Prince Wen Hui’s cook Was cutting up an ox. Out went a hand, Down went a shoulder, He planted a foot, He pressed with a knee, The ox fell apart With a whisper; The bright cleaver murmured Like a gentle wind. Rhythm! Timing! Like a sacred dance, Like "The Mulberry Grove," Like ancient harmonies! "Good work!" the Prince exclaimed. "Your method is faultless!" "Method?" said the cook, Laying aside his cleaver. "What I follow is Tao, Beyo...