Chapter 3 養生主第三

Our life has an end; and knowledge has none. To chase the endless with the ended is weariness — nothing more! To know there is no cure, and go on chasing: weariness — nothing more! Do good, and keep clear of a name for it; do not do evil, and keep clear of a name for that too. Take the middle way as your rope and cord: then you may keep the body whole, keep the nature whole, nourish what is within, and live out the years Heaven gave.

The cook of Ding was cutting up an ox for Lord Wenhui. Where his hand touched, where his shoulder leaned, where his foot pressed, where his knee drove in — whish! the flesh fell apart with a sound like music. The knife never hesitated; the rhythm ran true: the Mulberry Grove dance, the Jingshou of the ancient hymns. Lord Wenhui said: "How does your art come to such a height?" The cook laid down the knife and answered: "What your servant loves is the Way; it goes beyond mere art. When I first began, I saw the ox whole. Three years on, I no longer saw the whole. Now I meet it with the spirit and not with the eyes; sense stops, and the spirit moves. I follow the natural pattern; the great seams open, the great hollows give way; I guide the knife where the structure turns. And so the ligament and sinew never catch, much less the great bone. A good cook changes his knife once a year: he cuts. An ordinary cook, once a month: he hacks. This knife of mine is nineteen years old. It has opened several thousand oxen, and its edge is as if it had just left the whetstone. Between the joints there is room, and the blade has no thickness: put what has no thickness into a place that has room — and there is room to spare! That is why after nineteen years the blade is like new. Still, when I come to a knotted place and see it will be hard, I take care; my gaze settles; my hand slows; the knife slides, hardly moving — and it falls apart like a clod crumbling to the ground. I stand with the knife in my hand, look all round me, linger — and am content, and wipe the knife and put it away." Lord Wenhui said: "Wonderful! From a cook's words I have learned how to nourish life."

The officer of the right gate lost one foot. His heels were cut, and his heart was heavy with it; he had done no wrong to his body. "Why should he grieve?" said someone. "Heaven's hand had made him one-legged; the man's foot was cut, not his heaven. His nature was whole."

The pheasant of the marsh takes ten steps for a peck, a hundred steps for a drink; but it does not wish to be kept in a cage. Though there it would be full of spirit and well fed, it would not be free and happy.

When Lao Dan died, Qin Shi went out to the mourning and cried out three times, and came away. A disciple asked: "Were you not the Master's friend?" "I was." "Then is it right to mourn him so?" Qin Shi said: "It is right. The men he mourned with, he thought were mourners of men, but they were not. Of old we called them 'the men who escape the trimming.' They may blame whom they have no cause to blame. One comes to the world at the right time; the master went at the right time: dwell in the time, dwell in the change, and sorrow and joy cannot enter. The ancients called this the loosening of the bonds of God."

The wick burns out: the fire is carried on; and we do not know when it will end.

Life has a limit, but knowledge doesn't. Chasing the unlimited with the limited wears you out. Knowing this and still chasing — wears you out even worse. Do good, but don't chase a good reputation. Avoid evil, but don't chase a name for avoiding it either. Follow your natural middle path: then you can keep your body whole, keep your nature whole, feed your family, and live out your full years.

Cook Ding was cutting up an ox for Lord Wenhui. Every touch of his hand, lean of his shoulder, stomp of his foot, shove of his knee — whish! — the meat fell apart in rhythm, like music, matching the ancient dance. Lord Wenhui said: "How did you get this good?" The cook put down his knife: "I care about the Way, not just knife skills. When I started, I saw the whole ox. Three years later, I stopped seeing the whole thing. Now I meet it with my spirit, not my eyes. My senses stop; my spirit moves. I follow the natural structure — the big openings, the big hollows. I use the knife where the shape allows it. That's why my blade never catches on tendons, let alone bone. A good cook changes knives once a year — he cuts. A mediocre cook, once a month — he hacks. My knife is nineteen years old. It's carved thousands of oxen, and the blade is still like it just came off the stone. Between the joints there's room, and my blade has no thickness. Put nothing into space, and there's room to spare! Still, when I hit a tricky knot, I slow down, focus, move gently — and the whole thing falls apart like dirt crumbling. I stand there with the knife, look around, take my time, feel satisfied — and clean the blade and put it away." Lord Wenhui said: "Amazing! From a cook I've learned how to live."

The gatekeeper lost a foot. He was sad about it. Someone said: "You didn't cause it. Heaven made you one-legged; men just took the other foot. Your nature is still whole."

The pheasant in the marsh walks ten steps for one peck, a hundred steps for one drink — but it doesn't want to live in a cage. Even fed and happy there, it wouldn't be free.

When Lao Dan died, Qin Shi went to the wake, cried out three times, and left. A student said: "Weren't you his friend? Is that a proper way to mourn?" Qin Shi said: "Yes. I thought everyone here was a real friend of the master — turns out they're not. When your time comes, you go. Live in the moment, accept the change, and sorrow and joy can't get in. The ancients called this being released from heaven's bonds."

The candle burns out, but the flame passes on — and nobody knows where it ends.