"To live outside the law you must be honest..."
- Bob Dylan
It is impossible to understand Philosophical Daoism, that is, Daoism as found in the writings attributed to Laozi and Zhuangzi, without understanding the central practical principle of wuwei, or "non-action." There are many different intrepretations of this idea, many of which seem to overlook both the overall coherence of the text as well as its many subtle nuances. I propose to offer an different interpretation of this crucial notion, one which differs on some key points from the prevailing interpretation and arguably acknowledges some deeper dimensions of the text and its overall coherence.
In approaching the text, though, we also need to keep in mind its characteristic and well-documented resistance to formulaic or forced behavior. Rather than discovering a new or better formula for behavior, the Zhuangzi emphasizes the benefits of becoming sensitive to a broader and finer range of the subtle demands, constraints, and inevitabilities of unique situations. This sensitivity allows us to respond most appropriately to every unique situation in the way that most or best respects subtleties of novelty and necessity.
Therefore the most effective and efficient mode of human experience is to blend or "fit" (shi) into our surroundings in such a way as to allow ourselves to respond effortlessly and spontaneously to any situation or circumstance, which is simultaneously affected by our presence within it. I suggest that this mode of reflective, and unobtrusive activity is what Zhuangzi refers to as wuwei.
I propose to explicate Zhuangzi's conception of wuwei as it is articulated in the image of the "hinge of dao." This image illustrates several key features of the mode of action of Zhuangzi's ideal person, namely: 1) effortlessness; 2) responsiveness; and 3) unobtrusiveness. First, I will look at and discuss the few actual instances of the term "wuwei" in the Zhuangzi. Second, I will point out that the imagery used by the text to suggest this privileged mode of conduct frequently takes the form of some sort of adaptation or reflection.
Third, I will analyze the metaphor of the hinge, and show how centralizing this metaphor can illuminate Zhuangzi's notion of wuwei and the realized person who acts according to this principle. It will be seen that the image of the hinge is used in the Zhuangzi to represent the way in which the ideal person responds to inevitability. In this way, I will argue that Zhuangzi's ideal person could be described as "perfectly well-adjusted."
Finally, I will demonstrate that this reading of the text offers new meanings and textures to materials which have for so long been read in only certain ways. Most of the translators and commentators who have brought the text to our attention have characterized it, somewhat unfairly, as "mystical," "skeptical," "escapist," "purposeless," and so on. I will show that this kind of reading, to a certain extent, misses the point of the text, and so its truly unique contributions are overlooked.
It must be noted from the outset that the actual phrase "wuwei" shows up only three times in the inner chapters. Of these, one instance seems to refer to dao and the other two to the attitude of what Zhuangzi evidently sees as the "ideal person." In both of those latter two occurrences, we find wuwei used to describe the rambling / meandering / transparent / effortless activity of the sage. The first instance of the term occurs in chapter 1. The text reads, "fanghuang hu wuwei qi ce." Various translations appear in Table I below:
| Mair | There you can roam in nonaction by its side… |
| Watson | …relax and do nothing by its side… |
| Wu | Rambling-ly, there-exists-no making beside it… |
| Feng | By its side you may wander in nonaction |
| Graham | …go roaming away to do nothing at its side. |
The crucial term seems to be fanghuang. The term implies something restless, not fixed, mobile, and in this sense to "roam in nonaction (wuwei)" suggests a kind of flitting about like a butterfly, at the mercy of the breeze and yet still somehow managing to travel from flower to flower, effectively arriving at its natural destination. As Roger Ames says:
"[In the Zhuangzi], wu-wei is associated with the 'spiritual rambling' quality of the enlightened person who has overcome the distorting influence of ego-self and is able to experience the totality of things."
The second occurrence of wuwei used to refer to the ideal person can be found in chapter 6. The passage reads: "xiaoyao hu wuwei zhi ye." A variety of translations are provided in Table II below:
| Mair | …carefree in the karma of nonaction. (p.61) |
| Watson | …they wander free and easy in the service of inaction. (p87) |
| Feng | …they wander in the realm of nonaction. (p101) |
| Chan | …they wander in the original state of having no (unnatural) action. (p198) |
| Graham | …they go rambling through the lore in which there's nothing to do. (p90) |
The term xiaoyao suggests a easygoing, carefree quality. This term is also used by the text's editor Guoxiang as part of the title of the first chapter, whose complete title, Xiaoyao You, means something like "Carefree Meandering." The term "meandering" seems especially appropriate, since it evokes the image of a river which takes the path of least resistance and does not rush or confront. Its avoidance of resistance causes it to take a roundabout route, yet it ultimately arrives at its destination, the sea. As previously described, the butterfly is also a creature which meanders, at least in this sense. The syntax of the sentence seems extremely straightforward: it says that the consequence, issuance, or outcome (ye) of wuwei is xiaoyao. Therefore it seems reasonable to understand wuwei as a kind of "carefree meandering", effortlessly navigating the contours of inevitability while arriving inevitably at one's destination. It is not necessarily purposeless-but its purpose is perhaps accomplished indirectly.
This also implies a certain degree of flexibility. But we must be careful not to reduce wuwei to "mere" flexibility. As Kuang-ming Wu suggests:
"Chuang Tzu wants us to adopt a flexible 'attitude' that best fits our disposition and the disposition of the situation in which we are at the moment."
The kind of flexibility involved here might be described as a metaphysical flexibility. Wuwei is not merely a way of acting, it is a way of approaching the world, of matching attitude to circumstance. This requires a willingness to shift contexts and see things from novel or different perspectives, continuously finding new possibilities in things. A good example of this principle in the text is found, in chapter one, in the story of Huizi:
"Hui Tzu said to Chuang Tzu, ' the king of Wei gave me some seeds of a huge gourd. I planted them, and when they grew up, the fruit was big enough to hold five piculs. I tried using it for a water container, but it was so heavy I couldn't lift it. I split it in half to make dippers, but they were so large and unwieldy that I couldn't dip them into anything. It's not that the gourds weren't fantastically big-but I decided they were of no use and so I smashed them to pieces.
"Chuang Tzu said, …'Now you had a gourd big enough to hold five piculs. Why didn't you think of making it into a great tub so you could go floating around the rivers and lakes, instead of worrying because it was too big and unwieldy to dip into things!'"
This story is reminiscent of the classic situation encountered by all parents at some point or another. The parent spends all week putting together an elaborate and extremely expensive toy, only to find that the child prefers the box that it came in. Why is this the case? Because the toy can only be what it was intended to be, but the box can be anything. This childlike (though not emotionally childish) sense of wonder, this ability to see diverse, perhaps infinite, possibilities in things, is an aspect of wuwei, in that it only becomes possible once we overcome our insistence on having the world conform to our own preferences. Instead of obstinately and vainly persisting against the tide of inevitability, which will only wear us out, Zhuangzi's ideal person adapts and conforms, reflectively and reflexively, operating in an effortless, responsive, unobtrusive fashion, by finding the fit (shi).
Although it rejects formulaic thinking, the Zhuangzi cannot correctly be described as completely relativistic, because, even though different concerns arise in different situations, each unique situation carries with it its own limitations and inevitabilities which need to accommodated. This means that there are real constraints presented to us, which cannot be resolved away simply by denying their ultimate validity. So even though there are no single right or wrong ethical stances in general, there are ones which are most right and wrong given particular situational constraints. This ethical stance, then, is not entirely relativistic, nor is it entirely absolutistic.
In light of this reciprocity between ourselves and the world, and the fact that our experience somehow represents the reconciliation of the two, the most efficient mode of action will be the one which follows the "path of least resistance," as we find in the story of Cook Ding. According to Watson's translation, the story goes like this:
"Cook Ting was cutting up an ox for Lord Wen-hui. At every touch of his hand, every heave of his shoulder, every move of his feet, every thrust of his knee-zip! zoop! He slithered the knife along with a zing, and all was in perfect rhythm, as though he were performing the dance of the Mulberry Grove or keeping time to the Ching-shou music. ...
"Cook Ting laid down his knife and [said], 'What I care about is the Way, which goes beyond all skill. When I first began cutting up oxen, all I could see was the ox itself. After three years I no longer saw the whole ox. And now-now I go at it by spirit and don't look with my eyes. Perception and understanding have come to a stop and spirit moves where it wants. I go along with the natural makeup, strike in the big hollows, guide the knife through the big openings, and follow things as they are. So I never touch the smallest ligament or tendon, much less a main joint.
"A good cook changes his knife once a year-because he cuts. A mediocre cook changes his knife once a month-because he hacks. I've had this knife of mine for nineteen years and I've cut up thousands of oxen with it, and yet the blade is as good as though it had just come from the grindstone. There are spaces between the joints, and the blade of the knife has really no thickness. If you insert what has no thickness into such spaces, then there's plenty of room-more than enough for the blade to play about it. That's why after nineteen years the blade of my knife is still as good as when it first came from the grindstone."
Of course, the dignitary for whose benefit the good cook explains his skill immediately sees the broader implications of "go[ing] along with the natural makeup," and concludes that "I have heard the words of Cook Ting and learned how to care for life!"
What Wenhui learns is that true mastery and skill, in life as well as in cooking, involve a knack, not a formula. The ideal is to "follow things as they are" and therefore never confront obstacles, just as water flows around a rock in the stream. The "spirit" or "daemonic" (shen) to which Cook Ding refers can be seen as the "autopilot" which guides us in the absence of conscious intention. A mundane example of this would be walking through a crowd of people without noticing the many various adjustments our bodies make to avoid hitting anyone. But this kind of response can hardly be planned. It must occur spontaneously and completely integrated into whatever situation is at hand. As A.C.Graham says:
"People who really know what they are doing, such as cooks, carpenters, swimmers, boatmen, cicada-catchers, do not go in much for analysing, posing alternatives and reasoning from first principles, they no longer even bear in mind any rules they were taught as apprentices; they attend to the total situation and respond."
This mode of action is made available to us in a certain way, namely by finding the "fit" (shi). One who has found this fit remains, for the most part, invisible or inconspicuous by virtue of his or her perfect integration into their surroundings, like a chameleon. In the Outer chapters, the notion of "the fit" is explained in this way:
"If the feet are forgotten [wang], then the shoes fit [shi]. If the waist is forgotten, the belt fits. If awareness of right and wrong is forgotten, the mind fits. If there is no internal change nor external following, one's acumen [shihui] fits. When one fits from the start, and there is never lack of fit, then there is the fit of forgetting all about fitting."
A perfect fit, then is transparent or unobtrusive.
To be sure, for most of us, this fit needs to be found, since we have lost our knack for natural action and so our action is "ill-at-ease" or "dys-functional." Zhuangzi puts it this way in Chapter 2:
"When [most] people sleep, their souls are confused; when they awake, their bodies feel all out of joint. Their contacts turn into conflicts, each day involves them in mental strife. They become indecisive, dissembling, secretive. Small fears disturb them; Great fears incapacitate them.
"Some there are who express themselves as swiftly as the release of the crossbow mechanism, which is to say that they arbitrate right and wrong. Others hold fast as though to a sworn covenant, which is to say they are waiting for victory. Some there are whose decline is like autumn and winter, which describes their dissolution day by day. Others are so immersed in activity that they cannot be revitalized. Some become so weary that they are as though sealed up in an envelope, which describes their senility. Their minds are so near death that they cannot be rejuvenated."
The "dys-functional" attitude, then, is one in which response is impulsive, judgmental, stubborn, manic-depressive, and in conflict with the rest of the world. Contributing to our dis-ease is the fact that we blindly and obstinately insist on applying our values, outlooks, and perspectives without question in all situations, whether or not they are appropriate, and accepting them as beyond our control. This formulaic, rule-based approach to experience will often confront situations for which the rule is not exactly appropriate, and consequently dysfunction and conflict or "friction" will result from trying to jam the square peg into the round hole. On the other hand, "finding the fit" or "fitting in" requires the ability to adapt and change with the circumstances, rather than beating our heads against the wall of inevitability in a form of what psychologists call "obstinate progression."
Finding this fit involves a kind of blending in with the circumstances, but it is crucially important to emphasize that this is not simply a matter of conforming to society and other forms of human contrivance. It is in fact accomplished by stripping away the artificial and arbitrary conventions of thought and behavior which are the result of social indoctrination, and which only serve to impede spontaneous response.
The Zhuangzi describes this process of eliminating artificial and narrow constraints as "mind fasting" (xinzhai), a process which leaves one more "open-minded," more sensitive and responsive to genuine, inevitable constraints. As we will emphasize shortly, Zhuangzi's notion of the "dao hinge" (daoshu) enables us to compare this process to clearing out a socket so that a hinge might move more freely in it. Such a process requires conforming to a broader array of situational variables, of which the conventions of human contrivance (wei/wei) are only one small part. One is fitting into the world as a whole, as in the example of Cook Ding, not just the narrow band of reality circumscribed by the limits of social existence. The attitude becomes what might be described as "open-minded," and action becomes non-contrived (wuwei ), effortless, and unobtrusive. Kuang-ming Wu says:
"[Sages] know how to fit into nature, and so they are fit and do not suffer, and can help others without helping them."
For Zhuangzi, freedom is the result of this "fit" (shi ). But this kind of freedom is perhaps best understood as freedom from slavish, obstinate commitment to behavioral and evaluative formulae which force us to act inappropriately, rather than freedom to act inappropriately if we so choose. Cook Ding doesn't decide where he wants to cut-he finds the spaces between the bones. Or, to return to the hinge image, freedom in this sense is what the hinge experiences when it is situated properly in the socket. It can be said to "move freely" in that, within the limits of its possible motion, it experiences no obstruction or friction which might impede its motion. In this sense, the sage serves as a kind of "human superconductor."
Zhuangzi's privileging of the unobtrusive allows us to conclude that, for him, "inappropriate action" might be defined as that which is unnatural and "sticks out," that which leads to conflict, friction, frustration, and "dis-ease;" while appropriate, natural, or spontaneous (ziran) action leads to a condition of ease and contentment. Such "frictionless activity" (wuwei) leads to greatest contentment.
Zhuangzi describes the daoshu or "hinge of Dao" as a fulcrum which balances distinctions. Zhuangzi says:
"A state in which 'this' and 'that' no longer find their opposites is called the hinge of the Way. When the hinge is fitted into the socket, it can respond endlessly. Its right then is a single endlessness and its wrong too is a single endlessness. So, I say, the best thing to use is clarity."
This condition is one of open-mindedness, which does not obstinately insist on the world conforming to our pre-conceived preferences. The hinge serves as a standpoint or fulcrum according to which various distinctions are enabled. Seeing dichotomies in this way shows them to be complements, not opposites. To insist on preferring one alternative to another, is to establish evaluations, which we subsequently tend to apply dogmatically, arbitrarily and indiscriminately.
Kuang-ming Wu rightfully suggests a parallel between Zhuangzi's idea of the hinge and the idea of axis mundi. In the sense explicated by Mircea Eliade, the axis establishes a reference point which provides orientation. This orientation subsequently enables and promotes the constitution of distinctions and evaluations. This heterogeneity characterizes what Eliade calls "sacred space." But although it is useful to recognize distinctions, Zhuangzi seems to suggest that it is unnecessary and in fact somewhat dysfunctional to systematically, categorically, and unreflectively prefer one pole of a dichotomy to another. To return to our guiding metaphor, a door can swing open or closed, but it is all the same to the hinge. The movement possesses an "absolute value," as the mathematician would say. Zhuangzi encourages us to accurately perceive distinctions, not to allow them to become blurred in a condition of mystical transcendence. Clarity (ming), not obscurity, is the privileged state of mind. But what is revealed in the light of this clarity is the mutuality of distinctions, their paradoxical dependence on one another, represented elsewhere in the Daoist tradition as taiji, or the unity of yin and yang.
This dynamically balanced approach to life shows us the relativity of perspective. Zhuangzi criticizes the Confucians and the Mohists both for their contentious, polemical philosophizing, and concludes:
"What one calls right the other calls wrong; what one calls wrong the other calls right. But if we want to right their wrongs and wrong their rights, then the best thing to use is clarity."
This clarity can be seen, then, as just that vision or insight which remains aware of the complementarity of opposites. This can also be described in some sense as seeing the "big picture," in which all contradictions are located and resolved. In other words, it characterizes any perspective which includes an awareness of the relativity of all perspectives.
So then, in the light of this clarity, the genuine person does not identify with his/her evaluations, but simply watches as all distinctions revolve around a central standpoint-a standpoint which is located at the daoshu and serves as the pivot, the fulcrum. This permits effective and effortless adaptation to circumstances and conditions. As A.C. Graham points out in quoting from Ch. 15: "Only when stirred will he respond, only when pressed will he move, only when it is inevitable will he rise up." Graham further says:
"The man who reacts with pure spontaneity can do so only at one moment and in one way; by attending to the situation until it moves him, he discovers the move which is 'inevitable' (pu te yi, the one in which he 'has no alternative') like a physical reflex. But he hits on it only if he perceives with perfect clarity, as though in a mirror."
This kind of inevitability, furthermore, does not imply any kind of determinism. This is because the genuine person is not rigidly constrained to a single response, but rather inevitably slips into the most natural (comfortable: shi), most effortless groove. The "grooves" in this case are not the ruts of repetitive and habitual activity. They instead represent the limitations and inevitabilities one encounters in the world, sucy that effortless activity follows the trajectory of the groove just as a surfer follows the motion of the wave, or Cook Ding finds the spaces between the bones. Zhuangzi says: "Only a person of integrity can recognize the inevitable and accept it as his destiny."
This, of course, is why I emphasized earlier that Zhuangzi's understanding of freedom does not suggest the freedom to act inappropriately. The fact is that even though in any particular instance there may not be only one appropriate response, there is almost always, whether we recognize it or not, a most appropriate response. For Zhuangzi, this would seem to be the one which leads on the one hand to the least conflict, or dis-ease; and on the other hand to the most efficient and effortless experience, or ease, as seen again in the story of Cook Ding. Besides, to describe the activity of the genuine person in terms of the free will/determinism paradigm would be to commit to one side of a polar dichotomy, and since the sage occupies the socket of the hinge, such descriptions are themselves inappropriate, simplistic, and unhelpful.
The process by which the socket is cleared out so as to accommodate the hinge in this sense is described by Zhuangzi as self-forgetting (xinzhai: "mind-fasting"). Watson translates the relevant passages as follows:
"'May I ask what the fasting of the mind is?' Confucius said, 'Make your will one! Don't listen with your ears, listen with your mind. No, don't listen with your mind, but listen with your spirit. Listening stops with the ears, the mind stops with recognition, but spirit is empty and waits on all things. The Way gathers in emptiness alone. Emptiness is the fasting of the mind.'"
The word that Watson translates as "spirit" here is qi or "vital energy" which is described in the text as "vacuous" (xu) and yet "attendant upon things" (er dai wu zhi ye). That is, it is open and expansive, yet completely responsive. Mindfasting, then is emptying the mind of artificial constraints to open it up and make room for the appropriate natural response to occur. It therefore involves the elimination of rigid, dogmatic, formulaic attitudes and habits, and our self-identification with them. As Kuang-ming Wu points out:
"To empty oneself is to become oneself; to become oneself is thus to go along with the world; to go along thus with the world of inevitables is to be free in it. Therefore to empty oneself is to be free in the world."
This process enables frictionless (effortless: wuwei) and immediate response to circumstance. A.C. Graham suggests that "the Taoist is somewhere where this dichotomy [between rational detachment and decision making on the one hand, and romantic indulgence on the other] does not apply." I would add that this "place" is in the socket of the hinge, at the fulcrum of all dichotomies. When we occupy that space, all things revolve around us, and we remain balanced and well-adjusted despite the unpredictability and inevitability presented by the world. We become at ease and comfortable (shi) with our surroundings, and so seem invisible, or at least inconspicuous, to others.
We find expressions of this idea of "open-mindedness" in chapter two of the text. Watson's translation is as follows:
"Great Understanding is broad and unhurried; little understanding is cramped and busy. Great words are clear and limpid; little words are shrill and quarrelsome."
What he translates as "great understanding" (dazhi) could just as easily mean "vast comprehension" or open-mindedness. The phrase reads "dazhi xianxian." If "xian" means, as many (though not all) commentators suggest, "broad" or "leisurely," then the doubling of the word suggests "expansive" or "broadly accommodating." Kuang-ming Wu, following Akatzuka, suggests that both dazhi and its opposite (xiaozhi, small or narrow-mindedness) are meant pejoratively, in the sense that all kinds of knowledge and discourse have problems associated with them.
Whether or not this is true, Watson's translation of the last sentence of this phrase is open to question. The characterization given for dayan ("great words") is that they are yanyan (fiery, brilliant, explosive). Watson substitutes without explanation a different character (dan: clear, transparent, pale) for the doubled yan. It is not clear what is gained by this. Yanyan can effectively and coherently be understood as language which is deconstructively performative. Its performative aspect in this case refers to its trans-formative function, its seductive and subtle effect on the sensibilities of the reader. In other words, reading the text transforms the reader. Its deconstructive aspect refers to its self-erasing function, its ability to burn itself up after it performs its function, leaving behind no traces in the world, like the fish net which is discarded once the fish has been caught. Despite its incendiary quality, since it leaves no mark behind, this can still truly be called an unobtrusive use of language, and according to one passage in the text, it is the way the sage speaks. Zhuangzi laments, at the end of chapter 26:
"The fish trap exists because of the fish; once you've gotten the fish, you can forget the trap. The rabbit snare exists because of the rabbit; once you've gotten the rabbit, you can forget the snare. Words exist because of meaning; once you've gotten the meaning, you can forget the words. Where can I find a man who has forgotten words so I can have a word with him?"
Such a person is a desirable partner for conversation because he or she has no preferences at stake, and so will not insist on projecting any inappropriate meanings onto our statements. Such a person will be truly willing and able to come to terms with us, meet us on our own turf, and understand us as we understand ourselves, by using language without being hampered by or fixated on any favorite or popular usage. This limits misunderstanding and, since clarity is a privileged cognitive mode, is therefore of value. So the transparent person, the person whose cognitive filters are transparent or lacking, is the ideal conversational partner.
Watson, however, describes the freedom of the genuine person (zhenren) as a "mindless, purposeless mode of life," but I have some trouble accepting that it is entirely "mindless and purposeless." Daoist sages don't walk around bumping into things in a foggy haze. Clarity is privileged. As we have already pointed out, though a river may meander, following the path of least resistance, it still always manages to get to the sea. On the basis of the story of Cook Ding, at least, I would say that Zhuangzi values the overcoming of conflict and friction. This is to say, we need to find our place (shi)-to reconcile ourselves to that which is outside of our control and operate within our parameters, instead of thinking of the limits as limitations and consequently struggling obstinately and vainly against them. As Roger Ames says:
"…the profile which emerges [of Zhuangzi's ideal person] is not inconsistent with that of the sage-ruler of the Lao Tzu-a consummate person whose catholicism, tolerance, and ability enable him to respond appropriately and efficaciously to any set of circumstances."
This image of the well-adjusted person serves nicely to describe the genuine person, who has become balanced and centered. He or she is then able to experience the pitch and roll of oppositions (taiji), the ebb and flow of a constantly changing world, without being thrown off-balance. In a cognitive sense, the goal seems to be a kind of open-minded equanimity which is not flustered or disturbed by the unexpected. This is the example set by Cook Ding.
This kind of centering, as has often been noted, is also emphasized in many forms of Asian Martial Arts, such as Chinese taijiquan or Japanese Aikido. In both of these, the goal is to become completely centered, so as to become rooted and immovable. Furthermore, someone who masters these techniques is also able to uproot others by entering into and appropriating their opponent's center. In fact, many aspects of Zhuangzi's concept of the ideal or "genuine person" (zhenren ) correspond to the ideal of mastery in the martial arts. This is the case because the martial arts master is generally considered to have learned how to harmonize with his or her surroundings and is therefore able to avoid friction or conflict. Traditionally, the highest form of mastery in the martial arts is modeled on the image of water, which overcomes by yielding, and in this way avoids injury without causing harm to others.
This sense of balance is acquired by becoming comfortable with shifting foundations. For example, one common training method in taijiquan is to train on the beach, so that the sand shifts underfoot and requires attention to balance. In this sense, it seems the Zhuangzi is endorsing the vertigo which results from shifting foundations, or at least attempting to make it familiar enough not to cause fear or forced response. We can, in fact, learn from our vertigo-we can use it to cultivate and develop a sense of balance which then allows us to adapt and conform to circumstances and conditions as they arise and change. To cling to our distinctions and their consequent evaluations, is a form of rigidity, which inevitably leads to dissonance, friction, and conflict. Vertigo teaches us fluidity and balance. So Zhuangzi constantly keeps us off-balance. As one recent commentator puts it, "He disorients us so he can reorient us," though it seems more likely, in terms of this current discussion, that he disorients us so that we can learn to orient ourselves in any novel situation, without relying on him.
Many interpreters will agree that the Zhuangzi is concerned with freedom. Since the idea of a "fit" implies a reciprocal inter-relation between the various components of a situation, freedom in this sense is constituted by lack of constraints which might inhibit or impede natural response. Usually, these constraints take the form of the burden of convention, expectation, and social artifice. Therefore freedom does not necessarily imply the freedom to do whatever we want. One must acknowledge and accommodate the real inevitabilities and limitations one encounters. This is because one cannot force the fit, one must rather find it, which involves meeting the world at least halfway.
The text as a whole encapsulates this idea, since it is written in such a way that the text responds to the reader just as the reader responds to the text. In this sense I would suggest that, just as text and reader constitute a reciprocally responsive whole, the same can be said of all human experience. As a result, suggests Zhuangzi, the most effective mode of human experience is to blend or "fit" (shi) into any given situation in such a way as to allow ourselves to respond (ying) effortlessly and spontaneously, just like the hinge. This mode of non-obtrusive experience is what we might call wuwei.
Many commentators on the text understand the Zhuangzi as advocating some form of abstract mysticism, which devalues the world of concrete realities. There are several difficulties with this approach, however, which may lead one to overlook much of the subtlety of the text. For example, Burton Watson, one of the foremost translators of the Zhuangzi, describes its attitude as one of "skepticism and mystical detachment." He also claims that:
"Chuang Tzu's answer to the question [of how to live in a world dominated by chaos, suffering, and absurdity] is: free yourself from the world."
More recent translators such as Victor Mair also make this assumption:
"Above all, Master Chuang emphasized spontaneity. He was a mystic who recommended freedom from the world and its conventions."
Watson does acknowledge that the sage does not "in any literal sense withdraw and hide from the world-to do so would show that he still passed judgment upon the world." However, he still insists that in the state of wuwei, "Man becomes one with Nature, or Heaven, as Chuang Tzu calls it, and merges himself with Tao, or the Way, the underlying unity that embraces man, Nature, and all that is in the universe."
I would say therefore that these readings are somewhat problematic, in two ways. First of all, representing dao as some kind of abstract, transcendental entity with which the sage merges overlooks the emphasis on concrete immanence found throughout the text. For example, Zhuangzi says about dao that "dao(s) is (are) established as it is (they are) performed" (dao xing zhi er cheng). Watson's reading of this phrase is "A road is made by someone walking on it,"rendering dao as "road" even though, in the very next paragraph, he translates it in its more technical sense (in Zhuangzi's discussion of the "daoshu" or "hinge of dao"). But it is unnecessary to posit an eternal or abstract dao which exists apart from things, the behavior or quality of which is different than all the various possible concrete daos operating in the world. If Zhuangzi's dao is not abstract but rather totally concrete, then this distinction between the technical (abstract) and ordinary (concrete) uses of the word dao becomes unnecessary. A concrete dao cannot be said to exist somewhere else before it operates in the world-its operation establishes its presence (dao xing zhi er cheng). Any dao, then, can be said to exist to the extent that it functions or operates in some way, since it is the way things work. That is, it is what it does. The way, in this sense, is then not something ontologically distinguishable from the things which are working in that way.
Some scholars argue that the dao is some special category of thing, whose transcendent nature renders it ineffable. For instance, Philip Ivanhoe says "Zhuangzi shared with Laozi the belief that words can never adequately describe the Dao,"as though there were a single absolute Dao underlying all reality though not present in it. And even though Ivanhoe suggests that Zhuangzi was "fundamentally skeptical about language in general," he still finds it necessary to single out dao as somehow being more ineffable than the rest of reality.
Third, Zhuangzi does not merely tolerate the world-he actually affirms it as wonderful and enjoyable, once one learns to fit in. The important thing is to find the fit.
Approaches such as Watson's allow him to dismiss some of what Zhuangzi says:
"Chuang Tzu invents a variety of mysterious and high-sounding pseudo-technical terms to refer to the Way or the man who has made himself one with it. I have given a literal translation of such terms, and capitalized them in order to indicate their special character-e.g., Great Clod, Supreme Swindle, True Man. The reader need not puzzle over their precise meaning, since in the end they all refer to essentially the same thing-the inexpressible Absolute."
As we have already suggested, Zhuangzi's so-called "Absolute," if he posits one at all, is almost certainly not transcendent-its operation constitutes its establishment. Furthermore, it is not clear how the term "True Man" (zhenren) comes to be included in Watson's list of expressions for the "inexpressible ultimate," except to the extent that Watson insists that this genuine person is one who has reached a certain level of identification with the abstract entity he seems to describe as the "Absolute Dao."
But the Zhuangzi actually inspires us, not to remove or distance ourselves from the day to day world by identifying with some transcendental Dao, but rather to immerse ourselves in the world. Rather than understanding ourselves as apart from the world, we should understand ourselves as a part of it, fully and completely integrate ourselves within it. As Kuang-ming Wu says, "…one becomes free in the hustle and bustle of worldly activities."
Therefore it can be said that the Zhuangzi describes the behavior and attitude of what we might call the "perfectly well-adjusted person," someone who is perfectly at ease in all situations. It is not clear, however, if Zhuangzi thinks that everyone should be like this, nor that everyone could be like this, nor that anyone could be like this. To generalize in this fashion would itself be inconsistent with the non-formulaic personality of the text. Instead, the text simply presents us with strange and unsettling, though ultimately fascinating and compelling, stories which disturb our balance and force us to adjust. In this way, reading the text becomes a transformative project in itself.