The Great Roc

I n the northern dark there is a fish. Its name is Kun. How big is Kun? No one can say — thousands of li, maybe more. Then it transforms. The fish becomes a bird, and the bird is called Peng. The Peng's back: again, no one knows the measure of it. When it rises, its wings are like clouds hanging from the sky. In the northern dark there is a fish; its name is Kun. The size of Kun — one cannot know how many thousands of li it is. It transforms and becomes a bird; that bird's name is Peng. The back of Peng — one cannot know how many thousands of li it is. When it rouses itself to fly, its wings are like clouds suspended from heaven.

When the sea stirs, the Peng migrates to the southern dark — the Celestial Lake. The book called Qi Xie, a record of marvels, confirms it: the Peng beats the water for three thousand li on takeoff, spirals up on a whirlwind to ninety thousand li, and rides the six-month breath of the season south. Down below, heat-haze and dust motes — living things tossing each other on their breath. When the sky looks deep blue, is that its true color? Or is it simply so far away there is no reaching the end of it? The Peng looking down from that height sees the same thing. When the sea moves, this bird sets off for the southern dark. The southern dark is the Celestial Lake. The Qi Xie is a record of marvels. What the Qi Xie says: 'When the Peng migrates to the southern dark, it strikes the water for three thousand li; it mounts on a whirlwind and rises ninety thousand li; it departs on the breath of six months.' Heat-shimmer, dust, living breath blown between creatures — when the sky looks deep blue, is that its true color? Or is it simply so far away there is no reaching the end of it? The Peng looking down sees the same thing.

Then come the mechanics. Tip a cup of water into a hollow in the floor and a mustard seed will sail on it, but set a cup down in that puddle and it sticks fast: the water is too shallow, the vessel too large. That is what happens when the accumulation of water is not deep enough to carry a great ship. Same with wind. If the wind is not deep enough, it cannot carry those enormous wings. At ninety thousand li, the whole wind is under the Peng. Only then does it press down on the wind and ride it. Only then is there nothing to interrupt the southward aim. Now: if the accumulation of water is not deep, it cannot bear a great ship. Tip a cup of water into a floor-hollow, and a mustard-seed becomes a boat; place the cup itself there and it sticks — the water is shallow and the vessel too large. If the accumulation of wind is not deep, it cannot bear great wings. Therefore at ninety thousand li, the wind is entirely below; only then does the Peng mount the wind. With the blue sky at its back and nothing to obstruct or block it — only then does it set its course for the south.

“The cicada does not understand. Neither does the sparrow. Neither, Zhuangzi suggests, do we.”

The cicada and the sparrow laugh at the Peng. 'We launch ourselves and make for the elms — sometimes we don't even reach them and just drop back to the ground. What could possibly require ninety thousand li going south?' A person making a day trip into the countryside brings three meals and comes back with a full stomach. A hundred-li journey means pounding grain the night before. A thousand-li journey means three months of provisioning. What do those two small creatures know about any of that? The cicada and the sparrow laugh at the Peng, saying: 'We take off sharply and fly for the elms; sometimes we don't make it and simply fall back to the ground. What is the point of going ninety thousand li south?' One who goes on a short trip into the nearby wilds takes three meals and comes back with a belly still full. One going a hundred li must pound grain the night before. One going a thousand li must stockpile provisions for three months. What do these two small creatures know?

Small knowledge does not reach large knowledge. Small years do not reach large years. How do we know this? The morning mushroom does not know the alternation of day and night. The chrysalis does not know spring and autumn. Those are short years. South of Chu there is a tree called the Dark Turtle-tree; five hundred years is its spring, five hundred years its autumn. Long ago there was a great tree called the Great Spring-tree; eight thousand years was its spring, eight thousand years its autumn. Those are long years. Small knowledge does not reach large knowledge. Small years do not reach large years. How do we know this is so? The morning mushroom does not know the alternation of dark and bright. The chrysalis does not know the turning of spring and autumn. These are short years. South of Chu there is a Dark Turtle-tree (冥靈) for which five hundred years counts as spring and five hundred years as autumn. In high antiquity there was a great Spring-tree (大椿) for which eight thousand years counted as spring and eight thousand years as autumn. These are long years.

And then there is Pengzu. Pengzu is famous for having lived an extraordinarily long time. People compare themselves to Pengzu and feel proud. Isn't that sad? Yet Pengzu is today especially renowned for his long life, and the multitude compare themselves to him — is that not pitiable?

大鵬 The original Chinese · honored as an artifact

北冥有魚，其名爲鯤。鯤之大，不知其幾千里也；化而爲鳥，其名爲鵬。

Opening lines, classical Chinese · Zhuangzi 莊子 · Zhuang Zhou