《南华真经》Vol. 3

After the disciple left, Bianzi went inside, sat down, raised his head toward the sky, and sighed. The disciple asked, “Why are you sighing, Master?” Bianzi said, “Xiu came to see me just now. He can still get along with ordinary people, and that is fortunate in its own way. How could I find time to resent Heaven? Go on.”

After the disciple left, Bianzi went inside again, sat down, raised his head toward the sky, and sighed. The disciple asked, “Why are you sighing, Master?” Bianzi said, “Xiu came to see me just now. I spoke to him about the character of the Perfected Person, whose De (Virtue/Power) has reached the highest level. I fear it frightened him and left him confused.”

The disciple said, “Surely that cannot be right. Was Sunzi correct and you mistaken? If you were mistaken, then hearing the truth would naturally not have confused anyone. But if Sunzi was mistaken and you were right, then Xiu came to you already confused. What is there to blame him for?”

Bianzi said, “That is not so. Long ago, a bird alighted outside the walls of the state of Lu. The ruler of Lu was very fond of it, so he prepared an abundant feast of sacrificial offerings for it and had the ancient music ‘Nine Shao’ played for its pleasure. The bird was overcome with sorrow and grief; its eyes grew blurred and dizzy, and it dared not eat or drink. This was to raise a bird as one would raise a person. To care for a bird according to its own nature, one should let it nest in a deep forest, roam over lakes and rivers, feed it what suits it, and let it move freely across the open ground. Xiu is a man of limited understanding and little learning, yet I spoke to him about the character of the Perfected Person. It was like carrying a palace in a carriage to welcome him, then entertaining him with bells and drums. How could he fail to be alarmed?”

The True Scripture of the Southern Florescence, Scroll Four, Outer Chapter “Mountain Trees,” Chapter Twenty: Zhuangzi was walking in the mountains when he saw a large tree with luxuriant branches and leaves. A woodcutter stopped beside it but did not cut it down. Zhuangzi asked why, and the woodcutter replied, “It has no use.” Zhuangzi said, “It is precisely because this tree is useless that it can enjoy its full natural lifespan.”

After leaving the mountains, Zhuangzi stayed at the home of an old friend. His friend was delighted and told Jianzi to kill a goose and cook it.

Confucius’s disciple Jianzi asked, “One goose can honk, while another cannot. Which one should the owner kill?” The owner replied, “Kill the one that cannot honk.”

The next day, the disciple asked Zhuangzi, “Yesterday, the tree in the mountains survived to the end of its natural life because it was useless. Today, the goose in the owner’s house was killed because it was useless. Master, which side will you take: usefulness or uselessness?”

Zhuangzi smiled and said, “I will take my place between usefulness and uselessness. Yet these two may seem close, while in truth neither can free a person from entanglement. It is different when one freely roams along the path of Dao and De: seeking no praise and inviting no blame; appearing like a dragon and hiding like a snake, changing with the times and clinging to no single way of acting. Sometimes rising, sometimes descending, taking harmony as one’s measure, and roaming among the origins of all things, one lives alongside them without being ruled by external things. How, then, could one become entangled? This was the way followed by Shennong and the Yellow Emperor.

The ordinary patterns of things in the world and the conventions of human relationships are different. What comes together must eventually part; what is accomplished will eventually be undone. Those with sharp edges are worn down; those in high positions are criticized. Anyone who acts is bound to suffer harm. The worthy are plotted against, while the unworthy are bullied. So how can one insist on attaining a certain position and keeping it forever? How sad! Disciples, remember: only by returning to the realm of Dao and De can one live in this way.”

When Shi Nan Yiliao visited the Marquis of Lu, he saw that the marquis looked troubled and asked, “Why are you troubled?” The marquis replied, “I have studied the Way of the former kings and carried on the work of my ancestors. I revere the spirits and honor the worthy, and I put these teachings into practice myself without ever slackening. Yet I still cannot escape calamity. That is why I am troubled.”

Shi Nan said, “The way you are trying to ward off calamity does not reach far enough. The thick-furred fox and the patterned leopard live in mountain forests and hide in rocky caves. They are cautious and quiet. They go out at night and lie hidden by day, always on their guard. Even when hungry, thirsty, and worn down, they still search carefully for food along the rivers and lakes, remaining calm and composed. Yet they cannot escape the calamities of nets and traps. What have they done wrong? Their fur alone has brought disaster upon them.

“Is the state of Lu not like their fur? It may seem secure and cautious, and it may be watchful and on its guard, yet it cannot escape calamities like nets and traps. Is the state of Lu not your ‘fur’? I hope you will give up your outward status and rank, let go of the desires in your heart, and live somewhere free of worldly strife.

“In the south of Yue there is a place called the Land of Jiande. Its people are simple and genuine, with little self-interest and few desires. They know how to work, but do not scheme to store up wealth. They give to others without expecting anything in return. They do not understand the deliberate pursuit of what is called righteousness, nor do they cling to ritual rules. They simply follow their nature, in accord with the great Dao. They are joyful in life and laid to rest in peace after death. I hope you will leave Lu, set aside worldly customs, and go along with the Dao.”

The Marquis of Lu asked, “The journey there is long and difficult, with rivers and mountains in the way. I have neither boat nor carriage. What can I do?”

Shi Nan said, “Do not let your body be confined to sitting still, and do not remain in one fixed place. Take this freedom as your carriage.”

The marquis asked again, “The place is remote and uninhabited. Who could accompany me? And I have no provisions. How could I get there?”

Shi Nan replied with a question: “You place too much importance on travel funds. If you have neither boat nor carriage, what does it matter?”

Shi Nan said, “Do not let your body be confined to sitting still, and do not remain in one fixed place. Take this freedom as your carriage.”

The marquis asked again, “The place is remote and uninhabited. Who could accompany me?”

“I have no grain or food. How can I get there?” said Shi’nan Zi. “Spend less and desire less, and you can be content even without grain. You might cross the Yangtze and sail out onto the sea. Look into the distance: you cannot see the shore. The farther you go, the less you know where it ends. Those who escorted you will all have returned from the shore; from here, you begin your journey into the far distance.

“Those who possess things are burdened by them; those whom others regard as possessors are troubled by that regard. Yao neither possessed others nor let others think he possessed them. I would relieve you of burdens and dispel your worries, so that you may wander alone with the Dao through a boundless realm.

“When two boats pass side by side across a river, and an empty boat crashes into yours, even a narrow-minded person will not grow angry. But if someone is aboard, you will shout at them to steer clear. If they do not respond the first time, or the second, by the third you will be cursing them. A moment ago you were not angry, but now you are: before, the boat was empty; now someone is aboard. If a person can make their heart-mind empty and clear, and respond to the world as it unfolds, who could harm them?”

Beigong She collected funds on behalf of Duke Ling of Wei to cast a bell. He built a high platform outside the city gate, and after three months, the bell’s mold had been made underground. Prince Qingji saw it and asked, “What method did you use?” Beigong She replied, “I simply gave the work my full attention and did not dare devise any clever method. I have heard that after carving and polishing, one must return to what is plain. The mind should be spacious, as though it knows nothing, and at ease, until even doubts fall silent. Let all things gather and disperse, come and go without restraint: welcome what arrives and do not hold on to what departs. Follow the force of things and move with their turns and changes, letting them unfold to their end. So, though I collected funds morning and evening, the people did not lose even the slightest amount. How much more so when acting in accord with the Great Way?”

Confucius was trapped between the states of Chen and Cai and went seven days without lighting a fire to cook. Taigong Ren came to console him and asked, “Are you about to die?” Confucius replied, “Yes.” “Do you fear death?” Confucius said, “Yes.”

Taigong Ren said, “You once spoke of ways to avoid the calamities that lead to death. In the Eastern Sea there is a bird called the Yidai. It moves about in a languid, unhurried way, as if it had no skill. In flight, it always follows behind the other birds; when it settles, it crowds among them. It does not dare to take the lead when moving forward, nor to lag behind when retreating. It does not dare to taste food first, but always waits until the other birds have eaten before taking what is left. Thus it is not shunned by the flock, and outsiders never harm it, so it can avoid calamity.

“Straight trees are the first to be felled, and sweet wells are the first to be drained. Perhaps your conspicuous intelligence has startled the ignorant, and your self-cultivation has exposed the filth of others. You shine like someone walking with the sun and moon held aloft; that is why you cannot escape disaster.

“I once heard someone whose cultivation had reached its highest perfection say: Those who boast of themselves have no merit; those who accomplish great deeds invite resentment, and those who attain fame are liable to be brought low. Who can set aside achievement and fame and return to the ranks of ordinary people? The Dao moves through the world without making a show of itself. One acts without claiming credit or fame. Plain and unremarkable, one may even seem foolish; one keeps one’s brilliance in check, relinquishes power, and does not pursue fame. Then one will not blame others, and others will not blame oneself. The perfected person does not seek recognition. Why, then, should you rejoice in fame?”

Confucius said, “Well said!” He then took leave of his companions, left his disciples, and fled to a great marsh. Wearing coarse clothes, he ate acorns. He entered among herds of animals without disturbing them, and among flocks of birds without frightening them. If even birds and beasts did not dislike him, how much less would people?

Confucius asked Zisang Yu, “I was driven out of Lu twice; in Song, I narrowly escaped being killed by a falling tree; in Wei, I suffered the humiliation of having my name struck from the records; I was trapped between Shang and Zhou, and then besieged between Chen and Cai…”

Confucius said to Zisang Yu, “I was driven out of the state of Lu twice, had a tree cut down over me in Song, was struck from the official rolls in Wei, fell into hardship between Shang and Zhou, and was besieged in the region of Chen and Cai. Since these calamities befell me, my close friends have grown more distant, and my followers and companions have scattered. Why is this?”

Zisang Yu said, “Have you never heard the story of Lin Hui fleeing his homeland? Lin Hui left behind a jade disk worth a thousand pieces of gold and fled with a baby on his back. Someone asked him, ‘Was it because the baby could bring him profit? A baby brings little profit. Was it because the baby would not be a burden? A baby is a great burden. Then why did he leave behind a jade disk worth a thousand pieces of gold and flee carrying the baby?’ Lin Hui replied, ‘The jade disk was joined to me for the sake of gain, while the baby was bound to me by natural affection. Those joined through gain will abandon one another when hardship, calamity, or danger comes. Those bound by natural affection, when crisis comes, will instead support one another. There is a great difference between supporting one another and abandoning one another.’

“Among noble people, friendship is as plain as water; among petty people, it is as sweet as fermented wine. Though noble people’s friendship is plain, they remain close for a long time. Though petty people’s friendship is sweet, it is easily broken. Those who gather without genuine feeling, only because of some passing circumstance, will also part when that circumstance disappears.”

Confucius said, “I respectfully accept your instruction.” Then he went home slowly and calmly, no longer clinging to learning, and set aside his books. His disciples no longer crowded around him, yet his care for them grew deeper.

The next day, Zisang Yu said again, “As Shun lay dying, he admonished Yu: ‘Remember this: in the way you conduct yourself, it is best to follow nature; in your feelings within, it is best to be sincere and natural. Following nature prevents estrangement; being sincere and natural prevents exhaustion. If you are neither estranged nor exhausted, there is no need to embellish your outward conduct deliberately to make it accord with your nature. Since there is no need to embellish your outward conduct deliberately to make it accord with your nature, there is no need to rely on external things.’

“Zhuangzi wore a coarse cloth robe patched in several places, and on his feet he had shoes mended with hemp cord, when he went to visit the King of Wei. The king asked, ‘Why are you in such straits, sir?’ Zhuangzi replied, ‘I am poor, not in distress. To possess virtue and ability but have no chance to put them to use—that is distress. Worn-out clothes and leaky shoes are simply poverty, not distress. This is because I have not encountered the right time.’

“Have you never seen a gibbon leaping and bounding? It climbs among the vines and branches of tall catalpa and camphor trees, darting freely from branch to branch. Even archery masters such as Yi and Feng Meng would not dare to take aim at it casually.

When people come upon a place with thorny roots, burrs, and the like, they step carefully and glance around, their bodies trembling with fear. This does not mean their sinews and bones have suddenly become stiff and unresponsive; rather, the surroundings leave them no room to use their abilities. If you now find yourself among a foolish ruler and his disorderly ministers, how could you hope to escape hardship? A person who walks cautiously, looks about in alarm, and trembles with unease in such circumstances shows that his sinews and bones were not stiff by nature; his surroundings prevent him from exercising his talents. Bi Gan’s heart being cut out is proof of just such a predicament.

When Confucius was trapped between the states of Chen and Cai, he went seven days without a fire or a cooked meal. Leaning his left hand against a withered tree, he beat a dead branch with his right and sang “The Wind of the Sen Clan.” He had something to accompany his singing, but no fixed rhythm; he had a voice, but no notes such as gong or jue. The sound of the wood and the sound of his voice blended completely, striking the heart just right. Yan Hui sat upright, then turned and watched him secretly.

Confucius worried that Yan Hui might become self-important and arrogant, or feel too much pity for him and sink into grief. So he said, “Hui, it is easy not to resist the harms that come from Heaven, but hard not to accept the benefits that come from other people. Nothing begins without moving toward an end; human beings and Heaven are one. Who, then, is the one singing now?”

Yan Hui asked, “May I ask what it means to find it easy not to resist the harms that come from Heaven?”

Confucius said, “Hunger and thirst, cold and heat, hardship and blocked roads—these are changes in the workings of Heaven and Earth, the ebb and flow in the movement of all things. To ‘go along with them as they pass’ is to move forward with these changes. A minister does not dare evade his duties at will. If this is true even of a minister’s obligations, how should a person relate to the Mandate of Heaven?”

Yan Hui asked again, “What does it mean to find it hard not to accept the benefits that come from other people?”

Confucius said, “You begin to act, and all goes smoothly; rank and salary keep arriving, seemingly without end. These are benefits bestowed by external things; they do not belong to you. What comes from outside is not under my control. A gentleman does not rob, and a worthy person does not steal. If I claimed these benefits as my own, how could I justify it? So even when rank and salary keep coming and benefits are endless, they are not one’s own; they are things from outside, allotted by fate. A gentleman does not rob, and a worthy person does not steal. If one claimed them as one’s own, how could that be justified?”

Magpies and great birds know well how to avoid places unsuited to them. They do not stare for long at what makes them uneasy; even if fruit is there, they will give it up and fly away. They fear people, so they hide among crowds, seeking only to preserve themselves.

What does it mean to say, “There is neither beginning nor end”? Confucius said, “All things are constantly changing, yet we do not know what makes them change in turn. How, then, can we know where change ends or where it begins? Just follow change and wait at ease.”

What does it mean to say, “Human beings and Heaven are one”? Confucius said, “Human beings are originally part of nature, and nature is simply what it is. That people cannot go against nature is their very nature. The sage follows this calmly until life comes to an end.”

Zhuang Zhou was walking in the garden at Diao Ling when he saw an unusual magpie flying in from the south. Its wings spanned seven feet, and its eyes were so large that, when they turned, it seemed unable to see.

Zhuang Zhou was wandering beside the chestnut grove at Diao Ling when he saw an unusual magpie flying in from the south. Its wings spanned seven feet, and its eyes were about an inch wide. It skimmed past Zhuang Zhou’s forehead and landed in the grove. Zhuang Zhou said, “What kind of bird is this? Its wings are so large, yet it cannot fly far; its eyes are so large, yet it cannot see clearly.” He lifted the hem of his robe, crept quietly toward it, and picked up his slingshot, ready to shoot.

Just then, Zhuang Zhou saw a cicada sheltering in the deep shade, oblivious to the danger it was in. A mantis raised its forelegs, about to catch the cicada, intent only on its prey and forgetting its own peril. The strange magpie, in turn, seized the chance to approach the mantis and hunt it, seeing only the gain before it and forgetting its own situation.

Zhuang Zhou was suddenly struck by awareness. “Alas!” he said. “Things naturally entangle one another; one kind draws another in.” He put down his slingshot and turned to leave, but the keeper of the chestnut grove caught up with him and scolded him.

After returning home, Zhuang Zhou did not go out for three months. Lan Ju asked him, “Why have you been staying in lately, Master?” Zhuang Zhou replied, “I was intent on guarding things outside myself and forgot myself. Gazing at murky water, I lost sight of a clear, deep pool. I once heard my teacher say that when you arrive somewhere, you should follow its customs. Now I was wandering at Diao Ling and forgot myself. The strange magpie struck my forehead; as I wandered in the chestnut grove, I forgot my true nature as well. The keeper of the grove took me for a poacher, so I have stopped going out.”

Yangzi (Yang Zhu) traveled to the state of Song and stayed at an inn. The innkeeper had two concubines, one beautiful and one ugly. The ugly one was treated with respect, while the beautiful one held a lower position. Yangzi asked why, and a young man at the inn replied, “The beautiful one thinks herself beautiful, but I do not find her so; the ugly one thinks herself ugly, but I do not find her so either.” Yangzi said to his disciples, “Remember these words: if someone is virtuous yet does not consider himself virtuous, wherever he goes, how could he fail to be loved?”

Tian Zifang was seated beside Marquis Wen of Wei and repeatedly praised Xi Gong. The marquis asked, “Is Xi Gong your teacher?” Tian Zifang replied, “No, he is from my hometown. What he says is often reasonable, so I praise him.” The marquis asked again, “Then do you have no teacher?” Tian Zifang said, “I do.” The marquis asked, “Who is your teacher?” Tian Zifang answered, “Dongguo Shunzi.”

The marquis asked, “Then why have you never praised him?” Tian Zifang said, “My teacher is utterly genuine. He has a human appearance, but within he is as open and clear as the sky. His outer manner is plain, yet inwardly he preserves what is true. His mind is clear, and he can also embrace all things. When he encounters something unreasonable, he simply composes his expression and lets people come to their senses for themselves, gradually loosening the fixations in their hearts. How could someone like me be qualified to praise him?”

After Tian Zifang left, Marquis Wen felt hollow, as though he had lost something, and remained silent all day. He summoned the ministers nearby and said, “This is what a truly complete gentleman is! At first, I thought that discussing sage wisdom and teaching benevolence and righteousness were the highest ideals. After hearing Tian Zifang speak of his teacher, I feel as if my body has gone limp and I do not want to move; my mouth seems sealed, and I do not want to speak. What I learned in the past was no more than things as lifeless as clay and wooden figures. The state of Wei has become a burden to me.”

Wenbo Xuezi, a Daoist figure, was traveling to Qi and stopped in Lu along the way. Someone from Lu asked to meet him. Wenbo Xuezi said, “I will not meet him. I have heard that gentlemen of the Central States understand ritual and righteousness, but are poor at understanding people’s hearts. I do not wish to meet them.”

When Wenbo Xuezi returned from Qi, he stopped in Lu again. The same person once more asked to meet him. Wenbo Xuezi said, “He came asking to meet me last time, and now he has come again. Surely he has something he hopes will move me.” So he went out to receive the visitor, then returned and sighed. The next day he met the man again, and returned still sighing. His attendant asked, “Each time you meet that visitor, you come back sighing. Why is that?”

A servant asked, “Whenever you meet Wenbo Xuezi, you go indoors and sigh. Why?”

Wenbo Xuezi said, “Have I not already told you? The people of the Central States understand ritual and righteousness, but they do not know how to read another’s heart. Those who came to see me in the past behaved impeccably, with every movement and gesture in keeping with the rules. Their manner was composed; at times they seemed like dragons, at times like tigers. They admonished me as a son might admonish his father, and guided me as a father might instruct his son. That is why I sighed.”

Confucius met Wenbo Xuezi, but said nothing. Zilu asked, “Sir, you have long hoped to meet Wenbo Xuezi. Now that you have met him, you say nothing. Why?”

Confucius said, “With a person like him, Dao is already revealed as soon as your eyes meet. There is truly no need to express it in words.”

Yan Yuan asked Confucius, “When you walk, I walk with you; when you stride, I stride with you; when you run, I run with you. But you move so swiftly that even the dust cannot catch you, while I can only fall far behind.”

Confucius asked, “Yan Hui, what do you mean?”

Yan Yuan replied, “When you walk slowly, I walk slowly; when you speak, I speak; when you stride, I stride; when you debate, I debate. When you expound the Dao, I do so too. But when you move so swiftly that even the dust cannot catch you, I can only fall far behind. You say nothing, yet others trust you of their own accord. You form no factions for private gain, yet you bring people into harmony. You rely on neither objects nor authority, yet the people naturally follow your lead, without understanding why. You expound the Dao, and I can expound it too; but I cannot keep up with the state you have reached.”

Confucius said, “Ah, how could one fail to look closely at this? There is no greater sorrow than a spirit that has died; the death of the body comes second. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west, and all things follow its course. Those with eyes and feet must wait for the sun to shine before they can act: when it rises, things appear; when it sets, they vanish. All things are like this: they die through what they depend on, and they live through what they depend on.

“Once I received this formed body, I could only follow it through change until my life came to an end. I respond to things and act, day and night without pause, never knowing where I will ultimately arrive. So, in a haze, I came to be as I am now. Once Heaven’s decree is set, it cannot be avoided in advance. For this reason, I, Kong Qiu, take leave of life each day. Even a lifetime spent with you may be no more than a moment when our arms touch, followed in an instant by our passing one another by. Is that not sorrowful?”

Perhaps you are attached to the things I was attached to. Those things have long since vanished, yet you still pursue them as though they truly existed. It is like trying to buy a horse in an empty marketplace. You have forgotten the teachings you received, and I have forgotten what I taught you. But why should you worry? Even when the self you once were is forgotten, something remains that cannot be forgotten.

Confucius met Lao Dan (Laozi). Lao Dan had just washed his hair and was waiting for it to dry, his hair hanging loose. His expression was distant, as if he were unlike an ordinary person. Confucius waited nearby. When they met again a while later, Confucius said, “Was my vision blurred, or was what I saw real? Just now, your body looked like a withered tree, as though you had forgotten the things around you and withdrawn from the human world, standing there all alone.”

Lao Dan said, “My mind and spirit were roaming in the realm where all things begin.”

Confucius asked, “What does that mean?”

Lao Dan said, “The mind is blocked and cannot understand; the mouth is closed and cannot explain. Still, let me try to speak to you about its principles. The coldest Qi is solemn and still; the most yang Qi is fierce and bright. The solemn, still Qi emerges from Heaven, while the flourishing yang Qi rises from Earth. The two meet and harmonize, and all things are born from them. It seems that some force governs their order, yet no trace of it can be seen.

All things diminish and grow, fill and empty; sometimes they are dark, sometimes bright. Sun and moon continually alternate and change. Things happen every day, yet no one sees how they work. Life begins to sprout, and death finds its destination. Beginning and end revolve around one another, as if there were no beginning, and no one knows when the cycle will cease. If this is not the root, then what could be the source of all things?”

Confucius said, “May I ask what it is like for the mind and spirit to roam in such a realm?”

Lao Dan said, “To grasp this realm is to reach the state of utmost beauty and joy. Those who attain supreme beauty and roam in supreme joy are called the perfected ones—people who have reached the ideal state.”

Confucius said, “I would like to hear about the method.”

Lao Dan said, “Wild animals that graze do not mind moving from one pasture to another; creatures and fish in the water do not mind moving from one stretch of water to another. They act in response to changing conditions without losing the natural constants of life. Then joy and anger, sorrow and happiness do not enter the heart and disturb it. All things beneath Heaven originally come from one whole.”

Realize the principle that all things return to “the One” and become attuned to it, and a person’s limbs and bones will seem no more than dust. Life and death, ending and beginning, will be like the alternation of day and night, unable to disturb the heart. How much less, then, could gain and loss, misfortune and good fortune make the heart cling to anything?

Cast off whatever controls and constrains you as easily as shaking off dirt. Understand that you yourself are more precious than the things outside you, and that what is truly precious lies within. Even amid change, do not lose sight of this. Since the transformations of all things have no end, what could possibly disturb the spirit? One who understands the Dao can grasp this.

Confucius said, “Your De is in harmony with Heaven and Earth, yet you still draw on subtle words to cultivate your nature. Among the noble people of antiquity, who could have entirely done without such cultivation?”

Lao Dan (Laozi) replied, “That is not so. Water flows freely because it follows its nature, not because anyone deliberately makes it so. The De of the Perfect Person is likewise: it is not deliberately embellished, yet the myriad things cannot do without it. Heaven is naturally lofty, Earth naturally deep, and the sun and moon naturally bright. What need is there for deliberate cultivation?”

When Confucius came out, he told Yan Hui, “As for the Dao, I am probably like a chicken blinded by the mash used in brewing. Had you not lifted the veil from my eyes, Master, I would never have known that Heaven and Earth were so vast.”

Zhuangzi visited Duke Ai of Lu. The duke said, “There are many Confucian scholars in Lu, but few who understand your Dao.” Zhuangzi replied, “There are few Confucian scholars in Lu.” The duke said, “People throughout Lu wear Confucian clothing. How can you say there are few?” Zhuangzi said, “I have heard that those who wear round hats understand the seasons of Heaven, and those who wear square-toed shoes understand the shape of the Earth; those who wear a sash and jade pendants can make decisions when circumstances demand it. Yet a noble person may possess such knowledge without wearing these clothes, and those who wear them may not truly understand what they signify.”

Duke Ai of Lu did not believe this at first. He said, “Why not announce throughout the country that anyone who wears these Confucian robes without meeting the prescribed requirements will be put to death?” Duke Ai issued the order for five days. After that, no one in Lu dared wear Confucian robes—except for one man, who stood before the palace gate in such robes. Duke Ai summoned him at once and questioned him about the affairs of state. The man answered with quickness and skill, handling every question with ease, no matter how circumstances changed.

Zhuangzi said, “In the whole state of Lu, there is only one Confucian. Can that really be called many?”

Baili Xi, an official of Qin during the Spring and Autumn period, thought little of rank or stipend. Even when he was employed to tend cattle, he raised them until they were fat and strong. His abilities led Duke Mu of Qin to overlook his lowly status and appoint him to take part in governing the state.

Yu Shi, a worthy figure from ancient legend, did not concern himself with life or death. Even in hardship, he could move people deeply. Zhuangzi said, “In the whole state of Lu, there is only one Confucian. Can that really be called many?”

Duke Yuan of Song was preparing to have a picture painted. All the painters hurried to the palace, bowed, and stood waiting. They licked their brushes and mixed their ink; half of them were still waiting outside the palace gate. Then one painter arrived late. He walked calmly, without hurrying. After bowing, he did not stand and wait, but went straight back to his lodgings. Duke Yuan sent someone to look in on him and found him with his clothes off, sitting cross-legged. “That will do,” said Duke Yuan. “This is a true painter.”

When King Wen of Zhou was inspecting the lands at Zang, he saw a man fishing. The man seemed to be fishing, but did not appear intent on waiting for a fish to bite. He had not taken up a rod just for the purpose of catching fish; it was simply how he spent his days. King Wen wanted to recommend him and entrust him with the affairs of state, but worried that his ministers, relatives, and elders would not be at ease. He considered dropping the matter, but could not bear to leave the people without someone they could rely on. So, early the next morning, he told his ministers, “Last night I dreamed of a worthy man with a dark complexion and a calm bearing. He was riding a mottled horse with one red hoof. He said to me, ‘Entrust the affairs of state to the old man of Zang, and the people may find peace.’”

The ministers were all alarmed and solemn. “The former king has sent this dream,” they said. King Wen replied, “If so, then let us consult the oracle.” The ministers said, “This is the former king’s command. Your Majesty need not have further doubts. Why consult the oracle at all?”

Wenwang therefore invited Elder Zang to take charge of governing. The laws and institutions were left unchanged, and no partial or self-serving orders were issued. Three years later, Wenwang toured the state and found that the scholars no longer formed factions for private gain, the officials no longer prided themselves on their personal virtue, and tributes from outside no longer dared cross the border. The scholars’ refusal to form factions showed that they had all come into accord; the officials’ refusal to pride themselves on their virtue showed that they worked with one purpose; and the tributes’ failure to enter showed that the feudal lords no longer harbored divided intentions.

Wenwang then honored Elder Zang with the title of Grand Preceptor and, facing north, asked his advice: “Can this way of governing be extended to all under Heaven?” Elder Zang’s expression remained calm. He gave no answer, offering only a casual refusal. He accepted the appointment in the morning and fled that night; no one heard from him again for the rest of his life.

Yan Yuan asked Confucius, “Had Wenwang not yet achieved perfect goodness? Why did he still look forward to something more?” Confucius said, “Quiet. Say no more. Wenwang had already done everything he could to the utmost. What could there be to criticize? He simply followed the circumstances of the moment.”

Lie Yukou demonstrated archery for Bohun Wuren. He drew the bow to its full extent, with a cup of water balanced on his elbow. After loosing an arrow, he quickly brought his hand back into position and sent another arrow after it. Lie Yukou seemed then like a lifeless wooden puppet. Bohun Wuren said, “This is archery performed through deliberate effort. It is not yet archery free of attachment to shooting. Try climbing a high mountain with me. Stand on a perilous rock above a hundred-fathom abyss, and see whether you can still shoot.”

Bohun Wuren climbed the mountain, stepped onto a dangerous outcrop, and stood at the edge of the hundred-fathom abyss, his back to the cliff and his body leaning slightly outward, with part of each foot hanging over the edge. He bowed to Lie Yukou, signaling him to come forward. Lie Yukou was so terrified that he fell flat on the ground, sweat running down to his heels.

Bohun Wuren said, “One who has truly attained the Way can soar above the blue heavens and sink beneath the Yellow Springs, range freely in all directions, and remain unmoved in spirit and Qi. You can concentrate on shooting when you are safe, but the moment you see danger, your spirit becomes unsettled. Hitting the target will surely be difficult for you.”

Shan Wu asked Sun Shuao, “You served three times as Lingyin, the highest official in Chu, yet never felt honored. You left office three times, yet showed no sign of sorrow. At first I doubted you, but now I see that your expression is calm and your breathing steady. How do you keep your mind?”

Sun Shuao said, “In what way am I better than other people? I believe that when an official post comes, I cannot refuse it, and when it goes, I cannot hold on to it. I regard gain and loss as things beyond my control, so I feel no sorrow. In what way am I better than other people? Besides, I do not know whether gain and loss ultimately lie with others or with myself. If they lie with others, they have nothing to do with me; if they lie with me, they have nothing to do with others. I am busy keeping to my own composure and observing what is around me. How could I have time to weigh whether others are noble or lowly?”

When Confucius heard this, he remarked, “The True Ones of antiquity—those who realized the Dao and followed nature—could not be persuaded by clever words, confused by beauty, or captured by thieves. Even Fuxi and the Yellow Emperor could not become their close friends. Death and life are great matters, yet they could not change the True Ones’ original minds; how much less could rank and salary do so? Such people’s spirits travel among high mountains without hindrance and enter deep waters without getting wet. They dwell in humble and insignificant circumstances without growing weary. They fill Heaven and Earth, and give themselves to others, yet become more abundant themselves.”

The king of Chu and the ruler of Fan sat together. After a while, an attendant of the king of Chu said, “The state of Fan has been destroyed three times.” The ruler of Fan replied, “The destruction of Fan is not enough to make me lose what I possess within. Since Fan’s destruction cannot make me lose my true self, the existence of Chu cannot give Chu a true self. From this, it follows that Fan has never truly been destroyed, and Chu has never truly existed.”

Zhi climbed Hidden Well Hill by the banks of Dark Water and happened to meet Wuweiwei. He asked him, “I would like to ask you: How should one think and reflect in order to know the Dao? Where should one dwell, and what should one do, in order to rest at ease in the Dao? What path should one follow, and what method should one use, in order to attain the Dao?”

Zhi asked three times, but Wuweiwei did not answer. He was not deliberately withholding an answer; he simply did not know how to respond. Unable to get an answer, Zhi went south of White Water, climbed Fox Watchtower Mountain, and saw Kuangqu. He put the same questions to him. Kuangqu said, “Ah, I know. I was just about to tell you, but the words reached my lips and I had already forgotten what I meant to say.” Still without an answer, Zhi returned to the imperial palace, met the Yellow Emperor, and asked him.

The Yellow Emperor said, “Not thinking and not reflecting is the beginning of knowing the Dao. Not clinging to any particular place or course of action is the beginning of resting at ease in the Dao. Not following any fixed path or method is the beginning of attaining the Dao.”

Zhi asked the Yellow Emperor, “You and I understand these principles, but they do not, and they could not answer. So who is right?” The Yellow Emperor said, “Wuweiwei was truly right; Kuangqu came close to this state. You and I, in the end, have not yet come close to the Dao. Those who truly understand the Dao do not speak of it; those who speak of the Dao may not truly understand it. Thus, the sages teach through silence.”

The Dao cannot be attained by striving for it, and De cannot be reached by force. Benevolence can be practiced through human effort, but righteousness may fall short, while ritual easily becomes false and affected. Thus it is said: only after the Dao is lost do people speak of De; only after De is lost do they speak of benevolence; only after benevolence is lost do they speak of righteousness; only after righteousness is lost do they speak of ritual. Ritual is merely the outward expression of the Dao, and the beginning of disorder.

Therefore, those who cultivate the Dao must lessen something each day, and go on lessening it, until they reach Wuwei (non-action). Once they reach Wuwei, nothing remains undone. Now that people have taken on concrete forms and become particular things, is it not difficult to return to the root?

The transformations of the Dao are boundless and vast. Precisely because it is vast, it manifests outwardly in all kinds of patterns and forms; people who cling to these outward appearances are easily led astray. Thus it is said: those who cultivate the Dao should lessen their selfish desires and attachments day by day, reducing them again and again until they reach the state of Wuwei (non-action). Wuwei does not mean doing nothing; it means not acting recklessly. In this way, there is nothing that cannot be accomplished. Now that we have become beings with form, is it not difficult to return to the root? Perhaps only a great person—one of outstanding virtue and wisdom—can do this.

Life is one kind of death, and death is the beginning of life. Who can explain the pattern behind them? Human life comes about through the gathering of Qi, the fundamental force that forms all things. When Qi gathers, there is life; when it disperses, there is death. Since life and death follow one another, what have I to worry about? All things are therefore one in their original nature. What people cherish may be called wondrous; what they loathe may be called rotten and foul. The foul can transform again into the wondrous, and the wondrous can transform again into the foul. Thus it is said that all things under Heaven are simply different transformations of the same Qi. What the sage values is precisely this principle of their equality.

Zhi said to the Yellow Emperor, “I once sought advice from Wuweiwei—a person whose name suggests one who says nothing—but he did not answer me. It was not that he deliberately refused to answer; he simply did not know how to respond. I also asked Kuangqu. He meant to tell me what he thought, but did not; it was not that he was unwilling to speak, but that when he was about to speak, he forgot. Now I ask you: if you know, why don’t you come closer and tell me?” The Yellow Emperor said, “Wuweiwei truly accords with the Dao, because he does not know. Kuangqu seems to understand, because he has forgotten. You and I, in the end, cannot draw near to the Dao because we still know too much.” When Kuangqu heard this, he agreed that the Yellow Emperor was right.

Heaven and Earth possess great beauty, yet do not speak of it. The four seasons follow clear patterns, yet do not discuss them. All things have their natural principles of formation, yet offer no explanation. The sage explores the beauty of Heaven and Earth and comprehends the principles of all things. Thus the perfected person follows what is natural and does not act recklessly; the great sage does not make things happen by deliberate contrivance, but observes the Dao of Heaven and Earth.

The subtle workings of the spirit are supremely fine, flowing and turning along with the transformations of all things. No one knows the source of the changes by which things are born and die, become round or square, and so forth. Yet all things stand forth in profusion, each existing in its own way since ancient times. Though Heaven and Earth, in all their breadth above, below, and in every direction, are vast, they do not extend beyond the bounds of the Dao. Even the tiniest autumn down—the fine hair that newly grows in autumn—is contained within the Dao. All things under Heaven are in constant flux, never coming to a stop; Yin-Yang and the four seasons move in cycles, each following its own order.

It is faint and elusive, seeming not to exist yet truly existing. It arises naturally, leaves no trace, yet has wondrous effects. All things are nurtured by it without knowing it. This is called the root of all things; through it, one may observe the Way of Heaven.

Nie Que asked Bei Yi for guidance. Bei Yi said, “Straighten your body and focus your gaze, and the harmonious Qi of Heaven will come. Gather in your mind and bring your thoughts to oneness, and spirit will come to dwell within you. De will become your beauty, and the Dao your dwelling. Be like a newborn calf, with clear eyes, asking nothing about the reasons behind things.” Before he had finished speaking, Nie Que fell asleep. Bei Yi was greatly pleased. Singing as he left, he said, “His body is like a withered corpse, his mind like extinguished ashes. He has truly understood the Dao and no longer lets old preconceptions constrain him. He is drowsy and silent, with no concern in mind, yet there is nothing one can discuss with him. What kind of person is he?”

Shun asked Cheng, “Can the Dao be acquired and made one’s own?” Cheng replied, “Your body does not belong to you, so how could you possess the Dao?” Shun asked, “If my body does not belong to me, whose is it?” Cheng said, “It is merely a form temporarily entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth. Life is not yours; it is the harmonious Qi temporarily entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth. Your nature and life are not yours; they are the workings of transformation and change temporarily entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth. Your descendants are not yours either; they are the continuation of transformation through successive generations, temporarily entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth. Thus, when you act, you do not know where you are going; when you stay, you do not know what you rely on; when you eat, you do not know what the flavors truly are. You are merely Qi ceaselessly circulating between Heaven and Earth. How, then, could you make the Dao your own?”

Confucius sought instruction from Lao Cong and said, “This evening I have the opportunity to ask for your guidance. I venture to ask about the utmost Dao.” Lao Cong said, “First, you must fast and quiet your mind, wash away the thoughts that clutter your heart, purify your spirit, and cast aside cleverness. The Dao is deep and difficult to speak of. I can only tell you something of its breath; how could I make it my own?”

Confucius sought instruction from Lao Dan, the legendary ancient sage of Daoism, and said, “Today I have some leisure. I venture to ask what the highest Dao is.” Lao Dan replied, “You should first fast, so that your mind and spirit become still and clear; cleanse your spirit and cast aside distracting thoughts; gather in your mind and do not let your cleverness run wild. Dao is truly difficult to explain. I can only speak of it in broad terms.

“Bright, visible things arise from what is dim and obscure; things with form and order arise from what is formless. Spirit is born from Dao, and the body takes Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) as its foundation. All things take shape and give rise to one another through their forms. Thus, creatures with nine openings are born from the womb, while animals with eight openings hatch from eggs. Dao has no distance from which it comes and no boundary to which it goes. It has no gates or rooms, yet reaches in every direction and is everywhere. When you grasp Dao, your limbs gain strength; your thoughts become clear and your ears and eyes keen, yet your mind does not grow weary, and you respond to things without any fixed method.

“Heaven is naturally lofty, Earth naturally vast; the sun and moon move of themselves, and all things flourish of themselves. Is this not Dao? Wide knowledge and experience do not necessarily amount to true understanding; skill in argument does not necessarily amount to wisdom. The sages have long understood this. If there were a power that could not be increased by adding to it or diminished by taking away from it, the sages would surely find their minds open and at ease. The sun and moon continue on their courses, and all things continue to flourish. Is this not Dao? Wide knowledge and experience do not necessarily amount to true understanding; skill in argument does not necessarily amount to wisdom. The sages have long understood this. This Dao, which neither increases when added to nor diminishes when reduced, is what the sages hold fast to.

“Dao is deep and vast like the sea, lofty and seemingly without end. It transforms and nourishes all things, yet is never exhausted. What the noble person calls Dao is only its outward aspect. All things obtain what they need from Dao, yet Dao is not thereby depleted. Is this not Dao?

“People of the Central Plains belong neither wholly to Yin nor wholly to Yang. They dwell between Heaven and Earth and, for a time, live as human beings; in the end, they return to the source of all things. At their root, lives are simply the dimly unfolding process by which all things transform into being. However long or short a life may be, how much do they really differ from one another? It is all over in an instant. How, then, can this be enough to decide who was right and who was wrong, Yao or Jie? If things do have their proper order, then even when human relationships are hard to understand, people still distinguish between young and old by following it. When sages encounter such an order, they do not oppose it; once they have gone beyond it, they do not cling to it. Responding as things change is De (Virtue/Power); responding in accord with circumstances is Dao. These are the foundations on which rulers and kings accomplish their work.

“Human life between Heaven and Earth is like a white horse flashing past a crack in the wall: in an instant, it is gone. Things suddenly surge forth and flourish; there is nothing that does not arise from this…”

The body is soft and yielding; there is nowhere it cannot enter. All things are born through change and die through change. Living beings grieve over this, and people lament it. To free oneself from the constraints of following one’s nature and set aside the restraints imposed by human contrivance, until the mind is unsettled and hazy, the soul seems on the verge of departing, and the body goes with it—this is to return to the Great Transformation.

Form emerges from the formless, and what has form returns to the formless. Everyone knows this, yet those who understand the Great Dao do not make it their pursuit. People all like to talk about it, but those who have truly reached that state do not speak of it; those who speak of it have not yet reached it. One may discern the Dao, but there is no concrete thing by which to verify it; argument is no match for silence. The Great Dao cannot be heard with the ears; hearing is no match for closing the ears and keeping still. This is called the greatest understanding.

Dongguozi asked Zhuangzi, “Where exactly is the Dao?” Zhuangzi replied, “It is everywhere.” Dongguozi said, “You must name a specific place.” Zhuangzi said, “In ants.” Dongguozi asked, “Why so lowly?” Zhuangzi replied, “In the grass growing along the ground.” Dongguozi asked again, “Why even lower?” Zhuangzi said, “In broken tiles.” Dongguozi asked once more, “Why lower still?” Zhuangzi said, “In shit and urine.” Dongguozi had nothing more to say.

Zhuangzi said, “Sir, your questions have missed the heart of the matter. Zheng Huo once asked the market inspector how to judge whether a pig was fat or lean. The inspector replied, ‘The farther down you feel, the better you can tell.’ Don’t insist that the Dao exists only in one particular place. There is nowhere among the myriad things where it is absent. The utmost Dao is like this, and so are the great principles. The words zhou, bian, and xian have different names but the same meaning; they all refer to the same thing.

“Let us wander together in the Palace of Nowhere, a realm without limits or attachments, and meet there to discuss things without end. Or we can dwell together in Wuwei (non-action), calm and still, empty and clear, asking one another in harmony. My mind is vast and open; wherever I go, I do not know where the journey ends. In coming and going, I do not know where to stop. I travel within it without knowing its bounds, roaming freely through an expanse without limit. Even the greatest wisdom enters it without knowing where it comes to an end.

“The Dao that makes the myriad things what they are has no boundaries between them and itself. The things themselves have boundaries; these are what people ordinarily call the divisions between things. Yet where there are no boundaries, one can speak of boundaries; and where there are boundaries, one can speak of none. What are called fullness and emptiness, decline and extinction are not fullness and emptiness, or decline and extinction, in the ordinary sense as the Dao gives rise to them. Beginning and end are not beginning and end in the ordinary sense; nor are gathering and dispersal ordinary gathering and dispersal.”

Kehegan studied with Shennong under Laolong Ji. Shennong leaned against a table, keeping the doors shut, and slept even during the day. At noon, Kehegan pushed the door open and came in, saying, “Laolong has died.” Shennong leaned against the table and rose, supporting himself with a cane. Suddenly he set it down and laughed. “Heaven knew how ignorant, neglectful, and lazy I was, so it abandoned me and went away. Ah, the Master is gone. No one will ever again speak those wild words to me.”

Huigang Diao heard this and said, “One who has truly embodied the Dao inspires all the noble people under Heaven. Those who speak of the Dao today have grasped not even one ten-thousandth of the tip of a hair, yet still imagine they can keep profound words hidden and pass them on no more after death. How much more is this true of one who has truly embodied the Dao? The Dao has no visible form and makes no audible sound. People speak of it as obscure and remote; but speaking of the Dao in this way does not mean they truly understand it.”

Then Taiqing asked Wu Qiong, “Do you understand the Dao?” Wu Qiong replied, “I do not.” Taiqing then asked Wuwei. Wuwei replied, “I understand the Dao.” Taiqing asked, “Does your understanding of the Dao have definite content and limits?” Wuwei said, “Yes. I know that the Dao can be exalted or humble, gathered or dispersed. That is the scope of my understanding of the Dao.”

Taiqing took these words to Wushi and asked, “If that is so, Wu Qiong says he does not understand, while Wuwei says he does. Which of them is right?” Wushi said, “Not understanding means one’s knowing is deeper; understanding means it is shallower. Not understanding comes from inner realization; understanding is merely an outward grasp.” Taiqing exclaimed, “So not understanding counts as understanding, while understanding is actually not understanding. Then who can know this ‘understanding through not understanding’?”

Wushi said, “The Dao cannot be heard with the ears; what is heard is not the Dao. It cannot be seen with the eyes; what is seen is not the Dao. It cannot be spoken in words; what is spoken is not the Dao. Do you know that what gives birth to all things has no fixed form of its own? The Dao should not be confined by fixed names.”

Wushi continued, “When someone asks about the Dao and another answers, the one who answers does not understand the Dao. The one who asks may not even have heard of the Dao. The Dao has no questions that can be asked about it; and even where there is a question, there can be no fitting answer. To treat a question with no answer as a question is to push inquiry to its limit; to respond with an empty answer is to lack genuine inner realization. If one meets inquiry with such empty answers, one cannot see the vastness of the cosmos outwardly, nor understand inwardly the source from which all things began. Such a person can neither transcend Mount Kunlun nor roam through the Great Void.”

Guangyao asked Wuyou, “Master, do you exist, or do you not exist?” Wuyou did not answer. Guangyao studied his appearance closely and found only emptiness and stillness. He watched all day but could not see him, listened but could not hear him, and reached out to touch him but could not feel him. Guangyao said, “This is truly the utmost! Who could attain such a state? I can keep both being and nonbeing in my mind, but I cannot yet let go even of ‘nonbeing.’ Now, faced with this state of nonbeing, where nothing can be heard or touched, how could I attain it?”

An artisan who made belt hooks worked under the Grand Marshal, an official in charge of military affairs. He was already eighty years old, yet the belt hooks he made were still so finely crafted that not the slightest flaw could be found. The Grand Marshal asked him, “Is your skill truly exceptional, or have you mastered some special method?” The artisan replied, “I have a way of keeping my attention unwavering. At twenty, I took a liking to making belt hooks. From then on, I paid no attention to anything else; only belt hooks held my gaze. Because I devoted my mind and effort to one thing and not to other things, I have been able to preserve this skill for so long. How much more, then, can those who are capable of attending closely to anything achieve? What among the myriad things cannot serve as a means?”

Ran Qiu asked Confucius, “Can we know what things were like before Heaven and Earth came into being?” Confucius said, “We can. Ancient times and the present are connected.” At first, Ran Qiu thought he understood. But after he withdrew, he became puzzled. The next day he visited Confucius again and said, “Yesterday I asked about what things were like before Heaven and Earth came into being, and you said it could be known because ancient times and the present are connected. Yesterday I thought I understood, but today I am confused. May I ask what you meant?”

Confucius said, “Yesterday you thought you understood because your spirit had first grasped it. Today you feel confused—is it because you are trying to pursue the question in a way that does not accord with your spirit? There is no distinction between ancient and present, nor between beginning and end. Before there were descendants, could you say that descendants already existed?” Ran Qiu did not answer. Confucius said, “Enough. You have not yet responded.” Do not use life to define death, or death to define life. Is there anything on which the boundary between life and death depends? Each of the myriad things has a single underlying source. Is there something that existed before Heaven and Earth? The source that generates the myriad things is itself not any particular thing. Since the myriad things arise from it, it cannot in turn be treated as another thing that preceded them. If we say it is still a thing, its existence would have no end. Could the sage’s love for others, too, be without end? The sage takes this as the model for that love.

Yan Yuan asked Confucius, “I once heard you say that one neither welcomes external things nor sends them away. May I ask how one can wander at ease?” Confucius said, “The people of old responded to changes in the world around them, yet their inner selves did not change along with them. People today change inwardly along with things, yet their outward conduct remains rigid. Those who can change together with the myriad things are the ones who truly hold fast to what does not change. What should change, and what should remain unchanged? Respond to the myriad things without contending with them, and you will have no more attachments than they do.”

From the gardens of the Xuwei clan, to the parks of the Yellow Emperor and the palaces of the Youyu clan, and then to the palaces of Kings Tang and Wu of Zhou, the gentlemen of each age had their own places. People today, such as the leaders of Confucian and Mohist schools, often attack one another through disputes over right and wrong. How much more so do ordinary people?

The sage encounters the myriad things without harming them. When nothing is harmed, the myriad things cannot harm the sage either. Only those who are unharmed by external things can move freely among people, welcoming and bidding them farewell. Should one live in the mountains and forests, or by the water on level ground? As long as it brings me joy, that is enough. Before one joy has ended, another feeling arrives. When sorrow and joy come, I cannot hold them back; when they leave, I cannot keep them here. How sad that people are merely temporary inns where external things come to stay.

People know only what they have encountered, not what they have never encountered; they know only what they can do, not what they cannot do. What one does not know and cannot do is unavoidable for human beings. Is it not tragic to keep trying to escape the limits that people cannot avoid? The most profound words go beyond words; the finest action is free of deliberate effort. To take what one knows as the sum of all knowledge is to have a very shallow understanding.

Among the disciples of Lao Pin (Laozi) was a man named Gengsang Chu. Having grasped part of Lao Pin’s Daoist art, he went to live on Mount Weilei in the north. He would not let disciples who seemed clever and sharp witted follow him, and he kept his distance from those who seemed benevolent and were eager to show it. Instead, he spent time only with people who looked clumsy and slow, and had those who worked busily and diligently carry out tasks for him.

After three years, the area around Mount Weilei had a good harvest year after year. The local people said to one another, “When Master Gengsang first arrived, we thought he was extraordinary. Now, if we count our gains day by day, they seem small, but by the year’s end there is more than enough. He must be a sage! Why don’t we honor him together and make offerings to him as a spirit?”

When Gengsang Chu heard this, he sat facing south, his expression displeased. His disciples found this strange. Gengsang Chu said, “Why are you surprised? In spring, the vital energy stirs and the plants grow; in autumn, all things ripen. Does spring bring growth and autumn bring maturity because someone deliberately makes it happen? This is the natural course of the Dao of Heaven. I have heard that the perfected person, one who has attained the Dao, lives quietly in a humble hut, while the people live freely without knowing who brought this about. Now the ordinary people of Mount Weilei privately want to honor me with the rites used to worship worthy people. Am I the one who led them to do this? That is why I dare not forget Lao Pin’s words.”

His disciples said, “That is not so. A small ditch cannot hold a large fish; only in broad waters can it stretch its body. A low hill cannot shelter a mighty beast; only small creatures such as the Kui and the fox treat it as a favorable place. Honoring the worthy and employing the capable, putting good deeds and benefit first—this is what Yao and Shun did from ancient times. How much more should the people of Mount Weilei do so? Master, please listen to them.”

Gengsang Chu said, “Come here and listen. A beast that can swallow a whole cart, once it leaves the deep mountains, cannot escape nets and traps. A fish large enough to swallow a boat, once stranded without water, can be harmed even by ants. So birds and beasts do not avoid high mountains, and fish and turtles do not avoid deep waters. Those who wish to preserve life and their nature should hide themselves in places as remote as possible. And those two ancient sage kings—why are they worth praising in this way? If you are eager to argue, you will be like someone carelessly cutting holes in a wall and filling it with weeds: you will only create more disorder. Combing every strand of hair one by one and cooking by counting grains of rice is fussy and trivial. How could such conduct help the world?

“Promoting the worthy makes people struggle against one another; governing by cleverness makes them deceive one another. Such practices cannot make the people’s lives abundant. When people pursue profit to the extreme, sons kill their fathers and ministers kill their rulers; people steal in broad daylight and bore holes through walls at noon. I tell you, the roots of great disorder must already have appeared in the age of Yao and Shun, and the calamity will continue for a thousand years. A thousand years from now, people may even come to devour one another.”

Nanrong Qu sat up straight and said, “I am already old. What can I still rely on to cultivate myself and reach the state you have described?”

Gengsangzi said, “Preserve your body and hold fast to your life. Do not let your thoughts become confused and ceaselessly busy. In another two years, you will be able to understand these words of mine.”

Nanrong Qu said, “I do not understand how the eyes differ from the body, yet a blind person cannot see themselves. Nor do I understand how the ears differ from the body, yet a deaf person cannot hear themselves. The mind seems no different from the body either, yet someone whose mind and spirit are confused cannot remain composed and self-possessed. If even the parts of one body are separated from one another, how could things outside it question and seek one another, yet still fail to communicate? Now you have told me, ‘Preserve your body, hold fast to your life, and do not let your thoughts become confused.’ I have done my best to listen to the Dao; your words have reached my ears.”

Gengsangzi said, “I have said all I can. A benfeng cannot hatch a candle (the original says this; the meaning of the words is unclear), and a Yue chicken cannot hatch a swan’s egg, though a Lu chicken can. The natures of the chickens are not different; some can do it and some cannot because their abilities differ in scope. My own ability is too limited to transform you. Why don’t you go south and visit Laozi?”

Nanrong Qu packed provisions and traveled for seven days and nights until he reached Laozi’s dwelling. Laozi asked, “Have you come from Gengsangzi?”

Nanrong Qu replied, “Yes.”

Laozi asked, “Why does it look as though you have brought so many people with you?” Nanrong Qu turned around in alarm to look behind him. Laozi said, “Do you not understand what I mean?”

Nanrong Qu lowered his head in shame, then raised it and sighed. “Just now I forgot how I ought to answer, and so I also forgot what I had originally come to ask.”

Laozi asked, “What do you mean?”

Nanrong Qu said, “When I do not understand the Way, people call me foolish. When I understand a little of it, I worry about my own situation. If I do not practice benevolence and righteousness, I harm others; if I strive to practice benevolence and righteousness, I end up troubling myself.”

“If I act against what is right, I will harm others; if I act in accordance with what is right, I will bring sorrow upon myself. How can I escape this predicament? These three statements are what trouble me. Please let me ask your advice through this matter.”

Laozi said, “Earlier, I saw a hint in your eyes and expression, and so understood what was on your mind. Now you have spoken it aloud, which confirms what I saw. You look so constrained, as if you had lost your parents, holding a bamboo pole and searching for something in the sea. You seem utterly lost and bewildered. You want to return to your own nature, but cannot find the way. It is truly pitiable.”

Nang Rong Cun felt ashamed and asked to be admitted, hoping to meet Laozi. He gathered what he liked and cast aside what he disliked, spent ten days alone in anxious reflection, and then went to see Laozi.

Laozi said, “You look as though you have been washed in wine: fresh and full of life. Yet deep inside, there is still a trace of unease. You must not pursue and seize external things without restraint; nor must you try to suppress and drive away the fixations in your heart. Neither inner nor outer attachments can be completely mastered even by virtue, let alone by someone who acts against the Great Dao.”

Nang Rong Cun said, “When someone in the village falls ill, others go to ask after them, and the sick person can describe their illness. Someone who can describe their illness may not yet be entirely overcome by it. When I heard of the Great Dao, it was like taking medicine that only made my illness worse. I hope only to hear how to nourish life.”

Laozi said, “The essentials of nourishing life are these: Can you hold fast to your pure and undivided heart without losing it? Can you understand good and ill fortune without relying on divination? Can you know when enough is enough? Can you cease making unreasonable demands? Can you let go of seeking from others and instead seek within yourself? Can you remain naturally light and unburdened? Can you be still, tranquil, and at ease? Can you be like an infant?

“An infant cries all day without making its voice hoarse because its breath is perfectly harmonious. It clenches its fists all day without its hands becoming stiff because its inborn nature remains whole. It keeps its eyes open all day without its gaze wandering because its spirit does not scatter outward.”

To wander without purpose, not knowing where one is going; to settle in one place without moving, not knowing what one is doing. To follow the transformations of the myriad things and rise and fall with the currents of the world: this is the key to preserving life.

Nanrong Qu asked, “Is this the Virtue of the perfected person?” The reply was, “Not yet. This is only like ice melting and snow dissolving: constraints and obstructions have been dispelled. The perfected person lives alongside all things in the world, making use of one another and sharing in what comes naturally. He does not let the gains and harms between people and things disturb him, does not join with others to do strange deeds, does not scheme or calculate against them, and does not cling to doing things together. He departs freely and returns freely. This is the key to preserving life.”

Nanrong Qu asked again, “Does this reach the highest state?” The reply was, “Not yet. Have I not told you to be like an infant? An infant moves without knowing what it is doing and walks without knowing where it is going. Its body is like the branch of a dead tree, and its heart like extinguished ashes. When you reach this state, misfortune will not seek you out, and good fortune will not come to you by design. When neither misfortune nor good fortune is a concern, what trouble could come from outside?”

“One whose heart is calm and steadfast reveals the light bestowed by Heaven. When this light shines forth, others can see it. Only through constant self-cultivation can one truly acquire constancy of character. With constancy of character, people will gather around you, and Heaven will aid you. One whom people gather around is called a ‘person of Heaven’; one whom Heaven aids is called a ‘Son of Heaven.’”

“Those who study should study what they cannot accomplish through their own abilities; those who practice should practice what they cannot accomplish through their own strength; those who debate should discern what words cannot make clear. To know where to stop, at the limits of what one can know, is to reach the utmost. Otherwise, one will be undone by the balancing measure of the Dao of Heaven.”

“Make the various things complete in order to nourish the body; keep the unforeseeable within the heart in order to preserve the spirit. Only by being inwardly reverent and focused can you reach what lies outside you. If, despite doing all this, you encounter many misfortunes, they are due to fate bestowed by Heaven, not to human error. They are no reason to disturb your cultivation, nor should you let them enter the depths of your heart. The ‘numinous terrace’ is the heart’s holding to something without clinging to what it holds, and without being ruled by things outside it.”

“If you cannot see your true self clearly, your thoughts will arise and often lead you astray. Once old habits have taken hold and you refuse to let them go, you will repeat your mistakes. If you do wrong in full view of others, people will punish you; if you do wrong in dark and hidden places, spirits will punish you.”

Only when a person understands the affairs of the human world and those of ghosts and spirits can they act alone in peace. “Within the tally” refers to being within the range of what people can see. If someone does wrong in full view of others, people will punish them; if they do wrong in secret, ghosts and spirits will punish them. Only by understanding the principles of both the human world and the realm of ghosts and spirits can one act alone.

Those who are “within the tally” act without seeking a reputation; those who are “beyond the tally” devote themselves to pursuing profit and advantage. People who act without seeking a reputation often reveal their brilliance naturally. Those who devote themselves to pursuing profit and advantage are like merchants, always displaying their intentions before others. Seeing their single-mindedness, people find them conspicuous and attention-grabbing.

When people struggle to the bitter end against external things, those things seize the chance to invade them. Those who blindly accommodate external things cannot even settle their own body and mind—how could they make room for anyone else? Those who cannot make room for others have no close companions; without close companions, they lose the people around them. The greatest calamity is the urge to win within the heart; schemes and calculations in the outside world are comparatively minor. The greatest calamity is the harm brought by the changes of Yin and Yang. No one can escape the world between Heaven and Earth. Yet what truly harms people is not Yin and Yang, but their own hearts, which invite that harm.

The Dao runs through all things. When things become distinct, they take form; once they take form, they are also subject to destruction. People dislike distinctions because they make things seem complete and fixed. They dislike this fixity because it leads them to believe that things each have definite boundaries. Thus, once someone departs from the root and does not return, it is like encountering a ghost. To gain something after departing is, in effect, to move toward death. When the body disappears but its substance remains, that too is the condition of a ghost. By relying on what has form, people can infer what is formless, and use that inference to settle their understanding.

The Dao comes forth without a root and enters without an opening. It truly exists, yet has no fixed location; it endures without end, yet has no identifiable beginning or conclusion. It gives life and takes life, emerges and enters, yet no form can be seen in its coming and going. This is called the “Gate of Heaven.” The “Gate of Heaven” is Nonbeing. All things arise from Nonbeing; what has form cannot become Being through itself alone, but must have its source in Nonbeing. Yet Nonbeing itself must not be treated as some kind of actual thing. The sages lodge their hearts in this principle.

The understanding of the ancients reached an exceedingly high level. How high? Some held that, at the beginning, things had not yet begun to exist. This was the utmost point of understanding, beyond which there was nothing more.

Next, some say that things truly exist, and so they regard life as a loss and death as a return, believing that life and death are distinct. Others say that things have never existed at all. This view has reached the utmost; nothing can surpass it.

Next, some say that things did not exist at first, but that life came later. No sooner does life appear than it moves toward death. They take nothingness as the beginning, life as the formed body, and death as the corpse. Who can understand that being and nonbeing, life and death, are originally one and the same, and hold fast to this understanding? I would gladly be friends with such a person.

These three claims differ, yet they all belong to the same lineage. It is like the Zhao and Jing clans among the ruling house: each has its own name and fief, but in the end they do not belong to the same family. The appearance of life is like placing something in storage, while things themselves remain exposed and change from day to day. People have spoken of this change, but change itself cannot be fully expressed in words. Even so, there are things within it that cannot be known.

Among the offerings presented at the La sacrifice, some can be divided up and some cannot. Someone inspecting a house might walk through the bedrooms and ancestral temple; must they also go and inspect the latrine? This, too, may be called an account of how judgments of right and wrong continually change. Let us speak for now of this change: people take life as their foundation and knowledge as their standard, using them to respond to right and wrong and then to determine names and facts. They also make themselves their point of reference, asking others to accept the boundaries they have drawn, and even stake their lives on defending their claims.

Such people take usefulness for cleverness and uselessness for stupidity, regard success as glory and hardship as disgrace. Their constant shifts in judging right and wrong are the ordinary way of people today, like cicadas and young doves, each confined within the same narrow understanding.

If you step on the foot of someone in the marketplace, you apologize, saying it was an accidental jostling. If you step on your elder brother’s foot, you soothe him gently. If you step on your parents’ feet, little needs to be said: affection will naturally prevail. Thus the highest ritual does not cling to ritual forms; the highest righteousness is not constrained by external things; the highest wisdom does not depend on scheming; the highest benevolence does not fixate on degrees of closeness; and the highest trust does not rely on money as a guarantee.

To bring the mind and will into openness, one must loosen the knots within the heart, remove the burdens laid upon De (Virtue), and clear the obstructions along the Great Dao (the Way). The six pursuits of wealth, status, authority, fame, and gain—along with one other—disorder the mind and will; appearance, movement, expression, demeanor, breath, and thought entangle the heart; aversion, desire, affection, anger, grief, and joy burden De; and choosing and rejecting, giving, taking, knowledge, and skill obstruct the Great Dao.

When these four conditions do not disturb the heart, the inner mind can be brought into alignment. Once aligned, it becomes calm; once calm, it becomes clear; once clear, it becomes empty and still. Appearance, movement, expression, speech, breath, and intention—these six things can all disturb the original mind. Greed, joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure—the six emotions—can damage De (Virtue/Power). Entering public service or withdrawing, taking or giving, cleverness and ability—the six distinctions—can obstruct the Dao (the Way). When such things do not disturb the heart, the inner mind becomes aligned, calm, clear, empty, and still. After becoming empty and still, one can act in accordance with nature: this appears to be Wuwei (non-action), yet nothing remains unaccomplished.

The Dao is the root that De honors; life is the radiance through which De is revealed; nature is the substance of life. When nature stirs into action, this is called “doing.” Doing that is deliberately contrived is called “artifice”: it departs from one’s nature. “Meeting” means coming into contact with external things; “knowing” means calculating and planning. To use knowledge to guess at what one does not know is like peering sideways: in the end, one cannot see clearly.

Action that arises from necessity is called De; action untouched by self-interest is called good governance. Their names may seem opposed, but their underlying principle is the same. Yi, the legendary archer, was skilled at hitting minute targets, but not at preventing others from praising him. The sage is skilled at following the Way of Heaven, but not at catering to worldly customs. Only one who is whole and fully attuned can follow the Way of Heaven without being constrained by the world.

An insect can follow its own nature and thereby follow nature itself. One who is whole and fully attuned does not use human contrivance to alter natural dispositions, nor mistake human arrangements for the Way of Heaven. How much less would such a person try to distinguish which is “my nature” and which is “human contrivance”? If a sparrow flies within Yi’s range, he can certainly hit it; that is a matter of skill. But if the whole world were a net, no sparrow could escape. King Tang recruited Yi Yin when he was working as a cook, and Duke Mu of Qin recruited Baili Xi with five sheepskins. These examples show that no one can be easily won over unless one approaches them in a way that accords with what they cherish.

A person who has suffered amputation does not care about praise or blame from others, even when wearing fine clothes. The convict Xu Mi climbed to a high place without fear because he had already set life and death aside. To forget others’ judgments and forget life and death in this way is to act in accordance with nature. Thus, when others respect such a person, they do not rejoice; when others insult them, they do not become angry. Only those whose inner harmony accords with nature can be like this.

If anger appears while the mind remains ungoverned by anger, that anger arises from “non-anger.” If one acts without clinging to contrivance, that action arises from “non-action.” To become calm, harmonize the breath; to settle the spirit, follow the original mind. If you act and wish to act appropriately, follow the circumstances that make action necessary. Acting in accordance with necessity is the way of the sage.

Xu Wugui was introduced to Marquis Wu of Wei by Nü Shang. Marquis Wu greeted him with concern: “You must be ill, sir. Life in the mountains and forests has worn you down, so you were willing to come and see me.”

Xu Wugui said, “I am the one who worries for you. What is there about you that calls for my concern? If you give yourself over to your desires and intensify your likes and dislikes, your inborn nature will be harmed. If you deliberately suppress your desires and train yourself to control your likes and dislikes, your eyes and ears will be burdened. I have come to worry for you. What is there about me that calls for your concern?”

Marquis Wu looked troubled and did not reply. After a while, Xu Wugui said, “I once told you that I am good at observing dogs. A dog of the lowest sort cares only about eating its fill and stopping there; its nature is like that of a wildcat. A dog of the middle sort seems to be keeping watch for something. A dog of the highest sort appears to have nothing on its mind.

“But observing dogs is not as good as observing horses. When I look at horses, those whose straight lines match the ink line, whose curves match the hook and ruler, whose squares match the carpenter’s square, and whose circles match the compass are considered fine state horses. Yet they still fall short of the finest horses in the world. The world’s finest horses are born with extraordinary gifts. They look as though they are worried and dejected, as though they have lost something. When they run, they race beyond the herd and vanish in a cloud of dust. No one knows where they will finally run to.”

Marquis Wu was delighted. He laughed aloud. After Xu Wugui left, Nü Shang asked, “What did you say that pleased the ruler so much? When I try to persuade him, I speak of the Book of Songs, the Documents, the Rites, and Music, and when I approach him from another direction, I speak of military texts such as the Golden Tablet and the Six Stratagems. I have served him and earned countless merits, yet he has never once smiled because of it. What did you say to make him so happy?”

Xu Wugui said, “I simply told him directly how I observe dogs and horses.” Nü Shang said, “So that was it?”

“Have you not heard the story of the people of Yue who were exiled from their homeland? After a few days away, they were delighted to see someone they knew. After ten days or half a month away, they were pleased to see someone they had once seen in their homeland. After a year away, they were pleased to see someone who merely looked like a person from home. Does this not show that the longer people are separated from home, the deeper their longing becomes?

“Those who flee into a desolate wilderness stop in their tracks when they see plants and flowers standing beside a path where weasels pass, and pause in an open space. When they hear the rumble of human footsteps, they are overjoyed. How much more so when brothers and relatives come to them bearing food and wine! It has been a long time since the words of a True Person came to regulate the atmosphere around our ruler and his ministers.

“Xu Wugui paid a visit to Marquis Wu of Wei. The marquis said, ‘You live in the mountains and forests, eating taro and chestnuts and tiring of onions and leeks, yet you have been slow to come see me. Have you come now because you are old and want to taste wine and meat? Or do you think I can bring you blessings for the state?’

“Xu Wugui said, ‘I come from humble circumstances and have never dared to eat a ruler’s food or drink a ruler’s wine. I have come this time to make Your Lordship weary in mind and body.’ The marquis asked, ‘Why? What do you want me to trouble myself over? Can I really bring you blessings for the state?’

“Xu Wugui said, ‘I come from humble circumstances and have never dared to eat a ruler’s food or drink a ruler’s wine. I have come this time to make Your Lordship weary in mind and body.’ The marquis asked, ‘Why? What do you want me to trouble myself over?’ Xu Wugui replied, ‘I want Your Lordship’s spirit and body alike to be worn out.’

“The marquis asked, ‘What do you mean?’ Xu Wugui said, ‘Heaven and Earth nurture the myriad things according to the same principles. Being in a high position does not make one noble, nor does being in a low position make one base. Yet Your Lordship, as ruler of a great state, makes the people suffer throughout the land to satisfy your desires of ear, eye, nose, and mouth. The human spirit cannot be at ease with such conduct. The spirit delights in harmony and recoils from what is perverse. Perversion brings misfortune; that is why I say this will wear Your Lordship out. What, then, is it that Your Lordship is worried about?’

“The marquis said, ‘For a long time I have wanted to meet you. I wish to care for the people, practice benevolence and righteousness, and put an end to warfare. Can this be done?’ Xu Wugui replied, ‘No. Caring for the people is precisely where harming them begins. Putting an end to warfare in the name of benevolence and righteousness may instead become the root of making war. If Your Lordship begins with these measures, I fear you will not succeed. Whatever is deliberately done to secure a good name often becomes an instrument of wrongdoing. Even if Your Lordship practices benevolence and righteousness, you will scarcely avoid falling into hypocrisy. One form gives rise to another; accomplishing something inevitably brings boasting, and change itself is the beginning of outward conflict.’”

Using “benevolence and righteousness” as a means to end war is precisely what creates the roots of war. If a ruler begins from this point, success will likely remain out of reach. Whatever is deliberately done to win a fine reputation often turns into a tool of harm. Even when a ruler acts under the banner of benevolence and righteousness, it is almost certain to be hypocrisy. Forms naturally give rise to new forms; once things take shape, they attack one another, and change naturally brings conflict into the world.

A ruler should not line up flocks of cranes on splendid terraces, nor gather great herds of horses in ancestral halls and palaces. He should not conceal practices that go against nature among his possessions, nor use cleverness, schemes, or war to prevail over others. What good is there in the wars waged by those who kill the people and seize other states’ lands to satisfy their private desires and spiritual pleasures? What meaning is there in victory? If a ruler truly cannot cease from acting, he should cultivate sincerity within and follow the principles of Heaven and Earth, rather than oppose them. Once the people have been freed from strife, what more can a ruler say about “ending war”?

The Yellow Emperor was preparing to visit the perfected being Da Kui at Mount Juci. Fang Ming drove the carriage, while Chang Yu rode beside him. Zhang Ruo and Xi Peng walked ahead of the horses; Kun He and Hua Ji followed behind the carriage. When they reached the outskirts of Xiangcheng, the seven sages accompanying him all lost their way, and none knew whom to ask for directions. Just then they met a young shepherd and asked him, “Do you know where Mount Juci is?” The boy said, “I do.” “Do you know where Da Kui lives?” The boy said, “I do.”

The Yellow Emperor exclaimed, “This boy is extraordinary! Not only does he know where Mount Juci is, he also knows where Da Kui lives. May I ask how one should govern the world?” The boy replied, “Governing the world is probably no more than this. What else is there to do? When I was young, I roamed among the four directions under Heaven and Earth. Later, by chance, I developed an eye ailment, and an elder taught me, ‘Ride in the sun’s chariot and travel through the outskirts of Xiangcheng.’ Now my illness has eased somewhat, and I am going to travel beyond Heaven and Earth. Governing the world is probably no more than this. What else is there for me to do?”

The Yellow Emperor said, “Governing the world is indeed not something you should have to worry about. Still, please tell me about it.” The boy declined to answer, but the Yellow Emperor continued to press him.

The boy said, “Governing the world is no different from tending horses. One need only remove whatever harms them.” The Yellow Emperor bowed twice in respect, honored him as the Celestial Master, and withdrew.

Those who know much, if they have no changes in their thoughts to ponder, feel unhappy. Those skilled in argument, if they have no clearly ordered words to speak, also feel unhappy. Those skilled at scrutinizing details, if they have no matters to criticize and dispute, likewise feel unhappy. All of them are bound by external things.

Those who court people and cultivate ties at court take entering the court as a pleasure. Ordinary scholars take official rank and honor as a pleasure. The strong take pride in overcoming hardship. The brave take pleasure in straining themselves to face calamity. Those engaged in military affairs take pleasure in battle. Those who live austerely and keep to themselves take lasting fame as a pleasure. Those who prize the law take expanding their governance as a pleasure. Those who prize ritual instruction take care over their appearance as a pleasure. Those who prize benevolence and righteousness take valuing social ties as a pleasure. If farmers had no weeds to clear and fields to till, they would have no way to draw close to the land. If merchants had no markets in which to trade, they would have no way to conduct their business. People work diligently because they have tasks to do from morning until night. Craftspeople display their skill because they have tools and techniques. When wealth is not plentiful, the greedy grow anxious; when power is not prominent enough, those who like to boast grow sad. Those who pursue power and external things delight in change. When an opportunity arises, they act; they cannot practice Wuwei (non-action). They all act in step with the times, living by attaching themselves to the changes of external things. They indulge body and mind and become absorbed in the myriad things. For their whole lives, they cannot return to their original nature. How sad.

Zhuangzi said, “If an archer shoots without first taking aim and still hits the mark, that is called great skill in archery. If so, would everyone under Heaven not become Hou Yi, the legendary archer? Does that make sense?” Hui Shi said, “It does.” Zhuangzi continued, “Under Heaven there is no universally accepted standard of right and wrong. Each person takes whatever they themselves deem right to be right. If so, would everyone under Heaven not become Yao, the legendary sage ruler? Does that make sense?” Hui Shi said, “It does.” Zhuangzi said, “Then among the Ruists, the Mohists, Yang Zhu, Bing (whose identity here is uncertain), and you, sir, five schools in all, which one is right? Or is it like Lu Ju’s case? His disciple said, ‘I have grasped your Way, Master. In winter I can boil water in a cauldron, and in summer I can make ice.’ Lu Ju said, ‘That is merely using Yang Qi to summon Yang Qi and Yin Qi to summon Yin Qi. It is not the Way I speak of.’”

“I will explain my Dao (the Way) to you.” Zhuangzi then tuned a zither for Huizi. He plucked one string in the hall, then another inside the room. He played the gong note, and the gong note answered and stirred; he played the jue note, and the jue note answered too. This was because the notes shared the same pitch. If he shifted the pitch of one string just a little, so that it no longer matched the five notes, then when he played it, all twenty-five strings would vibrate together. The sound itself had not changed, yet the source that governed all the sounds had become apparent. Is that more or less how it is?

Huizi said, “Now the Confucians, the Mohists, the followers of Yang Zhu, and the school of Bing are all about to debate with me. They clash with one another in words and try to overwhelm one another with their force, yet they have never managed to make me admit defeat. What should I make of that?”

Zhuangzi said, “A man from Qi left his child in Song. The child’s fate was bound up with his own, yet he could not keep the child safe. He wanted a bowl or a bell, but was held back. He wanted Tangzi, yet never left the border. There are some similarities here. A man from Chu was lodging abroad, carrying a small box. In the middle of the night, when no one was around, he quarreled with the boatman. Though he had not left the foot of the mountain, he had already invited resentment.”

As Zhuangzi passed Huizi’s tomb in a funeral procession, he turned to his attendants and said, “There was a man from Ying with a speck of white clay on the tip of his nose, thin as a fly’s wing. He asked the craftsman Shi to cut it off. Shi swung his axe, sending a gust of wind with the blade, and, guided by its sound, struck the clay clean away without so much as nicking the man’s nose. The man from Ying stood perfectly still, his expression unchanged. When Duke Yuan of Song heard of this, he summoned Craftsman Shi and said, ‘Do it for me too.’ Shi replied, ‘I truly could do that once. But the man who worked with me has been dead for a long time. Since your lordship passed away, I have had no one to work with, and no one with whom I can converse.’”

When Guan Zhong fell gravely ill, Duke Huan of Qi asked him, “Your illness has become very serious, Father Zhong. I cannot avoid asking: if it grows worse, whom should I entrust with the state?” Guan Zhong asked, “Whom do you have in mind?” Duke Huan said, “Bao Shuya.” Guan Zhong said, “That will not do. He is upright and a good man, but he does not associate with those who are beneath him. And when he hears of another person’s faults, he remembers them for the rest of his life. If he governs the state, he will constrain the ruler above him and oppose the people below him. He will offend the ruler and, I fear, quickly meet with disaster.”

The lord asked, “Then whom can we appoint?” The reply was, “If there truly is no one else, appoint Yang Peng. In the way he deals with people, when he is in a position of power he ensnares the ruler, and when he is below he defies the people. He will not offend the ruler for long before punishment catches up with him.”

The lord asked again, “Then whom can we appoint?” The reply was, “If there truly is no one else, appoint Yang Peng. When he is in a position of power, he disregards the ruler; when he is below, he turns his back on the people. He is ashamed that he is not the equal of the Yellow Emperor, and he pities those who are inferior to himself. To share one’s virtue with others is called being a sage; to share one’s wealth with others is called being a worthy person. Those who use their worthiness to put themselves above others can never truly win people’s hearts. Those who use their worthiness to place themselves humbly beneath others can always win people’s hearts. His name is not prominent in the state, and at home he draws no attention either. If there truly is no one else, appoint Di Peng.”

King Hao was sailing along the Yangtze River when he climbed Mount Ju, where apes roamed. When the apes saw him, they panicked and fled in all directions, hiding deep in the thick grass. Only one ape calmly swung from branch to branch and showed off its skill before the king. King Hao shot an arrow at it, and the ape nimbly caught the arrow in flight. The king ordered his attendants to join in shooting at it, and at last the ape was killed. Turning to his friend Yan Buyi, King Hao said, “That ape showed off its skill, relied on its agility, and treated me with arrogance. That is why it met this end. Take it as a warning! Ah, do not look down on others through your bearing and expression.” Yan Buyi returned home, took Dong Wu as his teacher, curbed his pride, gave up pleasure, and stopped seeking advancement. Three years later, everyone in the state praised him.

Nanbo Zijing was leaning against a table, his head tilted back as he sighed toward the sky. Yancheng Ziyou came in and saw him. “Sir, you are truly extraordinary. Your body may indeed resemble dry, withered bones…”

Nanbo Zijing was leaning against a table, sitting with his head tilted back as he sighed toward the sky. Yan Chengzi came in and, seeing him, said, “Sir, you truly are an extraordinary person. How can your body be like dry bones, and your mind like cooled ashes?”

Nanbo Zijing said, “I once lived in a mountain cave. At that time, Tian He merely glanced at me, and the people of Qi repeatedly came to congratulate me. I must have shown something first for them to understand my condition; I must have acted as though I had something to sell for them to regard me as worthy of sacrifice. If I had not shown that I had something to rely on, how would they have known? If I had not shown that I wanted something, how would they have brought offerings to sacrifice to me? Alas, I grieve for those who have lost themselves; then I grieve for those who feel compassion for others; and later, I grieve for those who feel compassion for the compassionate. From then on, this endless pursuit can only lead farther and farther from the Dao.”

When Confucius went to Chu, the king of Chu hosted a banquet for him. Sun Shuao stood nearby holding a cup, while Shinan Yiliao accepted the wine and performed the offering rite. He said, “The sages of antiquity—today, here, they have spoken the Way.” Confucius said, “I have heard of speaking without using words, though I have never spoken it myself. Today, here, I shall speak of it. Shinan Yiliao played with pellets and brought the fighting between two families to an end; Sun Shuao slept peacefully, holding a feather fan, and the people of Ying laid down their weapons. I wish I had a three-foot-long mouth, so I could make this principle clear.”

What people call “the Way without a Way,” and what is called here “debate without words,” both point to the same principle: Virtue returns to the foundation unified by the Dao, while speech should stop where knowledge can go no further. This is the highest attainment. The foundation unified by the Dao cannot be fully equated with Virtue; what knowledge cannot know cannot be made clear through debate. To cling to disputes over names, as the Confucians and Mohists did, invites misfortune.

The sea, then, becomes vast because it refuses no small stream. The sage embraces Heaven and Earth and extends his grace throughout the world, yet does not let people know whom he belongs to. Thus, while alive he seeks no rank, and after death he leaves no hoarded wealth. He does not accumulate material gain or establish a reputation. This is what is meant by “a great person.” A dog is not a good dog simply because it barks well, and a person is not worthy simply because they speak well—how much less can eloquence make someone great?

A dog is not regarded as a good dog merely because it barks sweetly, and a person is not regarded as a sage merely because they speak persuasively. How much less so those whose reputations are renowned? Having the title of “great” does not mean one is truly great, much less that one possesses De.

Nothing is more complete than Heaven and Earth. What do Heaven and Earth need to pursue in order to be complete? One who understands true completeness neither pursues nor loses, neither abandons nor trades away their nature for external things. They turn their gaze inward without becoming trapped, and follow the ancient Dao without deliberate embellishment. This is the sincerity of a great person.

Zijing had eight sons. He summoned them one by one and asked Jiufang Tan to read their fortunes: “Which one has the best prospects?” Jiufang Tan replied, “Kun.” Delighted and surprised, Zijing asked, “What do you mean?” Jiufang Tan answered, “Kun will one day dine at the ruler’s table, and will do so for the rest of his life.” Hearing this, Zijing grew despondent and wept. “How could my son come to such a pass?” he said. Jiufang Tan replied, “To dine with the ruler brings blessings that will extend to three generations of your family—how much more to his parents! Yet you weep at the news. You are refusing good fortune. The child is blessed, while the father is ill-fated.”

Zijing said, “Jiufang Tan, how can you tell that Kun is blessed? Food and wine may enter through the nose and mouth, but how can that tell us where they came from? I have never herded livestock for anyone, yet cattle and sheep give birth in the corner of my house. I have never enjoyed hunting, yet quail appear in my courtyard. If I do not find this strange, then what should I find strange? In raising my child, what I seek is to roam together with Heaven and Earth. He and I share the joy Heaven grants and partake of the food Earth provides. I do not make him busy with worldly affairs, teach him to scheme and calculate, or lead him in pursuit of the unusual. He and I follow the true nature of Heaven and Earth, letting nothing external constrain us. We simply move at ease with change, without conforming to what the world says we ought to do.

“Now, though, he is to receive the rewards promised by the world. Strange omens are often followed by strange outcomes. Alas, perhaps this is neither my fault nor my child’s; I fear it is Heaven’s will. That is why I weep.”

Before long, Kun was sent to the state of Yan and was abducted along the way. It would be difficult for him to survive with his body whole and intact; better to cut off his feet now, which would make survival easier. Besides, according to worldly custom, he could receive compensation for it. Anyone who shows extraordinary signs must have extraordinary conduct. Alas, perhaps neither you nor I are to blame; perhaps it was Heaven’s doing. At this, I wept.

Before long, Kun was sent to the state of Yan and was abducted along the way. It would be difficult for him to survive with his body whole and intact; better to cut off his feet, which would make survival easier. So his feet were cut off, yet in the state of Qi he was treated with honor. He happened to pass through Qu Gong’s street and, in the end, lived out his days dressed in fine clothes and enjoying fine food.

Nie Que met Xu You, a recluse, and asked, “Where are you going?” Xu You said, “I’m going to flee from Yao.” Nie Que asked, “Why do you say that?” Xu You replied, “Yao strives to put benevolence into practice, and I fear he will be mocked by everyone under Heaven. Will people in later generations really devour one another because of this? The people are not hard to gather: care for them, and they will draw near; benefit them, and they will come; praise them, and they will be encouraged; expose them to what they detest, and they will scatter. Care and benefit are both said to come from benevolence and righteousness. Few abandon benevolence and righteousness, but many use them to pursue gain. The practice of benevolence and righteousness is often insincere; it has also become a means by which the greedy ensnare others. So the people are not hard to gather: care for them, and they will draw near; benefit them, and they will come; praise them, and they will be encouraged; expose them to what they detest, and they will scatter. Care and benefit are both said to come from benevolence and righteousness. Few abandon benevolence and righteousness, but many use them to pursue gain. The practice of benevolence and righteousness is often insincere; it has also become a means by which the greedy ensnare others. Thus, letting one person make decisions and control the benefits of all under Heaven is like judging things from a single glance. Yao knows that worthy people can benefit all under Heaven, but does not know that they may also harm it. Only those who stand outside the company of the worthy can see this.”

There are Nuansimei, content with narrow understanding and pleased with themselves; Ruxu, confined to a narrow situation; and Juanlou, whose name is listed here without explanation in the original. Nuansimei refers to someone who learns what a teacher says, then becomes self-satisfied and inwardly delighted, believing it is enough, without realizing that they have never truly understood the myriad things. That is why this is called “Nuansimei.”

People like Ruxu are like lice on a pig. They choose a sparse patch of bristles and imagine they live in a vast palace garden. In the crook between the pig’s hooves, or between its udder and thigh, they feel comfortable and at ease, inwardly pleased and convinced they have enough, without realizing that they have never truly understood the myriad things. The original also calls this condition “Nuansimei.”

Those who cling to a petty, makeshift existence, like the “Ruxu,” are lice on a pig. They choose places where the pig’s bristles are sparse and imagine they have settled in vast palaces and gardens. Hiding in the creases of its bent hooves, between its teats, and beside its legs, they think they have found a safe and comfortable home. They do not know that one day the butcher will wave his hand, spread out the straw, and raise a torch, and they will be burned along with the pig. These lice rise and fall with the pig’s fortunes. This is what is meant by “Ruxu.”

Those worn down by toil, like the “Juanlou,” are represented by Shun. Mutton does not seek out ants, but ants chase after mutton, because the meat gives off a scent. Shun had the De that draws people to him, and the people all delighted in him. So he moved three times, and wherever he went, a town gathered around him. By the time he reached the old site at Deng, there were already a hundred thousand households there. Hearing that Shun was worthy, Yao recommended him for a barren place like Tongtu, hoping he would bring his benefits there. When Shun was recommended out of the wilderness, he was already old, his keen hearing and clear sight had faded, yet he still could not retire. This is what is meant by “Juanlou.”

For this reason, the spirit-like person dislikes crowds gathering around him. When too many people come, it becomes difficult for them to be close to one another; when they are not close, it is difficult for things to go well. So one neither favors anyone in particular nor keeps anyone at a distance. One holds fast to De, nurtures a harmonious Qi, and thereby responds to all under Heaven. This is called being a True Person, one who has attained natural authenticity. One does not trouble oneself with counting ants, understands how fish live, and harbors no bias toward sheep. One sees what is before the eyes, hears sounds with the ears, and responds to things with the heart. In ordinary times, one is as straight as a carpenter’s line; amid change, one follows the course of things.

The True People of ancient times followed nature and did not impose human intentions upon it. When life came, they lived; when life departed, they died. Life could lead toward death, and the loss of life could give rise to renewed vitality. Medicinal plants are the same: things that are merely grasses and trees by nature, such as dongcao, jie geng, ji yong, and shi ling, can become precious depending on the time and their use. How could one ever finish describing such transformations?

King Goujian of Yue once led three thousand armored soldiers in retreat to Mount Kuaiji. Only Wen Zhong understood how the danger of a conquered state could turn into an opportunity to restore it, yet he did not understand why this left him burdened with sorrow. An old saying goes that a crow’s eyes have their proper use, and a crane’s legs have their proper length. To force them apart and alter their nature only brings grief.

It is also said that when wind passes over a river, it carries some things away; when the sun shines on a river, it too carries some things away. If wind and sun were to remain beside the river continually, while the river believed it had never been affected, that would be because the river has a source and its current never ceases.

Water flows close to the ground, so the boundaries where it parts and joins are clear. A shadow depends on the person it accompanies, so the relation between body and shadow is clear as well. Each thing depends on what is suited to it, and the principle is just as clear. People who single-mindedly pursue visual brightness are easily worn out; those who single-mindedly pursue keen hearing also begin to run into trouble. When the mind becomes absorbed in chasing external things, trouble begins there too. Those who try to exhaust all their resources in everything they do often fall into danger. Once danger takes hold, it is hard to undo. Calamities gather and grow deeper day by day. When they finally come to light, they may be turned into something beneficial, but the effects take a long time to appear. Yet people treat these things as treasures of their own. Is that not lamentable? The calamities of ruined states and slaughtered people follow one after another, yet people do not know to reflect on the principles behind them.

A person’s feet stand on the ground. The area they touch is limited, but it is precisely because there is ground beneath their feet that they have not yet stepped on that they can walk steadily and travel far. Human knowledge is limited, but it is precisely because we know there are things we do not know that we can go on to understand the principles of nature.

To understand the Great One, which unites all things; the Great Hidden, the hidden transformations of things; the Great View, which sees the whole; the Great Equality, the state in which all things are equal and one; the Great Vastness, the boundless expanse; the Great Truth, the fundamental and genuine principle; and the Great Stability, the state of being settled and unwavering: this is to attain exalted understanding. The Great One unites all things; the Great Hidden makes concealed principles clear; the Great View is for observing; the Great Equality brings all things into unity; the Great Vastness gives people a place to dwell; the Great Truth is for verifying; and the Great Stability enables people to remain steadfast.

Everything is contained within nature, and by following nature one can perceive what is there. Action must accord with what is essential for a true beginning to emerge. With this understanding, the dispersal and transformation of things seem to require no deliberate explanation; knowing things seems to involve no attachment to the pursuit of knowledge. Only by first acknowledging that we do not know can we truly come to know.

Inquiring into things requires neither setting fixed boundaries in advance nor refusing to distinguish boundaries altogether. The affairs of the world are diverse and changeable, yet they have a real basis. Past and present continually replace one another, yet there is a fundamental principle that cannot be diminished. Could this not be called a vast process of letting go and unfolding? Why not investigate the principle from here? Why remain confused? Use the principle of non-confusion to dispel confusion, and finally return to a state free of confusion: this is the greatest clarity.

While Zeyang was traveling in Chu, Yijie recommended him to the king, but the king did not receive him, so Yijie returned. Pengyang met Wangguo and asked, “Why didn’t you recommend me to the king of Chu?” Wangguo replied, “I am not as good as Gong Yuexiu.” Pengyang asked, “What does Gong Yuexiu do?” Wangguo said, “In winter, he goes alone to fish by the river; in summer, he rests in the mountain forests. When someone comes to visit, he says, ‘This is where I live.’ Yijie cannot manage even that. How could I? I am not as good as Yijie either.

“Yijie has no profound De, though he is somewhat clever. He does not consider himself especially wise, yet uses his cleverness to seem mysterious and unfathomable in his dealings with others. He is enamored of wealth and status. Rather than helping one another through De, he and others wear each other down. Those who suffer from the cold look forward to having clothes in spring; those who suffer from the heat, by contrast, wish for cool breezes in winter. The king of Chu is dignified and imposing. When punishing offenders, he is like a tiger and shows no mercy. Unless someone is skilled in persuasion and upright in De, who could change his mind?

“Thus, when a sage is in straitened circumstances, he can make his family forget their poverty; when he rises to prominence, he can make princes and nobles forget their rank and stipends and instead follow the Way of humility. With the myriad things, he delights in living among them. With people, he delights in allowing all things to flourish in their own way while remaining true to himself. Sometimes he need not speak, yet can bring peace to people’s hearts. Simply walking alongside others, he can transform them. When fathers and sons each settle into their proper roles, people naturally return to their proper place. As for what he has actually done, others often cannot say. His influence on people’s hearts reaches so deeply; that is why one says we must wait for Gong Yuexiu.

“The sage understands the intricate, closely woven connections among things and perceives the myriad things throughout as one, without being aware of how he does so. This is his inborn nature. He returns to his original nature, acts in accordance with what is natural, and takes Heaven’s Way as his teacher. People then follow him and call him a sage. If you are always troubled by the limits of what you know, and your actions often cannot be sustained for long, what can you do even if you wish to stop?”

Someone born with exceptional beauty will be shown their reflection in a mirror. If no one tells them, they will not know they are more beautiful than others. Whether they know it or not, whether they have heard it or not, their beauty remains lovable. People’s affection for them has no end: this is their nature.

The sage cares for the people, and the people praise him. If no one tells him, he will not know that he is loved. Whether he knows it or not, whether he has heard it or not, his care for the people does not cease. The people, too, remain at ease under his rule: this is their nature.

When people see their former homeland and its old capital, their hearts feel at ease. Even if hills now rise there and weeds and trees grow thick, nine out of ten people who enter still feel at ease. The dead can still be seen and heard by people; the living, meanwhile, are like someone standing atop a ten-ren-high platform, calling out to the crowd below.

Ranxiang Shi, a legendary worthy of antiquity, grasped the turning point in the transformations of things and acted in accord with change. Thus he dwelt among the myriad things without end or beginning, scarcely constrained by time. Each day he changed along with the myriad things, yet something in him remained constant. He had once let go of his attachment to change. He took the Way of Heaven as his teacher, yet could not truly model himself on it; instead, he rushed about in pursuit of the myriad things. What, then, could he accomplish by acting this way?

The sages never regard Heaven, humanity, beginnings, or the myriad things as fixed and unchanging. They have therefore let go of attachment. They act in accord with the affairs of the world, without becoming stuck; their actions are thorough and leave nothing obstructed. How, then, should one bring oneself into accord with them?

Tang of Shang received instruction in the Way from Men Yindeng Heng, a legendary worthy who served as an official in charge of chariots. Yindeng Heng studied under a teacher but was not bound by convention. Once he understood the principle of adapting to change, he took charge of naming things. Names and principles kept accumulating and changing, allowing things to be viewed from two sides. Confucius, too, carried his reflections to their utmost and then passed the Way on.

Rongcheng Min, a legendary worthy of antiquity, said, “Once distinctions between days are removed, there are no years; there is neither inside nor outside.”

Wei Ying, King Hui of Wei, and Tian Hou Mou, King Wei of Qi, made a treaty, but Tian Hou Mou broke it. Wei Ying was furious and planned to send someone to assassinate him. Xi Shou, an official title also used for Gongsun Yan, heard of this and thought it shameful. He said, “You are the ruler of a great state with ten thousand chariots, yet you think only of revenge like an ordinary person. Let me lead two hundred thousand armored soldiers to attack Qi for you, capture its people, and seize its cattle and horses, leaving the Qi king distressed and with sores on his back. Then we can take his state. After Tian Ji flees, I will hold him by the back and break his spine.”

Ji Zi heard this and found it disgraceful. He said, “Building a wall ten ren high, only to tear it down as soon as it is finished, is the worst torment for those forced into labor. Seven years without war are now the foundation of the king’s rule. Yan is unsettling people’s minds; his words should not be heeded.”

Hua Zi heard the argument too and thought it misguided. He said, “Those who think it is right to attack Qi are unsettling people’s minds. Those who think Qi should not be attacked are unsettling people’s minds as well. And those who say that both sides—those for attacking and those against it—are unsettling people’s minds are still unsettling people’s minds.”

The king asked, “Then what should I do?” Hua Zi replied, “Your Majesty need only seek what is right.”

When Hui Zi heard about this, he introduced Dai Jinren to the king. Dai Jinren asked, “Does Your Majesty know of an animal called the snail?” The king said, “I do.” Dai Jinren said, “On its left horn is a kingdom called Chu; on its right horn is another kingdom called Man. The two kingdoms often go to war over territory. The dead lie everywhere, and the defeated side is pursued for fifteen days before its forces withdraw.”

The king said, “Surely that must be made up?” Dai Jinren replied, “Allow me to show Your Majesty why it makes sense. Think about it: does space, extending in all directions, have boundaries?” The king said, “It has none.” Dai Jinren said, “Since you know that the mind can roam through the boundless universe, when you look back at this broad road, it seems both to exist and not to exist. Is that so?” The king said, “It is.” Dai Jinren continued, “The places this road reaches include the state of Wei; within Wei is the state of Liang; and within Liang is Your Majesty. What difference is there between Your Majesty and the kingdom of Man?” The king said, “None.”

After the visitor left, the king felt lost and dejected. Once he had gone, Hui Zi came to see the king. The king said, “That visitor is truly profound. Even calling him a sage would not do him justice.”

Hui Zi said, “When you blow a musical instrument, the sound still carries some resonance. But when you blow through a tiny hole in a sword ring, you produce no more than a faint sound. Yao and Shun are praised by the world; yet to speak at length about Yao and Shun before Dai Jinren is like blowing through a sword ring’s tiny hole: the sound is exceedingly faint.”

Confucius was on his way to Chu and lodged with a man in Ant Hill who sold fermented drink. At a neighbor’s house, a group of male and female servants climbed to a high place. Zilu asked, “What are all these people bustling about?” Confucius replied, “They are servants of a sage. The sage makes himself unseen among the crowd and hides his shadow behind others, like a reflection in water.”

Confucius was on his way to Chu and lodged with a man in Ant Hill who sold fermented drink. At a neighbor’s house, a group of male and female servants climbed to a high place. Zilu asked, “What are all these people bustling about?” Confucius replied, “They are servants of a sage. The sage makes himself unseen among the crowd and hides away in a remote place. His reputation fades, but his aspirations have no end. Though he speaks with his mouth, it is as if his heart never speaks. He goes against the ways of the world and inwardly disdains to follow them. This is what is called ‘sinking into the land’—living in the world yet seeming buried in the earth, hidden from view. Could that person be Nan Yi Liao of the Marketplace?”

Zilu asked to go and invite him. Confucius said, “Leave it. He knows that I value him, and he knows that I am on my way to Chu. He will certainly suppose that I mean to have the king of Chu summon him. He would take me for someone skilled in ingratiating himself. A man like him would feel ashamed even to hear the words of someone who curries favor, let alone meet such a person face to face. How could he possibly stay?” Zilu went to look and found that the man’s house was already empty.

The border guard at Changwu said to Zilao, “When you handle affairs of state, do not be careless; when you govern the people, do not be lax. In the past, I grew crops. When I farmed carelessly, the harvest repaid me carelessly. When I weeded carelessly, the harvest repaid me just as carelessly. Then, one year, I changed my ways: I plowed the soil deeply and weeded with care. The crops grew thickly, and I had more grain than I could eat throughout the year.”

Hearing this, Zhuangzi said, “People today who govern the body and nurture the heart do many things just as the border guard described. They turn away from their natural nature and their own inborn disposition, injure their feelings, and dissipate their spirit, doing everything as other people do. When one lets one’s nature be treated roughly, desires and aversions bring harm, and it grows thick like weeds and reeds. At first, these may seem to help the body; before long, they wound one’s nature, and the two sides break down and drain away together. They may flare up anywhere, eventually causing sores, scabies, and other ailments. Heat builds inside, while vital essence is scorched and depleted.”

Wu Ju went to study with Lao Cong and said, “Allow me to travel throughout the world.” Lao Cong replied, “Forget it. Everywhere in the world is the same.” Wu Ju asked again to set out. Lao Cong asked, “Where do you plan to begin?” Wu Ju answered, “With the state of Qi.”

When he arrived in Qi, Wu Ju saw a man who had been executed. He straightened the man’s body, then took off his court robe and covered him with it. Looking up at the sky, he cried, “Alas, you! The world holds many calamities, yet you were the first to meet one. Every day people steal and kill. Only after distinctions between honor and disgrace are established do people see what it means to be disgraced. Only after wealth has been amassed do they see what it means to fight over it. Now people have set up rules that make others suffer, and gathered wealth for people to fight over, leaving the common people in such distress that they have no time to catch their breath. Could anyone hope not to end up this way?”

In ancient times, those who ruled the people treated the people’s gains as their own gains, and the people’s losses as their own failings. They credited the people with what was right and took responsibility themselves for what went wrong. Thus, whenever someone lost their nature and suffered misfortune, the ruler would step back, reflect, and blame himself. Things are different now: rulers conceal the truth, leaving people confused and unable to make sense of things. They make tasks exceedingly difficult, then blame people for not daring to undertake them. They place heavy burdens on people, then punish them for being unable to bear them. They make journeys long, then punish those who fail to arrive on time. Knowing their strength is exhausted, the people resort to deceit. As falsehood grows day by day, how can the people and the scholars avoid following suit? When strength is lacking, people resort to trickery; when understanding is lacking, they deceive; when wealth is lacking, they steal. Whom, then, should we blame for theft?

Lian Boyu lived to the age of sixty, and in that time changed his views sixty times. He would first believe that something was right, then later discover that it was not. Yet he could not know whether what he considered right now might actually be what he had considered wrong at the age of fifty-nine. All things are alive, yet we cannot see their source. All things appear, yet we cannot see where they emerge from. People all esteem what they know, but they do not understand that only by admitting what they do not know can they go on to seek knowledge. Is this not a profound confusion? Enough, enough. Since we are caught up in it, where could we escape to? Is it said, “So it is”? Is it truly so?

Zhongni (Confucius) asked the Grand Historian Daqiang, Bo Changqian, and Xiwei: “Duke Ling of Wei was addicted to drinking and pleasure and neglected the affairs of state. Doesn’t that count as foolishness? Enough, enough—there is nowhere to flee at this moment. Is that really how things are?”

Zhongni then asked them: “Duke Ling of Wei drank and made merry, neglected state affairs, hunted and shot birds, and did not respond to the exchanges among the feudal lords. Why, then, was he still called ‘Duke Ling’?”

Daqiang said: “There was a reason he received that title.”

Bo Changqian said: “Duke Ling had three consorts, who once bathed together in the same tub. Shi Qi served the duke, presented him with gifts, and supported and attended him while carrying ceremonial offerings. The duke treated his consorts with such disrespect, yet showed such reverence toward worthy men. That is why he was called Duke Ling.”

Xiwei said: “After Duke Ling died, divination was performed to determine whether he should be buried in the ancestral cemetery, but the result was inauspicious. They then divined about using Shaqiu as his burial site, and the omen was auspicious. They dug down several yards and unexpectedly uncovered a stone coffin. After washing it clean and examining it, they found an inscription carved on it: ‘With no son of his own to rely on, Duke Ling seized this place and buried me here.’ Duke Ling had been called ‘Duke Ling’ for a long time already. How could those two men possibly understand him?”

Shaozhi asked Taigong Diao: “What is meant by ‘the words of the village mound’?”

Taigong Diao replied: “They dug up a stone coffin and, after washing it clean and examining it, found an inscription carved on it: ‘With no son of his own to rely on, Duke Ling seized this place and buried me here.’ Duke Ling had been called ‘Duke Ling’ for a long time already. How could those two men possibly understand him?”

Shao Zhi asked Taigong Diao, “What is meant by ‘the speech of the village hills’?”

Taigong Diao said, “The ‘village hills’ means bringing together people with many different surnames and names to form shared customs. It can also mean distinguishing things that are alike by showing how they differ. For example, if you point out the various parts of a horse but do not consider them together, you will not recognize it as a horse. Only when you view those parts as a whole do you call it a horse.

“Low mounds of earth and stone accumulate to form high mountains; rivers gather many waters and become broad. A great person—one with De and position—must accommodate and unite many people in order to achieve fairness. When things from outside enter you, you should have a guiding center without becoming rigid. When your inner thoughts are expressed, they should accord with reason without rejecting others.

“The seasons each have their own climate, and Heaven does not favor any one season in its giving; this is how the year becomes complete. The various offices have different duties, and the ruler shows no favoritism; this is how the state is governed. Civil officials, military generals, and people of De each fulfill their roles without relying on special favor from the ruler; this is how De becomes complete. The myriad things each have their own patterns, and the Dao shows no favoritism, so it has no fixed name. Without a fixed name, it does not act deliberately; though it does not act deliberately, nothing remains unaccomplished.

“The sequence of time has an end and a beginning, while the affairs of the world are constantly changing. Good and ill fortune alternate in confusion; some things may seem contrary yet be fitting to the moment. People pursue different aims, and what one person regards as proper may seem misguided to another. It is like a vast marsh where all kinds of goods can pass through, or a great mountain where trees and stones stand together. This is what is meant by ‘the speech of the village hills.’”

Shao Zhi asked, “Then is this enough to be called the Dao?”

Taigong Diao replied, “Not yet. What I have just described is only ‘the speech of the village hills.’ If we count the things in the world, there are far more than ten thousand, yet we call them all ‘the myriad things.’ We simply use a term for great number to refer to them. Heaven and Earth are the largest of physical forms, Yin-Yang are the greatest of the kinds of Qi, and the Dao is the common root that encompasses them. It is acceptable to name and describe things according to their vastness. But once these names exist, how can they be compared with the Dao? To argue in these terms is like comparing dogs and horses: the gap is enormous.”

Shao Zhi asked, “Where do the myriad things within the four directions and the Six Realms—the four quarters above and below—come from?”

Taigong Diao replied, “Yin and Yang reflect, cover, and regulate one another. The four seasons replace one another, bringing about growth and also decline. Desires and aversions, rejection and attraction, arise in turn from this, as do the unions of female and male.”

Security and danger transform into one another; calamity and good fortune depend on each other; slowness and haste rub against each other; and gathering and dispersal arise from this. These are names and realities (the names of things and their actual conditions) that can be recorded, and they can also be understood through their subtle aspects. Things harmonize with one another in their proper order and interact through their movement. Thus desire and aversion, taking and relinquishing arise; Yin and Yang also join, and the myriad things are able to grow.

Security and danger transform into each other; calamity and good fortune depend on each other; slowness and haste interact; and gathering and dispersal arise from this. These names and realities can be recorded, and their subtle aspects can also be understood. Things harmonize with one another according to their order, moving through change and acting upon one another. When they reach an extreme, they turn back; after an end, a new beginning comes. This is the shared pattern of the myriad things. What words can fully express and knowledge can reach amounts to no more than things themselves. Those who understand the Great Dao do not change along with things as they decline, nor do they ask how things first came into being. Discussion should stop here.

Shaozhi asked, “Weizhen says, ‘No ruler is at work’; Jiezi says, ‘Some force is driving things forward.’ Which of these two views better accords with reality, and which is more one-sided?”

Taigong Diao replied, “The crowing of chickens and the barking of dogs are familiar to everyone. Yet even people of great wisdom cannot explain in words why they happen spontaneously, or know in advance, by the power of the mind, what they will do. Examine this matter closely: its subtlety is beyond comparison, and its breadth cannot be encompassed. Whether one says that some force drives things forward or that no ruler acts, as long as one has not transcended the myriad things, one is bound to err in the end. To say that something drives them forward is to treat it as truly existent; to say that nothing acts is to regard it as empty. Having names and realities is the condition in which the myriad things settle into existence; being without name or reality is their aspect of emptiness. Whatever can be said or thought, the more one says of it, the farther one strays from what is true.

Before things come into being, they cannot be prevented from doing so; once they have died, they cannot be kept from departing. Life and death are not far apart, yet their principles are hard to see clearly. To attribute change to some force that drives things, or to the absence of a ruler, is merely to borrow provisional explanations amid uncertainty. I observe the root of things: its past has no limit. I seek their end: their comings and goings never cease. With no limit and no cessation, to call it ‘nothing’ is to describe a principle shared by it and the myriad things. To speak of a force that drives things, or of no ruler at work, is only to describe things from beginning to end. The Dao cannot be said to truly exist, nor can it be said to be wholly absent. The name ‘Dao’ is merely borrowed to refer to it and make it possible to speak of it.”

Some say that the myriad things arise naturally and have no ruler; others say that each thing has its own ruler. Both views touch on only one side of things. How could they explain the Dao as a whole?

If words could fully express the Dao, then even speaking all day would eventually exhaust it. If words cannot fully express the Dao, then speaking all day can only exhaust what is concrete. Neither speech nor silence can bear the Dao, the root of the myriad things. Yet even beyond speaking and silence, discussion still has its limits.

End of Volume Four of the True Classic of the Southern Efflorescence.

The outcome of events in the world cannot be known in advance. Guan Longfeng was executed, Bi Gan was put to death, Ji Zi feigned madness, and E Lai lost his life; Xia Jie and Shang Zhou also met their downfall. Everyone hopes for loyal ministers, yet loyalty does not always win trust. Wu Zixu’s body was cast into the river, and Chang Hong died in Shu. Legend says that after three years in storage, his blood turned into green jade. Parents all hope their sons will be filial, yet filial devotion does not always win their affection. Xiaoji lived in sorrow, and Zeng Shen, too, was grief-stricken.

When wood rubs against wood, it catches fire; when metal stays near a fire for a long time, it melts. As Yin-Yang Qi (vital energy) moves and intermingles, great changes arise between Heaven and Earth: thunder and lightning appear, and strange events occur, such as fire breaking out in water and a great locust tree being burned.

When worries weigh heavily and a person is trapped with nowhere to escape, it is like falling into a deep pit and being unable to climb out. The mind seems suspended between Heaven and Earth, burdened by unease and fear. When benefit and harm clash, the mind becomes as turbulent as fire, and people wear away their inner calm. Even the moon cannot hold back the blaze; in the end, everything may suddenly come to an end.

Zhuangzi’s family was poor, so he went to the Marquis of the River Office to borrow some grain. The marquis said, “Certainly. Once I collect the taxes from my fief, I’ll lend you three hundred pieces of gold. How does that sound?”

Hearing this, Zhuang Zhou’s face changed with anger. “Yesterday, as I was on my way here, I heard someone calling from the road. I turned around and saw a crucian carp in a rut left by a cart. I asked, ‘Crucian carp, what’s wrong?’ It replied, ‘I am a subject of the Eastern Sea. Could you give me a measure or two of water to save my life?’ I said, ‘Certainly. I’m about to travel south to visit the rulers of Wu and Yue. When I get there, I’ll divert the waters of the Western River to welcome you. How does that sound?’ The crucian carp’s face changed with anger. ‘I’ve lost the water I need to live and have nowhere to go. Right now, a measure or two of water would keep me alive, but you talk like this. You might as well come looking for me at the dried-fish stall sooner!’”

Ren Gongzi made an enormous fishhook and a thick, dark line. Using fifty oxen as bait, he crouched on Mount Kuaiji and cast his line into the Eastern Sea. He fished day after day, but for a whole year caught nothing. At last, a giant fish swallowed the bait and dragged the great hook down into the depths. Then it suddenly leapt above the surface, thrashing and surging. The white waves it raised stood like mountains, the sea shook, and its uproar startled the spirits and shook the land for a thousand li. Ren Gongzi caught the giant fish, cut it open, and preserved it with salt. From east of Zhejiang to north of Cangwu, there was no one who did not eat some of its flesh. Later, people of narrow understanding, who could only chatter and boast, were all astonished and told one another the story.

With a slender rod and a tiny hook, one may sit by a ditch waiting for small fish, but it is hard to catch anything great. Seeking high office by polishing trivial arguments takes one far from the great Way. Those who have never heard of the breadth of Ren Gongzi’s undertaking are difficult to enlist in the work of governing the world.

When Confucian scholars were robbing a tomb, the senior scholar called from outside the grave, “It’s nearly dawn in the east. How is the work going?” The junior scholar replied, “We haven’t yet loosened the dead man’s clothes. There’s a pearl in his mouth.” The senior scholar then quoted the Book of Songs: “Green, green, the wheat grows upon the hillside. He would not give while he lived; why should he hold a pearl in his mouth now that he is dead?”