《莊子》Vol. 27

In the “Fables” chapter of the Zhuangzi, explained in modern language:

The purpose of fables

Nine out of every ten statements should be expressed through fables, because it is more effective to make a point by speaking of other people and things. A father, for example, does not arrange a match for his own son; and a father’s praise carries less weight than praise from someone else. This is not my fault—it is simply how people are. People tend to agree with views like their own and reject views that differ. They take what matches their own thinking to be right, and what does not to be wrong.

The value of authoritative words

Seven out of every ten statements should draw on the words of respected elders, using their authority to put an end to disputes. But someone who is merely old and does not understand the fundamental principles of governing—the warp and woof, roots and branches—cannot be considered a true elder. If someone lacks virtue beyond the ordinary, they have lost the way of being human; and one who has lost the way of being human...

In Zhuangzi’s use of “fables” and “weighty words,” among other distinctive modes of expression, the aim is to break people free from fixed patterns of thought and stubborn attachment to their own views. “Respected elders” refers to people of standing and virtue; “warp and woof, roots and branches” is a metaphor for the fundamental principles of governing and self-cultivation. This passage reveals the Daoist idea of teaching without words: it advocates awakening others through indirect means.

Zhuangzi’s passage explores the relationship between language and truth.

Those who cling to fixed opinions—the “old hands”—speak each day in words that seem casual but carry hidden meaning. These “goblet words” accord with the patterns of nature and expand with the changing circumstances of things; they offer a lifetime’s worth of insight to contemplate.

When people are silent, the essence of all things is unified. Once they describe it in words, that unity is broken. So true speech is, in a sense, “expression without words.” A person may speak all their life and still fail to say what matters; another may remain silent all their life and yet express something everywhere.

Everything has reasons for being affirmed and reasons for being rejected. It has grounds for existing and grounds for not existing. Why call something right? Because it meets the standard of “right.” Why call it wrong? Because it departs from that standard. Yet all things have their own necessity in existing, and their own grounds for being accepted as reasonable.

This passage expresses a central idea of Zhuangzi’s “Discussion on Making All Things Equal”: things are not inherently distinct, and judgments of right and wrong are distinctions made by people. “Goblet words” are Zhuangzi’s distinctive way of speaking: words that seem casual but carry deeper meaning. “The boundary of Heaven” refers to the natural divisions or patterns of things.

First passage

Nothing in the world is fixed or unchanging, and nothing is absolutely impossible. Unless we can, like a wine vessel (zhiyan, “words from the goblet”), naturally pour forth true words each day and bring them into harmony with the Way of Heaven (tianni, “Heaven’s natural distinctions”), how can we endure over time? All things have their source and seed, and transform into one another in different forms. Beginning and end circle around like a ring, with no fixed pattern to be found. This is the balance of Heaven (tianjun). The balance of Heaven is the state of being in accord with the Way of Heaven.

Second passage

Zhuangzi said to Huizi, “Confucius lived to the age of sixty, and throughout those sixty years his thinking kept changing. What he first held to be right, he may ultimately have rejected. What he considers right now may well be what he thought wrong at fifty-nine.”

Huizi replied, “Confucius has been applying himself with determination in pursuit of knowledge.”

This passage reflects Zhuangzi’s thought on the relativity of knowledge: human understanding changes over time, and there is no absolute standard of right and wrong. Huizi’s comment, meanwhile, hints at the Confucian commitment to the pursuit of knowledge, which contrasts with Zhuangzi’s advocacy of naturalness and Wuwei (non-action).

Zhuangzi said:

“Confucius has already turned away from worldly fame and gain, but did he leave no teachings behind? Confucius once said, ‘A person’s abilities and natural gifts come from the great root of the Dao, and life is gained by returning to one’s spiritual nature.’”

Zhuangzi then commented: “The cries of birds should accord with music; words should accord with the proper measure. When gain and righteousness stand before us, people’s judgments of what is good or bad, right or wrong, are merely surface arguments used to persuade others.

“To win people’s willing assent, one must not impose rules by force. The whole world should be allowed to settle naturally. Alas! I fear I have not reached the state Confucius attained.”

Another story tells of Zengzi, who held office twice, with a different frame of mind each time. The first time, he took a minor post to support his parents. Though his stipend was only three fu—an ancient measure of capacity—he was happy. Later, he held a high office and received a generous stipend of three thousand zhong, but by then his parents had died, and he felt sorrow instead.

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes the stages of spiritual cultivation.

A student asked Confucius, “Can someone like me be said to have broken free from worldly entanglements?”

Confucius replied, “You are still attached to things. How could someone who has truly broken free still feel sorrow? Such people regard a stipend of three fu—the pay of a minor official—or three thousand zhong—the generous income of a high official—as indifferently as they would watch sparrows or mosquitoes fly past.”

Later, Yan Cheng Ziyou tells Dongguo Ziqi how his state changed as he followed his teacher in cultivation. In the first year, he broke free from worldly constraints (ye, “wildness”); in the second, he learned to follow things as they naturally unfold (cong, “following”); in the third, he came to understand how things work (tong, “understanding”); in the fourth, he became one with all things (wu, “things”); in the fifth, those who had awakened to the Dao naturally came to him (lai, “coming”); in the sixth, he reached a state beyond the reach of ghosts and spirits (gui ru, “the spirits enter”); in the seventh, he came into complete accord with Nature (tian cheng, “formed by Heaven”); in the eighth, he transcended the concepts of life and death; and in the ninth, he attained the highest and most mysterious state (da miao, “great wonder”).

Through these distinct stages, the passage vividly portrays the gradual progress of a practitioner from the first steps of the path to its highest attainment. It emphasizes that cultivation requires long and steady effort, culminating in the dissolution of the distinction between self and things and complete union with the Dao.

When a person is alive, they can act;

after death, they return to nothingness.

I urge people to be fair:

death has its causes,

but the actions of the living

have no discernible source.

(Is that really so?)

Where should one go, and where should one not go?

Heaven follows its own course,

and the earth is where people act.

Why should I try to force the matter?

(And the questions continue.)

If no one knows where life ends,

how can we say there is no destiny?

If no one knows where life begins,

how can we say there is destiny?

If all things can respond to one another,

how can we say there are no spirits and gods?

If they cannot respond to one another,

how can we say there are spirits and gods?

(Another parable.)

A faint shadow at the edge of the many shadows, Wangliang, asked the shadow:

“You had your head bowed just now,

but now you’ve lifted your face.

Just now your hair was tied in a knot,

but now it hangs loose.”

This passage from the Zhuangzi explores the relationship between a shadow and the object that casts it, using it to show how all things depend on one another:

The shadow said, “Why do you ask so many questions? I exist, yet I don’t know why I exist. I am like a cicada’s cast-off shell or a snake’s shed skin: I seem to have a form, but I am not truly real. When sunlight or fire is present, I appear; on a cloudy day or at night, I vanish. Do I really need to depend on anything? And what of things that depend on nothing outside themselves? When the object comes, I follow; when it goes, I follow; when it moves, I move with it. This happens naturally. What is there to ask about?”

The passage then recounts another story: Yang Zhu (also known as Yangzi Ju) was traveling south to Pei, while Laozi (also known as Lao Dan) was traveling west through Qin. The two met outside the city of Liang. Both the shadow’s parable and the chance meeting of these two thinkers express Daoism’s central idea of following things as they naturally unfold.

This passage from the Zhuangzi recounts a conversation between Laozi, the founder of Daoism, and his disciple Yang Ziju.

Halfway along the road, Laozi looked up at the sky and sighed. “At first, I thought you could be taught. Now I see that you cannot.” Yang Ziju made no reply.

When they returned to their lodgings, Yang Ziju respectfully prepared the things for washing and grooming. He left his shoes outside the door, then approached on his knees and said, “Just now, I wanted to ask for your guidance. I saw that you were walking and had no time, so I did not dare interrupt you. Now that you are free, please point out my faults.”

Laozi said, “You are always so self-important. Who would want to spend time with you? What is truly pure looks as though it were stained; what has the highest De (virtue and power) appears to be lacking.”

Yang Ziju’s face changed. With respect, he said, “I understand your teaching!” After that, when he went visiting, the other guests greeted him of their own accord. The host laid out a mat for him personally, his wife prepared his washing things, and the other guests readily gave him their seats.

This conversation illustrates the Daoist idea of “blending with the light and mingling with the dust”: true De is not displayed ostentatiously, but held with humility and restraint. “The purest white seems sullied; the fullest De seems incomplete” became a famous Daoist saying. It means that the highest state can appear quite ordinary.

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi and describes how people’s attitudes shift.

Literally, it means that when someone holds power and status—the “person of influence” in the passage—others keep their distance, even avoiding the stove in his kitchen. But when he loses his position and falls on hard times, even ordinary lodgers dare to compete with him for a seat.

Zhuangzi uses this image to show how fickle the world can be: when someone is successful, people gather around them; when they lose their standing, their door is left deserted. The passage reflects how ordinary people gravitate toward power and advantage, while also hinting at the value of rising above fame and gain and staying true to oneself.