Zhuangzi’s “On the Equality of Things”: Words Are Meaningless; Forget the Ego, See All Things as Equal, and Follow Nature

Words are meaningless, debate is meaningless: they merely waste energy and reveal one’s level of cultivation.

1. Act; do not talk. Practice and actual deeds have meaning. The world and people’s hearts will not change because of words, so why speak? World history is materialist, and so are people’s hearts.
2. Words serve cooperation, not contention. Cooperation on the same wavelength: a symphony orchestra. Assistance on the same wavelength: a coach working with an athlete. A coach is useful only to athletes who are highly capable, eager to improve, and on the same wavelength.
3. Contention. Egos fight over attachments; these are clashes between people’s psychological defenses and have nothing to do with reason.
4. There is no need to explain: people who do not understand you understand you even less than you imagine. People who understand you understand you even better than you imagine. Words are so cheap and yet so exhausting—why would the wise bother?
5. The urge to be a teacher: many people are always wanting to act as mentors, saviors, shepherds of the people, spiritual guides, persuaders, and so on.
6. Propaganda and edification are an elitist pseudo-concept. Even Marxist writings have followed convention in emphasizing the role of propaganda. This is a misunderstanding. Revolutionary masses must exist first for those words to find an audience. Without revolutionary masses, even Lenin speaking with dazzling eloquence in Austria would achieve nothing. Without the death of the Blue Heaven, what use is shouting, “The Yellow Heaven shall rise”? The selected works of Marx, Engels, and Lenin are now available all over the internet, so why do so few people believe in them? Classic works of psychology are everywhere, so why are people’s hearts still suffering? If even the writings of Marx, Engels, and Lenin cannot move people’s hearts, what hope is there for anyone else?
   The second chapter of the Zhuangzi, “On the Equality of Things,” concerns the limitations and biases of human understanding: people must transcend the ego, follow the Great Way, and recognize the unity of Heaven, humanity, and all things.
   (Most of the following text is excerpted from Chen Guying’s *Zhuangzi: Modern Annotations and Translation*.)
   The first section discusses “I have lost myself”: letting go of attachments and preconceptions. The three kinds of piping represent understanding at different levels of perspective. The second and third sections discuss the contention of the hundred schools: in reality, they are like blind men feeling an elephant, each clinging to something, their egos embroiled in disputes driven by personal feelings. They propose “using illumination”: things and understanding are both evolving, so one must not cling to them but illuminate them in the light of Heaven. They discuss dialectics. The fourth section concerns how all things are united through the Way. Feeling an elephant as a blind man does not reveal the whole universe. The fifth section states, “Heaven and earth are born together with me, and all things are one with me.” The sixth section presents three fables. Finally, Zhuang Zhou’s dream of a butterfly vividly illustrates the loss of the ego.
   The piping of earth: the Great Clod breathes out, and its breath is called wind. So long as it does not arise, nothing happens; when it arises, the myriad hollows roar. In Marxist terms, at this stage of capitalism, people of different classes have different circumstances, understandings, and positions, just as different hollows make different sounds in a strong wind. The piping of Heaven is the voice of the Way: the greatest sound is scarcely heard.
   Great understanding is broad and unhurried; small understanding pries into distinctions. Great speech blazes fiercely; small speech chatters endlessly.
   Great understanding is expansive; small understanding is meticulous. Great speech is overbearing; small speech argues without end. When they sleep, their spirits are entangled; when they wake, their bodies are restless. Their encounters with the outside world leave them hopelessly embroiled, scheming against one another all day. Some speak slowly, some speak with deeply calculating intent, and some choose their words cautiously and tightly. Minor fears leave them dejected; great fears leave them utterly distraught. When they speak, it is as though they are shooting sharp arrows, intent on watching for others’ errors so they can attack. When they do not speak, it is as though they have sworn an oath, silently waiting for an opportunity to win. They decline like the withering landscape of autumn and winter: this means they are wasting away day by day. They are so immersed in what they do that nothing can restore their vitality. Their minds are closed off as though bound by ropes: this means they grow worse as they age. Once their minds are on the road toward death, there is no way to restore their lively vitality. Now they are delighted, now angry, now sorrowful, now joyful, now worried, now sighing, now changeable, now fearful, now agitated, now unrestrained, now wild, now affected. It is as though music emerges from a hollow instrument, or mushrooms form from the vapors of the earth. These various states alternate in their hearts day and night without cease, yet they do not know how they arise.
   To toil all one’s life without seeing any accomplishment, to be worn down by labor without knowing where it leads—is this not sorrowful!
   Without them—the various states of feeling—there would be no me; without me, they would have no way to appear. Once people receive a bodily form, they should preserve their true nature and live out their natural span. Yet when they encounter external things, they rub against one another, rushing about in pursuit without being able to stop. Is this not deeply sad? To toil all one’s life without necessarily accomplishing anything, exhausted and distressed without knowing what it is all for—is this not deeply sorrowful? Even if such a life has not ended in death, what meaning does it have? The body gradually withers and ages, while the spirit, trapped within it, wastes away along with it. Is this not an immense sorrow? Is human life inherently so benighted?
   People have preconceptions. The Way is obscured by small accomplishments; words are obscured by ornate rhetoric.
   Everyone uses their own preconceptions as the standard for judgment, and everyone considers themselves right. How does the Way become obscured, giving rise to distinctions between true and false? The Way is obscured by small accomplishments, and words are obscured by florid language. This is why Confucians and Mohists debate right and wrong: each affirms what the other rejects and rejects what the other affirms. It would be better to observe things as they naturally are with a clear and open mind. Nothing is better than using illumination.
   Dialectics: nothing is not “that”; nothing is not “this.” “That” emerges from “this,” and “this” also depends on “that.” “That” and “this” arise together: they coexist dialectically. Moreover, they are constantly evolving, coming into being and passing away at the same time. Thus the sage observes things as they naturally are and allows nature to take its course. The sage does not follow a particular route but illuminates things in the light of Heaven. Where “this” and “that” cease to oppose each other lies the pivot of the Way. Only by aligning with this pivot can one enter the center of the ring and respond to endless transformation. Thus it is said: nothing is better than using illumination.
   People become entangled in names and appearances, right and wrong, cause and effect, success and failure, benefit and harm. Only those with penetrating understanding know that all things are united; they therefore set aside their own judgments and let things find their place in ordinary use. [The disputants] exhaust their minds seeking “agreement,” unaware that things are already the same. They are like monkeys fretting over three nuts in the morning and four in the evening. Thus the sage harmonizes right and wrong and rests in the natural balance of Heaven. This is called letting both courses proceed.
   People’s egos become entangled in right and wrong, likes and dislikes, debate and conquest. When right and wrong become conspicuous, the Way is diminished. As the Way is diminished, partiality takes shape. Precisely because people favor something, they distinguish it from something else; because they favor it, they wish to make it clear. They try to illuminate what cannot be illuminated in this way, and so they end in the obscurity of “hardness and whiteness.” (They spend their entire lives entangled in debates about “hardness and whiteness.”) Thus the displays that bewilder the world are precisely what the sage rejects. The sage therefore does not use [knowledge, opinions, and arguments] to show off before others, but rests in the inherent capacities of each thing. This is called “using illumination.”
   Heaven and earth are born together with me, and all things are one with me. If they are already one, can there still be words? Once I have called them one, can there be no words? The one and the words make two; the two and the one make three. From this point onward, even a skilled calculator could not keep count, much less an ordinary person! Thus, going from nothing to something already brings us to three; how much further must going from something to something take us! Go no further; simply follow what is so! (Human nonsense, fallacies, and empty talk can extend endlessly. Just stop for a moment.)
   The Way has never had boundaries, and words have never had fixed meanings. It is because people insist on “this is right” that divisions arise. Let me describe these divisions: there is left and right, classification and judgment, division and discrimination, rivalry and contention. These are called the eight attributes. Beyond the six directions, the sage acknowledges what exists but does not discuss it; within the six directions, the sage discusses but does not pass judgment. Concerning the intentions of the former kings in governing the world, as recorded in the *Spring and Autumn Annals*, the sage passes judgment but does not argue.
   The sage silently comprehends the principles of all things, while ordinary people argue noisily and compete to show off. Thus it is said: wherever there is argument, there is something left unseen. The Great Way is not proclaimed; great eloquence does not speak; great benevolence does not display benevolence; great integrity does not flaunt its purity; great courage does not inflict harm. When the Way is made glaringly explicit, it ceases to be the Way; when words become argumentative, they fail to reach their mark; when benevolence is made a constant practice, it fails to achieve fulfillment; when integrity insists on purity, it loses credibility; when courage turns to aggression, it fails to achieve fulfillment.
   Therefore, knowing to stop at what one does not know is the highest attainment. Who understands the argument without words, the Way that cannot be spoken? Anyone who understands this may be called the treasury of Heaven. Pour into it and it never fills; draw from it and it never runs dry, yet no one knows whence it comes. This is called preserving the light.—When a person can stop at the boundary of what they do not know, they have reached the highest point. Who can understand an argument that uses no language, the Great Way that requires no proclamation? Anyone who can understand this deserves to be called a natural treasury. No matter how much is poured into it, it never overflows; no matter how much is poured out, it never runs dry. No one knows where its source lies. This is called the hidden light.
   “How do I know that what I call ‘knowing’ is not ‘not knowing’? How do I know that what I call ‘not knowing’ is not ‘knowing’? Let me ask you: when people sleep in damp places, they develop lower back pain or paralysis on one side of the body. Do loaches do the same? When people climb tall trees, they become frightened and uneasy. Do apes do the same? Of these three kinds of creatures, whose way of living is the proper standard? People eat meat, deer eat grass, centipedes enjoy small snakes, and owls and crows enjoy mice. Of these four kinds of creatures, whose taste is the proper standard? Gibbons mate with female apes, elk mate with deer, and loaches mate with fish. Mao Qiang and Xi Shi are considered the most beautiful women in the world; yet fish dive into the depths when they see them, birds fly high into the sky, and deer run swiftly away. Among these four kinds of creatures, whose sense of beauty should count as the highest standard? As I see it, doctrines of benevolence and righteousness and paths of right and wrong are tangled in confusion. How could I possibly distinguish among them?”
   Nie Que said, “You pay no heed to benefit and harm. Does the perfected person also pay no heed to benefit and harm?” Wang Ni said, “Ah! The perfected person is wondrous indeed! Burning mountain forests cannot make him feel hot; frozen rivers cannot make him feel cold; thunder shaking the mountains cannot injure him; fierce winds whipping up the sea cannot frighten him. Such a perfected person rides the clouds, mounts the sun and moon, and wanders beyond the four seas. Even the changes of life and death have no effect on him, much less notions of benefit and harm!”—Riding the clouds, mounting the sun and moon, he wanders beyond the four seas. Life and death bring no change to him, much less the distinctions of benefit and harm.
   The sage does not busy himself with affairs, seek benefit, avoid harm, delight in pursuit, or cling to a prescribed path. He speaks without asserting anything and asserts something without speaking, wandering beyond the dust and grime of the world. The sage shines alongside the sun and moon, embraces the universe, and joins with all things as one. He sets aside the tangled confusion of right and wrong and treats worldly distinctions of high and low, noble and humble, as equal. Ordinary people bustle about; the sage rests peacefully in simplicity, blending the countless transformations of past and present into a single pure whole. All things are alike, mutually contained within this pure simplicity. “How do I know that clinging to life is not a delusion? How do I know that fearing death is not like having wandered away from home as a child and not knowing how to return? Lady Li was the daughter of a border guard in Ai. When the state of Jin first took her away to be married, she wept until her clothes were soaked. But once she reached the ruler of Jin’s palace, shared his bed, and ate delicious fish and meat with him, she regretted having cried. How do I know that the dead do not regret having once clung to life? “Someone who dreams of drinking and making merry may wake to some misfortune and weep; someone who dreams of weeping bitterly may wake to the pleasures of a hunt. While people are dreaming, they do not know that they are dreaming. Sometimes they even dream within a dream, and only after waking do they realize that it was a dream. Only those who are truly awake know that a human lifetime is like one great dream. Yet fools believe they are awake and think they know everything. Rulers! Ministers! How shallow indeed! As I see it, Confucius and you are both dreaming; when I say that you are dreaming, I too am dreaming. These words are called strange talk. Perhaps after ten thousand generations we may meet a great sage who understands this principle, and it will be as ordinary as meeting between morning and evening.
   Suppose you and I debate. If you defeat me and I fail to defeat you, are you necessarily right? Am I necessarily wrong? If I defeat you and you fail to defeat me, am I necessarily right?
   The changing voices arise in opposition to one another. To keep them from opposing one another, we must harmonize them through nature’s own distinctions. My words follow the transformations of all things, allowing me to wander freely throughout my life. What does it mean to harmonize all right and wrong through “nature’s own distinctions”? Wherever there is “right,” there is “not right”; wherever there is “so,” there is “not so.” If “right” were truly “right,” it would differ from “not right,” and there would be no need to argue. If “so” were truly “so,” it would differ from “not so,” and here too there would be no need to argue. Be at ease with life, death, and the passing years; be at ease with right and wrong, benevolence and righteousness. Roam the boundless realm, and thus you may make your dwelling within the boundless.”
   The faint penumbra outside a shadow asked the shadow, “A moment ago you were moving, and now you have stopped; a moment ago you were sitting, and now you are standing. Why do you have so little independent will?” The shadow replied, “Am I this way because I depend on something? Is what I depend on also this way because it depends on something else? Is what I depend on like the scales on a snake’s belly or the wings a cicada relies on? How could I know why it is so? How could I know why it is not so?”
   Once, Zhuang Zhou dreamed he was a butterfly, a butterfly fluttering about. How happy and at ease he was! He did not know he was Zhou. Suddenly he awoke, and there he was, unmistakably Zhou (stiff, lying rigid). He did not know whether Zhou had dreamed he was a butterfly or a butterfly was dreaming it was Zhou. There must surely be a distinction between Zhou and the butterfly. This is called the transformation of things.