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Chuang Tzu:
“The Dexterous Butcher”
(Two Translations)
Cook Ting was cutting up an ox for Lord Wen-hui. As 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.
“Ah, this is marvelous!” said Lord Wen-hui. “Imagine skill reaching such
heights!”
Cook Ting laid down his knife and replied, “What I care about is the Way, which
goes beyond 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
following 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.
“However, whenever I come to a complicated place, I size up the difficulties,
tell myself to watch out and be careful, keep my eyes on what I’m doing, work
very slowly, and move the knife with the greatest subtlety, until — flop! the
whole thing comes apart like a clod of earth crumbling to the ground. I stand
there holding the knife and look all around me, completely satisfied and
reluctant to move on, and then I wipe off the knife and put it away.”
“Excellent!” said Lord Wen-hui. “I have heard the words of Cook Ting and
learned how to care for life!”
Translated by Burton Watson
(Chuang Tzu: The Basic Writings, 1964)
Ting the cook was cutting meat free from the bones of an ox for Lord Wen-hui.
His hands danced as his shoulders turned with the step of his foot and bending
of his knee. With a shush and a hush, the blade sang following his lead, never
missing a note. Ting and his blade moved as though dancing to “The Mulberry
Grove,” or as if conducting the “Ching-shou” with a full orchestra.
Lord Wen-hui exclaimed, “What a joy! It’s good, is it not, that such a simple
craft can be so elevated?”
Ting laid aside his knife. “All I care about is the Way. If find it in my
craft, that’s all. When I first butchered an ox, I saw nothing but ox meat. It
took three years for me to see the whole ox. Now I go out to meet it with my
whole spirit and don’t think only about what meets the eye. Sensing and knowing
stop. The spirit goes where it will, following the natural contours, revealing
large cavities, leading the blade through openings, moving onward according to
actual form — yet not touching the central arteries or tendons and ligaments,
much less touching bone.
“A good cook need sharpen his blade but once a year. He cuts cleanly. An
awkward cook sharpens his knife every month. He chops. I’ve used this knife for
nineteen years, carving thousands of oxen. Still the blade is as sharp as the
first time it was lifted from the whetstone. At the joints there are spaces, and
the blade has no thickness. Entering with no thickness where there is space, the
blade may move freely where it will: there’s plenty of room to move. Thus, after
nineteen years, my knife remains as sharp as it was that first day.
“Even so, there are always difficult places, and when I see rough going ahead,
my heart offers proper respect as I pause to look deeply into it. Then I work
slowly, moving my blade with increasing subtlety until — kerplop! — meat falls
apart like a crumbling clod of earth. I then raise my knife and assess my work
until I’m fully satisfied. Then I give my knife a good cleaning and put it
carefully away.”
Lord Wen-hui said, “That’s good, indeed! Ting the cook has shown me how to find
the Way to nurture life.”
Translated by Sam Hamill
and J.P. Seaton
(The Essential Chuang Tzu, 1998)
Two translations of a story from Chuang Tzu (Chapter 3).
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