Chuang Tzu and his friend Hui Tzu were ambling about in the Garden of Perpetual Harmony one fine day. Their conversation ranged from how lovely the weather had been lately to the art of compounding herbal preparations for longevity. Hui Tzu was of the opinion that one could not only live a long and healthy life by ingesting these formulas, many of which contained poisonous minerals, but could attain immortality. Chuang Tzu, on the other hand, was of the opinion that what he called “all this grasping after immortality” was a waste of time and utter foolishness.
“We are already immortal,” he would say to his friend. “As we are all part of the great unending and constantly transforming Tao, our immortality is assured. There is no need to ingest noxious brews or stretch ourselves into strange and painful contortions in order to attain immortality. Just live your life in accordance with the Tao and your immortality will manifest of itself.”
But Hui Tzu was not convinced. “If that were true,” he argued, “then every blockhead that lives is really an immortal.”
“Just so,” answered Chuang Tzu.
At one point, when they were crossing the Hao river, which was spanned by an ancient and lovely moon bridge, Chuang Tzu said to his friend, “These fish we see below us come out and swim about so leisurely. This is the joy of fishes.”
Hui Tzu turned to him and said, “How do you know what fish enjoy? You’re not a fish!”
“You are not me,” answered Chuang Tzu, “so how do you know what I know about the joy of fish?”
“Well,” said his friend somewhat indignantly, “I am not you and so do not know what you know. But, as you are certainly not a fish, there is no possible way that you can know what fish enjoy.”
“Ah, then,” said Chuang Tzu, who was letting his fingers play slowly in the water as little fishes came up to nibble them. “Let us go back to the beginning of our conversation. When you asked me ‘How can you know what fish enjoy?’ you knew that I knew. The reason I know this is by walking over the river!”
As was the usual case in these kinds of conversations, Hui Tzu glared at his friend, who was languidly moving his fingers in the water and chuckling to himself.
CHUANG TZU
Anger and joy,
happiness and sorrow,
anxiety and hope,
laziness and willfulness,
enthusiasm and insolence
– like music arising from
emptiness or mushrooms
sprouting in the dark
– they spring before us,
night and day.
We do not know from
where they come.
Stop thinking about it!
How can we ever
understand it
all in one day?
CHUANG TZU
