ChineseStudy

The Turning of Heaven

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“Does heaven revolve? Does earth remain in place? Do the sun and moon contend for their stations? Who directs and sets all this in motion? Who holds it together and gives it order? Who, dwelling in idleness, pushes it onward? Could there be some hidden mechanism that constrains it, leaving it no choice? Or does it turn and revolve because it cannot stop of itself? Do clouds make rain, or does rain make clouds? Who raises them up and pours them down? Who, dwelling in idleness and indulging in pleasure, spurs all this on?”

“The wind rises in the north, now going west, now east, and at times wandering aloft. Who breathes it out and draws it in? Who, dwelling in idleness, sets it streaming and swaying? May I ask what causes this?”

Wu Xian Tiao said, “Come, let me tell you. Heaven has its Six Limits and Five Constants. When emperors and kings accord with them, there is good order; when they go against them, there is calamity. In the affairs of the Nine Luo, when order has been achieved and virtue made complete, the ruler watches over and sheds light upon the lands below, and all under heaven uphold him. Such a one is called the August Sovereign.”

Dang, the Grand Steward of Shang, asked Zhuangzi about benevolence. Zhuangzi said, “Tigers and wolves, too, are benevolent.”

He asked, “What does that mean?”

Zhuangzi said, “Father and son are affectionate toward each other—how could that be called lacking in benevolence!”

He asked, “May I ask about perfect benevolence?”

Zhuangzi said, “Perfect benevolence shows no partiality toward those close to oneself.”

The Grand Steward said, “I, Dang, have heard this: if one has no special attachment to those close to one, one does not love; if one does not love, one is not filial. Can it be right to say that a person of consummate benevolence is not filial?”

Zhuangzi said, “No. Consummate benevolence is loftier still, and filial devotion is simply inadequate to speak of it. These are not words that go beyond filial devotion; they are words that filial devotion cannot reach. A traveler going south arrives at Ying, then faces north but cannot see Mount Ming. Why is this? Because he has gone too far away from it.”

Thus it is said: To be filial through reverence is easy; to be filial through love is difficult. To be filial through love is easy; to forget one's parents is difficult. To forget one's parents is easy; to have one's parents forget oneself is difficult. To have one's parents forget oneself is easy; to forget all under Heaven as well is difficult. To forget all under Heaven as well is easy; to have all under Heaven likewise forget oneself is difficult. His virtue leaves Yao and Shun behind, yet he makes no deliberate undertaking on that account; his benefits and bounty extend through ten thousand generations, yet no one under Heaven knows of them. Could such a person merely sigh deeply and talk of benevolence and filial devotion?

Filial devotion, respect for elder brothers, benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, trustworthiness, steadfastness, and incorruptibility—all these are ways of driving oneself and putting one's virtue into service; they do not merit high praise. Thus it is said: “At the height of nobility, all the titles of a state are subsumed in it; at the height of wealth, all the riches of a state are subsumed in it; at the height of wish-fulfillment, fame and honor are subsumed in it.” In this way, the Way does not alter.

Beimen Cheng asked the Yellow Emperor, “When you performed the music of Xianchi in the wilderness of Dongting, I was frightened the first time I heard it; hearing it again, I grew listless; and by the end, I was bewildered. Vastly adrift and silent, I could no longer find myself.”

The Emperor said, “Perhaps you have nearly grasped it! I performed it through human affairs, confirmed it by Heaven, set it in motion through ritual and rightness, and grounded it in Great Clarity. As for the highest music, it first answers to human affairs, accords with the patterns of Heaven, proceeds through the Five Virtues, and responds to what is so of itself. Only then does it regulate the four seasons and bring the myriad things into supreme harmony. The four seasons arise in turn, and the myriad things live and grow along their courses. Now flourishing, now declining, the civil and the martial each follow their ordered pattern.”

Now clear, now turbid, yin and yang came into harmony, and its sounds streamed forth in radiant motion. Hibernating creatures began to stir, and I startled them with thunder. Its ending had no tail, its beginning no head. Now dying, now coming to life; now falling, now rising. Its constant course was inexhaustible, yet it cannot be awaited in any one fixed way. That was why you were afraid. I then played it again with the harmony of yin and yang and illuminated it with the brightness of the sun and moon.

Its sound could be short or long, yielding or forceful. Its transformations were brought into unity, yet it was governed by no established constancy. In a valley it filled the valley; in a hollow it filled the hollow. It filled the gaps and guarded the spirit, taking things as its measure. Its sound spread freely and spaciously, and its name was lofty and bright. Thus ghosts and spirits kept watch over its hidden depth, while the sun, moon, stars, and constellations followed its ordered courses. I brought the music to rest within what has an end and let it flow into what never stops.

You wished to ponder it, but could not know it; you looked for it, but could not see it; you pursued it, but could not catch it. Vacantly you stood on the Way amid the fourfold emptiness, leaned against a withered parasol tree, and intoned: “The knowing of my eyes is exhausted by what they desire to see; my strength gives out before what it desires to pursue. Since I cannot reach it, let it be!”

Forms filled the void, until they arrived at a winding and yielding state. You yielded into that state, and so you grew lax. I then played it again with tones free of slackness, attuning it to the ordinance of what is so of itself. Thus it seemed mingled, chasing after itself and springing up in clusters—a dense forest of music, yet without form. It spread and swept outward without trailing; it was darkly hidden, yet without sound. It moved in no fixed direction and dwelt in profound obscurity. Some called it death, others life; some called it substantiality, others flowering.

It moves and flows, disperses and shifts, never governed by any constant sound. The world doubts it and seeks judgment from the sage. A sage is one who penetrates the realities of feeling and follows destiny through to fulfillment. Though the workings of Heaven do not unfold, all five faculties are fully present. This is called the music of Heaven: without words, the heart delights. Thus the Youyan clan praised it in a hymn: “Listen for it, yet its sound cannot be heard; look for it, yet its form cannot be seen. It fills Heaven and Earth and enfolds the six utmost bounds.”

“You wish to hear it, but find no point of contact with it, and that is why you are bewildered. This music begins in fear; because of fear, there is a sense of baleful haunting. I next continue it with languor; because of languor, one withdraws and slips away. At last it ends in bewilderment; because of bewilderment, one becomes simple-minded. Through such simplicity comes the Way, and the Way can carry one along together with it.”

Confucius journeyed west to the state of Wei. Yan Yuan asked Music Master Jin, “What do you think of the Master’s conduct?”

Music Master Jin said, “What a pity! Your master will probably find himself at an impasse.”

Yan Yuan asked, “Why is that?”

Music Master Jin said, “Before a straw dog is set out for the rite, it is placed in a chest and covered with patterned embroidery, while the ritual impersonator and the invocatory priest purify themselves by fasting before bearing it forward. Once it has been displayed and used, passersby tread on its head and back, and gatherers of kindling simply take it away to burn as fuel. If someone were to retrieve it, put it once more in a chest, cover it with patterned embroidery, and then live and sleep beneath the straw dog, even if he did not dream, he would surely suffer nightmare after nightmare.”

Now you too, Master, have taken up the straw dogs already displayed by the former kings, gathered disciples, wandered and lodged, and lain down to sleep beneath them. Hence the tree where you taught was cut down in Song, your tracks were erased in Wei, and you were brought to extremity in Shang and Zhou—is this not that dream? You were surrounded between Chen and Cai, went seven days without lighting a fire to prepare food, with life and death side by side—is this not that nightmare? For traveling on water, nothing is better than a boat; for traveling on land, nothing is better than a cart.

Because a boat can travel on water, if one insists on pushing it across dry land, one will not move it even a xun or a chang in an entire lifetime. Are antiquity and the present not like water and land? Are Zhou and Lu not like boat and cart? To seek now to put Zhou's way into practice in Lu is just like pushing a boat over land! It brings toil without achievement, and disaster is sure to befall oneself. You do not understand the transmission that has no fixed course, which responds to things without ever being exhausted. Besides, have you alone never seen a well-sweep?

Pull it, and it bends down; let it go, and it rises up. It is something drawn by people, not something that draws people. Thus, whether lowering or lifting itself, it incurs no blame from anyone. The rites, moral norms, laws, and institutions of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors were therefore valued not for being alike, but for bringing order. They may be compared to hawthorns, pears, mandarins, and pomelos: their flavors are opposed, yet all are pleasing to the palate.

Thus rites, moral norms, laws, and institutions change in response to their time. If one were now to take an ape and dress it in the ceremonial robes of the Duke of Zhou, it would surely gnaw, bite, tug, and tear at them, and would not be content until it had stripped them all away. To observe the difference between antiquity and the present is like observing the difference between an ape and the Duke of Zhou. Thus, when Xi Shi suffered pain in her heart and frowned in her neighborhood, an unattractive person there saw her and thought it beautiful; returning home, she too held her heart and frowned in her neighborhood.

When the wealthy people of her village saw her, they barred their gates and would not come out; when the poor saw her, they took their wives and children and fled. She knew that the frown was beautiful, but not what made the frown beautiful. What a pity—surely you, Master, will remain trapped in straits!”

Confucius had reached the age of fifty-one without yet hearing the Way, so he journeyed south to Pei to see Lao Dan. Lao Dan said, “So you have come? I have heard of you—you are a worthy man from the north. Have you too attained the Way?”

Confucius said, “I have not yet attained it.”

Laozi said, “Where will you seek it?”

He said, “I sought it in measures and numerical methods, but after five years I still had not found it.”

Laozi said, “Where, then, do you seek it?”

He said, “I sought it in yin and yang for twelve years, yet did not attain it.”

Laozi said, “So it is. If the Way could be offered up, no one would fail to offer it to his ruler; if the Way could be presented, no one would fail to present it to his parents; if the Way could be told to others, no one would fail to tell it to his brothers; if the Way could be given to others, no one would fail to give it to his children and grandchildren.”

Yet when this proves impossible, the reason is nothing else than this: with no master within, one cannot come to rest; with no standard without, one cannot proceed. What issues from within, if it is not received outside, the sage does not come forth. What enters from outside, if it finds no master within, the sage does not keep hidden away. Names are public instruments and must not be taken in excess. Benevolence and righteousness were the temporary lodgings of the former kings: one may stay there for a single night but must not dwell there long. Once seen there, one incurs many reproaches.

The consummate people of ancient times borrowed a road through benevolence and took temporary lodging in righteousness, thereby roaming in the open realm of free wandering, feeding in the fields of makeshift simplicity, and standing in a garden that gives nothing out. Free wandering means nonaction; makeshift simplicity means being easy to sustain; giving nothing out means that nothing is expended. The ancients called this “the wandering that gathers what is genuine.” Those who take wealth to be what is right cannot relinquish emolument; those who take prominence to be what is right cannot relinquish reputation.

Those close to power cannot entrust its handle to others. When they hold it, they tremble; when they let it go, they grieve. Lacking any clear mirror within, they still try to peer into what never ceases—such people are Heaven’s condemned. Resentment, favor, taking, giving, remonstrance, instruction, granting life, and inflicting death: these eight are instruments of rectification. Only one who follows the great transformations without being blocked by anything can use them. Thus it is said, “To rectify is to make things right.” If in one’s heart one deems the right not to be so, the gate of Heaven will not open.

Confucius visited Lao Dan and spoke to him about benevolence and righteousness. Lao Dan said, “When scattered chaff gets into the eyes, heaven, earth, and the four directions seem to exchange places. When mosquitoes and gadflies bite the skin, one stays awake the whole night. Benevolence and righteousness are so harsh that they agitate my heart; no disorder is greater than this. If you would keep the world from losing its unhewn simplicity, then you too should move with the wind and stand by gathering virtue into a whole!”

Why make such a strenuous display, like someone carrying a great drum while searching for a lost child? A swan is white without bathing every day; a crow is black without being darkened every day. The native plainness of black and white is not worth disputing over; the outward show of fame and praise is not enough to bring true breadth. When the springs dry up, fish are stranded together on land, breathing moisture upon one another and wetting one another with froth; better that they should forget one another in the rivers and lakes.”

After Confucius returned from seeing Lao Dan, he did not speak for three days. His disciples asked, “Master, when you met Lao Dan, what did you intend to admonish him about?”

Confucius said, “Only now, here, have I seen the dragon. The dragon gathers and becomes a whole body; it disperses and becomes patterned splendor. It rides upon clouds and vapor and is nourished by yin and yang. My mouth hung open, and I could not close it. How could I presume to offer Lao Dan any correction?”

Zigong said, “Then are there truly people who dwell still as a corpse yet appear like a dragon, who sound like thunder yet remain silent as an abyss, and whose movements, once set in motion, are like heaven and earth? May I, Ci, also have the chance to behold such a person?”

Thereupon, relying on Confucius’s renown, Zigong gained an audience with Lao Dan. Lao Dan received him while sitting in the hall with his legs stretched out, and said softly, “My years are already turning and passing away. What do you intend to admonish me with?”

Zigong said, “The Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors governed the world in different ways, yet they were alike in being bound to fame and reputation. You alone, sir, hold that they were not sages. How can that be?”

Lao Dan said, “Young man, come a little closer! On what grounds do you say they are different?”

He replied, “Yao handed rule to Shun, and Shun handed it to Yu. Yu employed labor, whereas Tang employed armed force. King Wen submitted to King Zhou and did not dare oppose him; King Wu opposed King Zhou and refused to submit. That is why I say they are different.”

Lao Dan said, “Young man, come a little closer, and I will tell you how the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors governed all under Heaven. When the Yellow Emperor governed all under Heaven, he made the people’s hearts one. If someone’s kin died and he did not weep, the people did not condemn him. When Yao governed all under Heaven, he made the people’s hearts cleave to their kin. If someone avenged a relative by killing the relative’s killer, the people did not condemn him. When Shun governed all under Heaven, he made the people’s hearts contend with one another.”

Among the common people, pregnant women bore their children after ten months, yet at five months old the children could already speak. Before they had even reached childhood, they began to distinguish who was who; from then on, human beings began to die prematurely. When Yu governed all under Heaven, he caused the people’s hearts to change. People came to have intentions of their own, and the use of arms acquired a sanctioned course: killing a robber was not counted as killing a person. People each formed a category of their own, and that was what they called ‘all under Heaven.’ Thus all under Heaven was greatly alarmed, and the Confucians and Mohists both arose. Their undertakings had some order at the outset; but now they are likened to women—what is there to say?”

Let me tell you: when the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors governed the world, it was called governing, yet nothing produced greater disorder. The wisdom of the Three Sovereigns ran counter above to the radiance of the sun and moon, estranged below the vital essence of mountains and rivers, and in between impaired the workings of the four seasons. Their wisdom was more cruelly venomous than the tail of a venomous scorpion-like creature; not even the tiniest creatures could rest securely in the genuine condition of their nature and life. Yet they still regarded themselves as sages. Should they not have been ashamed? How shameless they were!”

Zigong stood there shrinking uneasily, unable to compose himself.

Confucius said to Lao Dan, “I, Qiu, have worked on the six classics—the Odes, the Documents, the Rites, Music, the Changes, and the Spring and Autumn Annals—for a long time, as I supposed, and have become thoroughly acquainted with their underlying principles. With them I sought access to seventy-two rulers, discoursing on the Way of the former kings and illuminating the traces of the Dukes of Zhou and Shao, yet not one ruler found anything there to take hold of and use. How extreme the difficulty is! Are people so hard to persuade, or is the Way so hard to make clear?”

Laozi said, “It is fortunate that you did not meet a ruler of an orderly age! The Six Classics are only traces left by former kings; how could they be what gave rise to those traces? What you speak of now is still a trace. A footprint is made by a foot, but how could the footprint be the foot itself? White yi-birds look at one another, their pupils unmoving, and through the wind they engender life; among insects, the male calls from upwind and the female answers from downwind, and through the wind they too engender life.”

Within each kind, female and male arise of themselves, and so they are quickened through the wind. Innate nature cannot be changed, destiny cannot be altered, time cannot be halted, and the Way cannot be obstructed. If one attains the Way, there is no point of departure from which one cannot proceed; for one who loses it, there is no point of departure from which one can proceed.”

Before three months had passed, Confucius came to see him again and said, “I, Qiu, have grasped it. Crows and magpies hatch their young; fish propagate in froth; slender-waisted creatures transform and engender; when a younger brother appears, the elder brother cries. For a long time now, I, Qiu, have not joined with transformation in being human! If I do not join with transformation in being human, how could I transform others?”

Laozi said, “Good. Qiu has grasped it!”

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