I have a big tree,
The kind they call a “stinktree.”
The trunk is so distorted,
So full of knots,
No one can get a straight plank
Out of it. The branches are so crooked
You cannot cut them up
In any way that makes sense.
There it stands beside the road.
No carpenter will even look at it.
Such is your teaching—
Big and useless.
Chuang Tzu replied:
Have you ever watched the wildcat
Crouching, watching his prey—
This way it leaps, and that way,
High and low, and at last
Lands in the trap.
But have you seen the yak?
Great as a thundercloud
He stands in his might.
Big? Sure,
He can’t catch mice!
So for your big tree. No use?
Then plant it in the wasteland
In emptiness.
Walk idly around,
Rest under its shadow;
No axe or bill prepares its end.
No one will ever cut it down.
Useless? You should worry!
[i. 7.]
A man of Sung did business
In silk ceremonial hats.
He traveled with a load of hats
To the wild men of the South.
The wild men had shaved heads,
Tattooed bodies.
What did they want
With silk
Ceremonial hats?
Yao had wisely governed
All China.
He had brought the entire world
To a state of rest.
After that, he went to visit
The four Perfect Ones
In the distant mountains
Of Ku Shih.
When he came back
Across the border
Into his own city
His lost gaze
Saw no throne.
[i. 6.]
When great Nature sighs, we hear the winds
Which, noiseless in themselves,
Awaken voices from other beings,
Blowing on them.
From every opening
Loud voices sound. Have you not heard
This rush of tones?
There stands the overhanging wood
On the steep mountain:
Old trees with holes and cracks
Like snouts, maws, and ears,
Like beam-sockets, like goblets,
Grooves in the wood, hollows full of water:
You hear mooing and roaring, whistling,
Shouts of command, grumblings,
Deep drones, sad flutes.
One call awakens another in dialogue.
Gentle winds sing timidly,
Strong ones blast on without restraint.
Then the wind dies down. The openings
Empty out their last sound.
Have you not observed how all then trembles and subsides?
Yu replied: I understand:
The music of earth sings through a thousand holes.
The music of man is made on flutes and instruments.
What makes the music of heaven?
Master Ki said:
Something is blowing on a thousand different holes.
Some power stands behind all this and makes the sounds die down.
What is this power?
[ii. I.]
Great knowledge sees all in one.
Small knowledge breaks down into the many.
When the body sleeps, the soul is enfolded in One.
When the body wakes, the openings begin to function.
They resound with every encounter
With all the varied business of life, the strivings of the heart;
Men are blocked, perplexed, lost in doubt.
Little fears eat away their peace of heart.
Great fears swallow them whole.
Arrows shot at a target: hit and miss, right and wrong.
That is what men call judgment, decision.
Their pronouncements are as final
As treaties between emperors.
O, they make their point!
Yet their arguments fall faster and feebler
Than dead leaves in autumn and winter.
Their talks flows out like piss,
Never to be recovered.
They stand at last, blocked, bound, and gagged,
Choked up like old drain pipes.
The mind fails. It shall not see light again.
Pleasure and rage
Sadness and joy
Hopes and regrets
Change and stability
Weakness and decision
Impatience and sloth:
All are sounds from the same flute,
All mushrooms from the same wet mould.
Day and night follow one another and come upon us
Without our seeing how they sproutl!
Enough! Enough!
Early and late we meet the “that”
From which “these” all growl
If there were no “that”
There would be no “this.”
If there were no “this”
There would be nothing for all these winds to play on.
So far can we go.
But how shall we understand
What brings it about?
One may well suppose the True Governor
To be behind it all. That such a Power works
I can believe. I cannot see his form.
He acts, but has no form.
[ii. 2.]
Tao is obscured when men understand only one of a pair of opposites, or concentrate only on a partial aspect of being. Then clear expression also becomes muddled by mere wordplay, affirming this one aspect and denying all the rest.
Hence the wrangling of Confucians and Mohists; each denies what the other affirms, and affirms what the other denies. What use is this struggle to set up “No” against “Yes,” and “Yes” against “No”? Better to abandon this hopeless effort and seek true light!
There is nothing that cannot be seen from the standpoint of the “Not-I.” And there is nothing which cannot be seen from the standpoint of the “I.” If I begin by looking at anything from the viewpoint of the “Not-I,” then I do not really see it, since it is “not I” that sees it. If I begin from where I am and see it as I see it, then it may also become possible for me to see it as another sees it. Hence the theory of reversal (9) that opposites produce each other, depend on each other, and complement each other.
However this may be, life is followed by death; death is followed by life. The possible becomes impossible; the impossible becomes possible. Right turns into wrong and wrong into right—the flow of life alters circumstances and thus things themselves are altered in their turn. But disputants continue to affirm and to deny the same things they have always affirmed and denied, ignoring the new aspects of reality presented by the change in conditions.
The wise man therefore, instead of trying to prove this or that point by logical disputation, sees all things in the light of direct intuition. He is not imprisoned by the limitations of the for the viewpoint of direct intuition is that of both “I” and “Not-I.” Hence he sees that on both sides of every argument there is both right and wrong. He also sees that in the end they are reducible to the same thing, once they are related to the pivot of Tao.
When the wise man grasps this pivot, he is in the center of the circle, and there he stands while “Yes” and “No” pursue each other around the circumference.
The pivot of Tao passes through the center where all affirmations and denials converge. He who grasps the pivot is at the still-point from which all movements and oppositions can be seen in their right relationship. Hence he sees the limitless possibilities of both “Yes” and “No.” Abandoning all thought of imposing a limit or taking sides, he rests in direct intuition. Therefore I said: “Better to abandon disputation and seek the true light!”
[ii. 3.]
When we wear out our minds, stubbornly clinging to one partial view of things, refusing to see a deeper agreement between this and its complementary opposite, we have what is called “three in the morning.”
What is this “three in the morning?”
A monkey trainer went to his monkeys and told them:
“As regards your chestnuts: you are going to have three measures in the morning and four in the afternoon.”
At this they all became angry. So he said: “All right, in that case I will give you four in the morning and three in the afternoon.” This time they were satisfied.
The two arrangements were the same in that the number of chestnuts did not change. But in one case the animals were displeased, and in the other they were satisfied. The keeper had been willing to change his personal arrangement in order to meet objective conditions. He lost nothing by it!
The truly wise man, considering both sides of the question without partiality, sees them both in the light of Tao.
This is called following two courses at once. (10)
[ii. 4.]
Prince Wen Hui’s cook
Was cutting up an ox.
Out went a hand,
Down went a shoulder,
He planted a foot,
He pressed with a knee,
The ox fell apart
With a whisper,
The bright cleaver murmured
Like a gentle wind.
Rhythm! Timing!
Like a sacred dance,
Like “The Mulberry Grove,”
Like ancient harmonies!
“Good work!” the Prince exclaimed,
“Your method is faultless!”
“Method?” said the cook
Laying aside his cleaver,
“What I follow is Tao
Beyond all methods!
“When I first began
To cut up oxen
I would see before me
The whole ox
All in one mass.
“After three years
I no longer saw this mass.
I saw the distinctions.
“But now, I see nothing
With the eye. My whole being
Apprehends.
My senses are idle. The spirit
Free to work without plan
Follows its own instinct
Guided by natural line,
By the secret opening, the hidden space,
My cleaver finds its own way.
I cut through no joint, chop no bone.
“A good cook needs a new chopper
Once a year—he cuts.
A poor cook needs a new one
Every month—he hacks!
“I have used this same cleaver
Nineteen years.
It has cut up
A thousand oxen.
Its edge is as keen
As if newly sharpened.
“There are spaces in the joints;
The blade is thin and keen:
When this thinness
Finds that space
There is all the room you need!
It goes like a breeze!
Hence I have this cleaver nineteen years
As if newly sharpened!
“True, there are sometimes
Tough joints. I feel them coming,
I slow down, I watch closely,
Hold back, barely move the blade,
And whump! the part falls away
Landing like a clod of earth.
“Then I withdraw the blade,
I stand still
And let the joy of the work
Sink in.
I clean the blade
And put it away.”
Prince Wan Hui said,
“This is it! My cook has shown me
How I ought to live
My own life!”
[iii. 2.]
Kung Wen Hsien saw a maimed official
Whose left foot had been cut off—
A penalty in the political game!
“What kind of man,” he cried, “is this one-footed oddity?
How did he get that way? Shall we say
Man did this, or heaven?”
“Heaven,” he said, “this comes from
Heaven, not from man.
When heaven gave this man life, it willed
He should stand out from others
And sent him into politics
To get himself distinguished.
See! One foot! This man is different.”
The little marsh pheasant
Must hop ten times
To get a bite of grain.
She must run a hundred steps
Before she takes a sip of water.
Yet she does not ask
To be kept in a hen run
Though she might have all she desired
Set before her.
She would rather run
And seek her own little living
Uncaged.
[iii. 3.]
Yen Hui, the favorite disciple of Confucius, came to take leave of his Master.
“Where are you going?” asked Confucius.
“I am going to Wei.”
“And what for?”
“I have heard that the Prince of Wei is a lusty full-blooded fellow and is entirely self-willed. He takes no care of his people and refuses to see any fault in himself. He pays no attention to the fact that his subjects are dying right and left. Corpses lie all over the country like hay in a frield. The people are desperate. But I have heard you, Master, say that one should leave the state that is well governed and go to that which is in disorder. At the door of the physician there are plenty of sick people. I want to take this opportunity to put into practice what I have learned from you and see if I can bring about some improvement in conditions there.”
“Alas!” said Confucius, “you do not realize what you are doing. You will bring disaster upon yourself. Tao has no need of your eagerness, and you will only waste your energy in your misguided efforts. Wasting your energy you will become confused and then anxious. Once anxious, you will no longer be able to help yourself. The sages of old first sought Tao in themselves, then looked to see if there was anything in others that corresponded with Tao as they knew it. But if you do not have Tao yourself, what business have you spending your time in vain efforts to bring corrupt politicians into the right path? … However, I suppose you must have some basis for your hope of success. How do you propose to go about it?”
Yen Hui replied: “I intend to present myself as a humble, disinterested man, seeking only to do what is right and nothing else: a completely simple and honest approach. Will this win his confidence?”
“Certainly not,” Confucius replied. “This man is convinced that he alone is right. He may pretend outwardly to take an interest in an objective standard of justice, but do not be deceived by his expression. He is not accustomed to being opposed by anyone. His way is to reassure himself that he is right by trampling on other people. If he does this with mediocre men, he will all the more certainly do it to one who presents a threat by claiming to be a man of high qualities. He will cling stubbornly to his own way. He may pretend to be interested in your talk about what is objectively right, but interiorly he will not hear you, and there will be no change whatever. You will get nowhere with this.”
Yen Hui then said: “Very well. Instead of directly opposing him, I will maintain my own standards interiorly, but outwardly I will appear to yield. I will appeal to the authority of tradition and to the examples of the past. He who is interiorly uncompromising is a son of heaven just as much as any ruler. I will not rely on any teaching of my own, and will consequently have no concern about whether I am approved or not. I will eventually be recognized as perfectly disinterested and sincere. They will all come to appreciate my candor, and thus I will be an instrument of heaven in their midst.
“In this way, yielding in obedience to the Prince as other men do, bowing, kneeling, prostrating myself as a servant should, I shall be accepted without blame. Then others will have confidence in me, and gradually they will make use of me, seeing that I desire only to make myself useful and to work for the good of all. Thus I will be an instrument of men.
“Meanwhile, all I have to say will be expressed in terms of ancient tradition. I will be working with the sacred tradition of the ancient sages. Though what I say may be objectively a condemnation of the Prince’s conduct, it will not be I who say it, but tradition itself. In this way, I will be perfectly honest, and yet not give offense. Thus I will be an instrument of tradition. Do you think I have the right approach?”
“Certainly not,’ said Confucius. “You have too many different plans of action, when you have not even got to know the Prince and observed his character! At best, you might get away with it and save your skin, but you will not change anything whatever. He might perhaps superficially conform to your words, but there will be no real change of heart.”
Yen Hui then said: “Well, that is the best I have to offer. Will you, Master, tell me what you suggest?”
“You must fast!” said Confucius. “Do you know what I mean by fasting? It is not easy. But easy ways do not come from God.”
“Oh,” said Yen Hui, “I am used to fasting! At home we were poor. We went for months without wine or meat. That is fasting, is it not?”
“Well, you can call it ‘observing a fast’ if you like,” said Confucius, “but it is not the fasting of the heart.”
“Tell me,” said Yen Hui, “what is fasting of the heart?”
Confucius replied: “The goal of fasting is inner unity. This means hearing, but not with the ear; hearing, but not with the understanding; hearing with the spirit, with your whole being. The hearing that is only in the ears is one thing. The hearing of the understanding is another. But the hearing of the spirit is not limited to any one faculty, to the ear, or to the mind. Hence it demands the emptiness of all the faculties. And when the faculties are empty, then the whole being listens. There is then a direct grasp of what is right there before you that can never be heard with the ear or understood with the mind. Fasting of the heart empties the faculties, frees you from limitation and from preoccupation. Fasting of the heart begets unity and freedom.”
“I see,” said Yen Hui. “What was standing in my way was my own self-awareness. If I can begin this fasting of the heart, self-awareness will vanish. Then I will be free from limitation and preoccupation I Is that what you mean?”
“Yes,” said Confucius, “that’s it! If you can do this, you will be able to go among men in their world without upsetting them. You will not enter into conflict with their ideal image of themselves. If they will listen, sing them a song. If not, keep silent. Don’t try to break down their door. Don’t try out new medicines on them. Just be there among them, because there is nothing else for you to be but one of them. Then you may have success!
“It is easy to stand still and leave no trace, but it is hard to walk without touching the ground. If you follow human methods, you can get away with deception. In the way of Tao, no deception is possible.
“You know that one can fly with wings: you have not yet learned about flying without wings. You are familiar with the wisdom of those who know, but you have not yet learned the wisdom of those who know not.
“Look at this window: it is nothing but a hole in the wall, but because of it the whole room is full of light. So when the faculties are empty, the heart is full of light. Being full of light it becomes an influence by which others are secretly transformed.”
[iv. I.]
There were three friends
Discussing life.
One said:
“Can men live together
And know nothing of it?
Work together
And produce nothing?
Can they fly around in space
And forget to exist
World without end?”
The three friends looked at each other
And burst out laughing.
They had no explanation.
Thus they were better friends than before.
Then one friend died.
Confucius
Sent a disciple to help the other two
Chant his obsequies.
The disciple found that one friend
Had composed a song.
While the other played a lute,
They sang:
“Hey, Sung Hu!
Where’d you go?
Hey, Sung Hu!
Where’d you go?
You have gone
Where you really were.
And we are here—
Damn it! We are here!”
Then the disciple of Confucius burst in on them and
Exclaimed: “May I inquire where you found this in the
Rubrics for obsequies,
This frivolous carolling in the presence of the departed?”
The two friends looked at each other and laughed:
“Poor fellow,” they said, “he doesn’t know the new liturgy!”
[vi. II.]
Lao Tan lay dead
Chin Shih attended the wake.
He let out three yells
And went home.
One of the disciples said:
Were you not the Master’s friend?
“Certainly,” he replied.
“Is it then sufficient for you
To mourn no better than you have just done?”
“In the beginning,” said Chin Shih, “I thought
He was the greatest of men.
No longer! When I came to mourn
I found old men lamenting him as their son,
Young men sobbing as though for their mother.
How did he bind them to himself so tight, if not
By words he should never have said
And tears he should never have wept?
“He weakened his true being,
He laid on load upon
Load of emotion, increased
The enormous reckoning:
He forgot the gift God had entrusted to him:
This the ancients called ‘punishment
For neglecting the True Self.’
“The Master came at his right time
Into the world. When his time was up,
He left it again.
He who awaits his time, who submits
When his work is done,
In his life there is no room
For sorrow or for rejoicing.
Here is how the ancients said all this
In four words:
‘God cuts the thread.’
“We have seen a fire of sticks
Burn out. The fire now
Burns in some other place. Where?
Who knows? These brands
Are burnt out.”
[iii. 4.]
When Confucius was visiting the state of Chu,
Along came Kieh Yu
The madman of Chu
And sang outside the Master’s door:
“O Phoenix, Phoenix,
Where’s your virtue gone?
It cannot reach the future
Or bring the past again!
When the world makes sense
The wise have work to do.
They can only hide
When the world’s askew.
Today if you can stay alive
Lucky are you:
Try to survive!
“Joy is feather light
But who can carry it?
Sorrow falls like a landslide
Who can parry it?
“Never, never
Teach virtue more.
You walk in danger,
Beware! Beware!
Even ferns can cut your feet—
When I walk crazy
I walk right:
But am I a man
To imitate?”
The tree on the mountain height is its own enemy.
The grease that feeds the light devours itself.
The cinnamon tree is edible: so it is cut down!
The lacquer tree is profitable: they maim it.
Every man knows how useful it is to be useful.
No one seems to know
How useful it is to be useless.
[iv. 9.]
What is meant by a “true man”?
The true men of old were not afraid
When they stood alone in their views.
No great exploits. No plans.
If they failed, no sorrow.
No self-congratulation in success.
They scaled cliffs, never dizzy,
Plunged in water, never wet,
Walked through fire and were not burnt.
Thus their knowledge reached all the way
To Tao.
The true men of old
Slept without dreams,
Woke without worries.
Their food was plain.
They breathed deep.
True men breathe from their heels.
Others breathe with their gullets,
Half-strangled. In dispute
They heave up arguments
Like vomit.
Where the fountains of passion
Lie deep
The heavenly springs
Are soon dry.
The true men of old
Knew no lust for life,
No dread of death.
Their entrance was without gladness,
Their exit, yonder,
Without resistance.
Easy come, easy go.
They did not forget where from,
Nor ask where to,
Nor drive grimly forward
Fighting their way through life.
They took life as it came, gladly;
Took death as it came, without care;
And went away, yonder,
Yonder!
They had no mind to fight Tao.
They did not try, by their own contriving,
To help Tao along.
These are the ones we call true men.
Minds free, thoughts gone
Brows clear, faces serene.
Were they cool? Only cool as autumn.
Were they hot? No hotter than spring.
All that came out of them
Came quiet, like the four seasons.
[vi. I.]
Four men got in a discussion. Each one said:
“Who knows how
To have the Void for his head
To have Life as his backbone
And Death for his tail?
He shall be my friend!”
At this they all looked at one another
Saw they agreed,
Burst out laughing
And became friends.
Then one of them fell ill
And another went to see him.
“Great is the Maker,” said the sick one,
“Who has made me as I am!
“I am so doubled up
My guts are over my head;
Upon my navel
I rest my cheek;
My shoulders stand out
Beyond my neck;
My crown is an ulcer
Surveying the sky;
My body is chaos
But my mind is in order.”
He dragged himself to the well,
Saw his reflection, and declared,
“What a mess
He has made of me!”
His friend asked:
“Are you discouraged?”
“Not at all! Why should I be?
If He takes me apart
And makes a rooster
Of my left shoulder
I shall announce the dawn.
If He makes a crossbow
Of my right shoulder
I shall procure roast duck.
If my buttocks turn into wheels
And if my spirit is a horse
I will hitch myself up and ride around
In my own wagon!
“There is a time for putting together
And another time for taking apart.
He who understands
This course of events
Takes each new state
In its proper time
With neither sorrow nor joy.
The ancients said: ‘The hanged man
Cannot cut himself down.’
But in due time Nature is stronger
Than all his ropes and bonds.
It was always so.
Where is there a reason
To be discouraged?”
[vi. 9.]
Fishes are born in water
Man is born in Tao.
If fishes, born in water,
Seek the deep shadow
Of pond and pool,
All their needs
Are satisfied.
If man, born in Tao,
Sinks into the deep shadow
Of non-action
To forget aggression and concern,
He lacks nothing
His life is secure.
Moral: “All the fish needs
Is to get lost in water.
All man needs is to get lost
In Tao.”
[vi. II.]
The South Sea King was Act-on-Your-Hunch.
The North Sea King was Act-in-a-Flash.
The King of the place between them was
No-Form.
Now South Sea King
And North Sea King
Used to go together often
To the land of No-Form:
He treated them well.
So they consulted together
They thought up a good turn,
A pleasant surprise, for No-Form
In token of appreciation.
“Men,” they said, “have seven openings
For seeing, hearing, eating, breathing,
And so on. But No-Form
Has no openings. Let’s make him
A few holes.”
So after that
They put holes in No-Form,
One a day, for seven days.
And when they finished the seventh opening,
Their friend lay dead.
Lao Tan said: “To organize is to destroy.”
[vii. 7.]
For security against robbers who snatch purses, rifle luggage, and crack safes,
One must fasten all property with ropes, lock it up with locks, bolt it with bolts.
This (for property owners) is elementary good sense.
But when a strong thief comes along he picks up the whole lot,
Puts it on his back, and goes on his way with only one fear:
That ropes, locks, and bolts may give way.
Thus what the world calls good business is only a way
To gather up the loot, pack it, make it secure
In one convenient load for the more enterprising thieves.
Who is there, among those called smart,
Who does not spend his time amassing loot
For a bigger robber than himself?
In the land of Khi, from village to village,
You could hear cocks crowing, dogs barking.
Fishermen cast their nets,
Ploughmen ploughed the wide fields,
Everything was neatly marked out
By boundary lines. For five hundred square miles
There were temples for ancestors, altars
For field-gods and corn-spirits.
Every canton, county, and district
Was run according to the laws and statutes—
Until one morning the Attorney General, Tien Khang Tzu,
Did away with the King and took over the whole state.
Was he content to steal the land? No,
He also took over the laws and statutes at the same time,
And all the lawyers with them, not to mention the police.
They all formed part of the same package.
Of course, people called Khang Tzu a robber,
But they left him alone
To live as happy as the Patriarchs.
No small state would say a word against him,
No large state would make a move in his direction,
So for twelve generations the state of Khi
Belonged to his family. No one interferred
With his inalienable rights.
The invention
Of weights and measures
Makes robbery easier.
Signing contracts, settings seals,
Makes robbery more sure.
Teaching love and duty
Provides a fitting language
With which to prove that robbery
Is really for the general good.
A poor man must swing
For stealing a belt buckle
But if a rich man steals a whole state
He is acclaimed
As statesman of the year.
Hence if you want to hear the very best speeches
On love, duty, justice, etc.,
Listen to statesmen.
But when the creek dries up
Nothing grows in the valley.
When the mound is levelled
The hollow next to it is filled.
And when the statesmen and lawyers
And preachers of duty disappear
There are no more robberies either
And the world is at peace.
Moral: the more you pile up ethical principles
And duties and obligations
To bring everyone in line
The more you gather loot
For a thief like Khang.
By ethical argument
And moral principle
The greatest crimes are eventually shown
To have been necessary, and, in fact,
A signal benefit
To mankind.
[ix. 2.]
I know about letting the world alone, not interfering. I do not know about running things. Letting things alone: so that men will not blow their nature out of shape! Not interfering, so that men will not be changed into something they are not! When men do not get twisted and maimed beyond recognition, when they are allowed to live—the purpose of government is achieved.
Too much pleasure? Yang has too much influence. Too much suffering? Yin has too much influence. When one of these outweighs the other, it is as if the seasons came at the wrong times. The balance of cold and heat is destroyed; the body of man suffers.
Too much happiness, too much unhappiness, out of due time, men are thrown off balance. What will they do next? Thought runs wild. No control. They start everything, finish nothing. Here competition begins, here the idea of excellence is born, and robbers appear in the world.
Now the whole world is not enough reward for the “good,” nor enough punishment for the “wicked.” Since now the world itself is not big enough for reward or punishment. From the time of the Three Dynasties men have been running in all directions. How can they find time to be human?
You train your eye and your vision lusts after color. You train your ear, and you long for delightful sound. You delight in doing good, and your natural kindness is blown out of shape. You delight in righteousness, and you become righteous beyond all reason. You overdo liturgy, and you turn into a ham actor. Overdo your love of music, and you play corn. Love of wisdom leads to wise contriving. Love of knowledge leads to faultfinding. If men would stay as they really are, taking or leaving these eight delights would make no difference. But if they will not rest in their right state, the eight delights develop like malignant tumors. The world falls into confusion. Since men honor these delights, and lust after them, the world has gone stone-blind.
When the delight is over, they still will not let go of it: they surround its memory with ritual worship, they fall on their knees to talk about it, play music and sing, fast and discipline themselves in honor of the eight delights. When the delights become a religion, how can you control them?
The wise man, then, when he must govern, knows how to do nothing. Letting things alone, he rests in his original nature. He who will govern will respect the governed no more than he respects himself. If he loves his own person enough to let it rest in its original truth, he will govern others without hurting them. Let him keep the deep drives in his own guts from going into action. Let him keep still, not looking, not hearing. Let him sit like a corpse, with the dragon power alive all around him. In complete silence, his voice will be like thunder. His movements will be invisible, like those of a spirit, but the powers of heaven will go with them. Unconcerned, doing nothing, he will see all things grow ripe around him. Where will he find time to govern?
[xi. I–2.]
My Master said:
That which acts on all and meddles in none—is heaven …
The Kingly Man realizes this, hides it in his heart,
Grows boundless, wide-minded, draws all to himself.
And so he lets the gold lie hidden in the mountain,
Leaves the pearl lying in the deep.
Goods and possessions are no gain in his eyes,
He stays far from wealth and honor.
Long life is no ground for joy, nor early death for sorrow.
Success is not for him to be proud of, failure is no shame.
Had he all the world’s power he would not hold it as his own,
If he conquered everything he would not take it to himself.
His glory is in knowing that all things come together in One
And life and death are equal.
[xii. 2.]
My Master said: Tao, how deep, how still its hiding place! Tao, how pure! Without this stillness, metal would not ring, stone when struck would give no answer. The power of sound is in the metal and Tao in all things. When they clash, they ring with Tao, and are silent again. Who is there, now, to tell all things their places? The king of life goes his way free, inactive, unknown. He would blush to be in business. He keeps his deep roots down in the origin, down in the spring. His knowledge is enfolded in Spirit and he grows great, great, opens a great heart, a world’s refuge. Without forethought he comes out, in majesty. Without plan he goes his way and all things follow him. This is the kingly man, who rides above life.
This one sees in the dark, hears where there is no sound. In the deep dark he alone sees light. In soundlessness he alone perceives music. He can go down into the lowest of low places and find people. He can stand in the highest of high places and see meaning. He is in contact with all beings. That which is not, goes his way. That which moves is what he stands on. Great is small for him, long is short for him, and all his distances are near.
[xii. 3.]
The Yellow Emperor went wandering
To the north of the Red Water
To the Kwan Lun mountain. He looked around
Over the edge of the world. On the way home
He lost his night-colored pearl.
He sent out Science to seek his pearl, and got nothing.
He sent Analysis to look for his pearl, and got nothing.
He sent out Logic to seek his pearl, and got nothing.
Then he asked Nothingness, and Nothingness had it!
The Yellow Emperor said:
“Strange, indeed: Nothingness
Who was not sent
Who did no work to find it
Had the night-colored pearl!”
[xii. 4.]
In the Beginning of Beginnings was Void of Void, the Nameless.
And in the Nameless was the One, without body, without form.
This One—this Being in whom all find power to exist—
Is the Living.
From the Living, comes the Formless, the Undivided.
From the act of this Formless, come the Existents, each according
To its inner principle. This is Form. Here body embraces and cherishes spirit.
The two work together as one, blending and manifesting their
Characters. And this is Nature.
But he who obeys Nature returns through Form and Formless to the Living,
And in the Living
Joins the unbegun Beginning.
The joining is Sameness. The sameness is Void. The Void is infinite.
The bird opens its beak and sings its note
And then the beak comes together again in Silence.
So Nature and the Living meet together in Void.
Like the closing of the bird’s beak
After its song.
Heaven and earth come together in the Unbegun,
And all is foolishness, all is unknown, all is like
The lights of an idiot, all is without mind!
To obey is to close the beak and fall into Unbeginning.
[xii. 8.]
In the age when life on earth was full, no one paid any special attention to worthy men, nor did they single out the man of ability. Rulers were simply the highest branches on the tree, and the people were like deer in the woods. They were honest and righteous without realizing that they were “doing their duty.” They loved each other and did not know that this was “love of neighbor.” They deceived no one yet they did not know that they were “men to be trusted.” They were reliable and did not know that this was “good faith.” They lived freely together giving and taking, and did not know that they were generous. For this reason their deeds have not been narrated. They made no history.
[xii. 13.]
When a hideous man becomes a father
And a son is born to him
In the middle of the night
He trembles and lights a lamp
And runs to look in anguish
On that child’s face
To see whom he resembles.
[xii. 14.]
With wood from a hundred-year-old tree
They make sacrificial vessels,
Covered with green and yellow designs.
The wood that was cut away
Lies unused in the ditch.
If we compare the sacrificial vessels with the wood in the ditch
We find them to differ in appearance:
One is more beautiful than the other
Yet they are equal in this: both have lost their original nature.
So if you compare the robber and the respectable citizen
You find that one is, indeed, more respectable than the other:
Yet they agree in this: they have both lost
The original simplicity of man.
How did they lose it? Here are the five ways:
Love of colors bewilders the eye
And it fails to see right.
Love of harmonies bewitches the ear
And it loses its true hearing.
Love of perfumes
Fills the head with dizziness.
Love of flavors
Ruins the taste.
Desires unsettle the heart
Until the original nature runs amok.
These five are enemies of true life.
Yet these are what “men of discernment” claim to live for.
They are not what I live for:
If this is life, then pigeons in a cage
Have found happiness!
[xii. 15.]
The non-action of the wise man is not inaction.
It is not studied. It is not shaken by anything.
The sage is quiet because he is not moved,
Not because he wills to be quiet.
Still water is like glass.
You can look in it and see the bristles on your chin.
It is a perfect level;
A carpenter could use it.
If water is so clear, so level,
How much more the spirit of man?
The heart of the wise man is tranquil.
It is the mirror of heaven and earth
The glass of everything.
Emptiness, stillness, tranquillity, tastelessness,
Silence, non-action: this is the level of heaven and earth.
This is perfect Tao. Wise men find here
Their resting place.
Resting, they are empty.
From emptiness comes the unconditioned.
From this, the conditioned, the individual things.
So from the sage’s emptiness, stillness arises:
From stillness, action. From action, attainment.
From their stillness comes their non-action, which is also action
And is, therefore, their attainment.
For stillness is joy. Joy is free from care
Fruitful in long years.
Joy does all things without concern:
For emptiness, stillness, tranquillity, tastelessness,
Silence, and non-action
Are the root of all things.
[xiii. I.]
The world values books, and thinks that in so doing it is valuing Tao. But books contain words only. And yet there is something else which gives value to the books. Not the words only, nor the thought in the words, but something else within the thought, swinging it in a certain direction that words cannot apprehend. But it is the words themselves that the world values when it commits them to books: and though the world values them, these words are worthless as long as that which gives them value is not held in honor.
That which man apprehends by observation is only outward form and color, name and noise: and he thinks that this will put him in possession of Tao. Form and color, name and sound, do not reach to reality. That is why: “He who knows does not say, he who says, does not know.” (11)
How then is the world going to know Tao through words?
Duke Hwan of Khi,
First in his dynasty,
Sat under his canopy
Reading his philosophy;
And Phien the wheelwright
Was out in the yard
Making a wheel.
Phien laid aside
Hammer and chisel,
Climbed the steps,
And said to Duke Hwan:
“May I ask you, Lord,
What is this you are
Reading?”
The Duke said:
“The experts. The authorities.”
And Phien asked:
“Alive or dead?”
“Dead a long time.”
“Then,” said the wheelwright,
“You are reading only
The dirt they left behind.”
Then the Duke replied:
“What do you know about it?
You are only a wheelwright.
You had better give me a good explanation
Or else you must die.”
The wheelwright said:
“Let us look at the affair
From my point of view.
When I make wheels
If I go easy, they fall apart,
If I am too rough, they do not fit.
If I am neither too easy nor too violent
They come out right. The work is what
I want it to be.
You cannot put this into words:
You just have to know how it is.
I cannot even tell my own son exactly how it is done,
And my own son cannot learn it from me.
So here I am, seventy years old,
Still making wheels!
The men of old
Took all they really knew
With them to the grave.
And so, Lord, what you are reading there
Is only the dirt they left behind them.”
[xiii. 10.]
The autumn floods had come. Thousands of wild torrents poured furiously into the Yellow River. It surged and flooded its banks until, looking across, you could not tell an ox from a horse on the other side. Then the River God laughed, delighted to think that all the beauty in the world had fallen into his keeping. So downstream he swung, until he came to the Ocean. There he looked out over the waves, toward the empty horizon in the east and his face fell. Gazing out at the far horizon he came to his senses and murmured to the Ocean God: “Well, the proverb is right. He who has got himself a hundred ideas thinks he knows more than anybody else. Such a one am I. Only now do I see what they mean by EXPANSE!”
The Ocean God replied:
“Can you talk about the sea
To a frog in a well?
Can you talk about ice
To dragonflies?
Can you talk about the way of Life
To a doctor of philosophy?
“Of all the waters in the world
The Ocean is greatest.
All the rivers pour into it
Day and night;
It is never filled.
It gives back its waters
Day and night;
It is never emptied.
In dry seasons
It is not lowered.
In floodtime
It does not rise.
Greater than all other waters!
There is no measure to tell
How much greater!
But am I proud of it?
What am I under heaven?
What am I without Yang and Yin?
Compared with the sky
I am a little rock,
A scrub oak
On the mountain side:
Shall I act
As if I were something?”
Of all the beings that exist (and there are millions), man is only one. Among all the millions of men that live on earth, the civilized people that live by farming are only a small proportion. Smaller still the number of those who having office or fortune, travel by carriage or by boat. And of all these, one man in his carriage is nothing more than the tip of a hair on a horse’s flank. Why, then, all the fuss about great men and great offices? Why all the disputations of scholars? Why all the wrangling of politicians?
There are no fixed limits
Time does not stand still.
Nothing endures,
Nothing is final.
You cannot lay hold
Of the end or the beginning.
He who is wise sees near and far
As the same,
Does not despise the small
Or value the great:
Where all standards differ
How can you compare?
With one glance
He takes in past and present,
Without sorrow for the past
Or impatience with the present.
All is in movement.
He has experience
Of fullness and emptiness.
He does not rejoice in success
Or lament in failure
The game is never over
Birth and death are even
The terms are not final.
[xvii. I.]
When we look at things in the light of Tao,
Nothing is best, nothing is worst.
Each thing, seen in its own light,
Stands out in its own way.
It can seem to be “better”
Than what is compared with it
On its own terms.
But seen in terms of the whole,
No one thing stands out as “better.”
If you measure differences,
What is greater than something else is “great,”
Therefore there is nothing that is not “great”;
What is smaller than something else is “small,”
Therefore there is nothing that is not “small.”
So the whole cosmos is a grain of rice,
And the tip of a hair
Is as big as a mountain—
Such is the relative view.
You can break down walls with battering rams,
But you cannot stop holes with them.
All things have different uses.
Fine horses can travel a hundred miles a day,
But they cannot catch mice
Like terriers or weasels:
All creatures have gifts of their own.
The white horned owl can catch fleas at midnight
And distinguish the tip of a hair,
But in bright day it stares, helpless,
And cannot even see a mountain.
All things have varying capacities.
Consequently: he who wants to have right without wrong,
Order without disorder,
Does not understand the principles
Of heaven and earth.
He does not know how
Things hang together.
Can a man cling only to heaven
And know nothing of earth?
They are correlative: to know one
Is to know the other.
To refuse one
Is to refuse both.
Can a man cling to the positive
Without any negative
In contrast to which it is seen
To be positive?
If he claims to do so
He is a rogue or a madman.
Thrones pass
From dynasty to dynasty,
Now in this way, now in that.
He who forces his way to power
Against the grain
Is called tyrant and usurper.
He who moves with the stream of events
Is called a wise statesman.
Kui, the one-legged dragon,
Is jealous of the centipede.
The centipede is jealous of the snake.
The snake is jealous of the wind.
The wind is jealous of the eye.
The eye is jealous of the mind.
Kui said to the centipede:
“I manage my one leg with difficulty:
How can you manage a hundred?”
The centipede replied:
“I do not manage them.
They land all over the place
Like drops of spit.”
The centipede said to the snake:
“With all my feet, I cannot move as fast
As you do with no feet at all.
How is this done?”
The snake replied:
“I have a natural glide
That can’t be changed. What do I need
With feet?”
The snake spoke to the wind:
“I ripple my backbone and move along
In a bodily way. You, without bones,
Without muscles, without method,
Blow from the North Sea to the Southern Ocean.
How do you get there
With nothing?”
The wind replied:
“True, I rise up in the North Sea
And take myself without obstacle to the Southern Ocean.
But every eye that remarks me,
Every wing that uses me,
Is superior to me, even though
I can uproot the biggest trees, or overturn
Big buildings.
The true conqueror is he
Who is not conquered
By the multitude of the small.
The mind is this conqueror—
But only the mind
Of the wise man.”
[xvii. 4-5-8.]
The man in whom Tao
Acts without impediment
Harms no other being
By his actions
Yet he does not know himself
To be “kind,” to be “gentle.”
The man in whom Tao
Acts without impediment
Does not bother with his own interests
And does not despise
Others who do.
He does not struggle to make money
And does not make a virtue of poverty.
He goes his way
Without relying on others
And does not pride himself
On walking alone.
While he does not follow the crowd
He won’t complain of those who do.
Rank and reward
Make no appeal to him;
Disgrace and shame
Do not deter him.
He is not always looking
For right and wrong
Always deciding “Yes” or “No.”
The ancients said, therefore:
“The man of Tao
Remains unknown
Perfect virtue
Produces nothing
‘No-Self’
Is ‘True-Self.’
And the greatest man
Is Nobody.”
[xvii. 3.]
Chuang Tzu with his bamboo pole
Was fishing in Pu river.
The Prince of Chu
Sent two vice-chancellors
With a formal document:
“We hereby appoint you
Prime Minister.”
Chuang Tzu held his bamboo pole.
Still watching Pu river,
He said:
“I am told there is a sacred tortoise,
Offered and canonized
Three thousand years ago,
Venerated by the prince,
Wrapped in silk,
In a precious shrine
On an altar
In the Temple.
“What do you think:
Is it better to give up one’s life
And leave a sacred shell
As an object of cult
In a cloud of incense
Three thousand years,
Or better to live
As a plain turtle
Dragging its tail in the mud?”
“For the turtle,” said the Vice-Chancellor,
“Better to live
And drag its tail in the mud!”
“Go home!” said Chuang Tzu.
“Leave me here
To drag my tail in the mud!”
[xvii. II.]
Hui Tzu was Prime Minister of Liang. He had what he believed to be inside information that Chuang Tzu coveted his post and was intriguing to supplant him. In fact, when Chuang Tzu came to visit Liang, the Prime Minister sent out the police to apprehend him. The police searched for him three days and three nights, but meanwhile Chuang presented himself before Hui Tzu of his own accord, and said:
“Have you heard about the bird
That lives in the south
The Phoenix that never grows old?
“This undying Phoenix
Rises out of the South Sea
And flies to the Sea of the North,
Never alighting
Except on certain sacred trees.
He will touch no food
But the most exquisite
Rare fruit,
Drinks only
From clearest springs.
“Once an owl
Chewing a dead rat
Already half-decayed,
Saw the Phoenix fly over,
Looked up,
And screeched with alarm,
Clutching the rat to himself
In fear and dismay.
“Why are you so frantic
Clinging to your ministry
And screeching at me
In dismay?”
[xvii. 12.]
Chuang Tzu and Hui Tzu
Were crossing Hao river
By the dam.
Chuang said:
“See how free
The fishes leap and dart:
That is their happiness.”
Hui replied:
“Since you are not a fish
How do you know
What makes fishes happy?”
Chuang said:
“Since you are not I
How can you possibly know
That I do not know
What makes fishes happy?”
Hui argued:
“If I, not being you,
Cannot know what you know
It follows that you
Not being a fish
Cannot know what they know.”
Chuang said:
“Wait a minute!
Let us get back
To the original question.
What you asked me was
‘How do you know
What makes fishes happy?’
From the terms of your question
You evidently know I know
What makes fishes happy.
“I know the joy of fishes
In the river
Through my own joy, as I go walking
Along the same river.”
[xvii. 13.]
Is there to be found on earth a fullness of joy, or is there no such thing? Is there some way to make life fully worth living, or is this impossible? If there is such a way, how do you go about finding it? What should you try to do? What should you seek to avoid? What should be the goal in which your activity comes to rest? What should you accept? What should you refuse to accept? What should you love? What should you hate?
What the world values is money, reputation, long life, achievement. What it counts as joy is health and comfort of body, good food, fine clothes, beautiful things to look at, pleasant music to listen to.
What it condemns is lack of money, a low social rank, a reputation for being no good, and an early death.
What it considers misfortune is bodily discomfort and labor, no chance to get your fill of good food, not having good clothes to wear, having no way to amuse or delight the eye, no pleasant music to listen to. If people find that they are deprived of these things, they go into a panic or fall into despair. They are so concerned for their life that their anxiety makes life unbearable, even when they have the things they think they want. Their very concern for enjoyment makes them unhappy.
The rich make life intolerable, driving themselves in order to get more and more money which they cannot really use. In so doing they are alienated from themselves, and exhaust themselves in their own service as though they were slaves of others.
The ambitious run day and night in pursuit of honors, constantly in anguish about the success of their plans, dreading the miscalculation that may wreck everything. Thus they are alienated from themselves, exhausting their real life in service of the shadow created by their insatiable hope.
The birth of a man is the birth of his sorrow.
The longer he lives, the more stupid he becomes, because his anxiety to avoid unavoidable death becomes more and more acute. What bitterness! He lives for what is always out of reach! His thirst for survival in the future makes him incapable of living in the present.
What about the self-sacrificing officials and scholars? They are honored by the world because they are good, upright, self-sacrificing men.
Yet their good character does not preserve them from unhappiness, nor even from ruin, disgrace, and death.
I wonder, in that case, if their “goodness” is really so good after all! Is it perhaps a source of unhappiness?
Suppose you admit they are happy. But is it a happy thing to have a character and a career that lead to one’s own eventual destruction? On the other hand, can you call them “unhappy” if, in sacrificing themselves, they save the lives and fortunes of others?
Take the case of the minister who conscientiously and uprightly opposes an unjust decision of his king! Some say, “Tell the truth, and if the King will not listen, let him do what he likes. You have no further obligation.”
On the other hand, Tzu Shu continued to resist the unjust policy of his sovereign. He was consequently destroyed. But if he had not stood up for what he believed to be right, his name would not be held in honor.
So there is the question, Shall the course he took be called “good” if, at the same time, it was fatal to him?
I cannot tell if what the world considers “happiness” is happiness or not. All I know is that when I consider the way they go about attaining it, I see them carried away headlong, grim and obsessed, in the general onrush of the human herd, unable to stop themselves or to change their direction. All the while they claim to be just on the point of attaining hap piness.
For my part, I cannot accept their standards, whether of happiness or unhappiness. I ask myself if after all their concept of happiness has any meaning whatever.
My opinion is that you never find happiness until you stop looking for it. My greatest happiness consists precisely in doing nothing whatever that is calculated to obtain happiness: and this, in the minds of most people, is the worst possible course.
I will hold to the saying that: “Perfect joy is to be without joy. Perfect praise is to be without praise.”
If you ask “what ought to be done” and “what ought not to be done” on earth in order to produce happiness, I answer that these questions do not have an answer. There is no way of determining such things.
Yet at the same time, if I cease striving for happiness, the “right” and the “wrong” at once become apparent all by themselves.
Contentment and well-being at once become possible the moment you cease to act with them in view, and if you practice non-doing (wu wei), you will have both happiness and well-being.
Here is how I sum it up:
Heaven does nothing: its non-doing is its serenity.
Earth does nothing: it non-doing is its rest.
From the union of these two non-doings
All actions proceed,
All things are made.
How vast, how invisible
This coming-to-be!
All things come from nowhere!
How vast, how invisible—
No way to explain it!
All beings in their perfection
Are born of non-doing.
Hence it is said:
“Heaven and earth do nothing
Yet there is nothing they do not do.”
Where is the man who can attain
To this non-doing?
[xviii. I.]
You cannot put a big load in a small bag,
Nor can you, with a short rope,
Draw water from a deep well.
You cannot talk to a power politician
As if he were a wise man.
If he seeks to understand you,
If he looks inside himself
To find the truth you have told him,
He cannot find it there.
Not finding, he doubts.
When a man doubts,
He will kill.
Have you not heard how a bird from the sea
Was blown inshore and landed
Outside the capital of Lu?
The Prince ordered a solemn reception,
Offered the sea bird wine in the sacred precinct,
Called for musicians
To play the compositions of Shun,
Slaughtered cattle to nourish it:
Dazed with symphonies, the unhappy sea bird
Died of despair.
How should you treat a bird?
As yourself
Or as a bird?
Ought not a bird to nest in deep woodland
Or fly over meadow and marsh?
Ought it not to swim on river and pond,
Feed on eels and fish,
Fly in formation with other waterfowl,
And rest in the reeds?
Bad enough for a sea bird
To be surrounded by men
And frightened by their voices!
That was not enough!
They killed it with music!
Play all the symphonies you like
On the marshlands of Thung-Ting.
The birds will fly away
In all directions;
The animals will hide;
The fish will dive to the bottom;
But men
Will gather around to listen.
Water is for fish
And air for men.
Natures differ, and needs with them.
Hence the wise men of old
Did not lay down
One measure for all.
[xviii. 5.]
“How does the true man of Tao
Walk through walls without obstruction,
Stand in fire without being burnt?”
Not because of cunning
Or daring;
Not because he has learned,
But because he has unlearned.
All that is limited by form, semblance, sound, color,
Is called object.
Among them all, man alone
Is more than an object.
Though, like objects, he has form and semblance,
He is not limited to form. He is more.
He can attain to formlessness.
When he is beyond form and semblance,
Beyond “this” and “that,”
Where is the comparison
With another object?
Where is the conflict?
What can stand in his way?
He will rest in his eternal place
Which is no-place.
He will be hidden
In his own unfathomable secret.
His nature sinks to its root
In the One.
His vitality, his power
Hide in secret Tao.
When he is all one,
There is no flaw in him
By which a wedge can enter.
So a drunken man, falling
Out of a wagon,
Is bruised but not destroyed.
His bones are like the bones of other men,
But his fall is different.
His spirit is entire. He is not aware
Of getting into a wagon
Or falling out of one.
Life and death are nothing to him.
He knows no alarm, he meets obstacles
Without thought, without care,
Takes them without knowing they are there
If there is such security in wine,
How much more in Tao.
The wise man is hidden in Tao.
Nothing can touch him.
[xix. 2.]
When an archer is shooting for nothing
He has all his skill.
If he shoots for a brass buckle
He is already nervous.
If he shoots for a prize of gold
He goes blind
Or sees two targets—
He is out of his mind!
His skill has not changed. But the prize
Divides him. He cares.
He thinks more of winning
Than of shooting—
And the need to win
Drains him of power.
[xix. 4.]
The Grand Augur, who sacrificed the swine and read omens in the sacrifice, came dressed in his long dark robes, to the pig pen, and spoke to the pigs as follows: “Here is my counsel to you. Do not complain about having to die. Set your objections aside, please. Realize that I shall now feed you on choice grain for three months. I myself will have to observe strict discipline for ten days and fast for three. Then I will lay out grass mats and offer your hams and shoulders upon delicately carved platters with great ceremony. What more do you want?”
Then, reflecting, he considered the question from the pigs’ point of view: “Of course, I suppose you would prefer to be fed with ordinary coarse feed and be left alone in your pen.”
But again, seeing it once more from his own viewpoint, he replied: “No. definitely there is a nobler kind of existence! To live in honors, to receive the best treatment, to ride in a carriage with fine clothes, even though at any moment one may be disgraced and executed, that is the noble, though uncertain, destiny that I have chosen for myself.”
So he decided against the pigs’ point of view, and adopted his own point of view, both for himself and for the pigs also.
How fortunate those swine, whose existence was thus ennobled by one who was at once an officer of state and a minister of religion.
[xix. 6.]
Chi Hsing Tzu was a trainer of fighting cocks
For King Hsuan.
He was training a fine bird.
The King kept asking if the bird were
Ready for combat.
“Not yet,” said the trainer.
“He is full of fire.
He is ready to pick a fight
With every other bird. He is vain and confident
Of his own strength.”
After ten days, he answered again:
“Not yet. He flares up
When he hears another bird crow.”
After ten more days:
“Not yet. He still gets
That angry look
And ruffles his feathers.”
Again ten days:
The trainer said, “Now he is nearly ready.
When another bird crows, his eye
Does not even flicker.
He stands immobile
Like a cock of wood.
He is a mature fighter.
Other birds
Will take one look at him
And run.”
[xix. 8.]
Khing, the master carver, made a bell stand
Of precious wood. When it was finished,
All who saw it were astounded. They said it must be
The work of spirits.
The Prince of Lu said to the master carver:
“What is your secret?”
Khing replied: “I am only a workman:
I have no secret. There is only this:
When I began to think about the work you commanded
I guarded my spirit, did not expend it
On trifles, that were not to the point.
I fasted in order to set
My heart at rest.
After three days fasting,
I had forgotten gain and success.
After five days
I had forgotten praise or criticism.
After seven days
I had forgotten my body
With all its limbs.
“By this time all thought of your Highness
And of the court had faded away.
All that might distract me from the work
Had vanished.
I was collected in the single thought
Of the bell stand.
“Then I went to the forest
To see the trees in their own natural state.
When the right tree appeared before my eyes,
The bell stand also appeared in it, clearly, beyond doubt.
All I had to do was to put forth my hand
And begin.
“If I had not met this particular tree
There would have been
No bell stand at all.
“What happened?
My own collected thought
Encountered the hidden potential in the wood;
From this live encounter came the work
Which you ascribe to the spirits.”
[xix. 10.]
Ch’ui the draftsman
Could draw more perfect circles freehand
Than with a compass.
His fingers brought forth
Spontaneous forms from nowhere. His mind
Was meanwhile free and without concern
With what he was doing.
No application was needed
His mind was perfectly simple
And knew no obstacle.
So, when the shoe fits
The foot is forgotten,
When the belt fits
The belly is forgotten,
When the heart is right
“For” and “against” are forgotten.
No drives, no compulsions,
No needs, no attractions:
Then your affairs
Are under control.
You are a free man.
Easy is right. Begin right
And you are easy.
Continue easy and you are right.
The right way to go easy
Is to forget the right way
And forget that the going is easy.
[xix. 12.]
He who rules men lives in confusion;
He who is ruled by men lives in sorrow.
Yao therefore desired
Neither to influence others
Nor to be influenced by them.
The way to get clear of confusion
And free of sorrow
Is to live with Tao
In the land of the great Void.
If a man is crossing a river
And an empty boat collides with his own skiff,
Even though he be a bad-tempered man
He will not become very angry.
But if he sees a man in the boat,
He will shout at him to steer clear.
If the shout is not heard, he will shout again,
And yet again, and begin cursing.
And all because there is somebody in the boat.
Yet if the boat were empty,
He would not be shouting, and not angry.
If you can empty your own boat
Crossing the river of the world,
No one will oppose you,
No one will seek to harm you.
[xx. 2.]
The straight tree is the first to be cut down,
The spring of clear water is the first to be drained dry.
If you wish to improve your wisdom
And shame the ignorant,
To cultivate your character
And outshine others;
A light will shine around you
As if you had swallowed the sun and the moon:
You will not avoid calamity.
A wise man has said:
“He who is content with himself
Has done a worthless work.
Achievement is the beginning of failure.
Fame is the beginning of disgrace.”
Who can free himself from achievement
And from fame, descend and be lost
Amid the masses of men?
He will flow like Tao, unseen,
He will go about like Life itself
With no name and no home.
Simple is he, without distinction.
To all appearances he is a fool.
His steps leave no trace. He has no power.
He achieves nothing, has no reputation.
Since he judges no one
No one judges him.
Such is the perfect man:
His boat is empty.
[xx. 2, 4.]
Lin Hui of Kia took to flight.
Pursued by enemies,
He threw away the precious jade
Symbol of his rank
And took his infant child on his back.
Why did he take the child
And leave the jade,
Which was worth a small fortune,
Whereas the child, if sold,
Would only bring him a paltry sum?
Lin Hui said:
“My bond with the jade symbol
And with my office
Was the bond of self-interest.
My bond with the child
Was the bond of Tao.
“Where self-interest is the bond,
The friendship is dissolved
When calamity comes.
Where Tao is the bond,
Friendship is made perfect
By calamity.
“The friendship of wise men
Is tasteless as water.
The friendship of fools
Is sweet as wine.
But the tastelessness of the wise
Brings true affection
And the savor of fools’ company
Ends in hatred.”
[xx. 5.]
Knowledge wandered north
Looking for Tao, over the Dark Sea,
And up the Invisible Mountain.
There on the mountain he met
Non-Doing, the Speechless One.
He inquired:
“Please inform me, Sir,
By what system of thought
And what technique of meditation
I can apprehend Tao?
By what renunciation
Or what solitary retirement
May I rest in Tao?
Where must I start,
What road must I follow
To reach Tao?”
Such were his three questions.
Non-Doing, the Speechless One,
Made no reply.
Not only that,
He did not even know
How to reply!
Knowledge swung south
To the Bright Sea
And climbed the Luminous Mountain
Called “Doubt’s End.”
Here he met
Act-on-Impulse, the Inspired Prophet,
And asked the same questions.
“Ah,” cried the Inspired One,
“I have the answers, and I will reveal them!”
But just as he was about to tell everything,
He forgot all he had in mind.
Knowledge got no reply.
So Knowledge went at last
To the palace of Emperor Ti,
And asked his questions of Ti.
Ti replied:
“To exercise no-thought
And follow no-way of meditation
Is the first step toward understanding Tao.
To dwell nowhere
And rest in nothing
Is the first step toward resting in Tao.
To start from nowhere
And follow no road
Is the first step toward attaining Tao.”
Knowledge replied: “You know this
And now I know it. But the other two,
They did not know it.
What about that?
Who is right?”
Ti replied:
Only Non-Doing, the Speechless One,
Was perfectly right. He did not know.
Act-on-Impulse, the Inspired Prophet,
Only seemed right
Because he had forgotten.
As for us,
We come nowhere near being right,
Since we have the answers.
“For he who knows does not speak,
He who speaks does not know” (12)
And “The Wise Man gives instruction
Without the use of speech.” (13)
This story got back
To Act-on-Impulse
Who agreed with Ti’s
Way of putting it.
It is not reported
That Non-Doing ever heard of the matter
Or made any comment.
[xxii. I.]
Nieh Ch’ueh, who had no teeth,
Came to P’i and asked for a lesson on Tao.
(Maybe he could bite on that!)
So P’i began:
“First, gain control of the body
And all its organs. Then
Control the mind. Attain
One-pointedness. Then
The harmony of heaven
Will come down and dwell in you.
You will be radiant with Life.
You will rest in Tao.
You will have the simple look
Of a new-born calf,
O, lucky you,
You will not even know the cause
Of your state …”
But long before P’i had reached this point in his sermon, the toothless one had fallen asleep. His mind just could not bite on the meat of doctrine. But P’i was satisfied. He wandered away singing:
“His body is dry
Like an old leg bone,
His mind is dead
As dead ashes:
His knowledge is solid,
His wisdom true!
In deep dark night
He wanders free,
Without aim
And without design:
Who can compare
With this toothless man?”
[xxii. 3.]
Master Tung Kwo asked Chuang:
“Show me where the Tao is found.”
Chuang Tzu replied:
“There is nowhere it is not to be found.”
The former insisted:
“Show me at least some definite place
Where Tao is found.”
“It is in the ant,” said Chuang.
“Is it in some lesser being?”
“It is in the weeds.”
“Can you go further down the scale of things?”
“It is in this piece of tile.”
“Further?”
“It is in this turd.”
At this Tung Kwo had nothing more to say.
But Chuang continued: “None of your questions
Are to the point. They are like the questions
Of inspectors in the market,
Testing the weight of pigs
By prodding them in their thinnest parts.
Why look for Tao by going ‘down the scale of being’
As if that which we call ‘least’
Had less of Tao?
Tao is Great in all things,
Complete in all, Universal in all,
Whole in all. These three aspects
Are distinct, but the Reality is One.
“Therefore come with me
To the palace of Nowhere
Where all the many things are One:
There at last we might speak
Of what has no limitation and no end.
Come with me to the land of Non-Doing:
What shall we there say—that Tao
Is simplicity, stillness,
Indifference, purity,
Harmony and ease? All these names leave me indifferent
For their distinctions have disappeared.
My will is aimless there.
If it is nowhere, how should I be aware of it?
If it goes and returns, I know not
Where it has been resting. If it wanders
Here then there, I know not where it will end.
The mind remains undetermined in the great Void.
Here the highest knowledge
Is unbounded. That which gives things
Their thusness cannot be delimited by things.
So when we speak of ‘limits,’ we remain confined
To limited things.
The limit of the unlimited is called ‘fullness.’
The limitlessness of the limited is called ‘emptiness.’
Tao is the source of both. But it is itself
Neither fullness nor emptiness.
Tao produces both renewal and decay,
But is neither renewal or decay.
It causes being and non-being
But is neither being nor non-being.
Tao assembles and it destroys,
But it is neither the Totality nor the Void.”
[xxii. 6.]
Starlight asked Non-Being: “Master, are you? Or are you not?”
Since he received no answer whatever, Starlight set himself to watch for Non-Being. He waited to see if Non-Being would put in an appearance.
He kept his gaze fixed on the deep Void, hoping to catch a glimpse of Non-Being.
All day long he looked, and he saw nothing. He listened, but heard nothing. He reached out to grasp, and grasped nothing.
Then Starlight exclaimed at last: “This is IT!”
“This is the furthest yet! Who can reach it?
I can comprehend the absence of Being
But who can comprehend the absence of Nothing?
If now, on top of all this, Non-Being IS,
Who can comprehend it?”
[xxii. 8.]
Master Keng Sang Chu, a disciple of Lao Tzu, became famous for his wisdom, and the people of Wei-Lei began to venerate him as a sage. He avoided their homage and refused their gifts. He kept himself hidden and would not let them come to see him. His disciples remonstrated with him, and declared that since the time of Yao and Shun it had been the tradition for wise men to accept veneration, and thus exercise a good influence. Master Keng replied:
“Come here, my children, listen to this.
If a beast big enough to swallow a wagon
Should leave its mountain forest,
It will not escape the hunter’s trap.
If a fish big enough to swallow a boat
Lets itself be stranded by the outgoing tide,
Then even ants will destroy it.
So birds fly high, beasts remain
In trackless solitudes,
Keep out of sight; and fishes
Or turtles go deep down,
Down to the very bottom.
The man who has some respect for his person
Keeps his carcass out of sight,
Hides himself as perfectly as he can.
As for Yao and Shun: why praise such kings?
What good did their morality do?
They knocked a hole in the wall
And let it fill up with brambles.
They numbered the hairs of your head
Before combing them.
They counted out each grain of rice
Before cooking their dinner.
What good did they do to the world
With their scrupulous distinctions?
If the virtuous are honored,
The world will be filled with envy.
If the smart man is rewarded,
The world will be filled with thieves.
You cannot make men good or honest
By praising virtue and knowledge.
Since the days of pious Yao and virtuous Shun
Everybody has been trying to get rich:
A son will kill his father for money,
A minister will murder his sovereign
To satisfy his ambition.
In broad daylight they rob each other,
At midnight they break down walls:
The root of all this was planted
In the time of Yao and Shun.
The branches will grow for a thousand ages,
And a thousand ages from now
Men will be eating one another raw!”
[xxiii. 2.]
A disciple complained to Keng:
“The eyes of all men seem to be alike,
I detect no difference in them;
Yet some men are blind;
Their eyes do not see.
The ears of all men seem to be alike,
I detect no difference in them;
Yet some men are deaf,
Their ears do not hear.
The minds of all men have the same nature,
I detect no difference between them;
But the mad cannot make
Another man’s mind their own.
Here am I, apparently like the other disciples,
But there is a difference:
They get your meaning and put it in practice;
I cannot.
You tell me: ‘Hold your being secure and quiet,
Keep your life collected in its own center.
Do not allow your thoughts
To be disturbed.’
But however hard I try,
Tao is only a word in my ear.
It does not ring any bells inside.”
Keng San replied: “I have nothing more
To say.
Bantams do not hatch goose eggs,
Though the fowl of Lu can.
It is not so much a difference of nature
As a difference of capacity.
My capacity is too slight
To transform you.
Why not go south
And see Lao Tzu?”
The disciple got some supplies,
Travelled seven days and seven nights
Alone,
And came to Lao Tzu.
Lao asked: “Do you come from Keng?”
“Yes,” replied the student.
“Who are all those people you have brought with you?”
The disciple whirled around to look.
Nobody there. Panic!
Lao said: “Don’t you understand?”
The disciple hung his head. Confusion!
Then a sigh. “Alas, I have forgotten my answer.”
(More confusion!) “I have also forgotten my question.”
Lao said: “What are you trying to say?”
The disciple: “When I don’t know, people treat me like fool.
When I do know, the knowledge gets me into trouble.
When I fail to do good, I hurt others.
When I do good, I hurt myself.
If I avoid my duty, I am remiss,
But if I do it, I am ruined.
How can I get out of these contradictions?
That is what I came to ask you.”
Lao Tzu replied:
“A moment ago
I looked into your eyes.
I saw you were hemmed in
By contradictions. Your words
Confirm this.
You are scared to death,
Like a child who has lost
Father and mother.
You are trying to sound
The middle of the ocean
With a six-foot pole.
You have got lost, and are trying
To find your way back
To your own true self.
You find nothing
But illegible signposts
Pointing in all directions.
I pity you.”
The disciple asked for admittance,
Took a cell, and there
Meditated,
Trying to cultivate qualities
He thought desirable
And get rid of others
Which he disliked.
Ten days of that!
Despair!
“Miserable!” said Lao.
“All blocked up!
Tied in knots! Try
To get untied!
If your obstructions
Are on the outside,
Do not attempt
To grasp them one by one
And thrust them away.
Impossible! Learn
To ignore them.
If they are within yourself,
You cannot destroy them piecemeal,
But you can refuse
To let them take effect.
If they are both inside and outside,
Do not try
To hold on to Tao—
Just hope that Tao
Will keep hold of you!”
The disciple groaned:
“When a farmer gets sick
And the other farmers come to see him,
If he can at least tell them
What is the matter
His sickness is not bad.
But as for me, in my search for Tao,
I am like a sick man who takes medicine
That makes him ten times worse.
Just tell me
The first elements.
I will be satisfied!”
Lao Tzu replied:
“Can you embrace the One
And not lose it?
Can you foretell good things and bad
Without the tortoise shell
Or the straws?
Can you rest where there is rest?
Do you know when to stop?
Can you mind your own business
Without cares, without desiring reports
Of how others are progressing?
Can you stand on your own feet?
Can you duck?
Can you be like an infant
That cries all day
Without getting a sore throat
Or clenches his fist all day
Without getting a sore hand
Or gazes all day
Without eyestrain?
You want the first elements?
The infant has them.
Free from care, unaware of self,
He acts without reflection,
Stays where he is put, does not know why,
Does not figure things out,
Just goes along with them,
Is part of the current.
These are the first elements!”
The disciple asked:
“Is this perfection?”
Lao replied: “Not at all.
It is only the beginning.
This melts the ice.
“This enables you
To unlearn,
So that you can be led by Tao,
Be a child of Tao.
“If you persist in trying
To attain what is never attained
(It is Tao’s gift!)
If you persist in making effort
To obtain what effort cannot get;
If you persist in reasoning
About what cannot be understood,
You will be destroyed
By the very thing you seek.
“To know when to stop
To know when you can get no further
By your own action,
This is the right beginning!”
[xxiii. 3-7.]
The spirit has an impregnable tower
Which no danger can disturb
As long as the tower is guarded
By the invisible Protector
Who acts unconsciously, and whose actions
Go astray when they become deliberate,
Reflexive, and intentional.
The unconsciousness
And entire sincerity of Tao
Are disturbed by any effort
At self-conscious demonstration.
All such demonstrations
Are lies.
When one displays himself
In this ambiguous way
The world outside storms in
And imprisons him.
He is no longer protected
By the sincerity of Tao.
Each new act
Is a new failure.
If his acts are done in public,
In broad daylight,
He will be punished by men.
If they are done in private
And in secret,
They will be punished
By spirits.
Let each one understand
The meaning of sincerity
And guard against display!
He will be at peace
With men and spirits
And will act rightly, unseen,
In his own solitude,
In the tower of his spirit.
[xxiii. 8.]
He whose law is within himself
Walks in hiddenness.
His acts are not influenced
By approval or disapproval.
He whose law is outside himself
Directs his will to what is
Beyond his control
And seeks
To extend his power
Over objects.
He who walks in hiddenness
Has light to guide him
In all his acts.
He who seeks to extend his control
Is nothing but an operator.
While he thinks he is
Surpassing others,
Others see him merely
Straining, stretching,
To stand on tiptoe.
When he tries to extend his power
Over objects,
Those objects gain control
Of him.
He who is controlled by objects
Loses possession of his inner self:
If he no longer values himself,
How can he value others?
If he no longer values others,
He is abandoned.
He has nothing left!
There is no deadlier weapon than the will!
The sharpest sword
Is not equal to it!
There is no robber so dangerous
As Nature (Yang and Yin).
Yet it is not nature
That does the damage:
It is man’s own will!
[xxiii. 8.]
If a man steps on a stranger’s foot
In the marketplace,
He makes a polite apology
And offers an explanation
(“This place is so terribly
Crowded!”).
If an elder brother
Steps on his younger brother’s foot,
He says, “Sorry!”
And that is that.
If a parent
Treads on his child’s foot,
Nothing is said at all.
The greatest politeness
Is free of all formality.
Perfect conduct
Is free of concern.
Perfect wisdom
Is unplanned.
Perfect love
Is without demonstrations.
Perfect sincerity offers
No guarantee.
[xxii. II.]
The recluse Hsu Su Kwei had come to see Prince Wu.
The Prince was glad. “I have desired,” he said,
“To see you for a long time. Tell me
If I am doing right.
I want to love my people, and by the exercise of justice
To put an end to war.
Is this enough?”
“By no means,” said the recluse.
“Your ‘love’ for your people
Puts them in mortal danger.
Your exercise of justice is the root
Of war after war!
Your grand intentions
Will end in disaster!
“If you set out to ‘accomplish something great’
You only deceive yourself.
Your love and justice
Are fraudulent.
They are mere pretexts
For self-assertion, for aggression.
One action will bring on another
And in the chain of events
Your hidden intentions
Will be made plain.
“You claim to practice justice. Should you seem to succeed
Success itself will bring more conflict.
Why all these guards
Standing at attention
At the palace gate, around the temple altar,
Everywhere?
“You are at war with yourself!
You do not believe in justice,
Only in power and success.
If you overcome
An enemy and annex his country
You will be even less at peace
With yourself than you are now.
Nor will your passions let you
Sit still. You will fight again
And again for the sake of
A more perfect exercise of ‘justice’!
“Abandon your plan
To be a ‘loving and equitable ruler.’
Try to respond
To the demands of inner truth.
Stop vexing yourself and your people
With these obsessions!
Your people will breathe easily at last.
They will live
And war will end by itself!”
[xxiv. 2.]
If an expert does not have some problem to vex him, he is unhappy!
If a philosopher’s teaching is never attacked, he pines away!
If critics have no one on whom to exercise their spite, they are unhappy.
All such men are prisoners in the world of objects.
He who wants followers, seeks political power.
He who wants reputation, holds an office.
The strong man looks for weights to lift.
The brave man looks for an emergency in which he can show bravery.
The swordsman wants a battle in which he can swing his sword.
Men past their prime prefer a dignified retirement, in which they may seem profound.
Men experienced in law seek difficult cases to extend the application of laws.
Liturgists and musicians like festivals in which they parade their ceremonious talents.
The benevolent, the dutiful, are always looking for chances to display virtue.
Where would the gardener be if there were no more weeds?
What would become of business without a market of fools?
Where would the masses be if there were no pretext for getting jammed together and making noise?
What would become of labor if there were no superfluous objects to be made?
Produce! Get results! Make money! Make friends! Make changes!
Or you will die of despair!
Those who are caught in the machinery of power take no joy except in activity and change—the whirring of the machine! Whenever an occasion for action presents itself, they are compelled to act; they cannot help themselves. They are inexorably moved, like the machine of which they are a part. Prisoners in the world of objects, they have no choice but to submit to the demands of matter! They are pressed down and crushed by external forces, fashion, the market, events, public opinion. Never in a whole lifetime do they recover their right mind! The active life! What a pity!
[xxiv. 4.]
The Prince of Wu took a boat to Monkey Mountain. As soon as the monkeys saw him they all fled in panic and hid in the treetops.
One monkey, however, remained, completely unconcerned, swinging from branch to branch—an extraordinary display!
The Prince shot an arrow at the monkey, but the monkey dexterously caught the arrow in mid-flight.
At this the Prince ordered his attendants to make a concerted attack.
In an instant the monkey was shot full of arrows and fell dead.
Then the King turned to his companion Yen Pu’i: “You see what happened?” he said. “This animal advertised his cleverness. He trusted in his own skill. He thought no one could touch him. Remember that! Do not rely on distinction and talent when you deal with men!”
When they returned home, Yen Pu’i became the disciple of a sage to get rid of everything that made him outstanding. He renounced every pleasure. He learned to hide every “distinction.”
Soon no one in the Kingdom knew what to make of him.
Thus they held him in awe. (14)
[xxiv. 8.]
Master Ki had eight sons.
One day he called in a physiognomist, lined the boys up, and said:
“Study their faces. Tell me which is the fortunate one.”
After his examination the expert said:
“Kwan is the fortunate one.”
Ki was pleased and surprised.
“In what way?” he inquired.
The physiognomist replied:
“Kwan shall eat meat and drink wine
For the rest of his days
At government expense.”
Ki broke down and sobbed:
“My poor son! My poor son!
What has he done to deserve this misfortune?”
“What!” cried the physiognomist,
“When one shares
The meals of a prince
Blessings reach out
To all the family,
Especially to father and mother!
Will you refuse
Good fortune?”
Ki said: “What makes this fortune ‘good’?
Meat and wine are for mouth and belly.
Is good fortune only in the mouth,
And in the belly?
These ‘meals of the prince’—
How shall he share them?
“I am no shepherd
And a lamb is suddenly born in my house.
I am no game-keeper
And quails are born in my yard.
These are awful portents!
“I have had no wish
For my sons and myself,
But to wander at liberty
Through earth and heaven.
“I seek no joy
For them and for myself
But joy of heaven,
Simple fruits of earth.
“I seek no advantage, make no plans,
Engage in no business.
With my boys I seek Tao alone.
“I have not fought life!
Yet now this uncanny promise
Of what I never sought:
‘Good fortune!’
“Every strange effect has some strange cause.
My sons and I have done nothing to deserve this.
It is an inscrutable punishment.
Therefore I weep!”
And so it happened, some time afterward that Ki sent his son Kwan on a journey. The young man was captured by brigands who decided to sell him as a slave. Believing they could not sell him as he was, they cut off his feet. Thus, unable to run away, he became a better bargain. They sold him to the government of Chi, and he was put in charge of a tollgate on the highway. He had meat and wine, for the rest of his life, at government expense.
In this way it turned out that Kwan was the fortunate one!
[xxiv. II.]
Hsu Yu was met by a friend as he was leaving the capital city, on the main highway leading to the nearest frontier.
“Where are you going?” the friend asked.
“I am leaving King Yao. He is so obsessed with the ideas of benevolence that I am afraid something ridiculous will come of it. In any event, funny or not, this kind of thing eventually ends with people eating each other raw.
“At the moment, there is a great wave of solidarity. The people think they are loved, and they respond with enthusiasm. They are all behind the king because they think he is making them rich. Praise is cheap, and they are all competing for favor. But soon they will have to accept something they do not like and the whole thing will collapse.
“When justice and benevolence are in the air, a few people are really concerned with the good of others, but the majority are aware that this is a good thing, ripe for exploitation. They take advantage of the situation. For them, benevolence and justice are traps to catch birds. Thus benevolence and justice rapidly come to be associated with fraud and hypocrisy. Then everybody doubts. And that is when trouble really begins.
“King Yao knows how dutiful and upright officers benefit the nation, but he does not know what harm comes from their uprightness: they are a front behind which crooks operate more securely. But you have to see this situation objectively to realize it.
“There are three classes of people to be taken into account: yes-men, blood-suckers, and operators.
“The yes-men adopt the line of some political leader, and repeat his statements by heart, imagining that they know something, confident that they are getting somewhere, and thoroughly satisfied with the sound of their own voices. They are complete fools. And because they are fools, they submit in this way to another man’s line of talk.
“The blood-suckers are like lice on a sow. They rush together where the bristles are thin, and this becomes their palace and their park. They delight in crevices, between the sow’s toes, around the joints and teats, or under the tail. Here they entrench themselves and imagine they cannot be routed out by any power in the world. But they do not realize that one morning the butcher will come with knife and swinging scythe. He will collect dry straw and set it alight to singe away the bristles and burn out all the lice. Such parasites appear when the sow appears and vanish when the sow is slaughtered.
“Operators are men like Shun.
“Mutton is not attracted to ants, but ants are attracted to mutton, because it is high and rank. So Shun was a vigorous and successful operator, and people liked him for it. Three times he moved from city to city and each time his new home became the capital. Eventually he moved out into the wilderness and there were a hundred thousand families that went with him to colonize the place.
“Finally, Yao put forward the idea that Shun ought to go out into the desert to see if he could make something out of that. Though by this time Shun was an old man and his mind was getting feeble, he could not refuse. He could not bring himself to retire. He had forgotten how to stop his wagon. He was an operator—and nothing else!
“The man of spirit, on the other hand, hates to see people gather around him. He avoids the crowd. For where there are many men, there are also many opinions and little agreement. There is nothing to be gained from the support of a lot of half-wits who are doomed to end up in a fight with each other.
“The man of spirit is neither very intimate with anyone, nor very aloof. He keeps himself interiorly aware, and he maintains his balance so that he is in conflict with nobody. This is your true man! He lets the ants be clever. He lets the mutton reek with activity. For his own part, he imitates the fish that swims unconcerned, surrounded by a friendly element, and minding its own business.
“The true man sees what the eye sees, and does not add to it something that is not there. He hears what the ears hear, and does not detect imaginary undertones or overtones. He understands things in their obvious interpretation and is not busy with hidden meanings and mysteries. His course is therefore a straight line. Yet he can change his direction whenever circumstances suggest it.”
[xxiv. 12.]
Cocks crow
Dogs bark
This all men know.
Even the wisest
Cannot tell
Whence these voices come
Or explain
Why dogs bark and cocks crow
When they do.
Beyond the smallest of the small
There is no measure.
Beyond the greatest of the great
There is also no measure.
Where there is no measure
There is no “thing.”
In this void
You speak of “cause”
Or of “chance”?
You speak of “things”
Where there is “no-things.”
To name a name
Is to delimit a “thing.”
When I look beyond the beginning
I find no measure.
When I look beyond the end
I find also no measure.
Where there is no measure
There is no beginning of any “thing.”
You speak of “cause” or “chance”?
You speak of the beginning of some “thing.”
Does Tao exist?
Is it then a “thing that exists.”
Can it “non-exist”?
Is there then “thing that exists”
That “cannot not exist”?
To name Tao
Is to name no-thing.
Tao is not the name
Of “an existent.”
“Cause” and “chance”
Have no bearing on Tao.
Tao is a name
That indicates
Without defining.
Tao is beyond words
And beyond things.
It is not expressed
Either in word or in silence.
Where there is no longer word or silence
Tao is apprehended.
[xxv. II.]
Hui Tzu said to Chuang Tzu:
“All your teaching is centered on what has no use.”
Chuang replied:
“If you have no appreciation for what has no use
You cannot begin to talk about what can be used.
The earth, for example, is broad and vast
But of all this expanse a man uses only a few inches
Upon which he happens to be standing.
Now suppose you suddenly take away
All that he is not actually using
So that, all around his feet a gulf
Yawns, and he stands in the Void,
With nowhere solid except right under each foot:
How long will he be able to use what he is using?”
Hui Tzu said: “It would cease to serve any purpose.”
Chuang Tzu concluded:
“This shows
The absolute necessity
Of what has ‘no use.’”
[xxvi. 7.]
The gatekeeper in the capital city of Sung became such an expert mourner after his father’s death, and so emaciated himself with fasts and austerities, that he was promoted to high rank in order that he might serve as a model of ritual observance.
As a result of this, his imitators so deprived themselves that half of them died. The others were not promoted.
The purpose of a fish trap is to catch fish, and when the fish are caught, the trap is forgotten.
The purpose of a rabbit snare is to catch rabbits. When the rabbits are caught, the snare is forgotten.
The purpose of words is to convey ideas. When the ideas are grasped, the words are forgotten.
Where can I find a man who has forgotten words? He is the one I would like to talk to.
[xxvi. II.]
There was a man who was so disturbed by the sight of his own shadow and so displeased with his own footsteps that he determined to get rid of both. The method he hit upon was to run away from them.
So he got up and ran. But every time he put his foot down there was another step, while his shadow kept up with him without the slightest difficulty.
He attributed his failure to the fact that he was not running fast enough. So he ran faster and faster, without stopping, until he finally dropped dead.
He failed to realize that if he merely stepped into the shade, his shadow would vanish, and if he sat down and stayed still, there would be no more footsteps.
[xxxi.]
When Chuang Tzu was about to die, his disciples began planning a splendid funeral.
But he said: “I shall have heaven and earth for my coffin; the sun and moon will be the jade symbols hanging by my side; planets and constellations will shine as jewels all around me, and all beings will be present as mourners at the wake. What more is needed? Everything is amply taken care of!”
But they said: “We fear that crows and kites will eat our Master.”
“Well,” said Chuang Tzu, “above ground I shall be eaten by crows and kites, below it by ants and worms. In either case I shall be eaten. Why are you so partial to birds?”
[xxxii. 14.]