect is »poetic« rather than merely awkward. The following is a selection of published translations of Komachi’s poem, arranged chronologically, starting with the earliest, which dates from 1922. The most recent was published in 2008. Their diversity hints at the dangers faced by those rely too much on translations–including the ones I have offered in my essay. All the translations come from books I was able to locate with minimum effort either in my personal library or in the collections of the various campuses within the University of California system. I am sure, if I tried harder, I would have found even more. Note that the University of California libraries have two French versions but do not seem to have translations into other European languages. I assume the poem has been translated into other European languages, although I do not have access to other those versions. The University of California libraries do have a translation of Kokinshū into Chinese, published in Shanghai in 1983. 17 The moon does not appear to-night, And I have no chance to see him: My heart burns with such blazes bright That I can’t put them to burn dim 18 This night of no moon There is no way to meet him. I rise in longing— My breast pounds, a leaping flame, My heart is consumed in fire 19 On such a night as this When the lack of moonlight shades your way to me, I wake from sleep my passion blazing,

Yang Lie, Gujin Hegeji (i. e. the characters of the original Japanese title in their Chinese pronunciations) (Shanghai: Fudan Daxue Chubanshe, 1983). Note that here, and in the citations that follow, I have given translators' names as »authors.« In some cases they are in fact authors of critical studies that happen to include the translation. 18 T. Wakameda, Early Japanese Poets: Complete Translation of the Kokinshu (London: The Eastern Press, 1922), p. 233. 19 Donald Keene, Anthology of Japanese Literature from the Earliest Era to the MidNineteenth Century (New York: Grove Press, 1955), p. 78. 17

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My breast a fire raging, exploding flame While within me my heart chars. 20 My lover does not come, and I grieve upon this moonless night, feeling my bosom burning, as though with sparks from my own brazier. 21 Pour le voir Cette nuit il n’est pas aucun moyen. Anxieuse je me lève, Dans ma poitrine court un feu Qui brûle mon cœur. 22 He does not come, Tonight in the dark of the moon I wake wanting him. My breasts heave and blaze, My heart chars. 23 On such a night as this When no moon lights your way to me, I wake, my passion blazing My breast a fire raging, exploding flame While within me my heart chars 24 No way to meet him, no moon to light his way, I wake up with longing, my chest a raging fire, my heart in flames. 25

20 Robert Brower and Earl Miner, Japanese Court Poetry (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1961), p. 206). 21 H. H. Honda, The Kokin Waka-shu: The 10th-Century Anthology Edited by The Imperial Edict (Tokyo: The Hokuseido Press, 1970), p. 266. 22 G. Renondeau, Anthologie de la poésie japonaise classique (Paris: Gallimard, 1971), p. 118 23 Kenneth Roxroth and Ikuko Atsumi, The Burning Heart: Women Poets of Japan, (New York: Seabury Press, 1977), p. 15. 24 Earl Miner, An Introduction to Japanese Court Poetry (Stanford: Stanford University Press) 1978, p. 82. 25 Hiroaki Sato and Burton Watson, An Anthology of Japanese Poetry: From the Country of the Eight Islands, (New York: Anchor Books, 1981), p. 114. Trans. by Watson.

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no moon lights the night nor can I meet my lover my blazing passion wakens me my pounding heart shoots flame then turns to cinders 26 On those moonless nights when I long in vain for him, love robs me of sleep and my agitated heart burns like a crackling fire 27 No way to see him on this moonless night— I lie awake longing, burning, breasts racing fire, heart in flames. 28 When I cannot see him in the dark of a moonless night, fire rises in me— leaping in my burning breast, charring my heart with its flames. 29 I long for him most during those long moonless nights. I lie awake, hot, the growing fires of passion bursting, blazing in my heart. 30 No way to see him on a moonless night longing rises within me,

Laurel Rasplica Rodd with Mary Catherine Henkenius, Kokinshū: A Collection of Poems Ancient and Modern, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984), p. 353. 27 Helen Craig McCullough, Kokin Wakashū: The First Imperial Anthology of Japanese Poetry, (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1985), p. 231. 28 Jane Hirshfield, with Mariko Aratani, The Ink Dark Moon: Love Poems by Ono no Komachi and Izumi Shikibu, (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1986), p. 7. 29 Steven Carter, Traditional Japanese Poetry: An Anthology, (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1991), p. 87. 30 Sam Hamill, Only Companion: Japanese Poems of Love and Longing (Boston: Shambhala, 1992), p. 79. 26

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my breasts burning with the fires of my heart. 31 Aucune rencontre dans la nuit sevrée de lune Les pensées au réveil crépitent dans la poitrine et le cœur est brûlé 32 This moonless night I can’t meet him, I think, awake, fire crackling on my chest burning my heart 33

31 Roy E. Teele, Nicholas J. Teele, and H. Rebecca Teele, Ono no Komachi: Poems, Stories, Nō Plays, (New York: Garland Publishing Co. 1993), p. 24. 32 Armen Godel and Koichi Kano, Visages cachés, sentiments m–lés: le livre poétique de Komachi, le cinq nô du cycle Komachi, le dit de Komachi (Paris: Gallimard, 1997) p. 41. 33 Hiroaki Sato, Japanese Women Poets: An Anthology, (Armonk NY: M. E. Sharpe, 2008) p. 49.

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William R. LaFleur

Ludicrous Professionals: Physicians and Priests in Japanese Senryû

The satirist shoots to kill while the humorist brings his prey back alive and eventually releases him again for another chance. –Peter De Vries Laughter is inner jogging. –Norman Cousins

Being double One of the truly laughable things about philosophers is that they would somehow feel it necessary to construct a philosophy of laughter. They can theorize many things but as soon as they set out to theorize laughter they very likely make themselves look ludicrous. Fortunately, in their professional pretensions they are incorrigible. This means that, at least to the ongoing delight of non-philosophers, philosophers and would-be philosophers will be tempted to go on theorizing about what it is that makes people laugh. As someone sometimes foolish enough to think of himself within the category of »would be« philosophers, I will here put up my own flimsy structure. In a word, I suggest that one of the core reasons we humans laugh at ourselves is because, although we repeatedly have been frustrated in all attempts to do so, we go on trying to resolve our common dilemma of both having and being bodies, a viewpoint today often associated with studies by Helmuth Plessner (1892–1985). Efforts, sometimes expressed as high theory, to resolve this doubleness in our existence once and for all become themselves risible when, after flying too high, they fall and crash. And, I suggest, no professional group is more likely to provide their fellows with good laugh than the one that professes to do 128 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Verl

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philosophy, especially when its members are pretending to have solved the »mind-body« problem. Fortunately, philosophers themselves sometimes see something risible in what they are doing—and doing with such august seriousness!—most of the time. Ludwig Wittgenstein, sometimes sounding like a Zen master, was both making a point and tweaking members of his own profession when writing: »If someone says, ›I have a body«, he can be asked, ›Who is speaking here with this mouth?‹« 1 Surely, the potential for laughter is bound at some point to show up when thinkers think they can think their way out of our intractably human be-a-body/ have-a-body dilemma. And if it is the problem of dualism that we are trying to solve, it seems unlikely that some of us, having identified dualism as essentially a false one concocted within the »West« and to-date not solved here, will by turning to the putative »East« find that it had been long ago dissolved there. A formula of »over there/not here« is not likely to solve the problem of dualism. My suspicion is that, although even in the »West« but especially in the »East« some philosophers and articulate religious practitioners of the past discovered ways of talking that are relatively free of dualism, 2 the be-a-body/have-a-body dilemma does not probably will not ever lend itself to resolution. Hisatake Katô, a widely-respected philosopher in Japan and certainly no Cartesian, has stated the matter as follows in a 1986 book on bioethics: The notion that the human personality is separable from the body is not one that was suddenly given birth by the dualism of Descartes—as if it were some kind of newcomer within human history. It can be seen already long ago in Plato, in the thinking of the Orphic traditions and it is, in fact, thoroughly embedded in our own everyday concepts. It is one of those illusions that are absolutely necessary and shows up as soon as any of us uses language to express »possession.« Someone will refer to his or her lover as having some property…or a beautiful body…or an attractive personality. That which »has« a body is being somehow located outside that body. The metaphysics of possession is such that some kind of differentiation between body and mind will be being secreted within it. 3 Ludwig Wittgenstein, On Certainty New York, 1969, 32e. Perhaps the Chinese Daoists and the medieval Japanese Buddhist named Dôgen most eminently. 3 Hisatake Katô, Baioeshikkusu to wa nanika, Tokyo 1986, 71. Translation mine. (Use of 1 2

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Katô, I assume, was writing this during the 1980s because precisely during that time Takeshi Umehara, self-described as a philosopher but controversial in part for his nationalistic statements, had been publicly touting the idea that the Japanese—and in his view probably they alone!—had never fallen for any mind/body differentiation. Katô was insisting both on having a more accurate sense of the history of philosophy and on humans everywhere as having the have-a-body/be-abody dilemma. This is a dilemma but, wonderfully, it is the dilemma we both have and are.

The pratfalls of priests Lest this become too serious, however, I wish to turn from considering philosophers to looking at priests. And I assume that, although many philosophers may be miffed at my suggestion that the gap between these groups may not be very great, priests, by virtue of being more in number and far closer to common folk for observation by them, have over time—and in both the »East« and the »West«—provided a far richer source for others‹ laughter, most of which may be therapeutic. It seems likely that, long before philosophers congealed into a recognizable »profession«, priests– wearing distinctive garb, monopolizing certain rituals, and referring to themselves in public as »different« and »special«—had managed to get professionalized. Separation from the common herd is important to all professions. In The Doctor’s Dilemma George Bernard Shaw has Sir Patrick Cullen say »All professions are conspiracies against the laity.« But might it not also be the case that the professions provide rich occasions for the laity’s laughter? Here I use the term »priest« heuristically and inclusively—to include many Jewish rabbis, Hindu yogis, Catholic clerics, Buddhist monks, Protestant pastors, Muslim muftis, Confucian junzis and even, at a stretch, Daoist sages. Admittedly, there will be considerable differences among these groups and among individuals within each group in terms of themselves admitting there is something risible in their own vocations and how they carry them out. But, as has been amply demonstrated in a ground-breaking study of humor and religion by Richard bunpitsu, a biological/medical term meaning »secretion« appears intentional in the last sentence.)

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Gardner, there is, once excavation is attempted, a discernible lode of laughter-conducive humor in every one of the religious and quasi-religious traditions of humankind. Inasmuch as religion »may be conceived as a complex interplay of congruity and incongruity that inevitably entails humor,« 4 we can reasonably expect that »priests« within the expanded category in view here, will elicit laughter (at least among the general public) whenever they, supposed to be professional experts on matters beyond the physical, have been suddenly tripped up by the body that each of them not only has but is. If there is something deeply therapeutic in laughter, it may well be the unintended public pratfalls of priests that not only delight but also have a healing role in the life of the communities they serve. In what follows I provide some verbal snapshots selected from the trove of senryû, a genre of poetry in early pre-modern and modern Japan. Many of these poems depict what is laughable in our habitual posturing as if we beings they have but not are bodies. Senryû are sometimes classified as a form of satirical verse. I, however, think that many of them, delightfully relishing the all-too-human gap between pretense and reality, stop short of the seriousness of satire. In line with the distinction between satire and humor made by the American humorist Peter DeVries and quoted at the outset of this essay, many of Japan’s senryû function better as healers than as killers. My purpose here is to explore how even a relatively small sample of senryû exhibits what may be laughable in human behavior. I see no need to recapitulate here the origins and history of senryû as a literary genre of verse—for the simple reason that other scholars have already performed that task so well and their work is readily available. 5 That senryû evolved as a humorous mode of verse out of the prior Richard Gardner, »Humor and Religion« and »Humor and Religion in East Asian Contexts« in Lindsay Jones, ed., The Encyclopedia of Religion, 2nd edition, Detroit, 2005, vol. , 4195–4210. 5 Succinctly in Earl Miner, Hiroko Odagiri, and Robert E. Morrell, The Princeton Companion to Classical Japanese Literature, Princeton, 1985, p. 361–362 and with richer detail in the »Introduction« to Makoto Ueda, Light Verse from the Floating World: An Anthology of Premodern Japanese Senryû, New York, 1999. Some of the earliest studies of senryû in the West remain the most insightful—especially R. H. Blyth, Senryû: Japanese Satirical Verses, Tokyo, 1949, and also his Japanese Life and Character in Senryu, Tokyo, 1960. 4

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and far more serious haiku and haikai forms is clear. Equally obvious is that it rose to popularity in the Edo period (1600–1867) when Japan was relatively isolated from other cultures, was developing new cultural forms with minimal stimulus from abroad, and had internal societal contradictions that provided ripe conditions for what Shuichi Kato called that era’s unique »literature of laughter.« 6 Senryû filled a niche during the Edo period 7 and has remained popular down to the present. According to some surveys, it is today more abundantly present in public media than its far more serious (and internationally admired) sibling, the haiku. My focus first will be on priests in senryû. And I begin by looking at how a very serious poem by a Buddhist priest of the twelfth century was »re-done« as a senryû centuries later. The earlier poem was by a monk named Saigyô (1118–1190), someone who, when mentioned in earlier publications in English, was in fact often tagged as »Saigyô the Priest.« The poem by him that later came to be »senryû-ized« was, and today remains, one of the most celebrated and well-known in the literary corpus of Japan. Put into our kind of script it would be: kokoro naki mi ni mo aware wa shirarekeri shigi tatsu sawa no aki no yûgure

Although it is notoriously difficult to translate, I have essayed the following attempt to render it: I thought I was free of passion, so this melancholy comes as a surprise; a woodcock shoots up from marsh where autumn twilight falls.

Trying too to capture something of why it is so appreciated within Japan, I have written: »What makes this poem superb is how Saigyô juxtaposes the subjective experience of the first part of the poem with a Shuichi Kato, A History of Japanese Literature: Volume 2: The Years of Isolation, Tokyo and New York, 1983, 208–218. 7 Historians variously call the epoch »pre-modern,« »early modern,« or »modernizing.« Marxists historians (with the ironic exception of Marx himself!) were happy to tag the era as »feudal.« 6

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swiftly conveyed depiction of an objective, natural event in the second portion. The parts mirror one another. What happens in the scene of the darkening marsh is reflected in the person of the poet, someone in whom, fortunately, long and arduous religious practice had not taken away the capacity to respond emotionally to a sudden manifestation of beauty.« 8 This poem is also prized for including the Japanese term »aware« while embodying the experience of surprise and awe that are sine qua non for what that word, »aware,« usually connotes. Straining for a term to convey what it means, Western scholars of Japanese literature and aesthetics have at times suggested that aware is the »Aah-ness« of things. And, in view of what is being essayed here about bodily experience, it is worth noting that an awareness of the body too is part of this verse’s genius. With the words »kokoro naki mi ni mo« the poet has indicated that the unplanned irruption of an exquisite aesthetic emotion occurs within the subject’s body, a connotation of the word mi. Awerelated tears, although not explicitly mentioned but strongly implied, suggest that what occurs here is an aesthetic event that clearly registers within the body. The senryû that feeds off this famous poem, however, adroitly turns those implicit tears into laughter. At some point in the Edo period an anonymous poet wrote and then left the following for us: Saigyô no kusame de shigi no uta ga deki

I translate this as: When Saigyô sneezes, a woodcock flies up and he gets his poem.

What took 31 syllables in the first poem takes only 17 (like haiku) in the second. The two poems are similar to the extent that both are based on something experienced as a sudden and unexpected irruption. But what in the waka had been an event within the poet’s sensibility (while having a bodily dimension) has in the senryû become, via a sneeze, the William R. LaFleur, Awesome Nightfall: The Life, Times, and Poetry of Saigyô, Boston, 2003, 68.

8

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body’s unexpected and forceful assault on the poet’s equanimity and on what, till that moment, had been the unruffled presence of a bird or birds sitting on the surface of a marsh pond. I hope it may itself be seen as in the spirit of senryû if I here describe the difference as one in which the exquisite and precious »aah-ness« of the classical aesthetic has been transformed into what we might call the »aah-choo-ness« of an utterly mundane and all-toocommon experience of the human as body. Saigyô wrote that an unexpected emotion sudden arose within his self. But the poet of the senryû imagined something else, something even more basic and embodied that can »arise« within the self, a sneeze. And a sneeze, after all, cannot be had; in resisting my conscious control it also refuses to be something I can possess. And is the sneeze not then itself very much akin to the laugh? And is this why we, especially in certain contexts, feel the impulse to laugh when we or others sneeze? As could be expected, priests and sex provided rich ground for the composers of senryû. Widely-known disparities between the abstinence from sex that was part of a priest’s vows and the actual behavior of many had been noted very early in the history of Buddhism in Japan. Tales about such clerics were relished down through the centuries by the general population. One of the most famous vow-violator had been Dôkyô (?—772), a priest of the Hossô school. Early reports were that, upon being summoned to provide healing rituals for an ailing ruling empress, he became her in-house lover and had actually tried to maneuver himself into becoming the next emperor. This ploy failed but ditties about the genitalia of certain monks, likely including Dôkyô, are recorded as being popular among the common people by late 8th century. One went: Don’t be contemptuous of monks because of their robes; For under their skirts are hung garters and hammers. When the hammers erect themselves, The monks turn out to be awesome lords. 9

This was the kind of material with which the senryû poets could have great fun. In the following senryû Dôkyô’s phallus gets implicitly associated 9 Kyoko Motomochi Nakamura, trans. Miraculous Stories from the Japanese Buddhist Tradition: The Nihon ryôiki of the Monk Kyôkai, Cambridge MA 1973, 277.

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with the burdock (Arctium kappa; J. gobô), a plant with an usually long and thick root that even today is an important item, after being wellscrubbed, in Japanese cuisine. 10 Dôkyô ga deru made gobô arauyô

Translated, this could be: Before going out Dôkyô carefully washes the burdock root.

And in the same bawdy vein: 11 Dôkyô wa suwaru to hiza ga mitsu deru

That is, When Dôkyô sits down, the knees coming up are three in number.

And a poem of the 18th century portrayed another monk in a »pastoral« role: 12 wakagoke o susumete oshô nori ni haire The priest entreats a young widow: »Come now, enter this Dharma.«

Were such verses, one might ask, satirical attacks on the clergy as an institution and with the expectation that exposing its incongruities might so incite public anger that the established Buddhist institution itself might be toppled? In his study of eroticism in senryû Hiroshi Shimoyama rejects such an interpretation, writing:

10 11 12

Hiroshi Shimoyama, Senryû no eroteishizumu, Tokyo 1995, 21. Ibid. Ibid., 133.

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That monks were not different from ordinary laymen in being ready to seduce a woman was a fact of the times, not just an interesting rumor going around. Senryû neither criticizes this nor censures such monks. It just recognizes it as reality. Some theorists today hold that you can find evidence that the common people resisted this or that in these things you can see the internal contradictions found in any socially stratified feudal society. But the writers of senryû themselves did not take the rigid perspective of these theorists; they merely found examples of behavior that was free and easy and delighted in what [such clerics] might be doing. 13

The physicality of physicians Along with the clergy, physicians are listed by Ueda as professionals getting a lot of attention in senryû. 14 In many ways opposite to the focus of the clergy, physicians are professionally supposed to be keenly attentive to bodies—at least those of their patients. Closely observing, diagnosing, and treating bodies is what they are supposed to be doing all the time in their professional lives. And, therefore, it becomes a cause for humor when for one reason or another they become conspicuously inattentive to what there own bodies are doing or implying. Composers of senryû frequently take up the position of the patient, in a kind of role reversal, observing the body (and indirectly the mind) of the doctor. There is something intrinsically funny in such a reversal but the humor is often heightened by what gets seen—that is, the medical professional as, we may assume, he would prefer not to be observed. The dentist gets so absorbed in his work that he forgets how ridiculous he may look to others when his own body is instinctively, not intentionally, mimicking what he wants from his patient. 15 muzukashii saiku ha-isha mo kuchi o aku

Ibid, 134. Makoto Ueda, op. cit., 64. 15 Although I have translated each poem anew, the Romanized text for this and the subsequent four poems is to be found in R. H. Blyth, op. cit., 1949. Blyth’s commentary was also helpful. 13 14

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Straining at a hard job the dentist even opens his own mouth wide.

And sometimes a pediatrician will be so habituated to examining a baby as soon as one comes within his field of vision, that he will, laughably (even if in a way we cannot but admire), do so spontaneously…and in irregular places. daidô de myaku o mite iru kodomo-isha The baby’s doctor takes its pulse even when met outside on the street.

Sometimes habit gets insensitive and ridiculous at the same time. In another poem a common seasonal greeting, especially among folk in the business world, sounds very odd when mouthed by a physician. kotoshi mo aikawarazu to isha mo kuru »I hope to see you often this year too!«—the doc’s all too cheery New Year greeting.

And an apprentice whose body-language reveals just how »green« he is and feels, fumbles as he works. This senryû tells what is going on in the mind of his patient: daimyaku wa nani o koyatsu no ki de miseru I pretend it’s okay but this guy’s just pretending to know what he’s doing.

Relatively rare but especially ludicrous will be poems that bring the priests and physicians into contact with one another. Many have the doctor besting the priest by charging him large sums. However, the following is poem, although in need of being contextualized for our

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time, that relates how a cleric might for once have gotten the better of the physician. The latter is the speaker. ryôjiba de kikeba konogoro ore ni bake During office hours I heard about a priest visiting a brothel disguised…as me!

There would be no humor here if it were not the case that usually the bodies of priests as well as those of doctors are garbed in clothing that identifies their respective professions. And. as most people of that era in Japan were aware, physicians from time to time would visit brothels in broad delight—to examine the girls and women there to check on their overall health but especially to detect and treat sexually transmissible diseases. Buddhist priests had no such professional reason. If one of them were spotted going to the brothels, people then would assume it was for sex, not to perform there some equivalent of what call pastoral counseling. And, therefore, if he were to go during daylight hours, a savvy priest would do well to find a disguise. And none, conceivably, would work better for this purpose than the »uniform« of the physician. So this senryû, perhaps put in the mouth of some town’s sole (and, therefore, easily identified) doctor, tells of him being piqued at news he had just heard. The joke, of course, was on him.

Inner jogging The reason that senryû were so relished is probably the same reason why people like to laugh. Laughing gives us pleasure—so much so that we would hardly be in need of finding additional reasons for it. Nevertheless, there may be some. Research programs during the 20th century began to explore laughter’s actual therapeutic effect and provided new grounds for spotting truth in the old adage that »laughter is the best medicine.« A major figure in this was Norman Cousins (1915–1990) whose 1979 book, Anatomy of an Illness as Perceived by the Patient, related 138 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Verl

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how Cousins himself had intentionally used laughter to alleviate pain and substantively retard the progress of a rare illness he had acquired in 1964. What became well known about his program was how he treated himself, when in pain, to long spates of watching old comedies by the Marx Brothers and others on a monitor in his hospital room. Continuous belly laughter even for ten minutes at a time activated the body’s own chemicals to reduce his pain and prolong his life. Laughter as a selfadministered form of therapy worked so well for Cousins that the American medical establishment began to take notice and this was the precipitate for further research by others. Cousins, already a widely respected author and long-time editor of the Saturday Review, was eventually appointed as an Adjunct Professor of Medical Humanities in the School of Medicine of the University of California Los Angeles. Comedy thrives on the apparent disjunctions between the bodies and the minds of humans. We laugh with and at ourselves when such discrepancies become overt. But the »belly laugh« is a wondrous thing. Occasioned by something that the mind has recognized as funny, such laughter reaches down to our inner organs. And once there, it puts our minds and bodies together in a very special way. »Laughter,« wrote Cousins, »is a form of internal jogging. It moves your internal organs around. It enhances respiration. It is an igniter of great expectations.«

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Haijo Jan Westra

Irony, Ambiguity, and Laughter in Greek and Latin Texts

Introduction Irony is an ambiguous mode of discourse in that the intended meaning is the opposite of what is said, or at least very different from the spoken utterance. The statement thus expressed runs counter to the expectation of the audience and may provoke laughter. In spoken discourse, irony can be signalled by a number of physical means such as a raised tone of voice, facial expressions such as a smile or raised eyebrows, or by gestures of the hand or body of the speaker subverting the spoken utterance. But even here a problem of interpretation may arise if the oral delivery is deliberately serious or »deadpan«. In written texts, such cues are lacking and we have to look for other clues to catch the intended meaning. Dilwyn Knox and others have traced the history of the question and present some of the solutions offered. Erasmus already noted the problem by pointing out that there was no clear textual sign (nota) to signal the ironic intent. In 1668, John Wilkins, as part of his project of a universal philosophical language, proposed that an inverted exclamation mark be used; in 1899 Alcanter de Brahm suggested a new diacritical mark resembling a lightning flash which he called, appropriately as we shall see, le petit signe flagellateur. 1 Others have suggested »a backward sloping typeface called ironics« to signal humorous intent. 2 These suggestions may seem quintessentially modern, but a similar solution was practised in Heinrich Wittenwiller’s Ring, where, in a manuscript from ca. 1400, a green initial letter signals the ironic-parodic element, and a red letter the serious content. 3 Dilwyn Knox, Ironia: Medieval and Renaissance Ideas on Irony (Leiden: Brill, 1989) 72; D. C. Muecke, The Compass of Irony (London: Methuen, 1969)56. 2 Knox, Ironia 72, n. 98. 3 Juergen Beitz, Studien zur Parodie in Heinrich Wittenwilers Ring (Goeppingen: 1

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The problem of interpretation becomes particularly acute in texts that are far removed from contemporary expectations, sensibility and sense of humour. In itself, this characteristic of irony, presupposing a shared culture and understanding (Vorverständnis) between author and intended audience can even be conspiratorial, involving a shared sous– entendre by a sophisticated author and his in-crowd audience, deliberately excluding the uninitiated and unsophisticated. By the same token, audience reception, or »getting it,« i. e. the intended meaning, is crucial. This is true not only for literary texts, as the example of Plato’s dialogue Ion demonstrates. In this dialogue, Plato demonstrates how Ion’s knowledge of human affairs is non-existent, and that his great success in reciting Homer (the source of traditional knowledge) therefore must be due to »divine possession« (Ion, 536D), defined in the dialogue as wholly irrational. Given the negative treatment of Ion and his claim to knowledge, and in the context of the conflict between poetry and philosophy, modern interpreters are inclined to see this explanation of divine inspiration of knowledge as ironic. 4 The Neo-Platonists, however, in particular Plotinus and especially Proclus, read this text »straight«, i. e. literally, and hence were able to elevate the status of art and poetry as deriving from a vision of the divine, against Plato’s rejection, or at least ambivalence, towards them as sources of true knowledge. Instead, this literal reading turned poets into hierophants. 5 At the same time, we have to be careful not to read irony into ancient and medieval texts. We cannot assume the attitude towards, and experience of, irony as a constant, with Romantic irony as the great watershed between classical/rhetorical and later conceptions. 6 Irony became a highly valued form of expression and a preferred basis for interpretation in modernist literary criticism, in particular the New Criticism and the werkimmanente Methode. In postmodernism this tendency has become more radical, as »self-ironizing« is considered the only authentic form of creation and interpretation. This is not to suggest that a pervasive attitude of irony is absent Kuemmerle, 1978); E. Wiessner, ed. Heinrich Wittenwilers Ring (Leipzig 1931; rpt. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft 1964). 4 Knox, Ironia 117. 5 Alexander S. Preminger, et al. Classical and Medieval Literary Criticism: Translations and Interpretations (New York: Ungar, 1974) 277–278. 6 Ernst Behler, Ironie et modernité, trans. Olivier Mannoni (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1997)25–27.

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from ancient or medieval authors. Horace’s Satires, Lucian of Samosata’s Dialogues, and Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales 7 immediately come to mind as profoundly ironic. To escape from this dilemma and so as not to succumb to over-interpretation, we shall limit ourselves to the trope irony, i. e. verbal irony, rather than the pervasive kind that involves a mode of experiencing the world and an entire worldview, and we shall control our interpretation by applying common definitions and functions of this limited form as recognised by the ancient rhetoricians. 8 This also means leaving aside programmatic forms of irony in antiquity such as Socratic and Menippean irony, linked by Bakhtin. 9 To recapitulate briefly, the problem with irony is that, in the absence of a clear signal, the audience may miss the intended meaning. Classical and medieval grammarians and commentators recognised the problem by helpfully labelling passages that were meant to be understood in the opposite sense as statements made kata antifrasin in Greek and per antiphrasim in Latin. 10 Quintilian connects irony with allegory which also says other things (Greek: alla agoreuein) than those conveyed by its literal or surface meaning. 11 And, as Quintilian points out as well, if the key to that underlying meaning is lost, we are faced with an enigma, i. e. with an ambiguity that remains permanently obscure, a problem that affects irony as well as allegory. 12 In general, the disjuncture between statement and intent in irony is not just a cause of difficulty, it is also a source of pleasure for those who are clever enough to notice the author’s subversion of his own statement. Typically this realisation of the disjuncture between words and meaning produces laughter, as incongruity or a denial of expectation often does. Ironic laughter varies from a smile at an author’s urbane wit (ironia urbana, faceta, elegans) to scornful derision occasioned by the author’s bitter irony (amara, gravis, mordax), when the latter Knox, Ironia 88 and cf. Earle Birney, Essays on Chaucerian Irony, ed. Beryl Rowland (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1985). 8 See especially Knox, Ironia 229–231, s. v. and cf. Heinrich Lausberg, Handbook of Literary Rhetoric: A Foundation for Literary Study, Foreword by George A. Kennedy, trans. Matthew T. Bliss et al., eds. David E. Orton and R. Dean Anderson (Leiden: Brill, 1998) 266–68; 403–407; 689–690. 9 In M. M. Bakhtin, Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics, 2nd ed. 1963. 10 Knox, Ironia, 225, s. v. 11 Quintilian, Institutio Oratoria 9.2.46, trans. H. E. Butler (Loeb edition 1920), vol. 3, p. 401. 12 Ibid. 8.6.52, trans. Butler, vol. 3, p. 331. 7

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verges on sarcasm. 13 Ironic laughter involves surprise and the pleasure of recognition of the trick played. Ancient theorists from Aristotle recognised the playfulness of irony. The Latin word for play, ludus, also means trick or deception (Verstellung). Quintilian in effect identifies wit with irony: »Indeed the essence of all wit lies in the distortion of the true and natural meaning of words«. 14 There is also an unexpected break in the tone and decorum of the speech, entertaining the listeners with a pleasing variety and drawing them in through a complicity of a shared understanding, frequently at the expense of someone else, involving laughter derived from a feeling of superiority and exclusion. In this paper we will present some examples of irony mainly from epic poetry ranging from the Homeric epics to the first major Christian poet Prudentius in the 4th Century A.D. in order to give a sense of the ambiguous signs and possibly clear signals that were employed to indicate ironic intent in Greek and Latin texts that share a common frame of reference in terms of definitions of irony, rhetoric and poetics. Such signs and signals will be related to the functions of irony in these texts. At the same time, the modalities of laughter it engenders will be examined. As a genre of high seriousness, irony is relatively rare in the epic; in fact laughter and comedy can be thought to undermine the tone and mood of the epic. 15 As a result one may expect a clear bracketing of the ironic statement setting it off from the dominant tenor. Within the epic, examples have been drawn from speeches, precisely to examine the transference of physical signs of irony into textual signs.

Greek texts Our first example is from Book 10 of the Iliad, the so-called Doloneia, lines 400–401: Then smiling upon him Odysseus of many wiles made answer: »Verily now on great rewards was thy heart set, even the horses of the wisehearted son of Aeacus, but hard are they for mortal men to master or drive«. 16 Knox, Ironia 85; ibid. p. 231 for jokes, humour and wit. Institutio oratoria 6.3.89, trans. Butler, vol. 2, p. 87. 15 M. M. Bakhtin, The Dialogic Imagination (Austin: The University of Texas Press, 1981)23. 16 Homer: The Iliad, trans. A. T. Murray (Loeb edition 1965) vol. 1, p. 65. 13 14

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First, the context, which is indispensable for »getting« the irony. Odysseus and Diomedes have caught a Trojan spy, Dolon, who had volunteered to spy on the Greek camp; as a reward, he had requested the horses of Achilles. He had been promised this reward by the Trojan commander, Hector. However, having been caught by Odysseus and Diomedes, he blames Hector for leading him astray by promising him the horses of Achilles. In other words, compelled by fear he lies in order to present himself as a victim or dupe, a most unheroic stance and an act of betrayal. Upon hearing this claim –which the audience knows to be false- the clever Odysseus immediately sees through Dolon’s lie; irony, itself a deception, may involve an unmasking of a deception. Odysseus’ response is accompanied by a smile, a first sign to guide our interpretation of Odysseus’ statement as tongue-in-cheek. Furthermore, his response is introduced by no fewer than three Greek particles, ē, ra and nu, all of which are highly emphatic and constitute the second sign of the intended meaning. The particle ē means »in truth« and can be used ironically 17; in combination with the following ra it is equivalent to ara, a particle implying impatience. The final nu or nun is a particle denoting emphasis. Translated into English, the particles can be read as: Verily now, Surely now, or Well now, or Now indeed. The actual ironic statement thus signalled is the »great gifts« (megalon doron) Dolon’s heart desired so much. The intended meaning is perfectly clear: These gifts are too great for Dolon and his desire surpasses his reach, as he does not have what it takes to control these preternatural horses and hence is unworthy to possess them. Odysseus’ smile here connotes derision, mocking Dolon for his presumption. 18 The heroic context especially is all-important, specifically the code of honour and the need to avoid shame at all costs in the epic, a test Dolon fails miserably. The entire narrative in Book 10 up to this point is geared towards showing up Dolon as an ignoble and contemptible character. Even his name is ironic: Dolon, the »clever one«, is shown to be the opposite as he runs into the H. G. Liddell & R. Scott, A Greek-English Lexicon, new edition (1940, rpt. 1961: Oxford, Clarendon Press) 761, section I. 18 In Ecclesiasticus 21.23 the same verb, to smile (meidaomai), is used to refer to the silent smile of the wise man as opposed to the loud laughter of the fool. For irony in the Bible see Knox, Ironia 52–53, 75. For Johannes Scottus Eriugena’s unique use of the concept ironia divina see Edouard Jeauneau, »Jean Scot et l'ironie«, in G.-H. Allard. ed. Jean Scot Ecrivain, Actes du IVe Colloque international, Montréal, 28 aout – 2 septembre 1983 (Montréal: Bellarmin and Paris: Vrin, 1986) 13–27. 17

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trap set for him by Odysseus. The irony and the laughter are derisive, at Dolon’s expense. And it is probably for this reason that irony is rare in the Iliad: it puts down or mocks someone else, a terrible affront to a real hero, possibly even reflecting on the one stooping to use it. In the ancient hierarchy of genres, the epic’s high seriousness is intolerant of a break in tone and decorum. By the same token, ironic self-mockery is virtually unthinkable. Another instance of irony as a scornful put-down, this time of Odysseus himself, can be found in Book 24 of the Odyssey, lines 425– 6, where Eupeithes, the father of one of Penelope’s suitors killed by Odysseus, accuses Odysseus, in front of a crowd, of being a waster of other men’s lives in the Trojan War: A [great feat] that fellow did for us … Good spearmen by the shipload he led to war and lost. 19

The ironic statement here is mega ergon, a »great feat« that stands for »a monstrous deed«, its exact opposite. The ancient rhetoricians recognised this species as bitter irony or sarcasm. It achieves one of the functions of irony by conveying blame through its opposite, namely false praise. Significantly there is no laughter here. In fact, Eupeithes is said to be weeping (line 425) on account of grief and rage. Bitter irony typically expresses sadness, indignation and anger; sarcasm conveys hatred. The weeping signals the heightened affect of the speaker, while his situation as the bereaved father of his murdered and unavenged son sets up a sharp contrast with his utterance, making the scorn all the more stand out through the unexpected and utterly counter-indicative praise. At the same time the speaker attempts to implicate his audience, the men of Ithaca, in his blame of Odysseus, and to motivate his audience to exact revenge. Irony, then, can be a means of rhetorical persuasion. The Odyssey also provides examples of a form irony that conveys a conventional witticism. Whenever visitors come to visit Ithaca, they are hospitably received, bathed and fed, after which they are asked by Penelope or Telemachus who they are, where they are from, and where their ship and crew are located, i. e. how they came to Ithaca’s isle. This series of questions is concluded by a final remark: »You could hardly 19 Homer: The Odyssey, trans. A. T. Murray (Loeb edition 1966), vol. 2, p. 433. The Loeb translator has made the intended meaning explicit by translating »great feat« (mega ergon) as »a monstrous deed«.

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have come here on foot« (Cf. Odyssey 1. 173, 14. 188–190; 16. 24; 16. 59). This statement is ironic in simultaneously suggesting and rejecting an absurd notion, making explicit that the speaker does not support his/her own words. The statement can also be thought of as an ironic rhetorical question. The humour functions to disarm the series of direct questions, softening the enquiry and inviting the guest to take up the hidden challenge to reveal himself. Revealing one’s identity and whereabouts is a fraught subject in the Odyssey, with guests tending to fictionalise their background, in particular Odysseus himself. A variant of »You have not come here on foot« is contained in the invitation by Penelope to Odysseus disguised a beggar to reveal his identity at Odyssey 19. 163 where she says: »For you have not sprung from an oak of ancient myths, or from a rock«. This statement is an ironic reference to the fictions of alternative creations of mankind from trees or rocks in Greek mythology, wittily replacing the plain question: »What is your ancestry«. Ironically, Odysseus answers with another fictional account of his origin and travels. Irony is intrinsically related to what is »made up«, i. e. fiction. 20 Whereas, until this point, we have dealt mainly with verbal irony, the second half of the Odyssey, with Odysseus returned in the disguise of a beggar, provides the setting of another, more pervasive form of situational irony, namely the dramatic kind where speakers are not aware of the true identity of one of the characters present, but the audience is. This ironic situation colours all the speech acts and their interpretation. This is the context for an exchange between Odysseus’ son, Telemachus, and Antinous, the most arrogant of the suitors who have gathered in Odysseus’ absence to woo his wife, Penelope. Antinous has just criticised the swineherd Eumaeus for having brought a beggar (the disguised Odysseus) by saying that there are enough beggars and vagabonds at court to eat up the livelihood of its ruler. Telemachus responds (Odyssey 17. 397) with scornful derision by saying that Antinous cares about him »like a father for his son«. The ironies abound here. Antinous ostensibly seeks to become Telemachus’ step-father by wooing Penelope, but as the narrative has shown, he has sought to displace Telemachus by plotting to murder him. In terms of the definition of irony, this is blame through praise, again. The verbal irony takes on a Quintilan, Institutio oratoria 9.2.46, trans. H. E. Butler (Loeb edition 1966), vol. 3, p. 401.

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dramatic aspect because, as only Telemachus knows, his real father is present, the very »beggar« Antinous wants to stop from eating up the »ruler’s livelihood«, i. e. his own! A further situational irony is provided by the fact that Antinous and his fellow suitors are engaged in precisely what he accuses the beggars and vagabonds of, namely wasting Odysseus’ property, an abuse that is repeated almost obsessively throughout the Odyssey. Here, verbal irony combines with dramatic irony into a nexus for interpretation and the variegated hermeneutic pleasure it yields. Clearly Greek audiences enjoyed such situations since they are so prominent here in the second half of the Odyssey and later in tragedy where they evoke sympathy and horror and where irony is connected with the tragic conception of human life. And clearly, the tragedian Sophocles expected his Athenian audience to »get« the irony instantly in performance, since the text of his Oedipus Tyrannos is virtually inexhaustible in its ironies, as Jean-Pierre Vernant has shown. 21 In the case of Antinous, the irony reveals his mendacity and blindness while prefiguring the modality of his killing by Odysseus, ironically while in the very process of consuming the latter’s bread and wine, the very stuff of life, at the beginning of Book 22. Irony is also connected with the notions of hiding, disguise or deception. Probably the most famous instance of verbal irony as a means of hiding one’s identity is the famous story of the clever Odysseus responding to the Cyclops Polyphemus’ question that his name is »Nobody« (Outis) in Odyssey 9. 364–7. This deception sets up a situation where the other Cyclopes are tricked into believing that »nobody« has hurt Polyphemus when they respond to his cries for help after he had his eye gouged out by Odysseus (9. 408). Here irony connects with the Greek pleasure in cunning (metis) 22 and the Schadenfreude of a folktale where the underdog tricks and dupes the man-eating giant, thus managing to escape from the ogre’s den.

21 Jean-Pierre Vernant, »Ambiguity and Reversal: On the Enigmatic Structure of the Oedipus Rex«, trans. Janet Lloyd, in J.-P. Vernant and Pierre Vidal-Naquet, Tragedy and Myth in Ancient Greece (New Jersey: Humanities Press and Sussex: Harvester Press, 1981) 97–119. 22 Marcel Detienne and Jean-Pierre Vernant, Cunning Intelligence in Greek Culture and Society, trans. Janet Lloyd (Atlantic Highlands, New Jersey: Humanities Press, 1978).

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Latin texts Turning to the most famous Roman epic, Vergil’s Aeneid 23 Book 4, lines 93–5, we find an example of bitter irony in the remark of the goddess Juno to Venus, blaming her and her son Cupid for making Dido fall in love with Aeneas: Splendid indeed is the praise and rich the spoils ye win, Thou and thy boy; mighty and glorious is the power divine if one woman is subdued by the guile of two gods.

In terms of the definition of irony, this is, again, an instance of blame through false praise. The tone of this remark has been regarded as lacking in dignity and as derogatory of divinity, more appropriate to comedy than the epic. It is an expression of scornful derision on the part of a goddess who is associated with irrational fury and rage throughout the Aeneid. The actual ironic phrase, egregiam … laudem (splendid praise) is accompanied by the adverb vero (in truth) which, among its many usages, can signal irony, not unlike the Greek ē or ara mentioned above. Other Latin adverbs used for the same purpose are tolle and sane. 24 Juno then goes on to offer a compromise »deal« between herself and Venus by proposing a joint rule of Aeneas and Dido. The fourth-century grammarian Donatus 25 glosses the phrase »splendid praise« as ironic, and Vergil does so implicitly by characterising Iuno’s words as having been spoken deceitfully and contrary to Iuno’s true intentions (line 104: simulata mente). Irony can serve to convey an outright falsehood or lie or mendacious jest. 26 Glossing statements as ironic is practised extensively by late antique and medieval commentators, precisely to explain any perceived ambiguity or obscurity. Such glossing (ironice, per ironiam) came to be used as an interpretive strategy in order to disarm potentially embarrassing passages in poets and philosophers alike by claiming an underlying meaning different from the literal sense, a form of allegorical interpretation. 27 Vergil, trans. H. R. Fairclough, revised edition (Loeb 1974), vol. 2, p. 403. Donatus, Commentum in Terentii Eunuchum 89, ed. Paul Wessner (Teubner edition 1902) vol. 1, p. 285. 25 Donatus, ibid. Cf. Donatus, Interpretationes Vergilianae, ed. H. Georgii (Teubner edition 1905) vol. 1, pp. 367–370. 26 Knox, Ironia 51. 27 Knox, Ironia 106, 110; Haijo Jan Westra, ed. The Commentary on Martianus Capel23 24

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For a more humorous use of irony in Latin we turn to Ovid and his mythological epic, the Metamorphoses, Book 13, lines 840–52. 28 In rhetorical terms, the laughter derives from the character of the speaker (a monster), the situation he is in (love), and his delusional recommendation of his own monstrous appearance. The character in question is Polyphemus, the one-eyed giant, who is attempting to woo and impress the unwilling victim of his attentions, the sea-nymph Galatea. These are Polyphemus’ arguments in favour of his appearance: Surely I know myself; lately I saw my reflection in a clear pool, and I liked my features when I saw them. Just look, how big I am! Jupiter himself up there in the Sky has no bigger body … A wealth of hair overhangs my manly face and it shades my shoulders like a grove. And don’t think it ugly that my body is covered with thick bristling hair … True, I have but one eye, but it is as big as a good-sized shield …

His speech starts with a statement that is deeply ironic: »Surely I know myself«, with the adverb »Surely« (certe) reinforcing his profound ignorance. 29 The situational irony derives from the disjuncture between the Beast and the emotion of love, specifically from his Brautwerbungspeech where the monster recommends his ugly features to the reluctant Beauty. Potentially, this is a tragic situation arousing pathos, even sympathy with the Beast, as we have it in Vergil. 30 In Ovid the laughter is completely at the expense of the deluded Polyphemus. There is an element of comedy, even farce in the representation of Polyphemus as the butt of a (cruel) joke. And typically, Roman humour is at the expense of someone else, a dupe, whether he be a slave in Plautus’ comedies, or the emperor himself in Lucan’s epic of the Civil War. Lucan’s epic contains an example of irony through hyperbole or exaggeration, a classical device, in the case of his excessive praise of the emperor Nero, an instance widely interpreted by medieval commentators as scornful rather than flattering, i. e. as blaming through false praise, making Nero

la’s De Nuptiis Philologiae et Mercurii Attributed to Bernardus Silvestris (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies Press, 1986) 28. 28 Ovid: Metamorphoses, trans. Frank J. Miller (Loeb edition, 1958), vol. 2, pp. 287,289. 29 Ibid. p. 285, Metamorphoses, Book 13, line 808: »But, if only you knew me well« (at bene si noris). 30 See Aeneid, Book 3, lines 655–661: Polyphemus, blinded (by Odysseus), with only his sheep for company and solace.

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even more ridiculous for not being able to recognise the hidden scorn and duping him in the process. 31

Conclusion We will conclude our overview of the signs and functions of irony and the accompanying modalities of laughter with the first major Christian poet, Prudentius, who wrote an epic poem on the battle between the Virtues and the Vices over the soul of man, the Psychomachia. Even though there are instances of irony in this epic, we have chosen a novel use of irony from his Peristephanon, 32 a poetic work that describes and celebrates the actions and sufferings of the early Christian martyrs. In a sense, this too, is an epic genre, because the martyrs are the new heroes, athletes of God who achieve their crowns of victory through acts of defiance and feats of suffering that constitute their aristeia. In Peristephanon 2, line 65 and following, St. Lawrence is ordered by the Prefect of the City of Rome to hand over all the silver and gold the Church is supposed to be hiding. The pagan Prefect even quotes the famous saying of Christ in regards to money, namely to »render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s« (line 94), clearly a scornful use of laughter. Lawrence deceptively agrees »as if ready to obey« (line 111) and goes all over the city to collect all the sick, the lame and the needy in one church. Before opening the church doors to the greedy prefect, he announces (lines 173–6): You will see the great nave gleaming with vessels of gold and along the colonnades, talents of silver.

The irony consists in Lawrence’s allegorical use of the words »gold and silver« as the true riches of the Church, namely suffering humanity, involving a total Umwertung of the values of the Prefect and of the material world. Here ironic allegory serves to posit a spiritual meaning The Civil War, Book 1, lines 33–66. See Lucan, trans. J. D. Duff (Loeb edition 1988), 5, 7; Knox, Ironia 49–50; Dennis H. Green, »Zum Erkennen und Verkennen von Ironieund Fiktionssignalen in der hoefischen Literatur«, in Wolfgang Fruehwald, Dietmar Peil, et al. eds. Erkennen und Erinnern in Kunst und Literatur (Tuebingen: Niemeyer, 1988) 35–57, esp. p. 49, n. 75. 32 Prudentius, trans. H. J. Thomson (Loeb edition 1969) vol. 2, pp. 109–143, esp. 112– 127. 31

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that is not only profoundly different but also truer (verius, line 203), making the transcendent message of Christianity soar above the Prefect’s materialism and greed. At the same time, it engenders laughter, as the Prefect senses when he says, furiously, that he is being ridiculed (ridemur, line 313). It is also highly dramatic, with an elaborate cast and setting, involving suspense and surprise and a drawn-out dénouement and a dramatic confrontation between two antagonists and two worldviews, with the underdog becoming the moral victor in a dramatic reversal. In Christian literature, irony has acquired a new, allegorical function, to reveal the true meaning of words by exposing their conventional surface meaning as false and revealing their underlying, spiritual meaning, aligning itself with the New Testament distinction between the spirit and the letter. Irony has become redemptive.

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Manfred Malzahn

»Great Laughter was in Heaven«: Roots and Repercussions of a Literary Motif

For an investigation of laughter in English literature, there would arguably be some more obvious starting points than John Milton’s epic poem Paradise Lost, from which I have borrowed the quotation in the title of my paper. A 17th century Puritan’s retelling of Biblical narrative could hardly be expected either to contain or to evoke much hilarity, but in the following, I shall try to place the grim humour of which flashes can be seen in Paradise Lost, in the context of a literary tradition extending from Beowulf to Beckett; and I shall further try to argue that this tradition incorporates a remarkably constant perception of the human condition as intrinsically comical. Scholarship on extant Old English texts seems to have by now illuminated even the most obscure strokes of wit from that period, while many salient occasions for Anglo-Saxon laughter have presumably been lost. In a recent collection of essays on Anglo-Saxon humour, the editor Jonathan Wilcox reminds readers that existing evidence reflects only »the world of the hall and battlefield or of the monastery and pulpit,« while other domains, e. g. the world of »the field or the hostelry,« 1 are not documented. As regards the results of previous studies on Old English laughter, Wilcox claims »they generally conclude there is little or no correlation between laughter and humour.« 2 The ensuing essays, however, surely go some way towards qualifying that conclusion, especially with regard to the type of grim humour that E. L. Risden detects in Beowulf, and that he finds to support »the heroic code at the heart of Anglo-Saxon culture.« 3 Like in Paradise Lost, there is not a great deal of mirth on the surJonathan Wilcox, »Introduction«, Humour in Anglo-Saxon Literature, Cambridge, 2000, 4. 2 Ibid., 6. 3 E. L. Risden, »Heroic Humour in Beowulf«, in: Wilcox, 78. 1

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face of Beowulf, an essentially tragic tale of manly courage in the face of darkness and inevitable doom. When light-hearted laughter occurs, it signals a sense of relief that is at best temporary, and at worst treacherous. This can be seen in the following passage, which describes the reaction of the Danish king and his people to the hero’s promise that he will rid them of the bloodthirsty monster Grendel: Then the grey-haired treasure-giver was glad; far-famed in battle, the prince of Bright-Danes and keeper of his people counted on Beowulf, on the warrior’s steadfastness and his word. So the laughter started, the din got louder and the crowd was happy. 4

Here is a subtle case of dramatic irony, shared by the poet with an audience of people who know what is to come, both because they are likely to know this particular story, and because they recognise a topos so familiar in Old English poetry that one may safely apply a comment made by John D. Niles in reference to a different instance: »Narratologically, a burst of laughter here is like a red flag signalling danger and inviting nemesis.« 5 True enough, Beowulf proves to be as good as his boast, but neither he nor the Danes seem aware that the next threat in the shape of Grendel’s mother is ready to pounce, as soon as Grendel has been dispatched. The joke is thus on those who laughed because they felt too safe too soon, forgetful of the fact that under their own heroic code, the killing of any but a kinless being is bound to be avenged. It is as foolish to ignore this is as it is to forget one’s own mortality, a truth that the poet drives home to his audience once again at the very moment when he reports how after Grendel’s death, the mead-hall Heorot is decked out for another celebration. The process involves the patching up of the considerable damage caused by the fatally wounded monster in his flight: Only the roof remained unscathed by the time the guilt-fouled fiend turned tail in despair of his life. But death is not easily escaped from by anyone: all of us with souls, earth-dwellers 4 5

Passages from Beowulf are quoted in the translation by Seamus Heaney. John D. Niles, »Byrhtnoth’s Laughter and the Poetics of Gesture«, in: Wilcox, 27.

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and children of men, must make our way to a destination already ordained where the body, after the banqueting, sleeps on its deathbed.

Risden calls this a »doleful, ironic passage« that makes a point »in the appetizing tradition of the Middle Ages,« namely, that »we who have feasted will soon become the object of feasting, food for worms.« 6 The modern critic here echoes the gleeful sarcasm of the medieval memento mori, exposing a comic incongruity inherent in the dual role of humans in the food chain. Midway between medieval and modern, we find this kind of sardonic humour e. g. in the graveyard scene in Shakespeare’s Hamlet, when Hamlet and two clowns crack jokes over human remains, including the skull of the jester Yorick: Where be your gibes now, your gambols, your songs, your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now to mock your own grinning? Quite chap-fall’n? Now get you to my lady’s chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come. Make her laugh at that. 7

What is ridiculed here is once again laughter itself, in a manner that not only exposes the paradoxical human condition, but even exacerbates it by giving paradoxical injunctions to the audience, whose laughter is simultaneously provoked and choked. The witty use of ›chap-fallen‹ meaning ›with the lower jaw hanging down‹ and hence also ›dejected‹, is in the best tradition of English word-play, as popular in the Renaissance as it had been in Anglo-Saxon times. The Old English lexicon, however, had contained one particularly interesting similarity of the punogenic kind that had long been lost by the time of Shakespeare, namely, that between leahtor meaning ›laughter‹, and leahter meaning ›sin‹. Had Milton composed his epic in Old English, the line »Great laughter was in Heaven« might not have been written like this, or else it would have taken on an added layer of meaning. 8 Even without the pun, however, the association of laughter with Risden, in: Wilcox, 76. A similar order is e. g. given to the rose addressed by the speaker in Edmund Waller’s poem »Song«. 8 As I discovered during the writing of this paper, electronic searches for the word »laughter« reveal another telling similarity, namely, that between »laughter« and »slaughter«. 6 7

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levity was common in the Christian occident, where piety, asceticism and earnestness often came as part of one and the same package. If Renaissance humanism set a cheerful carpe diem against such unworldly seriousness, then this could appear as coupled with a memento mori in another set of Janus-faced paradoxical commands. A famous example, though not so often understood as such, is Andrew Marvell’s poem »To His Coy Mistress«, which ends on a carpe diem, but has a memento mori at its centre. Here, in a figure of speech conflating eater with lover, the speaker warns his reluctant addressee that if she remains chaste too long, she risks that »worms shall try« her »long-preserved virginity«. This warning precedes a laconic summary of reality as he knows it: The grave’s a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.

Sombre humour once more, and of such epigrammatic force that it overshadows the ensuing carpe diem, making the poem appear as the record of a failed seduction, and at the same time as a comment on a basic human dilemma. To wit, if the consciousness of our mortality leads us to recognise the unique value of our existence, it will in all likelihood prevent us from realising the full potential of that existence at the very moment of recognition, when we know we should live the moment to its fullest. The joke here is thus ultimately on Marvell’s speaker, whose half-jocular reasoning has side-effects that undermine its declared purpose. Another such vain attempt to dress a relationship offer in logical terms is seen in John Donne’s »The Flea«, which likewise features the use of hyperbole to comic effect: This flea is you and I, and this Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is; Though parents grudge, and you, we’re met And cloistered in these living walls of jet.

Donne’s speaker promptly takes back this preposterous claim, as soon as it has seen its empirical refutation in the addressee’s killing of the insect without any of the predicted consequences. On the level of author-reader communication, however, the imaginative enlargement of the flea stands, as suggesting the enlarged possibilities for perceptions of comic incongruity that were brought by the development of optical aids. Through telescopic and microscopic vision, the 17th century took new 155 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Verl

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measures of the universe as infinitely vast and infinitely small; and it discovered new dimensions of the comic inherent in even more incongruous magnitudes. Whereas infinity and the atom had so far existed as concepts, now mankind came close to seeing what those concepts really meant. It is this broadened visual perception that puts Milton’s reference to heavenly laughter into perspective. From a celestial vantage point, the tower of Babel is no more impressive and no less laughable than the »walls of jet« that encase a flea may seem to a human. Moreover, since Heaven is neither visible nor audible from earth, the perception of earth from Heaven appears to involve a good deal of visual magnification, as well as amplification of sound. Milton does not equip the denizens of his Heaven with telescopes, but with telescopic acuity in registering optical and acoustic data of what happens at such a distance and on such a scale as to cause neither concern nor outrage, but mere hilarity among those »looking down«: Forthwith a hideous gabble rises loud, Among the builders; each to other calls Not understood; till hoarse, and all in rage, As mocked they storm: great laughter was in Heaven, And looking down, to see the hubbub strange, And hear the din: Thus was the building left Ridiculous, and the work Confusion named.

While this laughter in Heaven is thus superficially similar to the aforementioned laughter in Heorot, it is meant to be judged differently, since it is meant to be seen as grown neither out of human hubris, nor indeed out of that human ignorance of the future which Alexander Pope’s Essay on Man suggests we had better regard as a gift of Providence. In Pope’s Enlightenment world view, the limitations of our quintessential human nature make us comical creatures who are »darkly wise« or »rudely great«; but they likewise enable us to perceive the comic aspects of our oxymoronic existence. »Laugh where we must, be candid where we can,« is the motto of a human self-perception that proves its humanity by taking in comic contrasts and discrepancies. In Pope’s notion of divine vision, however, there is no place for the comedy of magnitudes, since the divine eye evens out all differences in scale: O blindness to the future! kindly given, That each may fill the circle marked by Heaven:

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Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, Atoms or systems into ruin hurled, And now a bubble burst, and now a world.

The trickery here is that Pope’s readers are of course human, and thus unable to look through any other than human eyes. The antithetical pairings of the vast and the minute are thus prone to prompt laughter as a natural human response; and likewise is Milton’s heavenly laughter prone to awake the eminently human sentiment of Schadenfreude in the sympathetic human reader. Both Milton and Pope try »to vindicate the ways of God to man«, that is, to make the divine humanly comprehensible by putting it in human terms; but in doing so, both set up a mirror that shows mankind nothing else than the essence of its own humanity, of which the ability to laugh is a vital part. Hence the problems, catalogued in a recent study by John N. King, that readers have with Milton’s picture »of the Father and Son as divine ironists«; 9 a picture that makes them all too human, and indicates that the literary quality of Milton’s text was achieved at the cost of theological cohesion. As King has documented, the ostensibly divine irony in Paradise Lost mirrors the stock-in-trade of the earthly and often earthy religious polemic in 17th century England. In the sectarian controversies that segued into the English Civil War, satire was as important a weapon as it had been during the early days of Christianity, when competing versions of Christian doctrine would hold each other up to ridicule. Heresy was by definition a laughable error, and satirical derision a legitimate weapon in the hands of the just, while a criminal tool in the hands of the heretics. The problem was, of course, that advocates of each side were firmly convinced of their own righteousness, and hence disposed to resent the use of rhetoric’s arsenal by anyone but themselves. The tolerance of the Enlightenment pushed sectarian strife, and with it, the issue of sectarian laughter, off the top of the English national agenda; but this does not mean that it ever disappeared completely. The satirical craft was alive and well in the 18th century, when Jonathan Swift in Gulliver’s Travels isolated the comic essence of human existence by means of a thought experiment where size became relative, and intellectual and animal nature were abstracted from each other. John N. King, Milton and Religious Controversy: Satire and Polemic in Paradise Lost, Cambridge, 2000, 110.

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Then, although the revolutionary spirit of the Romantic age dwelled more often than not behind the serious face of »Enthusiasts« who, in the early 20th century scholar George Gordon’s words, »recoiled … from the corrosion of laughter«, 10 some other radicals were not so fastidious. A pertinent piece of evidence is the following extract from a speech by Robert Wedderburn, Jamaican-born offspring of a Scottish plantation owner and a slave mother, in court on a charge of blasphemy; a charge that, as Ian McCalman reports, »saved him from certain execution for the more serious crime of high treason«: 11 I am aware that I shall be told, the state religion is not set up as a golden image which I am compelled to worship; but that whatever may be my ideas against it, I must not utter them, lest by possibility they should be construed into ridicule and reviling. How weak one would think must be that cause which is afraid of allowing you to laugh. They say we may discuss theological subjects coolly, seriously, and learnedly; but that we must not treat them with levity or sarcasm. Do they act upon the maxim of Christ? Do they do as they would be done by? Do they not, on the contrary, take the liberty to ridicule all the solemn forms, rites, ceremonies and observances of the Catholic church, and call it superstition, mummery, pantomime, scarlet whore of Babylon, &c.? 12

Wedderburn seems to have delivered his defence with tongue-in-cheek solemnity, making his point that no part of humanity can justly claim an exclusive right to laughter, in the manner of deadpan comedy. He thus not only posited, but demonstrated the necessary reciprocity of ridicule, bound to rebound even on the most firmly established and the most self-assured causes and individuals. Seen in this light, sectarian harangue shows itself as fundamentally similar to the Anglo-Saxon practice of flyting: it was par for the course of a hero to ridicule rivals or enemies, and it was expected that the ridiculed would give back as good as they got. Risden characterises the resulting exchanges as ri-

George Gordon, »Shelley and the Oppressors of Mankind« (1923), in: Selected Modern English Essays. Second Series, London, 1932. 11 Ian McCalman, »Introduction«, The Horrors of Slavery and Other Writings by Robert Wedderburn, Edited and Introduced by Ian McCalman, Princeton and Kingston, Jamaica, 1991, 1. 12 »Extracts from Robert Wedderburn’s Speech In His Own Defence Against The Charge of Blasphemy«, in: Paul Edwards, David Dabydeen, eds, Black Writers in Britain 1760–1890, Edinburgh, 1991, 147 10

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tually and systematically violating Grice’s maxims of cooperative conversation, with the caveat that »the hero must use insults prudently«. 13 Ridiculing the opponent went hand in hand with boasting one’s own strength and, though the prudent hero would never act with total recklessness, with professing a contempt of death. Ridicule is the ultimate expression of such disdain, which in the heroic context borders closely and sometimes indistinguishably on the contempt of life. This can be seen in modern ideological appropriations of the heroic-barbaric code, as e. g. in Joseph Goebbels’ speech at the infamous book-burning bonfire in 1933 Berlin, where he said Germany’s youth must learn to no longer stand in fear of death, but in reverent awe of death instead. 14 We would have to look very closely indeed to draw a firm line between the seductive pathos of Nazi rhetoric and the kind of grim humour that is shown not only in pagan, but also in Christian literature of the Anglo-Saxon age. One of the examples Shari Horner finds in Anglo-Saxon hagiography is Aelfric’s Life of Agatha, where the resilient Saint is seen in a battle of wits with her persecutor and torturer, a comic exchange in which the latter’s »unbending literalism« is held up to ridicule by means of contrast with the martyr’s ability »not just to outwit him, but to outlast him«. 15 Although it rests on the certainty of an afterlife, the verbal prowess of Agatha’s death-defiance clearly echoes the boasts of pagan heroes. Pagan and Christian concepts also seem to converge in the famous analogy, recorded by the Venerable Bede, of human life as the brief flight of a bird in and out of a meadhall; a 20th century version of this image turns up in Samuel Beckett’s play Waiting for Godot, where the character named Pozzo is heard to philosophise: They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it’s night once more.

It sounds as though we have not travelled all that far from pagan times till now, if patterns of heroic-barbaric speech and thought persist throughout the literary tradition that produced Milton’s Christian epic Risden, in: Wilcox, 71 The German terms in Goebbels' speech are »Furcht« and the compound »Ehrfurcht«, literally »honour-fear‹; for the original text, see e. g. http://www.kerber-net.de/literatur/ deutsch/prosa/tucholsky/buecherverbrennung1.htm 15 Shari Horner, »Gender, Humour, and Discourse in Aelfric’s Lives of Saints«, in: Wilcox, 133. 13 14

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as well as Beckett’s absurd drama. But lest this be taken as an unduly pessimistic remark, let me try to document the positive effect that humour of the grimmest sort may have, in helping people cope to with the grimmest sorts of circumstances. I owe the following evidence to William Blissett, an Emeritus Professor at the University of Toronto, who in 2007 kindly gave me a copy of an article he had published in 1995, under the title »A Lifetime in English Studies«. I must hence assume that the author was twelve years into his scholarly afterlife when he presented me with the offprint in which I read this anecdote about a Professor called Garnett Sedgewick, who had been one of the undergraduate William Blissett’s teachers of English Literature, just after World War II: After the War, this tiny old man met a huge class mainly of returned soldiers and said, ›When I look out on this sea of faces, I can’t help wishing the war had been much longer – and much bloodier.‹ A moment’s silence, then a roar of laughter: a great therapist had released them from the guilt of survival. 16

What this seems to prove is that, as Peter L. Berger puts it, laughter »can be redeeming, in the sense of making life easier to bear, at least briefly.« 17 As for Berger’s tentative suggestion to consider the redeeming power of laughter in a transcendental sense, I am even less sure than the author who clothes his submission in the most careful of terms. Berger talks about a certain type of experience of the comic, a moment of transcendence when all incongruities are momentarily resolved and all pain is momentarily annulled, as a potential sign of grace. I would rather look in the other direction, content with the power of humour to help us come to terms with our ordinary human reality, its pain and its incongruities. After all, a world without incongruities or pain would needs be a world without humour; and if anyone should object that we have need of humour only as a remedy against incongruity or pain, I would say that here is yet another good reason for us to laugh at our human condition.

William Blissett, »A Lifetime in English Studies«, University of Toronto Quarterly 64/3, Summer 1995, 356. 17 Peter L. Berger, Redeeming Laughter. The Comic Dimension of Human Experience, Berlin and New York, 1997, 205. 16

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To cure the mind’s wrong bias, spleen, Some recommend the bowling-green; Some, hilly walks; all, exercise; Fling but a stone, the giant dies; Laugh and be well; monkeys have been Extreme good doctors for the spleen; And kitten, if the humour hit, Has harlequin’d away the fit. (Matthew Green, »The Spleen«)

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Nietzsche’s Nascent Laughter

Even laughter may yet have a future. (GS § 1) »—perhaps, even if nothing else today has any future, our laughter may yet have a future.« (BGE § 223)

The work where Nietzsche most discusses laughter is Thus Spoke Zarathustra. The figure of Zarathustra is based on the Persian prophet Zoroaster. Zoroaster was thought to have lived during the fifth century BCE (although this has more recently been disputed, and scholars now think that he lived much earlier). The 5th Century BCE Nietzsche regards as evincing a decline in Greek culture despite the fact that Greek society flourished after the Greeks won the Peloponnesian War against the Persians. Nietzsche is perhaps suggesting that, like Zoroaster, Zarathustra should be understood as someone who lives during a time of transition. Even more important in influencing Nietzsche’s conception of Zarathustra is probably the fact that Zoroaster saw the universe in terms of the struggle between good and evil. For Thus Spoke Zarathustra calls for the overcoming of this opposition. What is not clear, however, whether Zarathustra attains such an overcoming or simply calls for it, in other words, is whether he is an Übermensch or remains a prophet like Zoroaster. In Thus Spoke Zarathustra, Zarathustra’s laughter is linked to disruption. It breaks boundaries. Laughter is transformative. It dissolves old, weighty ideas. It renders apparently serious thoughts light and frivolous. What is solemn is no longer necessarily such. In many ways, Nietzsche’s idea of laughter is not that different from his idea of dance. Dance counters the spirit of gravity and allows thought to take flight. It fosters the exceedingly Nietzschean idea that ideas cannot be grounded. In the section »On Reading and Writing« in the first Part of Thus Spoke Zarathustra, Nietzsche refers to both laughter and dance as able to kill 162 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Verl

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the spirit of gravity and in »On Old and New Tablets« § 23, Zarathustra states: »And we should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once. And we should call every truth false which was not accompanied by at least one laugh.« 1 In light of such statements, it is easy to forget that unlike dance, laughter is not necessarily – or even often – liberating for Nietzsche. In a cryptic aphorism in the Gay Science (the reading of which might make one wish never to laugh again) Nietzsche writes: »Laughter – Laughter means: being schadenfroh but with a good conscience« (GS § 200). Nietzsche often deprecates laughter; nevertheless, there seems to be a widespread sense of Nietzschean laughter as freeing and as transformative or at least as disruptive. In works other than Thus Spoke Zarathustra, however, Nietzsche usually presents laughter as an attempt to restrain and limit; only rarely is it liberating. While Nietzschean laughter seems to be associated with the shattering of existing ideas, Nietzsche is well aware that laughter can be conforming, can enforce boundaries rather than transgress them, constrain rather than crack open. An interesting aphorism in Human-All-Too-Human does link laughter to liberation, but there laughter is linked only to temporary release; Nietzsche suggest that laughter ultimately functions to reinforce the existing order, not shatter or even undermine it. In this aphorism, Nietzsche ties laughter and happiness to pleasure in nonsense; he writes:

Quotations from Nietzsche’s works are cited by aphorism number or by section title and number so that the reader may consult any translation or the original German. Abbreviations of texts and the translations I used are as follows: BT – The Birth of Tragedy in The Birth of Tragedy and The Case of Wagner. Trans. Walter Kaufmann. New York: Vintage, 1967. HAH – Human, All Too Human: A book for Free Spirits. Trans. R. J. Hollingdale. Intro. Erich Heller. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1986. GS – The Gay Science Trans. Walter Kaufmann. New York: Vintage, 1974 Z – Thus Spoke Zarathustra in The Portable Nietzsche. Ed and trans Walter Kaufmann. London: Penguin, 1954. pp. 112–439. BGE – Beyond Good and Evil: Prelude to a Philosophy of the Future. Trans. Walter Kaufmann. New York : Vintage, 1989. GM – On the Genealogy of Morals in On the Genealogy of Morals and Ecce Homo. Trans. Walter Kaufmann. New York : Vintage, 1969. WP – The Will to Power. Trans. Walter Kaufmann and R. J. Hollingdale. New York, Vintage, 1968.

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The overturning of experience into its opposite, of the purposive into the purposeless, of the necessary into the arbitrary, but in such a way that this event causes no harm and is imagined as occasioned by high spirits, delights us, for it momentarily liberates us from the constraint of the necessary, the purposive and that which corresponds to our experience which we usually see as our inexorable masters; we play and laugh when the expected (which usually makes us fearful and tense) discharges itself harmlessly. It is the pleasure of the slave at the Saturnalia. (HH 213)

The Saturnalia festival disregarded the existing social hierarchy. So here laughter is indeed linked to an upsetting, but by providing the example of a temporary overturning and by referring to a harmless discharge, Nietzsche makes clear that laughter is a release, not any real disruption. The Saturnalia festival only occurred for a certain number of days each year and then the traditional order was reinstated. Nietzsche seems to be arguing (against someone such as Bahktin) that such festivals were outlets – ones that ultimately operated to secure the social order all the more effectively. In other words, even when laughter actually is a disruption, such a disruption may be only a temporary upsetting that functions to fortify existing structures. Recently, Nietzsche’s work has been elaborated in relation to what is termed his »perspectivism.« Nietzsche’s critique of conceptions of truth suggests that there is no ideal perspective, no »God’s eye« or even »bird’s eye« view that accurately renders things as are. Nietzsche sees little point in assuming that such a truth could exist, even in theory, and he suggests we dispense with any Kantian or similar notion of the »initself.« What we have are interpretations. And without suggesting that a multitude of interpretations would ever provide a total or complete view, Nietzsche’s works argue that the more perspectives we bring to events and experience the better: the fuller, the richer, the more insightful our understanding will be. Moreover, if perspectivism is an appropriate characterization of Nietzsche’s epistemology, it is also an appropriate characterization of his own writing strategy. Nietzsche’s works, taken as a whole, are themselves perspectival. In a one place, Nietzsche may analyze, attack, and assess a phenomenon in a certain way; elsewhere, he will analyze, attack, and assess it in another. Despite his polemics and the irrefutable polemical tone of his writings, Nietzsche almost always presents »the other side« or many other sides to each and every phenomenon, concept, and issue that he discusses. For example, Nietzsche is undeniably critical of Christianity; The 164 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Verl

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Anti-Christ as well as numerous aphorisms throughout Nietzsche’s other works leave little doubt of this. Yet in spite of his condemnation of Christianity, and especially his repeated attack on its suppression of human drives, Nietzsche does not hesitate to acknowledge that Christian discipline and its culture of repression actually »educated the spirit,« That for thousands of years European thinkers thought merely in order to prove something – today, conversely, we suspect every thinker who »wants to prove something« – that the conclusions that ought to be the result of their most rigorous reflections were always settled from the start, just as it used to be with Asiatic astrology, and still is today with the innocuous Christian-moral interpretation of our most intimate personal experiences »for the glory of God« and »for the salvation of the soul« – this tyranny, this caprice, this rigorous and grand stupidity has educated the spirit. (BGE § 188, Nietzsche’s italics)

Nietzsche also notes that during the most Christian period of Europe »the sex drive sublimated itself into love (amour-passion)« (BGE § 189). In other words, even though Nietzsche is virulently hostility towards Christianity, he is able to notice and admire the effects of even those aspects of Christianity – suppression of the drives – that he most condemns. But let us return to Thus Spoke Zarathustra and a further, noteworthy example of Nietzsche’s clear insistence on the complex and diverse ways in which one can assess phenomena. Early in this book, Zarathustra is presented as a character who gives. Zarathustra’s giving is often compared to the sun, a kind of overflowing of light and warmth. In the section titled »On the Gift-Giving Virtue,« Zarathustra says: »Tell me: how did gold attain the highest value? Because it is uncommon and useless and gleaming and gentle in its splendour; it always gives itself. Only as the image of the highest virtue did gold attain the highest value« (»On the Gift-Giving Virtue« § 1). Giving is presented as the highest virtue and is one of Zarathustra’s most important characteristics. Nietzsche indisputably praises giving – just as he praises laughter in this work – but he does not consider it unproblematic. Nietzsche encourages gift-giving, but he recognizes that it is fraught with complications in relation to the giver as well as the receiver. He realizes that there are human-all-too-human forms of giving. He realizes that people may give merely in order to appear generous, to gain recognition, to be admired, to think of themselves as superior, or simply to feel good about 165 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Verl

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themselves. He even observes the bizarre fact that some people are generous out of a desire for possessions! Such people »doctor« (that is »setup«) those they want to help, turn them into »their deserving project« we might say today: Among helpful and charitable people one almost regularly encounters that clumsy ruse which first doctors the person to be helped – as if, for example, he »deserved« help, required just their help, and would prove to be profoundly grateful for all help, faithful and submissive. With these fancies they dispose of the needy as their possessions, being charitable and helpful people from a desire for possessions. One finds them jealous if one crosses or anticipates them when they want to help. (BGE § 194)

In other words, Nietzsche realizes that giving can be a form of control. This is what I would say about laughter. Although it can be liberating, it can also be a form of control or at least of constraint; and it can stem from and foster closed-mindedness. This is apparent in the renowned aphorism »The Madman« in the Gay Science. There the people in the marketplace laugh at and mock the so-called madman who is looking for God. The aphorism opens: Have you not heard of that madman who lit a lantern in the bright morning hours, ran to the market place, and cried incessantly: »I seek God! I seek God!«——As many of those who did not believe in God were standing around just then, he provoked much laughter. (GS 125)

This laughter closes down the possibility of a new idea emerging, of a new way of looking at things. For the so-called madman is looking for God not because he is religious, but because he realizes that the idea of God, and especially those elements attached to the notion of a Christian God, are still powerfully present in a society that deems itself secular. When the people in the marketplace laugh at the madman because they consider him foolish and naive, they avoid reflecting upon their own possible naivety. They put an end to further thinking. Nietzsche is not trying to suggest, however, that mocking laughter that closes off reflection is not funny. Fixed meanings are sealed not only by humourless, disparaging laughter. The people hanging around the marketplace are, after all, fairly witty: Has he [God] got lost? asked one. Did he lose his way like a child? asked another. Or is he hiding? Is he afraid of us? Has he gone on a voyage? emigrated?——Thus they yelled and laughed. (GS 125)

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What Nietzsche is showing is that jokes and witty remarks – humorous as they often are – may still be a way of shutting down, of not thinking beyond the obvious. Laughter can be a resistance to anything new, to any new way of looking at things. Zarathustra’s liberating laughter is not the only kind of laughter; there is also its opposite. In fact, a similar situation to that of the »madman« occurs in the Prologue of Thus Spoke Zarathustra. There Zarathustra arrives at the marketplace (where people are gathered to watch a tightrope walker) and presents his idea of the Übermensch, the suprahuman being. People laugh at him and he realizes that they do not understand what he is saying (Z »Prologue« 3). He tries another approach, depicting the »last human being« to his audience, but they seem to understand even less. They mock Zarathustra and reject his idea of the suprahuman being, shouting that they would prefer the last human instead (Z »Prologue« 4, 5). Their laughter embodies hostility. Zarathustra says that there was »ice in their laughter« (Z »Prologue« 5). The laughter of the people in the marketplace is antagonistic because they cannot or do not want to comprehend Zarathustra. In The Gay Science, Nietzsche depicts another instance of laughter as a response to something that one cannot understand. First, it is important to recall that many of Nietzsche’s writings are concerned with unmasking allegedly selfless motives and showing the self-interest underlying them. Perhaps one of Nietzsche’s greatest accomplishments is to repeatedly expose our illusions and self-delusions regarding our »virtuous« actions without suggesting that human beings generally act out of expediency. Nietzsche’s insight into human psychology is far too nuanced for such a position. Indeed, he considers such a perspective not only limited, but a sign of one’s own limited nature. He stresses that those whose outlook and actions are self-interested have difficulty even fathoming something like magnanimity and can only laugh at it. For common natures all noble, magnanimous feelings appear to be inexpedient and therefore initially incredible: they give a wink when they hear of such things and seem to want to say, »Surely there must be some advantage involved; one cannot see through every wall« – they are suspicious of the noble person as if he were furtively seeking his advantage. If they become all too clearly convinced of the absence of selfish intentions and gains, they view the noble person as a kind of fool: they despise him in his pleasure and laugh at the sparkle in his eye. (GS § 3)

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Here too, laughter indicates a lack of understanding, or rather, complete incomprehension. Often then, laughter stems from an inability to comprehend, and it involves ridicule. It is frequently a form of mockery. Of note is that Nietzsche’s writings not only present those he admires as victims of mocking laughter; he himself also believes that many phenomena warrant derision. In Beyond Good and Evil, he writes: »Suppose we could contemplate the oddly painful and equally crude and subtle comedy of European Christianity with the mocking and aloof eyes of an Epicurean god, I think our amazement and laughter would never end …« (BGE § 62). Nietzsche often states that something is zum Lachen, which means that it should be laughed at. Zum Lachen is usually translated as laughable, sometimes as ridiculous. And when Nietzsche presents something as laughable, he follows conventional meaning and suggests that it is preposterous. An aphorism titled »Zum Lachen!« states: »Laughable! – Look! Look! He is running away from people, but they follow him because he is running ahead of them: they are herd through and through« (§ 195). Any perusal of Nietzsche’s writings makes clear that there is much that he considers preposterous. Many things – both expected and unexpected – incite Nietzsche’s ire, but many too provoke jokes and jest. What Nietzsche seems especially tempted to taunt are hidebound, entrenched ideas. As I noted earlier, Nietzsche’s owns views are extremely difficult to pin down, his own position not easy to ascertain; even so, one can unhesitatingly say that Nietzsche is critical of dogmatism. And he does sometimes think an appropriate response to rigidity is ridicule. Mocking laughter is intended to loosen. Nietzsche is especially derisive of philosophers who allege to be thinking and questioning, but who ultimately attempt to provide justifications for their presuppositions. In the chapter of Beyond Good and Evil titled »On the Prejudices of Philosophers,« Nietzsche notes how often philosophers do little more than rationalize their prejudices and their biases. One distinct prejudice that Nietzsche finds in philosophy is the assumption that thinking and seriousness are opposed. In The Gay Science, he (wittily) writes: Taking seriously. – In the great majority, the intellect is a clumsy, gloomy, creaking machine that is difficult to start. They call it »taking the matter seriously« when they want to work with this machine and think well. How burdensome they must find good thinking! The lovely human beast always seems to lose its good spirits when it thinks well; it

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becomes »serious.« And »where laughter and gaiety are found, thinking does not amount to anything«: that is the prejudice of this serious beast against all »gay science.« – Well then, let us prove that this is a prejudice. (GS § 327).

Nietzsche, to the contrary, denies that thinking must be serious. Elsewhere he asserts that there is a link between laughter and learning, considering laughter a »great means of education« (GS § 177). Elsewhere still, while poking fun at immortal ideas and suggesting that recognized truths are insipid, Nietzsche connects laughter with new and tricky thoughts. Alas, what are you after all, my written and painted thoughts! It was not long ago that you were still so colourful, young, and malicious, full of thorns and secret spices – you made me sneeze and laugh – and now? You have already taken off your novelty, and some of you are ready, I fear, to become truths: they already look so immortal, so pathetically decent, so dull! (BGE § 296).

Thoughts still innovative should elicit a laugh (or even a sneeze!). Laughter is opposed to ideas that are established. Laughter that is truly disruptive, however, should not only resist the existing order or existing ideas, but upset our existence and our ideas to such an extent that it disrupts our very selves. Unfortunately, laughter frequently functions to solidify the self. Indeed, it is often a way of protecting oneself. Nietzsche writes: »Perhaps I know why it is man alone who laughs; he alone suffers so deeply that he had to invent laughter« (WP § 91). Laughter, in other words, may be a way of shielding oneself from pain and suffering. Referring to Chamfort (Sébastian Roch Nicolas), Nietzsche states that he was »a thinker who needed laughter as a remedy against life and who almost considered himself lost on every day on which he had not laughed« (GS § 95). But Nietzsche also tells us that when dying, Chamford said that he was finally leaving a world where »il faut que le cœur se brise ou se bronze« (GS § 95). Clearly, a heart that must become hard as bronze in order not to break would not be a heart easily disrupted. When laughter acts as a defense, it also shields the self from upheaval, from turmoil, from radical disruption. In an aphorism on gratitude and art, Nietzsche postulates that we may sometimes need a respite from ourselves: »At times we need a rest from ourselves by looking upon, by looking down upon, ourselves and, from an artistic distance, laughing over ourselves or 169 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Verl

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weeping over ourselves« (GS § 107). This implies, of course, that there is a self to look down upon; while aesthetic distance may encourage a divided self, encourage us not fully to identify with the self we perceive, it may also help the self coalesce. In The Birth of Tragedy, Nietzsche does not once refer to laughter; there he is exceedingly critical of the rise of comedy and the decline of tragedy. Nietzsche did, however, later write an introductory »Attempt at a Self-Criticism,« which he concludes by quoting a passage from Thus Spoke Zarathustra where Zarathustra pronounces his laugher holy. (Z IV »On the Higher Human«; BT »Self-criticism« § 7). Nietzsche believes that the problem with The Birth of Tragedy was that it lacked laughter. But it is not any old laughter it lacked. In the selfcriticism, Nietzsche states that if pessimists really want to remain pessimists they must learn to laugh. In relation to this remark, it is important to recall exactly what Nietzsche says about pessimism in The Birth of Tragedy. Nietzsche contends that the early Greeks were unusual in being able to face the terror and absurdity of existence and continue to live. According to Nietzsche, the early Greeks were pessimists because although they turned away in horror after gazing into the abyss of the brutal, the destructive, and the senseless, they did not repress what they saw. They recognized, rather than denied, horrific and irrational Dionysian forces. Whereas we tend to associate the ancient Greeks with rationality, measure and harmony, with the form giving art of sculpture, and with the Apollonian and individuation, these same Greeks should be connected with the Dionysian, Nietzsche argues, with music, with the frenzied dancing of the bacchanal festivals and the destruction of the individual. Greek pessimism involved recognition of the Dionysian, of intoxication and ecstasy, including the loss and dissolution of the self. The kind of laughter that Nietzsche advocates is not to be found, I would argue, in the (Apollonian) individual. In the first aphorism of the Gay Science titled »The teachers of the purpose of existence,« Nietzsche argues that, historically, different individual actions have been unintentionally oriented towards the preservation of the species. Our species has been preserved through the faith that life is worth living, through all kinds of moral and religious ideas and ethical systems about the meaning of life – even if these are eventually ridiculed and swept away by the comedy of existence. Yet Nietzsche asserts that it is still almost impossible to laugh from the perspective of the species as a whole. 170 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Verl

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To laugh at oneself as one would have to laugh in order to laugh out of the whole truth—to do that even the best so far lacked sufficient sense for the truth, and the most gifted had too little genius for that! Even laughter may yet have a future! I mean, when the proposition »the species is everything, one is always none« has become part of humanity, and this ultimate liberation and irresponsibility has become accessible to all at all times. Perhaps laughter will then have formed an alliance with wisdom, perhaps only »gay science« will then be left. For the present, things are still quite different. (GS § 1)

Nietzsche postulates a future form of laughter that would emerge not only from outside the existing social order but also from beyond our individuality – the very individuality that Greek pessimism already insisted was an Apollonian construction. Here Nietzsche seems to be referring to a laughter that would characterize a new kind of human. It is less a transformative laughter than laughter that has been transformed. The just quoted aphorism opens The Gay Science; originally The Gay Science ended with book IV. The final aphorism of Book IV is repeated at the beginning of Thus Spoke Zarathustra and the penultimate aphorism of Book IV is »The greatest weight,« where Nietzsche first discusses his doctrine of eternal recurrence. The eternal recurrence is one of the most important ideas in Thus Spoke Zarathustra. Without delving into the content of that much debated doctrine here, I would like to draw attention to Nietzsche’s presentation of the shepherd and his laughter in the section titled »On the Vision and the Riddle« in Part III of Thus Spoke Zarathustra. The shepherd’s laughter is linked to transformation, usually to the transformative force of Nietzsche’s doctrine of eternal recurrence. Zarathustra recounts a vision that he once saw; it seems to involve a metaphorical rendering of the notion of eternal recurrence and includes an incident where a snake slinks into a sleeping shepherd’s mouth and bites itself fast. The shepherd awakens, but neither he nor Zarathustra is able to pull it out. Zarathustra charges the shepherd to bite off the snake’s head. The shepherd does so, spews it forth, and leaps up: »No longer shepherd, no longer human —— one changed, radiant, laughing« (Z III »On the Vision and the Riddle« 2, Nietzsche’s italics). The shepherd is transformed. He is not human any longer. His laughter is unprecedented. Zarathustra continues: »Never yet on earth had a human being laughed as he laughed« (Z III »On the Vision and the Riddle« 2). Here it is important to note, I think, that the transformed shepherd and his unhuman laughter are part of a vision 171 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Verl

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and a riddle Zarathustra tells to people who are on ship voyaging with him. In other words, the »changed, radiant, laughing« shepherd occurs in a story told by a fictional character (Zarathustra) to other fictional characters (the voyagers) in a fictional work (Thus spoke Zarathustra) by Nietzsche. And Nietzsche does not repeat it elsewhere. The new, transformed laughter is clearly being presented as an imaginary or perhaps a future possibility. Such laughter does not exist or does not exist yet. Zarathustra even refers to his riddle as »a vision and a foreseeing« (Z III »On the Vision and the Riddle« 2). The laughter in Zarathustra’s narrative involves something new and different; this further connects Zarathustra with Zoroaster. For Zoroaster’s absolute uniqueness lies in the fact that he is supposed to have laughed rather than cried at birth. 2 Clearly, he would be the only infant to have done so; such laughter – like that of the shepherd – would never have been heard before on earth. Zoroaster’s laughter is not only unprecedented, but it is linked with birth, with the generation of the new. This gets us back to the idea of Zarathustra as a figure of transition. Thus Spoke Zarathustra is filled with references to the New Testament, and one could convincingly argue that Zarathustra is more a John the Baptist figure than a Christ-figure, more of a prophet like Zoroaster. He augurs something new. Although Nietzsche sometimes seems to suggest that humans will never get over their all too humanness, at other times, he suggest that human beings are only an interval, a stage on the way to something that is other than human, more than human, suprahuman. It is as if, he writes in The Genealogy of Morals, »something were announcing, something were preparing itself, as if human beings were not a goal, but only a way, an episode, a bridge, a great promise—« (GM II § 16). In »Zarathustra’s Prologue,« Zarathustra says: »Human beings are a rope, tied between animal and suprahuman beings. – What is great about human beings is that they are a bridge and not an end: what can be loved in human beings is that they are a transition [Übergang] and a decline [Untergang]« (Z I »Zarathustra’s Prologue« § 4). In Beyond Good and Evil, Nietzsche states that human beings are »the as yet undetermined animal« (BGE § 62). Nietzsche’s idea of the 2 Mary Boyce, A history of Zoroastrianism: Volume 1: The Early Period. BRILL 1989, p. 279. See also Arthur Hambartsumian’s article on Zoroaster’s miraculous and uncommon birth in »The Armenian Parable ›Zoroaster’s Laughter and the plot of Zoroaster’s birth in the literary traditions« in IRAN & the CAUCASUS vol. 5 (2001), pp. 27–36.

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Übermensch, the suprahuman being, carries with it the idea that human beings are only a transitional form of life to be superseded by another lifeform. Nietzsche writes that since »gods are capable of philosophy, they must also be capable of laughter – of a suprahuman [übermenschlich] and new way of laughing« (BGE § 294). In other words, Nietzsche seems to suggest that the kind of laughter he longs for is one of which only gods or suprahuman beings are capable. It is one that we can only anticipate, one that even Zarathustra can only recount in a story. It is yet to come. Another interesting passage in Thus Spoke Zarathustra occurs further in Book III where Zarathustra encounters »life« personified as a woman. Life says to Zarathustra that he is not faithful enough to her, that he does not love her nearly as much as he says, and that she knows he is thinking of leaving her soon. Zarathustra agrees, then says: »but you also know–« and whispers something into her ear »through her tangled, yellow foolish tresses« (Z »The Other Dancing Song« 2). Life is quite surprised by what Zarathustra tells her and says »nobody knows that« (Z »The Other Dancing Song« 2). We do not learn Zarathustra’s words. What he may have said is hotly debated by commentators – although it is usually assumed that he spoke of the doctrine of eternal recurrence. But I would like to suggest that Zarathustra whispers something else as well. In an aphorism in The Gay Science titled »In media vita,« Nietzsche writes: No, life has not disappointed me! On the contrary, I find it truer, more desirable and mysterious every year,—ever since the day when the great liberator came to me, the idea that life could be an experiment of the seeker for knowledge—and not a duty, not a calamity, not a trickery!— And knowledge itself: let it be something else for others, for example, a bed to rest on, or the way to such a bed, or a diversion, or a form of leisure,—for me it is a world of dangers and victories in which heroic feelings, too, find places to dance and play. »Life as a means to knowledge«—with this principle in one’s heart one can live not only boldly but even gaily and laugh gaily, too! (GS § 324).

If one abandons any notion of life as a duty, calamity or trickery, if one instrumentalizes life as a means to knowledge (and obviously not knowledge in the Christian or scientific sense), the way in which one lives will be transformed. One will be able to live boldly and laugh gaily. It is not enough simply to live and laugh; one must live and laugh gaily (perhaps as opposed to icily or with Schadenfreude). Possibly, Zarathus173 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Verl

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tra whispers to life that he knows she is only a means to knowledge and thus to gay laughter. On the one hand, this would hardly seem to be something that »nobody knows« or at least has considered. On the other hand, in many places in many works, Nietzsche insists that what is life-preserving is infinitely more important than any notions of morality, of truth, or of knowledge. Yet in the just quoted aphorism life is merely a way to knowledge – though to knowledge that is not »a bed to rest on, or the way to such a bed, or a diversion, or a form of leisure« (GS § 324). This may be something nobody knows. Section 2 of the aphorism concludes as follows: And we [Zarathustra and life] looked at each other and gazed on the green meadow over which the cool evening was running just then, and we wept together. But then life was dearer to me than all my wisdom ever was. Thus spoke Zarathustra. (Z »The Other Dancing Song« 2).

This suggests that a time will come when life is less dear to Zarathustra than his wisdom. This would occur when human beings think out of the species; at such a time (as quoted above) »laughter will then have formed an alliance with wisdom« (GS § 1). Perhaps life’s tresses are foolish because she did not know that Zarathustra could imagine that someday she might be merely a means, a means to knowledge and to a way to laugh gaily. So when we think of Nietzschean laughter we should remember that transformative laughter is only an imaginary possibility that Nietzsche presents, a laughter yet to come. When we laugh in a way that disrupts or challenges or puts into question some structure or experience, we should consider whether we may be disrupting something only subsequently to secure it all the more surely. We should also consider whether we are truly disrupting, or simply solidifying, our selves. Laughter, like everything else for Nietzsche, should be reflected upon and interrogated. Nietzsche is not naive about laughter; we should not be either. He does not seem to think we yet know how to laugh gaily. Nevertheless, we may catch ourselves assuming that our laughter is liberating, which should at least make us smile.

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Foolish Wisdom in Benjamin’s Kafka

Die Torheit ist das Wesen der Kafkaschen Lieblinge. GB VI, 113 1

Introduction »[T]here is no better starting point for thinking than laughter; in particular, shaking [Erschütterung] of the diaphragm generally offers better chances for thought than shaking of the soul.« This remark in Benjamin’s »The Author as Producer« concerns the lavish »occasions for laughter« in Brecht’s epic theatre (W 2, 779/ II:2, 699). In Kafka’s writings too, Benjamin detects occasions for laughter. He also considers the relevant humour to be a starting point for thinking. The principal basis for such laughter and humour is foolishness. Benjamin very gingerly associates Kafka’s performance of foolishness with wisdom, and seems to recommend this wisdom. He characterizes this wisdom as a philosophic relationship with history (geschichtsphilosophisch) and even as »Taoist.« 2 Roman numerals followed by a colon and an Arabic numeral refer to volume numbers of Benjamin, Gesammelte Schriften. Eds. R. Tiedemann, H. Schweppenhäuser et al. (Frankfurt/M.: Suhrkamp, 1974–99). Further abbreviations: GB = Benjamin, Gesammelte Briefe. Eds. C. Gödde and H. Lonitz (Frankfurt/M.: Suhrkamp, 1995–2000); O = The Origin of the German Tragic Drama, trans. J. Osborne (London: Verso, 1977); W = Benjamin, Selected Writings, Vols. 1–4. Eds. M. W. Jennings et al. (Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1996, 1999, 2002, 2003). If a translation has been modified, the pagination of the German source is italicized. 2 It will not be the purpose of this article to determine the validity of the associations with Taoism. With regard to Kafka, some tentative remarks may be found in Weiyan Ming, Kafka und China (Munich: iudiium verlag, 1986), 48–49, 51–53. Less tentative and more elaborate conclusions are developed in Joo-Dong Lee, Taoistische Weltanschauung im Werke Franz Kafkas (Frankfurt/M.: Peter Lang, 1985). Concerning 1

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Kafka’s writings often seem to have the form of parables, and these are regarded by Benjamin as parables inundated by gesture that does not yield to the wish for message. Correlatively, the aforementioned wisdom of foolishness is Kafka’s performance of fools’ disregard for the mythic attachments (and messages) that are the basis for the judgements deeming them fools. As we laugh at the fools, we may find we recall an inexhaustible dimension of experience that the fools indulge and we tend to disregard or forget. The fools become gestures of preponderant nothing, which eludes mythic containment and message. With this gesture of nothing, Kafka is considered by Benjamin to bear a philosophic shame about humans’ efforts to subordinate history to myth. Kafka enables us to laugh at the fools only insofar as this becomes laughter at us, laughter that passes into thinking about the mythic production of ourselves.

Gesture over Gleichnis The wisdom of such thinking includes wariness about claims to wisdom. In a well-known letter of June 1938 to Scholem, Benjamin comments that Kafka retains as much as possible a form in which truth was considered transmissible but does so without any claim to truth. This form of transmissibility (Tradierbarkeit) is parable. If Kafka’s literary works have the form of parables (Gleichnisse), their »misery« but also their »beauty« is »that they must be more than parables.« This beauty or allure arises from Kafka’s rebuff of parabolic wisdom. Kafka’s parables »raise a hefty paw against doctrine,« against any notion of instruction, so that of wisdom there remain only its »Zerfallsprodukte,« products of its disintegration (W 3, 326 /GB VI, 112–3). 3 For reasons that will not really be clarified until the final pages of this article, performance of the disintegration of wisdom might, nonetheless, indicate a wisdom of disintegration. »Parable« is just one possible translation of »Gleichnis.« »Gleichnis« could also be translated as »simile,« »allegory,« and other terms. Benjamin even seems to have selected the word »Gleichnis« in explicit Benjamin on Kafka, see Bernd Müller, »Denn es ist noch nichts geschehen.« Walter Benjamins Kafka-Deutung (Köln: Böhlau Verlag, 1996), passim but especially 205–19. 3 See too: II:3, 1260.

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preference to »Parabel« (II:3, 1179). Regardless of whether he calls the ostensible form of Kafka’s pieces »Parabel« or »Gleichnis,« his point remains that the »teaching content [Lehrgehalt]« gives way to a gesture (Gestus) of »symbolic content.« The latter content is symbol that remains elusive; the teaching-form in Gleichnis and the gesture in symbol have an antinomic relationship (1255). In this opposition, the basis of the gesture is a cloudy spot (W 2, 802, 808/ II:2, 420, 427; II:3, 1258, 1263). Kafka must accordingly remain someone unfinished – ein Unvollendeter. His starting point is the Parabel, the Gleichnis, that is answerable to reason, yet this teaching form – in Kafka’s treatment – cannot be entirely serious (II:3, 1259). 4 Parable becomes instead a form of failure (W 2, 808/ II:2, 427; II:2, 1250, 1253–54). That the parable (Parabel) sheds its material (Stoff) (II:3, 1256) is indicative of an opposition in Kafka’s entire work between »the mystic and the teller of parables« (dem Paraboliker), »the language of gestures« (Gebärdensprache) and the »language of instruction« (Sprache der Unterweisung), »the visionary and the sage« (dem Visionär und dem Weisen) (1260). The void or cloudy spot that is opened by the mystic, the gesture, the visionary, cannot be closed or filled by the parable, the instruction, the sage. The emptiness cannot be filled. In this way, gesture is »humankind’s most proper dwelling,« a speechlessness in response to an emptiness that cannot be filled. 5 Benjamin’s shift from the term »Parabel« to the term »Gleichnis« may have been influenced by a piece by Kafka that appeared posthumously (in 1931) under the title »Von den Gleichnissen« (a title given by Max Brod). According to Benjamin, Kafka »felt« the aforementioned opposition – between the mystic and the teller of parables, the language of gestures and the language of instruction, the visionary and the sage – as »a crossing [Verschränkung]« and »tried to represent« (zu vertreten gesucht) this conflictive crossing in the piece on »Gleichnisse« (II:3, 1260). Many complain, Kafka remarks at the outset, »that the words of the wise [Worte der Weisen] are again and again [immer wieder] only Gleichnisse and inapplicable in daily life, and we have only this life. 4 This is a restatement or reworking of Benjamin’s recording of remarks made by Brecht in conversation with Benjamin in July 1934 (W 2, 784/ VI, 525–26). 5 Giorgio Agamben, »Kommerell, or On Gesture,« Potentialities. Collected Essays in Philosophy, trans. D. Heller-Roazen (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999), 78–79.

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When the sage says ›go over,‹ he does not mean that one should go to the other side, which one could do anyhow …; the sage means rather some legendary yonder – something that we do not know, something that cannot be described more precisely by the sage – and the sage means that nothing at all can help us here.« There is then the retort of someone, who – in Benjamin’s words – accepts the view of »the sages and asks, ›why are you resisting? If you only followed the Gleichnissen you yourselves would become Gleichnisse and with that free of your daily troubles.‹« According to Benjamin, the most pertinent interpretation of that last sentence may be a »Chinese« one, which he proposes to undertake by recounting briefly a story of the »magic of painting.« The story is about »a great painter,« who »asked his friends into the chamber, on the walls of which hung the most recent picture by his hand, the fulfillment of long efforts and of painting in general [überhaupt]. The friends, who were admiring the picture, turned towards the master in order to congratulate him. They did not find him. As they turned again towards the picture, the master waved back to them; he was on the point of disappearing in the doorway of a painted pavillion.« The painter was disappearing into his painting. Benjamin comments that the painter had become, in Kafka’s words, Gleichnis. Precisely thereby »his picture attained a magical character and was no longer a picture.« His »destiny« is shared by Kafka’s world (II:3, 1260–61), for instance in The Castle, as K.’s »alleged appointment as land surveyor is so puzzlingly and unexpectedly confirmed« (W 2, 805/ II:2, 424). 6 Such confirmation could be construed as being taken up by Gleichnis, however momentary and unsatisfactory this may turn out to be for K. Notwithstanding Benjamin’s dismissal of it (II:3, 1261), the rest of Kafka’s piece on »Gleichnisse« does not seem irrelevant; it provides a discussion on the relation6 Also see II :3, 1231. Concerning K.’s confirmation as land surveyor, see Das Schloß, eds. J. Börn, G. Neumann, and M. Pasley, Kritische Ausgabe (Frankfurt/M.: Fischer, 2002), 95. For Kafka’s piece on Gleichnisse, see Kafka, Nachgelassene Schriften und Fragmente II ed. Jost Schillemeit, Kritische Ausgabe (Frankfurt/M.: Fischer Verlag, 2002), 531–32. Benjamin’s »Chinese« story is given a slightly different rendering in »Berlin Childhood around 1900« (W 3, 393/ IV:1, 262–63). The editor notes a variant of this story in Ernst Bloch’s Durch die Wüste, which first appeared in 1923 (IV:2, 975). The story goes back to a Chinese source; see: Shieh Jhy-Wey, »Grenze wegen Őffnung geschlossen. Zur Legende vom chinesischen Maler, der in seinem Bild verschwindet« in Jürgen Wertheimer and Susanne Göße, ed., Zeichen lesen. Lese-Zeichen. Kultursemiotische Vergleiche von Leseweisen in Deutschland und China. Tübingen: Stauffenburg, 1999. 201–225.

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ship of Gleichnis and reality, the upshot of which seems to be that turning Gleichnis into a solution for reality is to deny Gleichnis. 7 There is no such denial in Kafka, and that is why he cannot use Gleichnis to provide counsel. Like the Tao Te Ching, Kafka at least once invokes the atmosphere of a village (in »The Next Village«). Less than the Tao Te Ching, however, could Kafka as writer of parables (Paraboliker) ever found a religion (W 2, 805/ II:2, 424). 8 Kafka relinquishes parabolic wisdom for foolishness (W 3, 326–27/ GB VI, 113). 9 As will be suggested below, however, Benjamin seems to consider this relinquishment itself to be wise.

Bring on the fools: Comedy amidst horror The only help in Kafka’s writings comes as the fool’s help (W 3, 326– 27/ GB VI, 113). Even the assistants, who – according to their job-title – are there to assist, are figures in the tradition of the Schlemihl (who is missing something – even if it is only a shadow – and cannot be »complete« [fertig]) (II:3, 1212). From Indian mythology, Benjamin mentions the gandharvas, mist-bound beings who may be considered »unfinished creatures« (unfertige Geschöpfe) (W 2, 798/ II:2, 414). Kafka presents various figures who are »the unfinished and the hapless.« Yet it is precisely for these that there is hope (W 2, 798–99/ II:2, 414–15). They are somehow more open to experience than are those who might judge them foolish. However unwittingly, they mock the constraints propagated by those judging them. That is the peculiar help they provide. For the reader too, this is the help offered. Receiving this help may require a sense of humour. »More and more« it appears to Benjamin that humour is »the essential« in Kafka. Kafka »was, of course, no humorist. He was rather a man whose lot it was to stumble everywhere upon people who made a profession out of humour: clowns« (GB VI, 220/ II:3, 1183). This could apply to Kafka’s friendship with the perforKafka, Nachgelassene Schriften und Fragmente II, 532. See Lao-tzu, Tao Te Ching, trans. S. Addiss and S. Lombardo (Boston: Shambhala, 2007), 80 and Kafka, Drucke zu Lebzeiten, eds. W. Kittler, H-G Koch and G. Neumann, Kritische Ausgabe (Frankfurt/M.: Fischer, 2002), 280. Benjamin is responding critically to a remark by Soma Morgenstern (W 2, 805/ II:2, 423, II :3, 1231). 9 See too: II:3, 1172/ GB 4, 526. 7 8

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mer of Yiddish theatre, Jizchak Löwy. 10 Benjamin refers, however, to Kafka’s writings, remarking that »[p]articularly Amerika [Der Verschollene] is a huge clownery.« More generally, Benjamin seems to muse that perhaps Kafka thought of himself as a fool, as a Laurel in the burdensome need of a Hardy, who was, of course, Max Brod. Brod was the earnestness that Kafka’s existence and writings mocked. If »the key to Kafka will fall into the hands of the one who wins the comic sides from Jewish theology« (GB VI, 220/ II:3, 1183), it may be said that Kafka was to Brod and the latter’s »deep Jewish philosophemes« as was Sancho Panza (the prototypical assistant in this regard) to Don Quixote and the latter’s »profound chimera of knighthood« (II:3, 1220). 11 The last of the four sections of Benjamin’s 1934-essay on Kafka is titled »Sancho Panza.« Close to the end, Benjamin includes a full quotation of a small piece by Kafka on Sancho Panza. Benjamin closes by portraying Sancho Panza as a »sedate fool and clumsy assistant« who precisely thereby is exemplary (W 2, 812–16/ II:2, 433–38). 12 Sancho Panza is the fool whose modest and awkward help strains and intrudes upon the chimera of Don Quixote’s proud quests of conquer. Kafka’s humour is, of course, often inextricable from horror. He brings together the comic and the horrible sides of the societal »type.« In the novel (Benjamin seems to be thinking mainly of The Trial and The Castle), Kafka »redeemed« (hat … eingelöst) both the comic and the horrible sides of the »type.« The types solidly reside in »semblance« (Schein): they become »›the assistants,‹ ›the bureaucrats,‹ ›the village residents,‹ ›the lawyers,‹ with whom K. « is contrasted as »the only human being, consequently as an atypical being,« notwithstanding »all his averageness [Durchschnittlichkeit]« (GB VI, 226/ II :3, 1184). In some respects, the assistants, as fools, may be unique among the types; they might be more open to waywardness from their type (the assistant) See Reiner Stach, Kafka: Die Jahre der Entscheidungen (Frankfurt/M.: Fischer, 2002), especially 56–64. Löwy is mentioned and briefly discussed in Max Brod’s Kafka-biography, which Benjamin read shortly after its publication in 1937. For Brod’s remarks on Löwy, see Brod, Franz Kafka. Eine Biographie in Max Brod über Franz Kafka (Frankfurt/M.: Fischer, 1989), 35, 98–102, 171. 11 At least once, however, Benjamin refers to Don Quixote as one of Kafka’s favourites who are constituted by folly (GB VI, 113). With regard to Don Quixote, he also says the following: »the conviction« that books of chivalry are true »can make a battered fool blissful [selig], if it is his only conviction« (W 2, 590/ IV:1, 406). 12 See too II:3, 1220, 1246. For Kafka’s piece on Sancho Panza, see Nachgelassene Schriften und Fragmente II, 38. 10

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than are many other figures in relation to their respective types. In any case, the candidacy of the type for humour is suggested in a note (dated by the editors at 1917–18), where Benjamin claims that »[t]he despot is the ideal subject of humour« and that also suitable is »the people [das Volk], or better the crowd [Masse] as a whole.« Whereas wit (Witz) depends on words, moreover, humour does not. Furthermore, humour involves laughter – »loud« laughter – that participates in the »act of a judgementless execution.« In humour, there is no laughing that is simply laughing at a person; the laughter is not independent of the humorous act (VI, 130). 13 If these views are at all relevant to Benjamin’s Kafka-analyses, it might be said that the readers participate in the humour; we laugh at the typifications, and do so on behalf of (or even with) the characters involved. By this laughter, we participate in the execution of the humour. If the comedy in The Trial and The Castle is always mixed with horror, this might entail that we can laugh as K. goes through so much innanity in relation to typification but then find such laughing is – as it were – stuck in our throats as we face the horror, the horror of figures so consequentially faulting K. (and indirectly, perhaps us) for not adapting to their typified world. 14 K. is not taken up entirely by semblance, no matter how much he may at times wish he were. His earnestness does not let him, however, become entirely one of the fools. The fools, particularly the fools who are assistants, are most of interest to Benjamin. They share, nonetheless, an almost involuntary waywardness with an array of characters. Kafka casts Sancho Panza, other assistants, various other fools, and some students, as figures with an odd (but in some way fascinating or compelling) detachment from the often entertaining – but otherwise basically objectless – attempts by some fellow humans to be masters of time (W 2, 814–16, especially 816/ II:2, 435–38, especially 438). Robert 13 Benjamin mentions Schlegel’s notion of »Witz,« and its dependence on word, and contends that this is entirely distinct from humour. The »most profound problematic of humour« is, nonetheless, the relationship of the laughter with »the right word« (VI, 130). This is at least an acknowledgement that humour – even in its judgementless participation in the relevant act – may involve very pointed usage of words. This rough note was written, of course, as Benjamin would have been concerned with the early German Romantic theories of wit that he discusses in his Der Begriff der Kunstkritik in der deutschen Romantik (W 1,140–41 / I:1, 48–50/ Kritische Gesamtausgabe, vol. 3 edited by U. Steiner [Frankfurt/M.: Suhrkamp, 2008], 52–54). 14 This might be implied by some of Benjamin’s remarks (W 2, 809/ II:2, 429).

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Walser’s protagonists too do not wish to »succeed« in this world. Such horror or dismay (Entsetzen) concerning the prospect of success does not arise from »aversion before the world, moral ressentiment or pathos, but out of wholly Epicurean reasons.« These figures »want to enjoy themselves« and they have the unusual ability to do so (W 2, 259/ II:1, 327). Their drifting waywardness makes them distinct from the Machiavellian intriguer who, in the Trauerspiel, is »all intellect [Verstand] and will« and sets a »gloomy tone« in which the calculating »spirit« reaches its pinnacle in the »ability to exercise dictatorship« (O, 95–98/ I:1, 274–77). 15 The assistants created by Kafka and Walser are twilight figures, who have no need to be more than that (W 2, 798/ II:2, 414). With regard to Chaplin and Schlemihl, Benjamin refers to the »Geniefall der Erfolgslosigkeit.« In the same text, he evokes a »place of utter indifference to success and failure« (W 2, 590/ IV:1, 406). Such Indifference is perhaps the wisdom that is hidden in foolishness. Kafka is almost unwillingly drawn to this indifference to myth. In another context, Erich Unger remarks that myth »is a process [Ablauf] whose stigma is success [Gelingen].« 16 The wisdom in Kafka’s performance of fools may be that they are uninterested in success and, thereby, uninterested in myth. Myth is the horror that comedy offends. If Kafka’s comedy is rarely extricable from horror, Benjamin wonders if comedy is not always won from »horror [Grauen], that is, from myth« (II:3, 1220). Chaplin’s comic power is thus associated with his lending expression to his public’s »horror« (W 2, 770/ VI, 103). Myth invokes criteria of success in relation to which various of Kafka’s figures remain incomplete and clumsy, and yet this incompleteness and clumsiness can – at least in the case of the fools – be comic precisely in its mockery, however involuntary, of the horror of those criteria. Perhaps all horror, Benjamin Such aspirations of the intriguer, which are indeed ultimately thwarted, might make it a little questionable to say that »the structural dynamics of the plotter [the Intrigant in the Trauerspiel] cause him to resemble comic figures or the fool rather than the prince who would be sovereign,« although this has been suggested (in Samuel Weber, Benjamin’s –abilities [Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2008], 192). According to Benjamin’s remarks at least, the intriguer wants sovereignty. If the intriguer resembles a fool, the latter is the demonic fool who unsuccessfully tries to control (O, 125–28, 227–28/ I:1, 304–7, 401–2). This comedic element is distinct from Kafka’s fool who does not aspire to sovereignty or complete control. 16 Unger, Politik und Metaphysik, ed. M. Voigts (Würzburg: Königshausen u. Neumann, 1989 [first edition: Berlin, 1921]), 8. 15

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muses, has a comic side in this way (1220). For Benjamin, tragedy is ultimately the victory of mythic moral order, but it is never without a comic shadow that demonstrates the independence of character from the mythic verdict. 17 Even if we consider horror to be not myth but rather any threat to our mythic attachments, the comedy arises from those attachments being mocked (II:3, 1240). The prototype of this mockery is »the hunchbacked little man« referred to in a children’s verse, the »bucklicht Männlein« who laughs while the child tries to pray. This laugh »is the laugh of Odradek« – about which Kafka writes: »›It is … only a laugh such as one can produce without lungs. It sounds something like the rustling in fallen leaves‹« (II:3, 1214–15, 1240; W 2, 811/ II:2, 432). 18 Such laughs recall the dimension of experience that seems inhuman in not being absorbed by myth (II:3, 1239; W 2, 810–11/II:2, 431). We recognize these laughs as interruptions, disturbances, to our mythic attachments. We encounter them much as we encounter death (W 2, 815 /II:2, 436). The comedy is that such encounters are the basis for laughter at our mythic selves.

Use of nothing The interruptive laughs might seem nonsensical, but are the basis for hope precisely in their interruption of our mythic criteria that judge them to be nonsensical. Benjamin refers to a »small nonsensical hope« for creatures who are themselves nonsense (GB IV, 478/ II:3, 1165). 19 These figures incarnate the gestural character of Kafka’s works – that is, 17 See especially, »Schicksal und Charakter,« W 1, 206/ II:1, 178. Tragic myth is most extensively discussed in O, especially100–38/ I:1, 279–316. 18 Benjamin is quoting Kafka’s »Die Sorge des Hausvaters« (see Kafka, Drucke zu Lebzeiten, 284). For further discussion of the »little hunchbacked man,« see the end of »Berlin Childhood around 1900« (W 3, 384–85/ IV:1, 302–3/ VII:1, 429–30). For the verse »Das buckliche Männlein,« see Des Knaben Wunderhorn. Alte deutsche Lieder, eds. L. Achim von Arnim and Clemens Brentano (Munich: Winkler-Verlag, 1957 [1808]), 824–25. Benjamin cites as his source not the Armin-Brentano collection but Georg Scherer’s Das Deutsche Kinderbuch (W 3, 385/ IV:1, 303/ VII:1, 430). For remarks on Benjamin’s source, see Henriette Herwig, »Zeitspuren in erinnerten Kindheitsorten: Walter Benjamins Berliner Kindheit um neunzehnhundert,« in B. Witte et al. eds. Benjamin und das Exil (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2006), 55–56. 19 See too II:3, 1245, as well as 1246 (including # 9, where there is a somewhat different formulation of the nonsensical hope).

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the usage of language in a way that resists affording any counselling message or moral. In somehow renouncing the customary dimension of language usage, Kafka’s writings are considered by Benjamin to be similar to Charlie Chaplin’s silent movies (II:3, 1257). The »sound film« is the »limit for the world of Kafka and Chaplin« (1256). With the separation of gesture from customary language usage, the »primacy of the gesture« is associated with »its incomprehensibility [Unverständlichkeit]« (II:3, 1206), 20 which could perhaps also be called silence. 21 Kafka’s works correlatively sap the portrayed occurrences of their sense in order to let »gestural content« emerge »more sharply« (II:3, 1229). This gestural content always retains an element of incomprehensibility. On this basis of the incomprehensible, Kafka »divests human gesture of its traditional supports« and opens gesture to potentially interminable interpretation or consideration (W 2, 802/ II:2, 420; II:3, 1229). Given the pervasiveness of mythic attachments and constraints, which do not indulge interpretative freedom, this interpretive open-endedness is the basis for hope, nonsensical hope. The hope is nonsensical, for it is ultimately an opening to nothing, which is insatiable and thus very demanding if one makes it a priority. This demand is, according to Benjamin, the basis for asceticism in Kafka’s works. The opening to potentially interminable interpretation, consideration, or attentiveness is cause for asceticism, as evidenced in students who do not sleep, the hunger artist who does not eat, the doorkeeper who is silent, and so on (W 2, 813/ II:2, 434). Study is »die Krone« of this asceticism in Kafka’s work. Late in Der Verschollene, Karl recalls studying as a boy in the family home; he recalls this with some fondness but also with a sense of the pointlessness of the studying. Perhaps his studies »›amounted to nothing [sind ein Nichts gewesen].‹« Benjamin interpolates that Karl’s studies »are very close to that nothing which alone makes it possible for the something to be useful – that is, to the Tao« (813/ 434–35). 22 Benjamin provides other references to illustrate this »Chinese wisdom« in Kafka’s writings: the studying by the horse Bucephalus, or that by Sancho Panza, Also see notes in II:3, 1257, 1261. Giorgio Agamben, Means without End. Notes on Politics, trans. V. Binetti and C. Casarino (Minneapolis : University of Minnesota Press, 2000), 59–60. 22 See Kafka, Der Verschollene, ed. Jost Schillemeit, Kritische Ausgabe (Frankfurt/M.: Fischer, 2002), 342–43. 20 21

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is portayed as also being very close to the nothing that alone makes it possible for a something to be useful – that is, they are close to the Tao (II:3, 1243). 23 Much as Heidegger in 1929 directs metaphysics to the nothing that is the possibility of something emerging as something, Benjamin advances study driven by the demand of an insatiable nothing that is the possibility of anything being used or useful. 24 This is not to suggest that Benjamin borrows from Heidegger. More likely, as Hamacher contends, is that Benjamin borrows (without acknowledgement) from Rosenzweig, who says: »The Tao is this: effecting without acting …; … it is that which, by being ›nothing,‹ makes a something ›useable‹, the unmoved mover of the moveable. It is the non-deed as the original ground [Urgrund] of the deed.« 25 In opening to this nothing, study in Kafka’s work persists as a force that will not subordinate itself to myth. The horse Bucephalus, who is no longer Alexander the Great’s steed, is the new advocate who »in the quiet lamplight, his flanks unhampered by thighs of a rider, far from the clamour of Alexander’s battle, .. reads and turns the pages of our old books.« He has immersed himself in these ancient »lawbooks.« 26 Whereas Werner Kraft proposes that Bucephalus’s study of law is a gesture of justice against myth (with which Bucephalus as Alexander’s battle horse was once associated), 23 For a similar formulation, see II:3, 1198, where there is reference to »Sancho Panza as Taoist.« 24 These formulations by Benjamin in the mid-1930s are strikingly similar to the remarks, such as the following, made by Heidegger in 1929: »If in the ground of its essence Dasein were not transcending, which now means, if it were not in advance holding itself out into the nothing, then it could never relate itself to beings nor even to itself« (»What is Metaphysics?«, Pathways, ed. and trans. W. McNeill [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998], 91/ »Was ist Metaphysik?,« Wegmarken, Gesamtausgabe Vol. 9 [Frankfurt/M.: Vittorio Klostermann, 1976], 115). 25 Rosenzweig, The Star of Redemption, trans. W. Hallo (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1985), 37/Der Stern der Erlösung (Frankfurt/M.: Suhrkamp, 1988), 40. See Hamacher, Premises: Essays on Philosophy and Literature from Kant to Celan, trans. P. Fenves (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999 [1996]), 333 n. 36. Hamacher points to Benjamin’s early note (already mentioned above) in which Rosenzweig’s formulation (»das, was dadurch, daß es ›nichts‹ ist, das Etwas ›brauchbar‹ macht«) is given in quotation marks, albeit without naming Rosenzweig as the source (II:3, 1198). Bernd Müller does not refer to the Rosenzweig-formulation but refers to the famous eleventh passage of the »Tao-T—King« (Müller, 209 n. 115). It does seem that Rosenzweig (37/ 40) is paraphrasing this eleventh passage. 26 Kafka, Drucke zu Lebzeiten, 252.

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Benjamin suggests it may more precisely be said justice arises from Bucephalus’s study of law that is no longer practiced. The practice of law is myth, and therefore not justice (W 2, 815/ II:2, 437; II:3, 1244– 45). 27 In its removal from myth, in its removal from legal or indeed moral practice, in its persistance beyond such constraints – in all this, study is »[t]he gate to justice.« Bucephalus as studier has broken with the violent, forward-storming, conquering Alexander but also with any practiced law and is now the »teaching master [Lehrmeister]« of »reversal [Umkehr].« The force reversing myth, a force Benjamin characterizes as the wind blowing from death, impels the study depicted by Kafka (W 2, 815/ II:2, 437). 28 Whether performed by non-human animals or by human beings, the break with myth is a way of making the human small. Benjamin refers to a Taoist gesture (II:3, 1243) that is a beginning in passivity (1202). 29 In this gesture, any act would incorporate the wish to be entirely receptive. Belonging »to the Tao as its expression,« according to Benjamin, is Kafka’s wish to have the real as the nothing that prevails in every something (II:3, 1243). He cites a diary entry of 1920 in which Kafka mentions a wish to convince others that life has its ups and downs but is simultaneously »a nothing [Nichts], … a dream, … a floating [Schweben].« This wish would more or less be the wish »to hammer together a table with painstaking skillfulness [peinlich ordentlicher Handwerksmäβigkeit], and at the same time thereby to do nothing – not in such a way that someone could say ›Hammering is a nothing to him,‹ but ›To him, hammering is real hammering and at the same time also a nothing,‹ whereby the hammering would have become even bolder, more resolute, more real, and, if you like, more insane.« 30 Benjamin cites motifs or instances in which the ostensibly real, even urgently real, is presented as ultimately nothing. The Theatre towards the end of Der Verschollene shows the actors’ roles, like the aforeSee Kraft, Franz Kafka. Durchdringung und Geheimnis (Frankfurt/M.: Suhrkamp, 1968), 13–15, especially 15. 28 This reading differs from that offered in Eric Santner, Creaturely Life (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 92–93. 29 For a passage cited by Benjamin in this context, see Kafka, Nachgelassene Schriften und Fragmente II, Kritische Ausgabe, 133. 30 See Kafka, Tagebücher, eds. H-G. Koch, M. Müller, and M. Palsey, Kritische Ausgabe (Frankfurt/M. Fischer, 2002), 855. Benjamin quotes and discusses Kafka’s remarks (W 2, 813–14/ II:2, 435). 27

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mentioned hammering, to be simultaneously »real« and »nothing.« (By this point in his 1934-essay, Benjamin had already referred to this Theatre of Oklahoma as harking back to Chinese theatre of gesture; one of »the most significant functions« of Kafka’s Theatre of Oklahoma »is the dissolution of events into the gestural.«) Such convergence of real and nothing is also detected in The Castle: »›Often the official dictates in such a low voice that the scribe cannot even hear it while seated; then he must always jump up, catch what is dictated, quickly sit down and write it down, then spring up again, and so forth. How strange that is! It is almost incomprehensible!‹« This combination of inanity and real, of nothing and real, seems also to be observed by Benjamin in the passage of Der Verschollene where Karl watches a student on a balcony »›turning the pages, now and then looking up something in another book, which he always snatched up at lightning speed, and frequently making notes in a notebook, whereby he always lowered his face surprisingly close to the notebook‹« (W 2, 801, 813–14/II:2, 418, 434– 35). 31 For Benjamin, all such motifs or instances perform a unity of the real and the nothing; they show Kafka recalling that the preponderant force of any something is nothing. Kafka is using this nothing, not least insofar as he makes us laugh at the myth that both disregards this nothing and thereby confidently deems certain people to be foolish.

Historico-philosophical shame that is friendly to fools, and outlasts culture by profaning it This nothing, this wind blowing from the nethermost regions of death, this anti-mythic force, might occasion shame when our impending death is as overwhelmingly usurped by socio-cultural forces as is K’s death by his killers at the end of The Trial. K. feels shame about his death by the dubious system that is represented by his killers. Whereas Kafka writes »als sollte die Scham ihn überleben« (as though the shame was to outlive him), Agamben says with greater confidence: »At the 31 See Der Verschollene, 342 and Das Schloß, 281. Also noteworthy may be that the jurisprudence studied by the student in Der Proceß is (and remains) unknown (unbekannt[…]) (Der Proceß ed. M. Palsey, Kritische Ausgabe [Frankfurt/M.: Fischer, 2002], 82).

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moment when the executioners’ knives are about to penetrate his flesh, Joseph K. with one last leap succeeds in getting hold of the shame that will survive him.« 32 K. might or might not reach the shame that will survive him. Agamben’s confidence seems to follow from the idea, which is perhaps also Benjamin’s (W 2, 808/ II:2, 428), that the force impelling the shame is inextinguishable. The force impelling shame is the nothing that alone is inextinguishably real. The risk of acknowledging this is that one becomes foolish to all who effectively deny it. Shame about mythic closure might be accompanied by friendliness to those deemed by myth to be fools. Benjamin proposes that shame corresponds to Kafka’s »›wholly elemental purity of feeling‹« (ganz elementare Reinheit des Gefühls). Benjamin borrows this expression from Rosenzweig’s portrayal of a »Chinese« propensity for feeling devoid of individual character. Rosenzweig implies or expresses admiration for the correlative concept of the sage (Weise), as the latter is embodied by Confucius and especially by Lao-tzu, but Rosenzweig otherwise considers this inwardness so tenuously connected to the outward that it results in people seeming simply »the average human« (Durchschnittsmensch) (II:3, 1268, W 2, 801/ II:2, 418). 33 For Benjamin, however, the shame – corresponding to the aforementioned »›elemental purity of feeling‹« – is Kafka’s »strongest gesture.« Kafka’s shame is an »intimate human reaction,« and yet also has a societal claim. In the latter respect, according to Benjamin, Kafka feels the pressure of an unknown family, comprised of humans and non-human animals, and ultimately mysterious. This unknown family »forces Kafka« to roll »the mass of historical happenings … [so that] its nether side comes to light. It is not pleasant to see« (W 2, 808/ II:2, 428). 34 Kafka is shamed by the unknown family into exposing unpleasantness that our mythic attachments usually encourage us to disregard. The unpleasantness is, above all, that we regard those attachments as themselves real and treat as fools those who do not adapt to them. To acknowledge this unpleasantness of myth could be a

Means without End, 132–33. See too Agamben, Remnants of Auschwitz. The Witness and the Archive, trans. D. Heller-Roazen (New York: Zone Books, 2002), 104. For Kafka, see Der Proceß, 312. 33 I have given a little more indication of Rosenzweig’s passage than does Benjamin. See Rosenzweig, 75/81. 34 For the remarks by Kafka on this unknown family, see Tagebücher, 857. For somewhat different and earlier formulations by Benjamin of the shame, see II:3, 1268–69. 32

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friendly gesture to those reckoned by myth to be fools. It could also be a wisdom that will be judged by myth to be foolish. Kafka’s shaming into exposure of the unpleasantness of myth indicates again the foolish wisdom that was mentioned at various points in this article. In a commentary on Brecht’s poem »Legend of the Origin of the Book Tao-te-Ching on Lao-tzu’s Way into Emigration,« Benjamin notes that in this poem wisdom is costing Lao-tzu exile. One could say perhaps that his wisdom has led to him being treated as a fool. Moreover, this wisdom seems to involve a capacity for shame about what Brecht’s poem depicts as the weakening of »goodness« (Güte) in Lao-tzu’s country. 35 This wisdom is always friendly. Although Benjamin thinks it may be unjustifiable to say that the content of the Tao-teChing is friendliness, he suggests that – according to Brecht’s »legend« – »the Tao-te-Ching was passed down through the ages [überliefert] by virtue of the spirit of friendliness.« In Brecht’s rendering, there is the persistence and the provision of this friendliness at precisely those times and places that are most difficult. Insofar as there is a »lesson« (Belehrung) in Brecht’s »Legend,« it is also almost a messianic promise suggesting simply that it is advisable »not to lose sight of the inconstancy and the changeability of things, and to be allied with what is inconspicuous and sober but irrepressible like water« that yields in motion but eventually vanquishes the mighty stone. »[T]he case of the oppressed« correlatively may be inconspicuous for the rulers, a sober one for the oppressed, but also the most irrepressible in its consequences. If there is a »moral« of Brecht’s poem, moreover, it is that »[w]hoever wants to bring hardness to yield should let no opportunity for being friendly slip by« (W 4, 247–49/ II:2, 570–72). This friendliness is not a flight from unpleasantness. Indeed, its foolishness may be precisely that it is attentive to the unpleasantness ensuing from the disregard usually involved in mythic attachments. Hence, the aforementioned exile of the sage, the casting of the sage as a fool to those ostracizing him. Brecht’s poem, and Benjamin’s commentary on it, may seem somewhat sanguine in comparison with Benjamin’s Kafka-writings, particularly with Benjamin’s already cited remark that Kafka offers 35 »Legende von der Entstehung des Buches Taoteking auf dem Weg des Laotse in die Emigration,« Gedichte 2, Werke, Vol.12 (Frankfurt/M.: Suhrkamp Verlag, 1988), 32. Brecht’s complete poem (ibid., 32–34) is also available in German and in English in W 4, 243–47.

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only products of the disintegration of wisdom. After all, Benjamin at least once refers to Lao-tse as an incarnation of the »Spießer« who is »the martyr« of »conviction.« In the same text, moreover, he contrasts the »sober one,« who has been drummed into »wisdom,« very unfavourably with the »comic figure,« who »is never wise« (W 2, 590/ IV:1, 406). Additionally, he comments that Kafka does not speak on behalf of any wisdom (»bei Kafka [ist] von Weisheit nicht mehr die Rede«) (W 3, 326/ GB VI, 113). Yet – in the associations of Kafka with Taoism, for instance – there seems to emerge from Benjamin’s Kafka at least a hesitant notion of wisdom that includes friendliness to the foolish, a friendliness that perhaps makes Kafka too seem foolish. This is another respect in which Charlie Chaplin seems to Benjamin a »key« to interpreting Kafka, for Chaplin’s situations are above all those of people who are somehow excluded or disinherited and thus in conflict with representatives of socio-economic order (II:3, 1198). Benjamin’s interest is piqued by those whom he regards as the »most peculiar figures« in Kafka’s writings. These are not the non-human animals, the hybrids, or fantastic products, all of which are still in some kind of mythic familial spell, but rather the aforementioned assistants. For these and their ilk, the unready and the hapless, there is – as noted above – hope (W 2, 798–99/ II:2, 414–15). Relative freedom from the familial makes some of the assistants particularly unknown, and thus the exemplary figures of Kafka’a aforementioned unknown family. They are not strangers to other groups of figures, but they also do not belong to those groups. They belong instead to a nature somewhat free of socio-cultural formation; they are not yet completely released from the »womb of nature« (798/ 414). One might think of Erasmus’s remarks on the benefits and the joys of being somehow oblivious to »the fabrications of artifice.« 36 The assistants seem fools of this sort. Kafka’s friendliness towards these foolish figures emerges as nonmythic wisdom in the treatment of precisely such figures as a source of hope and indeed help. »[H]elp seems to be the last thing« that these figures can give, Agamben remarks; »they give us help, even though we can’t tell what sort of help it is.« They simply exist as reminders of The Praise of Folly, trans. C. H. Miller (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1979), 52– 53. 0 Profanations, trans. J. Fort (New York: Zone Books, 2007), 29–30. 36

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our betrayal of them. 37 Their offense to our propriety, their gentle deviance, is thus openness to the Messianic, but it is somehow distorted, unclear openness to the Messianic. 38 If the help was clear, it would be purely Messianic; that it is distortedly Messianic is evident in its seeming foolish. According to Benjamin, Kafka was sure of two related conclusions: »first, that to help, one must be a fool; second, only a fool’s help is really help.« The fool helps solely in the following way: straining or even suspending the criteria by which we judge the fool to be foolish. It is uncertain whether this help can still be received by the human. The folly is more likely to be of help to angels, who are in no great need of the help (W 3, 327/ GB VI, 113). Angels are already in the divine that the fools convey in a distorted way. No human may be considered pure conduit of the divine, but – according to Benjamin’s adaptation of Brod’s quotation from a letter by Kafka – Kafka’s »categorical imperative« is the following: »act in such a way that the angels have something to do« (GB VI, 56). 39 If angels mediate the divine and profane, the fools give the angels something to do. This angelic work of the foolish seems to be what Benjamin has in mind when he once characterizes the schlemihl as »the only angel of peace who is suited to this world« (W 2, 590/ IV:1, 406). In their offense to mythic criteria of competence and success, the foolish become reminders of the transience of those criteria; they become reminders of all that mythic attachments exclude: our suppressed or repressed unknown, the real nothing. Their angelic accomplishment is their profanation of the attachments that we somehow treat as sacred. 40 In a slightly different context, Benjamin refers to the »full weight of justice … that so degrades everything divine« (II:3, 1220). 41 As noted above, the fools degrade criteria that we in some way or other regard as sacred. If we find the fools humorous, we may – as was also suggested 38 Ibid., 29–35. Benjamin is not mentioned, but it seems Agamben is adapting Benjamin’s remarks on Kafka as well as some of Benjamin’s remarks on Walser (W 2, 798/ II:2, 414). 39 Benjamin is quoting a letter by Kafka that is cited in a somewhat different way in Brod’s Kafka-biography (151). Kafka’s letter is from 1918 (see Briefe, 1902–24, ed. Max Brod [Frankfurt/M.: Fischer, 1958], 239). 40 Angels have, of course, a varied and often important role in Benjamin’s writings, the further elaboration of which is unfortunately beyond the scope of this article. 41 Benjamin adapts remarks by Werner Kraft. See Kraft, »Geld und Güte. Der Kübelreiter,« Franz Kafka. Durchdringung und Geheimnis, 32.

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already – find that we are laughing at the criteria by which we deem them foolish. Benjamin elsewhere identifies such profaning power with those he calls »new barbarians,« who contribute to a humanity that can outlive »culture« by bequeathing a power of laughter (W 2, 731–36/ II:1, 213–19). In relaxing the body, laughter might open the possibility of a thinking body against a mythic, conforming body. This potential of laughter is not unrelated, therefore, to remarks by Benjamin that elaborate a philosophic shame about humans’ submission to myth. Kafka’s »strongest reaction« – shame – involves a »secret present [geheime Gegenwart].« The secret stays secret, apart from the shame about the myth that disregards secret. The secret discloses itself only as the »historico-philosophical index [der geschichtsphilosophische Index]« that is shame about cultural devices or laws with which humans presume to deal with, somehow control, life (GB IV, 478/ II:3, 1165). This reference to »historico-philosophical index« of shame echoes earlier writings by Benjamin, in which comedy (in a momentary clarity of laughter) indicates a freedom that can prevent historical semblance from being considered truth (W 1, 202–3, 205–6/ II:1, 173, 177–78 and O, 48, 127–28, 191/ I:1, 229, 306–7, 368). Benjamin tends, nonetheless, to have the comedic give way to a persistent philosophical impulse to question any clarity, comedic or otherwise (II:2, 612). 42 Although Benjamin detects – particularly in The Trial – classical motifs of satire on the judiciary (II:3, 1235, 1257, 1259), he cannot consider the satire successful (even while he avoids any »metaphysical affectation« that would ignore such satirical elements) (1258). Kafka unites satire with mysticism (1258, 1260), and the mix of satire and mysticism is a failure by standards that are traditionally associated with satire (1256). The mysticism has an effect comparable to the aforementioned symbolic cloudy spot that undermines parabolic clarity (1258). The joke (Scherz) is stopped in its tracks (1257). Laughter is never the answer. Kafka’s shame balks at the idea of the answer. This lack of answer is where Kafka’s foolish wisdom takes us, and leaves us. To do more, or less, would not only be philosophically shameless. It would also be unfriendly to those whom mythic answers characterize as fools.

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In this regard, see too W 1, 60–61/ II:1, 138–40 and O, 127/ I:1, 306.

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Laughter as Truth Procedure: The Evolution of Comic Form in Newfoundland

Introduction Can laughter reveal something about the human condition? Perhaps everyone who laughs has stumbled upon a metaphysical insight into the relation of spontaneity and repetition, present and future, or being and event. Humor leads us from an intensive concern with a very particular situation (did you hear the one about?) to the disclosure of some more universal insight into the nature of situations and events as such. Because laughter is always about something very particular, we have to understand it in its local setting. With these thoughts in mind I have been following a comic form in Newfoundland. Codco were a small provincial comedy troupe who went from Newfoundland’s town halls and church basements to receive national acclaim across Canada, eventually securing a very popular, nationally televised comedy series. 1 Codco were remarkable for their ability to translate the highly specific situation of post war Newfoundland into a more widely accessible form of comedy. We can learn a lot about the nature of postcolonial criticism through the kind of comedy they produced and the humor that evolved out of it. What interests me here though are the broader, metaphysical themes that lurk below the surface of their work and that were intensified in new and interesting ways in the subsequent solo career of one of its players, Andy Jones. After Jones left the troupe in a disagreement over television censorship, his comedy took a marked shift toward a more experimental The show was produced by Salter Streets films of Halifax, Canada and aired on the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation television network from 1988–1992.

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and philosophical form. In the evolution of Andy Jones’ comic work we can learn something about the way that humor moves from its specific local reference to the pursuit of more general, even universal insights, where laughter is not only a form of entertainment, but also a ›truth procedure‹.

Codco Codco were among the first generation who were born as citizens of Newfoundland and then raised as Canadians when the island, following almost two decades of emergency British rule, was incorporated into the Canadian state. Codco’s humor often took the form of a comedy of identity that studied the way that Newfoundland’s marginal colonial past jarred its efforts at a rapid, forced modernization and integration into Canada. In a typical Codco skit a mundane situation becomes humorous when it involves a modern, cosmopolitan character carrying out some activity that we associate with Newfoundlanders (fishing, speaking in a thick accent, traditional singing, dancing, or other forms of enjoyment). Or, in a simple reversal, we come to understand that what we had regarded as a modern and metropolitan character is in fact a Newfoundlander in disguise. Things take place as if Newfoundlanders were modern, or as if patently cosmopolitan characters- artists, TV broadcasters, experts, entrepreneurs, and so on-were actually Newfoundlanders. The classic example is Ricardo Heurta. Ricardo, as played by Andy Jones, is an international dancer, singer, filmmaker, and writer. He is a modern artist who is at home in the cafes of Paris and the theatres of Milan. He maintains this disguise until a TV talk show host recognizes him as Ricky Reardon, a former street urchin from downtown St. John’s. In other versions of the same plot, Bob Dylan or Harry Houdini is revealed to be a Newfoundlander in disguise. Or, Laurence Oliver is taught to speak in the voice of a Newfoundlander. In his recent one-man comedy show, The King of Fun, Andy Jones presents the most sublime version of this device when he proposes a television series called simply

0 Andy Jones. The King of Fun. A one-man show performed at the LSPU Hall, St. John’s, Newfoundland, and December 18, 2004.

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»If« in which all famous historical figures-starting with Plato and Socrates-are portrayed as though they were Newfoundlanders. 2 More recently a younger generation of comics in The Dance Party of Newfoundland has breathed new life into the same routine. They propose to dub soundtracks of all Hollywood movies in Newfoundland accents. It is enough to recite some lines from Casablanca – »here’s looking at you in babe« – in the flat brogue that Newfoundlanders recognize to be the mark of a man from Torbay, to produce a comic effect. 3 It is worth noting too that this comic scenario of the out of place Newfoundlander finds a parallel development in recent First Nations art. I am thinking here of the work of Terrence Houle, a Vancouver based First Nations visual and performance artist. 4 In his Urban Indian series Houle dresses himself up in native American garb and has himself photographed in otherwise banal situations – at the water cooler, eating breakfast at a café, answering the phone, making his bed, or grocery shopping. The humor here consists of nothing more than placing a contemporary urban body in an Indian garb. Why is this very simple device of out of placeness funny? On first view, it seems that the laughter is produced by incongruity, or what Arthur Koestler calls a ›bi-situation‹. Two discordant situations are given together at once. The chance encounter of an Indian body and a modern activity produce a jarring, and therefore funny effect. 5 But then, pushing the analysis a little further, we see that these are all skits about whether and how we belong to the signs that represent us to others. In each case, the humor is based on a refusal to identify with either a bland, placeless modernity or some very particular set of signs that might better describe who we really are. Pushed to the limit the comedy of identity reveals a more universal discord between what linguists call the subject of the statement – what is being uttered, what is the language making said – and the subject of enunciation, or the actual body, with its context and situation, that is saying it. In other words, the matter that I am has to occur in some manner that I have. Life has to be lived in some set of conditions that we did not choose and that do not belong to us. If it’s true as Bob Dylan once said, that we are spirits Some of their work can be seen at http://www.myspace.com/dancepartycomedy. Houle’s work can be seen at http://www.skewgallery.com/houle.htm. Thanks to Monique Westra for directing me to his work. 5 See Arthur Koestler, The Creative Act. London: Penguin, 1964. 3 4

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walking around in bags of skin, then we are neither fully spirit, nor skin. We occupy this middle region, between the spirit that we are and the skin that we have. Here in this interval we cannot escape our gestures and signs, but neither can we fully belong to them, or be reduced to them. This sort of comedy of identity has a special place in the politics of decolonization. It is common to see decolonization as an awakening of a people, a realization that I am nothing and I should be everything. At first this can take the form of wanting the thing you have been cheated out of: the state, nationhood, modernity. Joey Smallwood, who engineered Newfoundland’s passage from a colonial state of emergency to a confederation with Canada, complained that we were the sport of historical misfortune, the Cinderella of Empire and saw in confederation with Canada a way of rectifying this and giving his people the dignity they had been denied. This sentiment is not peculiar to Newfoundland, of course. Gandhi, after all, initially fought for India to have a rightful place in the British Empire. It was because they were part of the Empire that Indians deserved what their European counterparts already enjoyed. This initial impulse to claim one’s birthright, is often followed by the more radical thought that, in fact, to be what you really are you cannot simply accept whatever the colonial overlord had to offer. Really to be liberated you have to go your own way, desire your own thing and so all the native elements that had been cursed by nineteenth century Europe – skin color, folk traditions, food, music – can now be reclaimed as the proper elements of nationalism. We find an analogous revaluation in the women’s movement, from the pursuit of male privileges such as voting and banking, to the revaluation of all things feminine, best summarized in the now dated neologism »herstory«. But didn’t decolonization offer yet another, still more radical alternative? The denial of sovereignty and the violence of imperialism made absurd the very form of the state, the model of nationhood and the imperative to be a recognizable people with a recognizable national culture. The new post war image of a united nations of people represented in a series of sovereign states is, in some ways, just as external as the system of imperialism that it replaced. The decline of imperialism and the promise of modernity and sovereignty opened up a gap between the people as an unstructured mass and the image of a unified collective People to come. In making this difference apparent decolonization offered an opportunity to place the whole matter of identification in 196 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Verl

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doubt. Rather than engaging in the hysterical search for the right set of signs to represent us, it was also possible to stare more intently into this gap between substance and subject, or what we are and who we are.

Faustus Bidgood This strain of postcolonial comedy found its most crystalline form in Faustus Bidgood, Newfoundland’s first feature length film. Andy Jones was writer and principal actor in the film which was directed by his brother Michael Jones and included all the cast of Codco, along with virtually everyone else in the performing arts in Newfoundland. 6 Faustus Bidgood was made in the fervent days of Newfoundland nationalism and its so-called cultural renaissance in the 1970’s when many intellectuals and artists reconsidered the wisdom of dissolving our autonomy and joining Canada. It lampoons the Canadian state in which Newfoundlanders have been swept up, but it is equally uncompromising in its parody of any Cuban or Latin American style revolution that some saw as an alternative. Faustus Bidgood may be filmically closest to I am Cuba as an absolute statement of the rise of a people. 7 But instead of affirming any real Newfoundland identity, it leaves us with the sense that the people are missing from the state, or can only be made visible through their absence from any recognizable state form. Faustus is an absurd, surreal film telling the story of a middling bureaucrat in the newly created provincial Department of Education. Faustus Bidgood works under the direction of Minister of Education, Eddy Peddle who has created a delusional strategy to base Newfoundland education on a new super rational system that he calls »grid reality«. The whole universe is divided into grids. All action is the movement of events through grid patters that a redesigned education system will teach students to recognize and predict. »All day long questions falling through squares in the classroom grid. Picture it Faustus … the Doctors will prescribe the right medical square, the biologists the right evolutionary squares, the philosophers the right theoretical squares and so on and then, why should we not live in eternal bliss.« The absurd Jones, Michael. The Adventure of Faustus Bidgood. St. John’s: Newfoundland Independent Filmmakers Cooperative, 1986. 7 Mikhail Kalatazov, Soy Cuba (I am Cuba). Moscow: Goskino, 1964. 6

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delusion is of course only an exaggerated version of a mechanical view of the universe and the factory society that Newfoundland was being refashioned into. More illuminating is the ›political‹ content of the film. Faustus daydreams his way through his burecratic job into a complex fantasy world in which he is elected by his peers to be the new President of the Republic of Newfoundland. The film moves back and forth between color and black and white sequences, which give us, alternately, the rather dull life of Faustus as an overlooked burecrat in a fluorescent-lit government office, and very exciting documentary style footage of a new revolutionary nation that he leads. Faustus’ daydreams take the form of a film in a film that is set on the first anniversary of the new republic, and explains the events that led to his rise to power. We see organic intellectuals conspiring in a bar one night to overthrow the government in the name of the people. There are shots of a banana republic style coup d’état, scenes of inauguration shot in the old colonial building, the former seat of the government of Newfoundland, while it was still a crown colony and not yet a Canadian province. And a film within a film within a film that tells the story of Faustus Bidgood and the long historical struggle of the people who gave rise to their leader. Faustus, however, like a Monty Python Jesus, does not understand why this mandate of revolutionary leader/savoir has been thrust upon him. His inability to identify as either a bureaucrat or revolutionary leader is an allegory of Newfoundland’s inability to identify with any recognizable state form. In one scene Bogue, his conscience, visits to remind him of his destiny: Bogue: you are to be a savior. F: Yes, I am to be a Savior. B: What kind of Savior I don’t know. F: Shit. B: Well, it must be a »Savior to your people, lead them out of the wilderness kind of thing« but it must be on the local level. F: Hmmm. B: Must be Newfoundland then. The Savior of Newfoundland. F: Yeah B: Cause it could just be St. John’s F: Doubt it, me being from Gander«. Any destiny Faustus has to realize as leader of his people is just as foreign as the modern administrative state from which he is clearly alienated. The Faustian element of the film seems to be the lesson that any occupation of the state threatens to place you in the same position 0 Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, Kafka: Toward a Minor Literature. Trans. Dana Polan, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986.

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as she the thing you are criticizing. The comic moment is, again, the divide between what he is and what others expect him to be. Readers of Deleuze and Guatttari will recognize here the basic elements of what they call a minor literature (or cinema, in this case). 8 Faustus Bidgood does not subvert the dominant ideology in order to propose another local version in its place. It does not offer a picture of a ›secret nation‹ as another film on Newfoundland’s loss of state proposes. A minor author, Deleuze and Guatttari say, is a foreigner in his own tongue who does not aim to speak in a more authentic voice, but addresses the fact of absence, the way that a dominated group is represented through their absence from the main signifying codes of a dominant culture. Faustus Bidgood plants us in the suspicion that the most far reaching insights of decolonization do not concern the battle over the state or the ability to speak in one’s own voice but the opportunity to learn something about the fracture in our being – to pry open the gap between what we are and who we are, or to explore what Helmut Plessner calls the ›eccentric‹ character of man. 9 Faustus Bidgood was a collective project that involved virtually every artist in Newfoundland. But it is also clearly the artistic vision of Andy Jones. The radicalized comedy of identity it pursues becomes even more pronounced in his later work, which I turn to now.

The King of Fun Andy Jones left Codco after a dispute with the CBC over censorship. And from this point on his work takes a decisive turn toward an intensive engagement with what we might call the ›truth element‹ of comedy. Jones has a theological training which clearly influences his work. His solo work explores a more abstract humor that concerns itself with the nature of laughter more than the identification of comic situations. He is not a joke merchant. Comedy is a truth procedure. His stage props often include, in addition to a tickle trunk and video screen, a blackboard where he will conduct some lecture, replete with equations and scientific looking formulae for ›ontological truth‹. He compares comedy to reliPlessner, Helmuth, Laughing and Crying; a Study of the Limits of Human Behavior. Trans. James Spencer Churchill and Marjorie Greene, Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1970.

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gion and philosophy. He invokes Sartre, Heidegger and a host of other philosophical and theological resources. If laughter is produced along the way it is most often as a means to some broader metaphysical insight into what is. In these one man shows, the questions about identity, being and having a person that had emerged in the political, post colonial moment of the Codco seventies are intensified and expressed through what his friend and mentor Ken Campbell called ›techniques for producing astonishment‹. His experiments with the quantification of laughter and laughing at oneself might be the best place to begin to explore these themes. In several of his shows Jones conducts an experiment in counting laughter. An assistant appears on stage and operates a scoreboard. Each time someone laughs she increases the numbers by one. A riotous applause gets ten. On the surface Jones is simply delivering on the guarantee that a night with a comic should provide a quotient of laughter. And so here, the audience can know exactly how many laughs it has received for its money. But laugher is, to this kind of comedy, what T. S. Elliott said rhyming is for poetry – the bone that a burglar throws a dog to distract him. Lurking under the surface is a more profound sense of comic truth. We, the audience cannot help but suspect that we are participants in some experiment. We are being led, through our own laughter, to an insight into the nature of laughing itself. The machinic quality of the laughing device has a most unusual effect on the audience. The external registration of laughter produces a kind of rolling hilarity. Initially, the laughs begin in relation to some joke. But, once one laugh is produced in this way and is registered as a number for all to see, the registration causes the audience to laugh and the whole thing is brought to a more absurd level as they then laugh at their laughing at the numbers. And then, in ever more giddy auto-affective turns they laugh at their laughing at their laughing at the numbers. As the laughing machine does its work, Andy Jones ceases to be the comic telling jokes and becomes for a moment a bureaucrat who is simply operating the device. The audience becomes a sort of autopoetic machine driven on purely by its own risibility. Jones steps out of the function of comedian and appears to be working together with the audience in some kind of Stanley Milgram-esque experiment. And now, though we are carried along in the rolling hilarity, we recognize that 200 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Verl

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we are no longer laughing at any joke but at our own zen-like insight into the nature of laughter as he tells us that »a simple truth has just come in the back door, through the comedian’s entrance. Perhaps if there is a god he could make use of this little opening of the dimensions to make him known to us. Pleeease!«

Laughing at yourself The laughing meter contains all the central elements of Andy Jones’ later work – experiment, truth and insight into the nature of laughter. Most importantly, he has made the audience laugh at itself – at its own laughter – and this has a very special local resonance. It had always been a criticism of Codco that they were Newfoundlanders laughing at Newfoundlanders and, worse, all for the benefit of Canadians and other foreigners. The criticism often follows much new Newfoundland comedy. A more recent television series by former Codco member Mary Walsh (Hatchin, Matchin, Dispatchin) renewed this whole question yet again. It’s a sensitive point because Newfoundlanders are often the butt of jokes – the Bavarians of Canada, you might say. In 1982 Kenneth Westhues, a visiting professor from the university of Western Ontario, confessed in a public lecture that he was shocked to find here a people »happy to laugh at themselves and be the butt of other people’s jokes«. More shocking still was his discovery, when he pointed out to his class what a travesty this was, that his students defended their right to laugh at themselves as an important element of their culture. It’s not clear to him which is more pathetic – to be the stuff of other’s jokes, or to defend it as one’s cultural right. Laughing at oneself is a complex phenomenon. In a theoretical trajectory that extends from Plato to Aristotle, down through Hobbes’s and Bergson laughing is tied to a sense of superiority and so is always understood as laughing at another. Socrates explains there is no truth in laughter because all that is displayed is the ugliness or madness in another. Laughing at oneself clearly presents problems for the theory of superiority. Does it require, for instance that we divide ourselves into a 0 Freud, Sigmund, »Humour« in Art and Literature, London: Penguin, 1985, pp. 427– 33.

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superior and an inferior subject? Freud had imagined something like this in his late essay On Humor when he explains that in humor the subject takes itself as an object. 10 Or, to speak more technically, the superego, which represents external authority takes the ego as its object of scorn. In fact, Freud distinguishes between laugher and humor in this way. Laughter is produced by jokes and involves the ridicule of another. Humor is a more complex phenomenon in which the super ego takes the ego as an ›abject object‹ of scorn because it falls short of some ego ideal to which it had aspired. Laughing at oneself involves a quite profound splitting of the psyche. Freud’s description of this rupture relocates the battle of superior/ inferior subject inside the subject. But perhaps laughing at oneself already threatened to dissolve this hierarchical distinction in a more radical way. For, pushed to the limit, it questions the basic principle according to which one subject functions as the standard against which another can be measured. Can laugher open up such a radical division in a subject that it threatens not just one or another identity, but the very notion of self-identity itself? This seems to be the project of Andy Jones later work. To understand what is at stake here it may help to recall the distinction James Wood proposes between a laughter of correction and a laughter of sympathy. Wood differentiates between a pre-modern theological humor that is based on a comedy of correction and a modern humor of sympathy. 11The comedy of correction assumes that the self who is laughed at has been made visible and accountable to some standard. The one who laughs assumes a position of God looking into the soul of the derided subject. This is the basis of comedy for Plato, Aristotle, Hobbes, Schopenhauer and countless others. The modern novel, on the other hand, is filled with new kinds of characters whose opacity makes them risible as we follow them on their quests to know who or what they are. They go off on journeys in search of themselves, and the comic moment lies in their errancy and their opacity to themselves. Many of these themes were already implicit in the earlier postcolonial Codco comedy of identity but in Andy Jones later work they find a more acute expression now in an intensified interest in the philosophical dimensions of comedy, in bodily gesture as a vehicle for comic Wood, James (2004) The Irresponsible Self: On Laughter and the Novel. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux.

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truth, and following from all of this, in a more complex theme of what we might call ›desubjectification‹- the undoing of subjectivity‹ or, more simply, the disappearance of the self from itself.

Gesture In his self-reflexive, autobiographical style Andy Jones explains that at a certain point, he began to recognize his comic talent as an ability to see the little gestures and moments that others did not. In The King of Fun he explains that he watched his friends go off to school to become »doctors and Lawyers and, while I knew that I could probably do those things too if It tried, I knew that I could never could do them as well I could do that little clucking sound of someone vomiting …Anyone could be a judge or a teacher, or a cabinet minister. But only a handful of people see that little (gags) in the vomiting. I’m sorry kids, your father is not a doctor or lawyer, he’s a shitting pig. I vomit, I sneeze, I fart, I burp. I do them altogether.« 12 Physical and bodily humor was already an important part of his Codco work where he perfected the accents, postures, gestures and all the external signs, which are the outward expressions of a recognizable Newfoundlander. In his later work the interest is not in regional identity per se, but in a more universal question of the body’s ability to reveal something about the nature of lived experience. Being a Newfoundlander is just one variation on the theme. He can also be a codfish, a goldfish, a baby, or even the sound of a clothesline. These are all opportunities to explore the pure communicative capacity of the body, the struggle to shape the most basic signaletic material through which we try to understand ourselves. Gesture is a vehicle for truth because it isolates and separates the exterior signs of our humanity from the interior states they represent. Bergson says that the gesture has comic force because we can only imitate those parts of ourselves that are not what we really are. We are always somewhere else than in the gesture that can be mechanically 12 Andy Jones. The King of Fun. A One Man Show LSPU HALL, St. John’s Newfoundland, September, 2002. 13 Bergson, Henri (1956,) Laughter: An Essay on the Meaning of the Comic trans. unknown in Comedy. intro. and appendix Wylie Sypher. New York: Doubleday and Company, Inc., pp. 61–190. (Le Rire, 1901)

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imitated. 13 The comic, however, recognizes that we have no other way of understanding what that something else is, than through the gestures and signs that can be repeated and imitated. Giorgio Agamben, who has also addressed the philosophical significance of gesture puts it this way: Subjectivity, he writes »shows itself and increases its resistance at the point where its apparatuses capture it and put it into play…a subjectivity is produced where the living being, … exhibits in a gesture the impossibility of its being reduced to this gesture.« 14

Desubjectification If it is true, as Bergson says that we are always somewhere else than in the repeatable gesture, then what the comic reveals is not a naked self or a more accurate set of signs. What we see in the comic’s gesture is a struggle to disappear from himself. We, the audience are made witness to his loss of self, his ›desubjectification‹. The ego that had represented him to others is now placed in the service of a higher truth. In Jones’ shows, this sacrificial element of comedy is often explored through the imposition on the body of unpleasant and uncomfortable devices and contraptions. These are necessary, he tells us, to insure that he himself gains nothing from the laughter. Where the laughter of superiority and correction encourages us to identity with a normal subject, this intensified self-deprecating laughter of sympathy, invites us to engage in a more radical process of desubjectifctation. Being the ›King of Fun‹ is a sentence he must endure. So, time and again he makes it a point to show that he must disappear in the act of comedy, that he must gain no pleasure from the activity. How should we describe the state at which he then arrives? Where does the comedy of sympathy bring us? To a position that seems very similar to the one occupied by the Buddhist Bodhisattva. Having passed through all the stages of selflessness he finally approaches Nirvana only to recognize that, truly to be selfless he should stay here on this side of enlightenment and assist others in getting there. It is a similar selfless that we 14 Agamben Giorgio, ›The Author as Gesture‹ in Profanations, trans. Jeff Fort. New York: Zone Books, 2007.

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witness in Andy Jones’ shows. He places his own life in the service of a truth procedure. What is being carried out here is a technique to produce astonishment and any personal gain is secondary to that. Jones explains that »I am merely a conduit here for this sacred moment. I must ensure that I do not derive any pleasure from any laughter that might ensue.« And In Still Alive, he reduces all of this to one simple formula: »To know me is to remove me«. All of which is to say that if laughter can teach us something about the human condition, if we can recognize something universal in the very particular situation of a Newfoundlander or a Native American it is this division between subject and substance, which, as Hegel understood, is the root of all humor. 15 After all, isn’t it funny how we come to know ourselves through the effort to escape from ourselves?

15 As quoted in Peter Berger Redeeming Laughter: The Comic Dimension of Human Experience. New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2007, p. 25.

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Siddhartha, Socrates, and Zhuang Zi: Laughter across Ancient Civilizations

Introduction When and what made man laugh, one may ask? The answer is that there is probably no answer. It is difficult to give the temporal reference on the beginning and cause of laughter even if the history of human civilization is poignantly followed by the shadow of humor, 1 But nothing should prevent us from cogitating and speculating on the phenomenon of laughter, and given the circumstance in which we are all gathered here today, one can simply pick up from any point in time and proceed to discourse on the subject. No, I do not intend to start my paper by defining or even rigidly classifying the various kinds of laughter for it will be out of place and it could sound boring, menacing and instead cause us depression. A. Roy Eckard thinks that, »The analytic dissection of humor may simply kill« 2 the very thing we want to celebrate. While Maurice Samuel avers that, »Talking around a joke tends to blunt its point.« 3 And did Jackson Lee Ice not remind us that humor is only to be enjoyed, not understood? I will therefore try to take this discussion with certain levity to ensure that I strike the balance of keeping a little smile on your face, a little glee in your heart and a simple reflection in your thought without depriving you the pleasure of laughter in the process. A cursory look at some of the published books and articles confirms the growing interest in this domain in literature, psychology, sociology and philosophy so much so that a pure study dedicated to laughter and humor is now called gerontology. 2 A. Roy Eckardt, Sitting in the Earth and Laughing – A Handbook of Humor. (New Jersey: Transaction Publishers. 1992). 3 Maurice Samuel, The World Sholom Aleichen, p. 184. 1

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But we may ask again, why laughter? Because laughter brings out human higher capability and disposition of intelligence and it allows human to develop greater ability to comprehend the true, the good and the beautiful in reality. Humor brings out the power of the human soul that enables him to distinguish the polar opposites in things. Humor, the Daoism 4 would tell us, is founded on contrast, and the most general of all contrasts lies in the underlying cosmic principles of the Yin and Yang. 5 It is therefore no accident that great thinkers never neglect this aspect of human disposition; they were in constant dialogue with life each discussing about the same reality viewed from different light. This paper endeavors to bring to life, the laughter of three of the most influential philosophers of the ancients civilizations, namely Siddhartha, 6 Socrates 7 and Zhuang Zi. 8 The choice is personal and arbitrary, but these thinkers animated the ancient philosophical world and gifted humanity insights into the meaning and pleasure of laughter in three different ways.

Socrates: Laughter in Erotic Innuendos Laughter was universal in Greece that Plato declared the agelastoi or the non-laughter to be least respectable of mortals. 9 Small wonder that their mirth exhibited itself in countless of drawings and painting Daoism belongs to the seven major philosophical schools of Ancient China, it is known as Dao Jia. The other being, Ru Jia (School of Confucianism), Mo Jia (Moism), Fa Jia (Legalist School), Ming Jia (School of Names) Bing Jia (Military School), Yin Yang Jia (Yin Yang School). 5 Yin Yang is a basic Chinese cosmological principle accepted by almost all philosophical schools of thought. It is however most articulated and pronounced in Daoism and Yin Yang School. 6 Siddhartha was born in 556 BC in Kapilavastu on the border between contemporary and India and Nepal, to King Suddhadona but renounced his kingdom in order to search the meaning of existence and the solution to human suffering. He is the founder of Buddhism and is referred to by his followers as the Enlightened One. 7 The father of Greek philosophy and prophesized as the wisest man of Greece in the Oracle of Delphi. 8 Zhuang Zi is the second most important Daoist. He is the greatest humorist littérateur philosopher of the ancient schools. 9 Carolyn Wells, An Outline of Humor. (New York: The Knickerbockers Press. 1928), p 46. 4

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handed to us in great archaeological magnitude. These mediums were easier to come by than writing, such that we see the early grotesques and caricatures of the Greeks are drawings on vases, showing the playfulness as well as the serious purpose of the Greek artist potters. 10 One may be warned that pictorial burlesque was not placed on the public monuments, but lends itself more readily to object of common usage or individual belongings thus they are found abundant on pottery displayed in private houses. But humor and laughter was neither alien even in the formal, albeit intellectual works like philosophy. It is well known how Socrates almost single-handedly fought against the degrading tendencies of the social institutions of his time revealing the Sophists vain pedantry and pomposity, by tirelessly arguing with the best men of his age despite his unceasing claim to ignorance. Yet, in the Symposium, 11 we encounter the most thrilling and yes, tickling dialogue between Socrates and Alcibiades. The Greeks have the natural fondness for the burlesque and they never spare even a wise old man. We recall in the Symposium the amusing scene that when Socrates was done with his speech on the origin of love, which was the theme of the dialogue, the company applauded, and Aristophanes was beginning to say something in answer to the allusion of Socrates when suddenly there was great knocking at the door of the house of Agathon. The guests soon heard the thunderous voice of Alcibiades resounding in the court, who was in a great intoxication »Where is Agathon? Lead me to Agathon,« and at length, supported by flute-girl and some of his attendants, he found his way to him. »Hail, friends,« he said, appearing at the door crowned with a massive garland of ivy and violets, his head flowing with ribbons. »Will you have a very drunken man as a companion of your revel? Or shall I crown Agathon, which was my intention in coming, and go away? For I was unable to come yesterday, and therefore I am here today, carrying on my head these ribbons, that taking them from my own head, I may crown the head of this fairest and wisest of men, as I may be allowed to call him. Will you laugh at me because I am drunk? Yet I know very well that I am speaking the truth, although Ibid-p. 48. Plato, »The Symposium« Dialogues of Plato. Benjamin Jowett (trans.) Britannica Great Books. (Chicago The University of Chicago. 1983), p. 168. 0 Ibid. p. 168. 10 11

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you may laugh. But first tell me; if I come in shall we have the understanding of which I spoke? Will you drink with me or not?« 12 The scene of a mighty drunken Greek general Alcibiades alluding to truth coming in dramatic entrance, complete with garland, ribbons, ivy, and flute-girl cannot but draw laughter. But let us try to follow this drunken man as he joins the league of philosophy luminaries in this exciting symposium. Alcibiades resounding in the court was in great intoxication, and he was roaring and shouting. The company in revelry begged that he would take his place among them, and Agathon especially invited him. Thereupon he was led by the people who were with him; and as he was being led, intending to crown Agathon, he took the ribbons from his own head and held them in front of his eyes; he was thus prevented from seeing Socrates, who made way for him, and Alcibiades took the vacant place between Agathon and Socrates, and in taking the place he embraced Agathon and crowned him. »Take off his sandals«, said Agathon, »and let him make a third on the same couch.« »By all means, but who makes the third partner in our revels?« Said Alcibiades, turning round and starting up as he caught sight of Socrates. »By Heracles«, he said, and »what is this here is Socrates always lying in wait for me, and always, as his way is, coming out at all sorts of unexpected places: and now, what have you to say for yourself, and why are you lying here, where I perceive that you have contrived to find a place, not by a joker or lover of jokes, like Aristophanes, but by the fairest of the company?« 13 Socrates turned to Agathon and said: »I must ask you to protect me, Agathon; for the passion of this man has grown quite a serious matter to me. Since I became his admirer I have never been allowed to speak to any other fair one, or so much as to look at them. If I do, he goes wild with envy and jealousy, and not only abuses me but also can hardly keep his hands off me, and at this moment he may do me some harm. Please see to this, and either reconcile me to him, or, if he attempts violence, protect me, as I am in bodily fear of his mad and passionate attempts. 14 »There can never be reconciliation between you and me,« said Alcibiades; »but for the present I will defer your chastisement. And I must beg you Agathon, to give me back some of the ribbons that I may crown 13 14

Ibid. p. 168. Ibid. p. 169.

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the marvelous head of this universal despot – I would not have him complain of me for crowning you, and neglecting him, who in conversation is the conqueror of all mankind; and this not only once, as were the day before yesterday, but always«. Whereupon, taking some of the ribbons, he crowned Socrates, and again reclined. 15 The speech of Alcibiades starts pointedly at Socrates; »…observe how Socrates is amorously inclined to handsome persons; with this he is always busy and enraptured…And believing he had a serious affection for my youthful bloom, I supposed I had here a godsend and a rare stroke of luck, thinking myself free at any time by gratifying his desires to hear all that our Socrates knew; for I was enormously proud of my youthful charms…Yes, gentlemen, I went and met him, and the two of us would be alone; and I thought he would seize the chance of talking to me as a lover does to his dear one in private, and I was glad. But nothing of this sort occurred at all.« 16 The rest of the speech reveals Alcibiades’ ambivalent idea of love. He was intoxicated and just went on ranting his failure to seduce his admirer Socrates. He did not define love but instead narrated the two instances when he seduced his alleged admirer Socrates right in his own house. But in both two occasions, he failed to get Socrates to fall into his plans. A humiliation that made him say that he can never be reconciled with the intellectual despot that is Socrates. In the process, love to him is revealed to us as genderless, cruel, paradoxical, mean, humiliating, envious, jealous, and a mixed feeling of admiration and hatred. It is not, however, my intention to delve into the detail of the dialogue. What I wanted to show in the dialogue is the comic side of the venerable old man, Socrates. For it is in this comic moment that we see the element of balance and reconciliation in the man. It is in the power of the comic side of Socrates that we see him in proximity to the clearest understanding of how laughter can be harnessed to overcome the dark agencies of ignorance and tyranny of rationality. Laughter, in this way becomes a mood by which man takes his disposition to cultivate a healthy attitude by which the man is able to see the world. What is particularly delightful is that the intellectual Socrates allowed laughter to play-out the practical side of his person via erotic innuendos. He did not have to intellectualize laughter to a distinct higher realm of dis15 16

Ibid. p. 169. Ibid. p. 169.

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course, nor did he have to create a palpable medium by creating a distinct language within which to operate his thought in defining language or ideas of laughter. Instead, we see the sentiment and authentic character of the man showing genial quality always allowing one to dwell in the same character with pathos that never fail to mingle with sensibility. But the Symposium tells us more, Alcibiades alluded to the power of wine in taking out truth in one’s speech when he said the famous quote, ›In vino veritas‹; the spirit that comes from the alcohol does not only provide us laughter but its potent ability to bring out truth in the man in the state of intoxication. It is exciting that this dialogue had to be set against the setting of a drinking party, for it bring it close even to the most significant findings in the phenomenon of drinking in our time. Recent research tells us that there is evidence that drinking alcohol increases laughter with expectancy playing a significant role. A point to note was much of the variability in laughter was related to ›social contagion‹ that is an individual with an infectious laugh or giggle would typically produce more laughter in the group session. Contemporary finding tells us that such contagious laughing may be a significant factor in stimulating group laughter. 17 For indeed freedom at this intoxicated stage begets wit and conversely wit in this intoxicated stage begets freedom. It is in this moment of intoxication when wit says what it does want to say. Sigmund Freud 18 contends that the basic element in humor is the reduction of anxiety, and hence that at least amongst healthy people, humor can offset human destructiveness. As one come closer to the erotic innuendos of Alcibiades to Socrates, and his failure to seduce Socrates, we understand why he claimed Socrates couldn’t be reconciled with him. After all, Socrates was old and ugly compared to the general Alcibiades who was handsome, young, and belonging to noble class being the nephew of Pericles. Such humiliation and embarrassment would have kept the truth privately between Socrates and Alcibiades. It is in the irony that it was the handsome man who had to confess in public, what he has done to seduce Socrates, and he had to take the opportunity in the state of intoxication to be able to tell the embarrassing truth of having seduced Socrates. In that confes17 Geoff Lowe, Drinking, Laughter and Health. Http//www.almdigest/gateway/pages/ moderate/laughter.htm 18 Cf. Sigmund Freud, Wit and Its Relation to the Unconscious. A. A. Brill (trans.) (New York; Dover Publication, Inc. 1916).

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sion, one comes with a moment of silent irony and laughter waiting to find the answer why he acted so. It is said that it is a practice in some Japanese establishments that there are two interviews for an applicant for a job. One is the formal interview that takes place in the work office, and the other is the informal interview over spirit in a pub. 19 Why pub, you may ask? Because it in the pub that you see more closely, the deconstructed man. Wine and spirit brings out the laughter that has the potency of also bringing out the complete or hidden character of the man. Moreover, increased laughter among drinkers is the result not only of the effects of the alcohol but also of the positive associations with alcohol consumption, which leads to heightened anticipation and enjoyment. One who reads the Symposium sees the boisterous environment surrounding the drinking party that comes with great laughter and thoughts, for the Greek passion for philosophy comes with their passion for food and drink, and where there is drinking, there you find laughter. Is this the kind of laughter that Victor Hugo had in mind when he said, »I like the laughter that opens the lips and the heart that shows at the same time pearls and the souls?« Or is it what Martial had in mind when he said »Laugh if you are wise?« Not far, I would surmise, for I am persuaded to think that every time a human smiles, but even more so when he laughs, that he begins to succeed in reconciling himself with reality of existence.

Zhuang Zi 20 A practico-cynical laughter George Kao once said »China is known as a philosophical nation, so even Chinese humor must have philosophy.« 21 That may be true, but the difficult part is to find humor in the philosophy. One realizes that it is not always easy to tell if the apparent laughter of one culture, distinct in time and space, is moved by the will of the original creator, or to the The Japanese practice has important practical psychological value for a society that is predominantly defined by a culture of propriety of conduct and countenance. 20 Three books attributed to him, namely Inner Chapters, Outer Chapters and Miscellaneous Chapters. It is said that the first is authentically his writing but the last two are spurious. 21 Cf. George Kao, (Ed.) Chinese Wit and Humor (New York; Coward McCanne Inc., 1946). 19

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tendency for any culture to look odd and even bizarre to people of another culture. But then again, no culture must apologize for the kind of laughter it is able to share with the rest of humanity. For the intention of all culture is always simple and thus noble. No great civilization apologizes for its being, and no great laughter ought to be pensive. The first name that may come to one’s mind when we speak of philosophy in China is Kong Zi or Confucius, and one hardly find easy access humor in his teaching. For we find in his thought, discussion that thrushes us to the perennial problem of morality, rites, rituals, duty, piety and sincerity. One who wishes to go right into the philosophy that deals on humor must go straight to Daoism. For Daoism sees man in his limitations and being the perennial outsider in the Chinese Confucian formal tradition, 22 Daoist can well afford to relax and laugh. A distinct mode of laughter brings us right to the most important humorist-philosopher Zhuang Zi 23 I am citing two passages in the Book of Zhuang Zi for the Daoist laughter. In the Book of Zhuang Zi we encounter Zhuang Zi in a most uncompromising position, straight in the wake of the death of his wife. The story goes, »When Zhuang Zi’s wife died, the sophist Hui Shih came to his house to join in the rites of mourning but found Zhuang Zi sitting on the ground with an inverted bowl on his knees, drumming upon it and singing. »After all,« Hui Shih said in amazement, »she lived with you, brought up your children, grew old along with you. That you should not mourn for her is bad enough, but to let your friends find you drumming and singing, that is really going too far!« 24 »You misjudge me.« Zhuang Zi replied. »When she died, I was in despair as any man well might be. But soon, pondering on what had happened, I told myself that in death no strange new fate befalls us. In the beginning, we lack not life only but spirit. Then a time came when the man evolve spirit, spirit evolved form, form evolved life. And now life in its turn has evolved death. For not nature only but man’s being had its seasons, its sequence of spring and autumn, summer and winter. If someone is tired and has gone to lie down, we do not pursue him without shouting and bawling. She whom I have lost has lain down to sleep for a while in the 22 Confucianism focuses on the discourse on humanism, ritualism, propriety, and filiality in well defined formalism that has become a trademark Chinese countenance. 23 The work of Zhuang Zi comes with great wit and light tone with most works articulated in anecdotal form. Many of his characters are figments of his fertile imagination. 24 A contemporary of Zhuang Zi belonging to the Ming Jia or School of Names.

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great inner room. To break in upon her rest with cries of lamentation would show the world that I know nothing of nature’s sovereign law. I therefore refrain. 25 In yet another passage we read the famous butterfly story; ›Once upon a time I, Zhuang Zi, dreamed I was a butterfly flying happily here and there, enjoying life without knowing who I was. Suddenly I woke up and I was indeed Zhuang Zi. Did I, Zhuang Zi dream I was a butterfly, or did the butterfly dream he was Zhuang Zi.« 26 Here we see the man dwelling right at the fulcrum of his being able to see between man made right and wrong, good and evil, truth and falsity, life and death. Zhuang Zi realizes in death an example of the eternal process which human understands in suspended moment, so man can weep at birth as much as he can laugh at death, but Zhuang Zi perceives them as one thread in an eternal process. He who refuses to understand the phenomenon of death does not deserve to live, and he who does not understand life sees death with finality. On the lighter side, Zhuang Zi’s actuation may also be viewed as what Conrad Hyers would refer to as »a playful return to a past innocence and unity« 27 But Zhuang Zi perceives life as an eternal process of becoming, that there is not a time man cannot laugh, there is not a time he cannot be happy, for there is no time but just eternity. And so he sings, for even in death you find the beginning of new life, and in life man is a being towards death. He who cannot laugh at the nature of existence understands nothing about the reality of things. Like most other civilizations, one may have to understand that the Chinese humor could only be a product of two distinct perceptions of the world, the »ought« and the »is«, the real and the unreal, the ideal and the real, and in this case, the Yin and the Yang in life and the course of things. His passion for telling philosophical wisdom must have convinced him that life should be taken with levity to understand the nature of thing with greater wisdom. That is why most of his writings are vehement reaction against the seriousness of other philosophers. Instead he wrote with impeccable charm, freedom of spirit and aesthetic license. Many of his characters were figments of his rich imagination. His literary and dialectic skill was

25 26 27

Zhuang Zi. Inner Chapters. »The Way and Its Power« pt. 1. Book XVIII. Zhuang Zi. Inner Chapters. Book III. Cf. Conrad Hyer. Comic Vision. P. 19.

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such that the best scholars of his age proved unable to refute him. 28 The freshness of his insights and broadness of his vision articulated in great laughter never cease to fascinate generations of Chinese scholars. Laughter, in this sense brings us face to face with the absurdity of existence and the way we look at reality. No, Zhuang Zi did not perceive death as sorrow or suffering as the Buddha thought it to be but that there is intrinsically absurd in the facticity of life and for this he laughs at it with cynical indifference. A certain defiance of the evil and torments of life manifested itself. But humor is also the recovery on the higher level of lost innocence and unity; his drumbeating is laughter of maturity corresponding mythically to paradise regained. 29 This attitude of a Chinese sage may be difficult to comprehend for a Western man. And a foreigner who tries to understand the Chinese psyche may always find himself in a most unsettling situation, such that Dr. A. H. Smith made this most remarkable chide, »a foreigner who really understands Chinese mind is in danger himself of being understood by other foreigners.« 30 As one tackles this ancient Chinese civilization, one realizes that communicating their inner sense of humor and laughter came to us also via the most important medium – the condition defined by their language, or to put it conversely, the nature of the language is determined by the kind of humor latent in the national soul. It is thus very often the case that the Chinese produced the pictorial, poetical intuitive Chinese characters, while this in turn enables the Chinese to express their sense of humor in a terse, epigrammatic way. 31 The Chinese as a people love to debunk historical allusions in satirical vein, and the bringing together of two opposing phenomena. But there are more dimensions to add, Zhuang Zi’s narrative comes in a language quite distinct from that of the West. The fact that the Chinese language tends to be quite often ambiguous as written and even as often as heard takes them to natural humor (and oftentimes superstition). If the Chinese mind basically perceives his world as para28 Cf. Alfredo P. Co, The Blooming of a Hundred Flowers: Philosophy of Ancient China (Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing House. 1992; 2002). 29 Cf. Alfredo P. Co, The Blooming of a Hundred Flowers: Philosophy of Ancient China (Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing House. 1992; 2002). 30 Ibid. 31 Cf. George Kao (Ed,) Chinese Wit and Humor (New York: Coward McCanne Inc., 1946).

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doxical, incoherent, antithetical and genuinely insignificant, their language also lends them to easy practical humor. To Germans, French, English speakers, they will always be surprise or find it curios that the Chinese noun does not have number or person, or gender; while its verbs have no voice, no mode, no tense, no quantity and no person and the part of speech itself has no meaning. The nature of their language makes it quite transcendental and flexible. This democratic nature of the Chinese language easily lends itself to comic spirit that understands perhaps better than any other how difficult it is for human to communicate himself with another human. At that most difficult state, when one is face to face with the absurdity of thing, laughter is perhaps the best antidote and not angst, or sorrow.

Siddhartha: 32 A spiritual-intuitive humor If it is difficult to recall a laughing Christ in the Bible, one may suspect that it would be equally difficult to find humor in the man always depicted in a lotus position and in deep mediation. But a cursory look of the historical development of Buddhism we realize that when Buddhism spread north and northeast, as distinct from the Southern development of the Theravada, most often referred to by Western Orientalist, we saw how Buddhism traversed through the Sinitic culture. When Buddhism reached China a distinct branch of Buddhism known as Chan came to being. 33 Tradition has it, that the Indian monk Boddhidharma went to China around 520 AD 34 who brought with him the silent transmission of the teaching of the Buddha. This form of Buddhism tells us that, right from the very start, the Enlightened One had reservations about his There are three major schools of Buddhism, The oldest being the Theravada of the southern Buddhism. The Mahayana of the Eastern Buddhism and the Vajrayana or the Tibetan Buddhism. 33 Chan Buddhism is a special section of the Chinese Mahayana Buddhism. But it developed into a distinctive form of Buddhism that focuses on Mediation and the Philosophy of silence. When the Korean adopted it came to be known as Son and when the Japanese adopted it came to be known as Zen. The Japanese popularized the ancient Chinese meditation school to the West. 34 Cf. Alfredo P. Co, Under the Bo-tree…On the Lotus Flower; Philosophy of the Compassionate Buddha (Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing House, 2003). 32

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ability to communicate his teaching to the people. He found that words could not carry such message as sublime as the Dharma. So it is said that in one occasion, while the monks seated around him waited for sermon, the Buddha said absolutely nothing, and instead, he simply lifted up a lotus flower and smiled. 35 The monks, of course were confused, except Kasyapa, 36 who understood and smiled back thus the silent transmission began. This branch of Buddhism came to be known as Chan. As a branch of knowledge, it teaches us that during the time of the Buddha, a transmission outside of the canonical teaching, a teaching that is non-dependent on the sacred writing but rather on the direct pointing of the heart aimed at realizing one’s Buddha nature. For Chan Buddhism assumes that there exist a gap between the luminous mind of the Buddha and the written scripture, as what is said in a certain context to particular individuals with specific timing can only be imperfectly put down in written form. But what could have been transparent to those who directly heard it from the Buddha might become obscure on the written texts and a whole school of hermeneutics may have arisen like shadows cast when sunlight falls on a dense object. 37 What is more difficult perhaps is the inherent limitations of writing are the gap between the inmost thoughts of an enlightened consciousness and the constricting words that have to be used to express them. From the metaphysical point of view, consciousness abiding beyond the world of illusion characterized by limited space and measurable time can speak only in terms of hints, suggestions or guesses to consciousness bond by the world. Psychologically, the mind can assimilate Buddha-consciousness only by rising to the level of Buddha. When this occurs in whatever degree, there is a direct contact between minds, a transmission outside the teaching, though not in conflict with the teaching, which the world of words and passing thoughts can only be represented in silence. Thus the eloquent silence and the enigmatic smile of the Buddha and Kasyapa is one of the most intellectual humors dwelling in the realm of silence. It is in this realm that man’s intellectual Ibid. Kasyapa was the most brilliant disciple of Siddhartha Gautama and the most revered sage of the Theravada School after the Buddha. The Mahayana Buddhist revered Ananda, the youngest disciple of the Buddha and also his favorite. 37 Cf. D. T Suzuki. Japanese Spirituality (Tokyo: 1972); Manual of Zen Buddhism (New York: 1960). Cf. also P. Sekiguchi. Zen: A Manual for Westerners. Tokyo: 1972. 35 36

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life-world discovers a humor so subtle, so charming, and infinitely sublime. In such sublimity of humor, man laughs within, with a steady mind and heart that plays in absolute harmony, while the power of the subconscious mind expands and unleashes a flash of enlightenment. But one may pointedly ask, but where do you find humor in such a serious explication of this most profound form of intellectual pursuit? It is in the Chan master’s technique in training his aspiring disciple; here he employs Kai wu literally »opening-void« or better still »penetrating into the void«. This is a form of meditation technique that is done with accompanying technique known as Gong an 38 A Gong an is accompanied by a wen da »question and answer« formulated in the form of a problem which a student is asked to solve but requires no verbal answer. Instead a student is expected to have an intuitive sudden grasp of reality never explainable in word. Example of such questions is the now familiar Kung-an; 1. »What is your original face which you have before your parents give birth to you?« 2. »What is that which makes you answer when you are called?« 3. »You hear the sound of two hands clapping, what is the sound of one? 4. »Li gu, a high government officer of the Tang dynasty asked Nan Chuan: »A long time ago a man kept a goose in a bottle. It grew larger and larger until it could not get out of the bottle anymore; he did not want to break the bottle, nor did he wish to hurt the goose; How would you get it out?« The master called out, »O Officer!« To this Li gu at once replied, »Yes!« There, it is out! This is the way Nan chuan produced the goose out of its imprisonment.« 39 Gong an is a method that is non-method because it cannot be objectively set forth is precise rules; the aspirant has to grasp insight into the void. The solution is not to be given in intellectual or conceptual line. Kung-an is characterized by its striking immediacy and by its concern with direct insight into the essential nature of awareness. Kai-wu is Kung-an comes as a special form of text that is intended to drive consciousness to experience cull de sac. It tries to destroy the conscious and logical pattern of reason to give in to the more immediate Manual and intuitive grasp of reality. It comes in a form of story, question and answer and very distinct form of literature that is extra canonical. 39 Op. Cit. 38

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aimed at looking into the nature of reality bypassing the analytical phase of intellection, instead penetrating into the unknown to allow him to dissolve the consciousness and become one with what he is trying to understand. The knower and the known becomes one in spiritual unity. The idea is to make the aspirant get hold of this fleeting flight as it flees and no after it is gone. Consciousness in transit is not connected with time and is one with memory. All that is needed therefore is to grasp reality. Meditating in the inner unruffled pond so that the inner light reflects itself back to him. 40

Analysis We see that humor and laughter is alien to the heroic, the aristocratic mind and to some superior minds. A hero, an aristocrat or an intellectual may not laugh, let alone be laughed at because of the baggage he acquired in his transit journey in life. But there was humor and laughter in the ancient time, but as man traverses in time and cultural development, great pretension emerged and when they indulged in humor their humor and laughter became mean and often times arrogant and haughty. When there is enough to eat and wealth to spend or power to display, manner and morals appear, healthy humor and laughter disappear and substituted by one that comes from feeling of superiority and difference. 41 How we come to more and more believe in the way man has departed from the noble and unaffected person he was in the ancient past. If we recall the world provides us the basic understanding of the man facing his world. The most poetic and pathetic (or tragic) thing therein are the inanimate things like the stone while the least poetic, tragic but comic are the gods. Between them we find the ascending and descending series of creatures. Humor and pathos decrease as we rise in the scale of being, but to bring out the comic or poetic elements of any of these being we use the one below it, for if we see the reality of things, the upper is the lower in disguise. In the Symposium, the discourse on Love soared to its most powerIbid. In Daoism, the emergence of morality is inferior to one that flows straight from the heart- simple, natural, spontaneous and unaffected. 40 41

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ful discussion without having to be distracted with the humor that runs parallel with the serious discussion. The dialogue does not come to us in single file but in parallel message and even at time dipolar. The discourse on love pays tribute to the intellectual mind while the comic erotic innuendos show the irony of man being human. In effect, such subtlety only underscores the two worlds of Plato. The discourse on the concept of love carries us to the world of Idea, the realm of the universals of Plato, – the perfect, unchanging, and eternal world. But Socrates, for all the sublimity of his ideas, was a historical man – transient, changing, temporal, and thus comic. It is in these ironic contrasts that we are brought to the world of the senses thus seeing the comic character of the man – and we see in him the man who drinks, a man who wrestles, a sensual man, and a man of humor and laughter. It may well be said that the relation of humor to Eros, morality, and spirituality are already found in the three episodic selections we had in the lives of Socrates, Zhuang Zi and Buddha. In the Symposium we see the poignant irony in which the wise old Socrates parries with the handsome Athenian general Alcibiades in erotic innuendos. The dialogue portrays the most human side of the wisest man of Greece declared in the oracle of Delphi. In his repartee we see the comic Socrates, the jovial, the mundane man in contrast to the wise, the good and the virtuous man that he was. Though the two sides are not antithetical per se, it always comes humorous to see Socrates deconstructed. The parrying innuendos of the two men side by side with their cogitating on love show nothing separates wisdom and humor. The pathos and sublimity, comes as what Nietzsche would say that untruth is as necessary for life and therefore in the deepest sense true, as so-called fact or reality. Perhaps also in a simpler way, pretending to love or to be angry, acting a part may cause emotion to arise. How about the reverse? Can truth become pretending? Certainly when repeated. How incongruous and humorous indeed is the working of the mind as contrasted to his actuation and in this we find humor in sweet irony. Zhuang Zi on the other hand, brings us to a new level of imagination even showing us a man who aptly represents the genius of the absurd. Zhuang Zi never ceases to show humanity the paradoxical side of man and his infinite creative discourse on life and the paradox found therein. Humor always lies in the unexpectedness and the remoteness of comparison of one phenomenon and another. The inversion of cause and effect makes us realize that there is no such thing as a cause, and an 220 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Verl

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effect, there is only phenomena under the illusion of space-time continuum. We find in Zhuang Zi a paragon of a man difficult to believe yet difficult to oppose, for he sees that happiness and goodness may co-exist or even be identical; and that use is not different from value. That is why in Zhuang Zi, you always find »laughter with« and »laughter at« in perpetual interplay. He laughs at the phenomenon of existence as much as he laughs at himself in that same phenomenon. Perhaps it is in this that the Chinese humorist-philosopher perceives that humor is at bottom, human’s secret wish, even the will that all should be destroyed, be transcended, be absolute, and he finds in death as the way by which all these are fulfilled. The stories you find in Zhuang Zi provide us opportunity to see the human deficiency in us, we must therefore never fail to see the grin, a single flicker of a smile that always provides a glimpse of the human soul. Suddenly, we realize the paradox of life, and then we begin to laugh at what folly we engage in to reverse one side of us against the other side of our being, and we begin to laugh with Zhuang Zi. The silent smile of Buddha and Kasyapa was at once a humor of intuitive and spiritual kind. Chan Buddhism takes us to experience intellectual bankruptcy, or an intellectual emptying. Humor in Chan soars to a higher plane and we find in it a spiritual, intuitive and democratic laughter. When one is told that »Illusion is enlightenment, enlightenment is illusion« we are also reminded with what Blake said that, »Every error is an image of truth,« At this juncture, laughter becomes a spark. Chan has little to do with weeping for it makes pleasure and laughter a necessity. Humor is used to disinfect the sentiment of all sentimentality of the cultured class and lets in even the hoi polloi partake in the experience of joy of humanity. In Chan you do not distinguish as in the practical Gong an, you realize there is no intellectual, no illiterate, no rich, no poor, no high, no low, no kind, no cruel, no sacred, no profane, just void expressed in serenity of the spirit, tranquility of the mind articulated in a simple smile. In Chan you find the confluence of the world in contrast where we always find the irresolvable contradiction and manage not to resolve it. All of a sudden, we begin to realize that if humor resides in the realization of human inability to reach the unknowable, we also say that humor is at the very essence of things. It is here that we find that the silence of Buddha moves from playful innocence through truth and justice to humility and compassion. Buddha’s smile is humor generated by inner harmony and profound sense 221 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Verl

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of serenity. It presupposes faith in some sacred order or depth-dimension of being, some common basis of worth and dignity at the same time that it represents a persistent unwillingness to dogmatize its understanding of that faith and worth. At the start of 21st century, we begin to wonder what sort of humor awaits us. Most definitely it will no longer be the laughter of the Borat kind. Borat laughter carries with it humor of superiority, cultural difference and cultural insensibility. But the new millennium has brought the world closer together owing to the great technological and communication breakthrough. We get to see the world twenty fours hours a day via World-Wide-Web, CNN, DW, CCTV, BBC, Al Jazzira, and other international network. The Internet technology has brought human access to learning instantaneous. We therefore get to know the other world 24 hours a day gradually merging East-West culture. Thus the West has gradually begun to like bean curd, Soya sauce, curry, cuscus, chapatti, and sushi in their cuisine. Western man is gradually drawn to Chinese Feng Shue cosmology, not to mention the many ancient scientific inventions that have already been so absorbed in their culture. Ask a cosmopolitan Eastern man for his western taste and he will probably say; »English cigarette, Belgian chocolate, German technology, French wine, etc.« The triumphalistic mindset of the modern age of the West has gradually been superseded by the uncertainties of the postmodern and post-colonial age. There will certainly be initial culture shock to be sure, and it will be followed by subsequent clash of cultures and civilizations. But humanity will merge into a confluence of a new universal culture. Then humanity will begin to realize that superiority is a perspective; that East-West is a reference and not a reality; that nothing is absolute for things are relative; that power is lethal to oneself; that aggression leads to turmoil; that injustice leads to chaos; that black is beautiful; then nothing will be bizarre, nothing and no one will be a curiosity. The future of humor will bring humanity to a reconciling joy, where laughter no longer comes to be mean, bigot, arrogant and divisive. Where humanity realizes the true nature of human of universal culture devoid of prejudice, malice, of preconceived right and wrong, good and evil, truth and falsity. True humor will then be a great experience of man realizing the folly in his greatness, ignorance in his wisdom, true poverty in his wealth, true humility in his fame, but then 222 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Verl

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again, have we not been forewarned of this by great sages of the olden days? Suddenly we understand there was indeed great joy in the laughter that jeered Socrates and his friends; there was something insightful in the laughter taught to us by Zhuang Zi; and the Buddha will remind us that a smile that brings joy to one’s heart the feeling of peace is the greatest laughter than man can ever enjoy. And with that smile, we all begin to laugh at ourselves, what futility we have all so engaged ourselves in, trying to explicate laughter and in the process find ourselves forgetting that the greatest way to understand laughter, East or West, is to simply laugh it out loud, for in laughter one intuits into the essence of truth.

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Transcendental Laughter Beyond Enlightenment

Once upon a time when I still was a serious German professor of philosophy, I gave a lecture at Maynooth College in Ireland. In order to brighten up my talk, I tried hard to make a little joke – in all seriousness. My host smiled, turned to the audience and said: »please don’t laugh. A German joke is a serious thing«. – Please don’t laugh during my lecture! Under the title: Transcendental Laughter I’m going to make some serious remarks on »enlightenment« – »enlightenment« in quotation marks. (In Gänsefüßchen wegen all des Geschnatters über »Erleuchtung«.) Strictly speaking I’ll talk about these quotation marks. To talk about enlightenment itself is not very illuminating you see. If one does it nevertheless one should rinse out one’s mouth because of the bad Zen-aftertaste.

Preface: Kantian prolegomena »Laughing« – is that a serious subject for a German philosophy professor? Let’s have a look at the 13 voluminous volumes of our prestigious German Historisches Wörterbuch der Philosophie (Historical Dictionary of Philosophy): »Lachen«, »laugh(ing)« – dead loss! No laugh, no laughter – only »das Lächerliche«, »ridiculousness«. La pensée allemande: sans humour – sans rire? Ridicule?? What about the German philosopher par excellence: Master Kant? In § 76 of his Anthropologie in pragmatischer Hinsicht Kant really mentions laughing. His funny seriousness comes across better in the German original: »Die dabei (scil. beim Lachen G. W.) (gleichsam konvulsivisch ) geschehende Ausatmung der Luft (…) stärkt durch die heilsame Bewegung des Zwerchfells das Gefühl der Lebenskraft.» In ordinary language: Laughing is healthy. Laughter goes together with a 224 https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Verl

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»beneficial vibration of the diaphragm,« as Kant says, but does it also go together with a beneficial inspiration for a philosophical dialogue? It was Epicurus who proposed »to philosophize and to laugh at the same time« – not Kant. There is no place for laughing in his critical transcendental philosophy. But wait a second. In a note to § 54 of his Critique of Judgement Kant gives a definition of laughing, a definition I already quoted many times in other texts, because it always set me wondering. It reads: »Das Lachen ist ein Affekt aus der plötzlichen Verwandlung einer gespannten Erwartung in nichts«. 1 Laughing is an emotion resulting from the sudden transformation of eager expectation into nothing. Kant said that it is not unusual to understand an author even better than he understands himself. 2 Thus following Kant obediently I dare to propose a little emendation of his definition. I write the last word with a capital letter: »Nichts«, »nothingness«, but I am a bit dissatisfied with the English »nothingNESS« because of its deep metaphysical impact. I’ll come back to it later. The definition now reads: »Laughing is an emotion resulting from the sudden transformation of eager expectation into nothing(ness).« You guessed! This laughing which leads to a Nothingness with a capital N must be a special laughing, a laughing with a capital L. Let’s call it the Great Laughter or in honour of Master Kant I call it transcendental laughter, just for fun, because it concerns the conditions of the possibility of cognition, or rather the conditions of the impossibility of cognition.

Main part: Some remarks on »enlightenment« Koan 5 of the Mumonkan – the famous Chinese Koan-collection from the 13th century – deals with Zen-Master Kyogen, who must have lived toward the end of the Tang-dynasty. Shibayama Roshi, a famous Japanese Zen-Master who lived in the 20th century (1894 – 1974), tells us in his Teisho on Koan 5 the funny story of how Kyogen attained his satori, his so called »enlightenment«. 3 Kyogen, a man of erudition, accumuKant, Kritik der Urteilskraft, § 54 Kant, Kritik der reinen Vernunft, A 314 3 Zenkai Shibayama, Zen Comments on the Mumonkan, Harper and Row publishers, New York, Evanston, San Francisco, London 1974, p. 54 – 57 1 2

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lated studies and speculation – he could have been a philosopher – searched diligently and tried hard to attain his satori. All in vain. Exhausted he finally went to his master Isan and implored him: »Please teach IT to me!« Of course the master refused. Disappointed Kyogen took his books and the notes from his years of study and burned them all, saying: »Pictures of cake do not satisfy one’s hunger.« He gave up his training and left the monastery in tears. – But »one day while cleaning the yard, Kyogen threw the rubbish into the bushes. A stone hit a bamboo. He heard the crash, and at that moment, all of a sudden, he was enlightened and burst into laughter in spite of himself.« Then he said: »If Isan had taught IT to me when I asked him, I could never have had this great joy today.« 4 This laughter is the »Great Laughter«. Among Zenists it’s known that it follows »enlightenment« like thunder follows the flash of lightning. But a poor cake-watcher may ask himself: »Why, bloody hell, did Kyogen laugh? Why did a »Great Laughter« follow his »enlightenment«? Well, please remember my pseudo-Kantian definition of »Great Laughter«: »Great Laughter is an emotion resulting from the sudden transformation of eager expectation into nothing(ness).« All the time Kyogen was in eager expectation of »enlightenment«. But all of a sudden his expectation transformed into nothing(ness). All of a sudden he realized that »enlightenment« is nothing special, no extraordinary thing that can be attained. He realized IT. He realized that everything and every happening is IT. Zen-happiness simply means to realize what happens. Paradoxically speaking, enlightenment is the sudden insight that there is no such thing as »enlightenment«. Kyogen saw the light in seeing that there is no enlightenment in the sense of a transcendent, mysterious apparition, which is only higher nonsense. All of a sudden, in one »Augen-Blick«, in a blinking of the eye, in one »Augen-Blitz«, in a flash, an ordinary thing – a stone or a bamboo – comes to light, by itself. That’s all, that’s IT. It’s nothing. Kyogen’s eager expectation came to nothing. No wonder that he laughed. »Here and now, just as it is – this is IT.« 5 There is an old anecdote of a Japanese steamship which went up to the lower reaches of the Amazon River in South America. The width of the river was over a hundred miles, and the crew thought they were still 4 5

Ibid. p. 54/5 Zenkei Shibayama. l. c. p. 55

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in the ocean. They saw a British ship far out and asked them by signal to please spare some drinking water for them. To their surprise the British ship signals back: »Put your buckets down into the water.« – »You are in the midst of IT right now. If you try to direct yourself toward it, you go away from it!« 6 No need to search for it. »The more you search for it, the further you get away from it«, as Rinzai puts it, the great Chinese Chan Master, who lived in the 9th century, a contemporary of Kyogen. 7 To search for IT, is like searching for the ox while riding on his back. It is nothing that can be reached. Nothing to wait for. No higher wisdom to strive for. Why? Because we already have everything we need. But we are not aware of it. IT is already in front of our eyes in this very »Augen-Blick«. It’s here in no time. No time to waste. Don’t wait for the future. If you don’t realize it here and now, you never shall. 8 The »secret« of Zen is an open one. Just open your eyes. There is a Zen-word of Wittgenstein »the second«: »The aspects of things that are most important for us are hidden because of their simplicity and familiarity. (One is unable to notice something – because it is always before one’s eyes).« 9 In the words of Zenkei Shibayama: »Everything as it is, is Zen. Because it is too close, nobody knows it.« 10 IT is hidden on the surface. An old Zen-Master sings: Do not think the moon appears when the clouds are gone. All the time it has been there in the sky so perfectly clear.« 11

And another hilarious story: One day a monk said to his master. »You found it! May I ask you, how you made it?« The master laughed and replied: »I never made it, I never found it. All of a sudden I realized that I never had lost it. The bright sunlight on that stone over there is not a Ibid., p. 143 Das Zen von Meister Rinzai (Rinzai Roku), hrsg. V. Sotetsu Yuzen, Kristkeitz Verlag, Berkeley California, 1975, dt. Leimen 1990, S. 45, 59, 76 u. 91 8 Ibid. S. 30–33 9 Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations, translated by G. E. M. Anscombe, Blackwell, Oxford 1953, nr. 129 10 Zenkei Shibayama l. c. p. 117 11 Ibid. p. 71 6 7

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symbol of an »enlightenment« which reveals something hidden behind. The sunlight itself is IT.« The sun laughs: »mysticism« bright as day, »taghelle Mystik«. In the clearness of that light the stone reveals itself – as a stone and the bamboo as a bamboo. Nothing behind. No meta-physics. No transcendence – at most into the immanence. The »essence« is not hidden behind the phenomena. The phenomena themselves are the »essence«. Following the Indian great-grandfather of Zen-Buddhism, Nagarjuna (2./3. century A.D.), »nirvana« is not hidden behind »samsara«. »Samsara« itself is »nirvana«. »One autumn day Master Maido and his lay disciple Kosan-goku took a walk together on the mountain. Maido asked Kosan-goku: ›Can you smell the fragrance of the mokusei tree?‹ ›Yes, I can,‹ answered Kosan-goku. ›I have nothing to hide from you‹, was the Master’s reply, which greatly impressed his lay disciple.« 12 The sly fox Maido has stolen his impressive word from old Kongzi. In the Lunyu we read: »The master said: my friends, I know you think that there is something I am hiding from you. There is nothing at all that I hide from you.« 13 Nothing(ness) is hidden. It’s hidden here and now, in the meantime, in no time. The so-called »enlightenment« is nothing else than the instantaneous self-less 14 realization of everything in its self-so-ness. Just to sum up: Great laughter is an emotion resulting from the sudden transformation of eager expectation of enlightenment into nothing(ness). Nothing to wait for. No hope for progress in life, hope is Pandora’s dope. The way (dao) is a circle. Nothing to find. We come back with empty hands like Dogen, the great Japanese Zen-Master (1200 – 1253), came back from China. No philosopher’s stone. No transcendence. No »enlightenment« – not even wisdom. To get really wiser when we age, probably means to come to the conclusion that we don’t get wiser when we age. No late awakening? Well, really to wake up – Zhuangzi, the laughing dao-man, who probably lived (369 – 286 BC?) during the »Warring States Period«, calls it the »Great Wakening« (da jue) 15 – really to wake up probZenkei Shibayama l. c. p. 70 Lunyu VII. 23 14 As for the »Death of the Ego« please have a look at Günter Wohlfart, Die Kunst des Lebens…«, Berlin 2005 15 Zhuangzi, chap. 2 transl. by Victor H. Mair, Wandering on the Way, University of Hawai'i Press, Honolulu 1994, p. 22 f. 12 13

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ably means to realize that there is no real awakening. What we call »waking up« maybe is also only a part of our day-dream. Do we only dream to wake up – we butterflies? What can we learn from all that, we poor studiosi sapientiae? Nothing to learn for zen-ies and dao-fools! Learning and practising the way don’t go together. As it says in chapter 48 of the Laozi: To engage in learning (xue) means to increase (yi) daily; To engage in dao means to decrease (sun) daily.

What can we learn with regard to wisdom and the meaning of life? We can learn to unlearn, to forget …The meaning of our life is our life. Several years ago I read a story. I don’t remember it correctly. Maybe I’ve forgotten something: dementia senilis. Anyway, I think it’s a Zen-story. There was a man sitting on a hill. A stroller came by and asked him: »You wait for somebody?« – »No.« »You look for something?« – »No.« »You sit and think?« – »No.« »So, what the hell are you doing here?« »I just sit«. (I don’t remember if he laughed.) – Shikantaza, nothing but (shikan) sitting (za). The best way of practising zazen. Just sit and forget (zuo wang). 16 Our heart-minds (xin) are too full, too full of plans, wishes, hopes. We have to forget them, at least for a few »Augen-Blicke«. If not, we are lost, lost in expectation, lost in paradise, in a future paradise, instead of working in our garden or cleaning the yard. »Just be empty (xu), that’s all«, as the Chinese great-grandfather of Zenism said. I mean the poet-philosopher Zhuangzi, the true protagonist and mentor of our symposium. 17 »Emptiness is the fasting of the heart-mind (xin zhai)«. 18 Be empty and open; open your heart-mind. What you see – or let me better say it less active in the middle voice: what is to be seen, was sich sehen läßt, was sich in dir sieht –, is a stone in the form of emptiness. Nothing but a stone. Nothing(ness) as a stone. Nichts als (qua) ein Stein. Nothing but rubbish. It reminds of – nothing. Nothing but rubbish in mind I make a little leap forward to another basic text in Zenism, the Hannya Shingyo, the Heart-Sutra (originating probably around the beginning of our calendar), one of the most important sutras of Mahayana-Buddhism. You remember the famous 16 17 18

Zhuangzi, chap. 6, Mair p. 63 f. Ibid.,chap. 7, Mair p. 71 Ibid.,chap. 4, Mair p. 32

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key sentence: »form (shiki) is emptiness (ku), emptiness (ku) is form (shiki). Hard to explain. I’ll try, avoiding modern quantum theory which is above my head anyway. Think of a Chinese character, for example of the character kong (empty, hollow) or of the character wu: nothing(ness). These characters consist of strokes and empty space in-between. Without the empty space we couldn’t understand its meaning. – Aren’t some Chinese calligraphies traces of Indian ink in emptiness – traces with the aim to leave no trace? But maybe this example is misleading. I failed. I’ll try to give another one, hoping to fail better. One day an observer drew Cézanne’s attention to a little blank spot in one of his paintings. »You have forgotten something here?« Cézanne laughed. »Not at all. It is the most important point in my painting. It is this blank space which fulfils the whole painting with meaning.« The free space, the blank spot is the white silence in which the colours talk to each other. By means of the empty space forms take form. In emptiness forms transform. Maybe this becomes clearer if you think of Chinese paintings, – for example of Liang Kai (13th century) – my favourite. Aren’t his paintings transcriptions, outlines of emptiness? By the way: who was the composer who said that his pieces of music are only performances of silence? Wasn’t it John Cage? He said: »Everything is an echo of nothing«. Did I miss again the point of non-duality between form and emptiness? Well, difficult to give information about emptiness and difficult to say something about nothing-ness. As for nothingness, the black hole of »enlightenment«: Let’s make a little philosophical excursion. Nothing to laugh about. All that talking about emptiness und nothingness, isn’t that nihilism? But is Zenism really nihilism? Horribile dictu: Yes, it is nihilism, even worse: absolute nihilism! But mind you. It is absolute nihilism, i. e. nihilism absolved from nihilism, annihilated nihilism. Annihilated nihilism – what does that mean? Let me try to (un) explain with another little Zen-story. One day a monk came to Master Joshu (778 – 897) and said: »I detached myself from everything. Nothing is left. What more now?« Joshu replied: »Detach yourself from this

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nothingness!« Don’t cling to nothingness! Move on! Move on! There’s nothing to it! Nichts dabei! I can’t resist the temptation to make a little superfluous philosophical remark on movement and the absolution of nihilism. I know: I’m lost in philosophy. Well: absolved nihilism is »aufgehobener« nihilism, in the double sense of the Hegelian term »aufheben«: it is »negated« and »kept« at the same time. Nothingness is negated and kept as a »moment«, as a moment in being. In the movement of this momentum coming into being and going by, coming to nothing are the same at the moment, at once, in no time. Nothingness and being are momentarily, for a transitory moment the same. Emptiness and form are in the moment of transformation the same. Incidentally: the span of our lifetime consists of such moments, transitions, transformations, passages. And what can we do, we poor transit-passengers? Nothing – wu wei – wei wu wei, doing without doing. Let’s go with the flow, go with the moment, go along with things, going self-so-ing (shun wu ziran) 19 – and ride on the ox. Well, end of this deep, all-too-deep philosophical excursion. I already used Hegel’s seven-league boots to go beyond Hegel’s Logic and its remarkable word in the beginning: »Being and nothingness is the same«. This word always set me wondering. Let me step back from Hegel and enter again the realm of laughing, a realm which is neither the realm of Hegel’s nor the realm of Kant’s philosophy. With Hegel’s Science of Logic and Kant’s Critique of Judgement in my backpack – I didn’t burn them yet –, but nothing else in mind than rubbish, I’ll try a last complicated philosophical definition of »Great Laughter«: »Great Laughter« is an (e)motion in the moment of transformation of eager expectation of enlightenment by a highest being (ens summum), – be it Buddha, God on high or any other religious »highlight« –, into nothingness. And – vice versa – the »Great Joy« Kyogen talked about maybe happens in the unexpected moment of transformation of nothingness into being. Or less philosophical: it happens a sudden transformation of nothing into something, something wonderful like a stone, a bamboo or a pile of rubbish – profane enlightenment. 19

Ch. Zhuangzi, chap. 7, Mair p. 68

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Evidently this thing can be very low: »panic grass«, »tiles and shards« or even »shit and piss«. It shows the »way« (dao) 20. A shit-stick shows itself to be the Buddha. »A monk asked Unmon: »What is Buddha?« Unmon said: »A shitstick« (Kan-shiketsu).« 21 Did it never happen to you that a pile of rubbish all of a sudden – out of nothingness – showed itself to be the most beautiful thing in the world? Do you know fragment B 124 of the so-called »dark-one« from Ephesus: »Okosper sarma eike kechumenon o kallistos kosmos.« I translate: »Like rubbish thrown down, the most beautiful c(ha)osmos.« Right, it is Herakleitos, the Greek Daoist, who tells us about this happening. You don’t understand? Never mind: There is nothing to understand. IT is nothing. Let it be. IT is in the middle of nothingness. IT is like sunlight bursting into an empty room. And if your empty heart-mind mirrors that light of the laughing sun, you’ll burst into a great transcendental laughter. 22 PS. Enough pictures of cake. My mouth is watering. I want to rinse it out, to go out and clean the yard.

Zhuangzi, chap. 22, Mair p. 217 Mumonkan,Koan 21, Zenkei Shibayama l. c. p. 154. Cf. Rinzai-Roku l. c. p. 90 22 You'll find a longer German version of this text in Günter Wohlfart, Zen und Haiku, Reclam, Stuttgart 1997, p. 11–41 20 21

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List of Contributors

Robert Borgen, Professor, History, University of California, Davis, U.S.A. Robert E. Carter, Professor em., Philosophy, Trent University, Peterborough, Canada Alfredo P. Co, Professor, Philosophy, University of Santo Tomas, Manila, Philippines Stephen Crocker, Associate Professor, Sociology, Memorial University, St. John’s, Canada Paul D’Ambrosio, Ph.D. candidate, Philosophy, University College Cork, Ireland Anna Ghiglione, Associate Professor, Philosophy, University of Montreal, Canada William R. LaFleur, Professor, Japanese Studies, University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, U.S.A. Richard John Lynn, Professor em., East Asian Studies, University of Toronto, Canada Manfred Malzahn, Professor, English Literature, United Arab Emirates University, Al Ain, United Arab Emirates Lorraine Markotic, Associate Professor, Philosophy, University of Calgary, Canada

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Hans-Georg Moeller, Senior Lecturer, Philosophy, University College Cork, Ireland Brendan Moran, Sessional Instructor, Humanities, University of Calgary, Canada Franklin Perkins, Associate Professor, Philosophy, De Paul University, Chicago, U.S.A Karl-Heinz Pohl, Professor, Chinese Studies, Trier University, Germany Robin R. Wang, Associate Professor, Philosophy, Loyola Marymount University, Los Angeles, U.S.A. Haijo Jan Westra, Professor, Classics, University of Calgary, Canada Günter Wohlfart, Professor em., Philosophy, Wuppertal University, Germany

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https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Verl

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https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Verl

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https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Verl

2014

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https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Verl

2014

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https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Verl

2014

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https://doi.org/10.5771/9783495860380 © Verl

2014

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