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Chapter 33 of 33
庄子
Those who study methods and techniques throughout the world are many, and all believe what they have learned has reached the pinnacle—nothing more to be added. Where, then, does the "Way as art" (daoshu) that the ancients spoke of—the complete learning of the great Way—actually reside?
The answer is: the Way is nowhere absent.
Then from where do the sacred and the bright descend, and from where do they arise? The sage has that by which he is born; the king has that by which he achieves. Both are rooted in the unique "One" (the Great One, i.e., the Way). Those who do not depart from the fundamental aim of the Way are called Heavenly Men; those who do not depart from its subtle essence are called Spirit Men; those who do not depart from its genuine nature are called Ultimate Men. Those who take Heaven as their aim, virtue (de, the manifestation and function of the Way) as their root, the Way as their gate, and can foresee transformation are called Sages; those who bestow kindness through benevolence, clarify principle through righteousness, regulate conduct through ritual, harmonize temperament through music, and are gentle and loving are called Gentlemen; those who assign duties by law, mark ranks by titles, verify through comparison, decide through examination—orderly as one, two, three, four—such that the hundred officials arrange themselves accordingly; those who take affairs as their daily routine, clothing and food as their primary occupation, who nurture life, accumulate stores, care for the aged, weak, orphaned, and solitary, and ensure all are provided for—this is the constant principle of the people's livelihood. How complete were the ancients! They matched the gods and spirits, were in harmony with Heaven and Earth, nourished the myriad things, brought peace to the world, and extended grace to all people. They understood the root of the Way and also penetrated the branches of specific institutions. Through the six directions they were unobstructed, through the four seasons they flowed smoothly. Whether great or small, subtle or coarse, the operation of the Way was nowhere absent. What was manifested in institutions and measures—the old laws of antiquity, the records handed down through generations—still has much preserved in the histories; what was preserved in the Poems, Documents, Rites, and Music—the scholars of Zou and Lu, the learned gentlemen—could mostly understand. The Poems express intention, the Documents record affairs, the Rites regulate conduct, the Music harmonize temperament, the Changes clarify the transformations of yin and yang, and the Spring and Autumn Annals rectify names and ranks. These arts, spread throughout the world and practiced in the central states, were often cited and discussed by the hundred schools.
Now the world is in great disorder, the worthy and sage are hidden and obscure, and the standards of virtue are no longer unified. Most people in the world cling to one corner each and take delight in themselves. Like ears, eyes, mouths, and noses—each has its own faculty of perception, yet they cannot interchange functions. So too with the various skills of the hundred schools: each has its strength, each is useful at times. Yet they are, after all, neither comprehensive nor all-encompassing—merely "masters of one corner." They have cut apart the complete beauty of Heaven and Earth, dismembered the overall principle of the myriad things, yet claim to perceive the full picture of the ancients. Few are those who can completely embody the pure beauty of Heaven and Earth or match the true countenance of the spirits. Therefore, the great Way of inner sageliness and outer kingliness—cultivating sagehood within and achieving kingly rule without—lies darkened and unillumined, congested and unreleased, and people of the world each set their own methods according to their own desires. How sad! The hundred schools each go their own way and never turn back—surely they cannot converge! Scholars of later generations, unfortunately, cannot see the pure and complete beauty of Heaven and Earth, nor the grand bearing of the ancients. The Way as art has thus been torn apart by the people of the world.
Not using extravagance to transmit to later generations, not wasting the myriad things, not flaunting ritual and legal institutions, using strict rules to correct oneself, in preparation for the urgent needs of the world—ancient arts existed in this respect, and Mo Di and Qin Guli, upon hearing of this style, took great delight in it. But they overdid it, asserted it too absolutely. They composed the Against Music and named it Moderation in Expenditure. They advocated not singing in life and not wearing mourning clothes in death. Mozi advocated universal love, mutual benefit, and opposed aggression; his doctrine did not advocate anger. Moreover, he was fond of learning and widely informed, not seeking to be novel, yet also not agreeing with the former kings—he advocated abolishing ancient ritual and music. The Yellow Emperor had the music of Xianchi, Yao had Dazhang, Shun had Dashao, Yu had Daxia, Tang had Dahu, King Wen had the music of the Pi Yong academy, and King Wu and the Duke of Zhou composed the Wu music. In ancient mourning rites, the noble and base had different observances, and the high and low had different grades. The emperor's inner and outer coffins were seven layers, the feudal lords five, the high ministers three, and the gentry two. Now Mozi alone insists that in life one should not sing, in death one should not wear mourning clothes, and use a paulownia coffin three inches thick without an outer shell, taking this as his standard. To teach people with this—surely this is not genuine love of others; to require this of oneself—indeed, it is not true self-regard. This is not enough to completely negate Mozi's doctrine, but when one should sing and is not allowed to sing, when one should weep and is not allowed to weep, when one should make music and is not allowed to make music—does this truly accord with human nature? In life they are toiled and wearied, in death their burials are meager—this doctrine is too harsh. It causes people sorrow, causes people grief—this practice is too difficult to carry out. It is feared it cannot be the Way of the sage, for it contravenes the nature of all under Heaven. The people of the world cannot endure it. Though Mozi alone can bear it, what of the people of the world? To depart from the hearts of the people of the world, he is far from the kingly Way.
Mozi said: "In ancient times, Yu dammed the great flood, dredged the rivers, and thereby connected the four barbarian tribes and the nine provinces. The great rivers numbered three hundred, the tributaries three thousand, and the smaller streams beyond count. Yu personally took up the basket and the plow, converging the rivers of the world. His calves had no flesh, his shins had no hair, drenched by heavy rain, buffeted by fierce wind, he settled the ten thousand states. Yu was a great sage, and yet he thus toiled his body for the world." Thus he made the later Mohists mostly wear coarse cloth garments, wooden clogs, and straw sandals, laboring day and night without rest, taking self-imposed suffering as their highest standard, saying: "Those who cannot do this are not following Yu's Way and are not worthy to be called Mohists." The disciples of Xiangli Qin, the followers of Wu Hou, and the southern Mohists such as Ku Huo, Yi Chi, Deng Lingzi and others all recited the Mo Classic, but their understandings diverged and contradicted one another, each accusing the others of being "separatist Mohists." They slandered one another with the debates of hard and white, same and different, and responded to one another with odd-even unmatched phrases. They regarded the juzi (the Mohist leader) as a sage, all willing to become his successors, hoping to be the later transmitters of the Mohist tradition—disputing to this day without resolution. The intentions of Mo Di and Qin Guli were good, but their methods were wrong. That will cause later Mohists to inevitably compete with one another over who can suffer themselves to the point of having no flesh on their calves and no hair on their shins. This is the superior strategy for disturbing the world, the inferior strategy for governing it. Nevertheless, Mozi is truly a rare and good man in the world—one who pursues his ideal and cannot obtain it, who even with a withered form does not give up—truly a man of talent and resolve!
Not entangled by worldly customs, not borrowing external things for adornment, not demanding excessively of others, not resenting the multitude, hoping for peace in the world to preserve the lives of the people, sufficient for the basic needs of both oneself and others, then stopping—using this to manifest one's aims. Ancient arts existed in this respect, and Song Xing and Yin Wen, upon hearing of this style, took great delight in it. They fashioned hats shaped like Mount Hua to mark themselves, and in their contact with all things, the first priority was breaking down partiality. They spoke of the state in which the mind encompasses, calling it "the mind's conduct." They sought harmony with others through gentle and accommodating means, using this to harmonize the world. They requested that everyone adopt this doctrine as their guiding principle. They considered suffering insult and not feeling it as shame, rescuing the people from strife, prohibiting aggression, stopping warfare, and saving the world from its turmoil. With this they traveled throughout the world, persuading kings above and instructing the people below. Although the world would not adopt their views, they still persisted in their persuasion and would not give up. Hence it is said: both high and low were weary of them, yet they still forced themselves forward. Nevertheless, what they did for others was great, what they did for themselves was little. They said: "Provide us with five pints of rice, and that will be enough." The masters surely could not eat their fill, and though the disciples were starving, they never forgot the world, rushing about day and night without rest. They said: "We must survive!" What lofty saviors of the world they were! They said: "The gentleman does not engage in harsh scrutiny, nor does he lend himself to external things." They held that for what is of no benefit to the world, rather than clarify it, it is better to stop. They took the prohibition of aggression and the cessation of warfare as their external doctrine, and the reduction of desires as their internal cultivation. Whether in great matters or small, fine or coarse, their conduct merely reached this point and no further.
Impartial and without partiality, level and easy without selfishness, decisive without stubborn attachment, moving with things without vacillation, without hesitation or scheming, without cunning calculation, making no choices among things, going along with the myriad things. Ancient arts existed in this respect, and Peng Meng, Tian Pian, and Shen Dao, upon hearing of this style, took great delight in it. They took the equalization of the myriad things as their foremost principle, saying: "Heaven can cover all things but cannot bear them up; Earth can bear up all things but cannot cover them; the great Way can encompass all things but cannot distinguish them." They knew that the myriad things each have what they can do and what they cannot do. Thus they said: "To make choices is to fail to be comprehensive; to teach is to fail to exhaust; only the Way leaves nothing out." Therefore Shen Dao advocated discarding wisdom, removing the self, and yielding to the irresistible natural impulse. He let the myriad things transform and evolve of themselves, taking this as the principle. He said: "If one knows that one does not know, then forcing oneself to seek knowledge only harms oneself." He was lax and indifferent, doing nothing, laughing at the world's esteem for worthies; unrestrained and careless of appearances, criticizing the great sages of the world; bending with things, revolving and transforming along with them; discarding right and wrong, seeking only to escape calamity. He did not rely on wisdom or thought, did not know front from back, standing unbending and alone. Pushed and he moves, dragged and he goes. He whirls like a whirlwind, spins like a feather, revolves like a millstone—preserving himself without incurring blame, without error in motion or stillness, never having committed a fault. What is the reason? Because things without knowledge have no calamity of establishing a self, no entanglement of employing cleverness, and in motion and stillness do not depart from the natural principle—therefore they are without praise their whole lives. Thus he said: "Simply be like unknowing things—no need for sages and worthies. A clod of earth also does not lose the Way." The heroes all laughed together, saying: "Shen Dao's doctrine is not the way of the living, but the principle of the dead." Indeed, it appears strange. Tian Pian was likewise—he studied under Peng Meng and obtained the teaching without words. Peng Meng's teacher said: "The ancients who obtained the Way merely reached a state of neither this nor that being right. Their manner was silent and still—how could it be spoken of?" They often went against common opinion, were not appreciated by others, and inevitably were ridiculed as bizarre. The Way they spoke of was not the true Way, and what they called "right" could not avoid being wrong. Peng Meng, Tian Pian, and Shen Dao did not truly understand the Way. Nevertheless, in general they had once heard something of the fringe of the great Way.
Taking the fundamental Way as subtle, external things as coarse, considering accumulation as insufficiency, dwelling quietly in solitude, abiding with the spirits—ancient arts existed in this respect, and Guan Yin and Lao Dan, upon hearing of this style, took great delight in it. They established the doctrines of "constant non-being" and "constant being," with the Great One (the absolutely unique Way) as the supreme sovereign. They took weakness and humility as their external manifestation, and emptiness without harming the myriad things as their inner substance.
Guan Yin said: "If the self holds no bias, the forms of the myriad things naturally manifest." His movement flows like water, his stillness is clear like a mirror, his responsiveness is swift like an echo. Vague as if nothing remains, vast and empty. Those who are one with the myriad things are harmonious; those who are grasping will lose. He never takes precedence over others, but always follows after them.
Lao Dan said: "Know the strong, yet keep to the weak—be the valley stream of the world; know the pure, yet keep to the sullied—be the low valley of the world." Everyone rushes to be first; he alone willingly dwells last. He said: "Willingly bear the world's disgrace." Everyone seeks sustenance; he alone abides in emptiness. "Store nothing, and therefore have surplus." Great and abundant in surplus. In his conduct of life, he was self-possessed and effortless, doing nothing and laughing at the skillful. Everyone sought good fortune; he alone bent low to preserve himself. He said: "Seek only to avoid fault." He took depth as his root and frugality as his discipline. He said: "What is hard is easily broken; what is sharp is easily blunted." He was ever lenient toward all things, never harsh toward others. Though he had not yet reached the highest realm, Guan Yin and Lao Dan were indeed the broad and great true men of antiquity!
Still and formless, transforming without constancy—is this death? Is this life? Do they coexist with Heaven and Earth? Do they travel with the spirits and gods? Dimly, where do they go? Vaguely, whither do they stray? All things are encompassed, yet this does not suffice as their ultimate destination. Ancient arts existed in this respect, and Zhuang Zhou, upon hearing of this style, took great delight in it. He employed deep and unfathomable discourses, vast and extravagant words, and boundless expressions, at times giving free rein without partiality, not displaying his views to impress. He considered the world sunk in turbidity, unable to be spoken to in solemn language. He used rim-filled words (words that flow and adapt like a vessel) to extend, weighty words (words borrowing the authority of the ancients) to manifest truth, and lodged words (implied or analogical stories) to spread principle. Alone he communed with the spirit of Heaven and Earth, yet he did not look down upon the myriad things. He did not cling to right and wrong, in order to dwell with the common world. Though his books are grand and magnificent, his style is free-flowing and does not wound. Though his words are irregular and varied, they are marvelously readable. His inner being was full and overflowing, unable to restrain itself. Above, he roamed with the Creator; below, he befriended those who transcend life and death, beyond beginning and end. As for the root of the great way, he elaborated it broadly and expansively, profoundly and forcefully; as for its essential aim, he may be said to have reached harmony and fitness ascending to the highest realm. Nevertheless, he responded to transformation and was released from entanglement with external things—his principle inexhaustible, his source unfathomable, vast and obscure, without end.
Hui Shi was broadly learned and talented, his writings filling five carts, yet his doctrines were miscellaneous and impure, and his remarks did not accord with the Great Way. He probed the principles of all things, saying: "That which is so great that it has nothing outside itself is called the Great One (the supremely great); that which is so small that it has nothing inside itself is called the Small One (the supremely small). What has no thickness cannot be piled up, yet its area may extend a thousand miles. Heaven is as low as earth; mountains are as level as marshes. The sun at its zenith is already declining; things at their moment of birth are already dying. The great same and the small same differ—this is called the 'small same and difference'; all things are completely identical and completely distinct—this is called the 'great same and difference.' The south is both boundless and limited. One arrives in Yue today, yet already came yesterday. Linked rings can be unfastened. I know the center of heaven—it lies north of Yan and south of Yue. Love all things universally; heaven and earth form one body." These Hui Shi set forth as grand truths, displaying them to all under heaven, making them known to the skillful disputers, and the debaters of the world all delighted to argue with him concerning them. Eggs have feathers. Chickens have three feet. Ying possesses all under heaven. A dog can be a sheep. Horses lay eggs. Toads have tails. Fire is not hot. Mountains have mouths. Wheels do not press the ground. Eyes do not see things. Pointing never reaches the things themselves, and even if it did, it would never be exhausted. Turtles are longer than snakes. The carpenter's square cannot draw a true square; the compass cannot draw a true circle. The chisel-hole cannot completely enclose the tenon. A flying bird's shadow has never moved. In the swift instant of a flying arrow, there is simultaneously a moment of not advancing and a moment of not stopping. A dog is not a hound. A yellow horse and a black ox together make three. A white dog is black. An orphan foal has never had a mother. A staff one foot long, cut in half every day, will never be exhausted in ten thousand generations. The disputers matched Hui Shi with these propositions, responding and rejoining in endless debate throughout their lives. Huan Tuan, Gongsun Long, and others of the disputer class polished men's minds, altered men's intentions, and could overcome men's mouths and tongues, yet could not convince men's hearts—such is the limitation of the disputers. Hui Shi daily exerted his intellect in argument with others, specializing jointly with the world's disputers in fabricating strange doctrines—this was the root of their error. Yet Hui Shi's eloquence he himself deemed supreme, saying: "How grand is heaven and earth! I, Hui Shi, exist herein, possessing great talent yet lacking the Way." In the south there was a strange man named Huang Liao who asked Hui Shi why heaven does not fall, why earth does not collapse, and the cause of wind, rain, thunder, and lightning. Hui Shi did not decline but responded, did not reflect but answered, discoursing exhaustively on the principles of all things. He spoke without ceasing, prolix and inexhaustible, and still finding it insufficient, he added even more strange theories, taking what contradicted common sense as truth, seeking fame by surpassing others—and thus he stood at odds with the people of the world. His virtue was thin, his pursuit of external things excessive, and the path he walked was too narrow. Viewed from the Way of heaven and earth, Hui Shi's ability was but the toil of a mosquito or a gadfly. What use is it to the ten thousand things! If one fulfills a single aspect, that is still acceptable, and the more one advances, the closer one draws to the Way. But Hui Shi could not settle his own mind with this; he scattered his energy among the ten thousand things without weariness, and in the end he won renown through clever argument. What a pity! Hui Shi's talent—unrestrained yet never attaining what is right, chasing the ten thousand things without ever turning back—this is like pursuing an echo with sound, or racing one's own body and shadow; how lamentable!