[In the following essay, Shuen-fu Lin argues that Chuang-Tzu uses the persona of Confucius to voice a Taoist philosophy of emptiness which repudiates the philosophy of virtue taught by Confucius.]

It is interesting to note that Confucius (551-479 b.c.) figures prominently in the early Taoist philosophical text Chuang Tzu. In total he is mentioned on more than fifty occasions in the text and his appearance is also quite evenly distributed over the three divisions of the “Inner Chapters” (nei-p'ien), the “Outer Chapters” (wai-p'ien), and the “Mixed Chapters” (tsa-p'ien).¹ Confucius appears both more frequently and more regularly than any other historical, or than any semi-historical or fictional, character in the book.² The importance of Confucius in this Taoist text does not reside in the frequency of his appearance alone; a number of key ideas in the philosophy of the book are actually embodied in passages and stories involving this great founder of the Confucian school of thought. In particular, the “Inner Chapters” seem to have been “permeated by an obsession with the life and legend of Confucius.”³ This disquieting “obsession” with Confucius, if indeed we can call it that, has prompted some scholars to speculate that Chuang Tzu “must have been brought up as a Confucian”⁴ or that Chuang Tzu must have derived his philosophy from Confucianism.⁵ In the absence of any factual evidence or any support from within the Chuang Tzu itself, we must regard these interesting opinions as sheer speculation.⁶ But as some other scholars have suggested, there are good reasons to believe that the uses of Confucius in the Chuang Tzu constitute some of the important literary devices of the book.⁷ It is not my intention here to offer a full-scale examination of the curious role of Confucius in the entire text of the Chuang Tzu. As is now widely accepted, the Chuang Tzu is not a collection of essays completely written by Chuang Chou (better known as Chuang Tzu), a philosopher and writer of astonishing brilliance and originality, who lived from about 369 to 286 b.c. Rather, it is a collection of philosophical writings of the fourth, third, and second centuries b.c. which generally belongs to the Taoist school of thought.⁹ Recent scholarship has firmly established that the “Inner Chapters,” as the first seven chapters are called, constitute the earliest and the core portion of this great Taoist philosophical text.⁹ Only these seven chapters can be confidently considered as the works of Chuang Chou. There are certain sharp differences in the treatment of Confucius between the “Inner Chapters” and the rest of the book, not to mention the discrepancies in philosophy between them. Therefore, I propose here to take only these seven chapters as a unit of thought and writing and look into the role of Confucius, and thereby to discern the literary devices Chuang Tzu has used for depicting him.

It appears to me that Chuang Tzu has largely retained throughout the “Inner Chapters” a consistency in the various viewpoints that his anecdotal characters are to represent, if they show up more than once. However, Confucius and his grubstreet disciple, Yen Hui, are the only exceptions. They are put in somewhat paradoxical and contradictory positions, alternating between the Confucian and the Taoist views. This phenomenon immediately leads us to question Chuang Tzu's intention in doing this.

On the whole, in the “Inner Chapters,” Chuang Tzu is critical of Confucius and Confucianism. But unlike his contemporary Mencius (ca. 372-289 b.c.), the second great figure in the Confucian school, Chuang Tzu seldom, if ever, attacks other schools of philosophy directly and bitterly from his own mouth. His direct and open argument with another contemporary thinker, the logician Hui Tzu (ca. 380-305 b.c.), is probably the only exception in the “Inner Chapters.” More often Chuang Tzu's opinion and criticism of other philosophical schools are heard through a range of historical or fictitious characters. The literary device employed here is that of “masks” or personae, a device which can often be found in the works of modern British and American writers such as William Butler Yeats, James Joyce, Ezra Pound, and others. The idea of a “mask” or persona has also occupied an important place in modern Western literary criticism. For my purpose in this paper, the following definition provided by the American critic R. P. Blackmur is a good one: “Persona, etymologically, was something through which sounds were heard, and thus a mask. Actors used masks through which great thoughts and actions acquired voice.”¹⁰ Although, as we can see from Blackmur's definition, persona does mean “mask,” it is more commonly used by modern critics to denote the lyric speaker in poetry. Thus I shall consistently use the word “mask” instead of persona to refer to the literary device under discussion in this paper. In the “Inner Chapters” Confucius is essentially criticized and satirized through characters used by Chuang Tzu as masks in a similar fashion. But strange as it may seem, Confucius and Yen Hui are frequently used as masks for voicing Chuang Tzu's own philosophy as well. Therefore, Confucius and Yen Hui play double roles—roles both of mask and target of ridicule—in the first seven sections of the Chuang Tzu.

Before we examine in greater detail the important literary devices used in treating Confucius in the “Inner Chapters,” I would like to clarify the notion of the mask as used in this paper. In modern Chinese the term mien-chü or “mask” more often than not carries with it a pejorative connotation. “To wear a mask” usually brings to the Chinese mind a sense of insincerity, falsification, and deceit. Although the English word “mask” can be used to mean this in the appropriate context also, the idea of a self-conscious falsification or cover-up is not usually intended by modern writers and critics in the West. Rather, the concept of the mask is used to refer to the “personal image” an author projects in his work.¹¹ It can be applied to the “I”—the first-person speaker or narrator—in a narrative poem or a work of fiction. It can also be applied to characters other than the “I” invented by an author for particular artistic purposes. The first-person speaker or narrator and these invented characters or speakers can all be called “masks” because they exist at some distance from the real author who wrote the work. Defined as such, the speaker “I” in the great poem Li-sao or “Encountering Sorrow,” for instance, is not the historical Ch'ü Yüan but a literary mask invented by him. In the broadest usage, what Wayne C. Booth calls “the implied author” in his important book The Rhetoric of Fiction (which refers to the presence of the author behind all of the personae he has created) is itself a mask.¹² In my paper, however, I shall use the term “masks” only to refer to characters other than the first-person speaker in the “Inner Chapters.” I shall consider that Chuang Tzu is using a mask only when his implied author is identified with a particular character.

The idea of the “mask” in the Chuang Tzu may be related to the notion of yü-yen or “imputed words,” which has been used by scholars throughout the ages to describe the prose style of this great book. In the twenty-seventh chapter, entitled “Yü-yen,” the concept of “imputed words” is discussed along with two other kinds of language, termed chung-yen or “words of those whom people respect” and chih-yen or “goblet words.”¹³ In this chapter, the three concepts of yü-yen, chung-yen, and chih-yen seem to have been used essentially to set forth an interesting theory of language and expression. But when these three concepts reappear again in the last chapter of the book, entitled “T'ien-hsia” or “Under Heaven,” they are used to describe the literary styles of Chuang Chou as well, as we can see in the following remarks taken from a passage about Chuang Chou in the chapter:

He thought that the world had sunken in the mud and could not be spoken to in serious language. So he used “goblet words” for endless, unfixed rambling, “words of those whom people respected” to give a ring of truth, and “imputed words” to widen the range. Alone he came and went with the spirit of heaven and earth, without ever casting an arrogant eye upon the ten thousand things. He did not make demands with “right” and “wrong” in order to get along with the common people of the world. Although his writings are out of the ordinary, they are subtle and tactful and will do no one any harm. Although his words are at sixes and sevens, they are so crafty and cunning that they deserve to be appreciated.¹⁴

Here chih-yen, chung-yen, and yü-yen are first used to describe Chuang Tzu's usual methods of expression and then are extended to his wen or “writings.” The “T'ien-hsia” chapter, which is the last section of the book, was probably written late in the third century b.c.¹⁵ Some recent scholars have demonstrated that the “Yü-yen” chapter is among the earlier works in the book and was possibly written by someone directly related to Chuang Tzu's thought.¹⁶ There is no doubt that the author of Chapter 27 was the first in history to have used those three interesting terms to discuss Chuang Tzu's language. Further, the philosophical ideas concerning language and expression contained in the “Yü-yen” chapter are found to have derived from Chapter 2 entitled “Ch'i-wu lun” or “Discussion on Making All Things Equal.”¹⁷ As Chang Heng-shou has demonstrated, the theory of language and expression (and the philosophy of life and the world that underpins it) observable in the “Yü-yen” and “T'ien-hsia” chapters are best exemplified by the “Inner Chapters.”¹⁸ Therefore, an examination of the concepts of yü-yen, chung-yen, and chih-yen will prove to be relevant and helpful to our understanding of Chuang Tzu's literary style.

The “Yü-yen” chapter opens with the following statements: “‘Imputed words’ (yü-yen) make up nine tenths of it, ‘words of those whom people respect’ (chung-yen) make up seven tenths of it, and ‘goblet words’ (chih-yen) come forth day after day, harmonizing things by the ‘heavenly distinctions.’”¹⁹ In the original passage, it is not clear at all what do “nine tenths” and “seven tenths” refer to. From the general context of opening sections of this chapter, we know that they cannot be concerned with anything but language and speech. In any case, since the time of the composition of the “T'ien-hsia” chapter, the opening statements of Chapter 27 have been taken to mean that the Chuang Tzu, especially the “Inner Chapters,” is largely written in these three interesting modes of language. Since I have written a separate paper on the three modes of language used in the “Inner Chapter,” I shall present here only a summary of my discussion of them as set forth in that paper.²⁰

Yü-yen literally means “chi-yü chih yen”²¹ or “words that contain an implied meaning.” First and foremost, then, the term means something like “metaphorical or figurative writing” in English.²²Yü-yen can be described as a device of expressing ideas not in straightforward discursive language but in imagistic and metaphorical language. Second, yü-yen can be taken to mean “fable,” “parable,” “exemplum,” or “allegory.” This interpretation is simply an extension of the basic meaning of “metaphor” to include a narrative element. The “Inner Chapters” of the Chuang Tzu abounds with metaphors ranging from individual terms to extended symbolic anecdotes and stories. For example, “free and easy wandering” is a metaphor for “absolute spiritual freedom,” the “gnarled tree”—and its variations, the “cripples or deformed people”—for the “great use of the useless,” the death of Hun-t'un for the destruction of primordial oneness and harmony, and “butchering an ox” for the “secret to the nurture of life.” Through metaphorical language and symbolical stories, Chuang Tzu makes his abstract and mystical ideas more concrete for the reader to grasp. The third sense of yü-yen is “putting one's words into the mouths of other people.”²³ This brings to mind the concept of the “literary mask” mentioned earlier. The device of the mask is only found in the stories in which a specific character is chosen by Chuang Tzu to serve as his mouthpiece. Chung-yen is related to this third sense of yü-yen. In fact, it is a sub-category of yü-yen because it refers to stories in which wise men whom people respect are used as the author's masks so that his own words in disguise may carry more weight and authority. As we shall see later, Confucius and his disciple Yen Hui are used in this rhetorical device of chung-yen.

According to the author of the “Yü-yen” chapter, while yü-yen and chung-yen seem to be primarily concerned with the practical aspects of expression of ideas, chih-yen is concerned with the more philosophical aspect of Chuang Tzu's theory of language and self-expression. The basic meaning of chih is the “wine goblet.” Chih-yen is used as a metaphor for the Taoist ideal use of the mind in making speech.²⁴ The point that is emphasized is that chih—a drinking vessel used as a metaphor for the mind—is originally empty and gets temporarily filled with liquid—a metaphor for words—which comes from a larger wine container only when the occasion requires one to do so.²⁵Chih-yen, then, is speech that is natural, spontaneous, unpremeditated, always responding to the changing situations in the flow of discourse. If one can engage only in this sort of verbal act, one can keep his mind perpetually in a state of naturalness, harmony, transparency, and emptiness. Chih has also been interpreted by scholars as a pun on the character chih, meaning “uneven, irregular, and random.”²⁶ Understood as such, chih-yen means “irregular and random words,” referring especially to the random comments made by the “implied author”—to borrow Wayne Booth's term—on the stories as well as by the characters within the stories themselves.²⁷ In terms of the organization of ideas, each of the “Inner Chapters” does appear to have this “random and haphazard” quality.

Although it is unlikely that the “Yü-yen” chapter was written by the author as the “Inner Chapters,”²⁸ it is obviously more than pure accident that such well-known figures as Confucius, Yen Hui, Tzu-kung, Lao Tan, and Yao appear frequently in the book and that each of the essays appears to be a sequence of rambling, disconnected stories intermixed with discursive passages. Indeed, yü-yen, chung-yen, and chih-yen are three important rhetorical patterns discernible in the “Inner Chapters.” They have profound implications in Chuang Tzu's theory of language, his attitude toward speech and disputation, and his approach to making his argument weighty and compelling. May we not assume that the author of the “Yü-yen” chapter really understands the literary devices used by the author of the “Inner Chapters”?

The “Yü-yen” chapter is divided into seven sections. The important ideas are contained in the opening section written in discursive prose. The remaining six sections consist of stories and anecdotes illustrating the ideas set forth in the initial section. The beginning discursive part of the “Yü-yen” chapter is to a large extent repetitious of some important notions discussed in the “Ch'i-wu lun” chapter. In that “inner chapter,” the long expository passages after the dialogue between Tzu-ch'i of Nan-kuo and Yen-ch'eng Tzu-yu set down the philosophical underpinnings for the “Yü-yen” chapter.²⁹ In those passages Chuang Tzu strongly objects to controversy and the distinctions between this and that, good and bad, right and wrong, and beauty and ugliness. Controversy and distinctions among things are relative because they arise from people's prejudices and narrowness of vision and understanding:

Tao is obscured by small accomplishments and words are obscured by flowery rhetoric. And so we have the rights and wrongs of the Confucians and the Mo-ists. What one regards as right the other considers as wrong; what one regards as wrong the other considers as right. If we want to right their wrongs and wrong their rights, the best thing to use is illumination.³⁰

To Chuang Tzu, Tao or the Way subsumes all things, levelling and synthesizing their differences and opposites. As Professor Wing-tsit Chan interprets it, “The Taoist goal is to become one with all things and to coexist with Heaven and Earth.”³¹ Yet Tao can easily be obscured by prejudices and narrow vision. In pursuing the Taoist goal, therefore, controversies, discriminations among opposites, and even words themselves are ultimately meaningless and should be transcended in the illumined perspective of Tao. But in order to war with those opinions which he views as narrow and biased he cannot avoid contention and disputation. He is simply substituting a new weapon of argument—the yü-yen—for the commonly used one—the polemic. He puts his words in the mouths of fictitious characters, talking trees, ancient kings, and above all, of the philosophers he is criticizing. Chuang Tzu utilizes masks to retain some degree of detachment in projecting his own opinion. This technique of expounding philosophy through other people's mouths may be viewed as a forceful counterpart to the habit of the Confucians in quoting from the classics to strengthen their arguments. Yet while the Confucians must remain in a forthright and outspoken position, Chuang Tzu is able to parry the impression of arguing with and making personal attacks on people. Therefore, in doing so, Chuang Tzu is able to achieve two things at the same time: getting his opinions across without appearing involved and obstructive. The “Inner Chapters” are full of voices—voices of deformed cripples, Butcher Ting, Carpenter Shih, trees, birds, legendary kings, the Confucians. But it is always the voice of the disguised author, Chuang Tzu himself, that is heard most clearly and overpoweringly. Indeed, in Chuang Tzu's hand, yü-yen becomes an extroardinarily cunning, sophisticated, and effective rhetorical device. As Confucianism was already very popular and influential in Chuang Tzu's time and represented a radically different philosophical standpoint, Chuang Tzu naturally picked Confucius, the recognized sage in that school of thought, as one of his valuable masks and as a victim of his ridicule.

Confucius appears on ten occasions in four of the seven “Inner Chapters” of the Chuang Tzu. There is no mention of either Confucius or any of his disciples in the following chapters: “Free and Easy Wandering” (“Hsiao-yao yu”), “The Secret to the Nurture of Life” (“Yang-sheng chu”), and “Fit for Emperors and Kings” (“Ying ti-wang”).³² In the other four chapters, sometimes Yen Hui or Tzu-kung shows up together with the Master. Those ten occasions can be broadly classified into two groups: one with Confucius as Chuang Tzu's mask and the other with Confucius purely as a target of criticism. The use of Confucius as a voice can further be subdivided into two sub-categories. In the first sub-category, Confucius is seen as Chuang Tzu's mask speaking like an elevated Taoist teacher. In the second sub-category, Confucius is still seen as Chuang Tzu's mask but he is only interpreting or appreciating Chuang Tzu's opinion of “perfect virtue” as embodied in some enlightened Taoist personalities. Sometimes Confucius not only interprets but also converts himself to the Taoist viewpoints when the stories end. The anecdotes included in the first sub-category are related to the problem of living in this world while those in the second sub-category are connected with “perfect virtue.” “How to live in this world” and “perfect virtue” are two major interrelated issues dealt with by both Chuang Tzu and Confucius. Chuang Tzu is indeed quite subtle in his choice of masks. Of course, other figures are also used by Chuang Tzu in dealing with these two important issues in ancient Chinese philosophy but Confucius seems to have been given a major role. As we know, the human community is the ultimate concern of Confucian philosophy. By Chuang Tzu's time, the Confucians had been known as experts in dealing with the problems of society and of living in this world. It is appropriate for Chuang Tzu to borrow Confucius' authority to voice his own views on the problem of living in the world. “Perfect virtue” is an entirely different matter. The human community does not absorb all of the attention and energy of the Taoist. For Chuang Tzu, “perfect virtue” is not the sign of cultivation of the perfected ethical human being. Rather, it is the sign of an enlightened person whose spirit is in perfect communion with heaven and earth. Obviously, Chuang Tzu does not think that Confucius has ever reached such a height in spiritual cultivation. Therefore, Confucius is only described as someone who appreciates and interprets Taoist “perfect virtue” but never as someone who embodies it. It is clear that Chuang Tzu has paid great care to his choice of masks.

There are only two anecdotes under the first sub-category. One is the dialogue between Confucius and Yen Hui; the other is a dialogue between Confucius and Tzu-kao the Duke of She, a Great Officer (tai-fu) of the State of Ch'u. Both anecdotes are found in Chapter Four, “The World of Men.” They are both imaginary dialogues cast in the form of a parody. Chuang Tzu starts with a seemingly Confucian setting—with Confucius as an intelligent philosopher giving his powerful words of wisdom to people. The characters even speak certain Confucian ideas at some points but as the dialogues proceed, Chuang Tzu leads all arguments to the final victory of his Taoist attitude. Thus the deceptive Confucian tone at the beginning is completely overturned at the end.

Chapter Four begins with the conversation between Yen Hui and his teacher. Having heard that the ruler of the State of Wei is a young, independent tyrant, Yen Hui hopes to go to save Wei from chaos. He comes to his teacher to ask permission to leave. But Confucius refuses him without any hesitation:

“Ah,” said Chung-ni (i.e., Confucius), “you're probably going to your execution, that's all. One doesn't want the Way to be mixed. If it is mixed, it becomes multiple, when it is multiple it becomes bothersome, when it is bothersome it gives you worry, and once you worry there's no hope for you. The man of utmost attainment of ancient times established in other people only what he had first established in himself. When you're not even sure what you've established in yourself, what time do you have for bothering about the doings of some tyrant?³³

The general tone of this passage—in fact, of most of the story—is that of a parody of Confucius' wise advice to his desciples. The Way here reminds us of one of Confucius' famous sayings: “My Way has one (thread) that runs through it.”³⁴ Furthermore, the mention of the “man of the utmost attainment of ancient times” (chih-jen) and the preservation of the Way in oneself reminds us of Confucius' love for the past and his constant emphasis on self-cultivation. The passage may deceive us into thinking that Confucius is telling Yen Hui, his most gifted and diligent student, to regulate himself before he goes to regulate the tyrant. But as the conversation continues Confucius gradually points out various hindrances and dangers in getting along with a ruler like that of Wei. Fame and intelligence are considered as weapons of evil because they can bring about conflict and strife. To persuade a ruler to listen to the teaching of “benevolence” (jen), “righteousness” (i), and regulations and standards is regarded as “using other men's bad points to parade your own excellence.”³⁵ Such an effort will not do one any good except to invite peril to oneself. The historical Confucius will accept neither the pessimistic outlook on human nature nor the all-important emphasis on personal survival expressed here. Instead, he will emphasize the positive values of intelligence, fame, and the perfectibility of man. Confucius says in the Lun-yü or the Analects, “A gentleman has reason to be distressed if he ends his days without making a reputation for himself.”³⁶ The reputation here refers, of course, to being called a chün-tzu or a gentleman. Confucius puts stress on self-fulfilment as a gentleman and on “the agreement between name and actuality.”³⁷ Through the mouth of this Confucian sage, however, Chuang Tzu says that self-cultivation is a love for fame and will result in personal harm. This is illustrated in his interpretation of the deaths of Kuan Lung-feng and Pi Kan. If the historical Confucius is emphasizing the positive side of humanity, Chuang Tzu is calling our attention to the awareness of its dark and negative side. In the story, Yen Hui then proposes that he will be humble, diligent, inwardly upright and outwardly compliant with people and will follow the examples of ancient times. But Confucius, the mask of Chuang Tzu, refutes him point by point on the ground that Yen Hui will never succeed in converting the ruler but will only cause danger to himself. Chuang Tzu is continually pinpointing the practical obstacles and peril that are confronting men. And he is using Yen Hui to represent a Confucian positive attitude and Confucius, the renowned teacher of this attitude, to repudiate it. Finally, Confucius, Chuang Tzu in disguise, sets forth the Taoist method of “the fasting of the mind.”³⁸

According to the late Professor Hsü Fu-kuan, the concept of hsin-chai, or “the fasting of the mind,” is analogous to wu-chi or “having no self” (in Chapter One), sang-wo or “losing one's self” (in Chapter Two), and tso-wang or “sitting down and forgetting everything” (in Chapter Six).³⁹ They refer to the spiritual state in which a person has transcended the bondage of his physical form to achieve unity with Tao. As I have mentioned before, this oneness with Tao is most important to Chuang Tzu. It is with such a state of mind that one can live a truly free and happy life. He is by no means trying to escape from the world. Rather, he is like Butcher Ting in “The Secret of the Nurture of Life,” looking for the space between the complicated joints and bones of an ox. The discovery of the space is one thing and the preparation of a sharp knife of no thickness to go into that space is another. Both are essential to having an absolutely free and happy life. That is why Chuang Tzu, after showing various difficulties in life, employs the mouth of Confucius to advise Yen Hui, about to go to the ruler of Wei:

If your words penetrate, then sing; if they fail to penetrate, then desist. Have no door, no opening, but make oneness your abode and take lodging in what cannot be avoided. Then you will be nearly there.⁴⁰

Here Yen Hui is advised not to work too hard on his job but to remain passive and accept things as inevitable so that he can spend his time and energy on nourishing his spirit. This is indeed very negative in contrast with the positive, moralistic, and political-minded teachings of Confucius.

In the dialogue between the Duke of She and Confucius, we find the latter preaching a similar attitude to that found in the above story. Confucius says in response to the Duke of She's complaint about the difficulty in carrying out an official mission:

In the world, there are two great commandants. One of them is destiny and the other duty. A child's love for his parents is destiny which cannot be untied from the heart. A minister's service to his lord is duty and wherever he goes there will be someone who is his lord. There is no place he can escape to between heaven and earth. These are what I call the great commandants.⁴¹

Again the deceptive Confucian tone is apparent here. It seems that for the moment Confucius is going to tell the Duke of She that he should not complain about his duties. But in actual fact, Confucius, who speaks as Chuang Tzu's mask, is making an analogy between the serving of one's parents and ruler and the serving of one's mind.⁴² The analogy is based on the fact that they are things unavoidable—quite a contrary opinion to that of Confucius who regards filial piety and loyalty as virtues. To serve one's mind, one must not let ordinary human emotions such as sorrow and happiness enter one's mind but accept things as inescapable. As soon as a man is bothered by his emotions and feelings, he is no longer free. Chuang Tzu hopes to liberate man not only from external danger and harm but also from internal torments. In the last part of the anecdote Confucius says:

Therefore the aphorism says, “Do not deviate from the orders, do not push for completion. To exceed due measure is to go beyond the limit.” To deviate from the orders and push for completion will endanger the enterprise. A fine completion takes a long time while a bad completion is irreparable. Can you afford not to be careful? Moreover to ride on things and let your mind roam freely, and to resign yourself to the inevitable in order to nourish the center of you, is the utmost one can ever reach.⁴³

From the above we can see that the speaker is against the manipulation of things. The counsel given here is to leave things as they are, to let them go naturally along by themselves, because the more one tries to manipulate and change things, the more easily one will get into unnecessary trouble. All this runs counter to what the historical Confucius would advocate. Confucius, the real man, spent most of his life trying to bring moral, political, and social order to the chaotic situation of his time. This positive attitude contrasts sharply with what Confucius is here preaching. As illustrated in these two stories that parody the dialogues between Confucius and other people, the use of Confucius as a mask for expressing Chuang Tzu's own philosophy creates an irony—an irony between the historical Confucius and the Confucius in the “Inner Chapters”—which itself produces a satire on Confucianism.

Although in the previous two examples Confucius is seen as a Taoist teacher, he is not praised as a chih-jen or “a man of the utmost attainment” by Chuang Tzu. There he is pictured more as an astute and experienced man than as an enlightened sage. He is portrayed essentially as one who has tremendous insight into human nature and life, so he can give to people practical advice on how to get along with the world. An enlightened sage (sheng-jen) in the “Inner Chapters,” however, is one who has attained the highest level of spiritual development. He is also called in the “Inner Chapters” chih-jen, chen-jen or “true man,” and shen-jen or “divine man.” There are five anecdotes in which Confucius functions as a portrayer and admirer of these perfect human beings in Taoist terms. Let us first get a general image of men of such spiritual attainment:

In the faraway Ku-i Mountains there lives a “divine man” whose skin and flesh are like ice and snow, who is gentle and graceful as a virgin. He does not eat the five grains but sucks the wind and drinks the dew; he rides the clouds and ether, yokes flying dragons to his chariot, and wanders beyond the four seas. With his spirit concentrated, he can protect things from plagues and make the grains ripen every year.

(From “Free and Easy Wandering”)⁴⁴

[The sage] stands side by side with the sun and the moon, tucks the universe under his arm, merges himself with all things, casts aside confusion and obscurity, lets all people respect each other. While the multitude toil, he seems muddle-headed and non-discriminative. He blends the disparities of the myriad years into one complete purity. All the myriad things are as they naturally are and in this way mutually involve each other.

(From “Discussion on Making All Things Equal”)⁴⁵

We must not be misled by the language of fantasy and magic here. Passages like these are meant to create a symbolic portrait of the Taoist sage. In the “Inner Chapters,” a sage, or a “divine man,” is a person who has transcended the boundary of a limited self to the level of spiritual freedom and of harmony and oneness with Tao, with all beings, with the whole universe. His freedom is not relative but absolute, transcending even the boundaries of time and space. This is the central theme of the “Hsiao-yao-yu” chapter and is also an important theme running through the entire “Inner Chapters.” Such an image of the sage recurs over and over again in many stories and of course in all five stories which I classify under the second category. Wang T'ai, Ai T'ai-t'o, Yen Hui, Master Sang-hu, Meng Tzu-fan, Master Ch'in-chang, and Meng-sun Ts'ai are all projections of such an image. In only one of the five stories, Confucius acts as a pure interpreter and portrayer. It is in the conversation about Ai T'ai-t'o between Confucius and Duke Ai of Lu.⁴⁶ In every one of the other four, Confucius is always subtly compared with one chin-yen or more and turns out to be inferior to him or them. The comparison is implied in the character of Confucius himself. He not only describes and admires the virtues of the chih-jen but condemns himself, declaring that he will follow the steps of the Taoist sage. It is in such a way that Chuang Tzu makes good use of Confucius as a mask and at the same time pokes fun at him. The anecdote that begins Chapter 5 entitled “Te-ch'ung-fu” or “The Sign of Virtue Complete” is a good example. Despite the fact of being a one-legged man, Wang T'ai has as many followers as Confucius in the State of Lu. Puzzled by this prodigy, Ch'ang Chi comes to ask Confucius about it. The latter answers in the anecdote:

The Master is a sage. I, Ch'iu, simply have been tardy and haven't gone to see him yet. And if I, Ch'iu, would even want him as a teacher, how much more should those who are not my equals? Why should it be only the State of Lu? I, Ch'iu, will bring the whole world with me to go follow him.⁴⁷

Confucius then goes on to praise Wang T'ai for being able to disregard his lost leg and the troublesome issue of life and death, looking at things solely from the perspective of universal sameness.

In another anecdote in the “Ta tsung-shih” or “The Great Teacher” chapter, in answer to Yen Hui's question about Meng-sun Ts'ai who feels no grief over his mother's death, Confucius considers that both Yen Hui and himself are still dreaming—dreaming in this mundane world.⁴⁸ Compared with enlightened Meng-sun Ts'ai, they are still at a very low level of spiritual awareness. Still a better example is found in another anecdote earlier in the same chapter. In this anecdote Confucius sends his disciple Tzu-kung to participate in the funeral of Master Sang-hu.⁴⁹ Tzu-kung goes there only to find the friends of Master Sang-hu—Meng Tzu-fan and Master Ch'in-chang—singing and playing music. Shocked at this bizarre sight, he rushes back to ask his teacher about what kind of people they are and Confucius replies:

They're men who roam beyond the boundaries and I, Ch'iu, am a man who roams within the boundaries. Since beyond and within have nothing in common, to send you there to mourn was really stupid on my part! They're at the stage of being companions of the “maker of things” and go wandering in the single breath of heaven and earth. They regard life as an attached tumor or a dangling wen and death as the draining of a boil or the bursting of an abscess. To men such as these, how could they ever know a place where death, life, before, and after exist? They borrow the forms of different things and put them up in the same body. They forget their livers and galls, cast aside their ears and eyes, and turn ending and beginning back to front until their demarcations can no longer be known. Absent-mindedly they go roving beyond the dust and dirt, rambling in the task of non-action. How could they fret and fuss about the customs of the vulgar world and watch for the ears and eyes of the common herd?⁵⁰

The distinction between the two worlds—that of Confucius and that of Chuang Tzu—is announced by Confucius in a self-mocking way. Meng Tzu-fan and Master Sang-hu have reached the highest level of spiritual development, releasing themselves from the bondage of life and death and of the mundane world, while Confucius is still bound by the trifling rules of propriety. This passage is succeeded by the following:

Tzu-kung asked, “If that is the case, why do you stick to the boundaries, Master?”

Confucius said, “I, Ch'iu, am one of those punished by heaven. Nevertheless, let me share something with you.”⁵¹

Confucius' answer is very ambiguous. What does he wish to share with his student? According to one modern interpretation, Confucius is here expressing the wish to pursue together with his disciple the way to get to that transcendental realm.⁵² This interpretation can be supported by the remaining section of the story in which Confucius talks about Tao, the Way, and “the art of the Way.”⁵³ If this interpretation is indeed valid, it is obvious that Confucius is Chuang Tzu's mask; through him we hear the admiration of the transcendence of the chih-jen and the renunciation of Confucius' attachment to this world of dust and dirt as well.

Perhaps the most interesting anecdote of all is that about Yen Hui's “sitting down and forgetting everything” contained in Chapter Six, “The Great Teacher.”⁵⁴ This story tells us the process of attaining the highest level of spiritual development which is so different from the process of Confucian self-cultivation. In Confucian self-cultivation, education and conscious moral restraint are strongly emphasized. But in the Yen Hui story, the procedure is just the reverse. Yen Hui first forgets jen (benevolence, human-heartedness, humanity) and i (righteousness) and then li (ritual, propriety) and yüeh (music). Jen, i, li and yüeh are the four significant pivots in Confucian education and self-cultivation. However, having indicated that he has forgotten them all, Yen Hui goes to his teacher saying that he has made progress. Confucius responds, “Satisfactory, but you still have not attained your goal yet.”⁵⁵ We then come to the final stage of Yen Hui's spiritual attainment, “sitting down and forgetting everything”:

Yen Hui said, “I've made progress.”

Confucius said, “What do you mean?”

Yen Hui said, “I'm able just to sit down and forget everything.”

Greatly taken aback, Confucius said, “What do you mean by just sitting down and forgetting everything?”

Yen Hui said, “I let limbs and organs drop away, expel hearing and eyesight, detach from form, cast off knowledge, and become one with the Great Thoroughfare. This is what is called ‘sitting down and forgetting everything.’”⁵⁶

“Limbs and organs” here refer to the physical body that is transformable. “Hearing and eyesight” refer to our sense perception that enables us to discriminate things. And, of course, knowledge is the sum of what is perceived or understood by the mind and the senses. These few statements remind us of the description of hsin-chai or “the fasting of the mind” discussed earlier. Only through forgetting the bodily self, the opposition of this self to other things, and all knowledge is one able to enter the spiritual wholeness of Tao, the Way.⁵⁷ Chuang Tzu's abolishing of knowledge, sense perception, and intelligence goes against Confucius' stress on education and learning. The whole tone of this anecdote becomes even more absurd at the end when Confucius says to Yen Hui:

When you become one [with the Great Thoroughfare], you have no partiality, and when you let yourself transform, you have no rigidity. Are you really that worthy? May I, Ch'iu, ask to follow behind you as your disciple?⁵⁸

It is true that the historical Confucius had very high regard for Yen Hui. Once he is even recorded as saying to Tzu-kung, “You are not as good as he [Yen Hui] is. Neither of us is as good as he is.”⁵⁹ Nonetheless, it would be totally ludicrous for him to speak to his disciple in the above manner. This brief story is the most complex and sophisticated example of the literary device of chung-yen found in the “Inner Chapters.” It starts off as a parody of the standard situation of learning as recorded in the Analects of Confucius in which students come to report to their teacher on their progress and to seek further guidance from him. As the story proceeds, the tone becomes increasingly ironic. In Confucian education, students are expected to internalize the ethical principles until they become part of their personality so that their action will be automatically guided by them. In the story, however, Yen Hui reports to his teacher that he has forgotten the four cardinal principles in Confucian ethics. The process of learning—one that originally emphasizes internalizing ethics and acquiring new knowledge—becomes a process of un-learning because the disciple is praised for being able to cast away what he has learned previously. This process of “un-learning” constitutes the fundamental aspect of Taoist spiritual cultivation. Confucius is clearly described here as encouraging Yen Hui to do further “un-learning.” The irony consummates in Yen Hui's attainment of Taoist sagehood. Yen Hui, Confucius' best disciple, has done this not by embodying ethical principles in his very person but by having forgotten everything and thereby becoming identified with Tao. But Chang Tzu does not end his story here; he proves to be a much more cunning and skillful writer and critic of Confucianism. By fabricating a conversation between Confucius and Yen Hui, he simultaneously presents his own ideas of complete virtue in a more persuasive fashion and undercuts the importance of the rival school by including a caricature of its founder and one of his most famous disciples. This story brilliantly accomplishes a double-edged task.

It should be mentioned here that the two stories involving Confucius and his most gifted disciple Yen Hui in which the concepts of the “fasting of the mind” and “sitting down and forgetting everything” are brought up have been used by Kuo Mo-jo to suggest that Chuang Tzu was perhaps a follower of the “Confucianism of Yen Hui” (Yen-shih chih-ju). He argues that many of the conversations between Confucius and Yen Hui recorded in the Chuang Tzu have been too simplistically treated by previous scholars as yü-yen or “imputed words.” These materials, he continues, need not be the records of actual conversations between Confucius and Yen Hui; they are probably the further development of certain ideas of Confucius and Yen Hui in the hands of Yen Hui's followers.⁶⁰ In my opinion, Kuo Mo-jo's argument is an interesting speculation at best. He himself cannot provide any evidence outside the Chuang Tzu text to support his argument except the fact that both Confucius and Yen Hui seem to have a reclusive tendency. At the same time, he has exhibited a complete lack of sensitivity to the literary devices of parody, satire, and mask discussed above. Commenting on the story about Confucius and Yen Hui in Chapter 4, the late Ming Buddhist monk Te-ch'ing says, “Because Confucius is a sage who wishes to be used by the world and Yen Hui is a great disciple within the doors of the sage, [Chuang Tzu] employs them to make his words weighty and believable.”⁶¹ There is no question that Te-ch'ing has made a more insightful and relevant comment on the matter under discussion.

Unlike the Confucius in the two anecdotes in the first sub-category discussed in the first part of this paper, the Confucius in these five anecdotes just examined appears first as a reputable Confucian teacher, but by the end of each anecdote he has been overwhelmed by the virtue of Chuang Tzu's Taoist sages. In this way Chuang Tzu has reduced the position of Confucius and brought forward the superiority of his enlightened “men of the utmost attainment.” Though he never grants Confucius stature as a sage, he never forgets to take advantage of him as an effective voice either.

In the “Inner Chapters” there are three anecdotes in which Chuang Tzu uses other masks to criticize Confucius. They actually add nothing new to the previous seven anecdotes, for the criticisms of Confucius we find in these three anecdotes have already been skillfully implied in the instances examined. They simply make Chuang Tzu's opinion of Confucius more explicit. In “Discussion on Making All Things Equal,” Chuang Tzu has the fictional character Ch'ang-wu-tzu refer to Confucius as someone who is unable to understand the description of a Taoist sage.⁶² In “The Sign of Virtue Complete,” Chuang Tzu, through the mouth of a fictitious figure Shu-shan No-toes, speaks to Lao Tan saying that Confucius is not up to the level of a chih-jen.⁶³ He criticizes Confucius for searching for fame and reputation, which prevents him from becoming such an elevated human being. Lastly, at the end of “The World of Men,” Chuang Tzu retells the song of the madman Chieh Yü recorded in Book XVIII of the Analects, with slight modification to fit his own context.⁶⁴ In the Analects Chieh Yü is calling Confucius' attention to the fact that those who hold offices are in such great peril that it is not worth Confucius' effort to try to rectify the situation.⁶⁵ In the Chuang Tzu, however, the emphasis is on the dangers that are confronting men:

When the world has the Way, the sage may succeed in it; when the world lacks the Way, the sage may seek only to preserve his own life. In times like the present, the best one can do is to escape punishment. Good fortune is higher than a feather, but nobody knows how to carry it; calamity is heavier than the earth, but nobody knows how to avoid it. Stop, stop, that approaching men with your virtue; dangerous, dangerous, your marking off the ground and running within it. Thorns that block off the sun, thorns that block off the sun, don't harm me as I walk; crookedly I walk, crookedly I walk—don't harm my feet.⁶⁶

Chuang Tzu is more concerned with the security and survival of the individual. How to extricate one's life from suffering and unnecessary injury is especially important to a person living in times of chaos and insecurity. Through this slightly modified song of Chieh Yü, Chuang Tzu criticizes Confucius for being unaware of the dangers of advocating virtue and moral rectitude to people. This echoes the dialogue between Confucius and Yen Hui at the beginning of the “The World of Men” chapter. But this is as far as Chuang Tzu, the author of the “Inner Chapters,” has gone in his criticism of Confucius. He has never attacked Confucius or the Confucians in the same savage manner as Bandit Chih does in the twenty-ninth chapter of the Chuang Tzu. In the “Inner Chapters,” Confucius is mainly criticized on the basis that his attitude to life is useless in coping with the chaos and misery of the world. As Chuang Tzu sees it, the Confucian attitude will only bring harm to the individual's life. Further, in the pursuit of absolute spiritual freedom—the highest ideal in life according to Chuang Tzu—Confucius' teaching of ethics simply becomes a hindrance. Therefore, the path on which [Chuang Tzu] chooses to walk is necessarily shaded and crooked rather than in the open sun and straightforward like the one Confucius has proposed. This anecdote about Confucius and Chieh Yü also illustrates another significant aspect of the unusual literary devices used in the “Inner Chapters.”

As discussed earlier, the three rhetorical devices of yü-yen, chung-yen, and chih-yen are intimately related to Chuang Tzu's theory of language, his attitude toward disputation, and his attempt to make his argument ever more persuasive. The unique ways in which Chuang Tzu uses language are also closely related to the Taoist survivalist philosophy. Chuang Tzu lived during the middle of the Warring States period when Chinese society was in great chaos and disorder. The survival and happiness of the individual person was a central concern of Chuang Tzu's philosophy of life. By “putting his words in the mouths of those whom people respect”—expressing his radical and uncommon ideas through masks—Chuang Tzu hoped to avoid all danger, harm, and troubling entanglements. Our understanding of Chuang Tzu's use of Confucius as a device to voice his own philosophy will not be complete unless we also have a grasp of his survivalist intention. For the masks Chuang Tzu employs in the “Inner Chapters” constitute a defensive armor to keep himself from getting hurt.

Notes

1. In his article “Chuang Tzu pi-hsia-te K'ung Tzu”, Professor Huang Chin-hung says that Confucius is mentioned on fifty-one occasions in the text. See “Chuang Tzu pi-hsia-te K'ung Tzu” in Chuang Tzu chi ch'i wen-hsüeh (Taipei: Tung-ta t'u-shu kung-ssu, 1977), p. 107. I myself actually came up with fifty-two times instead. Confucius is mentioned in four of the seven “Inner Chapters,” nine of the fifteen “Outer Chapters,” and eight of the eleven “Mixed Chapters.”

2. Of the legendary or historical characters, the semi-mythical kings Yao and Shun and the philosopher Lao Tzu or Lao Tan are mentioned fairly frequently and regularly in the Chuang Tzu. However, none of them figures as prominently as does Confucius.

3. A. C. Graham, Chuang-tzu: The Seven Inner Chapters and other writings from the book Chuang-tzu (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1981), p. 116.

4. Ibid.

5. Both Chang Ping-lin and Kuo Mo-jo have speculated that Chuang Tzu derived his philosophy from the teachings of the School of Yen Hui (Yen-shih chih-ju), one of the eight schools of Confucianism that developed after its founder's death. See Kuo Mo-jo, “Chuang Tzu te p'i-p'an”, in Shih p'i-p'an shu (Peking: Jen-min ch'u-pan-she, 1982), 190-193.

6. A. C. Graham actually admits that “[all] this is speculation.” See his Chuang-tzu, p. 118.

7. Some of these suggestions will be mentioned as we go along.

8. The important recent textual studies on the Chuang Tzu are too numerous to cite. Nevertheless, the following three works are among the very best contributions to the textual studies on the Chuang Tzu and should be read by everyone seriously interested in this great book: Chang Ch'eng-ch'iu, Chuang-tzu p'ien-mu-k'ao (Taipei: Chung-hua shu-chü, 1971); Chang Heng-shou, Chuang-tzu hsin-t'an (1983); and A. C. Graham, “How Much of Chuang-tzu Did Chuang-tzu Write?” in Journal of American Academy of Religion (September 1979).

9. The most thorough and rigorous study on the authenticity of the “Inner Chapters” is probably to be found in Chang Heng-shou's Chuang-tzu hsin-t'an. Obviously, Chang's book is not unexceptionable.

10. R. P. Blackmur, “Masks of Ezra Pound,” in Form and Value in Modern Poetry (New York: Doubleday and Company, Inc., 1957), p. 80.

11. M. H. Abrams has provided a succinct discussion of “Persona, Tone, and Voice” in his useful book A Glossary of Literary Terms (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Inc., 1971). See pp. 123-126. Richard Ellmann's Yeats: The Man and the Masks (New York: E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc., 1948) is also a useful book on the subject; for Ellmann's discussion of the concept of “mask” in Yeats, see especially pp. 171-176.

12. See especially The Rhetoric of Fiction (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1961), pp. 71-76.

13. Kuo Ch'ing-fan, Chuang-tzu chi-shih (Rpt. Taipei: Shih-chieh shu-chü, 1962), Vol. 2, pp. 947-950.

14. Ibid., pp. 1098-1099.

15. See Chang Heng-shou's excellent discussion of the authorship and dating of this important chapter in his Chuang-tzu hsin-t'an, pp. 296-316.

16. See Chang Heng-shou, ibid., pp. 277-282, and A.C. Graham, Chuang-tzu: The Seven Inner Chapters and Other Writings from the book Chuang-tzu (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1981), pp. 100-107.

17. See Chang Heng-shou, ibid.

18. Ibid., pp. 35-121 and 277-282.

19. Ch'ien Mu, Chuang-tzu tsuan-chien: (Taipei: Tung-nan yin-wu ch'u-pan-she, 1967), p. 228.

20. See Shuen-fu Lin, “The Language of the ‘Inner Chapters’ of the Chuang Tzu.” This paper was presented at the Conference on Chinese Cultural History held at Princeton University on May 13-15, 1987. A revised version of the paper will appear in the symposium volume.

21. This definition can be found in Hsüan Ying, Nan-hua-ching chieh. See Yen Ling-feng, ed., Wu-ch'iu-pei-chai chuang-tzu chi-ch'eng hsü-pien (Taipei: I-wen yin-shu-kuan, 1973), Vol. 32, p. 477.

22. James Legge had understood the term correctly when he translated it as “metaphorical language.” See his “Yü Yen, or Metaphorical Language,” The Sacred Book of China (Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1891), pp. 142-148. Similarly, in his Chung-kuo i-shu ching-shen, or The Chinese Artistic Spirit (Taichung: Tunghai University Press, 1966), p. 118, Professor Hsü Fu-kuan also interpreted yü-yen as “symbol and metaphor.”

23. The majority of commentators since Kuo Hsiang have held this view.

24. Following Kuo Hsiang's interpretation, Ch'eng Hsüan-ying has most clearly explicated the literal meaning of the term chih and its metaphorical relation to human speech. See his comments in Kuo Ch'ing-fan, Chuang-tzu chi-shih, Vol. 2, p. 947.

25. The late Ming and early Ch'ing scholar Wang Fu-chih has offered an excellent discussion of this point in his commentary on the “Yü-yen” chapter. See his Chuang-tzu t'ung. Chuang-tzu chieh. (Rpt. Taipei: Li-jen shu-chü, 1984), p. 248.

26. Ssu-ma Piao is the first scholar to hold this interpretation. See his comment quoted in Kuo Ch'ing-fan, Chuang-tzu chi-shih, ibid., p. 948.

27. Wang fu-chih argues that chih-yen primarily refers to the “profound words and discursive comments that come forth randomly.” These words are clearly the comments of the implied author. See Chuang-tzu t'ung. Chuang-tzu chieh, p. 246.

28. Lo Ken-tse, “Chuang-tzu wai-tsa-p'ien t'an-yüan” in Chu-tzu k'ao-so (Peking: Jen-min ch'u-pan-she, 1958), pp. 282-312.

29. This dialogue can be found at the beginning of Chapter 2. See Ch'ien Mu, Chuang-tzu tsuan-chien, pp. 9-17.

30. This translation is modified from Wing-tsit Chan, A Source Book in Chinese Philosophy (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1963), p. 182, A. C. Graham, Chuang-tzu, p. 52, and Burton Watson, The Complete Works of Chuang Tzu (New York: Columbia University Press, 1968), p. 39.

31. Wing-tsit Chan, ibid., p. 186.

32. Chang Heng-shou argues that the first three sections of “The World of Men” are dubious. Since there is really no hard evidence for Chang's assertion, I am inclined to accept the traditional view that these three sections are authentic. For Chang's argument, see his book, Chuang-tzu hsin-t'an, pp. 84-100.

33. This translation is modified from the magnificent translations done by A. C. Graham and Burton Watson. Although both Graham's and Watson's translations are excellent, for internal consistency, I feel necessary to make the modifications. For A. C. Graham's translation, see his book, Chuang-tzu, pp. 66, and for Burton Watson's version, see his book, The Complete Works of Chuang Tzu, pp. 54-55.

34. Arthur Waley, The Analects of Confucius (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1938), p. 105.

35. Burton Watson, ibid., p. 55.

36. Arthur Waley, ibid., p. 197.

37. Fung Yu-lan, A Short History of Chinese Philosophy (New York: The Free Press, 1966), p. 42.

38. Burton Watson, ibid., p. 57.

39. Hsü Fu-kuan, Chung-kuo jen-hsing-lun shih (Taichung: Tunghai University Press, 1963), pp. 398-399.

40. Modified version of A. C. Graham, ibid., p. 69, and Burton Watson, ibid., p. 58.

41. Modified version of A. C. Graham, ibid., p. 70, and Burton Watson, ibid., pp. 59-60.

42. The Ch'ing scholar Hsüan Ying (fl. early 18th c.) has observed this analogy. See Nan-hua ching-chieh, p. 105.

43. Modified from A. C. Graham, ibid., p. 71, and Burton Watson, ibid., p. 61.

44. Modified from A. C. Graham, ibid., p. 46, and Burton Watson, ibid., p. 33.

45. Modified from A. C. Graham, ibid., p. 59, and Burton Watson, ibid., p. 47.

46. See Ch'ien Mu, Chuang-tzu tsuan-chien, p. 39-40.

47. Modified from A.C. Graham, ibid., p. 76, and Burton Watson, ibid., p. 68.

48. See Ch'ien Mu, ibid., pp. 57-58.

49. Ibid., pp. 56-57.

50. Modified from A. C. Graham, ibid., pp. 89-90, and Burton Watson, ibid., pp. 86-87.

51. Modified from A C. Graham, ibid., p. 90, and Burton Watson, ibid., p. 87.

52. Kuan Feng, Chuang-tzu nei-p'ien i-chieh ho p'i-p'an (Peking: Chung-hua shu-chü, 1961), p. 226.

53. See Ch'ien Mu, ibid., p. 57.

54. See ibid., pp. 59-60.

55. Ibid.

56. Modified from A. C. Graham, ibid., p. 92, and Burton Watson, ibid., p. 90.

57. Hsü Fu-kuan, ibid., p. 389-399.

58. Modified from A C. Graham, ibid. and Burton Watson, ibid.

59. D.C. Lau, Confucius: The Analects (Penguin Books, 1979), p. 77.

60. For Kuo Mo-jo's arguments discussed in this paragraph, see Shih p'i-p'an-shu, pp. 190-193.

61. Te-ch'ing, Chuang-tzu nei-p'ien chu (Taipei: Kuang-wen shu-chü, 1973), chüan 3, p. 2.

62. See Ch'ien Mu, ibid., p. 20.

63. Ibid., p. 42.

64. Ibid., p. 38.

65. Here I am following Ch'ien Mu's interpretation. See his Lun-yü hsin-chieh (Hong Kong: Hsin-ya yen-chiu-so, 1963), Vol. 2, p. 626.

66. Modified from A. C. Graham, ibid., p. 75, and Burton Watson, ibid., pp. 66-67.

This paper was first presented at The Fifth Quadrennial International Comparative Literature Conference in The Republic of China held at Tamkang University, Taipei, Taiwan, on August 10-14, 1987. I am indebted to Professors Lin Yao-fu and Chen Tze-yun of Taiwan University and Professor Chen Chang-fang of Tamkang University for their useful criticisms and suggestions. A slightly revised version of the paper was again presented at the Seminar on the Chinese Humanities at The University of Michigan in the fall of 1987. I wish to express my thanks to the participants at the Seminar, and especially to Bill Baxter, Susan Blum, Ken DeWoskin, Yi-tsi Mei Feuerwerker, Livia Kohn, Don Munro, and David Rolston for their searching examination and constructive suggestions. Both the research for and the writing of the paper were conducted during the period when I held a Fellowship in Chinese Studies from the American Council of Learned Societies. I am grateful to the Joint Committee on Chinese Studies of the American Council of Learned Societies and the Social Science Research Council for their generous offer of fellowship which enabled me to devote myself to full-time research on the Chuang Tzu.