《南华真经义海纂微》Vol. 12

Circumstances differ in every case. For those who wander and find temporary refuge, once an affair is past one must guard against clinging. If you stay fixed and bound in one place, opinions take shape; once opinions appear, pretense follows, and blame and dispute multiply. One should therefore shift with the times and leave no settled trail. Aligning with plain simplicity makes it easier to nurture the body and keeps external things from wearing you down. To move freely among the ten thousand things and trust what is natural—this is what is meant by caizhen (seeking the original true self). When that genuineness is gathered, outward form and color are not false.

Under heaven, few people burden themselves with what they reject; instead they stake their very life on what they affirm. To live that way is not to stand in the buyi zhi pu (the garden of non-indebtedness—a ground where one owes nothing outward and remains self-sufficient without loss). Those who grieve when they must let go cannot help but tremble while they still hold on. Those who know only to push forward and never to stop injure life and destiny and so invite punishment and death. To cling to old rules and never change is to lose the correct Way.

Lu Huiqing’s commentary runs as follows: the Dao gives birth to one, one gives birth to two, and two gives birth to three—yet the Dao itself is neither one, nor two, nor three. If you seek it within numerical principles (the measurable laws of counting), you cannot step outside the domain of number; hence even after five years one may still fail to attain the Dao. When things are divided into yin and yang, the Dao is not yin and yang either; if you seek it within yin and yang, you cannot step outside the vast scope of heaven and earth and the cosmos—hence even after twelve years one may still fail to attain the Dao.

The Dao cannot be presented to one’s parents, nor can it be told to brothers and descendants, because the other person has no root within that can serve as master (zhong wu zhu), and no proper place without that can receive it (wai wu zheng). With no inner master, even if I wish to transmit it, the Dao will not stay in them. With no outer alignment, even if they wish to receive it, I cannot pass it in.

Things can have something that presides over them because they already possess the basis for being presided over. The Dao in oneself is nothing other than keeping what one already has. The other party originally lacks the basis for receiving, yet one insists on making them possess it—this is having no inner master and being unable to retain it. In archery there must be a target to aim at before the arrow has somewhere to land. The Dao toward a person is only given in the measure they can bear. When they cannot bear it yet it is forced upon them, this is having no outer alignment and the way is blocked.

What issues from the heart, if the outside cannot accept it, the sage does not bring it forth, because there is no proper place outside to receive it. What enters from outside, if the inner heart has no master to lodge it, the sage does not store it within, because it cannot be kept. Not storing it means one cannot forcibly push it into the other person’s heart.

Therefore the Dao cannot be sought in numerical principles or in yin and yang; it can only be sought in oneself. It cannot be offered to ruler or parents; it can only be realized by oneself. Reputation must not be grasped in excess—grasp too much and what one already holds will scatter. Benevolence and righteousness (ren and yi) must not be clung to for long—cling too long and they show themselves, inviting much blame.

Carefree wandering (xiaoyao) means there is nowhere unsuitable; simplicity (goujian) means wanting little and being easily satisfied; not borrowing (budai) means not seeking or tying oneself to things outside, and thus not entangled with external objects. In this way, whatever one takes up is nothing but the genuine root.

Inability to decline salary means the heart knows only wealth; inability to decline fame means the heart knows only prominence; inability to hand authority to others means the heart knows only power. Drawing close to the powerful, one is tense when holding on and distressed when letting go—the drag of such choosing and rejecting harms the original nature all the more deeply. With no reflection or comparison in the heart, one looks at muddy water and loses sight of the clear deep abyss. If one does not stop, this is punishment imposed by heaven, from which there is no release.

Resentment and kindness, on through to giving life and taking life—these eight are tools for rectifying things; they are not the Dao that is “rectitude” itself. Only by following the great transformation without obstruction is there a way to use these tools. When one uses these tools in accord with this Dao, rectitude truly becomes rectitude. The Heavenly Gate (Tianmen) is the portal through which those who follow the great transformation without obstruction pass in and out. If the heart does not hold this view, the Heavenly Gate will not open.

Lin Yidu’s commentary: The subtlety of the Dao lies beyond yin and yang; its coarser traces alone fall within measures and numbers. If you seek only within measures and yin-yang, you will not find it. You must set aside anxious thought and greedy seeking before you can grasp it beyond yin and yang. The Dao cannot be presented to those above nor explained to those below—not for any other reason than this: to learn without thinking leads to confusion; to think without learning leads to danger. Thinking is what elevates inner virtue; learning is what pursues systematic knowledge. “The inner has no master” means one cannot think; “the outer is not upright” means one cannot learn. What enters from outside, if the inner mind does not reflect on it, cannot remain in the heart; what issues from within, if learning from outside does not correct it, cannot be walked on the human path. What issues from within yet is not accepted from outside—the sage does not display it. What enters from outside yet the inner mind has no master—that is inability to think; the sage does not hide it either. The Book of Changes speaks of daily renewing one’s virtue in brightness—that is issuing from within; the noble person who records much the sayings and deeds of predecessors—that is entering from without. Issuing from within, one can extend to the vast; entering from without, one can exhaust the subtle. That the Dao is complete lies precisely here.

Name is an instrument shared by all under heaven; once private intent enters, it becomes an empty name and must not be grasped in excess. Benevolence and righteousness toward the Dao are like inns on the road—one may lodge a single night, not long abide; the meaning is not to cling to the traces of benevolence and righteousness. Carefree wandering is wuwei (non-action); “not borrowing” is giving nothing out; the journey of gathering the genuine is simply roaming in accord with what is natural. Those greedy for wealth and fond of power are dull inwardly and cannot see ultimate principle; they only peep at desires that never cease—such are people under heaven’s punitive stroke. The eight—resentment, favor, taking, giving, remonstrance, teaching, giving life, taking life—only when the great person employs them do they become instruments for setting things right. The Gate of Heaven is where spirit comes and goes, opening and closing as one; the ten thousand things enter and exit here, change without end. Only one who can follow great transformation without any obstruction passes through here; if the heart does not assent, the Gate of Heaven will not open.

Chen Xiangdao’s commentary: Zhuangzi writes that Confucius at fifty-one had still not heard of the Dao—an allegory that the Dao is hard to encounter. Measures do not exceed five; yin-yang do not exceed twelve. Benevolence establishes the person, so one only borrows the road to walk; righteousness establishes the self, so one only lodges for a stay. Borrowing the road to walk does not mean never dwelling at all: Mencius took benevolence as secure dwelling and spacious residence—this is that meaning. Lodging for a stay does not mean never acting: Mencius took righteousness as the correct path and great road—this is that meaning. To “borrow” is to supplement another’s lack and ultimately return it; the field is the place where one tills and sustains life. One eats from a plain, simple field and only then finds food sweet; one stands in a garden that lends nothing and only then is good at giving and completing things.

Chen Bixu’s commentary: Confucius understood useful uses but had not yet attained the Dao of wuwei. The Dao has not a hair’s breadth that can be measured, no tiny remainder to calculate, no stem-branch cycle to infer—therefore seeking yet not finding. Laozi told him: a thing like the Dao—lord and subject, father and son cannot transmit it—because it is hard to carry in any vessel. When the inner has no root, auspiciousness cannot stay; when the outer lacks solid rectitude, supreme virtue cannot pass through. Subtle meaning arises from the sage’s breast; if outside there is no capacity to receive the Dao, however clear the meaning, it cannot go out. The highest words enter the learner’s ear; if the inner mind has no room to hold them, one confuses oneself—however could supreme words be hidden? Name is the guest of reality; taking too much invites disaster. Benevolence and righteousness are not fixed dharma; an inn is no place to settle forever. The ancient utmost persons borrowed them to walk and lodged in them to dwell, roaming in self-sufficiency, eating in the boundless wilds, walls touching yet not visiting each other—this is called the journey of gathering the genuine; the genuine is what is not false. Those who boast of wealth cannot bear to leave salary and rank; those who flash glory cherish name; those who rely on power are much suspected—this is the common pattern of the world. To mirror clearly is to know stopping; to know stopping is not to be disgraced. Resentment, favor, and the rest of the eight tie name to reality; when name and reality match, the instrument is not misused. To go against transformation is to block; blocking damages both name and reality; when name is correct, reality is correct. To force and twist oneself to act is for the heart-mind not to be open.

Yizhai (the sobriquet of the Southern Song scholar Lin Xiyi) said: “Degrees and measures” in the text means the systems of rites and music; “Yin and Yang” means the principles governing things. The mention of seeking for five years and twelve years carries no deeper point—it only shows that from coarse to refined one sought for a long time and still did not attain.

From “If the Dao could be presented as tribute” through the next four lines, the exposition is superb. One who studies the Dao may hear something from outside, yet inwardly has no master—what is not truly realized in oneself cannot be retained. “Externally there is no standard” means that without genuine insight of one’s own, there is nothing correct outside to measure against—how then could practice succeed? “Issuing from within” speaks of teaching: the principle is spoken from my heart; if you cannot receive it, the sage will not tell you. “Entering from without” speaks of being taught: the utmost principle enters through your hearing, but you lack discernment and have no inner master, so listening gains you nothing—it is not that the sage begrudges transmission. These four lines are extremely essential. That the Dao cannot be transmitted—the flaw lies precisely here.

“Names must not be grasped in excess” mocks Confucians’ hunger for reputation. “Benevolence and righteousness must not be dwelt in long” because they leave traces. “Encounter” (gou) means to see. Where fame and footprints can be seen by others, disaster arises from that. “Borrowing the road” and “lodging overnight” mean taking the path in passing and departing with change—nothing stays. “Carefree simplicity,” “not on loan,” along with easy nourishment and no outflow—all mean not exhausting oneself; this is called taking hold of what is genuinely real.

Wealth, eminence, and power: clutch them and one trembles at loss; cast them off and one grieves at the disorientation of change—seeing almost nothing, eyes fixed on pursuit that will not stop, deluded and unaware of turning back. Without clear vision inwardly and unable to look back at one’s own delusion—this is Heaven stripping away one’s hun-soul.

Resentment, favor, and the other eight affairs: where such people exist in the world, these eight have their uses. Using them as they should be used is called “correct”; only one who has attained non-mind can wield them. “Great transformation” is creation-and-transformation itself. Only by complying without being stirred and drowned can the self be set right and outer things be set right. If one still cannot be without mind yet takes the opposite for truth, the principle of Heaven within the breast is blocked and dark. The Book of Songs’ “Heaven enlightens the people” (tian zhi you min) expresses the meaning of the “Gate of Heaven” (Tianmen).

The learning of measures and numbers can be verified through musical pitch and calendrical reckoning; the learning of Yin-Yang can be pursued through solar terms and seasonal signs in nature. Yet the substance of the Dao (the Way) has nothing to do with pitch and calendars, nor with weather and seasons—so if you search for it only in these, you will never reach the Dao. Only those whose inner mind holds no fixed views and who yield to change do not strive to force a fit, yet naturally accord with the Dao; this is not something gained by outward seeking. When you follow the Dao without being thrown off, you must first set yourself right before you can set other things right. If the mind is not yet free of fixed intent, and you insist it should be otherwise, the heavenly principle already present in the breast is dimmed and blocked. The Book of Poetry says “Heaven enlightens the people”—that is the meaning of the “Gate of Heaven” (Tianmen).

If the Dao could be presented as tribute or given as a gift, people would pass it down to their descendants forever. The point is: the Dao cannot be transmitted by deliberate intent, nor taken by private design. “No master within” means the inner self lacks substance sufficient to receive it, so the Dao will not stay; “no alignment without” means the world has no true master to match it, so the Dao cannot be carried through. When a man of Ying had white clay on the tip of his nose and Craftsman Shi swung his axe and shaved it off without harming the nose, it was precisely because there was a master within and a match without that such a miraculous stroke could succeed. How much more so when the supreme Dao is passed on—in the dim, remote meeting of spirits and the joining of hearts.

The sage uses the Dao to awaken the people, like sweet dew falling from Heaven without choosing where it lands; yet without jade-pure clear Qi (vital energy), one cannot receive it. That is what “cannot receive from without” and “no master within” mean. Take too much fame and disgrace follows, harming life; let benevolence and righteousness linger too long and their traces show, and reproach multiplies. The Perfected Person (Zhiren, one who has attained the Dao) therefore only borrows forms for a time and does not cling to traces, so worldly cares cannot settle on them. Because they are unfettered, they practice Wuwei (non-action); because they are plain and undemanding, they easily nurture the body; because they do not lend or bestow outwardly, they have nothing to give away. Even if the ten thousand things crowd before the eyes, what business is it of mine? This is called the journey of gathering the true (caizhen zhi you)—within it there is no room for selfishness or pretense. Like Heaven’s motion arising from itself, the ten thousand things never cease generating and transforming. That is precisely why humans are precious and why the Dao is wondrous.

The world, however, treats wealth, fame, and power as the three things that count, and cannot bear to let go: grasp them and you tremble; release them and you grieve—and there is no longer any day of ease. That is the mind that never rests, with no light by which to see oneself: the very “punishment of Heaven” (tianxing), from which there is no release. Resentment, favor, taking, giving, remonstrance, teaching, life, and killing—these eight are tools for setting things right; only the upright can use them properly. Like joy, anger, sorrow, and delight, even the sage cannot be entirely without them; what matters is that they stay within proper measure. Yielding to great change without blocking is what makes wealth unable to make one reckless, poverty unable to make one change integrity, and force unable to make one submit. When the self is set right first, the tools are set right; when the tools are set right, one can then set external things right. If inwardly you believe otherwise, the vast space of the heart (Taiyu) is not empty and still—how then can one speak of the Dao? The Gate of Heaven stands for the mind’s empty clarity. The law of the mind is like the eye: how could it tolerate anything blocking it?

When Confucius went to see Laozi and spoke with him about benevolence and righteousness, Laozi said: “When chaff or dust flies into your eyes, the four directions of heaven and earth seem to shift; when mosquitoes or gnats bite your skin, you cannot sleep all night. If benevolence and righteousness churn the heart violently, the disturbance they cause is no less than that. If you could keep the people of the world from losing their original simplicity, you should act in accord with nature and stand firm in virtue—why parade and boast, like beating a big drum while searching for a runaway child? A swan need not bathe every day to be white; a crow need not be dyed every day to be black. Black and white have their innate simplicity and need no forced distinction; outward show of reputation cannot make a person truly great. When the spring dries up, fish are stranded on land and moisten each other with breath and spittle—far worse than forgetting one another in rivers and lakes.”

After Confucius had seen Laozi and returned, he did not speak for three days. His disciples asked: “Master, when you saw Laozi, what instruction did you receive?” Confucius said: “I have only now truly seen a dragon. When it gathers, it forms a body; when it disperses, it becomes patterned brilliance; it rides the clouds and is nourished by yin and yang. I opened my mouth and could not close it—how could I presume to admonish Laozi?”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: When something external is added, however slight, the harm to one’s nature is already great. To keep the world from losing its simplicity is to have one’s essence complete, and then benevolence and righteousness appear of themselves. Wind blows on its own and people follow it; virtue establishes itself and people uphold it—only then is it easy to hold and easy to practice. To hoist benevolence and righteousness up and chase after virtue is like beating a drum to find someone who has fled—there is no way to catch them. The swan is white and the crow black, each naturally sufficient; there is no need to favor one side. One who is truly sufficient forgets reputation; only by forgetting reputation is one truly vast. The fame of benevolence and righteousness arises from insufficiency. Fish in rivers and lakes forget each other—that is not proclaiming benevolence yet truly aligning with it. When Confucius said he had only now seen a dragon, he meant that Laozi could transform freely and respond without fixed rules, already naturally complete in himself.

Commentary by Lü Huiqing: The heart of the perfected person is like a mirror. When benevolence and righteousness suddenly disturb it, is that not like chaff getting in the eyes or gnats and mosquitoes biting the skin? There is no one under heaven who does not possess an ineffable, nameless simplicity—the uncarved naturalness of the great Dao before human artifice. If people can be kept from losing that simplicity, they will move with the wind of nature and stand firm through De (Virtue/Power) in themselves—that is, they act and establish themselves on their own. Why then rush about like beating a great drum to hunt for a lost child? When the world has already lost simplicity and you try to patch it with benevolence and righteousness, that is no better than drum-beating search—it is merely chasing after fame and reputation. Swans are white and crows are black by nature; that is simplicity itself—what need for adornment? The outward show of reputation cannot make one’s innate nature any vaster; the principle is the same. When fish are stranded on dry land and moisten each other with breath and spittle, they are not as well off as forgetting one another in the rivers and lakes. After the world loses simplicity, using the bit of spittle of human benevolence and righteousness to moisten one another is likewise inferior to forgetting one another in the great river and lake of embodying the Dao and the paths of practicing it. The dragon gathers and becomes a body, disperses and becomes pattern and color, and is never burdened by itself. Laozi treated benevolence and righteousness as chaff in the eyes and stinging gnats—clearly he was not tied down by them.

Commentary by Lin Yidu: Simplicity (pu) is the wholeness of the Dao; benevolence and righteousness are how the Dao appears after it has been scattered and differentiated. Wind is the Dao nurturing and transforming the ten thousand things; De is the Dao as it settles in human beings. To keep the world from losing the wholeness of the Dao, one need only let things follow their nature: move with the wind, stand on De. Why hoist benevolence and righteousness on high to pursue morality and the Dao, like beating a drum to find a lost child? White swans and black crows are simply thus by nature—not worth arguing over. Reputation is only for judging and sizing people up; it is not simplicity itself, so it cannot make anyone greater either. Fish on land moisten each other with spittle; for a moment they seem close, but the logic of life and fate is already lost. Better to forget each other in the rivers and lakes, each sufficient in itself. A thin, worldly age draws near through benevolence and righteousness; that is only a passing affection, and the principle of life and fate is already gone. Better to forget each other within Daoist practice and the paths of the Dao, each fully adequate. That ancients could live to old age without visiting one another is exactly for this reason. When Confucius heard Laozi’s talk of endless transformation, he sighed that he was like a dragon—now joining, now dispersing, with no fixed form. Confucius could not even put it into his own words; how could he go and admonish Laozi?

Bixuzi’s Commentary: Forcing benevolence and righteousness onto oneself is like chaff blinding the eyes; branching off into cleverness is like a gnat biting the skin. How can the inner mind stay undisturbed that way? When people do not carve and polish themselves, plain authenticity is preserved. Taking the simple, unadorned spirit as the way to nurture the ten thousand things, and holding fast to the highest De to complete oneself—that is enough. Why toil carrying benevolence and righteousness on your back, or rush along the old footprints others left behind? Swans are white and crows black; things naturally fall into their kinds—what is there to argue over? Fish in a drying pool moisten one another with foam; there is pity, but it is not as joyful as forgetting one another in the great rivers and lakes. When Confucius saw Laozi, he said it was like meeting a dragon. The dragon gathers primordial Qi and condenses into a body; when it soars, light and color flare; when it disperses, it becomes patterned splendor. Whether it appears or withdraws, it uses no contrivance—so it can ride the clouds. In movement or stillness it follows the season—so it can nourish Yin and Yang. Laozi’s sage virtue is unfathomable to this degree—what use would my admonitions be?

Yanzhai says: Biting the skin and blinding the eyes both stand for one-sidedness against the heart; “poison” refers to that bitter, resentful, resistant mood. Letting the wind blow freely and yielding to transformation—“holding fast” here is close to maintaining integrity. If people under Heaven did not lose their original simplicity, all following transformation and standing in De, would they still need to wait for instruction? That would be like carrying a great drum to search for a lost child—you will not find them. A swan’s white and a crow’s black need neither washing nor dyeing; innate nature is not something to pick apart. Flaunting reputation before the world breeds dispute and strife—the heart is no longer vast. How long can fish keep one another alive with foam? In the rivers and lakes, they forget one another in the water. This illustrates an age of utmost Dao: each accords with nature, without right and wrong; above and below forget one another too. “Gathering into a body” is seamless unity; “scattering into pattern” is brilliant display. Thus the dragon between Heaven and Earth is seen yet cannot be pinned down. Riding cloud vapor means dwelling above creation and transformation; nourishing Yin and Yang means taking joy in the Way of Heaven and Earth for oneself.

When Confucius visited Old Dan (Laozi) and spoke to him about Ren and Yi (benevolence and righteousness), it was no different from praising Yao and Shun before the “Man of Hidden Worth” (a figure in Zhuangzi who showed that even Yao and Shun’s achievements were trifling). So Old Dan used chaff thrown in the eyes and gnats biting the skin as similes: Ren and Yi disturb the heart-mind just as chaff in the eye or insects on the skin keep one from peace. He was thereby needling a sickness of the world that had gone deep—hard to cure—so that all under heaven might each preserve their own whole, undivided genuineness. Nurturing the ten thousand things should be like wind moving them naturally; cultivating oneself means standing in the world without losing De (Virtue/Power). Why must one erect and brandish the names of Ren and Yi, treating them as the highest reach of the Dao? That is like beating a great drum to search for a lost child—you will never find the way. A swan need not wash daily to be white, nor a crow dye daily to be black; black and white are their true nature, and people see it clearly, so there is no need to argue further. The ultimate Dao is vast and cannot be fixed by words; yet people now seek it in the reputation of Ren and Yi—how can that count as vast? It is also like fish on dry land moistening each other with spittle: not unloving, but how does it compare with the ease of forgetting one another in the great rivers and lakes? Yet the world today takes this spittle-moistening affection as Ren, and does not know that the sage’s “non-Ren”—no partiality, no contrivance—is Ren at its utmost. When Confucius returned after seeing Old Dan, he spoke no more, for he had seen with his own eyes that the Dao was right before him and needed no further words. The dragon gathers into a body and scatters into patterned brilliance, rides cloud-breath, nourishes itself in Yin-Yang, moves and rests in timely accord, its De sufficient to reach the ten thousand things, its spirit-transformation beyond measure. So the ancients, when they spoke of sages and spirit-men, took the dragon as their likeness. It was not that Confucius could not describe Old Dan’s De, nor that Old Dan was unworthy of being compared to Confucius in that image. Both were the peak of human relations: one made Ren-De shine forth, one hid his efficacy deep; they illuminated each other, and there was no need to rank one above the other between them.

Zigong asked: "Then, is there truly someone in the world who sits still as a corpse yet whose spirit shines like a dragon, whose presence thunders like thunder, whose inner mind is deep and still as an abyss, and whose every move accords with Heaven and Earth? Could I meet such a person?" So he went to see Old Dan (Laozi) in Confucius's name. Old Dan was sitting casually with legs stretched out in the hall to receive him and said: "I am old already—what do you have to admonish me with?"

Zigong said: "The ways the Three Kings and Five Emperors governed the world were not the same, yet all won renown—that much is the same. You alone hold that they were not sages—why?" Old Dan said: "Young man, come closer. On what basis do you say they differ?" Zigong answered: "Yao passed the throne to Shun, Shun to Yu; Yu relied on physical strength to control the waters, Tang relied on military force to conquer; King Wen obeyed Zhou and did not dare resist, King Wu resisted Zhou and would not obey—so I say they differ."

Old Dan said: "Young man, come closer still. I will tell you how the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors governed the world. The Yellow Emperor governed so that people's hearts returned to simplicity: when someone lost a relative and did not weep, others did not blame them. Yao governed so that people's hearts cared about closeness and distance: people lightened mourning according to how near or far the deceased was, and others did not blame them. Shun governed so that people's hearts became competitive: women bore children after ten months, yet at five months the child could speak; before fully growing up they divided self and other—from then on premature death began. Yu governed so that people's hearts grew calculating: each person had their own schemes, and using arms was taken as legitimate; killing robbers was not counted as killing people; everyone sorted themselves into kinds—and the world became like this. Then the world was greatly disturbed, and Confucian and Mohist schools rose. At first things still had order; now it has degenerated to taking daughters-in-law as wives and reversing high and low—what more is there to say! I tell you: when the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors governed the world, they called it governance, yet no disorder was worse. The cleverness of the Three Sovereigns disturbed the light of sun and moon above, violated the spirit of mountains and rivers below, and ruined the course of the four seasons in between—more venomous than a scorpion's sting. Even beasts that are rarely bound by rules could not rest in their true life-nature, yet they took themselves for sages—can they not feel shame? This is shamelessness indeed!"

When Zigong heard this, he stood awkwardly, unsettled in mind and spirit.

Guo Xiang (Wei-Jin commentator on the Zhuangzi) explains: When a relative died and one did not weep yet no one criticized it, it was because once criticized, people would force themselves to weep. "Kill their killing" means mourning dress was lightened according to closeness and distance. A child speaking at five months means teaching was too hurried; distinguishing others before fully growing up means rushing to mature. People could not treat one another equally and only calculated closeness and distance in the heart, so they did not live out their natural lifespan. Saying that using arms had legitimate reason already shows the world was not harmonious. Robbers ought to be put to death; killing them was not indiscriminate killing. Unable to treat the myriad things as one, each person distinguished on their own—that is each forming their own kind. Carrying forward accumulated abuses of successive ages into today's disorder—the disease reached this point not because Yu himself caused it, but because the times of the world were so. The traces left by sage wisdom did not intend to disturb the world, yet the world was bound to be disturbed because of them; Confucian and Mohist rising together is the accumulated disease of a hundred generations. Today taking daughters-in-law as wives and reversing high and low did not begin without reason—it is reason pushed to the extreme that becomes this; what more is there to say? Even when the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors governed the world, decline could not be avoided. Zigong had thought Old Dan only rejected the Three Kings, so he wanted to make the Three Kings seem the same as the Five Emperors; now seeing Old Dan criticize the Five Emperors together with the Three Sovereigns, he had no basis left for discussion, and therefore stood uneasy.

Lü Huìqīng (Song commentator on the Zhuangzi) holds: Old Dan had compared benevolence and righteousness disturbing the human heart to chaff dust blinding the eyes and mosquitoes biting the skin—so taking the Five Emperors and Three Kings as not sages was natural. Zigong, however, only pressed on outward deeds—abdication, struggle, obedience, resistance—the shallowest traces. Judging by traces, making people's hearts changeable is of course inferior to making hearts affectionate, and affectionate is inferior to making hearts simple; yet all alike could not avoid governing the world and thus making the people devise schemes. Called governance, yet the world's disorder began from this. Once cleverness is applied, it is not only the Five Emperors and Three Kings—even the cleverness of the Three Sovereigns would violate sun and moon above and block mountains and rivers below, with harm more bitter than a scorpion's tail. Beasts hide in forests, come out at night and rest by day; even when hungry, thirsty, and trapped, they still keep far from human traces at rivers and lakes—that is being rarely bound by rules. Zigong only heard Old Dan reject the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors and did not understand why they were rejected, so he was awkward and uneasy.

Lin's Commentary: "The corpse at rest, the dragon revealed; thunder in voice, deep silence within" describes the realm of the divine person: outwardly still as a corpse at rest, inwardly manifesting like a dragon; voice like thunder, yet the heart profoundly silent. "Ju" means dwelling without deliberately putting on airs; "ying fang" means responding only when compelled. "The years pass and one goes" refers to a person growing old. The Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors are the names of sages; governing the realm is the trace of sages. Names and traces differ, yet they connect to one another. Thus Laozi does not reject the sages—if one speaks of the sage's heart, there is fundamentally no difference.

Yu controlled floods, hence he exerted force; Tang overthrew Jie, hence he used arms; King Wen served the Shang, King Wu overthrew Zhou—therefore it is said they were "different." In the time of the Yellow Emperor, the people did not exclusively cherish their own parents or love only their own children, so when kin died some did not weep and the world did not fault them. Then governance relied purely on the Way of Heaven. When institutions took shape in Yao's time, sages descended among humanity and hearts had begun to draw close, but ritual and law were not yet fully detailed, so when some killed close kin in mourning dress the people did not deem it wrong. By Shun's time, governance relied purely on the human Way; the people no longer recognized only their own kin, rivalry arose, simplicity and genuineness were lost, the Great Dao declined and benevolence and righteousness arose, and desires multiplied. Hence a woman bore a child after ten months yet teaching came too soon—a child could speak at five months, and before infancy could already distinguish near from distant; the heart of the infant is so easily lost—is this not far from the path of the divine person who does not die? Descending further to Yu, hearts held rivalry and genuineness changed again; yet when he used arms in campaign it was never against those the people wished dead (bandits)—he meant to stop killing; the Book says punishment aims at no punishment, so he could not harmonize all things as one, and each person distinguished himself and divided his kind, disordering the realm. Once the traces of emperors and kings grew elaborate, the disputes of Confucianism and Mohism all arose—not that disorder began without principle, but accumulated over time into complexity; hence women became wives, and nowhere was inversion of high and low greater than in that age—what can be said? Even the xiangui (a small beast) could not rest easy in the truth of its inborn nature—how much less the people?

Bixu's Commentary: Transformation proceeding without words is "the corpse at rest, the dragon revealed"; fame resounding while the person stays hidden is "thunder in voice, deep silence within." Ascent and descent follow constant patterns; movement and stillness accord with Heaven and Earth. The Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors differed in the excellence of their De, their governance differed, yet all were tied to fame and reputation alike. When the Yellow Emperor governed the realm, kin and stranger were equally forgotten, so when kin died people did not weep and the people did not fault them. When Yao governed the realm, he made the people treat kin as kin, guarding against killing in mourning dress, and the people did not fault them. When Shun governed the realm, he made the people compete; women conceived and bore early, and before infancy children could tell people apart—premature death began. When Yu governed the realm, he made people's hearts change; they toiled busily for livelihood and private hearts appeared; those he attacked did not resent him, for arms followed what accorded with the people. Yu passed the realm to Qi and the world was transformed—hence it is said each person became his own seed, not because one man privatized the realm; hence it is said "the realm" in the general sense. When even the utmost sage knew birth and the realm was alarmed, when Confucianism and Mohism rose and the Great Dao split—no wonder virgins married early and human relations were overturned. From this one knows that establishing law is a beginning, and when law changes disorder must follow; when sun and moon are eclipsed, mountains and rivers collapse, and the four seasons err in drought or flood, discordant qi exceeds poisonous insects in harm—what makes the ten thousand things lose the truth of their inborn nature is the fault of using cleverness to govern the realm.

Yizhai (the studio name of Lin Xiyi of the Southern Song) says: This describes someone who trades on Confucius’s name to visit Laozi (La Dan), calling himself a disciple of the Master and coming to pay a formal visit. The other sits haughtily in the hall, full of pride, and in question and answer his tone is guarded and wary. The Yellow Emperor ruled the world by following nature. The next sections, one after another, speak of instituting mourning garments and reducing their severity step by step according to the closeness of kin—what is called jiangsha (graduated reduction in mourning rites). None of this existed in antiquity; ritual was only fashioned later. In old times a pregnancy lasted fourteen months before birth, and a child did not speak until two; now birth comes at ten months and speech at five months—before the age of infancy, the child already asks who people are. “The heart has changed” means human hearts have altered compared with the ancients; “each has a private heart” means everyone harbors selfish intent. “War has its rationale” means taking up arms is treated as a matter of course. Thieves are killed when they should be, and legal prohibitions are very detailed. By then each person tills his own field and is devoted to his own children, yet all still live under one heaven. At first human relations were still honored; later things went as far as incest—even taking one’s daughter as wife—what can one say? The passage in the Record of Rites about “the Great Way being shared by all” carries the same idea. Earlier, the Three Sovereigns (the legendary rulers of high antiquity) were mostly revered; here even they are brought down, on the ground that their cleverness likewise violates the transforming work of Heaven and Earth, poisonous as wasps and scorpions (venomous creatures). What they sought was already very little; small beasts want almost nothing, yet still cannot settle their lives according to their inborn nature.

What Zigong admired was the virtue of Lao Dan (Laozi): “still as a corpse, yet a dragon appears; silent as a deep pool, yet thunder in the response”— dwelling at ease like a corpse, yet with spirit shining forth like a dragon, as if light could be seen within silence; deep and without sound, yet when touched by resonance it was like thunder, so that one could hear harmony in the midst of stillness. When he moved, it was like heaven and earth turning, yin and yang flowing together. For that reason Zigong wished to see him. Lao Dan at the time was sitting casually with legs stretched out in the hall (ju zuo, informal and without ceremony), his spirit sunk in stillness, yet in that stillness he responded at every moment— all in the space of a light cough.

Zigong said that the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors (legendary rulers of high antiquity) each governed differently, yet all tied their fame to the world: from making the people’s hearts uniform, down to making hearts compete with one another. When the human heart changed, one knew the age had declined step by step and hearts grew daily more thin. Not weeping when kin died, and shortening mourning dress— that was only simplified ritual form, with little harm. But when gestation lasted ten months yet a child could speak at five months, nurturing was too hurried and people began to die young. Each person had private aims and each had what he favored, forming separate kinds on their own, and the world was greatly alarmed. Tracing back, there had never been no order at first; in the end order was no longer kept— precisely because governance was pushed too far, without regard for how things really are, forcing the world to obey oneself. That is the root of inviting disorder; what more is there to say?

The wisdom of the Three Sovereigns was not far from original nature, yet they still went against sun and moon and ruined mountains and rivers— harm more bitter than a scorpion’s sting— so that insects and beasts could not rest in the spontaneity of life; the plight of the common people can be imagined. How much more those of later ages who indulged feeling and relied on cleverness? How can one speak of the Daodejing’s meaning that “not governing the state with cleverness is the state’s good fortune”?

Confucius said to Lao Dan (Laozi): I have studied the Six Classics—the Odes, Documents, Rites, Music, Changes, and Spring and Autumn Annals—for a long time and thought I knew their meaning well. I went before seventy-two rulers to speak of the ways of the ancient kings and to explain the deeds of the Duke of Zhou and the Duke of Shao, yet not one of them would take up what I offered. To move people is indeed hard! Is the Dao also so hard to set forth?

Laozi said: You were lucky not to meet a ruler of a well-ordered age. The Six Classics are only the tracks left by the ancient kings; they are not the source from which those tracks came. What you talk about now is still nothing but tracks. Tracks are made by the tread of shoes—can a track be the shoe? When male and female white herons face each other and look without moving their eyes, they conceive by mutual influence; when male insects call on the windward side and females answer on the leeward, they also conceive that way; and some creatures carry both roles within themselves and give birth alone. That is transformation through influence (hua feng)—life arising through the meeting of vital tendencies. What is inborn cannot be changed, what is fated cannot be altered, the season cannot be held back, and the great Dao cannot be shut off. When one truly has the Dao, there is nowhere one may not go; when one has lost the Dao, there is nowhere one can go.

Confucius went away. Three months later he came again and said: I see it now. Crows and magpies hatch their young; fish breed through foam; the potter wasp stores prey and transforms it; when a younger brother appears, the older brother weeps. For a long time I could not follow change and live as a person in step with it. If I cannot follow change and be fully human, how can I transform others?

Laozi said: That will do. Confucius, you have got it.

In Guo Xiang’s commentary, ji (traces) means each thing’s inherent true nature as it is in itself; what appears as traces are writings and norms such as the Liu Jing (Six Classics). As for what people do in everyday life today, they should take ziran (naturalness, what is so of itself) as the path they walk and the Six Classics as traces worth consulting—not mistake traces for true nature itself.

The yi bird recognizes its mate by sight; small insects respond to one another by sound. They need not meet and mate first; through natural resonance they generate life. This is called feng hua (“wind transformation,” transformation through spontaneous resonance). Male and female of the same kind each have their own way of mutual attunement; those ways are endlessly varied and cannot all be listed. As long as each finds its kind and follows its nature, generation is not hard. Hence there are cases of feng hua—transformation through distant resonance without direct contact.

The Perfect Person (zhiren) goes along with all of this and understands it thoroughly: though transformation has no fixed method, no transformation is “bound to be lost”; though it seems to come from nowhere, everything can be accomplished naturally. Things like birds hatching eggs or fish blowing foam to form minnows are all expressions of each thing’s inherent nature in the generation of the myriad beings.

Human beings are different: in human nature people often forsake what is near for what is far and distinguish close from distant, so phenomena arise such as “when the younger brother is born, the older brother weeps.” Those who move with transformation and merge with the myriad things let each thing transform according to its own nature. If one “transforms” by thumbing through scriptures and deliberate artifice, that is too crude and forced.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary reads: The Six Classics are the laws and standards of the ancient kings. What is set down in writing and made clear to people are institutions, rules, and measured procedures—they are not the root of transforming hearts. What can truly transform people is only spirit: the luminous mind that is never dimmed (shen). Footprints come from shoes; are footprints the shoes themselves? To use such traces and tracks to transform the world will naturally fail to win acceptance.

White egrets, gazing at one another without turning their eyes, can yet conceive through wind-impregnation (becoming pregnant through breath and mutual resonance); they respond through spirit (shen), not through sound. Among insects, the male calls on the upwind side and the female answers on the downwind side—they respond through sound, not through bodily form. Within each species male and female are already present, and so wind-impregnation can occur. In all these cases, it is because natures differ and cannot be changed, destiny is settled and cannot be altered, the times roll on and cannot be halted, and the Dao is open and cannot be blocked. How could such things be settled in words or fathomed by ordinary thought? From this we see that transforming the world is not to be sought in traces and records, but only in attaining the Dao.

Confucius, within less than three months, realized this while fasting the mind and stilling the body (purifying intention and gathering the physical form): magpies, swimming fish, and the like can all be born, yet the ways they are born are not the same. This is not something intelligence can fully penetrate—it is simply “transformation” (hua). When a younger brother is born, the elder brother weeps—that is how feeling makes it so. In terms of transformation, all alike may receive life; in terms of feeling, even brothers cannot share alike. To wish that people be transformed is hard, and has been so for long ages. If Kong Qiu had not been one with “transformation,” then in walking the Dao he had not yet reached companionship with the Creator (the one who transforms and begets the ten thousand things)—how could he transform others? Those in the world who study Confucius yet miss the source from which he left his footprints often go wrong precisely here.

Yidu commentary: Using the stale records left by the Six Classics (Poetry, Documents, Rites, Music, Changes, and Spring and Autumn) to govern the world, without probing the original meaning of virtue (de) and life-and-nature (xingming), is like recognizing a footprint yet not knowing the footprint was made by a shoe. The white egret and insects all depend on “wind transformation” (feng hua)—mutual resonance that brings forth life—so that without mating, offspring still appear on their own. Male and female of the same kind each have their own way of responding to one another; once that response is complete, transformation is not difficult. These are all principles of the Creator’s spontaneity: inherent nature and allotted fate cannot be forcibly altered, the timely turn of events and the great Dao (Way) cannot be dammed up; one should only defer to what is natural, and must not use the old traces of former kings to disturb the innate character of the ten thousand things. “Three months” marks one cycle of seasonal change in Heaven’s time, showing that awakening to the Dao is no easy matter. The magpie, the fish, and the mayfly are not cases of change through lust; Confucius uses them to clarify the Dao that Laozi spoke of. “When he had a younger brother, his elder brother wept”—people often dote on the young and set aside the old; “it has been long!” means this has gone on for ages, not since yesterday alone. “To become one with transformation as a person” means following the birth and death of the creative process without clinging in the heart—therefore one must release the stale traces of the Six Classics before a person can truly transform on their own.

Bixu commentary: What the sages understood at the time and put into practice now survives only as writing on bamboo and silk—how could that still meet the needs of concrete affairs? What is actually in use is the shoe; only after one has walked does a footprint remain. When white egrets face each other and harmonize in call, where is any footprint? The nature of the wise and the foolish cannot be changed; the fate of the noble and the base cannot be altered; the season of poverty or success cannot be held back; the Dao of the sage cannot be obstructed. When awakened, even tiles and rubble can turn to gold; when confused, even jade disks are no more than stones. Confucius then understood: the magpie feeding its young and fish sensed through mouth-foam are each acting from their own nature and do not rely on anything outside themselves. Even among brothers there is love and dislike—how much more so across different ages? The ten thousand things each transform in their own way; how could one who is already able to unite with transformation fail to transform as a person?

Yizhai says: Once you have shoes, footprints are left behind; to take only the footprints and never the shoes is like the metaphor of zapu (the dregs)—you grasp the husk and miss the root.

From the passage about white egrets gazing at each other onward, the text is wonderfully subtle. The myriad things are all transformed through wind and qi, hence the term fenghua (“wind transformation”). The male and female xian birds pair on their own; among the ten thousand things each kind forms its own pair, and that is how such fenghua arises. Xingming (nature and life), fate, and the Great Dao all express natural principle and must not be violated. Young animals joining tails and moistening each other with froth likewise belong to the way of generation and transformation.

Brothers share one mother; only after weaning can she conceive again. The elder brother no longer receives her milk, so he weeps—this images “knowing others yet not knowing Heaven,” failing to merge with zaohua (creation and transformation). This chapter uses the principle of how zaohua endlessly generates life to illustrate the natural Dao. What Confucians usually study is mostly the way of youwei (deliberate action); in wuwei (non-action), one shares the same work as zaohua. The scripture’s aim is to show that this body originally came from nothing into being and is one with the myriad things, so as to break the selfish, self-enamored heart of the world.

White egrets facing each other, insects calling in answer—all complete male and female pairing by nature. That is fenghua: two essences (jing) unite and spirit (shen) responds; yin and yang seek each other— all natural principle—so xingming cannot be arbitrarily changed. It also aligns with the idea of being “one with the myriad things,” again to shatter the worldly heart of selfishness and self-love.

White kingfishers look at one another and insects answer one another’s calls—each kind pairs male and female with its own kind. “Wind and transformation” mean the meeting of two essences and the mutual stirring of spirit and intent, yin and yang seeking each other: that is the pattern of nature. Thus nature and life cannot be swapped, and the seasons and the Dao cannot be blocked.

The four lines beginning “The magpie broods, until a younger brother is born and the elder cries” are hard at first reading; looked into deeply, the scope of transformative process is vast—womb birth, egg birth, moisture birth, and transformative birth are all included, yet most people do not notice.

Heaven and earth have fullness and emptiness; creation and transformation have waxing and waning. Though they turn silently in what has no form, all show forth through the four modes of birth. Among those four, the human is most honored; among countless beings, the sage stands first. The sage moves with transformation; to know transformation is to know the human, to know the human is to know Heaven. Hence this chapter ends by discussing “transformation.” Unless one “officiates for Heaven and Earth and stores the myriad things,” operating alone beyond the work of nurturing and transforming, how could one transform others?

The Most High (Laozi) said: “I practice wuwei (non-action), and the people transform themselves.” Consider the wind-and-transformation of kingfishers and insects, the faithful brooding of magpies, fish blowing foam, locusts invoking their young—all arise from natural disposition and are completed through single-minded steadiness. This side stirs, that side responds; it cannot be traced to the end, so it is called “transformation.”

The human is most spiritually keen; human transformation has further subtleties, yet still never departs from natural principle and the work of single-minded steadiness. Thus the Zhongyong says: “Only the utmost sincerity under Heaven can transform.” Confucius’s sageliness still required fasting the heart for three months before he attained it—how can the wonder of great transformation be lightly discussed?

This chapter opens by questioning how Heaven and Earth operate, and why sun, moon, wind, and clouds turn as they do. The answer traces everything back to the “six extremes,” the “five constants,” and the governance of ancient sage-kings: they modeled themselves on the motion of Heaven and practiced moral teaching, so they transformed the people through Wuwei (non-action), and the common people rested in what was natural. It goes on to treat “utmost benevolence without partiality” and “supreme worth that sets aside rank”—acting without contrived effort—again as following the celestial pattern.

The discussion of music performed at Dongting is meant to show how vast the Great Dao is and how one must guard against mishandling it. Music is arranged according to Yin-Yang; conduct is guided by ritual and righteousness; Heaven and human affairs depend on each other—this is the root of “establishing the pole.” Adjusting the four seasons and harmonizing the ten thousand things, so cold and heat each keep their proper order, is the foundation of generation and transformation. When action has no fixed place yet dwells in depth, when the heavenly mechanism rests while the five senses are complete, one hides with things and appears wherever contact occurs—form cannot confine this. When sound is exhausted, what the heavenly wandering reaches is all utmost harmony; what the rarefied tone preserves is all utmost joy.

As for the way of governing, it is like the straw dog already laid out after the rite (the grass dog used in sacrifice, then discarded—an image for not clinging to old methods). If laws are like the peg and pear pointing the wrong way, if apes tear the Duke of Zhou’s robe and an ugly woman imitates Xishi’s beauty, the point is that politics must fit the situation. In cooking fish, the value lies in not stirring recklessly (Laozi: “Governing a large state is like cooking a small fish”). If the ruler can embody the Dao, follow Heaven, and move with transformation—using seasonal commands to rouse the seasons, letting abundant moisture long nourish until ripeness—how could the people fail to be transformed?

When Confucius saw Laozi and sighed that he was “like a dragon,” that was a human aligning with Heaven, not yet full mutual transformation. When he heard the profundity of “the abyss” and “thunder” (the deep teaching in Zhuangzi’s dialogue between Confucius and Laozi), he abandoned the traces of the Six Classics and guarded against “that by which there are traces”; within three months he transformed with others into human form—traces matched the human while the substance merged with Heaven. The Yijing says “Heaven’s movement is vigorous”—this is what is meant by yun (operation); “Essence and Qi become things, the wandering soul becomes change”—this is what is meant by hua (transformation).

(The following are volume markers in the canon: Nanhua zhenjing yihai zuanwei, juan 47; Siku quanshu edition; Nanhua zhenjing yihai zuanwei, juan 48, by Song author Chu Baxiu; “Ke yi” chapter, part one.)

Some people deliberately parade virtue, live apart from others, and affect eccentricity; they talk grandly and rail against the world, thinking themselves very “kang”—upright and striking. That is the bent of those who withdraw to mountains and forests and turn their backs on worldly affairs, even the extreme who wither their bodies and throw themselves into rivers or abysses.

Some people fill their mouths with benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, trust, humility, thrift, and yielding, and take that package as self-cultivation. That is the bent of scholars who order the age, people who make a vocation of teaching others, and those who move through villages and neighborhoods and take learning as their calling.

Some people focus on establishing great merit and great fame, using ritual to regulate ruler and minister and to mark high and low. That is the bent of ministers at court, those who honor the ruler and strengthen the state, and those who compete for achievement and annexation.

Some people dwell in marshlands and mountain wilds, in open, quiet places, taking angling for pleasure and dwelling at ease in Wuwei (non-action). That is the bent of those who entrust themselves to rivers and seas, hide from the world, and prize leisure.

Some people blow and regulate the breath, expel the old and draw in the new, and practice bear-hanging and bird-stretching (guiding exercises like a bear craning its neck and a bird extending its legs), all solely to prolong life and ward off aging. That is the bent of masters of daoyin (guiding and pulling), people who nourish the form, and those who follow the path of Peng Zu’s long life.

As for needing no deliberate loftiness yet being naturally elevated, needing no talk of benevolence and righteousness yet already cultivated, needing no pursuit of fame and merit while the world is already well ordered, needing no retreat to rivers and seas yet the heart is open and at ease, needing no daoyin or breath-work yet life is naturally complete—that is the state in which there is nothing one must constantly fix upon, yet nothing is lacking; tranquil without limit, and every kind of excellence gathers of itself. That is the great Dao by which Heaven and Earth operate, and also the De (Virtue/Power) of the sage.

Therefore it is said: tranquility, stillness, emptiness, and Wuwei (non-action) are what Heaven and Earth originally take as their even standard, and the true substance of Dao and De.

In this commentary, Guo Xiang explains that the types of people the text names—some devoted to benevolence and righteousness, some to fame and achievement, some to quiet life by rivers and seas, some to guiding and nurturing life—each live according to their own inclinations and walk their own path; in a certain sense, that too can count as a kind of “carefree roaming” (xiaoyao). The problem is that each clings to one side and cannot embrace the myriad affairs of the world. The truly ideal state is one in which the ten thousand things each obtain their place and rest in their allotments, yet without anyone forcibly molding everyone into sameness; hence “leading” them means guiding along with nature, not holding fast to some fixed method. Here is the crux: only when one can “forget” can one speak of “having”; once the mind tightly grasps “having” (possession, attachment), one cannot return to that realm of “forgetting.” So Guo Xiang says that “having” is not the ordinary sense of ownership, but something that appears only after one has first released clinging—then “having” shows itself. If one takes “deliberate effort” and “doing with intent” as the method to practice, one will not reach the limitless (wuji) instead, and various faults will follow. Heaven and earth do not “act” for each thing one by one, yet the ten thousand things arise on their own—that is the work of heaven and earth; the sage does not “act” for each kind of conduct one by one, yet the various virtues complete themselves—that is the sage’s attainment. Without that broad, quiet root of non-action (wuwei) and effortless governance, one will shake the inherent evenness and lose the true substance of virtue (de).

Lu Huiqing’s note runs in a similar direction: from seeking heights through deliberate effort to seeking long life through guiding and nurturing, one still depends on outer things and methods, and cannot escape the opposition of “not forgetting” versus “not having.” If the mind can be calm and limitless, it is not dragged about by deliberate effort, benevolence and righteousness, fame, and the rest; the various “beauties” come naturally—so-called height, cultivation, order, leisure, and longevity need not be pursued yet arrive. The way of heaven and earth and the virtue of the sage come down to this. From this we know that what is called calm, plain, still, solitary, empty, non-being, and non-action (wuwei) is precisely the “evenness” of heaven and earth and the “substance” of virtue and the Way (de)—not inventing some new style, but guarding what is so of itself. When one can “forget nothing yet lack nothing,” one is not pulled by the two extremes of being and non-being; that is the meaning of “non-action and yet nothing left undone” (wuwei er wu buwei).

Lin Yidou stresses that those who love novelty are not necessarily skilled in self-cultivation; those who talk cultivation are not necessarily able to govern; those who can govern are not necessarily capable of non-action; those who preach non-action are not necessarily able to attain long life; those who seek long life are not necessarily those who grasp the level of “dying without forgetting”—each is partial, and none matches the sage’s completeness. The sage need not be deliberate to appear lofty, need not speak benevolence and righteousness to be cultivated, need not chase fame for the world to govern itself, need not hide in rivers and seas to be at leisure, need not practice guiding and nurturing to live long; the key lies in “forgetting nothing” and “lacking nothing”: constant non-being is not non-being as a fixed entity; constant being is not being as a fixed entity. When the mind is calm and limitless, the many excellences naturally gather; the virtue of heaven and earth is likewise. Calm, plain, still, solitary, empty, non-being, and non-action are originally one virtue in substance; spoken separately, calm, plain, still, and solitary refer to the evenness of heaven and earth; empty, non-being, and non-action refer to the texture of virtue and the Way.

Chen Bixu’s commentary explains that those who engage in “lofty discourse” — figures such as Xu You and Shan Juan — are not the same type as worldly Bo Yi and Shu Qi; withered ascetics like Bao Jiao belong in roughly the same category. Both “tranquil indifference” (tiandan) and “empty non-being” (xuwu) come from the Daodejing; taken separately, “tranquil indifference and stillness” (tiandan jimo) express the equilibrium of Heaven and Earth, while “empty non-being and non-action” (xuwu wuwei) express the substance of the Dao.

Chen Bixu further classifies types: lofty discourse — Xu You, Shan Juan; rejection of the world — Bo Yi, Shu Qi; withered austerity — Bao Jiao, Jie Zitui drowning himself, Shentu Di, and Bian Sui; wandering scholars — Confucius at Zhu and Si, Zixia on the Xi River; achievement and combined power — Yi Yin, Lü Wang, as well as Guan Zhong and Shang Yang; reclusion in marshes and open wilds — Chaofu, Yan Guang, Gong Minxiu, the horse-tending boy, the angler Lord Ren, the fisherman, and the like. Besides these, there are methods such as breath cultivation, embryonic breathing (taixi), and the six qi (liuqi), as well as health practices like “bear-hanging and bird-stretching” (xiongjing niaoshen) and the Five Animals Play (wuxin xi).

Only when there is “nothing not remembered, nothing not possessed” can one enter the utmost. Emptiness at the center of Heaven and Earth is where the ten thousand things arise; the sage has no fixed heart-mind, and every excellence completes itself. Stillness (jimo) is the equilibrium of Heaven and Earth; empty non-being and non-action (xuwu wuwei) is the substance of De (virtue/power).

Lin Yuzhai’s oral explication says: strenuous intent and taking action as one’s standard is “lofty discourse”; resenting the age, denouncing the world, and hating evil with passion belong to the same broad type. Withered austerity, stillness, drowning oneself, or dying for principle is the spirit of “fearing the mountains are not deep enough” — whether to pursue refinement and purity, to teach as a master, or to serve the age. “Achievement and combined power” is what Zhuangzi saw with his own eyes in worldly affairs. Reclusion in idle wilds, standing outside right and wrong, differs from those who reject the world out of arrogance. “Bear-hanging and bird-stretching” is Hua Tuo’s Five Animals Play. “Nothing not remembered, nothing not possessed” is none other than wuwei (non-action) and yet “nothing not done” — without limit or fixed stopping point, every good follows, and all virtues are complete. The sage obtains the natural way of Heaven and Earth, and therefore can be like this. “The substance of the Dao” means the body as it originally is.

Chu’s broader view says: this chapter first surveys how ancient sages and worthies differed in aspiration — from withered austerity and drowning oneself to nurturing the body for long life — and the reasoning is clear throughout. If one reaches the highest without deliberate purpose (keyi), enjoys longevity without guided exercises, and can both forget and possess, calm and beyond measure, that is the full beauty of Heaven and Earth and the ultimate De of the sage — unlike the earlier categories, each clinging to a partial view and thinking they alone have got it. It is like Yi (pure), Qi (generous), and Hui (harmonious), while Confucius alone is praised as “the sage of timeliness” — the great synthesis. Precisely because of “nothing not remembered” can there be “nothing not possessed”; if one grasps and “has” something, how can one reach “forgetting”? One potter can shape ten thousand vessels, yet no single vessel can make a potter — because it is not-yet-form that then can become form; form, because it is not-yet-thing, then can become thing. The De of Heaven, Earth, and the sage is the same.

Note: The original text has repetitions and miswritten characters (for example “Bao De” should be “Bao Jiao,” and corrupted forms such as “you”). This interpretation follows the usual intent of standard Zhuangzi commentaries and does not undertake separate textual verification.

Therefore it is said: When the sage is broad, relaxed, and at ease, the mind becomes level; when level, it becomes tranquil. Level and tranquil—care and worry cannot enter, and perverse qi cannot invade—so virtue is complete and spirit is not depleted.

It is also said: While alive, the sage moves like heaven in its natural course; when dead, disperses and returns like the myriad things. In stillness, sharing in the quiet virtue of yin; in movement, sharing in the stirring of yang. Not first to seek blessing, not first to invite disaster—responding only after being touched by things, acting only when pressed by circumstance, rising only when there is no alternative. Casting off cleverness and contrivance, following the pattern of heaven, there are no calamities from heaven, no entanglements from things, no right and wrong in human affairs, no reproach from ghosts and spirits.

To regard life as drifting and death as rest; not to think ahead, not to plan in advance. Bright without display, sincere without demanding return. Sleeping without dreams, waking without worry—spirit pure, hun and po untired. Empty and tranquil, only then in accord with “Heavenly De.”

Therefore it is said: Sorrow and joy are deviations of De; anger and delight are excesses of Dao; love and hate are the loss of De. Thus when the heart is neither sorrowful nor joyful, that is the supreme reach of De; holding to oneness without change, that is the supreme reach of stillness; meeting nothing with resistance, that is the supreme reach of emptiness; forming no private ties with outer things, that is the supreme reach of plainness; going nowhere against the flow, that is the supreme reach of purity.

(The passage “One potter can make ten thousand vessels, yet no single vessel can make the potter—for because he is not fixed in one form, he can shape every form; and because his mind is not bound to one thing as a ‘thing,’ he can become every thing.” Heaven-and-earth and the De of the sage follow the same principle.)

(Later passages repeat themes already given—“sleeping without dreams… in accord with Heavenly De,” “sorrow and joy as deviations of De… supreme reach of stillness,” and the like—with the same meaning; they are not translated again here.)

Guo Xiang’s commentary: The sage rests in plainness and stillness; breath returns to emptiness. If one can practice non-action, even through peril and change one may remain level and free of great calamity. Disaster often arises from “doing”; doing in turn often grows again out of disaster—so “levelness” and “plainness” complete each other, and the person merges with the Way. Those who cannot be level or plain harm not only body and spirit but lose inner virtue as well.

The Way of Heaven moves by letting nature take its course. Those who transform with things are unfettered: in movement and stillness they harbor no private aim, entrusting the whole self to yin and yang without actively harmonizing or forcing a stand. Only when circumstances truly arrive do they rise according to principle; heavenly principle is naturally so, and knowing constancy they remain within it in non-action. Thus, going against Heaven brings disaster; going against things brings burden. Being the same as the multitude is ordinary; being able to “accord” with each one’s native attainment means there is no need to blame one another. Life is like drifting; death is like rest—openly, without clinging. All is entrusted to heavenly principle; when principle arrives, it is applied naturally. The world has its own brightness—it is not my deliberate display; the world has its own trustworthiness—it is not my prior expectation. Without grasping, spirit is not worn down, and one aligns with Heaven and Earth. The virtue of plainness and supreme virtue let people constantly find their place, with feelings unobstructed; still and single-minded, unchangeable. When the heart-mind opens utterly, not the slightest thing goes against Heaven; outer things come on their own—I do not seize them by force. The utmost plainness does not form entangling bonds with outer things; once turbid desire is mixed in, things no longer go smoothly.

Lu Huiqing’s commentary: This connects with the above—the sage rests in plainness, opens utterly, and not a hair’s breadth violates Heaven; things each come of themselves. At the utmost plainness there is no feeling of being mixed with things; once turbid desire is mixed in, something is out of harmony.

Summary of Lü’s Commentary (in Plain Language)

The sage rests at ease and does not spend heart-mind on reckoning “want or not, take or leave.” When the heart-substance is level and upright, it does not lean; when one accords with the natural course, nothing feels hard. Quietly without forced knowing, plain and not entangled with outer things—“still and wuwei (non-action)” is roughly this.

Calamity and perverse qi can slip in only when one uses knowing to grasp things and self and things intertwine; then gaps open. Birth is heaven’s movement, so nothing is truly “produced anew”—hence no joy when leaving; death is things’ transformation, so nothing is truly “extinguished”—hence no refusal when entering. Stillness shares virtue with yin yet one does not feel oneself still; movement shares the surge with yang yet one does not feel oneself moving. Neither leading fortune nor opening the way to misfortune—fortune does not come, misfortune does not come. Rushing ahead to summon blessing or mischief is not “responding when stirred, moving when pressed, acting only when one must”—that is deploying cleverness, the way of ordinary people. If one follows heaven’s principle as it naturally is, heaven cannot harm, things cannot burden, and no one can blame or assign fault—only then is it fitting.

Therefore: to live is like drifting; to die is like resting. Without being stirred yet silent, when things arrive one responds; what shines forth is heaven’s light, not deliberate brightness. Within it there is trustworthiness, not forced restraint. No dreams, no worries; waking and sleeping are one. The pure does not mix or wear out and does not reach outward for anything—this is heavenly virtue (tiande); the sage can preside over the world precisely because of this.

Joy and sorrow are hard to shed, and then “De (virtue/power)” skews; joy and anger flare up and one guards against them, and then the Dao errs. All four arise from liking and disliking; liking and disliking are the root of joy, sorrow, joy, and anger before they show outward. The human heart runs through myriad thoughts all day—how can it be still in an instant? One of virtue is neither worried nor elated; to hold to the One without change is the utmost stillness. Nothing clashes—like an empty boat that touches things without anger—is the utmost emptiness. Not mingling with things, then no flavor to chase—is the utmost plainness. If so, though one enters water or treads fire, wherever one goes is oneself—what opposition could there be? That is the utmost purity.

Commentary on "Yidu": Sages who accord with Heaven’s motion rest in the time they occupy while alive; as the ten thousand things follow transformation, when the sage departs they rest in the flow of their return. Though yin and yang differ, in benefiting the ten thousand things they are one. In stillness one speaks in terms of De (Virtue/Power); in movement one speaks in terms of “bo”—responding to the changes of things. Good fortune is the return for what is deemed right; calamity is what wrongness draws toward itself.

Main text: Right and wrong do not spring from the “I” and its private judgment—so from where do fortune and calamity arise? The point is that all change is resolved within the Dao: where there is feeling, response must follow; where there is pressure, movement must follow—they arise only when there is no other way.

Those who get fortune first and calamity afterward belong to “zhi” (clever scheming); those who respond without being stirred and move without being pushed belong to “gu” (fixed habit and preconception). Strip away zhi and gu, and one can follow what is natural.

Only when there are no calamities from Heaven are there no pulls from outer things; only when there are no human rights and wrongs are there no reproaches.

Life is like floating; death is like resting. Not knowing pleasure and dislike, not plotting ahead—because there is no trouble, one does not worry in advance; with nothing to fear, one neither dazzles nor slips, and doubt and dread do not arise. Without expecting, there is great trust; without forcing, sleep is sound; without dreaming, waking is free of care—the spirit is whole. Purity without exhaustion also comes from this.

“Emptiness and nothingness” suffice to reveal wuwei (non-action); “plainness and quiet” suffice to reveal solitude—with these one aligns with Heaven’s De.

Grief, joy, delight, anger, liking, and disliking are deviations of De and the Dao. From the Dao’s perspective there is no grief, joy, delight, anger, liking, or disliking; from the human perspective, the six are hard to avoid entirely. Hence “neither sorrow nor joy” is taken as the height of De, to show that grief and joy are deviations; “unchanging” is taken as the height of stillness, to show that delight and anger are excess; “without opposition” is taken as the height of emptiness, to show that liking and disliking are failure.

“Not mingling with things” further clarifies the meaning of “nowhere in opposition”; “nowhere in opposition” further clarifies “not mingling with things”—for which reason it is called “the utmost of purity.”

Commentary by Bixu

Calamity and worry arise from inner imbalance; heterodox influences arise from a life that is not tranquil and plain. One whose Shen (spirit) and De (Virtue/Power) are fully preserved—how can any slander stain him? Birth is a temporary arrival, the operation of Heaven; death is a temporary departure, the transformation of things. For one who truly attains the Dao, there is neither gain nor loss. Having received the body of Yin-Yang, one does not place oneself ahead of all under Heaven. Originally there is nothing to which one must respond—one responds only after being stirred. Originally there is no movement—one moves only when pressed. Originally one does not raise intention—one acts only when there is no alternative. One follows heavenly principle without deceit and forgets the burden of things without arrogance. When self and other are gone, what blame or resentment remains? Life is like floating in; death is like coming to rest. Let principle go straight ahead; set aside brilliance and hide your light. Great trust needs no pact; waking and dreaming are self-attained; spirit and soul do not weary—only emptiness, vacuity, and tranquil plainness accord with Heaven’s De.

Those who cultivate De forget sorrow and joy; those who tread the Dao forget anger and pleasure. What loses one’s original self lies in likes and dislikes. Thus one of utmost De is rare and still within; one of utmost stillness cannot be moved by birth and change; one of utmost emptiness meets no friction; one of utmost plainness keeps far from the vulgar; one of utmost purity faces no opposition.

Yan Zhai says

Plainness and tranquil plainness—that is wuwei (non-action). Shen undiminished—that is complete De. “Heaven’s operation” means acting in accord with heavenly principle; “transformation of things” means seeing the body as a cast-off shell. Responding as one is stirred, the heart holds no second heart; moving only when pressed, rising only when one must—all is responding to things without deliberate mind. Drop private cleverness and leave affairs and traces behind, and one follows what is natural—drifting as if afloat, as if at rest, unattached: what scheming could there be? Bright yet self-obscuring, not insisting on things; Shen whole, hence pure; hun quiet, hence untiring. Wherever sorrow, joy, liking, or disliking appear, that is not the natural. When worry and joy do not bind the heart, that is utmost De: hold to one without wavering and follow the natural. Though one meets things, one is not weighed down by them. What is called stillness, emptiness, and tranquil plainness is simply the De of the natural—it is nothing but this unfolding.

“Xiuxiu” is the look of harmonious ease. Thus plain, tranquil plainness: worry and heterodox influences do not invade. Hold to one without wavering and follow the natural; though one joins with things, one is not burdened by them. What is called stillness, emptiness, and tranquil plainness is the De of the natural—it is only this unfolding.

“Xiuxiu” describes a state of ease and harmony. When a person is plain and tranquil, worry and perverse thoughts cannot enter—because virtue is complete and spirit is not depleted.

“The movement of Heaven” means the single Qi in motion; “the transformation of things” means that same Qi dispersing into the myriad things—that is, sharing virtue with the Dao and riding the same wave (flowing in one great stream of transformation). Even fortune is not to be pursued on purpose—how much less calamity?

“At first one responds when stirred and moves when pressed”: at the outset one responds because something external touches one and acts because circumstances force one. Such responding is responding to things only when one must; though there is activity, in the heart there is still complete wuwei (non-action). Strip away craft, scheming, and artificial contrivance, and there is no “deliberately seeking to know” or “deliberately doing things”; following Heaven’s principle is following ziran (what is so of itself). Natural disasters have no way to afflict the body, and human harm cannot be pinned on you—so one can “live like drifting, die like resting”: not clinging in life, not stuck in death.

“Thought cut off, plotting ended”: like fine jade storing its virtue within, like the seasons keeping their measure. In sleep no chaotic dreams; awake, no vexation—spirit pure, so shen (spirit) and po (corporeal soul) need not toil. This is called emptiness and stillness, in accord with the virtue of nature.

The heart is like a target, emotion like arrows: many arrows all aim at one bullseye—how can the target not be hit? People today stand square in the middle of the target yet never think how to dodge the arrowheads, and still hope for complete virtue and undiminished spirit—how hard that is.

Hence it is said: When the body toils without rest, essential Qi is drained; when spirit is used without cease, it grows weary; weariness leads to exhaustion. Water’s nature is clear when not mixed, level when not stirred; dammed and not flowing, it cannot stay clear either—this is a likeness of Heaven’s virtue. So it is said: Pure without admixture, still and single-minded, plain without forced action, acting in accord with Heaven—this is the way of nourishing spirit.

To have swords as famed as Ganjiang and Moye, kept in their case and not lightly drawn—that is truly treating treasure as treasure. When spirit runs in all directions without obstruction, reaching everywhere—joining above with Heaven, circling below with Earth, nurturing the myriad things, unable to be fixed in one form—its name can share virtue with the Lord of Heaven. The way of chunsu (pure simplicity) lies solely in guarding spirit: guard it without scattering, unite with spirit; in unity one connects with Heaven’s principle.

A village saying goes: ordinary people prize profit, the incorruptible prize reputation, the worthy honor aspiration; the sage prizes jing (essence/spirit) above all. “Su (plain)” means not mixed with miscellaneous affairs; “chun (pure)” means not impairing the spirit. Whoever can grasp pure simplicity is called a zhenren (True Person).

(1)

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Each thing has its proper place and must not be out of order—like water, which stands for the virtue of Heaven (tiande): without deliberate intent it follows circumstances, yet everywhere there is safeguard (fang); nothing is not the most fitting state. Water usually stays above because it flows with the terrain; safeguard (moistening, bearing) goes with it. To chase external things and move rashly is what ordinary people do.

“Purity” (chun) means not wasting or misusing spirit (shen); one who can grasp and hold to the way of purity and simplicity may be called a True Person (zhenren).

(2)

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Each thing has its due place and order must not be lost. Water symbolizes the virtue of Heaven (tiande)—without intent, yet safeguard is everywhere; nothing fails to be exactly right; it usually stays on top because it moves together with safeguard. To stir because one pursues things is human conduct.

Someone who loves a sword still keeps it in its scabbard—how much more should one dare lightly to deploy spirit (shen)? Those who nourish spirit (shen) by the utmost of Heaven and earth and the measure of the myriad things ought to be so by nature; those who have “accomplishment that settles Heaven and earth” act as Heaven appoints—they do not lightly use spirit (shen).

What is transformed and nurtured has no fixed method; it is the same as the non-action (wuwei) of the Lord on High (tiandi). To hold to utmost stillness through purity and simplicity, not drifting in outer conditions—that is “safeguard” (fang).

“Essence” (jing) is things’ true nature, united with spirit (shen)—not clinging blindly to “spirit (shen),” nor turning away from “essence (jing)” and valuing only “essence (jing)”; in how it shows, what matters is being able to hold fast. If one does not take (not harming spirit) as “purity (chun),” then even a hundred practices together and every change complete would not count as pure; if one does not take (not mixing in outer adornment) as “simplicity (su),” then even dragon patterns and phoenix forms and extraordinary sights would not count as simple. If one cannot preserve what is natural and mixes in outer adornment, then even a dog- or sheep-skin sheath (gouyang zhi gao)—how could that be called pure and simple (chunsu)?

Master Lü’s commentary puts it this way: the sage’s heart is empty and tranquil—just as described earlier—so even when busy all day, the spirit does not feel worn out. What the ancients meant by “set aside the heart and let the form act” and “seeing and hearing that do not rely on eyes and ears” is exactly this.

People today fix eyes and ears on sound and color, while the heart is pulled by grasping and rejecting; the body never rests from strain, essence never stops draining—until midnight, when strength is gone. That, too, is only too common.

Water by nature is clear and level; that is simply how it is. Straight and unmixed—it stays so as long as nothing stirs it up. Though we know this, some treat “blocked and not flowing” as “do not move,” and then water cannot become clear. The image of Heavenly Virtue (Tiande) is the same.

Pure and unmixed, like clear water; still and unchanged, like a level surface. Moving in accord with Heaven, like water neither dammed up nor choked—that is what “do not move” ought to mean.

Among the arts under heaven, some are mastered only by empty stillness and never learn to observe return amid the rising of ten thousand activities, or to return to the root at the teeming moment—they do not grasp this way of nurturing spirit. Others think nurturing the body alone is enough to preserve life; that is not even like keeping a sword in its case: the sword is treasured because, when drawn, it cuts. Spirit spans heaven and coils through earth—how could its function be merely that of the blades of Gan and Yue? Called “one with the Di,” how could its worth be compared to a precious sword? Yet they fail to see sharpening in purity, the sheath in unity in stillness, the storehouse in Wuwei (non-action), the use in heaven’s way—they do not distinguish what is noble from what is base.

Only the spirit is to be guarded, and guarded in pure simplicity. In guarding, there is what we call “the one who guards”; when guarding is not lost, guardian and guarded become one. Lun is principle; when a person accords with heavenly principle, that person is heaven. This is why the sage values essence (Jing). Su is without admixture; chun is without mixture or falsity—only the True Person (Zhenren) achieves this.

The form must not be overtaxed, nor essence overexpended. The form is moved by essence, and essence in turn flows into spirit; at the level of spirit, change is in one’s own hands—one can be neither dead nor alive. How could that come from merely wearing out the form and using up essence?

Clarity can cleanse; equanimity can serve as a model. Water runs day and night without ceasing—that is water’s nature. To grasp the virtue of nature and not fall into artificial contrivance is to remain unmixed and unchanged, and in movement to follow Heaven’s course. Pure and unmixed, to fathom things to the end; still and unchanging, to fulfill one’s nature; plain and wuwei (non-action), to establish the root; moving in Heaven’s way, to respond to the times. The way to nourish the form lies in fulfilling nature—in the original text these ideas sit close together and are repeated: holding to nature’s virtue, not sliding into falsity; purity, stillness, non-action, and Heaven’s course together make up nourishing the form and fulfilling nature.

Famed swords come from Gan and Yue (roughly present-day Zhejiang); everyone treats them as treasures, keeps them in cases and dares not use them lightly. Yet when it comes to oneself, people do not know how to cherish themselves—is love of the body really less than love of a sword? They simply have not thought it through. A sword is a treasure among things; spirit is the treasure within the body. To store a thing and use it may at best match one opponent; to treasure what is within the body can spread without limit and transform and nurture the ten thousand things. What the Yijing calls “completing the curved without loss” must not be fixed to visible form; what it calls “spirit without fixed direction” means just this. The name “Same as the Emperor” is also only a forced label.

One who guards spirit will arrive at spirit; having arrived at spirit, one is one with spirit—pure simplicity is not enough to name it; when the One is thoroughly penetrated, one accords with the principle of nature. Again the wild old man is cited as witness: the sage values essence; when essence is refined, it enters spirit. What is embodied is pure simplicity; what is employed is spirit—this is what is called the True Person.

When the body is overworked or the spirit is used to excess, both harm one’s true nature.

The nature of water: when water is not mixed with impurities it is clear; when it is not stirred it is level. The “true water” within the body is the same—pure and still; when it moves, it accords with the principle of Heaven. Though one need not deliberately refine the form, the spirit can already take the lead.

The sharp sword: people know to cherish external things, yet let the spirit sway and fail to gather it in—is that not putting the root and branch the wrong way round? Those skilled at governing themselves can match the creative process; those skilled at keeping simplicity can guard and preserve spirit and Qi, and so blend them into one and connect with the principle of Heaven.

A plain saying ranks four things and puts “valuing essence” first: an empty, luminous inner storehouse and blocking the six apertures—when substance is not stained by dust it stays simple, when spirit is not pulled about by affairs it stays pure; when body and spirit both hold to simplicity, is that not the “true”?

Yi Zhai uses water as a metaphor for nurturing life: if it is blocked and cannot clear, it is not fully bright and clear, like withered wood and dead ashes. Not mixed, not stirred is Wuwei (non-action); not flowing it cannot clear is having action within non-action. Heaven’s course completes one cycle in a day—is that not also action within non-action?

Nurturing spirit is nurturing life: as soon as one raises the word “spirit,” it feels close at hand. One who loves a sword still knows to keep it in its sheath—how much more so the spirit? The transforming and nourishing of the ten thousand things is also this spirit, yet it leaves no trace, so its achievement is the same as that of the “Lord of Heaven”—students of pure simplicity first hold only to the spirit; in time they become one with it—that is what “great transformation” means. Before transformation, one is still dual with the Dao; when unity deepens to thorough penetration, one merges with the principle of Heaven—that is what “sacred and beyond knowing” means.

Valuing essence is valuing spirit; pure simplicity is the pure refined essence of Qian (Heaven). True persons and utmost persons are not ranked as higher or lower.

Ke Yi (Deliberate Action) speaks of nurturing spirit with discussion of heavenly operation and transformation of things; Shan Xing (Repairing Nature) speaks of preserving the body with doctrines of allotted time and mistaken conduct—treating nurturing spirit and preserving the body as two separate chapters is exactly where the work of study and practice lies; students should examine this closely.

The method of cultivating and refining the spirit lies in valuing Wuwei (non-action). That is why water is used as a likeness: when water is clear and calm, it can reflect things for a long time; once it stirs, it follows the movement of Heaven—turning without rest, winding through the space between heaven and earth. The root of this is to be free of mixture and disorder, never altering one’s nature, and simply to be wuwei—this is “illuminating yet always still.”

If Jing (essence) is constantly spent, it becomes exhausted, so stillness is prized; yet if it is blocked and stagnant, it cannot clarify, so one must also know the use of movement. Heaven’s turning and pervading the two realms likewise rests on being unmixed, unchanged, and wuwei—again “illuminating yet always still.” In the interval that is neither purely still nor purely active, neither attaching nor separating, the subtle Dao is preserved; its worth is not limited to something as treasured as a sword from Ganyue (a region famed for fine blades).

To share one body with the Lord is to be one with Heaven; Heaven is spirit, and spirit penetrates and accords with the principle of Heaven. At that point, one no longer forcibly splits the Way of Heaven from the way of humanity. The text ends by citing a folk saying as witness, still stressing valuing Jing, and concluding with the ability to embodiment of pure simplicity—whoever embodies this Way transforms all things. Who but a True Person (Zhenren) can reach this?

This chapter, titled “Deliberate Action” (Ke Yi), argues that when people sharpen and twist their hearts, go against common life, and force themselves into harsh austerity and feats nobody else can match—expecting others to follow—they are like putting an ox through the nose or a horse in a halter: they damage what is naturally so. When cleverness piles up and virtue thins out, the people become hard to govern. So the Zhuangzi (Nanhua jing) walks through how the ancients set their aims in different ways: upright like Bo Yi and Shu Qi, self-cultivating like Confucius and Mencius, ordering the realm like Yi Yin and Fu Yue, retiring like Chao Fu and Xu You, seeking long life like Lao Peng—from the outside each path looks one-sided, yet none falls short of sagehood, because they were “active” without being trapped by “having,” and “non-active” (wuwei) without drowning in “nothing.” They simply acted as times allowed and as body and life required. Therefore, to value emptiness, wuwei, plainness, and quiet, to walk with the Dao of Heaven and flow with the transformation of things, to let cleverness not stick, and to move in accord with heavenly principle—then calamity and burden have no hook to catch you, and schemes about death and life no longer scramble the mind. Then stillness, emptiness, clarity, and ease, without friction against things, at last complete the work of nurturing spirit. The text also uses the image of “locking away a Gan-Yue sword”: for the body, what is heavy or light, what to take or leave, is obvious at a glance—yet people remain so dazed. The argument opens by rejecting the habit of deliberate, showy conduct and ends by saying that one who embodies pure simplicity is the True Person (zhenren)—which shows how false is the brightness of forced, deliberate action. Nourishing life takes pure simplicity as root; pure simplicity takes guarding spirit as first; when one is one with spirit, the great root of the Dao is already set—why haggle over small branches and exalt deliberate show? The Zhuangzi says this to correct the hypocrisy of scholars in its day, so people rest in the natural course of xing and ming (nature and destiny), and return to the pure simplicity of Dao and De (Virtue/Power).

(Bibliographic notes on the title “Nanhua zhenjing yihai cuanwei,” fascicles 48–49, Siku quanshu, Song author Chu Baxiu, etc., are editorial matter, not doctrinal text, and are omitted here.)

“Repairing Nature,” Chapter 1 (with Guo Xiang’s commentary)

Main meaning of the scripture

Among people who pursue worldly learning, some try to “cultivate their original nature” in order to recover their first authenticity; among those caught in conventional habits of mind, some indulge desire while hoping that more thinking will make them “clear”—such people are called ordinary folk who are still in the dark.

Those who cultivated the Way in antiquity used tranquility to nourish clear awareness: they lived without treating clever scheming as their skill, which is also called using clear awareness in turn to nourish tranquility. Knowing (discernment, clarity) and tranquility (stillness, not acting rashly) nourish each other, and the principle of harmony naturally flows from one’s original nature.

De (Virtue/Power) is harmony; the Dao (the Way) is order and pattern. When De can embrace all things, that is Ren (benevolence); when the Dao is unobstructed everywhere, that is Yi (righteousness). When principle is clear and the ten thousand things relate in kinship, that is zhong (fidelity); when the inner mind is pure and returns to true feeling, that is le (joy/harmony); when words and conduct are trustworthy, bearing and demeanor fit the norm, and one follows established form, that is li (ritual/propriety).

But if one emphasizes only the forms of li and le and acts accordingly, the world is thrown into disorder instead. Each person holds to correctness, yet uses fixed rules to cover over the De they already have; De that does not press outward on others or “intrude” upon things is true De; once one imposes oneself on others, the ten thousand things inevitably lose their own nature.

Guo Xiang’s commentary (in plain language)

If one is already shaping “nature” within the secular world, and again uses secular learning to restore the root of life and nature, the more one pursues in that direction, the farther one strays from the Dao. When the heart is already stirred by desire, piling on thought to seek “clarity” only makes the loss greater the finer the thinking becomes. To awaken from confusion, one must first leave the vulgar and drop desire—only then does one approach true authenticity. First tranquility, then knowing; knowing without wildness, and nature is not lost; not treating “knowing” as deliberate artifice, but trusting natural clarity—even knowing through all things, one remains tranquil and self-sufficient. Knowing without reckless action does not harm tranquility; tranquility while still able to know does not harm knowing. The two mutually nourish each other—could the distinction of harmonious principle lie anywhere else?

Because of harmony, nothing is unattainable; because of the Dao, nothing is without pattern. Embracing all is not deliberately practicing Ren so that traces of benevolence show; being orderly everywhere is not deliberately practicing Yi so that the work of righteousness stands out. If righteousness is clear but does not arise from the center, things guard themselves all the more; if Ren and Yi spring from the original heart yet one still trusts that original intent, then aspiration is fulfilled—and when aspiration is fulfilled, there is joy. Trustworthy conduct, bearing that fits the body, following regulated form—in outward trace, that is li. If what one person walks as a single path and delights in as a single will is enforced upon the whole world, then one region gains while ten thousand regions lose. When each corrects life and nature and keeps to their own De, one does not use oneself to intrude on others; if one uses oneself to intrude on others, how can they not lose their nature?

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: In the secular world, when people deliberately “cultivate disposition and temperament,” the fault usually lies in “adding to life” while losing the original simplicity; then they use secular learning to try to recover it, which only drives them further from that original state. In the secular world, when people smoothly indulge desire, the fault usually lies in chasing external things and disturbing clarity; then they rely on deliberation to seek clarity, which only makes them more obscure. What is meant by tian (ease without self-consciousness) is resting in the natural and not knowing why it is so—using this way to nourish zhi (knowing), not seeking clarity through thinking. Knowing is innate, yet one does not use “knowing” to fabricate; if one does not use it, that differs from the tian of “resting in the natural without knowing why.” Using this way to nourish tian is not using secular learning to restore the original. What the Yijing calls “spirit luminosity,” what Laozi calls huanghu (indistinctness), and what Zhuangzi calls tian and zhi are essentially the same thing. Those who cultivated the Dao in antiquity all reached their attainment by mutually nourishing tian and zhi. If tian slips into obscurity, it cannot give forth broad illumination; if zhi slips into sharp scrutiny, it cannot return to primordial obscurity (hunming). When the two nourish each other, harmony and principle arise from within nature—they are not forcibly added from outside. What communicates with Heaven and Earth is De (Virtue/Power); De is harmony. What moves through the myriad things is Dao (the Way); Dao is principle. The substance of De is harmony; its function that holds nothing back is Ren (benevolence). The substance of Dao is principle; its function that is never unreasonable is Yi (righteousness). When Yi is clear, things cannot fail to draw near—this is “centrality” (zhong). When centrality is pure and real, not pretense, joy arises from it; when trust is stored within and shows outward, that is culture (wen) and ritual (li). Ritual is the thin layer over loyalty and trustworthiness, and also the source of disorder. Each thing rectifies its own nature and life and naturally is covered by its own De—as for De, why must one go on to cover other things? When ritual and music are one-sidedly enforced, Dao and De grow more distant, and one cannot avoid “mao” (forcibly imposing and covering); once there is mao, things necessarily lose their nature, and the world is disordered thereby.

Yidu’s commentary: The true persons of antiquity did not govern disposition within the secular world but embraced plain simplicity, and so (unlike vulgar learning) did not lose the original—yet if one still follows vulgar paths, De grows ever more distant and one cannot avoid mao; mao makes things lose their nature, and the world is disordered.

(Yidu’s passage is shorter; its core is that true persons do not govern disposition in the vulgar way or guard plain simplicity, thereby avoiding the disorder of one-sided ritual and music, mao, and loss of nature.)

Note: The closing sentence of Yidu’s commentary is literally the same as Lü Huiqing’s; Yidu’s preceding text stresses “not governing disposition in the vulgar world” and “embracing plain simplicity,” meaning the way of the true person does not lead to “growing distant, mao, and loss of nature.” If the two commentaries share the same wording at the end, both schools use the same conclusion to close on “when ritual and music are one-sidedly enforced, there is disorder.” The translation above follows the original text faithfully without altering it.

In antiquity, what people called the True Person (Zhenren) did not deliberately “cultivate character” amid worldly affairs, but held to plain simplicity—thereby returning to original genuineness. Neither did they indulge desires in the mundane world, but turned the mind to contemplation and communion with the Dao—thereby attaining clarity. What remained to be obscured?

Those who deliberately “refine character” in society often contend over what is hollow and false, and seek “restoration to the beginning” through vulgar learning—they never truly succeed. Those who indulge desires in the world chase emotional craving and seek “illumination” through discursive thought—they never truly attain it. Restoration to the beginning means bringing one’s nature to full expression; attaining illumination means realizing Ming (one’s allotted destiny in harmony with the Way). When self and things are both clear, the person and the Dao reflect one another. Tranquility brings peace; peace brings stillness; stillness brings knowing; knowing enables responsive action. Action and stillness nourish each other—hence one understands how tranquility and movement complement each other.

To see that principle (Li) arises from nature (Xing) and harmony (He) arises from ziran (what is so of itself, the natural), is why we speak of De (Virtue/Power). When principle arises from the natural, we speak of Dao and De. To obtain (de) the Dao is to leave nothing unembraced—this is boundless love (bo’ai). The Dao disperses through the myriad things, so nothing is without principle—when principle fits each case, that is Li (rightness in pattern). To have capacity for others is ren (humaneness); to have fitting principle is yi (rightness). When yi is clear, things can draw near in mutual trust, and “not deceiving” appears—zhong (integrity) is not deceiving. When humaneness suffices to embrace, righteousness suffices to order, and integrity suffices to be trusted by things, supreme joy arises within and regulated form shows without. If li (ritual) and yue (music) are practiced one-sidedly, the world falls into disorder.

One who is upright yet veiled beneath De is a sage. The sage’s De does not deliberately spread a canopy over the world; rather, under Heaven nothing is deceived—humaneness suffices to embrace, righteousness suffices to order, integrity suffices for mutual trust with things, supreme joy arises within, and patterned expression appears without. If ritual and music are one-sided, the world is disordered. The sage is upright and De naturally covers things; the sage’s De is not a deliberate use of virtue to blanket the world, but each thing under Heaven corrects its own nature. If one forcibly used De to cover and overwhelm the myriad things, things would lose their nature.

Commentary on Auspicious Dao

From birth, human beings naturally belong to stillness—this is the xing (nature) that Heaven bestows. Once they contact external things, they stir into motion; that is desire arising from within xing. The root of xing lies in authenticity (zhen); what desire ought to uphold lies in uprightness (zheng). If one cultivates xing amid worldly life, zhen is covered by pretense; if one uses secular learning to seek a return to the origin, the more one learns, the more xing is lost. If one indulges desire in the world, uprightness slips into deviation; if one relies on strained thinking to seek clarity, the more agitated the thinking, the more confused the will.

The ancients did not cultivate the Dao in this way. They nourished awareness through tranquil stillness, so that clarity could be achieved and principle pursued without end; they nourished stillness through awareness, so that one could return to the beginning and xing could be fully expressed. Xing is the root of awareness and stillness; principle is their function. When awareness and stillness mutually nourish each other, benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music fuse into De (Virtue) and Dao (the Way). When awareness and stillness are lost to each other, De and Dao split into branches and become benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music. Benevolence originally stems from De, righteousness from Dao—already one layer removed from the root. Music stems further from benevolence, ritual from righteousness—yet another step away.

Commentary on Jade Emptiness

To live in filth yet try to avoid filth, to be stained yet demand a clear mirror—is that not delusion? Restlessness and rivalry always lead to confusion; only tranquil stillness can preserve awareness. With awareness yet not enslaved by it, one can truly keep stillness. Knowing without deploying it, one can harmonize; stillness guarded in oneself, one has principle. Though postnatal habit is involved, the root remains naturally self-sufficient, hence harmony; when the many are already in mutual accord, one can govern things.

Highest benevolence aligns with De, taking inclusiveness as its foundation; highest righteousness aligns with Dao, taking penetration of principle as its source. What dwells in central harmony without excess is music; what sets appearance in order and hits the mean is ritual. Ritual is used to respond to things; music to rectify xing. To examine only oneself is authentic; to lead others is to invite disorder. What they call self-rectification is using delusion to nourish one’s own De. When De is firm, one guards stillness without overreaching—this is truly each person rectifying xing and ming (nature and life) and letting stillness and awareness nourish each other.

This passage explains how to nurture one’s nature (yang xing) and criticizes how the Confucian and Mohist schools of the time talked about xing (human nature).

Critique of “governing nature” through conventional learning

Some people use worldly learning to “manage” human nature while trying to return to the mind’s original clarity; they stay caught in profit and desire yet also chase emptiness and illumination. The author calls this profoundly foolish and ignorant.

How ding (settledness) and zhi (knowing) nourish each other

“Ding can give rise to hui (wisdom)”: only when the mind is settled can wisdom emerge, so one should use tian (quiet ease and detachment) to nurture zhi. Yet one must also see that there is no fixed “thing” to grasp in oneself—knowing that, what need is there for zhi to fabricate and contrive? When that is clear, the mind can settle; so zhi in turn is used to nurture tian. Tian nurturing zhi, zhi nurturing tian—each feeding the other—brings one back to natural xing and li (principle). It is like this: only through harmony and still ding can one recover the original, harmonious portion of xing.

The subtlety of six characters and De (Virtue)

The six characters “tian nourishes zhi, zhi nourishes tian” hold the deepest point. The meaning of Dao and De is harmony: nothing excluded, nothing unloved; each thing in its place, each in its fitting way. When yi (rightness) is understood, one can be close to the myriad things—this is what the Doctrine of the Mean (Zhongyong) calls “doing one’s utmost is called zhong (integrity)”: what is truly pure in the center expresses outwardly and is recognized in appearance; tracing what is expressed back to the center is “when there is joy, life arises; when life arises, evil can cease”—joy keeps the vital impulse alive, and while that impulse lives, harmful impulses can be stilled.

Trust what the body and conduct naturally enact—that spontaneous measure and form is “moving through affairs in accord with li (ritual propriety)”—li need not be sought outside; in walking, standing, sitting, and lying down, measure is already there.

Partial practice and obscurity

Seeking li and yue (ritual and music) only on the outside, without knowing the root is in the heart-mind, is called partial practice—seeing only half. Such dimness is like the sky before dawn: still shrouded in twilight.

Not imposing (bu mao)

When De accumulates within, there is no need to display it; others right themselves on their own. Bu mao means not pressing one’s De onto others or forcing it upon things. If one mao (imposes, rushes forward), things lose their own nature.

Commentators from various schools mostly explain the text through the lens of secular learning. Chen Bixu, a Daoist scholar working from the edition collated by Zhang Junfang, holds that in discussing cultivation one should avoid vulgar wording and keep the meaning plain: human nature is originally spontaneous and complete; it does not depend on study to “become” what it already is. Yet many learners today prize daily accumulation of knowledge to win reputation in the world—that is “governing the nature” within worldly sentiment, still striving through study to recover the original state. The more they amass without grasping essentials, the more the genuine meaning slips away. Clinging to likes and dislikes and unable to turn back is “sliding with desire” within worldly craving, still racking body and mind to reach clarity—yet the more they exhaust Jing (essence) and Shen (spirit), the farther clarity recedes.

Unless one is endowed with exceptional natural capacity, ordinary people cannot do entirely without learning. The point of learning is to nourish the heaven-given nature and bring forth its illuminating wisdom, to let the achievements of the ancients confirm what the heart already shares, and thereby return to simplicity and the original endowment—not to drill holes into the mind, pile up hearsay, or add more “toxins” to the person.

Human nature is never without goodness, yet neither is it without desire. When desire follows the nature and accords with the Dao (the Way), it is upright: hunger seeks food, thirst seeks drink, cold seeks clothing, fatigue seeks rest. When “governing the nature” in the worldly sense takes over, desire turns crooked: food must be delicacies, drink must be fine wine, clothes must be finery, rest must be indulgence. Once desire turns crooked, goodness in the nature is lost; drowning in custom, one drifts ever farther from the Dao. The Dao values plainness and quiet; the world values display and rivalry—here the human heart and the heart of the Dao part ways, and from that split arise supreme goodness and great evil. Only “cutting off learning” and “no deliberate thought” can restore the original nature and recover clarity. Yet people mix in external learning and block themselves with idle cogitation, so learning grows daily while the true diminishes daily, thought grows busier while the Dao grows more remote—this is what the True Person (Zhenren) laments.

If one keeps the fully natural nature and is not “governed” by custom, the original state need not be pursued yet recovery is spontaneous. If one holds desire to its upright course and is not “slipped” by custom, clarity need not be forced yet clarity arrives—because the Dao gathers in emptiness. The saying runs, “Learning without thinking leads to confusion; thinking without learning leads to peril.” Learning and thinking were originally resources for the sages’ advance—so why does the Nanhua tradition (the Zhuangzi lineage) not endorse them in the same way? Because worthy persons take inner cultivation as learning and reflection close at hand as thought; the sage takes cutting off learning as learning and non-deliberate thought as thought—therefore differing from the world’s habit of wide hearing and vast memorization. From inner learning one may arrive at cutting off learning; from near thought one may arrive at no deliberate thought—the full achievement of the sages lies here.

Plainness governs stillness; knowing governs activity. Stillness yields moistness, activity yields dryness. When moist and dry are balanced, harmony and principle emerge. Harmony is the purest De (Virtue/Power); principle is what fits each affair—both belong to the nature itself, not something poured in from outside. People know plainness but not how it supports activity, so movement and stillness skew; benefit and harm grind against each other, water and fire scorch harmony, and the true nature is lost. Only those who govern the Dao keep movement and stillness from straying beyond the Dao, respond to things without hoarding: they preserve plainness to nourish knowing, and when knowing arises they do not wield it—thus plainness is nourished in turn. When the nature reaches full harmony and affairs exhaust their fitting principle, the harmony of Heaven and Earth responds of itself—this is the clear proof from cultivating the person to ordering all under Heaven.

The passages that follow treat benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, faith, and rites and music. Guo Xiang’s commentary treats the character for “loyalty” in detail; readings such as “accomplish” and “guard” should be understood in the sense of “center” (zhong). As governance of the Dao descends step by step, exalting rites and music marks a further fall—hence disorder follows. It is not that rites and music by themselves disorder the world, but that what comes after exalting rites and music cannot remain free of disorder. If one could rise from rites and music to benevolence and righteousness, and from benevolence and righteousness return to the Dao and De, that would be the way to still calamity and disorder and bring lasting peace.

Meaning of the Scripture

In antiquity, people lived in a state of primal obscurity, keeping to stillness and clarity together with the age as a whole. Yin and Yang were harmoniously at peace; spirit was undisturbed; the four seasons each kept their proper measure; nothing among the ten thousand things was harmed; living beings did not die before their time. Even when people had knowledge, they had no need to display it—this is what is called “Great Unity” (zhiyi). At that time everything came about of itself; no one acted with deliberate intent.

Later, virtue (de) gradually declined. When Suiren and Fuxi began to govern the world, people merely followed along but no longer preserved a single shared virtue; as virtue fell further, when Shennong and the Yellow Emperor governed, people merely sought security but no longer followed virtue as such; virtue declined again, and when Tang Yao and Yu Shun governed, they raised up teaching and transformation—the thick, plain qi dispersed. People left the Dao (the Way) to parade what they called goodness, left de to manufacture what they called conduct; thus they abandoned their original nature and followed the inclinations of the heart-mind. Heart-mind and knowledge vied to get ahead, yet that was not enough to settle the realm—so they added ornament to culture and piled on wide learning. Ornament extinguished plainness; broad learning drowned the root heart-mind; the common people then began to be confused and disordered, unable to return to their natural disposition or recover their original state.

Guo Xiang’s Notes

The reason virtue keeps falling is that sages cannot reign generation after generation, those in power cannot practice non-action (wuwei), yet they envy the reputation of wuwei—so the age falls into disorder. Once the world has lost “Great Unity,” confusion is hard to undo; Guo Xiang therefore explains without pushing blame deeply, content that each person rests in what suits him. The sage can let people each find satisfaction in themselves—how could he force the whole world to attain the sage’s way? Thus the traces of imperial governance change with the times, while the way of the sage itself has never been incomplete. What is called “goodness” is often merely excess in wording; once goodness is deliberate, the Dao is no longer whole. “Conduct” is manufacture against one’s nature; once conduct is set up as a standard, de is no longer upright. Using the heart-mind to command the person, original nature is left behind. The hearts of self and other scramble to apply knowledge first, and then one can no longer follow nature and forget knowledge—only by following nature and forgetting knowledge can the realm be settled. Culture and ornament are decoration of the heart-mind; “the beginning” (chu) is the root of life and nature (xingming).

Lv’s commentary says that “dwelling in primordial obscurity and attaining simplicity” is like the realm of “ultimate unity” reached by Suiren, Fuxi, and the Yellow Emperor; those praised as sages are only coarse traces left behind from that obscurity and simplicity.

From the subtle realm, governing the world with the Dao so the people are without knowledge and without desire is called “ultimate unity,” and that is fitting. From the coarse traces, though all still work for the world, virtue inevitably declines and falls short of “ultimate unity.” Hence those who cultivate the Way often “cut off sageliness and discard wisdom” to return to nothingness. When this chapter speaks here, it means precisely that in the realm of “ultimate unity,” even Suiren, Fuxi, and the Yellow Emperor cannot insert themselves; people who only learn the sages’ words and imitate their deeds, if they do not know that they themselves originally have that which “stirs the ten thousand things yet does not share the sages’ worries,” will be startled and doubtful on hearing this—and that is not strange.

From Suiren to the era of Tang and Yu, governance and transformation moved from thick simplicity toward scattered plainness; times differed in depth and thinness, and responses differed—what is meant by “when the great Dao is abandoned, there is benevolence and righteousness; when cleverness emerges, there is great hypocrisy.” If one knows only that there is no such layer within oneself, one will likewise be startled and doubtful. If within oneself there is that which “stirs the ten thousand things yet does not share the sages’ worries,” then there is no need to share their worries.

The Dao is originally without “not-good”; once another kind of “good” is set up, it no longer accords with the Dao. De originally does not cling to fixed conduct; once one clings to a certain “conduct,” it is no longer level or even. Benevolence is the chief of goodness, righteousness the basis of action—but morality and virtue are simply nature itself; benevolence and righteousness are expressions of nature issuing from the heart-mind. To leave the Dao and turn from De is to leave nature and follow the heart-mind.

“When transformation arises and desire to act, I will calm it with the nameless uncarved block”—if one uses the heart-mind to settle the heart-minds of the world, heart recognizing heart still cannot suffice to settle the world; then one resorts to ornament and destroys substance, gathers external learning and drowns the heart-mind. “Wen” (culture) refers to rites and music; “bo” (breadth) refers to learning; “zhi” (substance) refers to original nature. When rites and music flourish and the world is in disorder, how can one seek to return to the beginning and attain clarity?

(This section follows the original text in order, ending at “How can it be obtained?”)

(The meanings of characters such as “doubt,” “solitary,” “pour,” “self,” and “human,” and the account of humans dwelling in an age of primordial undifferentiation until they reach “utmost oneness,” have already been explained many times earlier; they are not repeated here.)

When Suiren introduced fire and Fuxi invented writing, people first began to think in terms of “what must be done for the world.” Though they could follow the inclinations of the human heart, they could no longer gather that heart back into the undifferentiated wholeness of the primordial age.

When Shennong campaigned against Gong Gong and the Yellow Emperor fought Chiyou, their aim was to settle the people, yet they could no longer align fully with the spontaneous order of all living things in nature.

By the time Yao regulated the hundred offices and Shun banished the Four Criminals, governance and teaching truly arose—hence Confucius began the Documents (Shangshu) with the reigns of Tang Yao and Yu Shun.

Once people know what counts as “desirable goodness,” they leave the Great Dao to chase the name of goodness; once they know what counts as “feasible conduct,” they treat virtue as a perilous path and behavior grows narrow. After that, abandoning innate nature to follow deliberate intent, hearts rise up between “you” and “me,” sharply dividing self and other, and taking clever knowing as knowing—such a state is no longer enough to settle the realm.

Ornament outweighs plain substance; broad memorization wearies the mind. The people begin to wander in confusion and can no longer recover their original disposition.

Detailed Commentary on the Dao Annotation:

When one is united with the Dao and complete without deficiency, one no longer “follows along” with external things. Once one follows along, one is carried by externals and cannot be at peace; only when one can be at peace does one avoid falling into disorder. First one loses the “One,” and only then does one speak of following along; when following along is lost again, one speaks of peace; when peace is lost again, one sinks into disorder. From antiquity, people passed through three stages of decline; by the age of Tang and Yu the common people had begun to grow confused and restless, unable to find peace or return to their original nature and true feelings. Failing to accord with the Dao, they could not recover that primordial state of oneness.

The Dao by nature carries on the good, yet in practice it often departs from this; conduct appears to proceed, yet De harbors peril within. Nature (xing) is the domain of the heart; the heart is the master of nature. Nature is never unstill by nature, yet the heart sometimes compels it to move; stillness is never impure by nature, yet the one who compels it drives it away from purity. Those who are good at following the Dao preserve the heart to nourish their nature; those who are not abandon nature to follow the heart, so that hearts vie to know first, grasp at right and wrong, and brush against benefit and harm—they have strayed far from the Dao. How could that petty, cunning knowledge suffice to settle the realm?

Seeing that knowledge is insufficient to settle the realm, people add ornament to substance, yet also guard against substance; they broaden learning to enlighten the heart, yet also guard against the heart—as if throwing earth to stop dust or fanning the wind to stop flames. How long could the realm remain free of confusion and disorder?

Plain-language commentary

Bixu’s note: In an age of utmost De (Virtue/Power), people were plain and unknowing, free of craving, and so could remain wholly one. When Suiren drilled wood for fire and Fuxi drew the Eight Trigrams (Bagua), once human feeling and the ways of things each went their separate paths, they were no longer one. When Shennong made the plow and the Yellow Emperor took up arms, once there was a plan to “settle the realm,” they no longer simply followed nature. When Yao campaigned against Danzhu and Shun against the Miao, plain simplicity fell apart. Doing good in order to approach reputation is turning away from the Dao (the Way); acting alone in ways that harm vital growth is ruining De. Abandoning a deep, tranquil original nature and taking clever self-display as one’s teacher—using the mind to guess others and competing to be first to know—is the showiness of the Dao and the beginning of folly. From this we know: cleverness and artifice are not enough to settle the realm; stillness can nourish the ten thousand things; taking the Dao as home preserves what is essential; cutting off learning stills the heart; discarding cleverness returns one to the root; Wuwei (non-action) restores the beginning.

Yanzhai says: “Hunmang” (obscure blending) means hidden and unrevealed, above and below not seeking each other—the whole world wholly complete in the Dao, lacking nothing—called “zhiyi” (utmost oneness). Once people knew there were principles to rely on and paths to follow, pure oneness was lost; each person took principle as security, and there was “me,” apart from the Dao. Once there were names for “good,” the Dao grew more distant.

(Continuing Bixu / Yanzhai): When conduct could be displayed, De was no longer even; leaving natural disposition and following a mind bent on doing— I meet the other with a calculating mind, the other answers with a calculating mind; minds gauge and test each other. Cleverness was already insufficient, and then ritual, music, and literary ornament were added, draining the heart’s strength—like carrying firewood to put out a fire. If one’s own nature cannot be kept, how can the realm be settled?

Zhuangzi (Nan Hua) on the age of Tang and Yu: Already so far from the Dao. In high antiquity, plain authenticity was like an infant before it smiles; later came speech and laughter, then joy and anger; further down, joy and anger churned within while treachery, craft, and danger showed without—to return to plainness and simplicity again, is it not hard? Now, wanting to clear the source and purify the stream, yet taking Suiren and Fuxi as models, listing them among declining virtue—what is hoped for is to lead the people above utmost antiquity; virtue without the throne—alas.

Further: In high antiquity rulers obtained true plainness, and the people’s hearts were not divided. When De declined below, and there were rebels, taking “following the realm” as intent meant leaving utmost oneness; when there was unrest, taking “settling the realm” as intent meant betraying true nature. Down to Tang and Yu, raising governance and transformation scattered plain simplicity, left the Dao and De for labeled “good conduct,” and estrangement from nature grew; mind knowing mind—cleverness insufficient, yet literary culture piled on—still like carrying firewood to stop a fire. If disposition cannot find its own ease, how can the realm?

In sum: Zhuangzi’s discussion of the age of Tang and Yu is already this far from the Dao—high antiquity’s plain authenticity like an infant before it smiles; next, speech and laughter with joy and anger; from there downward, joy and anger within, treachery, craft, and danger without. To hope for a return to plainness and simplicity—is it not difficult?

Opening Section of the “Repairing Nature” Chapter — Plain-Language Reading

Main drift of the text

Looked at this way: the age loses the Dao, and the Dao cannot truly take hold in that age; age and Dao drag each other down and are lost together. On what basis can someone who keeps the Dao make the age whole again? And on what basis can the age make the Dao flourish again?

The Dao cannot, by itself alone, rise up within the age; the age cannot, by itself alone, lift the Dao up again.

So the sage does not have to hide in deep mountains and old forests—his De is stored inward and not displayed—but that is not deliberate hermit playacting. What the ancients called a hermit was not merely hiding the body from people, nor clamping shut speech, nor clutching wisdom in the breast and never letting it out.

When shi and ming (timely circumstance and allotted fate) are badly out of joint and misaligned, one still follows shi and ming: when they run smooth and the Way can move broadly under heaven, one returns to the state of yi (oneness) and leaves no trace outward; when they are blocked and the Way cannot pass under heaven, one shen gen ning ji (roots deep, stillness at the extreme)—waits for the turn of things on their own. That is the path of preserving oneself and preserving the Dao.

Guo Xiang’s commentary (plain language)

Because the Dao does not treat itself as something precious, it can endure and make room for the age; yet once the age endures, people again treat the Dao as a treasure and exalt it—and the moment it is “exalted,” it skews, and the Dao is secretly lost. The Dao cannot force the age not to exalt it; the age cannot fail to “exalt” the Dao—so age and Dao can each make the other slip away. If there is no exalting, they can instead complete each other and rise together. The reason they now lose each other is affective clinging and discrimination—each side “promoting” the other in a push-and-shove. How then is there real rising? By not exalting, by returning to non-clinging. Not knowing how to turn back to the root and return to oneness, to quiet the tracks of pursuit, yet running while hunting for “oneness”—the more one hunts, the more tracks show; the more tracks show, the farther from oneness—this is great error.

Even if one gets up, shows the body, opens the mouth, and displays all one’s cleverness—how can that be called “mutual rising”?

Shiming daxing (when timeliness and fate run wide) is the time of light indifference and wuwei (non-action): letting each thing rest in its own nature; things’ natures are naturally one, so there is no trace. Shiming daqiong (when timeliness and fate are utterly blocked) is a time when indifference is impossible; even in an age of many tasks and heavy work, the sage still keeps inner indifference—shen gen ning ji, waiting for things to transform themselves—so the Dao is not lost. There is no case of the person enduring while the age does not rise; only when the person can endure and the Dao can stay hidden is there a possibility for the age to rise again.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary (plain language)

If age and Dao mutually rise, the sage need not leave traces outward. Shiming daqiong is a season when indifference cannot be total; but even in an age of busy affairs, the sage still holds to indifferent self-restraint, shen gen ning ji, waiting for the times to turn on their own—the Dao is not lost precisely here. There is no split situation of “the person endures while the age does not rise” (person enduring and the age rising can correspond).

Term notes

• Shiming: Whether timely circumstance and heavenly allotment fit one’s situation.
• Fan yi / wu yi ji: Return to unity with the Dao; do not parade ability or leave a name in the world.
• Shen gen ning ji: Roots planted deep; mind kept at still extremity, waiting quietly for change.
• Jiaoxiang sang (in some editions fang; here following common Yihai reading as sang): the age loses the Dao and the Dao loses the age—mutual hindrance.

In Lu’s commentary, the gist is this: when the age and the Great Dao flourish together, sages appear and the myriad things all have something to rely on; when the age and the Great Dao decline together, sages blend into the ordinary world and others cannot recognize them—they were already deeply hidden. Why must one deliberately withdraw to mountains and forests and cut oneself off from human society? What is meant by “returning to oneness with no trace,” like the dream of Huaxu or the spirit-journey to Mount Gushe, belongs in this category; what is meant by “roots planted deep, stillness guarded to the utmost, as if there were no defense,” is the same idea. Dragons and serpents hibernate to preserve life—the principle is no more than this.

Reading this passage in the Zhuangzi, one almost feels the author lamenting ill timing—since the age and the Great Dao decline together, that would indeed be worth mourning. Those who have heard the Dao, when they meet rise and fall, cannot fail to know how to preserve themselves. Yet Zhuangzi also said “not sharing the sage’s worries”—so why sound so deeply moved amid such gross error?

Yidu’s commentary says: holding to the ancient Dao while acting in the present age, one cannot fail to know the situation in which “the Dao has been lost”; but from Zhuangzi’s stance of “not sharing the sage’s worries,” why sigh so heavily amid such great errors?

“Yidu” (on the sense of doubting solitary survival and solitary awakening)

If one only clings to the circumstances of the ancients yet acts in the ways of people today, the Dao is dragged down by this age; if one lives in the present yet insists on practicing the Dao exactly as the ancients did, this age is cast off by the Dao. There must first be a fitting shi (world-age, the environment of the time) before the Dao can be practiced in that setting; otherwise shi and Dao only drag each other down and decay together—the Dao cannot truly flourish within the shi, and that is ming (the encounters and fixed allotment one meets); nor can the shi prosper through the Dao—that is shi in the sense of whether the times are suitable. When shi and ming do not align, even if a sage need not flee to deep mountains, his De (virtue/power) seems, in the eyes of the world, as if veiled. Liezi dwelling in the gardens of Zheng and Zhuangzi in Qiyuan are examples of this. “Veiled” means virtue kept inward and not displayed outwardly, the person’s traces self-concealed; figures like Changju and Jieni belong to those who hide themselves in outward form. The recluses of old did not merely avoid places or hold their tongues—they gathered their capacities like tying shut a pouch; when ming was greatly awry, they could only rest in what they could rest in.

When shi and ming harmonize and the Dao moves broadly under Heaven, the sage never prides himself on being penetrating; he returns to oneness and does not show himself through deeds. When shi and ming clash and the Dao is greatly blocked under Heaven, the sage never prides himself on being destitute; he deepens his root and holds fast to the ultimate. What Mencius meant by “when the Way is fully practiced, it adds nothing to the person; when one lives in poverty, it takes nothing from the person” is exactly this. Oneness means essence and meaning without trace, and only then entry into the subtle; root means exhausting nature and reaching quiet utmost, and only then arrival at ming (Heaven’s decree, the fixity of what is so). That the common people use it daily without knowing it is what is meant by “returning to oneness without trace”; “after a hundred generations one awaits the sage and is not confused” is the sense of deep root, quiet utmost, and waiting.

Commentary on Auspicious Dao (Xiangdao Zhu)

The ancients understood how to nourish wisdom and tranquility together, and so could see clearly how the world relates to the Dao; people today find world and Dao wearing each other down—and from that very situation one can still discern how wisdom and tranquility ought to be used. When the world loses the Dao, custom grows thinner day by day; when the Dao loses its age, virtue fades day by day. When the world can no longer be revived through the Dao, that is the time when heaven and earth seem shut and the worthy withdraw. Even if sages do not live in mountains and forests, they remain hidden and do not come forward—and how much more so those of lower station.

What the ancients meant by “recluse” was not locking the body away and sealing the lips while hoarding learning, but being in the world while the heart stays in retreat—what is called “Lu Chen” (hiding in plain sight on land)—which from the start differs from those who befriend only trees and stones and herd only with birds and beasts.

The classic says: when the world has the Dao, the sage “completes”—achievement through non-action, returning to unity, leaving no trace; when the world lacks the Dao, the sage “preserves life”—working at keeping body and life intact, rooting deeply, holding fast to utmost stillness. Completing without claiming credit, forgetting things without being enslaved by them; preserving life without letting things harm the self—then adversity and success are treated alike, spirit does not scatter outward, essence is not drained inward—is this not the way to keep oneself?

Commentary on Jade Emptiness (Bixu Zhu)

When people are present the Dao flourishes; when people are gone the Dao declines. World and Dao damaging each other follows the turn of the times. Person and world are the branches; the root is still the “root.” When Laozi served as archive keeper and Zhuangzi as clerk in the lacquer garden, their virtue intact, the Dao could rise; when they were gone the Dao declined—again world and Dao lost together, again compelled by the age. Person and world belong to the branches; the crucial thing is guarding the root.

The virtue of Laozi and Zhuangzi was “hidden”—hidden without imagining oneself hidden, because the times made it so. Boyi gathering ferns and Yan Ziling fishing were cases where fate and the age greatly diverged. Returning to unity without a trace, achieving without staying—like the story of the wall-builder; deep roots and settled stillness—like Lü Wang at Panxi.

Yi (Xiang) and Zhai (Xiang) said: The Dao and the mundane world corrupt and drag each other down; how can someone who has the Dao revive what people see and hear in ordinary society? And how can worldly people come to know the Dao from that? When no one under heaven knows the Dao, even if a sage stands right before them, the crowd still fails to recognize him—not because the sage deliberately hides himself.

So-called “recluses” are not people who shut their mouths and bury their learning; they know the times are wrong and, having no choice, follow “when the Dao does not prevail, appear foolish”—when the Dao cannot be practiced, they would rather seem dull. This is the approach of “returning to oneness, leaving no trace, achieving the work yet not claiming credit.” The Dao could originally be practiced in the world, yet one entrusts affairs to “no deliberate mind” and on one’s own side need only hold to “the One.” “Taking root at the foundation” means establishing root from one’s own inherent nature; “deep root” is like retreating and storing away in secrecy; “stillness to the utmost” is like saying “rest where you ought to rest”—simply preserving this body and waiting for the right moment.

Reflect on the phrase “the age and the world corrupt each other”—the meaning is deeply moving. True persons transcend worldly entanglements and need not fixate on whether they personally meet with success or failure; here the focus on “the age and the world” is also sorrow on behalf of ordinary people. Pursue it to the end and there is still something that can loosen this sorrow: if, in speech, supreme principle can shine through and dispel illusion, then to be in straits yet seem at ease, to be slandered yet seem successful—what then are gain and loss really?

Ancient recluses knew that fate and circumstance are often mistaken, so they could rest content with that; hence “virtue is hidden but the person is not hidden”—de is kept from show, yet the person does not go into hiding; even in chaotic times they could harmonize with the light and blend with the dust, and harm could not touch them. Today’s recluses hide body and name, yet their names follow their footprints into view; where they should rest they do not rest, and instead there is “acting oddly and inviting disaster.” If one can “return to oneness and leave no trace,” then clarifying the Dao looks like obscurity, and a skilled merchant looks empty—what is meant by hiding or showing as fits the occasion, being now dragon now serpent: where could this body not abide? Where could this Dao not abide?

Wenzhongzi’s talk of “heaven’s hiding and human hiding” probably stems from this.

In ancient times, those who could truly preserve themselves did not use fine words to dress up “cleverness,” did not use cleverness to talk down the people of the world, and did not use cleverness to drain virtue dry. They rested calmly in the place that belonged to them, returned to their original nature—and beyond that, what more was there to do?

The Dao was never completed by petty cleverness and little tricks; De was never established by quick, shallow “small insights.” Small insights injure De; little tricks injure the Dao. So it is said: straighten yourself and guard yourself well, and that is enough. Only one who can preserve this peace and ease can be called “zhide”—truly satisfied in heart and aim.

What the ancients meant by “zhide” was not rank, carriage and robes, or eminence, but that nothing in the outer world could add a single genuine measure of joy. What people today mean by “zhide” is mostly just having office and outward dignity.

Rank and finery worn on the body are not life and nature itself; things that arrive from outside are only lodged for a while. When they come, you cannot block them; when they go, you cannot hold them. So one does not let the heart run wild because one holds high office, nor does one truckle to the world because one is poor—in either state, the joy is the same, and so there is no extra sorrow.

Yet people nowadays, once what was merely lodged is gone, are unhappy—and from this we see that even when they sometimes feel “joy,” they have never truly been free of inner disorder. So it is said: those who lose themselves by being pulled by outer things, who discard their nature within conventional patterns, are called “inverted folk”—people who have turned root and branch upside down.

Lü’s commentary says: Preserving oneself hinges on keeping inner stillness; yet while living in the world and dealing with others, one cannot rely on stillness alone—one must also meet every turn of circumstance without letting that activity undo the stillness. Only then is it truly workable.

Set aside clever disputation yet retain genuine knowing; go further still and release even the contrived sort of “knowing,” and virtue is then complete in every respect. In that way even perilous situations can be met in peace, without deliberately withdrawing from the world or abandoning virtue, and external things cannot weigh one down—this is what it means to conduct oneself in daily life.

The Dao does not show off in petty details; De does not parade petty cleverness. Hence there is no need to diminish oneself in order to fit the world—“not slighting oneself to chase the times” is precisely the meaning of upright self-alignment. A person who is inwardly complete does not need external things to add to joy; turning wholeheartedly toward the Dao and finding in it what one seeks—this is what attaining one’s true aim means.

Dao and ming (life-and-nature) are the root; office, ceremonial cap and gown, and reputation are only temporary lodgings. If for the sake of those lodgings one gives up the joy that is already one’s own and cannot be increased from outside, reversing what is heavy and what is light, that is inverting root and branch and losing one’s original nature.

Commentary on “Doubtful Solitude”

Preserving life and complying with the mandate of Heaven is spoken from the side of Heaven; cultivating the person and acting in accord with the Dao is spoken from the side of humanity. Do not use clever disputation to dress up “knowing”—true knowing is knowing the state of non-knowing. Do not use craft and cunning to exhaustively probe the world; instead, dwell together with the world in mutual forgetting. Do not use craft to exhaustively probe De—De arises from one’s innate allotment; it is not De put on as deliberate display.

When the Dao runs only in outward forms, it becomes “great De”; when petty distinctions pile up, knowing seems to grow “broader”—petty conduct harms the Dao, and petty knowing harms De. First set yourself straight, and things in the world will take you as their measure of straightness—how could that be achieved by scraps of cleverness and scraps of action?

Worry and joy originally spring from xingming (one’s natural life and innate nature). There is a kind of worry and joy that neither the power, wealth, and rank of the world can add to nor subtract from—that is the “full measure” of worry and joy. Shun was troubled because he could not win his parents’ approval; even all the wealth and rank under Heaven could not lessen that worry. Yan Hui took joy in a single bowl of rice and a gourd of drink; even all the wealth and rank under Heaven could not increase that joy. Whatever lies outside this belongs to what is beyond worry and joy. Joy that is not whole is not enough to count as De; once ambition is seized by external things, the will itself is lost.

Human beings between Heaven and Earth are only lodging for a while; office and ceremonial dress layered upon the person are a further lodging on top of that lodging. Ordinary people cling to the body as “mine,” treat office and rank as supremely precious and treasure them, and call that “having achieved one’s aim.” When that layer of “lodging” departs, they are unhappy, yet do not see that it was never truly owned by xingming. Therefore the noble person does not take success as glory or hardship as shame, and so can be without worry. If one takes transient office and rank as joy and their loss as sorrow, then the joy at the moment of “gaining” them may well have been empty all along; to have already lost one’s nature—this is called “inversion,” and it is only to be expected.

Commentary on “Auspicious Dao”

Using craft and cunning to exhaustively probe the world is “petty conduct”; using craft to exhaustively probe De is “petty knowing.” The Dao issues from ming (Heaven’s decree); De issues from xing (innate nature). Human life ought to complete the principles of xingming and De; what the heart aims at is nothing outside this. So-called “De and will” mean nothing else than that joy can preserve the whole. One who has lost nature forgets this body, precious beyond measure, and chases accidentally gained splendor, treating office and rank as the root of xingming and the bodily form as the storehouse of sorrow and joy—unaware that what is gained is filth and decay, and what is lost is what makes “me” me. How is that different from taking the Marquis of Sui’s pearl and using it to shoot at a sparrow a thousand fathoms up?

【Bixu Commentary】

Those who are skilled in action value keeping silent; those who hold fast to plain “foolishness” enjoy complete good fortune. In quiet withdrawal they transcend worldly affairs, return to the root, and restore life (gui gen fu ming)—what need is there for forced effort? A little success breeds worldly affectation; a little knowledge breeds self-display. Where there is benefit there is harm—how can that count as true fulfillment? External things arrive by chance and cannot be held back; when they go, they cannot be kept. To rise and fall with their gain and loss is to be pulled about in many ways. With no true master in the heart, loss at once brings worry; so even when one “has” them, the inner life is often empty and unsettled. That is the pattern of rejoicing in outer things and losing oneself within.

【Yan’s Explanation】

“Preserving the body” (cun shen) means the time of not using stratagem and keeping still; “acting in the body” (xing shen) means the time of actually doing things and employing intelligence. One may have insight yet not dress it in fine words; mind may have surplus strength yet not dare use it all—so even when using intelligence, one does not lose one’s original nature. To rest securely in the place that fits is to stand high in form; yet if that strays from one’s nature, one has left the One (yi) and leaves no trace worth following. Wuwei (non-action) is the great scope of the Dao; youwei (deliberate action) is only small doing. Conduct in the spirit of “not knowing, not being aware” is the great scope of De (Virtue/Power); the moment one carves out conscious views, it is only small knowing. First rectify oneself and things rectify themselves of themselves; what one delights in is preserving one’s own De—the aim stays there, not on outer things. One need not add joy from externals: turn inward and be sincere—no joy is greater. Xingming (nature and life) and the “heavenly nobility” (tian jue) granted by nature are the root; office, rank, and reputation are outer things. Knowing that their coming and going cannot be grasped, one is not unrestrained in success nor bent in hardship. Such joy accords with the Dao. Others take high office and fine robes as joy; if joy resides in oneself, there is no hour of worry; if joy sits on things, when things go, joy goes. Joy that comes and goes is not true joy—so joy from outer things is never free of inner turmoil. Self and nature are the root; things and fashion are the branches. To weight the branches and lose the root is why such people are called “inverted folk” (daozhi zhi min)—those who turn root and branch upside down.

Vernacular Commentary

Loving to argue and showing off cleverness is often a way of harming oneself, so those who truly wish to preserve life do not take that path. The “De” of the world, in the end, comes down to returning to silence and resting in “not-knowing”—nothing more.

What is meant here is a state that stands firm on its own and does not drift with the crowd: hold to stillness and stability, and that alone is enough to return to one’s original nature—why seek elsewhere?

Petty acts and small cleverness reach only a narrow scope and instead drag down moral cultivation. The “great person” first straightens himself, and outer things naturally follow; supreme joy is kept whole, and the heart’s true aim can be fulfilled. Because nature and life (xingming) are valued enough within, outer rank and ceremonial dress can be held lightly without. What comes by chance and what is lost for a time are both entrusted to wuwei (non-action)—as if lodged in the body for a while.

If you grieve when things leave and must rejoice when they arrive, joy pushed too far turns to neglect. Once you have lost your true nature because of outer things and wandered because of the world, it is as upside-down as wearing hat and shoes on the wrong feet—yet still hoping to teach and transform the people of the world: that is hard.

The Main Idea of the “Autumn Floods” Chapter (A Condensed Reading)

This chapter argues that without insight that lifts one above the dust of the world, a person who merely drifts with worldly ties will gradually lose original nature. To “cultivate nature” within the secular world yet slide toward desire is not the greatest evil, yet it obstructs the Dao more deeply. If one then piles on external learning and stirs things up with idle imaginings, hoping still to return to the first clarity, it is like setting out for Ying yet turning the chariot shaft north—the direction is entirely wrong.

The True Person also worried that those learning the Way would fear “emptiness” and a boundless void with nothing to grasp, and have no place to begin. So he taught “mutual nourishment of tranquility and knowing,” so that entry would be easier. In the world one must respond to shifting circumstances and cannot wholly do without knowing; yet once one clings to the use of knowing, tranquility is harmed. The crux is to fit each matter as it comes and treat it by the Way: when something arises, know and respond as needed; when it passes, still guard quiet ease. Over time, as this is tuned and ripened, both knowing and tranquility dissolve into each other; jing, shen, hun, and po blend into utmost harmony; xing and ming accord with that vast, indistinct stillness and turn toward the root of Dao and De. From there it expands: dwelling with others in shared turbidity and simplicity, one has knowing yet uses nothing with fixation, and the work of transformation grows vast.

Alas, later generations lost that pure harmony; custom turned shallow and thin; they strayed from the Way and endangered De, substance wasted away and the heart drowned—until the age and the Great Way perished together and could not be restored. Then sages who rooted deeply and rested in utter stillness, dwelling in mountains and forests, awaited the chance that might come at any dawn or dusk; preserving the body was for the sake of preserving the Way; entrusting feeling to comings and goings without joy or grief in between—why lean on clever argument? To be whole in joy and complete in attainment can surpass the glory of cap and carriage, yet people’s trouble is not knowing what to seek or reject. This is how sages hide their light to preserve themselves. The heart of Master Zhuang of Nanhua can also be glimpsed here.

When the autumn waters rose, the hundred streams poured into the Yellow River. The current swelled until, between the two banks and along the sandbars, one could not tell an ox from a horse at a distance. The River God (He Bo) was pleased with himself, thinking that all beauty in the world belonged to him. He followed the current eastward until he reached the Northern Sea. Looking east, he could not see where the sea ended. Then he turned his face toward the sea and sighed to Ruo of the Northern Sea (Bei Hai Ruo): “There is a saying: ‘Having heard much doctrine, one thinks oneself wise’—that describes me. I once heard that someone belittled Confucius’s learning and scorned Boyi’s integrity; at first I did not believe it. Now that I see your vastness, which cannot be exhausted, if I had not come to your gate, I would almost have been forever laughed at by those who understand the Way.”

Ruo of the Northern Sea said: “You cannot discuss the great sea with a frog in a well—it is confined to a narrow space. You cannot discuss ice and snow with a summer insect—it is bound to its season. You cannot discuss the Great Dao with a scholar who is stuck in one corner—it is shackled by what he has learned. Now that you have left the riverbanks and seen the great sea, you know your own shallowness and can discuss the Great Dao with you.

“Of all the waters under heaven, none is greater than the sea: ten thousand rivers flow in without ever filling it; the tail gate (weiyu, where the sea is said to drain) releases water without ever emptying it. It does not change with the seasons, nor does it know drought or flood. Compared with the immeasurable flow of rivers, I have never boasted on that account. I stand between heaven and earth, receiving the breath of yin and yang, like a small stone or a small tree on a great mountain. If I still thought myself ‘seeing little,’ on what basis could I boast? Consider: the four seas within heaven and earth are like a single pebble in an empty valley. The Middle Kingdom within the great sea is like a single grain of millet in a great granary. What we count in tens of thousands—humankind is one of them. People live out their lives in the nine provinces, eating grain and riding in carriages wherever they can go—and each person is again only one among many. Compared with the ten thousand things, is a person not like one hair on a horse’s body?

“What the Five Emperors handed down, what the Three Kings contested, what the benevolent worry over, what the responsible toil at—all lies within this scope. Boyi yielded the realm for a name; Confucius spoke widely for breadth—they thought highly of themselves, did they not, just as you were boasting in the water a moment ago?”

In his commentary on “not distinguishing ox from horse,” Guo Xiang says this is about keeping the mind broad and the outlook wide—not fixating on petty distinctions. When he says he is “only laughed at by those at home in the great Way,” he is admitting that before people who truly grasp the Dao, if one knows only the “small” and not how to rest in what is fitting for each position and role, one will appear cramped and ill at ease. Principle (li) and allotted place (fen) each have their constant measure; the “elevation” of the mood of natural non-action (wuwei) shows itself precisely in each thing staying in its place and not acting rashly.

Things are born able to settle into their own stations; each has a limit to what it seeks. Only because they can know their proper share can one speak of “principle.” If you compare the volume of every stream to the river, the river to the sea, and the sea to heaven and earth, layer by layer, each layer has its own “measure.” The tone of this passage sounds as if it were saying “contemplating the great clarifies the small”—but on closer reading, Guo Xiang’s point is not simply to set the great against the small as a contrast.

What people suffer from is often not the things themselves but that the heart cannot be “level”—cannot treat things as equal, cannot rest each in its own place. Those who grasp the “great” lightly take the “small” to mean “nothing is lacking”; those who grasp the “small” smugly take the “great” to mean “already complete.” Thus, ranking high and low, exaggerating and competing, they lose themselves between looking up and looking down—this is where ordinary people commonly go astray.

To correct this confusion, it is better first to push the difference between “great” and “small” to the limit, then understand each side on its own terms: if the great is “utterly sufficient,” then the fineness of an autumn hair need not drag down heaven and earth; if the small is “without surplus,” then the vastness of heaven and earth need not exceed a single autumn hair. When each knows its extreme, every thing rests in its allotted place, and the person who is “free and easy” moves at the pace of what is innate, roaming in the realm where each part obtains its own share.

If one only contemplates the great yet cannot rest in what is small, or looks at the small and thinks one already has enough, one will run and chase and find no peace—this is the opposite of what Guo Xiang stresses as “knowing one’s share and resting in it.”