The Principles of the Former Kings and the Principles of Nature

III. The Principles of the Former Kings and the Principles of Nature

In Zhuangzi’s thought, there is also a presupposition of rationality, namely, what is called the “Dao.” But the “Dao” is pervasive within all things; it neither stands above all things nor, even more, stands in opposition to all things. Therefore, the essential meaning of this presupposition of rationality is that the original, natural state of all things is itself rational. It is not that they acquire rationality only after being transformed according to some standard. In terms of the logic of thought, this is even mutually negating in relation to Zhu Xi’s “standard of the ultimate.” Precisely because the “Dao” is pervasive within all things, the existence of the “Dao,” as well as the manner of its existence, can be known through any single thing, and this of course includes one’s own person. Although, because life is short and the environment in which one survives is full of constraints and burdens, one’s own person is humble and greatly limited, as far as knowing the “Dao” is concerned, it is nevertheless the most immediate and also the most possible route. Moreover, first affirming the subject of natural freedom—zi (self)—is in fact also an intrinsic requirement of the logic of Zhuangzi’s thought. Regardless of whether it is “selfish” or not, Zhuangzi’s exploration of the so-called “Dao” is destined to take the individual’s “self” as its starting point, just as Zhu Xi is destined to take the “standard of the ultimate” as his starting point.

Affirming the existence of the individual’s “self,” as well as how it exists, is a problem that many people can resolve intuitively in the present moment. But once one enters a philosophical state of thinking, the problem becomes very complicated. Zhuangzi’s consideration of the individual’s “self” in a philosophical state of thinking can be divided into two levels. The first is the purely self-reflective inquiry in Qiwulun (“Discussion on Making All Things Equal”): that is, after undergoing the spiritual experience of “I lost myself,” one asks, among the four limbs and five sense organs, the hundred bones and nine apertures of one body, “With whom am I intimate?” This reflection on the individual’s “self” is spiritually pure and abstract in physical form, so its final result is uncertain: “It seems there is a True Ruler, but we simply cannot find any trace of it.” The second concerns how the individual’s “self” exists within the relational structure between itself and external things. Because, within the relational structure between things and the self, the authenticity and certainty of the self are clearly revealed through both knowing and acting, what must continue to receive attention is how not to lose one’s “self” in knowing and acting. Observation and reflection at this level begin with Yangsheng Zhu (“The Essentials of Nourishing Life”).

The first topic at the beginning of Yangsheng Zhu is precisely how the self can avoid losing itself when facing the world of knowledge. “My life has a limit, but knowledge has no limit. To pursue the limitless with the limited is perilous. Having already done so, to seek knowledge is nothing but peril.” If this passage is understood purely according to its literal meaning, it may be regarded as a typical case of possessing only the ordinary person’s immediate concerns and lacking the far-reaching strategies of civilization. It conforms neither to the modern scientific spirit nor to the cultivation of the ancient scholar-gentleman. Modern science regards knowledge as a force for conquering the unknown world and a passage from nature toward freedom. The cultivation of the ancient Chinese scholar-gentleman, as The Doctrine of the Mean says, requires one to “study extensively, inquire carefully, think prudently, distinguish clearly, and practice earnestly.” Ancient naturalists could even reach the point of regarding “not knowing a single thing as a profound disgrace.” Zhuangzi, however, is unwilling to spend his limited life pursuing unlimited knowledge. He has more concern for gains and losses and less of the grand, fearless spirit. Thus, his position accords with the immediate concerns of ordinary custom but lacks the far-sighted grand strategy required for the development of civilization.

However, what exactly is the relationship between the final sentence of Yangsheng Zhu—“The finger reaches its limit in making firewood, but the fire is passed on; no one knows when it will end”—and the entire chapter? Historically, no interpretation has been particularly satisfactory. Some force a connection with Lao Dan’s death, extending the meaning to the passing down of Daoist learning from one generation to another like the passing of firewood and flame. This is far-fetched. Others use the firewood and fire as metaphors for the body and spirit: when the firewood is exhausted, the body has perished; when the fire is passed on, the spirit does not die. This interpretation uses the passage to explain the meaning of nourishing the master of life, and the traces of Daoist religious influence are quite obvious.

As things appear now, the correct interpretation of this final sentence should lie in the first sentence at the beginning. The two ends echo each other, and the overall meaning is this: although the individual “I” is helpless, and even rather pessimistic, when facing the world of knowledge, the world of knowledge is jointly constructed by humanity as a whole. Therefore, the limitless world of knowledge should be entrusted to humanity as a whole, which continues without limit, just as fire is passed on when the firewood is exhausted, continuing without interruption. One should not attempt, through the single body of the individual “I,” to exhaust knowledge and thereby make or prove some absolute judgment of principle. Otherwise, there is only one logically consistent outcome: “peril”—either becoming “perilous” once and for all, or repeatedly “seeking knowledge” and repeatedly “coming to nothing but peril.”

Guo Xiang glosses “peril” as “being trapped.” If only the individual person is trapped, the harm is not very great. But if what becomes trapped is the entirety of civilization beginning from principles of rationality, then its harm cannot help but arouse philosophers’ apprehension and lead them to consider the possibility of an alternative civilization.

From this, one can see that the two lines of thought concerning freedom and order are separated by an enormous gulf. Starting from an absolute principle of rationality, Zhu Xi can look down upon Zhuangzi’s selfishness and lowliness, attempting to guide freedom through the construction of order. What Confucian scholars have traditionally called seeking the joy of Confucius and Yan Hui within the system of names and teachings means, in philosophical terms, seeking the foundation of freedom within the rationality of order. Zhuangzi, starting from the limitations of the individual, fears the recklessness and fragmentation involved in establishing absolute principles. He contemplates the possibility of a natural order formed by taking freedom as its starting point. The individual, meanwhile, should “not be a corpse of reputation, not be a storehouse of schemes, not be an appointee for affairs, and not be a master of knowledge” (Zhuangzi, “The Great and Venerable Teacher,” traditionally translated as “The Great Teacher”). The individual places the recognition of an inherent order before the establishment of a rational order. The individual’s spirit may indeed be somewhat desolate, and the state of freedom is like what Laozi describes as “building virtue appears like stealing,” but one can face the world of knowledge without losing oneself.

To face the world of knowledge without losing oneself requires maintaining an awareness and state of mind that recognizes one’s own limitations. To face the real world without losing oneself requires maintaining the same awareness and state of mind. How is this maintained? Certainly, it is not a matter of refusing to come when summoned or refusing to leave when dismissed. Rather, one’s words and actions must accord with three maxims and take inspiration from three parables. One must deeply understand that the real world is more complicated than the world of knowledge, because the world of knowledge is purely shaped by humanity, whereas the real world has, on the one hand, been shaped through the reciprocal influence of knowledge and, on the other hand, possesses its own “inherent principles,” including domains that knowledge has not exhausted. Therefore, one must be cautious, like the two instances of “not approaching.” At the same time, one must remain in a state of continual attunement with the real world as the object of one’s activity, just as Cook Ding does when cutting up an ox. One must not act recklessly because of what one already knows, nor shrink back out of fear because of what one does not know. Even when things are intricately complicated, one can still move through them with ease and skill.

The two sentences “In doing good, do not approach reputation; in doing evil, do not approach punishment” appear to deliberately make strange statements. But within the logic of Zhuangzi’s thought, they are not actually so strange. This is because what are called reputation and punishment, taken together, amount to ritual, music, penal law, and government. In a civilized social system based on ritual, music, penal law, and government, all conduct is either good or evil, right or wrong. What is called “neither good nor evil” exists only in the consciousness before an action occurs. To judge something as right or wrong, good or evil, is itself to reward or punish, encourage or discourage. To judge an action as good or right is to encourage and reward it; conversely, it is to discourage and punish it. For someone like Zhuangzi, who seeks to “not approach reputation” and “not approach punishment,” this is in fact impossible within the system of ritual, music, penal law, and government.

Zhuangzi clearly understood this condition, in which judgments of right and wrong, good and evil, permeate the real world. Therefore, he gives two strange examples. The first concerns Lao Dan’s death: “The old cried for him as though crying for their son; the young cried for him as though crying for their mother.” They cherished and longed for him without end. This was Lao Dan suffering the burden of “approaching reputation,” “escaping Heaven and going against feeling,” causing other people’s emotional longing to depart from the true principles of transformation and creation. As a result, even after he had died, he could not attain the “release of the Emperor,” nor free himself from the limitations created by the mutual entanglement of all things.

In actual fact, however, Lao Dan is a typical example of someone who had no intention of pursuing reputation. First, in the sense of ming as the system of names and punishments, the Laozi says, “A name that can be named is not the constant name.” It does not regard the system of names and punishments as possessing any extraordinary significance that transcends a particular historical environment. Second, in the sense of ming as reputation, Lao Dan is a philosopher who ranks first among the ancient Chinese philosophers traditionally called “Laozi.” Yet his true identity remains uncertain. The biographies in the Records of the Grand Historian record four people who may have been him, and the question of where Lao Dan’s hometown was located remains an unsettled topic even today. This is not the sort of situation one would expect for a historically renowned figure. It is very different from Confucius, with whom he is traditionally paired.

Given that Lao Dan is a typical example of someone who did not seek reputation, why does Zhuangzi deliberately compose a parable presenting him as a negative example of “approaching reputation”? A possible and reasonable explanation is probably this: truly achieving “doing good without approaching reputation” is difficult. Even someone like Lao Dan could not achieve it. Yet within the philosophy of natural freedom, “doing good without approaching reputation” is extremely important. Therefore, Zhuangzi presents such a highly paradoxical example to highlight his own thought.

Why is “doing good without approaching reputation” so important? Because, just like “doing evil without approaching punishment,” from the standpoint of ritual, music, penal law, and government, all actions are either good and beneficial or evil and harmful. But from Zhuangzi’s standpoint, if an action approaches reputation or punishment, its consequences for the individual’s “self” are either an increase or a loss. This destabilizes the foundation of natural freedom, which consists in not losing one’s “self.” Therefore, from either perspective, it is better not to approach either.

In a society governed by the system of ritual and institutions, all conduct either approaches reputation or approaches punishment. Yet Zhuangzi says, on the one hand, that one should “not approach” either, while on the other hand, one should also act freely and carefree. This is a contradiction. The essence of the contradiction is whether freedom is possible in the real world and whether carefree wandering is possible. Zhuangzi believes that such a possibility exists, but one must adopt the method of “taking the central passage as the constant principle,” just as Cook Ding does when cutting up an ox.

As Zhu Xi correctly stated, the basic meaning of du in “taking the central passage as the constant principle” is “middle.” Moreover, this “middle” is indeed not the “standard of the ultimate” emphasized by Zhu Xi. Rather, it means “interval,” referring to gaps. “Following” means to accommodate and follow what is given. Understanding the entire phrase “taking the central passage as the constant principle” in conjunction with the parable of Cook Ding cutting up an ox, its general meaning is that by accommodating the gaps between things, one can move through them with ease and skill. The individual can maintain a flexible adaptability, constantly changing and never fixed, within the intricate complexity of the real world, thereby neither gaining nor losing anything and not losing one’s “self,” neither expanding nor shrinking and not losing one’s freedom. The question that must then be asked from the perspective of this essay is: can such freedom generate a rational order?

Whether rational order arises naturally or is designed and arranged by human beings is a question on which the Confucian and Daoist schools hold different positions. When discussing rational order, Confucianism has the model of the former kings in “royal government,” the theoretical system of the “royal way,” historical precedents in former kings such as Yao, Shun, Yu, and Tang, and continuous arguments concerning whether human nature is good or evil. By contrast, Daoism, which maintains that order arises naturally, has historically caused people to worry about whether its thought would abolish civilization. The principles through which Daoism explains the order that can arise naturally are also far less fully developed than the reasoning expressed by Confucianism through its accounts of the former kings.

Furthermore, logically speaking, when Daoism argues that rational order arises naturally, this first of all means that there is no a priori model. Apart from the vague image of ancient society, it is also impossible to provide a predictive description. Whatever emerges is simply what emerges. Therefore, when compared with the rich and abundant meanings of the Six Classics in Confucianism, Daoism may not be deficient in argument, but it often seems to run out of words. Of course, Daoism also has its own intellectual advantages, one of which is instrumentalism.

The idea that the parable of Cook Ding contains an implicit expression of Zhuangzi’s instrumentalist thought should not be considered particularly novel, because the narrative core of Yangsheng Zhu does indeed lie in that knife, and the knife is indeed a tool. Why is Cook Ding’s knife worthy of such attention? Because this knife can serve as a metaphor for the “instruments of governance.”

The Zhuangzi, in “The Way of Heaven,” says: “To speak hastily of forms and names, rewards and punishments, is to possess knowledge of the instruments of governance, not knowledge of the way of governing.” To regard the system of names and punishments, rewards and penalties, the granting and withholding of things, and other “instruments of governance” as the ultimate form of political administration is like King Hui of Liang marveling at Cook Ding’s skill. Cook Ding, however, expresses Zhuangzi’s thought: “What your servant loves is the Dao; it goes beyond skill.”

From the standpoint of the “Dao,” the knife is Cook Ding’s tool, Cook Ding is King Hui of Liang’s tool, King Hui of Liang is a tool of the system of names and punishments, and the system of names and punishments is a tool of the corresponding social group. This is a normal and rational structure of order.

In Xiaoyaoyou (“Free and Easy Wandering”), when Yao offers the empire to Xu You, he says: “If you, sir, were to take your position, the world would be governed, yet I still occupy it. I see myself as deficient. Please allow me to hand over the world to you.” “Occupying it” refers to the ritual role in which a ritual representative acts on behalf of the principal. To “occupy” the empire means that the Son of Heaven has only a representative role in ritual terms with regard to the empire; he is a symbolic representation of the social community and its institutions.

Yet social reality is abnormal. The system of names and punishments has fallen into the role of a tool for the ruler, and the ruler’s use of tools is always willful and crude. Good cooks are rarely encountered, while poor cooks who eagerly wield the power to reward and punish are everywhere. As a result, the knife is changed every year, or even every month. The more diligently the government acts, the greater the damage suffered by tools such as the system of names and punishments. Society therefore falls into great disorder, like a pile of meat shredded by an incompetent cook.

From this perspective, what society truly needs to worry about is not the question of whether there is order or disorder, but whether the order is rational. All things in Heaven and Earth are born with order. The broadest and most fundamental order is naturally generated through the mutual interaction of all things. Every order created by human beings, however, begins from a particular purpose. The stronger its particularity and purposiveness, the weaker the compatibility of its system of names and punishments with society as a whole. The more this is the case, the more the system of names and punishments must be used violently as a tool. While damaging society, the system of names and punishments also destroys itself. Society as a whole consequently enters a vicious cycle of constructing order and destroying order.

To escape this tragic cycle of civilization, the first requirement is not to cling to an a priori design of order, but to tolerate everyone’s confidence in what is natural to them and their acting in accordance with that nature, thereby forming a world that belongs to all under Heaven. Second, one must accept further instruction from Cook Ding. Although responding to circumstances and dealing with things requires the use of tools, one must follow a principle—“rely on the natural patterns”—and adopt a mode of action—“follow what is inherently so.”

Although one may rely on the “principles of Heaven,” this does not mean that these principles are entirely within one’s grasp. Rather, it means recognizing that the things one encounters contain “principles of Heaven”—that is, their inherent nature—and thereby setting aside one’s own preferences and presuppositions.

In terms of the metaphor of Cook Ding cutting up an ox, the ox possesses its own natural structure. By “following what is inherently so,” one adapts to its contours and bends with its shape, and the order of action and change emerges naturally. This non-model-based generation of order is clearly in strong contrast with the Confucian requirement for order expressed by Confucius in the saying, “If it is not properly cut, I will not eat it.”

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Title: 《〈庄子〉哲学引思》 (Reflections on the Philosophy of Zhuangzi)

Author: Lu Guolong / 卢国龙