ChineseStudy

All Under Heaven

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Many in the world cultivate specialized arts, and all regard what they have accomplished as something to which nothing can be added. Where, then, is what the ancients called the art of the Way? It is said: 'There is nowhere it is not.'

It is asked: 'From where does the divine descend? From where does illumination emerge?'

The sage has that from which he is born; the king has that which he brings to completion; both originate in the One.

Not departing from the source, one is called a heavenly person; not departing from essence, a spirit person; not departing from the true, an ultimate person.

Taking Heaven as the ancestral source, virtue as the root, and the Way as the gate, and perceiving the first omens in change and transformation: this is called a sage. Taking benevolence as kindness, righteousness as principle, ritual as conduct, and music as harmony, warm and kindly benevolent: this is called a noble person. Taking law as distinction, names as markers, comparison as verification, and examination as decision - its numbers are one, two, three, four - the hundred officials rank themselves by this. Taking affairs as the constant, food and clothing as primary, multiplying and rearing, storing and keeping, and keeping the old, weak, orphaned, and widowed in mind so that all have nourishment: this is the principle of the people.

How complete were the people of ancient times! They matched the divine and numinous, harmonized Heaven and Earth, nurtured the ten thousand things, brought harmony to the world, and their bounty reached the common people. They were clear about the root measures and linked to the branch regulations; the six directions were unobstructed and the four quarters opened; in small and great, fine and coarse, their operation was nowhere absent.

What was clear in measures and regulations survives in large part in old laws and histories handed down through the generations; what is found in the Poetry, Documents, Rites, and Music is mostly illuminated by the scholars of Zou and Lu and by the learned gentry. The Poetry expresses intent; the Documents recount affairs; the Rites guide conduct; the Music conveys harmony; the Changes set forth yin and yang; the Spring and Autumn sets forth names and social distinctions.

Those methods and arts, scattered throughout the world and established in the Central States, are sometimes praised and discussed by the teachings of the Hundred Schools.

When the world is in great disorder, the worthy and sages are no longer manifest, and the Way and virtue are not unified. People mostly seize on one partial insight and delight in it. It is like the ears, eyes, nose, and mouth: each has its own perception, but they cannot communicate with one another. So too the many skills of the Hundred Schools: each has its strength and is sometimes useful. Nevertheless, they are neither complete nor all-encompassing; they are scholars of a single corner.

They split the beauty of heaven and earth, dissect the patterns of the ten thousand things, and scrutinize the wholeness of the ancients. Yet few can be complete in the beauty of heaven and earth or match the countenance of the spirit-like clarity. Therefore the Way of inner sageliness and outer kingship is dark and unilluminated, blocked and not brought forth; everyone in the world pursues what he desires and makes his own method his standard. How sad! The Hundred Schools go on without turning back; they will surely never unite!

Scholars of later generations are unfortunate not to see the purity of Heaven and Earth and the great whole of the ancients. The art of the Way is about to be torn apart by the world.

They did not lavish expenditure on later generations, waste the myriad things, or make a display of measures and regulations; they corrected themselves with the plumb line and ink marker and prepared for the world’s emergencies. The ancient art of the Way had such a strand; Mo Di and Qin Guli heard of its ethos and embraced it. They went too far in practicing it and too far in prohibiting it. They formulated two doctrines, “Against Music” and “Economy in Expenditure.” They did not sing while alive; after death, survivors did not wear mourning for them.

Mozi advocated universal love and benefit for all, and opposed conflict; his Way was without anger. He also loved learning and was broad in knowledge, did not seek novelty for its own sake, yet did not agree with the former kings and rejected the ancient rites and music. The Yellow Emperor had the Xianchi; Yao, the Dazhang; Shun, the Dashao; Yu, the Daxia; Tang, the Dahu; King Wen, the music of Biyong; and King Wu and the Duke of Zhou composed the Wu.

In ancient funeral rites, noble and base had their ceremonies, high and low their grades. The Son of Heaven had seven layers of inner and outer coffins; the feudal lords, five; the great officers, three; the scholars, two. Now Mozi alone would have the living not sing and the living wear no mourning for the dead; he uses a three-inch paulownia coffin without an outer coffin and makes this the model. To teach others by this—I fear it is not loving others; to practice it oneself—assuredly it is not loving oneself.

This does not yet defeat Mozi's Way. Nevertheless, to sing yet not be singing, to weep yet not be weeping, to make music yet not be music—is this really of the proper kind? In life he was laborious; in death he was meager; his Way was greatly harsh. It makes people anxious and sad; his practice is hard to carry out. I fear it cannot be the Way of the sage; it goes against the heart of the world. The world cannot bear it.

Though Mozi alone can bear it, what of the world? Cut off from the world, he is far from kingship. Mozi praised [Yu], saying: 'Formerly Yu dammed the floodwaters, opened the rivers, and made them flow through the four barbarian regions and the nine provinces. There were three hundred famous mountains, three thousand branch streams, and countless smaller ones. Yu himself took up basket and spade and nine times gathered and regulated the rivers of the world.'

His calves were without flesh, his shins without hair; he was bathed by heavy rain and combed by fierce wind, and he established the myriad states. Yu was a great sage, yet he toiled his body for the world like this.

Thus the Mohists of later generations mostly wore furs and coarse cloth as clothing, clogs and straw sandals as footwear, toiled day and night without rest, and took self-imposed hardship to the extreme, saying: 'If one cannot do this, it is not Yu's Way; one does not deserve to be called a Mohist.'

The disciples of Xiangli Qin, the followers of Wuhou, and the southern Mohists Ku Huo, Yi Chi, Dengling Zi and their kind all recited the Mo Jing, yet diverged, quibbled, and differed from one another, calling each other “separate Mohists.” They disparaged one another through debates over hard and white, sameness and difference, and answered one another with mismatched phrases about odd and even; they regarded the Mohist Juzi, or leader, as a sage.

They all wished to act as his ritual corpse-impersonator, hoping to become his successors; to this day the matter is unsettled. The intentions of Mo Di and Qin Guli were right, but their practice was wrong. It would make the Mohists of later ages inevitably vie with one another in self-affliction, until their calves had no flesh and their shins no hair. This is the height of disorder and the low point of order.

Even so, Mozi was truly a good man of the world; one may seek for such a man and not find him; though withered and dried up, he did not give up—a talented man indeed!

Not burdened by custom, not embellished by things, not improperly accommodating toward others, not envious toward the crowd; wishing the world peace and tranquility so that the people may live; in nourishing others and oneself, stopping only when all is sufficiently supplied—by this they made their hearts clear. Among the ancient arts of the Way there was something in this; Song Xing and Yin Wen heard its wind and delighted in it.

They made caps in the shape of Mount Hua to display themselves, and in receiving all things they began with distinguishing boundaries. They spoke of the capacity of the heart and named it 'the movement of the heart.' They used mildness to unite people in joy and to harmonize within the seas. They wished to establish this as the master principle. When insulted they did not feel disgraced; they rescued the people from strife, prohibited attacks and put weapons to rest, and saved the world from warfare. With this they traveled around the world, persuading those above and teaching those below.

Even if the world did not accept them, they persisted in forceful, insistent admonition and would not give up. Hence it is said: those above and below found them tiresome, yet they insisted on making themselves seen. Even so, they did too much for others and too little for themselves, saying, “We ask only that five sheng of rice be kept ready; that is enough.”

The teacher feared he would not get enough to eat; although the disciples were hungry, they did not forget the world, and day and night they did not rest. They said, 'I must live!'

How ambitious and proud are these world-saving scholars! They said, 'The gentleman does not engage in harsh scrutiny, nor does he use his person to avail himself of things.'

They held that, for anything of no benefit to the world, making it clear was not as good as stopping. They took prohibiting aggression and halting weapons as the outer, and making desires few and shallow as the inner. In matters small and great, refined and coarse, their practice simply reached this point and stopped.

Impartial and not partisan, easy and without private interest, resolute and without a fixed master, moving toward things without twofoldness, not turning back to deliberation, not scheming with knowledge, choosing nothing among things and going along with them—the ancient art of the Way had something in this. Peng Meng, Tian Pian, and Shen Dao heard its wind and delighted in it.

They took equalizing the myriad things as their first principle, saying: 'Heaven can cover them but cannot carry them; Earth can carry them but cannot cover them; the Great Way can encompass them but cannot differentiate them.'

They knew that the myriad things all have what may be affirmed and what may not. Therefore they said: 'To select is not to be all-inclusive; to teach is not to reach all; the Way itself leaves nothing out.'

Therefore Shen Dao cast aside knowledge and discarded the self, and followed only what could not be otherwise. He was coolly detached from things and took this as the Way and its principle. He said: “To know what is not known is to come close to knowledge and afterward be near to being harmed by it.”

Crooked and without responsibility, he laughed at the world’s honoring of the worthy; unrestrained and without proper conduct, he criticized the world’s great sages. Hammering, beating, rounding, and cutting, he turned along with things; he set aside right and wrong, if only he might escape. He did not take knowledge and deliberation as his teacher; he did not know front from back, and simply stood aloof. He moved only after being pushed, and went only after being dragged.

Like a whirlwind turning back, a feather spinning, or a millstone revolving, it is whole and without fault; in movement and rest it commits no wrong and has never incurred blame. Why is this? A thing without knowledge has no trouble from asserting itself and no burden from using knowledge; its movement and rest do not depart from principle, and so to the end of its life it receives no praise.

Therefore it is said: “Simply reach the point of being like a thing without knowledge; there is no use for the worthy and the sage. That clod does not lose the Way.”

Heroes and outstanding men laughed at him together, saying: “Shen Dao’s Way is not the conduct of living people; it reaches the principle of dead people.”

This indeed brought him a reputation for being strange. Tian Pian was likewise: he studied under Peng Meng and received the teaching that is not taught. Peng Meng’s teacher said: “The ancient followers of the Way reached the point of affirming nothing and denying nothing. Their influence came upon one in a sudden gust—how can it be put into words?”

They constantly ran counter to others, were not looked upon with admiration, and yet could not escape 'yuanduan'—being cut off. What they called the Way was not the Way, and the rightness of what they said could not avoid being wrong. Peng Meng, Tian Pian, and Shen Dao did not know the Way. Even so, in a general way they had all once heard something of it.

They regarded the root as refined and things as coarse; they regarded having accumulation as insufficiency, and dwelt tranquilly alone with spiritual brightness. In the ancient art of the Way there was something of this; Guan Yin and Lao Dan heard its wind and delighted in it. They established it with constant non-being and made the Great One its master. They took softness, weakness, humility, and lowliness as the outer form, and emptiness that does not destroy the myriad things as the inner reality.

Guan Yin said: 'In oneself there is no fixed dwelling; formed things manifest themselves.'

Their movement was like water, their stillness like a mirror, their response like an echo. Vague, as if absent; still, as if clear. Those who are one with it are harmonious; those who grasp it lose it. They never put themselves before others but always followed them. Lao Dan said: “Know the masculine, keep to the feminine, and become the stream of the world; know the white, keep to the lowly and disgraced, and become the valley of the world.”

Others all choose to go first; they alone choose to go last. They said: 'Accept the dirt of the world.' Others all take the solid; they alone take the empty. 'Because they store nothing, they have surplus.' Firmly standing, they had surplus. In conducting themselves they were unhurried and not wasteful; doing nothing, they laughed at cleverness. Others all seek blessing; they alone bend to preserve wholeness. They said: 'If only we may avoid blame.' They took depth as root and restraint as guideline.

They said: 'The hard is destroyed; the sharp is blunted.' Always broad and tolerant toward things, they did not cut down others. Though they did not reach the utmost, Guan Yin and Lao Dan—how broad and great were the true men of ancient times!

Vague and desolate, it has no form; changing without constancy, is it death or life? Does it exist together with Heaven and Earth? Does spiritual power go with it? In its vast obscurity, where does it go? In its suddenness, where does it head? All things are encompassed, yet none is adequate as a final home. An ancient art of the Way had its place here; Zhuang Zhou heard of its influence and delighted in it.

He used far-fetched doctrines, absurd words, and expressions without edge or limit. At times he let his expression range freely without partisanship, yet did not present matters from a one-sided or partial perspective. He regarded the world as sunk in turbidity, such that one could not speak solemnly with it. He let goblet-words flow and proliferate, treated weighty words as true, and used entrusted speech—words lodged in another’s voice—to speak broadly. Alone he came and went with the spirit of Heaven and Earth, yet he looked down on none of the myriad things.

He did not condemn right and wrong, and so dwelt with the world. Although his writings are magnificent and extraordinary, they are accommodating and do no harm; although his words are uneven, they are strange and marvelous to behold. He was so full and vital that he could not cease. Above, he roamed with the Creator; below, he made friends with those who transcend life and death and have no beginning or end.

In relation to the root, it is grand and open, deep, broad, and unconstrained; in relation to its source, it may be called harmonious and fitting, reaching upward. Even so, in responding to transformation and comprehending things, its principles do not run dry, and its coming does not slough away. Vague and obscure, it cannot be fully exhausted.

Hui Shi had many skills; his writings filled five carts, but his way was mixed and inconsistent, and his words did not hit the mark. In examining things, he said: The utmost great has nothing outside it—call it the Great One. The utmost small has nothing inside it—call it the Small One. That which has no thickness cannot be accumulated, yet it is a thousand li in size. Heaven is as low as earth, and mountains are level with marshes. The sun is at noon and already declining; a thing is being born and already dying.

The great similarity differs from the small similarity—this is called 'small similarity-and-difference'; all things are completely similar and completely different—this is called 'great similarity-and-difference.' The south is infinite yet finite. Today I go to Yue, yet yesterday I arrived. A linked ring can be untied. I know the center of Heaven: it is north of Yan and south of Yue. Love all things universally; Heaven and Earth are one body.

Hui Shi regarded these propositions as grand, displayed them to the world, and enlightened the disputers; the disputers of the world all delighted in them together. An egg has hair. A chicken has three feet. Ying possesses the world. A dog can be a sheep. A horse has eggs. A tadpole has a tail. Fire is not hot. A mountain comes out of a mouth. A wheel does not tread on the ground. The eye does not see. A finger does not arrive; arrival does not come to an end. A turtle is longer than a snake.

A carpenter's square is not square; a compass cannot make a circle. A mortise does not enclose a tenon. The shadow of a flying bird has never moved. Though an arrowhead is swift, there is a moment when it neither moves nor stops. A dog is not a canine. A yellow horse and a black ox are three. A white dog is black. An orphan foal has never had a mother. A one-foot stick: take half of it each day, and ten thousand generations will not exhaust it.

The disputers used these propositions to respond to Hui Shi, and to the end of their lives there was no end to it. Huan Tuan, Gongsun Long, and others of the disputers' kind adorned people's minds and altered people's intentions; they could defeat people's mouths but could not convince people's hearts—this was the enclosure of the disputers. Hui Shi daily used his knowledge to debate with them, merely making oddities together with the disputers of the world; this was their root.

Yet in his talk Hui Shi considered himself the most worthy, saying, “How grand are Heaven and Earth! I, Shi, possess a heroic vigor but have no art.”

In the south there was an unusual man named Huang Liao. He asked why Heaven and Earth do not fall or sink, and the causes of wind, rain, thunder, and lightning. Hui Shi answered without declining, replied without deliberating, and expounded all the myriad things.

He spoke without resting, abundant and without end, and still thought it too little; he added oddities to it. He took contradicting others as reality and wished to win a name by surpassing others; therefore he was not in accord with the crowd. Weak in virtue and strong in things, his path was narrow and obstructed. Viewed from the way of Heaven and Earth, Hui Shi's ability was like the labor of a mosquito and a gadfly.

What use was he in relation to things? If he had simply filled out the One, one might still call it better; he would have come close to honoring the Way. Hui Shi could not use this to bring himself peace; he scattered himself among the myriad things and was never satisfied, and in the end made his name as a skilled debater. Alas! Hui Shi’s talent was unmoored and without attainment; he pursued the myriad things and never turned back. This is to exhaust an echo with sound, to race the body against its shadow. How sad!

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