The Book of Chuang Tzu (Penguin)

of human thought – a man whose time, maybe, has yet to come. Certainly the remarkable thing about him, to someone writing in the final days of the second millennium after Christ, is how modern he sounds, and yet how in his modern-ness he actually undermines that modern-ness’s notion of its own modernity!

So I would claim that, while one can to some extent unravel the context of Chuang Tzu’s arguments and the nature of his opponents, while one can see some antecedents of his thought in the shamanistic culture which these bureaucratic opponents were busy destroying, while one can see elements of what he was saying reflected in Lao Tzu, ultimately in Chuang Tzu we meet an original man. A thinker who broke through all the conventions of his time and entered new fields of thought. That he could do so with such humour, through such wonderful stories and with such amazing characters, puts him on a level with the most truly original and enjoyable thinkers the world has ever seen.

CHAPTER 1

Wandering Where You Will

In the darkness of the north there is a fish, whose name is Vast. This fish is enormous, I don’t know how many thousand miles long. It also changes into a bird, whose name is Roc, and the roc’s back is I don’t know how many thousand miles across. When it rises in the air, its wings are like the clouds of Heaven. When the seas move, this bird too travels to the south darkness, the darkness known as the Pool of Heaven.

The Book of Wonders records a variety of marvels. It tells how ‘when the roc flies to the southern darkness, the waters are stirred up for three thousand miles, and he rises up in a whirlwind, soaring ninety thousand miles, not ceasing for six months’. It is like the swirling of the dust in the heat, blowing around below the deep blue of Heaven. Is this its true colour? Or is it because it is so far away that it appears like this? To one flying above looking down, the pattern is indeed the same.

If the waters are not great enough, they will not have the ability to carry a large boat. Spill a cupful of water into a small hollow and even a scrap will look like a boat. However, if you try and float the cup upon it, it will just sit there, for the water is not sufficient to carry such a boat. And if there is not enough wind, it will not have enough strength to bear up the great wings. The roc needs ninety thousand miles and the strength of the wind below him, so that he can rest upon the wind. Thus, with the light of Heaven on his back and with nothing to restrain him, the great bird can follow his course to the south.

A cicada taught a young dove, saying with a laugh, ‘I try to fly, with considerable effort, into an elm or sandalwood tree, but I find that, before I can reach it, I am pulled back down to earth. So what chance does this creature have of rising to ninety thousand miles and heading south?’

Someone who goes into the countryside with his lunch, and returns in time for the evening meal will be as full as when he left. Someone travelling a hundred miles needs to take enough food to see him through. And someone who travels a thousand miles needs to carry food for three months. What do these two understand?

The understanding of the small cannot be compared to the understanding of the great. A few years cannot be compared to many years. How do we know this? The morning mushroom does not know of the waxing and waning of the moon. The cicada does not know of spring and autumn, for theirs are but short lives. To the south of Chu there is a vast creature for whom five hundred years is but a spring, and five hundred years is but an autumn. In ancient antiquity there was a giant tree called Chun, for whom spring was eight thousand years and for whom autumn was eight thousand years. Yet Peng Tsu⁴ is the only man renowned for his great age, something envied by many people, which is rather pathetic!

When the Emperor Tang debated with Chi, a similar issue arose, for he said:

‘In the barren north there is a dark sea called Heaven’s Pool. Here there is a fish, several thousand miles wide and goodness knows how long. This creature is called Vast. There is also a bird, whose name is Roc, and whose back is like Mount Tai⁵ and whose wings cover the heavens. He rises up on a whirlwind, ninety thousand miles high, soaring through the clouds and breaking through the clear blue sky, then turns to plot his course south, travelling to the southern darkness. A quail laughs at him, saying, “Where are you travelling to? I leap up high but come down again after just a few feet, falling to earth amongst the bushes. And frankly that is the best you can expect from flying! So where is that creature going?” This is what distinguishes the small from the great.’

Someone who can fulfil the duties of one office, or behaves well enough to please one district, or has enough virtue to please one leader and is used to rule one country, views himself in the same way as these creatures. However, Sung Jung Tzu⁶ would laugh at such a person. The whole world might praise him but he would not do more as a result. The whole world might condemn him, but he would not be affected. He knew the difference between the inner and the outer and the boundaries between honour and disgrace, but he went no further. He did not care about the world’s opinion, but there were boundaries he did not manage to overcome. The great Lieh Tzu⁷