《莊子》Vol. 8

The Zhuangzi, “Webbed Toes”: A Plain Language Interpretation

Being born with six fingers or with toes joined together is indeed something one is born with, but it goes beyond the normal form. A flesh growth or wart on the body does indeed grow from the body, but it goes against our natural nature. Those who promote benevolence and righteousness to excess set them alongside the five internal organs. This is no fundamental principle of the Great Dao.

Joined toes are simply useless extra flesh; an extra finger is simply a useless additional digit. Those who impose benevolence and righteousness on the relations among the five organs take such conduct to extremes, making excessive use of their cleverness and ingenuity.

So those who seek visual pleasures to excess are dazzled by the many colors and become absorbed in elaborate designs. The intricate blue-and-yellow patterns on ceremonial robes are an example of this. Li Zhu, the man of legendary eyesight, is an example too. Those who seek auditory pleasures to excess are thrown into confusion by the many musical tones.

Those who pursue musical beauty to excess, such as Shi Kuang, the celebrated musician of the Spring and Autumn period, insist on the grand, elaborate tones of Huangzhong and Dalu, the highest forms of ancient court music. Isn’t this going too far? They are like people who forcefully break off a tree’s extra branches, distorting its natural character for the sake of fame and leading everyone to chase blindly after standards they can never attain, like reeds played on a mouth organ.

Those who become obsessed with sophistry, such as Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu, both figures associated with Confucianism, pile up words like stacked tiles and knotted cords. They spend their days probing the “hard and white” and “same and different” debates of the School of Names, exhausting themselves in arguments over empty talk. Isn’t that absurd too? Yang Zhu and Mo Di, representatives of the various schools of thought, are much the same. These are all needless, useless byways, not the purest truths in the world.

The truly pure truth lies in not going against life’s natural state. What should be joined together is not excessive; what should branch apart is not deformed. What is long is not too long, and what is short is not deficient. A wild duck’s legs, for instance, are short; to lengthen them by force would only harm it.

A crane’s legs are long by nature, but cutting them short would cause it pain. In the same way, the innate qualities of things—their natural nature—should not be forcibly changed. What is long should not be cut short, and what is short should not be made longer. Then there will be no distress or worry.

You often say that benevolence and righteousness—the core moral ideals of Confucianism—are part of human nature. But why, then, are those called benevolent and righteous always so troubled?

Consider people born with toes joined together: forcing their toes apart makes them cry out in pain. Those born with an extra finger will also weep if it is bitten off. One case has something extra, the other something lacking, yet both bring the same pain.

In the world today, those who speak of benevolence stare anxiously at the state of the age, while those who reject benevolence go against their nature in pursuit of wealth and status. So I ask: how can benevolence and righteousness be part of human nature? Since the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties, why have people everywhere been so noisy and restless?

This passage uses images from nature to criticize Confucian moral rules as contrary to human nature and to advocate following what is natural. The examples of joined toes and an extra finger show that forcibly changing one’s innate nature brings pain; they indirectly suggest that Confucian ritual teachings likewise damage what is natural.

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes the natural state of all things.

The first part says that using tools such as compasses and straightedges to correct things damages their original form. Forcing things into place with ropes, glue, and lacquer destroys their innate nature. Likewise, using ritual and music to regulate people, or benevolence and righteousness to pacify their hearts, goes against the natural state of things.

The second part points out that everything under Heaven has its own nature. In a truly natural state, a crooked thing needs no hook to straighten it, a straight thing needs no ink line to guide it, and a circle needs no compass. A square needs no carpenter’s square; things need no glue to join them or ropes to bind them. All things grow naturally without knowing why they grow, and naturally find their proper place without knowing how they came to do so.

The passage concludes that this principle has remained unchanged from ancient times to the present. If so, why should benevolence and righteousness force their way into the natural Dao (the Way), like glue, lacquer, and ropes?

A minor delusion can make people lose their way; a major one can alter their nature. How do we know this? Ever since the ancient sage ruler Shun promoted benevolence and righteousness as a way to govern the world, people everywhere have busied themselves pursuing benevolence and righteousness. Is this not a case of benevolence and righteousness altering human nature?

Let me explain. Since the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties, no one in the world has been free from having their nature changed by external things. Ordinary people sacrifice themselves for profit; scholars sacrifice themselves for reputation; officials sacrifice themselves for their clans; and sages sacrifice themselves for the world. Their pursuits differ and they bear different names, but in harming their nature and sacrificing themselves, they are fundamentally alike.

It is like the story of Zang and Gu, who went out together to tend sheep and both lost their flocks. When asked what Zang had been doing, it turned out he had been reading from bamboo slips, so absorbed in his books that he forgot his duty.

When someone asked Gu, an ancient recluse, what he did in his spare time, he replied that he passed the time playing chess. Though the two men—the recluse and the person who questioned him—spent their time differently, they were alike in having lost their original nature.

Boyi, a worthy man of the late Shang dynasty, died beneath Mount Shouyang for the sake of his reputation. Robber Zhi, a legendary bandit, died on the heights of Dongling for the sake of wealth and profit. They died for different reasons, but in harming their lives and damaging their nature they were exactly alike. Why insist that Boyi was right and Robber Zhi wrong?

People everywhere sacrifice themselves for one pursuit or another. Those who sacrifice themselves for benevolence and righteousness are called gentlemen; those who sacrifice themselves for money are called petty people. Yet the nature of their sacrifice is the same. Some are called gentlemen and others petty people, but when judged by the harm they do to life and nature, Robber Zhi and Boyi are no different. Why distinguish between them as gentlemen and petty people?

Moreover, those who bind their nature within benevolence and righteousness are like horses tethered to a post: they have lost their natural nature.

Zhuangzi’s passage considers what truly counts as “good,” “keen hearing,” and “clear sight.” He says:

Even if someone is as accomplished in benevolence and righteousness as Zeng Shen, the model of filial piety, or Shi Yu, the loyal minister of Wei, I would not call that “good.” If someone confines their nature to the pleasures of the five flavors—sour, sweet, bitter, pungent, and salty—even if they are as discerning as Yu’er, the celebrated gourmet of old, I would not call that “good.” If someone is absorbed in the music of the five tones—gong, shang, jue, zhi, and yu—even if they are as skilled as Shi Kuang, the renowned musician, I would not call that “keen hearing.” If someone is fixated on the beauty of the five colors—green, red, yellow, white, and black—even if they see as sharply as Li Zhu, the legendary figure with exceptional eyesight, I would not call that “clear sight.”

By “good,” I mean preserving one’s natural nature, not practicing benevolence and righteousness. By “keen hearing,” I mean listening to one’s own inner self, not merely hearing sounds from the outside world. By “clear sight,” I mean seeing one’s own true nature, not merely seeing external things.

Those who do not know themselves but attend only to the outside world, who cannot find satisfaction within but pursue external things, are gaining what others regard as a gain, rather than truly gaining themselves. They are conforming to other people’s standards instead of being at ease with their own true nature.

Anyone who keeps conforming to others’ standards and cannot be at ease with their own nature has, in essence, strayed from the right path—whether they are an extreme example like Dao Zhi, the great bandit, or Bo Yi, the renowned sage. I, Zhuangzi, still fall short in cultivating my character, so I dare neither to proclaim my commitment to benevolence and righteousness nor to indulge my desires.

This passage from the Zhuangzi means that even people of low rank do not dare to act with reckless excess or stray from the proper Way.

Here, “excessive and deviant” refers to words and actions that are uncontrolled and contrary to the Way. Zhuangzi’s point is that when those in higher positions lead by example, those below naturally avoid crossing the line. This reflects the Daoist idea of Wuwei (non-action): social order is maintained through moral influence rather than coercion.