Chapter 1 逍遙遊第一

In the darkness of the North Sea there is a fish; its name is the Kun. No one knows how many thousand li it is long. It changes and becomes a bird; its name is the Peng. The Peng's back — no one knows how many thousand li it stretches. Roused, it flies, its wings like clouds hanging from the sky. When the sea moves, this bird goes toward the darkness of the South. The South Sea is the Pool of Heaven.

The Qi Xie, a book of marvels, records it: "When the Peng moves toward the South Sea, the water is struck for three thousand li; it beats upward on the whirlwind ninety thousand li, and goes off on the six months' breath." The wild horses of the air, the motes of dust — living things breathing their breath to one another. Is the blue of the sky its true color, or is it only distance that has no end? Looking down from above, it must be just the same.

If water is not piled deep enough, it lacks the strength to carry a great boat. Pour a cup of water into a hollow and a mustard seed will float there like a vessel; set the cup there and it sticks — the water is shallow and the boat is great. So if wind is not piled deep enough, it lacks the strength to bear great wings. Therefore beneath ninety thousand li the wind must gather underneath, and only then can the great bird lean on it; only then, back to the blue, face to the southern darkness, can it set out for the south.

The cicada and the little dove laugh at it: "We rise and dart to the elm or the sapanwood; sometimes we never make it, and drop back to the ground. What use is going up ninety thousand li toward the south?" If you go to the near green of the fields, three meals will serve and you come home with your belly full. If you go a hundred li, you pound grain through the night. If you go a thousand li, you gather provisions in three months. What do these two creatures know? Little knowledge cannot compass great knowledge; the short-lived cannot compass the long-lived. How do we know? The mushroom of the morning has no knowledge of the dark of the month and its full. The summer cicada knows nothing of spring and autumn: such is their little span. In Chu there grew a mingling tree whose spring and autumn were each five hundred years; in high antiquity grew the great chun, whose spring and autumn were each eight thousand years. And Pengzu is the one man famous for long life — all men would match him. Is it not sad that they should?

The questions of Tang also speak of it. In the reeds of the far north there is a dark sea, the Pool of Heaven. There is a fish, broad as several thousand li; no one knows its measure. Its name is the Kun. There is a bird, the Peng, with a back like Mount Tai, wings like clouds hung from heaven. It beats on the whirlwind ninety thousand li, above the clouds and the sky, and levels off toward the south, going to the South Sea. The quail of the marsh laughs at it: "Where is it going? I leap up and come down, darting among the wormwood and the weeds; that is the utmost of flying. Where can it be going?" — This is the difference between the small and the great.

So a man whose knowledge fits one office, whose conduct suits one district, whose virtue pleases one ruler and wins one country, looks at himself the way the quail does. Song Rongzi would still have laughed at him. Rongzi — the whole world praised him and he was not stirred; the whole world condemned him and he was not dismayed. He fixed the line between inner and outer and discerned the border of honor and disgrace. He was like that. Yet even he had not planted anything in the world.

Still there was a man who rode the true courses of heaven and earth, breathing the six airs of the vital field, to wander the measureless. What would he lean on? Therefore it is said: the perfect man has no self; the spirit-man has no deed; the sage has no name.

Yao wished to cede the world to Xu You. "The sun and moon are shining, yet the small torch will not go out — is its light not hard to sustain? The timely rains are falling, yet one keeps on watering — is that not a wasted labor? Sir, take your place, and the world will be well governed. I stand before it as its shadow. I ask you to have the world." Xu You answered: "You govern the world, and the world is already governed. If I took your place, would I be doing it for the name? Name is the guest of what is real — would I play the guest? The wren nests in the deep wood and takes no more than one branch; the mole drinks from the river and takes no more than a bellyful. Go home, my lord, and forget it. The world is nothing to me. The priest of the sacrifices does not run to the kitchen on behalf of the chicken and the pig."

Jian Wu asked Lian Shu: "I heard Jie Yu speak wild things, words without ground, going on and on without arriving. I was bewildered. Is it like the sky's great dark? Or is it a tie that has no knot?" Lian Shu said: "How do you know what he means? There was a man on the hill of Gushe: spirit-flesh dwells there, white skin and hair like a maiden. It does not eat the five grains; it draws in the wind and drinks the dew. It rides the cloud-vapor, drives the team of flying dragons, and wanders beyond the four seas. When its spirit gathers, things are kept from sickness and the grain grows ripe. I think that story is mad, and so I do not believe it." Jian Wu said: "So it is. A leper could not speak of beauty."

Still, there was a great tree on the side of a river of Song, the hun-chun; its roots were knotted for ropes yet no one could cut them straight; its trunk burst into burrs for boards yet no one could square them. If it stood by no road, no carpenter would look at it. Now your words — they are big and useless, and all men turn from them together. Wu said: "Why do you not plant it in the village of nothing at all, in the broad wild of the border, and wander idly beside it, sleep free beneath it? It will not fall to the axe and will not come to harm. Uselessness — nothing can do it harm."

Huizi said to Zhuangzi: "The king of Wei gave me seeds of a great gourd. I planted them, and they grew to hold five bushels. Filled with water, they were too heavy to lift; cut in ladles, they were too flat and broad to hold anything. Not that the vessels are not great — but I saw no use in them, and broke them up." Zhuangzi said: "So you are clumsy at using what is great. There was a man of Song who had a secret for a medicine that kept hands from chapping; his family were silk-washers through the winter. A traveler heard of it and asked to buy the secret for a hundred pieces of gold. The family gathered and said: 'We have washed silk for generations and never made more than a few pieces. Now in one morning we can sell the art for a hundred. Let us give it to him.' The traveler got it and spoke of it to the king of Wu. The Yue came against them; the king made him general of a fleet in winter, and he fought a water battle and dealt the Yue a great ruin; land was cut out for him in reward. The power to keep hands from chapping was one; one man had a fief by it, and another never got past washing silk — because the use to which they put it differed. Now you had a gourd holding five bushels: why did you not make of it a great float to ride the rivers and lakes, instead of fretting that it was too flat to hold anything? Your heart, sir, must be full of weeds."

Huizi said to Zhuangzi: "I have a great tree men call the chun. Its trunk bursts with knotted burrs that will not take a line; its small branches are twisted for hooks and squares. It stands by the road, and no carpenter looks twice. Now your words, sir — they are big and useless, and all men turn from them together." Zhuangzi said: "Have you not seen the wildcat? It crouches low for the mouse; east and west it leaps, high and low; and the snare takes it, and it dies in a net. Then the yak — great as a cloud hanging from the sky, big enough, and unable to catch a mouse. Now you have a great tree and fret that it is useless. Why not plant it in the village of nothing at all, in the broad wild of the border, and wander idly beside it, sleep free beneath it? The axe will not reach it; nothing will shorten its days. If it cannot be put to use, what will ever wound it?"

In the far north there is a fish called the Kun. It's so huge nobody knows how many thousands of miles long it is. It turns into a bird called the Peng. The Peng's back is so huge nobody knows how many thousands of miles wide it is. When it takes off, its wings hang over the sky like clouds. When the sea churns, it heads for the southern ocean. The southern ocean is the great pool of heaven.

An old book of wonders called the Qi Xie tells about it: "When the Peng heads south, the water splashes for three thousand miles. It rides a whirlwind up ninety thousand miles, and it flies for six months before it rests." The mist near the ground, the floating dust — all living things breathe and push each other along. Is the deep blue of the sky its real color, or just what distance looks like? Seen from above, it would look the same way.

If water isn't deep enough, it can't float a big boat. Pour a cup of water into a dent in the floor: a mustard seed floats there like a ship, but a cup sticks — the water's too shallow for a big vessel. It's the same with wind: if there isn't enough of it, big wings can't be held up. So there has to be ninety thousand miles of wind under the great bird, and only then can it ride it, spread its blue-backed wings toward the south, and set off.

A cicada and a little dove laugh at it: "We fly up as hard as we can toward an elm or a tree, and sometimes we don't even make it and fall back down. What's all this about ninety thousand miles up and heading south?" If you're going to the nearby market, you just need three meals and you come home full. If you're going a hundred miles, you grind grain the night before. If you're going a thousand miles, you gather food for three months. What do these two little creatures understand? Small knowledge can't reach big knowledge. A short life can't understand a long one. How do we know? A mushroom that lives one morning doesn't know what a month is. A summer cicada doesn't know what spring and autumn are: their lives are just too short. In Chu there's a tree where one spring lasts five hundred years. In ancient times there was a great chun tree where one spring lasted eight thousand years. And Pengzu, famous for living long, is what everyone wants to copy — isn't that sad?

Tang asked about it too. In the bare north there's a dark sea, heaven's pool. There's a fish miles wide, and no one knows how big. Its name is Kun. There's a bird named Peng, its back like Mount Tai, its wings like clouds hanging from the sky. It rides the whirlwind ninety thousand miles up, above the clouds, levels off, and heads for the south sea. A little quail in the marsh laughs: "Where's it going? I hop up and come down, fluttering among the weeds. That's the best flying there is. What's it think it's doing?" That's the difference between small and big.

So a man smart enough for one job, good enough for one village, decent enough for one ruler, compares himself to this quail. Song Rongzi would laugh at him. The whole world could praise Rongzi and it wouldn't change anything; the whole world could condemn him and he wouldn't care. He knew what was really him and what was just the world's opinion. Even so, he hadn't quite planted himself anywhere.

But there is someone who rides what's true in heaven and earth, who breathes with the seasons, and wanders beyond limits. What would he depend on? That's why it's said: the perfect person has no self; the spiritual person has no accomplishments; the sage has no name.

Yao wanted to hand the whole world to Xu You. "The sun and moon are already shining, and yet I keep lighting this little torch — it's pointless, right? The rain has already fallen, and I keep hauling water — it's a waste. Please take over, and everything will be run well. I'm just in the way. Please take it." Xu You said: "You run the world, and it's already running well. If I took over, would I do it for the title? A title is just the shadow of the real thing — do I look like I'm chasing shadows? A little bird nesting in a huge forest needs one branch. A mole drinking from a river needs one bellyful. Go home — I don't need the world. The cook who runs the sacrificial feast doesn't step in for the kitchen helper."

Jian Wu asked Lian Shu: "I heard Jie Yu talking wild nonsense, going on and on, no beginning or end. I was shocked. Is it like the endless sky? Or is it just crazy talk?" Lian Shu said: "How would you understand his meaning? There's a spirit-person living on the Guye mountain: skin like snow, gentle as a young girl. She doesn't eat grain; she breathes the wind and drinks the dew. She rides clouds and mist, drives flying dragons, and wanders beyond the four seas. When her spirit focuses, nothing gets sick and the crops ripen. I think that story is crazy, so I don't believe it." Jian Wu said: "Right. A leper can't talk about beauty."

But there's a huge tree by the Song river called the chun. Its trunk is so knotted you can't measure it straight; its branches are so twisted no tool fits them. It stands by the road and no carpenter even looks at it. Your words are like that — big and useless, and everyone ignores them. Zhuangzi said: "Why not plant it in the village of Nothing At All, out in the empty plains, and wander freely beside it, sleep easily under it? No axe will ever come for it; nothing can shorten its life. Being useless — nothing can hurt it."

Huizi told Zhuangzi: "The king of Wei gave me giant gourd seeds. I grew gourds big enough to hold five bushels. Filled with water, too heavy to lift. Cut into ladles, too flat to scoop anything. They're huge — but useless — so I smashed them." Zhuangzi said: "You're just clumsy with big things. There was a man in Song who knew how to make a hand lotion that stopped skin cracking in winter. His family were silk-washers. A traveler offered a hundred gold pieces for the recipe. The family met and said: 'We've washed silk forever and never made more than a few coins. Now we can make a hundred gold in one morning — sell it.' The traveler got it and told the king of Wu, whose enemy Yue attacked in winter. The man led the navy, won the sea battle, and got a slice of land as reward. The same lotion: one man got land, another never got past washing silk — because they used it differently. You had a gourd holding five bushels. Why not tie it to your belt as a float and drift down the rivers and lakes, instead of whining it was too flat to scoop with? Your head is full of weeds, friend."

Huizi told Zhuangzi: "I have a big tree people call the chun. Its trunk is too knotted for measuring, its branches too twisted for tools. It stands by the road and nobody looks at it. Your words are like that tree — big and useless." Zhuangzi said: "Ever seen a wildcat? It crouches low waiting for a mouse, leaps east and west, up and down — and then gets caught in a trap and dies. Then there's the yak — huge as a cloud hanging from the sky, plenty big enough, and can't even catch a mouse. You have a big tree and worry it's useless. Plant it in the village of Nothing At All, in the wide empty plains. Wander beside it; sleep under it. No axe will cut it down; nothing will kill it. If it's no use for anything, what could ever hurt it?"