《莊子》Vol. 3

A plain-language interpretation of Chapter Three of “The Way of Nurturing Life” from the Zhuangzi:

Human life is limited, but knowledge is limitless. To pursue limitless knowledge with a limited life will only wear you out. To force yourself to become “all-knowing” is even more dangerous.

Do good without chasing fame, and avoid wrongdoing that would bring punishment. Follow nature’s middle course—“following the central line” means adapting to the natural order—and make it your guide in life. In this way, you can preserve your body, live out your full span, care for your parents and family, and enjoy the years allotted to you.

The famous parable of Cook Ding carving an ox follows.

When Cook Ding was carving an ox for Lord Wenhui, his hands touched it, his shoulder leaned against it, his feet pressed on it, and his knees braced against it. Each movement made a swishing sound. As his blade passed through, it went with a soft, slicing rhythm, every sound in time with the music. His movements were like the dance to the ancient music of “Sanglin” and matched the rhythm of the “Jingshou” melody.

Lord Wenhui exclaimed, “Ah, marvelous! How has your skill reached such a state?”

Through the story of Cook Ding carving an ox, this passage vividly shows the importance of adapting to the natural order. Cook Ding can work with such ease because he understands the ox’s natural structure. The story suggests that people, too, should live in accordance with the natural principles of the Dao (the Way).

The cook put down his knife and replied:

“What I pursue is the Dao—the natural order of the universe. It goes beyond mere skill.

“When I first began carving oxen, all I could see was the whole animal. After three years, I no longer saw a whole ox.

“At this stage, I use my spirit to perceive rather than my eyes to look. My senses have ceased to function, and my spirit moves freely. I follow the ox’s natural structure, guiding the blade through the spaces between its tendons and bones and into the openings between its joints. I work entirely in accordance with the ox’s own anatomy.

“I have never even struck the places where the tendons and channels are knotted together, let alone the great bones!

“A good cook changes his knife once a year because he cuts meat. An ordinary cook changes his knife once a month because he hacks at bones. I have used this knife for nineteen years and carved several thousand oxen, yet its edge is still as sharp as when it was freshly honed.

“There are spaces between the joints, while the blade is almost without thickness;”

This passage from the Zhuangzi tells two stories, which I’ll explain in everyday language.

The first is the story of Cook Ding. Cook Ding says that he guides his thin blade into the gaps between the ox’s joints (“with what has no thickness, he enters where there is space”). That gives him plenty of room to move the blade freely. As a result, after nineteen years of use, his knife is still as sharp as if it had just been sharpened. But when he reaches a place where sinews and bones are tangled together, he takes special care and slows down (“he becomes alert and cautious, fixes his gaze, and moves slowly”). At last, the ox falls apart naturally, with a sound like clods of earth crumbling to the ground. Cook Ding stands with his knife, looks around with satisfaction, then wipes it clean and puts it away. Lord Wenhui hears this and exclaims, “Wonderful! From Cook Ding’s words, I have learned how to nourish life.”

The second story is about Gongwen Xuan meeting the Right Minister. Seeing that the minister has only one leg, Gongwen Xuan asks in surprise, “How did this man come to have only one leg? Was he born that way, or did something cause it?” Then he answers himself: “It is Heaven’s doing, not the work of human beings.”

Together, these stories suggest that we should act in accordance with the natural patterns of things, as Cook Ding does when he follows the structure of the ox’s bones, and face the circumstances of life with acceptance, as the Right Minister accepts his physical impairment. This expresses the Zhuangzi’s central idea of following nature.

The modern interpretations of these passages from the Zhuangzi are as follows:

The first passage says that Heaven lets all things grow naturally, and each living being is unique. People’s appearances may seem alike, but each is ultimately the result of Nature’s creation, not something people can determine for themselves. Here, Zhuangzi emphasizes that all things have a nature of their own.

The second passage describes a pheasant in a marsh. It must walk ten paces to peck up a bite of food and a hundred paces to find a sip of water, yet it would still rather live free than be kept in a cage. In a cage, it may have all the food and water it needs and look well cared for, but it is not truly at ease. Through the pheasant, the passage suggests that freedom matters more than comfort.

The third passage tells of Laozi’s (Lao Dan’s) death. After Laozi died, his friend Qin Shi came to mourn him, wept three times, then left. His disciples, puzzled, asked, “Wasn’t he your friend?” Qin Shi replied, “Yes.” They asked again, “Then was this an appropriate way to mourn him?” Qin Shi said, “It was.” The episode shows the Daoist attitude of equanimity toward life and death.

The final passage gives Qin Shi’s explanation. At first, he thought Laozi was like an ordinary person and needed to be mourned. Now he sees that this was not so. When he went in to pay his respects, he saw old people crying as if they had lost a son, and young people crying as if they had lost a mother. People had gathered to mourn in this way because of worldly expectations that made them feel they had to cry, even if they did not wish to.

These passages express central themes in Zhuangzi’s philosophy: following Nature, seeking spiritual freedom, and rising above the constraints of worldly rites and customs. The contrast between the pheasant and the funeral rites especially emphasizes that people should preserve their natural nature and avoid being burdened by external things.

Those who weep without warning—that is, who express grief in defiance of their natural disposition—are going against the natural order, turning away from genuine feeling, and forgetting their original nature. The ancients called this “escaping the punishment of Heaven’s Way.”

As Zhuangzi sees it, when life comes, it follows the timing of Heaven; when life departs, that too follows the natural order. Accept life’s coming and going with ease, and follow the changes of nature: then grief and joy cannot sway the heart. The ancients called this “being released from the bonds imposed by the Celestial Emperor.”

It is like using firewood to kindle a fire. The wood is consumed, but the flame can be passed on without end and never goes out. This is a metaphor for how life’s forms change while its essence endures.

The phrase “released from the bonds imposed by the Celestial Emperor” explains the image of “hanging” as being freed from restraint. This passage expresses Zhuangzi’s view of meeting one’s time and following what comes: it advocates accepting the natural order of life and death. The final image of firewood and flame is a famous Daoist expression of life’s enduring transmission.