《庄子翼(焦构)》

In the great sea of the north there is a fish named Kun (a giant fish in legend), so huge that no one knows how many thousand li long it is. Kun transforms into a bird named Peng (a giant bird in legend), whose back is likewise so broad that no one knows how many thousand li wide. When Peng beats its wings with all its strength and rises, its wings are like clouds hanging at the edge of the sky. This bird, when the seawater stirs, is about to migrate to the great sea of the south. The great sea of the south is called Nanming, that is, the Heavenly Pool (a naturally formed great body of water, described as vast in extent). The Qixie is a book that records strange things, and in it it says: when Peng migrates to Nanming, it strikes the water for three thousand li, rides the whirlwind straight up to a height of ninety thousand li, and once it sets out it flies for six months before resting. The floating vapors and flying dust on the earth are all made by living things blowing upon one another with their breath. Is the sky’s deep blue its original color? Or is it because it is too distant and has no limit? When it looks down from high above, it is probably just like this as well.

Guo Xiang’s commentary (Guo’s note) says: as for the actual circumstances of Kun and Peng, I do not understand them either. Zhuangzi’s main idea lies in “free and easy wandering and release,” that is, doing nothing and naturally attaining self-contentment. Therefore he exhausts all the various circumstances of the great and the small, using them to explain …

Guo Xiang’s commentary: The actual circumstances of the Kun and Peng I have not yet investigated clearly. The general meaning of this piece by Zhuangzi lies in the unrestrained freedom and spontaneous self-contentment described in “Xiaoyaoyou” (Free and Easy Wandering). That is why he exhaustively sets forth the various differences between the great and the small, using them to explain that all things have their own nature and limits, and that each being, when suited to itself, is at ease. The discerning reader should grasp its main intent and need not cling to the specific things borrowed in the text.

When the Kun transforms into the Peng, if it were not for so vast a sea as the Northern Darkness, it could not contain its body; if it were not for a height of ninety thousand li, it could not support its wings. Is this deliberately seeking the marvelous? It is simply that great creatures must be born in great places, and great places inevitably produce such great creatures; the principle of things is inherently so. Once the wings are large, it is difficult for them to rise, and so it must ride the spiraling wind upward, straight up to ninety thousand li, flying for half a year at a stretch, and only stopping to rest when it reaches the Heavenly Pond.

“Wild horses” refers to drifting vapors, and “dust” to the tiny particles in the air; both are the support on which the Peng relies in flying.

The sky is a vast blue, and people do not know whether this is the sky’s original color or whether it is because heaven is extremely distant and without end. When the Peng looks down from high above at the earth, it is just as people on the earth look up at the sky: it cannot see clearly the situation below, and so it simply flies south. This means that the Peng does not calculate the distance of the journey; relying on its own inclination and capacity, it is sufficient for it to soar far away in self-contentment.

If water is not accumulated deeply, it has no strength to carry a large boat. This means that the accumulation of force must be deep enough before one can bear a great task, which is the same principle as the Peng needing the force of the wind at ninety thousand li to support it.

If water is not accumulated deeply enough, it has no strength to bear a large boat. Pour a cup of water into a low hollow in the hall, and a mustard seed or a blade of grass can float as if it were a boat; set down a cup, and it will stick to the ground, because the water is shallow and the vessel too large. If wind is not accumulated deeply enough, it likewise has no strength to support great wings. Therefore, only when it has flown to a height of ninety thousand li will the wind be beneath it, and only then can the Peng bird rise on the accumulated wind; with the blue sky on its back and nothing able to obstruct it, it then begins to fly south.

The cicada and the young dove laughed at it, saying: We strain to leap up and fly, sometimes striking the branches of elm or sandalwood, sometimes not even getting that far and falling back to the ground. Why must it fly ninety thousand li and then go south?

One who goes to the nearby countryside can return after three meals, still with a full belly; one who goes a hundred li must prepare dry provisions the night before; one who goes a thousand li must accumulate three months’ grain. What do these two little creatures know?

Small wisdom cannot catch up with great wisdom, and short life cannot catch up with long life. How do we know this is so? The morning mushroom does not know the dark and light of a month, and the short-lived cicada does not know the four seasons of spring and autumn; these are signs of short life. In the south of Chu there is a sacred tree called Mingling, which takes five hundred years as one spring and five hundred years as one autumn; in high antiquity there was a great chun tree, which took eight thousand years as one spring and eight thousand years as one autumn. Yet Pengzu is now famous for his long life, and everyone compares themselves to him—is that not pitiful?

The great Peng can fly high because its wings are large. What smaller things rely on need not be the same as what larger things rely on; what larger things employ cannot be scaled down. Thus each principle has its limit, each thing has its fixed allotment, and each can fulfill its own office; the principle by which they succeed is the same. But if one departs from the root of “forgetting life” and seeks survival outside the proper bounds, if in undertaking things one does not measure one’s strength and in action does not accord with actual circumstances, then even the wings that hang from heaven will have times when they cannot go far; even the tiny insect that can rise only briefly will face exhaustion.

The reason the great Peng must fly south is not that it loves height and distance or admires what is far away. If the wind is not gathered thickly, it cannot support the great wings; if the wind is not unobstructed, there is nothing to rely on. The farther the destination, the more grain must be prepared; therefore the larger the wings, the thicker the accumulated wind must be. The “two creatures” in the text refer to the great Peng and the cicada (tiao). Great and small are set against each other precisely because each has a different aspiration. Why do their aspirations differ? It is not that, knowing difference, they seek to be different; rather, each does not know why it is so—it is simply natural. This is the general meaning of “Xiaoyaoyou” (Free and Easy Wandering).

People’s wisdom and lifespan differ, and the disparities are this great. Compared with what ordinary people lament, these differences are also lamentable. Yet ordinary people never grieve over this, because each person’s natural endowment has its limit. If one can know one’s limit, then not even a hair’s breadth will overstep another’s place; what in the world would be worth grieving over? Grief arises from confinement and entanglement; when confinement and entanglement are cut off, grief disappears. It has never happened that grief disappears while nature and life remain unsettled.

From this point down to Liezi, the text enumerates the sizes of wisdom and lifespan; each believes only its own side, and none is sufficient to overpower another. Then it uses the person of “no dependence” to encompass them: forgetting self and other, blending these differences. Different paths can attain the same free wandering, and the “I” need not have any achievement or name. Therefore the one who can encompass great and small is the person without distinction of great and small. If one still clings to great and small, then even the great Peng and the quail (chiyan), the official and the wind-rider are equally burdened by external things. The one who can equalize death and life is the person without distinction of death and life. If one still clings to death and life, then even the great chun tree and the huigu (winter cicada), Pengzu and the morning mushroom—a fungus that lives from morning to evening—are likewise merely short-lived and prematurely dead.

Therefore only one who can wander in the realm of no great and no small can be inexhaustible; only one who can merge with no death and no birth can be boundless. If, although free and easy, one is still tied to some limited scope, then even if released to roam at will, there will ultimately be exhaustion, and one still has not escaped “having something to depend on.”

The opening passage of the Xiaoyaoyou (“Free and Easy Wandering”) in Zhuangzi discusses the contrast between the great Peng and the little bird, and the realm of “free and easy wandering” that arises from it.

Tang asked Ji, and spoke thus: In the far north there is a barren, cold land where no grass or trees grow. There lies a dark sea, a naturally formed great pool. In the pool is a great fish, several thousand li wide, and no one knows how long it is; its name is Kun. There is also a great bird named Peng, whose back is as broad as Mount Tai and whose wings are like clouds hanging at the edge of the sky. It rouses its wings and rides the whirling wind upward, flying all the way to a height of ninety thousand li, piercing the clouds and bearing the blue sky on its back, and only then does it begin to fly south, heading for the great sea of the south (Nanming).

By the pool a tiny chi yan (a small sparrow) mocks it, saying, “Where does it want to fly to? I leap up, but after only a few yards I come down again, flitting among the grass and brushwood. This is already the utmost of flying. Where on earth does it want to go?” This is the difference between great and small.

From this one may infer: those who think they have a little cleverness, are fit for the duties of one office, whose conduct can win the trust of the people of a whole district, whose virtue can satisfy a single ruler, and whose ability can win confidence in a whole state—such people look upon themselves much as this little sparrow does. Song Rongzi simply laughed at such people. When the whole world praised him, he did not therefore strive harder; when the whole world criticized him, he was not therefore discouraged. He could distinguish the boundary between inner and outer, honor and disgrace—that was all. As for the gains and losses of the world, he did not eagerly pursue them. Even so, he had still not reached the highest realm.

Liezi could ride the wind and travel, light and wondrous, but he still had to wait fifteen days before returning. For matters of seeking blessing, such a person also did not eagerly pursue them; although he was spared the labor of walking, he still had something on which he depended. As for one who follows the true Dao of Heaven and Earth, drives the changes of the six Qi, and wanders in the boundless realm—what would he need to depend on? Therefore it is said: “The perfected person has no self, the spiritual person has no merit, the sage has no name.”

Note: In the original text there are obvious textual errors or interpolations at places such as “Tang’s question to Ji is also this” and “the chi yan laughed at it” (for example, “yan” should be a mistake for “laugh,” and Ji is a person’s name rather than “Ji’s question”), and the original is incomplete; the connection between the sentence after “how they regard themselves” and the preceding text is also rather abrupt. The above interpretation follows commonly circulated annotated editions; the explanation of individual characters and words may vary according to edition.

That passage in which Tang of Shang questions Ji also illustrates that all things have their limits. If one follows one’s own nature and acts accordingly, one can be at ease and self-satisfied; this is why Zhuangzi considers the question raised there to be correct. The preceding text says that the wings of the two small creatures differ, and so the places they can reach differ as well: one soars above the Tianchi (the natural great pool that is like the sea), while the other can only stop among the elm and fang trees. Each is satisfied with its own bodily form but does not know the reason for this. The distinction now drawn between great and small is because each has its own natural constitution. It is not something that those who stand on tiptoe and look up enviously can attain; each rests content in its own nature and does not grieve over differences with others—hence this point is stated again. They regard themselves in the same way, just as a bird finds joy within its own patch of sky.

Song Rongzi, a man of Song, merely smiled faintly at this, because he had not yet reached the realm in which all things are seen as one, and so he still had a reaction of laughter. When the world slandered or praised him, he was neither encouraged nor discouraged, because he had carefully understood what he himself had attained. He could distinguish the boundary between inner and outer, taking himself as inner and external things as outer; he could discern the boundary between honor and disgrace, taking his own satisfaction as honor and others’ disgrace as disgrace. One who stops here cannot go beyond this realm. He did not eagerly pursue worldly matters because he was already satisfied in himself, and so there was a gap between him and the world. “Still not established” means that he could only consider himself right and had not yet reached the point of being permissible in all directions.

“Lengran,” or cool detachment, describes a light and ethereal manner. “After fifteen days he returned” means that one who has something to depend on, even if riding the wind, cannot encompass the whole world in a single moment. Yet this kind of travel is also natural and not something deliberately sought. Without wind he cannot travel—this is what it means to still have dependence. Only one who rides on everything is truly without dependence.

Heaven and earth are the collective name for the myriad things. Heaven and earth take the myriad things as their body, and all things must take naturalness as the correct Way. Thus the great Peng can fly high and the tiny quail can fly low; the great chun tree can live long and the morning mushroom can live briefly. These are all capacities bestowed by nature.

Through an interpretation of Zhuangzi’s “Xiaoyaoyou” (“Free and Easy Wandering”), this passage explains that true free and easy wandering lies in not depending on external conditions.

The natural nature of things is not brought to completion by human exertion or forcing; rather, it is through Wuwei (non-action), being naturally so, that the true Dao (the Way) consists. To be able to accord with the true Dao of Heaven and Earth is to accord with the nature of the myriad things; to be able to ride the changes of the six Qi—Yin, Yang, wind, rain, darkness, and brightness—is to roam along the path of the transformations of the myriad things. Proceeding thus without cease, where could there be an end? Whatever one encounters, one rides upon it—what else, then, would one need to depend on? This is the free and easy wandering attained by one whose De (Virtue/Power) is highest, who fuses self and others, things and I, into a single whole.

If there is still something on which one depends, then even someone as light and numinous as Liezi could not fly through the air when there is no wind—how much less the Peng, the giant divine bird transformed in “Xiaoyaoyou”? Only one who is mystically united with the myriad things and accords with the great transformation can be without dependence and forever penetrate through; and this is not merely his own penetrating through. He also accords with those things that are dependent, so that they do not lose the conditions on which they depend. When the conditions of dependence are not lost, one is the same as the Great Penetration. Therefore I cannot equate the dependent with the non-dependent; as for each resting in its own nature and the heavenly mechanism—the natural mechanism—unfolding of itself, accepting it without knowing why it is so, I also cannot distinguish between them. The non-dependent is still not sufficient to be distinguished from the dependent—how much less can one distinguish the differences of great and small among those that are dependent?

The Zhiren (the Perfected Person), who has the highest cultivation, knows the Dao; inwardly he is merged with the Dao, obliterating all things and having nowhere to lodge, and so it is said, “no self.” The Shenren (the Spirit Person), who is numinous and wondrous, fully attains the entirety of the Dao; he brings the myriad things to completion while his wondrous function remains deeply concealed, and so it is said, “no merit.” The Shengren (the Sage), who penetrates the Dao, fixes his mind on the Dao; his numinous transformations are vast and boundless, beyond measure, and so it is said, “no name.”

Yao offered the world to Xu You, saying: The sun and moon have already risen, and yet I still light torches in the courtyard—compared with the light of the sun and moon, is this not making things too hard for myself? The timely rain has already fallen, and yet I still go on irrigating the fields—when it comes to moistening the crops, is this not too futile? You have become Son of Heaven, and the world is already at peace, yet I still occupy this position and feel deeply ashamed. Please let me hand the world over to you.

Xu You said: You have governed the world, and the world is already well governed; yet I would replace you—is it for the sake of fame? Fame is merely the guest of substance; would I go and act as that guest? The wren builds its nest in the deep forest, but occupies no more than a single branch; the mole goes to the river to drink, but takes no more than a bellyful. Please go back; I have no use for the world. It is like a cook who may not go into the kitchen: the one who presides over the sacrifice does not step over the wine vessels and sacrificial stands to take his place and do his work.

One who can bring great order to the world is one who does not deliberately set out to govern it. Thus Yao governed the world by means of “not governing”; he was not one who first governed and then afterward obtained order. Now Xu You had already understood that the world was already ordered, so there was no need for him to wait for anything further, while the actual achievement of governance still belonged to Yao. The accomplishment of order comes from “not governing”; accomplishment arises from Wuwei (non-action). Yao’s example is already sufficient to illustrate this; why rely on Xu You?

If one believes that only by folding one’s hands and keeping silent in the mountains and forests can one be called Wuwei, this is precisely why the words of Laozi and Zhuangzi are not accepted by those in power (dangtu zhe). Those in power are inevitably trapped in the realm of purposeful action and do not know how to return.

One who trusts his own intentions stands opposed to external things; one who accords with external things has no opposition to them. Therefore Yao had no opposition to the world, while Xu You is placed in the same category as Ji and Xie (worthy ministers of Yao and Shun).

Why say this? The person mystically united with the ten thousand things is precisely that from which the ten thousand things cannot separate. Therefore he responds mysteriously without mind, responding only when moved, drifting like an unmoored boat. External things such as east and west, direction and place, are not his own; hence there is no action of his that is not shared with the common people. Wherever he goes, he can be ruler of the world. To be ruler in this way, lofty and far-reaching like heaven, is the true virtue of a ruler.

If one stands isolated alone atop a high mountain, clinging to the partiality of a single school, that is merely one object in the mundane world, at best an outer minister of Yao. If an outer minister were to take the place of the inner sovereign, he would have only the name of ruler but not the actual responsibility of fulfilling the ruler’s role.

The wren needs only a single branch; the mole needs only to drink its belly full from the river—this shows that each natural disposition has its own limit. Once one’s own limit is satisfied, all the remaining things of the world are superfluous. Xu You’s declining words, such as “I shall return and rest,” are likewise useless talk. Yet Yao alone possessed this breadth of mind, which shows that the broad-minded have no fixed place; therefore the people of the world gladly raised him up without growing weary.

The cook, and the personator and invocator who preside over sacrifices, each rest content in their duties; birds and beasts and the ten thousand things each satisfy the nature they have received; Emperor Yao and Xu You each rest content in the circumstances they encounter. This is the truest condition of the world. When each obtains its reality, why must there be purposeful action? It lies only in self-attainment. Therefore Yao and Xu You, though their stations differ as heaven and earth, are the same in free and easy wandering.

Jianwu asked Lianshu, “I heard Jieyu (the legendary madman-recluse) speak. His words were exaggerated and far off the mark, remote from reality. I was frightened by what he said—it was vast and boundless like the Milky Way, utterly at odds with human feeling.” Lianshu asked, “What did he say?” Jianwu said, “He said that on the distant mountain of Guye (a legendary divine mountain) there lives a spirit-person, with skin as white as ice and snow and a graceful figure like a young girl. He does not eat the five grains but only inhales the wind and drinks dew. He rides upon the clouds and qi, drives flying dragons, and roams beyond the four seas. His spirit is concentrated, and even the myriad things are not harmed by him; year after year the five grains ripen. I think these are the reckless words of a madman and cannot be believed.”

Lianshu said, “Yes. A blind person cannot appreciate the beauty of patterns, and a deaf person cannot listen to the sound of bells and drums. Is it only the physical body that can be blind or deaf? Human understanding has this same defect. What Jieyu spoke of is precisely this principle. A person like that has lofty virtue and can blend with the myriad things, viewing all under heaven as one body. Why would he be willing to trouble himself over the world’s disturbances? External things cannot harm him; though a great flood fills the heavens, he would not be drowned; though a great drought melts metal and stone and scorches mountains and earth, he would not feel heat. Even the dust and chaff he leaves behind could mold and cast sages like Yao and Shun—how much less would he be willing to take governing external things as his proper business?”

Lianshu then told a parable: a man from the state of Song carried ceremonial caps of the Yin dynasty (zhangfu) to the state of Yue to sell them, but the people of Yue cut their hair short and tattooed their bodies, and had no use at all for such caps.

He also told the story of Yao: Yao governed the world and brought the affairs within the four seas into good order. Later he went to visit the four recluses on Mount Guye. When he reached the north bank of the Fen River, he became utterly lost and forgot that he had once possessed the world.

This commentary uses a parable to explain a principle. The “spiritual person” (shenren) is the sage. Even when the sage dwells in the court, inwardly he is no different from one hidden in the mountains and forests. How could ordinary people recognize such a person? They see only that the sage rides in the Son of Heaven’s chariot with its yellow canopy and wears the jade seal, and they think this is enough to bind his mind; they see him traversing mountains and rivers and sharing the toil of the common people, and they think this is enough to deplete his spirit. They do not know that one who has reached the utmost realm suffers no loss from such things. That is why Zhuangzi places the spiritual person beyond the farthest borders, in a place beyond the reach of ears and eyes, in order to show that ordinary people have no way to know him.

The term “maiden” (chuzi) describes the spiritual person as pure, still, and gentle, like an unmarried young woman, so that external things cannot harm what is within. “Not eating the five grains, breathing wind and drinking dew” means that the spiritual person does not rely on the five grains for food but receives the subtle Qi (vital energy) of nature. This kind of statement is connected with the Daoist practices of bigu (grain avoidance) and Fuqi (Qi ingestion), that is, nourishing life by exhaling and inhaling the Qi of heaven and earth.

One whose inner spirit is concentrated, who penetrates the numinous and wondrous, and who exhausts the principles of things—even if he dwells in a narrow room, his mysterious De (Virtue/Power) can still communicate with the four seas. Therefore he can harness the two Qi of Yin-Yang and the six Qi such as wind, rain, darkness, and brightness, command the multitude of people, and drive the myriad things. As long as nothing external fails to follow him, he can ride the floating clouds and drive the flying dragons. He forgets himself and finds joy in himself; when moving, he is like one dragging withered wood, and when still, like gathered dead ashes. This means that his spirit is concentrated and settled. Once the spirit is settled, those things that are not settled naturally come to rest.

People everywhere judge everything by what they themselves see—how could they be willing to believe these things? They do not understand the utmost subtlety of the highest discourse, but instead take it as wild and refuse to believe it. This is precisely to be deaf and blind in wisdom. These words are the same as what Jie Yu said: the Dao of nature is sought by all things, yet those who are deaf and blind in wisdom imagine that no such principle exists in the world.

The sage’s mind can exhaust the principles by which Yin-Yang (the two modes) in heaven and earth gather and transform, and comprehend the subtle patterns of the ten thousand things. Thus it can realize the changes of all things and follow the shifts of events; wherever it goes, it finds a way through, embracing and blending all things and responding aptly to each. Only when the world is in disorder do people come to seek my help, yet the sage himself has no private intentions. If he has no private intentions, why should he refuse to respond to the affairs of the world? The reason the sage can harmonize the natures of all things, mold and transform the world, and bring about the peaceful governance of Yao and Shun is often that he does so through Wuwei. Who would exhaust mind and strength, strain spirit and thought, treat affairs as affairs to be done, and only then succeed?

He whom external things cannot harm is one who is at peace with the harm he receives; thus harm cannot harm him. Since harm cannot harm him, external things no longer harm him. If one is at ease wherever one goes, then every place becomes comfortable; life and death do not disturb him, let alone minor matters like cold and heat. Therefore the Perfected One is not entangled by calamity not because he deliberately avoids it, but because he walks straight ahead along the natural principle and naturally meets good fortune.

Yao and Shun are merely titles the world gives to a certain undertaking or realm, and the name itself is not the reality. When we speak of Yao and Shun, do we mean only these two men, Yao and Shun? There must also be the reality of a spirit-person within them. What people nowadays praise as Yao and Shun is merely picking up the dust and chaff from their bodies—just surface residue.

Yao did not regard governing the world as important, just as the people of Yue had no use for the zhangfu, a ceremonial cap of the Yin-Shang period. One who can discard the world is precisely the one whom the world honors; although the world honors Yao, Yao in fact never truly possessed the world. Thus Yao seems to have forgotten the world, and his mind constantly roams in a remote and mysterious realm. Though he stood above the ten thousand things, he was always free and at ease.

The words of these masters are probably using language to explain: Yao is not merely the fixed Yao. Yao’s reality is inherently like this, and his penetrating Way remains the great Way of Yao. The world sees only Yao’s external title as Yao—how could it recognize the dark, mysterious realm within him?

Thus they had to go overseas to seek out those four masters (Sizi), taking Yao as the reference point for what they observed. It is therefore said: all who drift with the waves and move in step with the myriad things of the world lose the root of Xiaoyao (a spirit unconstrained by anything, free and at ease). They fail to realize that the truest and most far-reaching compliance is instead found closer at hand, and that the highest convergence lies instead in the lowly. As for those who are solitary and austere, who take standing alone as the summit and refuse to engage with the secular world—the scholars who retreat to mountain valleys—even they are not without dependence (still relying on something and thus held back). How could such people be worthy of discussing the ultimate realm or roaming within the boundless?

Huizi said to Zhuangzi: The King of Wei gave me seeds of a great gourd (Dahu). When I planted them, the fruit grew to five shi in size. I used it to hold water or broth, but its shell could not bear its own weight. I split it open to make a ladle, but it was so broad and flat that there was nowhere to contain anything. It was not that it was not large and spacious—I simply judged it useless and smashed it. Zhuangzi replied: You are truly unskilled in using large things. There was a man of Song who was skilled at making a hand-chapping prevention medicine (buguishou zhi yao, where gui is read as jun). His family for generations made its living by bleaching silk floss (pingpikuang). A traveler heard of this and offered to buy the formula for a hundred pieces of gold. The family gathered and deliberated: For generations we have bleached silk, earning no more than a few pieces of gold; now in a single day we can sell this technique for a hundred pieces of gold—let us give it to him. The traveler obtained the formula and went to persuade the King of Wu. Later, when Yue raised troops, the King of Wu appointed him general. In winter they fought a naval battle against the men of Yue and decisively defeated the Yue army, and the King of Wu rewarded him with land and enfeoffment. The same medicine for preventing chapping—one man gained a fiefdom by it, while others could not escape bleaching in the water. This is because the way it was used differed. Now you had a gourd of five shi—why did you not think to make it into a great float (Dazun) and drift upon the rivers and lakes, instead of worrying that there was nowhere to contain things? Then, sir...

Interpretation of the Text

Huizi said to Zhuangzi: “I have a large tree that people call the ailanthus. Its trunk is swollen and knotted, so it does not fit the ink line and cannot be made into beams; its small branches are twisted and bent, so they do not fit the compass and square and cannot be made into vessels. If it is planted by the roadside, carpenters do not even glance at it. Now your words are large but useless, and everyone alike disregards them.”

Zhuangzi said: “Have you never seen the wildcat or the weasel? They crouch low and wait for prey; they leap east and west, not avoiding high or low, and yet they fall into snares or die in nets. Then look at the yak, a great ox of the southwestern highlands: its body is as huge as clouds hanging from the sky, and it may be called exceedingly large, yet it cannot catch mice. Now you have a large tree and worry that it is useless. Why not plant it in the land of Nothing-at-All, in the wild of Broad and Vast, and wander leisurely beside it, and lie down freely beneath it? It will not be cut down by axes, and nothing will harm it. Since it has no use, how could it suffer distress?”

Interpretation of Guo Xiang’s Commentary

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: the same medicine, used for rinsing cotton floss, is only a small use; used to obtain a fiefdom, it is a great use. Therefore one cannot look only at whether it is useful in itself. “Peng” refers to people whose minds are not penetrating and who cannot follow things in action. This means that for things, whether large or small, if they lose their proper place, the principle of benefit and harm is the same; only when each is used according to its proper place can all things be free and at ease.

The Bicheng says: the Master is indeed not good at using “large” things. The answer is that the problem lies in different ways of use. Human nature is originally the same; only the manner of application differs. If applied skillfully, one is free and easy; if applied clumsily, one is bound and fettered. Confucius’s saying, “By nature people are close; through practice they become far apart,” means exactly this. The land of Nothing-at-All and the wild of Broad and Vast are the unity of “use” and “uselessness”; this is precisely Zhuangzi’s ideal destination, and so he concludes with “use.”

Chapter Title

“Qi Wu Lun, Chapter Two” is the title of the second chapter of the Zhuangzi. The main theme of this chapter is to break down the distinctions among things—right and wrong, large and small, useful and useless—so that all things may rest in their own nature.

Nanguo Ziqi (a legendary figure who had attained the Dao) sat leaning on a low table. He lifted his head toward Heaven and let out a long breath, his expression distant and abstracted, as though he had lost his companion. His disciple Yan Cheng Ziyou (personal name Yan) stood nearby in attendance and asked, “What has happened to you? Can the body really become like withered wood, and the mind like dead ashes? The you who leans on the table today is utterly different from the you of before!”

Ziqi said, “Yan, your question is excellent. I have now forgotten myself (‘I have lost myself,’ meaning to transcend attachment to the self). Do you understand? You have heard the sounds made by humans (renlai, referring to sounds people make, such as by blowing through bamboo tubes), but you have not heard the sounds of the earth (dilai, the wind sounds made by the various openings in the earth); you have heard the sounds of the earth, but you have not heard the sounds of Heaven (tianlai, the sounds naturally emitted by all things).”

Ziyou asked, “May I ask what the sounds of Heaven are?”

Ziqi said, “The breath exhaled by the earth is called wind. When the wind does not rise, the myriad openings are utterly silent; when the wind rises, the myriad openings all roar. Have you never heard the howling of the wind? In mountain forests, tall trees with trunks a hundred spans around have openings on them: some like noses, some like mouths, some like ears, some like square holes in a doorframe, some like wine cups, some like shallow pits, some like deep pools. They produce all kinds of sounds: some like rushing torrents, some like arrows piercing the air, some like scolding, some like inhaling, some like shouting, some like wailing, some like echoes in a deep valley, some like soft whispering. Those in front sing, those behind answer; when a gentle breeze passes, the sounds harmonize softly; when a fierce wind blows, the sounds are grand; when the violent wind stops, all the openings return to stillness. Have you never seen those tree shadows swaying and rising and falling with the wind?”

Ziyou said, “The sounds of the earth are the sounds from the many openings; the sounds of humans are the sounds from bamboo tubes. May I ask what the sounds of Heaven are?”

Ziqi said, “The myriad things are utterly different, yet each fulfills its own nature. Each takes its sound from its own nature. Who, then, is it that produces the roaring and the sounding?”

This passage of Guo Xiang’s commentary explains the section in Zhuangzi’s “Qiwulun” on “I have lost myself” and “the Heavenly Pipes.”

Guo Xiang says that if a person can discern the difference between the natural and the humanly made, and erase the opposition between self and other, then the external world will contain nothing with which one can rejoice together; body and mind seem to dissolve, as if one had lost one’s counterpart. The phrase “withered wood and dead ashes” (lifeless like dried wood and cold ashes) describes a state of quiet solitude and emotional detachment. One who can follow nature and forget right and wrong simply follows his own innate, heaven-given nature. His movement and stillness are like withered wood at rest and drifting dust in motion; I cannot unify such states of advancing and retreating. As for being without mind and yet naturally self-possessed, I cannot attain a second such state.

“I have lost myself” means “I have forgotten myself”: the self is forgotten, and even the self is forgotten along with it. Since even the self is forgotten, what is there in the world worth knowing? Only when inner and outer are both forgotten can one stand apart from things and yet each attain what is its own.

“Lai” means flute. The flute tubes vary in length, and the five notes differ; thus they can produce sounds of countless pitches and durations, yet the natural measure they receive is the same. In this way, no distinction of superior and inferior can enter among them. Compare this to the wind blowing on the ten thousand things: though the sounds differ, their essence is the same—each simply takes up its own sound. This is the manifestation of the “Heavenly Pipes.”

“Kuai” refers to no-thing; how could the “sighing breath” have any actual substance? It is merely Qi (vital energy) spontaneously emitting sound. The generation of the ten thousand things is in every case spontaneous self-generation; thus this spontaneous body is exceedingly vast, and so it is named the “Great Clod.”

“Liuliu” is the sound of the long wind, and “Weizhui” is the fanning of the great wind. Apertures shaped like noses, mouths, and so on—the following passage roughly enumerates the different sounds made by various openings. “Yuyu” describes responsive, echoing sounds: although the pitches gong and shang change in a thousand ways, and lead and response may be great or small, all correspond to the nature they have received and each attains its allotment. “Ji” means cessation: when the great wind rises, all the apertures are filled and resound; when the wind stops, all the apertures return to emptiness. Although empty and full differ, each obtains what is fitting—this is the same. “Tiaotiao diaodiao” describes a swaying motion.

This passage comes from Jiao Hong’s Zhuangzi Yi and is an exposition of the doctrine of “Heavenly Piping” in Zhuangzi’s “Qiwulun” (“On the Equalization of Things”).

The reason various sounds differ is that the shapes and movements of the things producing them are each different. Although their movements are not the same, in essence they are all the operation of nature and are equal and one. Is it only that certain tunes are right and others wrong? When the wind blows through ten thousand apertures and produces ten thousand sounds, each is accomplished by itself—this is “Heavenly Piping.”

The so-called Heavenly Piping is not some other thing that makes sound. Even the sounds of the many apertures, and instruments such as the panpipes, are all produced through contact with living things, jointly forming a single “Heaven” (natural sound).

Since “nonbeing” is nonbeing, it cannot produce “being”; and before “being” has arisen, it also cannot generate itself. Then who is it that causes the myriad things to live and multiply without cease? The myriad things are spontaneously generated in an undifferentiated way; it is not that I generate them. Since I cannot generate things, and things cannot generate me, everything is simply so of itself. Being so of itself is called “natural”; how could this refer to the blue azure sky?

Some say that Heavenly Piping means driving the myriad things and making them submit to oneself—this is wrong. Even “Heaven” itself cannot possess anything, much less can it possess the myriad things. Therefore “Heaven” is merely a collective name for the myriad things. No single thing can be singled out as “Heaven”; then who is it that rules and drives the myriad things? The myriad things each grow on their own and do not come from outside; this is the Dao of Heaven.

The phrase “each takes from itself—who is the one that rouses them?” means that the myriad things each obtain their own form; who, after all, makes them “rage” (emit sound) in this way? This is precisely a further clarification of the principle of Heavenly Piping.

The second passage says: the greatly wise are broad and leisurely, while the small wise are petty and meticulous; great speech is grand and expansive, while small speech is garrulous and fragmented. When people sleep, their hun and po souls intermingle; when they wake, their bodies are exposed, and in contact with external things they become entangled in disputes, daily contending with cunning minds. “The relaxed, the cavernous, the secret” refer to apertures of different shapes (shallow and broad, like deep pits, tiny and deep), which emit their own sounds; this too is the work of nature and likewise explains the principle of Heavenly Piping.

Great wisdom is broad and unhurried; small wisdom is petty and calculating. Great speech is overbearing; small speech is garrulous. When people sleep, their spirit becomes tangled and disordered; when they wake, the body comes into contact with external things, and all kinds of thoughts arise together. In dealings with external things, people set traps for one another and daily use their minds in calculation and contention. The human mind is sometimes loose and slow, sometimes deeply hidden and secretive, sometimes meticulous and cautious. Small fears make one tremble; great fears throw the spirit into confusion and leave one at a loss.

When these thoughts are released, they are like the trigger mechanism of a crossbow, distinguishing right from wrong; when they lodge and persist, they are like oaths and curses, defending one’s own victory. They wither and fall like autumn and winter, showing that they are dwindling day by day; once drowned in them, one cannot easily pull oneself out, and there is no way to make them recover. Suppressed and blocked as if sealed up, they show that they are heading toward exhaustion and decay. A mind nearing death can no longer be roused again.

Joy, anger, sorrow, and delight; worry and sighing; change and shift; frivolity and self-indulgence—all kinds of postures emerge endlessly. Music issues from emptiness, like steam condensing into mushrooms. Day and night they alternate before our eyes, yet we do not know from where they sprout. Enough, enough! Morning and evening these thoughts come to us—where do they actually originate? Without external things, there is no “I”; without “I,” there is no way to make use of external things. This comes close, but still we do not know what drives them.

It seems there is a True Master (Zhenzai, referring to the Dao or the subject of the source), yet no trace of it can be found. Its operation is truly credible, yet its form cannot be seen; it has actuality but no shape. The hundred bones (all the joints of the body), the nine openings (the nine orifices), and the six viscera (the five viscera and six bowels) are all completely present in the body—which part am I closest to? Do you love them all, or are you partial to some? Are they all servants to one another? Are those servants insufficient to govern one another? Do they take turns being ruler and minister? Or is there truly a master among them?

Whether or not this reality can be found, it neither adds to nor subtracts from its true substance. Once a person has received a bodily form, he does not simply disappear; he can only wait for the end of his allotted span. Grinding against and colliding with external things, the course of life gallops like a runaway horse and cannot be stopped—is this not truly sad? To labor and rush about all one’s life without seeing any accomplishment, worn out and exhausted, not knowing where one will end up—is this not lamentable? Even if one does not die, what benefit is there? When the bodily form dissolves, the mind goes with it—can this not be called the greatest sorrow?

This passage is Guo Xiang’s commentary on the “Great Sorrow” section of Zhuangzi’s “Qiwulun” (“On the Equality of Things”). The two adjacent passages are broadly repetitive; the following interpretation follows the more complete passage.

Differences in cognition and speech: Xianxian and jianjian refer to people’s different ways of cognizing things; yanyan and zhanzhan refer to differences in verbal disputation.

Dreaming and waking: Zhuangzi says that when people sleep, the hun-souls “interact”; when they wake, the bodily form “opens,” and physical activity unfolds. Guo Xiang holds that these are simply two different states, sleeping and waking. If people think that between dreaming and waking they can attain “deathlessness,” what benefit is that? The bodily form changes with time, and the mind changes accordingly—is this not great sorrow?

The various conditions of human life: Guo Xiang then enumerates the various states of human life. Zhuizhui and manman are different manifestations of fear and palpitation; “managing right and wrong” and “guarding victory” are differences between activity and rest; “daily diminishing” means that grief gradually decreases; “cannot be made to return” means being submerged and unable to turn back; “yanjian” means being trapped by labor; “laoxu” means that in old age the mind becomes more benighted; “near death” means greed for profit and neglect of calamity; “joy, anger, and what follows” refers to differences of temperament; “music comes from emptiness, steam becomes fungus” refers to differences in the transformations of things.

The way of naturalness: The above briefly enumerates the formless manifestations within tianlai (the Heavenly Pipes, i.e., natural operation), and below it explains the naturalness within this formlessness. The ten thousand things each complete their own nature, not knowing why they are so and yet being so; therefore, although physical forms differ in a thousand ways, their natural nature is the same. Day and night alternate, the ten thousand things transform and renew daily, all proceeding with time—what is it that causes them to sprout? It is simply naturalness. The ten thousand things are born from themselves, and I too am born naturally; therefore “naturalness” is within myself and is not far away.

“Not knowing what causes them to act” means that the ten thousand things are diverse and all are so of themselves; they do not enslave one another. Therefore, if one follows and lets them be, their principle naturally appears. The dispositions and choices of the ten thousand things differ, as if there were a zhenzai (True Master) driving them; but when one seeks the traces of the True Master, ultimately none can be found. It is evident that the ten thousand things are all so of themselves, and there is no other thing that makes them so.

“Acting means trusting that one can act” refers to conduct following one’s original mind; “emotions match their objects, and form does not separately appear” means that emotions properly respond to things, and the bodily form does not additionally show itself. The hundred bones—all the joints of the body—and the nine openings—the seven openings plus the two lower apertures—each follow their naturalness and are all complete. If one tries to explain them, partiality arises; with partiality, one cannot completely preserve them. When ambition exceeds one’s proper lot, superiors and inferiors encroach upon one another, and no one is content to be a servant. The distinction between ruler and minister is like high heaven and low earth; each calmly abides in its position—this is the zhenjun (True Lord), following naturalness without artificiality.

For all who attain true nature and act in accordance with naturalness, knowing and not knowing are both peaceful and self-possessed. Yet the clever hold to what they know until old age, and the foolish cling to ignorance until death. Affirmation and opposition, compliance and resistance, intersect; each trusts his own partial view, acts willfully, and cannot reflect on himself. Compared with what people commonly lament, this too is lamentable, but they have never regarded it as lamentable, because their nature makes them so. The ten thousand things each have their nature—why must one grieve over this? Yet to run about all one’s life as a servant, though alive, is in fact no different from death. This is an even greater sorrow, and people have never regarded it as sorrow. Therefore, whatever people lament is not worth lamenting.

Is human life in the world always so benighted? If I alone am benighted while others are not, what does that mean? Everyone relies on his own preconceived fixed mind (chengxin) to determine right and wrong—who can be without a teacher? Why must one understand the principle of the alternation and transformation of things before one can decide for oneself what to choose and reject? Even the foolish have this failing.

Before any settled judgment has formed in the mind, distinctions of right and wrong are already present. This is like setting out for Yue today and yet saying one arrived yesterday. To turn what is not into what is—even the divine Yu could not sort that out; what can I do?

Speech is not the sound blown out by the wind; the speaker has something to express. But what they say is inherently indeterminate. Do they really say something? Or have they never said anything at all? They suppose human speech differs from the chirping of birds—does that distinction hold? Or is there no distinction at all? Then where is the Dao (the Way) to be sought? And where is speech to be sought?

The Dao is obscured by partial accomplishments, and speech is obscured by ornate rhetoric. Thus arise the right-and-wrong disputes of the Confucians and Mohists: each denies what the other affirms and affirms what the other denies. If one wants both sides to affirm what they deny and deny what they affirm, nothing is better than illuminating it with clarity (ming).

No thing is not “that,” and no thing is not “this.” Viewed from the standpoint of “that,” it is not seen clearly; viewed from the standpoint of “this,” one knows it for oneself, and only then is there true understanding. Hence it is said: “‘That’ arises from ‘this,’ and ‘this’ depends on ‘that.’” This is the principle by which that and this arise in mutual opposition.

Even so, life and death transform into each other, permissible and impermissible transform into each other, and right and wrong depend on each other. Therefore the sage does not take this path of mutual opposition but illuminates by relying on natural principle—and this too depends on “this.” “This” is precisely “that,” and “that” is precisely “this.” “That” has its own set of right and wrong; “this” has its own set of right and wrong. Then is there really a distinction between “that” and “this”? Or is there really no distinction between that and this? When that and this find no opposing poles, this is called the pivot of the Dao.

The pivot lies exactly at the center of the circle, and only thus can it respond to endless transformations. “Right” then becomes endless, and “wrong” becomes endless. Therefore it is said: nothing is better than illuminating with clarity.

People today who consider themselves wise do not know the ground of their capacity for cognition, yet believe they understand everything; sentient beings likewise do not understand why they are alive, yet believe they can grow naturally. Although the myriad things differ in countless ways, in the matter of “life” none of them comes into being through cognition, and so there is none that is not the same. Therefore, in all the world there is no one who is not utterly benighted.

The mental intent that governs the activities of the whole person is called the “fixed mind” (chengxin)—preconceptions that have already become settled. Each person takes their own fixed mind as teacher, and so everyone has a set of standards of their own. If one follows each person’s preconceptions and lets them be as they are, then each will feel that they are right. To use preconceptions that have already been formed to deal with things that have not yet taken shape is not true wisdom; it is merely having something attained within one’s own mind. Thus even the foolish take their fixed mind as teacher, unwilling to discard what they regard as their own shortcomings and adopt what others regard as strengths.

Someone says, “Today I go to Yue—how is it that yesterday I had already arrived?” If no preconceived notion has first formed in the mind, whence could right and wrong arise? For one who would be clear about right and wrong, no kind of thing can be avoided; therefore the “utmost person” (zhiren), whose moral cultivation is highest, accepts both right and wrong as they come. Principle itself originally has no right or wrong, but deluded people believe there is right and wrong—this is to treat “non-being” as “being.” Once the deluded mind has formed, even a sage cannot untie it for them; one can only let it be as it naturally is and not force oneself to discriminate.

Those who speak have their own positions, and so they differ from one another, just as the sounds made by wind passing through different openings are not the same. I call something right, and another calls it wrong; another calls something right, and I call it wrong; thus right and wrong never reach a settled conclusion. The reason they remain unsettled is that each side carries its own biased feelings. If we say there is speech, it is insufficient to settle anything; if we say there is no speech, then this very statement is already speech. Speech and the chirping of fledglings (“kouyin”) are essentially the same. Whether there is debate or no debate is truly hard to determine. The feelings of people in the world are not necessarily the same, and what they say cannot but differ. Hence right and wrong become tangled and cannot be fixed.

Dao is present everywhere—why should speech conceal it? Yet the names “true” and “false,” “right” and “wrong” arise in profusion. Small accomplishments and ostentatious displays cause people to be obscured from Dao and left outside it.

This passage explains that the distinctions between true and false, right and wrong, arise because the Dao has been obscured. People often pursue only superficial glitter and are content with small, temporary achievements, forgetting the whole that is complete and without lack.

The Confucians and Mohists attack each other as wrong, each insisting on what it sees. But on reflection, whatever is divided into “right” and “wrong” is simply the “right”affirmed by each of them; the realm of no right and no wrong is precisely what the Confucians and Mohists disdain and deny. If one now denied what they affirm as right and affirmed what they deny as wrong, that would amount to trying to make clear the principle of “no right and no wrong.” The best way to make this clear is not to set up another standard, but to let the Confucians and Mohists debate back and forth and illuminate each other. Through such repeated contention, people will understand that what they regard as “right” is not truly right, and what they regard as “wrong” is not truly wrong.

All things take themselves as right, and so there is no absolute wrong; all things take their opposites as “other,” and so there is no absolute “other.” If there were no negating of the other, the world would have no absolute “right”; if there were no negating of right, the world would have no absolute “other.” Since there is neither other nor right, this is what is called “profound sameness” (xuantong), a profound leveling of all distinctions.

All things fail to see that what the other sees is not “right”; each understands only what it itself knows, and so takes itself as right and then regards the other as “wrong.” Hence it is said: “other” emerges from “right,” and “right” also depends on “other”; other and right arise in mutual dependence.

The transformations of life and death are like the alternation of spring, summer, autumn, and winter. Although the forms of life and death differ, to be at peace with what one encounters and to accord with transformation is essentially the same. Now if the living all take life to be life, while the dead take life to be death, then there would be no “life”; if the living take death to be death, while the dead take death to be life, then there would be no “death.” Since neither life nor death is established, the boundary between “can” and “cannot” also dissolves. Therefore, I cannot endorse the debate between the Confucians and Mohists; as for each resting in its own proper place, I also cannot make distinctions there.

Thus the sage follows the right and wrong of the world, yet he himself has no fixation on right and wrong. He does not walk the path of right and wrong, and therefore his judgments of right and wrong are never inappropriate; he simply illuminates the natural character inherent in things and does not impose or seize. “Right” is also “other”; I, too, am “other” in the eyes of others.

Term notes: The Dao is the fundamental category in the philosophy of Laozi and Zhuangzi, referring to the source of all things in the universe and to natural law. The Confucians and Mohists were the two major schools of the Warring States period; Confucianism centered on benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music, while Mohism advocated universal love and opposition to aggression. Xuantong, “profound sameness,” is a concept in the Laozi referring to a state that transcends distinctions and is undifferentiatedly one with all things.

That side is also right, and that side too considers itself right. “That” and “this” originally have no absolute right or wrong, so there is no need to follow the old path of “right and wrong”; then right and wrong will naturally have nothing improper about them. This merely directly reveals things as they originally are, without anyone imposing anything or stripping anything away. This side is also that side; I too have become an object “that-ed” by that side—designated and treated as an object. That side is also right and considers itself right. Whether “that” and “right” ultimately exist or not has never been settled.

“Pairing” refers to opposition and relativity. When that and this stand opposed, the sage accords with both sides. Therefore one whose mind is free of preconceptions merges indistinguishably with the myriad things and never stands opposed to anything in the world. “The pivot” is the crucial point. Only by standing at the pivot can one grasp the mysterious root within it and thereby respond to infinite changes.

Right and wrong mutually generate and cycle back and forth without end, hence it is called “the ring.” The center of the ring is empty. If one regards right and wrong as a circle and can find its center, then there is no such thing as right and no such thing as wrong. Only with no right and no wrong can one accord with the various rights and wrongs; since right and wrong are endless, response is also endless. In the world there is no one who does not consider himself right and accuse others; thus one right and one wrong proceed together without cease, endlessly. Only one who penetrates emptiness and attains the central course of the Dao (the Way) has a broad and open mind, with no hindrance in his heart, and rides this central course in roaming.

The commentary in Bicheng (Notes Written with the Brush) says: That cannot arise by itself; it depends on this for there to be that. This cannot arise by itself; it depends on that for there to be this. Hence it is said, that emerges from “right,” and “right” is also established by depending on “that”; all things come into being from non-being. This is what is called the doctrine of “simultaneous arising” (the principle that things depend on one another and arise together). Even so, life and death are opposed, and death and life are also opposed; just when something is permissible, the impermissible is immediately present; just when something is impermissible, the permissible follows at once. One right and one wrong are paired together; this belongs to human-made distinctions, not to natural authenticity. The sage does not cling to this, but observes things according to the Heavenly Dao, stands transcending right and wrong, and alone wanders with the “Maker of Things” (the sovereign that creates and transforms the myriad things, namely the Dao of spontaneity). How could this be achieved by people in the world whose preconceived opinions rise in profusion? The sage does not entirely discard right and wrong either; rather, he responds by following what life itself affirms.

The prejudices of people in the world arise in profusion, probably precisely because each clings to one side. Even the sage does not abolish right and wrong; he simply affirms what the people affirm and denies what the world denies—nothing more than this. The single word yin, “following/according with,” is precisely the essential point of Laozi and Zhuangzi’s thought, and so below it is echoed again and again in different formulations.

Once this principle is understood, one knows that this is that and that is this, and that the other’s right and wrong are also my right and wrong here. Then, is there after all distinction? Is there after all no distinction? This and that are set against and paired with each other, seek each other out, and in the end no boundary can be found—and the “pivot of the Dao” (daoshu, the hub of the Dao, the key to penetrating the great Dao) is right here.

The “ji” object (ji is interchangeable with the word for “mechanism,” referring to the hinge or pivot of a door) is round in shape, yet it is also set against the square. The round ring has no beginning or end, and its center is empty and without things; one who attains the pivot of the Dao is like this. Therefore it is said: “Obtain its center within the ring and thereby respond to the infinite.” This is walking on the endless road of right and wrong yet not falling into right and wrong; to accomplish this, it is impossible without using natural illumination to illumine it. This is what is meant by “nothing is better than clarity” (mo ruo yi ming: it is better to use clear insight to illumine).

Using a finger to explain that a finger is not a finger is not as good as using “not-finger” to explain the “not-finger” of “finger”; using a horse to explain that a horse is not a horse is the same principle. This responds to Gongsun Long’s debates of “a finger is not a finger” and “a horse is not a horse,” intending to point out that the distinctions made by names and words are themselves all relative; only clear insight that transcends opposites can avoid clinging to right and wrong.

Zhuangzi uses “finger” and “horse” as examples to show that distinctions among things arise mostly from verbal discourse. Rather than using “horse” to explain that “horse” is not “horse,” it is better to use “not-horse” directly to break the attachment to “horse.” Viewed as a whole, heaven and earth are like a single finger, and the myriad things are like a single horse; they are originally one body.

What one considers acceptable is acceptable; what one considers unacceptable is unacceptable. The Dao (the Way) is formed naturally in the course of walking, and things show their respective appearances because they are named. Why say it is so? Because it is inherently so. Why say it is not so? Because it is inherently not so. Each thing has its rationale for being so and its appropriate place of application; there is no thing that is not so, and no thing that is not permissible.

Thus, when the mats in the hall and the doorposts are set alongside Li the ugly woman and Xishi the beauty—regardless of beauty, ugliness, or strangeness—from the perspective of Dao they all penetrate and become one. When things are distinguished, there is completion; with completion, there is also destruction. But seen as a whole, both completion and destruction return to penetrating unity. Only the penetrating person understands that the myriad things penetrate as one body, and therefore does not cling to the use of distinctions but entrusts himself to ordinary use. Yong (the ordinary) is use; use is penetration; penetration is attainment. When one exactly attains what is fitting for oneself, one is close to Dao. To act in accordance with nature, walking until one no longer knows why it is so—this is called Dao.

To exhaust mind and spirit in pursuit of uniformity while not knowing that things are essentially the same is called “three in the morning” (zhaosan). What is “three in the morning”? The monkey keeper (Jugong), distributing acorns to the monkeys, said, “Three in the morning and four in the evening.” All the monkeys were angry. He then said, “Then four in the morning and three in the evening.” All the monkeys were pleased. Neither names nor realities were reduced, yet joy and anger arose on this account; this too follows the same principle. Therefore the sage harmonizes people through the names of right and wrong and settles them in natural balance; this is called “liangxing” (walking two ways), that is, right and wrong proceed side by side without harming each other.

People often regard themselves as right and others as wrong; this is the common mentality of everyone under heaven. Thus, when they use “my finger” to illustrate “another’s finger,” they feel that another’s finger is not a “finger”; conversely, when another’s finger is used to illustrate mine, mine becomes a “not-finger.” This is using “not-finger” to illustrate the non-fingerhood of a finger. If one wishes to show that there is no right and wrong, it is better to let the two sides repeatedly illustrate one another. After such repeated illustration, both sides equally think themselves right and equally accuse each other; hence under heaven there is no “right.” Since all equally think themselves right, under heaven there is also no “wrong.” Why? If “right” were truly right, no one under heaven would regard it as not right; if “wrong” were truly wrong, no one under heaven would regard it as right. Today right and wrong have no arbiter; they are tangled and confused. This precisely shows that these people each cling to their own prejudice, yet all fall into the same fixation.

Looking up, one observes heaven; looking down, one examines earth—nothing is not so. Therefore the Perfected Person (one whose cultivation has reached the utmost) understands that heaven and earth are no more than a single “finger,” and the myriad things no more than a single “horse”; their essence is the same. Thus the heart is vast and open, peaceful and free of affairs; each thing settles in its own proper lot and is one with the realm of self-attainment, with no distinction of right and wrong.

What one can accept, one calls “acceptable”; what one cannot accept, one calls “unacceptable.” The Dao accomplishes everywhere; things are thus everywhere. Each approves what it approves and affirms what it affirms. A mat laid flat and a pillar standing upright, the ugly Li and the beautiful Xishi—does “equalizing” mean leveling their forms so that they are exactly the same? Therefore, when one enumerates all sorts of differences—horizontal and vertical, beautiful and ugly, strange and bizarre—and each approves what it approves, then although their forms differ in ten thousand ways, their original nature is equally realized. Hence it is said, “The Dao is interconnected and united as one.” Things are regarded here as separated and there as complete; what I call complete, others may call ruined. All this stems from each one’s subjective view, and so long as each approves what it approves, all can fulfill their nature.

What people call “completion” may appear to others as “ruin,” simply because each sees only from their own angle and not from another’s. The penetrating person does not cling to one side; therefore he can forget the fixed views of the self and settle each thing according to its own situation. One who acts according to his own heart-mind is never without ease and self-contentment. “Ji” means “end” or “limit”; the ultimate principle lies within self-attainment. The penetrating person proceeds according to the way things naturally are, and so it is said, “follow what is so” (yinshi)—to walk along with “this.” But such a person does not first understand that compliance is good and then deliberately comply. He does not know why he complies; he simply complies naturally. That is why it is said that the Dao is “One”—an undifferentiated whole. When the penetrating person deals with the One, where is there any need to strain the spirit? If one exerts the mind and uses cleverness to labor over some matter, that instead is not reliable, and one is no different from those who cannot return to the One. This is like the monkeys who take something as right merely because they like it—they are simply following their whims.

Therefore the sage does not incline toward any one side but lets things balance themselves and rests in naturalness. “Two courses” (liangxing) means allowing the right and wrong of the world to coexist.

The Bicheng (the author’s supplementary note) says: Though heaven and earth are vast, they are no different from a single finger; though the myriad things are many, they are no different from a single horse. How much more is this so for human beings, who are merely one thing among heaven, earth, and the myriad things. Once this is understood, the substance of original authenticity opens up vast and clear; right and wrong all dissolve, and one’s natural disposition is fulfilled. Yet although the sage has no mind of right and wrong, he does not abolish right and wrong. What is called “following” (yin) means affirming what people can follow and denying what people cannot follow. If a road can be walked, one follows it out; if a thing has something it calls “so,” one approves it according to what it calls “so.” I have no “so” of my own regarding things; I merely “so” what things themselves “so.” I have no “not so” of my own; I merely “not so” what things themselves “not so.” This is because things themselves each have their “acceptable” and “unacceptable.” There is nothing that is not so; why then add distinctions of right and wrong among them?

“A slender stalk” and “a pillar” (a small bamboo slip and a thick roof-pillar) seem opposed; “Li” (an ugly person) and “Xishi” (a beauty) seem opposed; “division” and “completion,” “completion” and “ruin” are likewise opposites. But pushed to the utmost, “vast,” “uncanny,” “cunning,” and “strange” can all be comprehended as one. Unless one’s mind is thoroughly clear and deeply attuned to the ultimate principle, one cannot do this. This is precisely what Zhuangzi calls “penetration” (da).

Not presuming oneself to be right and not stubbornly clinging to one’s own views, one lodges the principle in the ordinary and follows human feelings. “Yong” is the principle that people commonly use, and so it is said, “Yong means use.” If the myriad things are not used, they become blocked; only when used do they become unobstructed, and so it is said, “Use means penetration.” When the Dao (the Way) reaches penetration, there is attainment, and so it is said, “Penetration means attainment.” Having attained the Dao to this point, one approaches the realm of the sage. In sum, it can be covered by the single word “yin” (following). Fearing that people still might not understand the meaning of “yin,” the example is given of the monkey keeper distributing acorns: the monkey keeper did not presume on his own to increase or decrease the number of acorns, but followed the pleasure and anger of the monkeys in order to increase or decrease them—is this not precisely “yin”?

Toward worldly people and worldly affairs, one responds by following human feelings; toward principles that fall within the sphere of right and wrong, one dwells securely in the Heavenly Equalizer (tianjun, referring to natural balance), which is without right and without wrong. One does not allow the surface distinctions of right and wrong among things to obstruct one’s inner freedom from right and wrong. This is called “liangxing” (walking two ways), meaning that outward engagement with the world and inward transcendence proceed in parallel without conflict.

“The people of ancient times—their knowledge reached something ultimate.” The ancients attained a very high realm of wisdom.

To what extent, then, did their wisdom reach? The first view held that “nothing at all had yet existed between heaven and earth.” This is the highest realm, having reached the very end, beyond which one cannot go further. The next held that “things existed, but boundaries had not yet been drawn.” The next held that “boundaries existed, but there was not yet any distinction between right and wrong.”

Once the distinction between right and wrong becomes manifest, the completeness of Dao (the Way) is impaired. Once Dao is impaired, people develop partiality. The emergence of partiality is like the distinction between completion and deficiency. Is there, then, really completion and deficiency? If there is, it is like Master Zhao playing the qin and producing a melody; if there is not, it is like Master Zhao not playing the qin and preserving wholeness.

Zhao Wen playing the qin, Shi Kuang striking out the rhythm of a piece on an instrument, and Huizi leaning against a wutong tree in argument—these three were outstanding among the clever. Yet their preferences differed, and each wanted to make his own strength clear. But what they wished to clarify was not something that could be clarified in the first place. Thus they ended their lives in obscure discussions such as the “hardness and whiteness” debate, and Huizi’s followers in turn ended with tangled arguments such as “the skein of ornamentation,” achieving nothing lifelong. Can circumstances like these be considered success? Even I would say they did not succeed; but if this is not success, then neither things nor I can be called successful.

Therefore, those dazzling appearances that confuse, muddy, and dazzle the eyes are precisely what the sage seeks to transcend. If one can refrain from clinging to these disputes and entrust them to the ordinary, this is called “using clarity”—illuminating everything with clear awareness.

Guo Xiang says that those who understand “there was never yet any thing” can forget Heaven and Earth, cast aside the myriad things, and neither investigate the universe outwardly nor become aware of their own bodies inwardly. Thus their minds are empty and unobstructed, free from entanglement; they move along with the myriad things and are capable of responding to all. “There was never yet any boundary” means that although one has not completely forgotten oneself, one can forget the boundaries between you and me, self and other. “There was never yet any right and wrong” means that although one cannot yet forget self and other, one can forget the disputes over right and wrong between them. As soon as right and wrong appear, the Dao has deficiency; without right and wrong, the Dao is complete. Once the Dao is deficient, human feelings incline to one side, and partiality arises accordingly; then one cannot forget affection, discard selfishness, and merge with others as one.

Sounds are innumerable. One who blows a pipe or plucks strings, even with intricate technique, will still omit many sounds. Those attached to making one particular sound stand out, in wanting to display it, instead cause all the other sounds to be lost. Only by not deliberately making anything stand out can the sounds be complete. Therefore, he who wishes to accomplish something but instead diminishes it is Zhao Wen—an ancient master of the qin—playing the qin; he who neither accomplishes nor diminishes anything is Zhao Wen not playing the qin.

“Ji” means “to exhaust.” Zhao Wen, Shi Kuang—a music master of Jin skilled in distinguishing tones—and Huizi—a scholar of the School of Names skilled in debate—all wished to clarify what they did not truly understand, and so they racked their minds and exhausted their spirits; one dozed leaning on a staff, another rested with eyes closed against a wutong-wood table. Yet only by relying on their great reputations were they able to continue; otherwise they would long ago have been exhausted. These three clung only to what they themselves understood, considered themselves different from the crowd, and wanted others to like what they liked. This is like blowing the sheng pipes at an ox—a metaphor for wasting effort on those who cannot understand. The ox could not understand, and so their Dao remained forever in darkness and obscurity. Zhao Wen’s son in turn inherited his father’s qin artistry, but in the end likewise achieved nothing. Although these three wished to make others understand, others ultimately did not understand, and so they remained without accomplishment to the end. If this counts as success, then my lack of success may also be called success.

Each thing has its own clarity, but does not try to understand others. If because another does not understand, one says that the other has no success, then all things would mutually lack success. Therefore the sage does not display himself to show off before others, does not abandon himself to chase after external things, but follows things and lets them be natural, allowing each to keep to its own capacity; thus he can accommodate and complete them without omission. Now these three men wished to use their own preferences to display themselves to others—was that not too presumptuous?

The sage has no self; therefore, when confronted with dazzling brilliance that disturbs and confuses, he takes thought and sets limits around it; when confronted with strange and uncanny things, he penetrates and unifies them. He lets all the various different things rest in what is restful to them, and lets the multitude not lose what each regards as right. In this way the sage himself is not used by external things, and all things can bring their functions into play. If the myriad things each bring their functions into play, then who is right and who is wrong? Therefore, even with things that are unrestrained and changeable, strange and uncanny, so long as one follows them and lets them use themselves, then although their functions differ in a thousand ways, they are perfectly clear, each clear in itself.

For now, let me venture a proposition: I do not know whether it belongs to the same category as “this” (the side of affirmation and identification) or not. Yet sameness and difference mutually reflect each other and thereby themselves form a category; thus it is no different from “that” (the opposing side). Even so, let me try to set out the reasoning.

In the world there is “beginning”; there is the state of “not yet having begun”; and there is a still deeper level at which even the phrase “not yet having begun” has never existed. There is “being”; there is “nonbeing”; there is the state of “not yet having either being or nonbeing”; and, going further, there is a point at which even the phrase “not yet having either being or nonbeing” has never existed. In the blink of an eye, “being” and “nonbeing” arise, yet I do not know which of them is truly being and which is truly nonbeing.

I have already said something, but I do not know whether what I have said really has meaning or really has no meaning. Nothing under heaven is larger than the tip of an autumn hair, while Mount Tai appears small beside it; nothing is longer-lived than a child who dies young, while Peng Zu, who lived to be eight hundred, appears short-lived. Heaven and earth were born at the same time as I; the ten thousand things and I are one. Since they are already one, can there still be speech? Since I have already called it “one,” can I refrain from speaking? “One” together with “speech” becomes two; “two” together with “one” again becomes three. From this point on, even a skilled calculator (that is, someone expert in arithmetic) cannot reckon it clearly, let alone an ordinary person. So from “nonbeing” we proceed to “being” and already reach “three”; how much more so when we proceed from “being” to “being”? Do not chase after these transformations; simply follow things as they inherently are and rest content in naturalness.

Now when people speak of “no right and wrong,” I do not know whether this statement is of the same category as “there is speech” or of a different category. If it is of the same category, then since I take “no” as right and the other takes “no” as wrong, the two are not of the same category. Yet here, although right and wrong differ, one still cannot avoid a mind that makes right and wrong, and so one again belongs to the same category as the other. Therefore it is said: sameness and difference, each making the other into its own category—then one is no different from the other. To truly escape one’s category, the best method is no-mind. One must remove right and wrong, and also remove the very thought of “removing right and wrong,” dispelling layer upon layer until even “dispelling” is dispelled clean. In this way there is nothing dispelled, and thus nothing is not dispelled; right and wrong naturally vanish.

Let me try to put it into words. The highest principle is originally ineffable; as soon as one opens one’s mouth, one falls into the same category, so one has no choice but to borrow words to lodge it. To say “there is a beginning” means that speech must have an end. To say “there has never yet been a beginning” means there is no distinction between beginning and end, and life and death are one body. And to say “there has never yet been a not-yet-beginning of a beginning” means that to speak of “the One” is not as good as not speaking of “the One” and being naturally equal and unified. This is again forgetting even the thought of “the One.”

With the cognition of “being,” beauty and ugliness, right and wrong are all present; with the cognition of “nonbeing,” one still does not know that “nonbeing” is also a form of clinging, and right and wrong, likes and dislikes still hang in the mind. “There has never yet been being or nonbeing” means knowing the nonbeing of “nonbeing,” yet still failing to attain nonknowing. “There has never yet been a not-yet-being or not-yet-nonbeing” means that suddenly the thought of “nonbeing” arises, yet one does not know which of being and nonbeing is being and which is nonbeing. This is to forget even “knowing,” and then one suddenly becomes clear, and all is nothing. When all is nothing, heaven and earth and the ten thousand things, other and self, right and wrong, all suddenly dissolve. I have already spoken of “having something to say”; even saying “no right and wrong” is still a kind of speech. Not knowing whether what I say is ultimately being or nonbeing—only then can the breast be swept utterly clear, with not a single speck of dust left.

This is because, when compared by bodily form, Mount Tai is naturally larger than an autumn hair, but from the perspective of the Dao, the two have no distinction of large and small.

If each thing follows its own nature and proper allotment, allowing all things to reach their own utmost limit, then what is large in form is not excessive, and what is small in form is not deficient. If each thing finds satisfaction in its own nature, then the autumn hair (the finest down that birds and beasts grow in autumn, a metaphor for the extremely small) will not seem small because it is small, and Mount Tai will not seem large because it is large. If “greatness” is measured by the fulfillment of nature, then among all things in the world no fulfillment surpasses that of the autumn hair. Conversely, if being fulfilled in one’s nature does not in itself count as great, then even Mount Tai may be called small. If Mount Tai counts as small, then nothing in the world is large; if the autumn hair counts as large, then nothing in the world is small.

Since there is no distinction between large and small, there is also no division between long life and early death. Thus the huigu (a tiny insect with a very short lifespan) does not envy the great chun (a legendary tree of extremely long life) but finds joy in itself, and the chiyan (a small bird, a metaphor for those of narrow vision) does not prize the Heavenly Pool (a legendary great sea) but feels content in itself. As long as one rests content in the natural and in one’s own nature and allotment, then even Heaven and Earth do not count as “long-lived,” yet they live together with me; and the myriad things cannot be counted as “different,” yet they attain together with me.

The myriad things have countless forms and appearances, and when each finds its place, all return to the One. Since they have already returned to the One, there is no need to speak of the principle. Yet some things cannot understand this One for themselves and instead chase after “this” and “that,” so one speaks of the One to set them right. But once it is called the One, it is already speech. To use words to speak of the One, while the One itself is not words, makes the One and words two. Since the One is already One, and speech divides it into two, once there are one and two, does it not become three? To use the One to speak of the One already makes three; how much more when exploring its branches and transformations, where all things have their own names—how could it ever be exhausted? Therefore, one who can grasp the One is no different from “that”; one who forgets the One naturally returns to the One without need of speech. Those who follow their nature each stop at what they themselves can do; this alone is most fitting.

For one who is without bias or fixation, there naturally remains the distinction between fixation and non-fixation. If one can be without fixation, there will be no contention over right and wrong. If one merely follows another’s right and wrong to determine one’s own right and wrong, that is “yin shi yi”—simply following an already established “right.” This phrase appears repeatedly in this chapter; commentators often mistakenly take “shi yi” as a particle and read the character “yin” together with it, thereby losing the original meaning.

The great Dao originally has no boundaries, and speech originally has no fixed standard; only because of clinging to “right” are boundaries drawn (the original text’s “chao” should be “zhen,” meaning boundary).

The so-called “eight virtues” are the various oppositions and distinctions such as left and right, relations and righteousness, division and disputation, and competition and contention. Beyond the six directions (heaven, earth, and the four quarters), the sage acknowledges them but does not discuss them; within the six directions, the sage discusses them but does not evaluate them; as for the aspirations of the former kings to order the world recorded in the Spring and Autumn Annals, the sage only evaluates but does not dispute. Thus where there is “division,” behind it there is a realm of “non-division”; where there is “disputation,” behind it there is a realm of “non-disputation.” The sage harbors this principle in mind, but the multitude use disputation to show off to one another; hence it is said that behind “disputation” there is something else, unseen.

The great Dao cannot be named or spoken; great disputation needs no speech; great benevolence appears not benevolent; great integrity appears not modest; great courage appears not to show strength. Once the Dao is made manifest, it is no longer the Dao; when disputation reaches its limit, it cannot fully express the meaning; once benevolence rigidly holds to convention, it is no longer benevolence; when integrity is too pure, it appears aloof from human feeling; once courage is displayed, it is no longer courage. These five are originally complete and harmonious, yet they nearly turn toward square, rigid fixation. Therefore, to know to stop at what one does not know is the highest state. Who can understand the disputation that is without words and the Dao that is not spoken? Whoever understands this has obtained the “Tianfu” (Heavenly Storehouse, referring to the treasure naturally stored within one’s original nature). Pour into it and it is not filled; draw from it and it is not exhausted; yet one does not know its source—this is called “Baoguang” (light kept inward and not exposed).

In former times, Yao asked Shun, saying: I wish to launch a punitive expedition against the small states of Zong, Kuai, Xu, and Ao. Sitting facing south on the ruler’s seat, my mind is unsettled. What is the reason?

The Dao (the Way) originally has no boundaries; it is deep, vast, and present everywhere. Words, too, have never had fixed standards, and the right and wrong of one side and the other have no determinate arbiter. The appearance of phenomena such as “division” (fen, distinguishing) and “discrimination” (bian, discerning) is due to the fact that the Dao has no boundaries; thus the myriad things can each delimit a domain for themselves according to their preferences and situations. “Left and right” means that each takes a different orientation as convenient. “Relations and duties” means that all things and events have their order, and each matter has its appropriate place. “Division and discrimination” means that things gather in groups and each marks off its own category. “Competition” means striving against one another, while “disputation” means refuting one another. Broadly summarized, these are the eight manifestations (the eight “virtues”).

“Beyond the six directions” (beyond heaven, earth, and the four quarters) refers to the realm that lies outside the range delimited by the nature of the myriad things. In matters outside the nature of things, even if some principle is present, because they are not within the nature of things, the sage does not respond to them or speak of them. Therefore he does not discuss them; if he were to discuss them, he would instead lead things to learn abilities they do not originally possess. Hence, by not discussing external matters, those eight manifestations are the same as what each thing has attained.

To discuss without recklessly evaluating is to set forth the nature of things and cause them to rest in their nature. To evaluate without contending is to follow the already formed traces of things, make them accord with the standard of what is supremely appropriate, and not cling to what one considers right in order to deny the multitude. “To divide without dividing, to discriminate without discriminating” means that the myriad things are originally divided and each matter originally has its distinction; if one divides and discriminates according to one’s own intention, one will not see the distinctions that belong to things themselves. “To harbor it” means taking non-disputation as one’s embrace, but the sage has nothing that he embraces. “Discrimination has what it does not see” means that because one does not see the discriminations of things themselves, one therefore clarifies what one knows and displays it to others.

“Not naming” means allowing things to name themselves and not imposing names on them. “Not speaking” means that things themselves have their distinctions. “Not benevolent” means existing naturally without partial affection. “Not resentful or dissatisfied” (bu qian) refers to reaching the state of utmost sufficiency: the coming and going of things do not depend on me, so nothing can make me dissatisfied or self-satisfied. “Not obstructive” (bu zhi) means complying wherever one goes, so that one can travel without danger or hindrance.

“When the Dao is displayed, it is not the Dao” means using this to explain that, so that both this and that lose their original truth. “When words dispute, they do not reach” means that they cannot reach the respective boundaries of things. “When benevolence is constant, it does not succeed” means that things do not have constant objects of love; if one constantly shows partial love, one cannot attain universal and all-embracing relief.

All five biases harm the original condition of things through deliberate contrivance; unable to rest in their inherent nature, they instead seek outwardly for what they do not originally possess. That “the conspicuously pure are not trusted” means deliberately displaying purity and integrity, with the result that one cannot win people’s trust; this is merely the pursuit of reputation, not true integrity. That “aggressive courage does not succeed” means a courage that shows off strength and loves contention: all under Heaven detest it, and it has not even a place to stand. That “the Dao made manifest is not the Dao” and “argumentative speech does not reach” means using “this” to illuminate “that”; both this and that are lost, and those who argue with words cannot attain their own proper station. That “constant benevolence does not succeed” is because the myriad things have no constant object of love; if one clings to constant love, one cannot be all-encompassing.

This is like using roundness to learn squareness, or a fish envying the crow’s flight: the closer one comes to the object sought, the farther one is from oneself; the more one learns, the more one loses one’s original nature. Therefore one must “equalize things” (qiwu: regard all things as equal) and remove the fault of one-sided obsession. Whatever cannot be known lies outside one’s nature; thus one can only remain within the range of the knowable, and only then can one arrive.

“The argument that does not speak, the Dao that is not spoken of” is a state of vast freedom and complete letting-be of naturalness. “Not filled, not exhausted” means that the mind of the perfected person (one whose moral cultivation has reached the highest level) is like a bright mirror: it follows the myriad things without retaining them, and so it is empty and expansive, without waxing or waning. “Not knowing whence it comes” means that the arrival of ultimate principle is spontaneous and leaves no trace. “Preserving the light” (baoguang) means allowing one’s own brightness, so that the light is not obscured.

The King of Wei wished to attack the three states but could not set his mind at ease. This was because his understanding of the way of resting in natural spontaneity and letting one’s nature have its way was not yet broad enough, and so he was also unhappy when holding court and attending to government. The author uses the mouth of the Great Sage to clarify the principle of equalizing and unifying all things, and therefore first raises an astonishing question in order to lead into the answer below.

When each thing rests in its own place, there is originally no distinction between coarse and refined; thus fleabane and mugwort are precisely where the subtle excellence of these three men lies. If one still cannot be at ease, why is that? When light rises into the sky and shines throughout the six directions, there is no fleabane or mugwort that is not reached by its radiance. Although the sun and moon have no partiality in shining, there are still places they do not reach; yet virtue reaches everywhere. Now if one wishes to take away the fleabane and mugwort’s own aspiration and force them to comply with oneself, is this not, with respect to the ultimate Dao, too narrow?

Therefore, if it is not a matter of the mind suddenly opening and the spirit penetrating through, but rather of allowing all things to unfold their own natures, each resting in what it finds restful—whether far or near, hidden or deep—and all being left to exist in accordance with naturalness, then De (Virtue/Power) finds nothing it does not attain. But now to wish to seize away the will of fleabane and wild grasses (a metaphor for small, ordinary things), and to attack and force them into submission to oneself—is that, with respect to the Supreme Dao, at all grand? If one can let all things each attain their utmost, then both self and other obtain what is fitting, and I too am pleased with all.

The Bicheng (Notes), a notebook by Jiao Hong of the Ming dynasty, says: The Dao has no boundaries, and words have no fixed standard. Why does the sage dislike boundaries and fixed standards? Because they establish disputes over right and wrong. The original text has chao, which should be zhen, meaning boundary. The eight opposing name-forms—left and right, relation and righteousness, division and debate, competition and contention (the so-called “Eight Virtues”)—all belong to boundary disputes. The sage acknowledges what cannot be spoken of and leaves it aside without discussing it; what can be discussed he discusses without debating; what can be debated he debates without judging. Thus he stands beyond right and wrong—how could he fall into boundary disputes? Yet the sage is without boundaries not only when he does not discuss, debate, or judge; even when he sometimes discusses or debates, one cannot say that he has boundary disputes. In the sage’s mind there is no discrimination: division is non-division, and debate is non-debate. The sage takes “non-display” as debate; ordinary people take mutual display as debate—this is the difference between them. Not praising oneself, not speaking, not claiming benevolence, not luring others with cunning, and not envying—with ancient sayings repeatedly cited as evidence—these five are the undifferentiated and perfectly complete supreme De, in which name-forms are not established. This is called “round.” If, however, doctrine is made prominent, speech is skillful in debate, benevolence is displayed outwardly, purity is self-vaunted, and courage loves to prevail, then the sharp point (corner) is too exposed, approaching “square” (having distinct edges). “Square” is boundary.

Ah! Worldly people know only that “not knowing” is the highest realm, but they do not understand that “knowing yet not knowing” (having knowledge without clinging to what is known) is a subtler realm. This is precisely what is called “the debate of no words” and “the Dao of no Dao.” This is the realm of “being is precisely non-being; form is precisely emptiness.” Is it not just like the Heavenly Reservoir (Tianfu, the treasury naturally stored, a metaphor for the Dao-body), which is poured into without becoming full, scooped from without being exhausted, and whose source is unknown? “Baoguang” (concealing radiance and inwardly retaining wisdom; from Zhuangzi’s “Qiwulun”) refers precisely to “knowing yet not knowing.”

Nie Que asked Wang Ni, "Do you know what all things commonly recognize as the standard of right and wrong?" Wang Ni replied, "How would I know?" Nie Que asked again, "Do you know what you do not know?" Wang Ni said, "How would I know! Still, I will try to put it this way: how do I know that what I call 'knowing' is not 'not knowing'? How do I know that what I call 'not knowing' is not 'knowing'?"

Wang Ni then gave examples: if a person sleeps in a damp place, he will suffer backache and hemiplegia—is this also true of the loach? If a person lives in a tree, he will tremble with fear—is this also true of the monkey? Among these three, which knows the truly suitable dwelling place? People eat beef, mutton, pork, and other meats along with the five grains; elk and deer eat grass; centipedes enjoy small snakes; owls and crows enjoy mice. Among these four, which knows the true flavor? Apes, bian-monkeys, and ju-monkeys (all kinds of monkeys) regard one another as suitable mates; elk and deer mate; loaches and fish sport together. Mao Qiang and Li Ji are women universally acknowledged as beautiful, yet when fish see them they dive to the bottom, when birds see them they fly high, and when elk and deer see them they run away. Among these four, which knows the true beauty of the world?

In my view, the threads of benevolence and righteousness and the paths of right and wrong are tangled and crisscrossed—how could I distinguish them clearly?

Nie Que said, "If you do not understand benefit and harm, does the Perfected Person (zhiren) also not understand benefit and harm?" Wang Ni said, "The Perfected Person is numinous and wondrous. When the great marshes burn, he does not feel hot; when the Yellow River and the Han River freeze, he does not feel cold; when thunderbolts split mountains and great winds overturn the seas, he is not alarmed. Such a person rides on clouds and qi, mounts the sun and moon, and wanders beyond the four seas. Life and death cannot change him—how much less the threads of benefit and harm?"

Guo Xiang (the Western Jin metaphysician who annotated the Zhuangzi) notes: what the many agree on is not necessarily correct, and what the many differ on is not necessarily wrong; neither side can correct the other, so there is no need to employ one's own wisdom and views. If one believes one knows what one does not know, then one has "knowing"; having "knowing," one cannot allow each kind of talent to find its proper place. Only by not knowing at all can one transcend the threads of benefit and harm.

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: What people of the world regard as the same is not necessarily correct, and what they regard as different is not necessarily wrong; neither side can correct the other. Therefore the Perfected Person does not use his own cleverness to make distinctions. If one presumes to know what one does not know, one becomes “possessed of knowledge”; once there is knowledge, one can no longer allow the innate capacities of the multitude to unfold each according to its own nature. Complete not-knowing, by contrast, is suddenly clear and open, allowing nothing not to follow its own spontaneity.

“Let me try to speak of it”: this is because true “not-knowing” is not suited to being set forth directly as a thesis, so one can only try to say something about it. For example, fish swim in water, and the creatures in water all regard water as their common environment; this is taken as “knowledge.” But from the crow’s standpoint, what was previously called “knowledge” becomes “not-knowing.” Hence below the text first lists people, loaches, and monkeys to show that the habits of the ten thousand things each have what suits them; then it lists people, deer, maggots, and crows to show that beauty and ugliness have no fixed standard; and then it lists monkeys, milu deer, fish, Mao Qiang, Li Ji, and others to show that what people of the world prefer is not the same.

Since each has its own preferences, if one simply takes what one considers same as right and what one considers different as wrong, there is no way to be certain that what is called “same” is necessarily correct. Benevolence and righteousness, right and wrong, are tangled and confused; what benefits this side may harm that side, and the standpoints of the world are inexhaustible. Thus right and wrong ultimately have no fixed standard. Only by not making distinctions and letting each regard as right what it regards as right can all things be at ease and each attain its place. Nie Que and Wang Ni are both figures in the Zhuangzi. Nie Que had not yet grasped the wonder of “not-knowing,” and so he still doubted whether the Perfected Person ought to know such things; this doubt had not yet been resolved.

“The Perfected Person is numinous in Shen (spirit)”: this means that the Perfected Person’s Shen communicates with divine brightness, and, with no calculating mind, there is nothing that does not accord. “Not hot, not cold, not startled”: this means that Shen is preserved intact and the bodily form is complete, merged with all things; even when undergoing all kinds of violent transformations, one does not regard them as external things, and so the heart/mind is broad and empty, without the slightest obstruction. “Holding cloud Qi (vital energy)”: this means relying on external things to move, not moving on one’s own initiative. “Riding the sun and moon”: this means that although day and night alternate, there is no distinction between life and death. “Roaming beyond the four seas”: this means not clinging to knowledge, letting all things under heaven each act for themselves, and therefore being able to gallop among the ten thousand things without exhaustion.

Qu Quezi consulted Chang Wuzi: “I heard my teacher—generally understood to mean Confucius—say that the sage is not busy with worldly affairs, does not pursue profit, does not flee harm, does not crave anything, does not attach himself to the Dao, and is not attached to saying ‘is’ or ‘is not’; he wanders transcendently beyond the dusty world. My teacher considered these absurd words, but I believe they express the wondrous Dao. What do you think?”

Chang Wuzi said: “These are words that would confuse even the Yellow Emperor—the legendary ancient emperor—when he heard them. How could Kong Qiu understand them? You are far too impatient for results, like someone who sees an egg and wants the rooster that crows at dawn, or sees a pellet and wants roast turtledove. Let me toss out some words for you at random, and you listen at random too. The sage leans on the sun and moon, embraces the universe, and lets the myriad things blend into one another. He does not bother about the chaotic and murky but regards them as servants. The multitude bustle about, while the sage appears foolish; he transcends ten thousand years and preserves pure unity. The myriad things are inherently so, and through this they mutually contain one another. How do I know that delight in life is not a delusion? How do I know that aversion to death is not like one who has lost the road home and does not know the way back?

“When Lady Li—Li Ji, daughter of the frontier warden of Ai—was first captured by Jin, she wept until tears soaked her lapels. When she reached the royal palace, slept on a splendid bed with the ruler, and ate fine delicacies, she regretted her earlier weeping. How do I know that the dead do not regret their former craving for life?

“A person who drinks in a dream may weep on waking; a person who weeps in a dream may go hunting on waking. While dreaming, he does not know he is dreaming; within a dream he may even interpret a dream, and only after waking does he know it was a dream. Only a great awakening makes one know that life is actually a great dream, while fools think themselves awake and secretly congratulate themselves. You, Mu, are truly crude and shallow! Kong Qiu and you are both dreaming; when I say you are dreaming, that too is a dream. This saying is called ‘precarious paradox’—a strange and apparently self-contradictory doctrine. After ten thousand generations, if a great sage appears who can understand it, it will be as though he had met him at dawn or dusk.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary means: those who do not busy themselves with worldly affairs—affairs come naturally, and principles naturally respond; they do not act deliberately. Those who do not chase profit or flee harm follow nature and go straight ahead, without dodging left or right. Those who do not delight in seeking: if they obtain something, they are not pleased; if they take something directly, they are not angered. They do not cling to the Dao, and yet they alone communicate with the Dao.

As for “no predication” and “predication,” Guo Xiang holds that whatever has names and formulations is not the true Dao of which we speak; it is merely each one’s own appellation. Therefore, what is called “being” is in fact “nonbeing,” and what is called “nonbeing” is in fact “being.” Whatever does not belong to true nature is dust and dirt—that is, worldly contamination.

Things have their natural patterns, and principles have their ultimate limit. If one follows them and acts directly, one will naturally accord with them. The Dao cannot be fully explained in words; therefore speakers can only speak “menglang” (wild, boundless, unfocused) words, and listeners will also hear them in confusion. Even the Yellow Emperor could not be entirely free of attachment to the myriad things, and so he too could not hear the Dao thoroughly. Thus the sage places “the immediate situation” beyond dust and dirt, and unites with the Dao beyond seeing and hearing. He illuminates by natural principle without speculative calculation; he lets things be in accordance with nature without deliberate inference and exposition.

Qu Quezi had just heard these menglang words and thought them the manifestation of the wondrous Dao. This is like seeing an egg and expecting it to crow at dawn, or seeing a pellet and wanting to eat roasted owl meat—completely reversing root and branch. Unable to rest in the times and accord with change, they instead probe change and transformation, worry about death while still alive, and use this to distinguish right and wrong—these are all people of “contrary calculation” (using subjective conjecture to infer backward).

Since one discusses with menglang words, one can only venture reckless speech; if listeners take such reckless words seriously, they will again expend mind on them prematurely, and thus can only listen recklessly. To regard death and life as day and night is to use the sun and moon as a metaphor; to see the myriad things as one body is to use the universe as a metaphor. Precisely because something is taken as slight or base, distinctions of noble and low arise; thus confusion and multiplicity ensue, impossible to correct, each taking its own one-sided view as correct.

Therefore, the sage follows the undifferentiated and self-accordant Great Dao, as if settling the myriad things in place, without speaking, allowing them to unfold naturally. “Wenran” describes keeping the mouth closed and saying nothing, without waves or boundaries. “Yiyi” is the appearance of ceaseless bustling, referring to people running about and chasing after things in the realm of right and wrong. “Tunran” (tún rán) describes being simple and unadorned, seemingly without knowledge, pressing straight ahead. “Chun” means unmixed.

If one compares and verifies all the changes of ten thousand ages, ordinary people find them chaotic and confused; they therefore exhaust body and spirit, become anxious and troubled, and reject one thing to take up another. Only the great sage has no attachment, and so is simple and unknowing, pressing straight ahead, united with change as one, constantly roaming in “solitude”—the singular realm of the Dao. Thus, even through hundreds of millions of years and a thousand differences and ten thousand distinctions, if one acts along the Dao, what is accomplished is the same in ancient and modern times. Things are called “so,” and all are so. There is no thing that is not so, no time that is not fulfilled; only this can be called “pure.” “Yun” means accumulation: accumulated to ten thousand years, those ten thousand years are the same “so”; accumulated in the myriad things, the myriad things are all thus.

Therefore people do not know where the before and after of death and life lie, nor where other and self, victory and defeat return. Death and life are originally one body, yet people perversely love life and hate death. Wanting to go against change, how do they know this is not delusion?

Leaving one’s old home in youth is called “ruosang.” What is called ruosang is being content with the place where one presently is and forgetting to return to one’s hometown. How do we know that life is not that kind of ruosang? And how do we know that death is not a return to one’s hometown, which people nevertheless dislike?

Consider the example of Li Ji—consort of Duke Xian of Jin in the Spring and Autumn period, originally a woman from the borderlands; after being captured and brought into the palace, she first wept bitterly, but later regretted having wept. Within a single life, feelings can change so greatly. Situated in this time, one does not know the state of mind of that time. How much less can the transformations of death and life know one another?

Between waking and sleeping, once circumstances change, feelings differ accordingly; then wishes concerning death and life will also not be the same. Therefore, when alive one delights in life, and when dead one would delight in death. Although death and life differ, in each obtaining what it wishes they are the same; why, then, be bound up in them?

If, while dreaming, one does not know that one is dreaming, then at the time of death one will likewise not know that one has died; instead, one can settle the mind and follow what suits it. The dreamer in a dream may even divine his own dream, and at such a moment there is no difference from being awake. Whatever he encounters, he feels satisfied—why, then, worry about death while still alive?

Only the one who is greatly awakened is a sage. They alone understand that those whose minds are filled with anxiety and deliberation have not yet awakened. Foolish people are as if within a great dream, yet they consider themselves awake. Thus they haggle over things, honoring what they like as though it were a ruler and demeaning what they dislike as though it were a herding servant. To gladly believe the narrow views of one school or faction—this may be called stubborn and shallow.

Such extraordinary words cannot be understood by ordinary people, and so they are called “diaogui” (strange, absurd, seemingly contradictory discourse). People do not understand the principle of “xuanjie” (release from the suffering of being hung upside down, that is, liberation from bondage). What is meant by “meeting it at dawn or dusk” is that those who can transcendently liberate themselves, be without entanglement, and become wholly one with life and death are extremely rare. Even if separated by ten thousand generations, as long as such a person exists, it is as though meeting him at morning or evening—this is an extreme way of saying how difficult such a meeting is.

“Xi” is explained in the Bicheng as “why not,” and should be read together with the following sentence. “Ruo sang” refers to losing one’s root and losing one’s original mind. An old saying goes, “A sage appears only beyond a thousand li,” yet the appearance of this sage is like being not far apart, shoulder to shoulder; the principle here is connected to this.

Suppose I debate with you. If you defeat me and I fail to defeat you, are you really right and I really wrong? If I defeat you and you fail to defeat me, am I really right and you really wrong? Is one side right and the other wrong, or are both right, or are both wrong? Since you and I cannot understand each other, others will naturally fall into confusion as well. Then whom should I ask to decide? Let us ask someone who agrees with you to decide. But since he is already in agreement with you, how can he decide impartially? Let us ask someone who agrees with me to decide. But since he is already in agreement with me, he likewise cannot be impartial. Let us ask someone who differs from both you and me to decide. But since he differs from both of us, how can he understand us? Let us ask someone who agrees with both you and me to decide. But since he agrees with both of us, he likewise cannot decide. From this we can see that I, you, and the other person cannot understand one another—so can we still wait for a third party (the “other”) to decide?

What does it mean to “harmonize by means of the Heavenly Boundaries (tianni—the natural demarcations, the inherent rhythms of things)”? The answer is: “this” and “not-this” are originally relative, and “so” and “not-so” are also relative. If one takes “this” to truly be “this,” then the distinction between “this” and “not-this” no longer needs to be argued; if one takes “so” to truly be “so,” then the distinction between “so” and “not-so” no longer needs to be argued. Words stand in mutual opposition and mutual dependence; if one can transcend this opposition, it is as though they no longer stand in opposition. Harmonize by means of the Heavenly Boundaries and follow the endless transformations (manyan), and thus one can live out one’s natural years. Forget years and the names of right and wrong; rouse yourself in the boundless realm (wujing), and so entrust yourself to this endless realm.

People resort to inference only when they do not understand how things stand, and to disputation only when they cannot see. If after disputing they still cannot convince one another, it is because both sides occupy standpoints opposed to each other. Arguing back and forth, they remain obscure and unclear all day, and in the end no one can determine right from wrong. Thus right and wrong should be handed over to things themselves to correct.

People deem right whatever is the same as themselves and wrong whatever differs from themselves; such judgments are not enough to win credence. If “right” were truly right, no one in the world would oppose it; if “wrong” were truly wrong, no one would agree with it. Now people approve only what is the same as themselves and deny what is different; since difference and sameness both exist, right and wrong have no master. Therefore the dispute over right and wrong arises from fondness for argument and is stilled in natural equalization (tianjun, Heavenly Equalization). Let the two claims of right and wrong run parallel (liangxing, two courses), allowing each to stand, and only then can one return to the proper way. If one uses the other side’s “right” to correct one’s own “wrong,” this cannot work; then no one in the world can correct anyone else. Hence returning right and wrong to things themselves for correction is the most fitting course.

Heavenly Ni (tianni—the natural allotment of things, that is, the inherent principle of balance in things) refers to the natural allotment of things. “Right,” “wrong,” “so,” and “not so” are set against one another, and so disputation arises. If there were no disputation, one would harmonize them by Heavenly Ni. It is enough to rest content in one’s own natural allotment; there is no need to wait for others to correct oneself. Disputes over right and wrong are like changing sounds (referring to the various mutually transforming and mutually opposed discourses). These discourses depend on one another, yet none is sufficient to correct the others, so they appear as if they do not depend on one another at all. Harmonizing by natural allotment and letting them change without end, if one follows this through, the boundaries of right and wrong naturally dissolve, and the principle of human nature and life can be carried to its end and reach fulfillment.

Forgetting years, one can therefore be mysteriously one with the ten thousand things (xuantong, mysterious sameness—erasing distinctions and equalizing with all things), without dividing life from death; forgetting names, one can therefore penetrate right and wrong. Right and wrong and life and death surge against one another and merge into one—this is the highest principle. The supreme principle reaches into the limitless (wuji—the endless realm), so one who entrusts oneself within it will never be exhausted.

The Penumbra (Wangliang) asked the shadow: “A moment ago you were walking, and now you have stopped; a moment ago you were sitting, and now you have stood up. How can you be so lacking in constancy?” (Wangliang refers to the faint shade at the edge of a shadow; it may be understood as the shadow of a shadow.)

The shadow replied: “Do I really depend on something to be as I am? And does what I depend on also depend on something to be as it is? I depend on your actions: when you walk, I follow and walk; when you stop, I follow and stop; when you sit, I follow and sit; when you rise, I follow and rise. But what is it that I depend on? Perhaps it is something like the scales on a snake’s belly or the wings of a cicada. How could I know why things are as they are, or why they are not so?”

Once, Zhuang Zhou (that is, Zhuangzi) dreamed that he became a butterfly, fluttering and dancing about, utterly at ease and delighted, completely forgetting that he was Zhuang Zhou. Suddenly he awoke, and there he was, unmistakably Zhuang Zhou himself. He did not know whether Zhuang Zhou had dreamed of becoming a butterfly or whether the butterfly was dreaming of becoming Zhuang Zhou. There must be some distinction between Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly. This is called “the transformation of things” (wuhua)—the mutual transformation of all things, in which the boundaries between them are not fixed.

Wangliang (the faint shadow around the edge of a shadow) asked, “Do I depend on something to be as I am?” This means that the heavenly mechanism is naturally so: when people sit, rise, walk, or stop, they do not rely on anything else; each independently completes itself. For things that can stand alone without dependence, since people do not know their cause, why must they investigate why they are so?

If one insists on asking what it depends on, tracing upward layer by layer along the path whence it comes, one will never reach an end; ultimately it resolves into “non-dependence” (wudai, depending on nothing), and then the principle of “self-transformation” (duhua, the ten thousand things generating and changing themselves) becomes clear. For example, if things had to rely on something like snake slough or cicada wings to take form, then the origins of their individual distinctive appearances would be easy to understand and not difficult to grasp. The reason we do not understand now is precisely that things do not depend on such similar things but transform on their own.

Someone says: Wangliang depends on the shadow, the shadow depends on the body, and the body depends on the Creator. May I ask whether the Creator exists or not? If it does not exist, how can it create things? If it exists, it is still insufficient to generate the many forms. Therefore one should understand that the many forms all generate themselves and change themselves, and do not depend on anything else.

This is the constant principle of Heaven and Earth: they rely on one another, form and shadow produce one another, and although they seem to coincide in a mysterious way, in fact they do not depend on one another. Wangliang’s relying on the shadow is like cloud vapors arising together; it is not dependence. Thus Wangliang is not controlled by the shadow, and the shadow is not enslaved by the body. Nor is the body transformed into being by “nothing.” Then whether things transform or do not transform, are thus or not thus, follow others or follow themselves, all is simply naturally so. How do I know the reason?

Therefore, if one follows and lets the ten thousand things be without human interference, root and branch, inner and outer, all become traceless. If one investigates these proximate causes, forgets that things are naturally so in themselves, entrusts the fundamental to external things, and loses the inner master, then feelings of attachment arise accordingly; how could one still attain peace and tranquility? To be at ease in oneself, to rejoice in oneself, to be satisfied in oneself, and to move along joyfully—just as Zhuang Zhou dreamed he was a butterfly and did not know he was Zhuang Zhou—the state of mind at that time was no different from the insensibility of someone about to be executed.

This passage uses Zhuangzi’s parable of “dreaming of a butterfly” to discuss the boundaries between waking and dreaming, life and death.

Suddenly waking, he realized that he was Zhuang Zhou himself. Only from the perspective after waking is it called “waking,” but this may well be another dream. People now do not know that they were once butterflies, just as the person in a dream does not know he is Zhuang Zhou. Each merely adapts to the inclinations of his present mind, and so cannot prove that the butterfly did not become Zhuang Zhou in a dream. If someone in the world dozes off and in a dream a hundred years pass, then neither can it be proved that the hundred years we now experience are not a dream during a doze.

The distinction between waking and dreaming, like that between life and death, is relative. We feel at ease and comfortable because boundaries make determination possible; it is not that there were originally no boundaries. Time does not pause, and the “present” does not endure, so yesterday’s dream has already faded by today. Are the transformations of life and death not also like this dream? Why exhaust our minds and spirits over them?

When a person is in one circumstance, he does not know another; such is the case with becoming a butterfly in a dream. As for human affairs, within a lifetime one does not know the future; Li Ji of Jin is an example: at first she wept as she was married off, but later, enjoying wealth and honor in the palace, she regretted having wept. Yet the foolish believe they know that life is joy and death is suffering, and they fail to grasp the principle of “transformation of things” (the mutual transformation of all things).

The Zhuangzi Yi, quoting a comment from the Bicheng, says: What the beginning of the Qiwulun discusses is no more than erasing the distinction between other and self, equating right and wrong, harmonizing completion and destruction, unifying many and few, and leveling great and small. When it reaches the utmost of discourse, it then goes on to speak of threading through past and present, equalizing life and death, making dream and waking the same, with a thousand transformations and ten thousand changes returning to a single body; this is what is called the state of clear understanding without obstruction.

Things and the self can be equalized, but how can dream and waking be equated? What is done by day and what is dreamed by night are essentially the same; only that one is awake by day and asleep by night makes a slight difference. When days accumulate and one becomes penetrating, what is done by day and dreamed by night become vague and cannot be distinguished. Jiang Tong says: When awake, one can know dreams, but in a dream one does not know waking; therefore waking is indeed more real than dreaming. Yet what one does when awake exists only in thought and deliberation as well.

The Omen of Dreams: If you know you are dreaming, you become bewildered and cannot tell which is dream and which is waking. Jiang Tong says: if one can notice within a dream that one is dreaming, yet while dreaming does not know that one is awake, then the awareness of waking is indeed more real than the dream state. What one does while awake remains only within the sphere of deliberation; but in a dream, knowing that one is dreaming before the dream occurs lies beyond deliberation. Seen in this way, the dream state is instead more spiritually attuned than waking.

When awake each day, one’s speech and conduct generally follow some order; when dreaming each night, what one sees and hears often lacks coherence from beginning to end. The distinction between dream and waking is merely a matter of a brief instant. Since the difference between the two is already so great, how much more so is birth and death, the great transformation of coming and going. If one is not the kind of person who can transcend, how could one avoid sinking into the flow of transformation? Even so, if one can early on thoroughly understand the principle between dream and waking, then the coming and going of birth and death will no longer be worth reckoning with.

Nourishing the Lord of Life, Chapter Three

Human life is limited, while knowledge is boundless. To pursue boundless knowledge with a limited life is dangerous. To know the danger and still insist on pursuing knowledge is even more dangerous.

Do good without seeking fame; do not do evil that invites punishment. Follow the natural, central, and upright way as one’s constant rule, and one can preserve oneself, preserve one’s nature, nourish life, and live out one’s natural lifespan.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Human life is limited because the allotted portion each person receives has its own limit. For example, when lifting heavy things or carrying light things, if one’s spirit and bearing remain composed and at ease, this is the limitation of one’s strength itself. But those who esteem fame and love to compete, even when their physical strength is exhausted, still cannot satisfy their desires—this is not living out one’s natural lifespan.

Human life is limited, and the allotted portion each person receives has its limits. To lift heavy things or raise light ones while one’s spirit and Qi remain steady and composed—this lies within the capacity of one’s strength. Those who esteem reputation and strive to surpass others, no matter how strong their sinews, still feel unsatisfied, because the desires of the mind have no end. Therefore, in pursuing cleverness and fame, they often exhaust themselves in endless reaches because their actions are not fitting. What is called mingji (the hidden limit) means according with one’s own allotted portion and not adding the slightest bit more. Thus, even when bearing something extremely heavy, so long as it suits one’s own capacity, one scarcely feels its weight pressing upon the body; even when dealing with a multitude of affairs, one remains detached and unnoticing, as if the matters were not upon oneself. This is the root of nourishing life.

If one uses a limited nature to seek boundless knowledge, how can one avoid falling into difficulty? People are trapped by knowledge yet do not know to stop, and then use still more cleverness to rescue themselves; such “nourishing life” instead injures the self—this is truly a great danger.

One should forget the distinction between good and evil, dwell securely in the way of central correctness, allow the myriad things each to follow their own course, remain wholly without deliberate attachment, and merge into one with the most fitting condition. In this way, punishments, names, laws, and regulations remain far from oneself, while Heavenly Principle (tianli) is naturally preserved within. What is called “following the Du as one’s constant” (yuan du yi wei jing) means taking conformity to the Middle Way—Du referring to the central meridian of the body and, by extension, the way of central correctness—as one’s norm. If one can attain this central correctness and secretly accord with the Dao, one can preserve the body, preserve life, serve one’s parents, live out one’s natural years, and do all things just right.

Nourishing life is not the pursuit of anything beyond the ordinary measure; it is, roughly, simply preserving Heavenly Principle and living out one’s natural lifespan.

Cook Ding was butchering an ox for Lord Wen Hui (that is, King Hui of Liang). Wherever his hand touched, his shoulder leaned, his foot stepped, or his knee pressed, and as the blade came down and skin and bone separated with a whoosh, the rhythm of his knife work always accordied with musical measure: it was like the dance steps of Mulberry Grove (the music and dance said to date from the time of Tang of Shang) and conformed to the beat of Jingshou (the music said to date from the time of Yao). Lord Wen Hui exclaimed in admiration, “Excellent! Has your skill really reached such a level?”

Cook Ding put down his knife and replied, “What I pursue is the Dao (the Way); I have already gone beyond mere technique. When I first began dismembering oxen, all I saw was the whole ox. After three years, I no longer saw the whole ox. Now I apprehend it with my spirit and no longer look with my eyes; the senses stop, yet the mind-spirit runs freely. I follow the ox’s natural grain (tianli), split the great gaps between sinew and bone, guide the blade along the natural openings between the joints, and follow the ox’s original structure. I have never even touched the places where sinew and bone knot together and the blade finds it hard to enter, let alone the great bones.

“A good cook changes his knife once a year, because he uses it to cut. An ordinary cook changes his knife once a month, because he uses it to chop bone. My knife has been in use for nineteen years and has dismembered several thousand oxen, yet its edge is as sharp as if it had just come off the whetstone (xing). The joints of an ox have openings, but the blade’s edge has no thickness. When that which has no thickness enters into that which has openings, there is ample room, and in moving the blade there must be more than enough space. That is why after nineteen years the edge of my blade is still as if newly sharpened.

“Even so, whenever I come to a place where sinew and bone are tangled and the blade finds it hard to enter, I recognize the difficulty, become cautious and alert, concentrate my gaze, slow my movements, and move the blade with extreme lightness. Then the ox comes apart with a whoosh, like a clod of earth collapsing to the ground. I lift the knife and stand, look all around, and am fully satisfied; then I wipe the knife clean and put it away.”

Lord Wen Hui said, “Excellent! Having heard Cook Ding’s words, I have understood the principle of nourishing life (yangsheng)—of caring for life and according with nature.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary on this passage says: from “wherever his hand touched” to “conformed to the beat of Jingshou,” the text describes Cook Ding applying his skill in accordance with the ox’s natural conveniences, so that the blade always had ample room, fully conforming both to the ox’s bodily pattern and to musical rhythm. The text after “gone beyond mere technique” is incomplete and cannot be further interpreted.

Cook Ding Carves the Ox (Guo Xiang’s Commentary)

This commentary says that from the moment his hand touches the ox’s body to the moment his blade passes between the ox’s bones, joints, sinews, and vessels, Cook Ding can always guide the knife along the ox’s structure; thus his knife work conforms both to the ox’s physiological structure and to musical rhythm. “Advancing beyond technique” means that his pursuit has already exceeded technique itself: what he loves is the underlying principle, not the skill. What his eyes saw was always the ox; later, “he had never seen a whole ox” means that he saw the lines and textures between joints and muscles, no longer limited by the outward form of the whole ox. He uses spirit to encounter the ox, not his eyes to look; the senses cease their work, and the spirit moves freely, acting only in accord with the inherent principle of things.

“Following the Heavenly pattern” refers to following the natural grain of the ox’s body, not chopping and cutting by force. “Cleaving the great fissures” and “guiding through the great cavities” mean that the blade enters along the gaps between the joints and the openings in the body, letting them separate naturally. The knife is not recklessly applied to the ox’s body; therefore it moves through the spaces and never encounters the difficult places where sinew and bone are knotted together. This is the subtle excellence of the skill.

“When the gaze stops, the movement slows, and the knife is moved very slightly” means that his eyes come to rest, his movements slow, and the blade is applied with extreme lightness; bone and flesh have already quietly separated. Once he has grasped the essential point, he uses little force. The flesh falls to the ground like a heap of earth, with no trace of the blade left. He lifts the knife, wipes it, and puts it back in its sheath. This shows that the knife can be maintained, and from this we may know that life, too, can be maintained.

Gongwen Xuan Sees the Right Master

Gongwen Xuan saw the Right Master and asked in astonishment: What sort of man is this? Why has he only one foot? Is this from Heaven or from human action? The Right Master replied: It is from Heaven, not from human action. Heaven made him stand alone on one foot, whereas the human form is paired. From this we know that it was naturally formed, not made by human action.

The pheasant in the marshes pecks for food only once every ten steps and drinks only once every hundred steps, yet it does not wish to be kept in a cage. Even if its spirit were vigorous in the cage, it would still not be good. This means that a free and unconstrained life, one that follows one’s natural disposition, is far better than being fed and kept by others.

Guo Xiang holds that “jie” refers to a person whose foot has been cut off, and “pianyue” means cutting off one foot. What knowledge cannot alter is Heaven’s mandate; to go against what one knows and force oneself to act is human contrivance. A person with one foot cut off is called “du” (solitary). If one clings only to the learning of one school and cannot bring it to completion, this is equivalent to knowing that some things cannot be helped yet insisting on contending over them. If Youshi—a man from Song whose foot had been cut off—insisted on relying on his own understanding to seek having both feet intact, his mind would be distressed and his body exhausted by it; this would be far more than the matter of missing one foot. Two feet walking together is “Youyu” (Youyu refers to the condition of having both feet intact). People never doubt that Youyu is Heaven’s mandate; therefore, having both feet intact likewise comes from Heaven’s mandate. Thus, the recognition that one is “du” is not one’s own claim either. Therefore, one who comprehends the reality of life does not do what life itself cannot do; one who comprehends the reality of Heaven’s mandate does not pursue what lies beyond Heaven’s mandate and is beyond help. It is enough simply to preserve one’s natural nature.

“Qi” means to seek; “fan” is a cage used to confine pheasants (zhi, pheasant). To move freely between heaven and earth, to roam carefree in a state of self-contentment—this is originally the subtle art of nourishing life. Why, then, seek to enter a cage and accept domestication? To feel at ease at first and yet never be ill at ease—only this is one who has forgotten ease. When the mind-spirit remains vigorous for long, the will is full and at ease, and one freely releases oneself in a clear and open expanse, one becomes oblivious and no longer feels why “good” is good.

The Bicheng explains: “Jie” is “du”—the “du” in “seeing du” and “doubting du.” Once there is Youyu, it is no longer du. Youshi forgot knowledge and discrimination and calmly let his mind roam in the realm of standing alone and dwelling in himself. Gongwen Xuan saw him from afar and recognized him, and so asked in surprise: “Is this Heaven-made or human-made?”—meaning, how could he have come to such a state?

The body is born of Heaven, and people naturally have knowledge and perception; yet one must not use humanly contrived knowledge to supplement it—this is precisely Heaven’s arrangement. If one does not recklessly add anything, and yet knowledge again generates knowledge of itself, and self-views are further increased layer upon layer, then the originally natural “Youyu” will also be attributed to human contrivance. This is just as Laozi said: “Why do you come together with others, so many of them?” Although the pheasant in the marsh finds it hard to drink and peck, it surely regards being in a cage as misery. The key lies simply in considering how to treat one’s own nature well; those very knowledge and views are the human cage. If one is not a perfected person, how could one untie this bond?

After Laozi died, Qin Shi went to offer condolences. He cried three times and then came out. Qin Shi’s disciples asked him, “Were you not a friend of Laozi?” Qin Shi replied, “I was.” The disciples asked again, “Then is it acceptable to mourn in this way?” Qin Shi said, “It is. At first I thought Laozi was an extraordinary man, but now I see that he was not. Just now, when I went in to mourn, I saw old people weeping for him as if weeping for their own sons, and young people weeping for him as if weeping for their own mothers. Among those gathered there, there must have been some who spoke when they did not wish to speak and wept when they did not wish to weep. This is to defy nature, turn away from true feeling, and forget the original nature one has received. The ancients called it ‘the punishment of fleeing Heaven’ (escaping nature’s punishment).

“When people come into the world, it is in accord with the timing of life; when they leave the world, it is in accord with the transformation of death. To be at peace with the timing and to follow transformation, so that sorrow and joy cannot enter the heart—this is what the ancients called ‘the Emperor’s release from suspension’ (nature’s release from the suffering of hanging upside down).

“It is like firewood that burns out while the fire is passed on from one generation to the next, no one knowing when it will end. The bodily form has its limit, but the principle of life continues without cease.”

Qin Shi went to offer condolences for Lao Dan. After entering the door, he wept along with the others; when the crowd wailed, he wailed too. His disciples found this strange: he did not lean against the gate to watch the transformations of life and death, yet simply cried three times. Guo Xiang explains that the Perfected Person (zhiren, one whose moral cultivation has reached the highest level) is without emotion and merely wept along with the crowd; thus doing so was also permissible.

The elderly wept for the deceased as if for their own sons, and the young wept as if for their own mothers. Guo Xiang holds that people in the world wept so deeply because they first sought to please and bestow kindness upon external things, and did not follow the Heavenly Principle; hence their grief was excessive. What human nature receives has for each its proper measure, which can be neither evaded nor increased. To be moved by external things too deeply and exceed the proper measure is to violate nature and fall into the condition of sorrow and joy. In this way, even if one does not suffer punishment, one’s nature and feelings are already worn out—is this not also a kind of punishment?

That a person happens to come into the world is due to the season and thus is born; that he happens to leave is to accord with the Heavenly Principle and thus dies. Grief and joy arise from gain and loss. Those who penetrate the profound principle and accord with change are peaceful at all times and can accord with whatever they encounter; mysteriously united with the transformative process of creation, wherever they go they are simply themselves—how could there still be distinctions of gain and loss, life and death? Therefore, by following what one has received, grief and joy have no way to enter. The mind with attachments is compared to being “hung”; without attachments there is “release from hanging” (xuanjie, release from the suffering of being suspended upside down). Only after this release can the true reality of nature and life be attained; this is the essential point of nurturing life.

“Exhaustion” means coming to an end. “Being firewood” refers to the previous piece of firewood. The finger is used to metaphorize the previous firewood; where the finger comes to an end is also where the principle of the previous firewood comes to an end. In this way fire is transmitted from one piece to the next without being extinguished. When the mind is nurtured, life can continue without interruption; this shows that nurturing life is precisely the root by which life is sustained.

Time does not come again, and the present does not linger; therefore human life is obtained only breath by breath. The previous breath is not the present breath, and so only through unceasing nurture can life continue; the previous fire is not the latter fire, and so only through firewood can fire be transmitted. Fire is transmitted and life continues because nurture has reached its utmost. How could people in the world know that life is also “born” within “exhaustion”?

The Bicheng cites a Buddhist scripture to explain this principle: fire is transmitted to firewood just as spirit is transmitted to form. Fire passing to different pieces of firewood is like spirit passing to different bodily forms. Since the previous firewood is not the latter firewood, one can understand the mysterious transformation within “the finger’s exhaustion”; since the previous form is not the latter form, one can realize the depth with which emotion and destiny (qing and shu) resonate. Deluded people see the bodily form decay within a single life and conclude that spirit and emotion perish together. This is like seeing fire go out on one piece of wood and concluding that all of the fire is exhausted—can that be reasonable? This explanation is quite subtle, but the argument of “matching life and tending toward life” (he sheng qu sheng: according with life and inclining toward life) is still not fully articulated. In my humble view: when one uses the fingers to count firewood, the firewood is plentiful while the fingers have a limit; fire is continuously transmitted and burns, yet one does not know that it is not exhausted all at once. Earlier it was said that life should be nurtured, and here again...