43 replies on “Episode 7 of “This Is the Way”: The Butcher”

1. Once again, a fascinating passage and a great discussion.

   On the issue of ‘technique’ vs. ‘beyond technique’, I think this might be solved by making use of Maslow’s ‘four stages of competence’ (see Four stages of competence – Wikipedia)
   According to this model one develops competence from ‘unconscious incompetence’, through ‘conscious incompetence’ and ‘conscious competence’ to ‘unconscious competence’.
   Personally, I think that in Daoism we then move to a fifth stage of (again) ‘unconscious incompetence’, but at a higher level. Or as they say in Zen, a return to the ‘beginners mind’.

   While not claiming to have reached this stage, I see this in taijiquan. Real masters (in the application of ‘push hands’, a partner practice) are no longer ‘competent’, they do not what you technically would expect a good practitioner to do. Instead they are completely ‘open’ and spontaneous. There is no ‘mind’ active between an action of the opponent and their response. But there is still a ‘presence’ (which is my preferred translation for 神 in these contexts) that allows them to handle difficult situations (just like the butcher).

   I once was in a workshop with a very accomplished Japanese calligrapher who, when showing us book with plates of ensō 円相 (hand-brushed circles), pointed at one made by a beginner and said, ‘Like these I can’t make them anymore’, attesting to the difficulty of letting go of accumulated competence.

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2. I’ve collected quite a few articles with analyses of the skill stories, and it strikes me as odd that for this one there are no references to the (more or less) contemporaneous defining by Plato of ‘carving nature at its joints’ as the task of metaphysics (in the Phaedrus, 265E; of course he didn’t use the term metaphysics). For the Chinese at the time ‘naming’ was their way to ‘carve nature’.
   There is of course no single ‘true’ reading of this passage; it lends itself to various interpretations – otherwise it hadn’t become famous. My own preferred reading is political: the ox stands for ‘the body politic’ and Lord Wenhui learns how to rule the state. He learns to ‘name’ things (to ‘carve’/stratify his state) according to the ‘nature’ of the people (not just the peasants but also the nobility and the class of shi 士) and the properties of his land (fertility, resources, neighboring states). The first (following the people) echoes the thinking of Shen Dao and Hanfeizi (使雞司夜，令狸執鼠，皆用其能，上乃無事。book 8).

   The fact that the butcher uses a knife could imply that ruling may be a harsh business, but harsh measures (including harsh punishments) should be executed ‘impersonally’, not out of anger or only for the benefit of the lord himself. This brings to mind Laozi 74: 夫代大匠斲者，希有不傷其手矣。

   There is also a link to the last line of Laozi 28: ‘Therefore, the Great Tailor does not cut.’ 故大制不割。I translate 制 as ‘tailor’ (a craftsman just like the butcher). In Laozian terms you could say that the butcher – despite all his virtuosity – still operates in the ‘phenomenal’ world of Laozi 1 ( 有名萬物之母 and 常有欲以觀其徼), while the Great Tailor rests in the ‘noumenal’ realm of 無名天地之始 and 常無欲以觀其妙. The butcher cuts up the ox, Laozi would let the ox live out his natural span of life. In political terms, this would imply some form of anarchy. There is no state with a top-down hierarchy, but: 百姓皆謂我自然。

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3. Personally, I think that in Daoism we then move to a fifth stage of (again) ‘unconscious incompetence’, but at a higher level. Or as they say in Zen, a return to the ‘beginners mind’…I once was in a workshop with a very accomplished Japanese calligrapher who, when showing us book with plates of ensō 円相 (hand-brushed circles), pointed at one made by a beginner and said, ‘Like these I can’t make them anymore’, attesting to the difficulty of letting go of accumulated competence.

   That’s very well put, Carlo! I think you’ve described quite elegantly a certain view about “progressing beyond technique” that you find in a lot of Daoist writings and commentaries on the Zhuangzi. So to rephrase my question in terms of your illuminating framework, I wonder whether the butcher’s claim to have “progressed beyond technique” is best spelled out in terms of unconscious competence (your stage four) or in terms of unconscious incompetence (your proposed fifth stage). Maybe I lack imagination, but it’s very hard for me to think of the exemplars of skill as “incompetent” in a sense that isn’t just figurative or poetic or something. For most intents and purposes, they seem to me extremely competent. Insofar as they describe themselves as moving beyond technique in one way or another, I find it most natural to read them as saying that they no longer consciously, directly, or maybe self-consciously seek to implement any particular method or procedure, which I guess is stage four.

   One big advantage of your reading, though, is that it gives us a way of squaring the butcher passage with more “primitivist” Daoist accounts of ideal agency or activity, like we find in the DDJ and the so-called “primitivist” chapters of the Zhuangzi. It suggests that skilful activity really is a matter of “unlearning” or “forgetting” thus relying (fundamentally? entirely?) on dispositions and capacities that pre-exist the training and acquisition of competencies. I read Guo Xiang as aiming for an account of skilful activity that does exactly that, so I think you and he are on the same page. It’s a super interesting reading and I don’t want to say it’s mistaken or wrongheaded or inherently problematic. On the contrary, it’s really helpful to think it through and has a lot of potential, both as interpretation of “progresses beyond technique” and as a view about skill and mastery in their own right.

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   • Thanks for your comments, Justin,
     It’s true that ‘beyond technique’ in many cases presupposes a lot of accumulated and fully internalized competence and skill. And maybe that’s what’s happening in some or even all skill stories. But there is also a lot of ‘unlearning’ going on, in terms of both skills and ideas or cognition (the wood carver in Zhuangzi 19 sums some of the latter up quite nicely).

     Pablo Picasso has said: “It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child.” He needed skill to paint like Raphael but had to unlearn that (become ‘incompetent’ again) to be able to paint like a child (which is not to say that children paint Picasso’s).

     But it’s not just unlearning physical skills, but also perception and cognition that must be cleansed from (cultural) preconceptions even down to the level of what a constitutes a ‘thing’. Ome loses the acquired competence of 是非-ing. It’s visible in the practice of taijiquan and qigong. There is the well-known practice of ‘standing like a tree’ 站樁. Now, look at a small child standing still, in the fullness of its body, completely present in the moment (cf Laozi 55). This is what the child naturally does and where you want to go back to as a qigong practitioner, because you lost this original ability upon entering education where one ‘learns’ to sit still in a very different manner.
     In taijiquan one learns to always move the whole body (every part in sync; a practical application of Laozi’s抱一) instead of separate limbs, but this again is at the same time an unlearning, because we all have learned to separate mind and body, and to disjoint our body parts. In the partner practice of taijiquan you need to let go of the dichotomy between self and other and ‘merge’ with your partner/opponent. This involves a lot of unlearning (letting go of ego, agency, and control). Unlearning regards even evolutionary reflexes, esp. the fight, flight and freeze reflexes; you always move in unison with the partner (no opposition, no panic reactions; and also: no anger, no fear, no desire to win – cf. the archer in Zhuangzi 19 contending for gold). In a sense this is going back to an original ‘state of nature’ where gold is not inherently worth more than a tile. But that’s not what we have learned growing up.

     Something similar is going on in the case of social competences. To be competent in ruling, the ruler needs to unlearn a lot. She must see (and act on) the unity ‘behind’ the diversity (instead of polarizing as most politicians have learned to do) and have a deep understanding of and feeling for the interdependence of ‘things’ (in the broadest sense) and let go of a lot of cultural baggage. In this sense she returns to the state of Laozi’s 嬰兒. She is ‘incompetent’ because lets go of what the MBA has taught her. She loses the competences for contending, symbolic policy-making, and only focusing on quick-fixes. This is no easy thing. As Zheng Banqiao 鄭板橋 wrote: 難得糊塗.

     Should we then never learn anything and all ‘act out’ as children? No, but we should always maintain a life-line to that state of being. For most of us, this requires explicit cognitive work (like deliberately reminding oneself to 無為, which initially of course just comes down to 偽) but after a while it can become natural so one can say, with Kongzi 從心所欲，不踰矩. It’s tempting to say that this has become a ‘second nature’, but for Laozi it’s just a return to the first, original nature.
     One could view Kongzi’s autobiography (Episode 5) as an arc, where learning and competence development build up until age 40; after that, the arc bends down towards unlearning and incompetence, just following nature.

4. Hi, Carlo. Finally responding to your rich, second comment published July 27…

   I’ve also been intrigued by the parallels between the butcher’s carving of the ox and Plato’s “carving nature at its joints” (and also, updated uses of the same metaphor by 20th-century philosophers). I’ve been reluctant to speculate about Plato’s understanding of the phrase on air, but perhaps I shouldn’t be so timid.

   Your political reading of the butcher passage is very interesting and thought-provoking! Since the early Daoist authors and readers often saw important passages as having political meanings or direct implications for politics, it’s well worth speculating about possible readings along these lines. “Body politic” suggests itself to 21st-century readers quite naturally, although I’m not so sure that ancient readers would have made the same inference between the carcass of an ox and the subjects of a ruler as a collective entity. Still, I think it’s plausible that in the ancient discourse of the era, “caring for life” or “nurturing life” (yangsheng 養生) could have been read in some cases as referring to methods of governance or approaches to governance. It would be nice to look at early uses of the phrase in the surviving texts. Franklin Perkins has an essay in one of Karyn Lai’s anthologies that looks at yangsheng and similar phrases in other early texts and draws some (unavoidably) speculative conclusions.

   While I’m at it, I just want to register my admiration of the metaphorical connections you have found between butchery and tailoring (and we might add, carving wood vs. leaving wood un-carved). The connection to DDJ 28 hadn’t occurred to me. I have felt some resonance between various passages in the Zhuangzi and the lines in DDJ 1 that you mention (常無欲，以觀其妙；常有欲，以觀其徼， etc.). I tend to read those lines in DDJ 1 as yet another kind of philosophical double vision. Anyway, super interesting.

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   • Thanks for one more appreciative response, Justin.
     Of course we can’t know what authors and readers of the passage at the time thought of its applicability to politics. Yes, it is a bloody scene, but also a virtuoso performance and perhaps the fact that the ox is being slaughtered for a ritual might give the butchering itself some ritual (and therefore ‘clean’) quality.
     From Mengzi 1A7 we know that not all rulers could witness the butchering of an ox, so he concludes 是以君子遠庖廚也. But Daoists are not that fragile, after all 聖人不仁以百姓為芻狗 (Laozi 5). Laozi’s sage in the end even doesn’t shy away from using the blade to execute a transgressor (Laozi 74), but this execution is the prerogative of the 大匠 (in this verse operating differently from the 大制 in 28). I interpret this as that a death sentence ought to be proclaimed and executed sine ira et studio, denying the ruler the right to act whimsically and brutally. If in this way done properly, an execution could be seen as a social ritual. I’m reminded of René Girard’s analysis of the scapegoat and Moeller’s comparing the death penalty in this verse to an amoral bodily immune response (2006, p. 170). Laozi here also seems to come close to Shang Yang’s dictum: 以殺去殺，雖殺可也 (18.1).

     That being said, the political message of the butcher story to me serves more as an analogy for the ordering and social stratification of the state. Let the social divisions be ‘natural’, suited to the nature of the various people. Hanfeizi formulates this aptly in book 8: 夫物者有所宜，材者有所施，各處其宜，故上下無為。使雞司夜，令狸執鼠，皆用其能，上乃無事。But in any case, don’t cut and hack haphazardly through the social tissue of the state/populace – because when the blade breaks, the ruler is at his wits end: 民不畏威則大威至 (Laozi 72).

5. Maybe the ancient thinkers didn’t relate the state to the carcass of an ox, but body-political thinking was not uncommon.

   In the Liji 禮記, Ziyi 緇衣 (a chapter also found in Guodian, so more or less contemporaneous with Zhuangzi) we find this passage: 民以君為心，君以民為體；心莊則體舒，心肅則容敬。心好之，身必安之；君好之，民必欲之。心以體全，亦以體傷；君以民存，亦以民亡。The last sentence shows that for the ruler yangsheng (nourishing his own life) is completely dependent upon how he rules (nourishing the people). You see this reflected in Laozi 26: 奈何萬乘之主而以身輕天下?
   A similar description gives Yan Zun 嚴遵 in his commentary on Laozi 54: 人主者，天下之腹心也；天下者，人主之身形也。故天下者，與人主俱利俱病，俱邪俱正。
   The 心是谓中 text from the Tsinghua collection presents a description of the relationship between the heart and body (starting with: 處身之中以君之，目、耳、口、肢四者為相，心是謂中) and concludes: 為君者其監於此，以君民人。 The 五行 text has a comparable passage, although it lacks an explicit link to ruling the people.
   Or take the (much later) 通國身 chapter from the Chunqiu Fanlu 春秋繁露, book 22, starting with: 氣之清者為精，人之清者為賢 and a few lines later making the parallel between ordering the body and ordering the state: 治身者, 務執虛靜以致精; 治國者, 務盡卑謙以致賢.

   The image of the people as the body of the ruler brings to mind the famous frontispiece of Hobbes’ Leviathan, where the body of the ruler is composed of the bodies of his people (see Leviathan by Thomas Hobbes – Leviathan (Hobbes book) – Wikipedia ).

   Interesting references are these dissertations: He Jianjun (2007), The body in the politics and society of Early China, University of Oregon and The Politics of xu: body politics in China by Peng Yu (University of Milwaukee).

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   • @ Carlo

     The link between governing and carving the ox is made by Hanshan Deqing (憨山德清; 1546-1623) in his commentary to the “Inner Chapters”: 此《养生主》一篇立义，只一庖丁解牛之事，则尽养生主之妙，以此乃一大譬喻耳。若一一合之，乃见其妙。庖丁喻圣人，牛喻世间之事，大而天下国家，小而日用常行，皆目前之事也。解牛之技，乃治天下国家，用世之术智也。刀喻本性，即生之主，率性而行，如以刀解牛也。言圣人学道，妙悟性真，推其绪余，以治天下国家，如庖丁先学道，而后用于解牛之技也。(“This chapter “The Lord of Nourishing Life” establishes its meaning through the single story of Butcher Ding carving an ox, which fully captures the essence of nourishing life. This is actually a grand metaphor. When we examine each part in detail, we can see its profundity. Butcher Ding represents the sage, the ox symbolizes worldly affairs – from governing the world and nation to daily routines, all of which are matters at hand. The skill of butchering an ox is analogous to the art and wisdom of governing the world and nation, and engaging with society. The knife represents one’s innate nature, which is the master of life. Following one’s nature is like using a knife to butcher an ox. It speaks of how a sage learns the Way, gains profound insight into the true nature, and extends this understanding to govern the world and nation. This is similar to how Butcher Ding first learned the Way, and then applied it to the skill of butchering an ox.”)

     Hanshan’s commentary is influential in Chinese-language Zhuangzi studies.

   • (NB: If my supplied translation were less impatient, 養生主 would read “nourishing the lord of life” and 生主 as “lord of life” throughout (following what I said below), but my only purpose at the time was to bring out the link between governing and ox-carving. (性真 as “true nature” is also an impatient howler, and there are a few other things that I regret.) But the general idea is there, and no more needs to be said.)

6. Hi J. Williams,
   Thanks for this reference, confirming my hunch that the story of cook Ding has (also) political implications. I’ll keep his commentary in mind when studying Zhuangzi.

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   • @ Carlo

     To be clear, it would appear that Hanshan is pretty unique in understanding the passage this way among traditional readers (granting Fang Yong’s 莊子纂要 is reasonably representative), whereas the link between 養生 and ox-carving is ubiquitous. And to be clear, the influence of Hanshan’s commentary in Chinese-language Zhuangzi studies has more to do with (purported) advances in understanding various expressions, e.g, 六月息 from Chapter 1, than his reading of this particular passage.

     In any event, it would appear that it was more common to see political philosophy at play throughout the work than Nylan’s blurb on Lynn’s recent volume suggests: “For far too long the Zhuangzi has been read through a Buddhist lens, and Guo Xiang treated as an aberrant commentator who distorts the Zhuangzi by reading it in political ways. As both parts of this picture are flat wrong, Lynn’s translation, which reads the Zhuangzi through its first systematic commentary, restores the Zhuangzi to all its inherent political genius and original power.”

7. Hi J. Williams,
   Thanks for the clarification. I did already realize that a commentary from around 1600 CE might not be representative for the readership in the 3d century BCE, but then, classical texts are classical just because they allow for new readings in later times.
   The text itself states it’s about 養生 so no doubt about that but doesn’t, for the ruler, 養生 coincide with 生民 or 養國?

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   • Hanshan interprets 生主 from Chapter 3 as a compound, meaning something like “lord of life” and links it with 怒者, 真宰, and 真君 from Chapter 2. For convenience, these concepts can collectively be understood as the “true controller” shaping phenomena. So 養生 is actually yang sheng-zhu 養生主 (and not yang-sheng zhu) on this reading. More than a few of the traditional commentaries make these moves (see Fang Yong’s 莊子纂要). In these cases, the 生 is not the political subjects or the state, but something of a different order (given it is 生主 and linked with 怒者, 真宰, and 真君).

     In my own research, I’ve tracked four traditional perspectives concerning the question of the identity of this “true controller”:

     (1) there is the perspective of Guo Xiang (郭象; 252-312) and the like where the questions about the identity of the “true controller” are rhetorical. Everything is said to transform of its own accord with nothing lying behind it;

     (2) that of Hanshan Deqing (憨山德清; 1546-1623) and the like where there is a “true controller” (variously identified as one’s 真性, 道, etc.);

     (3) that suggested by Wang Fuzhi (王夫之; 1619-1692) where the question of whether or not there is a “true controller” is an artifact of how humans think about reality, it is another “this” (perspective) versus “that” (perspective) and the very question dissolves when one 休于天均;

     (4) that suggested by Wu Yingbin (吳應賓; 1565–1634) and Fang Yizhi (方以智; 1611–1671) where the Zhuangzi is raising questions (e.g., “what controls phenomena?”) to provoke one to think about them for oneself, not to supply specific answers.

     The commentators I’ve studied don’t go beyond these four possibilities, though it remains possible that they all got it wrong.

8. Carlo:

   Should we then never learn anything and all ‘act out’ as children? No, but we should always maintain a life-line to that state of being. For most of us, this requires explicit cognitive work (like deliberately reminding oneself to 無為, which initially of course just comes down to 偽) but after a while it can become natural so one can say, with Kongzi 從心所欲，不踰矩. It’s tempting to say that this has become a ‘second nature’, but for Laozi it’s just a return to the first, original nature.

   That’s very insightful and helpful! And wow, you offer such compelling examples of the sort of mastery (or acquired incompetence) that you have in mind! I surely do agree that — in some non-trivial sense — Cook Ding seems to be maintaining “a lifeline to” a child-like state or disposition. Once we unpack that idea of maintaining this lifeline to the child-like state or disposition, it may turn out to be different from what Maslow and others had in mind for stage four, or it may not. But I’m surely tempted by your reading, both because it is itself beautiful and it also because it nicely wraps up much of the Zhuangzi and the DDJ into one coherent package. I will come back to this in the years ahead.

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9. Carlo and John:

   Loved this followup on analogies between the “body” of the ox and the body politic. I don’t think it’s a wild or implausible analogy to attribute to the original text! Certainly in the later textual tradition there are analogies between 治身 and 治國 everywhere — even in popular literature like the Journey to the West. I tend to think that some combination of natural analogical resonance and the influence of Daoist internal alchemy can account for the prevalence of the inference between governing/ordering the bodily self and governing the state.

   Fascinating stuff on Hanshan Deqing’s commentary, both his comments on the Cook Ding passage and his glosses on the very phrases 養生 and 養生主. I read some of the Hanshan commentary long ago in grad school, in a short-term reading group with Shari Epstein and some others including PJ Ivanhoe and Pauline Lee (Shari wrote her dissertation on Hanshan’s Zhuangzi commentary). Hanshan is a quirky commentator but nevertheless a very interesting thinker in his own right.

   I defer to John on all things having to do with the trajectories of interpretations set forth by the traditional commentators. Really interesting to see a classification of the reactions to Guo Xiang on the apparent references to a “true controller” or “true master” that haunt parts of the Zhuangzi and its commentaries (真宰, 真君, etc.). Among a certain subset of Zhuangzi readers (the ones who care about traditional commentaries), it seems to be relatively well known that Guo Xiang tried to downplay the notion of a true controller, interpreting it merely as a heuristic device. For what it’s worth, my favorite Confucian philosopher Dai Zhen 戴震 (1724-1777) saw in the Zhuangzi‘s use of the phrase 真宰 an important precursor to Song Confucian notions of 理 and 天理 as controllers or sources of mastery more generally ([天]理 as 主宰). This was part of his larger effort to show that Song Confucianism was really a hybrid tradition that drew heavily on Daoist and Buddhist ideas about knowledge and agency.

   Anyway, really loved the feedback from both of you. Many thanks for elaborating. As you have said in various ways previously, the meaning of the original text is under-determined, such that it leaves plenty of room for us (the later interpreters) to play about in. I’m sure we all agree that some readings are more plausible than others, but even among the most plausible readings, many will be mutually inconsistent. And I welcome that.

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   • @ Justin

     I agree that some interpretations are more plausible than others. On the other hand, I also increasingly enjoy it when the commentators go off the rails.

     Zhuangzi, Chapter 18: 程(glossed as 豹)生馬，馬生人。 (“Leopards give birth to horses and horses give birth to humans.”)

     Lin Yunming (林雲銘; 1628-1697) comments: 馬生人，按《搜神記》，秦孝公時有馬生人。蓋物類之變，難以致詰也。《楞嚴經》云：「人死爲羊，羊死爲人。」佛家亦不肯向人説謊。 (“As for “horses giving birth to humans”, according to “In Search of Spirits”, during the time of Duke Xiao of Qin, there was an incident where a horse gave birth to a human. It wouyld appear that such transformations between species are difficult to investigate thoroughly. The “Surangama Sutra” says: “When a human dies it becomes a goat, and when a goat dies it becomes a human.” Buddhists are not inclined to lie to people.”)

   • John:

     Ha! Yes, the off-the-rail comments are entertaining too. That particular passage is pretty evocative of Buddhist chains of dependent arising, so I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised that Lin invokes Buddhist authority to explain it.

     Always interesting to hear more about the commentarial tradition from you.

   • Justin wrote: “I’m sure we all agree that some readings are more plausible than others, but even among the most plausible readings, many will be mutually inconsistent. And I welcome that.”

     As a preliminary matter, how does one distinguish the “plausible” mutually inconsistent readings from the “implausible” ones? And then as the main issue, can we assume the “plausible” mutually inconsistent readings will be illuminating? What if they instead are only perpetuating confusion? And if a further consistent reading of the text yet exists, if we accept that viewpoint are we apt to overlook it? This also is to say, what if the author is inviting us to resolve any inconsistencies that may appear to us?

     Related to this issue, in the law we cannot appear to be inconsistent, so we pretend our inconsistencies do not exist. But then we get the sense all we are doing is perpetuating the underlying personal and societal conflict. And that at some point, as could be happening in many of our societies now, this condition will be no longer so tenable. If Daoism may be offering an alternative, why would we not explore it?

   • J. Pratt: those are quite interesting interpretive issues! I feel like I’m missing the deeper point that you want to make, but at first pass I can say that there just isn’t enough evidence to settle some of the relevant exegetical disputes. Sometimes, there isn’t even enough evidence to determine whether two particular passages were meant to be consistent with one another (maybe very different authors with different worldviews wrote them, or maybe one author was just being sincere in one case but playful or experimental in the other, or experimental in both cases). With that in mind, and also noting how very different interpretations of the Zhuangzi have been compelling and fruitful historically, I’m not so troubled by the fact that there are other plausible interpretations that happen to be inconsistent with my preferred interpretation.

     I imagine that there are all kinds of good reasons to insist on greater consistency in interpreting the law — maybe we want to impose publicity conditions just so that ordinary citizens can reasonably be held accountable or responsible for following the law, or at least insist on a relatively stable and predictable system of judicial interpretation for larger political and pragmatic reasons (because it’s necessary for stable institutions or social coordination or the like). I’m sure that you and others have thought much more carefully about the special considerations that bear on interpretation of the law! I just mention these considerations to explain why I’m less troubled by interpretations of the Zhuangzi that are inconsistent with my own (less trouble than I would be by interpretations of, say, the Civil Rights Act that are inconsistent with mine).

   • Thank you, Justin, for your response. This point about the either inconsistency or consistency of the Zhuangzi is pivotal, not just because it goes to the heart of the Zhuangzi and by extension Daoism but because, as the Daoists under the latter possibility would have understood, inconsistency perpetuates personal and societal conflict. We see this issue all of the time in the law, regardless of whether we are talking about constitutional protections or either civil or criminal offenses. In a way, it is why we have so much law.

     As you indicate above, it is an assumption that in the Zhuangzi some passages may be inconsistent either internally or amongst themselves. It is to assume the authors of the passages either consciously or unconsciously were not following a coherent worldview. It also is an assumption that such “inconsistencies” then were or just now are “fruitful” as opposed to “confusing.” In a highly practical field like law, for example, such inconsistencies would be a bad thing.

     The Zhuangzi itself, however, does not endorse contradiction for its own sake and at least at one point indicates “the either/or heart-mind” (惑) is an obstacle to deeper realization (Ch. 14 黄帝-北門成). It consistently faults “contrariety” (悖). Even just stylistically, moreover, the text’s passages indicate the authors were refined thinkers. Could we thus be mistaking their “playfulness” for “carelessness”? And would we ever say the Confucians or Legalists were being “experimental”?

     At the same time, is there any indication any of the other early schools criticize the Daoists for being inconsistent or contradictory, again whether individually or severally? As even just the Zhuangzi’s counter-critique of “small people” (小人) indicates, the other schools seem to have simply thought the Daoists were too idealistic. And at the same time, doesn’t the Zhuangzi itself critique the inconsistencies in each of the other schools’ worldviews? So if anything, may the Daoists have been the “consistent” program?

     It would not necessarily be that this consistency involved a complicated or convoluted logic. Why couldn’t the logic be simple if profound? What if like reality itself it is “subtle” (妙)? If the Daoists are talking about alternate conditions, could context explain some of the apparent inconsistencies? If we disregard such possibilities, are we apt to overlook how the text may be consistent? What if the supposed inconsistencies are really just alternate perspectives on the same phenomenon?

     And it also would not be to say authors, editors, and compilers of the Daoist texts may not have made some mistakes, especially as distinctions could be subtle. Though again before conceding such, mustn’t we first consider whether the passages might be best understood as consistent? And in that way might we come to a deeper sense of what is possible (or not) for even just ourselves?

     Again, it’s not that the other early schools would have understood what the Daoists were saying, even if it had been explained to them logically. From their perspective and grounded in their own lived experience, a human being inescapably would struggle, for example, between “attachment” (e.g., 有 or 欲) and “detachment” (e.g., 不有 or 不欲), and could never realize the Daoist ideal of “non-attachment” (i.e., 無有 or 無欲), related to the ideal of “non-striving” (無為).

     Fortunately today we have the research work of psychologists like Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi as well as parallel traditions like Zen Buddhism to check our own thinking and experience against. Otherwise, we likewise might regard such a possibility as mere “woo” (or 無?). Even if we have not attained such a state, now also called “flow,” we may recognize such exists and that it is overwhelmingly positive.

     Recently a lecturer talked about Socrates and Plato in a similar way to such an understanding of the Daoists. So may it have been the Daoists even at that time were not alone? Could the deeper truth in these texts be why they have resonated with us for so long? Even if we have not understood them on a theoretical level, might we still have sensed the deeper truth in them? And is that why so many of us love them? Thank you again for this discussion.

10. This is a great discussion, very profound. I would like to add briefly a bit of my reading of the Butcher Ding story. In some ways it parallels what Carlo quoted re: Maslow and of course tai chi.
    I see Butcher Ding as largely talking about the quality of directed attention. Our friend the Butcher, through practice and also through his being, has a quality of directed, focused, embodied attention which is able to be directed to a goal ….while functioning within a broader overall awareness and within the context of the Dao.
    So in some ways the story is about focused, embodied attention within spaciousness of the Dao and its ability to sense and interact with the spaces between the joints of the ox, awareness of spaciousness both at the micro and macro level.
    As in Tai Chi, there is preparation for this level of being able to be both in space and in focus. A fairly unusual state for most of us, including me, I dare say. But it is a prelude to a broader all encompassing type of spaciousness/voidness, and a prerequisite thereto, I believe. Our ordinary awareness cannot function in the way Butcher Ding’s does or the Dao does….Those are my two cents…

    Reply

11. I must admit, I never focused on the way that the insights of this passage could be connected to political rule but it makes so much sense. Thanks J. Williams and Carlo!

    And the concept of embodied attention here that Elizabeth depicted so well is terrific and timely, especially with all the works that been done (and continues to be done) on embodied cognition. It’s both Cook Ding’s body and mind that are in harmony as he cuts through the ox. We are at once spiritual and physical creatures, and our standard mode of manifesting our desires, values, and attention is through motion.

    Reply

    • I like what you said Justin, and in this episode on “The Butcher” is the part about whether the passage author is “spoofing” King Huiwen somewhat self-revealing? Could we as detached scholarly readers be identifying with and reflecting on our own selves through such a take on the secondary figure of King Huiwen? Are we apt to presume we understand the passage when we do not albeit on a superficial theoretical level?

      If Butcher Ding’s self-actualization takes much self-cultivation and is primarily experiential and intuitive rather than theoretical and logical, how could we as merely detached observers really grasp it? The map is never the territory, as the saying goes.

      And it would not be something where we could just “fake it until we make it.” The internet is full of videos of alleged Tai-chi masters who cannot land or take a punch against even an amateur MMA fighter. We all surely have seen such.

      But also, if the Daoists are right about reality, is any expert, even in a field like physics, without the requisite experiential and intuitive knowledge really an expert? In some respects, King Huiwen who had much practical experience in not just high-stakes politics—didn’t he have Lord Shang dismembered?—but also war—may he have “slaughtered” some of the southwest “barbarians”?—might understand Butcher Ding’s message much better than we as detached scholars do, no? So then we perhaps should not be projecting ourselves onto him after all.

      In many respects, the best episode yet. It also would be good to discuss the connection between this Butcher Ding entry with the historical King Huiwen and the Dao Zhi (盗跖) ones, especially the one where Dao Zhi is portrayed as a pillaging cannibal who rebukes Confucius. Here, the final phrase “nourishing life” (养生) also might be another not so subtle passage dig at the Confucians. All very interesting.

    • Thank you so much for this Richard Kim. In spite of Zhuangzi telling us not to spend too much time on knowledge, I found it really interesting to learn about the “embodied cognition” movement and spent quite a bit of time reading up on it. My first reaction was:: at last the philosophers/cognitive people are coming closer to the ancient Chinese — people who had a language where words have more than one meaning depending upon the context, and where some sensitive highly respected people claim to experience a three-dimensionality and, I believe, embodied reference, while reading the pictographs/text on a subject.
      And who would be better to take on the pure cognitive types than Zhuangzi who said:
      “Words are not just wind. Words have something to say. But if what they have to say is not fixed then do they really say something? Or do they say nothing?…
      Everything has its “that”, everything has its’ this..” From the point of view of “that,” you cannot see it but through understanding you can know it. So I say “that” comes out of “this” and “this” depends on “that”…
      Zhuangzi seems like a perfect ally for the embodied cognition types!.
      With regard to Butcher Ding, I find the insight that when the body and mind are unified we often manifest our desires through motion very interesting. It seems that in Butcher Ding’s case the yi (which I define as embodied intent, not just mental intent), is the intent which unifies the body, mind and motion. And Zhuangzi is quite clear to say that Butcher Ding’s yi, intent, and conduct is as effective as it is because the yi is occurring at the same time and through openness to the Dao.(A C. Graham’s book on Zhuangzi emphasizes that and I found it useful…)
      In the Tai Chi classics there is a saying: the yi moves the qi moves the li. When yi is translated in English as merely mental intent, or “the mind” the saying is found by many to be useless. But when we translate it as the embodied intent, then the saying and Tai Chi takes on a different meaning/depth.
      I could go on but I stop here…Thanks again.

    • Thanks for your kind words, Elizabeth and Joe. And thanks also for your comments, which are brimming with stimulating ideas.

      I do think that embodied cognition is quite helpful here. It’s not just in the Zhuangzi but also in other classical texts that we sometimes see authors attributing cognition to parts of the body (e.g., nose, eyes, etc.) and not just to the heart-mind. Sometimes I’m tempted to use the phrase “muscle memory” to describe certain features of Zhuangzi-style wuwei, but I also worry that the phrase doesn’t do justice to the sort of thing that the author has in mind. And really interesting suggestion that the king is — like the typical reader — taking the butcher’s account too theoretically and being spoofed for that reason.

      This passage has elicited more valuable feedback than I’ve seen on a philosophy blog in a long time! Many thanks, friends.

    • Kim and Elizabeth,

      Do you have any opinion on Schwitzgebels article “The unskilled Zhuangzi”?

      Thank you,
      F. Mina

12. Hmm. I feel I should add for clarity that I am not saying necessarily that Zhuangzi is using the word “yi,” but that my understanding is that he is talking about “yi” through his story.

    Reply

13. @ Frederico Mina

    The Schwitzgebel article is interesting but not wholly convincing.
    Interpretation problems can arise from ignoring the polysemy of Chinese character. Referring to Krolls Dictionary of Classical Chinese, 巧 can mean skill, dexterity, acumen , artistry, craft (all generally valued positively). But it also means cunning, canny, smart, shrewd and even cheat or swindle (mostly viewed as negative). So an interpretation can be that Zhuangzi talks about two kinds of skillfulness, one that he endorses (and that Cook Ding exemplifies) and one that he rejects. Writers in those days clearly played with these different meanings of characters and did not prioritize a consistent use. Laozi is a great example and I refer to LaFargue who has written extensively on the so-called inconsistencies or paradoxes in that text. Being who he is, Zhuangzi is not even consistent in what he endorses and rejects. Chapter 20 of the Zhuang starts with this story (admittedly not from the inner chapters Schwitzgebel focuses on):

    Zhuangzi was traveling in the mountains when he came upon a huge tree, luxuriantly overgrown with branches and leaves. A woodcutter stopped beside it, but in the end chose not to fell it. Asked the reason, he said, “There is nothing it can be used for.” Zhuangzi said, “This tree is able to live out its natural lifespan because of its worthlessness.” When he left the mountains, he lodged for a night at the home of an old friend. His friend was delighted, and ordered a servant to kill a goose for dinner. The servant said, “There is one that can honk and one that cannot. Which should I kill?” The host said, “Kill the one that cannot honk.” The next day, Zhuangzi’s disciple said to him, “The tree we saw yesterday could live out its natural lifespan because of its worthlessness, while our host’s goose was killed for its worthlessness. What position would you take, Master?” Zhuangzi said, “I would probably take a position somewhere between worthiness and worthlessness. But though that might look right, it turns out not to be—it still leads to entanglements. It would be another thing entirely to float and drift along, mounted on only the intrinsic powers of the Course—untouched by both praise and blame, now a dragon, now a snake, changing with the times, unwilling to keep to any exclusive course of action. Now above, now below, with momentary harmony as your only measure—that is to float and drift within the ancestor of all things, making things of things but unable to be made anything of by any thing. What could then entangle you? (tr Ziporyn)

    Zhuangzi was far too well informed about the standpoints and theories of the various political thinkers of his time and engaged in the development of his own thinking than would have been necessary for just being the happy-go-lucky roamer through the world that Schwitzgebel loves, and this philosophical stance might also serve an escapism from political turmoil.

    I think there is one skill Zhuangzi values and that is following the nature/patterns of things – in any circumstance. Cook Ding cuts up the ox according to its ‘nature’, i.e. the anatomy of the ox so he doesn’t have to hack and cut.
    And Schwitzgebel is right; in many cases you don’t need to deploy your skill. With that in mind I referred in a reply above to the last line of Laozi 28: ‘Therefore, the Great Tailor does not cut (the fabric).’ 故大制不割。He would let the ox live and would in that sense be more skillful than Cook Ding. Even when the Great Tailor doesn’t cut, he still in a sense shows his skill.
    Reading the ox story as a lesson in politics, one could indeed state that the ruler is the knife.

    Reply

    • If I may, Carlo Hover, use your example here of where one might think the Zhuangzi is being inconsistent when it actually is being consistent. In this Zhuangzi Chapter 20 passage “莊子行於山中”, Zhuangzi at the key point of what you seem to think is an “inconsistency” does not refer to himself with the pronoun “I” (吾) (for related “I” usages see, e.g., Ch. 5 “人故無情乎？” and Ch. 32 “莊子將死”) but instead with his given name “Zhou” (周). In the Zhuangzi, the usage of the given name “Zhou” (周) points to Zhuangzi’s pre-realization self (see, e.g., Ch. 5 “莊周夢蝶” and Ch. 20 “莊周遊乎雕陵之樊”), a condition in which he would have been primarily if not solely identified with the separate self and thus been conflicted.

      In that part of the Chapter 20 entry, the further references to 材與不材, paralleling the Dao De Jing Chapter 2 善與不善, also point to that contradictory, or inconsistent, state. In the same part, the next few lines distinguish that condition from an ideal, flow state, described as “乘道德而浮游”, in which Zhuangzi would be free from the such entanglements. In the Butcher Ding entry, that ideal state alas is described as a genuine “善”; whereas the pre-ideal condition for “butchering an ox” (解牛) similar to here entails becoming “累”.

      So, in the Chapter 20 passage there’s not the inconsistency that we may think there is, and that the translation you cited might suggest there is. In the relevant part, Zhuangzi is teaching a disciple the difference between the two possible conditions. If we just assume Zhuangzi is being “inconsistent,” or otherwise not following a certain worldview, we are apt to overlook how the text actually is consistent, and not translate it so precisely.

      As a side note, it might help to read the Zhuangzi like a lawyer parses a legal text: every word of the text counts because every word could be challenged; there should not be any extra words, unless the text has been poorly drafted; and, as you Carlo also do, the best way to understand the use of a term, including here the given name “Zhou” (周), is to consider the other textual usages of it. Just as a mathematician checks every step of a math or physics theorem, a lawyer must check every step of a legal argument. If it’s not being done so already, we may want to do the same for the Zhuangzi and at least the other Daoist texts.

      While we all may be on the point of consistency, in your remarks above, Carlo, you assert a perhaps commonly held view that: “Zhuangzi was…engaged in the development of his own thinking…” Where in the Zhuangzi does it suggest the person of Zhuangzi was “developing his own thinking”? In Chapter 33, the text first indicates he regarded Laozi and Guan Yin as “博大真人” and then in the biography of Zhuangzi himself only that Zhuangzi had a certain approach to articulating “Daoism” (i.e., 以卮言為曼衍，以重言為真，以寓言為廣。) and dealing with the other schools (e.g., 而不敖倪於萬物，不譴是非，以與世俗處。). At the same time, the Zhuangzi in general criticizes a person for fixating on “thoughts” or “ideas” (意 or 思), and the text consistently opposes the other schools’ formal systems.

      Just as we might see the Zhuangzi as being consistent internally, why would we not interpret Zhuangzi as being consistent with Laozi and Guan Yin, if not also other leading “Daoists” like Sunzi and Sun Bin? How exactly could Zhuangzi have differed in “thought” from Laozi, for one? Thank you also for this discussion.

14. @ J. Pratt,

    Thank you so much for your thoughtful reflections. You certainly are quite at home in the Zhuangzi.

    The difference you signal in Zhuangzi’s self-reference between 周 and 吾 is worthwhile to investigate; this hadn’t occurred to me.
    I like your comparison of translation with interpreting a legal text. We certainly must take ‘the text as is’ seriously. But, as is also necessary in law, there is need for some discretionary interpretation room. Maybe the law/text is consistent, but the judge/reader is not?

    Maybe in the end our stance on the theme of inconsistency is not that different. Zhuangzi advocates going along with the ten thousand things and acting accordingly. But ‘accordingly’ does not imply the ‘same’. So if in one situation he does A and in another (maybe even very similar) he does B that is not inconsistent but it ‘is’ in the eye of onlookers and even his own disciples. And he evidently enjoys the confusion this creates among them. He plays with it and uses inconsistency and paradox as a didactic tool.

    I don’t want to misrepresent your view, but doesn’t the postulate of the consistency of the text, grant it almost the status of a ‘revelatory’ text? Many scholars seem to agree that Warring States texts that are ascribed to a single author were in fact compiled over a period of a few generations in a process of adding, removing and revising portions of textual (bamboo strip) units and assembling these units over time into ‘books’. For the Zhuangzi, scholars have distinguished and dated (though not unanimously) different ‘strands’ of thinking. The various authors over time will certainly have felt part of a certain ‘lineage’ of thinking and will accordingly have aimed for consistency. An important driving force for making these sorts of adaptations to texts might have been the development of the political situation in the evolving Warring States and the development of thinking and ‘science’. We witness the ‘discovery’ of the body, the use of medical theories as metaphors for ruling, Yin-Yang thinking, the development of logic, legalistic bureaucracy necessary for ruling larger states et cetera. This adapting of texts to changing circumstances seems to me consistent with Zhuangzi’s position; doesn’t he consider texts of dead masters as ‘the dregs and dust of the ancients’ (古人之糟魄已夫！ ; 12.9).
    So, in an overall sense there may be consistency, but on various points there might be inconsistencies.
    Written law evolves in a similar way, and could the Zhuangzi be like a legal text that still contain some articles that should have been removed or altered?
    I have no vested interest in the idea that texts are or should be inconsistent. It is not something that I especially look for when reading them. The theme came up in the discussion. But I do think that should be room for alternative interpretations (for instance about what the Cook Ding passage ‘really’ means to say). Texts are ‘classical’ because they can always give rise to ‘new’ readings. Of course this is not to say that anything goes. Is Zhuangzi the only one who could establish the ‘true’ meaning of the Cook Ding passage? Is Leonardo da Vince the only one who could have the definite verdict about the Mona Lisa? No – however much we would like to know their opinion.

    You ask: ‘Where in the Zhuangzi does it suggest the person of Zhuangzi was “developing his own thinking”?’ and you state that we should interpret the Zhuangzi as consistent with the Laozi and others, partly because Zhuangzi ‘ criticizes a person for fixating on “thoughts” or “ideas” (意 or 思)’.
    But criticizing being fixated on one’s own thought does not imply that one should not think for oneself at all. It strikes me as being ‘un-Zhuangzian’ to only follow what Lau Dan and Guan Yin taught without any thinking of himself. Unless he was a natural born sage (which I don’t believe; Zhuangzi was certainly gifted, but in the end just a human being), he had to develop his own thinking. He seems also too original a thinker to be content with only closely following the footsteps 跡 of his teachers.

    This is really a valuable discussion. Even if we don’t agree, it has forced me to better think through my own position and I certainly have gained more appreciation for yours.

    Reply

    • @ Carlo Hover

      I agree with you this discussion is really valuable, and like yourself it has prompted me to think more about the related issues. With respect to the “consistency” of the Zhuangzi and the other Daoist texts, we perhaps should look at what they say about this matter and also what Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi has found in connection with a flow state.

      First, the Dao De Jing and the Zhuangzi both point to an ideal “直,” for example, as opposed to an undesirable “直與不直”. Consistent with the Dao De Jing Chapter 2 善與不善, the Dao De Jing distinguishes between “the Consistent” (大直) (Ch. 45) as opposed to “the consistent” (直) versus “the inconsistent” (不直). For what it is worth, the Dao De Jing says, “大直若屈” or “大直若詘” (Ch. 45). The opposite condition is described as “肆” (Ch. 48).

      In the Zhuangzi Chapter 5 passage “叔山無趾”, Laozi at one point explains “以可不可為一貫者,” pointing to a “大貫,” akin to “大直”. The Zhuangzi Chapter 17 refers to the “可以意致者.” In the full context, the sagacious 北海若 says, “可以言論者，物之粗也；可以意致者，物之精也；言之所不能論，意之所不能察致者，不期精粗焉。是故大人之行，不出乎害人，不多仁恩；動不為利，不賤門隸；貨財弗爭，不多辭讓；事焉不惜人，不多食乎力，不賤貪污；行殊乎俗，不多辟異；為在從眾，不賤佞諂；世之爵祿不足以為勸，戮恥不足以為辱；知是非之不可為分，細大之不可為倪。聞曰：『道人不聞，至德不得，大人無己，約分之至也。”

      Second, in Flow and the Foundations of Positive Psychology at page 144, Csikszentmihalyi offers how a flow state is inherently “coherent” or “noncontradictory,” whereas ordinary states tend to be “conflicted.” The relevant part reads:

      Another quality of the [flow] experience is that it usually contains coherent, noncontradictory demands for action, and provides clear unambiguous feedback to a person’s actions. These components of flow, like the preceding ones, are made possible by limiting awareness to a restricted field of possibilities. In the artificially reduced reality of a flow episode it is clear what is ‘‘good’’ and what is ‘‘bad.’’ Goals and means are logically ordered. A person is not expected to do incompatible things, as in real life. He or she knows what the results of various possible
      actions will be.

      A climber describes it as follows:

      I think it’s one of the few sorts of activities in which you don’t feel you have all sorts of different kinds of demands, often conflicting, upon you… You aren’t really the master, but are moving with something else. That’s part of where the really good feeling comes from. You are moving in harmony with something else, the piece of rock as well as the weather and scenery. You’re part of it and thus lose some of the feeling of individual separation.

      In this quote, several elements of flow are combined: noncontradictory demands for the activity, the issue of control, and the feeling of egolessness.

      But in flow, one does not stop to evaluate the feedback-action and reaction have become so well practiced as to be automatic. The person is too concerned with the experience to reflect on it. Here is the clear account of a basketball player:

      I play my best games almost by accident. I go out and play on the court and I can tell if I’m shooting o.k. or if I’m not—so I know if I’m playing good or like shit—but if I’m having a super game I can’t tell until after the game…guys make fun of me because I can lose track of the score and I’ll ask Russell what the score is and he’ll tell me and sometimes it breaks people up-they think ‘‘That kid must be real dumb.’’

      In other words, the flow experience differs from awareness in everyday reality because it contains ordered rules which make action and the evaluation of action automatic and hence unproblematic. When contradictory actions are made possible (as for instance when cheating is introduced into a game), the self reappears again to negotiate between the conflicting definitions of what needs to be done, and the flow is interrupted.

      So, what Csikszentmihalyi found is exactly what the Daoist texts above are saying and also what Zhuangzi was telling his disciple in the Chapter 20 passage you cited—the “flow” (浮游) and the “tiresome” (累) states differ. From the Daoists’ perspective, there is no “inconsistency;” on the contrary, the true nature of reality is “Consistent” and that is their lived experience of it.

      And so we must not assume the Zhuangzi itself is being inconsistent, and we must be wary of our own potentially inconsistent interpretations of it. Again, it may be that two interpretations are considering different layers of meaning, as Karyn suggested in the Butcher Ding episode, or that two interpretations are considering the same phenomenon from alternate perspectives. As you point out, entries either individually or severally also may be using ostensible inconsistency and paradox as a didactic tool. Some Zen Buddhist texts seem to do the same.

      The conflict of “consistency versus inconsistency” dominated by “inconsistency” is exactly what one senses in our modern legal systems. In a case, the two parties will have inconsistencies in their legal and factual arguments, and the judge likewise will have inconsistencies in his or her eventual decision. Everyone but most importantly the judge pretends they are consistent and the others are somehow inconsistent.

      A judge of course may assert a judge is merely applying the law and either a judge or a jury is objectively determining the facts of a case, but the politicization of the judicial system and the professional selection of jurors belie such assertions. If a case is appealed to the highest court, it may have been decided in different ways multiple times. And as many recognize, the top court is typically the most political of all.

      Insofar as one recognizes everyone in the system is being inconsistent, one may sense we are not deciding the cases “consistently,” whatever that may mean, and instead only perpetuating the underlying personal and societal conflict. We end up with a great deal of codified and case law and have even more legal cases, constitutional, civil, or criminal. And at some point, such a condition may no longer be tenable. The society is unwell and the conflict may boil over, so to speak.

      A line in the Dao De Jing Chapter 57 seems to capture this predicament: “天下多忌諱，而民彌貧；”. And the Zhuangzi in passages like 說劍 points out, Legalism, in the mode of not just Lord Shang but also Han Feizi, leads to militarism and societal collapse.

      With respect to the related issue of new “thoughts” or “thinking” (意 or 思) in the Zhuangzi, the Daoist texts, so including “Laozi and Guan Yin,” indicate even the dialectics of 直與不直 or 善與不善 are entangling. As noted, the Dao De Jing and the Zhuangzi refer to “non-knowing” (無知) and “non-nominating” (無名), akin to “non-striving” (無為). For a further specific example, the Zhuangzi Chapter 11 dialogue between 鸿蒙 and 雲將 relays the ideal is “not to know” (“吾弗知！”) and “thoughts” or “intentions” (意) are “poisonous” (“毒哉！”).

      Part of this point is identifying with particular “thoughts” or “ideas” results in “inconsistencies,” and part of it is the flow state and reality ultimately cannot be “delineated.” The Dao De Jing Chapter 14 of the underlying metaphysical realm states, “此三者不可致詰，故混而為一。” Another early version puts it numerically, “三者不可至計，故混而為一。” Consistent with these Dao De Jing lines, in the Zhuangzi Chapter 22 passage “知北遊,” the Yellow Emperor at one point relays, “道不可致，德不可至。”

      It would seem to follow just as one should not overidentify with the small, personal self, one should not overidentify with a particular thought system in which that self exists. This does not mean one should not have any thoughts but that one should not solidify thoughts, recognizing their inherent contextuality. Such would only limit one’s self and thus one’s course of action. It may be the distinction between “常名” and just “名”. As Csikszentmihalyi’s research indicates too, a flow state typically entails “a loss of reflective self-consciousness.”

      As for the Zhuangzi being “in fact compiled over a period of a few generations in a process of adding, removing and revising portions of textual (bamboo strip) units and assembling these units over time into ‘books’,” two points: first, the logic is not complicated (and not “revelatory” in the way that term is normally understood), and second, early philosophical text references to Zhuangzi key passages such as 鳥名為鵬 and 渾沌之死and ostensibly later ones like 說劍, 盗跖, and 列御寇, indicate the Zhuangzi in the main was written in the span of 100 years, roughly between 330 to 230 BCE.

      First here and again, the logic is simple if profound, and at least from the perspective of a sage with a sufficient degree of realization “subtle” (秒) (e.g., Dao De Jing, Ch. 1). In the Dao De Jing, this logic is contained in Chapter 42, while in the Zhuangzi it is encapsulated in the parable of渾沌之死. Both entries are talking about flow (i.e., 沖氣 and 渾沌—combat flow from The Art of War by Sunzi Chapter 5), and both refer to the 陰陽 (i.e., 陰陽 and 中央之帝). The ideal state revolves around “和”, which is a true “善”, and the related “無” state, expressed variously as 無為, 為有, 為欲, 無名, and 無知. The opposite, undesirable state is conflict and eventually war. And that’s simply reality.

      The Dao De Jing certainly had and the Zhuangzi may have had different versions, and some of the versions indeed could be “inconsistent.” From what I can tell so far, the early versions of the Dao De Jing, for example, are consistent. The biggest difference with the now common versions appears to be the poetry improved. One wonders if that didn’t happen at the hand of Zhuangzi or his followers, because the Zhuangzi references to the Dao De Jing often match the received versions of the Dao De Jing.

      Second here, as others have observed, the Xunzi Chapter 1 entry beginning “南方有鳥焉，名曰蒙鳩，” is referencing the Zhuangzi Chapter 1 opening narrative “鳥名為鵬,” and indicates that Zhuangzi text would have been widely known at that time. One also can show, other early philosophical texts like the Book of Lord Shang were referencing key Zhuangzi entries, and that many of the ostensibly later Zhuangzi entries were part of a late Warring States debate among the Confucians, the Legalists, and the Daoists that included a martial component.

      If the Zhuangzi was edited in the Western Han Dynasty, it most likely would have been edited by the Daoists themselves, such as the scholars at the court of the King of Huainan. They seem to have understood the same logic then. One can show Sima Qian’s slightly later and intentionally misleading portrayals of Zhuangzi and the other leading Daoists supports this conclusion.

      So in sum, the Zhuangzi confirms the Daoists were practicing and teaching a certain spontaneity that was wholly consistent—the “常道,” so to speak. In a given context one would know what to do to maintain a certain personal and societal unity. In peace one would foster group civil flow and in war group martial (combat) flow. (e.g., Zhuangzi Ch. 7 渾沌之死 and Ch. 14 黄帝-北門成).

      For perhaps the prime example of a possible “inconsistency” and as indicated in The Art of War by Sunzi, a Daoist army general would foster group unity and martial flow but might yet need to court martial and even execute a soldier who had committed treason. This act, however, would not be in the reflexive manner that the Legalists would do so and how Sima Qian portrays Sunzi in The Historical Record (summarily beheading King Helu’s two favorite concubines). In the said context, such an action, perhaps carried out by the army general personally, would be entirely consistent, and in a way most effective. And the general afterwards would not fixate on such.

      Of course one can disagree with the “consistency” of the Zhuangzi and these other texts, but wouldn’t that be to take the dialectical “直與不直” (辯) position as opposed to the Dialectical “大直” (大辯) one? And again, the Zhuangzi’s logic is appealing because it is not “inconsistent” or “contradictory.”

      What it requires, however, is true cultivation and realization, as the narrative of Butcher Ding and King Wenhui indicates. Without that, these notions too are just “ideas” or “thoughts” (意). As you also might be saying above, the Zhuangzi itself at one point admonishes a duke not to get stuck on ‘the dregs and dust of the ancients’ (古人之糟魄已夫！).

      If I may end this long response on a personal note, I’m staying in Elea where Parmenides and Zeno once lived. One suspects they, along with other early Western figures like Heraclitus as well as Socrates and Plato, would have had much to discuss with the Daoists. It’s tempting to wonder if Heraclitus, for example, would have seen himself in the river in which “one never steps twice” as also just 游-ing.

15. Fascinating and deep discussion of interpretive approaches to the Zhuangzi. There’s a great deal to say about all of this and I fear that I can’t do it justice in a blog post while juggling so many other things. Maybe someday an episode?

    Carlo makes a good point about about qiao 巧. By the way, even the character ji 技 can sometimes be used pejoratively, but for different reasons (sometimes it refers to impressive but ultimately pointless tricks — see Liezi 8.15, for example).

    Reply

    • @ Justin Tiwald

      Yes, a podcast on this topic of consistency and cultivation would be good! We certainly would not want to be like some and avoid such (免乎行).

16. @ Justin,

    Yes, it might be good idea to have a podcast on the interpretation of the Zhuangzi or classical texts in general.

    The topic of translation (which necessarily involves interpretation) seems also interesting (referring to J. Pratt’s comparison of translation with parsing a legal text in a reply above).

    Fitting with the format of the podcast this could be done by looking at a single passage. I refer to Weinberg’s Nineteen Ways of looking at Wang Wei which analyzes (in the second edition more than) nineteen translations of Wang Wei’s 王維 (699-759) Deer Park 鹿柴 poem. Of course, translating poetry poses different challenges from translating philosophy.

    Enough to keep you busy!

    Reply

17. I’m curious what others may think of Arthur Waley’s translation of the end. In Three Ways of Thought in Ancient China, he translated: “However, one has only to look at an ordinary carver to see what a difficult business he finds it. One sees how nervous he is while making his preparations, how long he looks, how slowly he moves. Then after some small, niggling strokes of the knife’, when he has done no more than detach a few stray fragments from the whole, and even that by dint of continually twisting and turning like a worm burrowing through the earth, he stands back, with his knife in his hand, helplessly gazing this way and that, and after hovering for a long time finally curses a perfectly good knife and puts it back in its case.’ 雖然，每至於族，吾見其難為，怵然為戒，視為止，行為遲。動刀甚微，謋然已解，如土委地。提刀而立，為之四顧，為之躊躇滿志，善刀而藏之。」
    He takes zu 族 as not a “hard place,” but as it is used a couple sentences earlier, as “ordinary carver” (族庖).

    Reply

    • A nice example of how a different reading of a single character can effect the meaning of a passage dramatically, without resulting in nonsense. For an at best mediocre translator like me it’s a bit comforting to see that good translators also do struggle sometimes. I’ve often enough gone through quite some lengths to get a translation to fit with what soon enough (when checking mine against another translation) appeared to be a wrong reading of a character. Sometimes I even was convinced that I had done a really good job.

    • Waley (p. 256) explicitly claims that he finds earlier Zhuangzi translations (Balfour, Giles, Legge, Fung) relied too heavily on the commentaries and that he intends to only translate passages that make clear sense without relying on traditional authorities. Thus, it isn’t surprising that he reads characters in ways that go against the grain of how they were read in his own Zhuangzi. Although, maybe the “Modern Commentary” he cites argues for this reading (p. 256)?

      That being said, 族 as “hard place” also seems off, it is glossed as a “knotty place” where the meat and bones gather together and intertwine forming interlocking “knots”. (Fang Yong 2009, 427: “〔族〕筋骨交錯盤結之處。郭象云 『交錯聚結為族。』(莊子注) 劉鳳苞云 :『族者，繁會糾紛之處。』〕 “族” refers to the places where muscles and bones intertwine and form knots. Guo Xiang says: “They [i.e., the muscles and bones] are intertwined and gathered together, forming a 族 .” (Commentary on the Zhuangzi) Liu Fengbao says: “族 refers to places of complex gatherings and entanglements.” | Cf. Wang Fuzhi: 族，筋脉结聚处也。 “族 refers to places where tendons and veins gather and knot.” | Cf. Hanshan Deqing: 筋骨盘结处也。”It is a place where the tendons and bones intertwine and knot.” | Cf. Lin Yunming: 筋骨盤錯處。 “It is a place where the tendons and bones intertwine.” | Cf. Xuan Ying: 筋骨聚处。”a place where the tendons and bones gather.” | NB: Wang Xianqian and Wang Shumin both directly follow Guo Xiang.)

    • Then again, it appears that Chu Boxiu 褚伯秀 suggests a reading aligned with Waley’s :

      再考每至於族，似指族庖。見族庖之難爲，故怵然爲戒，而終無難也。李士表論意亦同此。”Upon further examination, “每至於族” seems to refer to 族庖 “an ordinary carver”. Seeing the difficulties faced by the 族庖 “ordinary carver”, thus he timidly becomes vigilant, yet ultimately, there are no difficulties. Li Shibiao’s 李士表 interpretation also aligns with this.”

18. (If “hard” means “hardened”, then I see no support. If “hard” means “difficult”, then it is translating what the text implies, not what it says.)

    Reply

    • (In contrast to “hard place” and “ordinary carver” for this 族, Ziporyn’s (2020, 30) “clustered tangle” seems on point.

      An aside: While I think Ziporyn goes too far with the “double [or triple or even quadruple] translations” in his new complete edition, it is a delight reading his complete text against compiled commentary editions (esp. Fang Yong’s). One sees that he put *a lot* of consideration into his translations vis-à-vis many traditional readings. While the “double translations” allow him to hit different interpretations at once, I still can’t help but worry that combining the different readings in this way distorts all of them.

      In any event, I hope more scholars become inspired to compile and translate collected commentary editions of the Zhuangzi.)

19. 族 meaning “intersections of bones, tendons, muscles, etc.” seems unique. I’m not saying it’s wrong, but it seems most uses of the word in early China relate to pedigree. Apparently in Lu Deming’s work, he says that in the expression 族庖, Sima Biao defined 族 as 雜 and Cui Zhuan as 眾. If so, then “average butcher” would be incorrect.

    Reply

    • As for pedigree, it should be noted that 族 is also used to me “cluster/group” elsewhere in the Zhuangzi itself: 雲氣不待族而雨，草木不待黃而落。”成玄英疏：“族，聚也。” “the cloudy air has not waited to cluster together (族), and it is raining….” CXY’s subcommentary: “族 is “gather/group/cluster” (聚).” (Zhuangzi Chapter 11, apud. HYDCD). The early commentator Sima Biao (apud. Lu Deming’s Jingdian shiwen) also glosses this Chapter 11 line the exact same way: 司馬云：族，聚也。

      One could translate GX more forcefully: 交錯聚結為族。”They [i.e., the muscles, joints, bones, etc.] are intertwined and gathered and knotted together, forming a clan>cluster/group.”

      In any event, this is how it was and is widely read in the Chapter 3 passage. 漢語大詞典 (HYDCD) also defines 族 as 9. 筋骨聚結處。, though it specifically cites the passage in question and GX’s commentary… See also CXY, who remarks: 節骨交聚磐結之處，名為族也。 “The places where the joints and bones meet and are firmly knotted together are called “groups/clusters” (族).” (As for Cui Zhuan’s 眾, this is taken up by the commentators I’ve quoted with the equivalent 聚.)

      HYDCD and CXY are both of course following GX, so it could be the case that Chu Boxiu, Li Shibiao, and indeed Waley are correct. But the Zhuangzi is of course a text with much uncertainty on a philological level, which in turn places all philosophical interpretations on a shaky foundation.

    • (Disregard my remark on 眾, I was confused there and moving too quickly.)

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