《莊子》Vol. 33

This passage from “All Under Heaven” in the Zhuangzi says:

Today, many people in the world devote themselves to specialized fields of study, and each believes their knowledge has reached its highest point. But where, then, is the “art of the Dao” (the fundamental patterns of the cosmos and wisdom for living) spoken of by the ancients? The answer is: “It is everywhere.”

The passage then asks where spiritual power descends from and where wisdom arises. Its answer is that sages become sages and enlightened rulers become enlightened rulers through the same underlying source.

More specifically, one who does not depart from the fundamental Dao (the Way) is called a “Heavenly Person,” one who is at one with nature. One who keeps the spirit pure is called a “Spirit Person,” one who transcends the ordinary world. One who preserves the original purity of their nature is called a “Perfect Person,” one who has attained the highest state. And one who takes nature as the root, De (Virtue/Power) as the foundation, and the Dao as the path, and who can foresee change, is called a “Sage.”

Here, “root,” “essence,” and “true nature” are all central Daoist concepts. They refer, respectively, to the fundamental Dao, pure essence, and authentic nature. “Heavenly Person,” “Spirit Person,” “Perfect Person,” and “Sage” are names for different levels of Daoist cultivation.

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes the way ancient sages governed the state and principles for conducting oneself.

The first part sets out the standards of a cultivated gentleman: show benevolence through acts of kindness, use righteousness to clarify what is right, let ritual guide conduct, and use music to harmonize the temperament. Be gentle and caring like a spring breeze. Only such a person can be called a gentleman.

The second part describes how to govern society: use laws to define responsibilities, titles to make people’s roles clear, personal conduct to assess their character, and evaluations to determine rewards and punishments. The system should be as clear as counting. Officials carry out their duties according to these rules.

The third part addresses the foundations of people’s livelihood: make labor a regular part of life, treat food and clothing as its essentials, build up reserves, and give special care to the old, the weak, and those without family support. Everyone should have security. This is the proper way to govern the people.

Finally, the passage praises the perfect state of the sages of old: how complete the ancient sages were! They were in accord with the spirits and shared the De (Virtue/Power) of Heaven and Earth. They nurtured and transformed the myriad things, brought harmony to all under Heaven, and extended their benevolence to the people. They understood both fundamental principles and practical rules, and could move freely through matters great and small, fine and coarse.

The Dao (the Way), the underlying order of the universe, operates everywhere. Many teachings clearly recorded in codes and institutions have been preserved in the accounts of court historians over the generations. Scholars and officials in the Zou and Lu regions, Confucius’s homeland, were generally familiar with classics such as the Book of Songs, the Book of Documents, the Book of Rites, and the Classic of Music.

Each classic served its own purpose: the Book of Songs guided the mind and heart; the Book of Documents offered guidance on governing; the Book of Rites regulated conduct; the Classic of Music harmonized the temperament; the Book of Changes explained transformations of Yin-Yang; and the Spring and Autumn Annals clarified ranks and distinctions. These teachings spread throughout the realm and circulated widely across the Central Plains. The various schools of thought often cited and discussed these classics.

But now the realm is in turmoil. The Way of the sages is no longer clear, and moral standards have lost their unity. Many people seize on just one aspect and take themselves to be right. It is like the ears, eyes, nose, and mouth, each with its own function but unable to communicate with the others—a metaphor for people each clinging to one side.

Each school of thought has its own area of expertise (“each has something it understands”), much as different crafts are useful at particular times. The problem is that these schools cannot be brought together into a coherent whole (“they cannot communicate with one another”). Though each has its strengths, none is comprehensive (“none can encompass everything”); each is merely an expert fixated on one side of the matter (“a scholar of one corner”).

They analyze the beauty of Heaven and Earth, dissect the principles of the myriad things, and examine the complete thought of the ancients. Yet few can truly take in the beauty of Heaven and Earth as a whole, or attain a state worthy of the divine.

Thus the true Way of the inner sage and outer king—the highest state combining inner cultivation with outward achievement—is obscured and unclear, buried and left unexpressed. People everywhere act according to their own desires and each holds to a standard of their own. It is lamentable that the various schools of thought drift ever farther apart; in the end, they are bound to remain divided.

Scholars of later generations are less fortunate still: they can no longer see the unadulterated nature of Heaven and Earth, or understand the overall scope of the ancients’ thought.

This passage describes the divisions and changes in ancient Daoist teachings, as well as the origins and doctrines of the Mohist school.

The Way’s teachings, once whole, were on the verge of being broken apart and scattered among the people of the world. In ancient times, the true teachings of the Way did not seek fame for later generations, squander the resources of the myriad things, or show off rites and institutions. They used rules to discipline themselves and meet urgent needs in the world.

Mo Di, founder of the Mohist school, and his disciple Qin Guli heard of this way of life and admired it. But they took it too far and put it into practice too rigidly. They advocated “Against Music,” opposing musical pleasure, and “Economy in Expenditure,” urging restraint in the use of resources. They sang no songs while alive and wore no mourning clothes after death.

Mozi promoted “universal care” and “mutual benefit,” and opposed conflict. His doctrine called for not giving way to anger easily. He was also eager to learn and ask questions, widely knowledgeable, and not given to novelty for its own sake. Yet he did not follow the ways of the ancient sage-kings in every respect, and he criticized their rites and music.

The passage mentions musical pieces associated with several sage-kings: the Yellow Emperor’s “Xianchi,” Yao’s “Dazhang,” and Shun’s “Dashao.” These were rites and musical works established by the ancient sage-kings. Their mention highlights, by comparison, the Mohists’ opposition to traditional rites and music.

Yu the Great had the musical composition Da Xia. King Tang of the Shang had the musical dance Da Huo. King Wen of Zhou had the refined music of Biyong, the Son of Heaven’s academy. King Wu of Zhou and the Duke of Zhou created the Wu dance.

In ancient funeral rites, rules distinguished the honored from the humble and clearly marked the ranks above and below. The Son of Heaven used a coffin and outer cases in seven layers; the feudal lords, five; high officials, three; and ordinary gentlemen, two.

Mozi, founder of the Mohist school, now advocates making no music while alive, wearing no mourning clothes after death, and using only a paulownia coffin three inches thick, without an outer case. He presents this as a standard.

To teach others by this standard can hardly count as caring for them; to impose it on oneself can hardly count as cherishing oneself.

This does not mean the Mohist teachings should be rejected outright. Yet when it is time to sing, they do not sing as singing should be; when it is time to mourn, they do not grieve as grief should be; and when it is time for joy, they do not rejoice as joy should be. Can this really accord with ordinary human feelings?

The Dao of the Mohists demands that people toil while alive and observe meager funeral rites after death. Such a teaching is far too harsh.

This passage from the Zhuangzi criticizes the shortcomings of Mohist teachings while quoting Mozi’s praise of Yu the Great:

The Mohists’ teachings inspire worry and sorrow, and their practices are too difficult to carry out. They may not accord with the Way of the sages. These teachings go against the natural inclinations of people everywhere, who simply cannot bear them. Even if Mozi himself could put them into practice, what could he expect of everyone else? A teaching that runs counter to the hearts of people throughout the world is far from bringing about the Way of kings.

Mozi praised Yu the Great in these words: “Long ago, when Yu controlled the floods, he opened the waterways, joining the distant regions in all directions with the lands of the Nine Provinces. He managed three hundred major rivers and three thousand tributaries, along with countless smaller channels. Carrying baskets for earth and shovels in his own hands, Yu hurried among the rivers and streams of the world. The flesh on his calves wore away, and the hair on his legs was rubbed off. Braving driving rain and fierce winds, he finally brought peace to the lords of the ten thousand states. Even a great sage such as Yu had to labor so strenuously for the world.”

Through Mozi’s praise of Yu, Zhuangzi is in fact criticizing the Mohists for placing too much emphasis on ascetic hardship and frugality. From a Daoist perspective, Yu’s flood control was something he had no choice but to undertake, not an ideal way of life.

Later generations of Mohist followers wore coarse cloth and straw sandals. They practiced tirelessly day and night, taking self-denial as their highest principle. They said, “If you cannot live this way, you do not follow the way by which Yu the Great—the ancient sage king revered by the Mohists—governed the state, and you do not deserve to be called a Mohist disciple.”

The passage singles out several groups and figures among the Mohists: the five lords who were disciples of Xiangli Qin, and the southern Mohists Ku Huo, Yi Chi, Dengling Zi, and others. They all recited the Mohist Canons, but understood the texts differently and accused one another of being “heretical Mohists.” They attacked one another with debates over “hardness and whiteness, sameness and difference”—famous logical propositions of the School of Names—and countered one another with all sorts of unusual arguments.

Each Mohist group revered the “Juzi,” or Mohist leader, as a sage. They competed to become the Juzi’s successor, hoping to establish their own teachings as orthodox. Their dispute has continued to this day without resolution.

The phrase “hardness and whiteness, sameness and difference” refers to famous logical propositions from the Warring States period that explore the relation between an object’s properties and its existence. The Juzi was the highest leader of the Mohist organization, which maintained a strict system of succession from master to disciple.

Mozi, the founder of the Mohist school, and his disciple Qin Huali had sound ideas, but their methods were flawed. These methods could lead later Mohists to torment themselves until they had no flesh on their shins and no hair on their legs, treating this as a standard of progress. They excelled at throwing the world into disorder, but were poor at governing it. Yet Mozi truly cared for everyone under Heaven. Even when he could not realize his ideal, he would not give up, though his body grew gaunt. What a man of ability!

The following describes a different way of conducting oneself: do not let the ways of the world burden you; do not adorn yourself with external things; do not flatter others or compete with the crowd. Simply hope for peace throughout the world and a livelihood for the people, and be content when your own needs and those of others are met. In ancient Daoist teachings, there was a school that expressed its convictions in this way. Song Xing, a Daoist thinker, and Yin Wen, associated with the School of Names, heard of this tradition and admired it.

They made hats shaped like Mount Hua to display their aspirations. Mount Hua symbolized rising above worldly concerns in Daoist thought, so the “Mount Hua hat” here suggests a spiritual ideal of transcendence.

This passage comes from “Under Heaven,” the Miscellaneous Chapters of the Zhuangzi. It describes the teachings and way of life of Song Xing and the Yin Wen school during the Warring States period. In modern terms:

They held that understanding the myriad things begins with letting go of fixed preconceptions. When discussing the mind’s condition, they called it “the mind’s activity.” They treated others gently and made it their task to reconcile conflicts throughout the world, hoping to make these principles the foundation for how people lived. They taught that being insulted was no cause for shame, that popular disputes should be settled, attacks stopped, wars ended, and the world rescued from conflict.

They traveled among the states with these ideas, advising rulers above and educating the people below. Even when people across the world would not accept their teachings, they kept urging them again and again. That is why it was said of them: “They were disliked both above and below, yet still pressed their remonstrances.”

Even so, they thought too much about others and too little about themselves. They often said, “A meal of five pints of rice is enough.” Their teacher was so poor that even his meals were uncertain. His disciples went hungry, yet remained devoted to the world and traveled tirelessly, day and night.

This passage comes from the “Under Heaven” chapter of the Zhuangzi. It describes how ancient practitioners of the Dao conducted themselves. We can understand it in three parts.

The first asks, “Must I necessarily go on living?” This mocks the arrogance of people who believe they can save the world. It then presents the gentleman’s principles for living: he does not demand meticulous scrutiny of every detail, and he does not let external things take possession of his person. When something brings no benefit to the world, it is better to stop than to argue over it.

The second part describes their principles of cultivation. Outwardly, they called for an end to attacks and the laying down of arms; inwardly, they cultivated a clear mind and few desires. Whether dealing with great or small matters, or with subtle or broad principles, they acted only as far as was appropriate, then stopped.

The third part depicts the state of those who have attained the Dao. They are impartial and do not form factions; easygoing and free of favoritism; decisive without imposing their own views; responsive to things without being of two minds; unconcerned with looking ahead or back; and free of clever calculation. They make no distinctions among things and move along with the changes of nature. This is the essence of the ancient art of the Dao.

The phrase “stop attacks and lay down arms” means to halt aggression and bring wars to an end. “Few and shallow desires” means reducing one’s desires and remaining detached.

This passage discusses the views of three Warring States thinkers, Peng Meng, Tian Pian, and Shen Dao. They advocated the equality of all things and argued that:

Heaven, Earth, and the Great Dao each have their limits. Heaven can cover all things but cannot support them; Earth can support all things but cannot cover them; the Great Dao can embrace all things but cannot distinguish right from wrong. Recognizing that everything has both strengths and weaknesses, they argued that deliberate selection leaves something out, forced instruction fails to achieve its purpose, and only following the natural course of the Dao leaves nothing unaccounted for.

Shen Dao went further, advocating that people set aside personal cleverness and subjective preconceptions, and follow the natural patterns of things. He believed that striving to know what should not be known can harm the understanding that comes close to truth. He opposed making a show of one’s worthiness, mocked society’s reverence for sages, and urged people to free themselves from conventional rules of conduct.

Note: “lingtai” means following nature; “xiake” means going along with nature without deliberate action; “wu ren” means not deliberately taking on a responsibility; and “zongtuo” means freeing oneself from worldly constraints.

This passage describes the state of Wuwei (non-action) valued in Daoist thought.

Like a carpenter’s compass turning freely, one adapts to things as they are and lets go of attachment to right and wrong, seeking only to avoid trouble. One relies neither on schemes nor clever calculations, and does not fret over gains or losses, advance or retreat, but simply stands apart in composure. One moves when pushed and shifts when drawn, as naturally as a whirlwind circling, a feather drifting and turning, or a millstone rolling. Remaining whole without going against one’s nature, one moves and rests without fault, and so never incurs blame.

How can one reach this state? Things without knowledge or awareness suffer neither the troubles that come from trying to stand out nor the burdens of cleverness. Their every movement and stillness accord with the natural order, so they spend their whole lives pursuing no empty reputation.

Thus, the highest state is to be like something without awareness: there is no need to proclaim oneself a sage; even a clod of earth naturally accords with the Dao (the Way). Yet those who consider themselves outstanding mock this state, saying….

[Note: “The compass used by a carpenter” refers to a tool that turns freely, and serves as a metaphor for adapting to nature. “Standing apart in composure” describes a state of serene independence. “Clod” means a lump of earth, symbolizing the most unadorned natural existence.]

Shen Dao, a thinker of the Warring States period, taught principles that were not rules for the living to follow. They seemed instead like the reasoning of the dead, and struck people as strange.

Tian Pian, another thinker, was much the same. He studied under Peng Meng, a Daoist scholar, and learned from him the “teaching without words.”

Peng Meng’s teacher once said: “Those in ancient times who attained the Dao reached a state that affirmed and denied nothing. Their influence spread naturally, like the wind. Why would they need to teach through words?”

These thinkers often went against common sense and refused to follow the crowd, yet they could not escape one-sidedness. The Dao they spoke of was not the true Dao, and what they affirmed was bound to contain errors. Peng Meng, Tian Pian, and Shen Dao did not truly understand the Dao.

Still, for all that, they had each heard something of the Dao’s truth.

What follows describes the true state of cultivating the Dao: regard the root of the Dao as subtle and refined, and particular things as coarse and superficial. See the accumulation of knowledge as inadequate. Keep the mind calm and detached, and dwell alone in the company of the divine—the highest state of the Dao.

Among the methods of cultivating the Dao in ancient times, there was one school of thought.

When Guan Yin, a disciple of Laozi, and Laozi heard of this teaching, they greatly admired it. They took “constant absence and presence”—the enduring state of Wuwei (non-action)—as its foundation, and Taiyi, the primordial source of the universe, as its central principle. Outwardly, it appeared yielding and humble; in essence, it embraced all things without harming them.

Guan Yin said:

“Keep the mind free of attachment, and things will reveal themselves naturally. In action, be like flowing water; at rest, be clear as a mirror. Respond to things as promptly as an echo. In a haze, seem both present and absent; in stillness, remain clear and transparent. Live in harmony with all things: cling to the pursuit of them, and you will lose them. Never strive to be first; always follow along with others.”

Laozi said:

“Though you know the way of strength, remain in the posture of weakness, and be willing to become the stream of the world. Though you understand the glory of radiance, keep to a lowly position, and be willing to become the world’s valley.”

When everyone in the world was competing to get ahead, Laozi chose instead to fall behind. He said this was to “bear the world’s grime”—that is, to embrace all the imperfections of the world.

This passage from Zhuangzi speaks of the Daoist wisdom of how to live: while others pursue tangible things, he chooses emptiness—the Daoist ideal of being free from attachment. Because he does not hoard, he seems all the more abundant. He moves through life with ease, appearing to do nothing while seeing through the workings of clever schemes.

While people chase good fortune, he chooses to yield and accommodate, believing it is enough to avoid disaster. He takes depth as his foundation and simplicity—the Daoist ideal of a plain way of life—as his guiding principle. He says that what is too hard is easily broken, and what is too sharp soon grows dull. He treats all things with tolerance and does not deal harshly with others; this may be called the highest attainment.

Finally, the passage praises Guanyin, Laozi’s disciple, and Laozi, also known as Lao Dan, as ancient sages who attained the Dao and possessed profound, far-reaching wisdom.

The Great Dao (the Way) is still and empty, without fixed form; it transforms and flows on without end. Death and life accompany one another, and all things between Heaven and Earth exist together. The spirits—the forces of natural creation—are ceaselessly in motion. Vast and indistinct, they seem to go nowhere; dim and elusive, they seem to have no destination. They encompass all things in the world, yet settle nowhere in particular. The learning of the ancient practitioners of the Dao is reflected in these ideas.

When Zhuangzi heard of this way of thinking, he greatly admired it. He expressed it through doctrines that seemed strange and far-reaching, outlandish statements, and words that ranged beyond ordinary bounds. He often let his thoughts roam freely, without being constrained by convention or clinging to rigid opinions. He believed that everyone under Heaven was sunk in murk and confusion, making serious, solemn speech impossible. So he used spontaneous words to unfold the principles, drew on the words of the ancients to reveal the truth, and spread his ideas through parables.

He alone communed with the spiritual essence of Heaven and Earth and nature, yet showed no arrogance or contempt toward the myriad things and passed no judgment on right and wrong in the world.

When this book is brought into the world of ordinary life, its contents, though strange and splendid, flow together without violating reason. Its language, though uneven and varied, is wonderfully intricate and winding, and worthy of admiration.

The ideas it contains are rich and abundant, seeming to have no end. Above, it roams with the Creator—the power that brings all things into being and nurtures them. Below, it befriends beings who transcend life and death and have neither beginning nor end. At its root, it is vast and open, deep and far-reaching; in its purpose, it may be said to reconcile and connect things, advancing ever upward toward higher realms.

Even so, it can adapt to change and dissolve attachment to external things. Its principles are inexhaustible, and its source never runs dry. It is vast and profound, yet still has depths that cannot be fathomed.

Hui Shi, a thinker of the Warring States period, was widely learned, and his writings filled five carts. Yet his doctrines were confused and mixed, and his remarks often missed the point. In examining the principles of things, he said:

When we speak of what is greatest, it has no boundary; this is called the “Great One.” When we speak of what is smallest, it has no core; this is called the “Small One.” Things without thickness—abstract ideas, for example—cannot be piled up, yet they can extend a thousand miles. Heaven and earth are equally low; high mountains and marshes are equally level. The sun begins to decline as soon as it reaches its highest point, and all things begin moving toward death as soon as they are born.

The differences between what is broadly alike and what is narrowly alike are called “small similarities and differences.” When all things are wholly the same and wholly different, this is called “great similarity and difference.” The south is both without end and bounded; to arrive in Yue today is as if one had arrived yesterday. A linked ring that seems impossible to undo can, in fact, be undone. I know where the center of the world lies: north of Yan and south of Yue.

Care for all things widely, because heaven, earth, and all things are one. Hui Shi, a leading figure among the School of Names during the Warring States period, treated these ideas as the highest wisdom. He used them to observe the world and to enlighten those skilled in debate.

This passage uses a perspective of relativity to unsettle ordinary judgments about space, time, and value, emphasizing the underlying unity and relativity of all things.

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes paradoxical arguments that ancient debaters loved to discuss. They used propositions that seemed to contradict one another to challenge ordinary ways of understanding things.

They said, “Eggs have feathers”; “a chicken has three legs”; “the capital of Chu, Ying, contains the whole world”; “a dog can be called a sheep”; “horses lay eggs”; “tadpoles have tails”; “fire is not hot”; “mountains can speak”; “wheels do not roll over the ground”; “eyes cannot see things”; “fingers cannot touch objects”; “what is longest also has an end”; “a tortoise is longer than a snake”; “a carpenter’s square cannot make a square”; “a compass cannot make a circle”; “a mortise cannot fit a tenon”; and “the shadow of a flying bird has never moved.”

They went on to say, “A flying arrow is moving and not moving”; “a dog is not a canine”; “a yellow horse plus a black ox equals three”; “a white dog is black”; “an orphan foal has never had a mother”; and “if you cut a one-foot-long stick in half each day, you will never finish cutting it up.” These debaters argued over such claims with Hui Shi, the leading figure of the School of Names, and took endless delight in exploring questions that seemed absurd.

Note: These propositions reflect the School of Names’ way of thinking through the relation between sameness and difference. By disrupting ordinary logic, they explore philosophical questions such as the relation between names and things, and between motion and stillness. They are comparable to Zeno’s paradoxes in ancient Greece.

This passage tells the story of several famous debaters from the Warring States period.

Huan Tuan, Gongsun Long, and other skilled debaters could use fine-sounding words to sway people and change their minds. They might win an argument, but they could not truly win people over. That was the debaters’ limitation.

Huishi, a leading figure of the School of Names, spent his days arguing with others through sheer cleverness. He delighted in disputing strange and unusual claims with debaters from across the land. This was the skill he relied on. Huishi was deeply proud of his eloquence. He considered himself the most worthy and capable, and often exclaimed, “How vast are the wonders between Heaven and Earth!” Yet for all his drive to outdo others, he lacked a genuine way to govern the state.

In the south lived a strange man named Huang Liao, who asked Huishi: “Why doesn’t the sky collapse? Why doesn’t the earth sink? How are wind, rain, thunder, and lightning formed?” Huishi answered at once, without stopping to think. He spoke on and on, explaining the principles behind all things. His words seemed endless, and he still felt he had not said enough.

Through the examples of Huishi and others, this passage reflects Zhuangzi’s criticism of the School of Names and its fondness for sophistical argument. In Zhuangzi’s view, its thinkers could be eloquent, but they often lost touch with practical matters and became entangled in pointless disputes.

Huishi, a leading figure of the School of Names, was always fond of strange and unconventional arguments, treating claims that went against common sense as truths. He hoped to win fame by defeating others in debate. This way of thinking set him apart from ordinary people. His moral cultivation was weak, yet he spent all his energy disputing matters outside himself. The further he followed this path, the more mistaken it became.

Viewed from the perspective of Heaven, Earth, and the natural Dao, Huishi’s talent was like a mosquito or gadfly busily striving to no purpose. What use was it to him in understanding the Dao of all things? Mastering one particular field may be worthwhile, but to claim that it is more precious than the great Dao is to fall far short.

How regrettable! Huishi’s talent could have been excellent, but he never learned to quiet his mind. He became absorbed in chasing the appearances of things and could not turn back. It was like trying to catch an echo with a sound, or racing a shadow with one’s body: an effort that could lead nowhere. Truly pitiful.