Current Issue: Spring 2007 (Vol I)
The Perfect Man
Thousands of trees are cut down every day to supply wood, one of the most essential and indispensable raw materials of our society. No matter how aesthetically pleasing they may be, and despite the meritorious efforts of environmentalists, trees have proven far too useful as building blocks for great civilizations. Their worth is their curse. So the worthless trees are happiest, living contently and relatively safe from danger while they innocently adorn a roadside, foster the sacred atmosphere of a shrine, or provide a peaceful spot for the sleep-deprived college student to find some rest.
This is the analogy that Chuang Tzu, the ancient eastern sage, presents to demonstrate the paradox of life and to expound his Perfect Man. The lesson here is that just as the trees invite their own destruction by being useful to society, people destroy their own selves and deviate from the Way by trying to align themselves with social expectations. The “worthless” tree, on the other hand, finds its uselessness to be very useful to itself. Because the carpenter does not cut it down, it can grow to its own splendor. The Perfect Man in Chuang Tzu’s tradition is the one that grows into life for the purpose of living, pure and simple. Starkly different from traditional Western ideals (whether Aristotelian or Nietzschian) that exhort us to increase our powers in order to fulfill our desires, this innovative 2,500 year old paragon demands that we reduce to a vanishing point our desires, our ambitions, our judgments, and even the very distinctions that give rise to such points.
But who is this man of no ambition, of no desire, no will? How can uselessness be beneficial? And what is the Way? This last question is the starting point: Chuang Tzu’s Way is the grand sum of interactions between the heavens, mankind, and all that exists. Such primeval unity is founded upon the interrelationship of “this” and “that”: in order for “this” to exist, “that” must also exist, otherwise there would be no need to identify “this.” Therefore, “‘this’ and ‘that’ give birth to each other,” and the Perfect Man sees “that” in every “this,” allowing them to flow together so seamlessly that in essence they become one.1
Such unity is why the Perfect Man does not label or differentiate situations, objects, or concepts as good or bad; it is only after people have defined them as such that they acquire these distinctions. What men have divided and categorized into good and bad, “the Way makes… all one.”2 The distinction is not blurred: it is not there at all. The line is not a fine one; there simply is no line. The end result of this paradigm is that the Perfect Man does not even judge death as undesirable. For without death there is no life, and death itself is simply a continuation of life’s process. The boundary between life and death is, like all boundaries, an illusion fabricated through speech and judgment.
Thus the Perfect Man can move through the Way as the swimmer who has forgotten about the water. He does not even follow the Way, which seems to be the greatest purpose of becoming the Perfect Man, because he does not need to follow anything. Indeed, the only way he can truly find the Way is to live life for living—in the moment and without being caught up in his ultimate destination.
By living life for life itself, the Perfect Man in a sense loses his public self, rejecting all drives for fame, prestige, and personal worth. As a “name is only the guest of reality,” the pursuit of these man-made titles is, like the adoption of the aforementioned distinctions, meaningless.3 Profit and wealth are no more desirable than loss and poverty. Striving for such ends would not only be senseless, but also create tension as one resists the natural course of the Way. Therefore, the Perfect Man does not strive to become anything, does not desire to benefit society, and does not work towards success. These results are merely possible side effects of his living. His goal is not to enrich the ages; enrichment is just a by-product of his life: “His achievements blanket the world but appear not to be his own doing. …With him there is no promotion or praise—he lets everything find its own enjoyment.”4 To actually work toward these ends, to strive to benefit society, or to rise to society’s standards for success, would be to destroy himself and terminate his living life for life itself. Consequently, the most helpful condition the Perfect Man can assume is one of seeming uselessness to society.
Is the final objective of life, then, exactly what the opening chapter of the Chuang Tzu stipulates, “Free and easy wandering”? Did this ancient philosopher bequeath us with the prototypical handbook for modernity’s ultimate pursuit: a free and autonomous life devoid of cares or discomforts? Confucius says, “Make your will one! Don’t listen with your ears, listen with your mind. No, don’t listen with your mind, listen with your spirit.…[The] spirit is empty and waits for all things. The Way gathers in emptiness alone.”5 The Perfect Man empties his mind and acts from an intuitive reaction to the world around him, taking what comes his way and not forcing his life to go one way or the other through desires, aims, and goals.
Essentially, the Perfect Man’s rejection of differentiation, detachment from the world, apparent uselessness, lack of aim for personal success, and emptiness of mind all depend on and enable him to achieve oneness with everything. Seeing the unity in all things, not only because of his lack of judgment, but simply because all things are and thus are all connected and interrelated, he yields to the united oneness and becomes a part of it. By allowing himself to become one with the world and the heavens, he experiences the world outside the capacity of his own desires and finds the Way. Without separate parts to love or hate, to desire or avoid, he can find ultimate peace in the world that just is.
While in many regards, the concept of the Perfect Man strongly deviates from most Western concepts of the good life—such as Aristotle’s explanation of eudaimonia or Christian ethics—the differences lend new insights into these other philosophies. The ideal of the Perfect Man is rooted in the notion of protecting oneself from harm; even Aristotle’s work, the Gospel of John, and Mahayana Buddhism point toward renunciation of self-important personal pursuit of desires in light of the idea of unity or of God’s perfect plan—which would lead to a perfect state. However, their many fundamental differences impede the possibility of fully integrating them all, and since my own mind, like the minds of many readers, has been shaped by a Western, Christian upbringing, I cannot escape my biased inclination toward my own ideology. We may not be able to judge objectively Chuang Tzu’s philosophy alongside others with which we may traditionally identify; on the other hand, we need not sacrifice the values and ideas that we hold, even those we would need to suspend in order seek the life of the Perfect Man. Can anything, then, be done with this philosophy if we are not willing—fully and exclusively—to embrace Chuang Tzu’s Way?
Rather than focusing on the Perfect Man as the end objective, we can consider what general wisdom we can take from the words of Chuang Tzu. Thus, while we may find greater hope for happiness in Aristotelian virtue or Christian good-will, Chuang Tzu’s concepts can be used to supplement these systems (although such a use would ultimately deviate from Chuang Tzu’s complete Way). In this way, we can use differing philosophies to shed new light on our own beliefs, helping us to see a new dimension and reach for a richer understanding of our own philosophies and ideologies. For example, while we may still retain the drive for certain goals and ambitions, such as graduating with a degree in order to pursue a particular career, Chuang Tzu’s rejection of differentiation may prove useful in the face of setbacks. Such an attitude allows us to accept situations we cannot control, freeing us from the confines of being caught up in our own disappointment.
Accordingly, I find Chuang Tzu’s philosophy of great use during situations I cannot control and that would otherwise bother me to the point of disruption. For example, when I am in physical pain that cannot be alleviated immediately, I think of Chuang Tzu’s rejection of differentiation and reshape my mindset around the idea that the sensation of pain is not better or worse than the absence of pain. They are both just sensations, and I try to convince my mind to actually enjoy the sensation of pain. Sometimes it works, and I am able to relax enough to go to sleep or move past the pain. Or if I find myself in a group setting but feel distracted by many personal worries and concerns about other parts of my life (like paper deadlines or phone calls to make), I think of Chuang Tzu’s idea of living life for life itself in order to center myself where I actually am, enabling me to be truly present in the only circumstance I have any control over at the time. Thought processes like these help me adapt to any given situation so that my own personal goals and desires do not get in the way of enjoying the reality of life. In this way, even with my personal hopes and my drive to live virtuously, I can live life to the fullest no matter which unexpected turn it takes.
1. Chuang Tzu, Chuang Tzu: Basic Writings, trans. Burton Watson (New York: Colombia UP, 1964), 35.
2. Ibid., 36.
3. Ibid., 26.
4. Ibid., 91-92.
5. Ibid., 54.