Nourishing the Soul

My life has a limit, but my knowledge is without limit. To drive the limited in search of the limitless, is fatal; and the knowledge of those who do this is fatally lost.

My life is limited, but knowledge is limitless. To use my limited life to pursue limitless knowledge is fatal. And those who do this lose their knowledge with their lives.

In striving for others, avoid fame. In striving for self, avoid disgrace. Pursue a middle course. Thus you will keep a sound body, and a sound mind, fulfil your duties, and work out your allotted span.

When working for others, avoid fame. When working for yourself, avoid disgrace. Follow a middle path. This will keep your body and mind sound, help you fulfill your duties, and let you live out your allotted life.

Prince Hui's cook was cutting up a bullock. Every blow of his hand, every heave of his shoulders, every tread of his foot, every thrust of his knee, every whshh of rent flesh, every chhk of the chopper, was in perfect harmony,—rhythmical like the dance of the Mulberry Grove, simultaneous like the chords of the Ching Shou.¹

Prince Hui's cook was cutting up a bullock. Every movement was in perfect harmony: every stroke of his hand, every movement of his shoulders, every step of his foot, and every thrust of his knee. So were every whshh of tearing flesh and every chhk of the cleaver. All were as rhythmic as the dance of the Mulberry Grove and as simultaneous as the chords of the Ching Shou.¹

"Well done!" cried the Prince. "Yours is skill indeed."

"Well done!" cried the Prince. "You are truly skilled."

"Sire," replied the cook; "I have always devoted myself to Tao. It is better than skill. When I first began to cut up bullocks, I saw before me simply whole bullocks. After three years' practice, I saw no more whole animals.²

"Sir," the cook replied, "I have always devoted myself to Tao. Tao is better than skill. When I first began cutting up oxen, I saw only whole oxen before me. After three years of practice, I no longer saw whole animals.²

And now I work with my mind and not with my eye. When my senses bid me stop, but my mind urges me on, I fall back upon eternal principles. I follow such openings or cavities as there may be, according to the natural constitution of the animal. I do not attempt to cut through joints: still less through large bones.³

Now I work with my mind, not my eyes. When my senses tell me to stop but my mind urges me on, I rely on eternal principles. I follow whatever openings or cavities are there, guided by the animal’s natural structure. I do not try to cut through joints, much less through large bones.³

"A good cook changes his chopper once a year,—because he cuts. An ordinary cook, once a month,—because he hacks. But I have had this chopper nineteen years, and although I have cut up many thousand bullocks, its edge is as if fresh from the whetstone. For at the joints there are always interstices, and the edge of a chopper being without thickness, it remains only to insert that which is without thickness into such an interstice.⁴

"A good cook replaces his chopper once a year because he cuts. An ordinary cook replaces his once a month because he hacks. But I have had this chopper for nineteen years. Although I have cut up many thousands of oxen, its edge is still as if fresh from the whetstone. There are always gaps at the joints, and the edge of a chopper has no thickness. So I only have to insert that thin edge into a gap.⁴

By these means the interstice will be enlarged, and the blade will find plenty of room. It is thus that I have kept my chopper for nineteen years as though fresh from the whetstone.

This widens the gap and gives the blade plenty of room. That is how I have kept my chopper for nineteen years, as sharp as if it had just been sharpened.

"Nevertheless, when I come upon a hard part where the blade meets with a difficulty, I am all caution. I fix my eye on it. I stay my hand, and gently apply my blade, until with a hwah the part yields like earth crumbling to the ground. Then I take out my chopper, and stand up, and look around, and pause, until with an air of triumph I wipe my chopper and put it carefully away."

"Nevertheless, when I come to a tough spot where the blade meets resistance, I am all caution. I fix my eye on the spot. I steady my hand and gently apply the blade, until, with a hwah, the part gives way like earth crumbling to the ground. Then I take out my chopper, stand up, look around, and pause. At last, with an air of triumph, I wipe my chopper and carefully put it away."

"Bravo!" cried the Prince. "From the words of this cook I have learnt how to take care of my life."⁵

"Bravo!" cried the Prince. "From this cook's words, I have learned how to take care of my life."⁵

When Hsien, of the Kung-wên family, beheld a certain official, he was horrified, and said, "Who is that man? How came he to lose a foot? Is this the work of God, or of man?

When Hsien of the Kung-wên family saw an official, he was horrified and said, "Who is that man? How did he lose a foot? Was it the work of God or of a man?

"Why, of course," continued Hsien, "it is the work of God, and not of man. When God brought this man into the world, he wanted him to be unlike other men. Men always have two feet. From this it is clear that God and not man made him as he is.⁶

"Why, of course," Hsien continued, "this is God's work, not man's. When God brought this man into the world, he wanted him to be different from other men. Men always have two feet. This makes it clear that God, not man, made him as he is.⁶

"Now, wild fowl get a peck once in ten steps, a drink once in a hundred. Yet they do not want to be fed in a cage. For although they would thus be able to command food, they would not be free."⁷

"Wild birds find a bite of food every ten steps and a drink every hundred. Yet they do not want to be fed in a cage. Although they would have food at their disposal, they would not be free."⁷

When Lao Tzŭ died, Ch'in Shih went to mourn. He uttered three yells and departed.

When Lao Tzŭ died, Ch'in Shih went to mourn him. He shouted three times and left.

A disciple asked him saying, "Were you not our Master's friend?"

A disciple asked him, "Weren't you our Master's friend?"

"I was," replied Ch'in Shih.

"I was," said Ch'in Shih.

"And if so, do you consider that a sufficient expression of grief at his loss?" added the disciple.

"And if so, do you think that shows enough grief over his loss?" the disciple added.

"I do," said Ch'in Shih. "I had believed him to be the man of all men, but now I know that he was not. When I went in to mourn, I found old persons weeping as if for their children, young ones wailing as if for their mothers. And for him to have gained the attachment of those people in this way, he too must have uttered words which should not have been spoken, and dropped tears which should not have been shed, thus violating eternal principles, increasing the sum of human emotion, and forgetting the source from which his own life was received. The ancients called such emotions the trammels of mortality. The Master came, because it was his time to be born; he went, because it was his time to die. For those who accept the phenomenon of birth and death in this sense, lamentation and sorrow have no place. The ancients spoke of death as of God cutting down a man suspended in the air. The fuel is consumed, but the fire may be transmitted, and we know not that it comes to an end."⁸

"I do," said Ch'in Shih. "I believed he was the greatest of all men, but now I know he was not. When I went in to mourn, I found old people weeping as if for their children. Young people were wailing as if for their mothers. To have gained their affection in this way, he too must have said things he should not have said. He must have shed tears he should not have shed. In doing so, he violated eternal principles, increased human emotion, and forgot the source of his own life. The ancients called such emotions the chains of mortality. The Master came because it was his time to be born. He went because it was his time to die. For those who accept birth and death in this way, there is no place for grief and sorrow. The ancients spoke of death as God cutting down a man suspended in the air. The fuel is consumed, but the fire may be passed on, and we do not know that it ever ends."⁸