The Book of Chuang Tzu

Chapter I. Transcendental Bliss.

Argument:—Space infinite—Time infinite—Relativity of magnitudes, physical and moral—The magnitude absolute—Usefulness as a test of value—The usefulness of the useless.

In the northern ocean there is a fish, called the Leviathan, many thousand li in size. This leviathan changes into a bird, called the Rukh, whose back is many thousand li in breadth. With a mighty effort it rises, and its wings obscure the sky like clouds.

At the equinox, this bird prepares to start for the southern ocean, the Celestial Lake. And in the Record of Marvels we read that when the rukh flies southwards, the water is smitten for a space of three thousand li around, while the bird itself mounts upon a typhoon to a height of ninety thousand li, for a flight of six months’ duration.

Just so are the motes in a sunbeam blown aloft by God. For whether the blue of the sky is its real colour, or only the result of distance without end, the effect to the bird looking down would be just the same as to the motes.

Distance being relative. The rukh at an altitude of 90,000 li (three li to a mile) is no more than a mote in a sunbeam a few feet from the ground.

If there is not sufficient depth, water will not float large ships. Upset a cupful into a small hole, and a mustard-seed will be your boat. Try to float the cup, and it will stick, from the disproportion between water and vessel.

So with air. If there is not a sufficient depth, it cannot support large birds. And for this bird a depth of ninety thousand li is necessary; and then, with nothing save the clear sky above, and no obstacle in the way, it starts upon its journey to the south.

A cicada laughed, and said to a young dove, "Now, when I fly with all my might, ’tis as much as I can do to get from tree to tree. And sometimes I do not reach, but fall to the ground midway. What then can be the use of going up ninety thousand li in order to start for the south?"

He who goes to Mang-ts’ang,

A short distance into the country.

taking three meals with him, comes back with his stomach as full as when he started. But he who travels a hundred li must grind flour enough for a night’s halt. And he who travels a thousand li must supply himself with provisions for three months. Those two little creatures,—what should they know? Small knowledge has not the compass of great knowledge any more than a short year has the length of a long year.

How can we tell that this is so? The mushroom of a morning knows not the alternation of day and night. The chrysalis knows not the alternation of spring and autumn. Theirs are short years.

But in the State of Ch’u there is a tortoise whose spring and autumn are each of five hundred years’ duration. And in former days there was a large tree which had a spring and autumn each of eight thousand years’ duration. Yet, P’êng Tsu

The Methusaleh of China. His age has not been agreed upon by Chinese writers, but the lowest computation gives him a life of eight hundred years.

is still, alas! an object of envy to all.

It was on this very subject that the Emperor T’ang

B.C. 1766.

spoke to Chi, as follows:—"At the barren north there is a great sea, the Celestial Lake. In it there is a fish, several thousand li in breadth, and I know not how many in length. It is called the Leviathan. There is also a bird, called the Rukh, with a back like Mount T’ai,

China’s most famous mountain, situated in the province of Shantung.

and wings like clouds across the sky. Upon a typhoon it soars up to a height of ninety thousand li, beyond the clouds and atmosphere, with only the clear sky above it. And then it directs its flight towards the south pole.

A quail laughed, and said: Pray, what may that creature be going to do? I rise but a few yards in the air, and settle again after flying around among the reeds. That is the most I can manage. Now, where ever can this creature be going to?

The repetition of this story, coupled with its quotation from the Record of Marvels, is considered to give an air of authenticity to Chuang Tzŭ’s illustration, which the reader might otherwise suppose to be of his own invention.

Such, indeed, is the difference between small and great. Take, for instance, a man who creditably fills some small office, or who is a pattern of virtue in his neighbourhood, or who influences his prince to right government of the State,—his opinion of himself will be much the same as that quail’s. The philosopher Yung laughs at such a one. He, if the whole world flattered him, would not be affected thereby, nor if the whole world blamed him would he lose his faith in himself. For Yung can distinguish between the intrinsic and the extrinsic, between honour and shame,—and such men are rare in their generation. But even he has not established himself.

Beyond the limits of an external world. His achievements are after all only of the earth, earthy.

There was Lieh Tzŭ again.

A personage of whom nothing is really known. He is considered by the best authorities to have been of Chuang Tzŭ’s own creation. This, however, did not prevent some enterprising scholar, probably of the Han dynasty, from discovering a treatise which still passes under Lieh Tzŭ’s name.

He could ride upon the wind, and travel whithersoever he wished, staying away as long as fifteen days. Among mortals who attain happiness, such a man is rare. Yet although Lieh Tzŭ was able to dispense with walking, he was still dependent upon something.

Sc. the wind.

But had he been charioted upon the eternal fitness of Heaven and Earth, driving before him the elements as his team while roaming through the realms of For-Ever,—upon what, then, would he have had to depend?

That is, nourished upon the doctrines of inaction, the continuity of life and death, etc., which will be dealt with in later chapters.

Thus it has been said, "The perfect man ignores self; the divine man ignores action; the true Sage ignores reputation."

His—for the three are one—is a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told. Material existences melt into thin air; worldly joys and sorrows cease for him who passes thus into the everlasting enjoyment of a transcendental peace.

The Emperor Yao

B.C. 2356. His reign, coupled with that of Shun who succeeded him, may be regarded as the Golden Age of China’s history. See p. 26.

wished to abdicate in favour of Hsü Yu,

A worthy hermit.

saying, If, when the sun and moon are shining, you persist in lighting a torch, is not that a misapplication of fire? If, when the rainy season is at its height, you still continue to water the ground, is not this a waste of labour? Now, sir, do you assume the reins of government, and the empire will be at peace. I am but a dead body, conscious of my own deficiency. I beg you will ascend the throne.

Ever since you, sire, have directed the administration, replied Hsü Yu, the empire has enjoyed tranquillity. Supposing, therefore, that I were to take your place now, should I gain any reputation thereby? Besides, reputation is but the shadow of reality; and should I trouble myself about the shadow? The tit, building its nest in the mighty forest, occupies but a single twig. The tapir slakes its thirst from the river, but drinks enough only to fill its belly. To you, sire, belongs the reputation: the empire has no need for me. If a cook is unable to dress his funeral sacrifices, the boy who impersonates the corpse may not step over the wines and meats and do it for him.

This illustrates rejection of reputation by the true Sage. See ch. vii.

Chien Wu said to Lien Shu,

Both fictitious personages.

"I heard Chieh Yü utter something unjustifiably extravagant and without either rhyme or reason.

This was an individual, named Lu T’ung, who feigned madness in order to escape an official career. For his interview with Confucius, see ch. iv, ad fin.

I was greatly startled at what he said, for it seemed to me boundless as the Milky Way, though very improbable and removed from the experiences of mortals."

What was it? asked Lien Shu.

He declared, replied Chien Wu, "that on the Miao-ku-shê mountain

Which is as fabulous as the story.

there lives a divine man whose flesh is like ice or snow, whose demeanour is that of a virgin, who eats no fruit of the earth, but lives on air and dew, and who, riding on clouds with flying dragons for his team, roams beyond the limits of mortality. This being is absolutely inert. Yet he wards off corruption from all things, and causes the crops to thrive. Now I call that nonsense, and do not believe it."

Well, answered Lien Shu, "you don’t ask a blind man’s opinion of a picture, nor do you invite a deaf man to a concert. And blindness and deafness are not physical only. There is blindness and deafness of the mind, diseases from which I fear you yourself are suffering. The good influence of that man fills all creation. Yet because a paltry generation cries for reform, you would have him condescend to the details of an empire!

Not seeing that the greater contains the less.

Objective existences cannot harm him. In a flood which reached to the sky, he would not be drowned. In a drought, though metals ran liquid and mountains were scorched up, he would not be hot. Out of his very dust and siftings you might fashion two such men as Yao and Shun. And you would have him occupy himself with objectives!

Illustrating the inaction of the divine man.

A man of the Sung State carried some sacrificial caps into the Yüeh State, for sale. But the men of Yüeh used to cut off their hair and paint their bodies, so that they had no use for such things. And so, when the Emperor Yao, the ruler of all under heaven and pacificator of all within the shores of ocean, paid a visit to the four sages of the Miao-ku-shê mountain, on returning to his capital at Fên-yang, the empire existed for him no more.

This illustrates the rejection of self by the perfect man. Yao had his eyes opened to the hollowness and uselessness of all mortal possessions. He ceased, therefore, to think any more of himself, and per consequens of the empire.

Hui Tzŭ

A celebrated schoolman, contemporary with and antagonistic to Chuang Tzŭ. For an account of his theories, see ch. xxxiii.

said to Chuang Tzŭ, The Prince of Wei gave me a seed of a large-sized kind of gourd. I planted it, and it bore a fruit as big as a five-bushel measure. Now had I used this for holding liquids, it would have been too heavy to lift; and had I cut it in half for ladles, the ladles would have been ill adapted for such purpose. It was uselessly large, so I broke it up.

Sir, replied Chuang Tzŭ, "it was rather you who did not know how to use large things. There was a man of Sung who had a recipe for salve for chapped hands, his family having been silk-washers for generations. Well, a stranger who had heard of it, came and offered him 100 oz. of silver for this recipe; whereupon he called together his clansmen and said, ‘We have never made much money by silk-washing. Now, we can make 100 oz. in a single day. Let the stranger have the recipe.’

"So the stranger got it, and went and informed the Prince of Wu who was just then at war with the Yüeh State. Accordingly, the Prince used it in a naval battle fought at the beginning of winter with the Yüeh State, the result being that the latter was totally defeated.

They suffered from chapped hands, while their rivals of the Wu State were protected by their patent salve.

The stranger was rewarded with territory and a title. Thus, while the efficacy of the salve to cure chapped hands was in both cases the same, its application was different. Here, it secured a title; there, a capacity for washing silk.

Now as to your five-bushel gourd, why did you not make a boat of it, and float about over river and lake? You could not then have complained of its not holding anything! But I fear you are rather woolly inside.

Like it. This, of course, is a sneer. Hui Tzŭ could not see that the greatness of a thing depends upon the greatness of its application.

Hui Tzŭ said to Chuang Tzŭ, Sir, I have a large tree, of a worthless kind. Its trunk is so irregular and knotty that it cannot be measured out for planks; while its branches are so twisted as to admit of no geometrical subdivision whatever. It stands by the roadside, but no carpenter will look at it. And your words, sir, are like that tree;—big and useless, not wanted by anybody.

Sir, rejoined Chuang Tzŭ, "have you never seen a wild cat, crouching down in wait for its prey? Right and left it springs from bough to bough, high and low alike,—until perchance it gets caught in a trap or dies in a snare. On the other hand, there is the yak with its great huge body. It is big enough in all conscience, but it cannot catch mice.

The adaptability of a thing is oft-times its bane. The inability of the yak to catch mice saves it from the snare which is fatal to the wild cat.

"Now if you have a big tree and are at a loss what to do with it, why not plant it in the domain of non-existence,

Beyond the limits of our external world. Referring to the conditions of mental abstraction in which alone true happiness is to be found.

whither you might betake yourself to inaction by its side, to blissful repose beneath its shade?

Why does the horizon hold me fast, with my joy and grief in this centre?—Emerson.

There it would be safe from the axe and from all other injury; for being of no use to others, itself would be free from harm."

Illustrating the advantage of being useless. That which is small and useful is thus shown to be inferior to that which is large and useless.

Chapter II. The Identity of Contraries.

Argument:—Contraries spring from our subjective individuality—Identity of subjective and objective—The centre where all distinctions are merged in ONE—How to reach this point—Speech an obstacle—The negative state—Light out of darkness—Illustrations.

Tzŭ Ch’i of Nan-kuo sat leaning on a table. Looking up to heaven, he sighed and became absent, as though soul and body had parted.

Yen Ch’êng Tzŭ Yu, who was standing by him, exclaimed, What are you thinking about that your body should become thus like dry wood, your mind like dead ashes? Surely the man now leaning on the table is not he who was here just now.

My friend, replied Tzŭ Ch’i, "your question is apposite. To-day I have buried myself…. Do you understand? … Ah! perhaps you only know the music of Man, and not that of Earth. Or even if you have heard the music of Earth, you have not heard the music of Heaven."

Pray explain, said Tzŭ Yu.

The breath of the universe, continued Tzŭ Ch’i, "is called wind. At times, it is inactive. But when active, every aperture resounds to the blast. Have you never listened to its growing roar?

Caves and dells of hill and forest, hollows in huge trees of many a span in girth;—these are like nostrils, like mouths, like ears, like beam-sockets, like goblets, like mortars, like ditches, like bogs. And the wind goes rushing through them, sniffing, snoring, singing, soughing, puffing, purling, whistling, whirring, now shrilly treble, now deeply bass, now soft, now loud; until, with a lull, silence reigns supreme. Have you never witnessed among the trees such a disturbance as this?

Well, then, enquired Tzŭ Yu, since the music of earth consists of nothing more than holes, and the music of man of pipes and flutes,—of what consists the music of Heaven?

The effect of the wind upon these various apertures, replied Tzŭ Ch’i, "is not uniform. But what is it that gives to each the individuality, to all the potentiality, of sound?

"Great knowledge embraces the whole:

Sees both the upper and under side of the medal of Jove at once.

small knowledge, a part only. Great speech is universal:

Speech, according to Chuang Tzŭ’s ideal, always covers the whole ground in question, leaving no room for positive and negative to appear in antagonism.

small speech is particular.

"For whether when the mind is locked in sleep or whether when in waking hours the body is released, we are subject to daily mental perturbations,—indecision, want of penetration, concealment, fretting fear, and trembling terror. Now like a javelin the mind flies forth, the arbiter of right and wrong.

Thus recognising contraries.

Now like a solemn covenanter it remains firm, the guardian of rights secured.

Adhering to an opinion formed.

Then, as under autumn and winter’s blight, comes gradual decay, a passing away, like the flow of water, never to return. Finally, the block when all is choked up like an old drain,—the failing mind which shall not see light again.

"Joy and anger, sorrow and happiness, caution and remorse, come upon us by turns, with ever-changing mood. They come like music from hollowness, like mushrooms from damp. Daily and nightly they alternate within us, but we cannot tell whence they spring. Can we then hope in a moment to lay our finger upon their very Cause?

"But for these emotions I should not be. But for me, they would have no scope. So far we can go; but we do not know what it is that brings them into play. ’Twould seem to be a soul; but the clue to its existence is wanting. That such a Power operates, is credible enough, though we cannot see its form. It has functions without form.

As will be gathered later on, Chuang Tzŭ conceives of the soul as an emanation from God, passing to and from this earth through the portals of Life and Death.

"Take the human body with all its manifold divisions. Which part of it does a man love best? Does he not cherish all equally, or has he a preference? Do not all equally serve him? And do these servitors then govern themselves, or are they subdivided into rulers and subjects? Surely there is some soul which sways them all.

"But whether or not we ascertain what are the functions of this soul, it matters but little to the soul itself. For coming into existence with this mortal coil of mine, with the exhaustion of this mortal coil its mandate will also be exhausted. To be harassed by the wear and tear of life, and to pass rapidly through it without possibility of arresting one’s course,—is not this pitiful indeed? To labour without ceasing, and then, without living to enjoy the fruit, worn out, to depart, suddenly, one knows not whither,—is not that a just cause for grief?

"What advantage is there in what men call not dying? The body decomposes, and the mind goes with it. This is our real cause for sorrow. Can the world be so dull as not to see this? Or is it I alone who am dull, and others not so?

"If we are to be guided by the criteria of our own minds, who shall be without a guide?

The mind should be a tabula rasa, free from all judgments or opinions of its own as to the external world, and ready only to accept things as they are, not as they appear to be.

What need to know of the alternations of