I bought a zisha teapot a few days ago. Zisha refers to a certain type of stoneware produced in Yixing, Jiangsu Province, or the clay used for its production. Many times have I bought zisha pieces, sold them, and again bought new ones. Still, I had not purchased a new zisha teaware for over half a year. The zisha teapots that I already had were enough for my daily tea drinking.
The purchase of the new zisha teapot originated more from its beauty than its utility. The beauty I am referring to, however, is not so much about the craftsmanship that can be seen with my eyes or touched by my hands. The fish carved on the pot’s surface is lovely, but I have seen better artisan achievements. It feels natural and mellow, yet crude. The overall form of the body is well-made too, although there is nothing remarkably extraordinary about it from the way I see it. Nevertheless, there was an attraction that I could not resist. It mostly radiated out of two Chinese characters inscribed on the other side of the pot.
魚樂—these two characters can be translated into either ‘the joy of fish’ or ‘the fish enjoy.’ This simple phrase reminded me of a short dialogue from the book of Zhuangzi:
Zhuangzi and Huizi were strolling on a bridge across the River Hao. Zhuangzi said, “The minnows have come out, strolling where they please. That is the joy of fish!”
Huizi said, “You are not a fish. How do you know the joy of fish?”
Zhuangzi said, “You are not I. How do you know that I do not know the joy of fish?”
Huizi said, “I am not you. I do not know you. You are not a fish, which makes it evident that you do not know the joy of fish.”
Zhuangzi said, “Let us go back to the start. You said, ‘How do you know the joy of fish?’ The saying is that you already knew that I knew it when you asked me. I knew it, standing over the Hao.”
The dialogue above is so short that I could quickly translate the whole thing without omitting anything. While I cannot be fully certain if the artisan of my teapot was conscious of Zhuangzi when she was making it, it is not so unlikely that it was her intention indeed. Passages from Chinese classics are often the source of inspiration for zisha works.
The dialogue between Zhuangzi and Huizi is comforting in two ways. Zhuangzi’s words show the identity of what he thinks and what there is. Though less elegant than the words of Parmenides and Plotinus, he seems to express what the two Greek philosophers saw in a more lively, joyful way: what is thought and what is are the same. Such a hopeful outlook leads one to appreciate that the Being, the True, the Good, and the Beautiful are one, or the One, and that one can be one with the One. Despite that Zhuangzi would have never been able to articulate such a refined inner system of metaphysics, I believe there is no significant difference between being a philosopher and being a stroller who can grasp the joy of fish. Had Zhuangzi been thinking only on the plains of epistemology (a word which I abhor, as I see it as a superfluous way of thinking arising from various misunderstandings of ontology), he would have never said that he knew it while “standing over the Hao.”
However, it cannot be concluded that Huizi, who doubts such simple and beautiful unity could exist, is hopelessly lost. Even in the midst of his doubts, there shines a hint of firm credence. To quote Zhuangzi, “you already knew […] when you asked”. Doubt, or unbelief, is not the absolute antonym of belief. “I do believe, help my unbelief!”(Mark 9:24) From my point of view, those who perceive their doubts already hold a belief. The despair of humanity lies not in doubting or unbelieving that we can know the joy of fish, but in the indifference towards the jolly fish that stroll along us under the bridge.
I have always been less of a systemic philosopher (in the sense of its general usage in modern academia, at least) than an intuitive stroller. Maybe, that is why I have become a writer of fiction and a translator of poems. Maybe that is why I am an ancient pagan Greek, and a Warring States period Chinese. I am Parmenides, Plotinus, Zhuangzi, Huizi, a woman who was troubled with an issue of blood for twelve years, a doubting father of a boy crying out with tears. I am Zhuangzi’s butterfly. I am the horse of Parmenides. I am a zisha artisan carving fish on the surface of a teapot. I am the fish strolling along with all of them in the River Hao. I am a writer. I am one with them all. I am the writer. I am the joy. I am two Chinese hieroglyphs. I am the One.
Am I so certain about it? No, I am not fully certain and have my own doubts. Therefore I am certain that I certainly have been, am, and shall be: omnibus omnia in omnibus—
—which of course includes being a tea drinker, often lost in the beauty there is when drinking tea.
If you enjoyed my work, you can buy me a cup of tea. I am not a coffee person, by the way.
Beautiful and well written. Thank you for sharing this. Just subscribed.
Beautiful!