FOREWORD
We do not see its form,
We do not hear its sound,
Yet we can perceive an order to its
accomplishments.
We call it “the Way” [Tao].
Nei-yeh/Inward Training, trans. Harold D.Roth
Russell Kirkland has written an important introductory book for
Wayfarers who are curious about, and are seriously seeking out, the
spiritual path known ambiguously and recalcitrantly in the West as
Taoism. As one of the forgotten early Taoist texts, the Inward
Training, says: we—Chinese and others—call it the Way or the Tao.
The problem is that we have not really seen its form; and we have not
heard its sound. Or perhaps more accurately we have encountered a
cacophony of strange forms and sounds, many of which often have
little affinity with the Tao of Chinese history or with its extravagant
efflorescence throughout the world today. To be sure, we in the West
have perceived an “order,” or orders, of dichotomous meaning
associated with the Taoist tradition—most frequently described as a
contrast between the philosophical purity of some early “classical”
texts and the absurd religious practices of the later sectarian
traditions.
It has been known for some time that the received opinion about
Taoism in the West was in need of drastic revision. But fantasies
about Chinese tradition die a slow and lingering death and, in fact, are
always subject to surprising moments of zombie-like reanimation in
sometimes silly and frightening ways (witness, for example, the
spawn of the “Tao of Pooh” and its ilk such as the “Tao of Steve” and,
most improbably, the “Tao of Elvis”). Even after a quarter-century of
revolutionary scholarship, it may still be said that the actual
“accomplishments” of the Tao, along with its sinuous path throughout
Chinese and world history, are only very recently coming into general
awareness in both scholarly and popular circles.1
There is good and bad news connected with these developments.
The bad news for many is simply that the compelling and beguiling
simplicity of the old “order” of understanding Taoism in relation to the
philosophical purity and romantic mystery of a few ancient texts has
now been absorbed into a vast, and at times bewildering, labyrinth of
texts, ideas, and practices. No longer is it possible to invoke a few
pious platitudes of poorly translated verse by the Old Boy, Laotzu, or
an elusively pithy parable from the Chuang-tzu, and feel confident
that one is dealing with the “essential” or “original” meaning of the
tradition. Nor is it possible blithely to assign students a copy of
Steven Mitchell’s “version” of the Tao te ching so that they might
meditate on the Zennish heart of Taoism. Even the blessed butterfly
dream of effortless non-action (wu-wei) which so enraptured
generations of Western commentators from Oscar Wilde to Timothy
Leary has largely evaporated—like the ch’imist of a Chinese
landscape painting—into the intertextual caverns and ritual practices
of Taoist history.
I could go on with a litany of now outdated and misleading
assumptions about Taoism, but more positively I am happy to report
that for the first time it is possible to encounter actual Taoist
“accomplishments” in time and space that are not hopelessly
overwhelmed by willful and wistful Orientalist fabulation. This good
news is dramatically manifest in Russell Kirkland’s discussion of the
“enduring tradition” of Taoism. This book can, therefore, be
considered among the very first sinologically informed and popularly
accessible products of the pioneering labors by Taoist and comparative
scholars during the past twenty or thirty years. Kirkland’s little book,
along with just one or two other recent works, shows us that Taoist
studies have finally come of age. What he has given us is not just
another technical monograph for a small community of specialists;
rather he has produced a kind of “first take” synthetic interpretation of
the history and meaning of Taoism that forces us to see the overall
tradition in fresh and unexpected ways.
Kirkland has, indeed, given us a new framework for understanding
the Taoist tradition—an iconoclastic perspective that often boldly
challenges many stereotypical conceptions favored by both popular
enthusiasts and sinological scholars. Another especially appealing
aspect of this work is Kirkland’s acerbic sensibility and his ability to
write comprehensibly and inquisitively. In the best sense of a teacher
who is in command of his subject and knows that real understanding,
like the Tao itself, is ever changing, he invites his readers to confront
and to interrogate the complexities of the tradition. Nothing is taken
for granted and, as curious Wayfarers, we are clearly asked to respond
argumentatively and critically. This book is, then, not just a significant
groundbreaking introduction to the Taoist tradition. It is also a kind of
revelatory evocation of the spirit of the tradition—a multifarious
tradition (or “omnidoxy,” as Kirkland suggestively describes it) that
calls all of us to be forever students of a Way that “endures” through
constant transformation. There are no final or definitive conclusions
to be drawn; only more questions to ask.
As a new and stimulating overview of the Taoist tradition, this
book is particularly helpful for clarifying some of the dense
confusions of Taoist history for a general audience. Striking examples
of Kirkland’s innovative approach are also seen in such matters as his
treatment of the role of women in Taoism; his dismissal of the
simplistic notion that the ideal of the hsien (often misleadingly
identified as a reclusive “immortal”) is the central goal or meaning of
the Taoist religion; and his rejection of the notion that the later Taoist
sectarian religious movements were mostly derivative of Buddhism.
The major interpretive contribution of this work is, however, to be
found in his persuasive discussion of the religious “goal” of the
“cultivated life” in Taoism (stressing bodily, mental, and spiritual
practices of personal transformation) which was predominantly
accomplished within a social framework.
There are other revelations and virtues to be found in this book.
But I must leave it to the reader to make these discoveries. This is,
after all, part of the real serendipitous and educative joy of Kirkland’s
treatise—you never know what you will find along the way.
Norman J.Girardot
University Distinguished Professor
Religion Studies Department
Lehigh University