Zhuangzi

Once I dreamed I was a butterfly — fluttering about, completely a butterfly, aware only of my existence as a butterfly, with no awareness of Zhuangzi. Then I woke, and there I was, unambiguously Zhuangzi. But I do not know: was I then a man dreaming of being a butterfly, or am I now a butterfly dreaming of being a man?

This is not a riddle requiring a...

Once Zhuang Zhou dreamed he was a butterfly, fluttering happily and knowing nothing of Zhou. Suddenly he awoke and was Zhou. But he did not know whether Zhou had dreamed he was a butterfly, or a butterfly was now dreaming he was Zhou. Between them there must be some distinction. This is called the transformation of things.

A useless tree grows old because no carpenter wants it. Everyone knows the use of the useful, but few know the use of the useless. A life spared from exploitation may look unproductive to officials and merchants. To the tree, it looks like survival.

Prince Hui's cook cut up an ox with perfect ease. His knife never dulled because he followed the natural cavities and found the spaces between the joints rather than hacking at the bones. This is the Tao in skill: the master does not force but finds the path along which things yield. Work done this way leaves no trace of effort.

When my wife died, Huizi found me singing, not weeping. He was horrified. I told him that at first I too grieved. But then I considered her beginning: before birth she had no spirit. Mixed with chaos, the chaos changed and she had spirit. The spirit changed and she had a body. Now she has changed again. She is sleeping in the great inner room. To disturb...

There is a fish in the northern darkness. Its name is Kun, immeasurably vast. It transforms into a bird called Peng, whose wings are like clouds across the sky. The small cicada laughs: I fly from tree to tree and that is enough. Yes. And perfection requires no vast flight. But the cicada does not know what it does not know. This is my complaint with...

A fish trap is for catching fish. Once you have the fish, you can forget the trap. A hare snare is for catching hares. Once you have the hare, you can forget the snare. Words are for catching ideas. Once you have the idea, you can forget the words. Where can I find a man who has forgotten words so that I can have a word with him?

I saw a skull by the road and spoke to it. That night it appeared in my dream and said: in death there is no ruler above, no subjects below, no seasons to compel you. We take heaven and earth as our spring and autumn. Even a king enjoys nothing better. Zhuangzi woke and called for a carriage and horses. The skull looked on with an uncertain smile.

In my stories, Confucius sometimes appears as a student of the Tao — which he was not, but which seemed the best way to say what the Tao can offer someone obsessed with ceremony and proper conduct. I mean no disrespect. He was sincere. But sincerity and rigidity are not the same, and the man who insists on dignity cannot swim the same river twice.