《南华真经义海纂微》Vol. 10

Meaning of the Scripture (Continuing the Previous Discussion)

Dogs trained to catch raccoon dogs are called Chengsi. Precisely because they mastered the art of seizing and capturing, they can no longer live freely according to their own nature. Apes and monkeys belong in mountain forests, relying on climbing and leaping; once that very skill gets them caught and caged, why should they still, like debaters, hoist abstruse doctrines such as “separating hard from white” into midair to dazzle the crowd?

Commentary by Xiangdao

“Possible” and “impossible,” “so” and “not so”—these come from forcibly inverting what is naturally so and shaping things to human design. Debate in the style of “separating hard from white” is like hanging words on a high, suspended barrier so that anyone can see at once how empty they are. People trade falsity with one another and bind one another with clever tricks; the body wears out and the spirit is shaken and afraid—like a hunting dog on a leash or an ape in a pen, both suffer because they had a “skill.”

From the side of you (being), the world has plenty of beings with head and feet, with visible form; there are also those without mind and without ears, whose intent cannot be known. From the side of wu (non-being), the formed and the formless, things without shape—all still depend on the level of “existence”; they are not truly nothing. Birth and death, decline and rise, beginning and extinction are not ruled by some fixed “that by which it is so.” The sage simply responds with being and non-being and does not take all order and disorder on himself. When we speak of “being in oneself,” that is the state of forgetting nothing and being one with the Dao—utterly unlike those who deliberately invert right and wrong and hoist debate into the air.

Commentary by Bixu

“Possible and impossible, so and not so” use clever ornament to chase novelty. “Separating hard from white” debate is like stretching a suspended barrier in the heights so the crowd sees immediately how hollow it is: false minds barter with one another, crafts tie one another down; the body toils and the spirit is disturbed. A hunting dog tied up, an ape in a cage—both are troubles invited by “ability.”

Those with head and toes have visible form; those without mind and without ears have intent that is hard to fathom—without ears they cannot hear, without mind they cannot speak. The formed, like head and feet; the formless and shapeless, like mindlessness and earlessness—in the sense of subsisting, all are body linked with transformation, present with the Dao. Those who speak of “utter non-being” do not even fix “non-being” as something “complete”; their movement and rest, death and life, decline and rise are again not something a fixed “that by which” can determine. The sage need not dwell much on such outward “return” and “what”; governing lies with people, self-governance lies in oneself. Forget things and you are one with things; forget Heaven and you are one with Heaven; forget self and there is no opposing other—where can you not enter, where can you not rest? That realm is fundamentally not the same as those who set up inverted “abilities” and debates hung like suspended barriers.

Yanshai said: The way to govern all under heaven is like each party loosening its grip and returning to its proper place; ruler and people alike uphold one and the same root principle. What succeeds on our side can be used to show what fails on the other; what ought to be so on our side can be used to show what ought not to be on the other. Even when disputes multiply like the Nominalists’ “hard and white” and “sameness and difference,” each point can be sorted out as clearly as if it hung in the open sky. (For the senses of “xu,” “yi,” “ji,” “xi,” “jie,” and the like, see the previous chapter.)

Chengsi was bound with ropes, anguished in heart—having come from the mountains and woods, then seized and put to use as a “human being.” What is called inaudible and unspeakable is like the idea that “nature and the Way of Heaven” cannot be fully heard or fully told in words. To say there is head and feet is to say that from crown to toe people’s bodily forms are broadly the same; to say there is no heart and no ears is to say one need not guess from private intent or rely only on what eyes and ears take in, but let things follow their own course. Formless, without fixed shape, spontaneously so—this is seeing the formless-above within the formed-below: what has form and what is formless without shape in fact exist together. “Utterly none” means that in the world there is no one who wholly stands outside this natural order. Between moving and stopping, living and dying, straits and success, there is always a layer of spontaneity; people just often do not know it. When one governs by pressing human affairs, the heart need not keep private designs—hence Zhuangzi said, “There is governance in the human.” To forget heaven and the human, things and self, is called forgetting the self; forgetting the self enters into spontaneity, and entering spontaneity merges with Heaven as one.

Plain-Language Commentary

Some people imitate the way ancient kings governed: they set laws to restrain everyone and promote education to guide the people. Yet their laws do not fit human nature, and their teaching does not follow how things naturally are; they still insist that the world ought not to be one way and ought not to be another—like the kind of sophistry associated with Hui Shi (“separating hardness and whiteness,” “as if hanging a solitary pearl”). Can such people be put on a par with sages? This passage is satirizing those of the time who promoted Yang Zhu’s or Mohist-style policies as statecraft and compared themselves to sages.

Laozi says: this is like jailers and prisoners swapping small skills and keeping each other in check, wearing out body and mind—much like hounds leashed for the hunt or gibbons dragged out of the forest. All of it comes from having “knacks” that in turn draw misfortune. The text treats that approach with the utmost contempt.

“I have told you, yet you cannot take it in; I point it out, yet you cannot put it into words.” This hits directly at how subtle and hard to clarify the Dao is, meant to wake the listener up.

“Having head and feet” refers to anyone who stands under heaven and walks on earth. “No heart, no ears” means unable to think the Dao through the mind or hear the Dao through the ears—and that is often exactly how people are.

What is formless and shapeless yet truly exists is the Dao. If one can dissolve every grasping and holding, one enters a state where both sides forget each other. The earlier “cannot think, cannot hear” becomes clearer from here.

Human movement and stillness, birth and death, ruin and revival are merely shifts in affairs. If you treat these as solid realities and think governing the world depends entirely on human hands, how could that count as “entering heaven”? If you can forget things, heaven and the self will naturally align; you need not force forgetting—forget until even “forgetting” is forgotten. That is what “entering heaven” means: the Dao originally fits nature; there is no room in it for deliberate contrivance.

This chapter is close in meaning to the exchange between Yangzi Ju and Laozi in “Fit for Emperors and Kings” (Ying Diwang), though the ending differs somewhat in how it ranks superior and inferior approaches.

Jiang Lü Mian went to see Ji Che and said: The Lord of Lu asked me to receive and convey his intentions. I could not refuse, and I have reported faithfully—but I do not know whether what I said was right. I would like you to listen and help me weigh it.

What I told the Lord of Lu was this: You must personally practice respect and frugality, guard against those who appear to serve the public yet privately pursue their own gain, and conduct affairs without favoring private ties—then which of the people would dare not unite in allegiance?

Ji Che chuckled and said: Your words, compared with the virtue by which an emperor or king governs the world, are like a mantis raising its forearms to block a chariot wheel—they cannot bear the weight. Moreover, if one truly acted as you suggest, you yourself would first be in danger: standing on a high terrace looking down, affairs are tangled and complex, and many will crowd before you, coming to meet your preferences.

Jiang Lü Mian was startled and uncertain. He said: Your words only confuse me more. I still ask the Master to speak of that “style,” that way of ordering the world.

Ji Che said: When a great sage governs the world, he lightly sways the hearts of the people, letting them follow transformation and change old customs, together dispelling covetousness, craftiness, and such “thieving hearts,” so that all simply comply with the singular will of their inborn nature—as if everything were accomplished naturally—while the people do not clearly know what they are following. If it were truly so, how would one still need, like your elder brothers Yao and Shun, to “teach the people,” while oneself playing the younger brother in obscurity, step for step? To desire to share the virtue of Yao and Shun while the heart is still tied to thought-conceived, praiseworthy intentions—that falls far short.

(Summary of Guo Xiang’s commentary) “You must practice respect and frugality” and the like still belong to visible rules and admonitions. They are not forgetting craftiness, extinguishing the thieving heart, letting each person follow a singular will, as if nature acted of itself, while the people do not know by what they are guided. If one could truly be thus, how could one on one side take Yao and Shun’s teaching as elder and imitate it, while on the other place oneself below in dim obscurity? To wish to share the sage’s virtue while the heart dwells elsewhere and clings to something—that is still not the governance of the sage.

In Guo Xiang’s reading, forcing oneself to display reverence and frugality is not the frugality that shows itself naturally once frugality is forgotten; deliberately elevating people who appear just and loyal is not the loyalty that flows forth naturally once loyalty is forgotten. Such conduct may avoid partiality, yet it still cannot bear the work of correcting hypocrisy and fraud. It all amounts to placing oneself on high, like a terrace or tower that invites everyone to look up, so that the myriad things fail to keep to their nature and proper station, craning and clinging to climb. When you step on another’s footprints, you cannot stand firm in your own stride. Aspirations point in different directions and cannot be copied from one another. Sway with their own sway—there is sway, but no deliberate doing; move with their own movement—there is movement, but no human pushing. Then the heart that would steal and harm nature is blocked of itself, and each person’s own distinctive aim advances of itself. Teaching is fulfilled and customs change, yet everything stays plain and leaves no trace. People return to their nature without knowing whence it came; each says, “This is simply my being so of itself.” Mingxing—the state of primordial chaos and self-sufficiency—values itself and will not keep thanking Yao and Shun, the ancient sage-kings, and honoring them as elder brothers. When the heart rests peacefully within and does not chase outward, De (Virtue/Power) can truly be one and the same.

In Lü Huiqing’s reading, insisting on reverence and frugality means suppressing one’s nature to perform for the people, which puts one in a dangerous position; elevating the public-spirited and loyal is “exalting the worthy.” When there are already so many terraces and towers for people to gaze at, one cannot remain without traces, and many will come attaching themselves by following those traces. The great sage who governs the realm sways the people’s hearts so that teaching succeeds and customs change—that is, drumming and dancing to the full extent of their divine subtlety. If the people do not peep upward at tracks above and imitate them, they can check the thieving heart and advance each their own aspiration, as if nature were so of itself, not knowing why. At that point De has already left Yao and Shun behind; how could one still treat Yao and Shun’s teaching of the people as elder brothers, push them to the front, and vaguely follow as younger brother behind? One seeks only to align with De and let the heart rest; once the heart rests, one can practice Wuwei (non-action), and the myriad things are generated and transformed of themselves.

Jiang Lu—the one who asked Xiang Jiche about governance—treated strict practice of reverence and frugality and promoting the upright and loyal as the key to keeping the people in harmony. Jiche, who spoke with him, thought he had not yet settled into Wuwei (non-action) and natural spontaneity, and so he laughed with a slight bow. If one governed the realm with such talk, one would place oneself in the highest position, stir the eyes and ears of all under heaven, and draw the masses to gather; many would rush to the foot of towers and terraces to join in. When Jiang Lu heard this, he was dazed and at a loss, and asked Jiche to explain how such a trend could “flow downward” so that those in lower stations would transform themselves. Jiche told him: When a great sage rules the realm, he follows the natural inclinations of people’s hearts, like wind and rain swaying the ten thousand things, so that teaching succeeds and customs change. When external things intrude and harm the original conscience, that is called the “thieving heart”—a mind that injures one’s true nature. Once the thieving heart is guarded against, the “solitary will”—a resolve that stands alone and is not dragged about by things—grows stronger. What is meant by “solitary” is that it has no counterpart and is not burdened by things; it is as if one’s nature is simply so, yet one does not know why it is so. The people use it every day without knowing they do; that is the rule of the “spirit man”—one who governs through the Dao. The dregs and chaff left over from the great Dao are already enough to mold men like Yao and Shun—so how could one treat Yao and Shun’s way of teaching the people as the elder brother, and set one’s own natural way against it as the younger? Seek only to align with De (Virtue/Power), and the heart rests in peace; once the heart rests, it no longer chases after external things.

Chen Xiangdao’s commentary: Insisting that people be respectful and frugal is not wuwei (non-action, letting things follow their course without forced intervention). Deliberately holding up fairness and loyalty as banners is, in effect, “esteeming the worthy” (shangxian). When the ruler’s virtue governs through wuwei, the world knows no exhaustion and weariness; when worthies are not promoted, the world has no boasting and rivalry. Then, however the people themselves stir, the sage goes along with that stirring; however they wander, the sage goes along with that wandering. In this way the mind that would harm others is blocked, while each person’s privately attained genuine knowing grows day by day—as if acting from innate nature, though the people do not know why it is so. To strain today at respect, frugality, public duty, and loyalty as mandatory tasks is to “open the human heaven” (the acquired, artificial mind) and thereby invite the heart of the thief; it fails to “open heaven’s heaven” (innate natural nature), and the inner, privately held will is lost. How far this is from the ruler’s wuwei virtue!

Music and food please people, so passersby pause—but that benefit is fleeting, not lasting. When fish are short of water they moisten one another with spit and cannot forget one another; though it helps the shoal, it cannot truly reach every fish. Therefore the spirit-person (shenren) dislikes crowds gathering for profit; if one holds fast to the “great image” (the Dao’s form), people of the world turn to you of themselves. To rouse the mantis to block the chariot with angry arms, or to build lofty towers so people rush to gather and compete to leave their footprints—is that not the same sort of thing as music, food, and spit-moistening one another? In olden times Shun let the burden of toil and bent service drag down his sage virtue; Liezi was startled on the road when wine-shop keepers vied to offer him drink, realizing his sincere name had leaked out; Nan Guo Ziqi feared that wisdom would be sold like goods; Geng Sang Chu took being installed and sacrificed to as spirit of the land as disaster. What matters is to stay in the yin shade so the shadow may rest, to dwell in quiet so footprints vanish—only then is the utmost reached.

Master of Jade Void Chen Jingyuan’s commentary: Respect, frugality, and public loyalty are not wuwei; building towers high is not stability. Promote the worthy and flatterers will attach; when many footprints follow, hypocrisy gathers. When the people stir, the sage follows and allows it; when the people are unrestrained, the sage abides in yin stillness so the shadow rests and footprints cease—then the utmost is reached.

Bi Xu (Chen Jingyuan, styled Master Bixu) held that reverence, frugality, fairness, and loyalty are none of them wuwei (acting in accord with nature without forced effort). Building towers and pavilions ever higher does not make one secure. When worthies are exalted, flatterers gather; when outward show multiplies, hypocrisy accumulates. When the people’s hearts waver, the sage yields and lets them be; when their conduct grows loose, the sage steadies them. Then teaching is complete and customs change, and the impulse to harm others is cut off. Private aims are cleared away, and each person advances toward his own proper direction, as if that were the nature of things. Taking the teaching of Yao and Shun (the ancient sage-kings) as elder brother and honoring their sagely wisdom (sheng zhi) while the people dimly take the younger’s place makes them seem low, scattered, and unclear. Once the people are at ease in what is natural, why again exalt the sagely wisdom of Yao and Shun and thereby make them scattered? If one seeks to match De (virtue/power) by forbidding desire, the mind still rests and clings—it still favors something within—and that is not naturalness.

Yizhai (Lin Xiyi, styled Yizhai) said: The mantis raising its arms to block the cart tracks means strength too slight to bear a great task. What one should take as one’s own place is the ground of the natural; if, like piling up towers and pavilions for others to see, people come and attach themselves and many settle there, one is dragged down by reputation. “Swaying” means shifting. “Thieving mind” is a mind that acts with deliberate purpose. “Solitary aim” is an aim that one attains for oneself alone. Once the people have been taught and customs changed, private aims are removed and they advance toward the Way—as if born so—yet they do not feel this as the ruler’s teaching from above. Yao and Shun are regarded as higher and oneself as lower; hence the text speaks of taking Yao and Shun’s teaching as elder brother and oneself as younger brother. Mingxi suggests bowing the head and accepting one’s place willingly. To match the De of the natural, the heart is at peace. What is called “desire” here is the sage’s wish that the people become like this.

Those who deliberately set out to change things exert great effort; those who do nothing and let things transform themselves achieve far more. Guarding against relying solely on promoting upright and loyal men puts one in peril, and the observation platform draws many who flock to it—this is governance through deliberate action. Removing the thieving heart (the cunning mind that harms one’s true nature) and advancing each person’s own authentic purpose is transformation through Wuwei (non-action).

“Swaying and stirring” means to inspire. Inspiring the people’s hearts so that custom and habit change, simply guiding without disturbing—that is the beginning of transformation. Removing the thieving heart and advancing the authentic purpose is like prescribing medicine according to the illness—the middle stage of transformation. Only when people seem to act from their own nature without knowing why is the final stage of transformation reached. The governance of Yao and Shun (legendary sage-kings of antiquity) amounted to no more than this. Why must one honor them as elder brothers while oneself stands muddled and confused in the younger’s place? That is the wish to measure up to the virtue of Yao and Shun—a sign that attachment still remains. These words are all aimed at clearing away active governance, wiping out the traces left by Yao and Shun, and returning to “eliminating sages and abandoning wisdom” (jue sheng qi zhi—setting aside artificially exalted sages and clever contrivances).

Zi Gong traveled south to the state of Chu. On his way back to Jin, he passed the south bank of the Han River and saw an old man tending his vegetable plot. The man had dug a channel down to a well, hugged a clay jar to draw water up, and poured it on the fields—working hard for little result. Zi Gong said, “There is a device that can water a hundred plots in a day, with far less effort and far greater effect. Would you not care to use it?” The old man looked up and asked, “What sort of thing?” Zi Gong said, “Make a mechanism of wood, heavy at the back and light at the front, so drawing water is like pulling it up by a lever—the water comes out fast and in a rush. It is called a well-sweep.” The old man’s face changed, yet he smiled and said, “I have heard my teacher say: where there are machines, there must be machine-like contrivances; where there are machine-like contrivances, there must arise a calculating mind (jixin—the heart bent on utility and gain). When a calculating mind dwells in the breast, the pure and simple native endowment is no longer whole; when that endowment is not whole, the spirit cannot rest settled; and one whose spirit is unsettled is not one whom the Great Dao can sustain. It is not that I do not know of it—I feel it shameful, and so I do not use it.” Zi Gong flushed with shame, bowed his head, and could not reply.

After a while the old man asked, “What is your occupation?” Zi Gong said, “I am a disciple of Kong Qiu (Confucius).” The old man said, “Are you not the sort who, with wide learning, sets himself up as equal to a sage, struts among the crowd in self-satisfaction, plucks a lute and sings in mourning, and peddles his name to the world? You ought to forget your spirit-breath and let go of your bodily form—then you might be tolerable. You cannot even put your own person in order—what leisure have you to put the world in order? Be on your way; do not delay my work.”

Zi Gong felt awkward and ill at ease, his expression greatly altered, dejected and at a loss; only after thirty li did he gradually recover. A disciple asked, “Who was that man just now? Why did you change color when you saw him and fail to regain your composure all day?” Zi Gong said, “At first I thought that in all under heaven only our Master was worth honoring—I did not know there was also a man like this. I have heard the Master say: in affairs, what is sought is feasibility; in achievement, what is sought is completion; little effort and much effect—that is the way of the sage. Now I see it is not necessarily so. One who holds fast to the Dao has De (virtue/power) in full measure; when De is complete, the bodily form is whole; when the form is whole, the spirit is fulfilled—and only then is it the way of the sage. He lodges in the world and walks among ordinary people, yet does not know where he is bound; amid vagueness and uncertainty he remains thick and complete. Profit and cunning contrivance must surely be forgotten in such a heart. A man like this will not go where it does not suit his aim, will not do what does not accord with his inner mind. Even if all under heaven praised him and hit exactly upon what he does, he would still look on it with lofty indifference; even if all under heaven condemned him and missed his true intent, he would still accept it with calm equanimity. The world’s praise and blame neither add nor subtract from him—only such a one can be called a person of complete De. I am merely a man of the world tossed by wind and wave.”

When he returned to Lu, Zi Gong told Confucius. Confucius said, “He is one who has entrusted himself to the art of Lord Hun Dun (the primordial undivided simplicity before cleverness and artifice). He knows one side and not the other; he cultivates the inner and does not govern the outer. You are bound to be startled by someone whose mind is clear as water yet returns to plain simplicity, who acts in Wuwei (non-action) yet comes back to the uncarved block, who comprehends true nature, embraces spirit, and wanders at ease amid the dust of the world. Moreover, as for the art of Lord Hun Dun—how could you or I fully discern it?”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: To use what the times require when following the momentum of the age is what fullness and completeness in simplicity mean. If, in order to achieve such simplicity, one clings to a single fixed way and deadens oneself to ancient methods alone, the original aim is lost. Without forgetting mind-and-spirit and releasing the bodily form, there is no path that draws one near the Dao. The way of the sage is nothing other than going along with the inclinations of the people. Preserving spirit intact is the way of the sage-king; it is not the approach of the old man of Hanyin. Zi Gong heard his talk of “simple completeness” and was convinced, yet did not know that one who is truly pure white is the same as the world. This man was merely of the sort of Song Rongzi—hardly someone who could be called fully virtuous. Zi Gong was infatuated with him, just as Liezi was enchanted by Jixian. Confucius regarded him as turning his back on the present and yearning for antiquity, clinging stubbornly to the crude art of scooping water with a gourd to irrigate, unaware that adapting to the times and letting things follow their course is what is easy. True primordial chaos (Hundun) does not treat inner and outer as two separate things and lean obsessively toward fixing one side alone. When the heart is clear and enters plain simplicity, and one wanders even among worldly affairs—that is genuine Hundun. Rising and falling with the age, blending away without leaving a trace—why must that startle you? What ordinary people recognize is only the outward track of conduct.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: If one can hold to ancient intent to steer the present, then in daily use nothing is outside the arts of Hundun; why must one return to the moment heaven and earth were first opened? That old man thought: once there is mechanism, there are mechanistic affairs; once there are mechanistic affairs, there is a mechanistic heart—yet he did not know where the mechanistic heart comes from: its source is the ground where nothing-yet has appeared. This is knowing one side but not the other. He knew only to forget spirit-and-breath and cast off the bodily form to seek completeness in virtue-and-power (De), but did not know that what runs through the ten thousand affairs is none other than the Dao. This is cultivating the inner alone without cultivating the outer. “Clear understanding entering plain simplicity” until one wanders in the worldly—that is what is meant by laying down the scheming heart and employing the bodily form. When he heard Zi Gong’s words, he was angry at first and only then laughed; no wonder he treated mechanism as a burden and refused to use it. Such unknowing non-knowing is precisely what he took to be Hundun. This chapter discusses heavenly virtue (Tiande) and non-action (Wuwei); the fear is that someone will think one must be like the old man of Hanyin to count as Wuwei—then one could not govern the world. So the genuine art of Hundun spoken of here is moving through the secular without being dragged down by it.

Yidu’s commentary: “Huahu”—exerting much force. The well-sweep is light in front, so it can enter the water; heavy behind, so it can lift water up. Ji (mechanism) is the subtle point of activation; xie (device) is that mechanism showing itself in tools; shi (affair) is mechanism showing itself in action. All of these arise from the heart: mechanistic affairs outside, mechanistic heart within. Whatever appears outward always has its root inward. The heart values emptiness; outer things must not be mixed in, forms and colors must not be stained—hence “pure white.” If the mechanistic heart stirs within, outer things can mix in, forms and colors can stain, pure white is incomplete, essential qi (Jingqi) is disordered, and spirit (Shen) is generated yet unsettled. Spirit is what bears the Dao; if spirit is unsettled, the person is ruled by outer things. The old man said: I am not ignorant of devices like the well-sweep—I am ashamed to use them. From broad learning and much knowledge down to showing off one’s name to the world, it is all hoping others will know you. Forgetting spirit-and-breath is having no [scheming] heart; releasing the bodily form is forgetting the self—only then does one approach the Dao. You still cannot do this; you have not even healed yourself—where is the leisure to order all under heaven? Go away; do not obstruct my work. “One man under heaven” means that apart from Confucius he knows no one else; “this man” here refers to the old man of Hanyin. Confucius’s Dao is supremely lofty—beyond what Zi Gong can grasp—so at a glance he is bewitched by someone who feigns ultimate attainment. For the sage in affairs, there is nothing that must be done and nothing that must not be done; in merit, nothing that must count as success and nothing that must count as failure. Sometimes little effort yields much result, sometimes much effort yields little—never stuck in one corner. The Confucius Zi Gong knows is only the face Confucius shows the multitude; hence his surprise that Confucius is not like that now, and his taking the “spirit-whole” man as the sage’s way. When the sage’s way reaches its extreme, it is the same as heaven—so he goes out and walks with the people, yet they do not know where he is going; in vast obscurity, nature is simple and complete. What the world calls utility, profit, and craft all come from human artifice; this man’s heart must forget these. Zi Gong does not understand inwardly and mistakes false sagehood for true. The sage’s aim is nowhere to go and nowhere not to go; the sage’s heart is Wuwei and also nothing not done. Heeding the world’s praise is not utterly disregarding it; bearing the world’s blame is not utterly refusing it. Grasping the intent of the words is understanding them; missing the intent is misunderstanding them. Yet “disregarding the world’s praise and refusing the world’s blame” is hard to achieve. The old man of Hanyin does not pursue what is not his own aim and does not do what he himself would not do—he has not yet forgotten praise and blame, hence his partial disregard and partial refusal. As for the sage’s nature, even when the great Dao fills the world it does not increase, and in poverty and confinement it does not decrease; in responding to things, he merely follows the moment. Men of this old man’s type do not increase or decrease themselves by the world’s blame and praise—they still do not know what their hearts truly are. Zi Gong has not yet heard the Master’s teaching on nature and the Dao of heaven, so he takes that man for one of full virtue and himself for one drifting with the wind and waves. Seen through the Master’s eyes, that man is still trapped in one-sided defect. Hundun is a name forced upon us after leaving form, qi, and number behind; shu (art/method) is spoken relative to the Dao. Clinging to one end and abandoning the other, delighting in inner cultivation while forgetting outer affairs—neither is the sage’s complete Dao. “Clear understanding” is making the white manifest; entering plain simplicity, one no longer knows oneself. Wuwei is making non-action manifest; returning to plain simplicity, one no longer knows oneself. Embodying nature is merging with one’s inborn nature; embracing spirit is not leaving spirit. With this one wanders in the secular and keeps company with ordinary people without losing natural heaven (Tian). Like this—must you still be startled? The meaning is: are you also one who does not know yet is not startled? From this, true cultivation and false cultivation can be told apart.

Chen Xiangdao’s commentary: In the age of Hundun (when heaven and earth were undivided and people’s hearts were simple and undifferentiated), people dwelled without knowing what to do, walked without knowing where to go; they saw not with the eyes but with the spirit, heard not with the ears but with the breath (qi). How, then, could mechanical contrivances arise? The sage treats the world by holding to the “One” (the wholeness of the Dao) to encompass the ten thousand things, and letting the heart roam inwardly to respond to outer things. What people must do cannot go undone; what implements must serve cannot go unused. Thus mechanism belongs only to implements, not to the heart; crafty affairs arise only with the times, not from the devices themselves. His mind is broad; he rises and falls with worldly affairs without knowing why—yet things naturally turn out so. Then even in the age of Zigong (a disciple of Confucius), if the age of Hundun were to appear again, could one defy Heaven’s way and human feeling and deliberately refuse to use mechanisms? Making mechanisms is only to follow change so that the people are not worn out. But mechanisms come from the calculating mind (jixing); once that mind is born, pure simplicity (chunbai) in the heart is sure to be lost. This is knowing the “One” but not the “Two,” governing the inner heart but not outer affairs. Those who falsely claim to practice Hundun’s art cannot escape bringing shock and harm upon the world. The perfected person (zhiren) does not deliberately cultivate De (virtue/power), yet the ten thousand things cannot do without him. To deliberately practice Hundun’s art is already to make De shallow—how much more so for one who only pretends to practice it?

Bixu’s commentary: Zigong spoke of the man who watered his garden: he lived among people and mingled with the common folk, yet did not know where he was going—was he really different from the crowd? Profit-seeking and craftiness surely could not enter such a person’s heart. He accepted neither slander nor praise, like Hundun. People like wind and waves are easily shaken. Hundun is naturally so; once one deliberately “cultivates” it, it is no longer genuine—hence it is called “false.” The “One” means the root substance; the “Two” means function and effect. Those who cultivate the heart leave the outer world; those who manage outer affairs blend with the dusty world. Discerning one’s nature, holding fast to spirit (shen), and roaming within the secular—this was the people of old. Hundun has no openings (no sensory holes such as eyes, ears, mouth, and nose); even divine intelligence cannot discern it—how much less ordinary people?

Yizhai (the style name of Lin Xiyi) said: “Mechanism” here means implements and tools. Once you put them to use, what you get is machine-like affairs—affairs that rely on clever contrivance—and what drives people to use them is the heart-mind. When the mind turns cunning and calculating, it can no longer stay pure, unified, empty, and clear; the spirit wavers and cannot settle; one cannot hold to stillness and single-minded devotion—so one cannot bear the great Dao.

“Imitating the sages” (nǐ shèng) means taking the sages as models; “yú yú” describes a self-important air. “Singing alone on a single string in lament” means that when others do not understand you, you chant and explain yourself in solitude. Comparing this to Confucius striking the stone chimes in Wei is not apt.

“Forgetting spirit and qi” is like discarding cleverness and forgetting the body—in other words, forgetting the self. If you can do that, you are nearly there; otherwise, if you cannot govern yourself, how can you govern others?

“Bēi zōu” is the look of shame; “xù xù” is the look of loss and drift. Life is entrusted to the world: what you do may look the same as everyone else’s, yet you yourself do not know where you are headed. Such a person surely has no heart for profit, fame, or crafty advantage. If even praise does not sway them, how much less blame? When their way can prevail in the world, that is “obtaining what is meant”; when it cannot, that is “losing what is meant.”

“Wind and waves” means being driven by worldly tasks until the mind is unsettled. Here “jiǎ” means “great.” “Húndùn” is the primordial state when heaven and earth were first opened. “Knowing the one” is keeping to pure unity; “not knowing the two” is not letting the mind scatter. Inside is the heart-mind; outside are things. When the inner mind is clear, one can enter simplicity; in wuwei (non-action), one returns to the natural true state. “Embodying the nature” means preserving one’s essential nature; “embracing spirit” means becoming one with spirit. The text is saying you do not yet understand this Way—no wonder you are startled.

Seeking ease and shunning toil is ordinary human feeling; reputation and gain are what people desire. Yet some in the world turn away from what is easiest and choose what is hardest, content with coarse food and a hidden life. Is that because body and mind are numb as wood or clay? No—it is because their sight of the Dao is genuine, their self-knowledge clear, and their resolve firm enough to outweigh those desires. Long persistence becomes ease; ease becomes transformation. So the old gardener by the Han River was ashamed of mechanical aids and would rather carry a jar to water: body in the furrow, gaze toward the clouds, until even the sharpest debater could not turn his heart or change his conduct. Is this not the same temper as the ancients Chang Ju and Jie Ni, who refused office? Such stature comes partly from innate loftiness, partly from long study and self-cultivation. “Learning” means looking up to those who surpass you; “nurturing” means filling out what you already have within. “Changing expression and laughing”—that laugh is his reply.

Chunmang was about to travel east toward the Great Gully. His resolve was firm: even a skilled persuader could not sway his heart or alter his conduct. He was much like the ancient recluses Chang Ju and Jie Ni. This came not only from an inborn loftiness and self-consistency, but also from long cultivation through learning and nurturing. Learning means looking up to those who surpass oneself; nurturing means simply filling out what one already has within. He put on a stern face and laughed—that laugh was his answer.

Chunmang was heading east to the Great Gully when he met Yuann Feng on the seashore. Yuann Feng asked, “Where are you going?” He replied, “To the Great Gully.” “What for?” “The Great Gully is such that when water is poured in it does not fill up, when water is drawn out it does not run dry—I am going there to wander.” Yuann Feng said, “Do you not care for the people with horizontal eyes? I would like to hear about sage governance.” Chunmang said, “Sage governance? Appoint officials and administer affairs without missing what is fitting; raise up talent without missing what people can do; see the full truth of things and go along with what ought to be done. Words and acts arise from the natural course, and the world transforms itself. One need only wave a hand and glance about, and the people of the four directions all come of themselves—that is called sage governance.”

He also wished to hear about the person of De (Virtue). The answer: “The person of De dwells at ease without scheming, moves without deliberating, and does not store up in the heart what is right or wrong, beautiful or ugly. Within the four seas, to share benefit with others is joy, to supply things together with others is peace. He is wistful as an infant who has lost its mother, dazed as one who has lost the way on a journey. Goods and wealth are more than enough, yet he does not know where they come from; food and drink suffice, yet he does not know where they issue from. That is the bearing of the person of De.”

He also wished to hear about the spirit person (shenren). The answer: “The supreme spirit person rides upon brilliance; the bodily form vanishes along with it—this is called zhaokuang (illumination that opens into vastness). He exhausts the mandate of Heaven and true feeling; Heaven and Earth are at ease, the myriad affairs dissolve, the ten thousand things return to what they are—this is called hunming (merging with the deep and obscure source).”

Guo Xiang commented: To go along with what things ought to do is to follow and leave them be; if one drives the ten thousand things by external force, they cannot be transformed. That one merely gestures and glances yet the people each reach their own natural state is because one lets them do it themselves. Sharing benefit and supply with others, there is no selfish heart. De is the trace left by the spirit person, hence it is called “bearing” (rong). When one asks further for the root of that trace, the answer is riding light—but in truth it means not clinging to light, so the bodily form is extinguished along with it. Without self, following the ten thousand things; the inner mind empty and without hoarding—this is not dullness or blockage. When true feeling returns and merges into the obscure depth, there is no track left behind.

In Lü’s commentary, the idea is that when you pour in without overflow and draw out without exhaustion, that is the abundance of the Tianfu (Heaven’s inexhaustible storehouse). Yuanfeng—the one in this chapter who questions Chunmang—does not understand that it has already reached “nothingness” yet can still meet the needs of the ten thousand things, so he mistakenly thinks the other party has no intention of caring for hengmu zhi min (ordinary people with eyes set sideways). To establish offices and govern, to select talent without losing the obscure original nature, is not indifference to honoring the worthy and employing the able; to see the real situation clearly and only do what ought to be done is not telling people to hide their true feelings and blindly follow others’ footsteps. When speech and action arise naturally rather than from deliberate effort, the world transforms itself; when one waves a hand or glances, the people gather in allegiance—this is not using rewards to encourage or punishments to deter. These are manifestations of the sage in governing, but they are still not the level of the deren (one whose inner De is full).

The deren has no deliberate thought; the heart does not hoard right and wrong, beauty and ugliness—the heart is always empty. To take joy in all people under heaven sharing benefit and sharing sustenance is for the world to delight in elevating such a one without weariness. Like an infant who has lost its mother and does not know where to cling; like one lost on the road who does not know which way to go. Having surplus wealth means only letting the four seas share in the profit; having enough food and drink means only letting the four seas share in the supply. This is the bearing of the deren, but it is still not the level of the shenren (one whose spirit has already transcended form and trace).

Taiyu (a mind at ease and settled) sends forth light—that is what is used for seeing. The Shen (spirit) rides this light to see, yet is not itself light; it perishes together with the body, so though there is seeing, all is vast emptiness. Zhiming (attaining the ultimate) is shedding old habits and returning to the constant Dao; jinqing ( exhausting [false] feeling to the full) is leaving falsity and resting in what is real. When the ten thousand affairs are extinguished, stillness has reached the extreme; when the ten thousand things recover their true disposition, the myriad beings return to the root. Hun (merging) is becoming one body; fang (guarding against [clinging to seeing]) is then forgetting even the act of seeing itself.

Lin Yidu’s commentary: Water already approximates the Dao (the Way), the root of all things—pour in and it does not overflow; scoop out and it is never exhausted. That is roughly what is meant by “spirit” (shen)—wondrous and unfathomable. Because one hopes such a person will emerge to govern the people, the text says “we wish to hear of sage governance (sheng zhi, the sage’s rule).” When it speaks of “officials,” one knows that promotion and selection will not depart from their posts; when it speaks of “ability,” one knows that appointment and administration will not miss what is fitting. When affairs are fully seen through, nothing is out of place; when words and conduct arise naturally, the whole world is transformed together. With a point of the hand or a turn of the gaze, people from afar come—that is to say, when the sage appears to govern.

There is no deliberate thought, and no stored-up good or bad, because one is not dragged by outer things. To rejoice in shared benefit for the four seas is not to hoard for oneself alone. “The infant loses its mother” means having nothing to rely on; “the traveler loses the road” means having nowhere to stop. Not knowing where wealth and food come from means being without seeking yet naturally sufficed.

The supreme spirit is spirit upon spirit. “Riding light” is to ride light above light itself. Form and shadow are both unseen—one simply returns to nothingness. “Delivering the mandate to its limit” means no one forces it, yet feeling has already run its course; when feeling is exhausted, nature has nothing left unfulfilled. The spirit-person is one whose mandate is complete and whose nature is exhausted. If Heaven and Earth themselves rejoice, how much more people, how much more things? When the ten thousand things each recover the truth of their own life and nature, they become one with the Dao—hence the name “dark blending” (hun ming, merging with the Way without trace).

The opening discusses sage governance—full and radiant, called “great.” Next it discusses the person of virtue (de ren, one who has virtue)—great yet able to transform others, called “sage.” Finally it discusses the spirit-person—sage yet beyond measure, called “spirit.” Sage governance speaks of achievement; the person of virtue speaks of virtue; the spirit-person speaks of the Dao—but all are really affairs of the sage.

Chen Xiangdao’s commentary: In speech one is earnest and repeated, so as to respond to outer things; in the Dao one is dim and silent, so as to merge with things in obscurity. Therefore outwardly one speaks of sage governance; inwardly one speaks of virtue and spirit. What is spoken of is the Dao, yet in fact it is all the business of the sage.

When one uses words, one must be earnest and go over things again and again, so as to respond well to what lies outside; when one uses the Dao, things are dim and obscure, and one is suited to merge silently with what lies outside. What is spoken outwardly is sage governance (the governance of the sage); what is cultivated inwardly is De (Virtue/Power) and Shen (spirit). To select and employ people without burying their talents is the same in spirit as employing those who are fair and loyal. To wave the hand and glance about so that people from the four directions come, and to have many follow in one’s footsteps—these alike are called sage governance; it is not a matter of governing by “non-governance.” From no-thought and no-worry down to having enough to eat and drink, the way of communion with Shen is nothing beyond this; such a person is simply given the special name “person of De.” De is the substance of Shen, and Shen is the functioning of De. Those who fully realize the substance do not necessarily excel in application; those who excel in application must be rooted in the substance. That is the distinction between the person of De and the “person of Shen” (one who is spiritually adept). In the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), Shen belongs to Fire. Fire has no fixed shape; it exists only by clinging to things: when the thing is present there is light, when the thing is gone it vanishes. Shen’s activity moves in and out among these; the common people all make use of it. To ride the light and illuminate the open expanse is the same.

The great gulf is the Eastern Sea. Pouring water does not fill it, drawing water does not exhaust it—an image of the inexhaustible source of the Dao. Not fixing what is suitable or what is possible, not exposing private feeling, not acting with deliberate intent—these are the essentials of governance. When word and deed complete themselves naturally, the world follows and is transformed; to govern by non-governance is the subtlety of sage governance. No-thought, no-worry, the mind like a mirror—hence the four seas all wish to share in benefit and supply one another. Like an infant who has lost its mother, wherever it relies feels close; like a traveler who has lost the road, wherever he goes he finds steadiness. The heart roams in simplicity, so goods abound and come of themselves; Qi (vital energy) merges with still emptiness, so the belly is full and cleverness is forgotten. This is the bearing of one who has De. Riding upward on the light of primordial Qi is in truth no light; when light is no longer there, what place is there for form? This is called “illuminating the vast,” becoming one with the Great Void. Obtaining the heavenly mandate, the dispositions of things are all at ease; inwardly forgetting the outward, the ten thousand things return to their true root, each going back to its source. This is obscure mingling. Stillness is what is meant by return to destiny (fuming).

Yizhai (the sobriquet of Lin Xiyao, a Southern Song scholar) says: To roam in the great chasm (the deep valley of the sea) is to feel that the human world is not worth lingering over, and therefore to go and contemplate the ocean.

When offices are properly arranged and recommendations select the worthy, one sees clearly in every matter what can actually be done according to circumstances, and acts in accord with those circumstances. Words and deeds all arise from one’s own natural state—not performed for show, nor forced efforts to manage the realm—yet the realm is naturally transformed. Raise a hand, let the gaze fall where it will and point there, and the people respond without exception. This is how the sage governs the realm: whether dwelling or moving, still or active, there is no private intent. With no private intent, right and wrong, beauty and ugliness are not hoarded in the heart—that is, one does not deliberate on good or deliberate on evil. Sharing supply and sharing benefit with others is the meaning of rejoicing together with others.

“Like an infant who has lost its mother yet still walks on having lost the way” means that he had no intention of clinging to the human world; he was only there because he could not entirely avoid it. Wealth, expenditure, and food are set aside and not fussed over—that is to say, he has no mind for such things.

“Shangshen” (spirit ascending) means the spirit rises upward, beyond heaven and earth; the light of sun and moon falls below, hence “riding the light” (cheng guang). “Perishing together with form” means that though there is a body, it is as if there were no body; light shines far and is utterly clear. “Zhiming” (devoting life to the utmost) is pushing oneself to the extreme of Heaven’s mandate, exhausting the true feeling in one’s nature, taking the Way of Heaven and Earth as joy, so that the myriad affairs do not bind one. “Fuqing” (returning to genuineness) is returning to real principle; when one returns to real principle, the ten thousand things become one with me. “Hunmang” is the meaning of primordial chaos.

Dun Mang (a parable figure in this chapter), about to travel to the great chasm, had grown weary of the narrowness and shallowness of the human world and admired how the great chasm is never filled when water is poured in and never emptied when water is drawn out—so he wished to go and wander there. Yuan Feng (another parable figure), suspecting that he had no thought of caring for the people, asked what the sage’s governance is. The answer: establishing offices and raising the worthy must be fitting; each fulfills their capacity; those in office perform their roles, and those overlooked are brought forward. Within government one sees human feelings and the logic of affairs completely, and thus can do what ought to be done. Action and speech arise from one’s own natural state, without the fault of deliberate artifice; with sincerity one moves things, and how could the realm not be transformed? Wave the hand, glance and point—and distant people come to attach themselves; those nearby need hardly be mentioned. This is the effect of sage governance.

He then asks about the person of De (Virtue/Power). The answer: at rest, no deliberation; in motion, no scheming—meaning that in stillness and activity there is no private mind, and beauty and ugliness naturally vanish. Among the people of the four seas, any who have not yet found their place—all wish to give them benefit, ample supply, joy, and peace. Cultivated in this way, De spreads through the realm. “Like an infant who has lost its mother, walking having lost the way”—both treat the people as one would the wounded. When wealth and use are surplus, frugality is often enough; food is taken only to fill hunger, yet one does not know whence it comes—meaning one never deliberately fixes the mind on wealth and food, yet expenditure is naturally sufficient, because he lets the realm receive benefit and supply. These are the bearing and appearance of the person of De, visible from outside—not yet the substance. The substance cannot be put into words.

He asks again about the spirit person (shenren). The answer: “Shangshen riding the light” is reaching above great clarity; “perishing together with form” is entering the gate of the dark profound (the unfathomably deep portal). This means the spirit person emerges in yang and enters yin; transformation cannot be measured. “Shangshen” is the utmost of spirit; “riding the light” is treading the void upon shadow. Without emptiness one cannot emit light; without vastness one cannot contain illumination. One must reach one’s own Heaven-given limit before one can exhaust the true feeling of the realm. The joy of Heaven and Earth can be seen by measuring with the human heart; what Heaven sees and Heaven hears is likewise. The extinction of the myriad affairs ultimately rests on my Wuwei (non-action). Let each thing return to its own original genuineness—this is called Hunmang (primordial chaos). Entering Hunmang, I myself am forgotten—how much more so outer things? To discuss the spirit person and end with Hunmang is precisely to show why he counts as spirit.

Men Wugui watched the army of King Wu of Zhou together with Chi Zhang Manji. Chi Zhang Manji said, “This does not compare with Youyu (Shun), does it? That is why such war and disaster have come about.” Men Wugui said, “Was the world already at peace when Youyu went to govern it, or was it already in disorder and only then governed?” Chi Zhang Manji said, “When the world could be evenly settled and at peace, that was what people wanted all along—why fix on Youyu and rely on him to do it? Youyu was like medicine for sores and ulcers: one puts on a wig only after the head is bald, and seeks a doctor only after falling ill. A filial son brings medicine to treat a kind father, his face haggard—and even the sage feels ashamed at this.”

In an age of supreme virtue (zhide), no one exalted the worthy, and no one employed the capable by command. Those above were like the topmost twigs of a tall tree; the people were like wild deer. Conduct was upright, yet no one took that for righteousness (yi); they loved one another, yet no one took that for benevolence (ren); hearts were sincere, yet no one took that for loyalty (zhong); affairs were handled fittingly, yet no one took that for trustworthiness (xin). The myriad beings moved and fitted together naturally, and did not treat it as a gift of grace. Hence actions left no trace, and deeds were not handed down to later generations.

Guo Xiang’s commentary holds that Shun and King Wu were both sages who governed in response to change in the world. Abdication and the use of arms differ only with the times; between them there is no ranking of higher and lower. If the world were level and each person content, why would one need to honor Youyu’s virtue and install him as ruler? When all under heaven suffered from wounds and disorder, they then sought Youyu as that dose of medicine. When a filial son feeds the medicine and looks worn, it shows that governing the world is not done for glory. In an age of supreme virtue, the worthy occupy their places of themselves—it is not that someone specially exalts them; the capable act of themselves—it is not that someone drives them. Those above are like twigs rising above the myriad things without thinking themselves lofty; those below are like wild deer, free and at ease. Benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, and trustworthiness all spring from innate nature and are not deliberate artifice. When the myriad beings employ one another, it is only each moving according to its own nature; hence even when they move, they do not feel gratitude. The ruler can leave them to act, so action leaves no trace; affairs each keep to their own station, so teaching is not passed on to others either.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary reads: Youyu came to govern only after the world had already fallen into disorder, and King Wu likewise governed amid chaos. Were either of them not taking the realm as their own responsibility? How then can we say they differ so much that they cannot be compared? Youyu’s healing of sores is like putting on a wig only after going bald, or seeking a doctor only after falling ill—remedies applied only after things have already gone wrong. When children hold medicine and attend their father, their faces drawn with worry and urgency—that shows the Dao has not yet reached the stage of “mutual forgetting” (jianwang). When the six kin are not in harmony, filial piety and kindness stand out; that is precisely what the sage would be ashamed of. Seen this way, Youyu’s governance too was a last resort; how can we say he surpassed King Wu? Judging by outward deeds, even Fuxi and Suiren would not count as an age of utmost virtue (zhide). Judging by their inner intent, the excellence of Youyu and King Wu is what is meant by an age of utmost virtue. Because of Wuwei (non-action), there is no name; without a name, actions leave no trace and affairs are not handed down—who could presumptuously pass judgment within that?

Commentator Yi Du, who annotated the Zhuangzi, holds that Zhuangzi’s point is to wish for a return to something like the remotest antiquity, in which each person would rest content in the true condition of their own nature and life. The ways Yao and Shun governed the realm were, in his view, only chaff and dregs—not what he valued.

When the people fell into disorder, the Youyu clan—that is, Shun—used benevolence and righteousness (ren and yi) to set things right, much as one applies medicine to treat sores and ulcers. A wig is worn to conceal baldness; a physician is employed to attack an illness that has already appeared. Neither defers to the natural course of things; both are like seeking a remedy only after disorder has already set in. If someone mixes medicine to nurse a sick father and grows haggard and wan in the face, the world may call that filial piety, yet the sage finds it shameful—speaking from the perspective of the Way of Heaven (tiandao), such conduct is meant to correct the defects of the human way (rendao).

In an age of utmost virtue (zhide), worthies were not exalted, so people did not contend for reputation; the capable were not pressed into service, so people did not compete in skill. High branches do not insist on being above—they simply are above; wild deer do not insist on being in the wild—they simply are in the wild. Uprightness is the root of yi (righteousness); mutual cherishing is the root of ren (benevolence). Ren and yi are only the labels and outward traces of uprightness and mutual cherishing. Genuineness is the root of zhong (loyalty); fitness to the situation is the root of xin (faithfulness). What the world calls “being genuine” and “being fitting” is often no more than chasing the reputation of loyalty and faithfulness. In the age of utmost virtue, ren, yi, zhong, and xin were one with innate nature (xing)—people never left their nature behind to pursue those labels and traces.

“Stirring creatures mutually dispatch one another” (chundong er xiangshi) means that each follows its own nature and, in doing so, sets others to their tasks—not as a conferred favor, but simply because that is how things are. Actions leave no trace, and affairs are not broadcast abroad, because in the heart there was never any intention to act or to accomplish something.

Chen Xiangdao (a Northern Song scholar who annotated the Zhuangzi) held that the harm done by sores and ulcers is not the same as the harm done by internal illness. Though the severity of harm may be shallow or deep, relying on medicine to deal with it is the same in both cases. The age of the Five Constants (as opposed to the age of the Three Kings—an even more pristine antiquity) differs from the age of the Three Kings (the rulers of Xia, Shang, and Zhou). Though the world may be more pure or more corrupt, relying on governance to respond is likewise the same. Seen in this light, how can one say that Shun was right to use medicine on sores while King Wu of Zhou was wrong to use medicine on disease? Zhuangzi regarded those who govern the world as filial sons and the world as a loving father; Yin Wen (a Warring States thinker) regarded himself as a disciple and the world as a teacher. Whoever holds the world in mind must first lower himself and honor others before he wins the world’s closeness and praise. Yet this still differs from that dim, far-reaching state in which even the world is wholly forgotten.

Chen Bixu (Chen Jingyuan, styled Bixuzi) held that Dan Zhu (Yao’s son) did not measure up, so a man of benevolence, sagehood, and brilliance came to succeed him; King Zhou of Yin was cruel and wicked, so someone came to quell the turmoil and replace him. None of this was tranquil wuwei or balanced, untroubled rule. When the people were sick, Chonghua (Shun’s personal name) took benevolence and righteousness as medicine to heal them. Because there was sickness one sought a physician; because there was disorder one sought order—what good physician or filial son would wish to hear of such things? Not exalting the worthy, there is no strife; not employing the capable, there is no ruin. Those above are like branch tips without private aims; those below are like wild deer, free and at ease. This too is mutual resonance: where there is perversity, righteousness appears; where there is hatred, benevolence arises; where there is fraud, loyalty shows; where there is emptiness and falsehood, trust is made clear. Without the first four conditions, the latter four manifestations do not exist. Creatures using one another is simply the nature of things—not taken as grace; leaving no trace, not spreading it abroad, not treating it as something extraordinary.

Yan Zhai (Lin Xiyu, a Song-dynasty commentator on the Zhuangzi) says: Manji (Chi Zhang Manji) holds that military campaigns are inferior to abdicating the throne in favor of another, and following Wu Guo’s question, he also criticizes the Youyu clan (Emperor Shun). His meaning is: everyone in the world wishes for peace and good order; when the Youyu clan stepped in to govern, they became a burden instead. When there is no sore, why use medicine? When one is not bald, why wear a wig? When there is no illness, why seek a physician? A filial son prepares medicine for his father with a haggard face—yet that is never as good as the father having no illness in the first place. Treating a loving father and feeling shame are spoken together; only afterward is that shame made explicit. In an age of utmost virtue, all of society was simple and unified, and there were not yet names like “worthy” or “capable,” so they did not exalt the worthy or employ the capable. “Branch on a treetop” and “withered branch,” like the wild deer, are all metaphors for being without feeling or desire. “Upright” means cultivating the self; “mutual love” means drawing close to one another. From “upright” through the four instances of “did not know,” the point is that at that time there were not yet the labels of benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, and trustworthiness. “Stirring creatures” refers to living common people who serve one another and support one another; “bestowal” means grace or favor. “No tracks” and “no transmission” mean that at that time there were not yet judgments of right and wrong, praise and blame. Precisely because the world was not originally in disorder, the name “governance” arose later; precisely because Yao’s son was unworthy, the matter of passing the throne to Shun arose later. Where there is abdication in favor of another, there will inevitably be military campaigns afterward—just as when there is a sore one uses medicine, when bald one wears a wig, when ill one seeks a physician. A filial son preparing medicine is his proper duty, yet the sage still feels shame—meaning it would be better if the father had no illness at all; how much more so when one seeks order through military campaigns? Therefore he brings up the age of utmost virtue, to show that society had not yet reached that later thinness and decline, hoping people will abandon the latter and take the former as their model. Only by not exalting the worthy and not employing the capable can people be like branches on treetops, like wild deer. A branch on a treetop is a twig at the tip of a tree, high above yet unaware of its own eminence. “Upright” should be understood as mutually correcting one another, as the following text makes clear. These four “did not know” mean alike returning to the Dao, all dissolving into the realm where each forgets the other. Benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, and trustworthiness are merely traces that people in the world distinguish and name. “Stirring creatures” means simple, unsophisticated common people: they serve one another without treating it as a gift of grace, they help one another in friendship without a mind of demanding repayment. Walking leaves no tracks, like a bird’s flight leaving no pattern; acting requires no transmission of doctrine—meaning wherever one passes, all are transformed and guided. This is the age of utmost good order.

Zhuangzi: Collected Subtleties of the Meaning-Ocean, juan 38 (Nanhua zhenjing is the honorific title for the Zhuangzi; this work was compiled by Chu Boxiu of the Southern Song from commentaries of various masters) is included in the Siku Quanshu. The passage states: when you help others, you do not inwardly reproach them or look for repayment; you act without leaving a trace, as when a bird flies by and no line remains; you do not seek to make a name for yourself, and so every place you pass through is naturally transformed and nurtured. That is why such a time becomes an age of the highest order. The same work, juan 39, by Chu Boxiu of the Song, explains the sixth chapter, “Heaven and Earth.”

A filial child does not fawn upon their parents; a loyal minister does not toady to their ruler. That is the utmost of being child or subject. Yet if one treats everything parents say as right and everything they do as good, the world calls that child unfilial; if one treats everything the ruler says as right and everything they do as good, the world calls that minister disloyal. People do not see that this judgment may itself be wrong.

Whatever the world calls right, they call right; whatever it calls good, they call good—and such people are not labeled “those who guide others by flattery” (daoyu). Tell them they are guiding people, and they flush with anger; tell them they are flattering, and they flare up. Yet they spend their lives guiding and flattering—stringing together analogies and polishing phrases to draw crowds—and from start to finish, root to tip, never think they have done wrong. They let their robes hang, adorn their colors, arrange their looks to please the age, and still deny they are daoyu; they band with the multitude and take right and wrong entirely from the crowd, yet deny they are ordinary people. That is folly pushed to the limit.

Those who know they are foolish are not yet deeply foolish; those who know they are confused are not yet deeply confused. The deeply confused never wake; the deeply foolish never become clear. When three walk together and only one is lost, they can still reach where they are going, because the lost are few; when two are lost, they toil and never arrive, because the lost side wins. Today the whole world is lost. Even if I have qi-xiang—a mind set on the Way—I cannot get through. Is that not pitiful?

Refined music does not enter the ears of lane-and-alley folk; sing “Broken Poplar” or “Imperial Grass” and everyone roars with laughter. So lofty words cannot hold the crowd’s heart; words of utmost principle do not get a hearing—common talk wins instead. If you measure with a pottery jar and a bell as if they matched, people are thrown into confusion and do not know where to go. Now the whole world is in confusion; even with qi-xiang, how could I arrive? Knowing it cannot be done and still forcing it is to add another layer of confusion. Better to let go and not push. If you do not push, who will share your worry with you?

Someone with a foul disease and a hideous face gives birth at midnight, rushes for a lamp to look, and trembles with fear lest the child resemble them.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Affirming the words and deeds of ruler and parents is, in fact, going against custom in order to obey them—so the world calls one unfilial. People do not know where true appropriateness lies. Custom is not more august than ruler and parents; as long as one follows custom, people do not call it flattery. Clearly dignity alone cannot make people trust you; what wins trust is usually following custom. Therefore the sage never cuts off from the world but always moves with the wax and wane of the times: in an age that calls itself imperial, they practice the imperial way; in an age that calls itself royal, they practice the royal way. How could they abandon custom for a private view alone? The world takes what the many share as correct; call someone daoyu and they change color and refuse the label—yet they spend life being daoyu, never asking about principle, only seeking mutual ease. Piling up similes and polishing language ought to carry the fault of daoyu, but the world uses these to win people and gather crowds, and those who follow custom never feel guilty. When everyone is foolish to the limit, one cannot stubbornly oppose them.

The sage’s Way is one, yet the traces left by emperors and kings differ—because the world’s confusion cannot be untied, one can only follow and let things be. When all under heaven are confused, even with a heart turned toward the Way, one ultimately cannot attain it; Yao, Shun, Yu, and Tang merely adapted to their times. Refined music is not what alleys honor; give ordinary folk a catchy ditty and they laugh together. That is why the world has never truly used the sage, but always used itself. Each person clings to what they rely on and does not know where to go. Better to walk near them and seek only what fits the moment—not forcing enlightenment on them—so that in this life they can be free of shared anxiety. No one under heaven wishes to do evil; when they do, they are driven by harsh corvée or lose their nature through confusion. The lost will think of returning; those with foul disease will think of turning toward good.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: If subjects only affirm what rulers and parents affirm and praise what they praise, the world calls this flattery and says they are unworthy. Yet is it necessarily wrong to follow along in calling something good? When someone affirms what the world affirms and calls it good, they are not labeled flatterers. So where does strict reverence for the ruler and deep honor for parents actually land in practice?

Being called a “daoyu” (one who curries favor by saying what others want to hear) makes people flush with anger—they hate the label—yet they spend their whole lives doing exactly that. Patching together analogies and dressing up language to draw a crowd is hardly anything else; from start to finish, root and branch never match. Those analogies and ornaments violate reason; relying on them to form factions is what makes it daoyu. People who “join comparisons and polish phrases to gather the multitude” still shrink from the name daoyu and cannot shake it off. How much more so those who do not know how to return to the qing of xingming (the truth and reality of life’s inborn nature)—they drape themselves in ceremonial robes, shift their expressions, and please the whole age, yet deny they are daoyu; they walk with the crowd and let right and wrong follow the crowd, yet deny they are the crowd. That is folly pushed to the limit.

Those who know they are foolish are not yet deeply foolish—like the sick who can name their illness: the sickness is not yet deep, and something can still be done. If one never wakes, never becomes clear, until the illness is so far gone they cannot name it, then nothing can save them.

When three walk together and only one is lost, the destination can still be reached—like when the Dao flourishes, many find it and few lose it. When two are lost, effort is wasted and they never arrive—like when the Dao declines, many lose it and few find it. Today the whole world is lost; even if I have a direction to pray toward, there is no way to get there. The age and the Dao perish together; there is no one with whom to clarify this. The people have been mistaken so long that even if you hope they will turn this way, none follow. This is what the zhiren (person of utmost attainment) grieves over most deeply.

Great principle cannot enter alleyway ears, so vulgar speech wins. With Hui Shi’s cleverness, he still said Zhuangzi’s words were useless—the state of the world is easy to imagine. The confusion of “two hanging heels” is not knowing where the foot will land; the lost cannot reach their goal even with their own feet. Small confusion makes people lose their way; when the whole world is lost, that is great confusion—it changes human nature. Even if I have a direction, can I reach it? I am not stingy with this Dao and unwilling to show the world; to force what I know is impossible is to become a lost person myself—not someone who can rest in fate, exhaust true feeling, and forget the world together. So it is better to release and stop probing, and forget one another with them. Once I no longer probe, who still shares my worry with me?

It is like someone with li (a foul, disfiguring disease) who fears his son will look like him. The Dao is nothing but the human heart—yet they cannot obtain it. Is that sickness only like li? Merging oneself with the vulgar current and blending with a stained age—is that only the son resembling the father? Though I release and stop probing, do they themselves not worry?

Lin Yidu’s commentary explains: What the world calls a filial son is someone who can follow his parents’ wishes; what it calls a loyal minister is someone who can win the ruler’s favor. What parents do is not necessarily in accord with the Way (Dao); if a son blindly follows, he falls into daoyu—leading them on by echoing their wishes. What a ruler does is not necessarily in accord with the Way; if a minister blindly obeys, he falls into flattery. True filial piety does not daoyu; true loyalty does not flatter—this is the height of what a minister should be.

If a subject makes nothing of his duty but to obey ruler and parents, and cannot restrain them with the Way, the world labels him unworthy; yet who can say such a person is truly unworthy? To follow ruler and parents while going against the world is not necessarily right; to go against ruler and parents while siding with the world—the world does not call that daoyu. Is the world really more to be honored than one’s parents, more to be revered than one’s ruler? Neither of these courses is what the ancient kings allowed by letting both sides go their own way.

“Dao” (in daoyu) means drawing someone along by matching their intent; “yu” means catering to what pleases them. People hate the name daoyu but are not ashamed of the thing itself—like hating drunkenness yet forcing oneself to drink. Skill in analogy makes speech pleasing; skill in ornament makes writing beautiful. It seems right at the start and wrong at the end; the source seems good and the downstream current breeds harm. This comes from the learning of the xiangyuan—outwardly solid, inwardly pleasing everyone—and most of the world follows it; when harm finally appears no one traces it back, so the practice never stops.

What the world calls a “gentleman” treats letting robes hang as culture, laying out colors as decoration, and posturing face and bearing as ritual—all to win the crowd’s love. These are the real daoyu people, yet they do not admit it; keeping company with them, right and wrong blur together, yet they do not think themselves ordinary folk—stupidity pushed to the limit.

To be foolish and know one is foolish is small foolishness; to be confused and know one is confused is small confusion. Three walk together: one loses the way and may still arrive, because the confused are few; two lose the way and the journey is wasted and never finished, because the confused have the upper hand. In that age the whole world was lost in confusion; Zhuangzi alone sought the direction that leads to the ultimate Way—and in the end could not attain it.

Grand music is plain and thin in flavor, like the legendary pools of Xian and the great Shao; tunes such as “Broken Poplar” and “Sovereign Splendor” are village ditties. Elevated discourse is extremely remote; discourse of ultimate principle goes straight to the Great Way. Such words cannot be uttered because vulgar speech is abundant and overwhelms them. An earthen jar (fou) and a bell are both round and both ring when struck; strike two jars and one bell together and the listener cannot tell what to follow. How much more when the whole world is confused—can one person who wishes to guide succeed? Knowing confusion cannot be untied yet forcing a solution is another layer of confusion. Better to release and stop pushing. Stop pushing—who is left to worry together?

Even an ugly-faced person still hopes his child will be handsome; can the confused not hate being lost and wish to wake up?

Chen Xiangdao’s commentary says: When righteousness can be followed, a filial son follows righteousness rather than blindly obeying his father. That is why the third line of the Gua hexagram in the Yijing says, in substance, that a son who clears away wrongs left by his father may feel slight regret but commits no great fault. If he calls everything his father says right and everything he does good, worldly opinion will surely call him an unfilial son.

When the Dao can be followed, a loyal minister follows the Dao rather than blindly obeying his ruler. That is why the second line of the Lin hexagram says that broadly overseeing all is auspicious and nothing is unfavorable. If he calls everything the ruler says right and everything he does good, worldly opinion calls him an unworthy minister.

Yet people take what the world calls “right” as right and what it calls “good” as good, without calling this daoyu (meeting someone’s faults and flattering them into worse). Are worldly norms really more awe-inspiring than a parent or more exalted than a ruler? It is only that everyone is sunk in delusion and no one can cut through it.

Dao, in this sense, means going along with someone’s faults; yu means feeding those faults. Everyone lives out daoyu in fact, yet hates the name. More than that, they stitch together comparisons to argue for it, dress it up in fine phrases, and rally crowds to spread it. Cause and effect never match from beginning to end; in the end no one escapes the harm—this is sheer folly.

When two people are both deluded, effort is wasted and they never get there, because what deludes them is the very road they should take. Deluded by the jumble of two fu-vessels and bells—a coarse, vulgar din—one likewise never reaches the goal, because what deludes is the mind’s sense of where to go.

The way of the world is this: the many changing the few is easy; the few turning the delusion of the many is hard. When custom is thin and corrupt, guiding with wa sheng su yan (lascivious tones and vulgar talk) is easy; moving people with da sheng gao yan (a strong voice and high teaching) is hard. Now that all under heaven are deluded, even if I have something to aim at, how could I arrive?

Bixu Commentary: To follow the world in every way is to lose dignity before ruler and parents; to obey ruler and parents in everything is to be seen by the world as fawning. Ruler and parents are only the private good of one person; what the world approves is the public standard of right. Acting from private feeling alone is not true loyalty or filial piety; following public opinion is not necessarily flattery. Thus the worthy person and the gentleman never deliberately set themselves entirely apart from others—nor do they simply merge with the crowd.

Those who lead others into flattery also hate being called dishonest, yet they spend their lives accommodating, skilled at going along, even polishing their words and gathering followers until shoes fill the doorway. In the sage’s view, this is precisely “leading into flattery,” yet the world praises them—who still examines their fault? Say they read people’s wishes, and they resent not being accepted; let others speak to their mood, and they take it calmly. How is this different from those in tall caps and broad sashes, full of fine phrases, nodding and bowing, loving praise? Those who can still wake up are not deeply deluded; those who still have inner clarity are not deeply foolish. A lifetime without understanding or clarity means the heart still clings to reputation and gain. To use one’s own insight to guide the deeply deluded—I am few, they are many—is that not lamentable? Lofty, refined tones do not enter the ears of lane-dwellers; profound words do not stay in the crowd’s mind, like striking a bell whose sound must differ—people not only hear it dully but do not know where to turn. Everyone wishes to wake, yet cannot help themselves; delusion piles on delusion—who shares their worry? The ugly person who fears his child looks like him shows he knows his own ugliness; then do the deluded have no mind to turn toward good?

Yizhai says: Only without fawning and without sycophancy can one remonstrate with ruler and father. Agreeing with whatever others say and calling whatever they do good is not knowing how to remonstrate. Toward ruler and parent, to remonstrate is right and not to remonstrate is wrong; toward the world, to do what they call good and affirm what they call right—in that case, is the world stricter than parents and more honored than the ruler? This means: what people today call the Dao is only what the world jointly approves—not the Dao one attains alone in companionship with the creator. If my Dao matched the world’s, my conduct would be nothing but leading the world into flattery. They hate the name “leading into flattery” yet cannot escape it for a lifetime—that is, they cannot differ from the world. By allegory and polished speech they gather all who study under heaven; at first they mean to rise above the age, yet in the end they never leave their contemporaries—beginning and end, root and branch, do not align. “Draping robes, arranging adornments, shifting countenance” refers to the Confucian’s hat, belt, and bearing; they guide step by step, so they are seen as pleasing the age. All of this satirizes the sage. Those who learn from me are all vulgar mediocrities; if my right and wrong match theirs, I too am vulgar. Already in league with mediocrities yet refusing to admit one is mediocre—that is folly at its peak, utterly without insight. “A lifetime without understanding, without clarity” means they do not know what they truly seek. When all under heaven are swayed by that talk, even if I alone have a direction, how can I turn back the whole age? Zhe Yang and Huang Hua are lane tunes, standing for vulgar speech; “great sound” stands for the highest teaching. When vulgar speech wins, the utmost teaching is hidden. “Drooping the heels” is sitting with feet hanging, unwilling to walk; “two men drooping their heels in delusion” is the pair deluded above. Some manuscripts have unintelligible characters—copyists’ errors. Knowing one cannot obtain yet forcing the attempt is another layer of delusion. “Not pushing” means no need to argue further; setting it down and saying no more avoids sinking into worry—this is self-explanation. The ugly person fearing his son resembles him is knowing one’s own ugliness; the deluded in the world none know themselves—they fall short even of the ugly man. Here two metaphorical lines seem to close yet do not—truly singular writing.

To approve the words and deeds of ruler and parent, the world says the person is worthless; to approve the world’s words and deeds is not called flattery. It is not that the world is stricter than parents or more honored than the ruler. The minister takes loyalty as his root, the son filial piety—they should not serve ruler and father with fawning. Toward the world, affirming what they call right and good without examining the facts inevitably becomes leading into flattery. They hate that name yet act that reality, walking it for a lifetime without waking. Polishing words and crowding followers to boast ultimately harms the Dao and corrupts virtue—like the xiangyuan (outwardly honest, inwardly going with the corrupt)—beginning and end, root and branch, so disordered. “Not sitting together” is like saying front and back cannot rest in peace, cannot match. They drape robes, shift countenance to please the age yet deny they are leading into flattery—is this not folly? Those who know they are deluded are not yet truly deluded, for they can still be taught; as for those without understanding or clarity, even the sage can do nothing. “Three walk together” speaking of what cannot be obtained means the deluded are many—not one person can redeem all. From “great sound does not enter lane ears” to “vulgar speech wins” clarifies what came before; the corrupt character should read “drooping heels.” Two men sit with feet hanging, deluded and unwilling to go—even their destination they cannot reach; how much less when all under heaven is deluded—if I have a quest, can I obtain it? Knowing one cannot obtain yet forcing the attempt only adds delusion. Better to release and stop asking—what is left to worry? This is the perfected person seeing nothing to save, posing the difficulty and resolving it himself. The chapter ends with the ugly man birthing a child at night and fetching fire to look: even the ugly do not want the child to resemble them—do the deluded lack a heart that turns toward good? If those in high place can awaken people’s innate nature, that nature was never lost. The classic says: “What opens innate nature—from this virtue is born; what opens artificial cunning—from this harm is born.” How can one not be cautious?

A century-old tree is split open to make a sacrificial wine vessel (xizun), painted in green and yellow and decorated with patterns; the leftover logs are thrown into a ditch. Compared with each other, the ritual vessel and the broken wood in the ditch differ in beauty and ugliness, yet in having lost the tree’s original nature, the two are the same. Robber Zhi and Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu (models of righteous conduct in antiquity) differ in the goodness or badness of their actions, but in losing their true nature they are equally alike.

There are five ways of losing true nature. First, the five colors confuse the eyes and make sight unclear. Second, the five sounds disturb the ears and make hearing dull. Third, the five odors assail the nose and block the breath, even rushing up to the forehead. Fourth, the five flavors muddy the mouth and ruin the sense of taste. Fifth, likes and dislikes in choosing and rejecting stir the spirit and make the true nature restless and unstable. These five are all harms to life. Yang Zhu and Mozi, by contrast, insist on forcing their abilities and fancy that they have attained something—yet that is not what I call attainment. If being trapped and cornered counts as attainment, then a turtledove or owl shut in a cage could count as having attained as well.

Furthermore, when likes and dislikes and the pleasures of color and sound pack the inner mind like stacked firewood, and when leather caps, egret-feather hats, board tablets, and sash belts bind the outer appearance—inside stuffed like a palisade of logs, outside wrapped layer upon layer in cords—yet one stares wide-eyed within those cords and still believes oneself to have attained: on that reckoning, a criminal with arms bound and fingers squeezed, or a tiger or leopard locked in cage and bars, could also count as having attained.

Guo Xiang’s commentary is again brief and not complete. Lü Huiqing’s commentary says: the painted sacrificial vessel stands for the adornment and cultivation of Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu; the broken wood in the ditch stands for the foulness of Robber Zhi; binding the arms, squeezing the fingers, and caging tigers and leopards in sacks and bars can likewise be called a kind of attainment.

The Lü commentary: A sacrificial ox-shaped wine vessel painted with green and yellow patterns stands for the kind of cultivation associated with Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu (figures famed for benevolence and uprightness); a broken log discarded in a ditch stands for the foul conduct of Robber Zhi. When nature is cultivated through the classics on sexuality and one returns to original virtue, virtue at its utmost is the same as the primordial state—only that counts as true attainment. If so, why rank or choose between Zeng and Shi on one side and Robber Zhi on the other?

Color in itself is not clarity; the vision that makes color appear as color is clarity. When the five colors confuse it, the eyes lose clarity. Sound in itself is not acuity; the hearing that makes sound appear as sound is acuity. When the five tones confuse it, the ears lose acuity. Seeing this, the five odors that stifle the nose, the five flavors that muddy the mouth, and chasing and rejecting (qu she) that unsettle the spirit follow the same pattern. The heart originally has no chasing or rejecting, yet chasing and rejecting are used to stir it up, so innate nature flares up and cannot settle.

Yang Zhu and Mozi were talents of the realm, yet they never heard the Dao; what they knew did not go beyond these five, and they began to strain on tiptoe (li qi)—deliberate, forced striving—thinking they had gained something. If that counts as gain, caged doves and owls could count as having gained too.

Piling firewood inside so the Dao cannot gather; imposing restraint outside so the heart cannot undo its knots. Within, the space is choked with brushwood; without, layer upon layer of rope and cord bind one. To one who sees through it, a person stands in bonds yet the eyes stay bright, still believing there is gain. If that counts as gain, then criminals with arms bound behind them and fingers pinched in the cangue, and tigers and leopards shut in pens and cages, could all count as having gained.

Yidu commentary: Comparing the beauty of a wine vessel painted green and yellow with a broken piece of wood in a ditch. To one who sees through it, though the body is in ropes and cords and the gaze is still clear, one still thinks there is gain—then criminals with crossed arms and pinched fingers and tigers and leopards trapped in sacks and cages could equally count as having gained.

Commentary on Yidu: To compare a wine vessel painted green and yellow with a length of broken wood in a ditch is to see that ugliness and beauty differ, yet their root is the same; once they become “things,” they both lose their original nature. Robber Zhi and “Zeng and Shi” (Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu, long taken as men of virtue) practiced benevolence and righteousness in unlike ways, yet equally turned from the root and lost their nature—just like the sacrificial ritual vessel and the wood broken in the ditch. The five colors disorder the eyes, the five sounds disorder the ears, and the same holds for the nose toward odors and the mouth toward flavors. “Kunduo” means the nose and brow are stopped up; “lishuang” means the palate is ruined and one falls ill. Chasing profit and shunning harm stir the spirit; when the heart is stirred, nature is obstructed. These five are all harms to life. Yang Zhu and Mo Di, straining on tiptoe beyond nature and life (liqi), took that as gain—and could not but fall into distress. If distress counts as self-possession, then a hawk or owl caged could also count as self-possessed. Stuffing the inner heart with choices about sound and color like firewood, and binding the outer form with ceremonial cap and sash (the outward garb of ritual): choices filling the inside are like a palisade hemming one in; sash and girdle binding the outside are like ropes—both speak of exhaustion and weariness. To take that still as gain is no different from a criminal with arms bound behind him and fingers pinched, or a tiger or leopard shut in bars and cages—how could those count as gain either?

Commentary on Xiangdao: Laozi said: the five colors make the eyes blind, the five tones make the ears deaf, the five flavors dull the mouth’s discernment. At birth, nature is clear and still, with nothing to stir it; virtue is plain and thick, with nothing to alter it. When empty outer circumstances appear before one, the lingyuan (the source of the heart-mind) slides into disorder, until one forgets the immeasurable true dignity and pursues endless filth and decay—is that not delusion? Hence the noble person values se (holding fast and not squandering life outward). Yet Guan Zhong said: when the ears wish to hear sounds but cannot, that is called blocking hearing; when the eyes wish to see beauty but cannot, that is called blocking sight; when the body wishes to enjoy abundance but cannot, that is called blocking ease; when the mind wishes to roam in action but cannot, that is called blocking nature. These blockings are all lords that batter life. Clinging to them and living long in anxious grief is not what I call nurturing. Why? One who is good at se is not anxiously pressed; one who is anxiously pressed all day is not good at se.

Bi Xu (Chen Jingyuan) comments: When trees grow, they are naturally green and whole. Those ruined, tyrannical rulers who fret all day and only want to live long—this is not what I call nurturing life. Why? One who is good at se (restraint, cherishing essence, spirit, and breath) does not fret; one who frets is not good at se.

Bi Xu comments again: Wood is green and intact when it grows; once carved into a vessel, its native character is destroyed. Human beings are naturally at ease; once they go about enforcing benevolence and righteousness, their true nature is harmed. So seeing, hearing, eating, drinking, and breathing may be kept or lost—either is fine. Only someone whose qu she (pursuit and rejection) does not cling to the heart can roam free beyond the filth of the mundane world—how could ropes, cords, bags, or cages hold such a person?

Yizhai (Lin Xiyi) says: The piece thrown in the ditch is what remains of the wood after it was split to make a sacrificial wine vessel (xi zun). On both sides honor and disgrace differ, yet both are dead wood. This is the same point as Zang and Gu both losing the sheep—one studied, one played, yet the sheep was lost just the same. Sound, color, odor, and taste are all enough to disturb one’s nature; putting these four together with qu she is meant to belittle it. Kun zhe is qi rushing upward in reverse, from the nose through to the forehead. Zhuo kou means the mouth is defiled; some editions write a different character for “mouth,” which is incorrect. Li shuang means taste goes wrong and is lost. Using “this trend is right, that rejection is wrong” to stir up the heart, one’s natural nature is lost. The learning of Yang Zhu and Mozi is precisely what uses qu she to slip and confuse the human heart. Trapped by their own doctrines, they think they have gained something; on that logic, a caged owl could count as having gained something too—the censure is very sharp. Qu she and right-and-wrong block the chest, hence “fencing the inside”; cap and sash, girdle and official robe are the Confucians’ dress—binding with ritual and law, hence “binding the outside.” The inside is packed full like a brush fence; the outside is tied by ritual text like a criminal bound. Huan huan means eyes staring straight ahead. Others see him finding misery in bonds, yet he thinks he has gained; then prisoners and tigers in cage bars could count as having gained too. This is a fierce attack on Yang and Mo.

This passage uses metaphor to explain the harm of losing one’s nature; the various commentators have already explained it in detail, so it is not repeated here.

At the opening of this chapter it says: The great transformation of Heaven and Earth brings forth myriad beings; whoever rules All-under-Heaven should observe broadly through the Dao and extend De universally, practicing wuwei (non-action) and desirelessness, with offices and duties clearly divided. The main point is not to use ming (cleverness and artifice) to create the harm of losing one’s nature; on this the commentators have already given full explanations, and it is not repeated here.

This opening section speaks of the vast transforming power of Heaven and Earth and the multitude of beings. One who holds sway over the world should take the Dao as a wide-ranging perspective and De as the means to move through things—acting through wuwei (non-action) and without desire—so that the governance of offices becomes clear and distinct. When what is unlike is assimilated to the same Dao, the myriad things can no longer show themselves as separate.

Nothing is greater than Heaven and Earth; nothing is more honored than Dao and De. The sage’s way combines Heaven’s covering and Earth’s bearing, and so can be named alongside Heaven and Earth. Someone may ask: if there were sages but no Heaven and Earth, how could they become sages? My view is the reverse: if there were Heaven and Earth but no sages, how could Heaven and Earth be Heaven and Earth? Heaven and Earth and sages rely on each other; neither side can be dispensed with. Therefore the Nanhua Zhenjing (that is, the Zhuangzi) uses “Heaven and Earth” to clarify the virtue of the ruler—this is the principle of encompassing Heaven and Earth, steering the myriad things, and governing all under Heaven.

People see the sage responding to affairs in many ways and suspect his sagely wisdom and sharp intelligence far exceed ordinary people, not knowing that this is precisely what is achieved by kouxin (cutting away the calculating heart to keep the inner mind empty and still) and wuwei. Thus one who possesses the virtue to rule the world first establishes the root to set oneself upright; then the world joins without being sought, and people and things transform without being pushed. What is looked at has no visible trace; what is heard has no sound—mysteriously responsive, strangely accordant, and the efficacy does not stop there.

So the Yellow Emperor lost the xuanzhu (the dark pearl, a figure for the subtle Dao), and Xiangwang (the image of formlessness and mindlessness) was the one who found it. Emperor Yao wanted to summon Nie Que, but Xu You thought that would be dangerous. The point is: the Dao cannot be stored up in the heart and sought, nor can it be grasped by cleverness. The Huafeng man offered three blessings—long life, wealth, and many sons—and the sage had people set them aside in their proper places: wealth is used to assign people their duties; a thousand years then returns one to the upper immortals—what further entanglement remains? Bo Cheng Zi Gao resigned his fief and plowed the fields himself. From this one sees: when virtue declines and punishments are established, the worthy withdraw; when laws are already dense, calamities gather afterward, and disorder begins from that point.

The text then brings up the “being” and “non-being” of the Grand Beginning, so people may investigate the nature by which the myriad things arise and the source of life and fate. When De is the same as the Grand Beginning, the myriad things change of themselves. Those who turn what can be said into what cannot be said, and what is so into what is not so, and who outwardly pursue reverence and frugality while guarding uprightness and loyalty, are still deploying scheming outward.

The old man of Hanyin took using machines as shameful; King Wu of Zhou led troops to rescue the people—one clings to simplicity and integrity, the other uses expedient change to fulfill righteousness. Serving or withdrawing, moving or resting, differ according to the time, yet none departs from the Dao. As for one afflicted with a foul disease who fears his son will look like him, or the greatly deluded who never gains clarity in a lifetime, or ruining uncarved wood to make a wine vessel, disturbing the spirit and harming the nature—even De is not enough to preserve one’s own life; what could it do for all under Heaven? These all take hardship as gain, like the doctrines of Yang Zhu and Mozi—hard to put into practice. To compare them to cuckoos and owls, tigers and leopards, is not merely to look down on them but to loathe them intensely.

In former times Mencius refuted Yang Zhu and Mozi, and the sage’s way became clear; generation after generation praised him, holding his merit not below that of Yu the Great. I say here as well: the merit of the Nanhua is not below Mencius’s; later ages will surely have those who agree.

This section is the first part of “Heavenly Way” (Tiandao) in Collected Subtleties of the Ocean of Meaning in the Righteous Sea of the Authentic Classic of Southern Florescence (Nan Hua Zhen Jing Yi Hai Zuan Wei)—a collected commentary on the Zhuangzi by Chu Boxiu of the Southern Song, included in the Imperial Complete Library in Four Sections (Siku Quanshu).

The Heavenly Way (Tiandao) moves without stagnation or accumulation, and so the ten thousand things come into being. The Imperial Way moves without stagnation, and so the realm submits. The Sage Way moves without stagnation, and so the seas within the four borders comply. One who clearly grasps the Heavenly Way, penetrates the Sage Way, and whose imperial virtue flows without obstruction through the four quarters and the four seasons—such a person lets everything follow its nature and, in a kind of dim clarity, finds nothing that is not still.

The sage’s stillness is not stillness sought because stillness seems good; it is that nothing among the ten thousand things is enough to disturb the heart, and so stillness comes of itself. When water is still, it can mirror beard and eyebrows with clarity; it is level and true to the plumb line—and master craftsmen take their standard from it. If still water is so clear, how much more so the spirit (Shen). The sage’s heart is still; it is the mirror of Heaven and Earth and the looking-glass of the ten thousand things. Voidness, quiet, plainness, solitude, and non-action (Wuwei)—these are Heaven and Earth’s measure and the utmost of virtue (De). Emperors and sages rest in them. To rest there is to be empty; emptiness can become fullness, and fullness then accords with order. Emptiness leads to stillness; stillness then allows movement, and movement yields attainment. Stillness is Wuwei; after Wuwei, those who bear tasks each take up their own charge. Wuwei brings ease and freedom—cares cannot lodge, and years lengthen. Void, quiet, plain, solitary, and non-action are the root of the ten thousand things.

Whoever understands this and faces south acts as Yao did as ruler; whoever understands this and faces north acts as Shun did as minister. In the upper place, this is the virtue of the emperor and son of Heaven; in the lower place, it is the Way of the hidden sage and the “plain king” (su wang)—one of sage virtue without the throne. With it one may withdraw and wander at leisure, and the recluses of rivers, seas, and mountains will trust; with it one may advance and settle the world, and merit will be great, fame clear, and all under Heaven unified.

Guo Xiang’s commentary holds that the Way of Heaven, the Way of Earth, and the Way of the sage all follow the inherent nature of each thing without constraint or obstruction, so that even when one is “sixfold in communication and fourfold in opening”—fully open in every direction—one does not harm inner stillness. If one treats stillness as something to be deliberately preserved, one will still be pulled and stirred. When nothing can disturb the inner mind, that is true self-so (zide). To possess the capacity for illumination yet let things complete themselves on their own is to see everything with perfect clarity. Whatever fails to be even and balanced, whatever does not reach the utmost, all arises from youwei (deliberate, purposeful action). When one can truly rest, one does not act rashly, and order establishes itself naturally; those who act and yet gain something do not lose the root of their capacity to act. Wuwei (non-action) means letting every talent and every kind of thing take charge of its own task and answer for itself—hence when Shun and Yu held the realm, they did not pile affairs onto themselves. “Yuyu” describes a relaxed, self-at-ease bearing. The root of all things comes from “not acting” (bu wei). One who has the Way and is turned to by the world yet holds no rank is what is called the “plain king” (suwang)—a king in virtue without the throne—whose nobility lies in the person alone. To go forth and govern to settle the world is one step lower. Thus in withdrawal one is like Chaofu and Xu You; in advance one is like Yi Yin and Lü Shang. The substance of wuwei is vast beyond measure—what could it not accomplish? When the ruler does not take on the chief minister’s (zongzai) duties, Yi Yin and Lü Shang can govern with a calm mind; when the chief minister does not monopolize each official’s work, the officials can attend to their tasks calmly; when officials do not do the people’s proper work for them, the people can rest in their occupations; when the people do not alter one another’s native capacities, the realm is quiet and each finds their place. From the Son of Heaven down to the commoner, the more wuwei one is, the more honored one is.

Lu Huiqing’s commentary explains: The Dao of Heaven (the principle by which nature runs) turns without end, yet never leaves anything fixed behind; therefore the ten thousand things grow of themselves—they are not carved or cut into shape. The way of the emperor (Di Dao, the principle of ruling the realm) involves countless daily affairs, yet likewise never fixes on anything as an object to cling to; therefore the world turns its heart to him—not through flattery or demanding it. The Sage Way (Sheng Dao, the Dao embodied by the sage) is present everywhere, yet without any sense of graspable things to hold onto; therefore the world submits—not because force was used to crush it. When one understands the Dao of Heaven and penetrates the Sage Way, knowing that both operate in motion without stagnation, one can reach through above and below, the four directions, and the four seasons, and fully comprehend the virtue of the emperor and sage. In motion, change is inexhaustible; without stagnation, not even the slightest trace of “something” remains in the breast. Even when acting, one remains unaware of acting—nothing is not still, because though one does, one never deliberately “does.” How much more when each person simply does their own work—where could there be anyone who cannot be still?

The sage’s stillness is not a matter of first deciding “stillness is good” and only then becoming still. If one treats stillness as a virtue and then seeks stillness, that is not the original stillness. Nothing among the ten thousand things can disturb the heart; the heart is still by nature—not because one first practices stillness and then becomes quiet. Why? The ten thousand things depend on this “self” to come forth, yet this “self” is not produced by the ten thousand things— which of them can turn around and reflect it? Understanding this, one watches their return when all things rise together, and sees each return to its root amid their lush flourishing; to return and reach the root is for each to become still on its own.

When water is still, it is already clear—how much more so the spirit (Shen). Spirit reaches up to Heaven and spreads through earth, going everywhere, yet rests in the sage’s heart. The sage’s stillness is not merely like still water reflecting eyebrows and beard, level enough to serve as a plumb line. Heaven and Earth are mirrored here—this heart is the mirror; the ten thousand things take form here—this heart is the glass.

In emptiness (Xu), nothing stands opposed; in stillness, one is unified and unchanging; in ease, one rests content in not-knowing; in plainness, one does not join with outer things; in silence, one is utterly unmoved; in solitude, one merges breath with empty stillness. These six are where the sage’s Wuwei (non-action) dwells. Taking this as the level of Heaven and Earth, there is no high or low; when De (Virtue/Power) reaches its utmost, nothing can be added. This is the resting place of emperors and sages. If one must respond to endless change and supply the needs of the ten thousand things yet lacks this ground, there is nowhere to rest—the spirit wearies in tangled affairs; how then can one be empty?

Emptiness means emptying fixed views in the heart and gathering affairs inward, while one’s fullness can still hold every difference—so emptiness is in fact fullness. Things differ, yet principle is never confused; thus emptiness is not only orderly because of fullness—it also moves from stillness, and in moving gains what it needs. Who can long dwell in peace and let movement arise gradually? That is movement from stillness, motion that comes from necessity yet hits the mark—only then is movement with gain.

When emptiness reaches stillness, the ten thousand things cannot disturb the heart, and thus Wuwei. In Wuwei, one entrusts affairs to those who handle them, and oneself is not worn out. At ease in every place (yuyu), where could worry lodge? Long life follows from this too. Understanding emptiness and stillness, plainness and solitude are no more than this—only the words differ. The ten thousand things are many, each with its place; all are established and grow from Wuwei—that is their root.

The ancient sages—some faced south as rulers and became Yao, some faced north as ministers and became Shun; some stood above with the virtue of emperors, some stood below with the way of the profound sage (Xuansheng, one who realizes the deep Dao); some withdrew to wander at leisure, some advanced to govern the realm. If they understood the root of the ten thousand things, it was in essence the same.

Lin Yidu's annotated commentary: The Dao is present everywhere, so in Heaven it is the heavenly Dao, in an emperor it is the imperial Dao, and in a sage it is the sage's Dao. Heaven relies on the Dao to operate: cold and heat alternate, sun and moon turn in their courses, never piling up or halting, and the myriad things thereby come to be. The imperial Dao and the sage's Dao work in the same way. "Emperor" names a position; "sage" names the Way one follows. To grasp the heavenly Dao is to practice wuwei (non-action) and thereby act naturally without forcing; to penetrate the Dao is to share fortune and misfortune with the people. One who transforms through wuwei extends teaching through the six directions (above, below, and the four quarters—the whole cosmos); one who shares the people's troubles aligns virtue with the four seasons. Thus the ancient emperors, though nothing in the four directions and above and below was closed to them, achieved virtue simply by letting the myriad things each arise on its own. Their hearts were dim and tranquil; there was nowhere that was not still.

The sage's stillness is not stillness defined against movement, nor is it the ordinary "quiet" people speak of. What we call goodness is nature: viewed as receiving the Dao it is called goodness; viewed as completion within oneself it is called nature. Nature is the portion of Heaven's mandate that falls to oneself; it has never failed to be still. Ordinary people miss this because the heart chases outer things and loses it. Only the sage does not let outer things disturb the heart, and so can be still.

The heart is like the ruler, nature like the state: when the ruler is upright, the state is secure; when the ruler is crooked, the state is in disorder—this is the natural order of things. To fully realize one's nature, one must first quiet the heart. When water is still it is clear and level; the master craftsman takes it as his standard. If water alone, merely by being still, is like this, how much more the human heart? The heart is where spirit (Shen) dwells: if it is stilled, essence (Jing) is unified and spirit is complete; if it is disturbed, essence is exhausted and spirit is worn. When essence is one and spirit whole, the heart becomes round, bright, and penetrating, illuminating all—this is the mirror of Heaven and Earth and of the myriad things.

The heart must first be empty, then it can be still; still, then it can be at peace; at peace, then one can reach wuwei. Wuwei is the balance of Heaven and Earth, the summit of virtue (De), and also the resting place of emperors, sages, and kings. Precisely because they do nothing forced, they lodge the Dao in emptiness; in emptiness, the principle that the myriad things naturally fill themselves is nowhere absent. When action arises from wuwei, what once seemed full becomes empty. From emptiness to stillness, and from stillness to movement again—then movement does not miss what movement should be; not missing it is wuwei. In wuwei, each kind of talent takes up its affairs and responsibilities, only being allowed to bring its allotted share of nature (xingfen—the portion one's nature bestows) to its utmost. Content and at ease in the heart (yuyu), one can enter the deepest principle and forget the split between things and self: worry cannot lodge there, death and life cannot alter one—thus returning to the root and recovering one's original mandate (guigen fuming), merging with creation and transformation. This is the root of the myriad things.

Understanding this principle and facing south as sovereign, or understanding it and facing north as minister, is what Mencius meant: to be a ruler is to fulfill the way of a ruler; to be a minister is to fulfill the way of a minister—both take Yao and Shun as their model. The mysteriously sage: like Yu Shun, lowly in origin yet with subtle virtue reaching Heaven. The "uncrowned king" (suwang—kingly virtue without the throne): like Confucius, without rank yet honored by all. Those who withdrew to wander in leisure were men like Chaofu and Xu You; those who came forth to settle the realm were men like Yi Yin and the Duke of Zhou. The traces of sages change with the times and differ from one another, but the Dao they practice is one.

Chen Xiangdao’s commentary explains: Heaven’s Dao circulates and flows without ever stagnating or piling up; it does not deliberately set out to generate the myriad things, yet the myriad things naturally grow to completion. The imperial Dao circulates and flows without stagnating or piling up; it does not deliberately set out to bring the world to allegiance, yet the world naturally turns its heart toward it. The sage’s Dao circulates and flows without stagnating or piling up; it does not deliberately set out to make all within the seas submit, yet all within the seas naturally submit.

When the sage stands in the world, in times of success he embodies the virtue of an emperor; in times of hardship he upholds the way of the xuansheng—the sage who penetrates the profound, great Dao. The Shangshu says that Yao, with his vast, ever-moving imperial virtue, ultimately became ruler of all under Heaven—this is the imperial Dao in motion and the world turning to him. Mencius said that wherever Confucius went, east, west, south, and north, none failed to be pleased and submit—this is the sage’s Dao in motion and all within the seas submitting.

“Empty and still, free from agitation” speaks of the heart; “solitary and silent” speaks of qi; “wuwei (non-action)” speaks of spirit. When the heart can reach emptiness and hold to clarity and stillness, the inner mood is plain and qi is hushed and still, advancing further to the point of wuwei—this is the leveling of Heaven and Earth and the utmost of virtue; emperors and sages both rest in it. “Rest” (xiu) means the place where they settle and find their home.

Xuan is the subtle root; su is the native texture of one’s nature. The xuansheng and the suwang (one who has the virtue of a sage-king but not the throne) match what the Shangshu calls xuande (mysterious virtue); emperors and the Son of Heaven match what it calls junde (eminent, commanding virtue).

Chen Bixu (Chen Jingyuan, Song-dynasty Daoist priest, styled Bixuzi) comments: To apprehend what cannot be put into words is to understand the Way of Heaven; to follow things as they change is to be in accord with the sage. Entrusting affairs to animals and plants and letting them be completed according to their nature is acting in natural spontaneity; being utterly unaware and not interfering, there is nowhere that is not stillness. The sage’s stillness is responding to outer things without the heart being tossed about—it is not the dead stillness of quiescence and extinction (jìmiè); only when one can remain at peace amid the stir of outer things (yíngníng) is the work complete. It is not that one seeks stillness because stillness itself is good; rather, outer things have nothing that can disturb the heart, and so one is still. When water is still, even something as fine as a hair cannot hide; when the heart is still, the ten thousand things are all illumined. Therefore, emptiness and stillness bring auspiciousness to rest and the subtle Dao to arise; blandness and plainness let spirit and qi grow and emptiness and clarity gather; solitude and silence broaden the mind and settle the true lord (the inner spiritual master); Wuwei (non-action) preserves harmony and order and lengthens life and nature. This is no extraordinary affair—it is the ordinary state of Heaven and Earth, the most upright principle of the ten thousand things, and also where the sage finds repose. When the heart can rest, affairs become empty and do not stick; when affairs are empty and do not stick, principle becomes sincere and plain; when principle is sincere and plain, nature becomes tranquil; when nature is tranquil, action is not reckless. Achieving Wuwei, demands do not fall upon oneself; when demands do not fall upon oneself, one is joyful and without worry, and years lengthen. Understanding this, one knows that the eight themes—emptiness, stillness, blandness, plainness, solitude, silence, non-being, and Wuwei—are the hidden workings of the Dao, and also the business of Wuwei. In high position one is a clear ruler; in low position one is teacher to emperors and kings, like the Zhou Keeper of the Archives (Laozi) or Lu’s Director of Frontier Defense; in retirement one wanders at leisure, like Boyi and Shuqi; advancing, one pacifies all under Heaven, like Fu Yue and Lü Wang. When ruler and minister each keep their place and neither oversteps, all under Heaven can be well governed.

Lin Yizhai (Lin Xiyei, Southern Song) Kouyi says: The way of the emperor and the way of the sage were originally hard to separate. The passage’s drift is to take “emperor” for the Three Sovereigns and “sage” for the Five Emperors. Turning and moving without stagnation is “pure and unceasing.” What this section describes is people like Fu Yue and Lü Wang; when ruler and minister each fix their roles and neither oversteps, all under Heaven can be settled.

Lin Xiyi (style name Yanzhai), in his Kouyi (Oral Explanations), says: The Way of the Emperor (Didao) and the Way of the Sage (Shengdao) are inherently hard to tell apart. The meaning of the passage takes “Emperor” as the Three Sovereigns of high antiquity and “Sage” as the Five Emperors who followed them. “Operating without accumulation” means moving in pure unity and never stopping. The whole point here turns on the word “stillness” (jing). In utmost stillness, things still turn and flow without piling up or stagnating—it is not the dead silence of withered wood and cold ash. “Six penetrations and four openings” means no obstruction in any direction, above, below, or on the four sides. The sage’s stillness is not a stillness he chooses because stillness feels good; that line shows the spirit of the teaching most clearly. The myriad things are not enough to disturb his heart, so he need not chase stillness yet is still by nature. Comparing stillness to water and a mirror is apt. The eight words—emptiness, stillness, plainness, simplicity, and Wuwei (non-action)—unpack the one word “stillness”; they are the unchanging principle of Heaven and Earth and the height of virtue (De). The hearts of emperors and sages rest here. When the heart rests, it is empty—that is “only the Dao gathers in emptiness” (wei dao ji xu). Emptiness is followed by fullness, as Chan Buddhists say: first there is true emptiness, then there is true being. Within that real principle there is its own order—unity that is also clear distinction. From emptiness to stillness, from stillness to movement: movement and stillness are each other’s root. When nothing one does is out of place, that is called “attainment” (de). When every affair gets its proper place and each thing fulfills its role, that is Wuwei (non-action) and yet nothing is left undone. Care and trouble cannot enter the heart—“enter” (chu) means to get inside—which is what “the humane person is not anxious” means; long life is “the humane person lives long.” The text brings up those eight words again and declares them the root of the myriad things—that is, this principle goes back to the very beginning when things arose. The rest of the discussion largely repeats what was said before.

Chu Boxiu’s “Limited Views” says: Speak of Heaven, and Earth is already included within it; speak of the sage, and the human being is already included within it. The sovereign, in combining the three powers—Heaven, Earth, and humanity—to drive change, can penetrate in all six directions and open through the four seasons; De runs within. Used to govern the people and transform the myriad things, above as sovereign and below as emperor—this is what is meant. As for oneself, one turns inward to cultivate the self and moves countercurrent back to the root source. The great Dao is luminous, yet seems dim; nothing fails to return to clarity and stillness.

Ordinary people who want stillness must deliberately seek stillness before they can become still; where is the sage’s stillness a matter of treating stillness as something good and seeking it first? It is simply that outer things are not enough to disturb the heart. This means one is still by nature—not that something external makes one still. When water is still, it is clear and level; the master craftsman takes it as his model, because it is naturally clear and level, able to mirror forms and serve as a standard. The human spirit is the same: at the utmost of stillness it becomes lucid, and nothing in Heaven and Earth escapes its regard. For a person, what could be more precious? Yet the muddled toil without cease, grow weary without rest, and wear themselves away beyond recovery—is that not lamentable?

To seek a path for nourishing the spirit, one cannot do without emptiness and stillness, plainness and blandness, solitude and silence, and Wuwei (non-action). The even balance of Heaven and Earth and the utmost of De are nothing beyond these. Hence the principles of things are nowhere not thoroughly penetrated and settled here, and here the sage finds repose. Even when myriad causes stir and clamor, no disturbance arises in the mind; yet in the indistinct there is something there—the highest principle dwells there. Things do not stay forever at rest; once they move, each finds its place. Entrust the work of affairs to those who carry them out, while oneself remains in Wuwei and generates no worry—then years and life can be long, because one grasps and holds to the root. Thus, whether as ruler or minister, nothing fails to accord with the Dao; advancing or withdrawing, each fits its measure. This is the effect of the sage’s Way modeling Heaven’s operation without stagnation or accumulation.

Volume forty of Nanhua zhenjing yihai zuanwei (Collected Subtleties of the Meaning-Ocean of the Authentic Scripture of the Southern Florescence) ends here. Volume forty-one in the Siku quanshu (Complete Library of the Four Treasuries) edition, still by the Song commentator Chu Boxiu, continues from the passage above on “whether as ruler or minister, nothing fails to accord with the Dao,” and enters the second section of “Heavenly Dao.”

In stillness one is sage-like; in action one can become a king. Through Wuwei (non-action), one is thereby honored. Holding to simplicity, none under heaven can rival one in beauty. One who understands the virtue of Heaven and Earth is called the great root and great source—the one who harmonizes with Heaven. When used to balance and regulate all under heaven, one harmonizes with people. Harmonizing with people is called human joy; harmonizing with Heaven is called Heavenly Joy (the ease of being at one with nature—not ordinary pleasure).

Zhuangzi spoke of the great Dao he took as his model: “My ancestor! My ancestor! You shatter the myriad things yet that is not cruelty; your bounty reaches ten thousand generations yet that is not benevolence; you outlast the most ancient past yet that is not longevity; you cover and carry Heaven and Earth and carve the ten thousand forms yet that is not craft. This is called Heavenly Joy.” Therefore it is said: one who understands Heavenly Joy, while alive follows the way Heaven moves, and in death goes along with the transformations of the myriad things; in stillness shares the virtue of Yin, in movement rides the waves of Yang. Thus one does not blame Heaven, is not blamed by others, is not burdened by external things, and is not punished by ghosts and spirits. Therefore it is said: in movement one is like Heaven, in stillness like Earth; with a single mind at rest one can govern all under heaven. Ghosts and spirits do not harm, soul and spirit do not weary; with a single mind at rest, the myriad things submit. This is to extend emptiness and stillness (inner clarity, free from contrivance) to Heaven and Earth and thread it through the myriad things—this is called Heavenly Joy. Heavenly Joy is what the sage uses in the heart to nourish all under heaven.

Guo Xiang (Jin dynasty, author of the Commentary on the Zhuangzi) notes: Go when it is time to go, stop when it is time to stop—then naturally the myriad things honor you. Beauty that matches Heaven lies solely in simplicity. Heaven and Earth take Wuwei as their virtue; to grasp this root is not to go against Heaven and Earth. Following Heaven is for the sake of responding to people. When harmony with Heaven reaches its utmost, harmony with people is complete; when Heavenly Joy is fitting, human joy is sufficient. When the myriad things change and mix together, it is called being ground to fragments (zi xing jian)—they are thus of themselves, not because the ancestor is violent. Benevolence is the name for universal love, so it cannot be called benevolence; longevity means a distant term—having no fixed term, it cannot be called longevity; craft is human refinement—the myriad things are all thus of themselves, so it cannot be called craft. This is called Heavenly Joy: forget joy, and joy is full. In stillness one shares Yin’s virtue, in movement one rides Yang’s waves; though movement and stillness differ, with no deliberate mind they are one. Always without deliberate mind, one governs all under heaven without exhaustion or distress. When my heart is empty and still, the hearts of the myriad things connect; when connected they submit, when not they turn away. What does the sage use to nourish all under heaven? Nothing but Heavenly Joy.

Lu Huiqing (Song dynasty, commentator on the Zhuangzi) notes: “Still and sage-like” refers to the inner; “active and king-like” to the outer. Wuwei, and thereby honored. What does the sage use to nourish all under heaven? Nothing but Heavenly Joy.

Lü’s commentary: From the perspective of inner stillness, all can be called sages; from the perspective of outer activity, all can be called kings. Through wuwei (non-action) one is yet honored—so whoever brings the world to submission does not rely on cleverness. By preserving simplicity, none can rival one in beauty—so whoever wins the world’s compliance does not rely on literary ornament. All of this is simply understanding the character of Heaven and Earth. Therefore, whether one stands above or below, acts in the world or dwells in retirement, though circumstances differ, the root and the great lineage have never been two. To penetrate this is for wuwei to harmonize with Heaven; to level and order the world is to harmonize with people. Harmony with Heaven is called Heavenly Joy (joy in union with nature); harmony with people is called Human Joy (joy in union with others)—nothing more than taking this as one’s model. Guarding against disturbance from outside things is not counted as cruelty; extending benefit to the world is not counted as deliberate benevolence; even shaping and carving the forms of the ten thousand things is not counted as cunning fraud—this is precisely what Zhuangzi takes as his model. If one only follows one’s own fixed opinions as a model, who lacks something to model? Such joy does not come from outside, hence it is called Heavenly Joy. One who understands Heavenly Joy is born in accord with Heaven’s movement yet does not feel that one is being born; dies with the transformation of the ten thousand things yet does not feel that one is dying. In stillness one shares the virtue of yin without knowing it is stillness; in movement one rides the same wave as yang without knowing it is movement. There is no resentment against Heaven or blame from people, because the mind does not cling outward; there is no burden from things or reproach from ghosts and spirits, because the mind does not cling to the self. In movement one is like Heaven, in stillness like Earth—the reason is simply that the mind is settled. Therefore in ruling the world, ghosts and spirits outside do not make mischief, spirit within is not exhausted, and how could the ten thousand things fail to submit? The mind can be settled because it is always empty and always still. To extend emptiness and stillness to Heaven and Earth and penetrate the ten thousand things—this is Heavenly Joy, and the way the sage nourishes the world with the mind.

Yidu commentary: Because the paths of sagehood and kingship described earlier differ in outward trace, it is said here: speaking from stillness, all can be sages; speaking from activity, all can be kings. With this, to stand below is to be a uncrowned king (one who has the Way of kingship without the throne); with this, to dwell in retirement is still to win the scholar’s respect. Wuwei is using the mind to nourish the world.

Yidu’s commentary states: Since the preceding passage explains that sages differ in whether they serve in office or withdraw into seclusion, this section clarifies that, as far as stillness is concerned, all can become sages; as far as action is concerned, all can become kings. With this, one who holds a lower position is a “plain king” (suwang)—one who has the virtue of a king but does not occupy the throne; with this, one who lives in retirement still wins the trust of scholars. Seemingly without acting, one is naturally honored—this is what is called “innate nobility” (lianggui), nobility that is complete in oneself and does not depend on anything added from outside. The sage’s mind never treats the implements of the world as objects to be manipulated; it only holds fast to its own pu (unworked authenticity). Nor does it take the world’s many beauties as beauty; it only sees its own su (unadorned plainness). Thus no one in the world can compete with him for beauty. Therefore he can rest at ease in his own ming and xing (fate and nature), and understand the virtue of Heaven and Earth. The great root and great ancestor refer to ming and xing. Only because he can follow and accord with ming and xing and harmonize with Heaven can he put the world in order and harmonize with people. How could Heaven and people be rivals to each other? So each can fully enjoy its own joy. Though there is joy, he does not know where joy comes from—it is simply accord with the natural. His birth follows Heaven and comes at the right time; his death follows the transformation of things and departs in obedience. What does not change with life and death—is that not tianle (supreme joy in harmony with Heaven)? Movement and stillness each find their place, so there is no resentment from Heaven, no blame from people, no entanglement from external things, and no reproach from ghosts and spirits. The Dao accords with Heaven; in movement he accords with Heaven. De reaches into what is hidden; in stillness he accords with Earth. External things cannot drag him down; the mind is settled in oneness. When he emerges to govern the world, the ten thousand things each rectify their ming and xing. Ghosts do not cause harm, so there is no premature injury; the hun (soul) is not exhausted, spirit gathers, and original nature is restored. Thus the mind is settled within and the ten thousand things submit without. Making knowledge and deliberation empty and open, making the mind quiet, probing the great root of Heaven and Earth, and penetrating the utmost principle of the ten thousand things—this again is what is called tianle: wherever he goes, nothing is unsuitable. That the sage’s mind can nourish the world lies precisely here.

Xiangdao’s commentary states: In stillness becoming sage and in movement becoming king is the manifestation of brightness; in movement becoming king and in stillness becoming sage is the wondrous descent. Pu is the root of implements. Implements in the world may be used or stored; pu does not pursue use or storage and is forever honored. Su is the root of color. Colors in the world may be beautiful or ugly; su does not pursue beauty or ugliness and is forever precious. Therefore in plainness (pusu), none can compete with it for beauty. When government is harmonious, human hearts are harmonious; when human hearts are harmonious, Heaven and Earth are harmonious; when Heaven and Earth are harmonious, the ten thousand things thrive; when the ten thousand things thrive, spirits and ghosts are at peace; when spirits and ghosts are at peace, the hidden each find their place, and what is manifest does not become harm. Then people turn their de toward ghosts, ghosts turn their de toward people, and the world understands. Laozi said: When the world is governed by the Dao, ghosts do not display their spiritual power to cause disorder. Liezi said: Things have no blemish, ghosts have no uncanny sound. This is what is meant.

Bi Xuzi (Chen Jingyuan, a Song-dynasty Daoist styled Bi Xuzi) reads the line as follows: in stillness one becomes a sage, in activity one becomes a king—both treat Wuwei (non-action) as most honored and plain simplicity as most beautiful. Heaven and earth take simplicity and ease as their virtue—the Book of Changes explains Qian and Kun through what is easy and plain; that ease is the root of the ten thousand things. When this root is not lost, human affairs harmonize; when human affairs harmonize, the heavenly principle flows smoothly, and the two qi of yin and yang pass and expand without obstruction. Deliberate self-polishing is not righteousness, self-display is not benevolence, forced longevity is not true long life, and intentional artifice is not real skill. Not being driven by outer things is what is called “heavenly joy.” Each thing rests in its own ease and its own harmony, so yin and yang declare themselves openly; able to harmonize within themselves, in motion they are not trapped in motion, in stillness they are not trapped in stillness. One whose heart is settled cannot be shifted by creation-and-transformation or altered by yin and yang; he is no different from the Great Void. The reason the sage’s heart can nourish the world is simply supreme harmony—that is all.

Yizhai (Lin Xiyi, styled Yizhai) says: “Still as sage, active as king” is the four characters “inner sage, outer king.” This Way is plain and unadorned, yet it is the utmost beauty under heaven. If one understands this as virtue endowed by Heaven, one can unite and keep company with Heaven. “Harmony” means union. “Great root, great ancestor” praises naturally inherent virtue—the same idea as “rooted in itself, founded on itself.” To balance and regulate the world is to unite with people, just as Yao said: you unite with Heaven, I unite with people. The lines from “My teacher!” through “not counted as skill” originally appear in the Great Master chapter as words attributed to Xu You; here they are prefixed with “Zhuangzi said,” which is clearly allegory and should not be read as literal speech. “Heaven’s course” is acting in accord with heavenly principle and nature; “transformation of things” is changing along with the ten thousand things. Stillness belongs to yin, movement to yang; “wave” means flowing movement. Confucians only say “neither resent Heaven nor blame others”; here “no burden from things” and “no reproach from ghosts” are added, which brings out the spirit all the more clearly. When ghosts appear and act strangely it is called sui ( haunting); when the hun-soul is weary it is called pi (exhaustion)—the ghosts and souls spoken of are the spirit (shen). When the heart is settled, spirit naturally calms, and the ten thousand things naturally submit. Threading the principle of empty stillness through heaven, earth, and the ten thousand things—this is called “heavenly joy.” With this to nourish the world is to be good at nourishing people and thereby win the world’s allegiance.

The Dao embodied in a person is a sage when still and a king when active. In motion or rest alike, one is honored through wuwei (non-action) and adorned through simplicity. This is like the virtue of heaven and earth: heaven and earth never set out to act or chase ornament—yet yin and yang turn, the four seasons run, and nothing fails to finish on its own; sun and moon shine, mountains and rivers stand arrayed, and nowhere is ornament lacking. Once this is understood, the great root and lineage of the world are fixed. What is meant by root and lineage is the way of the inner sage and outer king—cultivating the sage within and accomplishing the king’s work without—which is harmony with heaven. Used to balance and order the world, it is harmony with people. Human ease and heavenly ease both spring from “harmony”; the names differ, yet the reason there is joy is one—just as inner sage and outer king are distinct, the Dao itself is not. Not harming the ten thousand things is not perversity; extending benefit to the world without calling oneself benevolent, because the split between good and evil is forgotten. When even years of life and cleverness are forgotten, one is no longer bound by time or tied by talent. What Zhuangzi (Master Zhuang) took as his model is no more than this. Life is natural movement in accord with heaven’s course; death is the transformation of things—where there is movement, there must be an end. Thus motion and rest both accord with the way of heaven: no resentment from heaven, no blame from people, no drag from things, no punishment from ghosts and spirits—and from this one can see why he could be at joy. In motion he is like heaven; at rest like earth—sharing virtue with yin, sharing the wave with yang. With mind settled and doing nothing, all under heaven turn toward him. Without punishment from ghosts and spirits, ghosts do not haunt; without the burden of things, spirit is not worn. Acting without shame in what is hidden or in what is plain, how could the ten thousand things fail to submit? There is nothing else to it: extending the principle of utmost emptiness and solid quiet (xujing—making the mind empty to the limit and holding stillness with full sincerity) to heaven and earth and threading it through the ten thousand things. The sage’s mind used to nourish the world—could it go beyond this principle?

The virtue of the emperor-king takes heaven and earth as root, takes Dao and De as master, and takes wuwei as the constant way. Wuwei is simply employing the things of the world as they are. The sage’s mind used to nourish the world—could it go beyond this principle?

The virtue of sovereigns takes Heaven and Earth as its foundation, Dao and De as its mainstay, and wuwei (non-action) as its constant way. When one can practice wuwei, one can employ the realm and still have strength to spare; if one insists on youwei (deliberate action and intervention) in everything, one is instead driven by the affairs of the realm and always finds one’s strength insufficient. That is why the ancients valued wuwei.

When those above are wuwei and those below are also wuwei, ruler and minister share one and the same De—then the minister no longer truly functions as minister. When those below are youwei and those above are also youwei, ruler and minister travel the same path—then the ruler no longer truly functions as ruler. The ruler must be wuwei and thereby employ the realm; the minister must be youwei and thereby be employed by the realm. This is a principle that cannot be altered.

Those who ruled the realm in antiquity, even when their wisdom encompassed Heaven and Earth, did not personally fret over it; even when their eloquence could adorn the ten thousand things, they did not take pride in it; even when their talent reached throughout the realm, they did not personally act. Heaven does not engage in production, yet the ten thousand things transform and arise on their own; Earth does not deliberately nurture, yet the ten thousand things flourish on their own; the sovereign is wuwei, yet the achievements of the realm are completed of themselves. Thus nothing is more numinous than Heaven, nothing richer than Earth, nothing greater than the sovereign. Therefore it is said that the De of the sovereign matches Heaven and Earth. This is the way of aligning with Heaven and Earth, driving the ten thousand things, and employing the people.

The root is above; the branches are below. The essentials belong to the ruler; the details belong to the ministers. Raising the three armies and wielding the five weapons is the outer fringe of De; using rewards, punishments, benefit, harm, and the five punishments to dispose of affairs is the outer fringe of teaching and transformation; fussing over ritual, law, measures, titles, and the matching of names to particulars is the outer fringe of the way of governance; the sounds of bells and drums and the display of banners and feathers are the outer fringe of ritual and music; weeping, wearing hemp mourning, and adjusting mourning garments according to closeness of kin are the outer fringe of mourning. For these five outer fringes to be carried out, there must first be the movement of spirit and the stirring of the heart-mind—only then do they follow in practice.

The ancients also studied these outer fringes, but they were not what should be placed first. The ruler comes first and the minister follows; the father comes first and the son follows; the elder brother comes first and the younger follows; the senior comes first and the junior follows; the male comes first and the female follows; the husband comes first and the wife follows. High and low, before and after—this is the pattern by which Heaven and Earth operate, and so the sage takes it as his model. Heaven is honored and Earth is lowly—this is the ordering of the numinous; spring and summer come before autumn and winter—this is the sequence of the four seasons; the ten thousand things are born and transformed, sprout and divide into distinct forms, flourish and decline—this is the flow of change. Heaven and Earth are so numinous, yet they still have an order of honor and lowliness, before and after—how much more so in human affairs! In the ancestral temple, kinship is honored; at court, rank is honored; in the village, age is honored; in affairs, worth is honored. This is the ordering of the Great Dao. To discuss the Dao without conforming to this order is not the Dao; if what one discusses is not the Dao, from what can one obtain the Dao?

Therefore those in antiquity who understood the Great Dao first understood Heaven, and only then Dao and De; once Dao and De were clear, they understood benevolence and righteousness; once benevolence and righteousness were clear, they understood offices and duties; once offices and duties were clear, they understood form and name (the correspondence of titles and actuality); once form and name were clear, they understood assignment according to capacity; once assignment was clear, they understood investigation and scrutiny; once investigation was clear, they understood right and wrong; once right and wrong were clear, they understood reward and punishment. When reward and punishment are clear, the foolish and the wise each find their place, the noble and the lowly each keep their station, the humane, the worthy, and the unworthy all settle according to their true condition. Work must be divided according to capacity; action must accord with name and title. With this one serves those above, with this one nurtures those below, with this one governs things, with this one cultivates oneself. Scheming wit is no longer misapplied; everything returns to natural Heaven. This is called great peace—the utmost of governance.

Therefore the ancient books say: “Where there is form, there is name.” The doctrine of form and name existed among the ancients too, but it was not what should be placed first. Those in antiquity who spoke of the Great Dao had to advance five steps before they could mention form and name, and nine steps before they could discuss reward and punishment. To speak abruptly of form and name is not to know its root; to speak abruptly of reward and punishment is not to know its beginning. One who reverses the order in speaking and talks against the Dao is merely someone to be governed by others—how could such a person govern others! To suddenly expound form and name and reward and punishment is only to know the tools of governance, not to know the Great Dao of governance. Such knowledge may be applied in the realm, but it is insufficient to employ the realm. People like this are called disputers—those who see only one corner. Ritual, law, measures, and the detailed matching of form and name also existed among the ancients; these are what those below use to serve those above, not what those above use to nurture those below.

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: What is meant by “using the world and still having surplus” is that the ruler is at ease and unhurried. If one eagerly seeks to be used by things, one can become a minister; once one is a minister, one no longer has spare capacity. The craftsman does not fuss over carving wood himself—his work lies in wielding the axe; the ruler does not handle concrete affairs in person—his work lies in employing ministers. Ministers can handle affairs themselves; the ruler can employ ministers; the axe can carve wood; the craftsman can wield the axe. Each takes on what matches his capacity—this is not counted as “youwei” (deliberate action). If the ruler does the minister’s work, he ceases to be a ruler; if the minister grasps the ruler’s authority, he ceases to be a minister. Each bears his own role; above and below each find their place—and the principle of wuwei (non-action) is fulfilled to the utmost.

One who “uses the world” is not utterly inactive either; only that this activity arises from what he obtains in himself and moves along his nature, so it is still called wuwei. One who is “used for the world” likewise obtains his own nature, but in the lower position must handle affairs in person—so even if Shun and Yu served as ministers, they were still called youwei. As between superior and inferior, the ruler is quiet and the minister acts; as between ancient and modern, Yao and Shun were wuwei, while Tang and King Wu were youwei. Each applies his nature; the spontaneous mechanism of Heaven moves of itself—then in ancient and modern, above and below, who is wuwei and who is youwei?

What one in the superior position fears is being unable to be wuwei yet stepping in to perform the minister’s duties. Then Gao Yao (ancient minister of justice) could not exercise clear judgment, Hou Ji (ancient minister of agriculture) could not carry out sowing and planting, every kind of talent would lose its proper place, and the ruler himself would be worn down by toil. Hence one puts on the miánliú (ceremonial cap with jade strings hanging before the eyes, symbolizing not prying into minutiae), entrusts the world to others, and lets everyone act in their own way—this is wuwei and yet nothing left undone. Heaven and Earth nurture the myriad things precisely by letting things be so of themselves; the emperor is wuwei while the achievements of the world are completed by others—exactly like the wuwei of Heaven and Earth.

Spirit and mental craft (the inner spirit and the deployment of mind) are the root of the five peripheral matters. If one allows their natural movement, these five need not be forcibly stirred yet will accomplish themselves—so what must be established first is the root. The precedence of ruler and minister, father and son, though human affairs, all stem from the highest principle; they are not inventions of the sage. The order of high and low, first and last, is something things cannot do without—it is the order of the great Dao, not merely rules prized in human relations.

People take the Dao as their model because the Dao has order. Once the way of nature is clear, things each find their path; harmony and pattern settle of themselves. Though each finds its fit, none loses its proper place. Gaining one’s place, a thing matches its own form; when form is clear, there is no need to change. Things each bear their allotted roles, and blame disappears. Each takes accord with nature as right and loss of nature as wrong; reward and punishment are the response to gaining or losing nature. Foolish and wise, noble and base each match their capacity; each acts according to what he can and his true situation, without swapping roles. Names accord with reality; inferring the real from the name, nothing falls into confusion.

From “first clarifying Heaven” through xingming (names, realities, roles, and facts) five items, and on through reward and punishment nine in all—these are the natural sequence. Governing people must follow this order: putting “clarifying Heaven” first does not mean discarding reward and punishment, only that one must not confuse what comes first and after. One who uses the world must understand the principle of acting in sequence, entrusting affairs appropriately to each kind of talent—this is how the superior nourishes and governs those below.

Lu Huiqing’s commentary explains that wuwei (non-action) means the ruler, as one person, sets the whole realm in motion, and the realm in turn serves him—so his strength is more than enough. Youwei (deliberate action) means using the whole realm to drive one person, so only that one is worn out and strength falls short. Those who do not understand Heaven lack pure De; De is nothing other than wuwei. Therefore when those above are without action, those below are also without action, matching those above—this is called De. The Dao embraces both Heaven and the human: what is without action and holds the honored place is the way of Heaven; what has action and is burdened is the way of the human. So when those below act, those above also act and become like those below—that is spoken of only as the Dao. The principle that cannot be changed is this: those above must practice wuwei and thereby employ the realm; those below must practice youwei and thereby be employed for the realm.

Those who ruled the world in antiquity did not think for themselves—the realm thought for them; they did not speak and please for themselves—the realm spoke; they did not act by their own power—the realm accomplished. Heaven does not personally produce, yet the ten thousand things are born of themselves—it is not “I” who produce them. Earth does not personally nourish, yet the ten thousand things grow of themselves—it is not “I” who nurture them. The sovereign is without action, yet the achievements of the realm are completed—it is not “I” who finish them. This is why Heaven is numinous, Earth is rich, and the sovereign is great. Wuwei is precisely how the Dao rides Heaven and Earth, drives the ten thousand things, and employs the multitude.

The five branches—military affairs, punishments and rewards, ritual and law, names and realities, music and dance, mourning rites, and other secondary matters—depend on the movement of spirit and mind before they can be carried through. The emptiness, stillness, quiet, and wuwei spoken of earlier are the path by which spirit is preserved, mind clarified, and the root cultivated. When the root is well tended, the branches follow of themselves. Learning the branches—people in antiquity did that too, but it was not what should come first.

The ruler goes first and ministers follow; the husband goes first and the wife follows—this is the order of honor and humility in the human world. Heaven holds the upper place through its numinous quality; Earth holds the lower through its manifest clarity. Spring and summer preside over generation and come first; autumn and winter preside over completion and come after. When the ten thousand things first take form they are only buds; once formed they are sorted into kinds—from the first sprouting to full appearance, each has its own shape. Flourishing and decline each follow fixed patterns that cannot be altered. Heaven and Earth are utterly numinous and unfathomable, yet still have precedence and rank—how could root and branch, above and below in human affairs be reversed? Not only the precedence of ruler and minister, father and son, elder and younger brother, husband and wife arise from the pattern of Heaven and Earth; ancestral temples, court, village communities, and the various occasions of business each have their proper weight and must not be confused—all of this is simply the ordering of the great Dao. To discuss the Dao without honoring this order—where would one find the Dao? This is why the hundred schools’ doctrines go off and do not return, and why the way of the sage-kings grows dim and cannot shine forth.

Heaven is the utmost of xing and ming (nature and destiny). To seek the Dao without understanding Heaven is to take as the Dao what is not the Dao, and to call De what is not De. Only when true Dao and true De are established does one speak of ren (humaneness) and yi (rightness).