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The Zhuangzi opens with the story of a giant fish (ironically named "Roe") who transforms into a giant bird named something like Phoenix and/or Friend (the book has a lot of puns that can't easily be translated—at least, not by me—and then proceeds through some rapid considerations about variations in perspective. To a tiny creature, a small puddle is the same as a vast ocean. Is the vastness of the sky the same to Friend Phoenix as it is to us? Is the endless blue of the heavens the same as the endless blue below? For a short-lived species, a single day is like a whole year, and so on. I don't have much to say about the shifting perspectives right now, but it felt weird to skip talking about them entirely. The idea of unmooring yourself out from your own perspective is pretty crucial to the work.
Therefore a man who has wisdom enough to fill one office effectively, good conduct enough to impress one community, virtue enough to please one ruler, or talent enough to be called into service in one state, has the same kind of self-pride as these little creatures. Song Rongzi would certainly burst out laughing at such a man. The whole world could praise Song Rongzi and it wouldn’t make him exert himself; the whole world could condemn him and it wouldn’t make him mope. He drew a clear line between the internal and the external and recognized the boundaries of true glory and disgrace. But that was all. As far as the world went, he didn’t fret and worry, but there was still ground he left unturned.
Song Rongzi is unmoved by social assessment. Praise is no positive incentive, condemnation is no force to dissuade him. Song Rongzi is only motivated internally. As the last line of the passage above suggests, Song Rongzi is not the utmost exemplar we will see, but we've already established some of the most central themes that are going to get delivered in the work: a focus on nature, shifting and appreciating perspective (especially broader perspectives), and a rejection of that which is artificial or conventional, such as utility to a particular community, or social praise/blame. We are then told of Liezi, who it is suggested is capable of flying (for 15 days at a time, more like the Phoenix than like the little quail), and the passage concludes that "say, the Utmost Person has no definite identity, the Spiritlike Person has no particular merit, the Sage has no one name." (I am mixing quotations between the Watson translation and the Ziporyn translation, in these posts.)
Ziporyn uses "name" where Watson translates "fame" both of them driving home the point from the bit about Song Rongzi's indifference to praise/blame/social status, but Ziporyn is sensitive to the relevance of some upcoming wordplay when we get Emperor Yao offering the empire to Xu You.
We see Xu You, sagely decline the offer to be the emperor, because it is not needed. Why would he take on that role, other than for the esteem and status attached to it? We have a reversal here, where the small birds and animals, who, before, were being lambasted to some extent, are now being extolled. They take only the resources they need, and do not horde more out of pride or desire for social status (I leave to one side the issues of whether this is accurate animal psychology).
The final line contains, I think, an important element of the Zhuangist ethos, and also one that speaks to me personally. From context, I am just going to fill in that at the relevant type of funeral, someone played the role of impersonating the deceased, a sort of living icon/effigy. And if that is the job you have at the funeral, it doesn't matter if the cook is messing up, you can't go jump up and run to the kitchen and start cooking. That's just going to make things worse, because then you'll knock over the wine and candles and such, and there won't be an impersonator of the deceased, and there still will be a disorderly kitchen.
Sometimes I tell people that what I like about the Zhuangzi is that I feel like it is yelling at me in the specific way I need to be yelled at. And this part is a great example. I have the urge to be helpful sometimes in ways that no one asked me to be, and in ways that are not my job to be. And then both I, and the person who did not request my help, get frustrated. Often, it doesn't matter whether I am right about what they should do. In those situations, I am like the impersonator of the deceased at a funeral, running into the kitchen, knocking things over, making things more chaotic, instead of less.
When I first read this passage, and much of the text of the Zhuangzi, I was frustrated, because I felt like it was telling me not to try to make things better. Note that, even though the passage opens suggesting that the world is run well, the lesson switches to Xu You suggesting that one should not try to change how things are governed, even if they are governed poorly. I still think this is a worry, but I think reflecting on the funeral analogy can help to ground an understanding of why the Zhuangzi doesn't put forward an account of how to combat the system's ills. (This will also come into focus in a different way when it gets more into themes about the system itself being the ills). So, for now, it is a therapeutic for corpse-imitators who are too tempted to jump up and try to help out in the kitchen.
I'll stop here for now, even though this isn't the whole of the first chapter.
I'm going to tag all the posts in this series with both "zhuangzi" and "learning to be useless" so if you want to find them later, those are the tags to click.
The first part that really grips me when I read the Zhuangzi comes after the story of the giant fish/friend-phoenix, though, it is not disconnected from it. A little bird watching the phoenix judges it:
The little quail laughs at him, saying, “Where does he think he’s going? I give a great leap and fly up, but I never get more than ten or twelve yards before I come down fluttering among the weeds and brambles. And that’s the best kind of flying, anyway! Where does he think he’s going?” Such is the difference between big and little.
And this transitions into the story of people who are useful in one particular way:Therefore a man who has wisdom enough to fill one office effectively, good conduct enough to impress one community, virtue enough to please one ruler, or talent enough to be called into service in one state, has the same kind of self-pride as these little creatures. Song Rongzi would certainly burst out laughing at such a man. The whole world could praise Song Rongzi and it wouldn’t make him exert himself; the whole world could condemn him and it wouldn’t make him mope. He drew a clear line between the internal and the external and recognized the boundaries of true glory and disgrace. But that was all. As far as the world went, he didn’t fret and worry, but there was still ground he left unturned.
Song Rongzi is unmoved by social assessment. Praise is no positive incentive, condemnation is no force to dissuade him. Song Rongzi is only motivated internally. As the last line of the passage above suggests, Song Rongzi is not the utmost exemplar we will see, but we've already established some of the most central themes that are going to get delivered in the work: a focus on nature, shifting and appreciating perspective (especially broader perspectives), and a rejection of that which is artificial or conventional, such as utility to a particular community, or social praise/blame. We are then told of Liezi, who it is suggested is capable of flying (for 15 days at a time, more like the Phoenix than like the little quail), and the passage concludes that "say, the Utmost Person has no definite identity, the Spiritlike Person has no particular merit, the Sage has no one name." (I am mixing quotations between the Watson translation and the Ziporyn translation, in these posts.)
Ziporyn uses "name" where Watson translates "fame" both of them driving home the point from the bit about Song Rongzi's indifference to praise/blame/social status, but Ziporyn is sensitive to the relevance of some upcoming wordplay when we get Emperor Yao offering the empire to Xu You.
Yao wanted to cede the empire to Xu You. “When the sun and moon have already come out,” he said, “it’s a waste of light to go on burning the torches, isn’t it? When the seasonal rains are falling, it’s a waste of water to go on irrigating the fields. If you took the throne, the world would be well ordered. I go on occupying it, but all I can see are my failings. I beg to turn over the world to you.”
Xu You said, “You govern the world and the world is already well governed. Now if I take your place, will I be doing it for a name? But name is only the guest of reality— will I be doing it so I can play the part of a guest? When the tailorbird builds her nest in the deep wood, she uses no more than one branch. When the mole drinks at the river, he takes no more than a bellyful. Go home and forget the matter, my lord. I have no use for the rulership of the world! Though the cook may not run his kitchen properly, the priest and the impersonator of the dead at the sacrifice do not leap over the wine casks and sacrificial stands and go take his place.”
We see Xu You, sagely decline the offer to be the emperor, because it is not needed. Why would he take on that role, other than for the esteem and status attached to it? We have a reversal here, where the small birds and animals, who, before, were being lambasted to some extent, are now being extolled. They take only the resources they need, and do not horde more out of pride or desire for social status (I leave to one side the issues of whether this is accurate animal psychology).
The final line contains, I think, an important element of the Zhuangist ethos, and also one that speaks to me personally. From context, I am just going to fill in that at the relevant type of funeral, someone played the role of impersonating the deceased, a sort of living icon/effigy. And if that is the job you have at the funeral, it doesn't matter if the cook is messing up, you can't go jump up and run to the kitchen and start cooking. That's just going to make things worse, because then you'll knock over the wine and candles and such, and there won't be an impersonator of the deceased, and there still will be a disorderly kitchen.
Sometimes I tell people that what I like about the Zhuangzi is that I feel like it is yelling at me in the specific way I need to be yelled at. And this part is a great example. I have the urge to be helpful sometimes in ways that no one asked me to be, and in ways that are not my job to be. And then both I, and the person who did not request my help, get frustrated. Often, it doesn't matter whether I am right about what they should do. In those situations, I am like the impersonator of the deceased at a funeral, running into the kitchen, knocking things over, making things more chaotic, instead of less.
When I first read this passage, and much of the text of the Zhuangzi, I was frustrated, because I felt like it was telling me not to try to make things better. Note that, even though the passage opens suggesting that the world is run well, the lesson switches to Xu You suggesting that one should not try to change how things are governed, even if they are governed poorly. I still think this is a worry, but I think reflecting on the funeral analogy can help to ground an understanding of why the Zhuangzi doesn't put forward an account of how to combat the system's ills. (This will also come into focus in a different way when it gets more into themes about the system itself being the ills). So, for now, it is a therapeutic for corpse-imitators who are too tempted to jump up and try to help out in the kitchen.
I'll stop here for now, even though this isn't the whole of the first chapter.
I'm going to tag all the posts in this series with both "zhuangzi" and "learning to be useless" so if you want to find them later, those are the tags to click.
