Once a man receives this fixed bodily form, he holds on to it, waiting for the end. Sometimes clashing with things, sometimes bending before them, he runs his course like a galloping steed, and nothing can stop him. Is he not pathetic? Sweating and laboring to the end of his days and never seeing his accomplishment, utterly exhausted himself and never knowing where to look for rest–can you help pitying him? I’m not dead yet! he says, but what good is that? His body decays, his mind follows it–can you deny that this is a great sorrow?
I cannot help but notice some of the similarities between the way Americans work their asses off–and to what end for their whole lives–and the image Chuang Tzu gives in this quote. Powerful stuff.
What a Whimsical World 
This reminds me of another title you touched on more recently:
“The workman of today works every day in his life at the same tasks, and this fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious.”
-Albert Camus, “The Myth of Sisyphus”