《南华真经义海纂微》Vol. 15

“What is there to rejoice about?” Confucius said, “Excellent!” Then he gave up social ties, left his disciples, and withdrew into a great wilderness and marshland. He wore coarse cloth and fur, and ate acorns and chestnuts. When he walked among beasts, he did not scatter the herd; when he walked among birds, he did not break their formation. Birds and beasts did not shun him—how much less would people?

Guo Xiang comments: Misfortune comes from using cleverness to rush about in rivalry. Trees are cut down and wells run dry—that is the damage done by talent and wit. If you cling to small differences, you stand at odds with others; if you merge with the greater sameness, you no longer stand apart in the world. What gleams and shows itself is only the trace left by what is hidden and dim. Here words are used to forget bodily form, and Chen and Cai are invoked as a figure of speech. Those who lean on merit and think they have already finished never truly have. Merit is brought about by the many, so it is given back to the many. The Way moves on its own in obscurity; everyone rests at ease in that. Such action is not a matter of winning a name first and only then settling into it. Without deliberate intent, achievement completes itself on the other side, so the impetus is not in oneself, and fame and deeds fall away. Let feeling follow what is natural and hand things over—each bears what is theirs to bear. Still, plain, with nothing clinging in the heart—that is the perfected person. Giving up company and leaving disciples means taking up the renunciation of worldly likes; like grass and trees without designs, birds and beasts therefore do not fear. This pushes “entrusted words” to an extreme, to show a trust pushed to the full: entrusting faith to the ten thousand things, with no place that “receives” something from outside.

Lü Huichéng’s commentary: Binbin zhizhi describes how, when birds fly, their wings hang low and move slowly, as if in disarray—outwardly mixed yet not chaotic, seeming incapable yet not truly incapable. “Yin yuan er fei, po xie er qi” means they fly by pulling one another along and roost pressed close together; whether moving or resting they hesitate and linger, acting only when they must. Advancing without daring to take the lead, retreating without daring to fall behind—neither showing off nor hiding away. Not tasting food first but taking only what is left places one in a position of not competing with others. Not being pushed out of the ranks means others cannot harm you—this is the principle of living together with people. Knowing that once achievement is complete there must be loss, one relinquishes it and returns it to the multitude—this is the way of the person of great accomplishment (one whose merit is fully rounded). The Dao flows through the world yet does not conspicuously occupy a fixed place, so people do not see his achievement; “de” (obtaining) is “De” (Virtue): De is practiced yet does not lodge in reputation, so people do not hear his name. Pure and unified, holding to constancy, yet seeming like wild abandon—that is acting without deliberate intent yet freely going one’s way; not keeping achievement for oneself but giving the surplus back to the multitude. Thus one who has the Dao can offer what is extra to the world. Confucius’s way of conducting himself in the straits at Chen and Cai was not because he fell short of these principles—it was that intellect had no further recourse. Those who study Confucius, if they do not grasp “not being expelled from the ranks” and the principle of entering among birds and beasts, will rarely avoid the stage of carrying the sun and moon aloft in display and being burdened by fame and achievement.

Yí Dú’s commentary: The person of great accomplishment refers to Laozi. By stripping away achievement and name and returning them to the multitude, he is therefore not destroyed and not diminished. The Dao spreads through the world yet no trace is seen; De is carried out in the world yet no name is heard. Unmixed and unchanged, without deliberate intent yet like wild abandon—thus he does not demand of others, and others do not demand of him. This is the Way of the perfected person (one whose cultivation has reached the utmost). The perfected person does not wish his name to be known—why then should you be fond of reputation? The Master therefore took leave of friends, left his disciples, and fled into the great marshes, wearing coarse cloth and eating acorns and chestnuts, wholly casting off worldly attachments to pursue what lies beyond the ten thousand things. Birds and beasts thereby grew gentle and tame—how much more so people?

Master Buxu (Chen Jingyuan, styled Master Buxu) explains: This bird is called Yidai (“Lazy Intent”), taking its name from its lack of any wish to beat its wings and soar. It flies alongside its companions and, when it eats, picks only leftover crumbs—showing how deeply it thinks about avoiding harm. Today Confucius displays his wisdom in editing the Book of Odes and Book of Documents, and cultivates himself to establish ritual and music, shining like the sun and moon so that everyone honors him as a teacher. This is like a straight-standing tree or a sweet well—they are the first to be felled or drained dry. Those who parade their achievements and cling to reputation cannot long preserve themselves. Thus the spirit person has no merit of his own; merit returns to the people. The sage has no fame of his own; fame returns to his ministers. The Dao and its qi circulate and spread—when have they ever displayed themselves? Where the perfected person dwells, he can put the Way into practice, yet the people cannot see his tracks. Holding to plain simplicity and the ordinary, he seems almost reckless: in the eyes of Heaven’s Way he is a gentleman, in the eyes of the world a petty man. Strip away the sage’s deeds and there is no merit to speak of; cast off power and position and there is no name to speak of. If one polishes talent and wisdom to startle the foolish, there will be hardship like the siege at Chen and Cai (when Confucius was trapped between Chen and Cai). Then Confucius broke off contact, left his followers, and fled into the great marsh—just like Yidai huddling together to roost: not pushed out of the flock, not disliked by birds and beasts—how much more so by human beings.

Master Yanzhai (Lin Xiyi, styled Yanzhai) says: Yidai is the swallow. “Pressed close and roosting together” means it nests near people, does not gather in large flocks or fly about wildly, but each pair attaches to a household—so outsiders cannot harm it. It follows the Way and hides itself in obscurity; hence “the Dao flows without showing itself.” Where it lives it can carry out its intent, yet it does not lift itself up by reputation; hence “it dwells and acts without making a name of its place.” Plainness and the ordinary are really one thing; it seems reckless as if without cunning, not striving for merit or fame, so neither others nor oneself have cause to blame it—no trace, and it transforms of itself. If the perfected person wishes not to be known in the world, why must you treat becoming famous as something to rejoice in? The closing lines mean the same as “eating pork like eating human flesh” in the Liezi.

The two lines “Dao liu er bu ming ju, de xing er bu ming chu” should be broken evenly when read; the sense is clear as it stands. Guo Xiang (Jin-dynasty commentator on the Zhuangzi) placed his gloss under the word ming, so later readers did not adopt this punctuation. Only Lü Huiqing and Lin Yidul—in Lin’s own form, Lin Ziyi—took ju and chu as line endings, which is correct; then de, ming, and the ming in the line above line up, and the passage matches what comes before. The point is that Dao and De flow everywhere and are present in all things, yet one does not put one’s virtue and name on display, lest one invite being cut down and drained dry. Staying plain and ordinary, almost to the point of seeming dull or reckless, with no mutual blame between self and world, one can walk among herds of beasts without scattering them and among flocks of birds without disturbing them. This is what Confucius took to heart and practiced from the words of the person of consummate attainment—the subtlety of cleansing the mind and keeping it deeply hidden—and thus set it before later ages as a standard and a warning.

Confucius asked Zisang Ju, a recluse: “Twice I was driven out of Lu; in Song someone tried to harm me by felling a tree over me; in Wei I could not stay; I was worn down between Shang and Zhou; and I was besieged between Chen and Cai. After meeting with such disasters, my kin and old friends drew ever farther away, and my disciples and friends scattered ever more widely—why?”

Zisang Ju said: “Have you not heard what happened when people fled a state that had been overrun? Lin Hui abandoned a jade disk worth a thousand in gold and fled carrying a baby on his back. Someone asked: ‘Was it for money? A baby is worth little. Was it because the baby was less of a burden? A baby is a greater burden.’ To cast away a thousand‑gold jade and run with a baby on his back—why? Lin Hui said: ‘The jade was joined by profit; the baby is joined by heavenly affinity (natural kinship). Those joined by profit, when poverty and disaster come, cast each other off; those joined by natural affinity, when poverty and disaster come, take each other in. To take in and to cast off—how far apart they are! Moreover, the friendship of the noble person is as plain as water; the friendship of the petty person is as sweet as thick wine. The noble person is plain yet stays close; the petty person is sweet yet breaks off easily. Those who gather without any root cause also part without any cause.”

Confucius said: “I receive your teaching with respect.” Thereupon he walked back slowly and at ease, gave up his studies, and set his books aside. His disciples no longer stepped forward to bow in the usual way, yet their reverence and affection for him grew deeper.

Later, on another day, Sang Ju also said: “When Shun was about to die, Zhen Ling admonished Yu: ‘Be careful! Let the body best follow along; let the disposition best be sincere and true. When you follow along, you will not lose your way; when you are sincere and true, you will not be worn out. If you do not lose your way and are not worn out, you need not adorn the body with ornament; when you need not adorn the body, you need not depend on external things.’”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Noble persons do not befriend one another for profit, hence their relations are plain; they are close because they accord in the Way. Petty persons dress up their dealings with profit, hence they seem sweet; profit cannot last, so the bond breaks. A union that forms without a special reason belongs to affinity by nature; when union does not depend on reasons, it will not split for reasons either. When union depends on reasons, it must split when those reasons fail. Affection that grows deeper still is a matter of dropping pretense and returning to what is genuine. Following the body and keeping to true feeling, one does not twist things with profit. When the body does not borrow from external things, it can stay whole; when feeling is not ornamented, it can stay at ease; going straight ahead in plain simplicity, one can often be content.

Lü’s commentary: If in studying Confucius one does not know there is such a thing as heavenly affinity and takes learning and books as the main task, one cannot thereby unite with Heaven. Because there is no forced shaping, one is often at ease; because one goes straight ahead in plain simplicity, one is often content.

Those who study only Confucius yet fail to recognize “heaven-given kinship” (tiān shǔ)—the bonds of flesh and blood granted by nature—and who treat reading and scholarship as the one thing that matters, will find that all their dealings with the world are merely artificial arrangements. The body is best when it follows outer things; when it follows them, it does not split off but naturally joins. Intent and feeling are best when they are plain and true; when they are true, there is no need to strain and one is at ease. Neither splitting nor toiling—simply acting according to one’s inborn endowment is enough; why seek ornament and polish for the body? Without ornament toward the body, one need not lean on external things. This is the utmost of “abandoning conventional learning and discarding books” (jué xué juān shū).

Commentary (Yidu): Those who associate through power part when power fades; those who unite for profit scatter when profit is gone. Only the ties between father and son, elder and younger brother, are heaven-given; their mutual closeness shows most clearly in poverty and disaster. Hence Grand Historian Sima Qian said that in illness people invariably call for their parents. The Book of Odes says: “In the grief of death and loss, brothers are deeply bound in heart.” That is why the parable of a false state’s fall and people fleeing is used: Lin Hui did not prize a thousand pieces of jade, but fled carrying an infant—this came from inborn nature. At first they joined without any human contrivance; now they do not part, again without human contrivance. The noble person meets others through the Dao, so the bond is plain; the petty person meets through profit, so it feels sweet. Meeting through the Dao and heaven-given kinship share the same ultimate direction. After Confucius fell into hardship, the disciples who came and went scattered all the more, because the original union had a contrived cause, and parting likewise had a cause. As Shun lay dying, he entrusted the genuine great Dao to Yu: the body is best when it accords with circumstances—do not use the mind to drive the body; intent and feeling are best when plain and true—do not let outer things go against intent and feeling. When the body accords with circumstances it does not split; when intent and feeling are true there is no toil. Then there is no need for ornament to return to simplicity, and no need for external things to feel sufficient in oneself.

Commentary (Bixu): Kinship that is heaven-given is plain yet can be close; unions built on profit are sweet but in the end are cut off. Union without human contrivance can be intimate; union only because of human contrivance will be severed. Confucius abandoned learning and discarded books, yet his disciples advanced all the more—because the bond of profit was removed and what remained was belonging by inborn nature. When Shun was about to die, he used the clear, still, silent true Dao to instruct Yu: the body is outward—follow outer things; intent and feeling are inward—govern them yourself in plain truth. When outer things are followed, there is union; when you can govern yourself, there is ease. Both united and at ease—why borrow fine words to adorn the body and serve it? Originally there was no need for outer things to attach to oneself. “Outer things” here means relatives, associates, disciples, friends, and the like.

Xisan (the style name of Lin Xiyi, a Song-dynasty commentator) says that leng (“cold”) should be read as ling, meaning to instruct and make clear: the True Lord—the inner master—expounds the Way to people. What is called yuan (conditioned arising) is following nature; what is called shuai (leading along) is acting in step with nature. “Not separating” means becoming one with the Dao. Xing (form) means one’s own person; wen (pattern/adornment) means things outside oneself. Do not treat what lies outside the self as something with which to “host” or entertain the self—dai (to treat or host) is like receiving a guest, called daike (entertaining a guest). If you do not take externals as ornamental finery, you do not lean on outer things. The “not depending” (bu dai) spoken of here is precisely not drawing support from them.

Kin united by nature shelter one another: arising from the natural, they join without any deliberate you (cause or reason). Drawing close for profit, arising from human contrivance, is joining with a cause. Set the Master’s dealings with his disciples beside Lin Hui (who in peril cast away the jade disk and fled carrying an infant) and the infant, and the contrast between union with cause and union without cause stands out. “Plain yet close; sweet yet cut off” is again a general remark on worldly feeling—the very boundary between mutual embrace and mutual rejection. After the Master had awakened, he went home, broke off formal study, arrived at wuwei (non-action), put books aside, and traced the root of why those deeds were recorded at all. The disciples no longer came forward with bowing and yielding; in his presence they forgot one another in the deeper sense, and affection grew all the stronger. Shedding ornament and following what is genuinely one’s own belong to natural kinship—why should only father and son count as closest? When the body accords with yuan-nature and does not part from it, the person endures; when mind and feeling follow shuai-nature without strain, one’s nature stays at ease. The “I” is thus preserved—why must one rely on ritual pattern (liwen) or take support from external things?

Zhuangzi wore coarse cloth patched with repairs, straightened his belt, and tied his broken shoes with strips before going to see the King of Wei. The king said, “Sir, why are you in such straits?” Zhuangzi replied, “This is poverty, not destitution. When a scholar has virtue yet cannot put it into practice, that is destitution; when clothes are worn and shoes have holes, that is only poverty, not destitution. This is what people mean by not meeting the right time. Has Your Majesty never seen leaping monkeys? When they reach great trees such as nan, zi, or camphor, they grasp branches and swing among them, reigning freely in their midst—even archers as skilled as Hou Yi or Feng Meng could not aim at them with a sidelong glance. When they drop onto spiny tangles of paper mulberry, thorns, trifoliate orange, and dogwood, they walk cautiously, glance sideways, and tremble all over. It is not that their sinews and bones suddenly stiffen and lose suppleness; the terrain is unfavorable and they cannot deploy their abilities. To be among a benighted ruler and rebellious ministers today and still expect not to be in straits—how could that be possible? Bi Gan’s heart being cut out is clear proof of that!”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: When one meets the right time and gains a fitting place, one can display one’s strengths; even the finest archers of old could not harm such a person. When circumstances are adverse yet one forces action, one meets death.

Lu’s commentary: That Zhuangzi spoke so boldly yet was not harmed shows that he emptied himself and moved through the world. Meeting the right time and a fitting place lets one show one’s strengths so that even ancient master archers cannot injure one; forcing action when the situation is wrong leads to being killed. He adds: Zhuangzi’s bold speech without harm is proof of emptying oneself and roaming in the world.

Yidu’s commentary: “Great cloth” means coarse fabric. Xiu is a shoe thong; the shoes were broken, so he bound them with strips. When the King of Wei lamented the master’s straits, Zhuangzi answered that this was poverty, not exhaustion, and compared himself to the leaping monkey. Finding nan, zi, and camphor wood is like the noble person meeting the right moment; being among paper mulberry, thorns, trifoliate orange, and dogwood now means meeting a benighted ruler and disorderly ministers—wanting not to be in straits is impossible. If one insists on speaking directly about the Way, Bi Gan’s cut-out heart is plain verification.

Bixu’s commentary: When virtue cannot be applied to others, that is exhaustion (bei); not meeting the time yet holding to hardship is poverty. Leaping monkeys in trees reign when favored and walk carefully in difficulty. People who flaunt talent amid chaotic times inevitably draw disaster.

Yanzhai says: Lan is to grasp; man is to twine. Adding “jiājí” (tightening) above “not supple” depicts the monkey’s state with particular finesse. The closing “zhēng yě fū” is also striking.

Placing profit and rank outside the heart while holding fast to one’s aspiration is called “poverty” (pin); lacking inner integrity and sinking in spirit is called “exhaustion” (bei). Poverty is an ordinary condition for the scholar; only the collapse of spirit is the scholar’s true loss. Therefore Zhuangzi (Huainan/Nanhua tradition), on a single character’s difference, insists on rectifying names so that words match what is real. His comparison to the leaping ape is a reluctant device: he means to separate fine timber such as nan and zi from thorny stock such as zhe and ji, and thereby portray one who is born out of season. Read in that light, his reply is the speech of one who honors resolve. Alas—when a scholar embraces the Dao yet finds no one who truly hears him, in what age is there no “King of Wei,” who mistakes poverty for spiritual exhaustion? If the heart is broad and the body at ease, that already surpasses such a plight; then where remain “poverty” and “exhaustion”?

Confucius was trapped between the states of Chen and Cai and for seven days could not kindle a fire to cook food. He leaned his left hand on a withered tree and tapped a dry branch with his right, singing in the style of the ancient Biao songs. He had something to strike with, yet it did not follow the rules of rhythm; he had a voice, yet it lacked the pitch of notes such as gong and jue. Even so, the sound of wood and the sound of song harmonized with each other and were just able to move the heart.

Yan Hui stood upright with hands folded and glanced at Confucius. Confucius feared that Yan Hui would inflate himself and become arrogant, or pity him and fall into grief, so he said: “Hui, it is easy not to be harmed by Heaven, but hard not to accept benefits from others. There is no beginning that is not also an end; human beings and Heaven are originally one body. Who is it, right now, who is singing?”

Yan Hui said: “May I ask what it means that not being harmed by Heaven is easy?” Confucius said: “Hunger and thirst, cold and heat, constraint and bonds that keep one from acting smoothly—all are the movement of Heaven and earth, the natural release in the turning of the ten thousand things. The meaning is that one should go forward with them and pass away with them. One who serves as a minister does not even dare leave his post; if guarding one’s role as subject is like this, how much more so when we treat Heaven!”

“What does it mean that not accepting benefits from others is hard?” Confucius said: “As soon as one is employed, one is at ease everywhere; rank and salary arrive together without end. The profit that outer things bring is not something that comes from oneself; my fate has a part that lies outside. The noble person does not act as a robber, the worthy person does not act as a thief. If I were to take all this as my own, what would I be! Therefore it is said that no bird is cleverer than the yiyia. When its eyes see a place where it ought not to stay, it does not even look again; even if fruit falls, it drops it and goes. It fears people, yet it nests among human beings—only because there is the altar of soil and grain there,” meaning a place in the human world where one can settle.

“What does it mean that there is no beginning that is not an end?” Confucius said: “The ten thousand things change, yet one does not know what succeeds them—how can one know where the end is, or where the beginning is? One need only set oneself upright and quietly await change.”

“What does it mean that human beings and Heaven are one body?” Confucius said: “Human existence comes from Heaven, and Heaven’s existence is likewise Heaven. A human being cannot take Heaven as his private possession—this is how nature is. The sage simply rests in passing away and completes the course of a lifetime in peace.”

In Guo Xiang’s reading, when the diminution sent down from Heaven arrives, one need only receive it in peace—hence it is called “easy.” Things that external objects happen to send one’s way cannot be forbidden or blocked. What counts as a beginning today was already an ending yesterday; thus beginning and ending are one. This means transformation is inexhaustible and everything arises from the natural (ziran). If one leaves it to nature, then the one who sings is not “I.” The movement of Heaven and Earth cannot be evaded; going along with it, one is without knowing or awareness, following the rule of the Heavenly Emperor (the constant way of nature)—wherever one arrives, there is peace. Not treating diminution as diminution is truly awaiting Heaven without suffering its harm. Responding to things and penetrating in all directions is called “fourfold penetration” (sida), and so one can handle what is vast and lofty. Benefits that things grant oneself are not what one has sought on one’s own. While alive, one necessarily has a lot in life that meets external things—not like tile and stone, which merely rest in form and stuff. Theft is taking in secret; when the noble person receives rank and stipend, it is not private seizure but simply acceptance. The bird yiyi (often said to know the right moment) fears people yet enters human dwellings—therefore it is called “knowing.” How much more so the perfected person (zhiren), who is mysteriously one with the world: people together honor him as they do the altars of soil and grain (sheji). Therefore not accepting the increase others would give is what is difficult.

In Lü Huiqing’s reading, “the wind of the Yan clan” is “the hymn of the Yan clan” (an ancient Yan-clan song). When the sound of wood and the sound of human voices clearly accord with the heart, that heart is no more than dead wood or a withered branch. Starting from “no self” (wuji) and extending it is fabricating the “great”; cherishing it is fabricating sorrow. Not bearing Heaven’s diminution is easy; not accepting people’s increase is hard. As for Heaven’s diminution now, one is merely one with it.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: The “wind of the Biāo clan” that Confucius sang is the same as the hymn of the Yàn clan. The clear knock of withered wood and human song match the human heart—showing that this heart is already like dead wood and dry branches, without stir or ripple. To turn from forgetting the self and then inflate oneself is to manufacture “greatness”; to pity and cherish oneself is to manufacture sorrow. Not accepting diminution from Heaven is easy; not accepting increase from human affairs is hard. What lies before you is only hardship imposed by Heaven—why inflate yourself to manufacture “greatness”? No beginning is not also an end; one need only stand upright and wait. Human and Heaven are originally one body; it is enough to go along calmly as things pass—why love yourself and manufacture grief? Once you see who is singing in this moment, you know that the truth of beginning and end, Heaven and human, is all here.

The turning of Heaven and Earth—humans cannot stop it; the flowing and dispersing of the ten thousand things—humans cannot dam them. Not accepting Heaven’s diminution means passing away together with it, not daring to treat it as harm and dodge. A minister holding his post does not even dare to leave it—how much less when facing the Heaven one awaits? Hence not accepting Heaven’s diminution is easy.

Rank and salary arriving together belong to the outward side of fate. To take the profit of external things as one’s own gain—how is that different from a thief? When paths open on every side and fortune and emolument come together, the gentleman holds that outward profit is not himself; what is allotted to him has an outward portion, so he does not dare to take it. It is like the yīyī bird—afraid of people yet nesting in human dwellings—because there it finds a place to settle. Hence not accepting human increase is hard.

The ten thousand things change, yet one does not know what succeeds them. What succeeds does not change with things—how then can one know end from beginning? “There is human” and “there is Heaven”—in the end both are Heaven. Human cannot possess Heaven as private property; that is innate nature, so “there is human” is still Heaven. See that it is Heaven, and you can go calmly with the root in passing away and live out your life.

Yidu commentary: Going seven days without cooked food brings one to the point of guarding against death; yet someone who has penetrated the mandate of Heaven (tianming) can rest in it at ease, with no situation in which death is absolutely fixed. Singing the ballads of the Chao clan means the heart takes joy in the great Dao. When one has implements but does not cling to fixed measures, one is not driven by Yin-Yang; when one has sound but does not lock it into gong or jue (two of the five tones), one is not driven by the Five Phases (Wuxing). Confucius feared that after Yan Hui heard the song he would inflate his own deeds and cultivate a lofty self-image, and that seeing hardship he would cling to life and fall into grief—so he told him: there is no fixed beginning and no fixed end; change has no limit. From the standpoint of the unity of Heaven and humankind, who is singing now? One does not know why it is so, yet it simply is so. The troubles of Yin-Yang—hunger, thirst, cold, and heat—as well as constraint, bonds, and the inability to go forward, are all the seasons of Heaven (tian shi). The turning of Heaven and Earth and the unfolding of the ten thousand things all spring from Yin-Yang. Toward us, Yin-Yang are no different from father and mother, so we transform along with them. A subject who receives an order from the ruler still dares not leave his post; how much more when what one receives is the mandate of Heaven? The opening uses “fourfold penetration” (si da) to say that one mingles in the human world and is obstructed nowhere. Rank and salary may arrive together, but one first cultivates the heavenly nobility (virtue), and human nobility (office) follows. The noble person (junzi) accepts rank to benefit the ten thousand things—he does not tie it to himself. What is called mandate has an outward aspect: increase that comes from others arrives from outside; to receive it with utmost fairness is not to steal or seize. Whoever cannot fill his own proper share is a thief. Why should I take for myself alone? The point is that receiving others’ increase is not for private gain. The yiyi bird mingles among people; because people love to be near it, it avoids harm. This illustrates how the sage “harmonizes his light and mingles with the dust” (he guang tong chen): the world gladly honors him and does not grow weary. What shapes the ten thousand things is “transformation” (hua); what hands the succession from one to the next is “change” (bian). Change and transformation rise in turn, and no one knows where they begin or end. Straighten yourself and wait: then there is Heaven within the person, and also Heaven within Heaven (tian zhong zhi tian). If the person cannot preserve Heaven, that is having nature (xing) without mandate (ming); if Heaven cannot hold the person, that is having mandate without nature. The logic of xing and ming is like Yin and Yang—neither can be missing. Penetrate passing and decline, and in the end accord with the principle of xing and ming; then one aligns with the transformation shared by Heaven and humankind.

Bixu commentary: Leaning on the armrest, strumming the zither—there is Heaven within Heaven. When the person cannot preserve Heaven, there is nature without mandate; when Heaven cannot hold the person, there is mandate without nature. The logic of xing and ming is like Yin and Yang—they cannot be absent from each other. Follow passing and decline, and in the end accord with the principle of xing and ming, and one merges with the transformation of Heaven and humankind.

Bi Xu (Song-dynasty Daoist Chen Jingyuan, styled Bixuzi) comments as follows: Confucius leaned on his armrest, plucking the zither and singing ancient airs. He feared that Yan Hui might praise himself too highly and fall into the illusion of being “great,” and that from cherishing himself too much he would sink into sorrow; so he told him: to meet hunger, thirst, hardship, and having nowhere to turn yet not grieve is relatively easy; to face rank, stipend, and the gains of power and position without the heart being moved—that is hard. “No beginning that is not also an end” means: where there is such a destiny, there is such an outcome; what one encounters and what Heaven bestows are not two different things. Now the song is unlike the usual, and he himself does not know why.

Great drought, cold and heat, and obstruction and blockage where nothing gets through—all are Heaven’s lessening of a person. To rise and fall with these changes is easy; to resist them is hard. When the ruler’s command arrives, one still cannot escape it; how much more when it is Heaven’s way one must answer to! When rank and stipend come, they are for the benefit of the many, not for oneself. Fate (ming) belongs inwardly; the honor of rank and stipend is outward—yet it is fate all the same. The realm is a shared vessel—how could one take it as a private possession?

The swallow is called wise because it keeps far from harm. It picks a dwelling very well, does not look back when fruit falls, and stays well clear of people. Still it must live near people, because that is where its nest is. Confucius held that obstruction and lack of access belong to Heaven’s mandate, so they are easy to accept in peace; rank and stipend belong to human affairs, so they are hard to refuse. That he went through danger and still could not bear to leave was because his ancestors’ tombs and his homeland were in Lu.

Nothing among the ten thousand things lacks a beginning and an end; only one who can exhaust the full truth of nature and life (xingming) is not trapped by beginning and end. What has form and stands between Heaven and Earth is the human being; distress and rank and stipend belong to Heaven. Once united with Heaven, poverty and eminence are no longer for the person to decide. That people cannot follow Heaven’s principle yet act on their own—that too is how things are by nature. Therefore the sage is plain and without private attachment, moving on as change comes—this is the utmost of understanding fate.

Yizhai (the style name of Lin Xiyei; here referring to his commentary) says: What is meant by “making oneself grand” is holding oneself in high esteem. If one pursues things with a mind that exalts the self, there is no limit to where one can go; if one thinks with a mind that cherishes the self, one will inevitably fall into sorrow. “Human and Heaven are one” means that whatever belongs to me is Heavenly principle; what is singing now is not “I” either.

“Not receiving damage from Heaven” means that though poor one can still be at ease; “not receiving increase from others” means that though rich one does not indulge. When the harm Heaven sends arrives, one cannot refuse it or fail to settle into it—hence it is said to be easy. When benefits others give arrive, one wants to decline but cannot—hence it is said to be hard. Being constrained by poverty, things not going smoothly, things one cannot push away, the dispersal and dissipation in the turning of the myriad things, the comings and goings of fate—all are Heaven. Even a ruler’s command cannot be disobeyed; how could the mandate of Heaven be disobeyed? This is why not receiving Heaven’s damage is actually easy.

“At first use” means that as soon as this mind arises, it opens in all directions with nothing blocking it; affairs gather accordingly, rank and salary come from outside—that too is fate—so it is said that part of my fate lies outside myself. Receiving salary without merit— the noble person takes this as shame and views it like theft; yet some things cannot be pushed away. That is why not receiving increase from others is actually difficult.

The yiyi is the “bird of slack intent” (a cautious small bird in Zhuangzi). It fears people yet lives close to them, perching in the area of the sheji (Earth and Grain spirits, where the state sacrifices)—people naturally respect it and leave it be; like swallows nesting in human homes, people naturally love and accommodate them. This means that someone in wealth and honor who can be like the yiyi—neither benefiting nor harming people—will not be mocked and disliked. But once one is rich and honored, how can one be neither benefiting nor harming? Hence this is difficult.

“No beginning that is not also an end” means not knowing its beginning or end—simply being within transformation and creation, waiting for it.

Human beings are born of Heaven, so having humans is having Heaven; Heaven too is made by transformation and creation, so having Heaven is still Heaven. Xing (nature) is the xing of Heaven’s mandate; here “xing” and “sheng” (life/birth) mean the same. Human nature is there from birth, all received from Heaven—not given by others. So the sage rests in this, merely fulfilling this one life.

Dead trees and dead branches are things utterly devoid of feeling or awareness. To sing of the wind of the Bi clan is to mourn the present age and long for antiquity. To expand oneself outward in order to fashion “greatness” is merely to inflate affairs to excess; to cling to oneself and thereby manufacture sorrow is to fix one’s emotions in grief and anguish. Confucius once said that to be poor without resentment is hard, while to be rich without arrogance is easy. The Nanhua Zhenjing (Zhuangzi) deliberately inverts this saying—its wording is especially startling, yet the underlying sense does not contradict the original. This is precisely where it surpasses the other masters. “Poor without resentment is hard” is spoken with ordinary people in mind; “to accept heaven’s damage is easy” is spoken with those who cultivate the Way in mind. Yan Hui ate from a bamboo basket and drank from a gourd yet remained joyful—this is the ease of not being harmed by heaven’s damage. Prince Sou mounted his carriage and cried out to heaven—this is the difficulty of refusing human benefit. When heaven’s damage arrives, settling oneself rests entirely in one’s own hands; one does not treat damage as damage, hence it is easy. When human benefit arrives, one must restrain it through one’s own dignity yet cannot fully decline it, hence it is difficult. Yet fortune and misfortune lean on each other, their pattern like a turning wheel—how can we know that heaven’s damage is not benefit, or human benefit is not damage? Therefore the person who has attained clarity treats damage as gain, and dwells in obstruction as in ease; so they do not indulge or drift, and neither life nor death can steal their heart. Truly to understand that no beginning is not also an end—what damage could harm them? The principles of heaven and humanity mutually give rise to one another. What is sung now is not “I,” but what the Creator employs. The myriad things receive the transforming nurture of heaven and earth no differently from a subject obeying a ruler’s command; only one who keeps the Dao within oneself is not subject to such damage. When all sorts of encounters arrive together and fate is tied to external things, gaining them has its own course—it is not craft or seizure. Thus when human benefit comes, the noble person may sometimes accept it. The yixiao—a bird that fears people yet lives among them—serves as a metaphor for navigating the world while preserving oneself; its clinging to its nest and refusal to leave is like a person guarding the altars of soil and grain and unable to depart. Heaven and earth transform and nurture the myriad things, yet things do not perceive themselves as changing. The human being should use the natural to accord with the natural, rest in the times and entrust oneself to change, without fixing mind on rank, salary, poverty, or fetters. If one cannot preserve what is natural, one is not even the equal of the yixiao. Regarding the term “yun wu” (moving things), Bixuzi (the Daoist scholar Chen Jingyuan), comparing the old Jiangnan manuscript, holds that it should read “yun hua” (transformation)—the sense is better; “zhi” (fetters) should be “zhi” (obstruction)—in this classic the two characters are often used interchangeably.

Zhuang Zhou came to the fence of the garden at Diaoling and saw a strange bird flying in from the south. Its wings were about seven chi across and its eyes roughly an inch wide; as its wings brushed his forehead it alighted in a grove of chestnut trees. Zhuang Zhou said, “What kind of bird is this? Its wings are huge yet it does not fly away; its eyes are large yet it does not seem to see.” He hitched up his robe, hurried after it, and stood ready with his crossbow.

He saw a cicada enjoying fine shade, pleased with itself and forgetting its own vulnerability; a mantis hid behind a leaf to catch the cicada, seeing only the catch and forgetting that its body was exposed; the strange bird was about to seize the mantis in turn, seeing only the gain and forgetting its own true nature. Zhuang Zhou was startled and said, “Alas! Things naturally entangle one another; two kinds of beings often bring disaster on each other!” He threw down his crossbow, turned, and ran; the keeper of the garden pursued and reprimanded him.

After Zhuang Zhou returned home, he did not leave his hall for three months. Lin Ju asked, “Master, why have you been so downcast lately and not crossed the threshold?” Zhuang Zhou said, “I clung only to outward form and forgot myself—like staring at muddy water until I was confused before a clear deep pool. I have heard you say: when you arrive somewhere, you should follow its customs. This time I wandered at Diaoling and forgot myself; the strange bird struck my forehead, and in the chestnut grove I forgot my true nature again. The keeper of the chestnut grove treated me as someone who deserved blame, so I have stayed indoors in low spirits.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: the mantis used a leaf to hide while hunting the cicada, yet forgot that its own body was visible to the strange bird. The power of sight and of flight was this bird’s true nature, but now, because it saw profit, it forgot that nature. In pursuit of advantage, beings often drag one another down; if you covet things, things covet you. “Sui” means to question or rebuke sharply. Living in the world, one meets both ease and danger; if you carry only a look of comfort into the world without gauging whether it fits, that is guarding form while forgetting the self. When you see others yet fail to understand, you should turn that sight back on yourself and not forget to look inward. “When in a village, follow its customs” means not violating local prohibitions. To be questioned and blamed is to suffer humiliation. Zhuangzi extends the principle of equalizing things to the whole world; he often lodges his meaning in words, so above he criticizes Confucius, undervalues Laozi, and attacks the Three Sovereigns, while below he speaks with equal sharpness about his own person.

According to Lü's annotation: Seeing the strange magpie as a profit to be gained, one follows the desires of the eyes and ears—this is clinging to outward form. Yet one fails to realize that the scolding of the ranger of the chestnut grove is sufficient to bring shame—this is forgetting oneself. When the mind moves and contacts external things, it is like turbid water; when still and looking inward, it is like a clear abyss (Qingyuan). The sage who has attained the Dao, facing this clear abyss, never loses himself for a moment. Zhuangzi spoke these words to show how to wander in the world with a mind of emptiness and stillness: just as when speaking with King Wei, though one may be safe from harm, one cannot ignore what the world fears.

Yidu's annotation holds: Fan (obstruction) and Gan (stimulation). The cicada finds a fine shade, desiring little, and only forgets itself. The mantis catches the cicada, focused entirely on gain, its delusion growing; it not only forgets itself but forgets its form. The strange magpie follows to seize profit, determined to get it, its delusion even greater, forgetting even the principle of nature and life (Xingming). When people are deluded by profit and desire, the greater the desire, the more they forget—how can one not be cautious? Zhuangzi realized this and sighed: all things inherently entangle one another; two types of things attract each other. He threw down his crossbow and returned, but the ranger of the chestnut grove suspected him of stealing chestnuts and chased him to scold him. Zhuangzi understood how things are, and stayed home for three months without leaving the courtyard. His disciple Lin Qie, puzzled, asked him. He replied: I guarded my outward form but forgot myself; seeing the profit desired by the cicada and magpie, they too forgot themselves; seeing turbid water, I lost the clear abyss—because I saw them, I reflected upon myself. Here, "the Master" refers to Laozi. Entering the world and following its ways is harmonizing light and mixing with dust (He Guang Tong Chen).

Bixu's annotation states: All things entangle one another; forgetting what should not be forgotten is due to mutual resonance. Thus Zhuangzi dropped his crossbow and turned back, yet the ranger suspected him of stealing chestnuts. For three months he did not leave the courtyard, because the ranger’s shame and questioning made him regret clinging to form; now he realizes he forgot himself, understanding that previously he only watched the dust of the external world, losing the clarity of inner contemplation. Here, "the Master" refers to Changsangzi, Zhuangzi’s teacher. Entering the mundane world and knowing prohibitions allows one to avoid calamity; entering a domain and violating prohibitions brings blame. This is a metaphor for Confucius entering the human world yet still unable to avoid being killed and humiliated—they are all merely those who narrowly escaped the disaster of being cooked.

This passage explains the parable in Zhuangzi’s “Mountain Tree” and older commentaries on it. Yi Zhai (Lin Xiyi) says that huge wings that still do not look and huge eyes that still do not see depict the posture of chasing external things until one is lost in delusion. The mantis and the magpie are different kinds, yet they lure each other on; both forget body and genuineness and drag each other down. “Preserving form and nurturing life” means that one was originally learning to nurture life, then suddenly, in chasing the magpie, forgot oneself—desire has stirred up and disturbed the principle of Heaven (Tianli). Muddy water stands for human desire; a clear deep pool stands for the principle of Heaven. Before entering another state one should first ask about local custom; straying into someone else’s chestnut grove is breaking the prohibition. Things, large or small, once there is pursuit, all lead to confusion without knowing it.

“Fan,” in older explanations, was taken as the “fan” of a fence or barrier; the sound and sense diverge widely, and the imagined scene is cramped and mean—not a place fit for free wandering. Here it is read literally as shan fan, the timbered slope at the foot of a hill. In the “Ze Yang” chapter, “in summer one rests in the shan fan” means a place where the woods are thick. “Three months without attending court”: the Yinyi notes a variant reading “three days”; given the later phrase “in a moment” (qing jian), “three days” is likely correct and “months” a copyist’s slip. “Follow their custom”: in Chen Jingyuan’s Bixu edition the text reads “follow their command”; the underlying character was probably jin (“today”), which fits Guo Xiang’s commentary and matches the sense in the Liji: “On entering a frontier, first ask what is forbidden; on entering a state, first ask what the customs are.”

Yangzi (Yang Zhu) went to Song and lodged at an inn. The innkeeper had two concubines, one beautiful and one ugly; the ugly one was treated with respect and the beautiful one with contempt. Yangzi asked why. A young servant at the inn said: the beautiful one thinks herself beautiful, so I do not find her beautiful; the ugly one thinks herself ugly, so I do not find her ugly. Yangzi said: Disciples, remember this—practice what is worthy, but drop the manner of thinking yourself worthy; where would you not be welcomed? Guo Xiang comments: to deem oneself worthy is never right, at any time. Lü Huiqing comments: it is precisely because self-righteous “worthiness” is removed that one is welcomed everywhere. Lin Yidu comments: arrogance and boasting of merit win no favor from people or spirits; empty-minded alignment with the principle of Heaven makes the whole world glad to honor you—who could turn you away? The Bixu commentary adds: because she was beautiful she was proud, and so was despised; because she was ugly she abased herself, and so was valued. Yangzi had his disciples record the point so that wherever they went they would be well received.

Chen Jingyuan (styled Master of Emerald Void) comments: Those who are beautiful yet pride themselves are instead looked down upon; those who are homely yet humble are instead held in esteem. Yangzi had his disciples record this to teach later generations of virtuous people to abandon the practice of considering themselves virtuous. The matter of the beautiful and homely concubines shows that what appears similar between being "talented" and "untalented" is in fact not the same at all.

Chu Boxiu (styled Yanzhai) says: One who possesses the virtue of the worthy yet does not boast of it will be loved wherever they go. This passage, together with the earlier chapter on the cicada and magpie, contains what scholars find most immediately beneficial. If one still harbors the behavior of considering oneself virtuous, even the beautiful will be disliked—how much more so the homely? If one abandons self-regard as virtuous, even the homely will be loved—how much more so the beautiful? Beauty and ugliness reside in the physical form; love and hatred reside in the heart; honor and disgrace reside in fate. Once the physical form is fixed, it cannot be changed; fate sometimes brings hardship, sometimes prosperity, yet the heart shifts with external things, so love and hatred have no fixed standard. When the other party considers themselves beautiful or homely, and I no longer distinguish their beauty or ugliness, heart and external things are forgotten together, merging into the primordial undifferentiated state (mingxi)—only then can one transform and guide the ten thousand things. The other can abandon "being worthy"; this one can forget "being worthy"—this is not elevating the worthy (bu shang xian), and thus the people do not contend, returning to self-transformation (zihua). In governing through non-action (wuwei), nothing is greater than this; hence it is used to conclude the parable of the mountain tree.

This chapter takes “Mountain Trees” as its title and develops the meaning of the great useless tree (dashu), the oak, and the shrine tree: because they were useless as timber, they could instead live out their full span. It also contrasts this with the goose that could not honk and was killed for that reason. Thus Zhuangzi’s grasp of ordinary worldly logic is already very mature.

That trees preserve their vitality through being gnarled and useless is indeed so. Yet whether beings live long or die young, are blocked or succeed, each is settled by allotted fate and circumstance; one cannot flatly say that merely being useless timber always spares one from disaster. Both being useful timber and being useless timber still cling to outward form; taking a path between the two still leads to confusion and error. Because such a stance seems right but is not, one still cannot escape entanglement. One must leave all three positions and stand alone, relying on Dao and De to drift freely, rise and fall with the myriad things, change with the times, transcend the root of things without being dragged down, and strip away outer ornament without meeting calamity. Then the realm of “establishing virtue” and the land of Great Mo—an ideal state not sought far away—will come of itself.

Like an empty boat bumping another boat: the person does not grow angry because of it. Like collecting taxes yet not harming a single hair—such is responding to things with no deliberate mind, and things responding with no deliberate mind in turn.

As for Confucius’s hardship between Chen and Cai, he was less self-aware than the yuan you (a kind of swallow). The mantis, the cicada, and the magpie did not know someone was waiting with a crossbow to shoot them. All of these occupy a “useful” place yet have not reached full perfection, so they cannot avoid being entangled.

Lin Hui abandoned a jade disk and willingly fled carrying an infant; Emperor Shun charged Yu to value the natural bond of embodied kin and let affection be straightforward and sincere. From this one knows one should honor natural family ties and not depend on external possessions.

Going to see the King of Wei in coarse cloth and beating a withered branch while singing the songs of the Yan clan—this is plainly in poverty yet not worn down or trapped. Whoever understands that heaven’s reductions are easy to accept will, when worldly gains arrive, surely have a way to meet them in peace.

The chapter concludes: pursue deeds of virtue while dropping the performance of thinking oneself virtuous. That is the state beyond the split between useful and useless timber that truly resembles the Great Dao. Hence the True Person (Zhenren) does not fear repeated admonition, hoping those who study the Way will take one more step forward.

From Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanfang (also Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei), fascicle 62. The Siku Quanshu records fascicle 63, by Song author Chu Boxiu.

On Tianshi Zifang first: Tianshi Zifang sat beside King Wen of Wei and repeatedly praised Xi Gong. The king said, “Xi Gong is yours.” The text later cites Siku Quanshu, Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanfang, fascicle 63, Song, Chu Boxiu.

Tian Zifang (personal name Wuzhe) was in attendance beside Duke Wen of Wei. He repeatedly praised a man named Xigong. The duke asked, “Is Xigong your teacher?” Zifang said, “No—he is a fellow townsman. When he speaks about the Way, his remarks are often apt, so I praise him.” The duke said, “Then you have no teacher?” Zifang said, “I do.” “Who is it?” “Dongguo Shunzi.” The duke said, “Then why have you never praised him?” Zifang said, “He is genuinely sincere: outwardly he looks like an ordinary person, yet inwardly he accords with what is naturally so; his mind is empty and follows things along, and so he preserves his true authenticity; he is clear and pure in himself, yet can also embrace all things. When someone is out of step with the Way, he simply straightens his bearing and countenance so they come to insight, letting their misguided intent dissolve on its own. How could I be fit to speak of him in praise!”

After Zifang withdrew, Duke Wen was dazed and unsettled. All day he did not speak. He summoned the ministers before him and said, “How deep! A gentleman whose virtue is complete! At first I thought that the words of sages and the conduct of benevolence and righteousness were the ultimate. After hearing about Master Zifang’s teacher, my body felt slack and I did not want to move; my mouth seemed clamped shut and I did not want to speak. What I had learned was truly nothing but a clay puppet! The state of Wei has truly become a burden to me.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Dongguo Shunzi’s form is the same as other people’s, yet he alone relies on the natural. His mind is empty and follows things, so his true authenticity is not lost. The flaw of “clear purity” lies in being overly clean; he is clear yet can embrace things, and thus shares heaven’s clarity. With an empty mind he straightens himself, and the skewedness of outer things dissolves on its own. Therefore “not wanting to move” and “not wanting to speak” mean feeling one’s own learning shallow and narrow. A clay puppet is not a real thing; one who knows what is most venerable takes human rank and office as a burden.

Lü’s commentary: “His being human is genuine” means that outwardly he appears human, yet inwardly he conforms to what is natural. Ordinary people’s hearts cannot avoid wariness and cannot follow things as they come; the True Person empties the heart and follows things, yet keeps original authenticity (the heart does not cling and is not pulled by outer things—this is what Daoists call preserving authenticity, bao zhen). Ordinary people, once they seek clarity, easily fall into harsh scrutiny; the True Person is clear yet can embrace all things. When faced with someone or something that lacks the Dao, he adjusts his bearing so that the other reflects on himself; he does not repeat admonitions over and over. He lets intention dissolve on its own; change is not pinned to concrete affairs. Sage wisdom and benevolence-righteousness are only words and conduct; Tian Zifang’s (a worthy of Wei) teacher alone can be called embodying Dao and De. Seeking it in the body, one does not get it—then the body slackens and does not want to move; seeking it in speech, one does not get it—then the mouth seems clamped and does not want to speak. This is not something learning can reach, so one knows that what was learned before was nothing but a clay puppet (a mud figurine—useless sham). Has not Wei itself become my burden too?

Yidu’s commentary: Those who only know how to empty the heart and follow things often fail for lack of steadfast integrity; those who are clear yet reject outer things often fail because they cannot embrace. If there are things in the world that lack the Dao, one uses upright bearing to awaken others, letting them take their standard from themselves, and deviant thoughts naturally vanish. This is what Mencius meant by “rectify yourself, and outer things follow suit.” Marquis Wen of Wei (Warring States ruler of Wei) at first had not awakened to the Dao and took sage wisdom’s words and benevolence-righteousness’s acts as the ultimate; hearing that Zifang’s teacher’s Dao-De was like this, he awakened to principle, forgot body and forgot speech, and then knew that what he had learned before was truly a clay puppet. A clay puppet is like mud and chaff (dregs). One who understands the Dao treats even one’s own person as a burden—how much more a state like Wei?

Bixu’s commentary: “Red dwelling and seven orifices” (the visible body and its openings) refers to the human being. Not showing likes and dislikes, one is the same as Heaven and Earth. Emptying the heart and following conditions while holding to authenticity is mixing within the mundane world. Clarity that can embrace things is aligning with Heaven. Adjusting bearing to enlighten outer things is embodying the Dao through one’s own person. Making another’s mind dissolve—that is the square inch (the heart) becoming empty. Sage wisdom and benevolence-righteousness belong to the teaching of names and rites (mingjiao); Zifang’s teacher belongs to Dao and De. Recognizing that what was learned is a clay puppet is using the real to distinguish the false. Knowing Wei is one’s own burden is because one possesses vast outer things and cannot forget them.

Yanzhai’s remark: Though in human form, he carries natural Heavenly virtue. Emptying the heart and following things, the heart is never stirred—this is preserving authenticity. Clarity easily cuts one off from things, yet he can embrace them—meaning his spiritual breadth is vast. When people do not accord with the Dao, he merely shifts his expression and they awaken on their own, dispelling unworthy intent. “Body dissolved, mouth clamped” describes listeners losing themselves in confusion. Because he still treats possessing a state as a burden, he has not yet fully entered the way of wuwei and naturalness.

Chu’s Random Views holds that fame is meant to display virtue outwardly and belongs to external learning; inner cultivation, by contrast, treats fame as a burden on de. Therefore, those who study the Way and are praised by the world have still not left no trace— their de is not yet complete. Someone like Dongguo Shunzi (a man of the Way in Zhuangzi’s pages) was never even praised by his disciples— how could the world catch the slightest glimpse of him? Only because King Wen of Wei inquired did Tianzi briefly describe his character: outwardly he looked like ordinary people, yet inwardly he accorded with what is natural— that is, on the outside he blended with the world, while within he did not impair the de of nature. “Empty relation” (xuyuan) is wuwei (non-action), yet he could mingle with the world and preserve his true nature. Aloofness easily offends convention, yet he could broaden his measure to embrace all things. Upright bearing awakens others— this is the way of embrace, which can dissolve people’s desires, so that de spreads wide and transforms others. Embrace rests in oneself; transformation works in the other. This is hard for ordinary people, yet Shunzi could do it; he not only did not wait to be praised, but could not be captured in praise at all. Words of sage wisdom and acts of benevolence and righteousness are only adornments of the outer person. The master of Zifang had de enough to transform people from within. Wen heard his style and awakened, to the point that his body loosened and he could not speak— a change that came swiftly. To see that what one learns is no more than a clay puppet is to know that rejecting vulgar learning is how to preserve true nature; to see that holding Wei is a burden on body and mind is to know that only without rank can one endure long. This is clear proof of “making people’s intentions dissolve”— how much more so for those who receive his teaching in person. As for “his conduct was truly…,” the character zhen (true) is likely redundant— a character from the following line mistakenly added here, as the sense of the passage makes plain.

Wen Bo Xuezi (a man of the Way) was on his way to Qi and stopped in Lu. The people of Lu asked to see him; he said: No. I have heard that gentlemen of the central states understand ritual and propriety but are poor at understanding the human heart— I do not wish to meet them.

Wen Boyangzi (a man of the Way from the Chu region) was traveling to Qi and stopped to lodge in Lu. Someone in Lu asked to see him; he said, “No. I have heard that gentlemen of the Central Plains are well versed in ritual and propriety but poor at understanding people’s hearts—I do not wish to meet him.” When he returned from Qi and again lodged in Lu, the man once more asked for an audience. Wen Boyangzi said, “The last time he wanted to see me, and now again—there must be something that can enlighten me.” So he went out to receive the guest; when he came back he sighed. The next day he received the guest again and sighed once more. His servant asked, “Every time you have seen this guest, you sigh on returning—why?” He said, “I told you already: people of the Central Plains are skilled in ritual and propriety but clumsy at knowing the human heart. The man who came to see me before moved forward and back as if drawing circles and squares—every step within the rule; in ease and composure he was by turns like a dragon, like a tiger. When he admonished me, he was deferential like a son to a father; when he instructed me, he was stern like a father teaching a son. That is why I sigh.” Confucius saw Wen Boyangzi but said nothing. Zilu asked, “You long wished to see Wen Boyangzi; having seen him, you do not speak—why?” Confucius said, “With such a person, as soon as the eyes look, the Great Dao is already there—there is no longer room for words.”

Guo’s commentary (Guo Xiang): Moving forward and back according to rule, at ease like dragon and tiger, means he circled and yielded, his footprints winding. Admonishing like a son and teaching like a father is precisely the artificial polish produced by the corruption of ritual and propriety. Confucius saw him and did not speak because he already knew his heart; the moment his gaze fell, their minds were joined—there was no room left for moral instruction.

Lü’s commentary (Lü Huiqing): Advance and retreat in squares and circles mean that dignity and bearing are displayed in every turn of the body; ease like dragon and tiger means that responsiveness appears in moments of leisure. Admonishing like a son and instructing like a father shows that he did not truly grasp who I am from the expression of my eyes and brows. This is what is meant by being skilled in ritual and propriety yet clumsy at knowing the human heart. The disease of ritual and propriety is like this—and among the people of Lu it is especially severe. Dongguo Shunzi could make things awaken by straightening his countenance; Wen Boyangzi had the Great Dao present the instant his eyes met. When ancient sages associated with one another, did they still need to guard against each other?

Commentary by Lin Yidu: Rites and propriety originally spring from the human heart. People only recognize the outward traces of rites and propriety and do not grasp their root, so their understanding of the human heart stays shallow—they see only advances and retreats, bearing and ritual demeanor. In admonishing they act like the closest kin, in instructing like the sternest elder. The malady of ornament overpowering substance has gone this far. Master Bo of Snow (Bo Xuezi of Chu), a person who had attained the Way, was therefore repeatedly admonished and repeatedly sighed. When Confucius met him, their gazes met and the Way was already there—no need for speech. What shows in words, bearing, and ritual form is only the coarse trace.

Bixu (the Daoist scholar Chen Jingyuan) comments: “Clear about rites and propriety” means advances and retreats conforming to rule and ritual bearing in salute and yielding; “shallow in knowing the human heart” means those who admonish me like a son and instruct me like a father. When the inner mind accords with the constant Way, one look exchanged and the Way is self-present; what can be put into words is no more than rites, propriety, bearing, and the look and sound of ritual.

Yanzhai (Lin Xiyi) says: Rule and measure are having standards; dragon and tiger are deportment that becomes pattern and ornament thrust outward. Admonishing me like a son and teaching me like a father is shallow acquaintance with words spoken deep. “Direct perception, the Way present” is straightening countenance and making the other realize in the moment.

Speech serves to convey meaning; once meaning is got, speech may be forgotten. Rites serve to communicate sincerity; once sincerity is full, rites may be simplified. Hence the ancient sages taught people to stress cultivating inner substance and not to exalt outer ornament. Those advances and retreats at ease, now admonishing now teaching, are only form outward and brilliance displayed—they are farther from the Way; to call them shallow in knowing the human heart is fitting. Formerly Wei Ding sought an audience with Master Wen (Wang Tong of the Sui); Master Wen saw him three times without speaking, bearing himself respectfully as if he himself were still insufficient. Wei Ding came out and said to his household: If the Master were to fulfill his aim at court, there would be teaching without words and authority without punishment. This too is close to the sense of “direct perception, the Way is present.”

Yan Hui (Confucius’s disciple Yan Hui) asked Zhong Ni (Confucius’s courtesy name): “When you, Master, walk slowly, I walk slowly; when you quicken your pace, I quicken mine; when you run, I run. But when you run so fast that I cannot even keep up with the dust you raise, I can only stare wide-eyed and fall behind.”

Confucius said, “Hui, what do you mean?”

Yan Hui said, “When you walk slowly and I walk slowly, it is because whatever you say, I say too. When you quicken your pace and I quicken mine, it is because when you debate, I debate along with you. When you run and I run, it is because when you expound the Way, I expound along with you. As for when you race ahead leaving dust behind and I can only stare wide-eyed and fall behind—that means you can make people trust you without speaking, can be close to the multitude without forming factions, and though you hold no official rank or power, the people naturally gather before you, while you yourself do not know why.”

Confucius said, “How can one fail to examine this carefully! There is no sorrow greater than the death of the heart; the death of the body comes second. The sun rises in the east and sets in the far west—all things without exception follow the direction of its change. Those with eyes to see and feet to walk all rely on it to accomplish what they do. When it rises, the myriad things appear; when it sets, they hide. All things are alike: they die because they depend on something, they live because they depend on something. Once I have received this bodily form, I no longer change it—I only wait until it is exhausted. I follow external things in motion, without pause day or night, yet I do not know where I will finally arrive; I merely naturally complete this bodily form. Even if one knows fate, one cannot foreknow the changes ahead. I, Kong Qiu, therefore pass away day by day. My whole life of being with you is no more than elbows brushing and instantly missing each other—how can that not be sorrowful? You probably cling only to my outwardly displayed appearance. What is already past you treat as real and pursue, like going to an empty marketplace to look for a horse (Tang si: a market with nothing in it). In my mind I remember you, yet I forget much; you remember me, and likewise forget much. Even so, why need you worry? Even if the former me is forgotten, there still remains in me something that will not be forgotten.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary explains: If the heart treats death as death and grieves over it, one dies all the faster; dying quickly is because sorrow destroys oneself. It is fine not to grieve; once one grieves, the heart dies first—and that is the greatest sorrow. All things without exception follow a fixed direction, and this is plain to see. Even if the former self is forgotten, what cannot be forgotten still remains.

Guo Xiang’s commentary puts it this way: if you take death in your heart to be real death, you will only bring death on yourself sooner. Dying too soon comes from grief that makes you lose yourself. Without grief, things simply pass; once grief appears, the heart dies first—and that is the deepest sorrow.

All things have forms that can be matched and seen. The eyes fulfill the work of seeing; the feet fulfill the work of walking. People merely treat what cannot be seen as annihilation. What is hidden is called death; what appears is called life—but in the end there is no absolute life or death.

What already exists does not become absolute nothingness. Once endowed with form, change has no end. Change arises without deliberate intent; it constantly renews itself—there is no need to treat death as death. The ten thousand things take shape gently and naturally; why must one act with forced effort?

Those who understand their allotted fate (ming) do not tie themselves to what is past; they move forward only with change, because change cannot be held still. Even if you lock arms and keep watch together, you still cannot make it stop.

If you grieve for the dead, then this unceasing flow is equally worth grieving—yet people never grieve for that. Why? “Tang Si” (the open market) means: what is already gone cannot be found again. Life is like a horse passing through the market—it does not pause for an instant. Old and new follow one another without rest, day and night.

You perhaps see only the side of me that shows and can be seen; that side renews itself every day and is already entirely past—how could you treat it as something you still hold? “Fu” means the heart’s wish to retain; “shen wang” means the past vanishes with extreme speed. You have just gone, and suddenly you look back—as if you can never catch up. Everyone is like this, sage or worthy alike; no one can make it halt.

What is meant by “what is not forgotten persists” is that persistence comes through daily renewal. Though the old self is forgotten, the new self has already arrived—and it is still oneself; what is there to worry about? Thus one can leave the dust of the world behind and be at ease with the ten thousand things.

Lü Huìqīng’s commentary: Whether one walks, walks briskly, or runs, one can still keep up. But when one is trusted without speaking, is universally close without partiality, and the people come forward on their own though there are no instruments of governance—and one cannot say why it is so, and can only leave it at that—then one uses the image of “galloping so that no dust is raised, while Yan Hui can only stare from behind” as a comparison.

Someone whose heart-mind has never died does not know what “death” is. The heart-mind dies first; only afterward comes the death of the human form. That is the greatest sorrow.

The sun rises in the east and sets in the west; the ten thousand things all align themselves with it. Only those with eyes and feet depend on it to get things done: when it comes out, people seem to exist; when it sets, people seem to perish. The sun itself never has existence or non-existence. The ten thousand things all need something to depend on before they have death and life; what is depended upon never has death or life. That I can be trusted without speaking, be universally close without comparing, and have the people step forward though I have no instruments—all comes down to this in the end.

If I once received this bodily form and then never changed, only waiting to be used up, and imitated outer things in everything, with no gap day or night, I would be like the ten thousand things: all would need something to depend on to live. How then could I discern what is “depended upon,” so as not even to feel why things are as they are? Going forward day by day along with it is precisely not “not changing.” If one truly clung to the formed body, did not change, and only waited to be exhausted, how could that not be sorrow? That would be the greatest sorrow.

You look for where my “galloping leaves the dust behind” has gone, but cannot find it. That is because you only fix on what I show outwardly and do not see what I do not show. The heart-mind is there when you grasp it and gone when you release it—where is there a fixed place you can seize and point to? What has already passed and is exhausted—you still treat it as something real and seek it. How is that different from going to an empty market to find a horse? A market is only where horses pass through and are traded, not where horses stay.

When I submit to you, I forget thoroughly, so the so-called “I” is gone; when you submit to me, you forget thoroughly too, so the so-called “you” is gone. Why must you take this thorough forgetting as a worry? Even if the former “I” is forgotten, here there is still something that cannot be forgotten. Then the so-called “galloping that leaves the dust behind” can also be seen.

Lín Yídú’s commentary: Confucius gallops leaving the dust behind, while Yan Hui can only stare from behind—that is, seeming to be in front, then suddenly being behind again. Trusted without speaking is being moved by sincerity and naturalness; universally close without comparing is not deliberately drawing near, yet people come on their own with loyalty and affection; with no instruments for governing the people, the people step forward on their own—they do not know why, yet it is so.

As for one who understands ming (fate/life’s mandate), he knows the principle of day and night and penetrates the pattern of death and life. Hence there are cases where the bodily form dies while the heart-mind does not die. No sorrow is greater than the death of the heart-mind; this does not mean the bodily form does not perish. Human death is transformation of the bodily form; the heart-mind need not transform along with it.

The sun rises in the east and sets in the west; nothing with form fails to depend on it. Whatever has a bodily form must wait upon Yin and Yang to be complete: emergence belongs to Yang, so counts as “existing”; entering belongs to Yin, so counts as “perishing.” The ten thousand things all wait upon something before they have death and life; none escapes this. Only what is indifferent to death and life has nothing to wait for. Once one receives a form yet does not change and only waits to be exhausted, this “waiting to be exhausted” is in fact waiting upon nothing—that is Confucius’s having no birth and no death. Day and night without shrinking back: Yin and Yang merge into one body. Moving along with outer things is mindless compliance, not knowing where the end is. Forming a body in a smoldering way—neither taking life as life nor death as death. “The sun goes on” means going forward together with transformation. Passing each other by the length of an arm’s span means that the life the Creator gives a person—a hundred years—is but an instant. People only know to take death as sorrow and do not know that failing to understand this principle is even more lamentable.

“Zháo” means manifest and plain. Tang market is where horses are sold, not where horses are kept. To seek again what one once had is to seek what cannot be recovered again—like hiding a boat in a valley or hiding a mountain: in the middle of the night someone still carries it away. What can be seen is new every day. What is old is already exhausted—how can one still “possess” it? “My submitting to you is a very thorough forgetting” means letting you forget me; “your submitting to me is also a very thorough forgetting” means letting me forget you. “Submitting” is like still being attached in the heart-mind. “I still have something that cannot be forgotten” means what continues through daily renewal.

Commentary by Bixu zi: “Surpassing the ordinary and leaving dust behind” is a metaphor for subtle principle that is outstanding and unfathomable, yet also capable of infinite transformation. When traces are blocked or the physical form is altered, both can still be turned back and restored; but if the mind (the inner dwelling) cannot be empty and still, and rushes toward death without turning back, there is no sorrow greater than this. “The mind is dead” means clinging to fixed views and shutting oneself in. Qu Boyu, by age sixty, could recognize what was wrong in each of his first fifty-nine years—because his mind was alive. The eyes open and close without cease, like the endless coming and going of the ten thousand things. One who looks cannot see without daylight; one who walks cannot go without daylight. When the eyes receive the wonder of daily renewal, sight does not blur; when the feet receive the wonder of daily renewal, steps do not stumble—this is called success (cheng). When the sun rises, the ten thousand things all appear; when the sun sets, they all fade. Each thing has its allotted rise and decline; birth and death each have their season. Only one who steps outside these allotments is free of attachment and dependence. Confucius knew that life and death are fated, so above he did not go against creation (zaohua), and below he did not fix on where he himself would end. He moved with things; when things came and stirred him, he went along with that too—day and night without pause, with no gap or guard in the mind, and not knowing where the end would be. Once you decide there is an end, gap and guard appear. Yin and Yang qi naturally gather and steam to form a body; to pre-judge future events is to violate heavenly principle. Therefore the sage always keeps to daily renewal; when the term is up, he goes. The moment our arms were linked has already turned into something past; how could a person of resolve not sigh? The changes I show outwardly, which others can imitate, you can more or less keep up with; but what is truly real has already passed and been exhausted—is there still anything worth saying? My side that does not change with things is not something you can reach, so you can only stare and fall behind. The wonder of daily renewal the common people use every day without knowing it, because it leaves no trace; yet you treat it as something solid to pursue, like going to Tangsi (an empty market—not where horses halt) to find a horse. You and I trust each other, and deeply forget each other—that is the meaning of “not honoring one’s teacher, not cherishing one’s resource.” When both teacher and resource are forgotten, what need for you and me to worry over this forgetting? So my body does not truly belong to me; there is still what is not forgotten that exists—and the Dao is everywhere.

Yan Zhai said: “The mind is dead” is a metaphor for seeing nothing in the heart; to live yet see nothing is more pitiful than death, so there is no sorrow greater than this. The ten thousand things can all be compared and counted. Speaking of sunrise and sunset is to say that from morning to evening something still remains and does not depart—the Dao is everywhere.

Yanzhai (the style name of Lin Xiyi of the Southern Song) said: “The death of the mind” is a metaphor for perceiving nothing at all. To live yet perceive nothing is worse than death, so there is no greater sorrow than this. “Analogy” means something one can set alongside and count off. Sunrise and sunset speak of from morning to evening. Every creature with eyes and feet must wait for the sun to rise before things can be done. The rise and fall of human affairs depend on the sun’s ascent and descent; the myriad things depend on the Dao (the Way)—the root on which they rely—just as human affairs depend on the sun.

Once one has received a bodily form, this Dao is in the body and does not shift away. One moves along with outer things while the mind stores no deliberate intent—neither retreating nor breaking off. This asserts: this body is nothing but the principle of harmonious compliance. Though one knows that all things arise from ming (natural allotment), one does not take ming as a rule for measuring things in advance.

“Ri cu” (the day moving on) means going forward together with the day; “jiao yi bi” (exchanging an arm) means standing side by side. All my life I have moved with you, yet you have not attained this Dao. You only see what is visible in me and do not know there is also what is not visible. The Dao must reach wu (Nonbeing) before it is exhausted; you seek it with you (Being), so you cannot see its end.

“Tang” is a hall without walls; the Book of Odes says “zhong tang you bi” (in the middle passage of the hall, bricks are laid). Tang si is what we today call a roadside pavilion. To look for a horse at Tang si is like “ke zhou qiu jian” (marking the boat to recover the sword). What is ultimately unknowable is called utmost forgetting; “fu” means to put it into practice. What I practice with you must reach ultimate unknowability; what you practice with me must also reach ultimate unknowability. In this matter I cannot explain it to you—you must forget words before it is exhausted. Even if you have not yet arrived here, why worry? You already know there is ben yi jue chen (racing ahead so fast that dust cannot keep up)—this layer is not yet fully spoken. When you can forget gu wu (the former self), though what you see differs from before, what in yourself is not forgotten still remains. The meaning is: only when one sees wu (Nonbeing) has one reached the end—and this is still the same principle as when one was in the realm of you (Being).

Confucius ran so fast that the dust raised by his feet could not fall behind him; Yan Hui could only stare from behind and could never catch up. This is what Yang Xiong meant by “Yan Hui was troubled by Confucius’s lofty remoteness and supreme excellence.” The sage’s mind is clear like still water: when things come, it reflects them at once and responds in hidden accord with what is felt—this is what is called “sharing the spring with things” (being one in vitality with the myriad beings). Day and night the process moves forward and nothing is rejected. If the heart-mind dies, the person withers, cut off from outer things, stuck in stubborn emptiness (clinging blindly to void and extinction), sunk in gloom and loneliness, unable to recover yang qi and vital flourishing—there is nothing more lamentable than that. When the heart-mind is dead and cannot revive yang, the death of the body follows in turn.

The sun’s rising and setting is used to illustrate that the myriad things have death and life. “Having eyes” should read as “having a head.” The chapter “Heaven and Earth” says: many are those who have head and feet yet lack heart-mind and ears. “Having head and toes” refers to ordinary people who lift their heads to the blue sky and set their feet on the great earth; the point is that the life and death of the myriad things all depend on the comings and goings of zaohua (the transforming work of nature)—this is what is called youdai (being contingent, dependent, not self-sufficient). When the sun departs, one goes along with change. That you and I share this one life is like arms crossing as we brush past each other: in an instant we are scattered—how can we not grieve? You probably see only the traces I show outwardly; those old traces have already changed and vanished, yet you still seek them as if they were real—like going to Tang Si (an empty market where no horses are sold anymore) to buy a horse. On Tang Si, Lin Xiyi’s explanation is relatively close; one also suspects there was actually such a name in the markets of the time, like the horse quarter or Fan Tower in the capital—though there is no need to pursue it too far. “My wearing you is very much forgotten” means that my attachment to all those past matters concerning you has been exhausted along with change, and your longing for me is the same. This is what sages and worthies, fools and the wise alike have faced in every age; it cannot be escaped by calculation or strength—one can only listen and yield. It is enough to know that there is something that is not forgotten and that abides constantly.

The question-and-answer in this chapter has already exhausted the principles of entering and leaving life and death and the shifting of zaohua—points the earlier Confucians never developed and the disciples could not hear. Only Yanzi had already entered the sage’s realm, so Confucius told him this. Look again at the line “arms crossing and lost”: one sees how earnestly he holds to the Way, with affection like the closest kin and virtue warm and generous; yet alas, the machinery of change cannot be halted, and meeting cannot last long. Still, if one knows there is that which is not forgotten, the greatest constant Way remains, and one is not enslaved by change—past, future, and present cannot be severed from one another. What was said before is only the tracks of living in the world; how could that suffice to glimpse what sages and worthies hold within?

This is what is meant by “constancy.” Yet if one can understand that there is something that is never lost or forgotten, then the “Great Constancy”—the eternal Great Dao that transcends change—is present. It is not driven by the shifting transformations of creation; past, future, and present cannot cut it off or divide it. What was discussed earlier is only the traces left by the sage’s comings and goings in the world—how could that be enough to see the deep inward meaning of the sage?

The passage above appears in juan 63 and juan 64 of the Nanhua zhenjing yihai zuanwei (Collected Subtleties of the Ocean of Meaning of the True Classic of the Southern Florescence), compiled in the Southern Song by Chu Boxiu from various commentators’ readings of the Zhuangzi (Nanhua zhenjing, the “True Classic of the Southern Florescence,” is another name for the Zhuangzi). This is the second section of “Tian Zifang” (Tian Zifang is the title of an outer-chapter essay in the Zhuangzi, which uses dialogue among figures to expound embodiment of the Dao). The point here is to distinguish what people usually see—the sage’s outward conduct in responding to the world—from what must truly be realized: the constant Way that is not bound by change.

Confucius went to see Laozi (La Dan). Laozi had just bathed and was letting his loose hair dry; his bearing was still and withdrawn, and he hardly looked like an ordinary man. Confucius stepped back and waited. When they met a little later, Confucius said, “Was it that my eyes failed me, Kong Qiu, or was it really so? A moment ago your body seemed stiff as dry wood, as if you had forgotten outward things and left the crowd behind, standing there alone.”

Laozi said, “I had let my spirit roam in the origin of things before anything had yet come to be.” Confucius asked, “What does that mean?” Laozi said, “The mind is blocked and cannot understand; the mouth opens but cannot speak. I will try to give you a rough account: extreme yin is cold, extreme yang is hot. Cold qi issues from Heaven, hot qi from Earth. When the two meet and harmonize, the myriad things are born. Something sets their pattern for them, yet no form can be seen. Waning and waxing, fullness and emptiness, dark and bright—each day shifts, each month transforms; work is done every day, yet no achievement can be seen. Life has a place where it stirs; death has a place it returns to. Beginning and end oppose each other yet never join head to tail, and no one knows where the limit lies. If it were not this origin, what could be lord over the myriad things?”

Confucius said, “May I ask how one roams in such a state?” Laozi said, “To attain it is utmost beauty and utmost joy. To attain utmost beauty and roam in utmost joy is to be a zhenren (a person who has reached the highest attainment).” Confucius said, “I would like to hear the method.” Laozi said, “Beasts that eat grass do not worry about changing pasture; creatures in water do not worry about changing streams. These are only small changes and do not lose the great constant; joy, anger, grief, and delight do not enter the heart. All under Heaven is one shared home for the myriad things. To gain this ‘One’ and be at one with it—then the limbs and body are no more than dust, and birth, death, beginning, and end are no more than the alternation of day and night; none of this can disturb the inner mind, still less such fine distinctions as gain and loss, fortune and misfortune. To cast off servants and followers is like casting off mud, because one knows that oneself is more precious than they. What is precious lies in oneself, and in change one does not lose it. The ten thousand transformations never end—what is there to worry about? One who has awakened to the Dao understands precisely this.”

Confucius said, “Your virtue matches Heaven and Earth, yet you still rely on the highest words to cultivate the heart. Among the gentlemen of old, who could escape this?” Laozi said, “It is not so. Water does nothing to the spring that gushes forth; its quality is naturally complete. For the zhenren, virtue needs no deliberate cultivation, yet the myriad things cannot do without him. Heaven is high by nature, Earth is thick by nature, sun and moon are bright by nature—what is there to cultivate?”

Confucius came out and told Yan Hui (a disciple of Confucius), “In relation to the Dao, I am like the tiny vinegar fly in the vinegar jar! Had the Master not lifted the lid that covered me, I would not have known the vast completeness of Heaven and Earth.”

The gist of Guo Xiang’s commentary is that “fixed and tranquil, not like a human being” means stillness and detachment pushed to the extreme: when body and mind are fully transformed, outward things fall away. “Origin” is the realm where there was nothing and then suddenly something was; to roam at the primordial source of things is to see that the myriad things are not fashioned from outside but are so of themselves. That the mind is blocked and the mouth cannot speak is meant to send Confucius to seek beyond words and intent. Using yin and yang as a likeness—one issuing from Heaven, one from Earth—speaks of their meeting. That the pattern-setter has no visible form and does not cling to old shapes shows that each thing is thus on its own, so there is no achievement to name. Life stirs where things have not yet gathered; death returns where they scatter—hence one meets no head in coming and no tail in going. Utmost beauty is beauty beyond naming; utmost joy is joy beyond grasping. Birth and death are only small changes; knowing that small change does not lose the great constant, the four emotions do not enter the heart. Knowing the body is more precious than servants and casting them off like mud—if one knows that birth and death are both transformations of oneself, what is precious is this self; walking with transformation, there is no loss. One who has cultivated the Dao and understands this is liberated. Laozi holds that Heaven, Earth, sun, and moon need no added cultivation to be what they are; Confucius feels that compared with Laozi he is like the insect in the jar before the whole breadth of Heaven and Earth.

Lv Huiqing’s commentary: The discussion begins from the idea that nothing has yet begun to exist. When the text says that those who practice the Way “understand this,” it means they can grasp precisely this point.

Lv Huiqing’s commentary: When the myriad things have not yet come into being, which moment of daily life—rising and resting, speaking or keeping silent—is not the mind roaming at the origin of things? When the mind is bound and stuck, understanding cannot reach it; when the mouth opens, words cannot exhaust it. One can only sketch its general shape; that is still far from the utmost. Yin and Yang intermingle and merge, and from this the myriad things arise. Viewed from afar it becomes years; viewed up close it becomes days; outwardly it extends to all things, inwardly it pervades the whole person—nothing is otherwise. Some wish to set rules and categories for it, yet no form appears. Waning and waxing, change and transformation—all simply follow it. Life has a place where it sprouts; death has a place where it returns; beginning and end have no fixed boundary, and that too is simply following it. What was meant earlier by the origin of things is roughly this. The beauty and joy that people in the world prize are not the ultimate; only after attaining this does one reach the highest beauty and the greatest joy. When beasts shift to another marsh or fish to another stretch of water, that is only a small change—they do not lose the great constant of relying on water and wetlands. One who can attain it and let the mind roam within it becomes one with all under heaven; neither death nor life can disturb such a person—how much less the line between gain and loss, fortune and misfortune? To know that one’s own person is more precious than what is subordinate and may be cast aside, and that what is precious lies in oneself— even if there are small changes, how could one lose what is truly valued because of something base? The transformations of the myriad things have no end and are not enough to burden my mind. Those who have already embodied the Way understand precisely because of this.

According to Lin Yidu, a Song-dynasty commentator on the Zhuangzi, “the beginning of things” means the time before the myriad things have taken on form and substance. If one tries to describe how things are about to unfold at that stage, it is inherently impossible to say it all.

Susu is the cold, yin qi of the north; hehe is the hot, yang qi of the south. Dalü belongs to yin yet arises from the si position—that is, it emerges from within yang; Huangzhong, the head of the yang pitches among the twelve tones, belongs to yang yet arises from the hai position—that is, it emerges from within yin. Yin and yang each contain harmonizing qi (chongqi, the neutral, reconciling breath that balances both sides); only when they merge do the myriad things come into being. Things are born yet do not know their own beginning, and cannot see the shape of yin and yang. Waning and waxing, fullness and emptiness follow the seasons—this is what is meant by the principle of yin-yang transformation. Life sprouts from “non-birth”; death returns into “non-death.” If not yin and yang, what else could be in charge?

The truest beauty in the world does not show itself as beauty; the truest joy does not show itself as joy. Hence what one attains is renewed day by day, and what one delights in has no fixed old pattern. To hold fast to the supreme beauty one already has within, and to roam in the supreme joy of the myriad things—such a one may be called a perfected person (zhiren), one in harmony with the Dao. Birth and death are minor changes; the Dao is the great constant.

When wild beasts move to another marsh or fish to another stream, they do not lose their nature. Human beings dwelling in the great Dao (Da) are the same: they follow change and are never thereby no longer themselves. If birth and death are treated as small changes, why take joy, anger, sorrow, and delight to heart? The world is shared by all things; to obtain this common root is such that neither birth nor death can disturb one—how much less gain, loss, fortune, and misfortune. The sage values the Dao above all, and only second values the body; once one makes the body primary, cares and troubles arise. People all know that the body is more precious than outward subordination and servitude, yet they do not know that the body itself is the great affliction. If one understands that the Dao is more precious than the body, what is precious always remains with oneself, and birth and death cannot alter it. Between heaven and earth change is inexhaustible—why should it tie up the heart? Only one who has the Dao can see this.

Confucius heard these most exalted words and asked again: Laozi’s virtue already matches heaven and earth—why can he still not set speech aside? Laozi replied: Water’s natural welling and clarity, the perfected person’s virtue, and the height of heaven, the thickness of earth, and the brightness of sun and moon—all arise from nature; why force deliberate cultivation? His meaning was: though I have spoken, it is still as if I had not spoken.

Bi Xu (Chen Jingyuan) comments: “Like withered wood and casting off outer things” means storing essence and gathering spirit; “standing apart from others” means losing the paired self—forgetting the self that stands opposed to outer things. Entering empty vastness, the spirit roams to the origin of the myriad things, yet never leaves the root source. When one wants to know, the heart is already trapped; when one wants to speak, the mouth cannot find words. Leaving the heart and forgetting words, one then draws near to the Dao.

The sober yin breath settles below; the blazing yang breath rises above; the two principles (Heaven and Earth) interact and harmonize, and the myriad things subtly come to life. One says it has principle and order, yet no form or sign appears; waning and waxing follow number, darkness and brightness have constancy. One says it has making and doing, yet no work or effect is seen. In birth it sprouts from indistinct vagueness; in death it returns to deep obscurity. Without a beginning, one does not know where it starts; without an end, one does not know where it finishes. If it were not this Dao, what else could be lord of the myriad things?

Confucius again asked how to travel in learning the way of forgetting words. Can learning the Dao yield something apart from oneself? One only attains the utmost beauty and utmost joy of one’s own nature. As for life and death, it is like a beast changing pasture or a fish changing waters—only a small, temporary shift; what worry is there? The world is vast and boundless; the myriad things blend into one. Seen from the side of sameness, one’s own hundred parts are like rotting stench; life and death here are like waking and sleeping—how much more so everything else? Therefore to treat holding the reins (driving a carriage) and carriage with high canopy and official cap as no more than changing water or changing marsh is outer transformation without inner transformation—the form follows things while the inner self does not change. What is precious lies in “me,” yet “me” has never not been “me”; joy has no boundary—how could there still be calamity?

It is like water naturally welling up: when someone dips from it, they gain benefit—where is deliberate making in that? The perfected person’s virtue and work spread through the myriad things—where is painstaking cultivation? Heaven is high of itself, earth is thick of itself, sun and moon are bright of themselves—what need for contrivance? Thus Confucius compared himself to a midge in a jar—only when the lid is lifted does one know the full greatness of Heaven and Earth.

Yan Zhai said: “Standing in solitude” means transcending the mundane world. At the very beginning, things as such did not yet exist; yin and yang arose from heaven and earth. These lines express what is meant by “one yin and one yang—this is called the Dao”: yin and yang interact and thereby achieve harmony; yin alone cannot generate, and yang alone cannot complete. It is as if something orders them, yet its form cannot be seen; waxing and waning, dark and bright, it acts every day, yet its achievement cannot be seen; beginning and end have no fixed boundary. All of this speaks of creation. “Supreme beauty” and “supreme joy” are praise for the wonder of the Dao.

Fish and beasts may change waters or marshes, yet water and grass are not lost on that account; humans likewise dwell under one heaven—how could one place oneself outside the multitude? Knowing that all things issue from heaven and are originally not different, then even life and death cannot disturb the inner mind—how much less fortune and misfortune. Servants come and go; being cast aside like mud seems to make oneself noble and them base. If one understands that the Dao’s true worth lies in oneself, how could changes in outer things make one lose supreme beauty and supreme joy? Change in the world has no end—why should it tie down the heart? Only the foolish vulgar do not understand; only one who unites with the Dao in oneself knows.

“Supreme words” refers to what was said before: even Laozi could not cultivate the mind apart from words—who then can escape words? The answer is: the water of rivers and seas cannot be exhausted by scooping, because its nature is wuwei (non-action) and spontaneity. The virtue of the perfected person (zhiren, one who has reached the utmost in cultivation) is like heaven and earth and sun and moon—simply natural; why force effort?

“Things at the beginning” is the nameless beginning of heaven and earth—that is, Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate, the primordial source before heaven and earth were divided). Yin qi, solemn, issues from heaven; yang qi, brilliant, issues from earth—meaning that when Taiji moves, yang is born; when movement reaches its limit it becomes still, and in stillness yin is born; when stillness reaches its limit it moves again, in endless cycle. As if something begins—it is Taiji; as if something orders, yet its form cannot be seen. This is what is meant by: viewed from above, creation itself has no thing; viewed from below, the ten thousand things transform themselves. Knowing things at the beginning, one knows one’s own beginning—and heaven and earth’s beginning is the same. Obtaining this supreme beauty and roaming the heart in supreme joy is the utmost of human conduct.

All things in life and death have a place where they sprout and a place where they return—how can human life and death not be deeply examined? “Small change” means birth and death; “great constancy” does not decay. What does not decay is the root of the one spirit: in stillness it is called xing (nature); it embraces emptiness and still has surplus; in movement it is called xin (mind); fallen into worldly dust it seems insufficient. One who penetrates this principle, passing through change yet threading it through, knowing that constancy—is called clarity. When present it is like the moon reflected in water; in change it is like wind moving through empty space—what is there to worry about in changing waters or marshes?

The world is where the ten thousand things jointly dwell—are the limbs and body mine alone? Knowing that what is base can be relinquished and the noble true self always remains, how can gain, loss, fortune, or misfortune disturb oneself? Water’s clarity comes from innate nature and is spontaneous—an image of the perfected person’s de (virtue/power), which needs no artificial contrivance; things naturally turn toward such a one. Heaven’s office is to generate, nourish, and cover; earth’s office is to give form and bear; to preside over transformation is the sage’s office—this is why it is called complete fullness.

The gist of this chapter: life has where it sprouts, death has where it returns. Earlier sages often did not state this directly, so that people would turn inward and seek for themselves, fill genuine insight, and then not be shifted by life and death. Humans stand between life and death—whether highest wisdom or lowest folly, none escape. While alive they seek rich provision; after death they seek lavish burial—everywhere this occurs, yet they do not know how sprouting and return actually work. To know where one returns, one must first investigate where one sprouted. At first hearing this seems nowhere to start; carefully tracing the classic text, the meaning can illuminate itself.

Nanhua Zhenren (Zhuangzi) once said: Push inquiry back to the beginning, and originally there was no life; not only no life, but no form and no Qi—only a mingling in obscurity and indistinction (mangwu, vague and chaotic). Then change produced Qi; Qi changed and there was form; form changed and there was life; life changed again until death, like the seasons succeeding one another. He also said: One who is good at settling one’s own life is also good at settling one’s own death. What the ancient sages did not spell out, the Authentic Person (Zhenren) has explained in full—only people may fail to seek it. This Dao can be attended to and held in the heart-mind, yet it cannot be exhausted in words. As in what Chan adepts pursue to the utmost: the time before one’s parents had begotten one, and after the wind and fire within the body (breath and inner heat) have dispersed—even if one enters the gate through a teacher’s pointing, in the end one must still awaken on one’s own; once it is “explained away,” it no longer fits the Dao. Students of the Way should take this as encouragement.

Zhuangzi called on Duke Ai of Lu. The duke said, “Lu has many Ru scholars, but few who study your Way.” Zhuangzi said, “Ru scholars in Lu are actually few.” The duke said, “The whole country wears Ru dress—how can you say they are few?” Zhuangzi said, “I, Zhuang Zhou, have heard that Ru wear round caps to know heaven’s seasons; square shoes to know the lay of the land; and gird themselves with silk cords and jade rings (yujue, notched jade signifying the power to decide) so that when matters arise they can guard against them and resolve them. A gentleman who truly has this Way may not wear that garb; one who wears that garb may not truly know the Way. If Your Grace insists on not believing, why not issue an order throughout the realm: anyone who wears that dress without having this Way shall be put to death!” The duke issued the order; within five days no one in Lu dared wear Ru dress anymore—except one man in Ru garb standing at the palace gate. The duke summoned him and questioned him on state affairs; he could not be stumped though the questions shifted endlessly. Zhuangzi said, “In all of Lu there is only one genuine Ru—can that count as many?”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: One whose De is full within does not adorn the outside.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Zhuangzi repeatedly has Confucius go to ask Laozi and others about learning in order to show that so-called sage wisdom is not the farthest reach of the supreme Dao. If this were not said plainly, students would have no way to know what it truly means to honor Confucius.

Yi Du commentary: Yang Zhu said that only one who thoroughly comprehends Heaven, Earth, and humanity deserves to be called a Ru (Confucian scholar)—that is the genuine Ru. Having the Ru way within is substance; wearing Ru robes outwardly is ornament. Lacking either, one cannot count as a Ru. Only the sage embodies virtue in word and deed and thus truly fits those garments. Learning that has not reached the sage’s level yet still donning Ru dress and cap is merely the vulgar Ru. Everyone in the state of Lu might wear Ru garb, yet there was only one true Ru—a statement of the highest reverence for Confucius (Kongzi).

Bixu commentary: In assisting a ruler, one Kui (a byword for an outstanding talent) suffices; to revive the Ru teaching, why rely on a multitude of three thousand? Therefore one whose nature is like a sheep yet wears a tiger’s hide to dress as a Ru is bound to mislead people. A person of great virtue may seem dull—is that truly a lack of real insight?

Yizhai says: This passage means that many wear Ru robes yet do not understand the Dao.

The author of the Nan Hua (i.e., Zhuangzi) had outstanding talent yet lived in a corrupt age. There was no one with whom to speak deeply, nor any outlet for the marvels in his breast. He therefore discussed the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors above, Confucius and Laozi in the middle, and down to Yang Zhu, Mozi, Jie, and Robber Zhi—commenting on each without omission. He also checked whether words matched conduct and drew the line between inner mind and outward traces, like a bright mirror revealing the finest hair of autumn. Some say the book mostly ridicules Confucius; that is reading the surface without probing the intent. This chapter ends with “everyone in Lu wore Ru garb, yet there was only one true Ru.” Commentators hold that no text honors Confucius more highly than the Nan Hua; Su Shi’s “Account of the Zhuangzi Hall” likewise supports this view.

Baili Xi did not set rank and stipend in his heart; he fed cattle and they grew fat, so Duke Mu of Qin forgot his low station and entrusted him with government. Youyu shi (Shun) did not set life and death in his heart, and so could move others. Lord Yuan of Song wished to have a painting made. The painters all arrived, received ritual courtesy, and stood ready, licking brushes and grinding ink; half of them still waited outside. One painter came late, unhurried, not rushing forward; after receiving courtesy he did not take his place but went straight back to his lodging. The lord sent someone to look: the man had removed his clothes, sat cross-legged in the jizu posture, naked. The lord said: “This will do—he alone is the true painter.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: One who is inwardly self-sufficient also handles outward affairs completely; hence his expression is at ease and his mind settled.

Lu Huiqing’s commentary: Seen in small terms, it is like Baili Xi (a man of Yu in the Spring and Autumn period, later employed by Duke Mu of Qin) attaining the position of chief minister; seen in large terms, it is like the Youyu clan (Shun) being able to move people’s hearts. For something external to enter the mind and still reach such a degree—there has never been such a case. To loosen one’s garments and sit at ease in an unceremonious posture (jieyi panbo: body relaxed, unconstrained by ritual)—that is why one is truly skilled at painting.

Lin Yidu’s commentary: Rank and salary are a small matter; life and death are the great matter. One who can set rank and emolument outside the mind may not yet set life and death outside the mind; one who can set life and death outside the mind has nothing he cannot accomplish. When the inner mind is restrained, the outer bearing is dignified; when the inner mind is full, the outer manner is at ease. When the inner mind is restrained, the spirit is on guard—wanting to be employed yet carrying the worry of not being accepted; when the outer manner is at ease, the spirit is settled—even in action one shows the air of wanting nothing. When Lord Yuan of Song (the ruler of Song) chose painters and obtained a true painter, it was on this principle.

Chen Jingyuan (style name Bixuzi) commented: Content with the times while feeding cattle, people were sure to observe his conduct; serving his parents while forgetting his own life and death, the multitude was sure to see his filial devotion. One who hurries to be employed by others—his learning has not yet arrived; one who is naturally at ease—his skill is sure to be refined. Crude deeds are still like this—how much more so subtle principle?

Lin Xiyi (style name Yizhai) said: When Baili Xi was feeding cattle, where was there a mind set on seeking rank and salary? Precisely because he did not seek, he was employed. “Moving people” means touching and transforming people’s hearts. The painter did not deliberately seek others’ appreciation; he only loosened his clothes and sat at ease—Lord Yuan therefore knew he was a true painter.

Synthetic commentary: With no rank or salary in the mind, merely feeding cattle—therefore Duke Mu of Qin entrusted him with government and the state was well governed. Not boasting of skillful or clumsy technique, merely sitting at ease—therefore Lord Yuan knew his painting came from the heart. When the inner mind is empty and still, outer things come and attach; when the inner mind is full the outer manner is at ease—the principle lies here. Nowadays those who pursue arts and skills fear in haste that others will not know them, and those who employ talent take only outward polish—no wonder what they get is not refined. Further textual note: “feeding cattle and the cattle grew fat” should read only “feeding cattle and growing plump”—meaning that though Baili Xi’s station was low and he worked the fields himself, he rejoiced in the great Way and forgot poverty, his limbs full and at ease; it does not mean the cattle grew fat.

The above appears in Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei, juan 64 and 65, included in the Imperial Siku Quanshu, compiled by Chu Boxiu of the Song dynasty.

King Wen of Zhou was on an inspection tour in Zang when he saw an old man fishing. Though he held a rod, his mind was not set on catching fish; he was not one who clutched tackle and fixed his heart on hauling in a catch—he simply fished in his usual tranquil way.

The king wished to employ him and entrust the affairs of state to him, yet feared that his ministers and elders would be unsettled; he considered letting the matter drop, yet could not bear to deprive the people of someone on whom they could rely.

So at dawn he said to his senior officials: “Last night I dreamed of a worthy man, dark of complexion, bearded, riding a piebald horse with one red hoof. He cried aloud: ‘Entrust your governance to the old man of Zang, and the people will nearly escape their hardship!’”

The officials started in alarm and changed color, saying: “That is our former king!” Wen said: “Then let us divine it.” They replied: “Since it is the command of the former king, Your Majesty need not doubt further—why still consult the oracle?”

So they brought the old man in and handed him the government. He changed none of the existing statutes and rules, nor issued partial or arbitrary orders. Three years later, Wen observed the realm: gentlemen in office had torn down their markers and dissolved their factions; officials at every level no longer advertised their personal virtue; standard measures dared not pass beyond the borders in all four directions.

That gentlemen had scattered their cliques meant all shared in upholding fairness; that officials no longer built up private reputations meant all worked together at their tasks; that measures did not cross the borders meant the feudal lords no longer harbored divided loyalties.

Wen thereupon honored him as Grand Tutor—the highest minister assisting in governance—and, facing north in the manner of a disciple, asked: “Can such governance be extended to the whole world?” The old man’s expression was blank; he did not answer. He quietly took his leave; he had received his charge in the morning and departed by night, and from then until the end of his life no word was heard of him again.

Yan Yuan (Confucius’s disciple Yan Hui) asked Zhongni (Confucius): “Had King Wen perhaps not yet fulfilled his role? Why must he resort to speaking through a dream?” Confucius said: “Hold your tongue, say no more! King Wen had already done all that was his to do—what is there to criticize? He was simply accommodating the fleeting exigencies of the moment.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: He spent the whole year without seeking anything in the end, and did not take gain or loss to heart; fishing was merely a pretext. “Shang tong” (aligning with the common) means reining in one’s own brilliance and harmonizing with the dust of the world; completing oneself in plain purity is what sets one apart from others each pursuing their own aims. When all under Heaven trust one another, tones and measures can be unified. Because merit is not claimed as one’s own, after success one cannot but withdraw; when the task is done, fame likewise cannot but be left behind. When name departs and the person steps back, government can then be carried out throughout the realm. King Wen entrusted affairs to the various grand officers and did not hold power himself—this is reaching the utmost. “Si xu” denotes the brief moment when the people’s hearts are on the verge of understanding but not yet fully awakened; by responding to that instant and drawing them on, one aligns with their deepest intent.

Lü Huizhu’s commentary: That Elder Zang of the fishing ground was fit to govern was seen from the state in which he “seemed to fish yet did not really fix his mind on fishing.” Entrusting the matter through a dream, saying he would divinate yet in the end not divinating: toward those above, he feared unease for ministers and elder kin; toward those below, he feared the people would lose protection. When after three years he looked again at the state, the results matched what had been said—so praising his ability and committing the charge in a dream was not empty; wishing to divinate yet not divinating was not lack of reverence, but simply acting in accord with that fleeting opportunity. The statutes and ordinances were not altered—the Six Canons and Eight Methods (the political canons and governing methods received by the Son of Heaven in Zhou times) are the standing institutions that settle a state. No partial commands issued on the side; they were published to the feudal lords first and then promulgated, so they could extend throughout the realm. “Huai zhi” means breaking up cliques privately formed among scholars; “duo hu” (irregular measures) are not the standard vessels ordained by the former kings.

The commentary in the Yidu annotation explains that this section uses an allegory to tell how King Wen of Zhou employed Jiang Taigong. Before Wen had obtained Taigong, he could not bear that the people had no one on whom they could rely, so he sought him through a dream—a way the sage accommodated human sentiment. After Taigong took office, he did not alter the standing great law and did not issue improper commands; within three years the realm moved toward unity. Hence the line “the knights’ upright integrity crumbles and their groups scatter”: zhi originally means a tree standing straight; here it stands for the knights’ upright conduct. Once the realm was unified, such conduct was no longer needed and collapsed like something broken; the knights’ assemblies had nowhere to act and therefore dispersed. With unity under heaven, there were no affairs of each going his own way; superiors no longer needed to build personal moral prestige to make a name; and the dou and hu measuring vessels no longer had to enter the borders. When achievement reached this point, Wen in turn faced north to honor Taigong, while Taigong answered blankly, calmly declined, accepted command in the morning and left by night, and never sought fame again. Wen’s employing Taigong was not because he could not act alone in accord with Heaven’s intent, but because he did not wish to appear different from the multitude; so for a brief interval he used a dream to follow the people’s feelings.

The Bixu annotation explains that “he fishes but does not fish” means fishing with a straight hook: nominally fishing, in fact entrusting himself to the act of fishing while waiting for the right moment and holding to the constant Way. Wen, under the pretext of a dream omen, asked his grand officers; they took it as the former king’s command—why doubt or divinate?—and so welcomed Taigong and handed him the administration. “The knights’ upright integrity crumbles and their groups scatter” means that when the state is well governed, loyal ministers need no longer remonstrate and the remonstrance office lies idle; “superiors do not complete their moral prestige” means that custom is plain and government simple; “dou and hu do not enter the borders” means the seasons are harmonious and harvests ample. “Aligning upward” (shang tong) refers to ruler and ministers of one mind; “shared tasks” (tong wu) means scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants each secure in their occupation. Yan Hui still doubted whether the dream was really the fact; the answer is that expedient granting and withholding lasts only a moment—Wen had already done this—so why go on to censure it?

Liu Kai’s commentary states: The Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties all acted in accord with the straight path (zhidao). Once King Wen of Zhou knew that Elder Zhang of Zang (Zang zhangren—the old angler Wen met at Zang) possessed the Dao, he could simply have entrusted him with affairs of state; why resort to a dream to make the grand officers believe? One who understands the Dao necessarily penetrates principle and also grasps expedient adaptation (quanbian). The Dao belongs to Heaven and may be trusted in directly; expedient adaptation belongs to human affairs—how could it be set aside? Confucius and King Wen of Zhou both achieved this on both sides; Yan Hui still fell short. Viewed this way, the dream of King Gaozong of Shang (Yin King Wu Ding) has a solid basis. Gaozong was precisely someone who acted along the straight path. His spirit reached the four quarters and turned with Heaven and Earth together—this is the effect of utmost sincerity (zhicheng); communion between Heaven and humanity is like shadow following form and echo answering sound. That he dreamed of obtaining a worthy assistant is not to be doubted. What Zhuangzi writes is allegory (yuyan): Wen needed to show expedient adaptation and had to cite antiquity to verify the present, hence he borrowed a dream to win trust. Scholars who infer Fu Yue (the worthy Gaozong saw in his dream) from the story of Elder Zhang of Zang are mistaken.

Yan Zhai (Lin Xiyi’s style name) says: What is meant by “constantly fishing” is that the tackle is always in hand while the mind has no intention to fish—hence it is said this is not grasping the gear with a deliberate will to catch. “Rang zhi san qun” means not forming factions; “bu cheng de” means not keeping merit for oneself; “tong wu” means sharing tasks with the multitude without standing out as special. The foreign measures jian and hu (vessels of different capacity) differ in size, yet none dared enter the border. The feudal lords had no divided hearts and all submitted. The person of “morning command” (chao ling)—hearing that Wen inquired whether governance could extend to all under Heaven—fled and was never heard from again. In the ancient text’s “shu zhi dafu” (entrusting to the grand officers), the upper character read as tai (grand), the same usage as “yushi dafu” (censor-in-chief) on the First Emperor of Qin’s Mount Tai inscription.

Accounts of “rang zhi” differ. Sima Biao’s commentary takes zhi as ranks or rows and “san qun” as not keeping a following of disciples. Another view holds that zhi means building houses at the border’s edge to receive remonstrators (jian shi), which is why Cheng Xuanying’s sub-commentary calls them remonstrators.

The accounts of “rang zhi” (border planting) are not uniform. Sima Biao’s commentary takes it to mean rows and ranks; “san qun” (dispersing the flock) means no longer gathering and keeping followers. Another view takes “zhi” as boundary markers, building lodges at the frontier to receive remonstrators—hence Cheng Xuanying’s commentary calls them “lodges for remonstrators.” Master Fan (one commentator) says “zhi” means planting trees to mark borders, like Yumen Pass and Willow Barrier. “Rang zhi san qun” is then removing garrisons and halting military use, so neighboring states’ borders merge into one— a custom that honors unity and refuses fixed limits. Further, in Sima Qian’s account of Yue Yi’s letter to the King of Yan, “the planting at Ji Hill, planted at the bamboo fields of Wen”—Xu Guang notes that Yan’s border had shifted to the bamboo fields of Wen in Qi; bamboo fields are called “huang,” and “zhi” is what marks the boundary. On this basis, Master Fan’s reading can be trusted. As for the rest of the meaning, the various commentaries already cover it.

Lie Yukou drew his bow for Bo Hun Wuren: the bow was pulled to full draw, a cup of water balanced on his elbow; an arrow flew, the next was already nocked, and as that one left, another was on the string. By then he was motionless as a wooden figure. Bo Hun Wuren said: This is shooting with intent—it is not shooting without mind, without deliberate aim. Try climbing a high mountain, treading perilous rocks, and standing over a hundred-ren abyss—can you still do this? So Bo Hun Wuren climbed the high mountain, stepped on the dangerous rocks, backed toward the cliff with his face to the void until two tenths of his foot hung over the edge, and with folded hands invited Lie Yukou to come forward. Lie Yukou prostrated himself, sweat running to his heels. Bo Hun Wuren said: The perfected person (zhi ren, one whose virtue is complete) can gaze up into the blue sky and dive down to the yellow springs; spirit and energy roam to the eight extremes without the slightest change. Yet now you are panicked, your eyes unsettled—your inner state is already in grave danger.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: “Ying guan” means the bow drawn full so the arrow stands out beyond the grip. The left hand steady as if braced against stone, the right light as if resting on a branch—the right releases while the left feels nothing, hence the cup can sit on the elbow. Before the first arrow has struck, the cup is already back on the elbow again—such is his speed and steadiness. “Xiang ren” (wooden figure) means stillness pushed to the utmost. When virtue fills the inside, spirit and energy brim on the outside; near and far, deep and hidden, wherever one is, all is clear—thus one sees the hinge of safety and danger and remains calmly at ease. One who cannot clarify the portion of nature and life that is one’s own will fear; once fear arises, what is lost is very great.

In Lü Huiqing’s commentary: When the bow is drawn until the arrow notch is fully seated on the string, that is holding the bow at its fullest extent; when a cup of water rests on the elbow and the arm still holds it level, that is straightness and stability taken to the utmost. The front arrow has barely left the string when the next is already in place—one still in flight while another is already nocked. As one arrow goes out, another follows immediately, front and rear aligned in unbroken succession. The archer then sits motionless like a wooden figure: his mind-spirit is wholly concentrated, and cleverness no longer scatters. This is still “shooting that is shooting,” relying on skill. “Shooting that is not shooting” means guarding the pure unified Qi (vital energy); it does not belong to the category of cleverness and bold decisiveness. That is why he can stand on a high mountain facing a deep abyss without his heart stirring, and every release hits true. Extend this further: moving freely in all directions while spirit and energy do not change is only natural.

In Lin Yidu’s commentary: When Liezi shoots, he uses mind and knowing with extreme refinement, so he can send arrow after arrow in unbroken succession. That is hitting the target in the sense of archery, not the “center” (zhong) that accords with the Dao. Consider Bohun Wuren on a high mountain at the edge of a deep chasm, stepping backward with his back to the ravine—Liezi sweats until it runs to his heels, which shows he still clings to the coarse traces of sagely wisdom. As for moving in all eight directions without change in spirit and energy, only a sage can do that. Hence the saying: you are still far from the true “center.” “Shooting that is shooting” has not yet gone beyond one’s own strength and proper station; “shooting that is not shooting” cannot even be fully captured by talk of strength and station.

Bi Xuzi (Chen Jingyuan) examined the archery method: the left hand steady as if bracing against stone, the right hand light as if resting on a branch—hence one could set a cup of water on the elbow. Drawing the string and releasing, arrow after arrow stacked upon the one ahead—what is called nocking and loosing so each arrow enters the previous. The moment the front arrow leaves the string and has not yet reached the target, the cup of water is placed back on the elbow again—meaning he was both swift and in control, while the person remained motionless as a wooden puppet. This is called “the shooting of shooting,” meaning the mind still retains the method of shooting. If one can still shoot while climbing high mountains and facing deep gorges, one has not only forgotten the method but forgotten the body as well; thus one can roam at will to the eight extremes (the farthest reaches in every direction) with spirit and energy unchanged.

Yizhai (Lin Xiyi) said: As soon as an arrow is released, another is already on the string. The one just gone and the one about to go are both entrusted to the string—arrow linked to arrow, so fast that this is “the shooting of shooting.” As for climbing mountains and facing gorges, turning one’s back to the abyss and retreating in circles—what Bo Hun Wu Ren (the adept in this episode) could do is “the non-shooting of shooting,” that is, guarding spirit and energy, roaming the eight extremes at will while spirit and energy stay unchanged.

This chapter explains: those skilled in an art but who drain their spirit tend to reach a dead end; those who run an art through the Dao do not fear. Releasing arrows in succession, form like a wooden puppet—one might say this exhausts the art of archery; yet once on the mountain facing the gorge, fear and sweat come, one cannot even stand steady, let alone shoot. Bo Hun Wu Ren therefore displayed “the non-shooting of shooting”—simply lodging the Dao within the art, not treating this skill as the highest realm; perhaps it is still a gradual step toward commanding the eight extremes. Students of nurturing spirit may take a lesson here. Some wonder why Lie Yukou (Liezi), who wrote the book, would belittle himself so—why? It is lowering oneself to honor the teacher; honoring the teacher is honoring the Dao, not the same as stubbornly trying to draw Hou Yi’s bow.

When Mr. Fan lectured, he followed Lü Huiqing’s commentary and noted a small slip in Guo Xiang: the “fang” in “fang shi” (parallel arrows) is like the “fang” in “fang zhou” (parallel boat)—it means side by side, the arrows already held together on the string; it is not about placing the cup of water on the elbow again. That reading is sound.

Jian Wu asked Sun Shu’ao: “Are you a person of the Dao?”

Jian Wu asked Sun Shuao: "You served three times as Lingyin (chief minister of Chu) without showing pride, and left office three times without a troubled look. At first I doubted you; now I see your breath between your nostrils is easy and alive—what is going on in your mind?"

Sun Shuao said: "What is special about me? When office came I could not refuse it; when it went I could not keep it. I treat gain and loss as not up to myself, so I have no worried expression. What is special about me? And I do not know whether nobility and baseness lie in things outside or in me: if in things outside, they have nothing to do with me; if in me, they have nothing to do with things outside. I am at ease examining myself and looking around within my heart—where would I find time to fuss over others' high or low rank!"

Confucius heard this and said: "The True Person of old—the wise could not persuade him with words, beauty could not seduce him, robbers could not coerce him, and Fu Xi and the Yellow Emperor could not befriend him. Life and death are great matters, yet even they could not change him—how much less rank and salary! Such a person's spirit crosses great mountains without obstruction, enters deep pools without getting wet, stays in lowly places without distress, and fills heaven and earth; having given to others, he himself becomes even fuller."

Guo Xiang commented: With a broad heart untied to anything, self and other on equal footing—then "in the other" does not vanish on its own, and "in me" does not exist on its own. Hesitating and looking about means nothing is forbidden and nothing is required. Fu Xi and the Yellow Emperor are only names for achievements, not the substance of achievement, so such names are not enough to befriend the True Person. Harming oneself to benefit the world—both sides lose something; the point is only to let each person attain what belongs to him. One who lets people attain themselves gives to others without diminishing himself; spirit fills heaven and earth, and wherever he goes nothing is impossible. Therefore he does not harm himself to follow things outside, but settles everything in self-attainment.

Lü Huiqing commented: "Easy and alive between the nostrils" means breath is deep—as in the Daoist saying that breathing reaches the heels. Knowing that gain and loss are not up to himself, he is at peace with fate; not dividing between "in the other" and "in me" is following the Dao and forgetting distinctions. While he is still examining himself he has no leisure to mind others' nobility or baseness. The reason the True Person of old could not be lobbied, seduced, kidnapped, or befriended is that he saw clearly that nothing could be borrowed from outside and did not shift with things. Thus spirit could pass through mountains and pools, fill heaven and earth; the more he gave the more he had—speaking of the inexhaustibility of the Dao.

The Yidu commentary explains this as the story of Lingyin Ziwen (chief minister of Chu) recorded in the Analects, using Jian Wu to clarify the point. Xuxu ran describes a lively, harmonious glow in one’s bearing. When high rank (xuanmian—carriage and cap, here standing for office and emolument) comes and cannot be refused, one accepts it; when it goes and cannot be held, one lets it go. Gain and loss were never in one’s own hands—why then joy or grief? Forget the split between self and other, return to the great unity of all things as one, and the mind of gain and loss dissolves of itself. If Heaven itself cannot make him noble or base, how much less can people? The True Person keeps company with change, so the wise cannot argue him down, the beautiful cannot beguile him, thieves cannot rob him, and Fu Xi and the Yellow Emperor cannot bind him in friendship. Thus spirit passes great mountains without obstruction, enters deep waters without getting wet, stays lucid (heng) in hardship, fills heaven and earth; the more he gives to others, the more he himself has in abundance.

The Bixu commentary: Xuxu ran at the bridge of the nose is the look of a moist complexion and easy delight. He felt he had nothing extraordinary about him and did not boast, so he was not anxious. Moreover, life is inherently empty; human existence is like an inn—vacant. Office comes and goes like gnats flying past the eyes. So he wandered at ease, not hurrying after anything, settled spirit in De, looked all around, drove Qi with spirit, and roamed the deep and far—where would he find time to reckon noble and base? The ancient True Person was plain, hence hard to move with words; upright and simple, hence not to be altered; with few desires, hence far from robbery; without demands, hence not to be bent. With no obstruction in the mind, life and death could not change him; with no drag on the body, rank and stipend could not entangle him. His Shen had no fixed place, so it could pierce what is hardest without being exhausted; his Qi had no fixed shape, so it could sink into what is softest without being wetted. It hid where there was no further “inside” to name, and filled where there was no further “outside” to name. He turned merit over to the ten thousand things; once they were full, he still had surplus.

Yanzhai (Lin Xiyi) says: When nasal breathing is calm and at ease, that shows qi settled within and naturally sustained. If the chief minister’s dignity belonged only to that post, it would have nothing to do with me; if I had something truly worth valuing, it would be only in myself, not in the office of chief minister. Hence the text says: if dignity is “over there,” for me it is as if it were not; if it is in myself, for that office it is as if it were not. “Hesitating and looking all around” means he lifts his gaze and his thought across heaven and earth, and no longer heeds what people call noble or base. The wise cannot exhaust him in words, because he is not what words can fully reach; beauty cannot trap him, because he is not what looks can beguile; robbers cannot force him, because he is not what might can break. Even Fuxi and the Yellow Emperor could not be his friends, because he withdrew from the world and held the realm lightly. What the text calls petty and small means poverty and low station. The Dao is in oneself, yet can fill heaven and earth; extend it to transform others, and its use has no end.

Because the heart is at ease, the breath through the nose is peaceful. Breath is deep and still and can be kept without being stirred, because he knows that when rank and salary come they cannot be held back, and when they go they cannot be kept. Gain and loss do not belong to the real self, so the face shows no worry—that is exactly where he surpasses ordinary people. There is no need to pin this on the Creator or on oneself: take it as in me, and there is no “Creator”; take it as in the Creator, and there is no “me.” When other and self are both dropped, what is left to worry about? “Hesitating and looking all around” means he is content in himself and has no room for the noble and base that people prize, or for the pleasures they chase. So he treated three appointments and three dismissals like dust drifting before the eyes. This is what it means that one who rests in fate forgets noble and base, and one who is light toward emolument forgets rank. Confucius therefore likened him to the zhenren (true person) of old—aligned with the Dao and unchanged by outward things. The zhenren does not waver at life and death; haoran qi ( expansive vital breath) fills heaven and earth; push it outward to benefit others, and its effect never runs out. The Zhuangzi (Classic of Southern Florescence) lodges this meaning in the dialogue between Jian Wu and Sun Shu’ao: one may take office or may stop, and inner joy neither grows nor shrinks—only then is one fit to talk about the Dao with him.

The King of Chu sat with the Lord of Fan. Soon the king’s attendants reported three times from left and right that the state of Fan had fallen. The Lord of Fan said: The destruction of Fan is not enough to make me lose my own being. If the fall of Fan cannot take my being away, then Chu’s present existence is not enough to secure true being. From this angle, Fan has never truly perished, and Chu has never truly existed.

This passage in Collected Subtleties of the Ocean of Meaning on the True Scripture of Southern Florescence (Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei) gathers various schools’ annotations on “the rise and fall of Fan and Chu.” The gist is as follows.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: The attendants’ claim that the state of Fan shows three omens of ruin does not suffice to destroy the true existence of “me,” because the lord of Fan can set aside gain and loss for the state. Whoever can set aside does not treat ruin as ruin—then so-called preservation is not truly preservation. A heart vast and free, without self-importance, is what endures. Preservation and ruin depend only on where the mind rests; under Heaven there is in truth no absolute existence or extinction. Seen this way, Fan may not truly perish, and Chu may not truly exist.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Under Heaven there is something that abides constantly—neither dying nor being born—and that alone is true preservation. To obtain this constant abiding and guard it is to preserve one’s own abiding. How could Fan and Chu bear the labels of preservation and ruin?

Yidu’s commentary: A state’s preservation is the preservation of outer things; “my” preservation is the preservation of nature and life (xingming). One who penetrates fate (ming) still has within what does not perish though the state perishes; one who clings to outer things has already lost what he relies on though the state still stands. The lord of Fan does not tie himself to the state, hence he says Fan’s ruin is not enough to destroy “my preservation.” If Fan’s ruin cannot destroy my preservation, then Chu’s apparent preservation is not enough to count as true preservation. This satirizes King Chu’s so-called preservation—really only preserving a state that has already lost true abiding. From the perspective of the Dao (Dao), there is no fixed preservation or ruin.

Bixuzi’s commentary: King Chu wished to swallow other states, so he had his attendants persuade him with words. Fan’s three omens of ruin mean failure to honor the aged, failure to respect the worthy, and failure to nurture the people. That Fan’s ruin is not enough to destroy my preservation is because one does not take outer appearance as calamity; that Chu’s existence is not enough to preserve true preservation is because though the state remains, the root of life is already lost. Hence preservation and ruin lie in the Dao, not in territory, cities, or walls.

Yizhai (the sobriquet of the Song scholar Lin Xiyi) said: This is the idea that someone who has undergone the punishment of having the feet cut off still retains something more precious than the feet. The Dao is within oneself; it does not change according to whether one has a state or not. If the state of Fan was not truly destroyed and the state of Chu was not truly intact, then gain and loss in the world are all external matters. The point is especially clear in the line that Chu’s continued existence was not enough to preserve what truly ought to be preserved. Those who lose need not feel ashamed of being inadequate, and those who gain need not pride themselves on it—this remark is indeed worth pondering. The ruler of Fan did not fixate on the fall of his state and could still guard what he ought to guard, because he knew that the person is more important than the state. The king of Chu, relying on the fact that his state still stood, was arrogant, yet what he truly ought to preserve was already lost—he treated the state as more important than himself. When the person is more important than the state, the state may perish without harm; when the state is more important than the person, the state may survive yet do one no good. Thus the noble person should guard De (Virtue), not the ruler’s position; as for gains and losses more trivial still than that position, they are even less worth taking to heart.

This chapter’s argument begins with Tian Zifang’s teacher. Though this teacher’s outward appearance was that of an ordinary person, inwardly he was attuned to the natural (tianran); his virtue lay hidden yet shone of itself, so sublime that it could not be praised in words. For that very reason he could awaken Duke Wen of Wei to the realization that what he had learned was not true knowledge, and that possessing the state of Wei was in fact a burden. Tian Zifang was skilled at making his teacher’s virtue visible; a single remark was enough to rouse the ruler. Given that, why worry that one cannot establish oneself or that the Dao cannot be put into practice?

When Confucius met Wenbo Xuezi (a man of the Dao), their gazes met and the Great Dao was already present between them. Thus the key to enlightening others does not lie in repeated admonition or tedious preaching. When Yan Hui lamented that his teacher raced ahead like a runaway steed while he could only stare from behind, he showed that the great transformation advances imperceptibly; one should attend to it in the very moment of passing by and vanishing in an instant.

Laozi roamed in mind at the origin of the ten thousand things; Confucius saw that he had shed worldly entanglements and stood apart from the crowd. When two such discerning men meet, attainment has already reached such refinement that further questioning would be superfluous. Yet if the principle were not clarified at this juncture, later students could not benefit; hence they discuss in detail the mystery of yin-yang harmonizing and giving birth to the ten thousand things—from sprouting all the way to return—so that everyone may know the completeness of Heaven and Earth and forget the petty changes of the bodily form. This too is the sage’s great intent to spread the Dao and aid the ten thousand things.

Duke Ai of Lu said there were many Ru scholars in Lu; in fact he was judging people by robes and outward appearance. Zhuangzi satirized the mismatch between name and reality, and therefore said that true Ru were in fact very few. When the order was issued throughout the state, only Confucius remained—from this one can see that the true Dao does not perish while false learning easily dies. The bright mirror that discerns the human heart is so clear; can it still be deceived?

King Wen of Zhou employed an old man from Zang; when government succeeded, the man left in the night. From this we know: those who set their minds on governing fear only that they are slow to employ the worthy; those who respond to things without selfish intent achieve success yet do not claim credit. The way of ruler and minister here reaches its utmost and may serve as a standard for ten thousand generations.

As for Boyin Wuren using archery to observe Lie Yukou (Liezi), and Sun Shu’ao being dismissed three times yet showing no distress—these passages discuss those who have penetrated Heaven’s mandate: they leave the artificial and enter the natural, unite with creation and transformation, and let their spirit range to the eight extremes; neither life nor death can alter their inner mind. Learning the Dao must reach this point to count as the ultimate; otherwise one is merely chasing things outside and losing the self, or inwardly in peril and unrest.

At the end of the chapter, the parable of King Chu and an ordinary lord about the survival of self and state clarifies the distinction between things and self, inner and outer—it may be said that this is understanding what is heavy and what is light.

Nanhuazhenjing Yihai Zuanwei (Collected Subtleties of the Ocean of Meaning in the True Scripture of Southern Florescence) was compiled by Chu Boxiu in the Song dynasty. This passage opens the chapter “Knowledge Rambling in the North.”

A man named Zhi traveled to the bank of the Dark Water, climbed Hidden Mound Hill, and happened to meet Wuweiwei. Zhi asked him: By what thinking and what planning can one understand the Dao? In what dwelling and with what conduct can one rest in the Dao? By following what and on what path can one obtain the Dao? He asked three times; Wuweiwei did not answer. It was not that he refused—it was that he did not know how to answer.

Zhi got no result from his questions. He returned to the south side of White Water, climbed Fox Gate Hill, saw Kuang Qu, and put the same questions to him. Kuang Qu said: Alas, I know—and was just about to tell you—but the words reached my lips and I forgot what I meant to say.

Still without an answer, Zhi went back to the Yellow Emperor’s palace to inquire. The Yellow Emperor said: Without thinking and without planning, one begins to understand the Dao; without fixing one’s dwelling or fixing one’s conduct, one begins to rest in the Dao; without following something fixed or walking a fixed path, one begins to obtain the Dao.

Zhi asked again: You and I know; those two do not know—who is right? The Yellow Emperor said: Wuweiwei is truly right; Kuang Qu comes close; you and I are far from it in the end. Those who understand do not speak; those who speak do not truly understand—so the sage teaches by wordless instruction. The Dao cannot be summoned by seeking; De cannot be reached by rushing toward it. Ren (humaneness) can still be practiced; yi (rightness) can still be trimmed back; li (ritual) sinks into mutual pretense. Therefore it is said: When the Dao is lost, then there is De; when De is lost, then there is Ren; when Ren is lost, then there is yi; when yi is lost, then there is li. Li is the ornate surface of the Dao and also the beginning of disorder. Therefore it is said: Those who work at the Dao daily diminish; diminish again and diminish until they reach wuwei (non-action); having reached wuwei, nothing is left unaccomplished. Now we have already become formed things—wanting to return to the root, is that not very hard? If there is still an easier moment, it belongs only to the great person who embodies the Dao. Life is the same kind continuing death; death is the opening of life—who can untangle this thread? Human life is the gathering of qi: gathering is life, dispersing is death. Since death and life follow each other as the same kind, why should I worry? Therefore the ten thousand things are originally one body. People treat what they love as miraculous and what they hate as rotten; the rotten turns back into the miraculous, the miraculous turns back into the rotten. Therefore it is said: what penetrates all under heaven is nothing but one qi. The sage therefore values this “one.”

Zhi said to the Yellow Emperor: I asked Wuweiwei; he did not respond—not because he refused me, but because he did not know how to respond. I asked Kuang Qu; he was about to tell me but could not get it out—not because he refused, but because he forgot when he tried to speak. Now I ask you: since you know, why do you say that you and I are not close to the Dao? The Yellow Emperor said: Wuweiwei is truly right precisely because he “does not know”; Kuang Qu only approximates it precisely because he forgot; you and I are not close in the end precisely because we think we know.

When Kuang Qu heard this, he judged the Yellow Emperor’s words worthy of one who understands the measure of speech.

Guo Xiang (Western Jin commentator on the Zhuangzi) said: To let things run their course on their own is teaching that uses no words. The Dao dwells in nature; it cannot be reached through speech. De—the nature one receives from the Dao—is called De only when it has not been lost; the moment you name it De, you have not yet truly arrived. Ritual has fixed rules; imitation and affectation spring from that and turn into artifice. Those who cultivate the Way day by day pare away ornament and falsity; when ornament falls away and simplicity is kept whole, there may be action, yet it is not reckless or arbitrary action. When things lose their proper place, artificiality arises; to try to return to the root then—how hard that is. Only someone great who is at one with change finds transforming and nurturing the ten thousand things un difficult. Those who grasp the way of change do not treat life and death as two separate affairs; each is the other’s beginning, and no one can tell which is dying and which is living. Same gathering, same scattering—why should I worry? Each person takes what they love for miraculous and what they hate for foul; yet what others call beautiful I may call foul, and what I call beautiful others may detest. So the miraculous and the foul interpenetrate and belong to everyone alike. Are death and life, “that” and “this,” really different? Why worry? To take “not-knowing” as what is genuinely right is to say that ordinary knowing does not touch the Dao closely. To be clear about nature is not something gained through words and conceptual understanding. Therefore he first sets up “non-speaking” as the standard, then entrusts the exposition to the Yellow Emperor (the legendary sage king), and the great outline by which nature regulates the ten thousand things becomes visible.

Bi Xu (Chen Jingyuan) comments: When Knowledge Wandered North (Zhi Beiyou) was on the dark mysterious waters (xuan shui), he wished to hide perception and consciousness in deep stillness. Yet knowing cannot long remain silent; when it withdraws and hides, something else rises up, and there is nowhere to rest—so he knocked at the gate of the hidden and sought peace. Wuwei Wei (the embodiment of non-action speaking) answered by not answering, and the meaning runs very deep. White water tends toward the bright; the emperor’s palace is the spirit residence (ling fu), where the heart-mind dwells. The Yellow Emperor is the true lord (zhen jun): look inward and listen in reverse—then all that exists is empty. To treat knowing as right and not-knowing as wrong only adds fault. The teaching without words is precisely subtle existence (miao you). The commentary also discusses the true (zhen).