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Once Zhuang Zhou dreamed he was a butterfly. A butterfly fluttering happily around — was he revealing what he himself meant to be? He knew nothing of… - Zhuang Zhou
" "Once Zhuang Zhou dreamed he was a butterfly. A butterfly fluttering happily around — was he revealing what he himself meant to be? He knew nothing of Zhou. All at once awakening, there suddenly he was — Zhou. But he didn't know if he was Zhou having dreamed he was a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming he was Zhou. Between Zhou and the butterfly there must surely be some distinction. This is known at the transformation of things.
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About Zhuang Zhou
莊子 Zhūangzi (c. 369 BC – c. 286 BC), literally Master Zhuang, was a Chinese philosopher, who is supposed to have lived during the Warring States Period, corresponding to the Hundred Schools of Thought. His name is also transliterated as Zhuang Zi, Zhuang Zhou, Chuang Tzu, Chuang Tse. Chuang was his surname and Tse indicates master; so he would be referred to as Master Chuang. You will also see his name given as "Chuang Chou" or "Zhuang Zhu", this was his proper name, first and last, not an alternate spelling of "Chuang Tzu" or "Zhuangzi".
Biography information from Wikiquote
Also Known As
Native Name:
莊子
•
庄子
Alternative Names:
Zhuang Zi
•
Chuang Tzŭ
•
Chuang Tzu
•
Chuangtzŭ
•
Chuangtzu
•
Chuang Chou
•
Master Zhuang
•
Tchouang-tse
•
Chuang-tzu
•
Chuang-tse
•
Zhuangzi
•
Zhuang zi
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Additional quotes by Zhuang Zhou
A frog in a well cannot discuss the ocean, because he is limited by the size of his well. A summer insect cannot discuss ice, because it knows only its own season. A narrow-minded scholar cannot discuss the Tao, because he is constrained by his teachings. Now you have come out of your banks and seen the Great Ocean. You now know your own inferiority, so it is now possible to discuss great principles with you.
井蛙不可以語於海者，拘於虛也；夏蟲不可以語於冰者，篤於時也；曲士不可以語於道者，束於教也。今爾出於崖涘，觀於大海，乃知爾醜，爾將可與語大理矣。
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What is in charge of spreading all this before us? What nets and tethers all of this together? What remains itself unoccupied by any activity and yet shoves all this around to make it happen?
Could it be: there is some mechanism that cannot help itself?
What so lavishly puts all this forth?
What remains itself unoccupied by any activity and yet in a symphony of lascivious joy goads it all on?
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