《莊子》Vol. 4

The first section of Chapter Four of the Zhuangzi, “In the World of Men,” recounts a conversation between Yan Hui, Confucius’s most accomplished disciple, and Confucius, whose courtesy name was Zhongni.

Yan Hui went to see Confucius to take his leave. Confucius asked him, “Where are you going?” Yan Hui replied, “I’m planning to go to the state of Wei.” Confucius then asked, “What do you intend to do there?”

Yan Hui, a disciple of Confucius, said, “I have heard that the ruler of Wei is in the prime of life and acts with unchecked authority. He governs recklessly, yet cannot see his own faults. He sends the people off to die as he pleases. The dead are so numerous throughout the country that they cannot be counted, like reeds in a marsh. The people truly have nowhere left to turn.”

Yan Hui continued, “I once heard you say, Master, ‘A well-governed state may be left alone; a troubled state should be helped, just as a physician’s doorway is always crowded with patients.’ I would like to consider how to address the situation using what I have learned. Perhaps I can help the state improve.”

Confucius sighed when he heard this. “Alas! If you go so rashly, you will likely suffer punishment.”

This exchange shows the wisdom about how to conduct oneself that Zhuangzi conveys through Confucius. Yan Hui wants to use the Confucian way of benevolence and righteousness to remonstrate with a tyrant, while Confucius foresees the danger of such direct counsel. His response suggests that troubled times call for greater wisdom in how one acts. The image of a physician’s doorway crowded with patients shows that the more disorderly a place is, the more it needs help—but one must also take care in how that help is offered.

The Dao (the Way), the fundamental pattern of the universe, abhors disorder above all. Once things fall into disorder, they multiply; as they multiply, confusion follows. Confusion brings trouble, and when trouble builds to its extreme, it can no longer be remedied.

The enlightened sages of antiquity first brought peace to their own minds before seeking to influence others. If they had not yet cultivated stability within themselves, how could they have the strength to correct the conduct of violent people?

Do you know why people’s virtue declines and their cleverness arises? Virtue declines when people pursue fame; cleverness arises from mutual rivalry. Fame is a tool for undermining one another, and cleverness is a weapon in conflict. Both are perilous and cannot be used to perfect one’s character.

A person may have profound virtue and be steadfastly trustworthy, yet still fail to be in harmony with others. A person may be widely renowned and avoid competing with others, yet still fail to reach their hearts. To forcefully preach the norms of benevolence, righteousness, and virtue to violent people in such circumstances is to flaunt one’s own goodness in a way they despise.

Such a person is called a “bringer of calamity”—someone who brings disaster upon others. If you proclaim that you cherish the worthy and despise the unworthy, others may in turn regard you as a source of calamity. If you merely cater to the ruler and never offer remonstrance, the nobles and ministers will exploit this weakness to display their own cleverness.

Your gaze will grow restless, your expression will feign calm, your words will become flattering, and your face will take on a fawning look. In time, you may even come to accept this falsehood inwardly. This is like trying to put out fire with fire or stop water with water: it only makes matters worse. If you go along with this way of doing things from the start and fail to restrain yourself, you will ultimately die at the hands of a tyrant because no one trusts you.

In ancient times, Xia Jie had the loyal minister Guan Longfeng killed, and King Zhou of Shang had Prince Bigan killed. They met this fate because they cultivated their own virtue and cared about the people’s suffering, thereby angering the tyrants who stood above them.

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi: In the Human World. It tells of Yan Hui and Confucius discussing how to deal with a tyrant. Here is my modern interpretation:

Long ago, Emperor Yao attacked the small states of Congzhi and Xu’ao, and Yu the Great attacked the Youhu clan. Those lands were reduced to ruins, their people suffered, and their rulers were put to death. The attackers kept waging war, insatiably pursuing material gain. These were people in pursuit of fame and profit. Surely you have heard of them? Even sages struggle to overcome the desire for fame and profit—how much harder it must be for you!

Still, since you have come to discuss this with me, I imagine you have your own thoughts. Why not tell me what they are?

Yan Hui replied, “If I remain upright and inwardly still—that is, keep my mind clear and free of desire—and apply myself diligently and with single-minded focus to self-cultivation, would that do?”

Background: This exchange reflects Zhuangzi’s criticism of rulers who wage war relentlessly, as well as the Daoist practice of cultivating oneself through inward stillness. Yan Hui’s proposal to “be upright and empty, diligent and single-minded” expresses a characteristic Daoist approach to self-cultivation, emphasizing a clear mind and focused attention.

“This will never do!”

Some people always carry themselves with an air of superiority, their moods shifting from anger to delight and back again. Ordinary people dare not oppose them, so they exploit others’ fear to satisfy their own desires. Such posturing cultivates only a slight degree of virtue, the “virtue that grows day by day”; it does not even amount to basic moral cultivation, much less the attainment of great virtue. People like this cling stubbornly to their own views and cannot adapt. They appear to agree with others while inwardly rejecting them. How can this possibly do?

“So I choose to be upright within and accommodating in outward conduct, and to cultivate virtue by looking upward. Those who are upright within take Heaven as their companion. They understand that the Son of Heaven and they themselves are both subjects of Heaven. Why, then, should they care whether others praise what they say? Why should they mind whether others call it good or bad?”

Here, “taking Heaven as one’s companion” is an important concept in Zhuangzi: it means that people should model themselves on the Dao of nature. “Virtue that grows day by day” refers to outward virtue accumulated through deliberate effort, in contrast to the great virtue that arises naturally through Wuwei (non-action).

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes three ways of conducting oneself.

The first is “taking Heaven as one’s companion”: following the Dao of nature. Such a person’s heart is as unspoiled as a child’s. They act in keeping with the natural course of things, without deliberate contrivance, much like a child who is guileless and innocent.

The second is “taking other people as one’s companions”: going along with social customs. This person observes social norms outwardly—for example, clasping their hands or kneeling when meeting a superior. These are the established courtesies of officials, practiced by everyone, and the person does not dare neglect them. Though they follow the crowd, no one can find fault with their conduct.

The third is “taking the ancients as one’s companions”: following the example of the people of old. Such a person may seem to be teaching others, but in fact is passing on the wisdom of the ancients. They understand that these principles have existed since long ago and are not their own invention. In this way, they can speak frankly without inviting criticism.

Through these three ways of conducting oneself, Zhuangzi explores how to act in different circumstances: one can preserve one’s natural character, adapt to social norms, and learn from the wisdom of the ancients. The key is to understand the principles behind these actions rather than imitate them mechanically.

This passage comes from the “In the Human World” chapter of the Zhuangzi. It records a discussion about the art of governing between Confucius (whose courtesy name was Zhongni) and his disciple Yan Hui.

Confucius first exclaims, “No! That will never do!” He criticizes Yan Hui’s proposed method of governing as too cumbersome and impractical. “If you lay down too many laws and regulations that cannot be put into practice,” he says, “you may just manage to keep things going, but that is as far as you will get. How could this achieve the moral transformation of the people? You are still clinging to your own views.”

Yan Hui respectfully replies, “I can think of nothing better. Please, Master, show me the way.”

Only then does Confucius say, “First, undertake a period of purification; then I will tell you. Do you think that acting with deliberate intent can make things easy to achieve? Heaven itself does not approve of those who take matters lightly.”

This exchange expresses a central idea of the Zhuangzi tradition: it rejects deliberate, artificial governance and advocates following the natural course of things. Here, Confucius serves as a voice through whom Zhuangzi expresses this view. His demand that Yan Hui first undertake purification suggests that sound governance begins with cleansing the heart-mind and letting go of preconceived ideas.

Yan Hui, a disciple of Confucius, said, “My family is poor, and for several months now I have not drunk wine or eaten meat. Does that count as keeping a fast?”

Confucius replied, “That is only the formal fast observed for sacrifices. It is not a true fasting of the mind.”

Yan Hui then asked, “May I ask what fasting of the mind means?”

Confucius explained, “Gather your attention. Do not listen with your ears; listen with your mind. Go further: do not listen with your mind; listen with your Qi (vital energy). The ears can hear sounds, and the mind can grasp appearances. Qi, however, is empty, still, and clear, able to receive all things. Only the Dao (the Way), the source of the cosmos, can gather in emptiness. This state of stillness and clarity is what it means to fast the mind.”

In this passage, Confucius teaches “fasting of the mind” (xinzhai), an important Daoist practice. It emphasizes experiencing the Great Dao through emptiness, stillness, and Wuwei (non-action), and differs fundamentally from the outward fast of simply abstaining from food.

Yan Hui, a disciple of Confucius, said:

“Before I understood the Dao (the Way), there truly seemed to be a solid ‘self.’ But once I truly understood the Dao, I no longer felt that a ‘self’ existed. Could this be called a state of emptiness?”

Confucius replied:

“You have put it very well. Let me explain. You can enter the confines of ordinary life—the constraints of the world—and remain untroubled by empty fame. Speak when people are willing to hear the Dao; keep silent when they are not. Do not try to stand out, and do not cling to your own views. Let your mind rest in natural Wuwei (non-action), and you will be close to the Dao.”

“It is easy to leave no trace at all, but difficult to walk without leaving a trace. It is easy to pretend when others are directing you, but hard to feign what accords with Heaven’s Way. We have heard that one can fly with wings, but not that one can fly without them. We have heard of using wisdom to understand, but not of understanding without wisdom. Look at an empty room: it is precisely because the room is vacant that light can fill it.” This image suggests that only a clear and empty mind can comprehend the Dao.

This dialogue reflects the state of spiritual practice Zhuangzi called “sitting in forgetfulness,” and emphasizes that by emptying the self one can unite with the Dao. “An empty room gives birth to brightness” later became an important Daoist allusion, suggesting that wisdom and clarity arise when the mind is kept open and empty.

A plain-language interpretation of the Zhuangzi:

The first passage (4.1.33):

Good fortune reaches a peak and then comes to a stop. If it does not stop, this is called “sitting in a gallop”: the body sits still while the spirit races onward. When someone can turn the senses of hearing and sight inward and set aside the workings of the intellect, even spirits and ghosts will come and attach themselves to that person—how much more so will other people! This is the principle behind the transformations of all things. It was central to how the sage rulers Yu the Great and Shun governed the world, and it was the lifelong guiding principle of Fuxi, an ancient ruler, and Jiqu, a worthy of antiquity. How much more should ordinary people follow it!

The second passage (4.2.1–4.2.2):

Yegong Zigao, a senior official of Chu, was about to go as an envoy to Qi. He sought Confucius’s advice, saying, “The king of Chu has entrusted me with a very important mission. Qi treats envoys with great courtesy on the surface, but in practice it is slow to act. Even ordinary people are hard to persuade—how much more so the rulers of other states! I am deeply worried about this. You once told me: ‘Whether a matter is large or small, few succeed fully without following the Way. If a matter does not succeed…’”

Note: The original passage in the second section is incomplete. It mainly recounts Yegong Zigao’s conversation with Confucius before his diplomatic mission, reflecting Zhuangzi’s thought about human relations and political wisdom.

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes the dilemma of how to conduct oneself in the world.

The first section says: If you cannot get something done, you will draw the censure of the world—this is a human predicament. If you do get it done, you risk upsetting Yin-Yang (yin-yang), here meaning the harm caused by exhausting body and mind. Only someone with true De (virtue and power) can remain inwardly calm amid success and failure.

The second section speaks in the first person: “I eat coarse food and do not seek fine flavors; when I cook over the fire, I do not try to keep cool”—a description of a simple life. “Yet I receive my lord’s command in the morning, and by evening I am so anxious that I need cold water to cool myself. That is because I am burning with worry inside! Before I have even begun the task, my body and mind are already out of balance. If I fail, I will also have to face the world’s criticism. As a minister, I can hardly bear these two burdens. Can you advise me?”

Confucius (Zhongni) replied: “There are two great principles in the world: one is Heaven’s mandate, referring to the bonds of family; the other is duty, referring to social responsibility. A child’s love for their parents is Heaven’s mandate: that bond remains forever in the heart. A minister’s service to their ruler is duty …”

A note on the terms: In Daoist thought, “the harm of Yin-Yang” often refers to an imbalance of body and mind. “Accepting coarse food without complaint” describes a willingness to live simply. The phrase about cooking without seeking coolness uses a word for tending the cooking fire.

This passage from the Zhuangzi explores fundamental principles for navigating human relationships in the world. Wherever one may be, it is impossible to escape the constraints of hierarchical bonds between ruler and subject—these form the most basic laws of heaven and earth. When serving one’s parents, one should not pick and choose the circumstances but devote oneself wholeheartedly to their care, for this is the highest expression of filial piety. When serving one’s ruler, one should not select tasks but offer complete loyalty, as this represents the pinnacle of devotion.

Those who cultivate their inner selves (De) remain composed in the face of joy, anger, sorrow, or pleasure. They understand that certain things cannot be changed and accept them with equanimity, as if they were destined—this is the supreme state of Virtue (De). As subjects and children, there are inevitably many matters one must undertake despite reluctance. By acting according to circumstances while setting aside personal gain or loss, how could there be any room left for clinging to life or fearing death?

Confucius (whose given name was Qiu) further elaborates: In human interactions, those who are close should be treated with sincerity, while those more distant should be addressed with words that convey loyalty—ensuring one’s message is faithfully transmitted. Through the three relationships of ruler-subject, parent-child, and friendship, this passage illustrates the Daoist wisdom of "accepting things as though they were fate" (an zhi ruo ming). It emphasizes the importance of maintaining inner detachment within the unalterable structures of social bonds.

This passage from the Zhuangzi discusses the dangers of carrying messages between people.

The first section says that passing on someone’s words when they are happy or angry is the hardest thing in the world. People often exaggerate when they speak in joy, praising too highly; when angry, they tend to disparage too harshly. Exaggerated words of this kind cannot be trusted. When they are passed on, the person who hears them will not fully believe them, and in the end the messenger is the one who suffers. As the Fayan says, “Pass on only what is plain and true, and do not pass on exaggerated words; that is how to keep yourself safe.”

The second section uses two examples to explain how things develop. Those skilled at contests of cunning and strength may begin openly and honorably, but often end by resorting to schemes and trickery. Those who observe the proper courtesies while drinking may begin with good discipline, but often end in disorder. This is how things tend to go: they begin in dignity and end in coarseness; they begin simply and must end in complexity.

Here, “Yang” and “Yin” are important Daoist concepts: Yang represents openness and upright conduct, while Yin represents hidden calculation. “Reaching the extreme” means that a development has gone as far as it can.

Zhuangzi uses vivid metaphors here to discuss how to speak and act. He says that words are like ripples stirred by wind on the water, while actions are like the loss of a tangible thing. Ripples can easily disturb the surface; losing something can easily lead to danger.

Anger often has no clear cause, and clever, flattering speech is often biased. When a beast is dying, it cries out in all sorts of ways, its breath thrown into disorder. In such moments, ill intent arises within. If you make demands of others too harshly, they are bound to develop ill will, though people often do not understand why. If they do not understand the cause, how can they foresee the outcome?

So the Fayan says: “Do not alter commands at will; do not force matters to completion.” Both changing commands and forcing things through are dangerous. Good achievements depend on the accumulation of time, while once something harmful has been done, it is often too late to put right. How could one fail to be cautious?

The best way to conduct oneself is to respond to things in the world so that the mind and spirit remain at ease, and to cultivate one’s inner life amid circumstances one cannot avoid. In this way, one reaches the highest state.

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi: “In the Human World” (Renjian Shi). It presents a conversation in which Yan He, appointed tutor to the crown prince of Duke Ling of Wei, seeks advice from the worthy Qu Boyu. Here is my modern-language interpretation:

As he prepares to become the crown prince’s tutor, Yan He asks Qu Boyu with deep concern, “There is a person here with a naturally violent disposition—the crown prince. If I let him do as he pleases, he may endanger the state. If I try to restrain him with rules, I may put myself in danger. His quick wit lets him spot other people’s faults, but he doesn’t understand why they make them. What should I do?”

Qu Boyu replies, “It is good that you asked. Be alert and cautious, and begin by setting yourself straight. Outwardly, it is best to accommodate him; inwardly, keep your composure. Still, each of these approaches carries its own risks.”

By way of background, this exchange conveys the Daoist art of living in the world: “outwardly adapting while inwardly remaining at peace.” Faced with a violent ruler, one should neither confront him head-on nor become complicit in his behavior. Instead, one should maintain inner detachment while accommodating him outwardly where appropriate. This wisdom about how to conduct oneself in the world appears throughout the “In the Human World” chapter.

This passage from the Zhuangzi explores the wisdom of dealing with others through several vivid comparisons.

The first part says that if you force yourself to conform to others (“shaping yourself to fit and entering in”), your spirit may collapse and your conduct become disordered: “you become deranged and undone, broken and thrown off balance.” If your heart is at ease but you make a show of it (“your heart is at peace, and you display it”), you may end up chasing praise and reputation, or even invite calamity.

The second part uses three parallel phrases, each meaning “go along with them,” to show how to respond in keeping with what is natural. If the other person is as guileless as an infant, be guileless with them. If they have no sense of boundaries—“no ridges or furrows”—then have none with them. If they are free and unrestrained, with no limits, be free and unrestrained with them too. By understanding how things work, you can avoid fault.

The third part invokes the story of a mantis trying to stop a cart. The mantis raises its forearms against the wheel’s track, an effort beyond its strength, even if it looks impressive. Be on your guard: continually displaying your own strengths and forcing a direct confrontation brings you close to disaster.

Have you heard the story of the tiger keeper? He never dared feed a tiger live prey, for fear of stirring its instinct to hunt. Nor would he give it an entire animal carcass, afraid that the tiger might grow angry as it tore at the flesh. The keeper always judged precisely when the tiger was hungry or full, and soothed its irritable temperament. Though a tiger is of a different kind from a human, it will please the person who cares for it: this is what happens when its nature is accommodated. Those who are harmed by tigers, by contrast, have all acted against their nature.

Consider, too, those who love horses. They use bamboo baskets to catch the horses’ manure and large clam shells to collect their urine. Yet if they see a mosquito biting a horse and suddenly slap at it, startling the animal, the horse may bite through its bit, smash its bridle, or kick them in the chest. Their intentions may be kind, but their methods are misguided; their affection can cause harm. How could they fail to be cautious?

A carpenter named Shi was traveling to the state of Qi. When he came to Quyuan, he saw an oak tree worshipped as a shrine tree. It was so large that it could shelter several thousand oxen, and its trunk was so wide that a hundred people, arms outstretched, could barely encircle it.

This story from the Zhuangzi tells of a remarkably tall tree. It grew to ten ren—about eighteen meters—before it began to branch, and had more than a dozen limbs large enough to make boats from. A crowd gathered around it, bustling like a marketplace, but a master carpenter named Shi, known as Carpenter Shi, walked past without so much as a glance.

His apprentice hurried after him and asked, “I’ve studied carpentry under you for a long time, but I’ve never seen such fine timber. Why did you walk past without even looking?”

Carpenter Shi replied, “Don’t get me started! This is useless, worthless wood. A boat made from it would sink; a coffin would rot quickly; utensils would soon break; doors and windows would ooze resin; and pillars would be eaten by insects. It can grow so tall and live so long precisely because it is of no use.”

(Note: This is the famous Zhuangzi parable illustrating “the use of what seems useless.” In Daoist thought, what appears useless can often preserve itself, suggesting the wisdom of preserving one’s life through Wuwei (non-action). Carpenter Shi was a renowned craftsman of his time. His judgment reflects worldly standards of value, while the tree’s long life reveals the Daoist wisdom of survival.)

A sacred oak tree revered as the village earth deity appeared in a dream and said: "How dare you compare me to ordinary trees? Would you equate me with those so-called 'useful' specimens? Consider the hawthorns, pears, oranges and pomelos - when their fruits ripen, they're plucked with branches torn and broken. Their sturdy limbs get snapped while tender shoots are wrenched away. Precisely because they're deemed useful, they suffer such misery, never reaching their natural lifespan, all because worldly people exploit them. This is the fate of all things valued by society.

But I - I've devoted myself to cultivating apparent uselessness. Though nearly felled many times, I've now achieved this aspiration, which constitutes my greatest usefulness. Had I been conventionally useful like other trees, could I have grown to such magnificent heights? Moreover, we're both manifestations of the Dao's natural processes - why judge each other by utilitarian standards? You, a nearly-perished idler, how could you comprehend the value of the useless tree?"

[This fable of the oak tree illustrates Zhuangzi's philosophy of "the usefulness of the useless." In the Zhuangzi's view, what appears useless often achieves self-preservation, while worldly value judgments frequently contradict the natural Dao.]

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi and tells several parables about “the use of what seems useless.” Here is a modern interpretation:

(Sections 4.4.7–4.4.8)

After Carpenter Shi awoke, he told his disciples about his dream. One asked, “If the tree seeks to be useless, why become a village altar tree, a sacred tree used in ritual?” The carpenter replied, “Enough! That tree is only temporarily lodged there, and people who do not understand it criticize it. If it had not become an altar tree, it would probably have been cut down long ago. It preserves its life in an unusual way, yet people judge it by worldly standards. Isn’t that absurd?”

(Section 4.5.1)

When Nanbo Ziqi, a Daoist figure in the Zhuangzi, was traveling in Shangqiu, he saw an extraordinary tree so large that a thousand four-horse chariots could rest in its shade. Ziqi said, “What kind of tree is this? It must be made of remarkable timber!” But when he looked up at its branches, he saw they were so twisted they could not serve as beams; when he looked down at its trunk...

Here, Zhuangzi uses stories about trees to express the Daoist idea that what seems useless can have great use. Trees that appear useless are able to preserve their lives, suggesting that what the world calls useful may instead bring misfortune. An altar tree was a tree associated with the ancient worship of the Earth deity and was considered sacred, so it could not be cut down.

This passage tells a parable about the usefulness of being useless.

Ziqi mentions a great tree with a twisted, split trunk, not even fit to make a coffin. Lick its leaves, and your mouth will break out in sores; breathe in its scent, and you will become as if drunk and delirious, unable to recover for three days.

Ziqi sighs: “This truly is a useless tree! It has grown so large precisely because it is useless. The realized person is the same: seemingly useless, they are able to preserve themselves.”

The passage then gives an example from the Jing region of the state of Song, where catalpa, cypress, and mulberry trees grow well. Trees as thick as an arm are cut down to make posts for tying up monkeys. Those three or four arm spans around are felled to make beams for grand houses. Those seven or eight arm spans around are cut down by wealthy families to make coffin boards.

Through the fate of these trees, the passage shows that being “useful” can invite harm, while being “useless” can preserve one’s life. It expresses the Daoist wisdom of Wuwei (non-action) and keeping to simplicity. Here, a “span” refers to an ancient measure: the circumference of a tree held in both arms.

These two passages from the Zhuangzi explore the idea that “uselessness can be useful.”

The first passage says that trees that grow too splendidly often fail to live out their natural lifespans: they are cut down by axes along the way. This is the harm that comes with being “useful.” That is why, in sacrificial rites, people deliberately choose an ox with a white mark on its forehead, a pig with an upturned snout, or someone with hemorrhoids to offer to the River God. What shamans regard as inauspicious, a person who has attained the Dao sees as a great blessing.

The second passage describes a disabled man named Zhili Shu. His chin is tucked near his navel, his shoulders rise above his head, his hair sticks up toward the sky, and his internal organs and blood vessels are all crowded into his upper body. His thighs and ribs press against each other. Yet he earns a living mending clothes, and supports a family of ten by helping people sift chaff and winnow grain. When the authorities call men up for military service, he can stride openly through the streets without being seized. When they assign labor duties, his disability reliably exempts him.

Through these two stories, Zhuangzi suggests that what people consider a flaw or “uselessness” may be precisely what preserves life. A form that seems defective can avoid the harms of the world. This is the Daoist wisdom of making great use of what appears useless.

In the first passage, when those in power distributed relief grain to the sick, a man with a physical disability received three zhong (an ancient measure of volume) of grain and ten bundles of firewood. Zhuangzi said: “People with physical disabilities can still support themselves and live out their years in peace. How much more so those whose ‘Virtue is incomplete’—that is, those who do not meet society’s standards!”

In the second passage, when Confucius was in Chu, Jieyu, a recluse known as the Madman of Chu, passed by his gate singing: “Phoenix, oh Phoenix! How your Virtue has declined! The flourishing age to come cannot be awaited; the well-ordered age of the past cannot be brought back. When the world follows the Dao, sages achieve their work; when the world has lost the Dao, sages can only preserve their lives.”

Jieyu continued singing: “In this age, it is enough simply to escape punishment. Good fortune is as light as a feather, yet no one knows how to carry it; disaster is as heavy as the earth, yet no one knows how to avoid it. Enough, enough—stop displaying your Virtue to others! Danger, danger—it is like pacing within a circle drawn on the ground! Thorns everywhere, thorns everywhere…” (“Miyang” means thorns.)

The final words, “Miyang, miyang,” conclude Jieyu’s song. The thorns evoke a perilous age; the original text ends abruptly here, leaving the image to linger.

Don’t get in my way as I walk!

Crooked and winding path,

don’t hurt my feet!

(The passage then uses images from nature.) Trees on the mountains are cut down because they grow so beautifully; oil is heated and strained because it can burn. Cinnamon trees are felled because their bark can be eaten; lacquer trees are cut and tapped for their sap.

People know the usefulness of what is useful, but do not understand that what seems useless may have a greater use. Here Zhuangzi advances the philosophy that “uselessness can be of great use”: displaying one’s talents too openly may invite trouble.