《無能子》Vol. 3

Book of the Incompetent Sage, Volume II, Chapter Seven

First Response to Tong's Question

The Incompetent Sage lived in poverty, and the children of his brothers often sighed from cold and hunger. One day, Tong, the son of his elder brother, said to him: "We have endured hunger and cold for so many years. At night, I often dream of becoming an official, with carriages, horses, gold, and silver. In the dream, I am happy, but upon waking, I am miserable. How can I escape this suffering?" The Incompetent Sage replied: "If you are miserable by day and happy by night, isn’t that balance? Why change it?" Tong said: "But the happiness at night is only in dreams." The Incompetent Sage asked: "The houses you dwell in, the carriages you ride, the clothes you wear, the food you eat, the wives you love, the enemies you hate—all the emotions of joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure—are they any different from what you pursue while awake?" Tong answered: "No different." The Incompetent Sage continued: "Since there is no difference, how can you be sure that what you experience while asleep is a dream, and what you experience while awake is not? A human life lasts a hundred years, half spent in day, half in night; half in sorrow, half in joy. What is there to complain about?"

Those who can maintain inner emptiness and focus on the eternal Dao (the Way) cannot be exalted by kings and nobles, nor humbled by servants and laborers. Jewels and beauties cannot make them rich, nor plain tea and simple meals make them poor. In this way, sorrow and joy find no place to dwell. But if one is ruled by emotions and bound by the physical form, they will be swayed by external things. These external things—wealth, honor, and glory—are all destined to decay. Emotions, influenced by them, give rise to impermanent sorrow and joy. To entangle impermanent emotions with things that will inevitably decay is no different from dreaming while awake. A hundred years pass like a single night. If you can maintain inner emptiness and focus on the eternal, you will not care about hunger, cold, wealth, or poverty. But if you are ruled by emotions and bound by the physical form, then whether day or night, awake or asleep, it is all like a dream. Reflect on this carefully.

Second Response to Huayangzi’s Question

The Incompetent Sage’s good friend Huayangzi was recommended for an official post by a close acquaintance. Troubled, he asked the Incompetent Sage: "I have long studied the state of 'no-mind.' Accepting the post would go against my true nature, yet refusing it would betray my friend’s trust. What should I do?" The Incompetent Sage replied: "'No-mind' is not something you can deliberately learn. Whether you take the post or not, your hesitation itself is attachment—like teaching a blind man to peer into a well, it is absurd. One who truly embodies Wuwei (non-action) acts without restriction, while one who forces action is bound at every turn. Thus, the truest state is to follow what is natural."

The passage from Wunengzi expounds the Daoist wisdom of "acting without selfish intent" (wuxin er wei). At its core, it teaches that those truly awakened to the Dao act in complete harmony with nature, unburdened by personal desires or private motives.

Those who comprehend the eternal Dao (Dao) approach a state of selfless impartiality, for their innate nature is free from craving and ego. Ordinary people fish, gather firewood, farm, or herd with purposeful intent, whereas sages harbor no attachment even toward becoming emperors or ministers. Thus, sages withdraw into reclusion or enter public service according to circumstance: when preserving one's integrity aligns with the Dao, recluses like Xu You and Shan Juan embrace humble lives without shame; when the times demand benefiting the world, figures like Yao and Shun accept imperial authority without reluctance. Both choices fundamentally manifest this state of "no-mind" (wuxin).

When Yao and Shun ruled, they never grew arrogant despite their exalted status, thus governing effortlessly through non-action (wuwei). Faced with unworthy heirs like Dan Zhu and Shang Jun, they passed the throne to virtuous successors (Shun and Yu) as casually as discarding a wart or spittle, earning eternal reverence. The Duke of Zhou exemplifies this same principle: though a son of King Wen and brother of King Wu, his profound virtue (De) led him to serve as regent for the young King Cheng without ambition, thereby preserving the Zhou dynasty. These are models of achieving greatness through selfless action.

The author concludes: one who grasps this truth may engage in marketplace games or battlefield charges without hindrance—let alone official service. The key lies in acting with an unburdened mind.

In Answering the Questions of Yuzhongzi, the disciple complains of heartache and seeks remedy. Wunengzi guides him to sudden enlightenment by repeatedly asking, "Where is this heart?" The master praises this awakening as genuine comprehension of the Dao's essence—a luminous, undimmed spirit (Shen).

The allegory Discourse on Fish uses the legend of Dragon Gate: this treacherous gorge carved by Yu the Great transforms carp leaping upstream in spring into cloud-riding dragons. As minnows debate this phenomenon, a wise fish observes: all beings naturally differ in form—why envy another's fate? This subtly admonishes humans to abide by their innate roles, free from blind comparison.

The text from Wunengzi employs two allegorical tales to illuminate the distinction between natural spontaneity and artificial contrivance.

The first story speaks of aquatic creatures: when fish follow the natural flow of water, they move effortlessly—whether through turbulent waves or mirror-still surfaces. But the moment they attempt to alter their innate state, they struggle exhaustingly, much like how clouds and rain may seem to stir winds and waves, though they are merely the natural result of water's vapor rising. The fish remarks: "I have fins to swim, and you have wings to fly—each finds their rightful place. Why envy another?" This subtly conveys that humans should abide by their inherent nature rather than forcibly pursue what lies beyond it.

The second tale, the "Debate Between the Poisonous Snake and the Zhenniao (a legendary toxic bird)," is even more striking: when the snake is seized by the Zhenniao, it craftily argues, "People curse you as venomous, but it's only because you feast on me!" The Zhenniao retorts: "Your deliberate bites are true malice, while I devour you as an agent of Heaven's justice." Just as a blade that kills bears no guilt—the fault lies with the wielder. People raise me to guard against you precisely because they understand this principle—unintended harm can rid the world of evil, whereas deliberate malice is true wickedness. In the end, the Zhenniao consumes the snake, illustrating Heaven's clear justice: those who harbor harmful intent ultimately bring ruin upon themselves.

The conclusion drives the point home: even insects know better than to harm others with intent—how much more should humans? Together, these stories demonstrate that aligning with nature and acting without ulterior motives embodies the great Dao (the Way), while forced artifice and deliberate harm inevitably invite calamity. Among them, the analogy of "Is the weapon guilty, or the one who wields it?" remains profoundly thought-provoking even today.

The dialogue in The Book of the Uncarved Block (Wu Nengzi) explores the relationship between spiritual cultivation and natural disposition. It first examines the essence of "learning," pointing out that the true Way of sages does not lie in deliberate pursuit of external behavioral norms. What is called "conduct" arises spontaneously from within, while "refinement" is merely its outward manifestation. When one violates natural disposition ("the heart-mind emerging spontaneously"), forced artifice breeds hypocrisy, ultimately leading to chaos. Cultivation should return to the source, attaining a state of "no-mind" (wuxin), where speech and action naturally accord with the Dao without the need for deliberate study.

The subsequent discussion on sorrow reveals that melancholy stems from the elusive deluded mind. Since mental activity is inherently intangible, sorrow has no true foundation. Seeking solace in wine is as futile as trying to grasp wind or shadows—it only traps one in drunkenness.

Finally, the example of the illusionist in the Qin market illustrates the key to cultivation: when facing a cauldron of boiling oil, one must first completely forget the body's existence, regarding limbs as withered wood, for the fire-avoiding technique to work. The moment fear arises, the magic fails. This metaphor demonstrates that cultivation requires reaching a state where self and objects are both forgotten—any attachment leads to failure. The entire passage emphasizes returning to naturalness and relinquishing attachments as the essence of practice.

Wunengzi said to his disciples: Young ones should remember not to be overly attached to their physical forms. Just as illusionists can remain unharmed in boiling oil, how much more so can those who truly possess De (Virtue/Power)?

When Wunengzi stayed with the Jing family in Qin Village, one night an owl hooted in a tree. The Jing family grew worried and prepared to shoot it with a slingshot. Wunengzi dissuaded them: "People believe an owl's cry brings misfortune, but if misfortune truly comes because of its call, would killing it avert the disaster? When an owl calls before calamity strikes, perhaps it's faithfully warning people. Killing the warner might instead invite harm. Moreover, humans and animals alike are lives nurtured by Heaven and Earth - their different forms arise solely from receiving varying degrees of clear or turbid Qi (vital energy), not from celestial favoritism. Who decreed that owls must foretell doom? Who originated this ominous reputation? Neither Heaven nor Earth has spoken it, nor do owls themselves claim it - what basis is there for this belief? If the owl's ominous reputation is unfounded, then even the multicolored phoenix hailed as auspicious may not truly bring good fortune." The Jing family spared the owl, and no misfortune followed.

In Fan Village lived a handsome man about thirty years old. Sometimes he'd run wildly with disheveled hair, other times sit silently all day. When speaking, he'd deliberately call sheep "horses" and mountains "rivers," renaming everything. Villagers considered him mad and avoided him. Wunengzi initially thought him insane too, until one day meeting him in the woods and sighing: "Such a robust man, pity he's deranged." The man calmly replied: "I'm not ill." Wunengzi exclaimed: "Going bareheaded, disregarding routines, renaming objects, flouting village customs - isn't this madness?" The man responded: "Are neat attire, fixed schedules, family devotion, and neighborly respect truly human nature? They're merely ritual conventions invented by ancients, perpetuated until mistaken for natural law. Those who see through this and return to their true nature get labeled madmen. Tell me - who's truly sick?"

All things originally had no fixed names—these were forcibly assigned by humans. People called what is clear and light, rising upward, "heaven," and what is turbid and heavy, sinking downward, "earth." The light that illuminates the day is called the "sun," and the light that brightens the night is called the "moon." There are also winds, clouds, rain, dew, mist, smoke, frost, snow, mountains, rivers, seas, plants, trees, birds, and beasts—even distinctions like the civilized and the barbarian, the emperor and the nobility, scholars, farmers, artisans, merchants, servants, and criminals, as well as concepts of right and wrong, good and evil, crooked and upright, honor and disgrace—all were forcibly named by people of the past. After prolonged use, people forget that these names were originally human constructs. If someone had initially called the clear and light "earth" and the turbid and heavy "heaven," or named the light of day the "moon" and the light of night the "sun," people today would have followed suit just the same. Since names are human-made, and I too am human, why can’t I create my own? Just as I choose my clothing, hats, and daily habits according to my preferences, so too can I freely name the myriad forms of existence. Whether others consider me mad or not is unimportant—I don’t even care myself. It’s only natural that those who don’t understand would call me mad.

(On Weapons and Traps) Swords, spears, bows, arrows, and other weapons are meant for killing, while nets and snares are used to catch birds, beasts, fish, and insects. It was the sages who invented these tools, enabling humans to slaughter one another and capture flying and running creatures. Once people learned the methods of killing and trapping, they established laws demanding life for life and set prohibitions on hunting in mountains and marshes. But when the world declines, even fathers and sons, brothers and kin cannot protect each other, and birds, beasts, fish, and insects have no time to rear their young. The more laws are enacted, the more violence persists—precisely because weapons and traps taught people to destroy life. How could the inventors of these tools control the evil consequences that followed?

(On Coffins and Medicine) Coffins greatly assist the dead, but craftsmen make them not out of benevolence but for profit. They rejoice daily at the news of deaths—not out of hatred for the deceased, but because their livelihood depends on it. Doctors delight in seeing patients, hoping they can certainly cure them, yet this joy does not stem from compassionate virtue but from the pursuit of gain. Both coffin-makers and physicians have a helping intent—one rejoices in death bringing business, the other in healing bringing payment—but neither acts from love or hatred; they simply take what they need. Thus, when true Wuwei (non-action) and benevolent virtue govern the world, profit is not sought through coffins or medicine—helping with burials and curing illnesses arise naturally in the process.

(On Animal Instincts) Oxen and rams strike with their horns, horses trample with their hooves, snakes attack with their heads, and scorpions sting with their tails—all employ their innate strengths. Observing closely the natural instincts of these creatures...

This passage employs the metaphor of silkworms to expound the Daoist concept of "Wuwei" (non-action). Silkworms naturally spin silk and form cocoons—this is their innate nature, not done for the purpose of providing clothing for humans. When people boil cocoons to extract silk, it is not out of hatred for the silkworms but for their own benefit. Similarly, wild beasts bearing offspring and birds laying eggs are expressions of their natural endowments. Though silkworms suffer boiling for their ability to produce silk—seemingly unfortunate—this is actually their destined distinction.

Human acts of deliberate kindness do not necessarily bring blessings, nor do malicious deeds always invite calamity, for outcomes are often governed by the arrangements of fate. Therefore, the sage upholds the state of Wuwei. Just as ants and frogs at the bottom of a well, when shown the towering mountains where tigers and leopards roam or the vast oceans where whales and giant fish swim, would only doubt, for these sights lie beyond their comprehension. Likewise, those immersed in worldly desires find the principle of Wuwei perplexing, as it contradicts their habitual ways of thinking.

Thus, a father cannot transmit the Dao of Wuwei to his son, nor can an elder brother teach it to his younger brother. People remain ensnared by desires until death, and those who return to their original nature and transcend life and death are exceedingly rare. Alas! The choice between Wuwei and indulgence lies within oneself: Wuwei brings tranquility and joy, while indulgence leads to restlessness and sorrow. Ordinary people, blinded by ingrained habits, never awaken to this truth. Only the wise can break free from the shackles of these habits.