《庄子翼(焦构)》Vol. 2

Life and death are fundamentally one and the same matter—where is there any principle by which they are originally opposed? Only one who understands that death and life are originally of one body truly knows how to nourish life.

Yan Hui went to visit Confucius and asked leave to travel. Confucius asked, “Where are you going?” He replied, “To Wey.” Confucius asked again, “What for?” He replied, “I have heard that the ruler of Wey is young and full of vigor, arbitrary and dictatorial. He lightly mobilizes the strength of the state yet does not see his own faults. He recklessly lets the people die, and the dead are as numerous as grass and weeds; the people have nowhere left to flee. I once heard the Master say: when the state is well governed, leave it; when the state is in chaos, draw near to it—only before a doctor’s gate are there many sick people. I want to take the principles I have heard and consider them, hoping that perhaps I can bring some improvement to that state.”

Confucius said, “Alas, on this trip you will likely suffer punishment. The great Dao should not be tangled and mixed; once tangled, there is multiplicity; with multiplicity comes trouble; with trouble comes anxiety; and once anxious, there is no saving the situation. The Perfected Ones of ancient times first preserved themselves and only afterward preserved others. If one’s own cultivation is not yet firm, what leisure does one have to attend to the conduct of a violent man? Moreover, do you know that the ruin of virtue comes from the pursuit of fame, and that the emergence of cleverness comes from contention? Fame is a tool for crushing one another; cleverness is a weapon of contention. Both are instruments of ill omen, not means by which to accomplish affairs. Furthermore, if one’s virtue is not deep and one’s sincerity is insufficient to inspire trust, one cannot reach people’s hearts; even if one’s fame spreads, if it does not arise from non-contention, it likewise cannot reach people’s hearts. If you force yourself to lay out doctrines such as benevolence, righteousness, and legal standards before a violent man, you are simply displaying your own excellence to him, and he will certainly resent you. This is called being a ‘calamity-bringer’—one who brings disaster to others. One who brings disaster to others will surely have others turn and harm him in return; you will likely become such a person.

Moreover, to like the worthy and dislike the unworthy—why must you want to appear different from others? If you simply refrain from remonstrating, the ruler will surely rely on his own strengths to contend with others. His eyes will show a gleam, his face will feign calm, his mouth will argue with all his might, his expression will reveal his attitude, and his mind will already have settled on its decision. This is like using fire to save fire or water to save water: in name it is help, but in reality it only makes the fire fiercer and the water greater. Following the momentum already begun, there will be no end. I fear that because you do not treat him with sincere and honest words, you will die before this violent man.”

Confucius first offered an analogy: to use fire to save people from fire, or water to save them from water, only makes the disaster grow. Jie, the tyrant of Xia, killed the loyal minister Guan Longfeng; Zhou, the tyrant of Shang, killed Prince Bi Gan. Both Guan Longfeng and Bi Gan relied on cultivating and rectifying themselves and on uprightness to suppress the people and offend their rulers; in the end their rulers used the name of “self-cultivation” to push them aside. Yao attacked the small states of Congzhi, Xu, and Ao; Yu attacked the Youhu clan. Their states were laid waste, and they themselves met with execution. They did not stop using arms, and their pursuit of practical gain had no end; all were people who sought name and substance. Even sages find name and substance hard to master—how much less you?

Yan Hui asked: “If I rectify my inner mind, empty myself like a valley, and am diligent and single-minded, would that do?”

Confucius said: “No. If you are filled with an assertive yang qi and make a display of it, if your countenance shifts unpredictably, if you cater to ordinary people’s preferences and guess at others’ thoughts, using this to curry favor with the ruler and please others, this is called ‘the virtue that daily diminishes cannot be perfected’—even great virtue cannot be achieved. And if you cling stubbornly to your own views and refuse to adapt, outwardly complying while inwardly disapproving, how could that possibly work?”

Yan Hui said again: “Then I will be inwardly upright and outwardly accommodating, both according with my own heart and aligning myself with the ancients.”

Confucius explained: “The inwardly upright are companions of Heaven, companions of the natural Dao. They know that the ruler and themselves are both begotten by Heaven, and they do not merely use their own opinions to reckon others’ approval and disapproval. Such a person, even if people call him a child, is still a companion of Heaven. The outwardly accommodating are companions of men, walking together with the people of the world. Kneeling, bowing, bending the body, and humbling oneself in ritual are the duties of a minister; everyone does this—how would I dare not to? To do what others do means others cannot find fault; this is being a companion of men. Those who align themselves with the ancients are companions of antiquity. Their words may seem to instruct, but in fact they use antiquity to criticize the present; these principles have existed since ancient times, and are not my own creation.”

If such a person acts uprightly, even then it cannot be counted as a fault; this is what is called “making the ancients one’s companions” (taking the ancients as fellow travelers and emulating them). Is this acceptable? Confucius said, “No, it is not.” People of this sort mostly follow only governmental orders and laws and regulations, but do not understand planning and adapting to change. Even if they stubbornly cling to the old, one cannot really speak of them as guilty. Nevertheless, this after all is merely preserving what has been established; how could it reach the realm of according with nature and uniting with the transformative workings of creation? This is still the person who “takes the mind as teacher,” that is, who takes his own fixed preconceptions (“completed mind”) as a teacher and follows them single-mindedly.

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: The ruler acts alone and does not share the desires of the common people. If a ruler uses the strength of the state rashly, then the slightest move drags in the multitude: in a single rage, the common people fall dead and blood flows; in a single pleasure, the carriages and horses of high officials and nobles clog the roads. Therefore those who govern the state must not act rashly. If the ruler does not examine his own faults, his ministers will not dare to remonstrate. Rashly driving the people to death, pushing the people of the whole realm in swaths toward death like banana plants in a marsh, beyond all counting, regarding the common people as grass and stubble—then the people have nothing to rely on and nowhere to take refuge.

The Dao (the Way) of governance should not be muddled, and words should be transmitted appropriately to the right people. If one encounters the wrong person, then even a hundred physicians attending the patient will only confuse the patient and cannot bring healing.

The ancient zhiren (the perfected person, highest in moral cultivation) first possessed inner cultivation and only then could come into contact with external things. If one does not empty the mind to respond to things, but instead uses the mind to drive oneself into risk and hardship, then one will have no firm grasp of the Dao one preserves. Therefore one should abandon external cleverness in order to nurture original truth, entrust the subtle Dao to the talents of the multitude, attribute merit and fame to others, still thoughts and remain aloof, keeping oneself distant. Only then can one go further and do what violent men do without suffering harm.

De (Virtue/Power) drifts and becomes unsettled because of love of fame; wisdom thrusts itself forward because of rivalry for goodness. Even tyrants and great robbers like Jie and Zhi cherished nothing more than the name and goodness they themselves recognized. Fame and wisdom are the tools by which people establish themselves in the world. Once fame arises, people trample one another; once wisdom is employed, contention breaks out. Thus one must discard fame and wisdom so that action can fully follow its naturalness.

When a night-glowing pearl is thrown to another, few will fail to grip their sword against the thrower, because the other does not recognize its value. The other also does not yet understand Yan Hui’s virtue—Yan Hui was a disciple of Confucius—or his fair name of non-contention. If one forcibly demands that the other conform to benevolence, righteousness, laws, and standards, the other will think Yan Hui wishes to diminish others in order to complete himself. Therefore the zhiren does not use the mind’s will to manage worldly affairs, but empties the mind to respond to things. When sincerity is displayed between heaven and earth and the Dao of non-contention reaches all things, all things then return and attach themselves, and heaven and earth do not oppose it.

When the fine reputation of virtue spreads abroad, the people of the world will respond and gather; when good conduct is made manifest without, the four quarters will all echo it. Only in this way can one pass through cold and heat, through order and disorder, without touching the ruler’s reverse scale (legend tells of a reversed scale beneath a dragon’s throat; touch it and one is killed—a metaphor for offending a ruler’s taboo).

One who envies others will surely have disaster repaid to him by others. If one does not contend with the myriad things, all things will come over to him, and Heaven and Earth will not oppose him.

If the other party does not believe and accept you, he will think you are contending with him for reputation and will instead do you harm. If a ruler can love the worthy and dislike the foolish, and when he hears fitting principles follows them, he is an enlightened ruler. Once the ruler is enlightened, there is no fear that he will lack worthy ministers; your going there would be nothing remarkable. If this is not so, then your going will bring you harm again. Therefore, to act with a mind deliberately seeking to obtain something will not work anywhere; to respond with no-mind, response will come of itself, and then there is nowhere one cannot go. You need only remain silent and still. As soon as you open your mouth and appear clever, you will inevitably rely on the ruler’s authority to vie with the other in eloquence, using it to resist remonstrance and cover over faults.

The ruler’s eyes will thereby be confused and dazzled; his countenance will calm your Qi (vital energy) and strip away your sharpness; his mouth and tongue will keep you so busy defending yourself that you will not even have time to save yourself; your countenance and heart will both change accordingly, until you abandon your own position and comply with the other. This is called “adding more”—that is, becoming increasingly excessive. Even if you wish to salvage the situation, you will lack the power to recover it; instead you will only add to the other’s arrogance.

If you follow the other’s lead from the beginning, you will go on without end. The other has long clung stubbornly to old habits and will not change. If he does not believe your sincere words, and you remonstrate before gaining his trust, then even if your intentions are kind, you will cause harm. Guan Longfeng and Bi Gan (loyal ministers in the time of Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang, both put to death for forthright remonstrance) occupied low positions yet took upon themselves the anxieties of those above them. This was not properly their duty, and so their rulers pushed them aside, unwilling that a minister should have a reputation surpassing the ruler’s.

This passage uses the story of Yan Hui (a disciple of Confucius) remonstrating with the ruler of Wei to discuss what is gained and lost in the way of remonstrance.

Once the ruler of Wei is pressed by others, he does not want his ministers to have reputations that surpass his own. Ancient tyrants such as Congzhi, Xu, Fang, and Youhu—all names of cruel rulers—did not merely indulge their private desires; they also pursued reputation, but what they sought was not the right way. With a ruler who both cherishes reputation and indulges his desires, even sage kings like Yao and Yu would find it difficult to transform him through instruction. Therefore, if one joins with the multitude in attacking him, and yet wants to go empty-handed to move him by the Dao (the Way), that will not work.

The so-called “upright yet empty” means being upright in outward form and empty and quiet within; “diligent and unified” means striving for single-mindedness, with humble words and no duplicity. The expression “No—how could that be acceptable?” means “this is not yet acceptable.”

The ruler of Wei is by nature rigid and arrogant; his aggressive energy fills him within and shows itself without, and he is overbearing to the extreme. His expression shifts unpredictably, and his moods are capricious. He is stubborn to such a degree that if others try to move him with something that pleases him, he will lord it over them, suppress and defeat them, so as to secure his own ease and indulgence and satisfy his lavish desires. He cannot achieve even a small virtue, yet he still clings stubbornly to his original intent, obstinate and unyielding. Even if you attain uprightness and inner emptiness, diligent single-mindedness, and outwardly comply while inwardly offering no criticism, it is still not enough to transform him.

Yan Hui then offered three further points. The first, “inner uprightness,” is to be a companion of Heaven, holding that all things are without distinction of noble and base and that the principle of life is one. Good and not-good may be left to impartial judgment; one himself has no demand upon others. This is to follow Heavenly principle and extend one’s own mind to others, going straight ahead like an infant without inhibition.

The second, “outer bending,” is to associate with worldly people, outwardly yielding and compliant, and to act according to what human affairs require.

The third, “accomplishing and comparing upward,” is to associate with the ancients, to accomplish present affairs, and to compare them upward with the ancients. Although this is ordinary instruction, it contains a sense of satirical remonstrance; by borrowing the words of the ancients to speak frankly, one will not invite blame.

Zhongni (Confucius) still considered this unworkable. His meaning was: there is only one principle, yet Yan Hui set out three items as standards, and they do not accord with the actual situation.

Zhongni (Confucius) still believed the timing was not yet ripe. His meaning was: there is only one principle, yet to establish three sets of rules to govern with does not match the actual situation. Although the proposal Yan Hui put forward could not be called grand, neither would it invite blame. But if we speak of the root of teaching and transformation, Confucius did not take these three methods to transform the other party, nor did he place his entire mind on transmitting these methods to everyone in the world.

The explanation in the Bicheng is: the character "zhao" here should be read with a pause, taken to mean "gao" (to tell), so that "wei wu zhao wang gong" means "only do not go warn the dukes and princes." If it were merely a matter of not warning them, the affair would end there; once one opens one's mouth, one will inevitably rely on other people's words to contend over superiority and inferiority—these words are all directed at Yan Hui.

Yan Hui said, “I can learn nothing more from you. May I ask about the method of cultivation?” Confucius said, “First fast and purify yourself; then I will tell you. If you do it with a deliberate mind, how could it be easy? To regard things as too easy—even Heaven will not approve.”

Yan Hui said, “My family is poor. For several months I have drunk no wine and eaten no meat. Can this count as fasting?” Confucius said, “That is the fasting before sacrifices, a formal discipline; it is not the fasting of the mind (xinzhai).”

Yan Hui said, “May I ask what the fasting of the mind is?” Confucius said, “Unify your will. Do not listen only with your ears; listen with your mind. Do not listen only with your mind; listen with Qi (vital energy)—a clear, empty, pure state of spirit capable of responding to all things. The function of the ears stops at hearing sounds; the function of the mind stops at matching external things. Qi is empty and can wait for the coming of external things. Only the Dao (the Way) gathers in emptiness. This emptiness is the fasting of the mind.”

Yan Hui said, “Before I began cultivating the mind, I felt that I truly existed; now I am able to forget myself. Does this count as reaching emptiness?” Confucius said, “You have said it all. Let me tell you: if you can enter and roam within that cage of the human world without being moved by empty fame, then if your words are accepted, speak; if not, stop. Set up no gates or defenses, harbor no thought of harming others, and entrust everything to compliance with what cannot be avoided—then you are close to success.

“The tracks of flying birds on the ground can be wiped away, but walking on the ground is difficult. Things done at the bidding of others are easy to do, but they are mixed with falsity; things that accord with Heavenly Principle are hard to counterfeit. People have only heard of flying by means of wings, not of flying without wings; only heard of knowing by means of wisdom, not of knowing without wisdom.

“Look at that empty, silent room: only in emptiness does brightness arise, and there auspiciousness comes to rest. If the mind cannot become still, this is called ‘sitting while racing about’ (zuochi): the person sits, but the mind runs everywhere. If you can make the ears and eyes penetrate inward and no longer be pulled by external things, even ghosts and spirits will come to dwell with you—how much more so other people! This is the way of transformation of all things. Even sage kings like Yu and Shun were bound by this principle; ancient sovereigns like Fuxi and Jiqu took it as their final home—how much more so those who are already scattered?”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: “Whenever one does things with a deliberate mind, it naturally appears earnest and easy. To regard deliberate action as easy—this view is itself deliberate action.”

Those who deliberately set their minds on doing something, even with a sincere and respectful attitude, merely regard things as too easy, believing that intention alone is enough to do them well. To regard “youwei” (contrived action) as easy is probably not appropriate. If one can concentrate the mind and make the will single, one should remove distracting thoughts and allow one’s own nature to follow itself. Cast aside the perceptions of ear and eye and the deliberations of the mind, and let one’s Qi-nature be naturally self-possessed; this is “emptying oneself to await things” (responding to external things with a mind of emptiness and stillness). Only the Dao (the Way) gathers in emptiness; when the mind is empty, the highest principle converges within the breast.

Without having achieved “heart fasting” (xinzhai, the cultivation described in Zhuangzi’s “In the World of Men,” meaning the exclusion of distracting thoughts and the return of the mind to emptiness and stillness), one still has attachment to self; once the function of heart fasting is attained, one forgets the self. To enter the dusty cage of the world without being moved by reputation is because the mind lets itself roam in the realm of self-attainment and can also rest upon solid reality. It is like gong and shang among the five notes: they respond in accord with things while the mind clings to nothing, and so this is called “resounding.” To respond without mind is to follow the other’s sound and not force a response. Let all things preserve their naturalness, set up no divisions of gate and door, and hand the world over to itself to settle; then there is no harm. Here “du” (harm) means “zhi” (order). To act only when unavoidable is the result of the natural accord of principle; to realize the state of “Supreme Oneness” (zhiyi) and correspond to the fit of naturalness is to approach the Dao—this is principle. The principle lies entirely in this.

Not acting is easy, but if one wishes to act without treading solid ground, it is impossible to succeed; Wuwei (non-action) is easy, but if one wishes to act with contrivance without injuring one’s nature, that too cannot be done. What the ear and eye obtain are only coarse and shallow things, and so one is easily deceived; the recompense of nature is exceedingly fine and subtle, and so it is hard to falsify. Those who lose little of the real are also little incomplete; those who lose much of the real are also much incomplete. The retribution of gain and loss never fails to match one’s allotted portion. If one wishes to violate the natural and practice artifice, is that not difficult?

The simile of “flying with wings and knowing through knowledge” shows that in doing anything one must have something to rely on in order to succeed. Now if there is no dwelling place of utmost emptiness, there is no way to transform and nurture the myriad things. To see the existent as if nonexistent is the empty chamber; when the chamber is empty, the light of pure whiteness arises of itself (this is the allusion “when the chamber is empty, brightness is born”). The place where auspiciousness gathers is precisely the place of utmost emptiness and stillness. As for not abiding in what is appropriate and not conforming to the ultimate, it is like making the response to external things one’s enterprise, rushing about all day, disturbed and restless without cease.

Before the external enemy has even arrived, the inner mind is already trapped—how then could one transform and educate the myriad things? If one blocks the ears and eyes and yet naturally attains something, this is because the activity of the mind has already turned toward external things. Therefore, if one can allow one’s original nature to pass directly through, there is nothing that cannot be brought into hidden accord with the Dao (to merge as one with the Dao of nature). Even what is dark and benighted is not worth prizing, let alone the entanglements of the human world. Things in themselves are not divided into noble and base, but if people do not rely on the mind and the senses of ear and eye to know external things, they have no way to communicate with them. Thus, when people of the world speak of “knowing,” can it really be that they know simply because they wish to know? When they speak of “seeing,” can it really be that they see simply because they wish to see?

If knowing and seeing could be obtained by subjective wanting, then could one become a worthy simply by wanting to be a worthy, or a sage simply by wanting to be a sage? Of course not. People of the world do not understand that “knowing” itself naturally knows, yet they think to seek knowledge deliberately; they do not understand that “seeing” itself naturally sees, yet they think to seek sight deliberately; they do not understand that “life” itself naturally lives, yet they still artificially try to “live” it. Thus, having eyes, they seek the keen perception of Li Lou (a legendary figure of extraordinary eyesight); having ears, they demand the acuity of Shi Kuang (a famous musician of the Spring and Autumn period, exceptionally acute in hearing). As a result, the spirit and mind rush about within while the ears and eyes are exhausted without; body and mind are unsettled, and they are no longer in hidden accord with the myriad things.

There has never been a case of someone who, no longer in hidden accord with the myriad things, could still comply with the changes of the human world and respond to the measures of worldly affairs.

The gist of the commentary in the Bicheng is: whether one is driven by Heaven or driven by humans, whether one has not yet been driven or has already been driven, and in all such circumstances, so long as body and mind remain unsettled, one cannot be in hidden accord with the myriad things.

Yan Hui practiced “Xinzhai” (mind fasting: the discipline described in Zhuangzi’s “In the Human World” of eliminating distracting thoughts and maintaining emptiness and stillness), and suddenly became enlightened. Hence this passage on “no-self” and “emptiness.”

When one is driven by others, there is an “I” in the mind, and so one appears false; when one acts in accordance with Heaven/nature and there is no self in the mind, it is difficult to be false. Yan Hui had achieved emptiness of mind, yet he still said, “I cannot wield it freely because there is a self; if I could wield it freely, that would be no-self.” Confucius (the Master) praised him as nearly perfect and also warned him: one must transcend the cage of the world and not be moved by reputation; when minds accord, speak, and when they do not, stop; have a broad heart without the limits of doors and thresholds, be tranquil and without poison or harm, and in all things follow the spontaneity of what cannot be otherwise—then one is right. What is called “ji” (the incipient/near) is simply nearness to no-self.

It is easy to talk about it without putting it into practice; it is difficult to practice it and yet not bring it to realization. To know and yet not rely on cleverness is like a great thing walking without steps, or a bird flying without wings—that is the driving of Heaven/nature. This is what is called “emptiness”: only when the room is empty can light enter (“the empty chamber gives birth to brightness”); only when the mind is empty can the Dao gather. This is not a matter of seeking some special auspiciousness; but there is no greater auspiciousness than this.

If people settle in the body and cling to the mind, then when these are let go they have nowhere to return, and yet they still cannot stop—is this not “Zuochi” (sitting and galloping)? Zuochi, like the “Luchen” (land-sinking) type—people who dwell in the world yet are benighted and cut off from worldly affairs—are all cases in which the human mind cannot stop by itself, yet one stubbornly takes it to be still. It is like a horse lying by the manger while its thoughts gallop a thousand li; even if one sits silently with hands folded in the mountains and forests, this only increases the mind’s turmoil. When ear and eye turn inward and penetrate, there is no more seeing and hearing; when the mind does not seek outward, there is no more thought or activity. Only then can one be said to have attained “emptiness”; even ghosts and spirits will come to dwell, how much more so human beings? This is the principle of being able to “command the transformations of the myriad things without being transformed by them,” which the ancient sages followed throughout their lives.

Duke Gao of She was about to go on a mission to Qi. He consulted Confucius, saying: “The king of Chu is sending me to Qi, and the responsibility is very heavy. Qi will most likely treat an envoy with great courtesy, but will not be in a hurry to act. Even an ordinary person is not easy to move, let alone an envoy representing a feudal state. I am very afraid. You once said to Zhu Liang (the Duke of She’s name): ‘In whatever one does, great or small, there are few who can proceed without fear unless they follow the right way. If the affair fails, there will certainly be human-made calamity; if the affair succeeds, there will certainly be calamity from a natural imbalance of Yin-Yang.’ To have no calamity whether the affair succeeds or fails—only a person of De (Virtue/Power) can do this. Ordinarily I eat only coarse grain and am not particular; even those who cook for me have no desire for cool food and drink. Now I received the ruler’s command in the morning, and by evening I must drink ice water to cool the fire—perhaps it is because I am inwardly hot and dry. I have not yet encountered the actual circumstances of the affair, and already I have the anxiety of Yin-Yang imbalance. If the affair fails, there will be human-made calamity; these are two worries. As a minister, I cannot bear this mission. Please tell me what to do.”

Confucius said: “There are two great prohibitions in the world: one is destiny, the other is duty. Children loving their parents is a heavenly destiny; it cannot be untied from the heart. Ministers serving their ruler is a matter of duty; wherever they go there is a ruler, and even if they flee to the ends of heaven and earth there is nowhere to escape—this is called the great prohibition. Therefore, one who serves parents does not choose circumstances but is peacefully obedient in all of them; this is the utmost of filial piety. One who serves the ruler does not choose tasks but calmly undertakes them all; this is the utmost of loyalty. One who can cultivate his own heart and nature does not easily change in joy or sorrow; understanding that matters cannot be helped, he accepts them as if at peace with destiny—this is the utmost of De (Virtue/Power). As a minister, there are inevitably things one cannot avoid. In doing things, if only one can see the actual situation clearly, one should forget personal gain and loss—what leisure is there to cling to life and loathe death? You need only go and complete your mission. Let me tell you again what I have heard: In all relations, those who are close must influence one another through sincerity and good faith; those who are distant must express their loyalty through words. Words will inevitably be relayed by others. To relay words when both parties are pleased or both are angry is the hardest thing in the world. When both are pleased, the words will surely contain excessive praise; when both are angry, the words will surely contain excessive blame. All excessive words are false; being false, people will not believe them; and if they are not believed, the one who relayed them will suffer. Therefore the Fa Yan says: ‘Transmit only the actual situation, do not transmit excessive words, and one will nearly be able to preserve oneself.’”

Guo Xiang’s commentary states that the King of Chu sent Zhu Liang—that is, Lord Gao of Ye, whose personal name was Shen Zhuliang—on a mission and regarded him with particular importance, because he valued the task and wished to seek something through it. Zhu Liang was extremely respectful toward the King of Chu yet did not rush to act, fearing that if he merely answered the king’s excessive words with empty talk, the affair would come close to complete failure.

No matter whether a matter is great or small, if even one part of it remains unaccomplished, people will feel fear. This is the principle Zhongni (Confucius) once told Zhu Liang. If the matter is not accomplished, the normal relations between people will be damaged, and the King of Chu will also become angry; this is unavoidable for the king. If the matter is accomplished, then although the danger is relieved, joy and fear still wage war in the breast, already tormenting one another in the five viscera (the internal organs) like ice and charcoal. To leave success and failure to others while allowing no disturbance to the spirit—only a person of virtue can do this.

It is like one who tends the fire to cook: he faces the stove fire but does not wish to warm himself, which shows that his food and drink are plain. Though his food and drink are plain, he is inwardly hot and parched and goes to drink ice water; this is because he worries over the difficulty of the affair, not because of fine food. Before the matter is settled, he only fears it will not succeed; if it indeed fails, fear congeals within and the net of punishment is cast around him outside, so it is said to be a double calamity. A knot in the heart that cannot be untied will naturally remain tightly bound.

There is no place of escape between heaven and earth: when a thousand people gather and none is master, there will be disorder; with disorder, they scatter. Thus however many worthy people there are, there cannot be multiple rulers; and even with no worthy people, there cannot be no ruler. This is the inevitable principle of the heavenly Dao and the human Dao. If the ruler could be evaded and kinship escaped, it would not be worth warning against. Therefore this is said to be the greatest admonition (Dajie).

To understand that what cannot be helped is fate and to rest content in fate is to have no sorrow or joy; what then remains that could be changed? Therefore one dimly complies with whatever circumstances one encounters and regards it as fate, does not apply the mind therein, and merges indistinctly into unity with the fitting principle; then there is no grief or joy in the heart. Even in serving ordinary people, one can be at ease everywhere; how much more in serving a ruler and one’s parents?

Background: This passage is a commentary from Zhuangzi Yi on the section “Duke Gao of Ye Is About to Be Sent to Qi” in the “In the World of Men” chapter of Zhuangzi. Duke Gao of Ye (Shen Zhuliang, a grandee of Chu, courtesy name Zigao), having been ordered on a diplomatic mission to Qi, was anxious and fearful; thus, through the words of Confucius, the text discusses how to regard the ruler’s command and how to deal with sorrow and joy.

In some matters, when people in the unseen workings of life regard the circumstances they encounter as fate and do not expend mental effort on them, their mind and spirit can merge indistinguishably with the appropriate moment, and they will not harbor gain or loss, worry or joy. Even in serving ordinary people, one can be successful everywhere; how much more so in serving a ruler and one’s parents?

Events have an inevitable course, and their principles are originally interconnected. If a minister can bravely bear responsibility, the affair can be accomplished. There has never been a case in which the affair was accomplished while the person could not be preserved; why, then, trouble oneself about self-preservation?

If one’s faith in the Dao is not firm enough, and feelings of liking and disliking remain in one’s breast, so that one cannot proceed together with the appropriate principle, but instead seeks survival and worries about death, then it is impossible to accomplish the affair.

In dealings with those near at hand, one must make them compliant through sincerity and trustworthiness, because those who are near can be directly approached; therefore sincerity is used to verify closeness and bring about compliance. In dealings with those far away, one must convey loyalty by means of words—that is, transmit one’s intentions to a distant place through speech.

If words of joy and anger exceed the actual facts, the messenger should keep both sides from losing what is central and correct; therefore this is not easy to do. Whenever exaggerated words that overflow the facts lead people to suspect that they are not the other party’s original words, it is the messenger who has recklessly fabricated them. The word mo refers to a vague and unsettled state, the appearance of a mind giving rise to doubt.

If the transmission of words exceeds the facts, the messenger should keep both sides from losing what is central and correct; therefore it is very difficult. If the messenger incurs calamity because his words are faulty—if his speech appears absurd and false, and the listener becomes suspicious—then the messenger will be arbitrarily charged with offenses light or heavy.

The Fayan (Model Sayings), written by Yang Xiong of the Western Han in imitation of the Analects, cites this as evidence: even if what one hears is an intemperate utterance of a moment’s anger, one should not spread it. One should conform to ordinary feeling and seek out where the sincerity lies; only thus does one approach perfection.

The Bicheng says: Duke Gao of Ye’s anxiety concerned profit and harm, yet the extreme of profit and harm is no more than death. Therefore Confucius placed life and death in a secondary position and put loyalty and filial piety first. If a person can still say that he is single-mindedly devoted to the matter, how can sorrow and joy be added to him? The preceding argument has not yet been fully explained.

Hence it says at the end: When acting, one attends only to the actual circumstances of the matter and forgets oneself; what leisure is there to care about loving life and hating death? Loving life and hating death is what is meant by sorrow and joy. Knowing that it cannot be helped, one rests content in it, as one rests in the mandate of Heaven.

Xuxi (Liu Chenweng, a Southern Song literary scholar and commentator) comments: This sentence is forthright and clear-sighted, and even in the midst of talk and laughter there remains an easy margin. To loathe death is a common human feeling, what is called the emotion of sorrow and joy; to know that it cannot be helped and to accept it calmly, as one accepts Heaven’s decree. Xuxi also says: The phrase “nothing can be done about it” does not mean decay and desolation. The levels of this passage are originally just so.

Those who use cunning and deceit to contend with others in strength begin in Yang-like vigor and hardness but often end by turning toward Yin and darkness; those who drink according to ritual propriety begin in good order but often end in confusion. If things reach an extreme, all sorts of clever and absurd troubles arise. All affairs are like this: they begin in honesty and trustworthiness, but often end in coarseness; they begin simply, but as they are about to conclude they inevitably become huge. Words are like wind and waves; actions are like actual gain and loss. Wind and waves easily stir up turmoil, and actual loss easily causes harm.

Thus anger arises without any original cause; it is often stirred up by cleverly adorned words and one-sided statements. When a wild beast is dying, it no longer cares about its cries; its breathing becomes coarse and heavy, and a fierce heart arises together with it. When harsh reproof and supervision reach their extreme, an unkind heart is sure to arise in response, while the person himself does not know why. Since he does not know the cause, how can he know what end it will come to? Therefore the ancients’ maxim says: “Do not lightly alter commands; do not force things to completion.” Excess brings harm. To alter commands and force completion is almost to ruin the affair. Good accomplishments require time to accumulate, while bad results leave no time for correction—how can one not be cautious?

Furthermore, to follow the transformations of external things and let the mind roam, and to use situations that cannot be avoided to cultivate inner equilibrium—this is already the highest state. Why deliberately act and seek reward? It is better to entrust one’s life to the arrangements of Heaven’s decree; this is probably the hardest thing to do.

Guo Xiang’s commentary on this passage is the same as the main text, and its meaning is as above.

Those who contend through cunning or strength originally do so only for amusement; but once the desire to win reaches its extreme, they secretly give rise to thoughts of harming the other and no longer follow ordinary reason. Those who drink according to ritual propriety distinguish superior and inferior, and their mutual toasting—lüzhu, the sequential courtesy of toasting at banquets—also has its order; yet if they become immersed and self-indulgent, desires overflow on all sides and reach everywhere. Trouble and confusion often arise from what is simple, and incidents begin in the minute: this is an inevitable tendency. Words are like wind and waves; once they are spoken, the actual truth is lost with them. If words are not allowed to stir up wind and waves, the actual truth can instead be preserved. When affairs accord with reality, danger can turn into safety, and turbulence can be calmed.

Anger arises for no other reason; it is often because of clever words and statements that exceed the facts. When one-sided words are biased, it is like a beast driven to a dead end: its heart is anxious and its feelings are pressed, the harmonious Qi (vital energy) cannot arrive, and its breath becomes disordered; then sudden rage erupts, producing only a host of ills in response. If one treats others with magnanimity, the myriad things naturally attach themselves; if one demands things too finely, a petty and grudging heart arises without one’s awareness. If one is not even aware of this in oneself, how can one know the principle of misfortune and blessing? Therefore the great person who has attained the Dao (the Way), being open-minded, places things in the condition in which they find their own satisfaction, does not demand the abilities of others, does not exhaust others’ joy, and only thus can the interactions of the world be preserved.

When transmitting another’s command, one does not alter it, because one is conveying the other’s actual intent; one does not force another to accomplish something, but lets it be accomplished naturally. To overdo is to add; and to add is no longer to follow the actual situation. The completion of things must accord with the seasons and with change, as in planting crops: it cannot be accomplished in a single morning. If one insists on forcing through what the other detests, regret and failure quickly follow one after another; hence it is said: the consequences of what is disliked come too quickly to be corrected.

Letting the mind roam in accord with external things, relying on situations that cannot be otherwise to cultivate inner centeredness, lodging one’s intention in external things without attachment, and following the inevitability of the way things are—this accords with the requirements of the Mean and is the highest state of contact with external things. One should follow the actuality of things as inherently equal and unified; why deliberately contrive intentions within them? The best course is to entrust oneself to Heaven’s mandate. It is easy to say, but the real difficulty lies in the human heart being constantly stirred by joy and anger.

Zhuangzi Yi, compiled by Jiao Hong, is a Ming scholar’s annotations on and elaboration of Zhuangzi. The passage here discusses the question of proper measure in speech, emotion, and human relations. What follows is a vernacular interpretation.

Overly Vehement Speech Easily Breeds Disaster

When repaying another’s true feelings, why deliberately add contrivance in between? Better to follow the mandate of Heaven and act. The difficulty in this matter is that saying “act directly according to the mandate of Heaven” is the easiest thing, but once joy and anger are involved, it becomes very hard to do.

The Bicheng says: when transmitting words of joy or anger between two parties, the reason one does not dare to exaggerate is generally that it is hard to begin well and end well, and one cannot but be cautious at the outset. Consider those who watch men fight: at first there is still a forceful yang Qi, but in the end it turns yin and vicious; drinkers at first still observe the rules, but in the end become wild and chaotic. From this one knows that in human dealings, relations begin in sincerity but may end in contempt and meanness; affairs in human hands begin in subtlety but may become huge—this is the inevitable outcome.

Once a word is spoken and angers another, is it not the starting point of wind and waves? Since the other has been angered, he will act out his anger—will this not cause real harm?

Therefore anger does not arise without cause: it is because flowery, clever speech and biased words often exceed the facts and do not follow right principle. Just as a wild beast in fear has no time for pleasant cries, so a person in urgency speaks without choosing his words; his breath rushes out, and the listener at once gives rise to ill will—anger arises from this.

Excessive Blame Easily Breeds Resentment

To blame others too urgently and investigate them too rigorously: the original intention is to hope they do well, but the other party may respond with an unkind attitude. At such a time, if one knows when to stop, that is good; if one does not, resentment will accumulate without cease, and one cannot know how far it will go. The “end” here means what was said earlier: “small at the beginning, huge at the end.”

Transmitting Words and Exaggeration Easily Breed Trouble

When a ruler’s command is about to be completed and his intention has already changed, yet one still forces it through—this is speech that exaggerates or denigrates excessively. Hence it is said: excess brings harm. If embellishment goes too far, the messenger may also suffer disaster—how can there be no danger?

For good things, one must sustain them over the long term. To complete what is beautiful in others, one must interact calmly and deeply; only over time can it truly be done. As for evil things, if there is no time to correct them, a single angry word will provoke malicious thoughts in all parties, and regret will come too late. The reason people like to speak excessively is that preconceptions already exist in their minds, and they cannot keep their hearts empty.

Conclusion: Engaging with the World with a Detached Mind

If one can follow the principles of things and let the mind roam within them, one can forget the self; if one can rest content in situations that cannot be avoided, one can forget external things.

Note: The Bicheng is a notebook-type work by the Ming scholar Li Rihua; the terms “meager” and “huge” refer to the process by which things develop from small to large and from shallow to deep.

Jiao Hong's comment: To respond by following the arrangements of fate, I have no deliberate private intent. Why must one act intentionally in order to repay? The principle Confucius told the Duke of She—some regard its level as second only to that of Yan Hui, a disciple of Confucius—in fact cannot depart from the root of “emptiness” (xu, empty stillness and Wuwei [non-action]).

Yan He, a worthy man of Lu, was about to go tutor the crown prince of Duke Ling of Wei, so he consulted Qu Boyu, a worthy grandee of Wei: “Here is a man whose nature is cruel and violent. If I let him be, he will harm the state; if I restrain him with ritual and law, he will harm me. His intelligence is sufficient to see others’ faults, but he cannot see his own faults. What should I do with such a person?”

Qu Boyu said: “A good question. Be careful, be cautious, and first rectify yourself. Outwardly, in your visible conduct, nothing is better than compliance; inwardly, in your attitude, nothing is better than calm harmony. But both methods have pitfalls: if you merely comply, you will sink into him; if you merely remain calm, you will reveal yourself. If outward compliance leads you to sink into him, you will stumble, be ruined, and collapse; if inner calm is exposed, it will bring you reputation and provoke calamity. If he is innocent like an infant, then you should dwell with him like an infant; if he does not observe ritual and law, then you too should not observe ritual and law; if he has no boundaries, then you too should have no boundaries. If you can be this penetrating, you may enter a realm without fault.

“Have you not heard of the praying mantis? It raises its arms to block a chariot wheel, not knowing it is unequal to the task, because it overtrusts its own ability. Be alert, be cautious. If you accumulate faults and still think yourself good and admirable as you offend others, you will be in danger. Have you not heard of the tiger keeper? He does not dare feed the tiger living creatures, fearing to arouse its killing nature; he does not dare give it whole animals, fearing to arouse its rage to tear things apart. He must grasp the timing of its hunger and fullness and follow its moods. The tiger is not of the same kind as man, yet it fawns on its keeper because he complies with it; when it injures someone, it is because that person goes against it.

“One who loves horses uses baskets for horse dung and large clam shells for horse urine. If a mosquito or gadfly happens to alight on the horse and he swats at it at the wrong moment, the horse will bite through its bit, injure its head, and smash its chest. When intention reaches its extreme, love instead turns into harm—should one not be cautious?”

The nature of the petty person is this: constrain him with rules and he resents you; indulge him without restraint and he will throw the state into disorder. He does not understand that the people’s faults actually originate in himself; instead he shifts the blame onto the people and never corrects himself. What is called “rectifying oneself” requires repeated weighing and meeting with others—these are all methods for rectifying oneself.

In bodily form, the best is compliance; in mind, the best is harmony. To comply in bodily form without opposing is “harmony but not sameness”: compliance means not clashing head-on and not blindly pandering, while “entering” means wholly following the other and becoming the same as them. “Harmony” must not be displayed, because the function of harmony lies in completing and balancing; once displayed, it becomes self-display. If one is completely identical with the other, one follows the other into topsy-turvy danger, does not support them, and in the end perishes together with them. Therefore one should model Heaven and Earth, be harmonious with the world, and only avoid setting oneself apart by novelty.

If you yourself ostentatiously go about harmonizing, others will say you “contain filth” (that is, can endure humiliation), and this becomes a way of completing others’ reputations. Others will then dislike you more than themselves and secretly breed disaster. Therefore one should be murky and dull, as if benighted, like Laozi’s saying, “Harmonize your light, become one with the dust” (conceal your radiance and merge with the dusty world). In this way, others cannot draw close to you, nor can they distance themselves from you; they cannot profit from you, nor can they be harmed by you.

The following lines, “He will be as an infant…,” mean that one should not reveal the slightest sharp edge (guijiao originally means the corners of jade, a metaphor for sharpness), lest one offend another’s reverse scales (legendary inverted scales beneath a dragon’s throat; touch them and it rages—a metaphor for another person’s taboos). The mantis raises its forearms to block a chariot, not because its forearms are not fine, but because it is no match for the chariot. Now if one knows one is powerless yet forcibly takes on that responsibility, it is like the mantis’s angry arms. To flaunt one’s talent and fine reputation in order to offend others is a dangerous path; take this as a warning.

The tiger keeper dares not give the tiger a whole living animal, for fear that by pouncing on prey it will rouse its killing intent and become angry; nor does he dare give it whole food, for fear that in tearing and sharing it will become angry from exertion. To grasp the timing of the tiger’s hunger and fullness, to understand its anger, to know why it is angry and accord with it—this is to accord with the natural principle of things. Accord with that principle, and even creatures of a different kind will feel affection; violate their nature, and even the closest kin will turn against one another in strife. That the tiger comes to be close to its keeper is precisely for this reason.

Dung and urine are the basest of things, yet people use precious vessels to hold them, because their love for the horse is extreme. If feeding is mistimed and the horse is startled, it will break its bit, injure its head and neck, and smash its chest. Even if the intention was to relieve its panting distress, one startles it suddenly when it is unprepared, and so it is frightened to such an extent. Where intention reaches, love is thereby lost. One originally wished to remove its hardship, but rashly startled it and caused injury, and so lost the original intent of loving it. Therefore in dealing with the world and with things, between compliance and opposition, one cannot but be careful.

Carpenter Shi was on his way to the state of Qi. When he came to Quyuan, he saw an oak tree standing beside the shrine of the Earth God (she). The tree was so large that it could shade several thousand oxen; its trunk was so thick that several hundred people would have to join hands to encircle it; its height reached level with the mountains, and only ten ren above the ground (an ancient measure, roughly twenty-odd meters) did it begin to put out branches. More than a dozen of those branches alone were big enough to make boats. The crowd gathered to watch was as dense as at a marketplace, yet Carpenter Shi did not even glance at it. He walked straight on without pausing for a step. His disciple looked his fill, then ran a few steps to catch up with him and said, “Since I took up the axe and followed you, Master, I have never seen timber as fine as this. Yet you do not even look at it, and you walk on without stopping. Why is that?”

Carpenter Shi said, “Enough. Say no more. This is a useless tree (sanmu, a tree of no use). If you made a boat from it, the boat would sink; if you made a coffin, it would rot quickly; if you made vessels, they would soon break; if you made doors and windows, they would ooze sap and swarm with vines; if you made pillars, they would be eaten by worms. This is a tree that has failed to become timber. Precisely because it is useless, it has been able to live so long.”

After Carpenter Shi returned, the shrine oak appeared to him in a dream and said, “What tree do you compare me to? Would you compare me to fine timber trees with beautiful grain? Consider the hawthorn, pear, orange, and pomelo—those fruit trees. When their fruit ripens, people pluck it and strip their bark; their branches are broken and their twigs torn. This is because their fruit is useful, and so they bring suffering upon themselves. They cannot live out their natural years but die halfway through their span; they bring upon themselves the blows of the vulgar world. There is no creature that is not like this. I have sought uselessness for a long time and nearly died; only now have I obtained it, and it has become my great usefulness. If I were useful, could I have grown so large? Moreover, you and I are both things—why should we judge one another? You are a good-for-nothing (sanren, one unbound by worldly concerns) who is near death—how could you know the principle of this useless tree?”

Carpenter Shi woke up and explained the dream. The disciple asked, “If it single-mindedly sought uselessness, why did it become a shrine tree?” Carpenter Shi said, “Hush, say no more. It merely uses this as a place to lodge. It does so to avoid the abuse of those who do not understand it. If it had not become a shrine tree, it would probably have been cut down long ago. Moreover, the nature it preserves is different from the common run, yet you use worldly reasoning to praise me—is that not far off?”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: Trees that cannot be put to use are called “scattered wood” (sanmu; unfinished, useless trees). Timber that can be put to use is called “patterned wood” (wenmu; fine-grained material fit to be made into vessels). Nothing in the world is not like this: all things, because they are useful, turn around and injure themselves. This tree was nearly cut down and only now has preserved its life, which shows that few people in the world can see through this principle; only Carpenter Shi understood it. The tree itself said that it had always been useless, and precisely this is what allowed it to save itself and become of great use. If it had been useful, it would long ago have been cut down. That “scattered man” (sanren) who was nearly cut down—how could he know what “scattered wood” is? He was merely joking with Carpenter Shi.

The disciple still objected that the tree took its stand as a “she” (the soil god, also the sacred tree dedicated to the soil god), boasting of itself and refusing to seek the realm of uselessness. Carpenter Shi said: This tree merely lodges itself there; it is not that people treat it as a she and sacrifice to it because of what it is. If one thought that people who do not understand it were reviling it, that would be to treat it as a she and thus have it suffer insult and injury—where is the glory in that?

The tree fundamentally takes uselessness as its use; even if it were not a she tree, in the end it would not meet the disaster of being cut down. Its difference from others lies in this: others preserve themselves by having something to rely on, while it preserves itself by having nothing to rely on.

To benefit people, to make the myriad things grow, and to prevent the common people from doing evil—this is the original meaning of the she. The useless thing is plain and Wuwei (non-action), and so the various talents each find their own ease; useful things each obtain their use, while the useless thing does not interfere with them. This is why the useless thing can preserve itself. If you praise it by means of the she, it will lose the opportunity to draw near the way of uselessness.

Nanbo Ziqi was wandering in Shangqiu when he saw a great tree whose shade could cover a thousand chariots and horses (a si is one chariot with four horses; “a thousand teams of four joined together” describes the immense shade). Ziqi said, “What tree is this? It must have some special use!” But when he looked up at its slender branches, they were crooked and twisted, unfit for ridgepoles and beams; when he looked down at its thick roots, the heartwood was loose and split, unfit for coffins; when he licked its leaves, his mouth and tongue would fester and hurt; when he smelled its odor, he would be drunk for three days and unable to wake. Ziqi sighed, “This is indeed a useless tree, and precisely because it is useless it has grown so large. Alas! The spirit-man (shenren) is able to preserve himself precisely because of his uselessness.”

In the state of Song there was a certain member of the Jing clan, whose land was suited to planting catalpa, cypress, mulberry, and similar trees. When a trunk grew thick enough for one or two hands to encircle, it was cut down to make small stakes for tying monkeys; when it reached three or four spans around, it was cut to make pillars for hanging objects of high renown; when it reached seven or eight spans around, and noble families and rich merchants sought large timber, it was cut down to make coffins. Thus none of these trees lived out its natural lifespan; halfway along they died by the axe—this is the disaster brought by “having timber,” by being useful. Therefore an ox with a white patch on its forehead, a pig with upturned nostrils, and a person suffering from hemorrhoids are all unsuitable to be offered to the River God. The shamans and invocators all know these taboos and therefore regard such creatures as inauspicious. But the spirit-man regards this “inauspiciousness” as a great inauspiciousness (the received text has “great auspiciousness” for this line, meaning that uselessness is instead greatly auspicious and can preserve oneself).

This passage uses two physically incomplete people to illustrate the principle of “the use of the useless.”

First, consider the “bucai” (not fit for timber) tree. A great tree attains long life precisely because it is not fit for timber; its branches and leaves are thick and luxuriant, enough to shade a thousand chariots and horses. The ruler does not treat the hundred officials as “timber” and labor on their behalf himself; instead, he lets the hundred officials each fulfill their office: the keen-sighted see for him, the keen-eared hear for him, the clever and resourceful devise plans for him, the brave and martial guard him, while the ruler himself merely maintains quietude and Wuwei (non-action). Each kind of talent finds its own use, and the ruler instead becomes the reliance of the multitude; the people of the world are pleased to support him, and he steers the myriad things without being harmed.

Next, consider the wu-zhu (shamans and ritual invokers who presided over sacrifices and prayers in ancient times). They regarded people with disabilities—baldness (baike), upturned nostrils (kangbi), or hemorrhoids—as inauspicious, and would discard them in sacrifices, choosing only those with intact bodies. Yet having a defective body can instead preserve one’s life, and preserving life is true auspiciousness. Therefore the shenren (spirit-man, one who transcends the mundane and accords with nature) has no fixed mind and accords with the myriad things; he does not go against what the world calls “great auspiciousness.”

Finally, there is Zhili Shu (a disabled figure in the parable). His chin is hidden in his chest, his shoulders rise above the top of his head, his hair bun points toward heaven, the tubes of his five viscera all point upward, and his two legs press against his ribs. He can support himself by sewing and mending, washing clothes, and winnowing grain. When the court conscripted soldiers, he rolled up his sleeves and looked on; because of chronic illness he was exempted from service. When the court had a great labor project, he was likewise not assigned due to illness. When the court distributed grain to relieve the sick, he was able to receive three zhong of grain and ten bundles of firewood. Zhili Shu’s body was incomplete, and yet he could still nourish his person and live out his natural lifespan—how much more so for those who can regard De (Virtue/Power) as “fragmented” and not cling to it?

Guo Xiang’s commentary says that when the court conscripts able-bodied men for service, a man “fragmented in form” (physically incomplete) will instead roll up his sleeves and step forward voluntarily, because his deformity makes him useless and he will not be hidden away or avoided. When large-scale labor service comes, he is again not recruited, because he cannot bear the work. When his service is not needed, he does not take part; only when there are rewards does he go to receive them. Though his body is incomplete, he is able to preserve himself. Such a person is useless to worldly affairs, and thus the myriad things are each able to fulfill their own nature. He yields fame and merit to those with ability, merges with the myriad things without distinguishing self from other, and therefore escapes harm from the world, peacefully enjoying an ordinary and good life. This is what is meant by “fragmenting one’s De (Virtue/Power)”—preserving oneself through a virtue that appears incomplete.

Confucius came to Chu. Jie Yu, the madman of Chu—a recluse who feigned madness to avoid the world—passed by his gate and sang: “Phoenix, phoenix, how has your De declined to this point? The future cannot be relied upon, and the past cannot be recovered. When the world has the Dao (the Way), the sage can accomplish achievements; when the world lacks the Dao, the sage seeks only to preserve his life. In this age, one seeks only to escape punishment. Happiness is as light as a feather, yet no one knows how to carry it; misfortune is as heavy as the earth, yet no one knows how to avoid it. Let it be, let it be; do not use De to teach the world. Danger, danger; do not draw boundaries on the ground and then rush about in haste. Thornbushes, do not obstruct my path; I go winding and crooked, yet I do not hurt my feet. The trees on the mountain bring the axe upon themselves; grease can be burned, and so it consumes itself. The cinnamon tree can be eaten, and therefore it is cut down; the lacquer tree can be used, and therefore it is tapped. Everyone knows the use of the useful, but no one knows the use of the useless.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary on this passage explains Jie Yu’s song, “Phoenix, phoenix, what can be done about the decline of De (Virtue/Power)?” (from Zhuangzi, “The Human World”; Jie Yu compares Confucius to a phoenix and urges him to withdraw from the world early). The commentary holds that people should accord with the times, advance calmly, and grasp what is fitting in the moment before them. People in the world only lament the decline of the age and fail to see that such matters are not worth taking to heart; hence the words “what can be done?” The past cannot be recovered, the future cannot be awaited; in action one need only accord with what is timely now.

In an age with the Dao, things will naturally come to fruition; in an age without the Dao, things will naturally grow. Let everything follow its own nature, and affairs and principles will naturally be completed and grow. Success and failure, growth and development, are not something human power can control; how could one change one’s integrity because of order or disorder? An ordered age inherently seeks success, so letting go of the thought of achievement actually prevents failure; a chaotic age inherently seeks survival, so forgetting the thought of survival actually prevents death. Now, if one seeks only to avoid punishment—the bonds of punishment and name and station—one need not look backward and forward but should throw oneself entirely into the present moment and become one with the age. Only thus can this subtle state be preserved and punishment avoided.

Blessing is light as a feather, yet no one can bear it. If the feet can walk, let them walk; if the hands can grasp, let them grasp. The ears hear what they hear, the eyes see what they see; one knows to stop at what one does not know and can halt at what one cannot do. Let each use itself, let each act for itself; let one’s nature be smooth within and have not the slightest hindrance in what lies beyond one’s portion. This is the easiest practice within Wuwei (non-action). There has never been a case in which, through Wuwei, nature and life were not preserved; nor has it been heard that nature and life were preserved and yet it was not a blessing. The so-called blessing is the “completeness” mentioned above; it does not depend on external things. How could there be any principle of entrusting it to something as heavy as a feather? To act by following one’s nature, with action not exceeding one’s portion, is the easiest thing under heaven; to lift what one can lift and carry what one can carry is the lightest and most effortless thing under heaven.

If people use boundless cleverness to chase external things, they injure their innate nature; if the mind is stirred by desire and aversion, it loses its true nature (one’s original, pure, fundamental nature). Thus people abandon Wuwei (non-action)—following nature and not acting arbitrarily—the easiest form of cultivation to practice, and instead pursue youwei (deliberate contrivance), the most difficult thing; they abandon what they can easily lift and instead shoulder an extremely heavy burden. This is a common ailment in the world.

Misfortune should be the easiest thing to perceive, yet people often do not know how to avoid it. The reason is this: if one’s innate nature is at peace within, then even carrying ten thousand jun (an extremely heavy weight) one does not feel it heavy; if one lodges the mind in external things, then even something as light as a zhu or shu (the tiniest weight) cannot be borne. Therefore inward cultivation is blessing, and the root of blessing is extremely light; outward pursuit is misfortune, and the weight of misfortune is extremely heavy. That misfortune is heavy yet no one avoids it—this is the greatest delusion in the world.

It is like drawing a circle on the ground and making people keep within it; its harmful consequences ultimately cannot be concealed. If one first forms preconceptions and then deals with external things, one cannot communicate with them. Therefore the Great Man (a person of profound virtue) does not parade his cleverness to illuminate others, but lets others understand for themselves; he does not rely on his own virtue to subdue others, but lets others gain their own insights. Thus he can penetrate all things, erase the distinction between self and other, and become undifferentiatedly one with the world, so that inner and outer both receive blessing.

“Miyang” is like saying “wangyang”—that is, forgetting outward display, devoting oneself to guarding one’s own person, and not drifting outward; then my conduct is complete. If all under heaven can preserve themselves, then there is virtually no “I” that is not preserved. In walking, one must know how to bend and turn aside so as not to injure one’s feet; it is enough to bend one’s path so that each can be satisfied. When there is need, one acts together with others; when there is no need, one preserves one’s own innate nature. Those who cut and peel their skin and sacrifice themselves to accomplish things for the world—all under heaven know their deeds. The true sage enables the people not to lose their self-preservation, lets both self and other attain what suits them, while he is wholly unaware that the wondrous function lies in his own person.

In the annotation: The Bicheng holds that “wo xing buqu” should, according to Bixu’s edition, read as “buqu.” “Quequ, wu shang wu zu” (“Bend and turn aside, do not injure my feet”) rhymes with the preceding text; probably, during transcription, the two characters “wo xing” were mistakenly repeated. As for the term “Miyang,” Mian Dao’s explanation takes it to mean jue (a kind of fern). Jue grows very densely and can shade the road illuminated by sunlight, hence it is called “Miyang”; this is a theory of borrowing an object to stir the poetic imagery. This explanation is rather unusual; I record it provisionally in order to broaden what is known.

The general discussion in Bicheng says: “Nourishing the Lord of Life” discusses the method of transcending the mundane; “The Human World” discusses the method of establishing oneself in the world. The author holds that only by first transcending the world can one truly gain a foothold in the world. Laozi’s statement, “Hold fast to the Dao of antiquity in order to master what exists today,” means precisely this: grasp the principles of antiquity and use them to steer present affairs.

(Note: “Nourishing the Lord of Life,” “The Human World,” and “The Sign of Virtue Complete” are all chapter titles from the Inner Chapters of the Zhuangzi. “Transcending the world” refers to rising above attachment to the mundane; “dwelling in the world” refers to remaining in the world, living and responding to worldly affairs. Laozi’s words come from Chapter 14 of the Daodejing.)

Chapter Five, “The Sign of Virtue Complete,” is the fifth chapter of the Zhuangzi. The chapter describes a man from the state of Lu named Wang Tai (tái), whose foot had been amputated, and many people followed him as students. The title “The Sign of Virtue Complete” means that when inner De (Virtue/Power) is full within, it naturally manifests outwardly.

In the state of Lu there was a man named Wang Tai (written “Wang Fu” in the original text), whose foot had been cut off. Those who followed him and studied under him were almost as numerous as Confucius’s disciples—so many that the people of Lu were nearly split evenly between the two groups. He stood without teaching and sat without discussing, yet people went to him with empty minds and returned full. Chang Ji therefore asked Confucius, “Wang Tai is only a man with a severed foot, yet he teaches without words and, without visible form, brings people’s minds to fulfillment. What sort of person is this?”

Confucius said, “He is a sage. I have merely not yet gone to seek instruction from him. I intend to take him as my teacher—how much more so those who are not my equal? And not only Lu: I would lead the whole world to follow him.”

Chang Ji asked again, “He is a disabled man, yet his cultivation is so far beyond that of ordinary people. What is the manner of his use of mind?”

Confucius replied, “Life and death are great matters, yet they cannot make him change; even if heaven and earth were to collapse, he would not be lost along with them. He understands that what he relies on is not external things, and so he does not change with external things. Instead, he follows the transformations of the ten thousand things while guarding his own root.”

Chang Ji asked, “What does that mean?”

Confucius said, “Viewed from the point of view of their differences, the liver and gallbladder are as distant as Chu and Yue; viewed from the point of view of their sameness, the ten thousand things are one body. A person like this does not even concern himself with the sounds and colors suited to the ear and eye; his mind roams in the harmony of De (Virtue/Power). He looks at things only from their unified aspect and does not reckon up their losses. He regards the loss of a foot as like dropping a clod of earth.”

Chang Ji said, “He cultivates himself, uses wisdom to attain the original mind, and with the original mind guards the constant mind. How could external things harm him?”

Confucius said, “People do not use flowing water as a mirror; they use still water as a mirror. Only stillness can make all things still. Among things endowed by earth, only the pine and cypress alone stay green through winter and summer; among things endowed by heaven, only Shun alone attained uprightness, able both to rectify himself and to rectify the multitude. The proof of preserving the original beginning and the substance of fearlessness is like a brave warrior who, single-handed, can charge into a thousand armies. One who seeks fame and can still restrain himself is like this—how much more so one who takes heaven and earth as his office, the ten thousand things as his treasury, his limbs as a temporary dwelling, his ears and eyes as outward appearances, and, transcending his own knowledge, has a mind that never dies? He will choose a day and ascend as an immortal, and people will follow him. How could he be willing to regard external things as important?”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: The ten thousand things each proceed on their own, each returns to its own nature, and each attains satisfaction. There are those whose physical form is incomplete, yet whose mind is brought to completion; people marvel that though their bodies are broken, their inner life is full. If the mind is complete, it can discard the bodily form and forget the five viscera (wuzang, the internal organs; in Daoist usage also referring by extension to inner desires and the spirit), and suddenly go forward alone, with no one in the world able to make it leave. Why need one rely only on a single feudal state like Lu? Such a person’s De (Virtue/Power) will draw the people of the world to submit, each satisfied in himself.

One whose spirit is complete and whose mind’s De is abundant becomes one body with the ten thousand things. One who is united with the ten thousand things cannot be kept away by all under Heaven, let alone by a single state. The transformations of life and death issue from Heaven; such a person travels with transformation, and so life and death do not alter his nature. Even if Heaven and Earth were overturned and fell, he would accord with them within it.

One who can discern the principle of having nothing to rely on understands that nature and destiny are originally just so. Not shifting along with external things means letting external things transform on their own. One who can master the transformations of the ten thousand things takes transformation as the decree of Heaven and does not oppose it. One who guards the root does not depart from the utmost of what is perfectly fitting.

That things appear different, with liver and gallbladder set apart as far as Chu and Yue, is because the natures of suffering and joy differ, and so the perceptions of beauty and ugliness become contrary. That things appear the same, with all things as one, is because what each appreciates differs; yet every thing has that in it which can be considered beautiful, and so all things share a single beauty; each affirms what it affirms, and so all under Heaven share a single “is.” If one follows the differences among things and views them with discrimination, then there is nothing under Heaven that is not different. One whose breast is vast and who sees the whole can encompass Heaven and Earth and embrace the ten thousand things; understanding that differences are not worth reckoning, he follows the sameness of things and views them, and then there is nothing under Heaven that is not the same. He further understands that sameness, too, is not worth clinging to; and so, viewing things according to the condition in which they possess nothing of their own, right and wrong, beauty and ugliness, all return to nothingness.

Ordinary people all believe that when “I” do things this way it is right, while when “others” do things that way it is wrong; they regard as beautiful what they themselves find beautiful and resent others. From human beings all the way down to insects, no kind is exempt from this. This is merely understanding the right and wrong of the “self” but not understanding the principle of the “other.”

As for those who penetrate the mysterious, erase oppositions, and merge into a single whole, they follow the inherent nature of the myriad things in the world and thereby illuminate the world. When everyone says “nothing is not right,” this is precisely to show that in the world there is originally no “wrong”; when everyone says “that too is right,” this is precisely to show that in the world there is originally no “right.” With no right and no wrong, all is blended into one. Therefore they can accord with change and follow nature, and even when running counter to external things they are not subdued by them.

They do not calculate what suits the ears and eyes, but let the mind-spirit roam within the harmony of De. This is finding suitability in what is not suitable. With no beauty and no ugliness, nothing is unsuitable; thus even the very thought of “suitability” is forgotten. When “suitability” is entirely forgotten, there is nothing that cannot be followed and accommodated; and for anything to be universally accommodated yet still remain unattained has never happened. Nor has it ever been heard that nothing is obtained and yet harmony is lacking. Therefore the mind-spirit wanders between heaven and earth, broad and calm, with nothing improper; open and unbounded, it is at ease everywhere. The myriad things see only what they unify and do not see what they lose. This means one has embodied the wondrous pattern of Dao.

If one can embody this, the mind can become identical with the myriad things. Being identical with the myriad things, then through the changes of life and death, wherever one goes is “me.” Thus when life comes, it is my coming; when death comes, it is my accordance. When gathering comes, it is my gathering; when dispersal comes, it is my accordance. Though gathering and dispersal differ, I recognize both as mine. Then life is still me, and I have never gained anything; death is also me, and I have never lost anything. The changes of life and death can still be regarded as one single whole. Since one sees this whole, one is transcendent and without entanglement, mysteriously equating the other with the self, regarding life and death as waking and dream, and the bodily form as an inn. Leaving life is like taking off one’s shoes; cutting off one foot is like dropping a handful of earth. I have never seen anything that could entangle his mind.

The “other” mentioned here refers to Wang Tai, a figure in the Zhuangzi chapter “De Chong Fu.” He was a man whose foot had been cut off, yet he had many disciples and enjoyed a reputation equal to Confucius’s. The former phrase criticizes him for “using his knowledge,” that is, for still relying on wisdom, not yet having forgotten knowledge, and still preserving the self; the latter phrase criticizes him for “obtaining his mind by means of his mind,” that is, for using the mind to seek the mind’s stability, not yet being able to forget the mind, and still believing that he has obtained something.

This commentary passage revolves around “the constant mind” and “naturalness,” roughly as follows.

Having attained the constant, unchanging original mind, why would external things still attach themselves to him? The concern is that Wang Tai (the footless man in “The Sign of Virtue Complete,” a person of extremely high cultivation) has not yet forgotten his attachment to “knowing” and still relies on it to preserve himself. “Obtaining his mind by means of his mind” means that he still relies on mental activity to seek self-attainment and has not yet let go of mental activity. One who has attained the constant mind is equanimous and interacts with all things without obstruction. If one worries that he cannot maintain equanimity and that in his dealings with external things he exceeds the proper measure, then external things will of their own accord draw near to him.

Still water can reflect all things, not because it is still in order to reflect; when water is still it is naturally clear, and people come to look at it. Wang Tai gathers people in the same way: people attach themselves to him; he does not go and lead them to submit to him. Only when the mind is settled can one halt the crowd’s pursuit; if “stopping” is done deliberately, it will instead prevent all things from truly coming to rest.

“Only Shun alone was upright” means that only Shun received the purest Qi (vital energy) in nature, and such people are extremely rare. Among plants and trees, only the pine and cypress remain green through all four seasons; among people, only the sage is most upright. Therefore only those who are not upright come to seek uprightness. If all things preserved their complete original nature, there would be no need to exalt the pine and cypress; if everyone could rectify themselves, there would be no need to admire the great sage and flock to him. One who can rectify himself and thereby rectify all beings does so because he is himself already upright, not because he deliberately sets out to rectify others.

One who seeks reputation but can restrain himself has not truly forgotten reputation; rather, within reputation he can still exercise moderation. One who can preside over Heaven and Earth and gather in all things does so because he is mysteriously attuned to the Dao and there is nothing he does not apprehend. The body is merely a temporary lodging, an inn. The ears and eyes are only instruments of perception; people use the ears and eyes but do not depend on them.

When wisdom changes along with the transformations of all things, then there is nowhere it is not mysteriously united with the Dao; this is the single-mindedness of “knowing.” If the mind can accord with life and death, then there is no moment that is not life; this shows that the mind has never died.

The so-called “choosing a day to ascend on high” (selecting an auspicious day to rise to Heaven and transcend) actually means choosing to accord with the workings of nature; there is no real choosing of a day. Such a person need not choose; he simply follows the Dao of Heaven and acts according to the time. Those who rely on external things also walk by this; through tranquility, detachment, and solitude they are able to preserve themselves. Therefore it is said: How could they be willing to take external things as their own affair?

In Bicheng (Reading Notes), the Ming scholar Jiao Hong points out that the sentence “When it comes to receiving the mandate from Earth, only Shun alone is upright” does not read smoothly and appears to have lost some characters. Consulting the collated edition by the Song dynasty Daoist Zhang Junfang (who once collated the Daoist Canon), he holds that the complete sentence should read: “Those who receive their mandate from Earth—only the pine and cypress alone are upright, remaining green through winter and summer; those who receive their mandate from Heaven—only Yao and Shun alone are upright, standing at the head of the ten thousand things.” The pine and cypress remain evergreen through winter and summer, and so they alone are said to attain uprightness on earth; Yao and Shun, receiving the mandate of Heaven and standing at the head of all things, are sages.

The missing characters in the original can be supplied on the basis of Guo Xiang’s commentary (the Jin dynasty Guo Xiang’s commentary on the Zhuangzi), because the commentary contains the statements “among those below, only the pine and cypress are first” and “among those above, only the sage is first; this is why,” which correspond to this passage. Jiao Hong further holds that even without supplying these characters, one need only read “the pine and cypress alone are thus” and “Shun alone is upright” as two separate clauses, and the text will read smoothly and its meaning will be complete.

Shen Tu Jia (a personal name) was a man whose foot had been cut off. Together with Zichan (Gongsun Qiao), the chief minister of Zheng, he became a disciple of Bohun Wuren (a Dao-attaining master in the Zhuangzi). Zichan said to Shen Tu Jia, “If I go out first, you stay behind; if you go out first, I will stay behind.” The next day the two were again in the same hall and sitting on the same mat. Zichan said again, “If I go out first, you stay behind; if you go out first, I will stay behind. Now I am about to go out—can you stay behind? When you see a chief minister, you do not withdraw; are you putting yourself on an equal footing with a chief minister?”

Shen Tu Jia replied, “Under the master’s gate, could there really be a chief minister like you? You are the kind of man who loves his rank as chief minister and feels pleased only when others see him. I have heard it said: when a mirror is bright, dust does not settle on it; when dust settles, the mirror is no longer bright. If one stays long with worthy people, one will be without fault. Now what you revere is the master, and yet you still speak such words—is that not a fault?”

Zichan said, “You are already like this, and yet you would compare your goodness with Yao (a sage king of antiquity)? Take stock of your virtue—is it not enough to make you reflect on yourself?”

Shen Tu Jia said, “Many are those who expose their own faults and yet grieve over what they should not have lost; few are those who do not expose their faults and yet cling to what should not be kept. To know clearly that there is no way out and yet to accept it peacefully, as one accepts fate—only a person of virtue can do this. Within the range of Yi’s (the ancient master archer’s) bow and arrow, hitting the bull’s-eye is skill, but missing the bull’s-eye is fate. Many people mocked me because I was missing a foot. At first I was angry, but as soon as I came to the master, my anger dissolved and I no longer thought about it. I do not know whether it was the master who washed me with the good Way. I have been with you for nineteen years, and yet you have never noticed that I am a man with a severed foot. Now you associate with me within the bodily form, yet you seek me outside the bodily form—is that not a fault?”

When Zichan heard this, his expression changed. He hastily altered his countenance and manner and said, “Please say no more.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: Zichan (the “Ziqi” of the text, chief minister of Zheng) went out first because he was ashamed to walk alongside a mutilated ex-convict. The next day he pressed Shentu Jia again, wishing to prevent him from standing as an equal. Trusting in his ministerial position to elevate himself, Guo’s note simply calls him “Ziqi the minister,” which is enough to expose his arrogance. How could there be such a minister at the gate of the Master (a virtuous man such as Laozi)? This passage concerns the relative height of De (Virtue/Power), not the reckoning of official rank. The reason people ridicule Zichan for boasting of office and seeking precedence is that, although he had long associated with worthy men without fault, it is clear he still harbored a mean and grudging heart—this was his true fault.

Shentu Jia was physically incomplete, yet he did not examine himself; he still wished to slight those in office and stand alongside virtuous men. His De was not sufficient to compensate for the defect of his bodily mutilation. He repeatedly set forth his own fault: many believe they should not receive such punishment, while few silently admit fault and feel they deserve it.

Hou Yi (the ancient master archer): the range his arrow can reach is within his shooting range (what Guo’s note calls “inside the shell”). When benefit and harm contend, everyone under heaven becomes a Hou Yi, wounding one another. Those who disregard their bodies, do not know advance or retreat, and drift with the current all move within Hou Yi’s range. Even Zhang Yi (in “Dasheng” of the Zhuangzi, skilled at moving among the powerful) was good at travel, and Shan Bao (in the same chapter, one who withdrew to the mountains to cultivate himself) was good at seclusion; still they could not avoid the place where the arrow strikes. Whether one is hit depends entirely on fate. The many beings each meet their lot, yet do not understand that this is the spontaneous arrangement of fate.

Those who escape arrow harm think themselves clever and are pleased; when in the end they cannot avoid it, they hate their own error, their will is wounded and their spirit humiliated. This shows they have not penetrated the true condition of fate.

Human life is not something one decides for oneself. Within a hundred years, rising and resting, moving and stopping, action and choice, temperament and intelligence, as well as what one has and lacks, what one does and encounters—none of this is fully governed by the “I.” The principle of things is inherently so, yet people arbitrarily generate sorrow and joy within it; this too is to go against nature and lose one’s original nature.

Others laugh at me because my foot is incomplete; such laughter comes only from not understanding fate. One who grows angry—seeing others fail to understand fate and becoming angry—still does not understand fate himself. One who turns back with disappointment and becomes calm sees that the Perfect Man (Zhiren, one of highest attainment) knows fate and forgets bodily form; thus he stops his former anger and returns to normal. Shentu Jia says: Zichan does not know whether the Master washed me with the good Dao, or whether I was able to reflect on myself. This is to forget the body and remove its burdens.

Having associated with Zichan for nineteen years, Zichan never noticed that Shentu Jia was a footless man—precisely because Shentu Jia had forgotten bodily form. The bodily frame is external; De is internal. Now you and I associate by De, not by bodily form, yet you investigate my outward appearance—is this not mistaken? You are probably saying too much; because you yourself have already awakened, you grow impatient with others’ many words.

In the state of Lu there was a man whose foot had been amputated, named Shushan Wuzhi (“No-Toes,” meaning that his toes had been cut off—that is, a man who had undergone the punishment of foot amputation). Supporting himself on his maimed foot, he came to visit Confucius. Confucius said, “You were not careful in the past and committed such a fault; now, even if you have come, what use is it?” Wuzhi replied, “In the past I did not know how to treasure myself and rashly risked my body, and so I lost both feet. I have come today because there is something more honorable than the feet, and it is precisely to preserve that that I have come. Heaven covers all without exception; Earth bears all without exception. I have always regarded you as a man like Heaven and Earth—how could I have known that you too were like this?” Confucius said, “How shallow I am! Why not come in and sit for a while, and tell me the principles you have heard?” When Wuzhi heard this, he left. Confucius said to his students, “You must strive hard! Wuzhi is a man with severed feet, yet he still studies diligently, wishing to make up for the faults caused by his past conduct—how much more should those whose virtue is complete!”

Wuzhi said to Lao Dan (that is, Laozi), “Has Kong Qiu attained the level of a zhiren, a person whose cultivation has reached the highest realm? Why does he still so earnestly study and pursue those empty reputations that court fame and praise? Does he not know that the zhiren regards these as shackles binding him?” Lao Dan said, “Why do you not simply make him see life and death as one and the same, and see the permissible and the impermissible as identical? In this way you could untie the bonds on him. Would that be possible?” Wuzhi said, “This is a punishment Heaven has imposed on him—how could it be untied?”

The original text of the relevant portion of Guo Xiang’s commentary is incomplete; only a brief gloss on the word zhong (“heel”) remains, so it cannot be fully interpreted.

Guo Xiang holds that human life itself possesses its own natural principle. To let it grow naturally, without deliberate contrivance, is both to cherish oneself and to understand where the fundamental task lies. To guard one's life with a cramped and cautious vigilance is, on the contrary, to slight oneself and to fail to grasp what is essential. Thus the five organs injuring one another within, and the hands and feet being maimed and wounded without, both arise from this unnatural attachment. Even so, there remain figures such as Shushan Wuzhi in the "De Chong Fu" chapter of the Zhuangzi—the man whose foot was cut off—who, though lacking a foot, suffered no diminishment of his inner power, which shows that the physical form is merely a lodging house (nilü) in which one temporarily sojourns. Only by discarding guarded restraint and following what is natural can one truly preserve oneself.

Heaven does not deliberately cover, and so it can cover forever; Earth does not deliberately bear, and so it can bear forever. If Heaven and Earth acted with intention, there would be times when they ceased; if a boat had to sink before it could float a person, there would be times when it sank. Thus once a thing is subject to human fabrication, it cannot long preserve its life. How then do we know that Confucius was not likewise—merely reproaching Wuzhi for insufficient caution, without having attained a realm like that of Heaven and Earth?

"Wuzhi went out, having heard what he heard and so departing" means that when Wuzhi left, he listened only to what was proper for him to hear and followed only what was proper for him to do, thereby preserving his nature of non-action. Those who scurried about reverently at Confucius's side, wholly devoted to learning, did so because they were astonished that Confucius should still have to study under Lao Dan (Laozi, the representative figure of Daoism).

A person without deliberate intention learns whatever others learn. But scholars of antiquity studied for their own sake, while scholars of today study in order to be seen by others, and this defect ultimately becomes nothing more than doing what others do. To perfect oneself by taking others as one's model is merely to follow ordinary principle; to abandon oneself in imitation of others and chase after external things is to pursue a reputation that exceeds ordinary principle.

Yet it is precisely ordinary principle that gives rise to this extraordinary reputation. Learning is not in itself meant to produce the fantastical and strange, but the emergence of the fantastical and strange invariably has its source in learning; ritual is not in itself meant to produce ostentation and frivolity, but the tendency toward ostentation and frivolity invariably arises from ritual. This is a matter of inevitable principle, against which even the perfected person (zhiren, the highest in virtue) is helpless, and so one can only regard it as a shackle upon oneself.

Why not let such people regard life and death as a single body, and the permissible and the impermissible as one continuous thread, so as to untie this bond, and meet it with straight principle, hoping that no trace is left behind? Yet the punishment imposed by Heaven cannot be untied—could it be that Zhongni (Confucius) was unable to meet it in accord?

The principle of nature is this: when the body walks, the shadow follows; when words are uttered, the echo responds. Comply with things, and reputation is established accordingly; yet the one who complies with things does not do so in order to seek fame. Even if one reaches the utmost without seeking fame, one still cannot in the end escape reputation—who can be released from it? Thus reputation is like shadow and echo, and shadow and echo are the extremities of form and sound. Once this principle is understood, the traces of reputation may be discarded, and one's nature and life may thereby be preserved.

Jiao Hong’s commentary: Fame is like a shadow or an echo, and shadows and echoes are entanglements of body and sound. Once one understands this, one can cast off the traces of fame and preserve one’s life.

Duke Ai of Lu asked Confucius (Zhongni): “In Wei there was an ugly man named Ai Taituo. When men spent time with him, they longed for him and could not bear to leave; when women saw him, they went to their parents and asked, ‘Rather than be another man’s wife, I would rather be this gentleman’s concubine.’ There were more than ten such women, and they did not stop. He never took the initiative to say anything; he merely echoed others. He had no ruler’s position with which to relieve the masses, nor accumulated salary to fill people’s bellies, and his appearance was so ugly that it startled the world. He could only echo and not initiate; his understanding did not extend beyond the four quarters, and yet men and women alike gathered around him. This man must have something different from ordinary people.

“I therefore summoned him, and indeed he was shockingly ugly. But after I had been with him for less than a few months, I began to feel admiration for his character; in less than a year, I trusted him. There was no prime minister in the state, so I wanted to entrust the government to him. He was subdued and silent, and only after a long while did he respond, indifferent as though declining. I felt deeply ashamed, but in the end I handed the state over to him. Before long, he left me and went away. I was left desolate, as though although the state still existed, there was no one with whom I could enjoy it. What sort of man was he?”

Confucius said: “I once went on a mission to Chu and happened to see a piglet suckling at its dead mother. After a while, the piglet raised its head and looked at the mother, then all of them abandoned her and ran away. They did not do so because the mother’s body was dead, but because she no longer had the vital breath to which they could cling. People love their mothers, but what they love is not her bodily form; it is that which makes the form live and move. Those who die in battle are buried without feather-decorated coffin ornaments (sha, a kind of feather-adorned coffin fitting); those whose feet have been cut off no longer cherish their shoes, because both have lost the root. The female attendants of the Son of Heaven do not cut their nails or pierce their ears; men who have taken wives are kept outside the palace and cannot be summoned for service again. Physical wholeness alone is enough to bring about such things—how much more so for one whose De (Virtue/Power) is complete? Now Ai Taituo does not speak, and people trust him; he has no achievements, and people draw close to him; people even wish to hand the state over to him and fear only that he will not accept. He must be one who is complete in natural endowment while his De does not manifest outwardly.”

Duke Ai asked: “What do you mean by being complete in natural endowment?”

Confucius said: Death and life, survival and loss, hardship and prominence, poverty and wealth, worthiness and unworthiness, being slandered and being praised, hunger and thirst, cold and heat—these are all changes of things and the operation of destiny. They alternate before one’s eyes like day and night, and human wisdom cannot trace their beginnings. Therefore these changes cannot disturb a person’s sinews and bones or harmonious Qi, nor can they invade one’s spiritual dwelling (the abode of the mind). One should let the mind be calm and joyful, unobstructed and without losing delight, so that day and night there is no gap, and one deals with the ten thousand things as warmly as spring. In this way, when one comes into contact with external things, a warm seasonal Qi naturally arises within—this is called “Cai Quan” (complete capacity: the endowment is complete, and inner and outer are harmonious).

What is meant by “De does not take form” (virtue not outwardly displayed)? The answer: Ping—equanimity—is the state when still water reaches its fullest. It can serve as a model: inwardly preserve calm, and outwardly remain undisturbed. De is the cultivation nurtured by harmonious Qi. When De does not take outward form, all things will not leave him but will naturally return and attach to him.

Another day Duke Ai of Lu told these words to Min Zi, saying: At first I sat facing south and ruled the world, holding the guiding principles for the people, yet I worried about their deaths and thought myself thoroughly penetrating. Now that I have heard the words of the perfected person (one whose moral cultivation has reached the highest level), I fear that I do not possess such substance, yet rashly wield authority, and may thereby bring the state to ruin. Between Confucius and me there is no ruler-minister relation; we are merely friends who associate through De.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Without a ruler’s position, yet able to relieve people’s anxiety about death—this shows that things do not attach themselves by relying on power.

In this passage of commentary, Guo Xiang uses the person in Zhuangzi’s “De Chong Fu” (The Fullness of De) who is ugly in appearance yet complete in De (Virtue/Power) to explain that people attach themselves to a person on the basis of inner talent and De, not power, wealth, or outward appearance.

Those who hold no ruler’s position yet can rescue others from death demonstrate that the multitude follows them not because of power. Those who have not accumulated stipends yet cause people to attach themselves to them demonstrate that people are not seeking food. Even when he shakes the world with an ugly appearance, people still follow him, showing that they do not come because of handsome form. His harmony and compliance are naturally expressed; they are not obtained through deliberate advocacy. His insight does not go beyond his own proper station, and he does not apply his mind outside that station.

Male and female go before him in pairs because his talent and De are complete and he is without conflict with the ten thousand things; therefore wild beasts do not disturb their herds, birds do not break their ranks, and he thereby becomes the spiritual leader whom the ten thousand things respect and submit to. When someone asks first and he then responds, this shows that honor and disgrace are not enough to stir his spirit. He speaks in a vague and general way, as if declining; this is because when others decline, he follows them and declines as well.

A young animal suckles the milk of its dead mother, showing that it still lives by relying on the mother’s milk. Living people gather according to similar talent and De; after a person dies, talent and De disperse with him, and so the living of the same kind also leave because they have lost the support of their own kind. Therefore, a person deep in De is like a newborn infant: wherever he goes, there is nothing that is not natural, and no one in the world will harm him. This is because he is akin to others in De, and only thus can his value be clearly displayed.

If dispositions and natures are similar, then even if outward forms differ, the ten thousand things will have no harmful intent toward him; if dispositions and natures are not similar, then even if outward forms are the same, that is not enough to sustain affection. What makes people thus is talent and De.

The sha (a fan-shaped ornament placed beside the coffin during funerals in ancient times, taken here for its use as a covering) is an object on which the warrior relies; if he dies in battle, there is no martial force left to rely on, so where would the sha be used? People love shoes because shoes protect the feet. For a person whose feet have been cut off, what use are shoes to him? This is because he has already lost the root, and shoes take the feet as their root.

Not blaming someone because his outward form is incomplete, and not praising him because his outward form is intact, is for the sake of preserving his bodily form. If he is not made to undergo service again, it is out of concern for harming his bodily form. Selecting consorts and the intimacy of newlyweds originally place great weight on appearance. Therefore, a person whose bodily form is complete will not on that account diminish his affection for the most honored person, nor will he change the chastity of a chaste woman. When De is complete, the ten thousand things will naturally love and honor him; this is a matter of course. Life and death, existence and extinction, as well as hunger and thirst, cold and heat, are all inevitable in the nature of things and cannot be escaped.

Human birth is not an accidental mistake. Nor does everything a person possesses come from nowhere. Although heaven and earth are vast and the myriad things are numerous, what a person encounters is precisely these arrangements. Even the gods and spirits of heaven and earth, and the sages and worthies of the state, could not contravene it even if they exhausted their strength and wisdom. Therefore, whatever cannot be encountered simply is not encountered; whatever is encountered cannot but be encountered; whatever cannot be done simply cannot be done; whatever is done cannot but be done. By according with it, affairs naturally become fitting.

The operation of fate and the transformations of things do not pause day or night. Push it, and it will not depart; detain it, and it will not stop. Thus one whose De (Virtue) is complete simply bears whatever circumstances he encounters. The beginnings of things cannot be planned in advance by wisdom, and what has already passed cannot be held back by emotion. Therefore, to know that fate necessarily operates and things necessarily transform—is this to calculate the beginning from the endpoint, or to long for the old amid the new? Even the highest wisdom cannot plan in advance.

The departed have already gone far away; what can I do about them? If one understands that nature and life are originally like this, then even if life and death, adversity and success, undergo countless transformations, one can remain calm and self-possessed, and the principle of harmony and compliance exists within oneself. Hence it is said: do not let external things disturb the harmonious Qi. The Numinous Storehouse (Lingfu, the place where the mind resides) is the dwelling of the spirit. One whose De is fullest will not let worries and troubles disturb the spirit; hence it is said: worries and troubles cannot enter the Numinous Storehouse.

When the harmonious nature is not disturbed and the Numinous Storehouse is at ease, even if one passes through the greatest calamities, one does not lose that joyful and penetrating state of mind; this is called “harmonious ease” (Heyu: a mind harmonious and peaceful, calm and joyful). Penetrating understanding without losing joy, uninterrupted day and night—this is because the mind is at peace and always accords with the natural. Dwelling with the myriad things like a warm spring day is what all beings rely upon; the intentions that arise when coming into contact with things change together with the four seasons. Nothing under heaven is more level and upright than still water. It has no partiality and is extremely level, and so everyone under heaven takes it as a standard.

Thus it is said: “Levelness” is water at rest in its fullest state; it can serve as a standard to be emulated. The meaning of this passage is: what is called “levelness” is simply water in its ultimate state of stillness, and this state can serve as a norm for imitation.

“Inwardly preserving it while outwardly not being unsettled” means that inwardly one guards one’s brightness, while outwardly there is no deliberate action. The mind is like a mysterious mirror that illumines all things and is without partiality toward them; thus one can keep this levelness intact and put its principle into practice.

Affairs thereby achieve success, and things thereby attain harmony; this is called De (Virtue/Power).

No affair fails to succeed, no thing fails to be harmonious; this is because such De does not manifest outwardly. Therefore the world gladly promotes him and never tires of him.

He is harmonious yet does not take the lead, and no one sees in him any capacity for being the first to initiate affairs.

His knowledge does not extend beyond the four quarters, and no one sees in him any far-reaching strategy.

He has none of these—rank, position, talent, or good looks—yet he causes male and female to come together and return to him. It is not that he makes things preserve themselves; rather, things naturally preserve themselves.

What sort of person is this? One wonders where exactly lies the reason he is able to move people.

This is a figurative explanation: the outward form itself is not worthy of love; what is worthy of love is that root which causes the form to exist.

The reason a mother is loved has as its root that which gives her form; warfare has martial force as its root; walking has the feet as its root.

The reason Ai Taituo was trusted while present and remembered after he left is simply that he had a root.

Here “cai” (capacity) is the cai in Mencius’s phrase “the capacity bestowed [by Heaven]”; it refers to a person’s innate endowment. Those whose endowment is not yet complete tend to delight in showing themselves and in self-defense. Once the endowment is complete, De is inwardly sufficient.

Why is it that within the bodily form there are birth and death, preservation and loss, adversity and success, poverty and wealth, worthiness and unworthiness, blame and praise, hunger and thirst, cold and heat? Although such changes are manifold, if one seeks the cause that makes them so and cannot find it, one calls it Ming (fate/destiny).

If one could know the root that from the beginning makes things so, then how could there be no medicine for it—that is, no way to resolve it?

The general meaning of this passage is: although the transformations of the myriad things advance day and night without ceasing, even the wisest cannot probe the source where those transformations begin. This is what is meant by “there has never been a beginning” (weishi you shi)—there is never a true beginning. Once this principle is understood, how could the transformations of the myriad things disturb the Qi of Great Harmony within me (the harmonious primordial Qi of Yin-Yang) or invade the dwelling place of the mind?

“Dui” is the “dui” in Laozi’s phrase “block up its openings” (se qi dui); it refers to the sensory apertures of a person (Laozi, founder of Daoism). If one can penetrate through and yet not be led away by the senses, the mind becomes harmonious, joyful, and at ease; this is called “harmony and ease” (he yu). To accord with the myriad things, day and night without interruption, is what is called “not taking form” (bu xing), that is, not revealing any trace. In this way, even if one comes into contact with external things every day and ten thousand transformations are underway, one will not lose the proper timing or measure.

When water is still, it is level and smooth, and the myriad things take it as a standard. If the mind can settle itself, external things cannot shake it—just as water remains calm, which is like the harmony of De. This harmony requires long cultivation to be accomplished, and therefore it is said, “When the cultivation of harmony is complete, things cannot separate from it”: when De has accomplished harmony, the myriad things cannot be separated from it.

To explain further the meaning of “not taking form”: when Shen and mind are concentrated and undivided, there is no distinction between life and death, and no thought of change.

In addition, the text mentions that “Chanqi Zhili Wushen” (the malformed Zhili Wushen) was favored by Duke Ling of Wei, and Duke Ling therefore respected the “complete person” (quanren) whose De was fully complete; “Weng’ang Daying” (a man of ugly and unusual appearance) advised Duke Huan of Qi. Although these two men were deficient in outward form, they were valued by rulers because of the fullness of their inner De, showing that outward appearance is not sufficient to determine a person’s value.

Duke Ling of Wei saw the disabled men Chan Qi, Zhili, and Wushen and liked them greatly; when he looked back at people with sound bodies, he instead felt that their necks were thin and their frames slight. Duke Huan of Qi liked Weng Ang, a hunchback with a large goiter, and felt the same way about healthy people. Thus, when a person’s De (Virtue/Power) is outstanding, bodily defects are forgotten. True “forgetting” is forgetting the appearance that ought to be forgotten and not forgetting the De that ought not to be forgotten.

Therefore the sage wanders in such a realm, regarding cleverness and scheming as the root of calamity, restraints as glue, association through De as clinging, and profit-seeking techniques as commerce. The sage does not scheme—what use is wisdom? He does not carve or polish—what use is glue? He does not lose his original authenticity—what use is De? He does not seek profit—what use is commerce? These four are all nourishment bestowed by Heaven, namely “Heaven’s nourishment” and “Heaven-given food.” Since one has already received nourishment from Heaven, why rely on human-made things?

People have human form but lack human likes and dislikes. Having human form, they can dwell among people; lacking human likes and dislikes, right and wrong cannot injure them. How insignificant—the part that belongs to the human world; how vast and far-reaching—the part that alone fulfills what is Heavenly within them.

Huizi asked Zhuangzi, “Can a person really be without emotions?” Zhuangzi said, “Yes.” Huizi said, “If a person has no emotions, how can he be called a person?” Zhuangzi said, “Dao (the Way) gives him a countenance, Heaven gives him a form—why can he not be called a person?” Huizi said, “Since he is called a person, how can he have no emotions?” Zhuangzi said, “What I mean by emotions is not what you understand by them. By ‘no emotions’ I mean that a person does not let likes and dislikes injure himself inwardly, but constantly follows nature and does not deliberately add anything to life.” Huizi said, “If he does not add to life, how can his body be preserved?” Zhuangzi said, “Dao gives him a countenance, Heaven gives him a form; as long as he does not injure his body through likes and dislikes, that is enough. Now you exhaust your Shen (spirit) outwardly and wear out your energies; you lean against a tree and chant, and doze off over a withered parasol tree. Heaven gave you a form, yet you only take pride in the ‘hardness and whiteness’ debate.” (“Hardness and whiteness” refers to Gongsun Long’s argument that hardness and whiteness can be separated.)

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: descriptions of bodily deformity such as “Yinqi Zhili Wuchun” mean that if a person’s feelings are fixated on one side and never turn back, the ugly may instead be seen as more beautiful, while the beautiful may appear ugly.

When someone’s De is outstanding and his bodily form is forgotten by others, it is because his De is good at according with external things, and so people forget his ugliness; if he goes against external things, people forget his beauty. People in the world love them while alive and abandon them when dead; thus De is what the world does not forget, while bodily form is what, according to principle, is not worth preserving. Therefore, to be able to forget bodily form is still not true forgetting; not to forget bodily form and yet to be able to forget De—this is true forgetting.

The Sage wanders in the realm of self-attainment, and wherever he goes nothing is blocked, because his capacity and De are complete. Knowledge (cleverness of mind) is the root of calamity; constraint (restraint, regulation) is the glue and lacquer of bondage; De (virtue given with deliberate intent) is the medium for dealing with others; skill (craft) is merchandise for exchange. These four naturally arise from one another, and the principle within them is already complete; therefore the Sage does not need to use his private intention to act deliberately.

“Tianyu” means Heavenly Nourishment, referring to all things living according to their natural endowments. Once they have received the principle of nature, that principle is already sufficient. Even thinking deeply in order to avoid disaster, or clearly guarding against misfortune, is likewise the original transformation of things.

Nothing happens without reason; all is the convergence of Heaven and Earth and the tendency of ultimate principle. When one deliberates and succeeds, it is not that I am doing the thinking; when one does not deliberate and succeeds, it is not that I am not thinking. Some deliberate and escape disaster; some deliberate and do not escape; some do not deliberate and escape; some do not deliberate and do not escape. None of these is within my control, so why should one act deliberately? Let things follow nature, and events will arrive of themselves.

One has a human bodily form and looks like a human; but without human emotions, one is like a withered branch. To associate with others, to gather according to kind and divide according to group, is the Dao of nature. Right and wrong do not linger in body or mind; only one without emotions (without clinging emotions) can be vast and at ease, refusing nothing. To be able to refuse nothing is precisely what those with emotions cannot do.

One’s physical appearance is like that of ordinary people, and yet one can independently bring one’s natural inborn nature to completion. Dao (the Way) endows one with one’s countenance, and Heaven endows one with one’s bodily form; this means that human generation is not produced by passions and desires. What life is able to know—how could it be what passions and desires are able to know?

Some people wish to attain the clear discernment of Li Zhu (a legendary figure famed for extraordinary eyesight) or Shi Kuang (a blind musician of the Spring and Autumn period famed for extraordinary hearing), but cannot. Yet it is precisely because Li Zhu and Shi Kuang were free of selfish feelings that their ears were keen and their eyes bright. Some people wish to become worthies and sages but cannot; yet it is precisely because worthies and sages are without passion that they truly become worthies and sages. Is it only that worthies and sages are far beyond reach and Li Zhu and Shi Kuang are difficult to emulate? Even the most foolish, the deaf and blind, or those as ignorant as an owl hooting or a dog barking—if they merely set their minds to forcing themselves to do it, they will ultimately fail. Whether near or far, even if they fall short by only a hairbreadth, a state like that of Confucius and Yan Hui will in the end be unattainable.

From this observe the myriad things, and turn back to take oneself as the standard: ears and eyes cannot substitute for each other in fulfilling their functions, nor can hands and feet substitute for each other in completing their tasks. When an infant has just been born, it does not use its eyes to seek milk, does not use its ears to distinguish light, does not use its feet to take things, and does not use its hands to seek to walk. Could it be that the hundred bones have no fixed offices, that the bodily form has no inherent master, and that everything is simply controlled by passions and desires?

Since one is called a human being, one must understand that the bodily form itself is not passion. What is called “passion” refers to treating right and wrong as passion. If right and wrong are taken as passion, then a person without right and wrong and without likes and dislikes, although possessing a bodily form, is merely an ordinary person—where, then, would passion lodge? A person without passion does not harm himself because of likes and dislikes; his speech is fitting and he proceeds straight ahead, not out of passion or desire. He constantly follows nature and does not deliberately add to life; therefore he can stop at what is appropriate. Only by not deliberately adding to life can he preserve himself, because the natural growth of life is itself the principle and is already sufficient in itself.

Zhuangzi also says that the principle of life is already fully present within form and appearance. If one follows and allows it, the body can be preserved; but if feelings of like and dislike become excessive, they bring no benefit to nourishing life and instead harm the body, because each life has its own proper measure. If the spirit cannot rest securely within the bounds of original nature, it will race outward in pursuit; if vitality cannot stop at the natural limits of nourishing life, it will become exhausted and depleted. Thus walking while leaning against a tree and chanting, or sitting and dozing against a wutong table—this is how a person with feelings entangles himself in difficulty.

The text says that “Heaven bestows form upon humans,” and it also says that in all that ordinary people do—spirit racing outward, vitality strained, leaning on trees, resting on wutong, chanting and dozing—this is what the world calls “emotion.” The reason it speaks of “Heaven’s bestowal” is to explain that emotion is not produced by emotion, much less anything else. Therefore, in all things and all forms, their words and actions, their choices and rejections, all come forth from the emotionless naturalness of what is so of itself; why, then, must one use emotion within them?

To understand what is done by Heaven and also to understand what is done by humans—this is the utmost of understanding. One who understands what is done by Heaven lives in accord with innate nature. One who understands what is done by humans uses what he already knows to nourish what he does not yet know, until he fully enjoys the lifespan allotted by Heaven and does not die midway. This is the fullness of wisdom.

Even so, hidden perils remain. Knowledge can be fitting only by relying on certain conditions, and the conditions on which it relies are themselves uncertain. One may ask: Is what I call “Heaven” not “human”? Is what I call “human” not “Heaven”? Moreover, only when there is a True Person (one who has attained the Dao) is there true knowledge. What is a True Person? The True Persons of old did not regard scarcity as adversity, did not boast of success, and did not scheme over affairs out of private intention. Such people did not regret it when they made mistakes, nor did they congratulate themselves when they got things right. They climbed to high places without fear, entered water without getting wet, and entered fire without feeling heat. This shows that beyond knowledge there is true knowledge, and that true knowledge can reach upward to the Dao—this is exactly so.

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: If one can understand what is the work of “Heaven” and what is the work of “the human,” one will know that both are spontaneously natural. In this way, inwardly people release their own fixed attachments, outwardly they mysteriously merge with the myriad things into one, and together with the multitude they enter Xuantong (Mysterious Unity)—the state described in the Laozi in which one is undifferentiatedly one with the myriad things and all distinctions between self and other are erased. Following spontaneity and acting, there is nothing that cannot be done. What is called “Heaven” means precisely spontaneity.

Those who act are in fact not truly acting; it is things themselves that operate. Those who know are in fact not truly knowing; it is things themselves that manifest their principles. For things to know themselves is a kind of “not knowing,” and therefore knowledge arises from not knowing. For things to operate themselves is a kind of Wuwei (non-action), and therefore action arises from Wuwei. Since action arises from Wuwei, it takes Wuwei as its root; since knowledge arises from not knowing, it takes not knowing as its guiding principle. Therefore the true principle also emerges from not knowing and Wuwei.

Thus the Zhenren (True Person)—one who transcends the worldly and realizes the Dao (the Way) of spontaneity—can forget knowledge and attain true knowledge, can refrain from deliberate action and yet spontaneously accomplish, can follow spontaneity in living, and through Zuowang (sitting and forgetting: the cultivation practice of forgetting bodily form and cleverness in order to unite with the Dao) attain something. Hence the name and marks of “knowing” disappear, and the categories of “acting” are removed as well.

In human life, although the bodily form is only seven chi tall, the Five Constants (wuchang: the basic inherent constants of the human body, broadly referring to the body’s various constituents and functions) must all be present. Therefore even this small body must rely on the whole of Heaven and Earth for support. Among all that Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things possess, nothing may be lacking even for a moment. If one thing is lacking, a living person has no way to survive; if one principle is not penetrated, one’s natural lifespan (tiannian) cannot be completed. Yet of what the body possesses, some is known by people and some is unknown; of the principles of things, some are acted upon by people and some are not. Therefore what people know is little, while what the body possesses is much; what people do is little, while what principles encompass is broad. If those in superior positions cannot accord with this yet seek completeness, they do not understand the nature of things.

What people know need not be the same, but in what they do they dare not each hold a different view. Once there is difference, falseness forms, and true nature is lost. Some delight in seeking knowledge without tiring, to the point of exhausting the whole body; what they delight in is no more than a single skill, yet they ruin the root along with it.

This passage says that it is not acceptable to use what one knows to injure what one does not know. Truly high wisdom understands that human undertakings each have their proper limits, and so it follows and allows without forcing; it understands that what people know has limits, and so it employs knowledge without unrestrained excess. If one does not let what is known become boundless and thereby exhaust oneself, then within one body, knowing and not-knowing can work together and be complete at once. This is using what is known to nourish what is not known.

The phrase “you xi zhe” says: even when wisdom is abundant, it is still not as good as discarding cleverness and letting the natural continue without cease. If a person with knowledge and understanding cannot attain “nothing is necessarily acceptable and nothing necessarily unacceptable,” then he must have something to rely on and something to wait for. As for following natural spontaneity and living thereby, one responds appropriately whenever encountering things. If what one relies on is not fixed, this shows that wherever there is reliance, there is no fixed standard.

My life has a limit; this is the decree of Heaven. That the mind wishes to go beyond this limit is human effort. Yet so-called human effort is also a part of Heaven; none of the ten thousand things is not Heaven. Heaven is simply naturalness. If people all accord with naturalness, then order and disorder, success and failure, meeting and not meeting in the world are not things human power can fabricate; they are all naturally so.

Once there is the Zhenren (True Person)—the ideal personality in Daoism who has realized the Way of Heaven and is united with nature—the wisdom and capacity of all people under Heaven can attain their true nature without becoming disordered. By not opposing the few, he accords with many; by not placing himself above success, he does not rely on achievement to contend for precedence in handling affairs. He does not scheme with the literati; as long as his mind goes straight ahead, the many scholars naturally gather, not because he attracts them by strategy. This is merely that he himself is wholly appropriate and without fault; it is not that he is anxious about gain or loss. For one who can be like this, the principle is naturally complete in itself; it is not that he fears death.

Therefore, when the Zhenren walks on land, it is not in order to avoid water and dampness; when he keeps away from fire, it is not in order to escape the heat; and being without fault is not a matter of deliberately arranging things correctly. Thus, although he does not treat heat as heat, he never throws himself into fire; although he does not treat dampness as dampness, he never steps into water; although he does not treat death as death, he never loses his life.

Does the existence of life really come from someone deliberately seeking it? Do the accomplishments of things really come from someone forcing them? To be able to accord with natural spontaneity and refrain from interference, so that nothing is left unpenetrated—such a person is a Zhenren (one who has cultivated the Dao to the highest level and become one with nature). How could anyone fix the mind on the things one encounters and seek after them? Those who understand this principle and ascend to the Dao are separated from ordinary people by precisely such a distance.

The Zhenren of antiquity did not dream when asleep and had no anxieties when awake. They did not relish flavors in eating, and their breathing was long and deep. The Zhenren’s breath rises from the heels, while ordinary people’s breath moves only shallowly through the throat. Those who submit to external things and are constrained by desires speak with hurried, disordered breath, stammering and faltering as if retching. The deeper one’s cravings and desires, the thinner one’s innate spiritual nature (Tianji, the natural spiritual clarity with which humans are born).

The Zhenren of antiquity did not rejoice over life or dislike death. They were not delighted at birth and did not resist death. They came at ease and went naturally. They did not forget their origin, nor did they press after their end. When they received life they accepted it with joy; having forgotten it, they returned it in accord with nature. This is what is meant by not using the human mind to harm the Great Dao but following the naturalness of the Heavenly Dao—only such people can be called Zhenren.

Those who have attained the Dao (the Way) do not dream in sleep because there are no distracting thoughts in their minds; when they wake they have no worries because, whatever they encounter, they can be at ease. They do not find food delicious; they simply follow the ordinary principle of eating and drinking. The Zhenren (True Person) breathes from the heels, with the breath reaching all the way to the deep root of the body. When speaking in the throat, it is as if something is stuck and cannot be spat out, because the Qi (vital energy) is not smooth and free-flowing.

The Zhenren have deep foundations and a settled mind; thereafter they return to the One (the whole of the Dao, without a discriminating mind) and are free from greed. Therefore those whose cravings and desires are deep have shallow natural vitality. Those who do not cling to life or fear death can merge with creation (the transformations of nature). They neither rejoice nor loathe the transformations of life and death, because they accept them calmly and let them be natural. Their coming and going is free because they entrust themselves to the highest principle, and so their coming and going meet no obstruction.

The whole process of life and death, beginning and end, must be forgotten together. Having forgotten one’s own life, how much more should one refrain from inquiring into what comes after death? When receiving, they rejoice and do not ask what it is they receive; whatever they meet, there is nothing that does not suit them. After forgetting, they can recover, because recovery does not rely on conceptual discrimination; it reaches the utmost realm.

Human beings are born pure and quiet—this is their heavenly nature; to be moved through contact with external things is the desire of their inherent nature. The influence of external things on people is inexhaustible, and people’s pursuit of external things is without moderation; thus the Heavenly Principle is obliterated. The Zhenren understand that using the mind to assist the natural workings goes against the Dao; using the mind to assist Heaven harms life—therefore they do not do so.

The Bicheng (a Ming dynasty commentary) says: “Emerging into the world” refers to birth—that is, life and coming—the beginning and receiving; “returning to creation” refers to entering—that is, death and going—the end and return. One who knows that before the beginning there was originally no beginning will not forget their own starting point; one who knows that before the beginning there was originally no end will not pursue an endpoint. In this way they can pass in and out of creation and play between life and death—where then could there remain a clinging mind of liking and disliking?

Those who depart from the Dao: once the mind changes, they have already departed from the Dao. The Dao fundamentally has no life or death, yet people give rise to a second, dualistic mind—what is this if not abandoning the Dao?

Those who try to assist Heaven are like Laozi, who disliked the place in which he lived, grew weary of the life he was in, and turned to pursue something beyond life. The Zhenren are not like this. They know that fearing life and death and seeking to escape life and death still belongs to a secondary realm.

Those who are thus—referring to the True Persons (Zhenren) and Ultimate Persons (Zhiren) described above—have a calm mind and will and a clear, still countenance. In their coolness they are like autumn; in their warmth, like spring. Their feelings of joy and anger flow with the four seasons and are fittingly attuned to the myriad things, yet no one can fathom their depths.

Therefore, when the sage wages war, even if he destroys another state, he does not lose the people’s hearts. His benefits reach ten thousand generations, yet this is not done from a deliberate desire to “love others.” If delighting in communing with all things were taken as the mark of the sage, that would not be the sage; to have partial attachments is not benevolence; to merely accord with the seasons is not worthiness; and not to understand benefit and harm, gain and loss, is not enough to merit praise.

One who takes ritual propriety as wings moves in accord with the times, and so is unobstructed everywhere. High and low succeed one another—this is the irreversible current of nature; great and small gather together—this is a situation born of inevitability. Vast and open, without attachment, it is the storehouse where all wisdom converges. Having reached the utmost in being a teacher and model for others, why should one deliberately strive to act?

To accord with the age is wisdom: entrust those affairs that arise naturally, and let the world run itself. What is called “qiu” (the mound) is precisely where the root lies; as for original nature, it is the root of nature. All things each have their own sufficiency; they are sufficient in their own nature. Allow the various De to circulate naturally, causing those who are sufficient to return to the root; when the root is reached, the principle is exhausted.

All of this is naturally brought about by external things, and the accomplishment does not lie with oneself. Thus even at the center of countless affairs, one often remains leisurely and content. In a haze, one does not notice affairs passing through oneself; in joyful ease, one does not know that words issue from one’s mouth. The greatest delusion of worldly people is precisely the very thing that the true Ultimate Person—the one of highest Daoist attainment—diligently cultivates.

This passage comes from the “Great and Venerable Teacher” chapter of Zhuangzi and is quoted in Zhuangzi Yi.

If people in the world can maintain consistency in their likes and dislikes, and no matter whether circumstances are favorable or adverse keep their mind pure and unified, such people walk together with nature. Those whose minds are not pure and unified keep company with the people of the world. When Heaven and the human do not overcome each other and do not stand in opposition, such a person is called a Zhenren (True Person)—one who has attained the Dao, transcended worldly distinctions, and is united with nature.

Life and death are arrangements of fate, and the alternation of day and night is the regular pattern of nature; both are brought about by the Heavenly Dao. There are matters in which humans cannot participate or decide, and this is precisely the original reality of all things. People still honor Heaven as a father and love it—how much more should they honor the great Dao that transcends all things and stands alone in its loftiness? People also regard a ruler as more valuable than themselves and are even willing to give their lives for him—how much more so for the true Dao?

Fish trapped on dry land can only spit moisture at one another and moisten each other with saliva, barely keeping alive; this is not as good as returning to the rivers and lakes, where they forget one another and each is at ease. Rather than praise Yao and criticize Jie, it is better to forget both and accord with the transformations of the great Dao.

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: A person who has attained the Dao is constantly without a deliberative mind and follows the inherent nature of things; thus their judgments of “good” and “not good,” “virtuous” and “evil,” are no different from the things themselves. If the ten thousand things all return to the one, they belong to the same category as what issues from nature (Heaven); if they are fragmented and not one, they belong to the same category as what issues from human artifice. The True Person (one who has attained the Dao) can make Heaven and the human one, regards other and self, you and me, as equal, and does not use “one” to discriminate against “not one.” Whatever does not return to oneness is Heaven; where other and self are clearly divided and you and I each cling to one side, that is the human. The True Person makes Heaven and the human one and equalizes the myriad differences among the ten thousand things. Things do not criticize one another, and Heaven and the human do not overcome one another; therefore the mind is expansive, and there is nothing that is not one; the Shen (spirit) is profound, and there is nothing it does not allow. In this way, “one” and “not one” are no longer distinguished, and self and other mysteriously merge into one.

The alternation of day and night is a constant natural law; this is the Dao of Heaven. Therefore to understand that death and life are the ultimate term of fate is not false. Death and life are like the alternation of day and night—what is there to be concerned about? The True Person is at peace with day when it is day and at peace with night when it is night; seeing death and life as day and night, what then could remain unattained? The reason people have wants that are not fulfilled and then become anxious and hindered in mind is entirely worldly emotional attachment, and it is not in accord with principle.

“Zhuo” refers to independent transformation (duhua), that is, each thing generates and transforms according to itself without relying on external force. As for the efficacy of mutual conditioning and mutual dependence, nothing surpasses independent transformation reaching its utmost. What people rely on is Heaven, and what Heaven generates are the ten thousand things that transform independently. All people take Heaven as father; therefore, toward changes such as day and night, cold and heat, they can calmly accept them and dare not dislike them. How much more so when the realm of independent transformation reaches the utmost of Xuanming (the profound, mysterious, and trace-transcending state)—how could one fail to comply with such changes? “Zhen” (the true/authentic) refers to being naturally so without relying on external things. The principle of nature cannot be contravened; how could it be only the ruler’s command that cannot be disobeyed?

Thus Guo Xiang uses the fish analogy to confirm this. In the “Great Master” chapter of the Zhuangzi it says that when the spring water dries up, fish moisten one another with spit; this is not as good as forgetting one another in the rivers and lakes. Rather than clinging to one another and caring for one another in insufficiency, it is better to roam freely and forget one another in sufficiency.

Those criticisms and praises all arise from insufficiency. The person of utmost sufficiency has already forgotten good and evil in the mind, transcended death and life, and become one with the changes of the ten thousand things; the mind is broad, and there is nothing unsuitable. How could such a person still know where the distinction between Yao and Jie lies? (Yao was a legendary wise ruler; Jie was a tyrant of the Xia dynasty.)

Heaven and Earth entrust me to a bodily form, make me toil through life, give me ease through old age, and rest me through death. Therefore, one who is good at settling his life is also good at settling his death.

This is like hiding a boat in a valley or hiding a mountain in a marsh: people believe this is quite secure. Yet in the middle of the night a strong man carries them off, and the muddled person knows nothing of it. Things large and small each have an appropriate way of being hidden, yet they still cannot avoid the possibility of loss. If one wishes to hide the world within the world, and yet cannot find a place where it will not be lost—this is the constant condition of the myriad things. (The original character guang should be dun, meaning “to escape” or “to be lost.”)

People in the world love [the bodily form] merely because it is a human form. If one can accord with the bodily form and accept the myriad transformations without end, how could the joy in this ever be exhausted? Therefore the sage roams in a realm from which the myriad things cannot escape, and causes all things to be preserved.

Guo Xiang’s commentary says that the bodily form’s birth, aging, and death are all transformations of nature. If one can treat old age and death well, and begin and end well, people are still willing to emulate it—how much more so the principle on which the myriad things depend and on which the single transformation (the flow of natural creation) rests?

The human body undergoes life, aging, and death, and all of these are part of the “I.” The body is what the “I” bears; life is what the “I” labors for; old age is what the “I” takes ease in; death is what the “I” rests in. Although these four constantly change, there is not one of them that does not belong to the “I”—what is there for me to begrudge? Death and life are both ming (the arrangements of nature). If there were no good, that would be the end of it; where there is good, it is life. But good does not belong to oneself alone; therefore, if one considers my life good, then my death is also good.

This passage explains that the changes of life and death cannot be escaped. It first brings up the ultimate limit that cannot be escaped (death), and then explains it through the principle of inevitable change, so that people may accord with change and not be entangled by it. There is no “power of powerlessness” (what appears powerless but is in fact the most powerful) greater than change. It can lift up heaven and earth and make them tend toward a new state; it can carry mountains on its back and make them move; therefore it never stops. In the blink of an eye, things have already taken on a new form; heaven, earth, and the myriad things are moving at every moment; all in the world is being renewed, yet people imagine that the old appearance still remains.

Boats and mountains change every day, yet they seem as if still in their original places. Now, as we brush past one another, it has already been lost in the darkness. Therefore the “I” of former times is no longer the “I” of the present; since I flow along with the present, how could I always keep my old appearance? Yet people in the world do not notice this; they think that the things encountered before their eyes can be retained and are truly unchanging—is this not to be blind to principle?

Those who do not understand that the self and transformation (the natural process by which the myriad things change) are originally one, yet wish to hide things away so that they do not change—even if they hide them as deeply and securely as possible, each in its proper place, they ultimately cannot prevent their daily transformation. Therefore those who “hide and possess” cannot stop the passing away of things. Those who “do not hide but entrust themselves to transformation” cannot be changed even by change. If one can refrain from hiding and wholly allow things to be natural, one can be mysteriously united with the myriad things and become one with transformation. Thus there is no division between inner and outer, and no distinction between death and life. If one embodies heaven and earth and accords with change, then the object one pursues can no longer be found. This is the constant condition of the myriad things, not a minor doctrine based on a one-sided view.