“Sitting in oblivion” – this Taoist expression refers to a state of deep trance, of intense absorption, of the dissolution of the self. No trace of personal identity is consciously felt any longer; the self disappears, engulfed by a powerful cosmic current, or swept away by a metaphysical flight. Chuang Tzu describes this state in the following terms i: “Yen Hui met his master and said to him: ‘I sit and forget everything’ ii. Chong-ni [the honorific name for Confucius] felt a sense of respect and asked: ‘What do you mean by sitting and forgetting everything?’ Yen Hui said: ‘To strip myself of my body iii, to obliterate my senses iv, to abandon all form, to suppress all intellect v, to unite myself with that which embraces all vi—that is what I mean by “sitting and forgetting everything” vii’.” For those who sit in oblivion, nothing is unforgettable; the whole past is forgotten, and one forgets the present. One forgets the imprints (jì 迹) and traces of past experiences; one forgets forms and appearances. One forgets everything that manifests, and one forgets what gives rise to everything that manifests. One forgets the profound nature from which all things emanate. One forgets the dào itself. One becomes empty. Within this emptiness, one no longer recognises the ‘self’ (shēn 身)viii; externally, one forgets the existence of heaven and earth. But this emptiness is not an absolute void: it is that which enables us to unite with that which changes, that which enables us to open ourselves to powers, transformations, intertwining and permeation ix. In this open and fertile emptiness, profound forgetting seems like a new immanence, and within this immanence an intuition of transcendence begins to blossom, an ecstatic birth. We have forgotten everything – with the exception of this immanence and this birth, this ecstasy. We have forgotten everything, yet within this very forgetting we do not forget the profound immanence that grounds being and transcends the self. Within this immanence, this ‘foundation’, a paradox emerges. Remaining in oblivion requires holding oneself in the foundation, not forgetting to remain in oblivion. Oblivion cannot, therefore, be total. It cannot forget itself. If it were to forget itself, would it not give way to a new awakening? If oblivion were no longer rooted in the foundation, would it not fall into a state of ‘awakening’? When the Taoist sage sits in oblivion, he no longer forgets it; he no longer perceives external reality (the reality of Being); he also forgets the foundation of Being (which he calls Non-being). In this double forgetting, he attains a state of relative unconsciousness, composed of both Being and Non-being, or rather, a forgetting of both Being and Non-being. But he cannot stop there. This relative state of unconsciousness, too, must be forgotten. He then enters yet another state which neither recognises nor denies Being or Non-being. When he ‘is’ in this state, he is also conscious of ‘not being’ there. He ‘is’ aware of this contradiction, whilst ‘being’ unaware of all that it implies. He is relatively aware of this sort of unconsciousness which the wisdom of the ages has chosen to call ‘forgetting’. But he knows that he cannot forget this unconsciousness, this ‘forgetting’, without awakening once more to consciousness. And yet he realises that he must also forget this ‘forgetting’, if he is truly to forget everything. He must accept that he must also forget his forgetting, and thus return to the world, return to awakening, to a form of consciousness based on the knowledge of his profound unconsciousness. All that remains is for him to transform this awakening into Awakening.
To help understand this path, Sima Chengzhen wrote the Zuòwàng lùn (the ‘Treatise on Sitting in Oblivion’)x in the 8th century. In it, he explains how zuòwàng can lead to the realisation of the dào through seven stages, named respectively: ‘Respect and Faith’ (Jìngxìn 敬信); ‘Renunciation’ (Duànyuán 斷緣)xi; ‘Grasping the Mind’ (Shōuxīn 收心); ‘Detachment from Worldly Affairs’ (Jiănshì 簡事); ‘True Contemplation’ (Zhēnguān 真觀); ‘Extreme Concentration’ (Tàidìng 泰定); “Attaining the dào” (Dédào 得道). The final three stages require a complete transformation of the individual. “True observation” enables them to understand that both life and being are manifestations of the immanent energy of the dào, and that they can therefore renounce attachment to the self, to life and to the body, provided they strive towards the dào. During “extreme concentration”, the mind allows itself to be overwhelmed by the deep, dark currents of the dào; it allows itself to be absorbed into a trance that eliminates every residual trace of the ego. Finally, the dào is ‘attained’ through an ecstatic transcendence, which leads to spiritual (and physical) immortality. In this ecstasy, and through this ascent to the free heavens, one enters the pure realm of the dào.
But, one might ask, what exactly is this dào, the object of so much endeavour? The Taoists say that the dào is divine and that it is empty; that it is a living, spiritual, marvellous entity; that it possesses an inner nature; and that it is devoid of any symbol. Whether one seeks it or finds it, it remains unfathomable and elusive. It has neither shadow nor echo. It flows ceaselessly through all worlds, all beings and all lives, and no one knows why. Eminent sages attained it in antiquity, and since those ancient times, awareness of this divine dào has been passed down to the present day. By following the tradition and exploring its principles, exceptional individuals have practised it assiduously; they have managed to transcend their egos. Their minds have been emptied, becoming ‘like a valley’; the dào united with it, bringing about imperceptible, subtle, infinitesimal changes in their bodies and minds, to bring forth the ‘spiritual person’. It is this person who ‘attains’ the dào. Once united with the dào, they no longer know life or death; they transcend them as well. Their mind merges with their energy (qì 氣), flowing to and fro through infinite space. Their wisdom excels in depth and their holiness is revealed through their elevation. The Shēngshén jīng 昇神經 [the ‘Treatise on the Ascent to the Spirit’] says on this subject: “When the self, the body and the mind are unified, the perfect self is born.” But what is this “perfect self”? Who can define this perfection? The Xīshēng jīng 西升经 [the “Treatise on Western Ascension”] offers this interpretation: “The harmonious fusion of the physical form and the mind signifies eternal life.” This means that the ‘birth of the perfect self’ is a metaphor for ‘eternal life’. Eternal life would thus always be ‘in the process of being born’, always in its infancy, finding fulfilment only in a perpetual state of unfulfilment.
We can see just how difficult it is to perfect the dào, if it is destined to remain forever unfulfilled. Attaining it is what the (Taoist) Scriptures call ‘liberation from the corpse’. Once ‘liberated from the corpse’, what is one to do with this freedom? Nothing in the dào says. The sage no doubt endeavours to preserve his radiance and amplify its brilliance in anticipation of his ever more complete fulfilment. He focuses his mind, he studies the dào, he cherishes his qì 氣, he renders his mind ‘mindless’ in order to merge it with the dào. This is truly to attain the dào. But this attainment seems endless. The Dàodé jīng 道德經 [the ‘Classic of the Way and Virtue’] says: ‘He who unites with the virtue [of the dào], virtue rejoices in welcoming him’xii. On the one hand, a ‘union’; on the other, a ‘welcoming’ (and a ‘joy’). There is, therefore, yet another difference. He who unites with and identifies with the dào (or its dé) possesses himself less than he is ‘welcomed with joy’. The difference is structural, ontological and metaphysical. Does it not point to a fundamental limitation in our understanding of what is called ‘attaining the dào’? Have we not, moreover, already seen that the idea of ‘sitting in oblivion’ is fundamentally contradictory?
Why were the Ancients so keen to attain the dào—or rather, its dé (its ‘virtue’)—when, on the one hand, the dào seemed ‘empty’, and on the other, capable of ‘welcoming them with joy’? They said that the dào is like a mountain that harbours jade, and whose grasses and trees never wither. What, then, mattered most to them? The jade buried underground, invisible (perhaps this was a metaphor for the dào?), or the visible manifestations of its ‘virtue’ (dé)? Why did the Ancients assert that “those who seek the dào will attain it, and those who sin will be set free”? What mattered most: attaining the dào, or attaining the freedom that follows? When a person embraces the dào, it is said that they grow in subtlety day by day, that they refine their forms (those of their mind and body), that myriad ‘manifestations’ unite and combine, and that in this way the self, the mind and the body are formed. On the one hand, the wisdom of the dào radiates without limit; it transcends all things. On the other, the dào enables the ‘person’ to take shape. Thus, the person becomes like the dào. By understanding the emptiness of all forms, they can now act within the worlds; they protect all that is created, all that creates, and all that changes. In perfect harmony with the unchanging, they know nothing other than the dào and its virtue, save for their own form, their own emptiness and their own virtue. The Xīshēng jīng says: ‘Unite your mind with Heaven and there will be no more knowledge. Unite your self with the dào and there will be no more body. Then the dào of Heaven will have attained perfection.’ This is indeed so. But what of the dào—not of Heaven, but of the self? Having attained the perfection of the dào, has the ‘person’ also reached the ultimate expression of their true self? It is said in the Zuòwàng lùn: ‘When my spirit does not leave my body, I am at one with the dào for ever’. A body and mind unified with the dào therefore signify a form of eternal life. But what happens ‘when my spirit leaves my body’? To attain oblivion of the body—is this not to forget oneself forever? When wisdom and consciousness reach a state of oblivion, it is said that zealous faith in the dào and its virtue flourish. Yet, by completely emptying one’s mind, all its ties are dissolved and forgotten. On the one hand, dissolution and forgetfulness; on the other, virtue and development. The dào and human beings seem to exist on entirely different levels: how can one believe that they ultimately lead to the same ends? They must all strive towards depth and elevation. But can we ‘forget’ that neither speech nor silence has ever been able to ‘reach’ this depth or this elevation, let alone ‘sit there’ forever? Moreover, neither Confucius, nor the Buddha, nor anyone else has ever done more than merely touch upon these goals. No one, in the end, has ever sat eternally in oblivion.
_________
iChuang Tzu. The Complete Works, Vol. VI. Translated by Liou Kia-Hway and Benedykt Grynpas. La Pléiade, 1969, p. 137
iiIn Chinese, this expression consists of two characters, one meaning ‘to sit’ and the other ‘to forget’: 坐忘, zuòwàng.
iii墮肢體 (duò zhī tǐ): ‘To let go of / relax the limbs and the body’
iv黜聰明 (chù cōng míng): ‘To deprive one of hearing and sight’.
v離形去知 (lí xíng qù zhī): ‘To detach oneself from form and cast aside knowledge’. 離 (lí): ‘To separate from, to distance oneself from, to transcend’. 形 (xíng): ‘Physical form, appearance’. 去 (qù): ‘To eliminate, to cast aside, to drive away’. 知 (zhī): “Intellectual knowledge, conceptual understanding, preconceptions.”
vi同於大通 (tóng yú dà tōng). 同於 (tóng yú) : « To identify with, to merge with, to become one with ». Dà tōng: « The Great All-Pervading Whole », « the Great Unobstructed Way », « the Great Interpenetration ».
vii此謂坐忘 (cǐ wèi zuò wàng). 此謂 (cǐ wèi) : « That is what it is called », « that is what it means ». 坐忘 (zuò wàng): « To sit and forget », « sitting in a state of forgetfulness ».
viiiThe evocative power of Chinese characters, the shifting and gliding of their meanings, is difficult to grasp for anyone who has not had a little experience with them, by delving into the vast ocean of dictionaries. For example, the phoneme shēn, which is associated with the character 身, ‘body; life; person, I, self’, is also the phoneme associated with some twenty other characters with very different meanings. Among these, I have selected, by way of illustration, a few characters that resonate with the idea we might have of the ‘self’: 申 shēn, ‘to express, to manifest; clear, obvious’; 伸 shēn, ‘to extend, develop, enlarge’; 深 shēn, ‘deep, distant, secluded, hidden; intense, dense’; and also, in a more metaphorical sense: 娠 shēn, ‘to be pregnant’; 燊 shēn, ‘abundant, numerous; flamboyant, ardent, flourishing’. But there are many others whose meanings bear no relation to the ‘self’, for example: ‘to hum’, ‘arsenic’, ‘ginseng’, ‘jade’, ‘ceremonial sash’, ‘ground grain’…
ixSee ‘Commentaries on the Nán Huá [南華] Classic [經, jīng]’ (Nanhua zhenjing zhushu 南華真經注疏)
xThe author of the Zuòwàng lùn (坐忘論) is Sima Chengzhen (司馬承禎) (647–735), the twelfth patriarch of Shangqing.
xi Etymologically: duán 斷, ‘to cut, to slice’; yuán 緣, ‘to run alongside, to follow; cause, reason, motive’.
xiiDàode jīng, 23: 同於德者,德亦樂得之. Léon Wieger translates this as: “Those who are in harmony with Virtue, Virtue is glad to possess them.” Stanislas Julien: “Those who are in accord with Virtue, Virtue receives them with joy.” The character 同 (tóng) means ‘to be identical to / to assimilate to / to be in harmony with / to unite with’. The character 德 (dé) is the second character forming the expression Dàodé jīng, and it means ‘Virtue / the expression of the Dào / the life force’. The character 樂 (lè): ‘To rejoice in / to be happy with / with joy.’ The character 得 (dé): ‘To obtain / to acquire / to possess / to find / to attain / to receive / to welcome.’ My translation: ‘He who unites with Virtue, Virtue rejoices in welcoming him.’
Vous devez être connecté pour poster un commentaire.