In order to make the case that the logician Hui Shih is (like Kung sun-Lung) more subtle and complex than the role he plays in the Chuang-tzu would suggest, I argue here that the spatio-temporal paradoxes of this “sceptical” relativist measure indeterminacy against absolute logical forms. This argument is based on a close reading of Hui Shih’s ten paradoxes as we get them at the end of the Chuang-tzu. My conclusion is that the logician’s double view of reality is in fact a double view of the contingent and formal sides of human language. Thus while the Taoist’s mystical flights would transcend “words” in order to get “meaning,” the logician recognizes that this is not possible: his deepest probings cannot escape the trap of signification, but rather lay bare language’s own self-difference.

This essay explores the historical development of the tertiary relationship among language literary creation, and belief in ultimate reality in the Easternand Western poetic traditions. At the beginning of the Western tradition, the use of language was firmly based on a belief in deities. Greco-Roman writers generally believed language to be a most effective tool—an inevitable tool—in conveying one’s ideas and ultimate reality. Literary creation, which is the most condensed use of language, was considered to be divinely inspired. The use of language, literary creativity, and belief in a deity thus were inextricably linked in the West until the latter half of the nineteenth century, when belief in a deity declined. Because of the weakening of this belief, language began to be conceived as a historical product, and its effectiveness was also doubted. Consequently, literary creation became a self-reflective act involved primarily with itself, rather than with the outside world. All the major Western writers in the twentieth century employ difficult language to express what appears to be a chaotic world to them. A similarly close relationship between literary creation and the belief in a deity can be found at the outset of the Hindu, Chinese, and Japanese poetic traditions. The decline of the belief in a deity and the rise of humanism, however, occurred early in ‘China. Confucius made the human world his predominant concern; Lao Tzu moved a step further by espousing a worldview based, not on divinity, but on Nature. Because of the weakening of the belief in a deity, what used to be a strong link between language and divinity was greatly shakened. Consequently, Confucius advocated the “rectification of names” with a view to improving the use of language, whereas Lao Tzu simply denied that language can be used to depict ultimate reality. The Taoist notion of non-verbal instruction later exerted considerable influence on both Chinese and Japanese literature, making Chinese and Japanese poetic works all the more condensed and enignmatic.

The “intentional fallacy” is an established critical term, but its usage is confusing because it is variously defined or explicated. The New Critical idea of it is to posit an “objective theory” of literature whereby the author’s intentions are excluded as a source of meaning in the critic’s interpretation of the work. This concept, however, has its own fallacy since no work can really become autonomous or autotelic. In truth, a literary work is hardly separable from the intention of the author who creates it nor from the intention of the reader who reads it. The work, the author, and the reader are a trinity, bound each to each with a common “intention.” It is only that in the reading process the “intention” (internal, mental form) is necessarily derived from the “extention” (external, physical entity) while in writing the “intention” must needs be turned into the “extention.” And the real problem is whether or not the “intention” can be identical with the “extention” at any moment. Theoretically, according to Derrida’s idea of différance, we admit the answer is in the negative. Nevertheless, it is to be understood that in practice, a fixed intention or meaning on the part of the author or the reader is unavoidably assumed to exist; otherwise, not textual interpretation (even no communication of any sort) is possible. The deconstructionists have themselves committed an “intentional fallacy” as well: they tum intended objects into intentionless objects by reducing all things to signs and accounting for intentional process in terms of non-intentional semiotic relationship. In effect, to “intend” is to “in-tend” and to theorize. Man just cannot stop intending or theorizing. To err through intention is human; to forgive with intention, divine. We had better not declare “against theory” or “against interpretation” for fear of committing the “intentional fallacy” on “the critical path.”

This essay explores the concept of “adaptation” in the dramatic arts, whether of one cultural form (e.g., Asian) to another or one dramatic form (e.g., film, theater) to another, or both. It explores “adaptability” in terms of the semiotic notions of “change” and “dynamism.” The semiotic interpretation must always be aware of the specific dramatic form which is “signified” both in the “text” of the play and in the dramatic “presentation”—that is, aware of the intimate interplay of text and presentation.

This essay attempts to answer a specific question about the script form of classic Chinese drama: “Why did the playwrights use character-types instead of the names of the characters in stage directions?” After surveying the standard Yuan character types and sub-types, the use of terms and names is investigated and a brief comparison made between the method and “system” of Chinese playwrights and that of the writers of scenarios for Commedia dell’Arte and the scripts of Japanese Noh. While here the author reaches no definite answer to his initial question, he is eager to explore the matter more deeply, and invites suggestions and opinions from readers.