北冥有鱼，其名为鲲。鲲之大，不知其几千里也；化而为鸟，其名为鹏。鹏之背，不知其几千里也；怒而飞，其翼若垂天之云。是鸟也，海运则将徙于南冥。南冥者，天池也。《齐谐》者，志怪者也。《谐》之言曰：“鹏之徙于南冥也，水击三千里，抟扶摇而上者九万里，去以六月息者也。”野马也，尘埃也，生物之以息相吹也。天之苍苍，其正色邪？其远而无所至极邪？其视下也，亦若是则已矣。且夫水之积也不厚，则其负大舟也无力。覆杯水于坳堂之上，则芥为之舟；置杯焉则胶，水浅而舟大也。风之积也不厚，则其负大翼也无力。故九万里，则风斯在下矣，而后乃今培风；背负青天，而莫之夭阏者，而后乃今将图南。
蜩与学鸠笑之曰：“我决起而飞，抢榆枋而止，时则不至，而控于地而已矣，奚以之九万里而南为？”适莽苍者，三餐而反，腹犹果然；适百里者，宿舂粮；适千里者，三月聚粮。之二虫又何知！
小知不及大知，小年不及大年。奚以知其然也？朝菌不知晦朔，蟪蛄不知春秋，此小年也。楚之南有冥灵者，以五百岁为春，五百岁为秋；上古有大椿者，以八千岁为春，八千岁为秋。此大年也。而彭祖乃今以久特闻，众人匹之，不亦悲乎？
汤之问棘也是已：“穷发之北，有冥海者，天池也。有鱼焉，其广数千里，未有知其修者，其名为鲲。有鸟焉，其名为鹏，背若泰山，翼若垂天之云；抟扶摇羊角而上者九万里，绝云气，负青天，然后图南，且适南冥也。斥鷃笑之曰：‘彼且奚适也？我腾跃而上，不过数仞而下，翱翔蓬蒿之间，此亦飞之至也。而彼且奚适也？’”此小大之辩也。
故夫知效一官、行比一乡、德合一君、而征一国者，其自视也，亦若此矣。而宋荣子犹然笑之。且举世誉之而不加劝，举世非之而不加沮，定乎内外之分，辩乎荣辱之境，斯已矣。彼其于世，未数数然也。虽然，犹有未树也。夫列子御风而行，泠然善也，旬有五日而后反。彼于致福者，未数数然也。此虽免乎行，犹有所待者也。若夫乘天地之正，而御六气之辩，以游无穷者，彼且恶乎待哉？故曰：至人无己，神人无功，圣人无名。
尧让天下于许由，曰：“日月出矣，而爝火不息；其于光也，不亦难乎？时雨降矣，而犹浸灌；其于泽也，不亦劳乎？夫子立而天下治，而我犹尸之；吾自视缺然，请致天下。”许由曰：“子治天下，天下既已治也；而我犹代子，吾将为名乎？名者，实之宾也；吾将为宾乎？鹪鹩巢于深林，不过一枝；偃鼠饮河，不过满腹。归休乎君，予无所用天下为！庖人虽不治庖，尸祝不越樽俎而代之矣！”
肩吾问于连叔曰：“吾闻言于接舆，大而无当，往而不反。吾惊怖其言。犹河汉而无极也；大有径庭，不近人情焉。”连叔曰：“其言谓何哉？”曰：“藐姑射之山，有神人居焉。肌肤若冰雪，淖约若处子，不食五谷，吸风饮露，乘云气，御飞龙，而游乎四海之外；其神凝，使物不疵疠而年谷熟。吾以是狂而不信也。”连叔曰：“然。瞽者无以与乎文章之观，聋者无以与乎钟鼓之声。岂唯形骸有聋盲哉？夫知亦有之！是其言也，犹时女也。之人也，之德也，将旁礴万物以为一，世蕲乎乱，孰弊弊焉以天下为事！之人也，物莫之伤：大浸稽天而不溺，大旱金石流，土山焦而不热。是其尘垢秕糠将犹陶铸尧舜者也，孰肯分分以物为事？”宋人资章甫而适诸越，越人断发文身，无所用之。尧治天下之民，平海内之政，往见四子藐姑射之山，汾水之阳，窅然丧其天下焉。
惠子谓庄子曰：“魏王贻我大瓠之种，我树之成，而实五石。以盛水浆，其坚不能自举也。剖之以为瓢，则瓠落无所容。非不呺然大也，吾为其无用而掊之。”庄子曰：“夫子固拙于用大矣。宋人有善为不皲手之药者，世世以洴澼絖为事。客闻之，请买其方百金。聚族而谋曰：‘我世世为洴澼絖，不过数金，今一朝而鬻技百金，请与之。’客得之，以说吴王。越有难，吴王使之将，冬，与越人水战，大败越人。裂地而封之。能不皲手一也，或以封，或不免于洴澼絖，则所用之异也。今子有五石之瓠，何不虑以为大樽，而浮乎江湖，而忧其瓠落无所容？则夫子犹有蓬之心也夫！”
惠子谓庄子曰：“吾有大树，人谓之樗。其大本拥肿而不中绳墨，其小枝卷曲而不中规矩，立之途，匠者不顾。今子之言大而无用，众所同去也。”庄子曰：“子独不见狸狌乎？卑身而伏，以候敖者；东西跳梁，不辟高下；中于机辟，死于罔罟。今夫斄牛，其大若垂天之云。此能为大矣，而不能执鼠。今子有大树，患其无用，何不树之于无何有之乡，广莫之野，彷徨乎无为其侧，逍遥乎寝卧其下。不夭斤斧，物无害者，无所可用，安所困苦哉！”
In the Northern Ocean there is a fish, its name is Kun. The Kun is so vast, no one knows how many thousand li it measures. It transforms into a bird; its name is Peng. The back of the Peng is also of unknown thousands of li. When it rouses itself to fly, its wings are like clouds hanging down from the sky. When this bird stirs, it sets out for the Southern Ocean. The Southern Ocean is called the Celestial Lake.
In the book Qi Xie—a record of marvels—it is said: “When the Peng journeys to the Southern Ocean, it strikes the water for three thousand li, and rises upon the whirlwind ninety thousand li, going on the sixth month’s wind.”
Floating vapors, dust, and breath that living things exhale—these are like the wild horses roaming the air. But is the blue of the sky truly its proper color? Or is it simply the farthest distance, without end? When one looks down from above, it must surely appear the same.
If water does not accumulate to great depth, it cannot carry a large boat. Pour a cup of water into a hollow in the floor: a straw may float like a boat, but place a cup in it and it will stick fast. The water is too shallow to bear it. If the wind does not accumulate in great strength, it cannot support great wings. Therefore, at ninety thousand li, the wind lies beneath, and only then can one mount upon it, bearing the blue sky on one’s back, unimpeded, and set one’s course southward.
The cicada and the little dove laugh at this, saying: “We rise with a leap and come to rest among the elm and the sandalwood; sometimes we fail to reach it and must drop to the ground. Why should anyone soar ninety thousand li to go south?”
One who travels in the wilderness returns after three meals, his belly still full. One who journeys a hundred li must prepare provisions for the night. One who journeys a thousand li must store up grain for three months. What do these two small creatures know?
The knowledge of the small does not measure up to the knowledge of the great. The length of the short-lived does not compare to the long-lived. How do we know this is so? The morning mushroom does not know of dusk and dawn. The summer cicada does not know of spring and autumn. This is short life. But in the south of Chu there is a divine tree called Mingling: five hundred years is its spring, five hundred years its autumn. In ancient times there was a great tree called the Big Ch’un: eight thousand years is its spring, eight thousand years its autumn. This is long life. Yet today the fame of Pengzu is still heard for his longevity. Compared with these, how pitiful!
Tang once asked Ji: “North of Vast Hair there is the Dark Sea, the Celestial Lake. In it is a fish several thousand li in breadth, but no one knows its length; its name is Kun. There is a bird there named Peng, whose back is like Mount Tai, and whose wings are like clouds hanging from the sky. It coils itself upon the whirlwind and rises ninety thousand li, cleaving through the clouds, bearing the blue sky, and then sets its course southward, to the Celestial Lake. A little quail laughed at him, saying: ‘Where is he going? I leap up a few spans and fall back down, fluttering among the brambles and brush. That is the utmost of flying! Where is he going?’” This is the distinction between great and small.
So it is that those who understand only how to serve an office, to act in a village, to accord with a ruler, and to administer a state—such men view themselves in just this way. Yet even so, Song Rongzi laughed at them. Though the whole world praised him, he was not encouraged; though the whole world condemned him, he was not disheartened. He clearly distinguished between inside and outside, between honor and disgrace. For him, the world was not worth considering. Still, he had not yet attained the highest.
Liezi could ride the wind and go lightly, delightfully, for fifteen days before returning. Yet even he still depended upon something. As for one who rides the truth of Heaven and Earth, harnesses the changes of the six breaths, and wanders in the infinite—what would such a one depend on? Thus it is said: the Perfect Man has no self, the Spirit Man has no merit, the Sage has no fame.
Yao offered the empire to Xu You, saying: “The sun and moon shine forth, yet the firebrand still burns—does that not weary the light? When the timely rains fall, yet we still irrigate—does that not labor the water? You are established and the world is ordered, yet I still cling to it—do I not see my own unworthiness? I beg to yield the empire to you.”
Xu You replied: “You rule the world, and the world is already well ordered. If I were to replace you, would it not be for the sake of a name? But a name is the guest of the reality—should I then be the guest? The wren nests deep in the forest, but occupies no more than one branch. The field mouse drinks from the river, but no more than its fill. Return, my lord, and rest! I have no use for the empire. Though the cook does not govern the kitchen, the sacrificial officer does not take the cook’s place at the offering vessels.”
The Useless Gourd
Huizi said to Zhuangzi:
“The King of Wei gave me the seeds of a great gourd. I planted them, and when it bore fruit, each one could hold five bushels. But they were too heavy and fragile to lift. If I cut them open to use as ladles, they were too wide and shallow to hold anything. Though the gourd was vast, it was useless, so I smashed it.”
Zhuangzi replied:
“My friend, you are clumsy in using the great. In Song, there was a man who made a salve to keep hands from chapping. His family had made their living washing raw silk for generations. A stranger heard of it and offered a hundred gold pieces for the formula. The family gathered and said, ‘For generations we’ve earned only a few coins by washing silk. Now, in one morning, we can sell this recipe for a hundred gold pieces. Let us sell it.’ The stranger obtained the formula, went to the King of Wu, and persuaded him to try it. At that time Wu was at war with Yue. The King appointed him as general. That winter they fought a naval battle; the enemy was crushed, and the man was rewarded with a fief.
The ability was the same: to keep the hands from chapping. One man used it to earn a meager living, another used it to gain a kingdom. The difference lay in how it was applied.
Now you have a gourd that holds five bushels. Why not lash it together into a great vessel, float upon the rivers and lakes, and wander freely, instead of worrying that it cannot be used as a ladle? My friend, you still have weeds growing in your heart!”
The Crooked Tree
Huizi said to Zhuangzi:
“I have a great tree people call the Ailanthus. Its trunk is so gnarled it will not take the line, its branches so twisted they will not take the compass or square. Stand it by the roadside, and carpenters will not even glance at it. Your words are vast but useless—just like this tree, which everyone avoids.”
Zhuangzi replied:
“Have you never seen the wildcat or the weasel? They crouch low, watching for prey, leaping east and west, swift and nimble—yet they end in the trap or the snare. But look at the great ox: its bulk is like the clouds hanging from the sky. It is capable of greatness, but cannot catch a mouse.
Now you have a great tree and are troubled that it is useless. Why not plant it in the land of ‘Nothing-at-All,’ in the wilds of Vastness? There you may wander beside it in ease, or lie beneath it in peace. It will never be cut down by axe or harmed by men. Useless—it is precisely by its uselessness that it may complete its years. Why must you complain of its uselessness?”
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