The Writings of Kwang-dze Translated by James Legge

The Writings of Kwang-dze Translated by James Legge

THE WRITINGS OF KWANG-DZE.

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BOOK I.
PART I. SECTION I.
Hsiâo-yâo Yû, or ‘Enjoyment in Untroubled Ease[1].’

1. In the Northern Ocean there is a fish, the name of which is Khwän[2],–I do not know how many lî in size. It changes into a bird with the name of Phing, the back of which is (also)–I do not know how many lî in extent. When this bird rouses itself and flies, its wings are like clouds all round the sky. When the sea is moved (so as to bear it along), it prepares to remove to the Southern Ocean. The Southern Ocean is the Pool of Heaven.

[1. See notice on pp. 127, 128, on the Title and Subject-matter of the Book.

2. The khwän and the phäng are both fabulous creatures, far transcending in size the dimensions ascribed by the wildest fancy of the West to the kraken and the roc. Kwang-dze represents them as so huge by way of contrast to the small creatures which he is intending to introduce;–to show that size has nothing to do with the Tâo, and the perfect enjoyment which the possession of it affords. The passage is a good specimen of the Yü Yen (###) metaphorical or parabolical narratives or stories, which are the chief characteristic of our author’s writings; but the reader must keep in mind that the idea or lesson in its ‘lodging’ is generally of a Tâoistic nature.]

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There is the (book called) Khî Hsieh[1],–a record of marvels. We have in it these words:–‘When the phäng is removing to the Southern Ocean it flaps (its wings) on the water for 3000 lî. Then it ascends on a whirlwind 90,000 lî, and it rests only at the end of six months.’ (But similar to this is the movement of the breezes which we call) the horses of the fields, of the dust (which quivers in the sunbeams), and of living things as they are blown against one another by the air[2]. Is its azure the proper colour of the sky? Or is it occasioned by its distance and illimitable extent? If one were looking down (from above), the very same appearance would just meet his view.

2. And moreover, (to speak of) the accumulation of water;–if it be not great, it will not have strength to support a large boat. Upset a cup of water in a cavity, and a straw will float on it as if it were a boat. Place a cup in it, and it will stick fast;–the water is shallow and the boat is large. (So it is with) the accumulation of wind; if it be not great, it will not have strength to support great wings. Therefore (the phäng ascended to) the height of 90,000 lî, and there was such a mass of wind beneath it; thenceforth the accumulation of wind was sufficient. As it seemed to bear the blue sky on its back, and there was nothing to obstruct or arrest its course, it could pursue its way to the South.

[1. There may have been a book with this title, to which Kwang-dze appeals, as if feeling that what he had said needed to be substantiated.

2. This seems to be interjected as an afterthought, suggesting to the reader that the phäng, soaring along at such a height, was only an exaggerated form of the common phenomena with which he was familiar.]

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A cicada and a little dove laughed at it, saying, ‘We make an effort and fly towards an elm or sapan-wood tree; and sometimes before we reach it, we can do no more but drop to the ground. Of what use is it for this (creature) to rise 90,000 lî, and make for the South?’ He who goes to the grassy suburbs[1], returning to the third meal (of the day), will have his belly as full as when he set out; he who goes to a distance of 100 lî will have to pound his grain where he stops for the night; he who goes a thousand lî, will have to carry with him provisions for three months. What should these two small creatures know about the matter? The knowledge of that which is small does not reach to that which is great; (the experience of) a few years does not reach to that of many. How do we know that it is so? The mushroom of a morning does not know (what takes place between) the beginning and end of a month; the short-lived cicada does not know (what takes place between) the spring and autumn. These are instances of a short term of life. In the south of Khû[2], there is the (tree) called Ming-ling[3], whose spring is 500 years, and its autumn the same; in high antiquity there was that called Tâ-khun[4],

[1. In Chinese, Mang Zhan; but this is not the name of any particular place. The phrase denotes the grassy suburbs (from their green colour), not far from any city or town.

2. The great state of the South, having its capital Ying in the present Hû-pei, and afterwards the chief competitor with Khin for the sovereignty of the kingdom.

3. Taken by some as the name of a tortoise.

4. This and the Ming-ling tree, as well as the mushroom mentioned above, together with the khwän and phäng, are all mentioned in the fifth Book of the writings of Lieh-dze, referred to in the next paragraph.]

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whose spring was 8000 years, and its autumn the same. And Phäng Zû[1] is the one man renowned to the present day for his length of life:–if all men were (to wish) to match him, would they not be miserable?

3. In the questions put by Thang[2] to Kî we have similar statements:–‘In the bare and barren north there is the dark and vast ocean,–the Pool of Heaven. In it there is a fish, several thousand lî in breadth, while no one knows its length. Its name is the khwän. There is (also) a bird named the phäng; its back is like the Thâi mountain, while its wings are like clouds all round the sky. On a whirlwind it mounts upwards as on the whorls of a goat’s horn for 90,000 lî, till, far removed from the cloudy vapours, it bears on its back the blue sky, and then it shapes its course for the South, and proceeds to the ocean there.’ A quail by the side of a marsh laughed at it, and said, ‘Where is it going to? I spring up with a bound, and come down again when I have reached but a few fathoms, and then fly about among the brushwood and bushes; and

[1. Or ‘the patriarch Phäng.’ Confucius compared himself to him (Analects, VII, i);-‘our old Phäng;’ and Kû Hsî thinks he was a worthy officer of the Shang dynasty. Whoever he was, the legends about him are a mass of Tâoistic fables. At the end of the Shang dynasty (B. C. 1123) he was more than 767 years old, and still in unabated vigour. We read of his losing 49 wives and 54 sons; and that he still left two sons, Wû and Î, who died in Fû-kien, and gave their names to the Wû-î, or Bû-î hills, from which we get our Bohea tea! See Mayers’ ‘Chinese Reader’s Manual,’ p. 175.

2. The founder of the Shang dynasty (B.C. 1766-1754). In Lieh-dze his interlocutor is called Hsiâ Ko, and Dze-kî.]

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this is the perfection of flying. Where is that creature going to?’ This shows the difference between the small and the great.

Thus it is that men, whose wisdom is sufficient for the duties of some one office, or whose conduct will secure harmony in some one district, or whose virtue is befitting a ruler so that they could efficiently govern some one state, are sure to look on themselves in this manner (like the quail), and yet Yung-dze[1] of Sung[1] would have smiled and laughed at them. (This Yung-dze), though the whole world should have praised him, would not for that have stimulated himself to greater endeavour, and though the whole world should have condemned him, would not have exercised any more repression of his course; so fixed was he in the difference between the internal (judgment of himself) and the external (judgment of others), so distinctly had he marked out the bounding limit of glory and disgrace. Here, however, he stopped. His place in the world indeed had become indifferent to him, but still he had not planted himself firmly (in the right position).

There was Lieh-dze[2], who rode on the wind and pursued his way, with an admirable indifference (to

[1. We can hardly tell who this Yung-dze was. Sung was a duchy, comprehending portions of the present provinces of Ho-nan, An-hui, and Kiang-sû.

2. See note on the title of Book XXXII. Whether there ever was a personage called Lieh-dze or Lieh Yü-khâu, and what is the real character of the writings that go under his name, are questions that cannot be more than thus alluded to in a note. He is often introduced by Kwang-dze, and many narratives are common to their books. Here he comes before us, not as a thinker and writer, but as a semi-supernatural being, who has only not yet attained to the highest consummations of the Tâo.]

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all external things), returning, however, after fifteen days, (to his place). In regard to the things that (are supposed to) contribute to happiness, he was free from all endeavours to obtain them; but though he had not to walk, there was still something for which he had to wait. But suppose one who mounts on (the ether of) heaven and earth in its normal operation, and drives along the six elemental energies of the changing (seasons), thus enjoying himself in the illimitable,–what has he to wait for’? Therefore it is said, ‘The Perfect man has no (thought of) self; the Spirit-like man, none of merit; the Sagely-minded man, none of fame[1].’

4. Yâo[2], proposing to resign the throne to Hsü Yû[3], said, ‘When the sun and moon have come forth, if the torches have not been put out, would it not be difficult for them to give light? When the seasonal rains are coming down, if we still keep watering the ground, will not our toil be labour lost for all the good it will do? Do you, Master, stand forth (as sovereign), and the kingdom will (at once) be well governed. If I still (continue to) preside over it, I must look on myself as vainly occupying the place;–I beg to resign the throne to you.’ Hsü

[1. The description of a master of the Tâo, exalted by it, unless the predicates about him be nothing but the ravings of a wild extravagance, above mere mortal man. In the conclusion, however, he is presented under three different phrases, which the reader will do well to keep in mind.

2. The great sovereign with whom the documents of the Shû King commence:–B. C. 2357-2257.

3. A counsellor of Yâo, who is once mentioned by Sze-ma Khien in his account of Po-î,–in the first Book of his Biographies (###). Hsü Yû is here the instance of ‘the Sagely man,’ with whom the desire of a name or fame has no influence.]

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Yû said, ‘You, Sir, govern the kingdom, and the kingdom is well governed. If I in these circumstances take your place, shall I not be doing so for the sake of the name? But the name is but the guest of the reality;–shall I be playing the part of the guest? The tailor-bird makes its nest in the deep forest, but only uses a single branch; the mole[1] drinks from the Ho, but only takes what fills its belly. Return and rest in being ruler,–I will have nothing to do with the throne. Though the cook were not attending to his kitchen, the representative of the dead and the officer of prayer would not leave their cups and stands to take his place.’

5. Kien Wû[2] asked Lien Shû[2], saying, ‘I heard Khieh-yû[3] talking words which were great, but had nothing corresponding to them (in reality);-once gone, they could not be brought back. I was frightened by them;–they were like the Milky Way[4] which cannot be traced to its beginning or end. They had no connexion with one another, and were not akin to the experiences of men.’ ‘What were his words?’ asked Lien Shift, and the other replied, (He said) that ‘Far away on the hill of Kû-shih[5] there dwelt a Spirit-like man whose flesh and skin

[1. Some say the tapir.

2. Known to us only through Kwang-dze.

3. ‘The madman of Khû’ of the Analects, XVIII, 5, who eschews intercourse with Confucius. See Hwang-fû Mî’s account of him, under the surname and name of Lû Thung, in his Notices of Eminent Tâoists, 1, 25.

4. Literally, ‘the Ho and the Han;’ but the name of those rivers combined was used to denote ‘the Milky Way.’

5. See the Khang-hsî Thesaurus under the character ###. All which is said about the hill is that it was ‘in the North Sea.’]

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were (smooth) as ice and (white) as snow; that his manner was elegant and delicate as that of a virgin; that he did not eat any of the five grains, but inhaled the wind and drank the dew; that he mounted on the clouds, drove along the flying dragons, rambling and enjoying himself beyond the four seas; that by the concentration of his spirit-like powers he could save men from disease and pestilence, and secure every year a plentiful harvest.’ These words appeared to me wild and incoherent and I did not believe them. ‘So it is,’ said Lien Shû. ‘The blind have no perception of the beauty of elegant figures, nor the deaf of the sound of bells and drums. But is it only the bodily senses of which deafness and blindness can be predicated? There is also a similar defect in the intelligence; and of this your words supply an illustration in yourself. That man, with those attributes, though all things were one mass of confusion, and he heard in that condition the whole world crying out to him to be rectified, would not have to address himself laboriously to the task, as if it were his business to rectify the world. Nothing could hurt that man; the greatest floods, reaching to the sky, could not drown him, nor would he feel the fervour of the greatest heats melting metals and stones till they flowed, and scorching all the ground and hills. From the dust and chaff of himself, he could still mould and fashion Yâos and Shuns[1];how should he be willing to occupy himself with things[2]?’

[1. Shun was the successor of Yâo, in the ancient kingdom.

2. All this description is to give us an idea of the ‘Spirit-like man.’ We have in it the results of the Tâo in its fullest embodiment.]

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6. A man of Sung, who dealt in the ceremonial caps (of Yin)[1], went with them to Yüeh[2], the people of which cut off their hair and tattooed their bodies, so that they had no use for them. Yâo ruled the people of the kingdom, and maintained a perfect government within the four seas. Having gone to see the four (Perfect) Ones[3] on the distant hill of Kû-shih, when (he returned to his capital) on the south of the Fän water[4], his throne appeared no more to his deep-sunk oblivious eyes[5].

7. Hui-dze[6] told Kwang-dze, saying, ‘The king of Wei[7] sent me some seeds of a large calabash, which I sowed. The fruit, when fully grown, could contain five piculs (of anything). I used it to contain water,

[1. See the Lî Kî, IX, iii, 3.

2. A state, part of the present province of Kieh-kiang.

3. Said to have been Hsü Yû mentioned above, with Nieh Khüeh, Wang Î, and Phî-î, who will by and by come before us.

4. A river in Shan-hsî, on which was the capital of Yâo;–a tributary of the Ho.

5. This paragraph is intended to give us an idea of ‘the Perfect man,’ who has no thought of himself. The description, however, is brief and tame, compared with the accounts of Hsü Yû and of the Spirit-like man.’

6. Or Hui Shih, the chief minister of ‘king Hui of Liang (or Wei), (B. C. 370-333),’ with an interview between whom and Mencius the works of that philosopher commence. He was a friend of Kwang-dze, and an eccentric thinker; and in Book XXXIII there is a long account of several of his views. I do not think that the conversations about ‘the great calabash’ and ‘the great tree’ really took place; Kwan-dze probably invented them, to illustrate his point that size had nothing to do with the Tâo, and that things which seemed useless were not really so when rightly used.

7. Called also Liang from the name of its capital. Wei was one of the three states (subsequently kingdoms), into which the great fief of Zin was divided about B. C. 400.]

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but it was so heavy that I could not lift it by myself. I cut it in two to make the parts into drinking vessels; but the dried shells were too wide and unstable and would not hold (the liquor); nothing but large useless things! Because of their uselessness I knocked them to pieces.’ Kwang-dze replied, ‘You were indeed stupid, my master, in the use of what was large. There was a man of Sung who was skilful at making a salve which kept the hands from getting chapped; and (his family) for generations had made the bleaching of cocoon-silk their business. A stranger heard of it, and proposed to buy the art of the preparation for a hundred ounces of silver. The kindred all came together, and considered the proposal. “We have,” said they, “been bleaching cocoon-silk for generations, and have only gained a little money. Now in one morning we can sell to this man our art for a hundred ounces;–let him have it.” The stranger accordingly got it and went away with it to give counsel to the king of Wû[1], who was then engaged in hostilities with Yüeh. The king gave him the command of his fleet, and in the winter he had an engagement with that of Yüeh, on which he inflicted a great defeat[2], and was invested with a portion of territory taken from Yüeh. The keeping the hands from getting chapped was the same in both cases; but in the one case it led to the investiture (of the possessor of the salve), and

[1. A great and ancient state on the sea-board, north of Yüeh. The name remains in the district of Wû-kiang in the prefecture of Sû-kâu.

2 The salve gave the troops of Wû a great advantage in a war on the Kiang, especially in winter.]

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in the other it had only enabled its owners to continue their bleaching. The difference of result was owing to the different use made of the art. Now you, Sir, had calabashes large enough to hold five piculs;–why did you not think of making large bottle-gourds of them, by means of which you could have floated over rivers and lakes, instead of giving yourself the sorrow of finding that they were useless for holding anything. Your mind, my master, would seem to have been closed against all intelligence!’

Hui-dze said to Kwang-dze, ‘I have a large tree, which men call the Ailantus[1]. Its trunk swells out to a large size, but is not fit for a carpenter to apply his line to it; its smaller branches are knotted and crooked, so that the disk and square cannot be used on them. Though planted on the wayside, a builder would not turn his head to look at it. Now your words, Sir, are great, but of no use;–all unite in putting them away from them.’ Kwang-dze replied, ‘Have you never seen a wildcat or a weasel? There it lies, crouching and low, till the wanderer approaches; east and west it leaps about, avoiding neither what is high nor what is low, till it is caught in a trap, or dies in a net. Again there is the Yak[2], so large that it is like a cloud hanging in the sky. It is large indeed, but it cannot catch mice. You, Sir, have a large tree and are troubled because it is of no use;–why do you not plant it in a tract where there is nothing else, or in a wide and barren wild?

[1. The Ailantus glandulosa, common in the north of China, called ‘the fetid tree,’ from the odour of its leaves.

2. The bos grunniens of Thibet, the long tail of which is in great demand for making standards and chowries.]

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There you might saunter idly by its side, or in the enjoyment of untroubled case sleep beneath it. Neither bill nor axe would shorten its existence; there would be nothing to injure it. What is there in its uselessness to cause you distress?’

BOOK II.
PART I. SECTION II.
Khî Wû Lun, or ‘The Adjustment of Controversies[1].’

1. Nan-kwo Sze-khî[2] was seated, leaning forward on his stool. He was looking up to heaven and breathed gently, seeming to be in a trance, and to have lost all consciousness of any companion. (His disciple), Yen Khäng Dze-yû[3], who was in attendance and standing before him, said, ‘What is this? Can the body be made to become thus like a withered tree, and the mind to become like slaked lime? His appearance as he leans forward on the stool to-day is such as I never saw him have before in the same position.’ Dze-khî said, ‘Yen, you do well to ask such a question, I had just now lost myself[4]; but how should you understand it? You

[1. See pp. 128-130.

2. Nan-kwo, ‘the southern suburb,’ had probably been the quarter where Dze-khî had resided, and is used as his surname. He is introduced several times by Kwang-dze in his writings:–Books IV, 7; XXVII, 4, and perhaps elsewhere.

3 We have the surname of this disciple, Yen (###); his name, Yen (###); his honorary or posthumous epithet (Khäng); and his ordinary appellation, Dze-yû. The use of the epithet shows that he and his master had lived before our author.

4, ‘He had lost himself;’ that is, he had become unconscious of all around him, and even of himself, as if he were about to enter {footnote p. 177} into the state of Ian Immortal,’ a mild form of the Buddhistic samâdhi. But his attitude and appearance were intended by Kwang-dze to indicate what should be the mental condition in reference to the inquiry pursued in the Book;–a condition, it appears to me, of agnosticism. See the account of Lâo-dze in a similar trance in Book XXI, par. 4.]

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may have heard the notes[1] of Man, but have not heard those of Earth; you may have heard the notes of Earth, but have not heard those of Heaven.’

Dze-yû said, ‘I venture to ask from you a description of all these.’ The reply was, ‘When the breath of the Great Mass (of nature) comes strongly, it is called Wind. Sometimes it does not come so; but when it does, then from a myriad apertures there issues its excited noise;–have you not heard it in a prolonged gale? Take the projecting bluff of a mountain forest;–in the great trees, a hundred spans round, the apertures and cavities are like the nostrils, or the mouth, or the ears; now square, now round like a cup or a mortar; here like a wet footprint, and there like a large puddle. (The sounds issuing from them are like) those of fretted water, of the arrowy whizz, of the stern command, of the inhaling of the breath, of the shout, of the gruff note, of the deep wail, of the sad and piping note. The first notes are slight, and those that follow deeper, but in harmony with them. Gentle winds produce a small response; violent winds a great one. When the fierce gusts have passed away, all the apertures

[1. The Chinese term here (lâi) denotes a reed or pipe, with three holes, by a combination of which there was formed the rudimentary or reed organ. Our author uses it for the sounds or notes heard in nature, various as the various opinions of men in their discussions about things.]

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are empty (and still);–have you not seen this in the bending and quivering of the branches and leaves?’

Dze-yû said, ‘The notes of Earth then are simply those which come from its myriad apertures; and the notes of Man may just be compared to those which (are brought from the tubes of) bamboo;–allow me to ask about the notes of Heaven[1].’ Dze-khî replied, ‘When (the wind) blows, (the sounds from) the myriad apertures are different, and (its cessation) makes them stop of themselves. Both of these things arise from (the wind and the apertures) themselves:–should there be any other agency that excites them?’

2. Great knowledge is wide and comprehensive; small knowledge is partial and restricted. Great speech is exact and complete; small speech is (merely) so much talk[2]. When we sleep, the soul communicates with (what is external to us); when we awake, the body is set free. Our intercourse with others then leads to various activity, and daily there is the striving of mind with mind. There are hesitancies; deep difficulties; reservations; small apprehensions causing restless distress, and great

[1. The sounds of Earth have been described fully and graphically. Of the sounds of Man very little is said, but they form the subject of the next paragraph. Nothing is said in answer to the disciple’s inquiry about the notes of Heaven. It is intimated, however, that there is no necessity to introduce any foreign Influence or Power like Heaven in connexion. with the notes of Earth. The term Heaven, indeed, is about to pass with our author into a mere synonym of Tâo, the natural ‘course’ of the phenomena of men and things.

2. Words are the ‘sounds’ of Man; and knowledge is the ‘wind’ by which they are excited.]

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apprehensions producing endless fears. Where their utterances are like arrows from a bow, we have those who feel it their charge to pronounce what is right and what is wrong.; where they are given out like the conditions of a covenant, we have those who maintain their views, determined to overcome. (The weakness of their arguments), like the decay (of things) in autumn and winter, shows the failing (of the minds of some) from day to day; or it is like their water which, once voided, cannot be gathered up again. Then their ideas seem as if fast bound with cords, showing that the mind is become like an old and dry moat, and that it is nigh to death, and cannot be restored to vigour and brightness.

Joy and anger, sadness and pleasure, anticipation and regret, fickleness and fixedness, vehemence and indolence, eagerness and tardiness;–(all these moods), like music from an empty tube, or mushrooms from the warm moisture, day and night succeed to one another and come before us, and we do not know whence they sprout. Let us stop! Let us stop! Can we expect to find out suddenly how they are produced?

If there were not (the views of) another, I should not have mine; if there were not I (with my views), his would be uncalled for:–this is nearly a true, statement of the case, but we do not know what it is that makes it be so. It might seem as if there would be a true Governor[1] concerned in it, but we do not find

[1. A true Governor’ would be a good enough translation for ‘the true God.’ But Kwang-dze did not admit any supernatural Power or Being as working in man. His true Governor was the Tâo; and this will be increasingly evident as we proceed with the study of his Books.]

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any trace (of his presence and acting). That such an One could act so I believe; but we do not see His form. He has affections, but He has no form.

Given the body, with its hundred parts, its nine openings, and its six viscera, all complete in their places, which do I love the most? Do you love them all equally? or do you love some more than others? Is it not the case that they all perform the part of your servants and waiting women? All of them being such, are they not incompetent to rule one another? or do they take it in turns to be now ruler and now servants? There must be a true Ruler (among them)[1] whether by searching you can find out His character or not, there is neither advantage nor hurt, so far as the truth of His operation is concerned. When once we have received the bodily form complete, its parts do not fail to perform their functions till the end comes. In conflict with things or in harmony with them, they pursue their course to the end, with the speed of a galloping horse which cannot be stopped;–is it not sad? To be constantly toiling all one’s lifetime, without seeing the fruit of one’s labour, and to be weary and worn out with his labour, without knowing where he is going to:-is it not a deplorable case? Men may say, ‘But it is not death;’ yet of what advantage is this? When the body is decomposed, the mind will be the same along with it:–must not the case be pronounced very deplorable[2]? Is the life

[1. The name ‘Ruler’ is different from ‘Governor’ above; but they both indicate the same concept in the author’s mind.

2. The proper reply to this would be that the mind is not dissolved with the body; and Kwang-dze’s real opinion, as we shall find, was that life and death were but phases in the phenomenal development. But the course of his argument suggests to us the question here, ‘Is life worth living?’]

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of man indeed enveloped in such darkness? Is it I alone to whom it appears so? And does it not appear to be so to other men?

3. If we were to follow the judgments of the predetermined mind, who would be left alone and without a teacher[1]? Not only would it be so with those who know the sequences (of knowledge and feeling) and make their own selection among them, but it would be so as well with the stupid and unthinking. For one who has not this determined mind, to have his affirmations and negations is like the case described in the saying, ‘He went to Yüeh to-day, and arrived at it yesterday[2].’ It would be making what was not a fact to be a fact. But even the spirit-like Yü[3] could not have known how to do this, and how should one like me be able to do it?

But speech is not like the blowing (of the wind) the speaker has (a meaning in) his words. If, however, what he says, be indeterminate (as from a mind not made up), does he then really speak or not? He thinks that his words are different from the chirpings of fledgelings; but is there any distinction between them or not? But how can the Tâo be so obscured, that there should be ‘a True’ and ‘a False’ in it? How can speech be so obscured that there should be ‘the Right’ and ‘the Wrong’ about them? Where shall the Tâo go to that it will not

[1. This ‘teacher’ is ‘the Tâo.’

2. Expressing the absurdity of the case. This is one of the sayings of Hui-dze;–see Book XXXIII, par. 7.

3 The successor and counsellor of Shun, who coped with and remedied the flood of Yâo.]

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be found? Where shall speech be found that it will be inappropriate? Tâo becomes obscured through the small comprehension (of the mind), and speech comes to be obscure through the vain-gloriousness (of the speaker). So it is that we have the contentions between the Literati[1] and the Mohists[2], the one side affirming what the other denies, and vice versâ. If we would decide on their several affirmations and denials, no plan is like bringing the (proper) light (of the mind)[3] to bear on them.

All subjects may be looked at from (two points of view),–from that and from this. If I look at a thing from another’s point of view, I do not see it; only as I know it myself, do I know it. Hence it is said, ‘That view comes from this; and this view is a consequence of that:’–which is the theory that that view and this–(the opposite views)-produce each the other[4]. Although it be so, there is affirmed now life and now death; now death and now life; now the admissibility of a thing and now its inadmissibility; now its inadmissibility and now its admissibility. (The disputants) now affirm and now deny; now deny and now affirm. Therefore the sagely man does not pursue this method, but views things in the light of (his) Heaven[5] (-ly nature), and hence forms his judgment of what is right.

[1. The followers of Confucius.

2. The disciples of Mih-dze, or Mih Tî, the heresiarch, whom Mencius attacked so fiercely;–see Mencius, V, 1, 5, e t al. His era must be assigned between Confucius and Mencius.

3 That is, the perfect mind, the principle of the Tâo.

4. As taught by Hui-dze;–see XXXIII, 7; but it is doubtful if the quotation from Hui’s teaching be complete.

5. Equivalent to the Tâo. See on the use in Lâo-dze and Kwang-dze of the term ‘Heaven,’ in the Introduction, pp. 16-18.]

{p. 183}

This view is the same as that, and that view is the same as this. But that view involves both a right and a wrong; and this view involves also a right and a wrong:–are there indeed, or are there not the two views, that and this? They have not found their point of correspondency which is called the pivot of the Tâo. As soon as one finds this pivot, he stands in the centre of the ring (of thought), where he can respond without end to the changing views;–without end to those affirming, and without end to those denying. Therefore I said, ‘There is nothing like the proper light (of the mind).’

4. By means of a finger (of my own) to illustrate that the finger (of another) is not a finger is not so good a plan as to illustrate that it is not so by means of what is (acknowledged to be) not a finger; and by means of (what I call) a horse to illustrate that (what another calls) a horse is not so, is not so good a plan as to illustrate that it is not a horse, by means of what is (acknowledged to be) not a horse[1]. (All things in) heaven and earth may be (dealt with as) a finger; (each of) their myriads may be (dealt with as) a horse. Does a thing seem so to me? (I say that) it is so. Does it seem not so to me? (I say that) it is not so. A path is formed by (constant)

[1. The language of our author here is understood to have reference to the views of Kung-sun Lung, a contemporary of Hui-dze, and a sophist like him. One of his treatises or arguments had the title of ‘The White Horse,’ and another that of ‘Pointing to Things.’ If these had been preserved, we might have seen more clearly the appropriateness of the text here. But the illustration of the monkeys and their actions shows us the scope of the whole paragraph to be that controversialists, whose views are substantially the same, may yet differ, and that with heat, in words.]

{p. 184}

treading on the ground. A thing is called by its name through the (constant) application of the name to it. How is it so? It is so because it is so. How is it not so? It is not so, because it is not so. Everything has its inherent character and its proper capability. There is nothing which has not these. Therefore, this being so, if we take a stalk of grain[1] and a (large) pillar, a loathsome (leper) and (a beauty like) Hsî Shih[2], things large and things insecure, things crafty and things strange;–they may in the light of the Tâo all be reduced to the same category (of opinion about them).

It was separation that led to completion; from completion ensued dissolution. But all things, without regard to their completion and dissolution, may again be comprehended in their unity;–it is only the far reaching in thought who know how to comprehend them in this unity. This being so, let us give up our devotion to our own views, and occupy ourselves with the ordinary views. These ordinary views are grounded on the use of things. (The study of that) use leads to the comprehensive judgment, and that judgment secures the success (of the inquiry). That success gained, we are near (to the object of our search), and there we stop. When we stop, and yet we do not know how it is so, we have what is called the Tâo.

When we toil our spirits and intelligence, obstinately

[1. The character in the text means both ‘a stalk of grain’ and a horizontal beam.’ Each meaning has its advocates here.

2. A famous beauty, a courtezan presented by the king of Yüeh to his enemy, the king of Wû, and who hastened on his progress to ruin and death, she herself perishing at the same time.]

{p. 185}

determined (to establish our own view), and do not know the agreement (which underlies it and the views of others), we have what is called ‘In the morning three.’ What is meant by that ‘In the morning three?’ A keeper of monkeys, in giving them out their acorns, (once) said, ‘In the morning I will give you three (measures) and in the evening four.’ This made them all angry, and he said, ‘Very well. In the morning I will give you four and in the evening three.’ His two proposals were substantially the same, but the result of the one was to make the creatures angry, and of the other to make them pleased:–an illustration of the point I am insisting on. Therefore the sagely man brings together a dispute in its affirmations and denials, and rests in the equal fashioning of Heaven[1]. Both sides of the question are admissible.

5. Among the men of old their knowledge reached the extreme point. What was that extreme point? Some held that at first there was not anything. This is the extreme point, the utmost point to which nothing can be added[2]. A second class held that there was something, but without any responsive recognition[3] of it (on the part of men).

A third class held that there was such recognition, but there had not begun to be any expression of different opinions about it.

[1. Literally, ‘the Heaven-Mould or Moulder,’–another name for the Tâo, by which all things are fashioned.

2. See the same passage in Book XXIII, par. 10.

3. The ordinary reading here is fäng (###) ‘a boundary’ or ‘distinctive limit.’ Lin Hsî-hung adopts the reading ###, ‘a response,’ and I have followed him.]

{p. 186}

It was through the definite expression of different opinions about it that there ensued injury to (the doctrine of) the Tâo. It was this injury to the (doctrine of the) Tâo which led to the formation of (partial) preferences. Was it indeed after such preferences were formed that the injury came? or did the injury precede the rise of such preferences? If the injury arose after their formation, Kâo’s method of playing on the lute was natural. If the injury arose before their formation, there would have been no such playing on the lute as Kâo’s[1].

Kâo Wän’s playing on the lute, Shih Kwang’s indicating time with his staff, and Hui-dze’s (giving his views), while leaning against a dryandra tree (were all extraordinary). The knowledge of the three men (in their several arts) was nearly perfect, and therefore they practised them to the end of their lives. They loved them because they were different from those of others. They loved them and wished to make them known to others. But as they could not be made clear, though they tried to make them so, they ended with the obscure (discussions) about ‘the hard’ and ‘the White.’ And their sons[2], moreover, with all the threads of their fathers’ compositions, yet to the end of their lives accomplished nothing. If they, proceeding in this way, could be said to have succeeded, then am I also successful;

[1. Kâo Wän and Shih Kwang were both musicians of the state of Zin. Shih, which appears as Kwang’s surname, was his denomination as ‘music-master.’ It is difficult to understand the reason why Kwang-dze introduces these men and their ways, or how it helps his argument.

2. Perhaps we should read here ‘son,’ with special reference to the son of Hui-Sze.]

{p. 187}

if they cannot be pronounced successful, neither I nor any other can succeed.

Therefore the scintillations of light from the midst of confusion and perplexity are indeed valued by the sagely man; but not to use one’s own views and to take his position on the ordinary views is what is called using the (proper) light.

6. But here now are some other sayings [1]:–I do not know whether they are of the same character as those which I have already given, or of a different character. Whether they be of the same character or not when looked at along with them, they have a character of their own, which cannot be distinguished from the others. But though this be the case, let me try to explain myself.

There was a beginning. There was a beginning before that beginning[2]. There was a beginning previous to that beginning before there was the beginning.

There was existence; there had been no existence. There was no existence before the beginning of that no existence[2]. There was no existence previous to the no existence before there was the beginning of the no existence. If suddenly there was nonexistence, we do not know whether it was really anything existing, or really not existing. Now I have said what I have said, but I do not know whether what I have said be really anything to the point or not.

[1. Referring, I think, to those below commencing ‘There was a beginning.’

2. That is, looking at things from the standpoint of an original non-existence, and discarding all considerations of space and time.]

{p. 188}

Under heaven there is nothing greater than the tip of an autumn down, and the Thâi mountain is small. There is no one more long-lived than a child which dies prematurely, and Phäng Zû did not live out his time. Heaven, Earth, and I were produced together, and all things and I are one. Since they are one, can there be speech about them? But since they are spoken of as one, must there not be room for speech? One and Speech are two; two and one are three. Going on from this (in our enumeration), the most skilful reckoner cannot reach (the end of the necessary numbers), and how much less can ordinary people do so! Therefore from non-existence we proceed to existence till we arrive at three; proceeding from existence to existence, to how many should we reach? Let us abjure such procedure, and simply rest here[1].

7. The Tâo at first met with no responsive recognition. Speech at first had no constant forms of expression. Because of this there came the demarcations (of different views). Let me describe those demarcations:-they are the Left and the Right[2]; the Relations and their Obligations[3]; Classifications[4] [1. On this concluding clause, Ziâo Hung says:–‘Avoiding such procedure, there will be no affirmations and denials (no contraries). The phrase ### occurs in the Book several times, and interpreters have missed its meaning from not observing that ### serve merely as a final particle, and often have the ### added to them, without affecting its meaning.’ See also Wang Yin on the usages of ### in the ###, ch. 1208, art. 6.

2. That is, direct opposites.

3. Literally ‘righteousnesses;’ the proper way of dealing with the relations.

4. Literally, ‘separations.’]

{p. 189}

and their Distinctions; Emulations and Contentions. These are what are called ‘the Eight Qualities.’ Outside the limits of the world of men[1], the sage occupies his thoughts, but does not discuss about anything; inside those limits he occupies his thoughts, but does not pass any judgments. In the Khun Khiû[2], which embraces the history of the former kings, the sage indicates his judgments, but does not argue (in vindication of them). Thus it is that he separates his characters from one another without appearing to do so, and argues without the form of argument. How does he do so? The sage cherishes his views in his own breast, while men generally state theirs argumentatively, to show them to others. Hence we have the saying, ‘Disputation is a proof of not seeing clearly.’

The Great Tâo[3] does not admit of being praised. The Great Argument does not require words. Great Benevolence is not (officiously) benevolent. Great Disinterestedness does not vaunt its humility. Great Courage is not seen in stubborn bravery.

The Tâo that is displayed is not the Tâo. Words that are argumentative do not reach the point. Benevolence that is constantly exercised does not accomplish its object. Disinterestedness that vaunts its purity is not genuine. Courage that is most stubborn

[1. Literally, ‘the six conjunctions,’ meaning the four cardinal points of space, with the zenith and nadir; sometimes a name for the universe of space. Here we must restrict the meaning as I have done.

2. ‘The Spring and Autumn;’–Confucius’s Annals of Lû, here complimented by Kwang-dze. See in Mencius, IV, ii, 21.

3. Compare the Tâo Teh King, ch. 25, et al.]

{p. 190}

is ineffectual. These five seem to be round (and complete), but they tend to become square (and immovable)[1]. Therefore the knowledge that stops at what it does not know is the greatest. Who knows the argument that needs no words, and the Way that is not to be trodden[2]?

He who is able to know this has what is called ‘The Heavenly Treasure-house[3].’ He may pour into it without its being filled; he may pour from it without its being exhausted; and all the while he does not know whence (the supply) comes. This is what is called ‘The Store of Light[3].’

Therefore of old Yâo asked Shun, saying, ‘I wish to smite (the rulers of) Zung, Kwei, and Hsü-âo[4]. Even when standing in my court, I cannot get them out of my mind. How is it so?’ Shun replied, ‘Those three rulers live (in their little states) as if they were among the mugwort and other brushwood;–how is it that you cannot get them out of your mind? Formerly, ten suns came out together, and all things were illuminated by them;–how much should (your) virtue exceed (all) suns!’

8. Nieh Khüeh[5] asked Wang Î[5], saying, ‘Do you know, Sir, what all creatures agree in approving and

[1. Compare the use of ### in the Shû King, I, iii, 11.

2. The classic of Lâo, in chaps. 1, 2.

3. Names for the Tâo.

4. Three small states. Is Yao’s wish to smite an instance of the ‘quality’ of ’emulation’ or jealousy?

5. Both Tâoistic worthies of the time of Yâo, supposed to have been two of the Perfect Ones whom Yâo visited on the distant hill of Kû-shih (I, par. 6). According to Hwang Mî, Wang Î was the teacher of Nieh Khüeh, and he again of Hsü Yû.]

{p. 191}

affirming?’ ‘How should I know it?’ was the reply. ‘Do you know what it is that you do not know?’ asked the other again, and he got the same reply. He asked a third time,–‘Then are all creatures thus without knowledge?’ and Wang Î answered as before, (adding however), ‘Notwithstanding, I will try and explain my meaning. How do you know that when I say “I know it,” I really (am showing that) I do not know it, and that when I say “I do not know it,” I really am showing that I do know it[1].’ And let me ask you some questions:–‘If a man sleep in a damp place, he will have a pain in his loins, and half his body will be as if it were dead; but will it be so with an eel? If he be living in a tree, he will be frightened and all in a tremble; but will it be so with a monkey? And does any one of the three know his right place? Men eat animals that have been fed on grain and grass; deer feed on the thickset grass; centipedes enjoy small snakes; owls and crows delight in mice; but does any one of the four know the right taste? The dog-headed monkey finds its mate in the female gibbon; the elk and the axis deer cohabit; and the eel enjoys itself with other fishes. Mâo Zhiang[2] and Lî Kî[2] were accounted by men to be most beautiful, but when fishes saw them, they dived deep in the water from them; when birds, they flew from them aloft; and

[1. Compare par. 1 of Book XXII.

2. Two famous beauties;–the former, a contemporary of Hsî Shih (par. 4, note 2), and like her also, of the state of Yüeh; the latter, the daughter of a barbarian chief among the Western Jung. She was captured by duke Hsien of Zin, in B. C. 672. He subsequently made her his wife,–to the great injury of his family and state.]

{p. 192}

when deer saw them, they separated and fled away[1]. But did any of these four know which in the world is the right female attraction? As I look at the matter, the first principles of benevolence and righteousness and the paths of approval and disapproval are inextricably mixed and confused together:–how is it possible that I should know how to discriminate among them?’

Nieh Khüeh said (further), ‘Since you, Sir, do not know what is advantageous and what is hurtful, is the Perfect man also in the same way without the knowledge of them?’ Wang i replied, ‘The Perfect man is spirit-like. Great lakes might be boiling about him, and he would not feel their heat; the Ho and the Han might be frozen up, and he would not feel the cold; the hurrying thunderbolts might split the mountains, and the wind shake the ocean, without being able to make him afraid. Being such, he mounts on the clouds of the air, rides on the sun and moon, and rambles at ease beyond the four seas. Neither death nor life makes any change in him, and how much less should the considerations of advantage and injury do so[2]!’

9. Khü Zhiâo-dze[3] asked Khang-wû Dze[3], saying,

[1. Not thinking them beautiful, as men did, but frightened and repelled by them.

2. Compare Book 1, pars. 3 and 5.

3. We know nothing of the former of these men, but what is mentioned here; the other appears also in Book XXV, 6, q. v. If ‘the master’ that immediately follows be Confucius they must have been contemporary with him. The Khiû in Khang-wû’s reply would seem to make it certain ‘the master’ was Confucius, but the oldest critics, and some modern ones as well, think that Khang-wû’s name was also Khiû. But this view is attended with more difficulties than the other. By the clause interjected in the translation after the first ‘Master,’ I have avoided the incongruity of ascribing the long description of Tâoism to Confucius.]

{p. 193}

‘I heard the Master (speaking of such language as the following):–“The sagely man does not occupy himself with worldly affairs. He does not put himself in the way of what is profitable, nor try to avoid what is hurtful; he has no pleasure in seeking (for anything from any one); he does not care to be found in (any established) Way; he speaks without speaking; he does not speak when he speaks; thus finding his enjoyment outside the dust and dirt (of the world).” The Master considered all this to be a shoreless flow of mere words, and I consider it to describe the course of the Mysterious Way.–What do you, Sir, think of it?’ Khang-wû dze replied, ‘The hearing of such words would have perplexed even Hwang-Tî, and how should Khiû be competent to understand them? And you, moreover, are too hasty in forming your estimate (of their meaning). You see the egg, and (immediately) look out for the cock (that is to be hatched from it); you see the bow, and (immediately) look out for the dove (that is to be brought down by it) being roasted. I will try to explain the thing to you in a rough way; do you in the same way listen to me.

‘How could any one stand by the side of the sun and moon, and hold under his arm all space and all time? (Such language only means that the sagely man) keeps his mouth shut, and puts aside questions that are uncertain and dark; making his inferior capacities unite with him in honouring (the One Lord). Men in general bustle about and toil; the

{p. 194}

sagely man seems stupid and to know nothing[1]. He blends ten thousand years together in the one (conception of time); the myriad things all pursue their spontaneous course, and they are all before him as doing so.

‘How do I know that the love of life is not a delusion? and that the dislike of death is not like a young person’s losing his way, and not knowing that he is (really) going home? Lî Kî[2] was a daughter of the border Warden of Ai. When (the ruler of) the state of Zin first got possession of her, she wept till the tears wetted all the front of her dress. But when she came to the place of the king[3], shared with him his luxurious couch, and ate his grain-and-grass-fed meat, then she regretted that she had wept. How do I know that the dead do not repent of their former craving for life?

‘Those who dream of (the pleasures of) drinking may in the morning wail and weep; those who dream of wailing and weeping may in the morning be going out to hunt. When they were dreaming they did not know it was a dream; in their dream they may even have tried to interpret it[4]; but when they awoke they knew that it was a dream. And

[1. Compare Lâo-dze’s account of himself in his Work, ch. 20.

2. See note 2 on page 191. The lady is there said to have been the daughter of a barbarian chief; here she appears as the child of the border Warden of Aî. But her maiden surname of Kî (###) shows her father must have been a scion of the royal family of Kâu. Had he forsaken his wardenship, and joined one of the Tî tribes, which had adopted him as its chief?

3 Zin was only a marquisate. How does Kwang-dze speak of its ruler as ‘a king?’

4 This could not be; a man does not come to himself in his dream, and in that state try to interpret it.]

{p. 195}

there is the great awaking, after which we shall know that this life was a great dream[1]. All the while, the stupid think they are awake, and with nice discrimination insist on their knowledge; now playing the part of rulers, and now of grooms. Bigoted was that Khiû! He and you are both dreaming. I who say that you are dreaming am dreaming myself. These words seem very strange; but if after ten thousand ages we once meet with a great sage who knows how to explain them, it will be as if we met him (unexpectedly) some morning or evening.

10. ‘Since you made me enter into this discussion with you, if you have got the better of me and not I of you, are you indeed right, and I indeed wrong? If I have got the better of you and not you of me, am I indeed right and you indeed wrong? Is the one of us right and the other wrong? are we both right or both wrong? Since we cannot come to a mutual and common understanding, men will certainly continue in darkness on the subject.

‘Whom shall I employ to adjudicate in the matter? If I employ one who agrees with you, how can he, agreeing with you, do so correctly? And the same may be said, if I employ one who agrees with me. It will be the same if I employ one who differs from us both or one who agrees with us both. In this way I and you and those others would all not be able to come to a mutual understanding; and shall we then wait for that (great sage)? (We need not do so.) To wait on others to learn how conflicting opinions are changed is simply like not so

[1. Compare XVIII, par. 4.]

{p. 196}

waiting at all. The harmonising of them is to be found in the invisible operation of Heaven, and by following this on into the unlimited past. It is by this method that we can complete our years (without our minds being disturbed)[1].

‘What is meant by harmonising (conflicting opinions) in the invisible operation of Heaven? There is the affirmation and the denial of it; and there is the assertion of an opinion and the rejection of it. If the affirmation be according to the reality of the fact, it is certainly different from the denial of it:–there can be no dispute about that. If the assertion of an opinion be correct, it is certainly different from its rejection:–neither can there be any dispute about that. Let us forget the lapse of time; let us forget the conflict of opinions. Let us make our appeal to the Infinite, and take up our position there[2].’

11. The Penumbra asked the Shadow[3], saying, ‘Formerly you were walking on, and now you have stopped; formerly you were sitting, and now you have risen up:–how is it that you are so without stability?’ The Shadow replied, ‘I wait for the movements of something else to do what I do, and that something else on which I wait waits further

[1. See this passage again in Book XXVII, par. i, where the phrase which I have called here ‘the invisible operation of Heaven,’ is said to be the same as ‘the Heavenly Mould or Moulder,’ that is, the Heavenly Fashioner, one of the Tâoistic names for the Tâo.

2. That is, all things being traced up to the unity of the Tâo, we have found the pivot to which all conflicting opinions, all affirmations, all denials, all positions and negatives converge, and bring to bear on them the proper light of the mind. Compare paragraph 3.

3. A story to the same effect as this here, with some textual variations, occurs in Book XXVII, immediately after par. 1 referred to above.]

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on another to do as it does[1]. My waiting,–is it for the scales of a snake, or the wings of a cicada[2]? How should I know why I do one thing, or do not do another[3]?

‘Formerly, I, Kwang Kâu, dreamt that I was a butterfly, a butterfly flying about, feeling that it was enjoying itself I did not know that it was Kâu. Suddenly I awoke, and was myself again, the veritable Kâu. I did not know whether it had formerly been Kâu dreaming that he was a butterfly, or it was now a butterfly dreaming that it was Kâu. But between Kâu and a butterfly there must be a difference[4]. This is a case of what is called the Transformation of Things[4].’

[1. The mind cannot rest in second causes, and the first cause, if there be one, is inscrutable.

2. Even these must wait for the will of the creature; but the case of the shadow is still more remarkable.

3. 1 have put this interrogatively, as being more graphic, and because of the particle ###, which is generally, though not necessarily, interrogative.

4. Hsüan Ying, in his remarks on these two sentences, brings out the force of the story very successfully:–‘Looking at them in their ordinary appearance, there was necessarily a difference between them, but in the delusion of the dream each of them appeared the other, and they could not distinguish themselves! Kâu could be a butterfly, and the butterfly could be Kâu;–we may see that in the world all traces of that and this may pass away, as they come under the influence of transformations.’ For the phrase, ‘the transformation of things,’ see in Book X1, par. 5, et al. But the Tâoism here can hardly be distinguished from the Buddhism that holds that all human experience is merely so much mâya or illusion.]