Chapter 2 齊物論第二

Ziqi of Nanguo sat leaning on his armrest, gazing at the sky and breathing slow, as if he had lost his companion. Yan Cheng Ziyou stood waiting before him. "How is this?" he asked. "The body withered like dry wood, the mind like dead ashes! The man leaning on the armrest today is not the man who leaned on it before." Ziqi said: "Yan, you have asked well. Today I lost myself. Do you understand? You have heard the piping of men, but not the piping of earth; heard the piping of earth, but not the piping of Heaven. There is a sound."

Ziyou said: "May I hear it?" Ziqi said: "The great clod breathes out breath; its name is wind. It is not yet up; but when it is, the ten thousand hollows cry out. Have you not heard the long gale? In the great forest a hundred cubits square: the holes — like nostrils, like mouths, like ears, like sockets, like cups, like mortars, like pools, like wallowings; they roar like whistles, hiss like arrows, shout, snort, swallow, wail, moan, moan again. The front notes sing yu-yu; the back notes answer in the wind. A light wind: small harmony. A great wind: great harmony. And when the fierce gale has passed, the hollows empty out into silence. Have you not seen the trembling, the swaying?" Ziyou said: "So the piping of earth is these hollows; the piping of man is rows of bamboo. May I ask about the piping of Heaven?" Ziqi said: "It blows the ten thousand things each differently, letting each be itself. Each takes what it takes — who stirs them all?"

Great knowledge: far-reaching. Small knowledge: fussy. Great words: plain and strong. Small words: chattering and endless. Asleep, the soul runs loose; waking, the body opens out. Day after day we meet; the heart digs its moats. Softly, solemnly, we close the nets; tightly, darkly, the traps go down. Small fears: anxious and off. Great fears: steady and slow. Words fly like arrows from a string — the judges of right and wrong. Held down, they swear their oaths, sealing the covenant of victory. They fade like autumn and winter — dying day by day. They drown in their own doings and cannot rise again; dark forces gather, and the old heart gives out. Nigh to death, the mind cannot be brought back to light. Joy and anger, sorrow and gladness, worry and sighing, wavering and fear, levity and abandon, indulgence and abandon: music out of empty holes, smoke-breath out of mushrooms. Day and night they go before us, and none knows where they sprout. Enough, enough! Morning and evening they are gotten — that is where they live.

Without those things there is no I; without the I there is nothing to take them. This is near to it — but we do not know what makes it so. It seems there is a true lord, yet no proof of him. We may trust that he exists, and not see his shape. The hundred joints, the nine openings, the six keepers of the inner house — all complete in me. Which do I hold nearest? Do you delight in them all, or is there some special favorite? If all are servants and servants, then none can govern the rest? Or do they take turns as lord and minister? Is there a true lord among them, whatever we find or not? To get him would neither add nor subtract one jot of its true nature. Born we go on and on — a blind going. Fight with things all our lives, galloping, and none can stop — is that not sad? Body grown to skin and bone, the mind keeping step with it — is that not a great sorrow? Is human life really such darkness, or is it I alone and no one else who is in the dark?

The mind has its own becoming; who knows what I call heaven? And if heaven, and not man? We act as the heart bids us, and still do not know what we are. We gallop on, and here we are; the body decays; things keep pace with it, and the flux is like a galloping horse — none can stop it, can they? Life between heaven and earth is like a white colt at a crack — gone in a flash. Surging, surging, all come forth; swelling, swelling, all enter. Change, stir: nothing does not begin to move; and nothing that moves does not cease to move. Already moved, already ceased: does not that grieve? Unmoving, unplanted, no growth — and life itself has come. Is not that the greatest dark? And in this darkness we speak: "I," and not "I." Does it have a shape? or does it have none? Take me and the thing I take to be before me — that is having, and having is done. Yet who can say there is no having? The secret is close, and small to its end; and it is great to its end, and easy.

Words: not just wind. Words have something to say — but what they say is never fixed. So is there anything said, or nothing said? Words differ from the peeping of fledglings: they say it, or they say nothing. How is the Way hidden, that there should be true and false? How are words hidden, that there should be right and wrong? Where is the Way that it should not be? Where are words that they should not hold? The Way is hidden in small completions; words are hidden in vain flourish. Therefore come the quarrels of Confucians and Mohists, each calling the other wrong what he himself calls right, and right what the other calls wrong. To fix what is wrong by what is right, and what is wrong by what is right — better to shine a light.

Things are nothing else: they are so. Things are nothing else: they are other. Nothing is not other; nothing is not so. Call it a bean: then a bean. Call it a horse: then a horse. So there is right and wrong; not-right and not-wrong. And the Way has no bounds, and words have no constancy: this is the field of the pivot. The pivot sits in the middle of the circle, where nothing can weigh upon it — answering without end. What is so is so now; what is not so is not so now. What is right is right now; what is wrong is wrong now. There is nothing that is not so; there is nothing that is not right. Take a stalk and a pillar, a leper and the beauty Xishi, the prodigal and the strange, the deceitful and the odd: the Way makes them one. Division is the making of completion; completion is the making of loss. But no thing is either made complete or lost — all is made one again. Only the far-reaching man knows how to fold the two into one. He does not act as a thing's servant, but lets it be led: this is holding to the middle, leaning on the daily sun. Leaning on it: to fold the two into one — the one has no speech and the two have no speech. But the one and the two are made three — and from there we go on; even the skilled reckoner cannot follow, how much less the common man! From having nothing, we have come to three. And what of the living? Move no further — come to the pivot and rest.

Now nothing has a boundary, and nothing has a constancy. One may say "from somewhere" — but there is a "somewhere" and a "nowhere." The great Way calls nothing early or late. Great words: they hold ten thousand things and pass no judgment. The world is even greater than autumn's last hair, and Mount Tai is small. No one lives longer than a stillborn child, and Pengzu died young. Heaven, earth, and I were born together; the ten thousand things and I are one. Since we are one, is there anything to say? Since it is one, can there be no speech? The one and the speech are two; two and one make three. From here even the skilled reckoner cannot go on, much less the common man. From being without, we come to having — three. And what of the living? Move no further: rest at the pivot.

The Way has no leaving; words have no blowing in. So comes the line "there is a beginning." "There is a not-yet beginning of the beginning." "There is a not-yet beginning of that not-yet beginning." And so to being: "there is being; there is nothing; there is a not-yet begun nothing; there is a not-yet begun not-yet begun nothing." And suddenly: there is nothing — and I do not know whether there is then being or nothing. Now I have said something, and I do not know whether what I have said is anything at all, or nothing at all.

There is nothing under heaven greater than the tips of autumn's hair, and Mount Tai is small. No one lives longer than a stillborn child, and Pengzu died young. Heaven, earth, and I were born together; the ten thousand things and I are one. Since we are one, what more is there to say? Since there is nothing more to say, have I not already said it? The one and the speech are two; two and one make three — and so on to the skilled reckoner's end. From no-thing we come to having: three. And what of the living? Rest at the pivot.

The Way has no boundaries; words have no constancy. But the habits of one "I" have their boundaries. So: left and right; and division and judgment; and rivalry and contention. These are the eight virtues. Beyond the world, the sage sets them aside and does not speak; within the world, he sets them forth and does not judge. The Spring and Autumn: the old records of the former kings — the sage settles them but does not dispute. So: divided and not spoken; spoken and not disputed. What is this called? The sage holds it whole; the ten thousand things hold their own. That is why he does not dispute. So the Way does not shine and speaks nothing; great debate does not call names. "Benevolence" acts and shows nothing; "fidelity" saves its tongue; "fortitude" wounds without malice; "trust" says nothing for it. Five squares ground down; square and sharp and gnawing; storehouse and fullness and evening — six pourings of the flood. The Way is hidden in small completions; words are hidden in too much flourish. So come the quarrels of the great and small schools: the light and the dark, the high and the low, the whole and the fragment, each calling its own right. Therefore: the government of the former kings — its aims set in stone for the whole world's good, and the disputation of the same schools. So it is said: the ten suns.

The ancient kings' records are dead, but their aim was to leave the government whole for the world's good. So the schools took them and each called its own reading right. Therefore: what is divided is spoken; what is spoken is disputed. Hence the sayings: "the ten suns" — and the sun indeed.

Where shall I go and not find it? What shall I say and not be one? Everything everywhere is "it"; everything everywhere is "me." No thing is not "it"; no thing is not "me." But if from "me" no "it" can be seen, and from "it" no "me" is seen, then we are like the chicken and the egg — both together, but never touching. The sage is a spirit in heaven and earth, yet he is not proud; he holds all things to be one and does not know them as many; he rests all upon the daily sun. Let me tell you about "leaning on the two." Before things there is no "it"; after things there is no "it." Before there is no "it," there is a time when there was no "it"; before that, a time when there was no "no-it." Suddenly there is "it" — and no "no-it." And who can say whether there is then "it" or "no-it"?

Now I have just said something; but I do not know whether what I have said really says anything or says nothing. Nothing under heaven is greater than the tip of an autumn hair, and Mount Tai is small; no one lives longer than a stillborn child, and Pengzu died young. Heaven, earth, and I were born together, and the ten thousand things and I are one. Since we are one, is there anything more to say? Since there is nothing more to say, have I not said it? The one and the speech are two, two and one make three, and from here the skilled reckoner himself cannot go on. From no-thing we have come to having: three. And what of the living? Move no further.

The Way has no boundaries; words have no constancy. But the habits of one "I" have their boundaries. So: left and right; and division and judgment; and rivalry and contention. These are the eight virtues. Beyond the world, the sage sets them aside; within the world, he sets them forth and judges them not. The old records of the former kings he settles, but of them he does not dispute. Therefore: the divided is not spoken; the spoken is not disputed. Where does this show? The sage holds it whole; the ten thousand things hold their own; and so he does not dispute. So the Way does not shine; great speech does not call names; great benevolence is not benevolent; great fidelity does not save its tongue; great fortitude does not wound. The Way that shines is not the Way; speech that calls names is not great speech; the benevolent that acts is not whole; the faithful that argues is not faithful; the brave that wounds does not finish. Five squares ground down; square and gnawing; storehouse and evening: six pourings of the flood. The Way is hidden in small completions; words are hidden in too much flourish. And so the quarrels of the great and small schools.

To sleep: the soul runs loose. To wake: the body opens. We meet; the heart digs its moats. Softly, solemnly, the nets close; tightly, darkly, the traps go down. Great fears: steady and slow; small fears: anxious and off. Words like arrows from a string: the judges of right and wrong. Held down, they swear their oaths. They fade like autumn and winter; day by day they die. Drowned in their doings, they cannot rise. Dark forces gather, and the old heart gives out. Nigh to death, the mind cannot be brought back to light — joy and anger, sorrow and gladness, worry and sighing, wavering and fear, levity and abandon, indulgence and hurt: music out of empty holes, smoke-breath out of mushrooms. Day and night they go before us, and none knows where they sprout. Enough! Enough! Morning and evening they are gotten: that is where they live.

Once there was a beginning. I will speak of it: there is being, there is nothing, there is a not-yet begun nothing. And suddenly there is nothing. And I do not know whether there is then being or nothing. Now I have said something; but do I know whether the saying is anything at all or nothing at all?

Under heaven there is nothing greater than the tip of an autumn hair, and Mount Tai is small. No one lives longer than a stillborn child, and Pengzu died young. Heaven, earth, and I were born together; the ten thousand things and I are one. Since we are one, is there anything to say? Since there is nothing to say, have I not said it? The one and the speech are two; two and one make three; and from here the reckoner cannot go on. From no-thing: three. And what of the living? Rest at the pivot.

Let me say a word about the pivot. "It is so"; "it is not so." "It is right"; "it is wrong." Are they so, or not so? Are they right, or not right? If one and the other must each be both, then neither is. The pivot is the middle of the circle, where nothing can weigh upon it. So: use the light.

The tablets of the old kings are cold; but their aim was to leave government whole. So the schools took them up, and each called its own reading right, and the ten suns shone at once — the sun indeed.

Take the fingers: they are not fingers if you take one to be not-a-finger. Take the horse: it is not a horse if you take one to be not-a-horse. Heaven and earth are one finger; the ten thousand things are one horse. What is so? Is it so because it is so? What is not so? Is it not so because it is not so? Something is so; something can be so. Something is not; something can be not. Why so? So. Why not so? Not so. Something is fixed; something can be fixed. Why fixed? Fixed. Why not fixed? Not fixed. Things are all fixed and all can be fixed. So there is nothing that is not so; nothing that is not fit. Therefore: a stalk and a pillar, a leper and Xishi, the prodigal and the strange: the Way makes them one. Division is completion; completion is loss. But no thing is complete or lost; all is made one again. Only the far-reaching man knows how to fold the two into one. He does not serve things; he lets them be led: that is holding to the middle, leaning on the daily sun. Leaning: the two are folded into one. The one has no speech, the two no speech. And the one and the two made three: and from there the reckoner cannot follow. From no-thing: three. And what of the living?

The ten thousand things are one. Which shall I call lovely? Which shall I call ugly? The ten thousand things are one horse. Which shall I call horse? Which shall I call not-horse? The Way has no leaving; words have no blowing. The great Way does not name; great words do not blow. "Heaven and earth are one finger; the ten thousand things are one horse": — so it is said.

The great Way does not name; great debate does not speak; great benevolence is not benevolent; great fidelity does not save its tongue; great fortitude does not wound. The five squares are ground down: square and sharp and gnawing. Therefore: the one who knows does not speak; the one who speaks does not know.

With the world I will not contend. "Sheng" and "si": you win, I lose — and what of it? "Sheng" and "si": I win, you lose — and what of it? Are we both right, or both wrong? Shall I and you look at it together? Or shall a third look with us? We cannot look at it together; we are men. Whom shall I bring to settle it? Bring one who agrees with you? He has already agreed with you — how can he settle it? Bring one who agrees with me? He has already agreed with me — how can he settle it? Bring one who differs from us both? He differs from us both — how can he settle it? Bring one who agrees with us both? He agrees with us both — how can he settle it? So then: neither I nor you nor any third can settle it. Shall we wait for another generation?

"What is leaning on the two?" — "It" and "not-it"; "right" and "not-right." If "it" and "not-it" must each be both, then neither is. The pivot sits in the middle of the circle; nothing can weigh upon it. So: use the light, and rest.

Change the tongue: "there is no other thing." Take "it" and "not-it": together they are one. The sage does not go by this way and that; he shines in Heaven. Then "it" is also right; "not-it" is also right. "It" is also so; "not-it" is also so. Does "it" have a right? Does "it" have a wrong? Does "not-it" have a right? Does "not-it" have a wrong? Both have their right and their wrong; both have their not-right and their not-wrong. So: is there "it" and "not-it," or is there no "it" and no "not-it"? When "it" and "not-it" can no longer hold each other, that is called the hinge of the Way. The hinge begins in the circle, where nothing can weigh upon it. It is right without end; it is not-right without end. So: use the light.

But there is the "today I go to Yue and arrived yesterday": the impossible said as possible. Hold heaven and earth as one house; hold the ten thousand things as one horse: then who shall say which is "it" and which is "not-it"? Who shall say which is right and which is wrong? Cut the ten thousand things into one: that is the Way made whole. The Way has no division; words have no permanence. Make a division, and there is completion; make a completion, and there is loss. But no thing is complete or lost. All is made one again. Only the far-reaching man knows how to fold the two into one, and does not act as their servant, but lets them be led. That is holding to the middle. Nothing can weigh upon him. He leans on the daily sun; he rests in it; and so he is without end.

The men of old, their knowledge reached somewhere. Where did it reach? Some reached the point where nothing had yet been. That is the utmost: nothing to add. Some reached the point where there were things, but no boundaries between them. Some reached the point where there were boundaries, but no rights and wrongs. Where right and wrong shine out, the Way is wounded. The Way wounded: love is made. Were there completions and losses? Yes: Zhao Wen played the lute; Shi Kuang kept the time; Huizi leaned on the wutong. The knowledge of these three was at its height, and so to the end of their days they were famous. But because they were famous they went on, and their going was a mistake. Did Wen's son finish his father's lute? All his life he accomplished nothing. Were there such as these? Yes. And there were others: Sun Shu said, "There is no division and no completion." He lost himself and reached the point where there is nothing. And there were three: and were they like the great teacher? Or were they not?

The knowledge of the men of old reached the utmost. Some reached the point where there was nothing at all: the utmost, the whole, nothing to add. Next, they held there were things but no boundaries. Next, they held there were boundaries but no rights and wrongs. The bright shining of right and wrong wounds the Way. The Way wounded: love is born. Were there completions and losses? Zhao Wen drummed the lute; Shi Kuang nodded the time; Huizi leaned on the wutong tree. The knowledge of these three masters neared the height of all under heaven, and so to the end of their days they shone. And because they shone, they went on, and their going was not like the going of others. Were they like the teacher? Or not like him? Their shining made them known; and they failed to die as themselves.

Do not let the outside wound the inside; do not let the inside wound the outside. Do not go with the light and see only what shines; do not go with the dark and see only what is dark. The world runs to them; they rise in ranks; but he alone in the middle is without desire. Hold still: the still man is the honored one of Heaven and earth, the honored one of the ten thousand things. Rest: breathe the long breath. Slow of speech: like a child. Weak: like a motherless one. Idle: like a house with no owner. The coming ones have nowhere to set their banners; the going ones cannot follow. That is why the old saying: "Do not open the gate of Heaven; hold to the house of virtue." Light and dark go together; day and night keep their places — and one is alive with them. Spring and autumn follow each other; the year passes; things come and go. From this: the hinge of Heaven. The hinge of Heaven: nothing, and yet everything. And he who has nothing does not have it; he who has everything does not have it. The bright shines; the spirit moves; from this all things spring. From the unseen the forms are born; from the formless the life is born. The thing keeps its place. Without limits, without a door, the whole is one and there is nothing outside. He who grasps this is called "the storehouse of Heaven."

The equalizing of things: near to it, and it is done. But I do not know what makes it so. It seems there is a true ruler; and no sign of him. Trust him, and he does not show his shape. The hundred bones, the nine openings, the six organs, all present and complete in me: which do I feel nearest to me? Do you delight in them all? Or is there a master among them? If all are servants, are they not too many for one master? Or do they serve in turns as lord and servant? There must be a true ruler among them: whether we find him or not does not add to him or take from him. One born goes on and on: a blind going. He gallops after things all his life and never turns: is it not sorrow? And though he keeps on galloping to the end, and comes to weariness and death, still he does not return: is it not sad? Is the man of heaven truly without feeling, or do I alone feel it and no one else?

Long ago Zhuang Zhou dreamed he was a butterfly: fluttering here and there at his pleasure, a self that knew what it wanted. He did not know he was Zhou. Suddenly he woke, and there he was: solid Zhou. He does not know whether he is Zhou who dreamed of being a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming of being Zhou. Between Zhou and the butterfly there is surely some division. This is called the turning of things into one another.

Ziqi of Nanguo sat leaning on his armrest, staring at the sky, breathing slowly, like he'd lost himself. His student Yan Cheng Ziyou stood in front of him and said: "What's going on? Your body's like dried-out wood, your mind like dead ashes. The man leaning here today isn't the man who leaned here yesterday." Ziqi said: "Yan, good question. Just now I lost myself. Do you understand? You've heard human music, but you've never heard earth's music. You've heard earth's music, but you've never heard heaven's music."

Ziyou asked: "Tell me." Ziqi said: "The great earth breathes out — we call it wind. When it's calm, nothing happens. When it blows, every hole and hollow cries out. Haven't you heard it in the deep forest? Hollows shaped like noses, mouths, ears, sockets, cups, mortars, puddles, puddles again. They whistle, hiss, shout, suck, yell, wail, moan, and moan again. First notes answer second notes. A light breeze makes a small chorus; a great gale makes a huge one. When the storm passes, all the holes go silent. Haven't you seen it — everything swaying, swinging?" Ziyou said: "So earth's music is the hollows, human music is bamboo pipes. What's heaven's music?" Ziqi said: "It blows through everything in a thousand different ways, letting each thing be itself. Everything picks its own sound. Who's making it all happen?"

Big knowledge is broad and easy. Small knowledge picks at details. Big speech is plain and strong. Small speech is endless babble. Asleep, our minds drift; awake, our bodies open to the world. All day we deal with people, and our hearts dig hidden battle lines. Sometimes we're careful and hesitant; sometimes we're trapping each other. Small fears leave us shaky; big fears leave us stunned. Words fly like arrows — aimed at who's right and who's wrong. When we're pinned down, we swear oaths to protect our wins. Then we fade like autumn into winter, dying a little every day. We sink into what we're doing and can't climb out — dark feelings pile up, and the old heart wears out. Near death, nothing can bring the mind back to sunlight. Joy, anger, sadness, happiness, worry, sighing, hesitating, fear, flippancy, wildness, indulgence: like music from empty pipes, like mushrooms breathing out steam. They appear in us day and night, and nobody knows where they grow. Stop! Stop! Morning and evening, that's where we live.

Without them, there's no me. Without me, they have nothing to happen to. We're close to understanding this — but nobody knows what makes it work. It seems like there's a true boss behind it all, though we can't find any proof. We believe he's real, but we can't see his shape. My body has a hundred joints, nine openings, six organs — all here, complete. Which one do I love most? Do you like them all equally? Or is one the boss of the rest? If they're all just servants, how can they rule themselves? Or do they take turns being boss? There must be one true ruler, whether we find him or not — it wouldn't add to him or subtract from him. Once we're born, we just keep going, blindly. We fight with the world our whole lives, galloping, and nothing stops us. Isn't that sad? Body growing old, mind dragging along behind — isn't that a great sorrow? Is human life really this dark, or is it just me?

The mind forms itself; but what makes it tick — is that heaven, or is it us? We do what we feel like doing, and we can't say what we really are. We run and run until the body wears out. Life between heaven and earth flies past like a white colt passing a crack in the wall — a blink. Everything surges out; everything pours back in. Things shift and move; nothing stays put. Then it all stops moving. Doesn't that hurt? If nothing ever moved or grew, there'd be no life at all. Isn't that the biggest puzzle of all? And in this fog we say "me, me" as if there were a real me. Is there? Who knows?

Talk isn't just blowing wind — talk is meant to say something. But what it says is never fixed. So is anything really said, or nothing said? We think our words are different from baby-bird chirps. Are they? Is the Way hiding somewhere, so there's true and false? Are words hiding something, so there's right and wrong? Where is the Way you can't walk? What words make no sense? The Way gets buried in little clever points. Words get buried in fancy flourishes. That's why Confucians and Mohists fight — each calling the other wrong about what they call right. Wanting to fix what's wrong using what you're sure is right — better to just shine a light on the whole thing.

There's nothing that isn't "that"; there's nothing that isn't "this." From where you stand, you can't see "this." You only know "this" by understanding "that." So: "that" comes from "this," and "this" follows from "that." It's relative. Even so: something is born and something dies at the very same moment; something dies and something is born right there. Nothing isn't approved; nothing isn't disapproved. So the sage skips the arguments and shines with plain heaven-light: that "this" is also "that," and "that" is also "this." "That" has its right and wrong; "this" has its right and wrong. Is there really a difference between "that" and "this," or isn't there? When "that" and "this" lose their opposites, that's the center of the Way. The center has no edges; it sits in the middle where everything can happen. So: use your light.

Things are just things: call them so, they're so. Call them other, they're other. Nothing isn't "other"; nothing isn't "so." From a stalk to a pillar, from a leper to the beauty Xishi, from weird to wonderful: the Way makes them all one. Splitting is the same as completing; completing is the same as losing. Nothing is ever really finished or ruined — everything becomes one again. Only the truly clear-minded know how to connect the two into one. They don't labor over things — they let everything flow. That's leaning on the everyday light: use it, and it works.

Why all the fuss? Divide something and it's "complete"; complete it and it's "damaged." Nothing is ever really complete or damaged — everything comes back around to being one. The Way has no walls; words have no permanent rules. The wise one sits in the middle of the circle where nothing can push on him — responding without end. Right now it's "so"; right now it's "not so." Right now it's "right"; right now it's "wrong." There's nothing that isn't so; there's nothing that isn't right. So the sage doesn't argue — he shines with the plain light of heaven.

The world's one big family; the ten thousand things are one horse. Everyone gets called names; everyone gets called right and wrong. Just walk on. Being clever about "this" and "that" only ties you up. Forgetting them, you're free. That's the Way.

Long ago, Zhuang Zhou dreamed he was a butterfly — flying happily wherever it wanted, a self with its own plans. He didn't know he was Zhou. Suddenly he woke up, and there he was: solid Zhou. He doesn't know if he's Zhou who dreamed he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he's Zhou. There's a real gap between Zhou and the butterfly. That's what it means when things turn into each other.