Latest news with #Daoism
The Guardian
05-07-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
‘Will AI take my job?' A trip to a Beijing fortune-telling bar to see what lies ahead
In the age of self-help, self-improvement and self-obsession, there have never been more places to look to for guidance. Where the anxious and the uncertain might have once consulted a search engine for answers, now we can engage in a seemingly meaningful discussion about our problems with ChatGPT. Or, if you're in China, DeepSeek. To some, though, it feels as if our ancestors knew more about life than we do. Or at least, they knew how to look for them. And so it is that scores of young Chinese are turning to ancient forms of divination to find out what the future holds. In the past couple of years, fortune-telling bars have been popping up in China's cities, offering drinks and snacks alongside xuanxue, or spiritualism. The trend makes sense: China's economy is struggling, and although consumers are saving their pennies, going out for a drink is cheaper than other forms of retail therapy or an actual therapist. With a deep-rooted culture of mysticism that blends Daoist, Buddhist and folk practices, which have defied decades of the government trying to stamp out superstitious beliefs, for many Chinese people, turning to the unseen makes perfect sense. This week, I decided to join them. My xuanxue haunt of choice is Qie Le, a newly opened bar in Beijing's wealthy Chaoyang district. On a Thursday evening, the bar, adorned with yellow Taoist talismans and draped translucent curtains, is quiet. All the better for hogging the fortune-teller's attention with questions from my deep wells of narcissism. But Wan Mo, either because of her spiritual intuition or because I am not the first self-involved millennial to seek her services, sees me coming a mile off. It's strictly one question per drink bought. Wan Mo, a stylish 36-year-old dressed in a loose white Tang-style jacket fastened with traditional Chinese knots, specialises in qiuqian, or Chinese lottery sticks. The practice involves shaking a cylindrical wooden container full of wooden sticks, while focusing on a question in your mind. Eventually, one of the sticks, engraved with text and numerals, falls out, and a fortune-teller can interpret the answer. Qiuqian dates back to the Jin dynasty (AD266 to AD420) and has survived centuries of war, upheaval, a Cultural Revolution and the rise of artificial intelligence to remain a stalwart of Taoist temples, and now, Beijing cocktail bars. So I'm hoping that qiuqian will be well placed to answer my first question: Will AI take my job? 'Use both hands,' Wan Mo says firmly. She is a no-nonsense savant. 'Focus on your question.' She tells me that as a foreigner, my connection with the sticks might not be as profound as a Chinese person's. So I need to 'think carefully'. After a few seconds of focused yet vigorous shaking, not one but two sticks drop on to the table between us. Wan Mo studies the first one. 'This stick means that later on, AI will have an impact on your job … even though you're very talented, you can't compete with its scale. For example, if you write one article, it can write 10. It will definitely affect you.' This is not the spiritual salve I was hoping for. Wan Mo tells me that the second stick even provides a timeline for my professional redundancy. 'It says that within one to three years, there won't be a major impact. But after three years, AI will become a major force.' Wan Mo's predictions don't leave me full of hope for my next question. But in the spirit of xuanxue, I decide to try my luck again, and order another round. We take a brief break for Wan Mo to have a cigarette break and catch up with a friend who has wandered into the bar. His chipper demeanour makes me think that he is yet to discover that AI will take his job – or he's just made his peace with it. Eventually I muster up enough liquid courage to ask my second question. Wan Mo's stern demeanour sends a slight chill through my hands as I grasp the qiuqian box for the second time. Shake, shake, shake. Think, think, think. A single wooden stick falls out of the container. 'Will I get a pay rise?' I ask, tentatively. The answer comes unnervingly quickly. 'There's not much possibility at the moment. Although [the stick] is about transition … it shows there is no major change … There is some hope, but it's not immediate. You need to make some personal adjustments.' I ask what kind of personal adjustments I could make, hoping that she won't make me order another drink to find out. 'If you want a pay rise, xuanxue can only offer support,' she demurs. 'For example, the bracelet I'm wearing is for attracting wealth. It's made from natural materials … we'd recommend wearing something like this. It can help bring in some financial luck and may have a positive effect. But the most important thing is still communicating with the superiors.' I am not sure if she means my spiritual or editorial superiors. But with that my time is up. Wan Mo's friend says that everyone comes to Qie Le with the same kinds of questions: how to get rich, stay healthy, find love. I feel as if all I've discovered is how dim my chances are on the first question, and it's getting too late to ask the second and third. I slink off home to get some sleep before my early start the next day. I bet AI doesn't have to worry about feeling tired. Additional research by Lillian Yang
The Guardian
05-07-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
‘Will AI take my job?' A trip to a Beijng fortune-telling bar to see what lies ahead
In the age of self-help, self-improvement and self-obsession, there have never been more places to look to for guidance. Where the anxious and the uncertain might have once consulted a search engine for answers, now we can engage in a seemingly meaningful discussion about our problems with ChatGPT. Or, if you're in China, DeepSeek. To some, though, it feels as if our ancestors knew more about life than we do. Or at least, they knew how to look for them. And so it is that scores of young Chinese are turning to ancient forms of divination to find out what the future holds. In the past couple of years, fortune-telling bars have been popping up in China's cities, offering drinks and snacks alongside xuanxue, or spiritualism. The trend makes sense: China's economy is struggling, and although consumers are saving their pennies, going out for a drink is cheaper than other forms of retail therapy or an actual therapist. With a deep-rooted culture of mysticism that blends Daoist, Buddhist and folk practices, which have defied decades of the government trying to stamp out superstitious beliefs, for many Chinese people, turning to the unseen makes perfect sense. This week, I decided to join them. My xuanxue haunt of choice is Qie Le, a newly opened bar in Beijing's wealthy Chaoyang district. On a Thursday evening, the bar, adorned with yellow Taoist talismans and draped translucent curtains, is quiet. All the better for hogging the fortune-teller's attention with questions from my deep wells of narcissism. But Wan Mo, either because of her spiritual intuition or because I am not the first self-involved millennial to seek her services, sees me coming a mile off. It's strictly one question per drink bought. Wan Mo, a stylish 36-year-old dressed in a loose white Tang-style jacket fastened with traditional Chinese knots, specialises in qiuqian, or Chinese lottery sticks. The practice involves shaking a cylindrical wooden container full of wooden sticks, while focusing on a question in your mind. Eventually, one of the sticks, engraved with text and numerals, falls out, and a fortune-teller can interpret the answer. Qiuqian dates back to the Jin dynasty (AD266 to AD420) and has survived centuries of war, upheaval, a Cultural Revolution and the rise of artificial intelligence to remain a stalwart of Taoist temples, and now, Beijing cocktail bars. So I'm hoping that qiuqian will be well placed to answer my first question: Will AI take my job? 'Use both hands,' Wan Mo says firmly. She is a no-nonsense savant. 'Focus on your question.' She tells me that as a foreigner, my connection with the sticks might not be as profound as a Chinese person's. So I need to 'think carefully'. After a few seconds of focused yet vigorous shaking, not one but two sticks drop on to the table between us. Wan Mo studies the first one. 'This stick means that later on, AI will have an impact on your job … even though you're very talented, you can't compete with its scale. For example, if you write one article, it can write 10. It will definitely affect you.' This is not the spiritual salve I was hoping for. Wan Mo tells me that the second stick even provides a timeline for my professional redundancy. 'It says that within one to three years, there won't be a major impact. But after three years, AI will become a major force.' Wan Mo's predictions don't leave me full of hope for my next question. But in the spirit of xuanxue, I decide to try my luck again, and order another round. We take a brief break for Wan Mo to have a cigarette break and catch up with a friend who has wandered into the bar. His chipper demeanour makes me think that he is yet to discover that AI will take his job – or he's just made his peace with it. Eventually I muster up enough liquid courage to ask my second question. Wan Mo's stern demeanour sends a slight chill through my hands as I grasp the qiuqian box for the second time. Shake, shake, shake. Think, think, think. A single wooden stick falls out of the container. 'Will I get a pay rise?' I ask, tentatively. The answer comes unnervingly quickly. 'There's not much possibility at the moment. Although [the stick] is about transition … it shows there is no major change … There is some hope, but it's not immediate. You need to make some personal adjustments.' I ask what kind of personal adjustments I could make, hoping that she won't make me order another drink to find out. 'If you want a pay rise, xuanxue can only offer support,' she demurs. 'For example, the bracelet I'm wearing is for attracting wealth. It's made from natural materials … we'd recommend wearing something like this. It can help bring in some financial luck and may have a positive effect. But the most important thing is still communicating with the superiors.' I am not sure if she means my spiritual or editorial superiors. But with that my time is up. Wan Mo's friend says that everyone comes to Qie Le with the same kinds of questions: how to get rich, stay healthy, find love. I feel as if all I've discovered is how dim my chances are on the first question, and it's getting too late to ask the second and third. I slink off home to get some sleep before my early start the next day. I bet AI doesn't have to worry about feeling tired. Additional research by Lillian Yang
The Guardian
01-06-2025
- General
- The Guardian
The ancient Chinese text of the Zhuangzi teaches us to reject entrenched values – and treasure the diversity of humanity
The Zhuangzi, an ancient Chinese Daoist text written by the philosopher known by the same name, has a lot to say about people who are considered 'disabled'. This is interesting in itself, as parts of it were written around the 4th century BCE, when only the privileged could read and write. Why would the authors of this text, men of privilege, be interested in people who were considered at the time to be 'less than normal'? The answer relates, at least in part, to the fact that the text was critical of how its society promoted and prioritised the 'valuable' or 'useful', and what was regarded as important to humanity. Within such a society, whatever – or whoever – falls short of the accepted standards is seen in demeaning ways. But the Zhuangzi rejects this way of thinking. So how might we put some of these ideas into practice today? The Zhuangzi tells the story of a wondrous tree, so large that its canopy provided shade for thousands of oxen. The tree only became this large because its wood was deemed to be 'useless' for any human project. Therefore, it was left alone and allowed to grow into its magnificent size. This story shows how easy it is for us to adopt entrenched values. Are we guided too much by what society tells us is 'useless'? It allows us to turn the tables on our own assumptions and challenge our thinking of what 'normal' and 'useful' means. This is reflective of Daoism more broadly, which advocates for diversity in how we think about humanity and human achievements. Daoism resists what would today be considered an ableist approach to life. It teaches us that looking at life through an ableist lens only leads to negativity about those who are deemed 'not good enough'. Such an approach looks for how people are deficient, rather than how they are capable. The Zhuangzi's point is not that we cannot celebrate excellence. Rather, it champions the richness of life by showing that people can be excellent in many different ways. Instead of telling us how to fix people's medical and physiological conditions, it prompts us to reflect on the shallow attitudes of those who see others as 'disabled', who want to draw attention to what some people lack, rather than what they might have. There isn't a word in the Zhuangzi that means 'disability'. Rather, the ancient text uses storytelling and exaggerated language to try to show how society sees some people in derogatory ways. Stories about 'sad horsehead humpback' or 'hunchback limpleg' show that these are not labels that the men were born with; they were given to them by a society that wrongly prides itself on 'normalising' able-bodied people. Through these stories, we learn that sometimes the word 'disability' is used unfairly to define people, so that our interactions with them are determined by the label. As the Zhuangzhi shows, life is too important for us to take a one-size-fits-all approach to it. The philosophy encourages us to embrace the richness of life by appreciating its diversity. Karyn Lai is a professor of philosophy in the faculty of arts, design and architecture, University of New South Wales
