Searching for a voice of silence across cultures: does silence speak?

Chen, Shudong

Abstract

With [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.] (dayinxisheng) of Daodejing (41) and [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.] (huishihousu) of the Analects (3:8) as the focused points of departure, this paper discusses the crucial ways that make silence communicative. It attempts to suggest, quite metaphorically, a certain "grammar" or "aesthetic" of silence that is inherent in, and thus helpful in explaining, the various literary cases the paper refers to across-culturally. Silence speaks because silence, as always, has its invisible, inaudible, intangible, and yet indispensable content and context to be silent about, in, with, and for--often with varying degrees of intensity. As we all communicate with one another through silence and across-culturally from time to time, the ways that silence speaks, as indicated by these about, in, with, and for, suggest, in other words, a grammar or aesthetic, which is not only culturally specific but also universally meaningful. Understanding the communicative power of silence thus remains crucial in this increasingly vociferous and ostentatious world of ours, especially as it is so infested with misunderstandings and miscommunications that bear horrible consequences, such as wars, and often irremediable damages to our invaluable human and natural resources. Ultimately, learning how to communicate through silence is like learning to understand and appreciate classical Asian art, such as a simple poem from the Book of Songs, which requires not just momentary patience but significant suspension or change of our mentality, that is, our modern way of looking at things. It challenges our modern mind or obsession for clarity or our intolerance for ambiguity, as Stephen E. Toulmin would so suggest. It would encourage us, in other words, to cultivate a more context-specific approach instead of our preference for absolute abstraction. Modernity prevails, as Toulmin argues, in Cosmopolis: The Hidden Agenda of Modernity, often at the expenses of healthy doses of skepticism and tolerance through ideological indoctrination, action of intolerance, and violence. To create such a discourse of modernity that stresses rationalization or systemization for maximum efficiency, as Toulmin analogizes, it is quite deplorable for us to have simplified "Montaigne" into "Descartes," reduced "Leviathan" into "Lilliput," transformed "reasonable" into "rationale," and turned "ideas" into "ideology," (1) Understanding the aesthetic of silence therefore will help us discover further what we need to be silent with for deeper reflection, the health of our mental balance, effective cross-cultural communication and dialogue, and, simultaneously and ultimately, our renewed appreciation and intimacy with life.

The virtue and beauty of communicating through silence are some of the major "issues" that have been frequently confirmed across spectrum of philosophical investigations that otherwise do not converge. But what makes silence work or how does it work? These are still questions yet to be answered Silence does not express by itself. It must have its auxiliaries and conditions. The silence that speaks must have its unseen content and context to be silent about, in, with, and for. Thus to know what we are silent about, in, with, and for, which are culturally specific, is crucial for us to understand what makes silence speak and meaningful. Culturally significant and particular, there are also degrees, levels, intensity and ways of silence regarding how it communicates under varied circumstances. To do that, we need to know not only the meaningful phenomena of silence themselves but also the culture that encodes, enriches, and enlivens silence as an enlightening means of communication. We need to understand therefore the people who value it, the particular circumstances and ways that it becomes effective, and the ultimate impact that it creates on the culture as a whole. When Chinese sages, such as Confucius and Laozi, emphasize the importance and value of silence, they also suggest on what makes silence work, its grammar and aesthetic. Of silence, there are indeed various interesting cases in the West and the East that relate how silence communicates. For John Keats, "heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter" because the music of "soft pipes, play on; not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone" (Davis 1986, 822). Homer in the Iliad also demonstrates how silence in the form of hushed murmurs and laconic verbal description casts rare magic of beauty on Helen. It is, nonetheless, in the Eastern literature that we see extensive examples that emphasize the virtue of communication through silence. Not just in Daoist and Buddhist texts, as quite expected, but in Confucian literature as well, there are significant cases regarding how silence is valued.

But the aesthetic of silence is probably most concisely expressed by [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.] in Daodejing, and [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.] (3:8) in the Analects. Both emphasize an important aesthetic of silence from a different but related viewpoint. What does Laozi mean when he says [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.]? Does he mean "the great note sounds muted' (Mair 1990, 7)? Does he imply "the greatest sound is ever so faint" (Ames and Hall 2003)? (2) But the great sound, which might sound faint, is certainly not "muted." What makes great sound "faint," after all, is well explained by the word "xi [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.]" itself. It is because that the word is indicative of not just itself in terms of the quantity or quality of the sound but also the very physical and human environments that make sound faint. Clearly, silence is relational and contextual as it is meaningful and beautiful. The beauty of the silent sound or sounded silence depends on the size of environment, depth of the valley, delicate quality of the sound itself. Great sound or music therefore is not "muted" but the suggestively sounded note that appeals to the sensitive ear that captures it where it most delicately sounds. There is always a subtle relationship or proportion between the sound and the milieu in which it echoes. Should the Chinese character "yin [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.]" be therefore translated as "sound" or "music"? Indeed, the word "yin [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.] does mean harmonious sound or music, while "sheng [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.]" however, indicates inharmonious sound. (3) If this is the case, the great music is the one that is of the most harmonious relationship with the natural and human environment that echoes it and thus appears most appealing to the sensitive ear.

Put it another way, great sound that appears in such harmonious vibration with nature and human sensitivity becomes music and is music itself. Often, it is the great music of nature inaudible to people at large but only to those, such as Ziqi Nanguo in Zhuangzi, who can hear sound of nature or music of heaven, "hooting, hissing, sniffing, sucking, mumbling, moaning, whistling, wailing" (Graham 1981, 49). The great music of silence or the great thoughtful silence, in other words, can only be suggested, as Basho so implies, by voices of nature, such as the cicada's rasp that fans out, like unending waves of sounds, from near to afar. This is dynamic quietude and musical silence that can only be heard through the cicada's rasp echoing in the mountain.

 In seclusion, silence
 Shrilling into the mountain boulder,
 The cicada's rasp. (Davis 1995)

Similarly, in the poem, "The Zen Meditation Hall Behind Broken Hill Temple," by Chang Jian, we can also hear the profound silence through lingering sound of bell. Dayin [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.] thus presents a full dimensional picture of silence with an infinitely vast space for our mind to penetrate, to roam about, to vanish into, or to rest in peace with.

 ....
 As, mountain scenes invite the song of birds,
 Images in the pond empty the human mind.
 Everything has vanished now into the heart of silence,
 Except the sounding of bell and chime. (Zhang & Wilson 1994, 121,
 emphasis added)

To further understand "[TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.]," we must comprehend [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.]" which should provide an additional but indispensable view from a closely related but different angle. What does Confucius mean by [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.]

 Zixia asked: What do these verses mean:

 Oh, the dimples of her smile!
 Oh, the black and while of her beautiful eyes!
 It is on plain silk that colors shine.

 The Master said: "Painting starts from a plain white silk." Zixia
 said: "Ritual is something that comes afterwards?" The Master said:
 "Ah, you really opened my eyes! It is only with a man like you that
 one can discuss the Poems!" (Leys 1997)

Does Confucius mean, "The colors are put in after the white" (Lau 1979), "Painting starts from a plain white silk" (Leys 1997), "the application of color is to the unadorned" (Ames & Rosemont 1998), or "The application of colors comes only after a suitable unadorned background is present" (Slingerland 2003)? Does he suggest one should leave background unpainted or blank while finishing a painting (Bao & Wang 1983, 72)? Does it simply state, "The beauty deliberately worked out by human is behind which by nature," because huishi, [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.] stands for what is good and beautiful created through human deliberation, while su [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.] indicates everything that is beautifully original and natural, and thus implies a comparison embedded in such verbal structure as "after ...," "behind ...," or "next in order...." (4) Therefore, does it mean ren [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.] is like su [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.] unadorned, like plain silk, to be applied on and referred to by li? Does it suggest that we do not overpaint but leave the background blank, not to obscure su [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.] which is our implicit but primary goal to elevate and to which we should direct all our viewers' attention through each of our brush stroke, as we need to reach ren through the guidance of li [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.]

Whatever the argument, one thing is clear in all, that is, silence is intimately relational and contextual It must have something to be silent about and for and a place to be silent in with varying ways or degrees of intensity. Whether we apply colors or brush strokes on the plain white silk or leave it as unadorned space, between what is painted and what is left unpainted, there is always a meaningful dialogue or dialogic relationship that, while subtly in balance or delicately in motion, enlivens and enriches silence. Within such a relationship, everything painted points not only to itself but also is meaningfully left unpainted or unadorned for the imaginative minds to engage what is invisible, intangible, but essential or inherent. In Basho's poem, su [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.] is thus the vast or infinite space of silence that we feel through the echoes of cicada's rasp. The mountain is alive with each vibration of sound. The sound gives the mountain a sense of movement with rhythmic ups and downs of cicada's rasp. The sound makes the mountain profoundly silent, and, in turn, the profundity and depth of the mountain and silence make the sound further subtly meaningful. As is also shown in the excerpt from the famous poem, "Song of the Pipa," by Bai Juyi, the Chinese Tang poet, silence apparently speaks and strikes. But it is also apparent that without the notes played "loud as drumming rain, soft as whispered secrets" that appeal to the ear like "pearls of varied sizes cascaded on a tray of jade" or "an oriole warbled from within the flowery branches ...," it is inconceivable that "perfect crystal silence spoke more loudly than sound."

 First she played The Rainbow Skirts and then Six Minor Notes.
 Loud as drumming rain, soft as whispered secrets,
 Pearls of varied sized cascaded on a tray of jade,
 An oriole warbled from within the flowery branches,
 A stream sobbed its way across its sandy shoals.
 The Stream then turned to ice, the note to crystal,
 To a perfect crystal silence that spoke more loudly than sound.
 (Zhang & Wilson 1994, 157)

The pause, the brief or momentary silence, is indeed suggestive of dayin [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.]" and su [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.]" It is this momentary pause that makes all the difference of the entire piece of music played, but the crucial pause also relies on the preceding notes so played to build up for this particular moment of silence as dayin [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.]" and su [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.] to speak through.

As a matter of fact, whether we are Daoist or Confucianist, to understand the meaningful aesthetic of silence as dayin [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.] and su [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.] it is also important for us to understand stillness. It is stillness that ultimately suggests, through silence, the majestic sagely humanity as sheng [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.]. In Zhuangzi, as we know, it is suggested that the ultimate freedom is not there with motion or movement but inherent in supreme stillness (jingji [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.]) and actionlessness (wuwei), which reveal human nature as authentically as the full still water that catches clean and clear images in pure reflection. Anyone who reads the first chapter of Zhuangzi may still recall that the eye-catching perfect image of freedom and spontaneity that the mystic fish-birds so majestically represents finally appears as nothing more than mere illusions because their freedom is ultimately conditioned or motivated by the invisible flow of air. Such an impression of freedom, motion, and movement therefore illustrate no true sense of freedom or spontaneity, which is, however, so vividly embodied, in sharp contrast and irony, as if through perfectly still water, by the motionless and emotionless shengren [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.]. Besides, no matter how highly Confucius thinks of ren [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.], it is, nonetheless, not ren but sheng, which represents what Confucius considers the highest or ultimate realm. (5) This is the realm that suggests supreme detachment and perfect actionlessness as enlivened by the legendary sage-kings, such as Yao, Shun, and Yu, who often appear acting like Daoist sages. Once, Confucius, for instance, utters so emotionally his great admiration of Shun and Yu, "The Master said, 'How lofty Shun and Yu were in holding aloof from the Empire when they were in possession of it" (Lau 1979, 8:18). (6) With Yao, he is also in his utmost awe, "Great indeed was Yao as a ruler! How lofty! It is Heaven that is great and it was Yao who modelled himself on it. He was so boundless that the common people were not able to put a name to his virtues. Lofty was he in his successes and brilliant was he in his accomplishments!" (8:19).

But however lofty these legendary kings really are in terms of their characteristic detachment and awe-striking actionlessness, they are yet, as Yang Bojun emphasizes, to become the perfect personification of sheng, obviously for being still not measured up to supreme stillness, which means perfect harmony and peace in accordance with nature, "Even Yao and Shun," as Confucius emphasizes, "would fail short of bringing peace and harmony to people through [perfect] self-cultivation." (7) In Liji (38), it says that "Man is born in stillness, for stillness is his nature given by Heaven. In response to external things, he becomes active, for activity is the expression of his desires motivated by his nature" (Lao An 1999, 170-1). Not unlike Confucius, the literary persona in Zhuangzi, Confucius in the Analects, also appreciates Shun as the supreme ruler for his exemplary action of wuwei. In Zhuangzi, Confucius, for instance, insists on the virtue of wuwei, stillness, and actionlessness of action through his analogous reference to the image of water. "Confucius said, '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"' (Burton 1964, 65). (8) To further explore the full symbolic meaning of the still water, Zhuangzi let Confucius thus reply to the question, "What do you mean when you say his virtue takes no forms?"

 Among level things, water at rest is the most perfect, and
 therefore it can serve as a standard. It guards what is inside and
 shows no movement outside. Virtue is the establishment of perfect
 harmony. Though virtue takes no form, things cannot break away
 from it" (Watson 70) (9)

Indeed, both audible and visual, dayin [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.] and su [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.], however, does not easily reveal itself in the form of communicative silence or "deep [does not automatically] call unto deep," as Emerson would argue here as well, unless, as we have discussed, there are appropriate circumstances, which also mean particular mental conditions that we need in order to understand and appreciate silence. Basho's famous frog haiku should be a good example on this.

 The ancient pond
 A frog jumps in--Sound
 of water. (Davis 1995)

Simple as it is, the great poem, nonetheless, captures the crucial moment that tunes the simple note of sound into great note of music, which communicates through provoked silence. It turns a single isolated action into the harmonious orchestra of nature. But without a responsive mind that transcends or loses itself, silence only falls on deaf ear. As long as we are ready, we can be the part of action that poem perfectly suggests through silence. It is because the poem depicts the "dramatic" moment when our fractal or fragmented self slip into the watery universe of the pond following the little frog and becomes part of the system of nature. It also implies how we might be thus led to let go our "self' and become "transformed," "naturalized," or "eternalized" into the world of profound silence following the momentary "sound of water." What happens then is indeed the rare moment when we are so enlivened to the beautiful silence through the very ripples or echoes of "sound of water" that concur both audibly and visibly in the pond and in our minds. With the frog, there emerges perfect union between the audible silence and visible echoes that defines and refines a universe that defies our usual human sense experience. The "sound of water" signifies, in other words, a unique occasion when our physical and psychological world, our imaginative response and intellectual reasoning, all are emerged or blended into one another to suggest an aesthetic experience that elevates ourselves. Undoubtedly, it is the rare moment when the seventeen syllables become lyrically profound or, as Montaigne would imply, "accidentally philosophical." It makes a little noise into profound sound, music, and silence with the "ancient" pond, the immeasurable depth and beauty of which, like that of Walden, as Thoreau would suggest, depends on where it is. The sound of water is now literally the sound of nature and sound of culture that appeals to the geographically and culturally fine-tuned sensitive ears. The sound thus, indeed, becomes an indicator, a pointer, not just to itself but to the very natural and cultural environment that make it meaningful and live. It is not just relational and contextual but cultural as well. (10)

As we have already noticed in the Basho's frog poem, what makes silence so simultaneously audible and visual should probably be further observed in terms of "synaesthesia," a rhetorical term that suggests the unusual (but undoubtedly universal) aesthetic or live human experience where regular sense experiences dissolve, as the audible becomes visual while the visual becomes audible. (11) With regard to what is suggested with this special term, it is clear that the audible silence is often also quite suggestively visual. In his poem "London," William Blake, for instance, suggests that he not only hears but also sees "... the hapless soldier's sigh/Runs [silently] in blood down palace walls" (IKirszner 1991, 899). In Mostormo, Joseph Conrad describes how "the solitude appeared like a great void, and the silence of the gulf like a tense, thin, cord to which [Don Martin Decoud] hung suspended by both hand," and how "the cord of silence snap[s] in the solitude of the Placid Gulf "with a single self-inflicted gunshot (1972, 498-9). In "Tong Guan," Qian Zhongshu discusses how much a little flower of apricot sticking quietly out of the wall of a yard suggests noisy colors of the coming spring (Qian 21). Qian also refers to mystics, such as Saint-Martin, who confesses, "I heard flowers that sounded and saw notes that shone" (28). Do we not also hear and see the subtle texture and richness of sonata music at the Nelson Art Gallery, Kansas City, Missouri, through the perfect stillness and silence of a young girl in white contemplating before her piano in an oil painting, "Sonata," by Childe Hassam? With our understanding of the infinitely interconnected and interacted universe as suggested through the great sounds of silence, the ancient rhetoric seem to suggest a world, an experience, more than it signifies.

With "synaesthesia" in mind, we may take another look at the following haiku also by Basho. It seems to be a poem that eternalizes the momentary and the fleeting through the mind-enlightening silence, which is both audibly and visually striking.

 A flash of lightning
 Into the gloom
 Goes the heron's cry. (Kirsmer 1991)

In a split second, do we really hear the heron's cry or merely see the soundless awe-striking lightening (as light travels faster than sound)? Do we just hear the heron's cry that is so terrifying as to make us feel that we see a soundless lightening that suddenly tears apart the dark heavenly curtain with such relentless force and in such surrealistic way? Or do we see the lightening that snatches on us with such shocking suddenness and soundlessness that resembles, in our moment of awe and hallucination, the ear-piercing shriek of a heron in the pitch-dark night? Again, this is a unique aesthetic experience that encompasses all human senses by suspending or blurring all our usual logical or sensible distinctions of experiences. Instantaneously, while hearing the lightening against the backdrop of the pitch dark sky, we also see it in the shrieking heron's cry. Yes, the vast blankness (su [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.]) does allow us a rare glimpse of great sound (dayin [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.] that, however, does not reveal itself so often unless under such a unique moment. This might be exactly what Stephen Crane has experienced, as he is so struck by the soundless flash of impression that enlightens him.

 The flash of the impression was like light, and for this instance
 it illumined all the dark recesses of one's remotest idea of
 sacrilege, ghastly and wanton. I bring this to you merely as an
 effect--an effect of mental light and shade, if you like; something
 done in thought similar to that which the French Impressionists do
 in color; something meaningless and at the same time overwhelming,
 crushing, monstrous. (12)

Is this the soundless impression a kind of "primordial experience," as we might also encounter, according to C. G. Jung, in the second part of Goethe's Fauste, which "rend[s] from top to bottom the curtain upon which is painted the picture of an ordered world, and allow [us] a glimpse into the unfathomed abyss of what has not yet become" (Jung 1933, 155-6)? Or is it "a strange something that derives its existence from the hinterland of man's mind--that suggests the abyss of time separating us from pre-human ages, or evokes a super-human world of contrasting light and darkness"? Is it "a primordial existence which surpasses man's understanding, and to which he is therefore in danger of succumbing"? Could it not thus be the great sound (dayin [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.]) that "arises from timeless depths ... foreign and cold, many-sided, demonic and grotesque" or the one "bursts asunder our human standards of value and of aesthetic form"? Is it not audibly the great silent note that brings us a "disturbing vision of monstrous and meaningless happenings that in every way exceed the grasp of human feeling and comprehension makes quite other demands upon the powers of the artist than do the experiences of the foreground of life" (Jung 155-6)?

Instantaneous as it is, the dayin [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.], so awe-striking, may have also lingered for many years onward, like an endless silent motion picture with the strange image that Richard Wright captured as a child of his "father and the strange woman, [with] their face lit by the dancing flames, [which] would surge up in [his] imagination so vivid and strong" that he feels that "could reach out and touch it." It was so "vivid" and "strong" that he "would stare at it, feeling that it possessed some vital meaning which always eluded me" (42). It is, indeed, this kind of silence that has the peculiar power to impress, to connect, to transform one's mind, or to "commence [a great] author" such as Henry James--"almost on the spot, as James so confesses on one of these rare moments that mysteriously sticks to his memory.

 To feel a unity, a character and a tone in one's impressions, to
 feel them related and all harmoniously colored, that was positively
 to face the aesthetic, the creative, even, quite wondrously, the
 critical life and almost on the spot to commence author. They had
 begun, the impressions--that was the matter with them--to scratch
 quite audibly at the door of liberation, of extension, of
 projection; what they were of one more or less knew, but what they
 were for was the question that began to stir, though one was still
 to be a long time at a loss directly to answer it. (James 1956,
 253, emphasis added).

Yes, silence, sometimes, in the form of "sacred hush, a finer clearer medium, in which [one's] idiosyncrasies showed," as James also vividly suggests in The Ambassadors, could be strikingly impressive, engaging and enlightening in making people so "lived" with "deep devoted delicate sensitive noble" feeling.

 It struck [Lambert Strether] really that he had never so lived with
 her as during this period of her silence; the silence was a sacred
 hush, a finer clearer medium, in which her idiosyncrasies showed.
 He walked about with her, sat with her, drove with her and dined
 face-to-face with her--a rare treat "in his life," as he could
 perhaps have scarce escaped phrasing it; and if he had never seen
 her so soundless he had never, on the other hand, felt her so
 highly, so almost austerely, herself pure and by the vulgar
 estimate "cold," but deep devoted delicate sensitive noble. Her
 vividness in these respects became for his, in the special
 conditions, almost an obsession, and thought the obsession
 sharpened his pulses, adding really to the excitement of life,
 there were hours at which, to be less on the stretch, he directly
 sought forgetfulness. (1960, 204, emphasis added).

Indeed, it is through su [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.] that dayin [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.], which are rarely heard or caught a glimpse of syneasthetically, emerges from inside. Silence makes us think and feel deep. There is always momentary silence around us, with us, and inside us that could be as enlightening as Bahso's "sound of water." But we are often too busy, too careless, or too carefree, to even notice it. But now we should learn how to appreciate silence as a special communicative language, which is not only culturally specific for us to know the specific cultures that it relates but also universally significant for us to see how humans can also communicate and understand one another through silence. We should not only learn how to pray together in silence but also have our heart-to-heart dialogue in silence through gestures, bodily language, the beauty of our environments, such as the green deep mountain that echoes the unblown flute, (13) which we need to protect together and share with one another. We would undoubtedly be happier and our life richer when we learn how to understand and appreciate more the beauty of silence that a little frog brings or a voiceless smile suggests. Therefore, as long as we know how to explore nature both inside and outside ourselves following the leads of silence, we will appreciate further the very life we lead. This is, perhaps, why Confucius asks rhetorically, "Does tian speak? And yet the four seasons turn and the myriad things are born and grow within it. Does twin speak?" (Ames & Rosemont). This is perhaps also why Pablo Neruda thus sings in his poem Keeping Quiet, (14)

 If we weren't unanimous
 About keeping our lives so much in motion,
 If we could do nothing for once,
 Perhaps a great silence would
 Interrupt this sadness,
 This never understanding ourselves
 And of threatening ourselves with death,
 Perhaps the earth is teaching us
 When everything seems to be dead
 And then everything, is alive

This is why "in the Confucian and [Daoist] traditions that provided the ritual and conceptual contexts for the Chinese appropriation of Buddhism," emphasizes Peter Hershock, "manifesting [de] entails an active extension of ... enlightenment as a 'silent bond' [mogi [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.]]," which, for me, suggests the powerful message of dayin [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.] and [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.] and thus, of course, "takes on a more dynamic and explicitly narrative cast" (129, 19961. (15) This is also why, for Emily Dickinson,

 Speech is one symptom of Affection
 And Silence one--The
 perfectest communication
 Is heard of none--(1681, 1960)

Therefore, as long as we are not so much in a hurry to fill our time and space with words and sound or "dread" silence, as Dickinson would also say here, (16) we will be enlightened by dayin [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.] yet to hear and su [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.] yet to shine through from behind this increasingly vociferous and ostentatious world of ours. Ultimately, learning how to communicate through silence is like learning to understand and appreciate classical Asian art, such as a simple poem from the Book of Songs, which requires not just momentary patience but significant suspension or change of our mentality, that is, our modern way of looking at things. It challenges our modern mind or obsession for clarity or our intolerance for ambiguity, as Stephen E. Toulmin would so suggest. It would encourage us, in other words, to cultivate, for deeper understanding and for healthier mental balance, a more context-specific approach instead of our entrenched modern mind for absolute abstraction, precision, and clarity.

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Yang Rengeng. 2003. Faxian Lunyu. Beijing: Huaxia Chubanshe.

Zhang Tingchen. & Bruce M. Wilson. Trans. 1994. Song of the Pipa. 100 Tang Poems. Beijing, Zhongguo Duiwei Fanyi Gongsi.

Zhao Shiming. 2003. Hanzhi: Zhongguo Wenhai de Jiyin. 2 vols. Nanning: Guangxi Renming Chubanshe.

(1) Stephen Toulmin. Cosmopolis: The Hidden Agenda of Modernity (Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1992) 44-87, 174-201.

(2) "Faint" for [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.] is undoubtedly a favorite choice as we can also see in Wing-Tsit Chan's translation "great music sounds faint" (1963) as well as Philip J. Ivanhoe's "The great note sounds faint" (2002).

(3) For similar argument, see also Zhao Shiming. Hanzhi: Zhongguo Wenhai deiiyin. 2 vols. (Nanning. Guangxi Renming Chubanshe, 2003) 103-6.

(4) Yang Rengeng [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.], Faxian Lunyu (Beijing: Huaxia Chubanshe, 20 03).

(5) See Yang Bojun [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.] Lun YxZhu Ski (Beijing. Zhong Hua Shu Jiu, 1988) 16.

(6) For comparison, here is Leys' translation. The Master said. 'How sublime were Shun and Yu: they had dominion over all that is under Heaven, and yet were not attached to it." Here is also Ames and Rosemont's version: "The Master said, 'How majestic they were--Yao and Shun reigned over the world but did not rule it."

(7) My own translation with reference to Lau's: "He [junzi] cultivates himself and thereby brings peace and security to the people. Even Yao and Shun would have found the task of bringing peace and security to the people taxing"; For comparative reference, here is Leys' translation: "Through self-cultivation, to spread one's peace to all people: even Yao and Shun could not have aimed for more," and Ames and Rosemont's: They cultivate themselves by bringing accord to the people. Even Yao and Shun would find such a task daunting."

(8) Here included is also A.C. Graham's version, for comparison and clarity, "None of us finds his mirror in flowing water, we find it in still water. Only the still water can still whatever is stilled" (1981, 77).

(9) For further reference, here is a much longer version from AC. Graham on the same passage:

 "Being level is the culmination of water coming to rest. That the
 water-level can serve as standard is because it is protected from
 within and undisturbed from outside. As the saying goes, 'the wind
 passing over the river takes some of it away, the sun passing over
 the river take some of it away; but even if wind and sun were both
 to abide with the river, the river would suppose that they had
 never begun to infringe on it., for it is something which issues
 from forth from springs of its own. The filling of a contour by
 whirling water, still water, flowing water, water bubbling up,
 water dripping down, water gushing from the side, water dammed and
 diverted, stagnant water, water with several sources, makes the
 same deep pool. Hence the water abiding with the earth fills its
 contours, the shadow abiding with the shape fills its contours,
 anything abiding with another thing fills its contours. The Power
 is the wholly at peace with itself on the course which is in
 accord. That the Power fails to shape the body is because other
 things are unable to keep distance from it. (81)"

(10) What makes silence sound or heard are also geographically and culturally significant phenomena According to Mikako Ichikawa, Professor of English, the City University of Osaka, Japan, whom I invited to visit Johnson County Community College, Overland Park, Kansas, for a two-week Scholar-in-Residence program in April 19-30, 2004, it is certainly the size of Japan besides its history that makes the sound of water audible and meaningful. Illuminating her points with photos taken where Basho's frog haiku was supposedly written, Professor Ichikawa suggested that the size of Kansas, for instance, would not make the sound so audible. Neither would people in Kansas appear as responsive to the sound the way Basho did. America is simply, as Professor Ichikawa implied, too large for the little sound to be heard and paid attention to. But one of my students, Kathleen B. Walsh, indeed heard the communicative silence that haikus suggested and in response she wrote one herself, after one of these inspiring lectures by Professor Ichikawa, for the first time in her life.

 On the highway's edge
 Still, wild creatures of Kansas
 Sacrificed for speed.

(11) Even in everyday situation, we often run into expressions, such as "it looks hot" or "it sounds cool." For vivid discussion of cases concerning "synaesthesia" in classical Chinese and western literature, see Qian Zhongshu, "Synaesthesia" Comparative Literature Studies: A Collection. Ed. Zhang Longxi and Wen Rumin. Beijing: Peking UP, 1984).

(12) Stephen Crane, qtd., James Nagel (1975).

(13) See also Basho,

 I heard the unblown flute
 In the deep summer shadows
 Of the Temple of Suma. (David, 1995)

(14) Here I thank my colleague, Dr. Kami Day, for helping me identify the current source where the poem appears with the title, "Keeping Quiet"

(15) For convenience, consistency, and clarity, all Chinese names and words in the Wade Giles system are "pinyinized" or converted to the common pinyin system including those in the quoted texts.

(16) See also Dickinson,

 Silence is all we dread.
 There's Ransom in a Voice--But
 silence is Infinity.
 Himself have not a face. (1251, 1960)

Chen Shudong, Johnson County Community College