The World

The World

Many in the world cultivate methods of governance, each insisting that their own way is perfect and cannot be surpassed.

Where, then, did the ancient art of the Way truly reside? It was nowhere absent. How did the divine descend? How did illumination emerge? The sage has that which gives him birth; the king has that which brings him completion—both originate in the One. Not departing from the source is called the Heavenly Man. Not departing from the essence is called the Spiritual Man. Not departing from the genuine is called the Ultimate Man. Taking Heaven as one's source, virtue as one's root, and the Way as one's gateway, anticipating transformation—this is called the sage. Taking benevolence as one's grace, righteousness as one's principle, ritual as one's conduct, and music as one's harmony, gently humane and compassionate—this is called the noble person. Taking law as one's standard, names as one's measure, cross-examination as one's verification, and investigation as one's judgment—counted as one, two, three, four—the hundred officials use these to rank one another. Taking practical work as the constant norm, taking food and clothing as the chief concern, breeding livestock, storing provisions, ensuring that the old, the weak, the orphaned, and the widowed each have their place—this is the principle of nurturing the people.

How complete the people of ancient times were! They matched the divine illumination, were pure as Heaven and Earth, nourished the ten thousand things, brought harmony to the world, and extended their bounty to the common people. They were clear about the fundamental principles and tied to the secondary regulations. In all directions, in every season, in matters great and small, subtle and coarse, the operation of the Way was nowhere absent.

What was made clear and codified in regulations and measures was preserved in the old laws and transmitted in the hereditary records—much of it still exists. What is found in the Songs, the Documents, the Rites, and the Music was well understood by the scholars of Zou and Lu and the gentlemen in official robes. The Songs give guidance to the will; the Documents give guidance to affairs; the Rites give guidance to conduct; the Music gives guidance to harmony; the Changes give guidance to the yin and yang; the Spring and Autumn gives guidance to social distinctions.

These teachings, scattered throughout the world and established within the central states, were sometimes cited and discussed by the various schools of the hundred thinkers.

The world fell into great disorder. The worthy and the sage were no longer clearly recognized. Virtue and the Way were no longer unified. Many in the world grasped a single partial insight and took pride in it. It was like the ears, eyes, nose, and mouth—each has its own function, but they cannot communicate with one another. So too with the hundred schools and their many techniques—each has its strengths, each has its occasional use. And yet, none was comprehensive or universal; they were all one-sided scholars. They divided the beauty of Heaven and Earth, analyzed the principles of the ten thousand things, and examined the completeness of the ancients, yet few could match the beauty of Heaven and Earth or be worthy of the divine illumination. Therefore, the way of the inner sage and the outer king became obscured and unclear, suppressed and unexpressed. The people of the world each did as they pleased, each taking their own partial method. How sad! The hundred schools go forth and never return—they will never come together! Later scholars, unfortunately, will never see the purity of Heaven and Earth or the great body of the ancients. The art of the Way will be torn apart by the world!

Not to be extravagant for future generations, not to waste the ten thousand things, not to be ostentatious in regulations and measures—using the plumb line to correct oneself and meeting the urgent needs of the age. There was something of this in the ancient art of the Way, and Mo Di and Qin Guli, hearing this tradition, delighted in it. But they carried it too far and followed it too rigidly. They composed a doctrine called "Condemning Music" and decreed "Moderate Use." In life, no singing; in death, no mourning garments. Mozi promoted universal love and mutual benefit, opposed aggression, and his Way eschewed anger. He loved learning and was broadly informed, seeking no distinctions. But he did not follow the former kings and destroyed the ancient rites and music. The Yellow Emperor had the Xianchi music; Yao had the Dazhang; Shun had the Dashao; Yu had the Daxia; Tang had the Dahuo; King Wen had the music of the Biyong; King Wu and the Duke of Zhou composed the Wu. In the ancient rites of mourning, there were proper forms for noble and lowly, distinctions for superior and inferior. The Son of Heaven's coffin had seven layers; feudal lords, five; grand masters, three; gentlemen, two. Now Mozi alone decreed no singing in life and no mourning garments in death, a paulownia-wood coffin of only three inches with no outer shell, establishing this as the standard. To teach others in this way, one fears, is not to love others; to practice it oneself, certainly, is not to love oneself. It does not destroy Mozi's Way. And yet—to sing and condemn singing, to weep and condemn weeping, to rejoice and condemn rejoicing—does this truly accord with human nature? Life under his doctrine is laborious; death under his doctrine is meager. His Way is harsh indeed. It causes people sorrow and grief. His conduct is difficult to practice. One fears it cannot serve as the Way of the sage, for it goes against the heart of the world. The world cannot endure it. Though Mozi alone can sustain it, what can he do about the world? Separated from the world, he is far indeed from true kingship.

Mozi praised the Way, saying: "In ancient times, Yu restrained the great floods and channeled the rivers, connecting the four barbarian regions and the nine provinces. There were three hundred named rivers, three thousand tributary rivers, and countless smaller ones. Yu personally handled the spade and plow, gathering together all the rivers of the world. His calves had no flesh left, his shins had no hair. He bathed in torrential rain and combed his hair in the violent wind. He established the myriad states. Yu was a great sage, and yet he labored his body on behalf of the world to such a degree!" He caused later followers of Mohism to dress in coarse fur and hemp, wear clogs of twisted vines, to toil day and night without rest, taking self-imposed hardship as the ultimate, saying: "If one cannot do this, it is not the Way of Yu, and one does not deserve to be called a Mohist."

The disciples of Xiangli Qin, the followers of Wu Hou, and the Mohists of the south—Ku Huo, Ji Chi, Denglingzi and their kind—all recited the Mohist canons, yet their interpretations diverged and differed, each calling the others "heretical Mohists." They attacked each other with arguments about "hard and white" and "same and different," responded to each other with paradoxical and contradictory rhetoric, and took the Grand Master as a sage, each wishing to serve as his body, hoping to become his successors. To this day, the dispute remains unresolved.

The intentions of Mo Di and Qin Guli were correct, but their practice was wrong. They would cause later Mohists to impose hardship upon themselves, competing with one another in having calves without flesh and shins without hair, advancing only in this way. This is the worst of disorder and the best of order. And yet, Mozi truly was one who loved the world! He would have searched for it and never found it, and even when withered and exhausted, he would not give up. A man of true talent!

Not burdened by convention, not adorned by things, not careless with others, not contrary to the masses, wishing for the peace and tranquility of the world, to preserve the lives of the people, letting the nourishment of both self and others be sufficient and no more—this was how they made their hearts manifest. In the ancient arts of the Way there was that which lay in this, and Song Xing and Yin Wen, hearing of its influence, delighted in it. They fashioned caps shaped like Mount Hua to express their identity, and in engaging with the ten thousand things they took "distinguishing and forgiving" as their starting point. They spoke of the bearing of the heart and called it "the conduct of the heart." They sought harmony to bring joy, to regulate the world, and requested that this be established as the guiding principle. To be insulted was not disgrace; they sought to rescue the people from strife; they forbade aggression and laid down weapons to save the world from war. With these principles they traveled throughout the world, instructing those above and teaching those below. Though the world did not accept their teachings, they persisted with clamorous insistence and would not stop. Hence it is said: "Those above and below grew weary of them, yet they persisted in being seen."

Yet they gave too much to others and too little to themselves. They said: "We ask only that a fixed measure of five sheng of rice be set out—that will be enough." Their teachers feared they would not be filled, and though their disciples went hungry, they did not forget the world. Day and night they did not rest, saying: "How shall we ensure that we survive?" What proud, aloof saviors of the world they were! They said: "The gentleman does not impose harsh scrutiny, nor does he lend himself to things." Regarding that which brings no benefit to the world, they held that even understanding it was better left undone. They took the forbidding of aggression and the laying down of weapons as their outward concern, and the reduction of desires and emotions as their inward concern. Whether in the large or the small, the refined or the coarse, their practice went only this far and no further.

Impartial and not partisan, even-handed and without selfishness, resolute and without a fixed direction, following things without divergence, not entangled in deliberation, not scheming with knowledge, making no selections among things, going along with them wherever they led. In the ancient arts of the Way there was that which lay in this, and Peng Meng, Tian Pian, and Shen Dao, hearing of its influence, delighted in it. They took the equalizing of the ten thousand things as their foremost principle, saying: "Heaven can cover but cannot bear; Earth can bear but cannot cover; the great Way can contain but cannot discriminate." They knew that among the ten thousand things each has that which it can do and that which it cannot do. Hence they said: "Selecting is incomplete; teaching does not reach all; only the Way leaves nothing out." Therefore Shen Dao cast off knowledge and discarded the self, acting only out of unavoidable necessity. He treated things with indifference and took this as his guiding principle, saying: 'To know that one does not know—this comes close to knowledge, and then one damages it by making distinctions.' Awkward and unassuming, they ridiculed the world's exalting of the worthy; unconstrained and without conduct, they condemned the world's great sages. They shaped and rounded themselves, turning and bending along with things, casting aside right and wrong, seeking only to avoid entanglement. They did not rely on knowledge and deliberation, were unaware of what came before or after—that was all. They moved only when pushed forward, advanced only when pulled along, like a returning whirlwind, like a spinning feather, like a revolving millstone. Complete and without fault, in movement and stillness without error, they never incurred guilt. Why was this? In things without knowledge, there is no trouble of establishing the self and no burden of using knowledge; in movement and stillness they never depart from principle, and so throughout life they incurred no praise. Hence it is said: "Simply become as a thing without knowledge, and have no use for the worthy and the sage. Even a clod does not lose the Way." The great and powerful mocked them together, saying: "Shen Dao's Way is not the conduct of the living but the principles of the dead—it is merely strange." Tian Pian was the same. He studied under Peng Meng and received instruction that could not be taught. Peng Meng's teacher said: "The Way of the ancients simply reached the point where there was neither this nor that." Their influence was like a rushing wind—how could it be spoken of? They constantly went against others, did not gather crowds to observe them, yet they could not avoid being shaped and rounded. What they called the Way was not the Way, and what they deemed right could not avoid being wrong. Peng Meng, Tian Pian, and Shen Dao did not understand the Way. Nevertheless, on the whole, they had all heard something of it.

Taking the root as the essence and the things as the coarse, taking accumulation as insufficient, tranquilly and alone they dwelt with the spirit-like. In the ancient arts of the Way there was that which lay in this, and Guan Yin and Lao Dan, hearing of its influence, delighted in it. They established it in the constant presence of non-being and being, and governed it through the Great One. They took gentleness, weakness, humility, and lowliness as their outward expression, and emptiness and not destroying the ten thousand things as their inward reality. Guan Yin said: "In oneself, have no fixed abode, and the forms of things will manifest themselves of their own accord." Their movement was like water, their stillness like a mirror, their response like an echo. Formless as if vanishing, silent as like the clear. Where there is sameness, there is harmony; where there is gaining, there is losing. They never put themselves first but always followed others. Lao Dan said: "Know the male, keep to the female, and be the valley of the world. Know the pure, keep to the disgraced, and be the lowland of the world." Others all sought to be first; he alone took the last place, saying: "I accept the defilement of the world." Others all sought fullness; he alone took emptiness. Having no stores, he therefore had abundance—ample and overflowing. In his conduct of himself, he was slow and unhurried, without expenditure, taking no action and laughing at cleverness. Others all sought fortune; he alone sought to preserve himself whole, saying: "Simply avoid blame." He took depth as his root and restraint as his guiding principle, saying: "What is hard will be destroyed; what is sharp will be blunted." He was ever generous toward things and did not cut away at others—this could be called the ultimate. Guan Yin and Lao Dan—were they not the great and genuine men of antiquity!

Formless and shapeless, changing and without constancy. Death? Life? Together with Heaven and Earth? The spirit-like going forth? Where does it wander in its vastness? Where does it go in its suddenness? The ten thousand things are all gathered in it, yet nothing is sufficient to return to it. In the ancient arts of the Way there was that which lay in this, and Zhuang Zhou, hearing of its influence, delighted in it. With far-reaching tales, wild and boundless words, and expressions without fixed direction, he freely and openly expressed himself, without appearing one-sided. He took the world to be sunk in turbidity and could not speak to it in solemn terms. He used spontaneous words for his wandering extensions, weighty words for what was true, and borrowed words for what was broad. Alone he communed with the spirit of Heaven and Earth, without looking down upon the ten thousand things, without pronouncing on right and wrong, so as to dwell among the common people. Though his writings were extraordinary and splendid, they were rounded and gentle and brought no harm. Though his expressions were irregular, they were wonderfully strange and worth observing. Such was his fullness that it could not be stopped. Above he roamed with the Creator, and below he befriended those who were beyond life and death, without end or beginning. In regard to the root, it was vast and open, deep and expansive. In regard to the source, one might say it was attuned and reached upward. Nevertheless, in his response to transformation and his liberation from things, his principle is inexhaustible, his coming is never exhausted. Vast and dim—not yet fully fathomed!

Hui Shi was versatile in learning, and his writings filled five carts. His doctrines were jumbled and incoherent, and his words missed the mark. In surveying the principles of things, he said: "That which has no limit beyond itself is called the Great One; that which has no interior is called the Small One. That which has no thickness cannot be accumulated, yet it can extend a thousand li. Heaven is as low as the earth; mountains are as level as marshes. The sun is at the same time at its zenith and declining; things are at the same time alive and dead. A great similarity that differs from a small similarity is called a small similarity-and-difference; all things being in every respect similar and in every respect different is called a great similarity-and-difference. The south is both limitless and limited. I set out for Yue today and arrived there yesterday. Linked rings can be separated. I know the center of the world: it is north of Yan and south of Yue. Love the ten thousand things universally; heaven and earth are one body." Hui Shi considered these doctrines profound and displayed them to the world, enlightening the sophists, and the sophists of the world delighted in them.

An egg has feathers. A chicken has three feet. Ying contains all under heaven. A dog can be called a sheep. A horse has eggs. A tadpole has a tail. Fire is not hot. A mountain has a mouth. A wheel does not touch the ground. The eye does not see. A pointer does not reach; reaching is inexhaustible. A turtle is longer than a snake. A square is not square; a compass cannot draw a circle. A mortise does not fit its tenon. The shadow of a flying bird has never moved. An arrow in flight has moments when it neither moves nor stops. A dog is not a canine. A yellow horse and a black ox make three. A white dog is dark. A colt has never had a mother. Take a foot-long stick and remove half of it each day, and it will not be exhausted in ten thousand generations. The sophists used these arguments to respond to Hui Shi, and they continued endlessly throughout their lives.

Huan Tuan and Gongsun Long were among the followers of the sophists. They adorned men's minds and altered men's intentions. They could win arguments with their mouths but could not conquer men's hearts—this was the limitation of the sophists. Hui Shi daily employed his knowledge in disputation with others, and especially with the sophists of the world, contriving strange arguments. This was the substance of his practice. Yet Hui Shi, in his own conversation, considered himself the most worthy of all. He said, "Are not heaven and earth grand? I possess the vigor of a hero, but lack the method!"

In the south there was a peculiar man named Huang Liao, who asked why heaven and earth do not fall or collapse, and what causes wind, rain, thunder, and lightning. Hui Shi did not decline to answer, nor did he deliberate before responding. He gave explanations covering the ten thousand things, talking without ceasing, saying much without end, and still thinking it too little, adding the strange to it. He took opposing others as his substance and desired to make a name by defeating others, and so he was at odds with the multitude. He was weak in virtue and strong in his dealings with things—his path was narrow and dark. Viewed from the standpoint of the Way of heaven and earth, Hui Shi's abilities were no more than the labor of a single mosquito or gadfly. Of what use were they to the world? If he had been content with expounding a single perspective, and had said, "I would do better to honor the Way," he would have come close. But Hui Shi could not find peace in this. He scattered himself among the ten thousand things without satiety, and in the end gained only a name for skill in disputation. What a pity, the talent of Hui Shi! He roamed and rambled without attaining anything, pursuing the ten thousand things without turning back. It was like trying to outrun an echo with the sound of one's voice, or like a form competing in a race with its own shadow. How sad!