Ssu Ma Chien continues his account by noting that Chuang Tzu was noted for his erudition, which was eclectic but rooted in the sayings of Lao Tzu, of which more later. He says that, because of this, Chuang Tzu’s writings were largely imaginative or allegorical – a fact which is most definitely borne out by even a cursory glance at his book. It is also noted that his surviving writings in the first century BC were over 100,000 words in length.
Ssu Ma Chien then discusses three specific chapters of the book, chapters 31, 29 and 10, in that order, and claims they were written explicitly to refute the arguments of the Confucians and to ‘glorify the mysteries of Lao Tzu’. It is then noted that some of the characters in his writings are figments of his imagination but that such was his erudition and skill in public debate that not even the greatest scholars of his time could defend themselves against his pitiless attacks on both the Confucians and the followers of Mo Tzu. Ssu Ma Chien goes on to state that Chuang Tzu’s writings and teachings were like a tidal wave which swamped everything and could not be stemmed, and his work so free-flowing that no ruler has ever been able to encapsulate it or harness it to specific statecraft – unlike the Lao Tzu, which has often been subtitled ‘A Manual of Leadership’.
To illustrate this and to highlight Chuang Tzu’s own sense of personal freedom from the niceties of power or the temptations of title – a theme which he often explores – Ssu Ma Chien relates a story which is actually recorded in the book itself:
Someone offered Chuang Tzu a court post. Chuang Tzu answered the messenger, ‘Sir, have you ever seen a sacrificial ox? It is decked in fine garments and fed on fresh grass and beans. However, when it is led into the Great Temple, even though it most earnestly might wish to be a simple calf again, it’s now impossible.’ (Chapter 32, this translation)
In the version told by Ssu Ma Chien, Chuang Tzu goes on:
Go away! Don’t mess with me! I would rather enjoy myself in the mud than be a slave to the ruler of some kingdom. I shall never accept such an office, and so I shall remain free to do as I will.
This exchange captures to perfection the spirit of Chuang Tzu which emerges from his writings. For unlike the Tao Te Ching, which tells no stories, contains no anecdote or personal details about anyone, the Chuang Tzu is full of stories, personalities, characters and incidents. It is a bag of tricks, knaves, sages, jokers, unbelievably named people and uptight Confucians! And through it strides the occasionally glimpsed figure of Chuang Tzu himself, leaving a trail of humour, bruised egos and damaged reputations.
There are two particular insights which the book affords us of the personality and personal history of Chuang Tzu himself, which bring him vividly to life in a way unusual for philosophers. The first is his great friendship and rivalry with the philosopher Hui Tzu. The two represented different strands of philosophy but were close enough to enjoy the delights of sparring. In particular, Hui Tzu took exception to one of Chuang Tzu’s key points, that meaning depends entirely upon the context and that there is no such thing as a ‘fact’ which stands apart from the context of the speaker. The most famous example of this comes at the end of chapter 17:
Chuang Tzu and Hui Tzu were walking beside the weir on the River Hao, when Chuang Tzu said, ‘Do you see how the fish are coming to the surface and swimming around as they please? That’s what fish really enjoy.’
‘You’re not a fish,’ replied Hui Tzu, ‘so how can you say you know what fish enjoy?’
Chuang Tzu said: ‘You are not me, so how can you know I don’t know what fish enjoy?’
Hui Tzu said: ‘I am not you, so I definitely don’t know what it is you know. However, you are most definitely not a fish and that proves that you don’t know what fish really enjoy.’
Chuang Tzu said: ‘Ah, but let’s return to the original question you raised, if you don’t mind. You asked me how I could know what it is that fish really enjoy. Therefore, you already knew I knew it when you asked the question. And I know it by being here on the edge of the River Hao.’
The intensity of this friendship of rivalry is poignantly captured in a story told in chapter 24:
Chuang Tzu was following a funeral when he passed by the grave of Hui Tzu. He looked round at those following him and said, ‘The man of Ying had on the end of his nose a piece of mud as small as a fly’s wing. He sent for the craftsman Shih to cut it off. Shih swirled his axe around and swept it down, creating such a wind as it rushed past that it removed all trace of the mud from the man of Ying, who stood firm, not at all worried. The ruler Yuan of Sung heard of this and called craftsman Shih to visit him.
‘ “Would you be so kind as to do this for me?” he said.
‘Craftsman Shih replied, “Your servant was indeed once able to work like that, but the type of material I worked upon is long since dead.”
‘Since the Master has died, I have not had any suitable material to work upon. I have no one I can talk with any longer.’
This sad story brings me to the second detail which we can glean about Chuang Tzu from the
