The Tao of Chuang Tzu

The Tao of Chuang Tzu

Taoism and Confucianism are the two great philosophical traditions of China. While most Westerners trace Taoism to the Tao Te Ching written by Lao Tzu, Taoism derives at least as much from the philosopher Chuang Tzu, who lived in the 4th Century BC. Both the Tao Te Ching and the Tao of Chuang Tzu are composite texts written and rewritten over centuries with input from multiple anonymous writers. Each has a distinctive style, the Tao Te Ching poetic mysticism, the Tao of Chuang Tzu funny fantasy dialogues. Both texts flow from reflections on the nature of Tao, which was the central issue in Ancient China's philosophical dialogues. Hui Tzu had much influence on Chuang Tzu. Hui Tzu appears more often in dialogue with Chuang Tzu than any other figure, and the stories suggest a long-term philosophical interaction, a relationship between philosophical friends.

Rather than prescribing right action, the Tao of Chuang Tzu is filled with fantasy conversations among diverse individuals including millipedes, convicts, musicians, and the wind. His poetry and parables teach an essential lesson—open-minded receptivity to all the different voices of Tao. Each has insights that might be surprisingly valuable.

Chuang Tzu prefers fishing to high status and political office. Politics has no attraction for Chuang Tzu, because schemers who struggle against the Tao fall into pits that they dig for themselves. This anti-political stance is more than self-preservation. Chuang Tzu's egalitarian perspectives undermine China's Confucian authoritarianism. While Confucians assert that proper order occurs only when a society follows a single Tao, Chuang Tzu suggests that society could function just fine with people following many Tao's.

Chuang Tzu's most dramatic stories link Taoism to Zen—the mysticism of losing oneself in activity, the absorption in a highly cultivated way. His most famous example describes a butcher who carves flesh with the concentration of a dancer immersed in elegantly choreographed performance. We discover our untarnished human-nature by exercising skills with focus that reaches beyond ourselves to connect intimately with the Tao.

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A Turtle Wagging its Tail in the Mud: Chuang Tzu was fishing on the P'u River when the Prince of Ch'u sent an official to see him and said, "Our Prince desires to burden you with the administration of the Ch'u State." Chuang Tzu went on fishing without turning his head and said, "I have heard that in Ch'u there is a sacred tortoise that died when it was three thousand years old. The Prince keeps this tortoise in a chest in his ancestral temple. Now would this tortoise rather be dead and have its remains venerated, or would it rather be alive and wagging its tail in the mud?"

The official replied, "It would rather be alive, and wagging its tail in the mud."

"Leave me." cried Chuang Tzu. "I too will wag my tail in the mud."

A Screeching Crow: Hui Tzu was Prime Minister in the Liang State, and Chuang Tzu was passing through Liang on his way to a sacred mountain. Someone remarked, "Chuang Tzu has come to Liang. He wants to take over Hui Tzu's position as minister." Hui Tzu felt threatened by Chuang Tzu, and searched throughout the countryside for to find him. Hui Tzu searched for three days and three nights. Eventually Chuang Tzu found Hui Tzu, and said, "A lovely phoenix spends its winters near the South Sea. In spring it flies from the South to the Northern Mountains. During its spring migration, the phoenix does not alight except on the wu-t'ung tree. It eats nothing but the fruit of the bamboo and drinks only the purest spring water. As the phoenix flew over a barren prairie, a Crow feasting on a rotten carcass of a rat looked up and screeched at the phoenix. Are you not screeching at me over your kingdom of Liang?"

Happy Fish: Chuang Tzu and Hui Tzu strolled on to the bridge over the river Hao, when Chuang Tzu observed, "See how the small fish dart about. That is the happiness of the fish."

"You are not a fish." said Hui Tzu, "How can you know what makes a fish happy?"

"And you are not me." replied Chuang Tzu, "How can you know that I do not know what makes a fish happy?"

"If I, not being you, cannot know what you know," argued Hui Tzu, "it follows that you, not being a fish, cannot know the happiness of the fish."

"Let's return to your original question," said Chuang Tzu. "You asked me how I knew the happiness of the fish. Your very question shows that you knew that I knew. I knew it, from my own feelings, on this bridge."

The Pheasant in a Field: A pheasant in a field must travel ten steps to get a peck, a hundred steps to get a drink. Yet pheasants do not want to be fed in a cage.

Chuang Tzu Dreamed he was a Butterfly: Once upon a time, Chuang Tzu dreamed he was a butterfly, fluttering from flower to flower. He was conscious only of happiness as a butterfly, unaware that he was Chuang. He awoke, and was himself again. After awaking, he did not know if he was a man dreaming he was a butterfly, or if he was a butterfly, dreaming that he was a man. Between a man and a butterfly there is necessarily a distinction. The distinction is the transformation of material things.

Three in the Morning: To wear out your intellect in an obstinate adherence to the individuality of things, not recognizing that all things are One. That is called Three in the Morning. What is Three in the Morning? A monkey keeper told his monkeys that he would feed them feed nuts—three in the morning and four at night. Upon hearing about the feeding schedule, the monkeys became angry. Then the keeper said they could have four in the morning and three at night, and they were all pleased. The number of nuts remained the same, but the distribution conflicted with the monkeys' likes and dislikes. The Sage brings all the contraries together and rests in the natural Balance of Heaven, according to the principle of following two courses at once.

Hard and white:

Hui Tzu said to Chuang Tzu, “What do you think of when I say the word quartz?”

Chuang Tzu replied, “I think of a hard white stone.”

Hui Tzu replied, “What is hard and what is white?”

Chuang Tzu, “Even a child knows what we mean when we say hard and white. Have your convoluted philosophical musings made you confuse the concepts of color and texture?”

Hui Tzu continued, “You say hard and white as if they are two different things, but in the stone they are inseparable—they coincide within the same space. They are in a sense two, but unlike a pair of shoes one cannot be taken away from the other. No animal can be both an ox and a horse, but a stone can be both hard and white.”

Chuang Tzu replied, “You spend too much time on hair-splitting debate.”

Hui Tzu asks a stupid question:

Hui Tzu said to Chuang Tzu, "Is it truly human nature to lack passions?"

"Certainly," replied Chuang Tzu.

Hui Tzu asked, "But if a man lacks passions, what makes him a person?"

Chuang Tzu replied, "Tao gives people expression and form. We do not need passions to be human."

"How could a person lack passions?" asked Hui Tzu.

Chuang Tzu answered, "Passions arise from approval and disapproval—likes and dislikes. By a person without passions, I mean one who does not permit likes and dislikes to disturb his internal economy. This person accepts his nature and does not try to improve upon it."

"But how should we live," asked Hui Tzu. "Shouldn't we improve our lives?"

"Tao gives us expression," said Chuang Tzu, "and mother earth gives us form. We should not permit likes and dislikes to disturb our internal economy. But now you are devoting your intelligence to externals, and dissipating your chi. Lean against a tree and sing; or sit against a table and sleep. Life presents marvelous opportunities, yet you squander your existence contemplating the meaning of hard and white."

The Useless Sacred Tree: As a carpenter was traveling he reached a Shady Circle where he saw the Sacred Li Tree. It was so large that its shade could cover a herd of several thousand cattle. It towered up eighty feet. A dozen boats could be cut out of it. Crowds stood gazing at it, but the carpenter took no notice, and went on his way without even casting a look behind. His apprentice said, "Ever since I have handled an adze in your service, I have never seen such a splendid piece of timber. How was it that you did not stop to look at it?"

"Forget about it. It's not worth talking about," replied his master. "It's good for nothing. Made into a boat, it would sink; into a coffin, it would rot; into furniture, it would break; into a pillar, it would be worm-eaten. Its wood lacks quality, and it is of no use. That is why it has reached such old age."
When the carpenter reached home, he dreamed that the sacred tree spoke to him: "What are you comparing me to, fine-grained wood? Look at the cherry-apple, the pear, the orange? As soon as their fruit ripens they are stripped and treated with indignity. Their boughs are snapped. Thus, these trees cause their own injury by their value. They cannot fulfill their allotted lifespan, and perish prematurely because they destroy themselves for the admiration of the world. Throughout my life I have tried to be useless. Through my uselessness, I have avoided being cut down. While I am useless to humans, I have become exceedingly useful to myself. Is a good-for-nothing carpenter fit to talk of a good-for-nothing tree?" When the carpenter awoke and told his dream, his apprentice asked, "If the tree worked so hard to be useless, how did it become sacred?"

The mountain trees invite their own cutting down; lamp oil invites its own burning up. All people know the utility of useful things; but they do not know the utility of futility.

Tao of Butchering an Ox: Hui Tzu's cook was butchering an ox. Every blow of his hand, every heave of his shoulders, every tread of his foot, every movement of his cleaver was in perfect rhythm.

"Well done!" cried Hui Tzu.

"Sire," replied the cook laying down his cleaver, "I have always devoted myself to Tao, which is higher than mere skill. When I first began to butcher oxen, I saw before me a whole ox. After three years practice, I saw no more whole animals. And now I work with my mind and not with my eye. My mind works without the control of the senses. Falling back upon eternal principles, I glide through joints, according to the anatomy of the animal. I avoid muscle and tendon, and never chop through bone. A good cook changes his cleaver once a year, because he cuts. An ordinary cook, one a month, because he hacks. But I have had this cleaver nineteen years, and although I have cut up many thousand oxen, its edge is as if fresh from the whetstone, for joints contain spaces between the bones, and the edge of a chopper slips easily into those spaces. Thus, I have kept my chopper for nineteen years as though fresh from the whetstone. Nevertheless, when I come upon a knotty part which is difficult to tackle, I am all caution. Fixing my eye on it, I stay my hand, and gently apply my blade, until the part yields."

Thus, a simple butcher spoke his Tao to Hui Tzu, but Hui Tzu did not hear.

Hui Tzu and the large gourd: Hui Tzu said to Chuang Tzu, "The Prince of Wei gave me a seed, and I planted it. It bore a gourd as big as five bushels. Now had I used the gourd for holding water, it would have been too heavy to lift; and had I cut it in half for ladles, the ladles would have been too big. It was so big that it was useless—so broke it to pieces."

"It was useful, but you not understand the use of large things," replied Chuang Tzu. "There was a man of Sung who had a recipe for a salve that healed chapped hands. His family was silk-washers for generations. A stranger heard of his fine salve, and offered him a hundred ounces of silver for this recipe; whereupon the man called together his clansmen and said, "We have never made much money by silk-washing. Now, we can sell the recipe for a hundred ounces in a single day. Let the stranger have it." The stranger got the recipe, and eventually had an audience with Prince of Wu. The Prince of Wu was preparing to send his navy into battle at the beginning of winter. The stranger offered to supply salve to protect the sailor's cold wet hands. The navy defeated the enemy, and the stranger received a piece of the King's territory as a reward. Thus, while the salve cured chapped hands the same in both cases, its applications were different. Here, it secured a title; there, the people remained silk-washers.

"Now as to your five-bushel gourd, why did you not make a float of it to cross rivers and lakes? You complain of its being too big for holding things. You would have discovered its greatest use if you had used it to hold nothing."

Hui Tzu said to Chuang Tzu, "I have a large tree, called the ailanthus. Its trunk is so irregular and knotty that it cannot be measured out for planks; while its branches are so twisted that they cannot be cut out into discs or squares. It stands by the roadside, but no carpenter will look at it. Your words are like that tree—big and useless, of no concern to the world."

"Have you never seen a wild cat," asked Chuang Tzu, "crouching down in wait for its prey? It springs about, until it gets caught in a snare and dies. On the other hand, there is the yak with its ponderous body, too big to catch mice, but not threatened by a snare. Now if you have a big tree and are at a loss of what to do with it, why not plant it in the Village of Nowhere, in the great wilds, where you might loiter idly by its side, and lie in blissful repose in its shade? There it would be safe from the axe. For being of no use to others, what could worry its mind?"

Leveling all Things:

Tsech'i of Nankuo sat leaning on a low table. Gazing up to heaven, he sighed and looked as though he had lost his mind.

Yench'eng Tseyu exclaimed, "What are you thinking about that your body should become like dead wood, your mind like burnt-out cinders?"

Replied Tsech'i, "Today I have lost my Self. Do you understand? Perhaps you only know the music of man, and not that of Earth. Or even if you have heard the music of Earth, perhaps you have not heard the music of Heaven. The wind is the breath of the universe. At times, it is inactive. But when active, all crevices resound to its blast. Have you never listened to its deafening roar? Caves and dells of hill and forest, hollows in huge trees are like nostrils, and some like mouths, and others like ears. And the wind swirls through them bellowing, wailing, whistling in front and echoing behind, now soft with the cool blow, now shrill with the whirlwind, until the tempest is past and silence returns. Trees quake, twist and twirl."

"Well, then," enquired Tseyu, "since the music of Earth consists of hollows and apertures, and the music of man is made with pipes and flutes, of what consists the music of Heaven?"

"The effect of the wind upon these various apertures," replied Tsech'i, "is not uniform, but the sounds are produced according to their individual capacities. Who agitates their breasts? Great wisdom is generous; petty wisdom is contentious. Great speech is impassioned, small speech cantankerous. For whether the soul is locked in sleep or in waking hours the body moves. We are striving and struggling with the immediate circumstances. Some are easy-going and leisurely, some are deep and cunning and some are secretive. Now we are frightened over petty fears, now disheartened and dismayed over some great terror. Now the mind flies like an arrow from a bow, to be the arbiter of right and wrong. Now it stays behind as if sworn to an oath, to hold on to what it has secured. Then, as under autumn and winter's blight, comes gradual decay, and submerged in its own occupations, it keeps on running its course, never to return. Finally, worn out and imprisoned, it is choked up like an old drain, and the failing mind shall not see light again.

"Joy and anger, sorrow and happiness, worries and regrets, indecision and fears, come upon us by turns, with ever-changing moods, like music from the hollows, or like mushrooms from damp. Day and night they alternate within us, but we cannot tell whence they spring. Could we for a moment set our fingers upon their very Cause?

"But for these emotions I should not be. Yet but for me, there would be no one to feel them. So far we can go; but we do not know by whose order they come into play. It would seem there was a soul; but the clue to its existence is wanting. That it functions is credible enough, though we cannot see its form. Perhaps it has inner reality without outward form.

"Take the human body with all its two-hundred bones, nine external openings and six organ systems, all complete. Which part of it should I love best? Do you not cherish all equally, or have you a preference? Do these organs serve as servants of someone else? Since servants cannot govern themselves, do they serve as master and servants by turn? Surely there is some soul which controls them all.

"But whether or not we ascertain what is the true nature of this soul, it matters but little to the soul itself. For once coming into this material shape, it runs its course until it is exhausted. To be harassed by the wear and tear of life, and to be driven along without possibility of arresting one's course, --is not this pitiful indeed? To labor without ceasing all life, and then, without living to enjoy the fruit, worn out with labor, to depart, one knows not whither—is not this a just cause for grief?"

"Men say there is no death, to what avail? The mind withers and the body decomposes. Is this not a great cause for sorrow? Can the world be so dull as not to see this? Or is it I alone who am dull and others not so?"

Now if we are to be guided by our prejudices, who will be without a guide? What need to make comparisons of right and wrong with others? And if one is to follow one's own judgments according to his prejudices, even the fools have them! But to form judgments of right and wrong without first having a mind at all is like saying, "I left for Yu:eh today, and got there yesterday." Or, it is like assuming something which does not exist to exist. The illusion of assuming something which does not exist to exist could not be fathomed even by the divine Yu: how much less could we?

For speech is not mere blowing of breath. It is intended to say some thing, only what it is intended to say cannot yet be determined. Is there speech indeed, or is there not? Can we, or can we not, distinguish it from the chirping of young birds?

How can Tao be obscured so that there should be a distinction of true and false? How can speech be so obscured that there should be a distinction of right and wrong? Where can you go that the Tao does not to exist? What words cannot be proved by clever debate? The Tao is obscured by our inadequate understanding, and truth is obscured by flowery expressions. Hence the affirmations and denials of the Confucian and Motsean schools, each denying what the other affirms and affirming what the other denies brings us confusion.

There is nothing that is not this; there is nothing that is not that. What cannot be seen by another person can be known by me. Hence I say this emanates from that; that also derives from this. This is the theory of the interdependence of this and that.

Nevertheless, life arises from death, and vice versa. Possibility arises from impossibility, and vice versa. Affirmation is based upon denial, and vice versa. Thus, the true sage rejects all distinctions and takes refuge in Nature. For someone may base it on this, yet this is also that and that is also this. This also has its right and wrong, and that also has its right and wrong. Does the distinction between this and that really exist? When this and that are both without their correlates, we can discover the axis of Tao. And when that axis passes through the center where the Infinite converges, affirmations and denials blend into the infinite One.

To assert that a finger in illustration of a finger is not a finger is not so good as to take something that is not a finger to illustrate that a finger is not a finger. To assert that a horse in illustration of a horse is not a horse is not so good as to take something that is not a horse to illustrate that a horse is not a horse. So with the universe, which is but a finger, but a horse? The possible is possible: the impossible is impossible. Tao operates, and the given results follow; things receive names and are said to be what they are. Why are they so? They are said to be so. Why are they not so? They are said to be not so. Things are so by themselves and have possibilities by themselves. There is nothing that is not so and there is nothing which may not become so.

Therefore take a twig and a pillar, or the ugly person and the great beauty, and all the strange and monstrous transformations. These are all leveled together by Tao. Division is the same as creation; creation is the same as destruction. There is no such thing as creation or destruction, for these conditions struggle against leveling together into One.

Only the sages understand this principle of the leveling of all things into One. They discard the distinctions and take refuge in ordinary things. Ordinary things serve a purpose; therefore, they retain the wholeness of nature. Seeing wholeness, we comprehend, and comprehension leads us to surrender to the Tao. There it stops. To stop without knowing how it stops. This is Tao.

Is there room for speech?

If all things are One, what room is there for speech? But, if I can say the word one how can speech not exist? If speech exists, we have One and speech, which equals two; and two and one equals three, which eventually leads to a point that even the best mathematicians will fail to reach a final solution.

Hence, if from nothing you can proceed to something, it follows that it would be still easier if you were to start from something. Since you cannot proceed, stop here. Now Tao by its very nature can never be defined. Speech by its very nature cannot express the absolute. Hence distinctions arise. Such distinctions are: "right" and "left," "relationship" and "duty," "division" and "discrimination, "emulation and contention".

The Sage knows that the Tao extends beyond the limits of the ordinary world, but does not talk about it. Within the limits of the external world, the Sage talks but does not make comments. Regarding the wisdom of the ancients, the Sage comments, but does not expound. Thus among distinctions, there are distinctions that cannot be made; among things expounded, there are things that cannot be expounded. How can that be? The Sage keeps his knowledge within him, while men in general set forth theirs in argument, to convince one another. Those who argue do so because they do not understand the nature of the Tao.

Chuang Tzu and Hui Tzu remained friendly rivals after Hui’s death.

Chuang Tzu was accompanying a funeral when he passed by the grave of Hui Tzu. Turning to his attendants, he said, "There was once a plasterer who, if he got a speck of mud on the tip of his nose no thicker than a fly's wing, would get his friend Carpenter Shih to slice it off for him. Carpenter Shih, whirling his hatchet like the wind, sliced off every bit of mud without injury to the nose, while the plasterer just stood there completely unperturbed. Lord Yuan of Sung, hearing of this feat, summoned Carpenter Shih and said, “Could you try performing it for me?” But Carpenter Shih replied, “It's true that I was once able to slice like that but the material I worked on has been dead for many years.” Chuang Tzu concluded the story, and spoke to his old friend Hui Tzu. “Since you died, Hui Tzu, I have had no material to work on. There's no one I can talk to any more."

Tao:

A perfect Tao cannot be given a name.
A perfect argument employs few words.
Perfect kindness does not concern itself with kindness.
Perfect integrity is not critical of others.
Perfect courage does not push itself forward.

The Tao that is manifest is not the Great Tao.
Speech that argues falls short of its purpose.
Kindness that has fixed objects loses its scope.
Integrity that is obvious is not genuine.
Courage that strives toward goals never accomplishes anything.
Knowledge that stops at what it does not know is the highest knowledge.

Who knows the argument that can be argued without words?
Who knows the Tao that does not declare itself as Tao?
Those who know this enter the realm of the spirit.
To be poured into without becoming full, and to pour out without becoming empty,
This is the Master's art.

The Sages set their spirits free, by considering knowledge extraneous.
Agreements are for cementing relationships.
Goods are only for social dealings, and
Handicrafts are only for serving commerce.
The Sages do not contrive; therefore, they have no use for knowledge.
Sages do not disrupt harmony; therefore, they have no need for cementing of relationships.
They have no loss; thus, they have no need to acquire.
They sell nothing; therefore, they have no use for commerce.
The Tao feeds them the essential qualities, and fed by the Tao they have no need to be fed by man.

The Masters wear the human form, but avoid human passions.
Because they wear the human form they associate with humans.
Because they avoid passion, the questions of this and that do not trouble them.
Small things occupy the concerns of humans; great things reside in the Tao.

The Masters:

With the strength that comes from within, the Masters are still.
Like mountain lakes, they are pure, tranquil, and deep.
Neither appealing to the Tao in their own defense, nor suffering from its effects,
The Masters reside beyond the command of suffering and reward.

Losing their attachments, they avoid consternation.
Free from burdens, they rejoice in their emancipation.
Possessing freedom without bounds,
Health, contentment and confidence are their greatest possessions, and freedom is their greatest joy.

The Masters are exhilarated, even among the dejected.
They are healthy, even among the afflicted.
They are serene, even among the agitated.
They are cordial, even among the embittered.
They are humble, even among the arrogant.
They are intrepid, even among cowards.
They are kind, even to the loathing.
They are charitable, even to the ravenous.
They are respectful, even of the insolent.

Because they do not seek renown, the Masters do not need reputation to be noble.
Because they do not desire material goods, they do not need possessions to be wealthy.
Because they do not seek to dominate, they do not need physical strength to be powerful.
Because they do not consider prestige an asset, they do not consider obscurity a liability.

No complications, no pressing searches, no desperate enterprises.
The Masters pass their lives in peaceful serenity neither alienating anyone nor submitting to anyone.

Only the serene can know the subtle essence.
To become free from turmoil is supreme attainment of purity.
Those who become pure may reach spiritual illumination.
Those who reach spiritual illumination find solace even within a storm.
Their minds are not agitated, and their spirits are not disturbed.
Their perceptions are accurate, and they understand the meaning.

Serene and aloof, attacks do them no harm.
Sensitive and responsive, their actions are effective.
Adaptive and resilient, they move without rigidity.
Emptying their minds of structure, they understand without learning.
Thus in their emptiness, they fill with insight.
They see without looking, and succeed without striving.
Losing their preferences, they can enjoy all circumstances.
They do not attain happiness. It attains them, after they cease struggling.

The Masters are not afraid.
They do not tremble.
Since externals have no hold on them, they fear no hardships.
Celebrating their consciousness, they forget about lowliness.
Secure in virtue, they forget about poverty.
They lean on a pillar that never shakes, and they travel a road never blocked.
They are empowered by an energy that is never exhausted, and
They learn from a teacher who never dies.

Whatever they do, they embrace the inevitable; thus, calamity cannot trouble them.
Humanitarianism compels them, but arms cannot threaten them.
Righteousness corrects them, but profit cannot seduce them.
They will die for justice, but riches or rank will not corrupt them,
For they have reached the end of sorrow, and they have laid down their burdens.
Desiring nothing, they miss nothing.
Beyond judgment and sorrow, they are pure and free.
Beyond the pleasures of the senses, beyond time, they are full of power, fearless, wise, and exalted.

Those, whose law resides within themselves, walk in solitude.
Their acts are influenced by neither approval nor condemnation.
They have no great exploits, no plans.
If they fail, they suffer no sorrow.
No self-congratulation in success.
They scale cliffs, never dizzy, plunge in water, never wet, and walk through fire never burnt.
They sleep without dreams awake without worries.

The Masters know no lust for life, no dread of death.
Their entrance is without gladness.
They withdraw from this existence without resistance. Easy come easy go.
They do not forget where from, nor ask where to,
Nor drive grimly forward fighting their way through life.
They take life as it comes, gladly; take death as it comes, without care; and travel away, beyond.

They have no mind to fight things greater than themselves.
Neither do they contrive to help the Tao along.
Minds free, opinions gone, brows clear, faces serene.
Are they cold? Only cool as autumn.
Are they hot? No warmer than spring.
All that comes from them spreads in silence, like the four seasons.

The Masters harm no other beings by their actions.
Yet, they do not consider themselves compassionate.
They do not bother with their own interests,
But they do not despise others who do.
They do not struggle to make money, yet they do not make poverty a virtue.
They take an independent path, yet they do not pride themselves on walking alone.
The Masters remain unknown in perfect virtue.
Although they receive neither rank nor rewards, they prevail as the greatest of all humans.

The Masters have conquered all inner worlds with their calm, and with great gladness,
They know that they have finished.
They have awakened from their sleep.
Full of power, they are fearless, wise, exalted.
They have vanquished all distractions. They see by their purity.
They have come to the end of the Way.
All that they had to do, they have done.

Thus, the sages have said:

No-self is true self,
And the greatest person
Is nobody.