The Taoist author named Chuang-tzu (zhuangzi, "Master Chuang"), whose personal name is Chuang Chou (zhuang zhou), is estimated to have lived in the fourth century BCE, between 399 and 255 BCE (as Wing-tsit Chan, 1963, suggests). He was probably a contemporary of the Confucian scholar Mencius, although their writings do not mention any mutual acquaintance.
Chuang-tzu was a native of a place called Meng, situated in today's Honan province, at that time part of the state of Sung. This state did not have much political clout, but its mark of distinction was that here the descendants of the defeated Shang dynasty were enfeoffed "in order that they might carry on the sacrifices to their illustrious ancestors" (B. Watson, 1970: 1-2). Chuang-tzu's connection with the Sung state would explain the background of his thinking: "skepticism and mystical detachment" (Watson: 2), so much in contrast with the more optimistic vision of Confucianism.
From his writings, especially the "Seven Inner Chapters," Chuang-tzu appears as a brilliant thinker, an ironical mind, an iconoclast even, who smiles at the narrow-minded concepts and customs of society. Although the text attributed to him may be corrupt in some places, his message of transcendence and freedom comes through clearly and strongly.
His personality also shines bright through the inclusion of several biographic anecdotes: They cannot be given strict historical credit, but they "smell" like the work of his close associates or disciples and probably reflect true life situations. They put some meat on the meager skeleton of historical evidence.
Several anecdotal stories relate Chuang-tzu's relationship with Hui-tzu, a master who belonged to the School of Logic. Although they were good friends and excellently matched opponents in philosophic dispute, Chuang-tzu disliked logic and distrusted language, too often abused. The anecdotes are delightful "short" stories of dialogues between Master Chuang and Master Hui, and give us a lively image of Chuang-tzu's technique of argument. To quote just one example from Chapter 17, titled "Autumn Floods": The two masters were strolling along the Hao River, when Chuang-tzu noticed a school of fish down in the water. "See how these minnows swim around as they please!" he said. "That is what fish really enjoy!" Hui-tzu, skeptical in his logic responds: "You are not a fish; how do you know what fish enjoy?" Chuang-tzu said, "You are not me, how do you know I don't know ... " Huit-tzu agreed, but was still not convinced: "I admit I don't know what you know, but it still proves that you don't know what fish enjoy!" Chuang-tzu then said: "Let's get back to the original question: You asked me how [whence] I know what fish enjoy — so you already implied that I knew it. Well, I know it from standing here along the river." (paraphrase of Watson: 188-9).
Here we see the deep difference of knowing something logically or through immediate intuition. Chuang-tzu is an intuitive thinker, who frustrates the logical mind but keeps delighting those who trust their own basic instincts and intuitions.
Chaung-Tzu: The Text
The transmitted text, edited by "Neo-Taoist" philsopher Kuo-hsiang (d. 312 CE) consists of three sections: the so-called inner chapters (Chapters 1-7), possibly written by Chuang-tzu himself; the "outer chapters" (Chapters 8-22); and the "miscellaneous chapters" (Chapters 23-33). It is probable that Kuo-hsiang cut out part of the existing text and gave the titles to each chapter, which we still know today. But many historical and literary questions remained unsolved until modern scholarship started to tackle the problem. No external evidence exists about the time of composition, nor about the actual authorship. It has been assumed that the Tao Te Ching was older than the Chuang-tzu, and one still finds senseless statements in scholarly works that Chuang-tzu was a student of Lao-tzu. This is ludicrous. The "inner chapters" were certainly written before the Tao Te Ching, possibly by the master himself, but in any case by someone close to him, like a direct disciple. The other chapters have been written at various times. A. Graham has made an intensive study of the text and has proposed approximate dates for the different "streams" of thought present in the 33 chapters (Graham, 1981: 27-28):
Chapters 1-7: Chuang-tzu's own writings (4th c. BCE);
Chapters 8-10, half of 11: primitivist stream (about 205 BCE);
Chapters 11 (2nd half), 12-14 & 33: syncretist stream (2nd c. BCE);
Chapters 28-31: "Yangist miscellany", (about 200 BCE).
Other chapters are partially assigned to particular streams, but no exact dates are offered:
Chapters 15-16 (a Chinese source dates them between Chin and Han);
Chapters 17-22: school of Chuang-tzu;
Chapters 23-27 & 32: "rag bag" (heterogeneous and fragmented).
Graham's analysis is mainly based on inner criticism: What we summarily call the Chuang-tzu does not have a predominant inner consistency. There are obviously different streams of thought present, so that today we realize that the whole collection of essays was written over a few centuries, between Chuang-tzu's own time (perhaps from around 340-320 BCE) and when his school or related schools flourished (perhaps until about 150 BCE). The date 150 BCE is tentative: It is the time of Han Emperor Wu's rise to power and his adoption of Confucianism as the state orthodoxy. That would certainly influence the fate of Taoism.
Another consideration that few Chuang-tzu specialists have proposed so far may indirectly throw light on the composition of some chapters. It is the way in which the various authors depict Confucius. The 33 chapters of the Chuang-tzu are usually subdivided into separate episodes, sometimes stories or anecdotes, theoretic discussions, or dialogues. They are clearly separated, although not numbered. (For instance, in Chapter 14, there are seven episodes, in Chapter 23, there are 12, etc.)
When focusing on those chapters in which Confucius or an immediate disciple appears, we get a great surprise: In the whole book, there are 46 such episodes spread over the three sections ("inner": 9; "outer": 25; misc.: 12). This does not yet include other chapters in which Confucian principles are criticized without naming them. What is more astounding as well as puzzling, however, is the way in which the sage is portrayed: Sometimes he is attacked, ridiculed, or criticized as a bombast or ignorant bore, sometimes Confucius admired skilled persons (who embody some Taoist principle); in other places, he is instructed by Lao Tan (Lao-tzu) because he has not yet quite "got it"; and finally, in over a dozen episodes, he appears as an enlightened Taoist sage, discussing Taoist principles as brilliantly as if he were Lao Tan himself.
One wonders about the rationale behind these various presentations. One speculation is that the different depictions may be connected with different time periods. At first, Confucius was not a great competitor with Taoism, but as time went on, the schools accentuated their differences and may have become rivals to gain official favor; finally, once Confucianism became enshrined as the official learning, it may have become dangerous to criticize Confucius. It was politically safer to praise him as a great sage. This interpretation is worthwhile to persue and may or may not confirm earlier presumptions about dating the Chuang-tzu.
Whatever transpires about authorships and dates, it is beyond doubt that Chuang-tzu was a brilliant thinker and attracted other bright minds, who continued the master's teaching. In many of the later chapters (such as Chapters 17 and 22) we find jewels of literary composition, even if some of those chapters have been "butchered" by later editors. The final Chapter 33 presents a brilliant overview of the philosophical schools competing at the time. The expression "sagely within and kingly without" (Whatson, 1970: 364) is a masterful slogan characterizing the syncretist author, who perhaps was also the final editor of the book before Kuo Hsiang totally revised it.
Chaung-Tzu: Themes
To read the Chuang-tzu is an enriching experience, a discovery of literary genius as well as of a deep spirituality. The book is like a fascinating lanascape painting, both realistic and abstract, both obvious and full of hidden meanings. The longer one looks, the more discoveries one makes. It is difficult, therefore, to express the basic Chuang-tzu themes in just a few pages.
In general, the Chuang-tzu is quite different from the Tao Te Ching. Even if they talk about similar concepts (the Tao, the sage, nonaction, etc.) they move on different levels: The Tao Te Ching advocates spiritual practices and a deep understanding of the Tao in order to become an enlightened sage-ruler. The Chuang-tzu is not interested in bureaucratic government: Life is too interesting to waste on politics! He inspires mystical transcendence, joyful freedom, freedom from the boundaries and restrictions imposed on us, not by nature, but by narrow-minded human societies (this is the contrast between what is "of heaven" and what is "of man"). These restrictions imposed on us are like a cage preventing us from flying up into open space and being fully ourselves. To avoid the traps of society, fly high enough.
The sage of Chuang-tzu is multifaceted. Above all, he scorns the values of a mediocre society. As the huge mythical bird (Chapter 1), he soars above the clouds beyond the limited space of little birds. Small understanding cannot fathom great understanding. To use another analogy, small people are like frogs in a deep well, reveling in the lowly enjoyments of their mudpool, but incapable of understanding life in the wide ocean.
Chuang-tzu appears to be a skeptic, he does not overly trust language, certainly not as something absolute. It has only relative value because, although it is meant to express what is "true" or to communicate ideas, it is often abused and divides. There is too much empty language, which means nothing, yet appears to be smart and eloquent. Language leads to positions that contradict each other; it divides people instead of bringing them together.
Why is that? It is because what people perceive as truth is made into absolute truth. From the standpoint of the Tao (Transcendent Being), human values, including truth value, have only relative validity. Chuang-tzu uses a beautiful analogy to explain this (Chapter 2). He talks about the music of earth, the music of man, the music of heaven. The music of the earth is when the wind blows in holes and cavities of mountains and trees: It generates roaring, screeching, gasping, crying, howling (Watson: 36), as if an army of demented is on the move. Yet, with the wind as music master, there is a oneness of sound with all particular sounds blending together. Similarly, the music of man consists of a great orchestra with many different instruments, but the baton of the musical director creates harmony, where otherwise, if each plays his/her own tune, there would be cacophony and chaos. As a group, each plays his/her own part, and the result is meaningful and delightful.
However, with the music of heaven, there is a difference. Heaven "breathes" through the minds of all people. Yet everyone thinks differently (three people, four opinions!), and when emotions get involved, the result is disastrous. Here too there should be a unifying principle, but it is hard to find. As a result, societies are in chaos, because opinions or partial truths are taken for absolute and complete. This leads to intolerance, hatred, prejudice, discrimination, suppression, dictatorship, exploitation, even persecution. The world does not need this.
Looked at in the light of heaven, one should realize that the Tao is like the axis of all things and opinions (the title of Chapter 2 is the "relativity of all things and opinions"). There is no absolute expression of truth in any particular statement. All opinions and convictions are necessarily relative and incomplete. Fighting with words and arguments is nonsense. Within the greater light of Tao as central axis, all things and opinions find their place as partial expressions of the real. That is the wholeness of the Tao, which leads to the harmony of minds and peaceful coexistence.
what we know of it cannot be absolute.
A simple yet deeply meaningful anecdote concludes Chapter 2: the famous "butterfly dream" (Watson: 49). In his dream, Chuang-tzu becomes a butterfly, happily fluttering around. When he "wakes up," he is Chuang-tzu again ... or is he? Dream and reality are fluid, easily transforming into one another. (The dream motif occurs frequently in both the the Chuang-tzu and the Lieh-tzu.)
Caring for life (Chapter 3) is an important motif in the Chuang-tzu. Life is a precious gift and should be nurtured; it must be enjoyed to the fullest, always in moderation. Once time is up, the gift should be returned without a grudge. Some people abuse their life energies: they are like butchers who hack when cutting up a dead ox. The sage goes along with the flow of life, but does not "hack," does not exhaust his life force. After watching Cook Ting cut up an ox, his Lord exclaims: I have now learned how to care for life! (Watson: 50-51).
A corollary of this episode is that Chuang-tzu does not advocate efforts to prolong life beyond what is heaven-given and less so efforts to reach immortality.
Indeed, acceptance of death or submission to fate are a theme very dear to Chuang-tzu (Chapter 6 and many others). Life and death are fated, they rotate in perfect order, just like the four seasons. Life is a gift, to be apreciated, but when the allotted time is up, it should be returned without any fuss.
The sage understands the higher reality of the life processes; here, too, his insight transcends the mediocre mind of most. It is not the individual who is important, but the eternal "play" of the Tao, creating, destroying, and creating again. As individuals, appearing somewhere from nowhere, we are on the stage for a short while, and then must get off; the life cycle goes on. This is reality: Because it is fated and irreversible, it is wise for us to accept it with joy. Life will be more joyful without the scare of death. (Related anecdotes in the Chuang-tzu, besides Chapter 6, are in Chapter 3, Watson: 52-53; Chapter 18, Watson: 191-2, when Chuang-tzu's wife died; Chapter 18, Watson: 193-4, story of the skull.)
Chuang-tzu's cynical views on the world of politics are well-known. Would-be ministers and royal advisers take heed: Rulers cannot be trusted. Two of the inner chapters discuss the matter of government: Chapters 4 and 7. The theme of Chapter 4 is a warning: It is very difficult to be a good advisor to kings. If one uses any approach that the king dislikes, one could be in danger. It is safer not to serve in government and to be useless, that ensures long life. In episode 3, a realistic analogy is proposed: how to deal with tigers (in a zoo). Go along with the tiger's wishes, to a point. To oppose them completely is dangerous, but so is going along. Other analogies are about "useless" old trees (see below) and "useless" people: crippled Shu is a "reject" of society, but is able to live well and be cared for. How much better is "crippled virtue"!
Chapter 7 discusses responsive rulership. Although this title promises a treatise on the Taoist way of government, there is not much to support the title. Episode 3 best reflects Chuang-tzu's views, when he lets "Nameless" give this advice:
blend your spirit with the vastness,
follow along with things the way they are
and make no room for personal views —
then the world will be governed.
If no personal considerations of gain or power interfere, or, in a more positive way, if a ruler lets his people live their lives in spontaneity, then the empire will be in order of its own accord. That is the meaning of being "responsive," to be in correspondence with all beings. (The famous story of Chuang-tzu rejecting a government offer is in Chapter 17, Watson: 187-8.)
A corollary to Chuang-tzu's view on government is his almost playful introduction of the Use of the Useless, a theme occurring several times in Chapter 4 and elsewhere. His favorite analogy is the "useless" tree: Because its wood cannot be used for anything or (in another case) because it bears no edible fruit, nobody is going to hurt it. It will be able to live out its allotted life span in tranquillity and become huge and provide shade so as to become a resting place for people and animals. (Reminiscent of "sacred" old trees even today, often growing near the shrines of the earth-spirit.)
Useless trees, useless people, useless "words" too! That is what Hui-tzu accused Chuang-tzu of. But the answer was scattering Hui-tzu's logic: A person stands only on a small spot at one time; if one cuts away all the surrounding earth, would it still be of any use? "No," Hui-tzu admits. "It is obvious, then," said Chuang-tzu, "that the useless has its use" (Chapter 26, Watson: 299).
Chuang-tzu's words remain "useful" for us today: They help us to accept our mortality, while yet trying to reach a happy and free life.