《庄子》Vol. 1

“Free and Easy Wandering” is about breadth of vision and freedom. In the Northern Sea there is a great fish called Kun. When it turns into a bird, it is called Peng. No one knows how many thousand li wide Peng’s back is. When it beats its wings and rises into flight, they are like clouds covering the sky. When the waters surge, it prepares to migrate to the Southern Sea—a vast pool formed by nature. The ancient book Qixie records that when Peng migrates south, it strikes the water with its wings, raising waves three thousand li high. It rides a whirlwind straight up ninety thousand li and travels far on the great wind that blows in the sixth month. The drifting mists and dust in the air are all stirred by the breath of living things. Is the sky’s deep blue its original color, or does it appear that way because it stretches so far that we cannot see its end? When Peng looks down from on high, perhaps the view is like ours when we look up at the sky.

If water does not accumulate to sufficient depth, it cannot support a large boat. Pour a cupful into a hollow in the courtyard, and a blade of grass can serve as a boat; set the cup in it, however, and the cup will run aground. The water is shallow and the boat is too large. If the wind does not build up sufficiently, it cannot bear enormous wings. Peng flies up to a height of ninety thousand li, where the wind gathers beneath it. Only then can it ride the wind, carry the blue sky on its back, and fly south without anything obstructing it.

A cicada and a little dove mocked Peng, saying, “We spring into the air and fly up; when we reach an elm or a sandalwood tree, we stop. Sometimes we fail to reach a tree and simply fall back to the ground. Why fly ninety thousand li to the south?” A person who travels to the nearby outskirts takes enough food for three meals and returns with a full stomach. Someone traveling a hundred li must pound grain the night before to prepare provisions. Someone traveling a thousand li must store food for three months. How could these two little creatures understand Peng’s long journey? Small understanding cannot match great understanding, and lives that are brief cannot comprehend lives that endure. The morning mushroom knows nothing of the beginning and end of a month; the summer cicada knows nothing of the changing seasons. Their lives are short. In the south of Chu there is a tree called Mingling, for which five hundred years count as a spring and five hundred years as an autumn. In ancient times there was a great tree called Chun, for which eight thousand years counted as a spring and eight thousand years as an autumn. Pengzu was famed for his long life, and everyone wanted to measure themselves against him. Was that not sad?

The story of Tang’s questions to Ji is much the same. In the barren north, where no plants grow, there is a sea called the Celestial Pool. In it lives a fish thousands of li wide, whose length no one knows; it is called Kun. There is also a bird called Peng, whose back is like Mount Tai and whose wings are like clouds hanging from the sky. Riding a whirlwind, it circles upward to a height of ninety thousand li, passes through the clouds, carries the blue sky on its back, then flies south toward the Southern Sea. A little sparrow laughs at it: “Where does it think it’s going? I leap into the air and fly only a few zhang before coming down again. I flutter back and forth among the weeds, and that is the limit of flying. Where else would it go?” This is the difference between the small and the great.

Those whose intelligence suits them to an official post, whose conduct earns the approval of a village, whose virtue wins a ruler’s favor, or whose abilities gain the trust of a state, regard themselves much as the little sparrow regards its own flight. Song Rongzi still only smiled at such people. Even if the whole world praised him, it would not make him strive harder; even if the whole world condemned him, it would not leave him disheartened. He could distinguish himself from the things around him and tell honor from disgrace, but that was all. He did not rush to pursue worldly affairs, yet he had still not reached a higher realm.

Liezi rode the wind with ease and lightness, returning after fifteen days. He was not eager to seek good fortune. Though he had freed himself from walking, he still depended on something. But those who follow the natural order of Heaven and Earth, ride the changes of Yin and Yang, wind, rain, darkness, and light—the six forces—and wander through the boundless universe: what do they need to depend on? Thus it is said: the Perfect Person is free of attachment to the self; the Spirit Person seeks no accomplishments; the Sage seeks no fame.

Yao wished to hand over the realm to Xu You. He said, “The sun and moon have already risen, yet the torches are not put out. Is that not a waste of effort when it comes to lighting the land? Rain has already fallen, yet the fields continue to be irrigated. Is that not redundant when it comes to nourishing the earth? If you were to govern the realm, it would surely be at peace. Yet I still occupy this position, and I feel deeply inadequate. Please let me hand the realm over to you.” Xu You replied, “Under your rule, the realm is already at peace. If I were to take your place, would it be to seek fame? Fame is merely an appendage to what is real. Should I pursue it? A wren nesting in a deep forest needs only one branch; a mole drinking from a river needs only enough to fill its belly. Go back. What would I want the realm for? Even if the cook does not prepare a meal, the officiant at the sacrifice will not step over the ritual vessels and cook in his place.”

Shengwu said to Lianshu, “I heard a story from Jieyu. It was grand but impractical, and he went on and on about it. I was astonished as I listened. It seemed as boundless as the Milky Way, far removed from ordinary sense and unlike anything human.” Lianshu asked what Jieyu had said. Shengwu replied, “He said that on distant Mount Gushe lives a spirit person, with skin like ice and snow and the grace of a young girl. This person eats no grains, but breathes the wind and drinks the dew; rides clouds and dragons; and wanders beyond the Four Seas. With a spirit settled and still, this person can keep living things free from calamity and illness and ensure a harvest every year. I thought it absurd and could not believe it.” Lianshu said, “A blind person cannot appreciate beautiful patterns, and a deaf person cannot appreciate the sounds of bells and drums. Deafness and blindness can affect the body, but they can also affect the mind. What Jieyu describes is something you cannot understand. The virtue of such a spirit person is vast and boundless: they regard all things as one and hope only for peace throughout the world. Why would they bustle about, treating the task of governing the realm as their own concern? Such a person cannot be harmed by anything. Even if a flood covered the sky, it could not drown them; even if a drought melted metal and stone and scorched the hills, it could not make them hot. From nothing more than the dust and chaff on their body, they could fashion people like Yao and Shun. Why would they make external things their concern?”

A man from Song bought hats and took them to Yue to sell, but the people of Yue cut their hair short and tattooed their bodies, so they had no use for hats. After Yao had governed the realm and brought peace throughout the land, he went to visit the four great people at Mount Gushe. When he returned, his mind was distant and untroubled, as though he had forgotten the realm.

Hui Shi said to Zhuangzi, “The King of Wei gave me seeds for a large gourd. I grew gourds that could hold five shi of things. When I used one to hold water or broth, it was too heavy to lift. When I cut one open to make a dipper, it was so large there was nowhere to put it. It was certainly big enough, but it was useless, so I smashed it.” Zhuangzi said, “You really don’t know how to make use of large things. There was a man in Song who was skilled at making a salve to keep hands from cracking in the cold. For generations, his family earned their living washing and bleaching silk. A visitor heard of the salve and offered a hundred pieces of gold for the recipe. The man called his family together to discuss it, saying, ‘For generations we have washed and bleached silk, earning no more than a few pieces of gold. Now we can sell the recipe for a hundred pieces in a single day. Let’s give it to him.’ The visitor took the recipe and used it to advise the King of Wu. When Yue sent troops to attack, the King of Wu put him in command of the army. They fought Yue in a naval battle and routed its forces, so the King of Wu awarded him land and made him a lord. It was the same salve for preventing cracked hands, yet one man received a title while another went on washing silk. The difference lay in how they used it. You have a gourd that can hold five shi. Why not make it into a float and strap it to yourself to drift across rivers and lakes? Instead, you worry that it is too large and has nowhere to go. Your mind is closed; you do not understand how to adapt!”

Hui Shi said to Zhuangzi again, “I have a large tree that people call a shu tree. Its trunk is gnarled and does not fit the carpenter’s ink line; its branches are twisted and do not fit the compass or the square. It grows by the road, but carpenters do not even look at it. Your words are just as big and useless, so everyone ignores them.” Zhuangzi said, “Have you never seen a wildcat or a weasel? It crouches low and waits for its prey, then leaps this way and that, darting up and down. In the end, it falls into a trap and dies in a net. An ox, as huge as a cloud on the horizon, cannot catch a mouse. Now you have a large tree and worry that it is useless. Why not plant it in a vast empty place, where it can grow freely? You could stroll idly beside it and lie peacefully beneath it. No axe would cut it down, and no external thing would harm it. Since there is no use to which it can be put, what is there to worry about?”

Nanguo Ziqi was leaning against a table in quiet meditation, his head tilted back as he slowly breathed out. His expression was so calm he seemed to have lost his companion. Yancheng Ziyou stood beside him and asked, “What has happened? Can a person’s body really become like withered wood, and the mind like dead ashes? You, leaning against the table today, are not the same as you were before, are you?”

Ziqi said, “Yan, that is a good question. Now I have forgotten myself. Do you know what this is like? You have heard the music of people, but not the music of Earth. You have heard the music of Earth, but not the music of Heaven.”

Ziyou asked, “May I ask what these mean?”

Ziqi said, “The breath exhaled by Earth is called wind. When the wind does not blow, everything is still. When it rises, the myriad openings roar fiercely. Have you never heard the sound of wind? Across the mountains and forests, the great trees have openings of every kind: some like noses, mouths, and ears; others like window frames, rings, stone mortars, and deep hollows. When the wind passes through them, they make all kinds of sounds: piercing, low, calling, sighing, howling. One sound begins, and another answers. When a gentle breeze blows, the sounds murmur softly together; when a gale blows, they ring out in a great chorus. Once the wind stops, all the openings fall silent. Have you never seen branches sway lightly and leaves rustle?”

Ziyou said, “The music of Earth is the sound made by all these openings; the music of people is the sound of bamboo pipes. What, then, is the music of Heaven?”

Ziqi said, “The wind that passes over all things sounds different in each place, yet lets each thing make its own sound. They sound according to their own shapes. So who, then, makes them roar?”

People’s understanding may be broad or narrow: the broad is expansive, the narrow constrained. Grand words are forceful; small words are trivial. When people sleep, their spirits mingle and stir; when they wake, their bodies begin to respond to the world around them. As people come into contact with things, entanglements arise, and every day they struggle within their hearts. Some are slow, some deep, some meticulous. A small fear makes a person uneasy; a great fear leaves the mind bewildered. Once a thought arises, it flies like an arrow from a crossbow. People are always judging others as right or wrong. They keep old matters in their hearts as if bound by an oath; they cling to victory and defeat as though their minds were sealed shut. The mind withers like plants in autumn and winter, wasting away day after day. Once caught in an obsession, it is hard to turn back. When the mind is blocked, it is as if its mouth has been sealed. When the spirit nears exhaustion, it is hard to revive.

Joy and anger, sorrow and delight, thought and sighing, change and alarm, as well as lightness, abandon, reserve, and affectation—these emotions are like music arising from empty space, or fungi growing in warmth and damp. They appear in turn, day and night, yet no one knows where they begin. Enough. If we could understand, between morning and evening, what gives rise to these emotions, we would know the source of life. Without things, there would be no self; without the self, there would be nothing with which to know things. This comes close to the truth, yet we still do not know what governs it all. It is as though there were a true ruler, but we cannot see its trace. It certainly acts, yet has no form.

Our limbs, openings, and organs are all in place. Which one do we favor? Do we love them all equally, or does each have its own favorite? Are these organs like subjects? Can none govern the others, or do they take turns ruling? Is there truly a ruler among them? Even if we found it, knowing it or not knowing it would neither add to nor diminish what it is.

Once a person receives a body, they live on until life is spent. Bumping and rubbing against things, life races like a galloping horse, and nothing can make it stop. Is this not tragic? Busy all one’s life and seeing no achievement; laboring until exhausted without knowing where one is headed—is this not heartbreaking? People say they are still alive, but what good does that do? The body changes, and the mind changes with it. Is this not a great sorrow? Is everyone’s life meant to be so confused? Am I the only one confused, or are others confused too?

People always take the convictions they have formed as their standard. Who can be without a standard of their own? And why insist on understanding change and knowing what does not die? The body changes, and the mind changes with it; this is indeed cause for grief. What people call a settled mind may simply be attachment. Even fools have their own fixed ideas. Once the mind has settled on a view, it uses that view to distinguish right from wrong—like setting out for Yue today while claiming to have arrived yesterday. If one takes what does not exist for what does exist, even the divine Yu could not make sense of it. What can I do?

Speech is not merely mindless, like wind blowing. Those who speak always mean to express something, though what they express may not be fixed. Does speech truly express something, or has it never expressed anything at all? People think human speech differs from the cries of fledglings. Is there really a difference? Why is the Dao obscured, so that truth and falsehood arise? Why are words obscured, so that right and wrong arise? The Dao is everywhere. Where could it not be? Words are everywhere. What could not be said?

The Dao is obscured by partial opinions, and words are obscured by showy rhetoric. Thus the Confucians and Mohists each cling to one side: they affirm what the other denies and deny what the other affirms. To distinguish between them, it is better to look with clear vision. Things have no absolute “that” and no absolute “this.” From the standpoint of “that,” one cannot see “this”; from one’s own standpoint, one recognizes what one takes to be true. We can say that “that” appears through “this,” and “this” is established through “that.” As soon as something comes into being, it also moves toward destruction. When one side appears feasible, the other appears infeasible, and the reverse is also true. Affirmation and denial depend on one another.

Therefore, the sage does not cling to any one set of judgments about right and wrong. Instead, the sage looks upon things from a broader perspective and responds to the circumstances at hand. “This” is also “that,” and “that” is also “this.” Each has its own judgments of right and wrong. Is there really a distinction between “this” and “that”? If we do not cling to their opposing standpoints, this is called the hinge of the Dao, the pivot of the Way. At the hinge, like the center of a ring, one can respond to endless change. There are endless kinds of right, and endless kinds of wrong, so it is better to look with clear vision.

To use a finger to show that a finger is not a finger is less effective than using something that is not a finger to show that a finger is not a finger. To use a horse to show that a horse is not a horse is less effective than using something that is not a horse to show that a horse is not a horse. Heaven and Earth can be regarded as one finger, and the myriad things as one horse. Call something feasible, and it is feasible in the situation that fits it; call something infeasible, and it is infeasible in the situation that fits it. Roads are made by people walking them, and names for things are made by people speaking them. Why is a thing as it is? Because people say it is. Why is it not as it is? Because people say it is not. Each thing has conditions that make it what it is, and reasons for which people accept it.

Nothing in the world is absolutely impossible, and nothing is absolutely unacceptable. A tiny blade of grass and a towering pillar, an ugly person and the beautiful Xi Shi, and all kinds of strange and bizarre things can be joined as one from the perspective of the Dao. Things seem to achieve something only once they are distinguished from one another; as soon as they take shape, they also begin to move toward ruin. Viewed as a whole, the myriad things have no absolute arising or destruction. In the end, they can all be joined as one.

Those who understand things know that they are interconnected. They do not cling to a particular use, but put things to use in ordinary circumstances. What is ordinary can be used; what can be used can be joined to other things; what is joined can find its proper place. To adapt appropriately to things is to come close to the Dao. To follow things as they are, without asking why they are so, is the Dao.

To exhaust one’s heart and mind trying to force the myriad things into unity, without understanding that they are already interconnected, is called “three in the morning.” A keeper of monkeys allotted them chestnuts, saying, “Three measures in the morning and four in the evening.” The monkeys were all angry. So he said, “Then four in the morning and three in the evening.” The monkeys were delighted. Neither the names nor the total amount had changed, yet their joy and anger were stirred by the way it was put. This, too, is acting in accordance with people’s responses. The sage harmonizes right and wrong, rests within the natural balance, and allows different standpoints to proceed side by side. This is called “walking two paths.”

The ancients once reached an exalted understanding of the Dao. The highest view held that at the beginning there were no things at all. This was the utmost limit; nothing could surpass it. The next view held that things existed, but had not yet been divided from one another. The next held that things had been divided, but there were not yet distinctions between right and wrong. Once right and wrong became clear, the Dao was diminished; when the Dao was diminished, preferences arose. Do achievement and loss truly exist, or do they not?

Zhaowen was skilled at playing the zither, Shi Kuang at conducting music with a baton, and Huizi at reasoning while leaning against a parasol tree. All three brought their talents to the highest level and spent their lives immersed in what they loved. Each favored his own art and tried to explain it clearly. But what they tried to explain could not be made clear in that way. In the end, Huizi was trapped by the confusion of the “hard and white” debate, while Zhaowen’s skill at the zither could not be passed on to his son. Can this be called achievement? If it can, then I have achieved something too. If it cannot, then nothing in the world has achieved anything. Therefore, the sage does not value arguments that seem plausible but dazzle the eye. Instead, the sage follows the course of ordinary things. This is called “illumination”: seeing things with clear understanding.

Let me now try saying something. I do not know whether it is the same as what I said before or different. Since sameness and difference can both be brought together under one category, they are no longer distinct. Let me try: there is “a beginning”; there is “before there was a beginning, there was not yet a beginning”; and there is “before there was not yet a beginning, there was not yet that not-yet-beginning.” There is “existence,” there is “nonexistence,” there is “before there was nonexistence, there was not yet nonexistence,” and there is “before there was not yet nonexistence, there was not yet that not-yet-nonexistence.” Suddenly existence and nonexistence appear, yet I do not know which is truly existence and which truly nonexistence. I have now said these words, but I do not know whether what I have said counts as speaking or not.

There is nothing in the world larger than the tip of an autumn hair, and Mount Tai can be called small. No one lives longer than a child who dies young, and Peng Zu can be called short-lived. Heaven and Earth exist together with me, and the myriad things are one with me. Since we are already one, what is there to say? Yet once we speak of “one,” there is already speech. “One” and speech together make “two,” and “two” together with “one” make “three.” If we keep counting from there, even the best calculator could not keep up, let alone an ordinary person. From nothing to something, we have already reached three. If we continue counting from something, how could we ever finish? There is no need to go on; we can follow the circumstances at hand.

The Dao has no boundaries, and words have no fixed standards. People draw distinctions in order to express what is right and wrong. Let me speak for now of these distinctions: left and right, human relationships, duty, division, argument, rivalry, and contention. These are called the “Eight Virtues.” Beyond the four directions of Heaven and Earth, the sage acknowledges things without discussing them. Within the four directions, the sage discusses things but does not argue. In the Spring and Autumn Annals, which records the governance of the kings of old, the sage offers judgments but does not cling to dispute.

What is distinguished may sometimes be left undistinguished; what is argued may sometimes be left unargued. The sage keeps the principle within, while ordinary people argue to display themselves. Thus argument can also obscure understanding. The great Dao is not expressed by naming it; true argument does not rely on words; great benevolence does not make a show of benevolence; great integrity does not boast of its purity; true courage does not harm others. If the Dao is deliberately displayed, it no longer accords with the Dao. Arguments often fail to reach the root of things. Benevolence that becomes a formality cannot be complete; integrity that seeks only to appear pure cannot win trust; courage that turns into harm is not true courage. These five qualities seem complete, but in fact they are close to straying from the right path. To know where one’s understanding reaches its limit is the highest wisdom. Who understands the argument without words, or the Dao without form? If someone understands this, it is like a storehouse that can be drawn upon without end. Pour into it and it will not fill; draw from it and it will not run dry, yet no one knows where it comes from. This is called “preserving the light,” the inner brightness.

Long ago, Yao asked Shun, “I intend to attack the small states of Zong, Kuai, and Xu’ao. Though I sit as ruler facing south, my heart is uneasy. Why is this?” Shun said, “Their rulers still live among the mugwort and reeds. Why should you be uneasy about them? In the past, ten suns appeared together and illuminated all things. How much more expansive is your Virtue than the sun’s!”

Nie Que asked Wang Ni, “Do you know the standard of rightness that all things share?” Wang Ni said, “How would I know?” Nie Que asked again, “Do you know what you do not know?” Wang Ni said, “How would I know?” He asked again, “Then do things know nothing?” Wang Ni still said, “How would I know?”

Still, let me try to speak about it. How do I know that what I call “knowing” is not ignorance? How do I know that what I call “not knowing” is not, instead, knowing? Consider this: when people sleep in a damp place, their backs ache and half their bodies grow numb. Is this true of loaches too? When people climb a tree, they tremble with fear. Is this true of monkeys too? Which of these three knows the best place to live? People eat the flesh of livestock; elk eat grass; centipedes like to eat snakes; owls and crows like to eat mice. Which of them knows what truly tastes good? Monkeys mate with baboons; elk mate with one another; loaches swim with fish. Mao Qiang and Li Ji are considered beautiful by people. When fish see them, they dive into the water; when birds see them, they fly high into the sky; when elk see them, they flee at a run. Which of these knows the true beauty of the world? From my point of view, the beginnings of benevolence and righteousness, and the boundaries between right and wrong, are tangled together. How can I distinguish them clearly?

Nie Que asked, “If you do not understand benefit and harm, then does the Perfected One understand them?” Wang Ni said, “The Perfected One is beyond ordinary understanding. A fire in a great marsh cannot make him feel hot; the freezing of the Yellow River and the Han River cannot make him feel cold; thunder that splits mountains and winds that churn the sea cannot frighten him. Such a person rides the clouds, harnesses the sun and moon, and wanders beyond the four seas. Neither death nor life can change him, much less benefit and harm!”

Qu Quezi asked Changwuzi, “I heard Confucius say that the sage does not hurry to deal with worldly affairs, does not pursue profit, does not deliberately oppose anything, does not delight in seeking anything, and does not cling to the Dao. The sage treats what is absent as though it were present, treats what is present as though it were absent, and wanders freely beyond the dusty world. Confucius thought this absurd, but I believe it puts the subtle Dao into practice. What do you think?”

Changwuzi said, “Even the Yellow Emperor would be bewildered to hear this. How could Confucius be qualified to judge it? You are too impatient—like seeing an egg and expecting a rooster to crow, or seeing a slingshot and expecting a roasted owl. Let me speak recklessly, and you listen recklessly: Let yourself move alongside the sun and moon, embrace the universe, and bring all things into accord with one another. Put aside confused, disorderly opinions and let people of different stations live peacefully together. While ordinary people bustle about, the sage seems to know nothing. Let all things merge with the long ages, reaching a state of purity and unity. In this way, all things contain one another.

How do I know that loving life is not a delusion? How do I know that hating death is not like a child who has left home and forgotten the way back? Li Ji was originally the daughter of a border official from Ai. When the state of Jin first took her away, she wept until her robe was soaked with tears. But after she arrived at the ruler’s palace, slept with him on a splendid bed, and ate fine meat, she regretted having cried. How do I know the dead do not regret having clung so eagerly to life?

Someone who dreams of drinking and making merry may wake in the morning and weep; someone who dreams of weeping may wake and go hunting. In a dream, people do not know they are dreaming. Sometimes they even try to interpret the dream while still inside it. Only after waking do they know it was a dream. Perhaps it is only after the great awakening that we will know that everything before us has been one great dream. Fools think they are awake and confidently claim to understand everything, busy distinguishing among identities such as ruler and herdsman. How stubborn these ideas are! Confucius and you are both dreaming. When I say that you are dreaming, my words too are like a dream. Such talk is called “paradox”—it seems strange but holds a deep meaning. If, after ten thousand generations, we were to meet a true sage who understood it, that meeting would be as if we had met from morning to evening.”

Even if you and I argue, and you defeat me, that would not prove that you are right and I am wrong. If I defeat you, that would not prove that I am right and you are wrong. Which of us is right and which is wrong? Or are we both right, or both wrong? We cannot determine this between ourselves. People are already obscured by ignorance, so whom could we ask to judge? If we asked someone who agrees with you to judge, since they agree with you, how could they judge fairly? If we asked someone who agrees with me, the same problem would arise. If we asked someone who disagrees with both of us, since they disagree with us both, on what grounds could they judge? If we asked someone who agrees with both of us, that would not solve the problem either. Since you, I, and others cannot determine the matter among ourselves, whom should we wait for to judge it?

To “harmonize this and that by following their natural divisions” means that “yes” may also be “no,” and “so” may also be “not so.” If “yes” were absolutely correct, there would be no need to argue over its difference from “no.” If “so” were absolutely established, there would be no need to argue over its difference from “not so.” Let words transform into one another without clinging to whether they depend on each other. Harmonize them by following their natural divisions, and let them unfold with change. In this way one may pass through life in peace. Forgetting the distinctions of age and duty, one moves within the boundless and entrusts oneself to what has no end.

The shadow’s shadow asked the shadow, “Just now you were walking, and now you have stopped; just now you were sitting, and now you are standing. Why do you have no will of your own?” The shadow said, “Do I act this way because I depend on something? Does what I depend on act this way because it depends on something else? Am I relying on a snake’s scales or a cicada’s wings? How do I know why things are this way, or why they are not?”

Once, Zhuang Zhou dreamed he had become a butterfly, light and free, entirely at ease. He did not know he was Zhuang Zhou. Suddenly he awoke, and there he was, unmistakably Zhuang Zhou. He did not know whether Zhuang Zhou had dreamed of becoming a butterfly, or whether a butterfly had dreamed of becoming Zhuang Zhou. Between Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly there must be a distinction. This is called “the transformation of things”—the way all things change into one another.

Human life is finite, while knowledge is boundless. To pursue boundless knowledge with a finite life can easily leave one exhausted and distressed; to keep pursuing knowledge single-mindedly leads only deeper into trouble. Do good without seeking fame, and do wrong without incurring punishment. Only by following the natural patterns of things and taking them as one’s constant guide can one preserve the body, preserve one’s life, care for one’s family, and live out one’s allotted years in peace.

The cook Ding was butchering an ox for Lord Wenhui. His hand touched, his shoulder leaned, his foot stepped, and his knee pressed—all in perfect coordination. The sound of his knife meeting the ox fell into rhythm, like the music and dance of “Sanglin,” and in harmony with the melody of “Jingshou.” Lord Wenhui exclaimed, “Wonderful! How can your skill have reached such a high level?”

Cook Ding put down his knife and replied, “What I pursue is the Dao—the principle of following the natural patterns of things—which has gone beyond mere technique. When I first began butchering oxen, all I saw was an entire ox. After three years, I no longer saw the ox as a whole. Now I apprehend the ox with my spirit rather than scrutinizing it with my eyes. The discernment of the senses comes to a halt, and my spirit moves in accordance with the ox’s structure. I follow the natural grain of its tendons and bones, guiding my knife through the large openings and into the broad spaces, yielding to the structure already present in the ox. I never hack at places where tendons and veins meet or joints are tangled—much less at the great bones.

“A good cook changes his knife once a year because he cuts meat with it. An ordinary cook changes his knife once a month because he chops through bones. I have used my knife for nineteen years and butchered several thousand oxen, yet its edge is as if it had just been sharpened on a whetstone. There are spaces between the joints of an ox, and the edge of my knife is so thin it has almost no thickness. When something so thin enters those spaces, there is plenty of room for the blade to move. That is why, after nineteen years, its edge is still as if newly sharpened.

“Even so, whenever I come to a place where tendons and bones cross and the cut is difficult, I am especially cautious. I focus my attention, slow my movements, and gently bring the knife down. The ox comes apart, falling to the ground like clods of earth. I lift my knife and stand, look around, and feel entirely satisfied. Then I wipe the blade clean and put it away.”

Lord Wenhui said, “Wonderful! Listening to Cook Ding has taught me how to nourish life.”

Gongwen Xuan saw the Right Tutor and asked in astonishment, “Who is this man? Why does he have only one foot? Was he born that way, or was it done to him by people?” Someone replied, “He was born that way; it was not done to him by people. Heaven gave him only one foot at birth. People’s appearances differ from one another. From this we know that he was born that way, and it was not done to him by people.” (The Right Tutor was an official title; “one-footed” refers either to having one foot or to having lost a foot through punishment.)

A pheasant in the marsh must walk ten paces to peck up a mouthful of food and a hundred paces to take a drink, yet it does not want to be kept in a cage. Even if life in a cage could keep its spirits high, it would not feel at ease.

After Lao Dan (Laozi) died, Qin Shi came to mourn him. He wept three times and then left. A disciple asked, “Was he not your friend, Master?” Qin Shi said, “He was.” The disciple asked again, “If he was your friend, was it fitting to mourn him like that?” Qin Shi replied, “It was fitting. At first I thought the people around him could all follow nature, but now I see that they could not. When I first went in to mourn, the old people wept as if they had lost their own children, and the young people wept as if they had lost their own mothers. Gathered together, they must have said things they did not want to say and wept when they did not want to weep. This was to flee from nature and betray their true feelings, forgetting the life they had originally received. The ancients called this ‘evading the punishment of nature.’

“To come into the world at the appointed time was the Master’s birth in accord with the moment; to leave it at the appointed time was his departure in accord with change. When one is content with the times and follows change, sorrow and joy cannot enter the heart. The ancients called this ‘being released from bondage.’ When a finger burns away, it becomes kindling, while the fire continues to pass on; no one knows when it will finally go out.”

Yan Hui went to see Confucius and said he planned to go to the state of Wei. Confucius asked what he intended to do there. Yan Hui replied that he had heard Wei’s ruler was young and forceful, acted arbitrarily, governed recklessly, and failed to see his own faults. He waged war carelessly, with so many people killed and wounded that corpses lay thick as grass and trees. Yan Hui recalled that Confucius had once said, “Leave a state when it is at peace; go to one when it is in turmoil. The more patients there are at a doctor’s door, the greater the need for the doctor.” He hoped to use what he had learned to counsel Wei’s ruler and help improve the state.

Confucius said, “Alas! If you go, you are likely to be punished. The Way must not be muddled. When it is muddled, it becomes complicated; when it becomes complicated, it confuses people; confusion brings distress, and distress leaves no way to rescue the situation. Those who possessed true De in ancient times first settled themselves, and only then tried to settle others. If you are not yet settled yourself, how could you have the strength to correct a tyrant’s conduct? Do you know how De is damaged, or where cleverness comes from? De is shaken by the pursuit of fame; cleverness arises from contention. Fame sets people against one another, while cleverness becomes a tool for struggle. Neither serves to put the Great Way into practice.

“Even if your conduct is generous and you are sincere and reliable, you may still not understand human feelings. Even if you do not compete for fame, you may still not understand people’s hearts. If you force standards of benevolence and righteousness on a tyrant, you will be using your own strengths to overwhelm him, and will invite disaster. If the ruler of Wei only appears to admire the worthy and despise the unworthy, what gives you reason to expect him to accept views different from his own? If you keep advising him, he may use the opportunity to compete with you. His gaze will mislead you, his expression will constrain you, and his words will unsettle you, until at last he has taken control of your own heart. It is like trying to put out a fire with fire or a flood with water: you will only make the calamity worse. If you ignore advice and insist on speaking profound truths to a tyrant, you may die in front of him.

“In the past, King Jie of Xia killed Guan Longfeng, and King Zhou of Shang killed Prince Bi Gan. They had cultivated themselves and approached the people with humility, but this offended the rulers’ authority, so the rulers used their virtue as a pretext to drive them out and kill them. Yao attacked Congzhi and Xuao, and Yu attacked Youhu, bringing those states to ruin and exposing their own people to slaughter. These were the results of pursuing fame and achievement. Even sages could not bear the calamities brought by fame and achievement. How much less can you? Still, if you have a plan of your own, tell me what it is.”

Yan Hui replied, “What if I remain upright in my bearing and humble in my heart, and apply myself with single-minded devotion? Would that work?” Confucius said, “No. That would still be a deliberate display, a rigid adherence to one method. How could it truly change the other person?” Yan Hui asked, “Then what if I remain honest within and accommodating without, and take the words and conduct of the ancients as my guide?” Confucius again said no. By “honest within,” Yan Hui meant entrusting himself to Heaven’s command, without seeking another person’s approval or disapproval. By “accommodating without,” he meant observing the formal conduct expected of a minister. By “taking the ancients as a guide,” he meant citing lessons already handed down from the past. Confucius judged that these were still methods devised in advance: Yan Hui would remain attached to his own approach and unable to adapt to circumstances.

Yan Hui said he could think of nothing else and asked Confucius to tell him what to do. Confucius said, “Fast, and then I will tell you.” Yan Hui asked whether it counted as fasting that his family was poor and he had gone several months without wine or meat. Confucius replied, “That is ritual fasting, not fasting of the mind.”

Yan Hui asked what fasting of the mind meant. Confucius answered, “Make your purpose one. Do not listen with your ears alone; listen with your mind. Do not listen with your mind alone; listen with your Qi (vital energy). Hearing stops at sounds, and the mind’s understanding stops at grasping things. Qi is empty and still, waiting for things to arrive. Only emptiness and stillness can receive the Way. This is fasting of the mind.”

Yan Hui said that at first he had been unable to do this, because there was always a self within him. Now he seemed able to follow this way, as though the self had disappeared. Was that what it meant to be empty and still? Confucius replied, “You understand.” He continued, “Enter the other person’s situation, but do not be stirred by fame or outward appearances. If he accepts what you say, speak; if he does not, stop. Do not set up barriers or fixed opinions. Keep your mind single and dwell in whatever circumstances cannot be avoided. Then you will be close to the Way.

“It is easy to leave no trace of human contrivance; it is difficult to act in accord with the natural Way. It is easy to be driven by others, and easy for pretense to creep in; following the Way of Heaven is difficult to counterfeit. People have heard that one can fly with wings, but not that one can fly without them. They have heard that knowledge enables one to understand things, but not that ignorance can enable understanding. Look at the clear, open mind: in an empty, still chamber, light is born, and harmony settles there. If the mind is always restless, this is called ‘sitting in a galloping mind’: though the body sits still, the mind races without rest. If you can draw your ears and eyes inward and keep your mind from chasing things outside, even spirits will come to dwell with you. How much more so will people! This is the pivot of the transformations of all things, and the foundation on which the ancient sages Yu and Shun acted.”

Zigao, Lord Ye, was about to go as an envoy to the state of Qi and sought Confucius’s advice. He said, “My ruler attaches great importance to this mission. Though Qi receives its envoys with proper ceremony, it may not be eager to carry out the business. It is hard enough to move ordinary people; how much more difficult to move a feudal ruler? I am deeply worried. Confucius once told me that affairs, whether large or small, rarely begin without an effort to please the other party. If the matter fails, I will face political trouble; if it succeeds, I may still damage my body and mind through overwork. Only a person of De can complete a task without suffering harm, whether it succeeds or fails. I received this mission in the morning, and by evening I was already so anxious that I felt I needed iced water to cool my distress. Before I have even dealt with the matter, I am already worried that it will harm my body and mind. If it fails, I will face real punishment. Please advise me.”

Confucius said, “There are two great principles in the world that must not be violated: fate and one’s allotted place. A child’s love for its parents comes from nature and cannot be removed from the heart. A minister’s service to a ruler follows from the place he occupies; under Heaven and Earth there is nowhere he can escape it. These are called the great bonds. One who honors parents can serve them peacefully wherever he may be: this is the fullest expression of filial devotion. One who serves a ruler does not pick and choose which duties to perform, but rests content in his responsibilities: this is the fullest expression of loyalty. Someone who has settled his own heart is not easily changed by grief or joy. Understanding that some things cannot be helped, he accepts fate with equanimity: this is the highest De. A minister has things he must do. He should devote himself to his work and forget his own safety. What leisure would he have to cling to life and fear death?

“Go on the mission, but be careful in your dealings with people. When you are close to them, treat them with sincerity. When you are far away, rely on words to convey your sincerity—and words must always pass through another person. In carrying a message, there is nothing harder than passing on another person’s words of delight or anger without exaggerating them. In joy, people are apt to praise too lavishly; in anger, they are apt to condemn too harshly. Exaggerated words are often untrue, and what is untrue is hard to trust; the messenger may suffer for it. As an old saying goes: ‘Pass on plain words without enlarging them; that comes close to doing the whole task well.’

“Skillful contests of strength may begin in a spirit of fair play, but often end in treachery. Drinking according to ritual may begin in good order, but often ends in chaos; excess gives rise to all sorts of distortions. Affairs often follow the same course: they begin sincerely, but may end in baseness; they seem simple at first, but can grow ever larger as they unfold. Words are like wind and waves; actions can bring gain or loss. Wind and waves readily stir people’s hearts, while gain and loss can lead them into danger. Anger that arises without cause, and words that are artfully twisted or unfair, can both make a situation go out of control. A wounded beast, near death, no longer cares about its cries; its breath comes in gasps, and this stirs the ferocity of those around it. When you are excessively demanding and press too hard, the other person will respond with ill will, while you may not even know where the trouble began. An old saying therefore warns: ‘When conveying an order, do not add to it on your own, and do not force the matter to be completed. Pushing it too far will make it more dangerous.’ Success takes time; once harm is done, there is often no time to undo it. How could you fail to be careful? Follow things as they are to settle your mind, and lodge yourself in what cannot be helped to cultivate your heart. This is the best course. Why deliberately arrange for a reward? Do your utmost to carry out the mission. That is the difficult part.”

Yan He was about to become tutor to the crown prince of Duke Ling of Wei, and sought advice from Qu Boyu. He said, “There is a man with a naturally cruel and violent disposition. If I let him do as he pleases, he will endanger the state; if I restrain him with rules, I will endanger myself. His intelligence is enough to spot other people’s faults, but not to see why he himself is at fault. What should I do?”

Qu Boyu replied, “A good question! Be on your guard and be cautious. Begin by setting yourself right. In your outward manner, you may adapt to him; inwardly, keep your mind calm. But both have limits. Do not adapt so completely that you become servile, or let your calmness show too plainly. If outward accommodation turns into flattery, it may lead to confusion and ruin. If your inner calm is too conspicuous, it may bring you fame and disaster.

“If the prince is like an infant, meet him as you would an infant. If he refuses restraint, go along with his lack of formality. If he has no boundaries, adapt to his looseness. In this way, little by little, guide him toward a state without wrongdoing. Have you never seen a mantis? It raises its arms to block a carriage, unaware that it cannot withstand it, and thinks this is proof of its strength. Be careful. Do not pile up displays of self-importance and provoke him. Have you never seen someone who keeps a tiger? He does not feed it live animals, for fear of stirring its anger as it hunts; nor does he give it whole animals, for fear of provoking its anger as it tears them apart. The keeper knows the right times to feed it and understands its moods. The tiger and the human are different kinds, yet the tiger grows close to its keeper because the keeper adapts to it. The tiger harms people when they act against it.

“A man who loves his horse uses a bamboo basket for its dung and a shell vessel for its urine. If a mosquito or a fly settles on the horse and the owner fails to brush it away in time, the horse may startle, break the bit, and injure its head and chest. Though the owner intends to care for it, his actions end up harming it. This shows how cautious one must be.”

Artisan Shi was traveling in Qi. Passing through Quyuan, he saw a huge oak beside the local shrine to the earth god. It was so large that it could shade a thousand carriages; its trunk was so thick that a hundred people holding hands could encircle it. Its lower branches rose above a hillside, and dozens of them were large enough to make boats. Crowds had gathered to look at it, but Artisan Shi did not even glance at the tree and continued on his way. His apprentice stared at it for a long time, then asked why his master had refused to look at such a remarkable tree.

Artisan Shi said, “Don’t mention it. This is useless timber. A boat made from it would sink; a coffin would rot quickly; utensils would break easily; doors and windows would ooze sap; and pillars would be eaten by insects. It is precisely because it is useless that it has lived so long.”

After they returned, the oak appeared to Artisan Shi in a dream and said, “What do you compare me to? To trees that are prized for being useful? Pear, orange, citron, and other fruit trees have their fruit picked when it ripens, and their branches are broken. Because they are useful, their lives are harmed; they cannot live out their natural span, but are cut short by ordinary people. Most things in the world are like this. I have sought uselessness for a long time, and nearly died because of it. Now I have truly achieved it, and that is my greatest use. If I were useful, how could I have grown so large? You and I are both among the myriad things. On what grounds do you judge me? And how could a heedless man, close to death, understand an unserviceable tree?”

When Artisan Shi awoke, he told his apprentice about the dream. The apprentice asked, “If the great tree seeks uselessness, why does it serve as the shrine tree?” Artisan Shi said, “Be quiet! It is only lodging there temporarily. It regards being condemned by people who do not understand it as an insult. If it did not serve as a shrine tree, it would probably have been cut down long ago. What it preserves is different from what other things preserve. Wouldn’t it be far from the truth to judge it by ordinary standards?”

Nanbo Ziqi was traveling in Shangqiu when he saw an extraordinary tree whose shade was broad enough to shelter a thousand carriages. He said, “This tree must have unusual qualities!” Looking up at its fine branches, he saw that they twisted and bent, making them unsuitable for rafters. Looking down at its great roots, he saw that their grain was loose, making them unsuitable for coffins. Tasting its leaves would make one’s mouth and tongue break out in sores; smelling them would make one delirious, and it took three days to recover. Ziqi said, “This really is an unusable tree. That is why it has grown so tall and large.”

In the Jing district of Song, catalpa, cypress, and mulberry trees grow well. As soon as one grows thick enough to be encircled by a person’s arms, it is cut down to make a tethering post for monkeys. When it reaches three or four armspans around, someone of rank cuts it down to make a grand vessel. When it reaches seven or eight armspans, a wealthy family cuts it down for decorative wood beside a coffin. Thus these trees fail to live out their natural span and die under the axe and saw. This is the harm that comes from being useful.

At sacrifices, ritual officers consider a white-headed ox, a pig with its nostrils turned upward, and a person with hemorrhoids inauspicious, and will not offer them to the River God. All are regarded as unlucky; yet to those who understand the natural Way, such “defects” may instead be blessings. Zhili Shu was a physically deformed man: his chin drew down beside his navel, his shoulders rose above his head, his topknot pointed skyward, his internal organs were oddly positioned, and his legs were bent and crossed. He made his living sewing and washing clothes, and could earn enough by winnowing grain to support ten people. When men were conscripted, he waved his arms among the soldiers and was left alone; when laborers were requisitioned, his chronic illness exempted him. When the court distributed grain to the sick, he received three measures of rice and ten bundles of firewood. If a physically deformed man could support himself and live out his allotted years, how much more could someone whose De was not confined by worldly conventions?

When Confucius was in Chu, the madman Jieyu passed by his gate, singing: “Phoenix, Phoenix, how your De has declined! The way ahead cannot be changed; the way behind cannot be recovered. When the world has the Way, sages can accomplish their work; when the world is without the Way, sages can preserve their lives. In this age, avoiding punishment is already good fortune. Good fortune is as light as a feather, yet no one knows how to carry it; calamity is as heavy as the earth, yet no one knows how to avoid it. Give it up, give it up! Do not use your De to admonish the world. Dangerous, dangerous! Do not draw a route on the ground and then walk it with care. Bewitching grass, bewitching grass, do not wound my path; my path twists and turns—do not wound my feet!”

A mountain tree is cut down because it is useful; lamp oil is burned away because it gives light. People cut down the cinnamon tree because it can be eaten, and tap the lacquer tree because it can be used. Everyone knows the use of what is useful, but no one knows the use of what is useless.

In the state of Lu there was a man whose foot had been cut off. His name was Wang Tai, and nearly as many people studied with him as studied under Confucius. Chang Ji asked Confucius, “What sort of man is Wang Tai? His followers make up almost half the people of Lu. He does not teach when standing or discuss when seated, yet people arrive with empty minds and leave full of what they have gained. Can someone really bring inner fulfillment to others without teaching through words or leaving any outward trace? What sort of man is he?”

Confucius said, “He is a sage. I have only come to him later than the others! I would make him my teacher—how much more should those less accomplished than I do so? Why should this be limited to Lu? I would guide the whole world to follow him.”

Chang Ji asked, “He is a man whose foot has been cut off, yet he surpasses you, Master. Surely he must be far beyond ordinary people. What is his heart like?”

Confucius said, “Life and death are great matters, yet they do not alter his resolve. Even if Heaven and Earth collapsed, he would not lose his inner composure. He knows that there is something real that does not depend on external things, and that is why his mind is like this.”

Chang Ji asked, “What does that mean?”

Confucius said, “Seen in terms of difference, even the liver and gallbladder are as far apart as the states of Chu and Yue. Seen in terms of sameness, all things are one. A man like Wang Tai does not cling to what his ears and eyes happen to favor. He lets his heart and Shen (spirit) rest in the harmony of De (Virtue/Power). When he looks at things, he attends to what they share and does not treat loss as a loss. To him, losing a foot is like losing a clod of earth.”

Chang Ji asked again, “He cultivates himself through his own wisdom and sets his heart aright. Why, then, do so many people respect him?”

Confucius said, “People do not look at themselves in flowing water; they look in still water. Only still water can bring calm to others. Plants and trees grow by receiving the earth’s vital energy, but only pines and cypresses stay green through both winter and summer. People receive their nature from Heaven, but only Yao and Shun became standards in the hearts of others. Those who can set their own lives aright can set others aright. Those who preserve their original De are inwardly genuine and have nothing to fear. A brave warrior will venture alone into the ranks of an army; these people are like that, and more so. They govern Heaven and Earth, embrace the ten thousand things, regard the body as a temporary dwelling and the ears and eyes as outward forms, and keep the mind from dying over gains and losses that come and go. They choose the right moment and rise up and depart; people naturally follow them. How could they regard external things as most important?”

Shen Tu Jia, a man whose foot had been cut off, studied under Bohun Wuren alongside Zichan, the chief minister of Zheng. Zichan said to him, “When I go out, you stay behind; when you go out first, I will stay behind.”

The next day, the two were seated together in the same room. Zichan said, “When I go out first, you stay behind; when you go out first, I will stay behind. I am about to leave now. Can you stay behind? When you meet the chief minister, should you not make way? Do you consider yourself equal to the chief minister?”

Shen Tu Jia said, “Can a chief minister really put on such airs in this teacher’s company? You rely on being chief minister and push others behind you? I have heard it said, ‘When a mirror is bright, dust cannot cling to it; when dust clings to it, the mirror is no longer bright.’ A person who stays long in the company of a worthy teacher will have no faults. You hold this teacher in the highest regard, yet you say things like that. Is that not a mistake?”

Zichan said, “You are in your condition and still want to compete with Yao? Think about your De—should you not reflect on yourself?”

Shen Tu Jia said, “Many people know they have done wrong but say they should not be punished; few refuse to conceal their mistakes and accept that they should not escape punishment. To understand that something cannot be helped and accept it calmly, as one accepts one’s fate—that is something only a person of De can do. Anyone within Hou Yi’s range is hit if they stand in the center of his target. If they are not hit, that is a matter of fate. People mock me for having all my limbs intact; at first, I was indeed angry. But as soon as I came to this teacher, my anger disappeared. I do not know whether the teacher washed it away with his good way or whether I came to my senses on my own. I have been with the teacher for nineteen years and have never felt that I was incomplete. You and I now study under the same teacher, yet you judge me only by my outward form. Is that not going too far?”

Hearing this, Zichan looked awkward and changed his manner. “Please say no more,” he said. “I am truly ashamed.”

In Lu there was a man whose foot had been cut off, named Shushan Wuzhi. He walked on his heels to visit Confucius. Confucius said, “You were careless in the past and suffered this calamity. What use is it to come now?”

Wuzhi said, “In the past I did not understand what mattered most. I used my body recklessly and so lost my foot. Now I have come because there is something more worthy of respect than my foot, and I will do all I can to preserve it. There is nothing Heaven does not cover and nothing Earth does not bear. I regarded you as Heaven and Earth. How could I have known you would see me this way too?”

Confucius said, “My understanding was shallow! Why do you not come in? Let me share with you what I have heard.”

After Wuzhi left, Confucius said to his disciples, “You should study hard! Though Wuzhi lost his foot, he still strives to learn and make up for his past mistakes. How much more should those whose De is whole do so?”

Lao Dan said, “Kong Qiu is still far from being a true Perfected One. Why is he always so busy teaching people to study? He wants to make a name for himself through the strange and bizarre, yet does not know that the Perfected One regards such things as shackles.”

Lao Dan added, “Why not simply have him regard life and death as one way, and what is acceptable and unacceptable as one continuous principle? Then his shackles would be undone.”

Wuzhi said, “This is a punishment imposed on him by Heaven. How could it be undone?”

Duke Ai of Lu asked Confucius, “In Wei there is an extraordinarily ugly man named Ai Taita. Men who spend time with him miss him and do not want to leave. Women who see him ask their parents, ‘Rather than marry someone else, I would rather be his concubine.’ More than ten people have said this. He never takes the lead in calling people to him; he simply responds to them. He has no position as a ruler and cannot save people on the brink of death; he has no generous salary and cannot feed people. His ugliness is astonishing, yet he gets along well with others and never tries to put himself first. His knowledge is no greater than that of ordinary people, yet men and women alike are drawn to him. I summoned him, and at first sight he was indeed astonishingly ugly. Before a month had passed, I began to pay attention to his character; before a year had passed, I trusted him. Since there was no suitable prime minister in the state, I entrusted him with the government. He hesitated for a long time before accepting, and his manner was so calm that it seemed he was declining. I felt somewhat ashamed, but in the end I gave him the government. Before long, he left me. I felt bereft, as if I had lost something. Without him, governing this state seemed empty and joyless. What sort of man is he?”

Confucius said, “Once, when I was on a mission to Chu, I saw a group of piglets suckling at their dead mother. After a while, they stared at her in alarm and ran away one after another, because she no longer looked like the mother they knew. What they loved was not their mother’s outward form, but the life within that made that form their mother. When a man who has died in battle is buried, there is no need to adorn his body. A man whose foot has been cut off no longer cherishes that shoe, because it no longer serves its original purpose. The attendants of the Son of Heaven do not cut their nails or pierce their ears; a woman who has married into another family is no longer summoned back to her parents’ home. If people care so much about a body that is still whole, how much more should they care about a person whose De is whole!

“Before Ai Taita has even spoken, people trust him; though he has done nothing, people draw near to him; when others entrust him with a state, he fears he does not deserve to accept it. He must be someone whose natural endowment is whole, but whose De does not show itself outwardly.”

Duke Ai asked, “What does it mean for one’s natural endowment to be whole?”

Confucius said, “Life and death, survival and extinction, hardship and success, poverty and wealth, worthiness and unworthiness, slander and praise, hunger and thirst, cold and heat—these are changes in the movement of things. They come before us in day and night cycles, and we cannot trace their beginnings in advance. So we should not let these changes disturb the harmony within us, nor store them in our hearts as burdens. Let the heart be peaceful and joyful, open and untroubled. Though things change without cease, remain able to live alongside them, as full of life as spring. This is what it means for one’s natural endowment to be whole: the heart can respond to the moment and bring forth what comes naturally.”

Duke Ai asked again, “What does it mean for De not to show itself outwardly?”

Confucius said, “Still water is water in its most settled state. It can serve as a standard because it is settled within and not disturbed. De is the cultivation that brings things into harmony. When De does not show itself outwardly, all things naturally draw near.”

Later, Duke Ai told Min Zi what he had heard. “At first, I thought that because I occupied the throne, held the laws for governing the people, and worried over their lives and deaths, I was already highly enlightened. Now that I have heard the way of the Perfected One, I fear I have no true De. I have cared only for myself and may lose my state. My relationship with Kong Qiu is no longer merely that of ruler and subject; we are friends joined by De.”

Yin Qi Zhi Li Wu Shen persuaded Duke Ling of Wei, who became very fond of him. When he looked at people whose bodies were whole, he thought their necks looked thin and short. Weng Da Ying persuaded Duke Huan of Qi, who also became very fond of him; he too looked at people whose bodies were whole and thought their necks looked thin and short. When one’s De grows, outward appearance can be forgotten. If a person can forget outward defects that ought to be forgotten, yet not forget the De that ought not be forgotten, this is truly forgetting the body’s outward form.

Thus the sage’s heart finds its own resting place and roams freely. Wisdom does not become a source of trouble, discipline does not become a restraint, De does not become a tool for making connections and seeking credit, and skill does not become a trade for profit. If the sage does not scheme, what use has he for wisdom? If he does not deliberately carve and shape things, what use has he for restraints? If nothing has been lost within, why deliberately proclaim De? If he does not trade in skills, why run a business? These four things are all gifts of one’s natural endowment, received and used in keeping with nature—like food bestowed by Heaven. Once Heaven has provided for you, why rely on human contrivances?

The sage has a human form, but not the fixed feelings of worldly people. Because he has a human form, he can live among other people; because he has no fixed feelings, right and wrong, gain and loss cannot sway him. From the worldly point of view, he may seem small, since he lives among others; from the point of view of the Way of Heaven, he is vast and boundless, fulfilling his nature alone.

Huizi asked Zhuangzi, “Are people really without feelings?”

Zhuangzi replied, “Yes.”

Huizi said, “If people have no feelings, can they still be called people?”

Zhuangzi said, “The Dao gives them their appearance, and Heaven gives them their form. How could they not be called people?”

Huizi said, “If they are called people, how can they have no feelings?”

Zhuangzi said, “By ‘feelings’ I do not mean what you mean. When I say ‘without feelings,’ I mean that a person does not let likes and dislikes disturb the heart, but always follows what is natural and does not needlessly wear out life.”

Huizi said, “If you do not wear out life needlessly, how can you keep your body?”

Zhuangzi said, “The Dao gave you your appearance, and Heaven gave you your form. Do not harm yourself inwardly with likes and dislikes. Now you distance yourself from your own spirit and exhaust your vital energy, leaning against a tree and resting on your qin stand, yet you still argue and show off with your doctrine of ‘hardness and whiteness’!”

To know which things are determined by nature and which are caused by people themselves is the highest kind of wisdom. To understand nature’s workings is to know that human beings are born in accordance with their inborn nature. To understand the human sphere is to use one’s knowledge to deal with what can be known, while accommodating what lies beyond one’s knowledge, so that life reaches its natural span rather than ending prematurely. This may be called the highest level of understanding. Yet a problem remains: understanding needs a standard on which to rely in order to make sound judgments, but the standard it relies on may not be reliable. How can we know that what I call “human affairs” is not nature? And how can we know that what others call “nature” is not human affairs? Only when there are True Persons—people who live in accordance with the Dao—can there be true understanding.

What is a True Person? The True Persons of old did not feel inferior because they had little, nor did they boast of their achievements. They sought neither fame nor position. When they made a mistake, they did not regret it; when they did something well, they did not congratulate themselves. They could climb high without fear, enter water without getting wet, and walk through fire without feeling hot. This is what those who understand the Dao can attain.

The True Persons of old did not dream when they slept, and woke without anxiety. They did not crave rich flavors in their food, and their breathing was deep. A True Person’s breath seemed to come and go from the heels, while ordinary people breathe only as far as the throat. Those who are oppressed speak as though their words are choked out; the deeper their desires, the shallower their inborn clarity.

The True Persons of old did not cling especially to life, nor did they loathe death. They did not rejoice at birth or resist death, but moved calmly back and forth between life and death. They did not cling to where life began or ask where it would end. They accepted life gladly when it came and let it go naturally when it passed. They did not allow private concerns to injure the Dao, nor did they use human contrivance to interfere with nature. Such people are called True Persons.

A True Person’s heart is calm and untroubled, and their expression serene, with a broad, open brow. At times they are clear and austere as autumn; at others, gentle and warm as spring. Their joy and anger arise in their time and respond to all things, yet no one can fathom their limits. Thus, when a sage wages war, even if a whole state is destroyed, the people’s hearts are not lost. The sage’s kindness benefits all generations, yet comes not from any deliberate effort to show kindness.

One who only understands how things work has not attained the state of a sage. One who has preferences cannot be truly humane. One who merely waits for the right moment is not truly wise. One who cannot see through gain and loss is no gentleman. One who pursues conduct and reputation is not a true person of learning. One who gives up life for the sake of reputation is not truly master of himself. Hu Bu Xie, Wu Guang, Bo Yi, Shu Qi, Ji Zi, Xu Yu, and Shen Tu Di were all driven by ideals of reputation and worldly standards. They sought what others considered worthy, but did not attain their own freedom.

The bearing of the True Persons of old was strong without being overbearing. They seemed to fall short, yet did not curry favor; they were easygoing yet had firmness, and open-minded and still without being showy. Their spirits seemed bright and joyful, yet they also seemed to act as though compelled by necessity. At times they seemed full, at times restrained. In their solemnity, they appeared to go along with the world; in their pride, they remained unbound. Sometimes they flowed freely and continuously; sometimes they were still and silent, as though they had forgotten words.

True Persons take penal law as the basis of their lives, ritual as an aid to action, wisdom as their response to changing circumstances, and De as their guiding principle. Taking penal law as their basis means that even when they impose punishment, they leave room for leniency. Taking ritual as their wings means that ritual helps them act in the world. Meeting circumstances with wisdom means that they deal with affairs only when necessity requires it. Taking De as their guiding principle means they reach their destination as naturally as a strong-footed person walking over a hill, though others think they are making a strenuous effort. To them, liking and disliking are equally ordinary; unity and difference can both be gathered into one. In following nature, they accompany Heaven; in responding to human affairs, they accompany people. Nature and human affairs do not overpower one another: this is what is meant by a True Person.

Life and death are matters of fate, like the alternation of day and night; they belong to the natural order. There are many things people cannot control, and this is true of all things. People regard Heaven as their father and love and honor it; they even cherish their own bodies. How much more should they cherish the Dao, which is above Heaven? People consider their ruler greater than themselves and are willing to die for him. How much more should they be willing to give themselves for the true Dao?

When a spring dries up, fish are stranded on land. They breathe on one another and moisten one another with their saliva. Better for them to live freely in rivers and lakes, forgetting one another. Better than praising Yao and condemning Jie is to forget all such distinctions and follow the transformations of the Dao.

The Earth gave me my body, made me toil in life, gave me ease in old age, and grants me rest in death. So one who knows how to treat life well also knows how to treat death well. People hide a boat in a ravine and a mountain in a lake, thinking they have secured them. Yet in the middle of the night someone strong may carry them off, and the ignorant will never know. However securely things are hidden, they can still be lost. If the whole world were hidden within the whole world, there would be nowhere it could be carried away to. This is the constant truth of all things.

A person happens to receive human form, yet takes delight in it. Human form undergoes endless transformations. How could the pleasures within it ever be counted? Thus the sage rests in the changes that all things cannot escape, and rests in youth and age, beginnings and endings. If people can follow this example, how much more so can the Dao, on which all things depend and for which all transformations wait?

The Dao is real and has a basis, yet it is Wuwei (non-action) and formless. It can be transmitted, but not handed over like an object; it can be experienced, but cannot be seen. It has its own root and existed before Heaven and Earth took shape. It has endured from time immemorial. It gives the spirits and the Celestial Sovereign their marvelous powers, and brings Heaven and Earth into being. It is not high though it is above the Supreme Ultimate (Taiji); it is not deep though it is below the Six Directions. It is not ancient though it came before Heaven and Earth; it is not old though it has lasted since the earliest times.

Xiweishi attained the Dao and governed Heaven and Earth. Fuxi attained the Dao and received the source of Heaven and Earth’s original Qi. The Northern Dipper attained the Dao and turns forever without error. The sun and moon attained the Dao and travel on without end. Kanhuai attained the Dao and took charge of Kunlun. Fengyi attained the Dao and roamed the Great River. Jianwu attained the Dao and dwelt on a great mountain. The Yellow Emperor attained the Dao and ascended into the clouds. Zhuanxu attained the Dao and dwelt in the Dark Palace. Yuqiang attained the Dao and guarded the North Pole. The Queen Mother of the West attained the Dao and took her seat in the land of Shaoguang; no one knew where she came from or where she went. Pengzu attained the Dao and lived from the time of Shun until the era of the Five Hegemons in the Spring and Autumn period. Fu Yue attained the Dao, served King Wuding, and later ascended to Heaven, riding among the stars Jī and Wěi, where he took his place among the constellations.

Nanbo Zikui asked Nüyu, “You are very old, yet your appearance is like a child’s. Why?” Nüyu replied, “I have heard the Dao.” Nanbo Zikui asked, “Can the Dao be learned?” Nüyu said, “No. You are not the right person for it. Buliang Yi had the makings of a sage, but lacked the Dao of a sage. I had the Dao of a sage, but lacked the makings of one. I wanted to teach him the Dao, hoping he might become a sage. If one tells the Dao of a sage to someone who has the makings of a sage, it may be easy for him to grasp.”

Nüyu said, “I held fast to the Dao and cultivated it. After three days, I could set the whole world outside my mind. After seven days, I could set all things outside my mind. After nine days, I could set life and death outside my mind. Once I had gone beyond life and death, I reached clear and complete understanding. With clear and complete understanding, I saw the Dao, which stands alone and depends on nothing. Having seen the Dao, I was no longer bound by the distinction between past and present. No longer bound by past and present, I entered a state beyond birth and death. The Dao brings about the transformations of life and death in all things, yet is not itself transformed by life and death. It brings all things into being, yet is not brought into being by anything else. Nothing departs without it, and nothing arrives without it; nothing is destroyed without it, and nothing is brought to completion without it. This is called ‘stillness amid disturbance’—remaining at peace amid turmoil and change, and attaining peace precisely by responding to change.”

Nanbo Zikui asked her where she had heard the Dao. Nüyu said she had heard it from the son of Fu Mo; the son of Fu Mo had heard it from the grandson of Luo Song; the grandson of Luo Song had heard it from Zhanming; Zhanming had heard it from Nie Xu; Nie Xu had heard it from Xuyi; Xuyi had heard it from Yu Ou; Yu Ou had heard it from Xuanming; Xuanming had heard it from Canliao; and Canliao had heard it from Yi.

Zisi, Ziyu, Zili, and Zilai were talking together. “Who can make nonbeing his head, life his spine, and death his buttocks, and understand that life, death, existence, and extinction are all one? We would like to be friends with such a person.” The four looked at one another and laughed, their hearts in accord, and became friends.

Before long, Ziyu fell ill. Zisi went to see him. Ziyu said, “How great the Creator is! It is going to make me like this!” His back was hunched, his body bent, and his internal organs bulged out. His chin was tucked near his navel, his shoulders rose above his head, and his spine curved upward toward the sky. The balance of his Yin-Yang Qi was disturbed, yet his mind was calm and unconcerned. He shuffled to the well to look at his reflection and said, “Ah! The Creator is going to make me this bent and crooked.”

Zisi asked whether he hated it. Ziyu replied, “No. What is there for me to hate? If the transformations gradually turn my left arm into a rooster, I will use it to announce the dawn. If they turn my right arm into a crossbow, I will use it to shoot a bird and roast it. If they turn my buttocks into wheels and my spirit into a horse, I will ride on it. Why would I need another carriage? To receive something is to meet the moment; to lose it is to follow change. Resting in the moment and following change, joy and sorrow cannot enter the heart. This is what the ancients called ‘being unbound’—release from the knots of the heart. One cannot free oneself because external things have bound one. It has long been the way of nature that nothing can prevail against it. What, then, is there for me to hate?”

Before long, Zilai fell gravely ill. His breath was labored, and he was near death. His wife and children gathered around him, weeping. Zili drove them away, saying, “Do not disturb his transformation!” Then, leaning against the doorway, he said to them, “How great the Creator is! What will it make you into next, and where will it send you? Will it make you into a rat’s liver or an insect’s leg?”

Zilai said, “Parents command their children, and children can only obey. The transformations of Yin and Yang are stronger than a parent’s commands. If they make me die and I refuse to obey, then I would be stubborn and unreasonable. What fault is theirs? The Earth gave me my body, made me toil, grow old, and finally rest. So one who knows how to treat life well also knows how to treat death well.

“Now, if metal leapt up in a great foundry and said, ‘I insist on being made into a Moye sword!’ the foundry master would surely think it an ill-omened piece of metal. Now I happened to receive human form, and I cry out, ‘I want to be human! I want to be human!’ The Creator would surely think me ill-omened, too. Heaven and Earth are a great furnace, and the transformations are a great foundry master. Where could I go that would be unacceptable?” With that, he fell peacefully asleep, then woke again soon afterward.

Zisang Hu, Meng Zifan, and Ziqin Zhang were friends. They talked together: “Who can be friends without seeking anything from one another, and live together without doing anything? Who can climb to Heaven and wander through the mists, roam to and fro in the boundless, forget one another and live freely, without end?” The three looked at one another and laughed, their hearts in accord, and became friends.

Before long, Zisang Hu died, and had not yet been buried. Confucius heard of it and sent Zigong to help prepare the funeral. Meng Zifan and Ziqin Zhang were weaving and singing to the accompaniment of a zither: “Ah, Zisang Hu, you have returned to your true nature, while we are still here among the living!” Zigong hurried forward and asked, “Is it proper to sing over a corpse?” The two looked at one another and laughed. “How could he understand the true meaning of ritual?”

Zigong returned and told Confucius, “What sort of people are they? They do not cultivate their De or care for their bodies, yet they sing over a corpse without changing expression. I do not know what to call them.” Confucius said, “They roam beyond the bounds of worldly conventions, while I live within them. The inner and outer worlds cannot communicate. It was indeed shallow of me to send you to offer condolences. They are companions of the Creator, roaming amid the original Qi of Heaven and Earth. To them, life is like an unnecessary growth of flesh, and death like an abscess bursting and releasing its pus. How could such people care which comes first, death or birth? They borrow different forms and lodge themselves in a single whole of life. They forget their liver and gallbladder and cast aside their ears and eyes. Moving back and forth through life and death, they see neither beginning nor end. They wander aimlessly beyond the dusty world and roam freely in the realm of Wuwei. Why would they bustle about observing worldly rites and putting on a show for the crowd?”

Zigong asked Confucius what path he followed. Confucius said, “I received my share of Heaven’s decree and its many circumstances, and you and I bear them together.” Zigong asked what this meant. Confucius said, “Fish meet in water, and people dig ponds to keep them there. People who meet in the Dao do nothing artificial, and their lives are naturally at peace. So fish forget one another in rivers and lakes, and people forget one another in the Great Dao.”

Zigong asked what a “singular person” was. Confucius said, “A singular person differs from worldly people but accords with nature. Thus, judged by the way of Heaven, they are petty; judged by human standards, they are a gentleman. Judged by human standards, they are a gentleman; judged by the way of Heaven, they are petty.”

Yan Hui asked Confucius, “After Mengsun Cai’s mother died, he wept without shedding tears, felt no grief in his heart, and showed no sorrow in mourning. Yet because he handled the funeral appropriately, he became famous throughout Lu. Can someone really lack genuine feelings and still gain a good reputation? I find it strange.”

Confucius said, “Mengsun Cai has come close to understanding the Dao, though he has not yet reduced all distinctions to their furthest simplicity. He does not know where life comes from or where death leads. He does not follow life or death. He is like one who changes along with all things and waits for changes he cannot foresee. Since he is changing now, how can we say he is not changing? And if he were stopping change, how could he know that he had changed? Perhaps you and I are both still dreaming and have not truly awakened.

“His body has been shaken, but his heart has not been injured. His body is like a temporary dwelling, and his nature has not died with it. Mengsun Cai merely woke a little earlier than the others. When they weep, he weeps along with them, because that is the natural response to the circumstances he is in. Our dealings with one another are no different. How do we know that the ‘I’ I speak of is truly a fixed and unchanging self? You dream of becoming a bird and flying into the sky; you dream of becoming a fish and sinking into the depths. Now, as we speak, are we awake or dreaming? Who knows? Before the feeling of perfect ease has had time to laugh, laughter has already dispersed it. Following what is laid out for us and accepting change, we leave the world and return to the vastness of the Dao of Heaven, becoming one with all things.”

Yi’erzi went to see Xu You. Xu You asked, “What teachings did Yao give you?” Yi’erzi said, “Yao told me to put humaneness and righteousness into practice and to distinguish clearly between right and wrong.” Xu You said, “Why have you come here, then? Yao has branded your face with humaneness and righteousness and cut off your nose with right and wrong. How can you still roam along the free and boundless Way, turning wherever you please?”

Yi’erzi said, “Even so, I would still like to travel within those boundaries.” Xu You said, “You cannot. A blind person cannot appreciate the beauty of eyebrows and eyes; one who cannot see cannot look upon the splendor of colored patterns.”

Yi’erzi said, “Wuzhuang lost his beauty, Juiliang lost his strength, and the Yellow Emperor lost his wisdom. They were all just tempered in the furnace. How do we know the Creator will not remove the branding and cuts from me, restore me to wholeness, and let me follow you?” Xu You said, “That remains to be seen. Let me tell you in broad terms: my teacher punishes all things but does not call himself righteous; benefits all generations but does not call himself humane; is older than the earliest times but does not call himself old; covers and supports Heaven and Earth and shapes all things but does not call himself skillful. This is the realm in which I roam.”

Yan Hui said, “I have made progress.” Confucius asked, “What do you mean?” Yan Hui replied, “I have forgotten humaneness and righteousness.” Confucius said, “That is good, but not enough.” Some time later, Yan Hui said, “I have made progress.” Confucius asked, “What do you mean?” Yan Hui replied, “I have forgotten ritual and music.” Confucius said, “That is good, but not enough.” Some time later, Yan Hui said, “I have made progress.” Confucius asked, “What do you mean?” Yan Hui replied, “I have reached ‘sitting in forgetfulness.’” Confucius asked in surprise, “What does sitting in forgetfulness mean?” Yan Hui said, “I forget that my body exists, set aside the acuity of my ears and eyes, leave behind my form and my discriminating mind, and merge with the Great Dao. This is called sitting in forgetfulness.” Confucius said, “When you become one with all things, you have no preferences; when you follow the transformations of all things, you have no fixed position. You are indeed wise. I would like to follow behind you and learn.”

Ziyu and Zisang were friends. After ten days of continuous rain, Ziyu worried that Zisang might be starving, so he wrapped up some food and went to bring it to him. When he arrived at Zisang’s door, he heard someone inside who seemed to be crying and singing at once, accompanying himself on a zither: “Was it my father? Was it my mother? Was it Heaven? Was it a person?” His voice seemed about to give out, so he had to sing the verses in a hurried rhythm. Ziyu went in and asked, “Why are you singing like that?” Zisang said, “I was trying to find what had brought me to this desperate state, but I could not. Would my parents want me to be poor? Heaven covers all things impartially, and Earth supports all things impartially. Would Heaven and Earth single me out for poverty? I cannot find what has brought this about, yet here I am in such a state. Perhaps this is simply fate!”

Nieque asked Wang Ni for instruction, posing four questions in succession. Wang Ni answered “I don’t know” to each one. Delighted, Nieque jumped up and went to tell Puyi Zi. Puyi Zi said, “Only now do you understand this? You Shun was still inferior to Tai Shi, the legendary ruler of ancient times. You Shun kept benevolence in his heart and used it to win people over. Though he did win their hearts, he had not yet reached a state beyond worldly distinctions. Tai Shi slept peacefully and awoke at ease. He could regard himself as a horse or as a cow. His understanding was true and trustworthy, his nature was genuine, and he never fell into worldly judgments of right and wrong.”

Shoulder-wo met Madman Jieyu. Jieyu asked, “What did Rizhong Shi say to you?” Shoulder-wo replied, “He told me that a ruler should make laws and standards according to his own ideas. Who would dare refuse to obey and be transformed by them?” Jieyu said, “That idea may seem virtuous, but using it to govern the world is like trying to cross the sea on foot, cut a channel through a river, or make a mosquito carry a mountain. When a sage governs the world, does he do so by interfering with everything outside himself? He first sets himself right, then follows the way things unfold, doing only what can truly be done. Birds fly high to escape nets and arrows. A mouse burrows deep into the sacred hill to escape smoke and digging. Even these two small creatures know how to avoid harm. How can people fail to understand?”

While traveling in Yinyang, Root of Heaven came to the Liao River and happened to meet a nameless man. He asked him, “May I ask how to govern the world?” The man said, “Go away! You are so narrow-minded, and your question is tiresome. I am about to become a friend of the Creator. When I grow weary, I ride the subtle, formless breath and fly beyond the four quarters of heaven and earth. I wander in the land of nothingness and dwell in the boundless wilderness. Why would you put thoughts of governing the world into my mind?” Root of Heaven pressed him again, and the nameless man said, “Let your mind and spirit roam in calm simplicity, let your breath merge with stillness, and follow the natural changes of the myriad things without bringing in private intentions. Then the world will govern itself.”

Yang Ju went to see Lao Dan and said, “There is a person who acts swiftly and is strong-willed, observes the outside world keenly, thinks clearly, and studies the Dao without growing weary. Could such a person be compared with an enlightened ruler?” Lao Dan said, “In the eyes of a sage, such a person is merely one driven by worldly affairs and bound by skill. His body is exhausted and his mind anxious. Tigers and leopards are hunted for their beautiful coats; monkeys are captured for their agility; hounds are put to use because they are good at catching raccoon dogs. Could such a person be compared with an enlightened ruler?”

Yang Ju respectfully asked, “May I ask how an enlightened ruler governs?” Lao Dan said, “An enlightened ruler governs the world, and his achievements extend throughout it, yet he does not claim them as his own. His teaching nourishes all things, yet the people do not feel that they depend on him. He leaves behind no great reputation. All things flourish of themselves, while he stands in a realm beyond measurement and roams at ease in Wuwei and nothingness.”

In the state of Zheng there was a spirit medium named Jixian who could discern a person’s life and death, survival and ruin, good and bad fortune, and length of life. He could even predict the year, month, and day when events would come to pass, as if he were a god. The people of Zheng fled whenever they saw him. Liezi met him and was deeply impressed. When he returned, he told Huhuzi, “I used to think that your Dao had reached the utmost height. I never imagined there was something higher.” Huhuzi said, “I have taught you only the outward appearance of the Dao, not its true substance, and already you think you have attained it? If there is only a female and no male, how could there be an egg? You take the Dao and compete with the world, eager to prove yourself, and that is why others can see through you. Bring him here and let him look at me.”

The next day, Liezi brought Jixian to meet Huhuzi. After Jixian left, he said to Liezi, “Alas! Your teacher is close to death. He cannot be saved and will not live ten days. I saw him like damp, cold ashes.” Liezi went inside, wept, and told Huhuzi what Jixian had said. Huhuzi replied, “Just now I showed him the patterns of the earth: a state in which things stir but do not shake, seeming to be out of true. He probably saw signs of life hidden away within me. Bring him again.”

The next day, Jixian came to see Huhuzi again. After leaving, he said, “How fortunate that your teacher met me! His illness is gone, and his vitality is fully restored. I saw the movement of life concealed within him.” Liezi went in and reported this to Huhuzi. Huhuzi said, “Just now I showed him a state in which heaven and earth interweave, where reputation and profit cannot enter, and vitality rises from the heels. He probably saw signs of benevolent intent arising in me. Bring him again.”

On the third day, Jixian came to see Huhuzi once more. After leaving, he said, “Your teacher’s breath is unsettled. I cannot make out his inner state. Let him grow calm, and I will come back to look.” Liezi went in and reported this to Huhuzi. Huhuzi said, “Just now I showed him the original beginning, the balanced Qi in which nothing prevails over anything else. He probably saw signs of my breath being harmonized. Deep water has its abyss, still water has its abyss, flowing water has its abyss; there are nine kinds of abyss, and I have shown him only three. Bring him again.”

The following day, Liezi brought Jixian to see Huhuzi. Before he could even steady himself, Jixian panicked and fled. Huhuzi said, “Chase him!” Liezi could not catch up, and returned to report, “He has disappeared. I couldn’t catch him.” Huhuzi said, “Just now I showed him a state in which the root had not yet been revealed. I followed change without clinging to anything, making myself at times like something withdrawing and dissolving, at times like waves in motion. That is why he fled.”

After this, Liezi felt that he had never really studied the Dao before. He went home and lived in seclusion, not going out for three years. He cooked for his wife himself and ate whatever was at hand, like a pig. He no longer set his heart on external things. He cast off embellishment and returned to simplicity, standing apart and at peace within himself. Amid the turmoil of worldly affairs, he held fast to his true nature until the end of his life.

Do not be a bearer of reputation or a storehouse of schemes. Do not make yourself responsible for affairs or let knowledge rule you. Let body and mind merge with endless change, and roam freely in the formless and trackless. The nature bestowed on people by Heaven is not something they can display as an achievement. It is enough to remain empty and free of attachment. The mind of the Perfect Person is like a mirror: it does not deliberately welcome things or pursue them as they depart. When things arrive, it reflects them; when they pass, it keeps no trace. Thus it can respond to the myriad things without being harmed.

The ruler of the South Sea was called Shu; the ruler of the North Sea was called Hu; and the ruler of the center was called Hundun. Shu and Hu often met in Hundun’s territory, and Hundun treated them well. Shu and Hu discussed how to repay his kindness. They said, “Everyone has seven openings for seeing, hearing, eating, and breathing. He alone has none. Let’s bore some for him.” So they bored one opening each day. When they had finished the seventh, Hundun died.

Having toes joined together or an extra finger on the hand is natural from birth, yet it exceeds the ordinary measure. A growth of excess flesh or a wart on the body belongs to one’s physical form, yet it is still superfluous. When standards of benevolence and righteousness are imposed on people to regulate their conduct, were such things originally present in the five organs? They are not what virtue was like in its original state.

Joined toes are an extra piece of useless flesh; an extra finger is a useless offshoot. When many artificial branches are added to the nature contained in the five organs, people are driven to pursue acts of benevolence and righteousness excessively, and their cleverness and skill become tangled and perverse.

When eyesight is developed to excess, the five colors confuse it, and people become absorbed in elaborate patterns. Are not the formal robes woven with blue and yellow and marked with axe-shaped designs just such dazzling adornments? Li Zhu was a person of this sort. When hearing is developed to excess, the five notes disturb it, and people become absorbed in the six pitch standards of ancient music. Are not the elaborate sounds of metal, stone, strings, and bamboo, performed in the Yellow Bell and Great Lü pitches, just such a case? Shi Kuang was a person of this sort. Those whose concern with benevolence and righteousness branches into excess elevate morality and obstruct people’s nature, seeking only to win a reputation. They also stir up the people of the world to follow standards beyond their reach. Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu were people of this sort. Those whose concern with disputation branches into excess pile up phrases and weave arguments, exhausting their minds on debates about “hardness and whiteness” and “sameness and difference,” while boasting of useless words. Yang Zhu and Mo Di were people of this sort. All these are ways of adding branches and offshoots; they are not the Way that is most proper for the world.

Those who truly accord with the right Way do not violate the original condition of life. Joined toes are not excessive; a branching finger is not overgrown. Long legs are not too long, and short legs are not too short. A wild duck’s legs are short, but if you stretch them out, it will be distressed. A crane’s legs are long, but if you cut them short, it will be grieved. So the naturally long part should not be cut short, and the naturally short part should not be lengthened. There is no need to manufacture distress.

Perhaps benevolence and righteousness do not accord with human nature. Why are those who are benevolent always so burdened with worry? If someone with joined toes has them forcibly separated, they weep; if someone with an extra finger has it bitten off, they cry out in pain. In one case there is too much, in the other too little, yet the suffering is no different. Today, the benevolent worry over the world’s troubles, their faces clouded with sorrow. The unbenevolent, meanwhile, go against their nature and devote themselves to grasping after wealth and status. Perhaps benevolence and righteousness are not what human feeling is like in its original state. Why has the world been so disturbed since the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties?

To correct things with a carpenter’s square, an ink line, a compass, and a ruler is to diminish their nature. To bind and fasten things with ropes, glue, and lacquer is to violate their original qualities. To constrain people’s conduct with ritual and music, and to persuade and pacify the world with benevolence and righteousness, is also artificial contrivance. Things in the world each have their own natural condition: what is bent needs no square; what is straight needs no ink line; what is round needs no compass; what is square needs no ruler. What is joined needs no glue; what is bound needs no rope. The myriad things in the world grow naturally, unaware of why they grow; each acquires what it has, unaware of why it acquires it. The natural Way of past and present is one and the same, and should not be damaged. Why must benevolence and righteousness entangle themselves in virtue like glue and rope, confusing the people of the world?

A small confusion can make people lose their way; a great confusion can change their nature. How do we know this? Yu Shun promoted benevolence and righteousness and disrupted the world. Everyone in the world rushed to put benevolence and righteousness into practice. Was this not a case of changing people’s nature through benevolence and righteousness? Consider the situation from the Three Dynasties onward: for the most part, people have traded away their nature for external things. Commoners sacrifice their lives for profit; scholars sacrifice their lives for reputation; ministers sacrifice their lives for their family estates; sages sacrifice their lives for the world. Their pursuits and titles differ, but they all damage their nature and offer up their persons in pursuit of some goal. The result is the same.

There were two shepherds, one named Zang and the other Gu. They went out together to tend sheep, but both lost their flocks. Asked what Zang had been doing, people learned that he was reading a book. Asked what Gu had been doing, they learned that he was playing a game of dice. Their activities differed, but the result—the loss of their sheep—was the same. Boyi died for his reputation beneath Mount Shouyang; Robber Zhi died for profit on Mount Dongling. The causes of their deaths differed, but both destroyed their lives and damaged their nature. Why insist that Boyi was right and Robber Zhi wrong? Everyone in the world sacrifices themselves for something. When they sacrifice themselves for benevolence and righteousness, the common judgment calls them gentlemen; when they sacrifice themselves for possessions, it calls them petty people. Their objects of sacrifice differ, but they all damage the nature of their lives in the same way. If so, in this respect, what difference is there between Robber Zhi and Boyi as gentleman and petty person?

Those who bind their nature to benevolence and righteousness are not good in the sense I mean, even if they understand benevolence and righteousness as thoroughly as Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu. Those who bind their nature to fine flavors are not good in my sense, even if they can distinguish tastes as well as Yu’er. Those who bind their nature to the five notes cannot be called truly perceptive, even if they understand music as well as Shi Kuang. Those who bind their nature to sight cannot be called truly clear-sighted, even if their vision is as keen as Li Zhu’s.

The goodness I speak of is not the goodness of benevolence and righteousness; it is following one’s own De. The goodness I speak of is letting life follow its original condition. The acuity I speak of is not hearing external things clearly, but hearing oneself. The clarity I speak of is not seeing external things clearly, but seeing oneself. Those who cannot see themselves but seek only to see others, who cannot find fulfillment in themselves but seek only to acquire external things, take what others have gained as their own gain, yet cannot truly find satisfaction in themselves. They take other people’s joy for their own joy, yet cannot truly enjoy their own happiness. Whether Robber Zhi or Boyi, those who follow only another’s happiness and cannot take joy in themselves have equally strayed from their nature. I honor the Way of virtue, and therefore I dare neither treat benevolence and righteousness as deliberate disciplines nor engage in reckless and perverse conduct.

A horse’s hooves can tread on frost and snow, and its coat can protect it from wind and cold. It eats grass, drinks water, and lifts its legs to leap lightly: this is the nature of a horse. Even grand terraces and halls are of no use to it.

Later, Bole said, “I am skilled at training horses.” He branded them with hot irons, trimmed and clipped their coats, pared and carved their hooves, and marked them with brands. Then he harnessed them with reins and bridles and lined them up in stalls. As a result, six out of every ten horses died. Even grand terraces and halls are of no use to them. Bole went on: “I am skilled at training horses.” He branded, trimmed, pared, carved, and marked them, harnessed them with reins and bridles, and lined them up in stalls. This time, two or three out of every ten died. He also made them go hungry and thirsty, drove them to run and gallop, and required them to keep rank and move in step. Their mouths were constrained by bits and ornaments, while whips drove them from behind; more than half had died.

Someone said, “I am skilled at pottery: the round vessels I make fit the compass, and the square ones fit the carpenter’s square.” A carpenter said, “I am skilled at working wood: curved pieces fit the curved ruler, and straight pieces follow the ink line.” But is the nature of clay and wood really to exist so that they conform to the compass, square, curved ruler, and ink line? Yet generation after generation, people praise Bole for being skilled at training horses, and potters and carpenters for being skilled at working clay and wood. This, too, is a fault of those who govern the world. I believe that a good ruler should not act this way. The people have their constant nature: they weave and make clothes, they farm and eat. This is called having the same Virtue, living in harmony without forming factions; it is also called following nature.

In the age of “Perfect Virtue,” when Virtue was pure and people followed nature, their movements were calm and their expressions at ease. There were no paths or tunnels in the mountains, and no boats or bridges across the waters. All kinds of creatures lived close together; animals gathered in herds, and plants grew as they naturally would. People could tether birds and beasts and take them along as they played, or climb branches to peer into birds’ nests. In that age, people lived alongside animals and existed together with all things. How could anyone distinguish noble people from petty ones? Since everyone shared the same understanding, Virtue did not become divided. Since people had no desires, this was called simplicity. When simplicity was preserved, the people’s nature could rest at ease.

When sages appeared and strove to promote benevolence and imposed righteousness, the world began to be confused. When they made a great show of music and deliberately established ritual, the world began to divide. If uncarved simplicity had not been damaged, how could the sacrificial animal known as a “xi” have appeared? If white jade had not been harmed, how could the ceremonial jade tablets known as “gui” and “zhang” have come into being? If Virtue had not been discarded, why seek benevolence and righteousness elsewhere? If people’s nature had not become divided, why impose ritual and music? If the five colors had not been disturbed, what need would there be for ornamentation? If sounds had not been disturbed, what need would there be for the six pitch standards? Destroying simplicity to make implements is the fault of craftsmen; destroying Virtue to proclaim benevolence and righteousness is the fault of sages.

Horses normally eat grass and drink water. When pleased, they rub their necks against one another; when angry, they turn their backs and kick. This is what horses can do. But once they are fitted with a yoke and a crescent-shaped headpiece, they learn to toss their heads, twist their bodies, and struggle. They even bite the bit and slip their reins. The horses’ cleverness has developed to the point where they can escape restraint: all of this is Bole’s fault.

In the age when Xu You ruled—the legendary ruler of antiquity—people lived at ease without knowing what they ought to do, and went out without knowing where they were headed. They held food in their mouths, laughing contentedly, and wandered about patting their bellies. Such, indeed, could be the people’s way of life. Only when sages used ritual and music to correct people’s conduct and benevolence and righteousness to guide their hearts did the people begin to strain themselves in pursuit of cleverness and compete to seize profit, unable to stop. This, too, is the fault of the sages.

To guard against thieves who pry open chests, feel through bags, and break into cabinets, people tie their knots tightly and bolt their doors securely. These are ordinary precautions. But when a great thief comes, he carries off the chest and walks away with the cabinet, fearing only that the knots and bolts may not be secure enough. Does this not mean that what the world calls clever measures merely helps a great thief amass his loot? And is what the world calls the Way of the sages not simply a way of guarding a great thief’s possessions?

In ancient Qi, the towns lay so close together that the crowing of roosters and barking of dogs could be heard from one to another. Fishing, hunting, and farming stretched across more than two thousand li. Qi established ancestral temples and altars to the soil and grain, governed its cities and villages—what did it do that did not follow the laws laid down by the sages? Yet Tian Chengzi killed the ruler of Qi and seized the whole state. Did he steal only the state of Qi? He also took for himself all the clever laws devised by the sages. Thus Tian Chengzi bore the name of a bandit while enjoying a position like that of Yao and Shun. Smaller states dared not reproach him, and larger states dared not attack him. The Tian family held Qi for generations. Did he not steal a state and then use the sages’ laws to protect himself as a thief?

Has not the highest wisdom and sagely virtue praised by the world been used by great thieves to amass and guard their possessions? Long Feng, Bi Gan, Chang Hong, and Wu Zixu were all worthy men, yet they were killed. A disciple of Robber Zhi once asked him, “Is there a Way even to being a thief?” Robber Zhi replied, “What is there that has no Way at all?” He went on to say that guessing what was hidden inside a house was sagacity; going in first was courage; coming out last was righteousness; judging whether it was possible to strike was wisdom; and sharing the loot equally was benevolence. Without all five qualities, no one in the world could become a great thief.

It follows that good people cannot establish themselves without the sages’ Way, and Robber Zhi cannot succeed without it either. Since there are few good people in the world and many evil ones, the sages’ Way brings little benefit and much harm. Thus we say: when the lips are gone, the teeth grow cold; weak wine in Lu led to the encirclement of Handan, the capital of Zhao; and whenever sages appear, great thieves rise alongside them. Strike down the teachings of the sages and let thieves vanish of their own accord, and the world may become peaceful. When rivers dry up, valleys become empty; when hills are leveled, deep pools fill in. Once the sages are gone, great thieves will no longer arise, and the world can be still and free of disturbance. As long as the sages’ Way remains, great thieves will not cease. The more you exalt the sages to govern the world, the more you deliver into Robber Zhi’s hands.

People make measuring vessels such as the dou and the hu, and great thieves steal the vessels along with what they measure. People make balances and weights, and great thieves steal the weighing tools too. People make tallies and seals as proof of authority, and great thieves take these as well. People promote benevolence and righteousness to correct the ways of the age, and great thieves steal benevolence and righteousness too. Why do I say this? A person who steals a belt hook is executed, but one who seizes an entire state becomes a feudal lord. And in the lord’s household, the signboard of benevolence and righteousness hangs above the gate. Has benevolence, righteousness, sagacity, and wisdom not all been stolen as well? Those who follow great thieves, support the lords, and make use of benevolence and righteousness, measuring vessels, balances, and seals cannot be restrained by grants of high office and generous rewards, nor stopped by the punishments of axe and halberd. This approach instead benefits Robber Zhi and makes thieves impossible to suppress. That is the fault of the sages’ laws. As the saying goes, “Fish cannot be separated from the deep; the state’s sharp instruments must not be displayed to people.” The sages’ Way is the world’s sharp instrument; it should not be paraded before the world.

Therefore, cast aside sagacity and wisdom, and great thieves will cease. Destroy pearls and jade, and petty thieves will not arise. Burn the tallies and break the seals, and the people will return to simplicity. Smash the measuring vessels and snap the balance beams, and the people will stop contending. Abolish altogether the sages’ laws that throw the world into disorder, and the people will once again be able to discuss things with one another.

Disrupt the six pitch standards and melt the mouth organ and zithers; block Music Master Kuang’s ears, and people throughout the world will be able to preserve their own hearing. Remove ornament and scatter the five colors; make Li Zhu unable to see, and people throughout the world will be able to preserve their own sight. Destroy the hooks and lines, discard the compass and square, and cripple the fingers of craftsman Chui, and people throughout the world will be able to retain their own skills. As the saying goes, “The greatest skill seems clumsy.” Erase the examples set by Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu, silence the arguments of Yang Zhu and Mozi, and cast aside benevolence and righteousness; then the virtue of people throughout the world will return to an undivided wholeness.

When people keep their own discernment, the world will not be dazzled by glittering things. When they keep their own intelligence, the world will not be burdened by it. When they keep their own knowledge, the world will not fall into confusion. When they keep their original virtue, the world will not go astray. Zeng Shen, Yang Zhu, Mozi, Music Master Kuang, craftsman Chui, and Li Zhu each displayed their particular talents and virtues, and in doing so disturbed the world. Their methods were therefore useless.

Do you not know the age of Perfect Virtue in ancient times? In the reigns of Rongcheng, Dating, Bohuang, Zhongyang, Lilu, Lixu, Xuanyuan, Hexu, Zunlu, Zhurong, Fuxi, and Shennong, people tied knots to keep records. They found their food sweet and their clothes comfortable; they were content with local customs and lived peacefully in their homes. Neighboring states could see one another, and the crowing of roosters and barking of dogs could be heard across their borders, yet people grew old and died without visiting one another. That was the best kind of government.

Today, however, people stretch their necks and rise on tiptoe to hear that “there is a worthy person in such-and-such a place.” They then pack provisions and hurry off to visit, leaving their families behind at home and abandoning their work elsewhere. Their footsteps reach the borders of other states, and their cart tracks extend for a thousand li. This is the result of those in high positions pursuing knowledge too eagerly. When rulers are single-minded in seeking wisdom but do not follow the proper Way, the world falls into great disorder.

Why do I say this? The more techniques there are for making bows and crossbows, shooting arrows, and setting traps, the more disturbed the birds in the sky become. The more methods there are—hooks, bait, nets, and fish traps—the more the fish in the water are troubled. The more fences, snares, and pitfalls there are, the less peace the beasts of the marshes can enjoy. The more deception, clever argument, and distinctions between hardness and whiteness, sameness and difference, there are, the more people become engrossed in disputes.

The repeated disorder of the world has its roots in the pursuit of wisdom. Everyone knows how to seek what they do not know, but no one is willing to examine whether what they already know is sound. Everyone knows how to criticize what they oppose, but no one understands how to reflect on what they have already decided is good. This is why the world falls into great disorder. Those above go against the light of the sun and moon; those below damage the vital energies of mountains and rivers; and in between, they disrupt the patterns of the four seasons. The fault lies in pursuing cleverness and ingenuity too far.