《庄子翼(焦构)》Vol. 3

The human form is merely one encounter among the myriad transformations of the ten thousand things. Within the boundless heavens and earth—Wuji (the Limitless)—most of the things one encounters also possess form and body, just as humans do. Is it only the human form that deserves delight, while other things have nothing to enjoy? Originally a person was not in human form; after transformation he became human, and in becoming human he lost his former appearance. To lose one’s former appearance yet feel joy is because one delights in the form encountered before one. Transformations are endless and inexhaustible—where would one fail to encounter them? To find joy in whatever one encounters—where could such joy ever end?

The sage roams on the path of transformation, moving freely with the ever-renewing flow. However the ten thousand things transform, the sage transforms along with them; as transformation has no end, the sage is likewise endless. Who could catch up with him?

From the perspective of life it is extinction; from the perspective of death it is another kind of existence. Since from the perspective of death it is also existence, which moment is not existence? Within a lifespan of a hundred years, the sage does not regard youth as good or old age as bad, but treats the length of years as equal. Yet even one who has not yet comprehended transformation and does not regard life and death as equal, if his character is pure, is still sufficient to be a model for others. How much more so for one who can be profoundly identical with the ten thousand things—what Laozi calls “Xuantong” (mysterious sameness), the wondrous state in which all distinctions are dissolved and one is merged with the ten thousand things as one—and who takes transformation as his own substance: is it not entirely natural that he should be honored by all under heaven?

The Dao (the Way) has its true “reality” and its verifiable “evidence”; it itself does nothing and has no form. It can be transmitted, but no one can receive it and make it their own; it can be obtained, but it cannot be seen with the eyes. It is self-rooted and self-originating; it existed before heaven and earth came into being and has stood firm since antiquity. Ghosts and spirits and the High God are born from it; heaven and earth are also born from it. It stands before Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate, the highest source before the cosmos divided), yet is not thereby considered high; it lies below the Six Ultimates (the ends of up, down, and the four directions), yet is not thereby considered deep; it was born before heaven and earth, yet is not reckoned distant; it is more ancient than high antiquity, yet does not appear aged.

Xiwei Shi obtained it, and so could rule over heaven and earth; Fuxi obtained it, and so could harmonize with primal Qi (vital energy); the Northern Dipper obtained it, and so for all ages does not shift; the sun and moon obtained it, and so for all ages do not cease; Kanhuai obtained it, and so could ride Mount Kunlun (the sacred mountain); Feng Yi (god of the Yellow River) obtained it, and so could roam the great river; Jianwu obtained it, and so could dwell in the great mountains; the Yellow Emperor obtained it, and so could ascend into the clouds and sky; Zhuanxu obtained it, and so could dwell in the Dark Palace (the northern palace); Yuqiang obtained it, and so could stand at the North Pole; the Queen Mother of the West obtained it, and so could sit at Shaoguang (a mountain in legend); Pengzu obtained it, and so lived from the time of Youyu (Shun) down to the age of the Five Hegemons of the Spring and Autumn period; Fu Yue obtained it, and so could assist King Wuding of Shang and possess all under heaven, and afterward rode the Shuwei and mounted the Ji and Wei, taking his place among the ranks of stars.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: The Dao has the “reality” of being without affective feeling, and therefore it is wuwei (non-action); it has the “evidence” of constant nonbeing, and therefore it is formless. From ancient times to the present, all take the Dao as their place of security, yet no one can truly receive and possess it. Each obtains its place and dwells freely at ease; therefore none is content to remain subordinate to others, and they ride the Shuwei, mount Ji and Wei, and rank alongside the stars.

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: The myriad things possess the “feeling” of “no feeling,” and therefore they do nothing; they possess the “trustworthiness” of “constant nonbeing,” and therefore they have no fixed form. Since ancient times people have taken Dao as their place of security, yet no one can truly possess it as his own. It enables the myriad things each to find its place, yet its form cannot be seen. Before heaven and earth appeared, it already existed; thus it is clear that “nonbeing” did not have to wait for “being” to appear before it became “nonbeing.”

How could nonbeing itself produce spirits? It is not Dao that makes the Ghost Emperor (the legendary lord of spirits) manifest divinity; the Ghost Emperor manifests divinity himself. It is not Dao that gives birth to heaven and earth; heaven and earth generate themselves. This is “the spirit that is not made spirit” and “the generation that is not made generation.” Therefore, if a person is not sufficient in himself to become a spirit, yet does not deliberately seek to be a spirit, he is instead a spirit. What achievement is worth possessing? What affair is worth relying on?

As for the permanence of Dao: in height it is not “high”; in depth it is not “deep”; in duration it is not “long-lasting”; in existence it is not “existent.” It is everywhere, and wherever it is, it is “nonbeing.” There is no place above or below that it does not reach, so it cannot be called high or low; there is no place within or without that it does not reach, so it cannot be named as surface or interior. That which moves along with change cannot be called long-lasting; that which always maintains “nonbeing” cannot be called aging.

The so-called “self-attainment” means that the attainment of the myriad things neither relies on Dao to bestow it, nor comes from their own deliberate seeking; rather, they suddenly attain it themselves and transform alone. Dao cannot cause the myriad things to attain anything, and when I have not yet attained, I too cannot actively attain it. Therefore, whoever attains Dao does not outwardly borrow from Dao, nor inwardly proceed from his own intention; spontaneously he attains himself and transforms alone.

The coming of life is not easily obtained, just as things transform alone and attain themselves. Since life has already been attained, why deliberately act for what has not yet been attained? Therefore, forced pursuit by human effort is not sufficient to preserve life; life does not originally come from one’s deliberate action, and if one forces it, one instead harms its true nature.

The text mentions Xiwei Shi (a figure from ancient legend) attaining Dao and thereby being able to govern heaven and earth, the sun, moon, and stars, thereby illustrating the function of one who attains Dao.

Bicheng (written by Jiao Hong of the Ming dynasty; Zhuangzi Yi is the collection he compiled) says: What the “Great Master” chapter speaks of is precisely Dao; only here does it explicitly state that Dao is formless and Wuwei (non-action). As for the statement “it has feeling and trustworthiness,” this is said from the perspective of those who can discern its penetrating principle. “Feeling” is movement within stillness.

“Xin” (trust/verification) is the manifestation of gaining something within movement—the “xin” in Laozi’s phrase “within it there is xin.” Taiyi is the state in which Qi has not yet been seen; Taichu is the state in which Qi first begins to appear. “The beginning of Qi, not yet beginning to be Wuwei” means that although Qi at its inception has not yet taken form, it is not nothing at all. When Zhuangzi speaks of “having qing and having xin,” he speaks from the perspective of one who can penetrate the essence of things. Qing is the movement generated within stillness; xin is the gain within movement. If Qi is taken as the source, then Qi itself is naturally so.

The Northern Dipper is the guiding cord of Heaven, that is, Heaven’s pivot, and so it is also called “Weidou” (the Dipper as Cord). Kanhuai is the name of a deity with a human face and an animal body. According to the Qingleng zhuan, Feng Yi was a man from Dishou in Tongxiang, Huayin; by consuming “renshi” (a legendary elixir stone), he became a water immortal, namely Hebo. Another account says that he drowned while bathing in the Yellow River on a gengzi day in a certain month. Jianwu is a mountain god; legend has it that he did not die and lived until the time of Confucius. The Yellow Emperor attained the Dao and ascended to Heaven—the story of “ascending from Ding Lake.” Xuangong is the northern official residence. The “Yueling” chapter of the Liji says that the sovereign of the north is Zhuanxu and its deity is Xuanming. Yuqiang is a sea god. The Shanhaijing says: on an islet in the North Sea there is a deity with a human face and a bird’s body, with a green snake hanging from each ear and red snakes beneath its feet; its name is Yuqiang. The Queen Mother of the West (Xiwangmu): the Shanhaijing describes her as having human form, a dog’s tail, disheveled hair, a jade sheng ornament on her head, skill at long whistling, and a dwelling on the bank of the Xun River. The Han Wudi Neizhuan records that the Queen Mother of the West, together with a certain “Gong furen” (Madam Gong), descended to Emperor Wu of Han; she was beautiful in appearance and was an immortal. Shaoguang is the name of a mountain; another account says it is the name of a western realm of emptiness. Legend has it that a star lies at the tail of the Ji mansion, which is the source of expressions such as “riding the cord and straddling the Ji tail.” The Ji and Dou (the Ji and Dipper mansions) are the binding cords beside the Milky Way.

Nanbo Zikui (a figure in the Zhuangzi) asked Nü Ou (a figure in the Zhuangzi accomplished in cultivating the Dao): “You are already advanced in years, yet your complexion is like that of an infant—why is this?” Nü Ou answered: “I have heard the Dao.”

Nanbo Zikui asked Nü Yu, “You are so old, yet your complexion is like a child’s. Why is that?” Nü Yu replied, “I have heard of the Dao (the Way).” (Dao: the fundamental principle of the universe and the highest realm in Daoist thought.)

Nanbo Zikui asked again, “Can the Dao be learned?” Nü Yu said, “No, no—you are not that kind of person. Bu Liangyi has the endowment of a sage but not the Dao of a sage; I have the Dao of a sage but not the endowment of a sage. I wanted to teach it to him and see whether he could truly become a sage. Even if he could not, telling the Dao of a sage to someone with a sage’s endowment is in itself an easy matter. Still, I carefully guarded him and instructed him. After three days, he was able to forget the affairs of the world (to transcend worldly disturbances); after forgetting the world, I continued to guard him, and after seven days, he was able to forget external things (to transcend material interests and advantages); after forgetting external things, I guarded him again, and after nine days, he was able to forget his attachment to his own life and death. Having transcended life and death, he could reach “zhaoche” (morning illumination: a state in which the mind suddenly becomes as clear as the light of dawn); once the mind was clear, he could “see the One” (jiandu: to see the one and only reality of the Dao); after seeing the One, he could forget the boundary between ancient and modern; transcending ancient and modern, he could enter the realm of neither dying nor being born.”

Nü Yu continued, “One who can ‘kill’ the attachment to life will instead not die; one who clings single-mindedly to ‘life’ will instead fail to attain true life. As for the Dao in relation to the myriad things, there is nothing it does not send off, nothing it does not welcome, nothing it does not destroy, and nothing it does not bring to completion. This is called ‘yingning.’ Yingning means being able to maintain inner peace amid the disturbances and changes of the external world. (Ying: to touch, disturb; ning: peace.)”

Nanbo Zikui asked, “Where did you hear these teachings?” Nü Yu said, “I heard them from the son of ‘Secondary Ink.’ The son of Secondary Ink heard them from the grandson of ‘Recitation.’ The grandson of Recitation heard them from ‘Clear Seeing.’ Clear Seeing heard them from ‘Whispered Assent.’ Whispered Assent heard them from ‘Waiting Service.’ Waiting Service heard them from ‘Yu Wushu.’ Yu Wushu heard them from ‘Dark Obscurity.’ Dark Obscurity heard them from ‘Vast Emptiness.’ Vast Emptiness heard them from ‘Doubtful Beginning.’”

(Note: Most of these names in the text are allegorical. They are generally understood to symbolize a sequence from writing and recitation to realization and transmission, rather than actual persons.)

In Guo Xiang’s commentary, one who “hears the Dao” follows the natural growth of his own life, and so his complexion is full and vital. “Outside” means setting aside external things and worldly thoughts; “things” refers to daily necessities—things close to oneself that are hard to forget. If one can let go of all such attachments, the grip on life weakens, and one no longer loathes death. Without that loathing, one can peacefully accept whatever circumstances arise; the mind becomes open and unobstructed, acting as timing changes—this is “Chaoche” (morning clarity, a state as clear as the rising sun, from the Zhuangzi’s “Dazongshi”). To dwell peacefully with whatever one encounters, without distinguishing before and after in the mind, is “Jiandu” (seeing the solitary Dao, also from “Dazongshi”). To go and come together with the solitary Dao is to transcend the temporal division between ancient and modern.

Clinging to life brings anxiety about death; loathing death instead creates entanglement with life. If one neither clings nor loathes, then there is no “life” and no “death.” To let all things send off and welcome, destroy and complete, on their own is to leave nothing unaccommodated. For one mysteriously united with all things, when external things pull at him, he is drawn along with them, yet inwardly he is not unsettled; if external things pull at him and he alone remains untouched, he will instead fail. Thus, by following the pull and letting nature take its course, all things can be brought to completion even through winding paths.

“Xuanming” (the dark and unfathomable realm) is used to name “nonbeing,” but it is not truly empty nothingness. By means of names and appearances one gradually approaches “nonbeing,” yet “nonbeing” itself already lies beyond names and appearances. Therefore, even when one reaches Xuanming, one has not reached the utmost; one then further entrusts oneself to “Canliao” (the realm of silent emptiness)—this is “mystery upon mystery.” Some principles of nature are formed through long accumulation and habitual cultivation: from near to far, from coarse to refined. Thus only after seven stages does the name “nonbeing” arise, and only after nine stages does one begin to doubt whether “nonbeing” is the original source.

This passage introduces the scene in the Zhuangzi’s “Dazongshi” where Zi Si, Zi Yu, Zi Li, and Zi Lai discuss the Dao together. The opening line, “Who can take nonbeing as the head?” means that one who takes “nonbeing” as the foundation and regards life and death as a single body can be their friend.

Zi Si, Zi Yu, Zi Li, and Zi Lai gathered together to talk. They said, “Whoever can take nothingness as the head, life as the spine, and death as the buttocks, and who understands that death and life, existence and loss, are originally one body—I will be friends with him.” The four looked at one another and smiled, their minds in accord, and so they became close friends.

Later Zi Yu fell gravely ill, and Zi Si went to visit him. Zi Yu said, “How great is the Creator—the natural force that fashions all things, namely the Dao—to have made me into this condition! My back is terribly hunched, five hollows have grown on my back, my chin is hidden down at my navel, my shoulders rise above the top of my head, and the curved growth on my body points up toward the sky; the Qi of Yin-Yang is out of harmony. Yet my mind is calm and untroubled.” He dragged himself to the well and looked at his reflection, sighing, “Alas! The Creator is about to turn me into this sort of freak again.”

Zi Si asked, “Do you detest this condition?” Zi Yu replied, “What is there for me to detest? If the Creator gradually turns my left arm into a rooster, I will use it to announce the dawn; if He turns my right arm into a slingshot, I will use it to shoot owls and roast them to eat; if He gradually turns my body into a carriage and my spirit into a horse, I will ride it—why would I need to prepare any other carriage and horses?”

To receive life is to accord with the time; to lose life is to accord with natural transformation. Resting content in the time and following transformation, sorrow and joy cannot enter the heart. This is what the ancients called “the untying of the suspension”—that is, the suffering of being hung upside down is released. Those who cannot free themselves are entangled by external things. Moreover, in the end nothing can prevail against the natural creativity of transformation—so what is there for me to detest?

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Sha means “to disturb.” One who can accord with natural transformation will have no sighs of lament. Jin means “gradual advance.” One who can comprehend the transformations of Creation will find no place where he cannot accord, and no situation through which he cannot pass without relying on anything. When one meets the circumstances of the present, worldly people call it “gain”; time does not pause, and as it flows onward, worldly people call it “loss.” To be at peace with one’s time and accord with change—this is what is called “release from suspension” (xuanjie), like releasing a person who has been hung upside down. If one cannot liberate oneself, one will become entangled and knotted with the ten thousand things; if one can untie the knot, there is nothing that cannot be untied. Heaven cannot be without day and night; how then can I escape birth and death and dislike them?

Zilai fell gravely ill, gasping for breath, and seemed about to die. His wife and children gathered around the bed weeping. His friend Zili came to visit and said, “Go away! Do not disturb his transformation.” Leaning against the doorframe, Zili spoke to him and marveled, “How great is the transformative power of Creation! What will it make of you next? Where will it send you? Will it make you the liver of a rat, or the arm of an insect?”

Zilai replied, “When parents send their children east, west, south, or north, the children simply obey. The rule of Yin-Yang and Creation over a person surpasses that of parents. If it draws near to me and wants me to die, and I do not obey, then I would be obstinate—what fault would that be of it? The Great Clod—the earth, and also nature—sustains me with my bodily form, toils me with life, eases me with old age, and rests me with death. Therefore, if I treat my life well, I also treat my death well. Now suppose a master smelter—a highly skilled metalworker, figuratively the fashioner of things—were casting metal, and the metal leaped up and cried, ‘I must become the sword Moye!’ The master smelter would surely regard it as inauspicious metal. Now, having been fortunate enough to take human form, if I were to say, ‘I am a human, I am a human,’ Creation would surely regard me as an inauspicious person. Conversely, if one regards Heaven and Earth as a great furnace and Creation as the master smelter, then where could one go that would not be acceptable?”

After speaking, he fell peacefully asleep and suddenly awoke.

Life and death are like waking and sleeping: both are natural alternations. In accordance with the way of things, when it is time to sleep, one sleeps, without being disturbed by it. When creative transformation would cause a person to change, it is like awakening someone; in itself it has no deliberate action. Since ancient times, some people have been able to disobey their parents’ commands, but no one has been able to defy the changes of Yin-Yang or break the rhythm of day and night. For human beings, life and death are like day and night—not two distant matters.

When the time to die has come, there is originally nothing that can be forbidden. If one perversely gives rise to a mind that refuses to accept it, this is precisely to go against the way of things and hasten one’s own death. Death comes quickly because one fiercely resists it; it is not the fault of death.

“Bi” refers to death. While a person lives, they regard death as the other side (“bi”). To treat life well is also to treat death well; the principles of the two are always connected. The saying “A human, a human—wishing only to be human” is just like metal (meaning the iron material in smelting and casting) leaping in the furnace, wanting to be cast into the famous sword Moye. Everyone in the world knows that metal’s desire to become a sharp weapon is an inauspicious sign, yet they cannot let it naturally transform into an implement.

The way of transformation is present everywhere. Now, once one has obtained human form, how could that be intentional? Life is not deliberate fabrication; it is simply that when the time arrives, one is naturally born. To stubbornly take life as one’s own—is that not also delusion? Everyone knows that metal’s insistence on becoming a sharp weapon is inauspicious; therefore one should understand that one is no different from metal, and then the entanglement with life and death can be untied. Once the entanglement is untied, there is nothing that is not acceptable.

Sleep peacefully, and wake with a sudden start. Whether awake or asleep, one is equally at ease, not letting life and death disturb one’s mind.

Zi Sanghu, Meng Zifan, and Zi Qinzhang became close friends. They said, “Who can associate without making association a concern, act without making action a concern? Who can climb into the sky, roam among the clouds and mist, dance at will in the boundless, and, forgetting one another, live on without end?” The three looked at one another and smiled, their minds in complete accord, and so became the closest of friends.

After some time, Zi Sanghu died and had not yet been buried. When Confucius (the founder of Confucianism) heard of it, he sent his disciple Zigong (a follower of Confucius) to help with the funeral arrangements. He found Meng Zifan and Zi Qinzhang, one composing a melody and the other playing the qin, singing in response to each other: “Alas, Sanghu! Alas, Sanghu! You have already returned to your original truth, while we remain in this world as human beings.”

Zigong stepped forward quickly and asked, “May I ask, is it in accord with ritual propriety to sing in the presence of a corpse?” The two looked at each other, smiled, and said, “How could you understand the true meaning of ritual propriety!”

Zigong returned and told Confucius about it, saying, “What kind of people are these? They have cultivated themselves to the point of having no attachments, and they do not even keep their own bodies in mind. They sing before a corpse without the slightest change in their expressions. I truly cannot describe them in words. What sort of people are they really?”

Confucius said, “They are people who wander beyond the rituals and laws of the world, while I am one who wanders within ritual and law. The inside and the outside were never meant to communicate, yet I sent you to offer condolences to them—this was my shallowness. They are now friends with the Creator (the Heavenly Dao that governs the generation and transformation of all things), roaming within the single Qi (vital energy) between Heaven and Earth. They regard life as an attached wart or tumor and death as the bursting of a boil. How, then, could such people distinguish death from life or the order of before and after? They lodge their bodies in different forms but entrust themselves to the same underlying reality. They forget the distinction between liver and gallbladder and forget the functions of ears and eyes. They cycle back and forth without knowing the thread of beginning or end; vaguely they wander beyond the dusty world, roaming freely in the realm of Wuwei (non-action). How would they cling to worldly rules and watch the expressions in the eyes of the crowd?”

Zigong asked, “Then what is the direction you rely on, Master?” Confucius said, “I am one punished by Heaven (that is, one not tolerated by the world and, as it were, condemned by Heaven). Even so, I would like to share this realm with you.”

Zigong asked, “May I ask what the method is?” Confucius said, “Fish can depend on one another only in water; people can depend on one another only in the Dao (the Way). Fish live in water, and a pool dug for them can supply what they need to survive; people live in the Dao, and when they have nothing to scheme after, their lives become naturally settled. Therefore it is said: fish forget one another in the rivers and lakes; people forget one another in the Dao and its methods.”

Zigong asked, “May I ask what an anomalous person (jiren) is?” Confucius said, “An anomalous person is one who differs from ordinary people yet is in accord with the Heavenly Dao. Therefore it is said: what Heaven regards as a petty person, people regard as a noble person; what people regard as a noble person, Heaven regards as a petty person.”

This passage is from Guo Xiang’s commentary on the Zhuangzi. Its general meaning is: one who comprehends the principle of heaven and earth and accords with natural transformation is like a single body—hands and feet each have their office, the five viscera each have their jurisdiction, and yet the hundred joints are harmonized into an undivided whole. Such mutual cooperation comes from a mindless “non-mutual interaction” (wu xiang yu); each fulfills its own portion, and both inner and outer are brought to completion. This alone is true “acting for one another through non-acting for one another” (xiang wei yu wu xiang wei). If someone, starting from private intention, tries to care for the hands and feet and deliberately directs the limbs to look after the five viscera, then the more effortfully he manages them, the more both inner and outer fall into distress. Therefore one who regards the whole world as a single body will not deliberately show partial favor to anyone within it.

The phrase “naotiao wuji” describes transformation that is inexhaustible and a responsiveness that leaves nothing unaddressed. One who can forget his own life and death, gain and loss, has nothing he cannot let go; thus he can follow transformation and accord with the creative process, without exhaustion and without obstruction.

“They looked at each other and smiled, and nothing was contrary in their hearts” comes from the “Dazongshi” chapter of the Zhuangzi and refers to the scene in which Zisang Hu and others became friends. It is a feeling lodged in utmost clarity and unmediated closeness, not the private attachments of worldly love. “When others wept, they also wept” is compliance within the worldly sphere; “equalizing life and death, banishing sorrow and joy from the mind, and being able to sing in the presence of a corpse” is the aspiration that transcends ritual propriety and worldly feeling—the realm of fangwai, beyond the ordinary bounds.

One who understands ritual propriety must first roam outside—transcend the worldly—and then use that transcendence to govern the inner, that is, the worldly sphere within. He guards the root, the mother, in order to nourish the branches, the son; he accords with genuine feeling and acts directly. If he clings merely to reputation and is constrained by external forms, then filial piety will not arise from sincerity, parental affection will not arise from true feeling, and fathers, sons, and brothers will harbor private motives and deceive one another. How could that still be the original intent of ritual?

When principle reaches its utmost, inner and outer are mutually penetrating. There is no one who transcends external things to the utmost and yet fails to harmonize with the inner mind, and no one who harmonizes with the inner mind and yet fails to transcend external things. Therefore the sage constantly expands the inner by transcending external things. With no-mind he accords with the world of purposeful action; thus even if he deals with the myriad things all day and labors bodily, his spirit remains unchanged, and in the face of countless affairs he remains calm and self-possessed. To see only the bodily form and be unable to attend to the spirit—this is precisely the common entanglement of worldly people.

Therefore, when one sees the sage walking together with the myriad things, one cannot say that he has abandoned external things and removed himself from the human crowd; when one observes him embodying nature and responding to things as they change, one cannot say that he is “sitting and forgetting” (zuowang—the state described in the Zhuangzi as forgetting the bodily form and erasing knowledge and views) and is self-satisfied. Is this merely saying that the sage is not like that? It goes further and asserts that in the ultimate principle these things are originally absent.

Zhuangzi wished to elucidate the principle that the ten thousand things are interconnected through a single Qi (vital energy) and penetrated by a common source, and to observe how their essential being follows change and accords with external things. Seen in this way, one can understand the so-called Zuowang (sitting in forgetfulness—forgetting bodily form and mental knowing, forgetting both self and things) and the state of self-attainment. Could it be that he only said the sage is not like this? He even said that within the ultimate principle there is no such level.

Therefore Zhuangzi wanted to clarify the purport of flux and unity, using it to explain the principles that people under heaven can comprehend. If he had simply written in the manner of praising Confucius (Zhongni), perhaps some people would rely on their own views to reject him. Hence he went beyond the sage’s inner realm and entrusted the meaning of fangwai (beyond the square, the realm beyond worldly rites and law) to several figures. Readers should forget the figures in whom it is lodged and seek the great meaning therein; then the principle of “roaming beyond the square while promoting what lies within it” will become plainly clear. Zhuangzi’s book is precisely discourse that transcends the mundane and stands above its age.

Condolence is an everyday matter within fangnei (within the square, the realm of worldly rites and law). If it is applied to the realm beyond the square, it appears shallow and crude.

All things between heaven and earth that jointly receive the one Qi are united with it as one, so there is no distinction between self and other. To regard life as a tumor attached to the body or a hanging wart is simply this Qi temporarily gathering, not something to rejoice in; to regard death as disease, ulceration, sores, and itches is simply this Qi naturally dispersing, not something to lament. Death and life alternate and come and go without end. If one can flow along with them, then wherever one goes is acceptable.

Thus, that one does not know where victory and defeat lie is because of reliance on external things; death and life, gathering and scattering, and impermanent transformation are all different states of things. There is no difference or sameness among the ten thousand things, and there is no need to rely on external things. Although what they rely on differs, together they form a single whole. Therefore forget the liver and gallbladder, discard the ears and eyes, let the natural principle proceed and silently follow it; one can forget even the five viscera—what then remains worth knowing? With no knowing in the mind, one can release the body onto the path of transformation, mysteriously one with the waves that rise and fall repeatedly, without knowing the limit reached by beginning and end.

This is the so-called achievement of Wuwei (non-action), not folding the hands in silence and doing nothing; what is called “beyond dust and dirt” is also not retreating to mountains and forests. What is displayed to the multitude is merely the dirt of the dusty world, not that fangwai state of merging with things. Zigong never heard the principle of nature and the Way of Heaven, so he saw only the appearances to which things attach, but not the root by which they are able to attach.

The reason things can have something to rely on is that they fundamentally do not depend on external things—how could people in the world truly grasp this principle? The so-called “condemned people” (lumin—those who do not conform to worldly norms and are bound by ritual and law) regard worldly ritual and law as shackles, which shows that what they treasure lies in transcending the worldly realm.

Those who wander beyond the world have an inner support (that is, they rely on their own original nature); those who stand aloof from the worldly realm are instead able to harmonize with it. Therefore, one who possesses the world does not treat the world as private property. Thus, only by first casting aside external things can one merge with the community; only by attaining “sitting in forgetfulness” (zuowang—the state of forgetting bodily form and mental activity) can one deal with worldly affairs. The more one relinquishes, the more one can gain.

If one can dwell securely in this supreme state, then even if one wishes to let go, the principles of things will naturally come to one; this is what neither the Heavenly Dao nor the human Dao will pardon (meaning it is an inevitable principle).

“I share it with you” means that although language is a shackle of the worldly realm, it is merely shared between you and me; this shows that one is originally beyond the worldly realm. Although the paths walked by humans and fish differ, both obtain what they need from Wuwei, returning from beyond the world to within it, after which their livelihood is sufficient and their minds are settled—this is invariably so. When each is satisfied, they can forget one another (drawn from the Zhuangzi allusion “to forget one another in the rivers and lakes”).

To be able to transcend outwardly and yet secretly accord inwardly, letting all things follow their natural course and allowing each innate nature to be fulfilled—thus the Dao of the sovereign is accomplished. This is “to be anomalous among men yet aligned with Heaven” (transcending the traces of ordinary people and according with the Heavenly Dao). From the perspective of nature, people are not divided into great and small; from the perspective of principle, one who can accord with the Heavenly Dao may be called a noble person (junzi).

Yan Hui asked Confucius: “When Mengsun Cai’s mother died, he wept but had no tears, and inwardly he was not grieved.” (Mengsun Cai was a grandee of Lu, renowned for his skill in observing mourning. His case is used here to show that for one who is truly penetrating, sorrow and joy are not tied to outward forms.)

Yan Hui asked Confucius: Mengsun Cai, when conducting the funeral of his mother, neither shed tears nor grieved inwardly, and during mourning he showed no sorrow. Lacking these three things, yet he was renowned throughout Lu for being skilled in mourning rites—can there really be someone whose reputation exceeds reality and who nonetheless enjoys great fame? Yan Hui found this extremely strange.

Confucius said: Mengsun Cai had already reached the utmost; his cultivation goes beyond ordinary understanding. Even if one wished to use human standards to discriminate and select, there would be nothing to find, for Heaven has already made its arrangement. Mengsun Cai does not know why he lives, nor why he dies; he does not know whether he is heading toward what precedes life or what follows death. He probably just transforms along with the transformations of the myriad things, waiting for those transformations he does not know to arrive.

Moreover, at the very moment when something is about to transform, how do we know that it is not already in the midst of transformation? At the very moment when it is about to not transform, how do we know that it has not in fact already transformed? You and I, I fear, are both still in a dream and have not awakened! Although Mengsun Cai’s physical form has undergone change, his original heart has not been damaged; he regards the human world as a temporary lodging and has no clinging emotion toward life and death. He has merely awakened before ordinary people; when others weep, he weeps too—this is simply acting in accord with the ways of the world. Moreover, the myriad things are interdependent; how can I be certain that what I call “I” is truly the “I”?

You once dreamed you became a crow, soaring high in the sky; again you dreamed you became a fish, diving deep into the abyss. You do not know

The people of Lu valued Mengsun’s ritual propriety, yet Yan Hui could see through his inner state. If one can understand the principle of life and death, make both inner and outer conduct fitting, and have movement and stillness, action and repose all accord with nature, this is already beyond what ordinary intelligence can compare with. Hence it is said that he “advanced in knowledge”—beyond ordinary knowledge and perception.

If one merely picks and chooses between life and death but cannot be at peace with one’s own allotted place, then it is like the four seasons succeeding one another—nothing more than moving along with the seasons. Since he no longer picks and chooses, there is nowhere he is not at peace. Being able to be at peace everywhere, he does not give rise to joy or sorrow because of life and death, but lets them change naturally. Life and death revolve, and he becomes one body with the transforming process of Heaven and Earth. It is as if he has forgotten everything already known; why then worry about what is not yet known? A person is born amid transformation and does not know what it was like before birth; being about to die amid transformation, how can one know the condition after death? Thus he simply follows the present conditions of acceptance and rejection, and arises and perishes together with transformation.

Life and death are like waking and dreaming. Now, in a dream one believes oneself to be awake, but one cannot prove that when awake one is not dreaming. If one cannot prove that waking is not dreaming, then one also cannot prove that life is not death. The boundary between life and death and between waking and dreaming is in itself difficult to know for certain. If one is at peace with where one presently is, one can be content everywhere; why worry about one place from another?

Some are startled in bodily form, yet their minds do not waver, because they regard changes of bodily form as merely the rising and falling of the physical frame; thus life and death cannot entangle their hearts. Some are like the alternation of day and night, yet their feelings do not fluctuate because of death, because they regard the alteration of the bodily frame as the fresh atmosphere of each day, and their feelings do not take it as death.

One who is truly and constantly awake is compliant everywhere and has no sense of opposition. Thus when others weep, he weeps along with them, because weeping fits the situation of the moment. He regards life, death, and transformation as all part of himself; since all are the same as himself, what could be lost? If the self is not lost, what is there to worry about? Having no worry, he weeps but does not grieve. He does not cling to his own person; therefore he can make inner and outer communicate, thread through past and present, and renew himself daily with transformation. How could he still concern himself with distinctions among the five viscera and six bowels?

In a dream transforming into a crow, in a dream transforming into a fish—this says that in whatever condition one finds oneself, one can be content. If the transformations of waking and dreaming are possible wherever one goes, then in the matter of life and death there is nothing to regret. In whatever one encounters one can be at ease, and one even forgets the very thought of “being at ease”; thus laughter need not be deliberate. “Pai” means pushing and moving, the flow of transition. If one wept according to ritual and laughed according to ceremony, with sorrow and joy retained in the heart, one could not follow this shifting flow and adapt to change. Mengsun was able constantly to be at ease; therefore he wept without grief, flowed along with transformation, rested in the shifting flow, and departed together with transformation. Thereupon he entered the realm of silent emptiness and stillness and became one with Heaven.

Yierzi went to visit the hermit Xu You. Xu You asked, “What did Yao use to teach you?” Yierzi replied, “Yao told me: ‘You must personally practice benevolence and righteousness and clearly distinguish right from wrong.’” Xu You said, “Then why have you come to me? Yao has already tattooed your face with benevolence and righteousness—the ancient punishment of branding—and cut off your nose with right and wrong—the ancient punishment of cutting off the nose. By what means will you still roam in the free and easy Dao that follows the heart?”

Yierzi said, “Even so, I still hope to wander along its edges.” Xu You said, “No. A blind man cannot appreciate the beauty of eyebrows and eyes, nor can a sightless man see the splendor of blue and yellow.”

Yierzi asked again, “How do you know the Creator will not restore my forehead and face and make my nose whole, so that I may follow you, Master, and wander?” Xu You said, “Ah, that is still uncertain. I will give you a rough account of that realm: My teacher, my teacher—by ‘teacher’ is meant the Dao! It embraces all things but does not claim to be righteous; its benefits reach ten thousand generations but it does not claim to be benevolent; its years are longer than high antiquity but it does not claim to be old; it covers and supports heaven and earth and carves and shapes the myriad forms but does not claim to be skillful. This is where I wander.”

This passage is from Guo Xiang’s commentary—Guo Xiang was a Western Jin metaphysician who wrote a commentary on the Zhuangzi—and is interspersed with dialogue between Yan Hui and Confucius from the “Great and Venerable Teacher” chapter of the Zhuangzi.

“Zi” means to supply or relieve. “Qing” is tattooing characters on the face, a metaphor for using benevolence and righteousness to carve into people’s hearts; “yi” is cutting off the nose, a metaphor for using right and wrong to wound human nature. This means that if people restrain themselves only by external rites and teachings, they will mutilate themselves and will no longer be able to return to the realm of self-contentment and freedom from constraint; nor will they be able to “roam within its boundary,” that is, the boundary of naturalness. “Roaming within its boundary” means not presuming to enter the central and upright Dao, but merely wishing to wander freely at the margins.

The myriad things under heaven are originally all naturally generated, yet within the principle of naturalness there are also cases that require smelting and working before they can become vessels. Therefore Wu Zhuang, Ju Liang (both allegorical figures in the Zhuangzi), and the Yellow Emperor all let go of their former pursuits only after hearing the Great Dao. These are all cases of using words to explain principle, so as to avoid clinging to words and being burdened by them.

To act according to one’s nature and proceed straight ahead without obstruction is naturalness; if, in the course of proceeding, one injures one’s original nature but is able to correct it, that too is naturalness. How do we know that the principle of naturalness will not come to a stop? That being so, why abandon benevolence and righteousness and follow the way the Master says can be accomplished? If one wishes to discard them and say nothing, I fear this would not accord with the Creator’s original intent.

The grace and growth of the myriad things all arise from naturalness and are not intentional. Where, then, should benevolence and righteousness be lodged? “Not acting for the sake of old age” means daily renewal; “not acting for the sake of cleverness” means being natural and spontaneous. This is the realm in which one roams: roaming in non-action and taking no teacher as one’s teacher.

Yan Hui said, “I have made progress.” Confucius asked, “What do you mean?” Yan Hui replied, “I have forgotten benevolence and righteousness.”

Yan Hui said, “I have made progress.” Confucius asked, “What do you mean by progress?” Yan Hui replied, “I have forgotten benevolence and righteousness.” Confucius said, “That is good, but it is not enough.” After some time, Yan Hui came to see Confucius again and said, “I have made progress.” Confucius asked, “What do you mean this time?” Yan Hui replied, “I have forgotten ritual and music.” Confucius said, “That is good, but it is not enough.” After some time, Yan Hui came again and said, “I have made progress.” Confucius asked, “What do you mean this time?” Yan Hui replied, “I have achieved zuowang (sitting and forgetting).”

When Confucius heard this, his expression changed (curan: startled and solemn), and he asked, “What is sitting and forgetting?” Yan Hui said, “Cast off the limbs, drive out perceptual cleverness, leave bodily form behind, discard understanding, and become one with the Great Thoroughfare (datong, the realm in which the great Dao runs through without obstruction)—this is called sitting and forgetting.” Confucius said, “To be identical with the great Dao is to have no partiality; to follow the transformations of the myriad things is not to cling to fixed norms. You are truly a worthy person! I ask to follow you and learn from you.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: What Yan Hui calls “progress” is increase through decrease. Benevolence is the manifestation of loving all things impartially; righteousness is the efficacy of bringing all things to completion. If love does not issue from no-mind, it is not true benevolence; if bringing things to completion is done intentionally, the traces of righteousness’s merit become exposed. Benevolence and righteousness still leave traces to be followed, and are not sufficient to make people understand that love and benefit arise from no-mind; therefore they must be forgotten. But merely forgetting the traces of merit has not yet reached mysterious penetration. Ritual is the application of bodily form; music is the tool for delighting life. To forget these tools is not as good as forgetting the root from which they arise. For one who sits and forgets, what is there that cannot be forgotten? Having forgotten external traces and also forgotten the root that produces the traces, within one does not perceive oneself, without one does not know heaven and earth; then, vast and open, one becomes one body with the transformations of creation, and there is nothing not penetrated. When the myriad things are one, wherever one goes one is at ease; if wherever one goes one is at ease, what is there to like or dislike? Being transformed together with creation, one goes wherever creation goes, and therefore has no fixed constant.

“Ziyu and Zisang were friends.” (Ziyu and Zisang are figures in the “Great and Venerable Teacher” chapter of Zhuangzi; this sentence introduces the story that follows.) “Then it rained heavily for ten days on end.”

Ziyu said, “I am afraid Zisang is very ill.” So he wrapped up some food and went to visit him. When he reached Zisang’s door, he heard him sometimes as if singing, sometimes as if weeping, playing the lute and asking himself: “Is it father? Is it mother? Is it Heaven? Is it other people?” His voice was bitter and sorrowful, and he could hardly contain himself as he hurriedly sang this poem. Ziyu went inside and asked, “Why are the words you sing like this?” Zisang said, “I am wondering what has brought me to this state, but I cannot figure it out. Would father and mother want me to be poor? Heaven covers all things impartially, Earth bears all things impartially—would Heaven and Earth single me out to be poor? I look for the one who caused all this, but I cannot find him. Yet having come to such a state, it is probably fate.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary means: Ziyu and Zisang helped each other, but not intentionally—it was simply following the heavenly principle and natural spontaneity. Wrapping food and bringing it was not because of personal friendship that he went. Ziyu asked “Why is it like this?” in order to keep the two from becoming entangled in human feelings and attachments, and thus lead them toward a more profound principle. “It is fate, indeed” means that all things are naturally so, and there is no one ruling over them.

Nie Que asked Wang Ni four questions, and four times Wang Ni said he did not know. Nie Que leaped up joyfully and ran to tell Puyi Zi. Puyi Zi said, “Are you only now realizing this? The Youyu clan—that is, the legendary Yu Shun—was not the equal of the Tai clan. The Youyu clan still harbored benevolence to win people over; although they won people’s hearts, they had not yet escaped the realm of human contrivance. The Tai clan slept peacefully and at ease, and upon waking was carefree and content. Sometimes they took themselves to be a horse, sometimes to be an ox. Their wisdom was true and not false, their De (Virtue/Power) was utterly pure and genuine, and they never fell into a state of turning away from their natural nature.”

Guo Xiang's Commentary (1)

The Youyu clan and the Tai clan were merely traces belonging to their respective ages; they were not standards by which superiority and inferiority should be defined. The paths that traces follow have from the outset no fixed road—on what basis, then, do people of the world give them names? And if there are no names, what is there to speak of as victory or defeat? Therefore, following the myriad transformations and passing through ten thousand generations, as the ways of the world have both level stretches and dangers, traces naturally have places they cannot reach.

People take what they like as right and what they dislike as wrong, making right and wrong into boundaries. One who can leap out of this domain of “either this or that” is certain to enter a realm where there is no division into right and wrong. Having nothing to gain and nothing to lose, neither approving nor rejecting anything, would such a person merely hoard benevolence and righteousness to win over the crowd? Whether it is growing naturally like a horse or being born with four legs like an ox, where could one still distinguish what is human artifice from what is not? Letting things know naturally, their dispositions are genuine; letting things attain naturally, there is no fabrication. Not falling into the boundary of right and wrong, one can surpass the age of the Youyu clan.

Scripture

Jian Wu (a figure in Zhuangzi’s fables) went to visit Kuang Jieyu (a hermit of Chu and a figure in the fables). Kuang Jieyu asked him: What did Ri Zhongshi (Jian Wu’s teacher, a fable figure) teach you?

Jian Wu replied: He told me that one who rules the people should himself establish laws and measures, ritual propriety and righteousness, and standards; then who among the common people would dare not obey and not be transformed?

Kuang Jieyu said: This is to deceive people by means of De (Virtue/Power). To govern the world in this way is like wading into the sea and digging a river, or making a mosquito carry a mountain—it is fundamentally unworkable. Does the sage’s governance consist in governing external things? Follow one’s nature, rectify oneself, and only then act; doing what lies within one’s capacity is enough. The crow flies high to avoid the harm of bows and arrows; the mole digs deep holes beneath the sacred mound to avoid the calamity of being dug out. Both of these small creatures know how to protect themselves, and their wisdom is not inferior.

Guo Xiang's Commentary (2)

What is called “deceiving by De” is using one’s own will to constrain the myriad things, so that the myriad things lose their original authenticity. If one can entrust oneself among the myriad things and follow their naturalness, then one will practice Wuwei (non-action) and things will accomplish themselves. But if one uses the body of a single person to constrain the world, one will only labor and achieve little.

Guo Xiang’s commentary says that “deceptive De” (qide) means controlling the myriad things by one’s own will, so that the myriad things lose their true nature. By following the inherent nature of things and not interfering, affairs naturally come to completion. If one tries to govern all under Heaven by the strength of a single person, the work will not be accomplished, nor can it be sustained. Therefore, when the sage governs the world, he merely preserves what lies within his own duty, causing the myriad things each to rectify their nature and life (xingming), and does not undertake what is beyond his power. Birds and beasts still each have their own means of survival; thus, if the ruler allows them to be natural and does not act recklessly, all under Heaven will naturally be brought to completion. Are you not as capable as these two small creatures, which can each survive without being taught?

Jiao Hong’s Bicheng further says that “Jingshi” (constant methods) and “Yidu” (standards) were originally intended to rectify people, but they are already far removed from human nature; therefore they are called “deceptive De.” To cross the sea is inevitably to drown; to dig a river is difficult to accomplish; for a mosquito to carry a mountain is unbearable. Governing all under Heaven by the method of deceptive De is the same. When the sage governs the world, he governs by following the people’s own capacity to govern, and does not use “rectitude” to forcibly rectify others. What is called “being beyond rectitude and only then acting” means simply exhausting what one’s own nature and life can do. What nature and life can do is this: the self abides in Wuwei (non-action), and the people naturally return to rectitude.

Crows and rats still avoid harm and settle themselves without waiting to be taught; how much more so the common people, who already possess wisdom—could they be inferior to these small creatures? Yet people insist on establishing constant methods and standards, thereby disturbing the people’s original nature.

Tian Gen was wandering through the region of Yinyang and came to the bank of the Liao River, where he happened to meet a recluse who did not reveal his name, Wumingren (the Nameless Man). Tian Gen asked him, “May I ask how one should govern the world?” Wumingren said, “Go away! You are a shallow-minded man, and your question is most displeasing. I am just about to take as my companion the Creator (the natural force that governs the generation and transformation of all things in heaven and earth). When I grow weary, I mount that vast, boundless bird and fly beyond the six far extremes of up, down, and the four directions, roaming in the land of Nothing-Whatsoever (a realm of emptiness and spontaneity, free from human constraint), and dwelling at ease in the broad, empty wilds. Why must you disturb my mind with matters like governing the world?” Tian Gen questioned him again, and Wumingren said, “If you can let your mind and spirit roam in a realm of tranquility and blandness, harmonize your breath with silence and pure emptiness, follow the natural nature of the myriad things, and mix in no private likes or preferences, then the world will naturally be at peace.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: If one is to speak of governing the world, one cannot go beyond the Great Beginning (the primordial chaotic state of the universe) and merely abide in the Dark Mystery (the profound and wondrous realm). If one can walk together with the Creator (the power of natural transformation and nurturance), one simply lets people follow their own nature and act for themselves, vast and boundless, merged into a seamless whole. Riding the myriad and multifarious changes of the ten thousand things and galloping among them, one is thus unobstructed whether appearing or withdrawing, advancing or retreating; one naturally settles in a condition of untrammeled self-attainment where no governing is needed. The mind roams in a realm of bland detachment, following its nature without embellishment; Qi joins with Mo (the silent way of non-action), utterly still and unmoving, at rest in its original nature. According with the myriad things without a private mind, the world can be governed. To follow one’s nature and let things generate themselves is public; to think of adding or increasing anything is private. A private mind is in the end incapable of enabling the myriad things to live and regenerate without cease; only by according with the public Dao can they be preserved intact.

The Bicheng says: What is called “yu” is the yu of “in all affairs, preparedness brings success”; it means acting before others. If one does not precede the affairs of governing the world, yet wishes to govern the world, one will fall behind the world. Walking with the Creator, one follows the movement of transformation and nurturance, letting it be without interference. Riding the realm of vast boundlessness, transcending the six extremes (beyond above, below, and the four directions), soaring in the void, treading above the wondrous, escaping the realm of darkness; roaming in the place of Nothing-Whatever, the vast and boundless domain of attaining the Dao, and dwelling at ease in Kongtong (the realm of empty stillness). This is the meaning of yu; people of the world still do not awaken to it, and so Zhuangzi again speaks plainly to show it to them. One whose mind roams is unconstrained and self-content, returning to ultimate stillness, hence it is said, “roam the mind in blandness”; one who harmonizes Qi breathes deeply, returning to ultimate emptiness, hence it is said, “join Qi with Mo.” All these are ways of according with the naturalness of things and not interfering through one’s own intentions. Thus the world can be governed—likely because one has no intention of governing the world; and among the ways of governing the world, none is more subtle than this.

Yang Ziju (that is, Yang Zhu, a Warring States thinker) paid a visit to Lao Dan (that is, Laozi) and asked: “Suppose there were a person quick in action, strong in temperament, understanding of affairs, penetrating in thought, and diligent in studying the Great Dao without ever growing weary—could such a person be compared to a sage-king?” Lao Dan said: “Such a person is merely of the sage type. They trade cleverness and skills with one another and entangle one another; they wear out their bodies and exhaust their spirits. Moreover, tigers and leopards attract hunters because of their markings; monkeys are bound because of their nimbleness; hunting dogs are kept because they are useful. How could such a person be compared to a sage-king?”

Yang Ziju’s expression changed, and he asked respectfully: “May I ask what the rule of the sage-king is like?” Lao Dan said: “In the rule of the sage-king, his achievements cover the world, yet they seem not to issue from himself; his transforming influence is bestowed on the myriad things, yet the people do not feel that they depend on him. He does not put forward a name or title; he simply lets the myriad things each rejoice and grow. He establishes himself where people cannot fathom him, and roams in the realm of non-being.”

In the state of Zheng there was a spirit shaman named Jixian (a shaman famous in antiquity for divination), who could foretell a person’s death and life, survival and ruin, misfortune and blessing, longevity and early death, and could be precise down to the year, month, ten-day period, and day, as if divine. When the people of Zheng saw him, they were so frightened that they abandoned their homes and fled. Liezi (a Daoist figure and Warring States thinker) saw Jixian and was entranced in mind and spirit. After returning, he told Huzi (Liezi’s teacher, a Daoist figure) about it, saying: “At first I thought the Master’s Dao had reached its utmost limit; now I know there is something still higher.”

Huzi said: “What I transmitted to you is only the outer form of the Dao; you have not yet obtained its substance. Do you really think you have already attained the Dao? It is like a flock of female birds with no males—how could they lay eggs? You take the Dao and set it against the conventional world; you are certain to expose your own sincerity, and that is why you let people see through to the bottom of you. You may as well bring him here and try.”

The next day, Liezi brought Jixian to see Huzi. After Jixian came out, he said to Liezi: “Alas! Your master is about to die; he cannot live. In less than ten days he will be gone. I saw a strange omen; I saw a death aura like wet ashes.” After Liezi went inside, tears wet the front of his garment, and he told Huzi these words.

Huzi (Liezi’s teacher, renowned for the profundity of his Daoist arts) said to Liezi: Earlier I showed that spirit shaman skilled in physiognomy and divination the appearance of “Earthly Pattern” (diwen), that is, stillness and immobility like the earth, without any rise or fall. After seeing it, he probably saw only my vitality closed and hidden, not yet exposed—the state of “blocked De-vitality” (du de ji), in which both De and vital vitality are shut off and unmanifest. He came again the next day and met with me once more. When he came out, he said to Liezi: “Your master is saved—he has met me. I saw that his vitality has revived, and that shut-off condition has begun to stir.” Liezi went in and told Huzi this.

Huzi said: I then displayed the appearance of “Heaven and Earth” (tianrang), that is, vast and empty like heaven and earth, so that neither name nor reality could enter into it, while vitality was set in motion from the heels. He probably saw my “goodness-vitality” (shan zhe ji), the side of me that inclines toward goodness and whose vitality flows freely. He came again, and the next day met with me once more. When he came out, he said to Liezi: “Your master’s condition is not unified; I cannot see anything. Let him adjust himself, and I will examine him again.” Liezi went in and told Huzi again.

Huzi said: I then displayed the appearance of “Great Impartiality in Which Nothing Prevails” (taichong mo sheng), that is, the utmost emptiness, harmony, and equanimity, with no question of victory or defeat. He probably saw my “balanced Qi-vitality” (heng qi ji), the vitality in which Yin-Yang and Qi are balanced and circulating. Next, the text uses water as a metaphor: where still water is deep, it forms a pool; where flowing water eddies, it also forms a pool. There are nine names for such pools, but here only three are mentioned. He came again, and the next day met with me once more. This time, before he had even steadied himself, his expression became flustered and he turned and fled. Huzi said: “Catch up with him.” Liezi chased him but could not catch him. He returned and reported to Huzi: “He has already vanished, already disappeared; I cannot catch him.”

Huzi said: What I showed earlier was “never having left my ancestral source” (wei shi chu wu zong), that is, never departing from the Dao of my own root. I responded to him with emptiness and yielded in every bend; he did not know who I was, and so I followed his drifting and moved with his waves—therefore he fled. After that, the shaman considered that he had not yet mastered his art and went away. For the next three years he did not leave his house; he tended the fire and cooked for his wife, fed pigs as if he were serving people, and no longer drew close to worldly affairs or relatives and friends, so he had no dealings with others.

In the end he removed all carving and ornament and returned to plainness. He stood alone, block-like, his body like an uncarved stone. The tangled affairs of the world were all shut outside him, and in this way he passed his life peacefully.

Wu Yanzhen holds that this chapter is devoted exclusively to the Way of emperors and kings. The emperor should, like the Qin clan, manifest from the non-human—that is, the natural Way of Heaven—and return again into the non-human. This is like Jie Yu warning people not to use silk-corded arrows to shoot birds or to disturb the people by smoking, digging, and other such means. Wumingren’s saying, “Let the mind roam in blandness and merge the Qi in vast stillness,” and Lao Dan’s (Laozi’s) saying, “Stand in the unfathomable and roam in non-being,” mean the same thing. The so-called “non-being” refers to the realm of utmost emptiness, in which the mind opens no apertures and leaves no chisel marks; in the end it comes down simply to the two words “non-being.”

“The non-human” is Heaven. Not yet being able to emerge from the non-human means still being confined to human action and not yet able to emerge from the Way of Heaven; never having entered the non-human means being transformed together with Heaven, not deliberately trying to accord with Heaven. The eight characters “slowly and securely, content and self-possessed” best describe how ordinary people in the world spend the whole day contending with their minds: outwardly their spirit is unsettled, now startled, now dreaming, so that they cannot sleep peacefully in their beds; as soon as they wake, a hundred worries crowd their hearts; though the body has not yet risen, the spirit is already racing about without rest, constrained and ill at ease. The perfected person has no such condition, and so “he sleeps without dreaming, and when awake has no worries.” Called an ox, he answers as an ox; called a horse, he answers as a horse—responding to the call, fundamentally without fixed views.

“The Dao has feeling and truthfulness,” and so it says, “his understanding is true and trustworthy.” The characters qing, xin, and zhen are all used in contrast to “illusion,” referring to the real that flows forth from one’s own original nature. “In movement he is Heaven; in stillness he is Earth; in action he is flowing water; in rest he is the silent abyss”: the silent abyss in relation to flowing water, and Heavenly movement in relation to earthly stillness, are both naturally so without deliberate action, and are fundamentally one and the same. Jixian (the shaman in the Zhuangzi), seeing him lying quietly like a corpse in the cultivated state of forgetting the body and “sitting in forgetfulness” (zuowang, in which bodily form and mind are forgotten), declared that he would die; seeing his spirit stir and follow Heaven, he declared that he would live. In both cases he saw only appearances and did not recognize his original nature.

If one responds to the myriad things with a mind free of mind, the principle naturally and mysteriously accords. Rising and falling with the transformations of the myriad things, regarding gain and loss in the world as dust and dirt, one may tread upon the myriad things and become their master, yet still comply with the times and operate inexhaustibly. This is not something a person with fixed preconceptions can conjecture; it is precisely the gist of “Ying Diwang” (the seventh inner chapter of the Zhuangzi, which discusses the way of rulership).

When the mechanism of De does not activate, this is called “Du” (blocking, a mechanism that does not reveal itself). “Quan” is also a kind of expedient adaptation. Now he felt that what he had seen yesterday was precisely this blocking and adaptation, and so he said he was about to die. Between heaven and earth, the function of covering and supporting the myriad things has already appeared. Compared with the patterns of the great earth, is this not precisely an outward manifestation? This is how one responds to and resonates with the myriad things. Letting things be natural while covering and supporting the myriad things, the heavenly mechanism then mysteriously corresponds, and all adornments pursued for fame and profit become discarded things. The trigger is activated from the heel, arising from the most subtle point and often emerging at the extreme. When it is activated, it surpasses the other, and only then does the other perceive it.

Dwelling at the utmost point of Taichong (the ultimate realm of emptiness, stillness, and harmony), the mind is vast and placid, mysteriously one with the ten thousand directions, so thoughts of victory and defeat have nowhere to rest. Wherever one goes, all is equal and without bias, undifferentiatedly one. One who views heaven through a tube cannot see its limits, and therefore regards it as uneven.

“Abyss” (yuan) means stillness and silence. Water is originally without mind and follows external things. Whether flowing or stopping, whether swirling in eddies (nihuan) or taking the posture of a leaping dragon, it remains abyssal and stable, never losing its silence.

Although the Zhiren (the person of the highest moral cultivation) differs in entering office and withdrawing into seclusion, the mind of mysterious silence is the same. Therefore three different situations are briefly given by way of illustration: even if worldly affairs change in a thousand ways like flowing waves and order and chaos are tangled, the person who dwells in the utmost realm remains calmly self-possessed, placid and forgetful of purposeful action.

One who has never departed from the source (zong), though transforming without constancy, has deep roots and rests in the utmost. Weiyi (the appearance of compliant winding) is to be without mind and follow the transformations of external things. One does not know who it is—drifting freely with nothing to which one is tied. As transformations wane and worldly affairs flow like waves, wherever one goes one accords with nature and does not oppose it.

In “Ying Diwang” (Responding to Emperors and Kings) there is a story: the spirit shaman Jixian read Hu Zi’s physiognomy, but each time Hu Zi manifested a different bearing. Jixian could not penetrate it, fell into confusion, and fled. This passage uses the story to explain that the perfected person has ears, eyes, and senses just like ordinary people, yet can accord with the changes of worldly affairs and move with the times. That is why one skilled in physiognomy has nowhere to rest his gaze before him and can only lose his composure and flee. This shows that the way of emperors and kings in governing the world fundamentally has no fixed method.

In the workings of his mind, the perfected person does not reckon noble and base. Feeding pigs and treating people are, in his view, no different. Toward affairs he does not deliberately draw close; he simply settles wherever he happens to be. He strips away ornamentation and returns to plainness, discards flashiness and takes its substance. His bodily form is plain and stands alone like a clod of earth; outward adornment has been entirely removed. Amid endless multiplicity, complexity, and change, his inner true nature is not scattered or lost. He always maintains this state and also lets the myriad things each complete their own end.

(Collation note: The Bicheng notes that where the text reads “not shaken, not upright” (bu zhen bu zheng), Cui Zhuan’s edition has “not shaken, not stopped” (bu zhen bu zhi); for “quanran,” the Liezi has “huiran”; “mosheng” is given as “mozhen”; “shen” as “pan”; “wu yu qin” as “wu qin”; and “feng zai” as “feng rong.” The editor believes that, in terms of the meaning of the text, the former readings should be followed.)

Do not be the master of fame; do not be the storehouse of strategy; do not shoulder the heavy burden of affairs; do not let knowledge be the master. The realm of realization is utterly infinite; roam in the place without traces. Fully preserve the nature received from Heaven, without considering oneself to have gained anything—this is simply emptiness. The perfected person’s mind is like a mirror: it neither welcomes nor sends off; it responds but does not retain, and so can master the myriad things without being harmed.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: By not being the master of fame, one follows the nature of things, and the myriad things each attain their proper name and role. By not being a storehouse of strategy, one simply lets the myriad things each be empty in themselves.

The perfected person’s mind is like a mirror: it neither welcomes nor sends off; it responds but does not retain, and so can master the myriad things without being harmed.

Interpretation

Guo Xiang's Commentary (1): In Wuwei (non-action) with respect to names and roles, one follows things as they are, and each thing accords with its own name and role. In Wuwei with respect to planning, one lets each thing do its own planning. In Wuwei with respect to holding office and duties, one entrusts matters to things and lets each bear its own responsibility. In Wuwei with respect to intellectual calculation and mastery, this means having no fixed mind, so each thing manages its own intelligence.

Guo Xiang's Commentary (2): The Dao (the Way), as realized through embodied understanding, is vast and inexhaustible. By complying with the spontaneous actions of the myriad things of the world, the myriad things gallop forth and transform without end. Wandering in the realm of the formless and allowing things to develop naturally, one therefore has no boundary. Exert all effort to fulfill the portion received from Heaven; when it is satisfied, stop. Do not harbor a mind that seeks to acquire; once there is acquisition, one does not know when to stop.

Guo Xiang's Commentary (3): It is simply emptiness and stillness. If the mind is not empty and still, it cannot make use of the reality of the myriad things. It is like a mirror: it reflects the myriad things without private feeling. It does not welcome, does not send off, and does not conceal; when things come, it reflects them; when they go, it stops. When things arrive, it reflects them just as they are. Its reflection does not rely on a fixed mind; therefore, even the vastness of the world brings no burden of weariness.

Main Text: The emperor of the South Sea was called Shu (shū), the emperor of the North Sea was called Hu, and the emperor of the Center was called Hundun. Shu and Hu often met in Hundun's place, and Hundun treated them with great kindness. Shu and Hu consulted together to repay Hundun's kindness, saying: "All people have seven orifices, used for seeing, hearing, eating, and breathing; only Hundun does not. Let us try to bore them for him." So each day they bored one orifice; after seven days, Hundun died.

Guo Xiang's Commentary: Those who engage in deliberate action will inevitably ruin things.

Note: The original text of this passage is the parable from the Zhuangzi: "The emperor of the South Sea was Shu, the emperor of the North Sea was Hu, and the emperor of the Center was Hundun." Hundun (hùn dùn) is the undifferentiated state of chaos and symbolizes the original simplicity of nature; the two characters Shu and Hu imply swiftness and transience. The two emperors use human artifice and cleverness to "open the orifices," which is precisely a destruction of nature. This parable and Guo Xiang's commentary "those who act ruin it" corroborate each other: when people act with deliberate intention, they instead destroy their original nature.

This passage consists of collation notes for an ancient text, not the main text of the Zhuangzi. It records textual differences between the base text of Zhuangzi Yi and Ming dynasty printed editions; on this basis the compiler—usually attributed to Jiao Hong of the Ming dynasty—judged which characters required correction.

The format is roughly as follows. In the formula “X was originally written Y; changed according to the Ming edition,” the base text originally read Y, and the collator, relying on the Ming edition, changed it to X because the Ming edition makes better sense in wording and meaning. In the formula “X is written Y in the Ming edition,” the Ming edition has Y, but the main text is not altered here; the note merely records the difference between editions. For example, wu was originally written yu, yue was originally written ze, and gu (firm/solid) was originally written gu (cause/reason); in each case a character that had been mistaken for a graphically similar one was corrected according to the Ming edition. Several of these entries (such as items 12 through 15, 28, and 29) appear repeatedly, which should be duplication during transcription.

Collation Notes: These entries are collation notes for Zhuangzi Yi, indicating that several characters and passages have been corrected according to the Ming edition—for example, “xing” was originally “chu,” “wan” was originally “si,” and “hai” was originally “xing.” Entry 40 records Guo Xiang’s commentary as contained in the Ming edition; its gist is: Liezi had not yet embraced the Great Dao (the Way), and his mind still had partial attachments, so he was easily observed and judged by others. The realm of the perfected person, however, is one in which nothing can stir him—like withered paulownia and wet ashes, still and Wuwei (non-action).

Interpretation of the Main Text: This passage comes from Zhuangzi, Outer Chapters, “Pianmu” (“Webbed Toes”), and uses superfluous parts of the body as a metaphor to criticize the artificially appended way of benevolence and righteousness.

Are joined toes (webbed toes, pianmu) and extra fingers on the hand (branch fingers, zhizhi) forms born of nature? They belong to the category of natural endowment, yet they make natural De (Virtue/Power) appear superfluous. Are the fleshy growths on the body (attached growths, fuzhui) and warts (hanging warts, xuanyou) forms born of nature? They belong to the category of bodily form, yet they make natural endowment appear superfluous. As for working in many ways on benevolence and righteousness and linking them together without break, and regarding them as roots like the five viscera—this is not the correct way of Dao and De. (In the original text, “shuai zhi” should be “zhi zhi,” i.e., a mistake for the character zhi, “branch.”)

Therefore, joined toes are simply connected useless flesh, and extra fingers on the hand are simply useless digits growing out. To make many forced correlations and let branches proliferate in the dispositions of the five viscera is to recklessly indulge in the conduct of benevolence and righteousness and to engage in much artificial contrivance in the exercise of intelligence and talent.

Zhuangzi uses this to explain that if benevolence and righteousness are forcibly imposed on human nature, they are like superfluous flesh and fingers on the body: they do not benefit the original nature but instead disturb natural De.

Guo Xiang’s commentary states: A person of tall stature is not superfluous, nor is a person of short stature deficient. Surplus limbs such as webbed toes (fused toes) and branched fingers (extra fingers) all arise from the inherent nature of the bodily form; they are not produced by borrowing from external things. Whether webbed or not webbed, each nature is complete in itself. People in the world, however, insist on regarding the extra portion as “webbed branches” (superfluous offshoots) and call it “extravagance” (redundant growth). Those who are deluded then say that it does not accord with nature and wish to cut it off and discard it. This would leave Dao with places it cannot accommodate, De with places it cannot bear, people with talents that are abandoned, and things with uses that are discarded—how could this be the original intent of governing the world?

Things have large and small sizes, and capacities have much and little. Being large in some respect is “webbed”; being much in some respect is “superfluous.” The distinction between webbed and superfluous exists in all things. If one uniformly refrains from employing them, one abandons the nature of all things. One who is wholly in accord with things does not prize much as noble. Those who exert themselves in many ways specifically on benevolence and righteousness, even if ranked as a kind of virtue, are merely the correctness of one school; they have not yet been able to be without bias toward all things and to let each rectify its own nature and destiny. Therefore it is said, “This is not the correctness of Dao and De.”

The many and few of any “domain” (fang) originally have no fixed limit, yet between many and few each has a fixed allotment; not even a hair’s-breadth difference can substitute for another. Thus, when each keeps to its own domain, both many and few can each attain their proper place. Someone who sees that much cannot correct little then wishes to abandon much and employ only little—this is to abandon all things in the world together. Is it not absurd? Therefore the webbed toes and branched fingers on hands and feet are simply how nature and destiny are in themselves; they did not grow because they are useful. The dispositions of the five viscera each have their use, yet the lesser side is forcibly exalted, so that there is excess, aberration, and one-sidedness, and the proper place that should exist within the body is lost.

The functions of intelligence each have their proper allotment; therefore the many-sided are not surplus, and the lesser-sided are not deficient. Yet once desires are stirred, there is none who does not slight the few and prize the many. Seeing something as valuable, they force themselves to pursue it; this goes beyond the use of their proper allotment and harasses their natural disposition. If one can forget the things one prizes and preserve one’s original boundary, then with respect to nature and destiny there is no such thing as much, and the various differing aspects all become complete.

This passage asks: Do benevolence and righteousness violate the true disposition of human beings? Why are those who advertise benevolence and righteousness so beset by worry? It is like a person whose toes are joined: split them, and he cries; a person with an extra finger on his hand: cut it off, and he wails. In these two cases, one has more than the normal allotment and one has less, yet their distress is the same, for in both the physical form deviates from the natural norm. Today’s benevolent people anxiously look around at the world’s calamities; those who are not benevolent injure the true disposition of nature and life and greedily seek wealth and honor. Thus, are benevolence and righteousness not contrary to human feeling? From the Three Dynasties of Xia, Shang, and Zhou onward, how clamorous and turbulent the world has been!

Moreover, when things must rely on the carpenter’s square, ink line, compass, and set square to be made straight, this pares away their original nature; when they must rely on rope and glue or lacquer to be held fast, this injures their original De (Virtue/Power). To bend and twist ritual and music, and to echo and praise benevolence and righteousness, in order to soothe the hearts of the world—this is precisely to lose the original constant state of things.

The world originally possesses its own constant state of being so: the crooked need no carpenter’s square, the straight no ink line, the round no compass, the square no set square; what clings and sticks together needs no glue or lacquer; what is bound needs no rope. Thus the myriad things of the world grow naturally, yet do not know why they live; they are alike and each finds its place, yet do not know how they obtain it. Therefore past and present are as one, without any loss. Why, then, must benevolence and righteousness be like glue, lacquer, and rope, entangling and binding people, making them toss and turn endlessly between Dao (the Way) and De (Dao is the source; De is the nature obtained from Dao)? This only deludes the people of the world. Small confusion changes one’s direction; great confusion changes one’s original nature. How do we know this is so? Ever since Yu Shun (the Youyu clan) used benevolence and righteousness to draw in the world and disturb people’s hearts, no one in the world has failed to run themselves ragged for benevolence and righteousness. Is this not to change human nature through benevolence and righteousness?

Guo Xiang (a Western Jin metaphysician and commentator on the Zhuangzi) said: Benevolence and righteousness are originally part of human nature and feeling; one need only follow their natural course. If one worries that benevolence and righteousness do not belong to human nature and becomes anxious about this, then one truly has far too many cares. It is like when the big toe (where “mei” is interchangeable with “mu,” the big toe) grows an extra joint, people consider it “insufficient” and weep to have it cut off; when an extra finger grows on the hand, people consider it “excess” and weep to have it clipped. In this way, among the myriad things under heaven, with all their countless distinctions, there would be no place where people could find peace. Only by letting each thing rest in its own natural disposition—neither cutting off the joined toe nor clipping the extra finger—can the myriad things follow nature and reach completion, without being harmed. What, then, is there to worry about?

Although practices such as universal love (the Mohist doctrine of undifferentiated love) are worthy of esteem, if they are vigorously promoted, the ears and eyes of the people under heaven will become confused. To use such estimable traces to impel the people of the world and keep them from stopping, and then to worry about this, is like first pushing people into a trap and then going to rescue them. The people of today take this precisely as benevolence. Wealth and honor are coveted precisely because someone esteems them. If there were no path of esteem, people would be content with their proper station and assume duties according to their ability; how then could they still imitate others and covet improper hopes? Thus benevolence and righteousness are originally ordinary human feeling, but after the Three Dynasties (Xia, Shang, and Zhou), people one after another plunged into their clamor, abandoned true feeling, and chased outward traces, going on without return—was this not indeed far too much anxiety?

Things originally have their natural constancy. Let them be natural without artificial forcing, and they will be whole and self-possessed, not even feeling that they have gained anything. Transforming together with things, one can be without distinction from things and preserve oneself for long. Following the Great Dao and attaining self-realization, one can embrace simplicity and walk alone. Those unending artificial entanglements need not be attended to. The entanglement of benevolence and righteousness is only enough to confuse the multitude and make them lose their original truth. When east and west exchange positions, there is no deficiency in ritual propriety; but if one boasts of benevolence and exalts righteousness, contravening the normal condition of things, so as to fall into a dead end, that is great delusion. One who does no harm to things does not intentionally practice benevolence, yet the traces of benevolence naturally appear; one who causes all principles each to attain their proper place does not act for the sake of righteousness, yet the effects of righteousness naturally become evident. Therefore, being proper and doing no harm is not something brought about by benevolence and righteousness; yet the people of the world rush about without rest because of it, abandon themselves and pursue others—this is precisely because they have lost their normal state.

Thus, what disturbs the human heart is not necessarily something ugly; it is often beautiful appearance. What disturbs the way of the world does not necessarily arise from evil; it often lies in benevolence and righteousness. Benevolence and righteousness are precisely the tools that disturb the world. Even if the Yu clan (referring to Yu Shun) originally had no intention of altering things, the nature of the people under heaven had already been changed by this.

From the Three Dynasties of Xia, Shang, and Zhou onward, no one in the world has failed to have their original nature altered by external things. Ordinary people sacrifice their lives for profit; scholars sacrifice their lives for reputation; officials sacrifice their lives for their families; and sages sacrifice their lives for the world. These types of people differ in their endeavors and have different reputations, but they are alike in harming their original nature and making themselves a burial offering for external things.

Zang and Gu were tending sheep together, and both lost their sheep. When asked what Zang was doing, he said he was holding bamboo slips and reading; when asked what Gu was doing, he said he was playing bo-sai (a game of dice and chess). The two were doing different things, yet the result of losing the sheep was the same. Bo Yi (son of the lord of Guzhu at the end of the Shang dynasty, who refused to eat Zhou grain and starved to death at the foot of Shouyang Mountain) died at the foot of Shouyang Mountain for the sake of reputation and moral integrity,

The gist of this passage in Guo Xiang’s commentary is this: In the age of the Three Dynasties—Xia, Shang, and Zhou—and before, there were already teachings that accorded with wuwei (non-action). Yet to esteem wuwei is itself a kind of action; once one esteems it, one has already lost its natural character. Thus even a sage, when at times he cannot avoid it, will replace the wuwei nature of letting his robes hang down and folding his hands with petty and laborious affairs—how much more so ordinary people? The quail nests in the thickets and the crow walks at random; they do not begrudge anything, nor have they ever sacrificed themselves for some pursuit. Therefore, if a person constantly merges with the ways of the world and acts in accord with change, then his striving is merely discourse that caters to the world; if the things he encounters involve wounds, mutilation, and upheaval, then the road he takes is a short path that injures his nature. Even if he rushes to the farthest reaches of the eight directions, so long as his spirit and Qi remain unchanged and injuries to his hands and feet do not disrupt his original form, why should he sacrifice himself for anything? It is precisely because there is nothing for which he must sacrifice himself that he can refrain from pursuing what others pursue, and yet his discourse still races along with the world. What all under Heaven treasure is life; if now, in pursuit, one goes to excess and at the same time damages one’s own life, then whether what is pursued is right or wrong is no longer worth discussing. If life is damaged, how could one’s nature be changed? All this is brought about by teachings that esteem wuwei. If one can understand that the Dao of thorough penetration is perfected through wuwei, then one must cut off esteem, remove excess, and return to the utmost in which one is silently united with one’s own source. In that case, Yao and Jie would be equal in self-attainment; what difference would remain between the gentleman and the petty person?

If one binds one’s original nature to benevolence and righteousness, then even if one is as perceptive in human affairs as Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu (both disciples of Confucius, renowned for their virtue), in my view one still cannot be considered good. If one binds one’s original nature to the five flavors (sour, sweet, bitter, pungent, salty, and so on), then even if one is as skilled in distinguishing tastes as Yu’er (an ancient expert in judging flavors), in my view one still cannot be considered good. If one binds one’s original nature to the five notes (gong, shang, jue, zhi, yu, and so on), then even if one is as acute in hearing as Shi Kuang (a blind music master of Jin in the Spring and Autumn period, skilled in judging pitches), in my view one still cannot be considered truly acute in hearing. If one binds one’s original nature to the five colors (blue-green, yellow, red, white, black, and so on), then even if one is as clear-sighted as Li Zhu (a figure legendarily famed for extraordinary eyesight), in my view one still cannot be considered truly clear-sighted.

What I call “good” does not mean benevolence and righteousness; it means simply that the De (Virtue/Power) of each person’s original nature finds its resting place. What I call “acute hearing” does not mean being able to hear what others hear, but being able to hear one’s own original mind. What I call “clear sight” does not mean being able to see what others see, but being able to see oneself.

Those who cannot see themselves but look at others, who cannot attain something for themselves but seek what others have attained—such people are obtaining what others have obtained, yet have never obtained what they themselves originally possess; they are accommodating others’ preferences, yet can never follow their own original nature. To accommodate others’ preferences and not follow one’s own original nature—even Dao Zhi (the legendary great robber) and Bo Yi (a worthy known for purity and integrity) are equally people who have lost their original nature and whose conduct is warped and perverse.

I feel deeply ashamed before Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power). Therefore, on the one hand, I dare not hold to the standard of benevolence and righteousness; on the other hand, I dare not engage in wayward and perverse conduct.

To measure one’s own gain and loss by the good or bad of others is to lodge oneself in external things and merely follow benevolence and righteousness; hence it is said that this is not good. True goodness lies in complying with one’s nature and connecting with all things. If one does not make judgments for oneself but hands judgment over to external things, then even if one can penetrate as the other does, one’s own nature has already been lost. Therefore each person should see and hear by the innate capacity of the ears and eyes, not be constrained by powers of seeing and hearing like those of Li Lou (an ancient man of extraordinary eyesight) or Shi Kuang (a musician of extraordinary hearing); this is true intelligence.

One who is good at self-attainment does not deliberately advertise “benevolence,” yet naturally possesses benevolence. If one takes benevolence and righteousness as goodness and pursues them, one will injure body and mind to cater to them; this is in fact unkind to one’s own nature and life. If one is unkind to oneself, how can one bestow kindness on others? Therefore one must follow one’s own nature in order to extend it to others without being entangled by one’s own gain and loss. When self and others alike dwell in self-attainment, this can be called goodness. If reliance on the powers of seeing and hearing is cut off and one acts only by one’s own seeing and hearing, then the intelligence of all quarters under heaven can be complete.

To be unable to see for oneself and unable to attain for oneself, but merely to force oneself to imitate others—even if the imitation is ever so close, one’s own nature has already been lost. If losing one’s nature is regarded as aberration, then although the paths of loss differ, the loss of nature is the same. Because one feels ashamed that one cannot practice the Dao and De and cannot return to the mysterious primordial origin, one cuts off all deliberate conduct, forgets fame and profit, and dwells leisurely and freely in the realm of self-attainment. Forgetting the self and forgetting others—this is roughly what it means.

Horse hooves can tread on frost and snow, and a horse’s coat can withstand wind and cold; it eats grass and drinks water, and lifts its forehooves to leap and run—this is the nature of horses. Even if one builds high terraces and formal halls, ornate dwellings of that kind, a horse has no use for them. Then Bo Le (the famous horse judge of the Spring and Autumn period, named Sun Yang) appeared and said, “I am good at governing horses.” Thereupon he burned and branded them, scraped and pared them with knives, carved and cut them with gravers, and smoothed them with files; he tied their heads with ropes and penned them in stables and mangers. In this way, twenty or thirty out of every hundred horses died. He also made them hungry and thirsty, drove them to gallop, and forced them into neat ranks, with the affliction of ornamental trappings in front and the threat of the whip behind; then more than half the horses died.

The potter said, “I am good at making pottery.” He made the clay into round vessels that conformed to the compass and square ones that conformed to the square. The carpenter said, “I am good at working wood.” He made bent wood conform to the hook and straight wood conform to the ink line. But how could the nature of clay and wood ever have wanted to conform to compass, square, hook, and line? Yet generation after generation people praise them, saying, “Bo Le was good at governing horses, and potters and carpenters are good at making vessels.” This, too, is the fault of those who govern the world.

Guo Xiang (the Western Jin metaphysician and commentator on the Zhuangzi) annotates: inferior horses and fine horses each suit their own nature, and that is already enough. The true nature of a horse is not that “once the saddle and harness are removed, it hates being ridden”; it is simply that it has no desire to covet glory and splendor. If one deliberately tries to “govern” it, one will instead fail to govern it well. What is called “governing well” is precisely not good. One who is good at driving horses wants to let the horse fully exercise its ability. To fully exercise ability lies in following oneself; if one insists that it run at a rapid pace beyond its innate capacity and demands abilities beyond what it has, then there will be unbearable strain and great numbers of deaths. If one allows inferior and fine horses each to exert their strength and suits the proper measure of their slowness and speed, then even if their hooves traverse the eight directions, the natures of all the horses will be preserved intact. When some people hear of “letting horses follow their nature,” they say, “Then let them go free and do not ride them”; when they hear of the wind of Wuwei (non-action), they say, “In conducting affairs, it is better to follow external things.” How wild and reckless this is, with no awareness of turning back! Indeed, it departs far from Zhuangzi’s intention.

The commentator holds that one who is good at governing the world does not do so. The common people have a constant nature: they weave cloth to make clothing and till the fields to obtain food—this is called “sharing the same De (Virtue/Power).” When all are pure and unified and do not form factions, this is named “Tianfang” (letting things be natural and follow their innate nature).

Human nature originally has its constant patterns: weaving cloth to make clothes and tilling fields to grow grain—this is called being of one De with others. When all share a single mind and do not form factions, this is to accord with the spontaneous freedom of nature, Tianfang (heavenly freedom). Thus in the age of utmost De—the ancient time when Dao and De were at their purest and thickest—people walked unhurriedly and their gazes were plain. In the mountains there were no footpaths or tunnels cut by humans; on lakes and marshes no boats or bridges. The myriad things grew in clusters, grasses and trees intertwined, each growing in its own place; birds and beasts multiplied, and vegetation flourished. Birds and beasts could be tethered and led about for amusement, and magpie nests could be climbed to and taken from. Humans lived together with birds and beasts and coexisted with the myriad things—where would they distinguish junzi from xiaoren? All were equally without knowledge, so their De was not lost; all were equally without desire, and this was called Supu (plain simplicity). Within plain simplicity, the common people’s original nature was preserved.

When the sages appeared, they strained to display benevolence and hurriedly pursued righteousness, and then the people of the world began to doubt. They gave free rein to making music and set up tedious rituals, and then the world began to split apart. Therefore, if plain simplicity were not damaged, whence would come the ox-shaped sacrificial vessels? If white jade were not carved and destroyed, whence would come the gui and zhang jades? If Dao and De were not abandoned, what use would there be for benevolence and righteousness? If nature and disposition did not depart from original truth, what use would there be for ritual and music? If the Five Colors were not confused, whence would come ornate patterns? If the Five Sounds were not disordered, why would the Six Pitch-pipes be needed to harmonize them?

To injure plain simplicity in order to make vessels is the craftsman’s fault; to destroy Dao and De in order to display benevolence and righteousness is the sage’s fault.