《南华真经》Vol. 4

The old man rested a hand against the dead man’s temples and stroked the crown of his head. “What should be done now?” he asked.

The young Confucian replied, “Before untying his robe, place a pearl in his mouth. An ancient poem says: ‘Green wheat grows on high slopes and low banks. If you would not give while alive, why put a pearl in your mouth after death?’ Rest a hand against his temples and stroke the crown of his head. Set a golden wedge against his chin and slowly pry open his cheeks. Take care not to damage the pearl in his mouth.”

A disciple of Lao Laizi went out to gather firewood and met Confucius. When he returned, he told Lao Laizi, “There is a man over there with an upright posture and hurried steps, a high forehead, and ears set far back. His gaze is like that of someone bent on managing the world, but I don’t know whose disciple he is.”

Lao Laizi said, “That is Kong Qiu. Tell him to come here.”

Confucius came. Lao Laizi said to him, “Kong Qiu, let go of your self-importance and your show of cleverness. Then you may begin to resemble a gentleman.”

Confucius bowed and took his leave. Fear and unease crossed his face, and he asked, “Can I still make progress in my studies?”

Lao Laizi said, “You cannot bear to see the people of one age suffer, yet in doing so you stir up calamities for ten thousand ages. Could this be because your mind is closed and your understanding too limited? If you give kindness as though it were a pleasure, you will spend your whole life disgraced by it. That is merely the way of ordinary people. People draw one another in pursuit of fame, then join together to conceal their private dealings. Rather than praise Yao and condemn Jie, forget your judgments of them both and close off the source of praise and blame. Return to what is genuine: everything you do brings harm. Take action: nothing you do escapes distortion. The sage approaches affairs with calm hesitation, and so often brings them to completion. Why must you always put yourself in a prominent position and insist that you are right?”

In the middle of the night, Lord Yuan of Song dreamed of a person with disheveled hair standing beside the city gate. The figure said, “I come from the depths of Zailu. Qingjiang sent me as a messenger to the Lord of the River, but the fisherman Yu Ju has captured me.”

When Lord Yuan awoke, he sent for a diviner. The diviner said, “It is a divine tortoise.”

Lord Yuan asked his attendants, “Is there a fisherman named Yu Ju?” They replied, “There is.”

Lord Yuan ordered Yu Ju to come see him the next morning.

The next day, Yu Ju came to court. Lord Yuan asked, “What did you catch?”

“My net caught a white tortoise,” Yu Ju replied. “Its shell is round and measures five feet across.”

“Bring the tortoise here,” said Lord Yuan.

When it was brought before him, Lord Yuan twice considered killing it and twice considered releasing it. Unable to decide, he consulted the diviner. The result was: “Kill the tortoise and use it for divination. This will be auspicious.”

So he split open the tortoise’s shell and drilled it seventy-two times. Every single crack gave an accurate reading.

Confucius said, “The divine tortoise could send a dream to Lord Yuan of Song, yet it could not escape Yu Ju’s net. It could answer seventy-two divinations, yet it could not escape the calamity of being cut open. This shows that wisdom has its limits, and even the miraculous has things beyond its reach. Even the highest wisdom cannot withstand the schemes of the many.”

Fish fear no net, yet they fear the great Peng bird. When petty cleverness is cast aside, great wisdom can become clear; when goodness is no longer put on display deliberately, it can flow forth naturally. An infant may wriggle into something and become trapped, unable to get free, and so suffer the calamity of being cut open. This shows that human knowledge has its limits, and that the spirit cannot attend to everything. Even the highest wisdom may be ensnared by the schemes of the many.

Fish fear no net, yet they fear the great Peng bird. When petty cleverness is cast aside, great wisdom can become clear; when goodness is no longer put on display deliberately, it can flow forth naturally. A newborn learns to speak without being taught by a teacher because the child lives among people who can speak.

Huizi said to Zhuangzi, “Your words are useless.” Zhuangzi replied, “Only when you know what is useless can I speak with you about what is useful. Heaven and earth are vast without end, yet all a person can truly use is the ground beneath their feet. If you dug away all the ground beyond the edges of your feet, digging down until you reached the Yellow Springs, could you still stand?” Huizi said, “That would be useless.” Zhuangzi replied, “Then it is quite clear that what is useless can also reveal its usefulness.”

Zhuangzi said, “If people have the ability to roam through the world, can they not roam? If they lack that ability, can they still roam? Those who let their minds run wild and whose conduct is stubbornly extreme—alas, can they bear the highest wisdom and profound De? They fall and do not turn back, rushing headlong like fire without any regard for the consequences. Even if they have the formal bond of ruler and subject between them, it is only something brought about by circumstance; when the age changes, there is no reason for them to look down on one another. Therefore, the most clear-sighted person does not cling to fixed ways of acting.”

To revere antiquity and look down on the present is a common tendency among scholars. If one looked back at the present from the age of Xīwéi, the legendary ancient ruler, who could avoid being swept along by the changes of the world? Only the Perfect Person, whose De and wisdom have reached the highest level, can roam through the world without becoming fixed in one position, and accommodate others without losing themselves. They are not bound by doctrines, nor do they rely on learning to pile up knowledge. They go along with what is in others’ hearts without losing themselves in the process. When the eyes are open to things, this is clarity; when the ears are open, this is acuity; when the nose is open, one can discern scents; when the mouth is open, one can taste flavors; when the heart is open, one has understanding. When understanding is open, one reaches the realm of De.

The Dao must never be obstructed. Once obstructed, it cannot flow freely; if this continues, illness arises, and illness brings all kinds of calamity. All living things that possess awareness depend on breath to survive. When their breath is not abundant enough, this is not Heaven’s fault. Heaven lets breath flow through them, day and night without stopping; people, by contrast, obstruct their own root. The human body is wrapped in layer upon layer, yet within the heart there is room to follow nature and roam freely.

When a room has no space, mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law quarrel; when the heart has no room to roam freely, the senses and desires compete with one another. One reason people delight in mountains, forests, and hills is that these places can nurture the heart and spirit. When virtue exceeds reputation, and reputation exceeds actual conduct, things become hollow. Plans are limited by one’s understanding; cleverness arises from the urge to outdo others; disorder grows from clinging to one’s own views. For government affairs to be handled properly, they must ultimately meet the needs of the people.

Spring rain falls in season, and plants flourish. As they first sprout, they seem freshly tended. More than half the plants have grown bent over, yet no one knows why. Stillness can nurture the ailing body; curbing desire can delay aging; a tranquil mind can quell impatience. But these are concerns for people worn down by toil. Those who live at ease have never experienced them and would not trouble themselves to ask.

What astonishes the sage is that half of the transformations of Heaven’s Way seem to lie beyond the common world. The spiritual person never asks about them. What the worthy person values, the sage does not ask about; what the gentleman fears, the worthy person does not ask about; what the petty person pursues, the gentleman does not ask about.

A man from Yanmen ruined his health through excessive grief after a relative died, and later became a local official. Another person from his home district likewise died from mourning. When Yao offered the realm to Xu You, Xu You fled rather than accept it. When Tang offered it to Wuguang, Wuguang angrily refused. When Jita heard of these events, he took his disciples and drowned himself. The feudal lords came to mourn him, and the mourning continued for three years. Shentu Di, too, threw himself into a river and died.

A fish trap is for catching fish; once the fish is caught, the trap is forgotten. A snare is for catching rabbits; once the rabbit is caught, the snare is forgotten. Words are for expressing meaning; once the meaning is grasped, the words can be forgotten. Where can I find someone who has forgotten words, so that I may speak with him?

The Southern Florescence True Scripture, juan five, Miscellaneous Chapters, “Parables,” chapter twenty-seven. The chapter title’s phrase “nine-tenths are parables, one-tenth are repeated sayings” means that most of the text uses parables to convey its teachings and often builds its arguments by drawing on the words of the ancients.

The twenty-seventh chapter of the True Classic of Southern Florescence, “Metaphors,” says: to speak through metaphors is to express a principle by means of something external. A father is not suited to act as matchmaker for his own son. Even if he praises the boy, his words are less credible than praise from someone with no family tie to him. This is not because the father has done anything wrong, but because people tend not to believe those close to them.

People always agree with those who share their views and disagree with those who do not. They consider whatever accords with their own thinking right, and whatever does not accord with it wrong.

“Weighty words” means drawing on the words of elders and people of experience to make one’s own claims carry weight. But even if someone is old, age alone does not make them knowledgeable if they do not understand how things are ordered, or what is fundamental and what is secondary. Someone who has nothing to teach others falls short of what is proper in human relations; without such understanding, even an elder is merely an old relic.

“Goblet words” are like liquid poured from a wine vessel: they arise in response to circumstances and flow without cease, day after day. They follow the natural bounds of things and unfold as things change, enabling one to meet change throughout one’s life. When nothing is said, all things seem the same; once words are spoken, differences appear. Language does not accord with the principle of sameness, so we speak of “speaking about silence.” Those who speak about silence speak throughout their lives as if they had never spoken; those who remain silent throughout their lives have not truly left everything unexpressed.

Things each have their own standpoint. From one standpoint, something may be judged workable, from another unworkable; from one, it may be judged so, from another not so. What is called “so” is so from a particular standpoint; what is called “unworkable” is unworkable from a particular standpoint. Things each have their own grounds for being what they are, and each has something worth affirming. Nothing is absolutely without grounds, and nothing is absolutely beyond affirmation. Unless words can arise in response to circumstances, like goblet words, and follow the natural bounds of things, how could they remain open and unobstructed over time?

All things contain the seed of life, and their forms differ. They pass into one another in succession, their beginnings and endings joined like a ring, with no fixed order of precedence. This is called “Heavenly Equalization”—the natural bounds of things.

Zhuangzi said to Huizi: “Confucius lived to the age of sixty, and over those sixty years he kept changing. What he first considered right, he later considered wrong. What, then, is truly a harmonious and unchanging standard? It is to follow the natural bounds of things.”

Zhuangzi said to Huizi, “By the time Confucius reached sixty, he had undergone sixty changes. What he first believed to be right, he later came to believe was wrong. Could what he now considers right be precisely what he considered wrong at fifty-nine?”

Huizi said, “Confucius is someone who applies himself diligently and strives to acquire knowledge.”

Zhuangzi said, “Confucius has already let go of these attachments; he simply never explained the principle behind them. He said, ‘A person’s nature comes from the great root, and is born after returning to numinous clarity. Their voice accords with the pitch standards, and their words accord with the proper measures. When benefit and righteousness lie before them, people’s likes and dislikes, their judgments of right and wrong, are often no more than following what others say. If people can be made to trust from within, they will not dare to contend presumptuously, and the world will be at peace. Enough, enough! I fear I cannot catch up with him.’”

Here, “change” refers to transformation or alteration, while “great root” means the source from which all things emerge. Through Confucius’s continually changing views, Zhuangzi raises the question of whether people’s judgments shift over time. The passage that follows emphasizes that the power to win people’s trust truly comes from within, not merely from words spoken outwardly.

Zengzi (Zeng Shen, a disciple of Confucius) entered public service again, and his state of mind changed once more. He said, “When I first held office, my parents were still alive. My salary was only three fu, yet I was happy. Later, when I held office, my salary was three thousand zhong, but my parents had already passed away, and I was sorrowful.”

A disciple asked Confucius, “Can a person like Zeng Shen be said to have nothing weighing on his heart, and so be free of sorrow?” Confucius replied, “Something already weighs on his heart. Would someone who was truly free of concern feel such grief? He would regard a salary of three fu or three thousand zhong as he would birds, mosquitoes, and horseflies flitting past his eyes, and would pay it no mind.”

Yan Cheng Ziyou said to Shuguo Zijing, “Since I heard your words, after one year I became simple and unadorned; after two years I could follow nature; after three years I understood things clearly; after four years, all things and I were in communication; after five years, my state of mind advanced further; after six years, it was as if spirits had entered my heart; after seven years, everything became natural and spontaneous; after eight years, I no longer distinguished between life and death; after nine years, I reached a mysterious realm.”

With life comes activity; with death comes return to stillness. Please, strive in your practice. Death seems to have its cause, while life belongs to the natural flow of Yang Qi, without any definite origin. Is this truly so? Where do life and death each return, and where do they not return? Heaven has its order of movement, and Earth has what supports all things. Where, then, should I seek an answer? No one knows where life ultimately goes; how can we be certain that everything is without destiny? Nor does anyone know where life first came from; how can we be certain that everything is governed by destiny? If there is a response between human beings and spirits, how can we say that spirits do not exist? If there is no such response, how can we say that they do?

A faint shadow asked a shadow, “A moment ago you were bent forward, and now you’re leaning back; a moment ago your hair was tied up, and now it hangs loose; a moment ago you were sitting, and now you’ve stood up; a moment ago you were walking, and now you’ve stopped. Why?”

The shadow replied, “Why do you keep asking? I undergo these changes, but I don’t know why. I’m like a cicada’s cast-off shell or a snake’s shed skin: they look the same, but they are not the creature itself. When firelight and the sun are present, I appear; when darkness and night come, I disappear. I exist by relying on something, don’t I? And what of things that already depend on other things to exist? When that thing comes, I come with it; when it goes, I go with it; when it moves, I move with it. If I only move along with it, how could I know the reason?”

Yang Ziju was traveling south to Pei, while Laozi was heading west to Qin. Yang Ziju went out to the outskirts to meet Laozi, and they encountered each other at Liang. Halfway along the road, Laozi looked up at the sky and sighed. “I used to think you could be taught. Now it seems you cannot.”

Yang Ziju did not answer. When they reached their lodging, he brought out the basin and water for washing and rinsing, along with a towel and comb. He took off his shoes and left them outside the door, then knelt and shuffled forward. “A moment ago, your disciple wanted to ask you something, but you walked the whole way without asking, so I did not dare speak. Now I would like to ask: what have I done wrong?”

Laozi said, “Your manner is arrogant, and your presence is overbearing. Who would want to be around you? Someone truly pure and unstained appears instead as if covered in dust; someone of profound De (Virtue) seems, by comparison, to have too little.”

Yang Ziju’s expression changed, and he replied respectfully, “I will remember your teaching.”

Earlier, when he had arrived at the lodging, everyone there had risen to welcome him. The host spread out a mat for him, his wife brought him a towel and comb, the other guests gave up their seats, and those warming themselves moved aside from the hearth. When he returned, the guests had stopped yielding to him and were competing with him for the seats.

Yao offered the realm to Xu You, but Xu You declined. Yao then offered it to Zizhou Zhifu. Zizhou Zhifu said, “I could take on the role of Son of Heaven. But I am suffering from anxiety and distress, and I plan to treat it first. I have no time to govern the realm. The responsibility of the realm is immense, but I would not damage my life for its sake, let alone for anything else outside myself. Only someone who does not seek the realm for himself can be entrusted with it.”

Shun offered the realm to Zizhou Zibo. Zizhou Zibo said, “I am suffering from anxiety and distress, and I plan to treat it first. I have no time to govern the realm.” The realm is a weighty possession; it cannot be exchanged for one’s life. This is where a person who follows the Dao differs from an ordinary person.

Shun then offered the realm to Shanjuan. Shanjuan said, “I live between Heaven and Earth. In winter I wear fur, and in summer I wear clothes of kudzu fiber. In spring I farm, and my body is strong enough for the work. In autumn I harvest, and my body has what it needs to rest and eat. I work at sunrise and rest at sunset, living freely between Heaven and Earth, content in my heart. Why would I want the realm? How sad—you do not understand me.” He declined, then left and went deep into the mountains. No one ever learned where he was.

Shun then offered the realm to his friend, the farmer of Shihu. The farmer of Shihu said, “Shun’s character is truly profound! He preserves his vital energy and attends to self-cultivation. Yet he thinks Shun’s De is still not complete.” Then he carried his wife on his back, took his child in his arms, and went into the sea. He never returned.

King Danfu lived in Bin when the Di people came to attack. He offered them leather goods and silk, but they refused. He offered them dogs and horses, but they still refused. He then offered them pearls and jade, but that did no good either. The Di wanted the land. King Danfu said, “If this land makes the people fight among themselves for generations without end, then it is better to give it to them.” So he left Bin and led the people to settle at the foot of Mount Qi.

Great King Zhi Fu (that is, the Zhou Grand King Gu Gong Dan Fu) lived in Deng. The Di people came to attack him. He tried to negotiate with hides and silk, but they refused; he offered dogs and horses, but they refused those too; he offered pearls and fine jade, but that did not work either. What the Di people wanted was land.

Great King Zhi Fu said, “If I share land with others but kill someone else’s younger brother, or share it with someone’s father but kill that person’s son, I could not bear it. All of you, strive to live in peace. What difference is there between being my subjects and being subjects of the Di?” He also said, “I have heard that one should not harm the life that the body is meant to sustain for the sake of things that nourish the body.” Then, leaning on his staff, he departed. The people followed him one after another, and in the end they founded a state at the foot of Mount Qi. Great King Zhi Fu may be said to have understood the value of cherishing life.

Those who understand the value of cherishing life will not harm their lives to sustain their bodies, even if they hold high rank and possess great wealth. Even if they are poor and lowly, they will not let gain burden their body and mind. Yet the high officials and powerful dignitaries of the world today prize status and rank, but readily risk their lives for profit. Is that not folly?

For several generations, the rulers of Yue were assassinated. Prince Sou grew fearful and fled to hide in the Cinnabar Grotto. Yue had no ruler, and when the people could not find Prince Sou, they pursued him to the grotto. Prince Sou refused to come out, so the people of Yue smoked him with mugwort and forced him into a jade chariot. Gripping the reins, Prince Sou climbed into the chariot and cried out to the sky, “My lord, my lord! Can you not leave me alone?” Prince Sou did not hate being ruler; he hated the disasters that came with being ruler. A person like Prince Sou may be said to refuse to damage his life for the sake of a country’s highest position. That was precisely why the people of Yue wanted to ask him to be their ruler.

Han and Wei were fighting over land. Zihuazi went to see Marquis Zhaoxi and found him looking deeply troubled. He said, “Suppose someone wrote this before you: ‘If you reach with your left hand, your right arm will be crippled; if you reach with your right hand, your left arm will be crippled. But if you reach out, you will gain the whole world.’ Would you reach out?” Marquis Zhaoxi replied, “I would not.” Zihuazi said, “That is wise. This shows that your two arms matter more than the world, and your body matters more than your arms. Compared with the whole world, Han is already of little consequence; the land you are now fighting over is even less significant compared with Han. Yet you grieve and worry over it, harming your body and endangering your life. It is simply not worth it.” Marquis Zhaoxi said, “Well said! Many people have tried to teach me, but I have never heard anything like this. Zihuazi truly understands what matters more and what matters less.”

The ruler of Lu heard that Yan He had attained the Dao and sent someone ahead with gifts to pay him a visit. Yan He lived in a humble dwelling, wore coarse clothes, and was feeding his ox himself. When the ruler’s envoy arrived, Yan He came out to receive him. The envoy asked, “Is this Yan He’s home?” Yan He answered, “It is.” The envoy presented the gifts. Yan He said, “I fear the messenger may have made a mistake and put you at fault. It would be better to check first.” The envoy returned to confirm the matter and came back to find Yan He gone. People like Yan He truly despise wealth and status.

Thus, the root of the Dao is used to cultivate oneself. What grows from it can be used to govern a state; only its lesser, residual aspects are used to govern the world. In this light, the achievements of emperors are merely matters that sages attend to in passing; they are not what preserves the body and nurtures life. Those whom the world today calls gentlemen often harm their bodies and abandon their lives in pursuit of external things. Is this not lamentable?

Every action of a sage begins with careful consideration of its purpose and the end it seeks. If someone used a precious pearl from the Marquis of Sui to shoot at a sparrow high in the sky, everyone would laugh, because the object used would be far too precious for the paltry thing sought. Is a human life really only a little more precious than a pearl from the Marquis of Sui?

Liezi (Lie Yukou) was poor and looked hungry. Someone said to Ziyang of Zheng, “Lie Yukou is probably a man who has attained the Dao. He lives in your state, yet is so destitute. Could it be that you do not favor worthy men?” Ziyang immediately sent an official to deliver grain to Liezi. When Liezi met the messenger, he bowed and declined the grain.

After the messenger left, Liezi went inside. His wife beat her chest and said to him, “I have heard that the wives and children of men who have attained the Dao can live in comfort and happiness. Yet here we are, looking hungry. The ruler has specially sent us food, but you refuse to accept it. Could this be our fate?”

Liezi smiled and said to her, “The ruler does not know me. He sent me grain only because he listened to someone else. If he later wants to punish me, he will listen to someone else then, too. That is why I refused to accept it.” Later, the people indeed rose in revolt and killed Ziyang.

When King Zhao of Chu lost his state, Tuyang Shuo, who made his living as a butcher of sheep, fled and followed the king. After King Zhao recovered his state, he planned to reward those who had accompanied him, including Tuyang Shuo. Tuyang Shuo declined, saying, “When Your Majesty lost the state, I lost my livelihood as a sheep butcher. After Your Majesty recovered the state, I went back to butchering sheep. My rank and income have already been restored. What more is there to reward me for?”

King Zhao said, “You must accept the reward.” Tuyang Shuo replied, “Your Majesty’s loss of the state was not my fault, so I dare not accept punishment for it. Your Majesty’s recovery of the state was not my achievement, so I dare not accept a reward for it.”

King Zhao said, “Have him come see me.” Tuyang Shuo said, “The laws of Chu stipulate that only those who have rendered great service and received a substantial reward may appear before the king. My abilities were not enough to preserve the state, and I lacked the courage to die fighting off the enemy. When the Wu army entered Ying, I feared the turmoil and hid from the enemy; I did not deliberately follow Your Majesty. If Your Majesty now abandons the laws and breaks the rules simply to summon me, that is something I have never heard of, and would not wish the people of the world to hear about.”

King Zhao said to Sima Zijing, “Though Tuyang Shuo occupies a lowly position, he speaks with great understanding. Please offer him a post among the Three Banners, a high-ranking office.”

Tuyang Shuo said, “I know that a post among the Three Banners is more prestigious than a sheep butcher’s stall. I also know that an income of ten thousand zhong is greater than what I earn from butchering sheep. But how could I covet rank and income and bring my king a reputation for handing out rewards arbitrarily? I dare not accept. I wish to return to my sheep butcher’s stall.” In the end, he did not accept the offer.

Yuan Xian lived in the state of Lu, in a single cramped room. Its roof was covered with dried grass, its fence gate was broken, and its hinge was made of mulberry wood. Two windows fashioned from clay jars had been set into the walls, and coarse cloth was used to plug the holes. Rain leaked through the roof and the floor was damp, yet he sat upright, playing his zither.

Zigong rode a tall horse, dressed in fine clothes, and arrived in a carriage so wide it could not enter the narrow lane. Yuan Xian came out to greet him wearing a shabby cap and ill-fitting shoes, leaning on a wooden staff. Zigong said, “Ah, Master, what has happened to you?” Yuan Xian replied, “I have heard that lacking wealth is called poverty, while learning the Way but being unable to put it into practice is called distress. I am poor, but not distressed.”

Zigong stepped aside, looking ashamed. Yuan Xian smiled and said, “Acting to curry favor with the world, forming factions for private gain and calling it friendship, studying to show off to others, teaching only to advance oneself, using benevolence and righteousness as a disguise, then dressing up one’s appearance with carriages and horses—these are things I cannot bear to do.”

Zengzi lived in the state of Wei, wearing a tattered robe without a lining. His face was swollen and gaunt, and his hands and feet were covered with thick calluses. He had not lit a fire to cook for three days and had not had any new clothes made for ten years. As he adjusted his cap, its cord broke; when he lifted his robe, his elbow showed through; and the heels of his shoes were worn through. Dragging his shoes and treading on their loose straps, he began to sing the “Hymns of Shang,” ancient poems praising the Shang dynasty. His voice rang through heaven and earth, as if it came from bronze and stone instruments. The Son of Heaven could not treat him as a subject, nor could the feudal lords treat him as a friend. Thus, those who cultivate their minds do not concern themselves with outward appearance; those who care for their bodies do not covet profit; and those who attain the Dao can even forget the mind’s habit of making distinctions and calculations.

Confucius said to Yan Hui, “Yan Hui, your family is poor and your position is humble. Why do you not go out and take office?” Yan Hui replied, “I have heard that lacking wealth is called poverty, while learning the Way but being unable to put it into practice is called distress. I am poor, but not distressed.” [At this point, the original repeats the earlier dialogue about Zigong visiting Yuan Xian and the account of Zengzi’s life. The meaning remains that those who hold to the Way do not worry over poverty and do not change their resolve for wealth, status, or fame.]

Confucius said to Yan Hui, “Yan Hui, your family is poor, and your home is humble. Why don’t you take up an official post?”

Yan Hui replied, “I have no desire to become an official. Outside the city, I have fifty mu of land, enough to grow grain and feed myself. Within the city, I have ten mu, enough to grow mulberry and hemp for clothing. Playing the zither brings me joy, and learning your teachings on the Way and Virtue also gladdens my heart. That is why I do not want to become an official.”

Confucius’s expression changed. He said, “Yan Hui, your way of thinking is admirable. I have heard it said: those who know contentment are not burdened by gain; those who are truly at ease with themselves do not fear loss; and those who cultivate their inner character will not change their principles for want of official rank. I have recited these words for a long time, but today I have truly seen them embodied in you. This, too, is something I have gained.”

Prince Mou of Zhongshan said to Zhanzi, “Though a person lives by rivers and lakes, their heart may still be attached to the court. What should they do?”

Zhanzi replied, “Cherish life. Those who know how to cherish life will regard gain as less important.”

Here, “cherishing life” means valuing life itself above external fame and profit. In this way, attachment to reputation, wealth, and position also diminishes.

The young lord Mou of Zhongshan said, “Though he understands the Way, he still cannot restrain himself.” Zhanzi replied, “If he cannot restrain himself, then he should follow his nature. What fault is there in his spirit? To know that one cannot restrain oneself and yet force oneself not to follow one’s nature is to suffer a double injury. Those who suffer this kind of injury will find it difficult to live long. Wei Mou was a prince with a thousand chariots at his command, so withdrawing to the mountains and forests was harder for him than for an ordinary person. Although he had not yet attained the Way, it can be said that he had already set his heart on seeking it.”

Confucius was trapped between the states of Chen and Cai. For seven days, he had no fire with which to cook; even the vegetable broth contained no grains of rice. His face was gaunt, yet he continued to play the zither and sing in his room. Yan Hui was sorting vegetables. Zilu and Zigong spoke privately: “Our teacher has twice been expelled from Lu, stripped of office and rank in Wei, threatened with having a tree felled on him in Song, fallen into hardship in the region of Shang and Zhou, and now been besieged between Chen and Cai. No one is punished for trying to kill him, and no one is stopped from insulting him. Yet he still plays and sings, never once letting the sound of his zither cease. Can a gentleman really be so shameless?”

Yan Hui could not answer, so he went in and told Confucius. Confucius pushed his zither aside and sighed. “Zhong You and Duanmu Ci are both shallow in their understanding. Have them come in, and I will explain.” Zilu and Zigong entered. Zilu said, “In circumstances like these, we may truly be called destitute.”

Confucius said, “What are you saying? A gentleman who is in accord with the Way is called successful; one who departs from the Way is called destitute. I now hold fast to the Way of benevolence and righteousness, yet have encountered the calamities of a chaotic age. How can this be called destitution? So long as I examine myself and do not stray from the Way, and face danger without losing my De, when the bitter cold comes and frost and snow fall, I will know that the pines and cypresses remain lush. Being trapped between Chen and Cai is, for me, a blessing.”

Confucius, solemn in expression, resumed playing and singing. Zilu, too, regained his spirit and danced with his shield in hand. Zigong said, “Only now do I understand how high the sky is and how deep the earth. Those who attained the Way in ancient times were joyful in hardship and joyful in success. What brought them joy was neither hardship nor success, but the Way and De within themselves. In this way, hardship and success were like cold and heat, wind and rain: simply the natural succession of the seasons. Thus Xu You found contentment on the southern bank of the Ying River, and Gongbo lived peacefully at Qiushou.”

Shun yielded the realm to his friend Beiren Wuze. Beiren Wuze said, “How strange the conduct of people in later times! He once lived among the fields, then went traveling to visit Yao. Now he has gone further still: he wants to stain me with his own disgraceful conduct. I am ashamed to see him.” So he threw himself into the Qingling Abyss and died.

When Tang of Shang was preparing to attack Jie of Xia, he consulted Biansui. Biansui said, “This is not my affair.” Tang asked, “Who can I consult?” Biansui replied, “I don’t know.” Tang then consulted Wuguang. Wuguang also said, “This is not my affair.” Tang asked, “Who can I consult?” Wuguang again replied, “I don’t know.” Tang asked, “What about Yi Yin?” Wuguang said, “He is forceful and strong, and can endure disgrace. As for anything else, I don’t know.”

Tang then consulted Yi Yin about attacking Jie of Xia. After defeating Jie, he yielded the realm to Biansui. Biansui declined, saying, “When the ruler consulted me about attacking Jie, he must have taken me for a rebel and traitor. After defeating Jie, he yielded the realm to me, so he must take me for someone greedy for power and position. I was born in a time of disorder, and now a man without the Way has twice stained me with disgraceful conduct. I don’t want to hear any more of this.” So he threw himself into the Tiao River and died.

Tang then yielded the realm to Wuguang, saying, “The wise devise plans, the brave accomplish great deeds, and the benevolent occupy the ruler’s place: this has been the way since ancient times. Why will you not become ruler?” Wuguang declined, saying, “To depose a ruler is contrary to righteousness; to kill the people is contrary to benevolence. For another to bear the hardship while I enjoy the benefit is not integrity. I have heard that one should not accept a stipend gained against righteousness, nor set foot in an age without the Way. How much less should I allow myself to be honored as ruler? I no longer wish to remain in the world.” So he tied a stone to himself, threw himself into the Lu River, and drowned.

Long ago, when the Zhou dynasty was rising, two recluses lived in the state of Guzhu, named Boyi and Shuqi. They said to each other, “We have heard that in the west there is someone who seems to act in accordance with righteousness. Let us go and see him.” They came to the south of Mount Qi. When King Wu heard of them, he sent his younger brother Shu Dan (Duke Dan of Zhou) to visit them and make this promise: “Wealth will be increased…” The words “wealth will be increased” are the end of the surviving text.

In the early days of the Zhou dynasty, two men of learning lived in the state of Guzhu. Their names were Boyi and Shuqi. They discussed matters together: “We have heard that in the west there is someone who seems to possess great virtue. Let us go and see him.” They came to the southern side of Mount Qi. When King Wu heard of them, he sent Shu Dan—that is, the Duke of Zhou—to meet them and make an agreement with them. “We will increase your stipends by two grades and appoint you to an official post,” he said. Then they slaughtered an animal, took its blood, and buried the pact in the ground.

Boyi and Shuqi looked at each other and laughed. “Ah, how strange! This is not the Dao we spoke of.” They said, “In ancient times, when the Shennong clan governed the realm, people performed the seasonal rites with reverence, but did not pray for rewards. They served the people with all their heart, acting faithfully and governing well, but demanded nothing from them. People gladly took part in public affairs, and those affairs were guided by the needs of good governance. They did not harm others to benefit themselves, put others down to raise themselves up, or seize opportunities for private gain. Now the Zhou see that the Yin-Shang are in disorder and hurry to take power. Those above scheme, while those below give and receive gifts. They use military force to secure their authority, slaughter animals and swear pacts to prove their sincerity, publicize their achievements to win people’s favor, and wage war to pursue their interests. This is merely replacing tyranny with another kind of disorder.

“We have heard that in ancient times, men of learning did not shirk their responsibilities when they encountered a peaceful age, and did not cling to life at any cost when they encountered a chaotic one. The Zhou’s virtue has now declined. To go along with the Zhou would stain us; better to avoid them and preserve our integrity.” So the two men went north to Mount Shouyang, where they eventually starved to death.

People like Boyi and Shuqi, if they could refuse wealth and rank, would never depend on them. They were upright in character and unusual in conduct, taking joy only in holding fast to their convictions and refusing to involve themselves in worldly affairs. This was the integrity of the two men of learning.

Confucius and Liuxia Ji were friends. Liuxia Ji’s younger brother was called Daozhi. He commanded nine thousand men and roamed unchecked across the land, harassing and oppressing the feudal lords. They broke through walls and forced open doors, seized the people’s oxen and horses, and abducted women. They were insatiable in their greed and showed no regard even for their own kin: they cared nothing for their parents or brothers and did not make offerings to their ancestors. Wherever Daozhi went, great states kept their cities on strict guard, while the people of smaller states fled inside their walls for refuge. The people suffered greatly under him.

Confucius said to Liuxia Ji, “A father ought to teach his son, and an elder brother ought to teach his younger brother. If a father cannot teach his son, or an elder brother his younger brother, then the bonds of affection between father and son, and between brothers, can hardly be held in esteem. Sir, you are a man of talent and virtue in this age, yet your younger brother has become Daozhi and brings harm to the world, while you cannot teach him. In private, I feel ashamed on your behalf. I would like to go and try to persuade him for you.”

Liuxia Ji said, “You just said that a father ought to teach his son and an elder brother his younger brother. But if a son will not heed his father’s instruction, or a younger brother will not accept his elder brother’s guidance, then even if you are eloquent and clever with words, what can you do about him? What is more, Daozhi’s mind is as unfathomable as a surging spring, and his temper shifts as unpredictably as a swift wind. His strength is enough to resist an enemy, and his eloquence enough to cover his faults. If you go along with his wishes, he is pleased; if you go against them, he becomes angry and is quick to humiliate others with his words. By all means, do not go.”

Confucius did not heed him. Yan Hui drove the carriage, and Zigong sat on the right side—a place often taken by a companion in ancient times. Together they went to see Daozhi.

At the time, Daozhi was resting his troops south of Mount Tai, having a human liver laid out to eat. Confucius got down from the carriage and approached the gatekeeper. “I am Kong Qiu of the state of Lu,” he said. “I have heard that the general is a man of noble conduct. I have come to pay my respects. Please announce my arrival.”

The gatekeeper went inside to report. On hearing this, Daozhi flew into a rage. His eyes widened like stars, and his hair stood on end, nearly thrusting up his cap. “Isn’t this that slick-tongued, false-decorum Kong Qiu from Lu?” he said.

Yan Hui relayed Confucius’s message to Robber Zhi, a notorious thief in ancient legend: “Your words are false, and you recklessly prattle about Kings Wen and Wu. You wear a cap made from wooden branches and a belt of oxhide. Your mouth is full of absurdities. You eat without farming and wear clothes without weaving. You twist words and stir up disputes, misleading the rulers of the world and preventing its scholars from returning to the root. You talk falsely of filial piety and fraternal duty, thinking only of winning a noble title and wealth. Your crimes are grave. Leave at once! Otherwise, I’ll add your liver to my midday meal.”

Confucius then sent word through a messenger: “I have been fortunate enough to receive Ji Sun’s recommendation, and hope I may pay my respects beneath your tent.” The messenger reported this to Robber Zhi again. “Let him in,” said Robber Zhi.

Confucius hurried forward, stepped back from the mat, then bowed twice as he retreated toward Robber Zhi.

Robber Zhi flew into a rage. He stretched out his legs, gripped his sword, glared with wide eyes, and roared in a voice like a nursing tiger: “Kong Qiu, come here! If your words please me, I’ll let you live. If they displease me, you’ll die.”

Confucius said, “I have heard that people in the world possess three kinds of De. To be born tall and handsome beyond compare, so that everyone—young or old, noble or lowly—delights in seeing you: this is the highest kind of De. To understand the principles of Heaven and Earth and discern the nature of all things: this is the middle kind. To be fierce and strong, decisive and bold, able to gather people and lead an army: this is the lowest kind. Anyone who possesses even one of these can face south as a king and rule in their own right.

“Now, General, you possess all three. You stand eight feet and two inches tall, with a radiant face, lips red as cinnabar, and teeth straight and white as shells. Your voice rings like the great bell Huangzhong, yet your name is Robber Zhi. In private, I feel sorry for you, because I think this name does not befit you. If you are willing to hear me out, I can make a diplomatic mission on your behalf to Wu and Yue in the south, Qi and Lu in the north, and Song in the east…”

“If the general is willing to take my advice, I can travel south on a mission to Wu and Yue, north to Qi and Lu, east to Song and Wei, and west to Jin and Chu. I will have a great city built for you, stretching for hundreds of miles, and establish a fief with tens of thousands of households. You will be honored as a feudal lord, and the world can begin anew. Then we can put an end to war, let the soldiers rest, take in and care for your brothers, and make offerings together to our ancestors. This is what wise and talented people do, and what everyone under Heaven hopes for.”

Hearing this, Robber Zhi—the legendary great bandit—flew into a rage. “Confucius, come here! Those who can be enticed with gain or persuaded with words are merely ignorant, shallow commoners. I am tall and handsome, and people like me when they see me. These fine qualities were bestowed on me by my parents. If you don’t praise me, do you think I don’t know this myself? I have heard that people who enjoy praising others to their faces also enjoy slandering them behind their backs.

“You are trying to persuade me with a great city and a multitude of people. You mean to tempt me with profit and hand the people over to me like livestock, to be put to work. How could such benefits last? However great a city may be, it cannot be greater than all under Heaven. Yao and Shun possessed all under Heaven, yet their descendants had not even enough land to plant a foot on. The Shang king Tang and King Wu of Zhou became Sons of Heaven, yet their lines died out. Is that not because the profit they pursued was too great?

“I have also heard that in ancient times there were many birds and beasts, and few people. The people therefore lived in nests in the trees to escape the wild animals. By day they gathered acorns; at night they slept in the trees. That is why they were called the people of the Nest Builder.

“In ancient times, people did not yet know how to make clothes. They stored firewood in summer and used it to keep warm in winter. That is why they were called the people who understood how to live.

“In the age of the Divine Farmer, people lived at ease and went where they pleased. They knew their mothers but not their fathers. They lived alongside elk and deer, farmed for food, and wove cloth for clothing. They harbored no wish to harm one another. This was the age when Dao and De flourished to their utmost.

“Later, the Yellow Emperor failed to live up to this De. He fought Chiyou in the wilds of Zhuolu, and blood flowed for a hundred miles. When Yao and Shun arose, they appointed ministers. Tang of Shang drove out his ruler, and King Wu of Zhou killed the tyrant Zhou of Shang. From then on, the strong oppressed the weak, and the many bullied the few. Everyone from the time of Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou onward has brought disorder to the world.”

Now you study the ways of ritual and music upheld by King Wen and King Wu of Zhou, and master the art of disputation in the world in order to teach later generations. You wear a flowing robe and a broad sash, speak persuasively, yet act with hypocrisy. You use these things to deceive the rulers of the world and seek wealth and rank. Relying on numbers and strength, you oppress the weak. From the time of Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou onward, people like you have been a source of disorder in the world.

Now you study the ways of King Wen and King Wu, and master the art of disputation in the world to teach later generations. You wear a flowing robe and a broad sash, speak persuasively, yet act with hypocrisy; in this way you deceive the rulers of the world and seek wealth and rank. No one in the world is a greater robber than you. Why, then, does the world not call you “Robber Qiu,” but instead call me “Robber Zhi,” the legendary bandit?

You used persuasive words to win over Zilu and make him follow you. Zilu then took off his tall hat, unfastened his long sword, and bowed to you as his teacher. People everywhere said Confucius could stop violence and forbid evil. But in the end, Zilu tried and failed to kill the ruler of Wei, and died at the gates of that state. Clearly, you did not teach him well.

Do you consider yourself a worthy and virtuous scholar, a sage? You were driven out of Lu twice, erased from the record in Wei, reduced to hardship in Qi, and besieged between Chen and Cai. There was scarcely anywhere in the world where you could find a place to stay. You taught Zilu, and he met such calamity: you could not protect him from harm, nor help him fulfill the way of being human. What is there in your Way that deserves such reverence?

Among those whom the world esteems, none surpasses the Yellow Emperor. Yet even he could not preserve his Virtue: he fought at the Field of Zhuolu, a legendary battlefield, and blood flowed for a hundred miles. Yao was unkind, Shun was unfilial, Yu’s body was impaired on one side, Tang of Shang banished his own ruler, and King Wu of Zhou attacked King Zhou of Shang. King Wen of Zhou was imprisoned at Youli. These six are all esteemed by the world. Look closely, and you will see that each was led astray by gain, forced himself to go against his own nature, and acted in ways that were truly shameful.

Among those the world calls worthy, none surpasses Boyi and Shuqi. They gave up their positions as rulers of the state of Guzhu, then later starved to death on Mount Shouyang, their bones left without burial. Bao Jiao cultivated his conduct and condemned the ways of the world, then died embracing a tree. Shentu Di’s remonstrance went unheeded, so he tied a stone to himself and plunged into a river, where fish and turtles eventually devoured him.

Jie Zitui was utterly loyal. He once cut flesh from his own thigh and fed it to Duke Wen of Jin. Later, when the duke turned his back on him, Jie Zitui left in anger. He embraced a tree in the mountains and burned to death. Weisheng had arranged to meet a young woman beneath a bridge. She did not come, but the river began to rise. Weisheng refused to leave and drowned while clinging to a bridge pillar.

These people were no different from stones cast aside, dogs, pigs swept along by the current, or beggars holding out a gourd. For the sake of reputation, they thought little of life, neglected what was fundamental, and did not know how to preserve their years. Among those the world calls loyal ministers, none are more famous than Prince Bi Gan and Wu Zixu. Wu Zixu was thrown into the river; Bi Gan’s chest was opened and his heart removed. The world called them loyal ministers, yet in the end they were both mocked by all under Heaven. From a higher perspective, even men like Wu Zixu and Bi Gan are not worthy of praise.

The arguments Confucius used to persuade me: if they concern ghosts and spirits, I know nothing about them; if they concern human affairs, they amount to no more than this. I have heard and understood them all. Now let me tell you this: by nature, people want their eyes to see beauty, their ears to hear sounds, their mouths to taste good food, and their minds and energies to find satisfaction. If someone lives to a hundred, that is a long life; eighty is a middle-length life, and sixty a short one. Once illness, weakness, bereavement, and worry are taken away, the days when a person can laugh aloud amount to no more than four or five a month.

Heaven and Earth have no end, but human life has its limit. To entrust a finite life to the boundless expanse of Heaven and Earth is like a swift horse racing past a doorway in the blink of an eye. Those who cannot bring joy to their minds and preserve their lives do not truly understand the Great Dao. The arguments Confucius made are all things I have cast aside. Leave at once and go home. Do not speak of them again.

What you have said is absurd and confused. It belongs to deceit, cunning, and falsehood. It cannot preserve one’s true nature. What is there worth discussing?

Confucius bowed again and hurried away. After he stepped outside and climbed into his carriage, he failed three times to grasp the reins securely. His vision grew hazy, and he could not see clearly. His face was ashen as death. He leaned against the crossbar at the front of the carriage, head bowed and silent, as though he could scarcely breathe.

Confucius bowed twice, then hurried away, went out the gate, and climbed into his carriage. He took hold of the reins, but three times in a row he failed to grip them properly. His vision swam and he could not see clearly; his face was ashen. He leaned against the crossbar at the front of the carriage, lowered his head, and could hardly catch his breath. When he returned to the eastern gate of the state of Lu, he happened to meet Liuxia Ji. Liuxia Ji asked, “I haven’t seen you for several days, yet today I find you rushing along with your carriage and horses. You must have gone to see Jue, didn’t you?”

Confucius sighed toward the sky and said, “Yes.” Liuxia Ji asked again, “Did he go against your wishes, as he did last time?” Confucius replied, “Yes. Alas, I tried to cauterize myself when I wasn’t ill, and hurried to touch a tiger’s head and braid its whiskers. I barely escaped from its jaws.”

Zizhang asked Man Goude, “Why not strive to cultivate moral conduct? Without it, people will not trust you; without their trust, you cannot take on official duties, and so you gain no benefit. Judged by reputation and measured by gain, upholding righteousness is the right course. But if we set reputation and gain aside and return to what is within, can a scholar go even one day without attending to moral conduct?”

Man Goude replied, “Those who feel no shame readily become wealthy, and those skilled at winning people’s trust readily rise to prominence. The greatest reputation and gain often come to those who feel no shame yet are skilled at winning trust. So, judged by reputation and gain, cultivating trustworthiness is the right course. But if we set reputation and gain aside and return to what is within, a scholar should hold fast to his own nature.”

Zizhang said, “In the past, Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang were emperors, ruling over all under Heaven and possessing great wealth. Yet if someone said to Zangju today, ‘Your conduct is like that of Jie and Zhou,’ his face would change and he would resent the comparison. This shows that people despise petty men. If we set reputation and gain aside and return to what is within, a scholar should hold fast to his nature. When Confucius and Mozi were in hardship, they were merely commoners. Yet if someone tells a minister today, ‘Your conduct is like that of Confucius and Mozi,’ he will change color and say he is unworthy of the comparison. This shows that the character of scholars is indeed precious. So holding the position of emperor does not necessarily make one noble, and living in poverty as a commoner does not necessarily make one base. The distinction between nobility and baseness lies in the quality of one’s conduct.”

Man Goude said, “Thieves are arrested, but great bandits can become feudal lords, with so-called men of righteousness among their retainers. In the past, Duke Huan of Qi, Xiaobai, killed his elder brother and married his sister-in-law, yet Guan Zhong became his minister. Tian Chengzi Chang killed Duke Jian of Qi and seized power in the state, yet Confucius accepted a gift from him. To condemn them in speech but submit to them in action: when words and deeds thus conflict in the heart, is that not a grave violation of reason? As an old book says, ‘Who is vile, and who is fine? The successful become leaders; the defeated sink to the lowest rank.’”

Zizhang said, “If you do not strive to cultivate moral conduct, relations of closeness and distance will be confused, distinctions between noble and base will have no standard, and the order between young and old will disappear. By what means, then, could the Five Bonds and Six Ranks—the principles and titles that distinguish human relationships and social status in ancient times—be kept distinct?”

Man Goude said, “Yao killed his eldest son, and Shun banished his younger half-brother. Can you still call that an orderly distinction between those close and those distant?”

Can questions of high and low status decide whether the deeds of these men were righteous? Shang Tang drove out Jie of the Xia, and King Wu of Zhou killed Zhou of the Shang. By what standard should we judge the succession of King Ji as heir, or the high position Zhou Gong later held while assisting King Cheng?

Man Goude said, “When Yao killed his eldest son and Shun banished his younger brother by the same mother, did these acts accord with the bonds of kinship and the order of elders and juniors? When Shang Tang drove out Jie of the Xia and King Wu killed the king of the Shang, did these acts accord with the righteousness of rank and status? When King Ji was made heir and Zhou Gong killed his elder brother, did these acts accord with the order between elders and juniors? Confucians uphold benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and law; Mohists advocate impartial care. But can these distinctions of status, bonds of kinship, and systems of rank really be clearly drawn? Besides, you pursue reputation, while I pursue profit. If the practical pursuit of either reputation or profit does not follow the way things are, and does not accord with the Dao, both have strayed from the root.

“Every day I argue with you before Wuyue”—apparently a person’s name here—“The petty person sacrifices himself for wealth; the gentleman sacrifices himself for reputation. Though the causes that alter their natures and turn them away from genuine feeling differ, the result is the same: each abandons what he would ordinarily do and sacrifices himself for something he would not otherwise wish to pursue.

“So do not be the kind of petty person who chases private gain. Return to what is genuine and follow nature. Nor should you be the kind of gentleman who clings to a reputation for moral integrity. Instead, follow the natural order. Whether your circumstances bring constraint or freedom, follow the measure of nature. Observe the changes in every direction and move with the waxing and waning of the times. As for right and wrong, gain and loss, grasp the pivot of change, fulfill your own intention independently, and come and go with the Dao. Do not act rashly at a moment’s notice, and do not treat established practices as fixed righteousness, or you will lose your original way of acting. Do not pursue wealth and profit to their utmost, and do not sacrifice yourself for success, or you will turn away from your nature.

“Bi Gan had his heart cut out, and Wu Zixu had his eyes gouged out: these were disasters brought on by loyalty. Zhi Gong reported his father, and Wei Sheng kept his promise and drowned: these were calamities brought on by trustworthiness. Baozi would rather stand until he died, and Shenzi refused to defend himself: these were injuries caused by integrity. Confucius would not go to see his mother, and Kuangzi would not go to see his father: they clung to righteousness and lost its true meaning. These stories have been passed down from ancient times and discussed by later generations. Scholars set their words straight and carry them out with resolve, only to suffer disaster in the end. That is their failing.”

Wuzu asked Zhizhi, “No one lives in the world without seeking reputation and acquiring profit. When a person becomes wealthy, people gather around him; when they gather around him, they defer to him. Once he is respected, his standing becomes noble. To be respected and hold a noble position is a way to prolong one’s life, care for one’s body, and enjoy peace of mind. You alone now seem to have no interest in any of this. Is it because you lack understanding, or because you understand but are unable to do it?”

So, if we esteem the right way, can we really forget what is crooked? Zhihe said: Suppose there is someone who was born at the same time as others and lives in the same place, yet they regard him as an extraordinary, transcendent sage who surpasses the world. His mind is single-minded, without opinions or intentions. Is this because his understanding is limited? Or does he have intentions in his heart but lack the strength to put them into practice? So, if we esteem the right way, can we really forget what is crooked?

Zhihe said: Suppose there is someone whom others regard as an extraordinary, transcendent sage who surpasses the world. He is single-minded and free of selfishness, using this to observe the changes from ancient times to the present and the boundaries between right and wrong. He adapts to the customs of the age and changes with events. He lets go of what matters most and gives up the most exalted position, all to perfect his own conduct. Yet the way he speaks of long life, securing the body, and bringing joy to the mind—is it not far removed from the truth?

Grief and pain, stillness and ease, do not depend on the body. Anxiety, fear, and terror, delight and joy, do not depend on the mind. People know only that they are doing things, not why things happen as they do. So even one who is exalted as Son of Heaven and possesses the wealth of the whole world cannot escape calamity.

Wuzu said: Wealth brings people no harm. It lets them enjoy every fine thing and exercise power to the fullest, reaching a state beyond the grasp of even the Perfected and beyond comparison with the worthy. By relying on another’s courage, one can display might; on another’s wisdom, one can appear discerning; on another’s virtue, one can seem worthy. One possesses a realm and bears the authority of a ruler and father. Besides, sounds, colors, fine flavors, and power naturally attract people: the mind does not need to learn to love them, and the body does not need to imitate or practice to find them comfortable. What to love and dislike, what brings benefit and what to avoid—none of this needs a teacher; it is simply human nature. Even if people throughout the world criticize this way of life, who can truly refuse it?

Zhihe said: The wise act in response to the people’s needs and do not violate the natural measure of things. So they are content with what they receive and do not contend; they do not deliberately pursue anything. When they lack something, they seek it, and even if they strive everywhere to obtain it, they do not consider themselves greedy. When they have more than enough, they give it up; even if they yield the whole world, they do not consider themselves selfless. Whether someone is greedy or selfless is not determined by what is imposed from outside, but by whether their actions accord with the proper measure of things.

Though people wield the power of an emperor, they do not treat others arrogantly because of their exalted position. Though their wealth surpasses all under Heaven, they do not use it to mock or manipulate others. They reckon with the dangers wealth and power may bring and consider how fortune might turn against them. Believing these things would harm their nature, they decline to accept them. They do not do so to win a reputation.

When Yao and Shun ruled as emperors, their minds were calm and at peace. This was not because they wished to govern the world through benevolence and Virtue, but because they did not want the pursuit of so-called renown to damage the true nature of life. When Shanjuan and Xu You were offered the imperial throne and refused it, they were not feigning modesty; they simply did not want the affairs of government to burden them. These people took what benefited them and avoided what harmed them, and so the world called them virtuous. They did not act to gain a reputation. If a good name came of it, they could accept that, but it was not what they sought.

Wuzu said, “If you labor your body and deny yourself sweet foods, cutting back on what sustains life in order to preserve your reputation, you are doing little more than enduring a chronic illness and barely staying alive.”

Zhihe said, “A balanced life is a blessing; having too much becomes a calamity. This is true of most things, and especially of wealth. Today, rich people lose themselves in the sounds of bells, drums, and pipes, and crave the taste of meat and fine wine. They use these things to stir their desires and forget their proper work; their minds and spirits can only be called confused. To become absorbed in power and desire is like carrying a heavy load uphill: it is exhausting. Craving wealth, they keep finding ways to console themselves; craving power, they exhaust their hearts and minds. To remain immersed in desire even in quiet solitude, and to indulge all the more once the body is well nourished, can only be called an illness.

“To amass wealth for profit until it is piled as high as a wall, yet still not know when to stop; to rely on wealth and influence and refuse to let go—this can only be called bringing humiliation upon yourself. To accumulate wealth with no use for it, yet cling to it, brooding and troubled while seeking ever more without end—this can only be called being entangled in worry. To fear inwardly that someone in your household may scheme to kill you for your wealth, and outwardly to fear thieves; to fortify your home with layer upon layer of defenses and dare not go out alone—this can only be called living in fear.”

These people are the greatest danger in the world, yet everyone overlooks them and fails to recognize them in time. By the time disaster is upon them, they may spend all their strength and wealth trying to return to the safety of the day before, but it is already too late. So those who seek only fame never gain true renown, and those who pursue only profit may not gain what they want. Is it not troubling to exhaust one’s mind and body, struggling against others for such things?

The True Classic of Southern Florescence (Nanhua Zhenjing), juan 5, “Miscellaneous Chapters: On Swords” (chapter 30)

Long ago, King Wen of Zhao was fond of swordplay, and more than three thousand swordsmen gathered at his court. They crossed swords before the king day and night. Each year, more than a hundred were killed or wounded, yet the king never tired of watching. After three years, the state of Zhao grew steadily weaker, and the other feudal lords began plotting to invade it.

The crown prince, Li, was troubled by this. He recruited people around him and said, “Whoever can persuade the king to stop keeping swordsmen at court will receive a thousand gold pieces.” Those around him replied, “Zhuangzi should be able to do it.”

The crown prince then sent someone with a thousand gold pieces to offer to Zhuangzi. Zhuangzi declined the gift and went with the messenger to see the crown prince. He asked, “Why did the crown prince send me a thousand gold pieces?”

The crown prince said, “I have heard that you are wise and discerning, so I prepared a thousand gold pieces as a gift for those accompanying you. Since you refuse to accept them, I dare say no more.”

Zhuangzi said, “I hear that the crown prince wants me to persuade the king to give up his fondness for swordplay. If I advise the king and go against his wishes, while also failing to satisfy the crown prince, I will be punished and put to death. In that case, what use would a thousand gold pieces be to me? But if I can persuade the king and also satisfy the crown prince, what could Zhao possibly desire and fail to obtain?”

The crown prince said, “That is true. The king now has eyes only for swordsmen.”

Zhuangzi said, “Very well. I am skilled with the sword.”

The crown prince said, “But the swordsmen the king likes all wear their hair loose and unkempt, with their hat cords hanging down. They wear short-tailed garments, glare at people, and speak sharply. That is what the king admires. If you go to see him dressed as a Confucian scholar, the plan is sure to fail.”

Zhuangzi said, “Please let me prepare a set of swordsman’s clothes.”

Three days later, dressed as a swordsman, Zhuangzi came to see the crown prince. The crown prince then took him to meet the king of Zhao. The king had drawn his gleaming sword and was waiting for Zhuangzi to enter. When Zhuangzi stepped through the palace gate, he did not hurry forward; when he saw the king, he did not bow.

The king said, “What do you intend to teach me? Start by telling the Crown Prince.”

Zhuangzi replied, “I have heard that Your Majesty is fond of swordsmanship, so I have come to see you with swordsmanship as my subject.”

The king asked, “How can your swordsmanship subdue an opponent?”

Zhuangzi said, “With my sword, I can take a man’s life within ten paces, and travel a thousand miles without meeting anyone who can stand against me.” The king was delighted. “It seems, then, that no one in the world could rival you.”

Zhuangzi said, “A true swordsman first reveals an opening to lure his opponent into attacking. Then, when the opponent exposes a weakness, he strikes after him yet lands his blow first. Allow me to demonstrate.”

The king said, “Please return to your lodging and wait. I will arrange a sword match, then invite you to take part.”

The king spent seven days selecting swordsmen. More than sixty were killed or wounded. In the end, five or six were chosen and told to wait below the hall with their swords. Zhuangzi was then summoned. The king said, “Today, let the swordsmen test their skill.”

“I have waited a long time for this day,” said Zhuangzi.

The king asked, “How long is the sword you use?”

Zhuangzi replied, “I can use a sword of any length. But I have three kinds of swords, and I will use whichever one Your Majesty chooses. Allow me to describe them first, then we can begin the match.”

The king said, “I would like to hear about the three swords.”

Zhuangzi said, “There is the Son of Heaven’s sword, the feudal lord’s sword, and the commoner’s sword.”

The king asked, “What is the Son of Heaven’s sword like?”

Zhuangzi replied, “The Son of Heaven’s sword takes the ravines and rocky ridges of Yan as its tip, Mount Dai in Qi as its blade, Jin and Wei as its spine, and Zhou and Song as its guard. Han and Wei form its hilt. The borderlands of the four quarters make its scabbard; the four seasons wrap it. It is encircled by the Bohai Sea and bound at Mount Chang. The Five Phases set its principles; punishments and benevolent rule measure it. Yin-Yang governs its opening and closing. It is wielded in spring and summer and put to work in autumn and winter.

“When this sword thrusts forward, nothing can withstand it. Raised up, nothing stands above it; lowered, nothing lies beneath it. Turned in any direction, it reaches everywhere. It soars upward to pierce the clouds and cuts downward through the earth’s veins. Once put to use, it brings the feudal lords into order and wins the allegiance of all under Heaven. This is the Son of Heaven’s sword.”

After hearing this, King Wen looked bewildered and asked, “What, then, is the feudal lord’s sword like?”

When Yan He spoke of the ruler’s sword, he said, “Its point is made of the wise and brave; its edge, of the upright; its spine, of the worthy and kind; its hilt, of the loyal and selfless; and its guard, of men of exceptional valor. This is the ruler’s sword.”

King Wen listened, bewildered and at a loss, and asked, “What is the ruler’s sword like?” Yan He replied, “The ruler’s sword has the wise and brave for its point, the upright for its edge, the worthy and kind for its spine, the loyal for its hilt, and men of exceptional valor for its guard.

“When thrust forward, nothing can stand against it. When raised, nothing is higher; when lowered, nothing is beneath it. When wielded, it is confined by no direction. It takes as its model the heavens’ round turning and follows the courses of the sun, moon, and stars. It takes as its model the earth’s square solidity and follows the changes of the four seasons. Standing between heaven and earth, it understands the people’s hearts and brings peace to the four quarters. Once this sword is put to use, it resounds like thunder, and everyone within the realm reveres it and obeys the ruler’s commands. This is the ruler’s sword.”

King Wen then asked, “What is the sword of common people like?” Yan He replied, “The sword of common people belongs to men with disheveled hair and jutting sideburns, their hats hanging low and their hat cords coarse and long. They wear short-tailed garments, glare at one another, and speak in harsh, hasty bursts. They fight face to face, striking upward to sever the neck and stabbing downward into the liver and lungs. This commoner’s sword is like a fighting cock: it cares only for the contest of the moment. Once its wielder loses his life, he can no longer serve the affairs of the state. Now Your Majesty occupies the Son of Heaven’s throne, yet delights in the sword of common people. In my humble view, this is beneath your station.”

King Wen then took Yan He by the hand and led him up into the hall. The cook brought in the food, and King Wen walked three times around the table. Zhuangzi said, “Your Majesty, please sit calmly and settle your spirit. The matter of the sword has been explained.” From then on, King Wen did not leave the palace for three months. The swordsmen, in their own lodgings, were so ashamed that they died.

The fifth volume of the Nanhua True Scripture, in the thirty-first chapter, “Fisherman” of the “Miscellaneous Chapters,” says: Confucius came to the Ziwéi grove, rested beside a secluded altar, and sat down.

Confucius was traveling in the forest of Zhiwei and resting on the terrace of Yaotan. His disciples were reading while he played the zither and sang. Before the piece was finished, a fisherman came ashore and approached. His hair and eyebrows were white, his hair hung loose, and he wore a coarse cloth robe with wide sleeves. He walked up the slope and stopped by the bank. Resting his left hand on his knee and supporting his chin with his right, he listened until Confucius had finished, then beckoned Zilu and Zigong to come over. The two went to him together.

Pointing toward Confucius, the fisherman asked, “What does that man do?” Zilu replied, “He is a gentleman of the state of Lu.” The fisherman asked, “What is his surname?” Zilu said, “His surname is Kong.” The fisherman continued, “And what does Master Kong devote himself to?” Before Zilu could answer, Zigong said, “By nature, Master Kong esteems loyalty and trustworthiness. He puts benevolence and righteousness into practice himself, promotes ritual and music, and sets human relationships in order. He is loyal above to the ruler of the age and teaches the people below, hoping in this way to benefit all under Heaven. That is what Master Kong devotes himself to.”

The fisherman asked, “Is he a ruler who possesses a fief?” Zigong said, “No.” The fisherman asked, “Then is he an adviser to a feudal lord or king?” Zigong replied, “No, he is not.” The fisherman laughed, turned away, and as he walked off said, “He speaks of benevolence; he may indeed be called benevolent. Yet I fear he cannot preserve himself. He exhausts his mind and body, and in doing so harms his true nature. Alas, he is very far from the Dao.”

Zigong returned and told Confucius what the fisherman had said. Confucius set down his zither and stood up. “He must be a sage,” he said. He went down to look for the fisherman. When Confucius reached the marsh, the fisherman was using his staff to hook the boat and draw it toward him, preparing to tow it away. He looked back, saw Confucius, and turned to stand still. Confucius hurried forward and bowed twice.

The fisherman asked, “What have you come to see me about?” Confucius said, “Just now, Master, you left before finishing what you had to say. My understanding is dull, and I did not grasp your meaning. So I have waited here, presumptuous though it may be, hoping to hear your instruction and receive your guidance.”

The guest said, “Ah, you are truly eager to learn.”

Confucius bowed again, then stood and said, “I have studied since childhood, and now I am sixty-nine, yet I have still not heard the highest teaching. I cannot be content with myself and give up seeking instruction.”

The guest said, “Things of the same kind follow one another, and sounds that match answer one another. This is the natural order. I am willing to set aside my own views and speak about what concerns you. You are concerned with human affairs: when the four ranks—the Son of Heaven, the feudal lords, the senior ministers, and the common people—each uphold their proper place, governance will be good. If they leave their proper places, no greater disorder can result. Officials each perform their own duties, and the people attend to their own affairs; then neither oversteps its bounds and intrudes upon the other.

“So the common people worry about fields lying fallow, houses leaking, too little food and clothing, being unable to pay taxes, discord between husband and wife, and disorder between young and old. Senior ministers worry that their officials lack ability, that government business is poorly handled, that conduct is not upright, that subordinates are negligent and lax, that they have no accomplishments, and that they may lose their rank and stipend. Feudal lords worry that their courts lack loyal ministers, their states fall into disorder, their craftsmanship is inferior, their tribute falls short of requirements, their spring and autumn sacrifices are in disarray, and they cannot comply with the Son of Heaven. The Son of Heaven and the officials in charge worry that Yin-Yang is out of balance and the seasons of cold and heat come at the wrong times, harming all living things; that feudal lords act tyrannically and rebel, seizing from and waging war on one another without authorization and harming the people; and that ritual and music lose their proper measure, resources run short, human relations fall into disarray, and the people behave licentiously.

“Now you hold neither the position of a feudal lord nor that of an official in charge, and you have none of the minister’s responsibility for administering government affairs. Yet you presume to put ritual and music in order, select and regulate human relationships, and hope by these means to transform the people. Are you not taking on too much?

“Moreover, there are eight faults in people and four kinds of harm in their conduct. These must be examined. To take up something that lies outside your duties and insist on doing it is called ‘hutu’…”

To disregard another person’s wishes and insist on imposing your own opinions on them is called “sycophancy.” To read another person’s intentions and then guide them to speak in accordance with what they want is called “manipulation.” To agree carelessly, without distinguishing right from wrong, is called “flattery.” To enjoy discussing other people’s faults is called “slander.” To set friends against each other and drive a wedge between relatives is called “treachery.” To conceal your own deceit with false praise and thereby bring ruin upon others is called “deception.” To ignore whether things are good or bad, focus only on pleasing both sides, and then secretly take what you want is called “cunning.” These eight failings disturb others outwardly and injure oneself inwardly. A noble person does not befriend people with these failings, and an enlightened ruler does not appoint them as ministers.

The “Four Calamities” are these: To enjoy taking charge of major affairs, change established practices on a whim, and seek fame and achievement is called “presumption.” To monopolize knowledge and responsibilities, usurp other people’s duties, and act only according to one’s own wishes is called “greed.” To discover a mistake and refuse to correct it, then become even more obstinate when advised, is called “ruthlessness.” To approve of others whenever they agree with you, but reject whatever they say when they disagree, even if it is reasonable, is called “arrogance.” These are the four calamities. Only after casting off the eight failings and refraining from the four practices can one accept instruction.

Confucius sighed with sorrow. After bowing, he rose and said, “I have been driven out of Lu twice, stripped of my fief on the borders of Wei, threatened by the felling of trees in Song, and besieged between Chen and Cai. I do not know what I have done wrong, or why I have brought these four accusations upon myself.”

The visitor looked mournful and said, “You are truly slow to awaken! Someone feared his shadow and hated his footprints, so he ran as fast as he could. The quicker he stepped, the more footprints he left; the harder he ran, the shadow still never left him. Thinking he was not running fast enough, he kept racing without rest until his strength was spent and he died. He did not know that stepping into the shade would make his shadow disappear, and keeping still would leave no more footprints. How foolish he was!

“You carefully distinguish questions of benevolence and righteousness, weigh the differences between self and other, observe changes between action and stillness, consider the proper measure of acceptance and giving, sort through feelings of liking and disliking, and regulate joy and anger. You are so busy that you can scarcely preserve yourself. You do not know to withdraw to a quiet, shaded place and settle yourself. How little you understand the truth of the matter—just like the person who desperately fled from his shadow and footprints.”

Cultivate yourself with care and guard your original nature—the true nature endowed in you. Then entrust external things to others, and you will not be entangled by them. If you do not cultivate yourself but instead seek things from others, are you not setting your heart on external things?

Confucius asked sadly, “May I ask what is meant by original nature?”

The man replied, “Original nature is the utmost purity and sincerity. Without purity and sincerity, one cannot move others. So someone who forces himself to weep may look sorrowful, but feels no true grief; someone who forces himself to be angry may look fierce, but has no real authority; and someone who forces himself to be affectionate may smile, but has no true kindness. When grief is genuine, it moves others even without a sound. When anger is genuine, it has authority even before it is expressed. When affection is genuine, it is kind even without a smile. Original nature resides within, while spirit naturally shines forth. That is why original nature is precious.

When original nature finds expression in everyday human relationships, serving one’s parents means being loving and filial; serving one’s ruler means being loyal and steadfast; drinking means seeking joy; and mourning means giving expression to grief. Loyalty and steadfastness aim at accomplishing one’s duty; drinking aims at enjoying oneself; mourning aims at expressing grief; and serving one’s parents aims at putting them at ease. It is beautiful when things are done just right; there is no need to leave traces of deliberate contrivance everywhere. In serving one’s parents, it is enough to put them at ease; there is no need to quibble over the means. When drinking, it is enough to enjoy oneself fully; there is no need to be fussy about the cups. In mourning, it is enough to grieve from the heart; there is no need to question whether every rite has been properly observed. Rites are devised by the customs of the world. Original nature, by contrast, is received from one’s inborn nature: it is spontaneous and cannot be changed. Therefore, the sage follows nature and cherishes original nature, without being bound by worldly conventions. The foolish do the opposite: they do not follow nature, but concern themselves only with pleasing others. They do not know how to cherish original nature, and busily change themselves to conform to the world’s customs, forever feeling that they fall short. Alas! You immersed yourself in artificial contrivances from an early age, and only in your later years have you heard of the Great Dao.”

Confucius bowed again, rose, and said, “Today, meeting you feels like a gift from Heaven. You do not disdain me, and you have let me follow beside you like a servant, teaching me in person. May I ask where you live? I would like to follow you and learn, until at last I understand the Great Dao.”

The man said, “I have heard that those who can walk the same path as I do should join me in exploring the subtle Great Dao. Those who cannot walk with me and do not understand my Dao should be treated with caution and not pressed to come along; in this way, I can keep myself free of fault. Do your best. I am leaving you now—I am leaving you now.”

With that, he pushed off in his boat and gradually disappeared among the waterways overgrown with green reeds.

Yan Yuan returned to the carriage, and Zilu handed him the reins. Confucius said, “You do not know his Way, so never treat him carelessly. Only then can you avoid fault yourself. Take good care of yourself. I am leaving you now; I am leaving you now.” With that, Confucius rowed away, gradually disappearing along the water’s edge, where green reeds grew thick.

Yan Yuan returned to the carriage, and Zilu handed him the reins. Confucius did not look back. Only after the water had grown still and the sound of rowing could no longer be heard did he dare get into the carriage.

Leaning against the carriage, Zilu asked, “I have served you for a long time, Master, yet I have never seen you treat anyone as solemnly as you did just now. When rulers with ten thousand chariots, or lords with a thousand, meet you, they always treat you as an equal, and you still show a proud air. But now this fisherman stood there leaning on his bamboo pole to greet you, and you bent low, bowed respectfully, and even bowed twice before answering him. Was that not going too far? The disciples all find it strange: what could this fisherman possibly have done to deserve such courtesy?”

Confucius leaned over the crossbar at the front of the carriage and sighed. “Zilu, you are truly difficult to teach! You know the rites and moral principles, yet you have not shed your crude and narrow-minded heart. Come here; I will tell you. To meet an elder without showing respect is a breach of ritual; to see a worthy person and fail to honor him is to lack humaneness. If that fisherman had not attained the highest level of moral cultivation, he would not willingly have placed himself below others. And without genuine humility, one cannot truly understand the Great Way. Unable to understand the Great Way, one will continually harm oneself. Alas, no harm to people caused by a lack of humaneness is greater than this, yet you alone take it as a skill.

“The Way is the root on which all things depend. When things lose the Way, they die; when they attain it, they live. Actions that go against the Way fail; those that accord with it succeed. Therefore, the sage honors the Way. This fisherman, as we can see, has attained the Way. How could I fail to honor him?”

The Lie Yukou records that Lie Yukou set out for the state of Qi, but turned back halfway there and met Bohun Wuren. Bohun Wuren asked him, “Why have you come back?” Lie Yukou replied, “I was frightened.” “What frightened you?” Lie Yukou answered, “I stopped to eat at ten places that sold soup and other refreshments. At five of them, the moment they saw me, they hurried to serve me.”

Bohun Wuren asked, “What is there to be surprised about?” Lie Yukou said, “Someone who lacks genuine inner cultivation yet displays a dazzling presence on the outside can unsettle other people’s minds. They readily exalt and respect him, and even worry about him. The sellers of soup and refreshments make their living from what they sell; their profits are limited and their power is slight, yet they treated me with such eagerness. How much more so would a ruler of a kingdom with ten thousand chariots? If I were to concern myself with the state and devote all my attention to its affairs, they would hand me difficult matters to deal with and demand that I produce results. That is what frightens me.”

Bohun Wuren said, “You see clearly. Just keep to yourself and remain at peace, and people will naturally rally around you.”

Before long, Lie Yukou went out again and found the space outside his gate crowded with visitors’ shoes. Bohun Wuren was standing facing north, leaning on his staff, its top near his chin. After a while, he left without saying a word. His attendants told Lie Yukou what had happened. Lie Yukou picked up his shoes and ran barefoot to the gate, saying, “Since you have come, sir, why not give me the remedy that will cure me?”

Bohun Wuren said, “Enough. I told you long ago that people would rally around you, and now it has happened. It is not that you can make people rally around you; it is that you cannot stop them from doing so. Why be frightened by this, or make yourself seem extraordinary? This kind of response will disturb your nature and do you no good. None of the people around you can explain the Way to you. Their petty words all carry the harm of confusion. People neither wake up nor understand; how, then, can they examine one another and distinguish right from wrong?”

Those with skills are exhausted by them; those with wisdom are often troubled by it. Those without any special ability, by contrast, seek nothing. They simply eat their fill and roam at ease, like an unmoored boat drifting empty across the water.

In the state of Zheng, a man named Huan studied the Confucian teachings under Qiu. After only three years, he became a Confucian scholar. His learning spread widely, bringing benefit across nine li and affecting three generations. It even led his younger brother to become a Mohist. When Confucians and Mohists argued, Huan’s father took the side of the Mohist Di (Mozi). Ten years later, Huan took his own life. His father dreamed that Huan said, “It was because of me that you made your son a Mohist. Why did you not look at his natural endowment? He was already like the fruit of a parasol tree in autumn, ready to ripen.” The Creator—the natural force that brings all things into being—does not reward people for outward achievements; it responds to their nature. Huan met this fate because people let him become what he became.

People think themselves exceptional, believing they are better than others, and even look down on their own kin. In Qi, people crowded and jostled one another to draw water at a well. That is why people in the world today are all like Huan. From this we can see that those with De (virtue) do not boast of their knowledge; how much less would those who have attained the Dao (the Way)? The ancients called going against one’s nature “the punishment of fleeing Heaven.”

Sages are at ease with what accords with their nature and ill at ease with what goes against it. Ordinary people, however, are at ease with what goes against their nature, and ill at ease with what accords with it. Zhuangzi said, “It is easy to understand the Way, but hard to understand it and refrain from speaking. To understand and not speak is to follow one’s nature; to understand and speak is to act from human contrivance. The people of old followed their nature and did not deliberately pursue contrived actions.”

Zhu Hanman studied the art of dragon slaying under Zhi Liyi. He spent his family’s fortune of a thousand gold pieces and took three years to master the skill, yet had nowhere to use it. Sages regard what is certain as uncertain, and so do not struggle. Ordinary people, by contrast, take what is uncertain to be certain, and so struggle constantly. To act in accordance with struggle is to seek something; once you rely on struggle, you lose what you might have gained.

Those with shallow understanding see no farther than bamboo baskets, straight poles, and slips of writing. They spend their spirit on trivial matters, yet hope to benefit all things and guide the multitude, then pursue the Great One—the source of all things—and a state of bodily emptiness and stillness. Such people lose themselves in the cosmos and are burdened by their bodies, without knowing the Primordial Beginning, the state before Heaven and Earth were divided. The Perfected One, whose cultivation of the Dao has reached a high level, lets the spirit return to the realm before beginnings and rests in calm within the “land of No-Thing,” a state without attachment or dependence. Like water, the Perfected One flows without being confined to any shape, spreading out and merging into the Great Clarity, the vast realm of pure emptiness. How tragic that your understanding reaches only the minute, while you remain unaware of true peace.

In the state of Song, there was a man named Cao Shang who served as an envoy to Qin on behalf of the king of Song. When he set out, he was given several carriages. The king of Qin took a great liking to him and rewarded him with a hundred more. When Cao Shang returned to Song, he met Zhuangzi and said, “Living in a poor, remote alley, so hard pressed that I have to make a living weaving straw sandals, with a withered neck and a haggard face—that is not what I am good at. But when I win the favor of the ruler of a state that commands ten thousand chariots, and go out with a hundred carriages following me, that is what I am good at.”

Zhuangzi said, “When the king of Qin falls ill and summons physicians, the one who cuts open his boils and drains the pus receives one carriage. The one who licks his hemorrhoids receives five. The lower the ailment they treat, the more carriages they receive. Could it be that you treated his hemorrhoids to get so many carriages? Be off with you!”

Duke Ai of Lu asked Yan He, “If I take Zhongni (Confucius) as the pillar of my state, might the state improve?” Yan He replied, “I fear that would be dangerous. Zhongni is busy polishing appearances and pursuing fine words, taking the minor details for the essentials. He restrains his own nature to set an example for the people, without knowing that these practices cannot be trusted. He keeps principles in his heart and lets them govern his spirit. How could that be enough to govern the people? Would the people truly be suited to you and rally behind you? This would be no more than a lucky accident. If you are thinking of later generations, it would be better to stop doing this.

“Governing the people is truly difficult. If you bestow kindness on others while keeping it in mind, you are not giving in accordance with their nature. Even merchants weigh one another by status; though they may observe the outward forms of courtesy, their spirits may not agree. External punishments are inflicted by instruments such as knives and saws; internal punishments are inflicted by improper conduct and wrongdoing. When petty people suffer external punishment, they are tried and punished with knives and saws. When they suffer internal punishment, they are harmed by the changes of Yin and Yang. Only a True Person—one who embodies the Dao in action—can escape both external and internal punishments.”

Confucius said: “A person’s heart is harder to fathom than mountains and rivers, and harder to understand than the changes of the heavens. The heavens have their patterns of spring, summer, autumn, and winter, of day and night. But people may look honest and sincere while their inner feelings remain hidden. So some appear modest yet possess extraordinary qualities; some appear distinguished but are not truly virtuous; some seem yielding and self-effacing yet ultimately find their way through; some appear strong but are inwardly weak; and some seem slow but act swiftly. Thus, some turn toward right conduct as though thirsting for water, yet turn away from it as though fleeing the heat.

“So when a gentleman examines someone, he can entrust that person with a task and see whether he is loyal; keep him close and see whether he is respectful; assign him complicated work and see whether he is capable; question him unexpectedly and see whether he is perceptive; set a deadline at short notice and see whether he keeps his word; entrust him with property and see whether he is generous; tell him that danger is near and see whether he holds to his principles; let him get drunk and see whether he has self-control; and have him interact with different people and see whether his character comes to light. After all nine examinations, the unworthy can be identified.”

Zheng Kaofu, a senior official of the state of Song during the Spring and Autumn period, grew more humble each time he received an appointment. At his first appointment, he stood bent forward; at the second, he bowed low with his head down; at the third, he stooped as he walked, moving quickly along the wall. Who would dare break the rules in the presence of such a man? But someone like the man who, at his first appointment, strutted about proudly, at his second danced on his carriage, and at his third called his elders by their names—how could he be compared with worthy figures like Tang Yao and Xu You?

The greatest calamity is to treat one’s virtue as something to boast about, while cultivating an inner eye that judges oneself. Once a person begins to examine himself in this way, he brings about his own downfall. There are five kinds of bad conduct, and “partial virtue” is the worst. What is “partial virtue”? It is believing oneself to have admirable qualities, favoring the things one does, and looking down on the things one refuses to do.

There are eight extreme forms of hardship, three conditions that inevitably lead to advancement, and six aspects of a person’s outward appearance. Being handsome, having a fine beard, being tall, being strong, having a striking appearance, and being brave and decisive—when these qualities exceed the ordinary, they may instead bring a person into difficulty. Going along with others, yielding, being in hardship, being fearful, and being inferior to others—these three conditions may help a person advance. Wisdom displayed openly invites envy; excessive courage invites resentment; and insisting on benevolence and righteousness invites blame.

Those who understand the realities of life can follow their own nature. Those who understand cleverness know how to learn from others. Those who understand the greater Mandate follow the course of fate; those who understand the lesser Mandate accept the circumstances they encounter.

Someone went to pay his respects to the King of Song, who rewarded him with ten chariots. He then used those ten chariots to show off to Zhuangzi.

Zhuangzi said, “A poor family lived by the river and made their living weaving reed mats. One day, their son dived into a deep pool and found a pearl worth a thousand pieces of gold. His father said to him, ‘Get a stone and smash the pearl.’ A pearl worth a thousand pieces of gold must have been hidden in the depths of a ninefold abyss, beneath the jaw of a black dragon. You could only have found it while the dragon was asleep. If it had woken, what could you have kept?

“Now the dangers of Song are more than a ninefold abyss, and the King of Song is fiercer than a black dragon. You could only have obtained these chariots while the king was unaware. If he wakes to what has happened, you will be crushed to pieces.”

Someone came on behalf of the King of Song to recruit Zhuangzi. Zhuangzi replied, “Have you seen an ox used in a sacrifice? It is dressed in fine brocade and fed grain and beans. But when it is led into the Grand Ancestral Temple, even if it wants to become a carefree calf again, how could that be possible?”

As Zhuangzi was nearing death, his disciples wanted to give him an elaborate funeral. Zhuangzi said, “I will take Heaven and Earth as my coffin, the sun and moon as my paired jade disks, the stars as my jewels, and all things as my funeral offerings. Are my burial furnishings not already complete? What more needs to be added?”

His disciples said, “We are afraid that crows and eagles will eat your body.”

Zhuangzi said, “Left above ground, I will be eaten by crows and eagles; buried underground, I will be eaten by mole crickets and ants. To take food from one side and give it to the other—why favor one so unfairly? To try to establish fairness through unfairness is to make what is called fair unfair. To try to prove something with what cannot be verified is to make what is called proof untenable. The clear-sighted are merely driven by things; the spirit-filled can reveal what lies within them. Clear sight alone cannot surpass spiritual insight—this has been so for a long time. Yet foolish people cling stubbornly to what they see, trapped in worldly perspectives, and act only for the sake of things outside themselves. Is that not pitiful?”

Throughout the world, many people study various doctrines and arts, and all believe that what they do can be improved no further. Where, then, is the “art of the Dao” (the complete, fundamental principle) spoken of by the ancients? The answer is: it is everywhere. From where do wondrous workings descend? From where does wise understanding arise? There were many sages in ancient times, and they too believed that their own work could be improved no further. Where, then, is the art of the Dao spoken of by the ancients? The answer is still: it is everywhere. From where do wondrous workings descend? From where does wise understanding arise?

The sage has a source from which life arises, and the ruler has a foundation for achievement: both have their roots in the One, the common source of all things. To never depart from the root is to be a “Heavenly person”; to never depart from the pure Dao is to be a “spiritual person”; to never depart from one’s true nature is to be a “Perfected person.” One who takes the Way of Heaven as the root, De as the foundation, and the Dao as the path, and who can respond to change, is called a sage. One who extends kindness through benevolence, orders affairs by righteousness, guides conduct through ritual, and harmonizes people’s hearts through music, with a gentle and generous nature, is called a gentleman.

Duties are defined by laws and standards; titles and ranks serve as designations; responsibilities are checked against one another; and judgments are made through inspection and review. The categories employed range broadly through levels such as one, two, three, and four, according to which the officials are ranked in their posts. Making work a regular practice and providing food and clothing as essential needs, increasing the population and storing supplies, and caring for the elderly, the weak, orphans, and widows so that they are all provided for—these are methods of governing the people. The ancients, it seems, possessed these abilities.

They harmonized with the spirits, lived in accord with Heaven and Earth, nurtured the myriad things, brought harmony to the world, and extended their beneficence to the people. They understood both fundamental principles and specific laws. Across the Six Directions and Four Quarters, whether large or small, subtle or manifest, their principles were everywhere. Much of what could be expressed through institutions and laws has been preserved in the ancient histories handed down to the present day. Most Confucian scholars and officials in the regions of Zou and Lu can explain what is recorded in such classics as the Book of Songs, the Book of Documents, the Book of Rites, and the Book of Music. The Book of Songs gives voice to intentions; the Book of Documents records affairs of government; the Book of Rites regulates conduct; the Book of Music harmonizes people’s hearts; the Book of Changes explains the transformations of Yin-Yang; and the Spring and Autumn Annals distinguishes titles and ranks.

These principles are scattered throughout the world and are also reflected in the various schools of thought in the Central States. The Hundred Schools sometimes cite and explain them. Yet the world fell into disorder, the worthies and sages no longer stood out, and standards of morality ceased to be unified. As a result, people throughout the world often grasped only one small part of the whole and were content with it. This is like the ears, eyes, nose, and mouth: each has its own capacity, but they cannot understand one another. The Hundred Schools and the various arts likewise each have their strengths and can indeed be useful at times. Even so, they are incomplete and one-sided; each has grasped only one part.

They divide up the beauty of Heaven and Earth, analyze the principles of the myriad things, and examine the complete thought of the ancients, yet few can encompass the beauty of Heaven and Earth and embody the full scope of the spirits. Thus the “Way of the Inner Sage and Outer King”—the way of cultivating oneself inwardly to become a sage and governing the world outwardly—was gradually obscured and ceased to be understood, and was suppressed so that it could not be put into practice. People throughout the world each follow what they favor and take their own doctrine to be a way of governing the world.

How tragic! Once the various schools of thought follow their own paths, they never turn back, and in the end they can never come together. Scholars of later generations, sadly, have not seen the original state of Heaven and Earth in its undivided purity, nor understood the complete Dao of the ancients. As a result, the arts of the Dao are on the verge of being fragmented by the world. In ancient times there was a school of thought that did not pursue worldly luxuries or squander the things of creation. It did not flaunt elaborate systems of ritual and law, but followed established rules to meet the urgent needs of the world.

Mo Di (Mozi) and Qin Guli heard this school’s teachings and were drawn to them, but carried them too far and imposed excessive restrictions on life. They opposed music and promoted frugality; they sang no songs while alive and wore no mourning clothes after death. Mozi advocated universal care and mutual benefit, and opposed warfare. His teachings had their merits, but he was learned and broad-minded, refused to confine himself to a single position, and did not follow the old teachings of the former kings in every respect. He therefore opposed the ancient rites and music.

The Yellow Emperor had the music of the Xianchi; Yao had the Dazhang; Shun had the Dashao; Yu had the Daxia; Tang had the Dahuo; King Wen had the music of the Biyong; and King Wu and the Duke of Zhou composed the Wu. In ancient times, funeral rites varied according to rank: the Son of Heaven had seven layers of coffin and outer coffin, the feudal lords five, high officials three, and the shi two. Mozi, by contrast, held that people should sing no songs while alive and wear no mourning clothes after death. He prescribed a coffin made of tungwood only three inches thick, with no outer coffin, and treated this as the proper standard.

To teach others in this way can hardly be called caring for them; to demand it of oneself is certainly not to cherish oneself. Setting aside whether Mozi’s teachings declined as a result, is it really reasonable to sing while opposing music, to mourn while refusing mourning clothes, and to value music while rejecting it? His followers labored while alive, and their funerals after death were extremely austere. These doctrines were too severe: they brought sorrow and grief, were difficult to put into practice, and could hardly be the Way of the sages. They also ran counter to the feelings of people everywhere and were difficult to bear. Mozi may have been able to endure this alone, but how could everyone in the world do the same? These teachings were detached from the realities of life and stood far from the ideal way of governing the world.

Mozi’s teachings on the Way say: In ancient times, Yu the Great controlled the floods and dredged the rivers, connecting the four quarters and the Nine Provinces. He managed three hundred major rivers and three thousand tributaries, while the smaller streams were beyond counting. Yu took up farming tools himself and traveled throughout the land to control its floods. The flesh on his legs wore away, and the hair on his shins was rubbed off. Braving torrential rain and fierce winds, he brought stability to the people everywhere.

Yu was a sage, yet he labored for the world to such an extent. Later, many Mohist scholars wore coarse cloth and made straw sandals their everyday footwear. They worked without pause, day and night, and treated hardship as the highest standard. They said, “Anyone unable to do this does not follow Yu’s Way and is unworthy of being called a Mohist.”

The disciples of Xiangli Qin, including Wuhou, and the southern Mohist school of Ku Huo, Yi Chi, and Denglingzi all recited the Mohist Canons, yet their views diverged and contradicted one another. Each side called the other “Separate Mohists,” meaning Mohists who differed from their own school. They criticized one another with debates such as “hard and white” and “sameness and difference,” and answered one another with obscure arguments such as “riding a pair without separating the parts.” Each school revered its own Juzi, or leader, as a sage, and wanted to succeed him and preside over his affairs after his death. Yet their views remained divided, and this situation has continued to the present day.

Mo Di and Qin Guli had the right intentions, but their methods were not appropriate. If later Mohists were all required to wear away the flesh on their legs and the hair on their shins, this would only encourage them to compete in enduring hardship. It may be a superior approach to governing, but it is an inferior one for bringing peace to the world. Even so, Mozi was indeed a person of uncommon aspiration: he pursued his ideals without attaining them, and would not give them up, even when worn down and impoverished. What talent and integrity he had! He was not burdened by worldly conventions, did not adorn himself with external things, did not ingratiate himself with others, and did not flaunt his abilities to outshine the crowd. He wanted only peace for the world and life for its people. Once he and others had enough to sustain themselves, he sought nothing more, and in this way made his convictions clear.

In ancient Daoist thought, there was a teaching that Song Yan and Yin Wen heard of and greatly approved. They wore hats modeled on those of Mount Hua to mark their identity. In their dealings with others, they began by dispelling prejudice and allowing each thing to find its proper place. They spoke of how the heart-mind manifests itself, calling this “the heart-mind’s conduct.” They believed that using a sense of shame to harmonize relations among people could bring peace to the world, and so they hoped to establish this teaching as the foundation of good governance.

They taught that one should not feel shame even when insulted, and should rescue the people from hardship. They urged people to forbid attacks and halt warfare, saving the world from the turmoil of war. Carrying these teachings across the land, they advised rulers above and instructed the people below. Even when the world would not accept them, they kept urging their message again and again, refusing to give up. Thus they became tiresome to people both high and low, yet persisted in proclaiming their views.

Even so, they cared greatly for others and little for themselves. They said, “It is enough to have a steady supply of five pints of rice to eat.” They worried that their teacher might not have enough to eat; even when their disciples went hungry, they did not forget the great affairs of the world. They labored without rest, day and night, saying, “I must ensure that the people can live.” Truly, they were people deeply concerned with saving the world.

They said, “A gentleman does not conduct harsh and minute investigations, nor does he hand himself over to be governed by external things. If something is judged to bring no benefit to the world, then no matter how clearly one explains it, that is less worthwhile than simply ceasing to do it.” They made forbidding attacks and halting warfare their outward teaching, and reducing desires their inner cultivation. They set these limits on action in matters both great and small, coarse and fine. They acted impartially and formed no factions; they were unassuming and selfless, empty and free of attachments, responsive to things without clinging to either extreme. They were not held in check by worry, did not rely on clever schemes, did not pick and choose among things, and changed along with all things.

In ancient Daoist thought, there was also a teaching that Peng Meng, Tian Pian, and Shen Dao heard of and greatly approved. They took the equalizing of all things as their foremost principle, saying, “Heaven can cover all things, but cannot carry them; Earth can carry all things, but cannot cover them; the Great Way can embrace all things, but cannot distinguish them.” They believed that each thing has what suits it and what does not suit it. Therefore, choices should not cling to one side, and teaching should not demand that everyone reach the same state. By following the Great Way, nothing is left out.

Therefore, Shen Dao, a thinker of the Warring States period, abandoned knowledge and the self, following only what necessity demanded. He let external things eliminate and temper him, and made this his way of living. He said, “When you know that there is something you do not know, you will look down on knowledge; once you look down on knowledge, you will be harmed by things close at hand.”

He let himself go without restraint, and so mocked the world’s veneration of the worthy and capable. He acted as he pleased, without following conventions, and so opposed the world’s exaltation of the great sages. He let things shift and change, turning and turning with external things. He set aside disputes over right and wrong, seeking only to avoid calamity. He did not rely on clever schemes or deliberation, nor did he anticipate gains and losses before or after. He simply remained where he was, at ease.

He acted only when set in motion and went only when drawn along, like a whirlwind circling, a feather spiraling through the air, or a millstone turning. He preserved himself and did nothing wrong; whether in motion or at rest, he made no mistake and incurred no blame. Why was this so? Things without awareness have no distress over holding to a self, nor the burden that comes from exercising knowledge. Whether moving or still, they do not depart from the natural order of things, and so throughout their lives there is no question of reputation. Thus, it is enough to be like something without awareness; there is no need to exercise worthiness or sage wisdom. In this way, one will not lose the Dao.

The eminent men mocked one another, saying, “Shen Dao’s Dao is not a path for the living to follow. It is more like a principle for the dead—truly strange.” Tian Pian was much like him. Tian Pian studied with Peng Meng and grasped what Peng Meng had never explicitly stated. Peng Meng’s teacher said, “The people of ancient times who attained the Dao did not judge what was right or wrong, and that was enough. Their bearing was open and natural—how could it be put into words? They always turned away from conventional opinions and did not gather to debate, yet they could not escape criticism.”

Peng Meng, Tian Pian, and Shen Dao did not understand the true Dao. Even so, they had all heard something of it. They regarded what was fundamental as subtle and external things as coarse. They believed that accumulating what one already had was not enough, and so, calmly and alone, they dwelt with the spirit.

Among the ancient arts of the Dao, there was a teaching that Guan Yin and Lao Dan (prominent figures in Daoism; the original text writes “Lao Pin”) both admired when they heard of it.

This teaching took “constant Nonbeing” and “constant Being” as its foundation, and Taiji (the source or totality of all things in the universe) as its central principle. It treated softness and humility as outward expressions, and emptiness that does no harm to the myriad things as its inner substance.

Guan Yin said: “When the mind does not cling to fixed opinions, things reveal their forms naturally. In action, be like water; in stillness, like a mirror; in response, like an echo. It is so faint that it seems not to exist, yet so quiet that it is clear and pure. Those who are like it can unite with it; those who try to grasp it will lose it. It never rushes ahead of others, yet always follows their lead.”

Lao Dan said: “Know strength, yet hold to weakness, and you can become the streambed of the world. Know what is bright, yet remain in obscurity, and you can become the valley of the world. When all others compete to be first, you alone are willing to come last: this is called bearing the world’s dirt. When all others seek fullness, you alone remain empty. Because you neither store nor possess, you always have something to spare, appearing calm and at ease, with strength to spare. Move through the world and act with ease, without wearing yourself down. Do not act deliberately or show off your cleverness. When all others seek good fortune, you alone bend and yield to preserve yourself: this is called seeking only to avoid fault. Take depth as your foundation and simplicity as your guiding principle. What is too hard will break; what is too sharp will snap. Be generous toward all things and do not treat others harshly: this may be called the height of self-cultivation.”

Guan Yin and Lao Dan were truly sages of ancient times, broad in learning and great in attainment! Quiet and untroubled, without fixed form, they changed without pattern. Death and life, Heaven and Earth, and the spirits all moved in accord with them. They drifted without knowing where they were bound and wandered without knowing where they would return, yet could contain all things. Nothing could confine them to any particular destination.

Another teaching among the ancient arts of the Dao was one that Zhuang Zhou (Zhuangzi) also admired when he heard of it. He used elusive, far-reaching expressions, expansive and unconstrained discourse, and words without fixed boundaries. He often let his writing roam freely, yet never strayed into error; his arguments did not cling to a single side. He believed that the world was sunk in confusion and that people could not speak seriously about the Great Dao. So he spread out his thoughts through “goblet words” (speech that pours out as circumstances shift, like wine from a tipping cup), lent weight to his arguments through “weighty words” (speaking in the voices of the ancients or elders), and widened his expression through “lodged words” (ideas entrusted to stories).

Zhuang Zhou alone moved in the company of the spirit of Heaven and Earth. He did not look down on the myriad things or stubbornly condemn right and wrong, but lived alongside ordinary people. His writings were like jade mixed with rough stone and unworked rock, yet this did not diminish them. His words, though uneven and varied, contained remarkable insights worth seeing.

The spirit of the one who has attained the Dao is full and inexhaustible. Above, he roams with the beings that bring all things into existence; below, he befriends that which transcends life and death and has neither beginning nor end. At root, his thought is vast and open, deep and far-reaching. In purpose, it may be called harmonious and penetrating, continually advancing upward. In responding to change and understanding the myriad things, his reasoning has no limit and its source never runs dry. It is profound and subtle, impossible to fathom to the end.

Hui Shi, a Warring States thinker skilled in disputation, had extensive learning and enough writings to fill five carts. Yet his doctrines were mixed and inconsistent, and his arguments often failed to accord with reason. He investigated the principles of things and proposed that the greatest thing has nothing outside it and is called the “Great One”; the smallest thing has nothing inside it and is called the “Small One.” Something without thickness cannot be piled up, yet can extend a thousand miles. Heaven and earth are equally low; mountains and marshes are equally level. The sun begins to decline as soon as it reaches its zenith, and things begin to die as soon as they are born. To compare the differences between things that are alike in some ways, whether in great or small respects, is called “small sameness and difference”; to hold that all things are entirely the same and entirely different is called “great sameness and difference.” The south can be said to have no limit, or to have an end. One may set out for Yue today and say that one arrived yesterday. Linked rings can be undone. I know that the center of the world lies north of Yan and south of Yue. To care for all things broadly is to hold that heaven, earth, and the myriad things are originally one body.

Hui Shi regarded these claims as profound. He observed the things of the world and explained his arguments to others. The disputants of the world were also eager to argue with him, putting forward many strange propositions: eggs have hair; chickens have three legs; Ying possesses the whole world; a dog can be a sheep; horses have eggs; tadpoles have tails; fire is not hot; mountains have mouths; cartwheels do not touch the ground; eyes do not see; fingers cannot reach a place, yet “reaching” is never cut off; a tortoise is longer than a snake; a carpenter’s square is not square, and a compass cannot draw a truly round circle; a hole cannot fit a handle perfectly; the shadow of a flying bird never moves; an arrow shot at great speed sometimes neither advances nor stops; a dog is not a hound; a yellow horse and a black ox together make three…

“A white dog is black; a fox’s cub never had a mother; if you cut a one-foot-long staff in half each day, you will never finish cutting it.” Debaters took up such propositions in argument with Hui Shi, and once they began disputing, there was no end to it.

Debaters such as Huan Tuan and Gongsun Long were skilled at embellishing other people’s ideas and changing their minds. They could win with words, but could not convince others inwardly. This was the limitation into which debaters readily fell. Hui Shi relied on his cleverness to argue with people every day, especially delighting in disputing strange claims with the debaters of the world. This was the basis of his disputation.

Yet Hui Shi always believed his own discourse was the finest, and would say, “How magnificent Heaven and Earth truly are!” He had a gift for eloquence, but no way to safeguard it. In the south, a man named Huang Liao asked him why Heaven and Earth did not fall or sink, and how wind, rain, thunder, and lightning came about. Hui Shi did not decline or reflect; he answered at once. He used all things to explain the questions, speaking without pause and saying more and more. Still dissatisfied, he added strange claims.

He treated views contrary to ordinary understanding as facts, hoping to win a reputation for surpassing others through them. As a result, he found it hard to get along with people. His De was inadequate, yet he kept trying to display his superiority over external things; the path he followed was truly narrow. From the perspective of the great Dao of Heaven and Earth, Hui Shi’s abilities were like mosquitoes and gnats buzzing about to no purpose. What use were they to the myriad things?

To devote oneself single-mindedly to the Dao may be called making progress; to value the Dao is to draw near to the root. Hui Shi, however, could not settle himself in this way. Instead, he scattered his attention among the myriad things and took endless pleasure in doing so, leaving behind only a reputation for skill in debate. What a pity that Hui Shi’s talent ran wild without a destination: he pursued the myriad things but could not return to the root. It was like chasing an echo with a sound, or making the body race its shadow. How lamentable.

At textual emendation 4, the reading is corrected on the basis of the Shide edition: the original has “mind,” changed to “fear.”

At textual emendation 5, the reading is corrected on the basis of the Shide edition: the original has “below,” changed to “also.”

At textual emendation 6, the reading is corrected on the basis of the Shide edition: the original has “people,” changed to “grow.”

At textual emendation 7, the reading is corrected on the basis of the Shide edition: the original has “one,” changed to “of.”

At textual emendation 8, the reading is corrected on the basis of the Shide edition: the original has “Heaven,” changed to “now.”

At textual emendation 9, the reading is corrected on the basis of the Shide edition: the original has “true year,” changed to “straight stalk.”

At textual emendation 10, the reading is corrected on the basis of the Shide edition: the original has “that,” changed to “break.”

At textual emendation 11, the reading is corrected on the basis of the Shide edition: the original has “grasp,” changed to “participate.”

At textual emendation 12, the reading is corrected on the basis of the Shide edition: the original has “break,” changed to “analyze.”