《莊子》Vol. 2

Nan Guo Ziqi, a Daoist hermit, leaned against a small table and slowly breathed out, his head tilted back. His expression was distant, as if he had lost awareness of himself. His student Yancheng Ziyou stood beside him and asked, “Master, what has happened to you? A person’s body may indeed lie still like a withered tree, but can the heart too become as unmoving as dead ashes? The you leaning against the table today seems like a different person from before.”

Ziqi replied, “Ziyou, that is a good question! At this moment, I have forgotten the ‘small self’—the consciousness that clings to a separate identity. Do you understand? You have heard the sounds made by people, but not yet the sounds of the Earth. Even if you have heard the sounds of the Earth, you have not yet grasped the sounds of Heaven!”

This exchange portrays the Daoist practice of “sitting in forgetfulness.” Through “I have lost myself,” Ziqi reaches a state in which self and things are no longer separate. The passage suggests that one must move beyond human ways of knowing to experience the ultimate Dao of Heaven and Earth. The idea of the “three sounds” unfolds in stages: the sounds made by people, such as musical instruments, are surpassed by the sounds of the Earth, such as the wind; these in turn are surpassed by the sounds of Heaven—the spontaneous, Wuwei (non-action) sounds of the myriad things. This is a key expression of Zhuangzi’s thought in “Discussion on Making All Things Equal.”

Ziyou (a disciple of Confucius) asked: "May I inquire about the principle behind this?"

Ziqi (a Daoist recluse) replied: "When the great Qi (vital energy) of heaven and earth exhales, it forms the wind. This wind is naturally quiescent, but when it stirs, countless hollows roar in response. Have you not heard the prolonged sound of the wind?"

He continued describing: "In the towering mountain forests, those giant trees that would take a hundred men to encircle contain hollows of every shape: some resemble noses, others mouths, still others ears; some are like square wine vessels, others like round containers, some like mortar stones for pounding rice; while others resemble sunken pools or shallow muddy ponds."

(This passage uses natural phenomena to illustrate the Daoist concept of Wuwei (non-action). Ziqi employs the metaphor of wind passing through various hollows to produce different sounds, demonstrating the natural manifestation of all things' inherent nature. The diverse hollows represent different people or objects, the wind's sound symbolizes the natural function of the Dao, emphasizing the importance of following nature's course.)

This passage comes from the “Discussion on Making All Things Equal” chapter of the Zhuangzi. It describes how the many sounds of the natural world resonate in harmony. Here is a modern explanation:

First, it describes different sounds: rushing water, arrows whistling through the air, scolding, breathing, shouting, wailing, echoes in caves, and birdsong. These sounds answer one another: when a sound of “yu” comes first, a response of “yong” follows.

Next comes the sound of the wind. A light breeze creates a small chorus; a fierce wind produces a grand ensemble. When the storm dies down, all the openings fall silent again. Have you not seen branches sway and tremble as the wind passes through them?

Finally, Ziyou, a disciple of Confucius, sums up: the “earthly pipes” are the sounds made by the many openings in the land; the “human pipes” are the sounds of flutes and other wind instruments. He then asks what the “Heavenly pipes”—the natural sounds of the Dao—are.

Through this metaphor of wind and echo, the passage suggests that all things answer one another and exist in natural harmony. Zhuangzi uses the sounds of the wind and its reverberations to vividly portray how the myriad things depend on one another, preparing the way for the deeper philosophical idea of the “Heavenly pipes.”

Nan Guo Ziqi, a Daoist recluse, said:

“The winds that sound across Heaven and Earth differ in countless ways, yet every sound is made by things themselves. Each arises naturally from the way things are. What ruler could be directing them from behind the scenes?”

He then described two kinds of understanding. Those of great wisdom are calm and openhearted; those of lesser cleverness fret over every detail. Far-reaching words blaze like a wildfire, while trivial talk goes on and on.

As people sleep, their spirits intermingle; when they wake, their bodies grow weary. All day they become entangled with the world around them, while within, they struggle and scheme without cease.

Some hesitate and cannot decide. Some hide their intentions deep within. Some tread with excessive caution.

A small fear leaves them trembling with anxiety, while a great fear makes them numb and dull. When they speak, their words strike sharply, like a crossbow trigger being released, as they pass judgment on right and wrong. When they fall silent, they are as unyielding as if bound by a solemn oath,

This stubborn fixation on winning—that is, on competing to outdo others—is like the killing force of autumn and winter. It shows that life’s vitality is gradually fading. Once a person sinks into this state, they are like someone trapped in a mire, unable to escape. This closed state of mind is like being bound tightly with ropes; it describes a spirit as parched as a dried-up ditch. A mind nearing death can no longer regain its vitality.

Human emotions shift like the images in a revolving lantern: joy, anger, sorrow, delight, worry, sighing, wavering, dejection, frivolity, indulgence, affectation... They are like music suddenly sounding out of empty space, or mushrooms suddenly sprouting in a warm, damp place. They take turns appearing before us, day and night, yet no one knows where they come from. Enough, enough! If we could understand the source of these emotions, perhaps we could grasp the mystery of life in its original state.

Here, “the True Ruler” refers to the true inner master of a person. Without the outward display of emotions—the “other”—my existence would not become apparent; yet without me as the subject, those emotions could not appear. The two seem closely connected, but we do not know what governs them from behind the scenes. It is as though there were a true ruler, but we cannot find any trace of it. Its presence can be sensed through its actions, yet it has no visible form: it has real efficacy, but no tangible shape.

These passages reflect Zhuangzi’s central idea of letting go of attachment and returning to one’s original nature. The “True Ruler” introduced in the third passage is akin to what Daoist thought calls the “true self” or the “Original Spirit”—the deeper essence of life that transcends the surface fluctuations of emotion.

This passage from the Zhuangzi explores the relationship between body and mind and the condition of human life.

The human body is made up of the hundred bones—all the bones in the body—the nine openings (the eyes, ears, nostrils, mouth, and the front and rear passages), and the six organs (the five viscera of the heart, liver, spleen, lungs, and kidneys, together with the mingmen, or “Gate of Life”). All these organs are complete within the body, but which one is truly in command? Are they all equally important, or is one especially significant? Are they related as master and servant? If they stand to one another as ruler and ministers, where is the true ruler?

Zhuangzi then points out that whether or not we discover the truth does not change the nature of life. Once we acquire a physical form, we can only wait for life to run its course. We are constantly clashing and rubbing against things in the world; life rushes past like a galloping chariot, yet cannot be stopped. Is that not sorrowful? We bustle about all our lives without seeing any accomplishment, worn out and still unsure where we are headed. Is that not lamentable?

This passage reflects Zhuangzi’s inquiry into the nature of life. He suggests that clinging to external pursuits can lead us to lose our original nature. The idea of the “True Ruler” hints at the Daoist notion that the “true self,” or the Dao, is the real master of life.

The two passages from the Zhuangzi address the perplexities of human life and the limits of our understanding.

The first asks: What meaning is there in living forever? The body grows old and changes, and the mind declines along with it. Is that not the greatest sorrow? Are people simply confused while they are alive, or am I the only one who is confused while everyone else sees clearly?

The second concerns the limits of understanding. If everyone clings to their own views and treats their assumptions as truth, then who does not have a “teacher” of their own—that is, a personal standard of judgment? Why wait until one understands things clearly before forming an opinion? Even foolish people have views of their own. To make right-and-wrong judgments before one’s understanding is complete is as absurd as setting out for Yue today and claiming to have arrived yesterday. This is to treat “nonbeing” as “being”—to regard what does not exist as real.

These passages from the Zhuangzi offer a deep reflection on language and truth.

The first says: Even a sage as wise as the divine Yu, the great flood controller, could not fully understand the truths of the world. What hope, then, does an ordinary person like me have? The allusion to Yu suggests that even the cleverest person has limits to what they can know.

The second passage considers the nature of speech. Human words are not as simple as wind passing by. People are always offering opinions, yet none of these views is certain. Do spoken words really mean anything, or are they no different from the cries of newly hatched birds? Is there a difference between them, or not? Here, “nestling cries” (kouyin) serves as an image for sounds without meaning.

The third passage raises a series of philosophical questions: How does truth—the Dao—become obscured, giving rise to distinctions between true and false? How does speech become distorted, giving rise to disputes over right and wrong? How can truth disappear? And why can words fail to express things as they really are? These four successive questions convey bewilderment at the limits of human understanding.

The passage concludes that truth is often obscured by partial understanding (“small accomplishments”), while truthful words are often hidden beneath ornate language (“flourish”).

Together, these four passages build toward Zhuangzi’s reflection on the limits of language and the relativity of truth. He suggests that clinging to verbal disputes can take us further from the real Dao.

This passage from the Zhuangzi is mainly about the relativity of things.

Confucians and Mohists reject each other’s views (“the rights and wrongs of Confucians and Mohists”), with each side believing itself to be right and the other wrong. Zhuangzi suggests that, instead of trying to prove the other side wrong and one’s own side right (“to affirm what they reject and reject what they affirm”), it is better to see things with a clear mind (“nothing is better than seeing with clarity”).

He then explains that nothing in the world is absolutely opposed to anything else (“there is nothing that is not ‘that’; nothing that is not ‘this’”). Looking from the other side can reveal the limits of one’s own perspective (“from ‘that’ one cannot see; through understanding oneself, one knows”). The two sides of an opposition depend on each other: “‘that’ arises from ‘this,’ and ‘this’ depends on ‘that.’” Concepts such as life and death, or what is possible and impossible, are relative as well (“as soon as something is born, it is dying; as soon as something is possible, it is impossible”).

Finally, Zhuangzi says that the sage—one who has attained the Dao—does not cling to judgments of right and wrong (“the sage does not follow these distinctions”), but responds in accord with the natural order (“illuminates them by Heaven”). In essence, right and wrong, “this” and “that,” continually turn into one another: “this is also that, and that is also this.”

Each side has its own standards of right and wrong. Does an absolute “that side” and “this side” really exist, or is there no such opposition at all? When “that” and “this” can no longer be found as opposites, one reaches the state of the Pivot of the Dao, the central hinge of the Way. Holding to this pivot is like standing at the center of a circle, able to respond freely to endless change. There are endlessly many views of what is “right,” and just as many views of what is “wrong.” So it is better to regard all this with a clear and open mind.

In the debate over names and realities, explaining that “a finger is not truly a finger” by using the concept of “finger” is less effective than explaining it through “non-finger.” Likewise, it is less effective to use the concept of “horse” to show that “a horse is not truly a horse” than to explain it through “non-horse.” In truth, Heaven and Earth are like a single finger, and the myriad things are like a single horse: in their essence, they are one and the same.

Roads are made by people walking them, and things exist because people give them names. Why do we say that something “is” a certain way? Because it is so by nature. Why do we say that it “is not” that way? Because it is not so by nature. Everything has its own reason for being, and everything has its own rightful place. Nothing ought not to exist; nothing is without its reason. What is acceptable is acceptable, and what is not acceptable is not. Understand why something is unacceptable, and you will also understand why something is acceptable.

Take, for example, a slender grass stem and a massive roof pillar, a woman disfigured by a skin disease and the beautiful Xi Shi, and all manner of strange and unusual things. From the perspective of the Dao (the Way), they are all connected as one. When things break apart, new things take shape; when new things take shape, old things pass away. In truth, things have no fixed beginning or end: ultimately, they all return to the unity of the Dao.

Zhuangzi uses familiar things here to express the idea of “equalizing things”: from the perspective of the Dao, oppositions such as large and small, beautiful and ugly, and formation and destruction are relative, and all are ultimately unified in the Dao. “Grass stem” refers to a stalk, and “roof pillar” to a column. The woman disfigured by skin disease is contrasted with Xi Shi, famed for her beauty. “Strange and unusual things” refers broadly to all kinds of anomalies.

Only those who are truly clear-sighted can understand that, at their root, all things are connected. They do not cling to any one fixed use, but follow each thing’s natural function. “Yong” means allowing things to act according to their own nature.

To follow things’ natural function is itself a form of clarity. Clarity means truly grasping the nature of things; to grasp that nature just right is to draw close to the Dao.

Simply act in keeping with this principle. Once the work is done, there is no need to ask why. This is the Dao. Those who strain to make everything conform, without understanding that all things are one at their root, are like the monkeys in the story of “three in the morning and four at night.”

What does “three in the morning and four at night” mean?

A monkey keeper was handing out acorns and said, “Three in the morning and four at night.” The monkeys were angry. He changed his offer: “Then four in the morning and three at night.” The monkeys were pleased. The total had not changed; only the wording was different, yet it made them swing from anger to delight.

This passage uses the fable of “three in the morning and four at night” to show the folly of fixating on differences in appearances. Zhuangzi holds that a clear-sighted person should move beyond distinctions of names and forms and recognize the underlying oneness of all things. “Yong” is an important concept in Zhuangzi’s philosophy: it refers to a way of acting that follows nature.

In ancient times, those who attained the Dao (the Way) reached the highest level of understanding. What is this highest level? It is recognizing that, at the very beginning, there were no things in the world. This is the most thorough and complete understanding. The next level is knowing that things exist, without yet distinguishing among them. The level below that is distinguishing among things, without yet making judgments of right and wrong.

Once distinctions between right and wrong arise, one departs from the Dao’s original nature. When one departs from the Dao, personal preferences take hold. Is there really a difference between “achievement” and “loss”? In truth, neither achievement nor loss exists in itself. It is like the ancient musician Zhaowen playing the zither: while he played, there was “achievement”; when he stopped, there was “loss.” But if he had never played at all, there would have been neither achievement nor loss.

The sage—the person who has attained the Dao—does not cling to judgments of right and wrong. Instead, the sage follows the natural balance, the “Heavenly Equalizer,” and lets both sides proceed on their own. This is called “the two courses.”

This passage tells the story of three famous figures from antiquity to illustrate how clinging to one’s specialty can lead one away from the Great Dao.

Zhaowen, a renowned ancient zither player, excelled at playing the instrument; Shi Kuang, a celebrated musician, mastered musical theory; and Hui Shi, a leading figure of the School of Names, was skilled in debate. Each brought his art to its highest level and continued practicing it into old age. Because they were so attached to their particular talents, they sought to use them to set themselves apart. Yet they tried to distinguish themselves in misguided ways—for example, Hui Shi with the sophistry of the “hard and white” argument—and ended up confused. Hui Shi’s son followed in his father’s word games and achieved nothing.

Zhuangzi asks in response: if this counts as success, then anyone could count as successful; if it does not, then neither the myriad things nor I can be said to succeed. The sage, then, seeks a state that seems indistinct yet is inwardly clear—the “radiance of the blurred and doubtful.” The sage does not cling to any one perspective, but rests in what is ordinary and follows the natural course of things. This is what it means to be truly discerning.

The “hard and white” argument is a famous proposition of the School of Names, which asks whether a stone’s qualities of hardness and whiteness can be separated. “Resting in what is ordinary” is an important concept in Zhuangzi: it means being at ease with the everyday and following the natural course of things.

This passage from the Zhuangzi explores the relativity of language, existence, and knowledge.

Now that I have said these things, I do not know whether they belong with what is “right”—with a correct view—or are different from it. Yet “belonging together” and “being different” are themselves interdependent concepts. Seen this way, they are no more fundamentally distinct from the things being judged. Still, let me try to speak about them.

As for the idea of a “beginning,” there is a stage in which there is a beginning; a stage before any beginning has yet appeared; and an earlier stage in which even the idea of “before any beginning” has not yet appeared. Likewise, there is a state of existence, a state of nonexistence, a state in which nonexistence has not yet taken shape, and a deeper state in which even the idea of “nonexistence not yet taking shape” has not yet appeared.

Then, suddenly, the distinction between “being” and “nonbeing” appears. But we cannot determine which of these is truly “being” and which is truly “nonbeing.” I have now made these arguments, yet I do not know whether what I have said has substance or is entirely without meaning.

The passage closes with relativity: among all things under heaven, the tip of an autumn hair can count as the largest, while Mount Tai seems small. A child who dies young can count as the longest-lived… The original passage continues beyond this excerpt, using such extreme comparisons to express the relativity of all things.

The passage presents several central ideas in Zhuangzi’s philosophy: the relativity of language and concepts; the endless questioning of beginnings and existence; the dialectical relation between being and nonbeing; and the relativity of ideas such as size and longevity. Its reflections on “the beginning before beginnings” and “the nonbeing before nonbeing” express a Daoist way of thinking about the source of the cosmos. This way of reasoning through an infinite regress later became an important source for the Daoist concept of Wuji (Limitless).

In the face of the eternal Dao (the Way), even Pengzu—a legendary figure said to have lived for eight hundred years—counts as short-lived. Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things exist alongside me, and all things are one with me. Once all things are one, is there still a need to speak? But as soon as we speak of the idea of “oneness,” how can we avoid speaking? The moment we say the word “one,” we create two concepts: “one” and “speaking.” Add the original “one” itself, and there are three.

Carry this reasoning further, and even the finest calculator could no longer keep count—let alone an ordinary person. If reasoning from “nothing” to “something” has already produced three, how much more would arise by reasoning onward from “something”? There is no need to carry it further. Let things follow their natural course.

The Dao has no boundaries, and words have no fixed standards. People draw boundaries in order to argue over right and wrong. These boundaries include left and right, opposing viewpoints; discourse and debate, different ways of discussing things; division and disputation, distinguishing and arguing; and competition and contention, rivalry and conflict. These are what are called the “Eight Virtues”—eight states of contention that arise in debate.

This passage expresses Zhuangzi’s idea of “equalizing things”: at their essence, all things are one. In Daoist thought, “one” represents the wholeness of the universe at its source. Zhuangzi points to the limits of language in describing the Dao: the more we use words to make distinctions, the farther we move from it. The “Eight Virtues” are not praised as virtues; they refer to the opposing states people fall into when they become caught up in debate.

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes the sage’s way of engaging with the world and the limits of human understanding.

Concerning matters beyond the six directions of heaven and earth, the sage remains doubtful and does not speak recklessly. Concerning matters within them, the sage will discuss them but does not rush to conclusions. When it comes to records such as the Spring and Autumn Annals, which recount how the former kings governed, the sage offers judgments without becoming mired in argument.

The passage points out that every distinction (fen) contains something that cannot be distinguished, and every debate (bian) has something that cannot be settled by argument. Why is this so? The sage takes truth to heart and understands it inwardly, while ordinary people use debate to show off. Thus, those who argue have not truly seen the essence of things.

The most fundamental principle, the Great Dao, needs no praise; the highest form of debate needs no words; the broadest benevolence makes no show of kindness; the most upright person does not make a display of humility; and the bravest person does not act tough or seek fights. Deliberately displaying these qualities can cause them to lose their true nature. A Dao that is overly proclaimed is not the true Dao; an argument that twists words fails to express its point; benevolence bound by formalities cannot extend to all things; virtue that is too loudly advertised seems false; and bravery expressed through aggression is unlikely to accomplish anything great.

These five qualities—the Dao, debate, benevolence, integrity, and bravery—should be naturally whole, like a circle. But when they are pursued deliberately, they become rigid, like a shape with corners. True wisdom lies in understanding the limits of one’s own knowledge and not forcing oneself to comprehend what cannot be known.

How supreme is this realm! Who can understand eloquence that uses no words, or the highest Dao that offers no explanations? Whoever grasps this realm possesses a “Heavenly Treasury”—a natural storehouse of wisdom. Pour into it, and it never overflows; draw from it, and it is never exhausted. Yet no one knows its source. This is called “Guarding the Light”: an inward radiance, a wisdom kept deep within and out of sight.

Long ago, Emperor Yao asked Shun, “I want to attack the three small states of Zong, Kuai, and Xu’ao. Though I sit on the throne, my heart is uneasy. Why is this?” Shun replied, “The rulers of those three small states are like insects living among mugwort and weeds. Why should you be troubled by them? In ancient times, ten suns appeared at once, shining upon all things. How much more should one whose De is brighter than the sun?”

Nie Que, a Daoist figure, asked Wang Ni, an awakened sage, “Do you know the standard that all things share?” Wang Ni replied, “How could I know?”

Through dialogue, this passage presents Zhuangzi’s idea of the “Equalizing of Things”: true wisdom goes beyond verbal disputes, and the highest Dao cannot be put into words. The exchange between Yao and Shun shows that a sage should embrace all things, while the image of ten suns shining together suggests the vastness of De. Wang Ni’s reply finally expresses the Daoist wisdom of “knowing that one does not know.”

This dialogue from the Zhuangzi explores the limits of knowledge. In modern language, it might be understood this way:

Someone asks, “Do you know what you don’t know?” The reply is, “How could I know?” The person asks again, “Then are all things ignorant?” The reply is still, “How could I know?”

The Zhuangzi continues: “Even so, let me try to say something. How do I know that what I call ‘knowing’ isn’t actually ‘not knowing’? And how do I know that what I call ‘not knowing’ isn’t actually ‘knowing’?”

Consider these questions. If people sleep in damp places, their backs may ache or they may even become paralyzed. Does the same happen to loaches? People who live in trees feel frightened and tremble. Do apes feel that way too? Of these three kinds of beings—people, loaches, and apes—which knows what place is truly suitable to live in?

Or consider what they eat. People eat livestock; elk eat grass; centipedes favor small snakes; owls and crows favor mice. Of these four kinds of beings—people, elk, centipedes, and owls—which knows what tastes truly good?

Finally, consider their mating preferences: female apes favor mating with bianju, a kind of ape; elk mate with deer; and loaches swim alongside fish.

These examples show that different species have their own natures and preferences, with no absolute standard for judging what is right or wrong, good or bad. Through vivid comparisons, the Zhuangzi reveals how knowledge is relative and limited.

This passage from the Zhuangzi uses vivid comparisons to reveal the relativity of human perception.

People praise Maoqiang and Xishi as peerless beauties. Yet when fish see them, they dive into the depths; birds fly high and far away; and elk flee in alarm. Which of these four kinds of beings knows what true beauty under Heaven is? By showing how differently various creatures respond to “beauty,” the passage suggests that standards of beauty are relative.

In my view, the standards of right and wrong associated with benevolence and righteousness, and the rules for judging what is correct or mistaken, are all tangled together in confusion. How could I tell their distinctions apart? Here, Zhuangzi questions whether conventional moral standards are absolute.

The dialogue between Nie Que and Wang Ni develops the idea further. Nie Que asks, “You do not understand what is beneficial or harmful. Does that mean a perfected person—the Zhiren—does not understand it either?” Wang Ni replies, “The perfected person has reached a wondrous state. Even if a great marsh were set ablaze, he would not feel the heat; even if rivers froze, he would not feel the cold. Thunder splitting mountains and violent winds churning the sea could not make him afraid. Such a person can ride the clouds and mists, travel with the sun and moon, and roam beyond the four seas. Even life and death cannot affect him, much less worldly gains and losses.” Through extravagant imagery, this passage portrays the Dao cultivator as transcending ordinary ways of knowing.

“Perfected person” (Zhiren) is Zhuangzi’s ideal of a person who has reached the highest spiritual state. Extreme natural forces represent this person’s freedom from being affected by external things. Through such hyperbole, Zhuangzi emphasizes the need to move beyond conventional judgments of value.

Qu Quezi asked Master Changwu, “I once heard my teacher say that sages do not trouble themselves with worldly affairs, pursue no gain, and shun no calamity. They have no taste for forcing things and do not cling to the Dao. They call nothing something and something nothing, and transcend the dusty world. My teacher thought these words reckless, but I believe they express a profound way of cultivation. What do you think?”

Master Changwu replied, “Even the Yellow Emperor would be perplexed by such a state. How could Confucius (Qiu) fully understand it? You are far too eager—like seeing an egg and hoping to get a rooster that will crow at dawn, or seeing a slingshot and already thinking of roasted owl for dinner.”

“Let me speak offhand, and you listen offhand. How does that sound? Keep company with the sun and moon, and hold the cosmos in your embrace. Become one with all things, and leave confusion and turmoil behind.”

This exchange expresses the heart of Zhuangzi’s “Discussion on Making All Things Equal.” With the image of “seeing an egg and hoping for a rooster,” Master Changwu criticizes the urge to rush toward results in cultivation and suggests that realizing the Dao requires following things as they unfold naturally. The phrases “keep company with the sun and moon” and “hold the cosmos in your embrace” evoke the Daoist ideal of becoming one with Heaven, Earth, and all things.

This passage from the Zhuangzi presents three main ideas.

The first part describes how ordinary people constantly compare their status with others, rushing about in pursuit of fame and gain. The sage—the person who has grasped the Dao—may seem dull, yet can bring past and present together and preserve an untroubled, genuine state of mind amid the confusion of worldly affairs. All things, too, are able to accommodate one another in this way.

The second part offers an example. When Li Ji, a beauty of the state of Jin, was first captured, she wept until her tears soaked her robes. Later, after enjoying wealth and comfort, she regretted having wept. Zhuangzi uses her story to ask: how can we know that the dead do not regret having clung to life and feared death? His point is that life and death, fortune and misfortune, are hard to predict.

The third part uses dreams as a metaphor. Someone dreams of drinking happily, then wakes in tears; someone else dreams of weeping, then wakes and goes hunting. While dreaming, people do not know they are dreaming, and may even interpret their dreams from within the dream. The comparison suggests that the joys and sorrows of human life are as insubstantial as dreams.

The central idea is to see through worldly gains and losses and, like the sage, maintain a detached state of mind. Through Li Ji’s story and the dream metaphor, Zhuangzi suggests that the things people cling to—such as life and death, joy and sorrow—are as illusory as dreams and need not weigh on us too heavily.

A person knows that they were dreaming only after waking. Only someone who has truly awakened to the Great Dao can understand that what we call waking life is itself a great dream. Yet foolish people always think they are wide awake, arrogantly believing they understand everything. Their stubborn distinctions between ruler and subject are laughable.

Confucius and you—Huizi—are both in a dream. When I say that you are dreaming, I too am dreaming. This sounds paradoxical: it appears self-contradictory, yet holds a deeper meaning. Perhaps only after ten thousand generations, when we meet a true sage, will someone understand this. But to one who has awakened to the Dao, grasping this truth is as natural as meeting morning or evening.

The next passage reflects on debate. Suppose you and I argue, and you defeat me. Does that prove that you are right and I am wrong? If I defeat you, does that prove that I must be right and you wrong?

This passage explores the limitations of human cognition and judgment. Through a dialogic format, Zhuangzi points out that when we debate whether something is right or wrong, neither side can truly be certain. You say it's right, I say it's wrong—or we both agree it's right or wrong—yet neither truly understands the other's perspective. In such cases, people remain trapped in a fog of subjective perception.

So whom should we turn to for judgment? If you seek someone who shares your view, how can they judge fairly when they already agree with you? The same applies if we consult someone who agrees with me—their alignment with my position precludes impartiality. If we approach someone whose views differ from both of ours, how could they possibly arbitrate when their perspective fundamentally contradicts ours? Even finding someone who agrees with both of us would be futile, as complete alignment offers no basis for discernment.

The conclusion emerges: neither I, you, nor any third party can truly understand one another. Whom, then, can we rely on to determine right and wrong? This text reveals the subjectivity and relativity of human cognition, embodying Zhuangzi's philosophy of "Equalizing All Things" (Qiwulun)—that worldly judgments of right and wrong depend entirely on standpoint, with no absolute standards existing.

This passage from the Zhuangzi explores the Daoist idea of “equalizing things.” Through two parables, it shows that things are fundamentally without distinction and that judgments of right and wrong have no fixed conclusion.

The first parable says that changes in sound may seem opposed, but in essence they are not. We should reconcile them through the natural pattern (tian ni) and follow the unfolding of natural change (man yan); this is how to pass through life in peace. What does it mean to reconcile things through the natural pattern? It means that what is called right may not truly be right, and what is called wrong may not truly be wrong. If “right” really is right, then there is no need to argue over how it differs from “wrong.” And if what is “certain” really is certain, there is likewise no need to argue over how it differs from what is “uncertain.” In this way, one can loosen the hold of time and forget the years (wang nian), rise beyond the limits of right and wrong (wang yi), and roam in a boundless realm (wu jing).

In the second parable, a faint, outer shadow (wang liang) asks the shadow: “A moment ago you were walking, and now you have stopped; a moment ago you were sitting, and now you have stood up. Why are you so lacking in resolve?” Their exchange suggests that all things depend on one another and have no independent, unchanging nature. The shadow moves with the body, and the faint shadow in turn moves with the shadow; at root, both are expressions of natural change.

Here, tian ni means a natural boundary or pattern; man yan means the unfolding development of natural change; wu jing means a boundless, endless realm; wang liang is the faint shadow around the edge of a shadow, and jing means “shadow.”

This passage comes from the “Discussion on Making All Things Equal” chapter of the Zhuangzi and contains two famous philosophical parables.

In the first story, the shadow (Jing) asks a series of questions: Do I exist because I depend on something else? And what does the thing I depend on rely upon? Do I depend on another in the way a snake depends on the scales on its belly, or a cicada on its wings? How can I know why things are as they are? And how can I know why they might not be? These questions express Zhuangzi’s reflections on the relations of dependence among things, suggesting that all things rely on one another and that their ultimate foundations are difficult to trace.

The second is the famous story of “Zhuang Zhou Dreaming of a Butterfly.” Once, Zhuang Zhou dreamed he had become a butterfly, fluttering freely and joyfully, with no memory of being Zhuang Zhou. Suddenly he woke and realized that he was plainly Zhuang Zhou. He did not know whether Zhuang Zhou had dreamed of becoming a butterfly, or a butterfly had dreamed of becoming Zhuang Zhou. Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly must be distinct in some way; this transformation is called “the transformation of things” (wuhua). The parable suggests that the boundary between dreams and reality is blurred, and that things can transform into one another.

Both stories express the central idea of Zhuangzi’s “making all things equal”: breaking down absolute boundaries between things and recognizing their fundamental kinship. “The transformation of things” is an important concept in Zhuangzi’s philosophy, referring to the natural transformation between different forms of existence.