《南华真经》Vol. 1

The Nanhua True Scripture is the Daoist honorific title for the Zhuangzi. It is included in the Four Masters’ True Scriptures in the Chinese Daoist Canon. The work is divided into the Inner Chapters, Outer Chapters, and Miscellaneous Chapters, and contains thirty-three chapters in all.

Volume One contains the Inner Chapters “Free and Easy Wandering,” “Discussion on Making All Things Equal,” “The Essentials for Nurturing Life,” “In the Human World,” and “The Sign of Complete Virtue.”

Volume Two contains the Inner Chapters “The Great and Venerable Teacher” and “Responding as an Emperor,” and the Outer Chapters “Webbed Toes,” “Horses’ Hooves,” “Horse’s Gizzard,” and “Letting Be and Exercising Forbearance.”

Volume Three contains the Outer Chapters “Heaven and Earth,” “The Way of Heaven,” “The Revolution of Heaven,” “Constrained Intentions,” “Cultivating the Nature,” “Autumn Floods,” and “Supreme Happiness.”

Volume Four contains the Outer Chapters “Understanding Life,” “The Mountain Tree,” “Tian Zifang,” and “Knowing the Northward Journey,” and the Miscellaneous Chapters “Gengsang Chu,” “Xu Wugui,” and “Zeyang.”

Volume Five contains the Miscellaneous Chapters “External Things,” “Parables,” “Yielding the Throne,” “Robber Zhi,” “Discussing the Sword,” “The Old Fisherman,” “Lie Yukou,” and “The World.”

In the original table of contents, “External Things,” “Parables,” “Yielding the Throne,” “Robber Zhi,” and “Discussing the Sword” were listed twice, and the numbers beside the chapter titles were also incorrect. The chapters have been arranged here according to the continuous numbering in the later entries.

Zhuangzi was a native of the state of Song. His name was Zhou, and his courtesy name was Xiu. He was born in Meng County, in Suiyang, and once held a minor post overseeing the lacquer garden there. He studied widely and had scarcely any field he had not explored, yet his thought ultimately returned to Laozi. Zhuangzi wrote more than a hundred thousand words, most of them expressed through parables.

His words flowed freely and expansively, arising as he pleased to express his own aspirations. For this reason, even princes and nobles could not regard him as a talent to be put to their service. When King Wei of Chu heard that Zhuangzi was a worthy man, he sent envoys bearing generous gifts to invite him, promising to appoint him prime minister of Chu.

Zhuangzi smiled and said to the envoys, “A thousand pieces of gold are a weighty fortune, and a high ministerial post is a position of honor. Have you never seen the ox used in the suburban sacrifice? It is fed for several years, dressed in splendid embroidered robes, and led into the Grand Ancestral Temple for the sacrifice. By then, even if it wanted to become a little pig, it would probably be too late. Leave at once, and do not defile me. I would rather roam freely in the mud and live happily than be bound by those who rule the state. I would rather never hold office throughout my life, so that my heart and aspirations may remain unrestrained.”

During the Tang dynasty, Zhuangzi was posthumously honored as the “Perfected One of Nanhua,” and his writings were given the title The True Classic of Nanhua.

The first of the Inner Chapters: “Free and Easy Wandering.”

“There is a northern sea…” (In the sea to the north there is…)

In the northern depths of the sea there is a fish called Kun. No one knows how many thousands of miles long it is. It transforms into a bird called Peng. No one knows how many thousands of miles wide Peng’s back is. When it rises into flight, its wings are like clouds hanging from the edge of the sky. Taking advantage of a great wind over the sea, the bird is about to migrate to the southern depths of the sea. The southern depths of the sea are the Heavenly Pool.

The Qixie (a book recording strange and wondrous things) says: When Peng migrates south, its wings beat against the water, raising waves three thousand miles high. It rides a whirlwind, spiraling upward to a height of ninety thousand miles, and departs on the great wind of the sixth month. The floating haze and dust near the ground are formed as the breath exhaled by all kinds of creatures stirs and blows against itself. Is the sky’s deep blue its true color? Or does it look that way because it stretches so far without end? When Peng looks down from above, perhaps it sees much the same.

If water does not gather to sufficient depth, it cannot support a great ship. Pour a cup of water onto the floor of a hall, and a blade of grass can serve as a boat; set a cup there, and it sticks to the ground, because the water is too shallow and the boat too large. If wind does not gather to sufficient strength, it cannot bear enormous wings. So when Peng rises to a height of ninety thousand miles, the wind is beneath it. Only then can it rely on the wind, with the blue sky at its back and nothing to obstruct it, and begin its journey south.

The cicada and the little dove laugh at Peng, saying, “We spring into the air and stop at an elm or a sandalwood tree. Sometimes we don’t make it that far and simply fall back to the ground. Why would anyone need to fly ninety thousand miles and head south?” A person traveling to the nearby countryside takes enough food for three meals, returns the same day, and is still full. Someone traveling a hundred miles must pound grain and prepare provisions the night before. Someone traveling a thousand miles must store food three months in advance. What could these two little creatures possibly understand?

Small understanding cannot compare with great understanding; a short life cannot compare with a long one. How do we know this? The mushroom that lives from dawn to dusk knows nothing of the beginning and end of a month. The cicada knows nothing of spring and autumn in a year. These are examples of short lives. In the southern state of Chu, there was a great tree called Mingling, for which five hundred years made a spring and five hundred years made an autumn. In ancient times, there was a tree called Dacun, for which eight thousand years made a spring and eight thousand years made an autumn.

Pengzu was renowned throughout the world for his long life, and people compared themselves with him. Is that not rather sad? When Tang of Shang questioned Ji, he spoke of the same principle: at the barren edge of the north, where no plants grow, there is a vast, deep sea called the “Celestial Pool.” In it lives a fish thousands of miles across; no one knows how long it is. Its name is Kun. There is also a bird named Peng, whose back is like a mountain and whose wings are like clouds covering the sky. Riding a whirlwind, it spirals upward to a height of ninety thousand miles, passes through the clouds, bears the blue sky on its back, and then flies south, preparing to travel to the waters of the south.

The birds in the small marsh mocked the Peng, saying, “Where does it think it’s going? I leap into the air, fly a few yards at most, then come back down. I circle among the weeds, and that already counts as flying high. Where does it think it’s going?” This is the difference between the small and the great. Those whose intelligence suits them to serve in a single office, whose conduct can influence a single village, whose virtue wins the approval of one ruler, or whose abilities earn the trust of one state regard themselves just as the small birds regard themselves.

Song Rongzi, however, saw things differently. If everyone in the world praised him, he would not become more zealous; if everyone in the world criticized him, he would not become discouraged. He could distinguish himself from external things and see the difference between honor and disgrace. That was all. He did not eagerly pursue worldly affairs, but there were still heights he had not reached.

Liezi rode the wind, light and carefree, and returned after fifteen days. He was not eager to seek good fortune, but there were still heights he had not attained. Though he did not have to walk, he still depended on the wind. As for one who follows the constant ways of Heaven and Earth, rides the changes of the six energies—Yin, Yang, wind, rain, darkness, and brightness—and wanders through the boundless realm, what would such a person still need to depend on? Hence the saying: “The Perfected Person has no self; the spiritual person achieves no merit; the sage seeks no fame.” That is, one who reaches the highest state does not cling to the self, the wondrous person takes no credit, and the wise person seeks no reputation.

When Yao offered the world to Xu You, he said, “The sun and moon have already risen, yet the torch is not extinguished. Is it not difficult for its light to rival that of the sun and moon?”

“Timely rain” has already fallen, yet it keeps pouring down. Wouldn’t that be needless work for the fields? You have brought peace to all under Heaven, while I still occupy this position. I feel unequal to the task, so please let me hand the world over to you.

Xu You said, “You govern the world, and the world is already at peace. If I were to replace you, would I be doing so to seek a reputation? Reputation is merely an appendage to actual achievement. Why should I become an appendage to reputation? A wren nesting in a deep forest needs only one branch; a mole drinking at a river needs only enough to fill its belly. Go back and rest. The world is of no use to me. Even if a cook does not prepare the meal, the ritual officiant will not step over the wine vessels and offerings to cook in his place.”

Shenwu asked Lianshu, “I once heard Jieyu speak. His words were grand but impractical, and they wandered far without ever returning. I was astonished by what I heard. His words were as vast and boundless as the Milky Way, far removed from ordinary sense and human experience.”

Lianshu asked, “What did he say?”

Shenwu replied, “He said that on the distant Mount Gushe lives a spirit-like person. His skin is like ice and snow, and his bearing is graceful as a young woman’s. He eats no grains, but breathes the wind and drinks the dew. Riding the clouds and harnessing flying dragons, he roams beyond the four seas. His spirit is concentrated and still; he can keep all things free from illness and disaster and make the crops flourish. I find this too absurd to believe.”

Lianshu said, “Of course. A blind person cannot appreciate colors and patterns; a deaf person cannot hear the sound of bells and drums. Is deafness and blindness confined to the body? A person’s understanding, too, can have its limits. What you heard is just the sort of thing that would be said to someone like you.

“A person like this, with this kind of De (Virtue/Power), can bring all things together and see them as one. Though living amid a chaotic world, he is not troubled or worn down by it. How could he busy himself treating the world as his own concern? Nothing can harm him. Even if floods fill the sky, he will not drown; even if a scorching drought melts metal and stone and leaves the mountains and earth parched, he will not feel the heat. Even the dust and dregs of his body would be enough to shape people like Yao and Shun. Why would he be willing to make external things his concern?”

People from the state of Song took ceremonial caps, called zhangfu, to sell in Yue. But the people of Yue wore their hair short and tattooed their bodies, so they had no use for such caps.

When Yao was governing the people and bringing order to the affairs of the realm, he once went to visit sages such as Yao and Shun. Who would regard external things as something worth worrying about? A man from Song went to Yue to sell ceremonial caps. The people of Yue cut their hair short and tattooed their bodies, so they had no use for caps at all.

After Yao had governed the realm and brought peace to the four seas, he traveled to the southern slope of Mount Miaogushe, the immortal mountain said to be home to divine beings, and visited four Perfected Ones. On his return, it was as if he had forgotten the whole world.

Huizi said to Zhuangzi, “The King of Wei gave me seeds of a huge gourd. I planted them, and the gourds that grew were as large as five shi. If I used one to hold water or a drink, it was too fragile to bear the weight. If I cut it open to make a dipper, it was too big to hold anything. It wasn’t that it wasn’t large enough; I simply thought it was useless, so I smashed it.”

Zhuangzi said, “You really don’t know how to use large things. There was a man in Song who had made his living for generations washing silk floss. His hands were always soaked, so he was skilled at making a salve that kept the skin from cracking in the cold. A visitor heard of it and offered a hundred gold pieces for the formula. The man’s family discussed it together: ‘For generations we have washed silk floss, earning no more than a few gold pieces. Now we can sell the formula for a hundred gold pieces all at once. We should sell it to him.’ The visitor obtained the formula and used it to persuade the King of Wu. When Yue sent troops to invade, the King of Wu put him in command of the army. In winter, he fought Yue’s forces on the water and routed them. The king then rewarded him with land. The salve for preventing cracked hands was the same, but one man received a fief because of it, while another used it only to wash silk floss. The difference lay in how it was used. Now you have a gourd as large as five shi. Why not tie it around yourself as a float and drift across rivers and lakes, instead of worrying that it is too big to contain anything? It seems your mind is still clogged with weeds.”

Huizi said to Zhuangzi, “I have a large tree that people call a ch’u tree. Its trunk is knotted and lumpy, so it does not meet the straight lines set by the carpenter’s ink line. Its branches twist and bend, so they do not conform to the compass or square. It grows beside the road, but carpenters don’t even look at it. Now your words are just as large and useless, so everyone will reject them too.”

Zhuangzi said, “Haven’t you seen wildcats and weasels? They crouch low, waiting for small animals to come out of their burrows to feed. They dart back and forth, leaping high and low, yet they fall into traps and die in nets. As for the yak, its body is as huge as a cloud hanging at the edge of the sky…”

Although it is enormous, it cannot even catch a mouse. You have a great tree and worry that it is useless. Why not plant it in a place where there is nothing, in a vast, open field? You could stroll leisurely beside it and lie beneath it as you please. It will not be felled by an axe or harmed by anything else. Since it offers no use, what is there to trouble you?

Note: In the original text, some editions read “yao” instead of “fu.”

Nan Guo Ziqi, a figure in a Zhuangzi parable, sat leaning against a small table, slowly exhaling with his head tilted back. His expression was distant, as if he had lost the other half of himself. Yan Cheng Ziyou stood before him in attendance and asked, “What is happening? Can a person’s body really become like a withered tree, and the heart really become like dead ashes? The man leaning against the table now is no longer the person you used to be.”

Ziqi said, “Yan, that is a good question. I have now forgotten myself. Do you understand? You have heard the sounds made by humans, but not the sounds made by the Earth. You have heard the sounds made by the Earth, but not the sounds of Heaven.”

Ziyou said, “May I ask what you mean?”

Ziqi said, “The breath the Earth sends forth is called wind. When the wind does not blow, there is no sound. But when it rises, the myriad openings roar fiercely. Have you never heard the wind howl through the mountains and forests? On the great trees, some openings are like noses, some like mouths, some like ears, some like the holes in wooden instruments, and others like rings, mortars, or hollows. As the wind passes through them, they make all kinds of sounds: quick and sharp, bellowing, gasping, crying out, and wailing. Some sound first, and others answer. A gentle breeze brings soft, mild sounds; a strong wind makes them loud and thunderous. When the gale dies down, all the openings fall silent again. Have you never seen the branches sway gently and the plants bend with the wind?”

Ziyou said, “The sounds of the Earth are the sounds made by all these openings; the sounds made by humans are the bamboo pipes arranged in a row. May I ask what the sounds of Heaven are?”

Ziqi said, “The wind passes through all things, and each makes a different sound, each giving voice in its own way. Their sounds arise from their own forms and conditions. So what is the force that makes all things sound?”

The great wise person is broad-minded; the small-minded person is always calculating. Grand words carry great force; petty words go on and on. When people sleep, their souls mingle and move about; when they wake, their bodies begin to act.

Whenever an external thing appears, the mind becomes entangled with it, struggling day after day without rest. When the mind is scattered, it grows hazy and confused; when it burrows deep within, it becomes stifled and blocked; when it shuts itself tight, it turns cautious and timid. A small fear makes one uneasy and apprehensive, while a great fear leaves one bewildered and helpless. When thoughts spring into action, they are as quick as a crossbow trigger, and one is forever judging right and wrong. When thoughts come to a standstill, they become as stubborn as an oath, because one is always trying to secure victory and avoid defeat. The mind’s energy gradually declines, like all things withering in autumn and winter: it is being spent day by day. When one becomes absorbed in what one is doing, one cannot turn back; the mind grows sealed shut, as if bound with a cord—this is its gradual aging and exhaustion. The mind comes close to death and can no longer regain its vitality. This, too, is the result of insisting on winning.

Joy, anger, sorrow, pleasure, thought, sighing, change, anxiety, along with frivolity, abandon, and affected airs: these emotions and expressions are like music arising from emptiness, or like ground vapors that rise and produce fungi. They appear before us in turn, day and night, yet no one knows where they first emerge.

Enough, enough! People experience all this every day, but what makes it happen? Without external things, there would be no self; without the self, there would be no way to feel external things. This comes close to an answer, yet we still do not know what, behind it all, directs them.

It seems there is a true master, yet we can find no trace of it. It sets life in motion and gives a person’s mind its convictions, yet its form cannot be seen: its effects are real, but it has no shape. We possess all our hundred bones, nine apertures—the nine sensory openings—and six viscera, a collective term for the internal organs. Which of them should I hold dear? Are they all worthy of affection, or do I favor one among them? Are they all ruled like servants and consorts? If they cannot govern one another, do they take turns being ruler and subject? Or is there some other true master? Whether we discover its reality or fail to do so, nothing is added to or taken from it.

Once people receive a bodily form, they can only keep it until life is spent. People and external things collide and wear each other down, rushing forward like galloping horses with nothing to make them stop. Is this not lamentable? To be busy all one’s life and see no achievement; to labor until utterly exhausted without knowing where one is headed—is this not sorrowful? People say such a person is still alive, but what good is being alive? When the body declines and the mind sinks along with it, is this not a profound grief?

Does human life naturally remain in a state of bewilderment like this? Am I the only one who is bewildered, or are there times when others are not? If people follow the inclinations they have already formed and take them as their teachers, who can be without a teacher of their own? Why insist that only someone who understands the changes in things and can judge for themselves counts as having a teacher? Even a foolish person has a teacher of their own. Before an inclination has even formed, someone has already decided what is right and what is wrong. It is like setting out for Yue today and claiming to have arrived yesterday. This is treating what does not exist as though it did. Even the divine Yu—the legendary sage king who controlled the floods—could not make sense of treating what does not exist as real. What can I do?

Words are not merely sounds produced as wind blows. A speaker expresses something, but the meaning expressed may not remain fixed. Does this count as speaking, or has there never been any real speaking at all? How do words differ from sounds? Is there truly a distinction between them, or is there none? Why is the Dao, the foundation that all things follow, obscured so that distinctions between true and false arise? Why are words obscured so that disputes over right and wrong arise? Where could the Dao be absent? And where could words be beyond question?

The Dao is obscured by partial views, and words by ornate rhetoric. Thus the Confucians and Mohists argue with each other over what is right and wrong: they call what they oppose wrong, and what they approve right. To judge such disputes, it is better to look with clear sight. All things can be viewed from “that” (the other side, the other person), and all can be viewed from “this” (oneself, this side). From the standpoint of the other, one cannot see the reasoning of one’s own side; from one’s own standpoint, one can understand what one sees. Thus “that” arises from “this,” and “this” depends on “that” to take shape. That and this form each other.

Yet as soon as something appears, it also moves toward disappearance; once it disappears, it may in turn appear. To judge something possible is also to have what is impossible; to judge something impossible is also to have what is possible. Right and wrong depend on each other and transform into each other. So the sage does not cling to a single standpoint, but looks upon things from the wholeness of nature; even this means following the way things are in themselves. This is also that, and that is also this. That has its own rights and wrongs, and this has its own rights and wrongs. Is there truly a distinction between this and that, or is there no such distinction at all? When this and that can no longer be set against one another, with neither having an opposite, this is called the “pivot of the Dao” (the Dao’s central hinge).

The key is to grasp the pivot on which things change. Only by standing at the center of the circle can one respond to endless transformations. Affirmation is endless, and negation is endless too, so it is better to view all things through clear and penetrating understanding.

To explain that a finger is not a finger by using a finger is less effective than using something that is not a finger; likewise, to explain that a horse is not a horse by using a horse is less effective than using something that is not a horse. Heaven and Earth may be regarded as a single finger, and the myriad things as a single horse. Anything can be affirmed, and anything can also be denied. Paths are made by people walking them; things are recognized as such after people name them. Why do we say that something is so? Because people take it to be so. Why do we say it is not so? Because people take it not to be so. Each thing has aspects that are regarded as right and aspects that are regarded as worthwhile. There is nothing that cannot be called “so,” and nothing that cannot be called “acceptable.”

Thus Zhuangzi places mugwort and great pillars side by side, along with the ugly Li and the beautiful Xishi, as well as all manner of strange and unusual things. He shows that, viewed from the Dao, they are connected and form a single whole. Once things are distinguished, they take shape; once they take shape, they begin to move toward decay. Yet because nothing among the myriad things has an absolute beginning or end, they can still be joined again as one. Only those who understand this see that all things are interconnected. They do not force things into action, but dwell in the practical workings of everyday life. “Ordinary” means everyday use. Use brings things into connection, and connection brings gain. When one reaches this point, one is close to the Dao. To follow this principle without asking why things are as they are—that is the Dao.

If we strain to force the myriad things into one, without understanding that they are already alike, we are like the “three in the morning” story. What does “three in the morning” mean? A monkey keeper gave acorns to his monkeys, saying they would get three in the morning and four in the evening. The monkeys were all angry. He then said they would get four in the morning and three in the evening, and they were all pleased. The total number of acorns had not changed, yet the monkeys’ joy and anger were swayed by how the offer was presented. People, too, are often influenced by names and opinions in just this way.

So the sage harmonizes competing claims about right and wrong and rests in the natural balance. This is called “walking two paths”: following the different standpoints of things and allowing each to proceed in its own way. The ancients once attained an exceptionally high understanding of the Dao. The highest understanding held that at the beginning there were no things at all. The next held that things existed, but had not yet been divided into distinct categories. The next held that distinctions existed, but right and wrong had not yet been separated. Once right and wrong became clearly defined, the Dao was diminished.

Dao seems to suffer a loss because people’s preferences make it seem to achieve something. Are there really achievement and loss? Or are there really neither achievement nor loss? Because he believed in achievement and loss, Zhaowen played the zither. Because he believed there was neither achievement nor loss, Zhaowen could also choose not to play.

Zhaowen played the zither, Shi Kuang waved his conducting stick—the tool ancient musicians used to keep the beat—and Huizi leaned against a parasol tree and debated. All three were highly intelligent and skilled in their own arts. Their abilities were outstanding, and they immersed themselves in them throughout their lives. They favored their own skills and wanted to use them to set themselves apart from others. Out of love for those skills, they also wanted to explain their principles clearly. Yet these were things that could not be fully explained. Huizi eventually became absorbed in the debate over “hardness and whiteness”—whether qualities such as hardness and whiteness could be separated—and ended in confusion. Zhaowen’s son practiced his father’s zither art all his life, but never mastered it. Can this be called achievement? If so, then I too have achieved something. If not, then neither the myriad things nor I have achieved anything.

What the sage seeks, then, is a kind of brightness that is hard to distinguish and ever changing. He does not cling to deliberate action, but entrusts his mind to ordinary things. This is called “illumination.” I have said these things, but I do not know whether they accord with this principle—or whether they do not. If we place accord and failure to accord in the same category, then my words are no different from any others.

Even so, I will try to speak: there is a beginning, and there is a time before there had ever been a beginning; and there is a time before there had ever been a time before there was a beginning. There is “being,” there is “nonbeing,” and there is a time before there had ever been nonbeing; and there is a time before there had ever been a time before there was nonbeing. Suddenly, “being” and “nonbeing” appeared, but we still do not know which is truly being and which is truly nonbeing. Now that I have said these things, I do not know whether what I have said counts as saying something, or whether I have said nothing at all.

There is nothing in the world larger than the tip of an autumn hair, while Mount Tai seems small by comparison. No one lives longer than a child who dies young, while Peng Zu seems short lived.

Heaven and earth came into being alongside me, and the myriad things are one with me in a seamless whole. Since we are already one, what more can be said? Yet once we have said “one,” how can that statement itself not count as speech? “Oneness” and “speaking of oneness” together make two; add the original “one,” and we have three. From this point on, even the most skilled calculator could not count them all—how much less an ordinary person. So moving from “nothing” to “something” is already this complicated by the time we reach three. How much more complicated must it be to move from one kind of “something” to another? There is no need to reason any further. Let things follow their natural course.

The Dao has no boundaries, and speech has no fixed standards. People set out their various views, and so distinctions and disputes arise. The kinds of dispute include left and right, order and duty, distinguishing and analyzing, competing and contending; these are called the “Eight Virtues.” Matters beyond the four directions of heaven and earth are things the sage keeps in mind but does not discuss. Matters within the four directions of heaven and earth are things the sage may discuss, but does not debate. As for the events of the world recorded in the Spring and Autumn Annals and the intentions of the former kings, the sage comments on them but does not argue.

Thus, there are times when what is called making distinctions means making none, and times when what is called debate means there is no need to debate. Why? The sage keeps the truth within, while ordinary people use debate to show themselves off. That is why argument often makes people lose sight of what is true.

The Great Dao cannot be named in words; the highest form of debate uses no words; true benevolence does not make a show of kindness; true integrity does not boast of its purity; true courage does not flaunt its strength. To make the Dao explicit is to depart from it. However clever one’s words, they cannot express the Dao fully. Benevolence confined to convention cannot be fully realized. Integrity that constantly proclaims its purity cannot win people’s trust. Courage based only on showing off one’s strength cannot amount to true courage. Once these five qualities are pursued deliberately, they can easily stray from what is genuine. So to know where to stop, at the point of what one does not know, is to reach the utmost. Who can understand debate without words and the Dao without speech? Whoever does is said to possess a “Heavenly Treasury”—like a natural storehouse that can hold all things. Pour into it and it will not fill; draw from it and it will not run dry. Yet no one knows where it comes from. This is called “Concealed Light,” a radiance held within and not displayed.

Long ago, Yao asked Shun, “I want to attack the lands of Zong, Kuai, and Xuao. Though I hold the position of ruler, I can never feel at ease. Why is this?” Shun replied, “Those three places…”

Shun said, “Those three are still entangled in disputes among reeds and mugwort. Why can’t they let the matter go? In the past, ten suns rose together, illuminating all things. How much brighter, then, is the radiance of Virtue?”

Nie Que asked Wang Ni, “Do you know what all things consider right?”

Wang Ni said, “How would I know?”

Nie Que asked again, “Do you know that you don’t know?”

Wang Ni said, “How would I know?”

Nie Que asked once more, “Then do all things lack understanding?”

Wang Ni said, “How would I know? Still, let me try to explain. How do I know that what I call ‘knowing’ isn’t really ignorance? And how do I know that what I call ‘not knowing’ isn’t really knowledge?

“Let me ask you: when people sleep in damp places, their backs ache and they may even become paralyzed on one side. Is it the same for loaches? When people climb trees, they tremble with fear. Is it the same for apes? Among humans, loaches, and apes, who knows which place is best to live? People eat meat, elk eat grass, centipedes favor snakes, and crows favor mice. Among these creatures, who knows what tastes best?

“Apes mate with baboons; elk mate with deer; eels swim alongside fish. Mao Qiang and Li Ji, legendary beauties of antiquity, are considered beautiful by people. But when fish see them, they dive underwater; when birds see them, they fly high into the sky; and when elk see them, they flee in alarm. Among these creatures, who knows what true beauty under Heaven is? As I see it, the beginnings of benevolence and righteousness, and the boundaries between right and wrong, are tangled and confused. How could I tell them apart?”

Nie Que said, “If you don’t know what is beneficial or harmful, then does the Perfected Person not know either?”

Wang Ni said, “The Perfected Person is beyond comprehension. A great marsh could burn without making him feel hot; the Yellow River and Han River could freeze without making him feel cold. Thunder could split mountains and a gale could churn the sea, yet he would not be alarmed. Such a person rides the clouds, harnesses the sun and moon, and roams beyond the four seas. Neither life nor death can alter his mind—how much less, then, the distinction between benefit and harm?”

Qu Quezi asked Chang Wuzi, “I heard my teacher say that sages do not devote themselves to worldly affairs, pursue profit, or deliberately avoid misfortune. They do not covet anything, nor do they act against the Dao (the Way). What they say sounds as though they had said nothing, yet their silence seems to say something. They roam at ease beyond the world of dust. My teacher thinks this is absurd, but I find it a subtle truth. What do you think?”

Chang Wuzi said, “Even the Yellow Emperor would be bewildered by these words. How could Confucius fully understand them? You are judging too hastily. Seeing an egg, you expect to hear a rooster crow at dawn; seeing a slingshot, you hope to eat a roast crow at once. I’ll speak to you freely, so listen freely. Why should a sage rely on the sun and moon or take charge of Heaven and Earth? Better to follow the natural mingling and transformation of all things, and let the mind cease to be led about by tangled distinctions. Everyone else rushes about, while the sage appears dull and ignorant. The sage shares the long passage of time with all things, and in the end returns to undivided wholeness. All things change in this way, and in changing they contain one another. How do you know that cherishing life is not a delusion? How do I know that hating death is not like a lost traveler who has forgotten the way home?

“Liji was the daughter of a border official in Ai. When she was first taken to the state of Jin, she wept until her tears soaked her robe. Later, when she came to the ruler of Jin, lived in a splendid palace, and ate rich meats, she regretted having wept. How do I know that the dead do not regret having once been so attached to being alive?

“Those who feast and make merry in a dream may wake to weep; those who weep in a dream may wake and go hunting for pleasure. While dreaming, people do not know they are dreaming, and sometimes even seek to interpret a dream within the dream. Only after waking do they realize it was a dream. Perhaps one must undergo a greater awakening before understanding that everything before us now is itself a great dream. Yet foolish people imagine themselves awake, confidently deciding that they know everything, and even arguing over who is ruler and who is herdsman. How stubborn they are!

“Confucius and you are both in a dream; and when I say that you are dreaming, my words too are dreamlike. Such statements are called ‘paradoxical’—they seem to defy common sense and are hard to grasp. If, after ten thousand generations, we meet a true sage who can understand their meaning, it will be as though we had met between morning and evening.”

Here, “dream” and “waking” show that our judgments about life, death, and reality may not be reliable. The Way of the sage lies in following the transformations of all things without clinging to conventional distinctions between right and wrong.

These words sound strange and hard to understand, so they are called “paradoxical” (unexpected, elusive statements). Even if one had to wait through ten thousand generations to meet a great sage who could grasp their meaning, that would be just like meeting such a person sooner or later.

Suppose you and I argue, and you win while I do not. Does that prove you are certainly right and I am certainly wrong? Suppose I win while you do not. Does that prove I am certainly right and you are certainly wrong? It may be that one of us is right and the other wrong; it may also be that both of us are right, or neither of us is right. Since neither you nor I can decide who is right or wrong, whom should we ask to judge?

Should we ask someone who agrees with you? Since that person agrees with you, how could they judge fairly? Should we ask someone who agrees with me? Since that person agrees with me, they would be just as unable to judge fairly. Should we ask someone who disagrees with both you and me? Since that person disagrees with us both, how could they decide? Asking someone who agrees with both you and me would leave us with the same problem. It seems, then, that you, I, and everyone else are unable to decide one another’s rights and wrongs. Must we simply wait for someone else to judge?

What does it mean to follow the “Heavenly Pivot” (the natural boundaries and measures) to harmonize different views? It means recognizing that “this is so” and “this is not so” each have their grounds, and that “this way” and “not this way” each have their grounds. If a particular claim truly holds, then there is no need to argue further between it and its opposite. If a particular judgment is truly so, then there is no need to argue further between it and the judgment that it is not so. All words stand opposed to one another and depend on one another. Follow their natural changes and harmonize them, letting them continue to shift and unfold, and you may live out your life. Forget the length of your life, and forget distinctions between right and wrong. Set your heart and body moving in the boundless, and your state of mind, too, can become limitless.

The Shadow’s Fringe asked the Shadow, “A moment ago you were walking, and now you have stopped; a moment ago you were sitting, and now you have risen. Why do you have no will of your own?”

The Shadow replied, “Do I act this way because I depend on something? And does what I depend on act this way because it depends on something else? Do I depend on something like the scales beneath a snake’s belly or a cicada’s wings? How can I know why I am as I am, or why I am not as I am?”

What is it that I rely on? Must it depend on something else to exist? Must it depend on a snake, a worm, a silkworm, or a butterfly? How can I know why things are as they are, or why they are not otherwise?

Once, Zhuang Zhou dreamed he had become a butterfly, fluttering freely and contentedly, as if he truly were a butterfly, entirely pleased with himself and unaware that he was Zhuang Zhou. Suddenly he awoke and realized that he was still Zhuang Zhou. He did not know whether Zhuang Zhou had dreamed of becoming a butterfly, or the butterfly had dreamed of becoming Zhuang Zhou. Between Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly there must be some distinction. This is called “the transformation of things” (the mutual transformation and change of things).

Human life is finite, while knowledge has no bounds. To pursue limitless knowledge with a finite life leads to exhaustion; to keep pursuing it will only wear you down further. Do good without seeking fame, and do no wrong so far that you incur punishment. Follow the natural, balanced Way and make it your constant practice: then you can preserve your body, care for your life, support your family, and enjoy a long life.

When the cook Ding was butchering an ox for Lord Wenhui, his hands touched the ox, his shoulder leaned against it, his feet braced it, and his knees pressed against it. His movements rang out crisply, and his knife made its own sounds as it went in. Not a single beat was out of time. He seemed to be dancing to the “Mulberry Grove” music and keeping time with the “Jingshou” melody. Lord Wenhui exclaimed, “Wonderful! Could the art of butchering an ox really reach such a level?”

Cook Ding set down his knife and replied, “What I pursue is the Dao (the Way); it has gone beyond mere technique. When I first began butchering oxen, all I saw was a whole ox. After three years, I no longer saw a whole ox. Now I meet the ox with my spirit, not merely with my eyes. The senses fall silent, and my spirit moves according to the ox’s structure. I follow the natural patterns of its body, guide my knife into the larger spaces between its sinews and bones, and pass it through the broad openings, cutting in accordance with the ox’s own structure. I never strike tangled sinews or joined bones, much less the large bones themselves.

“A good cook changes his knife once a year, because he uses it to slice meat. An ordinary cook changes his knife once a month, because he uses it to hack at bones. I have used my knife for nineteen years and butchered several thousand oxen, yet its edge is as sharp as if it had just been honed on a whetstone. The joints of an ox have gaps, while a knife’s edge is almost without thickness. When a blade this thin enters the gaps between the joints, there is ample room for it to move. That is why, after nineteen years, it is still as sharp as if it had just been honed.

“Even so, whenever I come to a place where sinews and bones are tangled, I recognize the difficulty and become cautious. I fix my gaze, slow my movements, and guide the knife in gently. The ox comes apart at once, like clods of earth falling to the ground. I lift my knife and stand, look around, and pause with satisfaction. Then I wipe the knife clean and put it away.”

This story of Cook Ding butchering an ox shows that a skilled person can act in accordance with the structure of things themselves. Even with great skill, one must still take care when faced with complexity.

Lord Wen Hui said, “Excellent! From Cook Ding’s skill, I have learned the principles of nourishing life.”

Gong Wen Xuan saw the Right Master, an ancient official, and asked in astonishment, “Who is this man? How has he only one foot? Was he born that way, or did someone cause it?” Someone replied, “He was born that way; it was not done by human hands. Heaven gave him only one foot at birth. People are naturally different in appearance. To change what one is born with by human standards is not to follow nature.”

A wild pheasant in the marsh takes ten steps to peck up one bite of food and a hundred steps to drink a mouthful of water, yet it would not want to be kept in a cage. In the wild it is full of life; in a cage, even if it is comfortable, it feels ill at ease.

After Lao Dan (Laozi) died, Qin Shi went to pay his respects. He wept a few times and then left. A disciple asked, “Was he not your friend?” Qin Shi said, “He was.” The disciple asked again, “If he was your friend, was it proper to mourn him this way?” Qin Shi replied, “Yes. At first I thought everyone who came to mourn could follow nature. Now I see that is not so. When I went inside, I saw old people weeping for him as if they had lost their own son, and young people weeping for him as if they had lost their own mother. Surely some of those gathered here do not want to weep, yet join in anyway. This is fleeing nature and going against true feeling. The ancients called it ‘escaping the punishment of Heaven’s mandate.’

“To be born into the world at just this time is to follow the moment; to depart at just this time is to follow change. At ease with the course of events and following change, sorrow and joy cannot disturb the heart. The ancients called this release from nature’s bonds. The firewood will in time be consumed, but the flame passes on. No one knows when it will go out.”

Yan Hui went to see Zhongni and asked permission to travel. Zhongni asked, “Where do you intend to go?” Yan Hui replied, “To the state of Wei.” Zhongni asked again, “What do you plan to do there?” Yan Hui said, “I have heard that the ruler of Wei is in his prime and acts arbitrarily. He recklessly drives the people to risk their lives. The dead are so numerous that they lie across the land like fallen plants in a marsh. The people have nowhere to turn. I once heard my teacher say that one should leave a well-governed state and go to a state in disorder. A doctor’s home is full of patients. I want to think through how to respond, drawing on what I have heard, and perhaps help improve the state.”

Zhongni said, “Alas, you will probably go there only to meet disaster and punishment. The Dao should not be made confused. Confusion leads to excess, excess to turmoil, and turmoil to anxiety—and anxiety accomplishes nothing. Those of ancient times who had reached the highest level of cultivation first settled themselves, then settled others. If you have not yet found your own footing, what strength could you have to interfere in the actions of a tyrant?

“Do you know how De is damaged, and how cleverness arises? De is damaged by the pursuit of fame; cleverness arises from the struggle to prevail. Fame sets people against one another, and cleverness becomes a weapon in their contests. Both are instruments of harm; neither can be used to fully put the Dao into practice.

“If your De is not yet deep and your sincerity has not yet won people’s trust, then to appear before a tyrant and urge him with benevolence, righteousness, and rules is to invite others to despise your virtue. This is called being a ‘sprout-man’: others will turn you into someone they can exploit or harm, and you may become a ‘sprout-man’ in their eyes.

“Besides, if you admire the worthy and despise the unworthy, why pursue a way of standing apart from everyone else? If you simply speak frankly to remonstrate, the nobles and ministers of Wei will surely seize the chance to use you and compete with you. Then your vision will be clouded, your expression suppressed, your words constrained, your bearing controlled, and your heart changed by them. It would be like trying to put out a fire with fire or a flood with water: it would only make things pile up and grow more chaotic.”

Follow the nature of things, and the road ahead has no end. If you proclaim untrustworthy words as weighty truths, you may die at the hands of a violent ruler. In the past, King Jie of Xia killed Guan Longfeng, and King Zhou of Shang killed Prince Bigan. They cultivated themselves and used this to teach the people, but in doing so they also offended their rulers. The rulers therefore used their self-cultivation and pursuit of fame as grounds to marginalize and kill them. These men were devoted to fame.

Long ago, Yao attacked Congzhi and Xu’ao, and Yu conquered Youhu. As a result, these states fell into ruin, their people suffered, and their rulers were punished and killed. They waged war without end, pursuing fame and material gain without limit. These were men who sought both reputation and practical advantage. Haven’t you heard that even sages find reputation and practical gain difficult to control? How much more so for you?

Yan Hui said, “Even so, I still feel I must rely on something. Let me explain.” He said, “If I remain upright and steadfast, keep my mind empty and still, and apply myself with diligence and single-mindedness, would that do?”

Confucius replied, “How could that be enough? Your Yang energy is abundant, your sharpness is on full display, and your expression shifts unpredictably. Ordinary people do not oppose you, so you follow their reactions and let your own desires find release. This can only be called a virtue accumulated day by day; it is still not enough to achieve great virtue, let alone a higher form of virtue. If you cling to your own views and cannot adapt, appearing to agree outwardly while inwardly disagreeing, how could that ever work?”

Yan Hui said, “Then what if I am upright inwardly and tactful outwardly, and take the ancients as my model in word and deed?”

“Being upright inwardly means keeping company with Heaven. Those who keep company with Heaven know that both the ruler and they themselves are children born of Heaven. Would such a person change what is in his heart just because people praise or oppose what he says? If he can be this way, people will regard him as a child untouched by worldly ways. This is called keeping company with Heaven.

“Being tactful outwardly means getting along with people. Bowing, clasping the hands, and bending in formal greeting are all proper courtesies for a subject. Everyone else acts this way; how could I dare not? If I do what everyone else does, no one can fault me. This is called getting along with people.

“Taking the ancients as one’s model in word and deed means keeping company with the ancients. Even if what one says is meant as instruction, it is still only a judgment on present circumstances…”

The ancients already possessed the Dao (the Way); it was never mine alone. A person who follows it will not be harmed by acting with integrity. This is called sharing the Way with the ancients. Can one act this way? Confucius said, “Alas, how could it be so? There are too many laws and regulations. People will only follow them by the letter and stop thinking. Even if they stubbornly cling to these rules, they may not be at fault. But that is as far as it goes. How can it be called responding to change? This still takes one’s own preconceptions as the standard.”

Yan Hui said, “I no longer know how to go further. May I ask what method there is?” Confucius said, “Fast. I will tell you. If your heart is attached to something and you still try to act, can that be easy? If you think it easy, you are not following the way of Heaven.” Yan Hui said, “My family is poor. I have gone several months without drinking wine or eating meat. Does that count as fasting?” Confucius said, “That is fasting before a sacrifice, not fasting of the heart.” Yan Hui said, “May I ask what fasting of the heart is?” Confucius said, “Make your intention single. Do not listen with your ears; listen with your heart. Do not listen with your heart; listen with Qi. Hearing through the ears stops at sound, and the heart’s activity stops at responding to things. Qi is empty and still, waiting to receive the myriad things. Only the Dao gathers in emptiness and stillness. This emptiness and stillness is fasting of the heart.”

Yan Hui said, “Before I received your teaching, I truly knew only that there was an ‘I.’ After receiving it, I felt that this ‘I’ was no longer there. Can this be called emptiness and stillness?” Confucius said, “You can say you have reached it. I will tell you more: if you can enter the confines of the human world without being stirred by its praise and blame, gain and loss; speak when you can speak, and stop when you cannot. Have no fixed position or preconception, and simply abide in the circumstances that leave you no choice but to act. Then you will be close.”

“It is easy to cast off the attachments nearest at hand; it is hard to leave no trace in the world. When you are driven by others, it is easy to put on an act; when you follow the way of Heaven, there is no room for pretense. You may have heard that one can fly with wings, but not that one can fly without them. You may have heard that one can know through knowledge, but not that one can know without it. Look at the place of clear light: when a room is empty, brightness arises, and good fortune comes to rest there. If the heart cannot be still, this is called ‘sitting while galloping’: the body sits, but the heart races without pause. Let what the ears and eyes perceive reach inward, and let the discriminating activity of the mind withdraw. Then even spirits and ghosts will come to dwell there—how much more so human beings?”

Here, “fasting of the heart” means gathering in the mind and waiting for things in emptiness and stillness. “Qi” refers to a state that is not governed by fixed preconceptions and can receive the myriad things in emptiness and stillness.

All things are constantly changing. This is also the fundamental principle on which Xia Yu and Yu Shun governed the realm. The deeds of Fuxi and the sages of antiquity, too, ultimately came to rest in change—how much more so the scattered and insignificant things of the world?

Lord Ye Gongzi Gao, whose personal name was Zhuliang, was about to serve as an envoy to Qi. He sought advice from Zhongni (Confucius): “My ruler has entrusted this mission to me with great seriousness. Qi will surely receive its envoy with great courtesy, but that does not mean it will act quickly. It is hard enough to persuade an ordinary person; how much harder a feudal lord! I am deeply worried about this. You once told me that few affairs, whether large or small, can be completed smoothly without following the right course. If the mission fails, I will surely suffer harm at the hands of others; if it succeeds, I will surely be worn down by the changes of Yin-Yang. Only a person of De can avoid worry whether things succeed or fail. I usually eat simply, without seeking fine flavors, and I do not crave coolness. But this morning, as soon as I received the mission, I was drinking iced water by evening. My heart must be burning with anxiety. Before I have even learned the facts of the matter, my body and mind are already being affected by the changes of Yin-Yang. If the mission fails, I will surely bring harm upon myself from others as well. As a mere minister, I cannot bear these two kinds of worry. Please advise me.”

Zhongni said, “There are two great principles in the world: one is destiny, the other is duty. A child’s love for their parents is destiny, bestowed by nature; it cannot be cut away from the heart. A minister’s service to the ruler is duty, required by one’s station. Wherever one may be, one remains within the ruler’s domain; under Heaven and Earth, there is nowhere to escape it. These are the great principles.

“So in serving one’s parents, one does not choose the place, but seeks only to be at ease while fulfilling one’s filial duty: this is the highest form of filial devotion. In serving one’s ruler, one does not choose the task, but seeks only to accept it calmly: this is the highest form of loyalty. To cultivate one’s heart so that, whatever one’s circumstances, its calm and joy do not change; to understand that some things cannot be helped, and to face them calmly as one accepts destiny—this is the highest form of De.”

A minister often truly finds himself in an unavoidable predicament. When he acts according to what is right, he may even disregard his own safety. How could he then be intent on clinging to life and fearing death? What you have done is enough. Let me share what I have heard: those who are close to one another treat each other with sincerity in their dealings, while those who are distant often express their loyalty in words—and those words are frequently passed on to others.

Conveying words that leave both sides pleased, or both sides angry, is the hardest task in the world. When both sides are pleased, the words often contain excessive praise; when both are angry, they often contain excessive blame. Words that go too far are mostly untrue. When words are untrue, people find them hard to believe, and the messenger may suffer for it. So an old saying goes: “Pass on only what happened as it was; do not pass on words that exaggerate. That is about the best way to preserve yourself.”

When people compete through skill rather than strength, things may begin openly and fairly, but often end in covert scheming. Taken to extremes, this gives rise to all kinds of deceitful tactics. When people drink according to ritual, the gathering may begin in good order, but often ends in confusion. Taken to extremes, it becomes an occasion for unrestrained revelry. So it is with all kinds of affairs: they may begin in sincerity, but often end in shallowness. What seems simple at the outset can become complicated and serious as the end draws near.

Words are like wind and waves: they can stir up turmoil in affairs. Actions determine whether things succeed or fail, and what is gained or lost. Wind and waves can easily unsettle people; success and failure, gain and loss, can just as easily put them in danger. Anger that erupts without cause often comes from clever words and one-sided accounts that stir people’s feelings. When a beast is near death, it no longer chooses its cries; it only gasps for breath. In such circumstances, people too may give rise to cruel and hurtful thoughts. If you pursue blame and censure too far, you will draw an ill response, without knowing why. If you do not know how matters came to this, who can foresee where they will end?

So an old saying goes: “Do not alter orders on your own, and do not press for affairs to be completed quickly. If you go too far, you will only create more trouble. Good things take sustained effort to accomplish; once bad things have taken shape, it is often too late to undo them.” Can one afford to be careless?

To go along with things as they are and let the mind remain at ease, and to dwell in unavoidable circumstances while cultivating one’s inner self—this is the highest attainment. Why, then, deliberately do anything to repay another? Better to entrust everything to fate. This is the hardest thing of all.

Yan Hui was about to entrust the care of Duke Ling of Wei’s heir to Lian Boyu, so he asked, “There is a person whose nature seems destined to harm others. If we let him do as he pleases, he will endanger the state; if we restrain him with rules, he will endanger himself. His intelligence can see other people’s faults, but not why he himself goes wrong. What should I do with someone like this?”

Quan Boyu said, “That is a good question. Be alert and cautious, and first set yourself right. In your outward conduct, it is best to go along with him; in your inward attitude, it is best to remain on good terms with him. But each approach has its dangers: do not go too far in yielding to him, and do not show too openly how accommodating you are. If you outwardly comply but become too deeply entangled, he may overturn you, destroy you, and bring you to ruin. If you inwardly keep the peace but show it too plainly, you may attract attention and even invite disaster.

“If he is like an infant, treat him as you would an infant. If he has no restraints, do not deliberately impose them. If he has no boundaries, adapt yourself to him. Only by navigating the world in this way can you avoid inviting trouble.

“Have you never seen a praying mantis? It raises its forelegs to block a wheel, unaware that it has no power to stop it, and thinking only that its own strength is exceptional. Be alert and cautious. If you keep flaunting your strengths and acting recklessly, provoking the other person, you will be in danger.

“Have you never seen someone who raises tigers? He does not dare feed them live animals, because that stirs their savage urge to pounce and kill. Nor does he hand them an entire carcass, because they may grow angry as they tear at it. The keeper knows when they are hungry or full and channels their anger. Tigers and people are not the same kind, yet the tigers can grow close to their keeper because he follows their nature. They injure people when someone acts against it.

“Someone who loves his horse uses a bamboo basket for its dung and a shell cup to catch its urine. One day, a mosquito or horsefly lands on the horse. If the owner cannot gently shoo it away in time and instead strikes at it suddenly, the horse may snap its bridle, injure its head, and crack its chest. His intention is to care for it, but his actions end up harming it. Can one afford to be anything but cautious?

“When Craftsman Shi went to Qi, he passed through Quyuan and saw a shrine tree, a tree dedicated to the local earth spirit. It was so massive it could shelter a herd of cattle, and its trunk was so broad that a hundred people with arms linked could barely encircle it. The tree soared into the mountains, and its branches began more than ten ren above the ground. Its timber could have made more than a dozen boats. Onlookers thronged around it like people at a market. Can one afford to be anything but cautious?”

Carpenter Shi traveled to the state of Qi and came to Quyuan, where he saw a great tree growing beside the shrine to the local earth god. Its crown was broad enough to shelter oxen, and its trunk so thick that a hundred people could join hands around it. It towered nearly as high as a mountain, and its branches did not begin to grow until ten ren—a traditional unit of length—above the ground. More than a dozen of its limbs were large enough to make boats. A crowd gathered around it like people at a marketplace, but Carpenter Shi did not even glance at it and walked straight past.

His apprentice gazed at the tree for a long time, then ran after Carpenter Shi and asked, “Since I first followed you with an axe, I have never seen such fine timber. Yet you would not even look at it, and you kept walking. Why?”

“Enough,” Carpenter Shi said. “Don’t speak of it. It is a useless tree, unfit for timber. Make it into a boat, and it will sink; make it into a coffin, and it will rot quickly. Make it into an implement, and it will soon break. Use it for a door, and it will leak; use it for a pillar, and insects will eat into it. It is a tree with no practical use, good for nothing. That is why it has lived so long.”

After Carpenter Shi returned home, the great tree beside the earth god’s shrine appeared to him in a dream and said, “What do you compare me with? Do you mean to compare me with useful trees? Pear, orange, and pomelo trees bear fruit, and when it ripens, it is picked. They are harmed in the process: their large branches are broken, and their smaller ones are pulled and damaged. Their abilities bring suffering upon their own lives, so they cannot enjoy the full span of their years. They are often cut down before their time, bringing ordinary people’s harm upon themselves. Most things are like this.

“I have sought uselessness for a long time, and came close to dying because of it. Only now have I finally attained it. It is because I am useless that I have been able to preserve my life. If I were useful, could I have grown so large? You and I are both among the myriad things—how can we judge one another and decide what the other is? You, a useless man who nearly died, how could you understand a useless tree?”

Carpenter Shi woke and told his apprentice about the dream. The apprentice asked, “If the tree seeks uselessness, why does it serve as the shrine tree beside the local earth god’s temple?”

“Enough,” said Carpenter Shi. “It merely takes shelter there. It treats people’s failure to understand it, and their calling it bad, as an insult. If it did not serve as the shrine tree, it would probably have been cut down long ago. Besides, what it preserves in itself is unusual. To praise it by ordinary standards would be far from understanding it, wouldn’t it?”

Nanbo Zijing was traveling through Shangqiu when he saw an extraordinary great tree. Its girth was enough to tie up many chariots and horses, and its shade was broad enough to shelter many people riding in carriages.

Zi Mo asked, “What kind of tree is this? It must be close to being cut down. Its nature differs from that of other trees, yet people praise it as ‘fitting the proper order.’ Doesn’t that take it far from its true nature?”

Nanbo Zijing, a man’s name, was traveling in the hills of Shang when he saw a remarkable tree, its shade broad enough to shelter many carriages and horses. Zi Mo asked, “What kind of tree is this? It must have something unusual about it.” He looked up at its branches: they twisted and curled, making them useless for roof beams. He looked down at its roots: the wood was loose and could not be used for coffins. He tasted its leaves, and his mouth broke out in sores. He smelled its scent, and his mind became confused for three days before he recovered. Zi Mo said, “It truly is a useless tree. That is why it has been able to grow so large. Ah, it is precisely through this kind of ‘uselessness’ that a spiritual person can grow so great.”

In the state of Song, a man named Ke made his living cutting down catalpa, cypress, and mulberry trees. When a tree grew to a thickness of one or two arm spans, it would be felled if its wood was suitable for making a monkey perch. When it grew to three or four arm spans, it would be felled if it could be made into a tall, splendid vessel. When it grew to seven or eight arm spans, a noble or wealthy merchant would have it cut down to make a coffin and outer coffin. So trees often died halfway through their natural lifespan, struck down by axe and saw before their time. This is the calamity that useful timber brings upon itself.

In ancient times, when people performed rites to the River God, a white-fronted ox, a pig with an upturned snout, or a person suffering from hemorrhoids could not be offered in sacrifice. Even shamans and ritual officiants knew these taboos, for such things were considered inauspicious. Yet, from the perspective of a spiritual person, this was instead a great blessing.

Zhili Shu, a man with a deformed body, lived in the state of Qi. His shoulders rose above his head, his topknot pointed toward the sky, his internal organs were positioned high in his body, and his thighs resembled his ribs. He earned his living by sewing and washing clothes; shaking a winnowing basket and sifting bran were enough to support ten people. When the state called up soldiers, he could wave his arms and walk right past the recruiters. When the state conscripted laborers, his disability exempted him from service. When the state distributed relief to the sick, he could still receive three measures of grain and ten bundles of firewood. If even a physically deformed person could support himself and live out his natural lifespan, how much more so someone whose De is not constrained by worldly standards?

When those in power saw Zhili Shu, a man with a deformed body, they exempted him from corvée labor and conscription because his disability left him unable to perform such work. The authorities also provided relief to the sick and weak, so Zhili Shu received three measures of grain and ten bundles of firewood. If a person with a deformed body can still support himself and live out his allotted years, how much more can someone who does not cling to worldly standards of Virtue and whose inner spirit is free from worldly entanglements?

When Confucius arrived in Chu, the madman Jieyu passed by the gate of his lodging, singing: “Phoenix, oh Phoenix! How far your Virtue has declined! The future cannot be awaited, and the past cannot be recovered. When the world is governed by the Dao, sages can accomplish their work. When the world is without the Dao, sages can only preserve their lives. In this age, it is enough simply to escape punishment. Fortune is as light as a feather, yet no one knows how to bear it; calamity is as heavy as the earth, yet no one knows how to avoid it. Enough, enough! Do not use your Virtue to instruct others. Dangerous, dangerous! You mark out your path too firmly, then keep walking along it.”

“Thorny grass, thorny grass, do not wound my journey. Though my path twists and turns, do not wound my feet. Trees on the mountains are felled because they are useful; lamp oil consumes itself because it can burn. The cinnamon tree is cut down because it can be eaten; the lacquer tree is tapped because it can produce lacquer. Everyone knows the uses of what is useful, but no one knows that the useless has its own use.”

In the state of Lu, there was a man named Wang Tai who had undergone punishment by amputation—one of his feet had been cut off. Yet the number of people who studied and associated with him was as great as the number of Confucius’s disciples. Chang Ji asked Confucius, “Wang Tai is a man who has undergone amputation, yet nearly half the people in Lu follow him. He does not teach when standing or discuss anything when seated, but people come to him empty and leave filled. Can there really be a kind of teaching that does not rely on words, yet quietly brings the mind to fulfillment? What sort of person is he?”

Confucius said, “Master Wang is a sage. I am simply behind him and have not yet gone to pay him a visit. I would take him as my teacher—how much more should those less accomplished than I? It is not only the people of Lu: I would lead the whole world to follow him.”

Chang Ji said, “Though his body is impaired, he has become a teacher, so it seems he far surpasses ordinary people. Even someone like you is merely behind him and has not yet gone to pay him a visit. You would take him as your teacher—how much more should those less accomplished than you? It is not only the people of Lu: you would lead the whole world to follow him. What is this man’s inner nature like?”

Confucius said, “Life and death are great matters in human existence, yet they do not disturb him as they change. Even if Heaven and Earth were to topple and collapse, he would not lose himself. He understands that nothing among the myriad things has a fixed, unchanging basis, and so he is not moved by external things. He lets the myriad things change while holding fast to the root.”

Chang Ji asked, “What does that mean?”

Confucius said, “Seen in terms of their differences, the liver and the gallbladder, or the states of Chu and Yue, are far apart. Seen in terms of what they share, the myriad things belong to one whole. A person like this does not cling to what pleases the ears and eyes, but lets the mind and spirit wander freely in the harmony of De (Virtue/Power). He values what all things have in common and does not dwell on what has been lost. To him, losing one foot is like losing a clod of earth.”

Chang Ji said, “He cultivates himself through his own wisdom and understands the mind through his own heart. He has attained a constant, unchanging original mind. Why, then, should external things honor him?”

Confucius said, “People do not look at themselves in flowing water; they look in still water. Only still water can reflect all things. The pine and cypress receive the nature of Earth, and only they remain green through both winter and summer. Shun received the Mandate of Heaven, and only he could set himself right and, through the good fortune of his own rectitude, bring the people into alignment. To hold fast to the signs of one’s original nature is to embody a true fearlessness. A brave warrior may charge alone into the midst of nine armies, yet still be seeking fame and deliberately spurring himself on. How much more so for one who can govern Heaven and Earth, encompass the myriad things, set himself right, and bring all people into alignment?”

Those who preserve their life’s original nature can keep their hearts free of fear. They are like warriors who charge alone into an army of nine divisions. Someone who drives himself onward in pursuit of fame can still manage this; how much more so those who take Heaven and Earth as their master, regard the myriad things as their storehouse, see the body as a temporary lodging, and treat the eyes and ears as outward appearances. They use what they know in their hearts to understand things, yet never let external things rob their hearts of vitality. Such people can choose a day and journey far into the heavens, and others will follow them. Would people like this ever let external things become a burden?

Shentu Jia, whose foot had been cut off, studied under Bohun Wuren alongside Zheng Zichan. Zichan said to him, “If I leave first, you stay here; if you leave first, I’ll stay.” The next day, the two were again in the same room, listening to the teaching together and seated side by side. Zichan said, “If I leave first, you stay; if you leave first, I’ll stay. Now I’m leaving. You should stay, shouldn’t you? Or are you refusing to stay? When you see a man in power, you don’t step aside. Do you think you are his equal?”

Shentu Jia replied, “Are there really men in power who rely on their authority like this in our teacher’s school? You use your position as a man in power to put others behind you. I’ve heard that when a mirror is bright, dust and grime cannot settle on it. If grime does settle, the mirror is no longer bright. After spending a long time with a worthy person, one should no longer make mistakes. You esteem our teacher above all, yet you still say things like this. Isn’t that a mistake?”

Zichan said, “You’re already in your condition, yet you still want to argue with Yao over who is more benevolent. I suppose you refuse to stop because your Virtue is not yet enough to make you reflect on yourself.”

Shentu Jia said, “Many people make excuses for their mistakes, saying they should not be punished. Only a few make no excuses. They understand that things cannot be controlled in advance, and accept them calmly, as though everything were fated. Only a person of Virtue can do this. It is like moving about within the range of Yi’s arrows: standing right in the middle makes you most likely to be hit. If you are not hit, that too is fate. Many people mock me because my feet are not whole, and I often fly into a rage. But as soon as I arrive at our teacher’s, my anger disappears. I don’t know whether our teacher has washed my heart clean with the good Dao.”

“I have been with my husband for nineteen years, and he has never treated me as a person who had been punished and lost a foot. Now you associate with me because you see what is within a person, yet you insist on judging me by my appearance. Isn’t that a mistake?”

Zichan’s face changed at once. “Please, say no more,” he said.

In the state of Lu, there was a man named Shushan Wuzhi who had been punished by having his foot cut off. Later, he went to see Confucius. Confucius said, “You were careless at first, and suffered this calamity because of it. Now that you have come here, what can be done?”

Wuzhi replied, “At first, I simply did not understand what mattered most, and used my body recklessly; that is why I lost my foot. I have come to see you because there are things more worthy of respect than a foot, things I must do my utmost to preserve. Heaven leaves nothing uncovered, and Earth leaves nothing unsupported. I thought you, sir, were as generous as Heaven and Earth. How could I have known you would be like this?”

Confucius said, “My understanding is limited. Please come in and tell me what you have heard.” Wuzhi then left. Confucius said to his disciples, “You should study diligently. Though Wuzhi lost his foot, he still strives to learn and make up for his past mistakes. How much more so should those whose De is whole?”

Wuzhi told Lao Dan (Laozi) about this: “Kong Qiu is still far from being a perfected person. Why does he keep putting on such an eager show of learning? He even uses his reputation for strange and bizarre ideas to attract people, unaware that a perfected person sees such things as shackles that bind him.”

Lao Dan said, “Why not simply have him regard life and death as one principle, and what is acceptable and unacceptable as a single, connected whole? That would loosen his bonds. What do you think?”

Wuzhi replied, “That punishment was imposed by Heaven. How could it be undone?”

Duke Ai of Lu asked Confucius, “In the state of Wei there is a man of strange appearance named Ai Taita. The men who spend time with him often think of him and cannot bear to leave; when women see him, they want to marry him…”

Some women, on seeing Ai Tuo, said to their parents, “Rather than marry someone else and be his principal wife, I would rather be his concubine.” More than ten people did so. He never took the lead in advocating anything; he always went along with what others said. He held no sovereign’s power and could not rescue the people from death and disaster. He had accumulated no wealth and could not fill anyone’s belly. His appearance was so ugly it could startle the world. In daily life he was easygoing and never tried to get ahead, and his understanding was no greater than that of ordinary people. Yet men and women alike gathered before him. He must have had something extraordinary about him.

The ruler summoned him and, sure enough, was startled by his ugliness. Before they had spent a month together, the ruler had begun to take notice of his character; before a year had passed, he trusted him. There was no chief minister in the state, and the ruler even entrusted the country to him. Ai Tuo was silent for a while before agreeing. He seemed indifferent and declined politely. The ruler felt ashamed, but in the end still handed the country over to him. Not long afterward, Ai Tuo left the ruler to travel elsewhere. The ruler felt bereft, as if he had lost something, and as if there were no one left with whom he could share the joy of governing. What sort of person was this?

Confucius said, “I once went on a mission to Chu and happened to see piglets nursing beside their dying mother. Before long, they seemed to abandon her and flee. That was because they had realized their mother no longer responded to them and was no longer like them. They loved their mother not for her physical form, but for what had made that form their mother.”

When those who have fallen in battle are buried, their coffins are not adorned with finery. People whose feet have been cut off do not treasure their old shoes, because they have lost what gave them a connection to such things. Women who become consorts of the Son of Heaven do not trim their nails long or pierce their ears. Men who marry take up residence outside the palace and are no longer summoned to serve the ruler. These people, though their bodies are intact, can still receive such treatment. How much more so for those whose De is whole?

Now Ai Tuo has said nothing, yet others trust him; he has accomplished nothing, yet others draw near to him. Someone has entrusted him with a state, and he fears only that Ai Tuo might refuse to accept it. This must be because his inborn nature is whole and his De does not show itself outwardly. The ruler asked, “What does it mean for one’s inborn nature to be whole?”

Confucius said, “Life and death, survival and destruction, hardship and success, poverty and wealth, talent and lack of talent, slander and praise, hunger and thirst, cold and heat—all are changes in worldly affairs. If someone were offered a kingdom, he would still fear that he might not be willing to accept it. Such a person must have fully developed natural capacities, while his De remains hidden from view.”

Duke Ai asked, “What does it mean to have fully developed natural capacities?”

Confucius said, “Life and death, survival and destruction, hardship and success, poverty and wealth, talent and lack of talent, slander and praise, hunger and thirst, cold and heat—all are changes in worldly affairs and the workings of Heaven’s mandate. They come before us in alternating day and night, yet people cannot know when they began. So we should not let these changes disturb the peace within us, nor let them penetrate the depths of the heart. Let the heart be peaceful and joyful, and the mind open and clear without losing its delight. Let the turning of day and night leave no knot of bitterness within us. Then, as we live among the myriad things, the heart will always be as gentle as spring. This is how our capacity to respond to things arises within us at every moment. This is what it means to have fully developed natural capacities.”

Duke Ai asked again, “What does it mean for De to remain hidden from view?”

Confucius said, “Still water is the utmost in stillness, and so it can serve as a model. It is settled within, and outside things cannot disturb it. De is what harmonizes one’s nature and brings it to completion. When De remains hidden from view, the myriad things will not leave one.”

One day, Duke Ai told Minzi what he had heard. “I once thought that sitting facing south and ruling the world, holding the people’s affairs in my hands and worrying over their lives and deaths, meant that I had attained understanding. Now I have heard the words of the Perfected Person, and I fear I have no true De. I have merely acted rashly with what I possess, and may thereby lose my state. Confucius and I are not ruler and subject; we are friends joined by De.”

Yin Qizhi Li Wushen, a man with a disfigured body, went to persuade Duke Ling of Wei, who took a great liking to him. Yet when Duke Ling saw people with whole bodies, their necks seemed slender to him. Weng Danying, a man with a large growth on his neck, went to persuade Duke Huan of Qi, who also took a great liking to him. When Duke Huan saw people with whole bodies, their necks, too, seemed slender. This shows that when a person’s De advances, outward appearance is forgotten. Why, then, do people fail to forget what they should not care about, yet forget what they truly should not forget? This is called true forgetting.

Thus, the sage wanders freely in the world. Wisdom may become a source of trouble; deliberate adherence may become a restraint; De, when used to attach oneself to external things, becomes entanglement; and skill, when used to pursue profit, becomes commerce. The sage does not scheme, so what need is there for wisdom? He does not insist on making judgments, so what need is there for restraint? He has lost nothing, so what need is there to make a show of De? He does not treat things as goods to be traded, so what need is there for commercial skill? These four are all forms of fasting in accord with the Way of Heaven. What is called Heavenly Fasting is accepting the nourishment of nature as it comes.

Since people have received the nature endowed by Heaven, they should no longer be governed by human distinctions and contrivances. Though they have human bodies, they are not burdened by ordinary emotions. Their human bodies allow them to live among others; because they are not burdened by emotion, judgments of right and wrong, gain and loss, cannot enter their hearts and disturb them. To belong to the human species is a small and limited thing; to preserve one’s innate nature on one’s own is what makes one seem vast.

Huizi asked Zhuangzi, “Can a person really be without emotions?” Zhuangzi replied, “Yes.” Huizi said, “If someone is a person, how can you say they have no emotions?” Zhuangzi replied, “The Dao gives people their appearance, and Heaven gives them their form. How could we not call them people?” Huizi asked again, “Since we call them people, how can they be without emotions?” Zhuangzi said, “By ‘emotion,’ I do not mean what you understand by that word. When I say ‘without emotion,’ I mean that people do not injure themselves inwardly because of likes and dislikes. They always follow what is natural and do not deliberately add to life.”

Huizi asked, “If you do not deliberately add to life, how can you preserve this body?” Zhuangzi replied, “The Dao gives people their appearance, and Heaven gives them their form. Do not let likes and dislikes injure you inwardly. Now you wear out your spirit and exhaust your vital energy, leaning against a tree as you chant and bending over a withered paulownia zither in deep thought. Heaven gave you this form, yet you use it to argue over the ‘hardness and whiteness’ thesis.” The ‘hardness and whiteness’ thesis was a topic in Huizi’s school of disputation, exploring whether concepts such as hardness and whiteness could be separated from one another.

To understand what is done by nature and what is done by human effort is to reach a high level. To understand what is done by nature is to live in accord with one’s inborn nature. To understand what is done by human effort is to use what one already knows to nourish what one does not yet understand, and to live out one’s allotted years without dying prematurely. This may be called the pinnacle of knowledge.

Yet there is still a danger here: knowledge needs some basis on which to judge what is appropriate, but that basis may not be certain. How can we be sure that what I call “Heaven” is not “the human,” or that what I call “the human” is not “Heaven”? Only when there are Realized Persons—those who live in accord with the Dao—can there be true understanding.

What is a Realized Person? The Realized Persons of old did not reject the few, boast of their achievements, or seek power. Such people felt no regret even when they made a mistake, and were at ease when they acted appropriately. They could climb heights without fear, enter water without getting wet, and pass through fire without feeling heat. This means their wisdom had penetrated the Dao and reached such a state.

The Realized Persons of old did not dream in sleep, and woke without worry. They ate without craving flavors, and their breathing was deep and prolonged. Their breath seemed to rise from their heels, while ordinary people breathed only from the throat. Those who are oppressed and constrained breathe in short gasps and make sounds like retching. The deeper one’s desires, the shallower one’s inborn spiritual nature.

The Realized Persons of old did not deliberately cling to life or despise death. They did not rejoice at birth or resist death. They came and went naturally, never forgetting life’s source and never fixating on its end. They welcomed life when it came and returned to nature when it departed. This is called not letting self-interest harm the Dao, and not using human effort to assist nature. Such people are Realized Persons.

Their minds were focused, their faces calm, and their expressions humble. At times they were as austere as autumn; at other times, as warm as spring. Their joy and anger shifted with the four seasons, and they lived in harmony with all things. Yet no one could fathom the limits of their state. Thus, when a sage waged war and brought an enemy state to ruin, he did not lose the people’s hearts.

Their beneficence extends to all generations, yet it does not arise from favoring any one person. Simply delighting in communion with all things does not make one a sage; showing affection only to certain people does not make one benevolent; following the seasons does not make one worthy; failing to understand changes in fortune and misfortune does not make one a gentleman. Losing oneself for the sake of fame does not make one a man of integrity. And one who cannot preserve their authentic self, yet sets about directing others, is not a True Person.

Fox Buxie, Wuguang, Boyi, Shuqi, Jizi, Xuyu, Jita, and Shentu Di all labored for others and catered to their pursuits, without following their own nature and finding ease in it.

The True Persons of antiquity carried themselves with dignity, yet formed no cliques for private advantage. They seemed to lack something, yet accepted no outside replenishment. They went along with all things, without becoming rigid or hard. Their minds were open, but they made no display of worldly splendor. Their expressions were relaxed, as if joyful, yet they also seemed quiet, as though they had no choice. They behaved with care, as if examining their own appearance; they acted with ease, as though De (Virtue/Power) flowed forth of itself. They were grave and upright, seeming able to live among ordinary people; alert, yet unconfined; continuous and unhurried, as if unwilling to close themselves off; cheerful and content, as if they had forgotten how to speak.

They took penal law as the foundation of governance, ritual as an aid to conduct, wisdom as a means of grasping the moment, and De as their guiding principle. They made penal law their foundation because they understood the need for caution in punishment and execution. They used ritual as an aid so they could move among the world. They used wisdom to grasp the moment because some affairs must be handled out of necessity. To take De as their guiding principle means that they moved alongside those of ability, climbing the hills, while people truly believed they were deliberately striving to cultivate themselves.

Thus, what they loved remained constant, and what they disliked also remained constant; their unity and difference alike returned to the One. In their unity with the One, they kept company with the Dao of Heaven; in their manifestation of difference, they responded to the human world. When the Dao of Heaven and human affairs do not obstruct one another, this is called being a True Person.

Human death and birth are determined by fate, just as the alternation of day and night follows a fixed order. They are part of nature’s arrangement.

There are things people cannot accomplish simply because things are as they are. People regard Heaven only as a father, yet still cherish their own bodies; how much more so should they cherish that surpassingly transcendent presence that is Heaven? People think only that a ruler is more capable than they are, yet are willing to give their lives for him; how much more so for the true Dao (the Way)?

When a spring dries up, the fish are stranded together on land. All they can do is moisten one another with their breath and dampen one another with their spit. Better to forget one another in rivers and lakes. Rather than praise Yao and condemn Jie, it is better to forget such distinctions and live in accord with the transformations of the Dao.

Heaven and Earth gave me form, make me toil through living, grant me ease in old age, and give me rest in death. To treat life well, then, also means being able to welcome death.

To hide a boat in a valley and a mountain in a marsh seems secure enough. Yet in the night, a strong person might carry them off without anyone noticing. Even when things of different sizes are hidden in suitable places, they may still be taken. But if all the things under Heaven are hidden within the world itself, where nothing can be taken away from its hiding place, then things accord with their true condition.

When people happen to acquire human form, they rejoice in it. Yet human form is only one among the transformations of the myriad things, and transformation never ends. How could the joy in this ever be fully measured? Thus the sage roams in a realm where the myriad things cannot be possessed and each exists in its own way. They face premature death and longevity, beginnings and endings, with equanimity. If even ordinary people take them as models, how much more so should they take as their model the Dao on which all things depend and through which all things transform?

The Dao is real and has a basis that can be trusted, yet it acts on nothing and has no form. It can be communicated, but cannot be handed over like an object; it can be experienced, but cannot be seen. It takes itself as its root and existed before Heaven and Earth came into being. It has been so from ancient times. It gives spirits their numinous power and makes the celestial sovereign divine; it generates Heaven and Earth. It is prior to the Taiji (the primordial state before Heaven and Earth separated), yet is not high; it is beneath the four directions of Heaven and Earth, yet is not deep. It was born before Heaven and Earth, yet is not ancient; it existed before the remotest antiquity, yet is not old.

Xiweishi obtained the Dao and used it to govern Heaven and Earth. Fuxi obtained the Dao and used it to connect with the source of Qi (vital energy).

When the Northern Dipper received the Dao (the Way), it never again flaunted its might. When the sun and moon received the Dao, they moved on without end. Kanhuai received the Dao and was able to roam the Kunlun Mountains; Fengyi received the Dao and was able to wander the great river; Jianwu received the Dao and was able to dwell on Mount Tai; the Yellow Emperor received the Dao and was able to ascend into the clouds; Zhuanxu received the Dao and was able to dwell in a deep palace; Yuqiang received the Dao and took his place at the North Pole; the Queen Mother of the West received the Dao and sat peacefully on Mount Shaoguang. No one knows when this Dao began, and no one knows when it will end.

Pengzu received the Dao and lived from the ancient time of the Youyu clan through the Spring and Autumn period of the Five Hegemons. Fu Yue received the Dao and assisted King Wuding of the Shang, bringing all under Heaven under Shang rule. Later, he rode the celestial river between the stars Ji and Wei, mounted those two stars, and took his place among the constellations.

Nanbo Zikui asked Nü’ou, “You are already very old, yet your face looks like a child’s. Why is that?” Nü’ou replied, “I have heard the Dao.” Nanbo Zikui asked, “Can the Dao be learned?” She answered, “No, it cannot. You are not the right person for it. Boliang Yi had the qualities to become a sage, but he did not understand the Dao that sages grasp. I understand the Dao that sages grasp, but I do not have the qualities to become a sage. I wanted to teach him the Dao; perhaps he really could become a sage. It would be easier to tell the Dao of sages to someone who already has the qualities of a sage.”

“I kept to the Dao as I taught him. After three days, he was able to put the world outside his heart and stop worrying about it. Once he had done that, I kept to the Dao and taught him further. After seven days, he was able to put external things outside his heart. Once he had done that, I kept to the Dao and taught him further. After nine days, he was able to put life and death outside his heart. Once he had done this, his mind became clear and lucid as the morning light. When his mind was clear, he could see the Dao standing apart from all things. Once he saw the Dao, he could transcend the distinctions between past and present. Having transcended past and present, he could enter a realm beyond the limits of life and death.”

“The power that brings all things to death does not itself die; the power that enables all things to grow is itself not born. The Dao acts upon all things: there is nothing it does not send on its way and welcome as it arrives; nothing it does not cause to decay, and nothing it does not bring to completion. This state is called yingning, tranquility amid disturbance. Yingning is the state in which all things gradually come to completion amid turmoil and change.”

Nanbo Zikui asked, “From whom did you hear these teachings?”

Some say, “I heard this teaching from the Son of Copying Ink. The Son of Copying Ink heard it from the Grandson of Repeated Chanting; the Grandson of Repeated Chanting heard it from Clear Sight; Clear Sight heard it from Whispered Permission; Whispered Permission heard it from Attending to Service; Attending to Service heard it from the Pivot of Darkness; the Pivot of Darkness heard it from Mysterious Obscurity; Mysterious Obscurity heard it from the Vast Expanse; and the Vast Expanse heard it from the Doubtful Beginning.” These names carry symbolic meanings, tracing how the teaching passes from one level to the next, back to a deep and hidden origin.

Zisi, Ziyu, Zili, and Zilai were gathered together talking. “Who can take ‘nothingness’ as his head, ‘life’ as his spine, and ‘death’ as his body, and understand that life, death, existence, and extinction are all one? We would gladly be friends with him.” The four looked at one another and laughed, their hearts in accord, and so they became friends.

Before long, Ziyu fell ill, and Zisi went to visit him. Ziyu’s back had become hunched, his internal organs had shifted, his face had sunk into his belly, his shoulders had risen above his head, and his neck bones stuck out, pointing toward the sky. The Yin-Yang energies were no longer flowing freely, and his body had become like this. Yet his mind remained at ease, free of distress, and he could still calmly gaze at his reflection in a well. He exclaimed, “How marvelous! The Creator has made me so bent and twisted.”

Zisi asked, “Do you hate how you look?” Ziyu replied, “No. What is there for me to hate? If transformation gradually turned my left arm into a rooster, I would use it to announce the dawn; if it turned my right arm into a crossbow, I would use it to shoot a bird and roast it for supper. If it turned my body into a wheel and my spirit into a horse, I would ride on them—why would I need another carriage?”

“To receive something is a matter of the moment; to lose it is also something to follow naturally. Be at peace with the seasons and follow transformation, and neither sorrow nor joy can enter the heart. This is what the ancients called ‘release by hanging’—freedom from entanglement. Those who cannot free themselves are caught up in external things. External things cannot overcome the Dao of Heaven; it has always been so. What, then, is there for me to hate?”

Soon, Zilai fell ill. His breath grew faint, and he seemed close to death. His wife and children gathered around him, weeping. Zili went to visit and scolded them: “Move away. Don’t hinder him from following the changes.” Leaning against the door, he said to Zilai, “How great is the transforming power! What will it turn you into next, and where will it take you? Will it make you into a rat’s liver, or a worm’s arm?”

Zilai said, “Parents arrange things for their children, whether east, west, north, or south, and the children can only obey. Yin and Yang—the forces between Heaven and Earth that bring about the birth, death, and transformation of all things—treat people even more strictly than parents treat their children. They are bringing me close to death. If I refused to obey, I would be resisting them. What fault would that be of theirs? The Earth gave me a body, made me toil while I was alive, gave me ease in old age, and will give me rest after death. So if it treats my life well, it will treat my death well too.

“Now suppose a great metalworker were casting metal. If the metal leapt up and said, ‘I insist on becoming a Moye sword!’ the metalworker would surely regard it as ill-omened metal. I happened to receive a human form. If I were now to say, ‘I want only to be human, only to be human,’ the transforming power would surely regard me as an ill-omened person. Now I take Heaven and Earth as a great furnace and the transforming power as a great metalworker. Where could I go that would not be welcome?”

Zilai fell asleep peacefully and woke peacefully.

Zisanghu, Meng Zifan, and Ziqin Zhang became friends. They said, “Who can be friends with others without being bound by friendship, help one another without deliberately doing anything? Who can climb into the sky and wander among the clouds, roam freely through the boundless expanse, forget life and death, and remain untouched by any end?” Two of them looked at each other and smiled, their hearts in accord, and became friends.

Some time later, Zisanghu died, before he had been buried. When Confucius heard of it, he sent Zigong to help attend to the funeral. Zigong found two men, one weaving a melody and the other playing a zither, singing in response to each other: “Ah, Sanghu! Ah, Sanghu! You have returned to your true nature, while we remain among the living.” Zigong stepped forward and asked, “May I ask whether it accords with the rites to sing while keeping watch over the body?” The two looked at each other and laughed. “How could someone like you understand the true meaning of ritual?”

When Zigong returned, he told Confucius what had happened. “Who exactly was that man?” he asked. “He had never studied the rites, yet treated his body as though it meant nothing. Standing beside the dead man, he sang, and his expression did not change. There is simply no way to describe him by ordinary standards. Who was he?”

Confucius said, “He stands beyond worldly conventions, while I live within them. The inner and outer follow different paths. Yet I sent you to offer condolences to him; my understanding was shallow. He has joined himself to the Creator and roams within the single Qi of Heaven and Earth. To him, birth is like a needless growth on the body, and death like that growth bursting and falling away. In that case, how could he know whether death or life comes first? He rests in the common ground of all things, entrusting himself to their changing forms. He forgets the differences between bodily organs such as liver and gall, and does not cling to the senses of ear and eye. Life and death turn in a cycle, and he sees no beginning or end. He wanders freely beyond the dust and grime of worldly life, at ease in the realm of Wuwei (non-action). How could he be bound by worldly rites and perform them for others to see?”

Zigong said, “Then, Master, which path do you follow?” Confucius replied, “It is as though Heaven has punished me and forced me to remain among people. Even so, I will walk this path with you.”

Zigong said, “May I ask what this path is like?” Confucius said, “Fish live by means of water; people live by means of the Dao (the Way). Fish live in water, so people dig ponds and raise them there, giving them water to rely on. When people live by the Dao, they need not act deliberately; their lives settle naturally. Thus fish in rivers and lakes forget one another, and people in the Dao forget one another.”

Zigong said, “May I ask what a ‘different one’—someone unlike ordinary people—is?” Confucius said, “A different one appears unlike others to people, yet keeps company with the Way of Heaven. Thus one who accords with the Way of Heaven may look like a petty person to the world, while someone the world regards as a gentleman may look like a petty person from Heaven’s perspective.”

Yan Hui asked Zhongni, “When Mengsun Cai’s mother died, he wept without tears. His heart was not grieving, and he showed no sorrow during the mourning period.”

“These three things were absent”—that is, those three signs were missing—yet through his good conduct he made the people of Lu grieve. Can someone truly have a fine reputation without the corresponding virtue in practice? Yan Hui found this puzzling.

Confucius said, “Mengsun has already reached this point; we may say he is close to understanding how things work. He wants to see things simply, yet still cannot stop making distinctions altogether. But he has simplified them to some extent. Mengsun does not know where life comes from or where death goes. He does not know whether life comes first or later. He follows change as he becomes one of the myriad things, waiting for changes he does not understand to continue unfolding. Since things are changing now, how can we know they will not change again? And if they are not changing now, how can we know they changed before? You and I, I suspect, are like people who have not yet awakened from a dream.

“The human form may undergo startling changes, but the mind need not be harmed by them. The body is like a temporary dwelling; the passing of the form does not mean that one’s nature and feelings are cut off as well. Mengsun simply woke up a little earlier. When others weep, he weeps with them, going along with the circumstances at hand. Besides, when we are together, each of us takes the other to be ‘me.’ How can we know what this ‘me’ I speak of really is?

“You dream that you become a crow and fly high into the sky; then you dream that you become a fish and sink into the depths. So is the person speaking now awake, or still dreaming? When you truly follow the circumstances, you need not wait until you laugh. Once laughter comes, it is already too late for that unforced ease. Rest calmly in the changes, and you can enter a realm of emptiness and undivided wholeness.”

Yi’er Zhi went to see Xu You. Xu You asked, “What teachings did Yao give you?” Yi’er Zhi said, “Yao told me that I must put benevolence and righteousness into practice myself, and clearly distinguish right from wrong.”

Xu You said, “Then what have you come here for? Alas, Yao has marked you with benevolence and righteousness, and cut you with right and wrong. How can you still roam along that free, unrestrained, ever-changing Way?”

Yi’er Zhi said, “Even so, I still hope to walk along its edges.”

Xu You said, “You cannot. A blind person cannot appreciate the beauty of brows and features, and someone whose eyes are sightless cannot see the colors of blue, yellow, and the like.”

A blind person cannot appreciate the beauty of brows, eyes, and facial features; nor can someone who cannot see behold the scene of colors such as blue and yellow intermingling. Yi’erzi said, “Wuzhuang lost his beauty, Juliang lost his strength, and the Yellow Emperor lost his wisdom. All of these seem like changes wrought between the fire and the hammer. Who knows whether the Creator—the power that creates and brings all things into being—might not join my severed nose and mend my amputated feet, restoring me to wholeness so that I could follow you and learn?”

Xu You said, “Ah, that is hard to say. Let me tell you, roughly, about my teacher. My teacher, my teacher! He breaks apart the myriad things, yet does not regard this as cruelty; his kindness extends through all ages, yet he does not regard this as benevolence. He has existed since high antiquity, yet does not regard himself as old. He covers and supports Heaven and Earth, and shapes the forms of the myriad things, yet does not regard himself as skilled. This is the realm in which he roams.”

Yan Hui said, “I have made progress.” Confucius asked, “What do you mean?” Yan Hui replied, “I have forgotten benevolence and righteousness.” Confucius said, “That is good, but not enough.” Some days later, Yan Hui came to see Confucius again and said, “I have made progress.” Confucius asked, “What do you mean?” Yan Hui replied, “I have forgotten ritual and music.” Confucius said, “That is good, but not enough.” Some days later, Yan Hui came again and said, “I have made progress.” Confucius asked, “What do you mean?” Yan Hui replied, “I have attained sitting in forgetfulness.” Confucius asked in surprise, “What does sitting in forgetfulness mean?” Yan Hui said, “I forget the sensations of every part of my body, set aside the keen perceptions of my ears and eyes, leave my physical form behind, and let go of discriminating thought. I become one with the Great Dao; this is called sitting in forgetfulness.” Confucius said, “When you become one with the Great Dao, you have no preferences; when you follow change, you do not cling to any fixed state. You have indeed attained the realm of the sage. I would like to follow behind you and learn.”

Ziyu and Zisang were friends. It rained continuously for ten days, and Ziyu said, “Zisang must have fallen ill.” So he wrapped up some food and took it to him. When he reached Zisang’s door, he heard him sounding as if he were weeping and singing, plucking his zither as he sang, “Is it my parents? Is it Heaven? Is it other people?” His voice was subdued, and he sang in broken phrases to the rhythm. Ziyu went inside and asked, “Why are you singing like that?” Zisang said, “I’m wondering what has brought me to this plight, but no matter how I search, I cannot find the answer. Could my parents want me to be poor? Heaven covers all things without partiality, and Earth supports all things without partiality. Could Heaven and Earth single me out for poverty? I try to find the cause of all this, but I cannot.”

Even if one has pursued the matter this far and reached the limit, one can only say that it was simply fate.

Nie Que sought instruction from Wang Ni, asking him four times. Each time, Wang Ni answered that he did not know. Nie Que was so delighted that he jumped for joy. Later, he told the story to Pu Yi Zi. Pu Yi Zi said, “Only now do you understand this? You Yu Shi, the legendary Shun, was inferior to Tai Shi, a ruler said to have lived in a more ancient age. You Yu Shi kept benevolence in his heart and used it to win people over. Though he did win their hearts, he did not rise above worldly judgments of right and wrong. Tai Shi, by contrast, was calm and at ease, his spirit untroubled. He regarded himself as a horse and as an ox, unbound by fixed identities or distinctions, and followed the unfolding changes of the Great Dao. This is called ‘sitting in forgetfulness’: sitting quietly and forgetting the body and the mind that makes distinctions.”

Confucius said, “Be at one with all things, and you will show no preference. Follow change, and you will cling to nothing as permanent. Are you truly a worthy person? I would like to follow behind you and learn.”

Zi Yu and Zi Sang were friends. It rained for ten days straight, and Zi Yu thought Zi Sang must have fallen ill, so he wrapped up some food and took it to him. When he arrived at Zi Sang’s home, he heard him sounding as if he were weeping and singing at once. Playing the zither, Zi Sang sang, “Is it my father? Is it my mother? Is it Heaven? Is it a person?” His voice seemed strained beyond endurance, and the verses came tumbling from his mouth.

Zi Yu went inside and asked, “Why are you singing so sorrowfully?” Zi Sang replied, “I have tried to discover what has brought me to such hardship, but I cannot find the answer. Would my parents really want me to be poor? Heaven has no private interests; it does not shelter only some people. Earth has no private interests; it does not support only some people. Would Heaven and Earth really want me to be poor? I cannot find any ruler responsible for all this. Yet I have reached such an extreme. Perhaps this is simply my fate.”

Nie Que sought instruction from Wang Ni, asking him four times. Each time, Wang Ni said he did not know. Nie Que was so delighted that he jumped for joy, and later told Pu Yi Zi. Pu Yi Zi said, “Only now do you understand? You Yu Shi was inferior to Tai Shi. Tai Shi was at ease in spirit and regarded himself as a horse and as an ox. His understanding was sincere and trustworthy, and his De was utterly pure, yet he never clung to the artificial standards imposed by the world.”

Shoulder Wu visited Madman Jie Yu. Jie Yu asked, “What did Ri Zhong Shi tell you?” Shoulder Wu replied, “He told me that if a ruler takes himself as the measure and establishes rules, laws, and principles of right conduct, who would dare not obey and be transformed by his influence?”

Kuang Jieyu said, “This goes against De (Virtue/Power). Governing the world in this way is like trying to cross the sea on foot, digging a channel through a river, or making a tiny insect carry a mountain. Does a sage govern the world by controlling external things? First set yourself right, then act: this is simply doing well what lies within your power. Birds fly high to avoid nets and arrows; moles burrow deep beneath the sacred hill to escape the danger of digging. If even they know how to avoid harm, how much more should people?”

Tiangen was traveling in Yinyang when he came to the banks of the Liao River and happened upon a nameless man. He asked, “May I ask how to govern the world?” The nameless man replied, “Go away! You are so shallow—how can you ask such an untimely question? I am about to wander with the Creator. When I grow weary, I ride the misty, formless Qi (vital energy) and fly beyond the four quarters of heaven and earth, traveling through the realm of nothingness and dwelling in the boundless wilderness. Why bring the affairs of governing the world to disturb my mind?” Tiangen pressed him further. The nameless man said, “Let the spirit roam in stillness and ease, let the breath accord with emptiness and quiet, and follow the natural transformations of all things without inserting private intentions. Then the world can be at peace.”

Yang Juzi paid a visit to Lao Dan and said, “There is a person who acts swiftly and is strong-willed, who sees things clearly and notices the smallest details, and who studies the Dao (the Way) without ever slackening. Could such a person be compared with an enlightened ruler?” Lao Dan replied, “In the eyes of a sage, such a person is merely driven by affairs and bound by skills, his body worn out and his spirit exhausted. Besides, tigers and leopards are hunted for their beautiful coats, monkeys are captured for their agility, and hounds are put to work for their hunting skill. Even if this person is intelligent, sharp-eyed, and tireless in study, how could he compare with an enlightened ruler?”

With a respectful expression, Yang Juzi asked, “May I ask how an enlightened ruler governs?” Lao Dan said, “The enlightened ruler’s accomplishments extend throughout the world, yet seem not to come from him. His kindness nurtures all things, yet the people do not depend on him. He does not deliberately make his name known; all things happily find their own fulfillment.”

To stand grounded in a realm beyond knowing, and roam freely amid what has neither form nor trace.

In the state of Zheng there was a spirit medium named Jixian. He could foresee a person’s death or survival, good or ill fortune, and the length of their life. He could also determine the year, month, and day when his predictions would come true, as though he were a spirit. When the people of Zheng saw him, they dropped whatever they were doing and hurried away. Liezi, however, was fascinated by him. He went back and told Huchu, “I thought your Dao had reached its highest point, sir. I never imagined there could be a realm beyond it.”

Huchu said, “I have shown you only the outward appearances of the Dao; I have not yet passed on its true substance. And you already think you have attained the Dao? All things seem to display their own strength, yet none truly claim to be strong. So what fixed traces could there be for divination to read? If you reveal your traces and contend with the world, others will naturally be able to see through your appearance. Bring Jixian here. I’ll show myself to him.”

The next day, Liezi brought Jixian to meet Huchu. Afterward, Jixian said to Liezi, “Alas, your teacher is close to death. He will not live much longer. I saw a strange sign, like damp ashes.” Liezi went inside. Weeping until his tears soaked his lapels, he told Huchu what Jixian had said.

Huchu said, “Just now, what I showed him was ‘Earth’s Pattern’—the still, unmoving state of the earth. My breath seemed weak and without fluctuation. He probably saw signs of my Virtue hidden away. Bring him again.”

On the third day, Jixian saw Huchu once more. Afterward, he said, “Fortunately, your teacher met me. His illness has already improved; he is full of life. I saw signs of life being concealed, on the verge of transformation.” Liezi went inside and told Huchu.

Huchu said, “Just now, what I showed him was ‘Heaven and Earth’s Open Expanse,’ the natural transformations unfolding between heaven and earth. Neither reputation nor outward appearance can enter it. Life stirs from the heels. He probably saw the life force in me that is skilled at transformation. Bring him again.”

On the fourth day, Jixian saw Huchu once more. Afterward, he said, “Your teacher’s vital energy keeps changing. I can’t see through it. Once it settles, I’ll read his features for you.” Liezi went inside and told Huchu.

When Liezi went in, he told the Pot Master what had just happened. The Pot Master said, “Just now I showed him the Great Equilibrium, a state of utter stillness and harmony, so he could not grasp me. Perhaps he saw one aspect of the balance in the movement of my Qi.”

A person’s expression can seem deep, like an abyss. Still water can seem deep, like an abyss. Flowing water can also seem deep, like an abyss. There are nine kinds of abyss; here, three are mentioned. Bring him to see me once more.

The next day, Liezi brought the man to see the Pot Master again. Before he had even found his footing, the man panicked and fled. The Pot Master said, “Hurry after him.” Liezi could not catch up. When he returned, he reported, “He has vanished. He has run far away, and I could not catch him.”

The Pot Master said, “Just now I changed my approach and let him see that I had never left my original state. I responded to change with stillness and emptiness, swaying with it like water plants in the current, so he could not make out what I was. I also changed with the current, following its course. That is why he fled.”

From then on, Liezi felt that he had not truly learned anything before. He went home and stayed indoors for three years. He cooked over the fire for his wife and fed the pigs as though he were serving guests. He showed no partiality or preference in dealing with things. He let his outward adornments return to simplicity and rested securely within his physical form. Amid ceaseless change, he held fast to this until the end of his life.

Do not serve as a figurehead for fame or a storehouse for schemes. Do not shoulder the burdens of affairs or regard yourself as the master of wisdom. Let body and mind merge with endless change, and roam in a realm without trace. Fulfill what Heaven has bestowed without thinking you have gained anything; this is simply stillness and emptiness. The Perfect Person’s mind is like a mirror: it does not go out to welcome things, nor does it deliberately turn them away. Things arrive, and it reflects them as they are; when they pass, it keeps nothing. Thus it can respond to all things without being harmed.

The ruler of the South Sea was called Shu, the ruler of the North Sea was called Hu, and the ruler of the Center was called Hundun. Shu and Hu often met in Hundun’s domain, and Hundun treated them well. Shu and Hu discussed how to repay his kindness. “Everyone has seven openings for seeing, hearing, eating, and breathing,” they said, “but he alone has none. Let us try to bore them for him.” Each day they bored one opening. On the seventh day, Hundun died.

Toes joined together and an extra finger on the hand are shapes one is born with, yet they go beyond the body’s ordinary form. Flesh growths and warts on the body are likewise excesses of physical form. Treating benevolence and righteousness as a set of many rules to be applied at every turn is like forcing them into people’s hearts; this is not the natural, authentic state of morality.

Joined toes are a useless piece of flesh that has grown together; a forked finger is an extra, useless finger. When people’s hearts are constrained by too many rules of benevolence and righteousness, their conduct departs from their nature. Excessive use of cleverness, too, becomes a burden.

Excessive eyesight can unsettle the five colors and lead one to become absorbed in elaborate patterns. Is this not like Li Zhu, the legendary man of extraordinary vision? Excessive hearing can unsettle the five tones and lead one to become absorbed in the six pitch standards of ancient music, pursuing the sounds of bells, stone chimes, silk strings, and bamboo flutes, as well as pitches such as Huangzhong and Dalu. Is this not like Shi Kuang, the musician of the Spring and Autumn period famed for discerning sounds? By excessively extolling benevolence and righteousness, people elevate moral conduct and stifle their nature, seeking fame and stirring the world to follow standards that are difficult to meet. Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu, both renowned for their virtue, were examples of this. Excessive pursuit of debate leads people to become absorbed in sophistries about the hard and white, sameness and difference, exhausting their minds to praise useless words. Yang Zhu and Mo Di were examples of this.

All these add branches and complications beyond one’s nature; they are not the most proper Dao in the world. The state that truly accords with what is natural is one in which the innate feelings and nature of life are not lost. Toes joined from birth are not an excess, and fingers apart from one another are not a forked growth. What is long is not extra, and what is short is not deficient. Thus, when the channels are naturally short, forcing them to lengthen brings distress; when a crane’s legs are naturally long, forcing them to be cut short brings sorrow. What is naturally long should not be cut short, and what is naturally short should not be lengthened. Then there is no such distress. Are benevolence and righteousness not also part of human nature? Why, then, do those who proclaim benevolence and righteousness suffer so much distress? People born with joined toes weep when someone insists on separating them; those born with an extra finger on the hand cry when someone insists on cutting it off.

Some people calculate a surplus, while others come up short, yet they worry alike. Today, those who uphold benevolence and righteousness look anxiously upon the troubles of the world. Those who do not uphold them, however, indulge their natural impulses and wear down their lives, intent only on grasping at wealth and status. Does the Way of benevolence and righteousness truly accord with human nature? Why has the world become so turbulent since the Three Dynasties of Xia, Shang, and Zhou?

To correct things with a carpenter’s square, an ink line, and a compass is to diminish their nature. To fasten them with ropes, glue, and lacquer is to injure their inherent De. To impose ritual and music and proclaim benevolence and righteousness in order to pacify people’s hearts is likewise to make them lose their original state. All things in the world have their own natural state: what is crooked needs no square, what is straight needs no ink line, what is round needs no compass, and what is square needs no carpenter’s square. Things adhere to one another without glue or lacquer, and connect without being bound by ropes.

Thus all things in the world grow naturally, without knowing why they grow; they receive the vitality they share, without knowing how they receive it. The natural Dao has been the same in ancient and present times, and should not be damaged. So why must benevolence and righteousness cling to De like glue and ropes? They only confuse the world. Small confusion leads people astray; great confusion changes their nature. Why do I say this? Ever since Shun of Yu, a legendary ancient ruler, promoted benevolence and righteousness and threw the world into disorder, everyone has been rushing about in pursuit of them. Is this not using benevolence and righteousness to change human nature?

Consider this: since the Three Dynasties of Xia, Shang, and Zhou, everyone in the world has traded their nature for something external. Common people sacrifice themselves for profit; scholars sacrifice themselves for fame; high officials sacrifice themselves for their families; and sages sacrifice themselves for the world. Their undertakings differ, as do their reputations and titles, but they are alike in damaging their nature and paying for it with their own lives.

Zang and Gu were herding sheep together, but both lost theirs. When asked what Zang had been doing, he said he had been holding a book and reading. When asked what Gu had been doing, he said he had been playing bosai, an ancient game. The two had been doing different things, but in both cases the sheep were lost.

Boyi died beneath Mount Shouyang for the sake of reputation; Robber Zhi died atop Mount Shuling for the sake of profit. The reasons they faced death were different, but both harmed their lives and injured their nature. Why must we say that Boyi was right and Robber Zhi wrong?

Everyone in the world gives themselves up for something. Those who sacrifice themselves for benevolence and righteousness are called gentlemen by convention; those who sacrifice themselves for wealth and possessions are called petty people. Their acts of giving up their lives are the same, yet convention calls one a gentleman and the other a petty person. If we judge by the harm done to life and the injury done to nature, Robber Zhi and Boyi are no different. How, then, can this be grounds for distinguishing gentlemen from petty people?

To confine one’s nature to benevolence and righteousness—even with the understanding of Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu—is not what I call goodness. To confine one’s nature to flavors—even with Yu’er’s refined sense of taste—is not what I call goodness. To confine one’s nature to the five tones—even with Shi Kuang’s keen hearing—is not what I call sharp hearing. To confine one’s nature to the five colors—even with Li Zhu’s keen sight—is not what I call clear perception.

The goodness I speak of does not mean following benevolence and righteousness; it means that De itself is fitting. The goodness I speak of means allowing one’s inborn nature and the true conditions of one’s life to unfold as they are. The sharp hearing I speak of does not mean hearing external things clearly, but being able to hear oneself. Clear perception does not mean seeing external things clearly, but being able to know oneself.

People do not first understand themselves, yet go on to understand others; they do not first obtain what they themselves need, yet go on to obtain what others possess. They end up receiving only what others receive, without gaining what is truly their own. They follow the comforts of others without enjoying their own. To follow another’s comfort while neglecting one’s own is to stray from the right path, whether one is Zhi the Bandit or Bo Yi. I feel ashamed before the Dao and De, so I dare not promote the practice of benevolence and righteousness above, nor indulge in depraved conduct below.

The True Classic of the Southern Florescence, Scroll Two, Outer Chapters, “Horses’ Hooves,” Chapter Nine

A horse’s hooves can tread across frost and snow, and its coat can withstand wind and cold. It eats grass and drinks water, lifts its hooves and leaps about: this is the nature of a horse. As for lofty terraces and deep mansions, they are of no use to horses.

Then Bole appeared and said, “I am skilled at training horses.” He cauterized their hooves, trimmed their coats, carved and shaped them, then bound them with ropes, fitted them with bridles and reins, and kept them in pens. As a result, two or three out of every ten horses died. Next, he starved them and left them thirsty, drove them to run and trained them in formation, making them keep an orderly pace. They were troubled at the front by the ornaments and restraints, and threatened from behind by the whip. In the end, more than half the horses died.

The potter says, “I am skilled at making pottery: I make round things to fit a compass and square things to fit a carpenter’s square.” The carpenter says, “I am skilled at working wood: I shape curves to fit a hook gauge and straight lines to fit an inkline.” But surely clay and wood were not brought into being in order to conform to compasses, squares, hook gauges, and inklines. For generations, people have praised Bole for his skill at managing horses, and potters and carpenters for their skill at working clay and wood. This is precisely the error made by those who govern the world. I believe that a good ruler of the world should not act this way.

The people have their constant nature: they weave cloth and wear it, they farm and eat. This is called sharing the same true nature. People are simple and alike, and do not form factions for private gain. This state is called “Heavenly Freedom”—that is, letting things follow their natural course. In the age of perfect De, people moved with composure and looked upon the world with unclouded simplicity. In those days, there were no paths or tunnels in the mountains, and no boats or bridges across the waters. All things grew and flourished, joined together and connected; birds and beasts gathered in flocks, and plants and trees grew luxuriantly. People could therefore roam with livestock tethered to them, or climb up to the nests of magpies and crows.

In the age when De was at its purest, people lived alongside animals and shared kinship with all things. How could anyone distinguish the noble from the base? Everyone lived in a state of undivided ignorance, and De had not scattered. No one had desires; this was called simplicity. When simplicity was preserved, the people’s nature could unfold of its own accord.

Later, the sages formulated benevolence and promoted righteousness, and only then did the world begin to grow confused. They elaborated music and subdivided ritual, and the world began to divide. If the original wholeness of the uncarved block had not been damaged, who would have made the sacrificial zun vessel? If white jade had not been cut and carved, who would have made the gui and zhang ritual jades? If De had not been discarded, why would anyone have needed to promote benevolence and righteousness? If human nature had not been scattered, why would ritual and music have been needed to regulate it? If the five colors had not been mixed together, who would have created elaborate decoration? If the five notes had not been mixed together, who would have needed to harmonize the six pitch standards?

Carving the wholeness of the uncarved block into implements is the craftsperson’s fault; destroying De in order to promote benevolence and righteousness is the sage’s fault.

Horses live on land, eating grass and drinking water. When pleased, they rub their necks together; when angry, they turn away from one another and kick. That is all the horse’s nature knows. Later, people fitted horses with crossbars and yokes and restrained them with moon-shaped forehead ornaments. The horses then learned to rear up and struggle, batter the yokes, and leap about in fright. They even learned to spit out their bits and slip their reins. The horses grew cunning and could even escape control. This was Bole’s fault—the fault of the man famed for judging horses.

In the age of the legendary ruler Hexu, people lived without knowing what they were doing, and traveled without knowing where they were going. They kept food in their mouths, played happily, patted their bellies, and wandered at ease. Life simply went no further than that. Later, the sages used ritual and music to correct people’s conduct throughout the world, and held benevolence and righteousness high to soothe their hearts. Only then did people begin to chase fame and profit, prize cleverness, and compete to seize gain without end. This, too, was the sages’ fault.

To guard against thieves who steal chests, pick pockets, and pry open cabinets, you must bind the chests and cabinets tightly, lock them securely, and reinforce the storerooms. This is what worldly people call a clever solution. But when a great thief comes, he carries off the cabinets, hoists the chests onto his back, and slings the bags over his shoulder before running away, afraid only that the knots and locks might not be secure enough. In that case, wasn’t the so-called clever solution actually helping the great thief amass his wealth?

So let us consider this: among those whom the world calls clever, who is not helping great thieves amass their wealth? And among those called sages, who is not guarding that wealth for them? How do we know this is so? In the past, in the state of Qi, neighboring towns could see one another, and the crowing of roosters and barking of dogs could be heard across them. Fishing nets stretched everywhere, and farmers moved back and forth at their work; the territory extended for more than three thousand li in every direction. Within the state stood ancestral temples and altars to the soil and grain spirits, where ancestors and the gods of land and harvest were worshipped. The towns and villages were governed by institutions modeled on the sages’ systems. What among these was not so modeled?

Yet one day Tian Chengzi, a powerful minister of Qi during the Spring and Autumn period, killed the ruler of Qi and seized the state. Did he steal only the state? He also took for himself the laws and wisdom laid down by the sages. Although Tian Chengzi bore the name of a thief, in reality he enjoyed a position as secure as that of Yao and Shun. Small states did not dare criticize him, and great states did not dare attack him. Generation after generation, the Tian family held Qi. Is this not an example of stealing the state of Qi and then using the sages’ laws to protect his status as a thief?

Let us consider this again: among those whom the world calls the most brilliant, who is not helping great thieves amass their wealth? And among those called the most exalted sages, who is not guarding that wealth for them? How do we know this is so? Long Feng was beheaded, Bi Gan was disemboweled, Chang Hong was killed, and Wu Zixu, a minister of Wu during the Spring and Autumn period, was thrown into the river. In the end, none of these four worthy men escaped death.

So the followers of Robber Zhi asked him, “Is there a code of conduct even for thieves?”

Zhi, the legendary great thief, said, “Where could there be a place without the Dao? Guessing what is hidden inside a house is cleverness; entering first is courage; leaving last is loyalty; judging whether a deed can be done is wisdom; dividing the spoils fairly is benevolence and righteousness. Without these five virtues, no one could become a great thief. There has never been such a thing in all under heaven.

“From this we can see that good people cannot establish themselves without the way of the sages, and great thieves cannot succeed without it either. Good people are few, while those who are not good are many. So the sages bring little benefit to the world and cause much harm. It is said that when the lips are gone, the teeth grow cold; because Lu brewed its wine too weak, a distant state was besieged. When sages appear, great thieves rise along with them. Only when sages are cast aside and thieves left unchecked can the world begin to settle.

“When rivers dry up, streams and valleys run empty; when hills are leveled, deep ravines fill in. When the sages die, great thieves will no longer rise, and the world will be peaceful. If the sages do not die, great thieves will never cease. Even honoring the sages to govern the world only gives thieves greater opportunities for gain.

“People make measuring vessels to measure quantities, and thieves steal the vessels along with what they measure. They make scales and weights to weigh things, and thieves steal the scales and weights too. They make tallies and seals to verify authenticity, and thieves steal those as well. They promote benevolence and righteousness to correct the ways of the age, and thieves simply steal benevolence and righteousness too. How do we know this is so? Someone who steals a belt hook is put to death, while someone who seizes a state becomes a lord. And at the lords’ courts, benevolence and righteousness are celebrated. Is this not a case of stealing benevolence, righteousness, and the sages’ wisdom?

“Thus, those who follow great thieves, support lords, and steal along with them the benefits brought by benevolence and righteousness, measuring vessels, scales and weights, tallies and seals cannot be encouraged even by rewards of grand carriages and fine robes. Nor can they be stopped by the threat of axe and executioner’s blade. Such measures only bring them greater profits.”