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One aspect of Chinese culture that is distinct is, in short, the way it leaves matters open for interpretation. This is largely an expression of Taoist elements at work, which influence literature, art, and philosophy more broadly.
The following story, about art, is a telling example.
When I was very young, I read a story in the comic strip of a newspaper about a shopkeeper who sold paintings. One day a customer came and saw a picture of a man pulling a horse across a bridge. The customer said, “I liked the painting. How much does it cost?” The shopkeeper said, “500 taels of silver.” The man said, “I don’t have enough money with me today. I have to go back and get it. I will be back later.”
Then the customer left. The shop- keeper looked at the painting and felt that something was wrong with it.
Why? When you looked at the man pulling the horse, you couldn’t see the cord in the painting. The shopkeeper found it not right, so he took a brush and added a rope to it. When the buyer came back, he said he didn’t want to buy it anymore. The shopkeeper was surprised and asked him why. The man said, “I was willing to pay 500 taels of silver because I wanted to buy the rope that I could not see but could feel.”
In his seminal work, “A Short History of Chinese Philosophy,” Professor Feng Youlan says:
“Suggestiveness, not articulateness, is the ideal of all Chinese art, whether it be poetry, painting, or anything else. In poetry, what the poet intends to communicate is often not what is directly said in the poetry, but what is not said in it. According to Chinese literary tradition, in good poetry ‘the number of words is limited, but the ideas it suggests are limitless.’ So an intelligent reader of poetry reads what is outside the poem; and a good reader of books reads ‘what is between the lines.’ Such is the ideal of Chinese art, and this ideal is reflected in the way in which Chinese philosophers have expressed themselves.”
Whether you read Confucius’s “Analects,” Laozi’s “Tao Te Ching,” or Sunzi’s “The Art of War,” you will find that the discourses are disjointed; most things said are conclusions, and there is little, if any, reasoning process. The books are also quite short. The “Tao Te Ching” is 5,000 words, and “The Art of War” is about 6,000 words. But the “Tao Te Ching” contains descriptions of the creation of the universe, ideas about how to govern the country, how to use the military, and how to deal with interpersonal relationships, etc., all in these 5,000 words. Can others understand such profound ideas? That is up to the reader. It is up to the reader to fill in their own understanding. In Laozi’s view, it was either unnecessary or impossible to talk about those things.
And “The Analects” is a collection of dialogues between Confucius and his students. You can’t see much of a logical relationship between different passages, but it also contains profound truths about governing the country and bringing peace to the world. Confucius said, “If a student can’t make three inferences after being given one principle, I won’t proceed to teach him more.” So Chinese culture seems incoherent.
The same is true of Chinese poetry. If you look at Western poetry, like the Homeric epics, it’s a narrative, telling you a story. Chinese poetry is generally not like that, with a few limited exceptions. A large number of poems use very simple words to describe a mood for you, so Chinese poetry is more about a spiritual experience.
For example, if I mention water, you can imagine hot water, cold water, warm water, ice water, sugar water, salt water. ... You can think of many different kinds of water, and this is the result of ambiguity—giving you a lot of room for imagination. But once I tell you that this is a glass of water at 20 degrees Celsius, it will limit your imagination. The clearer one’s explanation is, the less room others have to imagine. This is very typical of Taoism.
I don’t know if this is a bit abstract, but let’s take an example from everyday life. For example, if you go to McDonald’s, whether you are in New York, San Francisco, Toronto, Paris, or Beijing, the fries you get are basically the same. Why? Because the selection of ingredients, the thickness of potato strips, the temperature of the oil, how long to fry, the whole process is designed very precisely. So you see when Westerners cook, they use all kinds of measuring cups, weighing and timing devices. As long as you strictly follow the recipe, the result won’t be too bad. The more specific the recipe is, the more uniform the taste of the final product will be. So no matter at which McDonald’s you buy your Big Mac, the taste is more or less the same.
The Chinese are different. For example, if a cook explains to you how to make fish fillets, he will first tell you to pick a fish, and about how much it weighs. He will then tell you to cut it into slices; as to how big and thick the slices should be you can decide for yourself, and he won’t tell you. He will then tell you to heat the oil wok, as to how hot is hot he won’t tell you, either. He will then tell you to throw the fish fillets into the wok and fry them until they’re slightly brown. What exactly is slightly brown? When it’s time for the final seasoning, he will tell you to put in “a little bit” of green onion, “a fair amount” of salt, “some quantity” of sugar, and pour a little bit of vinegar, and so on. All the measurements are like these: a little bit, a fair amount, some quantity, etc. He won’t give you clearly defined amounts. Then how do you go about it? It’s up to your ability. If you manage to figure it out, the dishes made will be very good; otherwise, the things made will be horrible. Ten chefs who have a good ability to balance the ingredients and determine what is best can make the same dish delicious in ten different ways. Western recipes are different, and dishes made with them thus taste basically consistent.
In fact, I think these reflect differences in the underlying philosophies behind the two cultures, with Taoism and its valuing subtlety featuring prominently in Chinese people’s thinking.
