《南华真经义海纂微》Vol. 11

This is the root from which they arise. Benevolence stands on the left and righteousness on the right, each in its proper place; then there are duties to uphold, forms become visible, and names can be spoken. When ming-shi (names matched to realities) is fixed and not in disarray, people can be employed according to their talents and no one’s abilities are wasted. Inwardly tracing the heart and outwardly examining conduct, only then are right and wrong truly known and reward and punishment accord with reason. The foolish and the wise each occupy fitting positions and dare not overstep; the noble and the humble each keep their place and dare not change it; the benevolent, the worthy, and the unworthy all act from their true condition and dare not pretend. Only when capacities are distinguished can offices match their tasks; only when allotted roles are honored can names match facts. Serving those above, nurturing those below, governing affairs, and cultivating oneself—all follow this pattern. Clever scheming has no place; in the end everything returns to Heaven (the root of nature). This is why King Wen of Zhou (the sage king who laid the Zhou foundation), in “not knowing and not cognizing” (not relying on private cleverness to judge), followed the ordinances of the Heavenly Lord. The many officers of the Zhou house likewise upheld Wen’s virtue and reverently communed with Heaven above (duiyue zai tian), and so achieved great peace, their flourishing comparable to the age of Tang and Yu (Yao and Shun). If one suddenly talks only of ming-shi and of reward and punishment without knowing their origin, are not Heaven and Dao-De (the Dao and De) precisely that origin? When order is reversed, things are not upright—the branch is taken for the root; when the natural course is violated, things do not run smooth—what should come last is put first. To speak of the Dao without the sequence of root and branch, before and after, is to disorder oneself first; once disordered, one can only be ruled by others.

Lin Yidu (Song-dynasty commentator on the Zhuangzi) notes: The virtue of emperors and kings takes heaven and earth as its root, and therefore the work of covering and sustaining the myriad things is vast; it takes Dao and De as its master, so the myriad things cannot alter it; it takes wuwei (non-action) as its constant method, and then nothing fails to be accomplished. Rely on youwei (deliberate action) to act, and something will always fall short; act through wuwei, and what is done becomes surplus instead. This is why the ancients prized wuwei. Wuwei is the way of those above; youwei is the way of those below. Those above measure by the Dao and so can embrace the myriad things and let each attain its proper order; those below hold fast by fa (law/method) and so must handle concrete affairs according to office and duty. If those above cannot embrace the myriad things, that is not the virtue of emperors and kings; if those below do not manage affairs, that is not the duty of ministers. Such is the distinction between above and below.

Those who ruled all under heaven in antiquity followed the Dao in going, accorded with li (pattern/principle) in moving, and never showed the trace of intentional doing. They had wisdom yet did not take themselves to be deliberating, had discernment yet did not take themselves to be pleasing others, had talent yet did not take themselves to be acting out. Their virtue matched the transforming nurture of heaven and earth, so they themselves were wuwei while the achievements of all under heaven were naturally completed. “Shen” (spirit/mysterious efficacy) is what makes the myriad things wondrous; “fu” (richness/nurture) is what rears the myriad things. Heaven can be wondrous but cannot nurture; earth can nurture but cannot be wondrous; the emperor and king can match both heaven and earth, virtue filling and extending through the space between heaven and earth. What the Yijing calls “the sage completes capacities” means just this. This is the principle of riding heaven and earth, driving the myriad things, and employing the multitude of people.

What is above form is the root of the Dao; what is below form is the tip of the Dao. At the root one must grasp the guiding thread; at the tip one must carry things through in detail. The way of the ruler is wuwei, so he holds to the guiding thread; the way of the minister is youwei, so detail and thoroughness are valued. The five tips spoken of below—military affairs, punishments, ritual law, ritual and music, mourning rites, and other branch matters—belong to this kind. The emperor and king keep to what is most essential and preside over the greatest root, and tip matters complete themselves. As ministers they must divide offices, each undertaking his task, deploying spirit and mind, laboring to exhaustion—only then do affairs follow and finish.

Fa (institutions/law) began with Fuxi (the ancient sage-king) and were completed under Yao (the sage-king of high antiquity). Once fa were established, those who devoted themselves only to branch matters arose, yet did not know that what should come first is the Dao. Hence ruler before minister, father before son—this is the pattern of nature. “Shen” is the refinement of “ming” (clarity/illumination); “ming” is the coarse trace of “shen.” Heaven is therefore shen, earth is therefore ming; heaven is honored, earth is humble, and the ordering of shen and ming is thus divided. Spring and summer come first, autumn and winter after; the sage follows this, rewarding first and punishing after. “Bian” (change) is departing from nothing and entering into being; “hua” (transformation) is shifting form and altering; “meng” (sprouting) is the arising of things; “qu” (distinction) is the reason things differ from one another. Birth and death, distinction, flourishing and decline, transformation—the shapes are not one, yet all return to ziran (spontaneous nature), simply following heaven’s sequence. How much more so for the great affairs of human relations? The utmost pattern of nature has its root in heaven and earth; in application it lies in regulating human relations. Lose that sequence and one turns against heaven and abandons humanity—can that still be called the Dao?

What the myriad things rely on to exist is heaven; what nothing fails to issue from is the Dao. The Dao as it is in me is called de (virtue/power); to love others through de is called ren (humaneness); to love in accord with what is fitting is called yi (rightness); precedence and subordination is called fen (rank/division); not overstepping and not monopolizing is called shou (holding to one’s place). Xing (form) is taking this as the thing; ming (name) is naming it for this. According to form and name, handing fitting duties to people, one must trace back to real circumstances, broadly examine conduct, and then clarify right and wrong and fix reward and punishment. Fool and wise each stay where they fit; noble and base each keep their station; the worthy and the unworthy each exhaust their capacity, not using one another to mask true feeling. Capacity each has its limit; the name must match the reality. With this one serves those above and nurtures those below, governs affairs and cultivates the self—clever schemes are of no use, and one returns to ziran. Only such governance reaches the extreme.

The classic says “the book says,” referring to a lost ancient text. Whatever has a name is named according to form; this is how the Dao sets bounds and establishes models. If one sets bounds by the Dao itself, the Dao is older than highest antiquity and prior to heaven and earth—it never had form and never had a name, so form and name are not what should come first. “Five” within yin-yang is what is called ming (command/fate); only with ming can the myriad things be named, so through five transitions form and name can be brought forward. “Nine” is the extreme of the yang number. Reward and punishment must weigh the times and adapt; they also stand at the terminal of the Dao, so through nine transitions reward and punishment can be discussed. Form and name are the tip of the Dao; reward and punishment are the end of the Dao. To speak of the Dao without seeking its origin and beginning is all inversion and violation. Those who are governed know only the instruments of governing; those who govern others know the Dao of governing. Those who know only the tools of governing can be used by all under heaven but are not enough to use all under heaven. These are the debaters and those who cling to one corner, obscured by the Dao.

Chen Xiangdao’s commentary says: If you insert the needle first and then thread the line, you can make a curtain; if you have the thread first and use the needle afterward, you cannot make a garment. Something as small as needle and thread still cannot do without order and sequence—how much more so the Dao! When Zhuangzi speaks of the human way, he sets out the principles of ruler and subject, father and son; when he speaks of the heavenly way, he investigates the principles by which spring, summer, autumn, and winter operate. Moving from the heavenly way to form and name (the shape and designation of things) is to show that the Dao and the myriad things are natural; moving from appointment according to nature (yinren, employing each according to its nature) to reward and punishment is to show that human affairs are something arranged afterward. Appointment according to nature alone is insufficient, and only then comes examination and inspection (yuanxing); examination is insufficient, and only then come right and wrong; right and wrong are insufficient, and only then come reward and punishment. Reward and punishment, though not the root of governing the world, are nonetheless tools used in governing. Bo Chengzi Gao (an ancient recluse) left because Yu employed reward and punishment—he was criticizing Yu for taking the branches of teaching as the root. Things have root and branch; affairs have beginning and end. Form and name belong to things; whoever begins by speaking of them does not know the root. Reward and punishment belong to the branches; whoever begins by speaking of them does not know the starting point.

Bi Xu (Chen Jingyuan)’s commentary says: Taking heaven and earth as the root, one does not set oneself up as supreme lord; taking Dao and De as what governs, one does not place oneself in a subordinate role; taking wuwei (non-action) as the constant way, one does not boast—so there is surplus instead. When the ruler is broad and all-embracing, that is benevolence (ren); the minister’s charge is to bring every affair to order, and that is righteousness (yi). The ruler should rule with hands folded in repose and wuwei; if like a minister he personally handles affairs, he is not acting as ruler. Ministers should be diligent in office and act; if like the ruler they only emphasize tolerance, they are not acting as ministers. Those above do not monopolize but employ everyone’s talents, so through wuwei they can use the realm; those below each fulfill what they oversee and govern affairs through effort, so through youwei ( purposeful action) they are used by the realm. From this we know: to encompass heaven and earth, one must gather plans and counsel; to carve and refine the ten thousand things, one must draw on many opinions; to exhaust the four seas, one must rely on the multitude to act. This is the achievement of wuwei. Heaven sends down qi to nurture the ten thousand things, so nothing is more numinous than heaven; earth raises qi to generate the ten thousand things, so nothing is richer than earth. When the emperor is well governed in himself and his work is accomplished, his De aligns with heaven and earth.

“Root” means principle; “branch” means affairs. Principle lies in brevity—this is the way of the ruler; affairs lie in full detail—this is the minister’s duty. Root and branch differ, yet both depend on the movement of spirit and the activation of mind-heart: first follow principle as the root, then express it through affairs as the branches. Order of before and after arises naturally with things. Yet only a sage can take the images of heaven and earth as model to establish order and set up teaching. With Dao as master, once standards are fixed, benefit and harm follow. According to the positions of noble and base, reward the knowing and punish the dull; according to the distinctions of capacity, match names to reality. These nine items are the articles for ordering the realm and carrying out teaching. When change reaches the fifth level, form and name (xingming) can be applied—this takes the meaning of mutual generation and overcoming among the Five Phases; when change reaches the ninth level, reward and punishment can be discussed—this means yang number reaching nine and change arriving at the extreme. Form and name take heavenly principle and Dao-De as root; reward and punishment take penal law, ritual, and name-and-vessel as beginning. To rely solely on reward and punishment—is that not inverting Dao? Speech that loses the order of before and after—is that not doctrine contrary to right principle? Form and name and reward and punishment are tools of governance; their subtle use and the order of before and after are the Dao of governance. Outward form is what the realm uses; principle is what can be used to employ the realm. Name and number and ritual teaching are how those below serve those above; wuwei and self-transformation are how those above nurture those below.

Yizhai said: “Encompassing heaven and earth” speaks of magnitude; “carving the ten thousand things” speaks of skill. The ten thousand things generate themselves—heaven does not generate them; the ten thousand things grow themselves—earth does not grow them. The emperor achieves the realm’s work through wuwei, just like heaven and earth. What matters is the ruler: the ruler’s way is wuwei; what is thorough is the minister: the minister’s way is youwei. Martial awe assists civil virtue, so the use of the five weapons is only the branch of De; penal law assists teaching, so reward-punishment and the five punishments are only the branch of teaching. Ritual law, form and name, and bells, drums, banners, and feathers are not the root of ritual and music. When spirit moves and mind-heart activates, then outer things follow; speech all arises from the heart, not poured in from outside. Branch learning existed among the ancients too, but was not what they prioritized first. This layer is especially subtle: read Zhuangzi—when did he wholly reject arms, punishment, ritual, and music? One should only know before and after. Like the movement of heaven and earth, flourishing is not flourishing in an instant, decline is not decline in an instant—hence there is “slaying” ( gradual fading). What is valued in age, rank, closeness and distance, and worth—all follow the natural order of the realm.

Next the order of governance is set out in nine grades: fen shou (division of duties) is office; xingming is title; yin ren is appointing according to the duty one holds; yuan sheng is inspection and reduction—if one cannot handle the affair, remove and dismiss; shi fei is distinguishing good and evil; shang fa is recording faults through blame and punishment and honoring merit with chariots and robes; the dull and the wise each in what fits means letting speech match the charge; noble and base each keeping their place means each in the proper position—“xi” means to settle in peace. Settling in one’s true situation, then capacity comes from name and rank, each has a place, without private intent, returning to the natural alone. Ancient books speak of form and name, yet never abandoned the root to seek the branches. Not knowing before and after and suddenly speaking of these loses the beginning. That is being governed by others and used by the realm—not the method of using the realm. Form and name and reward and punishment are tools of governance; division of duties and benevolence-righteousness are the Dao of governance. Penal name is form and name—the two characters interchange in old texts.

One who takes heaven and earth as root and Dao and De as sovereign—could there be any other path? Nothing beyond taking wuwei (non-action: not forcing outcomes, yielding to the natural) as the constant standard. Wuwei is already hard to practice; how much harder to hold it without wavering? That is what the ancients valued. Wuwei and youwei (deliberate action) mark the boundary between those above and those below; if that is reversed, the ruler cannot keep the master’s place and ministers cease to be ministers. Wisdom that does not think for oneself alone, discourse that does not please for oneself alone, ability that is not deployed for oneself alone—this is the root of wuwei. Heaven does not deliberately produce yet the ten thousand things generate themselves; earth does not deliberately nourish yet the ten thousand things grow themselves; the emperor-king practices wuwei and the achievements of all under heaven are completed of themselves—this is the proof of wuwei. What is called marvelous, what is called abundant—“great” is already enough to encompass them—so the virtue of the emperor-king can match heaven and earth and rely on heaven and earth. Driving the ten thousand things and employing the multitude is only the remainder. Root and essentials, branch and detail all stem from natural principle. Therefore, from the three armies and five kinds of weapons down to graded mourning dress—though these five belong to minor matters—they still arise from the deployment of spirit and mind; the ancients did not discard them but simply did not put them first. As for the precedence of ruler and minister, father and son, husband and wife—it is as unalterable as heaven’s loftiness and earth’s lowliness; the sage takes this as his model. The ranks of spirits and numina are not confused in high and low; the four seasons follow one another in order; the ten thousand things are born, buds and divisions each take shape, and flourishing and decline appear. This is the order of heaven and earth, what humans take as their pattern. In ancestral temples, at court, and in village communities, action is never without order—Dao is within that. To speak of Dao apart from order—what could one still gain from Dao? Hence one must first clarify the Way of heaven, and only then Dao and De; as for benevolence, and worthy and unworthy each according to their true condition—all follow from this and cannot be omitted. One must divide roles by capacity to test achievement, and examine reality according to name and status. Serving those above, nurturing those below, governing affairs, cultivating the person—the essentials never go outside this. Scheming and clever planning are no longer used; one returns to the natural—this is the utmost governance of great peace. The citations that follow, through the discussion of “nourishing all under heaven,” unfold what was left unsaid above.

From Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei (Chu Boxiu’s Southern Song compilation of Zhuangzi commentaries with appended notes), juan 41.

In former times Shun asked Yao: “What is the disposition of the Son of Heaven’s heart?” Yao said: “I do not slight those who have no one to plead for them, I do not abandon the poor and destitute, I grieve for the dead, cherish the young, and pity women—such is the disposition of my heart.” Shun said: “Good as that is, it is still not great enough.” Yao asked: “What then should be done?” Shun said: “Act in accord with Heaven’s De (Virtue/Power); though you have undertakings, you remain at peace. Sun and moon shine, the four seasons turn—it is like day and night each keeping its measure; clouds drift and rain falls widely, all completing themselves naturally.” Yao said: “In that case, am I not busy and tangled in cares? You are in accord with Heaven; I am in accord with people.” “Heaven and Earth are what from antiquity have been honored as greatest, and what the Yellow Emperor, Yao, and Shun jointly praised. So what did those who ruled the realm in ancient times do? They merely took Heaven and Earth as their model.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: “Those with no one to plead for them” means the destitute; “do not abandon” means constantly extending kindness. To unite one’s De with Heaven is to have activity and yet remain quiet. The four seasons and day and night are not artificially made—they are naturally so. “Busy and tangled in cares” is Yao’s own sense that he has too much to do. Hence it is said that those who ruled the realm in ancient times—what did they do? Only the De of Heaven.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: With the De of Heaven, even when one acts one has never been unsettled. Sun and moon shine, the four seasons move, coming and going, bending and stretching—nothing deliberately pushes them. Day and night have their constant pattern: before one’s eyes they alternate, yet one does not know from where they arise; clouds move and rain falls, and the realm is leveled. Viewed thus, “not slighting those with no one to plead for them” and “not abandoning the poor”—does that not look tangled and busy? Shun speaks of being in accord with Heaven; Yao speaks of being in accord with people. Confucians of the world understand Yao only to this extent. Therefore this meaning is entrusted to the two sages, showing that what they took as great and jointly praised lies here—it does not differ from the Yellow Emperor.

Lin Yidu (a Song-dynasty commentator on the Zhuangzi) held that moving from “not looking down on those with no one to tell their troubles” to “pitying women” is simply not bullying widows and orphans. Conduct of that kind is good, yet it still does not extend grace to ten thousand generations while refusing to claim merit as benevolence—so it still falls short of greatness. Tian de (virtue aligned with Heaven) is the achievement of the natural Way in oneself; hence one may act outwardly while the mind stays still—like sun and moon shining, the four seasons turning, clouds rising and rain falling, without private favor toward the myriad things under Heaven. The way of emperors and kings is no more than this. When Yao heard Shun’s words, he understood that he had formerly been restless and agitated, chasing human contrivances and obscuring Tian de; he then acknowledged Shun as aligned with Heaven while he himself was only aligned with people. To align with Heaven is to be one with Heaven; to align with people is to be one with people. Heaven and Earth cover and support the myriad things, and their virtue reaches everywhere—every ruler who holds the throne should grasp this. Even Huangdi, Yao, and Shun had nothing finer than virtue in harmony with Heaven and Earth.

Chen Xiangdao (a Song-dynasty commentator) held that from not slighting the friendless to pitying women, this is ren (benevolence). Tian de is sameness with Heaven; human alignment is sameness with people. Heaven and Earth cover and bear the myriad things, and virtue extends without omission; none who rule as emperors and kings fail to reflect on this. Even Huangdi, Yao, and Shun had nothing more beautiful than virtue matching Heaven and Earth.

Xiang Dao (Chen Xiangdao) commentary: From “do not slight those with no one to speak for them” to “pity women” concerns Ren (benevolence)—including not abandoning the poor and needy, grieving for the dead, and treating young children kindly. From “Heaven’s De brings forth tranquility” to “clouds move and rain is shed” concerns the Dao—relying on nature’s De so the realm is at peace, like vapor moving and rain bestowed. Ren belongs to the human realm yet can accomplish all things, hence it is said to align with people; the Dao belongs to Heaven. Yao practiced Heaven’s Dao yet spoke in terms of human affairs; Shun practiced the human way yet spoke in terms of Heaven’s principle. When action accords with Heaven and falls upon people, De stops at fulfilled beauty; when action starts from people and accords with Heaven, merit returns to radiant greatness. “Jiaojiao” indicates stillness; “raorao” indicates activity.

Bixu (Chen Jingyuan) commentary: Not slighting those with no advocate, not casting off the poor and needy—benevolent mind could hardly go further. Shun felt traces of contrivance were not yet removed, so he did not call it great. “Heaven’s De brings forth tranquility”—once it enters human affairs it is pulled about. Dark and bright have their order; opening and closing have their constant pattern; the rise and fall of Qi alternate—this is Heaven-and-earth De. Yao understood that his own doing was jiaojiao and raorao—adding disorder to disorder. Aligning with Heaven is without deliberate mind; aligning with people leaves traces. Heaven and Earth have from antiquity been honored as greatest; one who rules All-under-Heaven merely observes and emulates them.

Yanzhai (Lin Xiyi) says: Heaven’s De is simply natural De. “Brings forth tranquility” is what the Yi (Book of Changes) means by “first among the myriad things, the myriad states all find peace.” From sun and moon shining down to clouds moving and rain bestowed, all describe accomplishing without acting. Yao felt his own doing still could not avoid personal stirring—aligned with people, not yet with Heaven; the next three lines are his sigh. The principle of Heaven and Earth in nature—nothing in past or present is greater. “Shared beauty” means shared delight. To govern All-under-Heaven there is no other method: emulate Heaven and Earth, and that suffices.

What is called the virtue of Heaven is a transforming influence that completes itself through Wuwei (non-action) without being forced. “Emerging tranquility” means acting when needed yet without contrivance or strain. The sun and moon shine, the four seasons turn—all of this is spontaneous motion; nothing pushes them, so day and night keep their measure and never go awry. Clouds drift and rain falls, and the ten thousand things flow forth and take shape. One who governs the realm observes this pattern to establish virtue, and the people all turn toward him; he then uses it to nurture the ten thousand things, and they all follow in turn.

When Yao heard this, he gained insight and realized that his former restless, fussy way of doing things was far from aligning with Heaven—it was merely human effort patching things together. Seen this way, the virtue of Yao and Shun might seem higher or lower, yet the meaning finally returns to what the Yellow Emperor, Yao, and Shun all praised together, blended so that no sharp distinction remains. This is the subtlety of how the Zhuangzi (Nanhua Zhenjing) speaks—now restraining, now lifting, now opening, now closing. Turn it over in mind again and again, and you will grasp it.

Confucius wished to go west and deposit the classics in the archive of the Zhou royal house. Zilu (Confucius’s disciple, named You) said: “I have heard that among the Zhou archival keepers there was Old Dan (Laozi), who has left his post and lives at home in retirement. If the Master wishes to entrust the books for safekeeping, you might go and ask him.” Confucius said: “Good.” He thereupon went to see Old Dan, and Old Dan learned of the matter.

Confucius wanted to deposit his books in the Zhou royal archives. Zilu (Confucius’s disciple, named You) suggested: “I have heard that among the archive clerks who keep the Zhou house’s books there is an old man named La Dan (that is, Laozi), who has left his post and lives at home in retirement. If the Master wishes to store the books, you might ask him to help.” Confucius said, “Good,” and went to see Laozi, but Laozi would not agree. Confucius then repeatedly cited the Twelve Classics (a body of Confucian canonical texts) to persuade him.

Laozi interrupted: “Too tedious—I only want the main point.” Confucius said: “The main point lies in benevolence and righteousness.” Laozi asked: “Are benevolence and righteousness human nature?” Confucius said: “Yes. If a gentleman lacks benevolence he cannot succeed; without righteousness he cannot survive. Benevolence and righteousness are precisely the true nature of human beings—what else is there to do?” Laozi asked again: “What do you mean by benevolence and righteousness?” Confucius said: “To be inwardly harmonious with all things, to love everyone universally without private bias—that is the reality of benevolence and righteousness.”

Laozi said: “Alas—those words would almost mislead posterity. To love everyone universally—is that not impractical? To speak of selflessness is precisely to make a private point. If you want the world not to lose its native nurture, then heaven and earth already have their constant Dao, sun and moon already have their brightness, stars already have their places, birds and beasts already flock together, grass and trees already grow. You need only act from your De and advance along the Dao—that is enough. Why bustle about waving benevolence and righteousness, like beating a drum to hunt for a lost child? Alas—you are disturbing human nature.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Inward harmony and universal love without selfishness are only what ordinary people call benevolence and righteousness; hence the dialogue between Confucius and Laozi is used to correct this. The highest benevolence does not deliberately “love”; it simply follows nature straight through. As for “selflessness”: if one sets oneself aside to love others, and loving others is done in hope that others will love oneself, that is in fact the deepest selfishness—not the fairness of forgetting self. From “heaven and earth already have their constant Dao” through “grass and trees already grow,” all of this means that the ten thousand things are already sufficient in themselves and need not be patched up by universal love. When something comes along, then care for it; when it fits the natural course, stop—that is forgetting benevolence and righteousness. Constantly clinging to benevolence and righteousness disrupts what is genuinely so.

Confucius was not employed by his own age, so he wished to preserve his teachings and leave them to gentlemen of later generations. The “twelve classics” mentioned here refer to the Spring and Autumn Annals (the chronicle arranged year by year under the twelve rulers of Lu). Within them lie the principles by which Confucius would have ordered the world. He instructed the world through the norms of human relationships; the subtle workings he kept in his heart and did not speak of directly. Thus what the twelve classics employ to govern the age is nothing other than benevolence and righteousness (ren and yi). Laozi advocated casting off artificial learning and returning to simplicity, showing people their genuine nature. Benevolence and righteousness belonged among what ought to be discarded, so he naturally held that they were not human nature.

Viewed from the human way, benevolence does not only complete the self but can also complete things outside oneself; righteousness does not only establish things outside oneself but can also establish the self. The gentleman’s formation depends entirely on benevolence and righteousness, so they took benevolence and righteousness to be human true nature. Viewed from the authentic standpoint of the Dao (the Way), inner accord with outer things is not something forcibly imposed from outside; there is nothing that does not give joy—this is benevolence at its height: there is activity, yet not for the sake of deliberately aiming at something. The earlier remarks come close but have not yet arrived there. When the discussion turns to universal love (jian ai), it is no longer like heavenly virtue manifesting of itself, calm and unoccupied, like clouds drifting and rain falling everywhere—hence it is judged impractical and far-fetched.

Every label arises because something is insufficient; to call it selflessness is still a form of partiality. One only wishes that the world not lose its inherent nurturing, and that one assist the myriad things in being so of themselves. Heaven and earth have constant principles; grass and trees each have their upright nature—this is the spontaneity of the myriad things. De (Virtue/Power) means using the Dao to take nature as one’s model—why must one rush about frantically, as if beating drums to hunt for a lost child? Once people have lost their original nature, it is not something benevolence and righteousness can restore.

Yi Du’s commentary: The Keeper of Archives (Zheng Zang Shi)—the Zhou official charged with preserving books and records—is the officer responsible for storing historical works. Because his own Way did not prevail, Confucius wished to deposit his writings in the royal Zhou repository for posterity. By then Lao Dan (Laozi) had left office and returned home; Confucius went to ask him to help, but received no consent.

Confucius had trimmed the Odes and Documents, restored ritual and music, composed the Spring and Autumn, and used the six “weft” texts (wei works paired with the classics) to unfold the meaning of the Changes—these are the Six Classics. He also developed them into twelve classics for exposition. Laozi found such talk fragmented and overly diffuse; he wanted only the essential point. Confucius replied that the essential point lies in benevolence and righteousness (ren and yi).

Laozi moved in the realm “outside the square” (fang wai)—outside conventional ritual and law—and held that benevolence and righteousness are not the natural disposition. Confucius moved “inside the square” (fang nei)—within ritual and law—and held that benevolence and righteousness are humanity’s genuine nature. Confucius added that the human heart always wishes things harmonious and united, and to practice universal love without selfishness—this too is the natural bent of feeling, further showing that benevolence and righteousness spring from innate nature.

Lao Dan said: Alas, such later doctrines already verge on artifice. “Universal love” still cannot escape attachment; better than loving on purpose is the utmost of not forcing love. “Selflessness” still cannot escape a trace of self; better than being selfless is the utmost of not even noticing one’s own self. Confucius’s universal love and selflessness aim to keep the world from losing nurture and care—but it is better to leave things to nature, so people cherish one another without knowing it as benevolence, and befriend one another without knowing it as righteousness.

From heaven and earth each keeping its constant course down to trees each standing upright—all is wuwei (non-forcing) and spontaneity, each thing fully expressing its nature. One who can release virtue does not treat virtue as “virtue”; one who can follow the Way does not treat the Way as “the Way.” Why then strain oneself (jie jie ran—in an eager, labored way) to hoist benevolence and righteousness over the world in order to “restore” original nature? That is no different from beating drums to search for a lost child.

Commentary by Xiangdao (Chen Xiangdao): Lao-Tzu’s (Laodan’s) teaching takes the Dao and De as its aim; Confucius’s classics take benevolence (ren) and righteousness (yi) as their root. When the world follows De and accords with the Dao, each thing can attain its nature through non-action (wuwei); when the world dwells in ren and practices yi, it becomes active and turns away from genuine feeling. Zhuangzi recorded Confucius’s conduct precisely to make this clear. “In the heart, joy in each thing” means taking delight in thing after thing. Universal love is ren; absence of private bias is yi. Inclusive love still leaves something unloved, so it is not ultimate ren; ultimate ren has no partial attachment. To parade selflessness is itself a kind of partiality, not ultimate yi; ultimate yi does not treat the myriad things as objects. Therefore the noble person values forgetting ren and yi in order to reach the utmost realm. Confucius once told Lao-Tzu that he had studied the Book of Odes, Book of Documents, Rites, Music, Changes, and Spring and Autumn Annals and thought he had done so for a long time. The so-called twelve classics are these six classics unfolded and explained into twelve.

Commentary by Bixu (Chen Jingyuan): Confucius wished to deposit his books; Lao-Tzu would not allow it, holding that they were like straw dogs already used in ritual—no longer worth keeping. The six classics are expounded in vertical and horizontal directions, hence they are called twelve. The highest ren completes itself through non-action; the highest yi arrives without being pushed. Acting in accord with one’s nature—how could that be pretense? If one still cherishes joy toward things, one has not yet forgotten emotion; to speak of selflessness still leaves traces. The feelings bound up in ren and yi are already far from the Dao. Spring birth and autumn harvest follow their own patterns; day has the sun and night has the moon with their own light; stars and constellations spread across the sky in their own arrays; birds and aquatic creatures flock each according to its kind; grasses and trees rise each in its own stand. Imitate these and follow them—that is enough. Why hurry and strain to force things?

Yan Zhai said: “The book from Tibet was kept in the Zhou royal archives” means that someone traveled west to Zhou territory in order to view the collections held in the royal library. “Fan” (to go over repeatedly) means to state something again and again. “Zhong qi shuo” (to hit the mark in what one says) means that Laozi, when Confucius had only gotten halfway through his explanation, already regarded it as far too broad and unfocused. “Wu kai” (treating external things as one’s delight) treats outward objects as sources of pleasure; what follows is all rather shallow. “Ji” means danger or peril. Things in the world are inherently unequal—how could one uniformly extend impartial love to all? That is a tortuous and impractical doctrine. Once the name “selflessness” is established, the word “self-interest” is already lodged in the breast. If one wishes the world not to lose the nurture each thing requires, and for the myriad beings each to receive their natural transformation and growth, how could human effort be allowed to intervene? One need only emulate the virtue of nature and follow the Way of nature—then one has arrived. “Beating drums to seek a runaway child” means that such an approach would startle and disturb the ordinary world.

Confucius, seeing the age in decline, wished to deposit the works he had recorded in the Zhou archive so that later sages might find them—truly a last resort. He relied on empty words to leave teaching for posterity, and his intention was earnest. Laozi’s refusal meant: since the great Dao no longer prevailed in the world, what good could come of leaving behind only the dregs?

There are differing accounts of the “twelve classics.” In Lu Deming’s Jingshi Shiwen (Explanation of Terms in the Classics), an older note lists the six classics—Poetry, Documents, Rites, Music, Changes, and Spring and Autumn—plus the six weft texts, making twelve classics. Another view takes the upper and lower sections of the Changes; another adds those sections plus the ten wings; another identifies them with the Spring and Autumn annals in twelve sections, one for each duke, attributed to Confucius—this last is relatively close. In any case the phrase is a metaphor to convey meaning; one need not be rigid about the literal count.

“Zhong qi shuo” means to meet the other’s words head-on, yet the reply remains vague and misses what matters. Confucius said: the crux lies in benevolence and righteousness—these are what governance of the age must put first. Laozi held that this is not human nature; only by returning to simplicity and going back to the root is Dao found within. Confucius answered again with “center, things, kai.” In Lu’s Yinyi (Pronunciation and Meaning), “wu” is sometimes written “wu” (do not); here we follow “wu” (things); “zhong” should be read in the departing tone. When the heart does not fix on one-sided attachment, anger does not arise; thus one can extend impartial love without private ends—this is the reality of benevolence and righteousness. Laozi said: Dangerous! Such unreachable talk is precisely what drives people away from the great Dao. Because one advertises selflessness, self-interest is actually fulfilled. If one wishes the world not to lose its nurture, then heaven and earth, sun and stars, birds and beasts, plants and trees—all without exception follow their nature and each obtains its place. For people to let virtue unfold freely and follow the great Dao is no more than that. Why must one strain at benevolence and righteousness? It is like beating drums to search for a lost child—you will never get what you seek in the end.

Shicheng Qi came from afar to visit Laozi, and each of them was in his proper place. If people set aside contrivance and live according to their inherent De and the Dao, it would be no more than this—so why strain after benevolence and righteousness? That is like beating drums to search for a lost child: you will never find what you seek.

Shicheng Qi asked Laozi: “I heard that you, Master, are a sage, so I did not fear the distance and came to see you. I walked many stages on the road—‘a hundred lodges’—until thick calluses formed on my feet, and I dared not rest. Yet now that I see you, Master, you do not seem like a sage. You leave leftover food by a mouse hole and abandon it without a thought—that is not benevolent. Raw and cooked food lies before you in amounts you cannot finish, yet you gather without limit.” Laozi was indifferent and did not reply.

The next day Shicheng Qi came again and said: “Yesterday I mocked you, Master, yet today my heart has grown empty and settled—why is that?” Laozi said: “Those who traffic in cleverness, wisdom, sageliness, and divinity—I thought I had long since left them behind. Before, you called me an ox, and I took myself as an ox; you called me a horse, and I took myself as a horse. If the thing is real and someone gives you a name yet you refuse it, you suffer misfortune a second time. My accepting things as they come has always been natural acceptance—not acceptance performed for show.”

Shicheng Qi sidestepped like a wild goose avoiding its shadow, lightened his step, and came forward to ask how to cultivate the person. Laozi, addressing his outward pretense, said: “Your bearing is sharp and stiff, your gaze overbearing, your brow high, your speech loud, your manner forced into uprightness—like a tethered horse that wants to bolt yet holds back. At the slightest move you want to seize control; when you act, you are quick as a crossbow trigger; in observation you are excessively fine; in cleverness you show arrogance—none of this is genuine. On the frontier there is a kind of person whose name is simply ‘Thief.’”

The Master said: The Dao, viewed in the large, has no end; viewed in the small, nothing is left out—thus the ten thousand things are complete. It is broad enough to contain all, deep beyond measure. Form, conduct, benevolence, and righteousness are only the branch tips of spirit; they are not what the true person (the one who embodies the Dao to the utmost) can use to settle things once and for all. Even if the true person possessed the world, would that not be great—yet it would not be enough to burden him. When all under heaven strive for power, he does not strive with them. He sees clearly the realm where nothing can be relied upon and does not shift with profit. He exhausts the true face of things and can hold to the root. Therefore he sets heaven and earth outside his measure, forgets the ten thousand things, and his spirit is never worn down. When one penetrates the Dao and merges with De, letting benevolence and righteousness fall back and treating ritual and music as guest, the heart of the true person is at peace.

Guo Xiang, the Western Jin scholar who wrote a commentary on the Zhuangzi, explains: “Rat burrows still hold spare greens” means not being tight-fisted with goods; “to abandon one’s younger sister is inhumane” means not showing partial, private kindness to those close to you. Raw and cooked food set before you never runs out, because supply is already abundant to the utmost, so there is always something left over. The myriad things come and attach themselves; whoever arrives is taken in together, without carving out a narrow boundary.

You find your own habit of sharp ridicule strange, then repent and cast off what you were before.

When others call you an ox or a horse, you go along with whatever label they give. You have real substance in yourself, so you do not take praise and blame to heart. If you let praise and blame into your mind, name and reality are dragged down together—that is inviting trouble on yourself. Fu refers to bearing and conduct: only when you do not wound yourself over praise and blame can your face stay unchanged. If you keep that up through forced performance, it cannot last.

Yairan is the look of someone rushing ahead, inwardly unsettled, charging outward; weiran is when feeling shows plainly on the face; kanran and xiaohuo are glaring eyes and a gaping mouth, a fierce, overbearing air; yiran and dizhi are standing on tiptoe to show strength, proud and self-congratulatory. This means the will lives only in rivalry, cannot open out and rest at ease, acts in haste, and keeps judging right and wrong. Tai is what goes beyond one’s inborn nature. Those who love to display such grand show are awkward at baopu—holding to plain, unadorned simplicity. All of this fails to honor xingming (one’s endowed nature and allotted lot), drifts in praise and blame, and is not the path of cultivating the person. People on the frontier who act as you do are not upright people.

The zhenren (true person, one aligned with the Way) is put to use in the world, yet does not fear that affairs are too great; quiet and compliant, following true nature straight on, never blocked or hemmed in. Advancing in virtue with natural disposition as the root, the zhenren’s mind rests settled in wuwei (non-action, not forcing outcomes).

Lu Huiqing’s commentary explains the passage as follows. Vegetables left beside a mouse hole could have eased a young sister’s hunger, yet she was abandoned—that is what people call lack of benevolence (ren). Raw and cooked food still piled before one, enough that there is no need to take more from others, yet hoarding without end—that is what people call lack of righteousness (yi). Laozi had cast off learning and returned to simplicity, intending to show people what is genuinely real; Shi Chengqi came to him with talk of benevolence and righteousness, and Laozi answered only with cool indifference and silence. That response was meant to let his outward purpose fade and his inner self step back. Cunning wisdom, benevolence, and sageliness—Laozi believed he had already left these behind; after “abandoning learning” and returning to the uncarved, there were originally no fixed things to cling to. When you say “this is not benevolent” or “that is not righteous,” it is like calling me an ox so I must be an ox, or a horse so I must be a horse. If a name truly matched what is real, one could refuse the label others attach—and that is why he remained indifferent. Open the sensory gates, rush to “get things done,” and accept the names others impose, and there is no saving oneself for life: one stores up one’s own disaster. The line “what I practice is simply ordinary practice” means the heart never strays from the Dao (the Way); he did not treat practice as deliberate exertion, yet others took it for harsh ascetic effort. Shi Chengqi had knowledge and views, yet he still could not grasp the heart of the perfected person (zhenren)—one united with the Dao—because his own inner cultivation fell short. A face steep as a cliff shows no meeting with things; eyes that shoot outward show chasing after externals; a high, jutting forehead like a great uncarved block (dapu); an open mouth with words ready to spill; a stiff, solemn bearing as if refusing fellowship—while inwardly the heart is like a tied horse that, even standing still, wants to bolt. Forcing restraint in action is not true stillness; once set off, it is like releasing a crossbow trigger—nothing holds it back. Look closely: this is not “inheriting illumination” (ximing)—following the light of the Dao. Using cleverness to peer at grand realms is not the way of simplicity and holding to the center. All such signs count as inauthentic. “Borderland” means the heart does not roam in the Dao’s middle; “theft” means taking what was never one’s own. The Dao is inexhaustible in the large; heaven and earth never step outside its inward reach; in the small nothing is left out—even autumn down owes its form to it. What under heaven is not complete in it? Vast, holding all; deep, beyond measure—that is why the Dao is numinous (shen). When the Dao disperses, there is form; where there is loss, there is De (Virtue/Power); cast off further, and there are benevolence and righteousness—these are the outer fringe of spirit (shen). Without a perfected person, who could settle them? To hold all under heaven and yet not be burdened is the capacity to set worldly affairs aside; when the world scrambles for power, not going along is forgetting the world. Forgetting the world, one is not shifted by stipends and gain; setting worldly affairs aside, one can guard the root. Whenever spirit falters, it is because this is not understood. Unblocked from the Dao, undetached from De, withdrawing from benevolence and righteousness without lingering, treating ritual and music as visiting guests rather than what one presides over—only then does the heart find rest.

Commentator Lin Yidu explains Shichengqi’s reproach of Laozi as follows: saying that vegetable scraps still lay in the mouse hole beside the house means Laozi did not know how to guard against loss and let things be scattered and abandoned; leaving a younger sister who had not yet been properly instructed untaught means he was unbenevolent (bu ren); having more cooked and raw food than he could use piled before him means he was unrighteous (bu yi); amassing wealth without limit means he was dishonorable (bu lian). This showed that Shichengqi did not understand Laozi and was criticizing at random, imagining he had hit the truth. Laozi therefore answered with indifference and did not engage. Later Shichengqi said, “Yesterday I criticized you as unbenevolent and unrighteous, but that was not how I really saw you.”

Master Bixu (the Song-dynasty Daoist Chen Jingyuan) comments that Laozi refused to answer because he took it amiss that Shicheng Qi wished to probe the sage’s intent through shallow outward conduct. Cheng Qi went on to declare that his former perverse thoughts had now been corrected and set aside. Laozi told him: as for reputations tied to the bizarre, the deceptive, and the uncanny, he had long since cast them off. To call a horse an ox is either slander or a false charge. Where there is reality, names arise; where there are names, there is entanglement. If one then refuses the names imposed, one invites calamity instead. “Fu” means to act and to apply. He merely applied things according to the constant Dao, and therefore left no trace—not wielding that constant application to flaunt self-mastery so that others would honor him.

Cheng Qi respectfully asked how to cultivate the self. Laozi said: your bearing is abrupt and stiff, your spirit rash and intrusive; you affect simplicity, your voice and breath are overbearing, your demeanor rigidly correct—as if a horse stops only because it is tethered. This means he had not yet been properly trained but was forcing restraint on himself: when he moved, hidden scheming lurked within; when still, suspicion abounded; probing and overstepping his place—all inauthentic, like the deceit of a hostile frontier people.

The Dao is so vast it has no outer bound, hence it cannot be exhausted; so minute it has no inner gap, hence nothing is omitted. Neither exhausted nor omitted, the myriad things are all complete. What cannot accommodate things is narrow; what can be measured by things is shallow. Methods for governing external affairs are merely the leftover traces of the True Person (one who has attained the Dao). To possess the realm is already momentous, yet the True Person does not take it to heart. By settling oneself with the nameless uncarved simplicity, the spirit is never trapped. Penetrating the Dao, one is empty, still, and without clinging; aligning with De, one does not lose. Putting benevolence and righteousness behind reduces selfishness; placing ritual and music in a subordinate position reduces desire. When the heart is used in this way, how could it fail to be at peace?

Yizhai (the style name of Lin Xiyi of the Southern Song) says: Throwing leftover food into dark corners where rats gather shows no care for things, and is therefore seen as lacking humaneness. Piling raw and cooked food before you and still not finishing it means your stores already exceed your need. What was mocked before is now set aside in the heart; that attitude no longer remains—the sense is that after seeing this, one suddenly awakens. Learning built on cleverness and sacred artifice has been cast off; one stands above it in detachment. Since I hold no fixed prejudice, call me a horse or call me an ox as you please. If I truly had done such a thing and, when others ridiculed me, I refused to accept it, I would be doubly at fault; this is shame at one’s own fault, not a deliberate transgression. My conduct has always been like this—not because I think I ought to act so, and not because I preach that “only stillness is good, and therefore seek stillness.” What is meant by “walking lightly and advancing step by step” is easing the pace and moving forward gradually. The countenance stands cliff-like, oddly stiff; the gaze shoots forward, staring straight; the mouth gapes wide; the bearing looks rigid and strained—as when a horse is tied yet still tries to run. That is the shape of zuochi (sitting in place while the mind gallops). Movements are constrained; responses trigger as fast as a crossbow; observation is sharp and minute; relying on cleverness, arrogance shows on the outside—all of this comes from inauthenticity. If such a person appeared on the frontier, he would surely be taken for a thief—the point is that his calculating mind runs too deep, he does not follow nature, and in the world he is bound to invite disaster. The “Master” in the text refers to Laozi. So vast that there is no end is called “great yet never finished”; so fine that nothing is left over is called “small yet nothing left behind”—that is, so great it cannot be contained, so small it cannot be split further. Nothing among the ten thousand things falls outside this Dao; hence it is called complete. The Dao is vast and deep; when it appears as De (Virtue/Power), as benevolence, as righteousness, these are only the ripples of its subtle functioning—not a Perfected Person (the Daoist sage at the summit of cultivation), who could sort their root from their branch? Even possessing all under Heaven is not enough to burden his heart; though he might rise to wield the authority of the realm, his heart does not run after it—the meaning is that the heart does not stir. Not calculating profit and loss, he pursues truth to the end, and so can guard the original stillness. Setting Heaven and Earth outside himself, forgetting the ten thousand things—what could pin down a spirit that does not move? Penetrating the Dao and De is accord with nature; putting benevolence and righteousness behind, not treating them as foremost; taking innate disposition as primary while rites and music serve only as accompaniment—that is why the heart of the Perfected Person can settle in stillness.

The two characters qì mèi (“abandon the younger sister”) are hard to make sense of, and most commentators gloss the reading vaguely. Following Lu Deming’s Jingdian shiwen, older notes read the word as mò (“branch tips, fringe learning”), meaning that Laozi despises and casts off that sort of marginal, twig-end learning. That reading is adopted here, with this additional gloss. When Shicheng Qi saw vegetable scraps still lying by a rat hole, he doubted that Laozi was a sage. His point was: a sage treats things with nothing discarded; if one takes only the root of the vegetable and throws away the stalk, that is failing to cherish things and comes close to being unkind. The next line, about raw and cooked food heaped in front and never used up, speaks of tables full of food yet spoiled and wasted. In old stories, someone going into the mountains to visit a friend, nearing the lodge, saw vegetable leaves floating in a stream and turned back without going on—same idea. This is measuring a sage with worldly eyes, so Laozi answered with non-response. Què is read like xì (“gap, void”): Shicheng Qi saw that his earlier ridicule had missed the mark.

Laozi said: “As for cunning and sagely cleverness, I long ago cast them off. Whether you call me a horse or call me an ox, I only listen.” At first you held me to the name “sage”—that already showed you did not know me; then you blamed me as “not a sage.” That is no different from casually tagging me with the names of ox or horse—it neither adds nor subtracts anything from me.

In the two lines “wú fú yě cháng fú,” the four occurrences of fú have been explained in various ways. Here fú is the fú of quánquán fú yīng (“to hold firmly in the breast”): it means being able to choose and to keep. I hold the sage’s Way in my heart and do so constantly—not as if “choosing and keeping” were a separate task that I then perform with a single act of devotion.

Lǚ should be xǐ (a slipper whose heel strap is not yet on): he walks in haste, hence that appearance. The face like a cliff means uneven; the gaze like a chōng (rush, surge) means darting forward; the brow raised high means arrogance; the mouth wanting to open yet not opening means words already at the lips but not spoken; the bearing stiff and straight means hardness and self-importance. This is what is meant by being like a tethered horse—though reined in, it still wants to move.

“Dòng ér chí” is not the stillness that comes of itself; “fā yě jī” is not the movement that comes of itself. Once there is holding and once there is initiating, there is deliberate intent and there are visible traces.

“Chá ér shěn” takes scrutiny and examination as wisdom; “qiǎo ér dǔ tài” lets cunning show in a proud, overbearing look. Whoever does not trust these words of mine should look at those who leave the proper path—their conduct is what is called theft. This is a sharp rebuke of Shicheng Qi’s fault.

From “fūzǐ yuē” onward is instruction for him. The Dao (the Way) goes beyond shape and number; it cannot be gauged by large or small, so it is vast and holds all, deep as an abyss and beyond fathoming. Once there is form, De (Virtue/Power), rén (humaneness), and yì (righteousness), each is only a tip of marvelous transformation; only the zhìrén (perfect person) knows its root. The perfect person possesses the realm under Heaven yet is not dragged down by it; when people under Heaven scramble for the handle of power, he does not stir with them—outer things may move, but he himself stays quiet. He clearly discerns the true Dao; profit and rank cannot alter him. He exhausts the principles of things and can guard the root. Therefore he can set Heaven and Earth aside and leave the ten thousand things behind; his shén (spirit) is enough to surpass all of this—what could still trap him? Only when one can unite with Dao and De do rén and yì withdraw on their own and lǐ and yuè (ritual and music) naturally take a lower place. The perfect person’s heart has a place of rest; therefore it is enough to settle the hearts of all under Heaven.

In Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei (Collected Subtleties of the Ocean of Meaning in the True Scripture of Southern Florescence), scroll 43—compiled by Chu Bozhi in the Song and included in the Imperial Siku Quanshu—this scroll explicates the fourth chapter of Heaven’s Dao in the Nanhua Zhenjing (i.e., the Zhuangzi).

What people treat as the great Dao and cherish is, in the end, books. Books are only words; words have something worth valuing in themselves. What makes words valuable is the meaning they carry; meaning in turn has something it follows—and that is the root, which cannot be passed on in language. Yet people copy books because they prize the words. Though the world honors them, they are not truly worth honoring, because what is honored is not what is genuinely precious. What the eye sees is form and color; what the ear hears are names and sounds. Alas—people suppose that by form, color, names, and sounds they can grasp the real situation of the great Dao. Since form, color, names, and sounds are not enough to reach that reality, those who truly know do not speak, and those who speak do not truly know—how could the world recognize this?

Duke Huan of Qi was reading in the hall while Wheelwright Pian (a wheelwright named Pian) shaped a wheel below. Pian set down mallet and chisel, went up, and asked, “May I ask what words Your Grace is reading?” The duke said, “The words of a sage.” Pian asked, “Is the sage still alive?” The duke said, “He is long dead.” Pian said, “Then what you read is only the dregs of the ancients.” The duke said, “I am reading—how dare a wheelwright comment! If you have a reason, fine; if not, you die.” Pian said, “I look at it from my own trade. If I shave the wheel too slowly, the fit is loose and weak; too fast, and it is tight and won’t seat. Neither slow nor fast—what the hand can do and the heart can respond to, the mouth cannot say; the right measure lives in that in-between. I cannot teach this to my son, and my son cannot receive it from me—so at seventy I am still shaving wheels in my old age. The ancients and what could not be transmitted are both gone; what you read is only the dregs of the ancients.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: What is truly precious often lies outside words and meaning; only one who forgets words and sets books aside can reach the real situation.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: What is truly valuable often lies beyond the words and their intended meaning. Only those who forget language and set books aside can grasp the ancients’ genuine feeling. Wheelwright Bian could not pass his craft on to his son—this shows that things each have their own nature, and instruction is of little use. What was ancient has already vanished in the present; even if something is handed down, it cannot make the ancient event happen again today. The ancient is not in the present, and present affairs have changed. Therefore one must abandon learning, follow one’s nature, and adapt as times change—only then can one arrive.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Zhuangzi wants learners to discard words and forget books, and not to seek in forms, colors, and reputations. Chopping wheels is coarse work, yet the quickness, slowness, smoothness, and resistance that “come from the hand and answer in the mind”—even father and son cannot explain and receive them. Transmitting the Dao is far harder than wheelwrighting. If one does not seek within the mind and only reads books, then the metaphor of dregs and lees (the sediment in books) is no empty phrase.

Yi Du (Lin Yidu, a Song-dynasty scholar who commented on the Zhuangzi) explains: The Book of Changes says that writing cannot fully express speech, and speech cannot fully express meaning. What we call books, then, are only old traces left by those who came before. People suppose that books can exhaust the Great Dao, but they do not truly understand the Dao. Those who speak always value what lies beyond words, while meaning follows the Dao as it changes and has no end. If speech cannot fully convey meaning, what is so precious about books? What people prize is not what is truly precious.

What cannot be spoken is the wholeness of the Dao; what can be spoken is only fragments after the Dao has dispersed. The Dao arises from the nature of xing and ming (nature and life); one must hold to it in the formless, follow the highest principle in accord with it, listen in silence and perceive in the hidden—only then is it possible. Yet people abandon their constant natural nature to chase the traces of the ancient kings (xianwang), and the more they chase, the more they lose.

What eye and ear see and hear never goes beyond shape, color, sound, and names; books are the same. People lose their true nature, thinking that through shape, color, and names they can grasp how things really are—this is pitiful. If one can forget shape, color, and names, set aside speech and lay down books, use the heart to accord and the intent to investigate, then the ultimate principle of Heaven and Earth and the root truth of xing and ming can be understood without a word being spoken.

Wheelwright Bian (named Bian, a craftsman skilled at cutting wheels) saw Duke Huan of Qi lost in the traces of the ancient kings and failing to grasp the root of the Great Dao, and used wheel-making as a comparison. What matters is following principle without losing one’s nature: neither too fast nor too slow, hand and heart answering each other. In that measure and rhythm dwells natural nature—this is what is called li (principle). The mouth cannot put it into words, so it cannot be taught to his son; he went on cutting wheels into old age. Wheel-making is only a small craft, yet it still cannot be made clear in speech—how much less can the Dao be sought from books? Only one who learns well reads the book and seeks its meaning, sets aside the traces and uses the heart to grasp, can escape Wheelwright Bian’s mockery.

Xiang Dao (Chen Xiangdao, a Song-dynasty scholar who commented on the Zhuangzi) explains: Books in relation to meaning are like shape, color, sound, and names in relation to how things really are. The real situation cannot be got from shape, color, sound, and names; meaning likewise cannot be passed on through books and speech. So one who skillfully grasps the Changes obtains the meaning and forgets the images; having the images, one can avoid ridicule like Wheelwright Bian’s.

Chen Xiangdao’s commentary states: A book in relation to meaning is like appearance, color, name, and reputation in relation to what is genuinely real. What is real cannot be grasped from appearance, color, name, or reputation; meaning likewise cannot be conveyed by books and words. Thus one who reads the Changes well, having grasped the principle, forgets the hexagrams; having grasped the hexagrams, forgets the words. One who reads poetry well, having grasped the intent, forgets the lines; having grasped the lines, forgets the ornament. Is this not like discarding the straw dog once the rite is over—once the essence has flowed forth, the dregs are cast aside? Duke Huan of Qi, hearing the wheelwright Flat (who once said that books are but the dregs left by the ancients), understood that poring over books does not yield the ancients’ true intent; Wang Shou, prompted by Xu Feng, burned his books and danced.

Bixuzi (Chen Jingyuan) comments: The ancients are gone; what remains is only words on the page—what is there to prize? It is like asking about the five flavors: one can only speak of appearance, name, and sweet or bitter, yet cannot hand over taste itself. Setting aside appearance and name, those who truly know speak no more—only then is it “attained.” Wheelwright Flat’s hands and mind worked as one; the subtlety could not be stated, because within it lay a craft that only the hands can hold—so he spent his life in practice. Years shift with the seasons; the Dao renews day by day; when the ancients spoke of this, none failed to sigh.

Yizhai (Lin Xiyi) says: Books can bear the Dao, and so they are valued—but what is valued is the Dao, not the book. When one uses language to speak the Dao, language becomes valuable, yet what is valued is meaning, not what the words point to. If meaning cannot be passed on by words, then words and books are not worth prizing. Form and color can be seen, names can be heard, but the Dao cannot be obtained through seeing and hearing; that people wish to seek the real through form, color, and name is truly lamentable.

This passage clarifies what went before: the Dao cannot be transmitted in language, and the analogy is just this refined. Books record the words of the ancients; the people are no longer here—whence can one obtain what words cannot say? If one eats only the dregs, how can one know the true savor of wine?

Footprints are made by shoes, yet footprints are not shoes; books are where the Dao is entrusted, yet books are not the Dao. Those who understand use books to awaken to the Dao; those who are confused abandon the Dao and hunt for it in books. Duke Huan of Qi was sunk in stale doctrines, and the wheelwright Bian seized the moment to speak: using coarse matters to illustrate subtle truths, explaining principle through what lies before one’s eyes—there is nowhere the Dao is absent.

The wheelwright chooses his timber and shapes his work so that the cart can bear heavy loads, travel far, and pass through the world. This is like embracing the Dao and De, intending to rescue the world. The deft swing of his axe, the ease of his hand—this cannot be passed from father to son. The measures of square, round, long, and short; the fine gradations of fast and slow, bitter and sweet—all must follow what is natural; they cannot be captured in words and fixed on the page. How much less can the Dao that gives numinous power to spirits and the Lord of Heaven, that births Heaven and Earth, be fully written down?

That Bian practiced wheel-making until old age was surely not merely to wear out muscle and bone between mallet and chisel. He used the Dao to advance his craft, matching the natural with the natural, grasping what is essential to a wheel being a wheel—little effort, great effect—so he held to this all his life without letting go. To carry the same insight into reading books should not be hard to see.

Duke Huan clung only to outward traces and lost his inner heart, then declared that the sages were dead. Only then could Bian speak to the end and set him right. What sages study is the Dao; what they transmit is the heart-mind (xin). Whoever gains this heart-mind knows there is something that does not perish. This Dao can be cultivated in seated stillness—why raise a clamor over the dregs left on paper? Clearly the sages wrote and spoke only when they had no choice. Zhuangzi uses this tale to break the habit of clinging to appearances and fixating on the written word. If students can truly look at the moon and forget the finger pointing at it, recover their own original wholeness, and then glance at those bookish men hugging their volumes—they are scarcely worth a smile. The drift of this passage resembles the chapter on Cook Ding, except the end does not record Duke Huan’s enlightenment; the saying is left to benefit later generations—there will be those who can take it up.

This chapter takes “Heaven’s Way” as its title. From the outset it singles out the undertakings of emperors and sages, and of the “uncrowned sage”—one who possesses the virtue of a sage yet never occupies the throne—showing that they take virtue (De) as their root and Wuwei (non-action: aligning with nature and not acting rashly) as their constant method. That is the principle by which one steers Heaven and Earth, drives the myriad things, and governs the multitude. The chapter then unfolds the instruments of ordering the age—moral instruction, ritual and music, benevolence and righteousness, division of offices, form and name (roles and standards of law), reward and punishment—leaving nothing out, yet none of it departs from the constant patterns of the human way.

Why is this so? Because those who discourse well on Heaven’s Way necessarily take human affairs as their foundation; only those who fully fulfill the human way can match Heaven. Heaven and humanity communicate; root and branch are one. Vast, nothing is excluded; deep, nothing can be fathomed—how then can one insist that Heaven is not human or that humans are not Heaven? When change reaches the fifth layer, form and name can be established; when it reaches the ninth, reward and punishment can be discussed. This is a principle that does not change through the ages, used to establish the human pole and to assist Heaven’s Way.

As for when Heaven’s virtue appears and there is peace, when sun and moon shine down and the four seasons run their course like day and night with fixed measure, when clouds move and rain falls—all issued by Heaven itself, bright and numinous, generating alone—how could the ways of Earth and humanity fail to follow? To cultivate instruments in order to clarify the way of governance is a theme common to past and present; yet some who use them bring order and some bring chaos, simply because they do not know root and branch, before and after, nor that the ruler holds the essentials while ministers handle the details. People say that the Nanhua (Zhuangzi) mostly exalts Wuwei and neglects these instruments of rule; yet this chapter’s treatment of ritual, music, and political teaching probes the subtlest points—something no other school can match. All of it arises from the natural pattern of Heaven’s principle, only borrowing human agency to carry it out. Truly to understand the principle of nature is to pass from instruments through to the way of governance, so that ruler and minister, father and son, birds, beasts, plants, and trees each find their place; and the people under Heaven beat the earth and sing in praise (as in the legend of Yao’s age), unaware of the power of the emperor and sage—only then can it be called Wuwei.

As for Confucius wishing to deposit books in the house of Zhou and citing the classics to persuade, or Cheng Qi (the scholar Cheng Qi) asking about self-cultivation with a haughty mien—all of this follows the artificial and forgets the natural, so Laozi (Lao Dan) does not approve. Only the perfected person knows that benevolence and righteousness are the outer branches of the Dao (the Way), and ritual and music are guests at the Dao’s gate—able to accord with Heaven and with humanity, holding fast to what is upright and to the root, the spirit never trapped; even when applied to worldly affairs, it is not enough to become a burden. At the end of the chapter, the parable of Wheelwright Bian shows that once one has grasped the meaning, written texts may be discarded and stale words regarded as dregs—lest students cling to outward traces, lose the heart-mind, abandon root for branch, and drift ever farther from the Dao. One should seek that in the sage which does not perish with death: the learner enters by rejecting vulgar learning; the transmitter receives a transmission that cannot be put into words—and the heart of Heaven and Earth and of the sage stands revealed. Why then rely on the dregs of the ancients?

Nanhuazhenjing Yihai Zuanwei (Collected Essentials of the Meaning-Ocean of the Authentic Classic of Nanhua), juan 43 and 44 (included in the Qinding Siku Quanshu), compiled by Chu Boxiu of the Song. This is the opening of the chapter “Heaven’s Revolving.”

Is Heaven actually revolving? Is Earth truly staying still? Do the sun and moon vie for their positions in turn? Who presides over and arranges all this? Who maintains it? And who, with nothing to do, yet pushes it to keep moving? Is there perhaps some mechanism constraining them so they cannot do otherwise? Or once they start turning, can they simply not stop on their own? Do clouds exist in order to become rain, and rain in order to become clouds again? Who raises clouds and sends down rain? And who, with nothing to do, takes pleasure in this and assists from the side? Wind rises from the north, now west, now east, wheeling and hovering in the sky—who breathes it into motion like respiration? And who, with nothing to do, stirs and brushes it? What is the reason for all this?

Wu Xian Tiao (an ancient diviner skilled in oracle work; here a fictive respondent in the dialogue) said: Come, I will tell you. Heaven has the six extremes (above, below, and the four directions) and the five constants (the regular norms of the Five Phases). When a ruler conforms to them, the realm is at peace; when he goes against them, disaster and misfortune follow. When the affairs of the Nine Lo (the governance revealed in the nine divisions of the Luo River chart) are put into practice, achievement is completed and virtue perfected, their radiance shines down below, and all under Heaven rally to such a one—this is called the Supreme Sovereign (the sage-kings of highest virtue in antiquity).

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Heaven does not deliberately revolve yet revolves on its own; Earth does not deliberately settle yet stays below on its own; sun and moon do not contend for place yet renew themselves in succession on their own. If one says no one directs or maintains them, there is no agent that could push them; if one says there is, each already has its own affair. Then who is this “one with nothing to do” who still impels it all? Nothing more than each thing running its course—this cannot be traced to a final cause. Cloud and rain likewise cannot generate each other; each is simply thus. The classic text is asking why things are “simply thus.” Nearby things people may sometimes know the reason for; pursued to the ultimate, there is no further reason apart from being thus on their own. What is learned afterward can perhaps be changed; what is innate in nature cannot be violated.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: To say Heaven revolves and Earth stays put—I do not know that this means they truly revolve or truly stay. To say sun and moon contend for position—I do not know that this means they truly contend. To go on seeking who directs and who maintains, and to speak of what is learned as perhaps changeable while innate nature cannot be violated, likewise cannot fix these phenomena as deliberate action.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary explains: Heaven revolves and earth rests in place, yet we cannot know for certain whether they truly revolve or truly rest; the sun and moon each hold their positions, and we likewise cannot know whether they truly vie for place. If we search for who presides, who sustains, and who drives all this, we find nothing. Is it that mechanisms constrain them so they move against their will, or that they turn of themselves and cannot stop? That too cannot be known with certainty. Water rises to become clouds; clouds disperse and resolve into rain—seek who spreads them abroad, who idly indulges and brings it about, and you find no one. Wind suddenly shifts west and east, wandering without fixed direction—seek who inhales and exhales it, who brushes and stirs it, and again you find no one. This is where the Dao proves immeasurable and appears as the wondrous (shen). Once one understands wondrous action, then what are called presiding, sustaining, spreading, and brushing all arise from this alone. The Five Constants are the Five Blessings; when the Five Blessings are applied in accord and the Six Extremes are deployed with authority, conformity brings fortune and opposition brings calamity. The Nine Loof is the nine categories of the Great Plan from the Loof Chart; when the nine categories are applied to blessing and extremity, governance succeeds, virtue is complete, light shines upon the land below, and the realm gives its allegiance—this is the supreme sovereign (shanghuang). The supreme sovereign guides heaven and earth, drives sun and moon, spreads clouds and rain, and breathes forth wind—yet himself constantly abides in Wuwei (non-action). Why must one seek this only in the primordial age of vast chaos?

Lin Yidu’s commentary: Heaven’s body is round by nature; it turns of itself—where would deliberate motion enter? Earth’s body is square by nature; it stays still of itself—where would deliberate settling enter? Sun and moon go and come without pause, so they never clash. Who tightens and loosens heaven’s turning? Who holds earth in place with rule and measure? Who, having nothing else to do, shoves sun and moon on their rounds? All of this is simply how things are—no human contrivance within it. Must there be gears that move so they cannot stop on their own? Heaven and earth are formed things; what sets them turning is the Dao (the Way). When mechanisms stir, it is neither from compulsion nor from deliberate seeking. Yin and Yang (Yin-Yang) qi that gathers and blocks becomes cloud; rain is the harmonizing of yin and yang. Cloud can call forth rain, yet sometimes it does not. Cloud turns to rain and rain to cloud—who makes them wax and wane? Who sits idle, takes this as sport, and urges it on from the side? There is no knowing—only that they are so by themselves. On the saying that “Heaven at one gives birth to water,” wind rises in the north and wanders east or west in the upper air. Who, by breathing in and out and blowing, makes it behave so? The “six extremes” are the four directions plus above and below; the “five constants” are the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water). These all simply are; no one knows the reason—they are only themselves so. When a ruler aligns with this, the realm is well ordered; when he goes against it, calamity follows. “Nine Luo” means the settlements of the nine regions: the ruler’s virtue reaches far, the people dwell in peace, as sun and moon shine on the land and all under heaven give their support; people delight in good order and rest in their lives, and nature returns to plain simplicity, as in the age of the ancient sage-kings.

Chen Xiangdao’s commentary: The motion and rest of heaven and earth, the going and coming of sun and moon; cloud rising from earth though its root is in heaven, rain falling from heaven though its root is on earth, wind blowing east though it begins in the north—heaven and earth cover and sustain, sun and moon shine, cloud and rain scatter and moisten: is anyone giving orders? All depend on the Dao’s own course. Like the “wild horses” of drifting dust that drift yet do not truly move, whirlwind that can topple mountains yet often stands still, rivers that race yet do not really run away, sun and moon that cross the sky yet do not really circuit—so heaven and earth move and rest precisely because they do not move or rest; sun and moon come and go precisely because they do not come or go. If we cannot trace who rules or who holds the reins, how can we affirm a “true master” who seems to be there?

The clear and subtle qi is always in motion; the heavy, turbid body remains at rest. The essences of water and fire rise and fall in turn. If someone presides over and sustains them, weariness follows; if mechanisms are relied on to run them, decay follows. Rain is transformed as clouds move, so it comes from the earth; clouds form through the mingling of qi, so they come from heaven. The clear and turbid qi in the human body work the same way. Thus clouds are not rain and rain is not clouds—yet their mutual support accords with each thing’s own place. How could there be deliberate contrivance? When clouds swell and spread on their own, and rain fills and settles on its own, urging them injects private intent, and blowing or brushing them brings failure.

Cold, heat, dampness, dryness, wind, and fire are the six qi; when qi reaches its limit it transforms, hence they are called the six extremes. Metal, wood, water, fire, and earth are the five movements (wuyun); when their course is steady they give birth to things, hence they are called the five constants (wuchang). When qi is harmonized, teaching and transformation succeed; when the movements are disordered, governance fails. The Nine Lo (jiuluo) is the nine categories of the Lo River chart—the outline of governance stated in the Hongfan (Great Plan). When a ruler obtains it, yili (the constant norms of human relations) is ordered, the five blessings reach the people—this is accord. When he loses it, yili collapses and the six extremes harm the people—this is reversal. Neither striving for accord nor deliberately acting in reversal, letting all things be as they naturally are—is that not the way of the supreme sovereign (shanghuang)?

Lin Xiyi’s Yizhai Kouyi (Oral Explanations from the Yizhai) says: Heaven in motion completes one circuit in a day—does Heaven turn by itself? Earth has boundaries on four sides—are its upper and lower positions fixed and unchanging? The sun departs and the moon arrives, as if people were chasing and vying with one another; hence “contending for their places.” “Upholding” and “maintaining the net” both mean exerting force to hold things in place. “Having no choice” means it is not that one wills it so oneself, nor that anyone orders it. When heavenly qi descends and earthly qi rises, they form clouds and rain—yet one cannot tell whether rain turns into clouds or clouds into rain. “Lofty bestowal” is like the rise and fall of a performance, like indulgent revelry in a play—the question is who stages such entertainment and thereby helps bring about clouds and rain. The celestial body inclines toward the north, so wind comes from the north and wanders back and forth, blowing and stirring between east, west, above, and below. In posing the question, “person” is not mentioned—again a shift in literary technique. “The six extremes” are the six qi; “the five constants” are the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water)—all are patterns of nature. “The nine Luo” are the settlements of the nine provinces—a usage shared in ancient writings. When emperors and kings align with nature to govern the nine provinces, merit is fulfilled and de complete, their radiance reaches all under Heaven, and everyone supports them—that is the person who stands above the Three Sovereigns.

In Guanjian (Narrow Views), Chu Shi writes: everyone knows that heaven turns, earth stays settled, and sun and moon come and go—yet no one knows why they turn, stay, or alternate. What keeps them in charge, what holds them together? Could there be mechanisms that drive them without rest? This means heaven and earth are also things—merely the greatest things in empty space. When a thing moves, there must be a cause that makes it so. People live between heaven and earth without knowing it, like ants on a millstone that turn with it without noticing. Do clouds rise for the sake of rain? Does rain break for the sake of clouds? Wind now east or west, now up or down—who gives it, who draws it in and out? All of the above are questions, yet no questioner is named; some also hold that Zhuangzi’s style shifts and cannot be pinned down by ordinary grammar.

“Six Extremes and Five Constants” (liu ji wu chang) is explained differently in every school. Taking the Six Extremes and Five Blessings from the Hong Fan chapter of the Book of Documents fits best: compliance brings stability, opposition brings calamity—that is, the distinction between order and disorder in constant human relations, exactly what the Nine Categories and the Luoshu (River Chart) address. When a ruler acts on this principle, his achievements are complete and his virtue full; his radiance reaches above and below and the four quarters, and all under heaven support him—then custom is thick and goods abundant, and people gladly rest in great peace, a reign surpassing even the three sage-kings of high antiquity.

This reply seems not to face the questions directly, yet when you trace its aim, the sense aligns. When the way of governance reaches the level of the highest sovereigns, ruler and people each rest in their natural place; when human affairs are fully done, heavenly principle can be inferred, and the mechanisms by which heaven and earth turn, settle, and alternate need not be spelled out to become clear. That is precisely how the answer works.

The phrase you shang (“there is above”) in the text does not read well. Bixu zi, following Zhang’s collated text, changes it to zai shang (“above”), as Chen Xiangdao’s commentary also has it.

The Grand Steward of Song—Song was also called Shang, and the Grand Steward was a high minister who assisted in governing the state—named Dang asked Zhuangzi what benevolence is. Zhuangzi replied, “Even tigers and wolves have benevolence.” Dang asked what he meant. Zhuangzi said, “Father and offspring cherish one another—why is that not benevolence?” Dang asked again what the highest benevolence is. Zhuangzi said, “The highest benevolence has no partial, exclusive closeness.” Dang said, “I have heard that without closeness there is no love, and without love there is no filial piety. Can one call the highest benevolence unfilial?” Zhuangzi said, “That is not so. The highest benevolence is so exalted that filial piety cannot adequately describe it. This is not that it surpasses filial piety in a reprehensible way, but that filial piety still cannot measure up to it. It is like traveling south all the way to Ying, the capital of Chu, then turning north and no longer seeing Mount Fang—why? Because one has gone too far. So it is said: practicing filial piety through reverence is easy; practicing it through love is hard; practicing it through love is easy, but forgetting attachment to kin is hard; forgetting kin is easy, but having kin forget you is hard; having kin forget you is easy, but forgetting the whole world as well is hard; forgetting the world is easy, but having everyone in the world forget you is hard. Genuine De (Virtue/Power) sets even Yao and Shun aside and does not act with deliberate effort; its beneficence reaches through ten thousand generations, yet people under heaven do not know it—how could that be no more than sighing and empty talk about benevolence and filial piety! Filial piety and fraternal duty, benevolence and righteousness, loyalty and good faith, integrity and purity—all are things people force upon themselves and drive their inborn nature to perform; they are not worth prizing. Hence it is said: at the utmost of honor, the state’s rank can be relinquished; at the utmost of wealth, the state’s goods can be relinquished; at the utmost of aspiration, reputation can be relinquished. For this reason the Dao does not change.”

Guo Xiang commented: saying “no closeness” does not mean coldness or ill intent. The human body is by nature without partiality: the head naturally stays above, the feet below, the viscera inward, skin and hair outward—inside and outside, above and below, each in its proper place. When honor reaches its height, the state’s rank may be cast off; when wealth reaches its height, the state’s treasure may be cast off; when desire reaches its height, fame may be cast off—therefore the Dao does not change.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: What is meant by “no partiality” is not cold-hearted cruelty. The human body has no favoritism by nature: the head naturally sits above, the feet below; the viscera inside, the skin outside. Inner and outer, high and low, noble and base each keep their place in the body—none is specially cherished over another. The five kinds of kin and six branches of family, the worthy and the foolish, near and far—all under heaven keep their allotted roles; that is the way of nature. Why insist on “having partial ties”?

Filial piety is not worth naming when speaking of supreme benevolence (zhì rén). If one must speak of it, one must speak of forgetting benevolence and forgetting filial piety. Every label arises from “not yet enough,” so one must pass beyond the names of benevolence and filial piety and enter the nameless realm—only then has one arrived. Mount Fangshan stands at the northern pole; if you walk south and look back at it, you are only farther away. Supreme benevolence itself lies in having no partiality, yet if you explain it with partial love, even if you catch sight of Ying (the southern capital), you are farther from Fangshan than ever. The more benevolence and filial piety are displayed, the less they are the highest principle.

The perfected person (zhì rén) is at ease in the whole body and does not feel his own existence all day long. The sage above practices Wuwei (non-action), letting each person do what is theirs to do; affairs naturally fit, living beings naturally content—how could they fail to each forget the “self”? When all have forgotten themselves, where is there a master? This is “forgetting together.” Leave behind the traces of Yao and Shun, and the virtue of Yao and Shun is complete; when no one under heaven knows, one merges indistinguishably with the Dao. Sighing and preaching benevolence and filial piety is like fish leaving rivers and lakes and then trying to moisten one another with spit. The highest honor lies in the person himself; when even the person is forgotten, how much more so titles of state? True wealth is simply being satisfied with oneself—thus one can release the wealth of the empire. The highest wish is ease; when ease is attained, the names of benevolence and filial piety fall away. Therefore the Dao does not change: strip away ornament and take hold of substance.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: The world takes love as benevolence—then why cannot tigers and wolves, who cherish their young, be called benevolent? Supreme benevolence, however, is the benevolence of Heaven-and-Earth and the sage, one with the Dao and acting from nothing—how could private intent find room there? Hence supreme benevolence has no partiality. To say that no partiality means no love, and no love means unfilial, is still speech that falls short of filial piety; “supreme benevolence has no partiality” is speech that goes beyond filial piety. Not seeing Fangshan when facing south is because of distance; for supreme benevolence, filial piety is not worth naming—also because of distance. Reverence belongs to ritual; affection belongs to emotion; forgetting partial ties is the Dao—and it is oneself who forgets. To let kin forget me is to forget what falls on the other side. “Forgetting together with all under heaven” means only that I can set the world aside; when the world also forgets me together, that is mutual forgetting. When benevolence reaches this point, virtue surpasses Yao and Shun without claiming deliberate action; grace extends through ten thousand generations while no one knows—this is called merging with the Dao in Wuwei. Why sigh and talk of benevolence and filial piety?

Seen from supreme benevolence, filial piety, brotherly respect, benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, trustworthiness, integrity, and modesty are all forcing oneself to enslave one’s nature—not worth exalting. So the highest honor already contains state rank; the highest wealth already contains state treasure—that is, mastering the empire’s riches and thereby encompassing rank and goods. The highest wish already contains reputation: cultivated to supreme benevolence, even if the eight practices of filial piety and the rest are set aside, their reputation is already included within. What is called “the Dao does not waver” means this Dao is nowhere absent.

Lin Yidu’s commentary reads as follows: As soon as one speaks of ren (humaneness), the mark of deliberate effort appears, and with it partial closeness and favoritism. If kinship affection alone counts as ren, then tigers and wolves also cherish their young—why would that not count as ren? When the question turns to “utmost ren,” the answer is “no fixed partiality”: let nature and life settle on their own; though there is closeness, one does not treat it as closeness. Taizai holds that only with partiality is there love, and from love comes filial piety (xiao); if utmost ren means no partiality, does that not mean no filial piety? What Zhuangzi addresses is the root, and that root stands above xiao; what Taizai addresses is outward form, and that form still falls short of xiao. The text uses Fang Mountain (a figure for the mountain of the Dao) for the Dao and Ying (the southern capital of Chu) for xiao: if one clings only to the outward practice of xiao, one drifts away from the root of the Dao. Reverence shows in bearing; love wells from within. To “forget kin” is to drop that partiality and thereby reach a love that excludes no one. Yet though I forget my kin, if they have not forgotten me, my xiao still leaves traces. Forgetting on my side is the easier part; moving the other to forget me is harder. Even if I could make my kin forget me, as long as I cannot forget the world together with all things, attachment remains. Having forgotten the world, one must still let the world forget in return, each following the natural course of nature and life: close without knowing it as closeness, caring without knowing it as care. Cultivating the Dao until it becomes De (Virtue/Power), setting aside even Yao and Shun, is true wuwei (non-action). Thus favor extends through ten thousand generations while no one in the world knows it—how could that be merely sighing and praising ren and xiao? The point is that ren and xiao are not worth boasting about. The eight norms—xiao, ti (fraternal respect), ren, yi (righteousness), zhong (loyalty), xin (trustworthiness), zhen (integrity), and lian (incorruptibility)—are things people force upon themselves to harness their nature; they are not the spontaneity of De, so the Dao is scattered and lost. How then could they be called the utmost honor, the utmost wealth, the utmost fulfillment? National rank is cast off: no one comes to ennoble, yet one remains naturally so. National wealth is cast off: abandoning the realm is like tossing away worn shoes. Reputation is cast off: what the heart seeks is only to learn from Confucius. Truly so, one can rest in the Dao and no longer change. “The Dao does not waver” means the Dao is present wherever one goes.

Commentary on the Detailed Dao Annotation: Ferocious beasts do not turn away from those they are close to, and stinging insects do not harm those they cherish. Ordinary people take mutual affection to be Ren (benevolence)—and that is about as far as it goes. Heaven and Earth treat the ten thousand things as straw dogs (sacrificial figures woven from grass, then discarded—an image of impartiality); the things still transform on their own. The Sage treats the people as straw dogs, and the people still find their own way. If one relies on moistening each other with spit for mutual aid, or wins people over with music and feasting, one will fix on this and lose that, benefiting one thing and ruining a hundred. Clinging to the traces of benevolence, one fails to understand that the Sage’s “non-benevolence” is precisely the highest Ren.

Ren arises from filial piety, and filial piety arises from love. When love reaches supreme filial piety, love need no longer be discussed; when filial piety reaches supreme Ren, filial piety need no longer be discussed either. What is called supreme Ren—how could it be exhausted by talk of “going beyond filial piety” or “falling short of filial piety”? Yet the Grand Steward (Taizai) Dang of Shang insisted on taking filial love as the ultimate, and in that he was deluded.

Fang Mountain lies in the far north, yet people go south to look for it—even a master craftsman of Ying would only end up farther from it. This is a parable: supreme Ren has no partial attachment to kin, yet if one seeks it in the language of filial love, the more filial love is perfected, the farther supreme Ren recedes.

One who possesses supreme Ren not only forgets his kin but also lets his kin forget him. With supreme De (Virtue/Power) he places Yao and Shun behind himself without taking credit for doing so—he has forgotten the whole world together with them. His grace extends through myriad ages without his knowing it, and the people of the world forget him together with everything else. In this way Ren is always ample and more than enough, and love does not arise from lack. Why must one sigh and preach Ren and filial piety? Sighing itself is born from insufficiency.

Bi Xu (Chen Jingyuan, Song-dynasty Daoist priest, styled Bixuzi) said: The highest benevolence (zhi ren) is not confined to cherishing one’s own kin. That comes close to having no partiality toward relatives, yet it is not the absence of affection altogether. Once one speaks of filial piety, partiality appears; where there is partiality, one has not reached the utmost. Reverence is the outward form of ritual; love is sincerity within. Acting with deliberate intent is easy; acting without deliberate intent is hard. For children to practice filial piety without keeping the matter in mind is still relatively easy; to support one’s parents while the parents also keep nothing in mind—that is difficult. For virtue to reach a single household is easy; for transforming influence to spread throughout the realm is hard. To forget others and also to forget that transforming work is called “mutual forgetting” (jian wang)—both sides cease to hold it in mind. To govern by mutual forgetting is the ultimate in governance. The person of ultimate attainment (zhi ren) treats sagely virtue like chaff, and treats the common people like straw dogs (used in sacrifice and then discarded—meaning no clinging or possessive favoritism); yet in conduct, benevolence and filial piety never leave them for an instant. They simply cultivate virtue and urge themselves onward—not to be known by others. Ultimate nobility is the fullness of character: carriage and crown (the trappings of high office) cannot move the heart, so state rank can be set aside. Ultimate wealth is contentment: gold and jade cannot alter one’s aim, so national treasure can be set aside. Ultimate fulfillment is ease and accord with what is natural: right and wrong cannot change one’s nature, so reputation can be set aside. Such a one keeps to the Way and does not change—this is what it means to hold fast without shifting.

Yizhai (Lin Xiyi of the Southern Song, styled Yizhai) said: “Even tigers and wolves have benevolence” and “even thieves have their code” mean the same thing: both deflate Confucian moralism, yet there is something to them. Highest benevolence without partiality toward kin is loving others without feeling that one is bestowing love—that alone is the peak of benevolence. That filial piety is not worth speaking of does not mean being unfilial; it means filial piety need not be proclaimed in the first place. When highest benevolence stands above filial piety, only then is it truly beyond filial piety. What Grand Steward (Tai Zai Dang of Shang, who questioned Zhuangzi about benevolence) asked about still fell short of even being filial piety in the proper sense. Filial piety fulfilled through reverence still leaves traces; filial piety fulfilled through love brings mutual forgetting—until one forgets one’s parents and forgets the realm, traces still remain. Where there are traces, it is not as good as no traces; where there is deliberate mind, it is not as good as no deliberate mind. One whose character sets Yao and Shun aside without intentional striving, whose grace reaches ten thousand generations without self-awareness—how could such a one sigh or boast about benevolence and filial piety? Filial piety, brotherly respect, and on through integrity and constancy—the world treats these as fine virtues, but they are really mutual pressure and self-imposed hardship, not worth exalting. My ultimate nobility need not seek state rank; my ultimate wealth need not seek national treasure; my ultimate fulfillment need not seek reputation—so all are dismissed alike. Therefore to keep to the Way without change is simply what is fitting. Those eight items above all use purposeful action to drive oneself; I remain throughout in non-action (wuwei).

Though tigers and wolves are utterly fierce, they still have affection between father and son. I already possess the highest honor—why should I seek titles of state? I already possess the highest wealth—why should I seek the state’s goods? I already possess the highest fulfillment of heart—why should I seek reputation? Therefore all of these are set aside. The Dao is thereby never altered; this is how things are in themselves. The eight kinds of virtue mentioned earlier all depend on deliberate effort that coerces the self; I, by contrast, constantly practice Wuwei (non-action).

Though tigers and wolves are extremely vicious, they can still cherish one another as father and son—by that measure one might even call it “humaneness” (ren), which is how the world takes affectionate closeness to be humaneness. The True Person (Zhuangzi’s term for one who has attained the Way), following the question, deliberately answers in reverse to correct the interlocutor. Tai Zai (Shang dynasty minister named Dang) doubted that this was humaneness and asked again what supreme humaneness is; the answer was that supreme humaneness has no partial, exclusive closeness. This statement is vast, yet Tai Zai could not grasp it: he still took closeness as humaneness and traced humaneness back to filial piety, failing to see that supreme humaneness has its own dignity and that filial piety was never enough to exhaust it. Saying that filial piety still falls short of supreme humaneness is exactly right. “Going south and not seeing Dark Mountain (a northern peak)” is a metaphor: affectionate closeness is already far from true humaneness. Filial piety born of reverence weighs on outward form; filial piety born of love comes from the heart. One who can forget parents finds serving them fitting and without strain; one who can make parents forget oneself keeps them from worry and leaves no trace in conduct; forget parents and the world together, and one transforms along with the world; when the world also forgets me, transformation leaves no track. Like spring wind and summer rain nurturing the myriad things without claiming merit—this is the utmost of humaneness and filial piety. Such virtue can set aside Yao and Shun (ancient sage-kings) and not act by design; even its dust and chaff would suffice to recast Yao and Shun. Blessing extends through ten thousand generations without self-awareness; merit covers the world yet does not seem to come from oneself. Given this, why must one rely on praise to speak of humaneness and filial piety? It means that once the root is obtained, its manifestations need not be rehearsed. The world treats the eight items—filial piety, brotherly respect, chastity, integrity, and the rest—as beautiful virtues, yet they only bind oneself. Through learning one reaches the ground of virtue; then the highest honor, wealth, and heart’s wish are already enough. Rank, goods, and fame can all be dropped. This is like matching the Wuwei of the Dao against the self-coercion of those eight virtues. This Way has not changed from antiquity to the present; hence it is the highest honor and wealth—and what people truly desire.

End of fascicle 44 of Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei (Nanhua Zhenjing is the honorific title for the Zhuangzi; this work gathers commentaries from various masters, compiled by Chu Boxiu of the Southern Song). The Siku Quanshu edition includes fascicle 45, by Chu Boxiu of the Song, opening with the chapter “Tian Yun,” the second section.

Beimen Cheng asked the Yellow Emperor: “When you staged and performed Xianchi in the wilds of Dongting, at first I felt fear; when I listened again I grew weary; by the end I was utterly confused—my spirit wandered, I fell silent and could not find my own footing.”

The Yellow Emperor said: “That is probably just how it was. I performed with human affairs as my theme, tuned it by the way of Heaven, carried it forward through ritual and propriety, and rooted it in Supreme Clarity (Taiqing). Ultimate music first answers to human affairs, then follows celestial order; it moves according to the five virtues (wude), accords with nature, then harmonizes the four seasons so that the ten thousand things are at peace. The four seasons rise in turn; the ten thousand things grow in their proper sequence. Decline and flourish alternate; civil and martial patterns unfold in order. Clear and turbid interweave; yin and yang are harmonized, and radiance streams with the sound. When dormant insects stir, I rouse them with thunder. This music has no visible tail when it ends and no visible head when it begins—it seems to die and live, to fall and rise. Its transformations never exhaust themselves, and one cannot wait for them with anything fixed, so you felt fear.

“Next I performed according to the harmony of yin and yang, illumined by the brightness of sun and moon. The sound could be short or long, soft or hard; change was orderly yet not bound by old rules. Where it fell into valleys it filled valleys; where it fell into hollows it filled hollows. It blocked gaps and guarded spirit, taking each thing’s own measure as its limit. The music spread wide and easy; its fame was lofty and clear. Therefore ghosts and spirits kept to the hidden depths, and sun, moon, and stars each kept their courses. I made it rest where there is an end, yet also flow toward what has no end. You tried to think about it but could not know it, looked but could not see it, pursued but could not catch it—so you stood dazed on the way of the four voids (where nothing on any side can be grasped), leaning on a withered parasol tree and sighing. You knew in yourself that where you wished to see, sight had already reached its limit, and where you wished to chase, strength was already spent—you could never catch up. The body was full yet the heart empty, and so you yielded and wound with it (weiyi). You yielded and wound with it like that, so you grew weary.

“Again I played music that never wearies, harmonized by the mandate of nature itself. It was like mingled pursuit and clustered growth—many sounds together yet no visible form; scattering and stirring without dragging, dim and deep yet without sound. When it stirred there was no fixed direction; when it rested it stayed in the hidden deep. Some called it death, some called it life; some called it barren, some called it flourishing. It flowed and shifted without holding to one tone. The world was puzzled and turned to the sage for answers. To be sage is to penetrate the real situation and follow fate. The heavenly pivot (tianji) does not open outward, yet the five senses are already complete—this is called the music of Heaven (tianle): joy in the heart without needing words. Hence the clan of Yan made a hymn: ‘Listen—you hear no sound; look—you see no form. It fills Heaven and earth and wraps the six directions. You wish to listen, yet there is nothing to receive it’—and so you were confused.

“The experience of this music begins in fear; fear unsettles the spirit. Then comes weariness; weariness lets that unsettling fall away. Finally comes confusion; confusion nears plain simplicity, and plain simplicity accords with the Dao. The Dao can carry you and go forward with you.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary takes “not obtaining it for oneself” to mean zuowang—forgetting, in seated stillness, both self and outer things. From this we know that supreme joy (also read as supreme music) is not ordinary sound. One must first accord with Heaven and respond to humanity, find the heart’s fulfillment and rest in one’s nature, and only then give it forth as sound and shape it into melody. Thus the music of Xianchi could be completed only after the Yellow Emperor’s transforming work was finished. Heaven and earth are filled with the natural pitch-pipes (lü-lü); where one follows them and does not forcibly seize or encroach, supreme joy is complete. Therefore one follows each thing’s own movement, employs the reasons why they move as they do, turns without end, and takes change as the constant way.

When one first hears this inexhaustible change, one cannot fix a single standard to expect it, and so listens with startled dread. Then yin and yang are played, sun and moon illuminate—these are the operations of the Way of Heaven. Merging with change into one, not clinging to old norms; sound fills valleys and ravines, nowhere not reaching. Block the openings of desire and guard the spirit (sā duì shǒu shén); the greatest fashioning does not cut things apart (dà zhì bù gē). When name and reality match, that is clarity. Hence ghosts and spirits do not leave their places; sun, moon, and stars do not miss their measures. Stopping is stopping at what has an end, dwelling always at the utmost; flowing is flowing toward what has no limit, going wherever change leads. Thought cannot know it, pursuit cannot catch it—one only lets it transform on its own in the dark, vast and boundless, with nothing left to do.

The wit and strength of the ten thousand things each have their bounds. Form filling empty space means no burden of self. Therefore, yielding and serpentine, one trusts one’s nature, and the heart of dread slackens. Once slackened, one advances to where even slackening is gone—that is the utmost. All that nature and mandate hold comes wholly from the spontaneous. Blended without ties, arising with the cluster, just at the root of being—so there is no separate trace. Scattered and stirred without being dragged, dim and silent without sound—this is supreme joy. Action without fixed direction, abiding in deep obscurity—this is the utmost peace (níng jí). Death and life, fruiting and flourishing all follow the changes of things; this shows that when the sage meets the world, he does not take the lead himself. Therefore whatever has feeling and mandate draws its use from here. Forget music, and music is already full—not something set up on purpose to be complete. Joy in the heart lies in fittingness, not in words. The hymn attributed to the Yan clan is precisely music without musical sound—the extreme of music.

Startled, dread-filled listening is only being disturbed—not yet reaching great harmony (tài hé). Next is slackening, so one can withdraw and traces slightly gather in. Then comes bewilderment; bewilderment becomes foolishness, and foolishness aligns with the Dao. Taking not-knowing as foolishness—that foolishness is arrival.

Lü’s thinkers held that music is the Dao. The wilds of Dongting are vast and empty; there music rises. Even when human affairs and the patterns of Heaven complete its beauty, supreme music still issues from emptiness. It is promulgated through ritual and righteousness and established from the utmost clarity (Taiqing), because music from the outset dwells in the Great Beginning (Taishi)—the origin before things take shape. The four seasons and the myriad things are none other than music. The order of flourishing and decline, culture and martial force must not be disarrayed; the blending of clear and muddy, Yin and Yang, never goes awry. The radiance of musical sound spreads through heaven and earth; unless there is resonance it does not sound forth. Traced from root to tip, it has neither head nor tail; death and life, collapse and rise alternate in endless change, so no single pole can be fixed and awaited—hence fear. This comes down to: I display myself in a human way, and the other enters in a human way. When one invests the human in Heaven, myriad changes diverge and the so-called “One” cannot be awaited; fear is only natural.

Next, when Yin and Yang perform and sun and moon illumine, it is purely Heaven. Long and short in sound have no fixed rule; it fills valleys and hollows, blocks pores and guards spirit, taking each thing’s own capacity as measure—that is why it sounds. When sound unfolds freely, it is not bound by the vessels of the cosmos; its loftiness is precisely why it is Heaven. Ghosts and spirits keep to the hidden; sun, moon, and stars each hold their courses. It may be stopped at the finite or made to flow into the endless, following only what is shown. One wishes to think yet cannot know, wishes to pursue yet cannot reach; when sight and strength are exhausted, one can only yield and turn—hence slackness (dai). This comes down to: I display myself as Heaven, and the other receives as Heaven.

Again, with the sound of non-sloth and harmony through nature, the myriad things mingle in pursuit and cluster in growth, thick and many. Many voices blend yet leave no trace—each returns to the root; they scatter and stir without dragging—action has no fixed direction; dim and silent without sound—they rest in the profound obscurity (yaoming). Death and life, fullness and glory, dispersal and migration have no fixed rule, so they are not tied to any one pole. This is what the world doubts, yet the sage discerns it amid daily living and haste, never parting from it. “Sage” means simply penetrating one’s nature and following Heaven’s mandate. Hearing and seeing are all like this—it is nothing but the heavenly mechanism (tianji); why set up anything artificial? This is the Music of Heaven (tianle): joy within without speaking. Hence the hymn of Lord Youyan (Youyanshi) and the marvel of Xianchi (the music of the Yellow Emperor) lie just here. If you wish to listen, there is naturally nothing to receive; keen hearing is of no use—hence confusion. This comes down to forgetting the human and forgetting Heaven.

At first fear—fear unsettles the spirit; then slackness—slackness leads to withdrawal; finally confusion—confusion returns to plain simplicity. The body cannot bear the Dao because knowing is too sharp and exposed. Only by stripping craft and returning to simplicity can one bear the Dao and dwell with it.

Commentary (Yidu zhu): When ancients spoke of supreme music, did they mean only bells, drums, strings, pipes, and the niceties of pitch and measure? Its principle reaches beyond heaven and earth; its feeling runs through the wonder of Yin and Yang. There is no form to see, no sound to hear. This is what the Book of Rites means by music dwelling in the Great Beginning, and what Laozi means by “the greatest sound is scarcely heard” (da yin xi sheng). The first performance uses the human—still not leaving the human; the second uses Yin and Yang—that is Heaven; at last one arrives at spirit (shen). Life and death cannot be measured, so natural mandate is used to harmonize. What belongs to the human way is promulgated through ritual and righteousness; what belongs to the heavenly way is illumined by sun and moon. Non-sloth is spirit. Spirit that commands Yin and Yang, gathers sun and moon, and completes ritual and righteousness is what the Book of Changes calls “Yin and Yang beyond measure.” When the Dao reaches the point where no form can be grasped, people doubt. From doubt to confusion, from confusion to simplicity, from simplicity to union with the Dao—this is what is meant.

Chen Xiangdao’s commentary: At first the music follows human feeling, is carried forward through ritual and propriety, and is tuned by Heaven, established in Taqing (supreme clarity and emptiness). Its subtlety appears in endless transformation, so the listener is afraid; fear makes the spirit go outward, hence the effect is like being haunted by a malign influence. In the middle section, yin–yang harmony and the brightness of sun and moon are at work; its effect lies in flowing and stopping beyond measure, so the listener grows slack; slackness means the body is cast off and keen hearing is dulled—forgetting the physical form and abandoning cleverness—hence withdrawal. In the final section, tireless sound is matched to the mandate of spontaneity (ziran), and intention returns to the deep, hidden realm where there is neither form nor sound, so the listener is perplexed; perplexity means discarding wisdom and falling into obscurity, and therefore one is called foolish. Reckless and wild in action, yet treading the Great Way (Da Fang); neither knowing nor recognizing, yet following Heaven’s (Di’s) constant pattern—this is called foolishness, and that is precisely the Dao.

Chen Jingyuan’s commentary: The tone of great elegance (daya) is plain and does not please the ear. At first one hears it and is afraid, because it is not what the vulgar world admires; listening closely it seems slack; by the end one is perplexed, and the spirit and thought drift into the deep hidden realm. Thus hearing it brings perplexity; perplexity means forsaking wisdom and falling into obscurity, and therefore one is called foolish. Reckless and wild in action, yet treading the Great Way; neither knowing nor recognizing, yet following Heaven’s constant pattern—this is called foolishness, and that is precisely the Dao.

Bi Xu (Chen Jingyuan) comments: The tones of daya music are plain and not pleasing at first hearing. At first one is afraid, because it is not what ordinary people enjoy; listen closely and one feels slack; listen to the end and one is instead bewildered. Empty and still, one does not know why it is so.

When played according to human affairs, the myriad things and kinds all flow in harmony; when tuned to Heaven, it harmonizes with nature; when carried out by ritual and righteousness, above and below do not overstep their places; when established upon Taqing (the supremely clear Dao), the realm can be clarified. The four seasons turn in order, and the ten thousand things follow life without opposing one another. The patterns of wen and wu have constancy, and yin and yang qi are in accord. The music flows like light, and yuanqi (primordial harmony) responds everywhere. It is empty yet never exhausted; the more it moves, the more there is—what end could there be?

When yin and yang are harmonized, ruler and minister align in virtue; when sun and moon are bright, the crafty cannot gain office. Thus the way of governance renews day by day, transformation and nurturing meet no obstruction, ghosts and spirits do not utter strange sounds, and laws and decrees do not err. If one could know it by thinking, it would not be subtle; if one could see it by looking, it would not be dark; if one could catch it by chasing, it would not be beyond reach. It changes alone in lofty fashion, and nothing escapes it—therefore it is inexhaustible and never depleted.

When breadth and unity condense into one, compliance and slackness come to rest. Harmony at the utmost leaves no slackness; music at the utmost is simply nature. Like the sound of dense shrubs and tall green bamboo, all are called tianlai (sounds Heaven itself makes)—what is it that stirs them? Its nature is clear and bright; it scatters and moves without being pulled; true wind is plain, and in the hidden dark there is no sound. Chongqi (harmonizing qi) blends and completes it, so action has no fixed direction; the Great Image has no form, so it dwells in yaoming (the deep and obscure). When people see it now moving, now still, now gathering, now flourishing, they call that birth and death, fruiting and flowering. It follows the waxing and waning of qi and changes with the seasons, as if it had no fixed norm—therefore one must examine the sage’s law, penetrate the truth of ghosts and spirits, and complete the nature and life of the ten thousand things. Still as dead ashes, the scheming heart ceases; the five phases turn of themselves, and every office is fulfilled.

The “Song of the Yanshi” is the name of an ancient musical piece. Form is level and leaves no trace—one cannot see it; sound is faint—one cannot hear it. Seeing and hearing have no way to begin—how could one not be bewildered? Fear in the heart is inauspicious; slackness of spirit leads to hiding; confusion of mind becomes foolishness, and foolishness draws near the Great Dao.

Yizhai (the style name of Lin Xiyi) says: This music is performed through human affairs and matched to the principle of Heaven; then ritual and righteousness fall into proper order. Supreme Clarity (Taiqing) harmonizes with the transforming work of nature (zaohua).

What follows means that this music, in its transformations, startles—sometimes delightful, sometimes alarming—flowing with luminous splendor, with no visible beginning or end. It is both constant and changing; one seeks a place to gather it all together and cannot find one—hence fear arises. Yin-Yang and sun and moon likewise describe the music’s smooth brilliance; change has no fixed pattern and grows stranger the further it goes.

Block cleverness and cunning intelligence; hold fast with spirit alone, letting things themselves be the measure. Spirit keeps to the deep and hidden; sun, moon, and stars each keep to their courses—all of this says: do not use cleverness, only follow what is natural. The music stops where there is an end; chase it and you cannot catch up. It seems to be something, yet is not an ordinary thing—so you want to see it but cannot see it through, want to pursue it but cannot overtake it. Though the form is full, the person forgets the self, as if empty; one reaches a state of ease and release—hence weariness.

Without slackening, yet never stopping—here “ming” (decree) means principle (li). Sounds mingle in mutual pursuit, like the teeming of the myriad things, lush and pleasing. It spreads and sways without being pulled by anyone; dim and dark, no sound is heard; change has no fixed abode. Thus death and life, fruiting and flowering, scattering and shifting have no constant pattern. People doubt this and question the sage. Penetrating disposition and nature, complying with Heaven’s decree (tianming), one finally arrives at the natural (ziran). Though eyes, ears, hands, and feet are complete, seeing, hearing, and acting none of it spring from self-conscious knowing—this is called Tianle (music in accord with nature, the utmost joy of Heaven).

The Surangama Sutra says, “Turn the flow back and become wholly one; the six functions do not operate”—that is this meaning: mind and spirit withdraw and unite as one; the six faculties—eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind—no longer race outward. Then though you wish to listen, there is nothing to contact—hence bewilderment.

The four-line verse of the Yan clan (Yanshi) states the foregoing meaning; one turn becomes rhythm—this is the craft of the writing. The fear, weariness, and bewilderment discussed earlier were not yet fully clear in meaning; only at the conclusion does one see: only by reaching simplicity and plainness can one enter the Dao. A person must pass through these states before there is progress. “Weariness leading to withdrawal” is when one wants to stop yet cannot stop; “bewilderment leading to simplicity” is when all conscious awareness is forgotten.

The Zhuangzi (Nanhuazhenjing, the True Scripture of Southern Florescence) discusses the Dao by taking the example of the Yellow Emperor performing music in the wilds of Dongting. It means that nothing transforms and nurtures the myriad things faster than the Dao, and nothing moves the human heart more intimately than Music (le); yet to seek the highest sound in vast emptiness and silence is something only one who delights in pursuing the Dao can accomplish. When ordinary people first hear the Great Dao, battle rages within the heart—hence fear at first; shortly after, as if victorious, they seem slack and weary. When desire and discriminating awareness gradually fade, fear and slackness vanish together, and one then reaches harmony with Music and returns to unknowing. This is the sequence of entering the Dao. What is called “because of bewilderment, therefore foolishness” is precisely the moment when all conscious awareness is utterly forgotten.

The “three performances” in this chapter may be read together with the “three pipes” (sanlai) in the “Discourse on Equalizing Things” (Qiwu lun). The first performance follows human conduct, treading ritual and righteousness, arising from deliberate effort; then it is regulated by Heaven, established through Supreme Clarity (Taiqing), gradually approaching the natural. The four seasons turn, the myriad things are born in season, yin and yang harmonize, and radiance flows within the sounds of Music—yet without leaving the domains of wen and wu, warp and woof, flourishing and decline, clarity and turbidity. This aligns with human pipes (renlai). The second performance plays through the harmony of yin and yang, illumines with the brightness of sun and moon; tones may be short or long, soft or hard, filling valleys and ravines, taking the myriad things themselves as measure—this is earth pipes (dilai). The final performance uses a tone that knows no weariness, is tuned by the mandate of nature itself, fills the cosmos, wraps the six extremities, emulates the firm vigor of Heaven’s way, yet is naturally unbroken. Then feeling is unobstructed and mandate fulfilled; seeing and hearing no longer depend on eyes and ears. Originally without form or sound, yet form and sound are present within—this is the subtlety of heaven pipes (tianlai).

Hence the roaring of myriad openings when things crowd and chase in confusion; forest music leaves no trace, and the root of the roar cannot be grasped; scattering and stirring without dragging, as when a fierce wind stops; dim and silent without sound, the openings return to void. Action has no fixed direction; dwelling in deep obscurity, one enters unfathomable wonder. Therefore birth and death, binding and fruiting, glory and decay, scattering and migration are all in flux—what ordinary people doubt and sages investigate. When the heavenly mechanism is not displayed, that is forgetting the body and dismissing cleverness; the five senses are complete yet stored unused. To reach inner joy without speaking—if that is not heavenly Music, what is it? The Book of Rites says: great Music harmonizes with Heaven and Earth. Human dao-nature is never not derived from harmony with Music; when Music reaches harmony, Heaven and Earth respond—yet without a person it cannot be fulfilled.

Thus this chapter uses Music to metaphorize the Dao, so students know: when form and qi harmonize mutually, the highest sound flows naturally; hearing harmony within silence was never in the elaborate performance of metal, stone, silk, and bamboo. The closing citation of the hymn of the Youyan clan shows that utmost Dao and utmost tone are not what eyes and ears can touch—hence the conclusion in “bewilderment.” Through bewilderment comes foolishness, like the inimitable foolishness of Yan Hui: when seeing, hearing, and knowledge are momentarily extinguished, the Dao can be borne and walk with the person. Such Music uses instruments not made by the vulgar; its tone is originally innate. Utmost Music and utmost harmony fill Heaven and Earth—silken strings and bamboo cannot write it; it can be heard day and night. It can make Shi Xiang fear and Shi Kuang startle; earthen puppets sing and wooden figures dance. Then where is the marvel of Xianchi—between tones and pitch? The good listener should not use the ear but the heart, not the heart but qi (vital energy); void meets void, listening within no-listening. What one delights in is Heaven; only then is joy complete. The Supreme One says: Music and fine food make the passing traveler stop. Among dormant insects there must be those who hear thunder and rise to act—I wish to discuss Music with such people. The text also notes: “Great harmony” should read as “guardian harmony”; “tangran” should read as “shangran,” the look of being dazed and self-lost; in one edition “Youyan” is written as “biao,” pronounced bi-yao cut, the name of an ancient wuwei emperor.

Confucius traveled west and reached the state of Wey. Yan Yuan asked the music master Shi Jin of Lu, “What do you think of our teacher’s conduct on this journey?” Shi Jin said, “What a pity—your teacher is going to find himself in dire straits!” Yan Yuan asked, “Why?” Shi Jin said, “Before the straw dog is set out for sacrifice, people place it in a bamboo basket, cover it with embroidered cloth, and the impersonator of the dead and the prayer officiant, after fasting and purification, reverently present it. Once the rite is over, passersby tread on its head and back, and wood-gatherers pick it up to fuel a fire—that is all. If someone were to put it back in the basket, wrap it again in embroidered cloth, and then walk beside it, live with it, or sleep next to it, even if he never dreamed, he would surely be startled again and again by nightmares. Your teacher is now treating the straw dog that the former kings already used up—gathering disciples to walk beside it, live with it, and sleep next to it. That is why in Song he suffered the humiliation of having a tree cut down around him, in Wey his traces were erased, and in the lands of Shang and Zhou he found no way forward—is this not that dream? Surrounded between Chen and Cai, unable to cook for seven days, pressed close to death—is this not that nightmare?

For moving on water, nothing is better than a boat; for moving on land, nothing is better than a cart. A boat can travel on water, but if you push it onto dry land, you will never get far in a lifetime. Antiquity and the present are like water and land; Zhou and Lu are like boat and cart. To try now to impose Zhou institutions on Lu is like pushing a boat ashore—painful effort without result, and bound to bring harm on oneself. He does not understand that what is handed down without a fixed form follows things and changes without end.

Have you never seen the shaduf? When people pull it, it dips; when they let go, it rises. It is pulled by people—it does not pull people—so whether it dips or rises, it offends no one. The rites, righteousness, laws, and standards of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors are valuable not because they are identical, but because each could govern the world well. Compare them to hawthorn, pear, orange, and pomelo: the flavors differ, yet all are pleasant. Thus ritual and law must shift with the times. Catch a monkey and dress it in the Duke of Zhou’s robes, and it will bite and tear until it has ripped everything off in satisfaction. The gap between past and present is like the gap between a monkey and the Duke of Zhou. When Xishi had heart pain and frowned, an ugly woman in the neighborhood thought it looked beautiful, went home, and pressed her hand to her heart and frowned too. A rich neighbor saw her and shut the door tight; a poor one gathered his wife and children and fled. She knew only that frowning looked good, not why frowning looked good on Xishi. What a pity—your teacher is going to find himself in dire straits!

Guo Xiang (Western Jin commentator on the Zhuangzi) notes: What has already been abandoned and is useless for the present, if brought back into use, will instead invite other disasters. The rites of former kings were originally suited to the needs of their age; when the age has passed and they are not discarded, the beginnings of forced imitation and affectation arise. As times shift and the world changes, ritual too ought to change. Follow things as they are and be tied to nothing—without exhausting labor there is achievement; one need only fit the season and accord with the way of governing. What one side takes as beautiful, another may take as ugly. When ritual and righteousness are used in season, they are like Xishi (the famed beauty of Yue); when the season has passed and they are not set aside, they are like an ugly person.

Lu Huiqing (Northern Song scholar) notes: The sage’s ritual and righteousness aim only to fit the season and accord with the way of governing. What one side takes as beautiful, another may take as ugly. Ritual and righteousness used in season are Xishi; when the season has passed and they are not discarded, they are an ugly person.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: The sage’s ritual, righteousness, law, and institutions are nothing but traces left behind by adapting to a particular age. While they still fit that age, people solemnly arrange and adorn them—as when a straw dog has not yet been offered and the person fasting treats it with reverence; once the time has passed and it is cast aside, it is like a straw dog already used up, which passersby trample at will. If you sleep on a used straw dog, the mind is tied to it, and even without dreaming you suffer “mí”—dazed eyes and nightmare-like distress. To gather disciples and incessantly recite and expound the adaptive traces of the former kings is to meet the “dreams” of felling trees, erasing footprints, distress in Shang and Zhou, and the “mí” of siege at Chen and Cai, with life and death pressing close—precisely the retribution of such clinging. Because one cannot let go when the time is over, the heart still bound, one does not know that a boat should not travel on land or that Zhou institutions cannot be forced upon Lu, and does not understand that turning without fixed direction can follow things and change without end. Governing people this way, one cannot be like the well-sweep—pulled by others, rising and falling freely without offending; adapting this way, one cannot be like crab-apple and pear, opposite in flavor yet both palatable. It is like dressing a monkey in the Duke of Zhou’s robes: it only knows that a furrowed brow looks beautiful to others, not why it is beautiful.

If one teaches by the Dao (the Way) and the mind holds to nothing, then even if Confucius took the former kings’ traces to recite and expound, how would he be tied to them in the heart? Felling trees, erasing footprints, distress in Shang and Zhou, hardship at Chen and Cai—in his view were no more than cranes or gnats flying past the eyes. Having already said, “When the Dao does not prevail, I know it,” why insist that a boat must go on land or Zhou rites must apply in Lu, yet fail to see turning without fixed pattern—so that one rise or fall offends people—and not know that ritual, righteousness, law, and institutions should change with the times, or why a furrowed brow is beautiful? In general, those who study Confucius without knowing what truly makes one Confucius are often blinded in just this way; hence Zhuangzi returns to the theme again and again.

Commentary on "Standing Alone in Doubt" says: The Six Classics are merely traces left behind by the former kings—use them when they fit the times, discard them when the times have passed, like a straw dog (the grass-bound dog used in ritual). Before it is set out for sacrifice, it is reverently stored in a bamboo case or similar vessel; after the rite, people step on it and burn it. If you then use it as a pillow to sleep on, even without dreaming you will be haunted by nightmares—for it is what remains after offering to spirits, and sometimes draws other uncanny things. Musician Jin of Lu (Shi Jin) conveyed this meaning to Yan Yuan: Your teacher now expounds the ancients’ clay effigies and old footprints, hoping to act effectively in the present age and to have his disciples live and rest under Benevolence, Righteousness, Propriety, and Music—so he cannot avoid the world’s calamities. That is like pushing a boat on land or driving a carriage in water. One who can endlessly adapt to outer things changes with the moment, neither bound to antiquity nor to the present—only this is a transmission that does not cling to fixed forms. The well sweep (the lever for drawing water) is offered as another image: whether it dips or rises depends on the person—it is the human who moves it, not it that moves the human. Today Zhongni (Confucius) exerts himself over Benevolence, Righteousness, Propriety, and Music and insists that the world follow him—thus he is not like the well sweep. So the laws of the former kings are like various fruits: flavors differ yet all can be savored; one should change with the season, and then all will fit everywhere. The parable of the Duke of Zhou and the macaque means that past and present cannot be weighed in the same scale. The principles of ritual, righteousness, law, and measure are one, but the age in which they are applied differs—just as Xishi and a village woman may both knit their brows (pian); the gesture is the same, yet beauty and ugliness are utterly unlike.

Chen Xiangdao’s commentary: The songs of Qi, Chu, Yan, and Wei have different tunes, yet all can delight people; the mourning cries of the Nine Yi and Eight Man—the distant peoples of the four quarters—are not alike either, yet all express grief. So when the sage governs the realm, he adapts measures to the times and frames laws to fit the people’s ways. Whatever truly serves the state need not follow one fixed method; whatever truly eases administration need not demand identical ritual everywhere. Fuxi and Shennong relied on teaching and transformation rather than killing; Huangdi, Yao, and Shun used punishments but not from wrath. The Xia prized plainness over refinement; the Zhou prized refinement over plainness. Can antiquity’s institutions run unchanged in the present? Can today’s institutions be stamped mechanically onto the past? When Confucius honored antiquity in governing the present, he did not glue past and present into one block; he meant to follow the tracks already made and return to the source that made those tracks. Musician Jin, in this chapter, feared that people everywhere would drown in the habit of clinging to old forms, so he first likened the matter to straw dogs—grass sacrificial dogs cast aside after the rite—and to boats and carts; then to the shadoof, a water-drawing lever that dips and rises with the pull, and to oranges and pomelos; and finally to orangutans and to beauty and ugliness, to show that past and present cannot be treated as the same, and that Zhou and Lu cannot be treated as the same—the point is one. A proverb says: learning charioteering from books will not teach you horses as they really are; forcing ancient institutions onto the present will not let you grasp how affairs change.

Chen Bixu (Chen Jingyuan) comments: Musician Jin grieved that Confucius had ability but not full penetration. Straw dogs, once discarded, bring ill fortune if used again. In rule, what counts is renewal day by day; obsession with old tracks breeds harm. To suppose the Zhou way can be copied straight into Lu is like saying one can sail boats on the Taihang range. Better to drop fixed precedents, leave things to nature, align with Heaven’s pattern, and move with things as they change. Thus the ritual, righteousness, law, and standards of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors were not prized because they matched one another, but because they could govern; where governance succeeded, that became the standard. It is like flavor: give sweetness when sweetness is wanted, pungency when pungency is wanted—each shifts with the moment. Suit orangutans to their nature and they are easy to manage; copy Xi Shi’s frown and you only grow uglier.

Volume 46 of Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei (a Song-dynasty compilation of Zhuangzi exegesis by Chu Boxiu), “Heaven’s Revolutions,” third record: When Confucius was fifty-one and still had not heard the Dao, he went south to Pei to visit Old Dan (Laozi). Old Dan asked whether he had obtained the Dao. Confucius said he had not yet obtained it. Old Dan asked where he had sought it. Confucius said he had sought it in measures and numbers (ritual, law, and calendrical reckoning) for five years without obtaining it; he had then sought it in yin-yyang for twelve years and still had not obtained it.

Old Dan said: It is exactly so. If the Dao could be presented as tribute, everyone would present it to their ruler; if it could be offered upward, everyone would offer it to their parents; if it could be reported, everyone would tell their brothers; if it could be handed down, everyone would pass it to their children and grandchildren. That it cannot be done has no other reason: inwardly there is no qualification to serve as master, so the Dao cannot be retained; outwardly there is no corresponding uprightness, so the Dao cannot be practiced. What issues from within—if no one outside receives it, the sage does not bring it forth; what enters from outside—if there is nowhere in the heart to lodge it, the sage does not keep it.

Names are instruments shared by all under Heaven; one must not take too many. Benevolence and righteousness are like the inns of the ancient kings—one may lodge for one night, not stay long; displayed before others they invite many demands. The utmost persons of old merely borrowed the Dao from benevolence, lodged in righteousness, wandered in the realm of carefree ease, took their food from the fields of simplicity, and established themselves in gardens where nothing was lent on interest. Carefree ease is wuwei (non-action); simplicity is easy to sustain; not lending on interest means no outward drain. The ancients called this the journey of gathering what is true (seeking the original reality).

Those who take wealth as their proper lot cannot bear to yield salary; those who take prominence as their proper lot cannot bear to yield reputation; those close to power cannot hand authority to others. Holding on, they are fearful; letting go, they grieve—the heart has no mirror at all and only peeps at the chase that never stops. This is being punished by Heaven. The eight—resentment, favor, taking, giving, remonstrance, teaching, giving life, taking life—are instruments for setting things straight; only one who accords with the great transformation without obstruction can wield them. Hence it is said: “Correct” means correcting oneself. For one whose heart does not assent inwardly, the Gate of Heaven (the natural portal of luminous awareness) will not open.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: That seeking in measures and numbers and in yin-yang yields nothing is using Confucius and Laozi to show the rejection of learning that seeks outside. Without inward qualification to receive the Dao, even hearing the Dao one misses it; without an inner master, outer things cannot set one straight—hence one never penetrates through. What issues from within is the way of the sage; it appears only when there is someone outside who can receive it. What enters from outside is using study to complete one’s nature; though nature can be completed through learning, the heart must first have the qualification—otherwise there is no way to enfold the sage’s Dao. Names are shared by all under Heaven; ornamenting beyond the facts and taking too many—taking too many throws the world into disorder. Benevolence and righteousness are originally human nature, yet human nature changes.