by Andrew Lynn
49. Say nothing more to yourself than what the first appearances report. Suppose that it has been reported to you that a certain person speaks ill of you. This has been reported; but that you have been injured, that has not been reported. I see that my child is sick. I do see; but that he is in danger, I do not see. Thus then always abide by the first appearances, and add nothing yourself from within, and then nothing happens to you. Or rather add something like a man who knows everything that happens in the world.
50. A cucumber is bitter – throw it away. There are briars in the road – turn aside from them. This is enough. Do not add: And why were such things made in the world? For you will be ridiculed by a man who is acquainted with nature, as you would be ridiculed by a carpenter and shoemaker if you did find fault because you see in their workshop shavings and cuttings from the things which they make. And yet they have places into which they can throw these shavings and cuttings, and the universal nature has no external space; but the wondrous part of her art is that though she has circumscribed herself, everything within her which appears to decay and to grow old and to be useless she changes into herself, and again makes other new things from these very same, so that she requires neither substance from without nor wants a place into which she may cast that which decays. She is content then with her own space, and her own matter, and her own art.
Book IX
30. Look down from above on the countless herds of men and their countless solemnities, and the infinitely varied voyagings in storms and calms, and the differences among those who are born, who live together, and die. And consider, too, the life lived by others in olden time, and the life of those who will live after thee, and the life now lived among barbarous nations, and how many know not even your name, and how many will soon forget it, and how they who perhaps now are praising you will very soon blame you, and that neither a posthumous name is of any value, nor reputation, nor anything else.
35. Loss is nothing else than change. But the universal nature delights in change, and in obedience to her all things are now done well, and from eternity have been in like form, and will be such to time without end. What, then, do you say – that all things have been and all things always will be bad, and that no power has ever been found in so many gods to rectify these things, but the world has been condemned to be bound in never ceasing evil?
42. When you are offended with any man’s shameless conduct, immediately ask yourself, ‘Is it possible, then, that shameless men should not be in the world?’ It is not possible. Do not, then, require what is impossible. For this man also is one of those shameless men who must of necessity be in the world. Let the same considerations be present to your mind in the case of the knave, and the faithless man, and of every man who does wrong in any way. For at the same time that you do remind yourself that it is impossible that such kind of men should not exist, you will become more kindly disposed towards every one individually. It is useful to perceive this, too, immediately when the occasion arises, what virtue nature has given to man to oppose to every wrongful act. For she has given to man, as an antidote against the stupid man, mildness, and against another kind of man some other power. And in all cases it is possible for you to correct by teaching the man who is gone astray; for every man who errs misses his object and is gone astray. Besides, wherein have you been injured? For you will find that no one among those against whom you are irritated has done anything by which your mind could be made worse; but that which is evil to you and harmful has its foundation only in the mind. And what harm is done or what is there strange, if the man who has not been instructed does the acts of an uninstructed man? Consider whether you should not rather blame yourself because you did not expect such a man to err in such a way. For you had means given you by your reason to suppose that it was likely that he would commit this error, and yet you have forgotten and are amazed that he has erred. But most of all when you blame a man as faithless or ungrateful, turn to yourself. For the fault is manifestly your own, whether you did trust that a man who had such a disposition would keep his promise, or when conferring your kindness you did not confer it absolutely, nor yet in such way as to have received from your very act all the profit. For what more do you want when you have done a man a service? Are you not content that you have done something conformable to your nature, and do you seek to be paid for it? Just as if the eye demanded a recompense for seeing, or the feet for walking. For as these members are formed for a particular purpose, and by working according to their several constitutions obtain what is their own; so also as man is formed by nature to acts of benevolence, when he has done anything benevolent or in any other way conducive to the common interest, he has acted conformably to his constitution, and he gets what is his own.
Book XI
18. If any have offended against you, consider first: what is my relation to men, and that we are made for one another; and in another respect I was made to be set over them, as a ram over the flock or a bull over the herd. But examine the matter from first principles, from this. If all things are not mere atoms, it is nature which orders all things: if this is so, the inferior things exist for the sake of the superior, and these for the sake of one another.
Second, consider what kind of men they are at table, in bed, and so forth; and particularly, under what compulsions in respect of opinions they are; and as to their acts, consider with what pride they do what they do.
Third, that if men do rightly what they do, we ought not to be displeased: but if they do not right, it is plain that they do so involuntarily and in ignorance. For as every soul is unwillingly deprived of the truth, so also is it unwillingly deprived of the power of behaving to each man according to his deserts. Accordingly, men are pained when they are called unjust, ungrateful, and greedy, and in a word wrongdoers to their neighbours.
Fourth, consider that you also do many things wrong, and that you are a man like others; and even if you do abstain from certain faults, still you have the disposition to commit them, though either through cowardice, or concern about reputation, or some such mean motive, you do abstain from such faults.
Fifth, consider that you do not even understand whether men are doing wrong or not, for many things are done with a certain reference to circumstances. And in short, a man must learn a great deal to enable him to pass a correct judgment on another man’s acts.
Sixth, consider when you are much vexed or grieved, that man’s life is only a moment, and after a short time we are all laid out dead.
Seventh, that it is not men’s acts which disturb us, for those acts have their foundation in men’s ruling principles, but it is our own opinions which disturb us. Take away these opinions then, and resolve to dismiss your judgment about an act as if it were something grievous, and your anger is gone. How then shall I take away these opinions? By reflecting that no wrongful act of another brings shame on you: for unless that which is shameful is alone bad, you also must of necessity do many things wrong, and become a robber and everything else.
Eighth, consider how much more pain is brought on us by the anger and vexation caused by such acts than by the acts themselves, at which we are angry and vexed.
Ninth, consider that a good disposition is invincible if it be genuine, and not an affected smile and acting a part. For what will the most violent man do to you, if you continue to be of a kind disposition towards him, and if, as opportunity offers, you gently admonish him and calmly correct his errors at the very time when he is trying to do you harm, saying, ‘Not so, my child: we are constituted by nature for something else; I shall certainly not be injured, but you are injuring yourself, my child.’ And show him with gentle tact and by general principles that this is so, and that even bees do not do as he does, nor any animals which are formed by nature to be gregarious. And you must do this neither with any double meaning nor in the way of reproach, but affectionately and without any rancour in your soul; and not as if you were lecturing him, nor yet that any bystander may admire, but either when he i
s alone, and if others are present.
Remember these nine rules, as if you had received them as a gift from the Muses, and begin at last to be a man while you live. But you must equally avoid nattering men and being vexed at them, for both are unsocial and lead to harm. And let this truth be present to you in the excitement of anger, that to be moved by passion is not manly, but that mildness and gentleness, as they are more agreeable to human nature, so also are they more manly; and he who possesses these qualities possesses strength, nerves, and courage, and not the man who is subject to fits of passion and discontent. For in the same degree in which a man’s mind is nearer to freedom from all passion, in the same degree also is it nearer to strength; and as the sense of pain is a characteristic of weakness, so also is anger. For he who yields to pain and he who yields to anger, both are wounded and both submit.
But if you will, receive also a tenth present from the leader of the Muses, Apollo, and it is this – that to expect bad men not to do wrong is madness, for he who expects this desires an impossibility. But to allow men to behave so to others, and to expect them not to do you any wrong, is irrational and tyrannical.
4
Chuang-tzu, The Writings of Chuang-tzu
Introduction
If a man dreams he is a butterfly and then awakes, what is he? The answer seems simple: he is a man who has dreamt he is a butterfly. Take a step back, though – look at it from the perspective of the dream – and it’s not so clear. In the dream the total consciousness was of being a butterfly; there was no consciousness of being a man. Now, out of the dream, there is total consciousness of being a man, and no consciousness of being a butterfly. The priority of one over the other only appears from the perspective of impressions received at the current moment. How does the man know, then, whether he was a man dreaming he was a butterfly – or is now a butterfly dreaming he is a man?
The Writings of Chuang-tzu – the second masterpiece of Daoist philosophy after the Tao Te Ching – is comprised of many provocative short pieces in the vein of ‘Dreaming of a Butterfly’. This collection of anecdotes, fables, allegories, and parables has been traditionally attributed to Chuang-tzu (also known as Zhuang Zhou and Zhuangzi), a Chinese sage who lived around the fourth century BC in the Warring States period. The details of Chuang-tzu’s life have now faded into obscurity. But that doesn’t matter. The writings that bear his name speak across the millennia as if barely a day had passed between them and us.
What is it, though, of which they speak?
They speak first and foremost of the ‘Dao’ – the cosmic ‘Way’ that flows through and unites all things. The Dao is the nameless organising principle within all existence that defies conceptualization and changes spontaneously according to its own inner nature. It is all-encompassing and as fully present in emptiness as it is in fullness. To live in accordance with the Dao is to bring one’s own limited being into harmony with this immense force.
They speak of human wrongheadedness in the face of the Dao. We cut ourselves off from the spontaneity of existence through over-analysis and need for control. We take for absolute truth what is, in reality, nothing more than a partial, limited, and temporary perspective. We resist change rather than accept that change is a creator every bit as a much as it is a destroyer.
And they speak, ultimately, of a better way of living. For Chuang-tzu that meant ‘wuwei’. Wuwei is ‘actionless action’. It is action beyond activity – action without busy-ness, action without striving, action without friction or reactivity. Wuwei implies a calm appreciation for paths of least resistance and the real likelihood that doing nothing is the best choice. Just as the expert cook never attempts to chop through bones or joints but instead slides his blade through the openings and cavities that are naturally present in the animal, so the man skilled in living finds his course through life.
* * *
Chapter 2
Dreaming of a Butterfly
Once upon a time, I, Chuang Tzŭ, dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. I was conscious only of following my fancies as a butterfly, and was unconscious of my individuality as a man. Suddenly, I awoke, and there I lay, myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming I am a man. Between a man and a butterfly there is necessarily a barrier. The transition is called Metempsychosis.
Chapter 3
Cook Ding Cuts Up an Ox
My life has a limit, but my knowledge is without limit. To drive the limited in search of the limitless is fatal, and the knowledge of those who do this is fatally lost.
In striving for others, avoid fame. In striving for self, avoid disgrace. Pursue a middle course. Thus you will keep a sound body, and a sound mind, fulfil your duties, and work out your allotted span.
Prince Hui’s cook was cutting up a bullock. Every blow of his hand, every heave of his shoulders, every tread of his foot, every thrust of his knee, every whshh of rent flesh, every chhk of the chopper, was in perfect harmony – rhythmical like the dance of the Mulberry Grove, simultaneous like the chords of the Ching Shou.
‘Well done!’ cried the Prince. ‘Yours is skill indeed.’
‘Sire,’ replied the cook, ‘I have always devoted myself to Tao. It is better than skill. When I first began to cut up bullocks, I saw before me simply whole bullocks. After three years’ practice, I saw no more whole animals. And now I work with my mind and not with my eye. When my senses bid me stop, but my mind urges me on, I fall back upon eternal principles. I follow such openings or cavities as there may be, according to the natural constitution of the animal. I do not attempt to cut through joints; still less through large bones.
‘A good cook changes his chopper once a year – because he cuts. An ordinary cook, once a month – because he hacks. But I have had this chopper nineteen years, and although I have cut up many thousand bullocks, its edge is as if fresh from the whetstone. For at the joints there are always interstices, and the edge of a chopper being without thickness, it remains only to insert that which is without thickness into such an interstice. By these means, the interstice will be enlarged, and the blade will find plenty of room. It is thus that I have kept my chopper for nineteen years as though fresh from the whetstone.
‘Nevertheless, when I come upon a hard part where the blade meets with a difficulty, I am all caution. I fix my eye on it. I stay my hand, and gently apply my blade, until with a hwah the part yields like earth crumbling to the ground. Then I take out my chopper, and stand up, and look around, and pause, until with an air of triumph I wipe my chopper and put it carefully away.’
‘Bravo!’ cried the Prince. ‘From the words of this cook I have learnt how to take care of my life.’
Chapter 4
A Useless Tree
A certain artisan was travelling to the Ch’i State. On reaching Ch’ü-yüan, he saw a sacred li tree, large enough to hide an ox behind it, a hundred spans in girth, towering up ten cubits over the hill top, and carrying behind it branches, many tens of the smallest of which were of a size for boats. Crowds stood gazing at it, but our artisan took no notice, and went on his way without even casting a look behind. His apprentice, however, gazed his fill, and when he caught up his master, said, ‘Ever since I have handled an adze in your service, I have never seen such a splendid piece of timber as that. How was it that you, sir, did not care to stop and look at it?’
‘It’s not worth talking about,’ replied his master. ‘It’s good for nothing. Make a boat of it – ‘twould sink. A coffin – ‘twould rot. Furniture – ‘twould soon break down. A door – ‘twould sweat. A pillar – ‘twould be worm-eaten. It is wood of no quality, and of no use. That is why it has attained its present age.’
When the artisan reached home, he dreamt that the tree appeared to him in a dream and spoke as follows: ‘What is it that you compare me with? Is it with the more elegant trees? The cherry-apple, the pear, the orange, the pomelo
, and other fruit-bearers, as soon as their fruit ripens are stripped and treated with indignity. The great boughs are snapped off, the small ones scattered abroad. Thus do these trees by their own value injure their own lives. They cannot fulfil their allotted span of years, but perish prematurely in mid-career from their entanglement with the world around them. Thus it is with all things. For a long period, my aim was to be useless. Many times I was in danger, but at length I succeeded, and so became useful as I am today. But had I then been of use, I should not now be of the great use I am. Moreover, you and I belong both to the same category of things. Have done then with this criticism of others. Is a good-for-nothing fellow whose dangers are not yet passed a fit person to talk of a good-for-nothing tree?’
When our artisan awoke and told his dream, his apprentice said, ‘If the tree aimed at uselessness, how was it that it became a sacred tree?’
‘What you don’t understand,’ replied his master, ‘don’t talk about. That was merely to escape from the attacks of its enemies. Had it not become sacred, how many would have wanted to cut it down! The means of safety adopted were different from ordinary means, and to test these by ordinary canons leaves one far wide of the mark.’