The Other Chapters of Chuang Tzu
Les Chapitres divers
de Tchoang-tzeu
(English)
Author: Zhuangzi
(Chuang Tzu) (3rd Century BCE)
French Translator:
Léon Wieger 1913
Translator/Editor: Nik Marcel 2017
English translated from French.
Copyright
© 2018 Nik Marcel
All
rights reserved.
A Bilingual (Dual-Language) Project
2Language Books
The Other Chapters of Chuang Tzu
Chapter 1
The return to nature:
(The text of this particularly obscure chapter
seems to have suffered a great deal — from mutilations and transpositions.)
A. Among the disciples of Lao-tan, a certain
Keng-sang-tch’ou, having finished receiving his education, went towards the
north, settled at the foot of Mount Wei-lei, and, in his turn, taught
disciples.
For the sake of Taoist simplicity, he dismissed
those of his servants who came across as intelligent, and removed those of his
companions who were kind, keeping around him only rustic and uncultivated
people.
After three years, by virtue of his stay and his
examples, Wei-lei was extremely prosperous.
The locals said among themselves, “When this master
Keng-sang settled among us, we found him odd. The fact is, we did not know him
enough. Now that we have had time to get to know him, who among us does not
consider him a sage?
We should honour him through various ceremonies,
like one honours the representative of a dead person, the genie of the soil,
and that of the harvest.”
Keng-sang-tch’ou learnt of these intentions.
Sitting in his school, in his place as master, his posture became rigid. His
disciples asked the reason for this.
“Because,” he said, “according to my master
Lao-tan, if spring revives plants, if autumn ripens fruits, these are natural
effects produced by the great Principle that operates in everything, and not
the merits of the seasons.
Following the example of nature, the super-man must
operate while remaining hidden (shut up in his house), and not allow himself to
be publicly praised by the tumultuous populace.
Now, these little people of Wei-lei are
contemplating awarding me the rank and offerings of the sage; me, a common man.
This puts me in an awkward position, for I do not want to contravene the
teachings of my master Lao-tan.”
“Do not be afraid,” said the disciples; “you have
everything you need, and the burden is slight. In a canal, a whale would not be
able to turn around, but a smaller fish easily moves about. On a mound, a
buffalo would not be safe, but a fox lives very well.
And then, should not the sages be honoured; should
not the skilful be elevated; should not the charitable and the useful be
distinguished? Since Yao and Chounn, this is the rule. Master, let the little
people of Wei-lei go their way. Yield to their desire!”
Keng-sang-tch’ou said, “Come near, my children, so
that I may explain.
To show oneself is always fatal. Even if it were
big enough to swallow up a chariot, if it leaves its lair in the mountains, the
terrestrial beast will not avoid the nets and the traps. Even if it were big
enough to swallow a boat, the beached fish will be devoured by ants.
It is for their preservation that the birds and the
big cats seek the heights, the fish and the turtles the depths. Similarly,
people who want to preserve their body and their life must hide in obscurity.
And as far as the authority of Yao and Chounn —
that you have cited me — is concerned, it is no good. What have those
phrasemongers, those innovators, those minds completely occupied with
vulgarities and trivialities, done for the good of humanity?
They honoured the sages. It is the right way to
fill the people with competitiveness. They elevated the skilful. It is the
right way to turn all citizens into bandits.
Of all their inventions, none improved the people.
On the contrary, they overexcited egoism in the people, passion that creates
parricides, regicides, thieves and looters.
I tell you, all the disorders date from the reign
of these two men. If their policy is continued, a time will come when men will
devour one another.”
B. Nan-joung-tchou — a man already advanced in age,
who had begun at the school of Keng-sang-tch’ou — having adopted the most
respectful posture, asked him, “At my age, what should I do to become a
super-man?”
Keng-sang-tch’ou said to him, “Make sure that your
perfectly healthy body hermetically traps your vital spirit; do not let
thoughts and images hum in your interior; if you do that for three whole years,
you will obtain what you desire.”
Nan-joung-tchou replied, “The eyes all look
identical, but those of the blind do not see. The ears all look identical, but
those of the deaf do not hear. Hearts all look identical, yet fools do not
feel. Of body, I am made like you, but my mind must be made differently than
yours. I do not grasp the meaning of the words you have just told me.”
“That must be due to my inability to express
myself,” said Keng-sang-tch’ou. “A small caterpillar cannot turn into a big
butterfly. A small hen from Ue cannot sit on a goose egg. I obviously do not
have what it takes to enlighten you. Why don’t you go to the south, to consult
Lao-tzu?”
C. Following Keng-sang-tch’ou’s advice,
Nan-joung-tchou equipped himself with the necessary provisions, walked for
seven days and seven nights, and arrived at the place where Lao-tzu lived.
“Is it Keng-sang-tch’ou who sends you?” asked the
latter.
“Yes,” said Nan-joung-tchou.
“Why,” Lao-tzu asked, “have you brought such a
considerable entourage?”
Nan-joung-tchou looked behind him, startled.
“You have not understood my question,” said Lao
Tzu.
Ashamed, Nan-joung-tchou lowered his head; then,
having raised it, he sighed and said, “Because I was not able to understand
your question, will you forbid me from telling you what has brought me here?”
“No,” said Lao-tzu; “tell me!”
So Nan-joung-chu said, “If I remain ignorant, men
will despise me; if I become learned, it will be by using my body. If I remain
bad, I will do harm to others; if I make myself good, I will have to tire
myself out. If I do not practice fairness, I will hurt others; if I practice
it, I will hurt myself.
These three doubts torment me. What will I do? What
will not I do? Keng-sang-tch’ou sent me to ask you for advice.”
Lao-tzu said, “I have indeed read in your eyes, at
first glance, that you have lost your mind. You are like a man who would seek
to recover his drowned parents from the bottom of the sea. I feel sorry for
you.”
Having been granted permission to stay at Lao-tzu’s
house as a boarder, Nan-joung-chou began a moral treatment. He applied himself
first to fixing his qualities and to eliminating his vices.
After ten days of this exercise, which he found
hard, he saw Lao Tzu again.
“Is the work of your purification advancing?” he
asked. “It seems to me that it is not yet perfect.
The disorders of external origin (entered via the
senses) can only be spurned through the imposition of an internal barrier
(meditation).
Disturbances of internal origin (stemming from
reason) can only be spurned through an external barrier (self-restraint).
Even those advanced in the science of the Principle
occasionally experience attacks from these two kinds of emotions, and must
still guard against them; how much more those who, like you, have lived for a
long time without knowing the Principle, and are little advanced.”
“Alas,” said Nan-joung-tchou, discouraged, “when a
peasant has fallen sick, he relates his illness to another, and finds himself,
if not cured, at least relieved.
As for me, every time I consult on the great
Principle, the trouble that torments my heart increases, as if I had taken the
wrong medicine.
It is too strong for me. Please give me the recipe
to make my life last. I will content myself with that.”
“And do you think,” said Lao-tzu, “that that is how
it happens, in such a flippant manner? To make life last supposes a lot of
things. Are you able to maintain your physical integrity, to not compromise it?
Can you always distinguish the favourable from the
fatal? Will you be able to stop yourself and abstain, if absolutely necessary?
Will you be able to become disinterested in others,
to concentrate on yourself? Will you manage to keep your mind free and
contemplative? Will you be able to return to the state of your early childhood?
The newborn wails day and night without getting
hoarse, so robust is its new nature. It does not let go of what it has seized,
so concentrated is its will.
It looks for a long time without blinking, nothing
moving it. It walks without aim and stops without reason, going spontaneously,
without reflection. To be indifferent and to follow nature is the formula to
make your life last.”
“The whole formula?” asked Nan-joung-tchou.
Lao-tzu continued: “That is the beginning of the
career of the super-man, what I call the thaw, the melt, after which the river
begins to take its course.
The super-man lives, like other men, off the fruits
of the earth, off the blessings of heaven. But he does not become attached to
man nor to thing. Profit and loss leave him equally indifferent.
He does not take offence at anything; he does not
delight in anything. He floats, concentrated on himself. That is the formula
for making his life last.”
“The whole formula?” asked Nan-joung-tchou.
Lao-tzu went on: “I said that you had to become a
little child again. By moving, by acting, the child has no purpose, no
intention. Its body is indifferent, like dry wood; its heart is inert, like
extinguished ash. For it, there is neither happiness nor misfortune.
What harm can men do to the one who is above these
two great vicissitudes of fate? The man lodged so high in indifference is the
super-man.”
D. In what follows, it is probably Tchaong-tzu who
is speaking.
The one whose heart has reached this peak of
immutability emits natural light (pure reason, with nothing of convention),
which reveals what might still remain in him (or her) that is artificial.
The more he (or she) gets rid of this artificial,
the more stable he (or she) becomes. Over time, the artificial will disappear
entirely, the natural alone remaining in him (or her).
The folk who have attained to this state are called
celestial beings; that is to say, people who have returned to their natural
state, to the way heaven had originally made them.
That cannot be learned by theory or practice, but
by intuition or exclusion. To stop where one can learn no more (and to stand,
says Glose, in indifference and inaction), is to be perfectly wise.
The one who intends to avoid (to decide, to act, at
random) will be broken by the inevitable course of things — because this person
will inevitably come into conflict with destiny.
When all the provisions have been made and all the
precautions taken for the maintenance of the body, when others have not been
provoked by any insult, then, if some misfortune arrives, one will need to
attribute it to destiny, not to men, and consequently, will need to refrain
from avoiding it by performing some base act, and to even refrain from
tormenting oneself over it.
It is in the power of man to hermetically close the
tower of the mind (the heart); it is in his (or her) power to keep it closed,
provided that he (or she) neither examines nor discusses what arises, but
simply refuses access.
Every act of the one who is not perfectly
indifferent is a disorder. The object of the act, having penetrated into the
heart, lodges itself there and never leaves. For each new act, there is a new
disorder.
Whoever does what is not good, in the light of day,
will be punished by men when the opportunity arises. If such an act has been
done in darkness, the manes will punish the person when the opportunity arises.
Remember that when one is not observed by men, one
is by the manes, which ensures that people behave well, even in the secrecy of
their retreat.
Those who care about their lives do not make a
great effort to become famous. Those who are dying to acquire spread outwardly.
The first are men of reason; the second are men of
commerce. We see the latter ones raise themselves, hoist themselves, trying
hard to attain. These are stores with concerns, worries.
They are so full of them, that there is no place in
their hearts, even for love of their own kind. So they are detested, and
considered as no longer being men.
Of all the instruments of death, desire is the most
deadly; the famous sabre Mouo-ye has not killed so many men.
The worst assassins are, it is said, yin and yang,
from which no one escapes. And yet, in truth, if yin and yang kill men, it is
because the appetites of men deliver them to these assassins.
E. The universal Principle endures in the
multiplicity of beings, in their genesis and their destruction.
All distinct beings are such by accidental and
temporary differentiation (individuation) from the Whole, and their destiny is
to return to this Whole, of which their essence is a participation.
Of this return, the common man says that the living
who, being dead, do not find their way, wander like ghosts; and that those who,
being dead, have found their way, are deceased (extinct).
Survival and extinction are two ways of speaking
about an identical return, and this situation arises because notions pertaining
to the sentient being have been applied to the state of non-sentient being.
The truth is that, emerging via their generation
from nothingness of form (the indeterminate being), returning via their passing
into nothingness of form, beings retain a reality (that of the universal Whole)
but no longer have a place; they retain a duration (that of the eternal Whole)
but no longer have a time.
Reality without place, duration without time, is the
universe, is the cosmic unity, the Whole, the Principle.
It is in the heart of this unity that births and
deaths, appearances and disappearances, silences and imperceptibles, occur.
It has been called the heavenly or natural gate,
the entrance and exit door of existence. This door is non-being of form,
indefinite being. Everything resulted from it.
The sentient being cannot ultimately be derived
from sentient being. It is necessarily derived from non-being of form. This
non-being of form is unity, the Principle. This is the secret of the sages, the
seed of esoteric science.
In their dissertations on the origin, those of the
ancients who attained to a superior degree of knowledge expressed three
opinions.
Some thought that, from all eternity, in existence was
the definite, infinite being, the author of all limited beings.
Others, eliminating the infinite being, thought
that, from all eternity, limited beings existed, passing through alternative
phases of life and death.
Still others thought that at first was nothingness
of form (the indefinite, infinite being), from which all definite beings
emanated, with their genesis and their cessation.
Indefinite being, genesis, cessation, these three
terms behave like the head, the rump, and the tail of an animal. I (Tchoang-tzu)
support this thesis.
For me, the indefinite being, all the becomings,
all the cessations, form a complex, a whole. I put my hand in the hands of
those who think so.
However, if absolutely necessary, the three
opinions above could be reconciled. They are relatives, like branches of the
same tree.
The particular being is to the indefinite being
what soot (palpable deposit) is to smoke (type of the impalpable).
When the soot settles, there has been no new
production, but only a passage from the impalpable to the palpable, the soot
being concrete smoke.
And similarly, if this soot goes back into smoke,
there will still only be one conversion, without essential modification.
I know that the term conversion, which I employ to
express the succession of lives and deaths in the bosom of the Principle, is
not common; but I must say so, else I would not be able to express myself.
The separated limbs of a sacrificed steer are a
victim. Several apartments are a home. Life and death are the same state. From
life to death, there is no transformation; there is conversion.
Philosophers become heated when it comes to
defining the difference between these two states. For me, there is no
difference — the two states are but one.
F. In the event of a collision, the closer the
struck party is to you, the fewer apologies you make.
You apologise to the unfamiliar peasant whose foot
you have stepped on; but the father does not apologise to his son, in the same
instance.
The pinnacle of rites is not to perform them. The
pinnacle of propriety is to mock everything. The pinnacle of intelligence is to
think of nothing. The pinnacle of goodness is to love nothing. The pinnacle of
sincerity is not to pay a deposit.
One must stifle the deviations of the appetites.
One must correct the aberrations of the mind and the heart. One must discard
all that hinders the free impulse of the Principle.
To desire to be noble, rich, distinguished,
respected, renowned, and favoured, are the six appetites. Appearance,
maintenance, beauty, arguments, the breath, and thought, is what causes the
aberrations of the mind. Antipathy, sympathy, complacency, anger, sorrow, and
joy, is what causes the aberrations of the heart. Repulsion, attraction,
giving, receiving, knowledge, and power, is what hinders the free impulse of
the Principle.
If these twenty-four causes of disorder have been
eliminated, a being’s interior will become settled, calm, luminous, empty,
non-acting, and all-powerful.
The Principle is the source of all the active
faculties, life is their manifestation, a particular nature is a modality of
this life, its movements are the acts, the failed acts are the faults.
Scholars converse and speculate; and, when they do
not arrive at clarity, they act like little children and look at an object.
To act only when one cannot do otherwise is orderly
action. To act without being obliged to do so is rash interference. To know and
to act must work in concert.
G. Iye was a very skilful archer (artificial art),
but understood nothing of nature.
Some who understand nothing about any art, are very
wise naturally. Nature is the basis of everything.
Freedom is part of natural perfection. It only
disappears through imprisonment in a cage.
T’ang encaged I-yinn by making him his cook. The
duke Mou of Ts’inn encaged Pai-li-hi by giving him five goat skins.
Men are encaged by giving them what they love. All
favour enslaves.
Freedom of mind demands the absence of interest.
The one who has been subjected to the torment of
amputation of the feet no longer decks himself out; for he can no longer look
his best — he no longer has this interest.
The one who is going to be executed no longer feels
dizzy, no matter what the elevation; for he is no longer afraid of falling, no
longer having any interest in preserving his life.
To be a man who has returned to the state of
nature, it is essential to have relinquished the friendship of men, and all the
little means which serve to earn and maintain it. One must have become
insensitive to veneration and to insult; to always stand in natural balance.
One must be indifferent, before making an effort,
before acting; so that the effort, the action, coming out of non-effort, of
non-action, is natural.
In order to enjoy peace, one must keep one’s body
in order. For the vital spirits to function well, one must put one’s heart at
ease.
In order to always act well, one must come out of
one’s rest only when one cannot do otherwise. This is the way of the sages.
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