Book of Lieh-Tzü by Lionel Giles M.A., D.Litt.

Book of Lieh-Tzü by Lionel Giles M.A., D.Litt.

TAOIST TEACHINGS
Translated from the Book of Lieh-Tzü

Introduction and Notes by LIONEL GILES M.A., D.Litt.[1912]

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Contents

Introduction

I. COSMOGONY

II. THE YELLOW EMPEROR

III. DREAMS

IV. CONFUCIUS

V. THE QUESTIONS OF T’ANG

VI. EFFORT AND DESTINY

VII. CAUSALITY

Introduction

The history of Taoist philosophy may be conveniently divided into three stages: the primitive stage, the stage of development, and the stage of degeneration. The first of these stages is only known to us through the medium of a single semi-historical figure, the philosopher Lao Tzu, whose birth is traditionally assigned to the year 604 B.C. Some would place the beginnings of Taoism much earlier than this, and consequently regard Lao Tzu rather as an expounder than as the actual founder of the system; just as Confucianism–that is, a moral code based on filial piety and buttressed by altruism and righteousness–may be said to have flourished long before Confucius. The two cases, however, are somewhat dissimilar. The teachings of Lao Tzu, as preserved in the Tao Tê Ching, are not such as one can easily imagine being handed down from generation to generation among the people at large. The principle on which they are based is simple enough, but their application to everyday life is surrounded by difficulties. It is hazardous to assert that any great system of philosophy has sprung from the brain of one man; but the assertion is probably as true of Taoism as of any other body of speculation.

Condensed into a single phrase, the injunction of Lao {p. 10} Tzu to mankind is, ‘Follow Nature.’ This is a good practical equivalent for the Chinese expression, ‘Get hold of Tao’, although ‘Tao’ does not exactly correspond to the word Nature, as ordinarily used by us to denote the sum of phenomena in this ever-changing universe. It seems to me, however, that the conception of Tao must have been reached, originally, through this channel. Lao Tzu, interpreting the plain facts of Nature before his eyes, concludes that behind her manifold workings there exists an ultimate Reality which in its essence is unfathomable and unknowable, yet manifests itself in laws of unfailing regularity. To this Essential Principle, this Power underlying the sensible phenomena of Nature, he gives, tentatively and with hesitation, the name of Tao, ‘the Way’, though fully realizing the inadequacy of any name to express the idea of that which is beyond all power of comprehension.

A foreigner, imbued with Christian ideas, naturally feels inclined to substitute for Tao the term by which he is accustomed to denote the Supreme Being–God. But this is only admissible if he is prepared to use the term ‘God’ in a much broader sense than we find in either the Old or the New Testament. That which chiefly impresses the Taoist in the operations of Nature is their absolute impersonality. The inexorable law of cause and effect seems to him equally removed from active goodness or benevolence on the one hand, and from active, or malevolence on the other. This is a fact which will hardly be disputed by any intelligent observer. It is when he begins to draw inferences from it that the Taoist parts company from the average Christian. Believing, as he does, that the visible Universe is but a manifestation of the invisible Power behind It, he feels justified in arguing from the known to the unknown, and concluding that, whatever Tao may be in itself (which is unknowable), it is certainly not what we understand by a personal God–not a God endowed with the specific attributes of humanity, not even (and here we find a remarkable anticipation of Hegel) a conscious God. In other words, Tao transcends the illusory and unreal distinctions on which all human systems of morality depend, for in it all virtues and vices coalesce into One.

The Christian takes a different view altogether. He prefers to ignore the facts which Nature shows him, or else he reads them in an arbitrary and one-sided manner. His God, if no longer anthropomorphic, is undeniably anthropopathic. He is a personal Deity, now loving and merciful, now irascible and jealous, a Deity who is open to prayer and entreaty. With qualities such as these, it is difficult to see how he can be regarded as anything but a glorified Man. Which of these two views–the Taoist or the Christian–it is best for mankind to hold, may be a matter of dispute. There can be no doubt which is the more logical.

The weakness of Taoism lies in its application to the conduct of life. Lao Tzu was not content to be a metaphysician merely, he aspired to be a practical reformer as well. It was man’s business, he thought, to model himself as closely as possible on the great Exemplar, Tao. It follows as a matter of course that his precepts are mostly of a negative order, and we are led straight to the doctrine of Passivity or Inaction, which was bound to be fatally misunderstood and perverted. Lao Tzu’s teaching has reached us, if not in its original form, yet in much of its native purity, in the Tao Tê Ching. One of the most potent arguments for the high antiquity of this marvellous little treatise is that it shows no decided trace of the corruption which is discernible in the second of our periods, represented for us by the writings of Lieh Tzu and Chuang Tzu. I have called it the period of development because of the extraordinary quickening and blossoming of the buds of Lao Tzu’s thought in the supple and imaginative minds of these two philosophers. The canker, alas! is already at the heart of the flower; but so rich and luxuriant is the feast of colour before us that we hardly notice it as yet.

Very little is known of our author beyond what he tells us himself. His full name was Lieh Yü-k’ou, and it appears that he was living in the Chêng State not long before the year 398 B.C., when the Prime Minister Tzu Yang was killed in a revolution (see p. 101). He figures prominently in the pages of Chuang Tzu, from whom we learn that he could ‘ride upon the wind’.[1] On the

[1. He is thus depicted in the design on the cover of this volume, taken from an illustrated work on Ink-tablets.]

insufficient ground that he is not mentioned by the historian Ssu-ma Ch’ien, a certain critic of the Sung dynasty was led to declare that Lieh Tzu was only a fictitious personage invented by Chuang Tzu, and that the treatise which passes under his name was a forgery of later times. This theory is rejected by the compilers of the great Catalogue of Ch’ien Lung’s Library, who represent the cream of Chinese scholarship in the eighteenth century.

Although Lieh Tzu’s work has evidently passed through the hands of many editors and gathered numerous accretions, there remains a considerable nucleus which in all probability was committed to writing by Lieh Tzu’s immediate disciples, and is therefore older than the genuine parts of Chuang Tzu. There are some obvious analogies between the two authors, and indeed a certain amount of matter common to both; but on the whole Lieh Tzu’s book bears an unmistakable impress of its own. The geniality of its tone contrasts with the somewhat hard brilliancy of Chuang Tzu, and a certain kindly sympathy with the aged, the poor and the humble of this life, not excluding the brute creation, makes itself felt throughout. The opposition between Taoism and Confucianism is not so sharp as we find it in Chuang Tzu, and Confucius himself is treated with much greater respect. This alone is strong evidence in favour of the priority of Lieh Tzu, for there is no doubt that the breach between the two systems widened as time went on. Lieh Tzu’s work is about half as long as Chuang Tzu’s, and is now divided into eight books. The seventh of these deals exclusively with the doctrine of the egoistic philosopher Yang Chu, and has therefore been omitted altogether from the present selection.

Nearly all the Taoist writers are fond of parables and allegorical tales, but in none of them is this branch of literature brought to such perfection as in Lieh Tzu, who surpasses Chuang Tzu himself as a master of anecdote. His stories are almost invariably pithy and pointed. Many of them evince not only a keen sense of dramatic effect, but real insight into human nature. Others may appear fantastic and somewhat wildly imaginative. The story of the man who issued out of solid rock (p. 47) is a typical one of this class. It ends, however, with a streak of ironical humour which may lead us to doubt whether Lieh Tzu himself really believed in the possibility of transcending natural laws. His soberer judgment appears in other passages, like the following: ‘That which has life must by the law of its being come to an end; and the end can no more be avoided than the living creature can help having been born. So that he who hopes to perpetuate his life or to shut out death is deceived in his calculations.’ That leaves little doubt as to the light in which Lieh Tzu would have regarded the later Taoist speculations on the elixir of life. Perhaps the best solution of the problem is the theory I have already mentioned: that the ‘Lieh Tzu’ which we possess now, while containing a solid and authentic core of the Master’s own teaching, has been overlaid with much of the decadent Taoism of the age that followed.

Of this third period little need be said here. It is represented in literature by the lengthy treatise of Huai-nan Tzu, the spurious episodes in Lieh Tzu and Chuang Tzu, and a host of minor writers, some of whom tried to pass off their works as the genuine relics of ancient sages. Chang Chan, an officer of the Banqueting Court under the Eastern Chin dynasty (fourth century A.D.), is the author of the best commentary on Lieh Tzu; extracts from it, placed between inverted commas, will be found in the following pages. In the time of Chang Chan, although Taoism as a philosophical system had long run its course, its development into a national religion was only just beginning, and its subsequent influence on literature and art is hardly to be over-estimated. It supplied the elements of mystery, romance and colour which were needed as a set-off against the uncompromising stiffness of the Confucian ideal. For reviving and incorporating in itself the floating mass of folklore and mythology which had come down from the earliest ages, as well as for the many exquisite creations of its own fancy, it deserves the lasting gratitude of the Chinese people.

BOOK I
Cosmogony

Our Master Lieh Tzu dwelt on a vegetable plot in the Chêng State for forty years, and no man knew him for what he was. The Prince, his Ministers, and all the State officials looked upon him as one of the common herd. A time of dearth fell upon the State, and he was preparing to migrate to Wei, when his disciples said to him: ‘Now that our Master is going away without any prospect of returning, we have ventured to approach you, hoping for instruction. Are there no words from the lips of Hu-Ch’iu Tzu-lin that you can impart to us? Lieh Tzu smiled and said: ‘Do you suppose that Hu Tzu dealt in words? However, I will try to repeat to you what my Master said on one occasion to Po-hun Mou-jên.

A fellow-disciple. Out of modesty, Lieh Tzu does not say that the teaching was imparted directly to himself.

I was standing by and heard his words, which ran as, follows:–

“There is a Creative Principle which is itself uncreated; there is a Principle of Change which is itself unchanging. The Uncreated is able to create life; the Unchanging is able to effect change. That which is produced cannot but continue producing; that which is evolved cannot but continue evolving. Hence there is constant production and constant evolution. The law of constant production and of constant evolution at no time ceases to operate.

The commentator says: ‘That which is once involved in the destiny of living things can never be annihilated.’

So is it with the Yin and the Yang, so is it with the Four Seasons.

The Yin and the Yang are the Positive and Negative Principles of Nature, alternately predominating in day and night.

The Uncreated we may surmise to be Alone in itself.

‘The Supreme, the Non-Engendered–how can its reality be proved? We can only suppose that it is mysteriously One, without beginning and without end.’

The Unchanging goes to and fro, and its range is illimitable. We may surmise that it stands Alone, and that its Ways are inexhaustible.”

‘In the Book of the Yellow Emperor it is written: “The Spirit of the Valley dies not; it may be called the Mysterious Feminine. The issuing-point of the Mysterious Feminine must be regarded as the Root of the Universe. Subsisting to all eternity, it uses its force without effort.”

The Book of the Yellow Emperor is no longer extant, but the above passage is now incorporated in the Tao Tê Ching, and attributed to Lao Tzu.

‘That, then, which engenders all things is itself unengendered; that by which all things are evolved is itself untouched by evolution. Self-engendered and self-evolved, it has in itself the elements of substance, appearance, wisdom, strength, dispersion and cessation. Yet it would be a mistake to call it by any one of these names.

*         *         *

The Master Lieh Tzu said: ‘The inspired men of old regarded the Yin and the Yang as controlling the sum total of Heaven and Earth. But that which has substance is engendered from that which is devoid of substance; out of what then were Heaven and Earth engendered?

‘They were engendered out of nothing, and came into existence of themselves.’

‘Hence we say, there is a great Principle of Change, a great Origin, a great Beginning, a great Primordial Simplicity. In the great Change substance is not yet main est. In the great Origin lies the beginning of substance. In the great Beginning, lies the beginning of material form.

‘After the separation of the Yin and the Yang, when classes of objects assume their forms.’

In the great Simplicity lies the beginning of essential qualities. When substance, form and essential qualities are still indistinguishably blended together it is called Chaos. Chaos means that all things are chaotically intermixed and not yet separated from one another. The purer and lighter elements, tending upwards, made the Heavens; the grosser and heavier elements, tending downwards, made the Earth. Substance, harmoniously proportioned, became Man; and, Heaven and Earth containing thus a spiritual element, all things were evolved and produced.’

*         *         *

The Master Lieh Tzu said: ‘The virtue of Heaven and Earth, the powers of the Sage, and the uses of the myriad things in Creation, are not perfect in every direction. It is Heaven’s function to produce life and to spread a canopy over it. It is Earth’s function to form material bodies and to support them. It is the Sage’s function to teach others and to influence them for good. It is the function of created things to conform to their proper nature. That being so, there are things in which Earth may excel, though they lie outside the scope of Heaven; matters in which the Sage has no concern, though they afford free play to others. For it is clear that that which imparts and broods over life cannot form and support material bodies; that which forms and supports material bodies cannot teach and influence for good; one who teaches and influences for good cannot run counter to natural instincts; that which is fixed in suitable environment does not travel outside its own sphere. Therefore the Way of Heaven and Earth will be either of the Yin or of the Yang; the teaching of the Sage will be either of altruism or of righteousness; the quality of created objects will be either soft or hard. All these conform to their proper nature and cannot depart from the province assigned to them.’

*         *         *

On one hand, there is life, and on the other, there is that which produces life; there is form, and there is that which imparts form; there is sound, and there is that which causes sound; there is colour, and there is that which causes colour; there is taste, and there is that which causes taste.

Things that have been endowed with life die; but that which produces life itself never comes to an end. The origin of form is matter; but that which imparts form has no material existence. The genesis of sound lies in the sense of hearing; but that which causes sound is never audible to the ear. The source of colour is vision; but that which produces colour never manifests itself to the eye. The origin of taste lies in the palate; but that which causes taste is never perceived by that sense. All these phenomena are functions of the principle of Inaction.

Wu Wei, Inaction, here stands for the inert, unchanging Tao. To be at will either bright or obscure, soft or hard, short or long, round or square, alive or dead, hot or cold, buoyant or sinking, treble or bass, present or absent, black or white, sweet or bitter, fetid or fragrant–this it is to be devoid of knowledge, yet all-knowing, destitute of power, yet all-powerful.

Such is Tao.

*         *         *

On his journey to Wei, the Master Lieh Tzu took a meal by the roadside. His followers espied an old skull, and pulled aside the undergrowth to show it to him. Turning to his disciple Po Fêng, the Master said: ‘That skull and I both know that there is no such thing as absolute life or death.

‘If we regard ourselves as passing along the road of evolution, then I am alive and he is dead. But looked at from the standpoint of the Absolute, since there is no such principle as life in itself, it follows that there can be no such thing as death.’

This knowledge is better than all your methods of prolonging life, a more potent source of happiness than any other.’

*         *         *

In the Book of the Yellow Emperor it is written: ‘When form becomes active it produces not form but shadow; when sound becomes active it produces not sound but echo.’

See note on p. 17. This passage does not occur in the Tao Tê Ching.

When Not-Being becomes active, it does not produce Not-Being but Being. Form is something that must come to an end. Heaven and Earth, then, have an end, even as we all have an end. But whether the end is complete we do not know.

‘When there is conglomeration, form comes into being; when there is dispersion, it comes to an end. That is what we mortals mean by beginning and end. But although for us, in a state of conglomeration, this condensation into form constitutes a beginning, and its dispersion an end, from the standpoint of dispersion, it is void and calm that constitute the beginning, and condensation into form the end. Hence there is perpetual alternation in what constitutes be timing and end, and the underlying Truth is that there is neither any beginning nor any end at all.’

The course of evolution ends where it started, without a beginning; it finishes up where it began, in Not-Being.

A paradoxical way of stating that there is no beginning and no end.

That which has life returns again into the Lifeless; that which has form returns again into the formless. This, that {p. 23} I call the Lifeless, is not the original Lifelessness. This, that I call the formless, is not the original Formlessness.

‘That, which is here termed the Lifeless has formerly possessed life, and subsequently passed into the extinction of death, whereas the original Lifelessness from the beginning knows neither life nor extinction.’ We have here again the distinction between the unchanging life-giving Principle (Tao), which is itself without life, and the living things themselves, which are in a perpetual flux between life and death.

That which has life must by the law of its being come to an end; and the end can no more be avoided than the living creature can help having been born. So that he who hopes to perpetuate his life or to shut out death is deceived as to his destiny.

The spiritual element in man is allotted to him by Heaven, his corporeal frame by Earth. The part that belongs to Heaven ‘is ethereal and dispersive, the part that belongs to Earth is dense and tending to conglomeration. When the spirit parts from the body, each of these elements resumes its true nature. That is why disembodied spirits are called kuei, which means ‘returning’, that is, returning to their true dwelling-place.

‘The region of the Great Void.’

The Yellow Emperor said: ‘If my spirit returns through the gates whence it came, and my bones go back to the source from which they sprang, where does the Ego continue to exist?’

*         *         *

Between his birth and his latter end, man passes through four chief stages-infancy, adolescence, old age and death. In infancy, the vital force is concentrated, the will is undivided, and the general harmony of the system is perfect. External objects produce no injurious impression, and to the moral nature nothing can be added. In adolescence, the animal passions are wildly exuberant, the heart is filled with rising desires and preoccupations. The man is open to attack by the objects of sense, and thus his moral nature becomes enfeebled. In old age, his desires and preoccupations have lost their keenness, and the bodily frame seeks for repose. External objects no longer hold the first place in his regard. In this state, though not attaining to the perfection of infancy, he is already different from what he was in adolescence. In death, he comes to his rest, and returns to the Absolute.

*         *         *

Confucius was travelling once over Mount T’ai when he caught sight of an aged man roaming in the wilds. He was clothed in a deerskin, girded with a rope, and was singing as he played on a lute. ‘My friend,’ said Confucius, ‘what is it that makes you so happy?’ The old man replied: ‘I have a great deal to make me happy. God created all things, and of all His creations man is the noblest. It has fallen to my lot to be a man: that is my first ground for happiness. Then, there is a distinction between male and female, the former being rated more highly than the latter. Therefore it is better to be a male; and since I am one, I have a second ground for happiness. Furthermore, some are born who never behold the sun or the moon, and who never emerge from their swaddling-clothes. But I have already walked the earth for the space of ninety years. That is my third ground for happiness. Poverty is the normal lot of the scholar, death the appointed end for all human beings. Abiding in the normal state, and reaching at last the appointed end, what is there that should make me unhappy? ;What an excellent thing it is,’ cried Confucius, ‘to be able to find a source of consolation in oneself!’

*         *         *

Tzu Kung was tired of study, and confided his feelings to Confucius, saying: ‘I yearn for rest.’ Confucius replied: ‘In life there is no rest.’

‘To toil in anxious planning for the future, to slave in bolstering up the bodily frame–these are the businesses of life.’

‘Is rest, then, nowhere to be found? ‘Oh yes!’ replied Confucius; ‘look at all the graves in the wilds, all the vaults, all the tombs, all the funeral urns, and you may know where rest is to be found.’ ‘Great, indeed, is Death!’ exclaimed Tzu Kung. ‘It gives rest to the noble hearted, and causes the base to cower.’ ‘You are right,’ said Confucius. ‘Men feel the joy of life, but do not realize its bitterness. They feel the weariness of old age, but not its peacefulness. They think of the evils of death, but not of the repose which it confers.’

*         *         *

Yen Tzu said: ‘How excellent was the ancients’ view of death!–bringing rest to the good and subjection to the wicked. Death is the boundary-line of Virtue.

That is, Death abolishes all artificial and temporary distinctions between good and evil, which only hold good in this world of relativity.

‘The ancients spoke of the dead as kuei-jên (men who have returned). But if the dead are men who have returned, the living are men on a journey. Those who are on a journey and think not of returning have cut themselves off from their home. Should any one man cut himself off from his home, he would incur universal reprobation. But all mankind being homeless, there is none to see the error. Imagine one who leaves his native village, separates himself from all his kith and kin, dissipates his patrimony and wanders away to the four corners of the earth, never to return:–what manner of man is this? The world will surely set him down as a profligate and a vagabond. On the other hand, imagine one who clings to respectability and the things of this life, holds cleverness and capacity in high esteem, builds himself up a reputation, and plays the braggart amongst his fellow men without knowing where to stop:–what manner of man, once more, is this? The world will surely look upon him as a gentleman of great wisdom and counsel. Both of these men have lost their way, yet the world will consort with the one, and not with the other. Only the Sage knows with whom to consort and from whom to hold aloof.’

‘He consorts with those who regard life and death merely as waking and sleeping, and holds aloof from those who are steeped in forgetfulness of their return.’

*         *         *

Yü Hsiung said: ‘Evolution is never-ending. But who can perceive the secret processes of Heaven and Earth? Thus, things that are diminished here are augmented there; things that are made whole in one place suffer loss in another. Diminution and augmentation, fullness and decay are the constant accompaniments of life and death. They alternate in continuous succession, and we are not conscious of any interval. The whole body of spiritual substance progresses without a pause; the whole body of material substance suffers decay without intermission. But we do not perceive the process of completion, nor do we perceive the process of decay. Map, likewise, from birth to old age becomes something different every day in face and form, in wisdom and in conduct. His skin, his nails and his hair are continually growing and continually perishing. In infancy and childhood there is no stopping nor respite from change. Though imperceptible while it is going on, it may be verified afterwards if we wait.’

*         *         *

There was once a man in the Ch’i State who was so afraid the universe would collapse and fall to pieces, leaving his body without a lodgment, that he could neither sleep nor eat. Another man, pitying his distress, went to enlighten him. ‘Heaven,’ he said, ‘is nothing more than an accumulation of ether, and there is no place where ether is not. Processes of contraction and expansion, inspiration and expiration are continually taking place up in the heavens. Why then should you be afraid of a collapse?’ The man said: ‘It is true that Heaven is an accumulation of ether; but the sun, the moon, and the stars–will they not fall down upon us? His informant replied: ‘Sun, moon and stars are likewise only bright lights Within this mass of ether. Even supposing they were to fall, they could not possibly harm us by their impact.’ ‘But what if the earth should fall to pieces? ‘The earth,’ replied the other, ‘is merely an agglomeration of matter, which fills and blocks up the four comers of space. There is no part of it where matter is not. All day long there is constant treading and tramping on the surface of the earth. Why then should you be afraid of its falling to pieces? Thereupon the man was relieved of his fears and rejoiced exceedingly. And his instructor was also joyful and easy in mind. But Ch’ang Lu Tzu laughed at them both, saying: ‘Rainbows, clouds and mist, wind and rain, the four seasons–these are perfected forms of accumulated ether, and go to make up the heavens. Mountains and cliffs, rivers and seas, metals and rocks, fire and timber–these are perfected forms of agglomerated matter, and constitute the earth. Knowing these facts, who can say that they will never be destroyed? Heaven and earth form only a small speck in the midst of the Void, but they are the greatest things in the sum of Being. This much is certain: even as their nature is hard to fathom, hard to understand, so they will be slow to pass away, slow to come to an end. He who fears lest they should suddenly fall to pieces is assuredly very far from the truth. He, on the other hand, who says that they will never be destroyed has also not reached the right solution. Heaven and earth must of necessity pass away, but neither will revert to destruction apart from the other.

The speaker means that though there is no immediate danger of a collapse, it is certain that our universe must obey the natural law of disintegration, and at some distant date disappear altogether. But the process of decay will be so gradual as to be imperceptible. Who, having to face the day of disruption, would not be alarmed?

The Master Lieh Tzu heard of the discussion, and smiling said: ‘He who maintains that Heaven and earth are destructible, and he who upholds the contrary, are both equally at fault. Whether they are destructible or not is something we can never know, though in both cases it will be the same for all alike. The living and the dead, the going and the coming, know nothing of each other’s state. Whether destruction awaits the world or no, why should I trouble my head about it?

*         *         *

Mr Kuo of the Ch’i State was very rich, while Mr Hsiang of the Sung State was very poor. The latter travelled from Sung to Ch’i and asked the other for the secret of his prosperity. Mr Kuo told him. ‘It is because I am a good thief,’ he said. ‘The first year I began to be a thief, I had just enough. The second year, I had ample. The third year, I reaped a great harvest. And, in course of time, I found myself the owner of whole villages and districts.’ Mr Hsiang was overjoyed; he understood the word ‘thief’ in its literal sense, but he did not understand the true way of becoming a thief. Accordingly, he climbed over walls and broke into houses, grabbing everything he could see or lay hands upon. But before very long his thefts brought him into trouble, and he was stripped even of what he had previously possessed. Thinking that Mr Kuo had basely deceived him, Hsiang went to him with a bitter complaint. ‘Tell me,’ said Mr Kuo, ‘how did you set about being a thief?’ On learning from Mr Hsiang what had happened, he cried out: ‘Alas and alack! You have been brought to this pass because you went the wrong way to work. Now let me put you on the right track. We all know that Heaven has its seasons, and that earth has its riches. Well, the things that I steal are the riches of Heaven and earth, each in their season–the fertilizing rain-water from the clouds, and the natural products of mountain and meadow-land. Thus I grow my grain and ripen my crops, build my walls and construct my tenements. From the dry land I steal winged and four-footed game, from the rivers I steal fish and turtles. There is nothing that I do not steal. For corn and grain, clay and wood, birds and beasts, fishes and turtles are all products of Nature. How can I claim them as mine?

It will be observed that Lieh Tzu anticipates here, in a somewhat different sense, Proudhon’s famous paradox: ‘La propriété c’est le vol.’

‘Yet, stealing in this way from Nature, I bring on myself no retribution. But gold, jade, and precious stones, stores of grain, silk stuffs, and other kinds of property, are things accumulated by men, not bestowed upon us by Nature. So who can complain if he gets into trouble by stealing them?

Mr Hsiang, in a state of great perplexity, and fearing to be led astray a second time by Mr Kuo, went off to consult Tung Kuo, a man of learning. Tung Kuo said to him: ‘Are you not already a thief in respect of your own body? You are stealing the harmony of the Yin and the Yang in order to keep alive and to maintain your bodily form. How much more, then, are you a thief with regard to external possessions! Assuredly, Heaven and earth cannot be dissociated from the myriad objects of Nature. To claim any one of these as your own betokens confusion of thought. Mr Kuo’s thefts are carried out in a spirit of justice, and therefore bring no retribution. But your thefts were carried out in a spirit of self-seeking and therefore landed you in trouble. Those who take possession of property, whether public or private, are thieves.

By ‘taking possession of public property’, as we have seen, Lieh Tzu means utilizing the products of Nature open to all–rain and the like.

Those who abstain from taking property, public or private, are also thieves.

‘For no one can help possessing a body, and no one can help acquiring some property or other which cannot be got rid of with the best will in the world. Such thefts are unconscious thefts.’

The great principle of Heaven and earth is to treat public property as such and private property as such. Knowing this principle, which of us is a thief, and at the same time which of us is not a thief?’

The object of this anecdote is to impress us with the unreality of mundane distinctions. Lieh Tzu is not much interested in the social aspect of the question. He is not an advocate of communism, nor does he rebel against the common-sense view that theft is a crime which must be punished. With him, everything is intended to lead up to the metaphysical standpoint.