Zhuangzi translation and commentary

吾生也有涯，而知也无涯。以有涯隨无涯，殆已；已而為知者，殆而已矣。

為善无近名，

為惡无近刑。

緣督以為經，

可以保身，

可以全生，

可以養親，

可以盡年。

[a] 故足之於地也踐，雖踐，恃其所不蹍而後善博也；人之於知也少，雖少，恃其所不知而後知天之所謂也。

知大一，知大陰，知大目，知大均，知大方，知大信，知大定，至矣。大一通之，大陰解之，大目視之，大均緣之，大方體之，大信稽之，大定持之。

盡有天，循有照，冥有樞，始有彼。則其解之也似不解之者，其知之也似不知之也，不知而後知之。其問之也，不可以有崖，而不可以無崖。

頡滑有實，古今不代，而不可以虧，則可不謂有大揚搉乎！闔不亦問是已，奚惑然為！以不惑解惑，復於不惑，是尚大不惑。

[b] 以不平平，其平也不平；以不徵徵，其徵也不徵。明者唯為之使，神者徵之。夫明之不勝神也久矣，而愚者恃其所見入於人，其功外也，不亦悲乎！

故曰：風之過河也有損焉，日之過河也有損焉。請只風與日相與守河，而河以為未始其攖也，恃源而往者也。

故水之守土也審，影之守人也審，物之守物也審。故目之於明也殆，耳之於聰也殆，心之於殉也殆。凡能其於府也殆，殆之成也不給改。禍之長也茲萃，其反也緣功，其果也待久。而人以為己寶，不亦悲乎！故有亡國戮民無已，不知問是也。

My life has a shore, but knowledge has no shore. If you use the shored to pursue the shoreless, you're in danger of running out. And if you do run out and take that as knowledge, that’s just dangerous! [1]

If you do good, don't get noticed. 

If you do bad, don't get caught. 

Follow the central artery, make it your text, 

and you can protect yourself, 

can complete your life, 

can raise your family, 

and can finish your years. [2]

The foot stands on a bit of ground. But though you stand on that bit, it is by relying on the ground you don’t stand on that you can get around. Similarly, what people know is small, but it is by relying on what we don’t know that we are able to know what is meant by "heaven."

Exhaust the natural, follow the bright, merge with the pivot, and start with that. Then the resolution will seem like non-resolution and knowledge will seem like non knowledge. Don't know and then you will know. Your questions will have no landmarks, nor will they lack landmarks. 

What slips and falls has substance. It doesn't change from past to present and cannot be diminished. So can't you say there's a general outline? So why not just ask about it? Why the hesitation? If we use doubtless to resolve doubt and return to doubtless, this will be the great big doubtless! 

If you use what's unfair to make fair, then your fair is unfair; if you use the unproven to prove, your proof is unproven. Sight is only something we employ to do things; the spiritual clinches it. It's long been true that sight can't beat spirit. But fools trust what they see to go among men, and their successes are wide of the mark. Isn't it sad!

So they say, when the wind crosses a river, there is a loss. When the sun crosses a river, there is a loss. Just let the wind and sun guard the river together and the river still won't feel the friction, because it relied on springs to go. 

So waters guard the land because it is safe. Shadows guard form because it it safe. Things guard things because it is safe. So clarity is a danger to the eye. Acuity is a danger to the ear. Self-sacrifice is a danger to the mind. Any amassing of abilities is a danger. And once the danger comes to fruition, it won't give or change. The disaster's growth will be lush. Going back will take work and its fruit will require a long time. But people keep thinking of these things as treasures. Isn't it sad? The reason for the endless destruction of states and slaughtering of people is that no one knows to ask about this. 

[1] This is a poetic passage, full of wordplay, hence difficult to translate. A primary meaning of What does it mean to say that life has a shore but knowledge has none? I can think of at least two possibilities.

1. Life has a limited duration. Knowledge goes on forever. You could spend your whole life learning and still not be done.
2. (This is a little more abstract.) Life is conditioned. For whatever reason, I am a creature that needs sleep and can't eat sand, for instance. Knowledge/thoughts are unconditioned: nothing stops us from saying "sleep is bad" and "sand is good." My life is bound to a perspective; my knowledge is not.

已 yǐ means "stop." The phrase 而已矣 éryǐyǐ, literally something like "and stop--period," means "is all" or "and nothing more." Sometimes 已 yǐ by itself means that, functioning in effect like 矣 yǐ, "period"; sometimes it functions as a full verb, "to stop." This is the ambiguity at play here. When you first encounter 殆已 dàiyǐ, literally "danger stop," it could mean either "danger is all/just dangerous" or it could mean "in danger of stopping." You don't know. Then in the next sentence, you encounter 殆而已矣 dàiéryǐyǐ, which can only mean "danger is all/just dangerous" and which causes you to go back and realize the previous sentence must have been something different, therefore: "danger of stopping." These kinds of grammatical shenanigans—putting you in a position of ignorance, then forcing you to revise—are pretty typical of Zhuangzi.

The next sentence confirms this, since, unlike 而已 éryǐ, "is all," 已而 yǐér means "having stopped, then. . . " But what does it mean, 已而為知者 "if you stop/run out and take that as knowledge"? First of all, is 已 yǐ, "stopping," by itself good or bad? The statement "you are in danger of stopping," makes it sound like a bad thing. 已乎已乎 yĭhūyĭhū, "Stop! Stop!," in 2:02, makes it sound like stopping is a good thing. The final sentence here, "if you run out and take that as knowledge, that’s just dangerous!" sounds to me as though it is not the stopping, but the taking of the stopping as knowledge, that is dangerous. Why? There is a reading of Zhuangzi that says, in effect, "when you give up trying to know, then you know." That would seem to be exactly what is repudiated here. One guess is that he wants you to give up trying to know, he just doesn't want you to call the resulting state knowledge, as in 2:06: "Just go along with things. Doing that without knowing how things are is what I call the Way." But I am a little unclear on why it matters so much whether or not you call it knowledge. I am tempted to connect it to someone like the traveler with the hand-salve in 106, who realized the relativity of knowledge and tried to use it to his advantage, leading to disaster. But I can't see this description applying to him as clearly as I would like.

[2] This passage is just difficult, starting with 緣督以為經 yuándūyǐwéijīng. 督 dū means "oversee," and it is difficult to make sense of it following 緣 yuán, "follow." One thing that one can 緣 yuán, "follow," however, is the way, 道 dào, so perhaps there is a pun. Commentators say that 督 dū is a central artery or vein. If so there may be another pun with making the central artery your 經 jīng. 經 jīng normally means a classic text; but it can also mean a passage, the warp in a fabric, or apparently in the next passage (3:02) blood vessels. So this line could mean both "make the vein your vessel" (a joke) and "make sticking to the center your gospel." 

All the verbal mystifications aside, the admonitions in this second note do not seem particularly profound. The goal of self-protection ("to finish your years") seems uncharacteristically pedestrian, especially given the questions he just asked: "“How do I know that loving life is not a mistake? . . . How do I know that the dead don’t regret that they ever longed for life?" (2:12). Part of me is tempted to find this section, 3:01, as incompatible with the spirit of the rest of the book. On the other hand, the image of following the blood vessels does suggest continuity with the story of the butcher that follows. Back on the first hand, that discontinuity may be the result, not of the author, but of a later editor who grouped passages by themes. 

[a] This passage ends abruptly and seems to be missing something. Based on similarities in themes and wording, Graham fills in the rest with fragments found elsewhere in the text. This first one comes from CTP 24.14 (HYZY 24/105-11). Graham places it here based on its positive use of 解 jiě, translated here as "resolve" and shortly as "cutting up" (the ox) (Roth 18).

[b] CTP 32. (HYZY 32/50-52). Graham places this passage here on the basis of its elevation of spirit over sight. (Roth 18)

[c] 24.14 (HYZY 24/103-105). Graham places this passage here because it demotes the senses. (Roth 18)