《莊子》Vol. 17

This passage from the “Autumn Floods” chapter of the Zhuangzi tells the story of River Earl, the spirit of the Yellow River.

When autumn rains swelled the waters, hundreds of rivers flowed into the Yellow River. Its surface grew so broad that cattle and horses on opposite banks could no longer be told apart. River Earl was delighted, believing that all the finest sights in the world were gathered in his own domain. He followed the current eastward until he reached the North Sea, or Bohai Sea. Looking east, he could not see where the water ended.

River Earl’s expression changed. Gazing at the boundless sea, he sighed to the North Sea Spirit, Ruo: “There’s a saying: ‘Hear a great many teachings, and you think no one can compare with you.’ That describes me.”

He went on: “I once heard that some people thought Confucius knew little and that Bo Yi, the worthy man of the Shang dynasty, had little virtue. At first I didn’t believe it. Now that I’ve seen your vastness with my own eyes, I understand. If I hadn’t come here, I might have been laughed at by those who know better for the rest of my life.”

The Lord of the Northern Sea (the name of a sea deity) said:

“You cannot discuss the sea with a frog at the bottom of a well, because its world is confined to a tiny space. You cannot discuss ice and snow with an insect that lives only in summer, because its life is limited by the seasons. And you cannot discuss the Great Dao with a scholar of narrow understanding, because rigid teachings have bound his mind.

“Now you have come away from the riverbank and seen the vast sea. Only now do you understand how limited your knowledge was. So I can speak with you about the Great Principles of the Dao.

“Of all the waters beneath Heaven, none is greater than the sea. Countless rivers flow into it, and though their waters never cease, the sea never overflows. Deep beneath it, the Tailu—the legendary outlet through which seawater drains—continually carries water away. Though this flow never ceases, the sea never runs dry.

“Neither the turning of the seasons nor droughts and floods affect the sea. Its waters surpass those of the rivers and streams, beyond any measure. Yet I have never taken pride in this or thought myself superior.”

Although we humans receive our bodies from Heaven and Earth, and life is formed from the two Qi of Yin and Yang, in this vast universe we are as tiny as a pebble or a sapling in the mountains. Now that we understand how insignificant we are, what is there to feel proud of?

Consider the proportion of the Four Seas to Heaven and Earth: are they not like a small pool in a great lake? And the Central Plains’ place in the whole world: is it not like a single millet grain in a vast granary? The myriad things of the world number in the tens of thousands; humans are merely one kind among them.

Look again at the land of the Nine Provinces. Humans depend on grain to live and on carts and boats to travel, yet among all things, our existence is as tiny as a single hair on a horse. Even the achievements passed down by the Five Emperors—the legendary sage rulers of high antiquity—the world contested by the Three Kings, the affairs that concerned benevolent and principled people, and the work that kept capable and worthy people busy...

The Northern Sea Spirit (Beihai Ruo) replied to the River Earl: “That is the right way to understand it. Boyi, the recluse of the Shang dynasty, gained a reputation by yielding the throne, while Confucius (Zhongni) displayed his learning by teaching. Wasn’t their self-praise just like yours a moment ago, boasting as you gazed at the river?”

The River Earl asked again: “Then is it right for me to regard Heaven and Earth as vast, and the tip of a hair as tiny?”

The Northern Sea Spirit replied: “No. You should know that the number of things is boundless, time has no end, gain and loss shift without pattern, and things have no fixed way of beginning or ending. A truly wise person can observe what is far away and see clearly what is near. They do not think something scarce because it is small, or abundant because it is vast, because they understand that number is boundless. They can trace changes from past to present, so they are not puzzled by what lies far off or impatient to force what is before them, because they know that time never ceases. They can see the patterns by which fullness and emptiness change, so they are not overjoyed by gain or overly sorrowful at loss, because they understand that gain and loss are always in flux.”

When people understand that life is as natural as a level road, they are not overcome with joy while living or regard death as a calamity. They know that the cycle of life and death cannot be altered by human effort.

What people know is far less than what they do not know, and the time people spend alive is far shorter than the time before they were born. To use a finite life to investigate an infinite universe can only leave us confused and lost. How, then, can we be sure that the tip of a hair is the smallest limit? And how can we say that Heaven and Earth are the greatest boundary?

The Lord of the Yellow River asked, “People in the world say, ‘What is most minute has no form, and what is most vast cannot be enclosed.’ Is this true?”

The Lord of the Northern Sea replied, “Look at something vast from a minute point of view, and you will never see all of it. Look at something minute from a vast point of view, and you will never see it clearly.”

This passage from the Zhuangzi discusses the difference between the minute and the vast, and a state that goes beyond words and thought.

“Jing” refers to what is most minute, while “fu” refers to what is most vast. They are different in nature. The distinction between the minute and the coarse applies only to things that have form. Formless things cannot be divided by numbers, and no number can encompass what is boundless.

What can be discussed in words is only the superficial aspect of things. What can be perceived by the mind is their subtle essence. That which can be expressed neither in words nor grasped by the mind has already gone beyond the distinction between the minute and the coarse.

Thus, the actions of one who has attained the Dao are these: they do not harm others, but they do not deliberately bestow favors either; they act without seeking personal gain and do not look down on servants; they do not fight over possessions, but they do not yield to excess; they work without relying on others and do not pursue material comforts excessively.

This passage from the Zhuangzi’s “Autumn Floods” chapter presents a detached Daoist perspective on how we view things.

The River Earl, the god of the Yellow River, asks the Ruler of the North Sea: “What standard can we use to judge what is noble or base, whether in a thing’s outward appearance or its inner nature? What measure can we use to decide what is large or small?”

The Ruler of the North Sea replies: “From the perspective of the Dao (the Way), the myriad things have no inherent distinction between nobility and baseness. Viewed from the perspective of each thing itself, each regards itself as noble and looks down on others. In the eyes of the world, standards of nobility and baseness are determined entirely by external circumstances.”

Earlier, Zhuangzi describes the qualities of a person who has attained the Dao: their conduct does not simply follow the crowd, yet they do not deliberately seek to stand apart. They may seem to go along with others, but inwardly they do not look down on those who flatter and fawn. Official rank and salary cannot sway them; punishments and humiliation cannot make them feel disgraced. They understand that right and wrong have no absolute boundary, and that there is no fixed standard for large and small.

The passage concludes with an ancient saying: “One who has attained the Dao does not seek fame. One whose De (Virtue/Power) is highest does not feel that they have gained anything. One of the highest attainments can forget the self.” This is the highest state of grasping the source of things.

The passage expresses Zhuangzi’s idea of “making all things equal”: it calls for going beyond worldly judgments of value and viewing the world through the essential nature of things, the Dao.

This passage from the Zhuangzi explains the relativity of how we view things.

From the standpoint of difference: If we consider things in terms of what is large about them, nothing is not large; if we consider them in terms of what is small, nothing is not small. Once we understand that Heaven and Earth can be as tiny as a grain of rice, while the tip of a fine hair can be as vast as a mountain, we can see that the distinction between large and small is relative.

From the standpoint of function: If we judge things by the functions they possess, nothing is without a use; if we judge them by the functions they lack, nothing is not useless. Once we understand that east and west, though opposite directions, are both indispensable, we can grasp the relativity of usefulness.

From the standpoint of values: If we affirm things by following what is reasonable in them, nothing is unworthy of affirmation; if we reject them by focusing on what is unreasonable, nothing is not open to rejection. Once we understand that Yao, the sage ruler, and Jie, the tyrant, each took his own position to be right and rejected the other, we can see the relativity of value judgments.

Here, Zhuangzi uses Yao and Jie to represent opposing judgments of value. He shows that good and bad, right and wrong, are relative and depend on one’s point of view.

This passage from the Zhuangzi uses contrasts and metaphors to show that things each have their own qualities and cannot all be judged by the same standard. Here is a modern interpretation:

In ancient times, Yao and Shun became emperors by yielding the throne, but when King Kuai of Yan (a ruler of the Warring States period) tried to yield his throne, the state fell. Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou took the throne by force, but when Bai Gong Sheng (a noble of Chu) rebelled, he was destroyed. This shows that seizing power and yielding it are like the sagacity of Yao and the tyranny of Jie: their worth depends on the circumstances and cannot be made into an unchanging rule.

A massive roof beam can batter down a city gate, but it cannot plug a small hole; different tools have different uses. Qiji and Hualiu, famous horses of old, could travel a thousand li in a day, yet they were worse than a wildcat or weasel at catching mice; different skills excel at different tasks. An owl can catch fleas at night and see the finest hairs, yet in daylight it can stare with wide eyes and still fail to make out a hill; creatures differ in their natural endowments.

So should we imitate only what is “right” and reject what is “wrong,” learn only from times of order and turn away from times of disorder? Such thinking fails to understand the workings of Heaven and Earth or the differences in the nature of the myriad things.

Supplementary note: Through this series of contrasts, Zhuangzi emphasizes the Daoist idea of following things as they are. He argues that we should choose an appropriate way to act according to the circumstances, rather than judge everything by a single standard.

To imitate Heaven while neglecting Earth, or to exalt Yin while rejecting Yang, clearly cannot work. Yet some people keep insisting on such one sided views. They are either foolish or trying to deceive others.

The emperors of different ages handed down their rule in different ways, and the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties each had their own systems of succession. Those who defied the course of their times and acted against it were called usurpers; those who followed the moment and accorded with the people’s wishes were called men of benevolence and righteousness. River Earl, do not be so quick to judge. How can you decide in advance what counts as noble or base, or where the boundaries of great and small lie?

Confused, River Earl asked, “Then what should I do? What should I do, and what should I avoid? When it comes to choosing or giving way, advancing or withdrawing, how should I decide?”

North Sea Ruo replied, “From the perspective of the Dao (the Way), noble and base transform into one another in an endless cycle. Do not cling stubbornly to your own views, or you will turn away from the Great Dao.”

This passage from the Zhuangzi presents the Daoist view that all things are equal and that change follows natural patterns.

Things have no absolute measure of abundance or scarcity; their relative qualities shift as naturally as the seasons. To cling stubbornly to one side and refuse to follow change is to turn away from the Great Dao, the natural order. A sovereign of dignity does not show favor out of self-interest, and a solemn sacrifice seeks no personal blessing. The Dao is boundless in every direction, without dividing lines. When it embraces and nourishes all things, why would it favor any one of them? This is the state of “having no fixed direction”—not clinging to one particular side.

In their essence, all things are equal. Where, then, are distinctions of length, shortness, superiority, or inferiority? The Dao continues in an eternal cycle, while things come into being and pass away; we should not cling to any fixed state. Emptiness and fullness transform into one another and never remain unchanged. The years cannot be held back, and time never stops. Death and growth, fullness and emptiness, come to an end only to begin again, cycling without cease. These principles describe the order of Heaven and Earth and reveal the fundamental patterns by which all things move.

This passage reflects Zhuangzi’s idea of “equalizing things”: it calls on us to let go of distinctions imposed by the human mind and to see nature’s cycles as a whole. “Having no fixed direction” is an important Daoist idea: it means not holding fast to a particular standpoint, but remaining in a natural state of Wuwei (non-action).

The growth and transformation of all things in the world are like a swift horse racing onward. They are in motion and change at every moment, constantly shifting and flowing from one state to another. Given this, what should we do, and what should we not do? All things change of themselves.

River Earl, the god of the Yellow River, asked, “Then what is there to value in the Dao, the fundamental pattern of the cosmos?”

The Lord of the Northern Sea replied, “One who truly understands the Dao must understand the principles of all things. One who understands the principles of all things must understand how to adapt to changing circumstances. And one who understands how to adapt will not be harmed by external things.

“Those whose De (Virtue/Power) has reached its highest level cannot be scorched by fire or drowned by flood. Neither bitter cold nor scorching heat can harm them, and neither birds of prey nor wild beasts can injure them.”

Through the dialogue between River Earl and the Lord of the Northern Sea, this passage explains the Daoist principle of following things as they are. Here, “adapting” refers to the wisdom of responding flexibly to changing circumstances. “Those of highest De” are people whose cultivation has reached its highest level. They are at one with the Dao and so transcend harm from external things. The Lord of the Northern Sea’s answer proceeds step by step, presenting a path of cultivation: understanding the principles of things, mastering adaptation, and realizing the Dao.

This passage comes from the “Autumn Floods” chapter of the Zhuangzi and speaks of the wisdom of following the Dao of nature.

The first section means that we should not take external things lightly. Rather, we should clearly discern the boundaries between safety and danger, remain at ease amid fortune and misfortune, and carefully decide when to advance, withdraw, accept, or let go. Then nothing can harm us. Thus, the Dao of nature resides within, while human contrivance shows itself outwardly; true De lies in following the Way of Heaven.

The second section explains how people should act: understand that human conduct should accord with nature and keep to its proper place. As when walking, one should know when to bend and when to stretch—a metaphor for adapting to circumstances—and ultimately return to the source and grasp what matters most.

The third section poses questions to make the central point clear: What is Heaven, or the Dao of nature? What is the human, or human contrivance? Here, Zhuangzi guides readers to consider the difference between nature and human artifice, suggesting that people should follow nature and adopt an attitude of Wuwei (non-action) in their dealings with the world.

Note: “De” refers to the natural character described in Daoist thought. “Dizhu” describes the way the feet adjust while walking; here it is a metaphor for knowing how to adapt in life.

The sea god Ruo of the Northern Sea, a figure from legend, said:

“Cattle and horses are born with four legs; this is their natural way. Putting a bridle on a horse and a nose ring in an ox are human alterations. So do not use human artifice to damage what is natural, do not deliberately go against your nature, and do not sacrifice what is genuine in pursuit of an empty reputation. To hold fast to your natural way without losing it is called returning to what is genuine.”

He then told a fable:

The one-legged Kui envied the many-legged Xian. Xian envied the snake, which had no legs. The snake envied the formless wind; the wind envied the seeing eye; and the eye envied the thinking mind.

The one-legged Kui said to the many-legged Xian:

“I hop along on a single leg, and already find it very inconvenient. You move by directing tens of thousands of legs—how do you manage it?”

Zhuangzi vividly conveys the Daoist idea of “natural spontaneity” (tianji) through a conversation between a centipede and a snake.

The centipede said, “That’s not how it is. Have you ever seen someone spit? The droplets that fly out are large as pearls and small as mist, and there are too many to count as they scatter. I simply follow my natural instinct in what I do; I don’t even know why it happens this way.”

Then the centipede asked the snake, “I walk with so many legs, yet I can’t keep up with you, who have no legs. How is that?”

The snake replied, “It is simply the working of natural instinct. How could it be changed? What need have I for legs?”

Through three images—the natural scattering of spittle, the centipede’s many-legged movement, and the legless snake’s swift travel—the passage shows that all things act according to their inherent nature, or “natural spontaneity” (tianji). Daoist thought holds that following nature is the most fundamental principle; deliberate striving can instead prevent things from working as they should. The snake needs no legs yet moves swiftly because it follows the way of movement nature has given it.

The snake said to the wind: "When I slither by twisting my spine and ribs, the traces of my movement remain clearly visible. But you roar forth from the northern sea and rush toward the southern sea without leaving any discernible form—why is this?"

The wind replied: "Indeed it is so. Though I sweep from the northern to the southern sea, I appear formless and traceless. People can overcome me by blocking me with a finger or trampling me underfoot. Yet you must understand—only I can snap great trees and topple rooftops. Thus, though I may seem defeated in many small matters, this very quality allows for great victory. Truly comprehending this realm of 'great victory' is something only a sage can achieve."

When Confucius traveled to the land of Kuang, the people of Song surrounded him layer upon layer. Yet he continued playing his zither and singing without pause. Zilu entered to see him and asked in bewilderment: "Master, how can you remain so joyful?"

Zhuangzi speaks through Confucius:

“Come here! I’ll tell you something about the Way. For a long time I tried to escape hardship, yet I could never get free of it. That was fate. For a long time I pursued success, yet I could never attain it. That was the work of the times. In the age of Yao and Shun, there were no people in the world who were thwarted—not because people were especially clever. In the age of Jie and Zhou, there were no people in the world who prospered—not because people lacked intelligence. It was all shaped by the times.

“Look at the fishermen who walk through water without avoiding dragons: they show the courage of fishermen. The hunters who walk on land without avoiding rhinoceroses or tigers show the courage of hunters. Those who face swords and regard death as no more than returning home show the courage of martyrs. But those who understand that hardship comes from fate and success must wait for its proper time, and who face great danger without fear—that is the courage of a sage.

“Enough. My fate has its own course.”

Before long, an officer came to apologize. “We mistook you for Yang Hu, a powerful minister of Lu during the Spring and Autumn period, and surrounded you. We now realize we had the wrong person. Please allow us to withdraw our troops and leave.”

In another story, Gongsun Long, a leading figure of the School of Names, asked Wei Mou for advice: “When I was young, I studied the ways the ancient kings governed. As I grew older, I mastered the practice of benevolence and righteousness. I could argue about how things are the same or different and analyze the claims that hardness and whiteness are distinct, famous propositions of the School of Names. I could make what was wrong seem right and what could not be done seem possible. I left scholars from the various schools at a loss for words and silenced many skilled debaters.

“I thought I had reached the highest level. But now, after hearing Zhuangzi’s words, I feel bewildered and unable to understand them. I don’t know whether my debating skill is lacking or my wisdom falls short of his. Now I don’t even know what to say. Please explain what is going on.”

This passage shows the impact of Zhuangzi’s thought on a debater from the School of Names. Gongsun Long’s reference to “making things the same and different, and separating hardness from whiteness” points to characteristic claims of that school. Zhuangzi’s broader vision leaves him facing a crisis of understanding.

Master Mou, a nobleman of the state of Wei during the Warring States period, leaned over a low table and sighed deeply. Then he threw back his head and laughed. “Haven’t you heard of the frog that lived in a disused well? It said to the giant turtle from the Eastern Sea, ‘I’m so happy here! I can hop along the well’s rim and rest in the cracks between broken bricks. When I go into the water, it comes just up to my armpits and chin; when I step into the mud, it barely covers the backs of my feet. Look at the tadpoles and little crabs—none of them can match my freedom. I have this whole pool to myself and rule over this disused well. What greater joy could there be? Why don’t you come visit more often, sir?’”

The giant turtle from the Eastern Sea had not even managed to put its left foot into the well before its right knee caught on the opening. It hesitated, drew back, and told the frog, “The sea is so vast that a thousand miles cannot describe its breadth, and so deep that a thousand fathoms cannot measure it.” The story of the frog in the well and the turtle from the sea is a metaphor for how people with narrow horizons cannot understand a wider world.

The sea does not change its depth with the passage of time. During Yu the Great’s reign, floods came in nine years out of ten, yet the sea did not rise. During King Tang’s reign, drought came in seven years out of eight, yet the shoreline did not recede. The sea is unchanged by time’s passing or by shifts in the amount of water. This is the eternal joy of the Eastern Sea, which symbolizes the Dao.

When the frog living in a ruined well heard this, it was suddenly overcome with alarm and bewilderment—a reaction that illustrates the shock of someone with narrow horizons. Zhuangzi then criticizes those who cannot even distinguish the bounds of right and wrong yet presume to understand his words. They are like mosquitoes asked to carry a mountain, or tiny insects asked to cross a river: it simply cannot be done. Those who do not understand the highest truths yet content themselves with small gains close at hand—are they not like the frog in the ruined well?

The one who has truly attained the Dao—“that person” refers to Zhuangzi or an awakened person—can tread below in the Yellow Springs, deep beneath the earth, and climb above to the Great Sovereign, the farthest reaches of heaven. Unconfined by north or south, this person moves freely. Through this contrast, the passage shows that the Dao is eternal and unchanging, while those with limited knowledge and narrow vision are often trapped by the bounds of what lies before them.

The Dao (the Way) is like water flowing in every direction, deep beyond measure. It has no east or west: it begins in the most hidden state of chaos and ultimately returns to the all-pervading Great Dao. Yet here you cling to a narrow way of seeing it, trying to investigate it through debate. That is as absurd as looking at the sky through a bamboo tube or measuring the earth with an awl. Is your view not too narrow? Go now!

Have you never heard the story of the young man from Shouling who went to Handan to learn how to walk? He failed to master the refined gait of the people of Zhao and forgot how he himself had walked. In the end, he could only crawl home. If you do not leave in time, you too may forget what you once knew and lose the skills you already possess.

Gongsun Long listened in astonishment, his mouth hanging open and his tongue raised so that he could not lower it. At last, he fled in a panic.

When Zhuangzi was fishing by the River Pu, the King of Chu sent two senior officials to meet with him.

Zhuangzi was holding his fishing rod and, without turning around—as if he had no wish to engage with them—said:

“I have heard that the state of Chu has a divine tortoise, said to have died three thousand years ago. The king of Chu wrapped it in silk, placed it in a bamboo box, and enshrined it in the ancestral temple. Tell me: would this tortoise rather have died and left its bones to be venerated, or be alive, dragging its tail through the mud?”

The two senior officials, envoys from Chu, replied, “Of course it would rather be alive, crawling through the mud.”

Zhuangzi immediately said, “Then go back. I too would rather live freely in the mud, like a tortoise.”

This is the famous story of Zhuangzi refusing an appointment as chief minister of Chu. The phrase “dragging its tail through the mud” later became an idiom for choosing a poor but free life over wealth and status that bring constraint. Through the image of the divine tortoise, Zhuangzi suggests that an honorific place in the ancestral temple may come at the cost of life’s most precious freedom.

This story recounts an incident from the time Huizi served as chancellor of the state of Liang.

While Huizi was chancellor, Zhuangzi went to visit him. Someone warned Huizi, “Zhuangzi has come this time to take your position.” Alarmed, Huizi ordered a search for Zhuangzi throughout the state. The search went on for three days and three nights.

Later, Zhuangzi went to see Huizi of his own accord and told him a fable: “In the south there is a bird called the yuanchu, a noble creature said to resemble a phoenix. Have you heard of it? It sets out from the South Sea and flies to the North Sea. It will perch only in a parasol tree, eat only bamboo seeds, and drink only sweet spring water.”

“Just then, an owl had found a dead rat. Seeing the yuanchu fly past, it looked up and cried, ‘Shoo!’ to scare it away. Now are you trying to ‘shoo’ me with your chancellorship of Liang?”

Through this comparison, Zhuangzi suggests that he is like the lofty phoenix and has no interest in the position Huizi cherishes. Huizi, by contrast, is like an owl guarding a rotten rat, mistaking a noble person’s intentions for those of a petty one.

Zhuangzi and Huizi were strolling on a bridge over the Hao River, in what is now Fengyang County, Anhui.

Watching the fish swimming in the water, Zhuangzi said, “Look at these white fish (tiaoyu) swimming freely back and forth. This is the fish’s happiness.”

Huizi challenged him: “You’re not a fish. How do you know what makes fish happy?”

Zhuangzi replied wittily: “You’re not me. How do you know that I don’t know what makes fish happy?”

Huizi continued the debate: “I’m indeed not you, so I don’t understand you;”

This passage comes from the “Autumn Floods” chapter of the Zhuangzi. It records the famous debate between Zhuangzi and Huizi on the bridge over the Hao River about “the joy of fish.”

Zhuangzi says, “Let us return to where we began. When you, Huizi, said, ‘How do you know the fish are happy?’ you already knew that I knew their joy; that is why you asked me. I knew it here on the bridge over the Hao River.”

The background is this: Zhuangzi saw fish swimming freely in the water and remarked, “The fish are truly happy.” Huizi replied, “You are not a fish, so how can you know they are happy?” Zhuangzi’s final answer is full of insight: by questioning how I know the fish are happy, you have already acknowledged that I do know their joy. This knowledge arises naturally as an intuitive insight within the particular setting of the bridge over the Hao River.

Through this parable, Zhuangzi suggests that true understanding need not depend on logical reasoning; it can come through an intuitive experience in which self and world merge. The allusion to “the joy on the Hao bridge” later became a classic example in Daoist thought of the state in which self and things are forgotten.