Zhuangzi Class Reflection 2; On Action and Usefulness

#philosophy #theology #aesthetics

[[장자 2문]]

Focusing on the set of discrete (if related stories) found in Watson, pp.22-30; that is, from Chapter Four's beginning to the break in the text on p.30. Select one and interpret it, stressing its contemporary relevance. In no more than a brief paragraph comment on how the last section in Chapter 4 (from pages 30-33) relates to the story you selected.

"I want to tell you something else I have learned. In all human relations, if the two parties are living close to each other, they may form a bond through personal trust. But if they are far apart, they must use words to communicate their loyalty, and words must be transmitted by someone. To transmit words that are either pleasing to both parties or infuriating to both parties is one of the most difficult things in the world. When both parties are pleased, there must be some exaggeration of the good points; and when both parties are angered, there must be some exaggeration of the bad points. Anything that smacks of exaggeration is irresponsible. Where there is irresponsibility, no one will trust what is said, and when that happens, the man who is transmitting the words will be in danger. Therefore the aphorism says, 'Transmit the established facts; do not trans- mit words of exaggeration.' If you do that, you will probably come out all right."

Zhuangzi, trans. Burton Watson, The Complete Works of Chuang Tzu, p. 27

I wonder what advice Zhuangzhou would give on long distance relationships. I imagine he'd raise his snowy eyebrows as if to ask, "I wrote about the fasting of the spirit and that's what you ask me about?". But I also imagine he'd be intrigued by the way communication like instant messaging, video call, and flying has enabled and shaped long distance relationships. I feel it is miraculous, even transgressive, that I can 'teleport' the eighteen thousand li between Seoul and Palo Alto to call my parents whenever. And when I inevitably don't call them enough, I can even fly over and see them.

[[Long Distance Relationships|Long distance relationships]] are deeply important to me. My family has always been scattered across the US, Australia, and Korea—and with the paths my twin sister and I are on, that won't change anytime soon. Growing up, my dad spent most of his time in Korea, visiting us occasionally in Australia. Now, my girlfriend and I will start a long distance relationship between New York and Oxford—something entirely new for me romantically.

In the passage above, Zhuangzhou offers direct advice. He recognises that "transmit(ting) words that are either pleasing to both parties of infuriating to both parties is one of the most difficult things in the world", and instructs to be honest and understated - to "transmit the established facts... (not) words of exaggeration."

But this answer is not satisfying. While the above might hold as a default norm, communication with my family, my partner, and close friends is necessarily impassioned for me. After all, aren't feelings of love always a little "exaggerated"—not in the sense of falsehood, but in how they require a willingness to be carried away? And more often than not, I have only words to shape the contours of my relationships. Not actions, not presence, just language: fragile, fallible. However, I understand what Zhuangzi is arguing - strong words bring sincerity into question. This is why I feel despite strong underlying feelings for my loved ones, I end up talking less, and wanting to be understated or subtle. I love writing (and receiving) letters, and I think those words feel more like actions to me in the sense they are thoughtful, deliberate, and seek to be permanent. Texts are often sloppy despite good intentions and don't seek to be permanent (when they still are).

I want to hone in on the distinction between words and actions. Zhuangzi views words as smoke and mirrors for our confused spirits "like wind and waves, easily stirred". He expresses this through the arresting contrast between animal and human death, privileging the beauty and nobility of animal death, "a wild fierceness is born in their hearts", while criticising human death which is "ill-natured" despite "not knowing why they do so". While the humans are spiralling into further confusion, fear, and anguish through attempting to explain their end, animals simply act and do. This story further sheds light on a characteristic of speech for me - that in good times speech can be magnanimous and enlightened, and in bad times it can be small-minded and fearful. We generally tend to make poorer decisions during difficult times, but words can escape our mouths more quickly than actions can be consummated. We've all blurted things out we wish we could take back. More subtly, I've also felt this in phone calls where misunderstanding can compound quickly due to one person's difficult mood.

Words are grounded by actions. But the significant delay in being able to 'verify' one's words, especially with some distance, means there's lots of pressure to say the right thing. Words are burdened by their usefulness. To free us from this, how about we consider the notion of 'useless words'? The kinds of words that are able to - like the gnarled tree - grow in the empty space it is given by virtue of its rejection? To me, language meant for oneself is close to 'useless'. Private words - fragments, whispered phrases, childhood nonsense, half-remembered expressions - do not help me communicate with anyone but myself. They often surface in moments of grief, confusion, or tenderness—states where language falters but still insists on being spoken. They hold memory, rhythm, and self-recognition in ways public speech cannot. Sometimes, the very effort to make speech "useful"—persuasive, explanatory, declarative—is what leads it astray. We overexplain our pain, rationalize our desires, perform closeness, and often say too much when silence would be more honest. We confuse speaking clearly with speaking truthfully.

As a result of reflecting on Zhuangzi, I have become more self-aware about my own style of communication. Growing up, I was always scolded whenever I would say one thing but do another. Even apologising for actions was not accepted because I was always told apologies with words mean nothing. I am broadly happy with the fact that I don't text a lot. However, Zhuangzi's understanding of how miscommunication is built into communication convinces me to be more charitable in receiving messages. If someone sends me a text that distresses me, I want to actively view it in the best possible light; giving them the benefit of the doubt that they were hurting. Conversely I want to deliver messages in a way that is stable and consistent, even if 'boring' or detached, to minimize the probability of this kind of miscommunication.

I also recognise that communication is a dance. This is one way where I strongly disagree with Zhuangzi. Unlike his prescription on how one should communicate, I think because it is bidirectional, it should be guided by the other person's expectations too, no matter how much you agree or disagree with their approach. In the spirit of zìran, you must not explicitly go against the grain, and like the wise breeder of the lion, follow the other person's nature rather than go against it. However, this concept of spontaneity involves a delicate balance. How does one maintain genuine spontaneity without losing authenticity, especially in long-distance relationships where mutual trust and consistency can be fragile? I think the answer can be found in individually finding room for reflection. This also requires that the other person occasionally gives you the space for isolated introspection. Only in that stillness is one able to achieve the clarity needed to strike a balance between clinging to one's own selfish habits and accomodating every expectation, guiding interactions to enrich mutual trust.

These thoughts make me a bit scared. I care a lot about these people, and I don't want to mess it up. Yes, maybe it's just not possible to communicate know-how—the subtle ways we sense another's fatigue, or intuit when something feels out of sync—as opposed to merely sharing know-that, factual news or daily updates. I draw comfort though thinking of Gödel meticulously mailing his proofs to distant colleagues, Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning exchanging poems across Europe, or even notes tucked into bottles cast adrift in the ocean. These examples remind me that the intentionality behind long-distance gestures—the quiet anticipation, vulnerability, and hope—is beautiful. Understanding better the inevitable space for confusion, unintended exaggeration, and small hurts actually makes me feel more prepared. I feel excited and even brave about navigating a future defined by distance with the people I love.