Zhuangzi

Zhūangzi (莊子; c. 369 BC – c. 286 BC), literally Master Zhuang, was a Chinese philosopher, who is supposed to have lived during the Warring States Period, corresponding to the Hundred Schools of Thought. His name is also transliterated as Zhuang Zi, Zhuang Zhou, Chuang Tzu, Chuang Tse. Chuang was his surname and Tse indicates master; so he would be referred to as Master Chuang. You will also see his name given as "Chuang Chou" or "Zhuang Zhu", this was his proper name, first and last, not an alternate spelling of "Chuang Tzu" or "Zhuangzi".

• Great wisdom is generous; petty wisdom is contentious. Great speech is impassioned, small speech cantankerous.
  • Ch. 2 (tr. Lin Yutang, 1942)

• We cling to our own point of view, as though everything depended on it. Yet our opinions have no permanence; like autumn and winter, they gradually pass away.
  • Ch. 2 (tr. Gia-Fu Feng and Jane English, 1974)

• Whether you point to a little stalk or a great pillar, a leper or the beautiful Hsi-shih, things ribald and shady or things grotesque and strange, the Way makes them all into one. Their dividedness is their completeness; their completeness is their impairment. No thing is either complete or impaired, but all are made into one again. Only the man of far-reaching vision knows how to make them into one. So he has no use [for categories], but relegates all to the constant. The constant is the useful; the useful is the passable; the passable is the successful; and with success, all is accomplished. He relies upon this alone, relies upon it and does not know he is doing so. This is called the Way.
  • Ch. 2 (tr. Burton Watson, 1968)

• How do I know that enjoying life is not a delusion? How do I know that in hating death we are not like people who got lost in early childhood and do not know the way home? Lady Li was the child of a border guard in Ai. When first captured by the state of Jin, she wept so much her clothes were soaked. But after she entered the palace, shared the king's bed, and dined on the finest meats, she regretted her tears. How do I know that the dead do not regret their previous longing for life? One who dreams of drinking wine may in the morning weep; one who dreams weeping may in the morning go out to hunt. During our dreams we do not know we are dreaming. We may even dream of interpreting a dream. Only on waking do we know it was a dream. Only after the great awakening will we realize that this is the great dream. And yet fools think they are awake, presuming to know that they are rulers or herdsmen. How dense! You and Confucius are both dreaming, and I who say you are a dream am also a dream. Such is my tale. It will probably be called preposterous, but after ten thousand generations there may be a great sage who will be able to explain it, a trivial interval equivalent to the passage from morning to night.
  • Ch. 2 (tr. Paul Kjellberg, 2001)

• Right is not right; so is not so. If right were really right it would differ so clearly from not right that there would be no need for argument. If so were really so, it would differ so clearly from not so that there would be no need for argument.
  • Ch. 2 (tr. Burton Watson, 1968)
    • If right were really right, it would be so different from not-right that there would be no room for argument. If so were really so, then it would be so different from not-so that there would be no room for argument.
      • Tr. Paul Kjellberg, in Readings in Classical Chinese Philosophy (2001) ch. 5, p. 224

• Forget the years, forget distinctions. Leap into the boundless and make it your home!
  • Ch. 2 (tr. Burton Watson, 1968)

• 昔者庄周梦为蝴蝶，栩栩然蝴蝶也，自喻适志与，不知周也。俄然觉，则戚戚然周也。不知周之梦为蝴蝶与，蝴蝶之梦为周与？周与蝴蝶则必有分矣。此之谓物化。
• 昔者莊周夢為蝴蝶，栩栩然蝴蝶也，自喻適志與，不知周也。俄然覺，則戚戚然周也。不知周之夢為蝴蝶與，蝴蝶之夢為周與？週與蝴蝶則必有分矣。此之謂物化。 (traditional)
  • Once upon a time, I, Chuang Chou, dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. I was conscious only of my happiness as a butterfly, unaware that I was Chou. Soon I awaked, and there I was, veritably myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man. Between a man and a butterfly there is necessarily a distinction. The transition is called the transformation of material things.
    • Ch. 2 (tr. Lin Yutang, 1942)
      • Once upon a time, I, Chuang Chou, dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, a veritable butterfly, enjoying itself to the full of its bent, and not knowing it was Chuang Chou. Suddenly I awoke, and came to myself, the veritable Chuang Chou. Now I do not know whether it was then I dreamt I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming I am a man. Between me and the butterfly there must be a difference. This is an instance of transformation.
        • Tr. James Legge, in W. E. Soothill, The Three Religions of China: Lectures Delivered at Oxford (1913) p. 75
      • Once Zhuang Zhou dreamed he was a butterfly, a fluttering butterfly. What fun he had, doing as he pleased! He did not know he was Zhou. Suddenly he woke up and found himself to be Zhou. He did not know whether Zhou had dreamed he was a butterfly or a butterfly had dreamed he was Zhou. Between Zhou and the butterfly there must be some distinction. This is what is meant by the transformation of things.
        • Tr. Patricia Ebrey, in Chinese Civilization: A Sourcebook (1993) p. 30
      • One night, Zhuangzi dreamed of being a butterfly — a happy butterfly, showing off and doing things as he pleased, unaware of being Zhuangzi. Suddenly he awoke, drowsily, Zhuangzi again. And he could not tell whether it was Zhuangzi who had dreamt the butterfly or the butterfly dreaming Zhuangzi. But there must be some difference between them! This is called 'the transformation of things'.
        • Tr. Paul Kjellberg, in Readings in Classical Chinese Philosophy (2001) ch. 5, p. 224
      • Once upon a time, Chuang Chou dreamed that he was a butterfly, a butterfly flitting about happily enjoying himself. He didn’t know that he was Chou. Suddenly he awoke and was palpably Chou. He didn’t know whether he were Chou who had dreamed of being a butterfly, or a butterfly who was dreaming that he was Chou.
        • Tr. Victor H. Mair, in The Columbia Anthology of Traditional Chinese Literature (1994) ch. 9, p. 45

• All men know the utility of useful things; but they do not know the utility of futility.
  • Ch. 4 (tr. Lin Yutang, 1942)

• He who knows what is of God and who knows what is of Man has reached indeed the height (of wisdom).
  • Ch. 6 (tr. Lin Yutang, 1942)

• He who pursues fame at the risk of losing his self is not a scholar.
  • Ch. 6 (tr. Lin Yutang, 1942)

• Resolve your mental energy into abstraction, your physical energy into inaction. Allow yourself to fall in with the natural order of phenomena, without admitting the element of self,—and the empire will be governed.
  • Ch. 7 (tr. Herbert A. Giles, 1889)

• Those who seek to satisfy the mind of man by hampering it with ceremonies and music and affecting charity and devotion have lost their original nature.
  • Ch. 8 (tr. Lin Yutang, 1942)

• And so in the days when natural instincts prevailed, men moved quietly and gazed steadily. At that time, there were no roads over mountains, nor boats, nor bridges over water. All things were produced, each for its own proper sphere. Birds and beasts multiplied; trees and shrubs grew up. The former might be led by the hand; you could climb up and peep into the raven's nest. For then man dwelt with birds and beasts, and all creation was one. There were no distinctions of good and bad men. Being all equally without knowledge, their virtue could not go astray. Being all equally without evil desires, they were in a state of natural integrity, the perfection of human existence.
  But when Sages appeared, tripping people over charity and fettering with duty to one's neighbour, doubt found its way into the world. And then with their gushing over music and fussing over ceremony, the empire became divided against itself. ...
  Destruction of the natural integrity of things, in order to produce articles of various kinds,—this is the fault of the artisan. Annihilation of Tao in order to practise charity and duty to one's neighbour,—this is the error of the Sage.
  • Ch. 9 (tr. Herbert A. Giles, 1889)

• Away then with wisdom and knowledge, and great robbers will disappear!
  • Ch. 10 (tr. Herbert A. Giles, 1889)

• For all men strive to grasp what they do not know, while none strive to grasp what they already know; and all strive to discredit what they do not excel in, while none strive to discredit what they do excel in. This is why there is chaos.
  • Ch. 10 (tr. Lin Yutang, 1942)

• Cherish that which is within you, and shut off that which is without; for much knowledge is a curse.
  • Ch. 11 (tr. Herbert A. Giles, 1889)

• Rewards and punishments are the lowest form of education.
  • Ch. 12 (tr. Herbert A. Giles, 1889)

• Great truths do not take hold of the hearts of the masses...And now, as all the world is in error, I, though I know the true path,—how shall I guide? If I know that I cannot succeed and yet try to force success, this would be but another source of error. Better, then, to desist and strive no more. But if I strive not, who will?
  • Ch. 12 (tr. Herbert A. Giles, 1889)

• Duke Huan was in his hall reading a book. The wheelwright P’ien, who was in the yard below chiselling a wheel, laid down his mallet and chisel, stepped up into the hall, and said to Duke Huan, ‘This book Your Grace is reading—may I venture to ask whose words are in it?’ ‘The words of the sages,’ said the duke. ‘Are the sages still alive?’ ‘Dead long ago,’ said the duke. ‘In that case, what you are reading there is nothing but the chaff and dregs of the men of old!’ ‘Since when does a wheelwright have permission to comment on the books I read?’ said Duke Huan. ‘If you have some explanation, well and good. If not, it’s your life!’ Wheelwright P’ien said, ‘I look at it from the point of view of my own work. When I chisel a wheel, if the blows of the mallet are too gentle, the chisel slides and won’t take hold. But if they’re too hard, it bites in and won’t budge. Not too gentle, not too hard—you can get it in your hand and feel it in your mind. You can’t put it into words, and yet there’s a knack to it somehow. I can’t teach it to my son, and he can’t learn it from me. So I’ve gone along for seventy years and at my age I’m still chiselling wheels. When the men of old died, they took with them the things that couldn’t be handed down. So what you are reading there must be nothing but the chaff and dregs of the men of old.’
  • Ch. 13 (tr. Burton Watson, 1968)

• You cannot speak of ocean to a well-frog.
  • Ch. 17 莊子/秋水 (tr. Herbert A. Giles, 1889)
    • Of a person who has limited life experience and hence world view; see 井底之蛙

• Chuang Tzŭ was fishing in the P'u when the prince of Ch'u sent two high officials to ask him to take charge of the administration of the Ch'u State.
  Chuang Tzŭ went on fishing, and without turning his head said, "I have heard that in Ch'u there is a sacred tortoise which has been dead now some three thousand years. And that the prince keeps this tortoise carefully enclosed in a chest on the altar of his ancestral temple. Now would this tortoise rather be dead and have its remains venerated, or be alive and wagging its tail in the mud?"
  "It would rather be alive," replied the two officials, "and wagging its tail in the mud."
  "Begone!" cried Chuang Tzŭ. "I too will wag my tail in the mud."
  • Ch. 17 莊子/秋水 (tr. Herbert A. Giles, 1889)

• Thus, the wise man looks into space, and does not regard the small as too little, nor the great as too much; for he knows that there is no limit to dimension.
  • Ch. 17 莊子/秋水 (tr. Herbert A. Giles, 1889)

• Those in positions of power spend day and night plotting and pondering about what to do. The body is treated in a very careless way. People live their lives, constantly surrounded by anxiety. If they live long before dying, they end up in senility, worn out by concerns: a terrible fate.
  • Ch. 18 (tr. Martin Palmer and Elizabeth Breuily, 1996)

• Perfect happiness is keeping yourself alive, and only actionless action can have this affect.
  • Ch. 18 (tr. Martin Palmer and Elizabeth Breuily, 1996)

• Chuang Tzu's wife died and Hui Tzu came to console him, but Chuang Tzu was sitting, legs akimbo, bashing a battered tub and singing. Hui Tzu said, 'You lived as man and wife, she reared your children. At her death surely the least you should be doing is to be on the verge of weeping, rather than banging the tub and singing: this is not right!' Chuang Tzu said, 'Certainly not. When she first died, I certainly mourned just like everyone else! However, I then thought back to her birth and to the very roots of her being, before she was born. Indeed, not just before she was born but before the time when her body was created. Not just before her body was created but before the origin of life's breath. Her life's breath wrought a transformation and she had a body. Her body wrought a transformation and she was born. Now there is yet another transformation and she is dead. She is like the four seasons in the way that spring, summer, autumn and winter follow each other. She is now at peace, lying in her chamber, but if I were to sob and cry it would certainly appear that I could not comprehend the ways of destiny. This is why I stopped.'
  • Ch. 18 (tr. Martin Palmer and Elizabeth Breuily, 1996)

• 知止乎其所不能知，至矣。若有不即是者，天鈞敗之。
  • To know to stop where they cannot arrive by means of knowledge is the highest attainment. Those who cannot do this will be destroyed on the lathe of Heaven.
    • Ch. 23, sect. 7 (tr. James Legge, 1891)
      • To let understanding stop at what cannot be understood is a high attainment. Those who cannot do it will be destroyed on the lathe of heaven.
        • Quoted as the epigraph to Ch. 3 of Ursula K. Le Guin's The Lathe of Heaven (1971), based on Legge's translation; Le Guin was subsequently informed that this was a poor translation, as there were no lathes in China in the time of Zhuangzi.^{[citation needed]}

• 荃者所以在魚，得魚而忘荃；蹄者所以在兔，得兔而忘蹄；言者所以在意，得意而忘言。吾安得忘言之人而與之言哉！
  • The fish trap exists because of the fish; when you've got the fish, you can forget the trap. The rabbit snare exists because of the rabbit; once you've got the rabbit, you can forget the snare. Words exist because of meaning; once you've got the meaning, you can forget the words. Where can I find a man who has forgotten words so I can have a word with him?
    • Ch. 26 莊子/外物 (tr. Burton Watson, 1968)

• Chuangtse said that he once dreamed of being a butterfly, and while he was in the dream, he felt he could flutter his wings and everything was real, but that on waking up, he realized that he was Chuangtse and Chuangtse was real. Then he thought and wondered which was really real, whether he was really Chuangtse dreaming of being a butterfly, or really a butterfly dreaming of being Chuangtse. Life, then, is really a dream, and we human beings are like travelers floating down the eternal river of time, embarking at a certain point and disembarking again at another point in order to make room for others waiting below the river to come aboard. Half of the poetry of life would be gone, if we did not feel that life was either a dream, or a voyage with transient travelers, or merely a stage in which the actors seldom realized that they were playing their parts.
  • Lin Yutang, The Importance Of Living (1937), Ch. 3, III. 'On Being Mortal', p. 41

• I saw a man's bones lying in the squelchy earth,
  Black rime-frost over him; and I in sorrow spoke
  And asked him, saying, "Dead man, how was it?
  Fled you with your friend from famine and for the last grains
  Gambled and lost? Was this earth your tomb,
  Or did floods carry you from afar? Were you mighty, were you wise,
  Were you foolish and poor? A warrior, or a girl?"
  Then a wonder came; for out of the silence a voice—
  Thin echo only, in no substance was the Spirit seen—
  Mysteriously answered, saying, "I was a man of Sung,
  Of the clan of Chuang! Chou was my name.
  Beyond the climes of common thought
  My reason soared, yet could I not save myself;
  For at the last, when the long charter of my years was told,
  I too, for all my magic, by age was brought
  To the Black Hill of Death.
  Wherefore, O Master, do you question me?"
  Then I answered:
  "Let me plead for you upon the Five Hill-tops,
  Let me pray for you to the Gods of Heaven and the Gods of Earth,
  That your white bones may arise,
  And your limbs be joined anew.
  ... Would you not have it so?"
  The dead man answered me:
  "O Friend, how strange and unacceptable your words!
  In death I rest and am at peace; in life I toiled and strove.
  Is the hardness of the winter stream
  Better than the melting of spring?
  All pride that the body knew
  Was it not lighter than dust?
  What Ch'ao and Hsu despised,
  What Po-ch'eng fled,
  Shall I desire, whom death
  Already has hidden in the Eternal Way—
  Where Li Chu cannot see me
  Nor Tzu Yeh hear me,
  Where neither Yao nor Shun can praise me
  Nor the tyrants Chieh and Hsin condemn me,
  Nor wolf nor tiger harm me,
  Lance prick me nor sword wound me?
  Of the Primal Spirit is my substance; I am a wave
  In the river of Darkness and Light.
  The Maker of All Things is my Father and Mother,
  Heaven is my bed and earth my cushion,
  The thunder and lightning are my drum and fan,
  The sun and moon my candle and my torch,
  The Milky Way my moat, the stars my jewels.
  With Nature am I conjoined;
  I have no passion, no desire,
  Wash me and I shall be no whiter,
  Foul me and I shall yet be clean.
  I come not, yet am here;
  Hasten not, yet am swift."
  The voice stopped, there was silence.
  A ghostly light
  Faded and expired.
  I gazed upon the dead, stared in sorrow and compassion.
  Then I called upon my servant that was with me
  To tie his silken scarf about those bones
  And wrap them in a cloak of sombre dust;
  While I, as offering to the soul of this dead man,
  Poured my hot tears upon the margin of the road.
  • Zhang Heng, "The Bones of Chuang Tzu", as translated by Arthur Waley; in Poems from the Chinese (1920), pp. 12–14

• Zhuangzi - Chinese Text Project
• Zhuangzi, The Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy
• Zhuangzi, Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy
• Chuang Tzu (Zhuangzi): A Philosophical Analysis, Chad Hansen
• Complete Works Of Chuang Tzu, translated by Burton Watson
• The Writings of Chuang Tzu, translated by James Legge
• The Chuang-tzu, translated by Lin Yutang

• Selection from The Zhuangzi, translated by Patricia Ebrey
• Chuang Tzu at SuperWisdom.com