《莊子》Vol. 18

At the beginning of the “Utmost Joy” chapter in the Zhuangzi, these passages can be put in modern terms:

Is there such a thing as true happiness in the world? Is there a way to live a long life? What do people pursue and depend on? What do they avoid, and where do they seek security? What do they choose and what do they give up? What do they like, and what do they dislike?

People generally value wealth, status, long life, and a good reputation. They seek bodily comfort, fine food, beautiful clothes, attractive companions, and pleasing music. They look down on poverty, low status, a short life, and a bad reputation. They suffer when their bodies are uncomfortable, when they cannot eat fine food or wear beautiful clothes, or when their eyes cannot see beauty and their ears cannot hear music.

When people cannot obtain these things, they fall into deep anxiety and fear. To wear themselves out with worry and effort for the sake of bodily pleasure—is that not foolish?

This passage reflects Zhuangzi’s critique of conventional values. In his view, chasing external pleasures can draw people into suffering. It expresses central Daoist ideas of Wuwei (non-action) and carefree wandering.

The wealthy work relentlessly day after day, piling up more money than they can ever spend. They treat their own bodies with little regard. Those in high positions worry constantly, by day and by night, about how things will turn out. They, too, neglect their bodies.

From the moment people are born, they are accompanied by sorrow. Those who live long may spend their days in a daze, burdened by worry for years without dying. How painful that is! Living this way takes them ever farther from life’s true nature.

Those praised by all under Heaven for their loyalty and righteousness often cannot preserve their own lives. I truly do not know whether this kind of “goodness” is real or false.

If it is good, it cannot preserve one’s life; if it is not good, it can save someone else. That is why it is said: “When loyal remonstrance is not heeded, one should withdraw and stop arguing.” Wu Zixu’s fate shows what can happen when one presses a remonstrance too forcefully: he was put to death by the King of Wu.

Zhuangzi contrasts the worldly values of wealth and status with virtuous conduct, suggesting that clinging to such outward pursuits can harm the true nature of life. Wu Zixu was a minister of the state of Wu during the Spring and Autumn period. He was put to death by the King of Wu after repeatedly offering direct remonstrance.

Without competing with others, one’s reputation comes about naturally. Does anything truly deserve to be called “good” in this world?

I do not know whether the things that ordinary people pursue and enjoy can truly bring happiness. I see them rushing after these things together, busily chasing them as if they could never stop. They all say this is happiness, but I do not feel happy, nor do I feel unhappy.

Does happiness truly exist in this world? I believe that Wuwei (non-action)—going along with the natural course of things without deliberate effort—is true happiness. Yet this is precisely what ordinary people most dislike. As the saying goes: “The greatest happiness feels like no happiness at all; the highest honor rests on having no idea of honor.”

It is difficult to judge what is right and wrong in the world. Yet the Dao of Wuwei, which follows the natural course of things, gives us a way to discern right from wrong. True happiness can bring health to body and mind, and only by following Wuwei can we approach this state. Let me try to explain: Heaven remains clear through Wuwei, and Earth remains still through Wuwei. Because both follow the Dao of Wuwei, the myriad things can grow and change.

(Note: In this passage, “Wuwei” is a central Daoist idea. It means acting without deliberate force, in accord with the natural patterns of things.)

This passage comes from the “Ultimate Joy” chapter of the Zhuangzi and has two parts.

The first describes the mysterious state of the Dao (the Way): “Vague and indistinct—one cannot say where it came from! Indistinct and vague—one cannot find any definite form in it! The myriad things of the world, diverse and complex, all grow naturally from a state of Wuwei (non-action). Thus it is said: Heaven and Earth seem to do nothing, yet they bring all things to completion. Among ordinary people, who can truly attain this state of Wuwei?”

The second part tells the famous story of Zhuangzi’s wife’s death. His friend Huizi, a representative of the School of Names, came to offer condolences, but found Zhuangzi sitting with his legs stretched out, beating a clay basin and singing. Huizi reproached him: “You lived with your wife for many years. She bore you children and grew old before she died. Not to weep would be one thing, but to beat a basin and sing—isn’t that going too far?”

The story presents Zhuangzi’s view that life and death are equal: they are like the turning of the seasons, part of the natural course of things. Later, Zhuangzi explains why he is not grieving.

Zhuangzi said, “That is not so. When someone has just died, how could I feel no grief? But when I think it through, life originally did not exist. Not only was there no life, there was not even form; and before form, there was not even the Qi (vital energy) that gives rise to life.

“Amid the dimness of undifferentiated chaos, Qi began to change and form took shape. Form changed and brought forth life; now life is changing again and moving toward death. This is as natural as the succession of spring, summer, autumn, and winter. The dead now rest in peace within Heaven and Earth, the great room. If I were to weep and wail after them, I would show that I did not understand life’s natural course. So I stopped crying.”

The two recluses Zhili Shu and Huajie Shu were traveling at Mount Mingbo, a place on Kunlun where, according to legend, the Yellow Emperor once rested. Suddenly, a growth appeared on Zhili Shu’s left elbow.

Zhi Lishu asked Hua Jieshu, “Do you deeply resent this transformation?” Hua Jieshu replied, “No. Why should I resent it? Life is only borrowed for a time, and the borrowed body changes just as dust does—it is nothing unusual. Life and death come as naturally as day giving way to night. Besides, we have always watched the transformations of all things. Now transformation has come upon me. What is there for me to resent?”

Zhuangzi was traveling to the state of Chu when he came upon an empty skull by the road. Its bones had dried and become misshapen. He tapped the skull with his riding crop and asked, “Sir, did you end up like this because you clung to life and went against the natural order? Or did you die this way after your country fell and you were executed with sword and axe? Or did you do something wrong, feel ashamed before your parents, wife, and children, and die in disgrace?”

This exchange reflects the Zhuangzi school’s equanimity toward life and death. Hua Jieshu sees life as temporary and death as part of the natural order, so there is no need to cling to life. Zhuangzi’s three questions about the skull point to three common causes of death in his time: going against the natural order, political catastrophe, and moral wrongdoing.

Were you reduced to this state because you went hungry and cold, or because your allotted span of life came to an end? After saying this, Zhuangzi took the skull, used it as a pillow, and went to sleep.

In the middle of the night, the skull appeared to him in a dream and said, “You speak like someone skilled in argument. The things you mentioned—hunger, cold, and the length of one’s life—are troubles of the living. The dead have none of them. Would you like to hear what it is like after death?” Zhuangzi replied, “Yes.”

The skull continued, “In death, there is no ruler above to govern you and no subjects below for you to govern. There is no toil through the seasons. You are free, taking the whole world as your spring and autumn—that is, living without any sense of time. Even the pleasure of ruling as a king who sits facing south cannot compare with this freedom.”

Zhuangzi uses this exchange to express Daoism’s detached view of life and death: death releases people from the many constraints of the human world. “Ruling as a king who sits facing south” refers to the honored seat of an ancient ruler, who sat facing south.

Zhuangzi did not believe the skull. He said, “If I asked the spirit who governs the span of life to restore your body, give you back your flesh, bones, and skin, and return you to your parents, wife and children, neighbors, and friends, would you be willing?”

The skull furrowed its brow in deep distress and replied, “How could I give up the freedom of death, which is more joyful than sitting as king facing south, and return to the human world to suffer and toil?”

In another passage, Yan Yuan, a disciple of Confucius, was about to travel east to the state of Qi. Confucius looked troubled. Zigong, another disciple, rose from his seat and asked, “May I venture to ask: Yan Yuan is traveling east to Qi. Why does the Master look so worried?”

The phrase “the joy of a king facing south” refers to the honor and prestige of an ancient ruler seated facing south as people paid homage. Here, the skull uses it to suggest that the freedom of death far surpasses worldly wealth and status.

Confucius said, “That is a good question! Guan Zhong once said something I find especially insightful: ‘A small bag cannot hold a large object; a short well rope cannot reach the water in a deep well.’ He meant that each person’s circumstances and physical capacities have their limits; they cannot simply be changed at will.

I worry that if Yan Hui, Confucius’s disciple, speaks to the Marquis of Qi about the ways of governing practiced by Yao, Shun, and the Yellow Emperor, and adds the teachings of Suiren and Shennong, the marquis will try to apply them to himself. When he finds he cannot put them into practice, he will become confused—and confusion can lead to trouble.

Have you never heard this story? Once, a seabird flew into the outskirts of Lu. The ruler of Lu welcomed it into the ancestral temple, where he entertained it with refined music such as the Nine Shao and laid out a lavish feast of the three sacrificial animals: an ox, a sheep, and a pig. The bird was left dazed and overwhelmed, and filled with sorrow.”

This story tells how the ruler of Lu cared for a seabird in the wrong way.

The ruler of Lu received a rare seabird and treated it with the greatest ceremony. Musicians performed the ancient music “Nine Shao,” and the bird was offered fine wine and elaborate dishes. Terrified, it would not eat a piece of meat or drink a drop of water, and it died three days later. Zhuangzi criticized the ruler for raising the bird as if it were a person instead of caring for it as a bird.

The right way to care for a bird would be to let it rest in a deep forest, wander on sandbanks, and float through rivers and lakes. It should eat the loaches and small fish it likes and live freely. Birds dislike the noise of people chattering. Why disturb one with loud music?

Imagine playing such refined music as “Xianchi” and “Nine Shao” beside Dongting Lake. Birds would hear it and fly away; wild animals would hear it and flee in panic; fish would hear it and dive to the bottom. Only people would gather around to enjoy it.

Zhuangzi concludes that fish need water to live, while a person who falls into water will drown. The comparison shows that every being has its own nature, and they cannot all be treated according to the same standard.

These passages from the Zhuangzi reflect Daoism’s profound observations on the differences among things and their continual transformation.

The first passage says that different things have different natures, and therefore different likes and dislikes. The sages of antiquity did not force abilities to be the same (“making no one’s ability uniform”), nor require everyone to do the same things (“not making their tasks alike”). Names should correspond to what is real (“names should accord with actual things”), and principles should suit the circumstances (“meanings should be established according to what is appropriate”). In this way, things can be put in order and good fortune preserved.

The second passage describes Liezi, a representative Daoist figure, eating by the roadside when he sees a century-old skeleton. He parts the weeds, points to it, and says, “Only you and I understand that, in truth, there is neither death nor life. Are you truly at rest? Am I truly happy?” This passage presents a transcendent view that regards life and death, honor and disgrace, as equal.

The third passage illustrates the transformation of all things through changes in living organisms. A seed, when exposed to water, becomes an aquatic plant (“ji”); where water meets earth, it becomes a frog’s egg casing (“the membrane of a frog’s egg”); on a hill, it becomes plantain (“lingxi”). In dung, the plantain becomes crowfoot grass; its root becomes a beetle grub (“qicao”), while its leaves become butterflies. Before long, the butterflies turn into small insects that live beneath the stove. This vivid sequence conveys the Daoist idea of the transformation of things: all things are continually changing and cycling through transformations.

This passage describes an unusual cycle of biological transformation:

One creature resembles a form emerging from its shell and is called “Queduo,” a legendary insect. After a thousand days, Queduo becomes a bird called “Qianyugu.” The saliva Qianyugu spits out turns into “Simi,” a tiny creature, which in turn becomes “Shixi,” a small worm found in vinegar.

The passage then describes a series of strange transformations. “Yilu,” a kind of insect, arises from Shixi; “Huangkuang,” a yellow beetle, emerges from “Jiuyou,” the nine kinds of soil; and “Maorui,” a small flying insect, is born from “Fujuan,” a rotten beetle. “Yangxi,” a plant, grows alongside “Busun,” a kind of bamboo that does not produce shoots, while old bamboo gives rise to “Qingning,” a small green creature.

Qingning gives rise to “Cheng,” a legendary beast; Cheng gives rise to the horse, the horse gives rise to human beings, and human beings ultimately return to “ji,” the mysterious workings of transformation. All things arise from ji, and in the end all return to it.

Through its imagined cycle of transformations among living forms, the passage expresses Zhuangzi’s ideas that all things share a common origin and that change moves in recurring cycles. It emphasizes that all life comes from a single, mysterious source and eventually returns to it.