Thomas Merton (1915–1968)

The Way of Chuang Tzu, by Thomas Merton, is a difficult book to classify—is it a translation? An original work? Perhaps the phrase interpretive translation is best—a mid-twentieth-century American Trappist monk’s interpretive translation of the ancient Chinese Taoist philosopher Chuang Tzu. Working from four different translations of Chuang Tzu’s works, in three languages, Merton reworked passages in a way that made sense for him in his monastic tradition. This rewrite was done after show more Merton released that all of the translations he read had significant differences, and that essentially, all translators take quite a bit of interpretive and artistic license. The results of Merton’s rewrite are astounding, and considering the vast differences between ancient Chinese Taoism and 20th century Catholicism, shouldn’t exist at all. It is a testament to Thomas Merton’s intellectual curiosity and willingness to probe Eastern traditions for fundamental truths about human existence.

One of the beautiful things about this book is that Merton makes Chuang Tzu’s writing accessible to 20th century readers with a poetic flare that is unmatched. I had read the works of Chuang Tzu before—in a literature class at university, and finishing Merton’s version, I dusted off my old copy of Burton Watson’s translation for the sake of comparison. Here is a sample from each book.

First, Watson’s prose translation:

Hui Tzu said to Chuang Tzu, “I have a big tree called a shu. Its trunk is too gnarled and bumpy to apply a measuring line to, its branches too bent and twisty to match up a compass or square. You could stand it by the road and no carpenter would look at it twice. Your words, too, are big and useless, and so everyone alike spurns them!”
Chuang Tzu said, “Maybe you’ve never seen a wildcat or weasel. It crouches down and hides, watching for something to come along. It leaps and races east and west, not hesitating to go high or low—until it falls into the trap and dies in the net. Then again there’s the yak, big as a cloud covering the sky. It certainly knows how to be big, though it doesn’t know how to catch rats. Now you have this big tree and you’re distressed because it’s useless. Why don’t you plant it in Not-Even-Anything Village, or the field of Broad-and-Boundless, relax and do nothing by its side, or lie down for a free and easy sleep under it? Axes will never shorten its life, nothing can ever harm it. If there’s no use for it, how can it come to grief or pain?
Watson, Burton. Chuang Tzu: Basic Writings. Columbia University Press. 1964.

Now, the same passage in verse by Merton:

Hui Tzu said to Chuang:
I have a big tree,
The kind they call a “stinktree.”
The trunk is so distorted,
So full of knots,
No one can get a straight plank
Out of it. The branches are so crooked
You cannot cut them up
In any way that makes sense.
There it stands beside the road.
No carpenter will even look at it.
Such is your teaching—
Big and useless.
Chuang Tzu replied:
Have you ever watched the wildcat
Crouching, watching his prey—
This way it leaps, and that way,
High and low, and at last
Lands in the trap.
But have you seen the yak?
Great as a thundercloud
He stands in his might.
Big? Sure,
He can’t catch mice!
So for your big tree. No use?
Then plant it in the wasteland
In emptiness.
Walk idly around,
Rest under its shadow;
No axe or bill prepares its end.
No one will ever cut it down.
Useless? You should worry!
Merton, Thomas. The Way of Chuang Tzu. New Directions Press. 1965.

I assume, without being able to read ancient Chinese myself, that Watson’s translation is by far the more accurate of the two. After all, he is the famous Chinese scholar, whose works many a university student are assigned to read. But Merton’s works speak to my heart more. Putting Chuang Tzu’s words into verse seems fitting for the Taoist tradition, and Merton’s lines have a vibrancy that is missing in Watson’s. This vibrancy continued throughout the whole work, and I felt that I understood Taoism far better after reading Merton’s text. Therefore, while reading highly accurate texts is indisputably vital for the scholar, for the layman, dipping his or her toes into Taoist literature, Merton may be the better choice. show less

Thoughtful and eloquent, as timely (or timeless) now as when it was originally published in 1956, Thoughts in Solitude addresses the pleasure of a solitary life, as well as the necessity for quiet reflection in an age when so little is private. Thomas Merton writes: "When society is made up of men who know no interior solitude it can no longer be held together by love: and consequently it is held together by a violent and abusive authority. But when men are violently deprived of the solitude show more and freedom which are their due, the society in which they live becomes putrid, it festers with servility, resentment and hate." show less

Merton's somewhat haphazard take on Faulkner is nevertheless quite interesting as he shows insights into Faulkner's work that would do Oliver Billingslea proud. While mentioning works that the doesn't think are appropriate for his audience of monks, Merton expresses his appreciation for Faulkner frankly and with humor, including many quotes from The Bear, The Wild Palms, and The Sound and the Fury, which are the subjects of these lectures. It makes no sense to look at Faulkner apart from the show more religion the South that infuses his stories, and Merton provides an excellent perspective. It's too bad he didn't live long enough to write the book on Faulkner he was contemplating. show less

20th-century Trappist monk Thomas Merton here provides a collection of translations from the Verba of the "Desert Fathers," who were Egyptian hermits of the early Christian centuries. His aims in presenting these English versions of originally Coptic materials are inspirational rather than historical. But in something of a contrast with the ascetic and mystical expectations that a reader might bring to bear on these texts, they turn out to be full of practical psychology and all-too-human show more concerns. Nevertheless, I read this short volume while in the midst of Feuerbach's Essence of Christianity, and it actually supports his thesis by demonstrating an impressively pure form of Christianity in its rejection of worldly values in favor of subjective strivings for autonomy and power over personal feelings.

The long essay with which Merton prefaces his translations is pleasant and fairly wise. I was quite struck by his quotation from what the body text offers as Saying III: "Therefore, whatever you see your soul desire according to God, do that thing, and you shall keep your heart safe." (c.f. Quid voles illud fac.) Merton comments, "Obviously, such a path could only be traveled by one who was very alert and very sensitive to the landmarks of a trackless wilderness" (7). Reading these sayings put me in mind of my own experience of the psychic difference between the urban and the rural (the suburban being only the worst of both worlds), with an awareness of the way in which Christianity simultaneously denigrates and exalts the former.

Among the 150 sayings are a fair number of interesting and valuable ones concerning the spiritual worth of silence. There is, however, only one saying in the entire book (LXXXIX) which credits a female authority ("Abbess Syncletica of holy memory"), although women figure as sinfully tempting objects in several, and even as a deceitful accuser in the final one. My favorite is probably number CIX, in which an ass provides oracular confirmation of a hermit's priestly vocation. show less