ChatGPT Meets Lao Tzu
The Tao te Ching by Lao Tzu is said to be the most translated book in the world. There are over 70 versions in English alone, and at least 250 versions in various Western languages. Why so many, you may ask? Because Lao Tzu’s wise words ever elude all attempts to clarify his message.
Thus it is no surprise that so many contemporary writers of text and song have tried their hand at the great Way that cannot be Weighed. Here are a few of them:
The Tao te Ching in the style of Sally Rooney:
Chapter 1
Lao and Me are sitting in the kitchen. He’s smoking, of course, and I’m trying to figure out what he’s thinking. But then again, maybe that’s pointless. “The way that can be named isn’t the real way,” he says, not looking at me.
I roll my eyes. “And what does that even mean?”
“It just means that the second you start defining something, you’re already limiting it,” he says. He flicks ash into the sink, and for some reason, that makes perfect sense.
“It’s like when you try to figure out if you love someone,” I say, more to myself than to him.
He nods, but he’s not really agreeing. “Yeah, or when you try to pin down who you are. You change every second. Why pretend otherwise?”
Tao te Ching meets Allen Ginsberg:
Tao—the great mother, the big bang, the eternal “Yes!”
in the face of neon lights and honking horns,
the silent whisper between your heartbeat and the next,
unseen, unsold, not in your pocket,
but in the empty space where your heart used to beat,
where your soul used to scream out in rage and ecstasy.
I saw it last night on the corner of Sixth and Bleecker,
a man shouting, “God is dead!” but Tao just laughed,
a quiet laugh like a child’s first breath,
like the last light of day fading in the West,
because Tao doesn’t need God, or Buddha, or any other deity
to strut its stuff, to groove in the chaos of a thousand cities.
Take a breath, my friend, and know
the Tao is in the smog and the concrete,
in the sweat and the tears, in the love that slips
through your fingers like sand,
the Tao is the hooker on the corner, the junkie in the alley,
the dreamer in the park sketching visions of a world undone.
Tao te Ching meets Jeannette Winterson:
The Weight of Desire
Desire is a heavy coat, lined with the pockets of things you think you need. You wear it through the seasons, pulling it tighter when the cold sets in. But the Way is a breeze that slips beneath your collar, teasing you with the idea of letting go.
In the letting go, you find the lightness you’ve been seeking. The Way is not in the having, but in the being, in the breath you take when you realize you are enough, that this moment is enough.
The less you hold, the more you are held. The less you need, the more you receive. Desire is a fire that consumes, but the Way is the cool earth, the still water that quenches.
Tao te Ching meets Anthony Bourdain:
1. The Way
The Way is like a perfect dish—simple ingredients, but when you get it right, it’s sublime. Most people are too busy chasing fame, money, or the perfect Instagram shot to notice it. The real flavor of life is subtle, like a broth simmering for hours, waiting for you to finally appreciate it. Don’t overcomplicate it. The Tao is there, in the steam rising from a bowl of noodles at a roadside stall, in the quiet moments between the chaos.
2. Duality
Bitter and sweet, success and failure, love and loss—it’s all part of the recipe. You can’t appreciate the tender meat without the sharp knife. Light needs darkness, and your finest meals often start with the ugliest ingredients. Embrace the contrasts; they give life its flavor.
3. Non-Action
You don’t have to do anything extraordinary. Stop trying to force things, like adding too much spice to a dish. Sometimes, the best thing you can do is let things be, let the flavors mingle on their own. Trust the process, even if it seems slow and unexciting.
4. The Void
The empty bowl holds infinite potential, just like the space between moments in life. The void isn’t scary—it’s where creation begins. In the kitchen, the best dishes start with an empty counter, a blank slate. Embrace the void; it’s where you’ll find your next great inspiration.
Tao te Ching in the style of Tom Waits:
Title: “Water in the Gutter”
(Verse 1)
There’s a way that’s winding, but it ain’t got no name,
It slinks through the alleys, yeah, it hides in the rain,
You chase it, you lose it, it’s just smoke in your hand,
The harder you grip, the less you understand.
(Chorus)
Water in the gutter, don’t try to make it stay,
It rolls on down, finds its own way,
You can wrestle with the shadows, you can fight the wind,
But the way’s gonna take you, let the dance begin.
(Verse 2)
Beauty and madness, they walk hand in hand,
One’s in the mirror, one’s in the sand,
You know that it’s nothing, but you still take a sip,
A glass full of silence, a coin with no flip.
(Chorus)
Water in the gutter, don’t try to make it stay,
It rolls on down, finds its own way,
You can wrestle with the shadows, you can fight the wind,
But the way’s gonna take you, let the dance begin.
(Bridge)
Some folks want diamonds, some folks want gold,
But the less that you carry, the more you can hold,
In a world full of wanting, it’s hard to be still,
But the road goes on, with or without your will.
(Outro)
So let the night take you, let the river run,
Don’t count your blessings, don’t count your guns,
There’s a voice in the darkness, it don’t shout, it don’t sing,
It whispers in riddles, says, “You don’t own a thing.”
(Final Chorus)
Water in the gutter, don’t try to make it stay,
It rolls on down, finds its own way,
You can wrestle with the shadows, you can fight the wind,
But the way’s gonna take you, let the dance begin.
Tao te Ching meets Charli XCX:
Chapter 2: Electric Yin Yang
Light and dark, yin and yang—
they’re like the perfect collab,
two forces remixing each other,
always in balance, always in flux.
You thought you could split them up,
keep the light and ditch the dark?
Think again, babe, they come as a pair,
like synth and bass, like beats and breaks.
When you’re up, the Tao’s got your back,
when you’re down, it’s there too,
a constant loop, a perfect track
that never skips, never fades.
Don’t fight it, feel it—
the highs and lows, the ebb and flow,
the way the night turns into day
and back again, a cycle, a remix
of all that is, all that ever was,
playing on repeat in the background
of your life, your dreams, your everything.
Tao te Ching meets Nina Simone:
Chapter 2: The Weight of Light
The light and the dark—they dance together,
a slow, swaying rhythm that keeps you on your toes.
You think you know what’s right, what’s wrong,
but the Tao flips the script,
turns the whole damn thing upside down.
The sun sets, the moon rises,
and you’re left standing in the middle,
feeling the weight of the world on your shoulders,
but knowing the light is there,
even in the darkest hour.
You walk the line,
you sing the song,
and the Tao—it walks with you,
a shadow at your side,
a whisper in your ear, saying,
“Keep going, baby—
you’re closer than you think.”
Tao te Ching meets David Rothenberg:
The Tao that can be told
Sings through the wind, hums in the birds.
The name that can be named
Is whispered by the river’s flow,
Fades like a dolphin’s leap into the sea.
The nameless is the origin of heaven and earth,
A silence held between waves of sound—
The murmur of a cricket, the distant call of a whale.
To know the nameless
Is to drift in the breath of the forest,
To hear what is unheard, to listen to the music beyond music.
The ten thousand things rise and fall,
As a flute plays with the birds, as the leaves rustle and fall.
And the sage remains still,
In tune with the rhythm of what is,
Unmoved, like the mountains beneath the stars.
The Real Rothenberg meets Tao te Ching, no artificial intelligence involved:
Lao Tzu, detained at the border, asked before he leaves to write down his wisest words, thinks, “There’s no way I can do this,” because at the greatest moment language wants to fail us. But he smiles, “At least they’re letting me leave this place…”
You don’t see the right path, you don’t remember your real name.
Then why won’t we stop trying to write all this down?
Sure, he spent a lot of time playing up and down, practicing scales and arpeggios. But once in a while, Sidney Bechet stopped all that, and in his apartment in Paris, with the windows open, he would launch into strange wails, imitations of eagle cries and fox howls, diving into tones he would never play on stage.
One of his neighbors asked, “What was that racket I heard from your room last night?”
And he answered:
Sometimes what we call music is not the real music.
~
Okay, by now you figured it out. I got ChatGPT to help me rewrite Lao Tzu in the style of various writers admired and notorious. No need to lawyer up—may I remind the court that parody is protected by law?But what if the results actually end up pretty good? Maybe I’ll try to sing that Tom Waitsian song. Or ask the internet to sing it for me… in the style of Tiny Tim? Bessie Smith? Florence Nightingale?
Plenty of authors of the caliber of my examples are suing though. They know the reason such experiments work is that all the AI labs have illegally mined the full content of the internet to teach their bots to write and sing. We never gave the technosphere any permission to swallow us whole.
Nick Cave is pissed off about this, so I didn’t get him involved in my project. But Jeannette Winterson admits being moved by an AI-written story she happened to read. Of course I sent her my ancient wisdom intoned in her voice, but she never responded. Not yet at least.
I too am capable of ire on this subject. Recently I found a track online called “Rainforest Rain” by an artist claiming to be “David Rothenberg.” The cover image was something a bit like a picture I would use, dark nature space with a sans-serif font feigning elegance. It’s a calm recording of just rain falling from the trees.
If the water falls in the forest and there is no clarinet, can we surmise it is not the real Rothenberg behind it?
I found the company behind this aberration and demanded they take it down.
“Of course,” they replied “Our error.”
But wait, today I notice it is still up.
Now I’m calling my lawyer.
Musician and philosopher David Rothenberg wrote Why Birds Sing, Bug Music, Survival of the Beautiful and many other books, published in at least 11 languages. He has more than 40 recordings out, including One Dark Night I Left My Silent House which came out on ECM, and more recently Just Leave It All Behind and Lost Steps. He has performed or recorded with Pauline Oliveros, Peter Gabriel, Ray Phiri, Suzanne Vega, Scanner, Elliott Sharp, Umru, Iva Bittová, and the Karnataka College of Percussion. In 2024 he won a Grammy Award as part of For the Birds, in the category of Best Boxed Set. Whale Music and Secret Sounds of Ponds are his latest books. Nightingales In Berlin and Eastern Anthems are his latest films. David is Distinguished Professor at the New Jersey Institute of Technology.
Read “Drifting Through Possibility,” an interview with David Rothenberg by John P. O’Grady, as well as other editorials by David Rothenberg in Terrain.org in his “Bull Hill” series, plus recent nonfiction: “Eleven Paths to Animal Music.”
Header image by David Rothenberg with DALL-E. Photo of David Rothenberg by David Michael.
