《庄子内篇订正(吴澄)》

The Inner Chapters of the Zhuangzi, Revised and Corrected is a two-volume edition of the Zhuangzi’s Inner Chapters, compiled and edited by Wu Cheng in the Yuan dynasty. It is included in the Four Masters’ True Classics in the Chinese Daoist Canon. Its base text comes from the Jade Instructions category of the Dongshen section of the Zhengtong-era Daoist Canon.

The upper volume was written by Wu Cheng, a native of Linchuan, and is titled “Free and Easy Wandering.”

In the Northern Darkness there is a fish called Kun. Kun is enormous; no one knows how many thousands of miles long it is. It transforms into a bird called Peng. No one knows how many thousands of miles wide Peng’s back is. When it rises to fly, its outspread wings are like clouds hanging at the edge of the sky. When Peng encounters the heaving sea and rising winds, it prepares to migrate to the Southern Darkness. The Southern Darkness is a vast pool formed by nature. The Qixie, a book that records strange things, says: “When Peng migrates to the Southern Darkness, it beats the water with its wings, raising waves three thousand miles high. It rides a whirlwind up to an altitude of ninety thousand miles, and, borne by the great wind of the sixth month, leaves the Northern Darkness.”

The mist and dust drifting through the air are formed as the breaths exhaled by all kinds of living things stir one another. Is the sky’s deep blue its true color? Or does it look that way because the sky is so vast and boundless? When Peng looks down from high above, it probably sees much the same thing.

If water does not accumulate to sufficient depth, it cannot bear a large boat. Pour a cupful of water into a hollow in the ground, and a blade of grass can serve as a boat. Set a cup there, however, and it will stick fast: the water is too shallow for so large a vessel. If wind does not gather enough force, it cannot lift enormous wings. So when Peng rises to an altitude of ninety thousand miles, the wind is beneath it. Only then can it rely on the wind, bear the blue sky on its back, and fly unhindered as it sets out for the south.

A cicada and a little dove mocked Peng, saying, “We spring into the air and, when we reach an elm or a sandalwood tree, settle on a branch. Sometimes we cannot make it that far and simply drop back to the ground. Why fly up ninety thousand miles and then head south?” Someone traveling to the nearby countryside can take food for three meals, return the same day, and still come home with a full stomach. Someone traveling a hundred miles away has to prepare provisions the night before; someone going a thousand miles away must spend three months storing food. What can these two little creatures understand?

Those with limited understanding cannot match those with broad understanding, just as short-lived creatures cannot match long-lived ones. How do we know this? A fungus that lives from dawn to dusk knows nothing of the beginning or end of a month. A cicada that lives through only one season knows nothing of spring or autumn. Such are the short-lived. In the southern state of Chu, there is a great tree called Mingling that counts five hundred years as one spring and five hundred years as one autumn. In ancient times there was a tree called Dachun that counted eight thousand years as one spring and eight thousand years as one autumn. Pengzu became famous for his long life, and ordinary people all want to be compared with him. Is that not pitiful?

Tang of Shang once asked Ji about the same matter: In the far northern wilderness there is a great sea, a vast pool formed by nature. There lives a fish thousands of miles wide; no one knows how long it is, and it is called Kun. There is also a bird called Peng, whose back is like Mount Tai and whose wings are like clouds at the edge of the sky. It rides a spiraling whirlwind up to an altitude of ninety thousand miles, passes through the clouds, bears the blue sky on its back, and then flies south to the Southern Darkness. A little sparrow mocked it, saying, “Where does it think it’s going? I hop into the air and fly upward a few yards before dropping back down. I flutter among the mugwort and weeds, and that is the utmost of flight. Where else could it possibly be going?” This is the difference between the small and the great.

Those whose talents qualify them for a single office, whose conduct wins the approval of the people of one village, whose De (virtue) meets the favor of one ruler, or whose abilities earn the trust of one state all judge themselves as the little sparrow does. Song Rongzi would still smile at them calmly. Even if the whole world praised him, he would not become more zealous; even if the whole world condemned him, he would not grow despondent. He could distinguish his inner self from external judgments and discern the boundary between honor and disgrace, but that was all. He did not rush to pursue worldly affairs, yet there was still a state he had not attained.

Liezi rode the wind, light and free, and returned only after fifteen days. He was not eager to seek good fortune. Although he did not have to walk, he still depended on something. But what would someone who follows the nature of Heaven and Earth, rides the transformations of the six energies, and wanders in the boundless realm still need to rely on? Thus it is said: the True Person does not cling to self, the Spirit Person seeks no achievements, and the Sage seeks no fame.

Yao wanted to yield the realm to Xu You, saying, “The sun and moon have both risen, yet a torch still burns. Isn’t that a waste of effort when it comes to lighting the land? The timely rain has already fallen, yet irrigation continues. Isn’t that needless labor when it comes to nourishing the earth? If you were to take the throne, the realm would naturally be well governed, while I still occupy this position and feel that I am falling short. Please let me hand the realm over to you.”

Xu You said, “You have governed the realm, and it is already well governed. If I were to replace you, would it be to seek fame? Fame is merely an appendage to real achievement. Would I go after such an appendage? A wren nesting in a deep forest needs only one branch; a mole drinking at a great river needs only to fill its belly. You should return. The realm is of no use to me. Even if the cook does not take charge of the kitchen, the priest in charge of the sacrifice does not cross over the ritual vessels and altar table to cook in his place.”

That concludes Chapter Two.

Shuaiwu said to Lianshu, “I once heard Jieyu speak about certain principles. His words were grand, but impractical. The farther he went, the less he returned to ordinary reason. I was astonished to hear him. His words seemed boundless, like a river. I thought they had little use for governing the world. Even if a cook does not enter the kitchen, the person in charge of the sacrifice must not step over the ritual vessels and take the cook’s place.”

That concludes Chapter Two.

Shuaiwu said to Lianshu, “I once heard Jieyu, the hermit of Chu, speak about certain principles. His words were grand, but impractical. The farther he went, the less he returned to ordinary reason. I was astonished to hear him. His words seemed boundless, like the Milky Way, and far removed from ordinary human experience.” Lianshu asked, “What did he say?”

Shuaiwu replied, “He said that on Mount Gushe there lives a spirit-like person. Their skin is white as ice and snow, and their body is graceful as a young woman’s. They eat no grains, but breathe the wind and drink the dew. Riding the clouds and harnessing flying dragons, they roam beyond the Four Seas. Their spirit is wholly focused and still; they can keep all things free of calamity and illness, and make the crops ripen abundantly year after year. When I heard this, I was doubtful and astonished. I could not believe it.”

Lianshu said, “That is how it is. The blind cannot appreciate colors and patterns, and the deaf cannot hear the sounds of bells and drums. The senses may be deaf or blind, and the human mind, too, can be limited. What you heard is as hard for you to comprehend as colors and the sound of bells and drums are for the blind and deaf.

“Such a person has De so vast that all things merge into one. People in the world are always hoping for good government; who would exhaust themselves by making the governance of the world their own concern? Nothing outside can harm such a person. Even when floodwaters cover the sky, they cannot drown them; when drought melts metal and stone and scorches the mountains and earth, they feel no heat. Even the dust and chaff from their body would be enough to shape people like Yao and Shun. Why would they be willing to make external things their concern?

“A man from Song took ceremonial caps to Yue to sell, but the people of Yue cut their hair short and tattooed their bodies, so they had no use for them. After Yao had governed the people of the world and brought order to affairs within the Four Seas, he went to the northern bank of the Fen River to visit four adepts on Mount Gushe. When he returned, he was dazed and absent, as though he had forgotten his own empire.”

Huizi said to Zhuangzi, “The King of Wei gave me a seed from a large gourd. I planted it, and the gourd that grew had a capacity of five shi. When I used it to hold water, it was so heavy I could not lift it by myself. When I split it open to make a ladle, it was so large that there was nowhere to put it. Wasn’t it big enough? I thought it was useless, so I smashed it.”

Zhuangzi said, “You really don’t know how to make use of large things. In the state of Song, there was a man skilled at making an ointment that kept hands from cracking in the cold. For generations, his family had made a living washing silk floss. A visitor heard about the ointment and offered a hundred pieces of gold for the recipe. The man of Song called his family together to discuss it: ‘For generations we have washed silk floss, earning no more than a few pieces of gold. Now we can sell our skill once and receive a hundred pieces of gold. We should sell it to him.’

“After obtaining the recipe, the visitor took it and used it to persuade the King of Wu. Just then, Yue was at war. The King of Wu appointed him to lead the army. In winter, the Wu forces fought Yue on the water and routed them. The King of Wu then awarded him land and a title. The recipe for keeping hands from cracking in the cold was the same, yet one man was ennobled because of it, while another still made his living washing silk floss. The difference lay in how they used it.

“Now you have a gourd that can hold five shi. Why not make it into a waist float and drift across rivers and lakes? Instead, you worry that it is too large and there is nowhere to put it. It seems your mind is still clogged with weeds!”

A “waist float” was a device people in ancient times tied around their bodies to help them stay afloat in water. Through the large gourd and the ointment recipe, Zhuangzi shows that whether something can be put to use depends on how it is used. If we judge it only by its conventional purpose, we may fail to see what else it can do.

Huizi said to Zhuangzi, “I have a large tree that people call the ailanthus. Its trunk is bulky and gnarled, so it does not meet the carpenter’s standards for a straight line. Its branches twist and turn, so they do not fit the compass or the square. Planted beside the road, it draws no glance from a carpenter. Now your words are grand but useless, so everyone avoids speaking of them.”

Zhuangzi said, “Have you never seen a wildcat or a weasel? It crouches low, waiting for prey to pass, then leaps this way and that, sparing neither high nor low. In the end, it falls into a trap and dies in a net. Now look at the yak. Its body is as vast as a cloud on the horizon. It is certainly enormous, yet it cannot catch a mouse.

“You have a large tree and worry that it will be of no use. Why not plant it in a place where there is nothing, in an open wilderness without bounds? You could stroll at ease beside it, rest there in Wuwei (non-action), or lie freely beneath it. It would suffer no axe blows and no harm from external things. If there is nowhere it can be put to use, what is there to worry about?”

The large tree illustrates the idea that being unsuited to worldly uses may spare one from harm and allow one to grow freely.

On the right is the title of Chapter Five: “Discussion on Making All Things Equal.”

Nan Guozi Qi was leaning on a small table, head tilted back toward the sky as he slowly exhaled. His expression was distant, as if he had lost his companion. Yan Chengzi You stood beside him in attendance and asked, “What has happened to you? Can a person’s body really become like dry wood, and the mind like dead ashes? The way you are leaning on the table now is unlike before.”

Qi replied, “Yan, that is a good question. I have now forgotten myself. Do you know what I mean? You have heard the sounds made by people—the music of instruments—but have you heard the sounds made by the earth, as wind passes through its hollows? You have heard the sounds of the earth, but have you heard the sounds of Heaven, the natural sounds made by all things?”

You replied, “May I ask how this works?”

Qi said, “The breath exhaled by the earth is called wind. When the wind is still, all is silent. When it rises, the myriad hollows begin to howl. Have you never heard their varied, rising and falling sounds? The forests and hills are uneven, and the great trees, with trunks a hundred spans around, have all kinds of hollows: some like noses, some like mouths, some like ears, some like pillar holes, rings, stone mortars, deep pits, or muddy pools. As the wind passes through them, some roar and surge, some whistle; some sound like scolding, gasping, shouting, or wailing; others like hurried collisions or snapping jaws. One hollow sounds ‘yu,’ and another answers ‘yu.’ A gentle breeze brings a soft response; a strong wind brings a powerful one. When the gale dies down, all the hollows fall silent. Have you never watched branches sway and leaves flutter?”

You said, “The sounds of the earth are the sounds made by these hollows, and the sounds of people are those made by bamboo-pipe instruments. May I ask what the sounds of Heaven are?”

Qi said, “The wind passes through the myriad hollows, and each sounds different, yet each makes its own sound. They all sound according to their own forms. So what, exactly, is it that sets them in motion?”

A person of great wisdom is calm and broad-minded; a person of small cleverness is constrained and calculating. Grand speech surges with force, while petty talk rambles on and on. When people sleep, their souls and spirits become entangled; when they wake, their bodies stretch out and come into contact and conflict with the things around them. Day after day, they struggle within their hearts.

Some people are careless and unrestrained; some conceal their schemes deep within; others are cautious and secretive. Small worries make people tremble with unease, while great fears leave them dazed and distracted. When they speak, they are like a crossbow trigger suddenly released, eager to decide what is right and wrong. When they fall silent, they are like people bound by an oath, stubbornly clinging to victory and defeat. Their vital energy declines like plants withering in autumn and winter: this is the mind’s daily erosion. Once absorbed in what they are doing, they cannot restore it. When the mind is sealed off like a tightly closed sack, this is what it means for age to leave the mind obstructed. A dying mind can never again be brought back to life.

Joy and anger, sorrow and pleasure, thought and sighing, change and grief, as well as frivolity, abandon, and affected gestures—all these feelings and expressions are like music sounding from a hollow, or fungi growing in damp heat. They appear before us in turn, day and night, yet no one knows where they arise. Enough, enough! We experience these things every day, but what brings them about? Without things outside us, there would be no “I”; without an “I,” there would be no way to experience things outside us. This may already be close to the truth, yet we still do not know what governs it all.

It is as though there were a true ruler, yet we cannot find any trace of it. The body can move, and there is surely some basis for this, but we cannot see the ruler’s form. It has real effects, yet no visible shape. A person’s hundred bones, nine apertures—the nine sensory openings—and six organs—the six internal organs—are gathered into one body. Which part should I feel closest to? Do you love all of them equally, or favor one over the others? If they are all servants, then no servant can govern the others and decide who is master. Do they take turns being ruler and subject, or is there some other true ruler? Even if we sought out and discovered what it really is, that would neither add to nor diminish the true ruler.

Once a person receives a bodily form, all they can do is live while waiting for life to reach its end. They rub against and contend with things around them, rushing into action like a horse-drawn chariot, and no one can make them stop. Is this not pitiable? They toil all their lives without seeing what they have achieved; they grow exhausted without knowing where they are headed. Is this not sorrowful? Some say that such people are still alive, but what meaning is there in being alive? The body decays, and the mind decays along with it. Could there be a greater grief than this?

Is every human life confused in this way? Am I the only one who is confused, while everyone else is clear? If I follow my own genuine feelings and take them as my teacher, who would be without a teacher of their own? Why wait until we understand the transformations of things before making our own judgments? Even fools have their judgments. To decide what is right and wrong before a settled view has formed in the mind is like setting out for Yue today and claiming to have arrived yesterday. This amounts to declaring without cause that something exists. Even the divine Yu could not understand such a claim; what can I do about it?

Words are not empty, like the blowing of wind. Those who speak are expressing something, but what they say is uncertain. Do words really mean something? Or has nothing ever truly been said? People believe that human speech differs from the calls of nestlings. Does this distinction really exist?

Where is the Dao obscured, that truth and falsehood arise? Where is speech obscured, that right and wrong arise? Where could the Dao be absent? Where could speech be entirely useless? The Dao is obscured by partial achievements; speech is obscured by ornate phrasing. This is why the Confucians and Mohists argue over right and wrong: one side affirms what the other denies and denies what the other affirms. To judge which side is right, it is better to look with an understanding mind.

All things can be viewed from the standpoint of “that,” and all can be viewed from the standpoint of “this.” From the standpoint of that, one cannot see clearly; from one’s own position, one can. That comes into view through this, and this is established in relation to that. This is what it means to say that this and that arise in relation to each other. Yet the moment of birth is already moving toward death, and the moment of death is already moving toward birth. When we say something is permissible, there is also something impermissible; when we say it is impermissible, there is also something permissible. Right and wrong depend on each other and transform into one another.

Therefore, the sage does not cling to a fixed standpoint. The sage looks from the perspective of the whole, as it is in nature, and responds to things as they are in the moment. This is also that, and that is also this. That has its own right and wrong, and this has its own right and wrong. Are there really distinctions between this and that, or are there no such distinctions at all? The state in which this and that no longer oppose each other is called the “pivot of the Dao,” the central hinge of the Dao. When the pivot rests at the center of a circle, it can respond to endless changes. There are endless kinds of right, and endless kinds of wrong, so it is better to look with an understanding mind.

To use one finger to prove that another finger is not a finger is less effective than using something outside the fingers to explain finger and non-finger. To use one horse to show that another horse is not a horse is less effective than using something outside horses to explain horse and non-horse. Heaven and earth can be regarded as one finger, and the myriad things as one horse: seen as a whole, all things can be gathered into one.

If you force agreement or opposition, you may fall into distortion, damage, collapse, and failure. If your heart is harmonized and you express yourself in response to the situation, you can give voice to things and form names, though this may also invite strangeness and misfortune. If the other person is like an infant, go along with them as you would with an infant. If they are free of bounds, follow them in that freedom. If they are boundless, expand with them without limit. By understanding these principles, you can enter a state without flaw.

Have you never seen a praying mantis? It raises its forelegs to block a wheel, unaware that it cannot possibly hold it back. It thinks too highly of its own ability. Be alert and cautious. If you boast excessively, show off your strength, and act rashly, you will be close to danger.

Have you never seen someone who raises tigers? They do not feed them live animals, for fear that the tigers will grow savage as they kill their prey. Nor do they give them whole prey, for fear that tearing it apart will stir their ferocity. They know when the tigers are hungry and full, and guide their savage impulses. Tigers and humans belong to different kinds, yet tigers grow close to those who feed them because their keepers follow their nature. They kill people because people go against their nature.

A person who loves horses uses a bamboo basket to collect their dung and a shell vessel to hold their urine. Suddenly, a mosquito crawls onto a horse. The owner has no time to brush it away gently, so he strikes it hard. The horse is startled and struggles, breaks its bridle, and injures its head and chest. The owner meant to care for the horse, yet in the end he harms what he loves. Can we afford to be careless about this?

Chapter Three says:

Carpenter Shi was traveling to the state of Qi. When he came to Quyuan, he saw a great tree growing beside the shrine to the local earth god. Its crown was large enough to shade a herd of oxen. Its trunk was more than a hundred armspans around, and it towered over the hills. It did not put out branches until it had risen some ten ren. Several of its branches were large enough to make into boats. People crowded around to see it, as if they were at a market. Carpenter Shi did not even look at it. He walked straight past without stopping.

After looking his fill, his apprentice hurried after him and said, “Since I began following you and working with an axe, I have never seen such fine timber. Yet you did not even look at it and just kept walking. Why?”

Carpenter Shi said, “Enough. Don’t speak of it again. This is useless wood. Make it into a boat and the boat will sink; make it into a coffin and it will soon rot; make it into a vessel and it will quickly break; use it for a door and its grain will swell and warp; make it into a pillar and worms will eat into it. This is a tree that cannot be made into useful timber. Because it has so little use, it has been able to live so long.”

After Carpenter Shi returned to his boat, the great tree beside the shrine appeared to him in a dream and said, “What are you comparing me to? Do you mean to compare me with those kinds of useful trees? Pear, orange, pomelo, and tangerine trees bear fruit that is picked when ripe, and their branches are often broken. Their large branches are snapped off, their small ones torn away. Because these trees can be put to use, they suffer throughout their lives. They cannot live out their natural spans and are often cut down before their time. They bring harm upon themselves by meeting the world’s demands. Most things are like this.

“I have sought uselessness for a long time, and nearly died in the process. Only now have I truly attained it. For me, this is the greatest use. If I were useful, how could I have grown so large? You and I are both among the myriad things. Why, then, should we judge one another? You are a useless man who nearly died by the world’s standards. How could you understand useless wood?”

Carpenter Shi awoke and told his apprentice about the dream. The apprentice asked, “If it sought uselessness, why did it become the shrine tree beside the earth god’s temple?” A shrine tree is planted beside a temple to the local earth god and is worshipped there.

Carpenter Shi said, “Enough. It has merely taken temporary shelter there to escape the axe. It does not want to be criticized by people who do not understand it. If it had not become a shrine tree, it would probably have been cut down long ago. Besides, what it protects is unlike anything else. To try to understand it by ordinary reasoning would be far off the mark, wouldn’t it?”

Chapter Four says:

Nanbo Zicai was traveling in Shangqiu when he saw a large tree of an unusual shape. Its branches and trunk twisted and tangled together, as though bearing many things. It must have had some extraordinary quality to grow this way; any ordinary explanation of it would surely miss the mark.

(End of Chapter Four)

While traveling in Shangqiu, Nanbo Zicai saw a great tree with dense foliage, broad enough to shelter many carriages and cast a wide shade. Ziqi asked, “What kind of tree is this? It must have some special use.”

He looked up at its branches. They bent and coiled, making them unsuitable for beams. He looked down at its roots. The wood was loose and split, making it unsuitable for coffins. Tasting its leaves would make one’s mouth blister and ache; smelling them would leave one confused in spirit, unable to recover for three days.

Zilai said, “This really is a useless tree. That is why it has been able to grow so large. Ah, the enlightened person, too, preserves himself by means of this kind of ‘uselessness.’”

In the state of Song, there was a place called Jingshi where catalpa, cypress, and mulberry trees grew well. As soon as a tree grew thick enough to encircle with one’s arms, someone wanting to make a monkey stand would cut it down. When it grew three or four armspans around, someone wanting to build a tall, splendid house would cut it down. When it reached seven or eight armspans around, nobles and wealthy merchants wanting timber for coffin sides and the like would cut it down. Thus these trees died halfway through their allotted lifespans, before they had lived them out, felled by axes and saws. Such is the misfortune brought by useful timber.

So, at sacrificial rites, a cow with a white forehead, a pig with its nose turned upward, or a person with hemorrhoids could not be allowed to take part in the river-crossing sacrifice. The ritual specialists knew these taboos, because such beings were considered inauspicious. For the enlightened person, however, this kind of “inauspiciousness” is precisely the greatest good fortune: because they are unfit for sacrificial use, they escape being put to work and harmed.

(End of Chapter Five)

Zhi Li Shu was physically deformed: his chin lay near his navel, his shoulders rose above his head, his topknot pointed toward the sky, and his internal organs were positioned above where they should be. His hipbones jutted out like ribs. He made a living by sewing and washing clothes, earning enough to feed himself; by winnowing grain with a basket, he could support ten people. When the government called men up for military service, Zhi Li Shu could wave his arms and blend into the crowd. When large-scale labor service was imposed, his chronic illness exempted him. And when the government distributed grain to the sick, he could still collect three zhong of grain and ten bundles of firewood.

From this we can see that the value and judgment of all things in the world have no fixed, unchanging standard. Paths are made by people walking them, and things are named by people calling them so. Why is something considered “so”? Because people judge it to be so. Why is it considered “not so”? Because people judge it not to be so. Each thing has qualities that can be affirmed and acknowledged. There is nothing that cannot be called “so,” and nothing that cannot be acknowledged.

So if we look at a blade of grass and a towering pillar, an ugly leper and the beautiful Xishi, and all manner of strange things together, from the perspective of the Dao, they are connected and form one. When things are divided, they take shape; once they take shape, they can also be destroyed. But seen as a whole, nothing in the myriad things is absolutely formed or destroyed: in the end, everything can be joined together again as one. Only those who understand the Dao know that all things are connected as one. They therefore do not cling to any particular use, but entrust themselves to ordinary, natural use. Ordinary use means responding to things as they are. To respond to things as they are is to be unobstructed; to be unobstructed is to gain something. To gain what is fitting is to approach the Dao. Following things as they are, without asking why they are so, is called the Dao.

To strain every effort to force the myriad things into one, without knowing that they are already connected, is like the story of “three in the morning, four in the evening.” A monkey keeper was handing out acorns and said, “Three in the morning and four in the evening.” The monkeys all became angry. So he changed his words: “Then four in the morning and three in the evening.” The monkeys were all pleased. The total number had not decreased; only the way it was expressed had changed, and their anger and happiness changed with it. People’s distinctions and judgments are often swayed in the same way by how things are put.

The sage reconciles right and wrong and rests in nature’s balance. This is called “two courses”: allowing opposing views to proceed side by side, each following its own nature. The ancients’ understanding of the Dao reached the highest heights. The highest understanding held that things had never begun to exist. The next held that things existed, but had not yet acquired fixed boundaries. The next held that the myriad things had boundaries, but that distinctions between right and wrong had not yet arisen. Once right and wrong become clear-cut, the Dao is diminished; when the Dao is diminished, preferences take shape.

But do things truly come into being and suffer loss? Or do they not? To say that they come into being and suffer loss is like Zhaowen playing the qin; to say that nothing comes into being or suffers loss is like Zhaowen not playing the qin. Zhaowen was skilled at playing the qin, Shi Kuang was skilled at conducting music with his instrument, and Hui Shi often expounded his ideas while leaning on a catalpa-wood table. Each of the three excelled at what he did and devoted his whole life to it. They loved their own arts and wanted others to understand their principles. Yet what they sought to explain could not necessarily be made clear. Hui Shi was ultimately trapped in the confusion of the “hard and white” debate, while Zhaowen’s son carried on his father’s qin playing, pursuing it all his life without achieving anything.

Can this be called achievement? It can be said to be an achievement, and it can be said not to be one. Between things and “I,” there is no absolutely fixed success or failure. The sage therefore seeks a flexible and far-reaching clarity of wisdom. He does not cling to a single method, but entrusts himself to ordinary, natural use. This is called understanding.

Now I have said some things, but I do not know whether they are the same as what you said earlier or different. Both sameness and difference can be gathered into one category; then they are no different from other statements. Even so, I will try to speak: there was a time when things began; there was a time before things had begun to begin; and there was a time before there had begun to be a time before things began to begin. There is “something,” and there is “nothing”; there was a time before there had begun to be nothing, and a time before there had begun to be a time before nothing. Later, suddenly, there was something and nothing. Yet we still do not know which of them counts as something and which as nothing.

Now that I have said these things, I do not know whether I have said something or said nothing. There is nothing in the world larger than the tip of an autumn hair, while Mount Tai can be considered small. No one lives longer than a child who dies young, while Pengzu can be considered short-lived. Heaven and earth came into being at the same time as I did, and the myriad things and I are one. Since we are already one, what more can be said? Yet once we have called it “one,” how can we say nothing has been said? “One” and the act of saying “one” together make two; two added to the original one makes three. If we keep calculating from there, even the greatest calculator could not reach the end—how much less could an ordinary person? If we can count to three by moving from nothing to something, how much further could we go by moving from something to something? There is no need to continue the calculation. Just follow things as they are.

The Dao has never had fixed boundaries, and words have no eternal standards. People argue because they want to express their own views. The forms of argument discussed here include left and right, human relationships, duty, distinctions, analysis, competition, and conflict. Together these are called the “Eight Virtues.” As for matters beyond the four directions of heaven and earth, the sage preserves them without discussing them. As for matters within the four directions, the sage may discuss them but does not dispute them. As for accounts of history from the Spring and Autumn period and the rule of the former kings, the sage may comment on them but does not argue over them. Distinguishing also includes not distinguishing; arguing also includes not arguing. Why is this so? The sage keeps principles within his heart, while ordinary people take them up to argue and show off to one another. Thus it is said: true argument does not argue.

The Great Dao cannot be expressed in words; the highest form of argument does not try to win through words; true benevolence does not deliberately display benevolence; true integrity does not boast of its integrity; and true courage does not harm others. Once the Dao is deliberately displayed, it is no longer the natural Dao. Once words are endlessly contested, they cannot reach the root of things. If benevolence clings to a fixed practice, it cannot truly be fulfilled. If integrity is too aloof, it is hard to earn people’s trust. If courage takes the form of harming others, it cannot count as true courage. These five qualities may seem complete, but in fact they all stray from the right path. To know what one does not know is the highest wisdom. Who understands that one can explain without speaking, and reach the Dao without deliberately talking about it? If anyone understands this, their heart is like nature’s storehouse: pour things into it and it will not overflow; draw things from it and it will not run dry, yet no one knows where it comes from. This is called keeping to the light.

Long ago, Yao asked Shun, “I want to attack the three states of Zong, Kuai, and Xu’ao. I govern the realm facing south, yet my heart remains unsettled. Why is this?” Shun replied, “Those three states still live in remote places amid mugwort and wormwood. Why should you feel unsettled? In the past, ten suns rose at once, and all things were illuminated. How much greater, then, is the reach of your Virtue than the radiance of the sun?”

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

Wang Ni said, “How would I know?”

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

Wang Ni said, “How would I know?”

Nie Que continued, “Then are all things without awareness?”

Wang Ni replied, “How would I know? Even so, let me try to say something. How do you know that what I call ‘knowing’ isn’t really not knowing? And how do you know that what I call ‘not knowing’ isn’t really knowing?

“Let me ask you this: when people sleep in damp places, their backs ache and they may even become paralyzed on one side. Does the loach suffer the same way? When people live in trees, they tremble with fear. Does the monkey feel the same? Among these three, who knows where it is best to live? People eat the flesh of livestock; elk eat grass; centipedes like snakes; and crows like mice. Among these creatures, who knows which taste is best? Monkeys pair with monkeys, elk mate with deer, and loaches live alongside fish. Mao Qiang and Li Ji, women famed in antiquity for their beauty, were considered beautiful by people. When fish see them, they dive beneath the water; when birds see them, they fly high into the sky; when elk see them, they flee at speed. Among these different beings, who knows what the world agrees is truly beautiful?

“To me, the beginnings of benevolence and righteousness and the boundaries of right and wrong are confused and tangled. How could I sort them out?”

Nie Que asked, “You don’t know what is beneficial or harmful. Does the Perfected One, a person who has reached the highest level, not know either?”

Wang Ni said, “The Perfected One is mysterious and beyond measure. A fire in a vast marsh cannot make him hot; the Yellow River and Han River freezing over cannot make him cold. Thunderbolts splitting mountains and violent winds tossing the sea cannot startle him. Such a person rides the clouds and air, harnesses the sun and moon, and roams beyond the four seas. Life and death cannot change him—how much less can benefit and harm, gain and loss?”

Qu Quezi asked Chang Wuzhi, “I heard my teacher say that the sage does not busy himself with affairs, seek private gain, or deliberately flee misfortune. He does not rejoice at getting what he wants, nor hold fast to fixed doctrines. When he speaks, it is as if he has said nothing; when he says nothing, it is as if he has expressed something. He wanders at ease beyond the dusty world. My teacher considers this absurd, but I think it is the mysterious Dao. What do you think?”

Chang Wuzhi said, “Even the Yellow Emperor would be bewildered by those words. How could Confucius understand them? You have reached a conclusion too quickly, like seeing an egg and waiting to hear a rooster crow, or seeing a slingshot and expecting a roasted owl for dinner. I’ll speak as I please, and you listen as you please. How does that sound?

“The sage stands alongside the sun and moon and embraces the whole universe, allowing all things to mingle and flow through one another. He lets go of turmoil and clever contrivances, and does not treat high and low, noble and humble, as absolute. The crowd rushes about; the sage seems foolish and ignorant by comparison. He joins with the ages of time and brings all things together as one. All things are as they are, each making room for the others.

“How do I know that attachment to life is not a delusion? How do I know that our loathing of death is not like that of someone who left home on a journey and forgot the way back? Li Ji was originally the daughter of a border guard in Ai. When she was first taken to the state of Jin, she wept until her tears soaked her sleeves. But once she reached the king’s palace, shared a fine bed with the ruler, and tasted delicious food, she regretted ever having cried. How do I know that the dead do not regret having once clung to life?

“Those who drink wine in a dream may wake in the morning and weep; those who weep in a dream may wake and go hunting. While people dream, they do not know they are dreaming. They may even interpret their dreams within the dream, only to realize upon waking that it was a dream. One must wait for true awakening to know that everything happening now may also be a great dream. Fools think they are awake and believe they understand everything; they even privately decide who is ruler and who is herdsman. How stubborn they are! Confucius and you are both dreaming. And when I say that you are dreaming, my words too are like a dream. This way of speaking is called ‘wondrous paradox’: words that sound strange and are hard to understand. If, after ten thousand generations, we were to meet a great sage who understood this, it would be as if we had met him between morning and evening.

“Suppose you and I debate. You win and I lose. Does that mean you must be right and I wrong? Suppose I win and you lose. Does that mean I must be right and you wrong? Is one of us right and the other wrong? Or are we both right, or both wrong? You and I cannot know; other people are confused too. Who should we ask to decide?

“Ask someone who agrees with you to decide. Since they agree with you, how can they judge fairly? Ask someone who agrees with me, and the same problem remains. Ask someone who disagrees with both of us: since they disagree with us both, how can they judge? Ask someone who agrees with both of us, and that does no better. It seems that you, I, and everyone else are unable to judge one another. So whom must we wait for?

“What does it mean to harmonize all things by means of the distinctions that arise naturally? It means letting ‘yes’ and ‘no’ stand together, and letting ‘so’ and ‘not so’ stand together. If ‘yes’ were absolutely right, there would be nothing to debate with ‘no’; if ‘so’ were absolutely valid, there would be nothing to debate with ‘not so.’ Opposing claims depend on one another, yet seem not to need one another. Follow their natural boundaries and bring them into harmony; let all things unfold through change. Then you can pass through life at ease. Forget your years; forget right and wrong. Wander through the boundless and make your home within the boundless.

“The shadow’s shadow, Wangliang, asked the shadow, ‘A moment ago you were walking; now you are still. A moment ago you were sitting; now you are standing. Why do you have no steady will of your own?’

“The shadow replied, ‘Do I act this way because I depend on something? And does what I depend on act this way because it depends on something else? Am I relying on something like a snake’s scales or a cicada’s wings? How would I know why things happen this way, or why they do not?’

“Once Zhuang Zhou dreamed he had become a butterfly, flitting about freely and feeling perfectly content. He had no idea he was Zhuang Zhou. Suddenly he awoke, startled to find himself still Zhuang Zhou. He did not know whether Zhuang Zhou had dreamed he was a butterfly, or the butterfly had dreamed it was Zhuang Zhou. Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly must have differed in some way. This is called ‘the transformation of things’: all things changing and transforming as they go.”

The fourth chapter, titled “The Master Who Nurtures Life,” explains the essentials of preserving life.

Human life is limited, but knowledge has no end. To pursue limitless knowledge with a limited life is dangerous; to keep pursuing knowledge without restraint is even more dangerous. Do good without craving fame, and do wrong without bringing punishment upon yourself. Follow the natural, balanced Way and take it as your constant guide. Then you can preserve your body and life, care for your loved ones, and live out your allotted years in peace.

When the cook Ding butchered an ox for Lord Wenhui, his hands touched, shoulder leaned, foot stepped, and knee pressed in smooth coordination. His knife made crisp, flowing sounds, like music, in time with the “Sanglin” dance and the rhythm of the “Jingshou.” Lord Wenhui exclaimed, “Wonderful! Can skill really reach such a level?”

Cook Ding set down his knife and replied, “What I pursue is the Dao, which has gone beyond ordinary skill. When I first butchered oxen, all I saw was a whole ox. After three years, I no longer saw the ox as a whole. Now I respond to the ox’s structure with my spirit, rather than relying only on my eyes. I let my senses come to rest, and my spirit moves in accordance with the ox’s structure. I follow the ox’s natural grain, guide the knife through the places where sinews and bones intersect, and let it enter the large openings, cutting along the structure as it is. I never strike the connected sinews or tangled joints of bone and flesh—how much less the large bones!

“A good cook changes his knife once a year because he cuts meat with it. An ordinary cook changes his knife once a month because he chops bone with it. I have used this knife for nineteen years and butchered several thousand oxen, yet its edge is still as if it had just come from the sharpening stone. The joints of an ox have spaces between them, and the knife’s edge is so thin it has almost no thickness. Put an edge with almost no thickness into spaces, and it moves with ease, always with room to spare. That is why, after nineteen years, its edge is still as if freshly sharpened.

“Even so, whenever I come to a place where sinews and bones intersect and the cut is difficult, I become especially cautious. I focus my attention, slow my movements, and guide the knife gently. At the faint sound of the blade, the ox comes apart, like clods of earth falling to the ground. I lift the knife and stand, look around, and calmly take my time, satisfied with my work. Then I wipe the knife clean and put it away.”

Lord Wenhui said, “Excellent! From hearing Cook Ding, I have understood how to nurture life.”

Gongwenxuan saw the Right Master and was startled. “Who is this person?” he asked. “Why does he have only one foot? Was he born that way, or was it caused by human action?” Someone replied, “He was born that way; it was not caused by human action. Heaven brought him into the world with one foot. People’s appearances naturally differ. So we know this was inborn, not caused by human action.”

A wild pheasant in the marsh takes ten steps to peck at food and a hundred steps to find water, yet it does not want to be kept in a cage. Though it might be fed until its spirit is vigorous, it would not be at ease.

After Lao Dan (that is, Laozi) died, Qin Shi came to mourn him. He wept three times, then left. One of Lao Dan’s disciples asked, “Were you not our master’s friend?” Qin Shi said, “I was.” The disciple continued, “If you were his friend, is this an acceptable way to mourn him?” Qin Shi replied, “It is. At first I thought he was an ordinary person, but now I see he was not. Just now, when I went in to mourn him, I saw the older people weeping as though they had lost their own children, and the younger people weeping as though they had lost their own mother. Gathered here, they must be saying what they did not wish to say and weeping when they did not wish to weep. This is to flee one’s nature and violate one’s true feelings, forgetting the part one has received. The ancients called this ‘escaping the punishment of Heaven.’

“To have happened to come into the world was our master’s response to the time; to have happened to leave it was his acceptance of nature. At ease with one’s allotted time and following change, sorrow and joy cannot enter the heart. The ancients called this ‘loosening the bonds by which the Lord of Heaven suspends us.’ A finger may strain itself to probe, but it will eventually reach its limit; a flame, however, can be passed on, with no knowing when it will go out.”

Yan Hui went to see Zhongni (Confucius) and asked permission to travel. Confucius asked, “Where do you intend to go?” Yan Hui said, “I am preparing to go to the state of Wei.” Confucius asked, “What will you do there?” Yan Hui said, “I have heard that the ruler of Wei is in the prime of life, yet acts arbitrarily and recklessly imposes his own views…”

Yan Hui went to see Confucius and asked to travel abroad. Confucius asked, “Where do you want to go?” Yan Hui replied, “I want to go to Wei.” Confucius asked, “What will you do there?” Yan Hui said, “I have heard that the ruler of Wei is young and strong, but acts arbitrarily. He governs the state recklessly and cannot see his own mistakes. He exploits the people at will, and they suffer heavy casualties. The dead are scattered across the fields, and the people have nowhere left to go. I once heard you say that one may leave a well-governed state, but should go to a state in chaos, just as many patients gather outside a doctor’s door. I want to consider, in light of what I have heard, how I might help that state improve.”

Confucius said, “Alas, if you go like this, you will probably only bring punishment upon yourself. The Dao should not be confused. Confusion leads to excess, excess leads to disorder, and disorder brings distress. Distress is of no help. The perfected people of antiquity first made themselves settled, and only then went on to settle others. You are not yet settled yourself—how can you find the time to concern yourself with what a tyrant does? Do you know how Virtue is damaged, and how cleverness arises? Virtue is often damaged by the pursuit of fame; cleverness often arises from contention. Fame sets people against one another, while cleverness is a tool of conflict. Both are harmful instruments and cannot be used to put the Great Dao into practice.

“Even if your Virtue is substantial and your trustworthiness firm, you have not yet understood people’s hearts. If you refuse to pursue fame but still do not understand their hearts, and insist on speaking of benevolence and rules before a tyrant, you will be using another person’s faults to display your own goodness. This is called bringing calamity upon someone else; whoever brings calamity upon others is sure to face their retaliation. I fear you will become a target for everyone. Besides, if you simply admire the virtuous and despise the unvirtuous, why deliberately seek to set yourself apart? If you do not offer admonitions, the ruler and his powerful officials will naturally compete with one another. Then your eyes will be dazzled by them, your expression will change with theirs, your mouth will be busy responding, and your bearing will give you away. Your heart, too, will be swayed by them. This is like trying to put out a fire with more fire, or a flood with more water: you will only make the problem grow. If you follow this course, it will have no end. If you try to persuade him with weighty words he does not trust, you will surely die at the hands of the tyrant.

“Long ago, Xia Jie killed Guan Longfeng, and Shang Zhou killed Prince Bi Gan. They cultivated themselves and used their Virtue to influence the people, but their conduct went against their rulers, who then used their Virtue as the reason to drive them to their deaths. They were pursuing fame before tyrants. In the past, Yao attacked Congzhi and Xuao, and Yu the Great attacked Youhu. Those states were left in ruin, their people killed or wounded, and the attackers themselves suffered punishment. Their military campaigns did not cease, and the pursuit of tangible results had no end. They were all pursuing fame and achievement. Have you never heard that even sages cannot master fame and achievement? How much less can you? Still, if you insist on having a plan of your own, tell me what it is.”

Yan Hui said, “If I am upright and respectful, keep my mind empty, and strive for single-mindedness, would that work?”

Confucius said, “No. If your Yang energy fills you and projects outward, your expression will keep changing. Even ordinary people will not go against you. And if you use the reactions others provoke in you to seek ease in your own heart, that can only count as gradually accumulating Virtue; it cannot yet bring about great Virtue. How much less will it work if you cling to your own approach and refuse to change—outwardly complying while inwardly judging others?”

Yan Hui said, “Then what if I am upright in my heart, gentle in outward manner, guided in my words and conduct by principles, and take the ancients as my models?”

Confucius said, “No. Your approach has too many parts, and you will be unable to respond to changing circumstances. Even if there is nothing wrong with doing this, it can take you no further. How could it bring about change? You are still taking your own mind as the standard.”

Yan Hui said, “I have no other approach. Please tell me what I should do.”

Confucius said, “Fast, and I will tell you. Acting with an aim in mind is not so easy. To think it easy is to go against the way of Heaven.”

Yan Hui said, “My family is poor. For several months I have neither drunk wine nor eaten meat. Does that count as fasting?”

Confucius said, “That is fasting before a sacrifice, not fasting of the mind.”

Yan Hui asked, “May I ask what fasting of the mind is?”

Confucius said, “Make your will one. Do not listen with your ears; listen with your mind. Do not listen with your mind; listen with your Qi. Hearing stops at the ears, and the mind’s understanding stops when it meets an external thing. Qi is empty and still, waiting to receive all things. Only emptiness and stillness allow the Dao to gather. Being empty and still in mind is fasting of the mind.”

Yan Hui said, “Before I understood your teaching, I truly felt that I existed. After understanding it, I felt that there was no fixed ‘I.’ Is this what you mean by emptiness and stillness?”

Confucius said, “You have reached the heart of it. Let me tell you more. Enter the other person’s situation and engage with him there, but do not let his reputation or display move you. If he accepts what you say, then speak; if he does not, then stop. Do not deliberately open a path, and do not set up obstacles. Hold fast to singleness of spirit, and lodge yourself in whatever circumstances cannot be avoided. That is almost it. It is easy to leave no footprints; it is difficult not to walk on the ground. It is easy to pretend when driven by others; it is difficult to follow the way of Heaven without pretense.

“You may have heard of flying with wings, but not of flying without them. You may have heard of knowing things through knowledge, but not of knowing without it. Look to that realm of clear emptiness: light is born in an empty room, and good fortune rests in stillness. If you cannot become still, this is called ‘sitting while galloping’: the body sits, but the spirit races in every direction. Let your ears and eyes turn inward and open, without being led by the distinctions of the intellect, and even spirits and ghosts will come to dwell there. How much more so will people. From this, the transformations of all things unfold. This was the key grasped by Shun and Yu, and the principle followed by Fuxi and the other sages of antiquity. How much more should ordinary people follow it?”

Yan Hui said, “I have made some progress.”

Confucius asked, “What do you mean?”

Yan Hui replied, “I have forgotten benevolence and righteousness.”

Confucius said, “That is good, but it is not enough.”

Some days later, Yan Hui came to see Confucius again and said, “I have made some progress.”

Confucius asked, “What do you mean?”

Yan Hui replied, “I have forgotten ritual and music.”

Confucius said, “That is good, but it is not enough.”

Some days later, Yan Hui said, “I have made some progress.”

Confucius asked, “What do you mean?”

Yan Hui replied, “I sit in forgetfulness.”

Confucius asked in surprise, “What do you mean by sitting in forgetfulness?”

Yan Hui said, “I no longer cling to my bodily senses. I cast off cleverness and skill, and free myself from form and thought. In this way I become one with the Great Dao. This is what I mean by sitting in forgetfulness.”

Confucius said, “If you become one with the Great Dao, you will have no preferences. If you follow transformation, you will no longer cling to fixed patterns. You truly are a worthy person! Please let me follow behind you and learn.”

Master Ye Gong Zigao was preparing to serve as an envoy to Qi. He sought advice from Confucius, saying, “The ruler has placed great importance on the mission entrusted to me, Zhu Liang. When Qi receives an envoy, its people will probably show great courtesy, but may not be in any hurry to act. Even ordinary people are hard to move; how much more so are the feudal lords? I am deeply anxious about this.

“You once told me that, whether a matter is great or small, few are accomplished without anxiety and fear. If a matter fails, it brings the troubles of human affairs; if it succeeds, it may still bring the troubles of Yin-Yang falling out of balance. To succeed or fail without suffering trouble afterward is something only a person of De can manage. I eat coarse food, and there is no one in my household whose particular task is to boil water to cool me down. Now I have accepted the mission in the morning, and by evening I will have to drink cold water to quench the heat. I must be burning with worry. I have not yet understood the actual circumstances of the mission, yet my heart already suffers from the danger of Yin-Yang falling out of balance. If the mission fails, I will certainly face the worldly troubles of human affairs. As a minister, I cannot bear these two kinds of trouble. Please give me some guidance.”

Confucius said, “There are two great principles in the world: one is destiny, the other is duty. Children love their parents by nature; they cannot remove this love from their hearts. Ministers serve their ruler because of their role and responsibility. Wherever they may be, they cannot cast off that responsibility or escape it between Heaven and Earth. This is what is meant by the great principles.

“Thus, in serving one’s parents, one does not choose the place, but seeks only to make them comfortable: this is the height of filial devotion. In serving one’s ruler, one does not choose the task, but seeks only to undertake it calmly: this is the height of loyalty. To settle one’s heart, not letting one’s joy or sorrow be changed by one’s circumstances, and to understand that some things cannot be helped, accepting them calmly as destiny—this is the highest level of De.

“Those who serve as ministers or children already have responsibilities they cannot avoid. If you act according to the actual circumstances and forget your own gains and losses, what time will you have to cling to life and fear death? Go on your way. I will share with you what I have heard. In dealing with others, when the relationship is close, let honesty refine and temper your exchanges; when it is distant, express your loyalty through your words. But words must always be carried from one person to another. To relay words that please both sides or anger both sides is the hardest thing in the world. When both sides are pleased, the words often contain excessive praise; when both are angry, they often contain excessive blame. Words that go too far are usually untrue. If they are untrue, the listener will find them hard to believe, and the messenger may easily bring trouble upon himself. Thus the old saying goes: convey only what is ordinary and true about the matter; do not add embellishments. Only then may you preserve yourself.

“When people compete in strength through skill, they often begin fairly, but end in treachery. When the struggle grows fierce, all kinds of schemes arise. Drinking according to ritual often begins in good order, but ends in disorder; when people drink too much, all kinds of reckless behavior follow. Most affairs are like this: they begin sincerely, but often turn mean. At first they seem simple, yet near the end they often swell into serious situations. Words are like wind and waves, while actions bring real gains and losses. Wind and waves can easily unsettle the heart; gains and losses can easily lead people into danger.

“Anger that grows without cause is often stirred up by clever words and one-sided accounts. A beast at the point of death does not care whether its cries are fitting. When a person’s breath grows short and the spirit is stirred, harsh thoughts arise as well. Excessively severe interrogation and blame will surely provoke an unworthy response, while the person involved may not know how things came to this pass. If one does not even know why things have turned out as they have, who can predict how they will end? Thus the old saying goes: do not presume to alter commands, and do not press for a matter to be completed at all costs; that will only make it more dangerous. A task done well depends on long preparation. If it goes wrong, it will be too late to put right. How could one fail to be cautious?

“To respond to external things and settle the spirit, entrusting oneself to what cannot be avoided in order to cultivate the inner life—this is already the highest way of conducting oneself in the world. Why deliberately do anything in the hope of gaining a reward? It is better to do your utmost to fulfill the mission you have been given. This is no easy matter.”

This is the second chapter.

Yan He was about to become tutor to the crown prince of Duke Ling of Wei, so he sought advice from Qu Boyu. “There is a man born with a violent nature. If I leave him unchecked, he will endanger the state; if I try to restrain him with rules, I will endanger myself. He is clever enough to spot other people’s faults, but does not understand why they make them. What should I do with someone like this?”

Qu Boyu replied, “A good question! Be alert and cautious, and first put yourself in order. In your outward conduct, it is best to go along with him. In your inward attitude, it is best to remain on good terms with him. But each of these has its own danger: in going along with him, do not go so far that you become ensnared; in keeping things peaceful between you, do not reveal everything you think. Going too far in compliance can leave you disoriented and bring you to ruin. Revealing all your intentions may win you a reputation, but it may also invite disaster.

“If he is like an infant, treat him as you would an infant. If he ignores boundaries, follow his lead and do not insist on convention. If he is boundless, go along with him without displaying boundaries of your own. Do this, and you can move freely without being harmed.

“Have you never seen a mantis? It strains to raise its forelegs and block a cartwheel, not knowing it cannot possibly withstand it. It is simply risking itself by relying on its own ability. Be alert and cautious. Do not trust in your own strength and rashly provoke him; that would be dangerous.

“Have you never seen someone who keeps tigers? He does not dare feed them live animals, because live prey stirs their urge to pounce and kill. Nor does he dare give them whole carcasses, because tearing at the prey makes them angry. He must know when the tigers are hungry or full and channel their anger. Though tigers and humans are different kinds of creatures, tigers grow close to their keepers because the keepers accommodate their nature. They injure people when someone acts against that nature.

“Someone who loves horses uses a bamboo basket to catch their dung and a clam shell to collect their urine. Once, a horsefly landed on a horse. The man struck it with his hand without waiting for the right moment. The blow broke the horse’s bridle, injured its head, and smashed its chest against the stall. He meant to care for the horse, but because he acted clumsily, he destroyed what he loved. How could one fail to be cautious about this?”

They were killed because they went against the nature of things. A man who loved horses used a basket to collect their dung and a shell to catch their urine. When a mosquito happened to settle on a horse, he swatted it away at the wrong moment. Instead, he injured the horse’s coat and even left its head battered and its chest torn open. His intention was to care for it, yet his care resulted in harm. How could he fail to be cautious?

The Third Chapter on the Right

Carpenter Shi, whose name was Shi, went to the state of Qi and came to Quyuan. There he saw a tree dedicated to the local earth deity. Its trunk was so thick that several oxen would have to join hands to encircle it; its girth measured a hundred feet. It towered up the mountainside for ten ren before it put out branches. Its branches were so broad that more than a dozen could each provide enough wood to build a boat. The crowd of onlookers was as large as a marketplace. Carpenter Shi did not even look at the tree. He walked straight past without stopping.

His disciples watched it for a long time, then caught up with Carpenter Shi and said, “Since I first followed you with an axe in hand, Master, I have never seen such fine timber. Yet you would not even glance at it and kept walking. Why?”

Carpenter Shi said, “Enough; there is no need to discuss it. This is a useless, worthless tree. Build a boat from it and the boat will sink; make a coffin and it will rot quickly; make tools and they will soon break; use it for doors and the boards will leak; make it into pillars and the wood will be eaten by worms. It is useless timber. Precisely because it has no use, it has lived this long.”

After Carpenter Shi returned home, the tree dedicated to the earth deity appeared to him in a dream and said, “What would you compare me with? Do you mean to compare me with useful trees? Pear, orange, and pomelo trees, and the like, have their fruit picked as soon as it ripens, while their branches and trunks are constantly broken. Their large branches are snapped off, and their small ones are torn away. Because they can be put to use, these trees suffer and cannot enjoy the full course of their natural lives; they die before their time. They bring upon themselves the cutting and damage of the world. Most things are like this. For a long time I have sought to escape being used. I came close to dying, but now at last I have managed it. This is my greatest use. If I were useful, how could I have grown so large? You and I are both among the myriad things, so how can we judge each other at will? And how could a worthless man on the verge of death understand a worthless tree?”

When Carpenter Shi awoke, he told his disciples about the dream. One of them said, “If it was devoted to being useless, why did it become a tree dedicated to the earth deity?”

Carpenter Shi said, “Enough. It merely takes shelter in the role of a tree dedicated to the earth deity. If we do not understand this, we will see it as pretending to be unfit for worldly use, or even reproach it. If it had not become such a tree, it would probably have been cut down long ago. Besides, what it preserves is unlike anything else. Wouldn’t we be far off the mark if we tried to understand it by ordinary reasoning?”

While traveling in Shangqiu, Nanbo Zicai saw a strange tree. It was enormous and sturdy, with enough shade to shelter a thousand chariots. Ziqi said, “What kind of tree is this? It must have some special qualities.” He looked up at its fine branches: they were twisted and could not be used for roof beams. He looked down at its thick trunk: the wood was loose and split, so it could not be used for coffins. Its leaves would blister and injure the mouth if eaten, and its smell would leave a person’s mind in confusion, unable to recover for three days.

Zilai said, “This really is a useless tree. That is how it has been able to grow so large. Alas, the spirit-like person, too, preserves himself by means of this kind of ‘uselessness.’”

In the state of Song, there was a place called Jing where catalpa, cypress, and mulberry trees grew well. When a tree grew to the thickness of one or two armfuls, people would cut it down to make a tethering post for monkeys. At three or four armfuls around, it would be cut down for grand, ornate building materials. At seven or eight armfuls around, wealthy nobles and merchants would cut it down to make decorative boards for a coffin. These trees could not live out their natural span; they died midway under axe and saw. This is the calamity that befalls things with useful qualities.

At sacrifices, white-foreheaded cattle, pigs with upturned snouts, and people suffering from hemorrhoids could not be chosen for river offerings. The ritual specialists had long known these taboos, because such things were regarded as inauspicious. Yet for the spirit-like person, this very “inauspiciousness” is the greatest good fortune.

Zhilishu, whose body was malformed, had his chin tucked near his navel and his shoulders higher than his head. His hair knot pointed skyward, and his internal organs were positioned above. The bones of his thighs supported his body like ribs. He could earn enough to live by bending over to sew and mend clothes or wash miscellaneous items. By winnowing chaff and sorting grain, he could support ten people.

When the authorities called up soldiers, Zhilishu would wave his arms among those being summoned. When they conscripted laborers, his chronic illness exempted him from service. When the authorities distributed grain to the sick, he could collect three zhong of grain and ten bundles of firewood.

From this we can see that even someone with a malformed body can still support himself and live out his allotted years. How much more so, then, for those whose Virtue is imperfect?

When Confucius went to the state of Chu, its madman Jieyu, a recluse who feigned madness to avoid the world, passed by Confucius’s gate and said, “Phoenix, Phoenix, how far your Virtue has declined! The age to come cannot be awaited, and the age that has passed cannot be brought back. When the world is on the Dao, the sage can accomplish his work; when the world is without the Dao, the sage can only preserve his life. In this age, it is enough if one can somehow escape punishment. Good fortune is as light as a feather, yet no one knows how to bear it; calamity is as heavy as the earth, yet no one knows how to avoid it. Enough, enough! Do not use Virtue to make demands of others. Dangerous, dangerous! Do not draw a path on the ground and insist that others follow it.”

Jieyu continued, “Go on, go on; do not block my way. I may walk a winding path, but I will not hurt my feet.”

Trees on the mountain are cut down because they are useful; grease is boiled because it can burn. The cassia tree is edible, so it is felled; the lacquer tree yields lacquer, so it is stripped. Everyone knows the uses of what is useful, but no one understands the use of what is useless.

The above is Chapter Six of Corrected Text of the Inner Chapters of the Zhuangzi. The main text of the upper volume ends here.

Editorial notes: “jing” should read “jing” (“boundary”) according to the standard edition; “the use of selecting and employing, yet no one understands the use of what is useless” should read “the use of what is useful, yet no one understands the use of what is useless” according to the standard edition; “xuanbai” should read “nie” according to the standard edition; “know” should read “is” according to the standard edition.

Corrected Text of the Inner Chapters of the Zhuangzi, Lower Volume, by Wu Cheng of Linchuan

The Sign of Complete Virtue

In the state of Lu there was a man who had had one foot cut off. His name was Wang Fu. The number of people who studied with him and kept his company was almost as great as the number of Confucius’s followers. Chang Ji asked Confucius, “Wang Fu is a man with a mutilated foot, yet nearly half the people in Lu follow him. He does not teach when standing, nor discuss when seated, but people go to him empty-hearted and return full. Could this be a way of transforming people without words, of bringing fulfillment to their minds without showing any trace of doing so? What kind of person is he?”

Confucius said, “Mr. Wang is a sage. I am only behind in this matter, and have not yet had time to visit him. I intend to take him as my teacher. How much more should those who are less accomplished than I do so? Why limit this to Lu? I would lead the people of the whole world to follow him.”

Chang Ji said, “Though his foot has been mutilated, he has become a teacher, and is indeed far beyond ordinary people. What is the cultivation of his inner life like?”

Confucius said, “Birth and death are great matters in human life, yet they cannot alter his mind. Even if Heaven and Earth overturned and collapsed, he would not lose his original nature. He knows deeply that none of the myriad things has any fixed foundation on which to rely, so he is not shifted by changes in external things. He can govern the transformations of the myriad things while keeping to their root.”

Chang Ji asked, “What does that mean?”

Confucius said, “From the perspective of how things differ from one another, liver and gallbladder are as far apart as the states of Chu and Yue. From the perspective of what they share, the myriad things are originally one. A person like this does not concern himself with what the ears and eyes find pleasing to hear or see, but lets his mind and spirit roam freely in the harmony of De (Virtue/Power). He sees the myriad things as one whole and does not cling to distinctions. So, to him, losing a foot is like losing a clod of earth.”

Chang Ji asked, “Has he cultivated himself? Through wisdom, he has mastered his mind; through his inner life, he has attained an enduring original nature. Why, then, do people honor him so greatly?”

Confucius said, “People do not look at themselves in flowing water, but in still water. Only still water can make other things still. Plants receive their life from the earth, and only the pine and cypress remain green through both winter and summer. Human beings receive their life from Heaven, and only Shun was able to set himself right. He was fortunate enough to set his own life right, and so could set the lives of others right as well. One who holds fast to the original signs of life has no fear within. Even an ordinary warrior can charge boldly into the midst of nine armies. If someone can do this for the sake of winning a name and fulfilling his ambition, how much more can one who takes Heaven and Earth as his responsibility, gathers the myriad things into his heart, regards his body as a temporary dwelling and his ears and eyes as outward appearances, and masters all that knowledge can encompass, yet never lets his mind die? Such a person will choose a day to rise up and roam far away, and people will follow him. For a person like this, what external thing could still be worth worrying about?”

The passage on the right is Chapter One.

Shentu Jia had lost one foot to amputation. He studied under Bohun Wuren alongside Zichan, the chief minister of Zheng. Zichan said to Shentu Jia, “When I leave, you stay; when you leave, I stay.” The next day, the two sat together in the same hall and on the same mat. Zichan said, “When I leave, you stay; when you leave, I stay. Now I am about to leave. Can you stay, or not? Besides, when you see a chief minister, you do not step aside. Do you consider yourself equal to one in office?”

Shentu Jia replied, “Are there people like chief ministers even among our teacher’s students? You rely on your position in government and look down on others. I have heard that when a mirror is bright, dust and grime cannot remain on it; once dust settles on it, the mirror is no longer bright. Spend a long time with a worthy person, and you are less likely to make mistakes. You hold our teacher in the highest regard, yet you have said such things. Is that not a mistake?”

Zichan said, “If that is how you see things, are you going to argue with Yao about who has greater De? Look at your own De. Surely you can reflect on yourself?”

Shentu Jia said, “Many people insist that their own faults should not disappear but ought to be kept. Few refuse to make excuses for their faults and recognize that they should not exist. To know that something cannot be helped and accept it calmly, as though everything were determined by fate—that is something only a person of De can do.

“It is like playing within Yi’s range of fire. Standing right in the middle is, of course, where you are most likely to be hit. If you are not hit, that too is a matter of fate. Many people mock me for having only one foot because they have two sound feet. I often grow angry at this, but as soon as I go to our teacher, my anger fades. I do not know whether he has washed my heart clean with the good Dao. In the nineteen years I have spent with him, I have never felt that I am a man with a limp. Now that you and I associate with each other, you ought to attend to what is within, to the spirit, yet you judge me by my outward form. Is that not going too far?”

On hearing this, Zichan looked alarmed and changed his manner. “Please say no more,” he said.

Chapter Two

In the state of Lu, there was a man whose feet had been cut off. His name was Shushan Wuzhi. He came to visit Confucius, walking on his heels. Confucius said, “You were careless in the past and have already suffered this misfortune. Now you come to me—isn’t it too late?”

Wuzhi said, “I lost my feet because I did not understand what mattered most and what mattered least, and used my body recklessly. I have come to see you because I believe there are things more precious than feet that I can still strive to preserve. Heaven covers everything, and Earth bears everything. I regarded you as vast as Heaven and Earth. How could I have known that you would see me this way?”

Confucius said, “I have been narrow-minded. Please come in. I would like to hear what you know.” Wuzhi left.

Confucius said to his disciples, “You should study diligently. Though Shushan Wuzhi has lost his feet, he still strives to learn, hoping to make up for his past mistakes. How much more should those whose virtue is whole?”

Wuzhi said to Lao Dan (Laozi), “Kong Qiu is still far from being a ‘Perfected One’—the Daoist ideal of a person who has reached the highest state. Why is he always so busy teaching his students? He pursues a reputation for the strange and the bizarre, yet does not know that the Perfected One regards such things as shackles?”

Lao Dan said, “Why not simply help him understand that life and death are one, and that what is acceptable and unacceptable are interconnected? In this way, perhaps his shackles could be undone.”

Wuzhi said, “These are punishments Heaven has imposed on him. How could they be undone?”

Duke Ai of Lu asked Confucius, “In the state of Wei there was a man of astonishing ugliness named Ai Futa. Men who spent time with him could never stop thinking about him and could not bear to leave. Women who saw him even asked their parents, ‘Rather than become someone else’s wife, I would rather be his concubine.’ More than ten women did this. He never took the lead in advocating anything; he simply went along with others. He held no high office from which to aid the people, nor did he receive a generous stipend with which to support others. His ugliness was enough to astonish the world, yet people drew close to him and followed him.

“His understanding did not extend beyond the four borders, yet men and women alike were drawn to him. I thought he must have something out of the ordinary, so I summoned him to see for myself. He was indeed astonishingly ugly. I had known him for less than a month when I began to admire his character; before a year had passed, I trusted him. The state had no chief minister, so I entrusted its government to him. He was silent for a while before agreeing, and seemed indifferent, as though he meant to refuse. I felt embarrassed, but in the end I handed the state over to him. Before long, he left me. I felt bereft, as if I had lost something, and as though I could no longer take pleasure in governing the state without him. What sort of person is he?”

Confucius said, “I was once on a mission to Chu and happened to see a group of piglets nursing beside their dead mother. After a little while, they suddenly all abandoned her and ran away, because she could no longer respond to them. The piglets did not lack love for their mother; they loved what had made her alive and full of life. After a person dies, mourners no longer treat the deceased as if they were alive. A man whose feet have been cut off does not cherish the shoes he can no longer use. In each case, the root has been lost.

“When the Son of Heaven’s concubines enter the palace, they do not cut their nails or pierce their ears. After a man marries, his wife stays at home and is no longer put to labor. These customs are meant to preserve the human form. If even the intact body is worthy of cherishing, how much more so is a person whose De is complete?

“Now Ai Futa has won people’s trust without saying anything, and drawn them close without performing any deeds. When others entrusted him with the state, he feared he might not accept it. He must be complete in inner talent and De, yet show nothing of it outwardly.”

Duke Ai of Lu asked, “What does it mean to be complete in talent and De?”

Confucius said, “Life and death, survival and ruin, hardship and success, poverty and wealth, ability and inadequacy, blame and praise, hunger and thirst, cold and heat: all are changes in the affairs of the world, the workings of fate. They come before us in alternation, day and night, and people cannot know their beginnings in advance. So we should not let these changes disturb the heart’s peace, nor let them invade the mind. Let the heart be peaceful and at ease, open and clear; let it keep its joy without losing it to external things. Let each day pass without estrangement, and meet all things with the warmth of spring. When all kinds of circumstances arrive, the heart can respond to each in the fitting way. This is what it means to be complete in talent and De.

“What does it mean for De not to show itself? When water is still, its most level state can serve as a standard: its surface is calm, its depths are settled, and external things cannot set it wavering. De is the cultivation of inner harmony until it matures. When a person does not make a display of De, all things naturally draw near.

“Later, Duke Ai of Lu told Minzi, ‘In the past, I thought that sitting facing south and ruling the world, holding the people’s guiding principles in my hands and worrying over their lives and deaths, was the highest form of government. Now, having heard the words of the Perfected Person, I fear that I may not have such De after all. By carelessly entrusting myself, I may bring about the loss of the state. Confucius and I are not ruler and minister; we are friends joined by De.’”

That is the end of Chapter Four.

Min Qi Zhili Wuchun, a man whose features were deformed and whose lips were incomplete, went to persuade Duke Ling of Wei, who took a great liking to him. To Duke Ling, however, he looked no different from someone with a sound body; the only thing he noticed was how slender the man’s neck was. Wengweng Dajiu, a man with a large swelling on his neck, went to persuade Duke Huan of Qi, who also took a great liking to him. To Duke Huan, he too looked no different from someone with a sound body; the only thing he noticed was how slender the man’s neck was.

This shows that when a person’s inner De (Virtue/Power) grows, they forget the defects of their outward form. People fail to forget what they ought to forget, yet can still win the affection of Duke Ling of Wei and Duke Huan of Qi, so that these rulers see them as they would someone with a sound body, noticing only how slender their necks are. This is De surpassing physical form, so that form no longer matters. When people fail to forget what they ought to forget and instead forget what they ought not to forget, that is true forgetting.

Thus, in the realm where sages roam freely, cleverness becomes a source of trouble, restraint becomes a shackle, De becomes a means of managing relations with others, and skill becomes a trade for profit. Sages do not scheme, so what use have they for cleverness? They do not deliberately carve and polish, so what use have they for restraint? They do not lose their nature, so what use have they for proclaiming their De? They do not make deals, so what use have they for commerce? These four things should all take the Dao (the Way) as their standard. To take the Dao as one’s standard means to be nourished by it. Once one has received nourishment from the Dao, why depend on human contrivance?

That is the end of Chapter Five.

He has a human form, yet none of the emotions recognized by the world. Because his form is like a human’s, he belongs to the same kind as other people. Because he is not governed by worldly emotions, judgments of right and wrong, gain and loss, cannot harm him. What seems small is only that he belongs to the human kind; what is truly vast and plainly evident is that he alone has fulfilled his inborn nature.

Huizi asked Zhuangzi, “Are people originally without emotions?”

Zhuangzi said, “Yes.”

Huizi said, “If someone is human, how can you say he has no emotions?”

Zhuangzi said, “The Dao gave him his appearance, and Heaven gave him his form. How could we not call him human?”

Huizi said, “If we call him human, how can he be without emotions?”

Zhuangzi said, “By ‘emotions,’ I don’t mean what you mean. By emotions, I mean that a person does not inwardly injure himself through likes and dislikes, but always follows nature and does not add anything extra to life.”

Huizi said, “If he does not add anything extra to life, how can he preserve his body?”

Zhuangzi said, “The Dao gave him his appearance, and Heaven gave him his form. Do not inwardly injure yourself through likes and dislikes. Now you exhaust your spirit and wear out your vital energy, leaning against a tree as you chant, or slumping beside a withered paulownia as you stare into space. Heaven gave you this form, yet you use it to argue about ‘hardness and whiteness’—the debate over whether hardness and whiteness can be separated.”

The Great Ancestral Teacher, Chapter Six

Those who understand what is done by nature and what is done by human effort have reached the highest attainment. To understand what is done by nature is to live in accordance with one’s inborn nature. To understand what is done by human effort is to use what one already knows to nurture what one does not yet know, so that life may run its full natural course and not be cut short. This is what it means for understanding to reach its utmost: live in accordance with your inborn nature, and know how to nurture the unknown with what you already understand, so that you may enjoy the full span of your natural life.

Yet a question remains. Human understanding depends on something in order to be sound, but what it depends on may not be reliable. How can we know that what we call “Heaven” is not “the human,” and what we call “the human” is not “Heaven”? Only when there is a True Person can there be true understanding.

What is a True Person? The True People of ancient times did not reject those who were few in number, boast of their achievements, or scheme to control others. If they made a mistake, they felt no regret; if they did something right, they took no pride in it. So when they climbed to a high place, they did not tremble; when they entered the water, they did not get wet; when they walked into fire, they felt no heat. This shows that their understanding could reach the Great Dao.

The True People of ancient times did not dream in their sleep, and when awake they felt no grief. They ate without craving flavor, and their breathing was deep and long. A True Person breathes from the heels; ordinary people breathe from the throat. Those who are constrained by external things speak indistinctly, as though sobbing. The deeper their desires, the shallower their natural clarity.

The True People of ancient times did not especially cling to life, nor did they despise death. They felt no joy at coming into the world and offered no resistance when leaving it. They came and went freely, without forgetting life’s beginning or deliberately pursuing its end. They received life with gladness, then, when it was time to let go, returned to the natural course. This is called not letting private concerns harm the Dao and not using human action to interfere with nature. Such people are True People.

The True People are single-minded and composed, humble in bearing, and come and go naturally. They do not forget life’s beginning or insist on pursuing its end. They receive life with gladness, then return to forgetfulness. This is called not letting private concerns harm the Dao and not using human action to force nature onward. Such people are steadfast in purpose, composed in appearance, and modest in demeanor. In their coolness they are like autumn; in their warmth they are like spring. Their joy and anger change with the seasons. They live in harmony with all things, yet no one can measure the limits of their attainment.

Thus, when a sage wages war, even if a state is destroyed, the people’s allegiance is not lost. The sage’s kindness extends through the ages, yet does not arise from deliberately cherishing any one person. Seeking only to be in harmony with all things does not make one a sage. Showing partiality does not make one benevolent. Merely following the seasons does not make one worthy. Failing to understand gain and loss does not make one a gentleman. Pursuing fame at the cost of losing oneself does not make one a cultivated person. Giving up life without preserving one’s true nature makes one a servant of others. Hu Buxie, Wu Guang, Bo Yi, Shu Qi, Jizi, Xu Yu, Jita, and Shentu Di all acted for others and pursued the happiness others pursued, without finding contentment in their own happiness. They could not understand gain and loss, and pursued fame at the cost of losing themselves. Thus they could not be called true gentlemen or cultivated people. They gave up their lives without safeguarding their true selves, and so became servants of others.

The True People of ancient times were dignified without forming factions. They seemed to lack something, yet did not depend on others. They could be close to people without being stubborn; they were open-hearted without being showy. They appeared bright, as though joyful, yet also carried the helplessness of one who has no choice. Their countenance was full, as if able to lift others’ spirits; their manner was easy, as if able to settle others through their De. They were solemn, as though in accord with the world, yet alert enough not to be ruled by it. They were carefree, seeming to enjoy leisure, and content to let words fall away.

They took penal law as the basis of their conduct, ritual as its aid, wisdom as their guide in judging the moment, and De as the standard they followed. To take penal law as one’s basis means to administer punishment with lenience and restraint. To take ritual as an aid is to act in the world. To use wisdom to judge the moment is to recognize that handling affairs sometimes makes this necessary. To follow De as one’s standard means to proceed according to one’s own capacities and arrive where one must. Others mistakenly think that such people are deliberately laboring at spiritual practice.

They were this way toward what they liked, and also toward what they disliked. Whether in a state of unity or disunity, they remained at ease. In unity, they kept company with nature; in disunity, they did not let Heaven and humanity come into conflict. This is called being a True Person.

When a spring dries up, fish are stranded on land. They breathe moisture on one another and wet one another with their saliva. But this is not as good as each returning to the rivers and lakes, where they can forget one another. Rather than praise Yao and condemn Jie, it is better to forget them both and let all things change naturally with the Dao.

The earth gave me my body, made me labor in life, gave me ease in old age, and will finally give me rest in death. So whoever knows how to care for life also knows how to care for death. Life and death are matters of fate, like the alternation of day and night; they are natural patterns. Human power cannot interfere with them. They are the reality of all things. People already revere Heaven when they regard it as their father. How much more, then, should they revere the supreme Dao? People are willing to give their lives when they believe their ruler is greater than they are. How much more should they give themselves to the true Dao?

Hide a boat in a ravine and a mountain in a lake, and people may think they are secure. But in the middle of the night, someone strong carries them off, while the foolish never know it. Hiding small things and large things separately may seem sensible, but something can still be left behind. If you hide the whole world within the world, there is nowhere it can be lost. This is the constant reality of all things.

When people happen to gain human form, they are already delighted. The human form changes along with all things, and its transformations have no end. How could the joy in this ever be measured? So the sage wanders among all things in a realm from which nothing returns, yet in which everything is preserved. The sage is at ease with an early death and a long life, with anger and with reaching old age. People already take such a sage as their model; how much more so should they take as their model the Dao on which all things depend and through which change takes place?

The Dao has real features and reliable grounds, yet it acts without action and has no form. It can be communicated, but cannot be handed over like an object; it can be experienced, but cannot be seen with the eyes. It takes itself as its root and existed before Heaven and Earth appeared. It has been so from ancient times. It gives power to spirits and gods, and brings Heaven and Earth into being. It is above the Supreme Ultimate, yet is not high; it lies beneath the four directions of Heaven and Earth, yet is not deep. It was born before Heaven and Earth, yet is not old; it has endured since high antiquity, yet is not ancient.

Xiwei gained the Dao and could encompass Heaven and Earth. Fuxi gained the Dao and could take up the source of the vital energy of all things. The Big Dipper gained the Dao and has revolved without end. The sun and moon gained the Dao and never cease. Kanhuai gained the Dao and could travel to and from Mount Kunlun. Fengyi gained the Dao and could roam the great river. Jianwu gained the Dao and could dwell on a great mountain. The Yellow Emperor gained the Dao and could ascend into the clouds. Zhuanxu gained the Dao and could dwell in the Dark Palace. Yuqiang gained the Dao and could stand at the North Pole. The Queen Mother of the West gained the Dao and presides over Mount Shaoguang, knowing neither where she began nor when she will end. Pengzu gained the Dao and lived from the time of Youyu through the era of the Five Hegemons. Chuan Shuo gained the Dao and served King Wuding of Shang, who ruled the realm. Later, riding the eastern Weixing and astride the stars Ji and Wei, he joined the ranks of the constellations.

This is Chapter One.

Nanbo Zikui asked Nü Ou, “You are already very old, yet your appearance is like a child’s. Why?”

Nü Ou replied, “I have heard the Dao.”

Nanbo Zikui asked, “Can the Dao be learned?”

She said, “No. You are not the right person. Bu Liangyi had the makings of a sage, but not the Dao of a sage. I have the Dao of a sage, but not the makings of a sage. I would like to teach him the Dao. Perhaps I could truly make him a sage. Even so, telling the Dao of a sage to someone with the makings of a sage would not be difficult.”

“I kept watch over him and guided him. After three days, he could set the world aside. Once he had forgotten the world, I kept watch over him and guided him again. After seven days, he could set external things aside. Once he had forgotten external things, I kept watch over him and guided him again. After nine days, he could set life and death aside. Once he had reached this point, he could attain ‘dawn clarity’—a mind clear and penetrating. After attaining dawn clarity, he could ‘see the One’—recognize the Dao as independent and reliant on nothing external. After seeing the One, he could transcend the distinction between past and present. After transcending past and present, he could enter a state beyond life and death.”

“What can bring the life force of all things to an end does not die along with them. What enables all things to be born again and again is itself unbound by life and death. In its dealings with things, it sends them on their way and welcomes them as they arrive; it brings about both their destruction and their fulfillment. This state is called ‘stillness amid disturbance.’ To be still amid disturbance is to remain amid agitation and yet bring about peace.”

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

Nü Ou replied, “I heard them from the Son of the Deputy Inkman. The Son of the Deputy Inkman heard them from the Grandson of Chanting Luo; the Grandson of Chanting Luo heard them from Clear Vision; Clear Vision heard them from Whispering Nie; Whispering Nie heard them from Needing Service; Needing Service heard them from Singing Yu; Singing Yu heard them from Dark Obscurity; Dark Obscurity heard them from Vast Emptiness; Vast Emptiness heard them from the Grandson of Chanting Luo; the Grandson of Chanting Luo heard them from Clear Vision; Clear Vision heard them from Whispering Nie; Whispering Nie heard them from Needing Service; Needing Service heard them from Singing Yu; Singing Yu heard them from Dark Obscurity; Dark Obscurity heard them from Vast Emptiness; and Vast Emptiness heard them from Doubt’s Beginning.”

This is Chapter Two.

Zisi, Ziyu, Zili, and Zilai were talking together. “Who can take ‘nothingness’ as the head, ‘life’ as the backbone, and ‘death’ as the buttocks? Who understands that death, life, existence, and extinction are originally one? We would be glad to be friends with such a person.” The four looked at one another and smiled, their thoughts in accord. So they became friends.

Not long afterward, Ziyu fell ill, and Zisi went to visit him. “How wondrous the Creator is,” said Ziyu, “to be turning me into this crooked, misshapen form!” His back was hunched, his organs seemed to have shifted upward, his chin was tucked near his navel, his shoulders rose above his head, and a growth on his neck pointed skyward. Yin-Yang Qi was sluggish and blocked within him, and even his heart had shifted out of place. He hobbled to a well and saw his reflection in the water. “Alas,” he sighed, “the Creator is turning me into this crooked, misshapen form again!”

“Do you hate it?” Zisi asked.

“No. Why should I hate it?” Ziyu replied. “If the changes continue and turn my left arm into a rooster, I’ll use it to announce the dawn. If they turn my right arm into a crossbow, I’ll use it to shoot an owl and roast it for food. If they turn my buttocks into wheels and my spirit into a horse, I’ll ride them wherever I go. Why would I need another carriage and team of horses?

“To gain something is to follow the course of time; to lose something is also to follow change. At ease with the course of time and in accord with change, one leaves no room in the heart for sorrow or joy to intrude. This is what the ancients called ‘being released from hanging upside down.’ Those who cannot free themselves are bound by external things. It has long been the case that external things cannot overcome the transformations of nature. Why, then, should I hate them?”

Not long afterward, Zilai fell gravely ill. His breathing was labored, and he seemed close to death. His wife and children stood around him, weeping. Zili went to visit and called out to them, “Hush! Step back! Don’t disturb the changes taking place in him.” Leaning against the doorway, he said to Zilai, “How wondrous the transformations of nature are! What will they turn you into now? Where will they send you? Will they turn you into a rat’s liver or an insect’s arm?”

Zilai replied, “When parents treat their children, whether they tell them to go east, west, south, or north, the children obey. The Yin-Yang Qi treats people with even greater care than parents treat their children. It is guiding me toward death. If I refused to obey, I would be defying it. What fault is there in that? The Earth gave me my body: it made me labor throughout life, gave me rest in old age, and will let me rest in death. So the same thing that treats my life well also treats my death well.

“Now, if a swordsmith were smelting metal in a furnace and the metal leapt up, saying, ‘I insist on becoming a renowned sword!’ the swordsmith would surely regard it as ill-omened metal. If, now that I have happened to receive the form of a human being, I insisted, ‘I want to be human, and human only,’ the transformations of nature would surely regard me as ill-omened. Since I take Heaven and Earth to be a great furnace and the transformations of nature to be the swordsmith shaping all things, where could I go that would not be all right?”

Zilai fell peacefully asleep, then peacefully awoke.

Zisang Hu, Meng Zifan, and Ziqin Zhang were friends. They talked about the Dao: “Who can be friends without deliberately seeking one another out, and help one another without deliberately setting out to do so? Who can ascend to the heavens and wander through the mists, roaming freely and at ease, with nothing in their heart to despise and nowhere they cannot go? Who can fall asleep in peace and wake with ease?”

Later, Zisang Hu died, but had not yet been buried. When Confucius heard of it, he sent Zigong to attend to the funeral. Meng Zifan was arranging music, while Ziqin Zhang played the zither. They sang in harmony: “Alas, Sang Hu! Alas, Sang Hu! You have returned to your true nature, while we remain among the living, still bound to these bodies.”

Zigong hurried forward and asked, “May I ask whether singing before the dead is in keeping with ritual?” The two looked at each other and laughed. “How could this man understand the true meaning of ritual?”

When Zigong returned, he told Confucius what had happened. “What sort of people are they? They cultivate themselves without clinging to outward forms. They sing before the dead, their expressions unchanged. I truly don’t know what to call them. What sort of people are they?”

Confucius said, “They roam beyond the bounds of worldly conventions, while I move within them. The inner and outer realms do not connect, yet I foolishly sent you to offer condolences. They keep company with the Creator, and take the primal Qi shared by Heaven and Earth as the realm through which they wander. To them, life is like a growth of extra flesh or a hanging tumor on the body; death is like cutting away that growth or draining the tumor. Since this is so, how could they know whether life or death comes first, or where each belongs?”

Relying on external things, they entrust themselves to a shared form. They forget the distinctions between liver and gallbladder, and no longer cling to what the ears hear or the eyes see. They let life’s end and beginning cycle again and again, without knowing where it starts or where it ends. They wander bewildered beyond the world of dust, roaming freely in the Way of Wuwei (non-action). Why would such a person still angrily insist on worldly rules of propriety, just to make others see and hear them?

Zigong asked, “Then what, after all, does the Master—Confucius—rely on?” Confucius said, “I, Kong Qiu, am one whom Heaven has punished. Even so, you and I can share an understanding of this condition.” Zigong asked, “May I ask what it means?” Confucius said, “Fish live at ease with one another in water; people find their footing by following the Dao (the Way). When fish live at ease in water, digging a pond to keep them nourished allows them to thrive. When people find their footing by following the Dao, life becomes settled when they do not act recklessly. So it is said: fish forget one another in rivers and lakes; people, too, can forget one another in the realm of the Dao.”

Zigong asked, “May I ask what a ‘deformed person’ is?” Confucius said, “A deformed person is someone who seems unusual in the eyes of the world yet follows the course of Heaven. Thus, a petty person who accords with Heaven’s Way may be a gentleman in the human world; and a gentleman in the human world may, from Heaven’s perspective, be a petty person.”

Yan Hui asked Confucius, “When Mengsun Cai’s mother died, he wept, but shed no tears. He felt no sorrow within, and showed no grief while in mourning. He lacked all three, yet became famous throughout Lu for handling funerals well. Can someone gain such a reputation without actually displaying what it implies? I find this strange.”

Confucius said, “Mengsun Cai has gone as far as one can go, and comes close to being in accord with the Great Dao. He wants to see things simply, but cannot yet do so completely; still, he has already simplified them. He does not understand why life comes into being or why death arrives. He does not know what it means to be ahead, or to fall behind. He entrusts himself to change and awaits the changes he cannot foresee. And when something is about to change, how can we know it will not become something else? When change is about to cease, how can we know that it has stopped?

“Perhaps you and I alone are still dreaming, not truly awake. Though Mengsun Cai’s body was struck by a sudden change, his heart was not harmed by it. The body is like a temporary lodging; the inner self did not die along with it. Mengsun Cai simply awakened to the way things are. When others wept, he wept with them: this arose naturally from the circumstances. Besides, we take this self of ours as ‘I’ only for a time. How can we know for certain what this ‘I’ we speak of really is?

“You dream that you become a bird and soar through the air; then you dream that you become a fish and sink into the depths. You do not know whether the one speaking now is you awake, or you in a dream. To follow the changes of things, you need not bark like a dog, nor flatter deliberately like someone putting on a smile, nor argue and resist. Accept what comes in peace and go along with the transformations of all things; then you can enter a vast, boundless realm where all things blend as one with the Way of Heaven.”

“Fifth section, right-hand column” is a section marker. “Become a fish and sink into the depths” means dreaming that one has turned into a fish and sunk into the deep. “Vast and boundless, one with Heaven” refers to a realm in which all things blend seamlessly with the Way of Heaven.

Yi’erzi went to see Xu You. Xu You asked, “What instruction did Yao give you?” Yi’erzi replied, “Yao told me: ‘You must put benevolence and righteousness into practice yourself, and clearly distinguish right from wrong.’”

Xu You said, “Then what are you doing here? Yao has already branded you with benevolence and righteousness and cut off your nose with his distinctions between right and wrong. How can you still roam along the Way, free and unbound, changing with all things?”

Yi’erzi said, “Even so, I still hope to wander along its outskirts.”

Xu You said, “You cannot. A blind person cannot appreciate the beauty of features and expression; one who cannot see cannot watch the shifting patterns of colors such as blue and yellow.”

Yi’erzi said, “Wuzhuang lost his beauty, Juliang lost his strength, and the Yellow Emperor lost his wisdom. These transformations all took place in the furnace and under the hammer. Who can say that the Creator will not remove the brand from me, restore my severed nose, and make me whole again, so that I may follow you?”

Xu You said, “Ah, that is hard to say. Let me tell you, more or less: My teacher, my teacher! He sets all things in order, yet does not claim to be righteous; his kindness extends through all ages, yet he does not claim to be benevolent; he was born in high antiquity, yet does not claim to be old; he covers and supports Heaven and Earth and shapes the forms of all things, yet does not claim to be skillful. This is the realm in which one can roam.”

Zi Yu and Zi Sang were friends. Rain fell for ten days in a row, and Zi Yu thought, “Zi Sang must be ill.” So he wrapped up some food and took it to him. When he reached Zi Sang’s door, he heard him sounding as if he were weeping and singing, plucking his zither and saying, “Was it my father? Was it my mother? Was it Heaven? Was it humanity?” His voice faltered, and the words of his song seemed hurried.

Zi Yu went inside and asked, “What are you singing about, and why are you singing like that?”

Zi Sang said, “I have been wondering what brought me to this predicament, but I cannot find the answer. Could my parents wish me to be poor? Heaven covers all things without favoritism, and Earth supports all things without favoritism. How could Heaven and Earth single me out for poverty? I have tried to find the reason I ended up in this state, but cannot. Perhaps I have come to this predicament because fate has decreed it.”

Section Six

Section Seven

The title of the next chapter is “Responding to Emperors and Kings.”

Nie Que sought instruction from Wang Ni and questioned him four times. Each time, Wang Ni replied that he did not know. Nie Que leapt up, overjoyed, and went back to tell Pu Yizi. Pu Yizi said, “Do you only understand this principle now? You Shun was not the equal of Tai Shi. You Shun seemed to keep benevolence and Virtue in his heart in order to win the people’s support. He did win their hearts, but he never escaped the distinction of judging others to be wrong. Tai Shi slept at ease and without restraint; when awake, he was free and unselfconscious. He responded to circumstances: if others treated him as a horse, he was like a horse; if they treated him as an ox, he was like an ox. His understanding was true and trustworthy, and his Virtue was deep and genuine, yet he never fell into the distinction of judging others to be wrong.”

On the right, Chapter One

Shengwu went to see Kuang Jieyu. Kuang Jieyu asked, “What did Rizhongshi tell you?” Shengwu replied, “He told me that a ruler should establish institutions and laws according to his own standards, so that who would dare not obey and be transformed?”

Jieyu said, “This harms Virtue. To govern the world this way is like asking someone to cross the sea on foot, to dig open a river channel, or to make mosquitoes carry a mountain. Does a sage govern the world by intervening in external affairs? Set yourself right, then act in accord with what comes naturally. It is enough simply to do well what is truly yours to do. Besides, crows fly high to evade arrows fitted with silk cords; shrine rats burrow deep beneath the sacred mound, where the Earth God is worshipped, to escape digging tools. Do these two small creatures not know how to seek benefit and avoid harm?”

On the right, Chapter Two

Tian Gen was traveling in Yinyang and came to the banks of the Liao River. The later repetition of “It is enough simply to do well what is truly yours to do,” along with the parable of the crow and shrine rat avoiding harm, is material from the passage above.

Tian Gen was traveling in the region of Yinyang. When he came to the banks of the Liao River, he happened to meet a man with no name and asked him how to govern the world.

The nameless man said, “Go away! You are a shallow-minded person. How can you ask such an ill-timed question? I am about to keep company with the Creator. When I grow weary, I ride the subtle, formless breath and fly beyond the four quarters of Heaven and Earth. I wander where there is nothing to rely on and dwell in the boundless wilderness. Why would you trouble my heart with matters of governing the world?”

Tian Gen asked again. The nameless man replied, “Let your mind and spirit rest in calm simplicity, let your breath accord with emptiness and stillness, and follow the way things are in themselves without bringing in private intentions. Then the world will naturally be well governed.”

Here, “Creator” means the power that brings the myriad things into being; “the six extremities” refers to the four quarters of Heaven and Earth. “The land of nowhere” and “the boundless wilderness” both describe a realm free from worldly constraints and without limits.

The right-hand text is Chapter Three; the passage above concludes that chapter.

Yang Zijü visited Lao Dan and said, “There is a person who is quick and forceful in action, who understands things and sees clearly…”

Yang Ziju paid a visit to Lao Dan and said, “There is a man here who moves swiftly and forcefully, sees through all things, is intelligent and perceptive, and never tires of studying the Dao. Can such a person be compared with a sage ruler?”

Lao Dan said, “In the eyes of a sage, he is merely someone constrained by his skills, wearing out his body and exhausting his spirit. Tigers and leopards have patterned coats, yet these make them targets for hunters. Monkeys are agile, and hunting dogs are skilled at pursuit, yet they too are captured. How could such a person be compared with a sage ruler?”

With a respectful expression, Yang Ziju asked, “May I ask how a sage ruler governs the world?”

Lao Dan said, “A sage ruler governs the world, and his achievements extend everywhere, yet it seems as though they did not come from him. His teaching reaches all things, yet the people do not feel they depend on him. He does not make his name known, and all things find joy in themselves. He takes his place in what cannot be fathomed and roams where there is nothing to rely on.”

The above is Chapter Four.

In the state of Zheng there was a spirit medium named Jixian who could discern a person’s life and death, survival and ruin, good and ill fortune, and the length of their life. He could even calculate the specific year, month, ten-day period, and day, with an accuracy that seemed divine. When people in Zheng saw him, they dropped what they were carrying and fled. Liezi, however, was utterly fascinated by him. When he got home, he told Huzi, “Earlier, I presented myself as vast and invincible. He must have seen my Qi.”

Huzi said, “Qi has several states, and each can be called an ‘abyss’: one is like an abyss deep within the earth, one like still water, and one like flowing water. There are nine kinds of abyss in all; three have been mentioned here. What you presented to him earlier was probably one of them.”

The next day, Liezi brought Jixian to meet Huzi again. As soon as Jixian had taken his place, he panicked and fled. Huzi said, “Go after him.” Liezi pursued him for a while but could not catch up. He returned and reported to Huzi, “He has disappeared. He fled far away, and I could not catch him.”

Huzi said, “What I showed him just now was a state in which my own source had not yet become manifest. As I engaged with him, I was empty and responsive, revealing nothing of what I truly was. At one moment I seemed like a faint, flowing breath; at another, like surging waves. That is why he fled.”

After this, Liezi realized that he had not truly learned the Dao at all. He went home and stayed inside for three years. He cooked over the fire for his wife and tended the pigs as calmly as if he were serving people. In dealing with all manner of affairs, he no longer distinguished between what was close and what was distant. He cast off embellishment and returned to simplicity, standing calmly on his own and allowing all the bustle of change to unfold while holding fast to unity, to the very end.

The above is Chapter Five.

Do not be a representative of fame, a storehouse of schemes, a burden of affairs, or a master of knowledge. Let body and mind communicate with the infinite, and roam in a realm without traces. Do your utmost to fulfill the part allotted to you by Heaven, yet do not claim what you receive as your own.

Liezi said to HuzI, “At first, I thought your mastery of the Dao had reached its highest point. I never imagined there could be a still higher realm.” HuzI said, “I have shown you only the outward appearance, not yet let you grasp its substance. Do you think you have attained the Dao already? A flock of female birds without a male—how could they hatch eggs? If someone relies on Daoist arts to contend with the world, demanding at every turn that others believe in him, others will naturally want to examine him. Try bringing that physiognomist here, and let me show him what he can see.”

The next day, Liezi brought the physiognomist to meet HuzI. Afterward, the man said to Liezi, “Alas, your teacher is near death. He will not live many days. I saw in him a deathly air, like damp ashes.” Liezi went inside, weeping until his tears soaked his robe, and told HuzI what the man had said. HuzI replied, “Just now I showed him the stillness of the earth: life concealed within, neither moving nor manifesting. He must have seen the life force of my De closed away.”

HuzI again asked Liezi to bring the physiognomist. The next day, after seeing HuzI, the man said, “Good news! Your teacher encountered me, and his illness has improved; he is full of vitality again. I saw the life force hidden within him beginning to stir.” Liezi told HuzI what the man had said. HuzI replied, “Just now I showed him the state in which Heaven and Earth blend together, where neither fame nor profit can enter, and life force stirs from deep in the heels. He must have seen signs of my life force beginning to sprout.”

HuzI once more asked Liezi to bring the physiognomist. On the third day, after seeing HuzI, the man said, “Your teacher’s appearance keeps changing. I can’t make out his condition. Wait until it settles, then bring him back for me to examine.” Liezi told HuzI what the man had said. HuzI was simply empty, silent, and without trace.

The mind of the perfected person is like a mirror: it does not cling to what has passed or anticipate what is yet to come. When things arrive, it responds to them as they are, without storing them in the heart. Thus, it can meet all things without being harmed.

The ruler of the South Sea was called Shu, the ruler of the North Sea was called Hu, and the ruler of the Center was called Hundun. Shu and Hu often met in Hundun’s domain, where Hundun treated them very well. Shu and Hu discussed how they might repay his kindness. “Everyone has seven openings, through which they see, hear, eat, and breathe. He alone has none. Let’s try carving seven openings for him.” They carved one each day. On the seventh day, Hundun died.

These are the closing textual notes to Chapter Six in the second volume of Corrections to the Inner Chapters of the Zhuangzi. For the line “Only the pines and cypresses alone,” the notes first say that, in the received edition, the character “alone” should be followed by “Virtue.” They then offer an alternative emendation, proposing that “Correctness” should be added instead. The line “Only Shun alone was correct” should, according to the received edition, read “Only Yao and Shun alone were correct.” The line “Through his goodness, his mourning covered the state of Lu” should read, in the received edition, “Through his goodness in conducting mourning rites, his fame covered the state of Lu.” This means that he was skilled at conducting mourning rites, and his reputation spread throughout Lu.

The story quoted at the start of the notes says that people all have seven openings, through which they see, hear, eat, drink, and breathe, but Hundun has none. Someone tries to chisel seven openings for him, making one each day. On the seventh day, Hundun dies. The story uses Hundun’s death to show that forcibly changing one’s nature to meet external standards may instead harm life.