Ignorance is Bliss: The Chinese Art of Not Knowing 9783030739010, 9783030739027

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PALGRAVE STUDIES IN INDIGENOUS PSYCHOLOGY

Ignorance is Bliss: The Chinese Art of Not Knowing Mieke Matthyssen

Palgrave Studies in Indigenous Psychology

Series Editors Louise Sundararajan, Independent Researcher, Rochester, NY, USA Kuang-Hui Yeh, Institute of Ethnology, Academia Sinica, Taipei, Taiwan Alvin Dueck, School of Psychology, Fuller Theological Seminary, Pasadena, CA, USA Thomas Teo, Department of Psychology, York University, Toronto, ON, Canada Jeffrey Paul Ansloos, Ontario Institute for Studies in Education, University of Toronto, Heidelberg, Baden-Württemberg, Germany

Palgrave Studies in Indigenous Psychology aims to introduce psychologists and social scientists to the indigenous psychology movement and to major theoretical and practical issues discussed in this tradition. It publishes books that make significant contributions to psychology in the era of globalization by asking important questions about the discipline, profession, and practice of psychology. The series critically appraises cultural assumptions and theoretical frameworks; sheds light on the dialectics of the universal and the particular in human subjectivity; goes beyond Western psychology in researching the ontological, epistemological, ethical, spiritual, and aesthetic dimensions of the mental life; addresses issues of structural oppression in the globalizing era; and explores possibilities for a more equitable global psychology. Given the interdisciplinary nature of indigenous psychology, this book series welcomes contributions from all disciplines in the social sciences and the humanities. In particular, it welcomes scholarship that embodies a critical thinking that is informed by the local knowledge, and inspired by the spiritual strivings of a culture. If you would like to discuss a book idea prior to submitting a proposal please contact Editorin-Chief Louise Sundararajan via Commissioning Editor Beth Farrow ([email protected])

More information about this series at http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/15445

Mieke Matthyssen

Ignorance is Bliss: The Chinese Art of Not Knowing Foreword by Jie Yang

Mieke Matthyssen Chinese Studies Ghent University Ghent, Belgium With Contrib. by Louise Sundararajan Rochester, NY, USA

Palgrave Studies in Indigenous Psychology ISBN 978-3-030-73901-0 ISBN 978-3-030-73902-7 https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73902-7

(eBook)

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover illustration: pixy-nook. Shutterstock.com This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Nande hutu 难得糊涂 (author’s picture taken in the old family house of Zheng Banqiao in Xinghua, 2009)

Foreword

I got to know Mieke Matthyssen’s research on nande hutu in 2009 when I sent out a call for papers for a symposium on the psychological and emotional effects of China’s economic restructuring, including the mental health epidemic and mushrooming therapies. I received an abstract from Matthyssen on nande hutu as a culturally and historically specific coping strategy for mental distress in China. I quickly accepted the paper, and I’m glad I did. Its focus on using categories rooted in Chinese cultural tradition and Chinese cosmology as an indigenous healing resource opened new pathways for me to think about the unique forms of therapeutic practices in China during a time of change. Her research has culminated in this excellent monograph on nande hutu as an everyday coping mechanism that fits today’s political context, a folk philosophy descended from generations of Chinese epistemology and ethics, and an art of holistic living to maintain wellbeing and harmony. Ignorance is Bliss is filled with ideas that by their very sweep, complexity, and originality call into question common Western assumptions about Chinese culture and Chinese ways of knowing and thinking. Instead of looking for Western theories to develop critique of situations

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in China, Matthyssen adopts a Chinese cultural idiom as an analytic and conceptual lens to examine historically and culturally specific conditions, only then searching for and invoking matching Western categories as an enhancement of understanding for her readers. This emphasis on local or indigenous conceptual categories and holistic studies of Chinese cosmology contributes to what has been deemed the “ontological turn,” particularly in anthropology—growing critical interest in analyzing local ways of being and various forms of difference, including ontological difference, rather than focusing only on cultural difference based on presumably one world (Heywood 2017), or representational ontology. Ignorance is Bliss exemplifies this turn by offering an integrated, interdisciplinary study that delves into the polysemy and multivalence of the popular Chinese calligraphy-saying nande hutu as a “keyword” (Williams 1976), or more specifically, as a cultural “rich point” (Agar 1991). Matthyssen sees nande hutu as an “umbrella expression.” She begins her book by diving deep into the etymological roots of this compound term. This quickly leads to an exploration of Chinese epistemology and, in turn, an important observation that, in Chinese thought, the line between subject and object is indistinct. Her analysis exemplifies Williams’ (1976) keyword approach, treating a keyword as a key site at which social experiences, feelings, identities, and imagination are cultivated, negotiated and contested. Nande hutu as an entry point for understanding broader social issues in China, as a hub of ideological struggles, can be used to examine the ontological and epistemological features of the Chinese society. We can also view nande hutu as a cultural rich point—a lexicalized word and a communicative act unique to a certain culture. Rich points are ontologically and epistemically different from abstract keywords including “art” and “ideology.” Rich points open up more possibilities for social actors to critically engage in discursive constructions of power and ideologies. A rich point can have huge impacts on even the most trivial matters in a society such as “ways of speaking and hearing, or writing and reading, of viewing film and reading the news, of understanding politics and history” (Agar 1991, 179). Therefore, it is a vigorous discursive resource that can be (re)produced in a plethora of social contexts. That is, a rich point is highly susceptible to recontextualizations and reappropriations among

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social actors through their meta-discursive comments. Such malleability makes rich points productive for interpretations and evaluations in vastly different directions. Matthyssen uses nande hutu as a way into the long history of Chinese thought. She quickly realizes, delving into the etymology and semantics of the word, that Chinese “wisdom” rejects duality and embraces clusters of meaning. Invoking Hall and Ames (1995), Matthyssen captures the aesthetic maneuvers intrinsic to Chinese thinking, where the subject (already blurred with the object of thought) can allow one aspect of meaning to rise to the surface to suit a given situation, while letting other meanings drop away. This harmony-seeking approach builds a mute button into aspects of meaning that do not fit. Matthyssen foregrounds both the aesthetics of Chinese thinking and the way that “muddleheadedness” is built into epistemology, which goes beyond analytical, logical and clear-cut reasoning. In my own work on mental health in China I have explored several Chinese cultural keywords or practices that act as rich points opening onto experiences within the Chinese bureaucracy, for example, guan xinbing (officials’ heartache) and pai ma pi (flattery) (Yang 2018). Matthyssen’s in-depth study of nande hutu allows a new window onto these mechanisms while also broadening my view of how a single instance of language formation can offer possibilities for mental health effects. Ignorance is Bliss shows how nande hutu embeds a unique set of values and practices, especially dialectics, holism and fluidity, contributing to temporalization and historicization more than reification and spatialization in daily thinking and practice. Such positive mental health effects may lie in the possibility of not aggravating the very issues that trouble us, but contextualizing them for broader perspectives. Indeed, aggressive behavior goes almost hand in hand with a semi-conscious distortion of the truth about the object of aggression (Gabel 1975); that is, aggression spatializes and reifies the temporal flow of life. Nande hutu is like an antidote to this process. It emphasizes psychological “flow” in both the rhythm of life and of the self. In contrast with Western therapy, nande hutu as a mode of self-therapy does not imply vulnerability or lack; it is self-driven and, arguably, strategic. Indeed, in China, there has been widespread grassroots fetishism of yangsheng, combining the Confucian

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practice of xiu shen (self-cultivation) with the life-nurturing tradition to promote the art of living—a form of governance of life. As I read this account of nande hutu, I was particularly struck by Matthyssen’s insight into the complex relationship between the practice and contemporary forms of alienation. In my own research, one of my central concerns has been identifying mechanisms used by Chinese officials to balance double-binding conditions in the bureaucracy with their ethical and emotional needs. Matthyssen has helped to point the way. The book highlights the complexity of the relationship between nande hutu and mental health as it invokes the possible downsides of using this strategy in China. The meditative and cognition-reconstructive process encompassed in nande hutu may internalize the anger or aggression that is triggered by external factors, somewhat alleviating one’s distress. But such distress can worsen if we use nande hutu as a way of bottling up what needs to be vented. This form of emotional suppression and the cultivation of false selfhood may create negative mental health effects. Nande hutu also dovetails with current government goals of suppressing expression or regulating affect. Despite these extremes of nande hutu as a strategy for suppression, Matthyssen’s analysis allows us to see how it can be a technology for better living, resonating with the notion of lightness. Matthyssen draws out the spiritual roots of nande hutu in her examination of the Daoist sage who is also a fool. This sage is light in spirit because they know how to let go of knowledge that is heavy and useless. The wisdom of nande hutu thus resembles practices of lightness, letting go, and simplicity. Of course, this is highly relevant to today, when technologies of “better living” often resonate with lightness, for example, renewables and mobile technology. As explored by Lipovetsky, the current global zeitgeist calls upon Eastern ideas as a means of alleviating anxiety. Lipovetsky (2015) examines the anxiety of pursuing lightness—lightness as a means of coping with pressure. Practices like Zen Buddhism, meditation, and yoga likely bear some resemblance to this alleviation and respond to transcendent values based on detachment, loss of ego, and an ability to be more fully present.

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As an anthropologist of China, I am perpetually linking traditional philosophies of living and acting with contemporary practices and political conditions. In this regard, Matthyssen has found a powerful bridge. Nande hutu derives from the Chinese cultural tradition that has valued reservation or silence more than aggression or emotional outburst, for example, embedded in the Chinese concepts of liubai (leaving space as in aesthetic practices like painting and calligraphy and in everyday practice in general), zhongyong (moderation) and qianxu (modesty). But it also points to today’s political and economic context, where voice and complaints are not welcome. Her analysis of nande hutu does the best linkage that makes the case, unequivocally, that we use the indigenous resources on offer in China to understand the present. Cognition that diffuses the self through nande hutu is a key strategy for coping with the political environment in China and rationalizing one’s silence. Ignorance is Bliss also represents a major intervention to the growing scholarship on affect, particularly flat affect or disaffection. Nande hutu can be perceived as a form of recessive action via affective withdrawal. It lacks intensity, but not significance or impact. Nande hutu encompasses a form of smartness that requires self-restraint (from anger or aggression). It is feigned muddledness, including methods of coping with feelings of helplessness and vulnerability, and ignoring or refusing to judge anger triggers. It usually encompasses a process of subduing one’s emotional intensity, rationalizing it into something that forecloses emotional outburst. It is a calculating and optimizing strategy in the Chinese context where negative affects, including anger, aggression, or anxiety are often considered disruptive and disharmonious. It is a way of avoiding negative affects and diverting the correlation between negative affects and structural forces. It is not about problematizing, but rather de-problematization and normalization. Nande hutu is thus a flat affect, an underperformed emotional style that challenges the conventional relation between high intensity and importance (Berlant 2015). For Matthyssen, nande hutu as found in Confucian and Daoist traditions promotes a tendency towards ambiguity, suggestiveness and vagueness in dealing with (moral) truth and knowledge. Ignorance is

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Bliss celebrates artistic and aesthetic calibration in local ways of being in China and exemplifies how people juxtapose and balance between the light and the weight, the old and the new, and the hard and the soft, as well as the rational and the affective. Jie Yang Simon Fraser University Burnaby, Canada

References Agar, Michael. 1991. “The Biculture in Bilingual.” Language in Society 20 (2): 167–181. Berlant, Lauren. 2015. “Structures of Unfeeling: Mysterious Skin.” International Journal of Politics, Culture and Society 28: 191–213. Gabel, Joseph. 1975. False Consciousness: An Essay on Reification. New York, Evanston, San Francisco: Harper & Row Publishers. Hall, David L., and Roger T. Ames. 1995. Anticipating China: Thinking Through the Narratives of Chinese and Western Culture. Albany: State University of New York Press. Heywood, Paolo. 2017. “The Ontological Turn.” The Cambridge Encyclopedia of Anthropology. http://doi.org/10.29164/17ontologyf. Lipovetsky, Gilles. 2015. De la Légèreté (Of Lightness). Paris: Editions Grasset. Williams, Raymond. 1976. Keywords: A Vocabulary of Culture and Society. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Yang, Jie. 2018. “‘Officials’ heartache’: Depression, Bureaucracy, and Therapeutic Governance in China.” Current Anthropology 58 (5): 596–615.

Acknowledgments

I was blessed with generous support and assistance from many people during the research and writing process of this book. Following the logic of the individual surrounded by concentric circles that constitute his social network I often adopt in this book, I start with expressing my deepest gratitude to my ‘extended family’: my husband Joost who has gotten used to an often absent or absent-minded wife, but nevertheless remains my biggest and most loving supporter. My two children Joske en Jerom, who luckily often found their ‘muddleheaded mum’ quite hilarious and kept me down to earth, a quality that certainly contributed to the readability of this book. This book with all its ‘wisdoms of life’ is for the three of them. From the bottom of my heart, I thank my father and mother who provided me with a warm nest for my early social and moral ‘selfcultivation,’ and for never doubting about my ‘heaven-ordained mission’; my sister who understands me without words, even when it concerns academic issues; my stepmother with her never-ending care; my motherin-law with whom I share a passion—China!

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I cannot express my gratitude enough to all those not always near but very dear friends-colleagues who inspired and supported me along the road in many diverse ways, for the many laughs we had together, and for the sharing of knowledge, insights, doubts, and interests. They are too many to name all, and I don’t want to feel ashamed of forgetting one, but all of them have special qualities that in one way or another have served as an encouragement during the research and writing process. I sincerely thank my Chinese friends, colleagues, interviewees, survey respondents and many of the occasional Chinese conversation partners for their valuable insights into their culture, for their generosity to share their time and opinions with me, and for encouraging me in this neverending inquiry into their culture, a culture that continues to fascinate and inspire me. In times of doubt about my role as a researcher of this for them in a way very self-evident phenomenon, they—consciously or not—kept me going. I hope they are all happy with how I interpreted and presented their views. Many of the data in this book were collected during field research in the period 2008–2012. My Chinese and China-based friends deserve much gratitude for their continuous logistic support during these fieldwork stays, for getting me in touch with informants, and some even for patiently enduring a toddler in the house when I settled in with them. Writing this book would have been unimaginable without the wonderful and continuous support from Louise Sundararajan, editorin-chief of the Palgrave Studies in Indigenous Psychology, author of the inspiring postscript in this book, and sharp and mindful reviewer of every one of my draft chapters. Without her clearheaded and knowledgeable, and at the same time benevolent, encouraging, and light-hearted guidance, I might have often felt lost in the muddy waters I was fishing in. I benefited tremendously from her meticulous and eloquent edits, and her broad and secure knowledge and experience. Thank you Louise, for your patience with my ignorance in many matters. It was fun working with you, and I truly hope this is just the beginning of more exchange. Thank you so much also Jie Yang, for accepting to write the insightful foreword of this book, for engaging me to write book chapters and participate in conferences to share my research findings, and not in the least for putting me in touch with Louise and the Indigenous Psychology Task

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Force. It’s a small world, they say, but it sure is a pity that we live so far from each other. A very special thanks to my ‘old friend’ Lynn Robbroeckx who went through the whole book with her critical but constructive eye and who was the first to help me transform the first drafts into better drafts. Also many thanks to the manuscript reviewer professor Alvin Dueck, editor of the Palgrave Studies in Indigenous Psychology, for his time to scrutinize the manuscript, and for his final comments and suggestions. Further, I thank the many people who read previous—sometimes very different—versions of (parts of ) chapters, some a long time ago, some more recent, for their constructive remarks; reviewers of articles of which I use excerpts; and all those who challenged me with their questions during conferences and workshops. At Palgrave, I thank Beth Farrow, my commissioning editor, who guided me from the very beginning. I also express my gratitude to my assistant editors Madison Allums and Liam McLean for their kind help with practical issues and preparing the manuscript, and to reviewers of the book proposal that set the blueprint for what is lying here now. I am also very grateful for all the editorial flaws the copy-editor gracefully removed, and for the assistance in the final publication stage by project manager Ranjith Mohan. I thank Harrassowitz-Verlag, Taylor and Francis (the Journal of Contemporary Chinese Thought ) and the Hong Kong University Press for granting permission to use excerpts and figures of earlier articles and a book chapter. Lastly, I would like to recognize the Special Research Fund (BOF) of Ghent University that provided the indispensable financial means to conduct much of the research and the fieldwork for this book.

Contents

1

Introduction: The Chinese Art of Not Knowing Nande Hutu Chapter Synopsis—Reading Guide Research Methods Why This Book, and Why Read It? Phrasings, Characters, Quotations and Translations

Part I

1 1 5 7 9 11

Hutu in Traditional Society

2 The Daoist Sage Fool and the Confucian Learned Man Hutu Web of Meanings Hutu and the Language of the Vague and Indistinct Early Chinese Philosophy The Culture of Vagueness and Not Knowing 3 The Art of Not Knowing: A Scholar’s Paradox Feudal Society Zheng Banqiao, the Eccentric Tao Yuanming, the Lover of Life

17 17 19 31 60 73 75 81 103

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Contents

Su Dongpo, Victim of His Own Smartness The Ultimate Paradox: To Be or Not to Be Smart Part II

106 109

Hutu in Contemporary Society

4 The Modern Wisdom of Playing Dumb From Official’s Motto to Popular Self-Improvement Market Attitudes and Capacities of the Wisdom of Playing Dumb Smartness-Based Classification of People Modern-Day Self-Cultivation 5 The Wisdom of Playing Dumb in Practice Hutu Pragmatism Face Work Playing Dumb: Some Contexts of Application Politics and Officialdom Outside the Hutu Orbit: Soulmates, Foreigners and the Web A Strategy for a Detour to Success

129 131 134 159 166 183 183 186 187 203 213 218

6 The Psycho-Social Appeal of the Wisdom of Playing Dumb A Disorienting Society Harmonizing Wisdom Hutu Coping Strategies Modern Needs: Self-Achievement and Spiritual Freedom Self-Transcendence and Self-Preservation

233 234 237 248 261 264

7 The Moral Code of Playing Dumb Moral Code: What’s in a Name? Critical Voices Moral Guidelines From Non-Action to Crazy Action, and in Between Smart Hutu: Experience, Age and Effort

279 279 281 294 306 319

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Conclusion: The Culture of Vagueness in Transition Rehashing Ancient Wisdom Merging of the Three Teachings Dialectical and Holistic Thinking in Terms of Change

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Postscript: Hutu at the Crossroads of Knowledge and Information By Louise Sundararajan Hutu and the Logic of Silence Hutu as Two Types of Silence A Chronological Overview of the Hutu Strategies Hutu at the Crossroads of the Global Village

Index

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335 338 339 341 345 345 348 358 363 367

List of Figures

Fig. 3.1

Fig. 4.1

Fig. 4.2 Fig. 5.1

Nande hutu 难得糊涂 (author’s own picture taken in the old family house of Zheng Banqiao in Xinghua, 2009) (This image was previously published in Matthyssen, Mieke. 2015. “Zheng Banqiao’s Nande hutu and “The art of being muddleheaded” in Contemporary China.” Contemporary Chinese Thought 46 [4]: 3–25. Reprinted by permission of the publisher [Taylor & Francis Ltd., http://www.tandfonline.com]) Chi kui shi fu 吃亏是福 and Nande hutu 难得糊涂 (This picture was previously published in Matthyssen, Mieke. 2018. “Chinese Happiness: A Proverbial Approach of Popular Philosophies of Life.” In Chinese Discourses on Happiness, edited by Gerda Wielander and Derek Hird, 189–207. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Reprinted by permission of the publisher) (Source Author’s own pictures taken at the Zheng Banqiao Memorial Hall, 2009) Huang Yongyu, “Owl” (1973) (Fair use) Contexts of application of the wisdom of playing dumb

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154 164 185

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List of Figures

Fig. 6.1

Psycho-social functions of the wisdom of playing dumb. Note Increasing darkness indicates that ties become less socially binding—Arrows indicate mutually reinforcing “Search for Ancient Wisdom” (Image by artist Robert Haddox-Harle) Types of hutu discourse. Note X = prominent in traditional China; x = prominent in contemporary China Rationalities in contemporary hutu (not knowing) discourse. Note No colour = original strong ties rationality; Yellow = Weak ties rationality (in parenthesis) superimposed on strong ties rationality

Fig. 7.1 Fig. 9.1

Fig. 9.2

239 293

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1 Introduction: The Chinese Art of Not Knowing

There are two ways to slide easily through life: to believe everything or to doubt everything. Both ways save us from thinking. (Alfred Korzybski)

Nande Hutu This book is about the Chinese art of not knowing—in its modern application better expressed as the wisdom of playing dumb or feigning ignorance. Broadly said, it describes a Chinese coping and survival strategy rooted in Chinese philosophy and cosmology, the structure of society and political strategy, and further developed in an ever-ongoing modernization and popularization process. More concretely, this book presents a systematic, multidisciplinary study that delves into the different dimensions of the popular yet puzzling calligraphy-saying Nande hutu 难得糊 涂. Literally—but far from accurately—Nande hutu translates as ‘Hard to attain muddleheadedness.’ Anyone dealing with China, be it professionally, academically or personally, will most likely sooner or later come © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 M. Matthyssen, Ignorance is Bliss: The Chinese Art of Not Knowing, Palgrave Studies in Indigenous Psychology, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73902-7_1

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across the calligraphy. Now, how can only four characters stir up so much curiosity and fascination that it results in a book? This difficult to translate saying, Nande hutu, is in fact an umbrella expression for a complex Chinese phenomenon, that—to paraphrase a Chinese colleague—might well be the most crucial part of Chinese culture that most non-Chinese fail to grasp, and most Chinese are not conscious of. My own journey into this Chinese art of not knowing started when I was reading Mo Yan’s novel Treasure map 藏宝图. In the middle of a vivid discussion with an ‘old friend’ he bumps into on the streets of provincial town Chengdu, the protagonist sarcastically snares at his friend, shouting that “Not everyone who wants to be a fool can be so” (Nande hutu).1 As it turns out, this old friend moved to Beijing, the big city, and seems to feel on top of everything now that he dwells in a more cultivated, educated and knowledgeable environment, whereas our protagonist did not work himself up into the class of ‘city people,’ and seems to hold in high regard people that are ‘foolish’ (hutu) in some particular way (Mo 2004). The translation of this expression Nande hutu was accompanied by a long annotation that provided some background information on its author, scholar-artist Zheng Banqiao 郑板桥 (1693–1765) who wrote it as a calligraphy in 1751 out of discontent and feelings of powerlessness during his serving as a Qing court official. The French translator also elaborated on the difficulties he had experienced in translating the four characters, starting with the meaning of the word hutu 糊涂 (‘muddleheaded, foolish’). He ended the annotation with a small remark about the recent appearance of books on ‘the art (or study) of being muddleheaded’ (hutuxue 糊涂学), which not only marketed the saying as a popular wisdom of life, but also as a strategy to be successful. Intrigued by this curious quote, I started my quest with checking translations of Nande hutu in English dictionaries. One frequently mentioned translation was ‘Ignorance is bliss.’ This expression originates in a passage from a poem by eighteenth-century English poet Thomas Gray. The full saying is ‘Where ignorance is bliss, it’s folly to be wise,’ mostly understood as whatever one not knows, cannot hurt. In other words, ignorance—even temporary—is still better than knowing everything clearly at all times. But if such obvious, easy to grasp popular wisdom really honours what Zheng Banqiao more than 250 years earlier

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meant by it, why was it so hard for the French translator to come up with an appropriate translation? How was this Chinese ‘wisdom of life’ different from the occasional harmless white lie everyone uses to some extent in daily life? And could this English translation also explain why this saying, which is inspired by much older philosophical wisdom, is still so popular today in China, even to the extent that self-improvement books are dedicated to it? All these questions led me to my quest into the complex phenomenon underlying the Chinese art of not knowing as expressed in the calligraphy Nande hutu. When I initially started delving into preliminary data from different Chinese sources, I was instantly caught up in a web of meanings. There seemed to be no clear, unambiguous answer to the question of what Nande hutu means, or how it should be understood? Moreover, the saying seemed to be interpreted in as many ways as there are people, and the web of meaning appeared to be as muddled, paradoxical and ambiguous as the four-letter word itself. These surprises marked the beginning of a long journey, not so much into the calligraphy Nande hutu, but rather into many related popular Chinese wisdoms of life this particular calligraphy conveys. This research thus became an investigation into the Chinese philosophical predilection for the vague and the indistinct, into vagueness, ignorance and playing dumb as a social virtue, and into many other related ‘arts’ that are strongly rooted in Chinese tradition and equally highlight the dialectics of not knowing and intelligence. Altogether, this book addresses different, sometimes paradoxical, Chinese ways of not knowing: • Real ignorance, like someone who is really muddleheaded and ignorantly conducts him-/herself in society, like the naivety or pure foolishness of a new-born child who really does not know but cannot help it or is not unhappy about it, and cannot pretend otherwise either. • The lofty, philosophical ideal of not knowing as the highest wisdom, as for instance developed in Daoism, where it embodies the sage ideal of spiritual transcendence, a not knowing that transcends knowing, or rather, in which the distinction knowing—not knowing is not even relevant anymore.

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• Consciously not wanting to know or pretending to be ignorant out of feelings of powerlessness, fear and disappointment. In this context, pretended ignorance serves as a negatively motivated tool for selfpreservation, self-consolation and as an existential survival strategy. It is a strategy that smart Chinese scholars deployed in feudal society, and people still turn to in contemporary society, to—temporarily— maintain or obtain inner peace. • Consciously and smartly playing dumb as a deliberate, and positively motivated choice in order to maintain harmony and avoid conflicts in whatever field of life, often for interpersonal harmony. • Ignorance as a state in which one is forced, as for instance in an authoritarian state in which concealment and censoring of sensitive information is common practice both for the state, and for its citizens as a kind of self-censorship. Even if this is for the sake of political stability and societal harmony, in practice it does imply a tool for the state to maintain legitimacy and power. The red thread that from the very start connects all these dimensions is that they represent the manifold ways in which Chinese people from different layers of society discuss and experience (live) the wisdom of the saying Nande hutu, of feigning ignorance and associated ways of (not) knowing. This book describes and explains, as much as possible in native Chinese terms, these various meanings of Nande hutu; how, from a historical-philosophical perspective, the saying can be considered as the Chinese art of not knowing; and how in contemporary society, it is interpreted, practiced and—positively and negatively—evaluated as the wisdom of playing dumb (zhuang hutu 装糊涂). In doing so, this book explores the underlying socio-psychological, moral, political and spiritual dimensions of the practice of playing dumb. These dimensions will highlight its function as a personal coping or survival strategy, as a social virtue, but also as a self-deceiving practice, and as a political tool. The various interpretations originate directly from articles and discussions in popular, official and academic discourses, and from interviews and a small survey. Some are informed by academic inquiry, others by official or popular reasoning.

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When all is said and done from the Chinese perspective, the quest comes to an end with a metacommentary based on theories from cultural and indigenous psychology. This meta-commentary will be written by highly esteemed scholar in indigenous psychology Louise Sundararajan to open up perspectives and stimulate a cross-cultural debate.

Chapter Synopsis—Reading Guide It is only by simultaneously addressing the philosophical, socio-historical, psychological and moral dimensions of the wisdom of the saying Nande hutu that its multiple layers can come to light in a comprehensive and solidly grounded way. The book is therefore divided into two parts: Part I will discuss the philosophical and socio-historical background of the Chinese art of not knowing, whereas Part II will deal with what has become of this art in contemporary society, and how it is represented and negotiated in popular and official (political) discourse as the accessible popular wisdom of playing dumb. Part I starts with a brief etymological inquiry into the origin and semantic associations of the compound hutu. This etymological and semantic analysis will lead us directly to the early philosophicalintellectual background of the characteristically Chinese inclination towards not knowing and ambiguity as found in the Confucian and Daoist traditions (Chapter 2). These two traditions have—both in terms of content and methodology—always displayed a tendency towards ambiguity, suggestiveness and vagueness in dealing with truth and knowledge. In Confucianism and Daoism, a low-profile, muddled or ignorant, and even foolish appearance are considered—be it for different reasons—as the highest spiritual ideal and even social and moral virtue. More pragmatically, throughout history, the art of not knowing served as a survival strategy for scholar-officials in feudal society, which is the theme of Chapter 3. Many officials struggled with their cleverness and their subjective, yet deep understanding of a society full of inequality and corruption. They developed ways to remain mentally healthy against the background of the socio-historical developments at their time. Illustrative of this are the lives and works (quotes, calligraphies) of famous

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scholar-officials during feudal China such as Zheng Banqiao, the famous author of the calligraphy Nande hutu, Tao Yuanming 陶渊明 (365–427) and Su Dongpo 苏东坡 (1073–1101). These scholar-artists are vivid examples of how to carefully and wisely balance cleverness with ignorance without completely disengaging from society or losing their critical abilities. In Part II, I turn to contemporary society, where I show that this art of not knowing is far from some old motif from ancient philosophy, but a living art. I expand on the popularization and modern interpretations (What? Chapter 4), the concrete application domains (When? Chapter 5), the psycho-social appeal (Why? Chapter 6) and the moral code (How? Chapter 7) of this art in contemporary society. Throughout these discussions on the contemporary meaning of the saying Nande hutu and the practical application of hutu-ism in China today, I argue that on the one hand, its wisdom over time has to a great extent developed into the wisdom of playing dumb (feigning ignorance), as a strategy for selfpreservation and being successful in the social arena, and sometimes even for selfish ambitions, unconnected to moral and social engagement. This is visible in individual life, but also in politics, both in political strategy and on the individual official level. On the other hand, pretending ignorance does effectively serve as a coping strategy, and ultimately—and for Chinese people most importantly—as a harmonizer, for personal and social life, and for society. I also argue that, although at first glance pretending ignorance and related attitudes do seem to suggest a passive, resigning way of coping, from the perspective of Chinese cosmology and philosophy, they are far from that. Taking a step back, keeping a low profile and playing dumb embody—if applied wisely and morally appropriate—a particular kind of psychological and social agency. Moreover, this pragmatic wisdom is at its very core agency-driven, because it entails and implies self-control and self-management. Obviously, the actual practice of playing dumb also arouses controversy with regard to power and social justice in society. Whenever engaging with this critical dimension, that is, when using examples taken from the historical context (Chapter 3), when discussing the case of politics in the contemporary context (Chapter 5) and in the last chapter on the moral code of pretending ignorance (Chapter 7), I basically discuss

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and document the different opinions as put forward by Chinese people in the different discourses. These opinions include state legitimacy and power, but also the specifically Chinese notions of national face and harmony. However, after the debates in China from all sides are well represented and documented, and some concluding observations are discussed (Chapter 8), the need to engage with this more controversial layer from a broader perspective emerges. This comes with—as it suits the Chinese tradition—the final postscript. In this postscript, Louise Sundararajan conducts a critical meta-commentary of this indigenous phenomenon. With a chronological overview of hutu strategies, she zooms in on the difference in rationalities between strong ties (China) and weak ties societies. Against this backdrop, she offers some reflections on the farreaching implications of the art of not knowing on knowledge and information in the twenty-first century (Chapter 9). The aim of this postscript (and of the book in general) is not only to inspire Chinese intellectuals to rethink their culture, but also to invite all readers to reflect on what they have read by raising questions that can stimulate and sustain an informed cross-cultural debate.

Research Methods Examining the multi-layeredness and paradoxical dimensions of this complex psycho-social reality required an interdisciplinary approach. Moreover, combining different disciplines in terms of research fields and research methods was the only way to highlight the close link between ‘applied’ philosophy and Chinese indigenous and folk psychology. The book therefore draws not only from the ancient Daoist and Confucian Classics, but also from primary sources taken from academic, popular and official discourse that vary from journal and magazine articles, online essays and blog discussions, to self-improvement and self-help books, in combination with a survey, interviews and informal talks during fieldwork. Fieldwork was done over a period of 5 years (2008–2012), and later complemented with insights from informal talks and observation of

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current affairs. The method of interviews and observation during fieldwork enabled me to access knowledge and experiences that are seldom mentioned in published works. With as basis the results of an open questions survey among Chinese students and some of their parents in Belgium (with 50 replies on 8 questions), I conducted semi-structured interviews in Shenyang, Beijing and Shanghai with people from different layers of society, ranging from students and teachers, blue- and whitecollar workers, and academics, to businessmen and -women and officials. My interviewees were without exception Han Chinese. I also locked myself for days in local bookstores to screen the shelves of the ‘wisdoms of life’ (rensheng zhihui 人生智慧) and the motivational and selfimprovement (lizhi 励志, litterally: ‘determine to fulfil one’s aspirations’) sections, and browsed the Internet for discussions and opinions on the saying. The data almost invariably originate in mainland China, but as for the target group, there was no clear distinction with regard to region or locality, gender, social status or age. Nonetheless, in reality, the persons behind the written data such as books, blogs and articles from magazines and academic journals were for obvious reasons mostly urban dwellers. Needless to say, that whenever using the phrase ‘Chinese people’ or even ‘Chinese,’ this will always be too much of a generalization. This study thus combines philosophical (text), socio-historical and content analysis with theory from Chinese philosophy, philosophical psychology, and the relatively new field of indigenous (Chinese) psychology, which views individuals both as agents of their action, and as collective agents through their culture (Kim 2001). Since I started out as muddled as the saying itself—not without pre-assumptions, but without focus on existing theories—the combination of all these sources and methods enabled maximum triangulation of the results. I came out less confused, but all the same strengthened in the conviction that there is not just ‘one’ Chinese art of not knowing. The various sources pointed towards an ambiguous, contextual meaning and use of being, or feigning to be ignorant and playing dumb, that is nowadays still very much alive, as we can continuously observe in Chinese current affairs.

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Why This Book, and Why Read It? Since China’s ascendancy on the world stage, her power is clearly and pervasively felt, but her mind is still shrouded in mystery, if not controversy. A case in point at the time of writing this book is the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic that has stirred up controversies with regard to China’s transparency. There is an urgent need for more in-depth understanding of Chinese culture and the Chinese mind. This requires a nuanced grasp of those aspects of Chinese culture that are not visible, and quite often incomprehensible to the outside world. That is what this book aspires to bring about. Altogether, this study examines how the ancient Chinese wisdom of not knowing is discursively constructed, practiced and evaluated in contemporary society, and critically discusses how Chinese people give meaning to their lives in the complexity of modern society by strongly relying on tradition. Throughout the discussions of these culturally conditioned quests for meaning and coping with the multifaceted dynamics between continuity and change, this book investigates different forms of agency in contemporary China, and in the Chinese communities around the world. In doing so, it intends to add depth and dimension to our understanding of how the complex relation with (non)knowledge and truth has shaped, and continues to shape, the Chinese psyche and behaviour. As such, the book wishes to contribute to the interconnected fields of Chinese and Asian studies, cultural and social anthropology, and philosophical and indigenous (Chinese) psychology. More broadly, this book is about knowing but not showing. It is about the usefulness and uselessness of knowledge, about how—if used consciously and wisely—both knowing and (pretended) ignorance have the potential to increase mental and physical health. It broadens the mainstream Western perspective on the value of (analytical) knowledge and absolute truth, and presents new ways to deal with accumulating knowledge and information overload, to ultimately enhance well-being. For those wishing to challenge culturally conditioned (Western) patterns of social interconnection, it can offer an alternative perspective on how to cultivate and maintain healthy social relationships. Lastly, the book also calls attention to the issue of whether or not to speak out regarding social

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justice. However, while my analysis offers some food for thought, readers should keep in mind, that, to use the words of Norman Girardot (1988, xiii), “there can never be any perfect closure to such an interpretative enterprise.” The data, the data analysis and the interpretative character of this study will always be influenced by the focus and the situational knowledge and background of the researcher, and by the socio-historical background of the topic at stake. The final aim of this book is to increase mutual cultural understanding, and to open up ways of thinking about other cultures, without losing sight of one’s own. Genuine understanding of cultural differences supports a feeling of connection and thus global responsibility, something that becomes increasingly pressing in times of global crisis such as during a pandemic. Obviously, a study of Zheng Banqiao’s calligraphy Nande hutu could have become a very different narrative than the one presented here. For instance, it could have resulted in a more aesthetical inquiry into Zheng Banqiao’s art and how Nande hutu is representative for this. Also an investigation into Chinese intellectual history and its underlying paradigms through the person and calligraphy of Zheng Banqiao would make up an interesting book. But my interest is on how this ancient wisdom and its according rationalities that so deeply permeate Chinese thinking and behaviour are still lived today. This has led me—as one of my informants remarked to describe the ambiguity or literal ‘muddledness’ of the topic—to ‘ fish in troubled (muddy) waters’ 浑水摸鱼, a Chinese saying expressing the idea of reaping personal benefit from a confused situation or crisis. My personal benefit is the pleasure I gained from writing this book (with the COVID-19 pandemic as background crisis). I hope that the readers can find some personal benefit from it too, and that the book has at least clarified some aspects of hutu-ism as a characteristically Chinese phenomenon, and of the ‘culture of vagueness’ (mohu wenhua 模糊文化) so prevalent in Chinese society. A Chinese society that both Chinese and ‘outsiders’ can simply not or no longer ignore, nor pretend not to know about. At the same time, I hope this study on different forms of (not) knowing also invites the readers to some kind of intellectual humility, as so gracefully expressed by E. E. Cummings in his reflections on ignorance:

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all ignorance toboggans into know and trudges up to ignorance again: but winter’s not forever,even snow melts;and if spring should spoil the game,what then? (Cummings 1960, 65)

In his pleasantly unconventional style—in which he certainly resembles the ‘eccentric’ author of Nande hutu, Zheng Banqiao—Cummings draws our attention to the fleetingness of knowledge, in favour of a light and playful tobogganing between ignorance and knowing. Truth might well be found in this journey, the journey to the next season, back into the unknown.

Phrasings, Characters, Quotations and Translations Given the complexity and many, sometimes paradoxical dimensions of Nande hutu as a wisdom of life, I will, for the sake of convenience, generally use two different formulations whenever referring to its overall wisdom and broad practice: the formulation ‘the art of not knowing’ when dealing with the philosophical-historical background (Part I), and ‘the wisdom of playing dumb’ and ‘hutu-ism’ when addressing what has become of this art of not knowing in the course of its modernization and popularization (Part II). Chinese characters of important and recurring names, concepts and sayings will be given at first use, and many will also be incorporated in the index. Characters are given in their simplified version, simply because most of my primary sources were in simplified characters. Oftentimes translations feel in one way or another like an impoverishment, where the Chinese characters convey more nuances, or are more ‘pregnant with meaning’ than the English renderings. But in my opinion, not translating also leads to alienation of understanding and creates openness for obscurity. Nevertheless, to stay close to important Chinese concepts, their pinyin transcription (without characters) will be added to the English renderings when deemed appropriate for not mixing up concepts. Also worth mentioning is that in Chinese names, last names always go first.

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In Part II, when using quotes from interviews, the survey and miscellaneous popular discourses, I sometimes unusually put extracts shorter than three sentences in a separate quotation box. The reason for this is that in discourse analysis, quotations of sources are not merely illustrations of a theory. They are at the core of the research, they are examples of the data itself, or in other words, “they are the topic itself, not a resource from which the topic is rebuilt” (Potter and Wetherell 1987, 173). All translations and cited paraphrases are my own unless otherwise indicated. I use full quotation marks only for quotes, and single quotation marks for emphasis or translations of sayings, terms and compounds, e.g. when taken from a dictionary. To protect their anonymity, names of informants (interviews, survey, informal talks) are pseudonyms, except for those of famous people and established scholars, or unless the person gave permission to use his or her real name.

Note 1. The original French translation was “N’est pas imbécile qui veut” (Mo 2004, 95). In this passage in Cangbaotu (Treasure Map), Mo Yan lets his protagonist explain that the hutu in the saying is the opposite of the smartness that town people now expose: “Vous êtes adroits mais sans intelligence; vous êtes intelligents mais sans clairvoyance, vous êtes clairvoyants mais sans sagesse, vous êtes sages mais votre pensée n’a pas d’altitude, votre pensée saurait prendre de l’altitude que vous ne sauriez toujours pas faire les imbéciles, alors que nous, nous qui comprenons les choses, savons faire les imbéciles.” For an English translation of this passage, see further in Chapter 4.

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References Cummings, E. E. 1960. Selected Poems 1923–1958. London: Faber and Faber. Girardot, Norman. 1988. Myth and Meaning in Early Taoism: The Theme of Chaos (Hun-tun). Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Kim, Uichol. 2001. “Culture, Science and Indigenous Psychologies: An Integrated Analysis.” In Handbook of Culture and Psychology, edited by D. Matsumoto, 51–76. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mo, Yan. 2004. Cangbaotu (La Carte au Trésor). Translated by Antoine Ferragne. Arles: Philippe Picquier. Potter, Jonathan, and Margaret Wetherell. 1987. Discourse and Social Psychology: Beyond Attitudes and Behaviour. Los Angeles, London, New Delhi, and Singapore: Sage.

Part I Hutu in Traditional Society

2 The Daoist Sage Fool and the Confucian Learned Man

An outward demeanour, grave and dignified, is an indication of [inward] virtue. People likewise have the saying, There is no wise person not also stupid. The stupidity of ordinary people, is owed to their [natural] defects. The stupidity of wise people, is owed to deliberate transgression. 抑抑威仪、维德之隅。 人亦有言、靡哲不愚。 庶人之愚、亦职维疾。 哲人之愚、亦维斯戾。 (Book of Songs, Translation adapted from James Legge)

Hutu Web of Meanings When I initially started my exploration into the meaning of the saying Nande hutu, I was immediately exposed to an elaborate but—suiting © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 M. Matthyssen, Ignorance is Bliss: The Chinese Art of Not Knowing, Palgrave Studies in Indigenous Psychology, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73902-7_2

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its own muddledness (hutu 糊涂)—vague web of meanings. The first striking thing in the midst of all the hutu-related associations brought up by Chinese people was the wealth of references not only to ancient quotes, mythology and historical figures, but even more to Daoist and Confucian concepts. It was obvious there was no way to discuss the meaning of the saying without digging into both language and ancient Chinese thought. Hall and Ames (1995, 167) name this broad web of meanings of a Chinese concept (word) “cluster concepts,” which basically indicates the Chinese approach to exegesis. As for “cluster concepts,” one has to accept the different semantic meanings of these terms together in a single Gestalt in which they can all potentially be brought into focus. The consequence of this is that “one is propelled from reason in the narrow sense of the word into imagination, and thus one is forced to accede to the replacement of logical by aesthetic coherence” (p. 168). In other words, aesthetic (in its broad sense) considerations take priority over logical thinking. In this chapter, I follow this approach of “cluster concepts” to inquire into the different meanings of hutu. Starting with an etymological and semantic analysis, I proceed to its broader associations, and beyond, into a more holistic, aesthetic appreciation linked to ancient philosophy and language. In other words, in this approach, vagueness and ambiguity are not only the object of, but also a quality for understanding Chinese culture. I argue that many of the important associations of the art of not knowing are fundamental characteristics of both the methodology (correlative, dialectic and holistic thinking, intuition and experience) and the content (concepts of truth, knowledge and wisdom) of the Chinese philosophical tradition. In particular the emphasis on contextualization, dialectical and holistic thinking, and on experience and intuition, along with the absence of absolute distinctions and a universal truth, have led to a strong predilection for vagueness, ambiguity and suggestiveness. The particular Chinese way of not knowing is a mode of thinking that goes beyond analytical, logical and clear-cut reasoning, which in the Chinese mindset is considered to be too limiting and restrictive for dealing with reality. I contend that especially Daoism, with its profound rejection of absolute knowledge claims, and its ideal of the sage fool, advocates a

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‘chaotified mind’ (浑其心, Daodejing , Chapter 49) to ensure well-being and longevity. I also argue that the real difference with Western concepts of (not) knowing, and in particular with investigations into knowledge claims, lies mostly in their epistemological and even ontological foundation. As a consequence of both the scepticism towards language and the absence of absolute binary thinking, epistemological problems based on a scientific worldview with clear-cut distinctions such as mind-body, object-subject and right-wrong dualism are not found as such in traditional Chinese philosophy.

Hutu and the Language of the Vague and Indistinct Early Use An investigation into the early use of the compound hutu tells us that the word hutu already appears in all four sections of the Siku Quanshu 四库 全书, in which several thousands of ideologically and politically accepted books over a period of 3000 years are collected.1 One of hutu’s earliest occurrences is in the Song source Biography of Lü Duan 吕端 (935– 1000). In this biography, we read: The Taizong Emperor [of Song] wanted to appoint Duan as a prime minister, and someone said: “Duan’s conduct is muddled (hutu).” The emperor responded: “Duan is muddleheaded in minor matters, but he is not muddleheaded in major matters.” He was determined to appoint him.

This quote refers to the story of Lü Duan, a high-level official who is famous for looking very foolish, but in fact being very clear when it came down to very important matters such as political decisions. The Taizong Emperor (939–997) appointed him as prime minister, but when the Emperor died, Wang Ji’en 王继恩 (– c.999), an important eunuch and military general, organized a plot to dethrone the Taizong Emperor’s

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son and establish another monarch instead. When Lü Duan discovered and exposed the complot, Wang Ji’en was denounced. This episode suggests the following connotations of hutu. First, things (people) are not always as they appear. This explains the difference of opinion about the mental capacity of Lü Duan. Second, hutu refers to seemingly diminished intelligence that would disqualify a person for an important political position. Third, this episode gives equal importance to intelligence and its feigned antithesis—ignorance—thereby suggesting a capacity for flexible use of both intelligence and seeming ignorance. The discretion with which one decides when to use which—intelligence or feigned ignorance—is what is known in the West as wisdom which entails a flexible use of intelligence and knowledge. Fourth, this episode of court intrigue rife with plotting and its exposure reveals that the early context of hutu is conflict ridden, which is, as we will see in Part II, a far cry from its popular use to preserve or obtain harmony. This suggests the possibility that the ecological niche that fosters hutu is not harmony so much as social vigilance in an unsafe environment. What makes this ancient source particularly important for understanding the Chinese art of not knowing is its contemporary use. A part of this quotation has recently become well-known as a popular idiom, namely the idiom ‘Zhuge [Liang] was cautious his whole life, Lü Duan was not muddled in major matters’ 诸葛一生唯谨慎, 吕端大事不糊 涂. This idiom originates from a couplet Mao Zedong (1893–1976) in one of his writings dating from 1962 presented to Ye Jianying 叶 剑英 (1897–1986), a general of the People’s Liberation Army (PLA).2 Zhuge refers to Zhuge Liang 诸葛亮 (181–234), a prime minister of the Shuhan dynasty during the Three Kingdoms Period (220–265). Zhuge Liang is famous for being a wise strategist with unsurpassed intelligence.3 Mao’s quote deepens the connotations noted above with more nuances: Mao brought into sharp relief two approaches to intelligence: persistent use versus strategic use. The former is embodied in Zhuge Liang, the paragon of intelligence and great strategist; the latter is exemplified by a less known political figure, Lü Duan. This comparison brings to light a few advantages of the latter over the former: being vigilant all the time, a highly intelligent person such as Zhuge Liang would put everybody on their toes. The temporary lapse in vigilance and intelligence of Lü Duan

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would put people at ease, thus enhance harmony. At the same time, this temporary ignorance is only a show, because Lü Duan would not hesitate to expose the schemers any intelligent statesman would do. This comparison suggests that Zhuge Liang is indeed smart, but Lü Duan is smarter, due to the latter’s flexible use of intelligence to allow its temporary lapse for the sake of harmony. What this quote also teaches us is that the written compound hutu was in use as early as the Song dynasty, long before Zheng Banqiao used it in his famous calligraphy in 1751. But what are the linguistic roots of this difficult to translate ‘muddleheadedness’? Why does not only the full saying Nande hutu, but the word hutu to start with, cannot be easily rendered into an appropriate English translation?

Etymology If we take a look at the compound hutu from an etymological perspective, it has different meanings, with quite a few subtleties. Hutu is composed of hu 糊 and tu 涂. Hu’s radical, the signifier (significant part), is rice (mi 米) and the phonetic part is hu 胡. One of the oldest etymological dictionaries, the Shuowen Jiezi 说文解字 (Xu 1996), tells us that hu is a variant of another hu 餬, which has the meaning of ‘thick gruel.’ Later, the meaning of hu 糊 became ‘to paste,’ ‘blurred,’ ‘muddleheaded,’ ‘ambiguous,’ ‘confused’ and even ‘unintelligible.’ Other early meanings of hu 糊 are ‘food of pasty consistency,’ and interestingly enough, as a verb: ‘to muddle through, be perfunctory.’ The latter will become important in the discussion on when it is (not) appropriate to apply the wisdom of Nande hutu (Chapter 7). The second part, tu, literally means ‘mud,’ but later became to mean ‘to pollute, to make filthy,’ and ‘to smear, to spread.’ A modern, more elaborate explanation for hutu can be found in modern Chinese dictionaries: 1. not understanding (logical) reasoning; vague or confused understanding of things; 2. having a mixed, chaotic content;

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3. (dialect) indistinct, vague (mohu 模糊). Antonyms of hutu in Chinese dictionaries are generally given as ‘(being) clear, understand(ing)’ (mingbai 明白), ‘clearheaded, sober, lucid’ (qingxing 清醒) and ‘smart, bright’ (congming 聪明). Chineseforeign language dictionaries somehow immediately turn to more derogatory connotations, and often translate hutu as ‘muddled, confused, bewildered, silly,’ or ‘disorderly,’ and, a little less negatively biased, also as a dialect Chinese word for ‘blurred, indistinct.’ In addition to dictionary interpretations of the compound, we can learn something from the use of hutu in commonly used expressions. One of the frequent expressions in dictionaries (and in common parlance) is ‘feign ignorance; pretend not to know, play dumb’ (zhuang hutu 装糊涂). Other, rather modern occurrences in expressions as ‘blunderer’ hutuchong 糊涂虫, ‘in a complete mess’ yi ta hutu 一塌糊 涂, ‘stupid, confused, dumb’ huhu tutu 糊糊涂涂, and ‘idiot, dopey’ hutudan 糊涂蛋. These more negative combinations however are not mentioned in earlier dictionaries, which imply that the more derogatory meaning of hutu is a more recent phenomenon. All this still leaves us is with the problem of a sound English rendering of hutu. Obviously, ‘muddled’ and ‘muddleheaded’ are—although not very common in English—translations that come closest to the original meaning of tu (mud) in hutu. Their meaning refers to the idea of not being clear or coherent, to being disordered, and can also convey the idea of wanting to know but not being clear enough as an unintentional state of mind. Despite its being a mouthful, what also speaks in favour of ‘muddleheaded’ is that it, much more than most other English translations, conveys a rather neutral connotation, which in my view is crucial as a starting point for further investigation. So further in the book I will conveniently use both hutu and muddleheaded/muddled.

Semantic Associations Apart from the literal translations, hutu has a variety of—mostly soundbased—associative meanings. What Girardot (1988) remarks about the

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symbolism of Chinese concepts, that symbols tend to cluster and connotations flock together, so that there is sometimes an unexpected relation between words and meanings, certainly applies to the notion of hutu. In general, homophones are extremely important in Chinese language, to the extent that they are deliberately used to symbolize meanings, often to bring luck and prosperity. Although hutu is even today not frequently used in daily conversations, and if so, mostly in expressions, it is surprising how deep into traditional Chinese culture its many different associations delve. From a purely semantic perspective, many of its connotations are linked to Chinese symbolism rooted in mythology and cosmogony, and to the motif of vagueness in Chinese culture in general. Of these connotations, the most important are the association with the calabash or bottle gourd (hulu 葫芦), symbol of longevity and fertility; with the figure of Hu Shen 胡神, a protector from hail; with the cosmic egg or primordial chaos (hundun 混沌) that appears among others in the Zhuangzi; and more generally with the word for vagueness (mohu 模糊). The bottle gourd or hulu is known for its important cultural utility. It is used in medicine and for religious rituals, and, although of lesser importance, also has nutritional value as a food source.4 The bottle gourd has a wide range of symbolic meanings, mainly originating from religious Daoism and folk belief, and philosophical Daoism (Girardot 1988, 212– 213) of which I will mention the most important in their relation to hutu. Li Tieguai 李铁拐, ‘Li with the Iron Crutch,’ one of the Daoist Eight Immortals (Ba Xian 八仙, a group of legendary immortals revered in mostly religious Daoism), is best known for—depending on the patient’s needs—either physically or spiritually curing the sick with the medicine in his magical gourd. Most depictions represent him as a beggar with a lame leg, carrying a bottle gourd from which a bat—a symbol of good luck but also a sign identified with primordial chaos, hundun on which will be elaborated next—escapes. Others say that from the bottle gourd, spirals of smoke ascend, denoting his power of setting his spirit free from his body (Williams 1976, 217). In Chinese folklore, it is believed that the cloud that escapes when the bottle gourd is opened can be used to trap demons and spirits. Therefore, the bottle gourd is generally considered to

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be a protector of good against evil. Because it contains the magic potions of a Daoist magician, it is a strong symbol of mystery and necromancy. In addition, as the bottle gourd is very strong when dried and therefore symbolizes durability, figures of it made out of copper or wood are worn as charms for longevity. Finally, in (mostly South-Chinese) folk belief, the gourd is used as a fertility symbol. It promotes sexual reproduction and, more importantly, the delivery of a son, which is why it is often used in fertility rituals (Eberhard 1994, 45–46; Williams 1976, 217). In philosophical Daoism, hulu is often associated with spiritual transcendence. Firstly, the bottle gourd represents a miniature replica of heaven and earth. The typical shape of the bottle gourd unites the two: the lower part is the earth; the upper part is heaven. As such, it is symbolic of a cosmic unification of human beings with the universe.5 Secondly, the Zhuangzi 庄子, the ancient Daoist classic (± 300 BC), with Zhuangzi 庄子 (or Zhuang Zhou) as its traditionally reputed author (at least for the first part of the book), refers to the gourd in a context of spiritual growth. In Chapter 1 of the Zhuangzi, Zhuangzi and his friend Huizi 惠子 discuss the usefulness of a gigantic bottle gourd in Huizi’s garden. Zhuangzi, contrary to Huizi who sees no use for it, suggests they make a boat out of it to go floating on rivers and lakes instead of worrying about its size and use. As Zhou Zuyan (2001, 277) suggests, the gourd as a vehicle for a carefree life and spiritual union with nature is a metaphor for a vehicle for salvation or spiritual illumination. Another mythological association of hutu which is much less known, is its reference to a god called Hu Shen, a protector against hail. For example, Werner’s Dictionary of Chinese mythology directs to this entry when checking the meaning of hutu: A man named Hu T’u 狐突, who was put to death for disobeying King Huai Kung 懷公 (639 B.C.). The characters Hu-t’u 狐突 gradually became changed into Hu-t’u 糊塗, which is the name of a temple (origin unknown) at Wan-Ch’üan Hsien, Hsüan-hua Fu, Chihli, the inscription over the gate of which is now Hu Shen 胡神, the Spirit Hu. He is worshipped with great ceremony on the first day of the seventh moon, the anniversary of his birthday, and for three or four days afterwards, the

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object of the worship being the protection of the crops from hail, the control of which is said to be vested in him. (Werner 1932, 179–180)

In fact, Hu Tu 狐突 (?–637 BC) was not an ordinary man, but a senior official during the Jin (650–637 BC), who had been disobedient to the emperor. But he is also mythically known for persuading the angry spirit of prince Shensheng 申生 (?–656 BC), who was buried disrespectfully by Duke Hui of Jin 晋惠公, to stop the State of Qin conquering the State of Jin. In this story, again a noticeably positive association of hutu is introduced, namely as the protector from evil spirits, and as a brave official who achieved the status of a godlike shen 神. For our story on the Chinese art of not knowing, a third association of hutu with the notion of hundun, the primordial chaos, is of major importance. Not only is hundun often explained with hutu in contemporary definitions of the word in a Chinese dictionary, but understanding hundun also brings us closer to a key philosophical dimension of hutu. Hundun constitutes a theme on which has been much enlarged by Chinese philosophy, but that has its roots in Chinese mythology. The meaning and semantic associations of hundun are extremely complex and varied, and I will only highlight the most relevant connotations with regard to our topic.6 Although the term resonates throughout different areas of Chinese cosmological, religious, sociopolitical and artistic heritage, hundun is primarily an ancient Daoist notion. Most early Confucian texts such as the Analects of Confucius (Lunyu 论语), The Book of Documents (Shujing 书经) and The Book of Changes (Yijing 易经)7 do not even use the single character hun 混. Hundun on the contrary commonly occurs in Classics of philosophical Daoism. Hundun is prominently present in the Inner Chapters of the Zhuangzi (e.g. Chapters 7, 11 and 12), though in a shorter form using both graphic variants of hun (浑 and 混), and in the Daodejing 道德经 (e.g. Chapters 21 and 25). Isabelle Robinet (2008, 524–525) summarizes its semantic associations as follows: Semantically, the term hundun is related to several expressions, hardly translatable in Western languages, that indicate the void or a barren and primal immensity […]. It is also akin to the expression “something

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confused and yet complete” (huncheng 混成) found in the Daodejing 25, which denotes the state prior to the formation of the world where nothing is perceptible, but which nevertheless contains a cosmic seed. Similarly, the state of hundun is likened to an egg; in this usage, the term alludes to a complete world round and closed in itself, which is a receptacle like a cavern (dong 洞) or a gourd (hu 壺or hulu 壺盧). Moreover, hundun also appears as hunlun 混淪, a name reminiscent of Kunlun, the mountain at the center of the world where the mythical Hundun 崑崙lives, changing only the semantic indicator “mountain” (shan 山) into “water” (shui水). This shows that Kunlun and hundun are the same closed center of the world.

The descriptions of hundun as the primordial chaos, as the cosmic egg, its association with mountain Kunlun and even the reference to the bottle gourd, all refer to a cosmological theme. Indeed, apart from being associated—and often mixed up—with its cognate huntun, the mixed balls in wonton-soup so well-known in the south of China, hundun is probably best known both as the primordial and central chaos in Chinese cosmogony, comparable with the cosmic egg from which the Chinese mythical figure Pangu 盘古 was born and separated heaven and earth. The notion of hundun as the primordial chaos was first found in the story of Emperor Hundun of the Zhuangzi (Inner Chapters, Chapter 7). The story reports what happens with the mythological Emperor of the Centre called Hundun, who gets ‘plastic surgery’ by two well-meaning but (literally) boring guests. The passage reads as follows: The emperor of the South Sea was called Shu [Brief ], the emperor of the North Sea was called Hu [Sudden], and the emperor of the central region was called Hundun [Chaos]. Shu and Hu from time to time came together for a meeting in the territory of Hundun, and Hundun treated them very generously. Shu and Hu discussed how they could repay his kindness. “All men,” they said, “have seven openings so they can see, hear, eat, and breathe. But Hundun alone does not have any. Let’s trying boring him some.” Every day they bored another hole, and on the seventh day Hundun died. (Zhuangzi 2003, 95)

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The death of Hundun after seven days when he is given the seven holes (eyes, ears, nostrils and mouth) of sense and sustenance that make up human nature has a major symbolic meaning, for which there are different and quite diverse opinions. In a way, this story seems to tell us how we get from chaos to order, from a world of undifferentiated wholeness and indistinctness to that of “clarity, order, knowledge and information made possible by the organs of differentiation – the seven senses” (Sundararajan 2015, 11). But there is more to say about this intriguing story. In his thorough and elegant study on hundun, Norman Girardot (1988, 81–85) put forward a few scholarly opinions that discuss the passage from different points of view. Needham (1956, 107–115) points to the sociopolitical implications of the passage in the sense that hundun refers to a returning to “the pure primitive solidarity” of the ancient tribal communities that existed before the coming of feudalism. Needham thus prefers to consider the boring of the holes as a symbol for the differentiation of classes, the institution of private property and the setting up of feudalism. Izutsu (1983, 303–305) suggests a more religio-mystical interpretation. He compares the Zhuangzi story about emperor Hundun with a later passage from the former Han dynasty’s (206 BC–25 AD) Shanhaijing 山海经 in which hundun is described as a “faceless divine bird whose body is like a yellow sack.”8 This comparison puts the hundun story in a shamanic context, assuming that Daoism is “simply the elevation of early Chinese shamanism onto a philosophical and mystical plane” (Girardot 1988, 83). The boring of the holes and eventual death could then be described as a metaphor for a mystical journey in spiritual stages that ultimately lead to a return to the creation state. According to Girardot however, these two interpretations are too narrowly predisposed towards making Daoist thought either into a sociopolitical ideology, or into mere shamanism.9 Marcel Granet (1968, 230–231) interprets the boring of the holes as a kind of creation of the human world, which is essentially a world of senses. Girardot (1988, 83–84) comments on this as follows: Granet stresses the significance and prestige of becoming completely “human” or “civilized” by having the seven openings of sense knowledge

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that give one a “face” and then makes the valid point that, as in many primitive initiations, death is but the necessary prelude to a new creation or rebirth – in this case, being born into the fully human world of culture and society.

Girardot further explains that in early Daoism, and especially in the Zhuangzi, death was “ecstatically accepted” and had positive connotations as it symbolized the return to the chaotic oneness that existed during the creation time. Therefore, the openings of Lord Hundun should close up again in order to be “reborn” (p. 84). For the Daoists, this meant reversing the creation and the fall of humans, and return to the condition of the beginning: the condition of the closed serenity of the fetus in the womb where there is no distinction between life and death and man or woman, or the chaos condition. In other words, a Daoist must first die, return to the pre-human world of the Emperor Hundun if he is to be anything more than a simple human being (Girardot 1988, 85).10 In the Daodejing (Chapters 52 and 56), we find a similar idea of going back to the initial stage of mankind by closing up of the openings and doors (of the body). Izutsu (2008, 43–44) explains the meaning of this passage as “stopping the normal functioning of the five senses and the differentiating activity of the reason which make man become ever more alienated from the original unity of all things.” The result of this closing up of the holes is to regain the real ‘self.’ As such, this Daoist version of the fall of human beings does not refer to a sin on the part of early humans, or to an ontological separation of a God from the human world. The Daoist fall of mankind involves the division of the whole into parts, the Confucian ‘assigning of names’ (or ‘using names appropriately’ zhengming 证明, to be elaborated later) and the use of language, and the reliance on judgements injurious to a natural life, which constitute the basics of the Confucian ideal of the complete human, a mode of being that is defined by ethical-moral principles of ritualized social interaction. In these interpretations of hundun as the primordial chaos and as the cosmic egg, the idea of chaos and its absence of bodily senses as a prerequisite of creation and reproduction, and more derivatively of ‘spiritual rebirth,’ are very prominent. Hence, it is clear that the Daoist

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meaning of chaos is a rather positive one. Therefore, as also Girardot (1988, 4) reasons, chaos should here be understood not as the opposite of order as in everyday language, but in the classical sense of its meaning in Greek mythology, that is “gaping void, formless primordial space preceding creation of the universe” (Kaos), and not as in the common, often negatively experienced sense of absolute disorder, utter confusion or meaningless nonbeing originating in Biblical ideas of genesis and the antagonistic dualism of early Zoroastrian tradition and some forms of Hellenistic Gnosticism. In China, where the notion of a single man or godlike creator who exclusively created the world has never been accepted, and where theories of antagonistic dualism (God against mankind) have never been developed, chaos never received this negative connotation. Moreover, in the Chinese language, disorder as in the Western world commonly understood as ‘negative chaos’ is not translated as hundun, but as luan 乱, or as a combination of the two, hunluan 混乱. This translation of (hun)luan as chaos does have a negative, even frightening connotation in Chinese societies.

Vagueness (Mohu) In a more abstract way, related to the theme of chaos, the term hutu is also semantically akin to expressions of the vague and indistinct, as symbolized in the meaning of hu as messy gruel. One of the words that contain the character hu, and that is often used to explain the meaning of hutu, is the compound mohu: ‘indistinct, vague, out of focus.’ As a close variant of hutu, mohu or vagueness is essential in the early Chinese philosophical context. For this, we have to follow the Chinese logic of thinking, which radically differs from the Western one. In ancient Chinese philosophy and writings, vagueness and ambiguity were not only useful tools for expressing how the world is and should be perceived, but were also deliberately used to blur the reader, to encourage him to keep his senses and mind open for all possible viewpoints, impressions, interpretations and experiences of dao. When it comes to studying ancient Chinese philosophical concepts, this ambiguous and vague approach ultimately brings us closer to the spirit of learning and knowledge in

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ancient China; vague, non-defined terms do not clearly mark boundaries of a term, and this is exactly what Chinese philosophical language aimed at: describing a practical reality without clear distinctions nor an absolute truth. I will elaborate further on this in the next section. For our current purposes, it suffices to follow comparative philosopher Steve Coutinho’s (2004) comparison with vagueness as a (non)quality in the Western tradition when he describes what he calls “the contest of clarity and vagueness” in Western and Chinese ancient philosophy. Coutinho (2004, 10) explains that in Western philosophy, vagueness has always seemed to pose an obstacle to the philosophical ideal of clarity and logical, structured reasoning, and vagueness is—in the same way as chaos—“identified with confusion, uncertainty and as a psychological failing rather than as an independent and ineradicable phenomenon with which we are obliged to come to terms.” In language often expressed by means of ambiguity, polysemy and metaphors, vagueness and suggestiveness as ‘strategies’ can certainly be found both in Western and Chinese philosophy, but there is an important difference in the integration and necessity of these strategies in philosophical writing. In China, they have generally functioned as an integral and necessary part of philosophical language, while in Western philosophy, “they have all too often been identified, either as rhetorical flourishes with no cognitive value, or as seductive and deceptive evils” (Coutinho 2004, 110). As a preliminary conclusion, the etymological and semantic analysis of the word hutu spells out its broad web of associations. Especially the semantic analysis reveals much on the different connotations of hutu with elements of cultural heritage such as Chinese cosmogony (cosmic egg, primordial chaos), mythology (emperor Hundun, the faceless bird, Hu Shen ….), fertility and longevity symbolism (hulu) and Daoist spiritual ideals. What is intriguing about this primarily linguistic analysis is that these associations are rather positive. Especially in Western societies, confusion, vagueness and fuzziness are mostly attributed derogatory qualities, and chaos and disorder generally have a negative association as a frightening principle. Yet, not only in the above ancient associations of hutu as a productive and creative principle, as a vehicle for illumination, as the means for a new (spiritual) beginning, and as a kind of vagueness used in

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philosophical rhetoric, but also during my data gathering from contemporary sources, hutu and its associations of not being clear or distinct are rarely used in a deprecating context. Whenever plainly meant as foolish or stupid, there are indeed far more negative words, such as sha 傻, chun 蠢 and even the plain ben 笨. The following philosophical inquiry into vagueness and not knowing will help us better understand this appreciation of vagueness and not knowing from the perspective of dealing with truth and knowledge.

Early Chinese Philosophy As I showed in the previous section, hutu and its close compound mohu are not directly philosophically loaded, as the translations in dictionaries demonstrate (blur, vague, unclear, muddleheaded…). Still, many of the semantic associations strongly point at underlying philosophical assumptions. Therefore, to understand what can possibly be difficult (nande) about being muddleheaded, and positive about vagueness and even not knowing, we have no choice but to turn to ancient Chinese philosophy. Many of the characteristics of ancient Chinese philosophy include distinct patterns of thinking directly contributing to the appreciation and even use of vagueness and muddledness. Moreover, ancient Chinese philosophy casts questions of truth, knowledge and meaning in a radically different light than Western philosophy, which creates a different perception of knowledge and wisdom compared to the West—as is highlighted in the saying Nande hutu. In this section, I return to the roots of Chinese philosophy in order to understand the important role of vagueness, indistinctness and chaos against distinctness and order. I first discuss some important features of the content and methodology of Chinese philosophy, i.e. by looking at its background and at specific patterns of thinking. A second part focuses on specific interpretations of the notion of truth. A third part will discuss meanings of knowledge and wisdom as developed in ancient Chinese philosophy, with a special emphasis on morality. I argue that this philosophical background clarifies how being muddleheaded and even ignorant is not necessarily considered a negative quality, but rather on

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the contrary, a virtue. Moreover, the elements I discuss here aim not only at understanding the discursive elements of the art of not knowing and feigning ignorance on a content level (i.e. meanings and interpretations), but equally at understanding how the dominant patterns of Chinese thinking have shaped the different discourses on the art of not knowing on a formal level (i.e. how the discourse formally is constructed). It is not my intention to provide a complete overview of the different knowledge theories in ancient Chinese philosophy. Many excellent studies have already been dedicated to this topic. In this chapter, the discussion will be limited to the specific insights required to understand the meaning and practice of being hutu in its direct relation with Nande hutu and related wisdoms of not knowing, and to better understand how the discussion in academic and contemporary discourses is constructed.

Features of Early Chinese Philosophy Gaining insight into the nature of ancient philosophical theories requires an understanding of the intellectual, socio-economical and historical conditions that existed at the time. Any new philosophical theory presents a solution for the given needs of that time, and at the same time, often reacts against an existing philosophy. Therefore, the existing intellectual context, the culturally determined worldview and specific patterns of thinking are an important influence on the nature of the emerging philosophical theory. Applying this truism to the Chinese situation, I identify some distinct characteristics that determined the content and methodology of early Chinese philosophy in the course of its development: a pragmatic approach towards philosophical questions; a tradition of thinking as being highly contextual (i.e. as ars contextualis) and as correlative and dialectical thinking; and a holistic worldview dominated by continuous change and the interdependency of all things in the universe. It should also be clear from the beginning that the characteristics here discussed are—as it suits a holistic tradition—to a high extent interdependent; they influence each other and are complemented by the other on different levels (methodology and content).

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Pragmatism as a Result of the Socio-Historical Background Ancient Chinese philosophy was from the very beginning determined by a pragmatic approach to philosophical questions. Especially in accounting for the differences between Western and Chinese philosophies, the roots of this pragmatic outlook can be assigned to a combination of specific Chinese geographical, historical and socio-economic conditions. During the Warring States period (481–221 BCE), Chinese society witnessed a major economic and political crisis, as was commonly the case when a dynasty came to an end and political instability occurred. Apart from the economic and political turmoil, there were often natural causes to blame as well. At the time, China was mainly an agrarian society with limited possibilities for economic growth, so it was forced to deal with an unsustainable increase in the population. The general discontent as a result of the social unrest gave rise to the development of new philosophical movements. This period—also known as the ‘Hundred Schools of Thought’—in which a variety of philosophers made an analysis of and attempted to provide a solution for the political and economic problems of the day—marks the beginnings of ‘philosophy’ in China. The different philosophical (Daoist, Confucian and Mohist) theories then formulated were deeply rooted in practical concerns, and primarily aimed at one thing: restoring good order in society (Dessein 2001, 100–101). The core of restoring good order was found in the right path or dao. Xu Keqian (2010, 44) argues that the close relation to the Chinese dao and human activity and practice can be proved by referring to the character dao 道, which is composed of the pictograph of human steps 辵 or 辶, and of a human head 首, and literally and figuratively means ‘way,’ or derivatively ‘method.’ This relation is even more shown in the other written form of dao 衜, which contains a person (shou 首), and human conduct/walking (xing 行). This pragmatic approach to philosophical questions conditioned the content of Chinese philosophical reflection for the coming ages. Chinese philosophy focuses on what is immediately apprehended, on what works in practice, not on what is theoretically plausible. As a consequence, also its methodology relies on human experience. As such, all metaphysics in its strict sense as being beyond nature and human experience is usually

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not the subject of philosophical inquiry, neither is reasoning and theory just for the pleasure of reasoning, as often was the case in the Western philosophical tradition.11 To this day, pragmatism has been a dominant motif in Chinese thinking and behaviour. Many popular sayings such as ‘adopt measures/methods appropriate to the current situation/time’ 因时制 宜; the more politically loaded expressions ‘Chinese learning as essential principle and Western learning as practical application’ 中体西用 which conveys a strategy for dealing with Western influence12 ; and Deng Xiaoping’s famous reform policy of ‘ It doesn’t matter if the cat is black or white, as long as it catches mice’ 不管白猫黑猫, 抓住老鼠就是好 猫, all testify to this inclination.

Ars Contextualis: Chaos and Order Any research on the intellectual background which strongly influenced the first great philosophers and determined the philosophical theories and sensibilities requires a deeper understanding of the concept of order and harmony. I already briefly addressed the themes of order and chaos in the context of the story of Lord Hundun. On a more abstract level, order and chaos also are principal features of Chinese (philosophical) thinking. As Hall and Ames (1998) explain, the traditional Western senses of order are grounded upon cosmogonic myths that celebrate the victory of an ordered cosmos over chaos. Chaos is the yawning gap, an emptiness or nothingness, a confused mass of unorganized surds. Classical Chinese culture, on the other hand, was little influenced by myths which contrasted an irrational chaos with an ordered cosmos, as we see with the primordial chaos (hundun). Chinese had a different concept of order, which permeates all philosophical speculations, and consequently also social behaviour. To describe the Chinese science of order, Hall and Ames (1998) introduced the term ars contextualis, “the art of contextualization.”13 They identify ars contextualis as follows:

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Ars contextualis suggests a “this-that” rather than a “one-may” or “partwhole” model. Since there is no overarching context determining the shape of other contexts, the world is an open-ended affair comprised by “thises” and “that’s” construable from any number of distinct perspectives. There is no One behind the many; there are, rather many ones, many particular foci that organize the fields about them. The art of contextualization involves the production of harmonious correlations of the myriad unique details (wan wu 萬物 or wan you 萬有) that make up the world. (Hall and Ames 1998, 40)

In the few Chinese cosmological myths, there is no such thing as the victory of an ordered cosmos over chaos, neither is there an ordering principle or agency for explaining the existing chaos. According to Hall and Ames (1998), Chinese thinkers sought to understand and appreciate the manner in which particular things are, or may be, most harmoniously correlated. This means that every context (circumstances, conditions) is unique in its own, and there is no absolute or metaphysical criterion which determines the right course to follow in striving for order. In other words, there is no single dominant order, nor is there an order that is dominated by clear patterns of regularity and uniformity. This idea of order served as the basis for the organization of personal, social and cosmic environments. In such reasoning, order is not the opposite of chaos, but in any given context a most harmonious relation.

Correlative and Dialectical Thinking in a Holistic Cosmology Apart from Chinese thinking as ars contextualis, correlative thinking— sometimes also called analogical thinking—can be perceived as another distinctive (with regard to Western thinking) and determining (with regard to its influence on later ages) feature of traditional Chinese thinking.14 Hall and Ames (1995, xviii) define correlative thinking as follows: This mode of thinking accepts the priority of change or process over rest and permanence, presumes no ultimate agency responsible for the general

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order of things, and seeks to account for states of affairs by appeal to correlative procedures rather than by determining agencies or principles.

This definition reveals how correlative thinking explains an item or event by placing it “within a scheme organized in terms of analogical relations among the items selected for the scheme, and then reflects, and acts in terms of, the suggestiveness of these relations” (p. xviii). Correlative thinking is clearly opposed to the rational or logical thinking grounded in analytic argumentation, whereby it operates with analogies that employ image clusters and metaphors that are regarded as ambiguous, vague or even incoherent in formal Western thinking.15 The roots of this correlation can be traced back to the Chinese perceptions of the world and the place humans occupy in this scheme. A perfect example of this can be found in the classical Chinese cosmologies found in the Yijing , in Daoist cosmology, and more concretely, in the dialectical thinking of yin 阴-yang 阳 poles. Indeed, the most exemplary and probably best-known illustration of Chinese correlative thinking which pervaded the Chinese way of ‘scientific’ thinking is the chains of pairs correlated with yin and yang branching out into mostly fives (e.g. the five agents or phases wu xing 五行, five seasons, five directions, five colours, five sounds, five tastes, five smells, etc.). Even more fundamental, however, is the distinct worldview depicted in the Yijing . The Yijing comprises a system of divination that classifies everything in the world only by means of eight singular divination symbols (eight trigrams, ba gua 八卦). Each trigram in itself is brought forth by the first analogy of the one (yi 一) into two (yin and yang ). By applying continuous analogical associations to these eight trigrams, 64 hexagrams consisting of yang (positive) and yin (negative) aspects were developed. Each of these 64 hexagrams denotes a particular state or stage in the universe, and altogether they constitute all the possible ‘destinies’ of processes and events formed by the ever-changing (yi 易) myriad of things (wan wu 万物, the universe) (Fu and Zhou 1997). This is what the historian of science Joseph Needham (1956, 336–337) calls the “cosmic filing system” in which all possible situations are orderly “filed” simply by means of analogy.16 This constitution of the 64 hexagrams in the Yijing

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should be understood as a holistic structure, following a natural cosmic law or the natural way, dao 道. In developing the concept of dao as the natural way or principle, the Yijing centred its ideas on the acceptance of the inevitability of change, which in the natural order takes shape in complex interacting cycles of growth and decline. In this process, yin represents the dark side of a mountain, shadow, passive, negative, cold, …, and yang, the bright side of a mountain, sun, active, positive, cold…. In this context of constant change, everything is ultimately connected. That is to say, all distinctions naturally appear as opposites which get their meaning from each other and find their completion only through each other. Such is the case for the relation body/matter and mind, subject and object, and all opposing concepts which according to Western paradigms governed by binary distinctions are ultimately separated. Clearly, in such a structure, dialectics between two opposites, and especially the result of these dialectics, the transcending unity (or rather reunion) of the opposites, is of utmost importance. Without a complementary interaction between the two, life in whatever sense is simply not possible. Especially the Daoists, with their preference for the phase of decline (yin, the weak, the soft, the dark, the retreating), recognized decline and all its associations as a returning to the root, a source of energy, necessary for all processes of growth and maturation (Coutinho 2004, 123).17 Many commonly used expressions still testify to the predilection of dialectical processes, such as ‘Things will develop in the opposite direction when they become extreme’ 物极必反 and ‘Too much is the same as to fall short of ’ 过犹不及. As we will see in Part II, this kind of dialectical reasoning deeply permeates the discussions on Nande hutu and the art of not knowing in the contemporary discourses. Applying this to the position of humans in the universe, ancient Chinese philosophers conceived the world as an interactive relationship between people and nature, with no ultimate creator or God. Thus, the unity of all cosmic beings was seen in terms of undifferentiated wholeness and constant interconnectivity of nature and society. This cosmic unity is well depicted in the expression ‘the harmonization of heaven/nature and people’ (tian ren he yi 天人合一), in which tian 天, ‘ heaven/nature’

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should be considered a non-transcendent field.18 The expression emphasizes both wholeness and unity of all things in the universe, and harmony among these things, a harmony based on diversity. As we will see further when discussing the notions of truth, for the Confucians, realizing this unity between a person and nature came down to what Rošker calls “humanization of nature,” whereas for the Daoist this meant “naturalization of humans.” The first one emphasized the moral values of human society, and the second one emphasized the intimate value of personal freedom (Rošker 2008, 191).19 Consequently, Chinese methodology views every phenomenon from its relationship to the whole by means of correlative thinking. This implies a belief that, as a method, logical analysis can never deliver a complete comprehension or recognition of reality. This analogical and holistic worldview and approach is in many ways reflected in the first Confucian and Daoist texts. By the time of the Warring States (475–221 BC), correlative thinking deeply rooted in the Yijing had already taken shape. This particular mode of thinking not only determined the content and methodology of the first great philosophies, but ultimately also the nature of Chinese thinking and of Chinese behaviour in general (Graham 1986; Puett 2002).20 Hence also why Hall and Ames’s idea of terms as “cluster concepts” of meaning introduced at the beginning of this chapter guides the method of this study into the Chinese art of not knowing. This idea of clusters of meanings brings us to the next feature of Chinese philosophy: language and thinking patterns.

Language and Its Relation to Chinese Patterns of Thinking Apart from the crucial influence of socio-economic conditions and the inquiry into the method and content of Chinese philosophy, the typically suggestive and vague nature of ancient Chinese language is another vital aspect. The reason for this suggestiveness and vagueness in Chinese philosophical language can be found in two phenomena. Firstly, the nature of Chinese characters is intrinsically suggestive and analogical. According to Fu and Zhou (1997), the origin of the different patterns of thinking took place at the same time as that of

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the creation of characters, first as pictographs out of paintings, and later as ideograms out of pictographs.21 Especially the development from pictographs towards the more polysemic (polysemous, i.e. one word, or character, containing several meanings) ideogram was crucial for the development of Chinese thought; it indicated a transition from thinking from specificity to generality and as such reflects the beginning of generalization and abstraction from concrete things and specific circumstances by means of analogy. A clear example of the importance of images (such as ideograms that have many meanings) and the analogical way of thinking necessary for the correct and complete understanding of the character are the images of the 64 hexagrams in the Yijing . Each hexagram is just one ideogram (character), but this single character covers many meanings, associations and connotations. The analogy used here is not, as Fu and Zhou (1997) argue, the typical Western scientific analogy which focuses on consistency of the reasoned connection between different objects, but has dialectics as a central factor.22 Secondly, apart from the language itself being intrinsically suggestive and consequently sometimes vague, Chinese ancient philosophers were highly sceptical of language as a tool for expressing true (authentic) knowledge (Coutinho 2004; Hall and Ames 1995; Hansen 1992; Moeller 2006). I already touched upon this when dealing with the association of the Chinese term for vagueness, mohu, with hutu. Especially Daoist texts as the Daodejing and the Zhuangzi are filled with doubts about the use of language to express the dao. The impossibility of putting the dao in words by naming it or identifying it through language was first expressed in the famous first line of the Daodejing (Chapter 1): “The dao that is expressed is not the unchanging dao 道可道, 非常道.” This, however, does not mean language is useless. Language is on the contrary a sound tool to communicate, and even to accumulate more knowledge. But it only conveys conventional truths and non-authentic knowledge.23 As a result of both the scepticism towards language in general, and the notion of reality as holistic but vague such that it can never be ‘truthfully’ described by reasoned language, Chinese philosophers were wont to express themselves by means of aphorisms, allusions and illustrations. Especially the Daoist Canon, in which the true nature of the universe is considered a chaotic, boundless and vague whole, exhibits

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an abundance of metaphors, images and paradoxes. As for the Daoists, dao is directly associated with the “intricate, spontaneous and chaotic regularities of nature” (Coutinho 2004, 122), it is not difficult to understand why language is not capable to express this. I will expand on this further, but for now, it suffices to refer to the perfect example of this style of writing: the Daodejing , consisting of only 5000 characters, with very few grammatical particles, and a writing style that encourages varied, even contradictory interpretations. Aphorisms, allusions and illustrations are certainly not what eminent philosopher Feng Youlan (1895–1990) (1997) calls “articulate,” but their insufficiency in articulateness is compensated by their suggestiveness, which comes closer to the reality they refer to, and invite the reader to use his/her own intuition and imagination. Or as Hall and Ames state: In a world defined by the vast indifference of Chaos, literal expressions, or metaphorical expressions that may be translated back into literal locutions, are of little account. Allusiveness is essential; nuance is the goal of language. If one wishes to make a statement about something that is irrevocably vague, parabolic and metaphoric languages are necessary. (Hall and Ames 1998, 74)

From the above, it should be clear that Chinese philosophical rhetoric is not only by nature suggestive and allusive, but is also deliberately used as such to express the vague, unspeakable and in essence unpredictable (chaotic) nature of reality; in confounding, it elucidates.24

Chinese Epistemology As the art of not knowing primarily ranges from having a muddled knowledge of things to utter ignorance, and as the different discourses on the saying Nande hutu entail a dialectical relation between being knowledgeable and smart (congming ) and being muddled (not knowing), some understanding about the Chinese theory of knowledge is in order. Ancient Chinese philosophy did not develop a specific theory of knowledge. This does not mean ancient Chinese philosophers were not concerned with questions of epistemology. What do we know, how do

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we know it and how sure can we be about what we think we know— these are equally important topics in ancient Chinese philosophical thinking as they are in the West. In this regard, the difference between Western and Chinese approaches to ‘not knowing’ lies mostly in the epistemological foundations. The scepticism towards language and the absence of dichotomous thinking in traditional Chinese philosophy did not allow for the pursuit of knowledge based on a scientific worldview with clear and absolute distinctions. Furthermore, there is no clear distinction between the ‘knower’ and the ‘known’ in Chinese epistemology. A fine epistemological example that reflects the presumed absence of a ‘real’ distinction between subject and object is the famous story of Zhuangzi dreaming he was a butterfly. In this story, Zhuangzi dreamt that he was a butterfly, and after having woken up, did not know anymore if he was Zhuangzi who had dreamt he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he was Zhuangzi (Zhuangzi, Chapter 2).25 So whereas Western philosophy granted priority to analytical reasoning with a heavy emphasis on argumentation from defined premises leading to logical conclusions about reality, analytical theory of knowledge never existed in China (Hansen 1992, 85). Chinese epistemology, directed by pragmatic motives and holistic thinking, does not focus on the ‘true’ coherence among elements in a single-ordered whole or on the correspondence between a fixed reality and appearance, but instead on what kind of knowledge should be acquired and how well this knowledge guides behaviour. Moreover, ancient Chinese philosophers favoured process over permanent form, change over stasis and different contextual interpretations over absolute objective ‘truth’ (see, e.g., Hall and Ames 1998). Consequently, whereas Western sceptics argued that we can never know any formula to be true, Chinese sceptics said that no set of rules or institutions yields a constantly reliable guide to action (a constant dao) (Hansen 1992, 93). Famous Chinese linguist and philosopher Lin Yutang 林语堂 (1895– 1976) amusingly commented on this tendency by saying that a typical Chinese knowledge claim is “A is right, and B is not wrong either” (Lin 2007, 108). In Chinese logic, there are no two separate poles but one pole and a negation of this one. Very illustrative of this are the linguistic

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dichotomies shi 是 (right, this) and fei 非 (not right, not (this)), and you 有 (existing) and wu 无 (non-existing). If we were to summarize the Chinese epistemology as a theory of knowledge or truth in comparison with the European approach, we could follow Rošker’s description: The European approach is defined by a rational comprehension of the external object of cognition, as well as by analysis and a strict separation of subject and object, while the classical Chinese epistemological discourses are defined by an irrational and intuitive method of inquiry, based upon a holistic worldview. (Rošker 2008, 6)26

Notions of Truth In the previous section, I introduced how pragmatism, the art of contextualization and the concept of order, as well as correlative and holistic thinking shaped ancient Chinese thinking. In order to understand how this is reflected in concrete issues such as truth, knowledge and wisdom in ancient Chinese philosophy, I will focus on Confucianism and Daoism, as they are most frequently referred to in the discourses dealing with the popular wisdom of playing dumb. In terms of terminology, the ancient Chinese terms for truth are zhen 真 and cheng 诚, both generally translated as ‘authenticity,’ a translation that can hardly be conceived as an equivalent of the Western idea of ‘truth.’ The character cheng frequently appears in the Confucian canon, where it often means ‘sincerity.’ The character zhen on the contrary does not appear in early Confucian Classics (such as the Analects, the Mencius, the Book of Songs, the Book of Documents, the Book of Changes). Its first appearance was in the Daoist Zhuangzi, where it expresses ‘authentic’ as meaning ‘in accordance with the dao.’ In modern Chinese language, the Western notion of truth is mostly conveyed as zhenli 真理, ‘authentic principle,’ with 理 as the natural law that lies underneath all natural changes. A first and most distinctive feature of truth the Chinese way is the lack of importance placed on rational objectivity. According to Hall and Ames, this again is a result of the dominance of correlative thinking:

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Semantic truth theories are implicated in analytical, dialectical, and strict analogical modes of argumentation. The undervaluing of speculations concerning truth or falsity in any rigorous sense in classical China is a consequence of correlative thinking which does not invite rational objectivity. (Hall and Ames 1995, 279)

This means that the prescribed way to recognize authentic truth starts with approaching reality as a comprehensive organism. Even the synthesis of various analysed components can never truly represent reality (the whole), because the parts are taken out of their natural state. The fundamental belief is that true understanding of reality cannot be obtained by empirical, analytical research as is the case in the West. But how can we grasp reality as it is? In the Chinese context, understanding the natural dao of the world is an intuitive process. It is an understanding one cannot or should not argue about, because talking about it indicates that one has not understood; it is an understanding without apparent rational effort. Hall and Ames (1995) rightly called this “intuition of manyness,” and Feng Youlan (1997) speaks of “concept by intuition.” A nice metaphor from one of my informants, a philosophy professor, that captures the difference between the Western and Chinese conception of truth is the onion. In the West, truth is like an onion; people like to peel it and analyse every ring separately. But in the end, one can never just put all the rings back together, so as a result, the onion does not exist anymore (as an onion), which makes a ‘truthful’ idea of the onion as an onion impossible. In the Chinese view, Western knowledge therefore always represents only a part of reality. Harbsmeier explains the different approaches to truth as follows: Whereas Greek philosophers were very often preoccupied with the notions of factual and evaluative truth for its own sake, their Chinese counterparts looked upon language and thought as much more pragmatically embedded in social life. (…) Their key concept was that of the Way (tao) of conduct in human affairs, not of objective factual or doctrinal truth. (Harbsmeier 1998, 207)

The emphasis of the Western notion of truth is on an objective and materialistic ‘true’ reality, while the emphasis of dao is its usefulness and

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value in society. Besides, as I explained above, in their approaches to social order, Chinese ancient philosophy did not rely on a metaphysical creator with a clear and absolute separation of humans and heaven. On the contrary, the cosmic order on which they based their theories represents the most basic harmonization of heaven/nature and people (tian ren he yi) and can be attained by following the right dao. In Thinking from the Han. Self, truth and transcendence in Chinese and Western culture Hall and Ames (1998) extensively investigate notions such as truth and self in comparative perspective. They suggest conceiving Chinese philosophers as dao-seekers instead of the Western truth-seekers. In the process of developing their own approach to the ultimate dao, both Confucianism and Daoism were influenced by the existing cosmological perceptions of the Yijing ( Book of Changes) which focus on holism, constant change and unity between humans and heaven. What then are the different interpretations of dao in the principal philosophical traditions?

Dao in Confucianism In Confucianism, the right way for restoring social order lies in following the cosmic order known as ‘the mandate of heaven’ (tianming 天命), with the emperor as the son of heaven and thus serving as a medium between heaven and earth and as a moral role model. Confucianism specifically looked at the ancient rulers in times of stability, and discovered that, although an absolute understanding of the cosmic order was not possible through reasoning, restoring the natural order was possible through the right conduct. According to Confucius (Kongzi 孔子, 551– 479 BC), the disorder was due to the fact that the ruler during the Warring States was no longer the moral example he ought to be by virtue of heaven. As a result, Confucius concluded that by behaving properly in society, i.e. by respecting one’s position in a highly hierarchical society, social order could be restored. To this aim, an official moral code or ritual propriety (li 礼, literally: rites, ritual) strongly rooted in distinct human relations was installed. Mencius (Mengzi 孟子, 372–289 BC) first mentioned the five cardinal model roles or relations (wu lun 五伦): the relation of the ruler to the people; of father to son; of husband to

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wife; of elder brother to younger brother; and as friend to friend (Zhang 2005, 321–326). The system that allocated a particular blueprint to each role or social position was the ‘assigning of names’ (zhengming ). This concept, found in all major philosophical schools, described the proper relation between names (ming 名, i.e. titles, assignments, social roles, achievements…) and actualities (shi 实, i.e. activities, moral or emotional human qualities, personal character…) and as such made it possible to follow the right course of action for every social agent (Sigurðsson 2015, 42). Complementary to this system of the proper social position, there was a strict social hierarchy, which divided society in distinct primary and secondary professions: primary professions were officials and farmers, and secondary professions were craftsmen and merchants. This hierarchic, bureaucratic system as an embodiment of the Confucian dao will become important in the next chapter when dealing with the art of not knowing as practiced by scholar-officials in feudal society.

The Dao of Daoism Daoism, and in particular the Zhuangzi, being an emerging philosophy itself, is also a reaction to the existing rival philosophical discourse of the period of the Hundred Schools. In early Daoist texts, we therefore find explicit and implicit criticisms of or reflections on Confucianism, the most prevalent other school at the time (Moeller and D’Ambrosio 2017, 5). The early Daoist indeed also looked back to find the right (political) course of action to restore harmony, but went back further in time than the Confucians, namely to a point where there was nothing left to see, i.e. the origin of nature. The starting point for the Daoist view on dao can be found in Daoist cosmology. Daoist cosmology relies on the observation of nature (instead of on the ancient rulers as in Confucianism) and focuses on the notion of interconnectivity and complementarity of all things in the universe, be it on micro- (atoms, individuals), meso- (family, social relationships) or macro- (national, universal) level. Restoring cosmic harmony thus meant going back to one’s original, spontaneous state by following the natural way or dao, i.e.

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acting in accordance with the dao in all its simplicity. By recognizing the dao and living accordingly, one can actualize one’s inner natural potential or virtue, de 德. This self-actualization ultimately is the human realization of a life in harmony with nature, with the outside world and with oneself as part of dao. However, the consequence of the notion of endless correlations and constant change as the only true natural principle is that the actualization of this dao is not absolute: it is in constant change, and its actualization strongly depends on the context. Therefore, early Daoists put no interest in clearly defining what truth is about, let alone in arguing about it. As Laozi states: “as ‘thing,’ the way is vague and unclear; unclear and vague, yet within it is a symbol; vague and unclear, yet within it is a thing 道之为物, 唯恍唯惚。 惚兮恍兮, 其中有象; 恍兮惚兮, 其 中有物” (Daodejing , Chapter 21). Consequently, from a Daoist viewpoint, vagueness and indistinctness determine the right way to perceive and experience the world, and not analytical and logical thinking based on clear distinctions. What will bring one closer to dao is intuition, introspection and observation without judgement. Taken together, the Chinese notion of truth is very different from that of the West. It is pragmatically motivated, in search of a behavioural or moral compass (‘how to’), perceived against the backdrop of a cosmological notion of constant change and endless interconnectivity. Visualizing this in Western vocabulary, truth as a Chinese representation of reality comes close to an impressionist painting, in which there is no clear distinction between subject and object: no sharp and distinct contours define the object of the painting, so that the subject (the beholder) has to get personally involved with the object to give meaning to it. These observations about the difficulty of naming and describing truth and the importance of context and experience, rather than defining and delineating truth, warrant further deliberation in the next section.

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Knowledge and Wisdom the Confucian and Daoist Way In the Western tradition, there is a tendency to privilege knowledge of what is right and wrong, true or false, and our ability to make the appropriate judgement in our actions. In the Chinese tradition, in the same way as truth is perceived as a practical, non-metaphysical way of being and acting, real knowledge is not based on abstract, conceptual constructions of the mind, neither on a metaphysical level, nor is it mere intellectual knowledge. Knowledge is embodied in skills, a “knowinghow-to,” as Hansen (1992, 85) points out. The main subject of this knowledge is the dao; knowing how to act and react in different situations, with the ultimate goal of preserving a state of inner and outer harmony. One important form of embodied knowing is zhi 知 (literally: ‘cognize’). The strong association of zhi and the way, dao 道, is still reflected in the modern Chinese compound for ‘knowing,’ zhidao 知道, which literally means ‘knowing the way.’ Rošker (2008, 10) formulates this alternative way of knowing known as zhi: “Knowledge was primarily understood as recognition (shi 识) of the structural principles of the allembracing way (dao).” Another translation of zhi that comes close to the idea of recognition rather than intellectual knowledge is “realization” (e.g. Hall and Ames 1998; Ames and Hall 2001). Ames and Hall (2001, 85) explain that with this translation they believe to pay proper attention to the Confucian precept of “the continuity of knowledge and action” (zhi xing he yi 知行合一), that is, “to know is to authenticate in action.” In other words, knowledge cannot be separated from action. Since no absolute, analysable truths are to be discovered, logical reasoning based on the availability of premises will not bring true knowledge. True knowledge is non-analytical, and ideally attained by introspection, intuition and experience. That is to say, going back to the metaphor of the onion, through peeling the onion we do not know the truth about the onion; rather on the contrary. By tasting, smelling and feeling, we get insight into its quality.

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Confucian Knowledge and Wisdom In the Confucian tradition, ‘knowing the way’ can be understood as “knowing the ways passed on by tradition: the human ways of social interaction encoded, with greater or lesser flexibility, by the cultural canon, and inculcated through social praxis” (Coutinho 2004, 122). In concreto, dao refers to a specific guideline of how to conduct oneself in society depending on one’s position and the specific relation one is involved in at any specific moment. This guideline is known as the social and moral etiquette, or, in Confucian terminology, ritual propriety (li). In his study of Confucian li and ritual learning, Sigurðsson argues that the main function of ritual propriety is “to harmonize external interaction within society,” but that this external interaction is not an imposed harmony. Rather, the external interaction should be done through li, precisely because performing li ideally comes from within, which makes it authentic (Sigurðsson 2015, 102). This interpretation also implies that this kind of knowledge of appropriate behaviour (rituals) is accessible to everyone and can be cultivated through personal self-cultivation or self-improvement, xiu shen 修身 (literally: embellish or decorate the self/one’s character/identity). Xiu shen as self-cultivation in the first place refers to the cultivation of one’s personality (traditionally through study of the Classics, music, etc.) in order to obtain social harmony. In a later phase, self-cultivation also became associated with attaining more personal freedom (e.g. Ivanhoe 2000). In whatever interpretation, from a Confucian perspective, selfcultivation as a way of continuously improving one’s own character, position and behaviour is imperative for developing a mature, harmonious and socially successful personality.

Knowing the Mandate of Heaven ( Zhi Tianming) A first for the Confucian sage crucial knowledge is ‘knowing the mandate of heaven,’ zhi tianming 知天命. Tianming literally means ‘the command or mandate from heaven’ and is generally conceived as

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the harmonious interrelation heaven-earth-humans (tian-di-ren 天地 人). In politics, tianming emerged as a condition for the ruler’s legitimacy as early as the Zhou dynasty (Ames and Hall 2001, 71–72). On the very personal level, Confucius assumed that, since heaven or tian does not speak directly, the universe must have allocated to humans an intrinsic kind of non-universal ‘categorical imperative,’ called tianming . This personal tianming can be described as one’s personal nature, natural talents and inflictions. At some point in later Confucianism, ming 命 (the short and more generally used form) became to mean the totality of existent conditions and forces of the whole universe (such as one’s lifespan, one’s social and economic status, one’s physical health). For the external success of our activity, the cooperation of these conditions is always needed (Feng 1997, 45). The Confucian tianming is thus conceived as a purposeful force, to the extent that violating or even not following tianming was unethical. Whatever the many different philosophical interpretations and translations, tianming is often, and especially in contemporary Chinese dictionaries, conveniently translated as fate or destiny, and even vocation or mission. However, tianming should not be understood as a passive, absolute force beyond one’s control, as the translation of fate or destiny implies. Hall and Ames (1998, 277) consider tianming as “one’s natural defining conditions” or “forces of circumstances.” They emphasize that tianming should indeed be understood as the relation between heaven (or nature, tian) and human beings, but with a strong emphasis on the mutuality of the relationship, thereby explicitly rejecting the very Western notion of irrevocable fate or destiny. What is important to knowing tianming is that—just as with ritual propriety—all human beings have the potential to cultivate it, namely through self-cultivation and continuous self-reflection based on experience. That is to say, if one learns about the right way (dao) of the universe to operate, and accepts one’s role and position in this system, one can adopt the right behaviour in every situation, which in turn will positively influence the external conditions that are part of tianming . In other words, putting one’s trust fully in tianming and accepting its principles will ultimately benefit well-being.

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Obviously, knowing and accepting tianming is not easy to realize and reflects a stage in the process of self-cultivation. As the Analects indicate, knowing the mandate of heaven is the ultimate wisdom of the model sage, that is, the noble or ‘exemplary person’ (junzi 君子). We see this reflected in the lines “He who does not know the mandate of heaven, cannot be considered an exemplary person (junzi)” 不知命, 无以为君子也 (Lunyu 20, 3). Confucius himself recognized ‘knowing the mandate of heaven’ as a spiritual stage in the development of his life. In the famous verses in the Analects (Lunyu 2, 4), he admits he only managed to know and accept fate at the age of fifty, which explains the use of zhi (tian)ming as a metaphor for the age of fifty in Chinese language: The Master said, “At fifteen, I had my heart set on learning. At thirty, I stood firm. At forty, I had no doubts. At fifty, I knew the mandate of heaven. At sixty, my ear was an obedient organ [for the reception of truth]. At seventy, I could follow what my heart desired, without transgressing what was right.” 子曰: 吾十有五而志于学, 三十而立, 四十而不惑, 五十而知天命, 六十而耳顺, 七十而从心所欲, 不逾矩.

This passage indicates that, as de Bary (1970, 18) formulates it, according to Confucius, a person can “by ordered stages of growth and maturity attain a freedom wherein one’s spontaneous desires are naturally in accord with Heaven, the moral order and vital power in the universe.”

Moral Knowledge Another important kind of knowledge in (Neo-)Confucianism is innate moral knowledge, liangzhi 良知. The term was first used by Mencius (fourth century BC). Only in later Neo-Confucianism, the concept of liangzhi got priority over any other kind of knowledge, with Wang Yangming 王阳明 (1472–1529), founder of the Neo-Confucian ‘School of Mind-Heart’ (Xinxue 心学) as its most important supporter. In modern Chinese, liangzhi is often translated as ‘intuitive knowledge,’ and even ‘conscience.’

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Innate moral knowledge can be described as the ability or innate sense to distinguish true from false and right from wrong through the ‘heart-mind’ (xin 心). Xin, heart-mind, literally means and also depicts a heart, but in traditional Chinese thinking, the heart’s function cannot be disconnected from the mind’s function. Most of the time it comprises all subjective or psychic phenomena: thinking, feeling, controlling, deciding, having conscious or unconscious attitudes, etc. (Hang 1991, 29). As this description of liangzhi shows, this ability to make appropriate distinctions follows the premise that people are innately good (liang 良). If we follow our inner, innately good voice, we will be good and act well. This innate goodness is inherently present but needs continuous fostering. Besides, in following our innate moral knowledge, the right intention is crucial. Therefore, as is the case with knowing tianming , we need to actively cultivate this inner goodness, as in the practice of self-cultivation.27 The two types of Confucian knowledge mentioned here, ‘knowing the mandate of heaven’ and ‘innate moral knowledge,’ are ultimately practical knowledge, in other words, knowledge about how to behave properly at every moment and in any given situation in order to obtain social harmony. As we will see later, they will play a prominent role in the different discourses on the art of feigning ignorance in contemporary society.

Situational Ethics Basically, this personalized ‘natural condition’ (tianming ) that urges one to act morally appropriately and the moral knowledge or intuition (liangzhi) that comes from the individual inner heart-mind (xin) are the personal foundations of Confucian morality. Broadly stated, Confucian morality consists of a system of ethical norms with an emphasis on learning from moral examples from the Classics, environmental conditions and practice, and the cultivation of moral responsibility and social commitment. Both tianming and liangzhi are sustained by a set of moral prescripts, the moral etiquette (li). This etiquette is rooted in the five cardinal role relations (wu lun) and in the assigning of

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names (zhengming ) mentioned above. This also implies that the moral prescripts are neither fixed nor absolute. The relations and everything they engender are constantly changing with time and place and along with all those involved. In other words, “the configuration of these relations as informed by li is in a continuous process of re-evaluation” (Sigurðsson 2015, 100). Every person’s role changes continuously, and a person can even have different roles simultaneously. For instance, a father can at the same time be a son of his own father, a husband to his wife, an older friend/brother to a younger friend/brother and a subordinate to a superior. Eminent Chinese sociologist Fei Xiaotong 费孝通 (1992, 62–63)28 in this respect speaks of a “situational ethics.” He describes the relationship between individuals by using the metaphor of concentric circles that appear when throwing a rock into the water. Each individual is at the centre of the circles produced by his or her own social influence. Everyone’s circles are interrelated, and one touches different circles at different times and places. In other words, each intersection of one’s own circles with those of another individual represents a different kind of relationship to which accordingly a different moral code applies. So in the same way as tianming and liangzhi are very personal notions and cannot be clearly defined nor universalized, the Chinese pattern of social organization embraces no ethical concepts that transcend specific types of human relationships, nor is there a comprehensive moral concept (Fei 1992, 74). Consequently, there is no absolute and universally applicable moral behaviour for an individual, because everything is dependent on the specific context and the specific position one takes in this context. In his model, the different and simultaneous concentric circles around the centre (the individual) cause a high degree of fuzziness in the boundaries of social morality. The closer to the centre of the circle, the more moral weight. To illustrate this, Fei gives the example of a corrupt practice: The degree to which Chinese ethics and laws expand and contract [in terms of concentric circles] depend on a particular context and how one fits into that context. I have heard quite a few friends denounce corruption, but when their own fathers stole from the public, they not

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only did not denounce them but even covered up the theft. Moreover, some went so far as to ask their fathers for some of the money made off the graft, even while denouncing corruption in others. When they themselves become corrupt, they can still find comfort in their “capabilities.” In a society characterized by a differential mode of association, general standards have no utility. The first thing to do is to understand the specific context: Who is the important figure, and what kind of relationship is appropriate with that figure? Only then can one decide the ethical standards to be applied in that context. (Fei 1992, 78–79)

This juxtaposition between moral code and moral behaviour is reflected in the translation of the English word ‘morality’ into Chinese. When modern Chinese writers sought to translate ‘morality’ into Chinese, they choose the compound daode 道德 (way-virtue), which consists of both dao (way) and de (virtue). Dao in this context refers to public, objective guidance, and de refers “the physical realization of dao in some part of the human system - a family, a state, or an individual” (Hansen 2004, 69). For the individual, it means self-actualization in the outside world (reality) according to one’s tianming . As the outside world (one’s environment, social situation, etc.) and the role one plays in the system are constantly changing, morality cannot possibly be fixed. As such, in modern speech, daode also refers to ‘ethics’ as an expression of how one should behave in a certain profession, context, … (e.g. business ethics, professional ethics). What is even more interesting is the modern Chinese version for ethics (as a branch of philosophy) as lunli 伦理, which literally translates as ‘the principles of relations.’ In this translation we find the character lun (role relation) of the five Confucian cardinal relations mentioned above. Thus, what lunli emphasizes in the first place is the importance of human relations and not the relation of humans to nature (Zhang 2005, 321). However, we should keep in mind that the implementation of this situational morality can only function in a Confucian ordered society. That is to say, it is the dominant moral code in a society which at its core allows the ruler to rectify names (zhengming ) in appointing people to status positions, and in which moral judgements are based on knowledge of ritual propriety, on moral knowledge and knowledge of one’s

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tianming . Such a morality is designed specifically to maintain social order and guarantee continuity of the existing political system, which exists by virtue of the ruler (who has been given this mandate of heaven), on which I will further elaborate in Chapter 3. All this is very much the contrary of what we see in Daoism, with its emphasis on the relation of humans with nature, instead of on interpersonal relations.

The Daoist Sage as a Moral Fool Authentic Knowledge and the Sage Fool As much as Confucianism insisted on self-education and study and practice of ritual propriety as crucial for a harmonious society, both Laozi and Zhuangzi in general rejected knowledge accumulation for several reasons. Firstly, in the same way as there is no absolute truth in Daoist thought, there is also no apodictic knowledge based on absolute distinctions. Distinctions can never be absolute, or to use Chad Hansen’s words in his analysis of the Zhuangzi, “for any natural distinction we focus on, we ignore a great many others” (Hansen 1992, 269).29 They limit our vision, arouse desires and cause conflicts. In this regard, Zhuangzi contrasts two levels of knowledge: ‘authentic’ and ‘inauthentic’ knowledge. Authentic knowledge is deep and understands ‘what is naturally so’ (ziran 自然), and sees things as they really are, unbiased and in constant change. Therefore, the Daoist sage is often called the ‘authentic person’ (zhenren 真人). The authentic person is simply someone who is continuously actualizing his/her inner self in accordance with the dao, who knows how to follow the dao without wanting to understand or argue about it, let alone analysing it (Hall and Ames 1998; Izutsu 2008). Secondly, since language is a conventional, man-made communication system, language can hardly express authentic knowledge, any more than it can express the real dao. Hence the linguistic expression of knowledge can only convey conventional knowledge, knowledge that has been reasoned. Unfortunately, conventional knowledge only brings us further from the dao, and as such also further from a carefree, happy life; it is counterproductive in the process of becoming a Daoist sage.

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Thirdly, and consequently, authentic knowing is—contrary to what the Confucians assume—not something one can achieve through selfcultivation and knowledge accumulation in the classical Confucian way, such as studying the Classics. This notion is expressed in the famous paradox ‘The farther one pursues knowledge, the less one knows’ (Daodejing , Chapter 47). What is meant here is that acquired knowledge is not only not absolute, but also useless in finding truth. As explained above, truth is in constant change and comprises the interconnectivity of the myriad of things. Authentic knowledge is the opposite and antipode of acquired, learned knowledge. The idea of relative inadequacy and uselessness of acquired knowledge has become well-known as the image of the Daoist sage fool. The idea of the wise fool can be found in early texts such as the Daodejing (Chapter 20), where Laozi claims he looks like a fool and his mind is muddled and chaotic, whereas ordinary people look bright and intelligent (我愚人之心也哉! 沌沌兮, 俗人昭昭, 我独若昏). The most extreme example is Lord Hundun in the Zhuangzi, who died after obtaining the five senses through which knowledge comes to us, and renders us unfree. The sage fool possesses what can be called knowledge as non-knowledge, or wisdom as non-wisdom. Jordan Paper introduces the notion of wisdom as non-wisdom as follows: The common understanding of wisdom in the West is that it is an additional quality to both intelligence and knowledge. Wisdom is understood to involve the use of both in a mature fashion. […] But there is another meaning of “wisdom” that is antithetical to the normative meaning in that it refers to a mental state that is devoid of content, a state where there is neither intelligence nor knowledge. (Paper 2004, 23)

Such wisdom is the wisdom of the sage fool. Discussing the same idea of non-knowledge more physically, or rather visibly, expressed, Thomas Michael (2005, 122–123) analyses the human body by using Zhuangzi’s distinction of the “foundational body” and the “constructed or artificial body” (with body as the metaphor for human beings). Thomas explains that the “assent and rejection” (shi fei 是非) and “likes and dislikes” (hao wu 好恶) that are detrimental for the body-person (shen 身) are derived

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from the body that is not pure and natural anymore, but added with ‘artificial or educated knowledge’ and an ‘artificial or educated desire,’ which precisely create ‘likes and dislikes.’ Therefore, the Daoist sage in the Zhuangzi should be considered as the person who is without this artificial or educated knowledge and without an artificial or educated desire. That is to say, the real Daoist sage is a person that might look like an uneducated, uncivilized and unconventional fool. Therefore, it should be stressed that the Daoist sage is not just perceived to be foolish for treating acquired knowledge with disdain, but also for acting foolishly, in the sense that he is aloof and indifferent to the normal, generally accepted order of the world, and prefers chaos to order and vagueness to distinctiveness. The positive effect of such foolishness that results from transcending conventional knowledge and distinctions is indeed very powerful; it allows the sage to be emotionally indifferent and unconcerned with prior knowledge or rational judgements, and consequently to enjoy absolute and boundless happiness free of worry and anxiety. This spontaneous state of mind is symbolized in the Daoist expression ‘carefree wandering’ (xiaoyao you 逍遥游), a metaphor for the state of mind of the illuminated man (and also the title of the first chapter of the Inner Chapters in the Zhuangzi).30 This expression depicts the ideal of spontaneity resulting from knowledge of the dao. Coutinho (2004, 69) explicitly explains his translation of xiaoyao you as “wandering beyond” by emphasizing the meaning of yao, “distant, remote.” According to him, it is not just “careless and free wandering,” but wandering into the distance, by transgressing boundaries and limitations (of the mind). In the same spirit, Feng Youlan (1997, 22) describes the early Daoists as “roaming beyond our world” (other-worldliness), whereas Confucianists roam within the boundaries (of human society; this–worldliness).

Self-Knowledge and Illumination In practice, for Daoists, there is however some sort of useful and valuable knowledge, that is, self-knowledge (zizhi 自知). As the self is just another manifestation of dao, and all things are products of the same

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dao, consequently, if one has knowledge of the self, one also knows the nature of others, and of the myriad of things. For Laozi, self-knowledge is a prerequisite for the experience of illumination (‘clarity,’ ming 明), that is, real understanding of the dao that typifies the Daoist sage, whereas knowing the nature of others is just ‘wisdom’ (Daodejing , Chapter 33: 知人者智, 自知者明). This is explained by the assumption that knowledge of our own true nature leads directly to an immediate and intuitive cognition of the dao of which we are a part. The stage of wisdom gained through self-knowledge can thus be considered as a stage of illumination. This illumination or clarity describes the experience of the sage when realizing reality via a different way of knowing other than reasoning (Izutsu 2008, 41). How to develop this stage of illumination is a question that lies far beyond the scope of this book. Nevertheless, assuming that it is far from easy, some explanation of how to reach this state of non-knowledge is useful for a better understanding of the lofty, difficult to attain dimension of the art of not knowing. In the Daoist rationale, the main gate towards illumination is to turn inwards through introspection, and by thoroughly doing so achieve a state of ‘chaotic unity’ as is the case with the sage fool. One has to develop a ‘chaotified mind’ (浑其心, Daodejing , Chapter 49), a mind that “has completely ceased to exercise its discriminating and distinguishing function, a mind which has transcended all distinctions and oppositions” (Izutsu 2008, 40), or, as Moeller (2006) calls it, a state of mind from a “zero perspective.” In his psychological analysis of the process of illumination, Izutsu explains that such a state of mind is the result of an ecstatic experience in which the mind loses its consciousness and awareness of everything, including the self. This process of illuminative intuition is extremely difficult, exactly because the mind of ordinary people (the ‘developed mind,’ chengxin 成心 or the ‘fixed mind,’ changxin 常心) forces them to distinguish and discriminate between things, classify them, and as a result, establish good and bad, right and wrong as eternal and unchangeable categories based on essential differences. Undoing this to regain the real undifferentiating, ‘chaotified’ self requires going against the natural movement of the mind, i.e. a centripetal instead of centrifugal process (Izutsu 2008, 43–44). As Izutsu continues:

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This drastic change of direction is, according to the Taoists, to be effected by the ‘closing up of all the openings and doors of the body’ (Lao-tzu), that is, by stopping the normal functioning of the five senses and the differentiating activity of the reason. Obstructing thus all the possible outlets for the centrifugal tendency of the mind, man goes deep down into the depth of his mind until he encounters the ‘smallest thing’ (hsiao) – as Lao-tzu calls it – which is no other than the Way itself as individualized in the form of the real existential core of the man (p. 44).31

Izutsu undoubtedly points at Zhuangzi’s Lord Hundun who did not have any openings and doors, and when he got them, died. In fact, Zhuangzi himself indicated the steps of spiritual illumination, in which the practice of ‘sitting and forgetting’ (zuowang 坐忘) plays a major role and illustrates the complete absence of intellectual effort that characterizes the Daoist sage. In the Inner Chapters (Chapter 6), Yan Hui 颜回, Zhuangzi’s friend (and also favourite disciple of Confucius), discusses his stages of illumination with Confucius, and finishes with this ‘sitting and forgetting’ as the final stage. When Confucius—who often appears in the Zhuangzi when being mocked at or otherwise debunked—asks for an explanation, he replies: I smash up my limbs and body, drive out perception and intellect, cast off form (xing ), do away with understanding, and make myself identical with the Great Thoroughfare. This is what I mean by sitting down and forgetting everything. 堕肢体, 黜聪明, 离形去知, 同于大通, 此谓坐忘. (Zhuangzi 2003, 87)

This ‘sitting and forgetting’ as a state of concentration by sensory detachment thus represents a practice to reach an intuitive understanding of the cosmic wholeness, which later became known as Daoist meditation. As a way of understanding, Zhuangzi links the idea of zuowang to the process of ‘to forget how to’ (to undo learning) that Laozi had already put forward. Interesting in this regard is the explicit use of the character wang 忘, forgetting, which implies there is something ‘added’ which has to be forgotten. Forgetting also indicates it is an active, engaging process, of not only forgetting what one knows, but also to let go of any aspirations. As Jordan Paper (2004, 26) appropriately comments, “to be in a

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state of forgetfulness is to have not only no intelligence or knowledge, but, in effect, no awareness of, let alone concern for, accomplishments.” This absence of concern for future accomplishments will be important for our understanding of the ancient scholars’ and the contemporary art of feigning ignorance. In view of the above, this ‘chaotified,’ uneducated and forgetting mind can be considered as a positive and active stage of spiritual development.

The Moral Fool Contrary to the Confucian focus on morally appropriate interpersonal relations, Daoism pays no attention to knowledge of right and wrong because both are part of the same dualistically structured universe and as such complementary for obtaining natural harmony. This comes close to one of the contemporary meanings of hutu in the dictionary is described as ‘not being able to distinguish right from wrong’ 分辨不了是非. A Daoist sage does not feel the need to distinguish right from wrong, because he/she understands and accepts that right and wrong are of the same order. If one follows the dao, one cannot do but “right” (Izutsu 2008, 12–14). Especially the second chapter of the Zhuangzi (Qiwulun) focuses on this notion. What Zhuangzi wants to explain is that as with all distinctions, there can be no moral distinction which would not be arbitrary, and therefore useless. What is right from one perspective can be wrong from another. As is often misunderstood in the interpretation of Zhuangzi’s view of morality, this does not mean Daoist morality is fundamentally a strict moral relativism. It is just that distinctions and moral evaluations are always right in view of their particular perspective, and therefore the distinction between right and wrong can only be boundless and vague. As Coutinho (2004, 62) explains, “while it is true that judgments have no absolute application, nevertheless, evaluations are always made from within some context and for some particular purpose.” Moeller (2009, 34) adds to this, that “the Zhuangzi – and Daoist philosophy in general - does not intend to blur distinctions that, after all, constitute the world and its changes, but instead tries to find a way to harmonize what

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is distinct.” Daoist morality should rather be considered as a kind of amorality. Right and wrong are inseparable and even complementary parts of the same reality (the whole), and if one follows one’s dao, there is no need to distinguish (morally) good and bad, because things will always turn out according to the dao.32 In this regard, in the same way as the only real sage is the sage fool, the only moral personality is the moral fool (Moeller 2009). This particular foolishness is made concrete in the attitude of the sage towards morality. The sage is neither moral nor immoral, but is devoid of moral conceptions (p. 34), such that distinctions in the world are not ignored, but recognized while not morally judged upon. This again implies a returning to the natural, spontaneous state of hundun. In this respect, the perfect (Daoist) moral fool is considered to be the infant; it does not need morality to do what is ‘right’ (see, e.g., Chapters 10 and 55 of the Daodejing ). Rather, as Moeller (2009, 101) explains, It does what it does naturally and does not look at the world in categories. We cannot measure it, and it does not measure us – or anything – in moral terms. It is a fine image of the amoral lifestyle.

This ideal, amoral state of mind, rooted in chaos, vagueness and indistinctness, and obtained via self-knowledge and meditation, is the result of a transcending of the senses, and of abandoning of whatever unnatural cultivation.

The Culture of Vagueness and Not Knowing As I have shown in this chapter, hutu has rather positive associations with a vague and chaotic but nevertheless creative, life-protective, life-engendering and life-prolonging state of being, rooted in ancient cosmology and mythology. These associations have led us deep into ancient Chinese philosophy and concepts of truth and knowledge that give insight in our understanding of how ignorance as a kind of not knowing can be blissful indeed.

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On a more abstract and unconscious level, different patterns of thinking, such as ars contextualis, correlative, dialectical and holistic thinking, are reflected in the Chinese epistemology and the ancient cosmological worldview, and put to use in considerations of truth, knowledge, wisdom and morality. Ultimately, they have permeated virtually all aspects of Chinese culture, including the intellectual heritage (science, medicine, literature and art), the political sphere and the social sphere (social relationships, social morality, interpersonal communication and verbal discourse). The political sphere will be addressed in the next chapter, when discussing feudal society as a fertile soil for the predilection for vagueness. The social sphere is hard to address purely from text analysis and requires a more anthropological approach. How this domain is affected by the culturally embedded predilection for vagueness, suggestiveness and dialectical, holistic thinking as vital aspects of the art of not knowing will be addressed in Part II, when discussing the contemporary popular and official discourse on the saying Nande hutu. As for science, the philosophical orientation towards dao based on a holistic, intuitive method nourished the spirit of practical reasoning instead of scientific reasoning oriented towards an objective, analysable truth. As logical premises and logical deduction were traditionally not applied in formal Chinese thinking, science took a different path in China, that is, different from the Western inquiry into the objective and true reality which could be analysed by reasoning alone. One of the clearest and long-standing examples of correlative, dialectical and holistic thinking in the Chinese scientific tradition is traditional medicine. Its main reference work, the Inner Canon of the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi Neijing 黄帝内经), is entirely based on the cosmology of the Yijing , including the yin-yang philosophy and the five agents (wu xing ). The relations between the five agents are structured according to a far-reaching system of correlation and applied accordingly to the body as a micro-cosmos, and to the relationship of the body with its direct environment and the wider universe or macro-cosmos. With regard to aesthetic practices, Chinese art shows a strong appreciation of the vague and the unclear and cherishes the ideal of spontaneity and what Pohl (2008) calls “cultivated clumsiness.” It is no exaggeration to state that in arts, the motif of vagueness and indistinctness, including

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the absence of a distinction between subject and object, has been elevated from philosophical concept to aesthetic virtue. More precisely, suggestiveness is one of the four characteristics of Chinese art. As Pohl (2008, 89) argues, Chinese “value suggestiveness as a poetic quality in a work of art, and ‘cultivated clumsiness’ expresses an amateurish unrealistic quality.” It indicates the virtue of not showing one’s professional ability, of not showing off with one’s qualities. On a more formal level, in general, ancient Chinese painters were not guided by the search for a form with clear and distinct contours, but rather by an attempt to grasp the indefinable, unfathomable reality in its process of constant change and circularity. As such, clouds and mists are meaningful elements in traditional landscape painting (especially during the Song dynasty); they symbolized a vague and suggestive perspective on reality. This artistic appreciation for—literally—haziness is also present in traditional landscape architecture, namely as the aesthetic preference for skilfully constructed gardens bathing in a foggy environment, which is considered the ideal constitution for experiencing such constructs. In all these fields, the aim is not showing the absolute and the meticulously analysed truth, but to maintain fuzziness and chaos from which creativity and interpretation can emerge. Altogether, it is no overstatement to talk of Chinese culture as a ‘culture of vagueness’ (mohu wenhua), in which vagueness has become not only a tool for expressing the world, but also an aesthetic, personal and social virtue. However, these examples (science, medicine, art) illustrate rather elitist occupations only articulated and practiced by those educated in the Classics. Especially the lofty spiritual ideals were only studied by the scholar-literati, that is to say, a very small minority of the population that also happened to be the leadership elite. As a group of Chinese academics put forward during their evaluation of China’s evolution towards modernization shortly after the reform policy of Deng Xiaoping: The lofty moral values and humanistic spirit […] only existed in the ideals pursued by a few philosophers and intellectual elites and not in the sustained practice of the Chinese people at large. Moreover, these ideals were bound to remain a chimera during the two thousand years when the docility of the people was regarded as the law of heaven. (Zi 1987, 450)

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This culture of vagueness has throughout history, and with ups and downs, proven to be quite a successful approach for keeping up the political status quo and the continuity of society in an orderly, organized and morally acceptable way. How this ancient society was organized, and how its denizens were educated (or rather inculcated to be the ignorant mass) strongly determined the life course of many of the scholar-officials. In the next chapter, I turn to concrete examples of how the educated elite lived this cultural conditioning of (not) knowing at the socio-historical background of Chinese society, and how (not) knowing could be both a blessing and a curse.

Notes 1. The Siku Quanshu (The Complete Library of the Four Treasuries) is a compilation ordered by the Qianlong Emperor, completed in 1782. For this compilation, approximately 3500 ideologically and politically accepted books ranging from the ancient Zhou dynasty (1046–256 BCE) to the Qing dynasty (1644–1912) were collected, catalogued and annotated, and several thousands more reviewed and commented on (Wilkinson 2000, 273–277). The compound hutu occurs 548 times in 411 different sources. 2. General Ye Jianying 叶剑英 later became chairman of the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress from 1978 to 1983. The idiom Lü Duan da shi bu hutu 吕端大事不糊涂 was long before Mao Zedong’s quote also mentioned under the entry of hutu in two large-scale dictionaries and encyclopaedia: the Source of Words (Ciyuan, 1915) and the Sea of Words (Cihai, 1938). 3. Zhuge Liang 诸葛亮 (181–234), minister during the Three Kingdoms Period (220–265) is until the present day extremely popular and his person is the inspiration for many popular TV serials, films and comics. Most of them are based on the historical novel the Romance of the Three Kingdoms (ca. 1400), one of the four major great Classical Novels of Chinese literature. 4. Norman Girardot (1988, 212–213) points out that the bottle gourd was very early domesticated, probably because of its usefulness in amazingly varying fields of daily life. He sums up its different uses from earliest times: as containers, as food, in medicine and surgery, as floats and rafts, pipes and snuffboxes, cricket cages and bird houses, masks, games, charms,

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6.

7.

8.

9.

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offerings, penis heads, carved decorations, musical instruments and as a pervasive subject of myth and ritual. For an excellent and very comprehensive study of the gourd in Daoist texts and Daoist symbolism, see Girardot (1988). For more on the gourd in the mythology and folk belief of the local cultures of south and east China, see Eberhard (1968). Girardot’s study (1988) Myth and Meaning in Early Taoism. The Theme of Chaos (Hun-Tun) offers a brilliant and thorough analysis of the theme of hundun in Daoist symbolism. In this study, Girardot tries to demonstrate that it is the cosmogonic fable of hundun that defines the religious vision of early Daoist mysticism. He repeatedly stresses the idea of the conundrum of hundun, i.e. the paradoxes and controversies that surround the myth of Emperor Hundun. To use his words, “[hundun] as a mythological and metaphysical principle maintains its integrity by revealing itself chaotically: There is an extremely complex interpretation of an unknowable number of centers” (Girardot 1988, 275). For more on Emperor Hundun, see also Moeller and D’Ambrosio (2017, 78–85). The Yijing or Book of Changes at its origin was a mere book of divination. Tradition has ascribed the eight trigrams to the legendary primeval sage Fuxi 伏羲. At some point in the Zhou dynasty (ca. 1045–256 BC), the 64 hexagrams acquired a name, a ‘judgement’ (commentary) and an explanation of each line. During the late Zhou dynasty (third century BC), the commentaries known as the ‘Ten Wings’ were added, and in 136 BC the Yijing became one of the five major Confucian Classics (Smith 2012, 4–5). Apart from describing various mountains and sees and their products (plants), myths, witchcraft and religion of ancient China, the Shanhaijing 山海经 (Classic of Mountains and Seas) also records the geography, history, medicine, customs and ethnicities in ancient times. Despite the uncertainty of its authors and of its focus (geography, witchcraft …), the Shanhaijing is generally considered as one of the treasures of Chinese mythology. For a translation, see for example the one by Anne Birrell (1999). With regard to the interpretation of especially the Daoist Classics, the discussion about a more socio-political or a more religio-mystical reading is quite common among scholars. The interpretation of the hundun story provides a nice example of this kind of discussion. Hundun also often appears in Daoist inner alchemy (neidan 内丹) texts. In their search for quasi immortality, alchemists begin their work by ‘opening’

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11.

12.

13.

14.

15.

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or ‘boring’ hundun, as such beginning from the origin. For more on hundun and Daoist alchemy, see Girardot (1988, 281–298) and Kohn (2006). This does not mean Chinese philosophy is not engaged in metaphysical issues. However, the meaning of metaphysical is at its core one of ‘supersensory’ or ‘transcendental.’ Since there is no separation between human beings and heaven, Chinese metaphysics always in one or another way includes the experience of humans. In this sense, metaphysics does make part of ancient Chinese philosophy as ‘what goes beyond sensory sensations.’ For the meaning of metaphysics in Chinese philosophy, see for example Feng (1997), Hall and Ames (1995, 1998), and Hansen (1992). This popular policy has also been criticized by many contemporary scholars, such as Li Zehou 李泽厚 (1930–), who proposed to invert the slogan to become “Western learning as essential principle and Chinese learning as practical application” (xi ti zhong yong 西体中用) (Zi 1987, 451). Rošker (2008, 193) explains that this inversion is a little deceiving, because Li’s “view of China’s confrontation with the West does not differ fundamentally from those who advocated the appropriation of Western technology and the preservation of Chinese ideologies. The reason for Li’s inversion of their slogan is purely terminological.” That is to say, Li interprets ti (essence) in Marxist terms, as the material basis of society, and yong (function) as the ideal superstructure that defines the concrete circumstances of individuals in society. Hall and Ames (1998) acknowledge that this understanding of order existed at the beginnings of both Western and Chinese cultures, but that in the course of their respective histories, the two cultures made distinctly different choices which led to different senses of order. See Hall and Ames (1995, 278): “The overall dominance of the correlative mode in classical China is well attested by the attenuated influence of schools of thought that experimented with causal thinking, such as Mohism and Legalism.” In Thinking from the Han (1998), the sequel volume on Anticipating China (1995), Hall and Ames attempt to demonstrate the persistence of correlative thinking in China through a discussion of three problems that have shaped many of the comparisons of Chinese and Western thinking: self, truth and transcendence. For other discussions on correlative thinking as a Chinese feature, see e.g., Graham (1986, 1989), Granet (1968), and Puett (2002). In his article On the Very Idea of Correlative Thinking, Fung Yiu-ming (2010) analyses and rejects all the different scholarly views on analogical

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18.

19. 20.

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thinking (Granet, Needham, Graham, Hall and Ames) and argues that there is no thinking by correlation and analogy which cannot be understood in terms of analytic concepts and which can escape from the logical and rational space. A very interesting discussion questions the order of correlative thinking applied on the correlation between a holistic worldview and the cosmic (natural) order, the social/state order and to an even lower level of the ‘family order.’ Hall and Ames argue that for instance Schwartz concludes that “the ‘state analogy’ may be much more important as a paradigm of Chinese holism and organicism than the biological organism,” while it is usually thought of as the opposite (observation of natural order influenced holistic thinking and thinking about social order). Besides, this ‘state analogy’ could be derived from the family model. See for this discussion Hall and Ames (1995, 270–278). Although the terms yin and yang do not hold a central place in the early Daoist texts, the dialectics between opposites as in the holistic worldview of the Yijing is the fundament of all early Chinese cosmology and cosmogony, including the Daoist. The Chinese tian 天 is far from what is generally understood as Heaven in the Western world, and more precisely in the Judeo-Christian tradition. Without going too much into depth here, tian as a concept should in any case not be considered as independent of the human world as is the case in the Western interpretation. I shall conveniently translate tian as heaven. Ames and Hall prefer not to translate tian, and their translation for tian ren he yi is “the continuity of tian and the human experience” (Ames and Hall 2001, 83). In this part, Rošker (2008) explains contemporary Neo-Confucian philosopher Li Zehou’s theory on the unity of human beings and heaven. Michael Puett (2002, 145–200) further discusses two different opinions on the generality of Warring States and Han correlative models as either a defining feature of Chinese thought in general (Granet 1968; Hall and Ames 1995), or as universal (as a trans-cultural difference between protoscience and modern science) (Graham 1986). However it may be, the persistent influence of dialectical and correlative scheming on the present Chinese thinking mode have been demonstrated in several psychological experiments, although these studies mostly indicate that the Chinese are ‘more likely’ to adopt a dialectical mode of thinking than are EuropeanAmericans, and that this does not necessarily mean that all Chinese people are characterized by a dialectical mode of thinking (Cheng et al. 2010).

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21.

22.

23.

24.

25.

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The degree of holistic thinking can also be tested by means of individual psychological-cognitive experiments. Such tests with for instance American and Chinese children showed that Chinese children score higher than Americans with regard to a holistic perception (Bond 1992, 23–24). Fu and Zhou (1997) argue that the creative process of inventing characters is itself the process of searching for and selecting an appropriate form of expressing one’s thoughts through language. Each development indicated another stage or pattern of thinking. It seems to me that this assumption needs further in-depth investigation. Many linguistic studies have been done of the relation of the Chinese language and the particular mode of thinking in which these language patterns fit. Quite a few of these studies are done from a comparative Chinese-English linguistic perspective. See for instance Zhang and Zhang (2001) on the relation of traditional modes of thinking and the use of parataxis and hypotaxis. It can be argued that also the Confucian tradition was sceptical about language, to which the Confucian ‘assigning of names’ (zhengming 证 明) testifies. Still, as Izutsu (2008, 7–9) explains, through this theory of ‘assigning names,’ Confucianism holds an essentialist standpoint with regard to language: to every name corresponds an objective and permanent piece of reality, which Izutsu calls Confucian “essentialism,” whereas for the Daoists there was no essential naming. For more on the Daoist scepticism about language and the presumed but often misunderstood Daoist opposition to language, see for example Hansen (1992) and (Moeller 2006). Certainly, many Western parallels can be drawn with regard to the limitation of language. No topic has received more philosophical attention in the last half-century; Heidegger, Wittgenstein, Nietzsche, Derrida have all formulated some form of scepticism about the viewpoint of language as a mirror of a reality or an external world. For an extensive inquiry into the role and function of language and meaning in ancient Chinese philosophy, see for example Hansen (1992) and (Izutsu 2008, 6–24). For more on the Chinese way of rhetoric and the lack of logical argumentation, see Hall and Ames (1998), Hansen (1992), and Needham (1998). The butterfly itself, on the contrary, has no knowledge of Zhuangzi whatsoever. This story is often debated, mostly for its epistemological value, but also for its significance as a perfect example of how to be able to fully enjoy ‘carefree wandering’ 逍遥游, that is, as the butterfly, who is completely without knowledge of Zhuangzi, did (e.g. Moeller and D’Ambrosio 2017,

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27.

28.

29.

30.

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4). For a translation of this story, see, e.g., the translation by Burton Watson (Zhuangzi 2003, 44). Rošker (2008, 5–6) summarizes a study by the contemporary Chinese theorist Liao Xiaoping 廖小平 on the specificity of Chinese and European ancient (approaches to) theories of knowledge. For the scholar-official in the past, moral education consisted mostly of memorizing moral precepts found in the Classics which were in the past believed to reflect the mandate of heaven (tianming ). Moral education is up till today a course at secondary school and university, where it serves as a valued legacy of the past. As such, it is also a valuable tool for ensuring the legitimacy of the Party, on which I will elaborate in Part II. Fei Xiaotong 费孝通 (1910–2005), a famous Chinese anthropologist/social scientist, developed his theory based on different ‘modes of association’ with regard to the social structure to explain the difference between Western and Chinese societies. Whereas the Chinese social model is based on a ‘differential mode of association’ (chaxu geju 差序格局), Western societies are based on an ‘organizational mode of association’ (tuanti geju 团体格局). In the Western kind of society, each individual has the same type of relation to one another. In this sense, the individuals are, contrary to in Chinese society, interchangeable (Fei 1992, 62–74). For a translation of his Xiangtu Zhongguo 乡土中国, see Fei (1992). For more on his intellectual importance in social sciences, see Arkush (1981). The absence of absolute distinctions in the Zhuangzi is a highly disputable issue. With regard to interpretation of the Zhuangzi, among many other authors Hansen (1992) explicitly advocates an interpretation of this absence of absolute distinctions as a Daoist pluralism, instead of the Daoist monism as is too often argued for. For instance, Radice (2001, 39) argues that the fact that Zhuangzi does not offer a clear distinction between right and wrong was meant as a warning that such distinctions threaten the survival of the individual and the natural order of dao. Coutinho (2004, 60–61) prefers to speak of a “radical individualism” (because of the emphasis on different perspectives) instead of “radical relativism.” Interestingly, xiaoyao is also the Chinese translation of ‘Peripatetic,’ i.e. belonging to the school of Aristotle, who is said to have been a peripatetic lecturer, teaching while wandering in the Lyceum gymnasium in Athens. For an elaborate treatment of the psychological process of illumination, see Izutsu (2008, 41–53). Izutsu analyses the structure of this process. He concludes that even though this process is very difficult, within the sphere

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of ordinary experience, there is a place where we can catch a glimpse of the ontological ‘chaos,’ and that is in our dreams. 32. See also Chad Hansen’s second conclusion on what Zhuangzi teaches us about following moral conventions: “We can go with the ‘usual’ since it provides the basis for useful cooperation and interchange with others” (Hansen 2004, 79).

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Robinet, Isabelle. 2008. “Hundun 混沌 Chaos; Inchoate State.” In The Encyclopedia of Taoism, edited by Predagio Fabrizio, 523–525. London and New York: Routledge. Rošker, Jana S. 2008. Searching for the Way. Theory of Knowledge in Pre-Modern and Modern China. Hong Kong: Chinese University Press. Sigurðsson, Geir. 2015. Confucian Propriety and Ritual Learning. A Philosophical Interpretation. SUNY Series in Chinese Philosophy and Culture. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Smith, Richard. 2012. The I Ching: A Biography. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press. Sundararajan, Louise. 2015. Understanding Emotion in Chinese Culture: Thinking Through Psychology. Cham, New York, Heidelberg, Dordrecht, and London: Springer International. Werner, E. T. C. 1932. A Dictionary of Chinese Mythology. Shanghai: Kelly and Walsh. Wilkinson, Endymion. 2000. Chinese History. A Manual (Revised and Enlarged). Vol. 52. Harvard-Yenching Institute Monograph Series. Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Asia Center. Williams, C. A. S. 1976. Outlines of Chinese Symbolism and Art Motives (First edition: 1941). New York: Dover Publications. Xu, Keqian. 2010. “Chinese ‘Dao’ and Western ‘Truth’: A Comparative and Dynamic Perspective.” Asian Social Sciences 6 (12): 42–49. Xu, Shen. 1996. Shuowen Jiezi. Beijing: Zhonghua Shudian. Zhang, Dainian. 2005. Key Concepts in Chinese Philosophy. Translated by Edmund Ryden. Beijing: Foreign Language Press. Zhang, Sijie, and Boran Zhang. 2001. “Xinghe yu yihe de zhexue siwei fansi (Parataxis Versus Hypotaxis—A Reflection on the Relation Between Language, Philosophy and Modes of Thinking).” Zhongguo Fanyi 22 (4): 13–17. Zhou, Zuyan. 2001. “Chaos and the Gourd in ‘The Dream of the Red Chamber’.” T’oung Pao 87 (4/5): 251–288. Zhuangzi. 2003. Zhuangzi. Basic Writings. Translated by Burton Watson. Translations from the Asian Classics. New York: Columbia University Press. Zi, Zhongyun. 1987. “The Relationship of Chinese Traditional Culture to the Modernization of China: An Introduction to the Current Discussion.” Asian Survey 27 (4): 442–458.

3 The Art of Not Knowing: A Scholar’s Paradox

Ten thousand things become vague (hutu) while drinking a bottle of wine. When saying farewell, chatting is like beating the throat. 万事糊涂酒一壶, 别时聊为鼓咙胡. (Yuan Haowen 元好问, 1190 –1257)

In the previous chapter, I introduced the etymological, semantic and philosophical background of hutu, the predilection for vagueness, the not ‘knowable’ dao (Daoism), and non-analytical, practical and contextualized moral knowledge (Confucianism). In this chapter, I advance Chinese feudal society and its particular structure as a fertile soil for the ‘culture of vagueness’ and pretended ignorance. In the quote above, hutu is used in the easy to capture sense of a blurred picture of the world after drinking too much. The second line is about having difficulty talking due to grief in saying farewell to a friend. In a larger context, speech was a challenge for Chinese literati (wenren 文人, litt.: ‘person of letters’), since they were not always in a position © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 M. Matthyssen, Ignorance is Bliss: The Chinese Art of Not Knowing, Palgrave Studies in Indigenous Psychology, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73902-7_3

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to speak freely, and many things had to be expressed implicitly. This was especially the case for clever scholar-officials who were easily considered to be a potential danger to the emperor and the nation. Many of them are not only known for their excessive drinking habit to blur their worries and fears as in the quote above, but also for consciously not showing off and hiding their cleverness and criticism in order not to offend anyone higher in status. To illustrate this phenomenon, I discuss the lives and some works of a few famous scholar-officials that embody the ideal of a wise kind of ignorance. I first introduce Zheng Banqiao 郑板桥 and his intriguing and at first glance quite unfathomable calligraphic saying Nande hutu. I continue with two other scholars, Jin-Song poet Tao Yuanming 陶渊 明 (365–427) and Song poet Su Dongpo 苏东坡 (1073–1101), that are both frequently associated with Zheng Banqiao and created similar works, vented similar griefs or lived a life that expresses this peculiar art of living. Following these examples, based on the interpretations of mainly contemporary Chinese scholars—who after all are the modern literati, although rarely also officials—I argue that Zheng Banqiao’s art of not knowing in the context of feudal society is a double entendre. On the one hand, wisely pretending to be ignorant expresses integrity, social engagement and a high level of moral cultivation. At the same time, it is illustrative of a resentment against corrupt and degenerated scholarofficials, and of a criticism of the structure of society and the inequality it creates. I do not provide a complete overview of all characteristics of feudal society, nor give an in-depth analysis of the lives and works of these three historical figures. I only focus on their unique approach to ‘knowing’ and their experiences with belonging to the knowledgeable ruling elite.1

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Feudal Society Bureaucracy, Social Inequality and the Elite Culture Traditionally, Chinese society was divided into four classes: scholars and gentry (including officials), farmers, craftsmen and merchants. An official was always a scholar. To be an official, one had to pass the civil service examinations, which tested a candidate’s knowledge of the Classics and ability to govern according to Confucian standards. The higher the rank obtained in the imperial examinations, the higher the post, meaning, the closer to the emperor, and the more power. However, the great majority of scholars successful in the examinations remained unemployed. Still, scholars were a privileged class. The most important privileges included freedom from manual public service and from (household) chores, freedom from corporal punishment, and receiving stipends (Weber 1964, 129). The emperor, belonging to the highest social class, had absolute power and was assisted by these local officials and military commanders (Hucker 1985, 83). Their duties and powers overlapped, so that no official, whether in the provinces or in the capital, could enjoy independent political power. Until the end of the Qing dynasty (1644–1912), Chinese society was organized according to these four distinct social, or rather occupational, classes that constituted the Confucian societal division for maintaining social order. In principle, the status of scholar was not hereditary, and from the Han dynasty (206 BC–220 AD) onwards, when Confucianism became the state doctrine, the examinations were officially open to all male subjects not originating from an artisan or merchant class. This implied that in theory, farmers could also acquire the status of scholar. Although being wealthy or having a noble status was not a prerequisite in receiving a recommendation for entry to the examinations, in practice however, considering the difficult subject matter and the time-consuming study requirements, it was very rare for someone of a labouring, non-aristocratic background such as a farmer to achieve a high rank.2 Weber (1964, 116) adds to this that “it is highly probable that literary education, perhaps with a few exceptions, was at first actually, and perhaps also legally, monopolized by ‘the great families’.”

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Indeed, in this bureaucratic system, official promotion was—apart from one’s qualifications, talents and achievements—also based on age, prestige and credentials. This relates to what Rankin et al. (1986, 29– 39) call a second interesting social division overlapping the horizontal class structure with its extreme differences of wealth. According to them, there was an additional important vertical organization of society, based on kinship and locality. Especially in Central and South China, extended family or clan lineages were a major form of social organization. As the authors argue, these extended family ties enhanced the security and continuity of elite families and provided services and opportunities for poorer lineage members. In other words, “one’s position in society was as much dependent on what lineage one belonged to, as on one’s economic and occupational status” (p. 30). Still, however flexible social mobility theoretically was, high social status remained largely the preserve of either the wealthy able to afford study-leave and tutors or to buy a degree, or the well-connected families with a high degree of influence and connections within the wider family. This situation ultimately led to widespread corruption by wealthy individuals buying scholarly degrees and, hence, entry to officialdom, or bribing within one’s network in return for an official post or to have legal and official matters arranged to one’s benefit. No matter to which class one belonged, the reality was that the whole of society was ruled by a very small minority of the population: the imperial family, officials, degree holders, landlords and rich merchants (who might have bought a degree). This system of social stratification rooted in Confucian hierarchic, bureaucratic and patriarchic thinking was in first instance linked to the idea of the ‘big unification’ (da yi tong 大一统). This centralized idea of unification only cherished one kind of right behaviour, and left no room for dissident behaviour, certainly not among the lower in rank, that is, the bulk of the population. Everything that did not fit into the idea of unification was ignored or—sometimes violently—excluded. A well-known example of this is the impressive book inquisition under the Qianlong Emperor during the 1770s. Despite the relative social stability, the Qianlong Emperor—being a ‘barbarian’ (Manchu) himself—still

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feared Ming loyalism under the intellectuals, and all books with disrespectful references to Manchus were put on an index, banned and burned (Pohl 1990, 5). In other words, despite the privileges, being/becoming an official required hard work to maintain protection of the clan and the emperor, and there was always a fragile balance between taking care of the needs of the family-clan and not falling out of grace. Li Shaolong (2005), Professor at the College of History at Nankai University, elaborately discusses the emergence of what he calls “the nande hutu thought” in Chinese society from the sociopolitical perspective in feudal China.3 He explains that a high price must be paid during this process of maintaining an office, identity and status. The most important thing was to properly manage personal relationships, that is, “talk empty phrases, don’t have many real accomplishments, feign muddledness, don’t stir up trouble, don’t seek achievement, just avoid mistakes, first preserve your salary and rank, then work to get ahead, advance in rank, and benefit your descendants” (S. Li 2005, 75; transl. in Matthyssen 2015, 46). He further wittily describes this with the expression ‘after lasting for many years, the daughter-in-law becomes the mother-in-law’ 千年的媳妇熬 成婆 (p. 75): those who suffer will one day get their chance.

Role Modelling and Official Morality The real fundaments of Chinese feudal society lie in the early agricultural beginnings of the (extended) family system. Confucius appointed the family unit or clan (jia 家) as the primary role model for interpersonal relations and for all public behaviour. The family and in particular the five principal relationships of ruler-subject, father-son, husbandwife, elder brother-younger brother and friend-friend became the model behaviour patterns that were described in the ritual action (li). Consequently, greater society was also modelled on the family unit, with the emperor as the father (a role that in contemporary society has been taken over by the Chinese Communist Party). This is reflected in the expression for the ultimate sovereign as the ‘father-mother of the people’ 民之 父母. This model, together with the strong emphasis on respect for the elderly, caused ancient Chinese society to be overwhelmingly patriarchal

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and hierarchic. The hierarchy started with the emperor as the ruler of heaven, possessing the mandate of heaven to rule (tianming wangquan 天命王权). The basic assumption was that the emperor himself was a self-cultivated person with supposedly high moral integrity, a concept well known as the ideal of the Confucian ‘exemplary person’ (junzi) who embodies the virtue of benevolence (ren 仁)4 or “communal humanity” (Sigurðsson 2015) and acts in accordance with ritual propriety (li). As a consequence, the emperor could also lose his mandate of heaven (his legitimacy) when the nation was in decline and chaos ruled, which in practice often initiated a new dynasty. On the lower levels, the relatively highest in position—the senior, husband, father, teacher, higher in rank—decided everything, but was also held responsible and to blame when things went wrong. With this family metaphor as foundation, Confucian society was characterized by a holistic part-whole structure. In this structure, the parts are the individuals, and the whole is a certain social relationship an individual has with a greater construct. This greater construct can be the family in narrow sense, the family in larger sense, a community or society as a whole. Consequently, each part is by definition part of something else, and that ‘something else’ is, in turn, also part of something still bigger. As such, the relation of the part to the whole is not a single line of relationship, but a whole bundle of lines. Since each of these lines represents a specific social relationship, each line is connected with a different behavioural moral code (Hansen 1985)—which is consistent with Fei Xiaotong’s (1992) visualization of social morality in overlapping concentric circles departing from the individual centre (see Chapter 2). The continuous change in moral responsibility but also power created highly ambiguous liability. On the local official level—to which Zheng Banqiao and his fellow smart officials belong—this system burdened the local magistrate with the heavy responsibility of appropriately playing different roles. One such role was—just like the emperor—being a good but strict father-mother for his people, to which the term fumuguan 父母官, ‘father-motherofficial’ attests. Although ritual action sustained by obedience and expressed in hierarchic role modelling was the most important system to guarantee social harmony and hierarchy, Confucius was also careful to

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stress the importance of benevolence (ren) over obedience in any hierarchic relation (Sundararajan 2015, 44). In his district or jurisdiction, an official’s moral integrity had to guarantee society remained stable at the local level. Another role was being a moral example for his fellow and lower in rank officials, by abiding to ritual propriety and cultivating moral integrity through self-cultivation (xiu shen). Still, other model roles were being a loyal servant to the emperor, and, most likely, also being a father who had to support his family and be a just patriarch. Losing one’s official status and disgracing the family-clan would most likely bring poverty, sorrow and misery to the entire clan.

Rule by Law From the above description of Confucian society, it should be understood that Confucian thinking does not impose by law a standard of morally correct public behaviour. In Confucian thinking, law cannot order society (no law can rule man). It is from this principle that the traditional absence of the rule of law stems (Hansen 2004, 72; Weatherley 2002). This absence of a legal system is at its core rooted in the idea that people are by nature good and that empathy is an innate quality, ideas that are most prominently discussed by the Confucian moral philosopher Mencius. To develop their virtues (de), people need ritual propriety (li) and moral examples through which they will abide to these rituals, instead of compelling laws. Thus, from a Confucian point of view, social order is dependent on everyone’s responsibility to develop social virtue through self-cultivation and following/being the role model. The underlying rationale is that if people are ruled by virtue and guided by social etiquette, they will have a sense of shame (xiuchi 羞耻)5 and behave themselves (see, e.g., Lunyu 2, 3 and 13, 6). Consequently, absolute laws are incompatible with the aforementioned individualized, contextual nature of relationships, and changing (moral) roles in a society were aimed at harmony, not at equality (Weatherley 2002). The downside was that the reluctance towards formal legislation created an arbitrary process with much room for interpretation.

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There was, however, one type of law in imperial China: penal law. The existence of penal law has its roots in Legalism, a thought system that promoted rule by law, with Han Feizi 韩非子 (ca. 280–233 BC) as its proponent. As Chinese scholar Li Yi (2005, 31) argues, from the Han dynasty on, Confucianism was the state ideology, but by no means did the Chinese elite abandon Legalism and the right to rule by punishment. This is what is often referred to as ‘Confucianism on the surface but Legalism on the inside’ (yang ru yin fa 阳儒阴法).6 Still, even penal law was not codified and thus open to interpretation by local magistrates’ understanding of Confucian rites and historical precedents. Justice was made even more arbitrary because these officials were at the same time detectives, judge and jury. In such an arbitrary society with absolute power for the almighty ruler (emperor, local official, elderly, father) and no protection by the rule of law, the only self-protection was by strictly conforming to the role models prescribed for one’s social class, sex, age and position, and by not openly venting criticism. This society characterized by inequality, corruption, arbitrariness and lack of a rule of law created a culture of fear and oppression for the less fortunate common people and caused people to prefer to deliberately blur reality, and adopt a confused or ignorant, self-effacing and resigned attitude (S. Li 2005). However, as I discussed above, not only for the poor and uneducated this system was oppressive and demoralizing. Also the elite officials—especially those who were clear and sharp-tongued— suffered. On the one hand, they were supposed to be a role model for their subordinates and represent social morality and virtue. Often, however, the group of local scholar-gentry occupied a highly privileged position and thus could both afford the freedom for corrupt practices to develop and engage themselves in all kinds of practices of power abuse. On the other hand, the scholar-officials themselves—and by extension all literati—had to be careful not to fall in disgrace with the emperor and other higher authorities. In other words, knowledge was beneficial and useful as long as it served the purpose of order in the family, the society and the nation. While many of these scholar-officials felt highly indignant about such corrupt and humiliating practices, they would keep silent out of fear for repercussions and the consequences for their familyclan of their speaking out, or use indirect means such as works of art

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to vent their discontent and sorrow. In doing so, most of these officials were successful and managed to keep their posts and status. But for those who could not or refused to strategically pretend to be ignorant, success did not come, or was temporary. They finally let go of their lofty Confucian ideals and left officialdom to live a life with also a healthy dose of pretended ignorance, but with more peace of mind. Zheng Banqiao was one of them.

Zheng Banqiao, the Eccentric Studying Zheng Banqiao is a very pleasant endeavour. As a multi-faceted and contradictory personality, Zheng Banqiao occupies several positions in the Chinese appreciation, ranging from role model of the incorruptible official in the early Qing dynasty to popular TV personality in contemporary China.7 I even came across studies investigating Zheng’s affinity with the concept of the ‘people as foundation’ and ‘humanistic’ disposition, discussing his ideal of the ‘farmers as foundation,’ or using his Family Letters to demonstrate he was an eco-socialist avant la lettre (e.g. Tai 2007). Contrary to the contemporary popular sources, reliable academic research on Zheng Banqiao and his calligraphy is rather limited, and almost exclusively Chinese, apart from Karl-Heinz Pohl’s (1990) excellent in-depth investigation. Moreover, the existing studies are mainly biased towards his artistic qualities. As an accomplished poet, painter and calligrapher, he is probably best known as the most eccentric (guai 怪) member of the artistic group of ‘Eight Eccentrics of Yangzhou’ (Yangzhou Ba Guai 扬州八怪), in artistic spheres also known as the ‘Yangzhou School.’ Ranging from academic, aesthetic and popular studies, to anecdotes and folk stories, the various sources all highlight his honest and upright character, and at the same time his flamboyant, rebellious and contradictory side. As it was the artistic—though for the most critical also forced upon—tradition of the scholar-literatus to express one’s character, thoughts and emotions in the artistic product (calligraphy, poem, painting) (Pohl 1990, 30), Zheng Banqiao’s works of art are an accurate

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reflection of his inner life. In order to get a nuanced understanding of his famous calligraphy Nande hutu, this section will first explore Zheng Banqiao’s life, aspirations and motivations, including some of the highs and lows of his career as an official at the particular socio-historical background.8

From Artist to Official, and Back to Artist Zheng Banqiao (his penname, meaning Zheng ‘Wooden Bridge’) was born in 1693 and died of illness aged seventy-three. He is also known under his given name Zheng Xie 郑燮, ‘Zheng the Harmonizer.’ His style name was Kerou 克柔, which translates as ‘Mildness that overcomes.’9 Zheng Banqiao lived in a complex period in Chinese history, both quite orthodox and stable with regard to social order, but unorthodox and innovative with regard to arts and literature and the cultural milieu. He lived through the reigns of the three great Qing emperors: he was born in 1693 during the reign of the Kangxi Emperor (1661–1722), lived through the Yongzheng reign (1722–1735) and died in 1765 during the government of the Qianlong Emperor (1736–1795). When he was still young, during the transition to the Manchu Qing reign, his family had strong anti-Manchu sentiments, which complicated things for him from the very beginning. Broadly speaking, Zheng Banqiao’s life was from his early childhood onwards filled with poverty, hardship, and deaths and losses of close family members including his mother and stepmother. He learnt to paint from his father at a very young age. At the age of seventeen, he was sent to Zhengzhou to study for the county examination, and in the best case later the provincial examination. This might then hopefully—as not all successful candidates managed to obtain an official post—lead to an official assignment and eventually relieve the family’s poverty. Unfortunately, this did not yet happen at that time, despite his success in the examinations. When he was twenty-four, Zheng married and moved to Yangzhou where he tried to make a living as a painter and calligrapher. As many anecdotes and also a lot of his own poems show, he became heavily

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immersed in the bohemian lifestyle that was so prominent in the city. Being by nature an unrestrained, unconventional and fun-loving person, this kind of atmosphere was difficult for him to resist. In those years, he often used the terms luotuo 落拓, ‘unconventional, unrestrained by convention’ and fengliu 风流, ‘free-spirited, talented in letters and unconventional in life style’ in his writings (Pohl 1990, 36). Especially his early poems are full of the joys, but also sorrows, of the poor scholar and artist. However, his financial situation did not actually allow him an overly decadent lifestyle; he had a wife, two daughters and one son to support. But he was young and careless and could—at least to a certain extent— still rely on financial support of his father (Pohl 1990, 35–36). It was only when his father died (in 1722, he was 30 then), and two years later also his six-year-old son died of hunger and cold, that Zheng finally decided to take more responsibility for his remaining family. He started teaching again and additionally sold his paintings, which was quite unusual (and disgracing) for artists in those times (Qin 2004, 10). In all those years, he had not been interested in pursuing an official career, probably because he was too attached to his freedom as a poor scholar and artist. Moreover, in his family, there was a tradition of refusing to serve the Qing Manchu rulers. However, the hardships and poverty he and his family had to endure had become unbearable and forced him to reconcile with the Manchu rule. He decided to put his talents to good use and work in a responsible and meaningful way within society. In other words, he—as we will see further, only temporarily—put aside his natural inclination towards nonconformity and a free lifestyle in order to serve the people (Pohl 1990, 37–41). After finally obtaining the highest possible degree in the imperial examinations, he became county magistrate in Weixian in Shandong Province, where he served as an official until 1753. Chinese feudal society at that time was still based on the Confucian building stones: hierarchical, bureaucratic and patriarchal. As I explained in the previous section, although the Confucian ideal was to serve the people and set the right example as an official, officialdom was probably the most corrupt of all layers in society. Zheng greatly surpassed his corrupt colleagues and superiors as well as the rich people in showing

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great concern with the poor and underprivileged in his county, and in general with all the little in power and lower in position. One of the anecdotes testifying to this integrity and concern for the people, but also to his independent and rebellious character, took place in the first and second year that Zheng served in Weixian. The county experienced a disastrous drought, resulting in mass starvation and mass migration of the entire population. Zheng adopted some unusual measures to alleviate the catastrophic conditions in his county. For instance, during a hunger period, he called on the starving people from far and near to do work in exchange for food. He ordered the wealthy families of the town to open their kitchens on a rotating basis to feed the hungry. He also assumed responsibility over the stored grain in the granaries and sold the grain for a cheaper price. While administering a relief programme, he kept a record of those who ‘borrowed’ grain and ordered the people to write out receipts as bonds for later repayment. However, when he left his post in Weixian upon his so-called retirement, he burnt these receipts, releasing the poor from their commitments (Pohl 1990, 45). Other stories and biographies depict him as a courageous defender of the weak, always in conflict with his superiors and never subservient to any higher-ranking officials. Indeed, apart from having strong feelings of sympathy for the poor and powerless, over time he felt increasing resentment towards officials and scholars in general. He also strongly opposed the four divisions of Confucian society made up of scholars, farmers, artisans and merchants (Matthyssen 2013). Many of his own writings show how indignant and disappointed he was about scholars in general, and more in particular about those who were official. His resentment reached a climax during a catastrophic famine in Shandong, when he decided to open up the imperial grain store for the hungry. After again receiving strong opposition from his superiors, he finally retired from office to write and paint in Yangzhou10 rather than to compromise his integrity.11 He lived the rest of his life being the witty, unconventional artist he always had been, still engaging with people of all layers of society and caring for the poor and powerless,12 and as many anecdotes and his own poems illustrate, also still mocking with everything he felt indignant about. For instance,

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he would refuse to sell paintings to people he despised, such as rich merchants. One anecdote in particular is interesting to show how little he cared about what people thought of him, and how sharply and creatively he ridiculed the conventional. It was the tradition that a genuine scholarartist did not paint on demand for money but made art as a present or for himself to keep. It was disgracing and ‘unorthodox’ for such artists to set themselves up with commercial intent. It seems a lot of his contemporaries did use their art not just to make a living (as he had done himself in his younger years), but to become rich, which afforded them an abundant lifestyle in an affluent city such as Yangzhou. In his later years, he daringly published a pricelist for his paintings. William Henry Scott (1964, 11) cites the following words by Zheng Banqiao: “If you present cold, harsh cash, then my heart swells with joy and everything I write or paint is excellent. […] Honeyed talk of old friendships and past companions is only the autumn wind blowing past my ear.” Moreover, the postscript to the pricelist mentions: “Written in 1759 on the advice of Monk Cho-kung who suggested that I should decline visitors” (Pohl 1990, 59). As this amusing anecdote hints at, Zheng might just have wanted to make it clear that he did not want to live up to obligations. Some anecdotes also recall the way he left his post, taking with him only three donkeys loaded with books to illustrate how little he cared about his official title, material belongings and personal wealth compared to his books (arts and literature) (see, e.g., You 2010; Zhong 2008). But whatever the anecdotes recount, the truth is that Zheng had been at odds with officialdom to begin with, and gradually became more and more frustrated with his inability to fulfil the Confucian ideal of serving the people. As one of his later poems ‘Life of an official’ goes: After ten years the silken quilt is worn and torn, Having tasted a full turn of officialdom. Rain has past by the locust tree hall, the sky now clear as water, Just right for pouring some tea, Just right for opening a bottle of wine – And then again back to piles of books and notes. Holding court, there is always shouting and brawling, And the office servants make people to puppets.

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Can a conscientious official be just and compassionate? The wine is done, the candle burnt down, The cold is leaking through as the wind arises – How many great hopes lost. (Pohl 1990, 242)

Zheng’s Philosophy of Life Although Zheng Banqiao’s fame is partially based on his eccentricity, independent thinking and particular unconventional approach to life, one should not forget that he—as a holder of the highest possible degree in the civil service examinations—was deeply immersed in traditional Confucian learning, including the Daoist and Buddhist texts designated for the civil service examinations. At the end of his life, he characterized himself in his relation to the so-called three teachings (Daoism, Confucianism and Buddhism) as “no (Daoist) immortal, no Buddha, no (Confucian) wise man 不仙不佛不圣贤” (Qin 2004, 60). But from all his personal writings and from the historical sources, we know that Daoism, Confucianism and Buddhism had a deep influence on his lifestyle and way of thinking. In addition, the three teachings had been a major topic of intellectual debate in the late Ming, and this intellectual discussion certainly left its marks on the knowledgeable scholar.13 Educated as a Confucian scholar, Zheng Banqiao’s knowledge and ideals were deeply rooted in the Confucian ethics externalized in ritual propriety (li) and the structure of society. Moral virtues such as loyalty (zhong 忠) to the dynasty, filial piety (or child-virtue, xiao 孝) extended to dealings with all elders and consequently also obedience to the father/ superior/ emperor, benevolence (ren) and righteousness (yi 义) were encouraged to obtain (and maintain) social harmony. Especially in his position as an official, he showed himself as a true ‘father-mother,’ and throughout his life—although rather late in his life—he turned out to be surprisingly successful in the Confucian social structure. However, his feeling of indignation towards the degenerating literati grew in parallel with his disapproval of officialdom. It was only at the age of sixty-one— the age that Confucius himself declared he “was already obedient to the ‘mandate of heaven’ (tianming )” (Lunyu 2, 4, see also Chapter 2)— that he finally stopped struggling against his fellow corrupt scholars,

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renounced his lofty ideals as an official, and left officialdom for good, to obey another ‘mandate of heaven,’ namely that of the artist in him. All his life, he was deeply troubled by his own smartness. Fortunately, Daoism and Buddhism came to his rescue. Indeed, many of Zheng’s writings are interwoven throughout with echoes of the Zhuangzi and Daodejing , and his own nickname and often used seal ‘Banqiao the Daoist’ (Banqiao Daoren 板橋道人) confirm his lifelong esteem of the Daoist philosophy of life (Matthyssen 2013). As an official, several of Zheng’s close friends were Daoist masters. Long before he assumed an official post, he already wrote poems that testify of his love for nature and natural pureness, such as the Ten Songs with Daoist Sentiments, which both express exaltation and idealization of the simple life, as well as aversion for officialdom (Zheng 2007, 26). Also in his Family Letters, Zheng frequently makes use of Daoist symbols and ideas. He also seemed to have been very fond of the Daoist ideal of ‘carefree wandering’ (xiaoyao you, also the name of a section of the Inner Chapters of the Zhuangzi)14 . Xiaoyao you metaphorically describes the state of mind of the illuminated man and depicts the ideal of spontaneity resulting from true knowledge of and actualization of one’s dao. An excerpt from his Second Letter to Brother Mo shows his concern with nature and the natural life according to the Daoist principles: What I hate most is to have caged birds; we enjoy them while they are shut up in prison. […] Now nature creates all things and nourishes them all. Even an ant or an insect comes from the combination of forces of yin and yang and the five elements. (Lin 1949, 492–493)

And a little further he continues: Generally, the enjoyment of life should come from a view regarding the universe as a park, and the rivers and streams as a pond, so that all beings can live in accordance with their nature. Great indeed is such happiness! (pp. 492–493)

This Daoist vision of a simple life close to nature undoubtedly also was an inspiration for his leaving officialdom. Or as Sundararajan (2015,

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60) explains, “With its characteristic apathy towards politics, Daoism becomes a major source of inspiration for the Confucian gentlemen who decided to make a drastic career change.” With regard to Buddhism, among Zheng’s best friends, Buddhist monks ranked very highly. As Zheng Banqiao scholar Qin Jin’gen (2004, 61) observes, just by leafing through his Collected Works, one can find many poems donated to monks, of which some describe the lifestyle and living environment of the monks, others narrate the thoughts of the monks, and still others tell about his friendship with the monks. Some of these poems cannot hide the admiration and envy Zheng had towards the simple, quiet and carefree life of monks in seclusion. It is very likely that he enjoyed his time with his befriended monks as a way to be free of the responsibilities and worries of his public life as an official. Chinese Chan (Zen) Buddhism in particular had a strong influence on Zheng Banqiao’s thinking as well as art (Jin 2001; Qin 2004; Zheng 2007). Especially the ideal of being aloof from worldly matters is very prominent in Zheng Banqiao’s later works as an official.15 Ultimately, throughout his life, Zheng Banqiao fully embodied the characteristically Chinese, threefold philosophical influence known as ‘the merging of the three teachings’ (san jiao he yi 三教合一). But his difficulty in balancing his unconventional, unruly and independent character, his inclination towards Daoist and Buddhist spirituality, and his strong belief in the Confucian ideals of righteousness and benevolence tested him severely. However, the later in his career, the more he becomes insusceptible to matters such as a successful career as a Confucian official again, and being by nature an independent, smart but sensitive thinker, the more he yearns to become free and unrestrained again. This yearning is expressed in the calligraphy Nande hutu.

Nande Hutu’s ‘Ignorance Is Bliss’ 聪明难, 糊涂难, 由聪明而转入糊涂更难。放一著, 退一步, 当下心 安, 非图后来福报也. Being smart is difficult, being muddleheaded is also difficult. But it is even more difficult to turn from being smart into a muddlehead again. Let go for

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once! Take a step back! Present peace of mind attained, no need to hope for future rewards. (Zheng Banqiao)

One clear expression of Zheng’s strong Daoist sentiments is his calligraphy Nande hutu. This is probably also one of his most often copied works.16 Still nowadays, the calligraphy can be found everywhere in China, in different sizes, forms and exposures, whereby even the seal or the author signature takes different shapes and contents (characters). One of the most frequently used author signatures is ‘Banqiao knows’ (Banqiao shi 板桥识, see Fig. 3.1), a clear sign of Zheng’s sense of irony. One of the reasons why the calligraphy has attracted (and still attracts) much attention is because Zheng Banqiao was not only eccentric in his behaviour, but also with regard to his calligraphic style, of which the calligraphy Nande hutu is a wonderful illustration (see Fig. 3.1). At first glance, the observer often experiences a strange aesthetic awareness. Even a complete layman in art might find the calligraphy neither beautiful nor appealing, and even ugly. The characters are written seemingly

Fig. 3.1 Nande hutu 难得糊涂 (author’s own picture taken in the old family house of Zheng Banqiao in Xinghua, 2009) (This image was previously published in Matthyssen, Mieke. 2015. “Zheng Banqiao’s Nande hutu and “The art of being muddleheaded” in Contemporary China.” Contemporary Chinese Thought 46 [4]: 3–25. Reprinted by permission of the publisher [Taylor & Francis Ltd., http://www.tandfonline.com])

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awkwardly and do not even represent an established calligraphic pattern or style.17 Still, as many of the people I interviewed admitted and also publicly debated, it is often the case that the longer one looks at the calligraphy, the more one starts to appreciate it, or at least, becomes intrigued by it. The awkward calligraphic style is one good explanation for this strange phenomenon, but another reason is its intriguing message.

The Story of the ‘Stupid Old Man’ Nande hutu literally translates with the mouthful ‘It is difficult to be muddleheaded.’ In the introduction, I pointed out that this English translation is not very eloquent nor revealing. We could adopt other translations for hutu, for instance ‘foolish’ or ‘stupid,’ but these are in my opinion too biased and do not make the whole more meaningful. What makes translating and understanding the four characters particularly difficult is their paradoxical logic, telling us that muddleheadedness (hutu) is hard to get by (nande), whereas we usually consider smartness to be difficult to attain. The problem really starts when one wants to incorporate the intended meaning in a translation, ideally also linked at an existing saying that can help the non-native speaker to more easily engage with its meaning. That is, when you leave its literal translation in an effort to translate the full meaning. This is exactly what happens in many of the Chinese-English dictionary entries and even more so on Chinese blogs, where both Chinese people and foreigners extensively debate the best translation. Some such attempts are ‘Ambiguity is gold,’ ‘Enjoy the state of mind of silliness,’ ‘A fool’s paradise,’ ‘I wish I were smart enough to play the fool,’ ‘No man is wise at all times’ and even ‘The comedy of errors.’ The most common English dictionary translation (presumably also the most copied) that also matches with an English saying is ‘Where ignorance is bliss, it is folly to be wise.’ This translation implies the idea of what one does not know, cannot hurt. Still, whenever trying to squeeze an interpretation in a translation, one risks leaving no room for other interpretations, which is precisely what Nande hutu aims at. So how should we interpret these four characters?

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A review of the most important works on Zheng Banqiao18 reveals that—as is common among artists—he himself did not document an interpretation of Nande hutu. This is even today reflected not only in the surprisingly many Chinese web-based discussions trying to uncover the underlying message19 , but also in the attempts of Chinese scholars from different, non-artistic fields that engage with the saying. In what follows, I will basically follow their approach: firstly, going back to the moment and circumstances of creation, and secondly, investigating Zheng Banqiao’s postscript to his calligraphy, which luckily is much longer than just four characters. Many anecdotes retell the background story of the calligraphy, of which variations more or less describe the same story (see, e.g., Qin 2004; Su 2006; Zhu 2003). The story recounts how Zheng Banqiao often went out to the countryside disguised as a common person, to get to know the real living circumstances of ordinary people, and to connect with them. At one such outing to the Yunfeng Mountains, it became too late to return home, and he got shelter from an old man who called himself ‘the stupid old man’ (hutu laoren 糊涂老人). The two men got into a lively conversation, during which Zheng Banqiao realized by his way of speaking—which was far from ordinary—that this man was highly cultured and certainly not the ‘stupid (hutu) old man’ that he pretended to be. In his room, an inkstone as big as a table was displayed. The old man invited him to write something as a memento. Zheng Banqiao was deeply touched by the rare, exquisite manners of this ‘stupid old man’ and wrote: Nande hutu, signing with his high official seal. He then asked the old man to write something in reply. The old man wrote: Obtaining a beautiful stone is difficult; obtaining a rough stone is particularly difficult; but turning a beautiful stone into a rough stone is even more difficult. Beauty on the inside, roughness on the outside. Hiding in the hut of the recluse rather than entering a rich man’s door. 得美石难, 得顽石尤难, 由美石转入顽石更难. 美于中, 顽于外, 藏 野人之庐, 不入富贵之门也. (Su 2006)

From the seal the old man used, Zheng finally realized that this old man was an official who—just like him—had obtained the highest

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degree in the imperial examinations, but who, with purposely using this strange name, meant to say that he was fed up with officialdom, and therefore had voluntarily withdrawn from public life. As there was still place left to write, he wrote a postscript parallel to the sentence structure of the ‘stupid old man’: Being smart is difficult, being muddleheaded is also difficult. But it is even more difficult to turn from being smart into a muddlehead again. Let go for once! Take a step back! Present peace of mind attained, no need to hope for future rewards. 聪明难, 糊涂难, 由聪明而转入糊涂更难. 放一着, 退一步, 当下安 心,非图后来报也. (Su 2006)

Although it is not known with certainty whether or not this is the true story behind the calligraphy and Zheng Banqiao’s motivation to write it,20 its beauty and poetry are too meaningful to ignore. Especially, the ‘rough stone’ as the counterpart of hutu plays a crucial role. Taking into consideration its symbolic meaning in two of the most famous novels in Chinese literature, the Story of the stone, better known as The dream of the red chamber (Hongloumeng 红楼梦), and the Journey to the West (Xiyouji 西游记) which would lead us too far into Chinese literature and linguistics,21 I will here only briefly discuss the semantic meaning of the character ‘rough,’ wan 顽. Wan means hard and unyielding, and, interestingly enough, also ‘stupid’ as ‘thick-headed.’ Wanshi 顽石 literally means ‘rough stone’ and might therefore refer to precious stones such as the hardest of all, the diamond. But a rough stone, however strong and of high quality it may be, does not look beautiful on the outside. What is more, turning a beautiful, carved stone into a stronger, but rough and uncarved stone again is not easy. One of my colleagues, a university teacher in Chinese literature, suggested that meishi 美石 can allude to officials, whereas wanshi might mean someone with a strong and ‘pure’ character, stubbornly following his own path. The character wan indeed also means stubborn, in the sense of insensitive and impercipient (Personal communication, 11 February 2011, Ghent). As such, wanshi can refer to having an unyielding heart-mind, indicating a stable person who does not just follow every opportunity that comes his way,

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and is not corrupted. Wan also has a connotation of ‘striving for selfimprovement and staying unyielding 自强不屈.’ In this meaning, it alludes to the first hexagram of the Book of Changes, qian 乾 ‘heaven,’ whose symbol is explained as “the power of the celestial forces in motion, wherewith the Superior Man labours unceasingly to strengthen his own character” (Blofeld 1986, 85). Wanshi thus alludes to being both strong and upright inside, and to being stubborn and independent. Very plausible is also a direct relation between the ‘stupid old man’s use of the wanshi and the Daoist idea of the uncarved stone, which represents the pure, natural and ‘uncivilized’ state of the cosmos where nothing is lacking before people started to ‘carve’ the undifferentiated whole in social ranks and desirable moral behaviour, herewith alluding to Lord Hundun. Thus, Zheng Banqiao’s hutu might be associated with the Daoist uncarved stone symbolizing creativity, and with the stubborn and upright but also independent official that longs to become a recluse, but for some reason finds himself inhibited to do so. So far, this story helps us a little further in our understanding why Zheng Banqiao wrote the calligraphy. The postscript will help us even further.

The Dialectics of Being Smart and Muddleheaded Being smart is difficult, being muddleheaded is also difficult. But it is even more difficult to turn from being smart into muddleheaded again. 聪明难, 糊涂难, 由聪明而转入糊涂更难.

The first striking observation when reading the above postscript is the word play and the paradoxical use of smart (congming 聪明)22 and muddleheaded, hutu. As I explained in Chapter 2, the juxtaposition of two opposing concepts is quite common in Daoist rhetoric and philosophy and in Chinese discourse in general. It reflects the fundamentals of yin-yang philosophy, the interaction between yin and yang as two complementary qualities that constantly blend into each other, as such expressing the vague sphere between black and white and right and wrong, a sphere that comes closer to reality or ‘the truth’ than the strict

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(Western) dichotomy does. As also Pohl (2007) observes, this particular calligraphy does express a bizarre paradox: although it is generally considered to be hard to attain smartness and intelligence, the saying turns the generally accepted order upside down: not intelligence but ‘foolishness’ is difficult to attain. In fact, not long after Zheng Banqiao wrote the calligraphy, one of Zheng Banqiao’s near contemporaries, the calligrapher Qian Yong 钱泳 (1759–1844) who was familiar with the historical background and societal context, lucidly explained in one of his writings how to understand his fellow artist’s calligraphy: Zheng Banqiao once wrote a four-letter motto called Nande hutu, precisely the words of an extreme smart person. So-called hutu people are rarely smart, and for smart people it is also difficult to be hutu. Since hutu functions as a way of conducting oneself in society and at the same time preserve one’s integrity, a smart person needs a bit of hutu in being smart. If a person is simply smart, then he creates thistles and thorns, and will certainly attract resentment and blame. A person should, on the contrary, better use the magical function of being hutu. (quoted in Dang 2007; Liu and Huang 2005; Wang 2007).

Around 100 years later, famous linguist and philosopher Lin Yutang (2005 [1942]) explains the same paradox in his article The smartness of the Chinese people as follows: In ancient China, smartness and muddleheadedness were one of the same complex, and when talking about the use of ‘smartness,’ apart from pretending to be muddleheaded, it is not worth going after it. This is the smartness of ‘smartness obliterating smartness.’ The discussion of the syncretism of smartness and muddleheadedness is precisely the discussion on the highest smartness.

Lin (2005 [1942]) continues by contending that because Chinese people understand that smartness does not bring you any further if you do not use it wisely, and because they understand that doing/being is ultimately the same as not doing/not being, they adopt this particular attitude about smartness and muddleheadedness. Contemporary

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scholar Li Shaolong explains this as follows: Zheng Banqiao’s smartness contains an active contemplation of, and an enterprising spirit towards life, nature and society, and his muddleheadedness is required for dealing with the kind of suffering, hesitation, helplessness and sorrow that inevitably comes with this smartness (S. Li 2005, 71). In other words, from a Chinese perception, smartness and muddleheadedness are complimentary; they both belong to the realm of real wisdom.

“Being Smart Is Difficult” (Congming Nan) On the one hand, people who are really smart and intelligent are generally considered to have understood the ways of the world. However, for the majority, it is hard work to become this smart in the first place. If we take Zheng Banqiao for example, it took him a long and painstaking way from poor artist to knowledgeable scholar and official (he took the first exam aged 24, and the highest exam aged 44), which was to a great extent due to his familial circumstances (poverty, many deaths in his direct and close family, see above) and political intrigue (Lei 2008). On a more psychological level, when smart people finally have obtained their ‘smartness,’ it does not always make them any happier, nor does it provide a secure, comforting life. Since real smart people are also aware of the limitations of mankind, they often become even more vulnerable, disillusioned or embittered when unable to counterbalance these limitations. In addition, especially for an upright official in a corrupt environment like Zheng Banqiao, who had a clear, idealistic view on life and was ambitious about serving the people, being smart was disappointing and painful. So, taking these perspectives into account, how can we possibly say it is easy to become smart, when, to use Li Shaolong’s (2005) words, “human thinking is limited when faced with the boundless universe and incredibly complex worlds, [and] individual power is minuscule in the face of the cruel laws of nature and society” (Transl. in Matthyssen 2015, 34–35).

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“Being Muddleheaded Is Also Difficult” (Hutu Nan) On the other hand, it is not particularly hard to passively muddle through life, nor is obtaining a muddleheaded state of mind. For instance, as the quote at the beginning of this chapter demonstrates, drinking wine—as we know from many poems and writings a favourite time-spending of many officials in feudal times—can quickly result in the desired muddled state. But even this drinking of wine as a practice of blurring reality entails hardship, as history scholar Li Qiao (1986)23 explains in his reflection on the ambiguity of the saying: Those passive components [of becoming hutu by drinking wine] were born out of the hesitancy resulting from futile struggle, discouragement, and unwillingness. They were a spiritual tonic that had the effect of drowning one’s sorrow in wine and maintaining mental balance. (Transl. in Matthyssen 2015, 29)

And as Li further elaborates, pretending to be muddleheaded and just getting by becomes very hard if you are in a position in which your own governance and execution of the law is controlled by the sacred edicts of emperors and officials at court, and below you, the people are looking to their local official to bring them wealth, and you don’t want to let down both the court and the people, let alone your own sense of right. (p. 29)

For a truthful and idealistic person like Zheng Banqiao, this muddleheaded state conflicted with his moral ideals and in the long term, urged him to renounce from officialdom.

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“But It Is Even More Difficult, to Turn from Being Smart into Muddleheaded Again” (You Congming Er Zhuanru Hutu Geng Nan) At the time of writing, Zheng Banqiao indeed had been smart enough to enter officialdom and stubbornly oppose the corrupt elements of officialdom, but at the same time he did not manage to also take a detached, hutu approach in the matter. He struggled to find a way out between his conscience and staying in office and sticking to his responsibilities as an official. This way out would have been possible in a hutu stage beyond smartness. Such a difficult to attain inner state of mind would allow for the right amount of pretended ignorance to survive in society, without doing so at the expense of his smartness (e.g., Lei 2008; Xiang 2002; Yang 2014). At the time of writing Nande hutu, Zheng did not manage to attain (nande) this state of mind; writing the calligraphy for him was an ironic cry of despair. This resonates with Lin Yutang’s further discussion of the calligraphy that although the Chinese have invented the concept of smartly pretending to be hutu, they still suffer from internal conflicts in this state of sublime smartness. As a result, it is rare to find individuals who are not only wisely hutu, but also courageous enough to take responsibility by assuming certain office, let alone to manage national affairs (Lin 2005 [1942]). Philosophically, such a perception of wise muddleheadedness or muddled smartness most prominently originates from Daoist thinking, not only formally (paradox), but also content-wise. In particular, the core influence of Nande hutu primarily comes from Laozi’s and Zhuangzi’s suggestions for a long and carefree life (S. Li 2005; Liu and Huang 2005; Pohl 2007). A philosophy professor at Fudan University explained the state of mind in which one turns from congming (smartness) into hutu using another image. According to him, the hutu that transcends congming is a way to “turn a blind eye and a deaf ear to matters.” This, however, should not be taken in the negative sense; it means literally seeing and hearing as if only your eyes have seen and your ears have heard, while your inner eyes and inner ears do not take it in, and consequently what you perceive (hear and see) does not occupy your

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mind-spirit (xinling 心灵) so that it remains free. Conversely, if you let yourself become pre-occupied by everything you see and hear, then there is no room left in your mind for imagination and inner joy (Personal communication, 23 May 2008, Shanghai). This sensory interpretation is reminiscent of Lord Hundun and his initial absence of holes (senses, knowledge, rationality, emotions), which would, once obtained, lead to his death. As I explained above, many of Zheng Banqiao’s poems and writings show that throughout his life he was particularly attracted to this Daoist ideal of a light-hearted, ‘carefree wandering’ life. His artistic expression of a difficult to obtain muddleheadedness undoubtedly echoes this predilection (S. Li 2005; Matthyssen 2013; Zheng 2007). What is equally important is the frequent references to this hutu state beyond smartness as an inner state of mind or inner realm, (xinli) jingjie (心理) 境界. This description comes in different variations as an ‘inner sphere of serenity and emotional equanimity,’ a ‘human sphere aloof from life’ and a ‘high spiritual sphere.’ The word jingjie, literally ‘boundary’ or ‘realm, state (of mind),’ is rarely used negatively, and its most common association is with an ideal mental world. Sundararajan (2015, 147) explains that the word “stems from the Buddhist notion that the world is a projection of the mind such that different states of consciousness result in different ‘mental worlds’ (jing-jie) or Visaya in Sanskrit.” And indeed, as she continues, this is not an easy to attain mental world: “The capacity for a creative or ideal mental world is supposedly a matter of attainment in spiritual development or selfcultivation on the part of the individual” (p. 147). Although jingjie certainly has an intricate and layered connotation of almost transcendent artistic creativity and consciousness, it is also common in daily language, exactly to denote a spiritual sphere that is, just as high wisdom, rare. Simply said, we could follow the suggestion of Liu and Huang (2005, 15) to replace hutu in Zheng Banqiao’s calligraphy by “high wisdom,” da zhi 大智. This would result in the following: achieving common smartness is difficult, achieving high wisdom naturally is more difficult, but being able to achieve high wisdom from the state of common smartness is even more difficult. This indeed is the core of Zheng Banqiao’s hutu:

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plain smartness is difficult enough to obtain, but transcending this smartness to a higher muddleheaded smartness is the real challenge. In the rest of the postscript, Zheng Banqiao gives us clues as to how to achieve this.

Letting Go to Obtain Peace of Mind Let go for once! Take a step back! Present peace of mind attained, no need to hope for future rewards. 放一着, 退一步. 当下心安非图后来福报也.

When Chinese scholars discuss Zheng’s advice to obtain peace of mind, they adopt slightly varying interpretations, whereas the basic meaning stays the same: intentionally distancing oneself from a matter and letting things (temporarily) take their own course is often for the best. For example, the phrase is explained as a tactic in chess, as well as in martial arts, where ‘taking a step back’ gives the opponent the impression that you are weak (and maybe even confused), in order to make this person attack you, and then, in turn, use the opponent’s own power against him or her. This idea is prominent in the influential ancient Chinese book on military strategy, The Art of War (Sunzi Bingfa 孙子兵法),24 and today often promoted for negotiation techniques in different fields of life, of which we will see a few examples in Chapter 5. With these few sentences, Zheng Banqiao indicated how to achieve the ultimate hutu state of mind: by letting go and taking a step back. In addition to the Daoist-inspired paradoxical use of congming and hutu, this again represents a common Daoist rationale. Living according to the dao consists of letting go of psychological burdens embodied in worldly ambitions such as fame and fortune, passions and all kinds of mental and emotional fixations of the moment. Precisely, such kind of deviation from one’s original nature ultimately results in disappointment, fear, anger and hate (Lei 2008). In the formulation of how to obtain peace of mind, two issues need to be addressed. The first is the precise Chinese phrasing: the obtained peace of mind is momentary (dangxia), and thus temporary, not static, nor endlessly continuing. Eternal inner peace would not be consistent with

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the Chinese worldview that everything is constantly changing, including ‘states of mind.’ Rather, this hutu state of mind provides, to use the words of Li Shaolong, a “mental rest” after which new contemplation and enterprise or action begins (S. Li 2005, 72), as in a cycle. Not only is there no guarantee for eternal inner peace; there should not even be a purposeful pursuit. This refers to the second important issue: how to let go. Liu and Huang (2005, 15–16) aptly explain that letting go for the purpose of future reward is not the true high wisdom. Also, scholar Li Qiao (1986) argues that, even when a wise person knows when to retreat and take a step back, he should do so without regard to personal gain or the eventual outcome. In other words, he should be content with the plain act itself, knowing that what one does is right, without expecting something from it. In this way, he can never be disappointed by his actions. This unpreoccupied, purposeless attitude is probably the most difficult virtue to achieve, as it requires a mindset in which one is emotionally and rationally detached and does not get absorbed by what still has to come. Such a mindset is by some linked to the particular ‘mirror’ state of mind (intelligence, smartness) described in the Zhuangzi (Chapter 7): The Perfect Man uses his mind like a mirror – going after nothing, welcoming nothing, responding but not storing. Therefore, he is able to deal successfully with things but is not affected by them. (Adapted translation from Watson 2003, 95)

One way to obtain this mental state is through the (difficult) meditation practice of ‘sitting and forgetting’ (zuowang, see Chapter 2), in which not only moral and intellectual knowledge, but even smartness as a possible guide to behaviour is discarded, in order to be able to ‘wander carefree’ (xiao yaoyou). Another, more direct and resolute way of letting go and not caring about fame and fortune is going in recluse. The fact that the old man in our background story had retreated as a hermit was not by chance, and even less unusual. Hermits or recluses have existed for thousands of years in China. Many officials in feudal China at some point in their official career got fed up with their position and voluntarily left officialdom. In some cases, they were also politically outcast

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by dishonouring or disobeying higher officials or, in the worst case, the emperor himself. Mote (1960, 203–204) even defines educated officials refusing to (further) take office and serve the state as the keystone of Chinese eremitism, and explains that hermits were esteemed very high in Chinese history (quoted in Sundararajan 2015, 60). However, wisely letting go does not necessarily imply shying away from conflicts or challenges, nor avoiding discussions about right and wrong. The road to wise muddleheadedness is not about taking such an evasive attitude—be it mentally by pretending not to know, see or hear, or physically by retreating far away from the hustle and bustle of daily life. Hutu does not indicate a state of mind exclusively attainable by remote recluses and real or pretended fools. Here, some variant of the expression da yin yin yu shi 大隐隐于市 enters the discussions. This expression could be translated as ‘Real retreat (or hiding) is retreat on the marketplace.’ The expression knows many variations, ranging from just this one sentence, to the long version ‘Major retreat is at court, mediocre retreat is at the marketplace, minor retreat is in nature 大隐隐于朝, 中隐隐于市, 小隐隐于野.’ This quote reveals that taking a step back encompasses different stages, of which retreating in a remote place far from the responsibilities and duties of society is the lowest. The real art of life is to find peace of mind in the turmoil of the mundane world, by not becoming completely absorbed by it. When it comes to officials, the highest retreat is staying in office and ‘retreat at court’ (chaoyin 朝隐). We also find this idea in Lin Yutang’s reflections on the nature of philosophy and on the real sage. According to him, contrary to the philosophy of the tramp retreating in nature as often depicted by ancient Daoist masters and the mythical Eight Immortals (Ba Xian, a group of legendary immortals revered in mostly religious Daoism) in search for immortality, Confucianism represents an opposite influence in Chinese thought. Lin Yutang explains this as follows: The logical conclusion of a thorough-going Taoist would be to go to the mountains and live as a hermit or a recluse, to imitate as far as possible the simple carefree life of the woodcutter and the fisherman, the woodcutter who is lord of the green hills and the fisherman who is the owner of the blue waters. […] Yet, it is poor philosophy that teaches us to escape

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from human society altogether. There is still a greater philosophy than this naturalism, namely, the philosophy of humanism. The highest ideal of Chinese thought is therefore a man who does not have to escape from human society and human life in order to preserve his original, happy nature. […] “The Great Recluse is the city recluse,” because he has sufficient mastery over himself not to be afraid of his surroundings. He is therefore the Great Monk (the kaoseng ) who returns to human society and eats pork and drinks wine and mixes with women, without detriment to his own soul. (Lin 2007, 108–109)

What we read here is a description of the Confucian ideal of responsible self-cultivation. A person should never renounce his moral and social obligations, even if to do so would bring peace of mind. Confucianism indeed does not think highly of the typical Daoist recluse who retreats completely from society. Feng Youlan discusses the Confucian opinion on the recluse while referring to passages in the Analects: Confucius, while travelling from state to state, met many men whom he called yin che 隐者, “those who obscure themselves’,” and described as persons who had “escaped from the world.” (Lunyu 14, 39) These recluses ridiculed Confucius for what they regarded as his vain efforts to save the world. […] To these attacks, Tzu Lu, a disciple of Confucius, once replied: “It is unrighteous to refuse to serve in office. If the regulations between old and young in family life are not to be set aside, how is it then that you set aside the duty that exists between sovereign and subject? In your desire to maintain your personal purity, you subvert the great relationship of society [the relationship between sovereign and subject].” (Lunyu 18, 7). (Feng 1997, 60)25

In other words, it was wrong and selfish to conceive of human existence apart from the concrete relationships and obligations inescapably involved in the production and sustaining of human life. To live such virtuous life, Confucian officials pragmatically developed a strategy unlike the Daoist meditative state of mind or fully retreating out of society, called ‘retreat at court.’ This retreating at court implies continuous involvement in life and active moral cultivation in challenging circumstances. Li Shaolong (2005, 73) explains this strategy as a mindset

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in which the body and the heart-mind function at different levels, as in “my body resides in the mountain forest; my heart within the imperial gates,” and the other way around, “my body is at court; my mind in the mountain forest” (a variation on a passage in the Zhuangzi, Chapter 28). As he continues, this is the cultural mentality of—here using a passage from Mencius—combining ‘taking responsibility for the world’ (jianji tianxia 兼济天下) with a kind of self-perfection in which one pays attention to one’s own moral uplift without thought of others, and is righteous alone in a community where the general moral tone is low (p. 73). A professor of sociology at Beijing University appropriately summarized Nande hutu’s wisdom of letting go as follows: “The background philosophy of Nande hutu urges one to involve oneself in human society (ru shi 入世), and not to be above worldly considerations (chu shi 出 世)” (Personal communication, 29 September 2008, Beijing). It should not surprise us that ‘to involve oneself in human society’ (ru shi) is often associated with Confucianism and ‘to be above worldly considerations’ (chu shi) with Daoism; Confucianism promotes life as active participation in society, whereas Daoism embraces a life not pre-occupied with worldly matters. To demonstrate the official’s art of not knowing in practice, I turn to two predecessors of Zheng Banqiao that he—as we know from his writings—admired a lot.

Tao Yuanming, the Lover of Life The perfect incarnation of the sage who combined both social responsibility with a deep but light-hearted love of life, who knew when and where to retreat in conflicts, and in doing so kept peace of mind is Tao Yuanming 陶渊明 (365?–427). Later in his life, he gave himself the name Tao Qian 陶潜, or ‘Tao the Hidden.’ Many of the allusions to him in Zheng Banqiao’s writings show his admiration for Tao Yuanming. The other way around, Tao Yuanming is also the historical figure with whom Zheng Banqiao is frequently associated in both academic and popular discourse.

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Tao Yuanming lived towards the end of the Eastern Jin dynasty (317– 420), when Northern China was under non-Chinese rule. We have little hard data on his life. The traditional biographies are apocryphal and dwell on his legendary aspects. However, his own essays and poetry confirm what we know from the biographies. Already at a very young age, he was torn between ambition and a desire to retreat into solitude. He served in several minor official posts during his lifetime, but never rose to any high position. His last post was that of (lower) county magistrate not far from his native town. He was not happy in his post and dissatisfied with the corruption of the Jin Court, which in 405 prompted him to resign (Tian 2005, 5–6). The real reason for his retreat was his general refusal to bow to powerful but corrupt officials just for the sake of convenience, position and material gain. Indeed, in rejecting office, he also rejected the only source of wealth available to a member of his class, and without a large inheritance, he made a living as a farmer (Paper 1995, 167). However, although Tao Yuanming was extremely wary of company, he did not leave officialdom to live in complete seclusion; he went to live the plain farmer’s life together with his family, simple and humble, living in communion with the poor, enjoying good wine and the beauty of nature and poetry. He did not even hold any grudges nor had become bitter, and apparently even kept up his friendships with local and court officials, drinking and exchanging poetry with them (Tian 2005, 6). Lin Yutang explains that this is the Tao Yuanming so beloved among Chinese people: a righteous official who left officialdom without completely renouncing worldly occupations and without becoming embittered. What he tried to escape was politics rather than life—and its pleasures and worries—itself: Of the earth and earth-born, his conclusion was not to escape [from life], but “to go forth alone on a bright morning, or perhaps, planting his cane, begin to pluck the weeds and till the ground.” T’ao merely returned to the farm and to his family. The end was harmony and not rebellion. (Lin 2007, 117–118)

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One of the most well-known images of him is the Song painting Three Laughs at the Tiger Stream, where he is depicted as representative of official live next to a Daoist master and a Zen Buddhist Monk. As a Confucian scholar, Tao Yuanming was deeply immersed in the three teachings, but Zhuangzi, known for his preference for a plain life close to nature and far from fame and gain, was his favourite philosopher. It should not surprise us that Tao—like many of his fellow scholarofficials—is also known for drinking a lot, to which his famous series of poems ‘Drinking wine’ testify. In these poems, he reflects on the beauty of life far away from officialdom, but also on the duplicity of life. For instance, in his sixth poem, he brings up the difficulty of telling right from wrong, especially when times are bad, and people praise or blame according to what is believed by the majority. But, as Verdicchio (2017, 60) explains, “this is not the case with the intelligent man, or with the ‘men of understanding’, [who] abstain from passing judgment, and withdraw rather than accept compromise.” The fifth poem, in which Tao Yuanming describes his philosophy of retreating, is the most famous: I built my hut beside a travelled road. Yet hear no noise of passing carts and horses. You would like to know how it is done? With the mind detached, one’s place becomes remote. Picking chrysanthemums by the eastern hedge I catch sight of the distant southern hills: The mountain air is lovely as the sun sets And flocks of flying birds return together. In these things is a fundamental truth I would like to tell, but lack the words. (Verdicchio 2017, 60)

Obviously, these few lines convey the detachment and repose of the great recluse, who feels no need to live far away from the crowds; to him, the simple act of gathering chrysanthemums—not a complicated experience—can transport him far away to the southern hills and experience ‘truth’ (nature) in a natural, not reasoned way. In doing so, he finds meaning and peace of mind. As Verdicchio (2017, 60) further reflects on this:

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This fundamental truth is very simple and cannot be expressed in words, but not because of any failure on the poet’s part. This is a truth that all poetry conveys and every sympathetic reader understands it. It is not a doctrine like Confucius’, written in words that men learn by heart in order to be guided by them. It is a poetic truth that cannot be taught, but only intuited.

Su Dongpo, Victim of His Own Smartness Around 700 years after Tao Yuanming, and 700 years before Zheng Banqiao, the perfect example of the sage fool who was also more or less forced to retreat from office was Northern Song (960–1126) poet Su Shi 苏轼 (1037–1101). He is also known through his literary name, Su Dongpo 苏东坡, ‘Su from the Eastern Slope,’ named after the plots of land he farmed after his banishment to Hangzhou. Remembered today primarily as a poet, calligrapher and critic, the protean Su Shi was an outspoken player in contentious politics and intellectual debates of his times. A member of a literary family, the young Su performed brilliantly in the official examinations and quite spectacularly got the highest official’s degree at the age of nineteen. He occupied many official positions during his long and distinguished career. As an official and an excellent statesman, he was popular with the common people of the various provinces in which he served. But, just like Zheng Banqiao, he had an independent and rebellious character, and sometimes encountered criticism from the frequently changing heads of state. He in particular was in conflict with the political faction headed by Wang Anshi 王安石 (1021–1086). When he wrote a poem criticizing Wang Anshi’s radical reform measures, especially the government monopoly imposed on the salt industry, he was banished (Su 2003, 11–18). However, despite his five-year banishment, Su—just like Tao Yuanming, who was his favourite poet—did not become rancorous, but remained friendly towards Wang Anshi, with whom he later exchanged poems. Also, the poems themselves in his first long exile hardly show a trace of bitterness and almost no reference to anything outside immediate concerns of the crops and society on the Eastern Slope (Egan 1994, 232).

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Su demonstrated this same optimism and lack of indignation when he was later banished by other forces to the remote Hainan Island in 1094. Shortly before his death, he was allowed to return to the mainland and was restored to favour and office. Su Dongpo is often considered the best representative of ‘retreat at court.’ Li Qiao illustrates Su’s cultural mindset with the quote “Exemplary persons recognize opportunities, whereas men of comprehension (those who understand) know fate 君子见机, 达人知命,” taken from Tang dynasty’s Wang Bo’s 王勃 (650–676) famous poem ‘Preface to Prince Teng’s Pavilion’ (Li 1986). Su certainly was—just as Zheng Banqiao and Tao Yuanming—a representative of the ‘merging of the three teachings’ (san jiao he yi). However, as Burton Watson explains and speaks for the bulk of these artists-officials: The Confucian side of his thinking is less apparent in his poetry than in his political papers and his life as a whole. His strong family devotion, his choice for a career in politics, the fearlessness with which he spoke out against abuses in government, the numerous public works for the benefit of the local inhabitants that he undertook at his various provincial posts. In his poetry, it is rather the Buddhist and Taoist aspects of his thinking that find expression. (Su 1965, 10)

In other words, Daoism for his inner mental life, and Confucianism for his public engagement. His inclination to a Daoist worldview is also apparent from his famous story of the blind man who wanted to see the sun, in which he favours intuitive knowledge over analytical knowledge. The story is called ‘Truth is harder to see than the sun’ and goes as follows: There was a man born blind. He had never seen the sun and asked about it to people who could see. Someone told him, “The sun’s shape is like a brass tray.” The blind man struck the brass tray and heard its sound. Later when he heard the sound of a bell, he thought it was the sun. Again someone told him, “The sunlight is like that of a candle,” and the blind man felt the candle, and thought that was the sun’s shape. Later he felt a [big] key and thought it was the sun. The truth [Tao] is harder to see than the sun, and when people do not know it, they are exactly like the

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old man. Even if you do your best to explain by analogies and examples, it still appears like the analogy of the brass tray and the candle. From what is said of the brass tray, one imagines a bell, and from what is said about the candle, one imagines a key. In this way, one gets even further and further away from the truth. (Lin 1963, 387)

Consistent with the early Daoists, Su Dongpo emphasizes the futility of using analogies and examples (naming and imagining) in explaining what is real and ‘true.’ A true sage understands intuitively. For our purposes, even more meaningful is the maxim generally attributed to him, da zhi ruo yu 大智若愚 , ‘Great wisdom looks like foolishness’ (in Chinese-English dictionaries also translated as ‘Still waters run deep’). Su Dongpo’s full version is ‘Those with great bravery seem to be cowardly; those with great wisdom seem to be foolish 大勇若怯, 大智若愚’ (Wu 2004, 313–316). This maxim presumably originates from a variant in Laozi’s Daodejing (Chapter 45): ‘The most straight seems to be crooked, the greatest skill seems to be clumsy 大直若屈, 大巧若拙.’ Su’s version echoes the idea of the sage fool, who abstains from judgements and comments and from taking position. As I explained in Chapter 2, this ideal of ‘wisdom as non-wisdom’ is particularly present in the Zhuangzi. In different passages (e.g. on ‘sitting and forgetting’ zuowang, and Inner Chapters 2 and 3), Zhuangzi emphasizes the uselessness of knowledge in becoming an ‘authentic person’ (zhenren) or the ultimate Daoist sage. With regard to the meaning of yu 愚 as ‘foolish,’ it is important to note that yu, although sometimes translated as ‘ignorant’ in the sense of simplicity and naivety, cannot be compared with the yu of a child, nor of ‘common people.’ Feng Youlan (1997, 103) comments on this as follows: The yu of the sage is the result of a conscious process of cultivation. It is something higher than knowledge, something more, not less. […] The yu of the sage is great wisdom, and not the yu of a child or of ordinary people. The latter kind of yu is a gift of nature, while that of the sage is an achievement of the spirit.

This seems to perfectly convey the meaning of hutu in Nande hutu. As a kind of muddleheadedness which transcends smartness and is very

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different from childhood innocence, hutu is an emotional, intellectual and rational quality related to experience. Su Dongpo was also very aware of, or should we say, had learned the hard way, the two sides of the smartness-coin. One of his most famous quotes (of which an altered version has become a popular saying, see Chapter 4) is “People all raise children to be smart. But I have been rendered a disservice by smartness all my life 人皆养子望聪明, 我被 聪明误一生.” In this saying, he clearly expresses his ambivalent relation to being smart; to him, it feels as he has become the victim of his own smartness. In the next section, I further investigate this ambivalent relation of smart people with their smartness through the lens of scholars-officials.

The Ultimate Paradox: To Be or Not to Be Smart In light of the fact that, as evidenced by the above examples, scholarofficials in feudal society struggled with their knowledge and insight into their own, others’ and society’s limitations, most contemporary scholars (e.g. Lei 2008; Li 1986; S. Li 2005; Liu and Huang 2005; Yang 2014) in one way or another present Zheng’s claim of the difficulties in achieving a hutu state of mind as a double entendre, consistent with the dialectical reasoning so typical of ancient Chinese thought. On the one hand, Zheng’s Nande hutu expresses an active and engaging ideal of moral integrity, social engagement and (moral) self-cultivation, but also a lighthearted art of living. At the same time, his ironic sigh for more peace of mind through transcending his smartness and retreating from officialdom entails a resentment against degenerated scholar-officials not properly serving the people, and a criticism of the structure of society and the inequality it creates.

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Light-Hearted Social and Moral Engagement Chinese scholars who view the notion of Nande hutu from the perspective of feudal society argue that Zheng Banqiao’s pretended muddleheadedness is a profound wisdom of life for the morally upright and socially engaging person to attain peace of mind. This positive and aspiring quality is embodied by the person of Zheng Banqiao himself. The moral principles and the philosophy of life that he exhibited during his life and in his art are very illustrative of his “(moral) ‘backbone” 骨气 (e.g. Wu 2007; Xiang 2002). This “backbone” is a metaphor for moral integrity and strength of character, but also for vigour of calligraphic strokes, two qualities that can certainly be associated with Zheng Banqiao. For Zheng Banqiao, to ‘let go and take a step back’ was his own wise attempt of dealing with the limitations of the given conditions of office. As I discussed above, the same is true for Tao Yuanming and Su Dongpo, and with them, many other officials who—forced or not—retired and went to live a simple but meaningful life close to (their) nature. They represent the smart strategy of officials in ‘the culture of retreating at court.’ That is, when in office, making the best of it by living to the full in their inner world and art, and when banned or retired, not completely renouncing worldly life and responsibilities. This is the officials’ pragmatic dealing with the moral and social responsibilities inherent to their—most of the time deliberately ambitioned—status: The life ideal of “taking responsibility for the world” is important, but a price must be paid in the pursuit of ideals. Not everyone can bear this kind of payment. What then, should we do? Live – life is the most real thing. “Why not drink fine wine and have clothes and bedding of fine silk?” “Why not ride a fast horse and get to the ford first?” Yes, why not find joy and happiness in life? That is what “smart” people think. (S. Li 2005; transl. in Matthyssen 2015, 41)

Li Shaolong (2005, 73) even more generally argues that it is exactly in this that Chinese people—from officials to common people—excel

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in: managing the discrepancy between reality and ideal/ambition, celebrating life by enjoying music, painting, calligraphy, poetry, food, architecture, travel, and even playing chess and majiang. All these aspects of life reached a highly developed, nearly artistic state, which Lin Yutang famously calls the “art of life” or the “artistic life” (Matthyssen 2015, 41). As for intellectuals, this strategy of ‘retreat at court’ can indeed be considered as a positive and active down-to-earth approach to life adopted by scholar-officials for thousands of years: Intellectuals have dreamt of the life ideal of having deep courtyards, thatched houses, libraries of books and paintings, full wine glasses, waiting servants, and welcoming children. These things full of poetic feeling and artistic meaning were easily obtained by later intellectuals through the method of “hiding at court”! During later feudal society, politically speaking, an intellectual may have been a bureaucrat and a scholar, while in life he was an “idle person,” and “artist,” or a “master with an artistic life.” He knew all life enjoyments very well, and practiced them in person – everything from material living to mental freedom. (S. Li 2005, transl. in Matthyssen 2015, 41)

According to Lin Yutang (2007, 108–109), this ‘city or court recluse’ embodies the possibility of the genuinely harmonious merging of Confucianism and Daoism: one who joyfully practices the art of life, by adopting a carefree, hutu state of mind (Daoist) while remaining socially responsible and engaging (Confucian). Obviously, such an art of living implies a wisdom that in one way or another has to be actively cultivated, and often increases with age and personal growth. Therefore, in the practice of daily life, many Chinese scholars directly relate this to the active and continuous practice of “cultivating one’s thoughts” 思想修养, as a kind of high “moral cultivation” 道德修养 (Lei 2008, 6) associated with Confucian self-cultivation. As a kind of self-management, this also includes not showing off with one’s knowledge, but practising emotion and thought control, aiming in the first place at social harmony. In other words, the ultimate aim of such self-cultivation should not be personal peace of mind, but harmony and peace in the world (‘all under heaven,’ tianxia 天下). Scholar Lei Legeng

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(2008) argues that the core meaning of Zheng Banqiao’s hutu state of mind lies concretely in the quality of maintaining sound interpersonal relations, in making concessions, in self-constraint and self-denial when it is for the benefit of others, instead of for personal good fortune, reward and peace of mind.26 However considered, when reading the advice of letting go and stepping back to obtain temporary peace of mind, one can sense the optimistic tone. Zheng Banqiao, Su Dongpo and Tao Yuanming without doubt were disillusioned in their lofty ambitions, but never lost their personal integrity nor social engagement. In this respect, Zheng’s art of not knowing contains an encouragement to cultivate such a way of living and to act above worldly limitations and concerns. As Liu and Huang (2005, 16) describe this idea: Of course, the fact that the truth is hard to understand and maintain should not prevent one from pursuing the truth. In the same way, the fact that the realm of high wisdom is difficult to reach should not prevent people from continuously pursuing this kind of realm. […] So Nande hutu – apart from being a complaint about its difficulty – also contains an encouragement. This has absolutely nothing to do with the Nande hutu as understood by those muddleheads.

With “the Nande hutu as understood by those muddleheads,” Liu and Huang refer to the passive and negative use of the saying’s wisdom of life, in which some people who do not understand its real meaning, let alone understand why it is difficult (nande), resort to the saying for their personal petty ambitions. This negative aspect will be discussed more in depth in Chapter 7 as so-called ‘immoral’ hutu practice.

Criticism and Self-Preservation Taken into consideration the above quote and Zheng Banqiao’s life, character and philosophy of life, Nande hutu also contains a complaint. Or rather, it demonstrates a strong criticism of society. The state of mind Zheng acquired as a result of all his life experiences, being angry and feeling highly indignant about the ruling corruption, yet at the same

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time being grieved and disappointed by all that had happened and— even more so—about what had not happened for the poor, is cynically reflected in his famous calligraphy. In his essay on what he coined as hutu-ism (hutu zhuyi 糊涂主义), Fourth May author and critic Lu Xun 鲁迅 (1881–1936) (1933) observed that “The four seal style characters irregularly carved can considerably represent the discontent of a celebrated scholar.” More than 70 years later, contemporary scholars still agree with Lu Xun’s comment: By using Nande hutu, Banqiao gave free vent to his complaint and criticism on society, in a hidden way satirizing and speaking sarcastically about the corrupt wind in officialdom in those days. At the same time, with this saying, he also warned himself and the future generations [not to become like that]. (Su 2006)

Also, Liu and Huang (2005, 15) describe the four characters as “concentrating feelings of bitterness, torment and helplessness. But with its ridiculing and jeering brushwork, the calligraphy at the same time plunges a sharp knife into that society.” Zheng’s situation undeniably was quite particular. Although the Yongzheng (1723–1735) and Qianlong (1735–1796) periods in the Qing dynasty are considered to be stable and prosperous periods in Chinese history, Ming loyalism was still very much feared by the successive emperors, to which the book inquisition by the Qianlong Emperor testifies. This did not stimulate a free and open atmosphere for literati and officials, and many of them remained silent for the sake of self-preservation (baohu ziji 保护自己). Pretended ignorance, or at least, not openly venting one’s real feelings and thoughts, but through works of art, functioned as a self-imposed strategy for selfpreservation. For Zheng Banqiao, Nande hutu ironically served him as a kind of self-consolation. We can indeed only understand this deeper meaning of the calligraphy if we consider the position of the so-called literati in feudal society as discussed above. Li Shaolong (2005), for instance, directly blames the bureaucratic and hierarchic society for making officials so tired in their head that they had to find ways to stay mentally and physically healthy.

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This process of lasting in office, status, and position was so hard that people were mentally incredibly fatigued by it. Faced with this kind of fatigued mental state and faced with enormous pressure from all aspects of society, anyone who wanted to succeed had to learn to relax and learn to regulate their thoughts and feelings. Otherwise, there would be great damage to their physical and mental health. Faced with this huge real need, being happy at the right time, enjoying life, enjoying nature, and an “artistic life” became the most ideal way of living. (S. Li 2005, 73, Adapted transl. from Matthyssen 2015, 46)

Most authors, however, also alert us for the negative connotation of the calligraphy. They argue that as a kind of cultural conditioning in an autocratic society where people’s margin for real action is very small, in such a world of inequality and harsh punishments, the high wisdom of pretended ignorance can easily deteriorate to self-preservation through mere “conflict avoidance,” by retreating and also genuinely becoming indifferent (Lü 2007, 224). Li Qiao uses wine as a metaphor to illustrate this phenomenon: “In general, (people) take Zheng Banqiao’s wine glass and just use it to drown their own troubles” (Li 1986, 117; Matthyssen 2015, 30). We should indeed keep in mind that the lofty, Confucian ideal of social harmony and harmony with nature (heaven) through selfcultivation and observance of rituals so well developed in philosophical concepts was never a reflection of the reality of the majority of the people. On the contrary, ordinary people were not engaged in lofty practices of self-cultivation through music, studying, calligraphy and painting. Life of the ordinary person consisted of “eating bitterness” (chi ku 吃苦, i.e. bearing hardship) due to both natural catastrophes, and political revolts, social oppression and fear. The lack of personal freedom and the feelings of powerlessness that the majority experienced contributed to the need for vagueness, fatalism and escapism as a way of coping with daily life. As a result, Nande hutu became a tried-and-true strategy for survival, a popular “survival wisdom,” but at the same time, it also lost its profound philosophical and positive meaning (S. Li 2005, 75).

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Contemporary Smart Scholar(-Official)s It should come as no surprise that these contemporary authors, who after all belong to the new, post-Mao class of scholars, like to engage with Zheng Banqiao’s wisdom. One of the reasons for this attraction is possibly because scholars in general are—and should be—attracted to complex matters, and both Zheng Banqiao and his Nande hutu certainly are complex. Another possible reason is maybe less apparent. Although the harsh feudal circumstances did see tremendous changes after the establishment of the Republic of China (ROC) in 1912, and even more after the reform period of Deng Xiaoping since 1987, Chinese society to a large extent remained the bureaucratic, hierarchic autocracy it was in feudal times. Till today, scholars in China—although not predestined to become officials as was common in feudal society through the imperial examination system—have to deal with the consequences of living in a Confucianism-based, autocratic society and its social and political rights and duties. In their position as scholars, many still feel they have the cultural, lifetime mission of “benefiting the world with the Way of Humanity” (Hwang 2012, 121) with their knowledge and readily accept the according responsibility (as I observed in interviews and in contacts with Chinese scholars). But in this autocratic system also formal obedience to state policy and to the sovereign (the state) is imperative, and censorship is still the rule, not the exception. Especially in academia, the ‘knowledge’ field par excellence that requires free and critical thinking, fear of falling out of grace is not groundless, and self-censorship is an inherent part of daily practice. Examples of academics disappearing for publications or opinions that vaguely infringe on the state legitimacy are manifold. During most of my interviews with Chinese scholars, but also when reading between the lines, I could not shake off the impression that these scholars emphasize and even identify with Zheng Banqiao’s contradictory and rebellious character and life choices, and with the profound and intricate wisdom of Nande hutu. Some of them expressed this sentiment literally, and for others, it was clear from their words and writing style. For instance, in articles about Nande hutu, authors often first take a critical stance towards feudal society and its inherent inequality, and then explain how

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scholars smartly applied the art of not knowing. As in the discussion on the passive interpretation of Nande hutu, towards the end of the article, sometimes in the last paragraph or even sentences, the same authors would argue that the art of not knowing over time has degenerated into an evasive strategy for self-preservation and selfish ambitions, unconcerned with any social engagement, nor service to society. They warn against a wrong use of the art of not knowing precisely because it hinders goals of national growth, social harmony and cultural revival, and argue that people nowadays should rather promote its active component such as self-restraint (hanyang 涵养) and endurance in order to benefit others and the policy of the ‘harmonious society’ (hexie shehui 和谐社会), the new socio-economic vision since president Hu Jintao (2003) (on which more in the following chapters).27 In view of this, another question imposes itself. In contemporary China, the structure of society has indeed seen immense changes in comparison with imperial China: inequality has been lessened; meritocracy is in practice more feasible than ever before in Chinese history (apart from during the Mao era); and common people certainly enjoy more freedom to live their life according to their own standards, and to actively pursue their ambitions and dreams. So, why is it that these scholars caution for a negatively motivated ‘pretended ignorance’ as an evasive, self-preserving strategy for self-promotion and self-advancement in contemporary society? And what is it that makes this 250-yearold wisdom rooted in ancient philosophy and further developed as an unavoidable outcome of the oppression in feudal society so inspiring that popular self-help books on Nande hutu have mushroomed in modern society? An answer to these questions is the topic of Part II on the wisdom of playing dumb in contemporary society.

Notes 1. The sections in this chapter on the features of feudal society, on Zheng Banqiao and on his calligraphy Nande hutu are based on two previously published articles. In one article, “‘Scholars should be considered the last of the four classes’: The case of scholar-official Zheng Banqiao” (Matthyssen

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2013), I elaborate on the precise socio-historical context of the early Qing dynasty in which Zheng Banqiao lived, and on the philosophical influences he experienced as a scholar and artist. Reprinted with permission from the publisher (Harrassowitz-Verlag). In a second article (Matthyssen 2015), I discuss the calligraphy as an introduction to five English translations (by Jeff Keller) of Chinese articles in academic and popular discourse that deal with different dimensions of the calligraphy from different points of view. See Matthyssen, Mieke. 2015. “Zheng Banqiao’s Nande hutu and “The art of being muddled” in Contemporary China.” Contemporary Chinese Thought 46 (4): 3–25 (Taylor & Francis Ltd., http://www.tandfonline. com). For an excellent in-depth analysis of the civil examinations in late imperial China, see Elman (2000). History scholar Li Shaolong (2005) discusses the emergence of what he calls the “Nande hutu thought” and way of living as a culturally conditioned necessity from a purely socio-political perspective. For an English translation of his article, see Matthyssen (2015, 32–57). Ren 仁 is most commonly translated as benevolence, but—as many of the philosophical concepts in the Classics—takes on different precise meanings with different philosophers such as Confucius, Mencius and Xunzi. Depicted as two people, it can also more generally mean ‘humanity.’ The term at the very least expresses a kind of intersubjectivity. Shame, xiu(chi) 羞(耻), is often considered as the Chinese equivalent (in the sense of determining behaviour) of the Western sin and the feeling of guilt that it produces. While this is not completely true, we can say that shame is intimately linked with losing face and with the Confucian virtue of righteous behaviour (yi). Confucianism, in particular, with its emphasis on social norms and reference to ideal models of behaviour was a major influence on the development of the Chinese shame culture (Bond 2008 [1986]), 205–207). For a comparison between the Western notion of shame and the Chinese xiu, see, e.g., Norden (2004). This expression is more commonly known with different characters, as ‘Confucian on the outside, but Legalist inside’ (wai ru nei fa 外儒内 法) and actually comes in different variations, such as ‘Confucian on the outside, but Buddhist on the inside’ (wai ru nei fo 外儒內佛) and ‘Confucian on the outside, but Daoist on the inside’ (wai ru nei dao 外儒内道), all referring to Confucianism as a reference framework for social morality and ordering society, and whatever one chooses as a guideline for one’s

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inner life. It is illustrative of the way Chinese people pragmatically deal with different, simultaneously existing ideologies. Around 2006, a TV serial about the life of Zheng Banqiao as an official called Zheng Banqiao’s unofficial biography 郑板桥外传 seems to have been very popular. In 2017, another serial called The muddled county official Zheng Banqiao 糊涂县令郑板桥 was shown. Both zoom in on how Zheng Banqiao smartly but unconventionally dealt with difficult cases, but also how he struggled with injustice and how he always favoured the poor and disadvantaged. For a complete and lively English biography of Zheng Banqiao and a discussion of his artistic works on which much of this part is based, see Pohl (1990). For a Chinese study on the eccentricity of Zheng Banqiao, see for instance Wei Zhiyou (2008a), who discusses the reasons for Zheng Banqiao’s eccentricity such as the zeitgeist, the ways in which he expressed his eccentricity, and the influence of his eccentricity on further generations. For other Chinese artistic studies on Zheng Banqiao including a historical background and biography, see, e.g., Qin (2004), Lin (2006), and Zhang (2005). As it was the tradition that names were given according to quotes from ancient book, Zheng Banqiao’s name without doubt is chosen from the phrase xie you rou ke 燮友柔克 occurring in the Book of Documents (Shangshu 尚书), one of the five Classics of ancient Chinese literature. Remarkably, the dialectics of mildness, rou and hardness, gang will become an important element in Part II. Yangzhou by then had become the largest centre for business, culture and amusement in Southern China in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. These developments made it a highly inspiring place for artists, and many poets and painters were attracted to its artistic and innovative atmosphere. Many of these artists enjoyed eccentric lifestyles and adopted unorthodox, innovative artistic styles. The term ‘eccentric’ in the first place refers to the expressive and individualist artistic style each of these artists had (contrary to the mainstream trend), but also to the strong personalities each of them had. Up till today, there is discussion among Chinese art scholars about who exactly these ‘Eight Eccentrics’ were (Sun 2003, 4). Instead of just the eight artists referred to, the ‘Eight Eccentrics’ should rather be considered as a group of artists who share certain common characteristics in their life and art (Zhang 2002, 200). For a brief (English) discussion on the paintings of the Yangzhou Eccentrics, see also Cahill (1976, 88–107), with a reference to Zheng Banqiao on p. 96.

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11. On the different versions of his leaving (or asking for leave), see Matthyssen (2013). 12. In one of his most famous poems, Zheng Banqiao literally states: “All my paintings of orchids, bamboo and rocks are meant to be for the comfort of the hard-working people in this world. They are not meant to be a contribution to the patrons” (Pohl 1990, 205). 13. According to some authors, the expression ‘no (Daoist) immortal, no Buddha, no (Confucian) wise man’ (bu xian bu fo bu shengxian) could betray some ideological influence by late Ming philosopher Li Zhi 李 贽 (1527–1602), who advocated himself to be sceptic from his youth, repelled by anything or anyone—Confucian, Buddhist or Daoist—identified with an organized creed. According to Li Zhi, the three teachings should anyway be considered as one because they all in one or another way aim at delivery from this world, “for only by escaping the world can they avoid the sufferings of wealth and rank” (de Bary 1970, 211). In many of his writings, Li Zhi’s repeated critical, independent and individualistic thoughts correspond very well with Zheng Banqiao’s convictions and behaviour (see, e.g., Meng 2006, 61). Li Zhi also strongly valued an ability to “live in the present” (dangxia 当下) as opposed to the ideal of the ritually defined self (Epstein 2001, 76), a use of words we also find in Zheng’s postscript of Nande hutu: present peace of mind (dangxia xin an 当下心安). 14. For a translation of the section ‘Carefree wandering’ (xiaoyao you 逍遙游) in the Zhuangzi, see, e.g., Burton Watson’s translation in Watson 2003, 23–30. 15. For an elaborate account of Zheng Banqiao’s relation with the three teachings (Confucianism, Daoism and Buddhism) and how this influenced his philosophy of life, see Matthyssen (2013), Zheng (2007), and Wei (2008b). 16. The horizontal roll (heng’e 横额) on which we often find the calligraphy today was originally a bian’e 匾额, a horizontal tablet with inscription. Although it is highly probably that this original work was lost, out of curiosity I tried to find out where the original calligraphy was. The results were many confused answers. The conservator of the Zheng Banqiao Memorial Hall in Xinghua suggested that it is probably in the museum in Weifang where Zheng Banqiao served the longest duty. A waiter at the Belgian Embassy in Beijing was convinced it is in the art depository of the Forbidden Palace in Beijing. In reality, as confirmed by most of the art books, it should be in the art depository of the Weifang Research Centre of

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Industrial Arts, but I never got access there. These different versions again testify to the almost mythologization that surrounds both Zheng Banqiao and the calligraphy. This is because the calligraphy is written in Zheng Banqiao’s own calligraphic style, which he called the ‘six-and-a-half script’ ‘(liu fen ban shu 六分半书). This particular style is a combination of different existing calligraphic styles, with as main basis a variation of the clerical official script known as the ‘eight parts’ (ba fen 八分). The attentive beholder might also notice the uncommon use of the radical (no. 172) in the character nan 難 (difficult), which is written quite peculiarly. The same is true for the character de 得 which is written here with the water-radical 淂 (no. 85), a calligraphic variant for de 得. See, e.g. the works of Lei Legeng (2008), Li Shaolong (2005), Liu Hong and Huang Mingfeng (2005), Meng Zhen (2006), Karl-Heinz Pohl (1990, 2007), Qin Jin’gen (2004), and Zhang Xigeng (2005). A quick search on Google—which is not accessible in China—directly asking for ‘the meaning of Nande hutu’ (难得糊涂意思) gives about 2,290,000 results (10 July 2020). A search on the homepage of the Chinese search engine Baidu 百度 resulted in 8,590,000 hits. None of the authors mention a source for this anecdote, so it is not unlikely the story was often copied blindly without relying on nor referring to a reliable historical source. In the Journey to the West (Xiyouji 西游记) attributed to Wu Cheng’en (ca. 1505–1580), the main character, the Monkey King or Sun Wukong who accompanies the monk Xuanzang on his journey to retrieve Buddhist sutras from India, was born from a mythical stone formed from the primal forces of chaos, the wanshi 顽石. In mythology, the wanshi represents the stone, or rather colourful magma, that Nüwa, the mythical goddess, created by melting five stones with the basic colours (red, yellow, blue, white and black) to repair the wall of heaven (Yang and An 2011, 31). One version of the Pangu myth also mentions that Pangu “split the chaotic, primeval stone (hunyuan shi 浑元石) open” to form heaven and earth (Wu 2011, 175). In The dream of the red chamber (Hongloumeng 红楼梦) by Cao Xueqin (1715?–1763), the wanshi also plays a symbolic role. The protagonist, Jia Baoyu, is born with a piece of luminescent jade, a magical stone in his mouth. This stone is sometimes referred to as wanshi. For the translation of congming 聪明, I chose ‘smart’ as a suitable English rendering. Congming, with its meaning of ‘wise’ and ‘acute hearing cong 聪 and sight ming 明’ literally suggests cleverness, intelligence and wisdom.

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23.

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It denotes a state of mind which has not only to do with intelligence and intellectual knowledge but also with being sensible and being able to understand things as they are without bias (thus: clear). In this more philosophical sense, it denotes a state close to complete clarity (ming 明) as used in the Daodejing and the Zhuangzi. This article by Chinese scholar Li Qiao was translated by Jeff Keller in Matthyssen (2015, 26–31). The essay dates from 1986, which was a period of previously (and later) rarely seen press freedom (1982–1989). As such, as I will explain in Chapter 4, it is representative for the many articles on Nande hutu in the 1980s that were critical of the ‘unethical’ use of this philosophy of life following the economic reforms, especially among shrewd officials and businessmen, but also among philosophers, namely as a ‘philosophy of the opportunist.’ The Art of War is attributed to the Legalist Sunzi 孙子 (544–5496 BC), an ancient military general, strategist and philosopher. The book has become very popular recently both in Asia and in the West, in many different circles of life, including business and politics. For instance, in business, its warfare strategies are promoted for negotiations and business dealings, in order to obtain success in the ‘trade war.’ It is important to remark, however, that even the early Daoist recluses as for instance Yang Zhu (370–319 BC) were not always ordinary recluses who escaped the world, desiring to maintain their personal integrity, and who, once in retirement, made no attempt ideologically to justify their conduct. On the contrary, they were often men who, having gone into seclusion, attempted to work out a system of thought that would give meaning to their actions (Feng 1997). Lei Legeng (1931–) is Professor in the Department of Politics and Law in Shaoyang University, Hunan. A translation of this article by Jeff Keller can be found in Matthyssen (2015, 68–81). This is one of the articles appearing after the establishment of ‘the harmonious society’ that discusses the philosophy of Nande hutu in this socio-political context (see also Chapter 5). Often, authors copy this idea and use the same rhetoric in their articles. For example, in 2006, two years before Lei Legeng published the article with his analysis of Nande hutu, he wrote an article about another ‘art’, lihaixue 利害学 (‘The art of gains and losses’) as a way to conduct oneself in society. This article basically comprises all the content he mentions in his article on Nande hutu. Here too, he stresses the idea of solidarity and the harmonious society, in which he references books about Nande hutu

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and hutuxue. This indicates a strong degree of national propaganda. Especially in that period, all thinking and acting aimed at promoting social harmony.

References Blofeld, John E. C. 1986. The Book of Change. London: George Allen & Unwin Ltd. Bond, Michael Harris, ed. 2008 [1986]. The Psychology of the Chinese People. Hong Kong: The Chinese University Press. Cahill, James. 1976. Fantastics and Eccentrics in Chinese Painting. New York: Arno Press. Dang, Mingfang. 2007. “Zheng Banqiao “Nande hutu” de chuanshuo (The Legend of Zheng Banqiao’s Nande hutu).” Accessed 28 November 2011 (Not accessible anymore in 2020). http://dangmingfang.blshe.com/post/ 1071/17962. de Bary, William Theodore. 1970. “Individualism and Humanitarianism in Late Ming Thought.” In Self and Society in Ming Thought, edited by William Theodore de Bary, In Studies in Oriental Culture, 145–247. New York and London: Columbia University Press. Egan, Ronald C. 1994. Word, Image, and Deed in the Life of Su Shi. Edited by Harvard-Yenching Institute Monograph Series. Vol. 39. HarvardYenching Institute Monograph Series. Council on East Asian Studies, Harvard University. Elman, Benjamin A. 2000. A Cultural History of Civil Examinations in Late Imperial China. Berkeley: University of California Press. Epstein, Maram. 2001. Competing Discourses: Orthodoxy, Authenticity, and Engendered Meanings in Late Imperial Chinese Fiction. Cambridge (MA): Harvard University Press. Fei, Xiaotong. 1992. From the Soil: The Foundations of Chinese Society. A Translation of Fei Xiaotong’s Xiangtu Zhongguo. Translated by Gary G. Hamilton and Zheng Wang. Berkeley: University of California Press. Feng, Youlan. 1997. A Short History of Chinese Philosophy: A Systematic Account of Chinese Thought from Its Origins to the Present Day (First Edition: 1948). Edited by Derk Bodde. New York: The Free Press.

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Hansen, Chad. 1985. “Individualism in Chinese Thought.” In Individualism and Holism: Studies in Confucian and Taoist Values, edited by D. J. Munro. Ann Arbor: Center for Chinese Studies, The University of Michigan. ———. 2004. “Classical Chinese Ethics.” In A Companion to Ethics, edited by Peter Singer, In Blackwell Companions to Philosophy. Malden: Blackwell Publishing. Hucker, Charles O. 1985. A Dictionary of Official Titles in Imperial China. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Hwang, Kwang-Kuo. 2012. Foundations of Chinese Psychology: Confucian Social Relations. Edited by Anthony J. Marsella. International and Cultural Psychology. New York, Dordrecht, Heidelberg, and London: Springer. Jin, Shiqiu. 2001. Zheng Banqiao yu Fojiao Chanzong (Zheng Banqiao and Zen-Buddhism). Beijing: Zongjiao wenhua chubanshe. Lei, Legeng. 2008. “Guanyu Zheng Banqiao suowei “Nande Hutu” lun de bianzheng jiedu (Dialectical Reading about the So-Called Nande Hutu by Zheng Banqiao).” Shaoyang xueyuan xuebao (Shehui kexue ban) 7 (5): 3–6 (Translated in Matthyssen 2015, 68–81). Li, Qiao. 1986. “Zheng Banqiao de “Nande hutu”” (The Nande Hutu of Zheng Banqiao).” Longmenzhen, 115–117 (Translated in Matthyssen 2015, 26– 31). Li, Shaolong. 2005. “Zhongguo chuantong wenhua zhong de “Nande hutu” sixiang (The “Being Muddled Is Difficult” Thought In Traditional Chinese Culture).” Nankai Xuebao (Zhexue shehui kexueban) (6): 70–79 (Translated in Matthyssen 2015, 32–57). Li, Yi. 2005. The Structure and Evolution of Chinese Social Stratification. Lanham: University Press of America. Lin, Linlin. 2006. Zheng Banqiao Zhongguo yishu dashi tuwenguan. Taiyuan: Shanxi jiaoyu chubanshe. Lin, Yutang. 1949. The Wisdom of China. London: Michael Joseph. ———. 1963. Translations from the Chinese (The Importance of Understanding). Cleveland and New York: The World Publishing Company. ———. 2005 [1942]. “Zhongguoren zhi congming (The Smartness of the Chinese People).” Baokan huicui, 1. Available at https://cul.qq.com/a/201 40913/005086.htm. ———. 2007. The Importance of Living. Beijing: Foreign Language Teaching and Research Press. Liu, Hong, and Mingfeng Huang. 2005. “Zheng Banqiao ‘Nande hutu’ xin tan (New Investigation into Zheng Banqiao’s Nande Hutu).” Taizhou zhiye jishu xueyuan xuebao 5 (2): 14–16.

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Lu, Xun. 1933. “Nande Hutu (Essay Taken from Zhun feng yue tan).” Accessed 21 June 2020. http://www.bwsk.net/mj/l/luxun/zfyt/067.htm. Lü, Weilin. 2007. “Zhongguo zhi qiong de xinzhi moshi yanjiu (Research into the Poorest Chinese Mode of Thinking).” Hebei shifan daxue xuebao (Zhexue shehui kexue ban) 34 (1): 222–224. Matthyssen, Mieke. 2013. “‘Scholars Should Be Considered the Last of the Four Classes’: The Case of Scholar-Official Zheng Banqiao.” Journal of Asian History 47 (2): 219–244. ——— (Guest editor). 2015. “Zheng Banqiao’s Nande hutu and “The Art of Being Muddled” in Contemporary China.” Contemporary Chinese Thought 46 (4). Meng, Zhen. 2006. “Zheng Banqiao de maodun renge (Zheng Banqiao’s Contradictory Personality).” Chuanshan xuekan (1): 59–61. Mote, F. W. 1960. “Confucian Eremitism in the Yüan Period.” In The Confucian Persuasion, edited by A. F. Wright, 202–240. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Norden, Bryan W. Van. 2004. “The Virtue of Righteousness in Mencius.” In Confucian Ethics: A Comparative Study of Self, Autonomy, and Community, edited by Kwong-loi Shun and David B. Wong, 147–182. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Paper, Jordan. 1995. The Spirits Are Drunk: Comparative Approaches to Chinese Religion. Edited by David L. Hall and Roger P. Ames. Chinese Philosophy and Culture. Albany: SUNY Press. Pohl, Karl-Heinz. 1990. Cheng Pan-ch’iao. Poet, Painter and Calligrapher. Vol. XXI Monumenta Serica Monograph Series. Nettetal: Steyler Verlag. ———. 2007. ““Nande hutu” - “Schwer ist es, einfalt zu erlangen”.” In Zurück zur Freude. Studien zur chinesischen Literatur und Lebenswelt und ihrer Rezeption in Ost und West. Festschrift für Wolfgang Kubin, edited by Marc Hermann and Christian Schwermann, In Monumenta Serica Monograph Series 217–277. St. Augustin: Steyler. Qin, Jin’gen. 2004. Qing - Zheng Banqiao Shu (Qing Dynasty—The Writings of Zheng Banqiao). Zhongguo shufajia quanji. Shijiazhuang: Hebei jiaoyu chubanshe. Rankin, Mary B., John K. Fairbank, and Albert Feuerwerker. 1986. “Introduction: Perspectives on Modern China’s History.” In The Cambridge History of China: Volume 13, Republican China 1912–1949, edited by John K. Fairbank and Denis Twitchett, 1–73. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Scott, William Henry. 1964. “Yangchow and Its Eight Eccentrics.” Asiatische Studien I –II : 1–19.

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Sigurðsson, Geir. 2015. Confucian Propriety and Ritual Learning: A Philosophical Interpretation. SUNY Series in Chinese Philosophy and Culture. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Su, Dongpo. 2003. Sur Moi-même. Translated by Jacques Pimpaneau. Arles: Editions Philippe Picquier. Su, Tung-P’o. 1965. Selections from a Sung Dynasty Poet. Translated by Burton Watson. New York and London: Columbia University Press. Su, Zaiqing. 2006. ““Nande hutu” bu hutu de Zheng Banqiao “(The Zheng Banqiao Who Wrote “It’s Difficult to Be Muddled” but Is Not Muddled).” Dangdai Guangxi, 19. Sun, Li, ed. 2003. Yangzhou ba guai. Yangzhou bowuguan bian (The Eight Eccentrics of Yangzhou: An Edition of the Yangzhou Museum). Nanjing: Jiangsu renmin chubanshe. Sundararajan, Louise. 2015. Understanding Emotion in Chinese Culture: Thinking Through Psychology. Edited by Anthony J. Marsella. International and Cultural Psychology. Cham, New York, Heidelberg, Dordrecht, and London: Springer International. Tai, Kaihsu. 2007. “Zheng Banqiao (1693/1765), eco-socialist.” Accessed 10 July 2020. http://www.pieandcoffee.org/2007/06/27/zheng-banqiao/. Tian, Xiaofei. 2005. Tao Yuanming and Manuscript Culture: The Record of a Dusty Table. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Verdicchio, Massimo. 2017. “Reading Tao Yuanming/Tao Qian: “Twenty Poems About Drinking”.” Comparative Literature and World Literature 2 (2): 53–72. Wang, Zhijian. 2007. “Congming yu hutu (Smartness and Muddleheadedness).” Dangyuan ganbu zhi you (4): 52. Watson, Burton. 2003. Zhuangzi: Basic Writings. Translated by Burton Watson. Translations from the Asian Classics. New York: Columbia University Press. Weatherley, Robert. 2002. “Harmony, Hierarchy and Duty Based Morality: The Confucian Antipathy Towards Rights.” Journal of Asian Pacific Communication 12 (2): 245–267. https://doi.org/10.1075/japc.12.2.04wea. Weber, Max. 1964. The Religion of China. Translated by Hans H. Gerth. New York: The Free Press (Macmillan Company). Wei, Zhiyou. 2008a. “‘Bimo dangsui shidai’, ‘ nu bu tong ren’ - qianxi Zheng Banqiao zhi ‘guai’ (‘Writings Should Reflect The Time’ and ‘ Strive to Be Distinguished and Outstanding’ - Discussing Zheng Banqiao’s ‘Strangeness’).” Beijing ligong daxue xuebao (Shehui kexue ban) 10 (5): 12–15.

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Wei, Zhiyou. 2008b. “‘Huanxing chilong, xiaochu fannao’, ‘jueren jueshi’ Cong ‘Daoqing Shi Shou’ guankui Zheng Banqiao zhi Fo Dao sixiang’ (Awakening the Fool and the Deaf, Eliminating Trouble, Awakening the World and People—Looking into Zheng Banqiao’s thoughts on Buddhism and Daoism as reflected in the ten Daoqing poems).” Guangzhou Guangbo dianshi daxue xuebao 8 (4): 62–65. Wu, Helen Xiaoyan. 2004. “Daoist Wisdom and Popular Wisdom: A Sociolinguistic Analysis of the Philosophical Maxims in the Daodejing and Their Proverbial Equivalents.” In Wisdom in China and the West, edited by Vincent Shen and Willard Oxtoby, In Cultural Heritage and Contemporary Change. Series III, Asia, 305–330. Washington: The Council for Research in Values and Philosophy. Wu, Xiaodong. 2011. “Pangu and the Origin of the Universe.” In China’s Creation and Origin Myths: Cross-cultural Explorations on Oral and Written Traditions, edited by Mineke Schipper, Shuxian Ye, and Hubin Yin, In Religion in Chinese Societies, 163–176. Leiden and Boston: Brill. Wu, Zeshun. 2007. “‘Nande hutu’ Zheng Banqiao (‘It’s Difficult to Be Muddled’—Zheng Banqiao)”. Minzu luntan (10): 48–49. Xiang, Yuan. 2002. “‘Nande hutu’ zhi xinli fenxi (Psychological Analysis of Nande hutu).” Sanzhuang shuini, 56. Yang, Jiayou. 2014. “Nande hutu lun (A Discussion of Nande hutu).” Zhexue pinglun (Philosophical review) 4 (12): 193–211. Yang, Lihui, and Deming An. 2011. “The World of Chinese Mythology.” In China’s Creation and Origin Myths. Cross-Cultural Explorations on Oral and Written Traditions, edited by Mineke Schipper, Ye Shuxian, and Yin Hubin, In Religion in Chinese Societies, 25–54. Leiden and Boston: Brill. You, Yuming. 2010. “Cong Zheng Banqiao “qiu guan” xiangdao de (Seen from the Search of Zheng Banqiao for an Official’s Post).” Laonianren, 37. Zhang, Anzhi. 2002. A History of Chinese Painting. Translated by Dun J. Li. Beijing: Foreign Language Press. Zhang, Xigeng. 2005. Nande Hutu - Zheng Banqiao he tade shufa yishu (Nande hutu - Zheng Banqiao and His Calligraphic Art). Shanghai: Shanghai shuhua chubanshe. Zheng, Dekai. 2007. “Zheng Banqiao yu Ru Shi Dao (Zheng Banqiao and His Relation with Confucianism, Buddhism and Daoism).” Chuxiong shifan xueyuan xuebao 22 (12): 24–28. Zhong, Ling. 2008. “Hutu gonglüe (san) (The Strategy of Being Muddleheaded—Part Three).” Dianzi chanpin shijie, 159. Zhu, Kehua. 2003. “‘Nande hutu’ you laili (Nande Hutu Has a History).” Laoyou, 40.

Part II Hutu in Contemporary Society

4 The Modern Wisdom of Playing Dumb

Book cover “Nande hutu: the wisdom of how to conduct oneself in society”: Confucianism, ‘self-restraint’ 限我; Daoism, ‘without a self ’ 无我; Buddhism, ‘self-abnegation’ 忘我; Legalism, ‘overcoming the self ’ 胜我. (Qing 2008)

When I started to conduct fieldwork and asked people about their understanding of Nande hutu, I once, while waiting for an interview contact, randomly asked a company white-collar employee if he was familiar with Zheng Banqiao’s calligraphy. “Obviously,” he immediately answered with a little surprise. But a few seconds later he admitted that he actually only knew a little about it, and politely asked me to wait a minute. After some time, he came back with a printout of a website called Nande hutu, presenting a famous brand of rice wine (baijiu) called Little Hutu Immortal (Xiao Hutu Xian 小糊涂仙). As it turned out, this liquor’s homepage briefly explained some background on the calligraphy. Not by chance, this liquor is produced in the brewery that bears the name © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 M. Matthyssen, Ignorance is Bliss: The Chinese Art of Not Knowing, Palgrave Studies in Indigenous Psychology, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73902-7_4

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of the Yunfeng Mountains where Zheng first wrote the calligraphy, inspired by the hutu laoren, the ‘stupid old man’ in the story we read about before (Chapter 3). For this employee, the webpage seemed to satisfy his curiosity (at least to show me, a foreigner). However, whenever I checked the self-improvement, self-motivational or wisdom of life sections in the often multi-storied, consumer-oriented local book city, I would unmistakably bump into attractively laid-out, big volumes on ‘the art of being muddleheaded’ (hutuxue). This is how Zheng Banqiao’s art of not knowing is known to most Chinese: obviously familiar— how could I doubt this—but somehow still in a muddle about the ‘real’ meaning, which is nevertheless intensely debated and easily accessible on blog discussions and in popular books. In the previous chapters, I delved into the philosophical and sociohistorical background of the Chinese art of not knowing, with scholar Zheng Banqiao as its most prominent advocate. However, while this art in the first place seems to be some ancient philosophical ideal for the learned elite, the popularization and commercialization of its wisdom on online sources, in popular magazines and bookstores, and in shops and markets show the contrary. Moreover, during its popularization, the calligraphy lived many lives that are intricately enmeshed in China’s historical, cultural and political contexts. This chapter briefly addresses this popularization process, from Zheng Banqiao’s time up till today. Arriving at its contemporary popularity, I document how Zheng’s wisdom is understood and lived by ‘modern’ citizens from different ages and different layers of society, who read self-help books, write in popular magazines, openly discuss their opinions on web fora, or just informally with me, and maybe even drink hutu liquor. I limit myself here to notions that are recurrent in my investigation, and as such are considered to be the major themes or ‘common denominators.’ But I should emphasize that there are uncountable nuances in the current understanding of its wisdom by Chinese people; in their experience, it certainly is not a clear-cut wisdom of life.

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From Official’s Motto to Popular Self-Improvement Market Historically, it did not take long for Zheng Banqiao’s calligraphy to become publicly known and famous (Zhong 2008a).1 This assumption is supported by the fact that Qian Yong (1759–1844), who was a near contemporary of Zheng Banqiao, has written a comment on Nande hutu (see Chapter 3). Also late Qing official, military general and devout Confucian scholar Zeng Guofan 曾国藩 (1811–1872) has expressed his opinion on Zheng Banqiao’s hutu in a letter to his brothers, suggesting adopting a hutu approach to life and not revealing oneself as the path to peaceful well-being: Generally speaking, the world is in disorder. I hope that you brothers, study to be peaceful and hutu, starting with not distinguishing right from wrong and black from white. […] If you, my brothers, ever and again reveal yourself, this road will eventually not bring luck. You presently better abstain from being like me, and better blindly be simple and unsophisticated, and not reveal yourself. (Xie 2004)

Later literary sources testify to its ongoing popularity. For instance, one article dating from 1946—a few years before Mao Zedong proclaimed the founding of the People’s Republic of China (PRC) in 1949—promotes Nande hutu as a way to be more relaxed, and less pessimistic (Wu 1946). The most notable of these writings is probably the essay ‘Nande hutu’ by Lu Xun in 1933, in which he coined the term hutu-ism (hutu zhuyi) (see Chapter 3). During the Mao era, hardly any written sources are traceable. By contrast, as from the reform era under Deng Xiaoping starting from 1978, the calligraphy seems to have gained increasing popularity, expressed in opinion papers, essays, academic and magazine articles, Party propaganda, and still later, web articles and blogs. Being nondigital, popular articles dating from the 1980s in both academic and quasi-academic discourses were not easy to find, though I did collect a few from more literary magazines. In general, these articles on Nande hutu were mainly critical discussions of the various passive applications of

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the saying such as self-consolation, and with the negative consequences of a wrong, irresponsible use of its wisdom. Especially, officials were targeted, but also leadership (e.g. in business). This is not surprising. As many of my respondents and many authors argued, in those days, the saying undoubtedly was used in its most negative and passive sense, as a justification and motto for shrewd officials who, although often only locally, enjoyed more freedom of decision, hence the freedom to ‘become rich,’ and wield power. Pretended ignorance was purposely adopted for their own benefit and to cover things up, often at the expense of others (e.g. Niu 1996; Wang 1993; Xun 1995; Zhou 1995). The late 1980s and the 1990s indeed are known for excessive corruption in business and officialdom (e.g. Barmé 1999; Kleinman et al. 2011). But intellectuals were not free from being criticized either. They evenly would adopt the wisdom of Nande hutu as a passive philosophy of the opportunist. In that period, many authors—including intellectuals themselves—started to argue that it is important to study both the active and passive dimensions of Zheng Banqiao’s wisdom of life in order to be able to deal with contemporary and future society without making the mistake of only emphasizing its passive quality (see the discussion in the previous chapter). This moral degeneration of the time also applied to the masses. The aftermath of the Cultural Revolution, followed by the Tiananmen incident, and the economic reforms and opening, caused the atmosphere to be heavily politically charged. It also caused the masses to be eager for any kind of opportunities and selfish support. In discussing the growing popularity of the ‘art of social relationships’ (guanxixue 关系 学) in official discourse in this period, Mayfair Yang (1994, 156–157) argues convincingly: The excesses of the Cultural Revolution made people so cynical and mutually distrustful that they lost their capacity for moral judgments, gave up their socialist ethics of brotherhood and respect for the state and the collective, and retreated into small private circles. People became selfish, lost their sense of law and morality, and started using whatever opportunities their positions provided to help only those who were useful to them.

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Consequently, this period also gave rise to many handbooks on strategies for survival in chaotic times. In examining both official and popular culture and their dynamic relation during the post-Mao era, Geremie Barmé sketches an inspiring portrait of these high days of irony that gave rise to what he appropriately calls “crisis publishing” (Barmé 1999, 138).2 The appearance of self-help books of the kind dealing with ‘the art of being muddleheaded’ (hutuxue) is just one such example. These books are up till today continuously reprinted and new books keep on appearing. Most often they are written by so-called experts in the field (often scholars) and can be found in the ‘self-improvement’ section next to other books equally popular, such as ‘the art of being successful,’ and more academic books on psychology and sociology. Interestingly also is that these books are not only classified as ‘popular reading,’ but also as ‘social and moral education,’ and even as ‘the psychology of being successful.’ In these books, hutuxue is presented as a philosophy of life to become successful in multiple aspects of life. For instance, one book presents ‘the art of being muddleheaded’ as “ 64 lessons on the wisdom of conducting oneself in society” for “ joyful feelings and spiritual cultivation.” In the introduction, the book is said to “get rid of the stale and bring forth the fresh,” thus: to go beyond old ideas. It further introduces eight lessons in being hutu in eight different fields of life (Jian 2004). The witty association with the 64 hexagrams of the Yijing is not fortuitous and only contributes to its appeal as old wisdom in a new jacket. Nowadays, the saying is widespread, also among overseas Chinese, to which many literary products, cultural derivatives such as popular artefacts and commercial products, testify. In 2019, the saying Nande hutu featured in the immensely popular TV show ‘Lecture Hall’ ( Baijia Jiangtan 百家讲坛) on China Central TV (CCTV), in which Chinese scholars explain and comment on the Chinese Classics, including major philosophical and literary works.3 Some popular authors even go as far as to say that: Nande hutu might even be no less popular than Confucius’ enormously famous Analects, found hanging in lettered persons’ study, in farmers’ houses, in restaurants and bars, in take-away restaurants in remote and backwards places, in the offices of influential officials and in the big living

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rooms of stars and celebrities. Nande hutu is now a kind of fashion, a trend, and we can find this trend everywhere on the streets. Apparently, Confucius is inferior to Zheng Banqiao. (Shu 2001)

In short, it has become a so-called national quintessence (Su 2006). Just as in the 1980s and 1990s, this trend should not surprise us. In this age of cultural revitalization, far-reaching nationalism and even chauvinism (Hughes 2006; Kleinman et al. 2011; Zheng 1999), ancient indigenous wisdom is put into modern use not only in the self-help industry, but also in the bourgeoning field of psychological counselling and psychotherapy (Yang 2016, 2018). As for the calligraphy, this trend goes even farther; its wisdom has also been thoroughly commodified, as for instance the commercial of hutu liquor shows. Copies of the calligraphy can be bought anywhere on flea markets and antique shops, online, on t-shirts, inkstones and vases. Closely related to its commercialization is its popularization in terms of accessibility for a large audience beyond scholarly or artist-like, elitist readers. The best example of this is the frequent use in popular magazines specialized in different domains of life such as women’s issues, health, business, politics, education, aimed either at a young, middle-aged or elderly readers public (which I will concretely discuss in Chapter 5). The attitudes and capacities, and the underlying values herein, vividly address the modern wisdom of playing dumb as a new form of self-cultivation.

Attitudes and Capacities of the Wisdom of Playing Dumb Not surprisingly, as it turns out, Chinese people cannot talk about Zheng Banqiao’s wisdom of Nande hutu without referencing the complete spectrum of ancient wisdom and important historical figures and without deploying commonly known philosophical keywords, four-characterwords and expressions, as the following quote of the popular book There is an understanding called muddleheadedness illustrates (a quote that is often copied):

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From ancient times until now, countless wise men, after engaging in and understanding human life, all discovered the influence of hutu. Confucius discovered it and named it the golden mean (zhongyong 中庸), Laozi named it effortless action (wuwei 无为), Zhuangzi named it carefree wandering (xiaoyao 逍遥), Mozi named it no attack (fei gong 非攻)’; Poet Tao Yuanming of the Eastern Jin dynasty also discovered it when picking chrysanthemum in the Eastern Li, but when he started to write [about it], he nevertheless forgot about it – he clearly was enough hutu, and had no choice but to leave behind the details and simply say: “Herein lies the real truth, that when one desires to differentiate [in words], then one ends up by forgetting the words.” […] It was only in the Qing dynasty that the famous scholar Zheng Banqiao called for action, and raised the big hutu flag with a loud voice declaring: Nande hutu! (Xiao 2008, 3)

This author certainly raises his readers’ curiosity by referring to not only the Chinese philosophical traditions, but also to some of the most famous scholar-literati. He without doubt is not the only one, as the quote at the beginning of this chapter shows. With regard to Buddhist associations with Nande hutu, references to Buddhist—at the core not native Chinese—concepts are rather marginal and mainly include Chan Buddhist notions of detachment, self-transcendence and self-denial, the ‘four elements (earth, water, fire, wind) as emptiness,’ the Diamond Sutra and the ‘double truth’ concept as an explanation for the ideal hutu state of mind and the peace of mind it brings along. The above quotes may appear rather sketchy, too obviously used as a marketing strategy, but they are nevertheless representative of how the wisdom of playing dumb is promoted in contemporary popular, official and academic discourses. What these discourses have in common is that there are no clear boundaries, no attempt whatsoever to distinguish between intellectual philosophy and popular wisdoms of life, between Daoism, (Neo-)Confucianism and Buddhism, and between historical heroes like smart warlords Cao Cao 曹操 (155–220) and Zhuge Liang 诸葛亮 (181–234), and contemporary heroes like Ma Yun (Jack Ma), co-founder and former executive chairman of the Alibaba Group. Another common denominator is the way these interpretations present very practical attitudes and virtues that in one way or another give advice on wisely using smartness to live a balanced, knowledgeable,

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socially fulfilling and moral life, and to be the happy but also successful wise fool. Whether in intellectual language, or in a more mundane style, such a discourse is appealing to whoever wants to find a personal affinity with this wisdom of life.

The Art of Not Contending In urging people to ‘let go and take a step back’ (as the postscript to the calligraphy indicates, see Chapter 3), Nande hutu is by many associated with the Daoist notion of ‘effortless action,’ wuwei 无为. In its first occurrence in the Daodejing (Chapter 58), wuwei is a reflection on good government. Especially, the phrase ‘managing through effortless action’ (wuwei er zhi 无为而治) is clearly aimed at (political) leaders. In many ways, it is the Daoist—rather extreme—counterpart to the Confucian ideal of self-cultivation and, by extension, of bringing harmony to the world.4 By the same token, wuwei er zhi (managing through effortless action) has later come to mean managing the family, and nowadays also the classroom or one’s team of employees. I will come back to wuwei as a leadership advice when discussing the wisdom of playing dumb in the political context, but here my main concern is its agency-oriented quality in its broader interpretation. Many Chinese do not so much associate wuwei with governing, but plainly with a wisdom of life of being relaxed, of weakening one’s desires in order to be able to do things without any expectations or aims, and in a not-contending spirit, without seeking power whatsoever. Wuwei is hard to translate, and translation is often misleading. Some attempts are ‘non-action’ (Needham 1956), ‘inaction’ (Watson 2003), ‘nondual action’ (Loy 1985) or ‘non-assertive action’ (Hall and Ames 1998). Wuwei is indeed a very specific type of action; it is any action that is performed with no self-consciousness nor with a purpose, and yet is done very efficiently and effortlessly (Slingerland 2003). In other words: action without a purposive effort.5 It is not ‘doing nothing,’ but ‘not doing’ as the doing or action (wei) that ordinary humans perform after deliberation and for a purpose, and thus going against the spontaneous processes of nature which are “so of themselves” (ziran 自然) (Graham

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1989, 226). Wuwei, on the contrary, can be performed by following along with the way things naturally are without adding human effort. Coutinho explains it as follows: […] action that does not impose artificial constraints, but that senses and follows the tendencies of things, events and processes. It works with the natural changes of things as closely as possible, minimizing the effort necessary to bring about certain states of affairs. (Coutinho 2004, 33)

In line with this aspect of naturalness, Coutinho translates wuwei as “acting without artifice” (p. 33). It is still acting, but not acting harshly and against the natural order of things and events. In other words, even though not contending and playing dumb in the spirit of wuwei might sometimes seem to be a cowardly or evasive practice, this is—if applied well—still for the best: waiting until things settle themselves naturally, or waiting for a better opportunity, instead of stirring up the (natural) tendency towards a new balance. That is why we should “cultivate an attitude of wuwei” as an expression of hutu behaviour (Xing 2009).

Overcoming Hardness with Softness One dichotomy frequently deployed to explain the mechanism of a hutu state of mind is the interplay of soft (rou 柔) and hard (gang 刚) in the Daoist expression ‘Overcoming hardness with softness’ (yi rou ke gang 以 柔克刚, drawn on the Daodejing , Chapters 36, 76, 81) (e.g. Gao 2011; Shi 2009; Yang 2007). Rou is soft, gentle, mild and flexible; gang is hard, strong and inflexible. In his discussion of the ‘truth’ about hutu, one popular author brings up an amusing anecdote about the young Laozi to explain the essence of softness and hardness. As a young boy, his teacher, opening his mouth wide, once asked Laozi: “Is my tongue still there?” Laozi confirmed that, and the master continued: “Are my teeth still there?” Laozi replied: “No, they all fell out.” When the master asked him how this could be, Laozi replied: “Your tongue is still there because it is soft, your teeth fell out because they are hard.” The master was so delighted by this insight, that he answered that this reasoning is

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not only applicable to teeth and tongues, but to all things in the world (Zhong 2008b). Being of the same Daoist order, this wisdom of being soft and flexible (by playing dumb) naturally fits in with the aforementioned art of not contending (wuwei). In the Daodejing (Chapter 43), we find a correlation between softness and wuwei: The softest things in the world overcome the hardest things in the world. […] Through this I know the advantage of taking no action [with a purpose]. Few in the world can understand teaching without words and the advantage of taking no action. (Chan 1970, 161)

Being flexible, mild and at the same time strong typifies wisely muddled people. This kind of people generally like to “drift with the tide, and go with the stream,” and are compared to another national symbol, bamboo: easy-going but unimaginably strong (Ouyang 2006, 21; Xiao 2008). Applied to human life, being flexible and mild through pretending ignorance sometimes can help a person to overcome times of setbacks and conflicts without harming others, rather than with a rigid and hard attitude.6 ‘Overcoming hardness with softness’ thus expresses an attitude in which one does not try to control worldly matters, but also not to let oneself be dominated by these worldly affairs. Tseng et al. (2005, 148) call this attitude of mildness and flexibility “rules of adaptation,” as it suggests ways to deal with life whatever comes up, but especially during hard times.

The Art of Letting Go and Giving Way The quality of being flexible and mild is a useful precondition for another art associated with the wisdom of playing dumb: the art of letting go. Relating to letting go in Zheng Banqiao’s postscript, Xiao Shengping (2008) starts the first chapter of his popular book There is a smartness called hutu by explaining that letting go and playing dumb can be applied to different ‘objects’ in daily life: shortcomings that one should not see clearly, past events that one should not retain, noise that one should not hear, and things one should not speak clearly about. The use of the

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different sense faculties here (seeing, retaining, hearing, saying) is reminiscent of the absence of senses in Lord Hundun, the Daoist master of undifferentiation in the Zhuangzi (see Chapter 2). Also many younger informants such as students refer to the art of letting go as “teaching me not to rigidly adhere to things,” or explain that “there are a few things in life one should take a broad look at, one should not be reluctant to let go.” Not surprisingly in a highly competitive society, one is also advised to let go of the striving for fame and fortune (e.g. Si 2007; Yang 2007). More pressing, and certainly more difficult, is letting go in times of setbacks and painful situations and in dealing with negative emotions. Especially in confronting difficulties, one should be careful and alert to differentiate when to advance and when to yield, and never be too rash and stir up trouble (Xiang 2002). Yielding (often expressed as rang 让) as a moral virtue is of outmost importance in interpersonal relations, to which I turn later. On a personal level, yielding is considered as ‘letting nature take its natural course’ (shun qi zi ran 顺其自然) and often seems to be the preferred course in times of conflicts, worries and feelings of powerlessness (Si 2007; Wang 2005). In a Survey (2008) on the meaning of Nande hutu I conducted among Chinese students, one respondent explained it as follows: If it is yours, then grab it. If it is not yours, then one better not use up energy. Temporary losses and setbacks cannot be sufficient to beat a person down. Better pretend to be hutu once in a while.

From the above, it should be clear that in the Chinese mindset, there is a positive logic behind this yielding (rang ). Already Laozi stated that “If one knows when to stop, one will avoid danger and can endure long” (Daodejing , Chapter 52). Yielding is one of the capacities belonging to the virtue of benevolence, ren; it lies at the core of the Confucian ritual action and moral code (Sundararajan 2015, 44). In these philosophical meanings, yielding is also regarded as the prelude to deliberation, and paradoxically, to its contrary, taking action. This logic of yielding as a way of acting is very prominent in the discourses on Nande hutu, most often expressed in the active notion of ‘retreating in order to advance’ (yi tui wei jin 以退为进), by some even called “the best way out” (Sun 2009).

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Thus, Zheng Banqiao’s hutu indicates temporary giving way to avoid ending up in a complete impasse. It is a retreat, a temporary abandon to get ahead in a better way than if one had not yielded, even if this means moving forward in a zigzag way (Zhao and Meng 2007). Psychologically, the positive aspect of retreating is conveyed in the related saying ‘With one step back, you will discover a boundless sea and sky’ 退一步为了开阔天空. This expression conveys the idea that when in potentially disturbing situations you let things take their natural course, this might open up your mind and broaden the understanding of the situation. The connotation with the sea and sky as boundless suggests unlimited and far-ranging comprehension. This process of opening up should not always be initiated by human action; it is embedded in the process of letting go that gives room to more naturally developed options. This follows the logic that there is no turning without returning, no grasping without letting go and no approaching without retreating. Thus, letting go in the wisdom of playing dumb is intended to have an active and engaging quality. It is not the end of something. Rather on the contrary, it in many instances gives an impetus to something new, to a further development of the problem or situation. Letting go as a way of playing dumb is also often associated with ‘knowing contentment’ (zhi zu 知足). One blogger offers advice on how to avoid stress and enjoy a long and happy life: one should be hutu, let go, and know contentment, since ‘Knowing contentment brings happiness’ 知足常乐 (Anonymous 2020). ‘Knowing contentment’ is an important knowing (i.e. experiencing) in the Daoist tradition and most prominently appears in the Daodejing .7 The down-to-earth wisdom of ‘knowing contentment’ advises one to let go of the desires, wishes and ambitions of the self, and not to seek fame and wealth, but to be content with the way things go (Jin 2006; Yan 2006; Yang 2007). One popular author laconically applies this attitude to malpractices in society: There are a lot of people who complain about the malpractices of this society, but complaining cannot change reality, so why not change oneself in order to accommodate society? Since you cannot transcend the mundane world, then you better happily accept it [the way it is]. (Si 2007, 223)

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Conditioned by a long history of disasters and injustice, Chinese people indeed have what Lin Yutang describes as “a strong determination to get the best out of life, a keen desire to enjoy what one has, and no regrets if one fails” (Lin 2007, 65). Popular author Xing Yanguo (2009, 257–258) explains that in dealing with unfortunate events, one should accept the inevitability of these events and accommodate oneself to them. Or as the author further explains, one should accept the arrangement of fate, since there is little that can be changed about it; the only thing we can change is ourselves. This brings us to another quality associated with hutu-ism that helps one in letting go and being content.

The Art of Rejoicing in Fate Strongly linked to the art of not contending and letting go is ‘knowing fate,’ in common parlance most frequently expressed as zhi ming 知命.8 Knowing fate (zhi ming)—also less philosophically expressed as renming 认命—generally refers to not only understanding one’s fate (or natural predestination) and the overall scheme of things, but also to accept it. This idea is reflected in the expression ‘knowing and rejoicing in fate’ (le tian zhi ming 乐天知命), to which entire chapters in hutu books are dedicated (see, e.g., Ming 2008).9 This expression alludes to an attitude of ‘enjoying what is natural (tian) and obey what is destined (ming )’ and advises one to be content with one’s lot. The saying stems from the Yijing (generally considered to be a Confucian text) but it also occurs in the Liezi 列子 (Chapter 39), a Daoist text. Especially, the ‘enjoying’ is crucial in this respect: just accepting is not good enough; one should rejoice oneself in (knowing) fate. ‘Knowing fate’ indeed entails some consequences on one’s behaviour and approach to life: if one understands and accepts one’s natural disposition and according limitations, one knows what one (morally) has to do, regardless of the external success or failure of the action. One who genuinely ‘knows fate’ can discern when and where to pretend to be muddleheaded, and when it is necessary to seriously take things into consideration as they are and, if deemed necessary, take action.

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Clearly, in the practice of daily life, ‘knowing fate’ becomes especially relevant in moral dilemmas, feelings of powerlessness and conflicts, precisely the situations in which a detached but still—be it subjectively experienced and not per se visible—active approach can be required to maintain or obtain inner peace. Confucian thought believes in the inherent individual potential to obtain mental maturity and mature happiness, no matter how great the efforts of a person who makes use of this potential to improve his or her life. If they fail in spite of all these efforts, they are advised to accept fate without any resentment towards others or themselves (Tseng et al. 2005, 137). Knowing fate indeed urges one to accept life as it is, and if necessary, to take a step back, but only on the condition that one has first done one’s utmost to ‘prepare’ the start-out situation. Feng Youlan (1997, 45) summarizes actions taken in the spirit of ‘knowing fate’ as follows: […] to know Ming means to acknowledge the inevitability of the world as it exists, and so to disregard one’s external success or failure. If we act in this way, we can, in a sense, never fail.

The idea of not failing is certainly very comforting. In this respect, sometimes also the principle taken from Mencius of ‘timing in accordance with heaven, taking advantage of beneficial circumstances and interpersonal harmony’ (tian shi di li ren he 天时地利人和, in abbreviated form, tian di ren 天地人) is brought up. This idea of the harmoniously combined forces of heaven, earth and people is at the core of fate (ming ). Important in this phrasing is that this condition applies to people as well as to situations and places. A person might either not yet have the right constitution or state of mind for ‘acting’ in a particular situation and for being able to conduct change, or the place or circumstances cannot be ‘ready.’ These three conditions are needed to make a person succeed in his/her actions. If one feels that the moment is not right, then it is better to take a step back and feign ignorance, until the overall conditions have improved. Otherwise, one cannot be successful, whatever the good intentions are. Whereas zhi ming is a particularly Confucian concept, Daoists have a similar idea of ‘the right time and the right place.’ It is a common

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Daoist understanding that the myriad things (wanwu 万物) follow their own dao (see Chapter 2), and consequently, nothing in the world can be forced into a state or action for which it is not yet ready. The ideal of the right moment entails the concepts of acting at the right time and at the right place. As Moeller (2006, 95) explains: These concepts are connected with the concept of a correct temporal sequence of events such as, for instance, the cycle of the four seasons or of day and night. Life and death […] are also conceived of as temporal segments within a continuous and regular course of time. The sequence of segments that have to be present at the right time makes up the complete and permanent whole.

In other words, there is no need to be too pro-active. One should rather be sensitive to the right moment and the right place, because if things are done in this ideal setting, events will naturally unfold in a productive and efficient way. This is what one popular author describes as “obeying the timing of heaven, complying with the nature of the earth, and following one’s heart-mind” (Xiao 2008, 41). Therefore, as the author suggests, one should be a bit more easy-going. However, correctly discerning the readiness of the factors involved is not easy, and human understanding of the universe is always limited in knowing what is most appropriate. The sayings ‘People’s calculation is not as good as that of heaven’ 人算不如天算, and ‘Heaven never fails in giving a way to people’ 天无绝人之路 are illustrative of this conviction.10 In this case, one always has to wait until things have become clearer. When I asked a Chinese friend about her understanding of Nande hutu, she related it to a recent experience in the family, her husband being jobless for a long time. It was not that he did not actively search for a job, she immediately excused him, only, he always started what she felt was the wrong business. In his eagerness to find a job, he got too quickly involved in business projects that were not ready to succeed, not in the right city, or with the wrong collaborators. Consequently, he ended up even more disappointed, which—apart from financial worries—put a lot of mental strain on the family. But she herself learnt to play dumb (zhuang sha 装傻) and keep silent. As she further explained, it was not

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that she didn’t know what was going on; playing dumb in the first place was to avoid familial conflicts, but also because she put trust in the idea that one day, conditions would be more beneficial. She turned out to be right. Her husband eventually got involved in a major, successful and stable engineering project. She insisted though that if she would have been ten-twenty years younger, it would have been much harder to adopt such a resigning attitude and not become distressed (Personal communication, 8 July 2014, Shenyang). The idea of waiting for the right situation to act (for the better) in a more opportunist way is indeed often linked to ‘opportunities,’ as expressed in the idiom ‘follow opportunities and adapt to changes’ 随 机应变, thus meaning to be pragmatic, play to the score and change according to the situation. Consider, for example, in a book called The philosophy of being muddleheaded in social conduct, a chapter strongly emphasizing the notion of change by stating that one should “change upon the potential [to change], and deal with steadiness with the myriad of changes,” and that “when there is change, then there is an opportunity” (Wu 2007, 291–319). It is certainly not surprising that zhi ming (knowing fate) is prominent in the discourse on Nande hutu. Until the present day, Chinese have a rather affectionate relationship with fate. Or as eminent cultural and social psychologist Michael Harris Bond calls it, “the great leveller” (Bond 1992, 61). In this respect, Bond rightly observes the strong contrast of Chinese people with Westerners. Westerners are very combative with fate, regarding her as “the measure of their ignorance and their inability to bend Nature to their wills. They struggle mightily with her dictates and often respond to failure in life’s struggle with depression” (p. 61). Chinese on the other hand, although often unconsciously, rather resignedly accept the inevitability of good and bad things that happen to them, convinced that everything that happens is part of the natural cycle of dao. This conviction of cyclic recurrence in the spirit of a dialectical interaction between yin and yang , good and bad, right and wrong, reassures them that also negative experiences and events will sooner or later take a (more) positive turn. In other words, if you put your trust in fate, you can wisely pretend to be ignorant and thus leave room to let situations and events transform in accordance with their natural disposition

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(ming ), an idea which in itself is very liberating. Yet, the ultimate aim is always peace of mind and social harmony.11

The Paradox of the Clear Water Without Fish When checking for Nande hutu on the most popular Chinese search engine Baidu.com, we are treated with a nice 34-seconds film, introducing Nande hutu as the ‘highest sphere’ 最高境界 and explaining its meaning with another famous saying: ‘When the water is too clear, there will be no fish; when people are too scrutinizing, they will not have followers’ (shui zhi qing ze wu yu, ren zhi cha ze wu tu 水至清则无鱼, 人至察则无徒) (Baidu 2020). This saying first occurred in a story of the Confucian Classic The Book of Rites (Liji 礼记, first century BC) where Confucius replied to his disciple Zi Zhang on the question of how one should enter officialdom. The saying conveys the idea that when water is too clear, fish are afraid to show up, be too visible and get caught. Besides, when there are no small fish and other impurities that muddle the water, the bigger fish do not survive, so the conditions necessary for fish to survive are not there, and the natural circle of life cannot be completed. The same is true for people and their relations. One popular author starts a chapter dedicated to this expression as follows: People’s most common problem is that they like to demand completeness and to criticize or to blame others, pursue perfection, and cannot tolerate the smallest shortcomings in others. And when they see one, they arbitrarily denounce it. But people are not sages, so who could be without excesses? […] If you look for friends who do not make mistakes and are without shortcomings, I am afraid you will spend your whole life alone. (Wen 2004, 19)

In other words, if a person is too clear or penetrating about all matters, and too scrutinizing and in constant search for the naked truth about others and interpersonal dealings, other people’s weaknesses become too apparent, and people will feel being judged and become insecure. The underlying idea is obvious: people do not generally feel comfortable around someone who is overly inquisitive and analytical. Such people

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who are too calculating, scrutinizing and always seem to be all-knowing will thus not get much sympathy, trust and care of other people. Even more, such people are feared because they pose a risk to one’s face (on which more in Chapter 5). In such situations, when things are too clearly and too directly aired, the risk of losing—or failing to give—face is high. This eventually will be detrimental to the relation. As an online author prophetically writes: In social conduct, one’s demands towards others should not be too high; towards small weaknesses, missteps, one should be forgiving and understanding, and to one’s best abilities appreciate and encourage other people’s strong points, forgivingly excusing their mindlessness or pardonable small missteps. Only that is the way to social conduct and dealing with people. If there are no people who want to be intimate with you, that will make you fall to loneliness without compliance, and plunge into the realm of isolation without any help, and then one only has oneself to blame. (Song 2007)

This online author further gives many examples of famous leaders such as Cao Cao (155–220) and Zhuge Liang (181–234) who embody this saying, the first being successful, the second not. Cao Cao, although portrayed in Chinese history as a clearheaded and brilliant but nevertheless cruel and merciless military genius, is also known for treating his subordinates like his family, giving them much credit and sometimes purposely ignoring their misbehaviour (Wen 2004).12 Zhuge Liang fails in being hutu. He is extremely intelligent, but too scrutinizing—recall the idiom in Chapter 2, ‘Zhuge [Liang] was cautious his whole life, Lü Duan was not muddled in major matters.’ His whole life, he is like ‘too clear water’ and uses his intelligence persistently, so that people are not at ease around him. What this wisdom comes down to is that in the end, with such an analysing, demanding attitude, one might obtain exactly the opposite of what one desires: loneliness, distrust and insecurity (see, e.g., Sun 2007). Another author poetically illustrates this idea by depicting how larvae—whom people consider to be the most filthy things—grow out of an environment of dung and dirt, to eventually become cicadas that “in the Autumn wind drink the dew as clean as a whistle,” and how a

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pile of withered grass in itself might not be very glorious and radiant, but that it is “the habitat of those glistening and shining glow-worms in the Summer nights” (Ye 2007, 22). How can one realize this ideal of being not overly clear and inquisitive in order to maintain healthy relationships? One characteristic of people who are appreciated and loved is that they know when and how to ‘leave room’ for a flexible interpretation of a situation. Several of my interviewees explained that this ‘leaving room’ reflects the need for flexibility in delimiting boundaries as well as the need for ambiguity in interpersonal intercourse. A middle-aged university professor in sociology, who admitted that she sometimes struggled with manoeuvring in her professional sphere, related this to an incident with a friend-colleague who did not respect the friendship by staying away at the important meeting she organized. She explained that getting into a discussion would potentially jeopardize the relation and eventually create more problems than there were at the start-out. Consequently, her strategy was to pretend not to bother about it, though inside she felt upset about it (Personal communication, 29 September 2008, Beijing). Another phrase describing the age-old wisdom of Nande hutu that at the same time highlights this dichotomy between inner and outer behaviour is ‘being flexible (literally: round) on the outside, but principled (literally: square, edged) inside’ (wai yuan nei fan 外圆内方), sometimes also referred to as ‘to look round but have a straight will’ (xing yuan zhi fang 形圆志方) (Shi 2003; Xiao 2008). Fang , ‘edged,’ here describes firmness of the heart in a rather positive way; by being strong, insistent and clear on the inside, and flexible, modest and accommodating on the outside, one can achieve a lot. Or, to use hutu terminology, “hutu (foolish) on the outside, but clear (smart) on the inside” (Xing 2009, 239). One quality unmistakably associated with hutu-ism and being accommodating on the outside but firm inside and not too scrutinizing towards others is the Confucian notion of tolerance (ren 忍). Ren literally means to be tough-minded enough to put up with undesired or unfortunate situations. In its contemporary use, ren can be understood as both tolerance with regard to others and endurance and patience with regard to difficult situations. As for tolerance in social relationships, many related

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compounds containing the character ren frequently appear in the discussions on the wisdom of playing dumb: ‘be forbearing and conciliatory’ 忍让; ‘tolerate; put up with’ 容忍; ‘bear patiently’ 隐忍; ‘endurance, patience, restrain oneself ’ 忍耐. One popular author even argues that, “If one cannot be tolerant, one cannot be hutu, but if one cannot be hutu, one can even less be tolerant” (Wu 2007, 43). In the Confucian doctrines, tolerance (ren) is a necessary quality in life; a person can—through enduring stress and suffering—strengthen one’s will, resilience and inadequacies, as such turning these negative experiences into something beneficial for character development. This is also echoed in the writings of Mencius: When Heaven is about to confer a great responsibility to a person, it first exercises his mind with suffering, and his sinews and bones with toil. It exposes his body to hunger, and subjects him to extreme poverty. It confounds his undertakings. By all these methods it stimulates his mind, hardens his nature, and extends his competences. (Adapted quotation from Cheng et al. 2010, 400)

Such tolerant people are not motivated by any exterior purpose or intention. The only motivation should be that “just as trees in nature are what they are, people in life are also what they are” (Yue 2007, 34– 35), an idea that corresponds well with the Daoist ideal of following the natural disposition of things and people without further expectations.

Smartness May Overreach Itself The possibility of obtaining undesirable consequences (such as ending up without friends and social support) because of one’s sharpness and scrutiny brings us to another proverb that nicely illustrates the dialectics between clarity and muddleheadedness: ‘Smartness may overreach itself’ (congming fan bei congming wu 聪明反被聪明误). This saying favours the idea of not being too smart, or at least not blindly and at all times. That is to say, smart people may become the victim of their own cleverness and be too smart for their own good. For instance, if one is blindly (foolishly) smart, then one “seeds thistle and attracts grudge”

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(Xun 1995), and wrongly using one’s cleverness can be fatal. Another often recurring saying that conveys this wisdom is ‘being too smart will result in an awkward situation’ 弄巧成拙. In other words, one either suffers from being too smart, or one tries to be clever only to end in blunder. To illustrate this, many authors use an example taken from the famous novel the Dream of the red chamber . In this story, Wang Xifeng 王熙 风 (‘Splendid Phoenix’), a femme fatale-like lady is extremely shrewd and rules the household, but in the end ruins the family with her over-cleverness and over-calculations. With her remarkable multi-faceted personality, Wang Xifeng can be kind-hearted towards the poor and helpless, but, at the same time, cruel enough to kill. For instance, when a poorer member of another clan shows interest in her, she tricks him repeatedly into rendez-vous which turn out to be a trap, and eventually gets the offending man killed. Especially when her power is challenged, she is capable of great cruelty; she personally schemes for the suicide of her husband’s concubine whom she hated. She is the typical example of the calculated, ‘minor smart’ person: very smart, but not always using her cleverness the appropriate, i.e. upright way (e.g. Chen 2011; Ouyang 2006). An historical example that embodies this particular proverb is the poet Su Dongpo (1037–1101), to whom the similar saying ‘People all raise children wishing that they become smart. I have been rendered disservice by smartness all my life’ is attributed (see Chapter 2). Su Dongpo spent much of his time as an official exiled because of alleged criticism on the emperor and his closest associates, but always remained true to his convictions (Zhong 2008a). A third example personalizing the proverb ‘Cleverness may overreach itself ’ is found in the person of Yang Xiu 杨修 (175–219). Yang Xiu is described as one of the two talented officers under the ruler and military genius Cao Cao (155–220, see above). Officially, Cao Cao executed Yang Xiu in 219 because the latter mistook the former’s night signal for an order to retreat in the battle. But tradition has it that Cao Cao is considered to be the ‘stupid’ (compared to Yang Xiu) general without moral dignity, and that he killed Yang Xiu because he was too smart and

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boastful, and a threat to Cao Cao’s own power (e.g. Wen 2004; Yang 2007). Author Xiao Shengping (2008, 2–3) uses the striking image of the smart but hutu state of mind as a paper lantern, to indicate the importance of muddleheadedness as a way of protecting one from too much smartness. In this image of a paper lantern, smartness is like the burning candles inside. If the candles are bright, the lantern is also bright and can well light the road; if the candles are extinguished, the lantern is like darkness in the middle of the night. But the candles have to be surrounded by paper at the four sides, because even if the flame is very weak, it can still burn others and oneself. Therefore, one needs to appropriately use paper (hutu-ness) to close it off in order to protect others and oneself from the flame. In the same way, clarity and understanding (knowledge) need muddleheadedness to protect it against too much smartness. But to do so, one needs to have attained a high level of smartness. As the author states: For giving smartness an overcoat of hutu, one needs the wisdom of human conduct, and also the courage of human life. A lot of people cannot accomplish anything and suffer and feel troubled. This is exactly because they think they have understood, but are lacking the clarity and courage of pretending to be hutu. (p. 3)

Another expression that highlights the principle of not showing off one’s knowledge or social status in interpersonal settings is the saying ‘High trees catch the most grievous wind’ 高树多悲风 by poet Cao Zhi 曹 植 (192–232), the third son of the famous warlord Cao Cao (see above). Two similar expressions, ‘The rafter that sticks out is the first to rot’ 出头 的椽子先烂, and ‘The gun hits the bird that takes the lead (the bird that stands out among others)’ 枪打出头鸟, also express the popular idea that people who cut a smart figure will sooner or later become the target of public criticism and the victim of their own smartness. In other words, being in a high position—be it social, intellectual or moral—makes one more vulnerable to, for instance, the hatred and malice, jealousy, and slander of others. For instance, despite his excellence in poetry and his powerful father, Cao Zhi never managed to get a high official post

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(although allegedly this was partly due to his alcohol addiction). Thus, being smart and possessing a high social position can be a burden, and the only way to protect oneself from this is by staying modest and not showing off, and, in the worst case, pretending to be stupid. To further clarify this idea of using smartness in order to benefit from it instead of being harmed, one popular author compares real smartness with wealth: it can make people happy or unhappy depending on how it is used (Ouyang 2006, 23–24). In other words, real smart people know when and where to expose their smartness. Because they are aware of the imperfection of even the wisest person, they are modest about their skills and knowledge, and do not publicly display them out of desire to look smart and gain power, or when it is not necessary. In this way, people can avoid jealousy from others, and not cause harm to others, nor to themselves (Ye 2007, 26–29). Or, as one popular author poetically puts it, “the key is to use your smartness well and transform it into wisdom. This is the only way to live an even better life and not let it turn into beautiful fleeting foam” (Yang 2007, 163).

The Propensity for the Middle Way Although some scholars do not fully agree with the modern association of Nande hutu with the Golden Mean ( Zhongyong 中庸), considering this as too much emphasis on interpersonal relations or the Confucian dimension, virtually all popular sources at some point bring up the philosophy of the Zhongyong in explaining the wisdom of playing dumb.13 Also popular self-improvement books on the Golden Mean treat both as the same thing. As this introduction of a self-improvement book explains: “Zhongyong is a kind of strategy of low-key, cautious behaviour, a kind of ‘Great wisdom looks like foolishness’, like the wisdom of life of Nande hutu” (Ma 2009). Basically, the Zhongyong is a long (Neo-)Confucian essay written as a practical guide for managing one’s inner life and outer behaviour. Until today, it serves as ‘the’ reference work on social morality, and it is part of

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the moral education in primary and secondary schools. Eminent philosopher Feng Youlan (1997, 173) summarizes the state of zhongyong as follows: […] to have no emotions of pleasure and anger, sorrow or joy, welling up: this is to be described as the state of chung. To have these emotions welling up but in due proportion: this is to be described as the state of ho [harmony].14

In other words, the problem is not that people have emotions, but that these emotions, if they arise, should be balanced with the outer world to obtain or maintain harmony. And as Feng Youlan continues, what is said of emotions is also true of desires: In personal conduct as well as in social relations, there are medium points which serve as right limits for the satisfaction of the desires and the expression of the emotions. When all desires and emotions of a person are satisfied and expressed to the right degree, the person achieves a harmony within his person which results in good mental health. Likewise, when all the desires and feelings of the various types of people who comprise a society are satisfied and expressed to the right degree, the society achieves harmony within itself which results in peace and order. (p. 173)

Thus, the philosophy of the Zhongyong teaches people to be aware of and control their emotions and desires, in order to be focused and harmonious. This self-control—better understood as emotional selfrestraint (hanyang )—constitutes a crucial aspect of Chinese morality. That is to say, no matter the circumstances, one should always act according to one’s position, even if this means pushing aside or covering up one’s emotions or opinion. When individual behaviour and interpersonal relations are well adjusted, the aim of Chinese morality— (regained) harmony—is obtained.15 Feng stresses another highly relevant notion, namely applying the ‘right degree’ and ‘medium points.’ This ‘degree’ (du 度) is vital for practising social morality, and I will come back to that when discussing the moral code of the wisdom of playing dumb. For now, it suffices

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to explain that the Zhongyong advocates modesty and emotional selfrestraint, and primes people to regulate their impulses and take a moderate and low-key attitude in social relationships. The ideal of modesty is frequently accompanied by phrasings expressing a low-key attitude such as ‘not showing off; not wanting to make a point’ 低调, and being ‘humble and tactful’ 虚圆. In practice, modesty and self-restraint often come down to keeping one’s real intentions, thoughts and feelings unarticulated, or to articulating them in a vague, suggestive way. This behaviour is often referred to as the strategy of self-concealment, even when one is very clear in a matter. One popular author describes the smartest—and also most successful—people as those who “not display nor reveal anything, and put themselves in a low position to get the upper-hand” (Si 2007, 51).

Disadvantage Is a Blessing Today, Nande hutu is often displayed and sold together with the less puzzling, but equally interesting calligraphy by Zheng Banqiao, Chi kui shi fu 吃亏是福, roughly translated as ‘Disadvantage is a blessing,’ or ‘Losing out brings good fortune’ (see Fig. 4.1). Allegedly, this calligraphy was attached to a letter Zheng Banqiao once wrote to his brother Mo (Lei 2008). In one of the oldest etymological dictionaries, the Shuowen Jiezi, kui is described as ‘damage of vital energy’ (亏, 气损也). In its modern use, chi kui 吃亏 can mean both to suffer losses, come to grief or to lose out, and to be at a disadvantage and going through tough times. The wisdom of Chi kui shi fu relates to Nande hutu on two levels. Firstly, it displays almost exactly the same formal calligraphic structure as Nande hutu. Secondly, this saying contains the same paradoxical formulation that turns the generally accepted order upside down: suffering losses and being in an unfavourable position bring good fortune and happiness. This dialectical phrasing corresponds with Laozi’s observation (Daodejing , Chapter 58): “Bad luck leans on good luck, and good luck

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Fig. 4.1 Chi kui shi fu 吃亏是福 and Nande hutu 难得糊涂 (This picture was previously published in Matthyssen, Mieke. 2018. “Chinese Happiness: A Proverbial Approach of Popular Philosophies of Life.” In Chinese Discourses on Happiness, edited by Gerda Wielander and Derek Hird, 189–207. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Reprinted by permission of the publisher) (Source Author’s own pictures taken at the Zheng Banqiao Memorial Hall, 2009)

is concealed by bad luck. Who knows where this will end? 祸兮福之所 倚, 福兮祸之所伏.孰知其极.” Here, a famous idiom that stresses the impossibility of absolute judgements and the relativity of good and bad and right and wrong enters the discourses: the old man losing his horse (sai weng shi ma 塞翁失马), originally occurring in the Huainanz i 淮南子 (139 BC). This idiom can be translated as ‘A loss may turn out to be a gain,’ or ‘Every cloud has a silver lining.’ The full saying translates as ‘When the old man from the frontier lost his horse, how could one have known that it would not be fortuitous’ 塞翁失马, 焉知非福. Lin Yutang retells the story as follows: There was an old man at a frontier fort in the north who understood Taoism. One day he lost his horse, which wandered into the land of the Hu tribesman. His neighbors came to condole with him, and the man said, “How do you know that this is bad luck?” After a few months, the horse returned with some fine horses of the Hu breed, and the people congratulated him. The old man said, “How do you know that this is good luck?”

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Then he became very prosperous with so many horses. The son one day broke his legs riding, and all the people came to condole with him again. The old man said, “How do you know that this is bad luck?” One day the Hu tribesmen invaded the frontier fort. All the young men fought with arrows to defend it, and nine tenths of them were killed. Because the son was a cripple, both father and son escaped unharmed. Therefore, good luck changes into bad luck, and bad luck changes into good luck. The workings of events are beyond comprehension. (Lin 1963, 385)

The moral of the story is that it can be difficult to foresee the twists and turns which compel misfortune to beget fortune, and vice versa. Misfortune begets fortune, and fortune begets misfortune, and this goes on without end and cannot be rationally grasped or changed. The father’s stoical attitude of not hastily concluding if circumstances are favourable or not is exactly the attitude characterizing the real (Daoist) sage who is emotionally and mentally indifferent to judgements about good and bad, because he understands the impermanence of things. This acceptance of change as a natural condition of life, together with the ignorance about the concrete form this change will take, causes any kind of (moral) evaluation to be useless and, even more so, detrimental to one’s peace of mind. In this respect, the typical circular thinking that—if practised to the full—brings about a kind of emotional and moral indifference is typical not only of Chinese philosophy, but also of Chinese psychology and how people take stand in life events: nothing is absolute, and so there is no use in getting emotional about how things turn out in life, because at some point there will be a reverse situation to it (Lin et al. 1995, 289–290). This observation is also consistent with the findings of Lu Luo (2010) who conducted a comparative study on Chinese well-being, in which one distinctive dominant feature is the complementary relationship between happiness and unhappiness. This understanding also implies that the English rendering of chi kui as ‘suffering loss’ can be misleading. This suffering is not suffering from mental and physical traumas. The idiom highlights the ideal disposition of being emotionally detached from worldly matters. The real sage knows how useless and futile it is to react emotionally or even cognitively to bad

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luck. One simply cannot foresee, let alone judge (in advance) the—either detrimental or beneficial—consequences of an event or experience. In this respect, the expression depicts a wisdom to cope with unfortunate events. The wisdom expressed in chi kui shi fu is assumed to be as difficult to obtain as Zheng Banqiao’s hutu, for which the same mental and emotional preconditions are required. For instance, Ouyang Xiulin (2006, 157) considers two such difficult preconditions. The first is knowing contentment, which is explained above and revolves around being content with one’s lot, with what one has and encounters without being envious, disappointed or judgemental. The second precondition is rooted in the virtue of knowing one’s place and accepting it, which refers to behaving properly and not going beyond one’s bounds. According to the author, people have to give up the idea that they can change anything by purposeful pursuit with effort and hard work. This idea of purposeful pursuit only leads to disappointment and grief, since disadvantage and suffering is the lot of every human. Also, tolerance and endurance (explained in depth above) is considered as a precondition for succeeding in the ‘art of suffering.’ Some of these advices discuss the wisdom of accepting hardship as the quality of learning to find pleasure in hardship by pretending it is not there. Reading the books and articles on ‘the art of being muddleheaded,’ we are for instance advised to divert our attention away from the hardship by taking part in joyful activities, having one or more hobbies and so on (e.g. Qin 2002). An author in a magazine for the elderly suggests in the column ‘Preserving health and healthcare, psychological navigation’ to “look for joy in enduring hardship” by playing dumb, that is, by ignoring the hardship. As the author argues, the feelings that come with hardship will not remain as intense as they might presently be, and by pretending not to see the cause and ignore the negative feelings, as time goes by, the emotions will at least to some extent fade away. He also gives suggestions for older people on how to deal with hardship in the spirit of playing dumb. One should “learn how to rationalize things,” and “learn how to expand one’s friends,” because when one is vexed, one might as well look for soulmates to “talk about things of the heart.” By applying these three things (looking for joy in hardship, rationalize

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things, talking with soulmates), the mind will be balanced (D. Li 2007). These exact advices are also given on a website that informs youngsters about psychological and physiological issues important in their lives (Ying 2004). The ideal of enduring through hard times is generally encouraged in Chinese society, especially in relation to being successful. Famous motivational quotes of successful people like “Never give up. Today is hard, tomorrow will be worse, but the day after tomorrow will be sunshine,” by the second-wealthiest person in China and one of the wealthiest people in the world, the CEO of Alibaba, Jack Ma, are illustrative of this. Thus, the advices seem to apply to all age groups.

Great Wisdom Looks like Foolishness The proverb ‘Great wisdom looks like foolishness’ 大智若愚 can without doubt be considered one of the most important threads in the discourse on Nande hutu. The proverb figures on the cover of many of the books about ‘the art of being muddleheaded’ (e.g. Lie 2005; Wen 2004; Yang 2007), and it is brought up by scholars as well as workers and students. As discussed in Chapter 2, the saying is attributed to Song poet Su Dongpo and depicts the Daoist ideal of the sage fool. In its most ordinary use, it takes the form of expressions such as “the philosophy of the fool” 傻子哲学, or, as a taxi-driver tried to elucidate its meaning, “pretend to be naïve and stupid” 装傻充愣. In relation to Nande hutu, the associations of da zhi with congming and of yu with hutu are self-evident: hidden under a layer of foolishness (yu), there is great wisdom. One popular author compares this illuminated state of mind with moments of instant understanding (compared to an Aha-erlebnis) that lead to the discovery of the triviality of things, which enables one to let go of troublesome and useless attachments and obsessions. As a very practical and mundane example and far from any lofty ideal, he tells the story of a college student who used to buy a box of instant noodles, to discover that his roommates always asked him for one or even took one behind his back. Smart as he was, he decided to try it another way and just buy one whenever he felt like eating one.

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Inevitably, he experienced the disadvantages of this new tactic: running to the shop too often, be obliged to conquer pouring rain and heavy wind. He ended up sharing his noodles with his roommates anyway because he does not feel comfortable with eating them on his own when surrounded by his roommates. Then one day, he finally understood: even if he lost one instant noodle-pack a day, this would only equal thirty Renminbi a month, an amount that certainly could not compete with all the trouble he had with going to the shop so often. From that moment on, he just bought box after box of noodles without ever counting again how many of the boxes he himself could enjoy, and adopted a relaxed and easy-going attitude towards his instant noodles, as if he naively let himself being taken advantage of. He gave the impression of being a fool, not smart enough to control the situation. This, however, benefited the relation with his roommates. So one needs (a moment of ) complete understanding to make possible the opposite, a hutu state in which one lets go of things. In other words, “cultivating great foolishness is wisdom” (Xiao 2008, 2).

Being Natural, Unrestrained and Carefree As a way of summarizing, Nande hutu is also promoted as “the most enjoyable and pleasant stage in human life” (Shi 2009). Indeed, in everyday life, its wisdom and intended peace of mind are strongly associated with being happy and carefree. Frequently used expressions that describe this happy state are xiaoyao, ‘being carefree, free and unfettered,’ xiaoyao zizai 逍遥自在, ‘being at peace with the world and with oneself ’ and xiaosa, 潇洒, ‘being light-hearted; being lifted above the sordid bustle of life; unrestrained.’ Especially, xiaoyao and xiaosa directly draw on Zhuangzi’s philosophical description of the perfect happiness, in which one (re)turns to a natural and light state of mind not limited by judgements and conventions (as in xiaoyao you, see Chapter 2). For instance, one popular author dedicates a whole chapter to “returning to the uncut jade and turn over to authenticity,” in which he discusses issues such as “recover one’s lost childlike innocence” and the popular motto of “simplify your life” (Xiao 2008, 15–26). Also, the Chinese

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search engine Baidu’s explanation of Nande hutu as “a manifestation of the serene state of mind that comes after having fully realized human nature” (Baidu 2020) is reminiscent of the Daoist ideal of emotional serenity and spiritual freedom. In resembling the sage fool, a characteristic of people who adopt this light-hearted attitude to life is that they never think of themselves as being smart, or even start a discussion to prove so. On the contrary, xiaosa (light-hearted, unrestrained) people are described as always seeming to act as if they are not clear about anything and dodging out of the way by pretending to be hutu, yet generally being well aware of things. They are not too serious about any thing, nor plan or worry much. Of course, like anyone else, they also make mistakes. Still, they are able to achieve success one way or another, and live their life carefree and unrestrained (Xie 2009; Yang 2007). To be able to live like this, one sometimes simply has to “turn a blind eye to something” 睁一只眼闭一 只眼 (litt.: keep one eye open and one eye shut) (Wei 2006; Wu 2007).

Smartness-Based Classification of People Not surprisingly, as it is also the core of Zheng Banqiao’s use of hutu, the most important dichotomy put forward in the contemporary discourse on Zheng Banqiao’s art of not knowing and its related capacities and virtues is the dialectical juxtaposition of smartness (congming ) with hutu. Popular books such as There is a smartness called muddleheadedness (Xiao 2008) and Smart people don’t do stupid things (Zhao and Meng 2007) use this dynamic of opposites to attract attention and even to classify people into smartness and hutu categories. Within this juxtaposition, two other juxtapositions frequently recur: the dichotomy of minor and major smartness/muddleheadedness (xiao/da congming/hutu 小/大聪明/糊涂), and of real and fake muddleheadedness (zhen/jia hutu 真/假糊涂). One blogger, quoting the so-called people from ancient times, summarized it as follows: There is a division in major and minor smartness, and a division in real and fake muddleheadedness. The so-called minor smartness and major

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muddleheadedness are real muddleheadedness and fake wisdom. On the contrary, major smartness and minor muddleheadedness are precisely fake muddleheadedness and real wisdom. The so-called Nande hutu in social behaviour is no other than major wisdom hidden in muddleheadedness that is difficult to obtain. In life, real wise people all understand this kind of hutu. (Dan 2018)

However confusing this quotation might seem, it goes to the heart of the contemporary interpretations of the wisdom of playing dumb.

‘Minor/Major’ Smartness and Muddleheadedness The distinction between ‘minor muddleheadedness’ (xiao hutu) and ‘minor smartness’ (xiao congming ), and ‘major muddleheadedness’ (da hutu) and ‘major smartness’ (da congming) plays an important role not only in the different interpretations of Nande hutu, but also in everyday language. In these interpretations, ‘minor muddleheadedness’ (xiao hutu, as in the liquor brand name, Xiao hutu xian) is equivalent to real wisdom; it is the kind of wise hutu that is an expression of great tolerance and broad-mindedness, of being experienced in life and knowing when playing dumb is appropriate. A lady who is responsible for the pick-ups at the airport in a big company vividly explained this to me with the following example. One day her regular driver apparently arrived too late and the customer phoned her from the airport to complain. When she in turn reached the driver, he insisted he was in time at the airport. So either the driver was lying, or the customer did not find him at the airport. Although she was quite sure the driver was late, she kept silent and pretended to be confused herself, because this matter did not really hurt anyone, and she wanted to give the driver a second chance (Personal communication, 28 May 2008, Beijing). What then is ‘minor smartness’? A common dictionary entry explains it as an established compound, meaning ‘cleverness in trivial matters; be sharp-witted but petty-minded (rather derogatory sense).’ We also find the expression ‘to display minor smartness’ 耍小聪明 as ‘to resort to clever tricks,’ again expressing a negative connotation.

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In Mo Yan’s short story Treasure Map (Cangbaotu, see also Chapter 1), we find a wonderful use of this phrasing. The story narrates how two friends bump into each other after many years have passed since one of them moved from the countryside to Beijing. One of the protagonists, the opportunist Make who remained at the countryside, teases his old friend for having become a real city-guy. Above a bowl of dumplings, through a complex wordplay of different connotations of smartness and wisdom, Make explains to his old friend how Nande hutu (difficult to obtain feigned ignorance) has absolutely nothing to do with the ‘minor smartness’ that townspeople now exhibit: You townspeople are only minor smart; you are shrewd 精明 but without smartness 聪明; you are smart but not brilliant 高明; you are brilliant but without wisdom 英明; you are wise but still no enlightened sages 圣明; and even the enlightened sages among you are not able to feign ignorance (zhuang hutu), whereas we, who understand things, all know how to feign ignorance. (Mo 2003)

Another popular author holds the opinion that a typical characteristic of ‘minor smart’ people is to be too calculating and focusing on benefits for themselves. According to him, this kind of people all invariably think they are clever and have an excellent stratagem to obtain what they are after, but because their intentions often are bad, or rather, have selfish hidden agendas, they cannot keep up appearances forever. This modern ‘minor smart’ person can thus be considered the Confucian equivalent of the ‘petty person’ or ‘narrow-minded person’ (xiaoren 小人, the opposite of the ‘exemplary person,’ the junzi), who, as Confucius lamented (Lunyu 14, 24), cultivates him/herself for the sake of others, in order to win the favour of others by showing off his/her smartness. In addition, as a feature of someone who thinks of him/herself being smart, ‘minor smartness’ cannot be pretended. Such a person feels no need for pretending to be smart (Ouyang 2006, 24). In this division, ‘major smartness’ (da congming ) is attributed to people with clear self-knowledge. This emphasis on self-knowledge as a prerequisite for major smartness is reminiscent of the passages in the Daodejing that express the importance of knowing oneself for

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being truly illuminated (ming ) (see Chapter 33: 知人者智,自知者明). Self-knowledge implies being conscious of one’s own limitations and consequently also of the limitations of others and the world around. As some authors argue, only when one knows one’s limitations, being aware of how humble and insignificant one by nature is, will one be able to be both willing and ready to connive at, or simply ignore, certain things or situations one cannot change (Xing 2009; Yan 2006). Another characteristic of ‘major smart’ people is that—having enough self-knowledge and worldly knowledge—they do see through all things and might be unsatisfied with a lot of things, but choose to make clear distinctions on right and wrong, good or bad only in major, important matters, and can take a detached, non-judgemental approach in minor, i.e. less important matters. An example of this quality is the aforementioned Lü Duan, who was not muddled in major matters, only in minor matters, which made him very liked and respected by others. This kind of smart people know how to control themselves in such minor matters and are able to judge a situation with regard to actually taking action or not taking action. On the contrary, ‘minor smart’ people are muddleheaded in a foolish way, that is to say, they do not accurately judge when it is appropriate to be muddled (e.g. Shi 2009). As a result, they are often muddleheaded in important matters and think they are smart in minor matters. I will elaborate on this highly relevant judgement of what is considered to be major and minor matters when dealing with the moral code of the wisdom of pretending ignorance in Chapter 7.

Real and Fake Muddleheadedness A second, though most self-evident distinction is between people who are real (zhen) and fake (jia) muddleheaded. Most sources consider real hutu as being genuinely ignorant. Real hutu people also do not consider themselves ignorant; they do not have enough self-knowledge to do so. On the contrary, they often think they are doing well. Real hutu is nevertheless described as taking both a positive and a negative turn. A rather typical example of the positive real hutu comes from a writer who was told he

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was terminally ill and therefore long-term hospitalized. From the beginning till the end, he explains, he was very optimistic, did not profoundly realize how serious his illness was. In other words, he remained ignorant about the gravity of his actual situation and consequently happier than if he would have recognized it. As he argues, this positive real hutu contributed to his final recovery. As he further argues, the tragedy of Zheng Banqiao was that “among all drunk, real hutu people, he alone was awake and clear, but had to pretend to be muddleheaded (fake or jia hutu)” (X. Li 2007). A negative and extreme, yet very well-known example of the real hutu (zhen hutu) person who seemed to even be happily hutu is put forward in the figure of Lu Xun’s Ah Q, the prototype of the stupid, naïve and ignorant victim of society (e.g. Gao 2011). In The true Story of Ah Q (Ah Q zhengzhuan 阿Q 正传), the protagonist Ah Q is a genuinely hutu person, a weakling who constantly rationalizes the humiliations and insults he repeatedly suffers by claiming ‘spiritual (or moral) victory.’ His spiritual victory is what Wielander (2018, 27) calls a “particular technique with which to deceive himself in the power struggles that make up social relations.” In a sense, he approaches life with naïve but cheering optimism, but certainly not out of smartness. Lu Xun rather presents him as a pitiful product of the autocratic society. The alternative to real hutu (zhen hutu) obviously is fake hutu (jia hutu). This is the hutu of people who consciously pretend to be ignorant or play dumb (zhuang sha). Exactly this pretending (zhuang ) seems to be the most problematic and contradictory aspect in the art of playing dumb. On the one hand, the high-spirited muddleheadedness is indeed ‘pretended,’ a kind of smart pretence. On the other hand, if this muddleheadedness is pretended, how can it lead to real peace of mind? According to a professor in the bourgeoning academic field of National (or Heritage) Studies (guoxue 国学),16 there are indeed several ways of pretending ignorance. One is the way of stupid people who do not understand much about life, such as ‘minor smart’ people, and foolishly pretend to be hutu out of self-interest or material gain and social status. Another way is the way of smart people (such as literati and intellectuals) who pretend to be hutu for the sake of self-preservation, in the same way as Zheng Banqiao did (Personal communication, 19

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September 2008, Beijing). Scholar Lei Legeng (2008, 4) supports this opinion and adds another layer to pretended hutu: the smartly pretended ignorance for the benefit of others that starts from real wisdom. It is a kind of smartness that requires special self-restraint that “common people” will not easily attain. As Feng Youlan (1997, 340) also argues, the difference between a sage and a “common person” lies in the consciousness of the deeds, and what they mean for the doer. Wise people do not necessarily behave much differently than most people do. But they do what they do in a state of enlightenment, while other people do what they do in a state of (real) ignorance. In sum, in its best form, pretended hutu should be understood as an equivalent of the difficult accomplishments of ‘major smartness’ and real wisdom, whereas the often misinterpreted, negatively appreciated hutu corresponds to ‘minor smartness,’ real muddleheadedness and even fake wisdom. This complex, almost schizophrenic approach to different states of hutu-ness and smartness as a particular way of turning a blind eye on something and adopt a self-concealing, modest but wise attitude, is by some sources associated with the famous though very controversial painting of a night owl by artist Huang Yongyu 黄永玉 (1924) (see Fig. 4.2).

Fig. 4.2 Huang Yongyu, “Owl” (1973) (Fair use)

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The painting depicts a winking owl, a gesture quite common for owls, which are—strangely enough mainly in the West—assumed to be wise animals. In his study on the painting, art historian Eugene Wang (2000, 436) describes the owl as having “an enigmatic expression that can be seen either as a wink or as an one-eye-open stare.” Huang Yongyu, a fervent animal painter, painted the owl in 1973 when the Cultural Revolution was still at its peak. The calligraphy on the right side of the painting reads as “During the day people curse me with vile words, but at night I work for them 白天人们用恶毒的语言诅咒我, 夜晚 我为他们工作,” and reflects the condition of the Cultural Revolution. The Gang of Four—a radical faction of the CCP including Mao’s third wife Jiang Qing—interpreted the winking owl as the artist’s portrayal of public officials turning a blind eye to wrongdoings, and Huang was harshly reprimanded for its purportedly blasphemous animosity towards the Cultural Revolution and the socialist system, and labelled counterrevolutionary.17 Intended or not, this politically loaded, multi-layered depiction of the wisdom of playing dumb is interesting in many ways, of which I will highlight a few in the next chapters. But here I want to draw attention to Huang Yongyu’s own reflection on Nande hutu, succinctly expressed in a calligraphy accompanying his depiction of Zheng Banqiao about 25 years after he painted the owl: Zheng Banqiao recommended Nande hutu, well actually, real hutu is innate, you won’t ever be able to learn it. Pretended hutu really requires a great effort, and it is not as good as other methods. (Chen 2020)

What other methods these are, he explains in another calligraphic postscript called ‘It’s hard to be cautious’ (Nande xiaoxin 难得小心), alluding to Nande hutu as ‘It’s hard to be muddleheaded’: Zheng Banqiao’s Nande hutu is a disguise that requires a lot of mental effort. Zheng Banqiao did not manage to do so himself, and never put it in practice. […] Although it [pretended ignorance] is a very dutiful and decent perspective, it is just that, having raised this perspective, other people will measure things in the same way, and one unavoidably will get enmeshed in a web of one’s own pinning. I actually think that nowadays, in dealing with affairs, a lot of them [hutu people], because they are

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hutu, will be tricked in taking the leading position. Since you want to be upright, it is still more clever to be cautious. (Chen 2020)

What is stressed here in the distinction between being hutu and smart is to be upright; plainly pretending to be hutu will have you end up in a real muddle, or rather mess. It is not hard to see why this artist advocates to be mindful of the consequences of one’s actions over playing the fool.

Modern-Day Self-Cultivation The above phrasings, proverbs and maxims articulate the overall wisdom of playing dumb and reflect the common beliefs and opinions with regard to being/pretending to be smart-ignorant, and the general dynamics this brings forth. The most basic interpretation of Nande hutu nowadays is that of a smartly pretended muddleheadedness that transcends ordinary, minor smartness, and that is intimately connected to the attitudes and capacities discussed above. Altogether, the wisdom of playing dumb is well summarized by popular author Yue Qing (2007) on the backflap of his book Nande hutu. The great wisdom of life of changing from smart into muddleheaded : it is at the same time an experience, an inner state of mind (jingjie), a competence, a wisdom, and a kind of magnanimity and tolerance accessible to people from all walks of life. When contextualizing the wisdom of playing dumb and its related arts in a Chinese environment, most sources commonly resort to very common umbrella terms in everyday parlance that convey the meaning of ‘how to behave oneself in society,’ such as ‘(wei ren) chu shi (为人) 处世’ and ‘zuoren 做人,’ or a combination of both. According to Wang and Zheng (2017, 42–72), zuoren can be considered as socialization the Chinese way. Yang Kuo-shu (1995, 36) defines zuoren as “trying to be a person who is in conformity with the conventions of society.” A common contemporary Chinese dictionary also explains the first meaning of the term as to “conduct oneself; behave, meaning the way one gets along with others; understanding how to behave socially appropriate in society.” As a characteristically Chinese way of expressing how to become a socially tactful person, zuoren can be considered as the goal of the Confucian

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society. It is in the different discourses presented as an endless journey towards appropriate social behaviour in interpersonal relationships and in society at large, as expressed in the different ‘arts’ that constitute the wisdom of playing dumb. Zuoren will become important in Chapter 7 when discussing the moral code of playing dumb. For convenience sake, I will further translate zuoren as ‘social conduct,’ keeping in mind that the concept mainly reflects the—from a Confucian perspective—socially mature (i.e. tactful) person. At the same time, altogether the different ‘arts’ of the wisdom of playing dumb as a strategy for becoming such a mature personality seem to offer a complete manual for educating the social self that echoes the Confucian self-cultivation. Early Confucianism indeed promoted self-cultivation by means of “love of knowledge, strenuous attention to conduct, and sensitivity to shame” (Hwang 2012, 120) (see also Chapter 2). In the contemporary context, this manual of self-education targets modern, cultivated citizens, who read books, watch cultural revival programmes on ancient wisdom, and write blogs, and generally resort to all kinds of modern-type (social) media to be informed. This modern manual is furthermore presented in a culturally sensitive way, which through a few unique characteristics informs us about how Chinese people are advised to navigate through life in a familiar and culturally accepted way. A first characteristic is their philosophical background, expressed in phrasings, proverbs and aphorisms as well as virtuous practices well established in Chinese culture. This profoundly philosophical discourse can be found in scholarly sources in lofty language, whereas in non-scholarly sources such as bloggers, taxi-drivers and so on, in a more popularized form drawn from daily life experiences. It is certainly not uncommon that proverbs rooted in high-level thinking simply rephrase and paraphrase the abstraction expressed in the original source. In this way, they come to reflect the so-called collective wisdom in a popular way and accessible to a wide public (Wu 2004, 323). Whereas they inevitably lose some of their profound philosophical meaning in the course of their popularization, these expressions nevertheless constitute authentic wisdoms of life and elements of spiritual culture that were passed on

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throughout Chinese history, and that have deep roots in the Chinese mind. Secondly, except for the occasional Western hero or otherwise intellectual, the discourses on Zheng Banqiao’s hutu are filled with frequent references to political and literary heroic figures, such as fellow literati Tao Yuanming and Su Dongpo, Wang Xifu, the smart protagonist of the Dream of the Red Chamber , Zhuge Liang (181–234, strategist during the Three Kingdom Period), Cao Cao (155–220, warlord during the late Han) and Yang Xiu (175–219, his advisor), ‘muddled’ Lü Duan (935– 1000, prime minister during the Song dynasty), and Zhang Xueliang (1901–2001, warlord during the Warlord era). Also, Sun Yatsen, Mao Zedong and Deng Xiaoping are praised for their smartness (without any pretended lapses in intelligence though) (e.g. Geng and Xu 1996; Lei 2008). This phenomenon strongly draws on the idea of modelling historical figures and events in the past (see also Chapter 3), and illustrates the importance of historical awareness in Chinese societies as a means to learn from the past. A third characteristic is the dialectical use of opposite pairs. Several dichotomies are—either formally or in semantics, or both—put forward to give insight into the wisdom of playing dumb: smartness is pitted against muddleheadedness; suffering loss/disadvantage against luck/advantage; foolishness as a necessary element of smartness and vice versa; hardness can be won over by softness; and retreating in order to advance. Often, these opposite pairs also express a paradox that turns the normally accepted order upside down, a characteristic of ancient philosophical rhetoric (see Chapter 2). In highlighting the dialectical relations and complementarity of all things under heaven, these elements in the contemporary discourse basically underpin the dialectical reasoning, worldview and approach to life and society as in ancient philosophy. These are the three selling strengths—promoting age-old wisdom; using historical/literary moral examples; incorporating the ancient dialectical Chinese worldview and family-based structure of the Confucian society—which no authors or media can afford to avoid if they want to be taken seriously and be read by a broad public in China. Moreover, taken together, these ancient rhetorical characteristics are deployed to win over citizens in their search for meaning in modern society. The way

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the wisdom of pretended hutu-ism is promoted as difficult to accomplish (nande) attitudes and practices of virtuous Confucian self-cultivation is illustrative of this. As discussed in Chapter 3, self-cultivation is in fact a metaphor for an embodied process of spiritual growth through an accumulation of effort and experience. In ancient times, this lifetime learning consisted of conscious study (-xue) and practice of ritual propriety, music and other forms of cultivating the self (Sigurðsson 2015; Tu 1985). In its present form, self-cultivation can easily be considered what Nehring et al. (2016) call the Chinese translation of the global trend of the self-help and self-improvement industry. However, contrary to self-improvement books in Western countries that often draw much of the inspiration from Asian wisdom, China smartly modernizes its age-old indigenous wisdom to inform this trend, by rehashing ancient elitist, sophisticated self-cultivation into modern, popular self-improvement, marketed in books, popular talk shows, blogs and diverse cultural derivatives. As it is stated on one of the self-help books’ backflap: “This book (…) takes the notion of hutu to turn the most ordinary (da su 大俗) into the most refined (da ya 大雅)” (Wu 2007) (and in so doing, again playing on a binary opposition very familiar to the Chinese people). In other words, “because the saying has a sufficient degree of refined quality, and at the same time stays close to the mundane world, it smoothly entered every family” (Li 2005, 8). In deploying this familiar rhetoric strategy with regard to selfcultivation, the nation-state wins on two fronts. Firstly, imbued with this type of knowledge from a very young age, Chinese people (at least the ethnic Han Chinese) can easily grasp its rationales and identify with it, in order to nourish their cultural knowledge and awareness. As for Nande hutu, the ease with which rigid, intellectual and sophisticated, and popular, common and folk elements harmoniously merge in the contemporary discourse is impressive. It is exactly this mixed though familiar content that helps it resonate with people from all walks of life, and as such renders the wisdom of playing dumb accessible, meaningful and appealing to all. As a result, this example of modern self-education contributes to the Party’s emphasis on the cultural revival and increasing nationalism through feeding ‘national character’ in all domains of society, and ultimately to the consolidation of its legitimacy.18 The popular

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CCTV lectures on cultural heritage ‘Lecture Hall’ (Baijia Jiangtan) in which Nande hutu featured in 2019 are also illustrative of this trend of Confucian revival in service of national self-confidence (Zhang 2014). This trend of creating a sense of national citizenship through ancient moral self-cultivation and moral examples was first attempted during the New Policies reforms of 1902–1911. The idea then was to teach Western learning while at the same time emphasize moral cultivation and reading of the Classics to instil a sense of Chinese national identity and patriotism (Goossaert and Palmer 2011, 172–173). Although things have changed a great deal in comparison with the beginning of the twentieth century in the wake of the New Culture Movement (Xin Wenhua Yundong 新文化运动) and its search for a new national identity for China, this political strategy is ever so alive.19 Secondly, the ancient art of not knowing, taking a low-key position and taking things philosophically and light-heartedly offer advice not only on becoming socially and morally mature, but also on dealing with anger, stress and frustration. In an analysis of several articles in official newspapers dealing with popular survival practices in modern society, Charles Hammond identified ‘taking things philosophically,’ ‘being free and unrestrained’ and ‘muddling through’—all directly related to Nande hutu—as advice given in such official sources. These advices directly encourage citizens not to openly vent their grief and misery, nor their criticism and discontent (Hammond 2007, 255–256; 264). The underlying logic is that as long as one practises self-cultivation, everything can be overcome, and one can be successful in interpersonal relations, and in life. In other words, it is the (moral) responsibility of every citizen to educate her/himself (to become knowledgeable) to the extent that she/he can deal with unfortunate events on their own, and without complaining. In her captivating book on mental health and therapeutic governance in China, Yang Jie (2018) discusses the Chinese government’s agenda of fostering the development of resilient, mobile and positive–thinking subjects who ideally would contribute to political stability and economic growth. In doing so, the state synthesizes “state objective and commercial interest in a newly emerged therapeutic culture that attributes mental health problems to the individual instead of socio-political factor” (Gao 2018, 1).

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Thus, apart from being positive and resilient, Chinese people are also strongly encouraged to take responsibility for their own well-being. As for the wisdom of playing dumb, almost all connotations are about the choice to be happy, to cultivate yourself in order to obtain inner peace. Moreover, if you don’t manage to smartly play dumb and be like muddy water, you will end up alone or with a lot of enemies. This policy of making citizens responsible for their own well-being sees its concretization in formal promotion of self-help and self-improvement (or selfmotivational) books often written by experts in the field of National Studies (Goossaert and Palmer 2011, 267); in the mushrooming of training sessions, popular counselling practices and psychological talk shows that carry out this “therapeutic governance” (Yang 2015); and in the various happiness campaigns and well-being manuals initiated by the government since early 2000 (Kleinman et al. 2011; Wielander and Hird 2018; Yang 2013, 2018). So far, all the popular opinions on mastering the wisdom of playing dumb are presented in a didactical fashion, almost like excerpts from a Chinese handbook on moral education. But—as it suits proper selfcultivation—these idealized values and virtues must be solidified through concrete behaviour. In the next chapter, we will have a look at when concretely the wisdom of playing dumb is applied in daily life situations.

Notes 1. This section on the history and popularity of Nande hutu as a popular saying is based on my introduction to five translations of articles from diverse fields dealing with Nande hutu, see Matthyssen, 2015. “Zheng Banqiao’s Nande hutu and “The Art of Being Muddled” in Contemporary China.” Contemporary Chinese Thought 46 (4): 3–25 (Taylor & Francis Ltd., http://www.tandfonline.com). 2. The 1980s and 1990s are also characterized by highly critical, often cynical art and popular music. One very famous example is the in 1998 released popular album by the father of rock music in China Cui Jian, called ‘The power of the powerless’ (Wuneng de liliang ), a possible reference to the Czech playwright Vaclav Havel’s essay (1978) ‘The Power of the Powerless,’

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that had circulated in mainland China during the 1990s (see also Barmé 1999, 359). The programme’s full title is “Lecture Forum from a Hundred Schools of Thought,” see http://tv.cctv.com/lm/bjjt/. Established in 2001, the show featured topics such as biology, physics, economics, history and literature, with lecturers from around the world. Later, its focus gradually changed, as nowadays most programmes deal with Chinese history and culture, discussed by Chinese scholars on a daily base. It has been extremely popular, even to the extent that a friend who is manager of a lubricant oil company at some point ordered her employees to start the day with half an hour of this programme. According to her, after frequently listening to the programme, she even loves her country more than before. However, as another friend commented, when critically approached, the programme has become too popular and consequently has lost depth. It should be stressed that wuwei as a spiritual—and not just political— ideal does not only appear in the work of classical Daoist thinkers like Laozi and Zhuangzi, but also in the works of Confucius, Mencius and Xunzi. The wuwei referred to by authors in the hutu discourse is the Daoist wuwei. For an in-depth analysis of the different meanings in the different Chinese traditions (Daoism and Confucianism) in early China, see Graham (1989) and Slingerland (2003). The notion of ‘effortless action’ contains the most controversial aspect of wuwei. Indeed, how can one consciously try not to try? And if it comes about naturally and spontaneously, why do Daoist thinkers tell us to pursue it? For a discussion on this paradox, see, e.g., Slingerland (2003). For a brief study on philosophical maxims related to softness and hardness and their later proverbial equivalents, see Wu (2004, 309–311). For instance, Daodejing, Chapter 33 states, “He who knows contentment is rich 知足者富,” and Chapter 44 hosts the verse “He who knows contentment will avoid disgrace, and he who knows when to stop will not be in danger and they will [live] for a long time 知足不辱, 知止不殆, 可以長久”. Further, Chapter 46 writes, “No disaster is greater than not knowing contentment; no blame greater than the desire for gain. Therefore being content with knowing contentment is the eternal contentment 禍 莫大於不知足; 咎莫大於欲得。 故知足之足, 常足矣.” The Zhuangzi (Chapter 11) echoes this observation: “He who knows contentment will not be burdened by seeking profit 知足者不以利自累也.” In the philosophical discussion (Chapter 2) I discussed ‘knowing fate’ as zhi tianming 知天命, that is, ‘knowing the mandate of heaven.’ The

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‘mandate of heaven’ (tianming ) was originally the mandate the emperor received from ‘heaven’ (tian) which endowed him with the legitimacy to rule virtuously. Confucius democratized the term to apply to the ‘exemplary person’ (junzi). Although tianming in later intellectual discourses also more generally came to mean ‘ones naturally defined conditions,’ it is not tianming but the shorter form ‘ming,’ that in contemporary parlance is used to denote ‘fate,’ as in combinations such as ‘fortune-telling’ 算命, and ‘ fate, destiny’ 命运. For a discussion of destiny (fate) in Confucian thinking, see, e.g., Hwang (2012, 100–105). The saying le tian zhi ming 乐天知命 and a few other sayings in this chapter dealing with joy and happiness (le 乐) have previously been discussed from the perspective of Chinese thinking about (un)happiness in a book chapter in Chinese discourses on happiness edited by Gerda Wielander and Derek Hird, entitled “Chinese happiness: A proverbial approach of popular philosophies of life” published by the Hong Kong University Press (HKUP) (pp. 189–207), see Matthyssen (2018). These parts are re-used by permission of the publisher, HKUP. For more on the relation between cosmic order and human agency from a comparative perspective, see, e.g., Lupke (2005) and Zhu (2006). Still, accepting fate does not prevent the Chinese to have other ways to actively deal with their fate and take—at least to some extent— responsibility for changes in their lives. Practices of ‘fate management’ (sometimes also called ‘metaphysical risk management’ or ‘fate control’) such as geomancy (fengshui 风水), fortune telling (suanming 算命), face reading (mianxiang 面相), homonyms and auspicious numbers on which a lot of money is spent when for instance buying license plates, telephone numbers, house and office numbers, and occasional but sometimes simultaneous Daoist and Buddhist worshipping in the local temples, are vital aspects of Chinese daily life. Nevertheless, some of these practices tend to lose their relevance among the younger generations, especially in the People’s Republic of China. According to Pohl (1990, 66), also Zheng Banqiao admired Cao Cao as a great man of action and creative power whose poems “posses an air of impetuous unrestraint and a sense of social responsibility.” Zhong literally means ‘middle’ or ‘what is central’ (from which ‘focus’) but here it can refer to ‘equilibrium,’ in the sense of ‘not too much and not too little,’ that is to say, ‘just right.’ Yong 庸 literally means ‘mediocrity,’ ‘ordinary’ and ‘the usual’ or ‘use,’ which suggests that the focus for achieving harmony lies in ordinary daily life. The word originally is derived

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from its—only—occurrence in the Analects (Lunyu 6, 26): “The virtue embodied in zhongyong is of the highest moral order 中庸之为德也,甚 至矣乎”. However, the expression was not further explained at this stage. Later, the Zhongyong compiled by Neo-Confucian Zhu Xi became part of the official Confucian canon belonging to the Neo-Confucian movement. Feng Youlan (1997) compares the Zhongyong to the Aristotelean idea of the “golden mean,” and therefore translates it like that, whereas Ames and Hall (2001) explicitly reject this translation. They translate as “Focusing the familiar,” emphasizing the family as the governing metaphor throughout the Zhongyong. For an etymological description of Zhongyong and for its changing interpretation in the philosophical theories, see Ames and Hall (2001), Chan (1970), and Zhang (2005). Many different translations of this verse circulate, among which for instance Ames and Hall’s translation as “The moment at which joy and anger, grief and pleasure, have yet to arise is called a nascent equilibrium (zhong ); once the emotions have arisen, that they are all brought into proper focus (zhong) is called harmony (he)” (Ames and Hall 2001, 86). French sinologist François Jullien calls this absence of preferences and extremes an appreciation for dan 淡, blandness, indeed an important motif in Chinese philosophy. This motif counters the preferences or fixations for specific virtues. However valuable these virtues are, the inner fixation they create would block “the renewal of our personality, calcify our subjective dispositions, and sterilize our nature” (Jullien 2004, 61). National (or Heritage) Studies 国学 started as an academic field around the 1990s, but is in fact an expression of the longer-standing nationalist revival throughout China, which in turn is indicative for a deeper malaise, that of the crisis of belief (Farquhar and Zhang 2012, 282–283). The ‘Owl’ was exhibited in 1974 at the ‘Black Painting Exhibition’ held at China’s National Art Gallery in Beijing, as an example of being counterrevolutionary. The exhibition caption at the time tells us that “The owl, with its one eye open and the other closed, is a self-portrait of the likes of Huang. It reveals their attitude: an animosity toward the Proletarian Cultural Revolution and the Socialist system” (quoted in Wang 2000, 436). In 1977, at the end of the Revolution and after the arrest of the Gang of Four, Huang Yongyu painted other owls, two this time (‘Two Owls’). In the inscription, he ridicules his former critics. However, as Eugene Wang (2000) explains in his study of the painting, the post-Mao interpretations of the winking owl painting remain polarized in their re-assessments

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of the 1974 inquisition, the majority asserting that the painting suffered overreading, and others insisting on its political-satirical thrust. 18. On the power of discourse and popular culture, see, e.g., Strinati (2004, 226–233). Strinati discusses Foucault’s argumentation, by saying that public discourses are “particular ways of organizing knowledge in the context of serving specific types of power relationships” (p. 227). 19. For instance, during the 2nd session of the “3th National Committee of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference (CPPCC)” in March 2019, President Xi Jinping once again called on writers, artists and theorists to stress the importance of strengthening “cultural selfconfidence” 文化自信, serving the people with fine works and guiding the public with “high moral standards.” This emphasis on cultural selfconfidence is still a reaction on what is generally known as the ‘Century of National Humiliation’ 百年耻辱, the period from 1839 till the establishment of the Republic of China in 1949 of intervention and subjugation of China by Western powers, Russia and Japan, from which the nation is still recovering. See http://www.xinhuanet.com/english/2019-03/04/c_1 37868756.htm (Accessed 30 September 2020).

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Hall, David, and Roger Ames. 1998. Thinking from the Han. Self, Truth and Transcendence in Chinese and Western Culture. Albany: State University of New York. Hammond, Charles E. 2007. “The Chinese Strategy of Transcendence.” The American Journal of Semiotics 23 (1–4): 253–276. Hughes, Christopher R. 2006. Chinese Nationalism in the Global Era. Oxon/New York: Routledge. Hwang, Kwang-Kuo. 2012. Foundations of Chinese Psychology. Confucian Social Relations. International and Cultural Psychology. New York, Dordrecht, Heidelberg, London: Springer. Jian, Kun. 2004. Xinbian hutuxue: zhihui chushi liushisi ke. Yiqing yangxing ‘Babaozhou’ (Newly edited ‘The Art of Being Muddleheaded’: 64 Lessons on the Wisdom of Conducting Oneself in Society. The ‘Eight Treasures Porridge’ for Joyful Feelings and Spiritual Cultivation). Kunming: Yunnan renmin chubanshe. Jin, Yi. 2006. Hutuxue: Nande hutu yu chenggong zhi dao (‘The Art of Being Muddleheaded’: Nande Hutu and the Road to Success). Beijing: Xiyuan chubanshe. Jullien, François. 2004. In Praise of Blandness: Proceeding from Chinese Thought and Aesthetics. New York: Zone Books. Kleinman, Arthur, Yunxiang Yan, Jing Jun, Sing Lee, Evereth Zhang, Tianshu Pan, Fei Wu, and Jinhua Guo. 2011. “Remaking the Moral Person in a New China.” In Deep China: The Moral Life of the Person, What Anthropology and Psychiatry Tell Us About China today, edited by Arthur Kleinman et al., 1–35. Berkeley: University of California Press. Lei, Legeng. 2008. “Guanyu Zheng Banqiao suowei “Nande Hutu” lun de bianzheng jiedu (Dialectical Reading About the so-called Nande Hutu by Zheng Banqiao).” Shaoyang xueyuan xuebao (Shehui kexue ban) 7 (5): 3–6 (Translated in Matthyssen 2015, 68–81). Li, Dong. 2007. “Nande hutu.” Shanxi laonian (3): 51. Li, Xianlin. 2007. “Nande hutu.” Dangdai guangxi (5): 26. Li, Xiaodai. 2005. “Shuangmian Zheng Banqiao (The Double Side of Zheng Banqiao).” Zhongxuesheng baike (14): 8–9. Lie, Fu. 2005. Hutuxue de zhihui (The Wisdom of ‘The Art of Being Muddleheaded’). Jilin: Yanbian daxue chubanshe. Lin, Tsung-yi, Wen-Shing Tseng, and Eng-Kung Yeh, eds. 1995. Chinese Societies and Mental Health. New York: Oxford University Press. Lin, Yutang. 1963. Translations from the Chinese (The Importance of Understanding). Cleveland and New York: The World Publishing Company.

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———. 2007. My Country and My People. Beijing: Foreign Language Teaching and Research Press. Loy, David. 1985. “Wei-Wu-Wei: Nondual Action.” Philosophy East and West 35 (1): 73–86. Lu, Luo. 2010. “Chinese Well-Being.” In The Oxford Handbook of Chinese Psychology, edited by Michael Harris Bond, 327–343. New York: Oxford University Press. Lupke, Christopher, ed. 2005. The Magnitude of Ming. Command, Allotment, and Fate in Chinese Culture. Honolulu: University of Hawai Press. Ma, Yi. 2009. You yi zhong zhihui jiao Zhongyong (There Is a Wisdom called Zhongyong). Huhehaote: Neimenggu renmin chubanshe. Matthyssen, Mieke (Guest editor). 2015. “Zheng Banqiao’s Nande hutu and ‘The Art of Being Muddled’ in Contemporary China.” Contemporary Chinese Thought 46 (4). ———. 2018. “Chinese Happiness: A Proverbial Approach of Popular Philosophies of Life.” In Chinese Discourses on Happiness, edited by Gerda Wielander and Derek Hird, 189–207. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Ming, De, ed. 2008. You yi zhong celüe jiao hutu (There Is a Strategy Called ‘Muddledness’). Beijing: Zhongguo dianying chubanshe. Mo, Yan. 2003. “Cangbaotu (Treasure Map).” Xuanzi yueduwang. Accessed 3 March 2020. https://m.xyyuedu.com/writer/moyan/cangbaotu/247952. html. Moeller, Hans-Georg. 2006. Daoism Explained. From the Dream of the Butterfly to the Fishnet Allegory. Chicago and La Salle, IL: Open Court. Needham, Joseph. 1956. Science and Civilisation in China. Vol. 2. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Nehring, Daniel, Emmanuel Alvarado, Eric C. Hendriks, and Dylan Kerrigan. 2016. Transnational Popular Psychology and the Global Self-Help Industry. The Politics of Contemporary Social Change. Basingstoke and New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Niu, Zhiguo. 1996. “‘Nande hutu’ xin jie’ (New Interpretation of Nande Hutu).” Dangjian (6): 46. Ouyang, Xiulin. 2006. Hutuxue (The Art of Being Muddleheaded). Beijing: Dizhen chubanshe. Pohl, Karl-Heinz. 1990. Cheng Pan-ch’iao. Poet, Painter and Calligrapher. Vol. XXI Monumenta Serica Monograph Series. Nettetal: Steyler Verlag. Qin, Ning. 2002. “Nande hutu xinli baojian liangfang (Nande Hutu as an Effective Prescription for Mental Health).” Yiyao yu baojian, 38.

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Xie, Chunchang. 2004. “Nande hutu, xuewei hutu. Zheng Banqiao yu Zeng Guofan de hutuguan (Nande Hutu and Studying to Be Hutu. Zheng Banqiao’s and Zeng Guofan’s Hutu View).” Guangming Ribao. Accessed 24 August 2020. http://www.huaxia.com/wh/gjzt/00205125.html. Xie, Zhiqiang. 2009. Hutuxue de zhihui (The Wisdom of Being Muddleheaded). Beijing: Yunfang chubanshe. Xing, Yanguo. 2009. Xiao hutu da zhihui (Minor Muddledness, Major Wisdom). Beijing: Dizhen chubanshe. Xun, Feng. 1995. “Nande hutu you san tu (Nande Hutu Has Three Ways)”. Huaxi 34–35. Yan, Bo. 2006. Xiao hutu da zhihui (Minor Muddledness, Major Wisdom). Beijing: Zhongguo shangye chubanshe. Yang, Jie. 2013. ““Fake Happiness”: Counseling, Potentiality, and PsychoPolitics in China.” Ethos 41 (3): 292–312. ———. 2015. Unknotting the Heart. Unemployment and Therapeutic Governance in China. Ithaca and London: ILR Press. ———. 2016. “The Politics and Regulation of Anger in Urban China.” Culture, Medicine, and Psychiatry 40 (1): 100–123. https://doi.org/10.1007/ s11013-015-9476-1. ———. 2018. Mental Health in China: Change, Tradition and Therapeutic Governance. Cambridge and New York: Polity Press. Yang, Kuo-shu. 1995. “Chinese Social Orientation: An Integrative Analysis.” In Chinese Societies and Mental Health, edited by Tsung-yi Lin, Wen-Shing Tseng, and Eng-Kung Yeh. New York: Hong Kong University Press. Yang, Mayfair Mei-hui. 1994. Gifts, Favors and Banquets. The Art of Social Relationships in China. Cornell: Cornell University. Yang, Tao. 2007. Zuoren zuoshi de hutu yishu (The Art of Being Muddled in Social Conduct and in Handling Things). Beijing: Huayi chubanshe. Ye, Feng. 2007. Yudao (The Fool’s Way). Beijing: Zhongguo fangzhi chubanshe. Ying, Tong. 2004. “Nande hutu.” Zhongguo Qingshaonian. Accessed 25 February 2012 (Original website not accessible anymore in 2020, but copied many times on other websites). http://www.tanghu.net/sitehtml/news/xljk/ 2011/110120091109.htm. Yue, Qing. 2007. Nande hutu: you ‘congming’ bian ‘hutu’ de rensheng da zhihui (Nande Hutu: The Great Wisdom of Life of Changing from Smartness into Muddleheadedness). Beijing: Dizhen chubanshe. Zhang, Dainian. 2005. Key Concepts in Chinese Philosophy. Translated by Edmund Ryden. Beijing: Foreign Language Press.

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Zhang, Yanhua. 2014. “Crafting Confucian Remedies for Happiness: Unraveling the Yu Dan Phenomenon.” In The Political Economy of Affect and Emotion in East Asia, edited by Jie Yang, 31–44. Oxfordshire and New York: Routledge. Zhao, Wenming, and Han Meng. 2007. Mingbairen bu zuo hutu shi (Smart People Don’t Do Foolish Things). Beijing: Zhongguo Chang’an chubanshe. Zheng, Yongnian. 1999. Discovering Chinese Nationalism in China. Modernization, Identity, and International Relations. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Zhong, Ling. 2008a. “Hutu gonglüe (er) (The Strategy of Being Muddleheaded - Part Two).” Dianzi chanpin shijie, 164; 175. ———. 2008b. “Hutu gonglüe (san) (The Strategy of Being Muddleheaded Part Three).” Dianzi chanpin shijie, 159. Zhou, Jianye. 1995. “Wei guan cong zheng bu gai zhuang hutu (Officials in Politics Should Not Pretend to be Hutu).” Dang de shenghuo (4): 28. Zhu, Rui. 2006. “Kairos: Between Cosmic Order and Human Agency. A Comparative Study of Aurelius and Confucius.” Journal of Religious Ethics 34 (1): 115–138.

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To consider loss of face unthinkable, and therefore go through hell (for keeping up appearances). 死要面子活受罪. (Chinese saying used in “The Nande hutu of smart leaders,” Le and Liu 2002)

Hutu Pragmatism As discussed above, Zheng Banqiao’s calligraphy quickly gained popularity, and its wisdom eventually got promoted as a very down to earth strategy for navigating successfully through life. Particularly informative to get real-life examples of hutu behaviour are popular books on ‘the art of being muddleheaded’ (hutuxue), and related articles in specialized popular magazines focusing on for instance health, business and education; or magazines aimed at specific readers such as the elderly, business or political leaders, students. The domains of application herein range from very concrete fields, discussing hutu behaviour in the context © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 M. Matthyssen, Ignorance is Bliss: The Chinese Art of Not Knowing, Palgrave Studies in Indigenous Psychology, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73902-7_5

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of health, love, marriage and family life, to finance and economics, professional life, as well as more abstract domains, such as emotional intelligence and intellectual intelligence (e.g. Jian 2004; Liu 2007). Also during interviews and informal talks, people readily drew from daily life experience and their social environment to illustrate the contexts of application of the wisdom of playing dumb. In this chapter, I highlight those domains in which playing dumb is most frequently and most vividly discussed, with a particular focus on officialdom and politics, which was Zheng Banqiao’s domain par excellence. Within these fields, interpersonal relationships (renji guanxi 人际关系) in whatever setting in daily life constitute the most prominent context for consciously playing dumb. In addition, the wisdom of playing dumb is deployed in inner coping with unfortunate events. In view of its high importance, the function of playing dumb as a coping strategy will be dealt with in a separate chapter (Chapter 6). The order of presentation will follow Fei Xiaotong’s concentric circles of social relationships (described in Chapter 2). I start from the centre, the individual or the “small self” (xiao wo 小我) (Hwang 2012, 340), and discuss first what might literally be the most inner and subjective domain, physical and mental health. From this centre, as social relationships extend in circles of decreasing significance, the self becomes a “social self ” or “greater self” (da wo 大我) embedded in a social network (Hwang 2012, 341). As Fei Xiaotong (1992, 74) explains, the process by which the social spheres extend from the self (individual) takes various paths, but the basic path is through kinship, at least in rural society. Despite the emerging new social relationships and the pursuit of new types of intimacy and love as a consequence of the modernization and individualization process, kinship and family ties remain important in contemporary China. Thus, the second domain covers interpersonal relationships (renji guanxi) starting with intimate relationships including marriage and family life, followed by professional settings (work, leadership, student-teachers, students among each other, business), and ending with settings with more ‘unrelated’ acquaintances, by informants sometimes called Zhang Three and Li Four. The last domain is society, discussed in terms of officialdom and politics. These domains of application are visualized in Fig. 5.1. Increasing darkness indicates that ties

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SOCIETY the na on/Party, poli cs, officialdom, the policy of the ignorant masses, 'harmonious society'

'UNRELATED' ACQUAINTANCES Zhang Three and Li Four ASSOCIATES AND ACQUAINTANCES colleagues, student-teacher, employer-employee, leaderssubordinates FAMILY and KINSHIP RELATIONS husband and wife, children, in-laws

(small) SELF

Fig. 5.1 Contexts of application of the wisdom of playing dumb

become less socially (and as we will see in Chapter 7 also less morally) binding, and the relation itself less trustworthy. Clearly, the relevance of each application domain differs across individuals, age, status in terms of economic activity (inactive, active, retired), and occupation (student/teacher, professional relationships such as with colleagues and subordinates/superiors). Also gender seems to determine hutu behaviour to some extent. In practice, everyone applies the wisdom of playing dumb pragmatically according to his/her current living situation and issues of the day.

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In addition, I address a few exceptions, that is, situations and environments, such as with strangers and on the anonymous web, in which there is less tendency to turn to the practice of playing dumb and staying vague.

Face Work Before turning to the concrete settings for practicing hutu-ism, it is important to address one of the most important motivations for playing dumb in interpersonal relationships: maintaining and giving face. The author of The art of being muddleheaded in life: The philosophy of life of smart people, is quite self-reflective about “Chinese people” when stating the following: Chinese people are very intriguing. They can swallow a bitter pill in silence, they can suffer hidden (financial) losses, but they cannot endure loss of face. To survive in the jungle of life, you have to understand this. This is also the reason why many people who are good at using hutu wisdom do not easily say a word of criticism of others in public. It is better to say flattering words to save others’ face. This way, others will do the same, give you face, and just have a tacit understanding about it, and then bid each other goodbye after a very enjoyable time together. (Wei 2006, 79)

Face is vital in any kind of interpersonal relationship (renji guanxi). The importance of face results from the typical structure of Confucian society, in which one’s social network (social support) and social status are of utmost importance and could even be lifesaving. Both social support and social status are intimately tied to face work (or face management)—making, giving, gaining, losing, damaging and keeping up face (Hwang 2012). Yang Kuo-shu (1995, 36) emphasizes Chinese people’s high regard for reputation, to the extent that even the final purpose of social conduct (zuoren) is “to make a reputation for oneself,” in other words, to gain face for oneself. Hwang (2012, 336) adds the interpersonal dimension to this: “No matter whether one is the superior or the

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inferior, if one is good at social intercourse (zuoren), one is usually also skilled in considering others’ face.” Face work follows a compelling principle of reciprocal favour (renqing 人情, also translated as ‘sensibilities’ and ‘etiquette’) between the different parties involved, and ultimately aims at preserving harmony. Losing face results in a sense of shame (xiuchi). In fact, face in itself also knows different faces. To start with, the Chinese phrasing for face is twofold: mianzi 面子 and lian 脸. Hwang and Han (2010) call lian the “moral face” and mianzi the “social face.” As they argue, “Mianzi is more variable than lian. Everyone has only one lian, but possesses various levels of mianzi in different social situations” (Hwang and Han 2010, 479–481). When using face in this chapter, it mostly refers to mianzi, social face. Face is also a flexible concept. Hwang and Han (2010, 490), for instance, also distinguish face of the “greater self,” the socially operating self which includes the extended family, from face of the “small self.” But face can extent much further, to face of a large group of related people (group face, for instance organizational face), and to face of the nation (national face), depending on which social network prevails in the given situation.1 Especially with regard to interpersonal relationships, mianzi is extremely influential in one’s behaviour, to the point that one also has to know when to discard one’s mianzi in order to maintain interpersonal harmony. As one popular author argues, playing dumb (zhuang hutu) involves being able to let go of one’s own face in order to give the other face. Moreover, as the author continues, not being afraid of losing one’s face can serve as a kind of military strategy that leads to success (Gao 2011).

Playing Dumb: Some Contexts of Application Health As the most elementary level of applying the art of playing dumb, mental and physical health is a popular topic. Some authors dedicate complete chapters to health and hutu-ism (Jian 2004, 63–92), while others discuss

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the implications of Nande hutu for health indirectly. For instance, in Yang Jie’s ethnographic work on anger management in a context of losing one’s job, hutu-ism was identified as a culturally specific anger management strategy for avoiding despair that had further implications for one’s health (Yang 2016). Nevertheless, and not unexpectedly in terms of its relevance in dailylife pre-occupations, health is most dominant in the discourse on Nande hutu by and for older people. This becomes most pronounced whenever mental health as a benefit of the hutu attitude is discussed as a prerequisite for physical health. Columns and magazine sections written by and for the elderly entitled ‘Health and the elderly,’ ‘Beneficial for longevity and preserving health,’ and ‘Psychology and health’ actively promote its wisdom. In these discourses, Nande hutu is described as a “miracle drug for longevity” (Qin 2006), or even as “the star of longevity” 寿星 (Chu 2005), one of the three traditional deities in folk religion.2 In her ethnographic research on the elderly as empty-nesters in urban China, Anna Boermel explains that many older people apply the wisdom of Nande hutu when feeling powerless and avoiding pressure in conflict situations, because getting stressed about things one cannot change, such as past grievances with colleagues, fall-outs with friends and recalcitrant neighbours, causes more harm to one’s health than good. As one of her informants explained, he often berated his friends for letting conflicts with their children and other worries get too close to them; it would, he insisted, most certainly not be beneficial to their health (Boermel 2006, 408). Many older people also emphasize that one cannot avoid ageing, but because of the decline of vital functions with age (memory, reaction speed, judgement capacity, having things under control), it becomes harder to adapt to society in this process. This condition can make the elderly become angry, self-indulgent, stubborn, suspicious, jealous, plaintive and reluctant to accept new things. All this might influence their health, to the extent of producing abnormal psychological patterns such as mental disorders, depression and suicidal behaviour (Chen 2004; Lin 2005). Others go as far as to say that a hutu approach to life can be beneficial in the struggle with cancer (Liu and Huang 2005; Qin 2006; Zhan 2004).

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These arguments are sometimes reinforced by references to ‘experts’ who show scientific proof of the health benefits of being less worried and more relaxed. For instance, according to an author in a magazine for the elderly, research has shown that long-term exposure to worry and stress will not only speed up the ageing process, but also worsen heart diseases, high blood pressure, liver and kidney diseases, nerve diseases and other diseases. A hutu, detached attitude can make the worry disappear and release the pressure, and thus make you more relaxed, which can help one to avoid attacks of illnesses. Therefore, as the author continued, the elderly should all learn to sometimes “turn a blind eye” to stressful issues and pretend not to bother, and just be content, in order to maintain a state of equanimity when confronted with changes and conflicts (Chen 2004). One author specifically refers to scientific research to prove his point about the connection between Nande hutu, social relationships and health: […] Secondly, people who do not pursue perfection, usually have a broad-minded, tolerant disposition; they can accept other people’s opinion; they will not be overly prejudiced, which is extremely important for the immunity system. Thirdly, generally, in comparison with people who appear to be clever and clear in any given situation, people who are hutu maintain sound interpersonal relationships, which is also beneficial for their health. Fourthly, people who do not haggle over every ounce are relatively easily successful in their love and family life, and a happy marriage is the fundament of health. (Zheng 2003)

Love Relations and Marriage This quote brings us directly to another field in which the wisdom of playing dumb is not only socially appropriate but also vital: love relations. One blog title summarizes the wisdom of playing dumb very to the point: “Understanding the wisdom of Nande hutu will definitely make your love relations and marriage more happy” (Tang 2020). Most strikingly, this application of the wisdom of being hutu is predominantly discussed by (married) women. In fact, it is often the

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first association women make when inquiring about their own hutu practice: playing the fool towards their husband, and pretending not to know what one “should” not know. Consequently, most of the examples in this section come from female respondents and authors.3 Consider the story of one of my informants, a successful tourist office manager in Beijing in a stressful job and family situation. Her husband plays on the stock market and often loses a lot of money, but she does not complain, as long as it does not create serious problem in the household. In addition, her husband spends a lot of the family’s household money on taking (in her view sometimes a little excessive) care of his mother, but this is even less a point of discussion for her. After all, she argued, another husband will have other, maybe even worse defaults. Then she named just a few: alcoholism, domestic violence or adultery (Personal communication, 17 September 2008, Beijing). In other words, playing dumb serves as a practice of accepting the shortcomings of one’s partner, such as unmannerliness, strange habits and addictions, but also personality traits such as a lack of initiative, perseverance or decisiveness. It is better to accept that everyone has limitations and weaknesses, so there is no need to scrutinize things too closely. Another example came from an elder lady in a high cadre position, professor Yang. At the time we met, she worked as the head of a university’s International Relations Office, but was also the Party Secretary, a position in which she spent her days running from one high-level meeting to the other. Nevertheless, she was not hesitant to share with me an experience from her private life. In the past, she told me, she was always mocking her husband, complaining about this and that, telling him what he should change. Then one day her best friend told her that, in her experience, this constant complaining has the opposite effect. Professor Yang carefully considered this and decided to test what would happen if she changed her strategy from complaining about his defaults and weaknesses, to smartly playing the fool, and even praising him more. The outcome was that—to her surprise, she admitted—he gradually realized himself that he should make more of an effort to please his ever-tolerant wife (Personal communication, 26 September 2008, Shenyang).

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Some advices for married women to play dumb incline to— consciously and even purposely—being submissive. For instance, one author urges women to pretend to be stupid if they want to keep their husband in the ‘besieged fortress’ of marriage—a witty pun on the famous novel Fortress besieged 围城 by literary academic and novelist Qian Zhongshu 钱锺书 (1910–1998). Her advice is to just turn a blind eye to things whenever necessary, because “only closing one eye will allow [the husband] to sit leisurely in the besieged fortress.” Moreover, she laconically continues, “when you pretend to be a little stupid and docile, your husband will be happy and to his heart content” (Lin 2007). The article ends with eight practical rules for how to pretend to be stupid, explaining that real muddleheadedness is related to limited IQ, whereas playing dumb is “superb emotional intelligence” (Lin 2007). Before one even starts considering this from a feminist perspective, it is helpful to explain why the author promotes such a docile, foolish attitude. In her experience, the clever, strong and dominant women she knows seem to be quite successful and happy in their jobs, but not in their marriages. She contends that these women burden their husbands with too many expectations and demands, which makes the latter flinch and the couple are likely to cool their feelings for each other (Lin 2007). This author obviously insists on a harmonious relation above all else as essential for a married woman’s personal well-being. The discourse becomes more serious when it concerns jealousy or even adultery. In fact, the women I interviewed, almost without exception, imagined this as the first example of deploying the wisdom of playing dumb—a husband committing (or being presumed to commit) adultery. Also here, some degree of open acceptance and sometimes resignation through playing dumb are the advised approaches. One popular author’s chapter on “Emotions and minor muddleheadedness: the great wisdom of a harmonious family” recounts such a story of a middle-aged (by exception) man, Mister Lin, who sees his wife having lunch with her former boyfriend. Although he feels very troubled, he decides to stay silent because he trusts her and wants to continue living with her in harmony. Still, it is not until their wedding anniversary when she confesses her date, that he understands that without even mentioning the issue, the conflict gets dissolved (Xing 2009, 35–76).

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The same resilience and tolerance are advised when a husband has an affair and his wife knows about it. From young girls to female taxi-drivers, businesswomen and female professors, all the women mentioning this example agreed on the fact that however hard it may be to tolerate, they should at least give it some time without confronting him with the situation; very likely he would return to her, and a direct confrontation would inevitably lead to a divorce. This is—as a young female interviewee laughingly added—also the happy ending of the stories about adultery in TV serials: the man always comes back to his wife (Personal communication, 23 September 2011, Shenyang).4 Many similar stories and narratives suggest that playing dumb and taking a step back can leave the necessary space for a situation to develop in another, more beneficial direction. Most strikingly, this is not some old pattern of reasoning from the elderly; the visual of a young girl typing on her laptop that accompanies the above article on the “stupid wife” clearly testifies to the article’s reading public. Also in counselling practices, when dealing with marital discord, Chinese therapists such as marriage counsellors tend to advise enduring the situation and not exposing one’s feelings, with the possibility that the broken relationship will be mended, instead of opting for divorce or separation (Lin et al. 1995, 292).5 Apart from these predominantly female interpretations, many sources generally consider playing dumb as the true quality of a good spouse. The logic behind this is, that compromising and yielding, and intentionally playing dumb, gives conflicts room to calm down. In doings so, partners give each other face—precisely because nothing is done (Gao 2011; Zhao and Meng 2007).

Family Life and Kinship Relations As the cornerstone of society, and as the prototype for the ‘greater self,’ the family is discussed as one of the main areas in which playing the fool and be compromising for the sake of preserving harmonious relations is often advised. This includes not only the previously discussed

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husband-wife relationship, but also the relationship between parentschildren, brothers-sisters and the extended family such as the in-laws (e.g. Jin 2006; Xing 2009). One of the most complex and delicate of such relations is that of mother-in-law and daughter-in-law. One just-married woman raised the issue of her mother-in-law always favouring and taking the standpoint of her son in whatever issue in the household. As long as it does not concern her most basic principles in life, she said, she would just play the fool and let it go, in order to keep the marriage smooth (Personal communication, 28 May 2008, Beijing). Equally important is the relation between parents and children. From the viewpoint of the parents, the most difficult task is to find the right balance between pretending to ignore and being strict about important issues. A mother of a teenage daughter explained that she found her daughter’s first boyfriend not very suitable but did not intrude in their relationship. Even when they finally broke up and the daughter got a boyfriend from England, which she thought was worse because she was afraid both of being separated from her daughter over long periods, and of her daughter losing traditional values, she still did not intervene, as she was convinced that her daughter should live her own life. On the other hand, with regard to study results, she was very strict, and never pretended that she did not care or was indifferent, because, as she explained, these were “important matters” 大事 (Personal communication, 23 September 2008, Shenyang). Still another father argued that if one insists too much on an issue and scrutinizes things too deeply, this might have the reverse effect (much like the example of the wife complaining about her husband the whole time, resulting in frustration and discontent). He gave the example of eating sweets: being too restrictive and controlling will make your children even want more, even if it is not really for the taste. Therefore, it is better to consciously close an eye once in a while, and your children will naturally not be so interested anymore. He called this an example of ‘managing through effortless action’ (wuwei er zhi ) in the family (Personal communication, 30 September 2008, Beijing). These stories are illustrative of “giving some face to the children” (Yan 2006, 54–55). In many ways, playing dumb in family life strongly reflect

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the rules of face-giving that is the glue of interpersonal relationships. Even today, living in a smaller nucleus family, young people associate the practice of playing dumb with their relations towards their parents. For instance, a young Shanghai girl, who at the time worked in an international company while living with her parents, told me she was vexed by the fact that she often disagrees with her parents, but that she would never tell them that they were “incorrect.” She would either try to explain her point, or—knowing that they would either not understand or become angry—just keep quiet, purposely not display her thoughts, and still disagree (Personal communication, 22 May 2008, Shanghai). This attitude clearly is a legacy of the Confucian virtue of filial piety (xiao), according to which children should show respect to their parents by not arguing with them about right and wrong.

Student Life Students (and young people in general) are maybe the least expected to apply the wisdom of playing dumb because of their strong concern with their outer appearance and the impression they give to peers. Young people indeed are quite reluctant to pretend not to be clear about an issue because of the fear of looking stupid and irresponsible, especially with regard to study achievements they have set for themselves and their parents; one has to be conscientious, diligent and deal with whatever comes up in the process of studying and getting a degree, and not just do things in a sloppy way. Nevertheless, students do practice hutu-ism and associate it with being not overly serious and conscientious about everything, with taking things light-heartedly as a way of living that makes life and interpersonal relations easier to handle. For them, Nande hutu represents a wisdom of life that teaches them how to manage their relations with fellow students, friends and parents. In the open-questions survey I conducted (2008), one student replied to the question of if and how Nande hutu influenced his/her attitude to life as follows:

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I myself am a very principled person. When I was very young, I already liked to distinguish black from white, right from wrong, and good from bad. But this hutu way of thinking urged me to relax my standards towards others a little.

Equally important however, is the usefulness of playing dumb and stepping back in dealing with school issues such as examinations, bad marks and pressure to succeed and be among the best. In his analysis of mostly online articles on popular survival practices by young bloggers, Charles Hammond (2007) categorizes hutu-ism as one of the ‘muddling through’-strategies students are advised to adopt to deal with stress. Once in a while, taking a detached attitude offers a way to release pressure in the student rat race. Students indeed experience a tremendous tension from various sources. They undergo enormous pressure in wanting to satisfy their parents’ expectations. Often as the only child able to ‘be successful’ and give face to the family, the demands placed upon them are very high, and the need for achievement, and indirectly, affirmation from their parents, is accordingly strong (Latham 2007; Lemos 2012). In addition, the internal competition among students creates strong feelings of insecurity and failure. One university student told me that there were many “hidden wars” between her and her fellow students and even with the so-called friends in senior secondary school that prepares students for the decisive graduation exam. While students are required to handle these relationships with a lot of self-restraint, playing dumb is one of the preferred strategies (Personal communication, 23 September 2008, Shenyang). The moment they manage to enter university, the competition and mental stress continue in new forms. In the best universities, the most excellent students from all over the country are now together in one class, and they cannot but feel forced to perform always better than the others. As for teachers, the discussions revolve around how the wisdom of playing dumb can make them good (successful) teachers and educators. The real art is to play dumb purposefully in order to obtain a desirable change in behaviour, by emphasizing students’ strengths and ignoring their weaknesses and sometimes ‘minor smart’ (xiao congming ) behaviour

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(the kind of foolish smartness explained in Chapter 4). Simply not being exposed to a loss of face in public, while knowing that the teacher is just pretending to be ignorant, can cause students to realize that the teacher is not focused on negative characteristics and weaknesses, which in turn fosters self-confidence. As such, this wisdom is considered by some as a smart educational tool, or an “art of teaching” (C. Wang 2005), a kind of tolerance and understanding that fosters trust and respect. According to one teacher, during the twenty-three years he spent studying, teaching and doing research, the greatest wisdom he learnt was to “let go” instead of sticking to ambitions, achievements, and most of all, expectations. Accepting that one does not have to be clear about everything, and understanding one’s own as well as others’ limitations, both as a teacher and as a student, is how this author understands the ‘art of being muddleheaded’ (Hu 2005, 7).

Professional Life Colleagues In professional life, the wisdom of playing dumb is often expressed in terms of relations with direct colleagues, no matter the branch of work. Here again, playing dumb is about accepting that one sometimes gets hurt and about letting go of resentment and grievance among colleagues (e.g. Wei 2006; Xing 2009). Most important however, is that one should never let colleagues lose face, and should avoid losing face oneself, even if that means conniving and being aloof towards one’s grievances, gripes and wishes in conflict situations. For instance, the manager of a tourist information office explained that if a colleague does the same job or works as hard as you do but gets paid more, there is no need to be too clear about this, get angry, or worry about losing face (because of earning less in the same position), since this will not make you happier. Raising the matter with your superior or to other colleagues would risk compromising the working atmosphere. Better to put one’s own desires in the back burner (Personal communication, 17 September 2008, Beijing).

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This kind of self-effacement is often mentioned in dealing with colleagues: ignoring one’s own wishes and feelings in favour of a harmonious working atmosphere is regarded as most mature and desirable.

Leadership Positions A large amount of books, magazine articles and weblogs present the wisdom of playing dumb as guidelines for sound leadership lingdao 领导, generally referred to as ‘leadership competence.’ A lingdao in the first place denotes a political leader or leading cadre, but also a company leader or business manager, a school director, university president, as long as it refers to their function as superiors in the work hierarchy.6 From the viewpoint of leadership, the wisdom of playing dumb is promoted as a tactic for being successful. This tactic can well be summarized with the expression mentioned earlier ‘being flexible (compromising, mild, foolish) on the outside, but principled (clear, strong) on the inside’ (wai yuan nei fang ) (e.g. Wen 2004; Yang 2007). With such an attitude, a leader observes the most important smart leadership attitudes: modesty, self-control, forgiveness, respect and face work. Phrases such as “do not reveal anything; people who put themselves in a low position are the smartest,” “learning how to actively give the impression of weakness,” “leaders in a high position also should have the heart of an ordinary person,” “if one wants to go to the highest position, one should first stay at the bottom” and similar expressions are amply used in the discourse on leadership and hutu-ism (see, e.g., Si 2007; Yang 2007). Most often mentioned among these practices, is balancing being muddleheaded (flexible) and clear (firm, principled) in dealing with conflicts among employees (see, e.g., Guo 2002; Le and Liu 2002). This dilemma is expressed in phrases such as ‘going too far is as bad as not going far enough’ 过犹不及 (drawn on the Analects), meaning that too rash action can have an irremediably unfortunate outcome, but doing nothing is not beneficial either; and ‘draw the bow without shooting’ 引 而不发 (drawn on Mencius), meaning that you do not necessarily have to act and smartly tell your employees what to do or do it for them,

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but rather measure up the situation and then show it by giving the good example (Fang 1987; Zhao and Meng 2007). In a magazine article called “Nande hutu: Over-all insight into the art of leadership” dating from 1978 (the year Deng Xiaoping started the opening and reform policy), the author distinguishes two types of hutu leaders: the first type wants to know everything and thinks he or she can deal with all matters within the company, and the second type is eager for power and always wants to have the last word in final decisions. Both types are really “stupid” 愚蠢, but they seem to always get away with it. However, this kind of smartness cannot compensate for their “stupidity.” Therefore, the author characterizes them as “minor smart” (xiao congming, see also Chapter 4). On the contrary, a good leader should be “major smart” (da congming ), namely muddled in trivial (not important) matters, but being adept at managing interpersonal relations (Fang 1987, 3). A nice example of wisely distinguishing trivial and non-trivial matters—and at the same time of benevolent (ren) leadership—was narrated by a general manager in a big steel company in Beijing. One night an employee stole two waste steel plates worth almost nothing, but two other employees saw it happen and reported it to him. Instead of firing this employee immediately, the manager asked him personally why he stole these plates. It turned out that this man had a family of four to support, including two mute children and a jobless wife. The manager punished him with a small fine to demonstrate that what he did was unacceptable, but he also proposed giving the oldest son free welding training in the factory (Personal communication, 28 May 2008, Beijing). All this leadership wisdom ultimately aims at protecting relationship harmony for all parties, which in turn results in a harmonious working environment (e.g. Guo 2002; Le and Liu 2002; X. Wang 2005). In their research on Chinese leadership, Chen and Farh (2010, 616) call this type of leadership “holistic leadership,” and state that “In a holistic approach, actors tend to seek a comprehensive understanding of the issue at hand by looking at its many aspects and combining available perspectives.”7 Not surprisingly, leadership is also the second domain (after marriage) in which some sources suggest there is a difference between men and

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women with regard to the practice of playing dumb. This difference is mostly attributed to an overly strong concern for face and social status (instead of for the issue at stake), that is assumed to dominate male behaviour. Issues of face certainly prevail in all leadership positions and even more in politics, which are typically men’s worlds. One professor, who herself occupies a leadership position, explained that in her experience, whereas women tend to be hutu in their marital relations, men in leadership positions tend to apply hutu-ism more in a work context, especially in the field of high-level decision-making and politics. On this level, men still dominate and cannot but be concerned about their face. They are expected to accomplish important things, for which farreaching shrewdness is needed, she further explained. And she laughingly added, that when you hear a man talking and find it difficult to grasp what he is saying, this indicates he is applying the art of playing dumb. The aim of acting muddleheadedly is mostly to avoid conflicts and a loss of face, she further elucidated (Personal communication, 26 September 2008, Shenyang). The other way around, from the position of a subordinate, there is also much to say about how one should behave towards a leader or superior such as one’s employer. One popular author starts his chapter on hutuism on the work floor with the following advice: In dealing with leaders, the most important skill is to pretend to be a fool at the right moment. Do not reveal your brilliance, and certainly do not correct the mistakes of the opposing partner. In interpersonal relations, pretending to be foolish can cover up embarrassment and give you a chance to extricate yourself from an awkward situation. You can purposely feign ignorance, conclude [the issue] with humour, and retaliate. To delude the opponent, you can pretend to be an idiot but not really stupid. (Yang 2007, 57–105)

In an international working environment, however, where the art of playing dumb is not known to all members, such strategies can become quite complex. A young Shanghai girl who recently started to work for a small international company explained that she behaves totally different towards a Western superior than towards a Chinese superior. She had

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experienced herself, that with a Chinese boss, she rarely spoke a word in her contacts with him on the work floor, but instead focused on getting the job done. This is, as she continued, what she felt was expected from her: not to be too smart. But when she started to work for a Western employer, she had to “unlearn” this pretended stupid, low-key and modest attitude, because her new employer found her silence impolite, and she soon discovered he experienced it as a lack of skills, creativity and working ability. In addition, she explicitly added that when working for a Chinese company, she would definitely pretend to be hutu in some matters and would not speak frankly about annoying issues or problems. When I asked her if she could pinpoint what the difference was with the company she was working in now, she felt that in this company, there simply is no need to pretend to be hutu; she can speak openly and vent whatever complaint or difficulty she encounters on the work floor (Personal communication, 22 May 2008, Shanghai). In other words, strategic role playing and social tact the Chinese way becomes ineffective when moving out of the familiar cultural context. This phenomenon will further become apparent when dealing with a few exceptional domains where hutu-ism is less applied.

Business and Business Management Another concrete professional setting in the practice of pretended hutu is the corporate world, including business management and financing. Titles of articles, blogs and books such as ‘In business one should also be muddled’ (Guo 2003), and ‘The art of being hutu in business: a brocade purse of wisdom’ (Wen 2004) are no exceptions. In these works, Nande hutu mostly is promoted as a means to success. It certainly can be inspiring to see Alibaba’s former CEO Jack Ma’s quote on a back cover of a book on ‘the art of being muddleheaded’ stating: The strategy of being hutu in business: In this world, there are no outstanding theories, there are only down-to-earth results. You should always be convinced that the people next to you are smarter than you. (Xing 2009)

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In other words, a successful leader does not feel the need to be the smartest in all situations but accepts and makes use of the smartness of others. In general, we can discern two levels of being successful in business and profit-making: interpersonal relations and the actual dealing with competition. The first level mainly concerns what has been illustrated above as qualities of a leader (manager) in dealing with people and relations on the work floor. As the above quote of Jack Ma hinted at, a business manager who is highly experienced knows everything of the ins and outs of their business, and is at all times clear about the facts and figures of their business plan, strategy and finances, is not assumed to always be successful. In the first lines of a column in a magazine called ‘Management and fortune,’ the message is brought quite straightforwardly, almost in a prophetic tone: You are very smart, and you understand and take to heart all the dealings of your company. Your smartness can be seen from far. But you never reached the success you want. In reality, most smart people cannot become successful. Maybe you don’t know it, but what you are missing is not experience, funding or even projects, but a little muddleheadedness. (Guo 2003)

Even more important than facts and figures is people management. In a chapter in Nande hutu and the road to success, the author discusses the strategy in human resource management of “containing mountains and accommodating rivers,” meaning being broad-minded and tolerant, and the tactic of “multi-layered (suggestive) communication” to achieve something (Jin 2006, 29–40). To illustrate this, another author tells the story of a friend who started out with little money and now has a flourishing company with a lot of staff. Although the conditions are not as good as in many other companies, over the last three years no employees left. The reason, according to the friend (the manager), is because he generally acts in a muddled, plain way, and his employees all consider him as an ordinary, modest man without airs, so that they voluntarily want to help him with his business, and stay loyal to the company. For instance, in a discussion he intentionally does not fill all the gaps but

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leaves opportunities for his employees to come with solutions and good ideas. With this modest, respectful but a little foolish-like attitude, he naturally brings everyone closer together and stimulates their motivation (Guo 2003). The second level concerns the actual practice of successfully doing business, including purchasing and selling, marketing, and in particular the art of negotiation in dealing with growing market competition. One popular author sums it all up in a ‘Business news’ column, drawing attention to a range of qualities related to the wisdom of playing dumb, emphasizing strategically using one’s smartness and virtues: In the competition, one might as well overcome hardness with softness, silently apply the brake, retreat and make concessions in order to gain advantages, give way and let others be the first, win by striking only after the enemy has struck, be flexible on the outside but firm inside, be forbearing and get peace of mind. When cultivating virtue, don’t fall behind others. When pursuing profit, don’t get ahead of others. (Zhong 2008)

One of my interviewees, a half-Chinese businesswoman travelling up and down from the Netherlands to Hong Kong and China, explained that in hard negotiations, the strategy of pretending to be hutu aims at landing the opposing business partner in a grey zone, and leaving many things up to his/her imagination. At least, that is how it looks to a non-Chinese outsider. For a Chinese negotiator, it is directly aimed at more openness for opportunities. According to her, on the outside it all seems to be chaotic and vague, but within this chaos, there are hidden rules that lead to achievement, and that are reminiscent of the tactic of ‘retreating in order to advance.’ In negotiations, she continued, feigning ignorance serves as a kind of diplomacy, as a way of constantly managing interpersonal relations, on which much depends. The trick is to be clever but at the same time strongly consensus-oriented (flexible), so that neither the opponent nor oneself loses face.8 But, as she also added, to be really successful, there are additional rules that have to be

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observed, expressed in the notion of personal integrity in ‘business ethics’ (Personal communication, 16 September 2008, Beijing). In a business context, integrity is primarily associated with incorruptibility. Because of its importance in the moral code of playing dumb, I come back to this in Chapter 7 where I discuss some moral guidelines for applying the wisdom of playing dumb. Another, more general strategy for success in business associated with Nande hutu is accepting that one, before reaching success, often has to go through a lot of misery and just put up with it (e.g. Chapter 1 in Wen 2004), as in the saying ‘Disadvantage is a blessing.’ This conviction is vividly illustrated with narratives of very successful Chinese. Take for instance one article discussing the life of Fan Chenggong (Charles), currently vice-president of a huge automobile company (now MemVerge Merge, formerly EMC Company), who has endured major hardship throughout his life. Especially when after graduating at the age of seventeen he went to New York and worked and studied at the same time, he barely managed to survive. But now, he is one of the most successful managers of an international company. Being a famous model example of the successful manager, he nevertheless describes himself as someone “rather easy-going, rather hutu, rather jovial,” who lives according to the philosophy of Nande hutu, recognizing that one cannot go to the bottom of most things in life, and that understanding some specific issues will be sufficient (Chen 2008).

Politics and Officialdom A context of application for the wisdom of playing dumb that certainly cannot be left out is the political sphere and officialdom, Zheng Banqiao’s field par excellence. Different discourses dealing with officialdom and politics, both by officials and political leaders, and by commoners, inform us about how hutu-ism can and should be applied in officialdom, and how it serves political agendas. Some of the sources are official CCP websites, others are political leadership magazines, or just plain newspaper articles. Whatever the source, since all media in China is

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official and will follow the Party guideline,9 most of them contain mainstream Party propaganda. These sources discuss hutu-ism in officialdom as either a strategy for officials to do their job properly and successfully, or as a tool for fostering the harmonious society (hexie shehui), the Party’s ultimate socio-economic vision under the presidency of Hu Jintao (2003–2013). Nevertheless, in interviews and on some blogs, other, more nuanced opinions were vented, which I will discuss as the ‘policy of the ignorant masses’ (yumin zhengce 愚民政策).

Practical Wisdom for Successful Officials Not surprisingly in officialdom more than in other domains, the wisdom of being hutu as a strategy for successful officials is illustrated with deeds of (anti-)heroes like the few we met already: Tao Yuanming and Su Dongpo, the two scholar-officials in feudal society who became lighthearted recluses without really retreating from mundane life, and of course Zheng Banqiao, who on the one hand is considered to exemplify smart and virtuous hutu behaviour in favour of the people, but in fact also failed as an official because of too much smartness. Concerning the concrete practice of the wisdom of playing dumb in office, two sayings from different ideological backgrounds are often put forward. The first is the Confucian ‘cultivate morality, bring order in the family, manage the country, and bring peace to the world’ (xiu shen qi jia zhi guo ping tianxia 修身齐家治国平天下), originating in The Great Learning (Liji-Daxue, Chapter 1). Although the saying applies to all levels “from the son of Heaven down to the common people” (Chan 1970, 87), it especially urges political leaders and local officials to cultivate proper moral behaviour. Only if officials systematically cultivate themselves, they will be able to manage their family affairs, lead their nation, and ultimately bring order in the world. The underlying rationale is that self-cultivation implies a potential moral autonomy, to the extent that successful self-cultivation will have a transformative effect on other human beings and on society as a whole (e.g. Shun and Wong 2004). In other words, a truly dedicated public servant has—like in ancient

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times—the responsibility to embody in the first place a good motherfather official, and to be a moral example for and to act in favour of the people. Officials should not be vague nor pretend ignorance about the scope of their responsibility (locality), let alone about their own (unrighteous) behaviour. They should at all times do their job conscientiously, not in a sloppy way (e.g. Mou 2004; Wu 2007). How then should officials apply hutu-ism as a form of self-cultivation in order to be successful? To get an answer to this question, we can revisit the different ‘arts’ in the domain of leadership. To start with, an official should cultivate self-control, be modest about his/her skills, and “have a mind as open as a valley” (Shi 2003). This ideal is also expressed in the folk saying ‘A successful premier can keep a ship in his belly’ 宰相肚里能 撑船, meaning that an official leader in his/her heart should be ‘broad’ enough for poling a boat, thus indicating the quality of being broadminded, large-hearted or magnanimous (Qin 2006; Qing 2008). Also the stratagem of using both firmness and gentleness, and Sunzi’s military stratagem to make the opponent yield (surrender), not through war, but by using the latter’s power, are put forward as successful official strategies in the spirit of Nande hutu. What is emphasized more than in all other contexts is the practice of self-concealment, and, while being very sharp, strategically pretending not to be clear to obtain something out of it later. For instance, the first chapter of the popular book Zheng Banqiao’s Canon of Nande Hutu—The great wisdom for being an official states that an official should “conceal his/her true intentions and bide his/her time patiently” (Shi 2003). In a chapter on ‘Official scheming,’ another author stresses that if an official wants to be successful, (s)he should grasp the right time and place to reveal his/her true intentions (Yang 2007). The second saying dealing with Nande hutu in officialdom carries a very different tenor: the Daoist ‘managing through effortless action’ (wuwei er zhi ) (Daodejing , Chapters 3 and 37), which highlights the sage ruler’s ideal of non-action. This phrase expresses the idea of the dao that maintains balance and naturally works to correct any imbalance. The sage ruler knows that the dao has its own rhythm and internal logic that—when the time is right—naturally results in change. Consequently,

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he/she does not have to undertake any specific, let aside conscious, action. Chen and Farh (2010, 615) discern the concept of wuwei er zhi or “active non-action” as they call it, as a characteristic of Daoist leadership, one of the leadership styles put forward in research on Chinese leadership. Applied to hutu-ism, this means that a political leader does not always have to be overtly pro-active to achieve something beneficial for society and the state. Based on his own experience, an official from the Shenyang Bureau of Urban Planning explained it as follows: Sometimes, [a political leader] in society has to fight, and strive for selfimprovement, so as to have future prospects. At other times, he has to be tolerant, restrain himself, and just be forbearing and conciliatory, and let go of resentment, and he will be able to win everyone’s respect. (Personal communication, 20 May 2008, Shenyang)

To illustrate this, he put forward the proverb ‘carry a birch on one’s back and ask to be punished’ 负荆请罪, meaning to ask for a humble apology. This proverb narrates the story of Lin Xiangru 蔺相如 (329– 259 BC), whose outstanding service to the state earned him a high official ranking above Lian Po 廉颇 (327–243 BC). Lian Po was very grieved at that and started to publicly talk evil of Lin Xiangru, who in turn started to avoid him, while at the same time keeping silent and pretending nothing was going on. Even during court meetings, Lin Xiangru did not show up, presumably because he was too cowardly to confront Lian. But when his servants were on the verge of leaving because of this assumed cowardice, Lin explained that what he in fact tried to avoid was not Lian Po, but explosive conflicts. In other words, with his cowardly behaviour, he put the safety of the state above private grievances. When Lian Po heard that, he was so ashamed that he stripped himself to the waist, and, carrying a birch on his back, went to offer his apologies and declared how stupid and ignorant he had been, and how magnanimous Lin Xiangru was. In the end, they became life-anddeath companions (Personal communication, 20 May 2008, Shenyang). The moral of the story is clear: officials should be able to put their personal concerns (pride, grievance) aside in favour of the safety of the

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nation, and, if required to maintain harmonious relations, be magnanimous enough to forgive one’s opponent. Many popular books on Nande hutu put forward this story, mostly to show how not harbouring resentment leads to results. For instance, popular author Yang Tao discusses the same and other similar stories in Chinese history, ending with saying that “in work and life, we must look at the big picture and not harbour private resentments and invite disaster. This will help tip the scales in your favour” (Yang 2007, 167).

Contented Citizens in the Harmonious Society The wisdom of playing dumb is—most explicitly in official Party propaganda sources, but also among scholars—put in direct relation to the ‘harmonious society’ (hexie shehui). This is especially the case since president Hu Jintao in 2003 launched the political project of constructing a ‘harmonious society’—with more recently, happiness promotion campaigns as its glue—to counterweigh the rising disharmony in society, and to “alleviate the effects of social and economic dislocation” (Yang 2018, 132).10 In Hu Jintao’s view, such a harmonious society is a society that is “democratic and ruled by law, fair and just, trustworthy and fraternal, full of vitality, stable and orderly, and that maintains harmony between men and nature” (Chan 2010, 821). Evidently, to achieve such ambitious goals, not only the local and state political leaders, but also citizens should master the arts of being modest, compromising, low-key and self-effacing in favour of the state, just like Lin Xiangru in the story above (Lei 2008). One author, identified as the vice-head of the Hangzhou Municipal Committee Propaganda Department, held the opinion that people naturally associate the harmonious society with Zheng Banqiao’s Nande hutu. However, it is not so that the name of Zheng Banqiao and the ‘harmonious society’ directly have much in common. But if we have a closer look, they seem to be quite related; Nande hutu truly embodies one of the traditional cultural resources of the idea of the harmonious society, that is harmony. (Sun 2007, 53)

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To establish a harmonious society, efforts of the government are not enough; every citizen should earnestly work hard to contribute to this harmonious society, and Zheng Banqiao’s Nande hutu serves as a valuable tool to do so. As the author further emphasizes, the hutu meant here is far from blind ignorance and fatuity; it represents the wisdom of easing things down and treating others mildly and mercifully, and of being free from worries, anxieties and selfish ambitions, to get harmony in return (Sun 2007). This all might indeed sound as an ideal way to increase harmony in society, but reality often shows a different picture. For instance, a less ‘harmonious’ example of citizens applying the strategy of playing dumb is detailed in the research by social anthropologist Yang Jie on anger management by both local authorities and marginalized workers. She illustrates how the art of pretended hutu is one of the preferred strategies adopted by both the laid-off workers and the community psycho-social workers as anger regulation strategies and methods of coping with feelings of helplessness and vulnerability (Yang 2016). Feelings of anger at being treated without respect and disdainfully are repressed by rationalization and self-consolation by claiming that one is powerless, resulting in downplaying one’s feelings. Obviously, outward anger resulting in public violence or social conflict would cause more harm to society than anger directed inwards and coped with through pretended ignorance. The latter might in the long run result in ill health, and thus will affect the person (and his or her family), but it poses less of a threat to social harmony than public misbehaviour and unrest. This brings us to the third level of hutu-ism in politics.

The Policy of the Ignorant Masses Discussing the wisdom of playing dumb on a national level, some sources—mainly interviewees and Chinese bloggers abroad—consider Nande hutu as a strategy to literally keep the people ignorant, or at least muddleheaded (hutu), in order to avoid social instability. This is in the various discourses mostly discussed in relation to feudal society, but some stretch it up to today’s society.

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As a philosophical ideal, keeping the people ignorant has its roots in the Daodejing . Here, the sage ruler causes people to be without knowledge or desire, to be foolish (yu), and makes smart people afraid to act (Daodejing , Chapter 3). A bit further (Daodejing , Chapter 19), Laozi advises the sage ruler to banish wisdom and discard knowledge, in order to benefit the people. Clearly, we should read this through a Daoist lens. Laozi talks about how a sage ruler should govern, namely by giving the people as much as possible the means to live according to the dao. To do so, the ruler should abolish everything that hinders this objective, such as too much knowledge (see Chapter 2). However, in contemporary society, it seems as if this ideal policy has been interpreted without taking into account some of Laozi’s other prerequisites for sage rulership, namely that the ruler should also be vague and unclear (Daodejing , Chapter 58),11 and moreover, ‘manage through effortless action’ (wuwei er zhi ). The advice for wisely ruling the country by keeping the people ignorant has taken other forms than Laozi intended, namely as what is labelled the ‘obscurantist politics’ or ‘the policy of the ignorant masses’ (yumin zhengce). A professor in National Studies explained the following: Mencius already said that you can let the people do things, but not let them be knowledgeable. Because, whatever they do [keeps them busy] is sufficient. That is the autocratic system. That is what Mao Zedong also said: universities and newspaper offices easily generate bad elements. But Mao did not call that bad elements, but revisionism. Simply said, it is precisely the policy of keeping the people ignorant. The result of this obscurantism is creating Ah Q-like real hutu. But intellectuals, they understand the people, they know what is going on beneath, and pretend to be hutu. These two together [real and pretended hutu], that is what Nande hutu is about. In this way, the autocracy could and can continue. Even after several thousands of years, this autocratic system up till today cannot be changed. (Personal communication, 19 September 2008, Beijing)

Indeed, albeit less visible, and not articulated as an official policy, some phenomena in contemporary China attest to wilfully keeping the people ignorant or not clear about certain (politically) sensitive issues, as a way

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to maintain, or at least create an image of, social harmony. One strategy hereto is to manipulate information and selectively censor the media, both of which have been common practice in Chinese history. As an online author (on a foreign blogspace) in a discussion on the legacy of the ideals of the New Culture Movement claims, the “stupidity” of Chinese people is an outcome of the autocracy: You obviously saw a deer, but it [the system] insists on saying it was a horse. You clearly heard the tragedy; it insists on singing its praises. You can only follow its wishes, otherwise you will punish nine generations. Or you pretend to be deaf and mute to escape the catastrophe, this is called Nande hutu. […] The imperial court only allowed to sing praises, not to expose problems, and persistently carried out education of the ignorant. It let people indulge in emperors, princes, and saints, indulge in the “peace and prosperity,” without knowing that the crisis is imminent and from where the disaster originated. (Guo 2017)

During the successive dynasties, many book burnings indeed testify to this strategy, starting with the book inquisition ordered by the first Emperor (Qin dynasty, 213–206 BC), to book burnings under Mao Zedong. A still very relevant example in contemporary China is the absence of comprehensive news on the Tiananmen massacre of 4 June 1989. As a BBC article on China’s Tiananmen generation suggests, young people often do not even know what happened. This is partly due to the fact that there is no news coverage whatsoever, not even a commemoration of victims. Moreover, these young people’s parents, who might have experienced the whole incident from very close by, prefer to keep silent, either out of fear for persecution, or out of mere aversion due to traumatic experiences, and adopt the evasive approach by playing dumb. The same BBC article also states that most young people do want to know the truth about what happened. But even if what exactly happened would be—selectively or wholly—known, somehow, the final goal of the Party to create social stability and thus ensure state legitimacy seems to have been achieved, as we can read in the statement of a young teacher: “Without the crackdown, China would be torn apart and we could not enjoy the happy life we are having now” (BBC 2009).

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For the sake of social harmony, the Party is in the first place selective about which news to spread, and also distributes general and vague news coverage when specific and clear news could cause unrest. For this purpose, all communication in the public space is censored—written and public communication through clever systems of censorship, and oral and individual communication through self-censorship. One example brought up by quite a few of my interviewees is the Olympic Games in 2008, which were about to take place or just had taken place during most of my interviews. For instance, a professor in sociology at a university in Beijing claimed that no matter how vaguely and selectively the public media documented the Games, in reality everyone knew of the unrest and dissatisfaction about environmental, construction and relocation problems, and the cheap labour issues, that were growing behind the scene. These problems were publicly discussed in the international news, whereas in China everyone just pretended not to know or care, at least in public. Among very good friends, however, it certainly was a topic of discussion (Personal communication, 29 September 2008, Beijing). Many other examples of covering up or blurring news about hot but sensitive topics were given by my informants, who said that they certainly were aware that things were not as harmonious as presented, and moreover, did not put faith in the—if at all available—news coverage, such as the SARS outbreak (2003) and the scandal with poisoned milk powder (2008). More recently, no information or selective news coverage on taboo issues such as dissidents, environmental problems (including the documentary in 2015 ‘Under the Dome’ by former journalist Chai Jing that was banned three days after its release), the Umbrella Movement and other protests in Hong Kong, the disappearance of Uyghurs and the re-education camps, and issues related to the COVID-19 outbreak leaves the people in a blur about the real situation. Most of the time, official arguments for no coverage or selectively documenting such issues are the fear of collective action of the people such as in grassroots movements (King et al. 2013). A domain that also directly concerns all citizens in which particularly vague language is used is legal discourse. Traditionally, Chinese society is characterized by an absence of the rule of law (see Chapter 3). In contemporary society, efforts are made to establish more rule of law

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(Zhu and Peters 2019). However, as a young employee of an international company tried to explain, a complaint often heard in China is that the law is formulated in extremely vague and ambiguous terms. As a result, many people do not put trust in the law, and are afraid it might be interpreted to their disadvantage (Personal communication, 22 May 2008, Shanghai). Legislation is deliberately kept vague to leave room for interpretation according to the Party’s needs and legitimacy. A very recent example is the new security legislation that severely curtails the freedoms guaranteed in Hong Kong’s Basic Law and the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights. The legislation’s ambiguous wording and expansive categories of offence make it impossible to know exactly what speech and actions will result in severe legal consequences. Offences are expressed as ‘secession,’ ‘subversion’ and ‘collusion with a foreign country or with external elements,’ all of which are defined broadly and vaguely (Buckley et al. 2020). In other words, such phrasing potentially puts at risk anyone whose words or actions may be construed as criticism of the PRC or the Hong Kong governments, regardless of citizenship or where such words and actions take place. Clearly, in executing the ‘policy of the ignorant masses,’ the CCP is more concerned about the (Confucian) ‘managing the country’ (zhi guo) and establishing social harmony, than about giving the good (Daoist) example by governing as a sage fool and refraining from control. However, although some people criticize this implicit policy (see also further in Chapter 7), others—for obvious reasons often Party members—seem to at least to some extent agree with this governmental policy of keeping the people ignorant. Professor Yang who is also Party Secretary—an extremely important Party function—for instance insisted that in view of the severity of the challenges the country faces, a leader can’t always publicly admit the severity of the problem. People would immediately react on this news, which could be very harmful for solving the problem in the first place (Personal communication, 26 September 2008, Shenyang). Research indeed has shown that for the majority of the people (58.1%) the most important task of the government is to maintain order in the country. For them, social stability is more important than being wellinformed and able to express themselves freely (Guo and Shu 2009,

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51).12 Fearing chaos and social instability is something the masses are conditioned to after years of political unrest and humiliation (Ng 2010, 572). Even more, also conditioned by thousands of years of censorship, Chinese people often do not really care about knowing the precise details of potentially upsetting situations. As one of my former Chinese colleagues once expressed it, clear and truthful information is not considered to be of any added value to her life, because being the recipient of this kind of information is—in her view—unlikely to change anything at all to the situation, or more generally to daily life (Personal communication, 9 February 2015, Ghent). The underlying idea is that fundamentally nothing can be done about the situation, so why bother making a fuss and disrupting social harmony. Receiving unreliable, vague or no information at all, has become a habit to which Chinese people have become accustomed and which has in the past rarely been questioned. Still, as professor Yang added to her statement above, there are limits to keeping people ignorant and selectively informed about matters of major importance; at a certain point, the Party has to come out with it and solve the problem.13 The moral guidelines for determining that ‘certain point’ obviously are of vital importance if Nande hutu is to be a real wisdom of life (and governing), and will be the topic of Chapter 7. At this point, it suffices to consider that despite the many efforts of the CCP to keep tight control of the media and the web by severe censorship, the increasing amount of netizens, international exchange and globalization undoubtedly make it more difficult for the state to keep its people vaguely or not informed. In this respect, it is not hard to see why the current president Xi Jinping (in office since 2013) continues to tighten the censorship reins.

Outside the Hutu Orbit: Soulmates, Foreigners and the Web The above contexts of application demonstrated some domains in which the wisdom of playing dumb is advocated as a useful skill and strategy for being healthy and successful both in public and (inter)personal

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life. Of these domains, most turned out to be social or societal settings, in which interpersonal relationships dominate (see Fig. 5.1). They can broadly be reduced to a contemporary version of the five cardinal relations in Confucian ethics (wu lun): sovereign (leader)subordinate; father-son/child; husband-wife; elder-younger brothers (sisters); friend/colleagues-friend/colleagues. However, within social relationships there are domains in which the tendency to play dumb, compromise, conceal oneself and deploy self-restraint in speech and behaviour is significantly less. When I made a rather casual remark to professor Yang that I felt she did not seem to behave in a hutu way to me, she reflected as follows: You know, interpersonal relationships are so complex in China. […] [People] don’t know how to deal with Zhang Three and Li Four, because, what I say to Zhang Three, maybe Li Four also comes to know later, and (s)he in turn might tell it to some leader, and what I said will turn against me. So you learn to rather not say anything and feign ignorance. Chinese society is really rooted in and built upon human relations, it is very complex. So, only with real good friends, or people with whom you are not related whatsoever, only then can you speak truly. Why do you think the internet is popular now? Think about it. In blogs, you can really say whatever you like, what you really think and feel. In blogs you can speak the truth, but not in reality. Can you imagine how tiring this is? (Personal communication, 26 September 2008, Shenyang)

The first exceptional domain that emerges from this quote is the relationships with soulmates or intimate, real close friends (often expressed as zhiyin 知音or zhixin pengyou 知心朋友). A soulmate is, as one author discussing the benefits of Nande hutu for mental health explains, someone with whom you have “heart-to-heart talks” 谈心, which especially in times of setbacks, “can even be better than taking whatever medicine, and can lead to your soul 心灵” (Li 2007). Especially young people, for instance when discussing the saying ‘When the water is too clear, there will be no fish,’ insist on a feeling of real intimacy, in which they do not have to behave differently than how they are just for the sake of having harmonious friendships. An online author puts it as follows:

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As the saying goes, when the water is too clear, there are no fishes. But at least there still is some peace and quiet. But with regard to the second part of the saying, ‘When people are too clear, they will not have friends,’ those fair-weather friends, those friends who are warm and friendly at the surface, but behind your back poke with a knife, I think it is best to have a few less of those. (Anonymous 2007)

The above two quotes both convey the sentiment that interpersonal relations, including those with some so-called friends, are very complex; not everyone can be trusted. Only among soulmates, or with “people with whom one is not related whatsoever,” one can speak and act openly. Considering these honest and frank reactions—the type of reaction that was in fact only articulated during interviews, and sometimes during ‘anonymous’ taxi-drives—I concluded that I (in most cases a complete stranger to my interviewees), was someone with whom professor Yang did not feel related. This then constitutes a second domain in which hutu-ism is less deployed: relationships with foreigners. The example of a young employee at a foreign company who behaved differently with her foreign boss discussed above is also an illustration of this. Especially people who are often in contact with foreigners, such as those employed in international business or international relations offices and diplomacy, experience this more acutely. Professor Yang, who deals with foreigners on a daily base as the Party Secretary but also leader of the university’s International School, stated outright that in dealings with foreign students and guest professors or presidents, she performs much less the art of pretended hutu. In her view, foreigners might have read about or even studied Chinese rules of behaviour, but she did not consider that to be ‘embodied’ 体会 knowledge, and she feels no need to behave the same way as with, for instance, Chinese colleagues in order to develop sound relations (Personal communication, 26 September 2008, Shenyang). In other words, the rules of Chinese social etiquette are loosened when dealing with foreigners. A third exception is the domain of online communication in the public sphere, where one’s identity and relationships can stay anonymous. One young blogger I interviewed particularly referred to the internet and the many chat rooms where he admitted that he—thanks

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to the anonymity—finally found a medium in which he feels free to express his true thoughts, thoughts that cannot be voiced in daily life encounters (Personal communication, 27 September 2008, Shenyang). A weblog indeed can be used for reflection on the subjective domain for self-expression and self-reflection; on the objective domain, for sharing knowledge; and on the inter-subjective domain, for criticism on society (Herold and Marolt 2011). In China, where social control and stringent censorship—either direct or as a form of self-censorship—severely limits public speech, both self-expression and criticism find a venue on the web thanks to the possibility of staying anonymous.14 And if anonymity is not possible, internet parody creatively does the job of expressing critical opinions through humorous and satirical videos, photo collections, texts and poems. Thus, it appears that with soulmates, with foreigners, and on the anonymous internet, people feel more open, can be less cautious, and can expose their innermost thoughts and feelings. Explaining this phenomenon leads us to the complex domain of ‘tiring’ interpersonal relationships, the domain in which the Chinese ‘small self’ (xiao wo) interrelates with its social environment. More particularly, to understand this discrepancy, we have to go back to consider what motivates people in the first place to play dumb in the examples of interpersonal dealings I discussed above. As these examples laid bare, the importance of face work cannot be overemphasized in interpersonal relationships: children give face to their parents and vice versa, a leader gives face to his employees, a wife to her husband and a colleague to a colleague. Scholar Lei Leigeng (2008, 3) even describes this dimension of Nande hutu as the “doctrine of saving face” 保险主义. As I explained at the beginning of this chapter, face is part of the most basic rules of conduct when dealing with ‘others.’ However, as professor Yang hinted at, others can be classified according to ‘related’ and ‘unrelated’ others, and various degrees in between. If we revisit social scientist Fei Xiaotong’s theory of the concentric social circles expanding from the self, the extent of intimacy (relatedness) with an ‘other’ is reflected by the relative position of that other within the concentric circles (see Fig. 5.1). The second circle stretching out from the central self belongs to ‘related’ (intimate) people, whom Sundararajan (2020) calls “those

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near and dear,” such as kin and very close neighbours (that might function as extended family). Outside of family relations, the third circle contains (Chinese) associates and acquaintances in general, with whom there is often—though not necessarily—some kind of ‘reciprocal affection’ (renqing 人情, also: interpersonal favour), such as people of the same birthplace, and professional relations such as colleagues. The fourth circle is the unrelated acquaintances, the so-called Zhang Three and Li Four, who are not considered very trustworthy. The last circle is the larger (anonymous) society. In all these circles, the self and ‘others’ still share the same cultural (Chinese) background. This is not the case for outsiders, who are utterly unfamiliar or ‘unrelated,’ such as foreigners and the outer world. This social sphere, however, is relatively new and came into existence alongside modernization and globalization. As Sundararajan (2020, 139) remarks, “In the five cardinal relationships (ruler-minister, fatherson, husband-wife, elder-younger brothers, friend-friend) of society as prescribed by Confucius, the stranger was not even on the map.” As I explained above, these circles have decreasing socially binding relevance, such that relationship etiquette—the glue of Chinese society— decreases in importance the further away one is removed from the centre of the circle. As a result, there is no wisdom or relationship rule in Confucian social morality for dealing with complete strangers and the anonymous public at large. Consequently, the further from the central self, the less face work applies. This, however, does not mean that appropriate behaviour and face work is always clear-cut. The concentric circles of different individuals sometimes overlap, so that people find themselves in different positions at the same time, from which is derived the term “situational ethics” used by Fei Xiaotong (see Chapter 2). In such situations, the boundaries between the social ‘greater self’ and of the ‘small self,’ that between personal, family, group and national face can be blurred. This explains why managing interpersonal relationships is by many experienced as ‘tiring.’ But face only explains why interaction with foreigners, and on the anonymous internet, is less subject to the practice of playing dumb. There are still the soulmates, the “real close friends” that are mentioned in the narratives. In this respect, professor Yang, who deals on a daily basis both with foreigners (outsiders) and officials (public space of related

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people), and with full days of meetings, lunches and dinners with other officials and high cadres, spends a lot of her energy on face work, related her hutu-behaviour in these day-to-day meetings to her “superficial self ”: “In public behaviour, vagueness, playing dumb, and not exposing myself is nothing more than an external appearance. It does not reflect my inner self ” (Personal communication, 26 September 2008, Shenyang). This distinction is known as the distinction between the inner self and the surface (external) self. For instance, Wang and Zheng (2017, 87) distinguish the “private self ” (si wo 私我), one’s true inner thoughts and emotions, and the “public self” (gong wo 公我), which abides to social etiquette. On the internet, there is only an (if desirable) anonymous, almost non-existing self. What one calls real close friends (soulmates) are generally people with whom one has strong affectionate feelings and can operate on the deepest, most intimate level—opposite to “so-called friends,” or “those fair-weather friends” mentioned by the student above, who are not to be trusted, let alone exposing oneself to. To summarize, take for example my interview with professor Yang, who admitted she did not incline to practice hutu-ism and conceal herself with me. As a foreigner, I am on the most outer social circle. I am indeed an utterly ‘unrelated’ person. Moreover, I am someone outside of the cultural influence sphere, with whom the encounter was brief and temporary, with no expectations and reciprocity on either side. Our interview also took place in the private sphere and was for her not tied to her public appearance and according social obligations. In view of the above, this could explain why there was indeed less ‘reason’ for professor Yang to play by the complex, tiring rules of face work.15

A Strategy for a Detour to Success The above examples of the contexts of application for the wisdom of playing dumb reveal its multifunctionality in different domains of daily life and society. Young people, often students, tend to emphasize its use in relationships with their parents, friends, fellow students. The middle-aged, economically active population—often with a family to

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sustain—stresses its application in their professional life, such as in business, in leadership positions, with colleagues and superiors, and in their family life. State agents, then, are advised (and expected) to apply hutuism in their official practice to preserve social harmony. An ironic note here is that Zheng Banqiao renounced his duty and obligation between sovereign and subject as an official, simply because he did not manage to pretend to be hutu for the sake of superficial (public) harmony. The elderly, on the contrary, are less concerned with managing professional and marital relationships, nor with political ambitions, so they practice playing dumb for obtaining mental and physical health. The state is involved whenever Nande hutu serves as a tool for the ‘harmonious society,’ be it by fostering well-(self )educated citizens that abide to the relationship rules of the Confucian society, and by encouraging them to practice both self-constraint and self-concealment, or by keeping them poorly informed (ignorant). In other words, the wisdom of playing dumb serves many masters. As I discussed in Chapter 4, in these contexts, individual ‘study’ (xue) and application of hutu-ism is presented as a kind of virtuous self-cultivation. In the examples given in this chapter, it becomes clear that this is most explicitly expressed as learning the arts of being good at social intercourse and managing interpersonal relationships (zuoren) through face work. But from here it is only a short step for hutu-ism to become a strategy for self-advancement. The wisdom of Nande hutu also seems to have transformed into an art of how to advance oneself and be successful in the world. In doing so, it pragmatically meets the desire to realize one’s full potential in creatively relating to the outside world, and at the same time improving one’s social, scholarly, professional, financial and family status in the complexity of a fast-changing modern and increasingly individualized society. In other words, the wisdom of playing dumb serves as a “strategy for a detour to success” (Jin 2006; Ming 2008), where staying low-key, self-concealment and temporary retreat will result in more opportunities for success. As such, the self-help books on ‘the art of being muddleheaded’ (hutuxue) smoothly respond to “the obsession with individual career success and its opposite: the fear of failure” (Nehring et al. 2016, 54). This seeming paradox of on the one hand normative social conduct (zuoren) and interpersonal harmony and on

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the other hand pursuing individual achievements (on which more in the next chapter) is nevertheless supported by a state which emphasizes both social stability, and a market development rooted in competition and individualism (Yang 2017). Alongside modernization, globalization and individualization, however, traditional social relationship patterns guided by social etiquette are challenged. As a result of the increase of social and geographic mobility that modernity brought about, the individual is the longer the more confronted with new kinds of social encounters, such as interactions with ‘unrelated’ people or even total strangers. In these kinds of relations, in particular, the younger and middle-aged gradually reconsider the traditional etiquette of face work along with its modest, self-effacing attitude. Recall the example of professor Yang, who admits that she applies less hutu-ism when dealing with foreigners. This is exemplary of the gradual switch from a society primarily based in strong ties to increasing weak ties. Scholar in indigenous psychology Louise Sundararajan draws on this concept to explain that in strong ties society “shared private space” (or intimacy space) inhabited by specific individuals in interpersonal relationships is predominant, whereas in weak ties society—typically represented by Western societies—impersonal relationships in public space are important and guide behaviour. This public space is inhabited by faceless, generalized others. Traditionally, these can be found in the most outer circles, those relationships farthest from the central self, ranging from unrelated acquaintances, to the larger anonymous society and the outer world (Sundararajan 2020).16 Although all human societies have both strong and weak ties, Chinese society is representative of dominantly fostering strong ties and is ruled by a strong ties social etiquette. This representation obviously originates in rural society and its close kinship, in which meeting unrelated people such as strangers (e.g. people not from the same village) was a rare occasion, let alone meeting foreigners. In a strong ties society like China, in which situational role-ethics determines appropriate behaviour, one’s role is never clear-cut to start with; one can simultaneously be part of different circles, thus possessing different social roles, leaving the task of judging the ‘right behaviour’ up to the individual’s social maturity (called wisdom). Globalization and increasing individualism further complicate

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these roles and make distinctions between strong and weak ties increasingly blurred. This can create confusing situations, such as for the young employee who switches modes of hutu-behaviour with Chinese (strong ties) and non-Chinese (weak ties) employers, respectively. As a result, becoming ‘successful’ in society is even more complicated. Alongside these changes in social relations, what did not in the least seem to have changed, is the admonishment and—to use artist Huang Yongyu’s phrasing—“caution” not to speak openly and to conceal oneself in public, social and professional settings. I attributed this phenomenon to the traditional importance of role playing and face work, and the social dynamics of the inner self and the public (social) self that Chinese people still draw on. The fear of loss of face and of disharmony in the relationship explains why wisely pretending to be hutu and keeping one’s thoughts and emotions to oneself is always prevalent.17 Self-restraint in speech certainly can partly be attributed to abiding to the rules of face work with ‘related’ others. But there is also a deeper level to self-concealment that was rarely directly addressed in my sources: the level of power games in the authoritarian society without a reliable rule of law. In a society where the ‘policy of the ignorant masses’ is the political norm, people constantly self-censor their communication, and inner thoughts are not expressed because of feelings of insecurity. One way to circumvent insecure situations and still express one’s inner self is through artistic creations. This is an age-old practice, of which Zheng Banqiao’s Nande hutu and the lives and works of other scholar-artists in feudal society (Chapter 3), and also Huang Yongyu’s winking owl (see Fig. 4.2) are exemplary. Chinese people have always been particularly aware of the ebb and flow of power and how it can flow in unpredictable directions, which is even more threatening in societies with a strong focus on maintaining face and a lack of legal protection. As Bond (1992, 55) remarks: “Yesterday’s opponent may be tomorrow’s superior and is likely to construe prior disagreements as proof of disloyalty. It is best to bite a fiery tongue.” In other words, what is once said cannot be undone, and achievement and ‘success’ can suddenly drift (further) away. In contemporary China, a particular case of this caution of speech and self-concealment can be found with the elderly. Marked by the emotional consequences of political violence of the Cultural Revolution, they grew

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up with the idea that people should not be trusted, and up till the present day display a strong, negatively motivated tendency towards hiding their real thoughts and emotions in public. Kleinman et al. (2011) give the example of an elderly man, a Chinese physician and clinical academic, who experienced the trauma of violence during the Cultural Revolution. By using metaphorical, though not in the least ambiguous, language, he explains that in his opinion, to survive in China, you must reveal nothing to others. Or it could be used against you. [… ] That’s why I’ve come to think the deeper part of the self is best left unclear. Like mist and clouds in a Chinese landscape painting, hide the private part behind your social persona. Let your public self be like rice in a dinner: bland and inconspicuous, taking on the flavors of its surroundings, while giving off no flavor of its own. Too strong a personal flavor and you may entice others to jealousy or hatred. (Kleinman et al. 2011, 6)

This elder’s advice to always keep a low profile, and even more, express yourself in such a way that you blend in with the environment, clearly demonstrates a fear of negative consequences of revealing your inner life (thoughts and emotions). This has been the preferred way of public behaviour throughout most of Chinese history, and is not different today. Moreover, as a consequence of modernity, social mobility and globalization, the Zhang Three’s and Li Four’s that are not trustworthy are increasing in one’s social sphere, and social insecurity increases. It is only in private, intimate encounters with soulmates and utterly ‘unrelated’ people that can be trusted, and in anonymous settings such as the internet, that Chinese people can expose themselves without fear, for there is no reason to pretend not to know or see. Revisiting Huang Yongyu’s winking owl (see Fig. 4.2), no matter whether and to what extent Huang Yongyu really wanted to express his criticism towards the atrocities during the Cultural Revolution, his owl certainly is representative of what seems to be evidenced in the different practices of Nande hutu, and what Kleinman et al. (2011) refer to as the “divided self,” caught up not only in the complex interplay of tradition and modernity, of the desire to be ‘selfishly’ and also socially successful,

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but also mixed up in disorienting, overlapping circles of public and private selves, and of personal, group and national face. The practice of smartly turning a blind eye on things and remaining silent indeed has never lost its appeal and is in many settings even increasingly promoted. This brings us to the next chapter, which discusses the appeal of playing dumb in modern society in terms of its psycho-social functionality, and what lies beneath, the underlying coping mechanisms.

Notes 1. Smith (2010, 702–703) adds “group honour,” which he defined as strongly related to big face or group face, to these two-face concepts as two of the major distinctive aspects for being successful in achieving harmony. Apart from face and group honour, he also identified “communication style” and “modesty” as distinctive aspects for achieving harmony. 2. These ‘Three Gods’ 三星 sanxing (literally: three stars), Fortune, Prosperity and Longevity, are traditionally known in folk religion as the rulers of the constellations considered essential in Chinese astrology and mythology: Jupiter, Ursa Major and Canopus. 3. Although from blogs, articles and the survey I could often not be 100% sure about the gender of the author, in many cases I added the question whether or not there exists a difference in gender in hutu-ism in my interviews and informal talks. As far as I could distinguish, apart from women mentioning more examples from their marriage and other love and interpersonal relations, and men more from their work sphere such as politics and leadership positions, there does not seem to be a significant difference with regard to the actual practice of Nande hutu. 4. It should be noted that at least two interviewees suggested that having a mistress will anyway mostly occur in situations where the husband is rich, and firstly can afford to have one, and secondly his wife does not want to lose him out of fear of missing the financial security, luxury and material wealth she enjoys, even if her husband cheats on her. In other cases, however, for instance, where mobile and cross-border workers who are married men and have commercial sex partners while on work location, return home in the week-ends or holidays, their wives play dumb in order not to enrage them, as these women are often financially dependent on their husbands (Tang et al. 2010, 541).

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5. Nevertheless, divorce rate is increasing in China. Moreover, 70–80% of the filed legal cases of divorce since 2000 were initiated by women. The main reasons for women to seek divorce are either a husband’s infidelity or domestic violence (Kleinman et al. 2011, 21–22). Indeed, due to the gradually improving marital legislation in favour of women’s rights, and the increasing economic independency of women, there is less (material) need for women to pretend to be muddled and be ever-compromising just for the sake of maintaining the relation and its material benefits, and in the case of a mistress, out of fear for being blamed for the husband’s missteps and being left alone or excommunicated. 6. A lingdao 领导 initially was a political leader, government official in a leading position and other top-ranking personnel. However, since the opening up of the economy and the mushrooming of private companies, MBA courses etc., a lingdao is also a manager or company leader, so whoever exercises leadership. Nowadays, the term ganbu, 干部, ‘cadre’ mainly refers to a governmental and not necessarily a high position, nor does it always refer to an active Party member. 7. ‘Holistic leadership’ is one of the three types of indigenous Chinese leadership. The other two are ‘Paternalistic leadership,’ which is the most indigenous, and ‘Daoist leadership,’ of which we see examples further in the text. For more on their comparative research about Chinese leadership in terms of ‘theories of leadership,’ see Chen and Farh (2010). 8. In fact, many Western people working in China experience this vagueness and deliberately keeping things blur as a major difficulty in their business, and understanding how this tactic works and why it is applied is often very helpful. One of my informants, a Chinese-Dutch sinologist working in a big multinational, explained that even though in the end the results are good and beneficial for both parties, it can be very difficult and frustrating to explain to one’s Western superior the tactics of keeping information for oneself and creating a chaotic atmosphere. As she explained, this is just how deals are concluded in China (Personal communication, 17 September 2008, Beijing). 9. In a way, all media in China is official, passing through the official agency General Administration of Press and Publications (GAPP) before publication. The GAPP is responsible for drafting and enforcing restraint regulations, as well as for controlling print publications and the distribution of news to both print and internet publications. Another of GAPP’s responsibilities is approving publication licences for periodicals and books. News regulation is often done in concert with the State Administration

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10.

11.

12.

13.

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of Radio, Film and Television (SARFT) which controls the content of all radio, television, satellite and internet broadcasts in China; the Publicity Department; the State Council Information Office; and Xinhua News Agency. Hutu-ism for promoting inner peace and harmonious social relations now also operates in the sociopolitical discourse of the “Chinese Dream” (Zhongguo meng 中国梦), initiated when Xi Jinping took office as president in 2013. See also Daodejing, Chapter 58: “When the government is muddled and confused, the people are genuine and sincere. When the government is discriminate and clear, the people are crafty and cunning 其政闷闷, 其民 淳淳; 其政察察, 其民缺缺” (Michael 2005, 79). The study on the perception of well-being and social harmony in China by Guo Dingping was based on the results of the AsiaBarometer Surveys of 2006 and 2007. In these surveys, 58.1% of ‘ordinary Chinese’ found that ‘maintaining order (harmony) in the country’ is the highest priority for political governance; 33.7% ranked ‘fighting rising prices’ as the second priority of the government. Freedom of speech was of considerably less importance to ordinary Chinese (Guo and Shu 2009, 51). The results of the latest surveys are not available yet, but are not likely to have changed a lot. An article in the Huffington Post (dating from March 2012) in this respect discusses the specific mode of censoring the internet by the Chinese government as similar to constant ‘adjusting’ of different factors that influence health in Chinese medicine. The emphasis is on the internet being an organic part of the body politic, or, as the article states, “Too much intervention is as bad as too little.” Constant monitoring is necessary so that one knows when and how much to intervene. The Chinese word for this manoeuvre is tiao 调, which means continuous tuning of a complex system. See http://www.huffingtonpost.com/eric-x-li/china-int ernet_b_1217436.html, Accessed 29 February 2020. In 2006, the government prepared a document that did not allow bloggers to use a pseudonym or write anonymously. This attempt however was not successful. As Farrall and Herold (2011, 176) explain, “the combination of widespread public opposition and carefully reasoned legal arguments […] appeared to force the government to reconsider.” As a result, in May 2007, real-name registration was officially ‘encouraged’ rather than mandatory. However, in 2017, a new rule made registration with real-name mandatory, so even if the blogger uses a pseudonym on his personal blog, his/her real

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identity is always known to the regime. Even more, internet companies and service providers are being made responsible for ensuring users stay fully identified. Regardless of their anonymity, ‘sensitive’ opinions can be blocked as soon as they are posted. 15. I cannot exclude that other aspects were decisive for the open, truthful and direct communication I often experienced during longer interviews, such as my familiarity with the language and maybe even matching personalities which helped to dissolve the hutu-barrier. Still, my general experience was the same in all face-to-face encounters, be it with taxi-drivers or during interviews, and with closer acquaintances. 16. In what she labels as an “expanded network theory,” Sundararajan (2020, 134) attempts to “counter the prevailing weak-ties template in mainstream psychology” and expands on Mark Granovetter’s (1973) theory of weak and strong ties by drawing on two eminent Chinese scholars in sociology/anthropology: Fei Xiaotong, whose network theory has been discussed and is also used in this work, and Francis Hsu, psychological anthropologist famous for his psycho-sociogram depicting the socio-psychological character of Chinese people. See, e.g., Sundararajan (2020) and Hwang (2012). In the Postscript in this book (Chapter 9), Sundararajan further applies this network theory on the contexts of use and the development of hutu strategies in time. 17. Many studies have been done about the typical Chinese way of interpersonal communication. For instance, Chang (1999, 539) characterizes the Chinese communication style as having the following characteristics: emphasis on protection of face; promotion of indirect communication; practice of deference (cf hierarchical society); avoidance of confrontation; and greater burden on receivers to interpret messages. Also François Jullien (2004) discussed the origin and broad impact of implicit and roundabout communication in his book Detour and access: strategies of meaning in China and Greece. In this book, Jullien historically investigates the costs and benefits of this rhetorical strategy in which absolute truth is absent. He locates this rhetorical style as rooted in the search for efficacy, especially in politics.

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“Retreat 遁 ” (Book of Changes, Hexagram 33): Judgment: Retreat. Success! In what is small, perseverance furthers. Commentary: Conditions are such that the hostile forces favoured by the time are advancing. In this case, retreat is the right course, and it is through retreat that success is achieved. But success consists in being able to carry out the retreat correctly. Retreat is not to be confused with flight. Flight means saving oneself under any circumstances, whereas retreat is a sign of strength. (Transl. adapted from Richard Wilhelm)

As shown in the previous chapters, the calligraphy Nande hutu is popular for many reasons: its awkwardly written characters in Zheng Banqiao’s own particular style, and the association with Zheng Banqiao’s popularity as an incorruptible but eccentric defender of the weak and underprivileged. Also, the saying’s ambiguous though intriguing paradoxical content, and its rich philosophical and sociopolitical background led © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 M. Matthyssen, Ignorance is Bliss: The Chinese Art of Not Knowing, Palgrave Studies in Indigenous Psychology, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73902-7_6

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to a variety of discussions and interpretations of its ancient but nowadays still useful practical wisdom. I illustrated this usefulness with some examples of applications in which this practical wisdom is concretely deployed as a strategy to be successful in interpersonal, professional and official/political life, and even in managing health. Add to this the recent commercialization and marketing, and much of its present appeal is explained. Still, there is more to it. Take for instance the “psychological explanation” of Nande hutu on the popular search engine Baidu, which concluded with the vague claim that “This kind of mental attitude is exactly what people today need” (Baidu 2020). But what exactly is it that people today “need” from this wisdom of life? And how does applying the wisdom of playing dumb fulfil this need?

A Disorienting Society When straightforwardly inquiring in interviews and in the survey about why people are attracted to applying the wisdom of Nande hutu in the first place, and how this wisdom gives meaning to their lives, answers were quite consistent. A common denominator can be identified as disorienting society in all its complexity. Many of my informants would argue that, although there is a big difference now with Zheng Banqiao’s time, modern society is—as in the Baidu quote—strongly in need of some hutu-ness and vagueness in daily life. Phenomena in contemporary society mentioned in this regard are the general degeneration of public morality (gongde 公德), the aggravation of the inequality of rich and poor, the biasing influence of social positions, the lack of a sound and cheap social security system and the social injustice. Besides, as was already hinted at in the previous chapter, social relationships, including friendships, are experienced as more inconsistent and complex, and less comforting and trustworthy, which evokes a strong need for more social trust (Yan 2011). Some sources mention the high speed of the developments in Chinese society, and belief that it is impossible to control everything, and that one should therefore not try to do so, but rather take a detached approach

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and play dumb once in a while. Also mentioned is the globalization and increasing individualization, which weakens the security of a smaller, familiar whole (the traditional family) to belong to and be supported by, which causes people to have strong feelings of powerlessness and insecurity about the future. Especially during the last two-three decades, China has been among the world’s fastest growing economies. As a result, people feel society in general has become more complex and less supportive, and in a way also more demanding towards the individual. In the previous chapter, students and people who are economically active articulated their stress in dealing with the severe competition and pressure in society. Another reason why society is experienced as very demanding, especially for the elderly, is because many old values seem to be undermined before new values have fully developed, and regulations have not kept up with the new social realities, in such a way that it is hard for the individual to deal with this new social environment (Bond 2010; Guo and Shu 2009; Kulich and Zhang 2010; Kwong 1994). These subjectively experienced social realities also cause people to experience a huge gap between reality and their personal ideals. Or, as Lemos (2012, 81) explains in his book The end of the Chinese dream,1 “Deng Xiaoping’s new China had created a dream in the 1980s, but […] for most people, the dream, so quick to take shape, had just as swiftly died”.2 The individual on the one hand is expected to contribute to the growth of the nation, and on the other hand is confronted with his/her limitations in self-achievement and being successful. This is why some sources call the wisdom of Nande hutu helpful in times of “self-confrontation” (Du 2014, 137). It serves as a kind of mental selfbooster, as a strategy for mental self-preservation and as a counterweight to feelings of powerlessness and frustration. In short, it is considered a “self-defence mechanism” (Wang 2003). As a more general observation, people suggested that because the current trend is to be more clear and rational about everything, the downside to this is that the clearer and more rational, and the more scientific, the more unhappy one becomes. Consequently, people are increasingly pursuing happiness, and for this, return to a muddled state of mind in which things are not always clearly perceived or understood.

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One student compared this with the mystery of the Mona Lisa: although US research clarified the mystery of the smile of the Mona Lisa, this does not necessarily benefit the artistic pleasure one derives from looking at the painting (Wu 2007). One senior author echoed this sentiment, adding to it that it is only with age that he3 gradually understood the true usefulness of a saying like Nande hutu. He recalls that when he was young, by the end of the year, they ate labazhou, rice porridge with mixed nuts and dried food, representing a muddled or mixed-up state of mind. Traditionally, eating labazhou was conceived as auspicious: it would make one a bit hutu before starting the new year. At this period of the year, they accordingly sung a traditional folk song in which a hutu state of mind is recommended. The song also reflected the powerless state of mind of the poor people who did not even have meat for the soup and therefore had to use a pig’s tail. The author recalls that at that time, he did not realize that people need a little bit of vagueness and unclarity in their lives. During the Cultural Revolution (1966–1976), he was influenced by the so-called scientific thinking and destroying of the ‘Four Olds’ (Old Custom, Old Culture, Old Habits and Old Ideas), and it was no longer allowed to sing this kind of folk songs. When he got older, he finally understood the secret of the labazhou: people need to be a bit of hutu, as it promotes a spiritual realm that serves as a counterweight to the rationality and harsh reality of human life, as well as to the overwhelming analytical technology that dominates life. In such a society, people need to experience some vagueness, because “the analytical precision of the computer threatens the vagueness and suggestiveness of the fairy tale of our spiritual depth” (Sui 2007). In other words, there is a lack of a taste of genuine spirituality, that allows for a kind of ‘not knowing,’ a knowing that it is alright not to know everything, and cherish the mysteries of live. At the core, what these explanations emphasize is the influence of a rapidly changing and destabilizing society, which causes the individual to be out of balance. This imbalance strongly affects inner harmony and creates inner struggles and general psychological pressure. The strong internal tension caused by the extraordinary fast and compressed modernization of Chinese society fuels the need of the individual for more balance on three levels: on the intrapersonal level (inner life), on

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the interpersonal level (family, kinship and professional relationships), and on the macro-level of society. On these three levels, the wisdom of Nande hutu is experienced as a harmonizing regulator. That is to say, it can adjust and regulate 调节 existing imbalances and conflicts. Based on the AsiaBarometer Surveys of 2006 and 2007, Guo et al. (2009, 52) indeed concluded that the subjective happiness of Chinese people is strongly determined by these three interrelated dimensions: personal life, interpersonal relationships (guanxi) and social well-being, the last one being defined in relation to governance. Consequently, when these three domains are simultaneously in balance, this ultimately benefits individual well-being. It is the interrelatedness of these psycho-social functions that to a large extent explains the appeal of playing dumb in contemporary society.

Harmonizing Wisdom Harmony The wisdom of playing dumb is experienced as a harmonizer on different levels stretching out from the individual. Chinese people hold a deeprooted desire to pursue harmony (he 和 or hexie 和谐) in confronting the self, other, society, nature and “all things under heaven” (tianxia). Harmony the Confucian way is nevertheless not to be confused with uniformity, nor is it the antidote of chaos. Rather, it is, as Sundararajan (2020, 7) points out “unity in diversity – with harmony being the successful resolution of all contradictions including that between unity and diversity.” Harmony is when “every-thing”—as diverse as things may be—is in the right balance. In other words, harmony is not a static structure, but a dynamic process in search for balance among diverse, conflicting and sometimes even mutually opposing factors. Harmony is precisely the process of balancing yin and yang (Huang 2016). Following Fei’s network model of concentric circles, different levels of harmony stretching out from the individual exist: harmony within the body-self, physically and mentally in terms of harmonious cooperation of all elements within the microcosmos that constitutes the body-self;

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harmony at the interpersonal level; and at the societal level in the public sphere. The supreme harmony level is expressed in the cosmic harmony, or the ‘harmonization of heaven/nature and people’ (tian ren he yi ). This level expresses both wholeness and complementarity of all things in the universe, which cannot but be a harmony based on diversity. For the Confucians, this kind of harmony is the ultimate aim of individual selfcultivation (xiu shen), which in itself aims first at intrapersonal harmony that naturally will extend to the environment. This follows the logic expressed in the Confucian self-cultivation practice of ‘cultivate morality, bring order in the family, manage the country, and bring peace to the world’ (xiu shen qi jia zhi guo ping tianxia). For the Daoists, this cosmic harmony can be reached through a return inwards to one’s most natural state, to the undifferentiated state of Lord Hundun and the sage fool (see Chapter 2).4 In this respect, the need for more harmony links up dialectically with the perceived increasing complexity of the globalized, modern society, a society that has indeed become more diverse, with more inner conflicts and choices, in interpersonal relationships, and in society. This evolution accordingly creates a greater need for more balance. Following the Chinese holistic and dialectic logic, these harmony levels are complementary and invariably influence each other, but differently in different contexts. In line with the extension from the self to his/her environment as in the practice of playing dumb (Chapter 5), I will also here start from the individual and his search for inner harmony, and gradually extend to the other levels. These individual psycho-social functions and the according hutu selfmanagement or coping strategies as traditional harmonizers but also—as we will see—as tools for fulfilling modern needs are visualized in Fig. 6.1. Increasing darkness indicates that ties become less socially binding, and the relation (circle) less trustworthy. Arrows indicate that—from a holistic perspective—these functions are mutually reinforcing. I will now discuss these different levels in more detail.

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HARMONIZING SOCIETY harmonious society, group/naonal face, naonalism, the policy of the ignorant masses

HARMONIZING SOCIAL naonalism RELATIONSHIPS face and favour, shame, renqing, ...

INNER HARMONY, SELFACHIEVEMENT, FREEDOM Self-culvaon (tasks): modesty, moderaon, self-effacement, selfrestraint,tolerance, flexibility, retreang, knowing fate, endurance,... Self-management (strategies): conflict avoidance, emoonal control, raonalizaon, self-consolaon

Fig. 6.1 Psycho-social functions of the wisdom of playing dumb. Note Increasing darkness indicates that ties become less socially binding—Arrows indicate mutually reinforcing

Intrapersonal Harmony In this disorienting society, the individual is considered to benefit most directly from occasionally turning a blind eye on things and taking a detached approach: it enables him/her to cope more positively with life and the increasing modernization, complexity and diversity, especially when feeling powerless or in dealing with adversity. The “psychological analysis” of Nande hutu on the search engine Baidu (2020) states the following:

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When facing all kinds of difficulties, you can only be cautious, and know how to advance and when to retreat. Don’t go into rash action, don’t get yourself into trouble, just seek peace of mind, and do not ask for future blessings.

Another author clarifies the following, drawing from a quote in the famous novel Journey to the West (sixteenth century): The journey of life is rugged, but “the mountain has its own footpath, and even in deep water there is always a ferry.” Playing dumb enables one to cope with a variety of complex and changeable environments to maintain psychological balance. (Ying 2004)

In other words, the wisdom of playing dumb is explained as a useful method to adjust one’s mental state in order to maintain or obtain this psychological balance. This resonates with what many of my interviewees suggested: that what Zheng Banqiao alluded at, was this kind of smart hutu-ism to—be it temporarily—obtain a state of equanimity, of inner peace of mind. Broadly speaking, this applies to all ages, but—as in the domains of application—different sources emphasize different nuances in its harmonizing function.

Elderly: Harmonizing Mind-Body For the elderly, such as those born in the 1950s, Nande hutu takes on a particularly socio-historical meaning. Born in a politically difficult period of Chinese history after years of civil war between the Guomindang and the Chinese Communist Party, they bitterly experienced the disasters of the Great Leap Forward (1958–1960) and the devastating famine (1960– 1961), followed by the Cultural Revolution (1966–1976). By contrast, as from the economic reforms under Deng Xiaoping on (early 1980s), they were confronted with a previously unknown freedom to manage their lives. At the same time, the loss of financial and social security of the iron rice-bowl culture from the work-unit, in which every single aspect of life—from health care, food, housing and childcare, to guaranteed retirement care—was covered in exchange for unconditional loyalty to

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the Party, gradually imposed a huge responsibility and burden on the elderly (e.g. Lemos 2012; Matthyssen and Dessein 2014). In contemporary China, in gaining more autonomy, the retired population lost much support from the extended family due to the one-child policy and the huge commuting distances (or, in view of the distance, rather migrations) their children often undertake to engage in the bestpaid job. Besides, especially in the cities, elder people’s social life has drastically changed with the imposed move from small neighbourhoods with a vibrant and extensive street life and neighbourhood network and activities, to individual living in blocks at the outskirts of the city. In addition, as the above testimony of the older man illustrates, the technological, “clear” revolution made (and makes) it even more difficult for the elderly to keep up with society. They feel insecure and no longer at ease with the world and turn to the wisdom of playing dumb to harmonize their mind and body 心身. In the discourse on Nande hutu, the saying ‘When the mind is calm, the body will be at peace’ 心静则体 安 is often mentioned to highlight the relevance of a harmonious mindbody relation, especially in old age (Chu 2005; Li 2007; Qin 2002; Xue 1994; Ying 2004). By adopting an aloof position in unfortunate events, and by maintaining a calm and light-hearted disposition in life under all circumstances, the relation mind-body is adjusted. To these elderly—and doubtless also to other population groups— Nande hutu is experienced as what they often call a ‘way of nourishing life’ (yangshengfa 养生法) that ensures a long, healthy and happy life. ‘Nourishing life’ (yangsheng 养生) is an expression of the conviction that health should not be taken for granted but can be achieved through good care. Yangsheng appears in texts from some of the earliest archaeological finds claimed by Chinese civilization, in which it refers to the arts of medicine, different kinds of physical and sexual self-cultivation, and, not surprisingly, rulership, all for the purpose of longevity (Farquhar and Zhang 2005). Yangsheng is most prominently discussed in the Daoist canon. For instance, Chapter 3 of the Inner Chapters of the Zhuangzi, ‘The essentials of nourishing life’ (Yangshengzhu 养生主), deals entirely with the benefits of yangsheng. Yangsheng does not only refer to nourishing the physical body, but, in its broadest and most essential sense, it

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means to feed one’s nature, that is, to maintain and develop the totality of one’s life potential (Jullien 2007, 14). Nowadays, having become a vogue around 1990s, yangsheng is an umbrella term for all kinds of individual self-cultivation practices related to physical and mental health that somehow are rooted in traditional culture, and in particular in Chinese medicine. Yangsheng practices are omnipresent in daily life in China; on street corners during an evening dance session with friends, in parks during taijiquan and qigong lessons, in all kinds of popular media genres (podcasts, TV shows, WeChat groups) related to health, but also as enmeshed in common health practices like the right diet and lifestyle. This reflects its comprehensive meaning as encompassing emotional, intellectual, physical, social and even spiritual well-being. In their insightful ethnographic account of yangsheng in contemporary Beijing, Farquhar and Zhang (2012, 221–222) depict the elderly Beijing population in their practice of this “embodied arts of everyday well-being.” One of their informants, a semiretired professor who had graduated from the famous Whampoa Military Academy run by the Nationalist Party government between 1924 and 1949, put Nande hutu forward as a part of his yangsheng view on life. For him, this meant that “the way of long life depends on not striving for a great name or personal interests, being tolerant of others, and at peace with himself ” (p. 221).

Middle-Aged The middle-aged (aged 25–30 to 60), that is, the economically active population, also suffer from pressure, but in their case, the pressure originates in the severe competition in society, the huge unemployment rate, and the responsibility—often as an only child—for supporting their parents and sometimes grandparents when a solid and cheap social security system is missing. Also the—in their experience disorienting and threatening—social insecurity and problems in society such as public safety, political and economic instability, and environmental problems often leave them struggling to survive both mentally and financially.5 Moreover, the freedom that results from the growing individualization

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and the economic liberalization, and the frustration this brings along in pursuing their dreams also play tricks on them. Recall also the example of hutu-ism as an anger management strategy of laid-off workers, who turned to the nande hutu strategy to control their anger towards the local government and bosses (Yang 2016). This population group expresses the wisdom of playing dumb as a coping strategy to overcome feelings of insecurity, frustration, powerlessness and anger, to gain more inner harmony.

Youth Young people, and especially students, complain mostly about having to deal with educational pressure and anxiety, with the burden of having to live up to high expectations, and the according feelings of shame towards parents and family members that come with failure. Losing face for the family is certainly a high concern, but also for them, worry about the future is at stake. ‘The art of being muddleheaded’ and its related wisdoms of life offer a sound antidote to these feelings of stress, shame, insecurity and inadequacy. As one student in the survey declared, “It makes us, students, adopt a tolerant attitude towards the frustrations and setbacks of one’s own committed small missteps and sufferings. This way, we can be more balanced” (Survey Respondent 2008). Research on coping strategies among Chinese students confirms the popularity of attitudes such as forbearance, self-control, take-it-easy and let-it-happen approaches. In his research on coping strategies among university students, Yue Xiaodong suggests that the “use of these internal strategies will foster a sense of enlightened awareness of the dynamics of life conflict and that attainment of inner ‘harmony (“he”) constitutes the cultural protocol for effective stress coping in Chinese society” (Yue 2001, 119).6 Adopting the wisdom of playing dumb offers a spiritual inner sphere in which they can ‘free and easy roam’ and (temporarily) feel unburdened. What these three different age groups have in common, is the belief that things in life do not always turn out the preferred course, and that turning a blind eye helps to temporarily see things more in perspective,

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which leads to more inner harmony. In these situations, hutu-ism and its related wisdoms of life fulfil the need for a “psychological equilibrium” 心理平衡 (Li 2007; Xue 1994; Zhan 2004) that also gives meaning to life. In other words, the wisdom of Nande hutu is what popular author Qin Ning (2002) calls “an effective prescription for mental health.”

Harmonizing Interpersonal Relations Also related to the modernization and liberalization of society that causes mental tiredness, is the increasing complexity of interpersonal relations. As I discussed in Chapter 5, the rapid changes in society radically altered both the nature of social relationships such as marital and family relationships which have become more diverse and less stable, and the availability of a close social network (see, e.g., Chan et al. 2010; Kleinman et al.. 2011). To the Chinese, maintaining a healthy network of social relationships (guanxi) is crucial for their psycho-social equilibrium (Hsu 1971; Hwang 2012). In their research on modern Chinese values, Kulich and Zhang (2010, 250) discuss guanxi and face (mianzi) as the spokes of “the axis of the wheel of Chinese behaviors,” with harmony as most important value animating Chinese culture. These two spokes—guanxi and face— were indeed the main elements in the narratives on the actual practice of playing dumb (Chapter 5). In these contexts of interpersonal relationships, playing dumb is directly associated with face, modesty and moderation. Some authors even mention that one should sometimes “go as far as literally efface (wipe out or put down) one’s (social) face in order to keep harmonious relations with others” (Wei 2006, 62–63). Smith (2010, 702–703) discerns face and modesty as two essential aspects to be successful in fostering harmonious social relationships. Other research points out that modesty and moderation are two social virtues that are purposely applied in the interest of achieving and maintaining interpersonal harmony (Ji et al. 2010, 158–159). The stories in Chapter 5 also illustrated that in particular in communication and in conflict situations the tendency to pretend to be ignorant or at least vague about an issue, and be modest and self-effacing was

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prevalent. Recall, for instance, that among colleagues one is advised to put one’s own wishes aside, in order to prevent jealousy that could disrupt the relation. The search for interpersonal (and public) harmony in effect conditions all forms of communication. Cross-cultural psychologist Michael Harris Bond claims that this culturally conditioned lack of (the need for) well-articulated self-expression simply means that there is “no desire to transcend the larger scheme of things” (Bond 1992, 53). Chang (1999, 536) adds to this, that “compared to Western cultures, where communication is often seen as an expression of the self, Chinese cultures treat communication as a means of reaffirming the communicator as a member of society and maintaining social harmony.” As put forward in the narratives and examples from daily life, the reason why this communication pattern of being vague and self-effacing works as a harmonizer is simply because it leaves room for things to be interpreted in the most appropriate way in that particular context, in the end leading to more harmony.7 In this respect, applying the wisdom of playing dumb contributes to harmonizing increasingly complex social relationships and to strengthening one’s social network, as much in dealing with family members, fellow students and colleagues and superiors, as with subordinates and leaders. The fact that the thus obtained harmony might often be a kind of superficial harmony, in which the underlying conflict is not ‘really’ solved, and that could even conceal underlying aggressiveness and ulterior motives, is not relevant. Since genuine harmony is difficult to establish, people often settle for superficial harmony. As Chang (2001, 156) argues, as a kind of “cultural performance,” superficial harmony still “allows the web of interpersonal connections and hierarchical positioning to be maintained with minimal discord.”

Harmonizing Society The concrete practices and narratives also demonstrated that the wisdom of playing dumb contributes (or is supposed to contribute) to the sociopolitical ideal of the ‘harmonious society’ (hexie shehui) launched by Hu Jintao in 2003 (see Chapter 5 on politics and officialdom).

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Although numerous policies fall under the rubric ‘harmonious society,’ the concept is not unfocused. It was introduced to counterweigh social disharmony against a background of the social disparities and conflicts that followed the rapid economic development after the reform and open-door policy in 1987, and that obviously also threatened state legitimacy (Yang 2018b). Since 2006, so-called happiness campaigns became key to further promote the ‘harmonious society’ (Wielander and Hird 2018). Also Kulich and Zhang (2010, 250) argue that harmony is currently being promoted by the state as the key traditional virtue for integrating society and moderating the impact of modernization, and ultimately consolidate the Party’s legitimacy. Now how is individual practice of hutu-ism supposed to contribute to a harmonious society? As the head of a Party Propaganda Department clearly stated, that “if there is no harmony amongst persons, and worse yet, when there is no harmony in the heart of people, there will never be harmony in the society” (Sun 2007, 53). This reasoning applies in the first place to officials who serve as role models. Recall the Confucian ideal of the scholar-official who cultivates himself into an ‘exemplary person’ (junzi) (Lei 2008), in order to ‘bring order in the family, manage the country, and bring peace in the world.’ As we find in the Analects (Lunyu 13, 23), ‘exemplary persons’ seek harmony, though not necessarily sameness (whereas ‘petty persons,’ xiaoren, are the opposite). In other words, when officials are upright, modest and tolerant in their relations with the people they serve (on the outside), and at the same time strong and unwavering with regard to their moral principles (on the inside), they will naturally harmonize society in all its complexities. By self-cultivation in this vein, officials model hutu for the people they serve. But as the quote above also indicates, there should be harmony in the hearts of ‘common’ people too, to which, as explained above, the practice of hutu-ism can help. It is believed that when citizens display emotional serenity and equanimity, moderation and endurance, this will harmonize their social environment, and they will feel secured by stable and harmonious social relationships. This will in the long run benefit harmony in society at large. For the same purpose, official promotion of appropriate hutu conduct urges citizens to be contented and ‘happy,’ but also to deal with their issues privately (and more recently, in counselling

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or training sessions, but not publicly) as not to cause social unrest and harm society (Yang 2015, 2018a) (see also Chapter 5). Obviously, in its censoring and strikingly nationalist discourse, the state has created its own version of the ancient philosophical ideal of harmony as the balance and inclusion of a multitude of ‘all under heaven’—be it culturally, politically, socially or spiritually—and deviant and unsettling behaviour is not tolerated whatsoever. This in itself is not so different with how it was in ancient society based on social roles and ritual propriety. But it seems that the role of proper self-cultivation by ritual propriety to bring order in society, and by music “that worked in the traditional rituals to ‘harmonize’ contradictions among groups of people” (Sundararajan 2020, 24), is taken over by the ‘happiness’ psychology—including modern hutu-ism. In addition, without directly criticizing the concept, the ‘harmonious society’ in itself is not always ‘happily’ taken seriously (let alone experienced as such, on which more in Chapter 7) by its citizens. One example of this is the emergence of a large amount of online satire dealing with the ‘harmonious society.’ For instance, exactly because ‘harmonious (hexie) society’ was often cited by the government as the motivation for censorship, Chinese netizens ironically started to use the word hexie as a euphemism for censorship when the word for censorship itself was censored. Alternatively, when the word hexie (harmony, here ‘censorship’) was blocked by the Great Firewall, netizens started to use another hexie, meaning ‘river crab,’ which sounds more or less the same as ‘harmonious’ in Chinese but that in Chinese proverbs has a connotation of “arbitrary and hegemonic use of power” (Sundararajan 2020, 24). What it boils down to, is that hutu-ism as a tool for inner peace and social harmony might well be promoted by the state to narrow the gap between social distress and imagined social harmony and to support the ‘harmonious society,’ but it nevertheless fails in structurally addressing real problems such as social support and jobs (Yang 2018b). On the contrary, as Yang Jie points out, the state has merely “made efforts to individualize, internalize, and psychologize the social, moral, and political issues that generate conflict, perplexities, moral confusion, and illnesses” (p. 6).

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Hutu Coping Strategies The wisdom of playing dumb as presented in official and popular discourse urges people not to openly deal with their discontent, fears and anger, but to adjust their inner state of mind. Such socially appropriate behaviour is for the benefit of their health, social relationships and society, and even—though indirectly—for sustaining the autocratic state. But what are the underlying mechanisms at play here? What is it exactly that, on the individual level, makes the wisdom of playing dumb “an effective prescription for mental health” (Qin 2002)? One popular author writes the following in a column called ‘Psychological universe’: In the dictionary, the meaning often attributed to smartness is “developed intellect,” which is a mental quality all people long for. However, because smart people have a strong insight into internal and external stimuli, they sometimes experience more and deeper suffering than common people do. Therefore, Zheng Banqiao’s sigh Nande hutu finds resonance and fulfilment by a lot of people. For them, hutu serves as a psychological defence mechanism. Through diminishing the sharpness of one’s own response on the objective reality, in order to avoid the arousal and increase of negative feelings, being hutu produces the psychological effect of self-protection. (Wang 2003, 34)

In other words, on the individual level, the virtues, attitudes and capacities advocated in the wisdom of playing dumb can be perceived as an amalgamate of self-management or coping strategies, that is, “efforts to solve personal and interpersonal problems, and different ways of dealing with all kinds of stressors such as conflicts, grief, frustrations, setbacks, angst, and insecurity” (Brehm et al. 2005, 531–541). One online author explains his/her view on the function of Nande hutu as a tool for more mental well-being: Pretending not to understand problems that are ‘inconvenient’ to answer, pretending to be ignorant about questions that are harmful for oneself, using the rational hutu to turn danger into a safe situation, and using the smart hutu to calm down conflicts that might rise.

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In a sense, this can remove a lot of psychological pressure, and it can transform weapons of war into beautiful silk, and antagonism into friendship. (Anonymous 2014)

From these quotes, we can discern a few hutu coping strategies such as conflict avoidance, emotional control, rationalization and selfconsolation. Before I go deeper into the most commonly deployed strategies, it is important to remark that the coping strategies embodied in playing dumb cannot always be clearly separated. Different coping strategies are rarely used independently, but most of the time complement each other, with one or more prioritized strategy (Cheng et al. 2010). For instance, while rationalizing unfortunate events (e.g. being laid-off is my fate, I should look at it from a broader perspective and not take it to heart, my boss had no choice), one at the same time controls one’s emotions (anger, disappointment), and as a result avoids conflicts (with one’s superior, the company, one’s wife and children), and maybe even consoles oneself (I might find another job that even suits me better; I am still better off than many others).

Conflict Avoidance Conflict avoidance 避免冲突 is in the various discourses put forward as one of the main aims of feigning ignorance. For many, especially the phrases ‘letting go’ and ‘taking a step back,’ but also pretending not to know or see, lowering one’s standards and expectations towards others and expectations in life, and tolerance, moderation and modesty are perceived as strategies to avoid conflicts. One survey respondent was very clear about this: “In life, many unfortunate things can be avoided by pretending to be hutu once in a while. Such playing dumb can make people live in harmony, and it can avoid unnecessary conflicts” (Survey Respondent 2008). The concrete conflicts to avoid vary from small conflicts with friends or fellow students about trivial matters, to decisive conflicts with and among colleagues and superiors and subordinates, to weighty discussion with one’s parents/children. A fine example of shunning conflicts by

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pretending to be hutu is the example of the elderly in social anthropologist Anna Boermel’s research on strategies to deal with the challenges of rapid change in society. In her research, Nande hutu as a way of “conflict avoidance by retreat” turned out to be one of the three main strategies deployed by the elderly.8 For instance, some of her informants explained they took the phrase to mean “to avoid conflict with one’s superior.” The underlying assumption is that insisting on one’s point of view in the face of likely discord with the person wielding more power is anyway futile (Boermel 2006, 408), hereby indicating that also feelings of powerless are at play. With regard to the situation of the elderly of whom many have become embittered and grieved, Boermel further suggests a particular, historically situated use of Nande hutu that is less found among the middle-aged and younger people: Conflict avoidance by retreat in old age may well be a strategy to which older people elsewhere also resort, in its particular form in reformera China it cannot be understood without reference to China’s recent history. The strategy’s core features of caution and pretence suggests a direct, if rarely articulated link between painful experiences in the past and the effort to maintain a calm, pain-free disposition in the present. (Boermel 2006, 408)

To many older people, consciously playing dumb is a way to distance themselves from former severe sufferings and the trauma inherited from the Cultural Revolution. As I already touched upon in Chapter 5, ignoring these pains and terrifying memories is just one way to deal with their trauma (e.g. Kleinman and Kleinman 1995; Kleinman et al.. 2011). Conflict avoidance is a coping strategy often found in collectivist cultures where social cohesion and in-group harmony are highly valued. Chinese people believe that the initiation of any kind of dispute is an invitation to disorder. Therefore, in managing conflicts they will avoid direct confrontation if possible or arrange the conflict indirectly if necessary (e.g. Bond 1992, 2008 [1986]; Cheng et al. 2010; Hwang and Han 2010; Lin et al. 1995).9 The proclivity of Chinese to smooth over conflict can also be explained within the framework of face work, of

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giving and maintaining social face in interpersonal relationships (Hwang 2012). However, as narratives in Chapter 5 demonstrated, compromising and playing dumb in order to avoid conflicts is in some situations (e.g. in contacts with foreigners and complete strangers) less likely to be adopted by younger and middle-aged people.10 Although this inclination might indeed gradually change with time and with increasing encounters showing other strategies for conflict management,11 today Chinese people still seek to minimize antagonism and conflict.

Emotional Control Playing dumb also embodies “a good medicine for the alleviation of one’s moods,” as one student replied on the question what the wisdom of playing dumb meant to her personally (Survey Respondent 2008). More explicitly, for instance, popular author Jian Kun (2004, 1–32) dedicates a complete chapter to linking hutu-ism to emotional intelligence 情商. As I argued in Chapter 4, especially the Golden Mean emphasizes that having emotions in itself is not troublesome, but that these emotions should be balanced with the outer world to obtain or maintain harmony. This is what is meant with emotion moderation. Many other philosophical ideals and virtues associated with Nande hutu profoundly testify to this kind of emotional self-control, which is mostly expressed as ‘selfrestraint’ (hanyang ) or even ‘self-denial’ and ‘being self-disciplined (ke ji 克己). Waiting for the right opportunity to go ahead, being content with whatever comes, tolerance and forbearance, and being flexible and ‘soft,’ all emphasize the idea that one should in the first place manage one’s emotions to be able to deal with whatever comes up, and preferably in favour of interpersonal harmony. Furthermore, emotional control is presumed to have an influence on the final outcome of an event or experience. As one survey respondent declared, “Often, different outcomes created by different situations evolved from different moods and emotions” (Survey Respondent 2008). Or, as another author advocated, by controlling one’s emotions, one diminishes stress and psychological pressure and, indirectly, influences the potentially negative result of an issue due to overwhelming emotions

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(Zhang 1996). Nonetheless, this does not mean that one experiences direct personal control over the environment or one’s health (Cheng et al. 2010, 402); it is ultimately a matter of how one mentally, on the inside, deals with a situation. Both conflict avoidance and emotional control are vital in the philosophy of the Golden Mean (Zhongyong), which essentially aims at psychological equilibrium and harmony. Emotional control in itself is also a way to minimize the risk of conflict with others (conflict-avoidance), in that it urges one to alter one’s thoughts and behaviour instead of provoking conflict by them. However, this not only concerns the individual level. Since the experience and expression of extreme emotions are believed to disrupt psychological well-being as well as social harmony, moderation and regulation of emotions are also assumed to be beneficial for society. Consequently, Chinese children are socialized to control impulse at a young age (Ji et al. 2010, 159).

Rationalization In daily life, another hutu-tactic to set the mind at rest is controlling one’s thoughts, namely by rationalizing unfortunate, unpleasant or disturbing events. Expressions such as ‘taking things philosophically’ and ‘try to look on the bright side of things,’ 想得开 and the popular proverbs that emphasize contentment (such as ‘Knowing contentment brings happiness’) and an optimistic approach to hardship (such as ‘Disadvantage is a blessing,’ and ‘ A loss may turn out to be a gain’), all urge one to use the “rational hutu” 理智的糊涂 (Anonymous 2014) to accommodate misfortune. In addition, in the dialectical logic of nature, because everything is constantly changing and thus ephemeral, there is no need to be overly sad, happy, emotionally or intellectually engaged and analytic about whatever comes up. As a survey respondent laconically commented, “Only if you can understand (the intrinsic order or logic of ) life in all its aspects from a positive point of view will it be possible for you to rise from the slurry without being contaminated by it” (Survey Respondent 2008). One oftentimes copied article on Nande hutu—aimed at both the young and the elderly—discusses how

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adopting the wisdom of playing dumb is about “learning how to deal with things by reasoning” (Li 2007). How to accomplish this, according to this author, is by “Whenever you feel you’re about to lose your cool, reminding yourself repeatedly to use rational language to control your feelings.” As many sources also agree on, emotional control and thought control are strongly interrelated: rationalizing unfortunate or unpleasant events has a beneficial effect on the emotions, and if one’s emotions are balanced, thoughts become light-hearted too.

Self-Consolation Rationalization of unfortunate events, as well as gains and losses, also functions as a kind of self-consolation自我安慰 (Gao 2011; Wang 1993). This is also one of the motivations attributed by Chinese scholars to Zheng Banqiao’s calligraphy, namely to console himself for having to deal with the injustice and corruption in the autocratic system, where directly and publicly venting criticism and resentment could cause one’s death. This self-consoling practice (often expressed in artworks) applies to all ‘persons of letters’ (wenren) and ‘smart people’ in feudal society. Also today, many sources argue that self-consolation remains an important coping mechanism in contemporary society, both for the more outspoken critical population such as intellectuals and artists, and for ‘common people,’ who “want to tell right from wrong, but cannot or dare not speak out” (Wang 1993, 23). One blogger explains this as follows, citing Buddhist legends: The world is unfair, people are unfair, and treatment is unfair. If you want to eradicate all kinds of injustice, and it is impossible, or you are powerless, then there is nothing left but wielding this banner of hutu-ism to cover up [for yourself ] the injustice in your heart. You can be like monk Jigong 济公 [who fought against injustice],12 who just lets people say that he is crazy and let them laugh at him, and he himself does not in the least mind. […] The so-called weak seek justice, persist in their way no matter what others say, and enjoy themselves. This kind of madness, half awake and half drunk, is also a kind of muddleheadedness. This

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hutu-ism is truly “thorough understanding, seeing things through,” as a kind of “enlightenment.” So when you face reality, you have to learn from the big-bellied Maitreya Buddha with the lovely smile, and “smile at the ridiculous people in the world, and tolerate things in the world that are difficult to tolerate.” That way, you will enter a sphere of transcendence. (Danyan 2018)

What this passage calls attention to, is that self-transcendence 超越自 我—such as transcending public opinions—as a kind of self-consolation is particularly useful when one is disillusioned by injustice. But one can also be disillusioned by failure to realize one’s ideals or ambitions, either because of one’s own limitations or due to the limitations of society or one’s social position. For instance, people of older age often are not or no longer able to pro-actively change their life conditions for the better due to physical shortcomings, financial insecurity or a lack of (political) influence, so they need to close an eye once in a while towards that which does not meet their hopes, desires and ambitions to console themselves (e.g. Chen 2004; Sui 2007). The feeling of being lost in the modern world and using hutu-ism to console oneself is well articulated by an elderly person, saying that it is a vague (mohu, difficult to understand completely) world, and one should use the technique of vagueness against vagueness, otherwise one becomes crazy. S ince life is impossible to completely grasp and control with clear reasoning and detailed analysis, it is better to adopt a little hutu-ness in one’s attitude towards life instead of becoming disappointed and embittered (Personal communication, 26 September 2008, Shenyang). One interviewee, an artist himself, made this comparison: “If you approach an impressionist painting with an analysing eye in search for details and clearly distinct lines, shapes and boundaries, you will forever be disappointed in its artistic quality” (Personal communication, 18 September 2008, Beijing). Using pretended muddleheadedness as a consolation strategy is consistent with the research on the elderly in Beijing by social anthropologist Anna Boermel. As she explains, for the elderly, when feeling unable to do something about an unwanted situation or when dealing with conflicts, a hutu attitude makes them feel comforted and allows them to silently

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“gain pleasure from the knowledge that one is right even though one cannot express it openly and others might think poorly of one” (Boermel 2006, 408). This subversive attitude fits the description of a harmony maintenance strategy referred to by Hwang (2012, 339) as “obeying publicly and defying privately.” In other sources, sometimes the wellknown saying ‘Speech is silver, silence is gold’ 雄辩是银, 沉默是金 is mentioned. What is meant is that when other people are seething and you stay silent, show reservation and stay open-minded, this silent attitude is more mature and can ultimately be more comforting than venting your “right” opinion (Anonymous 2010; Li 2007; Ying 2004; Zhao and Meng 2007). The same holds true for the younger generation, who turn to hutu-ism for dealing with disappointment and stress in daily life. A few examples were discussed in the section on students (Chapter 5), where the pressure to achieve and be successful causes much psychological distress. But also problems in one’s love life pass in review for Nande hutu to be labelled as a tool for self-consolation. As a survey respondent selfreflectively summarized the reason why being (pretending to be) hutu is so popular among young people: A lot of people are upright and full of ideals when they are young. But once they start to fully and actively integrate in society, little by little they discover reality is not so perfect as they imagined it to be, so they gradually adopt that kind of art of being muddleheaded as a way of dealing with the world. (Survey Respondent 2008)

Also middle-aged people, who feel heavily burdened by their social and professional responsibilities, while struggling to advance themselves in a highly competitive society, discuss Nande hutu as a comforting wisdom of life. Many sources in one or another way argue that letting go and diverting one’s attention away from the problem can make one feel—be it momentarily—relieved and make the best out of the problem, even though the issue at stake is not readily solved. Moreover, consciously playing dumb implies that one can turn to other, more rewarding and potentially successful issues or activities. In this respect, some respondents raised the issue of the earthquake in Sichuan in May 2008. Many

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people lost their children, parents and partner, but instead of mourning and wondering how this could possibly happen to them, they did not try to analyse things and see things too clearly (including alleged corrupt practices in building material involved in the disaster). Instead, they kept themselves busy by saving others, which had a therapeutic and consolatory effect, and contributed to the psychological equilibrium of those that suffered the losses13 (Kleinman et al.. 2011). In sum, as a blogger comments on the practice of playing dumb, it “might look like a kind of self-consolation for the weak, but in reality, this self-consolation is permeated by the highest wisdom of hutu-ism as a way of living” (Gao 2011).

The Paradox of Active vs. Passive Coping Ultimately, the above coping strategies are part of the quest for happiness (peace of mind, harmonious social relationships) in contemporary society. At first glance, conflict avoidance, emotional self-restraint, rationalization and self-consolation seem to express a passive and resigning, self-effacing attitude, in which active control of the environment is absent, for what has to be controlled (or rather, adjusted) is one’s inner state of mind. Many of the strategies also seem to endorse passive reconciliation with one’s lot, including mischief that is beyond one’s abilities or responsibilities. As a kind of self-transcendence that teaches one “to put things in a broader perspective” (Yue 2007, 101), these strategies seem to foster deliberate and even happy surrendering to higher forces (fate), a higher order (one’s superior, the state), or even a higher aim (harmonious relationships and a harmonious society), and urge one to take a detached attitude towards one’s own (negative) emotions and thoughts. However, on a deeper level, passivity might not be the right term. To start with, the assumed passive quality of many of these coping strategies reflects a Western point of view, which is solution-oriented and conflict-oriented, with an emphasis on (pro)activity to alter the environment (Cheng et al. 2010). In Chinese thinking on mental health, it is assumed that one should manage emotional distress by changing one’s inner thoughts, emotions and desires, instead of making changes

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in the environment. Even when one deliberately turns a blind eye and retreats, this is not necessarily perceived as a passive process. Cheng et al. (2010, 403) identify this particular way of coping as ‘emotion-focused coping’14 : cultural differences in the effectiveness of avoidant or emotion-focused coping may be attributed to its specific meaning that varies across cultures. For the Chinese, deployment of avoidant or emotion-focused coping may not necessarily reflect passivity, as suggested in Western literature.

This idea is consistent with the notion of control proposed by Rothbaum, Weisz and Snyder (1982, quoted in Bond 2008 [1986], 102). In their comparative research on control strategies they suggest two ways for individuals to seek control, namely primary and secondary control: Rothbaum et al. labelled the process ‘primary control’, whereby people attempt to gain control by influencing existing realities, often by means of acts involving personal agency, dominance, or even aggression. When control is sought by means of alternative paths, which is labelled ‘secondary control’, individuals attempt to align themselves with existing realities, leaving them unchanged but exerting control over the psychological impact that those realities induce. (p. 102)

Otherwise said, primary control refers to “efforts made in an attempt to change external or environmental factors to fit one’s needs and expectations,” whereas secondary control, refers to “attempts to change one’s thoughts or behaviour to fit the environment” (Cheng et al. 2010, 403). The wisdom of playing dumb embodies such practices of secondary control, expressed in attitudes such as taking a step back, knowing contentment, pretended foolishness, and in self-management strategies such as conflict avoidance, emotional self-restraint and rationalization. What makes these ‘arts’ real wisdom, or real ‘arts,’ is that it requires knowing when and where to pro-actively take control and try to alter things for the best, and when not to worry and accept things as they

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come. In a sense, they all are—conscious or unconscious—controlling strategies to ‘fit the environment.’ That is to say, to make one’s relationship with the environment more harmonious. The philosophical-cosmological rationale underneath these coping strategies is a deep, culturally conditioned belief in the natural law of circularity, and in the dialectical principle of continuous change towards a more balanced constitution of the two extreme forces yin and yang . Such dialectical thinking guarantees that situations, thoughts and emotions never remain what they are (see Chapter 2). Take for instance the notion of ‘retreating in order to advance,’ that is very prominent in the Book of Changes. In the commentary of hexagram sixty-two, ‘Predominance of the small’ (xiao guo 小过), we read the following: “When it comes to the great matter of nature and life, one must know the appropriate moments to advance and withdraw, to sustain and negate; one must know the principles of filling and emptying, effacing and fostering” (Cleary 2003, 225–228) (see also the epigraph on the hexagram “Retreat” at the beginning of this chapter). As the Book of Changes at its core is a book on divination, this advice strongly resonates with the virtue of knowing and accepting fate (zhi ming ). Understanding (and accepting) fate precisely allows a person to act only when it is appropriate. If one realizes (and accepts) the very nature of either the (Confucian) mandate of heaven (i.e. the relation between heaven, tian and humans), or the (Daoist) natural principle (dao), it is easier to distance oneself without becoming uninterested and disengaged. Also de Bary (1970, 18) explains that “The ideal of freedom-in-action implied that active involvement in the world and personal commitment to doing Heaven’s will need not require constant and compulsive action in the world.” As was illustrated by some informants, temporarily retreating, pretending ignorance and taking a low-key position gives situations and emotions the required room to develop in a better, more harmonious direction when the conditions and timing are right. But knowing when it is appropriate to yield and when to advance also involves observing the right opportunity to actually take action. In this respect, Lin et al. (1995, 330) observe the following,

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The Chinese consider it a philosophy and an art to learn how to be dynamic, flexible and practical in dealing with problems. The ultimate goal of gongfu (Chinese boxing) is not to hit the enemy but rather to utilize the situation and the enemy’s own force to defeat him. […] When the pressure is too high, learn to be patient, to tolerate, until there is an opportunity to master and to achieve.

The above quote also lays bare that in some cases, this hutu yielding and retreating will require forbearance or even suffering, which in itself can be useful if endured. Especially Confucian doctrines stress the appreciation of meaningful aspects and consequences brought about by negative circumstances as an opportunity for fostering personal growth and hardiness. This might go as far as not undertaking active changes to eliminate the stressful experiences (see, e.g., Cheng et al. 2010, 400). This is particularly expressed in the virtue of forbearance (ren) and in the saying ‘Disadvantage is a blessing’ (chi kui shi fu). Likewise, the wisdom of Nande hutu with the Daoist connotation of ‘non-action’ or ‘effortless action’ (wuwei) is not to be understood as passivity. As Farquhar and Zhang explain in their ethnographic work on yangsheng practices in Beijing, “Insofar as [the Daoist notion of wuwei (nonaction)] presumes involvement in an active and manifold Dao, it simply cannot suggest stagnation, stoppage, or inactivity” (Farquhar and Zhang 2012, 274–275) (see also Chapter 4 on ‘the art of not contending’). As such, the different ‘arts’ belonging to the wisdom of playing dumb can be considered as patterns of coping that are not entirely passive and fatalistic, but characterized by a particularly Chinese kind of inner activism. The coping attitudes herein express a strong resilience, especially in situations where one indeed is powerless; they reflect a flexibility to face a situation in accordance with both the ‘needs’ of the context (timing, place), and the needs of the person (inner peace of mind and/or interpersonal harmony).15 All this is consistent with research on culturally sensitive (Chinese) ways of resilience, that emphasize acceptance (rather than actively seeking control), the relational aspect of dealing with adversity (aiming a harmony on different levels, including with nature),

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and “character-building” and “improving psychological well-being” as possible positive outcomes of facing adversity (Xie and Wong 2020). However passive these strategies and wisdoms of life may seem, in the Chinese mind they are regarded as mature, wise and socially appropriate ways of taking control. As many of the popular sources suggest, they pertain to a high level of emotional and social intelligence. Although the conflict is not (immediately) solved, or the reason for grief or insecurity remains, the disturbing situation in any case did not escalate to the point that (intrapersonal, interpersonal or national) harmony was disturbed. Linked to the particular Chinese worldview and history, this also means that only people who are—consciously or unconsciously— immersed in the underlying rationales and cultural values of such active-passive coping can develop these coping strategies in such a way that they also effectively contribute to well-being. In this respect, it might be helpful to reconsider that such coping behaviour is not actually perceived as ‘psychological,’ but as social and moral virtues and even spiritual ideals. In itself they refer to both Daoist and Confucian mode of self-transformation (Yue 2001). As the kind of life-long Confucian self-cultivation as it is presented in the popular discourse, wisely playing dumb should be considered an active and mature way of dealing with adversity and stressful experiences in settling overall harmony. As a Daoist aloofness and light-heartedness, it represents an inner transformation embodied in unity with ‘all under heaven’ (tianxia), including nature. Summarizing this, we could consider the quote of a young interviewee reflecting on how he resorts to the wisdom of playing dumb in situations where he feels powerless and cannot actively change the situation. Looking for the right words to convey his ideas, he finally stated that, “Applying hutu-ism in a particular situation does not mean that I will also deal with it the same way in the future. It is more that I didn’t manage to act upon things at that moment. It is a kind of temporary retreat” (Personal communication, 19 May 2008, Shenyang). This entirely echoes how ‘minor muddleheadedness’ is optimistically promoted as ‘major wisdom’ on the back cover of a popular hutuxue book: “Hutu is not powerlessness (inability), but a still not activated potential (or hidden capability)” (Yan 2006).

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This kind of reasoning indeed might sound very positive, and moreover, be happily accepted in discourses that ultimately aim at sustaining harmonious relationships and a harmonious society. But in the reality of daily life, such reasoning is not always as helpful as it sounds. If practising hutu-ism merely becomes a way of bottling up what needs to be vented, instead of the more lofty inner retreat in order to advance, it can worsen anger and distress, to the point that the practitioner develops mental and eventually physical illnesses. As Yang Jie’s ethnographic research on bureaucratic ‘aphasia’ (shiyuzheng 失语症) among Chinese officials shows, as a form of hutu practice, deliberately keeping silent and internalize anger and distress—ultimately a form of emotional suppression—can also cause severe psychological harm and worsen physical health (Yang, Forthcoming). This could well be considered an example of a failed case of hutu officials, who—not so different from Zheng Banqiao—have to operate in a highly hierarchical and bureaucratic structure, where face work dominates the scene and where double binds are common practice, and for whom Nande hutu does not work as an efficient coping strategy.

Modern Needs: Self-Achievement and Spiritual Freedom The foregoing analysis suggests that the hutu coping strategies are— consciously or not—applied for more harmony in a complex social and societal context. Next to its harmonizing function, another particularly ‘agentic’ function of playing dumb is put forward in the popular discourses: as a strategy for active self-achievement in society. As I explained in Chapters 4 and 5, the wisdom of playing dumb is officially promoted and also practised as a strategy for success in different settings. Or, as the following quote on a popular hutuxue book illustrates: “Success and defeat is human-made” (Yue 2007). One popular author literally promotes his book The philosophy of life of Nande hutu as follows: [This book] presents a strategy for human behaviour in society; it sums up a means for wielding power and managing people; a stratagem for

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digging deep to subdue the enemy and get the upper hand; it advices a clever method for successfully getting things done; it clarifies the rules of the art of persuasion; it shows the key direction for keeping the situation under control in a contingency. (Sun 2009)

As this quote shows, the success and achievement that is promoted and pursued in the wisdom of playing dumb can be of various nature. In most contexts, achievement is situated in the domain of interpersonal relations and family life. But also more profit in one’s company or a higher social position is on the accomplishments list. Most of the time, it is a combination of all the above, expressed in mastering of (social, managerial, HR) skills and personal—be it inner—control. Whatever material, social or professional success is highlighted in these discourses, it shows that applying hutu wisdom is not only about harmony and coping. Someone adept at this art is presented as an active agent of his own life and as a controller of his own success. According to some of the popular sources, learning ‘the art of being muddleheaded’ can even help one not to be “at the mercy of one’s personal destiny (mingyun 命运)” (Shi 2009, 2). But some sources go even beyond personal, interpersonal and professional achievement. The introduction of ‘The art of being muddleheaded’ and the road to success recommends the book as a means to inner freedom and profound spiritual experiences: ‘The art of being hutu’ is great wisdom. This wisdom gives you an inner freedom of mind, which you should use to freshly examine the world and life, to become outmost serene. […] If you are equipped with ‘the art of being muddleheaded’, you can feel that ‘heaven is inside, and humans are on the outside,’ you can feel the harmonization of heaven and man, and freedom of mind. You will obtain a liberation you never had before. Thanks to this freedom of mind, you will never again be tired out by material things, or be seduced by fame, or mislead by appearances. Only then, you will have the opportunity to have sudden insight,16 to completely penetrate human life, and to transcend life and human conditions. (Jin 2006)

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This author and with him many authors (e.g. Sun 2009; Yan 2006) advance the wisdom of playing dumb as a (Daoist, and a little Buddhist) spiritual ideal of human enlightenment and complete detachment, and with the ultimate level of (Confucian) harmony, that of ‘the harmonization of heaven/nature and people’ (tian ren he yi ). In addition, he introduces another element in the contemporary hutu discourse: freedom of mind. Applying the wisdom of playing dumb is promised to endow one with a new sense of spiritual freedom 心灵自由. This freedom is often described as a process of “psychological liberation,” a liberation from worries, mental and material attachments and restraints (Du 2014, 137). Knowing that one does not always have to be clear and take a standpoint, and how and when to keep such a serene mind, is assumed to effectively makes life less tiring. In addition, as a result of this increased freedom of mind, also the notion of independent thinking and self-reliance is stressed by some. A survey respondent explained that practising hutu-ism “makes people live their life in more freedom, and more according to their own opinions” (Survey Respondent 2008). All this resonates with the idea of retiring into an inner realm (jingjie) free from group (read: public space and associated proper behaviour) pressure. As Sundararajan (2015, 146) rightly points out in comparing the Chinese quest for freedom with the Western notion of independence, stating that “to the Chinese, freedom means to be away from the crowd, instead of going against the crowd.” Generally speaking, there is no desire to go against the crowds, but to retire into one’s proper most private sphere. In other words, as Sundararajan continues, liberation is from within (p. 146). Overall, this particularly modern recommendation of Nande hutu as a means to personal success and freedom predominantly occurs in the popular reading and magazines on business management or leadership, and less in the interviews. This suggests that this function is meant to attract an economically active, relatively young (reader’s) public. Ever since the opening up policy, successfully engaging in entrepreneurialism and “getting rich” has been high on the political agenda and has vigorously been promoted by the state (Matthyssen and Dessein 2014; Yang 2015). In line with this trend, the working (middle-class) population has been exposed to these newly emerged values of self-advancement,

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self-achievement and freedom. They are part of that group of society for which the common sense of tolerance and endurance is slowly giving way to the idea that “things as they are,” and even fate, can be improved and altered (Kleinman 2011, 266). For them, the appeal of the wisdom of Nande hutu not only lies in the compatibility with their traditional need for harmony, but also in the promise of change and improvement of one’s quality of life. They are eager to accept the possibility of individual agency, at least where it concerns getting ahead in society. This resonates with research in the field of cross-cultural psychology. For instance, Yang Kuo-shu (quoted in Bond 1992, 112) listed seventeen characteristic traits that apply in modern societies, which include a sense of personal efficacy (anti-fatalism), high achievement motivation, independence or self-reliance and a future orientation. In more recent research, Lemos (2012, 98) found that the three main ambitions of Chinese people were to be secure and happy, to become a middle-class professional, and to have more money. In this respect, the philosophy of Nande hutu as presented to us in the popular sources, not only embodies traditional values and ways of coping, but also smoothly fits in with values typical of a modern, neoliberal, individualized society, such as wealth, high educational and professional aspirations, and at the same time the need for personal freedom, spirituality and independent thinking (see, e.g., Kleinman and Kleinman 1995; Kulich and Zhang 2010; Lemos 2012; Yu 1997). These particularly modern needs are therefore also incorporated in the ‘self ’ circle (the centre) in the visualization of the psycho-social functions of the wisdom of playing dumb (see Fig. 6.1).

Self-Transcendence and Self-Preservation The appeal of the wisdom of playing dumb in terms of its usefulness for the individual in society incorporates both traditional elements and elements of modern society. The traditional elements can be found in the psycho-social dimensions of the two main cultural traditions: the Confucian search for harmony on different levels of the self (intrapersonal, interpersonal, societal; private-public) and the Confucian values such as

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self-restraint and self-control for the benefit of the whole; and the Daoist way of dealing with inner life, in its emphasis on emotional and rational detachment and inner retreat, and on harmony between mind, body and nature. Together, the art of playing dumb embodies a few coping strategies that help one to navigate the complexity of modern life and maintain mental, physical and psycho-social health. Following Charles Hammond in his analysis of personal advice columns given in official sources (with Nande hutu as one of the promoted strategies), these strategies can be considered as “strategies of self-transcendence,” in which one is urged to expand the “boundaries of the self to take on broader life perspectives to help one make one’s life more meaningful” (Hammond 2007, 254).17 One blogger who refers to the practice of hutu-ism as “in part muddleheadedness, in part transcendence” explains how he views this as follows: In life, being able to deal with things is a kind of courage, and being able to let go is a kind of magnanimity. As for the flowers and applause on the road of life, most people with hutu wisdom can regard this as unimportant. People who have gone through trials and hardships are more self-aware. But it is very difficult to confront the roughness and mud with an ordinary (common) mind. Being able to remain unmoved by big setbacks and catastrophes, and to bear them calmly, that is a kind of breadth of mind and magnanimity. (Gao 2011)

With these strategies of self-transcendence, we, at least in part, are back at what the calligraphy Nande hutu embodied for Zheng Banqiao: a self-consoling sigh, a wish to find peace of mind in an upsetting society, and to ‘escape’ to an inner hutu realm (xinli jingjie). Strategies such as conflict avoidance, emotion regulation, rationalization and selfconsolation might seem rather passive and evasive, but I showed that in the Chinese psyche, the contrary is true; they represent—consciously or not—active though internalized ways of dealing with adversity. Moreover, playing dumb as a kind of rising above the (mental and emotional) self is not only promoted for more peace of mind, but also as a surrender to a higher (political) order, such as the ‘harmonious society’ and the ‘Chinese dream.’

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Still, no matter how one looks at it, the kind of self-transcendence that is nowadays promoted as a social virtue to contribute to a strong, prosperous harmonious society and nation, also urges the individual to consciously control and downplay personal feelings, impulses and desires for the greater good. This in itself is not new. Over the centuries, Chinese people have been socialized to pursue the collective good through cultivating Confucian virtues (see, e.g., Bond 1992, 2008 [1986]; Fei 1992; Tseng et al. 2005). Also de Bary (1970, 16) argues that A detached attitude towards things might be admirable, but the Confucian conception of human life and the self did not allow the individual to be seen in isolation from his social environment or the moral imperatives of Heaven. It was unrealistic, wrong and selfish to conceive of human existence apart from the concrete relationships and obligations inescapably involved in the production and sustaining of human life.

These same virtues are now embodied in the popular interpretations and practices of Nande hutu, where they are still associated with Confucian sayings such as ‘cultivate morality, bring order in the family, manage the country, and bring peace to the world,’ and ‘self-denial in favour of others’ (ke ji li ren 克己利人) (Lei 2008). On the other hand, the most active and self-oriented function of the wisdom of playing dumb is in the popular discourses articulated in a particularly modern and individualized way as a strategy for selfachievement, for gaining freedom of mind, and even for becoming wealthy. In this function, its wisdom serves the modern individual’s need for professional and material achievement. Obviously, these observations can be situated in the broader discussion on the modernization of Chinese society. This modernization process should not be—as is often the case—understood as a complete integration of elements of typical western modern society in traditional Chinese culture. Capitalism—but also Communism—are Western concepts, but have always been pragmatically adapted to the—equally changing—Chinese circumstances and ways of thinking (Matthyssen and Dessein 2014, 139–140). In today’s society, all Chinese are supposed to share the same ‘Chinese Dream’ of a modern, wealthy nation, without losing traditional values

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such as the emphasis on the family, harmonious interpersonal relations and order in society, while at the same time actively grasping opportunities for becoming a successful, well-off citizen. As Arthur Kleinman (2011, 268) writes: “The quest for inner happiness goes side by side with the quest for material gain and social entitlement.” Altogether, it is exactly this pragmatic, multidimensional and of contradictory functionality—encompassing Zheng Banqiao’s search for inner peace of mind, but also the individual’s search for social and societal harmony and for personal material and professional success—that contributes to its overall appeal in contemporary society. Now how can the virtuous self-effacement that is expressed in the contemporary interpretations of Nande hutu flourish alongside modern, individualized and selfish needs? As the arrows in the model of the psycho-social functions of the art of playing dumb indicate (see Fig. 6.1), these different functions—intrapersonal, interpersonal and national harmony, self-achievement, and ‘nourishing life’ (yangsheng ) for physical and mental health—are mutually reinforcing. For example, having harmonious social relationships eventually also benefits one’s health, and fulfilment of the seemingly selfish needs such as being successful also benefits the (extended) family in terms of social status and more financial security. Moreover, the way the wisdom of playing dumb is publicly promoted does not seem to display a real distinction between collective (public) and individual (selfish, private) values and achievements. Or, as Fei Xiaotong (1992, 69) states, the boundary between the public and the private spheres is relative - we may even say ambiguous. In the Great Learning, public order is achieved by moving toward the center of the discrete circles - that is, toward the family. Private selfishness, however, is justified by moving outward, toward the state.

The complementarity of the two is also echoed in the following socalled psychological explanation of Nande hutu in a popular source:

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Individual existence wanders between being hutu and not being hutu. Arriving at a merging of collective norms and individualized freedom is the wisdom given to us by Zheng Banqiao’s Nande hutu. (Du 2014, 138)

That is why promoting ‘the art of being muddleheaded’ simultaneously as a tool for spiritual freedom, as a social virtue, as a harmonizing force, as a remedy for a healthy and long life, and as a strategy to be successful and wealthy, makes sense for a Chinese person. As Bond also observes, as long as the core Chinese qualities of harmony and sound interpersonal relations in daily life are not replaced, Chinese people do not perceive any conflict between traditional cultural and modern elements in their lives (e.g. Bond 1992, 108–116). Hutu-ism simply serves the quest for happiness, which in contemporary society is a mixture of seemingly contradictive needs, desires and ambition.18 The ongoing happiness discourse in contemporary China, which in the same vein resonates with neoliberal pillars such as freedom, individualism and prosperity, but is nevertheless promoted as beneficial for the ‘harmonious society’ (Wielander and Hird 2018; Yang 2013), is also illustrative of this pragmatism. But the question remains how efficient this mixture really is in achieving personal well-being on all these levels at the same time. Another way to look at this relation between individual and collective needs, is by elaborating on the “private selfishness” mentioned by Fei Xiaotong (1992) in the quote above. In the model of the Chinese self that is surrounded by different elastic layers of social network stretching out from the centre, Fei argues that in the end, even the concern for the collective ultimately is rooted in self-interest: “I often think that the Chinese would sacrifice their families for their own self-interests, their party for their families’ interests, their country for their party’s interests, and the whole world for their country’s interests” (p. 69). Applying this to hutu-ism, no matter how self-transcendent its wisdom might seem, and no matter how self-effacingly an individual should deploy it to benefit the greater whole (social relationships and society), or even become one with nature, playing dumb ultimately comes down to selfpreservation and maintaining mental and physical health in a constantly changing, tiring society. Even real selfish ambitions (seemingly relating

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only to the individual), such as personal wealth as an outcome of strategically playing dumb, should not only be considered as a materialist result of the neoliberal orientation and individualization of Chinese society. As a security surrogate, being wealthy compensates for feelings of insecurity, incompetence and—for the middle-aged often—previous poverty. It is equivalent to social status and social face (and thus social support through a strong network), and in the reality of daily life guarantees a secure living for the self and the closest intimates (Matthyssen and Dessein 2014, 134).19 As Kleinman et al.. (2011, 15) state, all individual achievements in society—whether materially or socially—still extend to the family and are representative for the quest for both personal and family happiness, fortune and security. In other words, on the most basic level, playing dumb in itself serves as a kind of self-preservation mechanism. Staying low-key, conceal oneself, avoiding conflict through emotion and thought control, and selfconsolation ‘preserve’ the individual in different ways: for physical and mental health, for sound social relations and the according social support and trust, for a secure environment to counterbalance the fear of chaos (which includes the fear of showing disruptive behaviour) and for selfachievement, all necessary to survive in a disorienting, highly competitive, authoritarian and overwhelmingly controlling society. In other words, if the individual does not take care of her/himself—mentally, physically, socially, materially and politically—(s)he (and the closest intimates) will not survive. This might well be the “need” mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, that the wisdom of playing dumb has the potential to meet. Still, as the foregoing analysis suggests, hutu practice in reality embodies a difficult and tiring balancing act between knowing and pretending not to know, between publicly playing dumb and showing and expressing, between acting for oneself (in the private sphere) and for the larger society and the state (public sphere). In order to stay clear about when or when not to play dumb, there are some criteria that help the individual in this balancing act. Because no matter how popular and appealing the wisdom of playing dumb is, how wide its range of application stretches, and how effective it is as a coping mechanism and as a

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strategy for success, put in practice, its wisdom is not unrestricted. This brings us to the last chapter on the moral code of being hutu.

Notes 1. Many concrete examples of common people’s ‘Chinese Dream’ can be found in The Chinese dream. Real -life stories of the young in contemporary China, written by An Dun, editor and reporter at the Beijing Youth Daily 北京青年报. She compiled 11 life stories of young Chinese people that document this ‘Chinese Dream’ very well. In the foreword, the author explains that the book does not document those “elite’s that had participated several times in the officially held ‘Forum on the Dream of the Chinese and the building of a harmonious society,” and that had been successful in the new era of reform and innovation, but [that the book documents] those ‘common’ people who share the same dream but had struggled severely to realize their dreams. In doing so, it represents a realistic view on how the Chinese Dream is (not) realized (Dun 2008, 1–2). 2. By planting a Wish Tree the size of a large advertising board, on which people could paste their wishes written on paper leaves in three different locations, Lemos (2012, 59–81) examined the worries and wishes of 1427 respondents of different ages in the area of Chongqing. His study revealed that health and health care (41.3%), the family (32.8%), and financial insecurity and unemployment (31.9%) were the three main topics, followed by politics (both positively and negatively commented on) (28.8%), and ambition and social mobility (22.8%). 3. I conveniently assume the author is a man, as his style name has the character huo 火 for ‘fire,’ but his gender ultimately is unclear. His age becomes clear from the life experiences he describes, such as being a student during the Cultural Revolution. 4. For an elaborate account of the concept of harmony and how it evolved throughout Chinese social and intellectual history, see, e.g., Hwang (2012); Sundararajan (2020). 5. For instance, the AsiaBarometer 2006 Survey revealed that with regard to the social welfare system in particular, almost half of the respondents (48.1%) feel unhappy with the current provisions. Of the 16 issues investigated, including marriage, family life, job, standard of living, the social

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welfare system was evaluated the worst (Guo and Shu 2009, 43). Lemos (2012) observations discussed above (note 2) echoes these findings. In Yue Xiaodong’s research, forty 18–22-year-old students in Beijing were interviewed about their most commonly used coping strategies. The significance of these coping strategies was explored in relation to the Confucian ethics of self-cultivation and to the Daoist self-transcendence, as well as in relation to contemporary theories about stress and coping (Yue 2001). Obviously, interpersonal harmony in itself has different qualities. For instance, Hwang (2012, 355) discusses research findings that classify interpersonal harmony in various types of conflict in ‘realistic’ and ‘superficial’ harmony. Huang (2016, 47) discerns both ‘genuine’ and ‘superficial’ harmony in conflict resolution among friends. Since genuine harmony is difficult to achieve, Chinese people often accept to settle for superficial harmony. The two other coping strategies adopted by the elderly that resulted from Boermel’s analysis were ‘maintenance of values’ and ‘self-organized activities’ (Boermel 2006, 407–412). Conflict avoidance, together with harmony-orientedness as predominantly Asian attitudes, is often put in contrast to the more Western, aggressive, solution- and conflict-oriented cultures. It should be made clear that this contrast is in no way absolute; many individual, contextual and regional differences exist. See, e.g., Bond (2008 [1986], 2010); Hwang (2012). Certainly, when there is nothing to lose or to uphold left, such as for rural communities whose farmland is confiscated and redeveloped at vast profit, or for people who lose their home without any adequate compensation, or for those who become unemployed without any social security, people or groups of people gradually lose their fear of protesting and start to resist publicly, to which increasing local protests testify (Lemos 2012, 233–251). For instance, the recent—often compulsory—emergence of the course ‘Psychological education’ xinli jiaoyu 心理教育 on secondary schools and universities gives young people new (Western) perspectives for coping that might contradict conflict avoidance, while at the same time insisting on adapting 适应 to the environment. It is, in my view, not likely that this adaptive approach to conflicts will quickly change considerately. Jigong 济公(1130–1207) was a Southern Song Buddhist monk. He is also called the ‘Mad (or Incredible) Monk.’ He is assumed to having possessed supernatural powers, which he used to help the poor and stand up to injustice, but is also known for being eccentric and not following monastic rules.

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13. The Sichuan earthquake in 2008 left more than 90,000 persons dead and missing, and over 5 million people homeless. Many of the building materials of the local schools proved to be of very low and cheap quality, which aroused a quasi-public debate on bribery and corruption in officialdom, and beyond, among the (already) rich. For more on the importance of the earthquake from a moral and psycho-social perspective, see, e.g., Kleinman et al. (2011); Lemos (2012). 14. ‘Emotion-focused coping’ is often discussed in relation to other kinds of coping, ‘problem-focused coping’ and ‘proactive coping’ (see, e.g., Brehm et al. 2005, 531–541). Obviously, most of the time people simultaneously apply different coping strategies. In the same way, among Chinese, there are many individual differences in practising emotion-focused coping (Cheng et al. 2010, 402–404). Effective coping emphasizes flexibility and good choices, choosing an approach that fits the situation. 15. For more on the presumed passive way of coping expressed in notions such as ‘perceived control’ and the relation with psychological well-being from a cultural point of view, see Cheng et al. (2010). 16. Or sudden enlightenment, a flash of realization. Dunwu 顿悟 is often used in a Chan (Zen) Buddhist context. 17. Hammond (2007)—by referring to a few other authors—explains that such a strategy of transcendence has religious, philosophical and psychological dimensions. In our case, there are only few religious (Buddhist) dimensions, but profoundly philosophical (Daoist and Confucian) and psychological. 18. See also Stewart et al. (2010, 375): “In order to maintain fulfilment and mental well-being, the craving for personal success and advancement has to be balanced with interpersonal harmony and ‘proper’ righteous behaviors.” 19. After the birth regulation policy that was introduced at the end of the 1970s, the family became a much smaller in-group, thus reducing the number of relatives one can rely on for social assistance. On the one hand, there are now less voices in the family to take into account for the younger population. On the other hand, because there are less children to count on, modern parents need their child(ren) even more for securing their old day.

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Wielander and Derek Hird, 129–149. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. ———. 2018b. Mental Health in China: Change, Tradition and Therapeutic Governance. Cambridge and New York: Polity Press. ———. (Forthcoming). “‘Bureaucratic Shiyuzheng’: Silence, Affect, and the Politics of Voice in China.” HAU: Journal of Ethnographic Theory. Ying, Tong. 2004. “Nande hutu.” Zhongguo Qingshaonian. Accessed 25 February 2012 (Original website not accessible anymore in 2020, but copied many times on other websites). http://www.tanghu.net/sitehtml/news/xljk/ 2011/110120091109.htm. Yu, Wujin. 1997. “Modernization and the Conflicts of Individuality and Totality in Chinese Culture.” In Philosophy and Modernization in China. Chinese Philosophical Studies, XIII , edited by Huang Songjie and McLean George F. Liu Fangtong, 13–19. Washington D.C.: The Council for Research in Values and Philosophy. Yue, Qing. 2007. Nande hutu: you ‘congming’ bian ‘hutu’ de rensheng da zhihui (Nande Hutu: The Great Wisdom of Life of Changing from Smartness into Muddleheadedness). Beijing: Dizhen chubanshe. Yue, Xiaodong. 2001. “Culturally Constructed Coping Among University Students in Beijing.” Journal of Psychology in Chinese Societies 2 (1): 119–137. Zhan, Baoping. 2004. “Nande Hutu yi xinshen (The Benefits of Nande Hutu for Mind and Body).” Xinli yu jiankang (4): 47. Zhang, Yuantao. 1996. “Xinli baojian de liangfang—Nande hutu (Nande Hutu—An Effective Strategy for Mental Health).” Fandian xiandaihua (6): 53. Zhao, Wenming, and Han Meng. 2007. Mingbairen bu zuo hutu shi (Smart People Don’t Do Foolish Things). Beijing: Zhongguo Chang’an chubanshe.

7 The Moral Code of Playing Dumb

To stubbornly do something even though you know it is impossible; to understand the difficulty of a feat but to attempt it anyway because it is the right thing to do. 知其不可而为之 (Chinese idiom, taken from the Analects 14, 41)

Moral Code: What’s in a Name? The previous chapters illustrated how deeply imbedded the predilection towards a particular kind of pretended ignorance and vagueness in various domains of life and for various reasons is in the Chinese mind. The wisdom of playing dumb shows to be an appealing and deliberate way of navigating health, one’s spiritual, material and social life, and one’s contribution to the ‘harmonious society.’ Still, despite all the references to lofty philosophical ideals and social virtues, and its seeming popularity, people from different layers of society articulate their reservation and critical reflections with regard to a ‘wrong,’ morally and socially inappropriate interpretation and practice of the wisdom of life expressed in © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 M. Matthyssen, Ignorance is Bliss: The Chinese Art of Not Knowing, Palgrave Studies in Indigenous Psychology, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73902-7_7

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the saying Nande hutu. Many of these sources not only vent criticism, but also present what could be considered as moral guidelines to delimit the practice of playing dumb, so that it does not degenerate into a slick and easy way of self-protection, self-advancement, and self-promotion, and as a tool for the autocratic—not the harmonious—society. Before I proceed with discussing some of these critical voices and frequently mentioned moral guidelines, some reflections on the term ‘morality’ are in place. The comments presented here are seldom the result of direct inquiries into what is considered ‘moral’ (daode 道德) and ‘immoral’ (bu daode 不道德). Directly asking about the moral implications of the practice of playing dumb from the very start did not prove to be fruitful, simply because for the majority of Chinese, and especially for younger people, the wisdom of playing dumb is not associated with morality (daode), but—as illustrated in Chapters 4–6—primarily with tactful social conduct in interpersonal relationships to preserve harmony on different levels. As a student answered quite straightforwardly my survey-question on whether there might be any relation between Nande hutu and morality (daode): “There is no relation, because hutu-ism is just a way of conducting oneself in society (chu shi). It does not affect one’s personal moral character.” Another respondent was quite clear about the primary concern of hutu-ism too: “Nande hutu is our compass of navigating the social scene, it is a guide in social life” (Survey Respondent 2008). Philosophically, morality was centred around the Confucian moral imperative of ‘being self-disciplined and observing ritual propriety’ (ke ji fu li 克己复礼) (Lunyu 12, 1) as stressed many times in different phrasings in the Analects. The early Confucian ethical system consists of the virtues of benevolence as communal humanity (ren); righteousness (yi) as the choice for the appropriate social behaviour; and ritual propriety (li) as a mode for embodied development towards a moral becoming-withothers. Li in fact is a kind of normative, ritualized proper order of human interactions, that nevertheless has to be personalized in each particular interpersonal encounter (Dranseika et al. 2018). However, these Confucian notions do not translate into Western morality. Or, as Ames and Rosemont (2016, 111, n.3) point out,

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What we single out as distinctly moral and immoral behavior as opposed to legal, polite, religious, ceremonial, or other behaviors would not be parsed in anywhere near the same way within Confucian sensibilities.

In fact, as Rosemont (1976) argues, early Confucians did not consider the specifically moral sphere of human reality as separated from other normative domains, which in Chinese incorporates cultured or civilized (wenming 文明) behaviour (discussed in Berniunas et al. 2019, 90).1 Daoism considers even less moral issues, as it basically embraces an amoral point of view, or as Moeller (2009) argues, a “moral foolishness.” To complement the often rather mainstream and repetitive official and popular written sources, in interviews and informal talks I attempted to go beyond conventional replies by asking to describe concrete examples of when playing dumb is not accepted. In these contexts, I follow the broad meaning of ‘morality’ and ‘moral’ (daode) as explained by late social scientist Fei Xiaotong (1992, 71): Morality is the belief that people in a society should abide by certain norms of social behavior. […] According to a sociological perspective, morality is society’s sanction on individual behavior; it makes people conform to established social norms in order to maintain the existence and continuity of the society.

This approach resulted in a mix of both opinions that reflect the traditional associations of morality with conventional Confucian ethics and normative behaviour (often linked to official policies), and more ‘independent’ and self-reflective answers not directly related to Confucianism, and sometimes even attacking Confucian values.

Critical Voices Hutu-Ism as Wrong Ideology Long before the saying became popular as ‘the art of being muddleheaded’ (hutuxue), Lu Xun with undisguised criticism vented his opinion

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on what he calls the new ideology, hutu-ism (hutu zhuyi). In his essay ‘Nande hutu’ (dating from 1933) we read the following: Hutu-ism, the standpoint of mere absence of right and wrong et cetera, originally was the high morality daode of the Chinese people. You say it is to free yourself, to take things philosophically, to be carefree, and to have a clear understanding, but that is not necessarily the case. In reality, it is obstinately adhering to something, such as moral legitimacy or the literary orthodox school. (Lu 1933)

Lu Xun warned against a wrong interpretation of the philosophy of life that is expressed in sayings like Nande hutu as an acclaimed cultural virtue and as a passive or selfish attitude. His condemnation obviously should be situated in the anti-conservative, modernist discourses of the intellectual New Culture Movement that started around the second half of the 1910s. This movement was highly critical of so-called outdated Confucian social values like hierarchy, paternalism, obedience and unquestioning respect, and promoted Western ‘Mr. Science’ and ‘Mr. Democracy’ as leading values to create a strong and modern China following the failure of the Qing dynasty. But although the New Culture Movement soon evolved into a radical anti-traditionalism, such criticism on hutu-ism didn’t end with Lu Xun. Nowadays, some authors but also a few of my interviewees, most of them intellectuals and artists, argue that during the process of its popularization, the further away from Zheng Banqiao’s time, the more the passive, resigning and evasive interpretation of Nande hutu took over (e.g., Li 2005; Mou 2004; Wang 2007). Scholar Wu Zeshun (2007) links this to the rebellious and unconventional character of Zheng Banqiao, by remarking the following: What Banqiao could not have imagined is that nowadays so-called smart people use the saying in the opposite meaning as a pretext for growing immorality and a lack of civil responsibility. In so far as his own person concerns, in the minds of people today, under the influence of entertainment and playfulness, he is regarded as the crazy and rebel scholar who painted and wrote, loved wine and making love, and who was

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muddleheaded to the degree that it is really ‘cute’ 可爱. Therefore, Zheng Banqiao and his saying are completely misunderstood.

The contemporary discourse on the saying reveals many similar critical reflections on a wrong understanding and corresponding irresponsible behaviour of the saying. These comments express different levels of criticism. A first level deals with a general moral degeneration and lack of conscientiousness, which I classify under ‘muddling through.’ A second level emphasizes a lack of civil responsibility, by purposefully feigning ignorance for selfish reasons and often to the harm of others, which particularly applies to officials. A third level of critical comments regards the national level, where playing dumb is critically commented upon as a kind of conditioned ‘strategy of muddleheadedness’ of the masses for the sake of self-preservation, and as an intentional national policy for rendering the people into muddleheaded denizens. Both the ‘conditioned muddleheadedness’ of the governed and the ‘ignorant masses’ policy of the government are inherent to the autocratic state that Chinese society was and still—even increasingly—is.

Muddling Through Most criticisms condemn playing dumb as a passive, laisser-faire way of living that contributes to a pragmatic and slick way of conflict avoidance and evasive behaviour. Especially with regard to professional and social duties, many sources argue that Zheng Banqiao’s Nande hutu has or can easily become the equivalent of doing nothing, of lazily ‘muddling through,’ of being unconscientious and negligent, and even too ‘easy-going’ (e.g. Wang 2005; Xiang 2002; Zhao and Meng 2007). A survey respondent declared that, “if not mastered rightly, being muddleheaded becomes a force of habit that makes a botch of things” (Survey Respondent 2008). In an article attacking bureaucratism, Zhou Enlai 周恩来 (1898– 1976), the first premier of the People’s Republic of China from 1949 till 1976, also seemed to have condemned this kind of slapdash work, as he was “criticizing those who are perfunctory and muddle through just

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for the sake of eating (hun fan chi 混饭吃), as well as those who are confused (huhututu 糊糊涂涂) or ‘muddle along’” (Hammond 2007, 264). The Confucian scholar Hwang (2012, 277) discusses such attitudes as a complete lack of discipline and self-management not compliant with proper self-cultivation (xiu shen): Behaviors, such as not engaging in proper duties or work, fooling around, living as a bum, and leading an unproductive and pessimistic life […] imply a weakness in self-cultivation advocated by Confucianism, and people who engage in them should feel a sense of shame as a result.

Also criticized are wisdoms such as ‘knowing and rejoicing in fate’ (le tian zhi ming ) and ‘great wisdom looks like foolishness’ (da zhi ruo yu) when used as an excuse for not achieving anything, and as a moral degeneration into mere resignation (e.g. Hammond 2007; Li 2006; Lin 1998; Wei 2006). One interviewee, a middle-aged businessman in Beijing who claimed he himself had learnt to take quite an aloof, hutu approach to life and to his business, was particularly clear about his view on such evasive muddleheaded behaviour in moral issues. According to him, there is a huge difference between weighing a moral dilemma and eventually not being able to act to improve the situation and not even wanting to think about it and just pretending it’s not there. As an example of such immoral behaviour, he brought up the hot new topic at the time of a girl being raped on the backseat of a taxi, without any intervention whatsoever of the taxi-driver, who just ignored it, and did not even report the incident to the police (Personal communication, 25 September 2008, Shenyang). The incident did receive much attention in the local newspaper and locally created a debate on the moral degeneration in contemporary society. This moral numbness and indifference is what a survey respondent described as the result of blindly taking hutu-ness as an overall guiding principle in one’s life, instead of as a selective and conscious self-restraint (Survey Respondent 2008). A blog-article that discusses the emergence of ‘the arts of ’ (–xue’s)— such as ‘the art of being muddleheaded’ hutuxue—in the light of society’s declining morals summarizes this kind of criticism well. The author narrates a story of a sinking boat that poses the moral dilemma of whom

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to give preference to board the rescue boat. In this story, the captain urges women and children to go first to the rescue boat and declares that he will shoot down whoever does not obey this rule. In the end, it turns out there is only room for one more place; one person more or less is decisive for survival, but the captain himself has not yet got into the rescue boat. The author is wondering what is going on in society, where so many so-called self-improvement (‘how-to…,’ -xue 学) books tell you “how to cheat people, how not to be cheated yourself, how to treat your underling, how to treat your superior, how to avoid charlatans, how to become one yourself, how to go job-hopping, how to compliment people, how to practice the ‘art of social relationships’ (guanxixue), the ‘art of thick (skin) and black (heart) (houheixue 厚黑学),2 and the ‘art of being muddleheaded’ (hutuxue).” The list is endless, the author continues, but he asks himself how we should treat these mushrooming ‘how-to…’-books and new ideologies. His suggestion is to keep it simple and think of what you would do—or not do—if you were the captain of the sinking ship (Chen 2005).3 What these criticisms emphasize is that it is too easy to rely on ancient wisdoms such as taking a step back, Nande hutu and related sayings to do nothing or act carelessly and without proper self-discipline. In all these cases, the wisdom of Nande hutu is put forward and applied for one’s own convenience, as an excuse for accommodating feelings of insecurity and cowardice and for accepting irresponsible behaviour without any degree of self-restraint or self-sacrifice.

Self-Advancement and Self-Promotion A degree worse is deliberately (i.e. when having the choice) playing dumb not just for convenience sake or out of a lack of courage, but only for one’s own benefit, with far-reaching negative consequences. Many sources argue that in their view, although the suppression of the feudal and communist regime that necessitated hutu behaviour have to a great extent disappeared, hutu-ism is now too often used as an excuse for purposefully conniving in situations for the sake of self-advancement, self-promotion and social status (face), while at the same time—directly

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or indirectly—harming others, society or the nation (Mou 2004; Z. Wu 2007; Xun 1995). One interviewee, a university professor in the philosophy department, raised the example of the shrewd, profit-seeking businessman who pretends to be a fool but knows very well where he is heading. Such a person is often called ‘smooth and evasive’ but also ‘slick and sly’ (yuanhua 圆滑, a term that can also mean tactful, diplomatic and even sophisticated) (Personal communication, 5 November 2009, Ghent). This kind of behaviour is typically associated with people who are ‘minor smart’ (xiao congming ) (see Chapter 4), who think they are smart but are not, or at least not in a wise way. Such kind of criticism even more applies to the official sphere such as in politics and law, especially when one’s behaviour has consequences on a large group of people. These domains concern the realm of public and social responsibility in which governmental officers traditionally are supposed to give the good example for the benefit of the greater whole (his local jurisdiction or the nation). As briefly touched upon when dealing with the growing popularity of the Nande hutu (Chapter 4), during the 1980s and the 1990s the calligraphy Nande hutu was extremely popular in officials’ circles and used as a justification for renouncing any moral ideal or principle, supposedly for the sake of the new policy of making the impoverished country (and oneself ) prosperous again. In the same period, many articles appeared that criticized officials being too muddleheaded in their official duties (e.g. Dai 1994; Lin 1998; Xun 1995). A fine example is an article dating from 1996 in a Party magazine that critically analyses Nande hutu in official practice as follows: In the guiding policy of the executive party, hutu means, “the one who is conscientious suffers losses”; in facing principles of good and bad, hutu means that having a hutu working method is most efficient; in dealing with bad people and situations, being hutu is to first protect one’s own peace; in dealing with law and guidelines, hutu means that being in power and having money is the living god. Some people even go as far as to make of pretended hutu their frequent modus operandi of dealing with delicate questions and questions of right and wrong, and in matters that do not concern themselves hold in both hands their miracle remedy to get things done, their canon of upright conduct, their guideline in all

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behaviour, and always use it as a criterion for their words and deeds. […] People who uphold hutu are not hutu in all matters. In dealing with fame and fortune and social positions, and with personal failure and success, even if it is just about the smallest issue, they certainly are not hutu. They will calculate everything very clearly with you. But if you let them continue to be hutu like that, failure will naturally become our Party’s cause. (Niu 1996)

Another author quite sneeringly explains that many officials hang the calligraphy Nande hutu in their offices, but in fact, there are three different types of officials: honest and upright officials, of which 9 out of 10 did not end well (just like Zheng Banqiao); mediocre officials, who don’t get anything done (and, as the author argues, “it is better to go home and sell potatoes”); and corrupt officials, for whom muddling through without experience will leave much room for regrets, whereas even experience may not guarantee good outcome, and being despised is unavoidable (Xun 1995). Graft and corruption as the first and foremost association of hutu in officialdom are still often conceived of as a “legitimate use of guanxi connections and an equally acceptable way of benefiting your nearest and dearest” (Lemos 2012, 258). Nevertheless, they do constitute the major concerns of common people,4 and as a result, since this threatens the Party’s legitimacy, they are also a thorn in the flesh of the Party. Therefore, after Hu Jintao came to power in 2003, the new ideological campaign to address the country’s social problems and general instability meant a shift in focus from economic growth to the ‘harmonious society’ (hexie shehui) accompanied by mass governmental anticorruption campaigns.5 At this stage, also popular articles dealing with Nande hutu and proper official conduct appeared that denounced the flourishing corruption. This is reflected in titles that leave nothing to the imagination, such as Party members should not be muddleheaded (Liang 2008) and Better to be a muddleheaded official, than to be muddleheaded in my official duties (Shou and Zhu 2006). In a chapter on official policy and ‘the art of being hutu,’ popular author Yang Tao (2007, 283) argues as follows:

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Obviously, when Nande hutu serves as the manifestation of the saying ‘Great wisdom looks like foolishness,’ there are some limits. When one turns a deaf ear or pretends to be muddled and deliberately remains passive in the face of evil trends, noxious influences, and phenomena such as corruption, then that is not ‘Great wisdom looks like foolishness,’ but downright foolishness.

Corruption and other forms of selfishness are also examples of what Hwang Kwang-kuo (2012, 121–125) calls violating “the Confucian ethics for scholars,” which stipulates that scholars-officials in ancient times (nowadays by extension all officials) should through moral cultivation benefit the world—in contrast to ordinary people who have less far-reaching responsibilities that are limited to family and community life. Recall in this respect also the saying ‘cultivate morality, bring order in the family, manage the country, and bring peace to the world’ (xiu shen qi jia zhi guo ping tianxia), meant in particular for officials who, as so-called co-creators of the universe (Tu 1985, 158) are morally obliged to take up their full responsibility. Many sources also refer to Zheng Banqiao who in his official practice represented this ideal of moral responsibility not in pursuit of personal gains, even putting his own position at risk. A story that exemplifies such behaviour is how during a year of bad harvest Zheng launched a programme for repair and construction work for the starving people to get an opportunity to work in exchange for food and also ordered the local wealthy families to open their kitchens on a rotating basis to feed the hungry. In addition, he assumed responsibility over the local granaries and sold the grain for a cheaper price (Pohl 1990, 45, see also Chapter 3). His behaviour obviously (again) resulted in conflict with his superiors.

‘The Harmonious Society’ vs. ‘The Policy of the Ignorant Masses’ At the macro-political level, we find a special kind of criticism in mainly scholarly and official writings. These sources condemn the above two wrong uses of hutu-ism as undermining the ‘harmonious society’ (hexie

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shehui), the socio-economic vision introduced by Hu Jintao since 2003. In these sources, both passive and evasive ‘muddling through’ behaviour and playing dumb for the sake of self-advancement and self-promotion are considered as a threat to the harmonious growth and development of the nation. But also traditional Confucian values associated with hutu-ism are targeted. On official Party-websites, for instance, elements in Confucianism that—if not correctly put to use—might prohibit the establishment of a modern, scientific and harmonious society are condemned. One author is very explicit in his argumentation: With regard to some elements of Confucian thinking, such as the Doctrine of the Mean, ‘Being unaffected and plain is better than being cultured,’ ‘When the water is too clear, there will be no fish,’ Nande hutu, and such kinds of thought, one cannot deny that they have their merits and their reasonableness. But when this kind of thinking is exaggerated or goes beyond the limit, then it is not conducive for the generation and development of scientific innovative thinking. (Yang 2008)

This author goes even further, and in linking the Nande hutu thought to managing traditional social relationships, considers this as obstacles not only to modern values of scientific innovation in the modernization process of China, but also to the rule of law: These concepts are incompatible with China’s modernization process and seriously damage our legal system and development concepts. Only by abandoning them, can we resolutely implement the concept of rule of law, simplify complex interpersonal relationships, and get rid of a considerable loss of energy that originates from complex interpersonal relationships and managing interpersonal networks, so that it results in a simplification and simplicity, and we can devote our vigorous energy to construction and development [of the harmonious society]. (Yang 2008)

Similar critical opinions in official and scholarly sources basically reflect on the building blocks upon which the policy of the ‘harmonious society’ is officially built: rule by law, hierarchy, stability and order, vitality and harmony between people and nature (tian ren he yi ) (Chan 2010).

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In addition to these reflections echoing the New Culture Movement, other sources—including a few of my interviewees—are bolder in their criticisms and link the Nande hutu thought to potential abuse of Confucian role relations that have typified Chinese rulership and social conduct throughout history, in particular in feudal society. According to these sources, a wrong strategic use of the practice of pretended ignorance can turn its high wisdom into a shrewd political strategy that compromises social justice, and contributes to powerlessness of the masses (e.g., Li 2005; Lü 2007). This is better known as the ‘policy of the ignorant masses’ (yumin zhengce) that I identified as one of the domains of application of hutu-ism (see Chapter 5). One poignant example of the policy of the ignorant masses is the phenomenon of so-called Ah Q-ism. In the first half of the century, Ah Q-ism, derived from the protagonist Ah Q in Lu Xun’s The true story of Ah Q (Ah Q Zhengzhuan), became quite popular. In this novel, Lu Xun used the person of the foolish and ignorant Ah Q to illustrate what he describes as two of the worst characteristics of Chinese people: their tendency to make “spiritual victories” out of severe setbacks, and their “slave mentality” which made them either oppressors or oppression’s willing victims (Hutchings 2000, 286; Wielander 2018). Long before the wisdom of playing dumb became a popular ‘art’ on the popular reading market, poet and social critic Bo Yang (1920–2008)6 vented his biting criticism on such Ah Q-like ignorant masses in his controversial The ugly Chinaman and the crisis of Chinese culture.7 The novel was banned by hard-line Marxists in Beijing just a year after it was published in 1985, on which Bo Yang satirically commented that power corrupts since long have turned Chinese people into “ignorant pigs” ignorant of their own rights and powers, and caused most people to become numb and “muddle their way through life” (Bo 1992, 29–30). Bo Yang condemned especially hutu-ism and related qualities that Chinese people regard as moral and social virtues. For instance, in an interview with the editors of the New York-based Chinese language magazine ‘Chinese Spring,’ he expresses strong criticism on forbearance (ren), a virtue strongly associated with Nande hutu, that he links to power games:

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Chinese people think that forbearance (ren) is a virtue. Actually, passivity in the face of injustice comes from being insulted so often that one becomes numb to it. But by praising this deficiency as ‘forbearance’ Chinese people can put their consciences at ease. Few Chinese are willing to fight for their own rights. (p. 30)

Bo Yang attributes this lack of fighting spirit to the fear that anyway “they’ll lose in the end” (p. 30), in other words, to feelings of powerless. Further in the same interview, the interviewer confronts Bo Yang with an old Chinese joke about a warlord who gave a banquet. One of his guests brought him a basketful of bananas for a gift, but because the warlord had never eaten a banana before, he popped it in his mouth without peeling it. In order not to make the warlord lose face (and themselves fall out of grace), all the other guests ate their bananas the same way. Bo Yang laconically comments on this by saying that it is “old-fashioned face-saving. If one of your modern-day dictator types did that, they’d come up with some profound philosophical explanation for the benefits of eating bananas peels” (Bo 1992, 31). This is in line with Lu Xun’s criticism above on the Chinese perception of hutu-ism and its related attitudes as morally virtuous. Till today, the autocratic strategy of the ‘ignorant masses’ on the one hand keeps the masses ignorant by censoring all public discourse and making everyone apply self-censorship in their speech and public communication, but on the other hand, educates them with lofty traditional, public and social morality—of which modern-day hutu-ism is exemplary. It is indeed no coincidence that for instance the books on ‘the art of being muddleheaded’ (hutuxue) are sometimes classified under the keyword ‘education on social and public morality’ 社会公德教育. Nowadays, the term ‘public morality’ (gongde) has a connotation of discouraging negative civic behaviour, and of educating the people not to damage social and public interest, all in favour of a harmonious society. As some scholars suggest, this kind of moral education is advocated in official sources to discourage people from directly addressing the sources of anxiety and discontent (e.g., Hammond 2007; Yang 2013, 2018). In other words, it is supposed to keep (or make) the subjected population submissive,

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self-reliant and contented, and at the same time in high regard of traditional cultural heritage and the Party. A group particularly affected by this kind of governance are the intellectuals and those who have suffered much, such as political victims and victims of environmental or other scandals, and who restrain themselves from publicly speaking out their grief—both as a result of the omnipresent ‘moral education’ discourses and out of feelings of powerlessness. Some critical sources go even further and state that the masses are deliberately kept muddled by ‘the entertainment society’ (yule shehui 娱乐社会). One of my interviewees, a fashion designer in Shanghai, dismissed all the festivities for National Day (the day of the interview) not only as nationalist propaganda, but also as ‘bread and circuses,’ in the sense that the government keeps the people busy with entertainment and glorification, to shift their attention from the national calamities, local unrests and in general everything that might lead to social instability (Personal communication, 1 October 2008, Shanghai). Another frequently mentioned example in this respect was the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games (2008), especially the forced confiscation of space (read: houses of local citizens) for the building of the Bird’s Nest, and the way the government ignored or downplayed ongoing domestic criticism. People denounced how the Party upheld the image of a harmonious society, not only to the outside world, but also to their own people. As my interviewee continued—claiming to express the opinions of many Chinese—the Chinese authorities wanted to show an innocent, peaceful China to the outside world, and sent a vague picture about China to the world (Personal communication, 1 October 2008, Shanghai). This national strategy keeps people pre-occupied with entertainment and consumerism instead of with politics and protests. The underlying rationale of this ‘shut up and be rich’ ideology is that it pragmatically supports the legitimacy of the Party: the nation is making progress, life is getting ‘better,’ so we support the Party (Meyer 2002). In an authoritarian society, this political strategy displays a striking internal dynamic. That is to say, it works both ways. On the one hand, the government keeps people ignorant on sensitive issues for the sake of social harmony, and busy with their mental and material preservation. At the same time, the Party supports the promotion of ‘the art of

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being muddleheaded’ as ancient wisdom, which in its modern interpretation and use teaches one how beneficial, and even virtuous, it is not to know too clearly, or at least to pretend not to know. On the other hand, people indeed develop a kind of numbness, and don’t object to be kept ignorant, because knowing clearly and venting their criticism, resentment and anger publicly, would only upset their peace of mind, and they would still feel powerless to change things. Nationalism only sustains such sentiments. This ambivalence could—it seems to me—easily lead to a situation visualized in the artwork “Search for Ancient Wisdom” (see Fig. 7.1),

Fig. 7.1 “Search for Ancient Wisdom” (Image by artist Robert Haddox-Harle)

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where hollow eyes of disconnected, seemingly placid people facing ancient wisdom tend to suggest a kind of submissiveness and passivity. Although the artist might not have wanted to envisage any specific situation or culture, it represents well what could happen when ancient hutu wisdom is imposed on the people as a reverence for ancient tradition, without the necessary evaluation and (self-)reflection by the people in a new, ever-changing context. The kind of imposed not knowing as in the ‘policy of the ignorant masses’ brought up in these critical sources is perhaps the furthest away from the philosophical ideal of the muddleheaded sage fool. What we have instead is the muddleheadedness of the culturally conditioned, negatively motivated preference for vagueness and pretended ignorance for the sake of self-preservation. Looking at the artwork, one might even wonder whether in a society in which wanting to know clearly is suspect in the first place, two silent, hollow eyes might not be more efficient, and even less painful in terms of self-preservation, than having one eye smartly open and one foolishly shut, as in Huang Yongyu’s winking owl (see Fig. 4.2). Given the particular repressive power structure of the ‘harmonious society’ that seems to force people into strictly following social norms, the resulting harmony is rather what Hwang (in describing conflict resolution in interpersonal relations) calls “superficial harmony” (Hwang 2012, 355), in contrast to “realistic harmony” that is based on genuine cooperation (see also Chapter 6).

Moral Guidelines Hutu-Morality Criticizing is one thing; having real answers is another. What is the answer to such criticisms, in other words, how can morally inappropriate hutu-ism be avoided? One direct way to investigate this is by asking why people tend to adopt ‘unacceptable’ hutu behaviour in the first place. A few sources mentioned the superficial understanding of the saying and of the person of Zheng Banqiao. A survey respondent reflected on

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wrongly applied hutu-ism by saying that “if one cannot correctly understand hutu-ism as a way of conducting oneself in society, then it will break through one’s moral baseline, resulting in a miserable person with no accomplishment of any kind, who passively confronts life” (Survey Respondent 2008). This reason is in part due to the over-popularization and commodification of Zheng Banqiao’s Nande hutu in which the depths of its wisdom got lost, and it has become instrumental for the ‘harmonious society.’ Another reason that was brought up is simply not being smart enough and lacking a kind of moral wisdom (such as moral conscience, on which I will elaborate further). This is for instance the case for the real foolishness and arrogance of ‘minor smart’ (xiao congming ) people or the ‘petty person’ (xiaoren) who lacks authentic moral worth—the antithesis of the Confucian ‘exemplary person’ (junzi). Another approach to investigate morally offensive hutu behaviour is by looking at the conditions under which it is generally accepted and even encouraged to play dumb, and at possible moral baselines that should be guarded. In an opinion piece in a popular newspaper entitled “Is Zheng Banqiao’s ‘Nande hutu’ about not distinguishing right and wrong?,” one author summarizes some moral requirements for appropriately adopting hutu-ism, starting with the Confucian ‘exemplary person’ (junzi), and nevertheless ending with what seems to be the umpteenth obligatory reference to the ‘harmonious society’: The first element of moral character of an exemplary person (junzi) is to have a loving heart, that is, to have a conscience or moral knowledge, to care for people, to help people, to respect people, and to be considerate. Such a person has to keep his/her heart warm, and should not become cold [hearted], or even worse, black [hearted], otherwise, (s)he will lose the foundation of appropriate social conduct (zuoren), and this will make others suffer, and will ultimately harm oneself. Only when residing in benevolence (ren) can one rest with righteousness (yi). When there is love, then one can stick to what is just, uphold the social norms of public life, and promote social stability and harmony. (Mou 2020)

As these opinions foreshadow, such guidelines in one way or another touch upon elements of Confucian morality, emphasizing interpersonal relationships and social harmony. They are also characteristic of a kind

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of vagueness surrounding moral issues in contemporary society, blurring authentic upright behaviour with normative social conduct and political agendas. This moral vagueness will stay with us in the coming guidelines.

‘Social Conduct’ and ‘Handling Things’ Probably the most frequently mentioned arena that is pertinent to the question of appropriate application of hutu-ism is in ‘social conduct’ (zuoren), most of the time put in binary opposition to ‘handling things’ (zuoshi 做事). One popular author in particular entitles his book Muddleheaded in social conduct (zuoren), smart in handling things (zuoshi) and divides every chapter into a ‘social conduct’ and ‘handling things’ section. This results in subtitles such as ‘keeping a low profile in social conduct, using ingenuity in handling things,’ ‘being foolish in social conduct, clearheaded in handling things,’ and ‘self-denial in social conduct, taking initiative in handling things’ (Shi 2009). It is impressive how many sources—with a majority in the popular sources, from cleaning ladies, to taxi-drivers and company managers—make reference to this most self-evident distinction for the Chinese. To mention just a few book titles, there are books on The hutu wisdom of social conduct (zuoren) (X. Wu 2007), and on ‘The art of being muddleheaded ’ (hutuxue) in social conduct (zuoren) and in handling things (zuoshi) (Yang 2007). In Chapter 4, I explained that zuoren in contemporary society is an umbrella term for behaving tactfully in social relationships and society. As shown in Chapters 5 and 6, the basic pursuits of zuoren (interpersonal relationships and social conduct) are gaining/saving face, self-effacement, self-preservation and harmony, the former two leading to the latter two. Hutu-ism as a kind of ideal social behaviour is most accurately expressed in the saying ‘When the water is too clear, there will be no fish,’ which contains fundamental assumptions of the art of social relationships: not being too scrutinizing and clear about other people and their weaknesses, and being modest, tolerant and forgiving. In this contemporary use, zuoren mainly concerns virtues related to managing social relationships, which contributes to a flourishing social and professional life.

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This socially tactful conduct is contrasted to ‘handling things,’ in which—as we saw above—instead of taking a moderate position and avoiding purpose pursuit, one should take things seriously and be conscientious, and do one’s utmost to bring about a ‘successful’ outcome. Recall for instance, being muddleheaded in carrying out assignments under one’s responsibility (including official or professional duties) as one of the criticisms on inappropriately ‘muddling through.’ This idea was mainly put forward by students and professionals who discussed how they took their studies and job seriously. For instance, one of my informants, a Chinese Ph.D. student, described her supervisor as a very pleasant person, and a perfect example of when to and when not to act muddleheadedly. According to her, he is a real muddlehead when it comes to minor everyday life practical issues, and in dealing with students and colleagues, he is very easy-going and does not focus on other’s weaknesses. However, with regard to his professional career, such as publishing and teaching, he is very conscientious (Personal communication, 5 December 2010, Ghent). Or, as one popular author puts it by playing up the dichotomy between ‘square’ (fang , edged) and ‘round’ (yuan, flexible): “In handling things, one should be firm and determinate (fang ), in social conduct, one should be tactful (yuan)” (X. Wu 2007). As Yang Kuo-shu (1995, 36) rightly observes, in everyday life, Chinese spend most of their time and energy not on handling things, but on appropriate social conduct; smartly getting things done is often for the sake of managing social relationships. That is, for giving and maintaining personal, family and social face and following the rules of social etiquette. In the example above for instance, doing his job well and being an esteemed professor not only gives face to the professor, but to the whole extended family.

‘Minor Matters’ and ‘Major Matters’ In addition to the distinction social conduct (zuoren) and handling things (zuoshi) as a guideline for playing dumb, there is another frequently used dichotomy between ‘minor matters’ (xiao shi 小事) and ‘major matters’ (da shi 大事).8 This division stems from one of the

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first occurrences of hutu in historical sources dating from the Song dynasty (960–1279). As I explained in Chapter 2 when discussing the etymology of hutu, the Biography of Lü Duan in the History of the Song Dynasty depicts him as a wise statesman because “he is muddleheaded in minor matters, but not in major matters.” Historically, Lü Duan is known for lapses in vigilance and smartness in his everyday dealings with people, which puts people at ease, hence enhancing harmony. At the same time, this temporary muddleheadedness is deliberate, because in performing his political duty as statesman, he did not hesitate to utilize his intelligence and scheming arts, as any intelligent statesman would do. Although there seems to be no clear-cut and well-defined explanation of what precisely is major and minor matters, the above quote of Lü Duan aligns with the examples of the domains of application for playing dumb given in Chapter 5. ‘Minor matters’ can thus be associated with everyday life issues in interpersonal relations, including in marriage and family life, and friendships. One marriage counsellor uses the example of a husband not being fully satisfied with the cooking arts of his wife, and the wife complaining about her husband’s indolence when returning home from work, to point out the following distinction: A lifetime of living together and taking care of each other, is a major matter. In this major matter, some mishaps and things that are not satisfactory should be considered as minor matters. It is only when we ignore the trivial things, that we can accomplish this major thing in life: a life-time of helping each other in times of need. (Tang 2020)

But ‘minor matters’ also concern less intimate dealings in the social sphere such as relations with colleagues and superiors, with acquaintances, and other vaguely ‘unrelated’ people. A professor teaching ethics at a university in Beijing explained that ‘minor matters’ are the domain in which moral judgement is not clear, exactly because they belong to the field of interpersonal favour (renqing ), which is always reciprocal, fuzzy and never fixed (Personal communication, 26 May 2008, Beijing). By keeping a safe psychological distance through consciously pretending to be ignorant and unable to clearheadedly engage in the matter, one safeguards the relationship. Put another way, because of the strict adherence

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to social roles and the risk of disrupting social harmony, interpersonal relations are so delicate that they require much compromise, moderation, tolerance and, if necessary, a flexible, muddleheaded state of mind. A professor in sociology described the sphere of ‘minor matters’ as follows: Chinese people’s attitude, their philosophy of social conduct, let’s say a lot of Chinese people do not like [things to be] too explicit and clearcut. They often wish to dwell in a blurred state. In a blurred state, the space is rather big, and this gives them much room for choosing [the proper behaviour]. In a blurred state, we can go all directions, and this consequently makes us feel comfortable. (Personal communication, 29 September 2008, Beijing)

By contrast, ‘major matters’ refer to issues that have a larger impact beyond one’s own social sphere such as work, politics, officialdom and law, and also major live event (e.g. engaging in a lifetime marriage). In Chapter 5 we encountered a few concrete examples of ‘major matters,’ such as the study results of students, academic achievements, professional duties and responsibilities, and company rules and regulations. An example highlighting the distinction between the two was given by a survey respondent: an official who arrives a little late at work could be considered a minor matter, as long as he is not hutu in his official duties (major matter) (Survey Respondent 2008). Whether one refers to ‘minor matters’ versus ‘major matters,’ or to ‘social conduct’ and ‘handling things,’ the distinction falls along the divide between interpersonal relationships (‘social conduct,’ i.e. ‘minor matters’) involving reciprocal favour (renqing ), and issues related to more weighty concerns (‘handling things,’ i.e. ‘major matters’) not directly involving interpersonal affections, such as one’s responsibility in work, business and politics. Certainly, in the reality of daily life, these divisions often overlap or are conflicting, which renders this guideline for applying Nande hutu highly ambiguous. In addition, if we look at Zheng Banqiao, all sources without exception consider him an excellent example of the morally upright, just official, always sympathetic with the disadvantaged and the weak. However, from what we know about him, being an unconventional, eccentric, not very submissive official, Zheng ended

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up being disloyal to the emperor, taking leave and skipping his official responsibilities. Thus we cannot say he was particularly good at face work and social conduct (zuoren), nor at being successful in his official career—ironically exactly those elements that play a prominent role in the discussions on the wisdom of playing dumb in its modern setting. As some authors argue, Zheng Banqiao’s stumble-block for selfadvancement lies in something other than a lack of social tact: he simply could not turn a blind eye on wrongful acts, precisely because he always acted upon his conscience (e.g. Li 1986; Xiang 2002; Yang 2007). This brings us to another guideline: moral conscience.

Conscience One blogger is very straightforward in his distrust of ‘us’—common people—applying the art of playing dumb. Let us follow his reasoning: You and I are not the clever and upright Zheng Banqiao, nor do we live in his time. So we are not qualified to study his nande hutu, and are even less allowed to advocate his hutu wisdom. We can only diligently study his smartness and integrity, guard our conscience (liangxin), and uphold the baseline for being an upright person. (Suke 2012)

The notion of one’s conscience, in Chinese expressed as ‘innate good heart-mind’ (liangxin 良心), probably constitutes the most ‘moral’ element in the different discourses on Nande hutu. Being a characteristic of the person with ‘major smartness,’ moral conscience serves as an important standard for judging when it is appropriate to be muddleheaded, and when to retreat and take a detached position. By relying on their conscience, such people always remain firm on the inside (Yan 2006). The concept of conscience has been extensively discussed in the writings of moral philosopher Mencius and is closely related to another philosophical concept: innate (moral) knowledge (liangzhi) (see Chapter 2). It is important, however, to note that the compound liangxin is not the equivalent of the Western notion of ‘conscience.’ Western conscience is often associated with the Christian framework and more

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in particular with the notion of sin. As eminent scholar Zhang Dainian argues, this is not the case for the Chinese context, in which a transcendent god who instructs what can be considered as a sin, as an offence to God’s imposed morality, is absent. In the Chinese philosophical tradition, ‘good’ (liang ) is what is naturally and inherently good. ‘Innate good heart-mind’ represents one’s (a priori moral) awareness of benevolence (ren) and respect. Though given by nature, it should continuously be cultivated throughout life, to become the stable basis for distinguishing true and false or right and wrong actions (Zhang 2005). In the context of playing dumb, not following one’s conscience is mostly attributed to officials, who, burdened with far-reaching responsibility, are blamed for concealment and dishonesty, and for using Nande hutu as a slogan for either justifying their own immoral deeds and sweeping their misconduct under the rug, or for using powerlessness as an excuse for not doing anything (e.g. Li 2007; Mou 2004). Using a hypothetical inner dialogue of such officials, one author critically makes his case for officials’ abuse of hutu-ism due to negligence of their conscience: In order to protect my official position, and save myself from damage, I keep on drifting along aimlessly the whole day, with one eye open and one eye shut. As long as my own interests are not involved, I will not argue about what is wrong or right, and will not regret harming the interests of the people, the nation, and the country.

A bit further, he describes how it should be, summing up the moral obligations of an official: Officials must dare to be responsible, insist on what is right, correct what is wrong, […] If you as an official just pretend to be muddleheaded or resign from office, you should examine your conscience, and ask who you are letting down in doing so. Can you let yourself down like this? And the people? (Guo 2008)

Also the online search engine Baidu’s ‘psychological analysis’ of Nande hutu—copied by many other sources—explains that his conscience is what made being muddleheaded so difficult (nande) for Zheng Banqiao;

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it prevented him from taking a detached approach to malpractices in officialdom and injustice and inequality in society (Baidu 2020). In addition, with conscience often comes courage (yong 勇), which in Confucian ethics is considered a virtue that is closely related to sensitivity to righteousness (yi) and benevolence (ren) (Hwang 2012, 116, 118), and that is expressed in the saying ‘see what is right and have the courage to do it’ (jian yi yong wei 见义勇为, drawn on Lunyu 2, 24). One anonymous author in particular relates the connection between the difficulty of hutu-ism, conscience and courage, to speaking out about the disasters of the Cultural Revolution (Anonymous 2020c). For this author, on many occasions it is indeed understandable (and justifiable) to keep silent about sensitive topics for the sake of self-preservation, but there are people who simply cannot ignore their conscience and do find the courage to speak out. The author gives the example of famous author Ba Jin 巴金 (1904–2005),9 whose masterpieces show that he was a very smart, ‘clearheaded’ person. During the Cultural Revolution, he was heavily persecuted as a counter-revolutionary, and many times publicly criticized. Although he and his family suffered greatly, things didn’t get as bad as with countless other people such as novelist and dramatist Lao She 老舍 (1899–1966), who committed suicide: As for Lao She, he was most likely too troubled by his conscience, so he did not refrain from telling. This requires a lot of courage, and not many people can do so. That is why I think that it is indeed difficult to be smart, and being hutu is even more difficult, but what is the most difficult, is to rely on one’s conscience and speak the truth. (Anonymous 2020c)

As the author further argues, Ba Jin stayed alive, most likely because he played dumb at the time and did not directly utter his criticism, which must also have been hard for him, being the smart intellectual. It was only in his later writings that he admitted he uttered a lot of false “big words” during this terrible period, saying for instance that we should not blame Mao Zedong and the Gang of Four for the disasters caused by the Cultural Revolution, thus not speaking the truth in accordance with his conscience (Anonymous 2020c). Just as many other literati, Ba Jin later

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used his writings as a medium to speak with his conscience, instead of speaking “big words,” or, as many others, stay silent.

Moral Principles Along this line, another frequently mentioned moral guideline that also requires courage to defend is one’s principles (yuanze原则). Even when one is very clear about what is important and requires conscientious, clearheaded effort without making room for compromise (politics, work…), versus matters less important, less fundamental, where one may behave with compromise and tolerance, at the bottom there are always one’s personal principles that should not be discarded. As popular author Chen Liang (2007, 67) argues: In major problems of principles, questions of right and wrong, one should talk about truth and not about (social) face (mianzi); one should talk about principles and not about personal relationships, one should dare to call a spade a spade, and have the courage to be serious and rebut. (Chen 2007, 67)

This author clearly is in favour of relinquishing the importance given to face and interpersonal relationships and chooses to prioritize personal principles as rules for proper conduct—which he relates to truth and being courageous—above social morality in case there is a conflict between the two. This quote also suggests that such conflicts between appropriate, ‘harmonizing’ social conduct and speaking out one’s personal principles are indeed quite common. However, personal principles are by definition subjective. Some authors explain that everyone should decide upon this from their own experience and inner realm (jingjie). A professor who teaches Ming and Qing dynasty literature put forward the following explanation: People’s inner spheres are not the same. There are no clear standards. It depends on the level you are at, like with coordinates which determine where you are, and how far you can go in your actions. Take for instance junior school students. They will often play the fool towards

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the teachers, and don’t do their homework. Everyone is different, and what people pursue is different too. Standards are living things, they are not unchangeable. […] But as for the majority, Chinese people are still the same with regard to their principles: uncompromising in so far as it concerns one’s personal moral baseline. This exactly is the limit, and if this limit is passed, then one does not allow playing dumb anymore. Before [passing this baseline], one can leave a bit free space, one can compromise, but having reached the ultimate, then it does not work anymore. [Nande hutu] is not almighty, it cannot be a standard according to which everything can be settled. It should just be a kind of inner sphere one pursues. (Personal communication, 26 September 2008, Shenyang)

In other words, playing dumb should in itself be a principled practice, and these principles are open to change. Moreover, many sources were quite critical about the term ‘principle’ (yuanze) itself. Although ‘principle’ is commonly used in contemporary speech, in everyday parlance it indeed has a strong connotation with politically right conduct. A young Shanghainese company employee considered the word ‘principle’ in official and legal discourse (where it is mostly used10 ) as plainly ridiculous. As she explained, “those who speak all the time about principles, in reality don’t have any” (Personal communication, 22 May 2008, Shanghai).

Due Proportion One such principle for playing dumb that is equally not fixed but very familiar to Chinese, is the notion of the ‘right degree’ (du 度). Du literally translates as ‘degree’ and ‘limit,’ but interestingly also as ‘tolerance’ and ‘consideration.’ Although not a philosophical term in the ancient moral handbook The Golden Mean, in the contemporary discourse on hutu-ism du is often used to explain the moral criterion to determine ‘the right middle’: moderation in all its aspects, in deeds, emotions and thoughts. In this respect, it can be considered as what Sundararajan (2015, 25) calls ‘due proportion.’ In practice, this ‘right degree’ (du) denotes the ability to take the right action. A professor of Ming-Qing Studies stressed that the very idea of the middle in the Golden Mean is

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about maintaining a “just right” measure, which one should not cross. For him, du is about self-control (hanyang ) and understanding how to grasp the most appropriate response to different situations to obtain the best possible (i.e. most harmonious for the relevant parties) result. This general principle also applies to the practice of playing dumb, but, as he admitted, it is easier said than done (Personal communication, 26 September 2008, Shenyang). Another way of expressing this moral limit is with a ‘sense of (ritual) propriety’ (fencun 分寸), a term generally associated with proper (limits for) speech and action. An online source argues that In social conduct, one should master the proper limits for speech and action (fencun). One should not shrewdly scheme, nor overdo straightforwardness. Nande hutu is just that proper limit (fencun), which at the same time serves as a kind of protection for oneself. (Anonymous 2020b)

In the same vain, another online author discusses the wisdom of being hutu as “having a sense of propriety, a smartness relying on moral standards and controlling due proportion” (Anonymous 2017). However, all these notions that in one way or another refer to a right degree of behaviour and speech are themselves no absolute criteria, since there are no static extremes, and in general no stagnant circumstances in which the precise ‘right degree’ can be found. Du in itself is a vague notion which obtains its full meaning and interpretation every time and again in different situations. One of my interviewees, a general manager at a big multinational in Beijing, explained that du should be considered as a kind of intuitive feeling that cannot be explained well in words, let alone for its use to be strictly delineated (Personal communication, 28 May 2008, Beijing). In sum, there is a general consensus that conscience, moral principles and ‘due proportion’ are moral parameters beyond which one will (or should) not play dumb anymore, except that these limits shift with each situation, and with each individual—some have more tolerance for wrongs and injustice than others, and for some conscience and moral principles come into play more quickly and prominently than others.

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The one person that excelled in following his conscience and moral principles is certainly Zheng Banqiao: he was unconventional enough to discard social face, and courageous enough to confront those in power, to which many of the anecdotes about his witty, unusual ways of dealing with both injustice and ‘bad elements’ testify (e.g. see Chapter 3 and further). For instance, the local County Annals describe a reply by Zheng Banqiao to some of the people opposing his unconventional relief work and his reluctance to request the approval of his superiors for this kind of relief measures in times of hunger: What kind of times are these? If we wait until the reports to the higher authorities have gone back and forth, there will be no people left. If someone should be dispatched, I will take the responsibility! (Qin 2004, 31)

In following his conscience, and going against the bureaucratic, hierarchic system, this certainly can count as an example of civil disobedience.

From Non-Action to Crazy Action, and in Between Justified Non-Action Similar to hutu-ism as a seemingly ‘passive’ personal coping strategy (see Chapter 6), the different discourses on the wisdom of playing dumb display a tendency towards a kind of justified and even wise non-action, not only in common everyday situations such as social relationships (zuoren and xiao shi ), but also when dealing with moral conflicts. Take for instance the expression ‘being flexible on the outside, but principled inside’ (wai yuan nei fang ). This rule of social behaviour suggests that a person internally should be principled, insistent and clear, but externally smooth, tactful and harmonizing (or ‘round,’ yuan), and thus basically staying back (non-acting) when there is a danger of disrupting interpersonal and societal harmony. Also the wisdoms I discussed in Chapter 4 that serve as common explanations of Nande hutu, such as

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waiting for the right time and place to act upon a situation, and ‘the art of not-contending’ (wuwei as effortless action or ‘non-action’) are often couched in terms of knowing fate (zhi ming, as in the saying ‘knowing and rejoicing in fate’ le tian zhi ming ), and wisely ‘letting go and retreating’ (fang yi zhao, tui yi bu). This kind of ‘non-action’ entails a temporary suspension of action with the hope for improvement, as in the expression ‘taking a step back in order to advance’ (yi tui wei jin); it is not discussed in terms of the negative inaction (passivity) of sheer abandonment or evasiveness. Another justified ‘passive’ way of playing dumb brought up in the different discourses is in situations where one is powerless, as captured by the Chinese expression wunai 无奈 or wuke naihe 无可奈何, and there is no choice to ‘act’ or speak up that would not involve harming or endangering oneself. In dealing with social injustice, this could for instance concern a situation in which one knows that everything one would undertake to improve the situation would be futile or harmful, not in the least for oneself. This situation was for obvious reasons mostly raised in the context of the authoritarian society, where people experience power positions as incontestable, and where one purposefully pretends to be hutu and remains silent because of feeling “personally jeopardized” (Lü 2007; Ying 2004). As I discussed before, such was (and still is) the case for intellectuals and officials, and by extension those ‘common people’ in contemporary society who continuously exercise self-restraint instead of publicly denouncing any (social) injustice or immoral behaviour out of fear of the consequences. One professor in Chinese political history was surprisingly straightforward in this: A lot of those subtle and profound elements of our autocratic system, for you as a foreigner, are hard to understand. Our system still has many problems, and sometimes we feel very powerless. We are still in the same position as in old times; the leader always has the final say, using official status as the sole judge of a person’s worth. Intellectuals like me like to express our opinions more directly. For instance here at the university, some things are very unpleasant and difficult to approve of. But under the leader’s dictatorship, well, he wants you to be obedient and flatter him. If you don’t do this, you will end up very unhappy. So you just

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pretend to be hutu. You can’t survive if you don’t pretend to be hutu. (Personal communication, 19 September 2008, Beijing)

Nevertheless, the line between justifiable non-action and inaction is thin. One concrete criterion that was most frequently brought up in the different discourses to distinguish playing dumb as justified or at least accepted non-action, from unjustified passivity and evasive inaction, was the criterion of harmfulness.

Harmfulness As was foreshadowed in many examples above, the very act of playing dumb is discussed as most controversial when it concerns large groups of people that may be harmed in one way or another. In this context, again corrupt, selfish entrepreneurs and political leaders are especially to blame. For instance, one of my informants, a professor of Chinese Studies, raised the (anno 2008) example of the scandal of the contaminated baby formula produced by the Sanlu Group, a well-known joint-venture giant in the Chinese dairy business. The production and distribution of the contaminated products involved not only ordinary people such as dairy farmers, but also economic or political elite at various levels such as managers, professionals in quality-control agencies and governmental officials. Besides, it was reported that the local government was informed of the health issues caused by the tainted milk products as early as August. Yet, to ensure the success of the Beijing Olympics, the local government played dumb and withheld the information for about a month, during which tons of contaminated baby formula were distributed and sold to consumers nationwide, causing huge harm to the consumers: babies and their families.11 In this example, those with the most far-reaching responsibility deliberately kept silent, but were without doubt very clear about their wrong behaviour, and certainly had a choice to act otherwise (Personal communication, 19 September 2008, Beijing). Although at the time of the incident, most Chinese very likely kept silent themselves not only because of feeling powerless in the situation

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but also, being Chinese national, because they understood the importance of holding up national face at such a crucial time (until the Olympic Games were over). However, an increasing group of citizens no longer tolerated any excuse for turning a blind eye on the matter, and the scandal caused a major moral crisis; people had completely lost their trust in the nation-state and the Party. As anthropologist Yan Yunxiang (2011, 59) comments on the incident, “Beneath this widespread public panic regarding food safety, there emerged a much deeper crisis in the moral universe, that is, the decline of social trust.” Perhaps still more as a rendition of the Daoist non-action (wuwei), two interviewees put forward the following expressions to explain their view on (un)harmful passivity: “Even better than to do something wrong and harm others is to do nothing” (Personal communication, 5 November 2009, Ghent), and “Even better than not to do anything at all is to do nothing worse than an evil-doer” (Personal communication, 22 May 2008, Shanghai). As an example of this, a taxi-driver brought up the dilemma of helping a drunken man to cross the road safely or to intervene in a fight or robbery on the streets. In such cases, it is not a question of being powerless, but there is a risk of getting harmed oneself; the drunken man may turn out to be violent, and the robber might be armed. Thus, it is better to turn a blind eye and retreat, than to get harmed oneself. Moreover, he argued, not helping the drunken man is certainly much better than getting drunk oneself and annoying others, or worse, oneself go robbing. In sum, moral behaviour does not consist in doing something to help the drunken man, so much as in behaving oneself properly, such as not getting drunk or robbing and harming others. Over the past decade, there have been various incidents in which China’s problem of bystanders turning a blind eye to wrongful behaviour nevertheless became a topic of discussion in public media. Recall the incident at the beginning of this chapter of the girl who was raped in a taxi, without the taxi-driver intervening. In October 2020, a devastating incident happened in full daylight on the streets in Shanxi province. What started as a minor accident, ended with a fatal beating in full daylight when a man got outraged after a traffic collision and beat his wife to death. Footage of the incident showed bystanders looking on while the

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man drags the woman to the ground and hits her with a stool. On the popular Chinese blogging website Weibo, many of the comments on this incident related it to the Chinese common sense of the “mind your own business” 少管闲事 habit (Koetse 2020). This expression refers to the practice of people remaining uninvolved when it does not concern them—as this example shows, unfortunately also when extreme harm to others is involved. That is, in all matters that are ‘private’ business of other people (in this case, marital affairs), as well as with people to whom they are not related. Although passive behaviour in the face of wrongful acts like the examples above is not blindly accepted by all, such incidents do demonstrate that also the criterion of harmfulness for judging when something is ‘immoral’ and requires speaking up is ambiguous. To understand this, we have to revisit Fei Xiaotong’s (1992, 71–79) theory on “situational ethics,” in which he clarifies the dynamics of the varying individual moral codes according to the model of concentric circles surrounding the Chinese individual (see Chapter 2). In Chinese society, social morality depends on the sphere the individual finds her/himself in at any given moment and place. That is to say, each sphere is sustained by a specific type of social ethic. There is no comprehensive moral concept, and every relation/situation is different with regard to its moral implications. In the context of appropriate social role behaviour, within this system, the circle the closest to the individual (the most intimate relation) is most meaningful, and the individual will act in favour of this network to the disadvantage or harm of other networks that are further away (see Fig. 5.1). Thus, an individual’s moral choices and behaviour are determined by which sphere the individual is morally inclined to prioritize in a specific situation. Recall also Fei’s example of a person who publicly denounces corruption but does not hesitate to enjoy the benefits of it when practised by his own father (see Fei 1992, 78–79). In this case, publicly revealing one’s father’s corrupt practices would harm the family (both by not benefitting from the graft and by losing face), whereas playing dumb in the matter—depending on the specific circumstances—would only harm unrelated others, not those dear and near.12

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Although Fei’s theory was based on rural China (as it existed before the establishment of the People’s Republic of China in 1949), the above incidents show that it is still surprisingly accurate. The major changes in modern society lie not so much in changed governance or political practice, but in the increase of not trustworthy social relations surrounding the individual, the so-called Zhang Three’s and Li Four’s, and of utterly ‘unrelated’ relations (as with foreigners and completely anonymous people, and the drunken man and the persons involved in the street fight in the examples above) to which in theory no moral code applies. When applying this moral logic on for instance contemporary cases of food safety calamities and local governments who were well informed (such as the incident with the baby formula discussed above), we could follow Hammer (2017, 488) in his reasoning that “as a producer of unhealthy food to anonymous consumers whom I do not know, I can still feel confident that I am a moral person as long as I act responsibly to my wife, children, parents, and friends.” Another related change in contemporary China that impacts (and explains) moral behaviour might exactly be the decomposition of the centre of the circle, the ‘big self ’ (the individual and the extended family), such that only the core ‘small self’ (the individual) remains. Professor Xu Jilin (2009), who specializes in twentieth-century Chinese intellectual history, explains his view on how contemporary society is evolving towards an individualism that is—unlike Western individualism rooted in moral autonomy and a balance of rights and responsibilities—a kind of egoism (solipsism)13 : This solipsistic individualism is self-centred, takes material desires as the goal, and lacks public responsibility. It is a self-beneficial concept and attitude to life. Whether in ancient or modern China, there is a dual concept of the small self and the big self. Although the connotation of the big self has changed a lot in the history of thought, it has always been that the value of the small self (individual) only lies in the big self, and can only be realized within this framework of meaning. However, from modern to contemporary times, with the arbitrariness, alienation and gradual disintegration of the big self, the small self (individual) in the end has lost the restraint of the big self and transformed into solipsistic individualism. (Xu 2009, 2)

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Also Yan Yunxiang (2011) points out that the kind of variable moral code extending from the individual, combined with the emerging values of self-advancement and individualism following the national emphasis on economic growth that started in the 1980s, has created a new moral order. A poignant example of this disorienting shift in values and ideologies is cited in Xin Liu’s (2002, 200, note 19) The Otherness of Self: A Genealogy of the Self in Contemporary China, where he describes how a revolutionary sociology student turns into a busy businessman in no less than a year. In this context, self-advancement and self-promotion are shrewdly justified by referring to its benefit not just for the extended self, but also to national wealth. An unfortunately rather common example of the moral justification of selectively playing dumb for self-interest at the expense of others, is the answer of the head of a township government publicly known for making fake and faulty goods in the building industry (a practice in which he harmed and deceived many potential consumers). When a journalist confronted the government official with the question whether he knew that the production of such goods was illegal and immoral, he proudly answered, pointing at the row of new houses behind him: “I think that the highest morality under heaven is to let my poor hometown become rich.” Yan Yunxiang further reflects on this as follows: This utilitarian and self-centred logic of moral reasoning fits well with the party-state’s strategy of prioritizing economic growth, the national obsession with modernity, and the pragmatic measurements of truth and good, which have dominated Chinese thinking – official and unofficial alike – since the late 1970s. At a deeper level, this cadre’s utilitarian statement that shrugs off the basic ethical responsibility – not to purposely hurt other people – with the priority of economic growth reflects the dangers accompanied by the shift from a collective ethics of responsibility and self-sacrifice to an individualist ethics of rights and self-realization: that is, who will be the moral authority and where is the social sanctioning system after faith in the truth is replaced by a sense of the truth. (Yan 2011, 60–61)

For still another perspective on this criterion of harmfulness, we may consult a recent research by a team of psychologists, philosophers

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and sinologists (Berniunas et al. 2019; Dranseika et al. 2018) on the normative sense among the Chinese. As the authors argue, at the core of (universal) moral judgement are normative considerations of harm (next to fairness) as reflected in the Golden Rule (“Do to others as you would have them do to you”).14 However, harmfulness in the Western context goes with justice and is often linked to judicial justice (Piazza et al. 2019). Not so in the Chinese context. Prototypical Chinese types of immoral (bu daode) behaviour are often issues of public propriety, where there is not even a clear individual victim. From a Confucian perspective, harmful behaviour relates to the most basic principles for distinguishing right from wrong that characterizes the ‘exemplary person’ (junzi): benevolence (ren) and righteousness (yi), within a system of strictly regulated (by custom rather than by law) hierarchical relations. In defence of such justified hutu behaviour, one popular author suggests that “it is only those people that manifest benevolence and righteousness (renyi), i.e., being generous and kind in common parlance, that are qualified and can manage to [appropriately] practice the wisdom of playing dumb” (Mou 2020). This suggests that the Confucian ideal of the ‘exemplary person’ (junzi) setting the right example for those around him/her through personal cultivation is considered as more important for avoiding harm than active interference. Nevertheless, some sources argue that even for benevolent persons with high integrity and willingness to fight for social justice, staying vigilant towards malpractices in itself requires constant effort and selfreflection. To show this point, one author recounts the well-known story of how the incorruptible Zheng Banqiao foolishly and ‘real muddleheadedly’ (zhen hutu) was deceived by a rich salt merchant into making a painting for the latter. This salt merchant was an admirer of Zheng’s paintings and wanted to pay for one, but Zheng never gave in to his request—he despised the rich salt merchants. The salt merchant shrewdly did some investigations into Zheng Banqiao and came to know that he could not resist dogmeat. So disguised as an old man he started to braise dogmeat at the outskirts of the city, waiting until one day Zheng Banqiao passed. When he offered him the dogmeat, as expected, Zheng accepted. After the meal, the merchant kindly asked Zheng for a painting as a favour for the delicious meal, whereupon Zheng improvised a twofold

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painting. The next day, the painting was already hanging in the salt merchant’s house, who gave a big banquet to celebrate this. When Zheng Banqiao got to know this, he immediately went back to the place where he enjoyed the dogmeat, but the old man was of course nowhere to be found. Only then he realized what had happened, and, as the author continues, it was much to his regret (Liu 1998, 21). The author uses this example to warn us (and those who are upright) to stay on our guard for imposters and fraudsters: When you think to be upholding justice, you might forget that there are people who are not so righteous as you. Therefore, out of good will, I urge those who until today ignored the viral attack of corruption, those who are not paying attention, to strengthen inner self-cultivation (xiu shen). (p. 21)

Although the author seems to admonish us to never forget to properly cultivate ourselves (xiu shen), he at the same time brings out another connotation of hutu—paranoia towards others, or what psychologists refer to as social vigilance. In general, hutu-ism expresses the idea that if you are scrutinizing too much, you will be lonely, as in the saying ‘When the water is too clear, there will be no fish.’ But this anecdote is a rebuttal against being hutu, telling us that if you do not use scrutiny in interpersonal relationships, if you are not clear enough, you will be fooled by others. In other words, when you are (too) naïve, easy-going, low-profile and tolerant (hutu), you will invariably be taken advantage of. In summary, as popular author Yang Tao explains, considering only the passive component of hutu-ism would be a superficial way of dealing with moral dilemmas, because in the practice of daily life, the passive and the active quality of the wisdom of being hutu can elide from one into the other (Yang 2007, 173). As many sources pointed out, the moral legitimacy of playing dumb depends on how the practitioner handles its wisdom and with what intentions. As for those in power, benevolence should be their major concern.

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(Non-)Benevolent Magistrates As discussed above, a lot of criticism on hutu-ism is politics and officialdom oriented, pointing mainly at corruption and graft by local officials and those in power, who turn a blind eye or even initiate such malpractices. This kind of criticism is widely accepted, as it supports state legitimacy. Other than corruption and bribery, criticism on morally inappropriate governance such as the criticisms on the ‘policy of the ignorant masses’ I discussed earlier in the chapter, is rarely vented publicly and directly, unless when talking about the past. Recall for instance the example of an author discussing how Ba Jin lacked the courage to speak out during the Cultural Revolution, or the anecdotes of scholar-officials such as Zheng Banqiao denouncing injustice in feudal society, all talking about past events (at least, taking place before the Tiananmen crackdown). Speaking up about current morally inappropriate governance occurs mainly in interviews (the private space), or by those living abroad who can be fearlessly outspoken (whereas for instance even vaguely formulated concerns of Chinese netizens often mysteriously disappear in the anonymous internet—as was the case with many of my online primary sources). In view of the fact that most of the hutu-related associations in the different discourses refer to both ancient Confucian and Daoism thought (see Chapter 4), which at their core dealt with exactly this—virtuous governance—this might seem quite ironic. Mencius (ca. 372–289 BC) in particular focused on benevolent governance to unify and pacify the country during the turbulent Warring States period (475–221 BC). Benevolent governance was the embodiment of the rulers’ right to govern through the ‘mandate of heaven’ (tianming ). Also on a lower level, as we saw in Chapter 3, a magistrate’s responsibility went further than that of common people, and their mission was to serve the people as true benevolent mother-father-official (fumuguan). Moral achievement (benevolent governance) was then measured by the amount of people the magistrate (ruler) conferred benefits on (Hwang 2012, 122). The concept of benevolent governance also meant that unrighteous (non-benevolent) behaviour of a ruler in theory could be criticized or at least be discussed. Quoting passages from the Analects, the Book of Filial

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Piety (Xiaojing 孝经) and the Mencius, Hwang (2012, 124) explains that, quite contrary to the scene of the powerless in the authoritarian society, the ancient texts nevertheless state it quite clearly: the Confucian principles of benevolence (ren) and righteousness (yi) inherently imply that a person does not have to blindly follow or obey any superior, including the sovereign, who violates these principles. In the Confucian ethics, when superiors violate this principle of benevolence, inferiors are encouraged to correct them. This concept is called ‘remonstration’ (jian 谏)—the very opposite of not speaking up—and pertained not only to superiors (Lunyu 18, 1; 19, 10), but also to the family context (Lunyu 4, 18), and even to dealings with friends (Lunyu 13, 28; 16, 4). Even more, “[Confucians] emphasized that one should fight [own emphasis] against unrighteous behaviors no matter whom they come from” (Hwang 2012, 124). In other words, even in an inferior position, in theory an individual possesses a certain amount of moral autonomy in deciding whether or not to play dumb when confronted with non-benevolent, harmful governance. It should be noted however, that this potential for moral autonomy in most cases remained an ideal that since the Han dynasty was subject to Legalist thinking, and Chinese history is full of stories of upright scholar-officials who risked or even lost their lives exercising their moral autonomy. For officials, one relatively safe way of expressing resistance against social injustice was through abandoning officialdom and leaving the public scene, of which Zheng Banqiao and Tao Yuanming are exemplary. Moreover, this potential for moral autonomy and speaking up is not so clear-cut, because when exactly is a leader not benevolent? As Fei Xiaotong (1992, 75–76) explains, even benevolence (ren) was never clearly defined by Confucius. Rather, it was “a logical synthesis, a compilation of all ethical qualities of private, personal relationships” such as filial piety, fraternal duty, loyalty and sincerity, which basically embodied a method for putting benevolence in practice. This practice extended to the state as the big family, and even to the all-encompassing ‘all under heaven’ (tianxia, the world) (which, as Fei further argues, was in itself explained by restoring to concrete kinship relationships).

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In contemporary society, in light of the pervasive censorship, with newly established laws that forbid ‘inappropriately discussing the central government’,15 room for ‘remonstration’ against the party-state or local governments is not likely to increase, and silently playing dumb is ever more the preferred course. Privileging of security, stability and prosperity over political engagement goes hand in hand with this situation.

Crazy Upright Magistrates Being an eccentric, Zheng Banqiao was not really good at socially tactful behaviour. But he all the more was a benevolent official, much concerned about the weak and powerless, and also not very good at civil obedience in the face of social injustice. As the many stories of Zheng Banqiao dealing with local cases as both the judge and jury show, it is exactly his highly unconventional, rebellious and ‘crazy’ ways of upholding justice that served him in dealing with moral conflicts. A few of such stories have been told in previous chapters, such as Zheng Banqiao assuming responsibility over the local granaries to cheaply sell the grain to the poor in times of hunger, and burning ‘receipts’ from loans of poor people upon his leaving the office, or for administering a special relief programme without consent of his superiors (see, e.g. Pohl 1990). Still other stories depict him as an embodiment of the Daoist saying ‘Great wisdom looks like foolishness (da zhi ruo yu),’ intentionally and smartly pretending to be a fool to benefit the poor. The most famous of these stories is probably the story called ‘Zheng Banqiao tries a rock,’ of which even an English language picture book was published in 1986 (Huan 1986).16 The story reports how Zheng Banqiao intervenes in an accident between a rich merchant who caused a poor porridge vendor’s cart to fall on the ground, blocking others. As Zheng sees the accident happen, he is urged to judge the situation. He first asks the bystanders whose fault it is, but nobody dares to point at the rich merchant. Thereupon the merchant blames a stone, saying that the stone was in the way. So Zheng decides to actually put the stone to trial and invites the people nearby to be witnesses. Obviously, when questioning and hitting the stone to make it confess, no reaction comes. Zheng then smartly accuses the merchant

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of purposely blaming somebody (something) else, and as such deceiving him—the responsible magistrate—personally. According to the Confucian etiquette, cheating an official is like cheating your father. So when he orders the merchant to be beaten, the merchant begs him for forgiveness. Thereupon, Zheng gives him the choice of either paying a big fine or accepting the lashes. Of course, the wealthy merchant happily pays the fine, which Zheng donates entirely to the poor porridge vendor (Ouyang 2006, 12–13). As the author remarks, putting a stone to trial, interrogating and hitting a stone is something no other official would dare to do, nor be crazy enough to do. This anecdote is indeed representative of how Zheng Banqiao often managed to find a particularly crazy way to favour the weak, thus enraging those in power and those with money, such as the rich merchants, while never really harming anyone. Some sources consider such conduct as embodying the Confucian appraisal of being courageous when it comes to defending what is right, as in the saying ‘see what is right and have the courage to do it’ (jian yi yong wei) (Anonymous 2020a). Zheng’s behaviour is even praised as the example of having reached Mencius’ moral standard of “Neither riches nor honours can corrupt him/her, neither threats nor force can bend him/her, neither poverty nor low condition can make him/her swerve from principle 富 贵不能淫, 威武不能屈, 贫贱不能移” (Anonymous 2020a). But it is even more an example of the particular phenomenon of the crazy, ‘wild’ and unruly but upright scholar 狂狷名士 that can also be observed in some members of the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove (Zhulin Qi Xian 竹林七贤), a group of Chinese scholar-poets of the mid third century who banded together to escape from the hypocrisy and danger of officialdom to a life of drinking wine and writing verse; in early Qing painter-poet Shi Tao 石涛 (1642–1718); and in other ‘crazy’ contemporaries of Zheng Banqiao such as painter Jin Nong 金农 (1687–1764), who, like Zheng Banqiao, was one of the ‘Eight Eccentrics of Yangzhou.’ Of these scholar-officials—who seem to uphold the ideal of the Daoist moral fool, but at the same time fight for justice—many left officialdom and were unusual and unconventional in some ways, and Zheng Banqiao publicly admired many of them (Matthyssen 2013, 238). This kind of ‘crazy’ unconventional behaviour is also reminiscent of what Moeller

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and D’Ambrosio (2017) wittily label as the Zhuangzian art of “genuine pretending.” In the above story, Zheng is indeed a genuine pretender mocking at social conventions, which is not only, as the authors argue, a state of being Zhuangzi recommends for becoming a healthy and sane individual and living in a healthy and sane world, but also a smart strategy Zheng adopts to benefit the poor and unprivileged. What this anecdote ultimately shows, is that for individuals in Chinese society to challenge authority and conventions in fighting for social justice, self-cultivation and smartly feigning ignorance is not sufficient— one has to act deviant enough to look crazy. Nevertheless, although such crazy and unconventional ways of upholding justice as an official is lauded in TV serials and in studies on Zheng Banqiao, it is not very likely to be observed, let alone promoted, in contemporary society. Obviously, society today seems to be less tolerant towards such deviant behaviour than feudal society, and only very few are willing and able to live such a courageous and heroic live to uphold justice; self-preservation naturally comes first.

Smart Hutu: Experience, Age and Effort So far, I showed how the different practices of hutu-ism are morally evaluated by a critical and culturally self-reflective consciousness of native practitioners and observers. Some sources criticize the passive, laisserfaire and resigning approach of those who seem to muddle through life and not take much seriously. Others warn against abuse of the practice of playing dumb for the wrong purposes such as excessive selfadvancement, and to the harm of others or society, often in the official sphere. Neither is the Party completely spared from criticism; cultivating “ignorant citizens” is not accepted by all as morally defensible governance. The guidelines to avoid morally offensive hutu-ism that appeared in the discourses cover virtually all domains of daily life and aspects of ancient wisdom: the distinction between handling interpersonal relationships (zuoren) versus non-social matters (zuoshi), between minor versus major matters, as well as the discretions based on one’s conscience, moral

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principles and a sense of ‘due proportion.’ Within these rather vague personal guidelines, harmfulness is put forward as a decisive factor in judging whether or not passively and silently stepping back is morally acceptable (with self-preservation overriding also this criterion). Obviously, cast in the framework of the typically Chinese situational ethics, all these guidelines require concern for both the person and the situation at stake and thus cannot be absolute nor universal. In other words, they are not to be dealt with by the state or by laws. Instead of all these context-driven guidelines, we may go for a simpler rule of thumb by returning to the ‘smart hutu’ attributed to Zheng Banqiao (see Chapter 3). Smart hutu is the characteristic of those ‘major smart’ (da congming ) people who display a high level of moral cultivation (daode xiuyang 道德修养), who resort to a higher inner realm (jingjie), surpassing all levels of smartness and hutu-ness (Jin 2006). When such people play dumb or even act as crazy fools, in whatever moral dilemmas (internally or in the outside world), they exhibit a consciously pretended muddleheadedness characterized by moral maturity (wisdom). This brings us back to the basis of public morality, which lies with the moral self-cultivation of the individual; in particular for rulers and officials, but also for the common people. However, many sources at the same time point out that the level of smart and virtuous hutu-ism that people potentially can attain through self-cultivation in itself depends on individual variables such as life experience (in particular suffering and hardship), one’s spiritual development, fate and even age. In other words, this criterion for morally upright hutu-ness is subjective and process-driven. One recurring example of this process-driven subjectivity in the different hutu-discourses is ‘knowing fate’ (zhi ming ). From a Confucian perspective, fate contains the moral imperative of a person, and knowing and accepting it implies diligent and determined self-cultivation. Or, as Hwang (2012, 116) observes, “Human beings must cultivate themselves with the Way of Humanity (rendao 人道) in order to fulfil their heaven-ordained destinies (tianming ).” Knowing one’s fate informs the ‘smart’ person about when to retreat and keep distance, and how to act morally appropriately. However, this “heaven-ordained” fate manifests itself with different persons in various forms and on different levels. In other words, even

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in following one’s fate there is no single morally appropriate course of action. In addition, it is not easy. Confucius admitted that he only managed to know (and accept) fate at the age of fifty (Lunyu 2, 4), so as to indicate that knowing fate comes with life experience and a life-long process of self-cultivation (see Chapter 2). To illustrate the above reflections on age, experience and moral maturity in the process of self-cultivation, a professor in Song and Ming literature discerned three levels of practitioners of morally appropriate hutu-ism in contemporary society. Firstly, a big group of people uses Nande hutu as a personal booster or as a fashionable motto. As he explains, Chinese people since long like to have a motto that serves as an alert to stay vigilant in their moral conduct. But in contemporary society, especially since the 1980s and 1990s people are mostly concerned with the impression they give to the outside world and with their social status (face). When those people utter Nande hutu (looking smart is hard, but looking foolish even harder), he continued, it is indeed a kind of self-booster; it is literally a pose, a tool to show others their individuality (i.e. not following the crowd in competing for the smart look). This is the first, superficial use that is not really concerned with morally upright behaviour, but is not necessarily immoral either. Secondly, there are people like Zheng Banqiao, that is to say, real smart people who have experienced life’s ups and downs, who have gone through a lot of hardship and gains and losses. For these people, Nande hutu serves as a reminder not to ventilate everything publicly, so as to avoid feeling uncomfortable, making other people feel uncomfortable or embarrassed, or even to protect themselves without harming others. A third very small group consists of those for which Nande hutu is a personal moral quality, a higher human realm (jingjie), a personal aspiration. For them, striving for this lofty hutu sphere becomes an aim in life, to upgrade and positively transform oneself and ultimately the world around them, as in the Confucian practice of self-cultivation (Personal communication, 26 September 2008, Shenyang). Even ‘smart’ Zheng Banqiao understood from the very start that this was extremely difficult. As it turned out, he himself miserably failed in reaching this sphere (but could not pretend to either). At least, he did not lose his moral integrity and kept fighting for justice with his ‘crazy’ behaviour.

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In other words, no matter how popular, pragmatic and modernized the wisdom of playing dumb has become, in its practice as higher human realm, it constitutes a real ‘art’ of life that includes moral engagement. One popular author deliberately concludes his The art of being muddleheaded with a chapter on hutu and morality: The big tree that is morality (daode), can it really grow at one blow? We have to cultivate it, accumulate it, discipline ourselves for a long period of time, and bit by bit and ring by ring add a tree-ring for a long period of time, to finally harvest a noble character, enjoy high prestige, and command respect. Only this realm is the highest human realm. (Jian 2004, 211)

As a genuine wisdom informed by moral maturity, hutu-ism encompasses all the above-mentioned criteria, virtues, values and attitudes, and intimately connects with moral knowledge, conscience, principles, personal experience, age, conscious effort and continuous social vigilance. This requires life-long, disciplined self-cultivation in its most authentic and courageous sense, constantly adapting to new circumstances, not as idolatrous cultural revival, nor as a pacifier to maintain social stability. As New Confucian scholar Tu Weiming (1985, 53) points out quite rightly, “The living Confucian in the twentieth century, who responds to the challenge of pluralistic relativism, with heightened critical self-awareness, cannot take for granted that the Confucian message is self-evidently true.” Without proper reflection on and engagement with the different dimensions of this ancient wisdom in the culture of vagueness, it will not bring forth the peace of mind Zheng Banqiao alluded to, nor the smart or even crazy hutu that makes silence and non-action morally acceptable. Above and beyond the clamour of all the virtuous paragons of wisdom, there is indeed a voice that comes from those who practice hutu-ism willy-nilly not out of choice but out of necessity—the silent majority throughout Chinese history. Having witnessed the Cultural Revolution as a youth, late critical author Wang Xiaobo (1952–1997)17 takes the position of what he calls the greatest disadvantaged group in history, “the silent majority,” in order to show critical resistance without directly

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confronting those in power. In his moving essay with that title, he tells how he was utterly distrustful of the “societies of speech” but eventually did transition from a member of the silent majority to a member of the speaking minority, as evidenced by his writing: By now I have also wormed myself into the societies of speech, and this can only mean one thing: the societies of speech are already crumbling. In light of this unfortunate truth, there have been many calls to action: Let us rebuild China’s spiritual structure, and so forth. As someone originally of a different society [that of the silent majority], I have a suggestion for my friends in this new one: Let us examine ourselves. Have we become stupid? Have we become mad? There are many mirrors that can be used for self-examination: Chinese tradition is one, foreign culture is another. Another, even larger mirror is right by our side – the silent majority. All this is simple word spoken from the heart, of course. (Wang 1996, 23)

These indeed are words from the heart, and exactly therefore, are worth their weight in gold. In this essay (and many others), Wang Xiaobo incites the reader through his compassion, tact and wit, to reject the tendency to turn a blind eye on wrongful acts, however, absurd and outside one’s power they may seem. Compassion certainly can serve as a powerful moral compass that goes beyond cultural differences, something also (Neo-)Confucians understood. In this vein, Wang Xiaobo would most likely agree with his fellow writer of a “foreign culture,” poet David Whyte, who elegantly articulates how even withdrawal and silence, when done in a spirit of renewal, harbours a potential for compassionate engagement: Withdrawal is often not what it looks like - a disappearance - no, to withdraw from entanglement can be to appear again in the world in a very real way and begin the process of renewing the primary, essential invitation again. […] We withdraw not to disappear, but to find another ground from which to see; a solid ground from which to step, and from which to speak again, in a different way, a clear, rested, embodied voice, our life as a sudden emphatic statement and one from which we do not wish to withdraw. (Whyte 2015: 237–239)

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Notes 1. This difference is strikingly shown in comparative studies on moral norms and the normative sense. Buchtel et al. (2015) for instance asked Chinese participants to generate a list of actions that are bu daode (‘immoral’), and English-speaking participants to generate a list of actions that are ‘immoral.’ Interestingly, Chinese everyday usage of bu daode is more applicable to spitting on the street than killing people, a markedly different application from the English ‘immoral.’ Chinese participants, on the contrary, were more likely to use the word bu daod e for behaviours that were uncultured/uncivilized (bu wenming ) such as spitting in the streets, whereas Westerners were more likely to link immorality to harm and fairness. Further comparative research on immorality found more or less the same findings (see, e.g., Berni¯unas et al. 2019; Dranseika et al. 2018). 2. Houheixue, 厚黑学 or The art of being thick and black, is worth a study in itself. Houheixue was written by scholar and politician Li Zongwu 李 宗吾 (1879–1944) and published in 1911, the year the Qing dynasty was overthrown. The book regained immense popularity in the 90s as another of what Geremie Barmé (1999, 138–139) calls ‘crisis management’ books. Initially a political satire, it refers to the means people in power turn to to be successful and stay in power. More generally, it is a satirical study of how to advance oneself in the world—be it in government service or in the private sphere—by cultivating a thick skin (shamelessness) and a dark heart (ruthlessness). According to Barmé, Houheixue was later hailed as a Chinese equivalent to Machiavelli’s Il principe. 3. This author is a professor in mathematics and vice-rector of Nankai University. The blog www.yongchuan.org was his private blog. This article was not accessible anymore in October 2020. 4. By 2006, an official study on the perception of well-being and social harmony in China discovered that with regard to governance performance, the common Chinese is the least satisfied with political corruption; about 84.8% did not believe the government had done a good job in the area of political corruption (Guo and Shu 2009, 52). 5. Nowadays, these campaigns, mostly targeted at officials, are still ongoing. For instance, in 2010, a new 52-point ethics code for Party members was issued by the Communist Party in an attempt to control growing corruption among officials. However, such campaigns did not seem to be very effective: about 80% get off with a warning, 6% is criminally prosecuted, and of them, only 3% imprisoned (Lemos 2012, 259), and people do not put much trust in them. Corruption remains a low-risk activity. Basically,

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launching anti-corruption campaigns can be seen as a tool for those in power for ruling out any potential challenges from within the Communist Party, purge rivals and seize further (absolute) control. In this respect, beginning of 2020 Xi Jinping launched a new anti-corruption campaign which is set out to end in 2022. This coincides with the end of his second term as General Secretary and head of the military. Bo Yang (1920–2008), who had joined the Guomingdang in the Republic of China and fled to Taiwan in 1949, spent about nine years in prison for his alleged criticism on revolutionary and military leader Chiang Kai-shek (Jiang Jieshi 蒋介石, 1887–1975), and more in particular for a translation of a comic strip of Popeye. Chiang Kai-shek felt insulted by the strip because it apparently parodied the act of installing his son as heir, an intention which Bo Yang in his memoirs rejected (Hutchings 2000, 46– 47). Nowadays, he is still known for his critical writings and his taunting of Chinese culture. Bo Yang’s harsh criticism on Ah Q-ism in relation to playing dumb is also countered in the hutu discourses. For instance, one popular author argues that one should not make the mistake of comparing ‘Disadvantage is a blessing’ (Chi kui shi fu) with Ah Q-ism, saying that Chi kui hi fu is not the easy Ah Q-ism, but the interdependence of good fortune and misfortune, the dialectics of life’s costs and gains (Gao 2011). Other translations could be ‘important’ and ‘unimportant’ matters, or ‘greater’ and ‘lesser’ matters. A da shi can also mean a major political event (war or change of regime) or a major social event (wedding or funeral). I choose to translate da and xiao as major and minor respectively in accordance with for example major and minor hutu and smartness. During the Cultural Revolution, Ba Jin (1904–2005) was heavily persecuted as a counter-revolutionary. After being denied medical care his wife died during the Cultural Revolution, which traumatized Ba Jin for the rest of his life. He was rehabilitated in 1977. In many of his later works, he reflected on the Cultural Revolution in a painfully honest manner. Although ‘principle’ (yuanze) is commonly used in contemporary speech, in everyday parlance it has a strong association with politically right conduct. For instance, in public media, the term ‘Party principle’ 党性 原则 is commonly known as the principle stipulating that all media have the responsibility to function as the mouthpiece of the CCP. Yan Yunxiang (2011, 61) further notes that it is outrageous that the government officially assured that the milk products provided for the

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Olympics and Paralympics were not contaminated, indicating the addition of melanine was indeed a deliberate act under effective control in the production and distribution process. The known number of children struck by the contamination rose to more than 53,000 in less than two weeks, among whom four died and nearly 12,892 were hospitalized with kidney problems. Up till today, Chinese parents still won’t trust their babies to local formula and often engage friends living abroad to send them formula of a foreign brand. This idea resonates with indigenous psychologist Yang Chung-Fang’s idea on deciding for the most appropriate behaviour in conflicting situations. As he explains, one is always faced with at least an operating ‘big self ’ (da wo), and a ‘small self ’ (xiao wo), that each energize and guide one to act out a prescribed action. As he argues, the more one’s self-cultivation, and thus self-expansion, progresses, the least conflicts there will be between the actions prescribed for the large self and the small self. It is in fact exactly “one’s resolution of conflicts in a harmonious fashion that makes the self grow to become a better person” (Yang 2006, 350). The author specifically refers here to individualism “in the traditional Chinese sense of Yang Zhu style” (Xu 2009, 1). Yang Zhu 杨朱 (440– 360 BC) was a hedonist philosopher who lived during the Warring States (481–221 BC) period. Most of his life is known through the writings of the Confucian philosopher Mencius (372–289 BC). Mencius, however, condemned Yang Zhu’s conviction that life is just suffering for which there is no remedy, and the only aim in life should be pleasure, thus denouncing Confucius’s emphasis on social ethics and virtues. In comparative ethics, the discussion on the Christian “golden rule” and its Confucian formulation is not new. The central question concerns the difference between the—in its Christian expression actively formulated— “golden rule” (do unto others as you would have them do unto you), and the so-called “silver rule,” most well-known in its Confucian, negatively formulated form (do not do to others what you would not want done to yourself ) (Lunyu 12, 2). The Analects nevertheless also formulate a kind of Confucian “golden rule”: “Help others to establish what you yourself wish to establish; help others to achieve what you yourself wish to achieve” (Lunyu 6, 30). This complex discussion, however, would lead us too far here. This addition to the ‘Party Standards on Integrity and Self Restraint’ was released in 2015 and forbids “inappropriately discussing the fundamental policies of the central government and violate the unity of the

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Party” 妄议中央. This law obviously makes it for officials, and in general, Party members, even more difficult to express any complaint or dissenting thought about government policies without fear of repression. 16. This story of Zheng Banqiao trialling a rock has become extremely popular, to the extent that in 1986 it was selected as one of the stories about ancient Chinese Literature and Art Figures to be published in English with nice illustrations (Huan 1986). As there are probably many slightly varying versions, the story here accounts of ‘riffraffs’ and ‘fat landlords’ that obstructed the old porridge vendor, and of the rock being the ‘demon’ that tripped the old man. 17. Wang Xiaobo 王小波, probably one the most critical writers of modern times, is known for his witty and often satirical essays. Born in 1952 in Beijing into an intellectual family, he was sent to re-education camps in Yunnan at the age of 16. His works reveal his compassionate and smart nature, thereby not saving himself from self-criticism. Wang claimed that in Chinese society, there is no sound argument or tolerance towards nonmainstream elements, and equality is not an issue in debates which deal with ethical issues (Zhu 2002). He died much too young of a heart-attack at the age of 44. For an introduction, see, for example, Huang (2007). In this particular essay, The Silent Majority, Wang recounts his experiences in re-education camps during the Cultural Revolution and wittily probes into the absurdity of life to which most people turn a blind eye. However, he explicitly emphasizes that this is certainly not a uniquely Chinese characteristic. For an English translation, see Wang (1996).

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look-on/?fbclid=IwAR0abQ2dk-CUwU91JfWu0V0G4CA6HVqfC9iy88_3fnWaPIS8Gkeq-_ZL2s. Lemos, Gerard. 2012. The End of the Chinese Dream: Why Chinese People Fear the Future. New Haven and London: Yale University Press. Li, Jinshui. 2006. Zhizhe yu yuren de zuoshi fangshi (The Way of Handling Things of Wise People and Foolish People). Beijing: Beijing Gongye daxue chubanshe. Li, Qiao. 1986. “Zheng Banqiao de ‘Nande hutu’ (The Nande Hutu of Zheng Banqiao).” Longmenzhen, 115–117 (Translated in Matthyssen 2015, 26– 31). Li, Shaolong. 2005. “Zhongguo chuantong wenhua zhong de ‘Nande hutu’ sixiang (The ‘Being Muddled Is Difficult’ Thought in Traditional Chinese Culture).” Nankai Xuebao (Zhexue shehui kexueban) (6): 70–79 (Translated in Matthyssen 2015, 32–57). Li, Shuhui. 2007. “‘Zhongguoren zhi congming’ jiaoxue huigu ji wenhua sanwen de jiaoxue (‘The Wisdom of the Chinese’: Lesson in Teaching Reviews and Cultural Prose).’ Neimenggu jiaoyu (7): 7–8. Liang, Zhihua. 2008. ‘Gongchandangren bu neng hutu (Party Members Cannot Be Muddled).’ Zhongguo jiancha, 64. Lin, Zuji. 1998. “‘Nande hutu’ yu ‘shifei fenming’ (Nande Hutu and the Distinction Between Right and Wrong).” Tequ wenxue (3): 94–95. Liu, Guorong. 1998. “Zheng Banqiao hutu de jiaoxun (The Moral Lesson of Zheng Banqiao’s Muddleheadedness).” Jiaoyu yu zhiye (4): 20–21. Liu, Xin. 2002. The Otherness of Self: A Genaelogy of the Self in Contemporary China. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Lü, Weilin. 2007. “Zhongguo zhi qiong de xinzhi moshi yanjiu (Research into the Poorest Chinese Mode of Thinking).” Hebei shifan daxue xuebao (Zhexue shehui kexue ban) 34 (1): 222–224. Lu, Xun. 1933. “Nande Hutu (Essay Taken from Zhun feng yue tan).” Accessed 21 June 2020. http://www.bwsk.net/mj/l/luxun/zfyt/067.htm. Matthyssen, Mieke. 2013. “‘Scholars Should Be Considered the Last of the Four Classes’: The Case of Scholar-Official Zheng Banqiao.” Journal of Asian History 47 (2): 219–244. Matthyssen, Mieke (Guest editor). 2015. “Zheng Banqiao’s Nande Hutu and ‘The Art of Being Muddled’ in Contemporary China.” Contemporary Chinese Thought 46 (4). Meyer, Eric. 2002. Sois Riche et Tais-toi! Portrait de la Chine d’Aujourd’hui. Paris: Robert Laffont.

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Moeller, Hans-Georg. 2009. The Moral Fool: A Case for Amorality. New York: Columbia University Press. Moeller, Hans-Georg, and Paul J. D’Ambrosio. 2017. Genuine Pretending: On the Philosophy of the Zhuangzi. New York: Columbia University Press. Mou, Pizhi. 2004. “Nande hutu zhi you (The Sorrow of Nande Hutu).” Dangzheng luntan (11). Mou, Zhongjian. 2020. “Zheng Banqiao ‘Nande hutu’ shi bu fen shifei? (Is Zheng Banqiao’s Nande Hutu About Not Distinguishing Right and Wrong?).” Accessed 2 October 2020. https://www.thepaper.cn/newsDetail_f orward_6539132. Niu, Zhiguo. 1996. “‘Nande hutu’ xinjie (New Interpretation of Nande Hutu).” Dangjian (6): 46. Ouyang, Xiulin. 2006. Hutuxue (The Art of Being Muddleheaded). Beijing: Dizhen chubanshe. Piazza, Jared, Paulo Sousa, Joshua Rottman, and Stylianos Syropoulos. 2019. “Which Appraisals Are Foundational to Moral Judgment? Harm, Injustice, and Beyond.” Social Psychological and Personality Science 10 (7): 903–913. https://doi.org/10.1177/1948550618801326. Pohl, Karl-Heinz. 1990. Cheng Pan-ch’iao. Poet, Painter and Calligrapher. Vol. XXI Monumenta Serica Monograph Series. Nettetal: Steyler Verlag. Qin, Jin’gen. 2004. Qing—Zheng Banqiao Shu (Qing Dynasty—The Writings of Zheng Banqiao). Shijiazhuang: Hebei jiaoyu chubanshe. Rosemont, Henry. 1976. “Notes from a Confucian Perspective: Which Human Acts Are Moral Acts?” International Philosophical Quarterly 16 (1): 49–61. https://doi.org/10.5840/ipq19761615. Shi, Yuan. 2009. Hutu zuoren, congming zuoshi (Muddled in Social Conduct, Smart in Handling Things). Beijing: Dangdai shijie chubanshe. Shou, Beibei, and Hongjun Zhu. 2006. “Zuo guan wo ningke hutu, dan gan shi wo bu hutu (Better to a Muddleheaded Official, Than to Be Muddleheaded in Official Work).” Nanfang zhoumo. Accessed 19 January 2012 (Not accessible anymore in 2020). http://news.163.com/08/0303/15/464 CI2MU0001124J.html. Suke, Zhaihu. 2012. “‘Nande hutu’ bian (Distinguishing Nande Hutu).” Accessed 2 October 2020. http://blog.sina.com.cn/s/blog_6339059e01018 55t.html. Sundararajan, Louise. 2015. Understanding Emotion in Chinese Culture: Thinking Through Psychology. International and Cultural Psychology. Cham, New York, Heidelberg, Dordrecht, and London: Springer International.

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Survey Respondent. 2008. Survey Nande Hutu among Chinese students in Belgium. March–April. Tang, Ying. 2020. “Ni dongle ‘Nande hutu’, aiqing he hunyin yiding hui yuelaiyue xingfu (Understanding Nande Hutu Will Certainly Make Your Love Relations and Marriage Happier).” Accessed 4 November 2020. https://weibo.com/ttarticle/p/show?id=2309404567491308552361. Tu, Weiming. 1985. Confucian Thought: Selfhood as Creative Transformation. Series in Philosophy. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Wang, Xiaobo. 1996. “Chenmo de daduoshu (The Silent Majority).” Translated by Eric Abrahamsen. 13–23. https://media.paper-republic.org/files/09/ 04/The_Silent_Majority_Wang_Xiaobo.pdf. Wang, Xiuhua. 2005. Renji jiaowang hutuxue (Interpersonal Relations and ‘the Art of Being Muddleheaded’). Beijing: Zhongguo sanxia chubanshe. Wang, Zhijian. 2007. “Congming yu hutu (Smartness and Muddleheadedness).” Dangyuan ganbu zhi you (4): 52. Wei, Qingyue. 2006. Shenghuo zhong de hutuxue. Congmingren de rensheng zhihui (‘The Art of Being Muddleheaded’ in Life. The Wisdom of Life of Smart People). Beijing: Dizhen chubanshe. Whyte, David, 2015. Consolations: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words. Langley, WA: Many Rivers Press. Wielander, Gerda. 2018. “Happiness in Chinese Socialist Discourse. Ah Q and the ‘Visible Hand’.” In Chinese Discourses on Happiness, edited by Gerda Wielander and Derek Hird, 25–43. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Wu, Xuegang. 2007. Zuoren de hutu zhehui (The Philosophy of Being Muddleheaded in Social Conduct). Beijing: Zhongguo shangye chubanshe. Wu, Zeshun. 2007. “‘Nande hutu’ Zheng Banqiao (It’s Difficult to Be Muddled—Zheng Banqiao).” Minzu luntan (10): 48–49. Xiang, Yuan. 2002. “‘Nande hutu’ zhi xinli fenxi (The Psychological Analysis of Nande Hutu).” Sanzhuang shuini (3): 56. Xu, Jilin. 2009. “Dawo de xiaojie: xiandai Zhongguoren gerenzhuyi sichao de bianqian (The Resolution of the Big Self: Changes in the Trend of Individiualism in Contemporary China).” Zhongguo shehui kexue jikan (1): 1–21. Xun, Feng. 1995. “‘Nande hutu’ you san tu (Nande Hutu Has Three Ways).” Huaxi (3): 34–35. Yan, Bo. 2006. Xiao hutu da zhihui (Minor Muddledness, Major Wisdom). Beijing: Zhongguo shangye chubanshe.

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8 Conclusion: The Culture of Vagueness in Transition

It is the reinstatement of the vague and inarticulate to its proper place in our mental life which I am so anxious to press on the attention. (William James)

This book has taken a variety of roads and detours into the complex Chinese art of not knowing, or otherwise, the wisdom of playing dumb and remaining silent or vague. By exposing a melting pot of interconnected meanings, interpretations and dimensions, it has taken the reader from calabashes and primordial chaos, to Daoist sage fools and Confucian exemplary persons, to feudal society and crazy but upright scholar-officials, to understandings of fate and the art of retreating, to traditional new year’s porridge and marital problems, to major and minor smartness and pretended and genuine foolishness, to the ‘ignorant masses’ and politics at large, and far beyond all this. This winding road not only testifies to the multi-applicability and omnipresence of the art of being hutu in Chinese culture and society but has also made it possible to map out the sometimes overlapping, at other times contradictory philosophical, socio-political, psychological, © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 M. Matthyssen, Ignorance is Bliss: The Chinese Art of Not Knowing, Palgrave Studies in Indigenous Psychology, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73902-7_8

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moral and spiritual dimensions of this ancient wisdom. What I have done is merely observe and take notice of the discursive elements the different sources offered, in an effort to make a comprehensive analysis of their totality. This book emphasizes the ways in which this cultural modus operandi has shaped and still shapes Chinese society and the lives of Chinese people. In doing so, it echoes the voice of modern citizens, from academics to taxi-drivers, that sometimes enthusiastically, sometimes self-imposed embrace the wisdom of playing dumb, in as far as it is deployed ‘wisely,’ not at the expense of others, but also not at their own expense. It describes and explicates how its wisdom is interpreted, experienced, practised and—positively and negatively—evaluated in contemporary society. I will briefly recapitulate the main findings and discuss some final observations. Starting from the traditional linguistic, semantic and philosophical background of the hutu thought, and of the socio-historical background of the calligraphy Nande hutu and its eccentric author, Zheng Banqiao, it became clear that hutu is strongly linked not only to the methodology and content of ancient cosmology and philosophy, but also to the structure of feudal society. In this context, hutu embodies both the ontological ideal of an undifferentiated, foolish state of mind and a selfimposed survival strategy for those who wish to escape the hardships of life and the injustice of a society based on strict role playing, hierarchy, bureaucracy and patriarchism (Part I). This age-old predilection for vagueness (hutu) found its particular counterpart in contemporary society. The popularization and commodification of the saying Nande hutu—of which the popular books on hutuxue, ‘the art of being muddleheaded’ are exemplary—have to a great extent transformed the lofty, difficult to attain, Daoism-inspired spiritual ideal of being carefree and unrestrained into the popular wisdom of playing dumb mostly rooted in Confucian social morality. Selfmanagement through modesty, moderation, self-concealment, knowing fate, detachment and compromise, and concern for social norms through face work, are promoted as the modern self-cultivation (xiu shen) that will result in a ‘successful’ life. In other words, modern-style hutu-ism has taken on a strikingly pragmatic role for the individual: it functions as a strategy for obtaining and maintaining mental (e.g. having a sound

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marriage and satisfying interpersonal relations), material (e.g. being successful in business, in policy making), physical (e.g. good health) and spiritual (freedom) well-being. In sum, it sustains the process of “actualization of the physical-psychological-spiritual self ” (Hwang 2012, 23), or, to use a Chinese expression, of “settling down and get on with one’s pursuit” 安身立命 (Yang 2007). Officially advancing this wisdom to work on whatever level as a strategy to cope with a disorienting society and to manage social relationships ultimately supports the ‘harmonious society,’ and thus state legitimacy. However, pervasive hutu strategies may be, they are not unconditional. Critical sources urge its users to consciously practice hutu-ism as a ‘high wisdom’ in order not to let it degenerate into a slick and easy way of self-protection, self-promotion and self-advancement at the expense of others, of which corrupt officials and shrewd businessmen are most exemplary. At the macro-level, hutu-ism is mainly criticized as part of the national ‘policy of the ignorant masses’ (yumin zhengce), in which the people are kept ignorant by means of extensive nationally controlled censorship, withholding of information and false public testimonies. In other words, (not) knowing, and acting upon this (non)knowledge is part of a continuous and complex balancing act, for individuals as much as for the government. It is no overstatement to say that throughout history hutu-ism has become an attitude towards life, a social and moral skill, and even more—often unconsciously—a way of understanding and communicating that permeates all levels of life, transcending social class and age groups. In its ideal practice, it depends on experience, effort and moral self-cultivation (Part II). In her postscript, scholar in indigenous psychology Louise Sundararajan will offer a cultural framework to further question the why of this particular phenomenon and its current development, and to open up perspectives for cultural dialogue. Roughly said, the hutu philosophy of life saw an evolution from ancient Daoist wisdom of the sage fool and the upright but unconventional scholar-official, to the moralistic though very conventional Confucian model example and the related success-stories of intrapersonal, interpersonal and societal harmony that are promoted in the contemporary discourses. Throughout this evolution, on a deeper level, being hutu nevertheless continues to serve as an inner realm (jingjie) for

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self-preservation and experiencing spiritual freedom, to reside in when things get tough. This evolution might make Zheng Banqiao turn in his grave, but for all we know, he might just as well ironically turn a blind eye, or simply have a good laugh at it. Although he will eternally leave us ignorant about his opinion, it is clear that both the continuous rehashing of ancient wisdom to fit the new contexts, and the flexible merging of ancient traditions and ideologies to which modern-day hutu-ism testifies are not new, let alone rare phenomena in Chinese history. In fact, Zheng himself embodied these two phenomena.

Rehashing Ancient Wisdom As for the rehashing of ancient heritage, the discourses show an emergence of modern values, such as individualism, self-achievement, the need for personal freedom, and even critical reflection, that all have to be taken into account. Also the increased reflection about one’s personal happiness and how to realize it involves a sense of personal power to actively deal with one’s own problems. This observation is reinforced by the emergence of (indigenous) counselling and the psychoboom, and by popular discourses on for instance ‘changing one’s fate’ 改变命运 which all offer a counterweight to wisdoms such as ‘knowing (and accepting) fate,’ and in some sense promote more individual agency. Modernity makes people eager to get a grip on their life with clear, straightforward and self-motivated (conscious) action. Not only social control, but also personal control has become priority. At the same time, despite the modern elements, the discourses are filled with traditional elements such as concern for face, social morality and harmony, traditional philosophical ideals and even terminology. It is a medley of traditional influences that are rephrased, re-interpreted and made functional, but have lost nothing of their value and importance. Although tradition is modified to suit the requirements of modern— changed and still changing—life, it is exactly the incorporation of both traditional wisdom and modern aspects that appeals to modern individuals. This has been common practice in Chinese history. For instance, the tradition of different ‘commentaries’ on ancient texts, and newly

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emerging schools (e.g. Neo-Confucianism) rethinking ‘old schools,’ testifies to the practice of re-interpreting traditional thought. Searching for novel interpretations and solutions adapted to new circumstances is exactly what Chinese practical philosophy stands for, what Zhuangzi aimed at in his often contradictory parables, and what is expected from ‘self-cultivated’ Chinese people in times of change. In this sense, modern hutu-ism should not be considered as a relativism of perspective, but rather as complementary to the traditional interpretations. It is an adding of different layers of interpretations, without expecting a static, final outcome. Everything is constantly in transition, including philosophical theories and wisdoms of life.

Merging of the Three Teachings As for the three most important philosophical systems, the saying in its most philosophical meaning is undeniably rooted in the Daoist unjudgemental, unrestrained sage fool. In the contemporary discourse, however, Daoist, Confucian and—though marginally—Buddhist elements are freely mixed to constitute a meaningful and comprehensive philosophy of life. While the contemporary sources certainly seem to emphasize the Confucian social morality dimension, Daoist (and the occasional Buddhist) elements are never far away. This phenomenon is in Chinese intellectual history well-known as ‘the merging of the three teachings’ (san jiao he yi). In as much as Zheng Banqiao as a learnt scholar embodied this unity, also contemporary hutu-ism does. But how do these in many respects contradictory philosophical points of view on the whole make sense and make their blend ideologically and morally acceptable? The merging of the three teachings itself is rooted in ancient philosophical history. As a way of coping with the interweaving of various religious and philosophical traditions, China originated an amalgamated version of Daoism, Confucianism and Buddhism. Throughout Chinese history, this merging of the three teachings never merely offered a threefold foundation of knowledge (philosophically and intellectually) but has always provided common Chinese with a mental framework to put

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all kinds of life experiences into perspective. Psychologically, the explanation for this inclination lies in the fundamentally different rationales of the three teachings. In general, Confucianism represents social order and public conduct with a strong focus on the community and social life; philosophical Daoism represents an ambivalent reaction to Confucianism with a very down to earth focus on individual longevity and well-being by promoting a sense of inner tranquillity, especially in times of setbacks; and Buddhism (but also religious Daoism) adds a spiritual transcendent flavour by looking into the meaning of life and death (e.g. Matthyssen 2013). In this respect, the different schools of thought can be considered as “moods of the Chinese mind which may be manifested in the same individual at different times or on different occasions” (Plopper 1969, 15). Moreover, the choice to which philosophical (or rather mental) framework one prefers to relate is a pragmatic one: one chooses the framework that best fits in with the needs of the day. As Lin Yutang (2007, 115) puts it: Life under the Confucian code of decorum would be unbearable without this emotional relief. For Taoism is the playing mood of the Chinese people, as Confucianism is their working mood. That accounts for the fact that every Chinese is a Confucianist when he is successful and a Taoist when he is a failure. The naturalism of Taoism is the balm that soothes the wounded Chinese soul.

Scholar-officials Zheng Banqiao, Tao Yuanming and Su Dongpo all testify to this particular attitude. As a reaction to failure in their life as a Confucian official and in realizing their ideals as scholar-literati, they turned towards Daoism and retreated from public life. This pragmatism is—as the phenomenon of hutu-ism shows—still ongoing today. It is exactly the ease with which Chinese people simultaneously integrate both Daoist and Confucian traditions that is symbolic for the way they navigate through life.

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Dialectical and Holistic Thinking in Terms of Change Apart from the merging of the three teachings and the rehashing of ancient wisdom, another element of the different discourses that makes modern hutu-ism particularly appealing in times of change is their holistic acceptance of the dynamics of dialectical relations as the natural principle of constant change. This is for instance reflected in the repeatedly discussed passive and active component of hutu-ism, which can be found in those sayings that deal with the complementarity of smartness and muddleheadedness (such as da zhi ruo yu), and with the unavoidability of the alternation of fortune and misfortune (chi kui shi fu). These wisdoms underline the conviction that extreme situations are always temporary, which at its core can be a reassuring and comforting thought. In addition, such dialectical rhetoric underscores the undesirability of extremes: too much smartness without some hutu, and hutu without starting out smart, will ultimately be harmful for the individual, his social network and society. They should be present in one person in a harmonious, complementary relation. In the practice of daily life, the resilience and flexibility that results from both the merging of the three teachings and the holistic worldview make the Chinese in theory very resistant to psychological stressors in times of major change. Changes are considered as natural and unavoidable, and one day or another a new balance will appear, so why worry or get emotionally or rationally attached. At the same time, the use of this familiar ancient rhetoric serves a ‘new cultural revolution’ and indirectly also state legitimacy. However, no holistic and dialectical thinking can resolve or smoothen out everything. Neither seem pragmatic re-interpretations of ancient wisdom and the merging of the three teaching to do their job sufficiently in the continuously and fast-changing society. The different discourses demonstrate that Chinese society is not saved from moral degeneration and deteriorating mental health. Over the last few decades, cases of ‘immorally’ turning a blind eye causing large-scale harm in society are not isolated incidents, and also condemned on public fora. Mental illness is equally increasing, which might indicate that for instance the coping

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strategies expressed in ancient wisdom like Nande hutu are not efficient anymore when confronted with modern values in a globalized world. As Lemos (2012, 233) argues, The myth of infinite inscrutable Chinese fatalism is challenged by the spread of social problems like mental illness, drugs, prostitution and suicide. Stoical acceptance by Chinese people of political authoritarianism is another fallacy. People do not accept everything that happens in the name of reform as being for the best in the best of all possible worlds.

Many of the more critical sources also show that the seemingly harmonious mixture of traditional and modern values is not as harmonious as we might (are made to) assume. Is this a direct result of modernization and the newly gained autonomy? Is it an example of Fromm’s (1994, 104) dialectic process of growing freedom resulting from the structure of modern society, a process in which the more independent, self-reliant and critical people become, the more isolated, alone and afraid too? Or should this disbalance rather be attributed to the particular hierarchic, patriarchal and autocratic structure of Chinese society clashing with incompatible values and norms? As Kleinman et al. (2011, 286) argue, the Chinese individual “has to understand the very real limits of those small freedoms as well as the responsibility to live a divided life with great alertness to the boundaries that one does not trespass, no matter what is at stake.” The gradual but bumpy transition from the primarily strong ties society to a mixed strong-weak ties society (Sundararajan 2020) seems to bring forth individuals that are not so clear anymore about what is really at stake. As a result, their discernment about when pretended ignorance leads to real well-being, and when to unhappiness, moral wrongs and ultimately, alienation is also blurred. In the long run, this “divided self” might not be able to reconcile the re-interpretations of the wisdom of the three teachings with these new subjective realities in his/her hutu practice. The booming mental health industry, with its newly emerging psychotherapies and moral and psychological education books rooted in traditional wisdom, is not likely to adequately solve these new challenges (Yang 2018).

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After many years of studying the Chinese ‘art of being muddleheaded,’ I have come to understand that this art in its most ‘humane’ practice indeed is a powerful wisdom from which there is much to learn. This wisdom teaches us to exercise a healthy dose of very agentic self-restraint and to cultivate humility in the face of others (those near and dear, but also strangers), and of the natural course of things. But this should not prevent one from striving—within one’s human limitations or ‘heavenordained destiny’—for one’s personal version of a harmonious world, in a spirit of mutual understanding and tolerance of cultural differences, making self-actualization on the “Way of Humanity” (Hwang 2012) possible for each and every one. In an ever-challenging world this indeed requires life-long effort and self-reflection. Ideally, in the spirit of Zheng Banqiao, it comes with a Daoist eccentric stroke of humour, as contemporary author and cultural scholar Feng Jicai 冯骥才(1942–) ironically sighs in the first lines of his novel This idiot I am 我这个笨蛋: Often, I hammer my stupid, socially untactful, and inefficient brain, scolding myself for this. I am this bookworm that lacks the astuteness, vigour and abilities proper for getting things done in daily life. My wife scolds me even more succinctly, using just this one word: “Idiot!” (Feng 1995, 14)

It may be exactly this—the mildness of self-reflective humour, and the sharp irony that has the potential to turn things upside down—and not so much astuteness and normative morals, that is lacking not only in modern-day hutu-ism in China, but also in the complexity and muddy waters (with a lot of fish) of globalized life.

References Feng, Jicai. 1995. Je ne Suis qu’un Idiot (Traduction et Commentaires de Madeleine Duong). Paris: Editions You-Feng. Fromm, Erich H. 1994. Escape from Freedom (1st ed.: 1941). New York: Henry Holt and Company.

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Hwang, Kwang-Kuo. 2012. Foundations of Chinese Psychology. Confucian Social Relations. International and Cultural Psychology. New York, Dordrecht, Heidelberg, London: Springer. Kleinman, Arthur, Yunxiang Yan, Jing Jun, Sing Lee, Evereth Zhang, Tianshu Pan, Fei Wu, and Jinhua Guo. 2011. “Remaking the Moral Person in a New China.” In Deep China: The Moral Life of the Person , What Anthropology and Psychiatry Tell Us About China Today, edited by Arthur Kleinman et al., 1–35. Berkeley: University of California Press. Lemos, Gerard. 2012. The End of the Chinese Dream. Why Chinese People Fear the Future. New Haven and London: Yale University Press. Lin, Yutang. 2007. My Country and My People. Beijing: Foreign Language Teaching and Research Press. Matthyssen, Mieke. 2013. “‘Scholars Should Be Considered the Last of the Four Classes’: The Case of Scholar-Official Zheng Banqiao.” Journal of Asian History 47 (2): 219–244. Plopper, Clifford. 1969. Chinese Religion Seen Through the Proverb. New York: Paragon Book Reprint Cooperation. Sundararajan, Louise. 2020. “Strong-Ties and Weak-Ties Rationalities: Toward an Expanded Network Theory.” Review of General Psychology 24 (2): 134– 143. https://doi.org/10.1177/1089268020916438. Yang, Jie. 2018. Mental Health in China: Change, Tradition and Therapeutic Governance. Cambridge and New York: Polity Press. Yang, Tao. 2007. Zuoren zuoshi de hutu yishu (The Art of Being Muddled in Social Conduct and in Handling Things). Beijing: Huayi chubanshe.

9 Postscript: Hutu at the Crossroads of Knowledge and Information By Louise Sundararajan

My definition of a good cultural study is one that brings to light the whole spectrum of the phenomenon—the good, the bad and the ugly— with impartiality and understanding. Mieke Matthyssen’s investigation of nande hutu is a fine example. As a privileged first reader, I share some of my cogitations as I read the book.

Hutu and the Logic of Silence The term hutu denotes a deficient state of knowledge and information that results in a vague or muddled picture of things. As such, hutu constitutes a unique discourse on knowledge and information in that all its topics, ranging from language to intelligence (calculative thinking or smarts), are placed under a negative sign, namely, less is better. This is the logic of silence, the antithesis of language which clamours for more and more knowledge and information. Or in the words of the marketing scholar Zhou Nan (2011, 6): “The path to knowledge [xue learning] is by incremental increase; that to [the wordless] Dao by incremental © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 M. Matthyssen, Ignorance is Bliss: The Chinese Art of Not Knowing, Palgrave Studies in Indigenous Psychology, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73902-7_9

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decrease” (为学日益, 为道日损). In the West with its preoccupation with knowledge, information and language (“in the beginning is the Word” so goes the Genesis story), those who prefer silence (Bindeman 2017) to the volubility of language remain in the minority. By contrast, quest for the wordless mystery of the Dao has been in the mainstream throughout Chinese history. To shed some light on this particular appeal of the logic of silence (the less knowledge/information, the better) to the Chinese, I offer a perspective from cultural analysis.

Strong Ties Versus Weak Ties Rationalities The framework I use for a cultural analysis of hutu is ecological rationality (Sundararajan 2020a), which is based on the following premises: rationalities are the logic behind what is considered good, right and reasonable in a culture. This logic or reasoning has co-evolved with the ecological niche of the culture-bearers. The key notion here is coevolution, which suggests that it is the early environment of a culture, in evolutionary deep time, that holds the key to our understanding of its rationality. Generally speaking, two types of cultural rationalities have evolved in human history—strong ties versus weak ties (Sundararajan 2020a; Granovetter 1973). The major ecological factor that differentially shapes strong ties versus weak ties rationality is low versus high mobility (Oishi et al. 2015). Traditional China is a typical strong ties society with low ecological and relational mobilities. The farmers have their feet planted in the ground as it were (low ecological mobility) and tend to form closeknit groups, among whom one spends one’s whole life (low relational mobility). By contrast, weak ties societies co-evolved with high mobility, for instance the traders and herders move around and make deals with strangers frequently. The absence or presence of strangers in one’s life has far-reaching implications for knowledge representation and transmission. First, in an agrarian society, new knowledge and technology are not essential for mastering nature. This point can be illustrated with a Chinese folklore known as the “foolish old man moving the mountains.” As told in the ancient text Lieh-Tzu (third century AD or earlier), an old

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man in his nineties decided to move the two mountains that obstructed traffic (Yuan 1957, 135–136). His wife by the name of “Offering Suspicion” reminded him of his age; so did the “wise old man at the bend of the river.” But the “Foolish Old Man” said to them, “Even if I die, I have sons, and when my sons die, they have their sons, who in turn will have their sons. Thus with concerted effort of generations, we will surely be able to level the mountains” (p. 135). The “foolish” old man was readily joined by his sons and grandchildren, as well as neighbours, and the crew kept digging at the mountains for over half a year, until the Lord in Heaven heard about their project through a minor god who eavesdropped on their conversations. Moved by the hero’s “steady-fast sincerity” (p. 136), the Lord in Heaven had the two mountains removed from the path of the “Foolish Old Man.” What this story makes clear is that it is our genes (generations of sons), our virtue (sincerity) and our relationship with neighbours, rather than our memes (knowledge and information), intelligence or any innovation in technology that give us control over nature. Second, strong ties and weak ties societies differentially privilege private and public spaces. Private space is personal and opens to a selective few, whereas public space is impersonal and opens to all. This difference impacts on knowledge and its representation. In an anonymous society of weak ties, knowledge and information are not only essential but also tend to be explicit among strangers: “Yes, let’s cooperate.” One needs not say such things among family members, when a wink will do. What long-term relationship among familiar others purchases is the comfort of knowing that one does not always have to be clear or take a stance among those who know you well enough to trust you anyway. But outside the insider’s circle social vigilance prevails, since information in the wrong hands can be used against you. Thus in strong ties societies, transmission of knowledge decreases in proportion to distance in relationship: with strangers, the rule of the thumb is “Don’t tell.” Quite on the contrary is weak ties societies which privilege public space, where knowledge is impersonal and free for all. Knowledge transmission is essential among strangers if they are going to cooperate. Furthermore, knowledge representation tends to increase in explicitness and clarity in proportion to distance in relationship. Among complete

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strangers, a lawyer is sometimes needed to render every term of the contract explicit in its legal ramifications. Thus the rule of the thumb with strangers is “be explicit.” The weak ties rationality finds an eloquent expression in Popper’s (2013) vision of an open society, which demands some compromises to be made on our relationship needs for the sake of knowledge: It is the strain created by the effort which life in an open and partially abstract society continually demands from us – by the endeavor to be rational, to forego at least some of our emotional social needs, to look after ourselves, and to accept responsibilities. We must, I believe, bear this strain as the price to be paid for every increase in knowledge, in reasonableness, in co-operation and in mutual help, and consequently in our chances of survival, and in the size of the population. It is the price we have to pay for being human. (p. 168, emphasis added)

In the remainder of this essay, I examine how China has a different kind of rationality which requires knowledge and information to serve the purposes of relationship, and not the other way around. This, in a nutshell, is the story of hutu.

Hutu as Two Types of Silence There are two types of silence, as a noun that refers to a state of amorphous and undifferentiated being, and as a verb that refers to the act of silencing—the former is antithetical to language, whereas the latter is part and parcel of language. This distinction between silencing (or keeping silent) and silence is consistent with the two faces of silence according to Kierkegaard (1954, 97): “Silence is the snare of the demon, and the more one keeps silent, the more terrifying the demon becomes; but silence is also the mutual understanding between the Deity and the individual.”

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Hutu as the Primordial Silence Extending Kierkegaard, we may say that the primordial silence is a mutual understanding or communion with God/Dao, with oneself, or with others. In Christian mysticism, this primordial silence is aptly referred to as “the cloud of unknowing” (Johnston 2005). This “unknowing” state beyond knowledge and all its representations is necessarily vague and inarticular, thus hutu. In the light of its many epithets such as the unnameable, unknowable and the unsayable, it is fair to say that the primordial silence is beyond reason, judgement and intellect. In the Chinese tradition, this primordial silence is embodied in the mythical being Hundun, who resides in a blissful state beyond knowledge and information. The death of Hundun suggests that, just as silence is vulnerable to the invasion of language, the primordial state of being can be destroyed by intelligence, knowledge and information. It is in this vein that we may understand Laozi’s reference to the sage as a fool, or what St. Paul meant by “playing the fool in Christ.” Since information and knowledge are not functional in this primordial state of being and can only interfere with it, the Daoist text Chuang Tzu (Mair 1994) claims that the path to the Dao lies not in learning so much as in unlearning all social conventions, such that one became a “true man” when “his mind was forgetful” (p. 52). Needless to say, those who champion the primordial silence of the Dao would devalue language, knowledge and intellect, and conversely, hold in high esteem things that approximate the original innocence of nature, such as the uncarved block. That is why the “city slicker” is to be denounced, and the unpolished rustic to be considered cool. Experientially, the essence of this primordial state of being is freedom. This freedom is akin to silence which harbours all potentialities for speech, in contrast to language which limits this freedom by bringing into existence some possibilities at the expense of some others. For illustration, consider two coin tosses for money, where the matching toss wins. The first coin toss operates in the condition of silence or not knowing, in which any toss is a good move with no possibility for mistakes. In the second coin toss, however, knowledge has entered the picture (a difference—head or tail—is created by the first coin toss),

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such that possibilities for a winning (matching) toss are highly restricted. Akin to the first coin toss, the hutu state of being is brimming with the freedom of all possibilities before knowledge sets in. This sense of freedom in a domain above language and knowledge is manifest in both intrapersonal and interpersonal harmony. Consider first intrapersonal harmony. Chuang Tzu (Mair 1994) talks about practices in which the individual achieves the fullness of being via intense engagement in creativity. Through the humble characters such as the cricket-catcher and the craftsmen, this Daoist text makes it clear that inner harmony lies beyond formal education and more broadly beyond the knowledge domain in general. Excellence in practice is a knack that has nothing to do with the transmission or representation of knowledge. This is how an old craftsman by the name of Wheelwright Flat described his skill: There’s a knack to it that can’t be put in words. I haven’t been able to teach it to my own son, and my son hasn’t been able to learn it from me. That’s why I’m still hewing wheels after seventy years. (Mair 1994, 129)

Since experiences cannot be captured in words, Wheelwright Flat went on to deliver an iconoclastic blow to the Confucian scriptures: “When they died, the ancients took with them what they couldn’t transmit. So what you are reading are the dregs of the ancients” (p. 129). Freedom is also the hallmark of interpersonal harmony. Consider the following passage from Chuang Tzu (Mair 1994): When springs dry up, fish huddle together on the land. They blow moisture on each other and keep each other wet with their slime. But it would be better if they could forget themselves in the rivers and lakes. Rather than praising Yao [sage] and condemning Chieh [tyrant], it would be better for people to forget both of them…. (p. 53, emphasis added)

Continuing its iconoclastic attack on conventional wisdom, the Daoist text makes it clear that interpersonal harmony lies not in the social collective (the Confucian “harmonious society”) so much as in the freedom

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that comes from transcending (“forget”) knowledge and the discriminating intellect. More specifically, akin to rivers and lakes that afford the fish its freedom, communion with the Dao constitutes a state of freedom for humans to get beyond their evolved instincts for collective survival, their self-identity and their conventions of morality. Another similar, but more Confucian, formulation of harmony is the freedom in which all flourish in co-existence (Sundararajan 2013). This freedom necessarily resides in a domain beyond language and knowledge representations. For a graphic representation of how all can flourish in co-existence, consider the calligraphy nande hutu by Zheng Banqiao (see Fig. 3.1). In this calligraphy, not two characters are alike—each is a unique individual with all its idiosyncrasies. There is no organization to speak of—the characters are like a bunch of young children who cannot be made to sit still for long in a classroom. Yet, the whole set creates an order that is dynamic and beautiful. For an explanation of this dynamic harmony, we turn to an instruction on cooking in another ancient text, the Lushi Chunqiu (Ames and Rosemont 1998): In combining your ingredients to achieve a harmony, you have to use the sweet, sour, bitter, acrid, and the salty, and you have to mix them in an appropriate sequence and proportion. Bringing the various ingredients together is an extremely subtle art in which each of them has its own expression. The variations within the cooking pot are so delicate and subtle that they cannot be captured in words or fairly conceptualized. (pp. 257–258, emphasis added).

The flourishing of all things in co-existence is suggested by the “various ingredients” each having “its own expression”—a condition that results in the overall harmony of flavours. Especially noteworthy for our purposes is the anti-recipe approach to cooking presented here. The process of cooking is supposed to be such “an extremely subtle art” that defies language and conceptualization. The fact that we do have recipes for cooking and machines for wheel-making today is beside the point. Recipes and machines are concerned with the production of

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goods, whereas the anti-recipe approach is concerned with the process of making. The insistence that the process of craftsmanship, ranging from cooking to wheel-making, lies in a domain beyond language and knowledge representation has the following implications: • These arts and practices cannot be rendered a commodity through the representation and transmission of knowledge. Similar to calligraphy, these creative practices are personal, each an embodiment of the person, and each attesting to the intimate relationship or harmony between the person and the Dao. These experiences cannot be replicated by recipes or algorithms. To paraphrase Scheibe (2000), in personally creative practices every performance is the first performance. No replication is possible. • As evident among the ingredients in the cooking pot as well as among the characters in Zheng Banqiao’s calligraphy, harmony is an emergent phenomenon which cannot be standardized for mass production. Thus the interpersonal harmony as an emergent phenomenon is not to be confused with a harmonious society, which is a status quo that needs to be maintained, not created.

Small Is Beautiful Interpersonal harmony is necessarily confined to small size groups of no more than 150 individuals. This is called Dunbar’s number, named after the anthropologist Robin Dunbar (Dunbar and Shultz 2007), who claims that close relationships have a size limit, because the human brain can only keep track of so many individuals—beyond that threshold, larger number of relationships will have to be kept at the impersonal level. Consistent with Dunbar’s number, the Daoist utopia seems to be modelled on small-scale hunter-gatherer societies, a glimpse of which is given in Chuang Tzu (Mair 1994): Do you, sir, not know of the age of ultimate integrity? Long ago …. the people knotted ropes to keep records; they considered their food to be savory, their clothes to be beautiful, their customs to be pleasurable, their dwellings to be secure. They could gaze across at the neighboring state

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and hear the sounds of its dogs and chickens, but the people would never travel back and forth till they died of old age. Such a time as this was one of ultimate government. (p. 88)

In this Daoist model of harmony, there is minimum requirement for language and knowledge representation, as evidenced by the use of ropeknotting as a mnemonic device, a primitive technology that harkens back to an antediluvian civilization before the invention of writing. But less is better: less development in language and knowledge representation results in reduction in desires and increase in integrity and life satisfaction, so we are told. Also characteristic of strong ties society is low mobility, as evidenced by the lack of population flow between neighboring states. Tourism is out. However, it is in the opposite direction of this Daoist utopia that human civilization has marched. Throughout history knowledge and information have played pivotal roles in the building of more and more powerful organizations from empires to transnational corporations. In imperial China, it was Confucianism that supplied the blueprint for the mass society with its emphatic stress on knowledge acquisition and transmission, as evidenced by the ubiquitous use of the word “learning” (xue). Consequently, in the Confucian society silence is coopted by language, and hutu becomes a silencing strategy. To this second type of hutu we now turn.

Hutu as Silencing Silencing is best understood in terms of Michel Foucault’s (1978) definition of silence as “the thing one declines to say, or is forbidden to name, the discretion that is required between different speakers” (p. 27). To the extent that to tell or not to tell is a question that is intrinsic to the pragmatics of language, silencing is part and parcel of language. As a strategy of silencing in language, hutu is concerned with the different ways of not saying things, with who can and who cannot speak, and with the form of discretion required in a polite society. The strategy’s core feature is caution and pretence that serves well the purpose of social vigilance, which is prevalent in strong ties societies once one steps outside

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the comfort zone of intimate relations (Sundararajan 2020a; Liu et al. 2019). Hutu in this context consists primarily of self-imposed silence, which can be classified into the following categories: a. Hutu as intimacy skills. These skills can be summed up by the popular lore of the winking owl, which symbolizes selective inattention that demonstrates a capacity to let one’s guards down, to relax scrutiny of others, and to overlook other’s mistakes. The goal is twofold—to show trust which is essential for any relationship; and to give the other space by creating a tolerant and permissive environment conducive to further development of the relationship. All of these manoeuvres compromise knowledge representation resulting in vagueness (hutu). It is interesting to note that this hutu strategy of giving the other space can compensate for the lack of mobility of a strong ties society by increasing mental mobility. This point is well articulated by an informant (emphasis added): “In a blurred state, the space is rather big, and this gives them much room for choosing [the proper behaviour]. In a blurred state, we can go all directions, and this consequently makes us feel comfortable.” b. Hutu as conflict avoidance. In order to maintain the relationship, it is necessary not to confront the other by silencing the inconvenient truth. Thus pretending not to know what one ‘should’ not know, and faking ignorance are essential skills for relationship maintenance. c. Hutu as a social tact. Here the context for silencing is no longer the small group of intimates, but society at large, where social vigilance looms large and the hutu strategies are mainly used out of self-interest, rather than consideration for the other. These self-silencing strategies serve mainly the purposes of fitting in and getting ahead. To fit in, a recommended Confucian way is to be smooth (represented by the circle that has no particular angle) on the outside but be oneself (represented by the square that has its unique angles) on the inside. Or to put it another way, “obey publicly and defy privately” (Hwang 2000, 172). To get ahead, all the intimacy skills can be exploited to put others at ease, such as letting one’s guards down, but not be fooled in the process. Thus to outsmart others, faking is essential—to have

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knowledge but fake ignorance; to be smart but fake foolishness and so on. d. Hutu as self-preservation. Chinese politics is historically known for being dirty and dangerous; hence, it is the arena where the exploitative use of hutu is most prevalent. To survive politics, hutu skills—such as yielding to power and hierarchy, avoiding confrontations, being nonjudgemental and so on—also come to serve the important purpose of self-preservation. Self-preservation along with its hutu strategies are also important for those who would like to wash their hands of politics. Similar to young people in the West who fake mental or physical deficiencies to dodge the draft, Confucian scholars, who wished to dodge the obligation to take office, needed to conceal what made them valuable—knowledge and intelligence. Faking ignorance (hutu) helps. e. Hutu as subversive discourse. Besides faking ignorance, Confucian scholars also need a rationale for quitting politics, since they have the obligation to serve the government. The standard excuse they come up with is that the world is no longer under the sway of the Dao, a condition of disorder which justifies self-preservation and selfcultivation instead of public service (required of them when the world is in order). This renders the intellectuals’ refusal to serve a veiled criticism of the government and of the ruler. Furthermore, instead of being apologetic about one’s mental deficiency that renders one unfit for service, some individuals go one step further to flaunt their unfitness (in a world without the Dao). Displaying features of the “misfit” as a badge of honour, the hutu tradition has spawned a slew of colourful and dramatic social critic incognito. This includes eccentric artists, the drunk and the crazies such as the “crazy” monk Jigong. A thread that runs through all these dramatic displays of deviance is the subversive logic of hutu, according to which (feigned) mental deficiency can be used as a license for challenging the status quo. More specifically, these spectacles of hutu (the droll, and the insane) give rise to irony and humour that make it possible for the audience to temporarily step outside the system to question it with impunity. This is evident in one popular response to these legendary characters of

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deviance: what a pity that when the whole world is intoxicated you alone are awake!

Context of Use for Hutu as Silencing Ecological niches of the above hutu strategies may be categorized in accordance with the concentric circles of relationship in Chinese society: 1. Intimate relations. Strong ties societies draw a sharp distinction between insiders and outsiders along the divide between private and public space. Family and friends reside in the shared private space of insiders, while society at large constitutes the public space of outsiders. Whereas among intimates, self-silencing is primarily an intimacy skill, done for the sake of the other (for instance, to give the other space), among acquaintances and strangers, the hutu strategy is primarily employed out of self-interest. Thus the farther the transactions fall outside the insider’s circle, the likelihood for intimacy skills—that build a tolerant and permissive environment—to be exploited for predatory purposes increases. Furthermore, compulsory use of intimacy skills in public space can be traumatic. This trauma is well captured in the cagey image of the winking owl during the cultural revolution (See Fig. 4.2, Huang Yongyu, “Owl”), in which selective inattention was deployed not out of consideration for the intimates, but out of necessity for self-preservation under persecution. 2. Society at large. The distinction between the insiders and outsiders applies to that between two communities—natural versus imaginary. The intimates form a natural community, whereas society at large is an imaginary community. These two communities differ in the extent to which language and knowledge representation are needed. Among the intimates who spend their lives together for long periods of time, the need for language and knowledge representation is minimum when non-verbal communication suffices. This point can be illustrated by a passage about friendship in the Chuang Tzu (Mair 1994): “The three men looked at each other and smiled. Since there was no discord in their hearts, they became friends with

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each other” (p. 60). An imaginary community, by contrast, is not possible without language and knowledge transmission. For instance, to extend the intimacy skills of hutu to society at large and even to politics, it is necessary to imagine that society is one big family. For this imagination to stick, it will take lifelong learning (xue) of the Confucian doctrine that the ruler is to be treated like one’s own father, and that society and government are indeed family writ large. 3. Politics. As the rhetoric of family stretches further to government, knowledge has to do double duty to make the imaginary community work. Thus teaching and learning of Confucian morality became mandatory in imperial China. However, this “language game” (to borrow a felicitous term from Wittgenstein) is not without its critics and defectors, among whom Daoism is the most outspoken. From the Daoist perspective, the more rhetoric of morality is needed to bolster the (imagined) connection, the less genuine (natural) the relationship. More specifically, the Confucian exhortation of virtue by codes of conduct and ceremonies reveal precisely the lack thereof in the system. In the words of Chuang Tzu (Mair 1994, 311–212): “When righteousness is lost, afterward comes ceremony. Ceremony is but the blossomy ornament of the Way [Dao], and the source of disorder.” In sum, the difference between natural and imaginary communities boils down to this: in the former, relationship formed on the basis of living together for life can render verbal representations non-essential, whereas in the latter, language and information are essential, since relationship with the multitude of others rests squarely upon the acquired knowledge of how un-related people are to be perceived. Thus language and knowledge gain importance—and along with it, the self-silencing strategies—the further away relationships are removed from the intimate circle of insiders. Put another way, the less natural and the more imaginary the community, the more prevalent will be the hutu discourse on silencing.

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Lastly, a brief mention of exceptions is in order. As a strategy of silencing, hutu is a language game that meets the need to regulate relationship by knowledge. This hutu strategy loses its function when relationship and knowledge come decoupled. This de-coupling can happen under two circumstances, where direct communication (i.e. without silencing or concealing any component of the information) is preferred: First, in intimate communications—for instance between self to self, self to God, or between soulmates—where it is neither possible nor necessary to conceal information, since one’s partner knows one too well. Second, when there is no relationship to be concerned with, for instance, communication with foreigners or on the internet with strangers.

A Chronological Overview of the Hutu Strategies A chronological overview that combines the hutu strategies and their contexts of use is summed up in Fig. 9.1 and explained in details below.

Hutu Discourse in Traditional China • 3c (political arena where hutu was used as a social tact): the earliest reference to hutu as a strategy is found in the anecdote of Lü Duan, Functions of hutu Context of use

a

as intimacy skills 1 Intimate x relations 2 Society x at large 3 Politics x

b

c

d

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as as a as selfas conflict social tact preservation subversive avoidance discourse x x

x

x

Xx

X Xx

Fig. 9.1 Types of hutu discourse. Note X = prominent in traditional China; prominent in contemporary China

x=

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a shrewd and successful politician. Prominent themes in this account include flexible/strategic use of both intelligence and seeming ignorance, looking foolish but not be fooled, and social vigilance in an unsafe environment rife with court intrigues. • 3d (political arena where hutu was used as a strategy for selfpreservation): Confucian scholars, such as Zheng Banqiao, made unsuccessful attempts to use hutu to survive politics. Those who managed to stay in politics, such as Zeng Guofan 曾国藩 (1811– 1872), cursed their integrity and intelligence which made it difficult for them to fit in and go along with corruption. Thus these statements of self-abnegation on the part of the Confucian literati are simultaneously social criticisms. • 2e (social arena where hutu was used as a subversive statement): After he left politics and became a full-time painter, Zheng Banqiao’s hutu discourse became increasingly subversive, as evidenced by his eccentricity, and his irreverent remarks that made fun of all conventional values. This subversive use of hutu finds an eloquent expression in the story of the Hutu Old Man. This is the story told by Zheng Banqiao to contextualize his calligraphy of nande hutu as the recommendations from a recluse, who may be his alter ego. The narrative drew a parallel between two sets of binary oppositions: one consists of calculative intelligence (smartness) versus foolishness (hutu); the other, a polished (beautiful) gem versus a rugged, rough (wan 顽) stone. The first terms of the binary oppositions—smartness and a beautiful gem—are socially valued, whereas the second terms of the same—foolishness and a rough stone—have no social value. Under this parallelism, however, there is a subversive shift of perspectives. The first pair of binary oppositions, of smartness versus lack of intelligence (hutu), concerns differences in individual endowment which may determine one’s success in life. The second pair of binary oppositions, of a refined gem versus a rough (wan) stone, is a subversive commentary on the Confucian ideal of self-cultivation which compares a refined scholar to a polished piece of jade. At issue here is the question of whether or not to resist the pressure to conform to social norms. This

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question is raised by the term wan which has the connotation of stubbornness, suggesting that in the rough (wan) stone, or the recluse, is embodied an obdurate grain of resistance in a society that puts enormous pressure to fit in. The recluse (the hutu old man) pointed out further that the most challenging task was to combine the two traits—beauty of the polished gem on the one hand and intransigency of the rough stone on the other. The recommendation was to have beauty/refinement on the inside and roughness/stubbornness on the outside (美于中,顽于 外). This inside (integrity) versus outside (roughness) configuration is a subversive twist of the conventional image of the Confucian sage, who is supposed to be smooth (round) on the outside, but unyielding (like an angular square) on the inside. While both agree on having integrity on the inside, the Confucian wisdom of hutu recommends smoothness on the outside, whereas the advice from the recluse, the hutu Old Man, was to wear intransigent ruggedness on one’s sleeves as a badge of deviance (for more details on the recluse see Sundararajan 2015). As well attested by his famed eccentricities, his irreverent remarks and humour, Zheng Banqiao was more than happy to follow this motto.

Hutu Discourse in Contemporary China The most prominent hutu discourse continues to fall under 3c and 3d. The political arena (3) remains to be the central site for hutu discourse, in which social tact (c) and self-preservation (d) are the most popular topics. For instance, Mao’s reference to hutu falls under 3c, in which he reiterated the advantage of hutu as a superior form of calculative intelligence (smartness), while at the same time stipulated when not to be hutu. To the extent that hutu carries a negative sign (not smart, not knowing), Mao’s stipulation constituted a double negative that cancelled out the traditional ambivalence towards calculative intelligence (smartness) and opened the door to its pursuit as something positive. This positive pursuit of smartness is reflected in the extensive deliberations on what constitutes “real” smartness, in the wake of Mao’s comment.

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Commodification of Hutu Skills Society at large (2) is the market for hutu as personal skills for success, among which the most marketable seem to be 2c, 1a and 1b. The most popular hutu skill is social tact (c), as evidenced by the large volume of how-to (xue, learn) literature on this subject. Ranging from Machiavellianism to social grace, these hutu skills are vying with one another with the same sales pitch of personal gain that covers the whole spectrum from getting ahead in society to attaining inner peace. Another marketable hutu consists of transporting intimacy skills (a) and conflict avoidance (b) from intimate relations (1) to the public arena (2) of corporations and politics (3), thereby extending the tolerant and permissive attitude from intimate relations to society at large. All these marketable hutu skills are pursued for the purpose of gaining information, knowledge (how to, xue) and intelligence (what’s smarter than smart)—indeed everything the primordial silence is not.

Mounting Criticisms When the market is flooded with how-to literature on all kinds of hutu skills—ranging from Machiavellian manipulations to altruistic selfeffacement—criticisms are also mounting. It is noteworthy that of all the hutu strategies 1a and 1b are relatively unscathed. Probably the use of hutu as intimacy skills (a) and conflict avoidance strategies (b) in intimate relations (1) is less problematic than its use in the public arena of society at large (2), especially in politics (3). In intimate relations, turning a blind eye on mistakes of the family member out of affection is considered justifiable. By contrast, in the public arena, especially in politics, the hutu strategies of speaking no evil, hearing no evil and seeing no evil have been the target of many criticisms.

Morality to the Rescue Those who defend the hutu practices seek to give it a moral foundation. Their justification amounts to a caveat which goes something like this: no

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one should practice hutu unless they have under their belt a fair amount of Confucian virtues. Morality in practice is wisdom, which lies in telling the difference between major and minor matters. There are two types of matters—personal versus impersonal, the former concerns private relationships, such as family affairs, whereas the latter public affairs, such as work, law and politics. But strong ties and weak ties societies differ in their wisdom. According to the rationality of strong ties, the importance of a matter dwindles as the concentric circle of relationship fans out. Thus family relationship is far more important than politics, which implies that the latter can be compromised for the sake of the former. This point can be illustrated by the legend of the sage king Shun. It was stated in The works of Mencius (1971) that a hypothetical question was raised to the moral philosopher Mencius for his comment: Suppose the father of the legendary king Shun “had murdered a man [for which death sentence is the customary penalty]” (p. 469), how would Shun, the sage king, handle it? The answer given by Mencius is as follows: He would privately have taken his father on his back, and retired into concealment, living somewhere along the sea-coast. There he would have been all his life, cheerful and happy, forgetting the kingdom. (p. 470, emphasis in original)

Under the influence of weak ties rationality, however, contemporary Chinese have acquired a different value hierarchy: personal relationships are ‘minor matters,’ whereas public affairs such as politics, work and law are ‘major matters.’ Or so we are told by the informants interviewed by Matthyssen. However, it is questionable how far this weak ties rationality sticks in reality. In direct contradiction to the weak ties value hierarchy is the elopement of king Shun with his father. In this story, the sage king concealed important information about his father, abandoned his work as ruler, left politics, broke the law—all in order to protect the relationship with his father. But most contemporary Chinese do not see anything wrong with it. Quite on the contrary, modern scholars Luo and Liu (2014) touted Shun’s wisdom. The authors pointed out that in resolving the conflict

9 Postscript: Hutu at the Crossroads …

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between reason and emotion, there are three choices: First, affirming justice at the expense of the relationship; second, preserving private relationship at the expense of the law; and third, satisfying both filial piety and righteousness. The authors claimed that the third choice, the one recommended by Mencius, is a creative and wise solution that satisfies “both law and affection” (p. 204). This solution would function only in the orbit of strong ties rationality, which does not factor in issues of justice in the public space, such as covering up the crime of a perpetrator and not even once taking into consideration the plight of the victim—some unknown stranger about whom the moral philosopher Mencius did not bother to ask. Here the difference in strong ties and weak ties rationalities couldn’t be sharper.

Hutu at the Crossroads of the Global Village As a result of globalization, the weak ties rationality has now become a superadded layer to the hutu discourse. The result is a juxtaposition of two incompatible scales of major and minor matters (see Fig. 9.2). The Chinese traditional view that relationships are important matters to which knowledge representation is to serve, on the one hand; and on the other, the weak ties perspective that personal relationships are ‘minor matters,’ in comparison with affairs in the public arena such as politics, work and law, which are ‘major matters.’ With their penchant for “harmonizing” contradictions (Sundararajan 2020b), the Chinese are not fazed by these antinomies. But how does this juxtaposition of value hierarchies work in real life? Suppose you are a public health researcher and you just discovered a public risk, which value hierarchy do you follow? The information first protocol of facts, nothing but facts, or the relationship first protocol of measured disclosure of information? Will moral integrity bail us out of this dilemma? The fact that king Shun, the paragon of moral integrity, has no qualms about hiding information at the expense of the victim/outsider suggests that resurrection of Confucian morality is not likely to meet the challenges of the global village in which weak ties rationality looms large.

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Politics

• Relationship is of major (minor) importance; • Knowledge/information is of minor (major) importance.

Society

• Relationship is of major (minor) importance; • Knowledge/information is of minor (major) importance.

Intimate relations

• Relationship is of major importance; • Knowledge/information is of minor importance.

Fig. 9.2 Rationalities in contemporary hutu (not knowing) discourse. Note No colour = original strong ties rationality; Yellow = Weak ties rationality (in parenthesis) superimposed on strong ties rationality

However, if strong ties rationality holds us back to an ungainly country road where relationship and information constantly trip over each other, the information highway opened up by weak ties rationality holds the potential for another type of tyranny. It is the tyranny of an ever more powerful machine culture that may dissolve all things personal into the “exit-less nothingness” (Lyotard 1997, 23) of impersonal data which are capable of neither forgetfulness nor forgiveness—not to mention its potential use for the Orwellian government. In the final analysis, I believe that all rationalities, be it strong ties or weak ties, are potentially closed systems that are capable of tragedies—tragedy in the sense of Whitehead’s (1948) definition of the term as “the solemnity of the remorseless working of things” (p. 17). Situated at the crossroads of rationalities, our global village of the twenty-first century is particularly prone to the remorseless working of multiple closed systems of language and information. Is there any way out? One promising escape hatch is 2e, the subversive discourse (e) of hutu in society at large (2). Unfortunately, 2e, while prominent in the irony, humour and eccentricities of Zheng Banqiao, is quite subdued in the

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contemporary hutu discourse. It is especially unfortunate in contemporary China that the dominant positive psychology of hutu—with its armamentarium of problem-solving techniques, recipes and how-to books—is not counterbalanced by a discourse that would continue the iconoclastic irony and humour of Zheng Banqiao. Irony and humour are discourses that inhabit the boundary zones between language games, thus making it possible for us to see the “remorseless working” of systems. That is why Zheng Banqiao was able to traverse freely in and out of the aesthetic, the ethical and the religious conventions, making fun of them all. To meet the challenges of the twenty-first century, we need today more than ever free thinkers like Zheng Banqiao, who was able to break open the closed systems of language and information of his time, by mining the other vein of hutu—the primordial silence—in order to think the unthought from a quiet contemplative centre.

References Ames, R. T., and H. Rosemont, Jr. 1998. The Analects of Confucius / A Philosophical Translation. New York: Ballantine. Bindeman, S. 2017. Silence in Philosophy, Literature, and Art. Boston: BrillRodopi. Dunbar, R. I. M., and S. Shultz. 2007. “Evolution in the Social Brain.” Science 317: 1344–1347. Foucault, M. 1978. History of Sexuality, 3 vols, vol. 1. Translated by Robert Hurley. New York: Random House (original French edition, 1976). Granovetter, M. S. 1973. “The Strength of Weak Ties.” American Journal of Sociology 78: 1360–1380. Hwang, K. K. 2000. “Chinese Relationalism: Theoretical Construction and Methodological Considerations.” Journal for the Theory of Social Behavior 30: 155–178. Johnston, W., ed. 2005. The Cloud of Unknowing & The Book of Privy Counseling. New York: Image Books Doubleday. Kierkegaard, S. 1954. Fear and Trembling/The Sickness unto Death. Translated by Walter Lowrie. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

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Liu, S. S., M. W. Morris, T. Talhelm, and Q. Yang. 2019. “Ingroup Vigilance in Collectivistic Cultures.” PNAS 116: 14538–14546. Luo, J., and Y. Liu. 2014. “The Cognitive Brain Basis of Zhongyong Thinking Mode: A Theoretical Speculation on a High-Level and Complex Mode of Brain Function.” In The Basic Processes of Zhongyong Thinking, edited by Q. W. Wei and C. F. Yang, 195–211, Chinese Social Psychological Review, Vol. 8. Lyotard, J-F. 1997. Postmodern Fables. Translated by Georges Van Den Abbeele. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Mair, V. H. 1994. Wandering on the Way. Honolulu, HI: University of Hawaii Press. Oishi, S., J. Schug, M. Yuki, and J. Axt. 2015. “The Psychology of Residential and Relational Mobilities.” In Advances in Culture and Psychology, edited by Michale J. Gelfand, Chi-yue Chiu, and Ying-yi Hong, 221–272. Handbook of Advances in Culture and Psychology, Vol. 5. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Popper, K. R. 2013. The Open Society and Its Enemies. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press (first edition, 1945). Scheibe, K. E. 2000. The Drama of Everyday Life. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University. Sundararajan, L. 2013. “The Chinese Notions of Harmony, with Special Focus on Implications for Cross Cultural and Global Psychology.” The Humanistic Psychologist 41: 1–10. Sundararajan, L. 2015. Understanding Emotion in Chinese Culture: Thinking Through Psychology. New York, NY: Springer SBM. Sundararajan, L. 2020a. “Strong-ties and Weak-ties Rationalities: Toward an Expanded Network Theory.” Review of General Psychology 24: 134–143. Sundararajan, L. 2020b. “A History of the Concepts of Harmony in Chinese Culture.” In Oxford Research Encyclopedia of Psychology. New York: Oxford University Press. https://doi.org/10.1093/acrefore/9780190236557. 013.679. The works of Mencius (J. Legge, Trans.). 1971. In The Chinese Classics, edited by J. Legge, vol. II, 1–587. Taipei: Wen Shih Chi (translation first published 1893). Whitehead, A. N. 1948. Science and the Modern World. New York: Mentor. Yuan, K. 1957. Zhongguo gudai shenhua (Ancient Mythology of China). Shanghai: Shangwu Yinshuguan. Zhou, N. 2011. A Reflection of my 30-Year Journey as a Marketing Scholar: ‘He Who Overcomes Himself Is Strong, and He Who Is Content Is Rich’?” (in Chinese). Journal of Marketing Science 7 (3): 1–7.

Index

A

affect flat affect (disaffection) xi regulating affect x agency 261, 264 human agency and cosmic order 173 individual agency 338 psychological agency 6 social agency 6 Ah Q 阿 Q 163, 209, 290 as in Ah Q-ism 阿Q精神 290 as in The true story of Ah Q 阿Q 正传 163, 290 alienation x, 11, 311, 342 ambiguity, ambiguous 3, 5, 8, 10, 18, 21, 29, 30, 36, 78, 96, 147, 212, 222, 233, 267, 299, 310

Analects Lunyu 论语 25, 50, 79, 86, 102, 161, 174, 246, 280, 302, 316, 321, 326 anger 99, 293 anxiety 56, 243, 291 art (study of-)-xue - 学 art of being muddleheaded hutuxue 糊涂学 130, 133, 156, 157, 183, 196, 200, 219, 243, 262, 266, 268, 281, 284, 285, 291, 293, 296, 336, 343 art of not knowing 3–8, 11, 18, 20, 25, 32, 37, 38, 40, 45, 57, 61, 74, 103, 112, 116, 130, 170, 335 art of social relationships guanxixue 关系学 132, 285, 296

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 M. Matthyssen, Ignorance is Bliss: The Chinese Art of Not Knowing, Palgrave Studies in Indigenous Psychology, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73902-7

367

368

Index

art of thick (skin) and black (heart) houheixue 厚黑学 285 assigning of names zhengming 证明 28, 45, 52 authenticity, authentic zhen 真 as in authentic person zhenren 真 人 54, 108 as in authentic principle 真理 42 autocracy 114, 115, 209, 210

B

Baijia Jiangtan 百家讲坛. See Lecture Hall 百家讲坛 Ba Jin 巴金 302, 315 benevolence ren 仁 78, 79, 86, 139, 280, 295, 301, 302, 313, 316 big unification da yi tong 大一统 76 body-person shen 身 55 Book of Changes. See Yijing Book of Documents Shujing 书经 25, 42 Book of Rites Liji 礼记 145 bottle gourd. See hulu Buddhism, Buddhist 86–88, 98, 107, 135, 253, 263, 339, 340 business 53, 121, 132, 134, 143, 183, 184, 197, 200–203, 215, 219, 224, 263, 284, 299, 308, 310, 337

C

Cao Cao 曹操 135, 146, 149, 150, 168 Cao Zhi 曹植 150

carefree wandering xiaoyao you 逍遥 游 56, 87, 98, 135 censorship 115, 211, 213, 216, 247, 317, 337 self-censorship 4, 115, 211, 216, 221 chaos as in chaotified mind 19, 57 as Kaos 29 as luan 乱 29 as in primordial chaos 23, 25, 26, 28, 30, 34, 335. See also hundun 混沌 primordial chaos cheng 诚 authenticity, sincerity 42 Chinese Communist Party. See Party Chinese Dream 235, 265, 266, 270 chu shi 出世 be above worldly considerations 103 clarity ming 57 colleagues 2, 83, 92, 147, 185, 188, 196, 197, 213–217, 219, 245, 249, 297, 298 commodification 295, 336, 361 conflict avoidance 114, 239, 249, 250, 252, 256, 257, 265, 271, 283, 354, 358, 361 Confucianism 48–51, 53–56, 78–81, 101–103, 166–170, 258– 260, 320–323, 335–337, 353–355 Confucian values 281, 282, 289 Confucius Kongzi 孔子 44 conscience 良心 50, 291, 295, 300–303, 305, 306, 319, 322 contentment 140, 252, 257 contextualization 18, 35 ars contextualis 32, 34, 35, 61

Index

control emotional control 251–253 personal control 338 primary and secondary control 45, 152, 257 self-control 6, 152, 197, 205, 243, 251, 305 social control 338 thought control 111, 253, 269 coping strategy 6, 184, 243, 250, 261, 306 emotion-focused coping 272 proactive coping 272 problem-focused coping 272 correlative thinking 35, 36, 38, 42, 43 corruption 287, 315 anti-corruption campaigns 287 cosmology 1, 6, 36, 45, 60, 61, 336 as in cosmic egg 23, 26, 28, 30 as in cosmic unity 37 counselling 134, 171, 192, 246, 338 courage, courageous 勇 84, 97, 285, 302, 303, 306, 315, 318, 319, 322 as in ‘see what is right and have the courage to do it’ 见义 勇为 302, 318 crazy 253, 254, 282, 317–322, 335, 355 as in crazy upright scholar 狂狷 名士 318, 335 Cultural Revolution 132, 165, 221, 222, 236, 240, 250, 302, 315, 322, 356

369

D

daode 道德 53, 280. See also morality Daodejing 道德经 19, 25, 26, 28, 39, 40, 46, 55, 57, 60, 87, 108, 136–140, 153, 161, 205, 208, 209 Daoism 3, 5, 18, 23–25, 27, 28, 42, 44, 45, 54, 59, 73, 86–88, 101, 103, 107, 111, 119, 129, 135, 172, 281, 315, 336, 339, 340, 357 Dao (natural way) 道 29, 33, 37, 39–49, 53, 54, 56, 57, 59–61, 87, 99, 144, 205, 209, 258 Deng Xiaoping 34, 62, 115, 131, 168, 198, 235, 240 dialectical, dialectics dialectical process 37 dialectical reasoning 37, 109, 168 dialectical thinking 32, 35, 36, 258, 341 disadvantage is a blessing 吃亏是福 153, 203, 252, 259 disaffection (flat affect) xi divided self (Kleinman et al.) 222, 342 Dream of the red chamber Hongloumeng 红楼梦 92, 149, 168 due proportion du 度 152, 304, 305, 320

E

earthquake (Sichuan) 255 eccentric guai 怪 11, 81, 271 education

370

Index

moral education 171 psychological education 342 social morality education 社会公 德教育 133, 291 Eight Eccentrics of Yangzhou Yangzhou Ba Guai 扬州八 怪 81, 318 Eight Immortals Ba Xian 八仙 23, 101 elderly 77, 80, 134, 156, 183, 188, 189, 192, 219, 221, 222, 235, 240–242, 250, 252, 254 emotion 81, 98, 111, 139, 152, 156, 218, 221, 222, 249, 251–253, 256–258, 265, 269, 304, 363 emotional control 249, 251–253 emotional intelligence 184, 191, 251 emotion moderation 251, 252, 299, 304, 336 entertainment society 娱乐社会 292 epistemology 40–42, 61 equanimity 98, 189, 240, 246 equilibrium as in psychological equilibrium 244, 252, 256 as in psycho-social equilibrium 244 ethics lunli 伦理 53 situational ethics 51, 52, 217, 310, 320. See also Fei Xiaotong 费孝通 exemplary person junzi 君子 50, 78, 161, 246, 295, 313, 335

F

face 7, 28, 95, 117, 146, 173, 186, 187, 192, 194–196, 199, 202, 216–221, 223, 226, 243, 244, 250, 251, 254, 259, 261, 269, 288, 291, 297, 300, 303, 309, 310, 317, 336, 338, 343 as in face and favour 239 as in face work 186, 187, 197, 216–221, 250, 261, 300, 336 as in family face 76 as in group face 187 as in lian 脸 (moral face) 187 as in mianzi 面子 (social face) 187, 244, 269, 303 as in national face 7, 187, 217, 223, 309 as in organizational face 187 as social status 285, 321 face-saving 291 fate ming 命 49 as in knowing fate zhi ming 知命 141, 142, 144, 307, 320 as in knowing the mandate of heaven zhi tianming 知天 命 48, 50, 51 father-mother-official 父母官 78 father and mother of the people 民之父母 77 Fei Xiaotong 费孝通 52, 78, 184, 216, 217, 267, 268, 281, 310, 316 Feng Jicai 冯骥才 343 fengliu 风流 free-spirited 83 feudal society 4, 5, 45, 61, 73, 74, 77, 83, 109–111, 113, 115,

Index

116, 204, 208, 221, 253, 290, 315, 319, 335, 336 filial piety xiao 孝 86, 194, 316 Book of Filial Piety Xiaojing 315 five agents wu xing 五行 36, 61 five cardinal relations wu lun 五伦 44, 51, 214 fool, foolishness as in great wisdom looks like foolishness da zhi ruo yu 大智若愚 108, 151, 157, 284, 288, 317, 341 moral fool 59, 60, 281, 318 sage fool 18, 54, 55, 57, 60, 106, 108, 157, 159, 212, 238, 294, 335, 337, 339 forbearance ren 忍 259, 290, 291 foreigners 90, 130, 215–218, 220, 251, 307, 311, 358 Fortress Besieged 围城 191 Four Olds 236 freedom 38, 48, 50, 75, 83, 111, 114, 116, 132, 212, 240, 242, 262–264, 266, 268, 337, 338, 342, 349–351 friends 2, 24, 45, 52, 58, 77, 143, 145, 147, 148, 161, 188, 190, 194, 195, 201, 211, 214, 215, 218, 242, 249, 311, 316, 356

G

Gang of Four 165, 302 Golden Mean Zhongyong 中庸 135, 151, 251, 252, 304 governance 96, 237, 292, 311, 315, 319 benevolent governance 315, 316

371

therapeutic governance 170, 171

H

handling things zuoshi 做事 296, 297, 299 Han Feizi 韩非子 80. See also Legalism, Legalist happiness 235, 252 family happiness 269 happiness campaigns 246 happiness discourse 268 happiness psychology 247 quest for happiness 256, 267, 268 subjective happiness 237 harmonious society hexie shehui 和谐社会 115, 203, 207, 219, 245–247, 265, 268, 279, 287–289, 294, 295, 337, 350 power structure of 294 harmonization of heaven/nature and people tian ren he yi 天人 合一 37, 44, 238, 263 harmony he 和 or hexie 和谐 as in interpersonal harmony 4, 142, 187, 219, 244, 251, 259, 350, 352 as in intrapersonal harmony 238, 239, 350 as in social harmony 48, 51, 78, 86, 111, 114, 116, 145, 208–210, 212, 213, 218, 245, 247, 252, 292, 295, 299 as in superficial vs. realistic harmony 219, 245, 294 as ‘river crab’ (euphemism for censorship) 247

372

Index

health as in mental health 9, 114, 152, 170, 184, 187, 188, 214, 219, 242, 244, 248, 256, 261, 267–269, 341, 342 as in physical health 9, 49, 187, 188, 219, 268 heart-mind xin 心 51, 92, 103, 143, 300, 301 developed mind chengxin 成心 57 holism, holistic 44, 66, 341 as in holistic cosmology 35 as in holistic thinking 18, 41, 42, 61, 66, 67, 341 as in holistic approach 198 as in holistic structure 37, 61, 78 as in holistic worldview 32, 341 Huainanzi 淮南子 154 Huangdi Neijing 黄帝内经 61 Huang Yongyu 黄永玉 164, 165, 221, 222, 294, 356 Huizi 惠子 24 Hu Jintao 116, 287, 289 hulu 葫芦 bottle gourd 23, 24, 26, 30 humility 10, 343 humour 199, 343, 355, 360, 364 hundun 混沌 primordial chaos 23, 25–30, 34, 55, 60, 93, 139, 238, 349 Hu Shen 胡神 23, 24, 30 Hu Tu 狐突 25 hutu 糊涂, muddled, muddleheaded etymology 21, 298 Hutu-ism hutu zhuyi 糊涂主义 281, 282, 290 as coined by Lu Xunas coined by Lu Xun 113, 131

hutu old man hutu laoren 糊涂老 人 91, 130, 359 semantic associations 22–29

I

ignorance as in Ignorance is Bliss xi, 2, 90 as in pretended ignorance 4, 73, 81, 97, 113, 114, 116, 132, 161, 163–165, 208, 279, 290, 294, 319, 342, 359 illumination ming 明 24, 30, 57, 58 imaginary community 356, 357 immortality 101 Immortal xian 仙 23, 86, 101 Eight Immortals 八仙 23 Little Hutu Immortal 小糊涂仙 129 individualism 220, 268, 269, 311, 312, 338 injustice 118, 141, 234, 253, 254, 271, 291, 302, 305–307, 315–317, 336 in-law 193 as in mother-in-law 77, 193 inner realm jingjie 境界 98, 166, 263, 303, 320, 321, 337 internet 8, 214–218, 222, 315, 358 interpersonal favour 217 interpersonal relationships renji guanxi 人际关系 167, 184, 186, 187, 189, 194, 214, 214, 216, 217, 220, 237, 238, 244, 251, 280, 289, 295, 296, 299, 303, 314 as in art of social relationships guanxixue 关系学 132, 285

Index

intimacy, intimate 38, 146, 184, 214, 216, 218, 220, 222, 269, 298, 354, 356–358 as in intimacy skills 354, 356, 357, 361 as in intimate relation 184, 310, 352, 354, 356, 361 intuition, intuitive 18, 40, 42, 43, 46, 47, 51, 57, 58, 61, 107, 108, 305

J

Jigong 济公 253 Jin Nong 金农 318 Journey to the West Xiyouji 西游记 92, 240 justice 6, 10, 80, 253, 290, 313, 314, 317–319, 321, 363. See also injustice

K

King Shun 362, 363 knowing zhidao 知道 47 as in knowing contentment 知足 140, 156, 257 as in knowing fate zhi ming 知命 or 知天命 141, 142, 144, 307, 320, 321, 336 knowledge as in authentic knowledge 39, 54, 55 as in conventional knowledge 54, 56 as in innate moral knowledge良 知 50, 51 as in knowledge claims 18, 19, 41 as in knowledge theories 32

373

as in practical knowledge 51 as in sense knowledge 27

L

language 28–30, 38–43, 348–353, 356–358 and rhetoric 30, 31, 40, 67, 341 as conventional language 54 ‘right degree’ in speech 305 Lao She 老舍 302 Laozi 老子 46, 54, 55, 57, 58, 97, 108, 135, 137, 139, 153, 208, 209, 349 law 320 legal discourse 304 penal law 80 rule by law 79, 80, 289 rule of law 79, 80, 211, 221, 289 leader, leadership 领导 62, 132, 136, 146, 183, 184, 197–199, 201, 203–207, 212, 214– 216, 219, 245, 263, 307, 308, 316 Lecture Hall 百家讲坛 133, 170 Legalism, Legalist 80, 316 Confucianism on the surface but Legalism on the inside 阳儒 阴法 80 li 礼 ritual propriety 44, 48, 78, 79, 86, 280 lian 脸. See face Lian Po 廉颇 206 Lieh-Tzu 346 Liezi 列子 141. See also Lieh-Tzu Lin Xiangru 蔺相如 206, 207 Lin Yutang 林语堂 41, 94, 97, 101, 104, 110, 111, 141, 154, 340

374

Index

Li Tieguai 李铁拐 23 longevity 19, 23, 24, 30, 188, 241, 340 as in star of longevity 寿星 188 loyalty zhong 忠 86, 240, 316 Lü Duan 吕端 19–21, 146, 162, 168, 298, 358 Lunyu 论语. See Analects luotuo 落拓 unconventional 83 Lu Xun 鲁迅 113, 131, 163, 281, 282, 290, 291

M

Manchu 76, 77, 82, 83 mandate of heaven. See tianming Mao Zedong 20, 131, 168, 209, 210, 302 marriage 184, 189, 191–193, 198, 298, 299, 337 Mencius Mengzi 孟子 44, 50, 79, 103, 142, 148, 197, 209, 300, 315, 316, 318, 362, 363 mianzi 面子. See face ming 命 fate 49, 50, 107, 141, 142, 144, 249, 256, 258, 264, 320, 321, 335, 338 as in mingyun 命运 destiny 49, 262 misfortune 155, 252, 341 moderation 244, 246, 249 modernity, modernization 266, 338, 342 moral as in moral autonomy 316 as in moral conflict 306, 317 as in moral cultivation 道德修养 74, 102, 111, 288, 320

as in moral degeneration 132, 283, 284, 341 as in moral education 道德 教育 152, 291, 292 as in moral fool 59, 60, 318 as in moral judgments 53, 132, 298, 313 as in moral knowledge liangzhi 良知 50, 51, 53, 73, 295, 322 as in moral principles 道德准则 28, 110, 246, 305, 306, 320 as in moral standards道德标准 305, 318 as in new moral order 312 morality Confucian morality 51, 217 ‘cultivate morality, bring order in the family, manage the country, and bring peace to the world’ 修身齐家治 国平天下 204, 238, 246, 266, 288 public morality gongde 公德 234, 291, 320 social morality 336, 338 Mo Yan 莫言 2, 161 muddling through 得过且过 170, 195, 283, 287, 289, 297 myriad of things wan wu 万物 36, 55, 57

N

Nande hutu 难得糊涂 calligraphy 1–4, 6, 10, 21, 82, 88, 89, 116, 153, 233, 265, 286, 287, 336, 351, 359

Index

Nationalism, nationalist 134, 169, 247, 292, 293 New Culture Movement 新文化运 动 170, 210, 282, 290 normative behaviour 281 not-contending. See wuwei 无为 non-action nourishing life, yangsheng 养生 241, 267

O

obscurantist politics 209. See also policy of the ignorant masses officialdom 76, 81, 83, 85–87, 92, 96, 97, 100, 104, 105, 109, 113, 132, 145, 184, 203–205, 245, 286, 287, 299, 302, 315, 318, 319 retreat from officialdom 316, 318 Olympic Games 211, 292, 308, 309 Owl 猫头鹰 165, 221, 222, 294, 354, 356

P

Pangu 盘古 26 Party (Chinese Communist Party, CCP) 68, 77, 131, 165, 190, 203, 204, 207, 210– 213, 215, 224, 240–242, 246, 268, 286, 287, 289, 292, 309, 319, 324–327 decline of trust in the Party 309 Party legitimacy 7, 115, 210, 246, 287, 292, 315, 337, 341 passivity 256, 257, 259, 291, 294, 307–309

375

petty person xiaoren 小人 161, 246, 295 policy of the ignorant masses yumin zhengce 愚民政策 204, 208, 209, 212, 221, 288, 290, 294, 315, 337 power personal power 338 powerless(ness) 无奈 2, 4, 84, 114, 139, 142, 188, 208, 235, 236, 239, 243, 250, 253, 259, 260, 290–293, 301, 307–309, 316, 317 power positions 307 wielding power 250, 261 pretended (fake) muddleheadedness 假糊涂 110, 163, 254, 320 primordial chaos. See hundun principles, yuanze 原则 36, 47, 49, 87, 193, 258, 286, 303, 304, 313, 322 as being principled fang 方 147, 297 as being self-disciplined and observing ritual propriety ke ji fu li 克己复礼 280 private-public as in private-public self 264 as in private-public space 215, 218, 220, 263, 269, 347, 356, 363 criticism in public 186, 269, 215 psychoboom 338 psycho-social equilibrium 244 psycho-social function of being/pretending to be muddled 237–247, 264 psychotherapy 342

376

Index

Q

Qian Yong 钱泳 94, 131 Qian Zhongshu 钱锺书 191 Qing dynasty 75, 81, 113, 135, 282, 303

R

rationality 98, 236, 346, 348, 362–364 rationalization, rationalizing 156, 163, 208, 249, 252, 253, 256, 257, 265 real muddleheadedness zhen hutu 真 糊涂 160, 164, 191 reciprocal favour renqing 人情 187, 298, 299 recluse 91, 93, 100–102, 105, 111, 204, 359, 360 resilience 148, 170, 192, 259, 341 responsibility 10, 51, 78, 79, 83, 84, 97, 103, 115, 148, 170, 171, 205, 241, 242, 282, 283, 288, 297, 301, 306, 308, 312, 315, 317, 342 as in taking responsibility for the world 兼济天下 103, 110 moral responsibility 312 public responsibility 286, 311 retreat, retreating as in major retreat is at court, mediocre retreat is at the marketplace, minor retreat is in nature 大隐隐于朝, 中隐隐于市, 小隐隐于野 101 as in major retreat is at the marketplace 大隐隐于市 101

as in retreat at court 朝隐 101, 102, 107, 111 as in retreat in order to advance yi tui wei jin 以退为进 139, 307 as in yielding 让 139, 192, 259, 355 rich point (Agar) viii, ix right and wrong, shi fei 是非 47, 55, 57, 59, 60, 93, 101, 144, 154, 162, 194, 282, 286, 295, 301, 303 righteousness yi义 86, 88, 280, 295, 302, 313, 316, 357, 363 ritual propriety li 礼 44, 48, 49, 53, 54, 78, 79, 86, 169, 247, 280 ru shi 入世 involve oneself in human society 103

S

sage fool 18, 55, 57, 60, 106, 108, 157, 159, 212, 238, 294, 335, 337, 339 scholar-official (magistrate) 68, 78, 83, 104, 116, 246, 315, 318, 337 self as in divided self. See ‘divided self ’ as in extended self 312 as in greater self da wo 大我 184, 187, 192, 217, 311 as in public self gong wo 公我 218, 222 as in self-achievement 235, 261, 264, 266, 267, 269, 338 as in self-actualization 46, 53, 343

Index

as in self-advancement 116, 219, 263, 280, 285, 289, 300, 312, 319, 337 as in self-centred 311, 312 as in self-concealment 153, 205, 219, 221, 336 as in self-consolation 4, 113, 132, 208, 249, 253–256, 265, 269 as in self-control 涵养 or 自制 6, 115, 152, 197, 205, 243, 251, 265, 305 as in self-cultivation xiu shen 修身 48–51, 55, 79, 98, 102, 109, 111, 114, 134, 136, 167, 169–171, 204, 205, 219, 238, 241, 242, 246, 247, 260, 284, 314, 319–322, 336, 337, 355, 359 as in self-denial 克己 112, 135, 251, 296 as in self-discipline 251, 285 as in self-effacement 197, 267, 296 as in self-help 7, 116, 130, 133, 134, 169, 171, 219 as in self-improvement 3, 7, 8, 48, 93, 130, 133, 151, 169, 171, 206, 285 as in self-interest 163, 268, 312, 354, 356 as in self-knowledge 自知 56, 57, 60, 161, 162 as in self-preservation 保护自己 4, 6, 113, 114, 116, 163, 235, 268, 269, 283, 294, 296, 302, 319, 320, 338, 355, 356, 359, 360

377

as in self-promotion 116, 280, 285, 289, 312, 337 as in self-reliance, self-reliant 263, 264, 292, 342 as in self-restraint 涵养 116, 152, 153, 164, 195, 214, 221, 251, 256, 257, 265, 284, 285, 307, 343 as in self-transcendence 超越自 我 135, 254, 256, 265, 266 as in small self xiao wo 小我 184, 187, 216, 217 selfish(ness) 6, 102, 116, 132, 161, 208, 266–268, 282, 283, 288, 308 private selfishness 268 Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove Zhulin Qi Xian 竹林七贤 318 shame, ashamed xiuchi 羞耻 79, 167, 187, 206, 243, 284 Shi Tao 石涛 318 Shuowen Jiezi 说文解字 21, 153 Siku Quanshu 四库全书 19 silence xi, 186, 200, 255, 322, 323, 345, 346, 348, 349, 353, 354, 361, 365 as in primordial silence 349, 361, 365 as in silencing 348, 353, 354, 356–358 as in silent majority 322, 323 as in Speech is silver, silence is gold 255 sitting and forgetting zuowang 坐忘 58, 100, 108 smartness as in major smartness da congming 大聪明 159–161, 164, 300

378

Index

as in minor smartness xiao congming 小聪明 159–161, 164, 166, 335 as in smartness may overreach itself 聪明反被聪明误 148 social conduct 146, 167, 186, 219, 280, 290, 295–297, 299, 300, 303, 305 as social tact 200, 300, 354, 358, 360, 361 as zuoren 做人 166, 167, 187, 219, 295–297, 300, 306, 319 socialization 166 social vigilance 20, 314, 322, 347, 353, 354, 359 societies of speech 323 soulmate 156, 157, 214–218, 222, 358 space private space 315, 347, 356 public space 217, 220, 347, 356, 363 shared private space 220, 356 spirituality spiritual development 320 spiritual freedom 心灵自由 159, 263, 268, 338 spiritual realm jingjie 236. See also jingjie, inner realm spiritual rebirth 28 spiritual transcendence 3, 24 spiritual union with nature 24 stone 83, 91–93, 317, 318, 359, 360 Zheng Banqiao trials a stone 317 strong ties–weak ties 7, 220, 221, 342, 346, 347, 353, 354, 356, 362–364

as in strong ties–weak ties rationality 346, 363, 364 student 8, 139, 157, 183–185, 194–196, 215, 218, 235, 236, 243, 245, 249, 251, 255, 280, 297, 299, 303, 312 stupid sha 傻 31 as in zhuang sha 装傻 play dumb 143, 163 stupid yu 愚 108 as in da zhi ruo yu 大智若愚 108, 284, 317, 341 subversion, subversive 255, 355, 359, 360, 364 Su Dongpo 苏东坡 6, 74, 106–110, 112, 149, 157, 168, 204, 340 suggestive, suggestiveness 5, 18, 30, 36, 38–40, 61, 62, 153, 201, 236 Sunzi Bingfa 孙子兵法 The Art of War 99, 205 military stratagem 205

T

Tao Yuanming 陶渊明 6, 74, 103–107, 110, 112, 135, 168, 204, 316, 340 teacher 8, 78, 92, 137, 184, 185, 195, 196, 210, 304 three teachings san jiao 三教 105, 339–342 as in merging of the three teachings 三教合一 88, 107, 339, 341 tian heaven/nature 天 37, 49, 141, 258

Index

tianming 天命, mandate of heaven 44, 48–54, 78, 86, 87, 258, 315, 321 knowing the mandate of heaven 知天命 50, 51 tianming wangquan 天命王权, mandate of heaven to rule 78 tian ren he yi 天人合一. See ‘harmonization of heaven/nature and people’ tianxia 天下 world, all under heaven 111, 237, 260, 316 tolerance (endurance) ren 忍 147, 148, 156, 160, 166, 192, 196, 249, 251, 264, 299, 303–305, 343 Treasure map Cangbaotu 藏宝图 2, 161 trust 49, 144, 146, 191, 196, 212, 218, 222, 269, 309, 347, 354 as in decrease of social trust 311 as in not trustworthy Zhang Three and Li Four 222 as in social trust 234, 309 truth (philosophical) as authentic principle 真理 42 as conventional truth 39 as objective truth 41

U

undifferentiation, undifferentiated 27, 37, 57, 93, 139, 238, 336, 348

379

V

vagueness mohu 模糊 3, 5, 18, 22, 23, 29–31, 38, 39, 46, 56, 60–63, 73, 114, 218, 234, 236, 254, 279, 294, 296, 322, 336, 354 virtue de 德 3–5, 32, 44, 46, 53, 62, 78–80, 86, 100, 135, 139, 156, 171, 194, 202, 244, 246, 251, 259, 260, 266, 268, 279, 280, 282, 290, 296, 302, 322

W

wan 顽 rough, unyielding 92, 93, 359, 360 as in wanshi 顽石 rough stone 92, 93, 359, 360 Wang Anshi 王安石 106 Wang Bo 王勃 107 Wang Xiaobo 王小波 322, 323 Wang Xifeng 王熙风 149 Wang Yangming 王阳明 50 Warring States 33, 38, 44, 315 water, as in ‘When the water is too clear, there will be no fish’ 水至清则无鱼 145, 214, 215, 289, 296, 314 web. See internet wisdom as in high wisdom da zhi 大智 98, 100, 112, 114, 290, 337 as in survival wisdom 生存的智 慧 114 as in wisdom of life 人生智慧 2, 3, 11, 110, 112, 130, 132,

380

Index

136, 151, 194, 213, 255, 279 wu lun 五伦. See five cardinal relations wuwei 无为 non-action 136, 259, 307, 309 as effortless action 135, 136, 259, 307 as in wuwei er zhi 无为而治 managing through effortless action 136, 193, 205, 209

X

xiaoyao you 逍遥游. See carefree wandering Xi Jinping 213 xin heart-mind 心 92, 103, 300 developed mind 成心 57 fixed mind 常心 57 Xinxue 心学 ‘School of Mind-Heart’ 50 xiu shen 修身. See self-cultivation

Y

yangsheng 养生. See nourishing life Yang Xiu 杨修 149, 168 Yan Hui 颜回 58 Ye Jianying 叶剑英 20 yielding rang 让. See retreat, retreating

Yijing 易经 (Book of Changes) 25, 36–39, 61, 133, 141 Yin 阴 and yang 阴 36, 37, 61, 87, 93, 144, 237, 258 yi tui wei jin 以退为进. See retreat, retreating youth 243, 322

Z

Zeng Guofan 曾国藩 131, 359 Zhang Three and Li Four 184, 214, 217, 222, 311 Zheng Banqiao 郑板桥 and the calligraphy Nande hutu 88–93 as artist and official 81–86 as crazy upright official 317–319 philosophy of life of Zheng Banqiao 86–88 ‘Zheng Banqiao tries a rock’ (story) 317 Zhuangzi 庄子 (person) 24, 26, 41, 54, 55, 58, 59, 97, 105, 108, 135, 158, 319 Zhuangzi (book) 24–28, 39, 42, 45, 54–56, 58, 59, 87, 100, 103, 108, 139, 241, 339 Zhuge Liang 诸葛亮 20, 21, 135, 146, 168 zuoren 做人. See ‘social conduct’ zuoshi 做事. See ‘handling things’