Long ago Chuang Chou dreamed he was a butterfly. He was very joyful as a butterfly, well pleased with his existence, his aims fulfilled. He knew nothing of Chou the man. But shortly he awoke and found himself again to be Chuang Chou. And he could not tell whether as Chou he had dreamed he was a butterfly or whether as a butterfly he had dreamed he was Chou. Is this existence we call life merely a dream? Is death then, an awakening?
