《莊子》Vol. 31

The opening passage of “The Fisherman” in the Zhuangzi tells of Confucius meeting a reclusive fisherman.

Confucius was wandering with his disciples among trees dark as a black canopy. They sat to rest on the Apricot Altar. The disciples read, while Confucius played the qin and sang; he had not yet reached the halfway point of the tune when a fisherman came ashore from his boat. The old man’s beard and eyebrows were white as snow, and his hair hung loose. He waved his sleeves as he climbed up from the high bank by the water, then stopped on level ground. He rested his left hand on his knee and propped his chin on his right hand as he listened to the music.

When the tune ended, the fisherman beckoned Zigong and Zilu over, and they stepped forward to answer him. The stranger pointed toward Confucius and asked, “What does that man do?”

Note: The Apricot Altar is traditionally said to be the place where Confucius taught. Zigong and Zilu were two of his well-known disciples. Through the figure of the reclusive Daoist fisherman, the passage suggests a Daoist scrutiny of Confucian instruction through ritual and music.

This exchange took place between Zilu, a disciple of Confucius, and a visitor.

The visitor asked Zilu, “Is the man you mentioned a gentleman of Lu?” Lu was a state during the Spring and Autumn period.

“Yes,” Zilu replied. “He is a gentleman of Lu.”

The visitor then asked about the man’s family background. Zilu answered, “He comes from the Kong family.”

The visitor pressed him: “What way of governing does the Kong family follow?” Zilu could not answer at once.

At that point, Zigong, another disciple of Confucius, took up the conversation: “The way of the Kong family is to put loyalty and trustworthiness into practice, embody benevolence and righteousness in one’s conduct, regulate behavior through ritual and music—the ceremonial system of the Zhou dynasty—and use human relationships and their ethical duties as the standard for selecting talent.”

This exchange shows a Confucian disciple explaining Confucius’s teachings to an outsider. Zigong’s reply sums up four key elements of Confucian self-cultivation: loyalty and trustworthiness, benevolence and righteousness, ritual and music, and human relationships and their ethical duties.

This dialogue from the Zhuangzi takes the form of questions put to Zigong, a disciple of Confucius:

“Does he seek to serve the ruler of his time, instruct the common people, and bring benefit to all under Heaven? Is this Confucius’s way of governing?”

The questions continue: “Is Confucius a ruler who holds territory?” Zigong replies, “No.”

“Then is he a minister who assists the feudal lords?” Zigong again replies, “No.”

Through these negative answers, the dialogue suggests that Confucius is neither a ruler nor a minister who helps govern. Yet his teachings can still influence society. Speaking through Zigong, Zhuangzi points out that Confucian thought, though it holds no direct political power, can shape the world through moral instruction.

This story from the Zhuangzi tells of Confucius’s encounter with a hermit.

After hearing Zigong’s words, the visitor—the hermit—laughed, turned away, and walked off, saying, “Your teacher, Confucius, certainly deserves to be called benevolent and virtuous. But at this rate, he may not be able to preserve himself. He exhausts his mind and energy, and in doing so harms his original nature. Alas! He is very far from the state of the Dao.”

Zigong returned and told Confucius what the hermit had said. The moment he heard it, Confucius pushed his qin aside and stood up, exclaiming, “Could this be a sage?” He hurried off to find him. When Confucius reached the water, he saw the hermit leaning on an oar, about to push off. The hermit looked back, saw Confucius approaching, and turned to face him. Confucius quickly stepped back several paces, bowed respectfully twice, and then came forward.

The hermit asked, “What have you come seeking?”

This passage presents a Daoist critique of Confucianism’s deliberate pursuit of benevolence: it suggests that a true cultivator should follow the natural course of things. Confucius’s respectful manner toward the hermit also reflects the reverence for realized people found in the Zhuangzi. “Original nature” refers to a person’s innate nature, while “being separated from the Dao” describes a state of distance from the Great Dao.

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes Confucius seeking instruction from a recluse.

Confucius said, “A moment ago, Master, you left after saying a few words full of meaning. I, Kong Qiu, am dull-witted and failed to grasp their deeper sense. Now I stand respectfully downwind of you, hoping to hear even a few words of your teaching that might help me improve.”

The recluse replied, “Ah! How eager you are to learn!”

Confucius bowed again, then rose and said, “I began studying when I was young. Now I am sixty-nine, yet I have still not heard the highest teaching. How could I dare not to seek instruction with an open mind?”

This exchange shows Confucius’s humility in seeking the Dao (the Way). In the passage, “downwind” describes a gesture of deference: standing downwind meant accepting a lower position. “The sound of your cough or spit” is a figure of speech for even the few casual words spoken by the other person, which are worth cherishing.

The guest said:

“Things of the same kind attract one another, and matching sounds answer one another. This is simply the way of nature. Let me set aside what I possess and discuss what concerns you. What concerns you is nothing more than affairs in the human world.

When the Son of Heaven, the feudal lords, the great officers, and the common people each remain in their proper place, governance has reached its highest form. When these four groups stray from their proper places, the greatest disorder follows.

When officials each perform their own duties and the people each pursue their own livelihoods, conflict does not arise. For ordinary people, troubles include fields lying fallow, houses falling into disrepair, too little food and clothing, unpaid taxes, discord among wives and concubines, and disorder between young and old.

When one’s abilities are inadequate for one’s office, public duties are handled poorly, conduct is improper, subordinates become idle and neglectful, and there are no achievements to show…”

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi. By listing the worries of people at different levels of society, it mocks those who lack the proper status yet presume to take over someone else’s responsibilities.

A senior official worries that his rank and stipend may not last. A feudal lord worries that his court lacks loyal ministers, that the state is in disorder, that its crafts and techniques are poor, that its tribute is not fine enough, that he will be seated too low at an assembly of lords, or that he will fail to obey the Son of Heaven. The Son of Heaven and his officials, meanwhile, worry that Yin-Yang will fall out of balance, that untimely cold and heat will harm the myriad things, that feudal lords will rebel, wage war on one another, and injure the people, and that the rites and music will lose their proper measure. They also worry about depleted finances, disorder in human relationships, and the people’s unrestrained conduct.

The final lines criticize the person being addressed: “You have neither the authority of a ruler or feudal lord nor the office of a minister or official, yet you presume to put the rites and music in order, regulate human relationships, and teach the people. Aren’t you meddling far too much?”

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes eight common faults in human relationships and warns people to guard against them.

The eight faults are: zǒng, meddling in matters that are not one’s concern and worrying over them needlessly; nìng, forcing oneself on someone who pays no attention, merely to curry favor; chǎn, guessing what others want to hear and flattering them; yú, praising people indiscriminately, without regard for right and wrong; chán, making a habit of speaking ill of others; zéi, driving a wedge between friends and family members; tè, using false praise to bring harm to good people; and xiǎn, ingratiating oneself with both sides regardless of who is right or wrong, while secretly pursuing personal gain.

These faults disturb others outwardly and harm oneself inwardly. For this reason, a person of De (Virtue) will not befriend someone who acts this way, and a wise ruler will not appoint such a minister.

This passage comes from the “Fisherman” chapter of the Zhuangzi. It criticizes several kinds of misconduct common in the society of its time. Zhuangzi argues that these behaviors damage relationships and ultimately bring harm to those who engage in them.

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes four faults that harm the mind.

The first is called “boasting” (tāo): craving recognition, staging grand displays, and casually changing established practices to win fame and status.

The second is “greed” (tān): relying on one’s small measure of ability to take charge of everything, encroaching on others’ rights, and seeking only to show off one’s own skills.

The third is “stubbornness” (hěn): knowing one is wrong but refusing to change, and becoming even more obstinate when others offer advice.

The fourth is “self-importance” (jīn): approving only of those who share one’s views and rejecting even sound advice simply because it differs from one’s own opinion.

All of these obstruct self-cultivation. Only after first correcting the eight faults mentioned earlier and putting an end to these four can genuine cultivation begin.

Confucius then laments:

“I was driven out of the state of Lu twice, barred from entering Wei, and had the tree beneath which I taught cut down in Song. I was besieged between Chen and Cai. I truly do not understand what I have done wrong. Why have I repeatedly suffered these four slanders?”

This passage presents the Daoist demands of self-cultivation. Confucius’s words reflect how even sages may be misunderstood in the world. Through this contrast, Zhuangzi emphasizes the importance of removing the “four afflictions” in the practice of cultivation.

This parable from the Zhuangzi teaches a profound lesson.

A guest said sadly, “You are truly hard to understand! It is like someone who fears his shadow and hates his footprints, and runs desperately to escape them. But the more often he lifts his feet, the more footprints he leaves; the faster he runs, the shadow keeps following him. Thinking he still is not running fast enough, he speeds up until he is exhausted and dies.”

The man did not know that if he simply stayed in the shade, his shadow would disappear, and if he stood still, he would leave no footprints. How foolish he was! You, meanwhile, are fixated on distinguishing degrees of benevolence and righteousness, examining how things are alike and different, observing changes between movement and stillness, weighing what to give and what to accept, regulating your likes and dislikes, and keeping your joy and anger in check. This, instead, is likely to bring calamity upon you.

The right course is to cultivate yourself well, carefully guard your original nature—that is, what Daoists call your “true nature”—and return external things to others. Then you will not be burdened by them.

Through the parable of “fearing shadows and hating footprints,” this passage criticizes an attitude of excessive attachment to external standards and deliberate striving. Zhuangzi advocates following nature and preserving one’s inner authenticity, without being bound by external judgments or emotions.

This conversation concerns the nature of “truth” (zhen, sincerity). Confucius, looking solemn, asked, “May I ask what true sincerity is?”

The guest replied, “True sincerity is the highest state of purity and honesty. Without them, one cannot move another’s heart. Someone who forces themselves to weep may look sorrowful, but feels no grief; someone who feigns anger may look stern, but has no authority; and someone who pretends to be affectionate may smile, but feels no harmony.”

The guest continued, “True grief needs no words for others to feel its sorrow. True anger inspires awe before it even breaks out. True affection needs no smile for others to feel its harmony. When sincerity dwells within, the spirit naturally shows itself outwardly. That is what makes sincerity precious.”

The guest concluded by describing how sincerity appears in relationships: “Treat your parents with sincerity, and filial devotion will arise naturally. Serve your ruler, and loyalty will arise naturally. Drink wine, and joy will arise naturally. Mourn, and grief will arise naturally.”

This passage from the Zhuangzi explains the central principles for living and acting:

When it comes to serving one’s ruler, drinking wine, mourning, or caring for one’s parents, the key is to focus on what truly matters. Loyalty should be judged by real service; drinking is for enjoyment; mourning rests on sincere grief; and caring for one’s parents means making them comfortable. Whether something is done well does not depend on its outward form. When caring for parents, for instance, there is no need to insist on a particular method. If drinking brings pleasure, the vessel does not matter. If mourning expresses genuine sorrow, there is no need to be bound by ritual rules.

Such rules of etiquette are established by secular society, while “the True”—one’s original nature—is bestowed by Heaven and cannot be changed by nature. Sages follow the Dao of Heaven and cherish the True, without letting worldly conventions constrain them. The foolish do the opposite.

Those who cannot follow the Dao of Heaven, who know only how to cater to others and do not know how to cherish the True, are constantly changed by worldly demands as they rush through life. They will never find genuine contentment. How tragic!

This passage comes from the “Fisherman” chapter of the Zhuangzi. It tells how Confucius sought instruction after meeting a fisherman, a reclusive sage.

After bowing respectfully once more, Confucius rose and said, “Today, for me, Kong Qiu, to meet you is truly a gift from Heaven. You have not looked down on me; you have accepted me as your student and taught me in person. May I ask where you live? Please allow me to follow you and learn the Great Dao—the highest truth of Daoism.”

The fisherman replied, “I have heard that those who can seek the Great Dao together may travel alongside one another. But those who cannot grasp its subtle principles do not understand what the Dao is. Never force instruction upon them; that way, you will not bring trouble upon yourself. Apply yourself well! I am leaving you now—I am leaving you now!” With that, he pushed off in his boat and gradually disappeared among the reeds.

At this point, Yan Yuan, one of Confucius’s disciples, turned the carriage around to pursue him, while Zilu, another disciple, handed him the strap used to climb aboard.

This exchange expresses the Daoist idea that the Dao should not be passed on lightly: the fisherman believes that only those with the insight to understand it can grasp the Great Dao. Here, “serve and learn” means attending upon someone in order to study, while “handing over the strap” refers to the ancient custom of using a strap to help someone climb into a carriage.

This passage tells the story of Confucius and his disciple Zilu meeting a fisherman.

When Confucius saw the fisherman, he did not approach at once. He waited until the ripples on the water had settled and the sound of rowing had faded, then went forward to speak with him.

Standing beside the carriage and holding it steady, Zilu asked, “I have followed you for so long, Master, yet I have never seen you show anyone such respect. Even the rulers of great states with ten thousand chariots, or smaller states with a thousand, stand as equals with you and exchange formal bows. You still carry yourself proudly toward them. But now this fisherman stands across from you, leaning on his oar, and you bow low to him. Before you speak, you bow; when you reply, you bow again. Isn’t that going too far? All of us disciples find your behavior strange. What has this fisherman done to deserve such courtesy?”

Leaning on the crossbar at the front of the carriage, Confucius sighed. “Zilu, you are truly hard to teach! You have been studying proper conduct for some time, yet that coarse way of thinking still hasn’t changed.”

Here, “ten thousand chariots” and “a thousand chariots” refer to the rulers of great and small states. “Standing as equals and exchanging formal bows” describes host and guest facing one another across a courtyard to show equal regard. “Bowing low” describes bending at the waist like the ancient musical instrument called a qing.

Come here, and I’ll tell you!

To show disrespect to your elders is a breach of propriety. To see someone of worth and fail to honor them is a sign of a lack of benevolence.

Unless a person is truly a perfected one who has attained the Dao, they cannot treat others with humility. Without sincere humility, they cannot grasp the truth of the Great Dao, and so they often bring harm upon themselves. How lamentable!

A lack of benevolence is the greatest calamity for a person, yet you insist on claiming this vice as your own.

As for the Dao, it is the source from which all things arise. When things lose the Dao, they die; when they attain it, they live. Actions that go against the Dao fail; those that follow it succeed. So wherever the Dao is present, the sage regards it with reverence.

This fisherman’s understanding of the Dao is profound. How could I dare not to honor him?