Daoism and the Meontological Imagination

David Chai
Associate Professor of Philosophy
Chinese University of Hong Kong
davidchai@cuhk.edu.hk

This paper is scheduled to appear in Social Imaginaries in 2021.

The production version may differ in style and/or content.

Abstract

Of the things needing to be forgotten if we are to partake in the oneness of Dao, language
is perhaps the hardest. Since the purpose of words is to delimit things, words create an artificial
division between things and their image qua form. While humanity views images as distinct
entities, Dao leaves them in their jumbled collectivity; while humanity feels compelled to act
upon our thoughts and feelings, Dao remains silent and empty. This leads to the following
question: Will modelling ourselves after Dao result in a more creative form of thinking and if
so, can it be carried-out without words and images? To demonstrate why the answer to this
question is yes, we will first analyze why words are an obstacle to deeper thinking before
looking at how images, despite their ability to connect with Dao, are nevertheless hindered by
their dependency on being. It thus falls to spirit to lay bare the constant non-image of Dao, the
core of the Daoist imagination and focus of the final section of this paper.

Keywords: words, images, imagination, meontology, Daoism

I. Introduction

When it comes to discussion of the imagination in ancient China, the few scholars who
have examined its role in Daoist philosophy1 have surprisingly ignored its onto-cosmological
import.2 Perhaps this can be explained by the fact that the Chinese term approximating what
the West calls “the imagination” (xiangxiang 想象, lit. image-thinking or image-thoughts)
occurs only once in the texts of ancient China, specifically chapter 5 of the Liezi 列子 (c. 4th

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C. BCE).3 What we find instead is an abundance of references (more than fifty) to a thing’s
image or appearance. However, if we are to speak of the Daoist imagination, we cannot do so
directly because Daoist creativity does not dwell on the surface of things but penetrates to the
source of what makes thinking possible.

Herein lies the challenge in expounding Daoist image-thinking: while the world and its
myriad beings belong to the reality of Dao 道, said reality cannot be encapsulated by common
words or images. Since words have the purpose of delimiting things, they artificially create a
division between a thing and its image (i.e., its form, xing 形). Whereas humanity views
images as distinct entities, Dao leaves them in their nameless collectivity; whereas humanity
feels compelled to act upon our thoughts and feelings, Dao remains silent and empty. This
leads to the following question: Will modelling ourselves after Dao result in a more creative
form of thinking and if so, can it be carried-out without words and images? How can we learn
to encounter Dao without using our heart-mind (xin 心) but our spirit (shen 神),4 for only the
latter can surpass words and images to wander in the imageless silence of Dao.

Dao qua non-image is not to say that Dao abrogates images or the things to which they
are affixed; on the contrary, Dao is neither being (you 有) nor non-being (wu 無) but the root
of both: “In the Great Beginning, there was non-being; there was no being, no name. Out of it
arose One; there was One, but it had no form.” (Watson 2013, p. 88; Guo 1985, p. 424). The
non-being spoken of here is neither pure emptiness nor absolute void but Dao’s own still, empty,
quietude. Given Dao is the progenitor of heaven and earth and the myriad things (wanwu 萬
物) therein, every entity in the cosmos has the natural tendency to revert to a state of silent
quiescence once its fullness is exhausted. In the case of words, their verbalization is only
possible because of the silence preceding them; once words are rendered empty, they return to
their root in non-words. Words and non-words thus engage in a cycle of alternation but what
allows this pivoting to occur is Dao. If we wish to catch sight of the mutual-dependency5 of
being and non-being, the only way to do so, Daoism argues, is to view things from the oneness
of Dao, a state that is neither grounded in being nor non-being but the meontological generosity
of Dao’s own self-so-ness.6

Experiencing Dao qua ultimate reality thus requires a retooling of our faculties such that
we openly embrace its wordless words and imageless images. To wander beyond words and
images is not only a journey of self-exploration and self-forgetting, it becomes a form of
spiritual cultivation and enrichment. Without the aid of spirit, the Daoist imagination will be

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no different from other forms of creative thinking extant in ancient China. To demonstrate why
the answer to the question posed above is yes, this paper analyzes the thought of two Daoist
thinkers: Laozi 老子 (c. 6th C. BCE) and Zhuangzi 莊子 (c. 375-300 BCE). We will first
analyze why words are an obstacle to deeper thinking before looking at how images, despite
their ability to connect with Dao, are nevertheless hindered by their dependency on being. It
thus falls to spirit to lay bare the constant non-image of Dao, the core of the Daoist imagination
and focus of the final section of this paper.

II. Overcoming Words to Think in Images

Daoism was not the first tradition in ancient China to speak of images or image-centric
thinking—that honor goes to the 11th century BCE divinatory text, the Classic of Changes
(Yijing 易經): “As for the images, the sages had the means to perceive the mysteries of the
world and, drawing comparisons to them with analogous things, made images out of those
things that seemed appropriate. In consequence of this, they called these ‘images’” (Lynn 1994,
p. 68). Another ancient text that speaks of the role images play in conveying what is not directly
representable was by the Legalist thinker Hanfeizi 韓非子 (d. 233 BCE). In a chapter entitled
“Explaining the Laozi 解老” we are told that:

People rarely see a living elephant, but when they get the bones of a dead elephant,
complying with their design, they imagine the living thing. This is why when anyone
imagines something, this is always called an image. Now, although there is no way to
know how the Dao looks or sounds, the true sage grasps its visible effects and thereby
manages to discern its shape. This is what the text [of the Laozi] refers to when it states:
“the shape of that which has no shape, the image of that which has no physical existence”
(Queen 2013, pp. 240-241; Chen 2000, p. 413).

The last line of this passage describes the ineffable nature of Dao and is derived from
chapter 14 of Laozi’s Daodejing 道德經. In chapter 41, we are again reminded that “the great
image is formless 大象無形.” This portrayal of Dao qua cosmic progenitor is also found in
the Zhuangzi 莊子. Laozi and Zhuangzi both share the idea that the openness of image-based
thinking is always preferred to the conceptually closed mode of words. Nowhere is this more
obvious than in the example of the useless tree in chapter 1 of the Zhuangzi:

Now you have this big tree, and you’re distressed because it’s useless. Why don’t you

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 plant it in Not-Even-Anything Village or the field of Broad-and-Boundless, relax and do
nothing by its side, or lie down for a free and easy sleep under it? Axes will never shorten
its life, nothing can ever harm it. If there’s no use for it, how can it come to grief or pain?
(Watson 2013, p. 6; Guo 1985, p. 40).

Zhuangzi’s amusement at the perplexity shown by his friend Huizi is telling. Normally
when one plants a tree, we envisage it following a path of growth that contains no deviation
from how we conceive it. Never for a moment do we take into consideration the inborn nature
(xing 性 ) of the tree, or that the straight-and-narrow way of humanity is an artificial
phenomenon absent from the natural world. For Huizi, a sophist by trade, the spontaneity of
Nature is unfathomable and downright frightening compared to the comfort found in the logic
of words. Huizi’s use of images is not rooted in the free-wandering of that which undergirds
them—non-images (wuxiang 無象); rather, he takes images as lacking a middle ground, one
upon which he might stand and partake in the variegated possibilities the tree has to offer. Had
he allowed the tree to remain true to itself, Huizi could have avoided the distress he felt when
its image turned out to be different from his preconceived definition of it. Zhuangzi, on the
other hand, identifies with the treeness of the tree. By recognizing that both the tree and himself
derive their image qua form from Dao, and that both will return to the nothingness that Dao
makes its abode when their life comes to an end, Zhuangzi recommends Huizi uproot his word-
based image of what constitutes a useful tree and replant it in the imageless land of Dao where
all things are simultaneously useful and useless.7

For Zhuangzi, this is an easy task in that he has already perfected the art of harmonizing
with things in their imageless collectivity. To be no longer burdened by content-specific images
is to be unchained from any dependency on the being of said images and reside in the reality
of that which has no image of its own. He explains:

You have heard of the knowledge that knows, but you have never heard of the knowledge
that does not know. Look into that closed room, the empty chamber where brightness is
born! Fortune and blessing gather where there is stillness. But if you do not keep still—
this is what is called sitting but racing around. Let your ears and eyes communicate with
what is inside and put [heart-] mind and knowledge on the outside (Watson 2013, p. 26;
Guo 1985, p. 150).

While image-thoughts are housed in the heart-mind, their origin does not lie there insofar
as Daoism views the heart-mind as one of the key barriers to allowing our spirit to conjoin with

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Dao. The reason it takes such a stance is that our physical senses are easily deceived and the
data they receive is never the full extent of what actually exists. Owing to this, Daoism argues
that all forms of common knowing and thinking—when compared to that of the sage (shengren
聖人)—are perspectival, transient, and being-dependent. This is why the Zhuangzi argues that
“in the world, everyone knows enough to pursue what he does not know, but no one knows
enough to pursue what he already knows” (Watson 2013, p. 72; Guo 1985, p. 359). Knowledge
that knows is a knowing derived from words; it is not the knowledge that rests in non-words
(wuyan 無言).

The Zhuangzi uses the metaphor of the empty, dark room for the heart-mind of the sage
because the sage’s heart-mind is closed, not to the oneness of Dao, but to the injurious potential
that notions of right and wrong, this and that, carry with them. These artificial constructs have
no illuminating power—only confusion and division. What brightens the dark emptiness of the
sage’s heart-mind is Dao, however, Dao does not externally brighten things but illuminates
them via spirit. The physical senses we employ to collect the data used to formulate our image-
thoughts are thus an interruption to the harmony enjoyed between our spirit and Dao. Such
being the case, the Zhuangzi says we should put our physical senses outside of ourselves
because “knowledge must wait for something before it can be applicable, and that which it
waits for is never certain” (Watson 2013, p. 42; Guo 1985, p. 225). In other words, instead of
waiting for things upon which to attach our knowledge, Daoism argues it would be better to
employ nothingness to transform our word-based knowledge into the non-knowledge of Dao.
As for what this entails, chapter 19 of the Zhuangzi tells us the following:

Things have their creation in what has no form, and their conclusion in what has no change.
If a man can get hold of this and exhaust it fully, then how can things stand in his way?
He may rest within the bounds that know no excess, hide within the borders that know no
source, wander where the ten thousand things have their end and beginning, unify his
nature, nourish his breath, unite his virtue, and thereby communicate with that which
creates all things (Watson 2013, p. 146; Guo 1985, p. 634).

We noted above that humanity’s physical senses can only produce trace-images of the
things we encounter or imagine. What our eyes see is not the full extent of all that is visible
and what our ears hear is not the full extent of all that is audible. Each sensory effort is
subsequently strung together to create an illusion of wholeness, but even this fails to approach
the unity of things when seen from the perspective of Dao’s meontological creativity.

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 In our daily encounter with things, the image of their being is little more than a shadow
of their true, penumbral selves. As the dark image of Dao is brought to light via its virtue, it
illuminates being and non-being in such a way that their co-dependency remains unperturbed.
In other words, seeing things from the undifferentiated oneness of Dao allows us to overcome
the word-centric divisions of attribute and form and view them in their togetherness. To insist
on their mutual exclusivity is to ignore the reality that, for Daoism, all things arise from and
return to their source in Dao. Thinking that is grounded in non-images is thus akin to wandering
in the illimitable reality of that which defies containment, definition, and imaginings bound to
words. Such is why Daoism holds that Dao qua ultimate reality is still, empty, and quiet, and
is also why the sage thinks thoughtless thoughts and imagines imageless images. To practice
the “teaching without words” as Laozi says in chapter 43 of the Daodejing, is to arrive at the
realization that words fail to encapsulate Dao because words only apply to things while images
can find their way to non-things.

The Zhuangzi’s argument is not that there is a disconnect between words and non-words,
images and non-images; rather, the text’s criticism is directed towards those who believe that
words are fully able to encapsulate the inborn nature of things, and that the form of said things
can be wholly embodied in whatever image we assign them. The issue Daoism has with such
literal thinking is that it provides no room for the spirit to wander within and beyond said
images. Our fixation with closing-off every encounter we have with the things of the world, let
alone the world itself, hinders establishing an open-ended relationship with them such that their
being is ostensibly alien to us. If, however, we wish to comprehensively partake in the non-
image of Dao, a solution must be devised whereby any differentiation between the knowing
self and non-knowing non-self disappears. The Zhuangzi has plenty of examples, three of
which are given below:

Chang Ji asked Confucius: “This Wang Tai who’s lost a foot—how does he get to divide
up Lu with you, Master, and make half of it his disciples? He doesn’t stand up and teach,
he doesn’t sit down and discuss, yet they go to him empty and come home full. Does he
really have some wordless teaching, some formless way of bringing the [heart-] mind to
completion?” (Watson 2013, p. 34; Guo 1985, p. 187).

Before we can speak of coarse or fine, however, there must be some form. If a thing has
no form, then numbers cannot express its dimensions, and if it cannot be encompassed,
then numbers cannot express its size. We can use words to talk about the coarseness of

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 things, and we can use our [heart-] minds to visualize the fineness of things. But what
words cannot describe and the [heart-] mind cannot succeed in visualizing—this has
nothing to do with coarseness or fineness (Watson 2013, p. 129; Guo 1985, p. 572).

The formless moves to the realm of form; the formed moves back to the realm of
formlessness. This all men alike understand. But it is not something to be reached by
striving. The common run of men all alike debate how to reach it. But those who have
reached it do not debate, and those who debate have not reached it (Watson 2013, p. 181;
Guo 1985, p. 746).

The importance of these passages lies in the value attached to the contemplative aspects
of life-thinking. If words are to successfully embody the images from which they are derived,
the heart-mind of the thinker must first embark on a program of self-cultivation and refinement
to prepare the spirit for its wandering as it conjoins with Dao.8 For Wang Tai, to neither stand
nor sit is an indication of his freedom from political norms (to stand while holding court with
the king) and social etiquette (to sit while lecturing students). Those who come to Wang Tai
do so emptily yet leave full because Wang does not fill them with the common image-thoughts
of humanity but the comprehensive idea that Dao is a non-image. Additionally, the people that
seek-out Wang possess a false knowledge of Dao—hence their emptiness—but after
experiencing Wang’s teaching by way of non-words, they acquire insight into it and depart full.

In the second quoted passage, though not a direct elaboration of the first, we are
nevertheless given additional details on what formlessly completing the heart-mind entails.
Referring to the coarseness and fineness of things, the Zhuangzi is not only testifying to the
unidirectional manner of thinking most of us utilize to know the world, but the very relativity
of notions such as coarse and fine. An image, being a visual representation of an idea, is
restricted by the physical properties of the medium portraying it; however, ideas do not face
such limitations, and while their coarseness or fineness impacts the level of detail we can
experience, it does not alter the fact that ideas are formless images. Indeed, one of the pillars
of Daoist thinking is related to how we envision life: we have a heart-mind and bodily form
but these are not the extant of life in that they do not take into account its internal breath (qi
氣), spirit, or endless changes (hua 化). The latter three components are the cornerstones of
Daoist life-praxis and the crux of Wang Tai’s authentic encounter with Dao. Since Wang
transforms the internal breath and spirit of others by harmonizing them with his own, words
become irrelevant. What is more, by showing others the oneness of things in Dao, Wang instills

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in them the imageless idea of its reality. In the words of the Zhuangzi: “Your life has a limit,
but knowledge has none. If you use what is limited to pursue what has no limit, you will be in
danger. If you understand this and still strive for knowledge, you will be in danger for certain”
(Watson 2013, p. 19; Guo 1985, p. 115).

The danger of word-based knowledge lies in its inability to access the nameless constancy
of Dao. This is why the second passage quoted above decries people’s tendency to speak of
Dao in terms of course or fine because these attributes are form-dependent but Dao is formless.
By dwelling upon the non-image of Dao, our heart-mind is relieved of its rationalizing duty,
enabling the spirit to wander in the clearing created by the forgetting of words and images.
Without the need to dissect the world into contrasting opposites, our understanding of things
can move beyond their measurable properties and take into account those that are
immeasurable. This is because, as the Zhuangzi states in chapter 22, Dao is the “formless that
gives form to form” while the Daodejing, as we saw earlier, in chapter 14 states that Dao is
“the shape of that which has no shape, the image of that which has no physical existence.” In
a similar manner, words are the coarse actualization of image-ideas while image-ideas are the
subtle intuitions of spirit. Knowing that all things take this path of circularity, Daoism not only
wordlessly teaches others but spiritually enriches them by fostering in their heart-mind the
imageless harmony of the cosmos. In doing so, the Zhuangzi says, everyone can “let your heart-
mind wander in simplicity, blend your spirit with the vastness, follow along with things the
way they are, and make no room for personal views” (Watson 2013, p. 56; Guo 1985, p. 294).

III. The Non-Image of Dao

The passage ending the first section of our discussion not only testifies to the life-praxis
of the sage, it offers us important insight into the operation of the Daoist imagination. Unlike
Confucianism, which upholds the belief that each word is tied to a single definition otherwise
confusion will ensue, Daoism argues that words have a multiplicity of meanings depending on
the time and context of their usage. The effect this has on the imagination is threefold: first, if
we are to participate in the still, empty, quietude of Dao, we cannot use the irrevocable
limitation of words to fathom its non-image; second, we cannot harmonize with Dao if we
employ preconceived images to either view the things of the world, or their collective being in
Dao; third, having emptied our heart-mind of mundane words and the images of said words,
we can embrace things in their self-so circularity such that the expansive simplicity of Dao’s

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non-image is now able to be perceived by the spirit. From the above, we can surmise that the
Daoist imagination is not fed by words or images but nourished by the ultimate, formless idea
of Dao: “The Dao cannot be thought of as being, nor can it be thought of as non-being. In
calling it the Dao, we are only adopting a temporary expedient” (Watson 2013, p. 226; Guo
1985, p. 917).

This line, from chapter 25 of the Zhuangzi, indicates that Dao cannot be ascribed a singular,
fixed mode of existence. As for relating this statement to the imagination, chapter 26 of the
Zhuangzi offers a clue in the form of one of the most famous passages in Chinese philosophy:

The fish trap exists because of the fish; once you’ve gotten the fish, you can forget the
trap. The rabbit snare exists because of the rabbit; once you’ve gotten the rabbit, you can
forget the snare. Words exist because of meaning; once you’ve gotten the meaning, you
can forget the words (Watson 2013, p. 233; Guo 1985, p. 944).

A fish trap is a tool designed to capture fish; its purpose is singular and temporary just
like words. What feeds the trap, and makes it useful, are fish. The trap is thus dependent on
fish, yet fish live independent of the trap. Thus, the trap is artificially introduced into the world
to ensnare fish, just like words are used to capture images, and images are employed to embody
ideas. What remains consistent in both scenarios is the act of forgetting (wang 忘). Once out
of sight, fish forget the trap that just before threatened to imprison them; once emptied from
the heart-mind, humans forget the words that just before threatened to distance us from Dao.
The result of forgetting words is an existence that is still, empty, and quiet—a perfect
mimicking of Dao.

The metaphor of fish traps and rabbit snares would be picked-up and elaborated upon by
Wang Bi9 王弼 (226-249 CE), a figure made famous by his commentaries on the Classic of
Changes and the Daodejing. That Wang Bi appropriates the Zhuangzi’s metaphor of trap and
snare to be part of his exegesis on the Classic of Changes is interesting in its own right; however,
what concerns us here is how he uses them to illustrate the relationship between the hexagram
images and their written explanations. In a prefatory essay entitled “Clarifying the Images 明
象” Wang writes:

Images are the means to express ideas. Words [i.e., the texts] are the means to explain the
images. To yield up ideas completely, there is nothing better than the images, and to yield
up the meaning of the images, there is nothing better than words. The words are generated
by the images, thus one can ponder the words and so observe what the images are. The

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 images are generated by ideas, thus one can ponder the images and so observe what the
ideas are. The ideas are yielded up completely by the images, and the images are made
explicit by the words. Thus, since the words are the means to explain the images, once
one gets the images, he forgets the words, and, since the images are the means to allow us
to concentrate on the ideas, once one gets the ideas, he forgets the images. Similarly, “the
rabbit snare exists for the sake of the rabbit, once one gets the rabbit, he forgets the snare,
and the fish trap exists for the sake of fish; once one gets the fish he forgets the trap.” If
this is so, then the words are snares for the images, and the images are traps for the ideas.
(Lynn 1994, p. 31; Lou 1980: p. 609).

Leaving aside the fact that this passage is not addressing the Daodejing or Zhuangzi,
Wang Bi’s tripartite system of words, images, and ideas lends further support to our argument
that the heart of the Daoist imagination lies not with words or images, but the meontological
non-image of Dao. The non-image of Dao serves as both the starting and ending point of the
creative thinking process whereby words cannot exist without images and images cannot exist
without ideas, yet ideas only reach completion once they arrive at the holistic non-image of
Dao. Forgetting words and images is hence a necessary precondition to attuning oneself to the
non-image of Dao. The dark potential of Dao, however, remains hidden from the heart-mind
of all who take words as comprising the full extent of reality and is why it falls to spirit to shine
a light upon the idea that reality is but an extension of the formless non-image of Dao.

To relate this back to the analogy of fish traps and rabbit snares, in both cases the objective
is to use something stationary to acquire that which is moving. Fish and rabbits are beings with
spirit, as are humans, whereas traps and snares are akin to words in that their sole purpose is to
seize and detain their target. Words are thus dead objects without the animating vitality of
images, and images wither away without nourishment from the meontological creativity of Dao.
We can find further textual evidence for this theory in chapter 4 of the Zhuangzi: “Let your
ears and eyes communicate with what is inside and put mind and knowledge on the outside”
(Watson 2013, p. 26; Guo 1985, p. 150). Later, in chapter 11, the Zhuangzi again tells us that
because the nature of Dao is profoundly enigmatic, humanity can only comprehend it if we “let
there be no seeing, no hearing; enfold the spirit in quietude, and the body will right itself”
(Watson 2013, p. 78; Guo 1985, p. 381). The root of creativity, in other words, lies neither in
the external world nor in the words we call upon to demarcate it; rather, authentic creativity
resides in the formless form, soundless sound, and imageless image characteristic of Dao.

By discarding outward forms of knowledge in order to concentrate on the constant non-

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image of Dao, the sage locates himself in the interplay between stillness and movement, silence
and sound, dark and light, such that he observes the clarity of what for ordinary people is muddy.
Chapter 15 of the Daodejing famously opines: “Who can take his turbidity and, by stilling it,
gradually become clear? Who can take his quietude and, by stirring it long, gradually come
alive?” (Lynn 1999, p. 74; Lou 1980, p. 34). The Zhuangzi, too, contains water-based analogies,
two of which are: “Men do not mirror themselves in running water—they mirror themselves in
still water. Only what is still can still the stillness of other things” (Watson 2013, p. 35; Guo
1985, p. 193); and, “It is the nature of water that if it is not mixed with other things, it will be
clear, and if nothing stirs it, it will be level” (Watson 2013, p. 121; Guo 1985, p. 544). Like
water that is naturally capable of being both clear and murky, the coherency of the idea that
Dao is an ineffable non-image will be lost if we only direct our attention to just one of its visible
manifestations. Such is why chapter 32 of the Zhuangzi says:

To know Dao is easy; to keep from speaking about it is hard. To know and not to speak—
this gets you to the heavenly part. To know and to speak—this gets you to the human part.
Men in the old days looked out for the heavenly, not the human (Watson 2013, p. 281;
Guo 1985, p. 1045).

There is nothing easier to know than Dao because there is nothing Dao does not
exclude; since Dao grounds and is imbued in everything, all that is required to know it is
already within us in the form of spirit. Each thing has its form and fate, its vital breath and
innate skills—these are the natural limitations of things. Dao, on the other hand, is limitless
in potential and found in all things without being anything in particular. Those who know
this know that such knowledge cannot be put into words, thus they remain silent; however,
those who do not understand the nature of Dao engage in endless discourse about it only
to ultimately say nothing at all. The former has surpassed the need to speak and so acquire
the insight of heaven, while the latter are enslaved to words and fail to see beyond the
realm of humanity.

Images and words are hence tasked with making the invisible visible and turning non-
being into being. Whether the blank page, empty canvass, or the heart-mind itself, the
imagination strives to fill them with content; conversely, the natural equilibrium of the
world is due to Dao leaving things open and incomplete. Openness not only allows for
future growth and contraction but provides room for the spirit to wander. When the
Zhuangzi speaks of withholding knowledge and speech, the site of this refrainment is not
located in the external world but takes place in the clearing of one’s heart-mind. What the

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spirit encounters, therefore, is the unseen non-image of Dao which is, in its unnamed state,
yet to be divided into non-being and being. In this way, the Daoist imagination is not an
act of creation ex-nihilo but a stream of meontological possibility. The ideas brought to
light by the spirit seek-out the heart-mind to formulate a corresponding image, but in many
cases the latter fails to discover them amidst its own befuddlement. This is why Daoism
argues that the heart-mind must be stilled, emptied, and quieted if a clearing is to form
therein and the non-image knowable only to spirit has a chance of taking hold.

Ordinary people might view the heart-mind as boundless in knowledge but the heart-
mind is limited by what it does not know. As a result, knowledge of the mundane sort fills
our thoughts with partial words while the boundless knowledge of Dao simply broadcasts
its hidden potential. Words and images might very well result in experiences of a reflective
nature, but they are no match for the non-words of the knowing that does not know.
Whereas words concretize images by temporarily displacing the non-image of Dao inside
us, Dao as the ultimate idea employs non-images to paint things in ghostlike traces, leaving
the oneness of things intact. In this way, the Daoist imagination unfolds in the dark realm
of Dao’s endless possibilities and not in the brilliant glare of realized being. Said
differently, the spirit of one whose heart-mind is unhindered by words bleeds formless
images into the world that seamlessly merge with the nature of things without their
realizing such conjoining is taking place. In the context of Daoist cosmology, we can say
that:

Pure spirit reaches in the four directions, flows now this way, now that—there is no
place it does not extend to. Above, it brushes Heaven; below, it coils on the earth. It
transforms and nurses the ten thousand things, but no one can make out its form. Its
name is called One-with-Heaven (Watson 2013, p. 121; Guo 1985, p. 544).

The more refined is our knowledge of Dao, the weaker will be our dependency on
words; the more mysterious we make our heart-mind, the more probing will be our ideas.
Genuine creativity is thus not motivated by an overt display of technical skill or ornamental
bombast; on the contrary, the genuine remains sublimely staid and unpretentious. Its
quietude shrouds us in warm silence, darkening our impulsive or partial thoughts such that
the illuminating spirit of Dao guides us from within. To be pure in spirit is thus to be clear-
minded, and the heart-mind that is unsullied is one that takes solace in the unifying non-
image of Dao. As Laozi writes in chapter 48 of the Daodejing: “The pursuit of learning
means having more each day, but the pursuit of the Dao means having less each day”
(Lynn 1999, p. 143; Lou 1980, pp. 127-128).

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 In this way, pursuing Dao is not about acquiring a particular thing but that which
grounds all things. One of the greatest weaknesses of humanity is our misconceived belief
that knowledge must be transmittable in order for it to be accepted, while talk of the
ineffable is dismissed as mystical rambling; however, is it not the case that all processes
of creativity contain an unsayable quality about them? It might be argued that one can only
create based upon what one does not know but Daoism argues, as we have repeatedly
shown, it is better to pursue what is naturally without limit and already known to oneself
than to pursue what is limited and in need of assimilation. In the process of creative
thinking, images are taken as nothing more than signposts along the never-ending road of
ideas, while words are but ephemeral traces of images long forgotten. Daoism, therefore,
not only shows us how to avoid being entrapped by such traces, it teaches us how to reap
the benefits of living in oneness with the myriad things of the world. Such co-existence is
not body-to-body but entails the collective harmonization of spirit with Dao.

IV. Conclusion

Daoism strives to demonstrate how blind the world is to the creative potential of Dao.
While the Daodejing and Zhuangzi have successfully expounded the inborn nature of the
myriad things populating the world, how said things come to live alongside one another in
complete unity is due to their following Dao. If we are thus to speak of the imagination in
ancient Daoist philosophy, we cannot do so from a word-centric position. Indeed, to imagine
is to form an image in one’s heart-mind but this image is also linked to its mutually fashioned
non-image. Constantly alternating in status, when one is visible the other recedes from sight,
yet both remain simultaneously in play. What determines which of these modes we are aware
of at any given moment depends upon whether or not we are in harmony with Dao. Such being
the case, the authentic person (i.e., the sage) does not side with one mode of reality or the other
but experiences them both concurrently, and the only way to do this is to conjoin one’s spirit
with the collectivity of the universe otherwise known as the great non-image of Dao. Daoist
inspired creativity thus proves to be both intellectually enriching and liberating insofar as its
aim is not to bring us closer to ourselves but the world as a whole. What more could anyone
wish for?

Notes

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1 See D’Ambosio 2017; Graziani 2014; and Moeller and Whitehead 2018.
2 Steven Burik’s chapter in Moeller and Whitehead 2018 is a notable exception.
3 The only appearance of xiangxiang in its alternative form (i.e., 想像) is in the “Distant
Wandering 遠遊” poem of Qu Yuan’s (d. 278 BCE) Songs of Chu 楚辭.
4 The word xin 心 is now commonly translated as heart-mind to reflect its multivalent use
in Chinese philosophy—as the emotional and moral center of human personhood—and to
avoid confounding it with Western equivalents that the old translation of “mind” produced.
Spirit (shen 神) is not to be confused with ling 靈 (spirit, soul); while spirit is often paired
with gui 鬼 (ghost) in the Zhuangzi to produce guishen 鬼神 (spiritual being), shen and
ling are never brought together. When Zhuangzi speaks of the wandering (you 遊) of the
sage, he is referring to his spiritual freedom; when Zhuangzi decries humanity’s adherence to
right and wrong (shifei 是非), he is referring to the spiritual clarity (ming 明) of the sage.
Spirit, in a word, is neither human conscience nor related to divine salvation or punishment;
rather, it is a reflection of one’s closeness to Dao. The more one harmonizes with Dao by
ridding themselves of the artificial moral and linguistic norms shaping their life-praxis
(particularly those of the Confucians and Mohists), the more one can live in unison with the
world and take nourishment from the myriad things therein.
5 Not to be confused with the Buddhist concept of “dependent co-arising”
(Pratītyasamutpāda). Mutual-dependency is premised upon the Daoist philosophy of Yin 陰
and Yang 陽 whereby every state, event, or thing always contains within it the possibility to
change into its counterpart (i.e., bright into dark, life into death, motion into rest, etc.).
6 For more, see Chai 2019b.
7 For further discussion on Zhuangzi’s philosophy of language, see Chai 2018.
8 See the story of Yan Hui sitting in forgetfulness (zuowang 坐忘) in chapter six of the
Zhuangzi. For more on Zhuangzi’s concept of self, see Chai 2019a.
9 Fish are only mentioned once in the Daodejing (chapter 36), while rabbits are not
mentioned at all. Traps and snares are also absent from the text.

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