《庄列十论》

All things issue from a single source, and right and wrong likewise belong to one and the same Qi (vital energy). What, after all, is Zhuang Zhou, and what is the butterfly? To insist that Zhuang Zhou is not the butterfly is because one has not yet forgotten the self; to insist that the butterfly is not Zhuang Zhou is because one still clings to external things. Setting things and the self against each other gives rise to a profusion of distinctions; to hold that the myriad things differ from one another is nothing but the product of deluded feeling.

One does not realize that external things have never had any fixed “thing,” and the butterfly is no exception; nor has the self ever had any fixed “I,” and even Zhuang Zhou is like an illusion. Where, then, is there room left for distinguishing one from the other? When Zhuang Zhou in his dream lightly and freely becomes a butterfly, there is only the butterfly and no Zhuang Zhou; when, after waking, he feels again and again that he is Zhuang Zhou, there is only Zhuang Zhou and no butterfly. This is to look from what Zhuang Zhou himself sees; yet from the root of the myriad things, they are originally equal and the same.

Some people care only to prize their own bodies and cling tightly to the myriad things. They take what the bodily senses encounter while awake as real, and what spirit (Shen) and soul undergo in mutual response during sleep as illusory. They do not know that waking and dreaming within a single night are only the opening and closing of one and the same bodily form, and that the opening and closing of the form is in turn the expression of one and the same nature as it comes and goes in transformation. When a human being changes into some other creature, one grieves and recoils; when one becomes human again, one rejoices. What in external things is worth recoiling from, and what in the human body is worth rejoicing over? This is nothing more than the endless transformation of the myriad things.

To take the bodily form as one’s only self, secretly favoring it and clinging to it, is a deluded thought. Only one who has thoroughly awakened can know what the truly great dream is; only a True Person can have true understanding. One who is dreaming does not know that he is dreaming, and so does not regard the dream as empty and false; one who is awake does not know that he too may be in a dream, and so does not consider that what is seen while awake may not be real. Zhuang Zhou does not know the butterfly’s condition, and so does not take the butterfly to be himself; the butterfly likewise does not know Zhuang Zhou’s condition, and so cannot decide that Zhuang Zhou is the true self.

The source of luminous awareness is clear and still, and wherever it makes contact it can perceive. The transformations of the myriad things arise one after another; whatever is encountered is followed, without choice, and yet the mind holds no fixed knowledge or view. Therefore this essay takes as its beginning the meaning of “losing the self” (forgetting attachment to the self), and through the story of Zhuang Zhou dreaming of the butterfly fulfills the main theme of “equalizing things” (regarding the myriad things as equal and as one).

Alas, the people of the world are all as if asleep, and all under heaven is like one great dream. The oak of the village shrine warned people by means of a dream; Lord Yuan’s turtle sought a rabbit by means of a dream; the laborer of the Yin clan was happy because of a dream; the man of Zheng went to law over a deer he had found; and Huaxu traveled in a dream to the sovereign’s abode. That people can reach those places in dreams and rest at ease with whatever they meet is because they know the dream realm to be illusory and not real. Why, then, in the particular matter of Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly, can one not see it in this way?

Those who have reached the realm of the Dao (the Way) clear away what is blocked, quiet the mind to gather emptiness and clarity, nurture spiritual illumination through sincerity, and through stillness return to inner contemplation. They regard gain and loss, right and wrong, honor and baseness, success and failure, life and death in the world all as dreamlike illusions. Why should one harbor doubt only about the relation between Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly? The True Persons of antiquity did not dream when they slept, and had no cares when they woke. From this I have come to understand that Zhuang Zhou’s dream of the butterfly is not merely an allegorical tale.

What is called “no-thing” means not clinging to anything as truly real. The mind is thereby empty, still, and open, able to pass through every kind of change and remain unobstructed throughout. If one clings to things as truly existent and, when affairs arise, insists on only a single path, one will instead be blocked at every turn.

In fact, the natures of the myriad things are not fixed and unchanging, and the forms of things stand each apart from one another; yet the Dao (the Way) is unobstructed everywhere, so why would one need to “carve” with deliberate effort? Here the story of Cook Ding carving an ox is borrowed as a metaphor: when the mind leaves clinging behind and accords with things, it is as if one had never seen any particular ox; acting along the empty spaces and the natural grain, it is as if one had never meant to swing the knife and dissect. This is carving the ox in the midst of “not carving.”

Cook Ding has used his knife for nineteen years, passing through many days; the oxen he has carved number several thousand, and he has passed through every kind of change in the world. By all reckoning the knife should long since have worn away, yet its edge is as keen as if it had just been honed on a whetstone. This is because one who clings to outward traces finds that those traces change in an instant, whereas one who grasps the root of things can run through past and present. The subtle, clear, and luminous fundamental reality, though it dwells in movement, is not shaken by movement; its empty, still, and bright functioning, though it enters the dusty world, is not soiled by that world.

A human life cannot in the end escape the toil of the body, so what, then, is the knife that is truly not worn down by labor? The myriad things are all shifting and unfixed, so what ox is there that stands fixed and unchanged, waiting for someone to carve it open? Only if one clings to there being a knife does one feel able to preserve it; only if one clings to there being an ox does one feel that carving has something to rely on. When things and the self merge into one, and the distinction between the one who acts and what is acted upon also disappears, a person can float and wander freely in the source of the myriad things, no longer hindered by external things.

Thus Cook Ding need not hack and cut with intent: the great gaps in the ox’s body reveal themselves of their own accord. He need not guide the knife with intent: the large openings between the joints open of themselves. Without contending or chasing, the places that fit together connect naturally; even when the edge meets where sinews and joints cross, it can pass through just as it should—how much more so those great gaps?

Therefore, when he brings the knife down he is unhurried and smooth, not wearied by coping with external things; his movements are slight, and he holds no wish to contend with external things for the upper hand. When the carving is finished he sets the knife down and faces the ox, not caught up in what has already been carved; he lifts the knife and stands, neither chasing external things nor running after them. When the work is done, he wipes the knife clean and puts it away, returning to a state in which it is applied to nothing. This is why the edge is never damaged.

Yet the supreme Dao (the highest Dao) seems nowhere to be sought, and at the same time is nowhere absent; exquisite functioning is not a deliberate response, and yet it can respond of itself. Wherever the hand meets something, the hand moves there of itself, yet one does not feel “I am using my hand”; the shoulder leans in of itself, yet one does not feel the shoulder to be acting; the foot steps down of itself and the knee bends of itself, and in none of this does one feel that one is deliberately directing them. A person’s natural capacities unfold of themselves, and the various parts coordinate and operate without self-awareness; the greatest functioning makes no choice, and each follows what is so of itself. Thus there always seems to be ample room around the edge of the knife.

The moment the thought “I see an ox” arises in the mind, one falls into the toil of carving the ox, and the Dao of nourishing life is harmed. This is why a generally good cook cuts with the knife and therefore changes it every year, while an ordinary cook hacks and breaks bone with the knife and therefore changes it every month. The knife Cook Ding uses is not bound by the time of past or present, nor limited by length or number; it is neither new nor old, and does not shift along with change; it is neither thick nor thin, and its material cannot be fixed by any definite form. Its inherent firmness is resilient without being forged; its clear and still functioning stays bright for long without being quenched. When Cook Ding uses it to carve an ox, the ease is like earth falling to the ground; an ordinary cook, by contrast, always finds it hard to bring the knife down.

From the standpoint of the Dao, in carving the ox there is in fact no clinging “carve”: when nothing obstructs, even “carving” cannot be perceived; when something obstructs, if one does not cling to “carving,” the obstruction no longer holds. From Cook Ding’s point of view, looking at the ordinary cook, the difference is that he has dissolved the clinging to obstruction; from the ordinary cook’s point of view, looking at Cook Ding, Cook Ding’s very way of carving seems itself to be an obstruction. Set aside both distinctions, “getting through” and “being blocked,” and what remains is only emptiness and stillness.

Looking closely into Zhuang Zhou’s original intent, he borrows Cook Ding’s carving of the ox to set forth the essentials of nourishing life. Why is nourishing life placed after the “Discussion on Making All Things Equal” and “Free and Easy Wandering”? Because, although the myriad things each find their proper place and each is fitting, if a person is still burdened by bodily form, one cannot wander free and easy; although the myriad things are at root equal, if one still clings to distinctions of great and small, one cannot equalize things. If one is always entangled with external things and contends in the disordered world, life is seldom left unharmed. Only when the mind does not cling to an “I” can one wander at ease; only when one does not take external things as truly real can one view the myriad things as equal at the root. Realizing the great Dao in this way and walking freely among the myriad things, what could obstruct such a person? Thus Zhuang Zhou brings forth the parable of carving the ox, and Lord Wenhui thereby comes to understand the Dao of nourishing life.

From the standpoint of the myriad things not yet having appeared, the substance of the Dao (the Way) is genuinely real and ever constant, pure and still, profound and far-reaching, and does not disappear with the passing of time. From the standpoint of the myriad things having already appeared, everything between heaven and earth is changing in minute ways; the brief moment in which one person brushes past another is gone in the blink of an eye. One who penetrates this principle, even while living amid the flux of the myriad things, can understand that the Dao itself has not shifted. Seen thus, a minute speck of dust can accord with the vast Great Void, and something as fine as an autumn hair can contain heaven and earth. If the countless transformations are entrusted to the unchanging substance of the Dao, it is like carrying a thing on one’s back while hurrying along—where else could one hide it?

Those who do not understand this principle see only the limited span of life and entrust themselves to circumstances that must change. When a lamp’s flame flickers twice in succession, the former flame is already not the latter; though the bodily form seems the same, the I of today is already not the I of before. Even if one wishes to seize them and make them stay, they have all quietly passed away. This is the reason Zhuang Zhou (Zhuangzi) proposed the analogy of “hiding a boat in a valley and hiding a mountain in a marsh.”

Valleys and marshes are open, spacious, clear, and pure, and may be used to illustrate the state in which creative transformation is without intention and the myriad things are freely at ease. Boats and mountains, however, are things that possess form and substance and that differ as to movement and stillness. The Dao is one and originally has no fixed location, whereas valleys and marshes each have their place. The Dao originally has no form, whereas boats and mountains both have form. If the Dao is confined within movement and stillness, within some location, or within some form, it is then regarded as something standing opposite the myriad things.

Once there is opposition, contrasts such as flourishing and decline, new and old, birth and death arise. The Dao itself is without a second, and therefore moves alone, making no distinction between ancient and modern times. Things that stand opposed form pairs; they manifest one another, overturn one another, and arise and perish in turn. Thus, if fire is hidden in fire, the fire is not changed thereby; if fire is hidden in water, the fire is extinguished. If water is hidden in water, the water is not changed thereby; if water is hidden in earth, the water is buried by the earth. How much more is this true of boats and mountains, each with its form, and of valleys and marshes, each with its location: to take them and conceal them also comes from deliberate human arrangement. Yet creative transformation, even when the myriad things have not yet appeared, can carry them off on its back at midnight.

Nevertheless, only one who is not limited by particular things can truly make use of the myriad things; only one who is not constrained by change can comprehend the transformations of the myriad things. Things seem to race and change, yet in fact they do not abide for a single moment. Since change originally has no fixed constancy, I have come to understand that what is called creative transformation is precisely that which, by means of the movement of the myriad things, causes people to fall into confusion. Only those who cling with a deliberate mind will presumptuously decide that things exist or perish.

When the mind deems something to exist, it seems to exist; when the mind no longer deems it so, it seems to disappear. If one hides a thing in a valley or a marsh and believes in one’s heart that it is secure and will not be lost, one does not know that it has never been truly fixed for even a moment. When at midnight one finds it gone and believes in one’s heart that it has departed, one does not know that it has never truly moved either. Only one who understands that the myriad things are settled and upheld by the fundamental Dao can stand beyond ordinary things, so that each of the myriad things rests in its place and none fails to be at ease.

The state in which the myriad things each rest in their place and none fails to be at ease is the root to which the myriad things commonly return and gather, and also the source upon which the transformations of the myriad things depend. When the ancients said, “Hide the world within the world,” they were speaking of this principle. The world is the whole jointly constituted by the myriad things, and the human being is only one kind among them. If one can truly realize and preserve this root, one will know that the transformations of the myriad things are without end. All movement communicates with oneself; then the changes of ending and beginning between heaven and earth may all be gladly accepted, and there is nothing worth disliking. How could such joy be compared with that of people who, having chanced to acquire a human form, are overjoyed?

The ancients said: “The myriad things are all complete within me; when I examine myself and confirm that what is within is genuine and without deception, there is no greater joy.” This joy is something that those who have not yet understood the principle experience every day, yet they do not know it. A person is no more than a traveler lodging briefly in the world, an old bodily form left by the ancients, circulating together with the myriad things in this inn of creative transformation. When Zhuang Zhou spoke of “hiding the world within the world,” it was precisely to explain this.

The mind does not truly belong to you; to whom, then, does it belong? What is called the mind is nothing more than a name temporarily borrowed, accumulated from a multitude of causes, conditions, and habits. The body likewise does not truly belong to you; it is formed by the coming together of various limbs, and appears like an illusion.

If one understands that the mind has no fixed and unchanging substance, and that the myriad things can all be experienced from the standpoint of the mind, why deliberately suppress intelligence and talent? If one understands that the body has no fixed and unchanging substance, and that the myriad phenomena can all be regarded as part of oneself, why deliberately maim the limbs? How much more is this true of such notions as humaneness and righteousness, ritual and music? If one can be thus, then whether moving or still, speaking or silent, one abides in the subtle realm of the Dao (the Way); whether in favorable or adverse circumstances, one freely wanders in accord with the natural. Of such a person, who could still tell that he is “forgetting”?

If it is not so—if one merely wearies of turmoil and pursues stillness, fears “being” and delights in “non-being,” and takes this for sitting in forgetfulness—then a heap of clods or a layer of dust could equally be said to be sitting in forgetfulness.

Yan Hui, a disciple of Confucius, nearly attained the state of the sage, yet had not fully attained it; he far surpassed ordinary people, yet still fell short. The sage accords with the transformations of the myriad things and understands that neither things nor the self have any fixed substance; ordinary people drift with circumstances and are pulled about by external things. Once one understands that the myriad things originally have no fixed substance, there is nowhere that is not forgetting; if one clings to external things as truly existent, there is not a moment in which one can forget. This, roughly, is the principle of Yan Hui’s sitting in forgetfulness: he turns back from the realm in which the myriad things flow and transform, and realizes the nature that does not shift with change.

Quietly observing the world, one sees that humaneness, righteousness, ritual, and music are merely names established upon clinging; in still contemplation of the luminous source, the limbs, together with intelligence and talent, are likewise only illusory cognitions. Forget external things and cease clinging to them, and false names and appearances naturally disperse; forget the self and cease clinging to the “I,” and illusory cognition naturally comes to rest.

Humaneness, righteousness, ritual, and music do not label themselves; it is those who cling who take them as real designations. The limbs and intelligence and talent do not of themselves claim to be substantial entities; it is the deluded who take them as a real self. Once one understands that the body originally has no fixed substance, the limbs are naturally no longer clung to as really existent; if one deliberately demands that the limbs disappear, this instead shows that one still clings to the body. Once one understands that the mind is originally unborn, intelligence and talent need not be deliberately suppressed; if one insists on pressing them down, this instead shows that one still clings to the mind. Since even the limbs and intelligence and talent ought not to be clung to as really existent, how could one cling to humaneness, righteousness, ritual, and music?

Formerly, people placed the Dao and De (Virtue/Power) within the mind, and everywhere could perceive the myriad things; now they do not cling to perception. Formerly, people expended mental effort between the brows and the eyes, and everywhere had to see and distinguish; now they do not cling to seeing and hearing. Is this, then, sitting in forgetfulness? Since one speaks of “forgetting,” Confucius ought not to have asked further, nor Yan Hui to have answered; how could they have known what they had gained or lost? And how could they have judged that forgetting humaneness, righteousness, ritual, and music was only a shallower stage, while forgetting the limbs and suppressing intelligence and talent was the highest?

From the standpoint of the subtle principle, one who stumbles forgets the carriage, one who drowns forgets the water, one who proceeds in accord with the Dao forgets the arts of the Dao, and a fish swimming in rivers and lakes forgets the rivers and lakes—these too are all forgetting. From the worldly standpoint, one who gains profit forgets his own bodily form, one greedy for profit forgets his original nature, one who rashly waves his arms forgets the wheel-ruts, and one who snatches gold forgets the passersby beside him—these too are all forgetting. If on this basis one judges one kind of forgetting right and another wrong, the Dao originally has no absolute right or wrong; if one judges one true and another false, the Dao likewise has no absolute true or false.

Yan Hui turned away from the dusty world and returned to the subtle; he lessened his clinging to substantial existence and came home to emptiness and stillness. I know that he had already forgotten something, yet had not forgotten completely. If one continues deeper along this path, one reaches the state in which even “not-forgetting” is forgotten. This is like Confucius, past the age of sixty, still able to keep transforming with the years and with the affairs of the world—why, then, regard “forgetting” itself as something precious?

Shen can bring about wondrous transformations in the myriad things, yet it never displays its own marvel. The myriad things receive this marvel and still never know that it exists. This is what is called “Shen” (spirit). Ji Xian was a shaman who often used deceptive and uncanny words to pronounce a person’s life and death, survival and extinction, fortune and misfortune, long life and early death. What he said would sometimes come true within a few days, sometimes within several months. It looked miraculous, but it was not true spiritual marvel—only a likeness of the uncanny.

To call him a “spirit shaman,” and to name him Ji Xian in particular, is to borrow his story in order to illustrate how the myriad things are spiritually marvelous and respond to one another. Once Ji Xian had any such response, however, intention arose in his mind. He used his own mind to conjecture about another’s mind, and used what he himself saw to judge what another saw, and so he arbitrarily attached to other people the labels of life and death, survival and extinction, fortune and misfortune, long life and early death. First he named them arbitrarily, and then he “saw” them arbitrarily. The more absurd his seeing became, the more absurd his words became. Ordinary people clung to outward appearances and could not see through these illusions, so they believed him and took what he said to be true. Thus Liezi, too, abandoned him and fled. Although Liezi had witnessed Ji Xian’s powers with his own eyes, he remained enthralled, because he had not yet seen through these appearances and had not fully let go of what he had learned. Only then did Ji Xian have the chance to read his physiognomy.

Huzi, Liezi’s teacher, took emptiness that cannot be damaged as his substance, and depth that cannot be fathomed as his functioning. He could meet the affairs of the world with principles beyond ordinary experience, and so he could lodge the formless within formed appearances. Ji Xian, stirred by something in his mind, declared each time he entered that he had “seen” something; Huzi, responding without intention, each time merely “showed” him a certain state. A person without intention stands beyond the realm of the formless—how could Ji Xian see through him? He had passed beyond the range of what can be numbered and reckoned—how could Ji Xian understand him?

Ji Xian was still bound by body and by change, and had not yet gone beyond what he saw, so he took what he saw directly as the seat of life and death and was convinced that no one could escape it. At first Huzi manifested “Earth’s Patterns” (diwen), a state in which yin Qi (vital energy) is prominent and the myriad things are mingled together, and Ji Xian concluded that Liezi was about to die. Next Huzi manifested “Heaven’s Soil” (tianrang), a state in which yang Qi is prominent and the myriad things are growing, and Ji Xian rejoiced that Liezi showed signs of life. He did not understand that the root of death is not that death truly exists: when thoughts subside, that is called death; nor that the root of life is that life truly exists: when thoughts arise, that is called life. The life and death of the body appear according to the arising and ceasing of thoughts, and the arising and ceasing of thoughts in turn shift according to whether seeing is present or absent.

The Utmost Person, one who has reached the highest state, never holds a clinging thought. At rest, he shares the De (Virtue/Power) of yin Qi; in movement, he shares the flowing course of yang Qi. When he accords with yin, Ji Xian cannot see him, and so Huzi manifests Earth’s Patterns; when he accords with yang, Ji Xian likewise cannot see him, and so Huzi manifests Heaven’s Soil. He also manifests “Great Impartiality” (taichong), a state in which Yin and Yang are balanced and harmoniously blended, and Ji Xian supposes that distinctions can be found in it: Earth’s Patterns is yin prevailing over yang, Heaven’s Soil is yang prevailing over yin, and Great Impartiality is the condition in which neither yin nor yang dominates, the peaceful state of heaven and earth. The myriad patterns originally return to unity, with no higher and no lower, yet Ji Xian sees differences among them. All three states are called “ji,” the subtle signs that appear when transformation begins to stir. Because they are traces of change just about to become manifest, Ji Xian can still detect them.

At last Huzi manifests the state of “I have never yet emerged from my source” (weishi chu wu zong), never having left the fundamental Dao (the Way). At this point, manifestation has nothing left to manifest. Ji Xian probes Huzi with the substantial, but Huzi answers with emptiness; Ji Xian judges by formed appearances, while Huzi meets him with the formless. When Ji Xian stirs a thought or puts what he sees to use, there is always a limit; Huzi, leaving human contrivance behind and returning to rest in the natural, has no limit. To peer into a limitless state with a limited ability is surely why Ji Xian fled as soon as he caught sight of Huzi, and why, when pursued, he vanished in fright.

Yet when Huzi explained this to Liezi, he still said that what he had earlier manifested was the “mechanism of sealed Virtue” (dude ji), the incipient sign of transformation in which De is drawn inward; then the “mechanism of the flourishing” (shanzhe ji), the incipient sign in which vitality appears; and then the “mechanism of balanced Qi” (hengqi ji), the incipient sign in which the breaths of Yin and Yang are in equilibrium. Each time he said “I,” attachment remained. Only when he and Liezi abided together in empty stillness, following what is natural, and neither knew what the other truly was—when even Huzi forgot himself, so that one might ask who was manifesting and who was reading the physiognomy—did Ji Xian flee.

Huzi’s mind was like the Great Void (taixu), the vast, empty, and luminous void. The Great Void is empty and luminous, wondrous and unfathomable, and able to hold the myriad things together. Honor may be laid upon him and he does not cling to it; swords may strike and he is not wounded; water may be poured over him and he is not soaked; fire may come against him and he is not burned—all because his mind remains empty and still. When others mourn his death, he accepts their mourning without aversion; when others celebrate his life, he accepts their celebration without joy; when others assign him differing names and stations, he accepts them without contention. In the end Ji Xian lost his presence of mind and vanished in fright, yet Huzi did not regard this as a victory or a gain of his own. It was simply that his inner mind was empty and still.

When Zhuang Zhou tells this story in discussing “Responding to Emperors and Kings” (Ying diwang)—how a ruler meets the affairs of the world—he means to show that an emperor or king can resonate with the myriad things only if his inner mind is silent and unmoving, and can share with the people in bearing good and ill fortune, disaster and affliction, only if he withdraws and conceals himself in hidden depths. If he is bent on displaying himself, takes all the turmoil of the world as his own worry, is driven by the myriad things and cannot master them, and even leaves others an opening to see through him, how can he govern the world? The emperors and kings of old who were skilled at meeting the affairs of the world cannot be described in words, precisely because their state was vast without bound.

Xiangwang obtained the Mysterious Pearl, yet was dazed as if something had been lost: he took all under Heaven as his own affliction, was put to use by the myriad things, and could not put the myriad things to use. Can a person such as this be one upon whom others rely? This is precisely the realm of those in antiquity who answered the questions of emperors and kings: vast without limit, impossible to describe in words.

On Xiangwang Obtaining the Mysterious Pearl, the Sixth

North of the Red River, the source holds yang Qi (vital energy) yet remains still and does not flow; the mass of Mount Kunlun rests secure and tranquil, undisturbed. This is used as a figure for the original state of innate nature. Looking outward, one comes into contact with the myriad things, and all kinds of cognition arise; returning to the source, one must pass through restless activity and only then turn back.

This also serves to explain how innate nature returns to the root. Once the aspect of innate nature that communicates with Heaven is disclosed, the appearances of the dusty world arise one after another. Obscured by acquired contrivance, a person loses the great Dao (the Way), and thus loses the Mysterious Pearl (a metaphor for innate nature, or for the Dao). Yet innate nature cannot be known by relying on someone else to make it known—who, then, is able to make it known? Nor can innate nature be known by deliberate seeking—who, then, is the one who seeks it? If the mind is not empty and still, it cannot be realized; if there is no silent accord, it cannot be found.

The Yellow Emperor, Zhi (one skilled in reflection), and Lizhu (the one of legendary keen eyesight)—these three exhausted their wisdom in seeking to know, exhausted their eyesight in seeking to see, and spent all their words in seeking to express it, and in the end still did not obtain the Dao. Why? Because the wondrous Dao is present even in motes of dust and clods of earth, and the utmost reality is contained even in broken tiles, chaff, and bran; if one cannot accord with it in silence, there is no way to apprehend it.

The great Dao lies as near as the space between brow and eye; there is no need to inquire of it outside. Remote as it is, it never departs from the source prior to the appearance of forms. It flows out from the heart of a square inch and spreads through every part of daily life. Chase it, and it is as if a dark mountain stood ahead—the more one pursues it, the farther it recedes. Question it, and it is as if a vast garden lay before the eyes, yet one is lost at every turn. This is because deliberate seeking, on the contrary, makes it impossible to obtain.

Innate nature originally has no discriminating knowledge, so the “knowledge” pursued by human effort is not true knowledge. Innate nature originally has no discriminating vision, so the “vision” pursued by human effort is not true vision. Innate nature originally cannot be expressed in words, so deliberate speech is not innate nature itself. If one tries to grasp innate nature by means of knowledge, the pursuit of knowledge is instead bewildered by knowledge. If one tries to grasp it by means of vision, the pursuit of vision is instead blocked by vision. If one tries to grasp it by means of speech, the pursuit of speech is instead bound by words.

To call it “xiang” is to say that it seems to exist, yet is not a concrete existence; to call it “wang” is to say that it seems not to exist, yet is not utter nothing. Set down the bewilderment brought by cleverness, and numinous clarity appears. Set down the obstruction of clinging to what is seen, and insight becomes penetrating. Set down the bondage produced by words, and the mind is liberated. This is precisely why Xiangwang alone was able to obtain the Mysterious Pearl.

In seeking the source of the great Dao, a sage such as the Yellow Emperor suffers a loss precisely because he possesses sagely wisdom; a fool such as Xiangwang obtains it, on the contrary, because he pursues it with no deliberate mind. When one has merged in obscurity with the source of the great Dao, it becomes clear: innate nature has no fixed form, and within what is called “obtaining” there is no sage either; truth admits of nothing that can be seized, and within what is called “losing” there is no ordinary person either. Earlier, when the Yellow Emperor suffered a loss, he was not thereby diminished by the slightest fraction; now, when Xiangwang has obtained something, he is not thereby increased by the slightest fraction.

From ancient times to the present, the nature that is true and constant has always manifested of itself alone. Great delusion and great luminosity return to one and the same whole; both alike belong to the nature of awakening. How, then, can one determine that the three men’s failure to obtain it was wrong, and that Xiangwang’s obtaining it was right? Thus the Yellow Emperor, too, merely felt a special astonishment at this matter.

When Zhuangzi spoke of the fish’s happiness on the bridge over the Hao River, it was because what all things share in common returns to the “One,” and what the “One” shares in common returns to the Dao (the Way). The Dao brings all things into being, yet there is no origin that can be traced. Life seems to grow of itself, yet its root does not arise from any fixed kind of “birth”; form seems to take shape of itself, yet its root likewise has no fixed and unchanging form. Whatever appears in shape, sound, or color possesses the Dao. Why, then, should I value only one among them?

Each of the myriad things is endowed with a complete nature and lacks nothing. Roaming freely within the Dao, wandering at ease and unencumbered—this is something that all things and I alike possess. Only one who truly communes with all things has a kind of understanding that does not deliberately seek to know and yet naturally comprehends: its subtlety accords in the dark and unseen, and its principle silently runs through the mind. The human spirit is innately able to grasp this principle, and therefore cannot escape it. This is why Zhuangzi could know, on the bridge over the Hao River, that the fish were happy.

The fish leap from the water and then swim beneath it, without worrying about getting wet or being caught in a net, at ease within the water. Did Zhuangzi take these things to be the cause of the fish’s happiness? If the fish’s happiness lay only in such things, the Qi Xie (an ancient book that records strange tales) could have known it as well—why wait for Zhuang Zhou to explain? The fish’s happiness lies in the Dao, not only in the water; what Zhuang Zhou knew was happiness itself, not merely talk of fish. Only when the fish forgets the water is its happiness complete; only when Zhuang Zhou forgets the distinction between himself and the fish does understanding return to unity. The greatest happiness does not cling to “happiness,” and so the fish does not deliberately realize that it is happy; true understanding does not cling to “knowing,” and so Zhuang Zhou did not deliberately seek to know, yet naturally understood.

In this way Zhuang Zhou communed with the fish beyond the boundaries of all things, and there was originally almost no need for words. Huizi (a friend of Zhuangzi), whose friendship with him was deep, need not originally have pressed the question either. It was not that Zhuangzi was unable to remain silent, nor that Huizi was unable to understand. Yet if Huizi had not asked, Zhuang Zhou’s words would have had nowhere to lodge; if Zhuang Zhou had not answered, the subtlety of the Dao would have had no way to appear. They spoke in this manner in order to dispel the later prejudice that divides the self and all things into two sides set against each other.

If one holds that all things each stand independently as things, then Zhuang Zhou is of course not a fish—how could he know the fish’s happiness? If one holds that the self and all things each stand independently, then the fish is of course not Zhuang Zhou—how could one conclude that Zhuang Zhou cannot know the fish’s happiness? Knowing and not knowing are both merely the outer tips of the Dao. That is why Zhuang Zhou said that one must return to the root in order to speak of it.

At root, it is not that human beings are unable to grasp the principle by which all things communicate with one another. The ancients once said that eye and ear, ear and nose, and nose and mouth can all communicate and resemble one another; what matters is how one oneself comprehends. To regard death as one regards birth, wealth and rank as one regards poverty, Zhuang Zhou as one regards the fish, a human being as one regards a pig, and also to regard oneself as the same as others—seen from the side of all things, they too are each like this.

If one can look at all things with this vision, then every thing can roam and dwell at ease, and every place has its subtle excellence—why should this be so only on the bridge over the Hao River? Every thing can manifest true happiness, and everywhere there is a Qi (vital energy) of natural harmony—why should this be so only of the happiness of the tiao fish (a small freshwater fish)? I know that Zhuang Zhou and the fish were never absolutely distinct.

The opening of the “Autumn Floods” chapter describes Hebo and Ruo of the North Sea (the spirit of the North Sea) comparing great and small, and then describes the insect and the kui, the snake and the wind, each pitying the other for what it lacks. These stories let one see why all things can return to unity, and also make clear how happiness can become complete. Therefore Zhuang Zhou used the happiness of the tiao fish to express his meaning, and from this unfolded his discussion of ultimate joy. Those in antiquity who truly understood that ultimate joy does not depend on external things had long expressed this in words: “What is there to delight in, and what is there to detest?”

A drunken person who falls from a cart, even if injured, will not necessarily be as alarmed as someone who is sober. Deeply drunk, his perception is dulled: he does not know that he was sitting in the cart, nor that he has already fallen to the ground. Although his body has met with impact, he does not know that he has been injured, and his mind lacks the discrimination and fright of the waking state.

When people cling to external things, they take what stands before their eyes as truly existent, and they regard the “self” as real and unchanging. Thus they know that there is a cart, that someone is riding in it, and that someone has fallen. Once the discriminating mind is established, riding in the cart and falling from it become two different matters—how could one not be disturbed by this? The drunk, for a time borrowing the effect of wine, can already forget life and death and fear; how much more so the natural nature that a person inherently possesses and has never left behind?

The world is like a cart. People lodge themselves upon it: within, a jumble of cognitions continually arises; without, they chase after things that shift and will not stay fixed, as though about to overturn amid every kind of illusion. What danger brings is not only injury to the body, but also fright that assails the mind. Once the mind opens outward, the myriad things all rush before the eyes. Like a sober person watching the cart overturn, how could one fail to feel injured and alarmed?

Yet if we trace bodily form back to its origin, Heaven and Earth arise together with me; if we trace back to the time before the myriad things had differentiated, I and the myriad things were originally one. At that time, where were there any cart, person, falling, or injury? When mind stands opposed to external things, artificial distinctions appear; when mind merges with external things, one passes beyond human limitation and returns to the natural. Setting aside clever calculation, what one follows is the principle of the natural; not drawn along by partial liking and aversion, what one rests in is the balance of the natural. Movement that leaves no deliberate trace is called Heavenly Roaming (tianyou); activity not pulled about by disturbance is called the Mechanism of Heaven (tianji). There being nothing sufficient to make one grieve is called the Joy of Heaven (tianle); there being nothing sufficient to make one proud of oneself is called the Harmony of Heaven (tianhe). To accord with the natural in this way, without any need to force growth by human effort and without wearying the mind or driving the body, is called being complete in Heaven (quan yu tian)—that is, preserving one’s inborn nature intact. Such a person regards gain and loss, pleasure, death, survival, hardship, and success just as the drunk regards falling from the cart: undisturbed.

The author inquires into Zhuangzi’s intention and holds that this passage shares the central theme of the “Dasheng” (Mastering Life) chapter of the Zhuangzi: whatever has life will in the end reach its limit, and what has reached its limit will transform into new life. Once one understands that life has no fixed and unchanging substance, one can refrain inwardly from clinging to the mind, refrain outwardly from clinging to the body, and refrain from treating the myriad things as existences cut off from one another. Only then can one’s nature be kept unified and undivided, original Qi (vital energy) be nourished without being depleted, De (Virtue/Power) be preserved without scattering, and the natural transformations of the myriad things be fully understood without being forced. If so, where is one’s situation not the natural?

When the body accords with the natural, the body is no longer clung to as a fixed and real thing; when the ear accords with the natural, sound is not clung to as an object that must be heard; when the eye accords with the natural, color is not clung to as something that must appear; when the mouth accords with the natural, flavor is not clung to as an object that must present itself. This is what is called being complete in Heaven.

The Dasheng chapter goes on to speak of the drunk falling from the cart, and further of the drunken person whose sinews and bones do not break when he falls, and also of the person absorbed in driving who, when a tile comes drifting down, does not resent that tile. Why is this said? Because the myriad things have no fixed and unchanging substance, the mind does not cling to “there being a thing”; the “self” likewise has no fixed and unchanging substance, so the mind does not cling to external things. Person and thing originally have no absolute boundary. Therefore the one who falls is not injured, the drunken person’s sinews and bones do not break when he falls, and the driver does not resent the tile that drifts toward him.

Heaven and Earth are originally empty, still, and without distinction; only in relation to human beings is this called Heaven (Tian). Innate nature originally has no fixed form—how much less should one go on to name it Heaven? Only relative to a discriminating mind is the realm without distinctions called the natural (ziran). Heaven and Earth contain no fixed and unchanging “Heaven”; why cling to its name? Only by grasping this can one truly appreciate the deep meaning of the Dasheng chapter.

People in the past who spoke of the Dao (the Way) often asked, “Where is the Dao?” In fact, the Dao is everywhere.

If one says that it exists within particular things, the ancients said long ago: it belongs neither exclusively to antiquity nor exclusively to the present; it belongs neither exclusively to Yin nor exclusively to Yang. It is in distant places, yet also as near as the brow and the lash; it is before one’s eyes, yet also rises above all things and precedes them. When it gathers, it transforms and gives birth to the myriad things; when it disperses, it draws back into the most minute and subtle places. Can the Dao really be confined to any single place?

If one says that it exists within “non-being,” the ancients likewise said long ago: when the Dao is in Heaven, Heaven has the form of Heaven; when the Dao is in Earth, Earth has the form of Earth; it fills the valleys and also fills the abysses. The Dao is present even among crickets and ants, and among tiles and rubble. Is the Dao really nothing but empty void? What is called “non-being” is not truly the absence of everything; what is called “being” is not a fixed and unchanging substantial existence either. That which runs through all things and is present everywhere cannot simply be named “being” or “non-being.”

The ancients understood the mystery of the Dao’s pervading the myriad things, and dared neither to compare it with concrete shapes and quantities nor to define it within any narrow limit. It runs through past and present and forms a whole of itself; it enters into the ten thousand differentiated things, yet remains everywhere in communication. If one must force a name upon it, it is called “the great whole of the ancients,” that is, the integral Dao grasped by the ancients. It is like the ten thousand rivers all reflecting the moon, when in fact there is only a single moon; like the roaring that issues from countless hollows, when in fact it is all the wind that stirs them; like the myriad scenes appearing layer upon layer, all gathered from one Qi (vital energy); like the myriad things, profuse and intertwined, all issuing from one and the same Dao.

When spirits and divinities obtain the Dao, they can descend and become manifest; when emperors and kings obtain the Dao, they can bring the myriad things to growth, transformation, and nurture. When the heavenly person obtains the Dao, he does not depart from the root; when the spiritual person obtains the Dao, he does not depart from the subtle and marvelous; when the perfected person obtains the Dao, he does not depart from the genuine. The sage relies on it to accord with change; the gentleman relies on it to practice benevolence. Statutes and measures, names and allotted stations, personal integrity, and the standards by which things are examined—even the civil teachings of the Odes, the Documents, the Rites, and the Music—all take this as their foundation.

The ancients called this Dao “Daoshu” (the methods of cultivation and conduct that accord with the great Dao). Because it is not entangled by selfish motives, it cannot be called merely “the art of the mind”; because it is not carved out by clever ingenuity, it cannot be called merely “the art of intellect”; it is neither cunning device nor technical skill, and so none of these names alone can encompass it. It is called Daoshu because this name covers it more fully.

Regrettably, the whole of the Dao lies scattered among the doctrines of the various schools. The hundred masters each came to a halt according to what they themselves had seen, supposing that Daoshu existed only in the portion they themselves upheld. Some held that one should not celebrate at birth nor weep at death; Mo Di and Qin Guli heard this view and warmly approved. Some held that one gives too much to others and considers oneself too little; Song Yan and Master Yin Wen heard this and warmly approved. Some advocated relaxing the body and bearing no responsibilities, and mocked those who exalted the worthy. Some were unrestrained and disregarded norms of conduct, yet opposed those who took themselves for great sages; Meng Pian and Shen Dao heard this and warmly approved. Some took humility and yielding as their outward manner, and emptiness together with non-attachment as their guiding principle; Guan Yin and Lao Dan heard this and warmly approved.

Each of these people had views of his own, and yet for that very reason each was trapped in one corner of the Dao: some clung to bearing things alone, some clung to insisting endlessly on their own doctrines, some clung to teachings of life and death, and some clung to a realm vast and without bounds. If one measures the place of their Daoshu within the whole of the great Dao, it is like a small pile of earth in a great marsh, a single grain of rice in a great granary, a small stone in a great mountain, and a fine hair on a horse.

Their views differed from one another; yet, judged by the Dao that each had reached, there may not truly have been any difference. Why? A small stone and a great mountain both constitute a complete form; a grain of rice and a great granary each possess quantity; a small pile of earth and a great marsh both have open space; a fine hair and an entire horse each have their own form. Although the hundred schools expounded the great Dao by dividing it into many aspects, the whole of the great Dao was never truly separated.

Alas! Without the teachings of the hundred schools, there would be no way to see the whole of the great Dao; apart from the whole of the great Dao, the teachings of the hundred schools could not stand. Their roots are originally one and the same. Those who live all day within the whole of the great Dao and yet do not know that this whole exists are the common people; those who wish to reach the whole of the great Dao but have not yet done so are the worthy; those who have already reached the utmost of the great Dao, and no longer cling even to the trace of the words “the great Dao,” are the sages.

What Yao and Shun transmitted to one another was this Dao; what Yu and Tang handed down in succession was also this Dao. What the Duke of Zhou pondered as he looked upward, what Confucius investigated with a concentrated mind, what Mencius nourished and brought to fullness, and what Yi Yin awakened to one step ahead of others—all of these were this Dao.

The book of Zhuang Zhou concludes with the present chapter, deeply clarifying the root of the great Dao and vigorously criticizing the one-sided failings of the doctrines of the hundred schools. Yet in the end the piece closes with language that is remote, hard to fathom, and boundless without limit. The author seems also to place himself among the various masters, and to criticize the very traces of his own writing and teaching, hoping that the world and later generations would reflect upon this. Who can say that Zhuang Zhou was obscured by the Dao of Heaven, and was merely a scholar obstinately clinging to a single corner?

In the state of Song there was a man named Hua Zi who suffered from a kind of “amnesia.”

“Song” corresponds to the directional quarter of fire, and the light of fire is bright. The nature of yang is often restless and unsettled. “Li,” though it means what is within, is not a place deep and hidden. “Hua” means a blossom spreading open and leaving its root. “Zi” further refers to the time of infancy. By middle age, people are often deeply troubled by artificial desires, and forgetting may be only a temporary return to inborn nature. People call this condition an “illness,” but it is merely what the world calls illness, not a disorder in which mind and Shen (spirit) are confused.

When the activity of thought stirs, inborn nature comes forth, and wisdom arises from this. When the heart within is quiet, inborn nature draws back inward, and the state of deep stillness is thereby preserved. If the heart clings to De (Virtue/Power), it will impose that De upon external things. If one regards the cognition in which external things stand over against the mind as being like the eyes looking at objects, the mind will be led along by those things. When mind and external things bring one another into view and stand opposed, the inner heart is disturbed. To forget while according with the way things are of themselves is not to lose one’s way. When delusive thoughts come to rest, people instead mistakenly suppose that they are ill. How little they know that, when the ancients spoke of penetrating the great Dao (the Way), they so often prized “forgetting.”

When people forget one another and are absorbed into the arts of the Dao, that is the genuine condition. When fish forget one another and live at ease among rivers and lakes, that is their inborn nature. One who has feet and wears shoes, yet does not cling to the feet’ being there, finds that the shoes fit. One who has a waist and fastens a belt, yet does not cling to the waist, finds that the belt is properly tied. One who rises and falls with the momentum of fire has forgotten the fire. One who handles a boat as if aided by a spirit has forgotten the water. A drunken man who falls and yet is not injured has forgotten the carriage. A man whose feet are maimed, and who no longer attends to them, has forgotten his feet. All these kinds of “forgetting” come near to the genuine. Might Hua Zi’s forgetfulness also come near to this genuineness?

The genuine condition is the single concentration of mind and spirit. He takes something in the morning and has forgotten it by evening: his mind is concentrated on the morning. He receives something in the evening and has forgotten it by morning: his mind is concentrated on the evening. On the road he forgets that he is walking: his mind is concentrated on the road. Indoors he forgets that he is sitting: his mind is concentrated in the room. Not remembering the past in the present means that the mind is concentrated on the present. Not remembering the present in the future means that the mind is concentrated on the future. Forgetting taking and receiving is forgetting external things. Forgetting walking and sitting is forgetting the situation one is in. As for being unable to recall clearly either what came before or what comes after, is this merely amnesia? Why must it be called an illness?

If one says that Hua Zi is ill, there ought to be someone who bears that illness. Yet if he has forgotten, how can one know who the bearer is? Hua Zi’s family never asked after his state of mind; instead the whole household worried and suffered. When the worry did not cease, they turned to divination. They did not know that this was not a matter that divination of good and ill fortune could decide. When divination did not cease, they turned to prayer. They did not know that this was not a matter into which ghosts and spirits could see. When prayer did not cease, they sought a physician. They did not know that this was also not an illness that regulation through Yin-Yang could subdue. Divination, prayer, and medical treatment all had nowhere to take hold. Confucian scholars then came forward with advice, wishing to cure him. The state of Lu was a place where the institutions of ritual and music flourished, and the Confucians prized humaneness and righteousness. All their various methods began from this.

Yet Hua Zi himself had no doubts, so what could the oracle divine? He himself did not feel that he was at fault, so what could prayer seek? He himself did not feel that he was ill, so what would medicine treat? Wishing to cure his forgetfulness, they tried to alter his mind so that he would have some awareness, and to alter his thoughts so that he would realize he had something he was attached to. They exposed him to cold so that he would know cold, left him hungry so that he would know hunger, and shut him in darkness so that he would know light. In this way the mind was no longer undivided, but stood over against external things. When cold, he knew to look for clothing; when hungry, he knew to look for food; set in darkness, he knew to seek the light. Nothing he saw remained solitary; each thing now had its opposing counterpart.

In the Zhuangzi there is a parable: someone bored seven openings for Hundun, and after seven days of boring, Hundun died. Hua Zi was “altered” in this way for a single day, and every emotion and desire in the world welled up in him. He flew into a rage and drove away his wife and children, for he knew they were his own kin and so blamed them all the more deeply. He seized a weapon and chased the Confucian scholars, for he knew they sought something from him and so resented them all the more. The experiences of several decades poured into his mind in a single moment. Seen in this light, had he been restored, or had he lost something?

Gain and loss, benefit and harm, delight and joy, partiality and aversion—none of these had formerly been taken to heart, yet now they kept him ceaselessly agitated. Without a clinging mind, one can forget; once the mind clings, worry and fear arise. How could these eight emotions and thoughts ever be enough to trouble that mind which does not cling in the first place?

Zigong asked Confucius about this and found Hua Zi’s condition strange, for Zigong himself was caught in broad learning and disputation. Confucius turned and spoke of the matter to Yan Hui, because Yan Hui had already reached the empty stillness of “sitting in forgetfulness” (zuowang). Sitting in forgetfulness is what Daoists call the state of sitting quietly, forgetting the body and forgetting things, so that the mind is not pulled about by external objects.

Hua Zi’s forgetfulness, however, was not true forgetting. When he forgot, he was blank and knew nothing; when he came to himself, he flared into anger. Does this mean that the state of confused activity is illusory, while the state of silent stillness is the genuine? In fact one fails to see this: when he forgot, the confused external scene was still there; when he awakened, the subtle wonder of stillness had not gone far away either. What, then, was there to worry about or fear?

Mind is not originally anything called “mind.” Only when distinctions arise on account of external things does a mind come to be. When thoughts of the mind disappear, that is called forgetting. Wisdom is not originally anything called wisdom. Only because there is something known does wisdom appear. When wisdom becomes fully penetrating, it becomes De. Once it is fully penetrating, one no longer deliberately notices that one is forgetting; even “forgetting” is forgotten. What the ancients prized is precisely sitting in forgetfulness without clinging to the images cast by the external world.