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Chapter 9 of 33
庄子
A horse—its hoofs can tread on frost and snow, its coat can shield against wind and cold. It eats grass, drinks water, and lifts its legs to leap—this is the horse's true nature. Even if there were high towers and grand halls, they would be of no use to a horse.
Then Bole appeared, saying: "I am skilled at training horses." So he branded them with hot irons, clipped their manes, pared their hoofs, and fitted them with bridles. He bound them with reins and halters, and shut them into stables and stalls—by this point, two or three out of ten horses had already died. Next, he made them endure hunger and thirst, gallop at full speed, and march in neatly ordered ranks. With the torment of bits and ornamental trappings in front, and the threat of whips and canes behind, by this point more than half the horses had died.
The potter said: "I am skilled at working with clay." The pottery he made was round enough to match the compass and square enough to match the carpenter's square. The carpenter said: "I am skilled at working with wood." What he bent matched the arc of the hook, and what he cut straight matched the ink line. But is it in the nature of clay and wood to want to conform to compass, square, hook, and ink line? Yet generation after generation praises them, saying: "Bole is good at managing horses, the potter is good at managing clay and wood." Those who govern the world commit the very same error.
I believe that those who are truly skilled at governing the world are not like this. The people have a constant, inborn nature: to weave and be clothed, to till and be fed—this is called same virtue (shared natural goodness). All live together as a whole without forming factions or showing favoritism—this is called natural freedom (spontaneous unrestraint, unbounded by human artifice). Therefore, in the age of ultimate virtue, people walked with slow, steady steps, and looked with plain, focused eyes. At that time, there were no man-made paths or tunnels on the mountains, no boats or bridges on the lakes and marshes; all things grew together, and dwellings were connected to one another; birds and beasts formed flocks, and plants and trees flourished. Thus, birds and beasts could be led by a string and played with, and the nests of magpies could be climbed up to and peered into. In the age of ultimate virtue, people lived together with birds and beasts, coexisting with all things—what did they know of gentlemen or petty men! All alike were "without knowledge," and so virtue was not dispersed; all alike were "without desire," and this was called simplicity. In simplicity, the true nature of people was preserved.
Then the sages appeared, straining their minds to promote benevolence, forcing their efforts to practice righteousness—and only then did the world begin to feel doubt; they let music spread in wild abandon, and established rites in tedious and contorted detail—and only then did the world begin to split apart. Therefore, if whole unhewn logs were not carved, who could make a sacrificial goblet (an ornate ritual wine vessel)? If white jade were not chiseled, who could make a gui or zhang scepter (precious ceremonial jades)? If the Way and Virtue [translator's note: here referring to the Daoist concept of the primordial Way and inner virtue, not the modern Chinese word "morality"] had not been cast aside, what need would there be for benevolence and righteousness? If true nature and genuine feeling had not departed, what need would there be for rites and music? If the five colors were not muddled, who would devise patterns and ornaments? If the five sounds were not disturbed, who would tune them to the six pitches?
Splitting apart unhewn wood to make vessels—this is the crime of the craftsman; destroying the Way and Virtue to promote benevolence and righteousness—this is the fault of the sages. Moreover, consider the horse: when it lives on dry land, it eats grass and drinks water; when pleased, it intertwines its neck with another's and rubs affectionately; when angered, it turns its back and kicks with its hind legs. What the horse knows is nothing more than this. But when a yoke is placed on its neck and a crescent-shaped headstall is fitted to its head, the horse learns to glance sideways with a sly look, arch its neck to slip the yoke, barge against the carriage curtain, spit out the bit, and furtively bite the reins. Thus the horse's cleverness can develop to the point of behaving like a thief in its cunning defiance—this is Bole's crime.
In the age of the ancient Xushi clan, the people dwelt contentedly without knowing what to do, walked about without knowing where to go, played with food in their mouths, and patted their full bellies as they strolled. What the people could do was nothing more than this. But when the sages appeared, they used twisted and contorted rites and music to correct the people's bodily forms, and hung up benevolence and righteousness high above as a lure to comfort the people's hearts—and only then did the people begin to compete in the pursuit of knowledge and scramble after private gain, unable to stop. This, too, is the fault of the sages.
This chapter uses the "true nature of the horse" and Bole's "training" as a metaphor to directly point out that all acts of forcibly "governing" according to human standards will harm one's true nature. The potter working clay and the carpenter working wood follow the same logic: what is called "good governance" is in fact cutting, disciplining, and distorting.
From this, Zhuangzi proposes the ideal state of politics and human nature: natural freedom, simplicity, and same virtue. People dressing and eating, remaining whole without partisanship, being without knowledge and without desire—this is the most authentic life. The sages' promotion of benevolence, righteousness, rites, and music, however, is merely a remedy that arose after virtue was already lost—just as cutting unhewn logs into vessels and chiseling white jade into ritual implements. Zhuangzi's stance is extremely sharp: destroying the Way and Virtue to advertise benevolence and righteousness is the fault of the sages.
Another key point is the "paradox of knowledge": the more control Bole imposes on horses, the more the horses learn to resist—casting sideways glances, slipping the yoke, spitting out the bit, biting the reins. The more precise the governance, the more it breeds "thievish cunning." This does not mean horses have become smarter, but rather that control and discipline produce reverse cunning and alienation.
Bu Gua Reminder: This content is based on classical Daoist texts and is provided solely for traditional cultural study and life reflection; it does not constitute religious, medical, or investment advice.