18/07/2026
This is a very moot point for Taoists, considering the Daodejing, once referred to as the Tao Te Ching, and its famous opening stanza saying the Tao that can be spoken is not the true Tao.
Also this idea of time and how it can be represented in different cultures and how it is also represented in spoken and written languages. I remember seeing a video about the Inca, and they have an apparently different view of time to us in that they have three streams which coincide; it's difficult to explain. I will try to find the video and leave a link; it's called Inca Masters of the Clouds, featuring archaeologist Jago Cooper. It's a two part documentary from 2015 by the BBC, the time part is in part one.
Apparently, there are three time streams which run in parallel, which correspond to our view of past, present, and future. The difference is that this is not a single timeline but three, and they can affect each other. At first, this seems strange, but think about how archaeology can affect our view on how ancient peoples lived and how new finds or future finds, and theories can unlock new knowledge, so the future affects the past.
UP AND DOWN, BEFORE AND AFTER
Take a look at this poem, “Song of Climbing Yōuzhōu Terrace” (登幽州臺歌), by Chén Zǐ’áng 陳子昂 (656–702), a Táng dynasty poet.
Before me, I don’t see the ancients.
Behind me, I don’t see those yet to come.
Aware of the vastness of heaven and earth—
alone and sad, how my tears fall.
I find it quite poignant, and the sense of loneliness is palpable. But I struggled with interpreting “before” and “behind.”
In the attached video, Dr. Erica Brozovsky discusses how time is described differently from culture to culture. There is, of course, no right or wrong, and the variations are fascinating.
By extension, how much does our language determine the way we think? As I’ve tried to translate Chinese into English, I’m constantly struggling with the rules of English.
“Subject, verb, object,” I was taught in grade school. “No passive voice.” (“The ball was hit by me.”) “No double negatives.” (“I ain’t got no money.”) Those are useful rules that can serve a person throughout life. But they also shape how we think. In particular, what do you do with a philosophy like Daoism, which says that being came from nonbeing, and that the universe emerged from a gradually increasing complexity of interactions directed without any divine consciousness?
Chén uses the words “before,” meaning, “in front,” and “behind,” meaning yet to come.” Another way to express the same idea is to speak of the past as shàng 上, which also means “above, up, high, superior,” and the future, or later, as xià 下, which also means “below, down, low, inferior.” If this isn’t pointed out, you won’t be able to appreciate the linguistic richness in chapter 17 of the Dàodéjīng.
In great antiquity (shàng 上),
the people (xià 下) knew rulers existed.
With the next,
people felt kinship and praised them.
With the next,
people feared them.
With the next,
people ridiculed them.
You can see that there’s a sequence from high (the ideal rulers) toward the lowness of degeneration. The sense of time moves from high (early) to low (later). Esteem declines from high to low, beginning with acknowledgment and praise but ending in ridicule. The fault is assigned to those on high (the leaders), and the burden is borne by those below (the people). All these subtleties are embedded in the language and culture, but they require careful attention to appreciate. Subtly, we see that those high (shàng 上) leaders of great antiquity (shàng 上) have degenerated into low (xià 下) leaders, and have lost any sense of responsibility to the people (xià 下).
Up and down. Early and later. Before and after. Such simple ideas, and yet they can determine what we notice and how we think.
https://youtu.be/st5jq5t6rzc?is=zNsPg_ZAYuec6C-5
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ABOUT THE POET
Chén Zǐ’áng 陳子昂 (656–702) was a Táng dynasty poet. He passed the jìnshì 進士 level of the Imperial Examinations at the age of twenty-four. But he also wanted to promote himself as a poet. Wanting to create a sensation, he went to the city marketplace and bought a Tartar musical instrument for an exorbitant price. He announced to the crowd that he was an expert musician and invited everyone to a performance the next day. The following day, he offered a lavish feast, stood up, introduced himself as a poet and essayist, and smashed the expensive instrument to pieces. He then handed out copies of his works.
Chén Zǐ’áng served under a military commander. When the vanguard suffered a devastating defeat, the commander hesitated to renew the attack. Chén Zǐ’áng advocated sending 10,000 soldiers, but the commander rejected the proposal and demoted him.
Afterward, Chén climbed Yōuzhōu Terrace 幽州臺 and composed this poem. It’s important to know the background of that place in order to appreciate the emotion of the poem.
Yōuzhōu Terrace (within the borders of present-day Beijing) was originally built by King Zhāo of Yàn 燕昭王 (d. 279 BCE) to recruit talented individuals, making it a symbol of recognizing and employing people of great ability.
By “taking the stage,” Chén was presenting himself on this legendary terrace, ready to act heroically and wisely—but no one stood before him (such as King Zhāo and the great figures of the past), and no one was coming after him (that is, followers and supporters). This is confirmed in the third line, where he is “alone.”
The first words of the third line, “aware of the vastness of heaven and earth,” use the word niàn 念 (also written 唸), which today also means “mindfulness.”
